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ings when going and returning. In the one case -for I hated school-it seemed to frown darkly on me, and from that spot the remainder of the way was dull and gloomy; in the other case, the sun seemed always glinting on it, and the rest of the road was as a fair avenue that leads to paradise. The innkeeper received us with equal hospitality on both occasions, and it was quite evident did not care one farthing in which direction we were tending. He would stand in front of his house, jingling his money-our money-in his pockets, and watch us depart with the greatest serenity, whether we went east or west. I thought him at one time the most genial of Bonifaces (for it was his profession to wear a smile), and at another a mere mocker of human woe. When I grew up, I perceived that he was a philosopher.

And now I keep the Midway Inn myself, and watch from the hilltop the passengers come and go-some loath, some willing, like myself of old -and listen to their talk in the coffee-room; or sometimes in a private parlor, where, though they speak low and gravely, their converse is still unrestrained, because, you see, I am the landlord.

Sometimes they speak of death and the hereafter, of which the child they buried yesterday knows more than the wisest of them, and more than Shakespeare knew. The being totally ignorant of the subject does not indeed (as you may perhaps have observed in other matters) deter some of them from speaking of it with great confidence; but the views of a minority would quite surprise you, and this minority is growing-coming to majority. Every day I see an increase of the doubters. It is not a question of the orthodox and the infidel, you must understand, at all, though that is assuming great proportions; but there is every day more uncertainty among them, and, what is much more noteworthy, more dissatisfaction.

Years ago, when a hardy Cambridge scholar dared to publish his doubts of an eternal punishment overtaking the wicked, an orthodox professor of the same college took him (theologically) by the throat. "You are destroying," he cried, "the hope of the Christian." But this is not the hope I speak of (as loosing and losing its hold upon men's minds); I mean the real hope, the hope of heaven.

When I used to go to church-for my Inn is too far removed from it to admit of my attendance there nowadays-matters were very different. Heaven and hell were, in the eyes not only of our congregation, but of those who hung about the doors in the summer sun, or even played leapfrog over the gravestones, as distinct alternatives as the east and west highways on each side of my Inn. If you did not go one way, you must

go the other; and, not only so, but an immense desire was felt by very many to go in the right direction. Now I perceive it is not so. A considerable number of highway passengers, though even they are less numerous than of old, are still studious—that is, in their aspirations to avoid taking (shall I say delicately) the lower road; but only a few, comparatively, are solicitous to reach the goal of the upper.

Let me once more observe that I am speaking of the ordinary passengers-those who travel by the mail. Of the persons who are convinced that there never was an Architect of the universe, and that man sprang from the mollusk, I know little or nothing: they mostly travel two and two, in gigs, and have quarreled so dreadfully on the way that, at the Inn, they don't speak to one another. The commonalty, I repeat, are losing their hopes of heaven, just as the grownup schoolboy finds his paradise no more in home. I can remember when divines were never tired of painting the lily, of indulging in the most glowing descriptions of the Elysian Fields. A popular artist once drew a picture of them: "The Plains of Heaven" it was called, and the painter's name was Martin. If he were to do so now, the public (who are vulgar) would exclaim “Betty Martin.” Not that they disbelieve in it, but that the attractions of the place are dying out, like those of Bath and Cheltenham.

Of course some blame attaches to the divines themselves, that things have come to such a pass. "I protest," says a great philosopher, "that I never enter a church, but the man in the pulpit talks so unlike a man, as though he had never known what human joys or sorrows are—so carefully avoids every subject of interest save one, and paints that in colors at once so misty and so meretricious—that I say to myself, I will never sit under him again." This may, of course, be only an ingenious excuse of his for not going to church; but there is really something in it. The angels, with their harps, on clouds, are now presented to the eyes, even of faith, in vain; they are still appreciated on canvas by an old master, but to become one of them is no longer the common aspiration. There is a suspicion, partly owing, doubtless, to the modern talk about the dignity and even the divinity of Labor, that they ought to be doing something else than (as the American poet puts it with characteristic irreverence) "loafing about the throne"; that we ourselves, with no ear perhaps for music, and with little voice (alas !) for praise, should take no pleasure in such avocations. It is not the skeptics-though their influence is getting to be considerable-who have wrought this change, but the conditions of modern life. Notwithstanding the cheerful "returns" as to pauperism, and the

glowing speeches of our Chancellors of the Exchequer, these conditions are far harder, among the thinking classes, than they were. The question of "Is life worth living?" is one that concerns philosophers and metaphysicians, and not the persons I have in my mind at all; but the question, "Do I wish to be out of it?" is one that is getting answered very widely-and in the affirmative. This was certainly not the case in the days of our grandsires. Which of them ever read those lines

