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Page:Dictionary of National Biography volume 36.djvu/387

Mary Stuart withdrew to Stirling, whence on 15 July they sent a request for Elizabeth's help against the queen (Keith, ii. 329-30). Their action only hastened the accomplishment of Mary's purpose. On 29 July, between five and six in the morning, she was married to Darnley in the chapel of Holyrood, a dispensation having arrived from the pope on the 22nd (Knox, ii. 295; Randolph, 31 July, in Wright's Queen Elizabeth, i. 202-3). Elizabeth, still preferring words to actions, had on 30 July despatched Throckmorton with further protests and warnings (Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1564-5, entry 1332), but Mary haughtily replied that Darnley was now joined with her in marriage, and requested her not to meddle with matters within the realm of Scotland (12 Aug. ib. entry 1381, 13 Aug. id. entry 1382). This open defiance stayed Elizabeth's interference. The lords whom Elizabeth had lured into rebellion were left to their fate. On 25 Aug. Mary took the field, at the head of five thousand men, and marched by Stirling to Glasgow. Moray avoided her, and doubled back to Edinburgh, but his hope that the citizens would join him proved vain, and as the queen, in the face of a raging storm, immediately followed in his track, he retreated westwards into Argyll. Before setting out Mary had declared t-nat she would rather lose her crown than not be avenged on him (Randolph 27 Aug. ib. entry 1417), and now, while accepting the offer of the French ambassador to act as a mediator with Elizabeth, she refused it as regards the rebels, affirming that she would rather lose all than treat with her subjects (1 Oct., Labanoff, i. 288). In hope of Elizabeth's aid Moray ultimately marched south to Dumfries, but on the appearance of Mary on 10 Oct., at the head of eighteen thousand men, he took refuge in England.

Mary had an all-sufficient reason for proceeding to extremities against her brother : she intended to restore Catholicism. On 21 Jan. she informed the pope of her resolve to take advantage of the favourable moment -when her enemies were in exile or in her power to effect her purpose of restoring Catholicism (ib. vii. 8-10). Possibly she was hastened in her resolve by the arrival of ambassadors to obtain her adherence to the catholic league (Randolph, 7 Feb., ib, p. 77), but it scarcely required confirmation or incitement. After the arrival of the ambassadors the lords in her train were required to attend mass (ib.), and she now made no secret of her intention to confiscate the lands of the banished lords at the ensuing parliament in March (Bedford, 8 Feb., S. p. 80, 21 Feb., ib. p. 118). Her purpose was, however, almost immediately wrecked, partly by its conjunction with her scheme for securing absolute sovereignty, and partly by the treachery of Darnley.

Mary's resolve to attain independence of the nobles adequately explains in itself the sudden elevation of the Italian, Rizzio. The theory that he was a papal agent, except in so far as he was appointed to be so by Mary, has no evidence to support it; and the theory that he was Mary's lover, while it rests chiefly on the hints of Moray and the assertions of Darnley, is not necessary to explain either Rizzio's elevation or his murder (Froude, vii. 328, and Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1564-5, entry 1417; Teulet, ii. 243, 267; Tytler, iii. 215; Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entries 118, 171, 229; Ruthven's narrative in App. to Keith, History, and elsewhere). That Mary was bent on absolutism is attested by herself (Me moire sur la Noblesse, in Labanoff, vii. 297-9), and doubtless Darnley would have been made privy to her purpose and invited to aid in it but for his total incapacity. The original ground of quarrel between them was her refusal to him of the crown matrimonial (Randolph, 24 Jan., in Illustrations, p. 152, and Keith, ii. 405), and her previous toleration of his weaknesses was now, both by the jars between them and by his vices, turned into contempt and hatred (Randolph, 13 Feb., in Tytler ; Drury, 16 Feb., Keith, iii. 403). It is improbable that Rizzio would have long escaped the vengeance of the nobles even had he not aroused the jealousy of Darnley, and Darnley's jealousy, fanned, if not suggested, by the nobles, gave a semblance of legality to the plot against the Italian, the crown matrimonial being guaranteed to Darnley on condition that he would 'establish religion as it was at the queen's home-coming' (Randolph, 25 Feb., Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entry 134; cf. Douglas, James, fourth Earl of Morton).

During the turbulent scene on the evening of 9 March, when the crowd of angry nobles dragged Rizzio shrieking from her supper-room, Mary's high courage never wavered. In answer to her expostulations Darnley, on returning to the room, reproached her indelicately in Ruthven's presence, but after mildly defending herself, she at last told him that she would never rest till she gave him as sorrowful a heart as she had then. As she was seven months gone with child, her strength now began to fail her, and she burst into tears ; but when she learnt that Rizzio was really slain, ' And is it so ? ' she exclaimed ; ' then farewell tears! we must now think on revenge ' (Bedford and Ran-


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Twenty Years After/Chapter 22

The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed himself. It was plain, by a paleness still greater than usual, and by those traces which loss of sleep leaves on the face, that he must have passed almost the whole of the night without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a man so firm and decided, there was this morning in his personal appearance something tardy and irresolute.

He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul's departure and was seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself furbished a sword, which he drew from its perfumed leather sheath; he examined it to see if its hilt was well guarded and if the blade was firmly attached to the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the young man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under his own eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put in which might be useful to a young man entering on his first campaign.

At length, after occupying about an hour in these preparations, he opened the door of the room in which the vicomte slept, and entered.

The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the window, the curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close on the previous evening. He was still sleeping, his head gracefully reposing on his arm.

Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full of tender melancholy; he looked long on this young man, whose smiling mouth and half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams and lightest slumber, as if his guardian angel watched over him with solicitude and affection. By degrees Athos gave himself up to the charms of his reverie in the proximity of youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to reappear, bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He remembered that all the first part of his life had been embittered by a woman and he thought with alarm of the influence love might assume over so fine, and at the same time so vigorous an organization as that of Raoul.

In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that Raoul might suffer; and the expression of the deep and tender compassion which throbbed in his heart was pictured in the moist eye with which he gazed on the young man.

At this moment Raoul awoke, without a cloud on his face without weariness or lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those of Athos and perhaps he comprehended all that passed in the heart of the man who was awaiting his awakening as a lover awaits the awakening of his mistress, for his glance, in return, had all the tenderness of love.

"You are there, sir?" he said, respectfully.

"Yes, Raoul," replied the count.

"And you did not awaken me?"

"I wished to leave you still to enjoy some moments of sleep, my child; you must be fatigued from yesterday."

"Oh, sir, how good you are!"

Athos smiled.

"How do you feel this morning?" he inquired.

"Perfectly well; quite rested, sir."

"You are still growing," Athos continued, with that charming and paternal interest felt by a grown man for a youth.

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Raoul, ashamed of so much attention; "in an instant I shall be dressed."

Athos then called Olivain.

"Everything," said Olivain to Athos, "has been done according to your directions; the horses are waiting."

"And I was asleep," cried Raoul, "whilst you, sir, you had the kindness to attend to all these details. Truly, sir, you overwhelm me with benefits!"

"Therefore you love me a little, I hope," replied Athos, in a tone of emotion.

"Oh, sir! God knows how much I love, revere you."

"See that you forget nothing," said Athos, appearing to look about him, that he might hide his emotion.

"No, indeed, sir," answered Raoul.

The servant then approached Athos and said, hesitatingly:

"Monsieur le vicomte has no sword."

"'Tis well," said Athos, "I will take care of that."

They went downstairs, Raoul looking every now and then at the count to see if the moment of farewell was at hand, but Athos was silent. When they reached the steps Raoul saw three horses.

"Oh, sir! then you are going with me?"

"I will accompany you a portion of the way," said Athos.

Joy shone in Raoul's eyes and he leaped lightly to his saddle.

Athos mounted more slowly, after speaking in a low voice to the lackey, who, instead of following them immediately, returned to their rooms. Raoul, delighted at the count's companionship, perceived, or affected to perceive nothing of this byplay.

They set out, passing over the Pont Neuf; they pursued their way along the quay then called L'Abreuvoir Pepin, and went along by the walls of the Grand Chatelet. They proceeded to the Rue Saint Denis.

