ments of it are not different from those contained in the great writers we have quoted before (and certainly some of them are greater than Gray), yet it is the only one that gives a landscape in full, in which it is not a mere breath of power sweeping across the mind of a poet, nor a description depending on fanciful adjuncts, nor a catalogue of beautiful images (such as Ausonius presents us with), but one whole impression, giving all that would be seen by the eye and felt by the mind in the scene which he depicts. The place is Gordale Scar, in Yorkshire:

I came to Malham (pronounced Maum), a

village in the bosom of the mountains, seated in a wild and dreary valley. From thence I was to walk a mile over very rough ground, a torrent rattling along on the left hand; on the cliffs above hung a few goats; one of them danced and scratched an ear with its hind foot in a place where I would not have stood stockstill

For all beneath the moon.

As I advanced, the crags seemed to close in, but discovered a narrow entrance turning to the left between them. I followed my guide a few paces, and the hills opened again into no large space; and then all farther way is barred by a stream that, at the height of about fifty feet, gushes from a hole in the rock, and, spreading in large sheets over its broken front, dashes from steep to steep, and then rattles away in a torrent down the valley; the rock on the left rises perpendicular, with stubbed yewtrees and shrubs staring from its side, to the height of at least 300 feet; but these are not the thing; it is the rock to the right, under which you stand to see the fall, that forms the principal horror of the place. From its very base it begins to slope forwards over you in one block or solid mass without any crevice in its surface, and overshadows half the area below with its dreadful canopy; when I stood at (I believe) four yards distance from its foot, the drops, which perpetually distil from its

brow, feil on my head; and in one part of its

and the feeling which that sight evokes. The whole matter, on its material side, is reduced to its plainest prose; there is nothing of fantasy, still less anything of historical or scientific research; Gray does not wander off to anything like Hannibal and his vinegar, as Petrarch does; but over the plain prose of fact is diffused the permanent deep feeling which such a scene evokes and always will evoke. And this is the truest sort of sentiment possible. It could hardly be expected that so great a lover of cities as Dr. Johnson could equal Gray in descriptions of nature, yet his "Journey to the Western Isles" shows touches of the true feeling. Thus of Auchnasheel he observes: —

I sat down on a bank, such as a writer of romance might have delighted to feign. I had, indeed, no trees to whisper over my head, but a clear rivulet streamed at my feet. The day was calm, the air soft, and all was rudeness, silence, and solitude. Before me, and on either side were high hills, which, by hindering the eye from ranging, forced the mind to Whether I spent find entertainment for itself. the hour well I know not, for here I first conceived the notion of this narrative.

It was a considerable number of years before the above descriptions were written, but after Gray's letters on the Alps, that Chamouny was discovered by Messrs. Pocock and Windham. Their description of the then novel scene, and especially of the glaciers and their crevasses, is curious and enthusiastic. And here we stand on the threshold of the very latest era. The very mention of the name of Chamouny suffices to show that the full flood of tourists and Alpine climbers is at hand; and into this subject it is needless to enter. Nor can we discuss in detail those many writers who during the last hundred years have described nature, and by their prose or verse have lent an additional charm to the beautiful scenes which they depicted.

top, more exposed to the weather, there are loose stones that hang in air, and threaten visibly some idle spectator with instant destruction; it is safer to shelter yourself close to its bottom, and trust to the mercy of that But now, what is the sum of the whole enormous mass which nothing but an earth-matter? what is the total effect of our quake can stir. The gloomy uncomfortable day well suited the savage aspect of the place, and made it still more formidable: I stayed there, not without shuddering, a quarter of an hour, and thought my trouble richly paid; for the impression will last for life. (Memoirs of Gray, by W. Mason, § v., Letter iv.)

