It must also be considered that a long line of a certain magnitude always offers a greater variety of pause than a short line; and this alone would determine me in favour of Chapman's line of fourteen syllables rather than Walter Scott's octo-syllabic couplet, varied as that unquestionably was by the easy play of his strong and graceful genius. Chapman's measure has, besides, the immense advantage, already mentioned, of corresponding generally, line for line, to the original; for, though a constant mechanical observance of any such rule will never be tolerated by a man of real genius, it is unquestionable that the choice of a line of corresponding compass is the only sure safeguard against the great temptation to which a translator is always exposed of unduly condensing, or immoderately expanding, his materials. Of both offences Pope and Chapman afford abundant examples: Pope, because his verse forced it upon him; Chapman, because he did not handle the ballad measure as a ballad measure in any sense, and, though he uses rhyme, never seems in the least solicitous that the couplet, the natural product of rhyme, should strike the ear of the reader. On the contrary, he continually breaks up his rhymed verse by the freely-varied pauses which belong to blank verse: and this is one cause of the great want of musical flow which characterizes his work. But though, on the whole, I think the old verse of Chapman, handled with a real ballad feeling, and at the same time with dignity, is the most convenient medium for presenting the real old Homer to English readers, I see no reason why other measures of the same class should not succeed in the hands of a master. Professor Aytoun, in Blackwood's Magazine, for 1839, favoured us with a book of Homer in the measure of Locksley Hall; and there seems no reason why what was done successfully with one book might not be done with the whole poem. Certainly the Trochaic measure possesses both rapidity and dignity; it is not so common as the Iambic, and, therefore, more majestic, not only in its native movement but in the accidental

associations of the English ear. Nevertheless there can be no doubt of the philological fact, that Iambic is the natural rhythm of the English language, and the rhythm which has been used with the greatest success by all our great poets. There is no English poem that I know of any length written in Trochaic verse, except Hiawatha. The man who writes Iambic verse in English always follows more the natural movement of the language, and, with a moderate amount of genius, is more sure of success. Lord Byron, who was a great genius, but, at the same time, a thorough Englishman, almost always wrote Iambic verse, wrote Iambic verse, and generally rhymed.

A single word, in conclusion, on English hexameters. I regard them as excluded from the present question from the one plain, practical consideration, that English versions of Latin and Greek poems are not made for the curious amusement of academical ears, but for the entertainment and instruction of the unlearned. A translator is not in a position to dictate to the popular ear, and to attempt to mould it to the movement of any foreign rhythm to which he, in the course of his private studies, may have attuned his organ. Whatever be the virtue of English hexameters, they are, in English poetry, a great and a daring innovation; and, so far as they have been tried yet, have found nine gainsayers for one approver. But, if they would succeed, they must be tried under the auspices of some great, original genius. Even in erudite and cosmopolitan Germany they never could have succeeded as a recognised form of classical translation, had not Klopstock first, and then Goethe, added the stamp of native authority to the importation. But, besides this, it may be proved scientifically that English hexameters naturally have not, and never can have, to the English ear, that μεγαλοπρεπής, οι weighty majesty, which the ancient critics recognised in the sounding march of Homeric and Virgilian verse. In fact, an ancient hexameter was really, according to musical laws, a march; ours is

opposition electors, till lately insignificant, rise suddenly into importance, and the possible new members are suddenly great men. So, when a mere country gentleman dies, the head of a great family dies, relations are changed entirely between some score or so of per

sons.

The dog of to-day is not the dog of yesterday. Servants are agitated, and remember themselves of old impertinences, and tremble. Farmers wonder what the new Squire's first move will be. Perhaps, even the old hound wonders whether he is to keep his old place by the fire or no, and younger brothers bite their nails and wonder too about many things.

Charles wondered profoundly in his own room that afternoon, whither he retired after having dismissed Mary at her door with a kiss. In spite of his grief he wondered what was coming, and tried to persuade himself that he didn't care. From this state of mind he was aroused by William, who told him that Lord Segur was going and Lord Saltire with him, and that the latter wanted to speak to him.

Lord Saltire had his foot on the step of the carriage. "Charles, my dear boy," he said, "the moment things are settled come to me at Segur Castle. Lord Segur wants you to come and stay there while I am there."

Lord Segur from the carriage hoped Charles would come and see them at

once.

"And mind, you know," said Lord Saltire, "that you don't do anything without consulting me. Let the little bird pack off to Lady Ascot's and help to blow up the grooms. Don't let her stay moping here. Now, good-bye, my dear boy. I shall see you in a day

or so.

And so the old man was gone. And, as Charles watched the carriage, he saw the sleek grey head thrust from the window and the great white hand waved to him. He never forgot that glimpse of the grey head and the white hand, and he never will.

