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17

LEGENDARY LORE. BY ARCHEUS.

No. V.

THE ONYX RING.

PART III.

EARLY on the Sunday morning which succeeded to the night marked by the burning of the old church spire, Mrs Nugent sent her carriage for Maria and Walsingham, who accordingly departed from the cottage. Walsingham and Collins separated on terms of civility, and he took leave of Maria with cordial, and for him, uncommon courtesy. She had won upon him, in previous meetings, by her simplicity and earnestness, which came in aid of earlier ties between him and her family, .and there were few persons whom he seemed to have so much pleasure in conversing with. He said, as he shook hands with her, that he hoped to see her soon again. It was still early in the morning, but he had already spent an hour in his garden, to which he now returned. The plot of ground was large for that of a cottage, and was neatly kept, entirely by Collins's own care. He had in it a great number of bee-hives, and there he now busied himself in examining, with a curious eye, the labours of the insects, and then by surveying the several beds of vegetables and flowers. To a passer by, had any stranger ever travelled on that retired road, he would have presented a singular object; for his face was sufficiently noticeable, and he was dressed, very unlike the peasantry of the neighbourhood, in a complete suit of dark grey, with thick high shoes, and a straw hat. His garden had in it several apple and pear trees, and two considerable elms. At the extremity furthest from the small road ran a brook, which made many windings through the valley. There were a few scattered, and for the most part distant cottages in sight. The heathy hills rose all around, and the general aspect of the scene was that of lonely quiet. But the hum of the bees, the murmur of the little stream, and the voice of the faint wind among the leaves, unbroken by the clamour of suffering or of heedless human existence, were sounds to which

VOL. XLV. NO. CCLXXIX,

CHAPTER I.

the thoughts of Collins moved, for the
most part, in accordance. His appear-
former sorrow and inward convulsion,
ance, nevertheless, bore deep traces of
over the remembrance of which tran-
quillity seemed now to be maintained
will.
by the vigilant compulsion of a strong

When he had completed his work
and, while the old woman prepared
out of doors, he re-entered his house;
his dinner below, he mounted to the
upper room, and seated himself beside
favourite Thucydides.
the small open window to read his
Homer, Plutarch, Shakspeare, Lu-
This author,
ther's Table Talk, the Scriptures, and
many of science, formed the bulk of
a few volumes of biography and as
his library. His work in the garden,
his solitary walks among the hills, or
of little mechanical employments re-
sometimes to the sea-shore, a number
quired by his situation, and the perusal
of these books, filled up all his time.
It was only by the rarest accident that
he received a visit from any one. But
singham had shared his hospitality,
a day or two after Maria and Wal-
terrupted by the arrival of a stranger
his usual mode of life was again in-
Sending away the peasant who had
on horseback at the cottage gate.
conducted him, he tied his horse to a
tree, and entered the garden. He
was evidently a member of the more
luxurious classes, dressed with care,
but pale and somewhat worn in coun-
tenance. He had the look of a man
pated habits, and, beyond all question,
of some intelligence, of rather dissi-
society. Collins was digging at the
an acknowledged member of polite
lower part of his garden, near the
hives, when he was found by the
the cottage. There was some embar-
stranger, who had first sought him at
rassment in his manner as he drew
till he had come quite close that Col-
near to the recluse; but it was not
lins looked up, leaning on his spade,
and, while a deep flush passed over his

B

face, said, coldly, after a moment's pause, "Well, Everard, what brings you here? I thought my world had lain quite beyond and away from yours.

He did not offer the stranger his hand, who replied, with a hesitating voice, "Will you not be satisfied, for a reason, with my wish to see so old a friend as you?"

Collins smiled sarcastically, but said nothing.

"Well, then, if you must have a better cause for my visit, may we not go into the house that I may tell my story at our leisure?"

"I don't see why you should not tell it here, but I have no objection to go into the house. This earth which I am digging will not spoil by five minutes' delay, as it has kept since the creation."

So saying, he led the way to the cottage, sent his servant to her own peculiar premises, desired his guest to sit down, and seated himself with an air of resigned unwillingness.

