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heads in respect of which those liabilities are outstanding.

85. (1) The heads of expenditure to be met from the Consolidated Fund other than statutory expenditure and other than expenditure expenditure to be met by such sums as are mentioned in clause (3) of Article 84 of this Constitution shall be included in a Bill to be known as a Supply Bill, providing for the issue from the Consolidated Fund of the sums necessary to meet that expenditure and the appropriation of those sums for the purposes specified therein.
 * (2) Whenever—
 * (a) any moneys are expended or are likely to be expended in any financial year upon any service which are in excess of the sum provided for that service by the Supply law relating to that year, or

 * (b) any moneys are expended or are likely to be expended (otherwise than by way of statutory expenditure) in any financial year upon any new service not provided for by the Supply law relating to that year,

supplementary estimates (or, as the case may be, statements of excess) shall be prepared by the Minister responsible for finance and, when approved by the Cabinet, shall be laid before and voted on by the Legislative Assembly; in respect of all supplementary expenditure so voted the Minister responsible for finance may, at any time before the end of the financial year, introduce into the Legislative Assembly a Supplementary Supply Bill containing, under appropriate heads, the estimated sums so voted and shall, as soon as possible after the end of each financial year, introduce into the Legislative Assembly a Final Supply Bill containing any such sums which have not yet been included in any Supply Bill.

 * (3) That part of any estimate of expenditure laid before the Legislative Assembly which shows statutory expenditure shall not be voted on by the Legislative Assembly, and such expenditure shall, without further authority of the Legislative Assembly, be paid out of the Consolidated Fund.

 * (4) For the purposes of this Article and the preceding Article statutory expenditure means expenditure charged on the Consolidated Fund or on the general revenues and assets of Singapore by virtue of the provisions of clause (3) of Article 4, clause (8) of Article 19, Article 25, clause (3) of Article 26, clause (1) of Article 74, Article 78 and Article 88 of this Constitution or by virtue of the provisions of any other law for the time being in force in Singapore.

86. (1) Subject to the following provisions of this Article, no moneys shall be withdrawn from the Consolidated Fund unless they are—

 * (a) charged on the Consolidated Fund; or


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 were you even the daughter of the exécuteur des hautes œuvres, as the heroine of a romantic story I once read, turned out to be.

I am satisfied. You have now a right to know my history, and if you repent, I absolve you from all obligations. She told him her history; but he was out of the reach of repentance. "It is true," as at a subsequent period he said to the Captain, "she is the daughter of a money-changer; one who, in the days of Richard the First, would have been plucked by the beard in the streets; but she is, according to modern notions, a lady of gentle blood. As to her father's running away, that is a minor consideration: I have always understood, from Mr. Mac Quedy, who is a great oracle in this way, that promises to pay ought not to

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


text: Crotchet Castle/Chapter 16

title: Crotchet Castle/Chapter 16


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230

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The Schedule, paragraph 2


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. Come in, my fine young man. I wish I could offer you better lodging; but I am poor. I have lived here miserably these fifty years.

. Can enchantment last so long?

. What enchantment are you talking about? Do you think it is enchantment to live like this?

. Bah! Do you think that you can laugh at me? Then know that my fate and yours have brought me here to disenchant you. What is it necessary to do? Slay giants and dragons? Or to give you a kiss? There!… Take one.

. Thanks. You are very kind.

. Ah! It was not that? Then what is it necessary to do?

. Poor young man! He is out of his head.

. Do you suffer under the spell of some fairy more powerful than yourself? Of some witch, some mage, or spirit of evil?

. No, I suffer under nothing more than my age and my poverty. Do you want something to eat? I can give you figs and nuts.

. What nice fat ones!

. Help yourself. This is all the food I have.

. But, really, can't you tell me how you may be disenchanted? You must not laugh at me; I am the Blue Prince.

. Poor young man! It is too bad. You are 12


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 cold, no? I am going to light the fire… Bring me that bundle of fagots.

. Ah, you wish to bind me to your service? Must I submit to this proof?

. It isn't a proof, any more than I am. If you will be so kind… I haven't the strength.

. Command me at your pleasure. I know that at last I must win your favor, and then you will reveal yourself in your true likeness, resplendent with beauty, and this humble cabin will transform itself into a marvellous palace, and you will lead me by the hand to the Princess of my Dreams!

. Yes, yes! I will. Of course! Of course! [Aside] I had better humor him.

. Who is knocking?

. Who is there?

. [Outside] Open, good woman.

. They are wood-choppers—poor people who range over these mountains to gain a living. Come in!

. Good afternoon.

. Your good health!

. Come in, good people.

. Who is he?

. A traveller who has lost his way. I think he is out of his head.

. He looks like a fine gentleman. Has he money?

. Eh? How do I know?

. Then you ought to know. If he has…

. What are you thinking about? Some villainy?


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. You can help us with the trick, as you always do.

. Don't you deceive yourself. This poor boy goes out of my house safe and sound.

. Leave off your gabble and fetch us something to drink.

. What a life for these poor men! It must be hard, to judge by the appearance.

. Why not? Running over the mountain all day to gather a miserable bundle of wood.

. There never ought to be winter time for the poor.

. But I prefer the winter. What do you say to summer?

. All the year is evil for those whose lives are poor.

. Poor fellows! My lady fairy, you ought to take pity on them, and divide your riches with them.

. You see now that is what I do. This is all my riches—this old, musty wine. Don't you want to try it?

. Here! Give it to me… It is not bad.

. Ah! This gives life.

. This cheers the heart.

. Here, my good people. It's for you… For you!

. Gold!

. Gold? Pigs and chestnuts!

. [To the ] And for you, too.… Why are you laughing at me?

. No, no, I am not laughing. I am much obliged. When did I ever see so much money all at once?

. Did you see? His pockets were full of gold.


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. He must have more about him—hid.

. We will come back when he is asleep.

. Ho! We will.

. We'd better sharpen the axe.

. No, he's a babe. Our hands will do, or a good rope round his neck.

. Those rogues are up to something.

. Good! Now we have drunk and are rested. We must get on to town before morning.

. Health and a pleasant journey.

. Health, my good people.

. We'll be back. Get him to sleep quick, and leave a light burning.

. Wretches! No! You shan't come back to-night.

. Look out then, to-morrow! Well, it's all settled.

. Sleep tight.

. Poor men! Their life is hard. They must have families, too, and children.

. He has a kind heart. No, no, I can't allow it. [Aloud] My noble boy, leave this house—at once! Do not delay an instant.

. What is the matter?

. Don't ask me, believe me. Ah! If you only knew…

. What? Nothing can frighten me. I know that you must submit me to terrible proofs. I must encounter danger with a light heart. I know that happiness awaits me at last!


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302 his indomitable energy and inflexible determination in persevering in them when once adopted.

In corroboration of this statement we may very briefly advert to two or three of the leading acts of his official life:—

On entering on his Indian Government, one of the first subjects which arrested and engaged his attention was the atrocious rite of Sati, or that of burning widows alive. His own benevolent disposition strongly prompted him to seek for the means of its total abolition, while his sagacity led him to perceive, and his honest candour to acknowledge, that the subject was beset with difficulties of a very peculiar difficulties,—difficulties which had their root deep in the most stubborn and intractable of all soils—that of hereditary superstition and religious fanaticism. His first step, therefore, was to institute inquiry and invite information from all, whether Native or European, who were in any way willing or competent to bestow it. The progress of these multiplied inquiries he watched with a tremulous solicitude for the result, which those who knew him not would be loath to credit. Having at last made up his own mind, not merely as to the moral expediency, but as to the legislative practicability and political safety of the measure, he promulgated his celebrated prohibitory decree, amid a tempest of warnings, protests, and denunciations, on the part alike of bigoted natives and still more senselessly bigoted European officials, which might have well made any Ruler of less nerve and resolution of purpose to pause, or even abandon altogether the project in blank despair.

At an early period of his administration, his attention was specially directed towards the terrible fraternity of Thugs, whose fatal presence had for ages been everywhere mysteriously felt, though everywhere shrouded under the disguise of a companionable, hearty, peaceful citizenship;—the Thugs, or those bands of leagued felons, whose very profession is that of rapine and murder, and the bonds of whose confederacy are forged out of inviolable oaths and propitiatory offerings at the shrine of a sanguinary deity. With the keen insight of practical intuition, he perceived that forms of justice, which, in the case of a people civilized in their habits and regardful of truth, were mainly designed to throw the shield of protection over innocence, could only, in the case of such outlaws and desperadoes as the Thugs, serve the purpose of so many breached walls or shattered network for the sure escape of the guilty. His resolution, therefore, was promptly taken. The grand object aimed at, viz., the detection and suppression of the monstrous system of Thuggee, was an extraordinary one, and the means to be employed in compassing that end, if intended to be effective, must be extra-


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. Death, unhappy boy! It is death! Run! Run quickly! I will show you a path by which you may leave these woods unseen, undiscovered by anybody.

