A BOOK OF THE MOMENT.

THE HEART OF THE GIRL.

[COPYRIGHT IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY 'ITLE

New York Times.]

The Receipt Book of Elizabeth Raper, with Portions of Her Cipher Journal. Edited by her great-grandson, the late Bartle Grant, with a portrait and decorations by Duncan Grant. (The Nonesuch Press. 2s. 6d. not.) What girl Now reads in her bosom as clear As Rebekah read, when she sate At eve by the palm-shaded well ? Who guards in her breast

As deep, as pellucid a spring

Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? "

MATTHEW ABEOLD.

THE heart of the king is inscrutable, but the heart of the girl, though we often bemuse and confuse ourselves over it, is far simpler than our psychologists, our moralists, our poets and our philosophers will allow us to believe. It is governed by plainer, clearer influences, and less liable to be turned aside by the thousand and one cross-currents which affect the male. The Life-Urge is far less sophisticated in the girl, partly because it is less self-consciously recognized and less argued on—is less subject to the tyranny of the syllogism.

A proof of what I am saying is to be found in this fascinating little book, the Cipher Journal of Elizabeth Raper, which has been given us by the .careful hand of the late Major Bartle Grant, the great-grandson of the woman who wrote it. It was written in the fourteen years between 1756 and I770—that is roughly between the ages of seventeen and thirty. Elizabeth may have been " short in figure, with undecided complexion, and warm heart and still warmer temper," and with " rather more than a touch of the coarseness of her age," but she was accomplished, musical and clever. Lovers and admirers she had not a few, and gave them plenty of encouragement. But, all the same, like Nausicaa, she wanted a happy marriage. Her desire was not due to worldliness or to want of money, or because she disliked her family, or because she was restless and unhappy at home, but, as one may see from her diary, purely because she unconsciously obeyed the Life-Urge, the evolutionary sense after the manner of the girl in Clough's " Natura Naturans." But all this would not have made Elizabeth Raper immortal, as I unquestionably believe she may become. What does that is the fact that she had an extraordinary natural power of style. She knew what she wanted to say to her confidante, her diary book, and she said it with precision, and yet v-ith a naivete of phrase which is absolutely enchanting. She had the gift of literary distinction without being literary. There is nothing bookish about her writing. She does not appear to have heard of Richardson, or of Pope, or the other fashionable poets of her day. At any rate, she never alludes to them. But she shows us the heart of the girl, and, here is the interesting point, not only her own heart, but the general heart with quick, rapid strokes of interpretation. One is often inclined to thihk that in such matters the pure work of art will beat the self-revealer. -But that is not the case when by a lucky accident you get the person who can write as well as feel, and who writes what he or she feels without " writing it up "—the person, that is, who does not fall in love with his own story and so exalt it. We think of Richardson as a great analyser of the female heart but Elizabeth Raper in the couple of thousand words or so of her diary which we are allowed to see, knocks out Richardson's many "volumes in the first round. It was the portion of Elizabeth, like many of the girls of Miss Austen's novels, and, indeed, like the great Jane herself, to begin her emotional career by " sighing for a sailor." The first man for whom she seems to have had a serious tenderness was Captain Howe, of the Royal Navy, afterwards Admiral Lord Howe—the man who won many a glorious action at sea.

Miss Raper's diary was written in cipher, and she very probably believed that no one could or ever would read it except herself. For all that, however, she does not seem to have let her secrecy smirch her page, as did Mr. Pepys. Though there is a naivete of touch in her entries which probably would have been impossible in plain lettering, her tone, except for an occasional outburst of temper, is gracious, friendly and fascinating. A hundred and fifty years that come and go have left the girlish simplicity and charm untouch&l. Take the first perfectly plain and yet enchanting entry in regard to the gallant captain :-

"SUNDAY.—' Dined at live, and in the evening Mrs. Howe got the grand secret from mo. Cried and was pitied. What will come of it God knows. To bed at ton.' "

By the Thursday after she is fathoms deep in the river of love :-

"THURSDAY.—' Up at 6. Finished packing, dressed and went down. Set out and got to Ballesdon by 3, found Uncle Page better, dined, and after coffee sauntered abroad, came in about 6, the 4 went to quadrille, I chose to walk round the wood. Mrs. Page, etc., laughed at me and said I should be frightened. She told me I should meet Captain Howe there, upon which I hid my blushes. Walked round to the right first. A river runs at the bottom and you walk by it some way. The whole wood and place together is immensely pretty ; a great walk goes from the house to the wood, and all round it. The moon shone very bright thro' the trees ; the evening was quite calm; there only wanted the presence of one to make me think myself in heaven, but ho being absent, I indulged myself in thought, and was lost in it during my hour's ramble. At 7 I returned to the house, but found the door fastened which I came out at ; I then went round and found another which -led me in. I turned wrong and lost my way, but turned back again and found it. They were all very glad to see me come in safe, I full of the beauties of the place I had just left, but don't think my words did it justice. Mrs. Davis then informed me that it was a favourite walk of Captain Howe's, and that the last time he was there he-used to walk for hours in the wood every night, to which I answered that I fancied it was excessive fine by daylight.' "

That is a pure idyll. The effect of the moonlight has all the attraction, nay, more than all the attraction of the famous entry in Gibbon's autobiography. The impact on the young mind makes it infinitely more poignant. The reader gets almost as unhappy as Elizabeth that " ONE " was not there.

