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 replied Fosdick. "It would possibly lead to legal proceedings, he said—in that case, it would be one of the most celebrated cases ever known."

"And romantic," added Stephens, speaking for the first time. "Romantic! That was the term he used."

"And romantic—quite so," assented Fosdick. "Celebrated and romantic—those were the words. But in any case, he said, whether it got to law matters or not, it couldn't fail to be in the papers, and we should read all about it in due time."

"And you know no more than that?" inquired Mr. Pawle.

"Nothing!" said Fosdick with decision.

Mr. Pawle looked at Viner as if to seek some inspiration. And Viner took up the work of examination.

"Do you know anything of Mr. Ashton's movements since he came to London?" he asked.

"Next to nothing," replied Fosdick. "Ashton left the Maraquibo at Naples, and came overland—he wanted to put in a day or two in Rome and a day or two in Paris. We came round by sea to Tilbury. Then Stephens and I separated—he went to see his people in Scotland, and I went to mine in Lancashire. We met—Stephens and I—in London here last week. And we saw Ashton for just a few minutes, down in the City."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle. "You have seen him, then! Did anything happen?"

"You mean relating to what he'd told us?" said Fosdick. "Well, no more than I asked him sort of jokingly, how the secret was. And he said it was


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 just about to come out, and we must watch the papers."

"There was a remark he made," observed Stephens. "He said it would be of just as much interest, perhaps of far more, to our Colonial papers as to the English."

"Yes—he said that," agreed Fosdick. "He knew, you see, that we were just about setting off home."

"He didn't ask you to his house?" inquired Mr. Pawle.

"That was mentioned, but we couldn't fix dates," replied Fosdick. "However, we told him we were both coming over again on business, next year, and we'd come and see him then."

Mr. Pawle spread out his hands with a gesture of helplessness.

"We're as wise as ever," he exclaimed.

"No," said Fosdick emphatically, "wiser! The man had a secret, affecting powerful interests. Many a man's been put away for having a secret."

Mr. Pawle put his finger-tips together and looked thoughtfully at his elder visitor.

"Well, there's a good deal in that," he said at last. "Now, while you're here, perhaps you can tell me something else about Ashton. How long have you known him?"

"Ever since we were lads," answered Fosdick readily. "He was a grown man, then, though. Stephens and I are about forty—Ashton was sixty."

"You've always known of him as a townsman of Melbourne?"

"That's so. We were taken out there when we

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 were about ten or twelve—Ashton lived near where we settled down. He was a speculator in property—made his money in buying and selling lots."

"Was he well known?"

"Everybody knew Ashton."

"Did you ever know of his having a friend named Wickham?" inquired Mr. Pawle with a side-glance at Viner. "Think carefully, now!"

But Fosdick shook his head, and Stephens shook his.

"Never heard the name," said Fosdick.

"Did you ever hear Ashton mention the name!" asked Mr. Pawle.

"Never!"

"Never heard him mention it on board ship—when he was coming home?"

"No—never!"

"Well," said Mr. Pawle, "I happen to know that Ashton, some years ago, had a very particular friend named Wickham, out in Australia."

A sudden light came into Fosdick's keen grey-blue eyes.

"Ah," he said. "I can tell how that may be. A good many years ago, when we were just familiar enough with Melbourne to know certain people in it, I remember that Ashton was away up country for some time—as that cablegram says. Most likely he knew this Wickham then. Is that the Wickham mentioned there?"

"It is," assented Mr. Pawle, "and I want to know who he was."

"Glad to set any inquiries going for you when we get back," said Fosdick. "We sail in two days."


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 "Gentlemen," answered Mr. Pawle gravely, "it takes, I believe, five or six weeks to reach Australia. By the time you get there, this unfortunate fellow Hyde, who's charged with the murder of Ashton, on evidence that is quite sufficient to satisfy an average British jury, will probably have been tried, convicted and hanged. No! I'm afraid we must act at once if we're to help him, as Mr. Viner here is very anxious to do. And there's something you can do. The coroner's inquest is to be held tomorrow. Go there and volunteer the evidence you've just told us! It mayn't do a scrap of good—but it will introduce an element of doubt into the case against Hyde, and that will benefit him."

"Tomorrow?" said Fosdick. "We'll do it. Give us the time and place. We'll be there, Mr. Pawle. I see your point, sir—to introduce the idea that there's more to this than the police think."

When the two callers had gone, Mr. Pawle turned to Viner.

"Now, my friend," he said, "you've already sent your own solicitor to Hyde, haven't you? Who is he, by the by?"

"Felpham, of Chancery Lane," replied Viner.

"Excellent man! Now," said Mr. Pawle, "you go to Felpham and tell him what these two Australians have just told us, and say that in my opinion it will be well worth while, in his client's interest, to develop their evidence for all it's worth. That theory of Fosdick's may have a great deal in it. And another thing—Felpham must insist on Hyde being present at the inquest tomorrow and giving evidence. That, I say, must be done! Hyde must


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 make his story public as soon as possible. He must be brought to the inquest. He'll be warned by the coroner, of course, that he's not bound to give any evidence at all, but he must go into the box and tell, on oath, all that he told you and Drillford. Now be off to Felpham and insist on all this being done."

Viner went away to Chancery Lane more puzzled than ever. What was this secret affecting one of the first families in England, of which Ashton had told his two Melbourne friends? How was it, if legal proceedings were likely to arise out of it, that Ashton had not told Pawle about it? Was it possible that he had gone to some other solicitor? If so, why didn't he come forward? And what, too, was this mystery about Miss Wickham and her father? Why, as Pawle had remarked, were there no papers or documents, concerning her to be found anywhere? Had she anything to do with the secret? It seemed to him that the confusion was becoming more confounded. But the first thing to do was to save Hyde. And he was relieved to see that Felpham jumped at Pawle's suggestion.

"Good!" said Felpham. "Of course, I'll have Hyde brought up at the inquest, and he shall tell his story. And we'll save these Australian chaps until Hyde's been in the box. I do wish Hyde himself could tell us more about that man whom he saw leaving the passage. Of course, that man is the actual murderer."

"You think that?" asked Viner.

"Don't doubt it for one moment—and a cool, calculating hand, too!" declared Felpham. "A man


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 who knew what he was doing. How long do you suppose it would take to strike the life out of a man and to snatch a few valuables from his clothing? Pooh! to a hand such as this evidently was, a minute. Then, he walks calmly away. And—who is he? But—we're not doing badly."

That, too, was Viner's impression when he walked out of the coroner's court next day. After having endured its close and sordid atmosphere for four long hours, he felt, more from intuition than from anything tangible, that things had gone well for Hyde. One fact was plain—nothing more could be brought out against Hyde, either there, when the inquest was resumed a week later, or before the magistrate, or before a judge and jury. Every scrap of evidence against him was produced before the coroner: it was obvious that the police could rake up no more, unless indeed they could prove him to have hidden Ashton's remaining valuables somewhere which was ostensibly an impossibility. And the evidence of Hyde himself had impressed the court. Two days' rest and refreshment, even in a prison and on prison fare, had pulled him together, and he had given his evidence clearly and confidently. Viner had seen that people were impressed by it: they had been impressed, too, by the evidence volunteered by the two Australians. And when the coroner announced that he should adjourn the inquiry for a week, the folk who had crowded the court went away asking each other not if Hyde was guilty, but what was this secret of which Ashton had boasted the possession?


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 Drillford caught Viner up as he walked down the street and smiled grimly at him.

"Well, you're doing your best for him, and no mistake, Mr. Viner," he said. "He's a lucky chap to have found such a friend!"

"He's as innocent as I am," answered Viner. "Look here; if you police want to do justice, why don't you try to track the man whom Hyde has told of?"

"What clue have we?" exclaimed Drillford almost contemptuously. "A tall man in black clothes, muffled to his eyes! But I'll tell you what, Mr. Viner," he added with a grin: "as you're so confident, why don't you find him?"

"Perhaps I shall," said Viner, quietly.

He meant what he said, and he was thinking deeply what might be done towards accomplishing his desires, when, later in the afternoon, Mr. Pawle rang him up on the telephone.

"Run down!" said Mr. Pawle cheerily. "There's a new development!"


