"She will need some such recommendation, poor girl," said Martin, shaking his head.

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"And which we shall certainly not be able to avert in the manner we

"The story grows blacker as you proceed with it," said Martin, looking uneasily at his companion. "From all I gather from you, it seems evident that this "

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"I am not at all sure about that," said Humphrey energetically. "Certainly not so much as you think. You wait until I have told you all about it, and I shall be greatly surprised if you are not of my opinion in the matter. Let me see where was I? Oh! she had just come into the room. Well, I rose on her entrance; but she very courteously motioned me to my seat again, and "This lady," said Mr. Statham almost asked me my business. I confess, at sternly. that moment I felt like a tremendous Certainly this lady is quiet, senimpostor: I had not been the least ner-sible, and well behaved." vous before, as, with such a woman as I "More than that," said Humphrey had expected to meet, I could have bra- eagerly. "After I left her, I had my zened it out perfectly; but this was a luncheon at the inn; I dropped in at very different affair. I felt it almost the little post-office and stationer's shop; impossible to tell even a white lie to I chatted with half a dozen people about this quiet little creature. However, I Mrs. Claxton; and from one and all I blundered out the story I had concocted heard the same story: that she is kindas best I could, and she listened ear-hearted, charitable, and unceasing in nestly and attentively. When I stopped doing good; that she is the vicar's right speaking, she told me that her means hand among the school-children, and were not very large, but that she would that she is a pattern wife." spare me as much as she could. She "Wife!" echoed Martin Gurwood. took out her purse; but I thought that "Do you mean to say ". was a little too much: so I muttered something about having no receipt with me, and told her it would be better for her to send her subscription to the office. I thought I might as well learn a little more so I introduced Mr. Claxton's name, suggesting, I think, that he should interest some of his city friends in the charity; but her poor little face fell at once. Mr. Claxton was away, she said, travelling on business; and she burst into tears. I was very nearly myself breaking down at this; but she recovered herself quickly, and begged me to excuse her. Mr. Claxton was not in good health, she said, at the time of his departure; and, as she had not heard from him since, she could not help feeling nervous."

I mean to say, Martin Gurwood," said Statham, bending forward, and speaking in a deep, earnest voice," that I have not the smallest doubt that the woman of whom we are speaking was married to the man whom you buried yesterday. I mean to say that at this instant she believes herself to be his wife; and that it will be next to impossible to make her understand the awful position in which she is placed. I mean to say that she is the victim of as black a fraud as ever was perpetrated, and that-there! I won't say any more: the inan's dead; and we have all need of forgiveness."

The Lord help her in her trouble!" said Martin Gurwood solemnly, bowing his head. "If what you say is right, and I feel it is, the mystery of the double name is now made clear."

Yes," said Statham: "had this lady been what we originally supposed, it is probable that he would not have given himself the trouble of inventing any such mystery; but being, as she fondly imagined herself, his wife, it was necessary to give her a name by which she might pass unrecognized by any of his friends who might accidentally come across her. The whole scheme must have been deliberately concocted, and, with its association of Claxton as a partner in Calverley's house, is diabolically ingenious."

"This is very dreadful," said Martin Gurwood, covering his face with his hand. "Ah! but if you had only seen her," said Humphrey: "her pale, wistful face, her large eyes full of tears! I declare I very nearly dropped the mask and betrayed myself. I asked her if Mr. Claxton were well known on the line on which he was travelling, suggesting that, if that were the case, and he had been taken ill, some one would surely have written to her. But she didn't seem to know where he had gone, and she did not like to make any inquiries. Mr. Claxton was, she said, a partner in the firm of Calverley and Company of Mincing Lane; and she had There was silence for a few moments, thought of going down there to make broken by Martin Gurwood. "The inquiries concerning him. But she question comes back to us again," he remembered that some time ago Mr. said. What are we to do?" Claxton had warned her in the strongest "It comes back," said Humphrey; manner against ever going to the city "but this time I have no hesitation as house, or taking notice to any one of to how it should be answered. When his absence, however prolonged it might we last entered into this subject, after be. It was one of the laws of business, long discussion, we decided that the inshe supposed, she said with a faint s.nile; but she had now become so nervous that she was very nearly breaking it."

habitant of Rose Cottage must be informed of what had taken place, and that an annuity must be offered her, on condition of her keeping the knowledge

tin.

"And to do so without a day's delay," said Humphrey. "That is necessary for our own sake as well as for hers. I did my best to impress upon her the inadvisability of her going to the house in the city; but as each day passes, and no news is heard of him whom she awaits, her anxiety will increase more and more; and there is no knowing what rash step she may take."

"Of course, if she went to Mincing Lane, she would learn at once that no Mr. Claxton was known there, and that Mr. Calverley was dead. Putting these two facts together, she would at once understand what had occurred."

