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Full text of "The galaxy"

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The Galaxy 




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J. ^A^. De FOREST, 
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THE GALAXY. 



AX 



ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE 



OF 



ENTERTAINING READING. 



YOL. XII. 



JULY, 1871, TO JANUARY, 1872. 



N^ETW YORK: 

SHELDON & COMPANY, 677 BROADWAY. 

1871. 

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(RECAi-j 



BDtered, according to Act of C ougy ww, In the year 1871, by 

SHIBJUDON A CCmPAKT, 

Jb ttie oAoe of the LibiariM «f OonsreM, al Washington, D. C» 



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INDEX TO VOLUME XII. 



PAGV 

▲biMyeMix Daittes Mr: Mary B. Dodge ^.. 28 

A«riciiltiinl Labor at the SoQth Soutktmer 828 

Akmeby the B«jr Louise CkandUr MouUon 230 

An Evenfaig with Swinburne Luey Fountain 231 

At Brening Tfane it shall be Light H. E. Warner 688 

At [sella ....Henry Jame»tJr 241 

AdTeotores of tlie Dnchesse de Berri, Mother of 

the Count ^ Chambord John S. C. Abbott 789 

Admiral Farragat and New Orleans, with an Ac- 
eoont of the Origin and Command of the First 

nireeNaral Expeditions of the War Oideon Welleo 669,817 

Barbarosaa and Bismarck Anne M. Crane SeemuUer 61S 

Burden of Paris (The). May25, 1871 Charlee Sibley 826 

BkMk Friday i William R. Hooper 768 

Basle to Domo d*08sola M.B.W. 8 848 

Conscience Marian Douglaee 65 

Correspondence (A) Ivan Turgen^. 401 

Current literature. English, French, and Ger- 
man 122, 274, 483, 571, n7, 865 

Captain Horslkirs Bomanoe J. W. De Foreat 788 

Dead M. T. 688 

"Died Yesterday I" ^ ElHe Lee Hardonbrook 178 

DbUTWOOD Philip QuiUbet 112, 264, 422, 057, 706, 8M 

England and America ; Suauner Sports ; Mldsommer Idling ; Ttie National Holiday ; Bamb- 
Ung in Maine; Oar Visit to Moosehead; Uhriohof Straabonig; Talk of Travel; Chicaspo; 
Public Beadings. 

Dutch at Home (The) Altert Rhodes 06 

Edinburgh and its Surroundings M. E. W. 8 01 

Eustace Diamonds (The) Chapters I. toXVm... Jn/AonyTro^/ope 395,535,651,804 

Friendship Fred, W. Webber 478 

Golden Arrow (The) W. L, AUen 236 

Great Fair at NUnl-Novgorod Junius Henri Broums 528 

Half an Hour Nora Ptrry 72 

In a Hospital 8. S. Roekwood 706 

Kiss (The). CharUsSibUy 108 

La Belle Dame saas Merei Charles Carroll 110 

Lady Judith : A Tale of Two Continents. Chap- 
ters XXIY. to End Justin McCarthy 5,149,285 

L^ae- Amour Ernest Roland 384 

Lores' Cholee.* wmiam Winter 460 

Love Song Mary Freenutn Ooldbeek 098 

Marguerite. If eUis Hutchinson 104 

Master Eustace Henry James, Jr 500 

Madilerraaean Solar Eclipse (The) Z. F. P 179 

Mine? RoseTerry 819 

Mtainie'sGift Lucy H. Hoopar 509 

Nebnto By the Editor 143, 889, 448, 58B, 736, 879 

Nether Side of New York EdmvdCrapsey ^....57 170,855,494 

One Term Principle (The) Horace Qreeley 488 

Otir^ht We to Visit Her t Chapters XX. toXXXIX. Mrs. Edwards 74, 216, 864, 016, 684, 8SS 

Oveiiand. Chapter XU to End.. J. W. De Forest 41 - 

" Par Nobile Fratrum "— The Two Newmans-.. Vu«<M McCarthy 648 

Pearl-Hunting In the Pomotovs Charles Warren Stoddard 377 

Perpetual Motion F. B. Perkins 341 

PtkePoetiT (The) ^ ^ 635 

Popular Fallaciea « • • ~ Carl Benson 47D, 6 1 4 

Possle FdO • Fenny Barrow 696 



JAN 201920 428254 ,,,.,,Googk 



iv INDEX TO VOLUME XII. 

PAOS. 

RecoUeotions of an Old Woman E. de M 104 

Ueminisoence of Alexandre Dunsos (A) B, Phillips 5QS 

Reminiscences of Lee and JaokBon J. B. Imboitn 027 

Repablioanism in £nj[^nd Justin McCarthy 90 

Romance of the Negro (Tbe) Edward J. Pollard 470 

SOIBNTIFIC MlSCELLAWr 117,268,427,563, 700 8&8 

Moving the Sewing-Machine by Electricity ; Science in Fragments ; Origin of the Australians; 
Insolation or Sunstroke ; The Distribntkm of Kinglisliers ; Sunshine as Force ; Absorp- 
tion of Heat by Atmospheric Moisture ; Analysis of SoUs ; Non-ExpIosiTe Gun-Cotton ; 
A New Cinchona Alkaloid ; Decoration of Metallic Surfoo^?s ; Science fbr Common Schools; 
Preserration of Food ; Geology and the Darwin Theory ; The Cryptogamio Theory of 
Cholera ; Rational and Empirical Housekeeping ; A Sclf-Ignittng Signal Light ; Artilicial 
Leatlier ; Count Rumford ; Litbofhicteur ; English Animals in Now Zealand ; A New 
Disinfectant ; Action of Glaciers on tlie Air ; New Artificial Stone ; Comparative Psy- 
chology ; Limestone as a Building Material ; New Method of Iron-Making ; Improvements 
of the Safety Lamp ; The Heliotype Process ; Concentrated Vegetables; Consumption of 
Smoke ; The Study of Hygiene ; Prospects of the Solar System ; Tyndall's Respirator for 
Firemen ; ReUitions of Forests to Climate ; The Cool Supply of Great Britain ; The Sani- 
tary Water-Cart ; Nature of Colors ; The Desert of Tib ; Keeping Flour in Barrels ; Ad- 
dress of the President of the British Association ; The Brotherhood of Science ; The Ap- 
proaohUig Solar Eolipso ; Testing the Strength of Metals ; Spontaneous Generation ; In- 
stability of Dynamite ; A New Ink Plant ; Scientiflo Results of the Paris Si^^ ; The Tas- 
manian Devil; The Color of Sea- Water ; Liquid Fire; Progress of Co )perative Industry ; 
Action of Water on Lead ; The Great Ice Plain of Greenland ; Effects of a Non-Nitroge- 
nous Diet ; Reoent Australian Vertebrates ; Herl)ert Spencer; Alleged Dangeia of Vacci- 
nation,; Economy in Gas Burning ; Age of Blood Stains ; Meteoric and Cometary Phe- 
nomena ; The Antiquity of Man ; The British Ass ; Nervous and Muscular Action ; Dan- 
gen of Chloral Hydrate ; Steam-Boiler Incrustation : Uses of the Uvula ; Tailless Trout ; 
Reputed Cure for Snake Bites ; The Great Alpine Tunnel ; Magnetism and the Sun ; Pre- 
Tention of Boiler Explosions ; Explosions of Gun-Cotton ; Temperature and Vitality ; 
The Pbosphoreacenoe of fishes ; Sanitary Value of Hard Water ; Living Without Eating; 
Government Aid to Science. 

Bionian Midnight Madrigal BawardOlyndm.... OSS 

Signature-Hunting FoHnjf Barrow 266 

Slain at Gettysburg. From an Incident in the 

War B. T tJB 

Some Day of Days Nora Perry 109 

The Galaxt Clcb-Room 188, 2W, 441, W», T», 872 

The lioamed Pig ; Bool^ of Likes and Dislikes ; A Minnesota Winter ; Waiting for the Last 
Trump ; A Frenchwoman's Letter ; Biddy's Lament ; Is Willie Gone ? Washington Pas- 
try ; The Literal Dominie ; To a Correspondent ; Vatis Testamentum ; College Coaoeits; 
About Barbers, by Mark Twato ; How I Secured a Berth ; Loss of Confidence ; Anecdote 
of Mathews ; Story for Critics ; Mottoes ; Travelling with Artemus Ward ; The Mystery 
of Hollow Ash ; Our Serious Department ; Epitaphs ; Epigrams ; Lines on the Death c^a 
Burnt Child ; Our Children's Department ; Dreadfhl Educational Results of Mr. Hare's 
Method of Cumulative Votingtn Colleges ; Odd Texts ; A New '* Motion " hi Court ; A Se- 
vere Reprimand ; Waggery of the Bench ; Grand Hotel National, Vienna ; Specimen from 
Forthoomhig ** Table-Talk " ; Answers to Correspondents ; Riding in a Street Car ; The 
Dishonesty of Widow Gump ; Answers to Correspondents ; Benevolence ; Lawyers and 
Doctora. 

