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habits, which were very quaint and captivating in their way; and,3 all unconscious as she was of Colin's views in respect to Church reformation, Alice was "the means," as she herself would have said, of introducing some edifying customs among the young people of the parish, which she and they were equally unaware were capable of having been interpreted to savour of papistry had the power and inclinations of the Presbytery been in good exercise as of old. As for Colin, he was tamed down in his revolutionary intentions without knowing how. A man who has given hostages to society, who has married a wife, and especially a wife who does not know anything about his crotchets, and never can understand why the bishop (seeing that there certainly is a bishop in the kingdom of Fife, though few people pay any attention to him) does not come to Lafton and confirm the catechumens, is scarcely in a position to throw himself headlong upon the established order of things and prove its futility. No. L of the "Tracts for the Times" got printed certainly, but it was in an accidental sort of way, and, though it cannot be said to have been without its use, still the effect was transitory, in consequence of the want of continuous effort. No doubt it made a good deal of sensation in the Scotch papers, where, as such of the readers of this history as live north of the Tweed may recollect, there appeared at one time a flood of letters signed by parish ministers on this subject. But then, to be sure, it came into the minds of sundry persons that the Church of Scotland had thoughts of going back to the ante-Laudian times in robes of penitence, to beg a prayer-book from her richer sister—which was not altogether Colin's intention, and roused his national spirit. For we have already found it necessary to say that the young man, notwitHstanding that ho had many gleams of insight, did not always know what he would be at, or what it was precisely that he wanted. What he wanted, perhaps, was to be catholic and

himself up in a corner, and preach himself and his people to death, as he once said. He wanted to keep the Christian feasts, and say the universal prayers, and link the sacred old observances with the daily life of his dogmatical congregation, which preferred logic. All this, however, he pursued in a milder way after that famous journey to Windermere, upon which he had set out like a lion, and from which he returned home like a lamb. For it would be painful to think that this faithful but humble history should have awakened any terrors in the heart of the Church of Scotland in respect to the revolutionary in her bosom; and it is pleasant to be able to restore the confidence to a certain extent of the people and presbyters of that venerable corporation. Colin is there, and no doubt he has his work to do in the world; but he is married and subdued, and goes about it quietly like a man who understands what interests are involved; and up to the present moment he has resisted the urgent appeals of a younger brotherhood, who have arisen since these events. to continue the publication of the " Tracts for the Times."

It is at this point that we leave Colin, who has entered on a period of his life which is as yet unfinished, and accordingly is not yet matter for history. Some people, no doubt, may be disposed to ask, being aware of the circumstances of his marriage, whether ho was happy in his new position. He was as happy as most people are ; and, if he was not perfectly happy, no unbiassed judge can refuse to acknowledge that it was his own fault. He was young, full of genius, full of health, with the sweetest little woman in the kingdom of Fife, as many people thought, for his wife, and not even the troublesome interpellations of that fantastic woman in the clouds to disturb his repose. She had waved her hand to him for the last time from among the rosy clouds on the night before his marriage day; for if a man's marriage is good for anything, it is surely good against the visitings of a visionary self when she had full time and opportunity to do so. And let nobody suppose that Colin kept a cupboard with a skeleton in it to retire to for his private delectation when Alice was sleeping, as it is said some people have a habit of doing. There was no key of that description under his pillow; and yet, if you will know the truth, there was a key, but not of Bluebeard's kind—it was a key that opened the innermost chamber, the watch-tower and citadel of his heart. So far from shutting it up from Alice, he had done all that tender affection could do to coax her in, to watch the stars with him and ponder their secrets; but Alice had no vocation

for that sort of recreation. And the fact was, that from time to time Colin went in and shut the door behind him, and was utterly alone underneath the distant wistful skies. When he came out, perhaps his countenance now and then was a little sad; and perhaps he did not see so clear as he might have done under other circumstances. For Colin, like Lauderdale, believed in the quattr' occhi—the four eyes that see a landscape at its broadest and heaven at its nearest. But then a man can live without that last climax of existence when everything else is going on well in his life.

SPRING FANCIES.

I.

Cone were but the winter,
Come were but the spring,

I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing
Ding-ding, ding-a-ding.

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth the thrush,

And the robin sings
In a holly bush
With his breast ablush.

Full of fresh scents

Are the budding boughs,

Arching high over
A cool green house,
Where doves coo the arouse.