. Bah, let the giants and fierce dragons come! Come monsters and hobgoblins! Raise up your walls of fire!

. My son, don't talk nonsense! None of these things can be, nor have we need to fear them. But these men, these soulless wretches—they have sworn to rob you. They have seen that you have gold. They will kill you, as they have killed the others… Look! They are lighting the bonfire into which they mean to throw your body to burn it up, so that it will not be known. Then they will cast the ashes into the abyss, like those of other boys. I have helped them, oh, so often! I am a sinner… I was afraid—I was so poor! But I will not do it to-day. No! You are so young, so generous. You make me pity you, I want to save you. But don't delay. Fly! Fly, for your mother's sake! For you are too young yet to have another love on earth than mother!

. No, I will not fly. I shall wait here for these men, be they men or monsters, and meet them without fear. Nothing can frighten me.

. No, for my sake! Have pity upon me! See! if they return and I protect you, they will kill me, too. And they will kill me if they don't find you here! They will say that I have deceived them. But what difference does it make? I pity you.

. No, I will not go. I know you only want to test my courage. No sacrifice can be too great to win the Princess's hand!

. Ah, what madness! Poor boy! See! I am not a fairy, I am a poor old woman who has taken pity on you and wants to save you… Hark! They are com-


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Rh ordinary too. A Government Commissioner was accordingly appointed, armed with unshackled and all but dictatorial irresponsible powers,—exempt alike from the interposition of ordinary forms of law and the jurisdiction of ordinary Judges and Magistrates. The appointment was not long in justifying the administrative wisdom which suggested it. Sooner than any one dared venture to hazard a conjecture on the subject, was the veil of hitherto impenetrable secrecy completely lifted up, and a system of cold-blooded atrocity revealed in its varied details which filled all Christendom with astonishment and horror. And, under the energetic and persevering efforts of Col. and his able assistants, was the axe of retributive justice and ultimate destruction effectually laid at the roots of this worse than Upas tree of Thuggeeism.

Taking a survey of the physical sufferings of a sorely stricken and oppressed people, the Governor-General was led to reflect how largely many of these sufferings must be aggravated by the nostrums, formulisms, and quackeries practised by swarms of native practitioners, or would-be-professors of the Hygeian art. He felt how great a temporal boon would be conferred by the rearing of a superior class of men, released from the medical cabalisms of decrepit Asia, and endowed with the enlightened science of manly Europe. But who, in these present days of realized plans and visible progress, can adequately estimate or comprehend the nature and amount of the difficulties that stood, like so many unscaleable bluff rocks, in the way? The prejudices of the natives were known to be great; and they were studiously magnified and pronounced to be insuperable. The touch of a dead body—though it were that of the nearest and dearest friend—at any time is pollution, involving heavy penalties in the way of ceremonial observances for its removal. But the touch of a dead body, which may have been the tenement of one of another caste, or of an unclean person of no caste at all—why, the very thought of such a thing was sure to lacerate the tenderest feelings of the native mind! But, great as were the real or supposed prejudices of the natives, the prejudices of the learned European Orientalists, relative to this point, were, if possible, still greater, because more elaborately unreasonable. With them it was a foregone conclusion. They had finally made up their minds on the subject. Under the transformative influences of these sunny climes, or the subtilizing effects of an antediluvian logic, or the magical spell of Orient manners, customs, and habits, they at length were reasoned, or seasoned, or magnetized into the thorough persuasion that the difficulties were not only presently insurmountable, but prospectively irre-


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XXXIX.]

“Ay! to himself Lord Dietrich of Bern doth think that ne’er

His like, so strong of body and terrible there were!

And should he for our doings a reckoning demand,”

So Hagen spake: “against him I dare right well to stand.”

They heard the words of Hagen,— Dietrich and Hildebrand.

He came to where the warriors had taken both their stand

Without the house, together, leaning against the hall.

His goodly shield had Dietrich upon its rim let fall.

Then Dietrich spake in answer, grievously sorrowing:

“Why hast thou done in this wise, O Gunther, mighty king,

To me who am a stranger? to thee what had I done?

All comfort that was left me is now for ever gone.

“With that great deed of vengeance ye were not yet content

When Rüdeger the hero to bloody death you sent:

Now have ye taken from me my liegemen everyone;—

Ah! never to your heroes would I such scathe have done.

“Now of yourselves be mindful, and of your own distress,

The death of friends and kinsfolk, your toil and weariness;

Doth it not weigh upon you, good warriors, heavily?

Alas, the death of Rüdeger is bitterness to me!

“In this world never happen’d such woe to anyone.

Ye took but ill account of  my sorrow and your own;

By you of all its pleasures my life henceforth is shorn;

In truth I cannot ever my kinsfolk cease to mourn.”


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 ing. We will fly together, if you will. But I can't, I am too old. They would overtake us. They would seize us

. With you, yes—I will go with you! If what you say is true, I cannot leave you with these villains. But I know that you are deceiving me. Come! When you can no longer walk, I will carry you in my arms. I am strong, I never am afraid.

. Yes, yes! We will save ourselves together.

. But are you speaking the truth? Are you not really what you seem? Are you only a poor woman, and no fairy?

. No, no! Come on! Come quickly! Believe what you like—only believe! Yes, I am a fairy, a good fairy, who is saving you… What more do you ask if I save you?

. I know well that you must save me! I know well that I shall meet you at last. Princess mine!


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304 moveable. This, with them, became a practically and determinately settled point—a point as unalterable in its nature as a decree of fabled destiny, or a law of heathenish irreversible necessity. Nor had they their established dogmas with reference only to the matter and the mode of medical instruction; they had also their established dogma with reference to the media of instruction. With them, the Sanskrit and the Arabic—languages to the acquisition of which they had devoted the prime of their strength and the flower of their days—naturally and inevitably had charms—charms of a character altogether peculiar, resistless, and all-absorbing—filling the horizon of their lingual vision, and presenting allurements not to be paralleled in the world besides. Their favourite, and to them conclusive, theory accordingly was, that the improved learning of the West could by no possibility be effectually conveyed to the scholars of the East, except through Sanskrit and Arabic media. And from the high character and reputation of their authors, these became the current, the popular, and the fashionable sentiments and dogmas of the day—wielding an ascendency over public opinion, and exerting a monopolizing despotism over the master spirits alike of the academy and the palace. Hence the supercilious and contemptuous scorn, not unrelieved by occasional grimaces of compassion, at the plans and projects of the amiable and well-meaning but withal credulous and presumptuous enthusiasts, who pleaded for innovation in the matter, manner and media of instruction; and advocated not merely the desirableness but the practicability of change. Hence, too, the voluminous papers, pamphlets, and documents—the masses of learned ethnographic lumber—the whole piles of antiquarian and philological dotages, which were thrown up as ramparts around the Governor-General to hem him in, and shut him up to a forlorn conclusion. Poor Lord William! Had he been the man of little mind—the man of pigmy conceptions and dwarfish aims—the low self-seeking popularity-hunter which his relentless detractors would have us to believe, he must have shrunk back, like a defenceless fugitive from a hundred gun battery in full fire—glad, in the hope of escape, to run the risk of a few broken bones and a somewhat damaged honour. But, happily, Lord William was a man—a real man —a sturdy giant of a man,—a man, who could think for himself, aye, and act for himself,—a man, who could break through all the meshes ingeniously set to entangle him, and over-leap all the barriers assiduously raised to shut him in. Once more was his purpose formed. Under his instructions, a set of about fifty questions was prepared and despatched to all the leading advocates of the old and new systems,


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398

“In sooth,” then answer’d Hagen, “So guilty are we not;

For verily your heroes came marching to this spot

Well-arm’d, for some set purpose, in such large company:

To you methinks the story was not told truthfully.”

“What else should I believe then? ’twas said by Hildebrand

That when my knights besought you— the men of Amelung land—

That you would give them Rüdeger from out the palace-hall,

Naught else but jibes you offer’d to these bold heroes all.”

