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To pain your feelings; but I feel compelled

To say the question is a proper one.
It is the Jury's duty to gain light
On this exceedingly distressing case;
The public mind has to be satisfied;
I owe a duty to the public. Let
The witness answer.'

"Witness: She would clasp Her arms around me in speaking tenderly, And kiss me. She has often kissed my hands.

Not beyond that.'

"The Juror: 'And did you The Coroner: "The wit

Respondness should, I think, be pressed no further. He has given

His painful evidence most creditably.'

"The Juror: 'Did deceased, in all these days,

Not write to you at all ?' 'She sent me this : It is the only letter I received.'

"A letter here was handed in and read. It ran as follows, and it bore the date Of twenty-sixth September.

"Dearest Friend,Where is your promise you would write me

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dead.

But words are

That, Edward, is a love in very truth Which can avail to overcome such shame As kept me four whole days from seeing you

Four days after my coming quite resolved
To strive no more, but tell you all my heart.
As daylight passed, and night devoured the
dusk,

The first time, and the second, and the third,
I doubted whether I could ever wait
Till dawn-yet waited all the fourth day
too,

Staring upon my hands, and looking strange;
Yes, and the fifth day's twilight hastened

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Between my house and your house, to and fro.

At last I could no more delay, but wept, And prayed of Christ (for He discerns it all),

That, if this thing were sinful unto death, He would Himself be first to throw the stone.

So then I came and saw you, and I spoke.
Did I not make you understand how I
Had loved you in the budding of my youth;
And how, when we divided, all my hope
Went out from me for all the future days,
And how I married, just indifferent
To whom I took? Perhaps I did not clear
This up enough, or cried and troubled
you.

Why did I ever see your face again?

I had forgotten you; I lived content,
At peace. Forgotten you! that now ap-

pears

Impossible, yet I believe I had.

Then see what now my life must be-consumed

With inner very fire, merely to think

Of you, and having lost my heartless peace. How shall I dare to live except with you?'

"The Coroner to Witness: Had you known When you were first acquainted with deceased,

Before her marriage, that she entertained These feelings for you ?'--' Friends of mine would talk

In a light way about it-nothing more-
And in especial as to mesmerism.

I knew that such a match could never be ; Her friends would have been sure to break it off

Our prospects were so very different.
I did not think about it seriously.'

"The letter says that you divided: how Did that occur ?'-'I left the neighbourhood

On account solely of my own affairs.'

"You have deposed that you received a hint

Your meetings with deceased had been observed.

How did you learn this ?'-Through the brother-in-law

Of a young lady that's engaged to me.'

"The witness here retired. He looks about The age of twenty-seven,-in person, tall And elegant. His tone at times betrayed Much feeling.

"Mrs. Celia Frances Gwyllt: 'Deccased and I were cousins. In the month

Of August last I spent a little time
With her and Mr. Grey. In the first
week

Of last month, I remember hearing her
Speak in a manner I considered wrong
To Mr. Luton, and she seemed confused
When she perceived me. Shortly after-
wards,

I took occasion to inform her so.

This she at first made light of, and alleged
It was a mere flirtation. I replied,
I deemed it was my duty to acquaint
Her husband; when she begged that I
would not,

So that at length I yielded. Then came on
Some crying fits, which Mr. Grey was led
To ascribe to things I chanced to talk
about.

This and my pledge of silence vexed me much,

And so, soon after that, I took my leave.'

"Anne Gorman: 'I am Mr. Luton's servant.

On Tuesday was the sixth I had to go
Out on an errand, with the door ajar,
When I remembered something I had left
Behind. On coming back, I saw deceased
Race through the lobby, and whisk into

the room.

I had been ordered not to let her in.'

