66 66 that whenever, in his early letters, and before being himself victimised by the toe-consuming tyrant, he refers to a case of gout among kinsfolk or friends, he seems to take for granted that intemperate indulgence is, necessarily, at the bottom of the mischief. Pray what luxurious debauch has Mr. Chute been guilty of, that he is laid up with the gout ?”* "Mr. Chute [three years later] is out of town; when he returns, I shall set him upon your brother [laid up with the gout in his ankle] to reduce him to abstinence and health." But one dark November morning in 1755, Horace Walpole wakes up and finds himself-gouty. "Never was poor invulnerable immortality so soon brought to shame. Alack! I have had the gout! I would fain have persuaded myself that it was a sprain; and then, that it was only the gout come to look for Mr. Chute at Strawberry Hill: but none of my evasions will do." Again in 1760, to the Earl of Strafford: "In short, my Lord, I have got the goutyes, the gout in earnest. I was seized on Monday morning, suffered dismally all night, am now wrapped in flannels like the picture of a Morocco ambassador, and am carried to bed by two servants. You see virtue and leanness are no preservatives." Nobody," he tells Conway, "would believe me six years ago when I said I had the gout. They would do leanness and temperance honours to which they have not the least claim." And to Montagu he writes: "If either my father or my mother had had it, I should not dislike it so much. I am herald enough to approve it if it descended genealogically; but it is an absolute upstart in me, and what is more provoking, I had trusted to my great abstinence for keeping me from it: but thus it is, if I had any gentlemanlike virtue, as patriotism or loyalty, I might have got something by them; I had nothing but that beggarly virtue, temperance, and she had not interest enough to keep me from a fit of the gout." Two years later, to the same friend: "It is very hard, when you can plunge over head and ears in Irish claret, and not have even your heel vulnerable by the gout, that such a Pythagorean as I am should yet be subject to it." To Gray the poet-another "martyr," and even unto death-he writes in 1765: "You have tapped a dangerous topic; I can talk gout by the hour. It is my great mortification, and has disappointed all the hopes that I had built on temperance and hardiness."-But we must not be doing, what Walpole only said he could do,-talk gout by the hour. Else might this mingle-mangle expand into further Half-hours with the Best Authors in easy-chair and slit shoe. If apology be needed for it, even at its present length, let us submit one in a hope that some gouty subject may have found diversion, and therefore relief, in dipping into these patchwork pages, on a topic he is too familiar withal, and may even now have at his fingers' ends. "Comfort me, boy," saith the fantastic Don in Shakspeare, to that enfant terrible, master Moth; "what great men have been in love?" Our readings here and there may be taken as a fractional answer (at any rate an answer that comes out in fractions) to the slippered sufferer's appeal, Comfort me, scribbler; what great men have had the gout? For, as Cowper's last stanzas bear record, -Misery still delights to trace To Sir Horace Mann, 1746. To the same, 1749. To R. Bentley, 1755. 271 GREAT AND LITTLE WHITTON. I. A RUSTIC congregation was pouring out of a rustic church, one Sunday afternoon, St. Mary's, situated in the hamlet of Little Whitton. Great Whitton, some three miles off, was altogether a different affair, for the parish, there, was more aristocratic than rustic, and the living was worth nine hundred a year: Little Whitton brought its incumbent in but two hundred, all told. The livings were both in the gift of the Earl of Avon the incumbent of Great Whitton was a gouty old man on his last legs; the incumbent of Little Whitton was an attractive man scarcely thirty, the Reverend Ryle Baumgarten. Therefore, little wonder need be expressed if some of the Great Whitton families ignored their old rector, who had lost his teeth, and could not by any effort be heard, and came to hear the eloquent Mr. Baumgarten. A small, open carriage, the horses driven by a boy, jockey fashion, waited at the church door. The boy was in a crimson jacket and a velvet cap, the postilion livery of an aristocratic family. The sweeping seat behind was low and convenient, without doors; therefore, when two ladies emerged from the church, they stepped into it unassisted. The one looked about fifty years of age and walked lame, the other was a young lady of exceeding fairness, blue eyes, and somewhat haughty features. The boy touched his horses, and drove on. "He surpassed himself to-day, Grace," began the elder. I think he did, mamma." "But it is a long way to