this mere inchoate civilisation of ours; let us watch the footsteps of Sir Bartle Frere, seeking to prevent our brethren on that continent from preying on one another like beasts of the forest. From them we may learn that the task of civilising the world is nearly all before us.

THOMAS BEWICK.

THE following correspondence will interest the admirers of Bewick, and at the same time will most completely serve the purpose of the writers :

TO JOSEPH HATTON, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE "GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.” Dear Sir,-I take the liberty of enclosing for your perusal some notes from the daughter of Bewick the wood engraver, to see if you can in any way aid in contradicting the false assertions made in your magazine in the first instance, then in the Times, and from thence copied into various other papers and booksellers' catalogues, a cutting from which I enclose. I thought from your position as editor, and also being well acquainted with press matters, you would be the most likely person to aid in such an undertaking, and also on account of your connection with our county. I myself am anxious that the nation should possess the whole of Thomas Bewick's woodcuts for the purpose of publishing a national edition of his works for the use of our schools of art here and in every Englishspeaking country. If we are as a people to develop an art peculiarly our own it can only take place by the promotion of a knowledge of the principles of the founders of it more widely amongst our students of art; and according to what I have read Bewick is one of them. Yours respectfully,

15, Sunderland Street, Sunderland, March 16, 1873.

TO THOMAS DIXON, ESQ.

THOMAS DIXON.

Sir, I thank you for the trouble you have taken in regard to the utterly false and annoying statements so persistently placed before the public that the late William Bewick, of Darlington, was a "nephew," a " cousin," and now a "son" of Thomas Bewick, wood engraver, my revered father. All the connections of this person are, of course, perfectly aware that he was not in the remotest degree related to my father. My brother, Robert Elliot Bewick, the only son of my father, Thomas Bewick, died unmarried, and was interred in the family burying place at Ovingham, August, 1849. I am, Sir, Your most obedient, J. BEWICK.

Gateshead, December 31, 1872.

The paragraph in the Gentleman's Magazine stated that William Bewick, the historical painter, of Haughton House, near Darlington, was the son of Bewick. This information was no doubt given to me on excellent authority, erroneous as it undoubtedly turns out to be. The statement in the Times to which my correspondent refers is quoted as follows in the book catalogue of Reeves and Turner :

Bewick's (W., artist) Life and Letters, edited by Thomas Landseer, A.R.A., portrait, 2 vols., post 8vo, 1871.-William Bewick was a son of the celebrated

Thomas Bewick, the wood engraver. He became a pupil of Haydn, in whose diary his name frequently occurs. "Mr. Landseer seems to have had a pious pleasure in editing this biography and these letters of his old friend. We should be wanting in our duty were we not to thank him for furnishing us with such interesting memorials of a man who did good work in his generation, but about whom little is known.”—Times.

The circumstance altogether is a striking illustration of the persistency with which a matter once put forth as history lives and grows.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

MAY, 1873.

CLYTIE.

A NOVEL OF MODERN LIFE.

BY JOSEPH HATTON.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ALLIANCE AGAINST FATE.

Ow do you do, Mr. Waller ?" said Tom, putting out his hand in a tired and languid way. "I am sorry you have been waiting so long."

"Don't mention it," said the old man.

not expect me, so you cannot help my having to wait, sir."

"Be seated, Mr. Waller," said Tom.

But Mr. Waller went to the door and shut it.

"Would you mind my closing the window?"

"You did

"No, certainly not," said Tom, almost too tired to feel or to express any surprise at the singular conduct and manner of his visitor.

"I have something important to say to you, Mr. Mayfield-something that I don't wish anybody else to hear."

Tom intimated acquiescence by laying down his gown, taking a

seat, and preparing to listen.

66

"First let us have a light, Mr. Waller- eh?”

"As you please, sir; it is getting dark."

Tom rang the bell, and a servant brought in his lamp ready trimmed and lighted. The first gleam of it fell upon Clytie.

