Go get thee understanding, become possessed of strong sense, if thou wouldst know how to tell a good book from a bad one. You may havethough it is not likely-Homer by heart, Virgil at your fingers' ends, all the great models of dignity, propriety and splendor may be on your shelves, and yet if you are without understanding, without the happy mixture of strong sense and delicacy of sentiment, you will fail to discern amid the crowd and crush of authors the difference between the good and the bad; you will belong to the class who preferred Cleveland to Milton, Montgomery to Keats, Moore to Wordsworth, Tupper to Tennyson.

Understanding may be got. By taking thought we can add to our intellectual stature. Delicacy may be acquired. Good taste is worth striving after; it adds to the joy of the world.

For most men in a brazen prison live, Where in the sun's hot eye,

With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly

Their lives to some unmeaning task

work give,

Dreaming of nought beyond their prison wall;

And as year after year

Fresh products of their barren labor fall

From their tired hands, and rest

Never yet comes more near, Gloom settles slowly down over their breast,

And while they try to stem The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest

Death in their prison reaches them, Unfreed, having seen nothing, still

unblest.

From this brazen prison, from this barren toil, from this deadly gloom, who would not make his escape if he could? A cultivated taste, an educated eye, a pure enthusiasm for literature,

like. But even here one must be on one's guard against mere connoisseurship. "Taste," said Carlyle-and I am glad to quote that great name before I have done" if it means anything but a paltry connoisseurship must mean a general susceptibility to truth and nobleness, a sense to discern and a heart to love and reverence all beauty, order and goodness, wheresoever or in whatsoever forms and accomplishments they are to be seen."

Wordsworth's shepherd, Michael,

who

had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists

That came to him and left him on the heights,

had doubtless a greater susceptibility to truth and nobleness than many an Edinburgh or Quarterly reviewer; but his love, as Wordsworth tells us, was a blind love, and his books, other than his Bible, where the green valleys and the streams and brooks.

There is no harm in talking about books, still less in reading them, but it is folly to pretend to worship them.

Deign on the passing world to turn

thine eyes,

And pause awhile from letters to be wise.

To tell a good book from a bad one is, then, a troublesome job, demanding, first, a strong understanding; second, knowledge, the result of study and comparison; third, a delicate sentiment. If you have some measure of these gifts, which, though in part the gift of the gods, may also be acquired, and can always be improved, and can avoid prejudice-political prejudice, social prejudice, religious prejudice, irreligious prejudice, the prejudice of the place where you could not help being

born, the prejudices of the university whither chance sent you, all the prejudices that came to you by way of inheritance and all the prejudices you have picked up on your own account as you went along-if you can give all these the slip and manage to live just a little above the clouds and mists of your own generation, why, Cornhill Magazine.

then, with luck, you may be right nine times out of ten in your judgment of a dead author, and ought not to be wrong more frequently than perhaps three times out of seven in the case of a living author; for it is, I repeat, a very difficult thing to tell a good book from a bad one.

Augustine Birrell.

I.

BUCKLANDS.

Bucklands was called a house of the old fashion even by the Georgian contemporaries of the owner of it-Jasper England. One of the finest mansions in Yorkshire, it stood in the midst of a park, well-stocked with deer, rabbits, and fish-ponds. A long, narrow bowling-green was here, and near to it was a banqueting-room, built, like a stand, in a large tree. Both it and the bowling-green showed signs of long disuse.

All sorts of hounds that ran fox, hare, otter and badger were kept by the master of Bucklands, and it was no uncommon thing to see marrow bones litter the great hall of his mansion, which the human occupants of it shared with hounds, spaniels and terriers, and which was hung with fox-skins of the current year's killing.

He who looked to find a different state of affairs obtain at Bucklands in the living-room, or, as it was called, "the parlor" was doomed to disappointment, for, in this room on a broad hearth, lay the more favored terriers, hounds and spaniels. In the windowniches, which were very large, and in the four corners of the room were

weapons of the hunt, and on different tables lay bells, old hats with their crowns thrust in, full of pheasant's eggs and a store of tobacco-pipes.

Opposite to the large entrance-door to this room was a smaller one which opened into a closet in which were kept ale and wine, which never came out except in single glasses. This rule of the house-one sufficiently strange in days so marked by conviviality as those in which Jasper England lived-the maker of it explained on the grounds that he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to exceed.

