LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.


Vol. XII, No. 33.

DECEMBER, 1873.




TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE NEW HYPERION [Illustrated] By EDWARD STRAHAN.
    VI.--Shall Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?
  AUTUMN LEAVES. By W.
  SKETCHES OF EASTERN TRAVEL [Illustrated] By FANNIE R. FEUDGE.
    III.--Bangkok.
  LIFE AT THE NATIONAL CAPITAL.
  A DAY'S SPORT IN EAST FLORIDA By S.C. CLARKE.
  THE LIVELIES By SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.
    In Two Parts--II.
  HISTORY OF THE CRISIS By K. CORNWALLIS.
  SAINT MARTIN'S TEMPTATION by MARGARET J. PRESTON.
  THE LONG FELLOW OF TI By J.T. McKAY.
  THE PROBLEM By CHARLOTTE F. BATES.
  MONACO By R. DAVEY.
  A PRINCESS OF THULE By WILLIAM BLACK.
    Chapter XXII--"Like Hadrianus And Augustus."
    Chapter XXIII--In Exile.
    Chapter XXIV--"Hame Fain Would I Be."
  OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP
    Mr. E. Lytton Bulwer By L. GAYLORD CLARK.
    Salvini's Othello By A.F.
    A Letter From New York By MARGARET CLAYSON.
  NOTES.
  LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
    Books Received.




ILLUSTRATIONS
   THE REGISTER.
   A VIRTUOSO.
   DELIGHTS OF THE VERLOBTEN.
   THE CHURCHYARD LOVER.
   ON THE FIRST STEP.
   THE LEGAL PROFESSION AND PROFESSION OF FRIENDSHIP.
   EFFUSION.
   SELF-CONTROL.
   LOSING TIME
   GRAND DUKE'S PALACE, BADEN.
   THE WOOD-PATH.
   SCENE OF MATTHISSON'S POEM IMITATING GRAY'S "ELEGY."
   "WINE OR BEER!"
   ENTRANCE TO THE ALT-SCHLOSS.
   "KELLNER!"
   TYROLEAN.
   THE KING OF SIAM RETURNING TO HIS PALACE.
   ELEPHANT ARMED FOR WAR.
   THE GREAT GILDED BOODDH.
   FUNERAL PILE FOR THE SECOND KING.
   SEVENTY-SECOND CHILD OF THE KING OF SIAM.
   ENTRANCE TO THE ROYAL HAREM.




THE NEW HYPERION.

FROM PARIS TO MARLY BY WAY OF THE RHINE.

VI.--SHALL AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?


My first dinner in the avenue of Ettlingen followed upon the
twelve-barreled bath, but was far from being so glacial a,
refreshment. As I descended, quite pink and glowing, I found eight or
ten individuals in the dining-room. They were French and Belgians, and
exchanged a lively conversation in half a dozen provincial accents.
The servants too talked French in levying on the cook for provisions:
for this, as I have since learned, the domestics of my snug little
boarding-house were deemed somewhat pretentious by the serving-people
of the vicinity, who considered the tongue of Paris a sort of court
language, for circulation among aristocrats only, and supposed that
even in France the hired folk all talked German. My reception at the
cheerful board was as cordial as possible.

[Illustration: THE REGISTER.]

Placed opposite me, our young hostess was looking in my direction with
an intentness that struck me as singular. My passport was uppermost in
my mind. I was not, however, very uneasy, for the reply of Sylvester
Berkley would soon arrive and put an official seal upon my standing.
It occurred to me, however, that I was a traveler accompanied by no
other baggage than a tin box and an umbrella, and introduced by a
coachman who had no reason whatever for forming lofty notions of my
respectability. The landlady, whom I had scarcely seen on my arrival,
was pretty, neat and quick, and an argument suggested itself that
seemed adapted to her station and habits. I was base enough to take
out my watch, a very fine Poitevin, and make an advertisement of that
pledge under pretence of comparing time with the mantel-clock. This
precious manoeuvre appeared quite successful.

Very soon my ideas of apprehension and defiance were followed by other
thoughts of a very different kind. The expression of the youthful
housekeeper was not only softened in continuing to watch me, but
it took on a look of great kindness and good-humor--a look that the
finest watch in the world would never have inspired. On my own side
I furtively examined this gentle yet scrutinizing physiognomy.
Surely those gentle glances and my own faded old eyes were not entire
strangers.

When Winckelmann was filling the villa Albani with antiques, it
often happened to him to clasp a fair Greek head in his arms and go
pottering along from torso to torso till he could find a shoulder fit
to support his lovely burden. Such was my exercise with this pleasant
head in its neat cambric cap; but in place of consulting my memory
with the proper coolness, I am afraid I questioned my heart.

Immediately after the coffee my pretty hostess, passing my chair, with
a quick motion in going out made me a slight gesture. I followed her
into a small office or ante-chamber adjoining. The furniture was very
simple; the indicator, with a figure for every bell, decorated the
wall in its cherry-wood frame; the keys, hanging aslant in rows,
like points of interrogation in a letter of Sevigne's, formed a
corresponding ornament; and a row of registers on the desk completed
the furniture. One of these books she drew forward, opened and
presented for my signature, still flashing over my face that intent
but benevolent glance.

"Monsieur, have the goodness to inscribe your name, the place you came
from, and that of your destination."

I took the pen, and, with the air of complying exactly and courteously
with her demand, folded the quill into three or four lengths, and
placed it weltering in ink within my waistcoat pocket. I was looking
intently into my hostess's face.

I think no American can observe without peculiar complacency the neat
artisanne's cap on the brows of a respectable young Frenchwoman. This
cap is made of some opaque white substance, tender yet solid, and the
theory of its existence is that it should be stainless and incapable
of disturbance. It is the badge of an order, the sign of unpretending
industry. The personage who wears it does not propose to look like
a "dame:" she contentedly crowns herself with the tiara of her rank.
Long generations of unaspiring humility have bequeathed her this
soft and candid sign of distinction: as her turn comes in the line
of inheritance she spends her life in keeping unsullied its difficult
purity, and she will leave to her daughters the critical task of its
equipoise. If she soils or rumples or tears it, she descends in her
little scale of dignities and becomes an ouvriere. If she loses it,
she is unclassed entirely, and enters the half-world. The porter's
wife with her dubious mob-cap, and the hard, flaunting grisette with
her melancholy feathers and determined chapeau, are equally removed
from the white cap of the "young person." To maintain it in its vestal
candor and proud sincerity is not always an easy task in a land where
every careless student and idle nobleman is eager to tumble it
with his fingers or to pin among its frills the blossom named
love-in-idleness: Mimi Pinson has to wear her cap very close to her
wise little head. To herself and to those among whom she moves nothing
perhaps seems more natural than the successful carriage of this white
emblem, triumphantly borne from age to age above the dust of labor
and in the face of all kinds of temptation; but to the republican from
beyond the seas it is a kind of sacred relic. The Yankee who knows
only the forlorn aureoles of wire and greased gauze surrounding the
sainted heads of Lowell factory-girls, and the frowsy ones of New
York bookbinders, is struck by the artisanne cap as by something
exquisitely fresh, proud and truthful.

My landlady's cap was as far removed from pretence as from vulgarity.
Her hair was brown, smooth, old-fashioned and nun-like. I looked
at her hand, which, having replaced the pen, was inviting me with a
gesture of its handsome squared fingers to contribute my autograph,
I made my note, pausing often to look up at my beautiful
writing-mistress: "PAUL FLEMMING, American: from Paris to Marly--by
way of the Rhine."

I had not finished, when, lowering her pretty head to scrutinize
my crabbed handwriting, she cried, "It is certainly he, the
americain-flamand! I was certain I could not be mistaken."

"Do you know me then, madame?'

"Do I know you? And you, do you not recognize me?"

"I protest, madame, my memory for faces is shocking; and, though there
are few in the world comparable with yours--"

She interrupted me with a gesture too familiar to be mistaken. A
tumbler was on the desk filled with goose-quills. Taking this up
like a bouquet, and stretching it out at arm's length to an imaginary
passer-by, she sang, with a mischievous professional _brio_, "Fresh
roses to-day, all fresh! White lilacs for the bride, and lilies for
the holy altar! pinks for the button of the young man who thinks
himself handsome. Who buys my bluets, my paquerettes, my marguerites,
my pensees?"

It was strangely like something I well knew, yet my mind, confused
with the baggage of unexpected travel, refused to throw a clear light
over this fascinating rencounter.

The little landlady threw her head back to laugh, and I saw a small
rose-colored tongue surrounded with two strings of pearls: "Very well,
Monsieur Flemming! Have you forgotten the two chickens?"

It was the exclamation by which, in his neat tavern, I had recognized
my brave old friend Joliet: it was impossible, by the same shibboleth,
to refuse longer an acquaintance with his daughter.

My entertainer, in fact, was no other than Francine Joliet, grown
from a little female stripling into a distracting pattern of a woman.
Twelve years had never thrown more fortunate changes over a growing
human flower.

[Illustration: A VIRTUOSO.]

The acquaintance being thus renewed, I could not but remember my last
conversation with Joliet--his way of acquainting me with her absence
from home, his mention of her godmother in Brussels, and his strange
reticence as I pressed the subject. A slight chill, owing perhaps to
the undue warmth of my admiration for this delicate creature, fell
over my first cordiality. I asked a question or two, assuming a kind,
elderly type of interest: "How do you find yourself here in Carlsruhe?
Are you satisfactorily placed?"

"As well as possible, dear M. Flemming. I am a bird in its nest."

"Mated, no doubt, my dear?"

"No."

"You are not a widow, I hope, my poor little Francine?"

"No." She blushed, as if she had not been pretty enough before.

"They call you madame, you see."

"A mistress of a hotel, that is the usual title. Is it not the custom
among the Indians of America?"

"The godmother who took care of you--you perceive how well I know your
biography, my child--is she dead, then?"

"No, thank Heaven! She is quite well."

"She is doubtless now living in Carlsruhe?"

"No, at Brussels."

"Then why are you here? why have you quitted so kind a friend?"

My catechism, growing thus more and more brutal, might have been
prolonged until bedtime, but on the arrival of a new traveler she left
me there, with a pen in my hand and a quantity of delicious cobwebs in
my head, saying gently, "I will see you this evening, kind friend."

The same evening, after a botanizing stroll in the adjoining wood--a
treat that my tin box and I had promised each other--I found myself
again with Francine. Full of curiosity as I was concerning her
adventures, I determined that she should direct the conversation
herself, and take her own pretty time to tell the more personal parts
of the story.

The stage grisette is perpetually exploring the pockets of her apron.
Francine, who wore a roundabout apron of a white and crackling nature,
adorned her conversation by attending to the hem of hers. When she
asked about my last interview with her father, she ironed that
hem with the nail of her rosy little thumb; when she fell into
reminiscences of her mother, she smoothed the apron respectfully and
sadly; when she proposed a question or a doubt, she extracted little
threads from the seam: at last, perfectly satisfied with the apron,
she laid her two small hands in each other on its dainty snow-bank,
and resigned herself to a perfect torrent of remarks about the horse,
the van, the little cabin among the roses, the small one-eyed dog and
the two chickens. Conversation, a thing which is manufactured by an
American girl, is a thing which takes possession of a French girl.

All the while I remained uninstructed as to why my little Francine had
left her protectress, why she was keeping house at Carlsruhe, and on
what understanding her customers called her madame.

I was obliged to take next day a long alterative excursion among the
trees of the Haardtwald: in fact, her gentle warmth, her freshness,
her nattiness, the very protection she shed over me, were working sad
mischief to my peace of mind. I came upon an old shepherd, who, with
his music-book thrown into a bush in front of him, was leaning back
against a tree and drawing sweet sounds out of a cornet-a-piston.

"Even so," I said, "did Stark the Viking hear the notes of the
enchanted horn teaching every tree he came to the echo of his
true-love's name."

But the churlish shepherd, the moment he caught sight of me, put
up his pipe, whistled to his dogs and rejoined the flock. I was
dissatisfied with his unsocial retreat. I felt, with renewed force,
that a note was lacking to the full harmony of my life, and I threw
myself upon a bank. I tried not to see the artificial roads of
the forest, alive with city carriages. I believed myself lost in a
primeval wood, and I examined the state of my heart. I perceived with
concern that that organ was still lacerated. The languid, musical
pageant of my youth streamed toward me again through the leafy aisles,
and I remembered my high aspirings, my poems, my ideals: the floating
vision of a Dark Ladye passed or looked up at me through the broken
waves of Oblivion; she listened to my rhapsodies with the old puzzling
silence; she confided to me certain Sibylline leaves out of her diary;
then she receded, cold and unresponsive, a statue cut out of a shadow.
I was obliged to untie my cravat. Finally, I fell asleep and dreamed
of Mary Ashburton crowned with the neat workwoman's cap of Francine
Joliet. I returned to dinner considerably exalted, and just touched
with rheumatism.

The soup was glacial, the roast was steaming, the conversation was
geographical. "Pray, M. Flemming," said my neighbor (he had been
stealing a look at the register of visitors' names), "can cattle be
wintered out of doors as far north as Pennsylvania, or only up to
Virginia?"

"Pray," said another, "is not New York situated between the North
River and the Hudson?"

The prayer of a third made itself audible: "Ought we to say
'Delightful _Wy_oming,' after Campbell, or Wy_o_ming?"

"We ought to eat with thankfulness the good things set before us," I
replied, with some presence of mind. "Excuse me, gentlemen," I added,
to carry off my vivacity, "but I think informing conversation is a
bore until after the nuts and raisins. A Danish proverb says that he
who knows what he is saying at a feast has but poor comprehension
of what he is eating. On my way hither, breakfasting at Strasburg, I
enjoyed a lesson in geography, and I aver that though the lesson was
elementary, I breakfasted very badly."

[Illustration: DELIGHTS OF THE VERLOBTEN.]

"Who was the teacher?" asked the explorer of Wyoming, a German, in the
tone of a man to whom no professor of Geography could properly be a
stranger.

"The teacher," I answered with a smile, "was one Fortnoye--"

I did not finish my sentence. At that name, Fortnoye, a kind of
electric movement was communicated around the board. Every eye sought
the face of Francine, who, troubled and confused, fell upon the cutlet
placed before her and cut it feverishly into flinders. Evidently there
was a secret thereabouts. When coffee was on, I applied myself to
satisfying the topographic doubts of my neighbors, but the name of the
geographical professor was approached no more.

When dinner was over, and only two stranded Belgians remained at
table, discussing whether the Falls of Niagara plunge from the United
States into Canada, or from Canada into the United States, I stole
into the narrow office, believing I should see Francine.

She was not there, but the register was lying on the desk. I fell to
turning the leaves over furiously: I felt that I was on the trail of
Fortnoye. I was not long in amassing a quantity of discoveries. Going
back to the previous year, I found the signature of Fortnoye in March
and April; in July and September, Fortnoye bound up and down the
Rhine; in the depth of the winter, Monsieur Tonson-Fortnoye come
again! Evidently one of the most frequent guests of my delicate
Francine was the interpreter of _Cosmos_ in Strasburg, the
white-bearded mystifier of the champagne-cellar, the finest
singing-voice in Epernay.

[Illustration: THE CHURCHYARD LOVER.]

Toward ten o'clock, as I paced the little grove called the Oak Wood,
I saw at the miniature lake four persons, who were regaining the bank
after trying to detach the little boat moored by the shore. They were
just the four from our social table with whom I best agreed. I joined
the party, and, hooking now a friendly arm to the elbow of one, now
to that of another, I soon obtained all they had to communicate on
the subject which occupied my mind. Each knew Fortnoye intimately: the
result of my quadratic amounted to the following:

_First_. Fortnoye, educated at the Polytechnic School in Paris, is a
man of grave character and profound learning.

_Second_. Fortnoye is a roysterer, latterly occupied in extending the
connection of a champagne-house at Epernay. He is a Bohemian, even
a poet: he can rhyme, but strictly in the interests of commerce--he
composes only drinking-songs.

_Third_. Fortnoye is an exploded speculator, dismissed from the French
Board: obliged to beat a retreat to Belgium, he soon found himself in
Baden, where he had good luck at the green table shortly before the
war.

_Fourth, and last_. (This was from the man of Wyoming.) Fortnoye
only retreated to Belgium as a refuge for his demagogic opinions. He
belongs to the innermost circle of the Commune and to all the French
and Italian secret associations. He is represented in the background
of several of Courbet's pictures. He has been everywhere: in Italy
he joined the society of the Mary Anne, where he met the celebrated
Lothair. This order has a branch called the Society of Pure
Illumination. If he has liberty to return into France, it is because
he is connected with the detective police.

The information, extensive as it was, did not altogether satisfy me. I
made little of the inconsistencies betrayed by the various counsels
of the Areopagus, but I closed the whole solemnity with one crucial
interrogatory: "What the dickens does Fortnoye come prowling around
Francine Joliet's house for?"

The answer was not calculated to please me: "She is young and
attractive: Fortnoye advanced the funds to set her up in the house."

But my morose thoughts were distracted by the scene around us. The
moon burst up above the trees of the Oak Wood--a fine ample German
moon, like a Diana of Rubens. Close to our sides passed numerous young
couples, holding hands, clasping waists, chattering gayly, or walking
in silence with a blonde head laid on a burly shoulder. One of
my companions pointed out a specially stalwart and graceful young
apprentice, whose elbow, supported on a rustic bench, was bent around
a mass of beautiful golden hair.

"An eligible _verlobter_," said he.

I thought of Perrette and the tall young man who had helped pull her
milk-cart. My friend continued: "Betrothal hereabouts is a serious
institution. The girl who loses her _verlobter_ becomes a widow. Woe
betide her if she dreams of replacing him too early! She will find
herself followed by ill looks and contemptuous tongues: she even runs
the risk of having nobody to marry better than a dead man, if we may
believe the history of Bettina of Ettlingen."

"The history of Bettina of Ettlingen? That sounds like the title to a
ballad."

"It is a recent history, which you would take for a legend of the
twelfth century."

[Illustration: ON THE FIRST STEP.]

I cannot help it. In face of that word _legend_ my mind stops and
stares rigidly like a pointer dog. The moment was favorable for a good
story: the sky was covered with flocked clouds, behind which the ample
German moon, shorn of half its brightness, took suddenly the pale
gilded tint of sauerkraut. The wandering lovers, half effaced in the
gloom, looked like straying shades in an Elysium.

"Ettlingen is between Carlsruhe and Rastadt, an hour's walking as you
go to Kehl. The flowers grow there without thinking about it, and sow
their own seed. It is therefore a simple thing to be a gardener, and
Bettina's father, the florist, attended entirely to his pipe, leaving
the cares of business to his apprentice, whose name was Nature.
Bettina, as became the daughter of a gardener, was a kind of rose:
Wilhelm, the baker's young man, would have thrown himself into the
furnace for her. But there came along Fritz, the dyer, who had been
in France and who wore gloves. She continued a while to promenade with
Wilhelm under the chestnut trees which surround the fortifications
of Ettlingen, but one night she suddenly withdrew her hand: 'You had
better find a nicer girl than I am: I do not feel that I could make
you happy.' Wilhelm disappeared from the country. His departure, which
was the talk of Ettlingen, caused Bettina more remorse than regret.
For six months she shut herself up: then, hearing nothing of her
lover, she reappeared shyly on the promenade, divested of rings,
ear-drops and ornaments. The beautiful Fritz, in his loveliest gloves,
intercepted her beneath the chestnuts, and, armed with her father's
consent, proposed himself for her _verlobter_.

"'Not yet,' she answered: 'wait till I wear my flowers again.'

"In Germany, as in Switzerland and Italy, natural flowers are
indispensable to a young girl's toilet. To appear at an assembly
without a blooming tuft at the corsage or in the hair is to indicate
that the family is in mourning, the mother sick or the lover
conscripted.

[Illustration: THE LEGAL PROFESSION AND PROFESSION OF FRIENDSHIP.]

"With an exquisite natural sense, Bettina, daughter of a gardener,
would never wear any flowers but wild ones. About this time there was
a grand fair at Durlach: almost all Ettlingen went there, and Bettina
too, but as spectatress only, and without her flowers.

"The dances which animated the others made her sad. She left the ball
and wandered on the hillside. There, beneath the hedge of a sunken
road, she recognized her beauteous Fritz. Poor Fritz! he was refusing
himself the pleasure of the dance which he might not partake with her.
Ah, the time for temporizing is over! Bettina determines that to-day,
in the eyes of every one, they shall dance together, and he shall be
recognized as her _verlobter_. She looks hastily around for flowers.
The hill is bare, the road is stony: an enclosure at the left offers
some promise, and Bettina enters.

"It was a cemetery. Animated with her new resolve, she thought little
of the profanation, and crowned herself with flowers from the nearest
grave. In an hour the villagers from Ettlingen saw her leaning on
Fritz's shoulder in the waltz. That night the shade of Wilhelm stood
at her bed-head: 'You have accepted the flowers growing on my grave
and nourished from my heart. I am once more your _verlobter_.'

"Next day Fritz came, radiant, with a silver engagement-ring, which he
was to exchange for that on Bettina's finger, returned by Wilhelm at
his departure. But the ring was gone. At night Wilhelm reappeared, and
showed the ring on his finger. Some time passed, and Bettina lost a
good part of her beauty, distracted as she was between the laughing
Fritz in the daytime and the pale Wilhelm at night. She was a sensible
girl, however, and persuaded herself, with Fritz's assistance, that
the vision was created by a disordered fancy. But she caused inquiry
to be made about the grave in the cemetery at Durlach: the answer
came: 'Under the first stone in the line at the right of the gate
lies the body of Wilhelm Haussbach of Ettlingen, where he followed the
trade of baker.'

"Then she knew that she had robbed her lover's grave to adorn herself
for a new _verlobter_. After this the ghost of Wilhelm began to
invade her promenades with Fritz, and she walked evening after evening
beneath the chestnuts between her two lovers.

"The gardener's daughter never looked fairer than on her wedding-day.
Armed with all her resolution, and filled with love for Fritz,
she presented herself at the altar. The priest began to recite the
sacramental words, when he came to a pause at the sight of Bettina,
pale and wild-eyed, shivering convulsively in her bridal draperies.

"Wilhelm was again at her side, kneeling on the right, as Fritz on
the left. He was in bridegroom's habit, and he offered a bouquet of
graveyard-flowers--the white immortelle and the forget-me-not. When
Fritz rose and put the ring on her finger she felt an icy hand draw
the token off and replace it by another. At this, overcome with
terror, and making a wild gesture of rejection both to right and left,
she ran shrieking out of the church.

"Such is the true and authentic story of Bettina," concluded my
narrator. "You may see Bettina any day at Ettlingen, a yellow old maid
forty years of age. Every Sunday she goes to mass at Durlach, where
she employs the rest of the day in tending flowers on a grave, the
first grave in the line to the right of the gateway."

I returned to the house with this grim and tender little idyll
crooning through my brains. I took my key and bed-candle, and asked
the porter if a letter had arrived for me from Sylvester Berkley. Not
a line! This silence became inconvenient. Not only did I rely upon
Berkley for my passport, the certificate of my character, but likewise
for the revictualing of my purse. As I passed the small throne-room
of Francine, where she sat vis-a-vis with all her keys and bells, a
light, a presence, an amicable little nod informed me that a friend
was there for me, and sent a bath of warm and comfortable emotion all
over my poor old heart.

[Illustration: EFFUSION.]

It was late. Francine, at a little velvet account-book, was executing
some fairy-like and poetical arithmetic in purple ink. I had the
pleasure, before a half hour had passed, of making her commit more
than one error in her columns, do violet violence to the neatness of
her book, and adorn her thumb-nail with a comical tiny silhouette.
My gossip, which had this encouraging and proud effect, was commenced
easily upon familiar subjects, such as the old rose-garden and the
chickens, but branched imperceptibly into more personal confidences.
I found myself growing strangely confidential. Soon I had sketched for
Francine my life of opulent loneliness, my cook and my old valet, my
philosopher's den at Marly, my negligent existence at Paris, without
family, country or obligations.

Her good gray eyes were swimming with tears, I thought. With a look
of perfect natural sweetness she said, "To live alone and far from
kin and fatherland, that is not amusing. It is like one of the small
straight sticks of rose my father would take and plant in the sand in
a far-away little red pot."

A delicious vignette, I confess, began to be outlined in my fancy. I
cannot describe it, but I know Francine was in the middle repairing
a stocking, while my own books and geographical notes, in a state
of dustlessness they had never known actually, formed a brown bower
around her. Somewhere near, in an old secretary or in a grave, was
buried the ideal of an earlier, haughtier love; wrapped up in a stolen
ribbon or pressed in a book.

She continued simply, "I am very much alone myself. Without the visits
of Monsieur Fortnoye I should be dead of ennui. I am so glad to find
you know him, monsieur!"

[Illustration: SELF-CONTROL.]

This jarred upon me more than I can say. I assumed, as one can at
my age, an air of parental benevolence, in which I administered my
dissatisfaction: "Fortnoye is a roysterer, a squanderer, a wanderer
and a _petroleur_. At your age, my child, you are really imprudent."

"He is a little wild, but he is young himself. And so good, so
generous, so kind! I owe him everything."

"On what conditions?" said I, more severely perhaps than I meant.
"Your relations, my daughter, are not very clear. Is he then your
_verlobter_?"

She looked at me with an expression of stupefaction, then buried her
face in her hands: "He my intended! Has he ever dreamed of such a
thing? Am I not a poor flower-girl?"

And she was sobbing through her fingers.

My nights were sweet at Carlsruhe. My slumber was ushered in with
those delicious dream-sketches that lend their grace to folly. Each
morning I wondered what surprise the day would arrange for me.

The little wood was hidden from my window by an early fog: the birds
were silent. I was meditating on my singular position, in pawn as it
were under the care of Joliet's good daughter, when I heard my name
pronounced at the bottom of the stairs. It was Sylvester Berkley.

The briskness of our friendships depends on the time when--the place
where. To men in prison a familiar face is the next thing to liberty.

Some years ago I had an absurd dispute with a neighbor about a
party-wall at Passy, and was obliged to go to the Palace of Justice at
ten every morning for a week. My forced intercourse with those solemn
birds in black plumage had a singular effect on me. While among them
I felt as if cut off from my species, and visiting with Gulliver some
dreadful island peopled with mere allegories. As the time passed
I grew worse: I dragged myself to the Cite with horror, and before
returning home was always obliged to wash out my brains by a short
stroll in Notre Dame or amongst the fine glass of the Sainte Chapelle.
One day, pacing the pale and shuffling corridors of the palace,
waiting for an unpunctual lawyer, and regarding the gowns and caps
around me with insupportable hate, at the turning of a passage--oh
happiness!--a face was revealed in the distance, the face of a friend,
the face of an old neighbor. At the bright apparition I made an
involuntary sign of joy: the owner of the face seemed no less pleased.
We walked toward each other, our hands expanded. All of a sudden a
doubt seemed to strike us both at the same moment: he slackened his
pace, I slackened mine. We met: we had never done so before. It was
a little mistake. We saluted each other slightly and gravely, and
separated once more, as wise in our looks as that irreproachable hero
who, after marching up the hill with his men, pocketed his thoughts
and marched down again.

My meeting with Berkley Junior was not precisely similar, but
connected with the same feelings and associations. I dashed down four
steps at a time, precipitated myself on him like a bird of prey, and
wrung his hands again and again with fondest violence.

Now, up to that date my relations with Sylvester Berkley had been of
a frigid and formal description. I had met him two or three times with
his hearty old relation, and had borne away the distinct impression
that he was a prig. While the uncle would breakfast in his tub, like
Diogenes, off simple bones and cutlets, Sylvester ate some sort of
a mash made of bruised oats: while the nephew made an untenable
pretension to family honors, the elder talked familiarly of the
porcelain trade, freely alluding to the youth as a piece of precious
Sevres that had cracked.

He met my advances with a calmness, imprinted with astonishment, that
recalled me to myself. Against such a refrigerator my heart and fancy
recovered their proper level: I had been caressing an iceberg in a
white cravat. I examined my emotions, and found, to my shame, that my
warmth had a selfish origin in the fact that I was alone in Carlsruhe,
greatly in need of a passport and a purse.

"Do you intend shortly to quit the archducal seat?" asked Sylvester,
by way of an agreeable remark.

"I have the strongest obligations to be at home," I returned. "I only
await your kind assistance about my passport."

"It is expected at the office, but I fear it will not be received in
time for you to take the next train. I fear we shall be obliged to
keep you with us until thirty minutes past one."

He conferred on me, with his neck and his hand, a salute which had the
effect of being made from a distant window. Then he departed.

To ask such a man for money was not easy. I dressed myself and marched
in great haste to the gay quarter of the town, having made up my mind
to depend on the mercies of the chief jeweler and the merits of my
Poitevin watch. It had cost a thousand francs, and would surely, after
many a service rendered, help me now to regain my home.

Another disappointment--not a pawn-broker to be found in Carlsruhe!
I was ready to look upon myself as a fixture in the town, when a
brilliant idea flashed upon me. One of my neighbors at table was
transportation-agent at the railway depot. What so opportune for me
as a credit on the railway company? With his recommendation my watch
would surely be security enough.

Delighted with the thought, and with my own cleverness in originating
it, I made briskly for the Ettlingen Gate, before which the road
passes. Glancing at the clock on the depot, I regulated first my watch
by the time of the place, in order that no doubt might be cast on its
perfect regularity. I was holding it in my hand, my eyes still riveted
on the great clock, as I stepped over the nearest rails. A shout,
mixed with imprecations, was audible. My coat was seized by a vigorous
fist, I was rudely pushed, my watch escaped, and the train from
Frankfort, which was just entering the depot, only rendered it to my
hands crushed, peeled and pounded. Instead of a thousand francs, my
old friend would hardly bring five dollars.

[Illustration: LOSING TIME]

After such a catastrophe what remained for me to do? Evidently to
humble my pride and beg an obolus of young Berkley. I represented
to myself that the victory over my own false shame was worth many
watches, and I began to compose a little speech intended for his ear,
in which I compared myself to Dante at the convent door.

I found him in his office clasping a hand-valise. "I am about to
go away by your train," he said, without waiting for me to speak or
remarking my shabby-genteel expression of heroism. He added, as he
handed me a great sealed envelope, "There is your passport. Nothing
imperative requires my stay here: I shall accompany you, then, as far
as the station of Oos, and while you are continuing your route toward
your beloved metropolis, I will go and finish my leave of absence at
Baden-Baden, where I am claimed by certain conditions of my liver."

[Illustration: GRAND DUKE'S PALACE, BADEN.]

I was so nervous and uncertain of myself that this little change in
the horizon upset me completely. For the life of me I could not, at
that moment, and at the risk of seeing him drop his bag and rain its
contents over the official courtyard, rehearse my awkward accident
and disreputable beggary. On the other hand, it was much to gain a
friendly companion and pass arm-in-arm with him to the ticket-office.
Leaving every other plan uncertain, I determined to start from
Carlsruhe in his diplomatic shadow.

I dashed with surprising agility into the house to ask for my account
with Francine. I was about to explain that I would quickly settle
with her from Paris, when the thoughtful little woman anticipated me.
"Monsieur Flemming," she said, with her sweet supplicating air, "you
left the city without meaning it. If you would like a little advance,
monsieur, I am quite well supplied just now. Dispose of me: I shall be
so thankful!"

The money of Fortnoye! the thought was impossible. It was impossible
to resist taking her bright brown head between my hands and secreting
a kiss somewhere in the laminations of the artisanne cap.

"Dear infant! I shall be an unhappy old fellow if I do not see you
again very soon."

--And I was off, dragged by those obligations of the time-table which
have no tenderness toward human sentiment. At one o'clock I was at the
railway with Sylvester. I was uncertain of my plans, and the confusion
of the depot added nothing to the clearness inside my head. Berkley
advanced first to the ticket-seller's window. "A first-class place for
Baden-Baden," said he.

"How many?" briskly asked the clerk, seeing us together.

At that moment Sylvester heard a ghostly voice at his ear: "You may
get a couple." The voice was mine.

Berkley got them and paid. I had reflected that my letter of credit
from Munroe & Co. would undoubtedly be drawn on Baden-Baden, and had
suddenly taken a resolution to try the effect of the springs on my
unfortunate stoutness.

We got down at the Gasthaus zum Hirsch, but I had already sold the
ruins of my chronometer, and was twenty-five francs the richer for the
transaction.

I cannot call Baden-Baden a city: it is a stage. It is a perpetually
set-scene for light opera. Everything seems dressed up and artificial,
and meant to be viewed, as it were, in the glare of the foot-lights.
But instead of the shepherds in white satin who ought to be the
performers in this ingenious theatre, it is the unaccustomed stranger
who is forced into the position of actor. As he toils up the steep and
slovenly streets, faced with shabby buildings that crack and blacken
behind their ill-adjusted fronts of stucco and distemper, he
cheapens rapidly in his own view: he feels painfully like the hapless
supernumerary whom he has seen mounting an obvious step-ladder behind
a screen of rock-work on his way to a wedding in the chapel or a
coronation in the Capitol. The difference is, that here the permission
to play his role is paid for by the performer.

But I, as I sat hugging my knee in the hotel bed-room, was possessed
by loftier feelings. If there is one faculty which I can fairly
extol in myself, it is that of displaying true sentiment in false
situations. My thoughts, with incredible agility, went back to
Francine. A knock came at the door, and my emotions received a chill:
my visitor could be none but Berkley, in whose face I should see a
reminder that I owed him for my car-fare.

In place of frigid politeness, however, the diplomatist wore all
that he knew of good-fellowship and Bohemianism. He was now clad
in tourists' plaid, and stood upon soles half an inch thick--a true
Englishman on his travels.

"Come, old boy!"--old boy, indeed!--"you must taste the pleasures of
Baden-Baden: it is but four o'clock, and we can see the Trinkhalle,
the Conversations-Haus, and plenty besides before dinner. Is there any
place in particular where you would like to go?"

[Illustration: THE WOOD-PATH.]

I looked solemnly at him. "I would fain visit the Alt-Schloss," I
said.

"With all my heart!" replied Sylvester, tapping his legs and admiring
his boots. This unpromising comrade was wearing better than I
expected.

[Illustration: SCENE OF MATTHISSON'S POEM IMITATING GRAY'S "ELEGY."]

"Shall we have a carriage?" he pursued. At this question my face
contracted as by the effect of a nervous attack. I thought of the few
pence I possessed. I assumed the determined pedestrian.

"For shame!" I cried: "it is but three miles. Where are your tourist
muscles? I should like to walk."

"Nothing simpler," said the man of facile views: "we shall do it
within the hour."

[Illustration: "WINE OR BEER!"]

I breathed again. We set off. We had before us cliffs and hills,
with small Gothic towers printed on the blue of the sky; but the
mountain-path beneath our steps was sanded, graveled, packed, rolled,
weeded, and provided with coquettish sofas at every hundred steps.
I, who happened that afternoon to feel the emotions of Manfred, would
gladly have exchanged these detestable conveniences for precipices,
storms and eagles.

"How ridiculous," I said with a little temper, "to go to a ruin by way
of the boulevards!"

"Ah," said my companion of complaisant manners, "you like Nature? It
is but the choosing."

And Berkley, perfectly acquainted with the locality, directed our
steps into a narrow path hardly traced through the woods. Here at
least were flowers and grass and sylvan shadows. No sooner did I
smell the balm of the pine trees than my heart resigned itself, with
exquisite indecision, to the thoughts of Francine Joliet and the
memories of Mary Ashburton. I glanced at Berkley: he seemed, in Scotch
clothes, a little less impenetrable than he had appeared in white
cravat and dress-gloves. I cannot restrain my confidences when a man
is near me: I buttonholed Sylvester, and I made the plunge. "I used to
talk of the Alt-Schloss," I murmured, "with one whom I have lost."

"Ah, I comprehend: with my late uncle, perhaps."

"No, sir, not with any cynic in a tub, but with a maiden in her
flower. It was one of the best points I made with Miss Ashburton."

"The Alt-Schloss is indeed a picturesque construction," said the
diplomate, by way of generally inviting my confidence.

"We were conversing about the poems of Salis and Matthisson," I
pursued. "I had in my pocket a little translation of Salis's song
entitled 'The Silent Land,' and endeavored to bend the dialogue in
a suitable direction, but these allusions are incredibly hard to
introduce in conversation, and we happened to stray upon Baden-Baden.
I asked Miss Ashburton if she had been here, and she answered, 'Yes,
the last summer.' 'And you have not forgotten?' I suggested--'The
old castle,' she rejoined. 'Of course not. What a magnificent ruin it
is!'"

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE ALT-SCHLOSS.]

"What tact your friend displayed," said Berkley, "to feign utter
unconsciousness of the green tables, and see nothing but ruins in
Baden-Baden!"

"Permit me to say," I replied quickly, "that it is not agreeable to
me to have that lady alluded to, however distantly, in connection with
gambling-tables. The Ashburtons had been probably drinking the waters,
for her mother was noticeably stout and florid. But to continue with
the poets. I explained to her that the ruins of the Alt-Schloss had
suggested to Matthisson a poem in imitation of an English masterpiece.
Matthisson made a study of Gray's 'Elegy,' and from it produced his
'Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient Castle.' Miss Ashburton became
nationally enthusiastic, and said she should like very much to see the
poem. Her wish was usually my law, but the translation of the other
song being in my pocket, I was obliged to palm it off upon her; and
after conceding that Matthisson had written his 'Elegy' with unwonted
inspiration, I sailed in upon that tide of feeling--with a slight
inconsequence, to be sure--and declaimed my version from Salis. Miss
Ashburton, sir, was obliged to turn away to hide her tears."

"I used to hear from my uncle of your attachment," said Sylvester,
with his politest air of condolence, "and I assure you my opinion ever
has been that your feelings did you honor. Nothing, in my view, is so
becoming to gray hairs and the evening of life as fidelity to a first
passion."

"Lord forgive you, Berkley!" I exclaimed, startled out of all
self-possession by his impertinence. "What on earth do you mean? You
are completely ignorant of what you are talking about. I have hardly
any gray hairs, and some excellent constitutions are gray at thirty.
You are partly bald yourself: I know it from the way you turn up your
love-locks. And it was not Miss Ashburton I was talking about. That
is, if I did derive my reminiscences from her, it was with an object
of a very different character at the end of the perspective. I have
adopted other views; that is, I have lately had presented to my
mind--"

[Illustration: "KELLNER!"]

With these rhetorical somersaults, like the flappings of a carp upon
the straw, did I express the mental distractions I was suffering
from, and the tugs at my heart respectively administered by
Francine's cap-strings and Mary Ashburton's shadowy tresses. Berkley,
diplomatically approving the landscape before us, would not get angry,
would not be insulted, and offered no prise to my difficult temper.

"Tell me now, Sylvester," said I after a few minutes' silence. "You
are young, yet you have seen the world. What is the best refuge, in
your view, for a man of delicate sentiments and of ripe age? Would you
recommend such a person to shut himself up for ever in a hermitage
of musty books, and to flirt there eternally with the memories of his
young loves, who are become corpulent matrons or angular maids? Or,
don't you think, now, that an autumnal attachment--provided some sweet
and healthy intelligence comes in contact with his own--is a capital
thing in its way? The crackling fireside instead of the lovers'
walk? The perfection of rational comfort subservient to, rather than
dominating, his early dreams? Respectful affection, fidelity and
fondest care as the conditions surrounding one's character, and
upholding it in its best symmetry? Cannot the poet think better if his
body is kept snug? Cannot the man of feeling remember better if his
slippers are toasted and his buttons sewed? In fact, is not
one's faith to a beloved ideal best shown by acquiring a fresh
standing-point to see it from?"

"No doubt Hamlet's mother thought so," said Sylvester rather brutally,
"and married King Claudius solely to brighten her ideal of her first
husband." A more appropriate remark, it seemed to me, might have
been found to chime in with my speculations. "But here," pursued
the statesman, compromisingly, "are old memories protected by modern
conveniences. Here is the 'Repose of Sophie.'"

We had mounted a terrace from whose eminence the whole spread of the
valley was visible. Profanation! No sooner had we attained the plateau
than a covered gallery appeared, and a Teutonic voice was heard with
the familiar inquiry, "Will the gentlemen take wine or beer?"

Was ever a man of delicacy and feeling so ruthlessly treated as I?
To be tempted by circumstances into pouring out one's most intimate
confessions to an icy person to whom one owes money, and then to have
even this imperfect confidence interrupted by a tavern-waiter in an
apron! Miserable hireling! give us solitude and meditation, not beer!

Flying the "Repose of Sophie" without the concession of a glance, we
mounted toward the ancient castle, whose ruins seemed ready to roll on
us down the hillside. It was indeed romantic. The wind, in plaintive,
melodious tones, searched our ears as it came perfumed from the tufted
walls. We penetrated through a scene of high and mossy rocks, bound in
the lean embrace of knotted ivy, and finally by a dismantled postern
we intruded into the castle. Sacrilege again! The stone-masons were
tranquilly working here and there, solidifying old ruins and very
probably fabricating new ones. The wind, whose sighing we had admired,
was the cat-like harmony of the aeolian harps: these harps were
artlessly stretched across each of the old vaulted windows. We arrived
at the high portal of the ancient manor, a genuine Roman construction
of Aurelius Aquensis--a gateway with a round arch: it was obstructed
by hired cabs, by whole herds of venal donkeys saddled and bridled,
and by holiday-makers of Baden in Sunday clothes preserved for ten
or fifteen years. The old pile itself is transformed into a hostelry.
Gray was wrong: the paths of glory lead not to the grave, but to the
_gasthaus_; and Matthisson could have imitated the "Elegy" about as
well in the gaming-hall as among these rejuvenated ruins.

The modern idea of a wood is a graveled chess-board on a large
scale, flooded at night with gas: the modern idea of a ruin is a
dancing-floor, with a few patched arches and walls lifted between
the wind and our nobility. We shave the weeds away and produce a fine
English turf: we root up the brambles and eglantines which might tear
the skirts of the ladies. Our lovers, our poets and romancers must fly
to distant glades if they would not walk in the shade of trees that
have been transplanted.

I was considering the sorry triumph of the stage-machinists of
Baden-Baden, when Berkley, who had disappeared, came in sight again.
Our dinner, he said, was ready--ready in the guards' hall. I retreated
with a sudden cry of alarm. I had rather dine at the hotel; I had
rather not dine at all; I was not in the least hungry. It was the
emptiness of my pocket that caused this sudden fullness, of the
stomach. Berkley made light of my objections.

"Listen! You can hear from this mountain the dinner-bells of the city.
We should arrive too late. Although you hate restored castles, you
need not refuse to dine with me in one."

[Illustration: TYROLEAN.]

The noble hall was a scene of vulgar festivity, where the ubiquitous
kellner, racing to and fro with beer and plates of sausage, solved the
problem of perpetual motion. It was not easy, in such circumstances,
to maintain the flow of poetic association, but I accomplished the
feat in a measure. As the shades of evening closed around the hill,
and the bells of twenty dining-tables ascended to us through the
still air, I thought of Gray's curfew--of that glimmering Stoke-Pogis
landscape that faded into immortality on his sight. I thought of
Matthisson's "Elegy" on this forlorn old dandy of a castle. I thought
of the sympathetic chest-notes with which I read to Mary Ashburton the
"Song of the Silent Land."

I thought of Francine, and of the condition of base terror I was in
when I ran away from her with the man who momentarily represented my
solvency, my credit and my respectability. May the foul fiend catch
me, sweet vision, if I do not find thee soon again! A Tyrolean, who
entered by stealth, persuaded a heart-rending lamentation to issue
from his wooden trumpet: although the acid sounds proceeding from this
terrible whistle set my teeth on edge and caused me at first to start
off my seat, yet I rewarded him with such a competency in copper as
made his eyes emerge from his face. A singing-girl and some blonde
bouquet-sellers had equal cause to rejoice in my generosity. It is
when a gentleman is landed finally on his coppers that he becomes
penny-liberal. I glanced defiance at Berkley, my creditor, as I
showered largess on these humble poets.

We descended under the stars, and I began to think that illuminated
gravel-roads were, at night, susceptible of some apology. We returned
to the city by easy stages, with a halt at the "Repose of Sophie."
At the hotel there was given me, re-directed in the pretty hand of
Francine, an unlimited credit from Munroe & Co. on the house of Meyer
in Baden-Baden. I was a freeman once more.

EDWARD STRAHAN.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




AUTUMN LEAVES.


  My life is like the autumn leaves
        Now falling fast,
  Which grew of late so fresh and fair--
        Too fair to last.

  The mar of earth and canker-worm
        The foliage bears;
  So my poor life of sin and care
        The impress wears.

  As shine the leaves before they fall
        With brighter hue,
  And each defect of worm and time
        Is lost to view,

  So may my life, when fading, shine
        With brighter ray,
  And brighter still as nearer to
        The perfect day.

  And as new life still springs again
        From fallen leaves,
  And richer life a thousand-fold
        From gathered sheaves;

  So, God, if aught in me was good,
        The good repeat,
  And let me from my ashes breathe
        An influence sweet.

W.




SKETCHES OF EASTERN TRAVEL.

III.--BANGKOK.


We left Singapore--which, though an English colony, is a very Babel of
languages and nations--in a Bombay merchantman, whose captain was an
Arab, the cook Chinese, and the fourteen men who composed the crew
belonged to at least half that many different nations, whilst our
party in the cabin were English, Scotch, French and American. After
eight days of rather stormy weather we disembarked at the mouth of
the Meinam River, thirty miles below the city of Bangkok. Owing to
the sandbar at the mouth, large vessels must either partially unload
outside, or wait for the flood-tide when the moon is full to pass the
bar; and to avoid the delay consequent upon either course, we took
passage for the city in a native sampan pulled by eight men with long
slender oars. The trip was a delightful one, giving us enchanting
glimpses of the grand old city long before we reached it. Amid the
mass of tropical foliage, gleaming out from among clustering palms
and graceful banians, we could discern the gilded spires of gorgeous
temples and palaces, of which Bangkok boasts probably not less than
two hundred. The temples, with their glittering tiles of green and
gold, and graceful turrets and pinnacles from which hang tiny tinkling
bells that ring out sweet music with every passing breeze, their tall,
slender pagodas and picturesque monasteries, stand all along the banks
of the river, its most conspicuous adornments. But pre-eminent, both
for height and splendor, is Wat Chang, visible, all but its base, from
the very mouth of the river. Its central spire, full three hundred
feet in height, towers grandly above the surrounding turrets and
pagodas, the white walls gleaming out from the dark foliage of the
banian, and the feathery fringes of the palm reflected on its shining
roof.

[Illustration: THE KING OF SIAM RETURNING TO HIS PALACE.]

