Mr Brownlow, however, was much startled by the looks of Powys when he went into the office. He was more haggard than he had ever been in the days when Mr Wrinkell was suspicious of him. His hair hung on his forehead in a limp and drooping fashion-he was pale, and there were circles round his eyes. Mr Brownlow had scarcely taken his place in his own room when the impatient young man came and asked to speak to him. The request made the lawyer's hair stand up on his head, but he could not refuse the petition. "Come in," he said, faintly. The blood seemed to go back on his heart in a kind of despair. After all his anticipations of approaching freedom, was he to be arrested after all, before the period of emancipation came ?

As for Powys, he was too much excited himself to see anything but the calmest composure in Mr Brownlow, who indeed, throughout all his trials, though they were sharp enough, always looked composed. The young man even thought his employer methodical and matter-of-fact to the last degree. He had put out upon the table before him the book Sara had intrusted him with. It was a small edition of one of the poets which poor Powys had taken with him on his last unhappy expedition to Brownlows; and Mr Brownlow put his hand on the book, with a constrained smile, as a schoolmaster might have put his hand on a prize.

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My daughter sent you this, Powys," he said, a book which it appears you left last night; and why did you go away in such a hurry without letting me know?"

"Miss Brownlow sent it?" said Powys, growing crimson; and for a minute the poor young fellow was so startled and taken aback that he could not add another word. He clutched at the book, and gazed at it hungrily, as if it could tell him something, and then he saw Mr Brownlow looking at

"Stop, stop!" said Mr Brownlow. "What is all this about? Don't be excited. I don't believe you have behaved like a villain. Take time and compose yourself, and tell me what it is."

"It is that you took me into your house, sir, and trusted me," said Powys," and I have betrayed your trust. I must mention her name. I saw your daughter too often-too much. I should have had the honour and honesty to tell you before I betrayed myself. But I did not mean to betray myself. I miscalculated my strength; and in a moment, when I was not thinking, it gave way. Don't think I have gone on with it," he added, looking beseechingly at his employer, who sat silent, not so much as lifting his eyes. "It was only last night-and I am ready at the moment, if you wish it, to go away."

He

Mr Brownlow sat at his table and made no reply. Oh, those hasty young creatures, who precipitated everything! It was, in a kind of way, the result of his own scheming, and yet his heart revolted at it, and in six weeks' time he would be free from all such necessity. What was he to do? sat silent, utterly confounded and struck dumb-not with surprise and horror, as his young companion in the fulness of his compunction believed, but with confusion and uncertainty as to what he ought to say and do. He could not offend and affront the young man on whose quietness and unawakened thoughts so much depended. He could not send Powys away, to fall probably into the hands of other advisers,

and rise up against himself. Yet could he pledge himself, and risk Sara's life, when so short a time might set him free? All this rushed through his mind while he sat still in the same attitude in which he had listened to the young fellow's story. All this pondering had to be done in a moment, for Powys was standing beside him in all the vehemence of passion, thinking every minute an hour, and waiting for his answer. Indeed he expected no answer. Yet something there was that must be said, and which Mr Brownlow did not know how to say.

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"You betrayed yourself?" he said, at last; that means, you spoke. And what did Sara say?" The colour on Powys's face flushed deeper and deeper. He gave one wild, half-frantic look of inquiry at his questioner. There was nothing in the words, but in the calm of the tone, in the naming of his daughter's name, there was something that looked like a desperate glimmer of hope; and this unexpected light flashed upon the young man all of a sudden, and made him nearly mad. "She said nothing," he answered, breathlessly. "I was not so dishonourable as to ask for any answer. What answer was possible? It was forced out of me, and I rushed away."

Mr Brownlow pushed his chair away from the table. He got up and went to the window, and stood and looked out, he could not have told why. There was nothing there that could help him in what he had to say. There was nothing but two children standing in the dusty road, and a pale, swarthy organgrinder, with two big eyes, playing "Ah, che la morte" outside. Mr Brownlow always remembered the air, and so did Powys, standing behind, with his heart beating loud, and feeling that the next words he should listen to might convey life or death.

"If she has said nothing," said

Mr Brownlow at last from the window, speaking with his back turned, "perhaps it will be as well for me to follow her example." When he said this he returned slowly to his seat, and took his chair without ever looking at the culprit before him. "Of course you were wrong," he added; "but you are young. You ought not to have been placed in such temptation. Go back to your work, Mr Powys. It was a youthful indiscretion; and I am not one of those who reject an honourable apology. We will forget it for ever-we, and everybody concerned-"

"But, sir--" cried Powys. "No more," said Mr Brownlow. "Let bygones be bygones. You need not go up to Brownlows again till this occurrence has been forgotten. I told you Sara had sent you the book you left. It has been an unfortunate accident, but no more than an accident, I hope. Go back to your work, and forget it. Don't do anything rash. I accept your apology. Such a thing might have happened to the best of us. But you will be warned by it, and do not err again. Go back to your work."

