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. THE COQUETTE

A STORY OF REAL LIFE

BY ELLEN ASHTON

"What a beautiful creature!" exclaimed Albert Howard to his friend as they stood at the entrance of the ballroom. "She is a perfect goddess."

"Who do you mean?" said Henry Stanhope, "for you have not yet told me of whom you speak in such raptures, though to judge by the direction your eyes have taken, the goddess is none other than my old playmate Charlotte Ferney."

"What—that divine creature with the flashing eyes, that brilliant complexion, and such a queenly form—she is one of your old playmates! Why, my dear fellow, you must have a heart of  ice; otherwise, you would have been at her feet years ago."

"Always enthusiastic!" exclaimed Stanhope with a smile.

"And you are always stoical," retorted his friend, "but come, since you really do know this bewitching fairy, present me to her at once. I would give almost anything for an introduction."

Stanhope answered with another of his meaning smiles, and taking his friend's arm, he led him across the room to where Miss Ferney sat, surrounded by her usual train of admirers. Making his way through these, Stanhope presented his friend to the beauty and, after lingering a few minutes with the group, glided away to another quarter of the room.

Meanwhile, Howard was endeavoring to entertain his new acquaintance, and, as few men could equal him in conversational ability, he soon became the most favored of the evening's suitors. When the next set took the floor, he succeeded in leading out Miss Ferney, and, as both were graceful dancers, they directly attracted the attention of the room. The gentleman had a fine figure, was known to possess a large fortune, and had a widely extended reputation as a man of ability. His partner was certainly the most beautiful woman in the room. Her form was faultless, and her dress was in the finest taste. The splendor of her complexion was unrivaled; her eyes were black and brilliant as Sybil's, and her features were in the purest Grecian style and would have seemed cut out of marble, but for the carnation in her cheek. Always in high spirits, she seemed this evening peculiarly gay, while her partner's evident admiration of her called even a richer color than usual into her cheek. To Charlotte Ferney, it was an hour of triumph, and when, at the close of the ball, Howard escorted her to her carriage, her heart was thrilled with the pride of a conquest that, she knew, was envied by half of her sex in the room.

The next day, Howard and Stanhope met in Chesnut Street, and the first words of the former, after the salutation, were in praise of Miss Ferney's beauty. After dwelling on her loveliness for some moments, during which Stanhope maintained silence or only answered in monosyllables, Howard said,

"But what was the meaning of your smile last night, Stanhope? There, you smile again in the same manner.” "I cannot see that it has any meaning. You take me to task unfairly." "No evasion, Stanhope; I see you imply something by that smile, and to be frank with you, I suspect you are no admirer—from what cause I know not—of Miss Ferney."

"You do me injustice, Howard, for I have ever thought Miss Ferney one of the most beautiful women of my acquaintance. But since you seem earnest, I will be frank with you and state what it is in Miss Ferney that I do not admire. In one word, then, she is a coquette."

For a minute, Howard looked quizzically into his friend's face, appearing to smother an inclination to smile, but, at length, as if unable to restrain the impulse, he burst into a hearty laugh.

"Forgive me, Stanhope," he said at length, "but it is so inexpressibly ludicrous. I had thought, after your long harangue, that you were about to tell me something against Miss Ferney's family, or her education, or heaven knows what—but when you made the being a coquette, the head and front of her offending,' I could not restrain a laugh, impertinent as it was. Why, my dear fellow, half the girls we know are coquettes? Indeed, I question whether a woman is good for much unless she is a bit of a flirt. I want one of your spicy, handsome girls for a wife, and not a dowdyish creature, as soft as cream and about as thick-headed.”

"I cannot agree with you on that subject at least," said Stanhope, "and I think experience would teach you that little happiness is to be found in the married state with a confirmed coquette. Nor is every one who is not a flirt a soft, dowdyish creature,' but on the contrary, they are often the sweetest as well as the most enchanting of their sex. A woman—believe me—who can trifle with a man's affections by encouraging or even allowing attentions that she is unwilling to ratify by marriage is, at best, a heartless creature, incapable of loving as a woman should love, and deserving no pity if her own affections, or rather her vanity, should be outraged."

"You are warm, Stanhope," said his friend, "but even admitting the truth—which I will not—of all you say, you have, as yet, failed to shew that Miss Ferney is a confirmed coquette."

"Had you known her as long as I have, you would not have doubted it. I could name a dozen whom she has heartlessly jilted after having given them every encouragement except that of words. Her conduct last


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. friend, and recollect how often a woman's coquetry has shipwrecked the happiness of others equally as noble-hearted originally, I have little pity for a confirmed coquette. " CHARITY.

BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

How meekly beautiful she moves Along the embattled line of life Regardless of the pomp and power, That mingles in the strife. The glittering toys that strew the way, She has no attraction in her eyes. How dim they seem beside the pearl That on her bosom lies.

She bears no sword amid the fray. She seeks no laurel, no renown. What should she do with earthly lay? Who has a heavenly crown? She seeks not and heeds not man's applause. She knows 'tis but a passing wind. And his revilings, scoffs, and taunts Fall harmless on her mind.

Careless of these, she passes them on. With a searching eye and a heeding ear, With a heart that feels for every moan, And pities every tear. "It is hers to raise the prostrate form, To staunch the wound with tender art; To lay the rich leaves of Gilead's balm Upon the bleeding heart.

To turn the lifted blade away, And shield the tower from the blow. To lead the weary on their way, And soothe the wanderer's woe. To aid the bending of age, And cheer its path of pain and gloom; Pointing the dim eye to the day That is not in the tomb.

And see her close folded to her breast. The outcast little orphan's form She gives it clothing, food, and rest. And shields it from the storm. Her eyes and heart are heavenward still. Her hands are given to her fellows. To bind each wound, to soothe each ill, And lead the weak toward heaven.

Even though her eyes are sometimes wet, When the venom's arrows pierce her breast, And blood drips from her weary feet. That know no earthly rest; Still, whose footsteps she pursues, Heals all her wounds with holy love; And she dries her tears with visions blest. Of her own home above.

THE ROYAL BRIDE

There was a bridal in the palace—the bridal of the eldest and most lovely princess—a girl in the bud of life—the springtime of existence—a beautiful creature, radiant in smiles, exquisitely graceful; and a powerful alliance had been formed worthy of a princess so lovely.

Her dress was richly decorated with jewels; the long silver veil fell to her feet, and a crown of gold, surmounted by a chaplet of orange flowers, rested on her brow. At the altar stood the priest, surrounded by the Emperor and Empress, the Ambassador, and the court, waiting with eagerness for the coming of the bride.

"Ah, my daughter," said the Emperor as the Princess approached, "thou hast delayed coming!" and he led her forward.

The Ambassador slowly knelt down, averting his head from the guests, and the Princess followed his example, seemingly unconscious of the presence of the court; suddenly her eyes met those of the Ambassador fixed upon her, and turning deadly pale, she made a sign for the ceremony to commence; the ring was placed upon her finger, and her small white hand rested for one moment in the Ambassador's; the blessing was pronounced; the heads of both were meekly bent; and glancing timidly at the still kneeling bridegroom, the Princess rose and knelt to her father. He raised her in his arms and, turning to the Empress, presented to the court the youthful Queen of Germany. "God bless her, may she be happy!" was the thrilling exclamation as the bridal party left the saloon, followed by the younger sisters of the bride and the graceful, mirth-loving courtiers. What, in  tears?"said the Empress kindly, when her daughter, overpowered by her concealed emotion, sobbed violently on her mother's bosom, "This is not right, my child; trust me, you shall hear of us often, and though absent, we shall never forget you; let me dry away your tears, for, hark! I hear sounds; footsteps are approaching."

"I trust your Majesty will pardon me," said the Ambassador hurriedly, retreating to behold the Queen of Germany alone, for the Empress had retired. "I was not aware your Majesty was here; this pavilion is generally deserted."

"So it would be now, but I have come here to see the sun set for the last time in my own land and to listen to the sound of my favorite band playing beneath these windows; you cannot blame me."

"My dear lady, I would not dare to breathe a word of disrespect against one so good and beautiful. Believe me, I would die to save you one moment's agony."

"Nay, is life so utterly valueless?" "Utterly, for its only charm is lost." "Impossible," said the Queen softly, "you have much to live for—fame, wealth, and doubtless love are yours;

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 as pictures, and were first set down actually as pen-and-ink or pencil drawings. A large quantity of these curious compositions gradually accumulated.

A number of them were offered to public inspection when the Wessex Poems first appeared, in 1898, illustrated by the author. These illustrations are striking and memorable—frequently no more than the barrenest sketches, they produce effects which sometimes become more deeply engraved in the mind than the lyrics which they illustrate.

One recalls a teeming landscape, seen shrunkenly through a huge pair of spectacles; a pair of moths, alighting upon an hour glass; a coffin being carried down a flight of steps by curious, naked, primitive Greek, male figures; a couple conversing in a Gothic cathedral, unconscious of the bone-filled vaults underneath them, shown in an architect's "elevation"; a sheeted female figure, lying on a bier; the lights of a town, blinking strangely through a pitch-black night; a Napoleonic infantryman, stalking along a hard and narrow Dorset highway, through the bleak, chilled country, a profile-sketch of Bonaparte.

Naturally these pictures do not in themselves spell greatness; they are, it is true, conceived with a preternaturally sharp vision, but executed without very much feeling for finish or for superficial effectiveness. They sometimes almost border on the ridiculous or childish, but are saved by an abiding sense of dignity, even in the grotesque. They form an illuminating commentary on the many-sidedness of an artist who was interested in a variety of things, but who forced himself to concentrate


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Works

 * The Cambridge Carol Book (1924), ed. and composer

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.

THE MINISTER’S DINNER.

BY LIDIA JANE PIERSON.

Tus Reverend Mr. N- was a man of excellent temper, generous feclings, aud well cultivated mind, but he was eccentric even to oddity. He was a powerful preacher, and his ministration was blest to the reforma- tion of many in his parish, At the age of thirty-four he

duaghter to one of hia richest parishioners, and who imogined that to refuse the lund of the minister would be a sin bordering hard upon the unpardonuble. Well, the marriage was consummated, the bride's fut portion paid; and the husband, as husbands in their firat love are apt to do, gave in to the humor of his wife, and accompanied her to several festive parties given hy hie wealthy neighbors, in honor of his marriage.

‘The happy couple were sitting together in their com- fortable parlour, one evening toward spring, the reverend gentleman studying the Venerable Bede, and hia wife equally intent upon a plate of the latest fashions, when she suddenly louked up with an expression between bopo and fear, and thus addressed her companion,

«My dear husbaud I have @ request to make.”