The grave morality which gave its character to that explanation ruled in another matter. At one end of the room stood a small table with a double desk, one side of which held a Bible, and the other the "Book of Martyrs."

Those books represented the entire library at Bucklands.

It has still to be said that in the closet at the parlor's end there was mostly to be found a cold chine of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon of bacon, or a great apple-pie with a thick crust, well-baked. The master of Bucklands was fond of saying that his table cost him not much, but it was good to eat at.

Jasper England, at the age of three

score and ten years, was tall and erect of stature, and of a ruddy complexion with flaxen hair, turning, but not yet entirely turned, to white. His clothes, which, like his house, were of the old fashion, were always of green cloth. He was handsome in spite of a straightness of line in brow and lips that gave to his face a marked sternness and pride. Very strong and very active, at the age of threescore and ten years he got on horseback without help and rode to the death of the fox. It was noticed that on the hunt of which he was an ardent lover, he was commonly accompanied by two or more of his children, the youth of whom was in strong contrast with his age, for their years ranged from ten to three and twenty.

The ten-year-old child, a sturdy little girl, the motherless and sole daughter of Jasper England, was the mistress of Bucklands, and discharged herself of the duties which fell to her in that capacity in a manner which is beyond all praise.

Little Dorothy England, however, was unable to cope with a difficulty which, in course of time, arose in connection with her brother John. In fact, she, to some extent, brought about this difficulty.

II.

DINNER AT BUCKLANDS.

"It looked like the golden age."-Such is the dictum of one who was, in his day, privileged to join the dinner-party at Bucklands.

Opinions concerning the golden age differ widely, and there are persons with whose conception of it the dinnerparty at Bucklands might not accord.

The company, which was very large and varied, consisted of the master of the house, his five sons, his daughter, and most of the common domestic ani

mals, with a sprinkling of those that are less common and less domestic.

Jasper England took the head of his table, and his daughter took the foot. Three sons were provided with seats at one side of it, and at the other the remaining two lads, and an aged and enfeebled quadruped friend of the family were provided with seats. Other furred and feathered favorites distributed themselves in interstices and at chairbacks, the entire arrangement of things at the outset resembling nothing more than a reversal of the usual order by which human beings betake themselves to a zoological garden to watch the animals feed.

The absence of noise and clamor was noticeable, for, albeit the thump of here and there a heavy tail expressed pleasurable anticipation, as did the flutter once in a while of feathers, there was none of the loud ebullience which generally makes an animal at a dinner table seem the thing that might be dispensed with.

This decorum was the more striking that, though, by what under the circumstances was a very sensible arrangement, dog-whips formed a part of the table appointments, it was a rare thing for them to be called into play.

On the day here in view, being that upon which John England elected, for the first time in his life to run counter to his father in a main matter, the meal did not take quite its general course, though at first there was no indication of anything happening other than usual.

On the stroke of three o'clock the entire party was assembled. This punctuality was the outcome of a rule relentlessly enforced, by which the least deviation from exactness in time was punished by the eviction of the offend

er.

A glance at his daughter from the master of Bucklands as usual led to Dorothy's describing a circle in air with

whipcord, upon which a perfect hush ensued. Grace before meat was then said, and the meal began.

For a time all went peaceably. Then a prolonged growl was heard. It had in it a note which to those who have knowledge in certain matters proclaimed it as not without righteous cause. The master of Bucklands looked again at his daugter.

Dorothy, in sisterly loyalty, wore an expression of blank nescience.

Jasper England then looked at his sons, one after the other. His gaze alighted at last on the youngest of them. This person had a bone in his hand.

The young inmates of Bucklands sometimes dispensed with forks, articles which a hundred years ago were less in use to the entire exclusion of fingers than they are now. Consequently the fact of this boy's having a bone in his hand did not incriminate him. What did incriminate him was the blush which suffused his face. "George, that bone is Jowler's," his father said, indignantly. "Make instant restitution of it, sir.' George made instant restitution of the bone, the blush on his face deepening, for an aggravating circumstance attaching to his act, was that he had made a raid on the plate set down before the aged and enfeebled four-footed friend of the family.

Dorothy, in kindly sympathy with the disgraced delinquent, had ceased to ply her knife and fork, and by means of a furtive action a little spaniel now removed a piece of liver from her plate, and crossed the room with it. Her fault was to find her out, however, and midway in her transit she was brought to a standstill by the master of Bucklands saying:

"Doxy, give that liver back to Miss Dorothea!"

