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"I know what beauty is, for Thou
Hast set the world within my heart;
Of me Thou madest it a part;
I never loved it more than now.

I know the Sabbath afternoons;
The light asleep upon the graves;
Against the sky the poplar waves;
The river murmurs organ tunes.

I know the spring with bud and bell;
The hush in summer woods at night;
Autumn, when leaves let in more
light;

Fantastic winter's lovely spell.

I know the rapture music gives,
The power that dwells in ordered

tones;

Dream-muffled voice, it loves and moans,
And, half-alive, comes in and lives.

The charm of verse, where love-allied,
Music and thought, in concord high,
Shew many a glory sailing by,
Borne on the Godhead's living tide;
And Beauty's regnant All I know;
The imperial head, the starry eye;
The fettered fount of harmony,
That makes the woman radiant go.
But I leave all, thou Man of Woe!
Put off my shoes and come to Thee,
Most beautiful of all I see,
Most wonderful of all I know.

As child forsakes his favourite toy,
His sister's sport, his wild bird's nest;
And, climbing to his mother's breast,
Enjoys yet more his former joy—

I lose to find. On white-robed bride
Fair jewels fairest light afford;
So, gathered round Thy glory, Lord,
All glory else is glorified."

—(Vol. ii. p. 232.)

After reading and studying such a poem, in which there is hardly the shadow of a flaw, one feels moved to envy the authorship of it as a priceless possession; for we can almost appropriate the exclamation of Scaliger over the "Quem tu Melpomene " of Horace, "I had rather be the author of that ode than be king of Arragon."

These are some of the notes breathed to us from his fine shepherd's flute, and they reveal a power largely equal to all the intellectual modulation of the human soul. It is pleasing to think that, judging from his latest long poem, 'The Diary of an Old Soul,' this fine modulation still remains with him; but we must content ourselves meantime with the older evidences above given, and these we are disposed to rest our article of poetic creed, that we have in George MacDonald a poet in the high sense- -"a priest of the wonder and bloom of the world."

W. D. GEDDES.

on

1

THE MUQADDAM OF SPINS.

"A mote dancing in a sunbeam-the sun has set-the mote is gone-whither ?-into a brother's eye, perchance. Well, if he be a true brother, it is safer there than in the sun."-Dark Sayings, by an Utterer.

WE all belong, consciously or unconsciously, to the Society for "Protection against the Unknown." Dogs sniff at new-comers. We shrink from death, from unfamiliar names, from new authors. With crafty, half-averted eye we scan the titles of books, of magazine articles, and, repelled by a new combination of letters, we elect to pass by on the other side. Now, before the wary reader has had time to withdraw that cautious, suspicious eye from this page, let me hasten to fix and perchance soften it by explaining that "The Muqaddam of Spins," in Anglo-Indian parlance, only means "The Chief of Spinsters -Boss, more in virtue of years, and "far-off, old, unhappy things, and battles long ago,' ," than in virtue of social position.

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She, whose story is here told, was endowed at birth with gifts and graces not a few: beauty, wit, good-nature; a charming voice and a grand talent pour la société; a moral nature, the texture of which was not perhaps as tough as cocoa-nut fibre, but which might wear well, if no great strain were put upon it; and a heart as true as steel. But, alas! who must needs step in at her christening, but the invisible, uninvited, malicious fairy godmother! - her decree being that saddest of all mortal decrees "Of love that never found its earthly close." "To love and to ride away" was to be the rule of the road for all the girl's suitors.

"Call the child Pipette, and take that bottle of Fer Bravais

out of the room, and never let me see it again. As for the doctor, he's the image of a duck-billed platypus." So spoke Mrs Trenchard to her attendant, while the little French doctor, in coat lined with otter-skin, stood grimacing on the hearth-rug. Mrs Trenchard was lying in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, her fourmonths-old infant was lying in the Valley of the Shadow of Life-I know not which the darkest, know not I.

"Mais, madame l'affaiblissement est extrême,” and the little doctor advanced murmuring "fer bravais et la pipette;" but Mrs Trenchard turned her face wearily to the wall. A week later, a mound in a French cemetery hid les beaux restes de Madame Trenchard, whose play of humour and handsome face had made her a striking personality in the world in which she lived, and Pipette was handed over to the care of an

easy-going, scheming married cousin, Mrs Candy, who allowed the child to grow up in her own nursery, sent her at the age of ten to a second-rate school in Brussels, and at eighteen fetched her home to Weedington to enjoy the social amenities of a garrison town. Here Pipette danced, flirted, picnicked, rode to hounds when friends gave her a mount, and got herself well, or rather ill, talked about. Poor little Pipette ! Mirth-loving, mirth-provoking, she was an attractive mark for men's admiration and women's envy. Something of her history, as years went on, may be gathered from the desultory remarks of friends (sic).

