beginning from the notes of Mr. Clarence might be, our own homes and personal Dobell.

lives were to be strictly and jealously priIn the summer of 1852 she one day drove vate, and our pride to consist, not in our over with me to see the quaint old town of literary reputation, which was a thing Tewkesbury: Directly she saw the grand old apart, but in the household duties and doabbey and the mediæval houses of the High mestic occupations which are the rule of Street she decided that this should forin the life for most women. Perhaps there was background of her story, and like a true artist a little innocent affectation in this studi. fell to work making mental sketches on the ous avoidance of all publicity. It is not spot. A sudden shower drove us into one of the weakness of this day; but we who are the old covered alleys opposite the house, I now the seniors still prefer it to the banal believe, of the then town clerk of Tewkesbury, confidences now so often made to public and as we stood there a bright-looking but ragged boy also took refuge at the mouth of curiosity in newspapers and elsewhere. the alley, and from the town clerk's window No such invasion of her privacy was ever a little girl gazed with looks of sympathy at permitted by Mrs. Craik. Her life became the ragged boy opposite. Presently the door larger and fuller after her marriage, as opened, and the girl appeared on the steps, was meet and natural. The days of the and beckoned to the boy to take a piece of little houses at Camden Town or Hampbread, exactly as the scene is described in the stead were over; but not the friends, who opening chapters of John Halifax. We had

moved with her wherever she moved, allunch at the Bell Inn, and explored the bowling-green, which also is minutely and accu: tion and regard. Not even the closer ties

ways surrounding her with faithful admira. rately described, and the landiord's statement that the house had once been used by a tanner, of a home in which she filled the place of and the smell of tan which filled the streets wife and mother disturbed these earlier from a tanyard not far off, decided the trade bonds. She became known in her own which her hero was to follow.

locality as a new centre of pleasant society She made one or two subsequent visits fur- and life, always hospitable, kind, full of ther to identify her background, and the name schemes to give pleasure to the young of her hero was decided by the discovery of people who were her perennial interest, an old gravestone in the abbey churchyard, and always fondly attached to the old who on which was inscribed “ John Halifax.” She had been the conipanions of her life. Her had already decided that the hero's Christian name must be John, but the surname had interest in youth no doubt blossomed all been hitherto doubtful.

the more in the much-cared for develop

ment of her Dorothy, the adopted daughter Thirty-four years after, in the course on whom she lavished the abundance of her of the present autumn, Mrs. Craik made heart; but the instinct was always strong another expedition in the same faithful in her, making her the natural confidant, company to a spot so associated with her adviser, patron saint of girls, from the time fame, and once more lunched at the Bell, when she was little older than her devotees. where the delighted landlady, on being | Her more recent writings have been the informed who her visitor was, told with records of simple journeyings taken as pride that in the summer “hundreds of the guide and leader of such enthusiastic visitors, especially Americans, came to and cheerful groups. She was surrounded Tewkesbury, not so much to see the town by her bevy of maidens in Cornwall, in and abbey, as to identify the scenery of the house-boat on the Thames in which so * John Halifax.'

Better still, however, many pleasant days were passed, and still than this are the words in which she ex- more lately in Ireland, where the gentle presses to her companion and correspon company travelled, like a mother with her dent the pleasure this visit gave her. daughters. On the occasion to which I “Our visit was truly happy," she says, have referred, my last meeting with her in

especially the bright day of Tewkesbury, the Lake country, she and her husband where my heart was very full, little as I had the unfailing attendance of two of showed it. It wasn't the book : that I cared these voluntary maids of honor. little about. It was the feeling of thirty- During these latter years she has not fo years of faithful friendship through written very much, not at least with the thick and thin."

constant strain of some of her contempoMrs. Craik's marriage took place in raries whose lot has fallen in less pleasant 1865, and rendered her completely happy. places, but yet has never relinquished the It was the fashion of our generation -alabors she loved. In earlier days she re. fashion perhaps not without drawbacks, ceived from the queen that only mark of though we have been unanimous in it public approval which is possible to the that whatever our work for the public l professors of literature - a small pension,

