doves, and the mouth of Trophonius's cave. Sober men like Herodotus believed them, and said, as he did: "I shall neither presume to question the authority of oracles myself, nor patiently suffer others to do so." Vedas and prophecies, the Books of Enoch, Jasher, and Esdras, became, as it were, the fashionable study of learned men in the East. Some Mohammedan doctors, we are told, read the Koran 70,000 times; and so close was the alliance between prophecy and poetry, that the poet himself soon stepped into the place of honour which the heroprophet had filled before him. He was, indeed, a lower sort of hero, yet the great songster was a hero still a victor in the realms of fancy, returning laden with spoils. The people of Verona said of Dante: "There is the man that visits heaven, hell, and purgatory, when he pleases." Every poet was then in his measure a Dante, and inspired above his fellows. Petrarchs and Tassos abounded, though they were not all crowned on the Capitol..... to admit the greatness of contemporaries. The reflective Wordsworth once so ridiculed is gaining ground on the chivalrous Walter Scott as poet, and will perhaps beat him in the long race. Fven the passionate heroes of Byron, with all their fire and tenderness, are dwindling before the more thoughtful creations of the present laureate. Objective poetry, which alone was possible in early ages, still declines, and subjective poetry rises in value. In modern history especially, the heroic tendency of authors is happily modified. It is all changed now. Even in those Biographies are no longer brimful of fulcountries where saintdom is taken most ac- some adulation. Our biographers do not count of, we are not likely again to see as they once did, set out with a resolution to multitudes flocking to the desert to gaze on magnify every good quality, and throw a a "pillar-saint." Our heroes are reduced veil over evey bad one. They seek to draw in size, and multiplied on a smaller scale. a faithful protrait, or one, at least toleraOur estimate of the great man is, age after bly like the original. Kings have ceased to age, contantly diminishing. The heroes of be heroes because they wear a crown and our romances are shorn of mystic propor- wield a sceptre. They are judged, like tions; they are men of like passions with other men, by their merits, and their Divine ourselves, and differ from ordinary mortals right has as little to do with the question as only in the distinctness of their character their power of touching for the King's evil. and the singularity of the circumstances in We obey and respect them because they which they are placed. Modern heroes are represent the people whom they govern, and not heroic in the ancient sense. We have execute the laws which their people have heroes of the loom, the ploughshare, and framed. The feeling of equality gains the fireside, and such are our favourites. In ground in proportion as civilization spreads, composition, no less than in society, "the and it prevades all literature to the detriindividual withers, and the world grows more ment of the falsely heroic principle. That and more." Principles, laws, companies, principle abides for ever, but it admits of take the place of heroes. We move to our right application and of wrong. We are ends en masse, nor attempt to accomplish learning to apply it better than our fathers. them single-handed. The idyl is super- We are distinguishing between true heroism seding the drama, the drama tragedy, and and false, and we fancy that we can discover tragedy the epic. Cowper's hero is the more of it that is real and sterling in the happy man "whose warfare is within." humbler walks and shady vales of life than Shelley's Adonais was his friend Keats. on the lofty ridges and sunnier slopes. We Tennyson's deepest, tenderest, divinest have a notion that patient suffering and poem is written on a youth who, but for his immortal elegy, would now be forgotten. Civilization exalts the lowly, depresses the tumid, and levels all. Our tendency is not to heroize, but the reverse. We are slow FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. V. self-sacrifice are heroism of the highest 1 CHAPTER XVII. AN INTERVIEW AT MARLBY. THAT Monday, the thirteenth of October, so eventful in Warwickshire and in Somersetshire, passed not away unheeded by certain of our friends, then abiding in Cambridgeshire. We mean Mr. Dykhart and Mrs. Campion. The more the Vicar considered the surer he felt, that no worthy cause of offence had separated Mr. Campion and his wife. Some strange misunderstanding, or the wicked contriving of some third party, or it might very likely be a combination of the two things, had produced the fatal and long-enduring mischief. who visited Marlby every week, put himself, on every occasion, to the pain of talking of the affair, which had brought him first of all to that asylum. He had now been three or four times; and he thought Mrs. Compion's manner indicated a breaking-down of her reserve, and a prospect that, sooner or later, she would make those disclosures, from which he expected so much. It was nearly two months since his first acquaintance with the Home. The Leyburns were absent from Bestworth, and the excursions to Marlby were very nearly all the deviations made by our Croxton friend from the routine of his own parish life. In the early afternoon of Monday, the thirteenth of October, he drove in his gig, with old Mrs. Elwood sitting by his side, to visit again the house that sheltered her afflicted son. He spent a few hours in company with "Mrs. Wilson; partly amongst the patients, partly walking in the gardens attached to the Home, and partly (as the evening drew on) in the parlour where their friendship had been so singularly renewed. To discover the evil in its cause, and to cure it in its effect; to restore Adela to her husband, and both to their