and had crawled down through it, with knees and elbows, as he would down a chimney, there was another grass slope, and another step, and so on, till-oh, dear me! I wish it was all over; and so did he. And yet he thought he could throw a stone into the old woman's garden. At last he came to a bank of beautiful shrubs; white beam with its great silver-backed leaves, and mountain ash and oak; and below them cliff and crag, cliff and crag, with great beds of crown ferns and wood sedge; while through the shrubs he could see the stream sparkling, and hear it murmur on the white pebbles. He did not know that it was three hundred feet below. You would have been giddy, perhaps, at looking down; but Tom was not. He was a brave little chimney sweep; and when he found himself on the top of a high cliff, instead of sitting down and crying for his baba (though he never had any baba to cry for), he said "Ah, this will just suit me!" though he was very tired; and down he went, by stock and stone, sedge and ledge, bush and rush, as if he had been born a jolly little black ape, with four hands instead of two. (From The Water Babies.) MARTIN LIGHTFOOT MARTIN LIGHTFOOT looked up with a cunning smile. "A man can always know his master's secrets if he likes. But that is no reason a master should know a man's." “Thou shalt tell me thine, man, or I shall ride off and leave thee." more. Not so easy, my lord. Martin Lightfoot can follow. I never told to living man. "Thou read and write?" "Ay, good Latin enough, and French, and Irish too, what is And now, because I love you and because you I will serve, willy nilly, I will tell you all the secrets I have, as long as my breath lasts, for my tongue is rather stiff after that long story about the bell-wether. I was born in Ireland, in Waterford town. My mother was an English slave, one of those that Earl Godwin's wife-not this one that is now, Gyda, but the old one-used to sell out of England by the score, tied together with ropes, boys Where that heavy horse can go, But I will tell you one secret, which I can read and write like any clerk." and girls from Bristol town. Her master, my father that was (I shall know him again), got tired of her, and wanted to give her away to one of his kernes. She would not have that; so he hung her up hand and foot, and beat her that she died. There was an abbey hard by, and the Church laid on him a penance—all that they dared get out of him—that he should give me to the monks, being then a seven years' boy. Well, I grew up in that abbey; they taught me my fa fa mi fa; but I liked better conning ballads and hearing stories of ghosts and enchanters, such as I used to tell you. I'll tell you plenty more whenever you're tired. Then they made me work, and that I never could abide at all. Then they beat me every day, and that I could abide still less; but always I stuck to my book, for one thing I saw-that learning is power, my lord; and that the reason why the monks are masters of the land is, they are scholars, and you fighting men are none. Then I fell in love (as young blood will) with an Irish lass, when I was full seventeen years old; and when they found out that, they held me down on the floor and beat me till I was well-nigh dead. They put me in prison for a month; and between bread and water and darkness I went nigh foolish. They let me out, thinking I could do no more harm to man or lass; and when I found out how profitable folly was, foolish I remained, at least as foolish as seemed good to me. But one night I got into the abbey church, stole therefrom that which I have with me now, and which shall serve you and me in good stead yet-out and away aboard a ship among the buscarles, and off into the Norway sea. But after a voyage or two, so it befel, I was wrecked in the Wash by Botulfston Deeps, and begging my way inland, met with your father, and took service with him, as I have taken service now with you." "Now, what has made thee take service with me?" "Because you are you." "Give me none of thy parables and dark sayings, but speak out like a man. What canst see in me that thou shouldst share an outlaw's fortune with me?" "I had run away from a monastery; so had you. I hated the monks; so did you. I liked to tell stories-since I found good to shut my mouth I tell them to myself all day long, sometimes all night too. When I found out you liked to hear them, I loved you all the more. Then they told me not to speak to you; I held my tongue. I bided my time. I knew you would be outlawed some day. I knew you would turn Viking and kemperyman and kill giants and enchanters, and win yourself honour and glory; and I knew I should have my share in it. I knew you would need me some day; and you need me now, and here I am; and if you try to cut