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Welsh banker, there was nothing discreditable in his career, as judged by the standard of his own time, and he was undoubtedly a man of courage; yet he never succeeded in obtaining admission into that charmed circle of which he writes with such easy assurance. After a few years' service he left the Guards, and in his later days lived a good deal in Paris, where he was gener309-310 ally considered as a bore who flourished on the reputation of his duel and his Waterloo medal. His presence on the field of Waterloo nearly involved him in serious trouble. His battalion of the 1st Foot Guards (as the regiment of Grenadier Guards was then called) was at that time quartered in London, and a few weeks before the opening of the campaign he met Sir Thomas Picton, who was on the point of starting for the seat of war. Gronow expressed such a strong desire to see active service that the general offered to take him as orderly officer "if he could get leave." But the young Guardsman neglected this necessary step, and quitted his battalion at St. James's to join Picton's staff without permission from the proper authorities. Owing to the enthusiasm excited by the great victory Gronow escaped a court-martial, and the escapade was looked upon by the world at large as rather creditable to the delinquent; but his brother officers, who were as anxious as himself to see service, were extremely angry, and perhaps a little jealous. Many versions (nearly all of them incorrect) have been told of Gronow's duel, to which he had the good taste never to allude in his Reminiscences. No blame, however, could be attached to him in the affair, in which he killed his adversary, a French colonel, who was a bully and deserved his fate. In raising his arm to fire, the Frenchman by some mishap showed a small portion of his white shirt-front, and Gronow, a first-rate marksman, shot him dead. Next morning the victor received challenges from every French officer of the garrison, and he sent to Sir Charles Stewart for advice. One of the members of our embassy suggested that all the letters should be placed in a hat, and one of them drawn out, of which the writer should be immediately challenged. Capt. Gronow was quite willing to adopt this arrangement, but we believe that affair was ultimately put a stop to by the French authorities.

The Reminiscences and Recollections of Capt. Gronow: being Anecdotes of the Camp, Court, Clubs, and Society, 1810-1860. With Portrait, Woodcuts, and Etched and Aquatint Illustrations from Contemporary Sources by Joseph Grego. 2 vols. (Nimmo.)

IT is more than a quarter of a century since the first series of Capt. Gronow's 'Reminiscences' was given to the public, and the favourable reception it met with induced the author to publish at intervals three more instalments. The work, though of no great importance, was amusing, and had an interest of its own in a time when publications of that sort were less common than at present. Capt. Gronow's anecdotes referred for the most part to manners and customs which must have seemed grotesque and wanting in refinement even to the readers of the original volumes, and since their appearance society has undergone still further changes.

There are few persons living who can remember the events recorded in these gossiping pages; and the minor celebrities and club dandies of Capt. Gronow's time are now almost entirely forgotten. Dan Mackinnon, Hervey Aston, and "Cornet" Wortley have passed away, and their places in the bay window of White's know them no more. The fame of "Beau" Brummell and D'Orsay has been rather more enduring, and Lord Alvanley's name is still remembered for his bons mots, to few of which he had any real claim. Nothing is more unaccountable than this nobleman's reputation for wit. Like Belinda's attendant he was "praised for labours not his own"; and we have been assured by those who knew him well and were much in his society that he was not a particularly amusing companion, and rarely said a good thing. Capt. Gronow, however, professed unbounded admiration for him, and he may be considered as one of the heroes of these 'Reminiscences.' But Lord Alvanley could not have been particularly well known in private life to their author, who, though he tells us much about White's (of which he certainly was not a member), about Almack's, and the exclusive society of those days, was not such a man of fashion as he represented himself to be. The son of a respectable

