G

POETS' HOMES.

BY THOMAS POWELL.

GEORGE HENRY LEWES.

EORGE HENRY LEWES, like his more illustrious contemporary, Robert Browning, has been so completely eclipsed in fame by his present wife, as to occupy, compared with her, a secondary position in the literary world; for, by the side of "Romola" and "The Mill of the Floss," even the most brilliant of Mr. Lewes's writings pale their intellectual fires. Nevertheless, Mr. Lewes has given to the world many works which entitle him to a distinguished place among the living authors of England, despite his besetting sin of flippancy, which, more or less, disfigures whatever he writes, whether it be a poem, play, novel, biography, or philosophical treatise.

This voluminous and versatile writer was born in Kensington, near London, on the 18th of April, 1817. After completing his rudimentary education, he was placed by his mother his father having died in his infancy

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under the care of Dr. Burney, who then conducted a classical academy in Greenwich; thence he was sent to Germany to finish his studies. He there became infected with those infidel notions which have silently sapped the manly earnestness of his nature. On his return to England, his moth- who was a very capricious and self-willed woman resolved to bring him up to a commercial life, and for that purpose procured for him a situation in the office of an eminent Russian merchant; but some doggerel verses he wrote upon the managing clerk, and which he had the temerity to wafer to that pompous official's desk, so provoked his employers, that he was summarily dismissed. His mother, who was possessed of some means, then apprenticed him to a doctor, intending that he should devote himself to the medical profession. But his dislike to the compounding of rhubarb and magnesia was only equalled by the repugnance all youthful patients feel to swallow those nauseous, but no doubt beneficial draughts. Abandoning, therefore, the study of Esculapius, he, in 1838, in utter defiance of his parent's injunctions, rushed to the more congenial pursuit of literature. For this his knowledge of French, German, Spanish, and Italian, added to his natural ability, eminently qualified him.

Having made the acquaintance of Mr. Robert Bell, then the editor of the London Atlas, he entered upon the drudgery of à lit

erary life with that rash and unreasoning enthusiasm which all young writers feel when they first mount their Pegasus.

His earliest articles were divided between the Atlas and the Morning Chronicle, and were distinguished for their great boldness of thought and utter disregard of the conventional prejudices of society. A firm believer in the German doctrine of elective affinities, he denounced marriage in the most unmeasured terms, and wrote some articles for the Westminster Review which staggered even the conductors of that free-thinking quarterly. His papers on the Spanish Drama, although disfigured by many glaring blunders, displayed so much freshness and power that they attracted general attention, and secured him a reputation which older and sounder critics have failed to achieve.

In 1844 he married Agnes Jervys, a very charming girl, the daughter of a wealthy and influential barrister. This gave him a standing in society which materially assisted him in his profession. From this lady he was afterwards divorced, having succeeded in utterly confusing her moral perceptions.

In 1847 he published his Life of Robespierre, in which, with his usual perversity, he depicted that sanguinary monster as one of the most amiable of men. His next efforts were Ranthorpe, and Rose, Blanche, and Violettwo novels, which failed to acquire popularity. He had previously published, in Knight's Shilling Library, a Biographical History of Philosophy, in which he made the amusing blunder of confounding Mount Olympus with Olympias, the mother of Alexander the Great. To these succeeded his Compte's Philosophy of the Sciences; then his dramas of the Noble Heart and the Game of Speculation, both of which were performed, but failed to retain possession of the stage. Soon afterwards he published the Life and Works of Goethe, considered by many as his best work.

In 1858 he issued his Seaside Studies, where the revising hand of his present wife, Miss Evans (George Eliot), is distinctly visible. The same may be said of his Physiology of Common Life, which abounds in unregarded facts brilliantly set forth.

He was also for some time the editor of the Leader, and the Fortnightly Review, besides contributing characteristic articles to the Edinburgh, Westminster, Foreign Quarterly, and Blackwood.

In person he is of medium height, with darkbrown hair and gray eyes. His face, which is much pitted with the small pox, is a very

THE MORALIST AND THE OUTCAST.