After passing through the Porte Saint Denis, Athos looked at Raoul's way of riding and observed:

"Take care, Raoul! I have already often told you of this; you must not forget it, for it is a great defect in a rider. See! your horse is tired already, he froths at the mouth, whilst mine looks as if he had only just left the stable. You hold the bit too tight and so make his mouth hard, so that you will not be able to make him manoeuvre quickly. The safety of a cavalier often depends on the prompt obedience of his horse. In a week, remember, you will no longer be performing your manoeuvres for practice, but on a field of battle."

Then suddenly, in order not to give too uncomfortable an importance to this observation:

"See, Raoul!" he resumed; "what a fine plain for partridge shooting."

The young man stored in his mind the admonition whilst he admired the delicate tenderness with which it was bestowed.

"I have remarked also another thing," said Athos, "which is, that in firing off your pistol you hold your arm too far outstretched. This tension lessens the accuracy of the aim. So in twelve times you thrice missed the mark."

"Which you, sir, struck twelve times," answered Raoul, smiling.

"Because I bent my arm and rested my hand on my elbow - so; do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, sir. I have fired since in that manner and have been quite successful."

"What a cold wind!" resumed Athos; "a wintry blast. Apropos, if you fire - and you will do so, for you are recommended to a young general who is very fond of powder - remember that in single combat, which often takes place in the cavalry, never to fire the first shot. He who fires the first shot rarely hits his man, for he fires with the apprehension of being disarmed, before an armed foe; then, whilst he fires, make your horse rear; that manoeuvre has saved my life several times."

"I shall do so, if only in gratitude - - "

"Eh!" cried Athos, "are not those fellows poachers they have arrested yonder? They are. Then another important thing, Raoul: should you be wounded in a battle, and fall from your horse, if you have any strength left, disentangle yourself from the line that your regiment has formed; otherwise, it may be driven back and you will be trampled to death by the horses. At all events, should you be wounded, write to me that very instant, or get some one at once to write to me. We are judges of wounds, we old soldiers," Athos added, smiling.

"Thank you, sir," answered the young man, much moved.

They arrived that very moment at the gate of the town, guarded by two sentinels.

"Here comes a young gentleman," said one of them, "who seems as if he were going to join the army."

"How do you make that out?" inquired Athos.

"By his manner, sir, and his age; he's the second to-day."

"Has a young man, such as I am, gone through this morning, then?" asked Raoul.

"Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a fine equipage; such as the son of a noble house would have."

"He will be my companion on the journey, sir," cried Raoul. "Alas! he cannot make me forget what I shall have lost!"

Thus talking, they traversed the streets, full of people on account of the fete, and arrived opposite the old cathedral, where first mass was going on.

"Let us alight; Raoul," said Athos. "Olivain, take care of our horses and give me my sword."

The two gentlemen then went into the church. Athos gave Raoul some of the holy water. A love as tender as that of a lover for his mistress dwells, undoubtedly, in some paternal hearts toward a son.

Athos said a word to one of the vergers, who bowed and proceeded toward the basement.

"Come, Raoul," he said, "let us follow this man."

The verger opened the iron grating that guarded the royal tombs and stood on the topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul descended. The sepulchral depths of the descent were dimly lighted by a silver lamp on the lowest step; and just below this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a flowing mantle of violet velvet, worked with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a catafalque resting on trestles of oak. The young man, prepared for this scene by the state of his own feelings, which were mournful, and by the majesty of the cathedral which he had passed through, descended in a slow and solemn manner and stood with head uncovered before these mortal spoils of the last king, who was not to be placed by the side of his forefathers until his successor should take his place there; and who appeared to abide on that spot, that he might thus address human pride, so sure to be exalted by the glories of a throne: "Dust of the earth! Here I await thee!"

There was profound silence.

Then Athos raised his hand and pointing to the coffin:

"This temporary sepulture is," he said, "that of a man who was of feeble mind, yet one whose reign was full of great events; because over this king watched the spirit of another man, even as this lamp keeps vigil over this coffin and illumines it. He whose intellect was thus supreme, Raoul, was the actual sovereign; the other, nothing but a phantom to whom he lent a soul; and yet, so powerful is majesty amongst us, this man has not even the honor of a tomb at the feet of him in whose service his life was worn away. Remember, Raoul, this! If Richelieu made the king, by comparison, seem small, he made royalty great. The Palace of the Louvre contains two things - the king, who must die, and royalty, which never dies. The minister, so feared, so hated by his master, has descended into the tomb, drawing after him the king, whom he would not leave alone on earth, lest his work should be destroyed. So blind were his contemporaries that they regarded the cardinal's death as a deliverance; and I, even I, opposed the designs of the great man who held the destinies of France within the hollow of his hand. Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king from royalty; the king is but a man; royalty is the gift of God. Whenever you hesitate as to whom you ought to serve, abandon the exterior, the material appearance for the invisible principle, for the invisible principle is everything. Raoul, I seem to read your future destiny as through a cloud. It will be happier, I think, than ours has been. Different in your fate from us, you will have a king without a minister, whom you may serve, love, respect. Should the king prove a tyrant, for power begets tyranny, serve, love, respect royalty, that Divine right, that celestial spark which makes this dust still powerful and holy, so that we - gentlemen, nevertheless, of rank and condition - are as nothing in comparison with the cold corpse there extended."

"I shall adore God, sir," said Raoul, "respect royalty and ever serve the king. And if death be my lot, I hope to die for the king, for royalty and for God. Have I, sir, comprehended your instructions?"

Athos smiled.

"Yours is a noble nature." he said; "here is your sword."

Raoul bent his knee to the ground.

"It was worn by my father, a loyal gentleman. I have worn it in my turn and it has sometimes not been disgraced when the hilt was in my hand and the sheath at my side. Should your hand still be too weak to use this sword, Raoul, so much the better. You will have the more time to learn to draw it only when it ought to be used."

"Sir," replied Raoul, putting the sword to his lips as he received it from the count, "I owe you everything and yet this sword is the most precious gift you have yet made me. I will wear it, I swear to you, as a grateful man should do."

"'Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me."

Raoul arose and threw himself with emotion into the count's arms.

"Adieu," faltered the count, who felt his heart die away within him; "adieu, and think of me."

"Oh! for ever and ever!" cried the youth; "oh! I swear to you, sir, should any harm befall me, your name will be the last name that I shall utter, the remembrance of you my last thought."

Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his emotion, and regained with hurried steps the porch where Olivain was waiting with the horses.

"Olivain," said Athos, showing the servant Raoul's shoulder-belt, "tighten the buckle of the sword, it falls too low. You will accompany monsieur le vicomte till Grimaud rejoins you. You know, Raoul, Grimaud is an old and zealous servant; he will follow you."

"Yes, sir," answered Raoul.

"Now to horse, that I may see you depart!"

Raoul obeyed.

"Adieu, Raoul," said the count; "adieu, my dearest boy!"

"Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved protector."

Athos waved his hand - he dared not trust himself to speak: and Raoul went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained motionless, looking after him until he turned the corner of the street.

Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands of a peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral, there to kneel down in the darkest corner and pray.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Twenty Years After/Chapter 22


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Twenty Years After/Chapter 23

Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as for those who were preparing his escape; only for him it passed more slowly. Unlike other men, who enter with ardor upon a perilous resolution and grow cold as the moment of execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort, whose buoyant courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before him and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his escape alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it must be admitted, were for the present sufficiently vague and uncertain, there was a beginning of vengeance which filled his heart. In the first place his escape would be a serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he hated for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a still worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the greater offences he had committed. It may be observed that there was a proper proportion in his sentiments toward the governor of the prison and the minister - toward the subordinate and the master.

Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the interior of the Palais Royal, though he did not know the relations existing between the queen and the cardinal, pictured to himself, in his prison, all that dramatic excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from the minister's cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria: "Monsieur de Beaufort has escaped!" Whilst saying that to himself, Monsieur de Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined himself already outside, breathing the air of the plains and the forests, pressing a strong horse between his knees and crying out in a loud voice, "I am free!"

It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was still within four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs ten feet from him, and his guards laughing and drinking in the ante-chamber. The only thing that was pleasant to him in that odious tableau - such is the instability of the human mind - was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope. Grimaud seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say that this transformation was visible only to the prisoner's feverish imagination. Grimaud was still the same, and therefore he retained the entire confidence of his superior, La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than he did upon himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.

