the miscellaneous dinner-party or rout tend to foster strong human feeling. Participation in conventional festivities is not the surest means of kindling or stimulating one's social propensities. Nobody can keep his mind healthy who does not interest himself actively in the concerns of mankind, and it is difficult for all but a small minority of persons of rare original vivacity of spirit to maintain this interest without a good deal of the direct intercourse in which face answereth to face. And, besides, it is obvious how congenial fellowship refreshes the heart and braces the understanding. But conventional gatherings do not give us congenial fellowship, and face only answereth to face in the implied sense that mind does not answer to mind. The folly of this, as of all other times where wealth has accumulated without a corresponding growth in ideas and cultivation, lies in the habitual supposition that outlay can secure sociability, and that luxurious spending of money can bring people together in the only manner in which it is worth while for them to be brought together. And it is hopeless to convince idly opulent persons of their fallacy. Of course, argument is lost in persuading people who know that they find pleasure in display that there is in fact no pleasure in it; their own experience tells them that this is the highest form of pleasure they have; and the verbal teachings of the moralist count for little against the more striking and constant testimony of daily experience. The point worth arguing and proclaiming is that display, in other words dependence on outside fine things, is especially a foreign and intrusive element in the character of the student. Simplicity of life is the secret of most virtues; men do not often think how much that is precious is bound up in it. To the scholar it is as the breath of his nostrils. It is the indispensable condition of industry, if it were nothing besides. The uninterrupted clearness of brain needed for study is not favoured by the irregular hours and the artificial excitements of

what is known as Society. Even if there were no question of time, these occupations distract or fret. They do not leave the mind fresh and tranquillized for the labours of the morrow. Gibbon found this out before he bade a long farewell to the fumum et opes strepitumque Romæ, and retired to Lausanne. There he led a life which may be a pattern to scholars. His notion of mental ease and refreshment did not include dull or epigrammatic dinnerparties at seven or eight o'clock. "By many," he says, "conversation is "esteemed as a theatre or a school: "but, after the morning has been occu"pied by the labours of the library, I "wish to unbend rather than to exer"cise my mind; and in the interval "between tea and supper I am far from disdaining the innocent amusement of a game of cards." In the last winter of all, many evenings were borrowed from these social pleasures, and in his eagerness to conclude his great task he broke his usual rule of concluding his studies after "the long but temperate labour" of a morning. "I may believe "and even assert," he says, instructively, "that in circumstances more indigent

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or more wealthy I should never have "accomplished the task, or acquired the "fame of an historian; that my spirit "would have been broken by poverty "and contempt; and that my industry

might have been relaxed in the labour "and luxury of a superfluous fortune." The luxury would have been equally fatal to the achievement of his task, whether practised and supported out of his own fortune, or springing from his participation in the luxurious superfluities of other people. A greater than Gibbon, the ever-memorable Spinoza, "although often invited to dinner," as his biographer says, "yet preferred the "scanty meal he found at home to "dining sumptuously at the expense of "another." "On looking over Spinoza's

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papers after his death," Mr. Lewes tell us, "it was found that one day "his expenses amounted to three halfpence for a soupe au lait and a little butter, with three farthings extra for

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"beer; another day gruel, with butter "and raisins, which cost him twopence"halfpenny, sufficed for his epicurism."

At the present time it is not particularly desirable that philosophers and learned men should limit their expenditure to twopence-halfpenny a day. But we may be sure that a man who could be as frugal, mutatis mutandis, as Spinoza was, or be content with the pleasing tranquillity that satisfied Gibbon, would feel a respect for himself which would be. eminently fertile in fine literary qualities. Tranquillity lies about the roots of the literary virtues : of concentration, assiduity, broad, steady outlook and vision. Frugality is the prime guarantee for a man's ability to live in his work; the measure of his real estimate of the value of his work; and in most cases the essential condition of that work being well and exhaustively done. In a word, what the scholar needs is independence, using this word in its broadest sense- -freedom from the manifold tyrannies of a disposition that places its aims and likings in external small things. In the presence of luxury and display, the man who knows how to value himself and the work of his days may best say—

"Sunt qui non habeant, est qui non curat habere."

