Notwithstanding this stupendous ignorance, I suppose I had read more of one thing and another, when I left College, than most men of the same age, though apparently to little purpose. The nett results of a very expensive education were almost nil; a ten-pound note would have represented their value; and yet for the object I had in view, and which I afterwards pursued not without success, I venture to think that I by no means threw my time away. I had gained, for my years, a very sound knowledge of human nature, and made acquaintance with an immense mass of English literature of the lighter kind. Languages, living or dead, I could never acquire any more than music, for which I have no ear. I spent many years over French and German, but could never read, far less converse, in either language with facility. This unfortunate circumstance has enabled me to speak of translations with more familiarity and less contempt than is usual. It is generally observed, by those who can read foreign authors in the original, that everything is lost in translation. This assertion, while undoubtedly a slap in the face, as it is intended to be, to the exclusively English reader, is not much of a compliment to the foreign author. It can hardly be denied that some works 'bear' translation; the Bible, for example (though this is by no means generally known), was not originally written in English. There are but few of us who have read Don Quixote' in the original, and yet it is much admired. The fact is that some authors do lose everything in translation; but some do not, and in some cases they retain a great deal.

Of Wallenstein' it has been even said that the translator has excelled the author, though, if he did so, in my opinion he wasted his time.

The wits suffer the most (if one were to judge of Greek Wit, for example, by the volume lately published in English under that name, one would say, 'These are quotations from Mr. Merryman of the Circus'), and next to them the poets. Not ten per cent. of their original merit is left to them. But the ordinary prose writers, the historians, the essayists, and even the novelists, are recognisable enough in their new dress. Indeed, these last retain some very respectable attractions which it is mere affectation to deny them. Balzac, I admit, is not translatable, or when translated is not readable; but Victor Hugo, even in foreign attire, is superior to most novelists in their native garb; and the same may be said. (at all events of his masterpiece, Monte Cristo ') of Dumas. It is

undoubtedly a great deprivation to be near-sighted, but it does not mend matters, and is also untrue, to say of such a person, 'he is stone blind.'

Soon after I took my degree I married. It was delicately said by a friend that, but for my intention so to do, I should have read for honours and distinguished myself; for what was the use of gaining a fellowship (and taking it away from some poor fellow who really wanted it) to lose it the next year or so by matrimony? Success, however (when I think of that μyas business), seems hardly to have been a certainty, and it may be even thought by some people that I did not sacrifice much academical distinction on the altar. I am only setting down some reminiscences more or less in connection with literature, so I say nothing about my marriage. If I were writing an autobiography, I should have to say a great deal about it, or else leave out the source and cause of the happiness of my life. I may remark, however, to those who propose to themselves a literary life, and can find a wife one-tenth as good as has fallen to my lot, that they had better make sure of her early; for of a truth they will need a comforter. There is no calling, it is true, so bright and pleasant, so full of genial friendship, as well as of far-off but touching sympathies, so radiant with the glories of success; but there is also no pursuit so doubtful, so full of risks, so subject to despondency and disappointments, so open to despair itself. It will not be denied that I have confessed to ignorance enough, but I know a few things well, and this is one of them. Oh! my young friend with a 'turn for literature,' think twice and thrice before committing yourself to it or you may bitterly regret to find yourself where that turn' may take you. Let every man be fully satisfied in his own mind, and have a reason for the faith that is in him. The calling (though by no means a phenomenal one, as it is the custom to assert) is an exceptional one, and even at the best you will have trials and troubles of which you dream not, and to which no other calling is exposed. I say again, verily you will need a comforter, and the best of comforters is she who sits by the hearth at home. Nevertheless, I need scarcely add, however confident you may be of winning your way to fame and fortune, be not so selfish as to link your fate with hers upon the prospects of an untried pen. For, if you do so, even though you have genius, it will be the genius that is allied to madness.

One indirect but important advantage to a man of letters in

early marriage is that, if a happy one, it rescues him from Bohemianism. It is a charming 'ism,' and he who has not a strain of it in his character is to be pitied; but it is but an 'ism'-a branch of dissent, and not the Catholic and Universal Church of Humanity.