TheManldid not Marry 07 

Then and Now Sade M. T^owne 9Ai 

The Two Burdens of War IHihu BurrUt 208 

Three Ghosts Ross Terry 195 

Through a Window Louise Chandler MoulUm 40 

Vox Clamaatls in Deserto Edward S. Gregory. 2B6 

Waiting.^ George Flouterdew 421 

Why is it so? F, A. BlaisdeU 1» 

Weather Prognostics by the People Professor Thompson B. 'Maury 768 

Tenth by the Brook (The) Mary L. Bitter 854 



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THE GALAXY. 



VOL. Xn.— JULY, 1871.— No. 1. 

LADY JUDITH: 

A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS. 
By JamN MoCabtbt, Author of ** My Enemy's Daughter," tta 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

" HOW 18 IT WITH ME WHEN EVERT NOISE APPALS ME P " 

LADT JUDITH had returned to London, and again occupied the house 
Avhere she had passed so many weary years. She scorned to yield so 
much even to her own weakness as to seek out a place less haunted by the 
ghosts of old memories. She went back to the sadly familiar rooms, and never 
shrank for one moment from crossing any threshold, whatever the shadows 
which hovered around it. She was glad to get back from Rome, which op- 
pressed her with a sense of hopeless idleness and ignoble ruin. She was still 
more glad to escape from the society of her own family, who had urged on her 
marriage in the first instance, and who, having always disapproved of her 
adoption of Angelo, were now inclined to congratulate her and themselves on 
his disappearance. No society could be more uncongenial to her than that of her 
lather and mother ; no atmosphere so oppressive to her active, energetic mind 
as that of the Papal city. She could not breathe freely in a place where there 
were so many beggars, where idle men lay all day in the sun on the steps of a 
cdiorch, waiting for other men hardly less idle, but calling themselves artists, 
to employ them as models and paint them into pictures. 

She threw herself at once into her old life of beneficent activity. There 
was no useful institution which had not her helping hand ; and she strove to 
found new institutions and to difilise new thoughts. There was no great foreign 
cause to which she did not give her full sympathies and her ready aid. She 
understood ]x>litics, home and foreign, as few women did. When nine out of 
every ten of her class were making dolts of themselves on the subject of the 
American war; when members of the House of Lords, in the confidence and 
plenitude of their grotesque ignorance, were incessantly wondering why the 
Mi.ssifisippi could not be accepted as the boundary between North and South, 
Lady Judith could have talked over every branch of the subject with Charles 
Somner or Wendell Phillips, and never shown herself lacking in knowledge. 
Gradually she had become a sort of celebrity, a person of authority and influ- 
ence, and men of mark and power, men whose brains were big with schemes 
which promised to revolutionize material worlds and worlds of thought, came 

Rntered aecorAfng to Act of Ckmgresfl, fai the year 1871, by Sheldon A Compakt, in the Offloo 
of the Librarian of Congress, Washfaigtoo, D. C. 

1 



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G LADY JUDITH. [July, 

to talk with her and to consult her. To her fresh and vigorous intellect noth- 
ing was too new to receive consideration. She had not one single taint of the 
** old fogy ^* disposition in her. Her mind was as clear as her complexion. 
More than forty years of age, Lady Judith was only in her prime of woman- 
hood ; and yet the charm, the one charm which with all her queenly beauty and 
superbly feminine outlines of form she specially wanted, was the simple charm 
of womanhood. 

Her life was, for all its activity and its beneficence, a sad and weary ez]st>- 
en€e. One terrible dread had lately haunted her, one fearful doubt, almost as 
appalling to a woman of her nature as a doubt of heaven and God. She began 
to doubt of her own capacity to see and act aright Her whole life had hith- 
erto been moulded and guided by a profound egotistic faith in her own judg- 
ment, her own moral principles, and even her own impulses. She had lived in 
that faith, and now it was breaking down. Only profound stupidity can al- 
ways, despite every shock, keep up a belief in its own infallibility; and Lady 
Judith had no stupidity about her, and had received many severe shocks of 
late. Everyttiing which she had taken in hand, and into the elements of which 
human love and human passion entered, had gone wrong witji her and failed ; 
and her mind was too active, her principles were too just, to allow her to be 
content always with throwing the blame on destiny or the pei*verse wickedness 
of others. She began to doubt seriously whether she had dealt wisely or even 
justly with Alexia's younger days. She even found herself going over men- 
tally her own early married life, and wondering why it was that all people 
used to regard her husband as noble, liigh-minded, and pure, a man made to 
guide and to rule ; and why she had never understood him in that sense, seen 
him in that light. Thus painfully studying herself, thus growing so far into 
doubt of her past that all the good she could do in the present began to seem 
an expiation rather than a spontaneous work of benevolence, she came grad- 
ually into a faint understanding of the utter feebleness and untrustworthiness 
of human codes of justice, and that love, after all, is the law and the light. 

In the true sense. Lady Judith with all her religious devotion had never 
hitherto been a Christian. Love and mercy and pity, not the mere practical 
doing of good, distinguish the new dispensation from the old. Lady Judith 
would have been greatly amazed to hear that she was now for the first time* 
having passed her fortieth year, being converted to Christianity by events and 
the discipline of sorrow. Tet this and none other was the process going on 
within her. 

But she could not yet bring herself to forgive Eric Walraven. He had de- 
ceived her; he had taught Alexia to deceive her; and she hated deceit. Then 
she despised him for his cowardice and meanness. He began to persecute her 
with letters which she contemptuously flung into the fire. Had he held a firm 
and manly front and stood aloof from her, perhaps in the change which was 
growing in her nature she might have relented toward him. But his craven 
supplications utterly disgusted her ; and she did not even believe that he was 
as needy as he pretended to be. As he had told Alexia, he wrote to the Earl 
of Coryden, beseeching the Earl's intercession with his daughter. Lady Judith; 
and Coryden, a stingy and selfish old peer, who always hated Alexia because 
she never showed him the least respect, and who was horribly alarmed at the 
idea of any appeal for money being made to him, told Lady Judith in affright 
that she was really bound to do something for her child's husband; and tliis 
sort of interference only rendered Laily Judith less placable tlian before. 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 7 

A little discovery that she made by chance Bomewhat altered Lady Judith^s 
resolve, and urged her to endeavor at least to succor and rescue Alexia. 
Among her many charitable undertakings was one for the reclamation of the 
class of persons whom we upright individuals who never have sinned compla- 
cently term " fallen women." Lady Judith became interested in one poor girl 
of this dass, who seemed to have some education and a good disposition. She 
became a special benefactress to this girl ; and although she never made any 
prying inquiry, yet she won the girPs confidence and heard, unasking, her 
melancholy story. She leanied that this girl owed her degradation to Eric 
Walraven, and had been abandoned by him. This was in fact a young woman 
already passingly alluded to, whom Eric always remembered with pleasure and 
satisfaction because of the picturesque attitude into which she had fallen in the 
wild agony and passion of her grief when she learned that he was leaving her 
forever. One discovery leads to others, and Lady Judith caihe gradually to 
know that her poet son-in-law was one of the meanest and most pitiful of sen- 
sualists and profligates — a man without the fierce passions and stupendous guilt 
of a Don Juan or a Lovelaoe ; but a sensuous, heartless thing, who delighted to 
play with any and every woman who could be fooled without trouble or danger. 
Lady Judith rightly judged that for a paltry sinner of this class reclamation is 
£ir more difficult than for an offender of graver and grander mould. There is 
some stuff to work on in the one ; there is nothing in the other. She thought the 
best thing that could be done was to get Alexia out of such a man^s clutches 
altogether; and therefore she wrote the letter of which Walraven had spoken, 
and offered to take back her daughter, but refused to receive fa^ daughter's 
husband. Lady Judith knew that such an offer made directly by her to Alexia 
would be rejected with disdain. But she rightly guessed that Wah-aven, 
seeing no prospect of personal advantage, would now be tired of Alexia and 
anxious to get rid of her; and she counted much upon the indignation Alexia 
would feel toward him when his willingness to send her home should be made 
apparent. She did not count upon or understand the strength of Alexia's un- 
reasonable love for the husband who had beguiled and was willing to abandon 
her. Lady Judith had not yet cbme to imderstand fully what love should reckon 
for in human calculations. 

