towards the moderate Liberals of those days-who would be called ultra-Tories now-never gave rein to his political proclivities, and was on as good terms with Lord Derby as with Lord John Russell. Men of all parties came to him for counsel-not indeed as to private "scrapes with other men's wives," but as to the weighty questions of the day. Mr Froude relates the following anecdote, which has been circulated throughout the globe in his delightful 'Oceana': "Sir Arthur Helps told me a story singularly illustrative of the import ance which the British official mind has hitherto allowed to the distant scions of 'Oceana. A Government had gone out; Lord Palmerston was forming a new Ministry, and in a preliminary Council was arranging the composition of it. He had filled up the other places; he was at a loss for a Colonial Secretary. This name and that were suggested and thrown aside. At last he said: 'I suppose I must take the thing myself. Come up-stairs with me, Helps, when the Council is over; we will look at the maps, and you shall show me where these places are.' '" This story shows the popular notion of the functions of a Clerk of the Council, and the only drawback to it is that it is absolutely apocryphal. Mr Froude's memory must assuredly have played him some strange trick. In the first place, the Clerk of the Council never attends any meetings of the Privy Council at which the composition of Ministers is settled, for the excellent reason that such meetings are never held; in the second place, though Lord Palmerston filled most of the great offices of State, he never was Colonial Secretary; in the third place, Lord Palmerston could not have said "Come upstairs," because the council cham ber and the Library at the Privy Council Office are alike on the first floor, and there was no reason why Minister and Clerk of the Council should ascend to the garrets. But there is a much stronger reason even than these, and it is furnished by the unassailable evidence of dates. Sir Arthur Helps was not made Clerk of the Council until June 1860, when Lord Palmerston had already been Premier just a year, and there was, as a matter of fact, no change of Administration until Lord Palmerston's death in 1865. It is perfectly certain, then, that there was no preliminary Council for arranging the places of a new Ministry, and it would be interesting to know on what foundation this curious fiction has been constructed. But if in this particular instance Sir Arthur Helps was not called on to undertake the task of lecturing the Prime Minister on colonial geography, his advice was constantly sought in the highest quarters. The Queen soon learnt to rely much on his judgment, and for a good many years before his death he was perhaps the most trusted of all her Majesty's friends, and the most constant of her correspondents. It was he who edited the 'Speeches and Addresses of the Prince Consort' in 1862; and who aided her Majesty, six years later, in preparing for the press the 'Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands.' It was at his suggestion that Mr (now Sir) Theodore Martin was selected to write the Life of the Prince Consort; and the admirablefashion in which, omnium consensu, this difficult and delicate task was accomplished, has fully justified the choice. It was Sir Arthur Helps who made her Majesty acquainted with Charles Dickens in person; but though shyness was by no means one of Dickens's characteristics, he had such a fit of it on the occasion that he could scarcely be induced to open his mouth, and one of the most amusing talkers of his day was a conversational failure at the Palace. Another of Helps's literary friends was Sir Henry Taylor, as to whose 'Philip van Artevelde' he agreed with Macaulay's verdict, that it was (in 1850) the "greatest poem that the last thirty years had produced." He frequently quoted the lines "Good Master Blondel-Vatre, he is rich In nothing else but difficulties and doubts. You shall be told the danger of your scheme, But not the scheme that's better. He His experience possibly led him to the conclusion that this type was not an uncommon one among officials and statesmen, and he was fond of throwing the quotation at their heads. He himself wrote a couple of plays, and one of them, called "Oulita the Serf," was in his own opinion the best of all his works. The public, however, did not ratify this judgment, and it is impossible to help feeling that his affection for it was that of a parent for the weakling of his family. He published three novels; and 'Realmah,' which ran through the pages of 'Macmillan's Magazine' in 186768, was, in the opinion of competent judges, one of the best of his works. The story is a fanciful description of the lives and wars and polity of inhabitants of lake dwellings in some prehistoric period; and each chapter of the narrative is followed by a report of the discussion of a knot of friendly critics to whom it is supposed to have been read, but who really talk not merely of the story, but also of all imaginable subjects unconnected with it. Here are specimens of two very different styles, both of which are characteristic