opium. Serious as must be the loss of revenue from such a course, we shall have ultimately to adopt it. From the evidence of English officials it is obvious that half-measures will not meet this evil, and that an entire prohibition of the sale of opium is the only course that will save portions of Burmah from ruin.

I

SORROWS OF AN INFANT BOOK-COLLECTOR.

AM disposed to supply the reader with an instance of the sorrows that may befall a juvenile collector. At a very early age I was bitten with the mania-pace Mr. Ruskin-of book-collecting, and my boyish funds were hoarded up for the purchase of Carews, Withers, and Sucklings, and the poets generally to whom Leigh Hunt introduced me in his delicious "Imagination and Fancy." At that period I had the good fortune, or what at first seemed such, to come across a volume of portentous thickness, containing three works which in these editions may claim to be among the rarest in the English language. These were the "Canterbury Tales" of Chaucer, the "Confessio Amantis" of Gower, and the "Troy Book," or, as it is often called, the "Fall of Princes"-I now, at a distance of close on forty years, forget which-of Lydgate. The printers of the three works were respectively Caxton, Wynkyn de Worde, and Pynson. Five pounds was the sum demanded for the volume by the bookseller, who, without knowing its value, held it to be rare, and asked what he thought a stiff price for it. Home I rushed to obtain the money. Alas! my efforts were vain. a book was regarded by all to whom I could appeal as simple madness. My juvenile erudition-slight enough, but adequate to tell me the occasion was one not likely to recur-was laughed at and contemned. In the manufacturing districts, indeed, in which I dwelt, a purchase such as I proposed seemed at that time an unheard-of extravagance. Maternal aid, which had enabled me to accomplish many a less important acquisition, could not meet the present emergency, and reluctantly and sorrowfully I was compelled to let the occasion pass. So far as I remember now of this book, it was not quite perfect works of this class rarely are. Each work had, however, the title. The value of the book then to be purchased for five pounds would now be at least five hundred. To this day I feel a pang as I think of the chance that came in my way to mock me. No great interest, except for the collector, has this juvenile "tragedy," but the story is absolutely true.

To give five pounds for

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

SEPTEMBER 1881.

THE COMET OF A SEASON.

ONE

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IMPULSE ON BOTH SIDES.

NE effect produced upon Clement by late events was an unac countable chill in his feelings towards Montana. It was not anything so definite as actual distrust. He had not thought the matter out in any way, or asked himself anything as to the nature of the change in his feelings. But the change was there, present always, and filling him with a certain pain. He was unwilling to see Montana. He shrank from speaking to him. He would, if possible, have avoided thinking of him. Perhaps this may have come merely from the unlucky accident by which he had been prevented from being with Mr. Varlowe to the last, and of which Montana was the innocent cause. But, whatever its source, the feeling in Clement's mind was there. He no longer thought with eagerness of Montana's great scheme. He shrank from the idea of taking part in it, or of allying his fortunes in any way with Montana's leadership. Sometimes he felt that this was ungrateful and unworthy on his part, and he tried to put away the thought or to stifle it, but it would come back again.

In the old days, when men believed in ghosts, it sometimes happened that one was dimly, darkly conscious of the presence of some spectral visitant in the room with him. He saw nothing, he heard nothing out of the common, but the air was chill with the mysterious unseen presence ; and as darkness looks with its hundred eyes, so this VOL. CCLI. NO. 1809.

S

invisible companionship made its presence palpable by its myriad touches. Somewhat in the same way a phantom had arisen between Clement Hope and Montana. Unseen, its presence was felt. Voiceless, it bade Clement stand apart from Montana.

The

Clement was very busy for some few days. He threw an unresting energy now into all he had to do; it relieved him from grief, and indeed energy belonged to his nature, long as it had been suppressed. There were many matters of business to arrange in consequence of Mr. Varlowe's death. There were two wills made by Mr. Varlowe, one of several years' standing, with the contents of which Clement was familiar. It left everything to him, in the event of the missing son not reappearing; if the son should reappear, it divided the property equally between Clement and him. The second will, made shortly before Varlowe's death, left the whole to Clement unconditionally. The property, in houses and in money, was very considerable. Clement would be a comparatively rich man should the son not reappear; even should the son come back and the division take place, he would still have more money than he wanted or cared for. He was resolved that he would not lead an idle life any more. one thing that had tried and troubled him during the life of his benefactor was the way in which he had to live-striving for nothing, accomplishing nothing. Until lately he had hoped to devote himself to Montana's scheme and Montana's service; now he no longer felt any inclination that way. But Montana had shown him a path to tread. Why should he not found a new colony for himself, on smaller proportions, indeed, and a much more modest principle than Montana's vast enterprise, but a new colony, where striving, high-hearted men and women, now borne down by the cruel conditions of life in great cities, should breathe free fresh air, and earn a happy living by energy and combination? The idea grew more and more fascinating as Clement turned it over day and night. That way, he felt, his inclinations, his capacity, and his ambition lay. There was nothing else left in our modern civilisation for one who had a real longing to do great work which should satisfy his own energy and serve his fellows. The scheme had an alluring savour of romance and of heroism about it. It was nobler than mere exploring. It was far more poetic than the writing of poor verses. It was more generous in its scope than any effort of beneficence here at home could be; its results, if it succeeded, would be more abiding than any work of art Clement was ever likely to give to the world. It would enable him to repay to many men and women all the unspeakable kindness his benefactor had lavished so long upon him. "The money isn't mine in any