me down with your sword, I will dodge you, and follow you, and dodge you again, till I force you to let me be your man. I never loved you as I do now. You let me take that letter safe, like a true hero. You let yourself be outlawed, like a true hero. You made up your mind to see the world, like a true hero. You are the master for me, and with you I will live and die. And now I can talk no more." "And with me thou shalt live and die," said Hereward, pulling up his horse, and frankly holding out his hand to his new friend. Martin Lightfoot took his hand, kissed it, licked it almost, as a dog would have done. "I am your man," he said, “amen; and true man I will prove to you, if you will prove true to me." And he dropped quietly back behind Hereward's horse, as if the business of his life was settled, and his mind utterly at rest. "There is one more likeness between us,” said Hereward, after a few minutes' thought. "If I have robbed a church, thou hast robbed one too. What is this precious spoil which is to serve me and thee in such mighty stead?” Martin drew from inside his shirt and under his waistband a small battle-axe, and handed it up to Hereward. It was a tool the like of which in shape Hereward had seldom seen, and never its equal in beauty. The handle was some fifteen inches long, made of thick strips of black whalebone, curiously bound with silver, and butted with narwhal ivory. This handle was evidently the work of some cunning Norseman of old. But who had been the maker of the blade? It was some eight inches long with a sharp edge on one side, a sharp crooked pick on the other of the finest steel, inlaid with strange characters in gold, the work probably of some Circassian, Tartar, or Persian; such a battleaxe as Rustum or Tohrab may have wielded in fight upon the banks of Oxus; one of those magic weapons, brought, men knew not how, out of the magic East, which were hereditary in many a Norse family, and sung of in many a Norse saga. "Look at it," said Martin Lightfoot. "There is magic in it. It must bring us luck. Whoever holds that must kill his man. It will pick a lock of steel. It will crack a mail corselet as a nuthatch cracks a nut. It will hew a lance in two at a single blow. Devils and spirits forged it-I know that; Virgilius the Enchanter, perhaps, or Solomon the Great, or whosever's name is on it, graven there in letters of gold. no-do not handle it too much. Handle it, feel its balance; but make you kill me. Whenever I play with it I long to kill a man. It would be so easy-so easy. Give it me back, my lord, give it me back, lest the devil come through the handle into your palm, and possess you." (From Hereward the Wake.) GEORGE ELIOT [Marian Evans, who assumed the non de plume of George Eliot, was born in Warwickshire in 1819. After much varied literary work, she wrote the Scenes of Clerical Life, her first work of fiction, in 1857 and 1858. This was followed in 1859 by Adam Bede, which placed her in the first rank of writers of fiction of the day. The Mill on the Floss was published in 1860; and Silas Marner in 1861. Romola, a work of an entirely different class, appeared in 1863; Felix Holt in 1866; and her two poetical works, The Spanish Gypsy and the Legend of Jubal in 1868 and 1869. Her later works, Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, were completed in 1872 and 1876. died 22nd December 1880.] She THE time has scarcely yet arrived when an estimate can be formed of the permanent position of George Eliot in literature. Perhaps during her lifetime there was a tendency to rate her genius too high; but it may equally be true that the reaction has been too strong, and that her fame has in recent years suffered from undue disparagement. This at least seems indisputable, that early in her literary career she attained to an excellence of work which she never surpassed, and from which her later works present a distinct retrogression. The recognition of this fact need not imply any desire to derogate from her genius; but it is undoubtedly a misfortune for her as an author that she should have so far wandered from the sphere in which her special genius did its best work, and should have entered upon other regions in which that genius worked with less freedom. This is not the place to discuss her literary work, except in relation to its qualities of style; but the same process which, in the judgment of many, injuriously affected her work on the whole, did exercise its most baneful effect in the special sphere of style. The work of George Eliot which first arrested attention and compelled admiration were the Scenes of Clerical Life. There the quality most conspicuous is the intensity of emotion, the concentration of tragic feeling within the sphere of commonplace |