“Well, Nancy, any thing consistent.”

You do not imagine that I would make an inconsist- ent request, surely ?”

“No—not a request that you considered inconsistent. But come, what is it?”

“Why, my dear sir,” and her voice trembled a little, “we have been to several parties among the neighboring gentry, and now I think that to maintain our position in gocivty we should make @ party too.” ‘The minister looked blank.

« What sort of a purty, Nancy ?” he suid at length.

“Why,” she replied, “auch a party as those we huve attended, We must make an elegant dinner, and have dancing after it.”

“Dancing! in a minister's house!” ejaculated Mr. n—.

“Why, yes, certainly,” replied his wife, coaxingly. « You will not dance, the party will be mine; and then we have been to similar purties all winter.”

“True, true,” he muttered with a perplexed air, and sat silent for some time as if considering. At length he spoke, “Yes, Nancy, you may make a party, give a dinner, and if the guests desire it you may dance.”

“Thank you, love,” she cricd, putting her arma around his neck.

“But I have some stipulations to make about it,” he said, “I must select ani invite the guests, and you must al- low me to place some of my favorite dishes upon the table,”

"All sa you please, love,” she answered delightedly, but when ehall it be?”

“Next Wednesday if you please.”

But our furniture and window draperies are very old fashioned. Is it not time we liad new ?”

“I xhould think it hardly necessury to re-fumish our rooms, Nancy, Ail our fumiture is excellent of ita kind."

«But our amooth carpets, white draperies, and cane chaira have snch a coll look, do consent to have the rooma new fitted, we can move these things to the an- furnished chambers.”

« And of what use will they bo in those rooms which we never occupy? Besides, it is near spring, and to fit up now for winter is superfluous.”

« Well, I would not care,” she persisted, “only people will call us parsimonious and ungenteel.”"

“Oh, if that is all," he said gaily, “I will promise to expend a thousand dollars on the evening of the party, not in furniture, but in g manner which will he for more grateful to our guests, and profitable to ourvelves, and which shal} exonerate us from all imputation of parsi- mony ; end you may expend in adress, entables and dessert just what sum you please, and do not forget the wines.” ‘And co the colloquy ended, He resumed hin studies, and she gave her mind to the consideration of the dress which would be most becoming; and the viands that wero most expensive. ‘fhe next day she went busily ahout her preparations, wonilering all the time how her husband would expend his thousand dollars, but as she had discovered something of the eccentricity of his cha- acter, she doubted not that he meunt to give un agreeable surprise; and her curiosity grew so great that she could burdly asleep during the interval.

‘At length the momentous day arrived. ‘The arrange~ ments were all compiete, und Mri, N— retired to por- form the all-important businesa of arraying her fine person in fine attire. She lingered long at the toilette, relying on the fashionable unpunctuslity of fashionable people, and when the hour struck, left her chamber arrayed like Judith of old gloriously, to allure the eves of all who should look upon her, and full of sweet smiles and graces, notwithstanding the uncomfortable pinching of her shoes and corscts, Her husband met her in the hall.

Our guests have all arrived,” he said, and opencd the door of the reviewing room. Wonderful! wonderful! What a strange asscmbly. There were congregated the cripple, the maimeil, and the blind; tho palsicd, the ex- treme aged, and a group of children from the alnshouse, who rogurded the fine lady, some with wide open mouths, others with both bands in their hair, while some pecped from behind furniture, to the covert of which they had retreated from her dazaling presence, She was petrified with astonishment, then a dash of displeasure cronsed her face, till having ran ber eyca over the grotesque assembly, she met the comically grave expression of her husband's countenance, when she burst intoa violent fit of laughter,

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 on but a few of these interests. And when he concentrated, he achieved greatness.

In 1863 Hardy made his greatest efforts to succeed in the actual business of architecture. For a time he put aside all temptations to venture into the attractive byways he was discovering at every turn, and bent steadily over his drawing-board, his rules and compasses, his specifications. This application soon bore fruit.

The Architectural Association for design selected one of his efforts for particular recognition, and awarded him the annual prize. Stimulated by this success, Hardy prepared a technical essay to be entered in the competition for the medal and the ten-pound prize offered by the Royal Institute of British Architects. The subject he chose was The Application of Coloured Bricks and Terra Cotta to Modern Architecture. The monograph was at length completed, and mailed forthwith, under the suggestive motto "Tentavi quid in eo genere possem." The award was shortly afterwards announced. Hardy had won the medal—but not, alas, the financial award that usually went with it. The judge's report read as follows:

"The author of the essay has scarcely gone sufficiently into the subject proposed, and that portion referring to moulded and shaped bricks has scarcely been noticed. The essay, as far as it is written, is a very fair one, and deserves the medal, but, for the above reason, we cannot recommend that the supplementary sum of £10 be given with it.


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 This not uncommon manner of dealing with youthful aspirations in London was enough to nettle and discourage a young architect of more devotion, perseverance and determination than Hardy. It marked his high-water point as a designer, nevertheless. He gradually abandoned his technical studies from this time on, although he continued his jaunts over the country with Blomfield at intervals during the few succeeding years. He found himself now ready to yield to the more and more enticing siren strain of poetry—and also, perhaps, to the unruly philosophical voices of the times, which, since 1859, had been penetrating with a crescendo-movement into the hearts of even such self-contained lives as Hardy's. Intellectual and spiritual movements which had been blazing away over his head now began to settle upon his spirit—disturbing and arousing it more and more to the necessity of looking upon the fermenting humanity about him with increased interest and sympathy.


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. To you, patriot fathers, and these nursing mothers of our country, I present the one thousand dollars. It is just one hundred dollars to each soldier, and soldier's widow. It is a mere trifle. No thanks my friends. You, Mr. Niles, are my father in the Lord. Under your preaching I first became convinced of sin, and it was your voice that brought me the words of salvation. You will remain in my house. I have a room prepared for you, and a pious servant to attend you. It is time you were at peace, and your excellent lady relieved of her heavy burden." The crippled preacher fell prostrate on the carpet, and poured out such thanksgiving and prayer, as found way to the heart of Mrs. N, who ultimately became a meek and pious woman, a fit help mate for a devoted gospel minister.

THE MERMAN. BY ALFRED TENNYSON. WHO would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, I would be a merman bold ; I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower, And, holding them back by their flowing locks, I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kissed me Laughingly, laughingly ; And then we would wander away, away, To the pale green sea-groves straight and high Chasing each other merrily.

There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us far; Low thunder and light in the magic night,Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other, and whoop and cry All night merrily, merrily ; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily ;

But I would throw to them back in mine Tuskis, and agate, and almondine ; Then, leaping out upon them unseen, I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kissed me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; We would live merrily, merrily.

FEMALE EDUCATION. BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

THE influence of the softer sex upon society is now so generally acknowledged, that any argument to prove this to be the case, would be useless and out of place. We can only confess the fact and rejoice in it! We rejoice in it, because it is, for the most part, exerted for beneficial ends. We see, that where female influence is the most freely admitted, there will be the best feelings of humanity most successfully cultivated. Now, this is tantamount to admitting that the gentle sex exercises its power wisely and beneficially, and we wish to acknowledge this ; we wish to do full justice to the admirable virtues, to the high principles of woman. Predestined from the creation of the world to be the companion and helpmate of man, through all ages, history has furnished us with abundant proofs that woman has fulfilled the intentions of the bountiful and merciful God, who gave her to man to be the guerdon of his merits, the sweetener of his toils, the joyful and sympathizing partner of his hours of gladness, the sure and certain refuge to whom he might fly, without a doubt, without a fear, for comfort and consolation, when the clouds of adversity, the frowns of a hard-hearted world should beset him. Yes ! when cold looks, indifference, and mistrust, meet him on every side, when poverty, sickness, and old age, overtake him, man still has one Ebenezer, one rock, sure and steadfast, one well of sweet water, one green oasis in the desert of life - he has the never-failing, wondrous love and tenderness, springing in perennial freshness from the heart of woman !

Now, while acknowledging to the fullest extent the generally beneficent and kindly influences of woman's love upon society, we must be careful to remember, that though the soil be fruitful, weeds may spring,-nay, will spring ; and it is a matter of universal import that the naturally glorious characters of the female sex be not lost from the want of cultivation, or destroyed by an improper and mischievous system.

The only legitimate object of education is to enable the individual properly to fulfil his or her duties. Woman by the decree and ordinance of her Maker, was intended to be a helpmate to man, and we think that we are correct in assuming that, by the term, something more is expressed than the duties of a wife. We believe that the whole human family is implied by the term man. When a young woman has so far completed her education, that it is no longer the principal business of her life, and returns to her father's house, the duties for the due performance of which, she alone is responsible, commence. She must be capable of affording her share to the agremens, comforts and pleasures of the domestic hearth. She must be ready to sympathize with the joys and sorrows of the various inmates. She must be able


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at Yule it bloweth cool, And frost doth grip the fingers, And nip the nose, and numb the toes, Of out-door carol singers,

Through snow or sleet we pace the street, Fair sirs, with right good reason, To wish you all, both great and small, The blessings of the season.

We think to spell 'Good news, Nowell, And eke a wonder story: The Virgin mild hath born the Child: E'en God, the King of Glory.'

We come to tell how once, o'er dell And down, in winter-weather, Led with a star, from lands afar There rid three kings together.

By thoroughfare, through slum or square, Our Quire the praise rehearses (As on we pass) of 'Wenceslas' That 'Good King,' and his mercies.

Then we can sing, a pretty thing, 'The Holly and Ivy berry'; But best we ken 'Good gentle men, God rest you, rest you merry.'

'This hind'rest night I saw a sight:' 'A Virgin all unspotted,' Ne'er be these lays of olden days Out of remembrance blotted

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 So 'Blessed be that Maid Marie,'

To spurn it 'twere a pity;

Nor let men scorn 'A Babe is born

In Bethlem,' David city.

[No itching palms have we for alms,

Content if Christ, the burden

Of these our lays, bestow His praise,

And one day be our guerdon,

That hallow'd dome, Saint Dunstan's Home,

Doth harbour many blind folk,

To whom we pay the coin that may

Be handed us by kind folk.]

The strain, yclept 'While shepherds kept,'

This almost might be sung ye;

But here an end. Us Christ defend,

And alway be among ye!

As I went to Bethlehem,

Ere the dawn of day,

Met I with a knot of shepherd men,

On their homeward way.

Quem vidistis, pastores?

Tell me ev'ry whit:

In terris (I fain would learn of ye)

Quis apparuit?