come-for me. I can't venture out in all weathers. If we had him at Great Whitton, now, I could hear him every Sunday." "Well, mamma, there's nothing more easy than to have him-as I have said more than once," observed the younger, bending down to adjust something in the carriage, that her sudden heightening of colour might pass unnoticed. "It is impossible that Mr. Chester should last long, and you could get Henry to give him the living." "Grace, you talk like a child. Valuable livings are not given away so easily neither are men without connexions inducted to them. I never heard that young Baumgarten had any connexion, not as much as a mother, even: he does not speak of his family. No; the most sensible plan would be for Mr. Chester to turn off that muff of a curate, and take on Baumgarten in his stead." The young lady threw back her head. "Rectors don't give up their preferments to subside into curates, mamma." "Unless it is made well worth their while," returned the elder, in a matter-of-fact tone: "and old Chester ought to make it worth his." “Mamma!”—when they were about a mile on the road-" we never called to inquire after Mrs. Dane!" "I did not think of doing so." "I did. I shall go back again. James!" The boy, without slackening his speed, half turned on his horse. "My lady?" "When you come to the corner, drive down the lane and go back to the cottage." He touched his cap and looked forward again, and Lady Grace sank back in the carriage. "You might have consulted me first, Grace," grumbled the Countess of Avon. "And why do you choose the long way, all round by the lane?" "The lane is shady, mamma, and the afternoon sunny: to prolong our drive will do you good." Lady Grace laughed as she spoke, and it would have taken one, deeper in penetration than the Countess of Avon had ever been, to divine that all had been done with a preconcerted plan: that when Lady Grace drove from the church door, she had fully intended to proceed part of the way home, and then come back again. We must notice another of the congregation, one who had left the church subsequently to the countess and her daughter, but by a different door. It was a young lady of two or three-and-twenty; she had less beauty than Lady Grace, but a far sweeter countenance. She crossed the churchyard, and opening one of its gates, found herself in a narrow sheltered walk, running through Whitton Wood. It was the nearest way to her home, Whitton Cottage. A few paces within it, she stood against a tree, turned and waited: her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, and her hand was laid upon her beating heart. Who was she expecting? that it was one, all too dear to her, the signs but too truly betrayed. The ear of love is strangely fine, and she, Edith Dane, bent hers to listen with the first sound of approaching footsteps, she walked hurriedly on. Would she be caught waiting for him? No, no: rather would she sink into the earth, than betray aught of the deep love that ran through her veins for the Reverend Ryle Baumgarten. : It was Mr. Baumgarten who was following her: he sometimes chose the near way home, too: a tall, graceful man, with pale, classic features, and large brown eyes, set deeply. He strode on, and overtook Miss Dane. "How fast you are walking, Edith!" She turned her head with the prettiest air of surprise possible, her face overspread with love's rosy flush. "Oh-is it you, Mr. Baumgarten? I was walking fast to get home to poor mamma." Nevertheless, it did happen that their pace slackened considerably: in fact, they scarcely advanced at all, but sauntered along side by side. "They have been taking me to task," began Mr. Baumgarten. "Who? What about?" "About the duties of the parish; secular, not clerical: I take care that the latter shall be efficiently performed. The old women are not coddled, the younger ones' households not sufficiently looked up, and the school, in the point of plain sewing, is running to rack and ruin. Squire Wells and his wife, with half a dozen more, carpeted me in the vestry this morning after service, to tell me this." Mr. Baumgarten had been speaking in a half joking way, his beautiful eyes alive with merriment. Miss Dane received the news more seriously. "You never said anything of this at home! you never told mamma." "No. Why should I? The school sewing is the worst grievance. Dame Giles's Betsy took some cloth with her, which ought to have gone back a shirt, but which was returned a pair of pillow-cases: the dame boxed Betsy's ears, went to the school and nearly boxed the governess's. Such mistakes are always occurring, and the matrons of the parish are up in arms. "But do they expect you to look after the sewing of the school?" breathlessly asked Edith. "Not exactly; but they think I might provide a remedy-one who would." "How stupid