admit that to a nature like yours the intrigues of politics, and the exigencies of the world and society, must at times be irritating; but, after all, you would not be quite happy in exile from public life. You like the game you play on the whole, and you play it well,-and confess, it has its pleasures.

Lady J. I will not say that it has not. The sense of power is always pleasant. It is better to drive than to be driven, but the cost of it is very great; and then, to be so misunderstood-to be open to such stabs in the dark-to be exposed to such bitter and unfounded accusations, after one has done one's best!

Vic. You should laugh at them. Lady J. That's very easy to say. The laughing would be like that of the Spartan boy with a fox under his arm biting him all the while.

Vic. That depends on the sufferer.

Lady J. What is the use of life except to give us happiness?

Vic. What is happiness? It is a mere matter of the scales, and which outweighs the other. Of course, there is always something in both.

Lady J. And at times you must confess the wrong scale goes down, as it does with me now. I daresay it all seems very despicable and unheroic to you, but there are times when there is no vent to accumulated feelings but tears. It is our woman's solace. I suppose you never yield to such weaknesses: and to-day I had to cry, and I had

to pour out my griefs to somebody; and so, as you are an old friend, I thought you would forgive me. You see, Janus is so different; and then I dislike so to trouble him, poor man! He is so calm of nature, that he would not understand it, you know. He tries to understand me, and to help me; but when I get into a state of excitement, and want sympathy, to talk to him is as if a furious wave in all the turbulence of its passion dashed itself against a rock. So I came here.

Vic. I thank you.. It was a proof of confidence that I deeply feel. You may be sure of my sympathy. We have known each other a long time. I know what you feel. It has been good for you to cry it out; and now it is good for you to smile. Never is the sunshine so sweet as when it breaks through a cloud.

Lady J. Yes; you know what I feel, for you are an artist. You live in another world, in a little paradise, it seems to me, with ideal persons and fancies. You can evoke the sunshine, and play with the storm, for they are not real to you; and when real life annoys you, you can always retire into your ideal world. But I have no such resource, no such refuge. Not that I am afraid to encounter a real storm. No; if it were only once in a while, I could meet it, and struggle with it, and brave it. It is not this, it is the constant irritation, the petty intrigues, the little rasping troubles, that spoil life by their constant wearing. Violent passion one can pardon, but not perpetual nagging. It is like being bitten to death by vermin, eaten by

ants.

Vic. Don't think about it. As for Lady Selina, I will see her, and set all that matter right; and as for the rest, count upon my affection

as much as you will-you never will count too much.

Lady J. Thanks, thanks! You have already done me so much good. I have had my cry out, and I am calmer; I am quite calm indeed. How much a little word in the right place and time can do! I am afraid I have been very foolish. Will you forgive me?

Vic. There is nothing to forgive. There is everything to be grateful for. You have shown me a confidence which tempts me almost to

No matter. (Rises and walks across the studio, pauses, and then returns.) But it is all over now. Smile-let me see you smile. Take heart, if you don't wish to see me break down. Take heart; help me, for I too have something to bear,, as you know. But you see I bear it. I say nothing.

Lady J. No. You have always been too kind, too good. You have never taken advantage of my weakness of my folly.

Vic. Do you remember? No, it's of no use to remember; though it is impossible to forget, Clara. Lady J. Victor!

(A pause.) Vic. Let us say no more. What a gloomy day it is!

Lady J. You have forgiven me? I thought you had forgiven me.

Vic. There is nothing to forgive. I was unfortunate. That is all.

Lady J. Ah, if you only knew! But what is the use of explanation? We should only make things worse. How different all might have been if, if — well —if they were not as they are!

Vic. You would not have been happier on the whole. I am not such a fool as to think that. I should have been, not you. If all had been different, I should have been well-different too. But where is the use of regretting?

There is no reclaiming the past: when one's cup is broken, it is broken; when one's wine is spilt, it is lost. Stop! let me show you two pictures.

Lady J. Would it be well for me to see them?