The great perfection of this passage consists in this, that there is absolutely nothing of intellectual knowledge in it. The whole attention of the writer is concentrated on the sight before his eyes,

critical and historical survey? Does it confirm or disprove the validity of the sentiment about which we have written? Can a beautiful landscape be regarded as the human race, just as a beautiful pica permanent possession, a kтñμа έo úεí, of ture or musical composition is regarded; or is there anything factitious in our admiration of it? Or if the pleasure we derive from the landscape is not factitious, still may it not be inferior to our present estimation of it?

We answer: Factitious the feeling certainly is not. The reasons for our admiration are such as our intelligence may approve. To the best of our power we have gone through them one by one; and is there one of which it could be said, Here is a falsetto; or, Here is a mere sentimentality? But as to the actual importance of the feeling, that is not so easily decided.

might be taken. This is a point on which some explanation is desirable.

No doubt, to preserve the hills and valleys of England in that degree of beauty which a sensitive mind would desire, would imply the disuse of a great many necessary occupations, the frustration of real wants. Collieries, mills, and railways, there must be; and the two first at all events are never, the latter seldom, beautiful to anybody but their owners.

Multa renascentur quæ jam cecidere, cadent- But there is a medium between the fanat

que

Quæ nunc sunt in honore.

It may justly be said that the present sentiment exhibits all those signs of gradual slow formation, of birth after much tentative effort beforehand, of growth and present endurance, which indicate a genuine vitality. The development of it has in some respects resembled, and has very nearly coincided with, the development of music. In each, the intellect is comparatively subordinate. In each, the simpler elements were subjects of admiration, centuries, nay, thousands of years ago, to men who would have cared no more for the view from the Rigi or from Ben Nevis than they would have cared for the ninth symphony of Beethoven. But, it may be said, there is a difference; the Alps were always visible; the ninth symphony of Beethoven had no existence a century ago. True; but though the Alps were always visible as they are now, their white pinnacles were, to the ancients, signs of far other things than those of which they are a sign to us at the present day. The condition of experience and of belief must be taken into account, before we can say what a mountain, or any other phenomenon, will stand for to the man who regards it with his bodily eyes. We know that at the present day, when the symphonies of Beethoven have been created, they speak very little of pathos or majesty to the ear of a Japanese.

But the taste for scenery may conceivably come to an end in a way quite different from any usually supposed, namely, by the scenery itself being spoilt or vulgarized. This is not likely to happen over anything like the whole of the earth's surface; but it might happen over a sufficiently large area to destroy a great deal of the pleasure which is now derived from this source. And we cannot close our article without saying, what we are persuaded of, that no nation, certainly not the English nation, takes at all that care about keeping the face of the earth beautiful, and extending its beauty, which

ical condemnation of needful things which have the misfortune to be unsightly as well, and that total neglect of the earth's beauty, and the absolute subordination of it to the desire for wealth, which is apparent in so many districts of England. How often do we see a railway in some romantic glen leaving white stony scars or heaps of stones along its embankments, which a little care would cover with trees and vegetation, but which are left naked and staring for years! How many a row of mean formal cottages is there placed just where it most intrudes on the view, which might either have been hidden away, or, still better, separated into groups! How many gigantic staring hotels, on the English and Italian lakes perhaps especially, are (as an advertisement) placed just in the most conspicuous position, where they most spoil the soft natural outlines! The pollution of the air, of the rivers, is well known and of course a much more important matter. The legislature has done something, has attempted indeed more than it has been able to carry out, in these last points. But legislative action can do nothing here without a popular sentiment to support it. It is true that a small river, flowing through a town like Manchester or Leeds, can never, according to any estimate of probabilities that we can form now, be otherwise than very dirty. But perhaps such a stream need not be quite as dirty as the Irwell and the Aire are at this day; and there is many a small brook among the hills, which is polluted indeed now, but in which the sources of pollution are limited and manageable. How much, again, are gardens neglected by the inhabitants of our colliery and manufacturing districts! True, such gardens must always be at a disadvantage, when compared with those of Wales or Devonshire, but they might be much better than they are. And we are bold enough to think that some of the recently constructed lines of railway in England might have been spared (they are not all of them by any means overburdened with passen