"The evidence of Dr. Wallinger
Ended the case. 'I was called in to see
The body of deceased upon the sixth:
Life then was quite extinct; the cause of
death,

Congestion and effusion of the ventricle.
Death would be instantaneous. Any strong
Emotion might have led to that result.'
"The Coroner, in course of summing up,
Commented on the evidence, and spoke
Of deceased's conduct in appropriate terms;
Observing that the Jury would decide
Upon their verdict from the testimony
Of the professional witness-which was
clear,

And seemed to him conclusive. He could do
No less than note the awful suddenness
With which the loss of life had followed
such

A glaring sacrifice of duty's claims. "The Jury gave their verdict in at once: 'Died by the visitation of God.'

"We learn

On good authority that the deceased
Belonged to a distinguished family.
Her husband's scientific eminence
Is fully and most widely recognized."

As Harling finished reading this, he rose To call his friend; but, shrinking at the thought,

He read it all again and lingeringly.

But, after that, he called in undertone; And he received the answer, "Come in here."

He entered therefore.

Grey was huddled o'er The coffin, looking hard into her face. "You know it now," he said, but did not

move.

"We long have been old friends," Harling replied.

"Words are of no avail, and worse than

none.

I need not try to tell you what I feel."
Grey now stood straight. "I am to bury her
The day after to-morrow: I alone
Shall see her covered in beneath the earth.
May God be near her in the stead of men,
And let her rest. Yet there is with her that
Which she shall carry down into the grave;
Still in the dark her broken marriage-vow
Under her head: they shall remain together.
How can I talk like this ?" And he
broke off.

"This is a crushing grief indeed, I know," Said Harling; "yet be brave against it. When

This few days' work is over, Grey, go home,
And mind to be so occupied as must
Prevent your dwelling on it. If you choose,
I will accompany and stay with you."
But he replied: "My home will now be
here;"

And all the angles of his visage thinned.
"He is here I mean to ruin. Shall he still
Be free to laugh me in his sleeve to scorn,
And show me pity-pity!-when we meet?
I have no means of harming him, you
think?

There's such a thing, though, as profes

sional fame,

I have it. Where's the name of Luton known?

is is my home: I mean to ruin him.” "Why, he," objected Harling, "never did

One hair's-breadth wrong to you: his hands are clean

Of all offence to you and yours. For shame! It was blind anguish spoke there-not yourself."

"Ah! you can talk like that! But it is I Who have to feel-I who can see his house From here, and sometimes watch him out and in,

And think she used to be with him inside.
And he could bear her coming day by day,
And see the sobs collecting in her throat,
And tresses out of order, as she fell
Before his feet, and made her prayers, and
wept!

He bore this! What a heart he must have had!

Must I be grateful for it? Did he not Admit inopportune eyes were watching him?

He was engaged to marry-yes, and one For whom he's bound to keep himself in check,

And crouch beneath her whims and jealousy :

-

Not that I ever saw her, but I'm sure. Besides, he told me she would not be his Unless he gains the standing deemed her due,

And I'll take care of that."

1849.*

His friend was loath,

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And chill it blew upon them as they gazed, Mixed with thin drops of rain, which might not fall

Straight downward, but kept veering in the wind.

There was a sounding of the sea from far.

Grey pointed. "That beyond there is the house,

Turning the street-that where a candle burns

In the left casement of the upper three.
That is, no doubt, his shadow on the blind.
Often I get a glimpse of it from here,
As when you saw me first this afternoon.
Shall he not one day pay me down in full?
John, I can wait; but when the moment
comes...!"

He shut the sash. Harling had seen the night,

Equal, unknown, and desolate of stars.

*The reader will observe the already remote date at which this poem was written. Those were the days when the præ-Raphaelite movenient in painting was first started. I, who was as much mixed up and interested in it as any person not practically an artist could well be, entertained the idea that the like principles might be carried out in poetry; and that it would be possible, without losing the poetical, dramatic, or even tragic tone and impression, to approach nearer to the actualities of dialogue and narration than had ever yet been done. With an unpractised band I tried the experiment; and the result is this blank-verse tale, which is now published, not indeed without some revision, but without the least alteration in its general character and point of view.— W. M. R.

International Prejudices.

