Chapter II: Part 2

There are a few other instances in the peerage of the employment of a double title, for example, the Dukes of Buckingham and Chandos; Hamilton and Brandon; Richmond and Gordon: the Earls of Mar and Kellie; Warwick and Brooke; Pembroke and Montgomery; Stamford and Warrington; Suffolk and Berkshire; Wemyss and March; Winchelsea and Nottingham, &c.: Viscount Massereene and Ferrard (who sits as Lord Oriel): Baron Saye and Sele; Baron Mowbray, Segrave, and Stourton; Oranmore and Browne; De L’Isle and Dudley, &c., which the reader inclined to do so may investigate for himself.

Then we have titles of another compound order, as those of Lord Clifford of Chudleigh, Howard of Glossop, Vaux of Harrowden, Willoughby de Broke, Willoughby de Eresby, &c.; and as an instance of _idem sonans_ in titles, we may mention the barony of Middleton and the viscounty of Midleton, the respective holders of which are peers of the realm, and pronounce their titles in the same way.

Some of the heraldic mottoes of our nobility are extremely peculiar. A very blunt one is that of Byron, _Crede Byron_ (Believe a Byron). A few of them have reference to the achievements for which the peerage was originally conferred, or from which promotion therein was the result. Thus, Baron Exmouth, upon whom a viscounty was conferred after the bombardment of Algiers in 1816, placed his family motto over his crest, and the word ‘Algiers’ under his shield. In the same way the celebrated Field-marshal Viscount Gough had the words ‘China,’ ‘Barrosa,’ and ‘Goojerat’ painted on his armorial bearings, also the Irish words _Faugh a Ballagh_—that is, clear the way, which is the war-cry of the regiment known as the Connaught Rangers. Again, Lord Radstock’s motto is ‘St Vincent,’ commemorating a naval exploit of the first peer, who was a son of the third Earl Waldegrave, which, however, took place off Cape Lagos in 1797. The motto of the hero John Jervis, who destroyed the Spanish fleet off Cape St Vincent in 1797, and who was raised to the peerage as Earl St Vincent, was the strange-looking word ‘Thus,’ and it is still borne by the representative of the Jervis family, who, however, is only Viscount St Vincent. ‘Thus’ is a nautical term of command which, shortly explained, signifies an order to keep the ship’s head in the direction in which she is proceeding. The motto of Earl Fortescue, _Forte scutum salus ducum_ (that is, A strong shield is the safeguard of the leaders), is noteworthy. According to Sir B. Burke, the ancestor of the Fortescues was one Sir Richard le Fort, who protected the Conqueror at the battle of Hastings by his shield. _Escue_ being the Norman word for shield, it was added to _Fort_, and thus produced the name and the title of Fortescue. The above motto is also that of the Fortescues Lords Clermont, who are kinsmen of the others. Two ennobled barristers chose mottoes associated with their professional pursuits, Pratt, Marquis Camden, having taken _Judicium parium, aut lex terræ_ (that is, The judgment of our peers, or the law of the land); while the renowned advocate Thomas, Lord Erskine, adopted the phrase _Trial by Jury_. This nobleman was the son of the fifth Earl of Buchan, whose family motto is _Judge nought_; and there is some singularity about the abandonment of this motto for that of _Trial by Jury_. There are two mottoes of an extremely suggestive character—that of Earl Howe (_Let Curzon hold what Curzon held_), and that of the Marquis Conyngham (_Over Fork over!_). The history of the latter family will show that the spirit of this phrase, taken in its vulgar acceptation, has not been disregarded by them. In some of the mottoes we discover a play of words—a fanciful conceit, as it would have once been termed. Thus, the Earls of Onslow use the well-known proverb, _Festine lente_, or ‘Hasten slowly,’ which evidently has reference to the present form of their name, On-slow, which, however, was originally Ondeslow. Then, again, Earl Manvers’ is _Pie repone te_ (Repose with pious confidence). If the position of the letters in the Latin words be changed, we have _Piereponete_; and ‘Pierrepont’ is the family name of the above nobleman. The motto of the Earls of Wemyss, _This our Charter is_, contains their name of Charteris. So also does that of the Roches, Lords Fermoy, _Mon Dieu est ma roche_; and the motto of the Earls of Sandwich, _Post tot naufragia portum_ (After so many shipwrecks, we arrive at port). Then, again, the Duke of Devonshire, and Lords Chesham and Waterpark, all of the Cavendish family, have for their motto _Cavendo tutus_ (Safe by being cautious), evidently a _jeu de mots_, a hazy sort of play on the name of the title.

