Novelist.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1188, 30 October 1882, Page 7 (Supplement)

Novelist.

BY SLOW DEGREES.

A STOBY OF AUSTBALIA.

BY

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY.

AUTHOR OF “ THAT FELLOW FARKESE.” CHAPTER XXXlV—(Continued.) “ I remember his appearance well, as I saw him on the day of his departure for Venice. Tall, strong, and somewhat rugged of feature, he nevertheless presented a favourable contrast to the little, weakly, degenerate beings into which the Old Roman race, has in too many instances, deteriorated, He was strongly affected at parting from the sister, who had been a mother to him as well, but he was a man of great self-control, and no tear showed itself in his deep set eye, as my mother hung weeping on his shoulder. ‘ I shall never see you again,’ she said. ‘ You will be plotting against the Austrians, and they are even more remorseless than she did not finish the sentence, for walls had cars in Rome, at the time. ‘lt is in God’s hands,’ he answered. ‘lf the sacrifice of my life for Italy should be called for —much as it grieves me to part from you, my sister—l shall not hesitate to render it like a Roman.’ “ Well, he went to Venice, and obtained a situation in a noble family there, as tutor, to the only son, but, soon he wrote to us, that matters in Venice were no better than in Rome ; oppression was the order of the day, and, what was more intolerable—foreign oppression. I need scarcely tell you that Rinaldo joined the patriotic band, which laboured ceaselessly to arouse the dormant spirit of liberty. His pupil, an idle and selfish young man, displayed, or pretended, a leaning towards the national cause, so that, though Rinaldo trusted him but little, the traitor became acquainted with many particulars concerning the society, and, some time after my uncle had left Venice, this contemptible wretch communicated all he knew to the Austrian authorities. Rinaldo was then livng in the family of a Milanese gentleman called Sforzetti, as instructor of his three sons. There were no other children, and my uncle was treated in every respect, as one of the family, to the members of which he soon became much attached. His plotting never ceased for a moment, however, and before long, he became one of the most trusted agfcnts of the society in Milan. “ Then came the discovery. Signor Sforzetti’s residence was situated several miles from Milan, and, one morning, Ithile the family were at breakfast, an affrighted servant rushed in, with news that a detachment of Austrian troops was surrounding the house. Signor Sforzetti looked inquiringly at my uncle. ‘ Fear nothing,’ said the latter —‘ there is nothing to compromise you!’ and the next moment an Austrian officer entered the room, followed by his white-coated men. * This is our man,’ he said, in German, — pointing to my uncle, ‘ but seize and search them all.’ ‘ What the children, too,captain ?’ asked the sergeant to whom the order was given. * Yes, the children, too,’ said the flax-en-haired scoundrel. ‘ Accursed whelps of an Italian dam ! —lf I had my way, they should be bayonetted before they were old enough to plot against the Emperior; Search the mother first.’ “ I must tell you ” —interjected Paola—“ that the distinguishing characteristic of Austrian brutality towards Italians, was that it made no distinction of sex, the women being treated by these cowardly barbarians with an atrocity of which no other civilised nation would be capable. Can you wonder that we hate them ?” she exclaimed, raising her clenched hand in the air, while an unwonted flush burned upon her cheek. “ Can you wonder that my father—citizen of the world, as he is—would almost die sooner than sit at the same table with an Austrian? “Well, to resume. Two of the white-coated machines had advanced to lay hands on the terrified and shrinking Signora Sforzetti, when Rinaldo, with a sudden effort, shook off the men who held him, and knocked the Austrian captain down. My uncle was a powerful young man, and, when the half-stunned officer was helped to his feet again, it was seen that his cheek was split open from eye to mouth, and the front of his white uniform drenched with blood. ‘ Bind his arms!’ he cried, as soon as he could speak for fury. ‘ Down into the court-yard with him!’ ‘ Oh, what are you going to do ?’ cried Signora Sforzetti, flinging herself on her knees before the officer; ‘spare him, for God’s sake!’ ‘Do with him?’ echoed the Austrian. ‘lf you will look out of that window for five minutes, you will see what Ido with him! Downstairs with him, instantly!’ » “ With his arms bound, my uncle was quickly dragged downstairs, and placed against the wall of the court-yard, while a party of soldiers was ranged on the side opposite to him. Signor Sforzetti described the terrible affair afterwards, in a letter to my mother. The morning sun shone full into Rinaldo’s pale, stern face, as he gazed, without a tremor, at the line of executioners in front of him ; white, scared countenances looked down from many a window round, and a flock of pigeons, in strange contrast with the spirit of the scene, fluttered and cooed about the dovecote, above the doomed man’s head. ‘ Rinaldo— Rinaldo!’ cried Sforzetti, pressing forward, ‘ have you no message for your sister ?’ ‘ Only this,’ returned by uncle, steadily: ‘ tell her I died for Italy, and died like a Roman! Farewell to yourself, Sforzetti. This Austrian hound will think twice before he insults another Italian woman.’ ‘ Ready !’ roared the captain to the firing party. ‘ Present! What now?’ he added, angrily, to his lieutenant, who touched him on the arm before the third and fatal word could be uttered. The lieutenant whispered in his superior s car, and, after a few moments of hesitation, the captain ordered his men to order arms again. ‘Rinaldo Caraffa,’ he said then, ‘ your treason is all discovered.

