dining-room, with its choice pictures and fine porcelains, was the spacious and well-alled library. It was arranged in the form of a Greek cross, of which the bookshelves carrying some eight thousand volumes formed the arms, while in the centre was a comfortable place for study. The room was lighted from a wide balcony looking south upon the sea."

The glorious bay, dashing in the sun outside, the most wonderful prospect in the world before one's eyes, all this rocco brightness and luxury within, the first people of all nations coming and going in a perpetual stream, the most graceful and brilliant of the pastimes of society carried on with special wit, skill, and brilliancy, and, to make all perfect, a few beloved friends in the inner circle of all, seems no uncomfortable fate. And when, added to this, come Berkeley Square and frequent residences in Paris, we cannot but feel that the lady's lot had fallen in pleasant places, and that she had every reason to be pleased with her circumstances. But it is unfortunate that Mrs. Bishop takes a gloomy view of these privileges, and that here for the first time we begin to suspect that Catholic piety as well as Protestant loves to lay the flattering unction to its soul that it never enjoys itself, whatever may be its inducements to do so, and that our former convictions on this subject are no longer tenable. At all events the idea which the biographer impresses upon us in these brilliant years is that they were chiefly years of disappointment, and that the change from one brilliant 'season' to another was in fact a penitential round from which the possessor of so many good things desired nothing so much as to escape. She did not want to go to Naples. It is as repugnant to me now as it was delightful in former ⚫ days,' she cries. There was a moment of pleasure in the meeting with some dear friends:—

But immediately afterwards the weight which crushes everything Þas made itself felt. The absence of all interest, of all life, and even of hope that anything could prosper here is oppressive in spite of the scene and all the natural beauty of the place. Natural beauty easily pleases me. . . . But I want as well order, neatness, and cleanliness in what I see around me that is of man's providing. With those conditions I can enjoy life not perhaps enthusiastically but peacefully. The ugliness of all the buildings in Naples vexes me. I cannot get used to it, and in that respect this town is the meanest in Italy. There is not another like it. The past has left no imprint here, and under the influences now dominant the beautiful is perishing not less than the good... Naples of to-day is the only spot on the earth where it is true pain to live. The miserable tyrannies that have always existed have grown more oppressive, and they are at last felt by every one

without exception. Nothing is to be heard but murmurs, fears, and groans. There are two blessings which God does not bestow upon me, and yet the happiness of my life is in question. Another check to the hopes of my husband, the last and greatest, will bring on that gloomy sadness of which the mere thought terrifies me. It will darken our life, and disappointment and inaction will cause that total eclipse of my sun which is not unknown to me, and during which time I live and act as in a painful dream.'

It

It would, perhaps, have been better to say plainly what was the cloud that overshadowed Mrs. Craven's career. was, outside, a very handsome, very agreeable cloud-the husband whom she loved, and who was as great a favourite in society as herself. Mr. Craven has no one to stand up for him in this book, although, on the other hand, he is never assailed by any serious blame. No doubt it is a very disagreeable and often exasperating thing to return, after a long interval, to a young man of promise, of whose progress we have felt assured, and find that after all he is only a man of promise still. This is what evidently had occurred in the course of years between the two people who married each other with such a certainty of every kind of success. In 1852 Mr. Craven was exactly what

he had been in 1834. The attaché was an attaché still. What change had happened had been the wrong way. He had been sent to flutter in smaller Courts instead of greater ones, and after twenty years of service he was as little important in his profession as ever. When this happens in a man's life he is generally of the insouciant class, and does not mind; but Mr. Craven minded very much, moved heaven and earth for promotion, and was humiliated and depressed beyond measure when the great officials, who were delighted to have him and his brilliant wife at their tables, or to sit at his, waved him away from every post of importance, and would give him nothing.

This, it is evident, was the shadow upon Mrs. Craven's life. Everybody was delightful to her in England, but nobody would give her an appointment for her husband. They were all eager to see her act and hear her talk, but neither Premier nor foreign minister would give what she wanted. This is a great testimony to the impartiality of the great officials, and might prove to angry critics how little the finest interest has to do with advancement. But Mrs. Craven did not take it in that point of view. Perhaps it is well that we should have a glimpse behind the veil, and see that everything is not so fair as appears even in the brightest of

lives. On the other hand it would have been well, at least, to show us as much of the brightness as of the shadow. And we cannot help feeling that perhaps, after all her troubles, Mrs. Craven had an unacknowledged consciousness that to be without trouble was to be less interesting than up to this time the course of events had enabled her to be. Was it some such idea as this which inspired Madame Swetchine, that wise old lady who knew everything, with whom, as with everybody best worth knowing in Christendom, Mrs. Craven was intimate, and who, on one occasion at least, responded to her complaints in the following way? We have taken the liberty of transposing the extracts which Mrs. Bishop gives :—

One day I went to see her when my heart was heavy with some sorrow, I don't remember what. She said to me at the end of our long conversation, which did not appear to have justified those words which surprised me: "You are happy. Be very sure of that. You know how I enter into your suffering, and that I can understand the pain of even imaginary trouble; yet, and I tell you so, you are one of the happiest persons I have ever met. You have happiness which you yourself know not of. You ought to feel it and be thankful, instead of lamenting your condition." That same evening I was kneeling by her side and crying. She gently shook her head and stroked mine so tenderly, so lovingly, and the expression of her countenance remains so vivid in my memory, that I feel certain that her love for me endures, and that her prayers for me are still offered in heaven. Then she laughed a little, and said to me: "You look at me with your great suppliant eyes as if I had said something very cruel to you. what I have said is truth, believe me. Of course I ardently wish for you all external help from a tranquil life, but whether we have that or not, there is a complete interior stability which you ought to acquire. I should feel no anxiety for your soul if you were to die in your present state, but I firmly believe that God asks more of you. It is a step in advance which I ask you to make; but I am anxious that you should be happier."'

