Chapter III: Part II: The Duties of a Guest

Having previously considered the question of the duties of a hostess, I now come to speak of those of a guest; and the subject being less exhaustive than the former one, can be treated with considerably more conciseness.

Firstly, then, when invited to stay at a friend’s house, use your judgment with regard to the advisability of accepting the invitation. If it is proffered spontaneously and without any apparent object in view, avail yourself of it, if inclination prompts you; but if you have reason to think that you are only asked because the hostess thinks it ‘necessary,’ or deems it likely that you will ‘expect it,’ hasten to write an apology at once. Never, however, do this, nor the reverse of it, nor anything else, for the matter of that, on impulse—take time to consider: it won’t occupy you long, and the result will repay you. On no account reply to invitations on postcards: such missives, although highly estimable and convenient in their proper place, should only be made use of for the conveyal of unimportant messages. A lady who favours you with an invitation to her house, may at least be considered worthy of such trifles as a sheet of note-paper and a penny stamp.

When you have made up your mind to avail yourself of an invitation, be sure to do so at the time specified by your hostess. Never select your own time, except when especially requested; should you be guilty of such a breach of etiquette, you would, in all probability, seriously incommode your entertainer. It is the custom in many families—especially those who live in the country—to invite a succession of visitors, one after another; and if an invited guest declines going at the time for which he is asked, he ought to remain absent altogether; for, to say, ‘I cannot go to you next week, but shall be happy to do so the week following,’ may considerably embarrass the head of the house to which he has been bidden.

Supposing, then, that you have accepted an invitation to a friend’s abode, be very careful not to miss the train, or other mode of conveyance by which you have appointed to travel, lest your host’s carriage—and perhaps some member of his family also—be kept, through your carelessness, waiting to receive you at your destination. Do not, on arriving at the house, make an unseemly fuss—as some persons do—about the disposal of your luggage; leave the carrying in and arranging of it entirely to the servants; and should anything go wrong, rectify it afterwards. Ascertain as early as possible the hours for meals, and be ready to the moment for such. Also, if it be customary in the household to have family prayer, be prepared always to attend it with punctuality, as nothing is more disturbing than to have droppers-in entering the room when the service is half concluded. Do not come down in the mornings before the shutters are opened or the rooms made up; servants feel much aggrieved by this practice, nor is it fair towards them. If you are, from habit, an early riser, remain in your chamber, where you can read or write without being in anybody’s way; or, if the weather be fine, go out for a walk, quietly, without any slamming of doors or obtrusive noise or bustle. Always remember, when entering the house after walking, to clean your boots well upon the door-scraper and mat. Do not on any account neglect this most important admonition; even though there may not be any perceptible mud upon the soles of your footgear, a certain amount of dust will be sure to cling, and will by no means improve your host’s carpets—or the tempers of his servants.

Do not eat immoderately at table, or in a manner to occasion remark. If you are afflicted with an abnormal appetite, satisfy its first cravings in the privacy of your apartment with biscuits, sandwiches, or something else of your own providing. It is dreadful to eat and drink as though one had not for days enjoyed a meal. On the other hand, do not, from a feeling of false delicacy, abstain from eating enough. A healthy, hearty appetite is to be commended; nor is anything more distressing to a hospitable hostess than to see her viands unappreciated, while her guests leave table apparently unsatisfied with what has been provided. It is needless to add that temperance in drinking is all-important.

Be especially careful to avoid little _gaucheries_, of which even some well-bred persons are occasionally guilty. Those who are accustomed to live alone are particularly apt to fall into odd ways, because they have not, as a rule, anybody to please or consult except themselves. I have seen a man of title and position, who, through living an isolated life, had many strange oddities: ignoring the use of the butter-knife and using his own—touching the lips of the cruet-bottle with his finger—turning over the contents of the biscuit-box—helping himself to sugar without the aid of the spoon or tongs. Persons with whom he sat in company called him ‘vulgar,’ whereas he was in reality _outré_ and odd. A learned man, caring nothing for conventionalities, and living wholly alone, he fell into strange habits, and they clung to him, which is abundant proof that we ought, each and all of us, to guard against such.

