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wrote what I regard as the most striking | than Clough does in it the state of mind poem of his life, but also the most perfect of an enthusiast for the antique type of expression of the impotence to which man, who, for his modern experience, had Carlyle's gospel, taken alone, leads a mind | been led into the wilderness by Carlyle, which, beyond what it found in Carlyle, and left there. You see, one by one, had little but its deep admiration of the old classical strength to sustain it. This poem was, again, in hexameter verse, and called by Clough “Amours de Voyage," which might, perhaps, be translated "Loves of the Way." One of the mottoes prefixed to it is from Shakespeare:

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And here, again, is the poet's own prelude, which shows in how doubting a mood he went to look upon the glories of the Old World:

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,

Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,

Come, let us go,

to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,

Where every breath even now changes to

ether divine.

almost all Carlyle's crotchets dissolved in a classical tincture not at all Carlylian; his scorn for history itself, so far as history is not heroic; his detestation of formulæ ; his contempt for the smug middle-class; his disposition to mock at the sentimentalities of life; his hatred of the Jesuits;. his grim preference for Sans-culottes; and yet you see all these feelings blended great classical ideals of which Carlyle, in almost equally with an enthusiasm for the his Scotch peasanthood, had little or no trace. A more impressive picture of a doubting mind that doubted everything

even love - and yet did not doubt that the classical grandeur was grandeur indeed, and that a disdainful classical fortitude has in it an element of strength which is not otherwise to be found by those who cannot believe very genuinely in any spiritual revelation, is not, I think, in existence, than that presented in "Amours de Voyage." It is a painful picture, a picture of a morbid condition of mind deliberately drawn, but, nevertheless, most nar-powerfully drawn, and full of lasting memories. I can give you but a glimpse, here and there, of the results. Claude goes to Rome, sick of everything, and finds his general impression of Rome, in the first instance, one that he can only describe

Come, let us go; though withal a voice whis-
per, "The world that we live in,
Whithersoever we turn, still is the same
row crib;

'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a
cord, that we travel;

Let who would 'scape and be free go to his

chamber and think;

'Tis but to change idle farcies for memories wilfully falser;

'Tis but to go and have been."-Come, little bark! let us go.

And here is his own criticism on his own work, as, not without a distinct resurrection of his old classical enthusiasm, he finally concludes it:

So go forth to the world, to the good report and the evil!

Go, little book! thy tale, is it not evil and good?

Go, and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer.

Go, and if curious friends ask of thy rearing

and age, Say, "I am flitting about many years from brain unto brain of

Feeble and restless youths born to inglorious days:

But," so finish the word, "I was writ in a Roman chamber,

When from Janiculan heights thundered the cannon of France.

I call this the most perfect of Clough's poems, because it is hardly possible to bring out with more striking poetic force

thus:

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Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement,

This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea?

extant:

Yet of solidity much, but of splendor little is "Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!" their Emperor vaunted; "Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!" the Tourist may answer.

In this temper, he meets with a banker's family, to whom he is introduced by a friend, and moralizes on them after Carlyle's own heart:

Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not wholly

Pure of the taint of the shop; will at table d'hôte and restaurant

Have their shilling's worth, their penny's pennyworth even;

Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God

knoweth !

Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to

know, well connected; Doubtless somewhere in some neighborhood have, and are careful to keep, some Threadbare-genteel relations, who in their turn

are enchanted

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Is it,

ready to think so,

the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people?

I am ashamed my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful,

That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom.

I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,

I, who have always failed, -I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns;

I, believe me,-great conquest, am liked by the country bankers.

And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly.

So it proceeds; Laissez faire, laissez aller, such is the watchword.

Well, I know there are thousands as pretty

and hundreds as pleasant,

Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polish

Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn.

Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,

Juxtaposition is short; and what is juxtaposition?

And so the poem goes on, showing how Mr. Claude half falls in love with Mary Trevellyn, and half despises himself for and Mr. Claude questions himself what doing so; how the French troops appear, he should do if he were expected to lay

down his life for "the British female." Subsequently he sees, or believes he sees, a man killed, but he explains to his readers his profound doubt as to what he had seen, and how small the evidence on which he can allege that he did see it. He saw a crowd dragging somebody or something; he saw bare swords in the air; he saw pleading hands and hands putting back; he saw the swords descend, a hewing, a chopping; he saw them afterwards stained with red. He stooped, and "through the legs of the people saw the legs of a body," and went away supposing that he had seen a man killed, but little to go upon, if the fact should be profoundly convinced that he had very seriously doubted.

The Trevellyns leave Rome, and Mr. Claude is greatly offended by having his "intentions" inquired after by his friend Vernon, who marries the other daughter. This throws him into a fever of self-distrust and distrust of others. At first be will not follow them; then he absolves

the lady of all complicity, and will follow them. Then he loses their track, partly regains it, is more and more doubtful of himself and of his own inner mind, and at last gives up his pursuit of love, as he ligion, from profound distrust of his own has apparently given up his pursuit of repower to test the value of his own yearnings. The love-affair ends as follows:

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Let us seek Knowledge; the rest may come | thew Arnold-it is in the second set of

and go as it happens. Knowledge is hard to seek, and harder yet to adhere to.