In a previous paragraph, we alluded to the Sussex Peerage Case. This was a very painful curiosity indeed of the peerage. The Duke of Sussex, sixth son of George III., had married, in 1793, Lady Augusta Murray, daughter of the Earl of Dunmore. The marriage ceremony was twice performed—first at Rome, and next at St George’s, Hanover Square, and the union was one of affection on both sides. Two children were born of it—a son and a daughter, the former having been Colonel Sir Augustus F. D’Este, and the latter, Mademoiselle D’Este, who became the second wife of Serjeant Wilde, afterwards Lord Chancellor Truro. That lady died in 1855 without issue, and the present Lord Truro is accordingly descended from the first wife. On the death of the Duke of Sussex in 1843, Sir A. D’Este claimed the Dukedom of Sussex; but the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, the then forum of matrimonial causes, held the marriage of his parents to have been null and void, as contrary to the provisions of the Royal Marriage Act (12 Geo. III. c. 11). Sir Augustus D’Este died in 1849; and this lamentable story in its legal aspect may be read in the second volume of Clark and Finnelly’s _House of Lords’ Reports_. The Sussex Peerage Case, beyond its painful interest, is of importance to lawyers, several rules of the law of evidence having been fixed by it. The same may be said of some other peerage cases, as those of Banbury and Shrewsbury. And we may also mention that one which probably stands without a parallel in the records of scandalous family history, the celebrated Berkeley Peerage Case, a veritable curiosity, not of the peerage only, but of human life generally, being, in fact, an agglomeration of frauds, perjuries, and immoral proceedings, all surrounded by an atmosphere of the most repulsive vulgarity. We gladly pass it by. Indeed, it ought, except for illustrative purposes, to be let severely alone.

We have spoken in a previous paragraph of ‘premier peerages;’ and perhaps a few words are necessary on this subject.

The premier peerages of the realm are as follows:

_England_—Duke of Norfolk, 1483; Marquis of Winchester, 1551; Earl Shrewsbury, 1442; Viscount Hereford, 1550; Baron Le Despencer, 1264.

_Scotland_—Duke of Hamilton, 1643; Marquis of Huntly, 1559; Earl Crawford, 1398; Viscount Falkland, 1620; Baron Forbes, 1442 (?).

_Ireland_—Duke of Leinster, 1766, who is also premier Marquis and Earl of Ireland; Viscount Gormanston, 1478; Baron Kingsale, 1181.

Of all these, Kingsale is the oldest existing title, but, as already intimated, Lord Kingsale has no seat in the House of Lords. The barony (by writ) of Le Despencer is the oldest in England, but is at present held by a lady, who is the wife of Viscount Falmouth, whose son is therefore heir to both titles. The oldest title borne by a member of the House of Lords under which he sits and votes is that of De Ros, this barony having been created 1264, but after that of Le Despencer.

Earls, Viscounts, Barons, and Baronesses are entitled to be styled ‘Right Honourable;’ a Marquis is ‘Most Honourable,’ or ‘Most Noble and Puissant Prince;’ a Duke is ‘Most Noble,’ or ‘Most High, Potent, and Noble Prince.’ All peers except barons are by the etiquette of heraldry regarded and styled as cousins of the sovereign. Thus, a Viscount or an Earl is addressed as, ‘Our right trusty and well-beloved Cousin;’ a Marquis as, ‘Our right trusty and entirely beloved Cousin;’ and a Duke as, ‘Our right trusty and right entirely beloved Cousin.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1] We not unfrequently hear persons speaking of the House of Commons as though that assembly alone constituted the parliament of these realms. It should be borne in mind that parliament consists of the sovereign and both Houses of legislature.

[2] The union of the _crowns_ of England and Scotland by the accession of James VI. of that country to the English throne as James I. in 1603, must not be confounded with the union of the two _kingdoms_ themselves, one hundred and four years afterwards.

[3] In heraldry, the terms dexter and sinister are used for right and left; and the right of a shield is that which is on the left of the person looking at it, and _vice versâ_.

A ZULU ROMANCE.

As a rule, the course of true love runs smoother in Kaffir-land than in more civilised countries. The reason for this is not far to seek. In Europe, the business of matrimony is complicated by its being associated with the impulses of the heart; but amongst our Ethiopian brethren the emotional has but little place or power. The whole affair is simply arranged by the father of the girl. Eight or ten oxen are handed over to the dusky Paterfamilias by the eligible suitor, who in exchange receives the damsel—blushing, no doubt, if one could perceive it beneath the dark skin. In rare instances, it may be a case of mutual affection; and in the true story which I am about to relate, affairs went ‘clean off the track’ in a quite phenomenal fashion. A good deal of this romantic drama, which took place in and about Maritzburg, the capital of Natal, came under the immediate notice of my wife and myself, while the rest of it was told us by one or other of the chief actors.

It was towards the close of a summer afternoon. The day had been more than usually hot, but a slight curtain of cloud was now pleasantly veiling the sun. Our house was situated on a gently rising ground on the outskirts of the town—a comfortable one-storied cottage, surrounded by a deep veranda, and standing a short distance back from the road. There would have been sultry stillness, but for the chirp and whir of insects, the too frequent ‘ping’ of the mosquito as it hovered around one’s ear, the ‘clunk-clunk’ of the frogs in a neighbouring streamlet, and the sonorous voice of our Kaffir ‘boy’ chanting some barbarous lay in one of the outhouses. Occasionally a creaking, full-laden bullock-wagon would toil past, drawn by a span of twelve or fourteen patient oxen, and overhung by a cloud of red dust, stirred up from the broad, rut-lined, arid highway. Anon, a buggy would dash jolting along, to the imminent danger of family groups of itinerant Kaffirs, who would, with a loud ‘Wow!’ jump aside; and once in a while a solitary horseman, booted and spurred, would be seen galloping to or from the town.

