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deed, as Sir John had said with perfect truth-he had the “low drop" in him, as he presently showed by stopping short with sudden violence, flinging his head into the air, and setting his fore feet firmly against the ground, as if to resist the efforts of some one dragging him down into the bowels of the earth. That unjust lashing of his sides was beginning to bear fruit. His lordship grew angry, "What a brute-an ill-conditioned brute!" he said. 'Did you ever see his like? I wish to heaven I had brought a good cutting whip." (His lordship was so confident of the merits of the animal he had chosen that he had declined to take a whip of that sort.)

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Then began a struggle which alarmed the lady not a little, for the consort of the "brute" was willing to go forward, and at every stroke that fell upon him, his companion made a plunge, thinking that it was intended for her, and at each plunge Toby made a corresponding motion to keep himself in position, and set his legs more firmly to resist the powers who were striving to drag him below.

Was that an oath that Mrs. Lepell fancied she heard upon his lordship's lips? "I think I had better get out," she said, timorously. "I do, indeed." "Do as you like," said he, almost infuriated by his struggle. "I won't be beaten by any brute, man, woman, or animal. Stay where you are, I recommend you. I'll just get a stake out of the hedge here that'll make him go, I promise you. You hold these." He jumped out and put the reins into her hands. She was alarmed, but said nothing. Lord John walked on, stamping with cold and vexation, for the hedge was but ill stocked with suitable stakes; but there was a cottage a little way on, and he should find something that would do there. In a second Toby had looked back over his shoulder, saw that his enemy was gone, and being a "low" fellow, shabby, and with the bad plebeian "drop" in him, thought he would take advantage of a lady and escape. In another moment he had given up struggling against the underground powers, had tossed his head, flung up his heels, to the speechless consternation of the poor lady, and, with some secret understanding with his companion, had started at full speed.

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The road was narrow. It was more a green lane" than a road; about wide enough for a single cart. His lordship was about twenty yards in front. He turned and saw the sleigh coming furiously down on him. There was hardly a second to prepare or devise a plan; but still, with wonderful presence of mind he had time to throw himself into the ditch against the hedge, and let the sleigh and its unhappy freight dash by.

(His lordship often told the story afterwards, in Paris and to Frenchmen, but always substituting a gentleman as the tenant of the sleigh: "By G-d, my presence of mind saved me. It shaved me as close as this table. Luckily I had my wits about me, or I shouldn't be telling you the story or drinking this cognac of yours, mon cher.")

Our poor Mrs. Lepell, what nerves could there be left to her if a fresh accident was to be in store for her every day? Her rosy cheek seemed ghastly almost to the cottager as she flew by him, the sleigh bounding and tossing in the air as if it were of indiarubber. She did not let go the reinsnot from presence of mind, poor woman, but merely because they happened to be in her hand. Toby, the

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brute," was as "mad as any hatter," and was really enjoying his furious race. The cottager, looking after them, scratched his head doubtfully and said "It wur a bad job."

So it was, or would have been, but for a gentleman who was coming down the narrow road. He, too, had plenty of presence of mind, and would have plenty of time to get over the hedge into the field, and let the dangerous vehicle go safely by. The road here even got narrower, and when cart met cart one had to go back, at a great inconvenience, which led to angry passions on the part of the carters. But the behaviour of the gentleman was different, he stood in the middle of the road, shouting and tossing his arms wildly, even jumping into the air-all which behaviour was meant to scare Toby. For a little behind him the road turned sharply, and here directly in front, was that pond which Mrs. Lepell was so anxious to see, as being the point from which was the very best view of the house.

Toby did not in the least heed this

protest, but came on as if he were cavalry making a charge. Then the gentleman, with extraordinary dexterity, jumped aside lightly, as if he were a matador at a bull fight, and let Toby pass him for a second, in another second had caught Toby's bridle, and in a third had lost his footing, and was being dragged along almost on his back, hanging to Toby's rein. The screams of the lady were now piteous, for the weight at his head had dragged Toby out of the straight course, and it seemed that the sleigh was about being overset. But luckily this getting out of the straight course, drew Toby himself into the hedge, and the whole was now stopped, a mixed mass-hedge, Jenny, Toby and companion, and the gentleman somewhere underneath. But in a moment he had struggled to his feet, a little confused, and was feeling his arm. Mrs. Lepell had recovered, and with presence of mind jumped out.

