was the evanescent impulse under which, towards the close of the last and the beginning of this century, the shelves, now mellowed by time, were filled. To judge from the inevitable presence in such collections of 'Gil Blas,' 'Don Quixote,' Adam's 'Roman Antiquities,' Rollin's 'Ancient History,' Fénelon's 'Telemachus,' these works must have enjoyed a popularity with our great grandfathers which was nothing short of prodigious. But among these common objects of the country gentleman's library there often lurk unsuspected treasures, and a wet afternoon may prove a godsend if it gives an excuse for loitering among them. Too often, however, the library is also the master's sanctum, and even if you obtain permission to examine the books you feel that you are on debateable ground. Books, to be enjoyed, must be free as wayside ears of corn to the traveller in the East. "I am not ignorant," writes Robert Burton, ruefully enough, in his 'Anatomy of Melancholy, "how barbarously and basely for the most part our ruder gentry esteem of Libraries & books, how they neglect & contemn so great a treasure, so inestimable a benefit, as Esop's Cock did the Jewel he found in the dunghil; and all through error, ignorance, and want of education. And 'tis a wonder withal to observe how much they will vainly cast away in unnecessary adopt the phraseology of Democritus junior, there should be no prescription, restriction, hindrance, bond, obligation, circumstance, or interference affecting access to books; they should he kept as handy as Sairey Gamp's bottle, so that the visitor may refresh himself as often and as soon as he feels "so disposed." Not seldom a wayside snack of literature forms the initial of serious and fruitful study. May it be hinted without ingratitude to the thoughtful housewives, to whom we owe the delightful freshness and brightness of country - house bedrooms, that there is still one point essential to comfort which it is the exception to find attended to: so small that allusion to it is inseparable from apology, yet bearing directly on the full enjoyment of books. Of all blameless pleasures, the consummation, some of us think, is to be found in reading in bed; not at night when the eyes are weary and should be trained to sleep, but in the morning when the white light streams through the casement, and the mind awakes alert and strong. It is then that, in the panoply of snowy sheets, the reader may have such communion with fresh or favourite author as he can enjoy at no other hour of the a expences, quot modis pereant (saith twenty-four. He is in nobody's Erasmus) magnatibus pecuniæ, quantum absumant alea, scorta, compotationes, profectiones non necessariæ, pompæ, bella quæsita, ambitio, colax, morio, ludio, &c., what in hawks, mundizing, drinking, sports, playes, pastimes, &c. For my part, I pity these men, stultos jubeo esse libenter; let them go as they are, in the catalogue of Ignoramus." hounds, lawsuits, vain building, gur a way, and nobody in his; the body is still at rest, and thought leaps lightly alongside of soaring thought. But too often, alas! physical bar exists to the full enjoyment of this priceless hour. Ruthless hand and heedless head have arranged the bed with its foot towards the window, Unless shuttered and curtained (whereby waking on a summer morning Things are better now; still, to in the country is shorn of all de light) the glare disturbs the slumberer betimes; the hand steals forth to seize the volume for which the head hungers, but, with the light in front, reading is impossible, sleep has been banished, and the hour that should afford a foretaste of paradise is wasted in discontented tossing. It is a crude idea of a bed that destines it only for slumber in the dark; one of its main functions is to serve as a study in the daylight, and it should be so placed as to receive that daylight con deveniently. On the same subject of books may a word be added here, in the interest of visitors' servants, whose time, it may be suspected, sometimes hangs heavily enough on their hands. Does any one ever bestow a thought upon a supply of literature for them? A bookshelf is not a common feature in the servants' hall, yet the experiment of providing it seems worth a trial. Every great circulating library disposes at the close of year of its surplus volumes: a few of the better of these, purchased at a trifling cost, and put in substantial bindings, would form the foundation of a lasting source of recreation to a class, the intellectual wants of which are only too apt to escape attention. It is hard to say after how many days, or in what manner, bread thus cast upon the waters may not be found. each No estimate of the resources of country-house life would be complete without alluding to the garden as it is, and as it might be. About thirty or thirty-five years ago a most destructive revolution overtook horticulture in this country, under which the contents of immemorial parterres were ruthlessly rooted out to make way for ribbon-borders and bedding meas out-a system which secured a brilliant display in the autumn months, when the family had returned from their annual sojourn in the metropolis. The ured procession of bloom that delighted us as children, beginning with the scattered jewellery of early spring flowers, gaining volume and variety under April showers and May sunshine till it culminated in the glorious coruscation of midsummer, afterwards dying slowly in prismatic embers of decay until the white pall of December was drawn over the scene-all this patient pageant was dispersed by the fierce decree of fashion. Crown imperials and martagon lilies were swept out, or at best huddled into the kitchengarden; the beds remained brown and bare for nine months in the year, in order that they might glare for the remaining three with fierce blue, yellow, and scarlet. English gardens, rich with all manner of tender association, were for the time ruined; clumps of hepatica and fritillary, of unmeasured age (for the life of some of the humble flowering plants is not less enduring than that of the oak), were torn up and flung aside, to make way for "Mrs Pollock" geraniums and "Duchess of Omnium" calceolarias. The mania affected even the owners of cottage-plots; and bedding-out, the effects of which are magnificent enough when managed skilfully on a princely scale, pervaded even the garden of the country rector and the village doctor. Happily a reaction has been in progress for some time: gardeners are now as keen to get an old-fashioned "herbaceous" as they were ten years ago to get a new lobelia; the uniformity that oppressed the weary eye in search 66 of freshness and repose is giving way to a method that will restore individuality and variety to the grounds of country houses. Once more the garden will became, to those who know how to enjoy it, a source of never-ending pleasure. Once more, perhaps, we shall be allowed to return to it before its glory is dimmed by the dwindling days of autumn. Who that has lagged wearily home