LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1535, 18 January 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MASTER OP THE GOLDEN HOUSE. [“Loudon Society.”] ( Continued.) Chapter 11. .SHOWING THAT A MAN NEVER I.OSES BY POI.ITENESS. I, Charles James Stuart, of Christ Church, Oxford, had been staying in the West of England, in Cornwall and North Devon. I know of no country to equal it except the Lake Country, and on that point I am doubtfnl. I was a bit of a sportsman, and fond of the shore-shooting which has come of late years into fashion. I have made great bags that way—wild ducks and wild swan, teal and widgeon, plovers and oyster catchers. Then I have made friends with the fishermen ; and though the nights were very cold I had gone ont with them to their grounds for pilchard and mackersl. And when one was tired of the fiord-like rivers, of the battlemented rocks, of the wooded valleys, and thought that a word or two might be said in favor of the haunts of civilization, where would you find pleasanter quarters than the Three Towns, especially if you belong to the Royal Yacht Club on the Hoe, overlooking the Sound, which 1 am bound to say is the noblest-placed club in England ? But the days were darkening towards Christmas. 1 had only had ten days’ vacation, a week in the country, and two days in town. But it is astonishing how much you can pack into a week if you only try. I had tried, and I had succeeded. And now I was going back to town. My heavy luggage was at the station. I had only a hand-bag to carry, and I proceeded along a main thoroughfare. It is odd to watch the alterations of a thoroughfare. This particular street was wide, silent, empty. I was about to cross it, and suddenly the dead street appeared all alive. Carriages dashed one way and carriages dashed the other way ; a big omnibus came along ; there were also carts and horsemen. The multiplying sounds of wheels had attracted my notice, and I had not moved off the pavement. It fared differently with a pedestrian who was a few yards in advance. He was walking very lamely, leaning on a big stick. He appeared confused by a sudden rush of vehicles, and drew back. His foot came rather violently against the curb stone; the omnibus came perilously near, and the driver, being in fault, of course anathemised him freely. I caught a sudden glance at the old gentleman ; a great scarlet blotch on his face, keen eyes, somewhat forbidding features. He was by no means the kind ot man with whom one would feel inclined to fraternise from a priori considerations. But 1 had imbibed with my mother’s milk the kindly doctrine that we ought to to do all the good wc can, in all the ways wo can, to all the people we can. As an imperfect disciple of this creed, I caught the old gentleman, and prevented him from falling ; and then, observing that ho was both lame and disconcerted, 1 said,| * Will you allow me, sir, to offer you my arm across the road. ’ He took my arm, and I piloted him across the now busy street. He did not relinquish it when wc reached the other side, and we thus walked together to the station. Hero [ had fortunately the opportunity of showing him a little further attention. He clapped his hand to hia side, and cried out, ‘ 0 dear, 0 dear, T have lost my valise 1’ * Where did you leave it ?’ ‘ At the Royal, either in my room or in the coffee room.’ ‘ Let me get it for you, What is your name ?’ The old gentleman gave a scrutinising look. ‘My name is Bampfylde. But I will not trouble you. I must not mind losing the train.’ ‘ But we need not lose the train at all. I can get your bag quicker than you can do so yourself. Just wait for me a few minutes.’ It was not far to the Royal; the readers who know Plymouth will remember this. I bad been staying at the Royal myself, and so there was no scruple in handing me over the valise that was hanging up in the coffeeroom, albeit it chinked heavily, and the chink was that of gold. I. handed the bag to Mr Bampfylde, whoso features broke into a smile of gratification, aud who made a clutch at it.

‘ We had better travel together,’ ho said ; aud we stepped into a first-class carriage. I had only a second-class ticket but I followed him. Presently we had to show tickets, I was booked to Exeter, and there was something extra to pay.

‘O, really.’ said Mr Barnpfylde, ‘you came in here because I asked you ; you must let me pay the difference. ’ ‘Not at all,’ I answered. ‘I do not in the least care what class I travel by ; and,’ I added, with a touch of the old Etonian politeness, ‘it is quite worth while to give a little extra for the sake of a pleasant companion.’ Old JBamfylde gave an appreciative grin at the idea of being taken for a pleasant companion.