"Oh yes," Mrs A. would say; "Pipette Trenchard was engaged years and years ago to Frank Somers, but he broke off owing to some fracas about marriage settlements. Her solicitors, Mum & Budget, thought him grasping; but I forget the outs and ins."

"I knew her first when Charlie Bessborough, now Lord Aldine, was paying her great attention," said Mrs B. "He was on the verge of declaring himself when Mrs Candy spoilt all. She locked them into the conservatory the night of the Pelhams' dance, and lost the key. Charlie lost his temper-didn't propose. Mrs Candy had out-manœuvred herself, and Pipette suffered."

"But Mrs Candy's most unscientific stroke was played in the Ferrers affair," added Mrs Z.

cen

Marmaduke Ferrers had in truth loved the girl, and Pipette had given him her heart. No word had yet been spoken, but Captain Ferrers's whole being was tring round the thought of Pipette as a wife. She was not his ideal woman: her surroundings offended his taste. Many things in her manner, in her character, jarred upon his finer sense. But he loved her, and saw her adaptability and chameleon-like capacity for taking on the colour of her environment. He also believed in his own inherent power to raise her to and keep her at a higher level of culture and refinement than she had yet reached.

"We must go to town soon for the day, Pipette," said Mrs Candy; "I've got to be fitted by Mrs Bracegirdle. I shall drop you out at Marmaduke Ferrers's rooms, and be back in twenty minutes to lunch there. I'll send him a line to say we're coming."

The line was forgotten, but the two ladies started for town next

day. Pipette was set down at 9 Jermyn Street, while her cousin went on to Mrs Bracegirdle's. Captain Marmaduke Ferrers was at home, having just breakfasted. He saw Pipette enter with astonishment, deepening into annoyance. She attempted to explain, then grew defiant before his frigid manner. And when Mrs Candy entered breathless from the hands of her dressmaker an hour late, she found Marmaduke coldly supercilious and the girl half frightened, half indignant.

"I see you continue to worship at the shrine of the great god Hugger Mugger," he said, as he handed the ladies into their hansom.

"Oh! what have I done?" whispered Pipette, with sad beseeching eyes.

It's not what you have doneit is what you are," and he bowed with a chilling, sarcastic air.

Pipette saw no more of Marmaduke. His regiment was ordered to Canada, and Pipette herself went out to India to live with her half-brother, Richard Trenchard, fifteen years her senior. Mr Trenchard belonged to the uncovenanted Civil Service, and was full of the grievances of that longsuffering body. He was entirely departmental, and entwined from top to toe in blue tape (I think I am right in saying that the uncovenanted C. S. are not allowed to use red tape). He was a tall, pale, stiff man, without the faintest sense of humour, with an aggrieved tone in his voice as of one who had been sinned against past forgiveness. He had a way of turning his head and shoulders when addressed, as if he were carved out of one solid block of wood and had no pivot on which his neck could revolve.

Pipette became very popular at

Kalijigaum, which is a large civil and military station in the Deccan. She was invited everywhere, and often seemed on the verge of marriage, when suddenly her gourd would wither in a night-the desire of her eyes become the desire of other eyes. The blight of the fairy godmother came to blast all her buds of hope. Pipette was ever ready to flirt with the commander-in-chief; to drive with the collector's lonely wife-he had only one, but a great many people in India have more, it's only a question of pigment; and she was equally ready to sit up at night with the American missionary's sick baby, while the worn-out mother and ayah slept.

Pipette came very near marrying Major Fazakerly of the artillery very, very near. But he happened to overhear her mimicking his bad Hindustani to Captain Duftar, the Persian interpreter, and his vanity being greater than his love, swamped it, and Pipette was left lamenting.

Years rolled on, and her hair, which was of that wavy silvergold not often seen, showed more of the silver and less of the gold, and the slender figure was growing set and plump. But still Pipette looked young and débonnaire.

"The Muqaddam of Spins has gone, like Jephthah's daughter, to bewail her spinsterhood upon the mountains," wrote Mr Hoskins the judge to his wife at home. Pipette and her brother had gone up to the charming hill-station of Tundarāt to spend the hot weather.

