THE

CHRISTIAN SPECTATOR.

JANUARY, 1866.

THE ROUND TABLE.

Ir any reader, in these days of universal authorship, could be supposed ignorant of the gentle craft, one might propose the question, Which is the last part of a book that the author writes? And the uninitiated would naturally reply that, of course, he writes the last part last. But the craftsman smiles a languid weary smile at the innocence displayed, knowing only too well that when "THE END" meets his eye on the last page of "proof," he has now, alas! to write the beginning, or preface. And preface-writing is the bore of authors, la bête noire, the last straw which proverbially produces such a disastrous effect. I wonder there has not sprung up among us, in this age of mushrooms and "sermons-written-to-order," a set of preface-writers by profession.

I sought to enforce some very sound advice the other day, by a sage illustration drawn from what, in one sense, may be called "high life;"-though, to be sure, life soon ceases at that altitude. Quoth I to a man who naturally shrunk from a very painful but still inevitable step, "My good fellow, if you have to be hanged in the morning, you may as well go through the ceremony at nine o'clock, as get it postponed till ten." It was, no doubt, a bit of an early and bitterly learned lesson, savouring of schoolboy reminiscences and philosophers in jackets; for, "If I must be flogged," my chum used to say, "why, I'd rather have it at once, and be done with it." And just so at spring and fall, when the seasonal black-draught was liberally dis

pensed of a morning, a little before breakfast-which had not then been promoted to the dignity of being called "the matutinal meal," for the days of fine writing were not yet-some boys, Anglo-Saxon every inch of them, would put out an eager hand, gulp down the horrible mixture (which, nevertheless, by certain "laws of suggestion" might very fairly make one think of nectar) and walk off with all the facial muscles in mild activity.

I am afraid this is a roundabout way of beginning my story. But then, by general consent, beginnings are mostly awkward. Perhaps it would be best to dispense with a beginning altogether. And, indeed, most writers now-a-day dash at once in medias res, and then at some suitable opportunity go back to the beginning, which is something like postponing "grace" till the middle of dinner.

I will take my reader into my confidence. I generally do, in fact. He and let me never be thought unmindful of the softer personal pronoun-always seems a near relation. I think of one and another that I love, and indulge the pleasant fancy that I am writing for them, and others like them. And so I tell more secrets in print than I ever whisper into any ear. Well, what I wished to say, my gentle reader, only I wanted some one, you see, to exercise on me the art which Sokrates professed to have learnt from his mother-is just this: that though I have called this story, if story it be, The Round Table, you are not to think of the famous round table of King Arthur. And in point of fact I would have called it by some other name, if another as convenient had occurred to me. For there is no mystery, no plot, no incident even, connected with this round table. Happily it was fashioned ages before tables took to misconducting themselves. So let no one fear this respectable old table of mine-mine, however, only as thoughts are mine, and so I may hope that my round table will become your round table too-is going to play any part. There is no story belonging to it, for nobody knows anything at all about it. And although almost any table of any standing has witnessed all sorts of human doings, certain young folks contriving to sit together at it;-wedding breakfasts perhaps laid out upon it; perhaps also funeral-baked meats; letters that have given a turn and colour to a whole life written on it; and nobody knows what else,-yet I only use this particular round table for the sake of an idea which it gave birth to, and a talk.

So now having fairly warned you that you are not to be looking, expecting, and turning over the pages to get at the round table, I shall feel relieved in my mind, free from the worrying impression that my reader is impatient for me to get on to the

table, which I have no intention of doing. The chapters which follow might just as well have been entitled, The Gables, or the Return, or Gaunt House, or almost anything else; only this which I have chosen is, so far as I know, unappropriated as yet, which is saying a good deal. How in the world is a man in the present day to get a name for his book or story? A friend of mine had a yacht built the other day, and when it was all ready for launching the greatest difficulty of all stared him in the face-for what should he call it? Every name he could think of was already appropriated. Down the lists of the Yacht Clubs he looked, over and over again, to see if this, that, or the other desirable name was at liberty. No. And so at last, in despair, he christened it the I must not say what. And so I

have got over my

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I.

THE GABLES-THE ARBOUR-THE LETTER-GOING BACK-NIGHT— THE FIRST STAR.

DOES the reader know the ancient and once royally honoured town of Bablyk-Hythe ? Strangers sometimes speak of it as only a larger and better kind of village, forsooth; but they had better not speak so in the hearing of any of the natives, for they stand a good deal on the dignity of the place, I can warrant you. Bablyk-Hythe! why, does not everybody know that Richard of the Lion-heart lived there? Nay, I have been assured that it was "at least one of his birth-places" even!

Then there was the old Abbey, just outside the town, in the midst of a grove, part of which remains to this day, and is called "The Monks' Wood." And a very pleasant spot it is, or was, at least, many years ago, when I was young. A very pleasant spot for a twilight or say a moonlight-ramble, in and out among those trees, with the little babbling brook winding its way a few feet below you. The trees, I remember, were mostly Scotch fir and beech, with here and there a silver birch, and a few Spanish oaks. There I have walked many and many a time in the happy days "of auld lang syne," when the voice that softly answered to my own was the sweetest, gentlest in all the world.

And a little way from the town in another direction was a nunnery, amidst the grey old ruins of which I often played when a boy, with companions that are now all gone. Aye, all gone!

But I must not lose myself amid those ivied ruins now, nor begin to tell the old legends about Fair Rosamond, who was said to have lived there once, and who I used to wish, when I was a stripling of eighteen, would appear to me, looking just as she used to look when Henry wooed and won her there. Folly to recall the worse than idle dreams of that silly boyhood. Let them sleep for ever in deepest forgetfulness, as indeed they have never recurred from that time till now, when the past once more rises so vividly before me. But, as I said, I must not lose myself amid those old grey crumbling ruins now, or the reader will turn his back on Bablyk-Hythe and me together, and probably remain for ever ignorant of the fact that the town once boasted of no fewer than fourteen parish churches, dedicated to as many saints." What has become of the "saints" nobody knows, but the churches, at all events, are no longer in existence, at least not as churches, but there are barns and stables in abundance that have a very ecclesiastical look about them; and carved stone work once belonging to sacred edifices is built into most of the older houses of the town, giving it a very quaint, old-fashioned look. So then, whatever gazetteer may say, it is no wonder if the town holds up its head somewhat proudly, even though somewhat sadly perhaps, like a faded gentlewoman whose fortunes have fallen into decay. Moreover, the great Blank road ran through it, and I can well remember when five and thirty four-horse coaches used twice a day to "change" there, at either the Blue Angel or the Black Boar. But I speak of the past; mayhap the reader has never seen a four-horse coach, for times are changed.

If the reader knows Bablyk-Hythe, which is not at all likely however, he may know that an irregular winding street turns off to the right, as you enter the town from London. If you follow it, you will soon find the houses becoming fewer and farther apart, each standing in its own garden or other grounds; and then you will find yourself in the open country, with hedgerows on either hand, and fields and meadows, with the river beyond; and then, on the other side of that, the ground rises and is covered with woods.

The last house along that road to the right was called "The Gables," because it had several-four in front, and I think as many at the back, for it was a double house, I remember. It stood back from the road, on much higher ground, with the end of it towards the street, for it faced the east, and it was quite secure against the intrusiveness of passers by. For five-andtwenty years the Langstons had lived there; and there had been births there during those years; there had also been deaths there