،

Another notable event in Capt. Gronow's career was a certain correspondence with the Duke of Wellington. The duke, it was reported, had warned young Paul Lieven to avoid Gronow as "a man addicted to gambling and the society of opera dancers." Gronow at once wrote to inquire if the report was true, and received an answer from the duke that he could hardly have made such a statement, as he was "totally unacquainted with either the habits or tastes" of the writer, but at the same time he was quite prepared to give him satisfaction if he required it. Gronow was "deeply affected" at this mark of condescension, and his feelings of gratitude were raised to enthusiasm when some years later he met the duke in the park, who acknowledged Gronow's salute, and, on hearing his name mentioned, smiled and nodded. We hear little in these 'Reminiscences' of the famous writers of that time; but Gronow on one occasion met Scott and Byron at dinner,

and he had been intimate with Shelley when they were boys together at Eton. He saw the poet at Genoa a few weeks before his death, and mentions that his hair was already tinged with grey. Capt. Gronow's tastes do not appear to have been literary, though once in these pages we come across a line quoted, not very accurately, from the Rape of the Lock,' and there is an anecdote about Pope and the Duke of Montagu which we certainly have never seen before. There is also a good story (which reads like a scene from one of the Restoration dramatists) of a love adventure of which Sir Richard Strachan was the hero, but on this occasion that gallant officer employed none of the dilatory tactics imputed to him in the well-known quatrain. The Admiral in his sixty-first year had fallen desperately in love with the daughter of a man who kept a china shop in South Audley Street, and was determined to elope with her:

"She appeared to agree to this proposal; but the Admiral, on arriving at the place of rendezvous, found, instead of the girl, her father and brother armed with bludgeons, with which they belaboured him to their hearts' content. The to

old Lovelace defended himself as best he could till the watchmen in the neighbourhood

the rescue, and took all parties to Marlborough

Street, where they remained in durance vile during the night. The following morning, they were brought before the magistrate, who was proceeding to interrogate them, when Admiral Lord Gardner entered to swear an affidavit: and perceiving Sir Richard in a miserable plight, and surrounded by a motley crew, exclaimed, in true melodramatic style-'What do I see! struck! impossible-impossible!"" Dicky Strachan a prisoner, and his colours The Admiral wisely, however, declined to give evidence against his assailants, and nothing further was heard of the affair.

There are other interesting little pieces of old-world gossip, but it is hardly necessary to describe at any length a work which must be pretty well known. It has, however, of late years become rather scarce, and Mr. Nimmo has done wisely in reprinting it in this splendid edition. Almost the only fault we have to find is with the illustrations, which are not quite satisfactory. Many of them appear to be composed of separate portraits engraved on the same plate, and arranged without any apparent connexion with each other, like the figures in Madame Tussaud's waxwork groups; but the intention of the editor was probably to give as many portraits as possible of the personsmen tioned in the text. Another objection to these volumes is that they are too large to read comfortably without a reading desk. Yet they can be strongly recommended as ornaments to lie on the drawing-room table, where timid guests, before dinner is announced, may conceal their embarrassment by turning over these leaves of magnificent hand-made paper.

In Vinculis. By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. (Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.)

MR. WILFRID BLUNT's little volume takes its title from a series of sixteen so-called sonnets of which the few not written in jail were either designed there or were subsequently composed with reference to the time of his incarceration. In a brief preface he speaks of the mental discipline of imprisonment, comparing it to a sickness or a spiritual retreat; and these sonnets-not only those which are devout and even pietistic outpourings, but those also which are merely secular-certainly show a grave and patient contemplativeness, and an uncomplaining acceptance of the miseries and humiliations of such a captivity, which speak much for the wholesome calm of a reclusion not long enough to be enervating. There is in these sonnets no more rant and scream than there is repentance. The prisoner does not so much hint that if all were to do again he would not get into prison; he has no hesitations or questionings about what he will do when he gets out. Though in religious moods he accuses himself of faults towards Heaven, there is

as

as to the conduct which has caused his sentence nothing further from his mind than self-blame-nay, he pleads it to Heaven in his favour:

Lord, here is darkness-yet this heart unwise,
Bruised in Thy service, take in sacrifice.

