By JOHN B. HARWOOD, AUTHOR OF LADY FLAVIA,' 'LORD PENRITH,' 'THE TENTH EARL,' &c. CHAPTER I.-COMING HOME. 'SHE is pleasing, certainly, but-strange. Per- board of our fast-steaming Peninsular and Orihaps mysterious would be the better word. In ental packets, such as was the Cyprus, homewardEgypt they called her the Sphinx, you know; bound. and indeed there is something singular, and almost startling, in that quiet, ghostly way she has of gliding into the midst of people who believe her to be a hundred miles off. She talks well; but I always feel afterwards a vague sense of perplexity, as though I had been conversing with one whose habits and experiences, and ideas of right and wrong, were enigmas to me.' 'Yes; there is something strange about Countess Louise, to our English taste, perhaps; but I am sure she is well-bred, and clever and agreeable, and means to be kind; and then-she has been everywhere, and knows every one. I find her a pleasant travelling acquaintance, Clare, love, and that is all. Once in England, we shall part company, of course. You are not very likely to see much of her at Castel Vawr, or at Leominster House either, when you are in London.' The speakers were two slender, fair-haired girls, dressed in black, who stood side by side on the poop-deck of a great steamer, speeding swiftly on through the pale gloom of the warm night, a starry sky above, and the dusky purple wavelets of the Mediterranean rippling with soft plash, as if caressingly, against the vessel's side. There had been a broad white awning spread, as usual, over the after-deck, sacred to chief-cabin passengers; but, as usual also, it had been deftly removed, when night fell, by the supple brown hands of those lithe, tiger-footed, tiger-eyed Lascars who form the majority of the crew on VOL. XX. There was something majestic, something almost oppressive too, in the solemn stillness that prevailed, not a sound being heard save the wash of the dark-blue water, as the powerful engines forced the ship along; and the low hum of conversation that arose from a group collected near the cabin hatchway, some few paces distant from where stood the two girls, in their mourning garb, apart from the rest. These two were silent now; one of the sisters-for such they evidently were-looking down over the vessel's side, towards where the softly murmuring sea was dappled here and there by faint phosphorescent gleams; while the other turned her beautiful face towards the East, unconsciously as it seemed, and gazed with sad eyes along the streak of glistening foam that marked the steamer's wake. A light yet hesitating footfall on the deck, the rustle of female dress, and then, in a low voice, the commonplace words: 'Your Ladyship! Tea is ready.' It needed not the muslin apron, the trim waist, and punctilious neatness of attire, to indicate the caste of her who uttered this little crisply spoken speech. Only a lady'smaid drilled and schooled from her teens into the traditions of the still-room, could have contrived to be at once so meekly suggestive and so softly audible. 'Very well, Pinnett; you can take the shawls,' answered one of the sisters. 'Yes, my Lady,' was the quiet reply; and the maid retired as gently as she had approached. After a brief pause, the two girlish figures moved towards the cabin-stairs, near which stood the steamer's captain, bluff and genial, the light from the binnacle shining on his gold-laced cap and weather-beaten face. 'It's a fine evening, my Lady, and a pity to lose it,' said the tough old seaman, in his kind fatherly voice. "We can't, you know, expect much more of the clear weather, past Malta as we are, and at this uncertain time of year.' 'We shall come on deck again, Captain Burton, thank you,' was the rejoinder; and then both the sisters moved on, cabinwards. As they passed the group of loungers congregated near the hatchway, more than one glance of mingled curiosity and interest was turned towards them, and then the hum of voices grew somewhat louder than before. With the exception of an oily and deferential Parsee in glossy broadcloth, diamond shirt-studs, and varnished boots, all the passengers chatting together were of British speech and nationality. There was yellow, grumbling old Major Grudge, an Anglo-Indian, long since seasoned to the climate, as he tells you, somewhat boastfully, after a five minutes' acquaintanceship; with sallow Mrs Grudge and her schoolgirl daughters returning for cheap education at Bruges or Bonn. There were languid subalterns on sick-leave; a magistrate or so; a field-officer or two; a stray indigoplanter; the editor of a Mofussil newspaper; and the inevitable travelling M.P., who has been out to 'do' India, and thus win for himself parliamentary prestige by asking awkward questions and tormenting optimist Secretaries of State. There were ladies and children in large majority, of course, and with them the usual Nile-country invalids, and the usual tourists, fresh from Cairo or the Cataracts. 'Very pretty, both!' drawled out a pallid young cavalry officer, whose remaining energies, sorely impaired by brandy-and-soda imbibed amid the hot winds of parching Dustypore, seemed to be devoted to an attempt to swallow the massive gold head of his short whipstick. 