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 rewards or punishments according as we have done good things or evil. Do therefore good things, here and now". In these words he spoke to King Chenkuttuvan (Canto XXVIII-Nadu Kal-11. 133-186).

Religious references to Sivan, Murugan, Vishnu, Kottavai (or Durga) and Argha abound in the work. Ethical passages occur frequently, especially towards the end of the work: "Do no harm to others; Realise the existence of God; Honour those who are devoted to God; Hate falsehood; Avoid backbiting; Neither kill nor eat flesh; give alms, do penance; Never be ungrateful; Despise friendship with the wicked; Never resort to perjury; follow the wise path" etc., etc. (Canto XXX (Varan taru) 11. 186-202). That the wise and the learned should forgive the unwise actions of misguided or ignorant people is brought out by the poet in his own inimitable style in Canto X (Nadu Kan)—11. 237-238.

Yet another point of agreement between Ilanko and Virgil is in the avoidance of two extremes of being either too puritan or too frivolous in describing sexual pleasures. Ilanko is totally unlike Tiruttakadevar of the 9th century, who runs riot in describing the amorous adventures of Jeevaka, the hero of his work Jeevaka Chintamani. Nor does he think that love-making in literary works should be left to the Gods, who were free to transgress the limitations and obligations laid on man, as found in Kanda-puranam and other Puranams of a later age. Like Spenser, he sang of ideal love. The love of Kannaki for Kovalan is highly idealised. Only, Mathavi comes in the way and Kovalan is captivated by her qualities of grace and attainments in dance and music. Mathavi, although born of a family of courtezans, is determined to lead a chaste life and shows an unwavering loyalty to Kovalan, even after he finally leaves her, to rejoin his wife. There is a sublimity in the love between Mathavi and Kovalan as described by the poet.


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Rh intelligible only after repeated readings. We come across such passages, which nevertheless appeal to us by their poetical texture, in Canto XIII (11. 48 to 51) containing a pun on the word Mathavi, Canto XIII (11. 87-92) containing two epistles in one, Canto XIII (11. 184-188) containing a pun (ciledai) bearing on the words "Kannir" (meaning tears and water from the plant) and "Kal" (leg and wind), and Canto XIII (11. 151-170) describing the majestic flow of the river Vaiyai.

Cilappadikaram is Virgilian in character in another respect also. It contains a wide sweep of history, philo- sophy, religion and ethics. It contains accounts of the relationship between the Chola, the Pandya and the Chera kings of the Tamil country. It narrates how one king succeeded another in the Chola region and in the Pandya kingdom. (vide Canto XXVII Nirpadai-11. 118-123; ibid. 11. 159-171; ibid. 127-138). It points out that the Chola king was reckoned as the first and foremost citizen of the Chola state (Canto I-11. 31-32). It states how the Chera king Chenkuttuvan viewed kingship, how he wished to be loved by his subjects, how his sole desire was to bring happiness to them, how he scorned the idea of ever being cruel to them, how he regarded kingship as an office full of thorns but nevertheless a great opportunity given to him to serve the people. (vide Canto XXVI (Kal Kōl) 11. 16-18; Canto XXV (Katchi) 11. 100-104).

Philosophy is conveyed through the characters. Kaunthi Adigal and Madalan. Kaunthi Adigal says to Mankattu Brahman that it is not impossible for man to achieve anything under the sun if he is true unto himself and to the world, and if he loves his neighbours as he loves himself (Canto XI). Madalan exhorts King Chenkuttuvan to do acts of charity. "Youth is evanescent wealth rotates, the body is mortal. The world is a stage where we are actors; we pass from one birth to anothe just as actors change from one make-up to another. We will be judged only by our actions; we will receive


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Rh orders forthwith for a military expedition to the North, without waiting to verify, whether the insinuation pertained to him or to the other two Tamil kings, the Chola and the Pandya. An insult to any Tamil king was an insult to the entire Tamil nation and must be avenged by him. He led the expedition, prepared to fight for the glory of his country. In this sense, he was a national hero.

Ilanko's characters speak with variety. There are three dreams, one of Kannaki, another of Kovalan and a third of the Pandyan queen and each has a variety of its own, both in conception and import. There are again two epistles, both sent by Mathavi to Kovalan (Canto VIII and Canto XIII) but each has an individuality of its own. One is couched in a tone of remonstrance, while the other is written in a spirit of repentance, even though the purpose of both the epistles was to re-gain the love of Kovalan. Ilanko's art lay in skilful variation of even repetitive themes. The incident relating to the death of the Pandyan king and queen has to be repeatedly told in different settings but the artful way in which the poet mentions this in Cantos XX (77-81), XXV (11. 95-99), XV (11. 78-86), XXVIII (212-213), XXIX (1. 20) avoids monotony.

The artifice of employing synonyms to take away the tedium is also found in Ilanko. Take, for instance, the use of five different words in five lines to indicate the same object, viz., temple (Canto XIV-11. 7-11: the words are koyil niyamam, nakaram, kottam, and palli). So also, in Canto X-11. 119-140, the words, othai, oli, pani, mankalam, pattu are used to denote a single meaning. Side by side with this, one meets with the employment of the same word, Koyil, five times in five successive lines in Canto V (11. 169-175) but one does not experience any monotony here, because of the otherwise sweet setting in which the word occurs.

Ilanko's style is ornate in places. A uniform clarity is not always aimed at by the poet and some passages are


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Rh "How many vain days did I spend with worthless women, indulging in useless gossip and cavil! How have I belied the hopes and expectations of my parents! Alas! I heeded not their behests! Again, how much have I wronged you! What grief have I caused you!! I did not even pause to think it was unworthy of me to ask you to accompany me. 'Follow me', I said, and you came, my beloved one! What a noble act have you done!" There are probably few passages to equal this in any literature.

Just as Homer's characters keep to regular forms of address, Ilanko's courtiers, ministers, ambassadors and commanders adhere to the regular forms appropriate in the presence of a king. This is seen in the trial scene in Madurai Kandam, where the herald ushers in Kannaki and also in the scenes in Vanchi Kandam (the third part of the book).

In another respect also, Cilappadikaram resembles the Homeric epic. Kannaki dies not for the honour of society but for her own honour. True, she lives for others, as she lives for herself but when her husband is killed, she wants to join him in death and only postpones it till she vindi- cates his honour.

Light fun is provided in Canto XIV (Ur Kan Kathai) in the accounts of men and women spending their time in sport and pastime. The descriptions of how they spend their morning, noon and evening remind us of Homer. In the accounts of gods such as those we find in Canto XI (Kādu Kan Kathai) where a jungle deity tempts Kovalan, we have comic interludes. The whole of this canto is replete with an air of the supernatural.

This Tamil epic partakes also of the characteristics of the Virgilian epic. One of the heroes, Senkuttuvan is prepared to die not for his personal glory but for the honour of his land. When he was informed by a wandering minstrel that certain kings of the North had spoken in disparaging terms of the valour of Tamil kings, he gave


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Rh sparkling ornaments light the lamps; the crescent moon, though young, dispels darkness even as the Pandya kings, though young, would annihilate their enemies. Thus the evening came, spreading sweetness among the lovers. To the lonely wives on the other hand who had been sepa- rated from their husbands, it brought only anguish; they discarded their pearls and sandal-paste and chose not to decorate their bed-chamber with flowers.

This is only one description of the onset of an evening. Other descriptions in the book show a pleasing variety in language. They occur in Cantos XIV (1.83 et. seq.), XXII, XXVII, and XXVIII; each has a distinctive splendour. The descriptions of dawn in Cantos XIII, XIV and XXVII are also remarkable for their grandeur.

Cilappadikaram appeals by its fine poetical texture, by its choice of apt and significant words, phrases and lines. The pauses and the stops, the play and counter-play of words found in Canto XVIII (Tunba malai 1. 8, 11, 24 etc., and 11. 9-10 and 11. 25-28) have a subtle effect of their own, which does not perhaps become evident until the second or subsequent reading. The wavering rhythms in which the poet couches the passages breaking the news of Kovalan's murder are also remarkable. Mention must also be made of the austere sublimities to which the poet rises in describing the omens and super-natural occurrences portending evil on the eve of the appearance of Kannaki at the Pandyan king's court. (Canto XX 11. 1-27).