There the sun shineth

Most shadily; There sounds an echo

Of the far sea,

Though far off it be. [

Ii. All the world is out in leaf,

Half the world in flower; Faint the rainbow comes and goes

Earth has waited weeks and weeks
For this special hour.

All the world is making love;

Bird to bird in bushes,
Beast to beast in glades, and frog

To frog among the rushes:
Wake, O south-wind sweet with spice,

Wake the rose to blushes.

All the world is full of change;

To morrow may be dreary:
Life breaks forth to right and left,

Pipe the wood-notes cheery:
Nevertheless there lie the dead

Fast asleep and weary.

m. If it's weary work to live,

It will rest us to lie dead, With a stone at the tired feet

And a stone at the tired head.

In the waxing April days

Half the world will stir and sing: But half the world will slug and rot

For all the sap of spring.

Christina G. Rossettl IV. OP A WHITE UMBRELLA.

ESSAYS AT ODD TIMES.

At this season of frost and snow, it is pleasant to me to look upon an old white umbrella which stands in a corner of my study. Not that there is aught very attractive in the thing per se. It is merely one of those contrivances which sketchers use for warding off the glare of the sun from the paper they are drawing on. Having a jointed stick some five or six feet long, it can be stuck in the ground over the artist's camp stool, and thus form a sort of small moveable tent under which he can pursue his work throughout the long summer's day on Welsh mountain or by Devonshire trout-stream. I dare say the reader has often seen the thing I am describing at Lynmouth or about Snowdonia. In the neighbourhood of Bettws-y-Coed they are as plentiful as blackberries. But some of the happiest days of my life have been spent under that white umbrella; and the sight of it brings them back to me in all their freshness. I seem to hear the murmur of the sea, and the lapse of the brook over its pebbly bed. I see once more the wild, desolate moorland stretched before me, strewn with blocks of mosspatched slate-rock, such as Harding only could draw. I am afloat on the still lake again, fly-fishing from a leaky boat, in the dewy morning, or at the calm twilight hour when the red light dies out of the west, and the cold shadows deepen upon the mountains. That white umbrella brings all these things clearly before me. The scent of the heather still lingers in its calico; and, to parody Mr. Kingsley's verse, "The wind rattles hoarse through its whalebones."

And herein chiefly lies the value of his sketches to the amateur artist. It is not that as works of art they have any intrinsic worth of their own. Indeed,

of the professional artist to a critical eye! But the relative value of the amateur's sketches is very great to him. From the mere fact of having sat down for three or four hours of successive days to study a certain bit of nature, that scene is impressed upon his memory for ever. He can summon it at will before "the mind's eye." He has made himself acquainted with all its peculiarities. He has seen it probably under its different aspects of calm and storm. His art has taught him to see and to recollect. So that, if the contents of his portfolios are feeble,—

"Yet doth Remembrance, like a sovereign prince, For him a stately gallery maintain Of pleasant pictures."

You do not know, in fact, what a mountain is till you have sketched it. You do not know what a tree is till you have copied its branches one by one, as they spring from the parent trunk, and have noticed how, like living things (as indeed they are), they push forward to the blessed light, yet not hurtfully to each other, as men and women would under like circumstances, but each one using his own little modicum of free space to extend himself prudently and unaggressively to the light and air which are to feed him, and how marvellously the gap made by the dying of one limb is filled up immediately by a dozen others, who accommodate themselves, I fear, as pleasantly and selfishly as human creatures do, to the vacant promotion which a death has caused. In fact, my friendly reader, you know nothing about the life of a tree, its struggles, its successes, and its failures, till you have tried to sketch it upon paper—it matters not how clumsily, if only with something of reflection, and of sympathy with its nature.

Sketching from nature then is to the self when she had full time and opportunity to do so. And let nobody suppose that Colin kept a cupboard with a skeleton in it to retire to for his private delectation when Alice was sleeping, as it is said some people have a habit of doing. There was no key of that description under his pillow; and yet, if you will know the truth, there was a key, but not of Bluebeard's kind—it was a key that opened the innermost chamber, the watch-tower and citadel of his heart. So far from shutting it up from Alice, he had done all that tender affection could do to coax her in, to watch the stars with him and ponder their secrets; but Alice had no vocation

for that sort of recreation. And the fact was, that from time to time Colin went in and shut the door behind him, and was utterly alone underneath the distant wistful skies. 'When he came out, perhaps his countenance now and then was a little sad; and perhaps he did not see so clear as he might have done under other circumstances. For Colin, like Lauderdale, believed in the quattr' occhi—the four eyes that see a landscape at its broadest and heaven at its nearest. But then a man can live without that last climax of existence when everything else is going on well in his life.