Newly born we saw the Babe,

Whom an Angel throng

Worshipt as the Lord; Alléluyá,

Gloria, their song.

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, and hear my story! When God on Christmas morn, Th' eternal Lord of glory, Of Mary Maid was born, Seeking the King of ages, There journey'd from afar Three kingly Eastern Sages, By lengthy daily stages, Led westward by a Star.

The Star, it stood and pointed Toward the stable bare, Wherein the Lord's Anointed And eke His Mother were. Opening each his coffer, Baltházar giveth myrrh; While Melchíör doth offer Gold-ore, see Gaspar proffer Incense, the gum of fir.

So go we and adore Him, Who was or time began; So worship we afore Him, Who stoops to die for man. Welcome we too that Mother, Than Cherub higher, blest As woman ne'er was other, Who made the Lord our Brother, And rock'd her God to rest.

, hear our ditty, And think thereof no scorn; We pray Thee of Thy pity, On this Thy natal morn:

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 We flee to Thee, Who wast, in Bethlehem City, Of Mary Maiden born: For such as we.

a sely tender Babe In freesing winter nighte, In homely manger trembling lies: Alas, a pitious sighte: The inns are full, no man will yelde This little Pilgrime bedd; But forced He is with sely beastes In cribbe to shroude His headd.

Despise not Him for lying there, First what He is enquire: An orient perle is often found In depth of dirty mire. Waye not His cribbe, His wodden dishe, Nor beastes that by Him feede: Waye not His Mother's poor attire, Nor Josephe's simple weede.

This stable is a Prince's courte, The cribbe His chaire of state: The beastes are parcell of His pompe, The wodden dishe His plate. The parsons in that poor attire His royall liveries weare: The Prince Himself is come from heaven, This pompe is prisèd there.

With joye approch, O Christen wighte, Do homage to thy Kinge: And highly prise this humble pompe, Which He from heaven doth bringe,

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 With joye approch, O Christen wighte, Do homage to thy Kinge: And highly prise this humble pompe Which He from heaven doth bringe.

, withouten match, O Bethlem, is the gable O'er that lowly cratch:— The crib within thy stable. For, as Babe, therein That Lord and God abideth, Who on Cherubyn Aloft in glory rideth. Alleluia.

He is born to shrive The son, his goods who squander'd, Born to save alive The sheep, that far had wander'd. So bear we in mind To hymn this heavenly stranger:— God, who, for mankind, Did not abhor the manger. Alleluia.

is at thy portals: Bethlem, ready make! Soon, to save all mortals, Christmas dawn shall break. Bethlem, deck the manger, Group the shepherd band; Christ is near thy border, Christ, of heaven King.

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 Call the kingly stranger Out of Persian land.' Thus, and in due order, Hosts Angelick sing.

dong! merrily on high in heav'n the bells are ringing: Ding dong! verily the sky is riv'n with Angel singing.

E'en so here below, below, let steeple bells be swungen, And io, io, io, by priests and people sungen.

Pray you, dutifully prime your Matin chime, ye ringers; May you beautifully rime your Eve-time song, ye singers: Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!

Galilee they came, Saint Joseph and his Dame: O'er hill they speed, nor dally up valley, up valley: O'er hill they speed, nor dally up valley, O la!

When night fell dark and chill, And wind 'gan whistle shrill, Went Joseph and his Dearie, aweary, aweary, Went Joseph and his Dearie, aweary, O la!

Arriv'd in Bethlehem, There was but found for them (The best that they were able) a stable, a stable, ('Twas all that they were able), a stable, O la!

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. of a village she wished to serve. It was a manufacturing village, and the people, by the failure of a firm to whom they had hitherto been employed, were reduced to great straits. Our lady hearing of their distress, determined to relieve it, and ordered a very large distribution of blankets and linens. Now blankets are very good things, but it was during the dog-days, and the people were starving.

These few but important duties, and undoubtedly of more consequence than almost any other, are totally lost sight of in a modern establishment for young ladies. A female may acquire at one of these places all those accomplishments which adorn life, but none of that knowledge which should enable her to fulfil her duties.

In the days of courtship she will not find out her deficiencies, and the unmitigated flattery and devotion she receives from her lover, tend to make her think herself all perfection. Marriage alters the case completely. Duties of which she had never dreamed press upon her, and which she feels neither competent nor willing to fulfil, and numerous are the mortifications she must endure before she becomes perfectly au fait to her new position. Our advice, is that young ladies, while at school, be taught to practise those duties, which in after years will be their especial employment. They may depend upon this, that they will feel more pleasure in the exercise of useful virtues, than in the exhibition of the most brilliant accomplishments. Absence of selfishness—consideration of the wishes of others—will be found to confer more pleasure upon the possessor than the most brilliant talents, and the most elegant accomplishments.

THE DUELLIST.

BY H. SYMMES.

"Ove la morte al vincitor si pone In premio' e ' l mal del vinto é la salute."TASSO.

CHAPTER I.

was about two months after the celebrated battle of Fontenoy, that there was collected together near the bath of Latona, at Versailles, some officers of the Gardes-duCorps, who were listening to the discussion of a point, that is very rarely made the subject of a controversy among military men. "What!" said one, remarkable for his harsh features and thick red mustachios; "what! refuse to fight a duel, after an affront in public had been put upon him! Why, it is a dishonor that not all the waters of the deluge could wash away."

"M. de Malatour," said his opponent, in a tone of voice remarkable for its mildness and calmness, " I have the honor of again repeating to you my opinion, that I think a man shows his virtue and good qualities very frequently-perhaps more frequently, in declining to fight a duel, than by being a principal in one. What is there, in truth, more disreputable, what more unworthy of a gentleman, than to give way to passion, to rage, and to vengeance? What can there be more worthy of admiration, than resisting such violent impulses? And, remember, that the virtue that does not cost us some sacrifice of feeling, is scarcely deserving of the name."

"Well, well; all I can say to M. de Argentre is this: that if ever the King should give you a company, you ought to have engraven on the scabbards of your soldiers' swords, the Fifth Commandment-'Thou shalt not kill."

"And why not? The King would have more good servants, and the country fewer annoyances, if we had in our regiments more soldiers and fewer ruffians. Look, for instance, for the justification of what I have said, to the conduct of him, concerning whom this argument has arisen. See how nobly he avenged the affront put upon him, by carrying off the English standard at Fontenoy, and this too at the very time when some of your fire-eating duellists were, not improbably, prudently ensconced behind the baggage."

"The base have their moments of courage, as the timid deer will itself turn at bay, when hard pressed by the dogs."

"Aye, and the brave, good sir, have their attacks of cowardice."

"That is not either the thought, or the expression of a gentleman or a soldier."

"And yet it was first said by Marshal Turenne, who was certainly as nobly born as either of us. He avowed that he was not exempt from such feelings. Every one


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ivy and hull, woman, deck up thine house, And take this same brawn for to seethe and to souse; Provide us good cheer, for thou know'st the old guise; Old customs, that good be, let no man despise. At Christmas be merry, and thank God of all, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small: Yea, all the year long have an eye to the poor, And God shall send luck to keep open thy door.

Good fruit and good plenty do well in thy loft, Then lay for an orchard and cherish it oft: The profit is mickle, the pleasure is much; At pleasure with profit few wise men will grutch. At Christmas be merry, and thank God of all, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great and the small: Yea, all the year long have an eye to the poor, And God shall send luck to keep open thy door.

! Eternal Son, to-day Born of Mary, Maiden ay; Straw Thy bed, Thy pillow hay. Eya, eya, eya; Domini natalia Recolat ecclesia.

Angel-army, sound your horn, Chanting on this holy morn, 'God in Bethlehem is born.' Eya, eya, eya; In excelsis gloria: In terris concordia.

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 Shine in Eastern sky, thou Star, Pointing to that house afar Wherein Babe and Mother are. Eya, eya, eya; Puer idem varia Fecit luminaria.

Hitherward! Ye Princes three, Worship Him. Though poor He be, Lord, and King of kings is He. Eya, eya, eya; In celesti patria Vestra sors palacia,

Herdmen, leave your flocks, and run To adore the Holy One, God the Father's only Son. Eya, eya, eya; Qui creavit omnia, Eius haec solempnia.

Ass, with ox that hauleth plow, Fore thy Master, cradled now In the manger, bend and bow. Eya, eya, eya; Inter animalia Patrem parit filia.

Joseph, many of high degree, King and Seer, have longed to see Whom thou seest on Mary's knee. Eya, eya, eya; Deus, tuos visita, Et nobiscum habita.

Now, good people, all of ye, Magnify, with Maid Marie, Christ and His Nativitie. Eya, eya, eva; Sociate musicá Christi Natalitia.

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Holy Child, Lain in an oxen manger, Of Jesse stem, Yet scorn'd at Bethlehem, In winter wild, As ne'er-to-fore was stranger, Constrain'd, as I hear tell, Outside, outside a churlish inn to dwell, Outside, outside a churlish inn to dwell.

Methink I stand To-day in David's city, And twang the chord For David's Son and Lord: If, harp in hand, I make but tuneless ditty, Yet, Babe, Thou know'st that I Assay, assay my best—a lullaby, Assay, assay my best—a lullaby.

What if my flute Break time with Angel singers, Or not surpass The Alto of yon ass; What if my lute Be pluck'd with artless fingers, Or if my voice be Base, Now flat, now flat, now sharp, bereft of grace, Now flat, now flat, now sharp, bereft of grace—

Thou wilt accept My song, nor reprehend it: For Thee, above All earthly things, I love:

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 And, tho' inept my lay, Thou wilt amend it, And where 'tis out of joint, Canst make, canst make my false true counterpoint, Canst make, canst make my false true counterpoint.

on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deem'd the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer; And well our Christian sires of old Lov'd when the year its course had roll'd.

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the Mass was sung; That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen; The hall was dress'd with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go To gather in the mistletoe.

Then open'd wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And ceremony doff'd his pride, All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.

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 The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord, Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high, Crested with bays and rosemary.

The wassel round, in good brown bowls, Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls; There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie. Then came the merry masquers in, And carols roar'd with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note and strong.

England was Merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports agen: 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft would cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. England was Merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports agen.

' steward, bid my servants Go forth, and hither call, For guests, my friends and neighbours, To sup with me in hall; That, at this blessed season, Which comes but once a year, We may, as folk in olden days, Rejoice, and make good cheer.'

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 The old lime-tree shading spread

Its dense foliage with sweet flowers,

Stretched a branch to catch her arms

And to lift her full of charms,

Ready to rain fragrant showers

On her head.

