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 "Yes, for as far as my wilfulness would permit, the chaplain was always ready to give me instruction."

"Where were you when Arnwood was burnt down?"

"I was at the cottage at that time," replied Edward, grinding his teeth and looking wildly.

"Nay, nay, I can forgive any expression of feeling on your part, my young man, when that dreadful and disgraceful deed is brought to your memory. It was a stain that can never be effaced—a deed most diabolical, and what we thought would call down the vengeance of Heaven. If prayers could avert, or did avert it, they were not wanting on our side."

Edward remained silent: this admission on the part of the Roundhead prevented an explosion on his part. He felt that all were not so bad as he had imagined. After a long pause, he said:

"When I came here, Sir, it was to seek Oswald Partridge, and obtain the hounds which he had promised us; but I presume that my journey is now useless."

"Why so?"

"Because you have the control of the forest, and will not permit dogs for the chace to be given away to those who are not employed by the powers that now govern."

"You have judged correctly, in so far that my duty is to prevent it; but as the promise was made previous to the date of my commission, I presume," said he smiling, "you think I have no right to interfere, as it will be an ex post facto case, if I do: I shall not therefore interfere, only I must point out to you, that the laws are still the same relative to those who take the deer in the forest by stealth—you understand me?"

"Yes, Sir, I do; and if you will not be offended, I will give you a candid reply."

"Speak then."

"I consider that the deer in this forest belong to King Charles,


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2. The inscription which might conceivably have been a later addition belongs to the seventh century.

3. The Cross bears the words 'Cadmon me made.'

As to the first of these postulates, the chief authority on the ornamentation, Sophus Müller, is thus reported by Bugge : 'The Ruthwell Cross must be posterior to the year 800, and in fact to the Carlovingian Renaissance, on account of its decorative features. The free foliage and flower-work, and the dragons or monsters with two forelegs, wings, and serpents' tails, induce him to believe that it could scarcely have been sculptured much before A.D. 1000 .'

As to the second postulate, I first showed in 1890, and again in 1901 , that the language of the inscription on the Cross must be as late as the tenth century, and very likely posterior to 950. To repeat the conclusions formulated in the more recent article : While the general aspect of the inscription has led many persons to refer it to an early period, it lacks some of the marks of antiquity ; every real mark of antiquity can be paralleled from the latest documents ; some of the phenomena point to a period subsequent to that of the Lindisfarne Gospels (about A.D. 950), and the Durham Ritual (A.D. 950-1000) ; and none flatly contradicts such an assumption. Moreover, a comparison of the inscription with the Dream of the Rood shows that the former is not an extract from an earlier poem written in the long Caedmonian line which is postulated by Vigfússon and Powell and by Mr.

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 who is my lawful Sovereign, and I own no authority but from him. I hold myself answerable to him alone for any deer I may kill, and I feel sure of his permission and full forgiveness for what I may do."

"That may be your opinion, my good Sir, but it will not be the opinion of the ruling powers; but if caught, you will be punished, and that by me, in pursuance of the authority vested in me."

"Well, Sir; if so, so be it. You have dismissed the Armitages on account of their upholding the King, and you cannot, therefore, be surprised that they uphold him more than ever. Nor can you be surprised if a dismissed verderer becomes a poacher."

"Nor can you be surprised, if a poacher is caught, that he incurs the penalty," replied the Roundhead. "So now there's an end of our argument. If you go into the kitchen you will find wherewithal to refresh the outward man, and if you wish to remain till Oswald Partridge comes home, you are welcome."

Edward who felt indignant at being dismissed to the kitchen, nodded his head and smiled upon the little girl, and left the room. "Well," thought he, as he went along the passage, "I came here for two puppies, and I have found a Roundhead. I don't know how it is, but I am not so angry with him as I thought I should be. That little girl had a nice smile—she was quite handsome when she smiled. Oh, this is the kitchen, to which," thought he, "the Lord of Arnwood is dismissed by a Covenanter and Roundhead probably a tradesman or outlaw, who has served the cause. Well, be it so; as Humphrey says, 'I'll bide my time.' But there is no one here, so I'll try if there is a stable for White Billy, who is tired, I presume, of being at the gate."

Edward returned by the way he came, went out of the front door and through the garden to where the pony was made fast, and led him away in search of a stable. He found one behind the


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 house, and filling the rack with hay, returned to the house and seated himself at a porch which was at the door which led to the back premises, for the keeper's house was large and commodious. Edward was in deep thought, when he was roused by the little girl, the daughter of the newly appointed intendant of the forest, who said:

"I am afraid, young Sir, you have had but sorry welcome in the kitchen, as there was no one to receive you. I was not aware that Phœbe had gone out. If you will come with me, I may perhaps find you refreshment."

"Thanks, maiden, you are kind and considerate to an avowed poacher," replied Edward.

"Oh, but you will not poach, I'm sure; and if you do, I'll beg you off if I can," replied the girl, laughing.

Edward followed her into the kitchen, and she soon produced a cold fowl and a venison pasty, which she placed on the table; she then went out and returned with a jug of ale.

"There," said she, putting it on the table, "that is all that I can find."

"Your father's name is Heatherstone, I believe. It was so on the warrant."

"Yes, it is."

"And yours?"

"The same as my father's, I should presume."

"Yes, but your baptismal name?"

"You ask strange questions, young Sir; but still I will answer you that: my baptismal name is Patience."

I thank you for your condescension," replied Edward. "You live here?"

"For the present, good Sir; and now I leave you."

"That's a nice little girl," thought Edward, "although she is the daughter of a Roundhead; and she calls me 'Sir.' I cannot, therefore, look like Jacob's grandson, and must be careful."


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 Edward then set to with a good appetite at the viands which had been placed before him, and had just finished a hearty meal when Patience Heatherstone again came in and said:

"Oswald Partridge is now coming home."

"I thank you, maiden," replied Edward. "May I ask a question of you? Where is the King now?"

"I have heard that he resides at Hurst Castle," replied the girl; "but" added she in a low tone, "all attempts to see him would be useless and only hurt him and those who made the attempt." Having said this, she left the room.  CHAPTER IX.

, having finished his meal, and had a good pull at the jug of ale, which was a liquor he had not tasted for a long while, rose from the table and went out of the back door and found there Oswald Partridge. He accosted him, stating the reason for his coming over to him, "I did not know that Jacob had a grandson: indeed I never knew that he had a son. Have you been living with him long?"

"More than a year," replied Edward, "before that, I was in the household at Arnwood."

"Then you are of the King's side, I presume?" replied Oswald.

"To death," replied Edward, "when the time comes."

"And I am also; that you may suppose, for never would I give a hound to any one that was not. But we had better go to the kennels. Dogs may hear, but they can't repeat."

"I little thought to have met any one but you here when I came," said Edward; "and I will now tell you all that passed between me and the new Intendant." Edward then related the conversation.

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 the better—I am to retain my situation, and so are two but there are many new hands coming in as rangers. I know nothing of them, but that they are little fitted for their places; and rail against the King all day long, which I suppose is their chief merit, in the eyes of those who appoint them. However, one thing is certain, that if those fellows cannot stalk a deer: themselves, they will do all they can to prevent others, so you; must be on the alert, for the punishment is severe."

"I fear them not; the only difficulty is, that we shall not be able to find a sale for the venison now," replied Edward.

"Oh, never fear that; I will give you the names of those who will take all your venison off your hands without any risk on your part, except in the killing of it. They will meet you in the park, lay down ready money, and take it away. I don't know, but I I [sic] have an idea, that this new Intendant, or what you may call him, is not so severe as he pretends to be. Indeed, his per mitting you to say what he did, and his own words relative to the Colonel, convince me that I am right in opinion that I formed."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Not much about him, but he is a great friend of General Cromwell's, and they say has done good service to the Parliamentary cause; but we shall meet again, for the forest is free at all events."

"If you come here," continued Oswald, "do not carry your gun—and see that you are not watched home. There are the dogs for your grandfather. Why, how old must you be, for Jacob is not more than sixty or thereabout?"

"I am fifteen, past, nevertheless."

"I should have put you down for eighteen or at least. You are well grown indeed for that age. Well, nothing like a forest life to turn a boy into a man! Can you stalk a deer?"

"I seldom go out without bringing one down."

"Indeed! That Jacob is a master of his craft, is certain;


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Rh

wolcen, nm., cloud, dp. wolcnum, 55; dip. wolcnum, 53.

wom, mn., iniquity, dip. wommum, 14.

word, n., word; command, ds. worde, 111; as. 35; ap. 27; ip. wordum, 97.

woruld, f., world, gs. worulde, 133.

wrað, adj., cruel, gpf. wrāðra, 51.

wudu, m., tree, ns. 27.

wuldor, n., glory, heaven, gs. wuldres, 14, 90, 97, 133; ds. wuldre, 135, 143, 155.

wunian, w. 2, intrans., dwell, abide, 3 pl. wuniaþ, 135; ''pret. 3 pl. wunedon, 3, 154; inf.'' 121, 143.

wynn, f., joy, gladness, ip. wynnum, 15.

wyrcan, w. 1, trans., make, frame, inf. 65.

wyrd, f., event, occurrence, experience, ns. 74; gp. wyrda, 51.

ymbclyppan, w. 1, trans., embrace, clasp, ''pret. 3 sg.'' ymbclypte, 42.