We have ample proofs of it; and by shooting you now for your insolent attack uponme, I should only anticipate the fate which awaits you at Milan. But, on one condition, your life will be spared. Give up the names of all your accomplices ; acquaint the authorities with the details of your conspiracy, and I venture to promise you, not only life, but

reward.’ There was a dead silence; the prisoner seemed as if he had not heard a .word of what had been said to him. ‘ Consider well,’ said the Austrian ; ‘ I will ask you three times. Once!’ No sound, but the gentle coo of the pigeons, and the rustle of the poplars in the breeze. ‘ Twice!’ The prisoner compressed his proud lips, but uttered not a word till the third, and last warning had been given, when, with a contemptuous smile, he looked the officer full in the face. ‘ Viva Vltalia !' he said, and that was all. With a fierce stamp<of his foot, the captain turned to his men—the rapid words of command were followed by the crash of the volley—and Rinaldo Caraffa had sealed his patriotism with his blood.” There were tears in the girl’s proud eyes as she concluded, and I felt my own blood strangely stirred, as much by the dramatic force with which she had told the story, as by the tragic interest of the tale itself. “ There is a future for Italy yet,” I thought, as I looked at her. “The ancient spirit of her people may be buried—it is not dead!” CHAPTER XXXV. “ I wonder much how the Reverend Sleekie will get on with Mucklebody,” said Walter, as we drove up to M‘Phun’s residence —a neat little suburban establishment, surrounded by carefully-kept grounds. “ Sleekie ! —is he to be of the party, then ?” “ Sure to be 1 Miss M‘Crankie—M‘Phun’s aunt, you know—wouldn’t leave him out on any account, so you may make up your mind to the infliction.” Aqd, accordingly, when we entered the drawingroom, the first person we beheld was the Reverend Samuel, seated opposite to a brisk-looking, little, old lady, with bright, black eyes, and short, iron-grey curls on each temple. Besides the host, there was only one other person present, and I was, in due course, introduced to Miss Alison M'Crankie and Mr. Sharpe Shuter. The latter was a tall, good-looking young man, with unruly brown hair, a keen, intelligent face, and a style of speaking that reminded one of the immortal Mr. Alfred Jingle. “Mucklebody hasn’t arrived yet,” said M‘Phun—“ nor Fysshe. Have you seen anything of Fysshe, Shuter ?” “ Saw him this morning,” answered Mr. Shuter, pulling the end of a straw-colored moustache—“■ not since. Certain to be here directly, though. Sure card, fysshe.” “Is it not a woeful thing,” put in Mr. Sleekie, “ that the ungodly inhabitants of this land are so much given unto the pernicious and soul-destroying practice of card-playing, that even in their ordinary conversation they do use the language thereof I” “ What’s the man mean ?” asked Shuter, in an undertone, of M‘Phun. The latter smiled. “Because you called Fysshe a sure card, I suppose,” he answered, in the same tone. “ Don’t mind the man; he is a protege of my aunt’s.” “ Hum! Must not speak by the card, . then,” said Shuter. “ Here’s Fysshe at loaf ”•

