The ladies said nothing. In the afternoon Sir Gabriel was out again, and Miss Danesdale and Miss Dunlop yawned in company until dinnertime, when they and their mankind all met together for the first time that day. They were scarcely seated when Sir Gabriel said: "It's odd, Randulf, that you should have been asking so many questions last night about old John Aglionby and those girls. There does seem to be a latality about these things sometimes." "As how?" inquired his son. "Old John is dead. He had an apoplectic fit last night, and died at noon to-day. I met the doctor while I was out this afternoon, and he told me. It gave me a great shock, I must confess. Aglionby, of Scar Foot, was a name so inseparably connected with this dale, and with every remembrance of my life that has anything to do with the dale, that it is difficult to realize that now he must be a remembrance himself, and nothing more." CHAPTER XIII." THE FIRST CONCERT OF THE "THE first concert of the season, Bernard, and you mustn't miss it. Really, for the life of me, I can't tell what you hear in those awfully classical concerts. Isn't it 'classical' that they call them? I've been to some of them. I like watching the swells come in, and I daresay it's very amusing for them, who go regularly to the same places, to meet all their friends, and that sort of thing; but there I'm done. Those concerts send me to sleep, or else they make my head ache. It's nothing but a bang-banging and a squeak-squeaking, without any tune to go by in it. I can't tell what you hear in them." It was Miss Vane who thus addressed her swain "Yes, indeed, it is very strange. And he on the Wednesday evening after he had told her leaves no one to take his name." "He is sure to have made a proviso that those girls shall take the name of Aglionby. I cannot grasp it somehow; that there will be Conisbroughs at Scar Foot-and women !" about his meeting with his grandfather. He held his hat in his hand and listened to her smilingly, but without any signs of relinquishing his purpose. "Perhaps you don't, my love. I hear a great "Do you visit them, Philippa?" asked Ran- deal in them. To-night I shall hear Madame dulf, turning to his sister. "We exchange calls occasionally, and we always ask them to our parties in winter, but they have never been to one of them. Of course I must go and call upon Mrs. Conisbrough at the proper time." "I'm not sorry the poor girls will have better times at last," observed Sir Gabriel, on whom the Occurrence seemed to have fallen almost as a blow. "And, after all, he was seventy-two and over. When I get to that age, boy, you will be thinking it about time for me to clear out." Randulf smiled, and drawled out, "Perhaps I may, sir," but his eyes met those of his father. The old man and the young man understood each other well already. Sir Gabriel Danesdale slept that night with the secure consciousness that if he lived to be a hundred his son would never wish him away. "Ah, there's a deal in family affection," he reflected. "If Aglionby had only been a little more lenient to that poor lad of his, the winter of his life might have had more sun in it and less Trebelli sing 'Che farò senza Eurydice?' which is enough to last any fellow for a week, and make him thrill whenever he thinks of it. Likewise, I shall hear Beethoven's symphony, No. 5, which—” "Oh, those horrid long symphonies. I know them. I can no more make head or tail of them than I can of your books about ethics or agnostics, or something sticks. But go, go; and I hope you may enjoy it. I like a play or a comic opera, for my part. Promise you'll take me to 'Madame Angot' the next time it comes, and I'll be good." "To Madame Angot' you shall go if I am here and able to take you," he rejoined, his eyes smiling darkly beneath the brim of his hat. "You won't be gone to bed when I get back," he said. "It won't be late; and we can have half an hour's chat; just half an hour." Well, if you're not too late," said Miss Vane graciously. Bernard promised and vowed to return very early, and then went off to enjoy his one piece of genuine, unadulterated luxury and extravagance his shilling's worth of uncomfortable standingroom in the "body of the hall," which shilling'sworth, while the great singers sang, and the great orchestral masterpieces were performed in a style almost peculiar to Irkford, of all English townsrepresented to him a whole realm of riches and glory, royal in its splendor. He secured a good place, just behind the last of the reserved seats, which were filled with a brilliant-looking audience. From the moment in which the well-known leader came on and received his rounds of welcome and applause, to the last strain of the last composition, he was all ear and all delight. It was certainly a feast that night for those who care for such feasts. There was a delicious "Anacreon" overture, full of Cherubini's quaintest thoughts; and there was the great cantatrice sing ing in her most superb style. "Che farò," though, came in the second part of the performance. Before it was the Fifth Symphony. Bernard, drinking in the sounds, remembered the old tale of how some one asked the composer what he meant by those four portentous and thrilling chords which open the symphony, and how he replied, "Thus fate knocks at the door." "Se non è vero è ben trovato," thought our hero, smiling to himself. "A fate that knocked in that way would be a fate worth opening to, whether good or bad. But one usually hears a more commonplace kind of tap at the door than that." He listened with heart and soul to the grand scena from " Orpheus." The cadence rang in his When it was over, he slipped out, not caring to spoil the effect of it by listening to anything more. As he marched home, his pulses were beating fast. The strains of "Eurydice" rang in his ears. But the opening chords of the symphony struggled with them and overcame them. "Thus fate knocks at the door," he repeated to himself many times, and in a low voice hummed the notes. "Thus fate knocks at the door," he muttered, laughing a little to himself, as he inserted his latch-key, and opened the door