vain. is but limited, has complete power, easily ex- | not to be. The "Ethics" and "Politics," ercised, to make him miserable. The orthodox those matchless works whose wisdom is public do not recognize in any individual citi- never exhausted, have missed a commenzen a right to scrutinize their creed, and to tator whose like we shall long seek in reject it if not approved by his own rational judgment. They expect that he will embrace One word in conclusion. It is the disit in the natural course of things, by the mere force of authority and contagion as they have tinction of England among the nations of adopted it themselves as they have adopted Europe that, outside her academical also the current language, weights, measures, ranks, and independently of her profesdivisions of time, &c. If he dissents, he is sional teachers, there have always been guilty of an offence described in the terms of found a few men in every generation, the indictment against Sokrates. "Sokrates able and willing to devote themselves to commits crime, inasmuch as he does not be- mature study and research unsupported lieve in the Gods, in whom the city believes, by endowment and unstimulated by the but introduces new religious beliefs," &c. "Nomos (Law and Custom), King of all" (to hope of gain. We may look in vain in borrow the phrase which Herodotus cites from England for the all-pervading activity in Pindar), exercises plenary power, spiritual as every department of thought which marks well as temporal, over individual minds; the Universities of Germany, for the aumoulding the emotions as well as the intellect, gust but exclusive Acadamy which rules according to the local type-determining the the literature of France. But neither sentiments, the belief and the predisposition in France nor Germany can show a parallel regard to new matters tendered for belief, of to the Grotes, the Mills, the Darwins, every one-fashioning thought, speech, and the Spencers to that academy without points of view, no less than action- and reign- restrictions, to that university without ing under the appearance of habitual, self-endowments, which rules the thoughts suggested tendencies. Plato, when he assumes and moulds the destinies of England. the function of Constructor, establishes special officers for enforcing in detail the authority of King Nomos in his Platonic variety. But even when no such special officers exist, we find Plato himself describing forcibly (in the speech assigned to Protagoras), the working of that spontaneous, ever-present police, by whom the authority of King Nomos is enforced in detail, a police not the less omnipotent, because they wear no uniform, and carry no recognized title.* From The Graphic. INNOCENT: A TALE OF MODERN LIFE. 99.66 CHAHTER XXXIV. A BEREAVED HUSBAND. 99 Of the "Aristotle " we have neither space nor inclination to speak at length; it is a fragment, a torso, and from the broken outlines that remain we can but I WILL not attempt to describe the faintly conjecture what the finished work state of the house out of which Innocent would have been. It is matter for sin- had fled — the dismal excitement of all cere regret that Grote thought himself the attendants, the sudden turning of called upon to devote his attention to night into day, the whole household Plato before he began to work on Aris- called up to help where no help was postotle, for there can be little doubt that sible, and the miserable haste with which the turn of his mind would have renthe two men, of whose lives Amanda was dered him a better critic of Aristotle the centre and the chief influence, came than he could ever have been of Plato. to the room in which she lay beyond. It is the more to be regretted, perhaps, Batty, roused from his that having reached Aristotle he spent sleep, stupid with the sudden summons his energies on the somewhat unprofit- and with the habitual brandy and water able technicalities of the later treatises which had preceded it, stumbled into the of the "Organon," and postponed, till it room, distraught, but incapable of underwas too late, the consideration of those standing what had befallen him; while ethical and political treatises, whereon Frederick, stunned by the sudden shock, rare political experience and his un- came in from the room where he had rivaled knowledge of Greek life would been dozing over a novel, and pretending have entitled him to speak with the to write letters, scarcely more capable of authority of a master. But it was realizing the event which had taken place in his life than was his father-in-law. It was only when the doctor came, that any "Plato," vol. i. p. 249. their reach. with it. The world and the garden, and the broad lines of the moonlight, seemed to turn round with him as he stood and gazed at the house and tried to understand what had come upon him. one of the party actually believed in the Death which had thus come like a thief in the night. After he had made his dismal examination he told them that the sad event was what he had always expected and foretold. "I have warned you again It may be thought strange that this and again, Mr. Batty," he said, "that in should have been the first sensation your daughter's state of health any sud- which roused him out of the dull and studen excitement might carry her off in a pefying pain of the shock he had just remoment." There was nothing extraordi- ceived. Frederick was not a man of high nary in the circumstances, so far as he mould to begin with, but he was proud knew, or any one. The often-repeated and sensitive to all that went against his passion had recurred once too often, and self-love, his sense of importance, his the long-foreseen end had come unawares, consciousness of personal and family suas