Cilappadikaram is a Tamil epic composed in the second century A.D. and partakes of the characteristics of the Homeric epic in some respects and of the Virgilian epic in some others. The straight and simple way in which Kovalan confesses his faults, short-comings and misdeeds in the presence of his wife is comparable to Homer. Canto XVI (lines 57-70) is charged with the single emotion of Kovalan's repentance. Poetry cannot rise to nobler levels than in these vivid, expressive lines (especially 11. 63-70).


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Scene of the following is suppos'd to lie on the Thames near Richmond.


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 The AUTHOR.


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By Mr. WILLIAM COLLINS.


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 "Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was."

"I had a reg'lar new fit out of clothes that mornin', gen'l'men of the jury," said Sam, "and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me in those days."

Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with an angry countenance over his desk, said, "You had better be careful, sir."

"So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my lord," replied Sam; "and I was wery careful o' that 'ere suit o' clothes; wery careful indeed, my lord."

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam's features were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller," said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute assurance that he would bother the witness yet: "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described by the witnesses?"

"Certainly not," replied Sam. "I was in the passage 'till they called me up, and then the old lady was not there."

"Now, attend, Mr. Weller," said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen into the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of taking down his answer. "You were in the passage, and yet saw nothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?"

"Yes, I have a pair of eyes," replied Sam, "and that's just it. If they wos a pair o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra power, p'raps I might be able to see through a flight o' stairs and a deal door; but bein' only eyes, you see, my wision 's limited."

At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant Buzfuz looked particularly foolish.


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 "Who is that, who dares to address the court?" said the little judge, looking up. "Usher."

"Yes, my lord."

"Bring that person here instantly."

"Yes, my lord."

But as the usher didn't find the person, he didn't bring him; and, after a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the culprit, sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon as his indignation would allow him to speak, and said,

"Do you know who that was, sir?"

"I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord," replied Sam.

"Do you see him here now?" said the judge.

"No, I don't, my lord," replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern in the roof of the court.

"If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him instantly," said the judge. Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned, with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.

"Now, Mr. Weller," said Serjeant Buzfuz.

"Now, sir," replied Sam.

"I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this case. Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller."

"I mean to speak up, sir," replied Sam; "I am in the service o' that 'ere gen'l'man, and a wery good service it is."

"Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?" said Serjeant Buzfuz, with jocularity.

"Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes," replied Sam.

"You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, sir," interposed the judge; "it's not evidence."

"Wery good, my lord," replied Sam.

"Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you were first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?" said Serjeant Buzfuz.

"Yes I do, sir," replied Sam.


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 was not very fond of the baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs. Bardell, or he wouldn't have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell fainted away on the morning in July, because Pickwick asked her to name the day; knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr. Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called herself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. Heard Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath did not know the difference between an alley tor and a commoney.

By the .—During the period of her keeping company with Mr. Sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a "duck," but never "chops," nor yet "tomata sauce." He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomata sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection.

Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited, if that were possible, and vociferated: "Call Samuel Weller."

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird's-eye view of the bar, and a comprehensive survey of the bench, with a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect.

"What's your name, sir?" inquired the judge.

"Sam Weller, my lord," replied that gentleman.

"Do you spell it with a 'V' or a 'W? inquired the judge.

"That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my lord," replied Sam; "I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I spells it with a 'V.

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, "Quite right too, Samivel, quite right. Put it down a we, my lord, put it down a we."


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 "You hear what the learned counsel says, sir," observed the judge, turning to the miserable and agonized Mr. Winkle. "Describe the occasion to which you refer."

"My lord," said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, "I—I'd rather not.'

"Perhaps so," said the little judge; "but you must."

Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out, that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick's being found in a lady's sleeping apartment at midnight; which had terminated, he believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady in question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the peace, for the borough of Ipswich!

"You may leave the box, sir," said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did leave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the sofa cushions.

Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the box; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each was driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.

Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell's being engaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clearstarched, but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father. Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with the baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now married. Couldn't swear that Mrs. Bardell


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 witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr. Winkle's fate to figure in both characters.

"I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle," continued Mr. Phunky in a most smooth and complacent manner. "Did you ever see anything in Mr. Pickwick's manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?"

"Oh no; certainly not," replied Mr. Winkle.

"Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his daughters?"

"Not the least doubt of it," replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his heart. "That is—yes—oh yes—certainly."

"You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or any other female, in the least degree suspicious?" said Mr. Phunky, preparing to sit down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.

"N—n—no," replied Mr. Winkle, "except on one trifling occasion, which, I have no doubt, might be easily explained."

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do; observing Mr. Winkle's anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from Mr. Winkle's lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.

"Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!" said Serjeant Buzfuz, "will your lordship have the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be his father, was?"


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 Will you undertake to swear that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question, 'My dear Mrs. Bardell, you're a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, for to this situation you must come,' or words to that effect?"

"I—I didn't understand him so, certainly," said Mr. Winkle, astounded at this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. "I was on the staircase, and couldn't hear distinctly; the impression on my mind is—"

"The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men," interposed Mr. Skimpin. "You were on the staircase, and didn't distinctly hear; but you will not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I understand that?"

"No, I will not," replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a triumphant countenance.

Mr. Pickwick's case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner, up to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional suspicion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather better light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear.

"I believe, Mr. Winkle," said Mr. Phunky, "that Mr. Pickwick is not a young man?"

"Oh no," replied Mr. Winkle, "old enough to be my father."

"You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be married?"

"Oh no; certainly not;" replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses: a reluctant


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 her more than fifty times—whether he didn't know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times—and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows:

"Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at these apartments in the plaintiff's house in Goswell Street, on one particular morning, in the month of July last?"

"Yes, I do."

"Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman, and another of the name of Snodgrass?"

"Yes, I was."

"Are they here?

"Yes, they are," replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed.

"Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends," said Mr. Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. "They must tell their stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another look at the jury). Now, sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on entering the defendant's room, on this particular morning. Come; out with it, sir; we must have it, sooner or later."

"The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with his hands clasping her waist," replied Mr. Winkle with natural hesitation, "and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away."

"Did you hear the defendant say anything?"

"I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if any body should come, or words to that effect."

"Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg you to bear in mind his lordship's caution.


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 you please, sir; and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lordship's injunction to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?"

"I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment, nearly"

"Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a particular friend of the defendant's?"

"I was just about to say, that"

"Will you, or will you not, answer my question, sir?"

"If you don't answer the question you'll be committed, sir," interposed the little judge, looking over his note-book.

"Come, sir," said Mr. Skimpin, "yes or no, if you please."

"Yes, I am," replied Mr. Winkle.

"Yes, you are. And why couldn't you say that at once, sir? Perhaps you know the plaintiff, too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?"

"I don't know her; I've seen her."

"Oh, you don't know her, but you've seen her? Now, have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle."

"I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street."

"How often have you seen her, sir?"

"How often?"

"Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I'll repeat the question for you a dozen times, if you require it, sir." And the learned gentleman, with a firm and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously at the jury.

On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, "Certainly,—more than that." Then he was asked whether he hadn't seen her a hundred times—whether he couldn't swear that he had seen


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 Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young man of two or three and forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could.

"Now, sir," said Mr. Skimpin, "have the goodness to let his Lordship and the jury know what your name is, will you?" and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle's natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did not belong to him.

"Winkle," replied the witness.

"What's your Christian name, sir?" angrily inquired the little judge.

"Nathaniel, sir."

"Daniel,—any other name?"

"Nathaniel, sir—my Lord, I mean."

"Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?"

"No, my Lord, only Nathaniel; not Daniel at all."

"What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?" inquired the judge.

"I didn't, my Lord," replied Mr. Winkle.

"You did, sir," replied the judge, with a severe frown. "How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, sir?"

This argument, was, of course, unanswerable.

"Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord," interposed Mr. Skimpin, with another glance at the jury. "We shall find means to refresh it before we have quite done with him, I dare say."

"You had better be careful, sir," said the little judge, with a sinister look at the witness.

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner, which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted pickpocket.