The master of Bucklands only called his daughter Miss Dorothea to the

brute creature when highly incensed. Doxy retraced her steps, and mournfully did as bidden.

A wise axiom has it that discipline must be maintained, and it is certain that an utter impartiality, such as that which marked the rules imposed upon man and beast by the master of Bucklands, has much to be said in its favor.

On the other hand, a dinner which took the course of the one described in the foregoing, has aspects under which it is not entirely delectable. As Dorothy amiably ate the liver restored to her under compulsion by Doxy, John England uttered a sound which, like the growl of Jowler, had a world of protest in it, while to the master of Bucklands there was not in it that something which proclaims a growl as justified. Accordingly he paused in carrying a morsel to his lips, and said, with an ominous contraction of his face:

"Son John, you much offend me.” The rest of the meal passed in lugubrious silence, which had reached painful tensity when it was suddenly broken with a snap.

a

This was the result of a sharp tapping at the window. The person who had administered it met the surprised glances of the diners with a smile, and rode on. She was followed by another rider, who passed the window without turning her face.

It was usual for these riders, two young gentlewomen, when going the nearest way to their home, to ride through Bucklands Park, and it was not unusual for them to ride past the dining-room window. It was also, when they did this, the custom with them to ride one of them with glance aside, and the other with glance fixed straight ahead. This thing had often been noticed by John, and had never before been made to weigh in his liking of the two gentlewomen. On this occasion it biassed him in favor of one of them, and he was conscious of a strong

desire to see her again. This being so, he observed with gratification that steps were being taken to arrest her progress.

Dorothy, with winged feet and the cry of "Alce!" was speeding after the riders.

III.

JOHN'S PREFERENCE.

Alce with her full name Alce (or Alice) Steptoe-was the cousin of the girl with whom she was riding, and the resemblance between the two kinswomen, which was heightened by the circumstance that their ages were the same, and that they dressed alike, was so marked that they looked more like sisters than cousins. The fact that the one girl had the manner in Georgian days termed "sprightly," and the other the manner which, at the same time, was

termed "posed," constituted the sole difference between them which was manifest to all. Persons capable of noting finer distinctions-children, with their unerring judgment on character, and a few adults who had kept clear eyes-saw that Alce, taken all in all, was the more lovely and pleasant of the two girls, though Penelope was cast in no common mould. Yet another class of persons held that there was not a pin to choose between the two handsome cousins, excepting in so far as the one was a young gentlewoman of fortune, whereas the other was a young gentlewoman not possessed and never likely to be possessed of a fortune; for, while Penelope was the sole child of a Steptoe who, himself an heir to considerable property, had increased his wealth by a marriage strictly resembling that which is extolled in old Tusser's five hundred points of good husbandry, Alce was one of many children, the daughters and sons of a Steptoe who, having started in life with the

1

meagre income of a younger son, had espoused a lady whose heart was her fortune.

In view of the fact that Bucklands, owing to generations of extravagant owners, was a deeply-encumbered estate, it was not, perhaps, quite incomprehensible that Jasper England desired his eldest son and heir to retrieve the family fortunes by marrying Penelope Steptoe.

If Alce had not appeared on the scene there is every reason to believe that John would have fallen in with his father's wishes, for Penelope was as handsome as she was rich, and, as he happened to be aware, through having known her from her childhood, was as good as she was gay. But Alce had appeared on the scene, and her sweet gravity, which, from the first, had pleased John, suddenly took a charm which made him feel that the world held nothing so much to be desired as was she. When the two girls made their entry into the room he noticed that his little sister held Alce's hand, and that her eyes rested on the pretty, grave face with a greater liking than on the pretty, gay one. The thing delighted him in the way that the expression of an unsolicited agreement of opinion delights one who has newly made up his mind upon a subject of high importance.

Jasper England, a widower of nine years' standing, had acquired in some measure regarding his children the intuitions of a mother. His look now passed from his son to his daughter, and he took with perfect correctness the bearings of this case. Having done so, he called his daughter to him with some petulance, and left the room with her. The departure was little noticed, for all the sons of the house were assembled in the room, which thus presented a well-filled appearance.

Jasper England crossed a corridor with his daughter, and then passed with