"O Mr. Severne! Mr. Severne !" she cried, running to him; "You are not hurt?" she asked, in a sort of agony. “O my saviour! my brave, gallant deliverer!" and in the instinct of the moment she caught his arm tenderly, and felt the cloth (you understand) and then, with an instinct as sudden, let it go, and stood blushing, terrified and confused before him.

"Don't be frightened," he said, "compose yourself now-are you all right youself-nothing hurt? I am a little crushed here," he added, touching his arm, "that brute must have stood on me I think. Where's Lord John; was he flung out?"

Here was Lord John, hurrying on from behind to reach the wreck. As he came up he slackened his pace, and looked at them with a sort of defiant self-justification. "It was all that beast's fault. I couldn't help it, Mrs. Lepell. You may say what you like; but you know number one

She interrupted him eagerly. "Indeed it was not your fault, Lord John. I saw you try and clutch at the rein as it passed; and, oh! Lord John, I was so frightened! I thought you would be down under the horse's hoofs."

Lord John looked at her inquiringly, and with a very curious glance; then said, "I did my best, you know. The

fault was in my getting down at all. If I could have just reached the rein; but I missed it by, I suppose, a quarter of an inch."

"I saw it, indeed," said the lady. "How you escaped was a miracle. Oh! Mr. Severne, what shall I saywhat shall I do-to my deliverermy two deliverers?"

Lord Johnlaughed. "That's good. No, no; I aint a hero to do. Our friend there was more in luck. Thank him. We must get this thing straight. Here, you fellow"-this was to the cottager-" stir yourself, can't you? Why didn't you come up? I suppose you'd stand by, and see us all killed, before you'd hurry yourself. Don't stand gaping there, you bumpkin, but put your shoulder to it."

Thus rebuked, the rustic set to work to disentangle the mass, under his lordship's direction. 'Loose that rein first, stupid!" "Don't you see a buckle there! D'ye want to break the horse's leg-do you? Here, let me. I believe you don't care if you smash the whole thing," &c.

The lady's soft eyes were on Severne, and there was real feeling in her voice-"I don't know what to say to you-your bravery, your nobleness and gallantry. Only for you I might be insensible at this moment, or lying at the bottom of that pond. Not so much matter, you will say. After all, it is a little hard-like a persecution; yesterday one escape from death, to-day another. Who knows what to-morrow may bring?"

There was something piteous in this complaint. It did seem a little more than just measure that this poor lady should be pursued with accidents. He spoke to her softly and kindly. "I am very sorry, indeed, very," he said; "and very glad I came up so opportunely. Here, take my arm. No wonder you are flurried. We shall have to walk some way. Or stay; let us look at this. You must have frightened these horses, Lord John ?"

Not I," said his lordship; "its this infernal savage system of driving. Who ever heard of such a thing? Does well enough in Russia."

"And does well enough here," said Severne, "if it gets fair play. Steady, Toby. Poor old boy! Come up. Good fellow. That's it. I tell you what, it's two miles to the house, and very rough walking; so what do

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Well, with all my heart," said he, looking mystified. "I don't quite follow. I don't think there is much danger; but still

She had got in. "No room for you, Lord John," he said.

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No one can turn me out now," she said, looking round and smiling. "As for Lord John, he has run sufficient risk already. I would not hear of him."

"Now then," said Severne. "Good Toby! Good Toby! Get along. That's it."

And Toby, after a moment's hesitation, and a sudden impulse to launch out as he had done before; but thinking better of it, and assuming a more sober carriage, he began to canter along swiftly, with the sleigh grinding on musically behind.

THREE CYNICAL SPECTATORS.