Carefully steer clear of topics of discourse that you think might by any possibility be distasteful to anybody present; and if your host and hostess, or other members of the household, should chance to disagree in your presence upon any point, whether of great or little importance, do not take any part in the discussion, or side with either combatant. Maintain complete silence—or, if you can adroitly change the subject, or turn the conversation into another channel, so much the better; but this sort of thing requires so large an amount of tact and address, that if not done nicely, it had better be left alone.

Endeavour at all times to be obliging in the household. Offer your services upon all necessary occasions, but do not force them or appear officious; it is bad taste, and is certain to worry your hostess. If an entertainment is to take place in the house, keep out of the way as much as possible during the preparations for it, unless you can be of some substantial use; and while the festivity is in progress, do all you can to oblige the entertainer and contribute to the enjoyment of the guests. If you can sing, dance, or recite, do all (if asked) without making a fuss about it. At the same time do not fall into the opposite extreme of giving the company too substantial proof of your prowess in the vocal or histrionic art. Some persons are a perfect nuisance in this respect; once they sit down to the piano, they cannot be induced to leave it, and keep on singing song after song, to the exclusion of others and the weariness of the assembled guests. Assist your hostess in effecting introductions, and, if necessary, in ascertaining that each person has visited the supper-room and that nobody has been overlooked. In short—feeling yourself for the time a member of the household—perform all such duties as would, were you in reality so, fall to your share.

Never give unnecessary trouble to servants. Avoid, as far as possible, slopping water over your washstand, drenching the floor when you take your bath, emptying the entire contents of the water-jug into the basin every time you wash your hands throughout the day; throwing your soiled linen carelessly about the room; leaving your wearing apparel scattered promiscuously over the bed and the backs of the chairs; calling for hot water when cold would serve you quite as well, or better; soiling three or four pairs of boots and shoes in the day; leaving damp umbrellas upon the hall-table instead of in the stand; and going in and out of the house an unlimited number of times for idle pastime, when once or twice would serve your purpose quite as well.

Be careful never to outstay your welcome. You can form a very good idea, from the nature and wording of your invitation, how long you are meant to remain, even though the time may not have been exactly specified; but if there is any doubt about the matter, do not take advantage of it by staying too long, or extend your visit to any unusual length unless decidedly pressed to do so. It is far better to go away leaving a wish for your return, than that there should be the very smallest feeling of an opposite nature in the minds of your entertainers.

Be particularly cautious during your visit never to allow yourself to appear in the way. Should your host or hostess be called upon to receive a long absent or favoured friend, or one who is a rare visitor, retire quietly for a while, as there may be things to talk about that your presence would forbid, or at all events hamper; but be sure that you withdraw gracefully and without fuss, having a fair pretext on your lips, if asked your reason for doing so, as—although a well-bred hostess will never under any circumstances allow it to appear that any member of her household is _de trop_—a ladylike or gentlemanlike guest will never permit the possibility of her feeling that such is in reality the case.

When Sunday comes round, attend worship with your entertainers, who will probably be pleased by your doing so, rather than that you should go wandering off to some distant church alone; and endeavour throughout the day to adapt your ways and doings to those of your host and hostess. If you do not like or approve their mode of passing the Sabbath-day, you can take your leave before the next comes round; but it is the worst possible taste for a visitor to isolate himself in his own apartment, because the household of which he is _pro tem._ a member sees no harm in certain things which stricter persons may; while, on the other hand, it is equally objectionable to appear to ignore the Sabbath, where those about you have been educated in a more rigid school.

Finally, be kind and courteous to all, but never servile, nor yet haughty, for the one is quite as bad as the other, and both are hateful in the extreme. If, when you are departing, your host, or hostess, invites you to come again, you may feel justly satisfied that you have succeeded in making that most enviable thing—a good impression.

WHAT CAREER FOR TOM?