of No. 13 Crane street. He found Lizzie in the parlor, seated on a stool in the very middle of the hearth-rug, and gazing upward at a brown envelope which she had stuck on the mantelpiece, in front of the clock. "Bernard," she said, "there's a telegram for you." She scarcely turned her delicate fair face toward him as she spoke. "It came almost the minute you'd gone, and I'm fairly dying to know what it can be about." He was very much surprised to see it himself, but did not say so, taking it as if nothing could have been more natural than for it to come. "Why, it's addressed to the warehouse," he remarked. "How did it get here?" "That boy, Robert Stansfield, from the warehouse, brought it. He said it came just as he was leaving, and he thought you might like to have it. I believe that boy would die, or do anything for you, Bernard," she added, watching him as he opened and read the message without a muscle of his face changing. "James Whaley, solicitor, Yoresett, to Bernard Aglionby, 15 Fence street, Irkford.-Your grandfather died suddenly this morning, and your presence here is indispensable. Come to-morrow by the train leaving Irkford at 2.15, and I will meet you at Hawes, and explain.' "What a long one, Bernard! What is it all about?" "A stupid thing which will oblige me to set off on a business journey to-morrow," he said, frowning a little, speaking quite calmly, but feeling his heart leaping wildly. Was it fate that knocked at the door? or was it "but a bootless bene"? Why did he not tell her, or read her the telegram? It was chiefly because of their conversation on Monday night last. It was because he knew what she would say if she heard the news, and because, rough and abrupt though he was, he simply could not endure to hear her comments upon that news, nor to listen to the wild and extravagant hopes which she would build upon it, and which she would not hesitate to express. He would have laughed loud and long, if any one had told him that his sense of delicacy, and of the fitness of things, was finer and more discriminating than that of Miss Vane, but it was a fact that it was so. Meantime, wild and rapid speculations and wonders crowded into his own mind. He tried hard to see things in what he called a "sensible" light. He told himself that it was utterly impossible that his grandfather could have done any thing to his will, which in any way affected him. There had not been time for it. He would have to go to Hawes, and hear what they wanted him for-possibly to attend the funeral-a ceremony with which he would rather have dispensed. Then, when he knew how much he, with his slender salary, was to be out of pocket by the whole affair, he would come back and reveal the news to Lizzie, thus forever putting out of her head all hopes or aspirations connected with old Mr. Aglionby and his money. She was quite satisfied with his explanation; though she girded at him and teased him and disagreed with him, he had the power of making her do exactly as he chose when he chose, and of making her see things as he desired to see them. But he could only do it by means of fear-intimidation, and he knew it, and rarely indeed chose to exert that power. He thrust the telegram into his pocket, and, consulting a little railway guide, found that the train mentioned by Mr. Whaley was the only one during the day by which his journey could be accomplished in reasonable time. The earlier ones were slow, and necessitated so many waitings and changings that he would arrive no sooner. In the morning he took his leave of Lizzie, saying he could not give her his address now, as he did not know where he should be that night, but he would write as soon as possible. Lizzie was very sweet and amiable; she hung about him affection- | ately, and held up her face to be kissed, and he thought what an angel she was, what a guileless, trusting angel, to confide herself to the keeping of a rough-hewn, cross-grained carle like him. Again his heart fluttered as he gave a flying glance toward the possibility that Mr. Whaley of Yoresett might have some solid reason for summoning him thus suddenly to his grandfather's house. If there were any such reason he kissed Lizzie's sweet face with a strange passion of regretful love and tenderness. "Good-bye, my own sweetheart!" he said again. "Good-bye, Bernard dear; and be sure you let me know when you're coming home." On his way to town he stopped at a post-office, to send off a telegram to Mr. Whaley, promising to be at Hawes at the time mentioned. And then he went on to the warehouse and asked for leave of absence with a cool hardihood which sorely tried the temper and dignity of Mr. Jenkinson, and at 2.15 set off on his journey with an unknown object-his journey which might be the beginning of a new life or merely the seal affixed to the relentless obduracy of one train of circumstances for which he was in no way responsible. It was in the bitter, sarcastic nature of the man to contemplate the latter possibility as being the more probable one. (To be continued.) THACKERAY AS A POET. IT has come to be believed that there is one language for poetry and another for prose, and indeed it is seldom that one and the same man attains to excellence as a poet and a prose writer. The diction of a certain modern school of poetry has, to use their own favorite though singular metaphor, "a coloring" which is both unnatural and monotonous, and which would not for a single moment be tolerated in prose. Against this tendency, however, a healthy reaction has set in. The writers of vers de société choose no subjects which are out of the reach of ordinary men, and no language but what is readily understood, and for this very reason their intrinsic excellence is frequently overlooked. and emotions under a calm exterior, which cannot, however, entirely prevent our moods from being seen, so these unconsidered trifles have some real feeling just visible beneath the surface. Their great charm, in fact, is that, while they are written in ordinary language, they convey a soupçon of extraordinary thought and pathos. Such productions reveal themselves in