tries where such customs have long existed, and that, too, not without costing as much, relatively at least to the means of those who cling to them, as ordinary class luxuries cost in proportion to the means of the comfortable and the rich. If all unnecessary expenditure on the amenities of life were in a censurable sense luxury, what should we not have to say of the gala pleasures and pastimes of all the various peoples of Europe? What may be luxury in a bad sense to one class, because it occupies far too much of the conscious attention of those who are not accustomed to such amenities, is not only not luxury to the class who have grown up amid such amenities, but, on the contrary, may be almost a necessity in this sense, that without it they would constantly miss some part of the natural background of their life, and so be the less fit for the best that was in them.

We think it might safely be laid down that the great majority of mankind ought usually to remain in the same general habits of life in which they have grown up, with such moderate increase of the amenities and graces of life as corresponds to the change which always takes place between one generation and the succeeding generation of the same class. Some, perhaps, are born to be reformers, and they, it may be, may thrive on those severer and more ascetic practices, which serve to show in what direction their zeal leads them, and how much more of it they have than the majority of mankind. But the majority of men are not the better but the worse for shooting out of their traditional ways of life, and endeavoring to play the part of the austere reformer or the self-renouncing philanthropist. The real mischief of luxury is the craving to luxuriate in sensations and indulgences which disturb the balance of the character-when, for instance, instead of simply enjoying his natural rest or food, a man luxuriates in the softness of his bed, or the delicacy of his meals; when instead of eagerly pursuing his studies, a man luxuriates in the literary flavor of his leisure, and the exclusive solitude of his rare library; when instead of delighting

NEW SERIES.-VOL. LIX., No. 3.

others with his artistic treasures, he gloats over his possessions all the more that they are reserved sedulously for his own private enjoyment-then we see the evils of luxury, its tendency to possess and poison the mind with the mere relish of a morbid appetite or selfish monopoly. But when there is none of this gloating over a personal indulgence, then, though there may be much misapplied expenditure, much waste of wealth on objects inadequate to the means lavished upon them, there is none of the peculiar poison of luxury-none of that gluttony of the finer senses, which fills those who can understand it with legitimate disgust. So long as the beautification of life goes on actively, though it matters much whether that beautification be exclusively in the direction of æsthetic refinement, or in that of moral refinement, or of both, there can be nothing but good in the activity of even the lowest kind of beautification-merely æsthetic beautification. It is when the mental activity ceases and the character begins to exhaust itself in trying to rekindle the ardors of old raptures and played-out sensations, that the evil of luxury shows itself. If luxury were judged by any external standard, we should soon have the Puritanic feeling cutting down all art and all literature, and all the achievements of the subtler intellect, to the dead-level of some moral uniformity. The whole people would be less happy and less living for such a change in the framework of their lives. In the objective sense, there is as much luxury in the vast expenditure of time on refined intellectual pursuits, as there is in the vast expenditure of wealth on refined artistic treasures. The mathematician who lives in his mathematics, lives in what may quite as truly be called a world of intellectual luxury, as the treasures of the artistic collector may be called a world of æsthetic luxury. The only censurable sense of the word "luxury," is the sense in which it describes that selfish gloating of the soul over an exclusive pleasure, which paralyzes its energies, arrests its sympathies, and taints its enjoyments with almost voluptuous raptures.-Spectator.

23

IT had been an eloquent sermon; the Bishop had been at his best. That was the general feeling. At the informal meeting which was held in the Dean's parlor, the morning after, this feeling was strongly expressed.

"If," said Mr. Dean, "words can make men temperate, then surely the words which we were privileged to hear proceeding from the pulpit in our befoved cathedral yesterday afternoon must have carried conviction to many an erring soul.”