Ay, what was to be done with him? He had just completed his fifteenth year, was famous at cricket and football, rode his bicycle up and down the steepest gradients, was a fearless swimmer, and indeed the athletic paragon of his schoolmates. But he began to tire of his lessons, and to utter dark confidences to his sisters that ‘Latin would be no use to a fellow when he grew up;’ that ‘he felt like a loafer as he went along the lanes to the grammar-school;’ that ‘Sam Jackson and Harry Wilde were going to business at Easter; and that if papa did not find him something to do, he should perhaps run away to sea.’

This last confidence, which was given on a windy night, when the rain plashed most dismally against the windows of the children’s room, quite alarmed Tom’s sisters, who were romantic and tender-hearted girls of seventeen and eighteen. They began to cry, and to beg the indignant lad not to do anything so dreadful. But the more they petitioned, the more stubborn Tom grew. Tears and entreaties only hardened him into firmer determination to doff his mortar-board cap for ever. How _could_ he stay at school, when his chums, Sam Jackson and Harry Wilde, had gone to business! What did girls know of a fellow’s vexation at being left with a lot of young boys, not one of whom could hold a bat or keep a goal! To sea he would go, unless papa got him some sort of a berth by Easter.

The poor girls were crying very bitterly, and the rain throbbed in sympathy against the panes, and Tom stamped up and down the floor, when his mamma came in. She was much surprised at the scene; for the children were always on the best of terms. She was still more surprised, and a little dismayed, when she learned the cause of the scene. Being a prudent and self-restraining woman, however, she did not say much; and with a few general remarks, ‘that of course all boys must go to business in due time,’ she terminated the painful discussion.

After supper, when her husband and self were alone, she startled the good easy man by relating what had taken place. Tom’s father was the principal doctor of the neighbourhood, which was so salubrious and so poor that he must have left it long before, had he not possessed a little independency, which kept the household afloat. He was of an indolent turn, getting gray and fat, like his old cob. Want of work, magnificent health, and a managing wife, who took all the worries of life off his shoulders, made him oblivious of the young world growing round his hearth. He could not imagine that his boy and girls were weaving anticipatory tissues of _their_ lives, that these young birds were getting fledged for flights far away from the home-nest. So, the announcement of Tom’s rebellion against school, and his thoughts of evasion, came on the doctor as the greatest event he had known for years.

‘Now you mention it, Maria,’ said he, when he began to quieten down a bit—‘now you mention it, Tom is really growing a big fellow. He’ll be six feet high, if he’s an inch, by his twentieth year. And what a square stiff back he’s got! He takes after my mother’s family; they were all strapping fellows. Yes, Tom’s too big for school. He’s like a salmon among minnows, among the grammar-school boys. Dear, dear, how lads do grow!’

‘Yes, yes,’ broke in Tom’s mother, a little tartly—she had a temper of her own, as all managing women have—‘Tom is big, and will be bigger; that goes without the saying. But what is to be done for the poor boy? What career do you propose for him?’

‘Upon my life, I haven’t the ghost of an idea, Maria. Now you have brought this matter on the carpet, it recalls a good deal I have heard of late. When I was at Bimpson’s the other day, attending his wife of her seventh boy, Bimpson said to me, over a glass of wine: “Doctor, he _is_ a fine child, I admit; but how he’ll get bread and cheese, if he lives, I can’t guess at all.” And the poor fellow broke out into quite a jeremiad over the redundancy of boys just now. He has three lads waiting for careers, and the deuce an opening can he find! Then there is Clumpit the wheelwright—you know Clumpit, Maria? Well, I’ve been attending him for hypochondria. He can find nothing suitable for his eldest son; and it preys on his mind, because the mother won’t let him go away from home to try his luck in some of the big towns. And old Burrows met me the other day, and quite pitifully asked me if I could advise him what to do with his grandson. I was really sorry for the poor old man. Of course, I could not help him.’

Tom’s mother looked more anxious as the doctor went on ramblingly; and at last she said: ‘All this leads to nothing. Tom must have a career arranged for him by us, or he will take the matter in his own hands. I can read his mind; I know him better than you, my dear. What must we do with him?’

‘I tell you, again, Maria, I have not a ghost of an idea. Yet, I do know one thing—he shall not be a medical man!’