The old man pointed to the bust with a trembling finger.

VOL. X., N.S. 1873.

L L

I have been looking at that," he said. "It is very like my girllike my cruel girl."

The old man's voice trembled with emotion.

"It is of her that you come to speak to me?" said Tom, some of his usual earnestness and energy returning.

"Yes. You have seen her to-day?"

"I have."

"You told her you loved her?”

"I did."

"Do you think that was quite right? Do you not think, sir, it would have been more honourable first to have spoken to her grandfather?"

"It would have been the most usual way; the most formal and proper perhaps; but love does not always consider the proprieties. I should have come to you, sir, had I been secure of Clytie's love; yes, had I been even assured of her respect," said Tom, rising from his chair and looking straight into the old man's face.

"Clytie-who is Clytie?" asked Luke Waller, fearing that some new discovery was about to break in upon him.

"That is Clytie," said Tom, pointing to the statuette. "I thought it like Miss Waller, and the habit of thinking of her has grown into my calling her Clytie."

"Yes," said the old man. "Yes; Clytie was a goddess. It is like it is like. And you love my child?"

"With all my heart and soul!” replied Tom fervently.

"And you would marry her?"

"To-morrow," said Tom, inspired by the searching gaze of the old

man.

"Give me your hand," said Mr. Waller. shall be my child's husband."

"You are my son. You

"My dear sir!" exclaimed Tom, seizing the old man's hand, his heart beating, his face aglow with the shock of a sudden happiness. "On one condition," said the old man.

"On any condition," replied Tom.

"You will not drive me away from her; you will not separate us ; you will try and live here in Dunelm as long as I am with you. I have not long to stay, sir-not long-and I have not very much of real happiness in this world, not much-not much."

"Take me, sir, as your son, and I will be true to you," said Tom, touched by the sorrowful manner of his visitor.

"But we must save her first," exclaimed the old man, as if he were just awaking from a dream, "we must save her; you will help me.

You are to be my son. You will be her lawful wedded and honourable husband. I always believed in you, always said you were a man of honour and a gentleman."

"You have always said truly, then," said Tom, with manly pride. "What is to be done?"

"Nothing of that sort at present," replied Luke, noticing the defiant, half-pugilistic attitude into which Tom had flung himself when he asked what there was to do.

"No, sit down, and I will tell you," said the old man, "I will tell you calmly, and then we can consult. I would not tell to any other living soul what I am about to tell you. But it is for her good, for her ultimate happiness. You give me your word of honour that you will never repeat what I am about to confide to your secret heart." "You may trust me," said Tom.

"I will; I do," said the old man. "You know Mr. Phil Ransford?" "I do."

"Last Monday night, when I was dining with the Dean, he scaled the Hermitage wall from the river and

"On Monday night, at about eight?"

"Yes; did you know of it?"

"No; but he had an appointment to meet me here at that time, and he never came."

"He met her, he met my dear child; made signals to her on the other side of the river, and then came over; and she saw him and talked to him in the summer-house. I have a trusty servant; she fetched me from the Dean's. I encountered the ruffian on the spot." Tom clenched his fist and looked at his favourite figure.

"It is only to-day that I had really forgiven her. She went out to walk this morning. A strange instinct induced me to follow her. I saw her fling something into the river by the bridge. I succeeded in recovering it. When she came home I showed it to her, and asked for an explanation. It was a case of jewels, valuable jewels, given to her by Ransford."

"Yes, and she flung them into the river," said Tom, as if he thought that was quite enough to atone for the sin of receiving them.

"She confessed all," said the old man; "confessed that Ransford had written letters to her; that he had met her once by appointment in the Banks."

"On the other side of the river, a fortnight ago, in the afternoon, in the Cathedral meadows," said Tom.

"Yes; how do you know?" asked Luke Waller, half suspiciously. "I saw her from the Observatory."