of different moods of the author. The first extract relates to what Helps calls the Doctrine of Indispensables in Fiction : "Now, Cranmer, you are to be a villain in a novel. I assure you it is a very creditable part to assign to you. I always like the villains best. They are the only business-like people in the concern. I will be the Indispensable. "Now try and get rid of me if you can. "You stab me to the heart, and leave me on the ground. I assure you it is of no use. An Indispensable's heart is quite differently placed from that of any other man. The desperate wound you gave me was in fact the best surgical treatment that could be devised for a slight internal complaint which I labour under, and you will find me as lively as ever in the third volume, and ready to unmask your wicked designs. "Or, it is a dark, gusty night. We two are walking the deck alone. You politely edge me over the side of the and go to sleep in your hammock, feeling that you have done a good stroke of business. What do I do? The ship is only going nineteen knots an hour-I therefore easily swim to her and secrete myself in the stays, or the main chains, or the shrouds, or the dead-lights, or some of those mysterious places in a ship which Sir Arthur knows all about. There I stick like a barnacle, and you carry me into port with you. I can tell you that when you are just about to make a most advantageous marriage, I shall put my head in at the church door and say 'Ha!' with a loud voice, and the whole affair will be broken off. "Or you poison me. Bless your heart, poison has no more effect on my Mithridatic constitution than ginger-beer-probably not so much. "You bury me. No, you don't. You don't bury me, but some intrusive fellow who has thrust himself in to take my place: for an Indispensable has always about him obliging persons who do that kind of work for him. "Or you hurl me down from the cliff, three hundred feet high, and go away thinking you have now really got rid of me for good and all. But, Mr Villain, you are much mistaken. I, as an Indispensable, inevitably fall upon a sea anemone-rather a large one, three feet square and two feet thick,-very common, however, on that part of the coast. The poor anemone is somewhat injured, and I am a little shaken, but I shall appear again at the right time with my fatal 'Ha!' and upset your marriage." This is very excellent fooling, and at once sets us thinking of the numerous Indispensables whose acquaintance we have made in fiction, and whom now, by much practice, we are able at once to recognise in that capacity as soon as the horse begins to run away, or the storm to rise, or the house to burn, or the railway accident to threaten. We are certain that they will be smashed or drowned, or otherwise seem to be finally disposed of, and equally certain that they will turn up safe and sound towards the end of the third volume. Here is another passage from the same book, but in a very different key. It is put into the mouth of an old clergyman who is on his deathbed : "I may be an enthusiast, but I think that the triumphs of Christianity are but commencing. I look forward to a time when war, which so distresses you now, Milverton, will be an obsolete thing; when the pity we have at present for the losses and miseries of other men will seem, comparatively speaking, but hardness of heart; when the grief of any one will be largely partaken by all those who know of it, and when our souls will not be isolated; when good men will allow themselves to give full way to their benevolent impulses, because no unfair advantage will be taken of their benevolence: when the weak will not traffic upon their weakness, nor the strong abuse their strength: when wealth will not be ardently sought for, except by those who feel that they can undertake the heavy burden of dispensing wealth for the good of their brethren; when men and women will be able to live together in a household without mean dissensions; when the lower seats shall be preferred; when men will differ about nice points of doctrine without adjudging to their opponents eternal condemnation; when, in short, instead of a tumult of discord ascending to heaven from this bewildered world, there shall go up one harmonious melody breathing peace and faith and love, and concord and con tentment. "He compared these miseries to the crumbs in the bed of a sick man who is too ill to rise for his meals. The poor wretch, he said, does what he can to brush them away; thinks, after great labour and turnings-for he can hardly move-that he has accomplished it. But when he settles down once more he is sure to find some of those detestable crumbs molesting him again, and he never gets rid of them till he is taken out of bed, perhaps for the last time." I have preferred to take these specimens from Help's 'Realmah,' rather than from any of his more famous books, because I cannot help thinking that it contains the most varied types of his best work. The main story is less didactic than the Essays in 'Friends in Council,' and the conversation is more brilliant. The parties to the discussion are practically the same, and one great charm