Obviously, however, this is one of the thousand matters in which preaching is more likely than not to be absolutely useless. The moralist, after all, is not a very influential personage. Just as in ethics the first and most

difficult thing is to persuade people to care about being virtuous at all, so in the lessons of authorship, all is gained when the author possesses the prime endow ment of reverence and honour for his work-a feeling that he is not as a manufacturer of toys and trinkets, but follows a mistress for whose sake it is a worthy and privileged thing to make sacrifices, and these in the light of such a sentiment are seen to be no longer sacrifices. What we need in this decisive conviction. So much of the service that authorship receives is insincere. Beneath the most vehement protestation that the craft of the author is among the highest, and fit for the highest, there lurks the insidious and paralysing notion that, after all, the only pursuits worthy of a man with his wits about him are those which bring him either wealth or power, or some position that would justify him in a coach and six. Nobody who has not trampled out even the unseen but not unperceived germs and seeds of such a conception of things need trouble himself with the qualifications of the scholar, for he lacks the most elementary of them all. Wordsworth nobly said, "It "is such an animating sight to see a

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man of genius, regardless of temporary "gains, whether of money or praise, fixing his attention solely upon what "is interesting and permanent, and find

ing his happiness in an entire devotion "of himself to such pursuits as shall "most ennoble human nature. We "have not yet seen enough of this in "modern times." Alas, nor even yet.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

CHAPTER IX.

Ir was a sunny morning, and several of us were sauntering in the garden for a few minutes before breakfast-time, when Sir John came up to us.

as

Ellesmere. Mind, you must all be " civil as an orange to Milverton to-day. If he gives us a reading, you must swear that it is excellent. He has been in such a rage with me.

Lady Ellesmere. How wrong of you, John, to vex Leonard in this way.

Ellesmere. I assure you I did not mean it. Unfortunately we began talking about the Ainah; and I reminded him of his original description of her. Now you know he has been getting more and more enamoured of her; and, if he had to describe her again, she would be a perfect beauty. You will see that he will add all manner of beauty to her countenance, if he talks about her again. There will come charming smiles and dimples, and I know not what besides.

Here Mr. Milverton joined us; and there was an embarrassing silence.

Milverton. I see that Ellesmere has been telling you of the nonsense he has been talking. I did not mean, I did not say, that her hands were extraordinarily large; but, contrasting her in my mind with the high-bred Talora, I was obliged to confess that there were some drawbacks upon her beauty. Hers was one of those countenances which require nice and loving observation to perceive all the merits and the beauties in them. There was a constant play of beautiful expression; there were exquisite dimples; and

Ellesmere. Ha-ha! Did I not tell you so? Am I not a true prophet?

[Here Sir John began dancing about in the wild manner that he frequently indulges in when he is triumphant in some argument.]

Milverton. This dancing dervish is not always wrong when he gives us a taste of his prophetic powers.

No. 103.-VOL. XVIII.

FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.

In one word, the Ainah's was a very marrying face.

Cranmer. What do you mean, Milverton? Milverton. Why, don't you know, or didn't you know, Cranmer, when you were younger?

You went into a ball-room, and saw two or three great beauties. Haply your eyes fell upon a cosy young couple in some corner. You asked about them, and were told that they were engaged. The girl was not beautiful; but you said to yourself, "The man is right. He is a sensible man: that girl will make a good wife. She will always"

Ellesmere. Make marriage somewhat less painful and disagreeable than it is its nature to be. Now here is a face

[He came behind Lady Ellesmere, and inclosed her face in his big handsfor he has got big hands.]

which would insure a happy marriage. You see in it that assurance of perpetual provoIcation which will not allow a man time to think whether he is happy or not, for he will be in a constant state of warfare. And that is one form, perhaps the best, of happiness for some men.

Here Lady Ellesmere disengaged herself somewhat hastily from his grasp, and we all went to breakfast, laughing heartily.