We feel sure that Madame Swetchine was well inspired and took a true view of the matter, and that, in short, this period of life which Mrs. Craven's biographer chooses to put before us in such subdued tones of colour, but which other observers have known under quite a different interpretation, was in reality very full of good things and of much, though probably alloyed, enjoyment. Without alloy, it is not novel to remark, there is but little enjoyment in this world, and though she would have liked to inhabit, not to let, her house in Berkeley Square, and though the streets in Naples were dirty, there were many triumphs for this accomplished

woman of the world. At the same time, perhaps, it is a good moral exercise for the reader to discover, if he had any doubt on the matter, that a mind highly strung and sensitive is not always an unmixed blessing, and that the absence of actual ills is a temptation, if not to invent unreal ones, yet to dwell upon those imperfections which subdue the higher lights. The deeply emotional piety of such a mind is perhaps also a temptation in the same way: for how to be consoled by the highest of spiritual teachings if there is in reality very little occasion for consolation? We are sometimes tempted to believe ourselves miserable for the sweetness of being comforted.

When it became evident that the advancement for which Mr. Craven sighed was not to be attained in the way of diplomacy, a new idea occurred to them, which was that if he could but get into the House of Commons all would be well. It was evidently hailed by both as the most delightful alternative, and perhaps, in the partial and practical ignorance which must mingle even with the most perfect knowledge of a country which was scarcely less a foreign country to the English husband than to the French wife, they considered the patronage and support of the political leaders as making the seat a certainty. I should be per'fectly happy,' said Mrs. Craven, if I could see Augustus ' in harness and at work. He does not know how to live in ' idleness.' She expresses forcibly in one of her journals that high sense of the advantages of public life which no one could feel more strongly than the dispossessed and self-exiled nobility of France.

This practical life in England is like nothing else to be met elsewhere. No royalty surpasses the power which every man feels himself to possess if he takes a part in politics. The influence exercised by certain classes is accepted by the others with intelligent independence. Some lead while others know how to follow, but all mutually respect each other, for here, in truth, the chiefs are the servants of the rank and file. Their interests are in common, and if any are to be sacrificed in the struggle of parties, it will certainly be the same in the highest places.

'It is well known that once the habit of interest in public affairs is acquired it is never lost, and, humanly speaking, what higher interest can occupy a man's life?-that, or help in the great work of Christianity, which is best of all. I know nothing else worthy of ambition. For an Englishman whose position allows him to contemplate such a career, where is more justifiable subject for regret than to find himself shut

out from it?'

It was, however, an unfortunate moment for the candidature of a Roman Catholic and stranger like Mr. Craven. The

country had just been, as we all think now, unreasonably irritated and frightened by what was called the restoration of the Catholic hierarchy in England and Dr. Wiseman's new title of Archbishop of Westminster. We take these things very quietly nowadays; even the proposed erection of "Westminster Cathedral,' which, in our poor opinion, is tant soit peu trop fort, considering what Westminster Abbey is to all England, has not called forth, so far as we are aware, a single objection. But in those days our blood was hotter, or else it was the moment for a panic fit of one kind or other, and the Pope kindly furnished the occasion. It was considered wise that Mr. Craven should stand for an Irish constituency to avoid the No Popery!' cry. But even in county Dublin there were voices enough, and these more virulent than in England, to cry 'No Popery!' no doubt to the great and dolorous surprise of those excellent Catholics who never can forget that Ireland was once the Isle of Saints: and Mr. Craven lost his election along with a great deal of hope and anticipation and no small amount of money. The disappointment was so intense that Mrs. Craven burst into tears when she heard the news, and she tells a pathetic story of how, years afterwards, when she read to him an account of a debate in Parliament, she saw two large tears roll down her husband's cheeks, as he sat over the fire, that silent confidant of so many phases of misery.

In the meantime there are many pleasant scraps of observation and reflection to be picked up, notwithstanding Mrs. Bishop's return, as she moves about from one place to another, always, as she thinks, longing for that 'permanence,' which probably would have been not at all so delightful to her as she thought, and complaining that in her prettiest dwellings she felt as if in a ship always under sail. It is natural to one so closely connected with two different countries that there should be a frequent return to the inevitable contrasts between one and another. Mrs. Craven has been describing the effect upon her mind of a Lent retraite des hommes at Notre-Dame, an exceedingly curious and impressive scene, and is moved to apostrophise the 'men of Paris' whom she saw there, an immense, unbroken mass, filling the whole nave, which we ourselves remember to have regarded, though a stranger, with something of the same startled and excited feeling.

'Men of Paris, so powerful alike for good and evil. When I remembered it was their voices I heard, I could not help joining them with confidence, and hope, and faith in the future of our sick and troubled