LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2140, 4 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

I THE MYSTERY OF LORD BRACKENBIJRY A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B, EDWARDS, Author o! “ Barbara's History,’* ,r Dcben' barn’s Vow,” &c. f Continued, Cbpambk XXVII. A. DUEL.

Lady Symes was one of those terriblepeople who can eat, talk, and listen at the same time; so she probably heard Horace Cochrane’s criticism upon herself. The ladies,at all events, had no sooner retired to the drawing room —that is to say, to the studio than she began questioning Mrs Pennefeather as to the stranger who took her in to dinner.

*ln a Government office, is he ? Ah, well, you know, that’s not much. Those Government offices nowadays are really little better than genteel idiot asylums. Your Mr Cochrane, my dear, struck me as excessively shallow. But tell me something about yourself. Is the new book nearly ready, and what will be its title ? Ah! everybody ask that qnec tion, don’t they ? You are quite right not to answer it. But you write too fast my dear. No author has any business to produce two novels a year.” ‘ But I don’t write for fame, dear Lady Byrnes, * said poor Mrs Pennefeather. € I write for money, and snch slight stories as mine are very easily written.* * Slight or not, you don’t} want to write yourself out, do you ? And you are writing yourself out as fast as your pen can carry you. I’m a stupid woman, and I don’t know much about literature ; but you may take my word for it Mrs Pennefeather. the author who scribbles off book after book, presuming on a little temporary popularity, is a mere suicidal goose, who kills himself for the sake of his own golden eggs.’ Then, turning to the Countess Castelrosso—

• You think a vast deal of authors in America, don’t you, madam ? More than we do in this country, eh ?’ The Countess smiled her brilliant smile and shot a mischievous glance at Mrs Pennefeather.

4 lf I say yes, Lady Symes, I seem to exalt my countrymen at the expense of yours, 4 she replied. 4 But we do honor talent especially literary ti.lent very highly indeed. Onr authors are onr nobility. In aristocratic countries—over here, you know—you talk of the Republic of Lett err. But we, who are Republicans, recognise an Aristocracy of Letters. Perhaps that sounds odd to yon, Lady Symes. You are not used to looking at talent in that way. But then your way is not onr way ; and your way, to an American, is very odd indeed. It seems to us that you keep fyonr clever people at arm’s length rather—as If they hadn’t been properly introduced, or you wanted to know abont their fathers and grandfathers. I daresay I am wrong, but that is our impression in America,’ 4 We certainly don’t send a man out as Ambassador to Paris or Berlin because he happens to have written a comic novel or edited a newspaper,’ said Lady Symes. 4 Ah, no—cf course not; bat then yon see yon are a great historic nation. Yon have your traditional school of diplomacy—at the Foreign Office, isn’t it, Lady Symes—one of the genteel idiot asylums yon have mentioned just now ? Wo have nothing of that sort—no traditions, you know ; not even so many idiot asylums as you have. But then we have no younger sons of noble birth to pnsh through the world. That, of coarse, makes a difference.

And the fair American, as she said this, smi’ed most sweetly and innocently in Lady Symes’ face. * I should hate a country in which every man was as good as every other man—if not better,’ said Lady Symes, looking at her somewhat askance.

4 1 don’t suppose yon would enjoy America, Lady Symes. The principle of universal equality would grate upon yonr—your sense of exqaislte'refiaement, yon know. Yon would find ns wanting In that hereditary urbanity which comes natural to the English, But that is because we have no traditions. By and by, when we are older and have traditions, we shall probably improve. These things oome by cultivation, I suppose, like fruits. There was a time (wasn’t there ?) when the sloe and the crabapple were your only English frnits—yet, by dint of culture you have developed them into peaches snd Ribatone pippins. Now we are in the crab-apple stage ; but wo hope to be Blbstone pippins by and by. I then meanwhile, you know—in the absence of culture and traditions, and idiot asylums—we look to what man 44 is ”; not to what his father and grandfather may have been. Perhaps we are not as particular as we ought to be about introductions. That is a defect in onr education. Bat we appreciate brains. With brains, a man may do anything in America. He may begin by keeping a drygoods’ store—or even by writing a comic novel, Lady Symes—and end by becoming President of the United States.