Here the doctor relighted his cigar and smoked in frowning thoughtfulness, until Tom’s mother said decisively: ‘Well, if _you_ do not know what is to be done with the dear child, we must ask the opinion of our friends. I, for my part, cannot allow this subject to drop. It must be taken up and carried out to the needful end. I know too well your easy-going way. To-morrow, you will forget all about poor Tom. I say, and with emphasis, we must find a career for our boy. As you have no ideas, I shall write to such of our friends as have experience of the world; and ask them either to advise us, by coming over here to a sort of family council, or else to tell us by letter. Your connections and mine have among them a great deal of experience: they know what prospects there are for the rising generation better than we can know, in this out-of-the-way place. So, I tell you, my dear, my mind’s made up; and to-morrow I will write the letters.’

‘You are a genius, Maria, as I’ve often told you. I believe you would get us out of any hobble, however formidable. I haven’t the ghost of an idea; and you have the ideas themselves, heaps of them. Write, my dear, to all our relations that are likely to be of help to us; and we shall soon find a billet for Tom. God bless him! he is a good and clever boy, and deserves a splendid career. Don’t forget my brother John; as a London lawyer, he will be a host of advice in himself. And be sure to ask your cousin Richard, the parson; he has always been fond of Tom; and besides, he’s the shrewdest fellow I know, notwithstanding his cloth. He ought to have been a barrister. But, as that cannot be, he ought to be a bishop. How he would rule a diocese, Maria!’

In the course of a few weeks, the family council assembled, for the doctor was really much beloved by all his connections; and his wife had so couched her request for advice that it was quite irresistible. On a keen March day, uncles, cousins, and friends met; and after dining at the doctor’s hospitable table, they began to consider what career would be most likely to assure Tom of a happy and prosperous future. The reverend cousin presided, at the general request; and he opened the subject as follows:

‘When I got the letter which has brought me here to-day, I felt its appeal so strongly, that I made immediate arrangements to be present. Tom has always been an exemplary boy in conduct, though I must say his progress in the classics is deplorably slow. When I was his age, I read Homer for the pleasure it gave me; and I had Horace by heart. Now, a scholar Tom never will be; of that I have satisfied myself before dinner in a private talk with him. Well, the ground is so far cleared. Tom cannot be a scholar, _ergo_, he cannot be a clergyman; for of all things inappropriate, in my opinion, the extreme is an ignorant divine. In my profession, one ought to be steeped in Greek, permeated with Latin, and saturated with Hebrew. But even if Tom were a born student and of a serious order of mind, I could not advise his parents to devote him to the Church.’

Something like a blank fell on Tom’s mother at the emphatic closure of the reverend cousin’s speech. She had hoped that Tom might have gone to Oxford, as other grammar-school boys had done, and thence to some pretty rectory as a rural parson. While she sat in silent depression, the rest of the company talked in little knots, until the reverend president stopped them by saying: ‘Now, Uncle John, I call upon you. No one is better able to say if the law promises fame and fortune for the rising generation, as it has done for the past generations since Cicero’s time. Shall we make Tom an attorney or a barrister?’

‘I am flattered by the manner you esteem my humble abilities,’ answered Uncle John. ‘It is a strange coincidence of thought. I have also come down from town expressly to deprecate the putting of our young hopeful to _my_ profession. I believed I could lay my reasons before my brother and his good wife better by a few spoken words, than by any extent of correspondence; so I took an early train. Tom must not be a lawyer. Why, I proceed as briefly as I can to explain. First, the profession is more crowded than the market-place. Second, the crowd is daily increasing, because almost every family of the middle classes that has thriven during the past twenty or thirty years is sending a boy into a solicitor’s office. The business is supposed to be very lucrative, and it is esteemed highly respectable, which allures the _parvenu_ mind. As to the fiction of the law being a lucrative pursuit, I cannot understand how it originated, still less how it is maintained. A few solicitors, with quite exceptional luck and good connections, may attain to opulence. But the rank and file of the profession merely earn a decent livelihood. If you want to know what fortune does for lawyers in England, read the reports of wills and bequests in the newspapers. While these are telling us of manufacturing, banking, and trading millionaires dying in all parts of the country, they rarely record the demise of a lawyer worth twenty thousand pounds. No, no; the law is not a money-making trade. But it will be still less so, and that is why I warn Tom’s parents against it.