But, excepting in one sonnet to which we shall presently refer, this conviction of martyrdom is unobtrusive, and it is not attended with maledictions on the persecutors-even in the form of forgiveness. So calmly selfrestrained is the tone of these prison musings that among the sixteen sonnets which embody them we can only find two breathing hostility; and in them the hostility is such as, in the morality of real life as well as in the dramatic morality of poetic art, is not only warrantable but necessary from a man who consistently believes himself enlisted in the cause of right against wrong. Whether his conviction be just or no we are not concerned to argue. In any fair way of approaching these prison poems the reader has not to introduce his own personal views of the questions which caused the imprisonment or prompted the poems; the author must be granted his standpoint, and from that we must regard his light and shade.

We give the sonnets of which we have been speaking:

God knows, 'twas not with a fore-reasoned plan

I left the easeful dwellings of my peace, And sought this combat with ungodly Man, And ceaseless still through years that do not

cease

Have warred with Powers and Principalities. My natural soul, ere yet these strifes began, Was as a sister diligent to please

And loving all, and most the human clan.

God knows it. And He knows how the world's tears

Touched me. And He is witness of my wrath, How it was kindled against murderers

Who slew for gold, and how upon their path
I met them. Since which day the World in arms
-Strikes at my life with angers and alarms.

There are wrongs done in the fair face of heaven
Which cry aloud for vengeance, and shall cry;
Loves beautiful in strength whose wit has striven
Vainly with loss and man's inconstancy;
Dead children's faces watched by souls that die;
Pure streams defiled; fair forests idly riven;
A nation, suppliant in its agony,

Calling on justice, and no help is given.

All these are pitiful. Yet, after tears,

Come rest and sleep and calm forgetfulness, And God's good providence consoles the years.

Only the coward heart which did not guess,

Leaving reverence and good taste out of the count, the making Christ a prototype of Mr. Wilfrid Blunt, and the comparison of Mr. Wilfrid Blunt's sentence to undergo a short imprisonment to the sublime agonies of the Passion, constitute a bathos of disproportion inexcusable in any serious poem. A poet, like any other artist, should have a notion of perspective.

Far better are Mr. Blunt's descriptions of his prison life. Though not possessed of any originality, they have in them the poetry and interest of truth, and they show several good literary touches. Perhaps the

following are the best :

Behold the Court of Penance. Four gaunt walls Shutting out all things but the upper heaven. Stone flags for floor, where daily from their stalls The human cattle in a circle driven

Tread down their pathway to a mire uneven, Pale-faced, sad-eyed, and mute as funerals.

Woe to the wretch whose weakness unforgiven Falters a moment in the track or falls.

Yet is there consolation. Overhead

The pigeons build and the loud jackdaws talk,
And once in the wind's eye, like a ship moored,
A sea-gull flew and I was comforted.
Even here the heavens declare thy glory, Lord,
And the free firmament thy handiwork.

much better in jail than out of it, to judge from the work in this volume. Passing from 'In Vinculis' to the other poems, we come on some intolerable jigging and jumping in 'Remember O'Brien.' Any verse will do for a sample, for there is none better than the others :

On his plank bed in the darkness,
He is laid who gave you light,
Crisped with cold and prison starkness
Is the hand your woes did write.
Dumb the lips are that your cause
Pleaded against human laws.

Here as on a bed of passion
Lies the martyr of your nation,
All his eloquence grown mute.
Ireland! be your wrath afoot,
Rise! Remember O'Brien !