So said all of them. Canon Gorse, in particular, felt bound to say that he had heard many temperance sermons in his time, but never one which had impressed him more strongly than the one which the Bishop had delivered yesterday to the clerical and lay workers in the cause of total abstinence. When the Canon made this outspoken declaration, every parson in the room. —and every man of them had preached temperance sermons in his time, so they ought to have been good judges--exclaimed, "Hear, hear "

Perhaps the enthusiasm was rendered greater by the fact that, until quite lately, the Bishop had scarcely been a stalwart. Always on the side of temperance-oh yes, certainly that but on the question, the vital question, of total abstinence his views had scarcely been so pronounced as some of his admirers, both clerical and lay, would have wished. Indeed, it was understood that the Bishop himself favored a good glass of wine at times. In fact, it was reported that he was even esteemed a connoisseur in the matter of certain Spanish wines which are nowadays esteemed old-fashioned. That this should have been so was, in a degree, unfortunate; because how could teetotalism, as a propaganda, assume those dimensions which were in every way desirable in a diocese, the bishop of which, as it was well known, himself looked with a by no means unloving eye on the wine when it is red? When, therefore, it was announced that, if only for example's sake, the Bishop would henceforward shun the spirit which is man's universal curse, it was

felt, and rightly felt, that a victory had been won. That victory had, so to speak, been consummated by the Bish-. op's sermon in the cathedral yesterday, in which he had declared himself a teetotaller, on the side of the teetotallers, and willing, nay, anxious, to stand in their forefront and to lead the van.

"One thing," observed Canon Gorse, "seems plain-that is, that we now shall be on safe ground in refusing to renew the lease of The Rose and Crown." For that, thank Goodness!"

Again the reverend Canon seemed but to give voice to the opinion of all who heard him. This question of "The Rose and Crown" had been as a thorn in the side of the cathedral chapter. "The Rose and Crown" was an inn which actually faced the door by means of which the choir and officiating clergy were wont to gain admittance to the sacred edifice. Sad tales were told of it: of how quarts of stout, and suchlike obnoxious fluids, had been. sent in from "The Rose and Crown" to the choirmen while they had actually been engaged in practice, and other dreadful stories. The lease of the inn was running out. The landlord-one George Boulter-desired its renewal. The house, and the ground upon which it stood, were the property of the cathedral chapter. Mr. Boulter had already been privately notified that, in all probability, his lease would not be renewed. It was the desire of the chapter that the house should be transformed into a Church institute. The only factor which might upon this point breed dissension had hitherto been the Bishop. But now, as the Bishop himself had signed the pledge, it seemed plain that, as Canon Gorse had observed, the scandal of a number of clergymen owning a public-house would be put an end to.

The Canon had scarcely uttered his remark when the library door opened, and a servant, entering, advanced to Mr. Dean.

"Mr. Boulter, sir, says he wishes to see you most particular.' Mr. Boulter !" exclaimed the Dean. The man himself, the landlord

of "The Rose and Crown." The Dean reflected. He rubbed his nose with his glasses. "What is it that Mr. Boulter can wish to say to me? However, I will see him. Tell him so." The servant vanished. The Dean turned to the assembled clergymen. "It is, perhaps, just as well that I should see the man at once, and let him know clearly what our position is."

"Exactly," said Canon Gorse. "Let him understand that plainly. It will not only be fair to ourselves, but it will also be fair to the man.'

Mr. Boulter was a portly person his countenance was ruddy; in manner he was affable. He was, all over, Mine Host of the Inn; a type of Boniface which, if we may believe the chroniclers, used to abound, but which, under the present advance of the teetotal forces, is, we will say fortunately, becoming extinct. He reverenced a gentleman, but above all things he reverenced the cloth. His motto as a boy had been "Church and Crown;" but in these latter days he had begun to fear that both Church and Crown were on the side of the enemy.

"Mr. Boulter," observed the Dean, as he entered the room in which that gentleman was waiting, "I am pressed for time. Indeed, I have a meeting in the library. I must therefore ask you to tell me in as few words as possible what it is you wish to say."

Mr. Boulter turned the brim of his hat round and round in his hands.

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"It is about the lease, Mr. Dean." "I thought so. I may as well be brief with you, and clear. You may take my word for it that the lease will not be renewed, and that, in short, The Rose and Crown' will cease to be an inn."

"I think not, Mr. Dean."

"You think not, Mr. Boulter! May I ask what you mean?"

There was something in the tone in which Mr. Boulter said that he thought not which the Dean did not understand. He stared at Mr. Boulter with dignified surprise. Mr. Boulter actually smiled.

"I think that The Rose and Crown' will continue to be an inn. That is what I meant, Mr. Dean."

The Dean shrugged his shoulders.

"If you choose to persist in thinking so, in spite of my assurance to the contrary, that is your affair, not mine."

The Dean turned to go, as if the interview were already at an end. Mr. Boulter coughed behind his hand.