Vic. No; on the whole, I will not show them to you. They are only reminiscences.

Lady J. Let me see them.

Vic. Not now; another time.
Lady J. Now, now.

Vic. (goes and takes out a picture, and places it on the easel). There is one picture. It is a wood, as you see, and a silent pathway leads down among the thronging green trees. It is morning in June. Soft sunlight and shadow dapple the sward, and glint against the smooth beech-trunks, catching here and there sprays of wild roses that stretch out into the light. You do not hear the birds singing, but they are there; I hear them. Their song is of love. The world has not wandered that way; but nature is there, and love. Over that green slope enamelled with flowers droop low branches, and a little breeze is stirring in the leaves; and there two figures are sitting, while a stream babbles musically at their feet. They do not speak; only the whispering voices of nature, and the song of birds, stir the dreamy silence. But there, to one at least of those figures, is the centre of the universe. There is hope, and the divine dream of love, that transfigures all things. She is half turned away. He is gazing at her. They are both dreaming. They have been painting, but at this moment their brushes and colours are dropped on the grass. There is something going to be said, but it is not yet said. The whole world is waiting for it. What will he say? What will she answer? Will

they ever paint there again? All this was in the mind of the artist who painted it, but it needs the imagination to supply the great voids of expression. What will be the answer think, you?

Lady J. Ah, Victor, you have not forgiven!

Vic. That is one picture. Here is the other the pendant. Would you like to see that also, since you have seen the first?

Lady J. Oh, the first is enough. I do not wish to see the other. Better let me imagine that.

Vic. Yes; you must do me the favour to see the pendant. It is not without interest.

Lady J. Show it to me, then. It is written, as it seems, that I must see it. If it please you, I cannot refuse.

Vic. (places it on the easel). There. The season has changed. It is late autumn. A drought is over all. A storm has passed that way, and scattered the roses and broken down one of the main branches from the principal tree. The stream has dried up, and bubbles no longer; the grass is withered, the flowers dead. The sunshine is shrouded; twilight is coming on; and a grey, monotonous veil of cloud covers the sky. A figure is seated there alone. His head is buried in his hands. You cannot see his face. A snake is crawling through the grass around that rock, and lifting its quivering head. On a dead branch a melancholy owl is seated above. His plaintive note is all that breaks the stillness-the lark and the nightingale have long since fled. The wind stirs sadly in the trees and moans among the dead leaves. The sear leaves that are left on the beeches are slowly dropping. There is a smell of mouldy earth pervading the air. Over all is a sense of regret-use

VOL. CXXVIII.-NO. DCCLXXVII.

less regret for what cannot be undone, for what is gone beyond recalluseless but inevitable as long as life goes on.

Lady J. Ah yes! it is inevitable.
Vic. Perhaps.

Lady J. How perhaps? Is it

not sure?

Vic. Life is what we choose to make of it; we have it always in our hands to shape-it is plastic to

our use.

Lady J. Perhaps.

Vic. How perhaps?

Lady J. No; destinies shape themselves. What is past, indeed, we cannot recall; but accidents mould events and beget mistakes, terrible mistakes sometimes, that nothing can remedy. There is much that is only too true in the ancient idea of fate, against which it is useless to strive. What is lost is lost. We have to pay the penalty of our folly, even though we could not act otherwise, constrained by fate.

Vic. We make mistakes with the best intentions, and we often shut our ears to the counsels of our better genius. But there is always one thing left to us at least, and that is to make the best of what remains. What might have been, who knows? All we can say is, that it is not.

Lady J. And if it were? If one could take all back and begin again?

new blun

Vic. New mistakes ders. Who knows where any path leads until one has trod it to the end? In life, for the most part, we break the deep and clear silences of feeling with noise and clatter, and call it pleasure.

Lady J. Nothing is what it ought to be nothing is what we wish it to be. Whatever we have seems worthless-whatever we desire seems precious. We lose our way so easily in the track of life,

D

among its tortuous thickets; and a seductive path too often leads us to a quagmire or a precipice, and we know not the way back.