"Then I am not to leave you?" said Powys, sorely tossed between hope and despair, thinking one moment that he was cruelly treated, and the next overwhelmed by the favour shown him. He looked so wistfully at his employer, that Mr Brownlow, who saw him though he was not looking at him, had hard ado not to give him a little encouragement with his eyes.

"If you can assure me this will not be repeated, I see no need for your leaving," said Mr Brownlow. "You know I wish you well, Powys. I am content that it should be as if it had never been."

The young man did not know what to say. The tumult in his mind had not subsided. He was in the kind of condition to which everything which is not despair is hope. He was wild with wonder,

bewilderment, confusion. He made some incoherent answer, and the next moment he found himself again at his desk, dizzy like a man who has fallen from some great height, yet feels himself unhurt upon solid ground after all. What was to come of it all? And Sara had sent him his book. Sara! Never in his wildest thoughts had he ventured to call her Sara before. He did not do it wittingly now. He

was in a kind of trance of giddiness and bewilderment. Was it all real, or had it happened in a dream?

Meanwhile Mr Brownlow too sat and pondered this new development. What was it all to come to? He seemed to other people to be the arbiter of events; but that was what he himself asked, in a kind of consternation, of time and fate.

Ir naturally occurs to us after a course of modern biography, or upon otherwise coming in contact with the eccentricities and perversities of genius, to consider how far these inconveniences and defects are really, as some men say they are, an essential and necessary part of genius as such; how far there is that antagonism between domestici ty and genius which has been boldly asserted; how far the affections are indeed powerless against the tyranny of ideas;-in plainer words, how far genius excuses its possess ors from the obligations of ordinary morality-an exemption which the world's experience and new philosophy alike claim for it: Sydney Smith, on the one hand, admitting his fears that no one can effect great benefits to his country without some sacrifice of the minor virtues; and the apologists of Goethe arguing that genius has an orbit of its own. If, say they, it moved through the orbit of commonplace lives it would not be genius but commonplace; not that its orbit is necessarily eccentric, but it must often appear so, because its sweep is wide. Sometimes it disregards domestic duties and minor morals in obeying the law of its own movement. Hence genius and morality are not always synonymous. Genius, as such, is good and great, and in its greatness and its goodness seeks the eternal principles of order

seeks to make life harmonious, but in a way of its own; the slenderest acquaintance with biography showing us that genius is not always found respecting minor morals, and that the biographies of men of genius are very unlike "moral tales." What is meant by these often disparaged minor morals as opposed to morality on a great scale, we do not pretend to understand, as the term evidently involves breaches of law, of truth, and of kindness, on such a scale as to injure and perhaps to ruin the happiness of others; but we gather that the licence, whatever it is, is permitted to genius, as to a higher race, just as man is permitted to sacrifice the lower animals to his needs and pleasures. The principle under which this licence is claimed and justified lies imbedded in the familiar phrase, the "egoism of genius," as though egoism were an essential property of genius, hurrying it on its relentless path with the fierce beneficence of nature, which works the greatest benefits with instruments of pain. Goethe jilted Frederica under the necessity laid on him by his powers, lest marriage should cripple his genius and frustrate his career. needful for the development and cultivation of his sensibility, and knowledge of the human heart, that he should make love to Annchen and Kätchen, and Maximilaine and Lili,

It was

and dozens more, in quick succession, while a fervour of youthful poetry was upon him. It was equally necessary that when they "loved him, and showed their love, they should be forgotten," and the romance summarily brought to its close; as thus only could his mind become calm enough to weave it, while yet fresh, into a poem or a tale that should enchant his countrymen, and its publication set him at liberty to form new experiences for the benefit of the world. Lili might suffer; but what is her suffering compared to the gain to his style which he himself traces to "a something peculiar and delicate in his love for her?"-the fruit to him of that "painfully happy period." The egoism of genius once determined as a fact, bears-not the blame, but-the responsibility of the inconstancy. He was a genius, and therefore egotistical for the world's good.

