Juliana Horatia Ewing And Her Books | Page 9

once to be taken by Julie to the sea for rest (June 1874),
and then one of the chief enjoyments lay in the unwonted luxury of
being allowed to choose my own route. Freedom of choice to a wearied
mind is quite as refreshing as ozone to an exhausted body. Julie had
none of the petty tyranny about her which often mars the generosity of
otherwise liberal souls, who insist on giving what they wish rather than

what the receiver wants.
I was told to take out Bradshaw's map, and go exactly where I desired,
and, oh! how we pored over the various railway lines, but finally chose
Dartmouth for a destination, as being old in itself, and new to us, and
really a "long way off." We were neither of us disappointed; we lived
on the quay, and watched the natives living in boats on the harbour, as
is their wont; and we drove about the Devon lanes, all nodding with
foxgloves, to see the churches with finely-carved screens that abound in
the neighbourhood, our driver being a more than middle-aged woman,
with shoes down at heel, and a hat on her head. She was always
attended by a black retriever, whom she called "Naro," and whom Julie
sketched. I am afraid, as years went on, I became unscrupulous about
accepting her presents, on the score that she "liked" to give them!--and
I only tried to be, at any rate, a gracious receiver.
[Illustration: "THE LADY WILL DRIVE!"]
There was one person, however, whom Julie found less easy to deal
with, and that was an Aunt, whose liberality even exceeded her own.
When Greek met Greek over Christmas presents, then came the tug of
war indeed! The Aunt's ingenuity in contriving to give away whatever
plums were given to her was quite amazing, and she generally managed
to baffle the most careful restrictions which were laid upon her; but
Julie conquered at last, by yielding--as often happens in this life!
"It's no use," Julie said to me, as she got out her bit of cardboard (not
for a needle-book this time!)--"I must make her happy in her own way.
She wants me to make her a sketch for somebody else, and I've
promised to do it."
The sketch was made,--the last Julie ever drew,--but it remained
amongst the receiver's own treasures. She was so much delighted with
it, she could not make up her mind to give it away, and Julie laughed
many times with pleasure as she reflected on the unexpected success
that had crowned her final effort.
I spoke of "Melchior's Dream" and must revert to it again, for though it

was written when my sister was only nineteen, I do not think she has
surpassed it in any of her later domestic tales. Some of the writing in
the introduction may be rougher and less finished than she was capable
of in after-years, but the originality, power, and pathos of the Dream
itself are beyond doubt. In it, too, she showed the talent which gives the
highest value to all her work--that of teaching deep religious lessons
without disgusting her readers by any approach to cant or
goody-goodyism.
During the years 1862 to 1868, we kept up a MS. magazine, and, of
course, Julie was our principal contributor. Many of her poems on local
events were genuinely witty, and her serial tales the backbone of the
periodical. The best of these was called "The Two Abbots: a Tale of
Second Sight," and in the course of it she introduced a hymn, which
was afterwards set to music by Major Ewing and published in Boosey's
Royal Edition of "Sacred Songs," under the title "From Fleeting
Pleasures."
The words of this hymn, and of two others which she wrote for the use
of our Sunday school children at Whitsuntide in the respective years
1864 and 1866 have all been published in vol. ix. of the present Edition
of her works.
Some years after she married, my sister again tried her hand at
hymn-writing. On July 22, 1879, she wrote to her husband:
"I think I will finish my hymn of 'Church of the Quick and Dead,' and
get thee to write a processional tune. The metre is (last verse)--
'Church of the Quick and Dead, Lift up, lift up thy head, Behold the
Judge is standing at the door! Bride of the Lamb, arise! From whose
woe-wearied eyes My God shall wipe all tears for evermore.'"
My sister published very few of the things which she wrote to amuse us
in our MS. "Gunpowder Plot Magazine," for they chiefly referred to
local and family events; but "The Blue Bells on the Lea" was an
exception. The scene of this is a hill-side near our old home, and Mr.
Andre's fantastic