SPRING FANCIES.

I.

Gone were but the winter,
Come were but the spring,

I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing
Ding-ding, ding-a-ding.

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth the thrush,

And the robin sings
In a holly bush
With his breast ablush.

Full of fresh scents

Are the budding boughs,

Arching high over
A cool green house,
Where doves coo the arouse.

There the sun shineth

Most shadily; There sounds an echo

Of the far sea,

Though far off it be.'

n. All the world is out in leaf,

Half the world in flower; Faint the rainbow comes and goes

Earth has waited weeks and weeks
For this special hour.

All the world is making love;

Bird to bird in bushes,
Beast to beast in glades, and frog

To frog among the rushes:
Wake, O south-wind sweet with spice,

Wake the rose to blushes.

All the world is full of change;

To morrow may be dreary:
Life breaks forth to right and left,

Pipe the wood-notes cheery:
Nevertheless there lie the dead

Fast asleep and weary.

in. If it's weary work to live,

It will rest us to lie dead, With a stone at the tired feet

And a stone at the tired head.

In the waxing April days

Half the world will stir and sing: But half the world will slug and rot

For all the sap of sprmg.

Christina G. Rossetti. IV. OP A WHITE UMBRELLA.

ESSAYS AT ODD TIMES.

At this season of frost and snow, it is pleasant to me to look upon an old white umbrella which stands in a corner of my study. Not that there is aught very attractive in the thing per «e. It is merely one of those contrivances which sketchers use for warding off the glare of the sun from the paper they are drawing on. Having a jointed stick some five or six feet long, it can be stuck in the ground over the artist's camp stool, and thus form a sort of small moveable tent under which he can pursue his work throughout the long summer's day on Welsh mountain or by Devonshire trout-stream. I dare say the reader has often seen the thing I am describing at Lynmouth or about Snowdonia. In the neighbourhood of Bettws-y-Coed they are as plentiful as blackberries. But some of the happiest days of my life have been spent under that white umbrella; and the sight of it brings them back to me in all their freshness. I seem to hear the murmur of the sea, and the lapse of the brook over its pebbly bed. I seo once more the wild, desolate moorland stretched before me, strewn with blocks of mosspatched slate-rock, such as Harding only could draw. I am afloat on the still lake again, fly-fishing from a leaky boat, in the dewy morning, or at the calm twilight hour when the red light dies out of the west, and the cold shadows deepen upon the mountains. That white umbrella brings all these things clearly before me. The scent of the heather still lingers in its calico; and, to parody Mr. Kingsley's verse, "The wind rattles hoarse through its whalebones."

And herein chiefly lies the value of his sketches to the amateur artist. It is not that as works of art they have any intrinsic worth of their own. Indeed,

of the professional artist to a critical eye! But the relative value of the amateur's sketches is very great to him. From the mere fact of having sat down for three or four hours of successive days to study a certain bit of nature, that scene is impressed upon his memory for ever. He can summon it at will before "the mind's eye." He has made himself acquainted with all its peculiarities. He has seen it probably under its different aspects of calm and storm. His art has taught him to see and to recollect. So that, if the contents of his portfolios are feeble,—

"Yet doth Remembrance, like a sovereign prince, For him a stately gallery maintain Of pleasant pictures."

You do not know, in fact, what a mountain is till you have sketched it. You do not know what a tree is till you have copied its branches one by one, as they spring from the parent trunk, and have noticed how, like living things (as indeed they are), they push forward to the blessed light, yet not hurtfully to each other, as men and women would under like circumstances. but each one using his own little modicum of free space to extend himself prudently and unaggressively to the light and air which are to feed him, and how marvellously the gap made by the dying of one limb is filled wp immediately by a dozen others, who accommodate themselves, I fear, as pleasantly and selfishly as human creatures do, to the vacant promotion which a death has caused. In fact, my friendly reader, you know nothing about the life of a tree, its struggles, its successes, and its failures, till you have tried to sketch it upon paper—it matters not how clumsily, if only with something of reflection, and of sympathy with its nature.

Sketching from nature then is to the

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