Thus genius owes a duty to itself, and a respect for its own career, of which it alone can see the course, more stringent than any other obligation. If this be true we must no doubt make the best of it, as we do of an earthquake, which it is easy enough to do so long as we hear of both only through the newspapers. But the people of Lisbon would have averted the earthquake if they could; and men coming in contact with genius in any close relation are difficult to convince that their personal inconvenience is a necessary penalty for the general good. One sort of selfishness looks so very like another, when we are near enough to feel it, that we are ready then to ask what there is mystical and profound in the whole. matter? is it anything more than the very familiar experience that to be able to have your own way and to take it is the same with most men? But what is there in the excellence of genius which should bring this about? What is genius itself but an excess, in one or more points, of powers inherent in humanity? The moment this

superiority is felt by its possessor or perceived by others, no doubt a position of moral trial and danger sets in, but this danger comes not from the strength but the weakness of the gifted person.

We cannot doubt that genius is a relative thing. The merely clever fellow is to all intents and purposes a genius to the dull man. He has intuitions, glimpses, perceptions, aspirations, to which our heavy friend is dead, until roused by the other's fire. We can conceive of a world in space where our most inspired poet or philosopher would be slow and torpid by comparison-beaten by everybody in the race; we can conceive of another where even ourselves might make a brilliant figure. Under this change of circumstances can we question that men's conduct and morals would change places? The genius, whatever his positive range, however far his perception, insight, and gift of expression might carry him, would be master of himself, modest in his pretensions, and alive to others' rights; while there can be no doubt that, under the supposed elevation in the scale, our own sense of justice would lose force:—that is, supposing society no wiser than we know it. All this will perhaps be granted, and yet nothing allowed to be proved by it; but if it is really a fact that the habit of comparison-that is, of adjusting claims -lies at the bottom of the supposed emancipation of genius and of all exceptional brilliancy of intellect from the received moral code, surely there is something more to be done than mere blind submission. And even if it cannot be mended, if average power will never apply good sense in time to defend itself and others from the exactions of nascent genius-if it will foster pretension and admire lawlessness in the young giant till it is too late for self-assertion, it is still something to temper idolatrous worship of force and will with some grains of self-respect, to feel the pity of it, and to specu

late on what might have been if men had only used the intelligence and experience that was their own, while these good gifts might still have told with effect. It is one thing to submit to selfishness, another to join in its apotheosis.

Perhaps of all subjects the one inexhaustible one in which we are all along making discoveries, the one to which tend all our researches in self-study or the study of others, is that of Self; perhaps,. also, there is no subject in which the conclusions of experience are more at variance with the assumptions of youth and romance. There is a conventional notion of selfishness, real and common enough, which, indeed, must always hold its ground, which exhausts the subject of inexperience; that petty form of it exhibited by ill-breeding, small tyranny, and habit of appropriation, or that amiable selfishness that can imagine no good out of a certain plane, and condemns others to what is felt the only good or the only endurable from mere narrowness of view. Selfishness of this obvious sort is amongst the first studies of the youthful observer, especially if trial quickens his perception. The selfishness that wants whatever it sees, that judges of all things solely by their power to minister to its own small desires, whose nature, indeed, is a mere blind, scarcely conscious of acquisitiveness; the tyrannical selfishness of rough unsympathising will, that prefers compelling its subjects to acts uncongenial and distasteful from mere enjoyment of power; and the comfortable selfishness that lets the world go on its way disregarded so long as an easy insignificant life is undisturbed; these all excite a strong feeling of antagonism in the young, who hate them as interfering with their own wishes and aspirations, or despise them as marks of a lower intelligence-as imparting to human nature some touch of the mere appropriating

instinct of a lower organisation. We naturally shrink from the subjection and oppression of our hopes by anything blind and merely grasping that declines to measure or compare, but treats its own lowest wish as a thing inevitably to be considered before and beyond our highest.

Almost necessarily selfishness is apprehended in our first knowledge of life, through its lower forms, through persons who want the wit to veil their motives from others, or even from themselves; whose dull intellects act through their wants, who set themselves to gratify these wants as an insect does, and betray themselves as unconsciously to the world. We note it first in the peevish old woman tyrannising over her helpless companion, or in the hunks of a farmer who screws his labourer down to the lowest wages which can support life, and turns him off upon the parish when he has done with him; in the fine lady who cares not how the seamstress pines and wearies through her youth so her court-dress becomes her; in the father who will not let his daughter marry because he wants her services or does not want to pay her dower; in the spendthrift who ruins his family and brings them to want while he denies himself nothing; in the arrogance of rank, which allows neither feeling nor rights out of the charmed circle, and which regards the acutest suffering, bodily or mental, solely as it affects that circle-like the old dowager, turned into a proverb by Horace Walpole, who, on the occasion of her son's tutor breaking his leg, replied to all inquiries from her one point of view, "Yes, indeed, it is very inconvenient to Lord Castlecomer." Of course, in all these patent forms of the vice inexperience is not only clear-sighted but often too severe a judge; not having yet learnt to make allowances for the quaint developments of loneliness,