One day, when she returned from some of her charitable expeditions, she 
found a visitor awaiting her whom she had hardly expected to see, but whom she 
welcomed with real cordiality. This was Charles Escombe, just come back 
from his long tour in America and round tlie world. The proud forlorn lady's 
heart warmed and softened toward Alexia's old lover and suitor. He looked 
healthy and hardy, deeply embrowned by sun and sea, and he wore a huge fair 
beard. 

When they had interchanged fi-iendly greetings, and talked for some time 
over Escombe's travels and his plans for a career in English pohtios, he sud- 
denly plunged into another subject, and said, with the manner of one who is 
determined to have a thing out somehow : 

•• Oh, by the way. Lady Judith, you know I came home through France — 
landed at Marseilles, you know." 

" Yes, Charles." 

" Well, I just ran on to Paris, and coming home I stayed a day or two to 
see a fellow at the new place they have found out near Trouville, you know — 
nice little place, too." 

«• So I am told." Lady Judith now began to guess what was coming, and 



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6 LADY JUDITH. [July, 

why Escombe^s brown complexion was growing red and ho kept his eyes fixed 
on the carpet. 

" Yes, yery nice. Well, you know, I heard tliat Alexia — ^I mean Mrs. Wal- 
raven — ^was there." 

" She is there, I believe. Did you see her? " 

** No, I didn't see her. I thou^t perhaps she mightn't care to ; and indeed. 
Lady Judith, I don't think I felt quite up to the mark; but I saw that fellow — 
I mean I saw her husband." 

'* You knew him before? " 

** I knew him in a kind of way, as one knows all sorts of fellows. But Fm 
afraid, Lady Judith, he will prove a downright cad. He's up to his eyes in 
debt, and he only gambles and hangs around there with a very queer lot; and, 
by Jove, it's a pity if something can't be done." 

" What could be done, Charles? I can't reform the man." 

"No; but perhaps, for her sake, you know, if something could be done to 
set him up in some way, he is the sort of fellow that might get on well enough 
if he only had an3rthing to live on. You see, Lady Judith, there are plenty of 
us who only get on decently because we haven't to work hard for our living. I 
dare say half of us would be no better than he only just for our good luck and 
having money enough. Now if some place could be found for him, or — or — 
something done of that kind, and some of his debts paid off, I dare say he 
would turn out a very good husband and make ber happy. I know you'll ex- 
cuse me. Lady Judith; I want to see Alexia happy, and I couldn't help just 
saying this.'* 

Escombe had heard a great deal more than he cared to tell, and Lady Judith 
guessed as much. He had heard that Walraven was sinking into more and 
m<»re doubtfid companionship, and that poor Alexia's ways were growing more 
and more eccentric and alarming. He had been approached by Walraven, and 
had refirained, for her sake, from rebuffing him ; and he had freely lent him 
money, and had come away with sad misgivings for Alexia's future. 

*• You have a good heart, Charles Escombe ; and I have reason to grieve, 
and you have cause to be glad, that that unhappy and lost girl did not appreci- 
ate you as you deserved. But I, at least, don't feel inclined to pay tribute to a 
swindling adventurer — to reward him because he robbed me of my daughter." 

** Bijt, Lady Judith — pray excuse me — something will have to be done. It 
will indeed. Not for his sake, of course, but for hers. You don't know — ^you 
haven't been over there, and don't know what people say ; but I do assure you 
he won't do anything for himself or for her, and you can't leave things to go 
on much longer as they are going." 

Lady Judith thought her cup of shame and misery was pretty nearly full. 
Her daughter was the wife of an outcast English adventurer, whose poverty, 
shifts, and swindlings were the scandal even of the very unfastidious society of 
a French bathing-place! 

** Nothing shall be done for him — at least nothing by me or with my consent, 
Charles," she said decisively; ** but I must try to do something to save her, 
before it is too late!" 

The very next day she had occasion to attend a meeting of some charitable 
society in Exeter Hall ; and when the proceedings were over and the crowd 
was breaking up. Lady Judith, who was accompanied by Charles Escombe 
(when in town the young man delighted to be her faithful henchman), saw a 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH, 

stout, gray person, who was very shabbily dressed, bustling over toward her. 
This person carried a thick stick, and wore cotton gloves. 

" Beg pardon, Lady Judith," he began to say ; *' you don^t remember me, I 
suppose. IIow d'ye do, Mr. £scombe? Glad to see you back agam in Eng- 
land." 

Charles Escombe, who made it a part of the business pf his life to know 
everybody, hastened to anticipate I^y Judith^s struggling memory, into which 
some painful association was beginning to force itself by presentii^ Mr. Gos- 
tick. Lady Judith bowed coldly. 

** No pleasant association with me, ma'am, I dare say," the Lancashire man 
went on; ** don't wonder that you should wish to forget me and mine ; but I'd 
take it as a fiivor if you would allow me to say six words to you just now." 

Lady Judith was somewhat softened by Mr. Gostick's blunt honesty. 

•* I owe you thanks, Mr. Gostick. You once did your best to serve and help 
me ; you, at least, have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Fray say 
anything you please; I am wholly at your service." 

Charles Escombe fell back a little and talked with two or three of the ora- 
tors of the evening. The great hall was now studded with little chattmg 
groups of people, waiting for the crowd to get out of the doors. 

" Well, Lady Judith," Mr. Gostick began, "it's about this poor little gb-1 
and that nephew of mine. I wish I hadn't to talk about such a subject, for of 
course I know how painful it is; but you see this fellow is always writing to 
me, and, I dare say, to you " 

** He has written to me several times, but I have not replied to most of his 
appeals, Mr. Gostick." 

•• Nor I, Lady Judith — ^nor I, ma'am. I don't care one straw what becomes 
of him, now that his poor father and mother are both dead; but then the poor 
girl, you see! Lady Judith, that fellow is capable of anything — I mean any- 
thing shabby and sneaking. I don't think he would have the spirit to commit 
a burglary or a murder. He left his mother to die — tiie mother who loved the 
scamp like the apple of her eye — he left her to die, and never went near her. 
He^U desert that young woman, ma'am, take my word for it, the moment he 
finds he can't squeeze anything out of us." 

*' Us ! " Lady Judith was growing to respect the man, but still this conjunc- 
tion was very trying. *• Us ! " Lady Judith Scarlett and the Lanca^ire weaver 
with the cotton gloves! Gostick said **us " quite fearlessly. Lady Judith and 
he were the only persons with money in the business, and he knew perfectly 
well that he had as much money as any aristocratic lady in the land. 

** I have no doubt, Mr. Gostick, that your nephew is capable of any base- 
ness " (for the life of her she could not help dealing the little stab contained in 
the words ** your nephew "), ** and I would rescue my daughter if I could " 

** Rescue, ma'am, is rather late, I fear, where we are talking of man and 
wife " (that was Mr. Gostick's touch in return ; the proud lady's dau^iter was, 
after all, the wife of Gostick's nephew) ; ** but I was thinking that the first loss 
is the best, you know, and that it would be 'better even to support an iiUe, worth- 
less fellow than to run the risk of bringing misery on an innocent girl. I think 
of my own daughters. Lady Judith, and I am very uneasy about that poor young 
woman, though I never set eyes upon her in all my life. Now you know I was 
thinking that your ladyship — excuse my blunt way ^f coming to the point — has 
plenty of money, and I am pretty well to do. Can't we combine to pay this 
fellow into good behavior? Can't we make him an allowance, conditional on- 



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10 LADY JUDITH. [Jult, 

tirely upon his living a decent life and taking care of his wife? I worked hard 
to make my own money» but still I am ready to go pound for pound with your 
ladyship in some arrangement like that, fix the allowance at anything you 
like, I don't care what; Til pay the half of it, and I'll make all the arrange- 
ments — ^you shan't have a bit of trouble." 

The red blood mounted into Lady Judith's face. Good God! had it come 
to this, that her only daughter was to be supported by subscription from the 
pocket of a vulgar plebeian! True, that even at the moment her better nature 
saw how much there was of sterling benevolence and honest manhood about 
Crostick^s proposal, none the less she felt it like an insult and an outrage. 
Her lips quivered, her limbs trembled, her eyebrows contracted. 

