called away in haste; for he had seen a gentleman come in and accompany her down stairs immediately after. "What sort of person?" I asked, "what appearance ? " "He is lame, Sir, and wears a moustache." I endeavoured to recollect if I knew any man answering to that description; and, improbable as the conjecture was, I could think only of my old antagonist Leyster, who had been lame, I knew, ever since I wounded him. If it were really Leyster, then there must be some strange and capricious mystery in the affair; but there was no direct medium through which I could obtain any information. I thought of it all that night, in a state of distraction and mystification, and the morning found me in the same uncertainty. I was still tormenting myself with a variety of conjectures, when I received a bed-side visit from O'Mahony, who came, in a state of the happiest excitement, to report progress. He had actually, as he had told me, opened his mind and made a full confession to Mrs. De Vere on the preceding evening; he had begged her to ascertain Monimia's sentiments, which he had not the courage, himself, to test; he had received the animating assurance that his pretensions would be favourably regarded; and after satisfying himself of that fact, had written at once to Mr. Dillon, and wanted to know what he was to do with himself during the interval until he should receive an answer. Occasions will occur, sometimes, when we would just as soon that our friends would refrain from tantalizing us with announcements of their good fortune. It is rather the reverse of soothing to see another man effervescing like a flask of Epernay, when one's own spirits are flat and sour as a cruet of vinegar. "And what the deuce"-said I-"do you come to me for?-By Jove! I should say that a man who has managed his own affairs so handily and gone so far ahead in two or three weeks, cannot want much help or advice from me. I don't think, either, O'Mahony, that it's quite fair for you to come to laugh at an unfortunate devil like me." Oh, well-hang it!" said he, "you needn't fly in a rage, you know. I thought you seemed to feel some interest in the matter, and I just looked in to tell you-good morning!-if you can let me know when you expect to be in better humour, I'll call in again." Stop!-come back!" I cried, springing out of bed and seizing him by the coat. "No! you shan't go away. There! wait until I tell you what has happened. Here! you have not breakfasted I know. You can wet the tea while I'm dressing, and make it strong, like a decent fellow; for my nerves are not particularly quiescent." "And you want to find out," said he, rising to go away, in about an hour after, and making a lunge with his cane at some imaginary antagonist on the middle of the floor, "where's she's gone to? Perhaps she's not gone at all.” "Why, bless me !" said I, "something must have happened." "Most likely," said he, as he parried a visionary assault, "one of the lap dogs was taken sick-does she keep dogs?" "No!" I answered sulkily and seriously, "she does not keep-dogs!" "Well then," he continued, advancing to the chimney-glass, and deliberately arranging his ringlets, "if it wasn't one of the ch, Oh! I forgot; she has none of them either," "O'Mahony," said I, "it appears to me that you came here this morning with the fiendlike intention of driving me mad." “Well then,” said he, thrusting at my ribs with the stick, while I seized the poker to defend myself; "I'll go this moment and find out all about it—will that do? And, when I come back-say about three o'clock-you can be ready to come with me to Leeson-street. Mrs. De Vere wants to see you particularly, and Monimia thinks you intend to cut their acquaintance altogether." So saying, he went away, to my great relief; and left me alone with my ill-humour. "He's just gone!" said my tormentor, returning punctually at the appointed hour. "Who ?" said I. gone to ?" "What d'ye mean?-Who's gone?-Where is he "See here, McMurrogh," he answered, "things are coming to a crisis at last. When I went up, it was too early for any civilized human being to make a visit, and so I had to manufacture an excuse. I wish to inquire, I said, how Lady Leyster is this morning. I understand that she left the theatre, unwell, last night. My lady is quite well, Sir, was the answer, and is on her way to London. She was called home last night, Sir, by a sudden message from Sir William, and left this morning with Captain Leyster. I hope 'tis nothing disagreeable, said I; for I was afraid it might be a reconciliation. No, Sir, said the fellowcandidly enough-only that he has been despaired of, and wished to see her once more, and part good friends." This intelligence, tho' it broke the monotony of expectation, was but an indifferent anodyne to suspense. The truth was, indeed, that I had been, now so long, regarding the possibility of our ever being both free, as a thing so imaginary, so infinitely too good to be ever a reality, that I scarcely ventured to expect it from the wildest and most arbitrary caprice of fortune; and now that the question seemed to be approaching a decision, the interval-long or short-presented itself as a frightful ordeal. In the meantime, however, other cares-as engrossing as they were unexpected-interposed to benumb the pain of suspense. On our arrival at Mrs. De Vere's, we found that O'Mahony had been unconsciously prophetic when he said that things were coming to a crisis. There were some trunks in the hall, evidently made up for travelling. The servants appeared unusually on the alert, moving about swiftly and silently, with grave and clouded faces. They looked so gloomy and mysterious and alarmed, that we forbore to make any inquiry, and pursued our way, unquestioned and unquestioning, to the drawing-room. There we waited