And the spring asked woefully:

„Where art thou, my Queen most sweet?

Come, unbind thy silken hair,

Mirroring thy face so fair,

Touching me with tender feet,

Dreamily.“

And I answered: „Forest mine,

She comes not, she comes no more;

You alone, dear oaks, remain,

Wait for those blue eyes again,

That for me so oft of yore

Bright would shine.“

How much charm did she impart

To the groves, all things, that shone

As in an enchanted tale!

All is now so dark and stale…

Come, let’s be again alone

Heart to heart.

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Forest, O my forest dear,

What dost thou so lonesome here?

For since I have seen thee last

Many weary years have past,

And since I have gone away

In the world I much did stray.

—O, I do as in the past,

Listen to the winter’s blast,

Which my branches tears and breaks,

Chains with ice my streams and lakes,

On my paths snow-hills will lay,

All my songsters drives away.

And I do, as long ago,

Listen when the women go

Singing their old doina song,

As they walk the path along,

To the fountain, where they still

Come their water pails to fill.

—Forest dear with quiet streams

All in this world flowing seems;

Time goes past, but only thou

Still art young and younger now.

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 —What is time, when every night

Shines for me the stars’ still light!

Be the weather good or bad,

Be it sunny, be it sad,

Winds through rustling leaves still blow

And the Danube’s waters flow.

Man alone is wavering,

Changeable and wandering,

While we all the same remain,

Mountains, rivers, the great main,

As we were so we abide,

This great world with deserts wide,

Sun, moon, stars, eternal things,

And the forest with its springs.

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. innumerable perils to which he stood exposed, le Pareur bore in his manly physiognomy a character of rude elevation, that was not destitute of nobility It was no doubt owing to his religious feelings, and to his confidence in the ways of Providence, that our bear-hunter accomplished feats that were truly miraculous, and that now have afforded, for more than a hundred years, the inexhaustible subject for stories and anecdotes, in the long winter evenings, among the inhabitants of those mountains.

It was in consequence of the young Lord of Clat following, as a child, this singular man in his dangerous chases, that he was indebted not merely for his vigor of body, but also that energetic sang -froid of which he had given such dazzling proof on the plain of Fontenoy, and that we shall soon see him exhibit in a different field of battle. When Pareur appeared before his young master, whom he had not now seen for two years-he who never trembled before any peril-felt himself moved even to the very bottom of his heart, as much as a poor mother at the aspect of her child that she unexpectedly beholds after a long absence. He was about to cast himself at the feet of his lord, when the latter prevented him, and affectionately shook him by the hand. "You forget, Pareur, my friend," he said, " that it is the duty of the pupil to pay respect to his instructor, and more especially so when he stands in need of his advice and his wisdom." "Speak, my lord, speak ; for, after God, the old hunter is yours, body and soul." " Thanks ! thanks ! my brave honest fellow ; but have you received my letter from Paris ?" "Oh! yes, my Lord, and you may be sure your guests will find some rough fellows to speak to." "How many of them are there on the mountain," resumed the young nobleman, stretching his hand toward one of the giant peaks that shone with the golden rays of the setting sun. " Five in all— a complete family-father, mother, and children." "Well, but a few days yet to come, Pareur, and we shall be called upon to show our country skill-but I scarcely can hope for our superiority-for one of my guests is so excellent a shot, that he can snuff a candle at twenty paces distance." " That is perhaps easier than to strike a bear when he is within four feet of you." " It is my opinion, also ; but as I am particularly anxious myself to judge of his address, you must take care and place us at the same post-at the bridge of Maure, for instance ; for you know" I understand you," said the hunter, and bending down his head, and giving his right ear a pinch- an | attitude which was familiar to him when he was at all

59

embarrassed-" but to speak frankly, my lord, I had rather see you in any place than that." 66 Why so ?" "Because, to guard that post, one should have their conscience free, and be in a complete state of grace ; for there the hunter is between two dreadful deaths-the bear on one side, and the precipice on the other." "Thanks to you ! I know the one, and I do not fear the other." "Hum ! now with your Lordship's permission, I would say, I would prefer being with you in that dangerous pass, than see any one else there along with you ." " But are you sure the bear will go to that point ?" "Sure ! yes, certainly ; but no-for it is a cunning beast, and tells no one what it intends to do." "Very well, then ; the matter is perfectly well understood between us. I shall maintain the bridge of Maure with my friend. Do you go and have everything ready for the day on which the hunt takes place." Yes-yes-it is all right," murmured the hunter aside, as he withdrew, pinching his ear—“ but for all that I must watch over him." CHAPTER III. EIGHT days after this conversation, all the guests had arrived at the Castle. M. de Malatour was amongthem, and, notwithstanding the delicate and polite attention of his host, he still maintained toward him a cold and icy reserve in his manners. The greater number of the guests were inhabitants of the centre of France, and it was to them at once a spectacle magnificent and unexpected to behold the mighty chain of the Pyrenees, rising with the whole crown of contrasting snows, beneath the deep blue of a Spanish sky. Before the first dawn of the morning after their arrival, there was collected beneath the walls of the Castle a multitude of traqueurs and batteurs, armed with all sorts of noisy instruments, such as trumpets, drums, &c. Pareur appeared at the head of this assemblage. He was escorted by his faithful dog, which with its broad breast, its fiery and intelligent eye, appeared as the sergeant of a dozen enormous mastiffs that were ranged in close file, and held in leash by the vigorous hunters. The instant the guests at the Castle, armed with carbines and short hunting-knives, appeared, all the cortege, at the desire of Pareur, set forward on their march, and in perfect silence. The very dogs themselves appeared to comprehend the necessity for this procceding, for not a bark nor growl was heard from one ofthem. They proceeded on their way, and nought was to be heard but the dull noise of their own footsteps, the fall of distant torrents, and the cries of some lazy night-birds, as they slowly flapped their wings on their flight to their day retreat. As soon as they had reached


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 'Sire, shall I bid the noble, That banquets in his state, With purple and fine linen, With gold and silver plate?' 'Nay, bid me not the noble, For he hath got enow; But bring me in the country man, That liveth by the plow.'

[sic]Sire, shall I bid in Divès, For iti s [sic] very plain, If ye give him a banquet, He'll banquet you again?' 'Nay, bid not hither Divès, For it shall ne'er be thus, But go among the alley-lanes, And fetch in Lazarus.'

'Sire, shall I bid the merchant, That hath upon the seas His fleets of caravellas, And right great argosies?' 'Nay, bid me not the merchant, But go and fetch the clerk, That with the bandog goes to rest, And riseth with the lark.'

'And wherefore must I turn me From noble and from rich? And wherefore seek the poor man, That dwells in lane and ditch?' 'Man, lay to heart the reason, Because the King of all, Though rich, grew poor, for mortal sake, And born was in a stall.

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 'For these be they, good steward, Whom God doth chiefly choose, And these, His poorer brethren, No man may dare refuse. So, in this bleak December, Then make we best good cheer, When, for the sake of Babe Jesú, The poor we welcome here.'

and Colin, Yule is come, Calling forth your fife and drum; If ye strike up, as ye can, Turelurelu, patapatapan, I will carol; so will Jan, With a lassie, Joan or Nan.

Thus men gave, in olden days, To the Prince of princes, praise: Wherefore, an ye like my plan, Turelurelu, patapatapan, Dress your drum-stick, you; and span, You, your reed, my piper Pan.

Christmas tolls the devil's knell; Thankèd be Emmanuel. So from England to Japan, Turelurelu, patapatapan, Whether town or country man, Sing it, ring it, ran-tan-ran.

God and man accordant are: Not so, fife and drum; ye jar, Yet nought would I sooner than Turelurelu, patapatapan. Fore our Lady and Saint Ann, 'Tis high time the thing began.

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a cavern oxen-trod, Jesu Christ, Thou liest, In a manger, very God, Thou, the Son most highest.

There poor herdmen from the fold Bend the knee before Thee: There with incense, myrrh and gold, Eastern kings adore Thee.

Now at length is come to pass That which hath been tolden, Touching Christ and Christen-mas, By the prophets olden.

Now Angelick hosts aloft Cleave the sky asunder, Carolling, in loud and soft, Songs of glee and wonder.

'Glory be to God,' they cry, 'God, who condescendest To be born; who from on high Man alone befriendest.'

Bethlehem hear I to-day The Angels chant a merry lay,

And 'Glory be to God on high, That willeth Peace on earth,' they cry.

Now doth the Mother-maid enfold Him whom high heav'n can no-way hold.

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 'Mid darkness hath the Day-star shined, Exalting men of humble mind,

Who, with the Angels in the sky, Sing, 'Glory be to God on high!'

such (so fantastical) liking not this, Nor any thing honest that anciënt is, Give place to the time, that so meet we do see, Appointed of God, as it seemeth to be.

At Christmas, good husbands have corn in the ground, In barn and in cellar, worth many a pound, Things plenty in house (beside cattle and sheep), All sent them (no doubt on) good houses to keep.

At Christmas, the hardness of winter doth rage, A griper of all things, especially age; Then likely poor people, the young with the old, Be sorest oppressèd with hunger and cold.

At Christmas, by labour is little to get; That wanting, the poorest in danger are set; What season, then, better of all the whole year, Thy needy poor neighbour to comfort and cheer?

happy morn the Maid hath borne The Lord of bliss eternal: That God, who wrought all things from nought, Terrestrial, supernal: Tho' earth but gave this Babe a cave To be, at birth, His dwelling,

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 The heav'nly star is telling To people yet in darkness set Of Jesus Christ, the Lord most high'st, The Sun that setteth never. The same, I say, both yesterday, Now this day, and for ever.

With triple gift three kings full swift Are hasting to adore Him: Where starlight shone, it led them on To kneel in faith afore Him. Next, on the lea some herdmen see, More sheen than light of thunder, A great and mighty wonder; When from the sky an Angel high Declar'd the birth of God on earth; The welcome Gospel story. Then hosts aloft sang loud and soft: 'To God on high be glory!'

Lord, and my God, in Bethlehem born, Sweet Babe Jesu, on Christmas morn: Hail! Everlasting Son, display'd To mortal view by Mary Maid, My Lord, and my God, in Bethlehem born.

More wonderful sight hath never bin seen; For Thou, in stable bare and mean, Though King of heav'n, art fain to rest Upon an earthly mother's breast: More wonderful sight ne'er, ne'er shall be seen.

Thou in the beginning madest the skies, Bespangling heav'n with stars for eyes: And Thou didst form this earth of ours, Adorning it with trees and flow'rs; Yet swath'd in a crib their Fashioner lies.