And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little supper with his prisoner. He had but one fault - he was a gourmand; he had found the pates good, the wine excellent. Now the successor of Pere Marteau had promised him a pate of pheasant instead of a pate of fowl, and Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of that excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so droll tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes against Mazarin, made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one of the four great feasts of the year. He therefore looked forward to six o'clock with as much impatience as the duke himself.

Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the preparations, and trusting no one but himself, he had visited personally the successor of Pere Marteau. The latter had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a monstrous pate, ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort's coat-of-arms. It was empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying near it. La Ramee's mouth watered and he returned to the duke's chamber rubbing his hands. To crown his happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had started on a journey that morning and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor of the chateau.

As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.

In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a game of tennis with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on the alert. Grimaud, going in advance, followed the course which they were to take in the evening. The game was played in an inclosure called the little court of the chateau, a place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous, the wall was so high.

There were three gates to open before reaching the inclosure, each by a different key. When they arrived Grimaud went carelessly and sat down by a loophole in the wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was evident that there the rope ladder was to be attached.

This manoeuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was quite unintelligible to La Ramee.

The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud, Monsieur de Beaufort had consented to play, began in the afternoon. The duke was in full strength and beat La Ramee completely.

Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner, assisted in picking up the tennis balls. When the game was over, the duke, laughing at La Ramee for his bad play, offered these men two louis d'or to go and drink his health, with their four other comrades.

The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to them, but not till the evening, however; until then he had business and the prisoner was not to be left alone.

Six o'clock came and, although they were not to sit down to table until seven o'clock, dinner was ready and served up. Upon a sideboard appeared the colossal pie with the duke's arms on it, and seemingly cooked to a turn, as far as one could judge by the golden color which illuminated the crust.

The rest of the dinner was to come.

Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the guards to go and drink, the duke to escape.

Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that Athos had educated him with the express forethought of such a great event.

There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked himself if he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was really at his service and would grow animated when the moment came for action.

La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the duke's health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the doors, put the keys in his pocket and showed the table to the prince with an air that signified:

"Whenever my lord pleases."

The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock; it was hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to take place at seven o'clock; there was therefore three-quarters of an hour to wait.

The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour, pretended to be reading something that interested him and muttered that he wished they would allow him to finish his chapter. La Ramee went up to him and looked over his shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put off taking his dinner.

It was "Caesar's Commentaries," which La Ramee had lent him, contrary to the orders of the governor; and La Ramee resolved never again to disobey these injunctions.

Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the pie was good.

At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:

"Certainly, Caesar was the greatest man of ancient times."

"You think so, my lord?" answered La Ramee.

"Yes."

"Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal."

"And why, pray, Master La Ramee?" asked the duke.

"Because he left no Commentaries," replied La Ramee, with his coarse laugh.

The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table made a sign that La Ramee should seat himself opposite. There is nothing so expressive as the face of an epicure who finds himself before a well spread table, so La Ramee, when receiving his plate of soup from Grimaud, presented a type of perfect bliss.

The duke smiled.

"Zounds!" he said; "I don't suppose there is a more contented man at this moment in all the kingdom than yourself!"

"You are right, my lord duke," answered the officer; "I don't know any pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered table; and when, added to that, he who does the honors is the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my lord duke, easily comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure one enjoys."

The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile appeared on the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.

"My dear La Ramee," said the duke, "you are the only man to turn such faultless compliments."

"No, my lord duke," replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his heart; "I say what I think; there is no compliment in what I say to you - - "

"Then you are attached to me?" asked the duke.

"To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to leave Vincennes."

"A droll way of showing your affliction." The duke meant to say "affection."

"But, my lord," returned La Ramee, "what would you do if you got out? Every folly you committed would embroil you with the court and they would put you into the Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de Chavigny is not amiable, I allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is considerably worse."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked at the clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with sickening slowness.

"But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin monk, brought up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my lord, it is a great happiness that the queen, who always wished you well, had a fancy to send you here, where there's a promenade and a tennis court, good air, and a good table."

"In short," answered the duke, "if I comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving this place?"

"Oh! my lord duke, 'tis the height of ingratitude; but your highness has never seriously thought of it?"

"Yes," returned the duke, "I must confess I sometimes think of it."

"Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?"

"Yes, yes, indeed."

"My lord," said La Ramee, "now we are quite at our ease and enjoying ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways invented by your highness."

"Willingly," answered the duke, "give me the pie!"

"I am listening," said La Ramee, leaning back in his armchair and raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and winking his eye that he might see the sun through the rich liquid that he was about to taste.

The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would strike seven.

Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife with a silver blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who was afraid of any harm happening to this fine work of art, passed his knife, which had an iron blade, to the duke.

"Thank you, La Ramee," said the prisoner.

"Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?"

"Must I tell you," replied the duke, "on what I most reckon and what I determine to try first?"

"Yes, that's the thing, my lord!" cried his custodian, gaily.

"Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for keeper an honest fellow like you."

"And you have me, my lord. Well?"

"Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to have introduced to him by some friend or other a man who would be devoted to me, who would assist me in my flight."

"Come, come," said La Ramee, "that's not a bad idea."

"Capital, isn't it? for instance, the former servingman of some brave gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every gentleman ought to be."

"Hush! don't let us talk politics, my lord."

"Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend upon him, and I should have news from those without the prison walls."

"Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?"

"Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example."

"In a game of tennis?" asked La Ramee, giving more serious attention to the duke's words.

"Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who picks it up; the ball contains a letter. Instead of returning the ball to me when I call for it from the top of the wall, he throws me another; that other ball contains a letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has seen us do it."

"The devil it does! The devil it does!" said La Ramee, scratching his head; "you are in the wrong to tell me that, my lord. I shall have to watch the men who pick up balls."

The duke smiled.

"But," resumed La Ramee, "that is only a way of corresponding."

"And that is a great deal, it seems to me."

"But not enough."

"Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a certain day, on a certain hour, at the other side of the moat with two horses."

"Well, what then?" La Ramee began to be uneasy; "unless the horses have wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch you."

"That's not needed. I have," replied the duke, "a way of descending from the ramparts."

"What?"

"A rope ladder."

"Yes, but," answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, "a ladder of ropes can't be sent around a ball, like a letter."

"No, but it may be sent in something else."

"In something else - in something else? In what?"

"In a pate, for example."

"In a pate?" said La Ramee.

"Yes. Let us suppose one thing," replied the duke "let us suppose, for instance, that my maitre d'hotel, Noirmont, has purchased the shop of Pere Marteau - - "

"Well?" said La Ramee, shuddering.

"Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pates, thinks them more attractive than those of Pere Marteau and proposes to me that I shall try them. I consent on condition that La Ramee tries them with me. That we may be more at our ease, La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only Grimaud to wait on us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to second me in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed - seven o'clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven - - "

"At a few minutes to seven?" cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.

"At a few minutes to seven," returned the duke (suiting the action to the words), "I raise the crust of the pie; I find in it two poniards, a ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one of the poniards at La Ramee's breast and I say to him, `My friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou stirrest, if thou utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!'"

The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have said, the action to the words. He was standing near the officer and he directed the point of the poniard in such a manner, close to La Ramee's heart, that there could be no doubt in the mind of that individual as to his determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from the pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.

La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm every moment increasing.

"Oh, my lord," he cried, with an expression of stupefaction in his face; "you haven't the heart to kill me!"

"No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight."

"But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man."

"I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place."

"You are determined to leave the chateau?"

"By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be free."

"And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?"

"I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman."

At this moment the clock struck.

"Seven o'clock!" said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.

La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his conscience. The duke frowned, the officer felt the point of the poniard, which, having penetrated through his clothes, was close to his heart.

"Let us dispatch," said the duke.

"My lord, one last favor."

"What? speak, make haste."

"Bind my arms, my lord, fast."

"Why bind thee?"

"That I may not be considered as your accomplice."

"Your hands?" asked Grimaud.

"Not before me, behind me."

"But with what?" asked the duke.

"With your belt, my lord!" replied La Ramee.

The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in such a way as to satisfy him.

"Your feet, too," said Grimaud.

La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth, tore it into strips and tied La Ramee's feet together.