This sort of thing for sound and for sense, and for rhymes plenty to match with nation -passion, as, for instance, sin-men, painmen, derision-commission. The rhyming of the 'In Vinculis' sonnets is not always irreproachable, and Mr. Blunt has not attempted the perfect form of sonnet versification-in fact his are sonnets only in name -but in them he seems to have taken some thought for execution, or to have been guided by a good instinct; if this also was fruit of prison discipline, must we not wish that Mr. Blunt should have more of the discipline if he is to be a poet? After 'Remember O'Brien' comes another jig in a different measure, 'Poor Erin,' in

My prison has its pleasures. Every day
Sparrows come trooping in familiar way
At breakfast-time, spare meal of milk and bread, which verse after verse has some appalling
With head aside beseeching to be fed.
A spider too for me has spun her thread
Across the prison rules, and a brave mouse
Watches in sympathy the warders' tread,

These two my fellow-prisoners in the house.
But about dusk in the rooms opposite

I see lamps lighted, and upon the blind
A shadow passes all the evening through.

It is the gaoler's daughter fair and kind
And full of pity-so I image it-
Till the stars rise, and night begins anew.

He takes farewell of his prison with the quiet earnestness which is the characteristic excellence of the 'In Vinculis' series. "I do not love you," he says-and, considering the uncomfortablenesses he has mentioned, the "cold lying, hunger, nights of wakefulness," the "base turnkey teaching humility," the matin bell that " calls to toil, but little comforteth," the "harsh orders given," and the "thieves for company," he could scarcely be expected in his most resigned of moods to love the place but he nevertheless finds gratitude for it :

And yet my mind

Remains your debtor. It has learned to see
How dark a thing the earth would be and blind
But for the light of human charity.

I am your debtor thus and for the pang

rhyme to Erin, such as endearing, fearing, despairing. In his anxiety to get in these rhymes Mr. Blunt takes scant thought for meaning. Whether the metaphors are mixed it is hard to say, for they baffle investigation. We cannot make out what images are intended by

The hireling shepherds that did your [Erin's]

shearing

And sold your sheep to the land of shame, and

When the mighty ocean shall bring you [Erin] steering

To reap your bread on the waters cast; but it looks as if there must be several metaphors tangled up to make these puzzles.

'The Canon of Aughrim,' the concluding poem of the volume, and the longest, is a more important effort. It is an extreme statement of Ireland's case against England, and an exculpatory plea for violence and dynamite in the cause of the oppressed. As a poem it errs by being too argumentative, and too cool for the sentiments it states and the scenes it describes. And the priest whose sympathies and convictions are so fervent that he feels that only his creed and his priesthood keep him from being himself an

Which touched and chastened, and the nights of avenger, no matter how, should, to be thought

Which were my years of learning.

The concluding sonnet, "No, I will smile no more," has some rather good lines, but the series would be better without it. The conception of a man solemnly making up his mind to affect a rueful countenance for the rest of his life, and to resist all temptation to look pleased, is not impressive by its loftiness, and certainly not by its reality. Mrs. Gummidge did not find it

sort.

Ought his readers to wish Mr. Blunt back in jail? We are considering the point only with regard to literature. He certainly writes

dramatically consistent, be overcome by sorrow and wrath as he pursues his theme. No such diatribe as his could be delivered in a set and seemly fashionunless it were by a fiendish sort of personage with abnormal self-control, using the calmness of a deadly malignity to serve some subtle turn. And the canon is meant for nothing other than a virtuous man whose heart is hot within him. However, there is good rhetoric in the piece, though little true poetry, and altogether too much strain after effect - a fault which is evidently a near enemy of Mr. Blunt as a writer, and from which the best pieces in this volume are not quite free.

Around the World on a Bicycle. - From Teheran to Yokohama. By Thomas Stevens. With Numerous Illustrations. (Sampson Low & Co.)

THIS volume describes the second and concluding part of a journey certainly unique, even after making the necessary deductions from what is implied in the title, since the first portion of the route actually traversed by the bicycle-and a good deal of this was trundled was from Teheran to a short distance within the Afghan frontier, and then back to the Caspian. Thence the more ordinary conveyances of railway and steamer brought the traveller vid Constantinople and Egypt to Kurrachee and Lahore. From this point the bicycle bowled pleasantly down the Grand Trunk road-"the finest highway in the whole world," as Mr. Stevens calls itto Calcutta, and only took up the running again at Canton for Shanghai, but a good deal of this last distance had from stress of circumstances to be done by boat.