"Ay; and she would not be long in realizing her own position, poor thing; for of course she would hear of Mrs. Calverley, and then nothing could be kept from her. No: to such a woman, the horrible truth, blurted out in that way, might prove fatal; and though to die might possibly be the best thing that could happen to her, we must do our best to prevent any such calamity. The truth must be told to her, but it must be told kindly and gently; and it must be pointed out to her, that, as she has sinned unwittingly, she will not be condemned."

"Is she to be told that?" cried Martin Gurwood. "If whoever breaks the news to her talks to her after that fashion, he will be right, if he is alluding to the divine mercy; but can he say the same of the world? Will not the world condemn her, point at her the finger of scorn, bid her not darken its respectable doors? Will not women, priding themselves on their goodness and their charity, take delight in hunting her down, and withdrawing themselves from the contamination of her presence? Will she not henceforth, and for the rest of her life, lie under a ban, be kept apart, sent to Coventry, have to perform social quarantine, and to keep the Yellow Flag flying, to warn all who approach her of the danger they run ?

Humphrey Statham looked at his companion with surprise. He had never seen him so animated before. "You are right," he said. "Heaven help her! it is the penalty which she will have to pay for this man's sin, in which no one will believe that she did not participate. There are thousands who will be ready to speak pityingly of him, while their hearts will be closed against her! Such is the justice of the world!"

"It must be our task, provided all that you imagine turns out to be true," said Martin, to endeavor to alleviate her position as much as possible."

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"As a relative of the dead man who has worked this wrong, and as a clergyman, your influence and example can do her more good than those of any

other person. Except, perhaps, Mrs. Calverley," added Statham, after a pause; "who, I hope, for more reasons than one, will never know any thing of Mrs. Mrs. Claxton's existence."

"All that I can do, I will do most earnestly," said Martin.

"You must do something more, Martin Gurwood," said Humphrey: "you must go to Hendon to-morrow, and break the news to this poor creature." “I!” cried Martin Gurwood: "it is impossible-I"

You, and no one else," said Humphrey. "In the first place, you are more accustomed than I am to such scenes, deeply painful, I grant, as that which will ensue. It is fitting that the words which you will have to say to her should come from the mouth of a man like you, a servant of God, keeping himself unspotted from the world, rather than from any of us who are living this driving, tearing, work-a-day life."

Martin Gurwood was silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the ground: then he said with a shudder, "I cannot do it. I feel I cannot do it."

"Oh! yes, you can, and you will," said Humphrey, touching him kindly on the shoulder.

- all?"

"Shall I have to tell her "The all is, unfortunately, simple enough. You will have to tell her, that, so far as she was concerned, the life of this man, who has just passed away, was a fraud and a pretence; that his name was not Claxton, but Calverley; that he was not her husband, for at the very time when he, as she thought, made her his wife, he was married to another woman. You will have to expose all his baseness and his treachery; and you will find that she will speak pityingly of him, and forgive him, as women always do forgive those who ruin them body and soul."

"You think they do?" said Martin Gurwood, looking at him earnestly.

"I know it," said Statham; "but that is nci her here nor there. You must undertake this duty, Martin; for it lies more in your province than in mine. If my original notion had proved correct, I could have assumed the requisite amount of sternness, and should have done very well; but, as matters stand at present, I should be quite out of my element. It is meant for you, Martin; and you must do it."

"I will do my best," said Martin; "though I shudder at the task, and greatly fear my own powers in being able to carry it through. Am I to say any thing about the annuity, as we

settled before?"

"No; I think not," said Humphrey Statham promptly: "that is a part of the affair which need not be touched on just yet; and, when it comes to the front, I had better take it in hand. Not that you would not deal with it with perfect delicacy; but it requires a little infusion of business, which is more in my way. You are perfectly certain you are right in what you told me the other day about

"None. Every person named in the will is known to me or to my mother." "Have you been through Mr. Calverley's private papers?"

"I have gone through most of them: they were not numerous, and were very methodically arranged."

"And you have found nothing suspicious in them, no memorandum making provision for any one?"

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Nothing of the kind. But last night Mr. Jeffreys brought up to me the banker's pass-book of the firm; and I noticed that about four months ago a sum of two thousand pounds was transferred from the business account to Mr. Calverley's private account; and I thought that was remarkable."

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It was; and to have noticed it does you credit. I had no idea you had so much business discrimination."

"You have not heard all," said Martin. "On my pointing this out to Mr. Jeffreys, of course without hinting what idea had struck me, he told me that three or four years ago, he could not recollect the exact date off-hand, a very much larger sum, ten thousand pounds, in fact, had been transferred from one account to the other in the same way."

You do not understate the unpleasantness and the difficulty of the mission you have proposed for me," said Martin with a half-smile.

"I do not overstate it, my dear Gurwood, believe me," said Statham. "And all I can do now is to wish you Godspeed in it."