“And Mucklebody also,” said the host—- “ to judge from the noise.” The Scotchman’s loud and jovial tones were now heard from below, and he presently made his appearance in company with a palefaced and solemn-eyed young man, who was announced as Mr. Dionysius Fysshe. Mr. Fysshe, who was elaborately attired, was as precise and formal in speech as in dress ; in fact, being, as Shuter informed me, a press reporter, he spoke exactly as he wrote, and supremely ludicrous was the effect of his importation into private life of the exalted phraseology of the paragraphist. But if Mr. Fysshe’s dress was remarkable in one direction, Mr. Mucklebody’s was no less so in another. He had thrust himself somehow into a brass-buttoned swallow-tail coat, which was as small’in size as it was superannuated in fashion, and indeed, as he soon informed us, it.had belonged to his grandfather, who was “ but a wee bit o’ a body, but still, for the sake o’ auld lang syne, he didna like to pairt wi’ the coat.” From the narrow sleeves of this garment projected about six inches of long wrist, plentifully garnished with red hair, while the tails thereof, dividing gracefully about midway up the wearers back, came to a laughable and untimely conclusion somewhere in the region of his hips. From beneath his rough red beard stood out the ends of an immense white bow, and the glitter of a massive gold watch chain contrasted strikingly with the chromatic glories of a tartan waistcoat. Very well satisfied with liimseM, nevertheless, was Mr. Mucklebody, and, having shaken the hand of Miss M‘Crankie with a goodwill, which made the little lady wince, he turned to be introduced to the rest of the company. The moment his eye fell upon the countenance of Sleekie, however, his jovial grin disappeared, his bushy eyebrows contracted, and he stood for a moment, as if in thought. “ Ay, to be sure !” he said, half-aloud, as he acknowledged •Sleekie’s bow with a short nod, and then turned unceremoniously away. “ Our Caledonian friend appears to have seen the parson before,” said Shuter to me. “ Recollection don’t seem to be a pleasant one, does it ?” Then we went down to dinner, and, after a long and elaborate grace had been pronounced by Mr. Sleekie, Miss M‘Crankie inquired if I did not think Melbourne an awfully wicked city.

“ Y’ou do not know it yet,” she said, with a shake of her head, when I had answered that I did not think it was specially so. “It is only those who go about, as I do, trying to win souls to to the true fold, who become aware of the real wickedness of Melbourne. And I may truly say,’* went on the little lady, with a glance at Mr. Sleekie, “ that I have done some good by my efforts.” The Reverend Samuel groaned, as if in doubt of his fact. “ Mr. Sleekie does not agree with me on this} point, I know,” said Miss M‘Crankie. “Hu says that the Church of the Purified Few is complete—that we cannot make any more additions to its numbers, but, though he is my pastor, I venture to differ from him there.” The Reverend groaned more lamentably than before, and M‘Phun looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “ Mr. Sleekie, is ill, I fear,” he said. “ 11l in mind, my friend,” said Mr. Sleekie —“not in body; I am troubled for the wickedness of this generation I” “ Hoot, awa, man !” said Mucklebody ; “ the generation’s no that bad ava! A dinna conseeder mysel’ sac muckle a sinner, an’ whaur ye’ll find ane waur than me, ye’ll find twa better I” “Very modest opinion of his own moral status,” said Shuter. “ The poet,” put in Mr. Fysshe, ponderously, “ speaks of the pride that apes humility.” “ A dinna care a brass bodle what the poet says,” returned Mucklebody. “ A’m no apin’ humeelity, nor anything else. A’m only sayin’ they’re but fules, these puir, soor meescrable folk, wha’s aye runnin’ doon the warld, an’ a’ that’s in it. The warld’s a verra gude warld, A say I” “ You are inclined, 1 perceive, sir,” said Fysshe, “ to favor the optimistic view of the scheme of things.” “ Optimeestic I —what the deevil!—l beg yere pairdon, mem—the word slipped oot unawares.”