The two main entrances to the royal palace are of white masonry very
elaborately adorned. Groups of elegant columns support a capital
composed of nine crowns rising one above the other, and terminating in
a slender spire of some forty feet. The whole is inlaid in exquisite
mosaics of porcelain, the various colors arranged in quaint devices,
so as to produce the happiest effect, while the reflection of the
sun's rays upon the glazed tiles, the numberless turrets and pinnacles
of the lofty pile, and the porticoes and balconies of pure white
marble opening from every window, and leading to delectable
conservatories, luxurious baths or fairy groves and arbors, present,
as grouped together, a sight worth a trip across the waters to enjoy.
The engraving represents one of these entrances, and His Majesty
Somdetch Phra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, the late supreme king of Siam,
on his return from his usual afternoon promenade. This "promenade,"
however, was not a walk, a ride or a drive, but an airing in one of
the royal state barges. For the late king, true to the usages of his
forefathers, continued to the very close of his life to make all his
tours, public and private, with very rare exceptions, by water. This
has heretofore been the custom of all classes, the gently-flowing
Meinam being the Broadway of Bangkok, and canals, intersecting the
city in every direction, its cross streets. Every family keeps one or
more boats and a full complement of rowers; palaces and temples
have their gates on the river; and upon its placid waters move in
ever-varying panorama life's shifting scenes of weddings and funerals,
business and pleasure, from early morn till long past midnight. Only
since the accession of the present kings have streets been constructed
along the river-banks; and these young princes, as a sort of
concession to European customs, now take occasional drives in open
carriages, attended by liveried servants, though for state processions
boats are still in vogue. His Majesty the late king was ordinarily
conveyed to the jetty in a state palanquin, and handed from it into
his boat, without the sole of his boot ever touching the ground. This
has been the custom of Siamese monarchs from time immemorial, but I
have sometimes seen both the late kings wave aside their bearers and
jump with agile dexterity into their boats, as if it were a relief to
them to lay aside courtly etiquette and act like ordinary mortals.
The royal palanquins are completely covered with plates of pure gold
inlaid with pearls, and the cushions are of velvet embroidered, and
edged with heavy gold lace. They are borne by sixteen men robed in
azure silk sarangs and shirts of embroidered muslin. The umbrella is
of blue, crimson or purple silk, and for state occasions is richly
embroidered, and studded with precious stones. So also are those
placed over the throne, the sofa, or whatever seat the king happens to
occupy.

[Illustration: ELEPHANT ARMED FOR WAR.]

[Illustration: THE GREAT GILDED BOODDH.]

The late supreme king, who died in 1868 at the age of sixty-five, was
tall and slender in person, of intellectual countenance and noble,
commanding presence. His ordinary dress was of heavy, dark silk,
richly embroidered, with the occasional addition of a military coat.
He wore also the decorations of several orders, and a crown--not
the large one, which is worn but once in a lifetime, and that on the
coronation-day--but the one for regular use, which is of fine gold,
conical in shape and the rim completely surrounded by a circlet of
magnificent diamonds. This prince, the most illustrious of all
the kings of Siam, spent many of the best years of his life in the
priesthood as high priest of the kingdom. He was a profound scholar,
not only in Oriental lore, but in many European tongues and in the
sciences. In public he was rather reticent, but in the retirement of
the social circle and among his European friends the real symmetry
of his noble character was fully displayed, winning not only the
reverence but the warm affection of all who knew him. He died
universally regretted, and the young prince now reigning as supreme
king is his eldest surviving son: the second king is his nephew.

[Illustration: FUNERAL PILE FOR THE SECOND KING.]

Among the choice treasures of Siam are her elephants, but they belong
exclusively to the Crown, and may be employed only at the royal
command. They are used in state processions and in traveling by the
king and members of the royal family, and in war at the king's mandate
only. It is death for a Siamese subject, unbidden by his sovereign, to
mount one of His Majesty's elephants. In war they are considered
very effective, their immense size and weight alone rendering them
exceedingly destructive in trampling down and crushing foot-soldiers.
The howdah is placed well up on the animal's back, and in it sits a
military officer of high rank, with an iron helmet on his head, and
above him a seven-layered umbrella, as the insignia of his royal
commission. On the croup sits the groom, guiding the royal beast
with an iron hook, while all about the officer are disposed lances,
javelins, pikes, helmets and other munitions of war, which he
dispenses as they are needed during the progress of a battle. I have
been told that as many as six or seven hundred of these colossal
creatures are often marched and marshaled in battle together; and
so perfectly are they trained as to be guided and controlled without
difficulty, even amid the din of firearms and the conflict of
contending armies. Sometimes on the king's journeys into the interior
a train of fifty or sixty will be marched in perfect order, their
stately stepping beautiful to behold, but their huge feet coming down
with a jolt that threatens to dislocate every joint of the unfortunate
rider.

I have spoken of the gorgeousness of the Bangkok temples, but I must
not forget to mention the colossal statue of Booddh that reposes in
one of them. It is one hundred and seventy feet in length, of solid
masonry, perfectly covered with a plating of pure gold, and rests
quite naturally upon the right side, the recumbent position indicating
the dreamless repose the god now enjoys in _nirwana_. This is supposed
to be the largest image of Gautama, the fourth Booddh, in existence,
and it is an object of the profoundest veneration to every devout
Booddhist.

Incremation of the dead is the custom in Siam, and while there I was
present at several royal funerals, each marked by more lavish display
of costly magnificence than we Americans ever see on this side the
water. Shortly after I left the country occurred the death of the
patriotic second king, so well and favorably known among us as Prince
T. Momfanoi, the introducer of square-rigged vessels and many other
improvements, and afterward as King Somdet Phra Pawarendr Kamesr Maha
Waresr. The body was embalmed, and lay in state for nearly a year
before the burning took place. The count de Beauvoir reached Bangkok
just in time to see the royal catafalque, of which he gives a somewhat
amusing account. He says: "The body, having been thoroughly dried
by mercury, was so doubled that the head and feet came together, and
after being tied up like a sausage was deposited in a golden urn
on the top of the mausoleum." He speaks of the state officers in
attendance by day and by night, and the dead king, from the golden urn
on the very summit of the altar, holding his court with the same pomp
and parade as during his life. A more affecting ceremony is the coming
at noon and eve of the crowds of beautiful women, not yet absolved
from their wifely vows, to converse with their loved and lamented
lord, and the depositing of letters and petitions in the great golden
basket at the foot of the mausoleum, with the confident expectation
that these loving missives will reach the deceased and be answered by
him. These royal catafalques are costly and magnificent, being covered
with plates of gold, while the silks and perfumes consumed with a
single body cost thousands of dollars.

M. de Beauvoir describes an interview with the king, surrounded by ten
of his offspring, including the seventy-second child. I well remember
the eldest son, the present supreme king, now in his twentieth year,
looking when five years old the exact counterpart of this one--his
graceful little figure, dimpled cheeks, eyes lustrous as diamonds, and
the glossy, raven hair, close shaven at the back, while the foretop
was coiled in a smooth knot, fastened with jeweled pins and twined
with fragrant flowers. The dress was very simple--only two garments of
silk or embroidered muslin--but the deficiency was more than made
up by jewelry, of which, in the form of chains, rings, anklets and
bracelets, he wore almost incredible quantities, while his golden
girdle was studded with costly diamonds.

[Illustration: SEVENTY-SECOND CHILD OF THE KING OF SIAM.]

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE ROYAL HAREM.]

Polygamy prevails in its fullest extent in Siam, especially among
those of noble or royal lineage; and the higher the rank the larger
the number of wives, those of the supreme king amounting ordinarily to
five or six hundred. Of these, the "superior wife" holds the rank
of queen: she resides within the harem proper, where are the private
apartments of the king, and her children are always the legal heirs.
For the other wives or concubines, their children and attendants,
there is a whole circle of buildings, connected by balconies with the
palace royal. All these are handsomely fitted up, but what is called
"the harem" pre-eminently is more gorgeous than our dreams of fairy
palaces or enchanted castles of genii. Long suites of apartments
with frescoed walls, ceilings of gold and pearl, floors inlaid with
exquisite mosaics of silver and ebony, and with hangings of costly
lace, velvet and satin, huge waxen candles, and lamps fed with
perfumed oil that are never suffered to expire, mirrors, pictures, and
statuettes innumerable, with cups, basins, and even spittoons, of
pure gold,--all these are but a tithe of the lavish adornments of this
Oriental paradise, where birds sing, flowers bloom, and the sounds
of low sweet music ever greet the ear of the favored visitor. The
accompanying engraving will give some idea of the general appearance
of the entrance to the harem, with its burnished roof of green and
gold, its graceful turrets and mosque-like pinnacles, and its base
of pure white marble, chaste and elegant. But neither language nor
pictorial illustration can convey to the mind any adequate realization
of its bewildering beauty; and Count de Beauvoir but echoes the
language of every traveler who has visited Bangkok when he declares,
in his recent work, that "its temples and palaces are the most
splendid of even the gorgeous East."

FANNIE R. FEUDGE.




LIFE AT THE NATIONAL CAPITAL.


There are few cities where life is so well put upon the stage as in
Washington, so far as opportunity for satisfaction and enjoyment is
considered. A certain grandeur characterizes all the approaches to
the city. From the west you descend upon it by a way that leads out
of cloudy mountain-chains and over chasms spanned by an awful
trestle-work; from the south, passing our national Mecca, the Tomb
of Washington, your highway is the picturesque Potomac, which here,
nearly three hundred miles from the sea, broadly embays itself as
if to mirror the magnificence of the place; from the north the track
winds along the banks of the Delaware, white with its coastwise
commerce, in and out among the beautiful bridges that arch the
Schuylkill, across the broad Susquehanna, past blazing forges and
foundries, and over the long and lonely expanses of the two Gunpowder
Rivers--desert wastes of water, stretching for miles away without a
sail, without a light, in the melancholy grandeur of a very dream of
desolation. If it is at night that you step from the station, halfway
down the distance you presently see the ray of a street-lamp throw up
the facade of the Patent Office in broken light and shadow; you see
before you and under the hill the twinkle of scattered groups of
light; you see, far off, the long row of the Treasury columns half
lost in darkness, and you will remember pictured scenes of bivouacs
among the ruins of Baalbec. And if it is in the morning that you
arrive, fresh from the turbulence of Broadway, from the quaint and
tortuous hillside lanes of Boston, from the elegant monotony
of Philadelphia, the impression made upon you is still not very
different. Though you are in the heart of the place, it seems to lie
before you like a city in the distance. Now the mist is stripped away
from some massive marble pile; now a prospect opens of river and wood
and the pillared heights of Arlington; now a lofty heaven reveals
a waning moon, it may be--for every square has its horizon--the
morning-star flames out, a red and yellow sunrise burns behind the
silver cloud of the Capitol dome, and the whole city, in its splendor
and its squalor, bared to view, gives you a suffocating sense of the
pettiness of all other places before the opulence of sky, the width
and height, the light and space and air, that Washington affords.

The concentric labyrinth of the city's plan is indeed something
altogether unique; but whether it owes its origin to the fear of the
old French barricade or to a desire for grandeur and scope, the effect
attained is the same one of airy magnificence--monstrous avenues
crossing the right angles of the streets in diagonals radiating from
the White House and the Capitol, and all tiresomeness prevented by
the accommodating way which these avenues have of turning out for any
edifice that fancies their situation; while to keep upon them you are
so perpetually crossing one street or losing your way down another
that you may almost imagine yourself a spider walking across a web.

The designer of all this must have had a city in his mind's eye that
rivaled Napoleon's Paris--buildings, monuments, marbles, fountains,
trees, and everywhere great spaces and shining skies. For years,
though, this visionary city has existed only among the castles of the
air, and it is within a little while that the District government has
begun to put in a substantial underpinning to the cloudy fabric. But
although wretched thoroughfares and dilapidated dwellings, until the
last decade, have characterized the place, the fine public buildings
have for a long while awaited their fit surroundings--buildings mostly
of the Grecian types, which, however unfit they might be for a land
where damp dark heavens make all the spires that can spring up to
catch the sunshine a necessity, are perfectly appropriate to a climate
where the long hot summers demand the shelter of flat roofs and cool
protecting porticoes. There are, then, already, the Patent Office,
with its massive Doric simplicity; the Treasury, with the superb
extent of its columned sides; the Post Office, with its dazzling
Corinthian splendor; the Institution, with its romantic towers and
turrets of dark red stone, ivy-grown and in the midst of gardens; and
the Capitol, whose dome rises over the city, so pale, so perfect and
so buoyant that it seems only a cloud among the clouds--a pile that by
daylight looks like a white altar of liberty set on its hilltop among
velvet lawns and embowering trees, and which by starlight--when you
see the sentinel lamps throw out the great shadows of the arches at
its foundation, see the lofty flights of steps with their exquisite
gradation, see the long flying lines of the rows of columns, monoliths
of marble, taking a sparkle of light and retreating into distance and
darkness, and follow up the heights till your eye rests on the shadowy
dome hanging in the mid-heavens with the stars themselves--seems in
its vast white sublimity the shrine of nothing less than the Genius of
the nation. And by and by, when the building shall be quite complete,
and shrubbery shall have grown in the new grounds, when the almond and
the tulip tree and that burning bush the scarlet Japan quince, shall
have come to blossom there, and the giant magnolia shall lift its
snowy urns of incense about the spot, imagination will be able to
conjure up no image of majesty and beauty eclipsing the reality. For
all this and much more is now under way: streets have been leveled and
paved and parked, embankments have been terraced, boulevards have been
planted with mile-long rows of lindens, blossoming gardens have been
laid out, fountains have been opened, and such dwellings erected with
their grass-plots and their water-jets before them, in place of the
bare old barracks and shanties, that it is now a city of parks and
palaces. Your carriage can roll for leagues over streets whose roadway
is smooth as a floor, past squares rich in the foliage and flower
of their season, enchanting pictures of river and height unveiled at
every turn, and the squalor once so prominent is seen striking its
tents, while only the splendor remains. There is hardly a street but
down its vista some allurement is displayed: this one reaches far
away, through the green of willows and the blue of distance, across
the Long Bridge and into the hills of Virginia; that one ends in the
Agricultural Department and its delightful grounds; down these the
Institution is seen at various angles in various guises; while the
great Pennsylvania Avenue gives you at one end the Capitol dome,
always a thin and pale blue mist about its whiteness, with the shining
colonnades that bear it lifted high over the tossing treetops below,
and at the other end the southern facade of the Treasury, rising
before you like an antique temple, while noble views open at every
intersection of the cross-streets there; and toward nightfall the
distant mists of the river-country beyond build up sunsets unrivaled
in their gorgeousness.

There are few more interesting thoroughfares in the world than this
avenue. Here ruler and ruled jostle each other; here thunder the
liveried equipages of foreign nobles; here saunters the President, and
nobody turns to look. Sooner or later all the famous of the world
are tolerably sure to be met upon it: as we walk there History walks
beside us and mighty shadows move before us. Washington has dashed
down that avenue in his yellow chariot that was painted with cupids
and drawn by six white horses; Hamilton, Jefferson, La Fayette,
Burr, and all the gods of the republic have trodden it before us;
dishonoring British squadrons have marched upon it; it has shaken to
the tread of our own legions; and great forms begin to loom in the
national memory that have just passed from its daily crowds. Nor does
all its interest belong to the past: those daily crowds themselves are
full of perpetual dramas in which the actors are unknown perhaps to
fame or fiction, but none the less real and in sad earnest with their
play. Here goes a little withered man in his threadbare coat: he has
a proud and scowling face, but he pauses with a singularly sweet and
gentle manner at every group of children, black or white. He is an old
numismatician, a foreigner, and his youth in Europe was given to
the gathering of coins and medals till he had a nearly unrivaled
collection, and he came over the sea, hoping to dispose of them to
the government of this country. Failing in his purpose, his means
dwindling day by day, he was obliged to pledge a portion of his
treasure that he might be able to live. It cut him to the heart
to divide the collection: he had the history of the world in those
incontrovertible records of brass and silver and gold, currency of the
old Hindoo, of the Assyrian--medals where Alexander's superb profile
shone crowned as Apollo--coins of the Ptolemies, of the Caesars, of
almost every people and generation from the beginning of civilization
till to-day. But divide them he did, and left a part of them in other
hands, and went to the North. There, driven by necessity, he pledged
another portion; and after a while, wishing to redeem the latter
pledge, and not being allowed to do so, he began a lawsuit to obtain
it. The court decided the case against him; and the little man, half
crazed, unable to obtain the portion he had pledged in Washington, and
now seeing this also leave him, cried out in the open court, "O unjust
judge! God shall demand your soul of you!" And the judge, with a
sudden exclamation, fell backward, and before the sun set he was dead.
The little numismatician returned to Washington, and having failed in
all the hopes of his life, took translating and any other writing he
could find to do. But there a certain high official having treated him
unworthily, he adjured him much as he had adjured the unjust judge;
and a fortnight afterward the official had gone to join the judge. It
is hardly surprising if there were a vague feeling toward this really
excellent man and scholar as toward one having the evil eye, whom
people dread to meet and fear to offend.

But here is another individual with another experience. Gems are his
passion, and for years he has sacrificed to it. He is only an old
clerk on a moderate salary, but no misadventure has ever disturbed his
plans, and year by year he has added some treasure to his hoard till
it is unique as it is precious. There are rings of bishops and kings;
jeweled baubles from Egyptian tombs and gold-wrought ornaments of the
Montezumas; a cameo where a single face with its shadows makes six
laughing and six weeping outlines; a cat's-eye quartz to which the
one the king of Siam has is perhaps the mate; diamonds and pearls,
amethysts and topazes, beryls and opals, single emeralds of rare
beauty and doublets of great size, rubies of the real pigeon's blood,
and sapphires whose heart is blue as the bluest midnight, but whose
angles refract a radiance red as fire; chains of carved beads; seals,
intaglios,--to almost all of them some legend attaching.

Here passes a person very different from either of these--a tall and
martial figure, a filibustero in every clime, hunted with blood-hounds
in the Spanish sierras when Don Carlos needed him, floating naked
on bladders down the Danube, with despatches in his mouth, when
the Hungarians were sore pressed. Here goes a jolly, happy man, who
contentedly lets title and coronet go by across the sea while he
practices law in the Patent Office. Here on the avenue go up and
down all these people, and countless others with stories as pointed,
whether it be such a story as that of Captain Suter, whose treacherous
servant bartered all the gold of California for a single drink, or of
this black man who to-day is free and yesterday was a slave.

But attractive as this picturesque grouping of avenues and edifices
may be, the attraction does not belong to the outside alone: inside
the great doors of the majestic halls you will find that time has
wings while you pass in review the trophies of all the zones, and
of the meteoric heavens too, preserved in the Smithsonian, or the
archives of the country in the Patent Office. This latter is indeed a
place of enchantment. The Pompeiian hall has something of the air of a
hall dressed for legerdemain, and if you pause to think you will
note a strange wizardry at work there. You linger before a little
printing-press, and as if magical clouds rose and shut out the
work-day world, the skies of Greece are overhead and the Ancient
searching for his lever with which to move the world passes down the
room and lingers with you; for surely he has found the lever, and
surely the world has been moved with it, the boundaries of empires
broken up, kings discrowned, republics ruined. Go farther: a case
of toys: harmless trifles enough, arrests you--cannon a finger long,
batteries the size of a lady's spool-stand, but the reduced models of
death-dealing engines whose power of wholesale slaughter may one day
revolutionize the codes of nations and abolish warfare. In another
case you observe only a lump of coal, a phial of pitch, a flask of
oil; and the necromancer of the place has dipped his rod down into the
central darkness of the earth and drawn up light like the day's. Yet
beyond: an iron stirrup and a slender spur, and the sewing-girl has
but to set her foot there and escape the shapes that dog her. Not far
away, again, we remember the Oriental magician, who as often as
the king cut off his head grew another in its place, as we see the
machinery for a feat almost as wonderful in the exact anatomy of steel
springs and leather ligaments made to fit upon the very nerves of
volition themselves, till the halt walk and the maimed are made whole.
In this spot is the jar into which the fisherman shut the afrite; in
that are the great genii who gather in a harvest; and in still another
there lies a tiny thing answering your touch with no louder noise than
a buzz and a click, but its whisper can be heard from end to end of
the land, and it runs beneath the roar of ocean to carry the voice
of one world to another. In fact, within these crystal cells the
intelligence of all our millions is concreted; and it is no wonder
that in the face of the marvels here inventors are sometimes seized
with a temporary madness, and have to be cared for till the fit
passes.

Inside the Capitol too there is much to detain you: the vast
fireproof library of Congress; the legislative halls; the marble room,
wainscoted in mirrors, where you can see the Senators slide between
the pillars accompanied by the multiplying train of not one but a
hundred shadows, and where you can wonder to your heart's content
what a room lined with looking-glass has to do with legislation; the
storied bronze doors, and the bronze staircases hidden away in the
dark, in and out the intricacies of whose balustrades all manner of
forest-life is cast--the deer bounding beneath the branches, and the
birds fluttering over their nests, which the serpent slides along to
rifle. In the older portion of the building is the national order of
architecture designed by Jefferson, the columns of which are clustered
cornstalks, and in whose capitals the acanthus leaf is pushed aside
by the curling tobacco. The lower corridors, too, are pictured
with representations of our natural history in bird and flower and
fruit--far fitter decoration than the swarming cherubs and cupids and
numberless unwarrantable little Loves that tumble about on the other
walls, intrude themselves on battle-scenes, and hover round the
appalling frescoes of Liberty, Law, Legislation and Religion in the
President's room, after a fashion that would be too free and easy for
the villa of Lucullus, but which is not altogether discordant with the
splendid leprosy of gilding with which the whole interior is infected;
which is to be seen oozing from the caissons overhead in huge
stalactites, damasked in broad sheets on the paneling, glaring in
lattice-work, bosses, scrolls and frets, and trickling everywhere over
the efflorescence of the plaster decorations. There are two or three
committee-rooms, likewise, very elaborately, though very questionably,
decorated, and usually on exhibition to rural visitors, who gape at
them with a happy sense of the proprietorship of such pomp. The least
unworthy of these is the room set apart for the Committee on Military
Affairs: vivid wreaths of laurel decorate the ceiling much more
effectively than do the sprawling females of most of the other places;
a couple of large battle-pieces illuminate the walls, and cornice,
panel and pilaster are simply adorned with frescoed arms and muniments
of war. Another is the room of the Agricultural Committee, where, with
his group of Romans, Cincinnatus, called from the plough, fills the
upper section of one end, and confronts his modern compeer, Israel
Putnam; above two side doors little scenes of grain-harvesting
illustrate the difference between the old and the new way of
going afield; and circling overhead are the Seasons and their
attendants--Spring, with armfuls of blossoms and cherubs letting loose
the doves; Summer, whose sprites are shooting down arrows of fervid
heat; Autumn, with his grapes and sheaves, and his followers festive
with lute and tambourine; and old Winter, moving through angry clouds,
while his children pour out the showers and blow blasts from their
shells. In the room of the Committee on Naval Affairs on both sides
as you enter rise grayly the vestibules of vast temples, typifying,
perhaps, the sea as the gateway of all nations: above them, much
foreshortened, Neptune and Amphitrite, AEolus, Oceanus, Nereus and
Thetis, accompany a new sea-goddess, America, with scores of nymphs
interspersed--all of them riding on sea-horses and simpering sadly;
while in the great panels around the sides of the room other nymphs,
painted at full length in lively colors, are bearing aloft various
symbols of the sea--this one a sextant, that a chart, another a
compass, a fourth a bannerol, sufficiently prosaic in idea, though
not ungraceful in fact, as witness the floating damsel who carries a
barometer lightly as a mermaid carries her glass, or the figure with
the red-gold hair whose back alone we see as she unrolls her map.
But it is not easy to say why we should recur to mythology for our
national ornamentation, or why the ancient Greeks should be called
in where our own history needs the canvas, or why these aerial young
women should so comfortably usurp the place of the Guerriere and
Constitution, the dauntless little boat between the fires on Lake
Erie, or the unsurpassed sea-scenes of storm and calm along our own
coast.

But there is far more than all this pride of the eyes to detain you
within the Capitol: there is the great arena where our political
athletes contend, and where, by daily observation of their faces,
daily hearing of their voices, daily notice of their manners, one
becomes familiar as if by personal acquaintance with the heroes of the
day. In past times the heroes were such as Webster, Calhoun and Clay.
Now they are others--men whom this belittling age of the telegraph and
the reporter brings so near us that there is at least little chance
of their ever looming up in undue proportion through the mists of
tradition. It is Henry Wilson, sitting in the Vice-President's chair,
a notable example of the possibilities in a republic; or it is
Sumner, with that gray head which all men honor as a type of political
integrity, albeit not untinctured with arrogance; or it is another
sort of man that engages your attention, one whom you recognize at
once, for certainly there is no one but knows that face--a face so
easy to caricature that there is no insult of the pencil that has
not been offered it, but which is not the less expressive of an
indomitable will, an untamable spirit, and a mind like a torch,
throwing light on everything it approaches. From the instant that
General Butler rises the discussion, however dull before, bristles
into excitement, and one could hardly wish for an hour of racier
enjoyment than is afforded by the debate when he desires to gain
a point over able but envious opponents, who never attack him
single-handed, and to meet whom, their shafts flying on every side, he
brings up his subtlety of argument, his readiness, his audacity, his
wit and repartee and forensic skill, till he winds them in their
own toils. Perhaps while you have been observing these and other
notabilities of the day, another personage has come upon the floor by
prescriptive right of past membership, and has arrested your gaze.
He is a gentleman of portly presence, who looks out of a pair of keen
dark eyes, and still possesses some of the great personal beauty
for which in his youth he was remarkable. He is the last of the
old statesmen; he has had a part in many of the scenes that we call
history; he was the compeer of Webster and Clay and Crittenden and
Calhoun; and one would not marvel if he looked but contemptuously
on the fevered measures and boyish ecstasies and advocacies of
their successors. Familiar with modern languages and literatures, an
encyclopaedia of ancient and mediaeval learning, a master of the science
of government, as old as the century, and one of its conspicuous
figures, perhaps but a single thing is wanting to make Mr. Cushing a
chief: he does not believe in the people.

Thus it is easily seen that your life at the Federal Capital, if you
possess either an eye for beauty or an interest in affairs, may be
full of enjoyment and variety. Your companions are people of mark;
you learn, by returning, when summer does, to the small scandals and
personalities of common towns, how large is the outlook in Washington;
the theatre of the world opens before you there; you feel that you
assist at the making of history, if you are not yourself a part of
events.

But this is one side of life. There is another and a more purely
social side which is a very different thing. Into this affairs of
state do not enter; with the right or wrong of vital questions it does
not concern itself at all; and in fact it is doubtful if politics are
not thought there mere subsidiaries to the authority of Fashion, and
if the fair wives and daughters of our lawgivers do not regard the
great machinery of state as something ordained solely to sustain them
in their brilliant round as the wind of the juggler's fan supports his
paper butterflies upon their airy flight. In this life an etiquette
reigns that has no law of its being save that of vague tradition--an
etiquette at variance with that of other regions, and through which
the female population is resolved into what might be termed, in the
parlance of the place, a committee of the whole on "calling." This
etiquette rules the wives of important functionaries with a rod
of iron. By some occult method of reasoning they have reached the
conclusion that their husbands' popularity, and consequent lease
of power, depend upon their own faithful performance of what is
considered to be social duty, and they devote themselves to it with
a zeal worthy of a better cause. On certain days of the week their
houses are open to all who choose to come; and both residents and
passing travelers, all who wish to inspect the inside of such homes
among the other sights of the town, throng the doors, leave cards
and partake of refreshments. Of course many strange occurrences are
incidental to such occasions; and so the lady whose beauty had been
made famous must have thought when unknown crowds flocked to see her,
destroying daily a vase or a statuette, a photograph or a book,
but always staring with all their eyes, and one day crowning their
enormities with a procession of deaf-mutes from an asylum, which filed
in and gazed and filed out again, in total silence of course, save now
and then a crack of nimble finger-joints.

All the other days in the week the great lady is occupied in returning
these visits, hunting for obscure addresses, trailing her rich
garments over third-story stairs; and it is no uncommon thing for her
to have the names of one or two thousand people in her visiting-book,
on whom she is to call, provided she can find them. Of course the call
is brief, the faces are unknown, the conversation is void, and the
only satisfaction attained is in checking off that particular name as
done with. Certainly this great lady's lot is not altogether enviable.
In the daytime she is claimed by calls, in the night-time by balls;
at nine in the morning people on business begin to clamor for her
husband, at ten, if he is a Congressman, he goes to his committee,
at twelve Congress meets to adjourn at five; and if after that some
political dinner, at which great things are to be adjusted, does not
take him to itself till nearly midnight, constituents, schemers and
lobbyists do. What sort of home-life there can be where the master of
the house is out all day and the mistress is out all night, remains a
matter of conjecture.

But there are wheels within wheels; and all the wheels are not so
thoroughly oiled as to make things run with perfect smoothness; and
thus in the progress of this very "calling" sad disturbances
arise. Shall the Senators' wives make the first call on the Cabinet
ministers' wives? By no means: the Cabinet ministers are but creatures
of a day, ephemera, who draw their breath by and with the advice and
consent of the Senate: they must respect their creator. Shall the
Senators' wives call first upon the wives of the justices of the
Supreme Court? There is a doubt: the Supreme Court is the last resort
of the law of the land, a reverend and hoary institution, and its
judges, having a life-lease, will be judges still when the Senators
shall have passed away; but no, again--the Senators make the justices.
The Representatives shall make the first call on the Senators' wives
of course; but how about the Speaker's wife? She is the third in
succession from the presidency, says the new-comer: she is nothing
but a Representative still, says the compelling etiquette. Finally,
through some incomprehensible regulation, whose framer forgot that
though democracies may be rude they must not be inhospitable, the
wives of the foreign ambassadors, representatives of sovereign states,
have to go the whole round and knock first at every door before being
fairly accredited to Society. But once established, be it said in
passing, the foreigners have a full revenge accorded them; for in vain
the native youth aspire, the freshest belles hover round the titled
flames, not perhaps till their wings are singed, but till successive
seasons have taught them that Cleopatra's beauty is useless without
Cleopatra's pearls. Meantime, to give one last discomfort to
the "calling" system, the ubiquitous reporter presents himself,
deliberately overturns the card-basket in the hall and notes the
names there; and the lady of the house sees herself, her dress, her
deportment and her guests photographed in the morning paper with
startling distinctness.

But the calling is the brightest part of this social side of life. The
other part is the night-life--not the night-life of gambling saloons
and their kind: of that dark underground existence Society has no
knowledge, though he who left it at daybreak and will go back to it at
midnight clasps the last debutante in his arms and whirls with her to
the sweet waltz-music--but the night-life of the Season.

A Washington season is a generic thing: women come to the place for
the sake of it, as they go nowhere else. Through the system of
calling just described official society is accessible to all, and the
introductions obtained there to people of the more select circles,
when fortified by wealth and pertinacity, open the whole charmed round
of pleasure. Society in other cities is totally unlike Society
in Washington. There it is an interchange of kindliness between
households of friends: it is the festivity of happy anniversaries, the
union of families in new ties, the cherishing of long acquaintance.
But in Washington--except so far as the small number of residents
is concerned--its whole purpose and meaning are anomalous: each
Administration brings a new following, each Congress has a new rabble
at its heels; friendships are accidents of the day, diplomacy is
carried on by dining; every party has a political purpose, every
civility a double meaning. Nevertheless, the sparkle of wit, the
kindling of enthusiasm, are not absent from it; on the contrary, there
is more of that than elsewhere, for it is sustained by the chosen
intellect and beauty of the continent. You may meet admirals there who
have sailed round the world, generals who have fought mighty battles,
priests who may yet be popes, men and women who are figures of
the century: they will tell you the romance of their travel, the
heart-beat of their successes, and you will contrive to hear it for
all the accompanying roar and sweep in which they are the lay figures
for aspirants to measure, and the property of reporters. In such a
Society of course all asperities are softened: this man's daughter
dances with the son of his arch-enemy; deference is accorded to the
opinion of a woman on public matters as if she already possessed her
right of suffrage; there is an exhilaration in meeting and avoiding
and overlooking, in the light and skillful skating over dangerous
surfaces, while a rare freedom unites with a gentle even if politic
courtesy, which it is delightful to meet to-night and which allures
you to seek it to-morrow. Society without a conscience it is,
possibly, but for all that sufficiently fascinating.

Let us look at one of its scenes: not a "state sociable" nor a hotel
"hop," and not a President's "levee." There are fine ladies who have
lived forty years in Washington without attending that pandemonium,
the levee, where the crowd seizes one with a hundred hands till
flounce and furbelow are crushed in its grasp, and where, while the
court reigns in the Blue Room, the mob are disporting themselves in
the magnificence of the East Room, the parlor of the people, where
they have the reddest of red curtains, the broadest of gold cornices,
the portraits of their public servants in the panels between square
rods of looking-glass; where the huge chandeliers shine with a
thousand pendants and a thousand jets, and where, because foreign
crowds tread bare marble floors, they have on theirs a tufted velvet,
and so revolve rejoicing on the biggest carpet in the world, like the
medley of a vast kaleidoscope--old people with one foot in the grave,
children in arms, a bride with veil and orange-blossoms, cripples,
heroes, dwarfs and beauties, all together. Not on any such scene of
the Season let us look, where the doors are locked behind us at eleven
o'clock, but on one of its "balls and masks begun at midnight, burning
ever to midday." It is like an Aztec revel for its flowers: the great
stairways, leading up and down between the rooms that glow with light
and resound with the tones of flute and violin, are wound with shrubs
where art conceals everything but the branch and blossom; doors are
arched with palms and long banana leaves; flowers swing from lintel
and window and bracket, stream from the pictures, crown the statues;
sprays of dropping vines wreathe the chandeliers that shed the soft
brilliance of wax-lights around them; mantels are covered with moss;
tables are bedded with violets; tall vases overflow with roses and
heliotropes, with cold camellias and burning geraniums; the orchestra
is hidden with latticed bloom and bud; and yellow acacias and scarlet
passion-flowers and a great white orchid with a honeyed breath
encircle the fern-filled basin where a fountain plays. The murmur of
music, the wealth of perfume, make the atmosphere an enchantment. A
crowd of gorgeous hues and tissues, bare bosoms and blazing jewels,
ascend and descend the stairs: here are women the fame of whose beauty
is world-wide, wearing lace whose intricate design, over the pale
shimmer of some perfectly tinted silk beneath, represents the labor of
a lifetime, wearing necklaces and tiaras of diamonds, where the great
stones set in a frosty floral splendor seem to throb with a spirit
of their own. There of course is the President; yonder is the
Chief-Justice; here again the general of all our armies; here flash
the glittering insignia of soldiers, here the fantastic array of
diplomats; down one vista the dancers float through their mazes, down
another shine the crystal and gold and silver of the tables red with
burgundy and bordeaux, tempting with terrapin and truffle, with spiced
meats and salads, pastries, confections and fruits; and close by is
the punch-room. You have your choice of the frozen article, or of that
claret concoction to hold whose glowing ruby a bowl has been hollowed
in the ice itself, or of the champagne punch, where to every litre of
the champagne a litre of brandy, a litre of red rum, a litre of green
tea, are given, and where you see a flushed and fevered damsel dipping
the ladle and tossing off her jorum as coolly as though she had not
had her three wines at dinner that day, and had not, in half the
houses of her dozen morning calls, sipped her sherry or set down her
little punch-glass empty of its delicious mixture of old spirits and
fermenting fruit-juices. Perhaps that sight sets you to thinking. You
may have been attracted earlier in the night by her delicate toilette
and her face pure as a pearl: you saw her later, warm from the dance,
eating and drinking in the supper-room: then her partner's arm was
round her waist, her head was on his shoulder, and she was plunging
into the German, whirling to maddening measures, presently caught in
a new embrace, flying from that man's arms to another's, growing wild
with the abandon of the figure, hair flying, dress disordered, powder
caked, face burning, till, pausing an instant for the champagne in
a servant's hands, your girl with the face as pure as a pearl seemed
nothing but a bacchante. And you ask yourself, "What is to be the end,
for her, of these midnights rich in every delight of vanity--the thin
slipper, the bare flesh, the brain loaded with false tresses, the
pores stopped with the dust of white and pink ball, the heated dance,
the indigestible banquet, the scanty sleep to get which she doses
herself nightly with some tremendous drug?" You wonder what emotions
are stimulated by the whirling dances, the rich dainties, the breath
of the exotics, the waltz-music, the common contact, the emulation of
dress, the unseasonable hours, the twice-breathed air, the everlasting
drams. "I saw Florimonde going the round of her half dozen parties the
other night," wrote a "looker-on in Venice" toward the close of the
last season. "What a resplendent creature she was, the hazel-eyed
beauty, with the faintest tinge of sunset hues on her oval cheeks!
Her dress was of that peculiar tarnished shade of pink--like yellow
sunshine suffusing a pale rose--which made the white shoulders rising
from it whiter and more polished yet; the panier and scarf were of
yellowest point lace; and a necklace of filigree and of large pale
topazes, each carved in cameo, illuminated the whole. Maudita went out
with Florimonde, too, that night, as she had gone every night for two
months before. Skirt over skirt of fluffy net flowed round Maudita,
and let their misty clouds blow about the trailing ornaments of long
green grasses and blue corn-flowers that she wore, while puffs and
falls half veiled the stomacher of Mexican turquoise and diamond
sparks, whose device imitated a spray of the same flowers; and in
among the masses of her glittering, waving auburn hair rested a
slender diadem of the turquoise again--that whose nameless tint, half
blue, half green, makes it an inestimable treasure among the Navajoes,
as it was once among the Aztecs, who called it the chalchivitl;
each cluster of Maudita's turquoises set in a frost-work of finest
diamonds--a splendid toilette indeed, as fresh and radiant as the
morning dew upon the meadows. When they set out on the love-path, that
is. When they came home from it, and from all the fatigues and fervors
of the German, a metamorphosis. The gauzy dress was so fringed and
trodden on and torn that it seemed to hold together, like many an
ill-assorted marriage, by the cohesion of habit alone; the hair--Madge
Wildfire's was of more respectable appearance; the powder had fallen
on arms and shoulders; and to my critical eyes, if to no others, the
sunset hues remained on only one of Florimonde's cheeks; and those
enticing shadows round Maudita's eyes when she went out--for the best
of eyes are dulled by too much wear and tear--does antimony 'run,'
or had some pugilistic partner given her a 'black eye'? Not that the
damsels came home in such trim on every night of the season: this was
the accumulation of six parties in one night, the last of the Germans,
when the fun grew fast and furious, the figures and the favors more
fantastic; when daylight was breaking ere the champagne breakfast was
eaten; and when the drunken coachman, out all night, had kept them
shivering in the porch an endless while, and had jolted them about the
carriage afterward. But they had had a glorious time: their eyes were
dancing like marsh-lights, their laughter was ringing like a peal of
bells, the jests and bon-mots and flattery they had heard were running
off their lips like rain; they had made Goodness knows what conquests,
they had made Goodness knows how many engagements; and oh, they
were so tired! I ran into their room to see them next day: it was
afternoon, and they were still in bed. There was nothing remarkable in
that, they said: some girls were obliged to stay in bed two days out
of every week through sheer fatigue, and some got so excited they
couldn't sleep at all, except by means of morphia, and that made them
sick a couple of days, any way; but as for themselves, they had never
given out yet, and never meant to do so. While she was speaking,
Florimonde's voice faltered, and the sentence was finished under the
breath. Her voice had given out. At the moment the muscles round that
handsome mouth of hers began to twitch ridiculously: she yawned and
threw up her arms, as a baby stretches itself, and stiffened in that
position, with her teeth set and her eyes rolled out of sight, and
lay there like a corpse. Florimonde had given out. As I sprang to
investigate this surprising condition of things, there came a sudden
gurgle and a groan from Maudita, who had risen in her own little bed
at my motion. I turned to see her clutching her throat, as if her
hands were the claws of a wild-cat: she was laughing and howling and
crying all at once; her face was of a dark purple tint; her body--that
lithe and supple waltzing body of hers--was bending itself rigidly
into the shape of a bow, resting by the head and the heels on the
bed--the dignified Maudita!--and the foam was standing half an inch
high on her mouth. Maudita had given out too. Of course the doctor
came presently and separated the patients, and gave them pills and
powders and bromides without end; and there were watchers to keep the
delicate creatures, whom it took three or four people to hold in
their fits, from injuring themselves; and at last sleep came with
the all-persuading chloral, and with the awaking from that powerful
chloral-given sleep came an imbecile sort of state, whose scattered
wits were full of small cunning and spites, that told secrets and told
lies, and could not pronounce names; and lips were blistered and eyes
were swollen and purblind; and Florimonde and Maudita must keep Lent
in spite of themselves. But how long do you suppose they will keep it?
and in what way? As the good formalist fasts on Friday, with dishes of
oysters escalloped deliciously on the shell, with toasted crabs,
and bass baked in port wine. Will Florimonde forego her low necks
or Maudita her blonde powder? Will there be any less excitement or
rivalry in their private theatricals and concerts for charity? Will
the flirtations be any less extraordinary at the high teas? The mind
will be perhaps a little flighty; the health will not be so firm;
there will be a good deal of morbid sorrow over imaginary misdeeds,
and none at all over real ones; there will be compensatory
church-going, with delightful little monogram-covered prayer-books.
But will the flesh be mortified by any real rough sackcloth and ashes?
It is hardly to be hoped. Neither Lent, nor religion, nor judgment,
nor anything but poverty and absolute impotence, will put a period to
the wild pursuit of pleasure that a fashionable season begins. Ill for
the next generation, the mothers of which are wrecks before its birth!
Well for Florimonde and Maudita, with all the dew and freshness of
their youth destroyed, if at length, thoroughly ennuyees, they do not
put a piquancy and flavor of sin into their pleasure, as the old West
Indian toper dashes his insipid brandy with cayenne!"

Doubtless on such phenomena of the Season as these the ashes with
which the priest sprinkles the heads of the penitents while he murmurs
_Memento, homo, quod pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris_, falls like
the Vesuvian dust upon Pompeiian revels, and they are buried beyond
sight and hearing, for a time at least. But we all know that ashes
are a fertilizer, and by and by there blossoms above the ruins a later
season which is to the earlier one what the spirit is to the body.
Everywhere outdoors, then, it is spring: the damp and windy weather
has blown away, the sky is as blue as the violets and hyacinths
starting untended in the sod that the soft showers have clad in a
vivid verdure, and sunbeams are pouring over dome and obelisk and
pillared lines of marble till they shine with dazzling lustre through
the light screens of greenery. Then come the "kettle-drums," with
sunset looking in for company; then the receptions are held in rooms
full of sunshine, with open windows letting in the outside fragrance
and bird-song and glimpses of charming landscape, or they are turned
into fetes-champetres in the surrounding gardens; then come the
riding-parties to the Falls, where last night's sylph may be to-day's
Amazon in the midst of exceedingly grand scenery. Then, too, is the
time for the moonlit boating where the Potomac narrows between steep
and romantic banks of a sylvan wildness, and where the long oars of
the swift rowers bear you as if on wings; for picnics to Rock Creek,
a region of rude beauty, where the woods abound in lupines and pink
azaleas, and the great white dogwood boughs stretch away into the
darkness of the forest like a press of moonbeams, and where at dark
your horses ford the stream and climb the hill, and bring you over the
Georgetown Heights, past villas half-guessed by starlight among their
gardens and fountains, and in by a market picturesque with a hundred
torches flaring over the heads of mules and negroes and venders and
higglers--piles of game, crisp vegetables and scarlet berries. And
with this comes the excursion down river, sheet after sheet of the
shining stream opening on woody loveliness remote in azure hazes,
to Mount Vernon among its blossoming magnolias and rosy Judas trees,
where the great tomb stands open with its sarcophagi, and where
Eleanor Custis's harpsichord keeps strange company with the grim key
of the Bastile that has never been moved since Washington hung it on
the nail--where the quaint old rooms and verandahs and conservatories
invite the guests, and the garden with its breast-high hedges of
spicy box invites the lovers. Now the few ancestral mansions embower
themselves in an aristocratic seclusion of trees and vines that shut
them in with their birds and flowers and sunshine, and the Van Ness
Place, where Washington came to lay out the city, adorns all its
ancient and mossy magnificence with fresh drapery of leaves and
flowers. The halls of Congress, too, are still open all day, the drama
growing livelier as the adjournment draws nearer; and at evening the
drives are thronged with fine equipages winding down the Fourteenth
street way, out by the Soldiers' Home, through Harewood, or up by
the Anacostia branch and the wild Maryland hill-roads, where
wide-stretching pictures are revealed between the forest trees, while
sometimes one sees, with its two rivers--one shining like silver, one
red and turbid--the city lying far away, much of its outline veiled
and the color of its baked brick and stone and marble mellowed in the
distance, till through the quivering air and among all its towering
trees it looks like a vision of antique temples in the midst of
gardens of flowers. And now the numberless squares and triangles and
grass-plots of the city are green as Dante's newly-broken emeralds,
are a miracle of spotless deutzia and golden laburnum, honeysuckle and
jasmine: half the houses are covered with ivies and grapevines; the
Smithsonian grounds surround their dark and castellated group of
buildings in a wilderness of bloom; and the rose has come--such roses
as Sappho and Hafiz sung; deep-red roses that burn in the sun, roses
that are almost black, so purple is their crimson, roses that are
stainless white, long-stemmed, in generous clusters, making the air
about them an intoxication in itself--roses fit to crown Anacreon.
Twice a week during all this sweet season the Marine Band has been
blowing out its music in the President's Grounds and in the Capitol
Park late in the warm afternoon, and every one promenades in gala
attire beneath the trees and over the shady slopes till the tunes die
with the twilight, and many a long-delaying love-affair culminates as
the stars come out and the perfumed wind casts down great shadows from
the swinging branches overhead, while indulgent duennas gossip on,
oblivious of dew; and at midnight the mocking-birds begin to bubble
and warble a wild sweet melody everywhere throughout the dark and
listening city. For one brief month, you see, it is politics and power
set down in Paradise--let only the envious say as strangely out of
place as the serpent there. And finally the festivities of this almost
ideal spring season, where the world of Fashion and the world of
Nature meet at their best, come to an end with Decoration Day--the
last day ere the spring brightens into the blaze of summer--a day
that robs death of its terrors, and seems to carry one back to that
primeval period when the old death-defying Egyptians made their
festivals with flowers, as we stand in that desolation of the dead
on the heights of Arlington, and see the billows of graves stretching
away to the horizon, wave after wave, crested with the line of
white headstones, and every mound heaped with flowers that have been
scattered to the tune of singing children's voices, while below the
peaceful river floats out broadly; and far across its stream, over all
the turfy terraces and above the plumy treetops that hide the arched
and columned bases of its snowy splendor, the dome of the country's
Capitol rises--a shining guardian of the slumbers of the dead.




A DAY'S SPORT IN EAST FLORIDA.


  Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,
  He roamed, content alike with man and beast.
  Where darkness found him, he lay glad at night:
  There the red morning touched him with its light.

R.W. EMERSON

On the 18th of February we arrived in the yacht off Mosquito Inlet
about sunrise, and as the tide served our pilot took us in over the
bar, which happened to be smooth at the time, and we anchored just
above the junction of the Halifax and Hillsboro Rivers. Rivers they
are called by the Floridians, but are long stretches of salt water
lying parallel with the coast, and separated from the sea by a sandy
beach of a mile in width, which is covered with a growth of pitch-pine
and palmetto scrub. In New York and New Jersey such waters are called
bays, and on the coast of Carolina they are sounds. They furnish a
convenient boat-navigation for the people, who in consequence do most
of their traveling by water.

Here we found lying at anchor a couple of large Eastern schooners:
they were waiting for cargoes of live-oak, which was being cut by a
large force of men in the employ of the Swifts, a firm that supplies
all this timber for the American navy. A lighthouse is much needed
here, the entrance being narrow, with only eight or ten feet of water
at high tide. The Victoria followed us in, and we had not been long
at anchor when a canoe came down the river under sail, and rounding to
alongside, a tall young man in white duck jacket and trousers stepped
on board, and accosted our pilot: "How are you, Pecetti? So you are
taking up my trade?"

"Well, yes: I've shipped as pilot for this cruise, and Al. Caznova
has the other yacht.--Captain Morris, this is Mr. Weldon, one of the
branch pilots."

"How do you do, Mr. Weldon? Is there a collector of the port here?"

"There's a deputy living in that cottage that you see on the bluff to
the left--Major Allen; and there is his boat coming down the river."

"Any hotel here, Mr. Weldon?"

"Yes, there is a very good one at New Smyrna, about three miles up the
river: Mr. Loud keeps it."

"We think of stopping here two or three days: where would be the best
place to anchor the yachts?"

"If you are going to Loud's, you can anchor near Major Allen's: there
is good holding ground, and you would be in sight of your vessel."

