and glorious truth; but those who provide for the literary sustenance of the people are not justified in placing before them one pure, unadulterated grain of wholesome life-giving principle, and a mass of crude opinion and rhodomontade that is as effervescing in its character as it is pretentious. I know that a very little absolute truth goes a great way; that it is per se indestructible; a germ of life eternal that will, sooner or later, triumph over all obstacles, pierce through all corruption, and arise and shine in all its integral purity and splendour. But, on the other hand, a slight admixture of truth with a great deal of falsehood or misconception is frequently most mischievous; it does more harm than blank, dead silence. "A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright; And I think we editors, who are, after all, the most responsible men in the world-far more so, it seems to me, than ministers of state, or ministers of religion, for we have a way to the public heart and pulse that none other has—I think that we, in our haste to proclaim what comes to us almost like an inspiration, should be very careful not to tell half-truths, and not to tell half-lies either. For the human mind is so perverse that it will surely seize upon the lie and let go the truth! Like a child it clutches at the bright, shining brass farthings, and slights the one dull, worn piece of genuine gold. Then, again, truth is many-sided, and it is never really served by presenting persistently one side of it alone. An editor should have a many-sided mind. Yes, he should be one "Whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.' He should be a man, my Ermengarde, "Whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain His thought must be pure, his aim single, his spirit dauntless; but he must not be given to driving hobbies, or tilting with windmills. Least of all must he be of a fractious and quarrelsome disposition, ready for a stand-up fight on the smallest provocation, and because of the essential antagonism of his nature. Also, or rather primarily, an editor should be a Christian in very deed and word, and his life should be a transcript of that which by his pen he utters. His views should be broad, catholic, unsectarian; fixed, yet not dogmatic; his charity should be immense, his perseverance unremitting, his energy of brain and hand indomitable. "Such a man wields a mighty power over his fellow-men; his sceptre travels wherever his written words may go. He may not build for himself an everlasting name in the records of literature, because journalism, whether editorial or contributed, is mostly anonymous; but his name is graven on the rock of time so deeply, so abidingly, that the waves of eternity's great ocean will not efface it. Such a man will not live in vain. In "I am afraid, Ermy, I have been rhapsodising, but remember that till I knew you my profession was my mistress, and I honoured it, and reverenced it as the work given me to do by God Himself. As I have grown older this sentiment has only deepened and strengthened. the country I recognised, though only faintly, the vast responsibility of my office; but here, in this great, restless London, where thought seems lightning-winged, and where theories multiply and shape themselves into positive action with the speed of an express-here, in this mighty heart' of a vast nation, I feel more than ever the awfulness of the press! A man may stand up and proclaim error to assembled thousands, and dire is the result-still, the mischief has its limits; but once print the false utterance, the beguiling words, and scatter them over the country, and who shall say when and where the evil shall be quelled? Bad literature-and all is in some sense or other bad which is not true, noble, and instinct with life is like the dragons' teeth sown in ancient days. It may sink into the earth apparently as dead, effete matter; but it springs up presently, a legion of armed men, ready to do battle for violence, or fraud, or sophistry, or even immorality. "It is in vain to reason with a man like Archibald Lovell, and yet the man is a good man, I do believe, only not wise-no, not at all wise; and, if he stand much longer at the helm, steering at his own sweet will, Christendom will come to grief; and so thinks John Barrington. He came in while the editor was pelting me with words. It is well that hard words break no bones, or I should be a mummy at this moment; and he stayed and listened awhile, but did not interfere. Later in the day he mounted to my sanctum, my eyrie-for I am au quatrième, Ermy—and, after recurring to the morning's conversation, he said, 'Now, Mr. Gray, I am not a man of genius like Mr. Lovell ; I have not literary talent as you have, and I have no sense but common sense; still, I can see that my friend Archie is doing his best to drive our goodly vessel Christendom upon the rocks. He is a man of one idea—that is, of one idea at a time; but his ideas succeed each other so rapidly that even his closest and most servile adherents find it no easy task to follow him. If you honestly swear allegiance to him to-day, by this time to-morrow he may have changed his mind, and you will have to reconsider your adhesion. He is certainly a man of splendid genius; and, if he would only revolve in settled orbits, if, in short, he would be content to shine like a planet instead of oversweeping space like a comet, or flashing from horizon to horizon like a brilliant meteor, he might be one of the first men of his day. But I came to you, Mr. Gray, to beg you not to be discouraged, not to mind the vexations which, as sub-editor of Christendom, you will be liable to-not to heed the contradictions, the denunciations, the expostulations you will meet with; but just to go on your own way calmly, quietly, and undauntedly, feeling