I was lying in a swing-hammock suspended in the veranda, smoking a cigar, and fitfully reading that day’s paper. Now and again, my eye mechanically rested on the road, watching the several wayfarers. Presently my attention was more particularly drawn to a young Zulu woman, who had opened our front gate, and was slowly walking up the path leading to our house. She was probably about seventeen years of age, though, to one unacquainted with Kaffir physique, she might have seemed at least twenty-one, and moved with the erect and graceful carriage characteristic of the race. Her dress consisted of what may be best described as a canvas tunic, which had originally been a sack, but round the arm-holes and short skirt was a border of many-coloured beads. Upon her shapely arms were brass rings and circlets of beads, while similar ornaments graced her calf and ankle. Her hair had been combed up, stiffened with red clay, and tied into a bunch—a toilet significant of her status as a married woman, the Kaffir virgin usually rejoicing merely in her primitive ‘wool.’

The young woman’s steps were directed to the back of our premises, where she disappeared. What could she be after? The next moment I said to myself that she must be one of our ‘boy’s’ relations. The kinship of one’s Kaffir boy, be it here remarked, is invariably very extensive; and unless you exercise some strictness, your rearmost premises are very apt to be invaded by his parents, his brothers, ‘his sisters and his cousins and his aunts,’ not to speak of his uncles and vaguely remote relatives. Our boy, Capelle by name, had been told that we were not to be annoyed by frequent visits from his friends; and as that day he had already welcomed and hospitably fed—with _our_ maize-meal—about half-a-dozen of his acquaintances, I somewhat resented the coming of this youthful matron.

It was in my mind to jump out of the hammock and remonstrate with our domestic, when I heard stealthy footsteps in the veranda. The next moment Capelle stood before me, asking permission, as far as I could make out, for his sister to remain overnight. My wife now appeared, telling me that Capelle and the young woman had been having high words in the Kaffir-house. Thereupon I questioned him as to the cause of the quarrel. ‘Baas’ (Master), he began; and then delivered a fluent discourse in his native tongue, doubtless full of information, but almost wholly unintelligible to me, until my wife acted as interpreter. My better-half, having to scold and direct the boy, had in about two years’ time mastered the colloquial Kaffir generally spoken in Maritzburg kitchens. Out of the facts extracted from Capelle and his sister by cross-examination, the following interesting narrative was evolved.

Some six months previous, this young woman, whose name was ’Manthla, had plighted her troth to one Umhlassu, who was now working as a porter at an ironmonger’s in Maritzburg, and was rapidly saving up the money to buy the necessary cattle wherewith to purchase her from her papa. He had now eight oxen, only two short of the number required, and had secured a hut for her reception. For her part, ’Manthla had given Umhlassu a pair of earrings, a necklace, a snuff-box, bead ornaments for the head, and other gifts such as Kaffir maidens present to their lovers. Unfortunately, another wooer had come to her father, offering twelve bullocks for ’Manthla; and the parent, very naturally—for such doings are not unknown even in Mayfair—favoured the wealthier suitor. The oxen were accepted there and then, without the daughter being consulted in the matter. As a rule, the reception of the live-stock by the father is an important point in the marriage-service of the Zulus. The next step is the arranging of the wedding-feast, at which there generally is dancing for two or three days, as well as the consumption of one of the oxen which form part of the ‘marriage-settlement,’ not to mention the drinking galore of native beer.

’Manthla had steadily declined to take any part in the proceedings, though she had been in the charge of the matrons of the kraal, who had dressed her hair in the manner already described. With still greater persistence, she refused to accompany Indebbelish, her would-be lord and master, to his kraal, even going the length of producing a knife and protesting she would take away her life, rather than become his bride. Her father threatened to beat her with a stick; all her friends upbraided her; and finally, she was handed over to the old women, who kept her a prisoner and all but starved her, to induce a better state of mind. Her almost unheard-of defiance of ‘use and wont’ astonished the marriage-party; but their amazement reached its climax when, in the midst of the festivities, it was discovered that ’Manthla had seized a favourable opportunity to escape. She had travelled on foot fifty miles into Maritzburg, and it was at the close of that journey that I had seen her from our veranda.

When ’Manthla had greeted her brother and told him the whole story, he was of course highly indignant at her disregard of tribal custom. He rated her in good sound terms, jeered at her, and treated her to a variety of ill-favoured epithets, in which the Zulu vocabulary is unusually rich. It was the sound of this fraternal reproof which my wife had heard. There was really nothing for it but to give shelter to the fugitive for at least one night. It would scarcely have been humane to have turned ’Manthla adrift, tired and hungry as she was; and accordingly the ‘pilgrim of love’ was allowed to take her fill of porridge and sleep on the kitchen floor.