"Won't you stop and take breakfast, Mr. Weldon? and we will get you to
show us the way to the hotel."

"Much obliged, but I want to see the pilot of the other yacht. You can
see the hotel when you get to Major Allen's;" and he departed.

"I believe I have seen that man before," said Captain Morris. "We sent
a party ashore here in '63 to get wood, and they were fired upon by
the natives, and one man was killed. I shelled the place and burned a
house or two, and we took a couple of prisoners and left them at St.
Augustine. I think this young fellow was one of them."

Presently a yawl boat, rowed by two negroes, with the revenue flag
flying, came alongside, and a stout man of middle age came on board.
Morris came forward: "Mr. Allen, the collector, I suppose? I am master
and owner of this yacht, the Pelican of New York, a pleasure-vessel
on a cruise. The other schooner is also a yacht: she belongs in
Montreal."

"All right, captain! I will step below and look at your papers, if you
please. A handsome vessel, upon my word!"

"We are just going to breakfast, major: you will join us, I hope?"

This the major did, and being a Yankee of fluent speech, we soon
learned all about him--how he had served in a Massachusetts regiment,
and had been the first secretary of state under the new constitution
of Florida. This has an imposing sound, but when we learn that almost
all the better class of whites were mere unreconstructed rebels,
leaving only a few poor whites, some carpet-baggers from the North
and the negroes from whom to select the State officers, the position
ceases to seem exalted. During breakfast he told us all about New
Smyrna and its people, which was not much, since there are only five
or six houses there. The conjecture of Captain Morris about the pilot
was correct: he was of a good old rebel family, every man of whom of
suitable age had been in the Confederate service.

Major Allen went to visit the Victoria, and on his return we both got
under way and beat up the river about two miles, anchoring in three
fathoms water under the bluff on which stands the collector's house.
About noon a boat from each yacht started for the hotel. The river
here expands into a bay of a mile in width, containing several
islands, some of them wooded, and some low and grassy. The main
channel of the Hillsboro' River comes in from the south, half a mile
wide, with ten or twelve feet of water. On the west side the bay is a
low island with a creek between it and the mainland. On this mainland
is a shell bluff, twelve feet high, on which stands the hotel--a long
two-story building, with a piazza in front and out-buildings behind.
In the front yard are young orange, olive and fig trees, with two
splendid oleanders fifteen feet high, one on each side the door.
Another tropical plant, seen at the North in greenhouses, but here
growing ten feet high in the open air, is the American aloe or
century-plant. This house will accommodate twenty-five boarders, but
it was not full at the time; so we obtained rooms. It is one of the
most comfortable places in Florida, with a well-kept table, provided
with fish, oysters, turtle and game. New Smyrna is about thirty miles
from Enterprise, on the St. John's River: to this place there are
three or four steamers weekly from Jacksonville.

A hunting-party was organized to go the next day to Turnbull's Swamp,
which lies a few miles west of Loud's, and contains deer, turkeys and
ducks, with bears and panthers for those who desire that kind of
game. The party consisted of Captain Morris and Roberts of our yacht;
Colonel Vincent and two of the Englishmen from the Victoria, with
Weldon the pilot, and a tall Ohio hunter named Halliday, who lived in
the woods near Loud's. He took three fox-hounds, and Morris brought
his deer-hounds ashore. They took with them a mule and cart, with a
tent and blankets, intending to stay in the swamp over night. Captain
Herbert and I preferred to go a-fishing, and we hired a man to get
bait and take us to the ground in his boat. Doctor White went off by
himself to shoot birds for his collection.

About eight A.M. we anglers sailed out of the creek, and stood across
the bay with a light southerly breeze. Our boatman was one of the
Minorcan race, of whom there are many on this coast, descendants of
the men of Turnbull's colony of 1767. He was a cousin of our pilot, by
name Pecetti--a stout, well-built man forty years old, with keen black
eyes and curling dark hair and beard, and a great fisherman with line
and net. He lived near the inlet, and had the kind of boat commonly
used in these shallow waters--flat-bottomed, broad in the beam, with
centre-board and one mast set well forward. He had dug a peck or two
of the large round clams, and two or three throws of his cast-net as
we came through the creek procured a dozen mullet.

We ran into a channel between the eastern shore of the bay and an
island, and came to in a deep channel near the shore, which was marshy
and covered with a dense growth of mangrove bushes.

"Now," said Pecetti as he made fast the painter to a projecting limb,
"if the sand-flies don't eat us up, we ought to get some fish here."

"What kind of fish do you find here?" asked Herbert.

"Mostly sheepshead, some groupers and snappers, trout, bass, and
whiting. For sheepshead you want clam bait--for the others, mullet is
best. Rig up your rods and I will bait for you."

I had a bamboo bass-rod, with a large reel: the captain had a light
salmon-rod, with click reel. Pecetti selected for us some stout
Virginia hooks tied on double gut, with four-ounce sinkers, the tide
being quite strong here and half flood.

I found the bottom alongside the boat with about twelve feet of line,
and left my hooks upon it as directed. Soon I felt a slight touch, but
pulled up nothing but bare hooks. Twice was I thus robbed by the small
fish which swarmed about us, and which get the bait before the larger
ones can reach it; but the third time I felt a heavy downward tug, and
found myself fast to a strong fish, which fought hard to keep at the
bottom, and made short but furious rushes here and there, so that I
had to give him line. In a few minutes he tired himself by his own
efforts, and I wound him up toward the surface, but no sooner did he
approach daylight than he surged downward again. Five minutes' play
of this sort exhausted him, and I lifted on board a five-pound
sheepshead, the same thick-set, arched-backed fish, with his six dusky
bars on a silvery ground, which we buy in Fulton market at half a
dollar the pound, and which the wise call _Sargus ovis_. In the New
York waters it is a scarce fish, but runs larger than on the Southern
coast, sometimes up to ten or twelve pounds. Here they do not average
more than four pounds, a seven-pounder being rare. I agree in opinion
with Norris, whose theory is that those found on the coasts of
the Middle states are the surplus population of more Southern
waters--perhaps the magnificoes of their tribe, who, like the rich
planters in the good old times, like to amuse themselves at Cape May
or Long Branch.

But to return to our muttons. Here Captain Herbert pulled up a
handsome silvery fish of about a pound weight.

"A whiting!" cried Pecetti, "and the best fish in the river." Next
I hooked a couple of sheepshead, but lost one by the breaking of a
hook--a common accident, the jaws of this fish being very powerful.
Herbert now got hold of a big one, which played beautifully on his
elastic rod, and gave him a long fight and plenty of reel music, but
was finally saved, a six-pound sheepshead.

Pecetti, who had waited on us attentively, baiting our hooks and
taking off our fish (a service of some danger to a tyro, as the
sheepshead is armed with sharp spines), had a hook baited with
mullet away astern of the boat. This line was now straightened out
by something heavy, which he pulled in, hand over hand, and lifted on
board a handsome fish, near two feet long, with darkly mottled sides
and shaped like a cod-fish. "That's a nice grouper," said he--"ten
pound, I think." This is a percoid, _Serranus nigritus_ of Holbrook,
and one of the very best table-fishes of these waters.

We took six or eight more sheepshead, and the captain caught a
handsome, active fish of about four pounds weight, resembling the
squetegue or weakfish of New York, but having dark spots on the back,
like the lake-trout of the Adirondacks. This is the salt-water
trout, so called, though it is not a salmonine: it is _Otolithus
Caroliniensis_, the weakfish being _Otolithus regalis_.

Next I hooked a strong fish which seemed disposed to run under the
mangrove roots. "That's a big grouper," cried Pecetti. "Keep him away
from the roots, or you will lose him."

I did my best, but he was too strong: the rod bent into a hoop with
the strain, but I had to let him run, and he took to his hold under
the bank, from whence I was not able to dislodge him, and had to break
my line, losing hooks and snood. While this was going on, Herbert, who
had put on a mullet bait and let it float down the current, hooked and
secured after five minutes' play a channel bass or redfish of about
seven pounds. This is a fish peculiar to the Southern waters, good
on the table when in season, which is the spring and summer: in the
winter it spawns, and is not so good. When above ten or twelve pounds
in weight it is of a brilliant copper-red on back and sides: the
smaller ones are of a steel-blue on the back, and iridescent when
first caught. It grows to the weight of fifty or sixty pounds, runs in
great schools, and in habits and play when hooked resembles the allied
species _Labrax lineatus_, the striped bass. Cuvier named the species
_Corvina ocellata_, from the black spot which it bears near the tail.

The bottom here was rather foul, being covered with old logs and
branches of the mangroves, which, being a very heavy wood, had sunk
to the bottom and become covered with barnacles and other crustaceae,
which attracted the fish to this spot. They bit well, but so did the
sand-flies: as soon as the breeze died away they came out from the
bushes in clouds, and attacked us so fiercely that we were obliged to
quit.

"We'll go down toward the inlet," said Pecetti: "there's good
fishing-ground and more breeze." So he set the sail, and we ran down
the river, past the yachts, about a mile, where we came to anchor near
a bluff covered with trees, in a deep channel. Here we first caught
blackfish or sea-bass, of small size, but plenty; also snappers,
lively fish of the perch family, of a red color, and from a pound to
two pounds in weight, which usually take a mullet bait, in the swift
current near the surface. Then a school of sheepshead came along,
of which we got a dozen. After these we found bass, of which we took
eight, weighing from six to ten pounds each; also three fine groupers,
the largest twelve pounds. Pecetti caught a Tartar in the shape of
a monstrous sting-ray, four feet across, with a tail three feet long
armed with formidable spines. This creature lives on the bottom, his
food being chiefly mollusks and crustaceae, for the disposal of which
he has a huge mouth with a pavement of flat enameled teeth. He lies
usually half buried in the sand, and is much dreaded by the fishermen,
who are in danger of treading on him as they wade to cast their nets.
In that case he strikes quick blows with his whiplike tail, the jagged
spines of which make very dangerous wounds, apt to produce lockjaw.

After much difficulty our boatman got the ray alongside the boat with
his gaff-hook, and gave it a few deep cuts in the region of the heart
with a large knife. The blood spurted out in big jets, as from the
strokes of a pump, which soon exhausted its strength, and Pecetti
dragged it ashore and cut off its tail for a trophy. As the creature
was dying it ejected from its stomach a quart or more of small
bivalves, which must have been recently swallowed.

"That makes the best bait for sharks," said Pecetti: "I always bait
with sting-ray when I can get it."

As the rays and sharks both belong to the order of placoids, it
appears that the shark is not particular about preying on his kindred.

"Are sharks plenty here?" I inquired.

"Indeed they are!" said Pecetti: "I wonder we have not had our lines
cut by them. I have caught half a dozen in an hour's time right here.
I think I can show you one very quick." He went ashore and launched
the ray's carcass down the current. It floated slowly away, but had
not gone fifty yards when it was seized by a shark, which tugged and
tore at it, till directly a second and a third arrived and struggled
furiously for it, lashing the water into foam with their tails.
Presently more came up, till there were five or six of the monsters
all fighting for the prey, which they soon devoured. "There, you see
how soon they smelt the blood. What you think of sharks, now?"

"I think," said I, "that this is not exactly the place to bathe in."

The tide being now well on the ebb, the fish stopped biting, perhaps
driven away by the sharks, and we sailed down to the inlet, where
there is a long sandy beach fringed with mangroves: behind these, low
hillocks of sand covered with saw-palmetto extend across to the
ocean, perhaps half a mile; and here is an expanse of sandy beach some
hundreds of yards in width at low tide, hard and smooth, so that one
could drive from St. Augustine to the south end of the peninsula were
it not for the creeks and inlets.

On the river-front is a long bed of oysters, growing up to high-water
mark, the upper ones poor, called "raccoon oysters" by the natives,
but the lower ones, which are mostly covered with water, large, fat
and delicious. We gathered about a bushel of these, built a fire of
dead mangrove wood, which is the best of fuel, and when we had a good
bed of coals threw on the oysters. The heat, at the same time that it
roasted them, obliged them to open their valves, so that it was both
easy and pleasant to take them on the half shell. Besides these free
gifts of Nature, we had with us from the hotel biscuits, cold meat and
doughnuts. While we were eating, a handsome sailboat from the hotel
came to the beach: it contained a party of ladies and gentlemen who
were going for shells, which are numerous on the sea-beach, though not
many of the finer sorts are found so far north. After a heavy storm
the paper nautilus is sometimes found. Sea-beans of various kinds
are numerous, and the search for them, and the polishing of them when
found, seem to be the principal occupations of many Florida tourists.
Were it not for the sharks, this would be a fine bathing-beach.
Whether they are man-eaters or not, may be a question, but we
preferred to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt.

On our return to Loud's we found Doctor White very busy skinning his
birds.

"What is this, doctor?--a jay? It looks rather different from our blue
jay."

"Yes: this is the Florida jay: it has no crest, you perceive. Here is
another Southern bird, the fish-crow, smaller than ours, you see.
Here I have a white heron and a wood-ibis. These will give me work for
to-day."

"What game did you see, doctor?" inquired Captain Herbert.

"I saw some quails in the palmetto scrub behind the house, and shot
one to see if it differs from ours. It is the same bird, _Ortyx
Virginiana_: they call it partridge in the South--rather smaller than
ours at the North. In the swamp I found snipe, _Scolopax Wilsonii_:
they call them here jacksnipe. Here is one of them: did you ever see a
fatter bird?"

"I should like to go and look them up to-morrow morning," said the
captain. "How far away were they?"

"About half a mile only, north-west. You will find some small ponds,
and near them the snipe were plenty: there were wood-ducks there
also."

"I will go with you, captain," said I. "We will take Morris's old
pointer, Dash: he is steady and staunch."

About four o'clock that afternoon the hunting-party returned,
bringing in three deer, six wild turkeys, twenty-five ducks, ten
gray squirrels, and three rabbits, besides a wild steer, killed by
Halliday. They had also killed a wild-cat, and a small alligator about
seven feet long. A good heap of game it made.

"What are you going to do with that alligator, Captain Morris?" asked
the doctor.

"I thought I should like to take home his hide to put in my hall. He
was going for one of my hounds when I shot him."

"I will take off the skin for you," said the doctor: "you had better
pack it in salt till you get to New York. We will save that wild-cat's
skin, too: it is a handsome pelt--_Felis rufus_, the Southern lynx."

"Well done!" cried Mr. Loud, who just then came out to the cart.
"That's the biggest gobbler I have seen this year. I must weigh that
bird: bring out the scales, Peter. So--eighteen pounds, and this other
sixteen: fine birds indeed! Who killed them?"

"Colonel Vincent killed the largest, and I two of the others," said
Dr. Macleod of the Victoria. "Captain Morris, I think, shot three
turkeys and a deer; Mr. Weldon killed two deer; Halliday shot the
steer and the cat, and the small game was pretty equally divided
between us, I believe."

We had that night a fine supper of venison steaks, roast ducks, stewed
squirrels, oysters and fish, all well cooked by Mr. Loud's old negro,
who was really an artist.

S.C. CLARKE.




THE LIVELIES.

IN TWO PARTS.--II.


When Dr. Lively had accomplished his part toward relieving immediate
suffering, when he saw system growing gradually out of the chaos, when
he saw that he could be spared from the work, he began to consider his
personal affairs.

"I can't start again here," he said to Mrs. Lively. "Office and living
rooms that would answer at all cannot be had for less than one hundred
and fifty dollars a month, and that paid in advance, and I haven't a
cent."

"What in the world are we going to do?"

"I'll tell you what I've been thinking about: I met in the
relief-rooms yesterday an old college acquaintance--Edward Harrison.
He lives in Keokuk, Iowa, now--came on here with some money and
provisions for the sufferers. He would insist on lending me a few
dollars. He's a good fellow: I used to like him at college. Well, he
told me of a place near Keokuk where a good physician and surgeon is
needed--none there except a raw young man. It has no railroad, but
it's all the better for a doctor on that account."

"No railroad! How in the world do the folks get anywhere?"

"It's on the Mississippi River, and boats are passing the town every
few hours."

"The idea of going from Chicago to where there isn't even a railroad!
What place is it?"

"Nauvoo."

"Nauvoo! That miserable Mormon place?"

"Harrison says there is only an occasional Mormon there now--that it's
largely settled by Germans engaged in wine-making."

"Grapes?" asked Napoleon.

"That boy never comes out of his dreaming except for something to eat.
Dear me! the idea of living among a lot of Germans!" said Mrs. Lively,
returning to the subject.

"There's a French element there, the remnants of the Icarians--a
colony of Communists under Cabet," the doctor explained.

"What! those horrid Communists that turned Paris upside down?" Mrs.
Lively exclaimed.

"Oh no," said the doctor. "They settled in Nauvoo some twenty years
ago, I believe."

"Dear! dear! dear! it's very hard," said the lady.

"My dear, I think we are very fortunate. Harrison says there's plenty
of work there, though it's hard work--riding over bad roads. He
promises me letters of introduction to merchants there, so that I can
get credit for the household goods we shall need to begin with and
for our pressing necessities. He has already written to a man there
to rent us a house, and put up a kitchen stove and a couple of plain
beds, and to have a few provisions on hand when we arrive. I purpose
leaving here to-morrow, or the day after at farthest."

"But how are we ever to get there without money?"

"We can get passes out of the city. So, my dear, please try to feel
grateful. Think of the thousands here who can't turn round, who are
utterly helpless."

"Well, it never did help me to feel better to know that somebody was
worse off than I. It doesn't cure my headache to be told that somebody
else has a raging toothache. Grateful! when I haven't even a change of
clothes!"

"Go to the relief-rooms and get a change of under garments," Dr.
Lively advised.

"I won't go there and wait round like a beggar, and have them ask me a
million of prying questions, and all for somebody's old clothes," Mrs.
Lively declared.

"Now, my dear," her husband remonstrated, "I have been a great deal
in the relief-rooms, and I believe there are no unnecessary questions
asked--only such as are imperative to prevent imposition."

"The things don't belong to them any more than they do to me."

"Perhaps not as much. They were sent to the destitute, such as you, so
you shouldn't mind asking for your own," the doctor argued.

"Think what a mean little story I should have to tell! I do wish you'd
bought that house. If we'd lost fifty thousand!--but a few bed-quilts
and those old frogs and bugs and dried leaves of yours! The most
miserable Irish woman on DeKoven street can tell as big a story of
losses as we can."

"I'll go to the relief-rooms and get some clothes for you," said the
doctor decidedly: "I'm not ashamed."

"I won't wear any of the things if you bring them," said Mrs. Lively.

"Oh, wife," said the doctor, his face pallid and grieved, "you are
wrong, you are wrong. Are you to get no kind of good out of this
calamity? Is the chastisement to exasperate only? to make you more
perverse, more bitter?"

"You are very complimentary," was the wife's reply.

The doctor was silent for a moment: then he took up his hat. "I'm
going to try to get passes out of the city," he said.

He had a long walk by Twelfth street to the rooms of the committee
on transportation. Arrived at the hall, he found two long lines of
waiting humanity reaching out like great wings from the door, the men
on one side, the women on the other. He fell into line at the very
foot, and there he waited hour after hour. For once, the women held
the vantage-ground. They passed up in advance of the men to the
audience-room, being admitted one by one. The audience consumed, on
the average, five minutes to a person. At length all the women had had
their turn: then, one by one, the men were admitted. Slowly Dr. Lively
moved forward. He had attained the steps and was feeling hopeful of a
speedy admission, when the business-session was pronounced ended for
the day, and the doors were closed. He went back drooping, and related
his experience to his wife.

"You don't mean to say you've been gone all this afternoon and come
back without the passes?" she exclaimed.

"That's just how it is," answered the doctor.

"Well, I'll warrant I would have got in if I'd been there," she said.

"Yes, you'd have got an audience, for, as I have said, the women were
admitted before the men. My next neighbor in the line said he had been
there three days in succession without getting into the hall."

"Well, I'll go in the morning, and I'll come home with a pass in an
hour, I promise you."

The next morning Mrs. Lively started for the hall at eight o'clock,
determined to procure a place at the head of the line. But, early
as was the hour, she found the doors already besieged. There were
at least three dozen women ahead of her. She took her place very
ungraciously at the foot of the line. At nine the doors were opened,
and the first comers admitted. Ten o'clock came, and Mrs. Lively was
still in the street--had not even reached the stairs. Eleven o'clock
came--she stood on the second step. At length she had reached the top
step but one, and it was not yet twelve.

"It doesn't seem fair," she said to the doorkeeper, "that the men
should have to wait, day after day, till all the women in the city are
served."

"No," assented the keeper, "it is not fair. Now, there are men in that
line who have been here for four days. They'd have done better
and saved time if they'd gone to work in the burnt district moving
rubbish, and earned their railroad passage."

Mrs. Lively's suggestion of unfairness proved an unfortunate one for
her, for the keeper conceived the idea of acting on it.

"It isn't fair," he repeated, "and I mean to let some of those fellows
in."

"Oh, do let me in first," she cried, but the keeper had already
beckoned to the head of the other line, and was now marching him into
the hall.

"No use for you to try for a pass," said the inner doorkeeper after a
few words with the petitioner. "You must have a certificate from some
well-known, responsible person that your means were all lost by the
fire, or you cannot get an audience. Must have your certificate, sir,
before I can pass you to the committee."

The man thus turned back went sorrowfully down the steps into the
street, and the next man passed in-doors.

"You want a pass for yourself," said the inner keeper. "The committee
refuse in any circumstances to issue passes to able-bodied men. If you
are able to work, you can earn your fare: plenty of work for willing
hands. No use in arguing the matter, sir," he continued resolutely:
"you can't get a pass."

"But I haven't a dollar in the world," persisted the man.

"Plenty of work at big prices, sir. Women and children and the sick
and helpless we'll pass out of the city, but we need men, and we won't
pass them out."

He turned away from the petitioner and beckoned the head woman to
enter. This one had her audience, and came back crying. Mrs. Lively
was now at the head of the line. Her turn had at last come.

"Session's over," announced the keeper, and closed the doors.

Some scores of disconsolate people dispersed in this direction and
that. Mrs. Lively and a few others sat down on the steps, determined
to wait for the reopening of the doors. After a weary waiting in the
noon sun, which was not, however, very oppressive, the doors were
again opened, and Mrs. Lively was admitted to the audience-room. At
the head of one of the long tables sat George M. Pullman, to whom Mrs.
Lively told her small story. Then she asked for passes to Nauvoo
for herself, husband and son. She was kindly but closely questioned.
Didn't she save some silver and jewelry? didn't her husband save his
watch? etc. etc.

Mrs. Lively acknowledged it. "But," she added, "we haven't a change of
clothes--we haven't money enough to keep us in drinking-water."

"Buy water!" said Mr. Pullman with a decided accent of impatience.
"Don't talk about buying water with that great lake over there. Wait
till Michigan goes dry. I've brought water with my own hands from Lake
Michigan. Money for water, indeed!"

"So has my husband brought water from the lake," replied the lady with
spirit: "he brought two pails yesterday morning, and it took him three
hours and a half to accomplish it. I presume your quarters are nearer
the lake than ours."

"Well, well, I can't give your husband a pass. He can raise money on
his watch, can get a half-fare ticket, or he can work his way out.
We don't like to see our men turning their backs on Chicago now: some
have to, I suppose. I ought hardly to give you a pass, but I'll give
you one, and your child;" and he gave the order to the clerk.

In another moment she was on her way to the Chicago, Burlington and
Quincy ticket-office to get the pass countersigned. At three o'clock
she reached her quarters with the paper, having been absent seven
hours.

As the pass was good for three days only, despatch was necessary in
getting matters into shape and in leaving the city. Dr. Lively pawned
his watch--a fine gold repeater--for twenty dollars, and the next day,
with an aching heart but smiling face, turned his back on the city
whose bold challenges, splendid successes and dramatic career made it
to him the most fascinating spot, the most dearly loved, this side of
heaven.

In due time these Chicago sufferers were landed at Montrose, a
miserable little village in Iowa, at the head of the Keokuk Rapids.
Just across the wonderful river lay the historical Nauvoo, fair and
beautiful as a poet's dream, though the wooded slopes retained but
shreds of their autumn-dyed raiment. Mrs. Lively was pleased, the
doctor was enthusiastic. They forgot that "over the river" is always
beautiful. They crossed in a skiff at a rapturous rate, but when they
had made the landing the disenchantment began. A two-horse wagon was
waiting for passengers, and in this our friends embarked. The driver
had heard they were coming, and knew the house that had been engaged
for them--the Woodruff house, built by one of the old Mormon elders.
The streets through which they drove were silent, with scarcely a
sound or sight of human life. It all looked strange and queer, unlike
anything they had ever seen. It was neither city nor village. The
houses, city-like, all opened on the street, or had little front
yards of city proportions, and to almost every one was attached the
inevitable vineyard. It was indeed a city, with nineteen out of every
twenty houses lifted out of it, and vineyards established in their
places; and all the houses had an old-fashioned look, for almost
without exception they antedated the Mormon exodus.

The Livelies were set down in a street where the sand was over the
instep, before a stiff, graceless brick building, standing close up in
one corner of an acre lot. On one side, in view from the front gate,
was a dilapidated hen-house--on the other, a more unsightly stable
with a pig-sty attached. All the space between the house and
vineyard, in every direction, was strewn with corncobs and remnants
of haystacks, while straw and manure were banked against the house to
keep the cellar warm. In front was a walled sewer, through which the
town on the hill was drained, for the Livelies' new home was on "the
Flat," as the lower town is called. The view from the front took in
only a dreary hillside covered with decaying cornstalks.

The doctor moved a barrel-hoop which fastened the gate, and it
tottered over, and clung by one hinge to the worm-eaten post, from
which the decaying fence had fallen away. A hall ran through the
house, and on either side were two rooms. The second floor was a
duplicate of the first, so that the house contained eight small rooms,
nine by eleven feet, exactly alike, each with a huge fireplace. There
was not a pantry, a closet, a clothes-press, a shelf in the house. Not
a room was papered: all were covered with a coarse whitewash, smoked,
fly-specked and momently falling in great scales. The floors were
rough, knotty and warped; the wash-boards were rat-gnawed in every
direction; all the woodwork was unpainted and gray with age.

Two beds and a kitchen stove had been set up on the bare floors. On a
pine table in the cramped kitchen were a few dishes, tins and pails,
a loaf of bread, a ham, some coffee and sugar. Mrs. Lively sat down
in the kitchen on a wooden chair with a feeling of utter desolation in
her heart. Napoleon looked longingly at the loaf of bread. The doctor
flew round in a way that would have cheered anybody not foregone to
despondency. He brought in some cobs from the yard and kindled a fire
in the stove, filled the tea-kettle, and put some slices of ham to fry
and some coffee to boil.

"Go up stairs, dear," he said to Mrs. Lively, "and lie down while
I get supper ready. You are tired: I feel as smart as a new whip. I
haven't been a soldier for nothing: I'll give you some of the best
coffee you ever drank. Nappy, run across the street and see if you
can't get a cup of milk: I see the people have a cow. Won't you lie
down?" he continued to his wife. She looked so ineffably wretched that
his heart ached for her.

"I think I shall feel better if I do something," she said drearily;
"but," she continued, firing with something of her old spirit, "how in
the world is anybody to do anything here? Not even a dishcloth!"

"Oh, never mind," laughed the doctor, piling the dusty dishes in a
pan for washing, "we'll just set the crockery up in this cullender to
drain dry."

"We'd better turn hermits, go and winter in a cave, and be done with
it. How are we ever to live?"

"Why, my dear, I never felt so plucky in my life. We mustn't show the
white feather: we must prove ourselves worthy of Chicago. Come, now,
we'll work to get back to Chicago. We can live economically here, and
when we get a little ahead we can start again in Chicago. Only think
of these eight rooms and an acre of ground, three-fourths in grapes,
for six dollars a month! Ain't it inspiriting? I've seen you at
picnics eating with your fingers, drinking from a leaf-cup, making
all kinds of shifts and enjoying all the straits. Now we can play
picnicking here--play that we are camping out, and that one of these
days, when we've bagged our game, we're going home to Chicago. Now,
we'll set the table;" and he began moving the dishes, pans and bundles
off the pine table on to chairs and the floor.

"Isn't this sweet," said Mrs. Lively, "eating in the kitchen and
without a tablecloth?"

"We'll have a dining-room to-morrow, and a tablecloth," said the
doctor cheerfully.

Thanks to his friend Harrison's letters, Dr. Lively readily obtained
credit for imperative family necessities. If ever anybody merited
success as a cheerful worker, it was our doctor. He did the work of
ever-so-many men, and almost of one woman. Pray don't despise him when
I tell you that he kneaded the bread, to save Mrs. Lively's back; that
he did most of the family washing--that is, he did the rubbing, the
wringing, the lifting, the hanging out--and once a week he scrubbed.
When he wasn't "doing housework" he was in his office, busy, not with
patients, but in writing articles for magazines and papers. Then
he set to work upon a book, at which he toiled hopefully during the
dreary winter, for he was almost ignored as a physician, although
there seemed to be considerable sickness. He heard of the other doctor
riding all night. Indeed, if one could believe all that was said, this
physician never slept. True, this man was not a graduate of medicine.
He had been a barber, and had gone directly from the razor to the
scalpel; but that did not matter: he had more calls in a week than Dr.
Lively had during the winter.

"The idea of being beaten by a barber!" exclaimed Mrs. Lively. "Why
don't you advertise yourself?"

"There's no paper here to advertise in."

"Then you ought to have a sign to tell people what you are--that you
were surgeon of volunteers in the army; that you had a good practice
in Chicago; that you're a graduate of two medical schools; that you
write for the medical journals and for the magazines. Why don't you
have these things put on a big sign?"

"It would be unprofessional."

"To be professional you must sit in that miserable office and let
your family starve. Why don't you denounce this upstart barber?--tell
people that he hasn't a diploma--that he doesn't know anything--that
he couldn't reduce that hernia and had to call on you?"

"That's opposed to all medical ethics."

"Medical fiddlesticks! You've got to sit here like a maiden, to be
wooed and won, and can't lift a finger or speak a word for yourself.
Then there's that woman with the broken arm--Joe Smith's wife. Why
shouldn't you tell that the barber didn't set it right, and that you
had to reset it? I saw some of Joseph Smith's grandchildren the other
day," she continued, suddenly changing the subject, "and I must say
they don't look like the descendants of a prophet."

For a brief period in the unfolding spring Mrs. Lively experienced a
little lifting of her spirits. The season was marvelously beautiful in
Nauvoo: one serious expense, that for fuel, was stayed, and there was
the promise of increased sickness, and thus increased work for the
doctor. But this gleam was followed almost immediately by a shadow:
a scientific paper which he had despatched to a leading magazine
came back to him with the line, "Well written, but too heavy for our
purposes." [1]

"I knew it was," said Mrs. Lively. "You write the driest,
long-windedest things that ever I read."

Dr. Lively sighed, took his hat and went out, while Mrs. Lively, after
some moments of irresolution, set about getting dinner.

"Now, where's your father?" she impatiently demanded when the dinner
had been set on the table.

"Dunno," answered Master Napoleon through the potato by which his
mouth was already possessed.

The Little Corporal, as he was sometimes called by virtue of his
illustrious name, was a lean-faced lad with no friendly rolls
of adipose to conceal the fact that he was cramming with all his
energies.

"Why in the name of sense can't he come to his dinner?"

Napoleon gave a gulping swallow to clear his tongue. "Dunno," he
managed to articulate, and then went off into a violent paroxysm of
choking and coughing.

"Why don't you turn your head?" cried the mother, seizing the said
member between her two hands and giving it an energetic twist that
dislocated a bone or snapped a tendon, one might have surmised from
the sharp crick-crack which accompanied the movement. "What in the
name of decency makes you pack your mouth in that manner? Are you
famished?"

"A'most," answered the recovered Napoleon, resettling himself, face to
the table, and resuming the shoveling of mashed potato into his mouth.

"That's a pretty story, after all the breakfast you ate, and the lunch
you had not two hours ago! Where under the sun, moon and stars do you
put it all?"

"Mouth," responded Napoleon, describing with his strong teeth a
semicircle in his slice of brown bread.

"Tell me what can be keeping your father," said Mrs. Lively, returning
to her subject.

"Can't."

"He'll come poking along in the course of time, I suppose, when all
the hot things are cold, and all the cold things are hot. Just like
him. And I worked myself into a fever to get them on the table piping
hot and ice-cold. From stove to cellar, from cellar to well, I rushed,
but if I'd worked myself to death's door, he'd stay his stay out, all
the same."

"Reason for stayin', I s'pose," suggested Napoleon.

"Yes, of course you'll take his part--you always do. For pity's sake,
what has your mother ever done that you should side against her?"

"Dunno."

"Dunno! Of course you don't. I'll tell you: She tended you through
all your helpless infancy: she nursed you through teething, and
whooping-cough, and measles, and scarlet fever, and chicken-pox,
and mercy knows what else. Many's the time she watched with you the
livelong night, when your father was snoring and dreaming in the
farthest corner of the house, so he mightn't hear your wailing and
moaning. She's toiled and slaved for you like a plantation negro,
while he--"

"He's comin'," interrupted Napoleon, without for a moment intermitting
his potato-shoveling. "Walkin' fast," continued the sententious lad,
swallowing immediately half a cup of milk.

Dr. Lively came hurrying into the dining-room.

"For pity's sake, I think it's about time," the wife began pettishly.

"Have you seen my purse anywhere about here?" the gentleman asked with
an anxious cadence in his voice.

"Your purse!" shrieked Mrs. Lively, turning short upon her husband and
glaring in wild alarm.

"Lost it?" asked Napoleon, digging his fork into a huge potato and
transferring it to his plate.

"Go, look in the bed-room, Nappy: I think I must have dropped it
there," said the father.

Napoleon rose from his chair, but stopped halfway between sitting and
standing for a farewell bite at his bread and butter.

"For mercy's sake, why don't you go along?" Mrs. Lively snapped out.
"What do you keep sitting there for?"

"Ain't a-settin'," responded Nappy, laying hold of his cup for a last
swallow.

"Standing there, then?"

"Ain't a-standin'."

"If you _don't_ go along--" and Mrs. Lively started for her son and
heir with a threat in every inch of her.

"Am a-goin'," returned the son and heir; and, sure enough, he went.

During this passage between mother and child Dr. Lively had been
keeping up an unflagging by-play, searching persistently every part
of the dining-room--the mantelpiece, the clock, the cupboard, the
shelves.

"In the name of common sense," exclaimed the wife, after watching him
a moment, "what's the use of looking in that knife-basket? Shouldn't
I have seen it when I set the table if it had been there? Do you think
I'm blind? Where did you lose your purse?"

"If I knew where I lost it I'd go and get it."

"Well, where did you have it when you missed it?"

"As well as I can remember I didn't have it when I missed it."

"Well, where did you have it before you missed it?"

"In my pocket."

"Oh yes, this is a pretty time to joke, when my heart is breaking!
I shouldn't be surprised to hear of your laughing at my grave. Very
well, if you won't tell me where you've been with your purse, I can't
help you look for it; and what's more, I won't, and you'll never find
it unless I do, Dr. Lively: I can tell you that. You never were known
to find anything."

"Not there," said Napoleon re-entering the room and reseating himself
at the table. "Milk, please," he continued, extending his cup toward
his mother.

"You ain't going to eating again?" cried the lady.

"Am."

"Where _do_ you put it all? I believe in my soul--Are your legs
hollow?"

"Dunno."

"Do, my dear," remonstrated Dr. Lively, "let the child eat all he
wants. You keep up an everlasting nagging, as though you begrudged him
every mouthful he swallows."

"Oh, it's fine of you to talk, when you lose all the money that comes
into the family--five thousand dollars in Chicago, and sixty dollars
now, for I'll warrant you hadn't paid out a cent of it; and all
those accounts against us! Had you paid any bills? had you? You won't
answer, but you needn't think to escape and deceive me by such a
shallow trick. If you'd paid a bill you'd been keen enough to tell it:
you'd have shouted it out long ago. Pretty management! Just like you,
shiftless! Why in the name of the five senses didn't you pay out the
money before you lost the purse? You might have known you were going
to lose it: you always lose everything."

"Bread, please," called Napoleon, who had taken advantage of the
confusion to sweep the bread-plate clean.

"In the name of wonder!" exclaimed the mother, snatching a half loaf
from the pantry. "There! take it and eat it, and burst--Do," she
continued, turning to Dr. Lively, "stop your tramp, tramping round
this room, and come and eat your dinner. There's not an atom of reason
in spending your time looking for that purse. You'll never see it
again. Like enough you dropped it down the well: it would be just like
you. I just know that purse is down that well. Carelessness! the idea
of dropping your purse down the well!"

Without heeding the rattle, Napoleon went on eating and Dr. Lively
went on searching--now in the dining-room, now in the kitchen, now in
the hall.

Mrs. Lively soon returned to her life-work: "What's the sense in
poking, and poking, and poking around, and around, and around? Mortal
eyes will never see that purse again. I've no question but you put it
in the stove for a chip this morning when you made the fire. Who ever
heard of another man kindling a fire with a purse? Will you eat your
dinner, Dr. Lively, or shall I clear away the table? I can't have the
work standing round all day."

Notwithstanding his worry, the doctor was hungry, so he replied by
seating himself at the table. "There's nothing here to eat," he said,
glancing at the empty dishes and plates.

"If that boy hasn't cleared off every dish!" cried the housekeeper.
"Why didn't you lick the platters clean, and be done with it?" and she
seized an empty dish in either hand and disappeared to replenish it.

While her husband took his dinner she went up stairs and ransacked the
bed-room for the missing purse. "What are you sitting there for?" she
exclaimed, suddenly re-entering the dining-room, where Dr. Lively was
sitting with his arms on the table. "Why don't you get up and look for
that purse you lost?"

"No use, you said," Napoleon put in by way of reminder.

"For pity's sake, arn't you done eating yet?"

"Just am," answered the corporal, rising from his seat, yet chewing
industriously.

Mrs. Lively began to gather the dirty dishes into a pan. "What are you
going to do about it, Dr. Lively?" she asked meanwhile.

"I don't know what we _can_ do about it, except to cut off
corners--live more economically."

"As if we could!" cried Mrs. Lively, all ablaze. "Where are there
any corners to cut off? In the name of charity, tell me. I've cut
and shaved until life is as round and as bare as this plate." With a
mighty rattle and clatter she threw the said plate into the dish-pan
and jerked up a platter from the table. Holding it in her left hand,
she proceeded: "Do you know, Dr. Lively, what your family lives on?
Potatoes, Dr. Lively--potatoes; that is, mostly. How much do I pay out
a month for help? A half cent? Not a quarter of it. How much is wasted
in my housekeeping? Not a single crumb. It would keep any common woman
busy cooking for that boy. I tell you, Dr. Lively, I can't economize
any more than I do and have done. I might wring and twist and screw
in every possible direction, and at the year's end there wouldn't be a
nickel to show for all the wringing and twisting and screwing. There's
only one way in which the purse can be made up--there's only one way
in which economy is possible. You can save that money, Dr. Lively:
you're the only member of the family who has a luxury."

"Hang me with a grapevine if I've got any luxury!" said the doctor
with something of an amused expression on his face.

"Tobacco," suggested Napoleon.

"Yes, it's tobacco. You can give up the nasty weed, the filthy habit."

"Do it?" asked Napoleon.

"Don't think I shall," replied the doctor coolly.

"Then I'll save the money," responded Mrs. Lively with heroic voice
and manner. "I had forgotten: there is one other way. Dr. Lively, I'm
housekeeper, laundress, cook, everything to your family. And what do
I get for it? Less than any twelve-year-old girl who goes out to
service. I have the blessed privilege of lodging in this old Mormon
rat-hole, and I have just enough of the very cheapest victuals to
keep the breath in my body; and one single, solitary thing that is not
absolutely necessary to my existence--one thing that I could possibly
live without."

"What?" asked Napoleon, gaping and staring.

"It is sugar--sugar in my coffee. I'll drink my coffee without sugar
till that sixty dollars is made up. I'll never touch sugar again till
that money is made good--never!" and into the kitchen sailed Mrs.
Lively with her pan of dishes.

"Sugar, please," demanded Napoleon the next morning at the
breakfast-table. Dr. Lively passed over the sugar-bowl.

"How can you have the heart to take so much?" said the mother,
watching Napoleon as he emptied one heaping spoonful and then another
into his coffee-cup. "But I might have known you'd leave your
mother to bear the burden all alone. All the economizing, all the
self-denial, must come on my shoulders. And just look at me!--nothing
but skin and bones. I've got to make up everybody's losses,
everybody's wasting. It's a rare thing if I get a warm meal with the
rest of you: I'm all the while eating up the cold victuals and scraps
and burnt things that nobody else will eat."

"I'd eat 'em," said Napoleon.

"Of course you'd eat them. There's nothing you wouldn't eat, in the
heavens above or the earth beneath. And all the thanks I get is to be
taunted with stinginess."

"Take some?" asked Napoleon, passing the sugar-bowl to his mother.

"Never!" she exclaimed, drawing back as though a viper had been
extended to her. "Take the thing away--set it down there by your
father's plate. I said I'd use no more sugar till that money was made
good. When I say a thing I mean it."

"Now, Priscilla," remonstrated the doctor, "what is the use of
breaking in on your lifelong habits? You'll make yourself sick, that's
all."

"Dr. Lively, you're trying to tempt me: why can't you uphold me? It
will be hard enough at best to make the sacrifice. Yes, I shall make
myself sick, but it won't hurt anybody but me. I can get well again,
as I've always had to."

"Perhaps so, after a druggist's bill and hired girl's wages. Every
spoonful of sugar you save may cost you ten dollars."

"Then, why don't you give up that vile tobacco? I won't use any sugar
till you do. All you care about is the money my sickness will cost--my
suffering is nothing." Mrs. Lively raised her cup to her lip, then set
it back in the saucer with a haste that sent the contents splashing
over the sides.

"Bitter?" asked Napoleon.

"Bitter! of course it's bitter--bitter as tansy. It sends the chills
creeping up and down my backbone, and the top of my head feels as if
it was crawling off. I believe I shall lose my scalp if I don't use
sugar."

"To stick it on?" asked Napoleon with a stolid face.

"Oh, it's beautiful in my only child to laugh at a mother's
discomfort!" "Ain't a-laughin'," he replied.

"What are you doing if you ain't laughing?"

"Eatin'."

"Of course: you're always eating." Again Mrs. Lively essayed her
coffee, but fell back in her chair with an unutterable look. "Oh, I
can't!--I cannot do it!" she exclaimed.

"Don't," Napoleon advised.

Mrs. Lively with a sudden jerk sat bolt upright, as straight as a
crock. "Who asked you for your advice?" she demanded sharply.

The young Lively swallowed three times distinctly, and then replied,
while shaking the pepper-box over his potato, "Nobody."

"Then, why can't you keep it to yourself?"

"Can."

"Then, why don't you do it?"

"Do."

"You exasperating boy! Wouldn't you die if you didn't get the last
word?"

"Dunno."

"Look here, Napoleon Lively: you've got to stop your everlasting
talking. Your chatter, chatter, chatter just tries me to death. I'm
not--"

Here Dr. Lively, overcome with the absurdity of this charge, did
a very unusual thing. He broke into laughter so prolonged and
overwhelming that Mrs. Lively, after some signal failures to edge in
a word of explanation, left the table in the midst of the uproar and
dashed up stairs, where she jerked and pounded the beds with a will.

The next day Mrs. Lively was canning some cherries which the doctor
had taken in pay for a prescription. The air was filled with the
mingled odor of the boiling fruit and of burning sealing-wax. The cans
were acting with outrageous perversity, for they were second-hand and
the covers ill-fitting. Her blood was almost up to fainting heat, and
she was worried all over. She had to do all her preserving in a
pint cup, as she expressed it in her contempt for the diminutive
proportions of the saucepan which she was using.

"Here 'tis," said Napoleon, suddenly appearing at the kitchen-door.

"Here what is?" demanded Mrs. Lively shortly, without looking up. Her
two hands were engaged--one in pressing the cover on a can, the other
in pouring wax where a bubble persistently appeared.

"This," answered Napoleon.

"What?"

"Purse."

"Purse!" she screamed. "Is the money in it?" She dropped her work and
took eager possession of it. "Where did you find it?"

"Big apple tree," replied Napoleon.

"Under the apple tree?"

"Fork," was the lad's emendation.

"Why in the name of sense do you have to bite off all your sentences?
They are like a chicken with its head off. Do you mean to say that you
found the purse in the fork of the big apple tree?"

"Do; and pipe."

"Pipe! of course. One might track your father through a howling
wilderness by the pipes he'd leave at every half mile. Don't let him
know you've found the purse, and to-morrow morning I'm going to see
if I can't have some of his bills paid before the money is lost, as it
would be if he should get it in his hands."

The next morning Mrs. Lively felt under her pillow, as on a former
occasion, and, as on that former occasion, found the purse where she
had put it the night before. She gave it into Napoleon's hands after
breakfast, and despatched him to settle the bills. In less than half
an hour he was back.

"Did you pay all the bills?" she asked.

"No."

"How many?"

"None."

"Why don't you go along and pay those bills, as I bade you?"

"Have been."

"Then, why didn't you settle the bills?"

"Couldn't."

"If you don't tell me what's the matter--Why couldn't you?"

"No money!"

"No money? Where's the purse?"

"Here 'tis;" and he handed it to her.

She opened it and found it empty. "Where's the money?" she demanded in
great alarm.

"Dunno."

"What did you do with it?"

"Nothin'."

By dint of a few dozen more questions she arrived at the information
that when he had opened the purse to pay the first bill he found it
empty.

"Why didn't you look on the floor?"

"Did look."

"And feel in your pocket?"

"Did."

"I suppose you couldn't be satisfied till you'd opened the purse
to count the money. You're a perfect Charity Cockloft with your
curiosity. And then you went off into one of your dreams, and forgot
to clasp the purse. Go look for it right at the spot where you counted
the money."

"Didn't count it."

"Well, where you opened the purse in the street."

"Didn't open it in the street."

"The money just crawled out of the purse, did it?"

"Dunno."

The house was searched, the store, the street, but all in vain. Dr.
Lively was questioned: Did he take the money from the purse when it
was under her pillow? He didn't even know before that the purse had
been found. The house had been everywhere securely fastened, and the
bed-room door locked.

"Well, it's very mysterious," said Mrs. Lively. "That money went just
as the other did in Chicago. We must be haunted by the spirit of some
burglar or miser."

Cards were posted in the stores and post-office, offering five dollars
reward for the lost money.

"A pretty affair," said Mrs. Lively, "to payout five dollars just for
somebody's shiftlessness!"

"To recover sixty we can afford to pay five," said the doctor.

Shortly after this an express package from Chicago was delivered for
the doctor at his door. Mrs. Lively was quite excited, hoping she
scarce knew what from this arrival. The half hour till the doctor came
home to tea seemed interminable. She sat by watching eagerly as the
doctor cut the cords and broke the seals and unwrapped--what? Some
things very beautiful, but nothing that could answer that ceaseless,
persistent cry of the human, "What shall we eat, what shall we drink,
and wherewithal shall we be clothed?"

"Nothing but some more of those miserable sea-weeds!" exclaimed Mrs.
Lively, "and the express on them was fifty cents."

"They are beautiful," cried the doctor with enthusiasm.

"Beautiful! What have we got to do with the beautiful? We've done with
the beautiful for ever. I feel as if I never wanted to see anything
beautiful again. And you'll have to spend your time collecting geodes
to send back for the miserable trash. I hate those old sea-weeds. You
left everything we owned to perish in that fire, and brought away only
that case of sea-weeds. I'll take it some time to start the fire in
the stove. Beautiful! What right have you to think of the beautiful?
It's a disgrace to be as poor as we are. The very bread for this
supper isn't paid for, and never will be. Come to supper!" She snapped
out these last words in a way inimitable and indescribable.