"Now, my lord," said the poor man, "let me have the poire d'angoisse. I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a court of justice because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my lord, thrust it in."

Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the officer made a sign as if he had something to say.

"Speak," said the duke.

"Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on your account, that I have a wife and four children."

"Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud."

In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or three chairs were thrown down as if there had been a struggle. Grimaud then took from the pocket of the officer all the keys it contained and first opened the door of the room in which they were, then shut it and double-locked it, and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the gallery which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no one at any of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and perceived on the other side of the ditch, three cavaliers with two riding horses. The duke exchanged a signal with them. It was indeed for him that they were there.

Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.

This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk cord, with a narrow board which was to pass between the legs, the ball to unwind itself by the weight of the person who sat astride upon the board.

"Go!" said the duke.

"First, my lord?" inquired Grimaud.

"Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken back again to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be hung."

"True," replied Grimaud.

And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on horseback, commenced his perilous descent.

The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary terror. He had gone down about three-quarters of the length of the wall when the cord broke. Grimaud fell - precipitated into the moat.

The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single moan. He must have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir from the place where he fell.

Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down into the moat, tied under Grimaud's shoulders the end of a cord, and the remaining two, who held the other end, drew Grimaud to them.

"Descend, my lord," said the man in the moat. "There are only fifteen feet more from the top down here, and the grass is soft."

The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more difficult, as there was no board to support him. He was obliged to let himself down by his hands and from a height of fifty feet. But as we have said he was active, strong, and full of presence of mind. In less than five minutes he arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him. He let go the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving any injury.

He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the top of which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him. Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely to a horse.

"Gentlemen," said the duke, "I will thank you later; now we have not a moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me, follow me!"

And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop, snuffing the fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with an expression of face which it would be impossible to describe:

"Free! free! free!"

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Mary Stuart dolph, 27 March, in App. to Robertson, History ; Ruthven, Narrative). During the night she was confined to her room, and strictly guarded. On the following evening Moray and the other lords arrived from Eng- land, and when Moray entered her presence she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming that if he had been with her he would not have seen her so uncourteously handled. But she was equally complaisant to Darnley, and on the following day she took him by one hand, and the earl by the other, and walked with them in her upper chamber for the space of one hour (Ruthven, Narrative). If, as she asserted, it was the intention of the lords to ward her in Stirling Castle till she had ' established their religion and given the king the crown matrimonial' (Labanoff, i. 347), they had no opportunity of intimating their final decision. Nor, although they accepted her offer to subscribe a band for their protection, was the band, which had been sent to her, ever signed. By early morning she and Darnley — after a midnight ride of twenty-five miles — had reached in safety the stronghold of Dunbar. More in despair than in hope the lords sent a messenger for the band, but no answer was vouchsafed to him. On the 15th she requested Elizabeth to let her plainly understand whether she intended to help the conspirators or not (id. i. 336). Meanwhile, by the aid of Both well and Huntly, she was soon at the head of a powerful force, with which on the 18th she entered Edinburgh. Moray's former experience made him hesitate to risk a second rebellion, and no attempt was made to oppose her. Nor did she now take further action against him and the other rebel lords ; and Morton and others directly concerned in the murder had already fled to England before a notice was issued on the 19th summoning them to answer for their share in it (Randolph, 21 March, Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 156(5-8, entry 205 ; Reg. P. C. Scotl. i. 437).

Apparently Mary did not at first gauge the full extent of Darnley's treachery, supposing him to have been chiefly the unwilling tool of Morton and others. When she learned the true character of the bargain between Darnley and the lords, she treated him with open scorn (Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entries 252, 297, 298, 305, 362, 414, 417, 624, 885 ; Sir James Melville, p. 153 ; Knox, ii. 527, 533-5). Already there was talk of a divorce (Randolph, 25 April, Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-1568, entry 305), and although a nominal reconciliation took place previous to her accouchement on 19 June (Randolph, 1 June, ib. entry 461), it did not survive her recovery (Sir Jahe.s Melville, p. 153). From this time matters went from bad to worse. In September Darnley told De Croc that he had a mind to go beyond sea (Keith, ii. 449); on 24 Oct. Maitland wrote to Beaton that it was ' ane heartbreak for her [Mary] to think that he [Darnley] should be her husband ' (Laing, ii. 72), and on 2 Dec. De Croc wrote to Beaton that ' Darnley's. bad deportment is incurable, nor can there be any good expected from him' (Tytler, iii. 232). As Mary '8 estrangement from Darnley increased, her favour towards Bothwell became more marked, and she also showed more cordiality to the protestant lords. She had been fully reconciled to Moray and Argyll before her accouchement, Maitland was restored to favour in September, and in December an amnesty was granted to Morton and Lindsay. Shortly before this the conference was held at Graigmillar to devise a method by which she might be rid of Darnley without prejudice to the young prince. Darnley was in Stirling at the time of the young prince's baptism in December, but declined to attend the ceremony, and shortly afterwards left for Glasgow. After writing to Beaton a letter of strong complaint against her husband, 20 Jan. 1566-7 (Labanoff, i. 395-9), Mary, either the same day (Diurnal of Occurrents, p. 105) or the next (Diary handed in to Cecil), set out to visit him at Glasgow, where he was now convalescent from a severe illness. She had brought a litter with her to convey him, as she said, to Craigmillar (Crawford, Declaration), and after spending some days with him, persuaded him to accompany her to Edinburgh, which they reached on the 31st. Some distance from the city Bothwell met them with a cavalcade, and conveyed them to a house in Kirk-o'-Field (rented for the occasion from Robert Balfour), where Mary had been in the habit of spending the night; she left it about eleven clock on the night of 9 Feb. in the company of Bothwell for Holy rood Palace. Early the next morning the house was blown up and Darnley murdered.

Her motives in consenting to the murder have been variously interpreted. Some have supposed that both the murder and the subsequent marriage are sufficiently explained by her need of Bothwell's help to retain her sovereignty. That she was bound to him — as to her former husbands — chiefly by political ties, and throughout was actuated by considerations which, however various, were all more or less prudential, has even been put forth as a vindication. This was practically her own official explanation (Instructions, Labaxoff, ii. 31-50). But the view


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Mary Stuart most consistent with the facts is that she at last broke down in her attempt to play the cold ambitious role to which her relatives had trained her. The mingled motives of revenge and love seem alone sufficient to explain her fatuity. As some excuse — even apart from the peculiarities of that lawless age — it may be pleaded that Darnley was universally contemned, and, though never put upon his' trial, had been guilty both of murder and treason. It may be, also, that her feelings towards Both well were originally partly those of gratitude; but in any case, her constancy to him amidst universal obloquy must be ascribed rather to devotion than fear.