Miss M’Crankie had half risen from her seat; the Reverend Samuel had thrown up his eyes and hands in pious horror; and

MT’hun was shaking with suppressed laughter. “ Deil’s in’t, man!” exclaimed the Scotchman, aggravating the offence in his confusion, “ ye needna turn up your eon like a doin’ duck. A’m sorry a spak’ the word before a leddy, but A dinna ken what for ye need be sae muckle shockit at a bit aith. A’m better acquent wi’ ye than ye thcenk, ma man !” “Well, Mr. Mucklebody,” said M‘Phun, interposing, “ you were saying that you think the world’s a very good world on the whole.” “Ay, man—that A do; an A’ll sing ye a song tae that effec’ after a wee.” “ Delighted,” said the host. “ After Miss M’Crankie has left the table, we’ll be glad to hear it; but what I was going to say to you is that Mr. Shuter, there, is a man of your way of thinking. He also thinks the world is a very good world.” “ A’m glad tae hear it,” Mucklebody said, turning to Shuter. “ That’s the richt way o’ thinking for a young man—or an auld ane either, for that matter. Then ye dinna want tae hae the warld mendit, Mr. Shuter ?” “ Don’t go so far as that,” said Shuter.

“ Many things in the world that might be mended. More good than ill around us, though—if we’d only look for it. Some people” he went on, with a glance at Sleekie, “ speak of man as naturally evil and vile—poor miserable worm, and so forth. Wretched twaddle! Man’s a noble being—wonderful being ! As much good in him as evil! Mere perversion of language to describe him as a wretch, and a worm, and all that 1” “ Gie’s yore han’ man,” said the enthusiastic Scotchman,” whose dinner potations were beginning to take effect on him. “ Gio’s yere han’! A’m prood tae mak yere acquentance’ Ma ain thochts exac’ly, only pit-intil words that A couldna gio them. Here’s yere verra gude health,” and Mr. Mucklebody swallowed a bumper, as Miss M‘Crankic left the room, followed by a regretful glance from Mr. Sleekie, who, though he doubtless considered himself left alone amongst the ungodly, was manifestly unwilling to desert the good wine, upon which he had already done considerable execution.