*' Mr. Gostick," she said coldly, ** I don^t need any combination or partner- 
ship in the support of my daughter. I am obliged to you for your concern on 
her behalf. It does you credit, and you are naturally grieved for the wrong 
done by your nephew ; but you need not trouble yourself' about my daughter. 
I can take care of her. Good evening." 

And she made a stately bow, and, taking Charles Escombe's arm, she turned 
away and left poor Gostick *' plante la,'*'* 

** What an ass I am!" grumbled that senator. ''Serves me quite right! 
What business was it of mine if the Earl of Coryden's granddaughter hadn't 
a rag to her back or went into the union workhouse? If ever I interfere again ! 
Well, I've done my part, and my mind is clear, and I'm sorry for the poor 
young woman ; but her mother has let me see plainly enough that it's no busi- 
ness of mine. ' Proflfered service stinks,' says the proverb." 

"Now, Gostick, what about that committee?" said a great railway con- 
tractor, a baronet and member of Parliament, to whom Groetick was of- more 
importance than all the aristocratic dames who ever wore a petticoat; and he 
hooked his «urm in Grostick's and bore him away, talking into his ear as they 
traversed the hall and descended the stairs. The Lancashire member soon for- 
got all about Lady Judith's hauteur^, and even had no pressing recollection for 
the moment of poor Alexia's possible misery. 

As Escombe was handing Lady Judith to her. carriage she sapped for a 
moment and asked him abruptly : 

«« Do you know, have you heard anything of her, of Alexia, Charles, which 
you have not told me? " 

*' How do you mean. Lady Judith? I don't quite understand." 

*' Did you hear anything which made you believe that she herself is unhap- 
py, that her mind seems disturbed? " 

'* Well, yom know of course I didn't take everything I heard for granted. 
People talk so much in those little places — and then French people think wo 
are all so odd — and Alexia always rather piqued herself on not being like 
everybody else " 

** But what did you hear? Do ju^y tell me. Remember I am the girl's 
mother." 

Charles Esoombe was too kind-hearted and hod too jNTofound a regard for 
Lady Judith to feel inclined to ask whether she had always remembered the 
fact herself. Still the question did for the moment embarrass him and make 
him hesitate, and Lady Judith saw this and hastened to say : 

** No one can know how fiuthfully I tried to do my duty to my daughter* 
and how utterly ungovernable she proved to be. But she still is my daughter, 
and if the man to whom she has given herself up is unable to protect her, I 



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1871.1 LADY JUDITH. 11 

nmst of course try to do so. Tell me, then, ifdiat it was that people said of 
Alexia?'' 

•• Well, they seemed to think that her health was giving way, and that per- 
haps — ^bnt one can't mind such rumors ^ 

" That perhaps what? " 

** That her mind was becoming a littie affected. He, that fellow Walraven," 
Escombe said this with a great burst, ^ he told me as much himself. He made 
II sort of whining appeal and declared he didn't know what to do; but indeed, 
Lady Judith, I hare discovered the fellow to be such a confounded liar that one 
can hardly attach any Importance to a word coming out of his mouth." 

Not a syllable more said Lady Judith on the subject. But a chord had been 
struck to which all her secret fears, and suspicions, and conscience-prompted 
doubts gave ready and terrible echo. With her growing emancipation tcom 
the imprisonment of mere egotism had been rising the doubt whether in deal- 
ing with Alexia lately as a sane and sound and wilfUlly erring daughter she 
had not been making a sad mistake. Lady Judith had of late set down her 
daughter's eccentricity of manner and temper as sheer aflE^Bctation, and had re- 
sented any other suggestion as impertinent and absurd. As a person blessed 
with powerful vision finds it hard to realize the fact that another person can be 
short-sighted, as a lover of money can hardly understand that there are other 
beings hidifferent to gain, so Lady Judith's clear, firm, egotistic inteUect was 
skeptical on the subject of lurking insanity in others. One of the many sources 
of torment to her in her bringing up of Alexia was the conviction that ill-judg- 
ing lookers-on were constantly pitying the girl and making allowances for her 
on the score of personal eccentricities and extravagances which she. Lady Ju- 
dith, secretly believed to be wilfiil and malignant affoctadons. But the doubt 
now began to intrude upon her, ghastly and appalling as a i^ntom, that per- 
hi^ she had utterly misunderstood her daughter and failed in her datj all the 
time; that while she rashly believed herself to be dealing justly and following 
Heaven's guidance and approval, she was playing false to nature and perverting 
the ordinance of Providence itself. Great Heavens! how otherwise could she 
explain the terrible reality of the fact that everything had gone wrong with 
her, that the elements themselves seemed to war against her? 

Indeed, the poor lady was heavily puni^ed for her pride. She went to her 
lonely home feeling that she could have welcomed better the more utter soli- 
tude of a cavern. Periiaps now for the first time did she begin to feel really 
deserted. Her pride and her sense of personal ri^teousness had fled from her 
at last, even as her husband, her daughter, and her adopted son had done. 

Lady Judith had now a companion or reader, a superior sort of young 
woman from Scotland, who could write most of her letters for her, and who had 
not lived with her in the days of Alexia and Angelo. Lady Judith could not 
endure anybody in the house who had seen her in one of her former epochs. 
Therefinre, as die had done when her husband disappeared, so she did after the 
fli^t of Alexia and the secession of Angelo— made a clean sweep of the house- 
hold and introduced wholly new fikces. 

^Siiall I read you something. Lady Judith?" said Miss Bruce, when the 
grest lady, looking weary and ha^rgard, entered her study or boudoir — ^more of 
study or even oratory than boudoir. 

'^Do, please. Miss Bruce. That review \>t Darwin, perhaps, from the 
•Quarterly.'" 

Lady Judith leaned forward in her chair, her elbow resting on her knee, her 



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12 LADY JUDITH. [Jult. 

hand supporting her chin. Her lips were compreesed, her eyebrows oon- 
tractod. She must have been deeply absorbed in Darwinian theories, for she 
never stirred or looked up» her dress never rustled, her Inrow never relaxed as 
Miss Bruce read on and on. Miss Bruce, however, was not without her own 
share of keenness and observation, and while immensely admiring Lady ,Ju- 
dith^s beauty and dignity, and gi'eatly envying her wealth, she had began to 
think that there was something heavy at the lady's heart, more difficult perhi^is 
tiian even poverty to bear. Miss Bruce 8us{)ected that Lady Judith was not 
Ibtening to a word of the article on Darwin. She ventured upon an Midaoious 
experiment. I^e read one sentence twice over, then thrice over ; it was all the 
same to Lady Judith. 

At last a deep sigh broke from the heart and the lips of the lady, and seemed 
* to recall her to herself. She started, looked up, faintly smiled, and said : 

*' I think, Miss Bruce, I shall not trouble you to read any more to-night. 
Or stay, perhaps you will kindly read me a few verses from the Bible." 

" The Old Testament, madam P " 

** The Old Testament, yes. Anywhere will do. Just where you chance to 
open it." 

Was Lady Judith trying for a word of supernatural guidance and oracle? 
Or did she hope to hear some lesson of stern strength from the voice of the Old 
Dispensation bidding her not to be ashamed and tremble even though she had 
lialed those who sinned against her? 

Miss Bruce opened and read : 

** And Jei^thah came to Mizpeh unto his house : and, behold, his daughter 
came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances, and she was his only 
cliild ; beside her he had neither son nor daughter." 

'* No, not that. Miss Bruce, not that. Some other passage if you please." 

Miss Bruce turned some pages on, and quietly glancing under her eyes at 
her listener began again: 

** And it was told Joab, Behold, the king weepeth and mourneth for Absa- 
lom . And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people ; for 
the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son. And the 
people gat them by stealth that day into the city, as people being ashamed steal 
away when they flee in battle. But the king covered his face, and the king 
cried with a loud voice, O my son Absalom, O Absalom, my son, mj son! " 

Lady Judith rose from her seat with a flush upon her ordinarily pale face. 
There was a little round table near her elbow, and h^ sudden movement 
caused it to fall with a crash. 

'* Shall I read on? " Miss Bruce asked timidly. 

** Thank you; no more now. I will not detain you longer. Miss Bruce. 
Perhaps, as you are going toward your room, you may see my maid Elise." 

'* Yes, IjRdy Judith. Shall I send her to you? " 

'* Tell her, please, that I don't want her to-night. Let her be sure not to 
come. Good night, Miss Bruce." 

Miss Bruce returned a gentle good night and left I^ady Judith alone. 