their full force only to the sympathetic reader, whilst to many they remain merely superficial. But for their rhythm, such compositions appear at first sight to be little more than prose, and yet they possess a vein of the truest poetry. Praed's sparkling wit and finished satire are already highly valued, and he has been rightly termed the father of the school As in society we endeavor to hide our feelings of poetry. Father Prout's humorous songs, Cal verly's inimitable odes, and Locker's elegant lyrics are good examples of the merits of vers de société. It has been said that poetry is above and beyond all rules and reason. If this be true and sublimity be taken as the test of poetical excellence, Thackeray, we fear, cannot be considered a poet. There is in his poetry nothing but what is within the comprehension of all who are susceptible to the touch of humor and the tear of pathos. He deals only with familiar feelings and affections. But if poetry is "a criticism of life and the greatness of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life, to the question how to live," to Thackeray must be assigned a high place among the poets of the century. His theme is life as it is. His verses teach no new philosophy, they only depict in pure coloring and true outline the objects and feelings which are around and within us as we live our daily lives. They may seem to be the spontaneous overflow of unstudied fancy, but most of them are in reality the result of deep thought. The exact position of these writers has to be determined. They combine in their poetry the essential features of the lyric and the ballad. Their verses are an expression in ordinary language of the ordinary feelings of humanity. They perhaps go farther than this, and present to us human nature as it is, and that side of human nature with which we are most familiar. There is a peculiar charm in light lyrical and ballad "Ballad," says a critic, "is a word frequently used as synonymous with song, but it properly denotes an historical song, or a song containing a narrative of adventures or exploits, either serious or comic." The numerous old English and Scotch ballads extant vividly represent the babits and thought which existed in remote times. The modern ballad in like manner verse. preserves a record of our own; but the artificial needs of our advanced refinement are not supplied "by a short chronicle in verse of a well-defined transaction," as the ballad has been aptly called. Among the writers of the present century are many whose lyrics and ballads will ever be remembered, and with the foremost of these we may place Thackeray himself. Vivid description and smooth rhythm are the characteristics of his poetry; depth and simplicity of thought are united with ease and elegance of style. Like his prose, it is both grave and gay, tender and humorous. Imagination is not its predominant feature; but satire, playfulness, and tenderness are abundant. "The Ballad of Bouillabaisse" might serve as a model of these qualities. Its writer shows here the wonderful attachment he felt for old things, old places, and old faces. It is also a good example of Thackeray's inimitable versatility, and we can read it now with the light of his life's story upon the page. "But who could doubt the 'Bouillabaisse'?'' says Mr. Trollope (whose recent life of Thackeray in English Men of Letters' is a valuable contribution to contemporary literature). "Who else could have written that? Who at the same moment could have gone so deep into the regrets of life, with words so appropriate to its jollities? I do not know how far my readers will agree with me that to read it always must be a fresh pleasure. . . . If there be one whom it does not please, he will like nothing that Thackeray ever wrote in verse." Take for example: "There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! In this same place—but not alone. Thackeray's humor is infectious because of his own thorough sympathy with human nature. It is not cynical, but smiles through tears. Of this quality, and of his rare dexterity of language, "The White Squall" is a good instance. This ballad was written in 1844, after his visit to Turkey and Egypt, and it appeared in his "Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo": "On deck, beneath the awning, I dozing lay and yawning; I heard the cabin snoring With universal nose. I could hear the passengers snorting, The pleasure of a doze!" Again, there is a touch true to nature in the closing lines: "And when, its force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea, I thought, as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling, and making A prayer at home for me." We may read Thackeray's poetry again and again, and wish there was more of it, and though it is not, of course, to be understood that it is all of equal merit, yet most of it is very good. No better example of his style can be given than "The Cane Bottom'd Chair." It is natural and flowing, and affords glimpses of greater power and breadth of thought than appear on the surface: “In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, Writ on the parchment of a drum." It was composed at Paris, at the time of the second funeral of Napoleon. The picture here given of the French nation is very true to life: the drummer tells the story of the wars of France through which he and his ancestors have drummed. Through the whole there runs a deep undercurrent of love of his country, whether it be under a monarchy, a republic, or an empire. Seldom, perhaps, has anything been depicted in a more realistic manner than the graphic portrait of Mère Guillotine" contained in this ballad: 46 "Young virgins with fair golden tresses, And dainty she grew in her progress, She called for the blood of our king, Have plotted a godless alliance; I'll fling them the head of King Louis,' * * * * * * And so I have valued my chair ever since, I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain; I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread; To joke, with sorrow aching in his head; And make your laughter while his own heart bled." |