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 but you are young to have learnt it so soon. Can you tell the slot of a brocket from a stag?"

"Yes, and the slot of a brocket from a doe."

"Better still. We must go out together; and besides, I must know where the old man's cottage is, (for I do not exactly;) in the first place, because I may want to come to you, and in the next, that I may put others on a false scent.—Do you know the clamp of large oaks, which they call the Clump Royal?"

"Yes, I do."

"Will you meet me there the day after to-morrow, at early dawn?"

"If I live and do well."

"That's enough. Take the dogs in the leashes, and go away now."

"Many thanks; but I must not leave the pony, he is in the stable."

The keeper nodded adieu to Edward, who left him to go to the stable for the pony. Edward saddled White Billy, and rode away across the forest with the dogs trotting at the pony's heels.

Edward had much to reflect upon as he rode back to the cottage. He felt that his position was one of more difficulty than before. That old Jacob Armitage would not last much longer, he was convinced; even now the poor old man was shrunk away to a skeleton with pain and disease. That the livelihood to be procured from the forest would be attended with peril, now that order had been restored, and the forest was no longer neglected, was certain; and he rejoiced that Humphrey had, by his assiduity and intelligence, made the farm so profitable as it promised to be. Indeed he felt that, if necessary, they could live upon the proceeds of the farm, and not run the risk of imprisonment by stalking the deer. But he had told the Intendant that he considered the game as the King's property, and he was resolved that he would at all events run the risk, although he would no longer


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FTER the death of Brynhild were made two bales, one for Sigurd, and that was first burned; but Brynhild was burned on the other, and she was in a chariot hung about with goodly hangings.

And so folk say that Brynhild drave in her chariot down along the way to Hell, and passed by an abode where dwelt a certain giantess, and the giantess spake:—

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Thus this song telleth of the death of Sigurd, and setteth forth how that they slew him without doors; but some say that they slew him within doors, sleeping in his bed. But the Dutch Folk say that they slew him out in the wood: and so sayeth the ancient song of Gudrun, that Sigurd and the sons of Giuki were riding to the Thing whenas he was slain. But all with one accord say that they bewrayed him in their troth with him, and fell on him as he lay unarrayed and unawares.

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HIODREK the King was in Atli’s house, and had lost there the more part of his men: so there Thiodrek and Gudrun bewailed their troubles one to the other, and she spake and said:—

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UDRUN, Giuki’s daughter, avenged her brethren, as is told far and wide: first she slew the sons of Atli, and then Atli himself; and she burned the hall thereafter, and all the household with it: and about these matters is this song made:—

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UDRUN went down unto the sea whenas she had slain Atli, and she cast herself therein, for she was fain to end her life: but nowise might she drown. She drave over the firths to the land of King Jonakr, and he wedded her, and their sons were Sorli, and Erp, and Hamdir, and there was Swanhild, Sigurd’s daughter, nourished: and she was given to Jormunrek the Mighty. Now Bikki was a man of his, and gave such counsel to Randver, the king’s son, as that he should take her; and with that counsel were the young folk well content.

Then Bikki told the king, and the king let hang Randver, but bade Swanhild be trodden under horses’ feet. But when Gudrun heard thereof, she spake to her sons—

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Now this is called the Ancient Lay of Hamdir.

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HERE was a king hight Heidrik, and his daughter was called Borgny, and the name of her lover was Vilmund. Now she might nowise be made lighter of a child she travailed with, before Oddrun, Atli’s sister, came to her,—she who had been the love of Gunnar, Giuki’s son. But of their speech together has this been sung:

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Rh Brooke, since the earliest dated verse is in short lines only, and since four of the lines in the Cross-inscription represent short lines in the Dream of the Rood ; it shows that the latter is more self-consistent, more artistic, and therefore more likely to be or to represent the original ; and it shows that certain of the forms of the latter seem to have been inadvertently retained by the adapter who selected and rearranged the lines for engraving on the Cross. All this harmonizes with the evidence from grammar, and with the conclusions drawn from the character of the sculptured ornament.

As to the third postulate, it may be remarked that the forms mæ and fauæþo are impossible as Old English ; that, were they existent, fauæþo could not mean 'made'; and that, even allowing this to be true, the maker could in that case mean only the sculptor of the whole Cross, and not the author of the runic verses. But what is still more conclusive, Vietor, the latest competent scholar who has made a thorough examination of the Cross, declares that he can read no such inscription.

Summing up the evidence, then, the indications are as follows :

1. So far from the Cross-inscription representing an earlier form of the Dream of the Hood, it seems rather Rh


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the sun rose I watched a proud ash tree shedding its leaves after a night of frost. It let them go by threes and tens and twenties; very rarely, with little intervals, only one at a time; once or twice a hundred in one flight. Leaflet—for they fall by leaflets—and stalk twirled through the windless air as if they would have liked to fall not quite so rapidly as their companions to that brown and shining and oblivious carpet below. A gentle wind arose from the north and the leaves all went sloping in larger companies to the ground—falling, falling, whispering as they joined the fallen, they fell for a longer time than a poppy spends in opening and shedding its husk in June. But soon only two leaves were left vibrating. In a little while they also, both together, make the leap, twinkling for a short space and then shadowed and lastly bright and silent on the grass. Then the tree stood up entirely bereaved and without a voice, in the silver light of the morning that was still young, and wrote once more its grief in complicated scribble upon a sky of intolerably lustrous pearl.

But by the next day the grief was healed, for what was clearest about its branches was the swiftness and down-

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 ward rushing and curving flight which they suggested—as of birds stooping in lines to their tree-top nests—as of divers at the moment when their descent mingles with their ascent—as of winged Greek gods and goddesses slanting to earth with wave-like breasts.

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text: The Heart of England/Chapter 24

title: The Heart of England/Chapter 24


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128

“And likewise what Dame Uté, your mother, sendeth you,

And Giselher the young knight, and noble Gernot too,

And all your nearest kinsfolk, from whom we have command

To offer you their greeting from the Burgundian land.”

“Now God reward ye, heralds,” cried Siegfried, “and I trust

Unto your truth and kindness,— as towards friends we must,—

So likewise doth their sister;— and now your tidings give

If still our friends belovéd at home in gladness live.

“Since we from them departed hath no one evil done

Unto Kriemhilda’s kinsmen? let that to me be known.

My faithful help is ready in ev’ry time of need,

Until mine aid and service their foes shall rue indeed!”

Then quoth the Margrave Gere,— he was a warrior good:

“Right happily abide they in all good livelihood;

They bid you to the Rhineland, to a high festival;

Right gladly will they see you, of that doubt not at all.

“They pray my lady also that she will thither wend

So soon as e’er the winter shall come unto its end.

Before this next midsummer your faces would they see.”

Then spake the stalwart Siegfried: “Nay, that can hardly be!”

But further spake Sir Gere, from the Burgundian land:

“It is your mother Uté who maketh this demand;

Eke Giselher and Gernot, ye must not them gainsay:

That ye be so far distant I hear complaints each day.


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 emotion. It scorns afterthought as the winds are flouting the penitent half moon.

A squadron of wild fowl races through the crystal air; the mind expands with their speed, and tries to share it, and believes that it succeeds. A heron goes over solemnly, high up, and as if upon some starry business in that profound, bright air; the mind at once attunes itself to that majesty and directness and simplicity—

A starling sits on the weathercock with ruffled feathers watching the sky with one eye and then with the other, and his form and voice are sharp and pure as they joyfully pierce the air. The weathercock itself shines like Mars. Together, they speak of the cold and vigour and health and beauty which abide somewhere in the sky to-day and not inaccessibly.

High above me, here and there upon the road, stand oast-houses, with their conical roofs ruddy against the sky, and over them the newly painted white cowls point eastward, and in their whiteness seem to have been set as a signal to say that it is the west wind after frost that has made the world what it is; they point out a road which, if I could follow it, would lead to the very court of mind and beauty, yonder, afar off, where the wind and the heron and the wild ducks are going. There I might learn to realise the long, joyous curves in which thought and action and life itself sweep onward to their triumphs…

But I know well that long hopes and wide, vaulting

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 thoughts are not usually nourished by lane and footpath and highway, on and on; and probably I shall stop at "The Black Horse" over the next hill, where a man may always lighten his burden on a Tuesday by hearing the price of beasts.

title: Page:The Heart of England.djvu/143


text: The Heart of England/Chapter 23

title: The Heart of England/Chapter 23


text:
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 permit Humphrey so to do. "If anything happens to me," thought Edward, "Humphrey will still be at the cottage to take care of my sisters; and if I am obliged to fly the country, it will suit well my feelings, as I can then offer my services to those who still support the King." With these thoughts and many others he amused himself until, late in the evening, he arrived at the cottage. He found all in bed except Humphrey, who had waited for him, and to whom he narrated all that had passed. Humphrey said little in reply; he wished to think it over before he gave any opinion. He told Edward that Jacob had been very ill the whole of the day, and had requested Alice to read the Bible to him during the evening.