On 11 Feb. Mary expressed to Beaton her conviction that the assassins aimed at her own life as well as Darnley's, and her determination to exercise the utmost rigour against them (ib. ii. 4). Yet when the promation on the 12th of a reward of 2,000l. for their discovery led to the exhibition of placards on the Tolbooth declaring that he had been murdered by Bothwell and others with the queen's own consent (Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entry 977, printed in Buchanan's Detection), the information caused her more embarrassment than indignation. The author was desired to appear and avow the same, and in answer promised to do so on the following Sunday if a pledge were given that a bona-fide inquiry would be made, but his proposals were ignored. Without honour or ceremony befitting his rank Darnley was privately buried during the night of 14 Feb. (Diurnal of Occurrents, p. 109; Knox, ii. 550 ; Buchanan; Instructions for Lord Grey, Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1 566-8, entry 1 1 29) ; and on the 16th Mary left for Seton, in company with Bothwell, Huntly, Argyll, and others concerned in the murder. Bishop Leslie states that the queen, not on the ground of health, but because Darnley was only a king by courtesy, did not observe the usual period of close seclusion customary during morning (Defence of Queen Mary's Honour). So far from aiding Lennox to bring the murderers to trial, she co-operated with Bothwell and others in insuring that the trial should be a fiasco (Keith, ii. 525-9; Labanofp, ii. 10-13, 17-19). Elizabeth, Beaton, the queen-mother, and the king of France all warned her that she was compromising her reputation. Before the trial Bothwell was rendered doubly secure by obtaining the command of Edinburgh and Blackness Castles and the superiority of Leith. It was already the general belief that he intended to marry the queen (Sir Jakes Melville, p. 175), and with this view measures were being taken for his divorce from Catherine Gordon (Drury, 29 March, Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entry 1053, 30 March, ib. 1054). The popular opinion as to Both weirs acquittal on 12 April was shown in the caricature representing him as a hare pursued by hounds, which Mary as a crowned mermaid lashed away from him. On the 19th Mary was carried oft' to Dunbar ; on 3 May Bothwell was divorced by the civil court, and on the 8th by the catholic court, reconstituted by Mary on the 24th of the previous December [cf. Hepburn, James, fourth Earl of Bothwell]. On the evidence of the Casket letters the Kidnapping was done at Mary's instigation, and this is corroborated by Kirkcaldy (26 April, V). entry 1131), Drury (27 April, ib. entry 1 1 39), and Melville (Memoirs, p. 177). Probably she wished to supply a plausible explanation of her precipitate marriage within less than three months of Darnley's death. On 27 April the lords who had met at Stirling sent her a letter offering a rescue if she had been carried off' unwillingly (quoted by Frottde, viii. 144, from manuscript in possession of Mr. Richard Almack ; Drury, 2 May, Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entry 1161) ; but to this she replied that it was true she had been evil and strangely handled, but since so well used she had no cause to complain (5 May, ib. entry 1173). On 6 May she entered Edinburgh, Bothwell leading her horse by the bridle (Diurnal, p. 111). The purpose of marriage was proclaimed on the 8th, and it took place on the 15th. In the contract her consent to the marriage was attributed to the advice of the ' maist part of her nobilitie ' (Labanoff, ii. 25), the reference being to the bond signed in Ainslie's tavern. She was married after the protestant fashion, and not only outwardly conformed to Bothwell's religion, but consented to the prohibition of catholic services throughout Scotland (Req. P. V. Scotl. i. 513). De Croc (18 May, Teulet, ii. 297), Drurv (20 May, Cal. State Papers, For. Ser. 1566-8, entry*1226), and Sir James Melville (Memoirs, p. 182) state that soon after the marriage serious quarrels occurred between them ; that each was jealous of the other, and that Mary was frequently very distressed, and even threatened more than once to destroy herself. There was probably some ground for the statements. Both were imperious and impulsive ; and whether Mary was confederate or victim she could scarcely escape, even apart from quarrels, occasional attacks of remorse and despair. All statements as to essential unhappiness in their relations must, however, be received with caution, for the position now assumed in Scotland and France in order to justify in-


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Rh are printed on the waterproof paper I formerly mentioned, and in many of them the character used is the sort of telegraphic symbols I have endeavoured to describe.

I found great pleasure in conversing with this amiable young lady in the manner of her country, and confess to having experienced a certain thrill through me the first time I was permitted to use the language of intimate friends and spell the words on her soft white skin. Constant use has, however, divested this mode of communication of all feelings of indelicacy among the Colymbians, and ladies and gentlemen tap out their chats on one another's skins with no more sense of impropriety than though they were drumming away on a deal table.

But the tapping conversation implies a certain amount of intimacy and equality among those who use it. Strangers or inferiors always address in the visible or audible language; and the rapidity with which conversation is carried on by either of these methods is the result of constant practice.

In addition to the modes of speech I have described, there is a higher style of language employed by orators, public speakers, and lecturers. The telegraphic system before described forms the basis of this language, but it is expressed musically. The music is not like a tune; indeed the proficients in the musical oratory affect to despise and discard melody, leaving it to nurses and the performers in the gyrating halls.

The time and tact of the music convey the words; the notes themselves the expression. Thus, every note struck has a precise meaning, and the system expresses the highest flights of eloquence, the finest shades of passion and emotion, and is equally fitted

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76 for conveying the sublimest truths of philosophy, the most important revelations of science, the deepest tragedy, or the most humorous comedy.

The orators of the legislature, and all public lecturers, invariably adopt this mode of speaking. It was extraordinary to observe how well adapted the musical oratory is to express the various themes on which it was employed. If the orator's subject were a dull one, the music became correspondingly dull; and if his subject were interesting, the interesting character of the music never flagged. Tender emotions, refined sentiments, fierce passions, caustic remarks, sarcasm, merry banter, broad jokes, have each their appropriate music; and as every word is distinctly uttered, the harmonious mode in which it is emitted gives a charm to this mode of speaking perfectly indescribable, combining, as it does, the most brilliant eloquence, with the subtlest expression of scientific harmonies.

There are, of course, degrees of eloquence, as there are of other arts. But this art is so carefully cultivated by the Colymbians that it is surprising how many are proficients in it. It does not require one to possess a knowledge of the laws of the highest development of music to be able fully to appreciate the performance of its adepts. The art, however painfully acquired, is at once appreciated by all cultivated persons who listen to the artist.

To uneducated or imperfectly-educated persons, the highest flights of this musical oratory are as incomprehensible as is the eloquence of our most brilliant English statesmen to our unlettered country bumpkins; for it is not to be supposed that a person whose vocabulary is limited to a couple of hundred words would appreciate or thoroughly understand the discourse of

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Rh one who has several thousand words at his command. But the mysteries of counter-point and thorough bass form part of the elementary education of all cultivated Colymbians, and it is only the very stupidest and the ill-educated among these whose knowledge of music does not go beyond the first principles of the art. And even they can understand sufficiently the drift of a brilliant orator to listen to him with pleasure; just as our unlettered rustics are pleased to hear the eloquence of our best speakers, though they cannot be credited with understanding all they hear.

A very brilliant orator, with whom I conversed, would hardly believe that we, in old European countries, still consider pieces of which melodies form the staple as the highest development of music.

"Melodies," he exclaimed, "are mere twaddle. We have long since done with them here. You miss the chief delight of music, if, for instance, in the case of a ballad, whose every verse and every line conveys some different idea, you sing all of them to one unvarying tune; and as a rule you can only hear the tune, and not the words, when it is sung. Pshaw!" he said, "leave tunes to children and fools and cultivate that higher style of art where every note has its meaning, every cadence and every chord expresses an idea, an emotion or a scientific fact; where, in short, the notes are the words, a language of sweet sounds."

I could not altogether share the enthusiasm of the orator, and often, after a seance, when I had listened to the finest outpouring of this highly-finished and scientific music, I longed for some of the sweet melodies of my native land, and could even enjoy the meaningless dance-tunes of the evening assemblies. Just as one does not like to go about always on stilts, so one

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78 wearies sometimes of having one's mind always strung up to the concert pitch of the abstractly sublime and beautiful. However, it was sheer heresy to utter a word against the infinite superiority of the musical oratory of the Colymbians over all the melody-music of past times. So, to avoid incurring the contempt of my new friends, I pretended to acquiesce in the assertion of the utterly despicable character of any music with a tune in it.

It is a rule I have made to myself, never to differ from an enthusiast unless I wish to make him angry and quarrel with him; and as I had no desire to do so in the present instance, I kept my opinions to myself, and listened to the musical fanatic with the utmost deference.

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 cremated at Brookwood and his ashes bestowed in the chapel of his old college at Oxford. A portrait by James Archer was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1890. He married (1) in 1854 Katharine Elizabeth (d. 1864), daughter of Rev. Theo Biddulph of Bristol; (2) Fannie Maria Adelaide (d. 1889), daughter of Rev. W. H Channing of Boston, U.S.A.; he issued 'In my Lady's Praise' in the year of her death; (3) Tama KuroKawa of Sendai Japan, who survives him. He left issue Mr. Edwin Lester Arnold, the author, and four other children, two sons and two daughters.

Arnold was a copious and animated writer, and where he is describing actual events, often vivid and terse. Somewhat insensitive to the finer kinds of metrical effect, he is as a poet over-sensuous, and at times allows his glowing imagery to vitiate his taste. He confidently expected the reversion of the laureateship after Lord Tennyson's death.