alone for some time, and when Mrs. De Vere entered the room, she looked so frightfully pale and worn-for she had evidently forgotten her complexion that morning-that, if I had met her anywhere else, I should certainly have passed her as a stranger. There was no appearance of her usual smile; and her voice was scarcely audible. "You are surprised at all this," she said, "but we have just learned that Mr. Dillon is so dangerously unwell, that it is necessary for Monimia and me to go down immediately. You will find her below stairs somewhere," she added, turning to O'Mahony: and when, upon that hint, he left the room. "Poor young man!" she said, laying her hand upon my arm, 'he does not know yet all that I mentioned to you -I had not courage to tell him—and Monimia too, poor child, I have not told her the worst-I must break it to her on the journey; and it is an awful trial for me to have to do it." "You don't mean," said I, that Mr. Dillon ". "Yes, yes! !" she said, giving way to her sorrow,” He is gone! the self-tormentor is at peace-the heart that has lived through those long years of proud and silent agony, is still at last!" [TO BE CONTINUED.] $4 'Merope" and Matthew Arnold. Ir is now nine years since a small volume with the title of "The Strayed Reveller and other Poems, by A.," was published. The author was for a time unknown, and little effort was made to recognise the hand that wrote. We, ourselves, became warmly attached to several pieces, without dreaming who the author was. Every element of the highest order of poetry was in the book. Passion, genuine conception of life, grand imaginative painting, exquisitely told story, and purity of style that delighted the more as we became familiar with it. So it was with the second volume, which appeared three years later, entitled "Empedocles on Etna, and other Poems," still with the uncertain signature "A." This volume corresponded so much with the former, that those who had adopted "The Strayed Reveller," eagerly read "Empedocles." This too was miscellaneous in its character, but delighted more from the still higher growth of the poet's mind; from the correctness and classic beauty of the style, and from the purely intellectual emotions that were aroused. Here, said everyone, is true poetry; here is the highest culture of the mind blended with exquisite enjoyment of everything innocent, beautiful, and happy. Here was a fulfilment of Lord Bacon's description-"Poetry has something divine in it, because it raises the mind and hurries it into sublimity, by conforming the shows of things to the desires of the soul, instead of subjecting the soul to external things, as reason and history do." The most marked characteristics of A.'s habits of thought, as evidenced in these volumes, were deep feeling without affectation; a disciplined and chastened taste, a style formed upon ancient Hellenic models; and an attachment for artistic rather than natural song; thus the subjects mostly prominent are connected with classic legends or historic incidents; while the utterances of the author's own emotions are fewer in number. This classic element is the virtue of A.'s poems. We had for a long time "strayed" into other paths, and "revelled " in the emotional alone. "Poetry," says Milton, "should be simple, sensuous, and passionate." It gives beauty, truth, earnestness, vigour, and energy to life. It appeals to the immaterial element in man's character that cannot be appreciated by accountants-that no science of quantities will ever measure. And A.'s poetry did this and more. It brought before us the old classic models; it familiarised the lover of English verse with the beauties of Grecian construction; it taught the thousands who cannot read Homer and Sophocles in the original, where their beauties lie. It did for English versification all that a mind, thoroughly imbued with classic knowledge and strong attachment to the classic masters, could do. Whatever was necessary to fulfil Milton's conditions as to true poetry, was to be found in A.'s sonnets, and more especially in the other poems of the "Strayed Reveller" and "Empedocles." We have spoken so far our feelings with respect to the Poetry of A., as we first became familiar with it. In 1853 the author threw off his incog, and the public found that in A. they had made acquaintance with Matthew Arnold, son of the most classic and healthy historian of our day, the late master of Rugby. Besides the declaration of his name, Mr. Arnold, in this edition, entered vigorously into a discussion of the merits of Ancient and Modern Poetry. It is upon this ground that the critic must meet him; but to do this with any advantage, he must be as familiar with the poetry of Homer and Sophocles, Eschylus and Virgil, as is Mr. Arnold. We, therefore, propose merely allowing Mr. Arnold, to expound his views and illustrate them from his own poems. "Poetry," says Shelley, "lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar. It reproduces all that it represents; and the impersonations clothed in its Elysian light stand thenceforward in the minds of those who have once contemplated them, as memorials of that gentle and exalted content which extends itself over all thoughts and actions with which it co-exists. The great secret of morals is love, or, going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively: he must put himself in the place of another, and of many others: the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is imagina. tion; and poetry administers to the effect by acting upon the cause." "The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; The madman. While the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heav'n to earth, from earth to heav'n ; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination." |