For a

gers); and others might by a little altera- given, he proceeded to place this wontion of their direction have been rendered innocuous where they are now obtrusive. Whether it could ever be the duty of the English government to prohibit the entry of manufactures and mines into certain selected parts of the country, for the sake of preserving their natural beauty for the people, is a question that would of course present great difficulties, and could not be answered in the affirmative without much consideration; but it might be entertained. But it is, mainly, individual impulse and care that needs to be quickened in England. All the damage, and all the good too, are in a matter like this effected by small successive accretions; at least as a rule. Let us try to extend the beauty of the country, and prevent its destruction, in those small matters in which each of us is competent; and we shall not fear the total result.

From The Cornhill Magazine.
NO NEW THING.

CHAPTER III.

DISTRUST.

--

ONCE upon a time there dwelt in the East a king so mighty and wealthy that he was the envy of all mankind. He had armies and palaces and treasure-houses, and shady gardens, where fountains rose and fell all the day long, and where neither roses nor bulbuls were lacking; not to mention sherbet, and jewels innumerable, and a plurality of wives in short, all that the Oriental mind could find to desire. And this made him sad; for he was a thoughtful monarch, and he soon found out that the fact of having nothing left to wish for is not only insufficient to render kings happy, but is apt to have a precisely opposite effect upon them. Therefore he summoned the wise men of his kingdom, one by one, and demanded of each of them privately how happiness might be gained. And some said one thing, and some said another; but the inquirer could find no suggestion to satisfy him till it came to the turn of a certain dervish to be heard. 64 'Happiness, O King," said this holy man, "belongs not to our world; but I have with me a talisman which, if a man will but consent to wear it next his skin for a twelvemonth, will assuredly confer upon him as near an approach thereto as is obtainable by mortals." And so, permission having been asked and

drous charm upon his master's person.
It consisted of a collar and a waistband,
loosely united by a strip of leather so ar-
ranged as to follow the line of the wearer's
backbone, and to the middle of this strip
was affixed a good stout thorn. The thorn
pierced his Majesty's august skin, and he
smiled graciously, for he thought he had
divined the dervish's meaning.
year he wore the talisman; and it caused
him all the suffering and inconvenience
imaginable. He could not bow without
receiving a sharp stab which almost caused
him to shriek aloud; to lean back upon
his throne was out of the question; when
he walked, the strip of leather swayed to
and fro, leaving a horizontal scratch for
every step, and when he rode, it flapped
till his back was punctured like a pin-
cushion. But all this he bore manfully,
knowing that every hour brought him
nearer to the end, and looking forward to
the time when he should taste the great-
est of earthly joys, which is relief from
pain. Besides it pleased him to think how
heroically he was supporting a torment of
which only one man in his dominions sus-
pected the existence. But, when the
longed-for day of deliverance came, lo
and behold! the poor king was no better
off than he had been at starting.
pose indeed he had gained; but that he
had had before; and, on the other hand,
he had lost a hundred small daily solaces,
of which anticipation had not been the
least. If the dervish had not prudently
made himself scarce at the time, it is prob
able that he would have had his head cut
off for his pains.

Re

The allegory has more than one moral; but the most direct of them lies upon the surface, and there are few men or women who have not had occasion, at one time or another of their lives, to recognize its force. "Ah! Pheureux temps quand j'étais si malheureux!"- one hears the cry every day in more or less articulate accents, and there are certain poets whose whole utterances amount to little else. Looking back, in after years, upon the few weeks which he had spent at Nice under the same roof with Margaret Stanniforth upon their drives along the sunny Cornice, upon their long talks on the balcony, during warm southern evenings, after Mrs. Winnington had gone out to the opera, or to a party given by some English friend. upon numberless incidents and speeches remembered only by himself, Hugh Kenyon often sighed for his lost thorn. It is doubtful whether he