Then spake the king of Rhineland: “They did their wish avow

Hence Rüdeger to carry; that would I not allow,

To do despite to Etzel, and not to cross your men:

Till Wolfhart words unhandsome began to utter then.”

Then answer’d him the hero of Bern, “So let it be!

Yet Gunther, noble sovran, now of thy courtesy

Repay me for the sorrow that of thy doing came,

And make, bold knight, atonement, that I confirm the same.

“Give up thyself as hostage, thou and thy liegeman there;

Then I myself will guard ye with all my greatest care,

Lest any of the Hunfolk should do ye aught of ill;

In me thou shalt find nothing save faith and all goodwill.”

But Hagen spake in answer: “Now God in Heaven forfend

That any pair of warriors themselves to thee should bend,

Who arm’d as yet so stoutly here stand before thine eyes,

And still are all unfetter’d to face their enemies.”


text: Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Zinzendorff/Notes


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XXXIX.]

“Beware, Gunther and Hagen,” then Dietrich answer made,

“How ye refuse my offer! ye twain on me have laid

So sore a load of sorrow— on heart and spirit too;

If ye amends will make me, that may ye cheaply do.

“I give you my true promise, and pledge it with my hand,

That I myself will with you ride home unto your land;

I’ll guide you in all honour, or will myself be slain,

And will, the while I serve you, forget my bitter pain.”

“Now think thereon no longer,” Hagen in answer bade,

“’Twere not a fitting story about us to be said,

That two such doughty warriors had bow’d to your demand:

One sees beside you standing no one save Hildebrand.”

Then upspake Master Hildebrand: “Sir Hagen, God doth know,—

Seeing that one hath offer’d to make a peace with you,—

The hour is nigh when fitly the offer you might take:

The peace my lord proposes ’twere well for you to make.”

“I’d sooner make atonement,” in answer Hagen said,

“Ere in such coward fashion from any place I fled

las thou hast done but lately, good Master Hildebrand!

Methought against a foeman thou couldst more boldly stand!”

Old Hildebrand made answer:  “Why taunt’st thou me therefor?

Who sat upon his buckler the Vaske-rock before,

While friends of his so many the Spanish Walther slew?

About thyself in plenty are things that one might shew.”


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Rh which may be compendiously denominated Orientalism and Anglicism. Brief, summary, decisive answers were returned by the latter; while the former sent in whole volumes of profound discussion to overwhelm or carry by main force the judgment of the Governor-General. But he was not to be so overcome. He calmly looked at this side and at that. With his practised, experienced eye, he soon pierced through and through the entire host of inflated pedantries and inveterate prejudices which had been marshalled in battle array against him. And, as with the club of Hercules, he speedily dashed them all away—there to lie in scattered fragments and relics, scarcely able articulately to point to the well nigh forgotten story of their once flourishing reign. The oriental Medical College—with its Sanskrit and Arabic phantasmagoria, and wooden, waxen, and other artificial anatomical substitutes—was torn up by the roots, like an old sapless oak before the blast of the north wind. And, in its stead, fresh with the dews of morning promise and buoyant with the spring of dawning hope, the —the virtual canonization of Occidentalism in the calendar of Indian amelioration—started into being, rejoicing to enter on its glorious career of indefinite usefulness.

But Lord William’s attention was not directed merely to the immediate physical sufferings and wants of the people. His soul was deeply moved and affected at the spectacle of their intellectual and moral degradation. He saw that the administration of justice was corrupt, and the system of police one of revolting cruelty and oppression; and he fully acknowledged that these must be reformed. But he also had the perspicacity to see and to acknowledge that all remedial measures whatsoever, in these departments, must prove comparatively abortive without antecedent or concurrent measures for the intellectual and moral elevation of the people themselves. In short, his whole head and heart were eventually bent on the establishment of an improved and comprehensive system of national education. In order, however, to compass this great end, with any intelligible prospect of success, he felt, with his accustomed shrewdness and good sense, that the very first step must be, “to know, with all attainable accuracy, the present state of instruction in native institutions and in native society.” Again, then, was his resolution firmly taken. To accomplish this specific object, he determined that a Government Commissioner of Education should be duly chosen and appointed. And, in order still farther to ensure the services of a really fit agent for the execution of a task of so delicate, arduous, and responsible a nature, he resolved, with characteristic liberality, that the


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400

Then spake the noble Dietrich: “It fits not heroes good

To rail at one another as any old wives would.

You, Hildebrand, forbid I to wrangle any more:

On me, a homeless warrior, are weighing troubles sore.

“Come let us hear, Sir Hagen,” to him spake Dietrich then,

“What was it ye were saying, ye ready warriors twain,

When first ye saw me coming to you in armour dight?

Ye vow’d that ye against me would singly stand in fight.”

“That no man will deny you,” thane Hagen made reply,

“And with some sturdy sword-strokes here fam am I to try,—

Unless the blade of Niblung within my hand should break:

Wroth am I that you purpose us two in pledge to take.”

When Dietrich thus had hearken’d to savage Hagen’s mood,

Quickly his shield uplifted that gallant thane and good.

How swiftly Hagen toward him down from the stairway sprang!

The goodly sword of Niblung loudly on Dietrich rang.

Then well the noble Dietrich knew that the valiant man

Right ruthless was in humour. The lord of Bern began

Against this deadly onset to guard himself aright;

To him well known was Hagen, that all-accomplish’d knight.

Dread, too, had he of Balmung, a potent sword enow.

From time to time yet Dietrich gave back a wily blow,

Until at last, in fighting, Hagen o’ermaster’d he:

A single wound he dealt him; ’twas deep and long to see.


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XXXIX.]

Bethought him then Lord Dietrich: “Thou’rt weaken’d by the strife,

I should have little honour were I to take thy life.

Sooner will I make trial, if I may thee compel

To be to me a hostage.” With trouble this befell.

He let his shield fall downwards— great was his strength of limb,

And Tronian Hagen clasp’d he close in his arms to him.

And thus was captive taken by him that gallant man;

Whereat the noble Gunther sorely to grieve began.

Then Dietrich led forth Hagen, fast bound, to where her stand

The noble queen had taken; and gave into her hand

The boldest of all warriors that ever weapon bare;—

Then had she joy in plenty for all her bitter care.

For thanks the wife of Etzel unto the thane bent low:

“In heart and eke in body for ever blest be thou!

Now hast thou well repaid me for my unhappy lot;

For this I’ll ever serve thee if death prevent me not.”

Then answer’d the Lord Dietrich: “His life thou e’en must spare,

O noble queen! Then haply thou mayst become aware

How well he will atone for all he hath done to thee!

He must no whit be worsen’d, that him in bonds ye see.”

She bade them carry Hagen to durance vile away,

nd there imprison’d straitly unseen of men he lay.

Gunther the noble sovran aloud began to cry:

“Where went that chief of Bern? He hath done me injury.”


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402

Then presently to meet him the noble Dietrich came.

Great was the might of Gunther, and well ’twas known to fame.

Nor did he tarry longer;— before the hall he ran.

From their two weapons’ meeting a dreadful din began.

Albeit that Lord Dietrich great fame long time had had,

So sore was Gunther’s anger he raved like one gone mad;

For deadly foe he held him, so bitter was his pain:

’Tis reckon’d still a marvel that Dietrich was not slain.

So strong and full of valour was either of the twain,

The palace walls and turrets rang with their blows again.

While on the goodly helmets with swords they hack’d and hew’d.

Then, verily, King Gunther, a royal courage shew’d.

Yet he of Bern o’ercame him, as likewise he had done

To Hagen; through the hauberk the hero’s blood to run

Was seen, from that sharp weapon wherewith Sir Dietrich clove.

Yet, weary as was Gunther, he valiantly strove.

Bound was the noble chieftain by Dietrich’s hand alone,

Although a king should never such bonds have undergone.

He thought if he should leave them, the king and vassal, free,

That all on whom they lighted by them fordone must be.

Dietrich of Bern then took him a captive, closely-bound,

And by the hand he led him where he Kriemhilda found.

At sight of his affliction her sorrows greatly waned;

She spake: “Be welcome, Gunther, of the Burgundian land!”


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 "I have indicated my view at any rate," said Mr. Huss. "I suppose now Sir Alpheus is here"

"He isn't here," said Dr. Barrack neatly. "He telegraphs to say that he is held up, and will come by the next train. So you get a reprieve, Mr. Huss."

"In that case I shall go on talking."

"You had better go to bed."

