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THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

JANUARY 1901.

WITH THE HUNTRESS.

BY GEORGE MEREDITH.

THROUGH the water-eye of night,
Midway between eve and dawn,
See the chase, the rout, the flight
In deep forest; oread, faun,
Goat-foot, antlers laid on neck;
Ravenous all the line for speed.
See yon wavy sparkle beck
Sign of the Virgin Lady's lead.
Down her course a serpent star
Coils and shatters at her heels;
Peals the horn exulting, peals
Plaintive, is it near or far.
Huntress, arrowy to pursue,
In and out of woody glen,
Under cliffs that tear the blue,

Over torrent, over fen,

She and forest, where she skims

Feathery, darken and relume:

1 Copyright, 1900, in the United States of America, by George Meredith.

VOL. X.-NO. 55, N.S,

1

Those are her white-lightning limbs
Cleaving loads of leafy gloom.
Mountains hear her and call back,
Shrewd with night: a frosty wail
Distant: her the emerald vale
Folds, and wonders in her track.
Now her retinue is lean,

Many rearward; streams the chase.
Eager forth of covert; seen
One hot tide the rapturous race.
Quiver-charged and crescent-crowned,
Up on a flash the lighted mound
Leaps she, bow to shoulder, shaft
Strung to barb with archer's craft,
Legs like plaited lyre-chords, feet
Songs to see, past pitch of sweet.
Fearful swiftness they outrun,
Shaggy wildness, grey or dun,
Challenge, charge of tusks elude:
Theirs the dance to tame the rude;
Beast, and beast in manhood tame,
Follow we their silver flame.
Pride of flesh from bondage free,
Reaping vigour of its waste,
Marks her servitors, and she
Sanctifies the unembraced.
Nought of perilous she recks;
Valour clothes her open breast;
Sweet beyond the thrill of sex;
Hallowed by the sex confessed.
Huntress arrowy to pursue,
Colder she than sunless dew,

She, that breath of upper air;
Ay, but never lyrist sang,
Draught of Bacchus never sprang
Blood the bliss of Gods to share,
High o'er sweep of eagle wings,
Like the run with her, when rings
Clear her rally, and her dart,
In the forest's cavern heart,
Tells of her victorious aim.

Then is

pause and chatter, cheer,
Laughter at some Satyr lame,
Looks upon the fallen deer,
Measuring his noble crest;
Here a favourite in her train,
Foremost 'mid her nymphs, caressed ;
All applauded. Shall she reign
Worshipped? O to be with her there!

She, that breath of nimble air,
Lifts the breast to giant power.
Maid and man, and man and maid,
Who each other would devour
Elsewhere, by the chase betrayed,
There are comrades, led by her,
Maid-preserver, man-maker.

4

OUR BIRTH AND PARENTAGE.1

BY GEORGE M. SMITH.

Ir periodicals may be said to have birthdays, this is a CORNHILL MAGAZINE birthday. As has been recorded by the graceful pen of Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, the first number was published in January 1860. Mrs. Richmond Ritchie writes of her impressions of the event from the home of the editor, and gives a charming picture of the domestic excitement caused by her father's new experience in editorship. My recollections are generally of a more matter-of-fact character, and must needs be related in a more commonplace manner.

Early in 1859 I conceived the idea of founding a new magazine. The plan flashed upon me suddenly, as did most of the ideas which have in the course of my life led to successful operations. The existing magazines were few, and when not high-priced were narrow in literary range, and it seemed to me that a shilling magazine which contained, in addition to other first-class literary matter, a serial novel by Thackeray must command a large sale. Thackeray's name was one to conjure with, and according to the plan, as it shaped itself in my mind, the public would have a serial novel by Thackeray, and a good deal else well worth reading, for the price they had been accustomed to pay for the monthly numbers of his novels alone.

I had, at first, no idea of securing Thackeray as editor. In spite of all his literary gifts I did not attribute to him the business qualities which go to make a good editor. But a novel by Thackeray was essential to my scheme. I wrote on a slip of paper the terms I was prepared to offer for his co-operation, and I went to him with it. I had previously published ‘Esmond,' 'The Kickleburys on the Rhine,' The English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century,' The Rose and the Ring,' and I had an impression that Thackeray liked my mode of transacting business. I said I wanted him to read a little memorandum, and added, 'I wonder whether you will consider it, or will at once consign it to your wastepaper-basket!'

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1 Copyright, 1900, by George M. Smith, in the United States of America. 2 See CORNHILL MAGAZINE, July 1896.

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'Smith, Elder, & Co. have it in contemplation to commence the publication of a Monthly Magazine on January 1st, 1860. They are desirous of inducing Mr. Thackeray to contribute to their periodical, and they make the following proposal to Mr. Thackeray:

1. That he shall write either one or two novels of the ordinary size for publication in the Magazine-one-twelfth portion of each novel (estimated to be about equal to one number of a serial) to appear in each number of the Magazine.

2. That Mr. Thackeray shall assign to Smith, Elder, & Co. the right to publish the novels in their Magazine and in a separate form afterwards, and to all sums to be received for the work from American and Continental Publishers.

3. That Smith, Elder, & Co. shall pay Mr. Thackeray 3501. each month.

4. That the profits of all editions of the novels published at a lower price than the first edition shall be equally divided between Mr. Thackeray and Smith, Elder, & Co.

'65 CORNHILL: February 19th, 1859.'

Thackeray read the slip carefully, and, with characteristic absence of guile, allowed me to see that he regarded the terms as phenomenal. When he had finished reading the paper, he said with a droll smile: I am not going to put such a document as this into my wastepaper-basket.'

We had a little talk of an explanatory kind, and he agreed to consider my proposal. He subsequently accepted it, and the success of this part of my plans was assured.

My next step was to secure an editor. I applied in the first instance to Mr. Tom Hughes, who received me with the genial manner for which he was remarkable, but he would not say 'Yes.' He had thrown in his lot, he explained, with Macmillan's, and with characteristic loyalty did not feel free to take other literary work. Several other names came under consideration, but none seemed to be exactly suitable, and I was at my wits' end. All my plans, indeed, were hung up,' pending the engagement of an editor. We were then living at Wimbledon, and I used to ride on the Common before breakfast. One morning, just as I had pulled up my horse after a smart gallop, that good genius which has so often helped me whispered into my ear, Why should not Mr. Thackeray edit the magazine, you yourself doing what is necessary to supplement any want of business qualifications on his part? You know that he has a fine literary judgment, a great reputation with men of letters as well as with the public, and any writer would be proud to contribute to a periodical under his editorship.'

After breakfast I drove straight to Thackeray's house in

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