"I should like to have one word with you before you go." The Dean faced round. "Then am I to tell my tale ?" "Your tale? What tale?" "About the Bishop, Mr. Dean." "About the Bishop?" The Dean looked the innkeeper up and down. A vague suspicion crossed his mind. Already, at this hour of the morning, could the man be drunk? There was nothing in the fellow's bearing to denote anything of the kind. And, indeed, it was matter of common notoriety that, personally, the landlord of "The Rose and Crown" was an abstemious man. But, none the less, there was at that particular moment something about Mr. Boulter's ner which the Dean was at a loss to understand. "What do you mean by your tale about the Bishop, sir?"

man

For a moment or two Mr. Boulter continued to turn his hat round and round in his hands, as if he found some difficulty in choosing the exact words in which to frame what he wished to say.

I understand," he began at last, that yesterday the Bishop preached a sermon upon temperance.

"You understand quite rightly. It would have done you good, Mr. Boulter, to have heard that sermon. Had you done so, you would understand how strong would be the Bishop's opposition to any renewal of the lease of The Rose and Crown.'"

6

"Indeed!" Mr. Boulter's tone was dry. "I am not so sure of that." The Dean stared. The man's manner was so very odd.

"Be so good, Mr. Boulter, as to say plainly what it is you mean.

"I don't know what you think, sir, of a bishop who comes straight from preaching à sermon on temperance into my public-house."

"Mr. Boulter !"

"It's no good your looking at me like that, sir. I was surprised, I don't mind owning it. But just let me tell my tale."

The Dean let him tell his tale. "Yesterday afternoon I was standing at my private door, looking out into the street. It was getting dusk. The service in the cathedral was over, and I thought that every one had gone. All of a sudden I saw the little door open which we call the Dean's door, and which you know is right in front of my house. Some one came out and walked quickly across the street toward my place. I drew back and went inside. When I got inside the bar I saw that there was some one in a little compartment which only holds about two comfortably, and which I call a private wine-bar. I heard him ask Miss Parkins, one of my young ladies, if we had such a thing as a glass of good sound port."

The Dean shuddered-he scarcely knew why. The fact is that port was the liquid of which the Bishop, in his less stalwart days, had been esteemed such an excellent judge.

"The compartment in which he was is meant for parties who wish to keep themselves quite private. It's boarded up on either side, and in front of it, facing the bar, is a panel of glazed glass set in a mahogany frame, with just enough room between it and the counter to pass, say, a glass of wine. If the party inside wants to keep himself to himself, it's next to impossible to see his face unless you go round by the door in the front. I couldn't see this party's face, but I could see enough of him to see he was a parson. He was short and stout "-the Bishop was short and stout -" and though he had the collar of his coat turned up, it wasn't turned up enough to hide the collar of his shirt. Seeing that I had seen him come out of the Dean's own door in the cathedral, and that he was a parson, things seemed a little queer. So I asked Miss Parkins, on the quiet, if she knew who it was. I could see she couldn't altogether make it out. She said, although she hadn't seen his face, she seemed to know his voice. Well, he liked my port. heard him say so; and I heard him tell Miss Parkins that he was considered as good a judge of port wine as any man in England." Again the Dean was conscious of a shiver. "Anyhow, he drank a bottle of it before he went.

I

6

"A bottle, Mr. Boulter ?" "Yes, sir, a bottle, and one glass over. Directly he had gone my potman went into the private wine-bar for something or other, and as soon as he got inside he called out, Hallo! the gentleman's left his bag behind.' And he handed a little leather bag across the bar. Any gentleman who had put away a bottle of port wine in the time that gentleman had done might forget a trifle of a bag like that. It was a beauti. ful little bag. I had never seen one quite like it before. It had got some initials and a crest stamped on one side. I opened it to see if there was anything inside by means of which I could identify it, and return it to the owner. There was something inside a sermon. I never saw anything more beautifully written than that sermon-it was like copperplate." Once more the Dean was conscious of a shudder travelling down his spine. The Bishop's beautiful caligraphy was famous-a fair handwriting is nowadays too rare. the front page was written the Bishop's name and address in full, and in the top left-hand corner was written : 'Preached in the cathedral on the afternoon of the 13th of November, 189-.' That's yesterday afternoon, sir. I've brought that bag with me. You'll find the sermon still inside. Perhaps you know whose bag that is, sir."