"It is pleasant, Collins," said Everard, "to find you settled in a way that suits your humour and character. You had always a good deal of the hermit in you, and now you have found out a quiet and secure hermitage, where, I am sure, you must be happy."

"Pray, may I ask on what business you are come to it? I don't remember that you ever showed any taste for hermitages before."

"No, perhaps not. Such a life would not suit me; but every one has his own way of existence. Mine at present is politics. But, unwilling as you are to let me claim the privilege of an old friend-and I am most sincerely yours I must say a word of your former kindness to me, and of my subsequent history. Little as you may believe it, I can never cease to be grateful for the generosity with which you shared your fortune between us, at the time when my father's unexpected death left me so destitute. The income you then made over to me, saved me from sinking into disgraceful poverty. But with the connexions I had formed in life, and the hopes I had been brought up in, I could not, you know, live as a gentleman on that. I am going over old ground, for I fancy you are aware that I soon found I must sell my in

terest in your annuity. With the little capital this gave me, I could make a decent appearance, and I soon after managed to get into Parliament. I think about this time you left London."

"Yes. The merchants who had all my remaining money failed, and left me penniless. I was obliged to go and work for my bread, which I earned as a corrector of the press in the North."

"O true-aye-I remember.— Now, I always felt that it was my business to repay you what you had supplied me with as soon as possible. But, in fact, my position in life was above my means, and I had not a penny to spare. Some little legacies, and so forth, came in now and then and helped me on, but I always found it hard to make both ends meet; and the attempt to divert money to any object but the wants of the day, would have been quite inconsistent with my ambition to serve my country in public life. The clubs and parliament cost more than is generally supposed, and my seat had always to be paid for, more or less. So you see, my dear fellow, how it is that I really never have had the means of repaying you, and at this hour I am as poor as a rat. You who live in this sort of way, keep no establishment, and all that sort of thing, can have no notion of the claims upon a man in society in London."

"I once lived in London."

"Yes, no doubt. But that was when we were both young, quite unknown; nothing was expected from us then. But the fact is, it is only now that I begin to have a prospect of obtaining a situation which would enable me to do whatever is right as to you and every body; and it is for this I want your help.'

"My help, Mr Everard? I really do not understand you."

"Well, now, this is the case. I have always hitherto been member for quite a small borough; and the little place I hold is, perhaps, all I could fairly expect under existing circumstances. But in consequence of my patriotic principles, and of any other claims I may happen to possess, I have the hope of becoming member for a much more important constituency, which would give me decidedly greater weight with the Government, and help

me to official promotion. Now it so happens, my dear Collins, that you can essentially assist me. I find that you lived at one time among my future constituents, when, as you say, you were correcting the press; and you would undoubtedly have a good deal of influence, if you chose to exert it, among the artisans, especially the printers, who lead many of the others. They talk of you as a sure friend of the working men, and your opinion would have great power over them. Indeed, so much is this the case, that one of their number is coming as a deputy to consult you on the subject. It so happens that the decision you may lead them to is of great importance, for parties are otherwise so nearly balanced, that the votes of these men would completely turn the scale in my favour. The kindness I have to ask of you is, that you would advise them to vote for me. I hope so old a friend as I am may make this request without taking too great a liberty."

"I really cannot now say what advice I shall give this poor man. When he comes and tells his story I shall probably know what to answer. But pray, if the working men help you, what are you prepared to do for them?"

"As to that, you must see, between ourselves, I can say nothing. I must go with my party. But you may tell them, as I have not scrupled to say publicly over and over again, even at the risk of committing myself, my warmest feelings and most earnest endeavours shall be devoted to their service."

"I did not ask what I may say. Of course I may tell what lies I please, and should wish to do so without prompting, as I hold that every man ought to be his own liar. But I want to know, as you ask the help of these men, what service you propose to render them in return. Printers especially know too well how easily, and with how few little metal letters, the finest words are put together, to care much for mere compliments."

"But surely a man of your experience and sagacity, Collins, cannot expect me to commit my party to any specific measure?"

"Then how can you expect these

men to commit themselves in supporting you?"

That's quite a different thing. They compromise nobody. They are not public men. They may do as they please."