There is some celebrated story of a young man who exclaimed, " And I, too, am a painter ! So now I may say, "And I, too, am an author!" It happened in this way. I had been speaking of some of the curious superstitions which exist in a remote part of Scotland where I had been, when a boy, to visit my relations, who were poor fishing people in that district. Upon this, Sir John Ellesmere declared that Sandy could write a tale if he chose, and that It would Sandy must choose to do so. be a very good thing to employ his

mind in that way, and would prevent his spoiling "Realmah" by persuading Milverton to introduce foolish chapters about love.

This was two or three weeks ago. I tried very hard to think of a subject for a story; but, think as hard as I would, no subject for some time occurred to me. At last, one night, an idea for a story of the supernatural kind did strike me. I told it to Mr. Milverton. He approved of it, and said he would aid me; and so I wrote my little story. I was very shame-faced and nervous when I came to read it before such an audience; but I managed to get through the reading somehow, and my story was much praised. Of course they said everything they could to encourage me. I shall not venture to trouble the reader with the story; but I mention the fact of having written it, as, without doing so, the following conversation would not be understood.

To-day there was a good deal of talk about my story, and afterwards about those strange fancies which have occupied so many minds in all ages, endowing men with gifts and powers in addition to those which they actually possess. Mr. Mauleverer, of course, maintained that this was a proof of the wretched state of man. Sir Arthur declared that it was an instance of the abounding imagination and poetry that there are in all men, women, and children; while Mr. Cranmer contended that these fancies were rather irreverent; that men had better be contented with what they are, and make the best of that, and not indulge in fancies that could never be realized. Sir John Ellesmere asked whether Mr. Cranmer was prepared to move for the destruction of all fables and of all fairy-stories, and whether all imagination was to be employed in inventing lies about matters of business?

Before recounting any more of the conversation, I must describe the spot where it took place. At the bottom of the hill there is a little rivulet, which, indeed, becomes a river in winter, and which, even in the driest summer, is a

reedy, rushy sort of place, through which meanders a little stream three or four feet in width, and about nine inches in depth. Mr. Milverton delights in this spot, though it is said to be rather malarious. On one side, the rivulet is inclosed by a high grassy bank, upon which there is a very comfortable seat. I will now continue my account of the conversation.

Milverton. I cannot agree with you, Cranmer, about the irreverence you assign to these fancies. We must close our eyes completely to all the forms of life which surround us, and which are so suggestive, if we are never to fancy that we might here, or hereafter, be endowed with other gifts than those which we now possess.

I have been very fortunate in life as regards friends and acquaintances. I have known poets, historians, philosophers

Ellesmere. Observe where the fellow puts historians, because he happens to dote upon history.

Milverton. Poets, historians, philosophers, statesmen, men of science, artists, doctors, lawyers, and merchants, but I was never fortunate enough to know any man who had made the insect world his study. I am sure I do not know what is the proper name for such a man- -I suppose an entomologist. Well, I was never fortunate enough to know an entomologist.

If we had such a man with us now, what interesting things he could tell us about the myriads of inhabitants of this rushy streamlet. I believe there are creatures below us there, which can both crawl and hop, and fly and swim; which possess eyes by the score; can weave and spin, and build nests, in water; which, in short, embody all the vagaries of the most fanciful person; and about which, by the way, if they were familiar to us, fables and stories might be written having much more pith and diversity in them than those about dogs, bears, wolves, elephants, and foxes, which, after all, are poor simple creatures like ourselves, being seldom able to do more than one thing very well.

Ellesmere. I do not think much of your entomologist. I do not want him here at all. He would merely shy barbarous words, half-Latin, half-Greek, at us, and bother us about " genus" and "species," and other things, for which we should not really care one solitary dump.

