When I revived, it was to find myself in a state of physical prostration as great as if I had just been recovering from a severe illness. The nervous restlessness from which I had suffered in the early part of the night had completely disappeared. It seemed that I had exhausted my powers of endurance, and my capacity for receiving violent mental impressions. I could only lie still and try, in a feeble groping way, to renew my hold upon the familiar every-day life which had become so distant and indistinct. I endeavoured to remember the incidents that had preceded my arrival at the villa; but I could only do so in a confused wandering style, without sequence or coherency. Mr. Leese the house-agent got mixed up with the cabman, and both receded into some indefinite past, the duration of which it was impossible to calculate. And all the time I was thus trying to rearrange the history of the day, I was sensible of a shadowy horror in the background of my thoughts, which I knew, evade it as I might, I should be obliged to face by and by. That dreadful remembrance, I was conscious, would force itself upon me with returning physical strength, without any effort of mine to rouse it. Let it sleep now, like a coiled serpent; there were hours enough of depression in store in the future to be darkened by its malignant influence. Should I ever forget it? I could not help asking myself, even in my almost imbecile state of prostration. Would it be always, as it was now, a lurking horror, crouching for a spring when its victim was most helpless?

I must have sat for a long time in this state of mental suspension; for when I gained energy enough to take active note of external things, I found the candles burnt out, and the fire a black mass, with some faint red sparks here and there. My first act of vitality was to seize the brandy-bottle, and take a draught of raw spirit such as would have completely stupefied me under ordinary circumstances. As it was, it produced such an immediate effect, in my weak state, that I could just stagger to the sofa, where I fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

It was broad daylight when I wakened again, and found a singular-looking old woman standing by the side of my improvised couch. We stared at each other, with much bewilderment on my side, and apparently much solemn relish on hers, for several minutes. She was the first to break the awkward silence, by remarking in a husky tone, Lor' a-mussy!' Then I sat up, and became aware that I had a very active collection of steam-hammers at work in my head. This indisposed me for conversation, especially with an old woman who seemed to breathe gin, and I lay down again. She wheezed interrogatively, and did not appear to have any intention of going away. I turned towards her, and she repeated the exclamation or observation before quoted. 'What do you want?' I asked at last, feeling under an obligation to say something. This simple

6

question confused her so much, that she could only wheeze louder than ever, and rub her hands aimlessly with a very dirty duster. 'I suppose you are the person who takes care of the house?' I added, with the benevolent design of assisting her comprehension. Yes, sir; Mrs. Panting, sir, as Mr. Leese allus 'as engaged, me bein', as 'e says, trustworthy, with the 'ighest of characters, as was wrote out most beautiful by Mr. Leese's young man; an' I 'ope, sir, if you've took the 'ouse, as your good lady'll keep me on, sir, bein' easy satisfied, with a pore appetite, through bein' a widow, sir, with a small fambly, as allus did the charin' and washin' for pore Mr. Steel, and giv' the 'ighest satisfaction.' I had collapsed at first, under this sudden shower-bath of information; but the name of Steel roused me, and I determined to extract what information Mrs. Panting possessed about the family. She possessed a great deal, as it proved, and no doubt invented whatever was necessary to fill-up the gaps in her knowledge; but in its broad outlines the story was probable enough.

Miss Steel's was one of those histories, commonplace in appearance to the outside spectator, the external features of which may be summed-up in a few lines, while an internal analysis would fill volumes. Mrs. Panting's amplified, decorated, and very discursive history may be told in a few words. Laura Steel had conceived a violent and unreasoning passion for a man who was utterly and hopelessly unworthy of the slightest public notice from any woman who valued her reputation. There had been a clandestine correspondence, and a regular series of stolen meetings, before her father discovered the state of affairs. Then came a sickening struggle for supremacy between the father and daughter: she bold, defiant, and reckless; he mad with passionate rage and the bare possibility of social disgrace. There was a short and deceitful truce, but it was only the sullen calm that precedes the fury of the storm. It came to a sudden end one day, for he had been searching among her papers during her absence, and found a certificate of marriage dated about seven months before. There was a terrible scene when she returned home at night; a scene which even imaginative Mrs. Panting trembled at the mere recollection of. He cast his daughter off with such frightful imprecations as raving demons might have uttered, and swore a horrible oath of hatred even beyond the grave. A few days after, she died in giving birth to a still-born child. The terrible passion of the old man was too much for his enfeebled frame; and he too succumbed soon after to an attack of paralysis, which, though it deprived him of speech, could not quench the hatred that burned in his eyes to the last.

When Mrs. Panting had finished her story, she exhibited as corroborative evidence a manuscript volume, much burned on the outside, which she had picked up from under the grate the morning

after the tragedy. As she could not read, however, she had no idea. how irresistible that corroboration was. It was Miss Steel's diary, or at any rate all that was left of it. A more appalling production, for a woman's hand, I never met before, and devoutly hope never to meet again.

