not the kind of manner that commends itself to men whose theories of discipline are inherited from public-school life. But the House is beginning to understand "Winston "-as many years ago it learned to understand Disraeliand there is now almost as much joy when he rises to follow Mr Chamberlain as there was in those brave days of old when "Randy" got up to follow Mr. Gladstone. The House realises that here is a brilliant young man who "thanks whatever gods may be" for his "unconquerable soul," and, having a definite object in view, is undeterred by minor considerations in its attainment. Among

the well-drilled rank and file of politics it is refreshing and sometimes good that an "original" should be found, who knocks over one or two traditions and breaks the monotony of uniformity with the exuberance of personality. The House, I am sure, has long ago forgiven its "Winston,” even though irreconcilables are still to be found on the Treasury Bench.

But it must be admitted that Mr. Churchill is a very well-hated man in certain circles of Society. Some people have not forgiven his escape from Pretoria, others regard him as the grossest impostor in public life, and I have heard it said by powerful people on his own side that he is wickedly hypocritical in his political opinions. "There is nothing in him," said a well-known Conservative with whom I was discussing Mr. Churchill's future, "except a gift of the gab." If, therefore, he conquers his world, it will

not be without a struggle, and a struggle with those of his own household. It would be foolish to pretend that Mr. Churchill has a sympathetic world to deal with but I incline to think that the antipathy is on the wane.

In his private life there is none of that "pugnacity" which marks his speeches. He is, on the other hand, quict, moody, and an asker of questions. He has won popularity among working men quite as much by this quiet private manner as by his fighting speeches. There is a newspaper office in London at which Mr. Churchill is an occasional visitor after a late sitting at the House, and if his friend the editor is not ready for conversation he goes into the composing-rooms and talks to the printers. They are always glad to see him. He talks to them about affairs, asks them questions, studies their work-all in the quiet, unaffected style so wholly unlike his public manner. this, as in his restlessness and nervousness, he resembles Mr. Kipling, but unlike Mr. Kipling his interests are narrowed down to the one field of politics.

In

I once asked him if he had made any study of psychical science, and his answer led me to put another question.

"Politics are everything to you ? "

Politics," he answered, "are almost exciting as war, and quite as dangerous.'

as

"Even with the new rifle?"

"Well, in war," he replied, "you can only be killed once. But in politics many

times."

O

N this 30th day of May, in the year 173-, I, Richard Morecombe, have witnessed a scene so unheard of, so monstrous, that I scarce trust to the eyes that beheld and the ears that listened. I will write down an account of what passed before me in the plainest words that I can find, that our posterity may perchance learn from my narrative of what barbaric customs their fathers could be guilty.

I walked out early from my lodging in King Street, St. James's Square, making my way towards the Temple, when my notice was excited by a large crowd that stood expectant around the newly consecrated church of St. Martin-in-theFields, near to Charing Cross. Amongst this crowd there were some from whose lips issued loud laughter and brutal jests, though upon most of the faces was written no more than eager curiosity. I approached, that I might discover the meaning of the tumult, when by a stroke of good fortune I encountered my friend Will Harrowford, the young lawyer whom I had set out to visit.

"Faith, but you're well met," was his greeting: "my promised companion is in bed after getting damnably drunk last night. You are here in the nick of time to take his place."

"Whither are you bent?" I inquired. "To that church," he answered, pointing to St. Martin's. "There is a rare play to be enacted within those walls to-day."

"A play!" I cried out, for though I was well aware that Will was light of mind, yet his remark shocked me.

"Yes, and one more strange than anything you will see on a London stage. This little story is founded upon an incident letter to her husband.

'Tis an opportunity that presents itself in but few men's lives."

"You stir my curiosity," I said.

"I have an order of admittance for two persons, which shall pass us both. Then your curiosity shall be satisfied."

66

'Tis some ceremony we are to witness-some religious ceremony?"

"Yes," he said, with a curious sneer: "a ceremony, a religious ceremony, a Christian ceremony. Heard you ever of the rite of Excommunication?"

"A practice happily obsolete," I said. "A practice to be put in force within this hour," was his astonishing reply.

Is it a recalcitrant clergyman?" I said, as soon as my wonder permitted me to speak.

"A lady, young, high born, and beautiful-Lady Isabella Saxham."

"Lady Isabella Saxham!" I repeated in a dazed fashion, and stared at him in dumb surprise.

"Do you know her?" he asked.

"Know her! yes-used to know her, that is," I answered; "and loved her." I might have added, "loved her in vain." "She is the victim of an infamous monster," said Harrowford. "You shall hear the story."

I listened impatiently as he proceeded. "Lady Isabella Saxham, as you are probably aware, is the only daughter of the late Earl of Saxham, whose estates on his death passed under entail to a cousin. Lady Isabella was left in a ionely position, for her mother was no longer alive, and the heir is a distant, though still her nearest, relative. Moreover, he is a cold, heartless man, who grudges her the mentioned by the first Countess of Bristol in a

personal property that has fallen to her share. The peerage is not a rich one, and her fortune, moderate as it is in amount, would have been welcome. Under such circumstances between Lady Isabella and the present Lord Saxham no friendship has been kept up.