How long Lady Judith remained that night seated in her chair with her 
chin resting on her hand, she herself could never have told. Iloiurs and hoars 
after Miss Bruce, who liad been writing letters in her own room, stole quietly 
down stairs and saw that the light was still streaming from under the door of 
I>ady Judith's chamber. Miss Bruce went to bed, but Juditli Scarlett still re* 
mained sitting and thinking. Doubtless it wi\s owing to tJie excited condition 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 18 

of her mind, the painful tension of her nerves, the lateness and loneliness of the 
hoar, that she found her senses serve her less faithfully thb once than was their 
wont. For as she sat alone she seemed to hear a wild shrill scream ring 
through the silent house, and it was as the voice* of her daughter, and Lady Ju- 
dith started from her chair and called aloud ** Alexia, Alexia! ^^ and sprang to 
the door. All was dark and silent without. Lady Judith stood and listened 
vh^ heating heart. At last she quietly closed the door and returned to her 
place. She flung herself on her knees and pressed her forehead against her 
hands. 

"It was only the voice of my own heart, of my grief, of my conscience! " 
murmured the unhappy woman. *' I will go to my daughter and save her if I 
can." 

And for the first time in this story Lady Judith hurst into a passion of unre- 
starained tears. 



CHAPTER XXV. 
"habet!" 

Ai£XiA, it has already been remarked> was a rather weary companion for 
Isolind. The unhappy daughter of Lady Judith had always in life had her ho- 
rizon limited to just the extent of her own personal experiences and vexations. 
Now that her vexations had expanded into genuine sufferings, they absorbed 
her wholly, and Isolind heard nothing from her but the sad tale of her mother^s 
coldness and her husband^s lack of love. Every day seemed to make Alexia 
wUder and more morbid, and Isolind began to grow gravely alarmed for her 
mental condition. She spoke. to Mrs. Atheling on the subject, but Mrs. Athe- 
ling had never much liked Alexia. The good old lady was always a little 
afraid of the petulant, sharp tongue of the little English aristocrat. She could 
never understand Alexia, and always while the latter was present lived in doubt 
and dread, not knowing what the girl mi^t say next — ^what piece of imperti- 
nence or impiety might escape from her ungovemed lips. Besides, Mrs. Ath- 
eling shrank from young women who didn^t honor and obey their mother. 
Therefore she gave no sympathetic response to Isolind^s alarms, and only 
goeesed that Mrs. Walraven could be sane enou^ if she wanted to, and that if 
she had any insane tendencies it was only the lunacy of pride and insolence. 

Isolind was not satisfied, and only racked her brain to find out whether there 
was anything she could do. To write to Lady Judith or any of her family 
would have been for her simply impossible. Was there then no one to whom 
she could urge her growing conviction that Alexia^s mind was giving way un- 
der the pressure of her loneliness and her disappointment, and that those who 
loved the poor girl — if there were yet any such — ^had better look to her in time 
lest worse befiOl? 

That thinking, Isolind set out alone, on the evening when Walraven made 
his revelation to his wife, to visit Alexia. Our Anglo-American girl was in the 
habit of rambling alone, accoutred in high boots and with kilted skirts, through 
the French village, to the wonder and dismay of all respectable French mat- 
rons and maids, in whose minds such solitary promenading by an unmarried 
woman bespoke a worse than heathenish license. The sun was setting over 
the sea as Isolind drew near the hotel, and with her ever-present delight in sky 
and waves and sunset, she paused to enjoy the beauty of the scene and the 
boor, and to her, as to most of us, something of her own life and love and suf- 



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14 LADY JUDITH. [Jult, 

fering seemed shining sadly out of the waters and steeped in ihe fading sun- 
light. So she became for the moment almost unconscious of where she was, 
and a gentleman approached and nearly jostled against her, and made a lowly 
bow and an apology. It was Eric Walraven, who had just left his wife, and In 
a moment it flashed into Isolind^s mind that at whatever risk of misconstruc- 
tion or of seeming officiousness she must tell him her fears for Alexia. 

*• I am going to call on Mrs. Walraven," said Isolind. 

'* She will be delighted ; she adores you, but that is not strange. Allow me 
to return with you." 

" Fray no, diank you. I can go alone. I am not at all afraid of walkinj, 
without escort. But— but— Mr. Walraven." 

•* My dear Miss Atheling? " 

"May I say a word to you without seeming officious or bold? " 

" How can you ask? As if any word from you could be anything but a fk- 
vor. Pray honor me by taking my arm and let me walk with you." 

" No, Mr. Walraven, there is no need. What I wish to say will be soon 
said, and perhaps I am wrong in saying it, but I feel as if I could not help it. 
Mr. Walraven, Alexia is very unhappy, and I sometimes think that if great 
care be not taken, and in time, her mind will give way. Do, pray, forgive me 
for obtruding my opinions — perhaps I am wrong altogether — but her manner 
alarms me sometimes." 

** Alexia then has been complaining of me? " said Eric with darkling brow. 
".She has been pouring out to you some story of imaginary wrongs and suffer- 
ings?" 

"Not imaginary sufferings at least, Mr. Walraven. Oh, no! The suffer- 
ings are all real ! I only fear for the constant strain upon her mind. Perhaps 
those who are nearest to her — and who — who love her best," said Isolind with 
a great effort, " are naturally the last to observe Hie changes which the eye <^ a 
stranger sees. But, Mr. Walraven, oh do take care of her, and be kind to her! 
Remember that she has lost her mother, and that she has no one but you." 

" Alexia is rather fond of exhibiting herself en wtrftww," Walraven coolly re- 
plied. "She comes of an eccentric fiimily; you have heard the strange mys- 
terious story of her father? But she is shrewd and sensible when she pleases ; 
and, my dear Miss Isolind, I should be sorry indeed for my own sake that you 
took all her capricious utterances as literal and sound. I beg you will do me 
justice. I am no monster of cruelty, but the very kind, indulgent husband of 
a pretty little freakish child-wife, who does not know her own mind for an hour 
together." 

" You mistake my purpose," Isolind said coldly. " I was not implying any- 
thing against you, Mr. Walraven — ^I was not even thinking of you — I was 
thinking only of her y 

"And I am deeply indebted to you for the kindness. But there is no dan- 
ger. Strangers often, indeed always, are alarmed by dear Alexia^s capricious 
ways and exaggerated words. / understand them ; it is my duty to bear with 
them. I hope — ^I trust — ^I am not a bad husband. If Hiere are moments when 
one looks into other faces and other intellects and thinks of what might have 
been, and remembers what is and sighs at the contrast, you. Miss Atheling, 
will surely not regard an involuntary and uncontrollable emotion as a crime?" 

"I know nothing of all that; I have no opinion to give. Once more, Mr. 
Walraven, I am concerned solely for Alexia." 

" You are cruel," the poet replied, and he gently touched her hand, which 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. . 16 

riie quickly drew away. ''You are cmel, Isolind! You know that to me the* 
combination of intellect and beauty in woman is the one exquisite divine ideal 
I have always sighed for; you have seen how I master and keep down my feel- 
ings ; and yet you treat me like a criminal! Have I not always borne myself 
to you with the profoundest respect? " 

** You would hardly venture to bear yourself otherwise, Mr. Walraven," Is- 
olind quietly said. *' I suppose an English gentleman of education would not 
knowingly hurt or insult an unprotected girl. I expect of course tiiat much 
from you, and therefore pray let us not say any more about our own miserable 
little personalities. I knew I ran some risk of misconstruction when I yen- 
tured to obtrude my advice; but I couldn^t help it. I felt as if I must speak, 
and perhaps I have no right to complain of a freedom of speech which I my- 
self provoked. I was brought up, Mr. Walraven, in a country where even un- 
married women claim the right to speak and act like free human creatures, and 
where men acknowledge the right and respect it. No American gentleman 
would have mistaken my purpose or taken unfair advantage of my impulsive 
interference." 

** You are angry, Isolind," he said, and he gently interposed to prevent her 
from passing on; '*you are angry, and you are consequently unjust. Am I to 
blame if I admire youth and beauty and genius — ^if I, a poet, cannot be blind to 
the gifts and the graces of a CorinnaP " 

** Pray, Mr. Walraven, forbear compliments that only offend me, and make 
you seem ridiculous; Life is very serious and sad to me just now " (there were 
tears whidi she could not restrain shining in her eyes), " and I have no heart 
or ear for folly. Mr. Walraven, I trust that you too may not find life serious 
and sad." 