The Reverend Samuel, like not a few of his stamp, was won’t to grow more demonstratively holy as he grew more vinous, and, as the bottle now circulated rapidly, he soon began to present an edifying combination of of ebriety and righteousness. The Scotchman, too, had grown decidedly bacchanalian, and favored us at intervals with snatches of “ Willie brewed a peck o’ maut,” while Mr. Fysshe’s sentences had grown more ponderous and elaborate than ever, and M‘Phun’s eye twinkled like a star, as he sat observant and amused at the.head of the table. “ Perhaps Mr. Mucklebody would favor us with the lyric in its entirety,” said Fysshe. “ I venture to predicate, from the tentative vocal efforts with which he has hitherto obliged us, that his rendition of the whole would prove eminently satisfactory.” “ Fysshe’s words always get longer as he gets tipsier,” said Shuter aside to me. “ He’ll be unintelligibly magniloquent in a quarter of an hour.” “ Mr. Mucklebody has promised us a song already,” said the host. “What was it?— something about the world?” “Ay ! A’ll just wet ma whustlc an’ begin,” and, having drained his glass, the Scotchman fixed his eyes on Mr. Sleekie, and began, in a voice that made the ceiling ring:— Ye preach that humanity’s vile, huly man, An’ ye mak’ oot a sin o’ a smile; Ye say there’s iiae worth Tao be fand on the earth, An’ the warld it is naethin’ but guile, holy man, An’ the warld it is naethin’ but guile. Ye venture ye’re neibors tae damn, holy man, An’ ye say wi’ yere sermon an’ psalm That the licht-hearted thrang Tae the deevil belang— Yet A thcenk ye are nought but a sham, holy man, A thcenk ye are nought but a sham ! But, snuffle an’ snairl as ye will, holy man, We will laugh when it pleaseth us still; Nae puritan-preachin’ Can better the teachin’ That there’s gude tae be matched wi' the ill, holy man, There is gude tae be matched wi’ the ill. An' this is the short o’ it a’, holy man— The lang an’ the short o’ it a’— Ye’re a fule for yere pains, For the fac’ still remains That the warld’s no’ a bad warld ava, holy man, The warld’s no a bad warld ava. To this ditty Mr. Sleekie sat listening, with a face that grew longer at every verse. “ Blas—blasphemous wretch 1” he said, when the song came to an end. “ I will not remain in the company of such a person,” and he made an effort to get up from the table, but the wine had been too potent—he was fain to sink back in his seat again, and there remain, groaning, and shedding vinous tears over the sinful Mucklebody. But tlie Scotchman, who had also taken more than was good for him, now took umbrage at the term which had been applied to him by Sleekie. “ Nae mair blaisphemous than yersel,’ Mr. Sawmel Sleekie!” he said. “An’ e’en if it were sae, a preety fallow ye are tae reprove onybody ! Did ye thcenk A dinna ken ye, man ? Hae ye forgotten Belfast, an’ ye’re Uncle Crawford, eh? An’ his son Jack, that was transported, eh ? Talk tae me aboot blaisphemy, indeed, ye graceless loon ! Yersel’ was mair than suspeckit o’ bein’ at the bottom o’ what yer cousin got a’ the blame o.’ Ay, gentlemen, ye may stare, but it’s true! His reverence, there—the Reverend Sawmel Sleekie, at yere sairvice—was in his uncle’s coontin-house in Belfast, when A was leevin* there on behalf o’ a Glasgie firm. His cousin, puir Jack Crawford, had a quarrel wi’ the auld man, an’ got turned oot o’ doors, an’ no verra lang afterwards the office was brak intil, an { robbit. Young Crawford was tried for the robbery, an’ convected, but before he was sentenced, he declared solemnly, that he hadna touched a bodle o’ the siller, an’ that he had only been, searchin’ for a bit peecture, that his faither had ta’en awa frae him. The auld man didna believe this, until a gude bit after Jack was transported, an’ then he fand out something, that made Sawmel Sleekie tak leg-bail. A kenned the fallow, the moment A set ma eon on him, but a wadna hae exposed him, if he had keepit his tongue wi’in his teeth. Him an’ his blaisphemy, indeed!” Sleekie’s unwholesome countenance grew ghastly pale as he listened, his jaw dropped like that of a corpse, and beads of perspiration stood out upon his brow. But the shock of the exposure partly sobered him, and, rising from the table, he stammered forth that he did not feel well, and would Mr. MT’hun excuse him for retiring. Mr. MT’hun did excuse him, aud the Reverend Samuel sneaked out of the room, like the miserable hypocrite he was. “Remarkable Coincidence in Real Life!” murmured Fysshe, who was now half-seas-over, and doubtless imagined that he was composing a paragraph. “ The Romance of Facts—Truth stranger than Fiction !”—with which observations, he suddenly disappeared under the table.

He was laid upon a sofa, until, when the party broke up, some three hours later, he was sufficiently recovered, to take his place in a hansom, with the more hard-headed Scotchman. CHAPTER XXXVI. “ What do you think of Shuter ?” said Walter to me as we drove away. “Rather a dry stick,” I answered; “but I like the little I’ve seen of him very well. What is he?” “ Newspaper man.” “ Why that’s what he told me Fysshe was.” “Fysshe is a reporter on the Telephone;

Shuter sub-edits the But what 1 wanted to tell you was, that lie is an admirer of the pretty little Quakeress you’ve got at Cintra.”