"Priscilla," said the husband in a sad, solemn way, "I never knew
anybody in my life who seemed so utterly exasperated by poverty as
you."

"You never knew anybody else that was tried by such poverty."

"I saw thousands after the Chicago fire."

"Yes, when they had the excitement all about them."

"And who is the object of your exasperation? Who is responsible for
your circumstances? Who but God?"

"God didn't lose that sixty dollars, and He didn't lose that money in
Chicago."

"Well, now, my dear, I'm working hard at my book, and I think I'm
making a good thing of it. I hope it'll bring us a lift."

"A book on that horrid subject isn't going to sell. I wouldn't touch
it with a pair of tongs: I'd run from it. Nobody'll read it but a
few old long-haired geologists. I'd like to know what good all your
geology and botany and those other horrid things ever did you. You
couldn't make a cent out of all them put together. You're always
paying expressage on fossils and bugs and sea-weeds and trash. All
that comes of it is just waste."

"Does anything but waste come of your fault-finding?"

"Now, who's finding fault?"

Dr. Lively left the table and took down his case of sea-weeds, and
turned it over in his hand.

"The only thing that came through the fire," he said musingly.

"And of what account is it?" said Mrs. Lively.

"It may prove to be of value," he said. "To-night's addition will make
my collection very fine. I may take some premiums on it at fairs."
He sat down and began to compare the specimens just received with his
previous collection.

"What is the use of looking over those things--miserable sea-weeds?
You'd better bring in some wood and draw some water: it nearly breaks
my back to draw water up that rickety-rackety well."

"Good Heavens!" cried Dr. Lively, springing to his feet like one
electrified. "What does it mean?"

Mrs. Lively gazed at him: his hand was full of money, greenbacks.

"I found them here, among the sea-weeds in the case." He counted
them out on the table, Mrs. Lively standing by watching him, for once
speechless. "It's just the amount we lost, and the same bills. See
here: ten five-hundred-dollar bills, and this change that we lost in
Chicago; and four ten-dollar bills and four fives that were lost here.
They are the same bills. Who put them here?"

"I don't know," replied Mrs. Lively in a low tone: "I didn't." She
spoke as though she was dealing with something supernatural.

In the case of sea-weeds, the only thing that came through the fire!
How often had she pronounced it worthless! What a spite she had
conceived against it! How the sight of it had all along exasperated
her!

"It is very strange," said the doctor, believing in his secret soul
that his wife had put the money there and forgotten it. "Have you no
recollection of putting the money here?" he said cautiously. "Try to
think."

"I never put it there," she said in a subdued, dazed way: "I know I
never did."

Napoleon came in eating an apple. He was informed of the discovery,
and closely questioned. "Don't know nothin' 'bout it," he declared.
"Go back to Chicago?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the doctor. "The money's here, however unaccountably:
we'll accept the fact and thank God." The doctor's lip quivered,
and Mrs. Lively burst into tears. "We will go back home, to the most
wonderful city in the world. If possible, we'll buy the very lot where
we lived, and build a little house. Many of those who lived in the
neighborhood, my old patients, will return, and so I shall have a
practice begun. I shall start for Chicago in the morning. You can
make an auction of the few traps we have here, and follow as soon as
possible. You'll find me at Mrs. B----'s boarding-house on Congress
street."

There was some further planning, so that it was eleven o'clock before
they retired. Napoleon went to bed hungry that night, if indeed since
the Chicago fire he had ever gone to bed in any other condition.
He dropped off to sleep, however, and all through his dreams he was
eating--oh such good things!--juicy steaks, feathery biscuits, flaky
pies, baked apples and cream. He awoke with an empty feeling, an old
familiar feeling, which had often caused him to awake contemplating a
midnight raid on the cupboard. But poor Napoleon had been restrained
by conscientious scruples and by the fear of his mother's tongue, for
he appreciated the altered condition of the family. But now they were
all rich again there was no longer any necessity for pinching his
stomach. There were in the cupboard some biscuits intended for
breakfast, and some cold ham. He remembered how tempting they had
looked as his mother set them away. Now they fairly haunted him as
he lay thinking how favorable the moonlight was to his contemplated
burglary. He left his bed, not stealthily: he was not of a nature
to be specially mortified by discovery. He made his way to the
dining-room. In one of the recesses made by the chimney Dr. Lively had
constructed a kind of cupboard, and in the other recess he had put
up some shelves, where their few books and the case of sea-weeds
lay. Napoleon cut some generous slices of ham, and with the biscuits
constructed several sandwiches. Then he seated himself by the window
for the benefit of the moonlight. This brought him within a few
feet of the shelves where the sea-weeds were. There he sat in his
night-dress, his bare feet on the chair-round, vigorously eating his
sandwiches. Suddenly he heard a soft, stealthy, gliding noise in the
hall. It was as though trailing drapery was sweeping over the naked
floor. He gave a gulping swallow, paused in his eating and listened
intently. The stillness of death reigned through the house. He crammed
half a sandwich in his mouth and began a cautious chewing. Again the
trailing sound, and again his jaws were stilled. At the door entered
a tall figure in flowing white robes. Steadily it advanced upon him,
seeming to walk or glide on the air. For once there was something in
which he was more interested than in eating. At last the ghost stood
close beside him, and he saw with his staring eyes that it wore a
veil and carried its left hand in its bosom. The boy sat rooted with
horror, his tongue loaded, his cheeks puffed with his feast, afraid
to swallow lest the noise of the act should reveal him. The figure
withdrew its hand from its bosom: it held a roll of bankbills. It
reached out for the case of sea-weeds, laid the bills carefully
between the cards, returned these to the case and the case to the
shelf. It stood a moment in the broad moonlight, then lifted the veil,
and revealed to the astonished boy the face of his mother. She stood
within two feet of him, her eyes on his face, but she did not speak.

"Mother! mother!" he cried with a sense of the supernatural on him,
"what's the matter?" He seized her by the arm: he shook her.

"What is it? what do you want? where am I? what does this mean?" were
questions she asked like one newly awakened. "What are you doing here,
Napoleon?"

"Eatin'."

"Eating! what for?"

"Hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Dunno."

"What am I doing here?"

"Hidin' money;" and Napoleon took a bite from his long-neglected
sandwich.

"What do you mean?"

"Mean _that_."

"Stop bobbing off your sentences. Tell me what it all means."

Napoleon stood up, laid his sandwiches on the chair, took down the
sea-weeds and showed her the bills among them.

"Who put these here?"

"You."

"When?"

"Just now."

"I did not."

"You did."

By this time Dr. Lively, who had been restless and excited, was
awake, and down he came to the family gathering. By dint of persistent
inquiries he at length arrived at the facts in the case, and drew the
inevitable conclusion that his wife had been walking in her sleep, and
that to her somnambulism were to be referred the mysterious emptyings
of his purse.

Mrs. Lively was mortified and subdued at being convicted of all the
mischief which she had so persistently charged to her husband. And she
said this to him with her arms in a very unusual position--that is,
around her husband's neck.

"Oh, you needn't feel that way," he said, choking back the quick
tears. "If you hadn't hid that money maybe we never could have got
back home. But I'll hide my own money, after this, while I'm awake: I
sha'n't give you another chance to hide money in sea-weeds. Strange, I
should have snatched just those sea-weeds, and left everything else to
burn! All these things make me feel that God has been very near us."

"Yes," said the wife, "He has whipped me till He's made me mind."

The husband kissed her good-bye, for he was starting for Chicago. Then
he stepped out into the dewy morning, and hurried along the silent
streets, witnesses of the crushed aspirations of the thousands who had
gone out from them. But he thought not of this. A gorgeous Aurora was
coming up the eastern heights: his lost love was found. He was going
home: all earth was glorified.

SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

[Footnote 1: While desirous of affording full scope to a talent for
realistic description, we must protest against allusions bordering on
personality.--ED.]




HISTORY OF THE CRISIS.


The crisis of 1873 seems destined to be the most memorable of all the
purely financial panics in the history of the United States. Certainly
no panic, involving such widespread disturbance of the ordinary course
of business was ever before known, either in the Old World or the New,
on a paper-money basis, for the collapse of the speculative bubble at
Vienna a few months earlier was a mere trifle in comparison, although
it set us the example of throttling a panic by closing the avenue to
the exchange of securities. I mention Vienna as a case in point, for
Austrian finances are such that the nation is kept in a chronic state
of suspension, and I am not aware that any prominent _bourse_ in
Europe except the one mentioned ever adopted a similar proceeding in a
like emergency.

This panic was not the result of paper-money inflation, nor of
inflated values, nor of reckless over-trading, nor of in-ordinate
speculation. The trade and commerce of the country were in a sound
and prosperous condition, and the prices of securities in Wall street
were, on the average, hardly in excess of real values, and in some
instances a little below them. It is true that the old trouble of
tight money was beginning to be felt, and the bears on the Stock
Exchange were trying to aggravate the natural monetary activity which
invariably attends the flow of currency westward to move the crops
early in the fall of the year, by "locking up" greenbacks and
otherwise. On the 6th of September the weekly return of the New York
banks, State and National, belonging to the Clearing-house, showed
that their legal-tender reserve had fallen to a little less than half
a million above the twenty-five per cent., which the National banks in
the large cities are required by the "National Currency Act" to
keep on hand against their deposits and notes; but this excited no
apprehension, and hardly occasioned surprise among those aware of the
drain of money for crop-moving purposes--the outward flow from Chicago
and Cincinnati to what I may call the agricultural districts having
been much larger than usual this season. After the four months of
unparalleled and continuous stringency experienced in the previous
winter and spring, when rates varying from a sixty-fourth to
seven-eighths of one per cent., per diem were paid in addition to
the legal seven per cent, per annum for call loans on first-class
collaterals--during all of which time stocks were firmly supported--it
is not to be supposed that Wall street or the general public felt much
uneasiness about the loan market or the financial prospect generally.
The deposits in the New York banks not only showed no falling off, but
were over two hundred and twelve millions against two hundred and nine
millions at the corresponding period in the previous year. The fall
trade had opened auspiciously; the earnings of the railways were
from five to fifteen per cent., larger than in 1872; the crops were
abundant--the cotton crop, in particular, being estimated at four
millions of bales--and it was supposed that the experience of
stringency just referred to had placed the banks, the speculative
community and the merchants in a conservative attitude, prepared
against a recurrence of dear money, and that therefore we should
escape a repetition of the painful ordeal.

The element of distrust, however, aroused by the suspension of
the Brooklyn Trust Company, and subsequently that of the New York
Warehouse Company, in connection with the failure of Francis Skiddy &
Co, and another old-established mercantile house similarly situated,
had not died out when the suspension of Kenyon Cox & Co., involving
that, also, of the Chicago and Canada Southern Railway Company, fell
like a thunderbolt on Wall street. This failure derived its importance
from the fact of Daniel Drew being a general partner in the house,
although originally he had gone into it as a special partner with
$300,000 capital, and from its being the financial agent of this new
but important enterprise--a line of large extent, and involving very
heavy expenditures in construction and equipment. Kenyon Cox & Co.,
as financial agents, and Daniel Drew individually, as a director and
officer of the company, had approved its contracts and endorsed its
acceptances. A large amount of the latter became due on the 13th
of September, and a million and a half of them in amount would have
matured within thirty days afterward; but on the morning of that date
the firm formally suspended, and the joint obligations of the
house and the railway company went to protest. Fortunately for the
bondholders, the road had just previously been completed, although
much still remained to be done to put it in the condition originally
designed. Here comes the rub and the cause of the whole difficulty.
The company depended for its means of construction on the sale of its
bonds, as so many companies before it had done. The sale of the bonds
in this country fell far short of the expectations of the financial
agents, and they were equally disappointed in a market for them
abroad. They were thus caught in the unpleasant position of being
pledged to heavy obligations with little or no money coming in to
meet them with. Failing their ability to pay these out of their
own pockets, or relief in some way from the company, the result was
inevitable. As, however, Daniel Drew was believed to be a man of great
wealth, notwithstanding his loss of nearly a million and a half by
the North-western "corner" in November, 1872, the failure of his house
created much surprise and distrust. All new railway undertakings
and the bankers identified with them were immediately regarded with
suspicion, and that suspicion was fatal.

The effect on the Stock Exchange was immediate, though less visible in
the decline of prices than in a reversal of the current of speculation
in favor of the bears, in a disturbance of credits and in general
uneasiness. Jay Cooke & Co., who were known to be heavily involved in
that colossal undertaking, the construction of the Northern Pacific
Railway, and Fisk & Hatch, who had identified themselves with the
Central Pacific, and subsequently the Ohio and Chesapeake Road, as
financial agents, were the first to feel the shock in the shape of a
run on their deposits; and on the 18th of September the former firm
suspended simultaneously at its offices in New York, Philadelphia
and Washington, dragging down with it the First National Bank of
Washington, of which one of the partners, Ex-Governor H.D. Cooke, was
president. The downfall of this great house was regarded as little
less than a national misfortune, and the prevailing distrust was so
aggravated by the event that Wall street went wild over the news; and
"long" stocks were thrown overboard on the Exchange without regard to
price, while the bears were emboldened to put out fresh "shorts" with
a recklessness never before witnessed, the question of real values
being entirely unheeded in the excitement and demoralization that
prevailed. On the following morning the suspension of Fisk & Hatch--a
house only second in prominence--sent another thrill of consternation
through the street. Prices on the Stock Exchange continued to fall
rapidly, and during the day twenty-one additional failures occurred
among stock-houses and private bankers belonging to the Board, nearly
all of whom had been of good standing and accustomed to transact a
large business. Early on Saturday, the 20th, the Union Trust Company,
an institution with seven millions and a half of deposits, closed its
doors, and the National Trust Company, with about five millions of
deposits, did likewise; while the National Bank of the Commonwealth
failed, apparently with little hope of resumption, mainly in
consequence of having certified cheques for a private banking and
stock firm to the amount of $225,000 in excess of its balance. The
Bank of North America was temporarily embarrassed from a similar
cause, another stock firm having similarly defaulted to no less an
amount than $400,000. Here we have two conspicuous instances of the
danger attending the custom of certifying brokers' cheques for large
sums beyond the amount to their credit; and no greater warnings than
these should be needed by the banks to decline such risks, which are
neither justified by the profits resulting therefrom, nor just to
their stockholders and depositors, while they are clearly opposed to
the spirit of the National Banking Law.

Following the suspensions last referred to, Wall street grew still
wilder than before, and in the rush to sell securities many of the
brokers abandoned themselves to a state of frenzy, while rumors of
fresh failures passed from lip to lip with startling rapidity. The
fact that during the morning the associated banks, in accordance with
the recommendation of a committee of their own officers appointed on
the previous day, had agreed to issue to each other seven per cent.
certificates of deposit to the amount of ten millions, on the
security of government bonds at par and approved bills receivable at
seventy-five per cent. of their face value, as well as to equalize the
legal-tender notes held by all for their common benefit and security,
had no influence in tranquilizing the public mind, although it showed
a determination on their part to stand or fall together. As these
certificates were to run till the 1st of November, and to be used
as the equivalent of legal tenders in making the exchanges among
themselves, the importance, as well as the advisability, of the
measure, under the circumstances, was apparent, although the
limitation as to amount looked like the application of a standard
of measurement to that which could not be measured. The legal-tender
notes, when "stocked" preparatory to their equal division, amounted to
a fraction less than ten per cent. of the deposits.

The pressure of sales of stock was almost entirely for cash. No money
could be borrowed, either at the banks or elsewhere, on securities of
any kind, and loans--which the borrowers were unable to pay off--were
being called in in all directions. As compared with the quotations
current on the eve of Kenyon Cox & Co.'s failure, the stock-list
showed a decline of from twelve to thirty per cent.

At noon the distraction was so great, and the sacrifices being made
were so enormous, that universal ruin appeared to be impending; and
the seeming impossibility of doing business any longer in such a
condition of affairs without bringing about a state of chaos, and
involving the banks in the general destruction, made itself manifest
to the president and governing committee of the Stock Exchange,
who yielded to the solicitations of the banks and closed the Stock
Exchange at half-past twelve until further notice.

The reeling crowd paused to take breath, and felt a sense of relief in
this sudden stoppage of the course of business, although accomplished
by a proceeding so unexpected and revolutionary. The usual Saturday
bank statement was omitted, and men left Wall street that evening only
to gather in a dense crowd at the Fifth Avenue Hotel to discuss the
situation.

Meanwhile, the failure of Jay Cooke & Co. in Philadelphia was quickly
followed there by the suspension of several prominent private banking
and stock firms and some small ones, a panic in stocks, and a run upon
the banks, involving the failure of two of their number--the Citizens'
and the Union Banking Company. Advices of a few suspensions of banks
and banking-houses in different parts of the country had also been
received, none of much importance, but all serving to deepen the
prevailing gloom, and make men fear that the worst was still to come.
Representative bankers and merchants had been telegraphing to the
government at Washington for some measure of relief from the moment
of Jay Cooke & Co.'s suspension, but none had as yet been extended,
except in the shape of an order, on Saturday, to buy ten millions
of United States bonds, of which the assistant treasurer was, in
consequence of the excitement, only able to buy less than two millions
and a half at the equivalent of par in gold, the price to which he was
limited.

The President, who had been on his way from Pittsburg to Long Branch
on Saturday, was, in company with the Secretary of the Treasury, at
the Fifth Avenue Hotel on Sunday, the 21st, and gave audience to a
large number of leading merchants and bankers, who urged upon him the
necessity of immediate action on the part of the Treasury to save
the country from further disaster, the issue of the "reserve" of
forty-four millions of greenbacks as a loan to, or deposit with, the
banks being the remedy generally suggested. The President, however,
was firmly opposed to this, and suggested that a week of Sundays would
probably afford more relief than anything else, but promised to do
whatever seemed advisable within the limits of the law. On the next
morning the assistant treasurer gave notice that he would continue
the purchase of bonds, paying for them at the average prices of the
Saturday previous. This he did until Thursday morning, when he ceased
buying, twelve millions in all having been bought up to that time, and
the available currency balance in the Treasury, without encroaching on
the forty-four millions of unissued greenbacks, being exhausted.

On Monday there was a run on most of the city savings banks, which was
met by an agreement among their officers to avail themselves of
their legal privilege to require thirty or sixty days' notice of
the intended withdrawal of deposits; and this being announced by the
respective institutions, the run, as a natural consequence, ceased,
and, fortunately, without the slightest popular disturbance. On
the 22d the Security Trust Company and a private banking-house in
Pittsburg, Pa., suspended, as also a banking-firm at Wilmington, Del.
The failure of Henry Clews & Co. on the afternoon of Tuesday, the
23d, followed by that of Clews, Habicht & Co., London, caused fresh
uneasiness. This house, being the financial agent of the Burlington
and Cedar Rapids Railway, a new line, had been run upon for some days
previously, and it showed much strength in holding out so long. The
news was almost simultaneously received that the Baltimore banks had
agreed upon the issue of six per cent. certificates in the manner
adopted by the New York association, and that five National banks in
Petersburg, Va., had closed their doors. On the morning of the
24th Howes & Macy, known to be a very strong and conservative
banking-house, suspended, and this added fuel to the flame of
excitement, and wild rumors of impending failures were again afloat.
The steady but quiet run which had been kept up on the banks now
increased, and they decided upon the issue of another ten millions of
certificates, and a third issue of a like amount, if required.
They also agreed to certify cheques "payable only through the
Clearing-house" until the first of November, the payment of currency
for cheques, for the accommodation of their dealers, to be optional in
the interval with each individual bank. This involved a suspension of
currency payments by all the banks in the association. The failure of
the Dollar Savings Bank and a private banking-house at Richmond,
Va., was reported on the same day, as also that of a banking-firm at
Baltimore, and another at Wilkesbarre, Pa. On the 25th there was no
change in the situation in New York, but the banks of Cincinnati,
Chicago and New Orleans suspended currency payments, as those of
Baltimore had done previously, and two banks at Memphis, Tenn., three
at Augusta, Ga., all those at Danville, Va., and a savings bank at
Selma, Ala., closed their doors. On the 26th six National banks at
Chicago suspended, and a trust company, and two banks at Charleston,
S.C., in addition to a banking-house at Washington; and the last day
of the week, the 27th, opened on anything but an encouraging prospect.
The telegrams from Europe reported an unsettled market for American
securities; gold for a short time rose to 115-1/2; seven of the
Louisville banks suspended, and the Boston and Washington banks voted
to suspend currency payments, and (those of each city) to issue ten
millions of certificates on the New York basis. But toward the close
of the day favorable rumors were circulated regarding settlements
on the street; and a petition for reopening the Stock Exchange was
circulated, while stocks, which had been informally quoted very low,
advanced several per cent.

During all this week there had been a dead-lock in business in Wall
street, although a crowd of persons not belonging to the Exchange
gathered on Broad street daily to buy or sell stocks for cash on
delivery, the sellers forced by their necessities, and the buyers
eager to secure stocks at lower prices than had been known for years.
But there were so few persons provided with "the sinews of war"
that the aggregate of transactions was small. The usual weekly bank
statement was again omitted by the Clearing-house from motives of
policy, but it transpired that the whole of the New York associated
banks held on the morning of the 27th only twelve millions two hundred
thousand of greenbacks, an aggregate still further reduced, at one
time, to a point below ten millions, against nearly thirty-five
millions--bank average--on the 20th, the date of the last statement
issued. Their determination to sustain each other was, however,
so strong that it tended to inspire confidence in their ability to
weather the storm. It was also made known that they had agreed, on the
resumption of business by the Stock Exchange, not to certify cheques
except against actual balances while any certificates of their own
issue remained outstanding. Twenty millions of these had been issued
up to this time, and the additional ten millions before referred to
were ordered to be issued in like manner, as required. The Treasury
paid out during that week, including the previous Saturday, in New
York and elsewhere, about thirty-five millions of greenbacks--namely,
twenty-two millions in exchange for $5000 and $10,000 certificates of
deposit--used as legal tenders at the Clearing-house, and presented
by the banks for redemption, for which there is a special reserve of
notes in the Treasury--and about thirteen millions for the purchase
of the twelve millions of bonds already mentioned. It also sent to
the National banks in the West and South three millions of new
notes, issued under the act of July, 1870, authorizing an addition
of fifty-four millions to the three hundred millions of bank-note
circulation previously outstanding, nearly the whole of which has now
been issued.

The bank failures West and South, and the pressing requirements to
move produce to the ports, led to very urgent demands for currency in
Wall street, and certified bank-cheques were quoted at a discount of
from two to four per cent. as compared with greenbacks, while fears
were entertained that the continued suspension of business would be
only productive of harm. Hence, when the governing committee decided
to reopen the Stock Exchange on the morning of Tuesday, the 30th, a
feeling of positive relief was experienced.

On Monday, the 29th, only two unimportant country-bank failures
were reported, and encouraging accounts were received from the West,
although the suspension of a wool-manufacturing company in New York
and an iron-manufacturing company in Massachusetts--each employing
some hundreds of men--and the discharge of more than a thousand men
from the locomotive works at Paterson, N.J., showed that the crisis
had already affected labor. On all sides an anxiety to retrench
was shown, and large numbers, in the aggregate, were thrown out of
employment all over the country. The retail trade was very unfavorably
affected, the losses sustained by the crisis, combined with the
scarcity of currency, causing people to expend as little as possible;
and this feature, resulting from the crisis, is likely to be a marked
one for a considerable time to come.

During the previous week bills on Europe had been, as a rule,
unsalable, and rates of exchange were depressed to a very low point,
bankers' sterling at sixty days being quoted on Friday at 103 @ 105,
and merchants' bills at 101 @ 102-1/2. The difficulty or impossibility
of selling exchange greatly embarrassed shippers and retarded the
movement of produce from the West; but owing to a heavy reduction
by the steamship lines of the rates of freight to induce shipments,
strenuous efforts were made to take advantage of it, and the exports
from New York for each of the two weeks noticed were valued at about
six millions and a half, while for the week ending October 4 the
valuation was unusually large--namely, $8,378,130. This was the most
encouraging feature of the time, especially in view of the previous
heavy preponderance of the exports over the imports at New York, the
value of the former having increased forty-eight millions during the
first nine months of 1873, as compared with the corresponding period
in 1872, while the latter were twenty-seven millions less, and while
our exports of specie were also seventeen and a half millions smaller.
The receipts for customs duties, however, fell far short of the usual
amount, and the movement of goods out of bond was correspondingly
light. Under the improved feeling visible on Monday, the 29th, the
foreign exchange market became less unsettled, and rates began to
improve rapidly; so that on Tuesday bankers' bills on England at
sixty days had risen to 106-1/2 @ 106-3/4, and mercantile to 104-1/2
@ 105-1/2. Before this, however, the Bank of England had advanced its
rate of discount from three to four per cent., and again from four to
five per cent., and we had received cable advices of the shipment of
about eight millions of gold from England for the United States, with
further shipments in anticipation, partly the proceeds of American
negotiations previous to the panic, and partly to make grain payments.
The shippers of cotton and general produce were cheered by this
opening of a market for their bills at such a decided improvement
in rates, and on the Produce Exchange the return of confidence was
marked, while quotations, which had been depressed, showed an upward
tendency.

Meanwhile, the Stock Exchange opened punctually at the appointed time,
and the opening prices were higher than those previously current in
the informal market on the street. But it would have been too much to
expect a settled market after such demoralization as had prevailed
and such ruinous sacrifices as had been made. The improvement was
not sustained, and prices were depressed from two to eight per cent.,
during the next three days, chiefly under sales to make settlements
between parties on the street.

Occasional failures, both among stock and banking-houses and the
mercantile and manufacturing community, and in as well as out of New
York, were still reported, including three large city dry-goods firms;
and the pressure for greenbacks to send to the country continued to
be so severe that from three to four per cent., was paid for them,
as compared with certified bank-cheques, for several days, though the
premium dwindled to one-half and one per cent., before the end of the
week, advancing a week later, however, to one and one and a half. The
difficulty of moving produce from the West also continued very great,
owing to the almost total dead-lock in the domestic exchanges, but
otherwise the excitement and alarm attending the crisis seemed to have
passed away, leaving only its depressing effects still visible. Money
became comparatively accessible to first-class borrowers on call. But
the bank statement was again omitted on the following Saturday, and
it was announced that none would be made until after the banks had
resumed greenback payments, and till the certificates of their own
creation had been withdrawn. The deposits held by the banks at the
close of business on that day, October 4, had been reduced to about a
hundred and fifty-three millions, against over two hundred and seven
millions and a quarter on September 13.

Before the middle of the month the continued drain of gold to the
United States--the shipment from England of about sixteen millions of
dollars having been reported from the beginning of the crisis to the
18th of October--caused the Bank of England to further advance its
discount rate to six per cent., and shortly afterward to seven per
cent. But, notwithstanding, the price of gold gradually declined to
107-3/4, a lower point than it had touched since 1861. The New York
banks meanwhile lost rather than gained strength, and their aggregate
of greenbacks under control of the Clearing-house was reduced to
less than six millions, although this fact was not published. It was,
however, at the same time believed that three or four millions more
were distributed among them, of which they made no return to the
association. Currency during the latter half of the month began to
return somewhat rapidly from the West in the shape of collections by
the merchants, and this, in turn, led to remittances to the South,
where it was greatly needed for the cotton crop, the movement of which
had been almost entirely arrested. Affairs on the Stock Exchange were,
in the interval, unsettled, and enormously heavy sacrifices were made
in order to adjust differences between brokers, as well as by outside
parties in pressing need of cash. On Tuesday, the 14th of October,
almost another panic prevailed, and prices touched a lower point than
they had before reached. New York Central sold down to 82, Lake Shore
to 57-1/2, Western Union to 45, Rock Island to 80-1/2, Pacific Mail
to 25, Wabash to 32-3/4, Ohio and Mississippi to 21, Union Pacific to
15-1/2, North-western to 32, St. Paul to 23, St. Paul Preferred to 50,
and Harlem to 100, while the feeling of the street was worse than at
any time during the crisis; but a quick recovery took place from the
extreme point of depression, and the resumption of greenback payments
by the Cincinnati banks, following that of the Chicago banks, led
to an improved feeling in both financial and commercial circles. The
National Trust Company of New York also, about the same time, resumed
payment. It was noticeable, however, that little or none of the money
reported by the express companies as coming from the West was received
by the New York banks--a natural result of their suspension of
currency payments, which virtually forced individuals and corporations
to be their own bankers. The banks had ceased to perform this
function: they were utterly unable to maintain their reserve, cash
cheques or discount commercial paper for their customers, and so far
the National banking system had failed.


Having reviewed the disastrous course of this crisis up to the date
of writing, I will briefly consider its causes. It may be traced
remotely, in some degree, to the distrust of American railway
securities in Europe which attended the reckless administration of
the Erie Railway under Fisk and Gould, and which lingered after their
overthrow, indisposing capitalists, as well as small investors, to
have anything to do with American railways. It is true that a market
still remained there for these securities, but it was a much more
limited one than it probably would have been but for the Erie scandal,
and within the last year or two it was entirely glutted. Financial
agents found it impossible to float a new American railway loan even
where the security offered was a first mortgage bond. Thus, Jay Cooke
& Co. were greatly disappointed with respect to the sale of their
Northern Pacific bonds abroad, and nearly as much so in the demand for
them at home; but they were pledged to the undertaking, their
solvency became dependent on its success, and they were sanguine that
confidence in the great enterprise would grow with every mile of new
road constructed.

Mr. Jay Cooke undoubtedly looked forward to a subsidy from Congress
for carrying the mails over the new line, and in all likelihood would
have obtained it but for the Credit Mobilier _expose_, which caused
both Congress and the people to "shut down," not only on everything
having the appearance of a "job," but on much besides. The ill odor
into which that investigation brought the Union Pacific Railway and
all who had been connected with its construction was a heavy blow at
new enterprises of a similar character where government land-grants
were involved; and the vexatious suit which Congress authorized
against the Union Pacific Company and all concerned was another blow
at confidence in the same direction.

The formation and rapid spread of the Grangers' association in the
West, and its avowed design to make war upon the railway interest with
a view of securing cheap transportation to the seaboard, was another
disturbing element, undermining confidence in railway property.
But the greatest and the immediate cause of the crisis was the
over-building of railways; and hard indeed are likely to be the
fortunes of the unfinished enterprises of this character arrested by
its blighting influence; for capital for years to come will be very
slow in finding its way into the bonds of roads to be built by the
proceeds of their sale. It was a false and dangerous system--and the
event has proved its unsoundness--for new companies to rely from
the outset upon this source for the means of construction. It was a
hand-to-mouth policy, resting upon so precarious a foundation that, in
the light of experience, we can only wonder that eminent and otherwise
conservative bankers should have adopted it to the extent they did,
thereby not only jeopardizing their own position, but imperiling the
whole financial community. About six thousand miles of new railways
were constructed in the United States in 1872, of which it may be
estimated that at least seven-eighths were in advance of the national
requirements. Not a few of those now unfinished or just completed
will, like the New York and Oswego Midland, be forced into bankruptcy,
and it will be long before all the ruins left by the crisis will be
cleared away. A shock has been given to the entire railway interest of
the country, the full effect of which has not yet been felt; and those
who expect the prices of railway securities to rule as high, for a
considerable period to come, as they did before the panic, are
likely to be disappointed. After all panics we have had more or less
wearisome stagnation and depression, growing out of impoverishment
and distrust of new ventures; and this last one will hardly prove an
exception to the rule. The mercantile interest, too, will probably
continue for some time to suffer in consequence of the monetary
derangements resulting from it and the want of adequate banking--or
rather currency--facilities for bringing forward cotton and general
produce from the West and South for shipment; and here and there
houses that have so far withstood the strain will break down under it.
But in a rapidly growing country, with inexhaustible resources, like
this, recovery from such disasters is, fortunately, far quicker than
among the less progressive nations of Europe.

One eminently satisfactory feature of the panic in securities was,
that it did not extend to United States bonds, greenbacks or National
bank-notes. Bonds were of course depressed in sympathy with the
scarcity of money and the demoralization prevailing in the general
stock market, but there was not the slightest loss of confidence in
them among holders, nor any pressure to sell, except to relieve urgent
necessities among the banks and others having need of currency. The
paper money of the country proved itself the most valuable kind of
property that any one could possess; whereas under like circumstances,
in former times, when banks under the State laws could practically
issue as many notes as they chose, much of it would have been left
worthless and the remainder depreciated. But our currency system is
defective in one essential particular: it is not elastic. It is, so
to speak, hide-bound at seven hundred and ten millions of paper,
exclusive of fractional currency, three hundred and fifty-six millions
of which are legal-tender notes, and three hundred and fifty-four
millions National bank-notes. The safety-valve of a country's
circulating medium is its elasticity, and the sooner Congress
authorizes free National banking on the present basis of ninety per
cent. of currency to the par of United States bonds deposited with the
Treasury, or devises some other means of affording relief, the better
for the interests of the nation. The law requiring the banks in the
large cities to keep always on hand a reserve in greenbacks equal to
twenty-five per cent. of their deposits and circulation, and those in
the country a reserve of fifteen per cent., should also be amended,
the percentage being too high by one-half. It is for the interest
of every bank to keep a reserve adequate to its own requirements and
safety, and the existing restriction instead of being an element of
strength is a source of weakness. Then, again, as National
bank-notes are guaranteed by a pledge of United States bonds at the
before-mentioned rate of ninety per cent. of notes to the par of the
former, the banks ought not to be required to redeem their own notes
in greenbacks on demand; and each bank should be allowed to count the
notes of other banks--but not its own nor specie, except on a specie
basis--as a portion of its reserve. To require the banks to redeem
their notes with legal tenders, on presentation, when there are only
two millions more of the latter than of the former in circulation,
is to demand of them what they would find it impossible to do in the
remote but nevertheless possible contingency of the bank currency,
or any large portion of it, being simultaneously presented for
redemption.

As a measure looking to the resumption of specie payments, however,
it would be well to abolish the National bank circulation altogether.
This could be done by Congress authorizing the Treasury--through an
amendment to the Bank act--to replace the National bank-notes with new
greenbacks, and cancel an equivalent amount of the bonds pledged for
the redemption of the former. After that was accomplished we should
have a circulation based directly upon the undoubted credit of the
United States, and the government would be saved the twenty millions
(more or less) of coin per annum which it now pays to the National
banks as interest on three hundred and fifty-four millions of the
bonds thus deposited, for it could withdraw these, by purchase
with the greenbacks thus issued in substitution for the surrendered
National bank currency, as fast as the exchange of the one for the
other might be made. This saving of interest alone would strengthen
the government for a return to the gold standard, which could be
effected without any contraction of the volume of paper money, except
to the extent of the coin thrown into circulation: and the resumption
of specie payments by the Treasury--greenbacks to be convertible into
coin only at the Treasury and sub-treasuries--would be resumption by
the entire country, for gold would no longer command a premium. The
National banks thus deprived of their own notes would have to bank on
greenbacks, just as the State banks--which have no circulation--do at
present.

It is obvious that resumption could be accomplished in this way on
a very much smaller reserve of coin than would be necessary if each
individual bank had also to resume simultaneously with the Treasury,
as would be the case under the present mixed currency system, for
the whole of the reserve would be concentrated in the hands of the
government, instead of being scattered among the banks all over
the country. The credit of the government would, of course, be much
stronger than that of any individual bank, and the demand for gold
in exchange for greenbacks would probably be very small in comparison
with the amount of coin belonging to the Treasury, even at the
beginning of resumption, when the element of novelty in it, not
distrust, might induce conversion. The banks would then have no more
occasion for gold than they have now, greenbacks still retaining their
legal-tender character unaltered.

Had the country been on a specie basis when this crisis came upon us,
the twenty millions of coin held by the New York banks at that time
would have been available for their relief, and have formed a part of
the circulation; whereas for all practical purposes it was useless to
them, and consequently to the people, as money; and in like manner all
the heavy importations of gold which have since taken place, and
been converted into American coin, have failed to enter into the
circulation, as they would have done on the specie standard. The whole
of the forty-four millions of Treasury gold-notes, convertible
into coin on demand, held by the banks and the public on the 1st
of September would in that event have formed a part of the active
currency of the nation, instead of lying as dormant as the whole
eighty-seven millions of gold--part of which they represented--in the
Treasury.

That part of the currency of any country which is in specie is
necessarily elastic, because it is the money of the world, embodying
the value which it represents, and subject to that ebb and flow, in
accordance with the laws of trade, which attends the circulation of
gold and silver coin everywhere. Supply follows demand, and a nation
with a specie currency inevitably attracts the precious metals by
outbidding other nations in the rate of interest it offers for them.
Why, therefore, should we shut ourselves out from the advantages of
this form of communion with the commercial world by postponing the
resumption of specie payments a day longer than we are compelled to?

K. CORNWALLIS.




SAINT MARTIN'S TEMPTATION.


  For forty-and-five long years
    I have followed my Master, Christ,
  Through frailty and toils and tears,
    Through passions that still enticed;
  Through station that came unsought,
    To dazzle me, snare, betray;
  Through the baits the Tempter brought
    To lure me out of the way;
  Through the peril and greed of power
    (The bribe that _he_ thought most sure);
  Through the name that hath made me cower,
    "_The holy bishop of Tours!_"
  Now, tired of life's poor show,
    Aweary of soul and sore,
  I am stretching my hands to go
    Where nothing can tempt me more.

  Ah, none but my Lord hath seen
    How often I've swerved aside--
  How the word or the look serene
    Hath hidden the heart of pride.
  When a beggar once crouched in need,
    I flung him my priestly stole,
  And the people did laud the deed,
    Withholding the while their dole:
  Then I closed my lips on a curse,
    Like a scorpion curled within,
  On such cheap charity. Worse
    Was even than theirs, my sin!
  And once when a royal hand
    Brake bread for the Christ's sweet grace,
  I was proud that a queen should stand
    And serve in the henchman's place.

  But sorest of all bestead
    Was a night in my narrow cell,
  As I pondered with low-bowed head
    A purpose that pleased me well.
  'Twas fond to the sense and fair,
    Attuned to the heart and will,
  And yet on its face it bare
   The look of a duty still;
  And I said, as my doubts took wing,
    "Where duty and choice accord,
  It is even a pleasant thing,
    _To the flesh_, to serve the Lord."

  I turned and I saw a sight
    Wondrous and strange to see--
  A being as marvelous bright
    As the visions of angels be:
  His vesture was wrought of flame,
    And a crown on his forehead shone,
  With jewels of nameless name,
    Like the glory about the Throne.
  "Worship thou me," he said;
    And I sought, as I sank, to trace,
  Through his hands above me spread,
    The lineaments of his face.
  I pored on each palm to see
    The scar of the _stigma_, where
  They had fastened him to the Tree,
    But no print of the nails was there.
  Then I shuddered, aghast of brow,
    As I cried, "Accurst! abhorred!
  Get thee behind me! for thou
    Art Satan, and not my Lord!"
  He vanished before the spell
    Of the Sacred Name I named,
  And I lay in my darkened cell
    Smitten, astonied, shamed.
  Thenceforth, whatever the dress
    That a seeming duty wear,
  I knew 'twas a wile, _unless
    The print of the nail was there_!

MARGARET J. PRESTON.




THE LONG FELLOW OF TI.


Colman put down his book and looked about the parlors and piazzas of
the hotel, and went and spoke to the barkeeper: "Have you seen Mr.
Field lately?"

"No: he hasn't been in here since supper."

Colman went out and walked down toward the head of the lake. Passing
out of the shadow of the trees, the open shore was before him, and the
wharf at some distance, with the tiny steamer, the Wanita, lying by it
in the moonlight. There was some one coming along the sandy road, and
Colman leaned against a tree and waited for him. The dark side of the
boat was toward him, and though it was quite late, a light showed in
one of her windows. When the person on the beach came near Colman, he
turned and stood watching the light till it went out, and then came
on. Colman stepped out, and the comer said, "Halloa, Phil! is that
you? You startled me. Going in?"

Philip only nodded, and they walked back to the house together, Field
whistling absently. They went up to their room, and Field sat by the
window while Colman struck a light.

"Dan," said Philip abruptly, "I want you to come on with me
to-morrow."

Field was looking out through the trees toward the wharf and boats at
the head of the lake. He turned sharply and answered: "Phil, you're a
prig. I'll do nothing of the kind."

"We've been here long enough, Dan," Philip went on, taking no notice
of the rudeness except in his manner. "I shall go north in the
morning. I wish you would come with me."

"The deuce you do!" Field retorted. "You may do as you please. We came
to stay as long as we enjoyed it here, and there's nothing to go for,
that I know of."

No more was said. Colman went to bed, and Field sat smoking by the
window. After a while he forgot his cigar, and it went out. He heard
the wind whispering among the trees that almost brushed his face.
Through the branches he got glimpses of the lake placid under the
moon, and the black breadths of shadow below the opposite hills. He
sat a long while, and the house became still. He seemed alone with the
night, and the hush and awe of it touched him and moulded his thought.
It was very late when he got up at last. The lamp was still burning,
and Field had not taken off his hat. He went over and sat down on the
edge of the bed, and looked at his sleeping friend until the latter
opened his eyes.

"Phil," said Field, "you're not a prig, but I'm a fool. I'm coming
with you in the morning."

"All right, Dan," Philip answered. "I'm glad you are coming.
Good-night."

They went on north next day with no definite plan, came to the lower
lake and the old fort on the cliff, and, taking a great liking to the
place, lingered in the neighborhood from day to day. They happened
one evening upon a queer, secluded public-house across the lake, where
they fell in with a long, lean, leathery young native, who appeared
to be a guide and waterman, and told them stories of the hunting and
fishing among the lakes and mountains in a vein of unconscious humor
and a low, even, husky voice which the friends found very agreeable.
They met him again at a fair and horse-race at Scalp Point, and found
their liking for him increased. Finally, they were to go south at noon
on Friday, and then put it off till the night boat. After supper they
took out the skiff from the rocky landing for a last row. They pulled
round under the dark cliffs that rose sheer from the water and were
crowned with the wall of the old fort, the cliffs themselves seamed
across with strata of white, like mortar-lines of some Titanic
masonry. They gave chase to a tug puffing northward half a mile to the
right, towing two or three canal-boats through the still water and the
stiller night. Then a sail came ghostily out of the shadow astern, and
stole on them as they drew away and waited for it. By and by the boat
crept up, dropped away a little from the light wind, and passed close
to leeward. There was one man in her sitting in the stern, and the
whole made hardly a sound. They knew the man at the tiller: it was the
long fellow again. He took them in, and they talked as they drifted
on. The lights behind the locusts fell far astern.

"Come, come!" said Colman at last: "this won't do. We have a long pull
now, and we're to be off at two in the morning."

Field turned and asked the young fellow if he was engaged for a week
or two. No, not especially: he had been running parties a good deal
off and on, but they were getting pretty thin now, and there was not
much call for boats.

"Will you go with me on a gunning and fishing cruise through the
lakes?" asked Field; and the long fellow said he'd go with him
as soon as any other man, and when should they start? "To-morrow
morning," answered Field, "any time you like."

They got into the skiff, threw off the line, and pulled back to the
Fort House; that is, Field pulled and Colman lay in the stern and
listened to the water gurgling under the boat. They landed and climbed
up the rocks.

"So you're going back?" said Colman. "Dan, I wish you'd come home."

Field flushed and turned sharply. "Oh, hang your preaching, Phil!"
he snapped out. "You're too infernally flat. Who said anything about
going back?"

The steamer was due in three or four hours. They went straight to
bed, and it seemed about ten minutes afterward when Colman woke with
a start and saw Field striking a light: it was twenty minutes of two.
They waited an hour for the boat, walking about or sitting by the
fire. Then the landlord came in with a lantern and said the boat was
coming, and they went down to the wharf and waited for her. The bell
rang, the wheels ploughed in, the friends bade each other good-night,
gave a hearty grip of the hand, and then there was one left alone.
Field went back to bed. In the morning he made himself a rough outfit
of clothes and boots, and started on foot with his guide. He did not
know the guide's name, and called him "Long" to begin with, and the
guide answered as if that had been his name from his christening, only
glancing askance at Field the first time with a twinkle in his eye,
and would give no other name after that. "A name was only a handle to
a man, any way, and one was as good as another, or better."

It would be hard to define the motive that led Field to answer. "Well,
if it's the same to you, Long it is. You can call me Meadow when you
don't think of anything better."

Long had an evident admiration for his companion which increased every
day. Field was a good shot, as good a fisherman as himself, rowed
and walked and sailed with about equal strength and skill, could do
wonderful tricks of tossing balls and other feats, could eat
anything or go without, sleep anywhere, and be good-humored in any
circumstances; and Field found Long a trusty, self-contained, clever
fellow, and was much entertained by his dry humor and amusing stories
of bear-hunts and deer-hunts and queer adventures. They tramped that
region pretty thoroughly, camping out at nights or sleeping at the
nearest of the little settlements.

One morning they took a boat at the head of the lake and rowed down
toward a pond on the east side among the hills, where Long said the
ducks came "so thick you couldn't see through 'em, and where the water
was so shallow and the mud so deep that, when the ducks were shot, the
Devil couldn't get 'em 'thout he had a dog." After a while a wind
came swooping down on the quiet water through a dip in the hills, and
nearly blew the skiff's bows out of water. The sleeping lake woke up,
pitched and foamed, and beat upon the bows and dashed over the young
men till they were nearly as wet as the waves themselves. Field was
pulling to Long's stroke, the wind fluttering his hair in his eyes and
the water running down his back, but he would not say anything till
Long did. Presently Long looked round over his shoulder, and hailed,
"I guess we'd best throw up and get a tow: I hear the Wanita coming
down."

Presently the little steamer came along and threw them a line. Long
caught it and made it fast. They were nearly jerked out of the water
or flung into it, and then went boiling along in the steamer's wake.
A boat-hand drew in the line, and they climbed out, swaying and
floundering through a cloud of spray, and all the passengers crowding
back to see. They went forward and up on deck, and the captain spoke
to Long from the pilot-house, calling him Trapp. Long talked to him
through the window and introduced Field when he came along: "Mr.
Meadow, Cap'n Charner. I'm showing him bear-tracks and things around
the pond."

"How do you do, captain?" said Field. "Don't know me in the part of
Neptune, eh?"

"Oho!" said the captain, glancing aside from the wheel. "It's you, is
it? Where's your friend?--Trapp," he continued, "you'd better take
Mr. Meadow down and get Hess to dry his coat." They went down to the
little cabin, where a trim, plainly dressed, but very pretty girl was
busy with some sewing. She started and laughed when she saw Long and
how wet he was. Then she saw there was somebody else, and she blushed
a little.

"Mr. Meadow, Hess," and "Miss Hessie Charner, Meadow," introduced
Long; and he told her what the captain had bidden him.

The girl brought a coat of her father's for Field, and hung his up
to dry near the furnace, and the three chatted together till the boat
warped in to the wharf at her trip's end.

Long did not know how it was, but it happened constantly after that
that they fell in with the Wanita somewhere on her trip. He found that
accident pleasant enough at first, but somehow changed his mind before
long, and managed that they did not happen upon the boat the next day.
That afternoon Field had some business in Bee, and set off in that
direction, engaging to meet Long with traps and bear-bait at the
Hexagon Hotel the next morning. His business in Bee could not have
required much time, for when Long happened down at Leewell that
evening, Field was smoking with Captain Charner in the little cabin of
the Wanita, the captain's daughter sitting by with some sewing. Long
sat with them a while, but he would not smoke, and his conversation
could not be called brilliant or amusing. Field, on the other hand,
talked his best and was in the highest spirits. Long got up and went
away presently, with only a good-night to the captain.

One evening, a little later, two persons were looking out on the lake
and the dark hills beyond, and talking in low tones by the rail on the
lower deck of the Wanita as she lay at her wharf. A tall man passed
down along the shore, and went by without looking round. An hour
later Field was walking quickly along the shore-road in the moonlight,
crushing the gravel and whistling an air under his breath, when Long
came out of the shaded piece ahead and started past without any sign
of recognition.