After reading the writer's experiences a critic may doubt whether, except as an outlet for abounding energy or as a curious tour de force, this mode of travelling has any advantages whatever where the route, as in Persia and China, lies through broken and difficult country, and among an ignorant and half-savage population, the latter constituting the chief difficulty and danger. It is, indeed, possible that he might have got safely through Afghanistan into India had not both British and Afghan authorities, exercising probably a wise discretion, barred the road. But here the traveller had at least a smattering of Persian at his command, and this and the prestige of the British name (the birthright surely of the American traveller in those countries) pulled him through on critical occasions. In China it was quite different, and his total ignorance of the language and want of any means of explaining himself or of exchanging ideas made the attempt, even on his own showing, a piece of scarcely excusable foolhardiness. To the English reader the Persian and Afghan section of the journey will be the most interesting, not only because every thing relating to those regions- as the physical features and resources of the country, and the character and disposition of the people-is of importance to us, but also because even the slight acquaintance with the language possessed by the writer brings him more en rapport with the people on this part of his journey than elsewhere. Indeed, the absence of any such intelligent rapport gives in several places a disappointing superficiality to the book. However, it is perhaps only fair to remember that the chief end of the book is to record the adventures of the bicycle, and these adventures, and the sensations which the said phenomenon aroused, were certainly startling enough.

On the Persian journey nothing-except perhaps the vocal efforts of his native companions seems to have tried the author's equanimity so much as the inquisitiveness of the people, not only crowding around him in the streets so as to make progress impossible, but forcing their way into the inns, insisting on a "tomasha," and occasionally waxing violent when refused. On the other hand, a short performance would always procure him board and

lodging, poor enough generally, but the best that was to be had. Eggs, pomegranates, tea, and bread are the staples; the last tastes best when you have not seen it baked! "Quite an unaccustomed luxury, however, is obtained at Shurab-a substance made from grapes, called sheerah, which resembles thin molasses. A communal dish, which I see the chapar-jee and his shagirds prepare for themselves and eat this evening, consists of one pint of sheerah, half that quantity of grease, a handful of chopped onions and a quart of water. This awful mixture is stewed for a few minutes and then poured over a bowl of broken bread; they then gather around and eat it with their hands." The hardships of the road are sometimes severe, and on an occasion like the following a bicycle must be classed among impedimenta :

"It is genuine wintry weather, and with no bedclothes, saveanarrow horse-blanket borrowed from my impromptu friend, I spend a cold, uncomfortable night, for a caravanserai menzil is but a place of mere shelter after all. The hadji rises early and replenishes the fire, and with his little brass teapot we make and drink a cup of tea together before starting out...... Before covering three miles, the snow-storm develops into a regular blizzard; a furious, driving storm that would do credit to Dakota. Without gloves, and in summer clothes throughout, I quickly find my self in a most unenviable plight. It is no common snow-storm; every few minutes a halt has to be made, hands buffeted and ears rubbed to prevent those members from freezing; yet foot

gear has to be removed and streams waded in

of broken hills, and the climax of my discomfort the bitter cold. The road leads up into a region is reached, when the blizzard is raging with everincreasing fury, and the cold has already slightly nipped one finger. While attempting to cross a deep narrow stream without disrobing, it is my unhappy fate to drop the bicycle into the water, and furthermore to front the necessity of in

stantly plunging in, armpit deep, to the rescue. situation is really quite critical; in a few moments When I emerge upon the opposite bank my my garments are frozen stiff; everything I have with me is wet; my leathern case, containing the small stock of medicines, matches, writing material, and other small but necessary articles, is full of water, and, with hands benumbed, I am unable to unstrap it. My only salvation consists in vigorous exercise, and, conscious