PART II.

of the age," according to him, “are frenzy, folly, extravagance, and insensibility. No wonder, when such stars are predominant, that ruin stalks on and is not felt or apprehended. Dissipation is at high-water mark, but it is either without variety, novelty, or imagination; or the moroseness of age makes me see no taste in their pleasures." Some years later, Cowper, who has never been accused of harshness or cynicism, gave vent to a cry of grief and indignation at the vices of the land. He called upon the clergy to resign their holy commission :

GULLIVER certainly deprecates war; he shows us the King of Brobdingnag horrified at the project of manufacturing powder, and the virtuous Houyhnhmn shocked at the description of the horrors of war. But twothirds of his satire treat of moral evils-the intrigues of courts, the corruption of the great, the malice and meanness of the law, the pride and ingratitude of mankind, the conceit and pedantry of scholars, the delays of law, the grasping of an avaricious spirit, the rottenness of a state where ministers are destitute of good moral qualities. His picture of the age is very true and practical. He gives hints for reform; sets forth, for instance, in the voyage to Lilliput, He compared England to Israel of as Daniel Defoe would not have dis-old, at that time when the prophets approved of. He hints that the wept for the people, whom they saw "Slaves to every lust, prime movers of the State should be men of good morals rather than great' abilities. Exaggerated as his statements may at first seem, they are a most accurate picture of his times. That eccentric cynic, Horace Walpole, has shown us quite as revolting a state of things. The characteristics

a scheme of national education such

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"Send your dishonoured gown to Monmouth-street."

Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust." Some years later still, before the characteristics of the eighteenth century had passed away, we find Wordsworth taking up the strain, and complaining that England is become a fen of stagnant waters :

"Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry, and these we adore."
"We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom,
power."

These lines were written in 1802. If they are compared with Cowper's expostulations, we shall have, from men whom no one has ever thought of calling cynical, a faint reflection of that gloomy image of the times, which looms frightful and distorted in the gloomy mirror held up by Swift.

While Swift was in the zenith of his popularity, a young Frenchman residing in London was eagerly exploring a civilization which was a new world to himself and his countrymen. Voltaire was imbibing in England those principles of scepticism which he afterwards scattered over France and Europe. Swift's writings delighted and influenced his genius. He wrote to Swift, asking permission to mention, in the forthcoming account of his journey, the name of so illustrious an author. "Pray forgive," he wrote, "an admirer of you, who owes to your writings the love he bears to your language, which has betrayed him into the rash attempt of writing English. Do not forbid me to grace my relation with your name; let me indulge the satisfaction of talking of you as posterity will do." Swift's writings influenced the young Frenchman's satirical genius, as Bolingbroke had stimulated with philosophical or pseudo-philosophical arguments, that tendency to scepticism which Voltaire had evinced from his youth.

He returned to France, and, when many years had elapsed, he gave Candide" to the world. That work is Voltaire's essay on man-a quintessence of Voltaire's view of man and things. It is the fullest expression of his philosophy. Considered merely as a tale, it is a masterpiece, written in the most racy, natural, fascinating manner. It placed Voltaire at the head of the narrators of his country. Even as a mere fiction-were no philosophical interest attached to it,

it would be Voltaire's masterpiecea tiny diamond, glittering among the more massive, but less brilliant, gold and silver.

But it is more than a racy fiction. It is a representative work. Candide is a fictitious, or rather a fictional,* type of his age.

Voltaire is universally admitted to have been the representative man of his age; and he made Candide a personification of his brilliant, versatile, irreverent, yet withal generous spirit.

Candide, like Gulliver, is a cosmopolitan spectator. The philosophical doctrine which he advocates is a refutation of Pope's optimism. But that optimism was never in danger of being widely entertained. It was a brilliant conceit, sufficiently remote from the modes of thought of most men, even of most thinkers. Its paradoxical nature was so evident that it could exercise very little influence. It is undoubtedly true in a transcendent manner, but false in its application of transcendental truth to everyday matters, and everyday reasoning. We know that whatever is, is right; as we know that God's ways are not our ways. But to attempt demonstrating that great mystery is as fruitless as attempting to reach to the comprehension of the Creator by the survey of some of His works. Things which pertain to a higher sphere cannot be explained by earthly things. We must trust the inklings given to us by our conscience, but our reason remains powerless.