“ What—Miss Stone?” “ Yes, Ruth Stone; and Rnth Stone, I understand, is no way unfavourable to his suit.”

“ And her father ?” I asked. “Oh, her father likes Shuter well enough personally, but he has got an old prejudice against literary men as a class. He says their’s is a lying profession !” “Pooh ! he must be thinking of lawyers.” “ Ncft a bit of it!—he has even a worse opinion of them. All this I have learnt from Shuter, who will not, I suppose, be able to see anything of the demure little Ruth now. Cintra thus contains two ladies who are beyond the roach of their true knights !” added Walter, with a laugh and a sigh,—“ but this knight, for one, is not going to despair. You will come with me next week to see the Cup run, I suppose.” “ Yes,” I answered, noticing at the same time, the association of his hopes with the great race—“ I will come, of course, but I wish you would not build so much on that event. You’ve never told me the name of this wondeiiful dark horse, that is to make your fortune.” “ Well, I’ll tell you now—in confidence, of couro : it’s Isandula, one of Jardine’s horses.” “Isandula,” I repeated—“an ominous name, Walter!” “Ominous? oh, you’re thinking of that affair with the Kaffirs. Pooh!—there’s nothing in that.” “I don’t say there is,” I answered,” but I would rather the important animal, had borne a less inauspicious name. Is “King of the South” still first favourite?” “ Yes ; he holds his place in the betting, as firm as a rock. What a crash it will be when he is defeated?” “ I don’t like to see you so confident, Walter;” I said “you may be preparing a crash for yourself!” . But the over-sanguine Walter only laughed. The Cup could set matters right with him, he said, and the Cup should set them right! A bright flush rose upon Ruth Stone’s fair check, when, next morning, I incidentally mentioned Shuter, as having been at the party at MT’hun’s. The blue eyes stole a swift glance at me, and then dropped demurely towards her coffee-cup. “ Ah, Shuter is the right man, then !” I said to myself, “As far as the lady herself is concerned, at least. A precious rival he has got in that vulgar scoundrel, Harrison!”

“ Shuter?” said the Count. “ Let me see— I was introduced to a man of that name, at a meeting of the Victorian Royal Society. A literary man, I think; tall, with a light moustache.” “ The same,” I answered. “ What is his branch of literature, do you know ?”

“ Oh, he’s only sub-editor of a newspaper!” “ I like not that depreciative ‘ only,’ my friend.” said the Count, beginning thoughtfully to pace the room. “It is curious that people are so prone to undervalue the greatest of all the arts. ‘Scribe,’ ‘scribbler,’ ‘hack,’ and so on, are terms that often come very glibly from the tongues of men, who lack the ability necessary to make a third-rate ‘ scribbler.’”

“ You call literature the greatest of all the arts,”.l said; “ I cannot agree with you there!”

“Perhaps I should better have expressed my meaning,” returned the Count, “ if I had called it the most final and comprehensive of them. Other arts have their origin and basis in the mind of man—the literary art is< the direct reflex of that mind itself. It is, in a sense, too, the substitute for, and the reproduction of, all other arts. A noble building, a fine painting, or a grand piece of sculpture would have no existence for the man who had never seen it, were not the literary art able to present it to him in a subjective form. Then, but for the intercommunication of ideas, what would man’s existence be worth ? and what is literature but a method of communication which sets time and distance at defiance—which brings us into direct contact with the minds of other ages, as it does with the thought of our own time all the world over? In a word, so impressed am I with the importance and dignity of a calling which is the immediate vehicle of that intelligence upon which all other pursuits depend for their very existence, tliat I hesitate to speak with disparagement of its most humble votary.”