strangely lost child, had become the hearty desire of Adela's old friend. But her silence on the past stood greatly in his way. He felt himself in this dilemma. He knew not how to shake her resolve of keeping the past a secret, unless by broadly hinting that her compliance might be very important to the wellbeing of her daughter. At the same time, he shrank from committing himself to the assurance that he had seen and spoken with her daughter, until the mystery which hung over Eva should have been explained away. And who so likely to afford such explanation as Mrs. Campion, if she were herself the mother indeed? Baffled by these entang-gotten." ling obstacles, Mr. Dykhart could only see one way out of them. He must win his friend's further confidence, and lead her on without hinting what he might disclose in return - to tell him all she knew as to the source and origin of her family misfortunes. He was not devoid of hope that his own great trouble might in this be an assistance to him. Adela, confessedly owing part of her calamity to some fault, might prefer to confide in some one who knew what remorse was in himself. The very thing which had first carried him to Marlby was a rash act, not quite so guiltless as an accident, which had brought on lasting and painful consequences. Adela was quite aware of all that, and she would naturally expect more sympathy and less censure from one whose life, like her own, was darkened with a shadow of the past. The very presence of the poor imbecile Elwood, whom she beheld every day, would incline her to confide in one who knew, so painfully and so well, what lasting ruin an unguarded moment may originate. Full of this thought, Mr. Dykhart, "You will want to go early, Mr. Dykhart?" she asked of him, as they ended their walk, and retreated into the house. "Not unless you are tired of me, Adela," he said. "There is a full moon to-night, and driving home will be easy enough. By the way, there is a total eclipse: I had for "Dear me ! I am afraid that will oblige you to hurry away." "No: I see that it will be nearly eleven o'clock before the total obscuration comes on. It will be light enough until after ten. Suppose I set out from here at half-past eight? You can do with me up to that time?" "I am greatly anxious for you to stay, Mr. Dykhart. II wish exceedingly to talk to you. I have made up my mind to say what I hesitated to say before. I am very thankful you can remain. It had been a sunny day, and the parlour fire had remained unlighted. But it was now kindled, and they had an early tea in the twilight. Then the lamp was brought, and the curtains were drawn, and they sat, the man and the woman, face to face, at the opposite ends of the hearthrug before the fire. "And now," said Mrs. Campion -" and now, my dear Mr. Dykhart, I have strengthened myself to tell you all that has ever befallen me. I would conceal nothing, nor soften one single circumstance in my favour. Are you as desirous of hearing my story as you seemed to be the other day?" "As much, or more so, Adela; nay, I am sure that I grow more and more anxious every day that you should confide in me. It is possible-I will say no more - it is possible that I might be thereby enabled to further your happiness very greatly. At least, you know how earnestly I would endeavour to do so." "Be that as it may, you shall hear my story. I feel as if the confidence which it were a sin against my husband to give to a mere acquaintance, I may rightly give to an old friend- an old friend- but one whose constancy I scarcely knew, until I found it proof against all the suspicion which has overshadowed me." And then, in a calm, steady tone, and with little interruption on his side, she began the tale of her sorrows and wrongs; and left no mystery unexplained, which she had it in her power to reveal. We presume that the story will have an interest for others besides the original hearer of it; and we set it down as it was spoken in that parlour. father would do nothing to rescue us out of this embarrassment. I should be sorry to make any charge against the dead, especially-which might not wholly be deserved. But it really did appear to me as if the old gentleman almost enjoyed our difficulty; as if he exulted in so sure a proof that we had not done wisely in marrying, and that Providence had only joined us together, at once to separate us again. How ever that may have been, my father-in-law proffered us no rescue out of this cruel dilemma, in which we found ourselves. Indeed, we were afraid of urging our case upon him; for the estate was not entailed, and he might, if he took worse offence, commit the injustice of leaving it to my husband's younger brother, Gerald. I say, the injustice, because my husband had always been brought up with the idea, that inasmuch as he was the elder, the property, as a matter of course, would be his. So, though it seemed very nearly too hard a thing to be credible, there was nothing but for me to make up my mind to part with my husband for nearly a year. And, indeed, if nothing came to our relief, I must expect to suffer the same separation year "You will remember, that when my poor after year-for how long, nobody could father died, he left my sister and myself un- tell. My dear Herbert endeavoured to expectedly poor. Dear Julia's death fol- console me by suggesting every comforting lowed not long after that of my father. Mr. reflection which occurred to him. A few Campion married' me against the wish of months of the trial, he told me, would be his father, who objected to my want of for- very likely all that would be given us to tune. There was no downright quarrel be- bear. We were married in June, in the tween Herbert and his father; but there year 1834; and it was necessary for my was a coolness, which was never done away husband to leave England ere the end of with, up to the latest moment