only on the death of friends and such solemn occasions. But surely to make that mysterious change on a man's heart and mind-when he first becomes conscious of his relations to the Eternal and the Unseen, when God bursts as if in sudden lightning, on the midnight of his soul -depend on some trivial event, a walk into the country or the overturning of a cab in the street, is making too familiar the sacredest of all subjects-making somewhat too ludicrous the most solemn hour of human life, which, if a man has experienced, he does not proclaim in the market-place, or talk of to his companions in jaunty tones, but keeps the memory thereof trembling in his heart of hearts. But we have done fault-finding, and what remains to be said is unqualified praise. Loyalty is the lesson inculcated by this book, a lesson perhaps never needed so much as now: loyalty to everything high, strong and good. Dr. Arnold is the king at Rugby; he rules the turbulent boys there kindly yet sternly. He is pious, learned, gentle, far-thoughted. The influence of his character lays its hand on each of the young spirits under his charge, silently moulding and shaping them. What of clear vision and generosity exists among the boys can discern the true nature of the man, and become willingly, nay gladly obedient to it. Thus went on Rugby School year after year, a sight, perhaps, which the world could not match. True king, true subjects, each revolving round each in true recognition and harmony. Arnold has gone to his rest honoured of all, and this book from an old pupil, "who owes more to him and his than he can ever tell," is the last stone placed upon his cairn. The memory of good deeds will never die. The righteous will be held in everlasting remembrance. How silent and unobtrusive Arnold's life, wisely ruling a portion of the youth of England-all of them in the thick of the battle now, some of them standard bearers there! That piety, that wisdom, that gentleness of his did not waste itself away like a lamp burning in a solitary place, or an argent moon shining on some unpeopled world. In his pupils' hearts, in their consciences, it lives and will live. One day of his life-how many printed books has that been worth! Of the dramatic action of the book we have already spoken, but it is difficult by extract to give our readers any vivid notion of this, its highest literary merit, pervading, as it does, the whole. Many passages we should like to quote. The battle, for instance, near the close. Tom roused by seeing a small boy ill-treated by a big one, rushes into a The fight with the Slogger is well described; a bold stand-up combat it is; no shirking, no flinching on either side; punishing one another severely, yet with no hate in their hearts, and all the more likely to be sworn friends on the morrow. There is no one you respect more, after the wild blood of battle is down, than the man whom you have thrashed or been thrashed by. The young fellows use "the weapons which God has given them " with considerable skill and effect. Space, however, will prevent our readers from being present at the combat themselves, for the affair is described with the particularity and gusto of a "mill" in Bell's Life. We extract the episode of Tom Brown and Velveteens. Every reader will enjoy the recital, and will note the truth, humour, and boyish spirit which live in it-qualities which distinguish every page of the book. To "old boys" of every description, Rugby "old boys" in particular, such things must be very delightful, recalling the freaks, scrapes, and stirring incidents of their early yet unforgotton days. One fine Thursday afternoon, Tom having borrowed East's new rod started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small success, not a fish would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of a huge willow tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the Docter, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of willows. It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest about anything, but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and in half-anhour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a four pounder, and just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree, so Tom laid his bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his road after him. He had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the chump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and he would have passed, when as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead halt at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom crouched along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the chump. "If I could only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began gently shifting it alongside him, "willow trees don't throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck." Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and then of Tom's hand and arm. "Oh, be up there, be 'ee?" says he, running under the tree. down this minute.' "Now you come "Tree'd at last," thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as possible, but working away at the rod which he takes to pieces: "I am in for it, unless I can stare him out." And then he begins to meditate, getting along the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side; but the small branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keeper will have lots of time to get round to the ford before he can get out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper beginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he scrambles himself back to where his branch joins the trunk, and stands with lifted rod. "Hullo, Velveteens, mind your fingers if you come any higher." The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, "Oh! be you, be it, young master? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at once, and 't'll be best for 'ee." "Thank'ee, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable," said Tom, shortening the rod in his hand, and preparing for battle. "Very well, please yourself," says the keeper, descending, however, to the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank; "I b'eant in no hurry, so you med' tak yer time. I'll larn 'ee to gee honest folk names afore I've done with 'ee." "My luck as usual," thinks Tom, "what a fool I was to give him black. If I'd called him keeper' now I might get off. The return match is all his way." The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it, keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch, looking at the keeper --a pitiful sight for man and fishes. The more he thought of it the less he liked it. "It must be getting near second calling-over," thinks he. Keeper smokes on steadily. "If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe enough. I can't sit here all night. Wonder if he'll rise at silver." "I say keeper," said he meekly, "let me go for two bob?" "Not for twenty neither," grunts his persecutor. And so they sat on long past second calling-over, and the sunshine slanting in through the willow branches, and telling of locking up near at hand. "I'm coming down, keeper," said Tom at last, with a sigh, fairly tired out. "Man what are ye going to do?" "Walk 'ee up to school, and give 'ee over to the doctor; them's my orders," says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and standing up and shaking himself. "Very good," said Tom; but hands off, you know. I'll go with you quietly; so no collaring or that sort of thing." The keeper looked at him a minute-" Werry good," said he at last; and so Tom descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper up to the school-house, where they arrived just at locking up. As they passed the schoolgates, the Tadpole and several others who were standing there, caught the state of things, and rushed out, crying "Rescue;" but Tom shook his head; so they only followed to the Doctor's-gate, and went back sorely puzzled. How changed and stern the doctor seemed for the last time that Tom was up there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom had called him blackguard names. "Indeed, sir," broke in the culprit, "it was only Velveteens." The Doctor only asked one question. "You know the rule about the banks, Brown ?" "Yes sir." "Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson." "I thought so," muttered Tom. "And about the rod sir?" went on the keeper; "Master's told me as we might have all the rods." "Oh, please, sir" broke in Tom, "the rod isn't mine." The Doctor looked puzzled, but the keeper who was a good-hearted fellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim. Tom was flogged the next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens, and presented him with half-a-crown for giving up the rod claim, and they became sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom had many more fish from under the willow that May-fly season, and was never caught again by Velveteens. COME, LET ME KISS THOSE TEARS AWAY. Come, let me kiss those tears away, No tears should flow from eyes like thine; Unsullied should be every ray Reflected from so pure a shrine. Although a cloud has oft obscured Our hoped-for goal through passing years, We've ne'er the want of love endured Ne'er struck that fount of bitter tears. Then, dearest, let no common ills Becloud the scene and mar our joy, And stir thy mind with anxious fears Thou yet wilt be my happy wife, And smile that e'er thou shed'st those tears. NORMAVILLE. 378 THE LOCH AND THE CITY. BY ALFRED LESLIE. CHAPTER IV.-(Continued). One would have thought that old Cameron ought to be a happy man. He had abundant materials of happiness, and indeed I know many a man who, had he to sit down at will and construct such for himself, would scarcely desire anything better. He was something like the London merchant whom I heard of the other day, who said that if he only had a few more thousand pounds he would not ask Providence for a better Paradise than this earth. A speech this which, to my mind, shows that he was neither fit to live nor to die; hanging Mahomet's coffin-wise, between this world and a heaven of his own impure, selfish make. Assuredly old Cameron, with that worthy wife, that loving lovely Marion, that brilliant son, that charming child which appeared as a masterpiece of the Greek chisel endowed with life, or better still, that which he really was, God's own glorious creation, before sin and sorrow have fully darkened the light of eye and movement; and then with this little paradise