his age, and the modern novelist correctly mirrors
modern life when he presents woman as for man’s
pursuit till he has her, and for what treatment he
may will when he captures her. The position is
deplorable, is productive of a million wrongs, and,
happily, is slowly changing; but that it exists is
clear upon the face of our social existence, and is
even advertised between the sexes in love: “You
are mine” the man says, and means it. “I
am yours” the woman declares, and, fruit of
generations of dependence, freely, almost involuntarily,
gives herself.
But of this problem (upon which we could bore you
to distraction) we are nothing concerned in our novel.
Truly we offer you the pursuit of a girl; but my Mary
would neither comprehend this matter nor wish to be
other than her George’s. From page 57 she
waves to us; let us hurry along.
_.... Who so will stake his lot,
Impelled thereto by nescience or whim,
Cupidity or innocence or not,
On Chance’s colours, let men pray
for him._
Ralph
Hodgson.
Of George.
Excursions In A Garden.
Mr. Christopher Marrapit is dozing in a chair upon
the lawn; his darling cat, the Rose of Sharon, is
sleeping on his lap; stiffly beside him sits Mrs.
Major, his companion—that masterly woman.
As we approach to be introduced, it is well we should
know something of Mr. Marrapit. The nervous business
of adventuring into an assembly of strangers is considerably
modified by having some knowledge of the first we
shall meet. We feel more at home; do not rush
upon subjects which are distasteful to that person,
or of which he is ignorant; absorb something of the
atmosphere of the party during our exchange of pleasantries
with him; and, warmed by this feeling, with our most
attractive charm of manner are able to push among the
remainder of our new friends.
Unhappily, the friendly chatter of the neighbourhood,
which should supply us with something of the character
of a resident, is quite lacking at Paltley Hill in
regard to Mr. Marrapit. Mr. Marrapit rarely moves
out beyond the fine wall that encircles Herons’
Holt, his residence; with Paltley Hill society rarely
mixes. The vicar, with something of a frown,
might tell us that to his divers parochial subscription
lists Mr. Marrapit has consistently, and churlishly,
refused to give a shilling. Professor Wyvern’s
son, Mr. William Wyvern, has been heard to say that
Mr. Marrapit always reminded him “of one of
the minor prophets—shaved.” Beyond
this—and how little helpful it is!—Paltley
Hill society can give us nothing.
In a lower social grade of the district, however,
much might be learned. In the kitchens, the cottages,
and the bar-parlours of Paltley Hill, Mr. Marrapit
is considerably discussed. Nicely mannered as
we are, servants’ gossip concerning one in our
own station of life is naturally distasteful to us.
At the same time it is essential to our ease on being
introduced that we should know something of this gentleman.
Assuring ourselves, therefore, that we shall not be
prejudiced by cheap chatter, let us hear what the kitchens,
the cottages, and the bar-parlours have to say.