"Now, Mr. Winkle," said Mr. Skimpin, "attend to me, if


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 then, mastering his feelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.

"Oh my young friend," said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence in a very low voice, "here's a sorrowful affliction!"

Sam nodded, very slightly.

"For the man of wrath, too!" added Mr. Stiggins; "it makes a vessel's heart bleed!"

Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a vessel's nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.

"Do you know, young man," whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer to Sam, "whether she has left Emanuel anything?

"Who's he?" inquired Sam.

"The chapel," replied Mr. Stiggins; "our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel."

"She hasn't left the fold nothin', nor the shepherd nothin', nor the animals nothin'," said Sam, decisively; nor the dogs neither."

Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was sitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still nearer, said:

"Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?"

Sam shook his head.

"I think there's something," said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn. "Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?"

"Not so much as the vorth o' that 'ere old umberella o' yourn," replied Sam.

"Perhaps," said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after a few moments' deep thought, "perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. Samuel?"

"I think that's wery likely, from what he said," rejoined Sam; "he wos a speakin' about you, jist now."

"Was he, though?" exclaimed Stiggins brightening up. "Ah! He's changed, I dare say. We might live very


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 and mind that no widder gets a inklin' o' your fortun', or you're done."

Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more serene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his mind considerably.

"Somebody's a tappin' at the door," said Sam.

"Let 'em tap," replied his father, with dignity.

Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted.

"Hush," whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, "don't take no notice on 'em, Sammy, it's vun o' the widders, p'raps."

No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in at the partially opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller's pipe fell from his hands.

The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carried the high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and, seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and applied the same to his optics.

While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termination of the scene.

Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and


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 writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin' your own bottles; that's all."

With these words, Mr. Weller re-filled and re-lighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows:

"Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o' stoppin' here to be marrid vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish to separate myself from them interestin' members o' society altogether, I have come to the determination o' drivin' the Safety, and puttin' up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat'ral-born element, Sammy."

"And wot's to become o' the bis'ness?" inquired Sam.

"The bis'ness, Samivel," replied the old gentleman, "good-vill, stock, and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o' the money, two hundred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o' your mother-in-law's to me a little afore she died, vill be inwested in your name in—wot do you call them things agin?"

"Wot things?" inquired Sam.

"Them things as is always a goin' up and down, in the City."

"Omnibuses?" suggested Sam.

"Nonsense," replied Mr. Weller. "Them things as is alvays a fluctooatin', and gettin' theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national debt, and the checquers bills, and all that."

"Oh! the funds," said Sam.

"Ah!" rejoined Mr. Weller, "the funs; two hundred pounds o' the money is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent. reduced counsels, Sammy."

"Wery kind o' the old lady to think o' me," said Sam, "and I'm very much obliged to her."

"The rest vill be inwested in my name," continued the elder Mr. Weller; "and ven I'm took off the road, it'll come to you, so take care you don't spend it all at vunst, my boy,


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 expressive of as much earnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows last-mentioned, said:

"In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain't safe anyveres but on the box."

"How are you safer there than anyveres else?" interrupted Sam.

Cos a coachman's a privileged indiwidual," replied Mr. Weller, looking fixedly at his son. Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men may not; 'cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest terms with eighty mile o' females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among 'em. And wot other man can say the same, Sammy?"

"Vell, there's somethin' in that," said Sam.

"If your gov'ner had been a coachman," reasoned Mr. Weller, "do you's'pose as that 'ere jury 'ud ever ha' conwicted him, s'posin' it possible as the matter could ha' gone to that extremity? They dustn't ha' done it."

"Wy not?" said Sam, rather disparagingly.

"Wy not!" rejoined Mr. Weller; cos it 'ud ha' gone agin their consciences. A reg'lar coachman's a sort o' connectin' link betwixt singleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it."

"Wot! You mean, they're gen'ral fav'rites, and nobody takes advantage on 'em, p'raps?" said Sam.

His father nodded.

"How it ever come to that 'ere pass," resumed the parent Weller,, "I can't say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to—adored I may say—by ev'ry young 'ooman in ev'ry town he vurks through, I don't know. I only know that so it is. It's a reg'lation of natur—a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say."

"A dispensation," said Sam, correcting the old gentleman. 'Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better," returned Mr. Weller; "I call it a dispensary, and it's alvays


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 a very worthy person said to me when my husband died." Here the speaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.

"As I don't rekvire any o' your conversation just now, mum, vill you have the goodness to re-tire?" inquired Mr. Weller in a grave and steady voice.

"Well, Mr. Weller," said the buxom female, "I'm sure I only spoke to you out of kindness."

"Wery likely, mum," replied Mr. Weller. "Samivel, show the lady out, and shut the door arter her."

This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the room, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said:

"Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun veek—only vun veek, my boy—that 'ere 'ooman 'ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over."

"Wot! Is she so wery fond on you?" inquired Sam.

"Fond!" replied his father, "I can't keep her avay from me. If I was locked up in a fire-proof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she'd find means to get at me, Sammy."

"Wot a thing it is, to be so sought arter!" observed Sam, smiling.

"I don't take no pride out on it, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, poking the fire vehemently, "it's a horrid sitiwation. I'm actiwally drove out o' house and home by it. breath was scarcely out o' your poor mother-in-law's body, ven vun old 'ooman sends me a pot o' jam, and another a pot o' jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug o' camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands." Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and, looking round, added in a whisper: "They wos all widders, Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept the camomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o' fifty-three."

Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken an obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance


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 reflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative visage.

While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the back of his father's chair, and announced her presence back by a slight cough: the which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.

"Hallo!" said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round, and hastily drew his chair away. "Wot's the matter now?"

"Have a cup of tea, there's a good soul," replied the buxoni female, coaxingly.

"I von't," replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner, "I'll see you—" Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, "furder fust."

"Oh, dear, dear! How adversity does change people!" said the lady, looking upwards.

"It's the only think 'twixt this and the doctor as shall change my condition," muttered Mr. Weller.

"I really never saw a man so cross," said the buxom female.

"Never mind. It's all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith wich the penitent schoolboy comforted his feelin's ven they flogged him," rejoined the old gentleman.

The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of spirits.

"You see, Mr. Samuel," said the buxom female, "as I was telling him yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can't expect but what he should, sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I'm sure we all pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there's no situation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which is what


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 "Wot observations?" inquired Sam.

"Them as she made, arter she was took ill," replied the old gentleman.

"Wot was they?"

"Somethin' to this here effect. Veller,' she says, 'I'm afeard I've not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you're a wery kind-hearted man, and I might ha' made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now,' she says, 'ven it's too late, that if a married 'ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin' her dooties at home, and makin' them as is about her cheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all proper tines, she should be wery careful not to con-wert this sort o' thing into a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this,' she says, 'and I've vasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me; but I hope ven I'm gone, Veller, that you'll think on me as I wos afore I know'd them people, and as I raly wos by natur'.' 'Susan,' says I,—I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von't deny it, my boy—'Susan,' I says, 'you've been a wery good vife to me, altogether; don't say nothin' at all about it; keep a good heart my dear; and you'll live to see me punch that 'ere Stiggins's head yet.' She smiled at this, Samivel," said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, "but she died arter all!"

"Vell," said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in slowly shaking his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking; "vell, gov'ner, ve must all come to it, one day or another."

"So we must, Sammy," said Mr. Weller the elder.

"There's a Providence in it all," said Sam.

"O' course there is," replied his father with a nod of grave approval. "Wot 'ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?"

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this


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 The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place that day; for attached to his hat, which he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half in length, which hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son's placing the palm of his hand on his shoulder.

"Sammy," said Mr. Weller, "you're welcome."

"I've been a callin' to you half a dozen times," said Sam, hanging his hat on a peg, "but you didn't hear me."

"No, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. "I wos in a referee, Sammy."

"Wot about?" inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.

"In a referee, Sammy," replied the elder Mr. Weller, "regarding her, Samivel." Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller.

"I wos a thinkin', Sammy," said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with great earnestness, over his pipe; as if to assure him that however extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. "I wos a thinkin', Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone."

"Vell, and so you ought to be," replied Sam.

Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.

"Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.


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 Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as she tripped up stairs.

