yours. Are you still determined to defend what you know to be the grossest fraud invented by man? It is perfectly scandalous that a parcel of critics and editors should persist in fooling the public with the idea of a globulous world.'

The grounds upon which acceptance is demanded by the wouldbe contributor are most curious and unlooked for. One lady offers, in return for the satisfaction of seeing herself in print, 'to take in a dozen copies of your esteemed periodical'; another, 'being the daughter of a colonel, has a large circle of friends who, in case of publication, would purchase the magazine;' another has the literary recommendation of one of the clergy.'

Now and then these applicants grew serious even to devoutness. 'Time,' observes one of them, 'is the gift of Heaven, not to be frittered away in the composition of mere medley rhymes,' but the torrent of imagination which impels her' can hardly fall short of positive inspiration; if she is wrong, 'God forgive her waste of His precious time'; if right, a post office-order will oblige.'

Some correspondents have grievances of the most unimaginable type. It occurs of course to more than one native of Erin that we have a settled purpose to caricature and misrepresent Irish characteristics,' otherwise in our Irish stories such mistakes would never be made in the brogue'; but such complaints were sometimes not only national, but local. One writer inquires why the town of which she is an inhabitant is not represented in our columns by its local geniuses. 'I and a few other ladies,' says the writer, are desirous of informing you that this town is full of native talent. We have two poets of very high character and widespread fame-Mr. A, and Mr. B-next Mr. C; and next Mr. D, and Mr. E. The first is a gentleman of fortune; his poetry is a little strained, but very fine. There would be no chance of your getting anything from him, if (as I understand) you don't allow your contributors' names to be put to their productions. Mr. B is one of our chief literary characters, a member of several of the learned societies in London, and who has published many things. Nothing could be had from him upon the terms stated above. The next is Mr. C, a tradesman, and a very fine pastoral and descriptive poet; Mr. D is very fair, and has put forth a book of verse; Mr. E is a wealthy retired solicitor, out of whom there would be no chance of getting any of his productions without money. . . . I have no motive but your own good, and to show how our city is neglected.'

I could tell stories without end of my editorial experience, some

humorous, some pathetic; but the impersonality of the mysterious 'We' ought, I feel, to be respected. If the reader wishes for more revelations of this description, I refer him to the Editor's Tales' of Anthony Trollope, which are not only very charming in themselves, but unconsciously betray the kindness of heart of the writer, and the tender conscientiousness with which he discharged his trust. I may add, considering the slenderness of his material, and the strong impression that each narrative produces on the mind, that the volume is as convincing a proof of the genius of the author as anything he ever wrote. I once expressed this opinion to Trollope, who assented to my view of the matter, but added, with a grim smile, that he doubted whether anybody had ever read the book except myself, by which of course he meant to imply that it had had a very small circulation as compared with that of his novels.

I have shown, I think, that the gravity of Edinburgh life was greatly mitigated by humour, but still it was very serious. Everybody must remember Dean Ramsay's story of the dissipated young man who went to too many funerals'; and there was certainly something of austerity even in its pleasures. With a large section of the community everything that had relation to pastime was considered wicked; and the booksellers they patronised sold nothing but improving books. Wishing to have some theoretical knowledge of the national game, I ordered of one of them a handbook of golf, and in due course received a neat little volume entitled 'The Hand of Providence, exemplified in the Life of John B. Gough' (the teetotaller). I took it complainingly to Robert Chambers, who laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and rather grudgingly observed, 'Now, why should this have happened to you and not to me?'

So seriously did society at large regard matters, that the droller side of things escaped their observation. A beggar man had stood on the old bridge for the last ten years with a placard on his breast, with this inscription :-'Blind from my birth; I have seen better days'; and no one ever seemed to perceive that it was a contradiction in terms.

In Princes Street it was in contemplation (nay, for all I know it was done) to erect a marble cattle fountain with the motto:'Water was not meant for man alone'; but it utterly escaped public notice that such an inscription would be an encouragement to whiskey-drinkers.

In my case, besides the general gravity of tone, there was an especial reason, which, in spite of the many attractions of Edinburgh, prevented my ever feeling quite at home there. From native dulness—or to whatever other cause the inability to catch an alien tongue may be ascribed-I had always a difficulty in appreciating the niceties of language. The study of character-which is the only study I ever really cared for-was consequently debarred from me. Many English authors have depicted Scotchmen in their own country; Saxon chiels have gone amongst them making notes and afterwards printed them-though I don't remember, by the bye, that the likeness has been ever acknowledged by the originalsbut I felt that I had not their gift; that I could only see things skin deep. This annoyed me to an extent which to most persons would seem impossible and incomprehensible. I felt like a man seeking for gold, and who knows that it is beneath him in large quantities, but who has unfortunately neither spade nor pickaxe; I resented the mere roughness and nodosities of the ground.