The gentlemen had by this time come in ; and as the majority gravitated, according to a natural law. In the direction of the Countess’s chair, she delivered this last little speech—with artless grace and a look of angelio unconsciousness—in the presence of a little audience. The smiles of this audience exceedingly aggravated Lady Symes, who was not need to being complimented on her refinement and courtesy and who was unwise enough to lose her temper. 4 1 have heard this sort of thing before,’ she said, rudely. * Brains and equality, and all the rest of it ; bnt I’m a stupid old woman, and I confess I don’t nnderatand it. If you Americans think so mnch of brains, how is it yon care so much for dollars ? If you are Republicans, why do you court the society of the great, and igarry foreign titles ? Your theory doesn’t square with your practice, to my thinking.’ 4 Brains make dollars, and dollars are power, Lady Symes; so brains and dollars are to some extent synonymous terms,’ replied the Countess. 4 And as regards the question of intermarriage ’ . . . . here she smiled sweetly in Lady Syme’s face, and flirted her fan. 4 Well, you see, we are each lovers of equality that we per haps think only Europe’s best is 44 quite ” good enough for ns. I don’t mean to say that you might not, here and there, find an American who thinks more of mere rank than Is consistent with Republican principles. I doubt not that snob may bo found, Lady Symes; but we are in the transition stage, yon see—crab apples aspiring to be Ribstone pippins. With more culture, and more idiot asylums, we shall got over these little weaknesses and backslidings. Still the backsliders are exceptions ; and exceptions, yon know, prove the rule. There may be ’ Americans who are title hunters and title worshippers; I admit the possibility. Just as I admit, for the sake of argument, that there may 4 may’ be Erglish who are neither courteous nor refined. But then I have never met any of those dreadful English, Lady Symes; and I trust that you may never meet any such wicked Americana. ” And the Countess Gastelrosso, having delivered this parting shaft, rose, gathering her laces together, and with a graceful bond which was half a bow and half a curtsy, glided away to the other end of the room. Cochrane, meanwhile, had sought Mrs Pennefeather, and claimed the fulfilment of her promise. 4 We are conveniently far off, now, ’ he said, 4 and I am dying to know all about Mr Fink and the fair American. Who is she 1 And why is she not plain Mrs Fink T 4 Because, like a good. Republican, she began by marrying a coronet.’ 4 Mr Fink being her second husband?’ 4 Mr Fink being her second husband. Count Oastelrosso was a very distinguished man —one of the Pope’s great officers of state—Chancellor, or Grand Chamberlain, or something ; and author of a learned book on Paute, which I dare say you know more about than I do. When he died, she went to visit her parents in America—that win abont the time of the war with Mexico. I think she had relations in Texas. At all events, she joined the Ambulance Hospital at the seat of war, and there met Mr Fink, who had gone out as a volunteer to fight for the Y ankees.’

‘ Gallant Mr Fink I You are quite? sure you are not extemporising the plot of a novel, Sira Fennefeathsr 1*

‘ If I were, I should tell yon that he fell desperately wounded, and owed his life to her care. But he only fell desperately in love. She refused him. He followed her all over Europe ; proposed to her in Constantinople, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin and Paris ; and was accepted In London. They are very rich. He owns a large property hero in the North, and she had two millions of dollars ; and they are as happy as a Prince and Princess in a fairy tale. ‘ A very pretty ending. I only wonder she _ did not fly at higher game than the Italian Count—but perhaps she likes Borne. They hive a regular “ Code de marriage," yon know—these Transatlantic beauties. They graduate in matrimonial honours. England is their donble-firat—their prize of prize*. They love the substantial respectability of the British Peerage. Franco next, fon the sake of Paris—which is their earthly Paradise. Then Italy, because they are uncommonly fond of Boms, After Italy, Austria—Vienna being a mighty pleasant I place in its way. Last of ail, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Madrid, Lisbon, and the lesser Continental fry.’ *Mr Cochrane, that is cynical, and £ don’t like it,’ said Mrs Pennefeather. * The Americans are the most warm-hearted people in the world ; and yon would mate it appear that they marry for cold ambition only. K» verdict could possibly be more unjust or more mistaken.' ‘ I was not speaking of the nation,’ replied Cochrane ; 4 but of the pretty women, and pretty women are ambitions all the world over. As for yonr friend, she is quitecharming, and I am half in love with her—though I fear Lady Svmes is not of my way of thinking. ’ ‘ Lady Symes is a spiteful old woman, and' deserved all she got. Sooiety isslavishly afraid of her, and she tramples npon it. It is well she shonld be silenced now and then. The countess’s chair had by this timeagain become the centre of a little court; while Major and Mrs Blowitt sang something about gondola and moonlight, to which nobody listened. Presently the guest who had farthest to drive began to say goodnight. Among these wore the Pennefeathers ; for it was Saturday evening, andthe curate had his own and the vicar’s Sunday work before him.

4 Yon shall have the cloak to-morrow, my dear,’ whispered the good.natnred beauty, when Mrs Per no feat her bade her good night. 4 Aid don’t believe a word that old cat said to you about the danger of writing yourself out. Your last book was perfectly charming, and the next Is sure to be better. There’s my bad husband playing a rubber, and it is nearly eleven o'clock! ’ The game over, Mr Fiak left the cardtable ; Cochrane took his place; and soon the whist players were the only remaining guests, _ It now became a gentleman’s party; and, being all good players, they went on from rubber to rubber till long after midnight. Even then they lingered awhile, chatting over their punch and cigars, and it was a long way into Sunday morning before James the stableman pocketed his ultimate half-crown, barred tee yard gate, and heard the last faint sound of departing wheels die away in the distance. (To he continved.')