Knowledge is painful often; and yet when we know, we are happy.

Seek it, and leave mere Faith and Love to

come with the chances.

stanzas addressed to the author of "Ober-
mann"-makes his touching and tender,
but hopeless wail over the burial of the
great Christian hope you will see, I
think, what I mean, when I say that while
Arnold feels what Clough felt, he does
not attach to those deeper feelings the
sense of final and overpowering authority
which Clough, reason on it as he would,
was compelled to attach to them. Clough
would not have written, as Arnold wrote:

And so the ravelled threads of the poem
are all cut, in the end. The fall of the
Roman Republic ends it in one way, the
exhaling of the lover's dreams in anoth-
er; while the final expression of a convic-
tion that knowledge is greater than love,
and that none the less you have not knowl-
edge enough to guide yourself, but must
leave that guidance "to the chances "
which are perhaps not controlled by any
bigher love—ends the poem intellectu- And on his grave, with shining eyes,
ally, with a sharp click of the rationalistic
shears.

While we believed on earth he went,
And open stood his grave;
Men called from chamber, Church, and tent,

And Christ was by to save.
Now he is dead, far hence he lies
In the lorn Syrian town;

The Syrian stars look down.

No; Clough expressed with a passion. that struggles through a pent-up and heava passion not of poetic feel

It would, however, be most unjust to Clough to suppose that this poem, though it clearly represented his state of mind at ing breast one epoch of his life, was meant to picing, but of bleeding and lacerated faith ture his deepest and truest convictions. - his sense of the almost irreconcilable How far he might trust the spiritual emo- inconsistency between the triumph of our tions which were so strong in him, Clough Lord's religion and the triumph of the never clearly made out; but it was his world's evil; but doubt as he would, the deepest and final belief that, more or less, higher buoyancy of the spiritual faith astrust them you must, and rather more serted itself at last, and vague as his than less. In this, as it seems to me, he faith undoubtedly was, the final note is differs, and differs for the better, from always exultation, and not mild despondone who has the advantage of him often ency. "In the great Gospel and true in the form and perfectness of imagina- creed, Christ is yet risen, indeed, Christ tive expression, and who writes much on is yet risen." the same themes, I mean his friend and I must give you one piece, in which the brother-poet, Matthew Arnold. In Arnote of exultation is predominant, before nold, the "lyrical cry" is as delicate and I conclude. It was written, no doubt, true as it is in Clough, but the poet has during the latter part of Clough's life at nothing like equal confidence that it comes Oxford, when many of his early friends from the same depth, that it speaks with had followed Dr. Newman into the Roman the same authority. If you will read I Catholic Church; while some were, like hardly dare trust myself to read to you, himself, rather disposed to follow Carlyle here the impressive, the overpowering into a Church not at all Catholic, but lines which Clough wrote under the heavy rather, grim, violent, and picturesquely sense of the overflowing sinfulness of dim. Clough felt these sudden separaNaples, the burden of which was that tions with that depth of tender feeling Christ is not risen, and could not be risen, which always marked his friendships, and in spite of all the asseverations of loving expressed his own emotion in the followdisciples and tender women who affirmed ing marvellously beautiful lines: that they had seen him in his risen form, or else it were impossible that all this evil should have been generated and grown up under the very shadow of his reign; and the less powerful, but still most genuine recantation, in which he unsays his bitter words, and declares that, nevertheless, "in the great Gospel and true creed, Christ is yet risen indeed, Christ is yet risen;" and if you will compare these with the lines in which Mat

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged.

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,

Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,

Through winds and tides one compass guides
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,

Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there!

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which looked at that time more like a fishing village than the emporium of the newly opened commerce between Europe and Japan. At some little distance from the landing-place the traveller noted a wooden building, over which the English flag was waving. He took particular notice of this spot; and on jumping ashore a few minutes later, went straight into the British Consulate for that was the ediof anybody. Indeed the oldest resident fice in question-without asking the way

in Yokohama could not have shown more topographical self-reliance than the new

comer.

A burly servitor was standing at the door of the official residence.

"Consul at home?" asked the fresh arrival, with the slightest possible movement of the head, and pointing towards the open door.

The officer seemed shocked at the fa

miliarity with which his superior was spoken of, and replied with serious dig

"Mr. Robert Mitchell, her Majesty's consul for Japan, is in his office."

To my ear, that exulting strain is hardly
ever absent from any of Clough's deeper
poems. Even in the poem which rep-nity,
resents his most cynical mood
"Amours de Voyage" — you hear it ris-
ing again and again, and sometimes swell-
ing till it all but drowns the doubter in
him. His nature had in it the deepest
sympathy with "the blithe breeze and the
great seas," which seem to image all that

is most elastic in the universe the elasticity which is at bottom spiritual and not physical, which represents the indomitable power and indomitable love of God. From that buoyant and elastic spirit Clough's poetry borrowed the very breath of its life, and I would fain hope that those who, in spite of the gravest differences from him, "in light, in darkness too," strain onwards like him, may one day find the same port which he, I am sure, has long since entered.