"No. I couldn't lie quiet." And Mr. Huss proceeded to name his guests to Dr. Barrack, who nodded shortly to each of them in turn, and said: "Pleased-t-meet you." His face betrayed no excess of pleasure. His eye was hard. He remained standing, as if waiting for them to display symptoms.

"Our discussion has wandered far," said Sir Eliphaz. "Our original business here was to determine the future development of Woldingstanton School, which we think should be made more practical and technical than hitherto, and less concerned with history and philosophy than it has been under Mr. Huss. (Won't you sit down, Doctor?)"

The doctor sat down, still watching Sir Eliphaz with hard intelligence.

"Well, we have drifted from that," Sir Eliphaz continued.

"Not so far as you may think," said Mr. Huss.

"At any rate Mr. Huss has been regaling us with a discourse upon the miseries of life, how we are all eaten up by parasites and utterly wretched, and how everything is wretched and this an accursed world ruled either by a cruel God or a God so careless as to be practically no God at all."


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XXXIX.]

He spake: “I needs must thank thee, most noble sister mine,

Though I would fain a greeting more gracious have than thine!

O queen, well do I know thee, how wrathful is thy mood,

And that for me and Hagen thou hast no greeting good.”

Of Bern then spake the hero: “Never, most noble queen,

Knights of such fair demeanour, your hostages have been

As these, most gracious lady, whom now to you I give:

See that ye let the strangers for my sake safely live.”

She vow’d to do it gladly: so the Lord Dietrich came—

His eyes with tears o’erflowing— from those two chiefs of fame.

Soon vengeance sore upon them was wreak’d by Etzel’s wife:

Of both these chosen warriors she took away the life.

Her evil mood obeying, apart she made them lie,

That neither on the other from that time forth set eye,

Until in front of Hagen her brother’s head she laid.

On both of them Kriemhilda her vengeance well repaid.

For first the queen betook her where she might Hagen see:

And spake unto the warrior,— how full of enmity!

“What thou from me hast taken if thou again wilt give,

Then home thou yet mayst journey to Burgundy alive.”

But Hagen grim made answer: “You throw your words away,

Most noble queen, for truly I’ve sworn, and now I say

The treasure I will show not, so long as either one

Be living of my masters;— I’ll yield it up to none.”


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 "Nice stuff for nineteen eighteen A. D.," said Mr. Dad, putting much meaning into the "A. D."

"Since I left Woldingstanton and came here," said Mr. Huss, "I have done little else but think. I have not slept during the night, I have had nothing to occupy me during the day, and I have been thinking about fundamental things. I have been forced to revise my faith, and to look more closely than I have ever done before into the meaning of my beliefs and into my springs of action. I have been wrenched away from that habitual confidence in the order of things which seemed the more natural state for a mind to be in. But that has only widened a difference that already existed between me and these three gentlemen, and that was showing very plainly in the days when success still justified my grip upon Woldingstanton. Suddenly, swiftly, I have had misfortune following upon misfortune—without cause or justification. I am thrown now into the darkest doubt and dismay; the universe seems harsh and black to me; whereas formerly I believed that at the core of it and universally pervading it was the Will of a God of Light I have always denied, even when my faith was undimmed, that the God of Righteousness ruled this world in detail and entirety, giving us day by day our daily rewards and punishments. These gentlemen on the contrary do believe that. They say that God does rule the world traceably and directly, and that success is the measure of his approval and pain and suffering the fulfilment of unrighteousness. And as for what has this to do with education—it has all to do


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404

“Then will I end the matter!” so spake the noble wife,

And forthwith bade her liegemen to take her brother’s life.

They struck his head from off him, which by the hair she bore

Before the Tronian hero; then was his grief full sore.

For when, with sorrow stricken, he saw his master’s head,

Thereon unto Kriemhilda the warrior spake and said:

“E’en as thou saidst, the matter thou hast to ending brought,

And likewise all hath happen’d as I beforehand thought.

“And now the noble sovran of Burgundy is not,

Nor Giselher the stripling, and eke the Lord Gernot,

None knoweth of the treasure save God and me alone:

And unto thee, she-devil, it never shall be known!”

Said she: “An evil guerdon dost thou to me award;

Yet in mine own possession I will have Siegfried’s sword,

Which my belovéd husband, when last I saw him, bare

That day when, by your doing, began my heartfelt care.”

She drew it from the scabbard— he could not hinder her—

And of his life bethought her to rid that warrior.

With both her hands she swung it, and smote his head right off:

King Etzel saw her do it, his grief was sore enough.

The prince cried: “Woe betide me, lo! now, how here is slain,

And by a woman’s doing, the very noblest thane

That ever came to battle, or ever buckler bore!

Albeit I was his foeman I could not sorrow more!”


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306 field of selection would not be limited to the existing services of Government, whether covenanted or uncovenanted. The choice ultimately fell on Mr. William Adam, a gentleman possessed of many rare endowments, natural and acquired, as well as of many special qualifications for the onerous task of Educational Commissioner,—who had originally come to this country as a Baptist Missionary, and who, after unhappily lapsing into the Socinian heresy and abandoning his mission, distinguished himself as the editor of a popular Calcutta Journal—the.

In January 1835, Mr. Adam received his formal appointment from Lord William Bentinck’s Government, being placed by it under the orders of the General Committee of Public Instruction, “to conduct inquiries into the state of native education in Bengal only.” Subsequently, however, authority was received to extend these inquiries into the province of Behar. But where was he to commence his important labours? This was a point which admitted of an easy and speedy determination. When, about forty years ago, Dr. entered on the statistical investigations which he undertook by the orders of Government, the route to be pursued by him was described in these terms:—“The Governor-General in Council is of opinion that these inquiries should commence in the district of Rangpur, and that from thence you should proceed to the westward through each district on the north side of the Ganges until you reach the western boundary of the Honourable Company’s provinces. You will then proceed towards the south and east until you have examined all the districts on the south side of the great river, and afterwards proceed to Dacca and the other districts towards the eastern frontier.” “In conformity,” says Mr. Adam, “with these instructions, Dr. Buchanan visited and examined the Bengal districts of Rangpur, Dinajpur, and Purniya; and when the route to be followed in the present inquiry came under consideration, it was proposed and sanctioned that the general course prescribed to Dr. Buchanan should be adopted—not retracing any of the ground already trodden by him, but beginning at the point in Bengal at which his labours appear to have been brought to a close. If his investigations had been prolonged, the district of Rajshahi, in pursuance of his instructions, would probably have received his earliest attention, and it has consequently formed the first subject of the present inquiry.”

The route and the starting point being thus determined, how was he to proceed with his investigations? As regarded his general course, was he, for example, to traverse the entire sur-


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Rh face of every zillah or district, and personally to inspect and report on the state of education in every separate thana, or police subdivision—every distinct village or settlement in every thana—and every house, hamlet, hut, or building tenanted by a single family or an aggregate of families in every village? Or, was he to restrict his own personal inquiries to a thorough examination of the state of education in one of the thanas or subdivisions of each district which, with such checks, correctives, or qualifications as experience would naturally suggest, might be taken as a fair sample or specimen of the whole—not neglecting, at the same time, to ascertain the state of education generally in the other subdivisions? At first, Mr. Adam contemplated the practicability of the former, or more minute and comprehensive of these methods. But he tells us that, when he actually entered on the work, he found that “an adherence to the instructions he had received would render this impossible, or possible only with such a consumption of time and such a neglect of purposes of practical and immediate utility, as would tend to frustrate the object in view.” His instructions plainly stated, that “the general committee deemed it more important that the information obtained should be complete as far as it went, clear and specific in its details, and depending upon actual observation or undoubted authority, than that he should hurry over a large space in a short time, and be able to give only a crude and imperfect account of the state of education within that space; that, with a view to ulterior measures, it was just as necessary to know the extent of the ignorance that prevailed where education was wholly or almost wholly neglected, as to know the extent of the acquirements made where some attention was paid to it.” The soundness of these views Mr. Adam cordially admitted, but was not long in discovering that “to extend over every subdivision of every district throughout the country, the minute inquiry which they prescribed was not the work of one man or of one life, but of several devoting their whole lives to the duty.” His original purpose was accordingly abandoned; and, without attempting what it would be impossible to accomplish, he resolved to adopt the latter of the methods already indicated. In other words, he resolved to limit the more minute personal inquiries, to be conducted immediately by himself, to a single thana or police subdivision, purposely selected, on the joint recommendation of those natives and Europeans who appeared to be best acquainted with the localities, as that which promised to furnish the fairest average specimen of the educational condition of the whole district.