His manners are very genial, and his store of anecdote varied. He gives and receives a retort with unflinching good-nature, and never refuses to laugh, even though the joke turns against himself. He was one of the few who did not fear to provoke Douglas Jerrold, with whom he often bandied sarcasm, not unfrequently coming off the victor, to Jerrold's intense disgust. On one occasion, when the latter made some rude allusion to Lewes's pug nose and pock-marked face, he simply replied that "beauty was only skin deep," which drew from the merciless wit the retort, "That's true, Lewes, but ugliness like yours goes right through to the bone." Lewes patted Jerrold on the back, and said, "Very well for you, old cod's head and shoulders." This unmistakable allusion to his short neck and round shoulders was too much for the equanimity of the author of Caudle Lectures; so retorting, "This comes of playing with a monkey who has lost his tail," he took his hat, and left the club-room in great dudgeon. As Lewes had been advocating Monboddo's theory, that "man was only a monkey without its tail," the remark had some significance; but, as Jerrold had taken refuge in flight, it enabled Lewes to boast that he had driven him from the field of battle.

Dickens said of Lewes, that he was "a man of limited knowledge, but unlimited impudence." We ought to add, that Dickens's criticism was provoked by Lewes telling him, at his own table, in the presence of a large party of the great novelist's admirers, that "his dialogues and descriptions were very amusing, but that he did not know how to construct a story" a criticism which had more truth than politeness in it.

CARRIAGES do not appear to have been very plenty in the reign of Henry IV. of France assassinated in 1610. That monarch, in a letter to his minister, says he intended to have called on him, at a certain time, but could not, because the queen had gone out with the carriage.

THE Dutch are, as we all know, a thrifty people. Only a few years ago the actors on their theatres were generally tradesmen, who only quitted their aprons at the hour of representation.

THE

Johnson.

BY ERNEST TREVOR.

HE midnight voice of Old St. Paul's, With its twelve shocks of sound, Upon the ear of London falls Amid its waste profound, When England's sternest moralist Johnson, of learned tome, In that November's chilling mist Was walking to his home.

A gaping crowd his footsteps stayed;
He shouldered them aside,
And saw upon the pavement laid,
Pale Misery's tawdry bride.
He stood in pitying thought, one look
Gave to her faded charms,
Then stooping down, he gently took
The outcast in his arms.

And, with the guilty burden, he

Up Fleet Street slowly strode, Amid the crowd's rude ribaldry,

Straight to his own abode. He bore her up the creaking stair,

And placed her on his bed, Then left her to his nurse's care, While he sat up and read.

O, deed of gentle charity,

How sweet in angel's sight! Such had the Saviour done, had he

Trod London streets that night! And Scribes and Pharisees, ye herd Who ne'er will reach the skies, Unless ye heed His blessed word, "Go ye, and do likewise."

THE words meander and meandering are said to have been taken from the River Meander, near Ephesus, in Asia. It is a very crooked river. We call rivers or brooks that wind in and out meandering streams.

A SINGLE leaf of the Victoria Regina in the Botanical Garden at Ghent, we are told, floated two hundred and sixty-four pounds of bricks that were piled upon it.

STRIVE daily to purify your character, to make it as white and pure as new-fallen snow. It is a pity our character is not like our hair, which naturally grows white with age.'

SCENE. - A fashionable Parlor. MADGE and KATE, grotesquely attired in the extreme of the fashion, enter from opposite doors. Kate. (Wringing her hands.) O, Madge, what shall we do? Such dreadful disgrace! I never can survive it! To-day, of all days! Why couldn't it have been yesterday, or tomorrow? But no; the vengeful Fates pursue me with relentless fury, and this is their death-blow to all my hopes of happiness. It will drive me mad; I know it will. Why don't you say something to comfort me, Madge?

Madge. I was waiting for you to get through with your fine speech. Don't make a fool of yourself, Katrina. Haven't I told you that the languishing style is entirely out of date? Any one to see you sink under such trifles as this would think you had stepped right out of a three-volume novel of the last century, where the heroines are always in tears, hysterics, and faints. Those airs have had their day, I tell you. Force of character is the mode now. Heroics, instead of hysterics the Ida Lewis and Rosa Bonheur style. The fashion now is to make circumstances yield to you, instead of weakly yielding to circum

stances.

