Resartus, "let us consider, with some scientific strictness, what a dandy specially is. A dandy is a clothes-wearing man-a man whose trade, office, and existence consist in the wearing of clothes. Every faculty of his soul, spirit, purse, and person, is heroically consecrated to this one object-the wearing of clothes wisely and well; so that as others dress to live, he lives to dress. The all importance of clothes has sprung up in the intellect of the dandy, without effort, like an instinct of genius: he is inspired with cloth, a poet of cloth. A divine idea of cloth is born with him." Still more severe is this epigram :— "A Dandy is a thing that would Be a young lady if it could; But as it can't, does all it can To show the world it's not a man." To the Dandies succeeded the Exquisites and the Loungers; lady-killers all, who laid themselves out ostentatiously for female conquest and broke women's hearts like china-ware. They talked, walked, danced, did everything in a style of their own; and their motto was "look and die!" After these came fops of a ruder, more adventurous type, known as Corinthians, the "fastest of the "fast" men who delighted in street broils, and such riotous achievements as are depicted in Tom and Jerry. They, too, have had their day. Corinthianism and Dandyism are alike as dead as a door-nail. A disdainful tone in conversation, coupled with a certain affected silliness of observation, was once deemed essential, but it is so no longer. Of the whole tribe of fops the Lady's Man is now the sole survivor, and he becomes rarer every year. He will soon have utterly disappeared, and the sooner the better, for of all the caricatures on humanity that ever encumbered the earth the Lady's Man is assuredly the most contemptible. Dandyism was bound to fall, for it was founded upon a fallacy-the fallacy that manners should be artificial, not natural. The very reverse is the fact. "Manners make the man." True, but they must be the manners of nature. Those of art unmake him. The heart is the fountain of courtesy, as of honour. All forms of civility springing elsewhere than from the heart are but shams—mean tricks of ceremony put on and off, like mere matters of personal decoration. He is truly courteous, and he alone, whose courtesy is the outcome of a genial, generous nature. Such a man may lack the requirements of etiquette, but never that benevolence whose external manifestation is a delicate regard for the feelings of others. Be his position in society what it may, that man is a "gentleman"; than which there is no higher title. LOST IN THE SEA MISTS. TRANGE-LOOKING with stunted oaks and bushes on one side to that place, this huge expanse of sands, dividing the picturesque lake country from the busy manufacturing peninsula of Ulverston and Barrow, three miles broad at its widest end, and narrowing up at the farthest point into the little mouth of the river Leven, which trickles away in sundry shining streamlets through the yellow sand down to the sea, where the railway crosses it like some black gigantic snake. A wide, wet expanse of dim yellow under a faint, grey sky, stretching away as far as Berrie's eye can reach in one direction, and bounded on the other by the motionless, misty sea, intersected with glistening, shallow streams and pools of salt water, dotted over with sea birds, and here and there by the figures of one or two pedestrians plodding wearily across the broad and dangerous track from the low, grassy shores fringed It is a good day for musing too, mild and still, with no wind in the air, and a light, misty haze spreading itself between earth and sky, and hanging like a white cloud over the sea, where it advances and retreats with each coming or departing wave like some spectral dancer; but Berrie heeds little of the scene or day; her eyes are fixed on her friend's letter, and her mind is far away in the place where it was written. Yes, she can almost see it now, the homely little Saxon town where her education was finished, the "place," with its four rows of primly-clipped limes planted in the form of a cross, and the raised green wooden erection in the centre, where the band played of an evening; the tiny opera house, round, and with an overhanging roof like a Chinaman's hat, where the women took their knitting and the men their pipes, and where Wagner and Liszt used to be rehearsed to the clink of the knitting-needles and the fumes of : day and she rouses herself from it at last with a shiver, to find that she is very cold, and that the curly rings of hair on her temples are growing limp and clammy with the cold mist which enfolds her. The tide has been coming in since she sat down, so that the railway, which before drew its black curves over the wet sands, now seems to float upon the bosom of a broad and rippling expanse of leaden sea; and the fog marching with the latter almost obliterates it from view, and stretches its pale arms onwards and outwards in a huge half-circle embracing both sides of the shore. Looking back along the rough and stony by-road by which she had come, Barberry sees to her disgust that this mist has filled its narrow width with remarkable compactness; and the prospect of setting out on her homeward route through it is the reverse of cheerful. She knows enough, however, of these sea fogs to be aware that they are frequently as transient and capricious in their stay as they are sudden in their appearance, and that even the slightest change of wind in this land of variable air currents would be quite sufficient to dissipate the present haze. Besides, thick and cheerless as it is to sea and eastwards, it is still clear and even bright along the inland track of the sands; and not very far off, the sun is shining faintly through the haze upon a strip of yellow sand and glimmering water, from which a little group of men with blue jerseys and bare red legs and arms, are busy dragging their shrimping nets; their curved and straining shadows thrown sharply upon the ribbed wet surface where they are standing. The sunshine she was