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about which there is a little explanation were the only preparations he had for the to make. It has been remarked by at great and solemn event which had already least one ungracious commentator that the taken place. He found her in her own pension granted to Miss Mulock was un- room, lying on her sofa, with an awesuitable, being quite unnecessary, to Mrs. stricken group standing round - dead. Craik. For my own part I should think She had entertained various visitors in it needless to reply to this, for the reason the afternoon. Some time after they were above said, that it is according to our tra- gone, she had rung her bell, saying she ditions the only recognition ever given to felt ill; the servants, alarmed, called for a writer. But I am asked to say that assistance, and she was laid upon the sofa. though Mrs. Craik, when her husband A few minutes' struggle for breath, a mursuggested the relinquishment of this small mur, “Oh, if I could live four weeks pension, preferred to retain it for this and longer; but no matter - no matter !” and other reasons, it was, from the period all was over. Thus she died as she had of her marriage, religiously set aside for lived — her last thought for others, for the those in her own walk of literature who bride whose festival day must be overneeded it more than herself. Her Majesty shadowed by so heavy a cloud, yet of has no star or order with which to deco- content and acquiescence in whatever the rate the writers she approves. It is the supreme arbiter of events thought right. only symbol by which it may be divined An ideal ending such as God grant us all, that literature is of any value in the eyes when our day comes. of the State.

Her fame may well be left to the deciThere remains little more to say, unless sion of posterity, which takes so little indeed I were at liberty to enter much thought of contemporary judgments. It more fully into a beautiful and harmonious is for us the sweet and spotless fame of life. For some time past Mrs. Craik had a good and pure woman full of all tenderbeen subject to attacks, not sufficient to ness and kindness, very loving and much alarm her family, who had been accus- beloved. The angels of God could not tomed to the habitual delicacy of health, have more. which was yet combined with much elasticity of constitution and power of shaking off complaints even when they seemed more serious. Her medical advisers had enjoined a great deal of rest, with which

From The Nineteenth Century. the pleasant cares of an approaching marriage in the family, and all the necessary Doris is dead - really dead ! Not arrangements to make the outset of her “dead ere her prime,” for she had known adopted daughter in life as bright and de. the glories of more than seventy summers, lightful as possible, considerably inter- and the blaze of their sunlight had not fered. In one attack of breathlessness tanned her cheek nor much dimmed the and faintness some short time before, she fire of her glowing eye. Grown men and had murmured forth an entreaty that the women who had all their lives felt a shrink. marriage should not be delayed by any- ing fear of Doris found it hard to believe thing that could happen to her. But even that she had verily and indeed breathed this did not frighten the fond and cheerful her last. The immense, exuberant vital. circle, which was used to nothing but hap- ity of the woman, her audacity, her wicked piness. On the morning of the twelfth of joyousness, her ready, caustic tongue, her October, ber husband, before going off to terrible beauty, her immeasurable selfhis business, took a loving leave of her, reliance, had made her name and her almost more loving than his wont, though presence a dread to little children in without any presentiment, — provoking a our streets and lanes. "Somehow we laughing remark from their daughter, to were all afraid of Doris years ago," men which Mrs. Craik answered that though so say: we got out of her way; we ran and long married, they were still lovers. These hid from her. Is she really dead ?'

Yes, were the last words he heard from her dead at last! Even Doris. lips, and no man could have a more sweet I am - I know not how or why assurance of the happiness his tender care constrained to speak of Doris. Why have had procured. When he came home cheer- great painters, time and again, taken brush fully in the afternoon to his always cheer- in hand and — fascinated, possessed, by ful home, the sight of the doctor's carriage some ghastly image that would not pass at the door, and the coachman's incautious from them night or day — found no rest explanation that "the lady was dying,” | till they put the haunting face upon the