Then she went firmly on; and Walraven, after a moment^s hesitation, pur- 
sued his way. The poet felt a little vexed with himself and a great deal vexed 
with Alexia, for he was convinced that the latter had been complaining of him 
to Isolind and telling tales out of school. So he quietly resolved that Alexia 
must be made to shed some tears by way of punishment. He was quite proud 
of being able to make Alexia cry, and he proposed that this very night perhaps 
he should enjoy his power. Isolind had humbled him ; but he did not much 
mind that. It was rather interesting to hint love to the girl. He always en- 
joyed hinting at love to women when no better pastime could be had; and he 
reflected with a certain almost sensuous complacency that words had passed be- 
tween Isolind and himself which are not commonly interchanged in the beaten 
way of friendship and society between man and woman. He was both piqued 
and interested by Isolind; but he felt toward her no emotion deep or strong 
enough to have prevented him from making love to half a dozen other women 
on the same evening had they come in his way. 

He went on then, annoyed with Alexia, but on the whole in hopeflil and 
brightening mood. He began to see once more that the orescent promise of his 
spirit had not set ; that life and vraman had yet charms for him ; and he hoped 
soon to be free. He was incapable of any deep emotion, good or bad, and even 
tiie ruin of all his schemes and hopes failed to sink him down. He had just the 
levity and the buoyancy of a cork. 

Meanwhile Isolind went on to the ho^l and had her walk for nothing. To 
her utter surprise. Alexia, who had haunted her unceasingly for days, rofhsed 
BOW to see her. Mrs. Wahraven had a bad headache, Isolind was told, and 



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le . LADY JUDITH. [Jult, 

could not see any one. So Isolind retailed home, not offended or even vexed, 
but \ery much surprised. 

Alexia had no headache, but she would not see Isolind. She had made a 
resolve which she would not expose to the risk of a moment^s contact with any 
healthy and vigorous mind and heart. She feared that if she spoke with Iso* 
lind the resolve might give way, and it was a resolve now dear beyond words 
to her sick sad soul. 

The moment Eric revealed his whole real nature to her, Alexia felt that 
lifers purpose and meaning were over for her, and she resolved to die. Sho 
sentenced herself to death. She could not think coherently over the past; she 
could only remember in her wild way that Eric had been her only hope and her 
only love, that she had given up all for him, staked all on him, and that now 
she was nothing more to him, that she had lost everything. In her fretful and 
freakish hours the thought of suicide had been familiar to her. For years she 
had only reconciled herself to the endurance of life by complacently remember- 
ing that she could finish it whenever she pleased. The circumstances of her 
birth and eai'ly training, as well as her physical and mental condition, had ren> 
dered her utterly impervious to any sense of religious obligation. Religion had 
always seemed to her only as a weapon of oppression and torment wielded by 
cold, hard mothers to punish and subdue children. Alexla^s own will, her 
fears and her angers, had always been a law unto her. Love might have .been 
a better law, if Heaven had but allowed it. Love, however, now seemed her 
bitterest foe and her worst betrayer. 

She therefore doomed herself to death. She thought with a fierce delight 
that when she lay dead on her bed, killed by her own hand, even her mother^s ^ 

heart would feel a pang of agony. She smiled bitterly at the thought of the 
scandal and shock it would spread among the precise and stately Corydens ; 
and she exulted in anticipation over the trick she was about to play them. Per- 
haps when he — ^when Eric— came and looked upon her cold, dead body, he *' 
might be soiTy for her, and might wish he had loved her — ^might perhaps then ''^ 
love her once more. "^ 

She went to her dressing-case and found her little dagger, the treasured - 

relic of the Paris Exposition, an& she gloated over its glittering blade and felt *^ 

its sharp point. She delighted to touch it to her flesh and feel how sharp it - ^ 

was, and she loosed her dress and found out where her heart was beating and - ^^ 

put the dagger's point there, and revelled in the thought that one strong 
thrust would finish all. Ah, what a goodly vengeance upon her enemies ! how ^ 

thrilling a rebuke to Eric, whom she so loved! Yes, that would bring back hig '< 

love! He would come and look upon her corpse, and he would take it in his >'! 

arms, and he would be sorry and reproach himself and shed tears because he -inj 

had not loved her always. Would not death be sweet to purchase that atone- ti 

mentP Love and revenge won by one thrust of an inch of steel — ^love and re- "tb] 

venge and sleep! Her poor, passionate, disordered heart revelled in the pros- vf; 

pect of speedy death, as a voluptuary revels in the anticipation of a festival. >?, 

There she sat with the dagger pressed against the side beneath which beat ^i^, 

Uer heart— that wild, sad heart which had trobbed with so many fierce emo- :it: 

iions, and into which love had only come at last, not to redeem, but to destroy. !*«. 

Ah, what sudden spites, and hates, and fitful fierce desires had kept that poor ;|v^ 

little heart in fever-throbs, and now was all going to be still at last? Hardly \^ 

more than a child in years, and already more than an orphan and worse than ^^ 

a widow! AVliere is the father who should have guarded her, tlie motlier who 4. 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. lY 

should have loved her? Oh, if they two, whose ill-assorted union and whose 
selfish quarrels and rancors had left her thus desolate, left her thus a prey to 
fiite and her own disordered passion — if they could but have seen and known, 
would they not have recognized that Heaven had punished their wron^-doing 
with unrelenting hand? Is not the time soon to oome when they shall know it 
—too late? 

The evening shadows deepened, and the murmur of the sea seemed to grow 
louder as the twilight grew more gray. Slowly over the water rose at la^ a 
mild moon. Hardly, it might be thought, could Passion or even Despair have 
looked upon the calm, pure beauty of that scene, and not felt something of its 
soothing spirit, and turned toward some memory of innocence and some hope 
of (jrod. But the murmur of the sea, the unspeakable beauty of the scene and 
the hour, pleaded vainly, pleaded unheard to the ears, the eyes, the soul of Eric 
Walraven's wretched wife, Alexia said truly when she declared that the face 
of Nature had never had any charm for her. She never learned its lesson. It 
never won her for one moment firom herself. Now, in her hour of supreme 
despair, there was no sea or sky or star for her. She was blinded and mad- 
dened ; all around was but blood and fire. 

Yet there was a certain fierce and practical composure about her. When 
the evening grew dark she lighted her lamp and began to write letters to Eric 
and to her mother, which she tore up as fast as they were written. At last she 
renounced the idea of writing to either of them, but determined to leave a let- 
ter for Isolind. Having less emotion in this piece of work, she succeeded easily 
enough. She wrote, sealed, and addressed a letter to '' Miss Isolind Atheling," 
and placed it on her dressing-table, hidden away under various articles so that 
it could hardly be found unless when actual search was made. For some rea- 
son — she could hardly tell what — she would not have her death discovered be- 
fore the morning. When night had come and partly gone, when all were hushed 
in sleep, then she would do the deed ; and when Eric awoke in the morning he 
would see a dead wife lying by his side. She would undress soon now, and 
would be in bed and apparently asleep when Eric came in, and then when he 
fell asleep she would kiss him for the last time— and then ! Ah God, it may be 
that in the mind of the wretched girl there yet lingered some faint sad ghost of 
a hope that when Eric came back he might be kind and loving to her, and un- 
say some of his hard, cruel words, and the sky might fall and the old love and 
life return. It may be that one word of love could yet have saved and re- 
deemed that heart and brain, and left the world richer by the prevention of one 
deed of blood. 

Night had come, and no sounds were heard but the occasional cry of a fisher 
in his boat, the rare tramp of a horse or tread of a human foot. The moon 
grew brighter and brighter. Alexia undressed ; she now had no maid to heli> 
her. She folded and arranged her clothes with a very unusual care, thinking 
that the trouble was not much, and that she should never have to do it again, 
and that she should like to have things look neat in the morning. She started, 
hearing a voice in the room ; and then she found it was her own voice, and that 
she had been talking aloud. She started once again, seeing the room, as she 
thought filled with flame ; but there was no flame. The fire had flashed from 
her own bewildered brain and throbbing eyeballs. 

Being undressed, she crept into bed, and kept her dagger, her last treasure 
and anodyne, in her hand, pressed to her bare bosom, as Cleopatra might have 
held her asp. A sound on the stairs, on the threshold, and she started so that 



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18 LADY JUDITH. [Jult, 

the dagger grazed sliarply against her skin, and Eric entered the room. She 
tamed toward him with eager, sparkling eyes. He never looked at her or near 
her, and she turned away, closed her eyes, and feigned to sleep. 

Eric took np a book and began to read. He was rather displeased that his 
wife was not awake and up to receiye him ; for although he always told her not 
to wait for him, but to go to bed, he wanted this particular night to have scolded 
her for her complaining of him to Isolind. Otherwise he was in a rather good 
humor with everything, except Alexia. He had won a few napoleons at play; 
and he was in good hope to be soon again a free man. 