that you are helping in a great work, as well as making for yourself a place and standing in the literary world.' "I told him I would do my best, but that I feared it would be impossible for Mr. Lovell and myself to work together harmoniously or successfully, since on many points we could never be agreed, and I saw already that the editor had no mind that any one about him should differ from himself. Mr. Barrington replied that whoever worked with Mr. Lovell, provided he were not a passive dolt, or a mere sycophant, must perforce differ from him frequently; but if quarrels were avoided, differing might go on and nothing like enmity ensue. Also, he said Archie Lovell was a just man, and if he thought he insulted me in one of his fiery tirades or wild objurgations, he would apologise with the humility of a little child. He had no false pride, and not a spark of vanity, and scarce any self-consciousness; there was something very nearly sublime in the way in which he would sacrifice everything, himself included, to what he deemed the truth, spoken in all its height, and depth, and breadth, and length, and in language as forcible as it was brilliant; but then it was very provoking that his truths came always like earthquakes, or bombshells, or eruptions of volcanoes, and that when he had a real truth in his grasp he exaggerated it, and clothed it in such strange array that people took it for a spectre or a demon. And so he was always at issue with his compeers. Instead of building up the fair palace of truth, stone by stone, faithfully, patiently, and hopefully, he was incessantly occupied in battering down the buildings round about it, never being careful to ascertain whether or not the towers he assailed, or the tents he struck, were or were not the outworks of the sacred fortress itself-in fact, he was always flinging stones and firing hasty shots, and some of them hit friends as well as foes. "I never was better in my life. I really think last winter's enforced idleness did me all the good imaginable. I have taken very pleasant lodgings at Brompton, and I am well cared for. Also, I like London. I wish you had been with me, Ermy, my dear, on London bridge yesterday evening. The great city was steeped in all the alchemy of sunset. Clouds of purple and vermilion overhung it; the great dome of St. Paul's, cross-crowned, and bathed in celestial hues, stood up against a heaven of flame and crystal, and the Thames flashed like a golden river, with here and there calm, opal-tinted stretches; and a rosy glow rested on the tall, dark houses, and on every dingy sail and paddling steamer on the water. I stayed till the stars and the lamps were quivering in the tide, and then I went home, with the beautiful picture graven for ever on my memory. It may be long before I see its like again. The sunsets that glorify this grand, but smoke-begrimed, smoke-canopied dear London of ours are not too frequent upon English shores. Dicky Dance is doing very well in the printing establishment." I will not copy the rest of the letter. It was, of course, very interesting to Miss Liebrecht, but other people might not greatly care to read it. CHAPTER XLV. CHANGES AT COPLEY. THAT autumn saw many changes at West Copley. True to her word, Marcia sent next day for Mr. Marsland, the Trevanions' man of business, and revealed to him the existence of the second will; at the same time intimating her intention of quitting the Manor House, as soon as the necessary arrangements could be completed. Would she go to London? By no means! that is to say, she would not reside there, though she might spend a few weeks in town. If a suitable house could be found anywhere in the neighbourhood, she would take it, and be quite content to limit her expenses to her resources; if she could not find what she wanted, as might very likely be the case, she would take an unsuitable house, and set about building one entirely to her mind. If good houses were scarce in and about West Copley, there was plenty of land that might be let for building. But when Robert Carfax heard all this, his brow grew dark; and there was bitterness in his heart as he perceived that Marcia would take nothing at his hands, would not even allow herself to be treated with the ordinary consideration which he would have been anxious to render to any woman, or to any man situated as she was. She persisted in hurrying arrangements till Mr. Carfax, tired of pleading, and worn out with entreaties, made up his mind to act the humble suitor no longer, and one morning soon after his early breakfast he made his appearance at the Manor House, and found Miss Liebrecht sitting in solitary state over her coffee, and toast, and ham, and, best of all, a newly-arrived letter from Christopher. "Where is Marcia?" he asked abruptly, scarcely waiting for Ermy's reply to his matter-of-course salutations. "I am sorry to say she is not down. She has a headache this morning, and she sent word to me that she had had a strong cup of tea early, and meant to try and go to sleep again." "I thought Marcia never had headaches, or any other ladylike maladies." "She' is more exempt from them than any one I ever knew ; but lately she has not been quite well. She ought to be at the sea-side; but she will not leave Singlehurst till she leaves it for good." "Leaves it for ill, you mean! But I do not mean her to leave it—I will not have her leave it. Why, I was told in the village the other day that she had taken 'The Orchard,' that old house half-way down Sandstone lane." "Not taken exactly; but Mr. Marsland is in treaty for it. There is some difficulty about the lease, and Marcia thinks the rent too high, considering how much she will have to do in the way of repairs." Mr. Carfax positively groaned. "Rent, indeed! to think of a Trevanion paying rent! What next, I wonder! Will FF |