by the lake, and that substantial civic home where comfort had exhausted her vocabulary, and luxury her invention: ought he not temperately and joyously to partake of all those rare things spread in life's banquet hall, and then, like a sated guest, say grace, and thankfully, and reverently depart? And yet there was an undercurrent of discontent. He wanted to hang a roc's egg in the corner of one of the chambers of his palace. He made for himself anxieties which he would far more wisely have left for time and Providence. He wished he had an extra five thousand at the bank. He wished he owned that little estate which bordered just upon the bounds of his own property. He wished Marion would be a little less attentive to her brother's friends, and a little more so to his own. Sir James might not be so unwilling to come forward, and though Mr. MacTavish might be twenty years older, yet such marriages were frequently happy enough, and MacTavish was even richer than the baronet. And then Douglas-why could he not settle quietly down to his father's business? Why must he want to go to an English University? Why must he run away and spend his time among the English lakes? The lad should have his will; but was he not lightly spending money that had been hardly earned? I present old Cameron to you as the counterpart of what you meet so frequently in the world. I do not lay on a colour; I do not exaggerate a feature. I simply endeavour to keep an observant eye upon the crowds among which I move; my hand simply transcribes my impressions; only here and there, where some one interests me, I mentally give a toast or sentiment. Cameron was a simple, ordinary, average man of the world, such as yourself, my dear pater-familias, who, while you are waiting an odd ten minutes for dinner, may deign a cursory glance to my modest pages. But it is really your average, ordinary men that I am at a loss to deal with. The case would be quite different if you were the highly benevolent old gentleman of the drama or novel, whose very pleasing mission in life is to adjust the pecuniary difficulties of young people; or a domestic Bluebeard, who curses his Fatima, Mrs. Bluebeard, shakes his fist at her, and perhaps uses it; who crushes his daughter's heart, and cuts his son off with hat-band and gloves. In such extreme cases there would be no difficulty. I would soon render the meed of poetical justice. The benevolent old gentleman would continue to adorn my narrative till his fortune was absolutely wanted to supply the growing needs of the young people's increasing family. The Mr. B. of private life would probably commit suicide towards the middle of the third volume. Cameron loved his money, loved it as those only love money who have made it for themselves. He loved it as a father loves his children, or a poet his works. This illustration, by the way, is from Plato, who shall supply me with another. At the commencement of the Republic Socrates accidentally meets Polemarchus, the son of Cephalus, at the Pirous, and goes home to dinner with him. He finds old Cephalus in the house, looking very old, and sitting on a cushioned chair. The old gentleman makes his greeting with that exquisite Attic courtesy which lends such a charm to these great dialogues. They enter into a conversation, not as in these degenerate days, about politics and the weather, but full of anecdote, historic allusion, family stories, choice sentences from the poets, and divine philosophy. Cephalus discusses himself with the frankness of his dearest friend behind his back. "What do you think," asks Socrates, "is the greatest advantage you have gained from the enjoyment of wealth?" And Cephalus makes an answer that is full of Platonic wisdom, and very well worth transcribing here. The reader will feel grateful that not having the text at hand I shall give him a far better rendering from Davies and Vaughan. "If I mention it," it is thus Cephalus speaks, "I shall perhaps get few persons to agree with me. Be assured, Socrates, that when a man is nearly persuaded that he is going to die, he feels alarmed and concerned about things which never affected him before. Till then he has laughed at those stories about the departed, which tell us that he who has done wrong here must suffer for it in the other world; but now his mind is tormented with a fear that those stories may possibly be true. And either owing to the infirmity of old age, or because he is now nearer to the confines of a future state, he has a clearer insight into those mysteries. However that may be, he becomes full of misgiving and apprehension, and sets himself to the task of calculating and reflecting whether he has done any wrong to any one. Hereupon, if he finds his life full of unjust deeds, he is apt to start out of sleep in terror, as children do, and he lives haunted by gloomy anticipations. But if his conscience reproaches him with no injustice, he enjoys the presence of sweet hope, that 'kind nurse of old age,' as Pindar calls it. For indeed, Socrates, those are beautiful words of his, in which he says of the man who has lived a just and holy life, 'sweet hope is his companion, cheering his heart, the nurse of age-Hope which, more than aught else, steers the capricious will of mortal men.' There is really a |