On Thursday of that same week Field left Long at a point on the east
side of the lake, to go to Bee; and half an hour after arriving there
was out on the Leewell road, on horseback, galloping south, singing
a stave of a song as he dashed along. There was a dance that night at
the George Hotel, and Field was there, the handsomest and gayest
of men; and there was no prettier girl in the rooms than the one he
brought and danced so well with, and whom no one else knew. Late at
night, looking up from her flushed and happy face in a pause of the
dance, his eyes fell on another face, neither flushed nor happy,
looking at him from a door across the length of the saloon, and he was
doubly spirited and devoted after that. He did not see the face again,
but he was half conscious of being watched as the ball came at last to
an end, and he saw his charge home to the house of the friend in the
town with whom she was to spend the night. He turned away with a set
face when the door had closed upon her, and walked back quickly the
way he had come, peering into the shadows, but he saw nothing. He got
his horse from the stable and rode north along the shore as the gray
morning stole over the sky and the ever-sleeping hills and the broad,
calm, misty lake. He gave the black mare heel and rein, and brought
her white and panting into Bee. He did not put on the rough clothes
again, but went as he was to meet Long at the appointed place across
the lake. He ordered the boatman who rowed him to wait. Long was
waiting for him, lying on a grassy slope. He nodded when Field came
up.

"Long," said the latter, "I guess this is about played out."

"Just about," answered Long, looking at him steadily without moving.
"guess you'd best quit."

"Very well, come up to the Ti House at noon and we'll settle up." And
he turned and strode away. He was smoking on the porch of the Ti House
when Long came up about noon. He took down his feet from the rail,
threw away his cigar and went in with him. He sat down at a table, and
Long took a chair opposite without a word. Field made a calculation
on a scrap of paper, took out a roll of bills' and counted out the
amount. "There, Long," he said good-humoredly, "this week won't be up
till Monday, but we'll call it even time."

Something unpleasant came into the guide's eyes when Field said
"Long." "I'll trouble you," he said, "not to mention that there name
again, meaning me."

He put out his long arm and knuckled hand and drew the bills across
the board. He counted out part and pushed the rest back. "This is
mine," he said: "I'd ha' made about that on the lake, average luck. I
don't want to be beholden to you, nor you to me."

"As you please," answered Field, folding up the bills. He wrote on a
slip of paper, wrapped it round the roll and tied all with a bit of
string: "I'll keep this for you if you say so. When you want it, just
let me know. There is my number."

He twirled a card across the table, and it fell face down before Long.
He took it up without turning it over, tore it across and dropped it
on the floor.

"Stranger," he said, "you and me's quits. I don't know you and you
don't know me. But if I was a friend of yours, and advisin' you what
was best for you, I'd say to you, 'Go home.'" His skull-cap drawn
forward, and his face set and threatening, he leaned forward with his
powerful arms on the table and spoke in his usual low, unemphatic way,
and with his deliberate, huskily-musical voice. Field laughed: his
right arm was back upon the arm of his chair, and his fingers under
his coat played with something that clicked.

"Just so," Long went on, as if Field had spoken, perhaps a shade
darker in the face, but with the same even manner and voice. "Our
bears don't carry no coward's devil-fingers that kill by p'inting at
twenty foot, but they hev got teeth and claws."

Field started up and flushed like fire. "Did you say _coward_?" he
said. "By ----! that's more than I'll take from you!" And his voice
and his hand on the back of his chair shook a little as he spoke.

Long lay back in his chair, folded his arms and nodded: "You heard
what I said. Maybe it ain't York English, but it's such as we hev in
these parts."

Field stood a minute looking at him. Then he drew out a silver-mounted
revolver from his pocket and laid it on the table.

"There," he said, "I make you a present of it. Be careful: it is
loaded and cocked."

Long looked up with something like admiration in his face. He took the
pistol in his hand, went to the window and fired the six barrels, one
after the other. The landlord came in to see what it was.

"Mr. Wannock," said Long, "lockup this pistol till Mr. Meadow calls
for it."

"It is not mine," said Field: "I gave it to you, and you took it."

Long went out without a word.

Field did not go home. He was back and forth about the lakes, mostly
about the upper one, for a week or two after that. He turned up in all
sorts of places, fished in deep water and shoal, rowed and shot and
climbed the mountains. He fell in with the Wanita and her people very
often. One evening--it was Thursday, the twentieth--he was in the
village of Ti, and walked out with his cigar, alone. He strolled
up the road to the high levels and walked on. The moon was high and
bright, and the country about him surpassingly peaceful and beautiful
under the white sheen. He came at last to the old fort and wandered
through the ruins, ghostly and weird in the calm moonlight. A flock
of sheep was lying under the trembling old walls. "Peace and war,"
he muttered to himself, and leaned against a crumbling wall a little
while, looking at the dreamy picture. He got up on the old ramparts
and picked his way out till he stood on the outermost point of the
star, where the massive wall stands almost as solid as when the
Frenchmen built it a century and a half ago. This outer angle of the
fort rises sheer from the edge of the perpendicular cliff whose foot
is washed by the waters of the lake.

Field sat down on the stones with his feet hanging over, and looked
down and around. The still, bright water, the hills bright and black
in light or shadow, and the serene sky made a scene exceedingly solemn
and impressive. Below, in the sombre shadow of the cliff, Field heard
the faint, musical bubble of the water among the rocks, and a sheep
bleated once behind the ruined fort: those were the only sounds. He
dropped the end of his cigar, and watched the spark till it went out
suddenly far down.

The scene very naturally reminded him of his friend. Down there they
had rowed together--twice was it, or three times? Strange that he had
forgotten already, but it seemed a long time since. Below this wall on
the left they had stood the first day they were here, and chipped bits
of mortar and stone for mementoes. He remembered how Phil had hunted
the whole place for a flower without finding one--he wondered whether
it was for any one in particular that he had wanted it so much. Yes,
it seemed an age since that day, and how everything had changed! Under
the cliff there to the left--he could not see it, but he knew it
was there--was the little wooden wharf where he had parted from Phil
between night and morning. And he wished to God he had gone home with
him.

He heard a crunching sound behind him, and looked round sharply.
Then he turned and got up on his feet, and stood with his back to
the precipice. The long fellow stood in the path facing him, with his
hands in his pockets and his dark face in the shadow. A glance told
Field, what he knew already, that there was only one way to go back.
His face was white, but there was no more tremor in his voice than if
he had leaned against a pyramid instead of a hundred feet of thin air,
when he said, "Well?"

There was something just a little strained and by no means pleasant
to hear in the familiar, husky voice that answered, "Ain't it kind o'
dangerous out there? Suppose you was to fall off there?"

"I don't choose to suppose it," was the steady answer. "Let's talk
about something else."

"It ain't pleasant to think of, is it?" the huskily-musical voice
went on. "It must be something like a hundred foot to the rocks down
there." He paused and began again: "Moonshine's a queerish light,
though, ain't it? Makes you look as white now as if you was scared."

"That's very strange, isn't it?" Field replied. "Do you think it would
have the same effect on you if you stood in my place?"

"I'm ---- if I don't!" Long broke out, with a twitching motion of his
head, and trembling as he spoke; "and I'd be so cold my teeth would
chatter and my veins grog."

"Come," Field said sternly, beginning to feel that if he stood much
longer on that spot he should grow dizzy and fall, "let's have no more
of this. Have you anything you wish to propose? If you haven't, I'll
trouble you to move on and let me pass."

"I propose," replied the other, with a twist of his head, as if there
was something in his throat hard to swallow, speaking slowly and
repeating the words--"I propose to throw you over."

Field knew that the fellow united the strength of the bear and the
agility of the wild-cat. He knew that, even if he had not the terrible
disadvantage of position, he would stand no chance in a struggle.
Glancing down, he caught the flash of a wave upon the black rocks
far below. But he only bit his lip and stood still, a little whiter
perhaps, but his eyes never flinching from the other's face. When he
did not speak, Long asked, "Do you know what that means?"

The answer came straight and startling, "Yes, it means death."

"I guess you're about right," Long continued. "And I calculate you're
about as well prepared as you'll 'most ever be."

Field began to show the strain upon his nerves and the sense of his
desperate state, but only by the evident tension of the muscles of the
jaw and the unnatural calm of his manner and low, forced tone. "Very
likely," he said; and added slowly, "but I'll not go alone."

"Maybe not. I don't much care," was the sullen reply. "This place
or that since you come, there ain't much choice. But if you've got
anything on your mind that you'd like to have off before you quit,
you'd best have it up."

"I have only one thing to say to you," was the reply: "you are not
going to throw me over." There was a dimness in his young eyes then
and a rising in his throat. He thought of a great many things and
people in a very brief space, and the world and a score of friendly
faces seemed very sweet and hard to let go. And yet at the same time
another and sterner self steadfastly put all that aside, and triumphed
over the shrinking of the flesh from the dreadful certainty, and of
the spirit from the dread unknown; and to the long fellow's advance
and fierce question, "Who'll hinder me?" he cried aloud, "I will." He
turned and shut his eyes, gathered himself together, and sprang out
into the awful abyss. With his arms by his side and his feet together,
swift and straight as an arrow, he dropped through the moonlight
and through the black shadow, and struck with a quick, keen plunge a
moment afterward a dizzy distance down.

Lying on his face, looking down with staring eyes, and clinging
fiercely to the stones for a great fear that took hold of him and
shook him, the long fellow suddenly heard the shock of an oar, and
saw round to the left a boat slide out of the black shadow under the
cliffs and into the calm stretch of moonlit water. He rose up then and
fled for miles like a hunted hare.

Field was quickly missed, and suspicion immediately set upon long Bill
Trapp. More people knew of the little drama they and one more had
been playing than either had any idea of. A boy from the Ti House had
passed Field up near the old battle-ground, and coming back from the
village soon after had followed Trapp and seen him turn up toward
the old fort. A handkerchief was found on the top of the cliff marked
"D.F.," and Field's hat was found among the rocks along the shore. A
warrant was issued for Trapp's arrest, and he was hunted high and low
by a posse of constables, but not taken. And meanwhile Field was lying
unconscious in an old farm-house by the lake-side a mile or two north.
Old Trapp had been out that night, looking for his son--he and
Bill's mother had been a good deal worried about him the last week
or two--and the old man had been down to Ti inquiring for him, having
heard nothing of him for some days. He was pulling out, on his
way home, from under the rocks below the fort, and saw the two men
standing out in the angle of the wall high up. He saw the awful leap
and plunge, rowed round and fished out the limp shape of a young man
he had never seen, worked the water out of him, rowed him home and
carried him and laid him in bed. He left him there, breathing but
unconscious, and went for Dr. Niedever of Rawdon. He must have struck
his head in some way: there was a cut on his forehead, but no other
serious injury that could be seen. If he had struck sidewise, it would
not have mattered much whether it was water or rock that he struck;
but his leap had carried him beyond the debris at the cliff's foot,
and, coming down perfectly straight as he did, ten feet deeper water
would have let him off little the worse. As it was, he was unconscious
for some time. When he came to himself he was extremely weak and
hungry, and perfectly contented to let them do with him as they
pleased. The doctor's daily visits, the movements of the queer old
couple as they came in and out, fed him and gave his draughts, the
homely old place and the placid expanse of the lake which he saw by
turning his head, were as much and no more to him than his own body
lying there day after day. They were parts of a pantomime, of which he
was actor and spectator, but in which he had no special interest, and
which he was perfectly happy to go to sleep and leave. Gradually his
brain cleared, and slowly he got back the thread of recollection where
it had broken so sharply, and began to spin again; and among the first
clear new ideas that took shape out of his scattered wits was one,
that the queer old couple had been exceedingly good to him, and that
they had no special reason for kindness in his case; and, second,
that this gruff, ruddy, Indian-haired doctor was a man of skill and
decision, and one not too fond of Mr. Daniel Field.

The second Sunday afternoon Field was lying quietly looking out on the
lake from the bed, and thinking in a mood uncommonly serious for
him, not very complacent nor very proud. Some feelings that had been
stronger than he cared to resist these last few weeks had grown vague
and intermittent--some new ones had come into their place.

Dr. Niedever came in and looked at him, giving him no greeting and
treating him brusquely enough. He took a turn about the room, and
faced round. "Well, young man," he said, "we pulled you through a
pretty tight place."

The manner and tone angered Field. "That's your trade, isn't it?" he
answered. "I suppose money will pay you."

"Money!" roared the old doctor. "Of course you'll pay, and pay well.
But do you think I've done it for your sake, or your money? Look here:
he served you right when he threw you over."

"I suppose he'd hang as well as another," answered Field.

"He wouldn't hang. There's no evidence but hearsay and surmise against
him. If you had died, your body would never have been found. A hundred
good men would testify to his character, and I'd have been one. He
stands a worse chance now than if you were anchored to the bottom of
the lake. I haven't saved your life for his sake nor for yours: I have
done it for this old man. You owe me nothing but money, but everything
you've got, and all you'll ever have, and the chance of redeeming
yourself, you owe to old Joe Trapp; and I wish him joy of his debtor!"

"Now, old man," Field answered, "you can go. You needn't come back. I
haven't the money now, but old Trapp will give you my card out of my
coat. Send your bill to that address and I'll pay you when I can."

The doctor stood looking at him a minute with his hands in his
pockets, his red face scowling savagely. He muttered something, turned
on his heel and went down. Old Trapp was away at the time, and came
home an hour later. He came up and into Field's room with his queer
gait and face and stooping old figure.

"My friend," said Field, "I'll trouble you to bring me my clothes: I'm
going to get up."

The old man went down and brought them, helped him to dress and come
down stairs, and set him by the fire in an easy-chair. The old wife
brought and laid on the table a knife, a bunch of keys, a letter, a
card-case and cigar-case, a handkerchief newly washed and ironed,
a pair of soiled gloves, some pennies and trifles, and two rolls of
bills.

"They was wet, you know, and we had to dry 'em separate," said the old
man, "but you'll find 'em right, I guess."

Field flushed up when he saw one of the rolls: it was tied with a
string, and a bit of paper about it was marked in pencil, partly
obliterated, "Long Fellow of Ti." He put that package into his pocket
with the' other things, and left the other roll of money on the table.

"You two people have done uncommonly neighborly by me," he said. "I
should like to know your reason." "I guess most anybody'd done it,
stranger," answered Trapp. "Like's you'd be done by, you know, ef
you'd ha' been me, wouldn't you?"

"No, I'll be hanged if I would!" broke out Field. "But look here,
friends: you think he threw me down. He did not: I jumped off myself.
He did not touch me."

"Oh, God bless you!" cried the bowed old wife, her worn face turning
radiant upon him and bright drops starting in the dull old eyes. They
were almost the first words he had heard her speak. Though she had
been very attentive to him all along, she had done it almost in
silence and with an averted face. Her voice was high and almost sweet.
Field talked on then, and told them several things at which they both
fell to crying like children. He took out one bill from the roll on
the table and made the old man take the rest. "I do not pretend that
money can pay what I owe you," he said, "but what I have you must let
me give you for my own satisfaction."

During the next few days, while he gathered his strength, our friend
sat about the house in the sunny places and took a strong liking for
the simple, kind old wife, and told her by degrees the story of his
life and his friends. In that wonderful air he rallied like magic.
He took longer and longer walks, keeping well out of sight of prying
eyes, though the place was retired enough, for that. Thursday morning
of that week he borrowed some clothes of the farmer and made a bundle
of his own. He bade the old couple good-bye, not without regret on
either side. As the Wanita ploughed up the lake that day on her return
trip, a man came down from the hurricane-deck into the cabin, sat by
the table and took up a magazine lying there and turned it over.
He was dressed in coarse, ill-fitting, homespun clothes, and had a
newly-healed scar on his forehead. His upper lip was roughly shorn,
and the rest of his face covered with a two or three weeks' beard. He
was not an attractive-looking person, certainly, and yet the pretty
girl sewing by the window, her face quite wan and worn-looking now,
glanced at him many times in a flurried, nervous way; and when he was
gone she went and took up the old magazine, opened it where a leaf was
turned down, and read these lines of an old-fashioned ballad:

  Oh, alone and alorn, as the night came down,
    Sir Reginald walked on the wet sea-sands;
  And all as he walked came Marianne,
    King's daughter of all those lands.

That evening, as the dusk was coming on, Hester Charner walked on the
path along the lake, round toward the forest, and suddenly in a shaded
place she met the unkempt stranger of the boat She started back and
almost screamed. His face had a dark look that scared her.

"Is it you, Mr. Meadow?" she entreated.

"No," he answered: "Meadow's dead--drowned in the lake for ever, I
hope to God."

The girl drew back with a little cry. "Then he did kill him?" she
wailed. "Oh, I wish I might die! I wish he'd killed me!"

"Oh, you false girl!" Field broke out. "But he did not kill him. I
killed him myself. He would if I hadn't, and served him right, too.
But he did not put a finger on him. I saved him from murder--him and
me. Yes, _you_--don't shrink--you drove him to it; and you would have
been the guiltier of the two. You were as good as promised to him--you
know you were--and you should have been proud to be. He would have
given his life for you any day, and you broke your faith for a
smooth--faced, brazen fop, who played with you to your peril, and
despised you in his heart all the while for a false jade. You may
thank Trapp all your life for cutting that short when he did, and
thank God you can yet be an honest wife to an honest man."

As he thus spoke there came a watery feeling into his eyes, and a
yearning to take the girl to his heart and brave all the world for her
sake. He hated the long fellow as he had never done before, and cursed
him in his heart while he praised him with his lips. But he kept his
thoughts upon a picture of a gray old farm-house by the water-side,
and a bent old man and woman therein, and went on playing his game,
and won it.

Her face paled, and she clasped her hands. "Where is he?" she asked
eagerly.

"He's lying to-night in Aleck Jarley's cabin, back of the haystack."

She was turning away, but he stopped her. "Wait a minute," he said.
"Here is some money belonging to Trapp: you can give it to him."

The money was in her hand before he had finished speaking. She folded
her shawl across her breast and turned away in the direction he had
indicated.

The next morning Field started for home. He had just one dollar in his
pocket and two hundred miles of ground to get over. He walked, caught
a ride now and then, got a lift on a canal-boat two or three times,
ate bread and drank water and slept in barns or under grain-stacks.
He came walking into Colman's office one morning looking cheerful but
somewhat disreputable. Colman did not know him at first. When they had
shaken hands. Colman looked in his friend's shaggy face and asked, "Is
it all square, Dan?"

"All square, Phil," answered Field, looking the other as straight in
the eyes;

"Well, I'm glad you pulled through, Dan," said Colman; "but you'd
better have come home with me."

"Well, I don't know, Phil," Field answered musingly: "I'm not sure
whether I'm sorry or glad."

J.T. McKAY.




THE PROBLEM.


  Two parted long, and yearning long to meet,
  Within an hour the life of months repeat;
  Then come to silence, as if each had poured
  Into the other's keeping all his hoard.

  And when the life seems drained of all its store,
  Each inly wonders why he says no more.
  Why, since they've met, does mutual need seem small,
  And what avails the presence, after all?

  Though silent thought with those we love is sweet,
  The heart finds every meeting incomplete;
  And with the dearest there must sometimes be
  The wide and lonely silence of the sea.

CHARLOTTE F. BATES.




MONACO.


There are three ways of reaching Monaco from Nice--by sea, by rail,
and by carriage _via_ the Corniche road. This last is the longest, but
by far the most interesting route. The railroad takes you to Monaco in
about an hour, and the steamer employs pretty nearly the same time. A
carriage, on the other hand, requires not less than five hours for
the journey, but then the scenery passed through is perhaps the most
striking in Southern Europe. I have often gone on foot, leaving Nice
early in the morning, and arriving in Monaco at about four in the
afternoon, having been able to rest fully two hours on the way. Once
beyond the town, the road begins to ascend what is called the Montee
de Villefranche, and at every step the views become more and more
varied and picturesque. Presently an olive wood is traversed, and the
town is lost to sight until the summit of the mountain which separates
the Bay of Nice from that of Villefranche is attained. This olive wood
is of great antiquity, and, like almost all similar thickets in this
part of the country, doubtless owes its origin to the Romans, who are
said to have introduced the tree into the Maritime Alps and the south
of France. Many of the trees are very large, and their trunks are
black and much twisted, their branches long and weird-looking, but
the exceeding delicacy of their foliage, which is dark green on the
outside and silver gray on the inner, lends them a very fascinating
appearance, especially on a moonlight night, when the arching boughs
of an olive grove look exactly as if covered with shawls of rich black
lace. The leaf of the olive tree, which is an evergreen, is attached
to the bough by a very slender stalk, so that the slightest wind
sets it in motion, as it does that of the quivering aspen. The fruit
resembles an acorn without its cup, and is brown and dingy. The flower
is very insignificant.

The olive trees at Nice are cultivated on terraces cut like deep steps
up the mountain-side. All the earth which fills these terraces
has been placed there by human labor; and when it is taken into
consideration that many hundreds of miles of mountain-side have been
thus redeemed from waste, that the work dates back at least fifteen
centuries, and was performed at a period when agricultural implements
were of the rudest, they must be acknowledged as among the most
gigantic of undertakings. They are from ten to twenty feet high, about
a quarter of a mile long, and from fifteen to twenty-five feet wide.
In order to form them the rock had to be cut away, blasting being of
course unknown at the time, and every handful of earth brought up from
the plain below, often to a height of two thousand feet. The Provencal
writers consider them the work of the Moors, but it is probable that
they were commenced under the Phoceans and the Romans and continued by
the Arabs. I have been shown several terraces the masonry of which
was undoubtedly Roman, and coins bearing the effigies of the earlier
Caesars have been often found in the brick work. Corn is grown on them
under the shadow of the olive trees, to whose branches the vine is
frequently twined. I have seen two wheat-harvests gathered in one year
on these narrow terraces, and nothing can be imagined more charming
than their appearance late in autumn. Then the golden corn waves
beneath garlands of vine heavily laden with luscious fruit, the olive
tree, emblem of peace, waves its silvery foliage overhead, the peach
is ripe, and so are the bright green October figs, and there is a
mellowness in the air that makes one almost inclined to believe that
the age of gold has returned to earth.

As the summit of the mountain is approached vegetation becomes less
luxuriant, and finally disappears altogether. Mont Borron, for so is
the mountain in question called, is about two thousand five hundred
feet high, and the plateau at its top is barren and rocky, though the
short tufty thyme and myrtle grow in great abundance, to the delight
of the sheep and bees. The view obtained hence is amongst the most
beautiful in the world. Facing you is the deep blue Thyranean Sea,
sparkling with sails, and often on a clear day with the hazy outline
of the island of Corsica distinctly visible on its horizon. To the
right lies Nice, with all her domes, towers, churches, hotels, quays
and the interminable line of her palatial villas traced out as in a
map. Then range after range of mountains of every shape and nature,
grass grown, rocky, forest-covered, barren, rise one above the other
until the mists of distance alone efface them from sight. Along the
coast of France can be counted, from this point, not less than fifteen
separate bays and as many peninsulas and capes. Wherever the eye
lingers it is sure to discover enchanting districts--gardens of
surpassing loveliness, where grow groves of orange and lemon trees
white with blossom or golden with fruit; stately palms of many
varieties; the two-leaved eucalyptus; rose-bushes whose flowers are
far more numerous than their leaves; magnolia and camellia trees
capable of producing a thousand flowers; villas of Venetian, English,
Swiss, Italian, and Oriental architecture. Here by the sea is one of
such perfectly classical appearance that every moment one expects to
see issue from its marble peristyle the gracefully shaped Ione, Julia
or Lydia; there is a sweet little cottage, half buried in banksia
roses, which might have been transported from the Branch, Cape May or
the Isle of Wight. But if the view to your right is beautiful for its
luxuriant fertility, that to the left surpasses it in grandeur. Below
you is the pretty village of Villefranche, with its old church
and forts half hidden amongst the palms, which, together with the
innumerable aloe-plants of colossal proportions, give the scene a
truly African character. Villefranche reflects herself and her palms
upon the surface of the most mirror-like of bays, for even in the
stormiest weather no ripple stirs its waters--waters so deep that
the largest ships of war can anchor in them close to the shore.
The American frigates cruising in the Mediterranean usually make
Villefranche their winter resort, and the stately presences of the
Richmond, Plymouth, Shenandoah and Juniata are often to be seen here,
giving life to a scene which otherwise would lack animation. Beyond
Villefranche the long hilly peninsula of Beaulieu and St. Hospice
stretches for fully three miles out into the bay, as green as an
emerald, with some twenty pleasure-boats usually clustering about its
shores, for the cork woods of St. Hospice are famous for picnics and
merrymaking, and its little hotel is renowned throughout Europe for
its fish-dinners.

Behind Villefranche, and continuing for fully fifty miles along the
Italian coast, rise the majestic mountains of the Riviera. Nothing
can be imagined more awe-striking than their appearance: their weird
shapes, their gloomy ravines, their fearful precipices, beetling over
the sea many thousand feet, their crags, peaks, chasms and desolate
grandeur produce a panorama of unsurpassed magnificence. But what
impresses one most is perceiving that, however barren they seem, they
are nevertheless thickly peopled. Towns, villages, convents, villas
and towers cover them in all directions, and in positions often truly
astonishing. Yonder is quite a large town clustering round the extreme
peak of a mountain at least three thousand feet high, and utterly bald
of vegetation; there is Eza perched upon a rock rising perpendicularly
from the sea, so that a stone thrown from the church-tower would fall
straight into the waves below through fifteen hundred feet of space;
far away in the distance, and close upon the shore, looking as white
as a band of pearls, are the villas of Mentone, and just in front of
them the castle-crowned heights of Monaco; yonder, almost touching the
clouds, is the famous sanctuary of Laghetto, and there is Augustus's
monument at La Tarbia--a solitary round tower, so solidly built that
it has resisted the ravages of eighteen centuries.

But what pen can describe the splendor of this scene? what brush
reproduce its ever-changing hues, its delicate mists, its broad
shadows, the deep blue of the sea, the rosy tint which Aurora casts
over all, or the vivid purples and crimsons which glow upon the
mountain-crags and strew the indigo of the Mediterranean with
jasper, ruby, Sapphire and gold when the sun falls to rest behind the
beautiful Cape of Antibes? Nature defies Art in such a spot as this,
and seems to triumph in bewildering our delighted senses with the
infinite variety of her products. Here her sea and mountains are
sublime in their grandeur, and at our feet are wild violets and heath
and rosemary and thyme, each, too, sublime in its way. She defies us
with her colors, her odors, and even with her music, for overhead "the
lark at heaven's gate sings," and the bees go buzzing home laden with
honey stolen from the wild honeysuckle, caper and myrtle which grow
abundantly around.

It was my fortune once to escort to this view the illustrious French
artist Paul Delaroche. His delight can be better imagined than
described. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "ceci c'est trop bien!" He assured me
that no painter could attempt it excepting perhaps Turner, and
vowed that although he had visited many lands he had never witnessed
anything to surpass it. Turner perhaps could have reproduced such a
scene, for he possessed the power of giving the general effects of
extended landscapes admirably, without entering too minutely into
their details. In the "Loreto necklace" and "Golden bough" he has
painted two marvelously varied views full of ranges of mountains,
rivers, lakes and classic buildings, without confusion, and with great
skill displayed in portraying various and vaporous distances.

But it is high time that we leave the fine arts and hasten on to
Monaco. Space, like time, is limited, and much as I should love to
conduct my readers all the long way on foot, to show them the monster
olive tree at Beaulieu, which is seven yards in circumference, and
reputed the largest of its species in the world, to pause a little
amidst the Roman ruins of La Tarbia and the Saracenic remains of Eza
and Roccabruna, I must hasten on to the capital of the Liliputian
dominions of his Serene Highness Prince Florestan II.

Let me entertain you with a very brief account of the history of this
singular little princedom. Monaco is one of the most ancient places in
Europe. Five hundred years before our Blessed Lord came to redeem the
world, Hecate of Melites wrote an account of the city, which he called
_Monoikos_ (the "isolated dwelling"), and declared it to be even then
so old a town that the people had lost all tradition of its origin,
except that some of their priests asserted Hercules to have founded it
after his feat of slaying Geryon and the brigands before he left Italy
for Spain. The Romans, in fact, called it _Portus Herculis Monceci_,
and for short "_Portus Monceci_." During the Middle Ages Hercules
was entirely cast aside, and the town was spoken of as Monaco. The
tradition of its original foundation is carefully preserved in the
civic coat-of-arms, which represents a gigantic monk with a club in
his hand--Hercules in a friar's robe. In the days of Charlemagne
the Moors invaded Monaco, and remained there until A.D. 968, when a
Genoese captain named Grimaldi volunteered to assist the Christian
inhabitants in driving the infidels from their shores. He was
victorious, and was rewarded for his bravery and skill by being
proclaimed prince of Monaco. In the family of his descendants the
little territory still remains.

The Grimaldis were powerful rulers, wise and brave, and having secured
independence, they maintained it at all cost through centuries of
trouble. Fifty-eight sieges has Monaco sustained from either the
French or the Genoese, but she never lost her independence excepting
for a few years at a time. In 1428 a terrible tragedy of great
dramatic interest occurred in the castle. John Grimaldi was prince,
and married to a Fieschi Adorno of Genoa, a lovely lady, but a
faithless. She had not long been a wife ere she fixed her affections
on her husband's younger brother, Lucian, and induced him to murder
his brother and usurp the throne. Accordingly, Lucian, aided by his
mistress, stabbed John Grimaldi in his bed, and having thrown the body
into the sea, proclaimed himself prince. He reigned but a short time.
Bartolomeo Doria, nephew of the Genoese doge, Andrea Doria the Great,
murdered him at a masquerade given in his palace to celebrate his
infamous sister-in-law's birthday. The galleys of the doge awaited
the assassin without the port, and transported him back in safety to
Genoa--a circumstance which gave rise to a suspicion that Andrea was
himself privy to the deed. As to the wicked lady, she was banished to
the castle of Roccabruna, where she died miserably, abandoned by all.
A legend says she went distracted, and in a fit of insanity flung
herself headlong over the rocks into the sea.

In 1792 the French Republic destroyed the principality, but it was
restored through the interest of Talleyrand in 1815. A revolution
broke out in 1848, which obliged the prince to declare Monaco a free
town, and which also deprived His Highness of Mentone and Roccabruna.
When the French annexed Nice they also added the two last-mentioned
towns to their dominions, but had to pay Prince Florestan four
millions of francs for his feudal right.

If Monaco is not a very large principality, it is in a pecuniary sense
exceedingly flourishing. In 1863 His Highness made the acquaintance of
M. Blanc, the famous gambling-saloon "organizer" of Homburg, and, on
the receipt of the trifling consideration of twelve million francs and
an annual tax of one hundred and fifty thousand, consented to allow
him to establish the world-famous saloons at Monte Carlo, about a mile
and a half from the capital.

The people of Monaco pay few taxes, enjoy many privileges, like and
laugh at their sovereign, and by no means desire annexation either to
France or Italy. By law they are strictly prohibited from gambling,
and are a quiet, thrifty, peace-loving set, kept in order by an army
of sixty-one men, ten officers and a colonel, of whom more anon. Just
at present the court of "Liliput" has given room for a great deal
of gossip. His Serene Highness the hereditary prince, and Her Serene
Highness the princess, after a few months of matrimonial bliss, have
quarreled and separated. It happened on this wise. (The information I
give I know to be correct, as it was communicated to me by an intimate
friend of the young princess, and I was at Nice myself when the affair
occurred.) About four years ago the young prince of Monaco married,
through the influence of the empress Eugenie, the Lady Mary Douglas,
sister of the duke of Hamilton and daughter of H.I.H. the princess
Mary of Baden, duchess of Hamilton, and grand-daughter of the
celebrated Prince Eugene Beauharnois. The wedding was magnificent, and
the bride and bridegroom appeared exceedingly well pleased with each
other. After a brief honeymoon both their highnesses returned to
Monaco to reside with the reigning prince and princess. Very soon
afterward the young lady commenced making bitter complaints to
her friends of the court etiquette, which she declared was utterly
unendurable, especially to a free-born Englishwoman. An instance will
suffice: One morning Her Serene Highness came down to breakfast before
the whole family was assembled. To her amusement, she beheld on each
plate an egg labeled "For His Serene Highness, the reigning prince,"
"For H.S.H. the reigning princess," "For H.S.H. the hereditary
prince," "For H.S.H. the hereditary princess." Being in a hurry and
hungry, "Her Serene Highness the hereditary princess" sat herself
down and ate her own egg and the eggs of her neighbors. Horror! Court
etiquette was over-thrown. The egg destined for the august prince
Florestan II. had been eaten by his own daughter-in-law! The outraged
majesty of Monaco was indignant, and the youthful aspirant to the
throne by no means mild in his reproaches. However, true Douglas as
she is, the old blood of Archibald Bell-the-cat boiled over, and the
princess Mary is reported to have read the serene family a famous
lecture. Matters went on in this way until the poor girl could stand
it no longer, and one fine day escaped from "jail," ran down to the
station and took the first train for Nice. A telegram was sent to
the gendarmerie at Nice to arrest her as soon as she got out of the
carriage. Accordingly, to her terror, when she put her foot on terra
firm a there stood two gendarmes ready to pounce upon her. It was,
however, no joke to arrest an imperial princess, for such Lady Mary
is by birth. The men hesitated, but not so the princess. Brought up
at Nice, she knew all the roads and bypaths of the place by heart.
Tucking up her petticoats, instead of going out by the ordinary exit
she made off as fast as her heels could carry her out of the station
to the fence which separates the lines from the road, climbed over it
and ran as swiftly as a hunted deer through the fields, pursued by
the two gendarmes, who, however, soon gave up the chase. Her Serene
Highness finally reached the Villa Arson, almost two miles distant,
terribly frightened and with her clothes pretty nearly torn off
her back. Here she found that noble-hearted and Christian woman her
mother, from whom she has never since separated. Nor has she yielded
up to her husband her little son, born soon after the flight from
Monaco. Vain have been the young man's attempts to induce her to
return to him, vain his appeals to the pope to use his influence, vain
even the threats of law. Last winter the prince induced the king
of Italy to permit an attempt to abduct the child from the princess
whilst she was staying in Florence with the grand duchess Marie of
Russia, but the guards of the imperial lady prevented the emissaries
of the Florentine syndic from even entering the palace, and the next
day the princess of Monaco fled with her child to Switzerland. What
the future developments of this singular affair will be time will
show. The husband seems determined not to yield, and has recently
employed the celebrated lawyer M. Grandperret as his counsel. It
is stated that undue influence of a malicious kind has been used to
prejudice both the duchess of Hamilton and her daughter against the
prince, but all who know the truly lofty mind of the duchess will be
sure that, although the reason for the princess's conduct has never
transpired, it must be a very good one, or her mother would never
uphold her as she does. Not the slightest blame is attributable to
the princess of Monaco, and her reputation remains utterly above
suspicion.

The station of Monaco is about ten minutes' walk from the town, which
we now see is built upon a lofty rock forming a kind of peninsula
jutting out from the mainland in the shape of a three-cornered hat. It
is about two hundred feet high, and rises almost perpendicularly from
the water on three sides, and that which joins the rest of the coast
is ascended by a winding and steep road which passes under several
very curious old gates and arches, originally belonging to the castle.
The castle crowns the centre of the rock, and is a most romantic
construction, possessing bastions, towers, portcullises, drawbridges
and all the paraphernalia of a genuine mediaeval fortress. It was built
upon the site of a much more ancient edifice in 1542, and is a very
remarkable specimen of the military architecture of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries. During the French Revolution it was used as a
hospital for wounded soldiers, and subsequently fell into a state of
pitiable decay. It has, however, been repaired with great taste by the
present prince within the last few years. Internally, it possesses
a magnificent marble staircase and some fine apartments. One long
gallery is said to have been painted in fresco by Michael Angelo, but
it has been so much restored that the original design alone remains.
Another gallery is covered with good pictures by the Genoese artist
Carlone. Five doors open on this latter gallery--one leading to the
private chambers of the prince; another to those of the princess; a
third into a room where the duke of York, brother of George IV., was
carried to die; a fourth to the famous Grimaldi hall; and the fifth
to the room where Lucian Grimaldi was murdered, as already related,
by Bartolomeo Doria. This chamber was walled up immediately after
the crime, and only reopened in 1869, after a lapse of three hundred
years. The Grimaldi hall, or state chamber, is a large square
apartment of good proportions and handsomely decorated. Its chief
attraction is the chimney-piece, one of the finest specimens of
Renaissance domestic architecture now extant. It is very vast, lofty
and deep, constructed of pure white marble and covered with the most
exquisite bas-reliefs imaginable. Under Napoleon I. it was taken
down to be removed to Paris, but was replaced in 1815. The chapel is
handsome, and covered with good frescoes and splendid Roman mosaics.
The gardens are very delightful, abounding with shady bowers and
beautiful tropical plants. In one of the alleys is a tomb of the time
of Caesar, bearing this inscription:

  JUL. CASAR
  AUGUSTUS IMP.
  TRIBUNITIA
  POTESTATE
  DCI.

The streets of Monaco are very narrow, and possess but few handsome
houses. The little shops are very neat and the place is exceedingly
clean. The principal church, dedicated to Saint Nicholas, is very
ancient, and possesses two or three good pre-Raphaelite pictures. It
is attached to a recently-restored Benedictine abbey, the mitred abbot
of which does the duties of bishop. He is an exceedingly pleasant
old gentleman, very chatty and unassuming. The Jesuits have a superb
college and convent in Monaco, which is the residence of the Father
Provincial of Piedmont and California. This may appear a somewhat
extensive jurisdiction, but California was placed under the direction
of the provincial of Piedmont when it was first discovered and only
a missionary station. The port (_Portus Hercults_) is small, but well
situated: about eight hundred and fifty little vessels and steamers
enter it annually. Surrounding the port are some excellent bathing
establishments, and not far from it rises Monte Carlo with its
magnificent casino.

I cannot bid adieu to Monaco without relating a little anecdote in
which I was an involuntary actor. It chanced that one day in 1870
business took me to Monaco, and I arrived in that capital on the
anniversary of the birthday of the reigning princess. The little town
was decorated with flags and banners; a _Te Deum_ was sung in the
abbey church, and after high mass a review of the "army" took place
in front of the castle, on the Grande Place. Now I happened to be well
acquainted with the captain, who, the instant he saw me watching the
manoeuvres, took the opportunity to come over and invite me to dine
with the officers that evening, when they were to be regaled at a
banquet at the expense of the princess. I of course accepted, and was,
at about four in the afternoon, taken over the guard-house, which
is exquisitely clean and neatly furnished, and contains a handsome
chapel, a billiard-room and a well-supplied reading-room. Dinner was
served at five o'clock, and a very good one it was. The dining-room
had been, in days of yore the refectory of an ancient convent, and the
men sat at two long white-wood tables placed facing each other in the
centre of the chamber, while the officers were accommodated with a
table to themselves at the top of the room. During the repast a good
deal of jesting went on, toasts were drunk and wine circulated freely.
Some hot heads amongst the youngsters began to turn, and it became
pretty evident that it was more prudent to consign the men to the
barracks than to allow them to go out after dark through the town. The
colonel consequently gave the captain a hint to that effect. It soon
got noised about, however, and when the colonel retired to his private
room to smoke, his key was suddenly turned from without, and he
was locked in. The same thing happened to the captain and myself.
Presently the most awful noises resounded through the building: "the
army" was in a state of insubordination. Some dozen young fellows came
up to the colonel's door and declared that they would not release him
unless he granted the extra leave which was theirs by right. Furious
was the gallant colonel, and no less so my friend the captain. They
swore terrible vengeance, but the "army" cared little for their
threats. Over each door throughout the whole building is a circular
window, just large enough for a man to put his head through. Wishing
to see what was going on, I got up on a chair and looked out. Down
the corridor was a tide of upturned excited faces. Out of the
next loophole to mine appeared the infuriated face of the colonel.
Presently some bright wit in the lower part of the house was inspired
with the brilliant idea of firing off a gun. This decided matters,
and, making a terrible effort, the colonel burst open his door, and
rushing down the corridor with drawn sword, soon intimidated the
revolutionists. By and by the captain and myself were released from
durance vile, and before twenty minutes elapsed the "revolt" was
over. Decided as was the action of the colonel, it was as kindly
as possible. He treated his men as they deserved--like unruly
boys--locked them up for the night, and promised them a holiday when
they were good.

When I left the guard-house that night it was already long after dark:
the last trains from Monte Carlo were due within half an hour of each
other. I hastened to the station. Almost at its entrance I met an
old friend whose face, I noticed, was deadly pale. He was a man of
considerable influence, and I at once concluded that he had received
bad news from the seat of war. I asked eagerly what was the matter.
"Can you keep a secret?" "Of course I can," I answered. "If you
divulge this one it may have serious consequences for yourself," he
returned gravely. "I promise to keep silent." "Well, then, there has
been a fight before Sedan. Napoleon III. has laid his sword at the
feet of William of Prussia." "My God!" I cried, "is it possible?" "It
is but too true. I have just seen a ciphered telegram which came _via_
Cologne and Turin. It is not known in Nice, and will not be so for
hours yet. Do not say a word about it: if you do it may cost you dear.
No one will believe you, and they will take you for a spy, a Prussian
or a pessimist." I understood at once the prudence of this advice.
Presently the train came up, we parted, and I took my place. The
third-class carriages were full of volunteers, recruits and conscripts
from Mentone. They were singing _a tue tete_ the Marsellaise. I
shall never forget the terrible impression the song made on me. The
triumphant words shouted out by the men seemed more sorrowful than
those of the _De profundis_:

  Allons, enfants de la patrie,
  Le jour de gloire est arrive.

"The day of glory" indeed _had_ arrived. On we went as fast as the
wind, and the singing continued uninterruptedly until we reached Nice.
Here I found the station full of soldiers preparing to start by the
2 A.M. train. When we entered the station, hearing the shouts of "Le
jour de gloire," they joined in enthusiastically. The next morning by
daybreak the official despatch arrived. To describe the consternation
it produced would be impossible, or the frantic glee with which
the Republic was proclaimed. The next day the mob tore down all the
imperial eagles and bees from the public buildings; M. Gavini, the
Bonapartist prefect, had to escape the best way he could over the
frontier, and madame his wife made her way to the station under a
shower of potatoes, eggs and carrots, and a volley of insults and
coarse epithets; Gambetta's father, a fine white-headed old gentleman,
a grocer, was carried in triumph through the streets; the timid
trembled for their lives; the wildest reports were circulated; the
town was placed in a state of siege; but "le jour de gloire" did not
arrive. It has not arrived yet, and may not do so for some time to
come; but it must arrive sooner or later, or there will be no such
thing as peace in Europe.

R. DAVEY.




A PRINCESS OF THULE.

BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON."

CHAPTER XXII.

"LIKE HADRIANUS AND AUGUSTUS."


The island of Borva lay warm and green and bright under a blue sky;
there were no white curls of foam on Loch Roag, but only the long
Atlantic swell coming in to fall on the white beach; away over there
in the south the fine grays and purples of the giant Suainabhal shone
in the sunlight amid the clear air; and the beautiful sea-pyots flew
about the rocks, their screaming being the only sound audible in the
stillness. The King of Borva was down by the shore, seated on a stool,
and engaged in the idyllic operation of painting a boat which had been
hauled up on the sand. It was the Maighdean-mhara. He would let no
one else on the island touch Sheila's boat. Duncan, it is true, was
permitted to keep her masts and sails and seats sound and white, but
as for the decorative painting of the small craft--including a little
bit of amateur gilding--that was the exclusive right of Mr. Mackenzie
himself. For of course, the old man said; to himself, Sheila was
coming back to Borva one these days, and she would be proud to find
her own boat bright and sound. If she and her husband should resolve
to spend half the year in Stornoway, would not the small craft be of
use to her there? and sure he was that a prettier little vessel never
entered Stornoway Bay. Mr. Mackenzie was at this moment engaged in
putting a thin line of green round the white bulwarks that might have
been distinguished across Loch Roag, so keen and pure was the color.

A much heavier boat, broad-beamed, red-hulled and brown-sailed, was
slowly coming round the point at this moment. Mr. Mackenzie raised
his eyes from his work, and knew that Duncan was coming back from
Callernish. Some few minutes thereafter the boat was run in to her
moorings, and Duncan came along the beach with a parcel in his hand.
"Here wass your letters, sir," he said. "And there iss one of them
will be from Miss Sheila, if I wass make no mistake."

He remained there. Duncan generally knew pretty well when a letter
from Sheila was among the documents he had to deliver, and on such
an occasion he invariably lingered about to hear the news, which was
immediately spread abroad throughout the island. The old King of Borva
was not a garrulous man, but he was glad that the people about him
should know that his Sheila had become a fine lady in the South, and
saw fine things and went among fine people. Perhaps this notion of
his was a sort of apology to them--perhaps it was an apology to
himself--for his having let her go away from the island; but at all
events the simple folks about Borva knew that Miss Sheila, as they
still invariably called her, lived in the same town as the queen
herself, and saw many lords and ladies, and was present at great
festivities, as became Mr. Mackenzie's only daughter. And naturally
these rumors and stories were exaggerated by the kindly interest and
affection of the people into something far beyond what Sheila's
father intended; insomuch that many an old crone would proudly and
sagaciously wag her head, and say that when Miss Sheila came back to
Borva strange things might be seen, and it would be a proud day for
Mr. Mackenzie if he was to go down to the shore to meet Queen Victoria
herself, and the princes and princesses, and many fine people, all
come to stay at his house and have great rejoicings in Borva.

Thus it was that Duncan invariably lingered about when he brought
a letter from Sheila; and if her father happened to forget or be
preoccupied, Duncan would humbly but firmly remind him. On-this
occasion Mr. Mackenzie put down his paint-brush and took the bundle of
letters and newspapers Duncan had brought him. He selected that from
Sheila, and threw the others on the beach beside him.

There was really no news in the letter. Sheila merely said that she
could not as yet answer her father's question as to the time she might
probably visit Lewis. She hoped he was well, and that, if she could
not get up to Borva that autumn, he would come South to London for
a time, when the hard weather set in in the North. And so forth. But
there was something in the tone of the letter that struck the old man
as being unusual and strange. It was very formal in its phraseology.
He read it twice over very carefully, and forgot altogether that
Duncan was waiting. Indeed, he was going to turn away, forgetting
his work and the other letters that still lay on the beach, when he
observed that there was a postscript on the other side of the last
page. It merely said: "Will you please address your letters now to No.
---- Pembroke road, South Kensington, where I may be for some time?"

That was an imprudent postscript. If she had shown the letter to any
one, she would have been warned of the blunder she was committing. But
the child had not much cunning, and wrote and posted the letter in the
belief that her father would simply do as she asked him, and suspect
nothing and ask no questions.

When old Mackenzie read that postscript he could only stare at the
paper before him.

"Will there be anything wrong, sir?" said the tall keeper, whose keen
gray eyes had been fixed on his master's face.

The sound of Duncan's voice startled and recalled Mr. Mackenzie, who
immediately turned, and said lightly, "Wrong? What wass you thinking
would be wrong? Oh, there is nothing wrong whatever. But Mairi, she
will be greatly surprised, and she is going to write no letters until
she comes back to tell you what she has seen: that is the message
there will be for Scarlett. Sheila--she is very well."

Duncan picked up the other letters and newspapers.

"You may tek them to the house, Duncan," said Mr. Mackenzie; and then
he added carelessly, "Did you hear when the steamer was thinking of
leaving Stornoway this night?"

"They were saying it would be seven o'clock or six, as there was a
great deal of cargo to go on her."

"Six o'clock? I'm thinking, Duncan, I would like to go with her as far
as Oban or Glasgow. Oh yes, I will go with her as far as Glasgow. Be
sharp, Duncan, and bring in the boat."