following has disappeared. There is no sun visible anywhere now; and the shivery dampness and chilliness of the air on the back of her neck make her turn her head to discover, somewhat to her surprise, that the fog, instead of dissipating as she had hoped, had gained considerably in density and volume, and is treading fast upon her heels and blotting out the track by which she came. To the north and north-west the way is still tolerably clear, and she can still see the outlines of the low, green shore on that side; but to pursue her road in that direction will take her still farther from home, and she has suddenly become conscious that her strength is not quite what it was before her illness; and that to get there at all will be a fatiguing task unless she sets about it at once. Besides, these autumn sea fogs may be different from the lighter summer mists with which she was acquainted, and of greater duration than her girlish presumption had taken account of; and if so, will it be safe to go on still farther into an unknown country? With the depressing conviction that she has been rash in coming as far as she has done, and that she will have to retreat at once and make her way back in the teeth of this thick white vapour which chills her to the bone and hangs upon her hair and eyelashes like a shower of rain, she turns her face bravely towards it, and begins to plod homeward in a still soberer mood than she had come. The fog plods too. It plods faster than Berrie, and before she has gone many yards is all round her on the one side as well as the other. It thickens too. At first she could not see the banks or trees in the distance. By-and-by she cannot see a dozen yards; a few minutes later, it is with difficulty she can make out objects an arm's And then she begins to get frightened. There are moods in which some trivial discomfort will make trouble and suffering, hitherto patiently borne, suddenly intolerable. In this mood of Berrie's it seems to her impossible to face the stony lane and the fog. Better to go on into the sunshine and trust to the mists clearing away be-length from her. fore she needs to turn. It is smooth and easy walking on the sands, and even if it leads her farther on her onward route than she had meant to go, what of that? She cannot have gone more than five or six miles at present; and she is a girl who ordinarily thinks little of twelve or even fifteen. So, somewhat wilfully, she rises from the grassy bank where she has been resting, and, turning her face inland, walks onward, not following a very direct route, in consequence of the numerous little streams of brackish water which wind about in every direction, obliging her either to jump over them or turn out of their way; but with her mind too full of the conflicting ideas occasioned by Randal Comyns' late visit and Edla's proposal, to care much whither she is going. By-and-by, however, a somewhat wider patch of water than usual, with a very inisty margin on the further side, brings her to a sudden stop, and makes her look around her. For those little teasing rivulets, curling about the sands like narrow white snakes, which she could easily avoid or cross while it was clear, become veritable serpents in her path at present. To be continually jumping over them is fatiguing work; and in trying to skirt round some she fancies that she has gone out of her way, and retraces her steps; then, seeing nothing but fog on all sides of her, becomes bewildered, and cannot even make up her mind whether the stream she is now facing is the one which turned her before. If she could but catch a glimpse of those shrimping men now it would be a vast comfort to her; but they have disappeared altogether, sucked long since into the sea mist; and it is only by keeping her face towards the wind that she can judge at all whether she is pursuing the right direction. But, unguessed at by her, the wind has veered slightly since she set out; and it is only by feeling that she has walked much farther than she need have done, that the suspicion that she has wandered from her way begins to grow upon her. Then she gets desperate, and determines to go straight on, and not turn for water or anything, in the hope that she will come to terra firma at last. At the same moment it flashes upon her mind that she has read somewhere of a whole party being caught in one of these fogs, and lost in a quicksand while crossing these wastes at night; and in the terror of the idea her nerves give way, and she screams aloud. Somewhere, far away, she seems to hear the echo of her screams. A seagull perhaps; or perhaps some other lost creature as helpless as herself. She has come to a very wide stream now. Even by stooping down to its level she cannot see to the other side; but it seems to extend a long way on either side, and she is not minded to diverge again from her route. Better to walk through it; she will wet her feet, of course; but she is so wet already that that will hardly matter. It is not to be wet feet only, however. The first three steps carry her over her insteps, a couple more, and she is up to her ankles. The cold water is swirling round her, deepening every instant, and still there is no sign of the other side. Only, at that moment, something like a dim red eye seems to glare through the fog in front of her. There is a shrill, prolonged scream, a longer muffled roar and rattle trembling over the water for an indefinite distance; and in the same instant Berrie shrieks and shrieks again, with an agony of terror which there is no controlling. It is the train to Ulverston which has just passed in front of her; and she is walking straight out to sea. She has found out her mistake just as the water is half way to her knees! This time, however, there is no doubt as to her cry being answered. A long, high-pitched shout comes pealing through the mist in her rear, and as she replies to it in an almost frenzy of appeal, she can even distinguish the words it says. "Stop! Stand still! For God's sake, stop!" It is a needless injunction, for she has no