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 Around the dry land Thou pouredst the sea, And set'st his bounds with sure decree; But, bending heaven, so to crown Mankind with bliss, Thou camest down: Babe Jesu, my God, all glory to Thee!

'Now stand we in the village, Where Jesse's bairns were born; Amid the fields of tillage, Whence Boaz reap'd his corn. Here welleth David's Fountain; There Rachel's body lies: Soon o'er yon Eastern mountain Shall Jacob's Star arise.

'The seventy weeks, appointed Of God, are now fulfill'd; Ere long the Lord's Anointed Shall born be, as He will'd; Whereat the prophet wond'red When Gabriel told him so In Babylon, four hundred And thirty years ago.

'Which Gabriel late did meet thee, And, with divining rod, Right reverently greet thee As Mother to his God. Let Ahaz read his dial, And (e'en as Esay bade) Confess, without denial, The Son of Mary Maid.

'Now, Lady, 'mid the number Of pilgrim folk, our kin, Go seek we place of slumber And shelter 'neath yond inn.'

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 'Good Joseph, 'neath that gable, In chamber, great or small, The host will not be able To find us room withal:

'So turn we from the tavern, And, seeing night is nigh, Seek lodging in this cavern, Where kine and assen lie.' Ah! Bethlem, didst thou know it, Of yonder Maid, e'er morn, As Micah did foreshow it, In thee shall God be born.

morn, the merry merry morn, The morn of Christmas-Day, When God, the Son of God, was born Of Mary maiden ay!

Sweet the song, the happy happy song, Precented at His birth, And caught up by the heav'nly throng, 'Good-will, and Peace on earth!'

To the town, the tiny tiny town, The town of Bethlem, ran Some simple shepherds, o'er the down, To view Him God and Man.

There within a cattle cattle shed They find and worship Him, Who rideth, in His realm o'erhead, Upon the Cherubim.

So, my boys, my bonny bonny boys, To Bethlem off be we But, pray you, shun whate'er annoys The Babe on Mary's knee.

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Lady sat within her bow'r, And sweetly sang from hour to hour, La-lul-la-lu: ''Ho! rest thee, my Bairn, and my God thereto;'' La-lul-la, Babe Jesu!

In reverent wise, with holy hands, She wrapt the Child in swathing bands.

But, as she sung the glad refrain, Her tears gan trickle fast as rain.

A wonder sight it was to see How Mary rockt Him on her knee,

And bade Him rest, and stint His weep, Who giveth His belovèd sleep.

, how hard it bloweth, The nor'-nor'-eastern gale! Outside, how fast it snoweth! 'Twill freeze the milk in pail. Ay me! how dark the night! Nay, e'en when day do lengthen, (Men say) the cold will strengthen, Ere summer draw in sight.

Indoors, meanwhile 'tis merry: Men trim the house with spray Of rud red holly berry, Or green-leaf of the bay. To curb the winter cold, The spit is set a-turning; The Yule block too is burning, As in the days of old.

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Rh


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 points of resemblance between this earliest of heroes and what one knows about the early career of the writer, that one is sorely tempted to believe that we here have unmistakable autobiographic notes, in spite of Hardy's later assertions that an old and defunct acquaintance supplied the bases for this character. The truth seems to be that he drew partially from his own experiences, partially from those of his friend, and mingled them together with purely fictitious material to build up his protagonist.

Springrove, we learn, is the son of a commoner, but widely read and keenly appreciative of art, of a melancholy turn of mind, about twenty-six years of age, untidy in personal appearance, a Shakespeare enthusiast, and a writer of "disillusioned" verses. All of these things might have been said of Hardy in 1866.

Owen describes Springrove as follows:

"He seems a very nice fellow indeed; though of course I can hardly tell to a certainty as yet. But I think he's a very worthy fellow; there's no nonsense in him, and though he is not a publicschool man he has read widely, and has a sharp appreciation of what's good in books and art. In fact, his knowledge isn't nearly so exclusive as most professional men's."

"That's a great deal to say of an architect, for of all professional men, they are, as a rule, the most professional."

"Yes; perhaps they are. This man is rather of a melancholy turn of mind, I think." . ..

"He is a man of very humble origin, it seems, who has made himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of the kind. . . . He's about six-and-twenty, no more. . . . He is rather untidy in his waistcoat, and neckties, and hair."

"How vexing!" . . . it must be to himself, poor thing."

"He's a thorough bookworm—despises the pap-and-daisy


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 In hall, despite the weather, Good will and warmth abound: There hearts are knit together With Carol, Glee and Round, In worship of that morn, When God was [in December, As grateful folk remember] Of Maiden Mary born.

three a clock, And a cold frosty morning: Past three a clock; Good morrow, masters all!

Born is a Baby. Gentle as may be, Son of th' eternal Father supernal. ℟.

Past three a clock, etc,

Seraph quire singeth, Angel bell ringeth: Hark how they rime it, Time it, and chime it. ℟.

Mid earth rejoices Hearing such voices Ne'ertofore só well Carolling Nowell. ℟.

Hinds o'er the pearly Dewy lawn early Seek the high stranger Laid in the manger. ℟.

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 Cheese from the dairy Bring they for Mary, And, not for money, Butter and honey. ℟.

Light out of star-land Leadeth from far land Princes, to meet Him, Worship and greet Him. ℟.

Myrrh from full coffer, Incense they offer: Nor is the golden Nugget withholden. ℟.

Thus they: I pray you, Up sirs, nor stay you Till ye confess Him Likewise, and bless Him. ℟.

, baby mine, in happy case: Thy guardian eyeth, face to face, Our heav'nly Father ever, To whom the darkness and the light Co-equal are: who, day and night Thy keeper, slumb'reth never. Yet know, thou child in rich array, On feather bed, that on a day Thy Maker couch'd in straw and hay.

But harder was the plank, whereon The Suff'rer mounted, woe-begone, To save thy life from danger Of leopard, bear, wolf, lion, snake. Him sing I, babe, Who for our sake Did not abhor the manger, What time the Virgin Mother kept The cratch, wherein her Darling slept, Or oft, as Man of Sorrow, wept.

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Babe, that, wrapt in twilight shade, Upon Thy Mother's lap wast laid, Grant, Holy Jesu, grant that we May imitate Thine infancy.

And, when we seek our lowly bed, While midnight darkens o'er our head, From ravening wolves, kind Shepherd, keep This little flock of Thy poor sheep.

Speak peace unto our souls, and tell Of heav'nly joys with Thee that dwell; So shall our spirit, all night long, Sing to our God her thankful song.

Thus, as the dying day grows dim, To God we raise our evening hymn; And laud, with heaven's bright Angel host, The Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Mirrour of the Father's face Darkness from the world gan chase When, as mortal vested God was manifested. Wherefore, Christens, up and sing To Jesus Christ, of heaven King. God is born, go meet Him, And with carol greet Him.

The Maid hath borne the Holy One, God the Father's only Son, Of His great compassion, Found in human fashion.

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 Wherefore, Churchmen, sing for joy, And, leal to Mary's gentle Boy, Keep His birthday yearly, Loving Him sincerely.

He lieth in a crib of tree, Altogether lovely He: Holy, Strong, Immortal, Key to David's portal. Wherefore, masters, be not sad, When Christmas biddeth men be glad, But with voice canorous Swell the Seraph-chorus.

redeem a race forlorn, When the nights were longest, In the sign of Capricorn, When the frost is strongest, 'Neath the gable of a stable, Early on a morn, Of a lowly Maiden, Holy Jesu, Thou wert born.

'Glory be to God on high; And on earth be granted Peace, Good-will to men,' hear I O'er the welkin chanted. Earth rejoices, hearing voices Arch-angelick sing, Anthem sweetest, as 'tis meetest, To the new-born King.

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 school of verse—knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the footnotes. Indeed he's a poet himself in a small way."

Of more interest than the rather idle question of the partial survival of the real Hardy in Springrove are the latter's opinions on architecture, art, and life, which sound remarkably like what we should expect from Hardy:

"He says that your true lover breathlessly finds himself engaged to a sweetheart, like a man who has caught something in the dark. He doesn't know whether it is a bat or a bird, and takes it to the light when he is cool to learn what it is. He looks to see if she is the right age, hut right age or wrong age, he must consider her a prize. Some time later he ponders whether she is the right kind of prize for him. Right kind or wrong kind, he has called her his, and must abide by it. After a time he asks himself, ‘Has she the temper, hair, and eyes I meant to have, and was firmly resolved not to do without?' He finds it all wrong, and then comes the tussle—"

"Do they marry and live happily?"

"Who? Oh, the supposed pair. I think he said—well, I really forget what he said."

"That is stupid of you," said the young lady with dismay.

"Yes."

"But he's a satirist—I don't think I care about him now."

"There you are just wrong. He is not. He is, as I believe, an impulsive fellow who has been made to pay the penalty of his rashness in some love-affair."

The sentiments here ascribed to Springrove might have been Hardy's own in his early years, but hardly the experiences with which the youthful architect-philosopher is credited. But when we recall Hardy's subsequent abandonment of architecture for verse, and of verse for


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Bethlehem that night, Taught by an Angel bright. While men lay fast asleep, The shepherd party ran To own Him God and man, True Shepherd of His sheep. Babe there they worship Him That rides the Cherubim: Where ox and ass be driven, Incarnate there they find The Maker of mankind: To Him be glory given!

With strange and wondrous ways The Magi saw the rays Of one new-lighted Star. Star heretofore so sheen Their eyes had never seen: It shone from heav'n afar, And signified the birth Of Christ a King on earth: And rightly so they reckon'd; To save mankind forlorn This royal Babe was born, Whose Star to Bethlem beckon'd.

'The new-born Bairn, where may He be, King Herod, say, Whose comet was aglow:

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 For hither come are we, To bow to Him the knee.' This would the wise men know. But Herod, troubled sore, And Salem overmore, Was minded in his fury To fight with God, and kill, With semblance of good-will, The infant King of Jewry.

Then Herod straight would know What time the star gan show That led the Princes three To Bethlehem, that there With giftès, rich and rare, The Babe might honour'd be But, by our Lord's command, Safe in their native land By other road they find them. Thus did the Kings deride False Herod at that tide, And left him far behind them.

us this morn a Child is born, His Father is none other Than God the King of ev'ry thing, Maid Mary is His Mother.

Her Babe is Lord by all adored; Esaias had foreshown her: Now came't to pass that ox and ass Bow'd down afore their owner.

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 When Herod heard the Mages' word, He smote the babes asunder In all that coast, a blameless host, From two years old and under.