Apart from those already enumerated, his original works include (chiefly in verse): Among his translations are 'Political Poems by Victor Hugo and Garibaldi' (under initials E. A.), 1868; 'Hero and Leander,' from Musseus, 1873; 'The Indian Song of Songs from the Jayadeva,' 1875; 'Indian Idylls from the Mahabharata,' 1883 and 1885; 'The Chaura panchasika,' 1896; 'Sa'di's Gulistan,' parts i.-iv. 1899. He was also author of 'A Simple Transliteral Grammar of Turkish,' 1877. A collection of his poetical works came out in 1888. Selections appeared in the same year and 'The Edwin Arnold Birthday Book ' in 1885.
 * 1) 'Griselda, a tragedy, and other poems,' 1856.
 * 2) 'The Wreck of the Northern Belle,' 1857.
 * 3) 'The Poets of Greece,' 1869.
 * 4) 'Indian Poetry,' 1881.
 * 5) 'Pearls of the Faith,' 1883.
 * 6) 'The Secret of Death,' 1885.
 * 7) 'Lotus and Jewel,' 1887.
 * 8) 'With Sa'di in the Garden,' 1888.
 * 9) 'Japonica' (papers from 'Scribner's Magazine'), 1892.
 * 10) 'Potiphar's Wife,' 1892.
 * 11) 'Adzuma' (a story of a Japanese marriage), 1893.
 * 12) 'The Voyage of Ithobal,' 1901.

ARNOLD, GEORGE BENJAMIN (1832–1902), organist and musical composer, born on 22 Dec. 1832 at Petworth, Sussex, was son of George Frederick Arnold, organist of the parish church there, by his wife Mary. He was articled to [q. v.], the organist of Winchester Cathedral, in 1849, and on Chard's death the articles were transferred to his successor, Dr. [q. v.]. Arnold was organist successively at St. Columba's College, Rathfarnham, near Dublin (1852), St. Mary's Church, Torquay (1856), and New College, Oxford (1860). He graduated Mus. Bac. at Oxford in 1853 and Mus. Doc. in 1860. In 1865 he succeeded Wesley at Winchester, retaining the post for the rest of his life. He was a fellow of the College of Organists, acting long as an examiner for that body. He died at Winchester on 31 Jan. 1902, and was buried there. He married on 6 June 1867 Mary Lucy Roberts, who survived him with three sons and a daughter. An alabaster tablet to his memory, with a quotation from one of his works, was placed in the north transept of the cathedral in 1904.

Arnold, whose sympathies were with Bach and his school, was a composer, chiefly of church music. His published compositions include a national song, 'Old England' (1854); an oratorio, 'Ahab,' produced by the National Choral Society at Exeter Hall (1864); 'Sennacherib,' a sacred cantata, produced at the Gloucester festival of 1883; 'The Song of the Redeemed,' written for and produced at St. James's Church, New York (1891); 'An orchestral introduction and chorus in praise of King Alfred,' performed at the inauguration of the Alfred Memorial at Winchester in 1901, besides two motets, two psalms, anthems, part songs, and two sonatas.

ARNOLD, WILLIAM THOMAS (1852–1904), author and journalist, born at Hobart, Tasmania, on 18 Sept. 1852, was eldest son and second child of [q. v. Suppl. I], nephew of [q. v. Suppl. I], and grandson of of Rugby [q. v.]. His mother was Julia, daughter of William Sorell, registrar of deeds, Hobart. His elder sister is the well-known novelist Mrs. Humphry Ward; On the return of his parents to England in 1856 Arnold lived mainly with his father's kindred at Fox How, Ambleside. From 1862 to 1865 he was at the Oratory School, Birmingham, where his father was classical master under


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Twenty Years After/Chapter 24

At Blois, D'Artagnan received the money paid to him by Mazarin for any future service he might render the cardinal.

From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers, but D'Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barriere Saint Denis. In turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed Porthos to meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his white teeth; whilst the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman, so handsome and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.

D'Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos recognized them.

"Eh! D'Artagnan!" he cried. "Thank God you have come!"

"Eh! good-day, dear friend!" replied D'Artagnan.

Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.

"Ah, my dear friend!" he cried, "what bad stabling for my horses here."

"Indeed!" said D'Artagnan; "I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of those fine animals."

"And I, also - I was also wretchedly off," he answered, moving backward and forward as he spoke; "and had it not been for the hostess," he added, with his air of vulgar self-complacency, "who is very agreeable and understands a joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere."

The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped back and turned pale as death on hearing Porthos's words, for she thought the scene with the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her great surprise D'Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:

"Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much better."

"When will you do that?"

"Immediately, I hope."

"Ah! so much the better!"

To that exclamation of Porthos's succeeded a groaning, low and profound, which seemed to come from behind a door. D'Artagnan, who had just dismounted, then saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous stomach of Musqueton, whose down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of distress.

"And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor hotel, are you not?" asked D'Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may indicate either compassion or mockery.

"He finds the cooking detestable," replied Porthos.

"Why, then, doesn't he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?"

"Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur le prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of his highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have searched every part and poor stuff I found."

"Monsieur Mouston," said D'Artagnan, "I should indeed condole with you had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to."

Then taking Porthos aside:

"My dear Du Vallon," he said, "here you are in full dress most fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal's."

"Gracious me! really!" exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering eyes.

"Yes, my friend."

"A presentation? indeed!"

"Does that alarm you?"

"No, but it agitates me."

"Oh! don't be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity."

"'Tis the same thing - you understand me, D'Artagnan - a court."

"There's no court now. Alas!"

"The queen!"

"I was going to say, there's no longer a queen. The queen! Rest assured, we shall not see her."

"And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?"

"Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of your horses."

"Certainly; all the four are at your service."

"Oh, I need only one of them for the time being."

"Shall we take our valets?"

"Yes, you may as well take Musqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain reasons for not going to court."

"And what are they?"

"Oh, he doesn't stand well with his eminence."

"Mouston," said Porthos, "saddle Vulcan and Bayard."

"And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?"

"No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are going with some ceremony."

"Ah," said Musqueton, breathing more freely, "you are only going, then, to make a visit?"

"Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded."

Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn't understand visits of ceremony made under arms.

"Indeed," said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away, "you are right, D'Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance."

D'Artagnan smiled.

"But you, my friend - are you not going to change your dress?"

"No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands."

They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Musqueton on Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of battle.

Musqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.

On reaching the palace, D'Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.

"Courage!" he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. "Do not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you."

"Good!" answered Porthos. "Good!"

Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D'Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance.

"Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt. 'Tis well. Welcome to ye."

"Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence's service, as well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos."

Porthos bowed to the cardinal.

"A magnificent cavalier," remarked Mazarin.

Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.

"The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord," said D'Artagnan.

Porthos bowed to his friend.

Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was composed of four persons.

"And your two other friends?" he asked.

Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in his turn; D'Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye.

"They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later."

Mazarin coughed a little.

"And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is rich."

"Rich!" said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great respect.

"Fifty thousand francs a year," said Porthos.

These were the first words he had spoken.

"From pure zeal?" resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; "from pure zeal and devotion then?"

"My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?" said D'Artagnan.

"Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?" asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.

"I," replied the Gascon, "I believe in devotion as a word at one's baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one's proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one's devotion something to gain."

"And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?"

"Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony."

"Only that?" said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos's devotion without opening his purse; "only that? That can be managed."

"I shall be baron!" explained Porthos, stepping forward.

"I told you so," said D'Artagnan, checking him with his hand; "and now his eminence confirms it."

"And you, Monsieur D'Artagnan, what do you want?"

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant."

"Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain."

D'Artagnan bowed.

"Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see. Now, Monsieur de Vallon," said Mazarin, "what service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?"

Porthos opened his mouth to reply.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service extraordinary - that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and impossible."

That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.

"And yet," he said, "I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions - well, what is the meaning of that?"

In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming:

"My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!"

Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors. D'Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.

"Well, sir," exclaimed Mazarin, "what's the matter? and why do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?"

"My lord," replied the messenger, "I wish to speak to your eminence in secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes."

Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D'Artagnan and Porthos should give place.

D'Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.

"Speak, monsieur, speak at once!" said Mazarin "What is the matter?"

"The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to escape from the Chateau of Vincennes."

Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.

"Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?"

"My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace."

"And you did not fire on him?"

"He was out of range."

"Monsieur de Chavigny - where was he?"

"Absent."

"And La Ramee?"

"Was found locked up in the prisoner's room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard near him."

"But the man who was under him?"

"Was an accomplice of the duke's and escaped along with him."