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XXXIX.]

Old Hildebrand cried: “Truly she shall no gainer be

That she hath dared to slay him! Whate’er befalleth me,

Although myself but lately to direst straits he brought,

For this brave Tronian’s murder I’ll yet have vengeance wrought.”

Then Hildebrand right wrathful upon Kriemhilda leapt,

And at the queen with broadsword a heavy stroke he swept.

Ay, Hildebrand she dreaded with sore anxiety.

But what could it avail her to shriek thus horribly?

The bodies of the slaughter’d were lying all around;

And there the noble lady lay mangled on the ground.

Dietrich along with Etzel fell bitterly to weep;

For kinsmen and for lieges they mourn’d in sorrow deep.

There mickle pride and honour in death dishonour’d lay.

The people all were stricken with pity and dismay.

In sorrowing was ended the king’s high festival—

As loving ever endeth in sorrow after all.

I cannot tell you plaimly what later may have been,

Save that in bitter weeping were knights and ladies seen—

And noble liegemen also— for friends beloved laid low.

The story now is ended: this is the Niblungs’ woe.


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 for her that when once he should get well into it he would find himself staying indefinitely. Yes, that was inevitably what must happen to him: he offered the bright example of a man of thirty, with means, curiosity, the highest culture, who had, for whatever reasons, never gone at all, but he would show how people with that history infallibly made it up by never coming back when once they did go. Why should he come back? With his tastes, his resources and opportunities, his intensified longing and disciplined youth, he would have an admirable life.

Many things were before him while she talked, but most of all perhaps the almost sinister strangeness of his having been condemned to this ordeal. It was the last predicament he had ever dreamed of, the prescription of further patience least on the cards for him, he would have supposed, and least congruous with other realities. This in fact made her spring of action, the unconfessed influence that had worked in her, constantly less and less doubtful. The difficulty was that though he had everything on his side he actually felt himself in a cleft stick. "Don't you then," he appealed, "just simply and personally care for me the least little bit? What you seem to me to have in your head," he went on after waiting a while in vain for her reply, "is, however you express it, a mere cold little theory, which is rather proud of itself, but which has the peculiarity of being both 21


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 sophisticated and stupid. I don't quite see, you know, why I should be offered up on such an altar." After which, as she was still silent, though only as if because she had already said all: "Is it inconceivable," he demanded, "that I should in the course of time go for a few months without you?"

She smiled in her implacable splendour at his touching want of grasp. "Isn't the whole point that you can't possibly go for a few months? It would be a shame moreover if you did. I had quite as soon you went for a lifetime as for three days. I want you perfect, and three hours would prevent it. When I say 'I want' you," she handsomely developed, "I only mean I should want you if I had a right. My insanity, I quite understand, deprives me of all rights. But at the same time," she insisted, "you don't in the least undermine it by calling it a cold little theory. I don't pretend that it's anything else: my cold little theory is exactly indeed that it would be interesting to catch you—catch you young, as they say, since you are young—and put you through."

He followed her with his face of gloom. "For the amusement of seeing what I should be at fifty?"

"There you are"—it had made her again quick; "and see what it is to be really intelligent! Precisely for the amusement, if you prefer that word—though I should use some other: save 22


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 AT THE FALLS.

BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT.

The sun was almost setting, and such a glory of gorgeous lights flashed in at the windows, that it seemed a shame to stay in-doors longer.

May Crofton caught up her hat, and called to  her cousin, who was standing looking out toward the Falls, worlds away from the possibility of remembering that there was any human being near.

“Do come out, Cora,” May said; “I shall go wild if I keep quiet a moment longer.”

Miss Lasley had to be called several times, and very impatiently at the end, before she even heard. Then she turned, looked at pretty little May with her great, absent eyes, and took up her parasol in silence, nodding to her cousin in sign that she was ready to obey her commands; for, like most people, she seldom had the heart to refuse tiny May anything that she desired.

They were stopping at the Cataract House, under the charge of May’s mother, and, thanks to the lateness of the season, they had managed to pass several very quiet and undisturbed days.

The autumn weather, late as it was, kept almost the softness and warmth of summer, and the girls lived principally out-of-doors. May thought to herself that there might be too much of a good thing—quiet, for instance; but Cora seemed to enjoy it so greatly that she bore it like a little martyr, and hoped for better things, especially as she had managed to let several of her adorers know in what place Cora’s caprice had landed them.

For I am afraid that I must admit Cora Lasley was capricious, but in a grand, stately way; not because she wanted excitement, but because she had grown tired of it, and went wandering about in search of rest, which she could not find, because the turmoil and great want were within.

She was twenty-four years old, and very weary of being a beauty and an heiress; and she knew the world, that is, the society world, from New York to Rome, and its Vanity Fairs were all alike dreary and empty to her.

Not that she had any great cross or trouble— it would have done her good if she could have stumbled upon one—but she was only disillusionee and bored, which is worse. She was tired of wondering what she ought to make of her life, tired of doing nothing, and was always reproaching herself for her waste of existence, and for not knowing how to remedy matters. If she only had something to do—some aim to interest her, she said to herself.

She had been a secret source of uneasiness to her aunt for years, much as the latter loved her; but Cora was so odd, took such strange fancies, that Mrs. Crofton was sometimes fairly afraid she would turn actress, or moral reformer, or something else dreadful and preposterous. As for marrying and being sensible, there seemed less and less hope of that, for she had refused all sorts of men, from Wall street brokers up to German barons, and was no more to be interested in the most fascinating of the opposite sex, than if she had been a snow woman animated by a spell.-

May Crofton was four years younger than her cousin, the prettiest, blithest, happiest little fairy, that ever made sunshine wherever she moved, extravagantly fond of Cora, and about the only person who was not a little afraid of her grand airs and moods.

Cora would permit her to tense and revile her, and was devotedly attached to her in return; but even to May she did not reveal the fact that, away back in her life, when she was a girl of seventeen, she had lived her little romance, and grown heartily ashamed of it and its hero. She had known for ages that she had never loved the man; but she believed that her youthful folly had taken from her the possibility of ever loving any other, and she had grown suspicious of them as a class, and harder upon their peculiar frailties than, perhaps, they deserved, because, after all, men deserve a little mercy as well as women; and no woman, even a bad one, will ever understand everything about such matters.

The girls wandered out of sight and hearing of everything human, and sat down against a ledge of rocks, where they could look away over that grandest marvel of nature, which only grows more grand as one becomes accustomed to its presence.

May was looking at the clouds and dreaming her pretty dreams, for she was imaginative enough in her way; but Cora kept gazing down into the awful abyss, and being in one of her

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 for the high idea, the intense interest, the peculiar beauty. I should see," said Mrs. Coyne, "what it makes of a man."

"You would indeed!" her visitor brooded.

She laughed out at his tone. "Ah but don't put it as a threat—as if you'd be Nick o' the Woods, and, to punish me for what I should have kept you from, wish to beat out my brains. You'd really be as pleased with me, I feel sure, as I should with you, and we'd grow old together in honour and patriotism." She became, however, the next moment braver; which had the effect of showing her as kinder. "It's all, when one considers, the fault of your peculiar situation—added, I mean, to the turn of your mind. The result of the combination of your starved state (which I call, you see, to oblige you, what you would call it) and your natural passion for everything old is as calculable as to-morrow's dawn." It was the sort of fact one could put in a nutshell. "The only way for you not to remain is not to go."

"You'll see whether I remain," Ralph said as drily as he could.

"Oh but do! Do," she earnestly repeated. "The great thing is after all not to spoil it—whichever way you take it; and isn't it also, when one thinks, much better you should be perfect for yourself than for me?"

"How you must, fortunately, hate and loathe me!"—Ralph returned to that with the same 23


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Page:Everywoman's World, Volume 7, Number 7.djvu/39

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O art," wrote Sir John Stainer, thirty years ago, is exercising such a strong influence over the human race at the present time as music." And with the passing of these thirty years, the truth of this assertion has been intensified.

Literally, music is "as old as the hills"—the yearning of the soul for some adequate means of expression dates back to Adan and this yearning has been the incentive for the many improvement and inventions that marked the progress of musical instruments from the earliest days down this year of grace, 1917.

The stretched string was the first foreshadowing of the piano. Back, far, far back in the days of the Pharaohs, 3,000 years before Christ, the principle of the stopped string was known in Egypt, and in the sixth century it was brought into Greece by Pythagoras in the form of a long box of thin wood with a bridge fixed at each end over which a wire or catgut string was stretched. This was the Monochord.