If one must needs belong to a sect, it is-for him whose business it is to depict human nature-as good as any, and better than most; but it as little represents the world as does the most conventional of genteel circles.' The Bohemian writer, who is called by the more charitable of square-toed folks' peculiar,' does not hold the mirror up to nature much more than one of the genuine 'Peculiar People' might do, if he should essay to represent it. The Bohemian female writer in particular-whose object seems to be to inform us that she has never met a respectable specimen of her own sex in her life-reflects for us the most distorted images.

My first introduction, by the bye, to the Bohemians was very humorous; and as the race-except on paper-is fast dying out, it may be thought worth while to mention it. An eminent member of the guild asked me to dine with him at one of the old Legal Inns.' I was very young, and greatly flattered; I thought I was about to meet the most famous persons in the three kingdoms; and though they were all of them of the male sex, I felt it was incumbent on me to put on evening attire. My host received me very cordially, but with a certain cock of his eye which I did not like. He was in his dressing-gown and slippers. My fellow-guests, nine in number, were all in shooting-jackets. This made me a little uncomfortable; but they were very agreeable, clever fellows, and we all sat down to dinner in the highest spirits; no, not all, they had been ten, there were now nine of us.

'What the deuce has become of A?' inquired our host.

Oh, he has taken himself off,' explained one of the party, looking hard at my shirt-studs; "he said he would be hanged if he sat down to dinner with a man who dressed in evening clothes.'

My position was exactly the reverse of that of the guest who came to the marriage feast without an appropriate garment: I was too magnificent for the occasion; but it was the very last time anyone has had to complain of me in that respect.

All these things are changed; the Bohemians of to-day now wear purple and fine linen on all occasions without the slightest provocation, and when even the Rabelais Club dine together, it is, I understand, de rigueur to wear evening clothes, though I doubt whether the Master' would have quite approved of it.

My literary gains for the first year of my married life were exactly thirty-two pounds fifteen shillings; upon which, if I had had to live, it would have been cultivating literature upon oatmeal, indeed, and very little of it; but the next year my income was quadrupled, and from that time increased, not indeed by arithmetical progression, but certainly in a very unlooked-for and satisfactory proportion. It was at first mainly drawn from Household Words' and 'Chambers's Journal,' from the conductors of which I began to receive great encouragement. In the former periodical I had often two contributions in one weekly number, and I remember one occasion when there were even three. For the latter I wrote almost every week. Its editor was at that time Leitch Ritchie, a man of somewhat severe culture and fastidious taste, but of a most kindly nature. He welcomed fun in any shape, even at his own expense; it is well known that Leitch the painter was called 'Leitch with the itch,' to distinguish him from Leech the Punch artist; and one person (but not a Scotch person) was so rude as to say of Leitch Ritchie that he had the national complaint twice in his name.' Even this he bore very good-humouredly. He was in ill health, and endured such suffering as might well have excused some impatience with his contributors, but he took the greatest pains with them. Even the rejected ones (and this is perhaps the greatest triumph to which courtesy can attain) had a good word for him; while those who had merit never failed to find it recognised. He made many a young heart to rejoice in his time, but never more so than when he wrote to ask me to come up to Edinburgh and share his literary duties as editor of Chambers's Journal.' 'I have long felt the need of help,' he said; will you come and be my co-editor?' I suppose five men out of six would have written sub-editor; but the natural graciousness of his disposition caused him to italicise the co.

375

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2

THE GIANT'S ROBE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF VICE VERSA.'

'Now does he feel his title

Hang loose upon him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.'- Macbeth.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS.

D

OLLY'S mere appearance in the room would lead Vincent to suspect that he had been deceived; her first words would almost inevitably expose the fraud. She was coming up, nevertheless, and Mark felt powerless to prevent her he could only indulge himself in inwardly cursing Caffyn's ingenuity and his own weakness for having brought him to such a pass as this. Caffyn was shaken for the moment, but he soon recovered himself. Keep cool, will you,' he whispered (he might have shouted, for Vincent saw and heard nothing just then): 'you stay here and keep him amuseddon't let him go near the window!' Then he added aloud, 'I'll go and see if I can find that Bradshaw. Almost certain I didn't bring it with me; but if you saw it there, why'-and he was gone.

Mark caught up a paper with a rapid, 'Oh! I say, Vincent, did you see this correspondence about competitive examinations? Of course you haven't, though--just listen then, it's rather amusing!' and he began to read with desperate animation a string of letters on that subject which, in the absence of worthier sport, was just then being trailed before the public. The news