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canvas, left it there to awake a shudder He prospered after a fashion - a shrewd, of horror or disgust for all who should sagacious, grasping man, tradition says. gaze hereafter upon it? Who of us has He had a son and daughter. The son not felt angered now and then by such was a riotous, dissipated rake. The miller ghastly pictures - I need not name them was growing old; the son broke his fa

and found himself exclaiming, " This ther's heart, spent his money, robbed him. is too revolting; it is the prostitution of The old man moped, grew morbid, half art"? Well! if the artist used his skill silly, mortgaged his little property, the merely to display to us a tour de force, he mill, some few acres here and there, a row was guilty of a crime; at any rate that is of houses at Tegea. What was the daughwhat I hold to be true. But if he could ter doing ? gather that she was a highnot choose but get rid of the phantoms spirited, passionate lass, full-blooded, imthat would rise up and stay and glare at petuous, with a restless soul. She held him, scowling, threatening, making mows ihings together. Why should she not at him and ceasing not; if there was no manage the mill? She kept the books hope, no help for it; if with their dumb and drew up the accounts as it was. No insistence they demanded to be shown to sooner, however, had she contrived to get a vulgar crowd ; if he knew and felt in the things straight at this point or at that, and depths of him that all visions of loveliness money matters were beginning to look and peace were lost to him till this dream brighter again, than that hulking brother of horror and villany were hurled out of of hers would stroll in, bully and cajole the way by being fixed in color and form, the whimpering old father, and make off and so sent from him — what shall we say with the last little hoard - the sot! It then? Do you think that Velasquez, when was unbearable. She would marry the he painted that awful picture of the scourg- first man that asked her, come what might. ing of the Man of Sorrows that hangs in There was a jaunty young shoemaker our national gallery, could have felt any in the next village, tall and strong. In joy as the overwhelming dreadfulness of those days there was a small settlement his work grew into ever more and more of shoemakers at Phæzen, the next parish ghastly distinctness? Do you think that to Nestané. The little row of four shanEzekiel's cheek was not of a deadly pal- ties (one room above, one below, in neither lor, or that his knees smote not one against of which can a tall man stand up with his the other, when he stared with parted lips hat on) still stands where it did, and as it and wide-open eyes at the dead men's did, nearly a hundred years ago; the four bones that lay in the valley, and saw them, shanties still hold four families, one of heard them, coming together bone to his them a family of nine, three grown men, bone? He did not choose to go upon that two grown women, five growing boys and dread errand ; the hand of the Lord was girls, the youngest ten years old. The upon him, and carried him there whether shoemakers were all in full work, and in he would or no.

the employment of a master shoemaker You poets, how I envy you! Men for. who took small contracts for the shopgive you, applaud you, render you almost keepers at Megalopolis. Jaunty Jem was adoring thanks for your utterances be a good workman, stuck to his last, and cause you sing to them in your majestic was an average sort of rustic. verse, sweet, strong, all harmony; because “Folks say as you'll marry the first man you sweep the strings which we of the as asks you. Will you marry me?” The common herd can never touch without a girl was in a fury when Jem came to her discord. And yet for us, the beasts of in this straightforward fashion; her burden of common prose, because we have brother had just slunk away with another no wings and cannot soar to your empy haul from the old man's purse, which rean, we are told to know our place and purse his daughter had only managed to never, never to step out of our sphere. fill the day before. How would it end? You ride in your chariots of fire ; we must " Marry you? You can't write your name. keep between the shafts of the carts and I know you well enough. I want a huswain that lumber along the common road band to help me keep the mill. You'd be of the common world. Yet I cannot no good. And yet

She hesitated choose but write of Doris !

and was lost. She thought, “Jem is a Doris was born at Nestané. Let that proper man. I'll teach him to read and suffice. At Nestané there stands, or there write — it'll keep him at home o' nights; stood a little while ago, a windmill, and, he'll take to milling. Oh, heart of mine, before this century began, the miller who how it beats ! shall I give it to Jaunty had worked it had risen to be its owner. I Jem?"