"I shan't be avay more than a day, or two, sir, at the farthest," said Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father's loss.

"As long as may be necessary, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, "you have my full permission to remain."

Sam bowed.

"You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid in my power," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Thankee, sir," rejoined Sam. "I'll mention it, sir."

And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and man separated.

It was just seven o'clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold dull evening; the little street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant Marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked softly in. Glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the distance.


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 "Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself afterwards," said the pretty housemaid.

"Stop a minit," replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, as he did so. "You've hit it. The gen'l'm'n as wrote it wos a tellin' all about the misfortun' in a proper vay, and then my father comes a lookin' over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin' his oar in. That's just the wery sort o' thing he'd do. You're right, Mary, my dear."

Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up:

"And so the poor creatur's dead! I'm sorry for it. She warn't a bad-disposed 'ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I'm wery sorry for it."

Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.

"Hows'ever," said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, "it wos to be—and wos, as the old lady said arter she'd married the footman. Can't be helped now, can it, Mary?"

Mary shook her head, and sighed too.

"I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence," said Sam. Mary sighed again. The letter was so very affecting.

"Good bye!" said Sam.

"Good bye," rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.

"Well, shake hands, won't you?" said Sam.

The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid's, was a very small one, and rose to go.

"I shan't be wery long avay," said Sam.

"You're always away," said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss in the air. "You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again."


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 "Don't what, my dear?" said Sam.

"Why, that," replied the pretty housemaid. "Lor, do get along with you." Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of curl.

"And prevented what I was going to say, besides," added Mary. "There's a letter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn't been gone away, half an hour, when it came; and more than that, it's got, immediate, on the outside."

"Vere is it, my love?" inquired Sam.

"I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long before this," replied Mary. "There, take it; it's more than you deserve."

With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears, and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion.

"My goodness me!" said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigning unconsciousness, "you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once.

To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which no description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself down beside Mary on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Sam, "wot's all this?"

"Nothing the matter, I hope?" said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.

"Bless them eyes o' yourn!" said Sam, looking up.

"Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter," said the pretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slyness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.

Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:


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 Act in relation to the corruption issue, or any other corruption issue.

(3) The direction must be revoked if it is no longer so required.

Permission to take other action

(4) If the agency head requests the Commissioner to permit the taking of particular action, the Commissioner must:

 * (a) as soon as practicable after the request is made, decide whether to permit the taking of the action; and

 * (b) if the Commissioner refuses to permit the taking of the action—give the agency head written reasons for the refusal.

(5) However, the Commissioner need not give the reasons for a refusal if doing so would be likely to prejudice:

 * (a) any action the Commissioner has taken, or might take, under this Act in relation to the corruption issue, or any other corruption issue; or

 * (b) any action taken by any person as a result of a NACC Act process.

(6) A direction under subsection (1):

 * (a) is not a legislative instrument; and

 * (b) has effect despite any other law of the Commonwealth.

44 Action that can be taken without permission

(1) Despite any direction given by the Commissioner under subsection 43(1), the following action may be taken:

 * (a) action to prevent or lessen an imminent risk to the safety of a person, or to protect a person's life;

 * (b) action that is in the interests of the security, defence or international relations of Australia;

 * (c) action to prevent loss to the Commonwealth of an amount, greater than the amount (if any) prescribed by the regulations, which could not be recovered;

 * (d) other action for which it would be unreasonable in the circumstances to await any necessary permission.


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 mortification will be terrible when he discovers it, because it will be a disillusionment to him. He will be ill, or he will do something desperate. See if he doesn't; you will see. He is so violent. God and the Holy Virgin help us! Why cannot children always remain children, and always stay at their mother's side, so that she can take them up in her arms and console them, like children?

. But mamma! Mamma! You were wretched for fear that Julio might be able to carry out his plans and go away. Only yesterday, didn't you say: "Good Lord, good Lord! My son may have gone crazy, but at least that girl ought to have sense"? Now, when God has heard you, when you ought to be happy, because now Julio will not leave us, nor think of going away, instead of being thankful, you are only growing worse! Weren't you crying because you had lost your son? Well, you have him back again, and he will be more yours now than he ever was before.

. Yes, but that is no consolation. A mother's lot is always unhappy. The only time she can say that her children are her own is when life returns them to her, heartbroken and undeceived, to take refuge in the only love that never fails, that always forgives. A mother's heart is like a nest. The birds cry for their mother's warmth, for food and for love, but by the time they are able to fly, and sing happily, they are already far away from the nest, from their mother. When they come back, how can she be happy, since she knows that they come only to pour out their sorrows, and the disappointments they have had to bear?

. Come in, Don Hilario.

. Doña Carmen! Luisita…

. You see, they are crying. It is the daily routine, invariable. And it is my fault! This cannot continue.


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 means a man accustomed to mere daily practice, to the way things commonly work. When things will not work, you must have the thinker, the man who has some doctrine about why they work at all. It is wrong to fiddle while Rome is burning; but it is quite right to study the theory of hydraulics while Rome is burning.

It is then necessary to drop one's daily agnosticism and attempt rerum cognoscere causas. If your aeroplane has a slight indisposition, a handy man may mend it. But, if it it seriously ill, it is all the more likely that some absent-minded old Professor with wild white hair will have to be dragged out of a college or a laboratory to analyse the evil. The more complicated the smash, the whiter-haired and more absent-minded will be the theorist who is needed to deal with it; and in some extreme cases, no one but the man (probably insane) who invented your flying-ship could possibly say what was the matter with it.

"Efficiency," of course, is futile for the same reason that "strong men," "will power" and the superman are futile. That is, it is futile because it only deals with actions after they have been performed. It has no philosophy for incidents before they happen; therefore it has no power of choice. An act can only be successful or unsuccessful when it is over; if it is to begin


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Rh unkindness of his friends to him, and to justify his own complaints. Let us see what his case was.

1. He was a dying man, v. 1. He had said, (ch. xvi. 22.) "When a few years are come, I shall go that long journey." But here he corrects himself, "Why do I talk of years to come? Alas! I am just setting out on that journey, am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand; my breath is already corrupt, or broken off, my spirits are spent, I am a gone man." It is good for every one of us thus to look upon ourselves as dying, and especially to think of it when we are sick. We are dying, that is, (1.) Our life is going, for the breath of life is going. It is continually going forth, it is in our nostrils, (Isa. ii. 22.) the door at which it entered; (Gen. ii. 7.) there it is upon the threshold, ready to depart. Perhaps, Job's distemper obstructed his breathing, and short breath will, after a while, be no breath. Let the Anointed ofthe Lord be the breath of our nostrils, and let us get spiritual life breathed into us, and that breath will never be corrupted. (2.) Our time is ending; My days are extinct, are put out, as a candle, which, from the first lighting, is continually wasting and burning down, and will by degrees burn out of itself, but may by a thousand accidents be extinguished. Such is life. It concerns us, therefore, carefully to redeem the days of time, and to spend them in getting ready for the days of eternity, which will never be extinct. (3.) We are expected in our long home; The graves are ready for me. But would not one grave serve? Yes, but he speaks of the sepulchres of his fathers, to which he must be, gathered: "The graves where they are laid, are ready for me also," graves in consort, the congregation of the dead. Wherever we go, there is but a step between us and the grave. Whatever is unready, that is ready; it is a bed soon made. If the graves be ready for us, it concerns us to be ready for the graves. The graves for me, so it runs; denoting not only his expectation of death, but his desire of it; "I have done with the world, and have nothing now to wish for but a grave."

2. He was a despised man; (v. 6.) "He," (that is, Eliphaz, so some, or rather God, whom he all along acknowledges to be the Author of his calamities) "has made me a by-word of the people, the talk of the country, a laughing-stock to many, a gazing-stock to all; and aforetime, or, to men's faces, publicly, I was as a tabret, that whoever chose might play upon;" they made ballads of him; his name became a proverb; it is so still, ''As poor as Job. He has now made me a by-word'', a reproach of men, whereas, aforetime, in my prosperity, I was as a tabret. Deliciae humani generis-The darling of the human race, whom they were all pleased with. It is common for those who were honoured in their wealth, to be despised in their poverty.