"For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?"without a sympathetic complacency? This may not have been the best of all possible worlds to them, but none of them wished to exchange it, save at the proper time, and for the proper place. Thanks to overwork, and still more to overworry, it is not so now. There are many prosperous persons in rude health, of course, who will ask (with a virtuous resolution that is sometimes to be deplored), "Do you suppose, then, that I wish to cut my throat?" I certainly do not. Do not let us talk of cutting throats; though, mind you, the average of suicides, so admirably preserved by the Registrar-General and other painstaking persons, is not entirely to be depended upon. You should hear the doctors at my Inn (in the intervals of their abuse of their professional brethren) discourse upon this topic on that overdose of chloral which poor B. took, and on that injudicious self-application of chloroform which carried off poor C." With the law in such a barbarous state in relation to self-destruction, and taking into account the feelings of relatives, there was, of course, only one way of wording the certificate, but-and then they shake their heads as only doctors can, and help themselves to port, though they know it's poison to them.

It is an old joke that annuitants live for ever, but no annuity ever had the effect of prolonging life which the assurance companies have. How many a time, I wonder, in these later years has a hand been stayed, with a pistol or "a cup of cold poison" in it, by the thought "If I do this, my family will lose the money I am insured for, besides the premiums"? This feeling is altogether different from that which causes Jeannette and Jeannot in their Paris attic to light their charcoal-fire, stop up the chinks with their love-letters, and die (very disreputably) "clasped in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace." There is not one halfpenny's worth of sentiment about it in the Englishman's case, nor are any such thoughts bred in his brain while youth is in

him. It is in our midway days, with old age touching us here and there, as autumn “lays its fiery finger on the leaves" and withers them, that we first think of it. When the weight of anxiety and care is growing on us, while the shoulders are becoming bowed (not in resignation, but in weakness) which have to bear it; when our pains are more and more constant, our pleasures few and fading, and when whatever happens, we know, must needs be for the worse-then it is that the praise of the silver hair and length of days becomes a mockery indeed.

Was it the prescience of such a state of thought, I wonder (for it certainly did not exist in their time), that caused good men of old to extol old age; as though anything could reconcile the mind of man to the time when the very sun is darkened to him, and "the clouds return after the rain"? There is a noble passage in "Hyperion" which has always seemed to me to repeat that sentiment in Ecclesiastes; it speaks of an expression in a man's face:

"As though the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its storied thunder laboring up."

This is why poor paterfamilias, sitting in the fam ily pew, is not so enamored of that idea of accomplishing those threescore years and ten which the young parson, fresh from Cambridge, is describing as such a lucky number in life's lottery. The attempt to paint it so is well-meaning, no doubt; "the vacant chaff well meant for grain"; and it is touching to see how men generally (knowing that they themselves have to go through with it) are wont to portray it in cheerful colors.

A modern philosopher even goes so far as to say that our memories in old age are always grateful to us. Our pleasures are remembered, but our pains are forgotten; "if we try to recall a physical pain," she writes (for it is a female), "we find it to be impossible." From which I gather only this for certain, that that woman never had the gout.