In the Book of Daniel is a description of a musical instrument that very well fits the modern piano. It had a sound board over which strings of different lengths were stretched with a wrest plank for the tuning pins; the player set the strings in vibration by hitting them with two leather covered hammers, using more or less force according as he wished to vary the intensity of tone. This dulcimer, which is the real prototype of the piano, was laid on a table or other support, and is still used in this twentieth century by the semi-Oriental Gypsies wandering through Hungary and Transylvania. Had the ancients seen the earliest pianos, they would probably have termed them "mechanically played dulcimers," and have dubbed the music obtained therefrom, had they known our modern slang, "canned music."

And adown the ages, from those far away days, through many changes, inventions and improvements, some one of which caused the dulcimer to acquire legs, to the spinet in the sixteenth century, the clavichord that was Johann Sebastian Bach's favourite instrument two hundred years later, the harpsichord that Handel played, we come to the little cottage piano and the upright of England and Europe that were the immediate predeessorspredecessors [sic] of the piano of to-day.

HESE two, the cottage and the upright, were of too light a build to produce either good quality of tone or any great volume of sound, and in this country neither obtained much of a foot hold. The square piano, as our grandmothers knew it, is a product of the new world; solid, massive, and with great volume of sound, it was impressive, even in the days when homes were built without the modern endeavour to save space.

Fifty years ago, when the newly federated provinces laid the foundation for a vast Dominion, a piano was the hall mark of wealth and refinement. Times have changed; to-day, the piano is a matter of common education.

But with the advent of apartments and flats, where space is measured by the inch, the square piano had to go, and the modern upright came to the front; it was marked, as the square had been, by good workmanship and quality; the cheap manufacturer did not touch it until the depression of trade in the United States in 1870. Then the factories across the line commenced turning out cheap uprights in thousands, and quantity took the place of quality. Straightway people of culture and wealth passed the upright by, and first-class firms turned their attention to the development and production of the grand piano.

N Canada we are not given to the cheap article in quantities. We have an old country preference for quality, and our manufacturers, seeing their opportunity, were not slow in taking advantage of it. They went on developing the upright; each year, each month adding some new invention, some little improvement. They stood for quality, honesty of construction, purity of tone, volume; and the Canadian upright piano stands for all these, the best work, the best quality that can be put into a piano. The continental countries never evolved an up-to-date piano. They are content to swell the import trade. The United States reached the height of their fame as upright piano manufacturers about 1870, and Canada has had, since then, no competition other than that among her own manufacturers, and this has, naturally, been the cause of greater efforts on the part of her own firms.

The upright piano made in Canada to-day stands on its merits, without a rival, without a superior.

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Newcombe Pianos were awarded the Gold Medal at the Paris Exhibition in 1900.

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 tries—Egypt, Arabia, Persia, or Mesopotamia. To find the climate of Palestine in winter, or in summer, we must include a fifteen degrees of latitude, northward and southward of its own.

Already we have adverted to those physical changes in the surrounding countries which, in the course of thirty centuries, have very materially affected the climate of Palestine: the reality of such changes can hardly be doubted. Throughout the Psalms, the Book of Job, and the Prophets, there are many passages, relating to variations of temperature, and the like, which agree much rather with our experience in England, than they do with what is now common to Syria. This is certain that throughout the ages during which the Biblical literature was produced, the climate of Palestine was such as to render its allusions to the external world easily intelligible to the people of all lands, excepting only those of the arctic circle. How much more intelligible, in this respect, are those books, than they would have been if the Poets and Prophets of the Bible had been dwellers in Mesopotamia, or in Egypt, or in Nubia, or in Libya, or in Thrace, or in Southern Tartary, or in Northern Europe, or in North, or in South America, or in any of the scattered islets of the Eastern Ocean! Palestine, situated at the juncture of continents, at the head of seas, at the centre of travel by camel or ship, is, or it was at the time in question, as to its Fauna and its Flora, a museum land;—as to its


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132 AT THE FALLS. dark moods, her very soul seemed going down, down, under the rush of green waters, over; which the setting sun cast rainbows, vivid and quick as lightning.

“What are you thinking of, Cora?” May asked, suddenly.

“Nothing, I believe,” her cousin answered.

“I wonder why people always say that when asked such a question suddenly,” quoth May, sententiously.

“Probably because the thoughts have been so vague that the question put them to fight, and makes it impossible to answer otherwise.”

Bless me! how wise that sounds. I wish I had a pencil and note-book to write it down.”

You are a saucy little puss!” Cora said, smiling.

“Of course I am. Oh! I'm not in awe of you for all your princess graces! Cora, I don’t believe you're happy a bit, for all you are petted and spoiled like a queen,”

“I'm tired of being spoiled!” exclaimed Cora, impatiently, I'm not a baby, or a wax-doll.”

“I'll be both to get all the spoiling I want, Why, it’s the nicest thing in the world.”

“I am sure you have enough of “it.”

“But you are so unapproachable, people have to worship you at a distance

“The farther off the better.”

“Oh! you venomous panther!" cried May, and laughed, highly delighted at the delicious confusion of epithets.

She stopped laughing suddenly, for Cora, who had chanced to be looking down the path, laid a hand upon her arm and whispered,

“Here’s somebody coming—how tiresome!”

“Somebody must mean a man, of course," said May; “let me look at him and see what he's like.”

She looked and uttered a little exclamation, but sat still and held Cora's hand fast.

The gentleman had been quite near before they saw him. Now he came up, and lifting his hat, said, in a voice so exquisitely modulated that it was a passport to a favorable opinion of itself.

“How do you do, Miss Crofton?

“Why, Mr, Wellesley!” exclaimed May, “where did you come from? You appear like an evil spirit!”

“I do come from wandering up and down the earth,” he replied; “but just now from the Cataract House, Your mamma said I would find you here, and glad to see me.”

“My mamma is too much given to opinions,” cried May; “but I believe she was right for once,” and she held out her hand with her charming frankness. Only don’t be too much elated—I haven't had a man to tease for a week."

“It is really wonderful you are alive,” he said, with perfect gravity.

“I see with grief that your travels have not improved you in the least,” returned May. “But let me present you to my cousin, Miss Lasley; Cora, Mr. Wellesley—a man capable of doing the coolest and most outrageous things of all his atrocious sex.”

The pair, thus absurdly introduced, bowed, and Cora looked indifferent, and Mr. Wellesley looked quiet, and not in the least overcome, Then Cora let May rattle on in her crazy way, and had to remark what a charming voice and smile Mr. Wellesley possessed; and that he said his pretty nonsense so brilliantly that it was evident he could talk sense if the opportunity offered.

Finally, May began to drag her into the conversation, and Mr. Wellesley did not seem at all abashed by the honor; so Cora concluded that it was time to go back, aad was unusually stately all the way to the hotel.

She saw that both May and her mother treated him like a familiar acquaintance; and she remembered now to have heard them chanting his praises when she returned from her last trip to Europe, a few months back, along with the Otways.

Mr. Wellesley promised to be a very pleasant addition to the little circle of those whom Mrs. Crofton admitted into her private parlor; but Cora was not in a mood to be pleased, and rather snubbed people generally, and, perhaps, would have snubbed Mr. Wellesley, only he was too much occupied with the other young ladies to give her an opportunity.

When her cousin came into her room to say good-night, she did not talk as much about him as Cora had feared she would; so she concluded that the wild, little kitten was more interested in him than she cared to have seen; and Cora was rather sorry, for she thought he seemed too cold and self-centered to be the sort of man to make her petted little cousin happy.

Two or three days passed, and Cora and Mr. Wellesley made very slight progress toward acquaintance. The gentleman seemed to desire it little more than she did, though she had to admit to herself that his manner toward her was perfect, and it was so different from that of other men that she could not help thinking about him.

Their first real conversation was one evening out by the rocks, where they had met on his

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 climate, it was the congener of all climates—as it was also in its adaptation to modes of life, and to the means of subsistence. Palestine was favourable to the habits of the hunter, the herdsman, the agriculturalist, the gardener, the vinedresser, and to them that cultivate the fig, and the olive, and the date-palm. Palestine, if man be there to do his part with his hoe, and his knife, and his plough, is at once an Asiatic country, and it is European. It has its counterpart in Greece, in Italy, in France, in England, as to what is the most peculiar to each; and so it is that the Scriptures of the Old Testament are intelligible (in those allusions to Nature with which they abound) to the greatest number of the dwellers on earth; and that the countries in which these allusions might not be understood are as few as they could be.