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So they were married. Alas! Things year or so ago. Yes, I had such a work. went on worse and worse. Jein grew idle ; Ah! so had my mother. It was a great the lonely life of the mill bored him ; the big book, as big as that table. I remember old father's drivel he could not away with. when she hadn't much else - for 'most all He took to deeper and more frequent po- the furniture and sich was gone — she tations of beer. Doris was born, then used to show it us of a Sunday. There other children came. What would not was a sight of gays [illustrations] in that many a peer give for such babies as they, there great book, and she'd tell us about heavy as the cubs of a lioness, noisy, 'em. I mind one day she was showing strong, and dauntless, but with appetites 'em to us, and I looked up and she was that were frightful! One day the old a-crying.. • What are you a-crying for, miller, sitting in his chair “among the mother?' says I, and she never said not gooseberry bushes," as Doris said, was a word, but she shut the great history more than ordinarily restless and queru- book, as she used to call it. I never heard lous. He would see his peeaypers — the what became of that great book. That lawyers had not got them all, not they ; was all the learning we had ! ” he had still something he could call his Jaunty Jem's career was not a long one. own. They brought him a box full of One day, when Doris was just fourteen, small conveyances. He could not read a Jem rolled into the gutter, staggered out, word of them, not he; but he mumbled lurched against a loaded cart, which out that they were damp, they must be passed over him, crawled home, and next dried. Fingering them in a drivelling day Mrs. Jem was a ragged widow, with way, one by one, as he sat in the sunshine, eight ragged, shoeless children, hungry, nothing would do but he must have them defiant, and clamorous, demanding victspread out upon the gooseberry bushes. uals. Without more ado they were bun. There they stuck crinkling in the noon- dled off to the workhouse. Such a work. day. Doris remembered it. Suddenly a house! I pass it frequently. It is a wind arose – a whirlwind. The parch- ramshackle block, now divided into six or ments were tossed up by the squall hither eight tenements, looking picturesquely and thither, a wondrous sport to the chub- squalid, noisome, and filthy. Slums you by children, a quite extraordinary game of people of the towns call them. It is always kite-flying. Doris had a notion that this a subject of not unspoken thankfulness was the ruin of grandfather, some suspi- to the Great Disposer of our paths that that cion that the lawyers had got hold of they dreary old workhouse is outside the boun. peeaypers not without help of the devil, daries of my parish. the tutelar deity and favorer of lawyers. Doris was

now fourteen. She was at A few days after this the miller died. once apprenticed by the parish authoriThere was no will, but the old man had ties to somebody who wanted a maid-ofmade over the row of houses, aforesaid, to all-work. Note that this was about sixty Mrs. Jem, and all that was left – milland years ago. The girl was started in life, lands, heavily encumbered - came to the with the scantiest of wardrobes, but probbrother. What was the end of the broth-ably more clothes on her back than she er ? " Lawk, I don't know; and what's had worn for years. She made a good more, I don't care ; why should I ? " said servant, they say. With her prodigious Doris. Why need we care ?

energy, quickness, and intelligence she Farewell to the mill. Jaunty Jem took could never be idle ; but, let her mistress his wife and four sturdy toddlers to Te- have been what she might, Doris must gea “to look after the property,” as he have been a “handful.” Before she had phrased it, and to soak himself in beer. been at her place six months, master and He had occasional fits of industry, but the mistress left her in the house with the drink took hold of him. The unhappy children to see to. It was winter time. wife and mother had a sad life of it, sink. There had been heavy snow; now there ing deeper and deeper - she was quite was a sloppy thaw. There were troops of beaten at last, all the spirit in her crushed. gaunt, lean men out of work, begging from Only one pathetic scene had fixed itself door to door. One of them stopped at in Doris's memory. She had never learnt Doris's door. “Doris ! I'm almost dropto read, but the mother had kept one relic ping; you know me; look at my arms !" of the old prosperity, which she clung to, The starving wretch was a limping skeleI know not why. It was a book, and a ton. The girl dashed into the house, big one.

snatched a loaf from the cupboard, thrust * Possible you might have a history of it into the bony hand, and burst into a England ? ” said Doris to me abruptly, a storm of furious railing against all things

