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too much recognised in civilized communities; but friendship, that best blessing of life, seems to have less place in its scheme than almost any other feeling of equal importance. Of course it has its own influence; but the outward life appears, on the whole, more given to business, to acquaintance, to ambition, to eating and drinking, than to the friends we really love time passes, and convenience takes us here and there, and work and worry (that we might have shared) absorb us, and one day time is no more for our friendship.


One or two of my readers will understand why it is that I have been thinking of friendship of late, and have chosen this theme for my little essay, thinking that not the least lesson in life is surely that of human sympathy, and that to be a good friend is one of the secrets that comprise And yet the sacrifices that most others. we usually make for a friend's comfort or assistance are ludicrous when one comes to think of them. "One mina, two minæ ; are there settled values for friends, Antisthenes, as there are for slaves? For of slaves, one is perhaps worth two minæ, another not even half a mina, another five minæ, another ten."

Antisthenes agrees, and says that some friends are not even " and another," he worth half a mina; says, "I would buy for my friend at the sacrifice of all the money and revenues in the world."

I am afraid that we modern Antisthenes would think a month's income a serious sacrifice. If a friend is in trouble, we leave a card at his door, or go the length of a note, perhaps. We absent ourselves for months at a time without a reason, and yet all of this is more want of habit than of feeling; for, notwithstanding all that is said of the world and its pompous vanities, there are still human beings among us, and, even after two thousand years, true things seem to come to life again and again for each one of us, in this sorrow and that happiness, in one sympathy and another; and one day a vague essay upon friendship becomes the true story of a friend.

In this peaceful island from whence I write we hear Cicero's voice, or listen to In Memoriam, as the Friend sings to us of friendship to the tune of the lark's shrill voice, or of the wave that beats away our holiday and dashes itself upon the rocks in the little bay. The sweet scents and dazzles of sunshine seem to harmonise with NEW SERIES.-VOL. XVIII., No. 2

emotions that are wise and natural, and it
is not until we go back to our common
life that we realise the difference between
the teaching of noble souls and the noisy
bewildered translation into life, of that sol-
emn and printed silence.

Is it, then, regret for buried time,
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colors of the crescent prime.

Not all the songs, the stirring, air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry thro' the scene to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.

Here, then, and at peace, and out of doors in the spring-time, we have leisure to ask ourselves whether there is indeed some failure in the scheme of friendship and in the plan of that busy to-day in which our lives are passed; over-crowded with people, with repetition, with passing care and worry, and unsorted material. It is perhaps possible that by feeling, and feeling alone, some check may be given to the trivial rush of meaningless repetition by which our time is frittered away, our precious power of love and passionate affection given to the winds.

Sometimes we suddenly realise for the first time the sense of kindness, the treasure of faithful protection, that we have unconsciously owed for years, for our creditor we remember with natural emotion and has never claimed payment or reward, and gratitude that the time for payment is long-debtors made richer by one man's past; we shall be debtors all our lives generosity and liberal friendship, as we may be any day made poorer in heart by unkindness or want of truth.

Only a few weeks ago a friend passed the writer among the rest, spoke of a from among us whose name for many, for whole chapter in life, one of those good This friend was one of those who chapters to which we go back again and again. make a home of life for others, a home to which we all felt that we might come sure of opens, the friend comes in slowly with a a wise and unfailing sympathy. The door We all know the welcoming smile on his pale and noble face. Where find more delightful companionship than his ? which he seemed able to combine disjointgrace of that charming improvised gift by weave our crude talk and ragged suggesed hints and shades into a whole, to 15 tions into a complete scheme of humo

rous or more serious philosophy. In some papers published a few years ago in the Cornhill Magazine, called "Chapters on Talk," a great deal of this delightful and pleasant humor appears.

station is, he will in this case ask you to tell him. "What station is this?" is a favorite inquiry with him. He doesn't want to know: he is not going to stop at it: he merely asks because his mouth is full of words, and they must needs dribble out in some form or other. In this case it takes an interrogative form. A tiresome individual this: one cannot help speculating how many times in the course of his life he has thought it necessary to inform his fellow-creatures that the morning has been fine or cold, as the case might be, and the weather generally seasonable, or the reverse.