everybody had known it would come. periority- and he had the tastes of an That was all. There was no reason for educated man, and clung to the graces doubt or inquiry, much less suspicion. and refinements of life, except at those The glass which had fallen from the dead moments which no one knew of, when he hand had been taken away, the black preferred pleasure, so-called, to everystain on the coverlid concealed by a thing, moments of indulgence which had shawl, which Aunty in natural tidiness nothing to do with his revealed and visi had thrown over it. Poor Batty, hoarse- ble existence. He had been wounded in ly sobbing, calling upon his child, was the very points at which he was most led back to his room, and with more susceptible, by Amanda and her belongbrandy and water was made to go to bed, ings. She, herself, had been an offence and soon slept heavily, forgetting for an to him even in the first moments of his hour or two what had befallen him. passion, and, as his passion waned and With Frederick the effect was different. disappeared altogether, what had he He could not rest, nor seek to forget in not been compelled to bear? He had sleep the sudden change which had come brought it upon himself, he was aware, upon his life. He went out into the and he had believed that he would have garden, in the broad, unchanged moon- to bear it all his life, or most of his life. light, out of the sight of all the dismal And now, in a moment, he was free! bustle, the arrangements of the death- But Frederick was not unnatural in exchamber, the last cares which poor ultation over his deliverance. The shock Aunty, weeping, was giving to the dead. of seeing her lying dead upon that bed, The Dead! Was that his wife? Aman- the strange pitiful remorseful sense which da! She whom he had wooed and wor- every nature, not wholly deadened, feels shipped; who had given him rapture, at sight of that sudden blow which has misery, disgust, all mingled together; spared him and struck another who had been the one prize he had won sudden deprivation of the "sweet light," in his life, and the one great blight which the air, the movement of existence which had fallen upon that life? Was it she we still enjoy, but which the other has who was now called by that dismal title? lost-affected him with that subduing who lay there now, rigid and silent, tak- solemnity of feeling which often does ing no note of what was done about her, duty for grief. How could any imagina finding no fault? Frederick stood in the tion follow Amanda into the realms of moonlight, and looked up at her window spiritual existence? Her life had been with a sense of unreality, impossibility, all physical of the flesh, not of the which could not be put into words; but a spirit; there had been nothing about her few hours before he had been there, with which could lead even her lover, in the his little cousin, glad to escape from days when he was her lover, to think of the surroundings he hated, from Batty's her otherwise than as a beautiful develodious companionship, from Amanda's opment of physical life, a creature all termagant fits. He had felt it a halcyon made of lovely flesh and blood, with fasmoment, a little gentle oasis which re- cinations which began and ended in satfreshed him in the midst of the desert iny gloss and dazzling colour, in roundwhich by his own folly his life had be-ness and brightness, and softness and come. And now- good heavens, was it warmth. What could he think of her true? in a moment this desert was past, now? She had gone, and had left bethe consequence of his folly over, his life hind all the qualities by which he knew his own again to do something better her. Her voice was silent, that one gift - that ་ T: He she possessed by which she could call remediable. Frederick's loss was not irBut he was sorry, very forth any emotion that was not of the remediable. senses; with it she could rouse a man to sorry for her; the tears came into his fierce rage, to wild impatience, to hatred eyes as he thought of the grave, and the and murderous impulses; but that was silence, for Amanda. Poor Amanda! silent, and her beauty was turned into so fond of sound, and bustle, and momarble, a solemn thing that chilled and tion; so confident in her own beauty; froze the beholder. What else was there so bent upon gratification—all taken of her that her husband could think of, away from her at a stroke. He looked could follow with his thoughts? Her up at her window through his tears; the soul-what was it? Frederick had flickering lights had been put out, the never cared to know. He had never per- movement stilled; no more shadows flitceived its presence in any secret moment. ted across the white blinds; the windows But he was not impious, nor a speculat- were open, the place was quiet, one small the room given over ist of any kind; he indulged in no ques- taper left burning tions which the most orthodox theologian to the silence of death. And all this in a could have thought dangerous. He tried few hours! It was then the middle of the even to think piously of his Amanda as night, three or four o'clock; he had been passed into another, he hoped a better, wandering there a long time, full of many world; but he stood bewildered and sad- thoughts. When he saw that all was still, dened on that threshold, not knowing he went back softly to the house. how to shape these thoughts, nor what had nowhere to go but to the little parto make of the possibility of spiritual lour in which he had been writing, where non-bodily existence for her. He could he threw himself on the sofa to get a few not follow her in idea to any judgment, to any heaven. He stood dully sad before the dim portals within which she had passed, with a heavy aching in