Early next morning, as I was mounting my cob at the stable-door, preparatory to a ‘spin’ over the _veldt_ before breakfast, there appeared an elderly Kaffir, who held up the forefinger of his right hand and exclaimed ‘Inkosi!’—the native salutation of respect. This was no less a personage than Pank, the father of ’Manthla and of our boy Capelle. He was attired in a soldier’s old coat, and ragged trousers that descended no farther than his knees. On his head was a battered felt hat; while through the lobe of one ear was stuck a cigar, and through the other a cylindrical ‘snuff-box.’ Though old Pank had come in hot haste from the kraal all those fifty miles, and was presumably in a state of great mental agitation, he sauntered into our back-yard as carelessly as if he had only casually dropped in from next door. I have noticed the same characteristic in several other Kaffirs. After the afore-mentioned salutation, Pank’s lean face broadened into a grin, and he vivaciously ejaculated two or three times: ‘It’s allee right, allee right!’ This phrase, which proved to be the only English at his command, was introduced with great frequency, and sometimes with ludicrous effect. This optimist remark, however, was not upon his lips when he caught sight of his daughter ’Manthla timidly peeping out from the door of the Kaffir-house. His face darkened in expression, and pouring forth a volley of reproaches, the ‘stern parient’ approached her. I stood anxiously watching the interview, fearing lest violence might be the outcome. But after Pank had uncorked the vial of his wrath, it quickly evaporated, and in a short time he sat down on his haunches, took the snuff-box from his ear and regaled himself with a hearty pinch.

I rode off; and on my return, half an hour later, the old fellow was in our kitchen, calmly consuming a large pot of porridge. It turned out that he had ordered ’Manthla to be ready to accompany him at once to the kraal of Indebbelish. Alas, however, for the ‘best-laid schemes!’ When the _babba_ (father) went into the Kaffir-house, he found ’Manthla had again fled. His anger and disgust were now turned upon Capelle, who vowed he had had no hand in her flight. The father retorted, the son recriminated, and it was only by rushing out and brandishing my riding-whip that order was restored. The old man suddenly grinned and exclaimed: ‘Allee right, allee right!’ and then his eye catching sight of a big iron pot which had fallen into disuse, he asked if we could spare it. My wife sarcastically inquired if there was anything else he would like; upon which Pank requested a bottle of castor-oil, for the purpose of anointing his body when he reached home. This being given him, the injured father strode away, with the big pot over his head like a huge helmet, and we hoped we had seen the last of him. Not at all! In five minutes or so the old rascal came back, begging Capelle’s wages for the next three months. It is customary for the _babbas_ to collect the money due to their sons, but payment in advance was altogether without precedent. Happily, by disbursing the wages due for a month which had almost expired, we for a time got rid of the father of our heroine.

It is time that we again followed her fortunes. When ’Manthla ran away from our house, she betook herself to Umhlassu, who, true lover that he was, forsook his work, packed up his blankets, and went off with his bride to his own kraal. Feasting and dancing were again indulged in, this time, however, by the bridegroom’s relatives. Hearing of this, the unsuccessful Indebbelish indignantly demanded the cattle back from ’Manthla’s father; but this just request was point-blank refused. Indebbelish saw he had no other alternative but to trudge into town to institute an action for ‘breach of promise’ against Babba Pank. The machinery of the native court in Maritzburg was in due course set in motion, and the case appointed to come off in three weeks, a fact we knew one evening by the advent of Indebbelish, who was about the most handsome Kaffir we had ever seen. He came to have a chat with Capelle, who had favoured his wooing in time past, and was still friendly. We naturally objected to have our larder drawn upon alternately by the plaintiff and defendant in the pending suit, and so declined to give Indebbelish board and lodging. But he made up for this by calling night after night and smoking Capelle’s tobacco.

At length the great day of the trial dawned, and with it came the beaming face of ’Manthla’s father with his irrepressible ‘Allee right!’ He marched in and billeted himself upon us for about six days. I am not aware whether this was owing to prolonged litigation or to the enjoyment of living at some one else’s expense. At all events, when the week expired, the _babba_ vouchsafed the information that the case had gone against him, and that he had to restore the bullocks, at the same time cheerily adding: ‘It’s allee right, allee right!’ Nevertheless, he went away very downcast, after another ineffectual attempt to collect Capelle’s wages in advance. A day or two afterwards, the cattle were returned to Indebbelish with a bad grace; but Umhlassu gave Babba Pank eight oxen, with a promise of other two at some future period; and the heart of the old man rejoiced. The sympathies of my wife had been aroused in favour of Indebbelish; but her interest instantly vanished when she found that ‘the poor, forsaken young man,’ long previous to his ‘courtship’ of ’Manthla, was already possessed of three wives! When Indebbelish received back the oxen from the _babba_, he simply drove them off to another kraal, and purchased an ebony virgin to complete his connubial quartet.