Occupying a foremost position among these, I find a small, but for its size exceedingly vigorous and active member of the garrulous species, to which the name "Perpetual-drop Talker' may perhaps be given with some degree of propriety. In dealing with a new branch of science, I have not said much all this time about good as I am now doing, the use of new terms is inevilisteners. They are scarce, almost as scarce as table, and it is hoped that this one, and such good talkers. A good listener is no egotist, has other technical expressions as have been introbut a moderate opinion of himself, is possessed of duced in the course of these chapters, will be a great desire of information on all kinds of subfavorably received by talk-students generally. jects, and of a hundred other fine qualities. It is The Perpetual-drop Talker then-I will venture too much the general impression that listening is a to consider the term as accepted-is a conversamerely negative proceeding, but such is very far tionalist of a species easily recognisable by all from being really the case. A perfectly inert persons possessed of even moderate acuteness of person is not a good listener, any more than a perception. The chief and most bolster is. remarkable

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live in a street, and will only sit at your window for a sufficient length of time, one of them is sure to pass. He has a companion with him, the recipient of that small dropping talk. Perpetual Drop points with his stick, calling his friend's attention to a baker's shop-what is he saying? He is saying, "Ah, German, you Frantzmann, German name. Great many Ger man bakers in London: Germans and Scotch:


nearly all bakers are either one or the other." You continue to watch, and you observe that this loquacious gentleman is again pointing.

Where you see those houses," he is saying now, "there were nothing but green fields when I was a boy. Not a brick to be seen anywhere." And so he goes on commenting on everything. Whatever his senses inform him of, he seems obliged to put on record. "Piebald horse," he says, as one goes by him in an omnibus ; or, "Curious smell," as he passes the fried-fish stall. This is the man with whom we have all travelled in railway-trains. He proclaims to his companion -a person much to be pitied-the names of the stations as the train arrives at each-“Ah, Croy don," he says; or "Ah, Redhill,-going to stop, I see." He makes his comments when they do stop. "Little girl with fruit," he says; or, Boy with papers.' Very likely he will imitate the peculiar cry of this last-" Mornin' papaw,' for his friend's benefit. This kind of talker may be studied very advantageously in railway-trains. He is familiar with technical terms. He remarks, when there is a stoppage, that we are "being shunted on to the up-line till the express goes by.' Presently there is a shriek, and a shake, and a whirl, and then our friend looks round with triumph. "That was it," he says; "Dover express, down-line." This is a very wearying perHe cannot be quiet. If he is positively run out and without a remark to make, he will ask a question. Instead of telling you what the



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You require the recipient of your talk

to manifest intelligence, to show interest, and, what is more, to feel it. The fact is, that to listen well-as to do anything else well-is not easy. It is not easy even to seem to listen well, as we observe notably in the conduct of bad actors and stage amateurs, who break down in this particular, perhaps more often and more frequently than in any other.

But it is even more in his society than in his writing that our friend showed himself as he was. His talking was unlike that of anybody else; it sometimes put me in mind of another voice out of the past. There was an earnest wit, a gentle audacity and simplicity of expression that made it come home to us all. Of late, E. R. was saying he spoke with a quiet and impressive authority that we all unconsciously acknowledged. The end of pain was near. Of his long sufferings he never complained. But if he spoke of himself, it was with some kind little joke or humorous conceit and allusion to the philosophy of endurance, nor was it until after his death that we knew what his martyrhad borne it. dom had been, nor with what courage he

He thought of serious things very constantly, although not in the conventional manner. One of the last times that we met he said to me, "I feel more and more convinced that the love of the Father is not unlike that of an earthly father, and that as an earthly father, so He rejoices in the prosperity and material well-doing of his children." Another time, quoting from the Roundabout Papers, he said suddenly, "Be good, my dear.' Depend upon it, that is the whole philosophy of life; it is very simple."

Speaking of a friend, he said with some emotion, "I think I love M. as well as if he were dead."

He had a fancy, that we all used to laugh over with him, of a great central building, something like the Albert Hall, for friends to live in together, with galleries for the sleepless to walk in at night. Perhaps some people may think that allusions so personal as these are scarcely fitted for the pages of a Magazine, but what is there in truth more unpersonal than the thought of a wise and gentle spirit, of a generous and truthful life? Here is a life that belongs to us all; we have all been the better for the existence of the one man. He could not be good without doing good in his generation, nor speak the truth as he did without adding to the sum of true things. And the lesson that he taught us was—“ Let us be true to ourselves; do not let us be afraid to be ourselves, to love each other and to speak and to trust in each other."

Last night the moon rose very pale at first, then blushing flame-like through the drifting vapors as they rose far beyond the downs; a great black-bird sat watching the shifting shadowy worlds from the bare

branch of a tree, and the colts in the field set off scampering. Later, about eleven o'clock, the mists had dissolved into a silent silver and nightingale-broken dream— in which were vaporous downs, moonlight, sweet sudden stars, and clouds drifting, like some slow flight of silver birds. Ltook us to a little terrace at the end of his father's garden. All the kingdoms of the night lay spread before us, bounded by dreams. For a minute we stood listening to the sound of the monotonous wave that beats away our time in this pleasant place, and then it ceased-and in the utter silence a cuckoo called, and then the nightingale began, and then the wave answered once more. It will all be a dream tomorrow, as we stumble into the noise, and light, and work of life again. Monday comes commonplace, garish, and one can scarce believe in the mystical Sunday night. And yet this tranquil Sunday night is more true than the flashiest gaslamp in Piccadilly. Natural things seem inspired at times, and beyond themselves, and to carry us upwards and beyond our gas-lamps; so do people seem revealed to to us at times in the night, when all is peace.-Cornhill Magazine.