What struck me as a curious feature of Edinburgh society was the extraordinary respect paid to professors of all sorts, though they were almost as numerous as colonels in the United States. In England we seldom speak of them (except in such cases as that of Professor Holloway) as professors, and still more rarely address them by that title, but in Edinburgh it was not so. I remember an amusing example of this. At a large party, at which Alexander Smith the poet (he had just been made Secretary to the University) was present, I happened to speak of him to our hostess.

'Notwithstanding all the praise that has been showered upon him,' I said, 'what a modest young fellow he is!'

She shook her head with gravity. I am sorry to say I cannot agree with you; for I have just heard him actually call Professor Soanso, Soanso, which I consider to be a great liberty in a person of his position.'

The notion of a poet being in an inferior position to a professor tickled me exceedingly, but it was not easy to find people to share the joke.

As a matter of fact, Alexander Smith was one of the most modest of men. The appearance of his Life Drama' had evoked a tumult of acclaim sufficient to have turned the heads of most men of his age; a pattern-drawer at some commercial house in Glasgow, he awoke one morning to find himself the most bepraised of poets; but it altered his simple character not one whit; and

when the pendulum swung the other way, he took detraction with the same good-natured philosophy. At the worst,' he said, quoting from his own poem, 'it's only a ginger-beer bottle burst.' The epithet 'spasmodic,' so freely applied to him by the critics of the day, was singularly out of place; he was full of quiet common sense, mingled with a certain Lamb-like humour. In these respects, though of a widely different character, he resembled another Edinburgh notoriety of that day, the gentle and hospitable Dean Ramsay.

The simplicity of the latter's character extended to his diction; in the last letter he wrote to me on quitting Edinburgh, he is so good as to say, after speaking of our intercourse, which was mutually agreeable, 'You are just the sort of person I find so pleasant,' and adds, 'Do you remember dining here with poor Aytoun? Something was wrong with him that night, and he was rather grumpy.' I am afraid he must have been very 'grumpy,' to cause the Dean to mention it; but it is only just to the reputation of the Professor as a good companion to add that I had no recollection of the circumstance.

6

The acquaintance of Dr. John Brown in Edinburgh I did not happen to make, and have always regretted the fact. He writes to me on the eve of my departure, apropos of a review I had written on his book 'Our Dogs,' in which I had termed him, to his great content, the Landseer of Literature,' 'You must let me thank you most cordially for your generous, pleasant, and altogether capital notice of Our Dogs.' It made me more than ever reproach myself for not having made your personal friendship. I have been cheated twice this week out of meeting you, once at Russell's, on Wednesday, and at Lancaster's to-morrow.' (Lancaster was a young advocate of great promise, of whom Dickens wrote to me, from Edinburgh, long afterwards, He is the most able fellow I have met in these parts,' and whose early death was greatly deplored.) 'I shall watch your career through life with sincere interest, and if you get all that I wish you, you need not greatly grumble.'

If the prayer of a righteous man availeth much, the wish of so excellent a fellow as Dr. John Brown was surely not to be despised.

506

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 XXXIII.

IN SUSPENSE.

M

ARK, as he left his wife with that hastily invented excuse of the forgotten tobacco, turned back with a blind instinct of escape; he went to the foot of the hilly little street down which Mabel and he had lately passed, and halted there undecidedly; then he saw a flight of rough steps by a stone fountain and climbed them, clutching the wooden rail hard as he went up; they led to a little row of cabins, barricaded by stacks of pinewood, and further on there was another short flight of steps, which brought him out upon a little terrace in front of a primitive stucco church. Here he paused to recover breath and think, if thought was possible. Above the irregular line of high-pitched brown roofs at his feet he could just catch a glimpse of the rushing green Rhine, with the end of the covered way on the bridge and the little recess beyond. It was light enough still for him to see clearly the pair that stood in that recess : Vincent's broad figure leaning earnestly towards that other one-he was drawing closer--now he drew back again as if to watch the effect of his words. Mark knew well what she must be hearing down there. He strained his eyes as the dusk shrouded the two more