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The folks who come my way, indeed, seem to remember their physical ailments very distinctly, to judge by the way they talk of them; and are exceedingly apprehensive of their recurrence. Nay, it is curious to see how some old men will resent the compliments of their juniors on their state of health or appearance. Stuff and nonsense!" cried old Sam Rogers grimly; "I tell you there is no such thing as a fine old man." In a humbler walk of life I remember to have heard a similar but more touching reply. It was upon the great centenarian question raised by Mr. Thoms. An old woman in a workhouse, said to be a hundred years of age, was sent for by the Board of Guardians, to decide the point

by her personal testimony. One can imagine the half-dozen portly, prosperous figures, and the contrast their appearance offered to that of the bent and withered crone. "Now, Betty," said the chairman with unctuous patronage, "you look hale and hearty enough, yet they tell me that you are a hundred years old; is this really true?" "God Almighty knows, sir," was her reply, "but I feel a thousand."

as a tree puts forth its leaves, to be damned in both worlds?" and I notice that even the clergy who come my way, and take their weak glass of negus while the coach changes horses, no longer insist upon the point, but at the worst faintly trust the larger hope.

Notwithstanding these comparatively cheerful views upon a subject so important to all passengers on life's highway, the general feeling is,

And there are so many people nowadays who as I have said, one of profound dissatisfaction; “feel a thousand.”

It is for this reason that the gift of old age is unwished for, and the prospect of future life without encouragement. It is the modern conviction that there will be some kind of work in it; and, even though what we shall be set to do may be "wrought with tumult of acclaim," we have had enough of work. What follows, almost as a matter of course, is that the thought of possible extinction has lost its terrors. Heaven and its glories have still their charms for those who are not wearied out with toil in this life; but the slave draws for himself a far other picture of home. His is no passionate cry to be admitted into the eternal city; he murmurs sullenly, "Let me rest."

It was a favorite taunt with the skeptics of old-those early fathers of infidelity, who used to occupy themselves so laboriously with scraping at the rind of the Christian faith-that until the Cross arose men were not afraid of death. But that arrow has lost its barb. The fear of death, even among professing Christians, is now comparatively rare; I do not mean merely among dying men-in whom those who have had acquaintance with deathbeds tell us they see it scarcely ever-but with the quick and hale. Even with very ignorant persons the idea that things may be a great deal worse for us hereafter than even at present is not generally entertained as respects themselves. A clergyman who was attending a sick man in his parish expressed a hope to the wife that she took occasion to remind her husband of his spiritual condition. "Oh, yes, sir," she replied, "many and many a time have I woke him up o' nights, and cried, • John, John, you little know the torments as is preparing for you!'" But the good woman, it seems, was not disturbed by any such dire imaginings upon her own account.

Higher in the social scale, the apprehension of a Gehenna, or at all events of such a one as our forefathers almost universally believed in, is rapidly dying out. The mathematician tells us that, even as a question of numbers, "about one in ten, my good sir, by the most favorable computations," the thing is incredible; the philanthropist inquires indignantly, "Is the city Arab, then, who grows to a thief and felon as naturally

the good old notion that whatever is is right is fast disappearing; and in its place there is a doubt-rarely expressed except among the philosophers, with whom, as I have said, I have nothing to do-a secret, harassing, and unwelcome doubt respecting the divine government of the world. It is a question which the very philosophers are not likely to settle even among themselves, but it has become very obtrusive and important. Men raise their eyebrows and shrug their shoulders when it is alluded to, instead, as of old, pulverizing the audacious questioner on the spot, or even (as would have happened at a later date) putting him into Coventry; they have no opinion to offer upon the subject, or at all events do not wish to talk about it. But it is no longer, be it observed, "bad form" in a general way to do so; it is only that the topic is personally distasteful.

The once famous advocate of analogy threw a bitter seed among mankind when he suggested, in all innocence, and merely for the sake of his own argument, that, as the innocent suffered for the guilty in this world, so it might be in the world to come; and it is bearing bitter fruit. To feel aweary at the Midway Inn is bad enough; but to be journeying to no home, and perhaps even to some harsher school than we yet wot of, is indeed a depressing reflection.