"They compromise themselves and their wives and children and their own consciences, and all to get my dear old friend, Everard, a better place."

The tone with which this was said, though quiet enough, carried the edge of a scalping-knife. But Everard, who had a soul very hard to be scalped, soon resumed " Well, I will tell you what I will pledge myself to, and you who have known me so long may guarantee my promise. If these men will frame any plan for their own benefit, it shall have my very best consideration."

"Oh, if they bring you into Parliament you will think benignly of their suggestion? Perhaps, if I offer your friend the deputy your best consideration for his proposals, he may offer his best consideration for yours."

"Ha! ha ha! You are as droll and dry as ever. But may I hope that you will help me in this matter? You may rely on my eternal gratitude, and I may add in that also of my political friends."

"I can say nothing on the subject till I see the person who you say will ask my advice. I shall give him the best in my power. You have not asked for any, and in your case, of course, I do not presume to volunteer it."

"But, my dear friend! surely between us there need be no such ceremoniousness. Your advice would be of the highest value, and would always meet my very best consideration."

"Will you really promise me that? For if so I should think it a duty to offer an opinion."

"Pray do so without hesitation. I am all impatience. What is it you recommend to me?"

"To turn old clothesman as soon as possible. I do not know any trade you are so fit for, and I am convinced you would make a distinguished figure in it, especially if you gave it your best consideration. Now I must go back to my work, for I too am a working man-so good morning to you."

CHAPTER II.

On the following day, Andrews, the artisan from the north, appeared at the cottage. He was a young, quiet, alert man, with a shrewd and bold countenance. As he drew near to the bench on which Collins sat in the garden, his face and manner had an expression of much respect for the recluse. He stated who he was, and Collins begged he would sit down by him on the bench under the old elm, from which there was an extensive view down the valley to the sea, now glistening under the warm evening light. Andrews told his story clearly and earnestly, though at rather unnecessary length, and ended by asking Collins's opinion whether he and his friends ought to support Everard. "What political object is it," said Collins, "that you and your friends want to gain?"

"We want to take away all unjust distinctions, to have every man paid according to the worth of his labour, and not to see the rich made and kept rich by robbery, and the poor made and kept poor by being robbed."

"Do you want, then, a new distribution of all property? For, if so, I see no result certain, but, in the first place, that the country will be thrown into confusion, all trade stopped, and millions starved; and, secondly, that the distributors would provide very well for themselves and their friends, whatever might become of others."

"No, we do not want that. But we want all the privileges of the rich done away, so that every man may have a fair chance.".

"There is no privilege of theirs half so important as that which gives a man's property to his own children, instead of throwing it into a common stock. Would you do that away?"

"No. I would only deprive a man's family of property which he had obtained unjustly."

"In that case the courts of law are meant to set the thing right. They do not perform their work very well, to be sure. Perhaps you want them mended. But if they were improved, do you think there are many of you who could make out a claim to houses and estates?"

"Perhaps not. But could there not be taxes taken off?"

"Oh, no doubt there could. A rich country is sure to spend a deal of money foolishly, much as a rich man is.

But suppose every thing of that kind were done, and that you, each of you, had twenty per cent a-year more than you now have, do you believe you would be satisfied? Think a little before you answer."

It is

"No; I do not believe we should. We are on the watch and stirring, and feeling forward for some great change. I do not suppose we should be contented so long as we saw things going on in the main as they are now, even if we had a little more money. the notion of being treated unjustly and kept down that galls us. We want more equality. work hard and have little pleasure, while others do not work at all, and have a great deal. I cannot make the thing clear. But I am sure there is something wrong somewhere."

We see that we

"So am I. I never can believe it right that a farthing of money should be wasted in folly and nonsense with which any real. good could be done. But how could you change the thing? That is the question. If we took half the property of the rich away to-morrow, and gave it to the poor, then,-to say nothing of the general confusion, the scrambling and fighting, and the lasting insecurity for all,-half of that sum would be spent within a week again; and the country would, I believe in my conscience, be worse off in every way than it is now."

66

Why, you are talking just like the people we consider our worst enemies. Yet I suppose you are not pleased with things as they are, and I should like to know what do you want

done?"