The next morning, Edward went to Jacob, who for the last ten days had altogether kept his bed, and gave him the detail of what had happened at the keeper's lodge.

"You have been more bold than prudent, Edward," replied Jacob; "but I could not expect you to have spoken otherwise. You are too proud and too manly to tell a lie, and I am glad that it is so. As for your upholding the King, although he is now a prisoner in their hands, they cannot blame you or punish you for that, as long as you have not weapons in your hands; but now that they have taken the forest under their jurisdiction, you must be careful, for they are the ruling powers at present, and must be obeyed, or the forfeit must be paid. Still I do not ask you to promise me this or that; I only point out to you that your sisters will suffer by any imprudence on your part; and for their sakes be careful. I say this, Edward, because I feel that my days are numbered, and that in a short time I shall be called away. You will then have all the load on your shoulders, which has been latterly on mine. I have no fear for the result if you are prudent; these few months past, during which I have only been a burden to you, have proved that you and Humphrey can find a living here for yourselves and your sisters; and it is fortunate, now that


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XII.]

“Brunhilda, too, my mistress, and all her maidens fair

Rejoice at this my errand; if likelihood there were

That they once more might see you, happy would be their mood.”

Unto the fair Kriemhilda this message seemed right good.

As Gere was her kinsman, the host then bade him sit.

Wine for the guests he ordered; nor long they wanted it.

And thither, too, came Siegmund, who had the heralds seen;

To the Burgundian heroes he spake with friendly mien:

“Be welcome, Gunther’s liegemen, ye warriors, every one!

Since it hath happ’d that Siegfried my son to wife hath won

Kriemhilda fair, more often ye would we gladly see

In this our land, if truly to us ye’ll friendly be.”

They said that if he wish’d it they’d gladly come again.

And so in pleasure vanish’d their weariness and pain.

The messengers were seated, and food was brought them there:

For guests so welcome Siegfried had plenty of good fare.

For nine days’ space and longer to stay they were constrain’d.

Until, at last, the horsemen, who would be gone, complain’d

That back into their country they never more would ride.

Meanwhile his friends King Siegfried had summon’d to his side,

To ask them what they counsell’d: would they go to the Rhine?

“He hath sent here to fetch me, Gunther, that friend of mine,—

He and his kinsfolk bid us to keep festivity:

I’d gladly go there, save that his land too far doth lie.


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is a quiet valley in which moist fields of meadow, mowing grass, mangold, and stubble are bounded from one another by deep ditches and good hedges of maple, thorn and hazel, with here and there an oak, or by oak woods that rise above an undergrowth of grey ash. Every half mile there is a tiled farmhouse with low-pitched roof and low, square windows, their frames painted white, and between them rose trees climbing; in the gardens of most, two plots of lawn are surrounded by rich dark borders and divided by a path; and each has a careless shrubbery of Portuguese laurel, lilac, syringa and elder, hardly cut off from the orchard that grows as it will above grey rank grass, and close by at least two ponds. One little stream winds through the valley and gains at times much glory of speed and sound and foam from the rain off the hillside. A few grey, smooth roads cross the valley.

It is January, and the predominant grass is green and shining in the sun. The rusty oaks and the farmhouse roofs glow. The bare clean hedges glitter with all their stems of olive hazel, silver oak and ash and white thorn, and blackthorn ruddy where the cattle have rubbed. A

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130

“They also bid Kriemhilda to go along with me.

Now counsel me, dear kinsmen, how thither come shall she?

If I through thirty kingdoms my men, for them, must lead,

Still Siegfried’s hand to serve them must ready be indeed.”

Then spake his chiefs unto him: “If you’ve a mind unto

The journey to this hightide, we’ll counsel what to do:

You with a thousand warriors unto the Rhine shall ride;

So may you with all honour in Burgundy abide.”

Then spake the noble Siegmund, of Netherland the lord:

“Will ye unto this feasting, and tell me not a word?

An if it will not shame you I’ll ride along with you;

I’ll take a hundred swordsmen to swell your retinue.”

“Wilt thou in sooth ride with us, my own good father dear?”

Exclaimed the gallant Siegfried: “right gladly that I hear.

Before twelve days are over my fatherland I’ll leave.”

To all who did desire them they steeds and raiment gave.

Now that the noble ruler was minded soon to start,

The heralds swift were bidden straight homewards to depart,

And unto his wife’s kinsmen upon the Rhine to say,

That he would very gladly with them keep holyday.

Both Siegfried and Kriemhilda, as doth the story say,

More gifts gave to the heralds than could be borne away

On their own horses homewards: a wealthy man was he!

Their sturdy beasts of burden they drove right merrily.


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 lark rises and sings. A flock of linnets scatters and drops little notes like a rain of singing dew, and over all is a high blue sky, across which the west wind sets a fleet of bright white clouds to sail; into this blue sky the woods of the horizon drive their black teeth.

In the immense crystal spaces of fine windy air thus bounded by blue sky, black woods and green grass, the jackdaws play. They soar, they float, they dance, and they dive and carve sudden magnificent precipices in the air, crying all the time with sharp joyous cries that are in harmony with the great heights and dashing wind. The carter's boy raises his head from the furrow and shouts to them now and then, while the brass furnishings of his horses gleam, their shoulders grow proud and their black tails stream out above the blue furrow and the silver plough.

Suddenly a pheasant is hurled out of a neighbouring copse; something crosses the road; and out over a large and shining meadow goes a fox, tall and red, going easily as if he sailed in the wind. He crosses that meadow, then another, and he is half a mile away before a loud halloo sounds in the third field, and a mile away before the first hound crosses the road upon his scent.

Run hard hounds, and drown the jackdaws' calling with your concerted voices. It is good to see your long swift train across the meadow and away, away; on such a day a man would give everything to run like that. Run hard, fox, and may you escape, for it would not be well to die on such a day, unless you could perchance

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 first set your fair teeth into the throats of the foolish ones who now break through the hedge on great horses and pursue you—I know not why—ignorant of the command that has gone forth from the heart of this high blue heaven, Be beautiful and enjoy and live!

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text: The Heart of England/Chapter 27

title: The Heart of England/Chapter 27


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 the forest laws are about to be put in force, that you have made the farm so profitable. If I might advise, let your hunting in the forest be confined to the wild cattle; they are not game, and the forest laws do not extend to them, and the meat is as valuable as venison—that is to say, it does not sell so dear, but there is more of it; but stick to the farm as much as you can; for you see, Edward, you do not look like a low-born forester, nor ought you to do so; and the more quiet you keep, the better. As for Oswald Partridge, you may trust him, I know him well; and he will prove your friend for my sake, as soon as he hears that I am dead. Leave me now, I will talk to you again in the evening. Send Alice to me, my dear boy."

Edward was much distressed to perceive the change which Bad taken place in old Jacob. He was evidently much worse; bat Edward had no idea how much worse he was. Edward assisted Humphrey in the farm, and in the evening again went to Jacob, and then told him of the arrangement he had made to meet Oswald Partridge on the following morning.

"Go, my boy," said Jacob; "be as intimate with him as You can, and make a friend of him—nay, if it should be you may tell him who you are; I did think of telling him myself, as it might be important to you one day as evidence. I think you had better bring him here to-morrow night, Edward; tell him I am dying, and wish to speak to him before I go. Alice will read the Bible to me now, and I will talk with you another time."

Early the next morning Edward set off to the appointed rendezvous with Oswald Partridge. The Clump Royal, as it was called, from the peculiar size and beauty of the oaks, was about seven miles from the cottage; and at the hour and time indicated, Edward, with his gun in his hand, and Smoker lying beside him, was leaning against one of these monarchs of the forest.


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XII.]

Their folk were cloth’d by Siegfried and Siegmund worthily.

And Eckewart the margrave gave orders speedily

To seek out women’s raiment, the best that could be found,

Or anywhere be heard of in Siegfried’s lands around.

The saddles and the bucklers began they to prepare.

And to the knights and ladies who should the journey share,

Was given whate’er they wanted, that they might fail in naught.

Unto his friends full many a noble guest he brought.

The heralds did not loiter upon the journey home.