BUT for Pepys and Evelyn we should know but little of the social life of the seventeenth century. A host of letter writers-Walpole, Mrs. Delany, and Mrs. Montagu, at the head of them-may be said to have photographed the next century for us. Lord Malmesbury, Lord Auckland, and some others succeeded; and now we are beginning to have revelations exclusively of the first years of the nineteenth century. The most important contributor to our knowledge in this respect is the late Sir George Jackson, whose recently published volumes will afford us samples of the times in which our grandmothers were young and had swains at their feet-unless war called them away. Gay people on the continent had a bad time of it when war broke out in 1803, and the French government issued orders for the arrest of all English persons on whom hands could be laid. Bath expect ed to be more brilliant than ever by the return of the absentees; but their difficulty

All who were in

was how to return. France were made prisoners. A precipitate flight of crowds of English travellers from Geneva suddenly took place. They were not safe on any part of the Continent; but some, in disguise and on foot, reached Berlin, others got to the sea and arrived in England; but Bath was not sensible of any increase in numbers or gaiety, for the times were out of joint, though dowagers still played whist and young couples danced minuets.

Many of those who were shut up at Verdun chafed under the restraint as intolerable. Some, however, bore it philosophically, others gaily. A few took to French mistresses; other few to French wives. The French officials made "a good thing" out of those who had money, granting them partial liberty for so many days or hours, according to the "consideration." Two or three, having spent hundreds of pounds in their bribes, at last took "French leave," and were lucky in

not being recaptured. Their course is not to be commended. We have a higher opinion of Sir Sidney Smith, who, when a prisoner in the Temple, refused to have his parole, used to tell the governor to be vigilant, as he would be off on the first opportunity, and ultimately kept his word, broke prison, and found his painful way to England.

The seriousness of the times and their events little affected the Prince of Wales. He was indeed thought to be ill in the early part of 1804; but the illness arose, it was said, from the fact that the Prince and the Duke of Norfolk had been so drunk, for three whole days, that the former at last fell like a pig, and would have died like one, but for prompt and copious bleeding. How rude the "first gentleman" could be, when he chose, to his wife, is well-known. At a drawing room, held by Queen Charlotte in June 1807, when the. Prince and Princess of Wales were present, he took no notice of the Princess. Turning his back upon her, he stood between her and the Queen, and as long as the Princess remained he kept up a conversation with his sisters, thereby preventing them from addressing a word to his wife. This feeling against his wife he paraded everywhere. He was jealous of her popularity quite unnecessarily, for she made herself ridiculous, and the subject of scornful criticism, by her lavish display at evening parties of her protuberant beauties. At these parties, the Prince would stare at ladies whom he knew, without speaking to them. His condescending speech was addressed only to his first wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert, and her sister, Lady Haggerstone. The first of these ladies lived at Brighton with the state of a queen and the spirit of a goddess of mirth. Meanwhile, his Royal Highness flirted with his "future Duchess," the Marchioness of Hertford. One of Queen Fitzherbert's merriest tales related how a man had sent to her some lemonade powders he had invented, on the ground that they were highly approved and constantly used by the Marchioness in question.

In 1802 Bath was surprised by a visit from the Duke of York. He brought the Duchess with him, and left her there next day. Her friends reported that she had been bitten in the hand by one of her numerous pet dogs, and that the wound was privately pumped upon daily. But the

public story was, that his Royal Highness had lost 200,000l. at play, and had been compelled to break up his town establishment. The scandalous story of the Duke and Mrs. Clark, a mistress, who sold places and commissions, is pleasantly balanced by an incident respecting a son of the Duke of Clarence and his mistress, Mrs. Jourdan-Lieutenant Fitzclarence, in 1809. He was in Spain with our army in that year, and he reversed La Fontaine's fable of the mule who was always talking of his mother the mare, but said little of his father the ass. The Lieutenant was the foolish aide-de-camp of a foolish General Shaw, who was always showing him about to the Spaniards, as the King of England's grandson.

That grandson was about to be despatched on a mission to the Continent in 1813, but ministers changed their minds. They were afraid he would write everything to his father, who would publish it in Bond Street; and so the gentleman was kept at home to sun himself in the bow window at White's.