Kate. O, dear, Madge, how you do scold! You fairly take my breath away with your horrid strong-minded talk.

when

Kate. Aren't you ashamed, Madge? You know he danced twice with me. And now, when everything depends upon the first impression, and our dresses are elegant, and the parlors superb, who should come down upon us, with big trunk, little trunk, bandbox, carpet-bag, and bundles innumerable, but aunt Sally Scott, the most countryfied, outlandish, and unmanageable of all our relations; and, as if that was not enough to ruin all our hopes, she must bring with her another old woman, ten times as outlandish as she; and you know what aunt Sally is: we can't keep her out of the parlor; and Patty wouldn't let us if we could; and what will Tom Grandison think? Everything so depends upon first impressions. I will run away.

Madge. Pooh! what good will that do? You are right about first impressions. If he had been here before, he wouldn't mind; but I don't think he ever would come again, after seeing two such parlor ornaments. But don't give up so. Let's examine our resources. We can write him a note: an unexpected accident has called us away, and it will not be convenient

Madge. Then we can be not at home, and apologize afterwards.

Kate. How unpoetical you are, Madge! Well, then, this is the state of the case: Thomas Grandison, whom we met at the ball last night, the profound scholar, the travelled gentleman, the millionnaire, the — Madge. The interesting bachelor

Kate. Don't interrupt. This Thomas Grandison begged the privilege of paying his com

Kate. That will seem rude.

Madge. Get Patty to entertain them in the farther recess of the room - that will give us a better chance, for I saw him talking with Patty last night.

Kate. O, Patty has no style whatever. Well, you must manage some way. I shall forget all the poetry I intended to quote to him, if I hear their powerful voices talking of

cows and oxen.

Madge. O, I can manage it somehow. If we can't get rid of them, we can explain the situation to Grandison, and appeal to his

(Aside.) You must get them out of the parlor before Mr. Grandi

son comes.

Mrs. G. Sakes ter gracious! Take a nap in the daytime! I haven't done sich a thing sence I was a nussin' baby.

and the old ladies.

Aunt Sally. (In a loud tone.) Gals don't amount to nothin' nowadays. They don't know no more abaout makin' butter an' raisin' hogs than a cat. Here's Patty; she'd be somethin', if she had half a chance; but I've knit stockin's for them air gals (KATE and MADGE) sence they was twelve year old, an' now they're tryin' to git inter consumption a wearin' cotton ones; an' if they was my gals, I would box their ears an' tie 'em to the bedpost for a doin' of it, I would. My gals had to milk caows, an' churn, an' spin, an' scrub floors, an' feed the pigs, they did.

Patty. What good old times those were! I wish I had been brought up so, and could feel as strong, and robust, and hearty as aunt Nancy.

Mrs. Grimes. Times is changed, an' I think it's jest as well to have book larnin' ez to spin and weave, Sally. I hope, dear, that I ain't a puttin' nobody out stayin' here. You see I knowed as how Ben's folks had moved; but I sez to Mary, sez I, I'll take 'em by surprise, an' go to the store an' see where they live; an' I never thought as how it was a holiday, and the store shet up. So Sally, sez she, come right up with me and stay till to-morrer; but if it's any put-out, I leeveser go to the tarvern.

Aunt S. Law sakes! Betsey, don't you worry. "Tain't a bit of put-out to nobody. Patty. O, indeed, we are very glad you I am delighted to see an old friend of aunt Sally's.

came.

Mrs. G. I feel in a hurry to get home again, for Zekiel an' Mary can't get along without me!

the ban'box.

Patty. I'll get it, and mine too. Don't you remember when you taught me to knit, aunt Sally?

Mrs. G. I keeps my knittin' handy, in my pocket.

Patty. How nice! We'll have a knittingbee- won't we? and knit the alphabet and measure yarn. O, girls, don't you wish you could knit?

Kate. (Aside.) There's only one chance left. Dear Mrs. Grimes, let me move your chair to the window; the light is so poor here you cannot see to knit. Patty, take aunt Sally's chair to the window.

Aunt Sally. Gracious goodness! Catharine, don't you have no massy on my rheumatiz? I shan't stir a loop till supper-time.

Mrs. G. Law sakes, child, I never wants ter see ter knit, bless yer. I can knit with my eyes shet.