"Men never have been satisfied, and never will be. But one goes on trying to mend a little here and a little there, till the hour of ruin comes, and the building falls, and buries at once mason and scaffolding. Such is the story of the world. There is a black element of evil in and about us all, and the utmost we can do is to thrust it down, and cover it over for a while. It inevitably breaks out at last, and perhaps there most violently where it has been most vigorously and longest suppressed. We may smooth over the mis

ren, into the midst of the grinding ma-. chinery of destiny which is crushing the universe to powder, and so we a little clog and retard the movement by the hindrance of our own flesh and blood. This may seem a small thing to do. But it is all man can do, and that for us is much. If this is all we must look to, I doubt if it be worth while to care for any thing but eating and drinking."

chief, paint it, gild it, bedizen it for a time; but it burns through again at last, and looks the ghastlier for all our gaudy attempts at hiding it. Talk, fancy, hug ourselves as we will, evil is not good, nor can be. He who sees most clearly is most assured of this, and suffers the most from his knowledge that it is so. Any man, therefore, who looks forward to a state of things in which he shall be contented, is walking about in search of a child's swaddling-clothes that will fit his fullgrown frame. The fact of his walking about is the best evidence that the thing is impossible. To seek contentment, in fact, is as hopeless as to try to recover a lost limb. Those only have it who never have thought about it. The moment we feel that we wish for it, we may be certain that it is gone for ever. Do not talk to me of aiming at happiness. Children, too, desire the stars. Leave such prate to those who have no more serious knowledge or objects. Men who have grappled with the hard and sharp realities of life should be wiser and graver."

Andrews felt cowed by his energy, and said, timidly,-" Do not all men seek happiness? Is it possible for us to desire any thing else?"

"That is one of the absurd phrases we find in books. No man could have said it who had looked into himself. All men sometimes seek for happiness, as they sometimes crave for food, that is, when they are hungry. But most of our wishes are directed to some end with which happiness has no more to do than quenching the thirst has to do with the drunkard's lust of gin. What he thirsts for is liquid drunkenness. Excitement is the object of three-fourths of most men's wishes, and of the other fourth, repose. Excitement, though it should rend our flesh, and fill our brains with fire. Repose, though it should weigh on, and besiege us with nightmare. And so the world goes on by laws that unfailingly work out good and evil in their due and unalterable proportion."

"What, then, do we strive for at all?" "Oh, the evil is only kept down from mastering all, and trampling out the last spark of good, by human effort unceasing, wearing, agonizing effort, which, after all, realizes little, though it prevents much, and inevitably destroys the drudging champions. We thrust our limbs, our wives, our child

"What! not worth while to bind oppressors in their own chains, and fill up with their own names the blank warrants which they keep signed, as if forejudging all mankind; not worth while to be ministers, even if bleeding and groaning ones, of retribution; to become serpents under the feet that would trample us as worms; to call out energies and knowledge, painful inmates of every breast, but which are accompanied by the feeling of added dignity and power? We cannot, indeed, strive successfully with fate, or teach others to do so, but we can tear off our and their bandages, and unbind millions of arms, and prevent men from perishing fettered and with closed eyes. We can meet our inevitable doom with the aspect, at least, of freedom and heroism. Is this not worth while?"

"If so, it can only be because life itself is nothing. But to beings such as we nothings are mighty. Knowledge, imagination, freedom, courage, power,-these may be awakened and spread among mankind, and to do this is the only task worth living for. These cannot be diffused equally, for men are not equally capable of them. Sparrows will still be sparrows; and hawks, hawks. But the sparrows need no more be caged and blinded, than the hawks hooded and subjugated and starved. It is little that the best can at last attain to, but the only feeling worth possessing is that of having done our utmost, and confronted the iron gaze of necessity with as bold and calm an eye as can belong to man."

"But for the present what should our course be?"

"Meddle with no political parties. Their maxims and enterprises are all utterly worthless. Those who flatter you do it only to cheat you; except those who begin by cheating themselves, and fancy that somehow or other they will at each next trial throw seven with a die which has but six

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