-

Before Christmas, Mrs. Winnington followed his example. Her daughter, whose health no longer gave cause for anxiety, had plenty of friends in Nice to cheer her solitude; and there were other persons at home who had claims upon Mrs. Winnington's care and supervision. The fact was that the bishop, if. left too long to himself, was apt to get into scrapes, accepting invitations which he ought not to have accepted, allowing his children to make acquaintances which they ought not to have made, and other wise usurping functions which he was ill qualified to exercise.

will be proud to obey any commands from Mrs. Stanniforth; and, physically speaking, Walter is all that a fond father could wish him to be. You intend to send this young gentleman to school, then?"

"Yes; at twelve years old it is time, is it not? And he wants to go to school, and he isn't a bit afraid of English boys; are you, Philip?"

The child shrank closer to the side of his protectress with a movement which certainly did not convey the idea of any great natural intrepidity. He was frightened of the wiry little man whose keen grey eyes had been fixed upon him Meanwhile the mistress of Longbourne throughout this brief explanation, and if was greatly missed by those who dwelt he had been in a position to follow the around her new home, and her movements bent of his own inclinations, he would were discussed as such matters only are probably have turned and run back to the discussed in country neighborhoods. The house as fast as his legs could carry him. winter passed away as usual, with gales As he will play a principal part in the and rains and frosts; and, as usual, every- course of the succeeding narrative, and as body said that there had not been so hard the reader will be supposed to be intera season for twenty years. Then, when ested in the progress of his career, it may the customary easterly winds of spring be as well to state, without further delay, had blown themselves out, Mrs. Stanniforth returned; and a welcome stimulus was afforded to local conversation by the circumstance that she did not return alone. It was Mr. Brune's privilege to be the first to acquaint the parish with this bit of intelligence. Trudging across the fields, one sunshiny April morning, he encountered Margaret, accompanied by Hugh Kenyon and by a pale-faced little boy with enormous dark brown eyes, whose hand she held.

"I have brought this little man home with me," said she, as soon as the usual greetings and inquiries had been interchanged, "to make an Englishman of him. Or rather, I have brought him to have an English education; for his father was a countryman of ours, though he has lived all his life with his mother in Italy." "He looks as if he might have been left to his mother a little longer with advantage," Mr. Brune remarked.

His mother is dead," answered Margaret gently. "You are my little boy now, aren't you, Philip?”

A dissentient growl from Hugh Kenyon died away unnoticed.

"And what is your name, my lad?" asked Mr. Brune.

Margaret answered for him, after a momentary hesitation, "His name is Filippo Marescalchi. I am counting upon my friend Walter to take a little care of him just at first, till he learns to fight his own battles."

"I can say on Walter's behalf that he

so much of his origin and past life as was known to his present patroness.

During the winter which was just over he had been frequently seen wandering all by himself along the Promenade des Anglais at Nice; and Margaret, who loved all children, had soon scraped ac quaintance with this one. Through him she had come to know his mother, a certain Countess Marescalchi, who had come to the Riviera in the last stages of consumption, who had apparently neither kith nor kin to look after her, and whose means were evidently of the narrowest. The poor woman was inordinately grateful for such kindnesses as Margaret was able to show her, and, with the communicativeness of her nation, had ere long put this English Samaritan in possession of all the details of a sufficiently sad history. She had, it appeared, been married, some twelve or thirteen years before, to a wealthy Englishman named Brown, who had assumed the title of Count Marescalchi on purchasing an estate in the dominions of King Bomba, which, as a matter of course, carried nobility with it. She had lived happily with him, she said, during the first year of their married life, more or less unhappily during the second, and before the third was at an end he had departed for his native land, and had never returned. She had received from his lawyers the title-deeds of the Italian estate, together with an intimation that she might now regard the same as her own, and that Mr. Brown did not desire to