Besides, we should have to hear all about his grand discovery of the onomatoscylax,

some pestilent little creature that hops, and runs, and bites, and wriggles, and turns up its tail spitefully at you. No; give me the man who can talk well about anything if you only give him a rough bit of a brief to talk upon. Just read to me, or any other lawyer, a little chapter in any book about insects, and we will argue their case in a manner that will bring round any jury to think whatever we are instructed to make them think on behalf of our clients. There are creatures, are there not, who pop out of their shells to take the air, and then other creatures pop into the vacant shells; and when the softies come back, they find their houses occupied, and the doors bolted against them. What a good case for an action of ejectment!

Milverton. Mark you, I do not mean to say that I have not known men such as Carlyle, Kingsley, and Emerson, who have been able to talk admirably about all forms of nature, from the highest to the lowest. As I think I have told you before, I never heard a more exquisite conversation than one in which Carlyle and Emerson, both of them nice and patient observers of all natural objects, discoursed upon the merits and beauties of common grass. A walk, too, in the country with Kingsley is something to remember; but still I say, as I said before, I should like to know a real entomologist, a man who had lived a great deal with insects

Ellesmere. The Patronage-secretary of the Treasury!

Milverton. -and who could tell me all about the onomatopylex, which Ellesmere— Ellesmere. No, no; if you are scientific, be accurate―onomatoscylax.

Milverton. -which Ellesmere affects to scorn, but which I have no doubt, if well studied, would afford the human race many a good lesson in the arts of life. Very probably he is a great architect. The arch was constructed by insects long before it was known to man.

Mauleverer. Talking of men who have studied these minor creatures, there is Mr. G. H. Lewes. You know him, Milverton?

Milverton. Yes; but he is too gelatinous. He describes admirably; is as clear as the sky at Avignon; but his talk is of molluscs, sea-anemones, jelly-fish, and other flabby, pulpy creatures, squeezable as Ministers of State. I want a man who has lived with well-developed, shrewd, masterful, designing insects.

Sir Arthur. I do not say we wander from the subject, because the fact of these insects possessing multifarious powers is very suggestive. But I want to know why

it is irreverent to imagine men to be endowed with other powers or means than those they now possess. I feel rather guilty in this matter, if there is any guilt, as I was the first to tell you a story of the kind which Mr. Cranmer must disapprove of. I mean my sleep story. I intended that to convey some sound doctrine.

Ellesmere. Yes; that pleasant tale was nearly suffocated by morality. It was far too moral to be interesting. And observe this, Cranmer, that in almost every story in which extraordinary powers are given to a man, that poor man is sure to come to grief.

Even in that dear" Arabian Nights," the unfortunate "gins," or genii, always get the worst of it, being bottled up for a thousand years, or otherwise maltreated. We make a point of pouring misfortunes with a liberal hand upon the head of any creature whom we admit for a moment, even in fancy, to be a more gifted being than man.

Milverton. Well, I have a fanciful idea which, indeed, has been in my mind for many years, and which I fear Cranmer would blame, for if realized it would give a great, and, as I think, a most delightful increase to human power.

Ellesmere. Let us guess. The philosopher's stone? The power of always reasoning rightly? Long life? A knocker that would knock down all disagreeable people who came to visit you-the postman and telegraph-boy included? A power of eating three dinners a day? A self-upholding umbrella? A supernatural knowledge of trains, so that you could defy Bradshaw and all his books? A perfectly well-built house, built after a model of some insect establishment? A winged paper-cutter that would always fly to you when you whistled for it?

No; I have it! It is never to be seasick ! Milverton. No, you have not. You certainly have imagined sundry very delightful appurtenances, such as your discriminating knocker, self-upholding umbrella, and flying paper-cutter.

Sir Arthur. Is it the power of seeing clearly into other men's minds?

Milverton. No, you will never guess it.
Ellesmere. Tell us, then.

Milverton. I shall have some difficulty in explaining. I mean that there should be a double soul, taking the word "soul" to include all powers, both of thought and feeling, so that you should be able to give one of these souls perfect rest. They should be so intimately in unison, that what one thinks, or feels, or says, or does, should be admitted to be thought, and felt, and said, and done by the other who is absent. There must be