they are! I'm sure the governess does what she can with such a tribe. Not that I think she has much headpiece, and were there any lady who would supervise occasionally, it might be better; but "That is just it," interrupted Mr. Baumgarten, laughing. "They tell me I ought to help her to a supervisor, by taking to myself a wife." He looked at Edith as he spoke, and her face happened to be turned full upon him. The words dyed it with a glowing crimson, even to the roots of her hair. In her confusion, she knew not whether to keep it as it was, or to turn it away; her eyelids had dropped, glowing also: and Edith Dane could have boxed her own ears as heartily as Dame Giles had boxed the unhappy Miss Betsy's. "It cannot be thought of, you know, Edith.” "What cannot ?" "My marrying. Marry on two hundred a year, and expose my wife, and perhaps a family, to poverty and privation? No, that I never will." "There's the parsonage must be put in repair if you marry," stammered Edith, not in the least knowing what she said, but compelling herself to say something. "And a sight of money it would take to do it. I told Squire Wells if he could get my tithes increased to double their present value, then I might venture. He laughed and replied I might look out for a wife who had ten thousand pounds." "They are not so plentiful," murmured Edith Dane. "Not for me," returned Mr. Baumgarten. "A college chum of mine, never dreaming to aspire to anything better than I possess now, married a rich young widow in the second year of his curacy, and lives on the fat of the land, in pomp and luxury. I would not have done it." "Why ?" "Because no love went with it: even before his marriage he allowed himself to speak of her to me in disparaging terms. No: the school and the other difficulties, which are out of my line, must do as they can, yet a while." "If mamma were not incapacitated, she would still see after these things for you." And your time is taken up with her, so that you "But she is, Edith. cannot help me." Miss Dane was silent. Had her time not been taken up, she fancied it might not be deemed quite the thing, in their censorious neighbourhood, for her to be going about in conjunction with Mr. Baumgarten; although she was the late rector's daughter. The Reverend Cyras Dane had been many years rector of Little Whitton at his death, Mr. Baumgarten was appointed. Mrs. Dane was left with a very slender provision, and Mr. Baumgarten took up his residence with her, paying a certain sum for his board. It was a comfortable arrangement for the young clergyman, and it was a help to Mrs. Dane. The rectory was in a state of dilapidation, and would take more money to put it in habitable repair than Mr. Dane had possessed; so, previous to his death, he had moved out of it to Whitton Cottage. Gossips said that Mr. Baumgarten could have it put in order and come upon the widow for the cost: but he did not appear to have any intention of doing so. Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still! Is human love the growth of human will? A deal happier for many of us if it were the growth of human will, or under its control. In too many instances it is born of association, of companionship; and thus had it been at Whitton Cottage. Thrown together in daily intercourse, an attachment had sprung up between the young rector and Edith Dane: a concealed attachment, for he considered his circumstances barred his marriage, and she hid her feelings as a matter of course. He was an ambitious man, a proud man, though perhaps not quite conscious of it; and to encounter the expenses of a family upon small means, appeared to him more to be shunned than any adverse fate on earth. Arrived at the end of the sheltered walk, they turned in to Whitton Cottage, which was close by. Mr. Baumgarten went on at once to his study, but Edith, at the sound of wheels, lingered in the garden. The Countess of Avon's carriage drew up. It was Lady Grace who spoke, her eyes running in all directious while she did so, as if they were in search of some object not in view. "Edith, we could not go home without driving round to ask after your mamma." "Thank you, Lady Grace. Mamma is in little pain to-day: I think her breath is generally better in hot weather. Will you walk in ?" "Couldn't think of it, my dear," spoke up the countess. "Our dinner is waiting, as it is. Grace forgot to order James round till we were half way home." Has Mr. Baumgarten got home yet ?" carelessly spoke Lady Grace, adjusting the lace of her summer mantle. "He is in his study, I fancy," replied Edith, and she turned round to hide the blush called up by the question, just as Mr. Baumgarten approached them. At his appearance the blush in Lady Grace's face rose high as Edith's. "You surpassed yourself to-day," cried the countess, as he shook hands. T |