"Richard, when I die you are to be sure to put 'Pipette, Muqaddam of Spins,' on my tombstone, and nothing else, mind," said Pipette one morning at breakfast.

"A woman of your age shouldn't talk nonsense,” replied Mr TrenchVOL. CXLIX.-NO. DCCCCV.

ard testily, turning his head and shoulders en masse towards Pipette, and looking out through her at the distant view. It was a way he had. He never looked at anybody, but always through or beyond. It was very aggravating, and made people long to pull his nose or his hair, or to strike him across the mouth with the back of the hand, or offer some other atrocious indignity. "A woman come to your years, I repeat, should not talk foolishly. I hope you and I have other and more useful things to think of than our tombstones." Then rising, he walked with his deliberate step and air of protest towards his office, which was at the end of the verandah, in a small detached bungalow.

"If my age is so prodigious, what must your own be, my good man!' laughed Pipette. Poor Pipette! she was feeling very sore at heart that day-for she had just heard that Marmaduke Ferrers was in Tundarāt on a month's leave. His regiment was in the Deccan, and he had come up to share The Hermitage with his friends the Oakleys. Rumour said he admired Kate Oakley a handsome gipsy - dark girl just fresh from home. Colonel Ferrers was now fifty, and his hyacinthine locks were beginning to thin on the temples and turn grey.

"It must be Panorama Point to-day," cried Kate. She was mounted on Hyder, a Cabul pony, and was waiting the escort of Colonel Ferrers for an afternoon ride. "Old Silver is game for the dizzy steep, isn't he?"

The colonel assented, not quite certain that old Silver's master was equally Marma"game." duke was feeling the effects of climate.

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"We shall have to go in Indian file most of the way, which is a position I shall find distinctly distinctly tantalising, with Miss Oakley for my companion," said he.

"Well, you must be content to follow the leader to-day;" and Kate set off at a smart pace on her sturdy cob, followed by the white charger.

Pipette, in riding gear, had caught from her verandah, which overlooked The Hermitage, the words "Panorama Point." Her heart was hot within her as she saw (herself unseen) the riders wind up the avenue, Colonel Ferrers's handsome face bent down over the saddle-bow towards the bright face of Kate Oakley. "I too will ride to Panorama Point," thought Pipette. "Kate shall learn from me how cold-blooded and cruel Marmaduke can be." Revenge is sweet even to a sweetnatured woman. Untrue; but said as a concession to Diogenes and other tubbers. And so Pipette rode forward on her little grey Arab, which was dear to her as a daughter.

The path to Panorama Point turns off abruptly from the main road at a corner where a clump of trees, overarching, form a kind of bower known as the "Chota Tope." The riders had passed this, just as Pipette came up, and saw to her dismay that Kate was heading the line of march, the colonel following. She had hoped to get directly behind the girl, and on some pretext or other to cause her to lag behind, thereby securing time and occasion to pour "the leprous distilment" into her ear. But her plan was balked. To follow and chance an opportunity for mischief, was all that remained to her, and so a third figure on horseback was seen rounding the corner that led on

to the perilous path. Panorama Point is only to be reached after an hour's riding at a very slow pace along what at first sight looks like the bare face of a precipice, but which nearer inspection shows to be a very narrow path. On one side there is a descent more or less abrupt of 1200 or 1500 feet into the gorge below; on the other a sloping acclivity dotted with Karinda bushes and a few trees: a road requiring a quiet hill-pony, strong nerves, and a steady head. Panorama Point is a huge spur of the mountain, and affords standing room for a goodly cavalcade when reached; but the access to it is not easy, and a ride to Panorama Point is regarded in the light of an adventure.

Kate, with her ghorawallah or groom at Hyder's head, was making her way at a rapid pace along the mountain-side, old Silver picking his steps gingerly behind, distrustful in some measure of the strait and narrow way; and a good many yards behind the colonel Pipette, her heart beating fast, and her little Arab stepping along in proud emulation of the charger's stride. On rode the three, and no word broke the stillness. Colonel Ferrers never turned his head, and Pipette did not know if he heard the sound of her horse's feet, for the wind was blowing in her face. Kate was now far ahead, and had disappeared from sight round a curve. Pipette looked across the long valley. Range after range of weird flat-topped masses of hill stretched away to a golden sea. A huge square mass of purple mountain, with a fantastic rock pepper-pot jutting out from its side, dominated the foreground. There was beauty, the beauty of "a land that is very far off," and it touched Pipette with a feeling of awe for the incomparable

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