"Lady Isabella settled herself in a country village, and led one of those gracious, useful lives which women do lead; but a terrible calamity awaited her. She made the acquaintance of a man as odious as ever walked this earth-the clergyman of her parish, the Reverend Ambrose Gripper. You will in a short time see the fellow yourself, for he will be in the church hunting his victim down to the latest gasp; and you will then perceive that his outside show is brave enough. At all events, he contrived to attract Lady Isabella, and the pair became duly affianced. In no long time, however, disputes arose over money. My father had been recommended to Lady Isabella by the late Lord Saxham, and she held by his advice, let Mr. Gripper say or do what he chose. And Mr. Gripper chose to say and do a great deal, for my father declares that of all greedy rascals he is the worst. In the end the match was broken off, and we thought that Lady Isabella had made a good escape. Little did we guess at the nature of the revenge that would be sought by the man who had once pretended to love her.

"You must know that when the celebrated Monsieur Voltaire was in England, some years ago, he visited at the house of the late Lord Saxham, and paid to Lady Isabella such attentions as famous men will often pay to lovely girls. The attentions were agreeable to her, and she has always recollected them and talked of them with pleasure. Amongst other persons to whom she thus spoke was Mr. Gripper, and it was in this way that the chance of his vengeance came to him. Against this simple, innocent girl the detestable hypocrite brought forward a charge of heresy, and so overwhelming is the prejudice concerning Monsieur Voltaire among certain English ecclesiastics that the charge, outrageous as it was, was declared to be proved by the court in which it was tried. Sentence of the Greater Excommunication, or the Anathema, was pronounced, and 'tis now to be carried out in yonder church. Press on through the crowd, and let us witness what passes."

We made Our way onwards with difficulty and in silence, until we had entered St. Martin's Church, and had set ourselves in the places allotted to Harrowford. The inside of the building was filled to the point of overflowing, with the exception of the central aisle, which was carefully kept and guarded for the use of the actors in this horrible scene. The spectators consisted of persons of every condition of life, and amongst them were many fine people of quality, sneering men and giggling women, from whose aspect one would judge that they had flocked together to enjoy the torments to which a fellow-mortal was to be subjected. But there were many others of very different appearance: clergymen, with faces some hard, some pitiful; laymen, of whom, as I thought, the greater part contemplated the proceedings with scorn as well as anger; and there was one observer that drew my particular attention. "Twas a large man, carelessly dressed, but in whose countenance wit, humour, and power might alike be read. His behaviour was scarcely suited, however, to the occasion, for although he spoke to no others, yet he would often speak to himself; then he would chuckle, and take a pinch of snuff.

"Who is he?" I asked of Will.

And his answer was, ""Tis the Lord Chief Justice. What should he do here?"

Then his face became of a sudden suffused with the blush of pleasure, and I saw that the great man had bestowed upon him a nod of kindly recognition.

There was a whisper, a movement in the throng, and then appeared a procession moving slowly up the central aisle. First walked two clergymen, making a clear path for the Lord Bishop, who followed them closely. And let me do this high ecclesiastic this single piece of justice. He looked more ashamed of himself than any man I have ever seen; and when he passed the Lord Chief Justice, almost touching his sleeve, I believe that he would have thanked the stone flags of the church if they would have opened and swallowed him. After the Bishop came two other clergymen ; and then my heart leaped up into my throat as Lady Isabella herself drew near. Thus in this strange, wild case did I meet once more with the love upon whom my youthful passion had been fruitlessly expended. With two officers of the law

in attendance upon the lady, the procession was completed.

From the instant that my eyes lighted upon Lady Isabella they remained as if fixed. Never have they seen another face so sweet, so pure, so holy, so sublime. Was it a criminal who stood there to receive sentence, or an angel to whom it behoved us to pray for intercession with that Heaven whom we were offending with our sacrilege?

The Bishop raised his voice: he recited the sacred words, words so sacred that I cannot bring myself to set them down in the description of this sinful outrage upon religion. I will give the end of the judgment only: "We excommunicate, anathematise, and sequester from the pale of Holy Mother Church thee, Isabella Saxham, found guilty of heresy in the major degree." There ensued a silence so deep that it seemed dared to draw his breath.

none

And the girl thus brutally condemned to be an outcast from her kind-this dainty, delicate girl, with the gaze upon her of a cruel mob-what was she to do? Could an ordeal so terrible be borne ? Yes. Inspired by more than mortal spirit, she bore it with a calmness that was divine, and she displayed not one sign of suffering or shame. All in a moment, as I watched her, there was a change. The colour flew into her cheek, and her eyes kindled as they shot a glance into one of the farther corners of the church.

Eagerly I looked in the same direction, and was instantly assured that I had before me the villain himself, the Reverend Ambrose Gripper. 'Twas a fine tall man in clerical attire, with features not ill cut; but the lips were the thinnest lips that I had ever seen. "A savage half-tamed," I decided, as I observed his expression of satisfied spite, "a combination of the vices of civilisation and barbarism." Well, he had played his part, he had worked the woe that he desired, he had obtained his triumph. Then to myself I said, "Shall it indeed end thus ?" and my anger rose till I almost choked; but the fever quickly subsided, and I was cold and still when I swore that the Reverend Ambrose Gripper should not go free.