About eighteen months afterwards, I happened to be amongst the Saturday morning throng on the Market Square of Maritzburg. Hundreds of people—English, Dutch, Indian, and Kaffir—were moving about the dusty expanse of ground, which was covered with auctioneers’ stands, bullock-wagons, sacks of produce, cows and horses on sale, and large quantities of the miscellaneous household goods which find their way to colonial marts. At one part of the ground, a number of Kaffir wives were squatted alongside heaps of firewood, which they had conveyed into town, and were now selling. As I observed them, my boy Capelle suddenly drew my attention to a woman who was walking towards the group. She carried a great load of firewood in long lengths poised upon her head, and a baby slung behind her in a blanket. I dimly recollected her face; Capelle told me her name, and ran forward to speak to her. It was none other than the heroine of the love-match—poor ’Manthla!

CONCERNING LOVE.[4]

IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

Having in the former part of this paper considered certain theories concerning the nature, qualities, power, and vitality of love, we would now invite the attention of our readers to some of the symptoms, evidences, and effects of that passion. Here we find ourselves upon somewhat firmer ground, for the field now before us is not so much that of theory and definition as of observation and experience. While the profoundest philosophers find themselves at a loss in attempting to formulate some satisfactory theory on the subject, the most unsophisticated observer can tell us something of the signs and tokens by which love manifests its presence. The symptoms of the tender passion are both varied and varying, and we have it on the authority of Addison that there is no other passion which produces such contrary effects in so great a degree. Byron describes love as bearing within itself ‘the very germ of change.’

For a thoroughly comprehensive catalogue of love’s tokens take the reply of Silvius to Phebe in _As You Like It_. ‘Good shepherd,’ says Phebe, ‘tell this youth what ’tis to love.’ ‘It is,’ replies Silvius, ‘to be all made of sighs and tears; it is to be all made of faith and service; it is to be all made of fantasy, all made of passion, and all made of wishes; all adoration, duty, and observance; all humbleness, all patience, and impatience; all purity, all trial, all observance.’ If the foregoing be accepted as an accurate description of what it is to love, one is enabled to understand the belief that the reason why Love is not included among the virtues is that it combines them all in one.

Dryden has given us several accounts of the way in which the tender passion operates upon the mind. In one passage he says:

Love various minds does variously inspire:
He stirs in gentle natures gentle fire,
Like that of incense on the altar laid;
But raging flames tempestuous souls invade:
A fire which every windy passion blows;
With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows.

The same writer, descending to more everyday observations, and speaking of the condition of a person in love, declares:

You pine, you languish, love to be alone,
Think much, speak little, and in speaking sigh.

This is certainly a faithful description of the conventional lover, whom you meet in novels, and there are no doubt a great many sentimental people who still languish and sigh, after the old romantic pattern. Yet there are a great many more who get through all their love experiences with very little languishing and very few sighs. They are much too busy, or too cheerful, or too matter-of-fact, to indulge their passion to the pining or languishing degree; so that tears and sighs and groans are not by any means inevitable or necessary symptoms of love. While one lover is to be found ‘sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow,’ another is discovered basking joyfully in the sunshine of his love, and singing with Moore that

There’s nothing half so sweet in life
As love’s young dream.

Ovid remarks that tears are by no means unserviceable in love, because by tears you may touch a heart of stone. He therefore advises the lover to endeavour that his mistress should find him with his cheeks bathed in tears; and he adds, that if you are not quite equal to the shedding of genuine tears, you may bathe your eyes and cheeks by other means. But Ovid is discoursing on the _art_ of love, and what we are at present considering are the true marks of the genuine passion. There are, no doubt, few matters in which there has been, since the world began, so much dissimulation and hypocrisy as in love affairs, and Ovid’s artful suggestions recall the profane observation of a cynical writer, that ‘Love consists of a little sighing, a little crying, a little dying—and a deal of lying.’ It is not our present purpose, however, to enter upon the false in love, or the spurious impersonations which stalk about in his name. Let it suffice to say that Ovid’s crafty advice is founded on the fact that true love is often tearful and desponding. It may not be, as Silvius puts it, ‘all sighs and tears,’ but even the most sanguine love may have its moments of sadness and doubt. ‘Love,’ says one of the poets—

Love, though most sure,
Yet always to itself seems insecure.

And Scott declares that ‘Love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.’ Another poet argues that unless you quake and are struck dumb when your mistress enters the room, you have loved amiss, and must begin anew.

But if love is sometimes downcast and fearful, it just as often soars aloft on the pinions of hope, for ‘Love can hope where Reason would despair.’ The lover has a miraculous way of finding hope and encouragement amid the most unpromising circumstances. He can feed for weeks together on a word or a glance; and if his mistress frown and turn her back upon him, he must still lay the flattering unction to his soul that she merely frowns, as Shakspeare expresses it somewhere, to beget more love in him. Truly, the lover had need be ‘all patience,’ for ’tis a fickle god he woos. If he would not woo in vain, he must bear with a thousand caprices, inconstancies, and tyrannies.

Lovers are proverbially blind to each other’s shortcomings, and their praises of each other are therefore untrammelled by ordinary scruples on the score of veracity. ‘There never,’ says Bacon, ‘was a proud man thought so absurdly well of himself as the lover doth of the person loved.’ It is therefore at once easy and natural for men and women under the influence of the tender passion to present to each other, and to swallow with the keenest relish, a great deal of this kind of food.