And soon the gallant Gere to Burgundy was come,

Where right well was he welcomed: they then alighted all

From chargers and from palfreys before King Gunther’s hall.

The youths went and the elders, as men are wont to do,

To ask what might the news be. Then spake the good knight true:

“When to the king I’ve told it the rest of you shall know.”

Then straightway with his comrades did he to Gunther go.

The king, in joy to see them, rose quickly from his chair.

That they had come so swiftly also from Brunhild fair

Received they thanks, while Gunther unto the envoys spake:

“How fares it now with Siegfried? much wrought he for my sake.”

Then spake the gallant Gere: “For joy his face grew red,—

Both his and your fair sister’s; and ne’er was message sped,

From any man of honour unto his friends, more true

Than Siegfried and his father by me have sent to you.”


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and summer and autumn had come—flowing into one another with that secrecy which, as in the periods of our life, spares us the pain of the irretraceable step—and still a golden tree stood here and there in the hollowed lawns… Snow fell on singing thrushes and golden trees, and when it was over a half moon of untouched grass under a dense hawthorn was as a green shadow on the white land… Then the year paused; there was a swallow still here and there; but again there was snow…

The world had been black and white for many days. The cygnet-coloured sky had been low from dawn to sunset; rarely a cloud dimly appeared in it, seen and lost and seen again, like a slow fish in rippling water. By night the iron firmament had been immense and remote.

Out of doors, as we walked, it was a source of faint satisfaction that we were clothed and fed; and it was easy to think of a less happy condition. We were in a primitive world. In those short days the world seemed to have grown larger; distance was more terrible. A friend living thirty miles off seemed inaccessible in the snow. The earth had to be explored, discovered, and mapped again; it was as it had been centuries ago, and

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text:
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 He did not wait long. Oswald Partridge, similarly provided, made his appearance, and Edward advanced to meet him.

"Welcome, Oswald," said Edward.

"And welcome to you also, my fine lad," replied Oswald.

"I have been hard questioned about you since we parted—first, by the Roundhead Heatherstone, who plied me in all manner of ways to find out whether you are what you assert, the grandson of Jacob,—or some other person. I really believe that he fancies you are the Duke of York—but he could not get any more from me than what I knew. I told him that your grandfather's cottage was his own property, and a grant to his forefathers; that you were brought up at Arnwood, and had joined your grandfather after the death of the Colonel, and the murderous burning of the house and all within it by his party. But the pretty little daughter was more curious still. She cross-questioned me in every way when her father was not present, and at last begged me as a favour to tell you not to take the deer, as her farther was very strict in his duty, and, if caught, you would be imprisoned."

"Many thanks to her for her caution, but I hope to take one to-day, nevertheless," replied Edward; "a hart royal is not meat for Roundheads, although the King's servants may feast on them."

"That's truly said. Well, now I must see your woodcraft. You shall be the leader of the chase."

"Think you we can harbour a stag about here?"

"Yes, in this month, no doubt."

"Let us walk on," said Edward. "The wind is fresh from the eastern quarter; we will face it, if you please—or rather, keep it blowing on our right cheek for the present."

"'T is well," replied Oswald; and they walked for about half an hour.

"This is the slot of a doe," said Edward, in a low voice, pointing to the marks; "yonder thicket is a likely harbour for the


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 stag." They proceeded, and Edward pointed out to Oswald the slot of the stag into the thicket. They then walked round, and found no marks of the animal having left his lair.

"He is here," whispered Edward; and Oswald made a sign for Edward to enter the thicket, while he walked to the other side. Edward entered the thicket cautiously. In the centre he perceived, through the trees, a small cleared spot, covered with high fern, and felt certain that the stag was lying there. He forced his way on his knees till he had a better view of the place, and then cocked his gun. The noise induced the stag to move his antlers, and discover his lair, Edward could just perceive the eye of the animal through the heath; he waited till the beast settled again, took steady aim, and fired. At the report of the gun another stag sprang up and burst away. Oswald fired and wounded it, but the animal made off, followed by the dogs. Edward, who hardly knew whether he had missed or not, but felt almost certain that he had not, hastened out of the thicket to join, in the chace; and, as he passed through the fern patch, perceived that his quarry lay dead. He then followed the chace, and, being very fleet of foot, soon came up with Oswald, and passed him without speaking. The stag made for a swampy ground, and finally took to the water beyond it, and stood at bay. Edward then waited for Oswald, who came up with him.

"He has soiled," said Edward, "and now you may go in and kill him."

Oswald, eager in the chace, hastened up to where the dogs and stag were in the water, and put a bullet through the animal's head.

Edward went to him, assisted him to drag the stag out of the water, and then Oswald cut its throat, and proceeded to perform the usual offices.

"How did you happen to miss him?" said Oswald; "for these are my shots."


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132

Then thus unto the margrave the noble king’s wife spake:

“Say, now, is Kriemhild coming? and care doth she yet take

To keep the outward fairness, which she to foster knew?”

“Aye,” said the warrior Gere, “doubtless she comes to you.”

Then Uté to her presence the heralds did command,

And by her question might one right plainly understand

What she to hear was longing: “Still well did Kriemhild fare?”

He told how he had found her, and that she’d soon be there.

Nor from the court retainers did they the gifts withhold

That they had had from Siegfried: the raiment and the gold

In sight of all the liegemen of the three kings were spread.

For their abundant largesse were many thanks repaid.

“’Tis easy,” then said Hagen, “for him such gifts to give:

He could not spend his riches did he for ever live.

The treasure of the Niblungs he holds within his hand.

Ha, what if it should ever come to Burgundian land!”

Then was there great rejoicing among the people all

That soon the guests were coming. From dawn till evenfall

The three kings’ craftsmen labour’d, with zeal untiring fill’d.

Grand rows of seats in plenty they then began to build.

The valiant Sir Hunold and Sindold too, the thane,

Had little time for leisure; they too must work amain,

As steward and cupbearer the places they must set.

And Ortwein help’d them: wherefore they Gunther’s thanks did get.


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 it together more and more until the climax is reached. The limits of the human capacity to attend closely therefore set a limit to it; it must explode and finish before interruption occurs or fatigue sets in. But the novel I hold to be a discursive thing; it is not a single interest, but a woven tapestry of interests; one is drawn on first by this affection and curiosity, and then by that; it is something to return to; and I do not see that we can possibly set any limit to its extent. The distinctive value of the novel among written works of art is in characterisation, and the charm of a well-conceived character lies, not in knowing its destiny, but in watching its proceedings. For my own part, I will confess that I find all the novels of Dickens, long as they are, too short for me. I am sorry they do not flow into one another more than they do. I wish Micawber and Dick Swiveller and Sairey Gamp turned up again in other novels than their own, just as Shakespeare ran the glorious glow of Falstaff through a group of plays. But Dickens tried this once when he carried on the Pickwick Club into "Master Humphrey's Clock." That experiment was unsatisfactory, and he did not attempt anything of the sort again. Following on the days of Dickens, the novel began to contract, to subordinate characterisation to story and description to drama; considerations of a sordid nature, I am told, had to do with that; something about a guinea and a half and six shillings with which we will not concern ourselves—but I rejoice to see many signs to-day that that phase of narrowing and restriction is over, and that there is every encouragement for a return towards a laxer, more spacious


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 "Because I never fired at him," said Edward; "my quarry lies dead in the fern—and a fine fellow he is."

"This is a warrantable stag," said Oswald.

"Yes, but mine is a hart royal, as you will see when we go back."

As soon as Oswald had done his work, he hung the quarters of the animal on an oak tree, and went back with Edward.

"Where did you hit him, Edward?" said Oswald, as they walked along.

"I could only see his eye through the fern, and I must have hit him thereabouts."

On their arrival at the spot, Oswald found that Edward had put the ball right into the eye of the stag.

"Well," said he, "you made me suppose that you knew something of our craft, but I did not believe that you were so apt as you thought yourself to be. I now confess that you are a master, as far as I can see, in all branches of the craft. This is indeed a hart royal. Twenty-five antlers, as I live! Come, out with your knife, and let us finish; for if we are to go to the cottage, we have no time to lose. It will be dark in half an hour."

They hung all the quarters of the stag as before, and then set off for Jacob's cottage; Edward proposing that Oswald should fake the cart and pony to carry the meat home the next morning, and that he would accompany him to bring it back.

"That will do capitally," said Oswald; "and here we are, if I recollect right, and I hope there is something to eat."

"No fear of that—Alice will be prepared for us," replied Edward.:

Their dinner was ready for them; and Oswald praised the cooking. He was much surprised to find that Jacob had four grandchildren. After dinner, he went into Jacob's room, and remained with him more than an hour. During this conference, Jacob confided to Oswald, that the four children were the sons


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XIII.]

Rumold the kitchenmaster, knew well to rule aright

His underlings and scullions! Ay me! it was a sight

To see the polish’d kettles and pots and pans at hand!