of this, I splurge ahead through the blinding storm and fast-deepening snow, fording several other streams, often emerging dripping from the icy water to struggle through waist-deep snow-drifts that are rapidly accumulating under the influence of the driving blast and fast-falling snow. Uncertain of the distance to the next caravanserai, I push deter

minedly forward in this condition for several hours, making but slow progress. Everything must come to an end, however, and twenty miles from Gadamgah the welcome outlines of a roadside caravanserai become visible through the thickly falling snow-flakes, and the din of many jingling camel-bells proclaims it already occupied...... Leaving the bicycle outside in the snow, I clamber over the humpy forms of kneeling camels, through an intricate maze of mules and over barricades of miscellaneous merchandise, and, making a virtue of dire necessity, invade the menzil of a well-to-do looking traveller. Here, waiving all considerations of whether my presence is acceptable or the reverse, I take a seat beside their fire and forthwith proceed to conditions this proceeding would be nothing less shed my saturated foot-gear. Under ordinary than a piece of sublime assurance; but necessity knows no law, and my case is really very urgent. When I explain to the occupants of the menzil that this nolens volens invasion of their premises is but a temporary arrangement, in

the flowing language of polite Persian they tell me that the menzil, the fire, and everything

they have is mine."

On a journey where the character of the surface to be traversed is the first consideration, the notes of an intelligent traveller naturally contain some interesting details like the following:

"Before getting many miles from Mazinan, I encounter the startling novelty of streams of liquid mud, rolling their thick yellow flood over the plain in treacly waves, travelling slowly, like waves of molten lava. The mud is only a few inches deep, but the streams overspread a considerable breadth of country, as my road is some miles from where they leave the mountains, and they seem to have no well-defined channels to flow in. A stream of slimy, yellow mud, two hundred yards wide, is a most disagreeable obstacle to overcome with a bicycle; but confined in narrow, deep channels, the conditions would be infinitely worse."

Various quaint and interesting characters were met with by the way, and many amusing conversations are recorded; the writer contrasts the extortionate Persians with the honest, unsophisticated Afghan nomads, who go out of their way to serve you, and decline or despise remuneration. The nomad or semi-nomad Persians, however, are often pleasant enough, e. g.,

"The villagers of Assababad are simplehearted people, and both men and women clap their hands like delighted children to have so rare a novelty suddenly appear upon the scene of their usually humdrum and uneventful lives. Quilts are spread for me on the sunny side of the village wall, and they gather eagerly around to feast to the full their unaccustomed eyes. A

couple of the men round up a matronly goat

and exact from her the tribute of a bowl of milk;

others contribute bread, and the frugal repast is seasoned with the unconcealed delight of my hospitable audience. They are not overly clean in their habits, though, these rude and isolated people; and to keep off prying housewives, bent on satisfying their curiosity regarding the texture of my clothing and the comparative whiteness of my skin, I am compelled to adopt the defensive measure of counter curiosity. The signal and instantaneous success of this plan, resulting in the hasty, scrambling retreat of the women, is greeted with boisterous merriment by the entire crowd."

Especially interesting are the traveller's relations with the Afghan chief at Furrah, who, while deciding to detain him and send him to Herat, endeavoured to soften the disappointment by the politest circumlocution and liberal supplies of all the delicacies at his disposal; indeed, the friendly and considerate treatment he met with while under surveillance is remarkable.

His reminiscences of Chinese travel seem to the author himself little better than a horrible nightmare, and if he had realized before starting the proportion which the risks bore to the pleasure or knowledge gained, he would hardly, we think, have undertaken this expedition. Unable to exchange a single idea with the natives, he could not even learn the names of the places he passed through. The village inns where his nights were passed were dens of indescribable filthiness. The importunate curiosity of the people was as bad as in Persia, culminating in wilder excitement, and, combined with the playfulness of the English rough, soon turned to hustling and pelting. More than once his life was in imminent danger, from which he was rescued