he likes to set things in order. He likes governing because it gives him a chance to study the governed, and to win their respect and love. He likes power because it gives him unique opportunity of using his gifts and accomplishments; just as he likes travel because it brings him among the thousand and one good things in life which interest him so deeply. Everything interests him. Nothing, except it be the collecting and describing of African insects, wearies him. His energy equals his eagerness for work. His information on most things is only excelled by his personal observation of them. He is just as ready to discuss the problem of Ireland- a country which seems to claim his love as the problem of South Africa. He has the Empire at his finger-tips. Mention the Colonies, and he will quote you statistics by the column in support of his theory, that under the present system the Colonies take all and give nothing, and should therefore be offered the alternative of contributing their share to the Imperial Exchequer or of "cutting the painter." Say the word Empire, and he is at no pains to hide that, though still an Imperialist in the best sense of that much-abused term, wide experience of Empire has not altogether confirmed him in those Jingo sentiments which vexed his boyish soul long ago at Tunis. Mention the Boer war, and he will show you a letter written to The Times in August, 1888, forecasting accurately the trend of events in Africa during recent years. Turn the talk upon any topic, history, poetry, the latest play, picture or novel; and he is ready with views and opinions. In natural science he is a specialist whose field is a continent. His work as an artist has been crowned by the Academy. In the world of letters he sits distinguished, as facile and piquant in drafting a despatch on his Majesty's Service, as in dictating a volume on a section of Empire. His capacity is great. His adaptability is greater. His confidence in himself is greatest of all. It may be that he thinks in Protectorates. It is possible that, as Mr. Stead asserts, he resembles the great Corsican in more than feet and inches. It is more than likely that were the Empire in peril to-morrow he would spring to the rescue, ready for any post and any emergency; as willing to do service as Commander-in-Chief or Admiral of the Fleet as to face destiny in the Premiership of England. To such a man it can matter little that at the age of forty-five he is on the retired list of the Foreign Office. The world is before him. He might enter Parliament.1 He might give his services to one of the Colonies. He might develop into a great scientist or (1) Since writing the above article Sir Harry has contested the Parliamentary division of Rochester, in the Liberal interest. a great painter; might, if he chose, one thinks, snatch the palm from Mr. Hall Caine and Miss Marie Corelli; could, and he would, write a book on the inner life of Africa that might set the dovecotes fluttering. But all this is as may be; certain only is it that one day soon, should the Foreign Office or Parliament not call, he will take his sketch-book and go roving the world, a kind of unofficial commissioner, as he puts it, in quest of all the strange and beautiful things which travellers have the gift of not seeing. Is it unpatriotic to hope that the Foreign Office and Parliament may forget to call? VOL. LXXIV. N.S. 3 A SHAN F. BULLOCK. THE QUESTIONERS. 1. THRESHOLD, familiar Threshold, may I not pass? Not till thou tell me my name! Stone of wonder; for spread for the feet were flowers 2. Naked and sounding Stair, may I not pass? Tell me my name. Stair of meeting, where nightly I called the call Of the exultant, the earth-engirdling, the nightingale,— Pass on, pass on! 3. Window, O far-seen Window, may I not pass? Tell me my name. Window of parting, for here would my proud one stand 4. Chest, O thou oaken Chest, may I not pass? Tell me my name. Coffer of vision; with bloom upon far mountains, With rays upon ocean isles when the mighty were still, With these did she weave her dresses, simple and secret, Fragrant and here compacted, sealed even from me. Pass on, pass on! 5. Table, ah! merry Table, may I not pass? Tell me my name. Table of honour, for here in the vast evening On the head of his pale companion and plighted friend, In words that return, return, return to him now. 6. Cradle, O Cradle, wilt thou not let me pass? Tell me my name. Other children she bare, but this, the beloved one, This was taken from her, this that she loved full well, And the eyes of her turned from earth, and she rose and followed it At dawn, when the birds and the young children sing. Pass.on, pass on! 7. Bed, thou snow-silent Bed, may I not pass? Tell me my name. Ask him not, terrible image, ask not, for she The woman by whom he lay down to whisper, "Forgive!" HERBERT TRENCH.1 (1) Author of "Deirdré Wedded; and Other Poems." THEOPHANO: THE CRUSADE OF THE TENTH CENTURY. A HISTORICAL ROMANCE BY FREDERIC HARRISON. CHAPTER I. THE BOY BASILEUS. TOWARDS the close of the long reign of Constantine Porphyrogennetus, seventh of that historic name, a hunting party from the royal capital of Constantinople was occupied in chasing the wild boar on the slopes of Mount Damatrys on the Asian side of the Bosphorus. This mountain, now called Bulgarlu, lay a few miles eastwards of Chrysopolis, the modern town of Scutari, opposite the Golden Horn. In the middle of the tenth century of our era, when this story opens, the view from the mountain on the Asian side of the Bosphorus was indeed very different from that which delights the traveller to-day, but it was hardly less beautiful in its exquisite union of wood, sea, rocky headland, stately towers, and domes. The sun was hardly risen over the eastern hills in a fresh morning of spring-it was the year of our Lord, 956-when a body of huntsmen, some on foot, and some on mountain ponies, were seen hastily emerging from the dense copses of the forest in the early dawn. Clothed in short leather jerkins and banded leggings, with close skull caps, some carried lances, some bows and arrows: three held in leash powerful hounds, and others were bearing stout nets and poles. They were evidently returning home in haste and with anxiety painted in all their movements. A mounted man of some authority now pushed his way to the front and bade them seek for the nearest house where help and shelter could be obtained. Coming at last to a half-ruined woodman's hut, he struck his hunting-spear thrice against the rude door of the hovel, and imperiously asked if any man was within. A scared, half-clothed old man unbolted the entrance, and stood with bare head, trembling before his questioner. "Which is the nearest house wherein a wounded man can be sheltered, and who in this place has any art in staunching a flow of blood?" called out the horseman. Saint Michael save us!" cried the old dotard, "has fighting begun in sight of the Sacred Palace itself?" "Tush, old fool, there has been a hunting accident, and a noble youth is now bleeding to death. Where, I ask again, can we find him shelter and a leech? "The house there of Craterus, the Laconian, at the first turn of the path below sometimes gives shelter and accommodation to belated travellers at need," quavered the terrified hind. "And his daughter |