For food must be made ready when guests were in the land.

Now in their stir and bustle awhile we’ll let them be,

And tell how Dame Kriemhilda and her fair company

Hence, on their journey Rhinewards, from Niblung-land did go.

No horses of fine raiment e’er bore so grand a show.

When many sumpter-coffers were ready for the way,

Then with his friends Sir Siegfried no longer did delay

To ride forth, with Kriemhilda, wherein they look’d for joy.

For all of them soon after it turn’d to sore annoy.

They left at home behind them Sir Siegfried’s baby son,

The firstborn of Kriemhilda,— not elsewise could be done.

From out of their state-journey arose much woe and pain;

His father and his mother that babe saw ne’er again.

Thence also did Lord Siegmund together with them ride.

Had he but known what evil thereafter would betide

At this same courtly banquet, he ne’er had gone at all:

To him by loss of kindred worse ill could ne’er befall.


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 and daughters of Colonel Beverley, supposed to have been burnt in the firing of Arnwood. Oswald came out, much surprised as well as pleased with the information, and with the confidence reposed in him, He saluted Edward and Humphrey respectfully, and said, "I was not aware with whom I was in company, Sir, as you may well imagine; but the knowledge of it has made my heart glad."

Nay, Oswald," replied Edward; "remember that I am still Edward Armitage, and that we are the grandchildren of old Jacob."

"Certainly, Sir, I will, for your own sake, not forget that such is to be supposed to be the case. I assure you, I think it very fortunate that Jacob has confided the secret to me, as it may be in my power to be useful. I little thought that I should ever have had my dinner cooked by a daughter of Colonel Beverley."

They then entered into a long conversation, during which Oswald expressed his opinion that the old man was sinking fast, and would not last more than three or four days. Oswald had a bed made up for him on the floor of the room where Edward and Humphrey slept, and the next morning they set off, at an early hour, with the pony and cart, loaded it with the venison, and took it across the forest to the keeper's lodge. It was so late when they arrived, that Edward consented to pass the night there, and return home on the following morning. Oswald went into the sitting room to speak with the Intendant of the forest, leaving Edward in the kitchen with Phœbe, the maid-servant. He told the Intendant that he had brought home some fine venison, and wished his orders about it. He also stated that he had been assisted by Edward Armitage, who had brought the venison home for him in his cart, and who was now in the kitchen, as he would be obliged to pass the night there; and on being questioned, he was lavish in his praises of Edward's skill and knowledge of woodcraft, which he declared to be superior to his own.


text: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 12

title: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 12


text:
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 form of novel-writing. The movement is partly of English origin, a revolt against those more exacting and cramping conceptions of artistic perfection to which I will recur in a moment, and a return to the lax freedom of form, the rambling discursiveness, the right to roam, of the earlier English novel, of "Tristram Shandy" and of "Tom Jones"; and partly it comes from abroad, and derives a stimulus from such bold and original enterprises as that of Monsieur Rolland in his "Jean Christophe." Its double origin involves a double nature; for while the English spirit is towards discursiveness and variety, the new French movement is rather towards exhaustiveness. Mr. Arnold Bennett has experimented in both forms of amplitude. His superb "Old Wives' Tale," wandering from person to person and from scene to scene, is by far the finest "long novel" that has been written in English in the English fashion in this generation, and now in "Clayhanger" and its promised collaterals, he undertakes that complete, minute, abundant presentation of the growth and modification of one or two individual minds, which is the essential characteristic of the Continental movement towards the novel of amplitude. While the "Old Wives' Tale" is discursive, "Clayhanger" is exhaustive; he gives us both types of the new movement in perfection.

I name "Jean Christophe" as a sort of archetype in this connection, because it is just at present very much in our thoughts by reason of the admirable translation Mr. Cannan is giving us; but there is a greater predecessor to this comprehensive and spec-


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 "It proves that the young man has had much practice, at all events," replied Mr. Heatherstone, smiling. "He has been living at the King's expense, but he must not follow it up at the cost of the Parliament. It would be well to take this young man as a ranger if we could; for although he is opposed to us, yet, if he once took our service, he would be faithful, I am sure. You can propose it to him, Oswald. The haunches of that Hart Royal must be sent up to General Cromwell to-morrow: the remainder we will give directions for, as soon as I have made up my mind how to dispose of it."

Oswald left the room, and came back to Edward. "General Cromwell is to have the haunches of your stag," said he to Edward, smiling; "and the Intendant proposes that you should take service as one of the rangers."

"I thank you," replied Edward, "but I've no fancy to find venison for General Cromwell and his Roundheads; and so you may tell the Intendant, with many thanks for his good will towards me, nevertheless."

"I thought as much, but the man meant kindly, that I really think. Now, Phœbe, what can you give us to eat, for we are hungry?"

"You shall be served directly," replied Phœbe. "I have some steaks on the fire."

"And you must find a bed for my young friend here."

"I have none in the house, but there is plenty of good straw over the stables."

"That will do," replied Edward; "I'm not particular."

"I suppose not. Why should you be?" replied Phœbe, who was rather old and rather cross. ""If you mount the ladder that you will see against the wall, you will find a good bed when you are at the top of it,"

Oswald was about to remonstrate, but Edward held up his finger, and no more was said.


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 As soon as they had finished their supper, Phœbe proposed that they should go to bed. It was late, and she would sit up no longer. Edward rose and went out, followed by Oswald, who had given up the keeper's house to the Intendant and his daughter, and slept in the cottage of one of the rangers, about a quarter of a mile off. After some conversation, they shook hands and parted, as Edward intended returning very early the next morning, being anxious about old Jacob.

Edward went up the ladder into the loft. There was no door to shat out the wind, which blew piercingly cold, and after a time he found himself so chilled that he could not sleep. He rose to see if he could not find some protection from the wind, by getting more into a corner; for although Phœbe had told him that there was plenty of straw, it proved that there was very little indeed in the loft, barely enough to lie down upon. Edward, after a time, descended the ladder to walk in the yard, that by exercise he might recover the use of his limbs. At last, turning to and fro, he cast his eyes up to the window of the bed-room above the kitchen, where he perceived a light was still burning. He thought it was Phœbe, the maid, going to bed; and with no very gracious feelings towards her for having deprived him of his own night's rest, be was wishing that she might have the tooth-ache or something else to keep her awake, when suddenly through the white window curtain he perceived a broad light in the room—it increased every moment—and he saw the figure of a female rush past it, and attempt to open the window—the drawing of the curtains showed him that the room was on fire. A moment's thought, and he ran for the ladder by which he had ascended to the loft, and placed it against the window. The flames were less bright, and he could not see the female who had been at the window when he went for the ladder. He ascended quickly, and burst open the casement—the smoke poured out in such volumes that it nearly suffocated him, but he went in; and as soon as he was inside, he


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Page:Everywoman's World, Volume 7, Number 6.djvu/40

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Story Girl" was Donald Montgomery, and Neil Campbell was David Murray of Bedeque. The only embroidery I permitted myself in the telling of the tale was to give Donald a horse and cutter. In reality, what he had was a half-broken steer, hitched to a rude, old wood-sled, and it was with this romantic equipage that he hied him over to Richmond Bay to propose to Nancy!

My grandfather, Senator Montgomery, was the the son of Donald and Nancy, and inherited his stately presence and handsome face from his mother. He married his first cousin, Annie Murray, of Bedeque, the daughter of David and Besty. So that Nancy and Betsy were both my great-grandmothers. If Betsy were alive to-day, I have no doubt, she would be an ardent suffragette. The most advanced feminist could hardly spurn old conventions more effectually than did when she proposed to David. I may add that I was always told that she and David were the happiest couple in the world.

T was from my mother's family—the Macneills that I inherited my knack of writing and my literary tastes. John Mcneill had come to Prince Edward Island in 1775; his family belonged to Argyleshire and had been adherents the unfortunate Stuarts. Consequently, young Macneill found that a change of climate would probably be beneficial. Hector Macneill, a minor Scottish poet, was a cousin of his his. He was the author of several beautiful and well-known lyrics, among them "Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye me ain thin," "I lo'e ne'er a laddie but one," and "Come under my plaidie"—the latter often and erroneously attributed to Burns.

John Macneil settled on a north-shore farm in Cavendish and had a family of twelve children, the oldest being William Macneill, my great-grandfather, commonly known as "Old Speaker Macneil," He was a very clever man, well educated for those times, and exercised a wide influence in provincial politics, He married Eliza Townsend, whose father was Captain John Townsend of the British Navy. His father, James Townsend, had received a grant of Prince Edward Island land from George III., which he called Park Corner, after the old family estate in England, Thither he came, bringing his wife. Bitterly homesick she was—rebelliously so, For weeks after her arrival she would not take off her bonnet, but walked the floor in it, imperiously demanding to be taken home. We children who heard the tale never wearied of speculating as to whether she took off her bonnet at night and put it on again in the morning, or whether she slept in it. But back home she could not go, so eventually she took off her bonnet and resigned herself to her fate. Very peacefully she sleeps in the little, old, family graveyard on the banks of the Lake of Shining Waters—in other words, Campbell's Pond at Park Corner. An old, red sandstone slab marks the spot where she and her husband lie, and on it is carved this moss-grown epitaph—one of the diffuse epitaphs of a generation that had time to carve such epitaphs and time to read them.