The diary ambles on, but always with an undercurrent of Captain Howe, as in the following :—

" WEDNESDAY.—' Up at 8, had mighty good dress, waited im- patiently for the post, had nothing by it but the news, saw nothing there but the Rhoda's safe arrival at Margate.' "

It is hardly necessary to say that the Rhoda ' was Captain Howe's ship. How many a longing maid before and since has looked out the sailings in the newspaper ! Our young lady of the aching heart began to read Euclid " for a certain reason." What was it ? I think I can guess. Naval captains then, as now, had to be well grounded in geometry.

" SUNDAY.—Thorley. ' Attacked Euclid, drawod some of the figures, a little dull about an Angle, not to say a good deal so. Think I shall like the kind of thing, and much more so for a certain reason. Heigho ! Ho ! Read in the news that Knowles was arrived, but saw nothing of the Dunkirk.' [Again Capt. Howe's ship.]

FRIDAY, 31 Dec.. 1756.= Fiddled about and did not much. Road in the news that Capt. Howe was left with the command of squadron in the bay of Biscay.'

FRIDAY, 14th Jan.—' Worked and attacked Euclid, im'nensely dull, could not keep up my attention to that or anything save one particular subject.

SAT., 15th.--` Worked, made mince pies, eat up with vapours.' 20th-21st.—' Did nothing nor heard nothing. Immensely dull and more out of spirits than over, a new load and can't support the lump of dullness inseparable -from me.' 22nd.—' Did an immense deal of work. Tried Euclid again, in rather better spirits.' "

But, alas ! the romance was very near its end :— " ` The Dunkirk is not refitted yet and Dick is in Town. Damned mad in my mind, and do not care 3 straws if I never see him again ;- damn all the sex ! ' "

Psychologically that is a very interesting entry. " Damn all the sex ! " is a generalization far more suited to a man than a woman. It might be quoted, one would think, by the psychologists as evidence that the subconscious is often bi-sexual.

It is clear from this that Dick had told her that his heart was not hers, and so his name disappears for nearly two years from the diary. But Elizabeth had not forgotten.

" 15th FEB., 1758. Heard from her (Mrs. Howe at Thorley) that Dick was married to a Miss Hartop, thought I should have died, cried heartily, damned him as heartily, and walked about loose with neither life nor soul.' " How admirable is the language of " walked about loose with neither life nor soul " ! It is the language of the heart, not of a coterie or of an epoch. At any rate, I cannot fit

it on to anyone in Elizabeth's own period, and say she learnt this or that phrase from Johnson, or Pope, or Thomson_ or Richardson, or Lyttelton, or anybody else. The next entry made after another two years is heartbreaking :—

" JUNE 10th, 1760. In Mrs. Howe's dressingroom blundered on some discourse, I know not how, which gave me the Terry-s. Wish to God I could bury in oblivion all that passed 5 years ago, but, alas ! it's still fresh in my memory, fool that I am ; but if it must remain, let it be for a hint, though a cursed bad one, in regard to mankind.' " This entry is worth comparing with the lines which Byron wrote about Mary Chaworth as an introduction to Lara and then suppressed :— " When she is gone, the loved, the best, the one

Whose smile hath gladdened though perchance undone ; Whose name, too dearly cherished to impart, Dies on the lip, but trembles in the heart ; Whose sudden mention can almost convulse And lighten through the ungovernable pulse, Till the heart leaps so keenly to the word We fear that throb can hardly beat unheard, Then sinks at once beneath that sickly chill That follows when we find her absent still ; When such is gone, too far again to bless, Oh God, how slowly comes Forgetfulness !

Let none complain how faithless and how brief The brain's remembrance or the bosom's grief ; Or, ere they thus forbid us to forgot, Lot Mercy strip the memory of regret.

Yet, selfish still, we would not be forgot ; What lip dare say, My Love, remember not' ? "

That is a wonderful piece of verse, but how much more vivid, as well as restrained and so intensified, is Elizabeth !

She goes far deeper.

Elizabeth's later " affairs " are, happily, very much less poignant and often very amusing. She records them with great naiveté and detachment. She writes almost as if she had been a looker-on. For example, we get plenty of entries of this kind :- "30th Amur., 1759. At Twyford. Met Dr. Dimsdale in tho lane. * * * Mrs. Parsons and I went into the pastor where the Dr. and Mrs. King, the Dr. very much my humble servant and all that egad. Chatted very sociably, some significant squeezes from the Dr.'