3. He was a man of sorrows, v. 7. He wept so much, that he had almost lost his sight; Mine eye is dim by reason of sorrow, ch. xvi. 16. The sorrow of the world thus works darkness and death. He vexed so much, that he had fretted all the flesh away, and was become a perfect skeleton; nothing but skin and bones; "All my members are as a shadow. I am grown so poor and thin, that I am not to be called a man, but the shadow of a man."

II. The ill use which his friends made of his miseries; they trampled upon him, and insulted over him, and condemned him as a hypocrite, because he was thus grievously afflicted. Hard usage! Now observe,

1. How Job describes it, and what construction he puts upon their discourses with him. He looks upon himself as basely abused by them. (1.) They abused him with their foul censures, condemning him as a bad man, justly reduced thus, and exposed to contempt, v. 2. "They are mockers, who deride my calamities, and insult over me, because I am thus brought low. They are so with me, abusing me to my face, pretending friendship in their visit, but intending mischief. I cannot get clear of them; they are continually tearing me, and they will not be wrought upon, either by reason or pity, to let fall the prosecution." (2.) They abused him too with their fair promises, for in them they did but banter him. He reckons them (v. 5.) among those that speak flattery to their friends. They all came to mourn with him; Eliphaz began with a commendation of him, ch. iv. 3. They had all promised him that he would be happy, if he would take their advice. Now all this he looked upon as flattery, and as designed to vex him so much the more. All this he calls their provocation, v. 2. They did what they could to provoke him, and then condemned him for his resentment of it; but he thinks himself excusable when his eye continued thus in their provocation; it never ceased, and he could never look off it. Note, The unkindness of those that trample upon their friends in affliction, that banter and abuse them then, is enough to try, if not to tire, the patience even of Job himself.

2. How he condemns it. (1.) It was a sign that God had hid their heart from understanding, (v. 4.) and that in this matter they were infatuated, and their wonted wisdom was departed from them. Wisdom is a gift of God, which he grants to some, and withholds from others, grants at some times, and withholds at other times. Those that are void of compassion, are so far void of understanding. Where there is not the tenderness of a man, one may question whether there be the understanding of a man. (2.) It would be a lasting reproach and diminution to them; Therefore shalt thou not exalt them. Those are certainly kept back from honour, whose hearts are hid from understanding. When God infatuates men, he will abase them. Surely they who discover so little acquaintance with the methods of Providence, shall not have the honour of deciding this controversy! That is reserved for a man of better sense, and better temper, such an one as Elihu afterward appeared to be. (3.) It would entail a curse upon their families. He that thus violates the sacred laws of friendship, forfeits the benefit of it, not only for himself, but for his posterity. "Even the eyes of his children shall fail, and when they look for succour and comfort from their own and their father's friends, they shall look in vain, as I have done, and be as much disappointed as I am in you." Note, Those that wrong their neighbours, may, in the end, wrong their own children more than they are aware of.

3. How he appeals from them to God; (v. 3.) Lay down now, put me in a surety with thee, that is, "Let me be assured that God will take the hearing and determining of the cause into his own hands, and I desire no more. Let some one engage for God to bring on this matter." Thus they whose hearts condemn them not, have confidence toward God, and can, with humble and believing boldness, beg of him to search and try them. Some make Job here to glance at the mediation of Christ, for he speaks of a Surety with God, without whom he durst not appear before God, nor try his cause at his bar; for though his friends' accusations of him were utterly false, yet he could not justify himself before God but in a Mediator. Our English annotations give this reading of the verse, "Appoint, I pray thee, my Surety with thee, namely, Christ, who is with thee in heaven, and has undertaken to be my Surety: let him plead my cause, and stand up for me; and who is he then that will strike upon mine hand?" that is, "Who dares then contend with me? Who shall lay any thing to my charge,


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. Julio is right. This cannot be.

. No, on the contrary, I am crying now because I am happy. I have never been so happy before in my life!

. Yes, evidently. Sit down, mamma—and you, too. I have brought Don Hilario because the time has come to talk sensibly, without tears or recriminations, because my decision is irrevocable. I am going to marry Emilia, and we shall sail for America, to Buenos Aires. No other solution is possible for us all.

. My poor brother!

. Very well, my son, if you really feel that it means your happiness. I suppose you think that your mother is the only obstacle?

. Don't say that. I won't listen to you.

. No, I am calm, as you see. I hope you will be as calm as I am when you know what I know.

. What do you know?

. Have you made your arrangements for the voyage? Are you sure the position is a good one, that there will be opportunity for advancement?

. Tell them, Don Hilario. They will not believe me.

. Yes, Doña Carmen. Julio has consulted me, and I have approved his plan in its entirety. I offered to write to Buenos Aires, to a friend, a responsible, intelligent gentleman, who has replied to my recommendation of your son in a manner which is most gratifying.

. Here is the letter. Read it, read it. He offers me a position that is well paid, in which I shall have initiative, and at the beginning I shall receive more than I do now. I shall not be embarrassed by the pretense of living like a gentleman, I shall have the satisfaction of being employed at something useful, which is of real service, and not be discouraged, as I am here, eternally issuing orders in our depart-


title: Page:Manalive.djvu/12


text:
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 WIND sprang high in the west, like a wave of unreasonable happiness, and tore eastward across England, trailing with it the frosty scent of forests and the cold intoxication of the sea. In a million holes and corners it refreshed a man like a flagon, and astonished him like a blow. In the inmost chambers of intricate and embowered houses it woke like a domestic explosion, littering the floor with some professor's papers till they seemed as precious as fugitive, or blowing out the candle by which a boy read "Treasure Island" and wrapping him in roaring dark. But everywhere it bore drama into undra- 18

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 ment, and rummaging through files of papers, the utility of which, to say the least, is by no means apparent, and which often drive me to wonder whether our government offices are not in fact charitable institutions, maintained in the interest of this debilitated middle class, which, while it retains its self-respect, can take refuge in no other asylum.

. Yes, Doña Carmen, the position my friend offers is excellent for a man who is willing to work. That Julio knows. He will have to give up being the young intellectual, who has no other use for his intellectuality than to criticise others who work. He will require intelligence, but only enough to serve a firm and resolute will. Will is necessary above everything else, will that is constructive, will that is able to convert dreams into realities. It will be very different there from what it is here, where we spend the better part of our lives speaking evil of those who construct, because they have not constructed the precise fabric of our dreams, which is so beautiful, so extremely beautiful, that it goes without saying it will never be built. So, because no reality can equal our dreams, we spend our lives outside in the foul weather, while others who do not think so much, nor criticise so much, build themselves spacious houses and even splendid palaces, which doubtless are in very bad taste, but which are solid, nevertheless, and quite comfortable.

. Yes, I shall build my house like them, whatever it may be; and upon new ground, not on top of ruins.

. But you cannot do it alone. Has Emilia seen this letter? Have you discussed it with her and with her mother, as you are doing with me? Have you told them that your decision is final, irrevocable?

. Emilia will not hesitate if her love is true.

. You appear to emphasize the if.

. No.


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 , 1566. [Facsimile from Hearne.] [ 848 ]


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. You say if her love is true.

. It is.

. Don't you know that Doña Teresa was here? Do you know what she came to tell me?

. The old story. If you talked, you agreed that we were mad. It is folly, a crime for two young people who are in love, to marry without money. Then, you spoke of the high cost of living, you trotted out your pet phrase: "Everything is in the clouds."

. I said nothing; it was Doña Teresa, it is Emilia. Nothing in the world will induce her—and you may as well understand it plainly—nothing will induce her to consent to be separated from her daughter.

. But Emilia…

. Emilia feels the same, and they thought that it would be better that you should hear it from me. If you don't believe me, ask them—ask them both. I am not sure either but that when they find out that this position which has been offered is a good one, they won't change their minds, but I am afraid not—do you hear? I am afraid not. I am so anxious to see you happy that I would do nothing to hold you back, not with my tears, nor by telling you that you are an ingrate to allow your poor mother to sacrifice herself for you all her life, only to see herself abandoned now in her old age without remorse, yes, without one single regret!

. Mother!

. Doña Carmen!