"To the memory of James Townsend, of Park Corner, Prince Edward Island. Also of Elizabeth, his wife. They emigrated from England to this Island, 1775, with two sons and three daughters, viz., John, James, Eliza, Rachel, and Mary. Their son John died in Antigua in the life time of his parents. His afflicted mother followed him into Eternity with patient resignation on the seventeenth day of April, 1795, in the 60th year of her age. And her disconsolate husband departed this life on the 25th day of December, 1806, in the 87th year of his age."

I wonder if any homesick dreams haunt Elizabeth Townsend's slumber of over a hundred years!

William and Eliza Macneill had a large family of which all the members possessed marked intellectual power. Their education consisted only in the scanty, occasional terms of the district school of those rude, early days; but, had circumstances been kinder, some of them would have climbed high. My grandfather, Alexander Macneill, was a man of strong and pure literary tastes, with a considerable knack of prose composition. My great-uncle, William Macneill, could write excellent satirical verse, But his older brother, James Macneill, was a born poet. He composed hundreds of poems, which he would sometimes recite to favoured persons. They were never written down, and not a line of them, so far as I know, is now extant. But I heard my grandfather repeat many of them, and they were real poetry, most of them being satirical or mock-heroic. They were witty, pointed, and dramatic, Uncle James was something of a "mute, inglorious" Burns. Circumstances compelled him to spend his life on a remote Prince Edward Island farm; had he had the advantages of education that are within reach of any school-boy to-day, I am convinced he would have been neither mute nor inglorious.

The "Aunt Mary Lawson," to whom I dedicated The Story Girl, was another daughter of William and Eliza Macheill. No story of my "career" would be complete without a tribute to her, for she was one of the formative influences of my childhood. She really quite the most wonder woman in many respects that I have ever known. She had never had any educational advantages. But she had a naturally powerful mind, a keen intelligence, and a most remarkable memory which retained to the day of her death all that she had ever heard or read or seen. She was a brilliant conversationalist, and it was a treat to get Aunt Mary started on tales and recollection of her youth, and all the vivid doings and sayings of the folk in those young years of the Province. We were "chums," she and I, when she was in the seventies and I was in my 'teens. I cannot, in any words at my command, pay the debt I owe to Aunt Mary Lawson.

When T was twenty-one months old my mother died, in the old home at Cavendish, after a lingering illness. I distinctly remember seeing her in her coffin—it is my earliest memory. My father was standing by the casket holding me in his arms. I wore a little white dress of embroidered muslin, Father was crying. Women were seated around the room, and I recall two in front of me on the sofa who were whispering to each other and looking pityingly at Father and me. Behind them the window was open and green vines were trailing across it, while their shadows danced over the floor in a square of sunshine.

I looked down at Mother's dead face. It was a sweet face, albeit worn and wasted by months of suffering. My mother had been beautiful, and Death, so cruel in all else, had spared the delicate outline of feature, the long silken lashes brushing the hollow cheek, and the smooth masses of golden-brown hair.

I did not feel any sorrow, for I knew nothing of what it all meant. I was only vaguely troubled. Why was Mother so still? And why was Father crying? I reached down and laid my baby hand against Mother's cheek. Even yet I can feel the coldness of that touch, Somebody in the room sobbed and said, "Poor child." The chill of Mother's face had frightened me; I turned and put my arms appealingly about Father's neck and he kissed me. Comforted, I looked down again at the sweet, placid face as he carried me away. That one precious memory is all I have of the girlish mother who sleeps in the old burying-ground of Cavendish, lulled forever by the murmur of the sea.

I was brought up by my grandparents in the old Macneill Homestead in Cavendish. Cavendish is a farming settlement on the north shore of Prince Edward Island. It was eleven miles from a railway and twenty-four miles from the nearest town. It was settled in 1790 by three Scotch families—the Macneills, Simpsons, and Clarks. These families had inter-married to such an extent that it was necessary to be born or bred in Cavendish in order to know whom it was safe to criticize. I heard Aunt Mary Lawson once naively admit that "the Macneills and Simpsons always considered themselves a little better than the common run;" and there was a certain rather ill-natured local saying which was always being cast up to us of the clans by outsiders, "From the conceit of the Simpsons, the pride of the Macneills, and the vain-glory of the Clarks, good Lord deliver us." Whatever were their faults, they were loyal, clannish, upright, God-fearing folk, inheriting traditions of faith and simplicity and aspiration.

T spent my childhood and girlhood in an old-fashioned Cavendish farmhouse, surrounded by apple orchards, The first six years of my life are hazy in recollection. Here and there, a memory picture stands out in vivid colours. One of these was the wonderful moment when, I fondly supposed, I discovered the exact locality of Heaven.

NE Sunday, when I could not have been more than four years old, I was in the old Clifton Church with Aunt Emily. 1 heard the minister say something about Heaven—that strange, mysterious place about which my only definite idea was that it was "where Mother had gone."

"Where is Heaven?" I whispered to Aunt Emily, although I knew well that whispering in church was an unpardonable sin, Aunt Emily did not commit it. Silently, gravely, she pointed upward. With the literal and implicit belief of childhood, I took it for granted that this meant that portion of Clifton Church which was above the ceiling. There was a little square hole in the ceiling. Why could we not go up through it and see Mother? This was a great puzzle to me. I resolved that when I grew bigger I would go to Clifton and find some means of getting up into Heaven and finding Mother. This belief and hope was a great, though secret, comfort to me for several years. Heaven was no remote, unattainable place—"some brilliant but distant shore," No, no! It was only ten miles away, in the attic of Clifton Church! Very, very sadly and slowly I surrendered that belief.

Hood wrote, in his charming I Remember that he was farther off from Heaven than when he was a boy. To me, too, the world seemed a colder, lonelier place when age and experience at length forced upon my reluctant seven-year-old consciousness the despairing conviction that Heaven


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 stumbled against the body of the person who had attempted to open the window, but who had fallen down senseless. As he raised the body, the fire, which had been smothered from want of air when all the windows and doors were closed, now burst out, and he was scorched before he could get on the ladder again, with the body in his arms; but he succeeded in getting it down safe. Perceiving that the clothes were on fire, he held them till they were extinguished, and then, for the first time, discovered that he had brought down the daughter of the Intendant of the Forest. There was no time to be lost, so Edward carried her into the stable and left her there, still insensible, upon the straw, in a spare stall, while he hastened to alarm the house. The watering butt for the horses was outside the stable; Edward caught up the pail, filled it, and hastening up the ladder, threw it into the room, and then descended for more.

By this time, Edward's continual calls of "Fire! Fire!" had aroused the people of the house, and also of the cottages adjacent. Mr. Heatherstone came out half dressed, and with horror on his countenance. Phœbe followed screaming, and the other people now hastened from the cottages.

"Save her! my daughter is in the room!" exclaimed Mr. Heatherstone. "Oh, save her, or let me do so!" cried the poor man, in agony; but the fire burst out of the window ia such force, that any attempt would have been in vain.

"Oswald," cried Edward to him, '"let the people pass the water up to me, as fast as possible. They can do no good looking on."

Oswald set the men to the work, and Edward was now supplied with water so fast that the fire began to diminish. The window was now approachable, and a few more buckets enabled him to put one foot into the room, and then every moment the flames and smoke decreased.

Meanwhile it would be impossible to describe the agony of the


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 tacular treatment of a single mind and its impressions and ideas, or of one or two associated minds, that comes to us now via Mr. Bennett and Mr. Cannan from France. The great original of all this work is that colossal last unfinished book of Flaubert, "Bouvard et Pécuchet." Flaubert, the bulk of whose life was spent upon the most austere and restrained fiction—Turgenev was not more austere and restrained—broke out at last into this gay, sad miracle of intellectual abundance. It is not extensively read in this country; it is not yet, I believe, translated into English; but there it is—and if it is new to the reader I make him this present of the secret of a book that is a precious wilderness of wonderful reading. But if Flaubert is really the Continental emancipator of the novel from the restrictions of form, the master to whom we of the English persuasion, we of the discursive school, must for ever recur is he whom I will maintain against all comers to be the subtlest and greatest artist—I lay stress upon that word artist—that Great Britain has ever produced in all that is essentially the novel, Laurence Sterne

The confusion between the standards of a short story and the standards of the novel which leads at last to these—what shall I call them?—Westminster Gazettisms?—about the correct length to which the novelist should aspire, leads also to all kinds of absurd condemnations and exactions upon matters of method and style. The underlying fallacy is always this: the assumption that the novel, like the story, aims at a single, concentrated impression. From that comes a fertile growth of error. Constantly one finds


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 Intendant, who would have rushed up the ladder into the flames, had be not been held by some of the men. "My daughter! my child!—burnt—burnt to death!" exclaimed he, his hands.

