oper in vigorous and telling words. He does not always or often carry the House with him, because he too frequently shocks the strongest prejudices and most deeply-rooted convictions of the majority; but if his hearers could divest themselves of personal antipathies, they would be forced to own that no one among them better deserves the palm of eloquence. Separating the three great men we have named into a class of themselves, there are perhaps a dozen members, such as Sir Roundell Palmer, Sir Hugh Cairns, Mr. Roebuck, Mr. Whiteside, Mr. Horsman, Mr. Lowe, and others, whom we would place in the second rank. Lord Stanley, though a first-class statesman, can scarcely be considered an orator at all, not merely from his physical defects (which we may observe in passing he would better overcome by cultivating the lower notes of his voice), but also from the too philosophical and didactic tone of his speeches. After all these there comes 66 a mob of gentlemen who speak with ease," but our subject does not, for the present, admit of further illus and absurd to think, and that there are many principles of public policy which he advocates from conviction is very probable. But the appearance of hesitation and effort with which he often speaks gives a disinterested and impartial auditor the impression that his words are not so much the signs of his inward ideas, as attempts, sometimes painful and not quite successful, to give expression to opinions that are struggling for utterance in the minds of others; that he is speaking not exactly what he thinks, but rather what others may like to hear, or he may wish them to believe. We have no doubt, however, that this hesitation is often affected, and we have remarked it at times when it seemed carefully designed to give more effect to keen invective or biting sarcasm. On comparatively rare occasions, when there is some great personal interest in the debate, or when the peculiar characteristics of an opponent have led him upon some happy vein of humor, it is very pleasant to hear him. His manner, so often languid and listless, becomes warm and animated, his face is lit up with a glow of comic en-trations. joyment, his words come out freely and with a brisker emphasis; and the unhappy wight upon whom he is giving for the time, as it were, an anatomical demonstration, wriggles uncomfortably in his seat, and adds, by his evident sensibility under the ation, to the general amusement. Not long ago, the Times reminded us of the confusion caused in Lord Aberdeen's cabinet by the sort of moral psoriasis with which Lord Russell became afflicted in consequence of one of Mr. Disraeli's sallies. The incident illustrates what we have just been saying, and is worth recalling. When Lord Aberdeen formed his Coalition Ministry, Lord John of course could not be left out, and yet was not able to make up his mind for the acceptance of any subordinate office. It was arranged, then, that for a time at least he should have a seat in the cabinet without office. Everybody said that they would be ruined. But But a man of so active a mind, and who was besides they lived on; by no means rich, but not entirely the leader of the Lower House, was sure to have a poor. As years went by, Mr. Langworth's position great deal of not merely private correspondence, and income improved; though their upward proand, after a while, an office was taken for him ingress was very, very slow. Little legacies, too, came Lancaster Place, near Somerset House. in from several quarters; and friends, who had an opportunity for Mr. Disraeli, who very soon took frowned coldly, waxed warm and cordial again. occasion to deplore most feelingly in the House the For the world, at least in this one point, copies the equivocal and incongruous position which a states- example of Heaven, in its preference for helping man of the noble lord's great eminence and services those who help themselves. occupied in the new administration. He really could not imagine what the noble lord's duties were. He had heard of an office being taken for him in Lancaster Place. Perhaps the noble lord had been appointed toll-keeper of Waterloo Bridge. The House was convulsed with merriment; but Lord John took the matter so seriously that a new distribution of government offices had to be made at once, with great indifference to the convenience of the parties displaced, and the Presidency of the Council was the salve with which the wounded dignity of the Great Unemployed was healed. This was In the same high rank with Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli, as a public speaker, Mr. Bright has undoubtedly a right to be placed. He does not speak nearly so often in Parliament as either, but his style of oratory, either there or at public meetings, abstracted from the subject-matter of his speeches, is as worthy of admiration and imitation as almost any model in our language. As distinguished from Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Bright's best efforts have more of Demosthenic power and concentration than of Ciceronian copiousness and finish. His English is pure, terse, nervous, and masculine, clothing earnest thoughts SUPPOSED TO BE HAUNTED. EVERYBODY said that Mr. and Mrs. Langworth, in marrying each other, had done the most foolish of all the foolish things which fate had put within their power. Their united ages were little over forty, and their united incomes nothing over four hundred; and everybody said that they might have been rich asunder, had they not been so anxious to be happy together. He, a gentleman in the civil service, might have married into a family who could have made his promotion rapid and easy; she, a decided beauty, might have won a husband who could have lodged her in Belgravia. The Langworths had been married over twenty years, when, lo and behold! a great-aunt of Mr. Langworth's, who had railed against his marriage more bitterly than any one else, left him (at her death) a fortune little under fifty thousand pounds. Of course it brought them much joy; but also some anxiety. For one thing: should they live in town, as hitherto? or, as they had very often said they would do, in the improbable event of their becoming rich, retire into the country? Much was to be said on either side. They had grown accustomed to London, and in London were their most cherished friends. And Mr. Langworth's official income, now five hundred a year, was worth keeping, even with their newly-acquired wealth. On the other hand, the young people (there were four or five, I forget which) were all anxious for the country; and in the country the parents had passed their early days. Knowing how many retired rich men have rued the day when they quitted London