MAY 26th. Up before 7, dressed and to Stortford before 8 to Bkft. with Mrs. Dimsdale. Ye Dr. not up till some time after we got there. Bkft. over we all walked in the garden, the lover very pensive, kept close to me, sighed, squeezed and sighed again ; his mother looked very arch but said not a word.'

JUNE 5th. ' " Liver " (the Dr.) close by me (begin to be sorry for him, but at present it proceeds no farther than pity).'

25th. (Walking with Liver '). Fear I shall play with the candle till I burn my fingers.' "

Before Elizabeth's happy marriage with Dr. Grant there was a somewhat serious " affair " with a young clergyman, Samuel Horsley, " the son of the Rector of Thorley." He was an exceedingly ambitious young cleric who had adopted in all earnestness the advice which a President of Magdalen is said once to have given to one of his pupils : " Young man,

I should advise you to attach yourself to some person of quality." Young Mr. Horsley, as soon as he had taken

Orders, attached himself to the Earl of Aylesford, and got from him several small preferments in the Church, which Ile at once used as stepping-stones to higher things. He was soon Archdeacon of St. Albans, and then set his lance against the great Dr. Priestley himself over the doctrine of the Trinity. This theological jousting-match was apparently well done, for it won him the attention of Lord Chancellor Thurlow, who rewarded him with a prebendal stall at Gloucester. Ultimately he got promotion as Bishop of St. David's. This led to Rochester, and Rochester to St. Asaph. However, he was a scholar as well as a climbing ecclesiastic, for he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1767 and became Secretary.

Sam appears to have been really in love with Elizabeth, and there is plenty of kissing and squeezing recorded by the diarist. But though she was not unwilling to marry the future Bishop—he seems to have been a personable young man—he was determined not to marry her unless he could get money down with her. But this Elizabeth's parents, who were kind-hearted, nice people, but with a good deal of worldly wisdom, would not promise—not out of meanness, but because they thought the parson too material. Anyway, as the following entry shows, Elizabeth made confidantes

of her parents. " Cadwalader " was Elizabeth's nickname

for her Samuel, and this she presciently shortened to " Cad " :—

" 26th. Worked and mused all morning, ruminated on the thing, am more and more astonished every time I think on't, suppose it is so, but am amazed at it, wonder where 'twill end.' MARCH 3rd. Cad met me and ushered me into the parlour. He trembled all over, talked very pathetically a good while, could not answer him, at last plucked up courage and told him something that I think struck him very much, what he was moved by I can't say, but disappointed he certainly was, and I very much fear and, question his sincerity as to his real love of me only. God only knows the heart, but I fear. However, we went on some time, great expressions of love on his side, that is with great earnestness and positiveness, but I wish I knew his heart and soul ; am afraid I shall find it like the Statue's.' "

Statue, by the way, was the nickname for another lover.

The way the thing ended is rather curious. The father and mother tested the genuineness of Mr. Horsley's affection by telling him that he could only have a very little money with Elizabeth, though, as a matter of fact, when the right man came along they were quite willing to allow her £400 a year— a very large sum in those days ! If he had not been so prudent, but had said, " I would take your daughter without a penny, so great is my love for her," and so on, all would have been well. But he would not risk it, and so the affair ended. And presently Dr. Grant, the younger brother but heir of James Grant, Laird of " Rothiemurchus," came along. It was a happy marriage, one is delighted to hear, and Elizabeth, always fond of a bit of adventure, journeyed up into the

Highlands with a young Scottish cousin, Mr. James Cameron. Elizabeth rode from Elgin on a pillion behind Mr. Cameron.

She must have been delightful to look at. She wore, we are told, high-heeled, pointed-toed shoes, with large rosettes, a yellow silk quilted petticoat, " a chintz saque or farthingale bundled up behind," and a little -black hat and feather stuck on one side of her powdered head. She was evidently intent

on winning the hearts of the natives. We are told that she sang the Beggar's Opera through during the journey, with a voice of such power that Mr. Cameron never lost the recollec-

tion of it.

The editor of the diary closes his account of Elizabeth by .a panegyric on her which is well deserved. As he says, you cannot improve upon her two comments upon herself. She calls herself in one place " immensely notable," and in another " vastly agreeable." She was both, and had besides, as I have said, the instinct of Letters. Though she makes no literary criticisms and indulges in no talk about Shakespeare and the musical classes she never misses the right word in the "right place.

The book, it should be added, is charmingly printed by the Nonesuch Press, and is adorned and embellished by a portrait and decorations by Duncan Grant, the great-great-grandson of the diarist. His picture of Elizabeth riding the pillion in

Scotland and shouting the Beggar's Opera in her escort's ear is full of delight, as well as humour. The costume is fascin-

ating, though the quilting of the petticoat is not indicated.

The shoes and rosettes, however, are exact, and so is the little black hat with the feather. Poor Mr. Cameron is trying to seek protection from the musical storm.

J. ST. Lois STRACIIEY.