. Do you hear? I cannot endure any more, I cannot bear it. I will not hear myself called an ungrateful son. You are my mother, I owe everything to you, everything. My life is yours, and I have proved it all my life long, because I have never been anything to you but your son, eternally your son, your son. You would never permit me to be a man.


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 You have cowed me all you could, you have crushed and kept me under, without a will of my own, always fearful of your displeasure. I was afraid to live, to think for myself. But the same passions which stirred in you when you brought me into the world stir in me, in spite of myself. I have always dreaded this day, I knew it must come, this clash which drives you to be cruel with me, and me, perhaps, to appear an ingrate.

. Do you hear? Do you hear my son?

. Yes, I hear him. Doña Carmen, and I hear you, too, and I hear life, whose voice is louder than ours, and which tells us that our children are not our children, that they are men, and belong to humanity. Oh, you mothers who have grown old, you nations that decay, do not call it ingratitude when your children leave you! Children never leave their mothers. When you have gone walking with the children, strolling along with friends of your own age, while they played with the other children, haven't you often noticed, as you walked, how the children would soon be at a distance, and then you, the older people, would call out: "Children! Don't run, my dears! Don't lose sight of us. You will get lost." And they, without stopping, would call back, from where they were: "We won't lose sight of you, we are here! We are only running ahead." It is selfishness to expect youth to keep step with age, or to dishearten it with the disillusionments of our experience when it sets out, brighteyed and filled with hope, upon its career. Such selfishness life does not permit. What would we think of a general who, before going into battle with his recruits, led them first to a hospital filled with the maimed and wounded? Many will die in the battle, many will return incapacitated, but the battle must be joined in the expectation of victory, with the swell of triumphal music in our ears, the flaunting of ban-


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 ners before our eyes. If we succumb, it must be facing life boldly, with a beckoning glance toward those who come behind, toward those who remain, toward those who will triumph, passing over our dead bodies; and in the ceaseless struggle of life our children are the ones who remain, the ones who will march to victory when we ourselves have succumbed. The future belongs to the young women, the young men.

. Julio!

. Ah, Emilia, it is you! I knew it; she is here. She has come to speak for me, for us both. Say you have!

. Doña Carmen… Luisa…

. Are you alone?

. Mother told me she had been talking with you, and that you had had a dispute. She said that you were determined that all should be over between me and your son. You accused me of being a coquette, of trifling, of leading him on.

. I never believed it; they are our mothers.

. My mother does not know I am here, I came with the maid. I should have come alone, if it had been necessary.

. You have done right.

. I had to see you, to speak to you. You will not believe it—any more than I would have believed it—but my mother has taken this talk of going to America in earnest. I knew, of course, you didn't mean it, that you have never considered it.

. Do you believe that?

. You hear what she says.

. My mother was afraid that I was going to leave


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 my attendants to search every corner: however, we found no farther trace of a human inhabitation; yet, when I left the vault, to ascend the passage again, one of them exclaimed, that he had found some papers. I ordered him to give them to me, and unfolded them. All of them were blank, except the fourth, on which something was written, and I was struck with astonishment when I read, "Countess Elmira is cautioned against the young Marquis Carlos of G****** who means to impose upon her." I did not know whether I could trust my eyes; yet it was undoubtedly the same paper. Seeing, however, that my attendants were astonished to see me start back, I added coolly, after a few moments consideration, "The Dl may make that out without the other half."

So saying, I threw the whole parcel into the same corner in which it had been found. Thus terminated that singular expedition. I left the passage with an easy

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Duplicated pages
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Duplicated pages
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text: Poems (McDonald)/To a City Pigeon

title: Poems (McDonald)/To a City Pigeon


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text: Poems (McDonald)/Thought

title: Poems (McDonald)/Thought


text: Poems (McDonald)/Tasso's Crown

title: Poems (McDonald)/Tasso's Crown


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 her in their salty hands, and they seemed rough and wild, something always guided her away from the treacherous rocks which which they headed for.

But she was born to wander, and it was not long before she was off on her explorations again. One sparkling day when the sun danced and glimmered on the little ripples, Eepersip started to explore the shore-line. Every sun-sparkle made her feel happier and happier, and every breath of salty air lighter, until at last she thought she must rise up into the air on strong wings. After exploring quite a while and finding nothing unusual, she sat down on a rock. Her auburn curls goldened in the sunlight, and her brown eyes sparkled.

After she had rested a while, watching the swooping sea-gulls, she decided to collect shells. She went along the beach some way, picking up shells and pebbles. But soon she tired of this and, feeling very hot, flung herself into the sea and played a while in the shallow water. Soon she thought that she would like to take a long swim, and she started out rapidly.

The waves came in higher and higher and brought with them great flocks of gulls sweeping around in wide graceful circles and uttering strange wild cries. Eepersip went on a long way until she saw a great rock ahead, draped with sea

title: Page:The House Without Windows.djvu/86


text: Poems (McDonald)/The Return of Summer

title: Poems (McDonald)/The Return of Summer


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text: Poems (McDonald)/Keepsakes

title: Poems (McDonald)/Keepsakes


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 weeds of a dark green which were floating up and down with the motion of the waves. There were many crabs and snails caught in them. She was borne forward to the rock in a mighty wave, and, clinging to it hard, she waited until the wave drew back before climbing up. After she had rested some time she noticed a shoal of shining little fishes down in the water. Some were gold, some silver, and some had bands of dark blue. They all had ruby eyes. She watched them for a long time, lying on her stomach on the rock. She observed how they nosed down and fed on the oozy sea-plants on the bottom, which were covered with silver oxygen-bubbles. Also she could see, 'way down there, lovely bright corals of all colours. The water was rather muddy, but there was a current coming in underneath, and before long it was perfectly clear. The rock was tremendous, spreading out beneath the surface and going down, down, all covered with slime and sea-weeds. Eepersip was fascinated watching those little fishes: she cared for nothing else. How long might she have watched them if the tide bad not been rising and rising? Now it was touching her dress when a ripple larger than the others came in. And nowa flash of lightning down there in the shadows! Eepersip could not realize what had happened.

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 Then she thought: a great brownish-green fish had shot into the middle of the shoal, seized one of them, and carried it off. It was so quick that Eepersip could not think, until some time after it was all over, what had really happened.

She swam to the shore, but, to her surprise, it was quite a different shore from where she had started. She wondered where she was, She landed on a beach of white sand, so fine that it was impossible to hold. It was covered with shells of all colours. These interested her for a long time, and she piled up the whole beach with heaps of them that she had collected, and had a beautiful time playing with herself until

She saw some footprints! Footprints! They came down on the beach and apparently into the water, then out again, and disappeared in the woods on a narrow path which Eepersip had not noticed before.

But she was not interested in where they went to or where they came from. Her only thought was to get awayaway. It was then too late to go out in the sea againthat is, far from shore. The sun-was about to set. She would spend the night there, and then she would wander again. So she lay down and went to sleep.

title: Page:The House Without Windows.djvu/88


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text: Page:The Chace - Somervile (1735).djvu/121


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Runo XXXII]

Then she spread the cake with butter,

And upon the crust laid bacon,

Gave it as the slave’s allowance,

As provision for the herdsman.

She herself the slave instructed,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“Do not eat the food I give you,

Till in wood the herd is driven.”

Then did Ilmarinen’s housewife

Send the herd away to pasture,

And she spoke the words which follow,

And in words like these expressed her:

“Send the cows among the bushes,

And the milkers in the meadow,

Those with wide horns to the aspens,

Those with curved horns to the birches,

That they thus may fatten on them,

And may load themselves with tallow,

There upon the open meadows,

And among the wide-spread borders,

From the lofty birchen forest,

And the lower growing aspens,

From among the golden fir-woods,

From among the silver woodlands.

“Watch them, Jumala most gracious,

Guard them, O thou kind Creator,

Guard from harm upon the pathway,

And protect them from all evil,

That they come not into danger,

Nor may fall in any evil.

“As beneath the roof-tree watch them,

Keep them under thy protection,

Watch them also in the open,

When beyond the fold protect them,

That the herd may grow more handsome,

And the mistress’ cattle prosper,

To the wish of our well-wishers,

’Gainst the wish of our ill-wishers.