Mazarin groaned.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, "it seems to me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant."

"And who is to pursue him?" cried Mazarin.

"I, pardieu!"

"And you would arrest him?"

"Why not?"

"You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?"

"If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize him by the horns and would bring him in."

"So would I," said Porthos.

"So would you!" said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two men. "But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle."

"Very well," said D'Artagnan, his eyes aflame, "battle! It is a long time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?"

"Battle!" cried Porthos.

"And you think you can catch him?"

"Yes, if we are better mounted than he."

"Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him."

"You command us, my lord, to do so?"

"And I sign my orders," said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and writing some lines; "Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort's horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish."

"To horse, Porthos!" said D'Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.

"Here I am," smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.

They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards they found on their road, and crying out, "To arms! To arms!" and immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honore with the speed of the whirlwind.

"Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!" said the Gascon.

"Yes, my captain."

As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean, D'Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though their steeds had wings.

Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the monarchy.

title: Twenty Years After/Chapter 24


text:
Twenty Years After/Chapter 25

The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and of the road to Vincennes, and soon found themselves out of the town, then in a forest and then within sight of a village.

The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step; their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D'Artagnan, freely applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most; Musqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts.

From the top of an eminence D'Artagnan perceived a group of people collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him, coming up one by one.

The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a frightened air.

A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the place where the duke had mounted his horse. D'Artagnan went straight to the sergeant.

"My officer," said the sergeant, "it is not permitted to stop here."

"That prohibition is not for me," said D'Artagnan. "Have the fugitives been pursued?"

"Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted."

"How many are there?"

"Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded."

"Four!" said D'Artagnan, looking at Porthos. "Do you hear, baron? They are only four!"

A joyous smile lighted Porthos's face.

"How long a start have they?"

"Two hours and a quarter, my officer."

"Two hours and a quarter - that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we not, Porthos?"

Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor horses.

"Very good," said D'Artagnan; "and now in what direction did they set out?"

"That I am forbidden to tell."

D'Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. "Order of the king," he said.

"Speak to the governor, then."

"And where is the governor?"

"In the country."

Anger mounted to D'Artagnan's face; he frowned and his cheeks were colored.

"Ah, you scoundrel!" he said to the sergeant, "I believe you are impudent to me! Wait!"

He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it.

"Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out your brains!"

The sergeant saw that D'Artagnan was in earnest. "The Vendomois road," he replied.

"And by what gate did they go out?"

"By the Saint Maur gate."

"If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow."

"And if you catch up with them you won't come back to hang me," murmured the sergeant.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and started.

"This way, gentlemen, this way!" he cried, directing his course toward the gate that had been pointed out.

But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped after an hour's gallop, and one fell down.

D'Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it. Porthos told him of it in his calm manner.

"If only we two arrive," said D'Artagnan, "it will be enough, since the duke's troop are only four in number."

"That is true," said Porthos

And he spurred his courser on.

At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.

"Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures breathing time," said Porthos.

"Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!" cried D'Artagnan; "I see fresh tracks; 'tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this place."

In fact, the road was trodden by horses' feet, visible even in the approaching gloom of evening.

They set out; after a run of two leagues, Musqueton's horse sank.

"Gracious me!" said Porthos, "there's Phoebus ruined."

"The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles."

"I'm above that."

"Let us set out again, at full gallop."

"Yes, if we can."

But at last the lieutenant's horse refused to go on; he could not breathe; one last spur, instead of making him advance, made him fall.

"The devil!" exclaimed Porthos; "there's Vulcan foundered."

"Zounds!" cried D'Artagnan, "then we must stop! Give me your horse, Porthos. What the devil are you doing?"

"By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling," answered Porthos.

All three then cried: "All's over."

"Hush!" said D'Artagnan.

"What is it?"

"I hear a horse."

"It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us."

"No," said D'Artagnan, "it is in advance."

"That is another thing," said Porthos; and he listened toward the quarter indicated by D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur," said Musqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the high road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, "Phoebus could no longer hold out and - - "

"Silence!" said Porthos.

In fact, at that moment a second neighing was borne to them on the night wind.

"It is five hundred feet from here, in advance," said D'Artagnan.

"True, monsieur," said Musqueton; "and five hundred feet from here is a small hunting-house."

"Musqueton, thy pistols," said D'Artagnan.

"I have them at hand, monsieur."

"Porthos, take yours from your holsters."

"I have them."

"Good!" said D'Artagnan, seizing his own; "now you understand, Porthos?"

"Not too well."

"We are out on the king's service."

"Well?"

"For the king's service we need horses."

"That is true," said Porthos.

"Then not a word, but set to work!"

They went on through the darkness, silent as phantoms; they saw a light glimmering in the midst of some trees.

"Yonder is the house, Porthos," said the Gascon; "let me do what I please and do you what I do."

They glided from tree to tree till they arrived at twenty steps from the house unperceived and saw by means of a lantern suspended under a hut, four fine horses. A groom was rubbing them down; near them were saddles and bridles.

D'Artagnan approached quickly, making a sign to his two companions to remain a few steps behind.

"I buy those horses," he said to the groom.

The groom turned toward him with a look of surprise, but made no reply.

"Didn't you hear, fellow?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Why, then, didn't you reply?"

"Because these horses are not to be sold," was the reply.

"I take them, then," said the lieutenant.

And he took hold of one within his reach; his two companions did the same thing.

"Sir," cried the groom, "they have traversed six leagues and have only been unsaddled half an hour."

"Half an hour's rest is enough " replied the Gascon.

The groom cried aloud for help. A kind of steward appeared, just as D'Artagnan and his companions were prepared to mount. The steward attempted to expostulate.

"My dear friend," cried the lieutenant, "if you say a word I will blow out your brains."

"But, sir," answered the steward, "do you know that these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon?"

"So much the better; they must be good animals, then."

"Sir, I shall call my people."

"And I, mine; I've ten guards behind me, don't you hear them gallop? and I'm one of the king's musketeers. Come, Porthos; come, Musqueton."

They all mounted the horses as quickly as possible.

"Halloo! hi! hi!" cried the steward; "the house servants, with the carbines!"

"On! on!" cried D'Artagnan; "there'll be firing! on!"

They all set off, swift as the wind.

"Here!" cried the steward, "here!" whilst the groom ran to a neighboring building.

"Take care of your horses!" cried D'Artagnan to him.

"Fire!" replied the steward.

A gleam, like a flash of lightning, illumined the road, and with the flash was heard the whistling of balls, which were fired wildly in the air.

"They fire like grooms," said Porthos. "In the time of the cardinal people fired better than that, do you remember the road to Crevecoeur, Musqueton?"

"Ah, sir! my left side still pains me!"

"Are you sure we are on the right track, lieutenant?"

"Egad, didn't you hear? these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon; well, Monsieur de Montbazon is the husband of Madame de Montbazon - - "

"And - - "

"And Madame de Montbazon is the mistress of the Duc de Beaufort."

"Ah! I understand," replied Porthos; "she has ordered relays of horses."

"Exactly so."

"And we are pursuing the duke with the very horses he has just left?"

"My dear Porthos, you are really a man of most superior understanding," said D'Artagnan, with a look as if he spoke against his conviction.

"Pooh!" replied Porthos, "I am what I am."

They rode on for an hour, till the horses were covered with foam and dust.

"Zounds! what is yonder?" cried D'Artagnan.

"You are very lucky if you see anything such a night as this," said Porthos.

"Something bright."

"I, too," cried Musqueton, "saw them also."

"Ah! ah! have we overtaken them?"

"Good! a dead horse!" said D'Artagnan, pulling up his horse, which shied; "it seems their horses, too, are breaking down, as well as ours."

"I seem to hear the noise of a troop of horsemen," exclaimed Porthos, leaning over his horse's mane.

"Impossible."

"They appear to be numerous."

"Then 'tis something else."

"Another horse!" said Porthos.

"Dead?"

"No, dying."

"Saddled?"

"Yes, saddled and bridled."

"Then we are upon the fugitives."

"Courage, we have them!"

"But if they are numerous," observed Musqueton, "'tis not we who have them, but they who have us."

"Nonsense!" cried D'Artagnan, "they'll suppose us to be stronger than themselves, as we're in pursuit; they'll be afraid and will disperse."