his heart, a blank and wondering sense of something broken off. He was not without feeling; he could not have gone to bed and slept stupefied as did the father who had lost the only thing he loved. A natural awe, a natural pang, were in Frederick's mind; he felt the life run so warm in his own veins, and she was dead and ended. Poor Amanda! he was more sorry for her than he was for himself. The anguish of love is more selfish; it is its own personal loss, the misery of the void in which it has to live alone, which wrings the heart. But Frederick, for once, felt little for himself. To himself the change was not heart breaking; he was free from much that had threatened to make his life a failure; but for once his mind departed from selfish considerations. He was sorry for her. Poor Amanda! who had lost all she cared for, all she knew. hours' rest; and then it suddenly occurred to him to think of Innocent. Where was she? how had she disappeared out of that scene of consternation and distress? Frederick was cold and weary; he had wrapped a railway rug round him, and he could not now disturb himself and the house to inquire after his cousin. She must have gone to bed before it happened, he said to himself. He had not seen her, or heard her referred to, and doubtless it had been thought unnecessary to call her when the others were called. No doubt she was safe in bed, unconscious of all that had happened, and he would see her next morning. Thus Frederick assured himself ere he fell into a dreary comfortless doze on the sofa. Nothing could have happened to Innocent; she was safe and asleep, no doubt, poor child, slumbering unconsciously through all these sorrows. It was not till late next morning that Neither he found out how it really was. Aunty nor anyone else entertained the slightest suspicion that Innocent had This is not a bitter kind of grief, but anything to do with Mrs. Frederick's so far as it went it was a true feeling. death. She had disappeared, and no He had more sympathy with his wife in one thought of her in the excitement of The very maid who had that moment than he had had throughout the moment. all their life together. Poor Amanda! it seen her leave the house had not identimight be that he had gained, but she had fied the figure which had appeared and lost. I need not say what a different, disappeared so suddenly in the moonfar different, sentiment this was, from light. She thought first it was a ghost, that which feels with an inevitable ele- and then that it was some one who had vation of anguish that she, who is gone, been passing and had been tempted to has gained everything and that it is the look in at the open door. In the spent survivor whose loss is unspeakable, ir-excitement of the closed-up house next day it was Sunday, most terrible of all "Went away last night? Where has she gone?" cried Frederick, in dismay. "That none on us knows. She went straight away out of the house, sir, the next moment after it happened," said the maid. "She was frightened, I suppose, poor young lady. She took the way to the Minster, up the street. It was me that saw her. I didn't say nothing till this morning, for I thought it was a ghost." "A ghost! My poor Innocent!" said Frederick. "Did she say nothing? Good heavens! where can the poor child have gone "" ? He started up in real distress, and got his hat. "I must know where Innocent has gone," cried Frederick, chafing at this restriction, yet moved by so much natural emotion as to hesitate before wounding the feelings of Amanda's father. "I have little wish to go out, Heaven knows; but the poor child "I will find out about the child," said Batty; and Frederick did not escape till the night had come again, and he could steal out in the darkness to supplement the information which Batty's groom managed to collect. Innocent had been seen by various people in her flight. She had been watched to the shadow of the Minster, and then to the railway, where nobody had seen her go into the train, but which was certainly the last spot where she had been. Frederick was discomposed by this incident, more perhaps than became a man whose wife had died the day before. He could not leave the house in which Amanda lay dead to follow Innocent; but in his mind he thought a great deal more of her than of his wife on the second night of his bereavement. Where was she- poor, innocent, simplehearted child? He sent a messenger to the High Lodge, hoping she might be there. He felt himself responsible for her to his mother, to Miss Vane, to all who knew him. As it was Sunday, however, he had no means - either by post or telegraph-to communicate with his mother. He had to wait till morning, with burning impatience in his mind. Poor Innocent! how his heart warmed to the little, harmless, tender thing, who had nestled to him like a child, who had always trusted him, clung to him, believed in him. Nothing had ever shaken her faith. Even his marriage, which had detached many of his friends from him, had not detached her. She had believed in him whatever happened. I have said that Frederick had always been kind to Innocent. It had not indeed always been from the most elevated of motives; her supposed love for him had pleased his vanity, and he had indulged himself by accepting her devotion without any thought of those consequences to her "D- Miss Vane," said poor Batty, which his mother feared; he had, indeed, "d- every one that comes in the way believed as firmly as his mother and her of what's owed to my poor girl, my pretty maids did, that Innocent was "in love darling. Oh, my 'Manda, my 'Manda! with him-and instead of honourably How shall I live when she's gone? Look endeavouring to make an end of that you here, Frederick Eastwood, I know