“If my herdsman is a bad one,

Or the herd-girls should be timid,

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text:
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80

Make the willow then a herdsman,

Let the alder watch the cattle,

Let the mountain-ash protect them,

And the cherry lead them homeward,

That the mistress need not seek them,

Nor need other folks be anxious.

“If the willow will not herd them,

Nor the mountain-ash protect them,

Nor the alder watch the cattle,

Nor the cherry lead them homeward,

Send thou then thy better servants,

Send the Daughters of Creation,

That they may protect my cattle,

And the whole herd may look after.

Very many are thy maidens,

Hundreds are beneath thy orders,

Dwelling underneath the heavens,

Noble Daughters of Creation.

“Suvetar, the best of women,

Etelätär, Nature’s old one,

Hongatar, the noble mistress,

Katajatar, maiden fairest,

Pihlajatar, little damsel,

Tuometar, of Tapio daughter,

Mielikki, the wood’s step-daughter,

Tellervo, the maid of Tapio,

May ye all protect my cattle,

And protect the best among them,

Through the beauty of the summer,

In the pleasant time of leafage,

While the leaves on trees are moving,

Grass upon the ground is waving.

“Suvetar, the best of women,

Etelätär, Nature’s old one,

Spread thou out thy robe of softness,

And do thou spread out thy apron,

As a covering for my cattle,

For the hiding of the small ones,

That no ill winds blow upon them,

Nor an evil rain fall on them.

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NE morning in April Martin Pippin walked in the meadows near Adversane, and there he saw a young fellow sowing a field with oats broadcast. So pleasant a sight was enough to arrest Martin for an hour, though less important things, such as making his living, could not occupy him for a minute. So he leaned upon the gate, and presently noticed that for every handful he scattered the young man shed as many tears as seeds, and now and then he stopped his sowing altogether, and putting his face between his hands sobbed bitterly, When this had happened three or four times, Martin hailed the youth, who was then fairly close to the gate.

"Young master!" said he. "The baker of this crop will want no salt to his baking, and that's flat."

The young man dropped his hands and turned his brown and tear-stained countenance upon the Minstrel. He was so young a man that he wanted his beard.

"They who taste of my sorrow," he replied, "will have no stomach for bread."

And with that he fell anew to his sowing and sighing, and passed up the field.

When he came down again Martin observed, "It must be a very bitter sorrow that will put a man off his dinner."

"It is the bitterest," said the youth, and went his way.

At his next coming Martin inquired, "What is the name of your sorrow?"


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 The next morning when she woke up she was not alone. A little golden-haired boy with sky-blue eyes was looking at her. They looked at each other for a long time.

"Who are you?" he ventured at last.

Here was a puzzler. "Eepersip Eigleen," she answered. "I mean," she added doubtfully, "I was."

"Who are you now, then?"

"I don't know exactly."

"Why don’t you?"

"I haven't any name now. I'm just somebody. Have you any name?"

"YesTobyToby Carrenda."

"Do you live here in the woods?"

"Yes."

"In a house?"

He looked at her curiously a moment; then he said: "Yes, of coursedon’t you?"

"NO!"

"How funny!"

"Yes, it is." With a little reluctance"Will you play with me?"

Strange: here was Eepersip, who detested people, asking a little boy to play with her! It was simply that she, not having seen any children for

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 a long time, was fascinated by this small boy who seemed so unafraid of her and so natural.

They wandered together on the beach and picked up shells. Then Eepersip asked the little boy if he liked to swim.

"Yes," he said. "But do you think I'd better?"

"Yeswhy not?"

"All right."

So he took off all his clothes and went in with her, and they splashed each other and had a lovely time. Eepersip wanted to make him a mermaid dress, but there was no sea-weed right there, and she didn't want to leave him. So they went into the woods to find some ferns to make him a nymph dress. She found a beautiful ferny glade, and sat down and began to weave ferns together, talking to him at the same time. When it was all done he was delighted.

"But, please," he said, "can't I have a shell, too?"

He touched the shell strung up on her sea-weed dress. They looked all over the beach, and at last they found another shell with a hole all the way through. Then he was entirely content.

They went into the woods together and picked flowers, and Eepersip showed him how to make fern dresses and how to weave wreaths of flowers.

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Runo XXXII]

“Do thou guard my flock from evil,

Guard from harm upon the pathways,

And upon the quaking marshes,

Where the surface all is shifting,

Where the marsh is always moving,

And the depths below are shaking,

That they come not into danger,

Nor may fall in any evil,

That no hoof in swamp is twisted,

Nor may slip among the marshes,

Save when Jumala perceives it,

’Gainst the will of him, the Holy.

“Fetch the cow-horn from a distance,

Fetch it from the midst of heaven,

Bring the mead-horn down from heaven,

Let the honey-horn be sounded.

Blow into the horn then strongly,

And repeat the tunes resounding,

Blow then flowers upon the hummocks,

Blow then fair the heathland’s borders,

Make the meadow’s borders lovely,

And the forest borders charming,

Borders of the marshes fertile,

Of the springs the borders rolling.

“Then give fodder to my cattle,

Give the cattle food sufficient,

Give them food of honey-sweetness,

Give them drink as sweet as honey,

Feed them now with hay all golden,

And the heads of silvery grasses,

From the springs of all the sweetest,

From the streams that flow most swiftly,

From the swiftly-rushing torrents,

From the swiftly-running rivers,

From the hills all golden-shining,

And from out the silvery meadows.

“Dig them also wells all golden

Upon both sides of the pastures,

That the herd may drink the water,

And the sweet juice then may trickle

Rh

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82

Down into their teeming udders,

Down into their swelling udders,

That the veins may all be moving,

And the milk may flow in rivers,

And the streams of milk be loosened,

And may foam the milky torrents,

And the milk-streams may be silent,

And the milk-streams may be swollen,

And the milk be always flowing,

And the stream be always dropping,

Down upon the greenest haycocks,

And no evil fingers guide it;

That no milk may flow to Mana,

Nor upon the ground be wasted.

“There are many who are wicked,

And who send the milk to Mana,

And upon the ground who waste it,

Give the cattle’s yield to others.

They are few, but they are skilful

Who can bring the milk from Mana,

Sourest milk from village storage,

And when new from other quarters.

“Never has indeed my mother

Sought for counsel in the village,

Brought it from another household;

But she fetched her milk from Mana,

Sour milk brought from those who stored it,

And fresh milk obtained from others;

Had the milk from distance carried,

Had it fetched from distant regions,

Fetched the milk from realms of Tuoni,

’Neath the earth in Mana’s kingdom.

Secretly at night they brought it,

And in murky places hid it,

That the wicked should not hear it,

Nor the worthless ones should know it,

Nor bad hay should fall into it,

And it should be saved from spoiling.

“Thus my mother always told me

In the very words which follow:

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Runo XXXII]

‘Where has gone the yield of cattle,

Whither has the milk now vanished?

Has it been conveyed to strangers,

Carried to the village storehouse,

In the laps of beggar-wenches,

In the arms of those who envy,

Or among the trees been carried,

And been lost amid the forest,

And been scattered in the woodlands,

Or been lost upon the heathlands?

“‘But no milk shall go to Mana,

Nor the yield of cows to strangers,

In the laps of beggar-wenches,

In the arms of those who envy,

Nor among the trees be carried,

Nor be lost amid the forest,

Nor be scattered in the woodlands

Nor be lost upon the heathlands.

In the house the milk is useful,

And at all times it is needed;

In the house there waits the mistress,

In her hand the wooden milk-pail.’

“Suvetar, the best of women,

Etelätär, Nature’s old one,

Go and fodder my Syötikki,

Give thou drink to my Juotikki,

Milk confer upon Hermikki,

And fresh fodder give Tuorikki,

Give thou milk unto Mairikki,

Put fresh milk into the cowhouse,

From the heads of brightest herbage,

And the reeds of all the forest,

From the lovely earth up-springing,

From the hillocks rich in honey,

From the sweetest meadow-grasses,

And the berry-bearing regions,

From the goddess of the heather,

And the nymph who tends the grasses,

And the milkmaid of the cloudlets,

And the maid in midst of heaven.

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