RICHARD HOLT HUTTON.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

mand did not seem to make the very The traveller, upon whom this repri slightest impression, proceeded to enter the building; but the constable, barring his entrance, gruffly said,

"Your card, sir, if you please!

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The stranger looked at this pompous representative of the English police in Japan with some astonishment, but at once handed him the card with a quiet smile, saying,—

66

'Very well; here it is."

The man went in without saying another word, and returning immediately, pointed to a door, and invited the stranger to enter. The traveller, without hesitation, turned the handle, and with a firm step entered a large, well-lighted room, where a handsome young Englishman sat enthroned behind a big, ledger-looking book. Waiting a few seconds, and seeing that no notice was taken of him, the

THE LITTLE WORLD: A STORY OF JAPAN. new-comer at last approached the desk

BY RUDOLPH LINDAU.

I.

WHEN Yokohama was first opened to European trade in 1859, there arrived one fine day in one of the earliest steamers from Shanghai a tall, slim young Irishman, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. While the boats were being got ready to land the passengers, he stood on deck whistling, and gazing attentively at the little town lying in a crescent before him,

and said, in a rather loud but agreeable voice,

"I have come here to register myself in the books of the consulate as a British subject," at the same time handing the consul his passport.

"You arrived to-day?" asked the commercial representative of his country. "Ten minutes ago."

"In the Cadiz, Captain M'Gregor?" "Yes, sir."

"Did the steamer bring the mails? "

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He then wrote on the passport in large figures, with red ink, the number 13, and returned it to its owner.

The new arrival looked at it carefully, shook his head, elevated his eyebrows, and stared again and again at the ominous figure. There was something comically familiar in his attitude, but her Majesty's consul for Japan, who in those days was considered a personage of very great importance, did not seem at all inclined to place himself with Mr. Ashbourne on the footing of equality apparently solicited. He contented himself, therefore, by saying,

"The fee, sir, is five dollars, if you please." Ashbourne handed over the sum, and addressing the consul in an altered tone of the strictest formality, said, "May I take the liberty of asking you, sir, what is the meaning of that large number' 13' which you have just written so beautifully in red ink on my passport?"

"Oh, that signifies your entry in the consular register.”

"Ahem!" murmured Ashbourne with a thoughtful air; "then I must tell you, Mr. Consul, that I have drawn a confoundedly bad number."

"Well, somebody had to draw it."

"Come, now, I don't see that at all, Mr. Consul. Some misfortune must take place in this wretched world, but everybody has a right to wish that he should be exempted from it. For my own part I am quite willing to leave the whole sum of misery that is daily endured on our planet to any one of my fellows. But look, there come three of them now. I will detain you no longer. I have the honor, Mr. Cousul," and he concluded by bowing himself out of the august presence of her Majesty's commercial representative in Japan.

The three gentlemen who now entered were English merchants, who, without uttering one unnecessary word, got themselves registered under the numbers 14, 15, and 16, as Mr. M'Bean from Glasgow, Mr. Haslett from Manchester, and Mr. West from London. Then leaving the consulate, these three travellers who, during the long passage from Shanghai to Yokohama had become well acquainted with each other-made off in the direction of the foreign settlement. When about a hundred paces on their way they met a young man, who silently saluted them without moving a muscle of his pale face, and whose cold recognition they returned in the same manner. The man having passed, M'Bean remarked,

"A strange and mysterious fellow this Jervis. I can't say that I have taken a great liking to him."

"Nor I," said West and Haslett in succession.

The stranger, in truth, could not boast of a prepossessing exterior, though it would have been difficult to define the displeasing elements in him. He was tall, "Yes, of course; and somebody will be slim, and well built, with a light, quick drowned this year, and somebody must step; and in his movements there was also be hanged this year. I don't like something stealthy and elastic, like the that number 13.' I consider it the very gait of a cat. His smooth-combed hair worst in the whole system of figures! was of a deep black hue, in remarkable But that is the well-deserved reward for contrast with his clear, northern complexbeing too forward. Why on earth did I ion and bright, gray eyes. His sharply make a bet with myself, that without ask- marked features showed a bold and noble ing my way of anybody, I would be the profile; but looking full at that smoothfirst of all the passengers on board the shaven face and high, narrow forehead, 'Cadiz' to call on the English consul? the observer could not help remarking Had I joined my fellow-travellers, I should the prominent cheek-bones, the large only have been registered five minutes mouth with thin, firmly closed lips, the later, and then perhaps another might heavy jaw and broad chin, which gave to have drawn this unlucky number-and the whole visage an appearance of great welcome to it, as far as I am concerned." energy, combined with coldness and re"A very unchristian remark," inter- serve. posed the consul, forgetting for a moment his official dignity so far as to address a guileless traveller in a semi-familiar man

ner.

On Mr. Jervis entering the consul's office he found that dignitary again deeply lost in the study of the big book aforesaid; so he waited in patience, motionless,

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