The keeper stared, fearing his master had gone mad: "You wass going
with her this ferry night?"

"Yes. Be sharp, Duncan!" said Mackenzie, doing his best to conceal his
impatience and determination under a careless air.

"Bit, sir, you canna do it," said Duncan peevishly. "You hef no things
looked out to go. And by the time we would get to Callernish it wass a
ferry hard drive there will be to get to Stornoway by six o'clock; and
there is the mare, sir, she will hef lost a shoe--"

Mr. Mackenzie's diplomacy gave way. He turned upon the keeper with
a sudden fierceness and with a stamp of his foot: "---- ---- you, Duncan
MacDonald! is it you or me that is the master? I will go to Stornoway
this ferry moment if I hef to buy twenty horses!" And there was a
light under the shaggy eyebrows that warned Duncan to have done with
his remonstrances.

"Oh. ferry well, sir--ferry well, sir," he said, going off to the
boat, and grumbling as he went. "If Miss Sheila was here, it would be
no going away to Glesca without any things wis you, as if you wass a
poor traffelin tailor that hass nothing in the world but a needle and
a thimble mirover. And what will the people in Styornoway hef to say,
and sa captain of sa steamboat, and Scarlett? I will hef no peace from
Scarlett if you wass going away like this. And as for sa sweerin, it
is no use sa sweerin, for I will get sa boat ready--oh yes, I will get
sa boat ready; but I do not understand why I will get sa boat ready."

By this time, indeed, he had got along to the larger boat, and his
grumblings were inaudible to the object of them. Mr. Mackenzie went to
the small landing-place and waited. When he got into the boat and sat
down in the stern, taking the tiller in his right hand, he still held
Sheila's letter in the other hand, although he did not need to reread
it.

They sailed out into the blue waters of the loch and rounded the point
of the island in absolute silence, Duncan meanwhile being both sulky
and curious. He could not make out why his master should so suddenly
leave the island, without informing any one, without even taking with
him that tall and roughly-furred black hat which he sometimes wore on
important occasions. Yet there was a letter in his hand, and it was a
letter from Miss Sheila. Was the news about Mairi the only news in it?

Duncan kept looking ahead to see that the boat was steering her right
course for the Narrows, and was anxious, now that he had started, to
make the voyage in the least possible time, but all the same his eyes
would come back to Mr. Mackenzie, who sat very much absorbed, steering
almost mechanically, seldom looking ahead, but instinctively guessing
his course by the outlines of the shore close by. "Was there any bad
news, sir, from Miss Sheila?" he was compelled to say at last.

"Miss Sheila!" said Mr. Mackenzie impatiently. "Is it an infant you
are, that you will call a married woman by such a name?"

Duncan had never been checked before for a habit which was common to
the whole island of Borva.

"There iss no bad news," continued Mackenzie impatiently. "Is it a
story you would like to tek back to the people of Borvabost?"

"It wass no thought of such a thing wass come into my head, sir," said
Duncan. "There iss no one in sa island would like to carry bad news
about Miss Sheila; and there iss no one in sa island would like to
hear it--not any one whatever--and I can answer for that."

"Then hold your tongue about it. There is no bad news from Sheila,"
said Mackenzie; and Duncan relapsed into silence, not very well
content.

By dint of very hard driving indeed Mr. Mackenzie just caught the boat
as she was leaving Stornoway harbor, the hurry he was in fortunately
saving him from the curiosity and inquiries of the people he knew on
the pier. As for the frank and good-natured captain, he did not show
that excessive interest in Mr. Mackenzie's affairs that Duncan had
feared; but when the steamer was well away from the coast and bearing
down on her route to Skye, he came and had a chat with the King of
Borva about the condition of affairs on the west of the island; and he
was good enough to ask, too, about the young lady that had married the
English gentleman. Mr. Mackenzie said briefly that she was very well,
and returned to the subject of the fishing.

It was on a wet and dreary morning that Mr. Mackenzie arrived in
London; and as he was slowly driven through the long and dismal
thoroughfares with their gray and melancholy houses, their passers-by
under umbrellas, and their smoke and drizzle and dirt, he could not
help saying to himself, "My poor Sheila!" It was not a pleasant place
surely to live in always, although it might be all very well for a
visit. Indeed, this cheerless day added to the gloomy fore-bodings
in his mind, and it needed all his resolve and his pride in his own
diplomacy to carry out his plan of approaching Sheila.

When he got down to Pembroke road he stopped the cab at the corner and
paid the man. Then he walked along the thoroughfare, having a look
at the houses. At length he came to the number mentioned in Sheila's
letter, and he found that there was a brass plate on the door bearing
an unfamiliar name. His suspicions were confirmed.

He went up the steps and knocked: a small girl answered the summons.
"Is Mrs. Lavender living here?" he said.

She looked for a moment with some surprise at the short, thick-set
man, with his sailor costume, his peaked cap, and his voluminous gray
beard and shaggy eyebrows; and then she said that she would ask, and
what was his name? But Mr. Mackenzie was too sharp not to know what
that meant.

"I am her father. It will do ferry well if you will show me the room."

And he stepped inside. The small girl obediently shut the door, and
then led the way up stairs. The next minute Mr. Mackenzie had entered
the room, and there before him was Sheila bending over Mairi and
teaching her how to do some fancy-work.

The girl looked up on hearing some one enter, and then, when she
suddenly saw her father there, she uttered a slight cry of alarm and
shrunk back. If he had been less intent on his own plans he would have
been amazed and pained by this action on the part of his daughter,
who used to run to him, on great occasions and small, whenever she
saw him; but the girl had for the last few days been so habitually
schooling herself into the notion that she was keeping a secret from
him--she had become so deeply conscious of the concealment intended
in that brief letter--that she instinctively shrank from him when he
suddenly appeared. It was but for a moment.

Mr. Mackenzie came forward with a fine assumption of carelessness
and shook hands with Sheila and with Mairi, and said, "How do you do,
Mairi? And are you ferry well, Sheila? And you will not expect me this
morning; but when a man will not pay you what he wass owing, it wass
no good letting it go on in that way; and I hef come to London--".

He shook the rain-drops from his cap, and was a little embarrassed.

"Yes, I hef come to London to have the account settled up; for it wass
no good letting him go on for effer and effer. Ay, and how are you,
Sheila?"

He looked about the room: he would not look at her. She stood there
unable to speak, and with her face grown wild and pale.

"Ay, it wass raining hard all the last night, and there wass a good
deal of water came into the carriage; and it is a ferry hard bed you
will make of a third-class carriage. Ay, it wass so. And this is a new
house you will hef, Sheila?"

She had been coming nearer to him, with her face down and the
speechless lips trembling. And then suddenly, with a strange sob, she
threw herself into his arms and hid her head, and burst into a wild
fit of crying.

"Sheila," he said, "what ails you? What iss all the matter?"

Mairi had covertly got out of the room.

"Oh, papa, I have left him," the girl cried.

"Ay," said her father quite cheerfully--"oh ay, I thought there was
some little thing wrong when your letter wass come to us the other
day. But it is no use making a great deal of trouble about it, Sheila,
for it is easy to have all those things put right again--oh yes,
ferry easy. And you have left your own home, Sheila? And where is Mr.
Lavender?"

"Oh, papa," she cried, "you must not try to see him. You must promise
not to go to see him. I should have told you everything when I wrote,
but I thought you would come up and blame it all on him and I think it
is I who am to blame."

"But I do not want to blame any one," said her father. "You must not
make so much of these things, Sheila. It is a pity--yes, it is a ferry
great pity--your husband and you will hef a quarrel; but it iss no
uncommon thing for these troubles to happen; and I am coming to you
this morning, not to make any more trouble, but to see if it cannot be
put right again. And I do not want to know any more than that, and I
will not blame any one; but if I wass to see Mr. Lavender--"

A bitter anger had filled his heart from the moment he had learned how
matters stood, and yet he was talking in such a bland, matter-of-fact,
almost cheerful fashion that his own daughter was imposed upon, and
began to grow comforted. The mere fact that her father now knew of all
her troubles, and was not disposed to take a very gloomy view of them,
was of itself a great relief to her. And she was greatly pleased, too,
to hear her father talk in the same light and even friendly fashion of
her husband. She had dreaded the possible results of her writing home
and relating what had occurred. She knew the powerful passion of which
this lonely old man was capable, and if he had come suddenly down
South with a wild desire to revenge the wrongs of his daughter, what
might not have happened?

Sheila sat down, and with averted eyes told her father the whole
story, ingenuously making all possible excuses for her husband, and
intimating strongly that the more she looked over the history of the
past time the more she was convinced that she was herself to blame. It
was but natural that Mr. Lavender should like to live in the manner to
which he had been accustomed. She had tried to live that way too, and
the failure to do so was surely her fault. He had been very kind to
her. He was always buying her new dresses, jewelry, and what not, and
was always pleased to take her to be amused anywhere. All this she
said, and a great deal more; and although Mr. Mackenzie did not
believe the half of it, he did not say so. "Ay, ay, Sheila," he said,
cheerfully; "but if everything was right like that, what for will you
be here?"

"But everything was not right, papa," the girl said, still with her
eyes cast down. "I could not live any longer like that, and I had to
come away. That is my fault, and I could not help it. And there was
a--a misunderstanding between us about Mairi's visit--for I had said
nothing about it--and he was surprised--and he had some friends coming
to see us that day--"

"Oh, well, there iss no great harm done--none at all," said her father
lightly, and perhaps beginning to think that after all something was
to be said for Lavender's side of the question. "And you will not
suppose, Sheila, that I am coming to make any trouble by quarreling
with any one. There are some men--oh yes, there are ferry many--that
would have no judgment at such a time, and they would think only about
their daughter, and hef no regard for any one else, and they would
only make effery one angrier than before. But you will tell me,
Sheila, where Mr. Lavender is."

"I do not know," she said. "And I am anxious, papa, you should not go
to see him. I have asked you to promise that to please me."

He hesitated. There were not many things he could refuse his daughter,
but he was not sure he ought to yield to her in this. For were not
these two a couple of foolish young things, who wanted an experienced
and cool and shrewd person to come with a little dexterous management
and arrange their affairs for them?

"I do not think I have half explained the difference between us," said
Sheila in the same low voice. "It is no passing quarrel, to be mended
up and forgotten: it is nothing like that. You must leave it alone,
papa."

"That is foolishness, Sheila," said the old man with a little
impatience. "You are making big things out of ferry little, and you
will only bring trouble to yourself. How do you know but that he
wishes to hef all this misunderstanding removed, and hef you go back
to him?"

"I know that he wishes that," she said calmly.

"And you speak as if you wass in great trouble here, and yet you will
not go back?" he said in great surprise.

"Yes, that is so," she said. "There is no use in my going back to the
same sort of life: it was not happiness for either of us, and to me it
was misery. If I am to blame for it, that is only a misfortune."

"But if you will not go back to him, Sheila," her father said, "at
least you will go back with me to Borva."

"I cannot do that, either," said the girl with the same quiet yet
decisive manner.

Mr. Mackenzie rose with an impatient gesture and walked to the window.
He did not know what to say. He was very well aware that when Sheila
had resolved upon anything, she had thought it well over beforehand,
and was not likely to change her mind. And yet the notion of his
daughter living in lodgings in a strange town--her only companion a
young girl who had never been in the place before--was vexatiously
absurd.

"Sheila," he said, "you will come to a better understanding about
that. I suppose you wass afraid the people would wonder at you coming
back alone. But they will know nothing about it. Mairi she is a very
good lass: she will do anything you will ask of her: you hef no need
to think she will carry stories. And every one wass thinking you will
be coming to the Lewis this year, and it is ferry glad they will be to
see you; and if the house at Borvabost hass not enough amusement
for you after you hef been in a big town like this, you will live in
Stornoway with some of our friends there, and you will come over to
Borva when you please."

"If I went up to the Lewis," said Sheila, "do you think I could live
anywhere but in Borva? It is not any amusements I will be thinking
about. But I cannot go back to the Lewis alone."

Her father saw how the pride of the girl had driven her to this
decision, and saw, too, how useless it was for him to reason with her
just at the present moment. Still, there was plenty of occasion here
for the use of a little diplomacy merely to smooth the way for the
reconciliation of husband and wife; and Mr. Mackenzie concluded in
his own mind that it was far from being injudicious to allow Sheila to
convince herself that she bore part of the blame of this separation.
For example, he now proposed that the discussion of the whole question
should be postponed for the present, and that Sheila should take him
about London and show him all that she had learned; and he suggested
that they should then and there get a hansom cab and drive to some
exhibition or other.

"A hansom, papa?" said Sheila. "Mairi must go with us, you know."

This was precisely what he had angled for, and he said, with a show of
impatience, "Mairi! How can we take about Mairi to every place? Mairi
is a ferry good lass--oh yes--but she is a servant-lass."

The words nearly stuck in his throat; and indeed had any other
addressed such a phrase to one of his kith and kin there would have
been an explosion of rage; but now he was determined to show to Sheila
that her husband had some cause for objecting to this girl sitting
down with his friends.

But neither husband nor father could make Sheila forswear allegiance
to what her own heart told her was just and honorable and generous;
and indeed her father at this moment was not displeased to see her
turn round on himself with just a touch of indignation in her voice.
"Mairi is my guest, papa," she said. "It is not like you to think of
leaving her at home."

"Oh. it wass of no consequence," said old Mackenzie carelessly: indeed
he was not sorry to have met with this rebuff. "Mairi is a ferry
good girl--oh yes--but there are many who would not forget she is a
servant-lass, and would not like to be always taking her with them.
And you hef lived a long time in London--"

"I have not lived long enough in London to make me forget my friends
or insult them," Sheila said with proud lips, and yet turning to the
window to hide her face.

"My lass, I did not mean any harm whatever," her father said gently:
"I wass saying nothing against Mairi. Go away and bring her into the
room, Sheila, and we will see what we can do now, and if there is a
theatre we can go to this evening. And I must go out, too, to buy some
things; for you are a ferry fine lady now, Sheila, and I was coming
away in such a hurry--"

"Where is your luggage, papa?" she said suddenly.

"Oh, luggage!" said Mackenzie, looking round in great embarrassment.
"It was luggage you said, Sheila? Ay, well, it wass a hurry I wass
in when I came away--for this man he will have to pay me at once
whatever--and there wass no time for any luggage--oh no, there wass no
time, because Duncan he wass late with the boat, and the mare she had
a shoe to put on--and--and--oh no, there was no time for any luggage."

"But what was Scarlett about, to let you come away like that?" Sheila
said.

"Scarlett? Well, Scarlett did not know, it was all in such a hurry.
Now go and bring in Mairi, Sheila, and we will speak about the
theatre."

But there was to be no theatre for any of them that evening. Sheila
was just about to leave the room to summon Mairi when the small girl
who had let Mackenzie into the house appeared and said, "Please, m'm,
there is a young woman below who wishes to see you. She has a message
to you from Mrs. Paterson."

"Mrs. Paterson?" Sheila said, wondering how Mrs. Lavender's
hench-woman should have been entrusted with any such commission. "Will
you ask her to come up?"

The girl came up stairs, looking rather frightened and much out of
breath.

"Please, m'm, Mrs. Paterson has sent me to tell you, and would you
please come as soon as it is convenient? Mrs. Lavender has died. It
was quite sudden--only she recovered a little after the fit, and then
sank: the doctor is there now, but he wasn't in time, it was all so
sudden. Will you please come round, m'm?"

"Yes--I shall be there directly," said Sheila, too bewildered and
stunned to think of the possibility of meeting her husband there.

The girl left, and Sheila still stood in the middle of the room
apparently stupefied. That old woman had got into such a habit of
talking about her approaching death that Sheila had ceased to believe
her, and had grown to fancy that these morbid speculations were
indulged in chiefly for the sake of shocking bystanders. But a dead
man or a dead woman is suddenly invested with a great solemnity; and
Sheila with a pang of remorse thought of the fashion in which she had
suspected this old woman of a godless hypocrisy. She felt, too, that
she had unjustly disliked Mrs. Lavender--that she had feared to go
near her, and blamed her unfairly for many things that had happened.
In her own way that old woman in Kensington Gore had been kind to her:
perhaps the girl was a little ashamed of herself at this moment that
she did not cry.

Her father went out with her, and up to the house with the dusty ivy
and the red curtains. How strangely like was the aspect of the house
inside to the very picture that Mrs. Lavender had herself drawn of
her death! Sheila could remember all the ghastly details that the old
woman seemed to have a malicious delight in describing; and here they
were--the shutters drawn down, the servants walking about on tiptoe,
the strange silence in one particular room. The little shriveled
old body lay quite still and calm now; and yet as Sheila went to the
bedside, she could hardly believe that within that forehead there was
not some consciousness of the scene around. Lying almost in the same
position, the old woman, with a sardonic smile on her face, had spoken
of the time when she should be speechless, sightless and deaf, while
Paterson would go about stealthily as if she was afraid the corpse
would hear. Was it possible to believe that the dead body was not
conscious at this moment that Paterson was really going about in
that fashion--that the blinds were down, friends standing some little
distance from the bed, a couple of doctors talking to each other in
the passage outside?

They went into another room, and then Sheila, with a sudden shiver,
remembered that soon her husband would be coming, and might meet her
and her father there.

"You have sent for Mr. Lavender?" she said calmly to Mrs. Paterson.

"No, ma'am," Paterson said with more than her ordinary gravity and
formality: "I did not know where to send for him. He left London some
days ago. Perhaps you would read the letter, ma'am."

She offered Sheila an open letter. The girl saw that it was in her
husband's handwriting, but she shrank from it as though she were
violating the secrets of the grave.

"Oh no," she said, "I cannot do that."

"Mrs. Lavender, ma'am, meant you to read it, after she had had her
will altered. She told me so. It is a very sad thing, ma'am, that she
did not live to carry out her intentions; for she has been inquiring,
ma'am, these last few days as to how she could leave everything to
you, ma'am, which she intended; and now the other will--"

"Oh, don't talk about that!" said Sheila. It seemed to her that the
dead body in the other room would be laughing hideously, if only it
could, at this fulfillment of all the sardonic prophecies that Mrs.
Lavender used to make.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," Paterson said in the same formal way, as
if she were a machine set to work in a particular direction, "I only
mentioned the will to explain why Mrs. Lavender wished you to read
this letter."

"Read the letter, Sheila," said her father.

The girl took it and carried it to the window. While she was there,
old Mackenzie, who had fewer scruples about such matters, and who
had the curiosity natural to a man of the world, said to Mrs.
Paterson--not loud enough for Sheila to overhear--"I suppose, then,
the poor old lady has left her property to her nephew?"

"Oh no, sir," said Mrs. Paterson, somewhat sadly, for she fancied she
was the bearer of bad news. "She had a will drawn out only a short
time ago, and nearly everything is left to Mr. Ingram."

"To Mr. Ingram?"

"Yes," said the woman, amazed to see that Mackenzie's face, so
far from evincing displeasure, seemed to be as delighted as it was
surprised.

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Paterson: "I was one of the witnesses. But Mrs.
Lavender changed her mind, and was very anxious that everything should
go to your daughter, if it could be done; and Mr. Appleyard, sir, was
to come here to-morrow forenoon."

"And has Mr. Lavender got no money whatever?" said Sheila's father,
with an air that convinced Mrs. Paterson that he was a revengeful man,
and was glad his son-in-law should be so severely punished.

"I don't know, sir," she replied, careful not to go beyond her own
sphere.

Sheila came back from the window. She had taken a long time to read
and ponder over that letter, though it was not a lengthy one. This was
what Frank Lavender had written to his aunt:

"MY DEAR AUNT LAVENDER: I suppose when you read this you will think I
am in a bad temper because of what you said to me. It is not so. But
I am leaving London, and I wish to hand over to you, before I go, the
charge of my house, and to ask you to take possession of everything
in it that does not belong to Sheila. These things are yours, as you
know, and I have to thank you very much for the loan of them. I have
to thank you for the far too liberal allowance you have made me for
many years back. Will you think I have gone mad if I ask you to stop
that now? The fact is, I am going to have a try at earning something,
for the fun of the thing; and, to make the experiment satisfactory,
I start to-morrow morning for a district in the West Highlands, where
the most ingenious fellow I know couldn't get a penny loaf on credit.
You have been very good to me, Aunt Lavender: I wish I had made a
better use of your kindness. So good-bye just now, and if ever I come
back to London again I shall call on you and thank you in person.

"I am your affectionate nephew,

"FRANK LAVENDER."

So far the letter was almost business-like. There was no reference
to the causes which were sending him away from London, and which had
already driven him to this extraordinary resolution about the money
he got from his aunt. But at the end of the letter there was a brief
postscript, apparently written at the last moment, the words of which
were these: "Be kind to Sheila. Be as kind to her as I have been cruel
to her. In going away from her I feel as though I were exiled by man
and forsaken by God."

She came back from the window the letter in her hand.

"I think you may read it too, papa," she said, for she was anxious
that her father should know that Lavender had voluntarily surrendered
this money before he was deprived of it. Then she went back to the
window.

The slow rain fell from the dismal skies on the pavement and the
railings and the now almost leafless trees. The atmosphere was filled
with a thin white mist, and the people going by were hidden under
umbrellas. It was a dreary picture enough; and yet Sheila was thinking
of how much drearier such a day would be on some lonely coast in the
North, with the hills obscured behind the rain, and the sea beating
hopelessly on the sand. She thought of some small and damp Highland
cottage, with narrow windows, a smell of wet wood about, and the
monotonous drip from over the door. And it seemed to her that a
stranger there would be very lonely, not knowing the ways or the
speech of the simple folk, careless perhaps of his own comfort, and
only listening to the plashing of the sea and the incessant rain on
the bushes and on the pebbles of the beach. Was there any picture of
desolation, she thought, like that of a sea under rain, with a slight
fog obscuring the air, and with no wind to stir the pulse with the
noise of waves? And if Frank Lavender had only gone as far as the
Western Highlands, and was living in some house on the coast, how sad
and still the Atlantic must have been all this wet forenoon, with the
islands of Colonsay and Oronsay lying remote and gray and misty in the
far and desolate plain of the sea!

"It will take a great deal of responsibility from me, sir," Mrs.
Paterson said to old Mackenzie, who was absently thinking of all the
strange possibilities now opening out before him, "if you will tell
me what is to be done. Mrs. Lavender had no relatives in London except
her nephew."

"Oh yes," said Mackenzie, waking up--"oh yes, we will see what is to
be done. There will be the boat wanted for the funeral--" He recalled
himself with an impatient gesture. "Bless me!" he said, "what was I
saying? You must ask some one else--you must ask Mr. Ingram. Hef you
not sent for Mr. Ingram?

"Oh yes, sir, I have sent to him; and he will most likely come in the
afternoon."

"Then there are the executors mentioned in the will--that wass
something you should know about--and they will tell you what to do. As
for me, it is ferry little I will know about such things."

"Perhaps your daughter, sir," suggested Mrs. Paterson, "would tell me
what she thinks should be done with the rooms. And as for luncheon,
sir, if you would wait--"

"Oh, my daughter?" said Mr. Mackenzie, as if struck by a new idea,
but determined all the same that Sheila should not have this new
responsibility thrust on her--"My daughter?--well, you was saying,
mem, that my daughter would help you? Oh yes, but she is a ferry young
thing, and you wass saying we must hef luncheon? Oh yes, but we will
not give you so much trouble, and we hef luncheon ordered at the other
house whatever; and there is the young girl there that we cannot leave
all by herself. And you hef a great experience, mem, and whatever you
do, that will be right: do not have any fear of that. And I will come
round when you want me--oh yes, I will come round at any time--but my
daughter, she is a ferry young thing, and she would be of no use to
you whatever--none whatever. And when Mr. Ingram comes you will send
him round to the place where my daughter is, for we will want to
see him, if he hass the time to come. Where is Shei--where is my
daughter?"

Sheila had quietly left the room and stolen into the silent chamber
in which the dead woman lay. They found her standing close by the
bedside, almost in a trance.

"Sheila," said her father, taking her hand, "come away now, like a
good girl. It is no use your waiting here; and Mairi--what will Mairi
be doing?"

She suffered herself to be led away, and they went home and had
luncheon; but the girl could not eat for the notion that somewhere or
other a pair of eyes were looking at her, and were hideously laughing
at her, as if to remind her of the prophecy of that old woman, that
her friends would sit down to a comfortable meal and begin to wonder
what sort of mourning they would have.

It was not until the evening that Ingram called. He had been greatly
surprised to hear from Mrs. Paterson that Mr. Mackenzie had been
there, along with his daughter; and he now expected to find the old
King of Borva in a towering passion. He found him, on the contrary, as
bland and as pleased as decency would admit of in view of the tragedy
that had occurred in the morning; and indeed, as Mackenzie had never
seen Mrs. Lavender, there was less reason why he should wear the
outward semblance of grief. Sheila's father asked her to go out of
the room for a little while; and when she and Mairi had gone, he said
cheerfully, "Well, Mr. Ingram, and it is a rich man you are at last."

"Mrs. Paterson said she had told you," Ingram said with a shrug. "You
never expected to find me rich, did you?"

"Never," said Mackenzie frankly. "But it is a ferry good thing--oh
yes, it is a ferry good thing--to hef money and be independent of
people. And you will make a good use of it, I know."

"You don't seem disposed, sir, to regret that Lavender has been robbed
of what should have belonged to him?"

"Oh, not at all," said Mackenzie, gravely and cautiously, for he did
not want his plans to be displayed prematurely. "But I hef no quarrel
with him; so you will not think I am glad to hef the money taken away
for that. Oh no: I hef seen a great many men and women, and it was no
strange thing that these two young ones, living all by themselves in
London, should hef a quarrel. But it will come all right again if we
do not make too much about it. If they like one another, they will
soon come together again, tek my word for it, Mr. Ingram; and I hef
seen a great many men and women. And as for the money--well, as for
the money, I hef plenty for my Sheila, and she will not starve when I
die--no, nor before that, either; and as for the poor old woman that
has died, I am ferry glad she left her money to one that will make a
good use of it, and will not throw it away whatever."

"Oh, but you know, Mr. Mackenzie, you are congratulating me without
cause. I must tell you how the matter stands. The money does not
belong to me at all: Mrs. Lavender never intended it should. It was
meant to go to Sheila--"

"Oh, I know, I know," said Mr. Mackenzie with a wave of his hand. "I
wass hearing all that from the woman at the house. But how will you
know what Mrs. Lavender intended? You hef only that woman's story of
it. And here is the will, and you hef the money, and--and--" Mackenzie
hesitated for a moment, and then said with a sudden vehemence, "--and,
by Kott, you shall keep it!"

Ingram was a trifle startled. "But look here, sir," he said in a tone
of expostulation, "you make a mistake. I myself know Mrs. Lavender's
intentions. I don't go by any story of Mrs. Paterson's. Mrs. Lavender
made over the money to me with express injunctions to place it at the
disposal of Sheila whenever I should see fit. Oh, there's no mistake
about it, so you need not protest, sir. If the money belonged to me, I
should be delighted to keep it. No man in the country more desires
to be rich than I; so don't fancy I am flinging away a fortune out of
generosity. If any rich and kind-hearted old lady will send me five
thousand or ten thousand pounds, you will see how I shall stick to it.
But the simple truth is, this money is not mine at all. It was never
intended to be mine. It belongs to Sheila."

Ingram talked in a very matter-of-fact way: the old man feared what he
said was true.

"Ay, it is a ferry good story," said Mackenzie cautiously, "and maybe
it is all true. And you wass saying you would like to hef money?"

"I most decidedly should like to have money."

"Well, then," said the old man, watching his friend's face, "there iss
no one to say that the story is true, and who will believe it? And
if Sheila wass to come to you and say she did not believe it, and she
would not hef the money from you, you would hef to keep it, eh?"

Ingram's sallow face blushed crimson. "I don't know what you mean," he
said stiffly. "Do you propose to pervert the girl's mind and make me a
party to a fraud?"

"Oh, there is no use getting into an anger," said Mackenzie suavely,
"when common sense will do as well whatever. And there wass no
perversion and there wass no fraud talked about. It wass just this,
Mr. Ingram, that if the old lady's will leaves you her property, who
will you be getting to believe that she did not mean to give it to
you?"

"I tell you now whom she meant to give it to," said Ingram, still
somewhat hotly.

"Oh yes--oh yes, that is ferry well. But who will believe it?"

"Good Heavens, sir! who will believe I could be such a fool as to
fling away this property if it belonged to me?"

"They will think you a fool to do it now--yes, that is sure enough,"
said Mackenzie.

"I don't care what they think. And it seems rather odd, Mr. Mackenzie,
that you should be trying to deprive your own daughter of what belongs
to her."

"Oh, my daughter is ferry well off whatever: she does not want any
one's money," said Mackenzie. And then a new notion struck him: "Will
you tell me this, Mr. Ingram? If Mrs. Lavender left you her property
in this way, what for did she want to change her will, eh?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I refused to take the responsibility.
She was anxious to have this money given to Sheila, so that Lavender
should not touch it; and I don't think it was a wise intention, for
there is not a prouder man in the world than Lavender, and I know that
Sheila would not consent to hold a penny that did not equally belong
to him. However, that was her notion, and I was the first victim of
it. I protested against it, and I suppose that set her to inquiring
whether the money could not be absolutely bequeathed to Sheila direct.
I don't know anything about it myself; but that's how the matter
stands, as far as I am concerned."

"But you will think it over, Mr. Ingram," said Mackenzie quietly--"you
will think it over, and be in no hurry. It is not every man that hass
a lot of money given to him. And it is no wrong to my Sheila at all,
for she will hef quite plenty; and she would be ferry sorry to take
the money away from you, that is sure enough; and you will not be
hasty, Mr. Ingram, but be cautious and reasonable, and you will see
the money will do you far more good than it would do Sheila."

Ingram began to think that he had tied a millstone round his neck.

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN EXILE.


One evening in the olden time Lavender and Sheila and Ingram and
old Mackenzie were all sitting high up on the rocks near Borvabost,
chatting to each other, and watching the red light pale on the bosom
of the Atlantic as the sun sank behind the edge of the world. Ingram
was smoking a wooden pipe. Lavender sat with Sheila's hand in his. The
old King of Borva was discoursing of the fishing populations round the
western coasts, and of their various ways and habits.

"I wish I could have seen Tarbert," Lavender was saying, "but the Iona
just passes the mouth of the little harbor as she comes up Loch
Fyne. I know two or three men who go there every year to paint the
fishing-life of the place. It is an odd little place, isn't it?"

"Tarbert?" said Mr. Mackenzie--"you wass wanting to know about
Tarbert? Ah, well, it is getting to be a better place now, but a year
or two ago it wass ferry like hell. Oh yes it wass, Sheila, so you
need not say anything. And this wass the way of it, Mr. Lavender, that
the trawling was not made legal then, and the men they were just like
devils, with the swearing and the drinking and the fighting that went
on; and if you went into the harbor in the open day, you would find
them drunk and fighting, and some of them with blood on their faces,
for it wass a ferry wild time. It wass many a one will say that the
Tarbert-men would run down the police-boat some dark night. And what
was the use of catching the trawlers now and again, and taking their
boats and their nets to be sold at Greenock, when they went themselves
over to Greenock to the auction and bought them back? Oh, it was a
great deal of money they made then: I hef heard of a crew of eight men
getting thirty pounds each man in the course of one night, and that
not seldom mirover."

"But why didn't the government put it down?" Lavender asked.

"Well, you see," Mackenzie answered with the air of a man well
acquainted with the difficulties of ruling--"you see that it wass not
quite sure that the trawling did much harm to the fishing. And the
Jackal--that was the government steamer--she was not much good in
getting the better of the Tarbert-men, who are ferry good with their
boats in the rowing, and are ferry cunning whatever. You know, the
buying boats went out to sea, and took the herring there, and then the
trawlers they would sink their nets and come home in the morning as
if they had not caught one fish, although the boat would be white with
the scales of the herring. And what is more, sir, the government knew
ferry well that if trawling was put down, then there would be a ferry
good many murders; for the Tarbert-men, when they came home to drink
whisky, and wash the whisky down with porter, they were ready to fight
anybody."

"It must be a delightful place to live in," Lavender said.

"Oh, but it is ferry different now," Mackenzie continued--"ferry
different. The men they are nearly all Good Templars now, and there is
no drinking whatever, and there is reading-rooms and such things, and
the place is ferry quiet and respectable."

"I hear," Ingram remarked, "that good people attribute the change to
moral suasion, and that wicked people put it down to want of money."

"Papa, this boy will have to be put to bed," Sheila said.

"Well," Mackenzie answered, "there is not so much money in the place
as there wass in the old times. The shop-keepers do not make so much
money as before, when the men were wild and drunk in the daytime, and
had plenty to spend when the police-boat did not catch them. But the
fishermen, they are ferry much better without the money; and I can
say for them, Mr. Lavender, that there is no better fishermen on the
coast. They are ferry fine, tall men, and they are ferry well dressed
in their blue clothes, and they are manly fellows, whether they are
drunk or whether they are sober. Now look at this, sir, that in the
worst of weather they will neffer tek whisky with them when they go
out to the sea at night, for they think it is cowardly. And they are
ferry fine fellows, and gentlemanly in their ways, and they are ferry
good-natured to strangers."

"I have heard that of them on all hands," Lavender said, "and some day
I hope to put their civility and good-fellowship to the proof."

That was merely the idle conversation of a summer evening: no one paid
any further attention to it, nor did even Lavender himself think again
of his vaguely-expressed hope of some day visiting Tarbert. Let us now
shift the scene of this narrative to Tarbert itself.

When you pass from the broad and blue waters of Loch Fyne into the
narrow and rocky channel leading to Tarbert harbor, you find before
you an almost circular bay, round which stretches an irregular line
of white houses. There is an abundance of fishing-craft in the harbor,
lying in careless and picturesque groups, with their brown hulls and
spars sending a ruddy reflection down on the lapping water, which is
green under the shadow of each boat. Along the shore stand the tall
poles on which the fishermen dry their nets, and above these, on the
summit of a rocky crag, rise the ruins of an old castle, with the
daylight shining through the empty windows. Beyond the houses, again,
lie successive lines of hills, at this moment lit up by shafts of
sunlight that lend a glowing warmth and richness to the fine colors
of a late autumn. The hills are red and brown with rusted bracken and
heather, and here and there the smooth waters of the bay catch a tinge
of other and varied hues. In one of the fishing-smacks that lie almost
underneath the shadow of the tall crag on which the castle ruins
stand, an artist has put a rough-and-ready easel, and is apparently
busy at work painting a group of boats just beyond. Some indication
of the rich colors of the craft--their ruddy sails, brown nets and
bladders, and their varnished but not painted hulls--already appears
on the canvas; and by and by some vision may arise of the far hills
in their soft autumnal tints and of the bold blue and white sky moving
overhead. Perhaps the old man who is smoking in the stern of one of
the boats has been placed there on purpose. A boy seated on some nets
occasionally casts an anxious glance toward the painter, as if to
inquire when his penance will be over.

A small open boat, with a heap of stones for ballast, and with no
great elegance in shape of rigging, comes slowly in from the mouth of
the harbor, and is gently run alongside the boat in which the man
is painting. A fresh-colored young fellow, with voluminous and
curly brown hair, who has dressed himself as a yachtsman, calls out,
"Lavender, do you know the White Rose, a big schooner yacht?--about
eighty tons I should think."

"Yes," Lavender said, without turning round or taking his eyes off the
canvas.

"Whose is she?"

"Lord Newstead's."

"Well, either he or his skipper hailed me just now and wanted to know
whether you were here, I said you were. The fellow asked me if I
was going into the harbor. I said I was. So he gave me a message for
you--that they would hang about outside for half an hour or so, if you
would go out to them and take a run up to Ardishaig."

"I can't, Johnny."

"I'd take you out, you know."

"I don't want to go."

"But look here, Lavender," said the younger man, seizing hold of
Lavender's boat and causing the easel to shake dangerously: "he asked
me to luncheon, too."

"Why don't you go, then?" was the only reply, uttered rather absently.

"I can't go without you."

"Well, I don't mean to go."

The younger man looked vexed for a moment, and then said in a tone of
expostulation, "You know it is very absurd of you going on like this,
Lavender. No fellow can paint decently if he gets out of bed in the
middle of the night and waits for daylight to rush up to his easel.
How many hours have you been at work already to-day? If you don't give
your eyes a rest, they will get color-blind to a dead certainty. Do
you think you will paint the whole place off the face of the earth,
now that the other fellows have gone?"

"I can't be bothered talking to you. Johnny. You'll make me throw
something at you. Go away."

"I think it's rather mean, you know," continued the persistent Johnny,
"for a" fellow like you, who doesn't need it, to come and fill the
market all at once, while we unfortunate devils can scarcely get a
crust. And there are two heron just round the point, and I have my
breech-loader and a dozen cartridges here."

"Go away, Johnny!" That was all the answer he got.

"I'll go out and tell Lord News, tead that you are a cantankerous
brute. I suppose he'll have the decency to offer me luncheon, and I
dare say I could get him a shot at these heron. You are a fool not to
come, Lavender;" and so saying the young man put out again, and he was
heard to go away talking to himself about obstinate idiots and greed
and the certainty of getting a shot at the heron.

When he had quite gone, Lavender, who had scarcely raised his eyes
from his work, suddenly put down his palette and brushes--he almost
dropped them, indeed--and quickly put up both his hands to his head,
pressing them on the side of his temples. The old fisherman in the
boat beyond noticed this strange movement, and forthwith caught
a rope, hauled the boat across a stretch of water, and then came
scrambling over bowsprit, lowered sails and nets to where Lavender had
just sat down.

"Wass there anything the matter, sir?" he said with much evidence of
concern.

"My head is a little bad, Donald," Lavender said, still pressing his
hands on his temples, as if to get rid of some strange feeling. "I
wish you would pull in to the shore and get me some whisky."

"Oh ay," said the old man, hastily scrambling into the little black
boat lying beside the smack; "and it is no wonder to me this will come
to you, sir, for I hef never seen any of the gentlemen so long at the
pentin as you--from the morning till the night; and it is no wonder
to me this will come to you. But I will get you the whushky: it is a
grand thing, the whushky."

The old fisherman was not long in getting ashore and running up to the
cottage in which Lavender lived, and getting a bottle of whisky and a
glass. Then he got down to the boat again, and was surprised that he
could nowhere see Mr. Lavender on board the smack. Perhaps he had lain
down on the nets in the bottom of the boat.

When Donald got out to the smack he found the young man lying
insensible, his face white and his teeth clenched. With something of a
cry the old fisherman jumped into the boat, knelt down, and proceeded
in a rough and ready fashion to force some whisky into Lavender's
mouth. "Oh ay, oh yes, it is a grand thing, the whushky," he muttered
to himself. "Oh yes, sir, you must hef some more: it is no matter
if you will choke. It is ferry good whushky, and will do you no harm
whatever; and oh yes, sir, that is ferry well, and you are all right
again, and you will sit quite quiet now, and you will hef a little
more whushky."

The young man looked round him: "Have you been ashore, Donald? Oh
yes--I suppose so. Did I tumble? Well, I am all right now: it was
the glare of the sea that made me giddy. Take a dram for yourself,
Donald."

"There is but the one glass, sir," said Donald, who had picked up
something of the notions of gentlefolks, "but I will just tek the
bottle;" and so, to avoid drinking out of the same glass (which was
rather a small one), he was good enough to take a pull, and a strong
pull, at the black bottle. Then he heaved a sigh, and wiped the top of
the bottle with his sleeve. "Yes, as I was saying, sir, there was none
of the gentlemen I hef effer seen in Tarbert will keep at the pentin
so long ass you; and many of them will be stronger ass you, and will
be more accustomed to it whatever. But when a man iss making money--"
and Donald shook his head: he knew it was useless to argue.

"But I am not making money, Donald," Lavender said, still looking a
trifle pale. "I doubt whether I have made as much as you have since I
came to Tarbert."

"Oh yes," said Donald contentedly, "all the gentlemen will say that.
They never hef any money. But wass you ever with them when they could
not get a dram because they had no money to pay for it?"

Donald's test of impecuniosity could not be gainsaid. Lavender
laughed, and bade him get back into the other boat.

"'Deed I will not," said Donald sturdily.

Lavender stared at him.

"Oh no: you wass doing quite enough the day already, or you would not
hef tumbled into the boat whatever. And supposing that you was to hef
tumbled into the water, you would have been trooned as sure as you
wass alive."

"And a good job, too, Donald," said the younger man, idly looking at
the lapping green water.

Donald shook his head gravely: "You would not say that if you had
friends of yours that was trooned, and if you had seen them when they
went down in the water."

"They say it is an easy death, Donald."

"They neffer tried it that said that," said the old fisherman
gloomily. "It wass one day the son of my sister wass coming over from
Saltcoats--But I hef no wish to speak of it; and that wass but one
among ferry many that I have known."

"How long is it since you were in the Lewis, did you say?" Lavender
asked, changing the subject. Donald was accustomed to have the talk
suddenly diverted into this channel. He could not tell why the young
English gentleman wanted him continually to be talking about the
Lewis.

"Oh, it is many and many a year ago, as I hef said; and you will know
far more about the Lewis than I will. But Stornoway, that is a fine
big town; and I hef a cousin there that keeps a shop, and is a very
rich man whatever, and many's the time he will ask me to come and see
him. And if the Lord be spared, maybe I will some day."

"You mean if you be spared, Donald."

"Oh, ay: it is all wan," said Donald.

Lavender had brought with him some bread and cheese in a piece of
paper for luncheon; and this store of frugal provisions having been
opened out, the old fisherman was invited to join in--an invitation he
gravely but not eagerly accepted. He took off his blue bonnet and said
grace: then he took the bread and cheese in his hand and looked round
inquiringly. There was a stone jar of water in the bottom of the boat:
that was not what Donald was looking after. Lavender handed him the
black bottle he had brought out from the cottage, which was more
to his mind. And then, this humble meal despatched, the old man was
persuaded to go back to his post, and Lavender continued his work.

The short afternoon was drawing to a close when young Johnny Eyre came
sailing in from Loch Fyne, himself and a boy of ten or twelve managing
that crank little boat with its top-heavy sails. "Are you at work yet,
Lavender?" he said. "I never saw such a beggar. It's getting quite
dark."

"What sort of luncheon did Newstead give you, Johnny?"

"Oh, something worth going for, I can tell you. You want to live in
Tarbert for a month or two to find out the value of decent cooking
and good wine. He was awfully surprised when I described this place to
him. He wouldn't believe you were living here in a cottage: I said
a garret, for I pitched it hot and strong, mind you. I said you were
living in a garret, that you never saw a razor, and lived on oatmeal
porridge and whisky, and that your only amusement was going out at
night and risking your neck in this delightful boat of mine. You
should have seen him examining this remarkable vessel. And there were
two ladies on board, and they were asking after you, too."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know. I didn't catch their names when I was introduced; but
the noble skipper called one of them Polly."

"Oh, I know."

"Ain't you coming ashore, Lavender? You can't see to work now."

"All right! I shall put my traps ashore, and then I'll have a run with
you down Loch Fyne if you like, Johnny."

"Well, I don't like," said the handsome lad frankly, "for it's looking
rather squally about. It seems to me you're bent on drowning yourself.
Before those other fellows went, they came to the conclusion that you
had committed a murder."

"Did they really?" Lavender said with little interest.

"And if you go away and live in that wild place you were talking of
during the winter, they will be quite sure of it. Why, man, you'd come
back with your hair turned white. You might as well think of living by
yourself at the Arctic Pole."

Neither Johnny Eyre nor any of the men who had just left Tarbert knew
anything of Frank Lavender's recent history, and Lavender himself was
not disposed to be communicative. They would know soon enough when
they went up to London. In the mean time they were surprised to find
that Lavender's habits were very singularly altered. He had grown
miserly. They laughed when he told them he had no money, and he
did not seek to persuade them of the fact; but it was clear, at all
events, that none of them lived so frugally or worked so anxiously
as he. Then, when his work was done in the evening, and when they met
alternately at each other's rooms to dine off mutton and potatoes,
with a glass of whisky and a pipe and a game of cards to follow, what
was the meaning of those sudden fits of silence that would strike in
when the general hilarity was at its pitch? And what was the meaning
of the utter recklessness he displayed when they would go out of
an evening in their open sailing boats to shoot sea-fowl, or make a
voyage along the rocky coast in the dead of night to wait for the
dawn to show them the haunts of the seals? The Lavender they had met
occasionally in London was a fastidious, dilettante, self-possessed,
and yet not disagreeable fellow: this man was almost pathetically
anxious about his work, oftentimes he was morose and silent, and then
again there was no sort of danger or difficulty he was not ready to
plunge into when they were sailing about that iron-bound coast. They
could not make it out, but the joke among themselves was that he had
committed a murder, and therefore he was reckless.

This Johnny Eyre was not much of an artist, but he liked the society
of artists: he had a little money of his own, plenty of time, and
a love of boating and shooting, and so he had pitched his tent at
Tarbert, and was proud to cherish the delusion that he was working
hard and earning fame and wealth. As a matter of fact, he never earned
anything, but he had very good spirits, and living in Tarbert is
cheap.

From the moment that Lavender had come to the place, Johnny Eyre made
him his special companion. He had a great respect for a man who could
shoot anything anywhere; and when he and Lavender came back together
from a cruise, there was no use saying which had actually done
the brilliant deeds the evidence of which was carried ashore. But
Lavender, oddly enough, knew little about sailing, and Johnny was
pleased to assume the airs of an instructor on this point; his only
difficulty being that his pupil had more than the ordinary hardihood
of an ignoramus, and was rather inclined to do reckless things even
after he had sufficient skill to know that they were dangerous.

Lavender got into the small boat, taking his canvas with him, but
leaving his easel in the fishing-smack. He pulled himself and Johnny
Eyre ashore: they scrambled up the rocks and into the road, and then
they went into the small white cottage in which Lavender lived. The
picture was, for greater safety, left in Lavender's bed-room, which
already contained about a dozen canvases with sketches in various
stages on them. Then he went out to his friend again.

"I've had a long day to-day, Johnny. I wish you'd go out with me: the
excitement of a squall would clear one's brain, I fancy."

"Oh, I'll go out if you like," Eyre said, "but I shall take very good
care to run in before the squall comes, if there's any about. I don't
think there will be, after all. I fancied I saw a flash of lightning
about half an hour ago down in the south, but nothing has come of it.
There are some curlew about, and the guillemots are in thousands. You
don't seem to care about shooting guillemots, Lavender."

"Well, you see, potting a bird that is sitting on the water--" said
Lavender with a shrug.

"Oh, it isn't as easy as you might imagine. Of course you could kill
them if you liked, but everybody ain't such a swell as you are with a
gun; and mind you, it's uncommonly awkward to catch the right moment
for firing, when the bird goes bobbing up and down on the waves,
disappearing altogether every second second. I think it's very good
fun myself. It is very exciting when you don't know the moment the
bird will dive, and whether you can afford to go any nearer. And as
for shooting them on the water, you have to do that, for when do you
get a chance of shooting them flying?"

"I don't see much necessity for shooting them at any time," said
Lavender as he and Eyre went down to the shore again, "but I am glad
to see you get some amusement out of it. Have you got cartridges with
you? Is your gun in the boat?"

"Yes. Come along. We'll have a run out, any how."

When they pulled out again to that cockle-shell craft with its stone
ballast and big brown mainsail, the boy was sent ashore and the two
companions set out by themselves. By this time the sun had gone down,
and a strange green twilight was shining over the sea. As they got
farther out the dusky shores seemed to have a pale mist hanging around
them, but there were no clouds on the hills, for a clear sky shone
overhead, awaiting the coming of the stars. Strange indeed was the
silence out here, broken only by the lapping of the water on the sides
of the boat and the calling of birds in the distance. Far away the
orange ray of a lighthouse began to quiver in the lambent dusk. The
pale green light on the waves did not die out, but the shadows grew
darker, so that Eyre, with his gun close at hand, could not make out
his groups of guillemots, although he heard them calling all around.
They had come out too late, indeed, for any such purpose.