‘Let me elaborate a little. Since I was put on the rolls, Law Reform, as it is pleasantly called by certain politicians, has been hacking away at our fees continually, until now, certain branches of the profession are no longer remunerative at all. County courts, for instance, have deprived me of hundreds a year. The Judicature Act has damaged my practice still more seriously. However, I am not here to dwell upon my own misfortunes, but to prevent my nephew Tom from having worse, by following in my footsteps. Past law reforms are trifles to what are coming! In a few years, the most respectable and valuable department of my profession will be simply worthless. I refer to conveyancing. Even now, it is sadly shorn of its former profitableness. Soon it will be _non est_. Registration of titles is bound to come; with it goes the old system of mortgage deeds and all the costly methods of land transfer. As in America and the colonies, the transfer of real estate will be merely the business of government officials, and the vendor and purchaser; lawyers will be eliminated from such transactions altogether. Then, as regards commercial cases—Chambers of Commerce will go on with their simple methods of arbitration and conciliation, until at last the courts will hear no more of traders’ contentions than if such did not exist.

‘Last and worst of all, there is growing a steady abhorrence of legal conflicts in all ranks and classes. When I was apprenticed, even the poorest fellow would rush into law against a neighbour or relative with the greatest confidence; ay, and be ruined with a sort of grim satisfaction. In those days, everybody delighted in law. Now, if I am not vastly wide of the mark, men will submit to the rankest frauds and personal assaults as meekly as the most abject Asiatics. Yes, really, the English race, once litigious to a degree, is positively afraid of entering upon the most trumpery suit in the inferior courts. Finally, the lowest of our business, that of the criminal courts, is dwindling into insignificance. Judges are holiday-making in maiden assizes all over the country; police stipendiaries are becoming sinecurists; and as soon as the teetotalers have made another million or two of converts, the income of legal men from criminals will be _nil_. What with popular education, milder manners, law reforms, land reforms, and the rest, no man would think of putting a youngster into the fast decaying legal profession.’

Uncle John spoke with such evident and crushing sincerity that Tom’s father and mother uttered a simultaneous groan as he finished; and for a few minutes something like consternation kept all silent.

But the reverend president did not forget his duty, and afterwards resumed in these terms: ‘My dear friends, I am sure we are all greatly indebted to Uncle John for his luminous remarks upon the actual and coming condition of the profession, of which he is so distinguished a member. Of course, our dear Tom cannot be a lawyer. Let us therefore proceed with our deliberations into another professional avenue; after the Law, Medicine comes, according to established usage. Tell us, therefore, my dear doctor, why you do not think of devoting Tom to your own pursuit. Of that, you must have far clearer and more accurate knowledge than any other person here present. Knowing how hopeless the Church and the Law are, do you not think it best to train Tom to succeed to your own practice?’

‘I certainly am greatly surprised at what I have just heard of the degenerate state of two noble professions,’ said Tom’s father; ‘indeed, I may express myself as stunned by the revelations. Yet, I do not think that the future of the Church and the Law is so discouraging as that of Medicine. If I saw the ghost of a prospect for my boy as a doctor, I would not have put you to the trouble you have so kindly taken to come here and advise me. It is my solemn conviction that in a few years general practitioners in medicine—and that means ninety-nine out of every hundred doctors in this country—will not gain salt. A few men of supreme ability in medicine will have that department of the profession to themselves; a few more will have the surgical. For the good old family doctor, there will be no place in the new house that John Bull is going to build.—You smile, dear friends, at my simile; but the prospect is not amusing to me. Uncle John tells us that his profession is crowded, and that “the cry is still they come.” Yes, but they are _men_ that come to the Law; whereas, women are swarming into our profession. Think of that, good folks! Realise what it means for the men-doctors of the next generation. All our practice among children and women will go to the doctoresses, as a matter of course. Women are naturally fitted for attending upon their own sex, and are, if truly feminine, born _medicos_. Now that they have proved themselves equal to all the tests of the continental dissecting-rooms and to brazen out the lectures, and now that they are taking such brilliant degrees, I, for one, throw up the game, and say, _place aux dames_!