If we are to credit the French poet Chamfort, who says he has seen women of all countries, an Italian woman does not believe that she is loved by her lover unless he is capable of committing a crime for her, an Englishwoman an extravagance, and a Frenchwoman a folly. Let us hope that worthier performances than these are sometimes demanded in token of love’s sincerity—acts of self-denial, of merit, of generosity, and of faithfulness. Richter is of opinion, however, that ‘love requires not so much proofs as expressions of love—it demands little else than the power to feel and to requite love.’ Dryden gives expression to the same idea, when he says:

All other debts may compensation find,
But Love is strict, and must be paid in kind.

How often has love spurned riches, power, enjoyment, the good opinion of the world, and everything else, in order to meet responsive love amid poverty, suffering, deprivation, and even dishonour! True love will sacrifice everything to be requited; for ‘Lovers all but love disdain.’

Whatever form its manifestations may take, it may be assumed that the fickle god will not fail to show itself. ‘There are two things not to be hidden,’ says the proverb—‘Love and a cough.’ It may be expressed by sighs and tears, by a dejected and distracted mien, and by what Shakspeare calls ‘the pale complexion of true love.’ It may be discovered in tell-tale blushes—‘celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue,’ as Milton puts it—in bashful awkwardness, and in a distressing self-consciousness in the presence of the adored object. And it may be shown no less plainly and emphatically in quiet self-devotion, dutifulness, and self-sacrifice. It often identifies itself with various kinds of manias, such as a mania for composing amatory epistles or writing verses, a mania for going to church, for haunting a particular street, or for buying kid gloves, patent-leather boots, and eau-de-Cologne. These, with many other similar and equally harmless symptoms, are quite familiar.

Then there is a more extravagant class of manifestations that the hard unfeeling world would describe as folly. When love reaches what Bacon calls ‘the mad degree,’ there is absolutely no limit to the excesses that may be perpetrated in its name. But of the comparatively harmless kinds of folly there is usually a considerable admixture in even the sedatest loves. Thomson describes the lover as ‘the very fool of nature.’ It is not, of course, to be supposed that he is ever conscious of his folly—when he is engaged in it, at all events—for

Love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit.

Yet it cannot be denied that the folly in love is, to the lovers, by no means the least agreeable part of it.

I could not love, I’m sure,
One who in love were wise,

is Cowley’s frank confession; and most lovers, if they carefully examine their experience and speak the truth, will echo the sentiment. Wisdom would never give utterance to all those fond, foolish fancies, those ‘airy nothings,’ and sweet flatteries that the lover prizes so much; and wisdom would often dictate a degree of prudence and reserve and formality that could never be endured by two hearts that beat as one.

The proverb holds, that to be wise and love,
Is hardly granted to the gods above.

After what we have seen of Cupid’s fickleness and ever-varying moods, it will not be imagined that when love is not all smiles and sunshine, it is therefore insincere or undesirable. In the words of the poet Walsh:

Love is a medley of endearments, jars,
Suspicions, quarrels, reconcilements, wars,
Then peace again.

After the storm, the sun returns as bright and genial as before, and the air is all the purer and the sweeter for the electric war that has disturbed its stillness. The love that cannot outlive a few misunderstandings and disagreements can hardly claim to be considered as genuine, and had better be allowed to pass at once into the limbo of exploded myths. The truth is, however, that Love often dispenses his favours in a very eccentric way, and each favour is sometimes paid for with a more than proportionate amount of suffering; so that the lover must be often tempted to exclaim with Addison:

Mysterious love! uncertain treasure!
Hast thou more of pain or pleasure?

Yet he will probably resolve the problem in much the same manner as the poet does in completing the stanza:

Endless torments dwell about thee,
Yet who would live and live without thee?

Spenser finds that ‘love with gall and honey doth abound,’ and in computing the proportion of each, he expresses the belief that for every drachm of honey there is a pound of gall. Notwithstanding this, however, he is prepared to assert that

One loving hour
For many years of sorrow can dispense;
A drachm of sweet is worth a pound of sour.

This is the attitude which the lover must adopt; and if the gall preponderate in his experience—which we sincerely hope it won’t—he must comfort and sustain himself with thoughts of the honey he has enjoyed, and that may be yet in store for him.

If the course of true love does not run smooth, that is not always because the way is not clear enough or level enough, but very often entirely on account of Love’s injudicious and impracticable behaviour. If Love will indulge his propensity to masquerade in the guise of frenzy or delirium, folly or extravagance, there is nothing at all surprising in his getting into trouble. But what is the use of sermonising? Notwithstanding all the striking lessons he has received, and the painful experiences through which he has passed, Cupid is still much the same wilful, rollicking, mischief-loving sprite that he was when he first appeared upon our planet; and so, no doubt, he will remain to the end of the chapter.