"Certainly," remarked Porthos.

"Ah! do you see?" cried the lieutenant.

"The lights again! this time I, too, saw them," said Porthos.

"On! on! forward! forward!" cried D'Artagnan, in his stentorian voice; "we shall laugh over all this in five minutes."

And they darted on anew. The horses, excited by pain and emulation, raced over the dark road, in the midst of which was now seen a moving mass, denser and more obscure than the rest of the horizon.

title: Twenty Years After/Chapter 25


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Page:Colymbia (1873).djvu/85

DUCATION is pretty generally diffused among the Colymbians, but, of course, all classes are not educated alike. There are schools for the masses where the language, writing, arithmetic and sundry useful arts are taught. As all the places under Government, except the chief offices of state, are obtained by competitive examination, the education of the young men of the upper ranks, among whom places under Government are the great objects of ambition, is, as a rule, very sedulously carried out; but the branches of knowledge taught are chiefly those which form the subjects of examination.

Now, though the employments under Government are of the most varied sorts, requiring, one would think, a different education for each office, I found that the examinations for all are nearly identical. Whatever the office, whether it be a simple clerkship, a secretaryship, an appointment as an inspector of light, air, drainage or police, as a lawyer or an instructor, the main subject on which candidates are examined is the hieroglyphical writing on the monuments and in the ancient documents of the land.

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80 I was unable to discover that a knowledge of the hieroglyphical writing would ever be of any use to the candidates after they had obtained the office they desired. I was told that no useful information whatever could be got from the writing, that it mostly consisted of absurd myths and incredible fables and displayed an almost total unacquaintance with the simplest and best known physical facts. Yet, notwithstanding this, it was held that every person who aspired to a place under Government should show a tolerable acquaintance with the hieroglyphics, and give proof that he had wasted some years of his life in their study.

The colleges where these hieroglyphics are taught, are frankly denominated "Seminaries of Useless Knowledge," and it is generally believed that the acquirement of this useless knowledge is an excellent thing for exercising and opening the mind, and especially that it distinguishes the gentleman from the common herd.

When I ventured to express a mild doubt as to the expediency of devoting so much time to the acquisition of this useless knowledge, I was immediately met with the unanswerable argument that experience had shown that it expanded the intellect, led to habits of industry and application and enabled him who had been thoroughly grounded in it to acquire thereafter all the branches of mere utilitarian knowledge with the utmost facility. In short, I found the prejudice in favour of hieroglyphics so strong, that it almost seemed to be thought that if the study of hieroglyphics were done away with, the race would incontinently lapse into barbarism.

As it would have done no good to run counter to the settled prejudices of the natives, I did not attempt

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 he obtained the Newdigate with an ornate poem on 'Belshazzar's Feast.' This was published separately (1852) and was also reissued to form next year the staple of an elegant volume, 'Poems Narrative and Lyrical' (Oxford, 1853). Dedicated to Lady Waldegrave, Arnold's 'Poems' obtained the distinction of a review, on 'The two Arnolds,' in 'Blackwood' (March 1854). In America, many years later, Matthew Arnold found himself credited to an embarrassing extent with the poetical baggage of his namesake. After a short period as second English master at King Edward's School, Birmingham, Arnold was in 1856 nominated principal of the government Deccan College at Poona. On settling there he was elected a fellow of Bombay University. He soon studied Eastern languages, and mastered not only those of India but also Turkish and Persian. A successful translation of 'The Book of Good Counsels. From the Sanskrit of the Hitopadesa,' with pleasing illustrations by Harrison Weir (1861), dedicated to his first wife, indicates his rapid attraction to Oriental study. He also wrote a pamphlet on education in India (1860), pleading for a more scientific grafting of Western knowledge upon the lore of the East, and a 'History of the Marquis of Dalhousie's Administration' (2vols. 1862-5). His demeanour as principal during the trying times of the mutiny won him commendations from the Indian government.

During a visit to England in 1861 Arnold obtained through a chance advertisement the post of leader-writer on the 'Daily Telegraph,' which Joseph Moses Levy [q. v.] was just setting to work to regenerate. This appointment finally determined his career. His colleague George Augustus Sala describes in his 'Reminiscences' how in the early days of 1862 the Eastern aroma first began to make itself felt in the leading articles of the 'Daily Telegraph.' Arnold and Sala were responsible, perhaps, in about equal measure for the roaring tones in which the 'Telegraph' began about this time to answer back the thunder of 'The Times' newspaper (see Friendship's Garland, 1871 ). On Thornton Hunt's doath in 1873 Arnold became a chief editor of the 'Daily Telegraph,' and with the proprietors was responsible for the despatch of some enterprising and important journalistic missions, that of George Smith [q. v.] to Assyria in 1874, that of H. M. Stanley (jointly with the 'New York Herald') to complete the disdbveries of Livingstone in the same year, and that of Sir H. H. Johnston to Kilima-Njaro in 1884. Arnold's Oriental knowledge proved of vital influence on his editorial work, and as a champion of Turkey through the Russo-Turkish war and of Lord Lytton's forward policy in India he helped to mould public opinion. He was made C.S.I, when Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress of India on 1 Jan. 1877. In 1879 he published the epic poem 'The Light of Asia,' to which he owed most of his fame. In blank verse, of Oriental luxuriance, in which colour and music were blended in the Tennysonian manner with heightened effects, Arnold here presented the picturesque and pathetic elements of the Buddhist legend and the life of Gautama. The moral doctrines were those to which Europeans had been accustomed all their lives, but the setting was new to English and American readers. The poem aroused the animosities of many pulpits, but there were sixty editions in England and eighty in America, and translations were numerous. A sequel appeared in 1891 as 'The Light of the World,' and proved a signal failure.

After twenty-eight successful years in the editorial room, where his staff of writers included Edward Dicey, James Macdonell, H. D. Traill, and others, Arnold, who was made K.C.I.E. in 1888, became a travelling commissioner of the paper. In August 1889 he started with his daughter, Katharine Lilian, upon a long ramble chiefly devoted to the Pacific coast and Japan. As a picturesque tourist in books like 'India Revisited' (1886), 'Seas and Lands' (1891), 'Wandering Words' (1894), and 'East and West' (1896) (studies of Egypt, India, and Japan), he has had few rivals. His 'first visit to Japan was often repeated, and he was fascinated by the artistic and social side of Japanese life. His writings on Japan helped to spread in England optimistic views of Japanese progress and culture. In 1891 he undertook a reading tour in America, and he received numerous foreign decorations from Turkey, Persia, Siam, and Japan.

During the last nine or ten years of his life his sight gradually failed, but in spite of infirmities he maintained a keen interest in contemporary affairs. In 1899 he dedicated to his third wife his interesting story of the wrongs of an Indian cultivator called ' The Queen's Justice,' and in 1895 he dedicated to the Duchess of York, afterwards Queen Mary, his 'Tenth Muse and Other Poems, including many Renderings of Japanese "uta." ' He died at his house in Bolton Gardens, London, on 24 March 1904 ; he was


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Rh to argue the point, but merely mentally registered the partiality for hieroglyphics as another of the eccentricities of this singular people.

Besides this useless knowledge, the young men are well instructed in natural science, mechanics, chemistry, music and the fine arts.

Music especially, as might have been expected, is thoroughly taught. All who wish to qualify themselves for the higher offices in the legislature or under Government, are well grounded in the intricacies of counter-point, for without a professional knowledge of this, it is impossible to attain a distinguished place in the state or even in society.

Another subject of study, or branch of learning, which is even more generally taught and diffused than any of those I have mentioned, is what goes by the name of "transcendental geography."

The professors of this science are taught in special colleges, in which they obtain diplomas which entitle them to teach the science to others. All ranks and both sexes are expected to acquire a smattering of this science, and there are vast halls where large numbers periodically assemble for instruction therein. This is a science which is cultivated during the whole period of life. No one is deemed to be able to acquire it thoroughly, for all are expected to attend the periodical lectures on it up to the remotest term of life. And yet it seemed to me that all that could be learnt about it might well have been taught in a few lessons. Still it is the established custom of the country to attend the lectures delivered at stated periods, from early youth to extreme old age. None seem to think that they can ever have too much of transcendental geography. 5em

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