When Martin Gurwood returned to Great Walpole Street that afternoon, he found that Mr. Jeffreys had been sent for by Mrs. Calverley, and was already installed in the dining-room, with various books and documents, which he was submitting to the widow. Madame Du Tertre sat at her friend's right hand, taking notes of such practical business suggestions as occurred to Mrs. Calverley, and of the replies to such inquiries as she herself thought fit to make. To Martin's great relief, the banker's passbook, which he had seen on the previous evening, was not amongst those produced.

"You imagine this money was devoted to her service?" asked Martin.

"I have very little doubt about it. The ten thousand pounds were no doubt set aside and invested in some safe concern, yielding a moderate rate of interest, say five or six per cent, and settled upon her. From this she would have a decent yearly income, more than enough if I may judge from what I saw of her yesterday, to keep her in comfort. I don't know what the two thousand pounds, transferred recently, can have been for, unless it was that Mr. Calverley found his health beginning to fail, and desired to make a larger provision for her."

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Might not this second sum have been given as a bribe to some one?" asked Martin: " for the sake of buying somebody's silence, - -some one who had discovered what was going on, and threatened to reveal it?"

"Most assuredly it might," said Statham, in astonishment; "and it is by no means unlikely that it was applied in that manner. I am amazed, Martin, at your fertility of resource: I had no idea that you had so much acquaintance with human nature."

"In any case, then," said Martin Gurwood, ignoring the latter portion of his companion's speech, "it will not be necessary for me to touch upon the question of money in my interview with Mrs. Claxton."

"Certainly not," said Humphrey;

"You did perfectly right, my dear mother," said Martin absently, throwing himself into a chair. His conversation with Statham, the story he had heard, and the task he had undertaken, were all fresh in his mind; and he could not concentrate his attention on any thing else.

You seem fatigued, Monsieur Martin," said Pauline, eying him closely : "the worry of the last few days has been too much for you."

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It is not that, Madame Du Tertre," said Martin, rousing himself: "the fact is, I have been engaged in the city all day; and that always tires me."

"In the city!" repeated Pauline. "Madame asked Monsieur Jeffreys, and he told us you had not been there."

"Not to Mincing Lane. I had an engagement of my own in the city, which has occupied me all day."

"Ah! and you found that very fatiguing? The roar and the noise of London, the crowded streets, the want of fresh air, -all this must be very unpleas ant to you, Monsieur Martin. You will be glad to get back to your quiet, your country, and your what you call parish.'

"I shall not be able to return there for some little time yet, I fear," said Martin. "I have a great deal yet to do in London.”

"I should like you to go through some of these books with me to-morrow. Mr. Jeffreys can leave them here, and can come up to-morrow; and”

DRAMATIC SITUATION AND DRAMATIC CHARACTER.

THERE are only two nations whose literature has culminated in a really supreme dramatic movement. The Hindoo dramatists have the highest name among all the authors whose human personality is acknowledged by Hindoo piety; but the dramatic framework does not transform the funda

mental conception of the story. "Sakuntala' is very

pretty; but the prettiest parts would be far prettier as idyls, and then they would be almost exactly on a level with the episode of Nala and Damayanti in the "Mahabharata." In Latin literature every thing is derivative; but it is only in dramatic literature that free translation passed for authorship; and the originality of Seneca certainly does not make us regret the fidelity of Terence. The chief poets of the great literary age of France and Germany were doubtless dramatists, if we are to class them by the extent, and even the quality, of their dramatic works. Still, it is enough to make us hesitate when Boileau claims Racine as a mere bel esprit whom he has trained to write smooth verse, and Mr. Mill pronounces him an admirable prose writer, who only becomes a poet in the choruses of "Esther" and "Athalie." The great German poets have been judged by a very wide and a very intelligent public; and their reputation as poets does not rest on their dramas, though these constitute the bulk of their poetical works. There are editions of Schiller's and Goethe's poems apart from their plays: there are editions of Shakspeare's plays apart from his poems. The fact is, that the classical drama of France is too academical to be national; and the classical drama of Germany is too literary to be quite dramatic. Spain has only given two classical writers to European literature, Cervantes and Calderon; and one of these is, with all his naireté and incompletenesses, one of the greatest among dramatists. Calderon is the highest legitimate expression of every thing that Cervantes satirized, of every thing that made Spain Spanish. Cervantes belongs to all the world: Calderon belongs to Spain; at least, outside Spain, his secular dramas are left to the student. He reaches the general public, so far as he does reach it, through his rengious pageants, which are Catholic as well as Spanish. The Italians had a fruitful and a splendid literature, but no national drama, perhaps because they had no national life. Their highest literature belongs to Europe rather than to themselves. The cosmopolite civilization of the middle age was idealized in Italy, as it was realized in France. Dante reflected its Catholicism, Petrarch and Ariosto reflected the sentimental and the adventurous aspects of its chivalry. Nothing was really their own but the pathetic or comic incidents of contemporary life (for even the past belonged to Rome, or the barbarians); and these found their appropriate vehicle in the novel, not in the drama.