power now to move or even turn. Terror has taken from her all her remaining force, save that of uttering cry after cry; but by good fortune this is a better guide to the invisible person in her rear than any movement on her part could be; and the answering shout comes nearer and nearer, till in a minute she sees the dim figure of a man looming through the fog, and in another second it has strode forward ; there is a hasty splash in the water at her side, strong arms have caught and lifted her, and she is being carried back from the living death on which a moment past she was rushing. When next Berrie opens her eyes she is seated on a rock, her head leaning against the rough, warm overcoat which covers a man's shoulder, and his hand holding a little flask to her lips and trying to make her swallow a few drops of the contents. And the man is Randal Comyns! She has not fainted; fainting is always romantic, sometimes pleasant; but it is an achievement of which Berrie has never yet been capable in all her life. She has not been unconscious enough to be doubtful of the identity of the person so anxiously bending over her; scarcely to be startled by it. When she saw him coming through the fog to her, it seemed as if she had known the sound of his voice all along, and had cried to him for aid. Of course he would give it. Has he not always come when she most wanted him, when she was lost on the Hampsfell, and in her loneliness at Hexham ? and now. But the fright and fatigue have weakened her a good deal, and her senses are still dizzy and confused from her swift passage across the misty sands in those strong arms. She does not even yet realise that she is safe, or where they are, or what has happened to her; and when Randal makes a movement to pull off his over-coat, that he may wrap it round her, she only clings more closely to him with weak trembling fingers, and begs him not to leave her yet, not to go away. "Do you think it likely?" Randal says, smiling at her. "A fine person you are to be trusted alone! But you never will be, again; so make up your mind to it. This is the last time." And then, in his great gladness at having rescued her, and seeing that she is uninjured, he stoops his face lower over the little white one lying on his breast, and kisses her; kisses her brow, and eyes, and lips; not as he kissed her once before, but with a kind of tender happy proprietorship, which seems to take from her all power of resistance or reproach. What good indeed in either? She has done all she could already, and to what avail? He is stronger than she, and has baffled her even when she thought him most obedient. Besides, her mind does not seem strong enough to argue at present, even with herself. It was all very well and easy to do that when she was sad and alone in the security of her own apartments, and with no loving voice near to soothe or reason with her. Now she is only conscious of one thing, he is holding her in his arms; and she loves him, loves him better than all the world. In all that world there can be no sweeter shelter for her. And at this moment the feeble, fickle breeze which has been wavering so long between south and east, and south again, gathers force and takes a sudden cant to the north-east; and, lo! as it does so, a change like a transformation comes over everything, for the white mist-wreaths unfold and roll apart, blown backwards over the waves like the snowy portals of the tents of God; and as they drift asunder, the sun's rays, hidden behind them, turn each silvery fold to a thousand opaline tints of rose, and pearl, and azure; and the blue sky shines out with only a tender haze across it, and a deeper turquoise spreads and widens upon the bosom of the sea, and each little shallow pool and streamlet in all that broad expanse of shifting yellow sand glitters like a handful of diamonds cast down upon a bed of gold; and then out rides the sun himself, in all his genial majesty, gilding sea and shore, and grey rock and grassy bank, and sending one broad ray right down on Barberry's face, dazzling and glorifying her like a benediction. She can see its reflection in Randal's face, as he kneels beside her, holding her to him with such a look of perfect, proud content and happiness as she has never seen there yet; and before that vision all thought of herself or of her own ugliness, which seemed so terrible awhile back to her foolish heart, fades utterly away, like the mists themselves before the sun. As Edla von Freilo would say, there is no such word as ugliness in love; and there is nothing but love, love grateful and triumphant, in Randal's eyes as he gazes at her. The sunshine has come to both of them. OUR NEW PAVING. SAY, I never told you how the doctor got into disgrace with the mayor and town council. Ha ha ha! Here goes, for it was a rare bit of fun. He was always inventing things, and the mayor and corporation believed in him, because it gave them jobs. Our mayor was a timber merchant; so the proposal for a wooden pier was accepted; the pier was built, and washed away. The doctor's idea for an esplanade was taken up because Councillor Prawnham owned the stone He had seen asphalte paving in London, and seen it laid; so he came down red-hot, proposed a new pavement for our High Street of an asphalte of his own invention, and, as he artfully contrived a job out of it for the mayor and the whole town council, the plan was carried unanimously, and the next week the High Street became chaotic. That street was in ruins for two months, during which it was picked up, rammed down, sifted, concreted, wetted, dried, smoothed, ironed, mangled, and then it was ready for Smallbois' patent hydro "THE NEW PAVING WAS OPENED BY THE MAYOR AND CORPORATION." (Drawn by W. Ralston.) quarry; and the esplanade was made, and not | carbo-galvanic-terro-ligno-adamanto - unabradowashed away, because it died a natural death, and bituminous-asphaltic pitch paving. was buried four feet deep-in sand. The doctor's last was a pavement. It was a long name, and it took a long time to lay it down. |