At the same time, when all is said and done, is it not just possible that Love gets blamed for a good deal of trouble and mischief for which he is really not responsible? Do people not often cry out against Love’s tyranny and unreasonableness, when they ought to blame their own selfishness, or pride, or blundering stupidity? Love must be treated as an honoured guest, not as a slave; and if he leave us, may we not reasonably ask ourselves, before we begin to upbraid and revile him, whether we have not driven him away by our own neglect and heartlessness and querulous impatience? When we consider how he is sometimes treated, the wonder is, not so much that he should have departed, as that he should have stayed so long.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Concluded from page 156.

THE PROGRESS OF CYCLING.

It is exceedingly interesting to the reflective cyclist of the present day to indulge in a retrospect of ten or fifteen years, and compare his present position with the status that subsisted in those early days of the wheel. Nothing could better illustrate the rapid growth of this comparatively modern method of locomotion than the spread and increasing importance of the various Exhibitions in different parts of the country devoted entirely or in part to demonstrating the advances made in the two or three wheeler during the recess of winter. And these advances have been most marked during the past year, the machines now exhibited showing plainly the care and attention bestowed upon them. In one important detail in particular this is markedly apparent, namely, in that of gearing for tricycles. It is a well-known fact among cyclists that the temporary exhaustion following the rapid traversing of a smooth level road does not proceed in a tenth degree so much from the actual strength expended as upon the rapid exertion required. To obviate this, a system of gearing-up has been introduced, whereby the wheels make more revolutions than the feet. But as this would place the rider at a disadvantage in ascending inclines or in traversing rough roads, a system of gearing level or down has been combined, whereby, by a mechanical arrangement, the wheels perform either the same number of revolutions as the feet, or less. The combination of these systems has produced some of the most intricately ingenious mechanisms that have lately appeared before the public, and cyclists are busily engaged in testing and otherwise determining which system shall be introduced into their mounts for the coming season.

In the June number of the _Journal_ for last year we predicted the approach of a period of unusual activity in cycling, and the prediction has not proved fallacious; for the season which closed with the approach of last winter was remarkable in many respects, as the following will show. In October, the extraordinary distance of two hundred and sixty miles was ridden on a two-wheeler in twenty-four hours over ordinary roads; a tricycle under similar circumstances has covered over two hundred and twenty-one miles when ridden by a gentleman, and one hundred and fifty-two miles when propelled by a lady. In August, a tricycle was driven from John o’ Groats to Land’s End—ten hundred and seven miles—in fourteen days; the bicycle record by a shorter route being a little over nine days; whilst in October a bicyclist rode from London to Derby—a distance of one hundred and twenty-six miles—without either stopping or dismounting. Many feats of endurance and determination similar to the above have taken place upon the public roads; whilst upon the racing-path, the great feature has been the ‘record cutting’ of the year. In 1882, a well-known doctor and amateur bicyclist rode twenty miles and three hundred and twenty-five yards in an hour; in 1883, this was beaten by a professional at Leicester, who covered twenty miles nine hundred and five yards in the same time; whilst the time for one mile has been lowered from two minutes forty-one and three-fifth seconds to two minutes forty and four-fifth seconds. The time for one mile for a tricycle was also lowered to three minutes five seconds, and all existing tricycling records from a quarter of a mile to one hundred miles were beaten last year. But the rapid advances which characterise the sport will doubtless enable faster times than the above to be made in the not far distant future, and the records which we now behold with pardonable pride may sink into comparative insignificance.

The objection has been raised by many opponents of cycling that it is of no practical value to mankind apart from the means it provides for healthy recreation. This objection no longer exists. The tricycle is now used extensively in many parts of the kingdom by professional men; clergymen in particular are very partial to it; to the doctor it is a positive boon, ay, and to the patient as well at times, for in an emergency, the ready steed can be mounted at once, and no delay caused by awakening drowsy coachmen and harnessing horses. A new description of tricycle now enables enterprising tradesmen, notably news-agents, grocers, and others whose wares are of a comparatively light nature, to deliver their goods with more despatch than formerly; and the Post-office authorities have been alive to the advantages offered by this means of distribution by obtaining machines for rural districts in connection with the Parcels Post and the delivery of letters. The Inland Revenue Office by a recent order recognises the tricycle; and the police in some of our colonies have used them for some time. These facts plainly show that the tricycle has entered upon a new phase of its existence, and that a noble and useful career undoubtedly awaits it.

The ‘freemasonry of the wheel’ has been pushed on to a greater extent than ever during the past year, and is a factor which undoubtedly influences a large proportion of the British public. This is shown by the increasing numbers of the Cyclists’ Touring Club, which increased from seven to nearly twelve thousand during 1883, and promises to reach even twenty thousand during the current year. The ladies are giving their heartiest support, and are joining in large numbers; whilst the movement offers so many attractions to all riders in providing touring companions, hotels with fixed tariffs in nearly every town in Great Britain and the continent, good-fellowship and congenial society wherever the cyclist may happen to alight, and other advantages too numerous to mention, that it includes in its roll many of the nobility and gentry in all parts of the land, and is supported by some of the highest dignitaries of the Church and members of the legal, medical, military, and naval professions.