sense," Clement kept saying to himself; "if I took it for myself, it would be only accepting alms in another form. I'll earn it by making it of use to others; and I'll make the giver's name live for ever in the grateful memory of men and women." For he was resolved that the little Eden he proposed to found should perpetuate Mr. Varlowe's name. In the United States, as Clement knew, there were thriving settlements called after all manner of private individuals utterly unknown to the world before. Why should not his new colony be called "Varlowe "?

"They shall remember me here and say I have done well," he thought again and again, with pride and melancholy pleasure.

Who were to remember him? The Marions? Well, he should like them to remember him with kindness; but it was not the thought of their kind remembrance that made his eyes light and his voice tremble. Melissa? Alas, no! He only felt ashamed of himself now when he recalled his foolish, unreal fancy for poor Melissa. He knew only too well that that was not love at all. He knew it now by positive experience. Now, indeed, he felt what genuine love was; and mingling with every thought, selfish or unselfish, which rose up in his mind as he planned his new Utopia, was the belief that Geraldine would approve of what he was doing. He longed for the mere pride and delight of telling her what he meant to do, even while it was only yet a thought or a dream. At least, she would believe it a generous thought; her soft kindly eyes would smile approval of his dream, and encourage him to make it a reality. Was there a faint distant hope that she might one day come to think well of him-so well that she might even care for him? Even in his own heart he hardly put it so boldly as to think of her loving him.

At least, he would go and see her. No one else should know of his plan and his dreams until they had been made known to her. Full of these thoughts, lifted by them out of himself, he went to see Geraldine. He had not heard anything of what had been happening in Captain Marion's house since he last was there; he knew nothing of the inquiries that were going on in the north, or of poor Melissa's flight.

Meanwhile, Melissa's escapade was not taken in London exactly as people took it in the town from which she came. In London, hardly anybody knew anything about it, and of the small minority who knew anything, a still smaller minority took the slightest interest in the matter. But in Melissa's own town it was, as she had predicted, a public talk and scandal. It proved utterly impossible to keep it from the knowledge of everybody. Not more than an

hour or two had she been missing when Marion's reassuring tele gram came to Mr. Aquitaine, and yet, in that time, inquiry enough had been made and alarm enough manifested to set the town in a sort of commotion. Soon there came the testimony of the man in the art gallery and the testimony of the porter at the station, and then it turned out that a great number of persons had seen Melissa and recognised her, and wondered where she was going, although, oddly enough, they had never said anything about it till the supposed scandal of the story came out. At last, there were so many rivals for the honour of having seen, and noticed, and suspected, and guessed all about her and her flight, that it would almost seem as if every man, woman, and child in the whole place had followed, watched, and studiously recorded every movement of the daughter of the great house of Aquitaine on that day, and was well aware of what she was doing, where she was going, and why she was leaving her home.

Mrs. Aquitaine took the matter calmly and sweetly. It did not strike her as anything very remarkable. It was silly of the girl to have gone making an afternoon call on a strange gentleman, she thought, and especially foolish to go flurrying up to London on a hot day in that kind of way; but, beyond that, Mrs. Aquitaine was not impressed. She would have received Melissa composedly, and been as sweet and kind and languidly contented as ever. Mr. Aquitaine took the affair differently. Out of his very affection for the girl and his tenderness to her, and his sudden disappointment and anger, there grew for the time a strange harshness in him.

He wrote to Captain Marion a quiet, cold letter, in which he absolutely declined to go for his daughter, or to see her, or to have anything to do with her for the present. "She has made herself the heroine of a scandal," he wrote, "and until that scandal is forgotten, if it ever is, I don't want to see her here. You are so kind, that I can ask you to take charge of her for the present; and in London nobody knows anything or cares any thing about the name of Aquitaine. I will take her abroad after a while, when I have thought over what is best to do, but for the present I shall not see her."

This was a relief to Melissa. She had dreaded a scene-her father coming up and upbraiding her, and trying to take her home again. She was now quietly miserable. She avoided as much as possible seeing anyone. She did not often come down to dinner with the rest of the family. When she did she was silent, or spoke aggressively by fits and starts.

Geraldine was very attentive to her, and tried as much as possible not to leave her alone. Captain Marion, of course, was always