along the flags on a July evening in London, what time the steam of approaching dinner steals from ten thousand areas, but has sickened to be free and far away? Who could then repeat without maddening impatience the littleknown lines of the Scottish minister? "O western wind, so soft and low, Long lingering by furze and fern, Rise! from thy wings the languor throw, And, by the marge of mountain tarn, By rocky brook and lonely cairn, Thy thousand bugles take, and blow A wilder music up the fells. The west wind blows from Liddes- To my half-listening ear it brings The hum of bees in heather-bells, And bleatings from the distant fells, The curlew's whistle far and shrill, And babblings of the restless rill." But in advocating summer as the only season in which perfect holidays may be made, and the full joys of country-house life understood, it must not be understood that those of winter are regarded lightly. "Oh for the wood! the moan of the wood, When the cold is waxing strong; When the grey sod shrinks, and the dry wind bites, And about the tracks, like troubled sprites, The dead leaves whirl along." The very contrast between the dreariness and dark without and the warmth and light within deepens the sense of comfort within the old walls. By day, the light that shines through streaming panes falls pleasantly on the volume, to the perusal of which one may give a whole morning; by night, the wind that shrieks about the chimney-tops and roars away over the woodland only makes the log-fire burn the more merrily. Far be it, also, from us to depreciate the merit of field-sports. Fondly does the memory linger round the mysterious candle-light breakfasts, the drive over plashy roads to the covert-side, the gleams of uncertain sunshine upon scarlet coats and snowy leathers, the note of hound and twang of horn; nay, what heart that has once known the rapture is now so sluggish as not to stir as it recalls the piercing halloo, the glimpse of the fleet pack running almost mute across the open, the breathless struggle for a start, the priceless reward of having secured it. Neither, on a lower level, are the pleasures of the battue to be denied, when the knights of the trigger muster beside the brown copse, and the woods re-echo to a cheery fusilade. But the pleasures of the few must yield in time to the necessities of the many. The millions multiply so fast within this island, that elbow-room for field-sports is becoming less every year. The time cannot be far distant when successful game-preserving and fox-hunting will be restricted to a few specially favourable districts; and when these potent spells are broken, who will say that if half the year must be spent in London, it should not be the winter half? All the more will this seem reasonable when it is remembered that it is not only the happiness of people who can afford field-sports that is affected, but that a whole host of humbler folks is involved parliamentary reporters, messengers in public offices, domestic servants, shopkeepers, and shop-assistants. All these, were they consulted, would affirm with one voice that a holiday, to be a holiday, must be had in summer. One advantage, and one only, yet one not to be lightly set aside, must be claimed for the prevailing allotment of season between town and country, and it is this. It sends those who can help among those who need help at the time of year when help is most required. If it comes to pass that fashion decrees that the well- fed and warmly clothed shall shut up their country homes in winter and repair to the town, there will be danger lest the helping hand will be wanting in the day of sorest need. "That out of sight is out of mind, Is true of most we leave behind; For men that will not idlers be, Must lend their hearts to things they see." Yet this is not the consideration that will guide the House of Commons next time it is called upon to declare when it will take its holiday. HERBERT E. MAXWELL. 1 ARTHUR HELPS. To those who recall the literary reputation of Sir Arthur Helps a quarter of a century ago, the comparative oblivion into which his works have fallen is incomprehensible. Mr Ruskin once spoke of him as being, " like Plato and Carlyle, a true thinker" who had "become in some sort a seer, and must always be of infinite use in his generation." But when of late there was a discussion as to the best hundred books, nobody even mentioned any of the works of the author of 'Friends in Council' and 'The Spanish Conquest in America,' which, though still popular on the other side of the Atlantic, seem to be almost forgotten on this. Nor do many people remember that their author was not only a brilliant essayist, but that, as the trusted friend and correspondent of the Queen, and the intermediary between her Majesty and statesmen of all parties, he held a unique position in the political world. His literary tastes were developed early. At Eaton he was one of the founders of a School Magazine, which numbered among its contributors many clever boys who afterwards became famous men. While an undergraduate at Cambridge he wrote his 'Thoughts in the Cloister and the Crowd,' a collection of aphorisms which originally appeared in 1835, and has recently been republished. Some of the 'Thoughts' are excellent: "Most people seek the deep slumber of a decided opinion." "The extreme sense of perfection in some men is the greatest obstacle to their success." "The man of genius may be a guide, but the man of talents will be a leader." "Tolerance is the only real test of civilisation." "We must often consider, not what the wise will think, but what the foolish will say." It would be easy to multiply examples of pithy maxims of this kind, coming within Chamfort's definition of an aphorism as "a product of the labour of a clever man intended to spare fools trouble." Throughout all his subsequent writings aphorisms are frequent, but it was not till more than thirty years later that he published another collection under the name of 'Brevia.' Both abound in that mitis sapientia which is universally popular; and I cannot help wondering that Mr Morley, in his delightful essay, has not referred to Helps as an illustrious exponent of this particular form of literature. His Essays written in the Intervals of Business' appeared in 1843, and at once became popular. They were followed four years later by 'Friends in Council,' in which he utilised the novel idea of an essay on a particular subject being discussed by a symposium of friends. About this time Arthur Helps had some interesting experiences, for he worked under Mr Spring Rice, afterwards Lord Monteagle, and subsequently under Lord Morpeth, as commissioner for the relief of the famine-stricken Irish; and in the troublous times of 1848, when revolution was in the air and the claims of the Chartists were being wildly put forward, he took an active part, in company with Charles Kingsley, in the labour struggles in London. It was then that he contributed several articles to the series of papers called |