It is not possible to determine how far changes of climate throughout the surrounding countries have had influence in giving to the aerial aspect of Palestine that clear, sharp, and unpictorial visibility which is now its characteristic. This clearness does not fail to attract the eye of the traveller who visits the Holy Land, with the aerial phenomena of his own landscape scenery in his recollection: striking is the contrast that presents itself in this respect. The hill country of Judea—itself now bare, and almost treeless—is seen through a medium which throws upon its hills and rocky surfaces an aspect of hardness and poverty: so it is that the home of sacred mysteries


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 is itself shrouded in no mystery. In England, a distance of twenty or thirty miles is enough to impart to mountain ranges the pictorial charms of many delicate tints, and these always changing; and to give even to objects less remote a sort of unreality, grateful to the eye of the poet and the painter. But it is not so in Palestine, where, under ordinary conditions of the heavens, a range of hills, which may be forty or fifty miles distant, shows itself to be—what it is, and nothing more! Illusions of the atmosphere do not lend the distance any unreal charms.

Bring together from the stores of our modern English Poetry those passages which borrow their rich colouring from our fitful atmosphere and its humidity:—the soft and golden glozings of sunrise and sunset, and the pearly distances at noon, and the outbursts of sunbeam, and the sudden overshadowings, and the blendings of tints upon all distances of two or three miles: it is these atmospheric illusions, characteristic of a climate that is humid, and yet warm, which have given to the English taste in landscape its peculiarity, and which shows itself equally in the national poetry, and landscape-painting. That sense of the picturesque, which is so eminently English, must, in part, at least, be traced to those aerial illusions which we willingly admit, as compensation for the discomforts of a variable climate.

If the English temper be moody, and if its tastes


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 are largely inclusive of the melancholic element, much of this sombreness of feeling, and its tenderness, is no doubt attributable to a climate, an atmosphere, a sky, that are too little cheered by the sun: and the national poetic feeling, with its wistfulness, and its retrospective depths of feeling, is in accordance with this want of settled fervent effulgence. Among the deeper shadows, and richer colours, and the mysteriousness of the latest autumn, the Poetry of England takes its tone.

But the English traveller, with his recollections of a home landscape—its grey gentleness of tints, and its mysteries of shadow—should prepare himself for disappointment in making his way on such a route as that from Jaffa to Jerusalem: no shadowy illusions are there! It is naked reality that surrounds him far and near in this arid land. The feeling that is due on this surface must be challenged to come where we know it ought to come; and it is not what he sees, but what he thinks of, that gives excitement to his journey. Enchantment has been dispelled; let then the gravest thoughts take the place of agreeable illusions! If English landscape be a painting in oils, the Syrian landscape is a painting in fresco: each line of hills cuts its hard outline—one range in front of another—and the most remote come upon the sky with a too rigid distinctness. At an early hour the sun drinks up all moisture from the earth's surface; and thenceforward all things are seen through a medium


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AT THE FALLS. 183 arrival. Cora had wandered out there to be alone, and came upon him stretched on the rock, lazily smoking and reading.

"I am really sorry to disturb you, " she said, as he rose; "you look so very comfortable."

"I suppose you are vexed enough with me for being here, when you came out on purpose to be alone. " You can avenge yourself by hating me for making you get up; but you may smoke. "

"Does that mean I may stay?"

"If you wish. Indeed, we need not interfere with each other. Pray go on with your book. "

It is Tennyson, " he said. " I was reading Guinevere- shall I read to you?"

She nodded, and he read on to the close of the marvelous poem, which he made more charming than ever by his delightful voice. He closed the book, and sat looking across the waters, repeating half aloud the closing lines,

"Until she passed To where beyond these voices there is peace."

Straightway they fell to talking, and talked about all sorts of things for a long time, as people must talk who have kindred sympathies when the magnetic chord is touched.

The conversation was interrupted by an invasion, headed by May and two of her adorers, who had just arrived. May was in her gayest mood, and flirted abominably, first with one and then the other; and Cora, watching Mr. Wellesley, thought that he seemed annoyed. She wondered at May for her folly in playing with a man like that, for the sake of two such ordinary geese as Wentworth and Charley Thorne.

More people had arrived at the hotel, and the evening was quite a gay one; and Cora was forced, to oblige her aunt, to dance, and sing, and make herself agreeable. But she could not help watching Mr. Wellesley, and she saw that his eyes often wandered toward May, whatever he was doing, and she was confident that the little witch had sufficiently ensnared him in her spells to make it possible for her to tease him.

Before she went to sleep she tried to talk seriously to May; but she might as well have argued with a white butterfly as with the girl in her mood that night. She would only laugh and say absurd things, and clap her hands and crow when Cora hinted her suspicions in regard to Hugh Wellesley.

“Let me alone and don’t lecture,” cried she, laughing immoderately.

“But, really, you did not behave well tonight, May,” expostulated Cora.

“I can behave worse—I will, unless I am let alone," cried the witch. "Tease Hugh Wellesley- I? How jolly! Oh! you beautiful white goose you. Oh, delicious! Won't I?"

Even after they began to talk of other things, she would at intervals break into a mischievous laugh, and Cora feared that the ordinary luck of people who try to set their friends right had befallen her; that is, that she had done a great deal more harm than good by her interference.

The next morning she saw Wellesley and May walking up and down the long veranda, and May really looked serious; but half an hour after, she was flirting as badly as ever with Wentworth; and Mr. Wellesley looked prouder and more melancholy than usual; and it was the habitual gravity of his face which had first made it attractive to Cora.

So she made up her mind definitely that he was really in love with May, and she decided that May cared for him, but from that very fact was all the more inclined to tease and behave ill. Cora was deeply concerned; she felt certain that Wellesley was not a man to endure such treatment, and that if he once went away, May would be powerless to summon him back, however deep the wound he suffered might be.

So it fell out, from the sympathy she began to feel for him, that Cora treated him with much more cordiality than she often did men. She had a keener sense of justice than is usually supposed to fall to her sex, and she was really indignant with May for conducting herself as she did. But May was more utterly unmanageable than usual, and Mrs. Crofton permitted her to take her own way in a fashion that displeased Cora hugely; but nothing she could say or do had any effect, and she was all the more angry from the fact that, as a general thing, her law throughout ber whole circle of relatives was as blindly obeyed as ever those of a Persian satrap could have been.

May would have seasons of treating Willesley in the nicest possible manner; but she always made up for it by being extra wicked immediately after; and he bore with her caprices with a patience that Cora admired, and could not set down to weakness, as she would have done with almost any other man.

Her sympathy for him, her anger at seeing anybody unjustly treated, all combined to soften her so much that, unconsciously to herself, she grew into an intimate acquaintance with him, which would have astonished her greatly had she taken time to think about it. She allowed him to see how womanly and gentle she was under her exterior of pride and indifference; she displayed to him her rare

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308 The absolute necessity of such a resolution will farther fully appear, if the territorial extent of the districts and the multitudinousness of the population be distinctly kept in view. It is not unusual, for the sake of popular illustration, to compare our Bengal zillahs to counties in Great Britain, and our thanas to parishes. The analogy may be allowed, if care be taken that it do not mislead, either as to extent or numbers. With two or three overgrown exceptions, counties and parishes in Great Britain are vastly inferior in extent and numbers to zillahs and thanas in Bengal. The latter resemble more the provinces and counties of Ireland—the Departments and Arrondissements of France—the Provinz or Regierungs-bezirk and Kreis of Germany; the Arrondissements and the Kreis being again subdivided respectively into communes and gemeindes, the lowest administrative units in these several kingdoms, somewhat corresponding to parishes in Great Britain and Ireland. Properly speaking, then, we have no such minute and convenient administrative unit as a commune, a gemeinde, or a parish, in Bengal. We have only provinces and counties—departments and arrondissements. Look at the Zillah of Rajshahi, which was fixed on for the commencement of Mr. Adam’s operations. It contains a population of about 1,500,000—a million and a half—that is, a population larger than that of the whole of Scotland at the time of the Reformation, and considerably in excess of that of the entire Principality of Wales even now. The zillah is subdivided into thirteen thanas, of which Nattore, the one selected for Mr. Adam’s more minute personal inquiries, contains a population of 195,296, or nearly two hundred thousand—that is, a population greatly exceeding, with two or three exceptions, the aggregate of every county in Scotland. What, then, shall we say as to the whole of Bengal and Behar, with their twenty-six zillahs and thirty-six millions of people? One man fit to extend his minute personal inquiries into the educational wants and supplies of every single family therein? Impossible.