of old Mr. August. In the following June, he said, I Campion's life. For one thing, although might hope to see him again. And by my husband was the elder son, his father that time, Adela,' I think I hear him say would not allow him a sufficiency whereon the words now, by that time, Adela, you to live as a married man in England. Con- may hope to have a companion with you, sequently, Herbert was obliged to retain who will be as dear to you as I am, and the diplomatic situation abroad, which he who need never go away from you. You had held before his marriage. It was a lu- don't know how that will soften my father. crative one but it compelled him to live Only let us have such a visitor to cheer us, very far away at Constantinople, indeed. and I think we need never part again.' So Of course, I was ready to go with him. II resigned myself; that is I tried to be not do not think that it ever for one moment struck me as a hardship. But the doctor, who had attended me from time to time since I was a girl, stepped in to say that for me to live in Turkey would, very quickly, take away my every chance of living at all; and other medical advice, given by a still more eminent practitioner, entirely coincided with all he said. It was a most terrible blow both to myself and to my husband. But he could not take me into certain destruction; and he could not without certain injury, resign his situation abroad. His quite despairing; and I looked forward, with even more eagerness than is common, to the time when I should become a mother. "Well, that time delayed its coming. I was tempted to think it hard that what is given to so many who scarcely desire it, should be denied to myself, to whom indeed, it was everything. My husband had provided that nothing which could make my life more tolerable should be wanting to me. He placed me in a charming house in Fulham, and heaped every comfort upon me which money could purchase. As I have 66 "OUT OF CHARITY." said already, although dependent upon his | the June of 1837, we went together to his profession, he was far from poor, as long as father's at Deverington Hall. he kept his appointment. Of course, it was meet my brother-in-law Gerald, and his proper that I should have some older friend bride; for Gerald had lately been married We went to or relation to live with me. arranged that my aunt Anne (my father's I cannot say she took my fancy very much, And it was himself. He married a Miss Eliza Vaughan; sister, you know) should have her home at yet I hardly know whether she ever gave Scarlington House. remember Lady Anne Somerby. I don't know if you me any positive cause for disliking her. It "I think I do. Had she not a mania for stand why) not to look upon her as, in a was impossible for me (and you will undertrying all sorts of imaginary remedies for measure, my rival. But when we met at imaginary disorders." teous in her behaviour, and she gave up to the hall, she was not otherwise than courme, with every outward show of good humour, the precedence that belonged to me as elder brother's wife. One most unlucky day I overheard my father-in-law saying (it was to Gerald he was speaking), that it would be a pity to leave the estate to up her mind never to present him with any Herbert, whose wife appeared to have made children. Imagine how I felt! It was a cruel speech, although, to do him justice, Mr. Campion had no idea of its reaching my own ears. sense of injustice, and I never forgot the words." But it stung me with a bitter Exactly so, poor dear old lady! I don't indeed, think that she had much the matter with her, and I believe she might really have lived a great deal longer (until now, possibly), if she could but have let herself alone. But nothing could convince her of that. Those caprices of her's system and then another - first trying one only serious fault she had. But, though I were really the am sure it was very far from her thoughts to injure me, of all persons - her propensity proved really a very great misfortune to me. As I shall tell you presently, it brought me into contact with a person whom (with all my heart) I wish that I had never seen. But, apart from that, my aunt's incessant talk about her ailments, and her symptoms and her remedies, quite tired several of our friends, and kept them from coming to see us. tant it was, considering my position, that I You know how imporshould be very cautious indeed, in making any new friends. And so poor Lady Anne's doleful propensity really robbed me, in some measure, of all society. I set this down as a great evil; because it gave me more time for brooding over my misfortune, continuing childless. that of "My husband came home to me in the month of June, 1835; and remained in England for two months. And so it was the next year; and the year after that. But I must tell you a little of his visit in the latter year, the year 1837, you know. The great desire of both our hearts was as yet unaccomplished. might arise, was sure (it happened to me Any hope which twice or thrice) to be quenched in bitter disappointment; and it seemed as if Providence had written us down childless.. I told you, that until we had an heir to set before my husband's father it was probable that his death alone would set us free from the cruel necessity of living with the continent of Europe between us. to have terrible fears (and they were not But I began unfounded ones), that the injustice would be continued beyond my father-in-law's death. When my husband came home in er-in-law say that idea of his father's? in regarding the whole matter as a spiteful perhaps, after all, I should have been wiser "I have no right to say that he did, and jest. My husband, however, did look at it somewhat seriously. He said, You must not suppose, Adela, dearest, that I could gain, which nothing possible to befal us ever repent of marrying you. You are a could