Optimism being, then, a subtle aspiration to explain and formulate what must ever be mystery, it could not have much influence over the minds of mankind at large. However successfully, then, optimism might have been refuted by Voltaire, such an achievement would have fallen far short of obtaining the wide popularity won by "Candide." There are other causes to account for the success of that tale principles of which the brilliant author himself was, perhaps, unconscious. He perhaps overlooked what his readers instinctively, though but dimly, felt-that this great work

That is, one that appears in a fiction, although it contains within itself all the elements of truth. Thus Shakespeare's characters are fictional, while those in a trashy

novel are fictitious-mere puppets.

VOL. LXVII.-NO. CCCXCVIII.

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was a living and enduring type of its time that it considered the great problem of evil, according to the mode of thought peculiar to the period; that problem the solution of which it was afterwards so terribly to attempt. "Candide" revealed the Gordian knot which France cut in two with the sword of the Revolution. Candide and Gulliver have one point in common-the investigation of evil. Both are cynical and merciless. But something fantastical always hangs about Gulliver's adventures, though not about the man himself. Notwithstanding his repeated asseverations of truthfulness, and the unquestionable proofs he brings forward, by exhibiting objects from the countries he has visited; although he shows us a Brobdingnagian lady's corn, hollowed out into a cup and set in silver, his adventures scarcely appear earthly, and we rub our eyes in wonder, as if we saw a man just arrived from the moon. His narratives have startled us by the wildness of their conception. Such monstrosities as the dwarfs of Lilliput, the giants of Brobdingnag, the Yahoos, the Houyhnhmns, never before had entered into human imagination. In the short compass of his travels, Gulliver has contrived to heap together more wonders than could be found in all other travellers put together, whether real or fictitious, truthful or addicted to hyperbole, from Mandeville and Du Chaillu to Sinbad the Sailor and Burton. Our imagination is delighted by Gulliver's recital; but, although the author considerably diminishes the marvellous of his tale, by skilfully intertwining it with minute details of real life, all his art cannot take away the wonder which oppresses us, and tends to divert us from the satire; for as in the rarified atmosphere of high aerial regions a voice can with difficulty be heard, so in the atmosphere of unreality, of high fiction, the strictures of Gulliver on society lose much of their force, and their applicableness to real life.

Far different is the effect produced by Candide. There is no mist hanging about him. He is a living man, not a spectre of the Brocken. He is more outspoken, though less practical than Gulliver; and this because he

is less humorous. In a purely literary point of view, this constitutes his inferiority to Gulliver. Voltaire, on comparing his work with that of Swift, must have felt that little was left to fancy after the extraordinary conceptions of the English humorist. Candide was made to remain in the actual world. His descriptions, being free from allegory or marvellous machinery, might be more prosaic, but they were more likely to reach the hearts of men. In one part of the tale, indeed, Candide wanders into fairyland; but this is the weak point of the narrative. His description of the Utopian country, El Dorado, was not necessary to set in relief the abuses existing in the real world. Gulliver is consistent throughout; his element is the fantastical but Candide in El Dorado is as out of place as a fish on dry land.

There were causes which contributed to make Candide more practical-in the teachings evolved from his narrative, though not in the character himself-than Gulliver; for the latter was the fruit of the personal grievances of a sensitive mind. Swift in his fiction tells us how the phenomenon of evil affected him. We see that the fruit of his speculations is an intensely bitter one; so bitter, indeed, that many have deemed it poisonous. In writing Gulliver, Swift seems to have had no end but giving vent to his bile; his end, at any rate, was not a practical one. He did not for one moment imagine that his work would have any social consequences beyond exciting a disgust of everything low and false. It is difficult to see what practical changes could have been effected by the most scathing satire in that time and country, except with respect to the circumstances which called forth the "Drapier's Letters." There were, indeed, many abuses; but liberty was consolidated; the abuses were moral rather than political; they had to do with the heart of man, and not with the constitution of society; they could not be eradicated by legislation. Whatever the raging of parties might be, the people lived in peace and prosperity. The shopkeeper who had never heard of Sir Robert Walpole was doubtless a prosperous man, though never troubling himself about the minister in power.

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