'Hard to say which looks the best; but, for choice, I'd bet upon the one who went down firstMiss Carew.' Then you'd lose your wager, Sefton, I can tell you,' responded bilious-eyed Major Grudge, with a grin of contempt for the griffin's discernment. That was the Marchioness, as it happens, and not Miss Carew.' 'Mr Sefton's was a very natural mistake,' said good-natured Mrs Colonel Green of the Ahmednuggar Artillery. They were twin sisters, you see, and so much alike-poor, pretty young things. A sad story, was it not, of the Marchioness being left a widow after only a year of married life out there in Egypt. Her young husband, the late Marquis, had not had the title very long, and the doctors ordered him, as a forlornhope, to Cairo. He died there.' *Not there, dear Mrs Green! It was at Luxor,' exclaimed another of the Anglo-Indian ladies eagerly. At the Second Cataract; I saw it in Galignani,' chimed in a third member of the sudden at the last, it was! Poor fellow-that young Lord Leominster, I mean-it was sad to see him, with his hectic colour and wistful eyes, leaning on his young bride's arm, among the granite columns and painted chambers of the temples. Everybody knew how it must end; but somehow, when the worst came, everybody was shocked and sorry. Lucky that her sister was travelling with them, was it not?' 'I wonder whether she will marry again; she doesn't look twenty, and a beautiful young creature too, sad as she seems now,' said Mrs Green of Ahmednuggar, with that tendency to prophetic matchmaking which is innate in the best of women. 'It should be Miss Cora's turn next,' observed the indigo-planter. 'Ah, we shall see about that,' put in, more authoritatively, another passenger, little Ned Tattle, returning from Egypt to his beloved Jermyn Street lodgings and his club-window, and who, on the strength of his familiarity with Pall-Mall gossip, affected the air of a fashionable oracle. 'Can't expect two of a family to land a big fish, you see, like a Marquis of Leominster, especially when a girl has not a sixpence. A wonderful match that, for the daughter of a poor Devonshire baronet like old Sir Fulford Carew. I remember old Sir Fulford quite well. And then there's the present man, Sir Pagan, the brother of these young ladies, still more out at elbows, if possible, than his father before him. It sounds grand, don't it, Carew of Carew; but what's the use of pedigree and that sort of thing, without the coin to back it?' added Tattle, whose grandfather had been a fashionable fishmonger in the Poultry, E.C., but whose own name often figured at the tag-end of printed lists of guests at Macbeth House, Mandeville House, and elsewhere. 'But she will be well off-the Marchioness of Leominster, I mean?' asked one of the company, half timidly deferring to Tattle's superior information as to the ways and means of the aristocracy. A man who spoke so disrespectfully of baronets, and whose tone in talking of a Marquis was one of good-humoured patronage, was pretty certain of commanding deference for his opinions among colonial self-exiles, homeward-bound 'Why, yes, rather,' answered the Pall-Mall philosopher, with a secret delight in being listened to. You see, young Leominster-poor fellowthe late Marquis, was very much in love, and happened to have unusual power over the property. His widow gets Castel Vawr, the showplace of the family, on the Welsh border, and a heap of money besides. Thirty thousand a year at the least of it, or more likely thirty-five, the Castel Vawr rent-roll must be; and I'm not sure that Leominster House, Piccadilly, and the London house-property, do not belong to her too-for life, anyhow. Only the Lincolnshire estates, which are strictly entailed, go to the heir. I am speaking of the present Marquis of Leominster, Adolphus Montgomery- -we called him Dolly, and thought him a muff-second-cousin to poor Wilfred that died.' On this subject, one or two further observations were made. It was told how the late Marquis's yacht Fairy Queen was on her way back to England, having on board, too, the remains of broke up. her noble owner; and it was plausibly conjectured apart from idle fragmentary gossiping. And the that the sisters had chosen the lengthier South- result is startling. We are no longer the same ampton route, as enabling them to avoid the persons that we were. Some change has passed stir and bustle of the land-journey from Brindisi to Marseilles. And then the conversation flowed but we have found ourselves. It has been truly upon us. Not only have we found a friend, into other channels, and the group presently said that one of our great wants in life is 'somebody who shall make us do what we can.' And until this want is satisfied, we know not what we can do. But when we meet with this 'someis as if our mind took fire at his mind. body,' we find ourselves in a new world. are taught the whole of life in a new rhythm ;' HINTS TO YOUNG WRITERS. THE following hints-they pretend to be nothing vate the art of composition. Not that the best instruction in the world will of itself make an author, any more than it can make a painter or a sculptor. Something more than mere teaching is needed. more are offered to those who desire to culti It We we are lifted into that mood out of which thoughts come that remain as