“ But you are not going to deny,” I said, “ that a superficial thinker may write glibly enough; while a profounder one may have a smaller gift of expression.” “ Far from it; but if the latter does not find some adequate means of expression, how can it ever be known that he is a profound thinker? He has either to remain uncomprehended, or take advantage of the ability of somebody else to translate his ideas into fitting words. My experience, however, is that the man who writes really well is never a man of inferior mental power. Without considerable intellectual capacity and development, there cannot exist that nice discrimination between approximate shades of meaning, that keen perception of the relative values of terms, and that accurate estimation of the adequacy of the expression to the impression, whicli must unite to constitute a good writer, as distinguished from a merely grammatical one.”

“But all this applies to speaking as much as to writing.” “Certainly,” admitted the Count; “and speaking and writing arc, for the purposes of many arguments, the same thing. But, litera scripta you know; while the spoken word dies at its birth, the written word may live for thousands of years, or may travel for thousands of miles.”

“ Well, Count, the literary folk ought to be obliged to you for your defence of their profession. It has many enemies—from those in high places who would strangle, if they could, the* Press, down to those who ignorantly think that bodily labour is more honourable or more arduous than mental.” “ There is really no question of greater or less honour in the matter,” was the reply—- “ if people would but look at it in its true light. All honest employments are worthy of equal respect, as interdependent factors in the great social problem.” “ But you don’t expect to convert the world to that doctrine ? ” said Paola. “ Certainly not, my dear,” returned her father; “ humanity zcill make it’s social distinctions to the end of time. Still, I think a more general recognition of the theory would remove much absurd misconception as to the relative importance of the various kinds of world’s work.” “ I have heard my father say,” put in the quiet voice of Ruth Stone, “ that those are no friends of the working-man who would persuade him that he is the only important member of society. My father, as perhaps thou knowest, hath been himself a workingman, so that he speaketh without prejudice.’ “All men are—or ought to be —workingmen,” returned the Count; “but I suppose your father referred to the manual labourer, the modern tendency to exalt whom is easily explainable. It is the return-swing of the pendulum of opinion, from the time when the man who wrought with his hands was foolishly and ignorantly deprecated and looked down upon. Action and reaction 1 ” he added, as he left the room ; “ it must ever be so! The pendulum must keep on swinging until the Clock of the World runs down for ever! ” “Thy father taketh a more favourable view

of the literary profession than mine,” said Ruth to Paolp. “ Does your father disapprove of it, then ?” “ Yea, he saith that to write for the press, is to mislead the public, and to write fiction is to write lies !’, “ That is an extreme view of the case, certainly,” said Paola. “It Is not, Mr, Raymond ?” “ Yes,” I replied ; “ and one which I should not have expected from Mr. Stone, judging from what I have seen of him.” “He saith, moreover,” went on Ruth, “ that mere-word spinning is not to be called work.” “Do you agree with him ?” I asked, somewhat maliciously. The little maiden shook her head. “I am but a girl,” she said, “ and judge not well of such matters, but I think that, as mankind is governed by opinion, tbe recording and directing of that opinion cannot be considered an unworthy employment.’ “ Why, you are quite a little philosopher !” said Paola. “ Why didn’t you hety to discuss the question just now?” “Nay, it becometh not a maiden to say much before those who are older and wiser than herself.” Paola laughed. “ I fear that would be. strange doctrine in the ears of a good many Australian maidens,” she said. “ But the Count would be pleased to hear you; he says young women with rational opinions are scarce.” “ With regard to literary men, Miss Ruth,” I said, “ perhaps your father’s acquaintance with them is limited. Does he know any ?” “ Yea—nay—that is, yea!” returned the Quakeress, hesitating and blushing, in a wdy that made Paola look at her in astonishment. “ He lenoweth the Sharpe Shuter, of whom thou didst speak just now. Think not'’—• she added, hastily—“ that I call the young man by his first name out of familiarity ; it is but the usage of our people, wherefore I beg thee also to call me Ruth.” “By all means Miss Ruth, I mean. But I think Mr. Shuter a very good fellow, and I have no doubt your father will modify his opinions in the course of time.” The girl understood, and gave me a grateful glance, as the blush again rose on her check. “ Ruth’s affections are evidently seriously concerned,” I said to myself, and Paola looks mightly mystified, but I have no doubt the whole story will be confided to her, before many hours have passed. CHAPTER XXXVII. At last came the day of the Melbourne Cup —fraught with importance and anxiety, to so many besides Walter Addison. I had heard that the attendance at the great race of the year was usually something astonishing, considering the population of the colony, but I was not prepared for the sight that met my eyes, when I arrived at the racecourse.