and its toils, Mr. Langworth determined on giving the country a fair trial, still leaving open the chance of returning to his occupation in town. He obtained three months' leave of absence from his office. Saturday From his narrow means he had hitherto had few one. holidays, and had much claim to indulgence. Then he set about inquiring for a remote country house, in which, with his family, he might pass the vacant time, and put to the test the (possibly) exaggerated attractions of a rural life. -- The solicitor whom he consulted said he supposed Mr. Langworth would wish the house he took to be within easy distance of the metropolis. "No, not by any means," said the client. "Observe! I want- we all want- to give the country a fair trial. To do that, we had better take a rather out-of-the-way place: seven miles from a market-town would be just as well." "Are you particular about rent?" “Why yes-I am. People have been ruined, ere now, by inheriting a fortune, and got to fancy that they had Aladdin's lamp! That, I am resolved, shall never be our case. I want-not a mansion, but such a house as, if we do decide for the country, we shall buy or build for ourselves." 66 Well, I do know of a house, in which you might live for three months, and longer, I dare say, if you choose, for nothing." "Hem! How much is nothing'?” "I mean, literally, nothing. When I tell you the name of the house you'll not think it quite so surprising. It's Garrow Hall." "What! the Garrow Hall?" "The same, and no other. Ever since the murder no one has lived there. It belongs to the sister of the former owner, and the supposed murderer. You remember the case, of course? Many people | would have paid a hundred a year for it; for it 's a very good house, in a very pretty country, and not seven miles from a town; but there's no getting servants to live there. And poor Miss Durham would be only too grateful to any one who, by living there for a time, would dissipate all the superstition attaching to it. You can't wonder that she does n't like to live in it herself. All the village people say it's haunted; and have, of course, twenty thousand stories of what has been seen and heard about it at night, and such stuff. You, of course, could bring your servants from London. You'll find the house in very good order; for, with such prejudices against it, of course it was necessary to give it the benefit of all possible attractions. But even the old people who take care of it in the daytime would n't stay during the night; not, I do believe, if by so doing they might make it their own." After a little more talk, Mr. Langworth agreed that application should be made for a three months' tenancy of the house. Not to lose time, he would himself travel down at once into Somersetshire (Garrow Hall was in that county), and arrange for the reception of his family. "You'll find a comfortable bedroom all ready, I know," said the lawyer. "The only hardship is having to sleep in the house alone; but you 're not nervous, I am aware. Only, my dear sir, be sure and get there a few hours before dark; for should it be night when you get there, why, you might offer all your aunt's money to induce somebody to go to the Hall with you, and I don't think you'd get any one to do it. I don't, upon my word and honor, I don't." Garrow Hall was known by name to many Englishmen who had never so much as heard the names of Windsor Castle or St. James's Palace. The horrible tragedy which had given it such a reputation was, at that time, fresh in the memory of every But even crimes are forgotten at last; and, for those who read the singular adventures to be shortly recorded, it may be needful to recall the events which had given Garrow its dark and fearful celebrity. Some three or four years before Mr. Langworth's accession to fortune, Garrow Hall had been tenanted, as well as owned, by a Mr. Nicholas Durham, brother of the lady mentioned above. Attached to the house was an estate, yielding some sixteen or eighteen hundred a year, which came to Mr. Durham through his mother, the heiress of the Garrow family, a family of great antiquity, but now no longer so wealthy or so important as they had once. been. Nicholas and his sister had been born in India, in which country their mother had also died. Nicholas had married well. Fortunately, as was then thought, he possessed an estate independently of his father, who was generally believed to be partly, if not wholly, dependant on him for a main tenance. At the date of his marriage he was just nine-andtwenty years of age. His maternal grandfather, who had in great measure brought him up, and from whom he inherited Garrow, had died only a year or two before. His sister Emily, left with a small annuity, lived mostly with her father on the Continent. Nicholas and his wife had been united some six or seven months, and as far as was afterwards ascertained by strictest inquiry, had lived on most affectionate terms. It wanted a week to Christmas day. A party of friends were to keep Christmas at Garrow, but as yet the husband and wife were entirely alone. On the fatal day, the 18th of December, Mr. Durham dined with his wife at six o'clock, their ordinary hour, and behaved as usual at dinner. When without company, it was their habit to occupy the dining-room for the whole evening; and they did so on this occasion. These, and other particulars, to which the coming event imparted a fearful interest, were all given in evidence by the servant who waited on them at table. The same servant deposed, that by his nearest guess, the hour was half past seven when a ring summoned him to the front door. He opened it to admit a tall gentleman, with black whiskers and moustaches, and whose age, to all appearance, was between forty and fifty. The gentleman asked to see Mr. Durham, and was about to put a card into his hand (so he thought), when his master came out from the dining-room in person. The man thought Mr. Durham's face expressed some annoyance at the visit; he, however, invited the stranger to enter the library, which they did both together. About ten minutes later - -(the pantry in which he was at work was close to the hall) - he heard his master cross back from the library to the dining-room, and return, accompanied by his wife, to the former apartment. He thought it could not be more than five minutes after that ere the bell summoned him into the library. He answered it at once, but found his master and mistress, with the stranger, already in the hall. That there was some dispute going on between Mr. Durham and his wife a glance made clear to him. To all appearance, her husband was trying to persuade Mrs. Durham to something which she firmly, almost angrily, refused. As the