He read and read on into the night, and Alexia watched his shadow as it 
fell upon the wall near her bed. She watched with straining eyes that seemed 
to burn in thefa* sockets, and she listened with ears wherein the crash of a thou- 
sand cataracts seemed to be thundering. Strange wild forms and faces appeared 
every now and then to crowd around her and gesticulate and gibber at her. 
She longed to scream aloud, and often was on the point of relieving her tor- 
tured heart by a wild cry ; but the mastering pride of her fierce resolution re- 
strained her and upheld her, and the minutes or hours, she little knew which 
they were, went inexorably on. 

At last Eric put away his book and locked at his watch and wound it, and 
yawned. Then he undressed himself slowly and lazily, and extinguished the 
lamp and went into bed. He did not even glance at his wife, and he stretched 
himself as £ur away from her as he conveniently could. People who are not 
good never get any sound sleep in romances and dramas, but in common real 
life they habitually sleep rather more soundly than the virtuous, who are apt to 
torment themselves about their own supposed defects and their nei^bors^ trials 
and sufferings. Neither subject ever gave Eric Walraven any concern, and he 
soon sank into a sleep as peaceful and sweet as that of infancy. 

Then Alexia raised herself on her elbow. Now her time had come. Fare- 
well to the troubled dream, the fever, the delirium whidi had been life to her. 
Farewell to Eric, her one love. She could not but gaze at him as he lay sleep- 
ing and the silver moonlight fell upon his face. Ah, how handsome he looked! 
Like a sleeping god. Alexia thought How beautiful his dark curls as they lay 
upon his pillow. How beautiful the mouth, which had something of the help- 
less appealing look of childhood about it, with its parted lips and the lower jaw 
slightly dropped. How noble and glorious he had always seemed to her, and 
how kind and loving and chivalrous he used to be. Into the gloomy, phantom- 
haunted atmosphere of her life he had flashed all beauty, brightness, and 
strength, like another Perseus, to deliver a poor little Andromeda from bondage 
and pain. She bent over him thinking of all this. What a picture it was — the 
pale, wild, dark-eyed girl, with her long black hair floating over her white gar- 
ment, and the dagger glittering in her hand, and the man sleeping uncon- 
sciously under her eyes, and the pure moonlight flooding the silent room. 

** Oh Eric, my Eric ! " the girl at last exclaimed with a plaintive cry, ** good- 
by, good-by!" 

She bent over him and pressed on his lips one last passionate kiss, and she 
raised the dagger that she might die upon the kiss. 

But the sleeper, half disturbed by the cry and the kiss, turned angrily away, 
and consciously or unconsciously tlurust her from him with the arm which had 
been lying outside the clothes — thrust her from him with such vehemence and 
such suddenness that it seemed like a blow on the girPs unprotected breast. 
Then a shrill scream of passion, of something more tlian passion, burst from 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 19 

Alexia^a lips, and her cherished pnrpoee was gone, had vaniahed, was swallowed 
up and drowned In a flood of new, resistless fary ; and she remembered no more 
who she was or what arm had thrust her aside, and her dagger descended sharp 
and fierce into the white tibroat of the sleeper. Once he opened his eyes and 
<;ased into hers, and gavB a cry of terror and horror and tried to rise, and onoe 
more the dagger came down ; and with a sob and a gurgle Walrav en succumbed 
to his £eU», and the poet who sang the ** Mystery of the Universe " had solyed 
its greatest mystery at last. 

All of Alexia^s purpose was gone. The stroke which had extinguished hor 
husband^s life seemed to have extinguished the last gleams of her flickering 
reason. Only a dead man and a mad woman were in that ghastly chamber. 

Alexia appeared to have caught up some kind of notion of flight and escape 
firom danger. She opened the window, which was quite a low one within a few 
inches of the ground, and, half clad as she was, sprang into the moonlight, and 
ran across the grass plot surrounding the hotel and out through the gate, and 
sped along the road that wound by the verge of the clifls. Not a cry or sound 
of any kind escaped her. 

That night Isolind AtheHng lay long awake. There was a kind of fighting 
in her heart, as in Hamlet^s, which wpuld not let her sleep. She thought of her 
own sad life, of the shame which had fallen so heavily on her, of the love she 
had renoimced, of Angelo, and in all her own sorrows she thought too of Alex- 
ia's unhappy fate and the danger that seemed to threaten her. The brightness 
oi the moon, the murmur of the waves, were tempting to the heart of the 
young poetess, and she arose and wrapped a shawl around her and stood at the 
window and fed her soul for a while on the old, the immemorial thought of all 
lovers, that the eyes of the loved one are now perhaps fixed like mine on that 
moon. With that thought arose the proud, coocsoling reflection that at least she 
was loved; that were she never to see Angelo more, yet she held his love in 
her heart and had the privilege of always loving him. Thinking of this, she 
thou^t of poor Alexia, whose &te was so much harder, and her heart was 
pierced with a pang of pity. 

Was it her thought which had so filled her as to call up a mind-created 
phantom before her? Surely that was the figure of a girl all in white and with 
streaming black hair — a figure like the ghost of Alexia, which appeared on the 
road in firont of the cottage! For a moment a shudder ran throu^ Isolind's 
firame ; the imaginative nature never can purge itself wholly of the sudden 
recognition of the supernatural. But the form had disappeared. No, behold 
it comes again, emei^es from behind the shrubs that grow in front of the cot- 
tage. It comes wandering or flickering vaguely, like a very ghost, on the 
senp^ of lawn or turf under the cottage windows. It w a girl in a night-dress ; 
some somnambulist perhaps. And then it looks up, with such eyes! at the 
windows, and Isolind sees that it is indeed Alexia, and all her old misgivings 
and fears rudi in upon her with terrible confirmation. Not a moment to be 
lost; the white wanderer is already turning away. Isolind waits to give no 
alarm, but hurries down stairs, gendy opens the door, with swift steps pursues 
the fiigitive, and throws her arms round Alexia. 

" Alexia, dear Alexia, don't you know me ? I am Isolind. Come with me. '' 

For the first glance has told her that it is no case of somnambulism, that 
such sense as is left to the wretched girl is not locked in sleep. 

Alexia looks at her with purposeless, affrighted, unanswering gaze, and 
struggles a li^e and tries to escape, but utters no word or sound. 



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20 IJIDY JUDITH. [July. 

Isolind was sbrong, aotiye, and resolute. She lifts Alexia in her arms as if 
she had been a child, and carries her into the cottage. Alexia straggles no 
more, bat allows her head to rest on the shoulder <^ her bearer as a tired infant 
might do. Isolind carries her into her own room, and lays her in her own 
bed, and covers her carefidly and closely ; so closely that tiie oovering forms u 
kind of bondage to check any sodden attempt at escape. Bat Alexia makes no 
attempt; she lies motionless and stares at Isolind and round the room witli 
wide-open, yWnt, wild eyes, and with a littie quiver and tremble round her 
mouth as if cries or tears were coming, which, however, come not. Then Iso- 
lind, having made £wt tiio window and puUed down the blinds, lights her 
lamp, and partiy shading it with her hand draws near tiie girl in the bed; and 
it requires all her self-control to repress a shriek when ^e sees for the first 
time thatAlexia^s night-dress and her own are spattered and stained with 
blood. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

ALEXIA RECOGNIZES HBR MOHTHRR. 

Was there ever a ni^t that seemed so long to human watcher as the night 
when she sheltered Alexia seemed to Isolind? It was late, very late, when 
Isolind brought in her arms her unhappy fHend and laid her in her bed ; the 
dawn came soon, and yet how terrible a time it seemed! Isolind did not see 
any use in giving a wild alarm, in awakening Mrs. Atheling or the woman 
who owned the cottage, or either of the two servants. It seemed to her that 
the best thing to do for Alexia would probably be to give her a few hours of 
perfect quiet, if possible to induce her to sleep. So she dressed herself and 
then sat like a nurse by Alexia^s side, and endeavored gentiy to soothe and 
compose her, as one deals with a convulsive child. She had no suspicion what- 
ever of all the terrible truth. She assumed tiiat tiiat had happened which slu^ 
had been lately dreading, that Alexia^s reason had suddenly broken down, and 
that in Eric Walraven^s absence the girl had escaped fh>m her home. On 
Alexia^s arms and hands she found some scratches and wounds, evidently 
caused by her having fallen somewhere among tiie cliffo as she came along; 
and this fact seemed enough to account for the Mood-stains on the night-dress. 
So she made no alarm, ^ut quietiy sat by her patient, bathed her temples, 
hands, and wrists in water, gave her some water to drink, which Alexia swal- 
lowed mechanically-— oh, how Isolind longed for some of the plenteous, ever- 
abundant ice-water of New York! — and tried to induce her to sleep. 