Other great cycling institutions exist, which are rendering good service to the general public in various ways, one notably in calling attention to the decadence of our public roads since the old coaching-days. In many parts of the country, main roads now exist that are all but impassable to ordinary traffic; their deterioration may be attributed mainly to the competition and monopolisation of the railways in diverting the traffic that once passed over them. Their condition is a misfortune to the public in general, and especially to the inhabitants of the locality; for as good roads are certain to advance the prosperity of a district, so bad ones have ever been considered an indication of a backward state of civilisation. The local authorities to whom the construction and maintenance of these roads have been intrusted, are being aroused to a sense of their responsibility by influentially and numerously attended meetings of persons interested in cycling; the laws relating to the highways have been collected and discussed, and many leading newspapers have given prominence to the grievances vented at these assemblies. If the result should be the amelioration of the condition of these highways, the thanks of the general public will be due to the cyclists, and it will tend to forge still stronger the link which is fast binding them into closer fellowship.

To many manufacturing towns, the rise of cycling has been a boon; to one in particular, Coventry, it has proved perhaps the greatest blessing that has ever befallen it. That ancient city was fast sinking into absolute inertness through the falling-off of its staple trade; it can now boast of being one of the most prosperous towns of the midlands, with huge manufactories and busy hives of men sending forth to the world those apparently delicate structures which are now in such universal request. Other towns, such as Birmingham, London, Wolverhampton, &c., sensibly feel the demands of the two hundred thousand cyclists who are computed to be in Great Britain alone, and the export trade of these towns is rapidly becoming greater in this particular branch. The two and three wheeler have now penetrated to nearly every part of the globe; they are no longer strangers to the Russian, the Turk, and the Hindu; in Brazil, Australia, and New Zealand, they make steady progress; and even the sacred land of the Celestials is not free from their enchantments. This wide and general dissemination of a sport which is essentially English, cannot fail to be a source of the greatest gratification to those who so sturdily fought for it and upheld it during the trials of its early existence.

SPRING IN THE ALLEY.

She stooped and told him that the Spring was born;
A ring of triumph in her fresh young voice;
For she, poor child, was in her life’s glad morn,
And the soft sunshine made her heart rejoice.
‘Wert thou not longing for the Spring?’ she said;
But the pale sufferer sadly shook his head,

And gazed with sunken eyes upon her face,
Till its pure beauty filled his soul with peace,
Then smoothed her locks, and in a fond embrace,
Clasping her slender form, he whispered: ‘Cease
To sing the praises of the young Spring flowers;
Child of the narrow court! they are not ours!’

O’er the despondent sufferer bending low,
Till her fair tresses swept his throbbing brow,
With tender glistening eyes, and cheeks aglow
With joy and hope, she softly told him how,
Not very far away, the golden bees
Wooed the white clusters of the hawthorn trees.

She spoke of twittering birds, and raised her eyes,
Bright with the glory of poetic thought,
To the dark ceiling that shut out the skies,
And lowered upon her, as she vainly sought,
With words of loving sympathy, to cheer
The flickering life that suffering made so dear.

For oh, that life, unlovely though it seemed,
Was the dear object of her fondest love;
Volumes of witching poesy she dreamed,
Morn, noon, and evening, as she bent above
His weary form, yet neither light nor bloom
Could tempt her footsteps from that dingy room.

Oft, when she heard his hollow cough, she wept
In the still midnight—how it wrung her heart!
Yea, she could hear it even when she slept,
And often wakened with a feverish start,
Beseeching God, in many a tearful prayer,
To ease the pain that _she_ so longed to share.

Blithely she carolled when the morning sun
Rose o’er the alley like a blushing bride;
Or grave and silent, like some meek-faced nun,
Plied she her needle by the sufferer’s side—
And oh, it was so sweet to toil for him
Till her hands trembled, and her eyes grew dim!

Till from those weary hands her work would fall,
And her dim vision could distinguish nought
Save the black spiders crawling on the wall,
And the dead violets she herself had bought
With the few coppers she had stored away
From her poor scanty earnings day by day.

For when before the market-stall she stood,
Her little purse clasped tightly in her hand,
She needs must purchase—for each dewy bud
Seemed like a messenger from fairyland;
And well her fine poetic fancy knew
The sheltered places where the violets grew.

And when she raised them to her eager lips
With the pure rapture of a little child,
The dewdrops twinkled on their azure tips,
Till the young dreamer bent her face and smiled
With the sweet consciousness that they would bring
Into the meanest slum a breath of Spring.

Returning home, her joyous footsteps fell
Like the soft patter of the summer rain;
And oh, _one_ weary sufferer knew it well,
And moaned a welcome from his bed of pain!
Close to his breast she crept, and kneeling there,
He twined the violets in her sunny hair.

Charmed from his fretful mood, the sufferer laid
One thin white hand upon her worn gray dress;
‘Dear child!’ he murmured, while the sunbeams played
At hide-and-seek amid each wandering tress,
‘Withdraw the blind—let in the rosy morn;
_I_ too am grateful that the Spring is born!’

FANNY FORRESTER.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._