VOL. LX. 31.19

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in heaven and earth. The children were the street met Doris as she was trudging frightened ; and to add to the horror of the along jocund and contemptuous. “You're incident (from their point of view) they a-going to hell! You're a-going to hell!” were put upon short commons till their cried voice after voice, and the mænad parents' return. Then there was a scene. who led the motley procession stopped To Take my children's bread and give it her walking backwards, faced about, and to a tramp? Doris recriminated; her halted. The very drummer held his hand young blood was up. “Thief," was she? and ceased his thumping. * God's wrath upon you, skinflints that ing to hell! You're a-going to hell ! you are! Give the brats stones to suck Doris ! you're a-going to hell!" echoed once a day in these cruel times; they'll be again and again. Doris stood still, and none the worse. But let the fathers that the twinkle in her laughing eye meant earn the bread starve? Never !” Would anything but fear. “ Heli! What do you she promise never to do it again ? Not know about hell, ye sillies? I've been in she. ` Jail! Who cares for jail ? They hell, I have — spent a month there fifty might as well have tried to deal with Ætná years ago. Sin I got out, many's the in eruption. The lava stream of glowing time I've danced all night and larked all speech went billowing on, carrying all be- day, and i'd do it again now if I could. fore it. Passion rouses passion, and the Hell? Go on wi' you! wi' your drumweaker and the beaten of two combatants ming and your bumming, and your tootis for the most part the most vindictive ling! That there hell's been pulled down and implacable. The end of it was that sin' I was there. You ain't a-going to Doris was carried before the magistrates, build that up again - for all your fal-lals. and sent for a month to Swaffham Bride-Go on wi' you !" well.

Dreadful gleams of the after life were Good fortune departs, and disaster's behind. Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite would

now and then drop a hint or some

flashed upon me now and then. Doris wail !

thing more. The old people too have

sometimes told me scraps of their remi. Swaffham Bridewell that's a real niscences in a shy, shamefaced way, name this time. I was going to call it What staggered them, almost frightened Pandemonium, but that would have been then, was the glaring, irresistible beauty a poor feeble word for the thing signified. of the woman - her immeasurable force Twenty years or so before this time How – her masterful, insolent fluency – her ard had paid a visit to Swaffham Bride- never-failing wit and drollery. well. This is what he found there : a wicked woman!” says one ;“ leastways

folks said so. But lawk! I dunno much Three rooms below; one of which, a lodging-room for men, is too close (10 feet 9 inches about her. Early or late she was gay as a by 7 feet 9 inches); a work-room, 17 feet by peacock. Seemed as if no one never saw 15, but no employment; and four rooms above. her what you may call down. She was Court enlarged, now 28 feet square, but no that fresh-colored as I've heard say she fump. Keeper's salary, 161., and twenty never blushed and she never blenched. shillings a year for straw. Clauses against She might ha' married a dozen on 'em; spirituous liquors hung up; license for beer. but no ! she couldn't abide being bound. Prisoners, eleven, including the lunatic.

When she took up wi' Joe Bickers she'd One pound per annum allowed for pro- found her master, but she'd never marry viding straw for all the prisoners. The him. Beautiful ?' Well! I don't undercourt – in which alone the wretched jail stand that. But she was that handsome birds could exercise their wasted limbs as she was a wonder to look at.” My for a few minutes at a time, by special predecessor in this benefice tried hard to grace of the keeper, salaried at 161. a year induce her to marry Joe Bickers. “'Tain't

when enlarged measured twenty-eight no use your talking,” said Joe impatiently ; feet square ; and no pump. The howling “ I've been trying to make her inarry me lunatic - the ruffians in their fetters for all forty years — 'tain't likely you're the filth — the blasphemy - the ferocity a-going to talk her over!”

— the despair. Think of'it! Did “their When I made her acquaintance first, Dante of the dread Inferno" ever image Joe Bickers, who was some fifteen years a horribler den than this?

older than Doris, had grown blind and Six or seven years ago, when the Sal- useless. He soon took to his bed, where vationists were strong and vociferous in his habit was to bellow snatches of old Tegea, a band of them marching down songs — hunting songs — poaching songs

" She was

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