Now, faithful quire, bless God the Sire, Bless God the Spirit Holy, Bless God, the Son ere time begun, Now lain in manger lowly.

in a cave on Christmas morn, Nowell, Nowell, Jesus, the Son of God was born, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell.

See in a crib the heav'nly Child, Lullay, Lulláy, Cradled by Mary, Maiden mild, La-Lullaby, Lúllay.

Thitherward kings and herdmen drew To Ephratá, For to adore the Babe Jesú, At Bethlem Ephráta.

Then was fulfill'd the thing foretold, Eya, Eyá, In holy writ by bards of old, Eya, Eya, Eya.

Armies Angelick sang for mirth Cum Maria, Marvellous glad o'er Jesu's birth Ex Matre Maria.

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 Gloria tibi, Domine, Alleluyá, Qui natus es pro homine, Alle-Allelúya.

an Angel host entuned Anthem sweet and airy O'er the Child, meek and mild, Of the Virgin Mary;

When, with honey, herd-men brought Butter from the dairy To the One Holy Son Born of Maiden Mary;

When iii pilgrim kings unlockt Each his casket, spary Of no thing for this King, God, the Son of Mary,

'Glory be to God on high, God, who cannot vary!' Was the lay on that day Sung by Blessèd Mary.

shepherds watch'd their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The Angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.

'Fear not,' said he (for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind), 'Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.

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 'To you in David's town this day

Is born of David's line

A Saviour, who is Christ the Lord,

And this shall be the sign:

'The heav'nly Babe you there shall find

To human view display'd,

All meanly wrapt in swathing bands,

And in a manger laid.'

Thus spake the Seraph; and forthwith

Appear'd a shining throng

Of Angels praising God, and thus

Addrest their joyful song:

'All glory be to God on high,

And to the earth be peace;

Good-will henceforth from heav'n to men

Begin and never cease.'

is the sweetest Name

That heart can fancy, tongue can frame;

Reveal'd to Mary in her cell

At Nazareth by Gabriel;

Whereto ev'ry knee, ev'ry knee,

Shall bow in all humility.

On the eight day, when they came

To give the heav'nly Child His Name,

'Let call Him Jesus,' Mary cried:

'Amen,' said Joseph at that tide;

'Because from thy yoke, from thy yoke,

O sin, the Babe shall save His folk.'

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 Jesus is the Name full well

Bedreaded and abhorr'd in hell;

But Jesus is the theme and boast

Of Christian men and Angel host.

So sing we and say, sing and say,

'All glory to Thy Name to-day!'

Christ had (as recounted

In Matthew chapter eight)

With His disciples mounted

The ship, 'twas waxing late:

Then rose the wind: the billow

Around the boat gan leap;

But He lay on a pillow

Aboard, abaft, asleep.

'Lord, save us; else we perish,'

His fellow shipmen spake:

'No longer hope we cherish:

Lord, from Thy slumber wake!'

Said He, 'Why are ye fearful,

O ye of little faith?

Take heart of grace! Be cheerful!'

Then He arose, and saith,

'Be tranquil, O thou breaker!

Thou whirlwind, be at rest!'

The breezes knew their Maker:

The waves, too, lower'd their crest.

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 Then cried the men in wonder,

'What manner man is He,

Whose very word hath under

Control both wind and sea?'

stood in heav'n a linden tree;

But, tho' 'twas honey-laden,

All Angels cried, 'No bloom shall be

Like that of one fair Maiden.'

Sped Gabriel on wingèd feet,

And pass'd through bolted portals

In Nazareth, a Maid to greet

Blest o'er all other mortals.

'Hail Mary!' quod that Angel mild,

'Of woman-kind the fairest:

The Virgin ay shalt thou be styled,

A babe although thou bearest.'

'How shall I bear a child, that ne'er

With wedded man was mated?

Pray tell me now this infant how

Shall He be generated?'

'O Virgin sheen, it shall be seen,

As I announce afore thee:

The Holy Ghost, of virtue most,

Shall cast His shadow o'er thee.

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 'So be it!' God's hand-maiden cried,

'According to thy telling.'

Whereon the Angel smartly hied

Up home-ward to his dwelling.

This tiding fill'd his mates with glee:

'Twas pass'd from one to other,

That 'twas Marie, and none but she,

And God would call her Mother.

Virgin's Child

Most meek and mild,

A-lonely for my sake

His Father's will

For to fulfil,

He came great pains to take

And suffer'd death,

As Scripture saith,

That we should savèd be,

On Good Friday:

Wherefore I say,

He mournèd sore for me.

Such pain and smart

As in His heart

He suffer'd for mankind,

Can no man take,

Nor mourning make

So meekly for his friend.

The cruel Jews

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 Would not refuse To nail Him to a tree, And with a dart To pierce His heart: Thus mournèd He for me.

Now Christ Jesú, Of love most true, Have mercy upon me: I ask Thee grace For my trespass, That I have done to Thee. For Thy sweet Name, Save me from shame And all adversitie: For Mary's sake, To Thee me take, And mourn no more for me.

, maltreated, roughly greeted, With repeated scoff and blow, O spare us, young or hoary! Who foughtest knightly, And didst rightly Quell th' unsightly fiend our foe, And now art clad with glory. From hell-gate, long their prison, Thy people Thou unchainest; And Thou, the third day risen, As King supreme remainest.

O dulcis Jesus, spinis laesus, Flagris caesus asperis,

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 Velis placatus fore! Qui lux de luce, Victo duce, Pendens cruce sceleris, Indutus es splendore, Inferni portas urgens, Inde tuos duxisti, Post triduum resurgens, Mundi Victor fuisti.

not o'er me, O Mother mine, In grave to see me laid, The well-belovèd Son of thine, Y-born of Mary ever Maid.

For in glory I shall agen Arise, as God, and raise To glory faithful Christen men, Who honour thee with love and praise.

, why with bulrush mock Him? Of His own robe why unfrock Him? Thorn-crown'd, why in purple smock Him? Jewry, why with bulrush mock Him? Jewry, why with bulrush mock Him?

Though ye clamour, 'Crucify Him,' Though ye gainsay, though ye try Him In your law-court, and deny Him, Though ye clamour, 'Crucify Him,' (ij.)

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 God can be o'ercome by nó man,

Be it Hebrew, Greek, or Roman.

Therefore cease to be His foe-man,

God can be o'ercome by nó man. (ij.)

Such as hate Him shall be scatter'd,

Satan's bolts and bars be batter'd,

Death and hell-gate throughly shatter'd;

Such as hate Him shall be scatter'd. (ij.)

a lay! For on this day,

This day, the first of the seven,

Christ is restored to life, the Lord,

Monarch of earth and of heaven.

Defeated hell and death as well,

On Easter E'en our God is seen

Standing amid the Eleven.

Fair was the morn when Christ was born,

But fairer yet is the morrow,

When from the dead uprose our Head,

Ending our night-time of sorrow.

And from the light of Easter bright

We, ash and dust, sure hope and trust

Of our agen-rising borrow.

So, man, rejoice, uplift thy voice,

Alle-Alle-Alleluya.

Soothly 'tis time to clang the chime,

Alle-Alle-Alleluya.

Sirs, pray you, sing to Christ our King,

Who, lately slain, is ris'n again;

Alle-Alle-Alleluya.

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, sing unto Christ thy King, Who hath won the victory, And hath laid low haughty Pharao Underneath the deep Red Sea.

Yea, merry, merry, merry, merry may we be, As bird upon the berry of the may or cherry-tree, While as we stand with harp in hand On the shore of the Red, Red Sea

God perforce overthrew the horse, Rider, car, and axle-tree. They sank as lead, and their men lie dead, Dead as stone: so mote it be!

Then merry, merry, etc.

His right hand, and His wonder-wand Did divide, at His decree, The surging wave, and thereby did save Us and ours from slavery.

Then merry, merry, etc.

Egypt spake, 'I will overtake And despoil mine enemy: I will, and must, satisfy my lust On the folk of Jewery.'

But merry, merry, etc.

Thou didst blow, and entomb our foe In the bottom of the sea: And, if dry-shod we went o'er, O God, Be ascribed the praise to Thee!

While merry, merry, etc.

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 Miriam, wake! Lute and timbrel take! With thy women dance for glee! And make respond to thy brother yond With the Staff that set us free!

For merry, merry, etc.

, O Queen of bliss, anon: Hilariter, hilariter. Rejoice, thy grief is past and gone, Hilariter, hilariter.

Abate thy tears, bid woe farewell: Hilariter, hilariter, Thy Son hath harrow'd death and hell. Hilariter, hilariter.

He, whom thou mournest, Mother-maid, Hilariter, hilariter, Is risen agen, as He fore-said., Hilariter, hilariter,

The bloody sweat from off His brow, Hilariter, hilariter, Is fraught with healing balsam now. Hilariter, hilariter.

His visage, marr'd as other none, Hilariter, hilariter, Now beameth brighter than the sun. Hilariter, hilariter.

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 His drink of gall and vinegar, Hilariter, hilariter, Than honey-comb is sweeter far. Hilariter, hilariter.

The scornful Reed, the Lance, the Tree, Hilariter, hilariter, The Victor's Palm and Sceptre be. Hilariter, hilariter.

His death, in time replete with woe, Hilariter, hilariter, Is glory now for evermo, Hilariter, hilariter.

on Easter-morrow Spake an Angel bright and clear; 'Tis no time for sorrow; Maries, be you of good cheer. Christ, arisen from His prison, Is not here.

'Why, as He were mortal, Lifeless in the sepulchre, Bring ye to the portal Of the empty chamber myrrh? What befel ye here, go tell ye, Nor defer.'

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Eya! Resurrexit Jesus Christus hodie; Mala nostra texit: Ideo concinite, Alleluya, Alleluya, Domine.

Resurrexit verè Pro peccante homine: Ideo sincerè, Christiani, psallite. 'Te cantamus, te laudamus, Domine.'

melody, O Christ, hymn we Thy victory. As this day saw Thee win it, We will be joyful in it. Alleluia.

, thy lordly lays Tell the heavy-hearted Of returning summer days, Winter gloom departed: At thy musick thorn and thatch Stand with rapture smitten: On my songster roll thy match Still remains unwritten.

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the earth, with Spring returning, vests herself in fresher sheen, And the glades and leafy thickets are array'd in living green; When a sweeter fragrance breatheth flow'ry fields and vales along, Then, triumphant in her gladness, Philomel begins her song.

And with thick delicious warble far and wide her notes she flings, Telling of the happy Spring-tide, and the joys that summer brings. In the pauses of men's slumber deep and full she pours her voice: In the labour of his travel bids the wayfarer rejoice.