“ Why, Walter,” I said, “ there must be a hundred thousand people here, at the very least, and your population is under a million ?”

“Every Victorian is here to-day, who could possibly edme,” was the reply, “ and there are some thousands from the other colonies as well. But let me show you round a little; the first race doesn’t start till one o’clock.”

Here and there we wandered, accordingly ; up on the hill, and down on the flat, where abounded those distinctive types of colonial life, whicli were wanting upon the lawn of the grand-stand. The occupants of the more select enclosure were like well-dressed, well-to-do people, in other parts of the world, and, save for the prevalence of yellow silk coats, amongst the men, and a tendency towards the outre in the dress of the women—an absence of fashionable indifference in the former sex, and an exaggeration of it in the latter—the scene might as well have been laid at Epsom, as at Flemington. But elsewhere was much to interest and amuse the stranger. From the three-card swindler to the petty bookmaker—from the stereotyped negro minstrel to the timehonoured Aunt Sally—all the usual concomit- ' ants of an English racecourse were present ; but, upon the people who betted, or listened, or looked on, was visible the stamp of their adopted country. The Melbournite, brisk and wide-awake as the Londoner, had generally a rough-and-ready downrightness about him, as well, which bespoke a former acquaintance with adventure and emergency, and the bearded bushman, with his swarthy face and bandit-looking hat, had a swashing, Californian way with him, which was the direct opposite of the stolidity of the English yokel. Not a dull countenance nor a slouching figure was to be seen; all looked alert, keen, and independent ; the swiftly circulating blood of a young country gave its unmistakable character to the ccene. And it was the same on the hill, where the charge for admission might have been supposed to indicate a higher social stratum. Here was the mechanic, brighter and more prosperous-looking than his brother of England, side by side with the bush dandy, in horsy coat and composite rid-ing-trousers ; here the small tradesman, with his well-clad family; the clerk, with his pale face and fingers; the old and young; the town and country; but all with the indefinable Australian stamp upon face and figure—upon garment and manner. Suddenly the bell rang out from below us. “ Saddling bell for the first race.” said Walter. “We may as well stop here and see it. We’ve a capital view of the course.” Presently the horses came out for their preliminary canter; horses as good as any in the old country—appointments as complete —everything reproduced, down to the historic dog that ran his frantic and solitary career after the course had been cleared. Then came the race, with its false starts, its varying fortunes, its final moments of breathless excitement, and its eagerly scanned verdict of numerals.

“Now we’ll get down to the lawn.” said Walter. “ I should like to see the horses saddled for the next race. After that cbmes the great struggle, which means ruin to so many here this day.” “ Have you steeled yourself to the chance of failure ?” I asked.

“I have,” he answered. “It would be a blow, but not a very severe one in a pecuniary sense, while, as to the other consideration, I should still have Hope left. What are you looking at ?”

“ Only the Count’s gardener!” I answered, for my eye had just fallen upon Derrick amongst the crowd on the hill. He was standing about ten yards away, talking to a man, whose face I could not at first see, but, as we altered our position, I caught a glimpse of his features, and was startled to recognise the burglar, whose acquaintance I had made under the auspices of Mr. Jinker. My of the mysterious gardener returned in full force. “ Derrick shall explain this to-morrow,” I said to myself. “ The Count’s valuables have not been sent to the bank yet, and when I find the man in company with a notorious burglar, it is time for decisive measures!” One of the first persons we met in the grand-stand enclosure was Bill Crusher, with the orthodox race-glass slung across his broad shoulders, and the orthodox white hat and green veil surmounting his hard-featured visage. (To be continued)