BY HENRY SEDLEY,

Editor of the "New York Round Table."

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, in his "Discourses," draws a curious picture of a meeting between a European and a Cherokee Indian. The European has cut off his beard and put false hair on his head, or bound his own hair in hard knots totally unlike nature; he then, having stiffened the mass with the fat of hogs, has covered the whole with flour, regularly laid on by a machine. In this guise he sallies forth and meets the Cherokee, who has bestowed as much time at his toilet, and daubed his face with red and yellow ochre, and has otherwise ornamented his person in the manner he thinks most becoming. Now, says Sir Joshua, whoever of these two despises the other for his attention to the fashion of his country; whichever first feels himself provoked to laugh is the barbarian. There is a truth and delicacy in the picture which people of refinement must acknowledge, and yet to assent to its inference is to fly directly in the face of conventionality. Those who have studied the character of the North-American Indian and who also know something of that of the modern European, would not hesitate an instant in resolving the great painter's problem. Nothing could induce an average Indian to express astonishment, although his reserve would be due to respect for himself rather than for the stranger thus encountered. Nothing, on the other hand, could restrain an average European from expressing surprise, and probably contempt, for attire or manners different from his own. Are we, therefore, to hold that the European is the barbarian and the Indian the civilized man? The conclusion seems unavoidable, and yet, of course, it is reductio ad absurdum. It forces us either to pronounce Sir Joshua's principle unsound or imperfectly expressed. If we assume that what was meant by barbarian was impolite man, the matter is simple enough. NorthAmerican Indians were often a great deal more like gentlemen than most shopkeepers are in the most civilized countries in the world; and probably the same may be said of Arabs and other uncivilized or barbarian races of the Old World. The truth is, that civilization in its accepted sense is not necessarily accompanied in its progress by good breeding, although it suits civilized people to maintain the contrary. Those who are most conventional, not those who are least so, are the

ones who ridicule whatever strikes them as strange-i.e., different from themselves. Ridicule, however, does not necessarily imply antipathy, Antipathy, indeed, frequently although it generally provokes it. betrays, as Hazlitt and others have said, a secret affinity. It is in a blending of the two that we have to seek for the origin of much of the common prejudice of Americans against Englishmen, and also, although in a different ratio of the parts, for that of the prejudice of Englishmen against Americans.

There are, undoubtedly, many complicated elements to be taken into account beside. A parent state and a powerful offshoot are likely to cherish jealousies, however unphilosophical, for various obvious reasons. The new country resents the exercise or tradition of authority and the implication of inferiority, which in such cases are prominent in history or the immediate present. She has a certain envious dislike for the social symmetry, the mellow literature, the perfected establishments, the venerable architecture, the hallowed associations which cluster around places and names in the mother-land, even while she half-pettishly claims a share in the honour and glory of them. The old country views with uneasiness the rapid growth and youthful arrogance of her junior, and is apt to forget the credit due to begetting so strapping an offspring, in doubt as to what growing strength and imperfect experience may haply tempt her to do. To these considerations, in the Anglo-American instance, must be added those religious and political divergences which have unhappily done so much at times to embitter, one towards the other-the two great branches of a common race. Physiological differences arising from more material things, that is to say, from diet and climate, have also had their share in stimulating aversion. An amusing exemplification of this is furnished by the late Mr. Hawthorne, who, although no Puritan, was otherwise a New Englander to the backbone. He was enthusiastic in his admiration of "Our Old Home," but not of those who now live in it. The climate of New England is attenuating, and in a few generations dries the substance of even the brawniest English Stock. Yankees, therefore, usually think people gross who have an ounce of superfluous flesh about their bones, and Hawthorne strikingly illustrated the prejudice when writing of England and the English. His whole book was coloured by this particular tinge. His love of nature and of antiquity were sufficiently catholic. Everything, indeed, in the old country was beautiful in his eyes except her people. On the whole, however, the ridicule which has sprung from conventional oppositeness, the resentment to which this has given rise, and the antipathy which comes of affinity

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