stars in our firmament' for ever. Whence come they? We canWhen Opie the painter such thoughts. not tell. Up to this moment we have had no But for this companionship, was asked by a young student what he was we had not had them now. Yet they did not in the habit of mixing his colours with, he originate with our friend, but with ourselves. replied grimly: 'With brains, sir.' And he was right. Here we have the first requisite for success in the higher arts, Composition among the rest. Those who have no brains,' no intellectual power, had better let pen and paper alone. But even those who have a fair share Probably Socrates was the first to recognise this that he refers when he calls himself the midwife It is to this result of sympathetic intercourse. of men's thoughts. both insist strongly on this benefit of conversaDe Quincey and Emerson tion; and it was probably something of the same But such intercourse is rare. It is probable that it comes but seldom to any of us, while to many it never comes at all. Consequently, we are obliged, for the most part, to go for our mental stimulus to books, which are more or less accessible to us all. of power must know how to use it. They want kind that Charles Lamb had in his mind when, practice, and they want training; and the train-after speaking of the death of several friends, ing which they cannot get from others, they he said: 'And now, for so many parts of myself must be willing to give to themselves. Those, I have lost the market.' however, who are in earnest about making the most of their powers, are usually glad to avail themselves of the experience of others; and it is for this reason that the following pages are written. For although it is not possible, in one sense, to teach composition, it is possible to point out certain errors that should be avoided, and certain objects that should be kept in view, with the best method of attaining those objects. And since all the suggestions that we have to offer upon these points are founded upon experience, it is hoped that they will afford help to those who may be trying to help themselves. To begin then: What is it that you wish to do? You wish to express your thoughts in writing, for the benefit of others. But 'out of nothing, nothing comes; therefore you must first have thoughts to express. First the thought, and then its utterance; first the matter, and then the manner. The subject falls naturally into these two divisions. And what will books do for us? Why are we to read them? Not for enjoyment merely; not only in order to store the memory with facts, nor even to enrich the mind with the thoughts of great men. We read them and we value them for all these reasons; but they have a higher use still; namely, the education of the powers, the cultivation of the mind, the formation of the character. Books,' says Emerson, are for nothing but to inspire.' The mere transference of the contents of a book to our own mind will do us little good unless the mind, besides receiving, acts upon what it receives. The food of the mind, like that of the body, is intended to be digested and assimilated, to nourish, and to result in growth and increase of power. If I am to be in no way better when I lay down my Plato or my Shakspeare than I was when I took it up, I will held intercourse with 'a soul that made my not read at all. Why should I? But if I have soul wiser,' then indeed my time has not been wasted. First, the thought. It is strange that we should require to learn even to think, but like many another strange thing, it is true; and anything that helps us to think wisely and truly is not to be neglected. We shall find that there is The amount of reading that is profitable will no greater stimulus to thought than contact vary with each individual, since it depends upon with other minds; and this comes to us mainly the mind's receptivity and power of assimilation. through conversation and through books. It It is of less importance to read much than to is true that real conversation, the keenest of read wisely and well. Wisely-that is, to read intellectual pleasures, the most stimulating of exclusively good authors; and well-with the intellectual exercises, is but seldom to be had. tions awake and on the alert. reasoning power, the imagination, and the affecAnd yet now and then, in the course of our lives, we are so happy as to meet with a companion who has this power of conversation, as We are, then, to read for our own mental and moral culture; we are not, as a rule, to read in order to write. It is true that in some cases, 4 CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. such as in preparation for literary work done consider how you will say it. The all-important thing here-that which you must keep inexorably in view-that to which everything else must Do not be tempted to give way, and which must itself give way to nothing is accuracy. imagine that one word is as good as another. On the contrary, it is either better or it is If one word expresses your worse. Change the word, and you may perhaps change the idea. Many meaning, then any other word may express something that is not your meaning. Obvious as this consideration appears, it is fre- young writers are harassed by a morbid fear of quently overlooked, if we may