A servant came up to him, and asked him, Would he see Mr. Ravenshoe in the

library? Charles answered yes, but was in no hurry to go. So he stood a little longer on the terrace, watching the bright sea, and the gulls, and the distant island. Then he turned into the darkened house again, and walked slowly towards the library door.

Some one else stood in the passage-it was William, with his hand on the handle of the door.

"I waited for you, Master Charles," he said; "they have sent for me too. Now you will hear something to your advantage."

"I care not," said Charles, and they went in.

Once, in lands far away, there was a sailor lad, a good-humoured, goodlooking, thoughtless fellow, who lived alongside of me, and with whom I was always joking. We had a great liking for one another. I left him at the shaft's mouth at two o'clock one summer's day, roaring with laughter at a story I had told him; and at half-past five I was helping to wind up the shattered corpse, which when alive had borne his name. A flake of gravel had come down from the roof of the drive and killed him, and his laughing and story-telling were over for ever. How terrible these true stories are! Why do I tell this one? Because, whenever I think of this poor lad's death, I find myself not thinking of the ghastly thing that came swinging up out of the darkness into the summer air, but of the poor fellow as he was the morning before. I try to think how he looked, as leaning against the windlass, with the forest behind and the mountains beyond, and if, in word or look, he gave any sign of his coming fate before he went gaily down into his tomb.

So it was with Charles Ravenshoe. He remembers part of the scene that followed perfectly well; but he tries more than all to recall how Cuthbert looked, and how Mackworth looked before the terrible words were spoken. After it was all over he remembers, he tells me, every trifling incident well. But his memory is a little gone about the first few minutes which elapsed after

1

he and William came into the room. He says that Cuthbert was sitting at the table very pale, with his hand clasped on the table before him, looking steadily at him without expression on his face; and that Mackworth leant against the chimney-piece, and looked keenly and curiously at him.

Charles went up silently and kissed his brother on the forehead. Cuthbert neither moved nor spoke. Charles greeted Mackworth civilly, and then leant against the chimney-piece by the side of him, and said what a glorious day it was. William stood at a little distance, looking uneasily from one to another.

Cuthbert broke silence. "I sent for you," he said.

"I am glad to come to you, Cuthbert, though I think you sent for me on business, which I am not very well up to to-day."

"On business," said Cuthbert; "business which must be gone through with to-day, though I expect it will kill me."

Charles, by some instinct (who knows what? it was nothing reasonable, he says) moved rapidly towards William, and laid his hand on his shoulder. I take it, that it arose from that curious gregarious feeling that men have in times of terror. He could not have done better than to move towards his truest friend, whatever it was.

"I should like to prepare you for what is to come," continued Cuthbert, speaking calmly, with the most curious distinctness; "but that would be useless. The blow would be equally severe whether you expect it or not. You two who stand there were nursed at the same breast. That groom, on whose shoulder you have your hand now, is my

real brother. You are no relation to me; you are the son of the faithful old servant whom we buried to-day with my father."

Charles said, Ho! like a great sigh. William put his arm round him, and, raising his finger, and looking into his face with his calm honest eyes, said with a smile,

"This was it, then. We know it all now."

Charles burst out into a wild laugh, and said, "Father Mackworth, ace of trumps! He has inherited a talent for melodrama from his blessed mother. Stop. I beg you pardon, sir, for saying that; I said it in a hurry. It was blackguardly. Let's have the proofs of this, and all that sort of thing, and witnesses too, if you please. Father Mackworth, there have been such things as prosecutions for conspiracy. I have Lord Saltire and Lord Ascot at my back. You have made a desperate cast, sir. My astonishment is that you have allowed your hatred for me to outrun your discretion so far. This matter will cost some money before it is settled."

Father Mackworth smiled, and Charles passed him and rang the bell. Then he went back to William and took his

arm.

"Fetch the Fathers Tiernay here immediately," said Charles to the servant who answered the bell.

In a few minutes the worthy priests were in the room. The group was not altered. Father Mackworth still leant against the mantelpiece, Charles and William stood together, and Cuthbert sat pale and calm with his hands clasped together.

Father Tiernay looked at the disturbed group and became uneasy. "Would it not be better to defer the settlement of any family disagreements to another day? On such a solemn occasion-"

"The ice is broken, Father Tiernay," said Charles. "Cuthbert, tell him what you have told me."

Cuthbert, clasping his hands together, did so, in a low, quiet voice.

"There," said Charles, turning to Father Tiernay, "what do you think of that?"

"I am so astounded and shocked that I don't know what to say," said Father Tiernay; "your mind must be abused, my dear sir. The likeness between yourself and Mr. Charles is so great that I cannot believe it. Mackworth, what have you to say to this?"