Vic. There is no way back. The path of life closes up behind us, and loses itself and is obliterated. There is no going back.

Lady J. Save in one's thoughts, and then nothing is so dear as what we have lost. What is past and lost has a consecration that nothing we own in the present can have. The present is a hard fact, and the past a tender regret. We are never satisfied. Something has gone or something is to come which did or will crown our life. We struggle on-we laugh and pretend to be happy; but the laugh is hollow and the happiness a sham. Nothing is really good but love and art.

(Bell rings--VICTOR opensenter Servant.)

Serv. I beg your pardon, Mr. Helps, but Lord Janus is below in the carriage, and wishes to know if Lady Janus is here, and if she would like him to take her home.

Lady J. You see here has been an oasis of ideality; now for the desert of reality for the false smiles again, the vapid enjoyment, the intrigues, the business of life. Farewell, dear dreamland - dear land of the impossible! Farewell, Victor! It is well that we were interrupted as we were-all is inevitable. Let us bear it.

Vic. When will you come again? Lady J. When life becomes intolerable, and I long for consolation, and can bear the world no longer. Farewell! You have calmed me, but you have made me very unhappy too-unhappy in the good sense of the word. But it is not well for either of us to wander too often into the past. Try to think well of me. We have been in another world, and, perhaps, a forbidden one; but how could we help it? Farewell, dear friend! do not forget me, and, if you can, forgive me.

(Exit LADY JANUS.) Vic. Dear Clara!

*

THERE has been some stagnation in the book-market this season, and we are the more inclined to feel grateful towards authors who have come forward with contributions to enliven the dulness. But Mr. Crawfurd, with his 'Portugal Old and New,' needs no stretch of kindly consideration. In this book we have at least one volume of travel which is singularly thoughtful and instructive. Though in speaking of his 'Portugal' as a book of travel, we may possibly give a somewhat false impression of it. It is rather the fruit of many wanderings through the country, and of the varied experiences and information he has accumulated in the course of prolonged residence. It is a kind of, encyclopædia of spirited sketches-historical, literary, and archæological; political, agricultural, and social. It would be impossible, in the limits of one short article, to follow the writer to any good purpose over the comprehensive range of subjects he has himself been compelled to condense; and accordingly, it is with Portugal and the Portuguese in the more picturesque aspects of rural scenery and manners that we propose chiefly to concern ourselves.

Considering the intimate political relations we have long maintained with it, and that the bar of the Tagus and the Rock of Lisbon lie within three and a half days' steaming of the Solent, Portugal is a country of which we are strangely ignorant. Englishmen generally have a vague idea that we carry on a very considerable import trade in port wine, cattle, and those delicately-flavoured onions that come

in so admirably with saddle of mutton. Historically, they have heard of the memorable earthquake; of the famous defence of the Lines of Torres Vedras, and possibly of the hard-fought battle of Busaco, and the dashing passage of the Douro. They may even remember that Napier saved a dynasty as the genius of the great Duke assured the independence of the nation. And not a few of them have reason to be aware that the Portuguese are under other obligations to us, besides those that are more or less sentimental, since of a funded debt of nearly £80,000,000 a large proportion must be held in England. They have heard something, besides, of the beauties of Portuguese scenery. Byron sang the praises of Cintra-a spot, by the way, that has been extravagantly overrated, where Beckford, dreaming of Arabian Nights, raised a palace-villa of rococo magnificence, among the cliffs he turned into terraced gardens and clothed in a blaze of rare exotics. Many a British passenger outward-bound has driven round the parks and gardens of Lisbon, and climbed the streets to the points of view that command the course of the yellow Tagus. But there our acquaintance with the country ends; and for that it must be confessed there are plausible reasons, to some of which Mr. Crawfurd adverts. though often striking and occasionally singularly beautiful, is seldom sublime; while there are great tracts of tame and sombre forest, broken ranges of rugged and repulsive sierras, broad stretches of what

The scenery,