(KATE gives a look of despair, and PATTY sits down with the old ladies and knits. They measure yarn. Servant announces MR. GRANDISON. He enters and approaches PATTY, with an eager gesture, but is intercepted by Kate and MADGE.)

Kate. (Very airily.) How kind of you to remember us! Do sit here.

Mr. Grandison. A lovely day. I have been riding, and half hoped to meet you.

Kate. We were walking in the Public Garden. It was so delicious. Such a profusion of flowers! It reminded me of those exquisite lines by Longfellow:

66

Queen rose of the rosebud-garden of girls,
Come hither; the dances are done;

In gloss of satin and shimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one."

Kate. O, do tell us who it was that gave you such beautiful thoughts.

Grandison. Her name was Scott. Kate. (Greatly confused.) O, Mr. Grandison! How can you! Do you like Byron? No? I dote on him. How can Mrs. Stowe be so naughty to him? Don't you remember, Madge, I repeated those lines of his to you in our walk this morning?—

"Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine,
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom,
Where the citron and olive—"

Aunt Sally. (Very loud.) I declare ter gracious, Patty has beat!

Kate. O, me!

Grandison. Will not your sister come out from her retreat, and let me speak with her. Madge. Don't mind Patty; she's in disgrace. I would introduce you to our eccentric relative from the country, but she has offended us dreadfully to-day. She delights in vexing us. I suppose most people of wealth have their oddities.

Madge. I don't know as you will be able to understand her backwoods gibberish, it is so barbarous.

Grandison. I was in the woods once myself. Madge. Patty encourages the old creature, I fear. Aunt Scott, this is Mr Grandison. (GRANDISON shakes hands heartily with PATTY, holding her hand in his.) He will help your friend to find her relatives.

Grandison. (Aside to PATTY.) What have I done to deserve such indifference? You haven't once looked at me.

Patty. I thought you were well entertained, and here were other guests.

Grandison. Cruel girl!

Grandison. Command my services to the utmost, ladies.

--

Kate. How kind! Such a relief! Madge. Then I will tell you, in confidence, | that aunt Sarah has picked up a travelling acquaintance in the cars - that vulgar, uncouth old crone, with a voice like a steam engine and hands like a farmer's, and has actually invited her here to spend the night. Kate. Do you wonder we are dreadfully offended at her for forcing upon us such an unwelcome guest?

Grandison. I wonder that you will bear such an annoyance!

Madge. She pretends to have friends in the city whom she can find to-morrow; but for our part, we do not feel safe while she is in the house.

Grandison. Quite unsafe.

Madge. Katrine and I have decided to watch the house to-night with loaded pistols. Kate. O-o!

Grandison. Let me suggest an alternative. I will ascertain the whereabouts of her friends in town, and send a coach for her.

Kate. Delightful! Who but Mr. Grandison would have thought of it? How can we ever thank you enough? We are so greatly obliged to you!

Grandison. I am most happy to be of service. Let me inquire of your aged and unwelcome visitor who are these friends of hers.

Sally, mustaches and all! Why, Tommy!

Grandison. A most delightful surprise, grandmother. (Great consternation expressed by MADGE and KATE; the latter half fainting, MADGE fanning her.)

Madge. His grandmother! and I called her a vulgar old crone! O, I shall sink!

Mrs. G. Now du tell, Tommy, if you come here a-courtin' them gals! Ah, Tommy, you're a sly rogue! (Tapping his cheek.) But I rather it was Patty you come to see. They're nice gals, mebbe; but Patty's got a good, kind heart.

Grandison. (Stage whisper.) It is Patty I came to see, but they didn't give me a chance.

Kate. (Aside.) Madge, did you hear? It's that Patty, after all. O, I shall die!

Grandison. Come, grandmother, get on your bonnet and let's go home. - (To MADGE and KATE.) I am only too happy, ladies, to relieve you of your unwelcome guest.

Patty. Don't carry her off so, Mr. Grandison. We were having such a nice time! Aunt S. O, lor! we'll come over and see you, Betsey.

Grandison. I shall come and take you home to-morrow afternoon.

Mrs. G. (Confidentially to PATTY.) He says he wants to bring you home ter keep, bime by.

Patty. (Reprovingly.) O, Mrs. Grimes! Grandison. It's the living truth, Patty Scott. [Curtain falls.