The grandest fête of sixty years since was the one given by the Prince, at Carlton House, in 1811. The King was in such ill health and the Princess Amelia in such a precarious condition that it was often deferred; and Jekyll remarked that no one could ever again say," Fixed as fate!" At length it came off, and, for one happy invited guest, made a hundred mad who were not invited. The Queen and Princesses declined to be present; but Louis the Eighteenth and the sad-looking Duchess of Angoulême appeared there, and the Prince received the former as a sovereign de facto. "I am only a Comte de Lille," said Louis modestly. "Sire," said the Prince, "you are the King of France and Navarre ;" and he treated his guest accordingly. Both the Prince's wives (Mrs. Fitzherbert and the Princess of Wales) sat at home by themselves; but the "favorite" was honored by a command to attend the festival. One of the Prince's ideas was to divorce his second wife and shut her up in Holyrood House for ever. This grand fête, it may be added, was soon forgotten in the excitement caused by the fight that was to come off between the Baltimore negro, Molyneux, and the chief of English boxers, Tom Cribb! was a time, moreover, when later hours began to be fashionable. We hear of a ball


lasting from twelve till eight; and of another at which the majority of dancers kept it up till ten in the morning.

We go back a couple of years, in order to remark that in 1809, while there was no lack of enjoyment among optimists, the press saw the worst side of everything; and the Times especially denied or explained away our victories generally, and that of Talavera in particular. The public seem to have been almost as ill-informed as to what was being done abroad as they are now by "our own correspondents," who are sent to describe battlefields or other troublesome matters, and who write columns on the boiling of their eggs and the obstinacy of their laundresses. "It is too much," says Jackson, " to hear the victory of Talavera called in question by the Times; a victory as honorable to British arms and British generalship as any they ever achieved. That paper should be offered up as a sacrifice to the manes of the heroes who fell on the Alberche. I have not patience to read it."

In 1814 the Prince Regent had a narrow escape for his life. On one of his evenings of ennui he sent for George Colman to come from the King's Bench, where he was a prisoner, to amuse him. Court jester and prince, they passed the night, drinking and fooling, till six o'clock, when his Highness was carried to bed in an apoplexy, from which he only recovered at the cost of seven and twenty ounces of blood! He was as near death at this critical juncture as a man could be and yet live. His constitution, however, carried him through. When the allied sovereigns entered London he was ready for all the duties and eager for all the pleasures that the occasion offered; but he shocked some people on one occasion by presiding at a public dinner on a Sunday.

That English society wanted refinement in the first decade of the present century is not to be disputed. When Mr. Jackson returned from long diplomatic service abroad in 1806, he dined one day at Lord Westmoreland's. The guests were chiefly Russians. They were as much out of their element in English society as the young diplomatist says he was after the sociability, ease and elegance of the society at foreign courts to which he had so long been accustomed.

Some of that foreign society was quite as free as it was easy. Jackson and

other Englishmen at the Prussian court were admitted to the morning toilette of Madame de Vos, the King of Prussia's grande maîtresse. While under the hands of her hairdresser she laughed and flirted with the English lords and gentlemen, who paid tribute to her beauty and its uses by making her presents of wine and tea, and other English matters, which she greedily accepted. There are three things, says the Welsh proverb, which always swallow and are never satisfied - the grave, the sea, and a king's concubine.

Austerlitz killed Pitt as surely as Trafalgar killed Nelson. Each died for his country, but that country mourned more deeply for the great admiral, stricken down in the battle where he was the victor, than it did for the great minister who died of a broken heart. The last book he read, at Bath, was Miss Owenson's (Lady Morgan's)Novice of St. Dominic.' That now unreadable romance, Pitt said, he could not lay down till he had finished it, and thence did the 'Novice' come to be the rage for a time. almost fought to obtain it at the libraries, and nothing in literature was talked of but a book which has long since fallen out of literature and of memory altogether. People, too, fought for another novel, 'A Winter in London,' in which fashionable life was illustrated by an incapable whose name and whose work are equally wrapt in oblivion.


Fox did not long survive his great rival Pitt. He died on the 13th of September, 1806. A week previously, when he was already dying, he transacted public business. He gave an audience in his bedroom to George Jackson, with instructions as to how the latter was to act on his new mission to Germany. There was a mixture of the solemn and the ludicrous in the scene. When Jackson was announced Mrs. Fox, in complete dishabille, was in the room. In her flurry she slipped into a closet, and, as the interview was prolonged, the lightly-draped lady kept signalling to Mr. Fox, as if he alone could hear her, by little coughs and murmurs, to warn him not to over-exert himself, or to dismiss the envoy, that she might be set free. At a moment when there was a pause in the conversation between the minister and his agent the fair captive tapped at the panel, asked if the young gentleman was not gone, and complained

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