At that moment, a voice in the crowd called out, "There were four burnt at Arnwood!"

"God of Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Heatherstone, falling down into a swoon, in which state he was carried to a neighbouring cottage.

Meanwhile, the supply of water enabled Edward to put out the fire altogether: the furniture of the room was burnt, but the fire bad extended no further; and when Edward was satisfied that there was no more danger, he descended the ladder, and left it to others to see that all was safe. He then called Oswald to him, and desired that he would accompany him to the stable.

"Oh, Sir," replied Oswald, "this is dreadful! and such a sweet young lady too."

"She is safe and well," replied Edward, "I think so, at least. I brought her down the ladder, and put her in the stable, before I attempted to put out the fire. See, there she is; she has not recovered yet from her swoon. Bring some water. She breathes! thank God! There, that will do, Oswald, she is recovering. Now let us cover her up in your cloak, and carry her to your cottage. We will recover her there."

Oswald folded up the still unconscious girl in his cloak, and carried her away in his arms, followed by Edward.

As soon as they arrived at the cottage, the inmates of which were all busy at the keeper's lodge, they put her on a bed, and very soon restored her to consciousness.

"Where is my father?" cried Patience, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.

"He is safe and well, Miss," replied Oswald.

"Is the house burnt down?"


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 "No. The fire is all out again."

"Who saved me? tell me."

"Young Armitage, Miss."

"Who is he? oh, I recollect now; but I must go to my father. Where is he?"

"In the other cottage, Miss."

Patience attempted to stand, but found that she was too much exhausted, and she fell back again on the bed. "I can't stand," said she. "Bring my father to me."

"I will, Miss," replied Oswald.

"Will you stay here, Edward?"

"Yes," replied Edward. He went out of the cottage door, and remained there while Oswald went to Mr. Heatherstone.

Oswald found him sensible, but in deep distress, as may be imagined. "The fire is all out, Sir," said Oswald.

"I care not for that. My poor, poor child!"

"Your child is safe, Sir," replied Oswald.

"Safe, did you say?" cried Mr. Heatherstone, starting up. "Safe! where?"

"In my cottage. She has sent me for you."

Mr. Heatherstone rushed out, passed by Edward, who was standing at the door of the other cottage, and was in his daughter's arms. Oswald came out to Edward, who then detailed to him the way in which he had saved the girl.

"Had it not been for the ill-nature of that girl Phœbe, in sending me to sleep where there was no straw, they would all have been burnt," observed Edward.

"She gave you an opportunity of rewarding good for evil," obsersed [sic] Oswald.

"Yes, but I am burnt very much in my arm," said Edward. "Have you any thing that will be good for it?"

"Yes, I think I have: wait a moment."

Oswald went into the cottage and returned with some salve,


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 with which he dressed Edward's arm, which proved to be very severely burnt.

"How grateful the Intendant ought to be—and will be, I have no doubt!" observed Oswald.

"And for that very reason, I shall saddle my pony and ride home as fast as I can; and do you hear, Oswald, do not show him where I live."

"I hardly know how I can refuse him, if he requires it."

"But you must not. He will be offering me a situation in the forest, by way of showing his gratitude; and I will accept of none. I have no objection to save his daughter, as I would save the daughter of my worst enemy, or my worst enemy himself, from such a dreadful death; but I do not want their thanks, or offers of service. I will accept nothing from a Roundhead; and as for the venison in the forest, it belongs to the King, and I shall help myself whenever I think proper. Good bye, Oswald, you will call and see us when you have time?"

"I will be with you before the week is out, depend upon it," replied Oswald.

Edward then asked Oswald to saddle his pony for him, as his arm prevented him from doing it himself, and, as soon as it was done, he rode away for the cottage.

Edward rode fast, for he was anxious to get home and ascertain the state of poor old Jacob; and, moreover, his burnt arm was very painful. He was met by Humphrey about a mile from the cottage, who told him that he did not think that the old man could last many hours, and that he was very anxious to see him. As the pony was quite tired with the fast pace that Edward had ridden, Edward pulled up to a walk, and as they went along acquainted Humphrey with what had passed.

"Is your arm very painful?"

"Yes, it is, indeed," replied Edward; "but it can't be helped."


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 in the reviews of works of fiction the complaint that this, that or the other thing in a novel is irrelevant. Now it is the easiest thing, and most fatal thing, to become irrelevant in a short story. A short story should go to its point as a man flies from a pursuing tiger: he pauses not for the daisies in his path, or to note the pretty moss on the tree he climbs for safety. But the novel by comparison is like breakfasting in the open air on a summer morning; nothing is irrelevant if the writer's mood is happy, and the tapping of the thrush upon the garden path, or the petal of apple-blossom that floats down into my coffee, is as relevant as the egg I open or the bread and butter I bite. And all sorts of things that inevitably mar the tense illusion which is the aim of the short story—the introduction, for example, of the author's personality—any comment that seems to admit that, after all, fiction is fiction, a change in manner between part and part, burlesque, parody, invective, all such things are not necessarily wrong in the novel. Of course, all these things may fail in their effect; they may jar, hinder, irritate, and all are difficult to do well; but it is no artistic merit to evade a difficulty any more than it is a merit in a hunter to refuse even the highest of fences. Nearly all the novels that have, by the lapse of time, reached an assured position of recognised greatness, are not only saturated in the personality of the author, but have in addition quite unaffected personal outbreaks. The least successful instance, the one that is made the text against all such first-personal interventions, is, of course, Thackeray. But I think the trouble with Thackeray is not that he makes


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124

Heralds were sent before them the news betimes to say.

And soon rode out to meet them, in lordliest array,

Many of Uté’s kinsfolk and Gunther’s gallant men.

The host began to stir him his guests to welcome then.

He went unto Brunhilda where seated was the dame:

“How did my sister greet you,” quoth he, “when first you came?

Even in the self-same fashion you Siegfried’s wife must greet.”

Said she: “That will I gladly; I love her, as is meet.”

Then spake the great king: “Early to-morrow are they due.

If you would fain receive them, be quick in what you do;

Lest we have first to greet them in this our citadel.

In all my days I have not had guests I loved so well.”

Her maidens and her women she therefore straightway bade

To go and seek fine raiment, the best that could be had,—

Such as her own attendants might wear her guests before.

This did they with much pleasure, of that you may be sure!

King Gunther’s men now hasten’d to tender service due.

The host about his person had all his warriors true.

The queen herself rode with him, all gloriously array’d;

To these well-lovéd guests was a royal welcome made.

With what unfeign’d rejoicing the guests by all were met!

’Twas said that Dame Brunhilda did ne’er such greeting get

In the Burgundian kingdom on the part of Dame Kreimhild.

They who had ne’er beheld her with happiness were fill’d.


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 (: He tried to co-operate.)

But, comrades. if you think that we would so readily agree to a split, you are wrong. Muslov and Fischer have their failings, but we have always said we must have patience.

(: Until the Party is shattered.)

The Party is not going to be shattered. Radek runs around among the students meetings in Moscow where the discussions are taking place. At these meetings Radek says that the Executive, and I particularly, have corrupted the German Party. I do not fear this charge. It would be a very pretty German Party if it could be corrupted from Moscow.

(: I have never said that. I said that you broke up the Central Committee.)

A nice Central Committee if it allows itself to be broken up.

(: Yes, if it was a Russian Committee.)

I have never broken up the Central Committee. It is true that a few days.after the departure of the representatives of the Communist International from Germany, the majority on the Central Committee found a correct and independent policy. How did I break it up? I can assert that I have not written a word either to Rammele or anyone else, although I had a right to do it. But it is true that the Central Committee, which was broken up from Moscow, found approximately the right policy without our having anything to do with it. What is the matter with the majority on the Central Committee ? Between ourselves, it is that it lacks determination, the will to power in the Party. It is necessary to have that in order to govern a Party. One must have the conviction that "I am right; I will lead the Party; I will convince it." The majority is somewhat anemic. It is still seeking words and formula that will suit Jacob Walcher. Of course we like Walcher. We will march with him, but the revolutionary policy of the Party is dearer to us than Jacob, and it would be good for him to understand that indefinite formulæ "on the one hand," "on the other hand," &c., are no use. The time for them has gone by.