Hence it comes, I think, or partly hence, that there is now no fun in the world. Wit we have, and an abundance of grim humor, which evokes anything but mirth. Nothing would astonish us in the Midway Inn so much as a peal of laughter. A great writer (though it must be confessed scarcely an amusing one), who has recently reached his journey's end, used to describe his animal spirits depreciatingly, as being at the best but vegetable spirits. And that is now the way with us all. When Charles Dickens died, it was confidently stated in a great literary journal that his loss, so far from affecting "the gayety of nations," would scarcely be felt at all; the power of rousing tears and laughter being (I suppose the writer thought) so very common. That prophecy has been by no means fulfilled. But, what is far worse than there being no humorous writers among us, the faculty of appreciating even the old ones is dying out. There is no such

thing as high spirits anywhere. It is observable, too, how very much public entertainments have increased of late-a tacit acknowledgment of dullness at home-while, instead of the lively, if somewhat boisterous, talk of our fathers, we have drawing-room dissertations on art, and dandy drivel about blue china.

There is one pleasure only that takes more and more root among us, and never seems to fail, and that is, making money. To hear the passengers at the Midway Inn discourse upon this topic, you would think they were all commercial travelers. It is most curious how the desire for pecuniary gain has infected even the idlest, who of course take the shortest cut to it by way of the racecourse. I see young gentlemen, blond and beardless, telling the darkest secrets to one another, affecting, one would think, the fate of Europe, but which in reality relate to the state of the fetlock of the brother to Boanerges. Their earnestness (which is reserved for this enthralling topic) is quite appalling. In their elders one has long been accustomed to it, but these young people should really know better. The interest excited in society by "scratchings has never been equaled since the time of the Cock Lane ghost. If men would only "lose their money and look pleasant without talking about it, I shouldn't mind; but they will make it a subject of conversation, as though every one who liked his glass of wine should converse upon "the vintages." One looks for it in business people and forgives it; but every one is now for business.

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The reverence that used to belong to Death is now only paid to it in the case of immensely rich persons, whose wealth is spoken of with bated breath. "He died, sir, worth two millions; a very warm man." If you happen to say, though with all reasonable probability and even with Holy Writ to back you, "He is probably warmer by this time," you are looked upon as a Communist. What the man was is nothing, what he made is everything. It is the gold alone that we now value: the temple that might have sanctified the gold is of no account. This worship of mere wealth has, it is true, this advantage over the old adoration of birth, that something may be possibly got out of it; to cringe and fawn upon the people that have blue blood is manifestly futile, since the peculiarity is not communicable, but it is hoped that, by being shaken up in the same social bag with millionaires, something may be attained by what is technically called the "sweating" process. So far as I have observed, however, the results are small, while the operation is to the last degree disagreeable.

What is very significant of this new sort of golden age is that a literature of its own has

arisen, though of an anomalous kind. It is preside dover by a sort of male Miss Kilmansegg, who is also a model of propriety. It is as though the dragon that guarded the apples of Hesperides should be a dragon of virtue. Under the pretense of extolling prudence and perseverance, he paints money-making as the highest good, and calls it thrift; and the popularity of this class of book is enormous. The heroes are all "self-made” men who come to town with that proverbial half-crown which has the faculty of accumulation that used to be confined to snowballs. Like the daughters of the horse-leech, their cry is "Give, give," only instead of blood they want money; and I need hardly say they get it from other people's pockets. Love and friendship are names that have lost their meaning, if they ever had any, with these gentry. They remind one of the miser of old who could not hear a large sum of money mentioned without an acceleration of the action of the heart; and perhaps that is the use of their hearts, which, otherwise, like that of the spleen in other people, must be only a subject of vague conjecture. They live abhorred and die respected; leaving all their heaped-up wealth to some charitable institution, the secretary of which levants with it eventually to the United States.

This last catastrophe, however, is not mentioned in these biographies, the subjects of which are held up as patterns of wisdom and prudence for the rising generation. I shall have left the Midway Inn, thank Heaven, for a residence of smaller dimensions, before it has grown up. Conceive an England inhabited by self-made men!

Has it ever struck you how gloomy is the poetry of the present day? This is not perhaps of very much consequence, since everybody has a great deal too much to do to permit him to read it; but how full of sighs, and groans, and passionate bewailings it is! And also how deuced difficult! It is almost as inarticulate as an Æolian harp, and quite as melancholy. There are one or two exceptions, of course, as in the case of Mr. Calverley and Mr. Locker; but even the latter is careful to insist upon the fact that, like those who have gone before us, we must all quit Piccadilly. "At present," as dear Charles Lamb writes, we have the advantage of them"; but there is no one to remind us of that now, nor is it, as I have said, the general opinion that it is an advantage.