‘Just think! there are nearly a million more women than men in these happy islands, and they are all bound to live. And accentuate the thought by my assurance that there is no one so ambitious and remorseless in professional competition as a clever woman! While our male medical students are dissipating, idling, fooling, as they have always done since Hippocrates’ days, their lady rivals are preparing to puzzle a John Hunter, a Claude Bernard, a Bichat, or any savant living or dead. I prophesy that, before the end of this century, women will sit in most of the high places of the medical profession. They have keener wits than men; they are more moral, more industrious, and more sympathetic. But I leave this part of the subject for another and more discouraging still—people are beginning to be their _own doctors_! When I was a young man, few persons were bold enough to quack themselves. Now; there are millions swallowing homeopathic pills and tinctures, and diagnosing their own ailments themselves! Add to them the other millions who feed themselves on patent medicines, and, I tell you, the field of operation is alarmingly diminishing for doctors of either sex. Nor have I yet unfolded more than a fraction of my sorrowful tale. Other multitudes, who, by all that is fair in social life, instead of following the good old plan of sending for the doctor when they have eaten, drunk, and worked, or pleasured too freely, now bolt away to some hydropathic palace, and positively turn a fit of sickness into a spell of luxury! Talk about the Sybarites of old! Go rather and look at our own, “packed,” shampooed, handled, dandled, and fondled in the vast number of our hydropathic “Halls of Idleness” and sensuous convalescing sanatoria! Do not stay to deplore these lapses from the stern old British methods of phlebotomy, leeching, purging, and partaking of all that was nauseous, but receive my most startling confidence—the public don’t believe in us as of old!

‘You, my reverend cousin, have dissuaded us from educating Tom for your own profession; but that profession is still better than mine, for your benefice will benefit you to the end of life, while my fees are growing so steadily less that they will soon touch zero. You, Uncle John, draw a fearful picture of a non-litigious England; and I felt for you as you drew it. Yet my clients are still more pig-headed. Yours won’t go to law; mine won’t go to the doctor. Yes, I have at last reached the nethermost depth—the public will not sicken as it used to do. When I was walking the hospitals, zymotics were as regular as the tides; and all the year round, fevers and agues went their profitable course. Everybody had a bad cold at least once in the winter. Gout and rheumatism were solid annuities to most of us. Broken limbs were fairly common in most families. In short, as the proverb ran, “the doctor was never out of the house.” Alas, all that has gone! People take such ridiculous care of themselves; “sanitation” is the chatter of every nincompoop; and the fuss about clean cowsheds, pure water, pure air, and the rest, is cutting off the doctor’s income at the roots.—Have I said enough, dear friends, to prove to you that Tom cannot be a doctor?’

Tom’s father fell into his chair overcome with his own rhetoric; Tom’s mother furtively wiped two tributary tears from her eyes; the reverend cousin looked at the ceiling inquiringly; Uncle John frowned sardonically.