supposititious and most foolish passion most of your goings on. I know about he had encouraged Innocent, and that cousin. You shan't step out of here, solaced himself by her childish love. not to go after another woman, and the But through all this vanity and self-combreath scarce out of my poor girl." placency there had been a thread of "Stay where you are," said Batty. "You are not going out of my house this day, and my girl lying dead. My girl! my pretty 'Manda!. none of them were fit to tie her shoes. Oh Lord, oh Lord! to think an old hulk like me 'should last and my girl be gone! You don't step out of my house, mind you, Eastwood not a step to show how little you cared for my girl, if I have to hold you with my hands." "I have no desire to show anything but the fullest respect for Amanda," said Frederick; "poor girl, she shall have no slight from me; but I must look after my little cousin. Miss Vane trusted her to me. My mother will be anxious began to look like a shadow, a dream. Had she really been his wife, his fate, the centre of his life, colouring it wholly, and turning it to channels other than those of nature? Already this began to seem half incredible to Frederick - already he felt that his présence in Batty's house was unnatural; that he was a stranger altogether detached from it and its disagreeable associations, waiting only for a point of duty, free from it henceforward for ever. He was there " on business only, as any other stranger might be. And his whole mind was now occupied by the newer, more hopeful mystery, the fate of his cousin. Poor little Innocent! how sweet she had always been to him, how soothing in her truth and faith. Perhaps in the halcyon time to come, free of all the bonds which his folly had woven round him, might he not reward Innocent for her love? If he could only be sure she was safe-if he but knew where she was! natural affection, which was perhaps the very best thing in Frederick, during that feverish period of his life which had now suddenly come to an end. He had always been "fond of" his little cousin. Now this tender natural affection came uppermost in his mind. Real anxiety possessed him- painful questionings and suspicions. Where had she fled to in her terror? She was not like other people, understanding how to manage for herself, to tell her story, and make her own arrangements. And then there was the strange alarming fact that though she had been seen to enter the railway station she had not gone away, so the officials swore, by any train, and yet had disappeared utterly, leaving no trace. It seemed natural enough to Frederick that she should have fled in terror at thus finding herself face to face with death. Neither Aunty, nor the maids had as yet sufficiently shaped their recollections to give a very clear idea as to the moment at which poor Amanda died, and no one Early on the Monday morning he knew how deeply Innocent was involved rushed to the telegraph-office to commuin that terrible moment. But yet no one nicate with his mother, and ascertain if wondered that she had "run away,' ," she had gone home. How he chafed at partly because the excitement of the his bondage here, and that he could not great event itself still possessed the go to satisfy himself, to secure the poor house, and partly because the girl's child's safety! No one, however, who abstracted visionary look impressed upon saw Frederick with his melancholy aspect all vulgar spectators a belief that "she passing along the street had any suspiwas not all there,' as the maids said. cion that Amanda's memory was treated She was supposed to be a little "weak," with less "respect" than that of the most even at the High Lodge, where her piety exemplary of wives. The village was full had procured for her a kind of worship. of the sad story, and people looked at That she should be driven wild by fright him curiously as he passed. Poor fellow, and should fly out of the house seemed how he seemed to feel it! and no doubt no wonder to any one. Frederick lay she was very pretty, and men thought so awake all night thinking of her; he could much of beauty. Frederick's solemn not turn his thoughts to any other subject. aspect gained him the sympathy of all How soon the mind gets accustomed to the villagers. They spoke more tenderly either gain or loss when it is final! of Batty's daughter when they saw the Twenty-four hours before, his brain had bereaved husband. No doubt it had been giddy with the awful thought that been a love match on his side at least, Amanda was dead, that the bonds of his and whatever her faults might have been life were broken, and that she who had it was dreadful to be taken so young and been his closest companion, the woman so sudden! Thus Sterborne murmured he had loved and loathed, had suddenly sympathetically as Frederick went to and mysteriously departed from him, send off his telegram, with very little without notice or warning, into the un- thought of his wife, and a burning impaseen. The shock of this sudden inter- tience to escape from all her belongings, ruption to his life had for the moment in his heart. disturbed the balance of earth and heaven; He went to the railway before he went in that terrible region of mystery between back, to ask if any further information the seen and the unseen, between life about Innocent had been obtained. The and death, he had stood tottering, won- early train from town had just arrived, dering, bewildered - for a moment. Now, and to his astonishment he was met by after twenty-four hours, Amanda's death his mother, looking very pale, anxious, was an old, well-known tale, a thing that and almost frightened, if that could be. had been for ages; it was herself who " Mother, this is kind," he cried, rushing |