Night and day, from bush and greenwood, sweeter than an earthly lyre, She, unwearied songstress, carols, distancing the feath'red quire; In her airy flight ascending to the summit of the tree, Thence full fain she trills her mellow canticles of festal glee,

Fills the hill-side, fills the valley, bids the groves and thickets ring, Made indeed exceeding glorious thro' the joyousness of Spring. None could teach such heav'nly music, none implant such tuneful skill, Save the King of realms celestial, who doth all things as He will.

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in the year that King Uzziah died,

A vision by Isaiah was espied:

A lofty throne—The Lord was set thereon;

And with His glory all the temple shone.

Bright Seraphim were standing round about,

Six wings had every of that quire devout.

With twain he awesome veil'd his face, and so

With twain he dreadful veil'd his feet below,

With twain did he now hither, thither fly:

And thus aloud did one to other cry:

'Holy is God, the Lord of Sabaoth:

Holy is God, the Lord of Sabaoth,

Holy is God, the Lord of Sabaoth,

Full of His glory are earth and heaven, both.'

And at their cry the lintels moved apace,

And clouds of incense fill'd the Holy Place.

, and am,

And ay shall be sad-hearted

For Walsingham,

To see her day departed:

Her minster walls and stalls o'erthrown,

Her cells and wells with moss o'ergrown:

Above her own, where stood the throne

Of Mary's Son, lo! now ne'er a stone.

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for the times when the sweet Church chimes Call'd rich and poor to pray, As they open'd their eyes by the bright sunrise, And when evening died away: The squire came out of his rich old hall, And the peasants two and by three; The woodman let his hatchet fall, And the shepherd left his tree.

Through the Churchyard dew, by the Churchyard yew, They went, both old and young, And with one consent in prayer they bent, And with one consent they sung. They knelt on the floor till the prayers were o'er; To the priest they gave good heed: Who would not praise those good old days, When the Church was a Church indeed?

Christmas was merry Christmas then, And Easter-tide the same: And they welcomed well with merry bell Each Saint's day as it came. They thought with love on the Saints above In the pious days of old: We toil and we slave till we drop in the grave, And all for the lust of gold.

But little we'll care what wicked men May say or think, of ill, They kept the Saints' days holy then, We'll keep them holy still.

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 We'll cherish them now in times of strife, As a holy and peaceful thing; They were bought by a faithful prelate's life, And the blood of a martyr'd king.

is banish'd; Late the sun riseth, heigho! And ne'er a flow'r springeth: Green leaf is vanish'd: Now by our hedge and woodrow No nightingale singeth, But o'er lea and mountain Boreas' bugle doth blow, Benumbing all, cattle and drover, Freezing the fountain, Mantling the meadow with snow. Ay me! for glad summer is over.

climbs a tree, a sycomore it is, To catch a glimpse of Christ, the King of heav'nly bliss.

When Jesus pass'd the place, He lift His blessèd eyes, And to Zacchaeus gave commandment on this wise:

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 Cotsford, Robert, fellow ., Cambridge, 24 Nov., 1633, from Suffolk (incorp. as M.A. 13 July, 1624), D.D. 1636, vicar of Canewdon, Essex, 1629, rector of Englefield, Berks, 1630, of Hadleigh 1638, of Stanningfield 1635-7, Stansfield 1635-9, and of Monks Eleigh, Suffolk, 1635, until deprived 1643, canon of St. Paul's 1633, until his death in 1660. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus & Fasti, i. 416.  Cotsford, Samuel (Cottisford), B.A. from. 17 July, 1613. See O.H.S., x. 20, 34.  Cotsford, Thomas (Cottisforde), educated at Oxford and Cambridge, M.A., born at Winchester, vicar of Littlebury, Essex, 1544, rector of St. Martin Ludgate 1553, and canon of York 1553, deprived of his preferments on the accession of Mary, and fled to the continent, died at Frankfort 1555. See Ath., i. 231; & D.N.B., xii. 291.  Cottam, John (Cottamme); B.A. 19 June, 1566, as '.'  Cottam, Thomas of ., from co. Lancaster; B.A. 23 March, 1568-9, M.A. 11 July, 1572, taught a grammar school in London, studied divinity at Rome, made a priest at Rheims, and returned to England, taken prisoner near Dover, imprisoned and tortured for 2 years, refused to take the oath of supremacy, executed at Tyburn 30 May, 1582. See Foley's Records S. J., ii. 145; Fasti, i. 181; & D.N.B.  [5]

Cottam, William, admitted to. 1602; B.A. 26 Oct., 1602.  Cottell, Alexander, s. A., of Marham church, Cornwall, gent. ., matric. 11 March, 1671-2, aged 20.  Cottell, Amias (Ames), of Devon, gent. , matric. 15 Nov., 1583, aged 16; of the Middle Temple 1586, as 4th son of Thomas, of North Tawton, Devon, and baptized there 16 March, 1566-7, brother of the next named. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Cottell, Christopher, of Devon, gent. , matric. 22 Feb., 1582-3, aged 20; B.A. 1 Dec., 1586, M.A. 20 May, 1590, rector of Goodleigh 1594, and of North Tawton, Devon, 1603-4, baptized there 16 Sept., 1562, made his will 1 Sept., 1604, proved 29 Jan. following, brother of the last named. See Vivian's Devon Visitations.

Cottell, Richard (Cottle), of Devon, pleb. ., matric. 13 Dec., 1615, aged 19; B.A. 17Jan., 1617-18, fellow 1619-22, M.A. 17 Oct., 1620, admon. (at Oxford) granted 2 Nov., 1622. See Boase, 60.
 [10]

Cottell, Richard, s. Mark, of North Tawton, Devon, gent. , matric. 17 July, 1663, aged 17; baptized at North Tawton 31 May, 1646, buried there 22 April, 1672.

Cottell, Walter (Cottle), s. Walter, of Rosse, co. Wexford, Ireland, gent. , matric. 1 July, 1642, aged 15.

Cottell, William (Cottle), s. Edw., of 'Bradfordsly,' Wilts, pleb. ., matric. 10 April, 1712, aged 17.

Cotterell. See also.

Cotterell, John (Cottrell), fellow. 1524-42 from Wotton, Wilts, B.C.L. 1 July, 1532, D.C.L. 11 July, 1543, principal of St. Laurence Hall and fellow ., rector of Winford, Somerset, 1524-72, and vicar of Adderbury, Oxon, 1542, rector of Everleigh, Wilts, 1546, of Burton Bradstock, Dorset, 1550, and of Tidcombe (portion of Tiverton) 1562, preb. of Bristol 1545, archdeacon of Dorset 1550-71, of Wells 1554-72, preb. of Lincoln 1555-60,and of Wells 1554-72, vicar-general to Paul, bishop of Bristol, and to Gilbert, bishop of Wells, made his will 21 Feb., 1571-2, pd. 25 May, 1572. See Fasti, i. 117.
 [15]

Cotterell, John; B.A. from. 5 Feb.,1588-9, rector of Christon, Somerset, 1595, until his death in 1618.

Cotterell, Moses, s. George, of Colshill, co. Warwick, gent. ., matric. 19 Feb., 1685-6, aged 16; B.A. 1689, M.A. 1692, vicar of Polesworth, co. Warwick, 1721. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.

Cottesford, Thomas. See.

Cottesmore, Thomas B.A. (sup. May) 1556.

Cottingham, John; B.A. from 27 Nov., 1632 (as ), M.A. 4 June, 1635, incorp. at Cambridge 1639.
 [20]

Cottingham, Ralph, B.A. from ., Cambridge, 1668, M.A. 1672, incorp. 5 July, 1672, rector of Burythorpe, Yorks, 1676. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.

Cottington, Edward, of Somerset, gent. ., matric. 24 Oct., 1595, aged 14.

Cottington, George, of. 4 July,1608 (five terms at Cambridge); B.A. 25 Jan., 1608-9, M.A. 23 May, 1612. See O.H.S., x. 371.

Cottington, James, scholar of. 1569, B.A. 12 Feb., 1571-2, fellow 1572, M.A. 14 May,1575, B.D. 2 March, 1579-80, D.D. 13 March, 1581-2, vicar of East Brent, Somerset, 1576, archdeacon of Surrey 1580, rector of Ditcheat, Somerset, 1582, precentor of Wells 1583, and canon 1584, rector of Yeovilton 1584, died in 1605. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus & O.H.S., xii. 12.

Cottington, James of Somerset, gent. ., matric. 24 Oct., 1595, aged 17.
 [25]

Cottington, John, of. 25 May, 1608 (five terms at Cambridge); B.A. 30 May, 1608, M.A. 5 July, 1611, rector of Hutton, Somerset,1615. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus & O.H.S., x. 371.

Cotton, Allin, of London, gent. ., matric. 23 May, 1617, aged 16; one of these names of Gray's Inn 1619, as citizen and alderman of London. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Cotton, Andrew, of co. Chester, arm. ., matric. 13 Nov., 1590, aged 15; B.A. 4 July, 1594, of the Inner Temple 1596, of Combermere, Cheshire. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Cotton, Bernard, gent. ., matric. 6 July, 1683; subs. more like 'Coffon.'

Cotton, David of Devon, arm. 'fil. nat. max.', matric. 11 June, 1619, aged 16; B.A. 26 Jan., 1621-2 (as Daniel), of Gray's Inn 1620, as son of Isaac, of Stratford, Bow, Middlesex, brother of George same date. See Foster's Gray's Inn Reg.
 [30]

Cotton, Edward s. William, bishop of Exeter. , matric. 20 March, 1606-7, aged 18, B.A. 14 Oct., 1609; fellow ., 1610-12, M.A. 2 July, 1612, of the Middle Temple 1606, rector of Duloe, Cornwall, 15 July, 1611 (until sequestered 1 May, 1647), and of St. Peter Tavy 1611, canon of Exeter Cathedral 1611, chancellor 1613, rector of Bridestowe 1614, and of Shobroke, Devon, 1615, archdeacon of Totnes 1622, died 8 Oct., 1647, brother of William 1598. See ''Add. MS., 15,671; Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus; Boase, 57; & Fasti'', i. 347.

Cotton, Edward, s. Richard, of Shrewsbury, Salop, pleb. ., matric. 27 April, 1632, aged 17; B.A. 24 Nov., 1636.