Thither on those beautiful evenings, after his day's work was over,
Lavender was accustomed to come, either by himself or with his
present companion. Johnny Eyre did not intrude on his solitude: he was
invariably too eager to get a shot, his chief delight being to get to
the bow, to let the boat drift for a while silently through the waves,
so that she might come unawares on some flock of sea-birds. Lavender,
sitting in the stern with the tiller in his hand, was really alone in
this world of water and sky, with all the majesty of the night and the
stars around him.

And on these occasions he used to sit and dream of the beautiful time
long ago in Loch Roag, when nights such as these used to come over the
Atlantic, and find Sheila and himself sailing on the peaceful waters,
or seated high up on the rocks listening to the murmur of the tide.
Here was the same strange silence, the same solemn and pale light in
the sky, the same mystery of the moving plain all around them that
seemed somehow to be alive, and yet voiceless and sad. Many a time his
heart became so full of recollections that he had almost called aloud
"Sheila! Sheila!" and waited for the sea and the sky to answer him
with the sound of her voice. In these bygone days he had pleased
himself with the fancy that the girl was somehow the product of all
the beautiful aspects of Nature around her. It was the sea that was in
her eyes, it was the fair sunlight that shone in her face, the breath
of her life was the breath of the moorland winds. He had written
verses about this fancy of hers; and he had conveyed them secretly to
her, sure that she, at least, would find no defects in them. And many
a time, far away from Loch Roag and from Sheila, lines of this conceit
would wander through his brain, set to the saddest of all music,
the music of irreparable loss. What did they say to him, now that
he recalled them like some half-forgotten voice out of the strange
past?--

  For she and the clouds and the breezes were one.
  And the hills and the sea had conspired with the sun
  To charm and bewilder all men with the grace
  They combined and conferred on her wonderful face.

The sea lapped around the boat, the green light on the waves grew
somehow less intense; in the silence the first of the stars came out,
and somehow the time in which he had seen Sheila in these rare and
magical colors seemed to become more and more remote:

  An angel in passing looked downward and smiled,
  And carried to heaven the fame of the child;
  And then what the waves and the sky and the sun
  And the tremulous breath of the hills had begun,
  Required but one touch. To finish the whole,
  God loved her and gave her a beautiful soul.

And what had he done with this rare treasure entrusted to him? His
companions, jesting among themselves, had said that he had committed
a murder: in his own heart there was something at this moment of a
murderer's remorse.

Johnny Eyre uttered a short cry. Lavender looked ahead and saw that
some black object was disappearing among the waves.

"What a fright I got!" Eyre said with a laugh. "I never saw the fellow
come near, and he came up just below the bowsprit. He came heeling
over as quiet as a mouse. I say, Lavender, I think we might as well
cut it now: my eyes are quite bewildered with the light on the water.
I couldn't make out a kraken if it was coming across our bows."

"Don't be in a hurry, Johnny. We'll put her out a bit, and then let
her drift back. I want to tell you a story."

"Oh, all right," he said; and so they put her head round, and soon she
was lying over before the breeze, and slowly drawing away from those
outlines of the coast which showed them where Tarbert harbor cut into
the land. And then once more they let her drift, and young Eyre took
a nip of whisky and settled himself so as to hear Lavender's story,
whatever it might be.

"You knew I was married?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you ever wonder why my wife did not come here?"

"Why should I wonder? Plenty of fellows have to spend half the
year apart from their wives: the only thing in your case I couldn't
understand was the necessity for your doing it. For you know that's
all nonsense about your want of funds."

"It isn't nonsense, Johnny. But now, if you like, I will tell you why
my wife has never come here."

Then he told the story, out there under the stars, with no thought of
interruption, for there was a world of moving water around them. It
was the first time he had let any one into his confidence, and perhaps
the darkness aided his revelations; but at any rate he went over all
the old time, until it seemed to his companion that he was talking to
himself, so aimless and desultory were his pathetic reminiscences. He
called her Sheila, though Eyre had never heard her name. He spoke of
her father as though Eyre must have known him. And yet this rambling
series of confessions and self-reproaches and tender memories did form
a certain sort of narrative, so that the young fellow sitting quietly
in the boat there got a pretty fair notion of what had happened.

"You are an unlucky fellow," he said to Lavender. "I never heard
anything like that. But you know you must have exaggerated a good deal
about it: I should like to hear her story. I am sure you could not
have treated her like that."

"God knows how I did, but the truth is just as I have told you; and
although I was blind enough at the time, I can read the whole story
now in letters of fire. I hope you will never have such a thing
constantly before your eyes, Johnny."

The lad was silent for some time, and then he said, rather timidly,
"Do you think, Lavender, she knows how sorry you are?"

"If she did, what good would that do?" said the other.

"Women are awfully forgiving, you know," Johnny said in a hesitating
fashion. "I--I don't think it is quite fair not to give her a
chance--a chance of--of being generous, you know. You know, I think
the better a woman is, the more inclined she is to be charitable to
other folks who mayn't be quite up to the mark, you know; and you see,
it ain't every one who can claim to be always doing the right thing;
and the next best thing to that is to be sorry for what you've done
and try to do better. It's rather cheeky, you know, my advising you,
or trying to make you pluck up your spirits; but I'll tell you what
it is, Lavender, if I knew her well enough I'd go straight to her
to-morrow, and I'd put in a good word for you, and tell her some
things she doesn't know; and you'd see if she wouldn't write you a
letter, or even come and see you."

"That is all nonsense, Johnny, though it's very good of you to think
of it. The mischief I have done isn't to be put aside by the mere
writing of a letter."

"But it seems to me," Johnny said with some warmth, "that you are as
unfair to her as to yourself in not giving her a chance. You don't
know how willing she may be to overlook everything that is past."

"If she were, I am not fit to go near her. I couldn't have the cheek
to try, Johnny."

"But what more can you be than sorry for what is past?" said the
younger fellow persistently. "And you don't know how pleased it makes
a good woman to give her the chance of forgiving anybody. And if we
were all to set up for being archangels, and if there was to be no
sort of getting back for us after we had made a slip, where should we
be? And in place of going to her and making it all right, you start
away for the Sound of Islay; and, by Jove! won't you find out what
spending a winter under these Jura mountains means! I have tried it,
and I know."

A flash of lightning, somewhere down among the Arran hills,
interrupted the speaker, and drew the attention of the two young men
to the fact that in the east and south-east the stars were no longer
visible, while something of a brisk breeze had sprung up.

"This breeze will take us back splendidly," Johnny said, getting ready
again for the run in to Tarbert.

He had scarcely spoken when Lavender called attention to a
fishing-smack that was apparently making for the harbor. With all
sails set she was sweeping by them like some black phantom across the
dark plain of the sea. They could not make out the figures on board of
her, but as she passed some one called out to them.

"What did he say?" Lavender asked.

"I don't know," his companion said, "but it was some sort of warning,
I suppose. By Jove, Lavender, what is that?"

Behind them there was a strange hissing noise that the wind brought
along to them, but nothing could be seen.

"Rain, isn't it?" Lavender said.

"There never was rain like that," his companion said. "That is a
squall, and it will be here presently. We must haul down the sails.
For God's sake, look sharp, Lavender!"

There was certainly no time to lose, for the noise behind them was
increasing and deepening into a roar, and the heavens had grown black
overhead, so that the spars and ropes of the crank little boat could
scarcely be made out. They had just got the sails down when the first
gust of the squall struck the boat as with a blow of iron, and sent
her staggering forward into the trough of the sea. Then all around
them came the fury of the storm, and the cause of the sound they had
heard was apparent in the foaming water that was torn and scattered
abroad by the gale. Up from the black south-east came the fierce
hurricane, sweeping everything before it, and hurling this creaking
and straining boat about as if it were a cork. They could see little
of the sea around them, but they could hear the awful noise of it, and
they knew they were being swept along on those hurrying waves toward a
coast which was invisible in the blackness of the night.

"Johnny, we'll never make the harbor: I can't see a light," Lavender
cried, "Hadn't we better try to keep her up the loch?"

"We _must_ make the harbor," his companion said: "she can't stand this
much longer."

Blinding torrents of rain were now being driven down by the force
of the wind, so that all around them nothing was visible but a wild
boiling and seething of clouds and waves. Eyre was up at the bow,
trying to catch some glimpse of the outlines of the coast or to make
out some light that would show them where the entrance to Tarbert
harbor lay. If only some lurid shaft of lightning would pierce the
gloom! for they knew that they were being driven headlong on an
iron-bound coast; and amid all the noise of the wind and the sea they
listened with a fear that had no words for the first roar of the waves
along the rocks.

Suddenly Lavender heard a shrill scream, almost like the cry that a
hare gives when it finds the dog's fangs in its neck, and at the same
moment, amid all the darkness of the night, a still blacker object
seemed to start out of the gloom right ahead of them. The boy had no
time to shout any warning beyond that cry of despair, for with a wild
crash the boat struck on the rocks, rose and struck again, and was
then dashed over by a heavy sea, both of its occupants being thrown
into the fierce swirls of foam that were dashing in and through the
rocky channels. Strangely enough, they were thrown together; and
Lavender, clinging to the sea-weed, instinctively laid hold of his
companion just as the latter appeared to be slipping into the gulf
beneath.

"Johnny," he cried, "hold on!--hold on to me--or we shall both go in a
minute."

But the lad had no life left in him, and lay like a log there, while
each wave that struck and rolled hissing and gurgling through the
channels between the rocks seemed to drag at him and seek to suck him
down into the darkness. With one despairing effort, Lavender struggled
to get him farther up on the slippery sea-weed, and succeeded. But his
success had lost him his own vantage-ground, and he knew that he was
going down into the swirling waters beneath, close by the broken boat
that was still being dashed about by the waves.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"HAME FAIN WOULD I BE."


Unexpected circumstances had detained Mrs. Kavanagh and her daughter
in London long after everybody else had left, but at length they were
ready to start for their projected trip into Switzerland. On the day
before their departure Ingram dined with them--on his own invitation.
He had got into a habit of letting them know when it would suit him to
devote an evening to their instruction; and it was difficult indeed to
say which of the two ladies submitted the more readily and meekly
to the dictatorial enunciation of his opinions. Mrs. Kavanagh, it is
true, sometimes dissented in so far as a smile indicated dissent, but
her daughter scarcely reserved to herself so much liberty. Mr. Ingram
had taken her in hand, and expected of her the obedience and respect
due to his superior age.

And yet, somehow or other, he occasionally found himself indirectly
soliciting the advice of this gentle, clear-eyed and clear-headed
young person, more especially as regarded the difficulties surrounding
Sheila; and sometimes a chance remark of hers, uttered in a timid
or careless or even mocking fashion, would astonish him by the rapid
light it threw on these dark troubles. On this evening--the last
evening they were spending in London--it was his own affairs which he
proposed to mention to Mrs. Lorraine, and he had no more hesitation in
doing so than if she had been his oldest friend. He wanted to ask her
what he should do about the money that Mrs. Lavender had left him; and
he intended to be a good deal more frank with Mrs. Lorraine than with
any of the others to whom he had spoken about the matter. For he was
well aware that Mrs. Lavender had at first resolved that he should
have at least a considerable portion of her wealth, or why should she
have asked him how he would like to be a rich man?

"I do not think," said Mrs. Lorraine quietly, "that there is any use
in your asking me what you should do, for I know what you will do,
whether it accords with any one's opinion or no. And yet you would
find a great advantage in having money."

"Oh, I know that," he said readily. "I should like to be rich beyond
anything that ever happened in a drama; and I should take my chance of
all the evil influences that money is supposed to exert. Do you know,
I think you rich people are very unfairly treated."

"But we are not rich," said Mrs. Kavanagh, passing at the time.
"Cecilia and I find ourselves very poor sometimes."

"But I quite agree with Mr. Ingram, mamma," said Cecilia--as if any
one had had the courage to disagree with Mr. Ingram!--"rich people are
shamefully ill-treated. If you go to a theatre, now, you find that all
the virtues are on the side of the poor, and if there are a few vices,
you get a thousand excuses for them. No one takes account of the
temptations of the rich. You have people educated from their infancy
to imagine that the whole world was made for them, every wish they
have gratified, every day showing them people dependent on them and
grateful for favors; and no allowance is made for such a temptation to
become haughty, self-willed and overbearing. But of course it stands
to reason that the rich never have justice done them in plays and
stories, for the people who write are poor."

"Not all of them."

"But enough to strike an average of injustice. And it is very hard.
For it is the rich who buy books and who take boxes at the theatres,
and then they find themselves grossly abused; whereas the humble
peasant who can scarcely read at all, and who never pays more than
sixpence for a seat in the gallery, is flattered and coaxed and
caressed until one wonders whether the source of virtue is the
drinking of sour ale. Mr. Ingram, you do it yourself. You impress
mamma and me with the belief that we are miserable sinners if we are
not continually doing some act of charity. Well, that is all very
pleasant and necessary, in moderation; but you don't find the poor
folks so very anxious to live for other people. They don't care much
what becomes of us. They take your port wine and flannels as if
they were conferring a favor on you, but as for _your_ condition and
prospects in this world and the next, they don't trouble much about
that. Now, mamma, just wait a moment."

"I will not. You are a bad girl," said Mrs. Kavanagh severely. "Here
has Mr. Ingram been teaching you and making you better for ever so
long back, and you pretend to accept his counsel and reform yourself;
and then all at once you break out, and throw down the tablets of the
law, and conduct yourself like a heathen."

"Because I want him to explain, mamma. I suppose he considers it
wicked of us to start for Switzerland to-morrow. The money we shall
spend in traveling might have despatched a cargo of muskets to some
missionary station, so that--"

"Ceilia!"

"Oh no," Ingram said carelessly, and nursing his knee with both his
hands as usual, "traveling is not wicked: it is only unreasonable. A
traveler, you know, is a person who has a house in one town, and who
goes to live in a house in another town, in order to have the pleasure
of paying for both."

"Mr. Ingram," said Mrs. Kavanagh, "will you talk seriously for one
minute, and tell me whether we are to expect to see you in the Tyrol?"

But Ingram was not in a mood for talking seriously, and he waited to
hear Mrs. Lorraine strike in with some calmly audacious invitation.
She did not, however, and he turned round from her mother to question
her. He was surprised to find that her eyes were fixed on the ground
and that something like a tinge of color was in her face. He turned
rapidly away again. "Well, Mrs. Kavanagh," he said with a fine air
of indifference, "the last time we spoke about that I was not in the
difficulty I am in at present. How could I go traveling just now,
without knowing how to regulate my daily expenses? Am I to travel with
six white horses and silver bells, or trudge on foot with a wallet?"

"But you know quite well," said Mrs. Lorraine warmly--"you know you
will not touch that money that Mrs. Lavender has left you."

"Oh, pardon me," he said: "I should rejoice to have it if it did not
properly belong to some one else. And the difficulty is, that Mr.
Mackenzie is obviously very anxious that neither Mr. Lavender nor
Sheila should have it. If Sheila gets it, of course she will give it
to her husband. Now, if it is not to be given to her, do you think I
should regard the money with any particular horror and refuse to touch
it? That would be very romantic, perhaps, but I should be sorry, you
know, to give my friends the most disquieting doubts about my sanity.
Romance goes out of a man's head when the hair gets gray."

"Until a man has gray hair," Mrs. Lorraine said, still with some
unnecessary fervor, "he does not know that there are things much more
valuable than money. You wouldn't touch that money just now, and all
the thinking and reasoning in the world will never get you to touch
it."

"What am I to do with it?" he said meekly.

"Give it to Mr. Mackenzie, in trust for his daughter," Mrs. Lorraine
said promptly; and then, seeing that her mother had gone to the end
of the drawing-room to fetch something or other, she added quickly,
"I should be more sorry than I can tell you to find you accepting this
money. You do not wish to have it. You do not need it. And if you did
take it, it would prove a source of continual embarrassment and regret
to you, and no assurances on the part of Mr. Mackenzie would be able
to convince you that you had acted rightly by his daughter. Now, if
you simply hand over your responsibilities to him, he cannot refuse
them, for the sake of his own child, and you are left with the sense
of having acted nobly and generously. I hope there are many men who
would do what I ask you to do, but I have not met many to whom I
could make such an appeal with any hope. But, after all, that is only
advice. I have no right to ask you to do anything like that. You asked
me for my opinion about it. Well, that is it. But I should not have
asked you to act on it."

"But I will," he said in a low voice; and then he went to the other
end of the room, for Mrs. Kavanagh was calling him to help her in
finding something she had lost.

Before he left that evening Mrs. Lorraine said to him, "We go by the
night-mail to Paris to-morrow night, and we shall dine here at five.
Would you have the courage to come up and join us in that melancholy
ceremony?"

"Oh yes," he said, "if I may go down to the station to see you away
afterward."

"I think if we got you so far we should persuade you to go with us,"
Mrs. Kavanagh said with a smile.

He sat silent for a minute. Of course she could not seriously mean
such a thing. But at all events she would not be displeased if he
crossed their path while they were actually abroad.

"It is getting too late in the year to go to Scotland now," he said
with some hesitation.

"Oh most certainly," Mrs. Lorraine said.

"I don't know where the man in whose yacht I was to have gone may be
now. I might spend half my holiday in trying to catch him."

"And during that time you would be alone," Mrs. Lorraine said.

"I suppose the Tyrol is a very nice place," he suggested.

"Oh most delightful," she exclaimed. "You know, we should go round by
Switzerland, and go up by Luzerne and Zurich to the end of the Lake
of Constance. Bregenz, mamma, isn't that the place where we hired that
good-natured man the year before last?"

"Yes, child."

"Now, you see, Mr. Ingram, if you had less time than we--if you
could not start with us to-morrow--you might come straight down by
Schaffhausen and the steamer, and catch us up there, and then mamma
would become your guide. I am sure we should have some pleasant days
together till you got tired of us, and then you could go off on a
walking-tour if you pleased. And then, you know, there would be no
difficulty about our meeting at Bregenz, for mamma and I have plenty
of time, and we should wait there for a few days, so as to make sure."

"Cecilia," said Mrs. Kavanagh, "you must not persuade Mr. Ingram
against his will. He may have other duties--other friends to see,
perhaps."

"Who proposed it, mamma?" said the daughter calmly.

"I did, as a mere joke. But of course, if Mr. Ingram thinks of going
to the Tyrol, we should be most pleased to see him there."

"Oh, I have no other friends whom I am bound to see," Ingram said with
some hesitation, "and I should like to go to the Tyrol. But--the fact
is--I am afraid--"

"May I interrupt you?" said Mrs. Lorraine. "You do not like to leave
London so long as your friend Sheila is in trouble. Is not that the
case? And yet she has her father to look after her. And it is clear
you cannot do much for her when you do not even know where Mr.
Lavender is. On the whole, I think you should consider yourself a
little bit now, and not get cheated out of your holidays for the
year."

"Very well," Ingram said, "I shall be able to tell you to-morrow."

To be so phlegmatic and matter-of-fact a person, Mr. Ingram was sorely
disturbed on going home that evening, nor did he sleep much during the
night. For the more that he speculated on all the possibilities that
might arise from his meeting those people in the Tyrol, the more
pertinaciously did this refrain follow these excursive fancies: "If
I go to the Tyrol I shall fall in love with that girl, and ask her to
marry me. And if I do so, what position should I hold, with regard to
her, as a penniless man with a rich wife?"

He did not look at the question in such light as the opinion of the
world might throw on it. The difficulty was what she herself might
afterward come to think of their mutual relations. True it was, that
no one could be more gentle and submissive to him than she appeared
to be. In matters of opinion and discussion he already ruled with an
autocratic authority which he fully perceived himself, and exercised,
too, with some sort of notion that it was good for this clear-headed
young woman to have to submit to control. But of what avail would this
moral authority be as against the consciousness she would have that it
was her fortune that was supplying both with the means of living?

He went down to his office in the morning with no plans formed. The
forenoon passed, and he had decided on nothing. At mid-day he suddenly
be-thought him that it would be very pleasant if Sheila would go and
see Mrs. Lorraine; and forthwith he did that which would have driven
Frank Lavender out of his senses--he telegraphed to Mrs. Lorraine
for permission to bring Sheila and her father to dinner at five.
He certainly knew that such a request was a trifle cool, but he had
discovered that Mrs. Lorraine was not easily shocked by such audacious
experiments on her good nature. When he received the telegram in
reply he knew it granted what he had asked. The words were merely,
"Certainly, by all means, but not later than five."

Then he hastened down to the house in which Sheila lived, and
found that she and her father had just returned from visiting some
exhibition. Mr. Mackenzie was not in the room.

"Sheila," Ingram said, "what would you think of my getting married?"

Sheila looked up with a bright smile and said, "It would please me
very much--it would be a great pleasure to me; and I have expected it
for some time."

"You have expected it?" he repeated with a stare.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Then you fancy you know--" he said, or rather stammered, in great
embarrassment, when she interrupted him by saying,

"Oh yes, I think I know. When you came down every evening to tell me
all the praises of Mrs. Lorraine, and how clever she was, and kind,
I expected you would come some day with another message; and now I
am very glad to hear it. You have changed all my opinions about her,
and--"

Then she rose and took both his hands, and looked frankly into his
face.

"--And I do hope most sincerely you will be happy, my dear friend."

Ingram was fairly taken aback at the consequences of his own
imprudence. He had never dreamed for a moment that any one would have
suspected such a thing; and he had thrown out the suggestion to Sheila
almost as a jest, believing, of course, that it compromised no one.
And here, before he had spoken a word to Mrs. Lorraine on the subject,
he was being congratulated on his approaching marriage.

"Oh, Sheila," he said, "this is all a mistake. It was a joke of mine.
If I had known you would think of Mrs. Lorraine, I should not have
said a word about it."

"But it is Mrs. Lorraine?" Sheila said.

"Well, but I have never mentioned such a thing to her--never hinted it
in the remotest manner. I dare say if I had she might laugh the matter
aside as too absurd."

"She will not do that," Sheila said. "If you ask her to marry you,
she will marry you: I am sure of that from what I have heard, and she
would be very foolish if she was not proud and glad to do that. And
you--what doubt can you have, after all that you have been saying of
late?"

"But you don't marry a woman merely because you admire her cleverness
and kindness," he said; and then he added suddenly, "Sheila, would you
do me a great favor? Mrs. Lorraine and her mother are leaving for the
Continent to-night. They dine at five, and I am commissioned to ask
you and your papa if you would go up with me and have some dinner with
them, you know, before they start. Won't you do that, Sheila?"

The girl shook her head, without answering. She had not gone to any
friend's house since her husband had left London, and that
house, above all others, was calculated to awaken in her bitter
recollections.

"Won't you, Sheila?" he said. "You used to go there. I know they
like you very much. I have seen you very well pleased and comfortable
there, and I thought you were enjoying yourself."

"Yes, that is true," she said; and then she looked up, with a strange
sort of smile on her lips, "But 'what made the assembly shine?'"

That forced smile did not last long: the girl suddenly burst into
tears, and rose and went away to the window. Mackenzie came into the
room: he did not see his daughter was crying: "Well, Mr. Ingram, and
are you coming with us to the Lewis? We cannot always be staying in
London, for there will be many things wanting the looking after in
Borva, as you will know ferry well. And yet Sheila she will not go
back; and Mairi too, she will be forgetting the ferry sight of her own
people; but if you wass coming with us, Mr. Ingram, Sheila she would
come too, and it would be ferry good for her whatever."

"I have brought you another proposal. Will you take Sheila to see the
Tyrol, and I will go with you?"

"The Tyrol?" said Mr. Mackenzie. "Ay, it is a ferry long way away, but
if Sheila will care to go to the Tyrol--oh yes, I will go to the Tyrol
or anywhere if she will go out of London, for it is not good for
a young girl to be always in the one house, and no company and no
variety; and I was saying to Sheila what good will she do sitting by
the window and thinking over things, and crying sometimes? By Kott, it
is a foolish thing for a young girl, and I will hef no more of it!"

In other circumstances Ingram would have laughed at this dreadful
threat. Despite the frown on the old man's face, the sudden stamp of
his foot and the vehemence of his words, Ingram knew that if Sheila
had turned round and said that she wished to be shut up in a dark
room for the rest of her life, the old King of Borva would have
said, "Ferry well, Sheila," in the meekest way, and would have been
satisfied if only he could share her imprisonment with her.

"But first of all, Mr. Mackenzie, I have another proposal to make to
you," Ingram said; and then he urged upon Sheila's father to accept
Mrs. Lorraine's invitation.

Mr. Mackenzie was nothing loath: Sheila was living by far too
monotonous a life. He went over to the window to her and said,
"Sheila, my lass, you was going nowhere else this evening; and it
would be ferry convenient to go with Mr. Ingram, and he would see
his friends away, and we could go to a theatre then. And it is no new
thing for you to go to fine houses and see other people; but it is new
to me, and you wass saying what a beautiful house it wass many a
time, and I hef wished to see it. And the people they are ferry kind,
Sheila, to send me an invitation; and if they wass to come to the
Lewis, what would you think if you asked them to come to your house
and they paid no heed to it? Now, it is after four, Sheila, and if you
wass to get ready now--"

"Yes, I will go and get ready, papa," she said.

Ingram had a vague consciousness that he was taking Sheila up to
introduce to her Mrs. Lorraine in a new character. Would Sheila
look at the woman she used to fear and dislike in a wholly different
fashion, and be prepared to adorn her with all the graces which he had
so often described to her? Ingram hoped that Sheila would get to like
Mrs. Lorraine, and that by and by a better acquaintance between them
might lead to a warm and friendly intimacy. Somehow, he felt that if
Sheila would betray such a liking--if she would come to him and say
honestly that she was rejoiced he meant to marry--all his doubts would
be cleared away. Sheila had already said pretty nearly as much as
that, but then it followed what she understood to be an announcement
of his approaching marriage, and of course the girl's kindly nature at
once suggested a few pretty speeches. Sheila now knew that nothing
was settled: after looking at Mrs. Lorraine in the light of these
new possibilities, would she come to him and counsel him to go on and
challenge a decision?

Mr. Mackenzie received with a grave dignity and politeness the
more than friendly welcome given him both by Mrs. Kavanagh and her
daughter, and in view of their approaching tour he gave them to
understand that he had himself established somewhat familiar relations
with foreign countries by reason of his meeting with the ships and
sailors hailing from those distant shores. He displayed a profound
knowledge of the habits and customs and of the natural products of
many remote lands which were much farther afield than a little bit of
inland Germany. He represented the island of Borva, indeed, as a
sort of lighthouse from which you could survey pretty nearly all the
countries of the world, and broadly hinted that so far from insular
prejudice being the fruit of living in such a place, a general
intercourse with diverse peoples tended to widen the understanding and
throw light on the various social experiments that had been made by
the lawgivers, the philanthropists, the philosophers of the world.

It seemed to Sheila, as she sat and listened, that the pale, calm and
clear-eyed young lady opposite her was not quite so self-possessed
as usual. She seemed shy and a little self-conscious. Did she suspect
that she was being observed, Sheila wondered? and the reason? When
dinner was announced she took Sheila's arm, and allowed Mr. Ingram to
follow them, protesting, into the other room, but there was much more
of embarrassment and timidity than of an audacious mischief in her
look. She was very kind indeed to Sheila, but she had wholly abandoned
that air of maternal patronage which she used to assume toward the
girl. She seemed to wish to be more friendly and confidential with
her, and indeed scarcely spoke a word to Ingram during dinner, so
persistently did she talk to Sheila, who sat next her.

Ingram got vexed. "Mrs. Lorraine," he said, "you seem to forget that
this is a solemn occasion. You ask us to a farewell banquet, but
instead of observing the proper ceremonies you pass the time in
talking about fancy-work and music, and other ordinary, every--day
trifles."

"What are the ceremonies?" she said.

"Well," he answered, "you need not occupy the time with crochet--"

"Mrs. Lavender and I are very well pleased to talk about trifles."

"But I am not," he said bluntly, "and I am not going to be shut out by
a conspiracy. Come, let us talk about your journey."

"Will my lord give his commands as to the point at which we shall
start the conversation?"

"You may skip the Channel."

"I wish I could," she remarked with a sigh.

"We shall land you in Paris. How are we to know that you have arrived
safely?"

She looked embarrassed for a moment, and then said, "If it is of any
consequence for you to know, I shall be writing in any case to Mrs.
Lavender about some little private matter."

Ingram did not receive this promise with any great show of delight.
"You see," he said, somewhat glumly, "if I am to meet you anywhere, I
should like to know the various stages of your route, so that I could
guard against our missing each other."

"You have decided to go, then?"

Ingram, not looking at her, but looking at Sheila, said, "Yes;" and
Sheila, despite all her efforts, could not help glancing up with
a brief smile and blush of pleasure that were quite visible to
everybody.

Mrs. Lorraine struck in with a sort of nervous haste: "Oh, that will
be very pleasant for mamma, for she gets rather tired of me at times
when we are traveling. Two women who always read the same sort of
books, and have the same opinions about the people they meet, and
have precisely the same tastes in everything, are not very amusing
companions for each other. You want a little discussion thrown in."

"And if we meet Mr. Ingram we are sure to have that," Mrs. Kavanagh
said benignly.

"And you want somebody to give you new opinions and put things
differently, you know. I am sure mamma will be most kind to you if you
can make it convenient to spend a few days with us, Mr. Ingram."

"And I have been trying to persuade Mr. Mackenzie and this young lady
to come also," said Ingram.

"Oh, that would be delightful!" Mrs. Lorraine cried, suddenly taking
Sheila's hand. "You will come, won't you? We should have such a
pleasant party. I am sure your papa would be most interested; and we
are not tied to any route: we should go wherever you pleased."

She would have gone on beseeching and advising, but she saw something
in Sheila's face which told her that all her efforts would be
unavailing.

"It is very kind of you," Sheila said, "but I do not think I can go to
the Tyrol."

"Then you shall go back to the Lewis, Sheila," her father said.

"I cannot go back to the Lewis, papa," she said simply; and at this
point Ingram, perceiving how painful the discussion was for the girl,
suddenly called attention to the hour, and asked Mrs. Kavanagh if all
her portmanteaus were strapped up.

They drove in a body down to the station, and Mr. Ingram was most
assiduous in supplying the two travelers with an abundance of
everything they could not possibly want. He got them a reading-lamp,
though both of them declared they never read in a train. He got them
some eau-de-cologne, though they had plenty in their traveling-case.
He purchased for them an amount of miscellaneous literature that would
have been of benefit to a hospital, provided the patients were strong
enough to bear it. And then he bade them good-bye at least half a
dozen times as the train was slowly moving out of the station, and
made the most solemn vows about meeting them at Bregenz.

"Now, Sheila," he said, "shall we go to the theatre?"

"I do not care to go unless you wish," was the answer.

"She does not care to go anywhere now," her father said; and then the
girl, seeing that he was rather distressed about her apparent want of
interest, pulled herself together and said cheerfully, "Is it not too
late to go to a theatre? And I am sure we could be very comfortable
at home. Mairi, she will think it unkind if we go to the theatre by
ourselves."

"Mairi!" said her father impatiently, for he never lost an opportunity
of indirectly justifying Lavender. Mairi has more sense than you,
Sheila, and she knows that a servant-lass has to stay at home, and she
knows that she is ferry different from you; and she is a ferry good
girl whatever, and hass no pride, and she does not expect nonsense in
going about and such things."

"I am quite sure, papa, you would rather go home and sit down and have
a talk with Mr. Ingram, and a pipe and a little whisky, than go to any
theatre."

"What I would do! And what I would like!" said her father in a vexed
way. "Sheila, you have no more sense as a lass that wass still at the
school. I want you to go to the theatre and amuse yourself, instead
of sitting in the house and thinking, thinking, thinking. And all for
what?"

"But if one has something to be sorry for, is it not better to think
of it?"

"And what hef you to be sorry for?" said her father in amazement, and
forgetting that, in his diplomatic fashion, he had been accustoming
Sheila to the notion that she too might have erred grievously and been
in part responsible for all that had occurred.

"I have a great deal to be sorry for, papa," she said; and then she
renewed her entreaties that her two companions should abandon their
notion of going to a theatre, and resolve to spend the rest of the
evening in what she consented to call her home.

After all, they found a comfortable little company when they sat round
the fire, which had been lit for cheerfulness rather than for warmth,
and Ingram at least was in a particularly pleasant mood. For Sheila
had seized the opportunity, when her father had gone out of the room
for a few minutes, to say suddenly, "Oh, my dear friend, if you care
for her, you have a great happiness before you."

"Why, Sheila!" he said, staring.

"She cares for you more than you can think: I saw it to-night in
everything she said and did."

"I thought she was just a trifle saucy, do you know. She shunted me
out of the conversation altogether."

Sheila shook her head and smiled: "She was embarrassed. She suspects
that you like her, and that I know it, and that I came to see her. If
you ask her to marry you, she will do it gladly."

"Sheila," Ingram said with a severity that was not in his heart, "you
must not say such things. You might make fearful mischief by putting
these wild notions into people's heads."

"They are not wild notions," she said quietly. "A woman can tell what
another woman is thinking about better than a man."

"And am I to go to the Tyrol and ask her to marry me?" he said with
the air of a meek scholar.

"I should like to see you married--very, very much indeed," Sheila
said.

"And to her?"

"Yes to her," the girl said frankly. "For I am sure she has great
regard for you, and she is clever enough to put value on--on--But I
cannot flatter you, Mr. Ingram."

"Shall I send you word about what happens in the Tyrol?" he said,
still with the humble air of one receiving instructions.

"Yes."

"And if she rejects me, what shall I do?"

"She will not reject you."

"Shall I come to you for consolation, and ask you what you meant by
driving me on such a blunder?"

"If she rejects you," Sheila said with a smile, "it will be your own
fault, and you will deserve it. For you are a little too harsh with
her, and you have too much authority, and I am surprised that she
will be so amiable under it. Because, you know, a woman expects to
be treated with much gentleness and deference before she has said she
will marry. She likes to be entreated, and coaxed, and made much of,
but instead of that you are very overbearing with Mrs. Lorraine."

"I did not mean to be, Sheila," he said, honestly enough. "If anything
of the kind happened it must have been in a joke."

"Oh no, not a joke," Sheila said; "and I have noticed it before--the
very first evening you came to their house. And perhaps you did not
know of it yourself; and then Mrs. Lorraine, she is clever enough to
see that you did not mean to be disrespectful. But she will expect you
to alter that a great deal if you ask her to marry you; that is, until
you are married."

"Have I ever been overbearing to you, Sheila?" he asked.

"To me? Oh no. You have always been very gentle to me; but I know how
that is. When you first knew me I was almost a child, and you treated
me like a child; and ever since then it has always been the same.
But to others--yes, you are too unceremonious; and Mrs. Lorraine will
expect you to be much more mild and amiable, and you must let her have
opinions of her own."

"Sheila, you give me to understand that I am a bear," he said in tones
of injured protest.

Sheila laughed: "Have I told you the truth at last? It was no matter
so long as you had ordinary acquaintances to deal with. But now, if
you wish to marry that pretty lady, you must be much more gentle if
you are discussing anything with her; and if she says anything that
is not very wise, you must not say bluntly that it is foolish, but you
must smooth it away, and put her right gently, and then she will be
grateful to you. But if you say to her, 'Oh, that is nonsense!' as
you might say to a man, you will hurt her very much. The man would not
care--he would think you were stupid to have a different opinion from
him; but a woman fears she is not as clever as the man she is talking
to, and likes his good opinion; and if he says something careless
like that, she is sensitive to it, and it wounds her. To-night you
contradicted Mrs. Lorraine about the _h_ in those Italian words, and
I am quite sure you were wrong. She knows Italian much better than you
do, and yet she yielded to you very prettily."

"Go on, Sheila, go on," he said with a resigned air. "What else did I
do?"

"Oh, a great many rude things. You should not have contradicted Mrs.
Kavanagh about the color of an amethyst."

"But why? You know she was wrong; and she said herself a minute
afterward that she was thinking of a sapphire."

"But you ought not to contradict a person older than yourself," said
Sheila sententiously.

"Goodness gracious me! Because one person is born in one year, and one
in another, is that any reason why you should say that an amethyst
is blue? Mr. Mackenzie, come and talk to this girl. She is trying to
pervert my principles. She says that in talking to a woman you have to
abandon all hope of being accurate, and that respect for the truth is
not to be thought of. Because a woman has a pretty face she is to be
allowed to say that black is white, and white pea-green. And if you
say anything to the contrary, you are a brute, and had better go and
bellow by yourself in a wilderness."

"Sheila is quite right," said old Mackenzie at a venture.

"Oh, do you think so?" Ingram asked coolly. "Then I can understand how
her moral sentiment has been destroyed, and it is easy to see where
she has got a set of opinions that strike at the very roots of a
respectable and decent society."

"Do you know," said Sheila seriously, "that it is very rude of you to
say so, even in jest? If you treat Mrs. Lorraine in this way--"

She suddenly stopped. Her father had not heard, being busy among
his pipes. So the subject was discreetly dropped, Ingram reluctantly
promising to pay some attention to Sheila's precepts of politeness.

Altogether, it was a pleasant evening they had, but when Ingram had
left, Mr. Mackenzie said to his daughter, "Now, look at this, Sheila.
When Mr. Ingram goes away from London, you hef no friend at all then
in the place, and you are quite alone. Why will you not come to the
Lewis, Sheila? It is no one there will know anything of what has
happened here; and Mairi she is a good girl, and she will hold her
tongue."

"They will ask me why I come back without my husband," Sheila said,
looking down.

"Oh, you will leave that all to me," said her father, who knew he
had surely sufficient skill to thwart the curiosity of a few simple
creatures in Borva. "There is many a girl hass to go home for a time
while her husband he is away on his business; and there will no one
hef the right to ask you any more than I will tell them; and I will
tell them what they should know--oh yes, I will tell them ferry
well--and you will hef no trouble about it. And, Sheila, you are a
good lass, and you know that I hef many things to attend to that is
not easy to write about--"

"I do know that, papa," the girl said, "and many a time have I wished
you would go back to the Lewis."

"And leave you here by yourself? Why, you are talking foolishly,
Sheila. But now, Sheila, you will see how you could go back with me;
and it would be a ferry different thing for you running about in the
fresh air than shut up in a room in the middle of a town. And you are
not looking ferry well, my lass, and Scarlett she will hef to take the
charge of you."

"I will go to the Lewis with you, papa, when you please," she said,
and he was glad and proud to hear her decision; but there was no happy
light of anticipation in her eyes, such as ought to have been awakened
by this projected journey to the far island which she had known as her
home.

And so it was that one rough and blustering afternoon the Clansman
steamed into Stornoway harbor, and Sheila, casting timid and furtive
glances toward the quay, saw Duncan standing there, with the wagonette
some little distance back under charge of a boy. Duncan was a proud
man that day. He was the first to shove the gangway on to the vessel,
and he was the first to get on board; and in another minute Sheila
found the tall, keen-eyed, brown-faced keeper before her, and he was
talking in a rapid and eager fashion, throwing in an occasional scrap
of Gaelic in the mere hurry of his words.

"Oh yes, Miss Sheila, Scarlett she is ferry well whatever, but there
is nothing will make her so well as your coming back to sa Lewis; and
we wass saying yesterday that it looked as if it wass more as three or
four years, or six years, since you went away from sa Lewis, but now
it iss no time at all, for you are just the same Miss Sheila as we
knew before; and there is not one in all Borva but will think it iss a
good day this day that you will come back."

"Duncan," said Mackenzie with an impatient stamp of his foot, "why
will you talk like a foolish man? Get the luggage to the shore,
instead of keeping us all the day in the boat."

"Oh, ferry well, Mr. Mackenzie," said Duncan, departing with an
injured air, and grumbling as he went, "it iss no new thing to you to
see Miss Sheila, and you will have no thocht for any one but yourself.
But I will get out the luggage--oh yes, I will get out the luggage."

Sheila, in truth, had but little luggage with her, but she remained on
board the boat until Duncan was quite ready to start, for she did
not wish just then to meet any of her friends in Stornoway. Then she
stepped ashore and crossed the quay, and got into the wagonette; and
the two horses, whom she had caressed for a moment, seemed to know
that they were carrying Sheila back to her own country, from the
speed with which they rattled out of the town and away into the lonely
moorland.

Mackenzie let them have their way. Past the solitary lakes they
went, past the long stretches of undulating morass, past the lonely
sheilings perched far up on the hills; and the rough and blustering
wind blew about them, and the gray clouds hurried by, and the old,
strong-bearded man who shook the reins and gave the horses their heads
could have laughed aloud in his joy that he was driving his daughter
home. But Sheila--she sat there as one dead; and Mairi, timidly
regarding her, wondered what the impassable face and the bewildered,
sad eyes meant. Did she not smell the sweet strong smell of the
heather? Had she no interest in the great birds that were circling in
the air over by the Barbhas mountains? Where was the pleasure she used
to exhibit in remembering the curious names of the small lakes they
passed?

And lo! the rough gray day broke asunder, and a great blaze of fire
appeared in the west, shining across the moors and touching the blue
slopes of the distant hills. Sheila was getting near to the region of
beautiful sunsets and lambent twilights and the constant movement and
mystery of the sea. Overhead the heavy clouds were still hurried on
by the wind; and in the south the eastern slopes of the hills and the
moors were getting to be of a soft purple; but all along the west,
where her home was, lay a great flush of gold, and she knew that
Loch Roag was shining there, and the gable of the house at Borvabost
getting warm in the beautiful light.

"It is a good afternoon you will be getting to see Borva again," her
father said to her; but all the answer she made was to ask her father
not to stop at Garrana-hina, but to drive straight on to Callernish.
She would visit the people at Garra-na-hina some other day.

The boat was waiting for them at Callernish, and the boat was the
Maighdean-mhara.

"How pretty she is! How have you kept her so well, Duncan?" said
Sheila, her face lighting up for the first time as she went down the
path to the bright-painted little vessel that scarcely rocked in the
water below.

"Bekaas we neffer knew but that it was this week, or the week before,
or the next week you would come back, Miss Sheila, and you would want
your boat; but it wass Mr. Mackenzie himself, it wass he that did all
the pentin of the boat; and it iss as well done as Mr. McNicol could
have done it, and a great deal better than that mirover."

"Won't you steer her yourself, Sheila?" her father suggested, glad to
see that she was at last being interested and pleased.

"Oh yes, I will steer her, if I have not forgotten all the points that
Duncan taught me."

"And I am sure you hef not done that, Miss Sheila," Duncan said, "for
there wass no one knew Loch Roag better as you, not one, and you hef
not been so long away; and when you tek the tiller in your hand it
will all come back to you, just as if you wass going away from Borva
the day before yesterday."

She certainly had not forgotten, and she was proud and pleased to see
how well the shapely little craft performed its duties. They had a
favorable wind, and ran rapidly along the opening channels, until in
due course they glided into the well-known bay over which, and shining
in the yellow light from the sunset, they saw Sheila's home.

Sheila had escaped so far the trouble of meeting friends, but she
could not escape her friends in Borvabost. They had waited for her for
hours, not knowing when the Clansman might arrive at Stornoway; and
now they crowded down to the shore, and there was a great shaking
of hands, and an occasional sob from some old crone, and a thousand
repetitions of the familiar "And are you ferry well, Miss Sheila?"
from small children who had come across from the village in defiance
of mothers and fathers. And Sheila's face brightened into a wonderful
gladness, and she had a hundred questions to ask for one answer she
got, and she did not know what to do with the number of small brown
fists that wanted to shake hands with her.

"Will you let Miss Sheila alone?" Duncan called out, adding something
in Gaelic which came strangely from a man who sometimes reproved his
own master for swearing. "Get away with you, you brats: it wass better
you would be in your beds than bothering people that wass come all the
way from Styornoway."

Then they all went up in a body to the house, and Scarlett, who had
neither eyes, ears nor hands but for the young girl who had been the
very pride of her heart, was nigh driven to distraction by Mackenzie's
stormy demands for oatcake and glasses and whisky. Scarlett angrily
remonstrated with her husband for allowing this rabble of people to
interfere with the comfort of Miss Sheila; and Duncan, taking her
reproaches with great good-humor, contented himself with doing her
work, and went and got the cheese and the plates and the whisky, while
Scarlett, with a hundred endearing phrases, was helping Sheila to take
off her traveling things. And Sheila, it turned out, had brought
with her in her portmanteau certain huge and wonderful cakes, not of
oatmeal, from Glasgow; and these were soon on the great table in the
kitchen, and Sheila herself distributing pieces to those small folks
who were so awestricken by the sight of this strange dainty that they
forgot her injunctions and thanked her timidly in Gaelic.

"Well, Sheila my lass," said her father to her as they stood at the
door of the house and watched the troop of their friends, children
and all, go over the hill to Borvabost in the red light of the sunset,
"and are you glad to be home again?"

"Oh yes," she said heartily enough; and Mackenzie thought that things
were going on favorably.

"You hef no such sunsets in the South, Sheila," he observed, loftily
casting his eye around, although he did not usually pay much attention
to the picturesqueness of his native island. "Now look at the light
on Suainabhal. Do you see the red on the water down there, Sheila? Oh
yes, I thought you would say it wass ferry beautiful--it is a ferry
good color on the water. The water looks ferry well when it is red.
You hef no such things in London--not any, Sheila. Now we must go
in-doors, for these things you can see any day here, and we must not
keep our friends waiting."

An ordinary, dull-witted or careless man might have been glad to have
a little quiet after so long and tedious a journey, but Mr. Mackenzie
was no such person. He had resolved to guard against Sheila's first
evening at home being in any way languid or monotonous, and so he had
asked one or two of his especial friends to remain and have supper
with them. Moreover, he did not wish the girl to spend the rest of
the evening out of doors when the melancholy time of the twilight
drew over the hills and the sea began to sound remote and sad. Sheila
should have a comfortable evening in-doors; and he would himself,
after supper, when the small parlor was well lit up, sing for her one
or two songs, just to keep the thing going, as it were. He would let
nobody else sing. These Gaelic songs were not the sort of music to
make people cheerful. And if Sheila herself would sing for them?

And Sheila did. And her father chose the songs for her, and they were
the blithest he could find, and the girl seemed really in excellent
spirits. They had their pipes and their hot whisky and water in this
little parlor; Mr. Mackenzie explaining that although his daughter was
accustomed to spacious and gilded drawing-rooms where such a thing
was impossible, she would do anything to make her friends welcome and
comfortable, and they might fill their glasses and their pipes with
impunity. And Sheila sang again and again, all cheerful and sensible
English songs, and she listened to the odd jokes and stories her
friends had to tell her; and Mackenzie was delighted with the success
of his plans and precautions. Was not her very appearance now a
triumph? She was laughing, smiling, talking to every one: he had not
seen her so happy for many a day.

In the midst of it all, when the night had come apace, what was this
wild skirl outside that made everybody start? Mackenzie jumped to his
feet, with an angry vow in his heart that if this "teffle of a piper
John" should come down the hill playing "Lochaber no more" or "Cha
till mi tualadh" or any other mournful tune, he would have his chanter
broken in a thousand splinters over his head. But what was the wild
air that came nearer and nearer, until John marched into the house,
and came, with ribbons and pipes, to the very door of the room, which
was flung open to him? Not a very appropriate air, perhaps, for it was

  The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
  The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
  The Campbells are coming to bonny Lochleven!
  The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!