Mr. Adam’s plan, topographically considered, being settled, how was he next to proceed with the details or individual items of desiderated information? The great object wanted, was exactly to ascertain the nature and amount of existing indigenous instruction—the nature and amount of the means of imparting it—together with the actual distribution of the different kinds and means of instruction among the different tribes and classes of a diversified people, and the different localities of a singularly productive if not richly variegated soil. A task this of easy accomplishment in the eyes of the unreflecting, who never allow


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AT THE FALLS. 185 morning; and she feared that he was not deceived by her factitious gayety; but she was more vexed with herself for being so poor an actress, than with his penetration.

The day was over at last. They were back at the hotel, and Cora felt as tired as if she had been doing a forced march with a troop of soldiers, and was suffering fatigue for the whole regiment.

But there was worse weariness and pain in store for the proud woman. She needed, I sup- pose, the peculiar discipline that was being bestowed upon her, and there was no hope of avoiding it.

There was music and dancing in the parlors. Cora waltzed until she could do her duty no longer; then she managed to escape, and got out on the veranda, where the moonbeams lay clear and silvery as glorified daylight.

She walked slowly round to’another part of the building, and came suddenly upon two figures standing together in the shadow. It needed only one glance to show her who they were—May and Hugh Wellesley.

May’s hand lay upon his arm, his head was bent toward her, and he was listening eagerly to some low words that fell hesitatingly from her lips.

Cora gathered up her long train and rushed away, swift and noiseless as a ghost, and never stopped till she was in her own room, and the door barred against all intruders.

Then she had it out with herself. The scales had fallen suddenly from her eyes. Useless to try to be blind or deaf any longer; idle to call upon her overweening pride to help; it shrunk and shriveled in the fierce passion that had suddenly burst into flame in her soul, and her woman’s heart asserted its womanhood, and throbbed, and ached, and cried out in its agony, and mastered her hitherto indomitable will as if she had been the weakest of her sex.

She sat there, cowering and shaking in the moonlight, hiding her face in her hands as if the white beams had been spirit-watchers, whose gaze she was ashamed to meet; crouched there, and heard her heart beat and moan, and could not deny one syllable of its passionate utterance.

She loved Hugh Wollesley—she who had been more sought than any girl of her day, and had been like a beautiful icicle under it all; at last her heart had gone out, unasked, to a man who did not care for her—worse, who loved another.

The devils that torment poor humanity at certain crises in life, sorely beset poor Cora in that black hour. She fairly hated May, that in her childish loveliness and want of thought she had been able to win the treasure of that man’s love. She tried to hate him; to malign him in her thoughts; to deny that he was so much more talented, or gentle, or noble, than scores of other men whom she had met.

She fought her battle desperately, and aided the devils all-she could; but it was no use, she was too good and womanly to succeed; her religion was too much a part of her life for her to put it aside even in that frenzy. The bitterness and anger passed—even the insane rage against her own weakness paled and died out.

It was a horrible night, but before it ended Cora was able to accept her humiliation, to admit that she needed and deserved it. It was the worst punishment that could have befallen her—all her life her pride had been her besetting sin; verily, she was mortally punished where she had erred.

And the morning came, and Cora woke from the heavy, unrestful slumber that had come at last, and looked about, and knew that, though an earthquake had passed over her soul and shattered its every stronghold, the world must go on as usual, and she must take her part in it too.

She would not even allow herself the solace of breakfasting in her own room, and was just ready to sail out as grand as Dido, when a servant came up with coffee, and a message from her aunt that she had better not come down, she looked so tired the night before.

So she had another hour to herself. At the end of it there was a tap at the door, and May's voice called,

«I want to come in, enchanted princess.”

Cora found a voice quite like her usual one to answer,

“Come in, Miss Wickedness—why didn’t you wake me?”

In came May, looking fresher and more lovely than ever, with such light in her eyes, such color in her cheeks, that Cora knew what it meant before she spoke a word.

“I was up so early that I thought I would not disturb you,” cooed May, dancing about her. “I have been up for hours, and out. Oh! such a lovely walk as I have had.”

“Were you alone?” Cora asked, certain what was coming, and anxious to bring the revelation to a climax, and have it over.

“Not I,” cried May. ‘Do I look like a girl that would take early walks alone?”

Suddenly she threw her arms about Cora, and turned away her head.

“Guess who was with me?” she whispered.

“Mr. Wellesley,” Cora said, with a calmness

www morning; and she feared that he was not de- } been able to win the treasure of that man's love. ceived by her factitious gayety ; but she was She tried to hate him; to malign him in her more vexed with herself for being so poor an thoughts ; to deny that he was so much more actress, than with his penetration. talented, or gentle, or noble, than scores of The day was over at last. They were back at other men whom she had met. the hotel, and Cora felt as tired as if she had She fought her battle desperately, and aided been doing a forced march with a troop of sol- the devils all she could ; but it was no use, she diers, and was suffering fatigue for the whole was too good and womanly to succeed ; her reregiment. ligion was too much a part of her life for her But there was worse weariness and pain in to put it aside even in that frenzy. The bitterstore for the proud woman. She needed, I sup- ness and anger passed - even the insane rage pose, the peculiar discipline that was being be- against her own weakness paled and died out. stowed upon her, and there was no hope of It was a horrible night, but before it ended avoiding it. Cora was able to accept her humiliation, to There was music and dancing in the parlors. admit that she needed and deserved it. It was Cora waltzed until she could do her duty no the worst punishment that could have befallen longer ; then she managed to escape, and got her-all her life her pride had been her besetout on the veranda, where the moonbeams lay ting sin ; verily, she was mortally punished where she had erred. clear and silvery as glorified daylight. She walked slowly round to another part of And the morning came, and Cora woke from the building, and came suddenly upon two the heavy, unrestful slumber that had come at figures standing together in the shadow. It last, and looked about, and knew that, though needed only one glance to show her who they an earthquake had passed over her soul and shattered its every stronghold, the world must were- May and Hugh Wellesley. May's hand lay upon his arm, his head was go on as usual, and she must take her part in bent toward her, and he was listening eagerly it too. She would not even allow herself the solace to some low words that fell hesitatingly from her lips. of breakfasting in her own room, and was just Cora gathered up her long train and rushed ready to sail out as grand as Dido, when a seraway, swift and noiseless as a ghost, and never vant came up with coffee, and a message from stopped till she was in her own room, and the her aunt that she had better not come down, door barred against all intruders. she looked so tired the night before. Then she had it out with herself. The scales So she had another hour to herself. At the had fallen suddenly from her eyes. Useless to end of it there was a tap at the door, and May's try to be blind or deaf any longer ; idle to call voice called, upon her overweening pride to help ; it shrunk "I want to come in, enchanted princess." Cora found a voice quite like her usual one to and shriveled in the fierce passion that had suddenly burst into flame in her soul, and her answer, woman's heart asserted its womanhood, and "Come in, Miss Wickedness- why didn't you throbbed, and ached, and cried out in its agony, } wake me ?” and mastered her hitherto indomitable will as In came May, looking fresher and more lovely if she had been the weakest of her sex. than ever, with such light in her eyes, such She sat there, cowering and shaking in the color in her cheeks, that Cora knew what it moonlight, hiding her face in her hands as if meant before she spoke a word. the white beams had been spirit-watchers, whose "I was up so early that I thought I would gaze she was ashamed to meet ; crouched there, not disturb you," cooed May, dancing about her. and heard her heart beat and moan, and could "I have been up for hours, and out. Oh ! such not deny one syllable of its passionate utterance. a lovely walk as I have had." She loved Hugh Wellesley-she who had been "Were you alone ?" Cora asked, certain what more sought than any girl of her day, and had was coming, and anxious to bring the revelation been like a beautiful icicle under it all; at last to a climax, and have it over. her heart had gone out, unasked, to a man who "Not I," cried May. " Do I look like a girl did not care for her- worse, who loved another. that would take early walks alone ?" The devils that torment poor humanity at cerSuddenly she threw her arms about Cora, and tain crises in life, sorely beset poor Cora in that turned away her head. " Guess who was with me?" she whispered. black hour. She fairly hated May, that in her childish loveliness and want of thought she had "Mr. Wellesley," Cora said, with a calmness

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