witness entered the hall he heard her say, "I owe the duty to another, and I will not consent to it," or words persuasion, the objections of his daughter-in-law. | See, 't is no foot of unfamiliar men To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays! The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? This winter-eve is warm, The knowledge that what his son refused his daughter would freely give him must have prompt- Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, ed him (furnished with arms as he was) to the dou-Up past the wood, to where the elm-tree crowns ble murder. When supposed to have quitted the house, he had, in fact, while the door was already open to give him egress, persuaded his son to make one effort more to soften his wife in his supposed absence. His passion for assuming a youthful look greatly served him at a time when to have been tracked through the neighborhood of Garrow would have been so perilous to him. When he returned to his daughter at Baden, she, while persuaded of her brother's innocence, had not the faintest suspicion of her father; not knowing that he had ever been farther than London. Her first inkling of it was brought to her mind by certain dreadful expressions, which escaped him as he slept (which he frequently did), while they sat together in the evening. And then the horrid idea received confirmation from a number of circumstances, great and small. That he would be slow to injure her she was very well assured, for towards her he was not without a certain selfish affection; besides, her death would deprive him of all possible benefit from the Garrow property. She offered to settle on him an annuity, independently of her own control, if on his side he would write and let her deposit at Garrow Hall a confession of his own guilt and his son's complete innocence. He won her consent to his writing it in such a manner as not to be at once apparent to every casual reader. She contrived to have it placed in the library, as we have seen already. Then she separated herself from her father, who, dreading a discovery, and persuaded that she would never bring him herself to justice, and knowing that his annuity was secure, hastened over to England, before she could arrive, to recover and destroy the paper which might yet bear witness against him. This was in April. In the end of June he actually died. The cipher (Miss Durham now explained) consisted in substituting for every letter the letter immediately preceding it in the alphabet. Miss Durham lives still at Garrow. That she will ever take a husband I do not think very probable; though her wise benevolence and gentle virtues have done very much to chase away the awful associations which attach to her home and kindred. The Langworths flourish still, in a house which, as long as they inhabit it, will, I am very confident, on no account be ever "supposed to be haunted." THYRSIS. A MONODY, TO COMMEMORATE THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND, Who died at Florence, 1861.* How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! * Throughout this Poem there is reference to another piece, The Scholar-Gypsy, printed in the first volume of the author's Poems. Humid the air; leafless, yet soft as spring, Against the west- I miss it! is it gone? Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! And with the country-folk acquaintance made My pipe is lost, my shepherd's-holiday. Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy Into the world and wave of men depart; It irked him to be here, he could not rest. He Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. knew, which made him droop, and filled his head. He went; his piping took a troubled sound So, some tempestuous morn in early June, - Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star. He hearkens not! light comer, he is gone! And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see; See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, And blow a strain the world at last shall heed, For Time, not Corydon, hath conquered thee. Alack, for Corydon no rival now! But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Some good survivor with his flute would go, And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, And make leap up with joy the beauteous head O easy access to the hearer's grace, But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirred; And we should tease her with our plaint in vain. Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour In the old haunt, and find our tree-topped hill! I know what white, what purple fritillaries Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields; And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; Where thick the cowslips grew, and, far descried, High towered the spikes of purple orchises, Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team, And only in the hidden brookside gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. Where is the girl, who, by the boatman's door, Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among, We tracked the shy Thames shore? Yes, thou art gone, and round me too the Night I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with gray; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; And hope, once crushed, less quick to spring again. And long the way appears, which seemed so short To the unpractised eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare. Unbreachable the fort Of the long-battered world uplifts its wall; I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno vale, (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale,) Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our Tree is there!- And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's train divine There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here, That lonely Tree against the western sky. Our Gypsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! Woods with anemonies in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, This does not come with houses or with gold, Out of the heed of mortals is he gone, Thou too, O Thyrsis, on this quest wert bound, Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat It failed, and thou wert mute. Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, Left human haunt, and on alone till night. Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis, in reach of sheep-bells is my home. Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar, Let in thy voice a whisper often come, To chase fatigue and fear : Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died. Roam on; the light we sought is shining still. hill, Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. MATTHEW ARNOLD. |