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It is this prevailing gloom, I think, which accounts for the enormous and increasing popularity of fiction. Observe how story-telling creeps into the very newspapers (along with their professional fibbing); and, even in the magazines, how it lies down side by side with "burning questions" (such as "Is future punishment eternal ?")

like the weaned child putting its hand into the cockatrice's den. For your sake, my good fellow, who write stories [here he glowered at me compassionately], I am glad of it; but the fact is of melancholy significance. It means that people are glad to find themselves "anywhere, anywhere, out of the world," and (I must be allowed to add) they are generally gratified, for anything less like real life than what some novelists portray it is difficult to imagine.

[Here he stared at me so exceedingly hard that any one with a less heavenly temper, or who had no material reasons for putting up with it, would have taken his remark as personal and gone away.]

Another cause of the absence of good fellowship among us (he went on) is the growth of education. It sticks like a fungus to everybody, and though, it is fair to say, mostly outside, does a great deal of mischief. The scholastic interest has become so powerful that nobody dares speak a word against it; but the fact is, men are educated far beyond their wits. You can't fill any cup beyond what it will hold, and the little cups are exceedingly numerous. Boys are now crammed (with information) like turkeys (but unfortunately not killed at Christmas), and when they grow up there is absolutely no room in them

for a joke. The prigs that frequent my Midway Inn are as the sands in its hour-glass, only with no chance, alas! of their running out. The wisdom of our ancestors limited education, and very wisely, to the three R's; that is all that is necessary for the great mass of mankind; while the pick of them, with those clamping-irons well stuck to their heels, will win their way to the topmost peaks of knowledge.

At the very best—that is to say when it produces anything—what does the most costly education in this country produce in ordinary minds but the deplorable habit of classical quotation? If it could teach them to think-but that is a subject, my dear friend, into which you will scarcely follow me.

[I could have knocked his head off if he had not been so exceptionally stout and strong, and as it was I took up my hat to go, when a thought struck me.]

"Among your valuable remarks upon society as at present constituted you have said nothing, my dear sir, about the ladies."

"I never speak of anything," he replied with dignity, "which I do not thoroughly understand. Man I do know-down to his boots; but woman"-here he sighed and hesitated—“ no; I don't know nearly so much of her."

JAMES PAYN, in the Nineteenth Century.

IN RUSSIA.

CONSPIRACIES IN

I.

It has come to this at last, that he who was extolled as a "Divine Figure from the North"

ALURID light has suddenly been shed upon is now looked upon, by the best portion of his

the condition of Russia by the startling events of the last few months. Tragic deeds follow each other with bewildering swiftness. The most eccentric flight of fancy does not now suffice to gather in the full picture of the dramatic rapidity with which, in the Czar's dominions, horrors accumulate upon horror's head. Sick of a so-called "paternal government" which combines Mongol cruelty with all the deleterious subtileness of "a culture that was rotten before it had become ripe," Russian malcontents resort to a mode of warfare such as outraged human nature, in its despair, is wont to adopt against a relentless foe. Men's eyes may look in sadness upon a spectacle which has the appearance of a ghastly midnight reflex from the mythic Nibelungen Massacre. But of the fatal moving cause and connection of those acts of violence none can doubt who keeps in mind the course that has hitherto marked Russian history.

own people, as an "unspeakable" despot. His corrupt, venal, unscrupulous minions are ruthlessly shot down, stabbed, strangled, at the order of a secret Vehme, as "the one great anti-human specimen of humanity." All illusion is dispelled. The contrasts face each other with determined mien, with pitiless action. 'Terror for terror!" is the acknowledged programme of those who strike out for deliverance from a galling thralldom. The Autocrat replies with fresh cruelties; he only widens thereby the circle of his foes. Everywhere the hand of the invisible League turns up in the public street, in the places of popular amusement, in the midst of a brilliant social gathering, in the office of the merchant and the banker, in the bureaus of the police; ay, in the barrack-room, and in the very cabinets of the Czar and the heir apparent.

It is a perfect revelation to many men not conversant with Muscovite history, this extraor

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