judge by the un- tautology, and accordingly they collect a number readableness of much that is printed both in peri- of words that they believe to be synonyms, and odicals and books. The writers of such unread-use them alternately. Such a system is fatal to able matter may have said to themselves: "This subject will make a magazine article, or even a book; they did not say: "This is a subject of interest, of import to mankind; we must needs try to make its value as clear to others as it is to ourselves.' This is the spirit in which we ought to write. If we cannot show to our fellows something that we see, and that they would be the wiser and the happier and the better for seeing, we need scarcely write at all. If the choice of a subject is still a difficulty, it may be well to inquire wherein the difficulty lies. It is possible that the questions which interest you have no attraction for your acquaintances; and being accustomed to loneliness in your pursuit of them, you despair of meetBut ing with sympathy from your readers. it is certain that, however lonely you may be in your own circle, you are not alone in the world. That which you care for, others care for. What is of value to you is of value to them. Therefore-as Mr Hunt, the American artist, says to his pupils Find out what you can do, and do it. Follow your own individual taste, and somebody will appreciate it.' Or perhaps your favourite subjects are old and time-worn. This is natural enough; for everything that is of purely human interest, and therefore of special interest, is as old as the human race itself. And yet it is just these They possess subjects that are never exhausted. And for this the secret of perpetual youth. reason: the things themselves present new aspects to each generation, and consequently are capable The of a fresh representation in literature. literature of each generation possesses some characteristics peculiar to itself; but these depend less upon new subjects than upon new views of old subjects. You have now, we will suppose, decided upon your subject, and are sitting, pen in hand, prepared to begin to write. At this point you will find yourself face to face with an important question. That question is not, What can be said upon this subject?'-for doubtless much may be said which is not worth saying; nor is it, 'What do I think about it?'-for possibly you may never have thought about it at all, or your But ask in all thoughts may be mistaken. honesty, 'What is the truth about this matter?' And the answer to this question, if you are so happy as to find it, will be something worth having. We come now to our second point-the utterance of the thought. You know now what it is that you want to say; you have next to accuracy. Why should a word shirk its duties merely because the word has been used before? It may often be necessary to use the same word several times in one paragraph, or even in one sentence. Under such circumstances, console yourself with the reflection, that tautology proper consists less in the recurrence of words, than in the repetition of ideas. The You are resolved, then, to be accurate. And the next point to consider is clearness. simplest words will serve you best; for you are writing in order to be understood by others, and unless you can attain this primary object, your labour will be thrown away. Your readers, especially if they be hasty ones, will misunderstand you if it is possible; it is your part to see that that shall be impossible. Brevity and conciseness you will find valuable means to this end. If you wrap up your meaning in many words, you will conceal it; your object, remember, is to lay it bare to the public eye. You will find it a good plan to read over your composition when you have finished it, and to strike out every unnecessary word. Above all, avoid redundant adjectives. They are merely the disguise under which weakness seeks to conceal itself. Others, again, are caught by some trick of words. A resounding sentence carries them away, an alliteration strikes them as impressive. Some forth are afflicted with this fatal facility; they pour a torrent of words with no discoverable object. For all these, the remedy is one and the same. Bear in mind that your sole object is to tell the truth about your subject, or that portion of the truth which has revealed itself to you, in such Other a way as to be understood by others. considerations are secondary. But it may be said, are accuracy and clearness to be our only objects? What becomes, then, of beauty of style? Here we confess that we can In this, give no rules. Beauty of style is the result of the special powers of the individual. Read them from pure love of nothing will so much avail you as the study of great authors. 'Bathe your spirit'-as Charles Kingsley them. beautifully expresses it in their noble thoughts, Give yourself up to as in May-dew; and feel yourself thereby, if but for an hour, more fair.' their influence-drink in the spirit of their writings, and feel yourself thereby lifted into a purer atmosphere, better able to see and feel truth yourself; better able to make others see and feel it too. to analyse And next, you may pass on Acquaint yourself with their special beauties. Shakspeare; study his marvellous creations, his |