It is only in Greece and England that we find a really normal dramatic literature, at once classical and popular. The Greek and the English drama are so different, and each of them is so varied, that we hardly need go beyond them for illustrations of our subject. It might have been necessary to find a wider basis it we were laying down canons of dramatic art; for after all, in spite of Lessing, there is something in Corneille's complaint that Aristotle might bave enlarged his conception of tragedy by reading "Polyeucte." But it is hardly necessary to prove, what might be proved from the dramatic literature of any country or of all, that situation is of the essence of the drama. Good poetry of any kind includes something of the characteristic interest of every kind. Homer has much of the interest of Euripides; Pindar has much of the interest of Homer; Euripides, in turn, has much of the interest of Sappho and Mimnermus. But a poem which has not a good story, and noole and brilliant scenery, is not an epic: a poem without emotion may be elevated and musical, but it is not lyrical. In the same way a poem, however lifelike and characteristic it may be, is not dramatic unless its action depends upon clearly contrasted situations. It is not too much to say, that, in a perfect dramatic poem, characters,

incidents, manners, every thing, are contained in and educed from the situation, which is assumed as the starting-point. Achilles comes ready-made into the "Iliad": Satan and the Red-Cross Knight come ready-made into "Paradise Lost" and the "Fairy Queen." Their characters are not determined by the story: the story is not determined by their characters. Some of their adventures they find, others they make in both they are themselves. They are conceived by the poet, and presented to the reader, in their detached individual character. This is not the method of the drama: there the characters form a group, the whole of which must be conceived at once, because each member of it is related to all the rest, and his individuality depends upon theirs. Hamlet would be nothing, or something wholly different,we do not say apart from his mother or Ophelia, but — apart from Polonius and Rosencrantz : his perplexities are aggravated by irritating contact with a number of nonentities. Ulysses, apart from the suitors and from Circe, would be Ulysses still. Orestes, apart from his mission, would be nothing. Malcolm would not be much, and is only individualized by a tendency to seek relief in self-accusation from the burden of responsibility. But, even in the severest form of the drama, characters may be elaborated up to any tragedians is a perfectly distinct conception; but all alike point. The Clytemnestra of each of the three great Attic are deduced from the legendary situation. Eschylus dwells upon the wrongs that all but justified her crime, and upon the energy that achieved it; Sophocles represents her as hardened and brutalized by her success; in Euripides, she is betrayed to her punishment by her own kindliness, which revives as selfishness passes into lassitude: all assume that they have to embody the figure of an adulteress, enthroned with her paramour upon her husband's grave.

It is necessary to develop such characters as Clytemnestra or Richard III. from within; otherwise, their wickedness would be too revolting for art: but in general a simpler proceeding is sufficient. Comedy seems to start every where with a traditional group of drolls: it is the essence of each to play upon the rest; and the genius of the comic writer shows itself not so much by his success in animating and individualizing these conventional types - though it shows itself there also - as by the success with which he avails himself of the adventures which grow out of their relations to interpret, to criticise, and to ridicule the life of his own day. True, there is no room for mere walking gentlemen: the brave Gyas and the brave Cloanthus are essentially undramatic; the faithful Achates, thin and shadowy as he is, has earned a kind of popularity in Virgil; in Sophocles, the equally faithful Pylades is reduced to the rank of a mute. But, though dramatic characters have to be contrasted, we commonly find that the situation contrasts them enough. When Pylades attains a real character in the " “Iphigenia in Tauris," he attains it simply from the force of circumstances. One of the two friends is to return to Greece; the other is to be sacrificed: each naturally wishes (for we are in the heroic age) to die for the other; only, as luck will have it, Pylades can make the offer first. For any thing that appears, the generosity of Orestes was similar in quality; it is certainly meant to be equal in quantity: but he has to refuse what Pylades offers; his devotion is negative; that of Pylades is positive. It would have been easy to make the contrast a matter of temperament: Orestes might well have been represented as less buoyant, less eager, though not less devoted, than a friend who had not lost a father, whom no furies had haunted, whom no oracles had driven to matricide; but Euripides knew how to economize his resources. The contest of generosity was complete in itself; it was sufficiently interesting to his audience; it might have been too fatiguing, not to say too painful, if he had gone into the reasons which led him to distribute the interest between his characters, although these reasons flowed naturally from his subject. In the "Two Noble Kinsmen," one of the very finest of the secondary works of the great age of English drama, there is another pair of contrasted heroes, whose characters are thoroughly dramatic, and yet are deduced from the very simplest differeace in their situation. In the scene at Thebes with Creon