Cunningham, again smiling, and this time, as it seemed, with a gleam of humour in her eye; "yes, he is a very near neighbour of ours — almost our only one; we took early tea with him this morning. How nice and neat his house is; I had no idea that you Indian bachelors were so luxurious."
The feeling of jealousy with which Yorke listened to anything like commendation about even the appointments of Captain Sparrow's establishment was mingled with a sort of momentary gratification that Miss Cunningham should be favourably impressed with an Indian bachelor's household, albeit through such instrumentality; but an immediate reaction passed through his mind against permitting a deception on the point, and he hastened to reply —
"You mustn't judge of bachelors' bungalows by Captain Sparrow's. He is always regarded as the model swell of the place, and besides, he is in civil employ. A bachelor's bungalow is a very humble affair generally."
"But it seems a very luxurious arrangement to have a house all to yourself. The bachelors I have known have generally been satisfied with two rooms, or even one."
"But we don't generally have a whole bungalow to ourselves. Mr. Spragge and I live together, for instance; and after all, there are only three rooms in the bungalow altogether, so that we don't exceed your allowance." But at this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of two more cavaliers, and became general, partaking for the most part of inquiries as to how Miss Cunningham had enjoyed her voyage, and what sort of a journey she had had up the country, and what she thought of India, Justine the maid looking straight to her front the while, as if not supposed to listen. "A parcel of boobies Miss Cunningham must think us," said Yorke bitterly to himself all the while, to talk such twaddle. At last the interview came to an end; the young lady, laying her hand gently on her father's arm — he was a man not given to general conversation, and had been leaning back in the carriage without talking — said that it must be time to drive homewards, as they were expecting friends to dinner. As the carriage turned round she gave them each a gracious bow, and Yorke riding off slowly to the mess-house to dinner, employed himself in trying to recall each word spoken by her, and to conjure up the tremulous sounds of a voice that still thrilled through him; for Miss Cunningham could not ask a simple question without throwing a certain amount of unconscious pathos into its low tones.
GERMAN HOME LIFE.
BY A LADY.
V.
LANGUAGE.
In these days, when the study of language, taking its place amongst the acknowledged sciences, sits in its own special "chair;" when philologers by their patient research have opened up new fields of thought and study, and words mean more than they ever meant before, it may well savour somewhat of presumption in a homely pen to exercise itself on a subject that, at first glance, might appear too high for it. From the learned, the scientific point of view, it goes without saying that the writer of these papers has no pretension to be heard; but when we think of how significant a part the language of home life plays in all existences, how largely it enters into the day of small things, into "our-what-we-do-life," as Mary Lamb calls it — how absurdly miserable, or comically contented, or ridiculously happy, it can make us, she ventures to claim patience for a few unlettered words on the subject.
To learn a new language is to have a new life opened up to us; it is to know new peoples, to recognize new modes of thought; new attitudes of mind; new phases of character; it is to see things with "larger, other eyes;" to look at men and facts from another standpoint; to be, as it were, translated into another phase of being, and to learn many things hitherto undreamt of in our narrower philosophy. Upon the principle that "half a loaf is better than no bread," we may be very grateful for translations; but translations can by no means produce the same effect upon the mind as though we read the classics in the "original." Whilst acknowledging the large debt of gratitude that we owe to the painstaking labour and love of translators, we have only to take some familiar passages from one of our own poets, and turn it into the very best prose of which we are capable, in order to appreciate how easily it