But we were alone in the railway carriage and managed to talk pleasantly. In those days I liked talking for talking’s sake : I am now coming over to the opinion that silence is golden. The old gentleman seemed to like my garrulity, and even became garrulous himself. ‘ You like Dsvonshire?’ ‘ I should rather think I did,’

‘ What is it that you particularly like V

‘I like everything—the moors, the streams, the woods, the corahes, the rocks, uudbays.’ ‘ I am a Devonshire man.’ 1 Glad to hear it. lam happy to express my appreciation of Devonshire to a native ’ ‘ You have been sporting? he said, with a look at some of my paraphernalia. ‘ in a sort of way, but chiefly shore-shoot-ing and rock-lishing. I have not been in the way of getting trout or pheasants. I have got some casual snipe and woodcock though. But I have no friends among the preserves.’ ‘That is a pity. I have rights oa a river where you get both trout and salmon.’ ‘ Capital!’

‘And I have some preserves. I never shoot, but 1 am told that my covers have plenty of pheasants and partridges.’ ‘ 1 should like to Jot lly at them.’

‘So yon shall with pleasure. Come and sec me ; I will put you up for a night or two. You shall shoot and lish as much as you a’liOOFC.' ‘ That is too good an oiler to be refused. One of these days 1 shall hope to take advantage of it ’ ‘ When will you come r’ ‘Ah, that is what 1 cannot toll, I have to be for a time in London, after that I must be at Oxford.’

‘ You are an Oxford man, I suppose ’ ‘Yes, and Oxford will bo my head-quar-ters for s me time to come.’ Wo c’me to a junction, a junction of the Mu;;ly kind, whore every line seemed to have flic red danger light on it. Mr B.uiipfyldn and I had to wait for half an hour in ih ; r"freshtmmt room. He took some hot lo gos to keep out the eold, and I followed mrt with something stronger. At last I was told that my truiu would start in

five minutes. The unfortunate Mr Bampfylde would be stranded at the station for an indefinite period. I could not carry politeness further than I had done already, and must be off. But before I left be said to me somewhat earnestly, ‘ You do not happen to nave any relations of my name, do you ?’ ‘No. All I know of any name beginning with Bamp are the Bumpton Lectures at Oxford.’ You never had any relations of that name in this country ?’ ‘Certainly. I never had.’ ‘ Coming down from the fourteenth century. ’ This in a tone that bespoke pride in the antiquity of hia family, ‘ Certainly not. I can answer that question quite clearly. My tamily came from Germany some three hundred years ago. It had no such British antiquity to boast of. We settled down in the north-east of England.’ ‘Ah, that settles it,’ ho said. ‘The surface of society is so small, and England is such a little country, that more persons are related than might he supposed. But I shall hope to see you again.’ A man never loses by politeness, especially by showing politeness to a man who has shootings of hia own. But it was a long time before I saw Mr Bampfylde again, and circumstances happened which quite put him out of my head. Chatter 111. THE three GLORIOUS DAYS OF JULY. There are people who talk of the three glorious days of July. I have had my three glorious days of July, the three first days of my acquaintance with Eleanor, Assuredly what divines tell us is true. We know not what a day may bring forth. One first of July, about five o’clock in the afternoon, I fell in love with Eleanor. Ido not knovv whether divines and philosophers would take cognisance of such a fact; if not, so much the worse for them. Scientific people don’t care for emotions. They want facts. Now my falling in love was as much a fact as anything could possibly bo ; a spiritual fact worth any number of material facts, I had gone out of town from Saturday to Monday to stay with some great folks, friends of my guardian, now happily released from all responsibility. They were rich titled people, and I think my quondam guardian thought that be was doing me a good turn in introducing me to people of family and fortune where there were nice girls. But the notion of marrying for money never presented itself to my mind. Nevertheless I had a very pleasant time of it. The ladies were going on to pay a visit to another great house, and I volunteered to row them up the river for a certain distance to a point where the carriage would meet them. This I had done, and feeling somewhat tired I had rowed the boat into a little shadowed creek, where I lay down, with a Greek author in hand to read, and so fell asleep. It was a warm afternoon, the heat being somewhat tempered by the evening breeze which had sprung up and modified the strength of the sun. * Sleep, my son; sleep in the sun is good, ’ wrote the Greek tragedian, whose play—for examination purposes—l had been reading. My sleep must have been deep, for when I woke up I had lost all my remembrance of time, place, and circumstances. But presently voices came to me, and though I had no right to listen, yet in ray semi conscious state I could hardly help hearing. The voice was literally music over the water. I am morbidly sensitive to the power of human voice. lam a near sighted man ; ride, eat, and even sleep with my eyeglass. And Mature, which has dulled one sense, has made me unusually acute with another, peculiarly sensitive to all sounds, and especially to all variations of the human vrice. This voice, it its clearness and sweetness of intonation, went straight to my heart. (To he continued.)