While this resolution was forming the procession was making ready to withdraw, and moved out in the same order as that in which it had entered. One

long last look at the glorious being by whom this miserable scene had been ennobled, and then I threw myself into the pursuit of the man whose punishment I had taken into my own hands. With gloating eyes he beheld the departure of Lady Isabella, and then prepared to leave the church. With a vow that I would perish sooner than allow him to escape, I shook off Harrowford, and followed my prey. Nature had endowed me with a strong arm, and good fortune had provided me with a stout cudgel that day. Both should be used to their full extent.

As I write now both have been so used. I tracked him to his lodgings, and in a room with locked doors I gave the wretch some portion of his deserts.

But if the old Adam within me has found some gratification from the exercise of my good stick, what hope can there be for Lady Isabella? To her persecutors she will never yield, and our inhuman laws will commit her to a prison. Shall we suffer her innocence to remain there till death brings release?

RICHARD MORECOMBE.

Letter written next day by Will Harrowford:

DEAR MORECOMBE,

It does not surprise me that you should have been so deeply impressed. The excommunication was a vile proceeding inaugurated by a vile man; and, lawyer as I am, I rejoice with all my heart that you have beaten the clergyman with such good will. But, my friend, you need not be so troubled about the fate of Lady Isabella Saxham. There is good law in England as well as bad, with good men as well as fools to administer it, and of these men one of the very best is our excellent Lord Chief Justice. He did me the great honour to walk with me from St. Martin's yesterday, and after expressing his admiration for the conduct and bearing of the Lady Isabella, he gave me to understand that he would save her from her foes. No harm could come to her until a writ had been issued against her, which writ must be returnable in the Court of King's Bench. "And the writ," said his lordship, "must state the cause of excommunication in order that our Court may judge of the justice of the case. Well, you can guess what our judgment will be."

Post Scriptum.--Try her again.

CHAPTER IX.

"Monsieur, je ne suis qu'une femme, et, par conséquent, mon jugement est peu de chose; mais il me parait que les tristesses et les amours de messieurs les auteurs ne ressemblent guère aux tristesses et aux amours des autres hommes." BAUDELAIRE.

J

OHN HARLOWE, as he marched along the road, paused only to refill and light his pipe, and to enjoy some of the charming bits of landscape which made the whole. neighbourhood seem to his eyes, fatigued by the tropical sun,--an enchanter's garden. This was his country, this was his native soil the dear England of so many longing hearts and loving toasts; not the England of the politician's knavish tricks, but the England of the patriot and the poet, where

Summer's hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat.

At a farewell dinner given to him by his comrades in West Africa he had used these very words, and rounded his remarks (described as "most eloquent" in the local newspaper) with that particular quotation from In Memoriam. He heard again the cheers, the clinking glasses, the thumps on the table and the stamping on the floor, which had followed his essay into rhetoric. "And they were right," he thought: "how beautiful it is! how peaceful! Thank God I am an Englishman! This is my home!"

The special train which was running from the county town for the ball that night had brought him to Cumbersborough two hours. sooner than he expected, and, as he possessed a sanguine temperament, the accident struck him as an omen altogether favourable to his secret hopes the vagueness of which by no means excluded their intensity. To one of his straightforward disposition, anticipated happiness brought none of that mysterious terror which underlies so often the promise of joy; with his senses entranced by the scene and his reverie, his heart overflowed in gratitude Providence for what he regarded peculiar blessings. He had almost worked

the youth out of his body, and he had been so near to death that he had caught too much, perhaps, of its tranquillity, but he had received personal congratulations and a gold watch from the firm whose interests he had represented in West Africa; further, they had offered him a considerable appointment as the manager of a large coal-district in England. At the moment he was the owner-designate of a good house with a garden and twelve hundred a year. He could now acquiesce serenely when moneyed men were mentioned as those who might marry whom they pleased; and the indulgent smile which had softened all his features when he passed the pair of lovers in the gig lingered for the rest of the way in his contented gaze. He had not recognised Jennie, but as she drew a lace scarf over her countenance, it was his fate to admire the movement and mistake it for a pretty, instinctive shyness on the part of the unknown girl. (Timidity in women was, in his opinion, their sweetest grace; he thought it extraordinary that he loved Jennie, who lacked it.) The lace, by the irony of circumstances, was a white mantilla which he himself had bought her some years before as a present from Spain. His dreams, however, were as simple as his actions, so, with Jennie's adored image always shining for him at his journey's end, he might well have passed her blindly a dozen times on the

The very directness of some natures is their misfortune; such visions see the world as a neatly coloured map, and men and women as clear-cut symbols. When the map is found misleading, or the symbols cannot be formed into the desired arabesque, the plain seer curses his own blundering and tries again-never doubting his rules-to make the inexact,

exact.

to

as