But it was, to Mr. Mackenzie's rare delight, a right good joyous tune,
and it was meant as a welcome to Sheila; and forthwith he caught the
white-haired piper by the shoulder and dragged him in, and said, "Put
down your pipes and come into the house, John--put down your pipes and
tek off your bonnet, and we shall hef a good dram together this night,
by Kott! And it is Sheila herself will pour out the whisky for you,
John; and she is a good Highland girl, and she knows the piper was
never born that could be hurt by whisky, and the whisky was never yet
made that could hurt a piper. What do you say to that, John?"

John did not answer: he was standing before Sheila with his bonnet in
his hand, but with his pipes still proudly over his shoulder. And he
took the glass from her and called out "Shlainte!" and drained every
drop of it out to welcome Mackenzie's daughter home.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP

MR. E. LYTTON BULWER.


In looking over, not very long since, a long--neglected, thin
portfolio of my twin-brother, the late Willis Gaylord Clark of
Philadelphia, I came across a sealed parcel endorsed "London
Correspondence." It contained letters to him from many literary
persons of more or less eminence at that time in the British
metropolis; among others, two from Miss Landon ("L.E.L."); two
from Mrs. S. C. Hall, the versatile and clever author of _Tales
and Sketches of the Irish Peasantry_, cordial, closely--written and
recrossed to the remotest margin; one from her husband, Mr. S.C. Hall;
three or four from Mr. Chorley; and lastly, five or six elaborate
letters from Mr. E. Lytton Bulwer, sent through his American
publishers, the Brothers Harper, by Washington Irving, then secretary
of legation to the American embassy "near the court of St. James."
Enclosed with these last-mentioned letters was a communication from
Miss Fanny Kemble, to whom they had been sent for perusal, and who,
in returning them, did not hesitate to say that she did Not share his
young American correspondent's admiration for the author of _Pelham_.
She had met him frequently in London society, and regarded his manners
as affected and himself as a reflex of his own conceited model of
a gentleman--a style which Thackeray perhaps did not too grossly
caricature when he made Chawls Yellowplush announce, from his
own lips, his sounding name and title to a distinguished London
drawing-room as "Sa-wa-Edou-wah'd-a-Lyttod-a-Bulwig!"

The poems which my brother had written for two London journals at
the time of their first appearance and sudden popularity, the
_London Literary Gazette_ and, I believe, the _Athenaeum_, led to the
correspondence I have mentioned; and from the letters of Mr. Bulwer I
have extracted a few passages, as somewhat personal in their nature,
besides being characteristic of his tone of thought and manner of
expression at that period of his career:

"An author who has a just confidence in his attainments and powers,
who knows that his mind is imperishable and capable of making daily
additions to its own strength, is always more desirous of seeing the
censures (if not _mere_ abuse) than the praises of those who aspire to
judge him; and any suggestions or admonitions thus bestowed are seldom
disregarded. But if he is to profit by criticism, the _motive_ must
be known to him. It is by no means natural to take the advice of an
enemy. When the critic enters his department of literature in the
false guise of urbanity and candor merely to conceal an incapable and
huckstering soul, he only awakens for himself the irrevocable contempt
of the very mind that he would gall or subdue; since that mind, under
such circumstances, invariably rises _above_ its detractor, and leaves
him exposed on the same creaking gibbet that he has prepared for the
object of his fear or envy."

"Seldom indeed is it that injustice fails to be seen through, or that
the policy of interested condemnation escapes undetected. They first
produce the excitements, then furnish the triumphs, of genius."

"There is a charm in writing for the pure and intelligent young worth
all the plaudits of sinister or hypocritical wisdom. At a certain age,
and while the writings that please have a gloss of novelty about
them, hiding the blemishes that may afterward be discovered as
their characteristics,--_then_ it is that the young convert their
approbation into enthusiasm. An author benefits in a wide and
most pleasing range of public opinion by this natural and common
disposition in the young; and the only cloud thrown athwart the rays
of pleasure thus saluting his spirit is flung from the thought that
they who are thus moved by the movings of his own mind may come in
a few years to look upon his pages with hearts less ardent in their
sympathies, and with altered eyes, which have acquired additional
keenness by looking longer upon the world."

"The competent American _litterateur_ has a glorious career
before him. So much is there in your magnificent country, hitherto
undescribed and unexpressed, in scenery, manners, morals, that all
may be wells from which he may be the first to drink. Yet it cannot be
expected--for it has passed to a proverb that escape from persecution
and detraction can never and nowhere be the lot of literature--that
there will not be many instances, even in America, where every attempt
on the part of gifted writers (and young writers especially, who are
commonly regarded with eyes of invidious jaundice by the elders,
whose waning reputations they may through industry either supplant or
explode) will be rendered an uneasy struggle, and sometimes almost a
curse, by the envy of those who deny approval while blind to success,
and the affected disdain of those who exaggerate demerit. Yet
these obstacles warm the spirit of honest ambition, and enhance its
inevitable conquests."

"It is a sight of gratification and pride to behold a laborer in the
vineyard of letters escaping from the envy, the jealousy, the rivalry,
the leaven of all uncharitableness, with which literary intercourse
is so often polluted. The writers of England have been tardy in
their justice, not only to the progress, circumstances and customs
of America, but to her intellectual offspring; and the time is not
remote--nay, has already dawned--when, in this regard, the spirit of
Change wields his wand and finds obedience to his prerogatives."

"'No hostility between nations affects the arts:' so said the old
maxim, but it has rarely been found a truism. They who feel it, feel
also the virtue which dictated the aphorism. Men whose object is to
enlighten the nations or exalt the judgment or (the least ambition) to
refine the tastes of others--men who feel that this object is dearer
to them than a petty and vain ambition--feel also that all who labor
in the same cause are united with them in a friendship which exists
in one climate as in another--in a I republic or in a despotism: these
are the best cosmopolites, the truest citizens of the world."

The foregoing extracts will make it obvious that Mr. Bulwer was
at that time sore at the treatment he had received at the hands
of certain of his critics, who were by no means unanimous in their
estimation of his genius. He was very sensitive at all times of
adverse comment upon his writings. Thackeray wounded him woefully when
he made "Chawls Yellowplush" review him characteristically in _Punch_.
These most amusing papers ought to have been included in Thackeray's
published miscellaneous writings, but they were not, although Bulwer
is humorously travestied in _Punch's_ "Prize Novelists," together with
Lover, Ainsworth, and Disraeli. The subjoined will show the style
of the "littery" footman, who, as a critic, "sumtimes gave kissis,
sumtimes kix":

"One may objeck to an immence deal of your writings, witch, betwigst
you and me, contain more sham sentiment, sham morallaty and sham potry
than you'd like to own; but in spite of this, there's the _stuf_
you; you've a kind and loyal heart in your buzm, bar'net--a trifle
deboshed, praps: a keen i, igspecially for what is comick (as for your
tragady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a ready pleasn't pen. The man
who says you're an As, is an As himself. Dont b'lieve him, bar'net:
not that I suppose you will; for, if I've formed a correck opinion of
you from your wuck, you think your small beear as good as most men's.
Every man does--and wy not? We brew, and we love our own tap--amen;
but the pint betwigst us is this steupid, absudd way of crying out
because the public don't like it too. Wy _should_ they, my dear
bar'net? You may vow that they are fools, or that the critix are your
enemies, or that the world should judge your poams by _your_ critikle
rules, and not by their own. You may beat your brest, and vow that
you are a martyr, but you won't mend the matter."

After these general remarks, the critic-footman takes up the subject
of style, and argues with a good deal of ingenuity and force in favor
of simplicity and terseness, especially in his performance of _The
Sea-Captain_:

"Sea-captings should not be eternly spowting, and invoking gods, hevn,
starz, and angels, and other silestial influences. We can all do it,
bar'net: no-think in life is easier. I can compare my livery buttons
to the stars, or the clouds of my backr pipe to the dark vollums that
ishew from Mount Hetna; or I can say that angles are looking down from
them, and the tobacco-silf, like a happy soil released, is circling
round and upwards, and shaking sweetness down. All this is as easy as
to drink; but it's not potry, bar'net, nor natral. Pipple, when their
mothers reckonise them, don't howl about the suckumambient air, and
paws to think of the happy leaves a-rustling--leastways, one mistrusts
them if they do...Look at the neat grammaticle twist of Lady Arundel's
spitch too, who in the cors of three lines has made her son a prince,
a lion with a sword and coronal, and a star. Wy gauble, and sheak up
metafers in this way, bar'net? One simile is quite enuff in the best
of sentences; and I preshume I need not tell you that it's as well to
have it _like_ while you are about it. Take my advice, honrabble sir:
listen to an umble footman: it's genrally best in potry to understand
perffickly what you mean yourself, and to igspress your meaning
clearly affterward: the simpler the words the better, praps. You may,
for instans, call a coronet an 'ancestral coronal,' if you like, as
you might call a hat a 'swart sombrero,' a glossy four-and-nine,
a 'silken helm, to storm impermeable,' and 'lightsome as a breezy
gossamer;' but in the long run it's as well to call it a hat. It _is_
a hat, and that name is quite as poeticle as another."

The remarks of Mr. Yellowplush upon some of the segregated passages
are amusing enough. Take the following, for example:

                                    Girl, beware!
  The love that trifles round the charm it gilds,
  Oft ruins while it shines.

Igsplane this, men and angles! I've tried every way; backards,
forards, and all sorts of trancepositions:

  The love that ruins round the charm it shines
  Gilds while it trifles oft,

or--

  The charm that gilds around the love it ruins,
  Oft trifles while it shines,

or--

  The ruins that love gilds and shines around
  Oft trifles while it charms,

or--

  Love while it charms shines round and ruins oft
  The trifles that it gilds,

or--

  The love that trifles, gilds and ruins oft
  While round the charm it shines.

All witch are as sen sable as the ferst passadge. Sir Mr. Bullwig,
ain't I right? Such, barring the style, was the tenor of many of the
critiques upon Bulwer's writings which appeared about that period, and
which, as is now well known, "wrought him much annoy," versatile and
powerful as his genius has since proved itself.

L. GAYLORD CLARK.




SALVINI'S OTHELLO.


It might have been supposed that whatever the fate of the stage among
other races, it would always maintain its position as one of the great
instruments of popular culture with the English-speaking nations,
linked as it is inseparably with the immortal name of Shakespeare in
his double capacity of author and actor, and possessing as it does
in his works a body of dramatic literature supreme alike in all
intellectual qualities and in fitness for scenic representation. Yet
it is but the other day that we were reminded by the announcement of
Macready's death of the long interval that had elapsed since the last
of the English tragedians had dropped a sceptre which there was no
one to take up; and now it is an actor of another race, speaking a
different language, who presents himself to fill the vacant place, and
to interpret for us anew creations which we study indeed more closely
than ever in the printed page, but of which we had ceased to ask for
any adequate palpable embodiment. Our impression, however, of a drama
is and must be incomplete until we have seen it on the stage: it must
be put in action before our eyes ere we can hope fully to understand
it. The amount of thoughtful and learned criticism to which
Shakespeare's plays have been subjected makes us forget at times that
the ultimate test of their excellence is to be found on the boards,
and that they were meant, above all things, to be acted.

Taking Othello as Salvini presents him to us, and merely in the
light of a dramatic performance, having cast from out our minds the
recollection of all that we have ever heard, read or thought about the
character--more than this, forgetting our native English and knowing
Shakespeare only through the libretto in our hands (of which, however,
we must forbear to speak slightingly, for from it, we are told,
Salvini himself has gained his knowledge of the part),--putting
ourselves in this mental attitude, the performance may safely be said
to defy criticism, or rather to be above it, except such criticism
as accords with enthusiastic admiration. It is absolutely without
a shortcoming, seen from this standpoint. His majestic bearing,
his beautiful elocution, his pure voice, his graceful, expressive
gestures, and above all his perfect freedom from affectation or
self-consciousness, delight us throughout; and when to these qualities
are added the marvelous vigor of expression and force of passion with
which he shakes his audience from the middle of the play on, one feels
as if there were nothing more to ask of acting. No description, in
fact, can do justice to the perfect consistency and harmony of his
conception, or to the marvelous delicacy of his points, which are
yet as penetrating as they are subtle, and which never fail of their
effect, whether rendered by a gesture whose power of expression seems
to make words superfluous, as when in reply to Iago's hypocritically
sympathetic "I see this has a little dashed your spirits," which
is answered in the play by "Not a jot, not a jot," Salvini tries to
speak, but chokes with the words, and lifting his hand with a motion
of denial and deprecation, tells us what he would fain say, but
cannot; or by an intonation of voice, as when in answer to Iago's
"You would be satisfied?" he replies, marking the difference between
conditional and imperative with a tone that would of itself betray him
born to command--

  Vorrei, che dico--io voglio
  (Would?--Nay, I _will_).

And when in his desperate pain and fury, maddened by the poison
working within, he drags Iago to the front of the stage, and holding
him by the throat speaks Shakespeare's meaning, if not Shakespeare's
words, thick and fast, as if he were not an actor, but Othello
himself, and while his audience listen with bated breath and
quick-beating hearts, he hurls him to the ground, and in the uncurbed
fury of his mood raises his foot to spurn him like a dog,--then he
rises far above ordinary dramatic effect: his art does "hold the
mirror up to Nature." We feel that we have seen Othello.

Again, in the fourth act, when Iago brings home to him the realization
of his wife's infidelity, what can be finer than the sharpening of
his voice from stress of pain, changing from the full roundness of
its usual masculine robustness to a high womanish key, as he asks the
fatal questions, "Che disse? Che? Che fece?" What words could have
said so much as the dumb show with which he signifies that terrible
fact of which he can neither ask nor hear in words? And who can doubt
when he hears that cry of agony that bursts from his lips at Iago's
gross confirmation of his suggestion that it is the cry of a man
stabbed to the heart? His suffering is as real to us as the agony of
a lion would be if we stood by and saw some one drive a knife into the
beast up to the hilt. It equals in reality any exhibition of simple
unfeigned bodily pain, with all its intensity of violence. The word
"rant" never once comes into our minds.

Salvini expresses everything. He demands nothing from his audience but
eyes and ears; he _acts_ the part in every detail; he does just what
he aims to do. His motion is as unconscious and unfettered as that of
a deer or a tiger: whether he paces with a stealthy, restless tread up
and down the back of the stage, reminding us irresistibly of a caged
wild beast, or whether he half crouches, then drags himself along, and
then darts upon Iago in the last scene, it is always plain that his
body is the servant of his mind: he moves in harmony with his mood.

Despite, therefore, the natural tendency to scrutinize closely
the claims of a foreigner seeking to rule over our hearts as the
vicegerent of Shakespeare's sovreignty, there has been, and happily
can be, no question in regard to one essential point. That Salvini is
a born actor, a great tragedian, none will be bold enough to dispute.
In that rare combination of intellectual and physical qualities without
which no particular gift would justify his pretensions--intensity of
emotion, subtlety of perception, a power of impersonation implying of
itself the union of all the natural requirements with a mastery in their
display attainable only by consummate art--it is hard to believe that he
can ever have been excelled; though doubtless the mingled fire and
pathos of Kean transcended in their effect any like exhibition ever
witnessed on the stage. Except for the few--if any still survive--who can
remember the Othello of Kean, living recollection affords no opportunity
for a judgment founded on comparison.

The only question therefore which it is possible to raise relates to
Salvini's conception of the character--a question such as must always
exist in the case of any representation of Shakespeare, with whose
creations no actor can ever hope to identify himself, however he may
modify our former impressions. Let it be remembered, too, that an
actor's conception of a character must never be vague, undefined or
shadowy, as that of a mere reader may well be, and probably will be in
the exact degree in which he is a keen and appreciative student. The
actor must not strive to suggest all possible solutions, but must
hold firmly to one, and that the most dramatic; he must seize upon
the salient points; his subtleties must not be too subtle for gesture,
glance and tone to express; he must choose which meaning out of many
meanings he shall enforce, which mood out of many moods he shall make
predominate.

The exceptions which have been taken to Salvini's performance all rest
upon the notion that he has misconceived the character. It is superb,
we are told, but it is not Shakespeare. It is a representation not of
Othello the Moor, but of a Moor named Othello. The idea that dominates
throughout is that of race: the character loses its individuality
and becomes a mere type, an embodiment of the tropical nature, an
illustration of Byron's lines:

  Africa is all the sun's,
  And as her earth her human clay is kindled.

The unbridled passion, the revengeful fury, is that of a savage. The
anguish and indignation of a noble spirit believing itself outraged
and wronged are transformed into the blind rage and capricious fury of
a wild beast.

This objection seems to us to spring from the state of mind often
induced by long familiarity with a subject, in which the gain of
minute knowledge is accompanied by a loss of the force and vividness
of the first impression. People study Shakespeare as they study
the Bible, softening whatever they find revolting until they have
convinced themselves that it does not exist. Actors in general share
in this sentiment or strive to gratify it. Othello's complexion is
forgotten in the reading, and becomes in the representation such
that the spectator feels no repugnance to his marriage with the fair
Desdemona. Betrayed through the mere openness and generosity of his
nature, he acts only as a sensitive and vehement nature would be
compelled to act in so terrible a complication, and the emotions
kindled by his demeanor and conduct are never those of horror and
repulsion, but only of pity and admiration.

But, however noble and pathetic such a rendering may be, it consorts
better with the ideas and demands of the present time than with those
of the Elizabethan age. The dramatist who began by writing _Titus
Andronicus_ had at least no instinctive distaste to repulsive
subjects, no fear of shocking his audience by an exhibition of untamed
barbarity. Othello is "of a free and open nature," he is "great of
heart," he is above doing wrong without provocation, real or supposed.
But his nature admits no possibility of self-control, of reason in
the midst of doubts, of patience under injury. His temperament betrays
itself in physical exhibitions wild and portentous. "You are fatal
_then_ when your eyes roll so," is the suggestive cry of Desdemona. In
his perplexity and fury he swoons and foams. He overhears an insult to
Venice and slays the traducer. His language to the wife whom he
still loves while believing himself dishonored by her is such that "a
beggar, in his drink, could not have laid such terms upon his callet."
He outrages her kinsman and a throng of attendants by striking her in
their presence. Her protestations of innocence serve only to inflame
him, and he cuts short her last pleadings with his murderous hand in
a way which would have forced M. Dumas _fils_ himself to cry out, "Ne
tue la _pas_!"

How are this fury and this credulity, both equally insensate, to
be explained, how are they to be reconciled with traits that
compel sympathy and admiration, except as the workings of a nature
essentially uncivilized? The object of a great drama is to exhibit men
not as they appear in the ordinary affairs of life, but while subject
to those fiery tests under which all that is foreign or acquired melts
away, and the primal components of the character are revealed in their
bareness and in their depths. Othello's race is the hinge on which
the tragedy turns. It throws a fatality on that marriage which seems
unnatural even to those who yet do not suspect that the discordancy
lies deeper than in the complexion. It makes him the easy victim of a
plot which would otherwise only have ensnared its concoctor. It sweeps
away all impediments to the catastrophe, making it swift, inevitable
and dire. And it is by seizing upon this central fact that Salvini has
been enabled to render his performance artistically perfect. Were the
conception radically false, there could not be the same unity in the
execution, the same harmony in the details. We shall not assert
that his is the ideal Othello, or that such an Othello is possible.
Shakespeare's creations cannot be bounded by the limit of another
idiosyncrasy. But we hold that, if he does not put into the character
all that belongs to it, he puts nothing into it that does not belong
to it. We may miss in the accents of his despair a pathos capable of
assuaging our horror; but this latter emotion, equally legitimate,
is commonly stifled altogether, leaving us more disposed to linger
lovingly beside the dead than to shudder and exclaim with Ludovico,
"The object poisons sight;--let it be hid."

A.F.




A LETTER FROM NEW YORK.


I have come from the country. I have seen Salvini. All emotion has to
be expressed now in the above form, for Salvini rules. He is simply
the greatest actor since Rachel, and his troupe the most perfect ever
seen in this country. The whole plane of their acting is forty steps
higher than we are accustomed to; therefore it has been slow of
gaining appreciation, and the panic having burst over the devoted city
just as Salvini opened, the houses have been poor. He should play, too
(all actors should), in a smaller house than the Academy of Music. His
first great success may therefore date from a matinee at Wallack's,
where he had the most distinguished audience I have ever seen in
New York, on Saturday, October 11th. Salvini lunched while here with
Madame Botta, and expressed himself surprised that any one should care
to go to hear him who could not understand the language. "I am sure
I should not go," said the great actor. He thinks he has not had a
success, but he will not think so after he becomes accustomed to his
audiences. He is in private one of the most cultivated and intelligent
of men, and has brought to the practice of his art a scholar's study,
a soldier's experience and a gentleman's taste. I say a soldier's
experience, for Salvini has been a soldier, and fought for united
Italy in 1857 and earlier.

Nilsson is much improved by marriage. Her beauty is softer, she has
gained flesh--not to the detriment of that girlish outline, but to the
improvement of those somewhat aggressive cheek-bones. She sings better
than ever, with rounded voice. Never since the days of Salvi and
Steffanoni have we had such opera in New York. The orchestra is
better, Maurel is superb, Capoul is still better, and Campanini is
very admirable. We miss Jamet very much in Mephisto, but every one
else is better than before. The house is not gay--it misses many of
its old habitues. Five empty boxes in a row tell of the financial
troubles. It was the fashion to laugh at the Wall street men, but they
gave gayety and life and movement up town as well as down town. Many
of those whose names are recorded on the wrong side of the list were
our most generous givers and most amiable hosts. Their misfortunes
cause nothing but regrets.

The races at first felt the effects of the panic, but the crowd on
Saturday, the 11th of October, was immense. Somebody must get the
money that everybody loses; therefore somebody can still afford to go
to the races, and the last day was also very full. Two drags set the
English example of having the horses taken off and dining on the top
of the coach. The notes of a key-bugle from one of them seemed to
suggest Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen; but whether those young
gentlemen were of the party or not I did not hear. With our delicious
sky, and particularly this golden autumn, there seems to be no reason
why we should not adopt the fashions of Chantilly and Ascot. We are,
however, a gregarious people, and the tendency is to gather together
under the protection of the grand stand.

Poor Maretzek is always the first to go, and it is understood that
his opera is among the great unpaid. Every one is sorry for the poor
singers, always excepting Lucca, whose jealousy of Nilsson is so
aggressive that she has declared that she would sing her off the
boards of the Academy of Music. _She_ is driven like a bad angel out
of Paradise, while the starry Nilsson in magnificent triumph sings
on superbly to constantly increasing houses at the Academy, and is
lunched and feted to her heart's content.

The Evangelical Alliance has gone, and left behind it nothing but
animosities. It was really a vast movement of the Presbyterian Church:
Geneva and Calvin were the exclusive proprietors. Episcopalians,
Unitarians and Baptists, Methodists and Universalists, were requested
to stand aside. The communions were always at some Presbyterian
church. Perhaps _they_ thought the Episcopal Church exclusive, as some
one said an Englishman carried his pride into his prayers, and said,
"O Lord, I do most _haughtily_ beseech thee," and that the Unitarians
felt "that any man who had been born in Boston did not see the
necessity of being born again."

Every one is extremely well dressed, in spite of the panic. The hair
is worn plain and off the brow, let us thank the genius of Fashion,
so that every woman has a purer, better look. Nothing destroys the
expression of a good woman like breaking over that line which Nature
has made about the forehead. Our women have made themselves into
wicked Faustinas and vulgar Anonymas long enough with their frizzes
and short curls and "banging," as the square-cut straight lock on the
forehead is called. Let us see the Madonna brow once more. The high
ruff, the sleeve to the elbow, the dress cut to show the figure, all
bring-back the days of our great-grandmothers: the opera is filled
with Copley's portraits. The bonnets, too, are delightfully large,
with long feathers. Every new fashion brings out a new crop of
beauties, but I could not see what beauties were brought out by those
bold bonnets of last year, which were hung on at the back of the head.

We expect great fun from Dundreary rehearsing _Hamlet_ for private
theatricals. Mr. Sothern has been asked to write down Dundreary, that
so great an eccentric conception may not be lost to the world. He
answers that he has twelve volumes of Dundreary literature! That shows
how much industry goes to even an "inconsiderate trifle." This fine
actor and most accomplished and agreeable man has been playing in two
of the poorest plays ever presented to a New York audience. Nothing
but a capital "make up," resembling one of the most fashionable men in
town, who is Sothern's particular friend, has given them point--even
_then_ only to New Yorkers. Sothern's fondness for practical joking
has brought about so many false charges that he is getting very tired
of being fathered with every stupid trick which any one chooses to
play, and will probably drop that form of wit, so really unworthy of
his great genius and true refinement, for the man who could invent
Dundreary and who can play Garrick is a genius.

I assisted with four thousand others at the first representation
of the _Magic Flute_ at the Grand Opera House, where the late James
Fisk's monogram is decently covered up by Gothic shields, hastily
improvised after _that_ distinguished actor met the reward of
his crimes. I heard lima di Murska for the first time. She is an
unpleasant miracle, compelling your reluctant astonishment. Such vocal
gymnastics I never heard. The flute and the musical-box are left in
the background, but her voice is nasal and disagreeable at first.
Lucca's splendid, rich, full organ rang out gloriously by contrast,
although her constitutional jealousy showed itself unpleasantly in
some parts of the opera where Murska was so deliriously applauded.
Lucca, little woman, conquered herself at last, and handed the flowers
up to her rival with a pretty grace which was loudly applauded. It is
strange that the tact of woman, usually so apprehensive, does not more
often see the good effect of generosity.

One effect of the panic, it is to be hoped, will be to make the
dinners less magnificently heavy. I am sure every lady in New York who
was last winter constrained to sit from seven o'clock until eleven at
those monstrously elaborate and expensive dinners which have become so
much the fashion, will be glad to dine in a more simple manner, in
a shorter time, with less display, and with fewer courses, and fewer
excitements. One entertainer last winter introduced live swans and
small canaries to enliven his dinner. The swans splashed rather
disagreeably.

"Do you know why he had the swans?" said a lady to a gentleman.

"I suppose, he wanted the _Ledas_ of society," said the gentleman.

"Well, yes," said the lady, "but I did not know, although he is as
rich as a Jew, that he was a Jupiter."

The faces of the "panicstricken" seem to look brighter, although
everybody talks of "shrinkage" and ruin. Meanwhile the beautiful
weather keeps the carriages going and Fifth Avenue looking gay. "I
shall fail, but my wife need not give up her horses," said a young
broker the other day. The old days of commercial morality, when people
reduced their style of living because they had failed, seem to have
gone out of fashion.

A letter from New York, this Queen of Commerce, is almost necessarily
mercantile, as is our conversation.

"How you all talk stocks and money!" said a gentleman just arrived
from a ten years' sojourn in Europe. "When I went away you were
talking of books, of art, of social ethics, of fine women, of good
dinners, of whist and bezique: now you are all talking of longs and
shorts, bulls and bears, a fraction of per cent., etc. etc.--all of
you, men, women and children."

We have a beautiful collection at the Art Museum in Fourteenth street
of jewelry, objets d'art, and a good ceramic display, all clustered
round the Di Cesnola sculptures and pottery. This collection, founded
on the idea of the South Kensington Museum, makes a most agreeable
lounging-place in the Kruger mansion, and is, in the absence of most
of the opulent owners of private picture-galleries and the closing of
the National Academy, almost our only artistic amusement at present.
But the first of December will throw open many hospitable doors, and
the new pictures and statues which have been accumulated during
the past summer will become in one sense the property of the gazing
public.

MARGARET CLAYSON.




NOTES.


Amongst the traditional scenes of the drama probably none plays a part
more useful than the village festival. This merrymaking appears twice
or thrice in an ordinary pantomime, regularly adorns the melodrama, is
almost an essential of the opera, could not be dispensed with in the
plays of the _Fanchon_ type, and may even relieve the sombre tints of
dire tragedy. We all know the charming spectacle: peasant youths and
maidens, clad in all the wealth of the dramatic wardrobe, are skipping
around a Maypole; presently Baptiste and Lisette are discovered
kissing behind a pasteboard hedge, and are drawn out with universal
laughing, in the midst of which enters the recruiting-sergeant with
his squad and whisks off poor Baptiste to the wars. It is a pleasing
scene--a trifle monotonous now with repetition; and for this latter
reason it might be well to vary it by substituting the rural Feast of
the Onion, which a 'correspondent of the Cambrai _Gazette_ witnessed
in the suburbs of Gouzeaucourt. Every year, between June 24th and July
2d, the inhabitants of the two neighboring villages of Gouzeaucourt
and Gonnelieu perform the ceremony of "turning the onion"--that is to
say, they dance in a circle, joining hands, on the village green of
one or the other hamlet. Thanks to this ancient custom, the two French
communes raise the finest onions in the department, this vegetable
never failing, as carrots are apt to do in that locality: on the
contrary, the onions are well-grown, finely rounded, and in short,
magnificently "turned." On this festive occasion three or four hundred
persons of every age and condition dance around a well in Sunday best,
rigged out in ribbons and with smiling faces. The more they hop the
bigger the crop of onions; and naturally they skip and sing till out
of breath, always repeating the popular song, "Ah! qu'il est malaise
d'etre amoureux et sage." Surely, all this would form a pleasant
variety on the ordinary festal scene of the stage; and we hasten
to remind the fastidious that though this ceremony is the Feast
of Onions, yet it does not appear that that odorous esculent need
actually be present; besides, even if it were, surely a garland of
"well-turned" onions would add strength to the picturesque ropes of
theatrical paper roses. The well, too, would replace with a certain
grace the too familiar pole. And again, since all ages and conditions
assist at this feast, it would utilize that extraordinary company of
figurantes, varying from the longest and slimmest to the shortest
and plumpest, which every manager thinks it incumbent to put upon
the stage for the rural fete. Finally, to complete the tableau
satisfactorily, it appears that this year at Gonnelieu, at the height
of the dancing, half a dozen gendarmes rushed upon the scene, causing
a general stampede among the disciples of the onion and a hasty
adjournment of the festival. What law against irregular assemblages
was infringed by these onion-worshipers is not clear, for one can
hardly detect sedition lurking under the rustic ditty, and it is
equally difficult to suspect an Orsini bomb conspiracy of being
typified by the conjuring of prodigious prize onions.

It is a vast pity that so many excellent stories are "almost too good
to be true." Such a tale seems to be the one which explains the origin
of that prodigious collection of monkeys that forms so large a part of
the population of the Jardin d'Acclimation in Paris; and yet, as this
curious account has not been questioned, so far as we are aware, by
those who ought to know the facts, it is hardly gracious in us
to begin the relation of it by gratuitous skepticism. A Bordeaux
ship-owner, who is noted for insisting on a strict obedience to
instructions on the part of his captains, some time ago gave written
orders to one of the latter to bring back from Brazil, whither he was
going, one or two monkeys--"_Rapportez-moi 1 ou 2 singes_." The _ou_
was so badly written that the captain read "1002 singes;" and
the result was that the owner, three months after, found his ship
returning, to his utter stupefaction, overrun with monkeys from
keel to mast-head. However, inflexibly just even in his surprise,
he recognized the fault to be that of his own hasty handwriting, and
praised the scrupulous captain who had executed his apparent order
even to the odd pair of monkeys over the thousand. For a week apes
were a drug in the Bordeaux market, and, adds the story, the Jardin,
hearing the news, took care not to lose so good an opportunity of
laying in a large stock.

The traditional union of fidelity, obedience to orders, strict
discipline and stupidity in the old-fashioned military servant is
wittily illustrated in a story told by the _Gazette de Paris_ at the
expense of a captain of the Melun garrison. This officer, who had been
invited to dine at a neighboring castle, sent his valet with a note
of "regrets," adding, as the boy started, "Be sure and bring me my
dinner, Auguste, when you have left the letter." The soldier took the
letter to the castle and was told, of course, "It's all right." "Yes,
but I want the dinner," said the lad: "the captain ordered me to bring
it back, and I always obey orders." The baroness, being informed
of the good fellow's blunder, carried out the joke by despatching a
splendid repast. The officer, too amused to make any explanation to
his servant, merely sent him back at once to buy a bouquet to carry
with his compliments to the baroness. Successfully accomplishing this
feat, the brilliant Auguste was handed a five-franc piece from the
lady. "That won't do," says the honest fellow: "I paid thirty francs
for the flowers." The difference was made up to him, and he returned
to the fort, quite proud at having so ably discharged his duty. We
think this incident will fairly match some of the experiences which
our own officers are fond of narrating, regarding the way in which
their servants have interpreted and executed their orders.




LITERATURE OF THE DAY.


Sub-Tropical Rambles in the Land of the Aphanapteryx. By Nicholas
Pike. New York: Harper & Brothers.

The story of a bright and educated traveler is always a capital one,
and Mr. Pike has done wonders for Mauritius, which would seem in
itself to be one of the most deplorably dull and fatiguing prominences
on the face of the sea. An enthusiastic botanist and naturalist, as
well as an interested ethnologist, this lively observer relieves the
monotony of a seemingly easy consulate and repulsive population by
watching all the secrets of animated nature around him. It is a very
bloodthirsty island that his fates have guided him to: everything
bites or stings or poisons. When wading out into the sea for
shells, Mr. Pike is attacked by "a tazarre, a fish something like
a fresh-water pike," which comes right at him repeatedly, "like a
bulldog," and is only subdued by being speared in the head with a
harpoon. Creatures elsewhere the most evasive and timid are here
found fighting like gladiators: the eels bite everybody within their
reach--one of these combative eels caught by our author measured
twelve feet three inches; the fresh-water prawns "strike so sharply
with their tails as to draw blood if not carefully handled." The
exquisite polyps and anemones, whose painted beauty our author is
never weary of relating, have mostly poisoned weapons concealed under
their flounces, and treat the naturalist who would coquet with them
to a swelled arm or a lamed hand. Centipedes, scorpions and virulently
poisonous snakes animate the land, while the shoals, where the natives
declare there are "more fish than water," teem with every sort of
man-eating shark, and with the cuttle-fish watching for his prey from
each interstice of the coral-reef. The latter, often of immense size,
are caught and eaten, both fresh and salt, some fishermen collecting
nothing else: they dexterously turn the ugly stomach inside out and
thread it on a string slung round the neck. The horror of the lobster
for these cuttle-fish is something curious; and it affords a gauge for
the sensitiveness of crustaceae (and incidentally an argument against
those who maintain the greater reasonableness of fishing than of
hunting on account of the lower organization of the prey) to learn
that the lobster must not be taken to market in company with the
cuttle-fish, "or the flesh will be spoilt before he gets there, the
creature being literally sick from fright." Meantime, in the ooze
which forms a connecting link between sea and shore lurks the
mud-laff, indescribably hideous in shape, leprous-looking, slimy, and
darting a greenish poison through the spines on its back. Treading on
one of these, the poor naked fisherman is apt to die of lockjaw;
and Mr. Pike's kitten, having its paw touched with a single spine,
perished of convulsions in an hour. Some of the sea-carnivora,
however, are so beautiful that one is ready to forgive their more or
less Clytemnestra-like tempers. Of some gymnobranchiata the writer
observes: "I never saw any living animals with such gorgeous
colors--the most vivid carmine and pure white, mixed with golden
yellow in the bodies and mantles, and the gills of pale lemon-color
and lilac. No painting could give an idea of the harmony of the
shades as they blended into each other, or the undulating grace of the
movements of the mantles. I have sat for an hour at a time watching
them, lost in admiration, and frequently turning them over to see the
expert way they would contract the elegant gill-branches, and reopen
them as soon as they had righted themselves." Such are some of the
animated charms of Paul and Virginia's island. Of Bernardin Saint
Pierre's romance as an illustration of the spot, Mr. Pike dryly
observes that writers when about to draw largely on their imaginations
should be careful to conceal the actual whereabouts of their stories:
we live in an age of exploration that is sure to "display their
ridiculous side when reduced to fact." There was, however, a
foundation in fact, quite enough for the purpose of a prose poem, in
the loves and deaths of Paul and Virginia: it is doubtless the island
scenes alone that Mr. Pike would satirize. The great shipwreck was in
1744, a year of famine, which the wise and prudent French
governor, the most able man who ever adorned the colony, M. Mahe de
Labourdonnais, was unable to avert. The ship St. Geran, sent with
provisions from France, was ignorantly driven on the reef shortly
before dawn, and all perished save nine souls. There were on board two
lovers, a Mademoiselle Mallet and Monsieur de Peramon, who were to
be united in marriage on arriving at the island, then called Isle de
France. The young man made a raft, and implored his mistress to remove
the heavier part of her garments and essay the passage. This the pure
young creature refused to do, with that exaggerated modesty which has
been called mawkishness in the story, but which in a real occurrence
looks very like heroism. Their bodies were soon washed ashore together
in the harbor, since called the Bay of Tombs. Two structures of
whitewashed brick under some beautiful palms and feathery bamboos, in
an inland garden called "Pamplemousses" (the Shaddocks), now cover the
remains of the ill-starred lovers. Mr. Pike appears to have visited
the site but once, when, as there had been heavy rains, he could not
reach the tombs. He is evidently more in his element when wading after
sea-urchins. His observations on such races as coolies, Chinese and
Malabar-men are all, however, to the purpose. The island is peopled
with these varieties, in addition to a mixed white population, the
Indians having been brought from Hindostan for the cane-fields since
the English occupation in 1810, and serving a good purpose. Their
manners illustrate the lower horrors of the Hindoo mythology, they
appearing to worship pretty exclusively a race of gods and goddesses
invented for robber tribes, who are appeased only by blood-curdling
rites: our author saw their young men running, with yells and
contortions, over a bed of live coals twenty-five feet across to earn
the favor of one such cruel goddess. The Chinese, though in worship
they exhibit the milder sacrificial spirit of offering sheets
of paper, yet in a more stolid way show an equal talent for
self-sacrifice. A neighbor of Mr. Pike's, an excellent quiet fellow,
having gambled with his own servant for his shop, stock and person,
was seen one morning sweeping and serving customers, whilst the
youngster sat leisurely smoking, the game having gone contrarily.
"There was no appearance of triumph on the boy's face: master and
servant reversed their places with the most perfect _sang-froid_."
Of the Creoles, we learn that they believe the presence of pieces of
coral in the house induces headache; of the women from Malabar, that
they can only wear toe-rings after marriage; of the handsomest Indian
tribe in the island, the Reddies, we are told that the boys marry
at five or six, their bride living with the father-in-law or other
husband's relative and rearing children to him: when the boy grows
up, his wife being then aged, he "takes up with some boy's wife in a
manner precisely similar to his own, and procreates children for the
boy-husband." The remaining wonder of Mauritius appears to be the
great Peter Both Mountain, so nearly inaccessible that a rage for
climbing it has been developed. The first successful attempt was
made by Claude Penthe, who planted the French flag on it in 1790, and
English ascents were made in 1832, 1848, 1858, 1864 and 1869. We must
not omit, however, the Aphanapteryx, though Mr. Pike does: it is a red
bird which in Mauritius has survived its whilom companion the dodo,
and which is to be described in a future volume. Mr. Pike has obliged
us with a book of admirable temper, inexhaustible research and fine
manly spirit: we could wish for our own sakes nothing better than
that all our sub-tropical and tropical consulships were filled by
his brothers, and that they would all make volumes out of their
experiences.

Thoreau, the Poet-Naturalist. By William Ellery Ghanning. Boston:
Roberts Bros.

Mr. Charming is a boon, and we would not have missed his lucubration
on any account. Now we know how Margaret Fuller talked and in what
dialect they wrote _The Dial_. It was with this sententiousness,
this solemn attitude over the infinitely little, this care to compose
paragraphs out of short sentences completely disconnected, that the
old Concord philosophy was enunciated. Nobody outside the circle ever
caught the exact accent except one of Dickens's characters--Mr. F.'s
aunt--who would interrupt a dinner conversation to observe, "There's
milestones on the Dover road." "Above our heads," says Mr. Channing,
"the nighthawk rips;" "see the frog bellying the world in the warm
pool;" "the rats scrabbling." This sententiousness is consistent, on
Mr. Channing's part, with the most stupefying ignorance of words and
things, as in the sentence, "forced to conceal the raveled sleeve of
care by buttoning up his outer garments." It is particularly imposing
in the judgments, nearly always severe, of individuals, and the reader
lays down the present book sure that here, at last, he has found a
truly superior person. Schoolcraft is simply "poor Schoolcraft," and
of course subsides; Miss Martineau is "that Minerva mediocre;" Carlyle
is "Thomas Carlyle with his bilious howls and bankrupt draughts
on hope." Hawthorne, he learns, though we cannot tell from whence,
"thought it inexpressibly ridiculous that any one should notice man's
miseries, these being his staple product," and was "swallowed up in
the wretchedness of life;" also, "the Concord novelist was a handsome,
bulky character, with a soft rolling gait; a wit said he seemed like a
_boned pirate_." From these more or less contemptuous views of mankind
at large Mr. Channing turns with a kind of somersault to an intense
admiration for Thoreau. Could he but write of him in his own
style--supposing him to have a style--he would have been in danger
of producing a sensible book, and _nous autres_ would have lost one
delight; but it is the perfection of comedy to see the apocalyptic
trio--Emerson stepping off grandly and gladly into the clouds--Thoreau,
his principal disciple, following with a good imitation of the gait, but
with evident self-consciousness--and finally Mr. Channing--

                             to see him's rare sport
  Step in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short.

It would be unfair to judge Henry D. Thoreau by the indiscreet
laudations of his friends. He was cut out more nearly in the pattern
of a hermit than any man of modern time. His love of solitude was
probably sincere, his surliness was his breeding, and he extracted
from his painful, unsocial habitudes the peculiar poetry which suits
with hardship. It was not for him to sing of summer and nectarines,
nor to honestly appreciate or kindly judge those who did so; but
he sang of winter, of crab-apples, of cranberries, of reptiles, of
field-mice, with just the right accent and with a tingling vibration
of life in his chords. The Bernard Palissy of literature, he modeled
his frogs and water-snakes so true that they seemed better than birds
of paradise.

Babolain. From the French of Gustave Droz. New York: Henry Holt & Co.

This is a tragical little romance which draws the reader along with
it by every line in every page, yet its power is derived from the
resources of caricature: it is rather the hollow side of a comic mask
than a true expression of pathos. Scientific and stupid, Professor
Babolain enters the world of Paris armed with his innocence, his
uncle's legacy, his deep learning and his utter ignorance. A couple
of adventuresses, mother and daughter, swoop down upon him as a lawful
prey, and he is quickly a doting husband and a terrified son-in-law.
The sole redeeming trait about the younger woman, who is a beauty and
who paints, is that she never makes the least pretence of loving
him: in his first moments of adoration she mystifies him heartlessly,
crushing him with her wit and confounding him with her art:
"Difficult? oh no! In the first place, you need rabbits' hair: that
is indispensable. If you had no rabbits, or if you were in a country
where rabbits had no hair, painting could not be thought of." She
never melts, except when he presents her with a riviere of diamonds,
and, after finding a leisure moment to give birth to a little girl,
rushes off to Italy with Count Vaugirau, followed promptly by a
certain Timoleon. This Timoleon, who loves her unsuccessfully, is the
beneficiary of poor Babolain, borrowing his money at the same time
that he tries to borrow his wife, and returning with outrageous
reproaches to the hero impoverished and desolate. This precious friend
is a specimen of all the rest. The very daughter, sole consolation
of her parent's straitened existence, but ill fulfills the rapturous
anticipations of early fatherhood. He is at first her nurse and
teacher: "I saw the satin-like skin of her little neck, and behind her
ear, fresh and pink like the petal of a flower, the soft curls upon
the nape of her neck, half hair, half down, sucking in with their
greedy roots the sweet juices of this living cream." He throws his
hat into the river to teach her the laws of gravity. But she grows up
ungrateful and estranged, and, having married an ambitious physician,
allows her father to live as a neglected pensioner under a part of her
roof. The details of Babolain's decline are exquisitely painful, but
partake of that style of exaggeration and caricature which causes even
the heartless beings who make up his world to seem more like grotesque
puppets with bosoms of wood than responsible beings to be really
execrated and condemned. As the abused victim, starving and ragged,
treads the road of sacrifice to death, our sympathy is checked by
the consciousness of his unmitigated and needless pliancy, until we
withhold the tribute of sorrow due to the misfortunes of a Lear or a
Pere Goriot. The romance, however, though sketched out extravagantly
between hyperbole and parable, fairly scintillates with brilliancies
and good things: we could hardly indicate another imported novel of
the length actually containing so much. Nothing can be more comical
than the grand airs of the ladies, whether in their poor or rich
estate, or than the perpetual suite of victimizations endured by the
helpless Babolain: the muses of Comedy and Tragedy rush together over
the stage to crush this fly with their buskins. The translator of
_Babolain_ reveals his quality by calling pantaloons, in several
places, _pants_, and by adopting an ugly locative common enough in New
York--"Perhaps I did not have that amount," for "perhaps I had not,"
etc. The work revels in that buff binding which has given to the
_Leisure Hour Series_ the popular sobriquet of the "Linen Duster
Series," a livery now well known as the certain indication of honest
entertainment and literary excellence.

Impressions et Souvenirs. Par George Sand. Paris: Levy Freres; New
York: F.W. Christern.

This little collection of papers is made from Madame Sand's private
journal, the extracts being sometimes recent and sometimes thirty
years old, sometimes short and sometimes improved into essays, and
in any case stitched together by the slightest of threads. A few
allusions, hardly important enough to be called anecdotes, reveal the
relations of the authoress with the great men of the time, and the
least momentous recital becomes charming from the assured ease and
native grace of this veteran artist's style. One amusing reminiscence
is the odd paradox of Theophile Gautier, that plants are unwholesome
absorbents of vital air, and that for him the ideal of a garden would
be a succession of asphaltum paths, with fine-cushioned seats, and
narghiles for ever burning in the guise of flowers and shrubbery. A
retort of Sainte-Betive's shows the sincerity of his free-thinking
opinions. Madame Sand having declared that she was sure we had
three souls--one for our bodily organs, one for society and one for
worship--the critic replied, "I wish we could be sure that we had
one." There is a delightful chapter, dated 1831, where Chopin and
Delacroix encounter each other at the author's Paris home, where the
painter explains the principle of reflections to Maurice Sand, and
Chopin plays the piano so entrancingly for his auditor that the
episode of a bed-room on fire passes by unnoticed. Of Maurice Sand,
gifted son of an inspired mother, there is an exquisite chapter of
literary criticism tempered with maternity. Other papers treat of
infantine instruction as practiced by the writer herself, and readers
are conscious of a thrill of envy at the thought of that little circle
of Dudevantine grandchildren learning the elements of spelling and
grammar from such a mistress of style, and with all the advantages
due to the noble teacher's genius for simplification. A chapter on
punctuation, which has been largely quoted both in French and English,
is incorporated, and there are eventless and fascinating records of
the wonderful drives around Nohant. The little brochure is a pure cup
of refreshment.




_Books Received_.


The Nesbits; or, A Mother's Last Request, and Other Tales. By Uncle
Paul. New York: Catholic Publication Society.

Rouge et Noir. From the French of Edmond About. By E.R. Philadelphia:
Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger.

Florida and South Carolina as Health Resorts. By William W. Morland,
M.D., Harv. Boston: James Campbell.

Third Annual Report of the Board of Education of the State of Rhode
Island. Providence: Providence Press Co.

High Life in New York. By Jonathan Slick. Illustrated. Philadelphia:
T.B. Peterson & Brothers.

Pay-day at Babel, and Odes. By Robert Burton Rodney, U.S.N. New York:
D. van Nostrand.

Report of the Commissioner of Fisheries of the State of New York.
Albany: The Argus Company.

Lord Hope's Choice. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Philadelphia: T.B.
Peterson & Brothers.

The New Japan Primer. Number One. San Francisco: A.L. Bancroft & Co.

Miss Leslie's New Cook Book. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson & Brothers.

Artiste: A Novel. By Maria M. Grant. Boston: Loring.






rson & Brothers.

Artiste: A Novel. By Maria M. Grant. Boston: Loring.