"On

Mr. Boulter picked up a small leather bag which had been lying, hitherto unnoticed, upon a chair, and handed it to the astonished Dean. The Dean did know whose bag it was-he knew too well. There was no mistaking those initials and that crest. There was no necessity to examine the sermon which Mr. Boulter assured him was inside. The Dean gazed at that excellent example of fine workmanship in leather bags as if he realized that he had all at once become an actor in what might turn out to be a tragedy. Words proceeded from his stammering lips.

"You are, I am sure, too reasonable a man, Mr. Boulter, to jump to impossible conclusions from imperfect pre

misses."

"I don't know what you call 'imperfect premisses.' Directly I saw the name and address which was written on the front page of that sermon, Miss

Parkins cried out, Why, it was the Bishop's voice!' She stared at me as if she was going to have a fit-and well she might. Miss Parkins is a good girl, as all my young ladies are, and, indeed, everybody else about my place, although I say it." M. Boulter glared at the Dean with eyes which were full of meaning. "She never misses a chance of hearing the Bishop preach when she can get one, and if there's any one who ought to know the Bishop's voice it's her. It seems to me, begging your pardon, sir, that I ought to have a reward for bringing that leather bag back safe and sound.

"Certainly, Mr. Boulter. Any sum in reason you like to mention.'

93

"The reward I want is the renewal of my lease."

66

That, as I have already told you,

is-"

66

Excuse me just one moment, sir. You see that?" Taking an envelope out of an inner pocket of his coat, Mr. Boulter flourished it in the Dean's face. "I've a boy who lives in London, and writes for the papers; a smart chap he is, and well respected in his trade. I've written an account of how the Bishop preached a sermon on temperance in the cathedral-a fine sermon it was, I'm told by those who heard itand of how he then walked straight out of the cathedral into my public-house, and put away a bottle of old port, and got so drunk that he forgot his bag and left it behind him, with the sermon which he had just been preaching on temperance inside of it. That account's in this envelope. I'm going to send it to my boy, and I'm going to tell him to turn it into money; and I'll lay you what odds you please although I'm no more a betting man than you are-that, before a week is over, the tale will be told in every paper in England, ah! and known all the world over. You're going to take away my living. My grandfather kept The Rose and Crown' decent, my father kept it decent, and I've kept it decent; there's never been even so much as a shadow of a complaint made against me by the police, nor by no one. And yet you cathedral gentlemen have taken a sudden fad into your heads, and you're going to ruin me. Very well, ruin me!

You think you're going to do good to the cause of temperance by shutting up The Rose and Crown.' What harm do you suppose will be done to the cause of temperance by that tale being told, as they do tell that sort of tale nowadays, in all the newspapers of the world? I guess the cause of temperance will not get over that tale for years-it will be always being told. At the very least, if I do have to go I will take care that somebody else goes with me. Now which is it to be-am I to have my lease renewed, or am I to post this envelope?"

The Dean hesitated.

"In any case, as you must be aware, Mr. Boulter, the matter is not one which can be decided on the spur of the moment; the decision is not with me."

"Understand me, sir. If I go away from here without a promise of renewal, I post this letter. I know as well as you know that in the whole business your voice will be the ruling voice. You give me a bit of writing in which you undertake to do your best to get my lease renewed, and I will give you his envelope, with what's inside. And I will give you my promise never to breathe a word that the Bishop ever so much as came near my place. As for Miss Parkins, I know she won't speak unless she's forced. She's a religious girl; she thinks a lot of the Bishop, and she's too much shocked at the whole affair. I never saw a girl so upset. Now which is it to be ?"

The Dean still hesitated-with sufficient cause.

"What term of renewal would you require ?"

66

The last lease was for ninety-nine years, and I want this lease to be for ninety-nine."

"Ninety-nine years, Mr. Boulter ?" Mr. Boulter did not get a promise of renewal for ninety-nine years, or anything like it, but he did get "a bit of writing.' With that "bit of writing" in a secure division of his plethoric pocket-book he went away. The Dean was left to his reflections. The leather bag he held in one hand, the envelope which the landlord of "The Rose and Crown" had given him he held in the other. Putting down the bag, he tore the envelope into halves, then into