How is it that the worst women, if they have the power of expression, are always the most eager to make a morbid analysis of their wickedness on paper? Let philosophers answer, if they can. Miss Steel's diary was not one of incident; about her personal surroundings she wrote little beyond the facts that her mother had died while she was an infant, and that she had never loved her father. The sentiment,' as she considered it, of filial affection was the subject of her most caustic sarcasms. Her father, on the other hand, had reciprocated her indifference most thoroughly, and thus she had grown in a state of complete isolation. An intelligence so acute and observant that it only wanted a touch of human sympathy to produce the fruits of genius, had been perverted by indiscriminate and unwholesome reading into a field for the growth of the wildest and most unhealthy fancies. No question was too high, or too low, or too sacred for the effrontery of her amazing speculations. Themes that mankind have been accustomed to approach with reverent awe were treated with revolting flippancy, as almost unworthy of serious thought. But it was when she had passed under the dominion of a new passion that all the distorted strength of her character was put forth. It was simply raving, with few intervals of lucidity; and I was compelled to give up the task of reading it from sheer inability to bear the painful feeling of mental irritation it produced. I need only add, that I felt it a duty to superintend carefully the process of reducing it by fire to a harmless pile of feathery ashes.

Human nature, even nervous human nature, will bear a great deal, we know; and I must have got over the effects of my night's experience to some extent when I could feel a sort of grim satisfaction in despatching the following telegram to Mrs. Withers at Llanfairfechan: 'Don't come. Laburnum Villa won't do.'

THE LOVES OF FAMOUS MEN

BY PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A.

AUTHOR OF BELLA DONNA,' 'DIANA GAY,' ETC.

No. IV. Edward Gibbon.

ONCE rummaging those pleasant boxes of old books which line the quais of Paris opposite the Academy, and which certainly offer the best returns for any careless digging, and down towards the Quai Conti, where Yorick bought his gloves from the famous grisette, the writer of these papers came on a little morocco-bound almanac interleaved. It had belonged to some royalist family, and was full of interesting addresses, such as that of Target the lawyer and others. Among them, however, was one of special interest-that of Mademoiselle Curchod, then living close to Geneva. The name of this young lady—an obscure Swiss parson's daughter-gave the little book all its interest. For she was to become celebrated-first, as the early love of Edward Gibbon, when he was merely a clever young man travelling, or pursuing diligently his studies for the great book which was to make him famous; later, as the wife of a real statesman, Necker; presently, on account of her own brilliancy, accomplishments, and sterling virtues, the faithful admiring wife and clever writer; and lastly, as the mother of a daughter far more famous the restless, half-manly, and brilliant observer, Madame de Staël. These are substantial claims to notice. Yet she belongs to a class of characters who are not at all conspicuous, and whose name, rather than life, is familiar to the popular mind. But by a careful reader and student they are considered with extraordinary respect, on the grounds of weight and of worth; and the eye that follows the strange chaos of the Revolution, and the frenzy which seemed to sweep away all honour and principle, settles with satisfaction on this image of a true woman-calm, firm, gentle, beloved by all who had the happiness of knowing her. It is to be regretted that, like other remarkable ladies of her day, she did not leave detailed memoirs of her life; for her history would have been a perfect

romance.

The figure of Gibbon is very familiar to us from the black profile usually found at the beginning of his collected works. The testimony of foreigners as well as of Englishmen, both, contemptuously enough, prove its accuracy. To corroborate it farther, there is the well-known story of the blind French old lady and Charles Fox's

coarse lines, neither of which testimonies could be well produced here. Yet this great man was a lover-a lover when he was old as well as when he was young. The style of his letters was always pedantic and like a page of his History, and the result proved that he was not what is called a successful lover.

The story of his early life is well known; his conversion to the Catholic religion, and his expatriation by his father to Switzerland, to be placed under the care of a divine there, who was to reconvert him. Change of scene, and perhaps an absence of sincerity, made the task not difficult; and the tutor was soon able to report that grace and conviction had done their work. How successful that labour had been, a famous chapter in his History was presently to show; but these were times when infidelity was held to be harmless compared with what were thought the superstitions of Rome.'

He was established at Lausanne, read a great deal, saw not a few remarkable people, and being known as an Anglais of fortune' -crowds of whom were then overrunning Europe under the charge of 'bear-leaders,' a subject which Sterne was to choose presently for a sermon-was taken much notice of. His extraordinary information and studiousness was another recommendation. Not very far away there was a little village up in the mountains that separated the Pays de Vaud from Burgundy, and there a humble clergyman looked after a more humble flock. The learned convert, who soon made his acquaintance, could praise his gifts in a phrase that reads very much like a note out of his Roman History. His profession did not extinguish the philosophy and moderation of his temper;' a strange sort of compliment, pleasantly in keeping with the satiric vein of this profound writer. The clergyman's wife was a French lady, to whom the young student was more gallant, saying that she had preferred her religion to her country-having, in short, been obliged to quit France through the severity of the penal laws. But this pair had a daughter Susanne. She seems to have been a charming person; and her later career showed that the young man at that time was at least as well able to judge of human character in real life as he was when he had to decide on its old incom

plete manifestation in books. She used occasionally to pay a short visit to her friends, and come across the mountains to Lausanne; and she left behind her every mouth filled with the praises of the wit, beauty, and erudition of the clergyman's daughter. Young Mr. Gibbon soon heard of this prodigy, and became curious to see her. He was presently introduced, and was quite captivated by her.

Not many years later a Frenchman-Suard-met Mr. Gibbon, and described him in rather a malignant fashion. Leaving a margin for ill-nature, it must be accepted as tolerably accurate. 'The root of Mr. Gibbon's nose seems to be sunk deeper into his forehead than ever Calmuck's was; and the shapeless trunk of his body, with