"EVERY Englishman at heart," said Sir John Lubbock lately to his constituents at Maidstone, "would rather fight out our quarrels, and regards arbitration as a cold or even rather sneaking resolution of international difficulties. I plead guilty to this feeling myself." The confession strikes me as somewhat rash for a philosopher, and a little hazardous, coming so soon after the lesson of the war of 1870, which I thought at the time, watching closely the feelings of my fellowcountrymen, led a great many people to think that war was a thing that civilised nations might well begin to be ashamed of. In the interests of philosophy, however, if not of peace, I am rather glad to find this distinguished ethnologist acknowledging this particular weakness; for is he not in so much the better position to probe the tendency to strife which remains within so many of us, coming to us as it does from the blood of our forefathers, the savages about whom Sir John Lubbock speculates so sagely? Masters of moral philosophy are sometimes at fault for lack of the weaknesses within themselves which beset their fellow men. This is clearly not Sir John Lubbock's case in so far as the barbarian instincts are concerned. THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FEBRUARY, 1873. STRANGER THAN FICTION. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON," "THE VALLEY OF POPPIES," &c. CHAPTER XLV. AN ACTOR'S HOLIDAY. JACOB'S departure for London was accelerated, and his route thither somewhat changed, by a letter which he received at Neathville from Paul Ferris, better known to my readers as Spenzonian Whiffler. This letter had been re-directed from Dinsley by Mr. Windgate Williams, who had traced upon the back of it some wonderful flashes of wit and caligraphy for Jacob's edification. Spen's letter was brief. It informed Jacob that the theatre being closed for a short season he had taken a holiday, and was to be heard of for three days only at the Blue Posts Hotel, Cartown, where we find Jacob on the evening of the second day following his blissful time with Lucy Thornton. "You must be awfully tired," said Spen, emerging from the dingy coffee-room of the "Posts," and shaking his old friend warmly by both hands. "I am, old boy. I have had a long journey, but the sight of your good, kind face is as good as a glass of champagne." Waiter, send in the supper I ordered as soon as you can," said Spen. "All right, sir; the cook's attending to it." "And now Jacob," said Spen, "sit down and tell us all about yourself. By Jove, I have experienced the strangest heap of sensations yesterday and to-day that ever afflicted mortal man. I've been in VOL. X., N.S. 1873. K a perpetual whirl of excitement, anxiety, fear, happiness, depression, misery, and bliss." "You have indeed been enjoying yourself," said Jacob, smiling. "How long has it taken to go through so much ?" "Two days, my dear boy; only two days. I seem to have lived half a century in that time. Apart from the immediate sensations of the present, my mind has been wandering in the past. I have been. tumbling and somersault throwing, in imagination, down Spawling's garden; mixing Indian ink at the pump, thrashing that big fellow from the country with the greasy dinner-bag; dodging Dorothy upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber; doing mock heroics among autumn leaves between here and a famous cottage at Cartown; wondering all sorts of things about you and Lucy; and, above all, falling desperately in love myself, and ready and willing at this moment to go through the last act with real properties. But it is like me. I ask you to tell me all about yourself, and proceed at once to give you my own history. When you know all, you will forgive my wretched egotism, and laugh at my miscellaneous sensations. But we are all strange creatures of impulse, and there does seem such a magic in this old town of our boyhood, that I must be forgiven if I am not quite myself here." Spen thrust his hands deep down into his pockets, then removed them, stood up, sat down, looked at the ceiling, warmed himself at an imaginary fire (which summer had covered up with paper shavings), patted Jacob on the back, and called him a "dear old boy," and exhibited many other signs of the excitement of which he had spoken. Supper was brought in while the two young fellows conversed, but it did little to interrupt their animated intercourse. Whenever an opportunity occurred Jacob told Spen of his troubles and triumphs, and Spen threw in at every opportunity snatches of his own experiences, which in their way were strange and interesting, but neither so varied nor so romantic as Jacob's. Spen had been hard at theatrical work for years. His stories were of patient study at home, drudgery at rehearsals, and hard work before the footlights; leading gradually up to that brilliant success of which we have previously heard. He told Jacob that there was much less of sentiment and romance in a theatrical career than the public understood. Success demanded very much more drudgery and labour than was generally imagined. Details of dress, of manner, studies of look, gesture, walk, pose, and a variety of apparently small things made up the grand whole of an actor's art. But Spen was not willing, evidently, to say much about his theatrical career. His talk was chiefly of the past, of their first meeting, and of the early days of Cartown school. But the more exciting portions of his talk were associated with a young lady whom he called a divine creature, a glorious girl, a superb woman, and other endearing and descriptive names—a young lady whom he had seen come out of the old school-house on the previous day with two little girls and a boy; the most gentle, gracious, fascinating little witch he had ever seen in all his career, professionally and non-professionally. He had followed her over a well-known path, and in fun had helped the children to gather wild flowers. "Only in fun, my dear boy, so far as they were concerned, but in desperate earnest on my own part! What fools we are! Here was I, years ago, in a rural paradise, with real flowers and brooks and woods, real valleys, real autumn tints and summer breezes, sighing for gaslight and paint, canvas meadows, mock thunder, and a hollow fame. It seemed to me yesterday as if I would give the world to live out the remainder of my life among the old real scenes; but the desire, I must confess, was immensely promoted by the hope of a fairy partnership with Titania, my fairy queen of yesterday. You will say I have become a romantic fellow in my years of discretion. I suppose I have been so long mewed up among London bricks and mortar that the country takes my reason prisoner." Jacob was more astonished now at the change which had taken place in Spen than he had been while conversing with his old friend. in London. Although the merriman of the Cartown school had lost none of his animal spirits, yet the real fun and frolic of the old days were wanting. Nobody would certainly have taken him for the funny man of a theatrical company. His face, it is true, had that peculiar, sallow, closely-shaven look which characterises the profession generally; but there were strong lines in it which one would be more likely to associate with tragedy than comedy, except when the face was lighted up by some quaint conceit, and then there was something essentially humorous in its peculiar, dry expression. "Now, Spen, let us talk seriously. Drop this fictitious kind of personal confession. Let us get out of romance. Have you really ever thought of marrying? "Yes, indeed, I have," said Spen, with a grave twinkle of the eye. "I thought of it for the first time yesterday, and I have thought about nothing else until your arrival this evening." 66 "Ah! You will have your joke," said Jacob, laughing. 'Earnest conjugal ambition is not so sudden as that.” "Honour bright," said Spen, "I am in real earnest, and you shall |