Comrades, we have this majority on the Central Committee. In general we will march with it. A new attitude must be adopted towards the Left, different from that of Radek and Brandler. Radek's attitude towards the Left recently has been wrong. He has allowed his temperament to carry him away, and he is labouring under a false impression.

You say that the Left represents only a quarter, but you cannot lead the Party without this quarter. You speak of the bad people in Berlin, of the officials, &c. Comrades, I am at the head of the Leningrad organisation, and I know what it means to lead 25,000 to 35,000 men. This cannot be done mechanically, or by compulsion.

(: Muslov.)

However fallible Muslov may be, there are the tens of thousands


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 of workers, I have been connected with the Leningrad workers for twenty years. But if I had attempted to apply compulsion do you think they would have carried out the great cause merely for the sake of our beautiful eyes? This is not an accident, one must know how to compromise. You have possession of the newspapers and the whole apparatus. Why have you not won in Berlin and Hamburg? Moreover, you over-estimate the role of individuals in history.

(: Quite right.)

(: You are always relying on persons in Germany.)

Never. Certainly with regard to the policy in October, we believed that Brandler personified this best. We asked ourselves: Who will do this? And we said Brandler. We do not think that Brandler will never do anything any more. We believe that he will do much good. We know perfectly well that we must suffer twenty defeats before we achieve one victory. World history is so badly arranged. We say you have made great mistakes with us: we, too, have made mistakes.

(: I have made mistakes, but not those you refer to.)

What you said yesterday about the masses understanding the united front tactics as evolutionary tactics indicates your deviations.

(: Are there any tactics that have not their dangers and deviations?)

Do you know what Lenin once wrote? "The leader is responsible not for what he does, but what the masses do under his leadership." When, after two years, we come and say that the masses think in a certain way, it is proof that there is something rotten in the leadership.

The conclusion to be drawn is that we must have a change in the leadership. Under no circumstances do we wish to undertake a crusade against the so-called Right. To speak of the Kag spirit is an exaggeration. Exaggeration is the greatest enemy of Comrade Ruth Fischer. We must stand on the exact truth, and exaggeration is untrue. The Kag crisis, I must say, gives one to think. After having read all your letters, after having discussed the thing for days, these people come to you with petitions: "How can we on the Central Committee discuss the question of whether we can surrender the Party, or not?" That was the opinion also of Comrade Radek.

(: Until to-day.)

But the Central Committee for weeks discussed the question of surrendering the Party. Until this very day, Radek has the impression that there are Right Wing tendencies in the Party. And now when I read to you the draft resolution of the Russian Party, you ask where are the Right tendencies? Is it Brandler, Pieck? Why do you mention these names? The tendencies do exist; it is a fact.


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 But I do not speak of the Party as a whole, but of the Central Committee. The Party's attitude on the Kag crisis is better than that of the Central Committee. The latter discussed whether it should surrender the Party. This is a proof that all is not well. I believe that we have traces of Social-Democracy, not only in the German Party, but in the whole Communist International. That is because it has developed out of the Second International. Last year I said to Comrade Lenin: "In looking at the Communist International I cannot say with certainty whether we can establish a real Communist International without experiencing a crisis." One sometimes has the feeling that in our ranks we have considerable remnants of the Social-Democracy. Would we be the leaders of the Communist International if we did not see this weakness? The discussion in our Party has shown that we have remnants of the Social-Democracy in our ranks.

(: Quite right.)

Not on our side, but on your side. We all love the Communist Party. I can quite understand Pieck and Walcher saying indignantly: "What! Our Party a Social-Democratic Party?" We Russians have never thought so. In spite of all you are one of the best sections of the Communist International.

(: Not one of the best, but the best.)

But remnants of Social-Democracy are present. I will reveal another secret. Some of the younger element among you, Muslov, for example, have the advantages of not being burdened by Social-Democratic traditions. On the other hand, this is a weakness in that they have not grown up with the workers. Muslov himself recognises this quite well. It is a disadvantage in that you have not been so well grafted to the masses, but on the other hand, it is an advantage that you have not come with traces of Social-Democracy.

We must bear in mind that the Party is in a difficult situation, and the factional spirit must cease. In order to achieve victory, we must have a united leadership, otherwise we shall fail. We must see the position as it is. When we fight for the revolution, and desire to save the Party, then we must abandon the spirit of passivity, factionalism, &c. We must investigate a number of questions like the trade-union question, the organisation question, and objectively decide them, And no doubt we shall have to decide the question of calling a Party conference. I say here quite frankly: we, the Executive and the Russian Communist Party, cannot now undertake the responsibility to establish a new combination in the leadership of the German Communist Party. Sometimes this can be done, but at the present moment the situation is too involved. The Party must reveal its true character and show what leadership it desires. The Communist International may intervene later, but the Party must speak. When the moment arrives we must deal with it from the standpoint of the interests


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 of the Party. We would desire that the matter be settled without a factional fight. We believe that the political preparations for the Party congress are already being made in Moscow. I believe that if co-operation is achieved between the present majority on the Central Committee and the Left, upon a definite political policy, they will have ninety-nine per cent. in the Party behind them.

(: You have not yet heard the majority masses of the Party.)

But you represent them. I admit that one can easily fall into error on the question of the relation of forces in the Party.

There are three tendencies on the Central Committee; the majority, who have brought their theses here and which is somewhat weakly represented by Remmele and Koenen; we have a Left, which you know, and we have a minority which you have heard.

(: Where are Pieck and Walcher?)

(: And where do you include me?)

Please do not be angry with me. The case of comrade Zetkin is very difficult. There is no need for me to say that we stand by her personally. You know that she signed the letter of the Executive. If she stands on this position, then I cherish and respect her. But what can I do when she stands for the other policy? I hope that Comrade Zetkin will be with the majority.

Comrades, the Central Committee has adopted a draft with which you are acquainted. We sat down with the majority of the delegation and attempted to draw up a draft. The comrades revised and improved my draft; in the main the spirit is the same. The work in this small commission—Comrade Pieck, Koenen and Remmele were present—showed that we can march 99 per cent. of the road together with Pieck. He was not present on the Central Committee when the voting took place. Something new happened there, and within a short time there were fresh events. Pieck was here at that time, and the work, which in the last few days we have carried out with him, has shown that we can come to an understanding. When however,, difficulties between him and the Left arise, Pieck, who is as passionate as we all are, permits himself to do things in the fight against the Berliners of which I cannot approve.

I think our task here is not to employ strategy and to conduct manœuvres inside our own Party, but to say this is a mistake. When you ask: is the Russian Party with the Berliners? I say, No. It is of the opinion that the installation of the new majority in the main is right. It must bring about honest co-operation with the Left. The "civil war" must cease. The comrades must abandon the factional spirit if it desires to save the Party. Good (to the Left), you have made serious mistakes. You know that. Sometimes it is said that the majority represents the backward section of the workers, and that the Left represents the impatient


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 section of the workers. But can we bring about the revolution entirely without the backward section of the workers? And the right say: impatience. The time comes, however, when impatience is the most important thing we require. Take Thälmann. Speaking quite frankly, all the comrades say that when they hear him speak, they get the conviction that the German revolution will come one day. Therefore, comrades, we must have this. The two are complementary and we must unite them on the policy which we propose to you.

What will the minority do? Many say, they will form a new faction. Brandler perhaps will not form a new faction, but will wait a while. Every one of us knows how to appreciate comrade Brandler personally. He will yet do important work in the Party. To come and say now, turn them out, slaughter them, we think it is frivolous, it is not right.

I want to point out one or two other prospects. I believe, however, that we are almost agreed, we do not know how things will go further. In the first draft, we said, we must have both possibilities in mind on the question of the tempo, we erred. There is some consolation in that Lenin and Trotsky sometimes erred on this point. But our estimation remains correct. Then it is said everything will come within three months, I say wait and see, I am not so sceptical. But everything depends upon the driving power of the Party. We say that, as the Communist International, we are prepared to stake everything in order to hasten the development. Further preparations, further illegal organisations, further instructions to our brother sections, the French, &c. We have drawn up a letter to the French Party. Comrade Zetkin, who was a member of the commission, was convineed that the prospects in the German question were the old prospects, i.e., a new revolution. We will say the same thing to the other sections, and here, in Russia, also prepare for a speedy decision. But as leaders of the Party, we must see now that there is a danger of the process being slower. We must see this after the experiences we have had. Only eighteen months after 1905 were we able to see clearly whither things were leading. Three times Lenin fixed the revolt for 1906, then in the spring, then in the late summer after the peasants had gathered in the harvest, &c. The Mensheviks laughed at him, but there was nothing to laugh about. We erred in our estimation of the rapidity of development. After eighteen months, we saw that things will move more slowly. Our duty is now to see the thing as it now is; for the spring, for the summer—we shall see, for a short time perhaps.

If we agree on this point, then the heated struggle will not have been in vain. We have thrown off many illusions and gained much realist understanding.