Cotton, Edward, s. William, of Silverton, Devon, sac. , matric. 2 Nov., 1632, aged 16; student, B.A. 19 Jan., 1635-6, M.A. 16 Nov., 1638, created D.D. 1 March, 1660-1 (perhaps rector of St.Thomas and St. Peter, Winchester, 1640), canon of Exeter 1660, archdeacon of Cornwall 1660, vicar of Bampton, Oxon, 1663, treasurer of Exeter Cathedral 1672, died 11 Nov., 1675. See Burrows, 329; & Fasti, ii. 244.

Cotton, Edward, s. Thomas, of Lawton, co. Leicester, gent. ., matric. 23 Oct., 1635, aged 17; of Gray's Inn 1637. See Foster's Gray's Inn Reg.
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 'Zacchaeus, haste thee down, and hither to My side! For at thy house to-day I must with thee abide.'

Then did Zacchaeus make our Lord a welcome guest, And entertain'd Him well, not sparing of his best:

The chamber of his heart he oped, and said moreo'er, 'Where I have wrongèd man, there four-fold I restore:

'With half-part of my goods the beggar's want I ease.' God loveth well such faith, and works, the like of these.

Then merry make we, for the Feast requires it so: Benédicámus Dóminórum Dómino!

So praise the Three in One! and after time of Mass, Deó dicámus infinitas gracias!

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Rh on to the smooth asphalt path, and actually switchbacked over the bridge, up the meadow, and across our very lawn. (I venture to say "our," as I am now staying on as Harcourt's secretary.) Only the stone steps prevented it from reaching the terrace and perhaps breaking the dining-room window. Miss Beaumont sprang up and, napkin in hand, ran out and touched it.

"Oh, Evelyn" the ladies cried.

"Let her go," said Mr. Worters tolerantly. "It certainly is a remarkable incident, remarkable. We must remember to tell the Archdeacon about it."

"Harcourt," she cried, with the first hint of returning colour in her cheeks, "mightn't we go up to the copse after lunch, you and I?"

Mr. Worters considered.

"Of course, not if you don't think best."

"Inskip, what's your opinion?"

I saw what his own was, and cried, "Oh, let's go!" though I detest the wind as much as any one.

"Very well. Mother, Anna, Ruth, Mrs. Osgood—we'll all go."

And go we did, a lugubrious procession; but the gods were good to us for once, for as


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Rh soon as we were started, the tempest dropped, and there ensued an extraordinary calm. After all, Miss Beaumont was something of a weather prophet. Her spirits improved every minute. She tripped in front of us along the asphalt path, and ever and anon turned round to say to her lover some gracious or alluring thing. I admired her for it. I admire people who know on which side their bread's buttered.

"Evelyn, come here!"

"Come here yourself."

"Give me a kiss."

"Come and take it then."

He ran after her, and she ran away, while all our party laughed melodiously.

"Oh, I am so happy!" she cried. "I think I've everything I want in all the world. Oh dear, those last few days indoors! But oh, I am so happy now!" She had changed her brown dress for the old flowing green one, and she began to do her skirt dance in the open meadow, lit by sudden gleams of the sunshine. It was really a beautiful sight, and Mr. Worters did not correct her, glad perhaps that she should recover her spirits, even if she lost her tone. Her feet scarcely moved, but her body so swayed and her dress spread so gloriously


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Rh around her, that we were transported with joy. She danced to the song of a bird that sang passionately in Other Kingdom, and the river held back its waves to watch her (one might have supposed), and the winds lay spell-bound in their cavern, and the great clouds spell-bound in the sky. She danced away from our society and our life, back, back through the centuries till houses and fences fell and the earth lay wild to the sun. Her garment was as foliage upon her, the strength of her limbs as boughs, her throat the smooth upper branch that salutes the morning or glistens to the rain. Leaves move, leaves hide it as hers was hidden by the motion of her hair. Leaves move again and it is ours, as her throat was ours again when, parting the tangle, she faced us crying, "Oh!" crying, "Oh Harcourt! I never was so happy. I have all that there is in the world."

But he, entrammelled in love's ecstasy, forgetting certain Madonnas of Raphael, forgetting, I fancy, his soul, sprang to inarm her with, "Evelyn! Eternal Bliss! Mine to eternity! Mine!" and she sprang away. Music was added and she sang, "Oh Ford! oh Ford, among all these Worters, I am coming through you to


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 fiction, particular interest is aroused by Springrove's defence of bis own somewhat similar fluctuation. The following passage may throw light upon Hardy's professional artistic opinions:

"I must go away to-morrow . . . to endeavor to advance a little in my profession in London. . . . But I shan't advance."

"Why not? Architecture is a bewitching profession. They say that an architect's work is another man's play."

"Yes, but worldly advantage from an art doesn't depend upon mastering it. I used to think it did; hut it doesn't. Those who get rich need have no skill at all as artists."

"What need they have?"

"A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for art possess very seldom indeed—an earnestness in making acquaintances, and a love for using them. They give their whole attention to the art of dining out, after mastering a few rudimentary facts to serve up in conversation. . . . Then, like Cato the Censor, I shall do what I despise, to he in fashion. . . . Well, when I found all this out that I was speaking of, whatever do you think I did? From having already loved verse passionately, I went on to read it continually; then I went rhyming myself. If anything on earth ruins a man for useful occupation, and for content with reasonable success in a profession or trade, it is a habit of writing verses on emotional subjects, which had much better be left to die from want of nourishment."

"Do you write poems now?" she said.

"None. Poetical days are getting past with me, according to the usual rule. Writing rhymes is a stage people of my sort pass through, as they pass through the stage of shaving for a beard, or thinking they are ill-used, or saying there's nothing in the world worth living for."

Whether Hardy eventually gave up architecture because of similar disillusionment as to the actual relation


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Rh my Kingdom. Oh Ford, my lover while I was a woman, I will never forget you, never, as long as I have branches to shade you from the sun," and, singing, crossed the stream.

Why he followed her so passionately, I do not know. It was play, she was in his own domain which a fence surrounds, and she could not possibly escape him. But he dashed round by the bridge as if all their love was at stake, and pursued her with fierceness up the hill. She ran well, but the end was a foregone conclusion, and we only speculated whether he would catch her outside or inside the copse. He gained on her inch by inch; now they were in the shadow of the trees; he had practically grasped her, he had missed; she had disappeared into the trees themselves, he following.

"Harcourt is in high spirits," said Mrs. Osgood, Anna, and Ruth.

"Evelyn!" we heard him shouting within.

We proceeded up the asphalt path.

"Evelyn! Evelyn!"

"He's not caught her yet, evidently."

"Where are you, Evelyn?"

"Miss Beaumont must have hidden herself rather cleverly."


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xiv.


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 unify and to add vitality to all his subsequent life and work.

The most compact expression of his fundamental idea of the essential unity of all the arts was set down some five-and-twenty years later, in his poem, The Vatican—Sala Delle Muse:

I sat in the Muse's Hall at the raid of the day, And it seemed to grow still, and the people to pass away, And the chiselled shapes to combine in a haze of sun, Till beside a Carrara column there gleamed forth One.

She looked not this nor that of those beings divine, But each and the whole—an essence of all the Nine; With tentative foot she neared to my halting-place, A pensive smile on her sweet, small, marvellous face.

"Regarded so long, we render thee sad?" said she. "Not you," sighed I, "but my own inconstancy! I worship each and each; in the morning one. And then, alas! another at sink of sun.

"Today my soul clasps Form; but where is my troth Of yesternight with Tune: can one cleave to both?" —"Be not perturbed," said she. "Though apart in fame, As I and my sisters are one; those, too, are the same."

—"But my love goes further—to Story, and Dance, and Hymn, The lover of all in a sun-sweep is fool to whim— I sway like a river-weed as the ripples run!" —"Nay, wight, thou sway'st not. These are but phases of one;

"And that one is I; and I am projected from thee, One that out of thy brain and heart thou causest to be— Extern to thee nothing. Grieve not, nor thyself becall, Woo where thou wilt; and rejoice thou canst love at all!"


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 you will find everywhere among the most remote West Coast natives. He urged these things as a reason why no evil should befall him, and closed with an impassioned appeal to the spirits to stay away. At another time, in another village, when a man's son had been wounded and a bleeding artery which the Doctor had closed had broken out again and the hæmorrhage seemed likely to prove fatal, the father rushed out into the street wildly gesticulating towards the sky, saying, "Go away, go away, go away, ye spirits, why do you come to kill my son?" In another case a woman rushed into the street, alternately objurgating and pleading with the spirits, who, she said, were vexing her child which had convulsions. "Observe," said the Doctor in his impressive way, "these were distinctly prayers, appeals for mercy, agonising protests, but there was no praise, no love, no thanks, no confession of sin." I said, considering the underlying idea, I did not see how that could be, thinking of the thing as they did, and the Doctor and I had one of our little disagreements. I shall always feel grateful to him for his great toleration of me, but I am sure this arose from his feeling that I saw there was an underlying idea in the minds of the people he loved well enough to lay down his life for in the hope of benefiting and ennobling them, and that I did not, as many do, set them down as idiotic brutes, glorying in an aimless cruelty that would be a disgrace to a devil.

Regarding the cabalistic words and phrases, things which had long given me great trouble to get any comprehension of, the Doctor gave me great help. He says some of these phrases and words are coined by the person himself, others are archaisms handed down from ancestors and believed to possess an efficacy, though their actual meaning is forgotten. He says they are used at any time as defence from evil, when a person is startled, sneezes, or stumbles. Among these I think I ought to class that peculiar form of friendly farewell or greeting which the Doctor poetically calls a "blown blessing" and the natives Ibata. I thought the three times it was given to me that it was just spitting on the hand. Practically it is so, but the Doctor says the spitting is accidental, a by-product I suppose. The method consists in


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Rh "Look here," cried Harcourt, emerging, "have you seen Evelyn?"

"Oh, no, she's certainly inside."

"So I thought."

"Evelyn must be dodging round one of the trunks. You go this way, I that. We'll soon find her."

We searched, gaily at first, and always with a feeling that Miss Beaumont was close by, that the delicate limbs were just behind this bole, the hair and the drapery quivering among those leaves. She was beside us, above us; here was her footstep on the purple-brown earth—her bosom, her neck—she was everywhere and nowhere. Gaiety turned to irritation, irritation to anger and fear. Miss Beaumont was apparently lost. "Evelyn! Evelyn!" we continued to cry. "Oh, really, it is beyond a joke."

Then the wind arose, the more violent for its lull, and we were driven into the house by a terrific storm. We said, "At all events she will come back now." But she did not come, and the rain hissed and rose up from the dry meadows like incense smoke, and smote the quivering leaves to applause. Then it lightened. Ladies screamed, and we saw Other Kingdom