ever turn into a loss. But I should I do not believe that my father would comregret if this estate were never to be ours. mit a deliberate injustice. But such things are often done without deliberation. Whether what he wishes, and what we wish, will ever befal us, is in God's hands; but to give no needless cause of offence is in our hands. So try, my dear Adela, to humour and softcan." en away his prejudices as much as you 66 very much fear I found it too hard to follow. My husband's advice was good. But I Really I could not bend myself to talk over and conciliate that hard-hearted old man. It was as much as I could do not to show my sense of his unjust and unfeeling disposition. My sister-in-law had, indeed, a great markably lively, conversational woman; advantage over me there. She was a reand full of all those talents for providing impromptu entertainment which are certainly valuable in their way, and very much so at a rather dull country-house. I don't think it cost her any effort to put on a good face before a possible enemy, and truly Mr. Campion was well enough inclined towards her. She had a fortune. It did not, indeed, turn out so much as was expected. But it put me all but penniless, as I was - at a disadvantage in this respect also. It was not long-not many months - before I was made aware that she was likely to gain the advantage over me in a greater matter still. It was expected that she would shortly gratify Mr. Campion's desire of having a grandchild. It was one of the old gentleman's peculiarities, not greatly to prefer a male to a female heir. I imagine he wished that it should be with the Campions, as with many other English families, that they should unite with some house, wealthy and well descended as themselves, and so together blend into a family that should have no superior in the county. Manifestly, this destiny was more likely to be accomplished by a girl, than by a boy. But this project of his exactly doubled the danger, that Gerald's child would fairly overthrow my husband's prospects, and win the inheritance for his younger brother. I was most unhappy, and I think I do not flatter myself in saying, more for the sake of my husband than for my own sake. What was most cruel of all, it set me in the light of one who had ruined my husband in marrying him. It was in the October of that year that I first understood what was in store for my brother-in-law and his wife; and the event, so probably fraught with injustice to Herbert, was expected to take place in the following April. "I have spoken already of my poor aunt Anne's caprices as to the medical men she called in. Few could keep her favour for long. But the doctor to whom she showed the most constancy was one whom she had just called in before the time of which I speak. It might be a breach of good faith on my part to tell you his name, so, to keep clear of any such thing, I will call him Mr Brown. He was then a young man, and I think he was clever. At least, he had the art of talking as if he were. I somehow felt myself drawn towards him. He was a great man for all new methods, and he spoke with much contempt of the bigotry with which his older brethren stuck to their stupid old prejudices. I do not think he was wise in all he said; neither do I suppose that it was all foolish. At that time I was all but ready to believe that his estimate of himself. was the true one. I was led on, step by step, to confide in him the whole story of my repeated disappointments; and also of the family matters, which made them doubly significant and disastrous. I was just then flattered once more with the hope which (thrice before) had proved a deceitful one. I asked Mr. Brown, if since he rated so low the skill of ordinary practitioners, he could ascribe to their ignorant treatment the repeated failure of my dearest hopes. "He was very confident, indeed; and encouraged me to believe that, with his enlightened system, a very different issue to my hopes might now lie before me. I will dwell on this part of my story as little as possible. I put myself altogether in Mr. Brown's hands. Even when I was made aware that my hopes had left me this time also, I retained my faith in his skill. I followed certain rules prescribed by him, as for my general state of health. And now I come to the most serious and blameable portion of my story. One day (it was within a month of my having begun to consult him), he expressed his decided opinion that the improvement in my constitution, to be expected from his enlightened rules, would end in the crowning blessing by-andbye. And then he talked of the immense prejudice, against which he, as the reformer of medical abuses, and the regenerator of medical science, was obliged to contend. He said 'If your friends were aware of the treatment under which you have most wisely placed yourself, they would leave you no peace at all. My poor foolish fellow-practitioners would all but hunt me to death. They would any day rather see a patient die, than hear of his being cured by any way save their own' Well I thought this opinion a rather strong one. But Mr. Brown went on to beg of me that, in writing to my husband, or any other friends, I would make no more mention of my fears or despondency. Rather (he would counsel me) I should write, as if I actually expected that the boon so long deferred was about to be given me. It was the only way, he said, of silencing those prejudiced people, who would see nothing but quackery in his method of treatment. Besides, he could assure me that complaining had a reflex action upon the complainer, and was likely to neutralise all the remedies employed. There was at least a show of good sense in this; and I rashly pledged myself to act upon it. In writing to my husband, I simply dropped the subject altogether. I could not have borne to deceive him. "In the few letters I wrote to my father |