Uncle Lucas, the farmer, who had listened in puzzled bewilderment to the recitals of his relatives, now got leisurely on to his feet, and broke in thus: ‘Well, well, it’s all over with gentlefolks, too, it seems to me. I thought that everybody was thriving but the poor farmers, and now I learn that our betters are no better off than ourselves! When our father made me a farmer against my inclination, I thought he was unfair. He had made you elder lads into gentlemen, and I felt slighted at being left among clodpolls in the village. But I begin to think I shall have the best of it after all. _I_ am in no trouble to find careers for my two lads and three lassies. Since the labourers have begun to skulk over their work and to ask twice as much wages, I have taken the lads to help me. Well, we’ve pulled through a troublesome and disheartening time; and what’s more, we’ve learned a lot. I tell you, we’ve found out how to make farming pay—by doing it ourselves, the lads in the fields, and the girls in the house and dairy. We’ve had to take hold of the rough end of the stick, truly. The girls had to give up many of the fal-lals that young ladies learn at boarding-school; and the boys had to wear corduroy and hobnailed shoes. But they are none the worse for the case-hardening they’ve got. Finer lads don’t live in the shire; and as to the girls, they’re as blithe as the birds; and that, I reckon, is as good a test of contentment as you can get.—Now, brother doctor, let me advise you what to do with your son Tom. The Church, the Law, and Medicine all shut their doors in his face. Open the gate of a field and turn him in to pick up what pasture he can find; and my word for it, he’ll not die of hunger. Look at his big limbs and his love of action! Why, he is built for a husbandman. Even if you could put him to some gentlemanly way of making a living in town, he would not be so happy and so healthy as in the country. When he comes to spend a few days with us, the lad is in his element, and works with his cousins right handily. Put him in a field, brother, put him in a field.’

Uncle Lucas quite astonished his more cultured relatives by his long speech; still more, by the almost pathetic earnestness of his appeal.

The reverend cousin, who had smiled compassionately at the rude beginning of the harangue, grew attentive as it went on; and at the end, clapped his hands approvingly. ‘Bravo, Uncle Lucas!’ he cried; ‘thou art the one wise man amongst us.—A farmer let Tom be, doctor. Churches may fall, legal systems vanish, the healing art be substituted by universal hygiene, but the tillage of the land must ever demand tillers. During the period of change that has set in so strongly, let us see what remains least affected by the mutations of time and circumstance. While man lives on the earth he must eat; and the purveyor of food, therefore, has a first lien upon all the productions of society. It flashed into my mind, as Uncle Lucas was speaking, that perhaps the greatest result of all the metamorphoses going on will be the sublimation of husbandry. From the beginning, it has been regarded as an inferior career, and has to a certain degree been shunned. The age of Feudalism has gone; the age of Gentility is going; the real age of Utility is coming. When it is established, the husbandman will be duly honoured and duly rewarded, as the pre-eminent citizen, as the venerated conduit through whose limbs and brain that daily bread flows for which we are bidden to pray.’

A pause followed, during which Tom’s father began to smile hopefully, and his mother regained serenity.

‘We educated men,’ said the reverend cousin, concluding the business, ‘have not done our duty by your class, Uncle Lucas. We have kept our intellectual children from your business, to the great retardation of agricultural science. Now that the professions are no longer profitable, we shall send some of our best youth to your pursuits. We will begin with Tom. In the fields, he will find a career open to every talent that providence has endowed him with.’

Uncle Lucas prevailed, and Tom ‘was turned into a field.’ What the result will be in these times of agricultural depression, is a thing of the future.

SKETCHES.

I.

In the far village by the shining sea,
Where the white sails, snow-gleaming in the light,
Creep up the tidal river to the quay,
And land the glistening captures of the night;
At the shading to a close
Of the brightness of the day,
Have you forgotten, Lady Rose,
Our meeting on the lonely way?

II.

Beyond the dreamy townlet, where the trees
With linkèd branches, golden shadows spread;
Where sweet wind-flowers bend before the breeze,
And many an arum lifts her hooded head;
Where the early primrose blows,
Long we lingered, loth to part:
Have you forgotten, Lady Rose,
Our earnest converse, heart to heart?

III.

The mossy stonework of the ancient span
That bridged the clear brown waters of the stream,
Where round the stepping-stones the eddies ran,
And slipped away with many a sunny gleam.
Still beside the river grows
Starry-eyed forget-me-not:
Have you forgotten, Lady Rose,
The drooping, faintly coloured knot?

IV.

In the home-garden, where the ivy crept
Around the ruined coping of the wall,
When in mine own, your trembling hand I kept,
And in the silence heard the night-bird’s call.
Drear and cold the evening’s close,
Sorrow of an adverse fate:
Have you forgotten, Lady Rose,
That parting by the wicket gate?

C. A. DAWSON.

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