is that the marked individuality of each "friend" is never lost. The reading public used to enjoy the company of Sir John Ellesmere, the ex-Attorney General, who is full of good stories and brilliant sarcasms, but whose caustic sayings are prompted by a keen sense of fun rather than by innate savagery; of Mr Cranmer, the official personage, who is an incarnation of blue-books, and who is always bringing out awkward facts and terrible percentages for the confutation of his opponents; of Lady Ellesmere, who is as bright and charming and illogical as a clever woman can be, and who thinks that the highest testimony to her conjugal virtues would be the epitaph, "She did not mind her husband's singing very much"; of Mr Mauleverer, who is almost equal to Schopenhauer in proving that everything is as bad as it can be, and that this is the worst of all possible worlds; of Sir Arthur Godolphin, who varies Sir George Lewis's "Life would be very tolerable but for its pleasures," by the version, "Life would be intolerable but for its absurdities"; and of Mr Milverton, who may safely be trusted to know whatever any author has said about anything. I wonder whether the present generation is on intimate terms with that excellent company of good talkers? If not, I would suggest that the present generation should make their acquaintance. A beginning might be made with 'Realmah,' which would lead up to the various series of 'Friends in Council,' and other works on the same plan; while the 'History of the Spanish Conquest in America,' which is delightfully graphic, would furnish a pièce de résistance. If I am right as to the general neglect with which a great author has been visited, a good many people ought to be thankful to have their attention directed to the very fascinating form of literature of which he was the inventor. Let them, in this instance, follow the example of Samuel Rogers, who used to say, "When a new book comes out, I go to my library shelves and read an old one." H. PRESTON-THOMAS. "IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH." WHEN I first heard these words I was not highly impressed by them, or by anything at the moment except the redness of the bridegroom's nose, and the surprising manner in which one of "the young ladies'" dresses had been coerced into fitting the bride. The solemnities of the service passed, in every sense, over my head, which was then not much higher than the table at which the priest stood; indeed it was only by putting forth the fullest wriggling powers of childhood that I was able to gloat in comfort on the bride's blushes from a loophole between the turf-flavoured folds of her mother's Galway cloak and the repressive elbow of my elder brother. Why the ceremony should have taken place in the vestry I cannot say, beyond that it was a custom in the little Roman Catholic chapel of which I write; just as it was in those friendly days a custom with us to go to the marriages of the tenants, and to take our share of the blessing and the sprinkled holy water. The accustomed gold, silver, and copper were laid on the book by the bridegroom, the portentous words were spoken, with the melancholy Galway accent adding its emphasis to them, and at the next interval the priest opened the window behind him. "Run down to Mick Leonard's for a coal," he said in Irish to some one outside, and then proceeded with a most sound and simple exordium to the newly married pair. In a few minutes there appeared in the open window a hand holding a live coal of turf in a bent stick; I can see it yet, the pale fire in the white ash of the sod, thrust between us and the blue sky, and the priest's hand put out to take it, but I cannot remember now what was its mission, whether to light a candle or incense. After this came a sprinkling with holy water with something that nearly resembled a hearth-brush; a drop fell into my open mouth as I stood gaping with the detestable curiosity of my age, and its peculiar, slightly brackish flavour is always the impression that comes first when I recall that day. There was a long business of hand-shakings and huggings, and the wedding party squeezed itself out of the narrow vestry doorway, with hearts fully attuned to the afternoon's entertainment. At the gate some shaggy horses were tied up, and having mounted one of these, much as a man would climb a tree, the bridegroom hauled his bride up behind him, and started for home at a lumbering gallop. Shouting and whooping, the other men got on their horses and pursued, and the whole clattering, bumping cavalcade passed out of sight, leaving us transfixed in admiration of the traditional "dragging home" of the bride. For me the only remaining recollections of the day are of a surfeit in the bedroom of the bride's mother, where in gluttonous solitude I partook of hot soda-bread, half a glass of luscious port, and a boiled egg; while the less honoured guests in the kitchen outside harangued and sang songs, and drank the wine of the country in its integrity. It was not till a Sunday of last autumn that the words first heard in the whitewashed vestry recurred with their original association. |