Alexia spoke no word. In her eyes gleatned no sign of recognition. The 
black orbs now dilated, now shrank, the form sometimes cowered and oqp- 
tracted, the lips sometimes quivered as if a scream were about to come, but no 
sound came forth. Sometimes a fit of violent shuddering and shivering came 
over the gurl, and then her iace and form were cold as marble, and when Iso- 
lind held her in her arms she seemed to cling to the warmth thus given. 
Again a sudden heat came over her, and perspiration stood upon her white 
forehead and neck; and Isolind drew the bed-clothes partly down, and finnned 
and cooled the poor creature ; and Alexia seemed to feel the soothing and re- 
fireshing influence. But there was no sensation indicated other than one of tiie 
lower animals might have felt. No ray of responding intelligence shone in the 
gleaming, glaring eyes ; and the tremulous lips trembled all in vain. 

Meanwhile the dawn came, and Isolind extinguished her lamp. The first 



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1871.] . • LADY JUDITH. 21 

beams of the son— IsoHhd onoe used to call them "the nm-dogs/' a phrase 
fiuniliar to American childron — glittered over the sea, and the orange and purple 
splendor of the smirise shone on the eastern waves. The household would 
soon begin to be astir. Already there were trampllngs and clatterings of 
wooden shoes heard on the road and among the stones of the beaoh; and the 
bathing-carts would soon begin to be in demand, and the horses to be harnessed 
which were to drag the modern Tritons and Nereids out to meet the welcome 
of the advancing waves. People rose very early in this little place, and the 
shrill voice of Madame the owner of the house was usually he&rd with first 
cqek-'crow, as the lady scolded and urged her two serving-women. IsoHnd did 
not venture to leave Alexia for a moment, and yet she was very reluctant to 
summon either of the servants and prematurely, perhaps needlessly, expose to 
conunon gossip a calamity which might yet possibly be healed, or at least kept 
from public observation. She took it for granted that before morning had &r 
advanced Brio Walraven would come to seek his wife — ^Eric Wahaven, who 
was now lying a hideous spectacle in the purple ra3rs of the rising sun, with 
the blood clotted all over his neck and shoulders, and glueing to the pillows 
the beautiful black curls of which the child he married used to be so fond and 
80 proud. 

Sometimes Alexia made a sudden eftbrt to rise from the bed as if to escape. 
Once when Isolind, hearing a step on the lobby outside, went to the door hop- 
ing to see Mrs. Atheling, poor Alexia sprang out of bed and crossed tbe floor, 
and Isolind only caught her when she had reached the window. But these at- 
tempts seemed only vague impulses springing feebly from some passing mem- 
ory or association, and in no way belonging to the fixed and cunning purpose 
winch is so common an accompaniment of madness. For when Isolind gently 
laid her' in bed again she made no resistance, but ratlier seemed each time to 
welcome the recovered warmth and shelter. Yet even those feeble attempts at 
escape made Isolind less and less willing to leave her for a moment. 

At last, after a delay which seemed to Isolind long and fearful enough to 
have turned ^her hair gray, she heard Mrs. Atheling^s footstep outside and she 
gently called to her. Then she seated herself on the bed so as completely to 
hide poor Alexia, in order that she might gain time to prepare Mrs. Atheling 
and prevent any outburst of alarm. Mrs, Atheling bustled into the room, and 
came over with a dash of uneasiness in her face to kiss Isolind. 

" Why, Isolind, my love, I'm afraid you're sick ; kiss me good morning. 
What is the matter with you? " 

*«Dear mamma, ^11 you please be very calm, and don't be alarmed in the 
least, and above all don't make any noise. Poor Alexia is here, in my bed, 
and I'm afraid — ^I'm afraid her senses are quit^e gone." 

Then she gently withdrew, and allowed Mrs. Atheling to see the poor girl 
in the bed. She was afraid of the effect Upon Alexia of a new figure at her 
bedside. But it was a lost fear. There might have been two or twenty. No 
new expression came into Alexia's eyes ; her lips quivered as idly and vainly 
as before. 

Then Mrs. Atheling, thus prepared, and being really a capital nurse and 
diarged with all manner of healing devices and expedients, proved herself a 
wondei^illy humane, tender, and useful auxiliary to Isolind. The two wcmien 
agreed that the thing must^ if possible, be kept quiet until Mr. Walraven should 
come to look for hi» wife, which he was certain to do whenever he missed her. 

Leaving Mri. Atheling in charge of the patient, Isolind presently went 
2 ^1 

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IS LADY JUDITH- [July. 

down stnirs to get at and prepare some soothing medioines which the old hidy 
regarded as of ineffiible vahie. She heard the Toices of madame, of the two 
serrantft, and oi some man, all in a chorof of wonder, fnty, and horror, over 
some news apparently brought by the man who stood at the <^n door. 

•• O mon Dion ! " " O Grand Dien." " Quelle trag^e ! " " Comment, k 
mari de cette petite dame An^aise?" **Mais, c'est afi&reuxl" **Commeil^ 
^tait grand at beau avee see oheveux noirs!*^ ''Assassin^ — dans son lift — la 
nuit pass^?^' *«Par des assassins, des voleurs, dit-onP" ««Eh mon Dieu, 
je a'en sals rien/^ ** Et sa femme, est-ce qu^elle aussi est to^eP '* 

And so on, through exclamations, inquiries, and replies which made Isp- 
lind^s blood run cold, and her knees tremble beneath her. Gkx>d heavens, 
what new calamity was this? Was it indeed of Eric Walraven that she heard 
them talk? Covld it be that he had really been mt^dered by some enemy in 
the night, and that the sight had driven Alexia madP 

Isolind constrained herself into composure of manner, and joining the group 
she asked what the terrible story mi^t be. Her fears were only too soon con- 
firmed. The tall and handsome English gentleman with the pretty little dark- 
haired En^sh wife had been found murdered in his bed at the Hdtel Imperial — 
murdered with several wounds and with a dagger left in his heart! No one 
could conjecture how it had been done. No one knew what had beeome of the 
lady his wife. Perhaps she had been murdered and her body hidden some- 
where, pertiaps the assassins had carried her off; who knows? 

** But assassins, brigands, ravishers in Villefleurs, and in the Hdtd Imp^riaU 
and this the nineteenth century! " said the hostess, shrugging her shouiderB. 

'* Eh! but was there not the aflldr DumoUard the other day — ^more strange 
by far? ^' urged the man who had brought the news; '* and then those English 
quarrel among themselves, and have such strange, di*oll ways of revenge.*^ 

*'The Uttie English lady was very beautiful; perhaps there was some dis- 
carded lover who cherished vengeance against the husband," suggested one of 
the two women. 

** Perimps a lover not discarded," the man began ; but madame gowned him 
down, and said in an undertone, '« Taisez v<m$ done ! The lady is of the Mends 
most intimate of mademoiselle." 

'* That which is certain then," the man replied with the ak of one who con- 
sents to close an unwelcome discussion, *' is that monsieur lies dead yonder, 
murdered in his bed with a poniard in his heart, and that the little madame has 
not been found anywhere." 

Isolind had heard quite enough. Her limbs shivered, her head throbbed, 
she could scarcely stand or walk. Wild and Mghtful coi\jeotures now at ket 
began to force themselves upon her. Even without time to conmder the terri- 
ble business coolly, it yet seemed impossible to believe that either meroenary 
assassins or personal enemies conM have slain Walraven during the night in a 
crowded liotel, and nc one have seen or known anything of their purpose or 
existence. Walraven had always seined to her a creature too mean and mi»- 
erable to have any relentless melodramatic enemies. But Alexia in utter mad^ 
ness, Alexia^s night-dress stained with b]ood--<ttd not all this point to a solu- 
tion <^ the mystery f^T more awful to conceive than any tliat the ouriosHj or 
morbid conjecture of the goseif^g talkers at the door had yet suggested? 

Isolind made up her mind that, leaving Alexia to Mrs. Atheling^ care, she 
would fly in the face of all French decorum by going over alone to the Hdtel 
Imperial, and finding out for herself all that oould yet be known. She resolved 



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ISri.] . LADY JUDITH. 23 

that ^e would not hint any of her dreadful suspicions to Mrs. AtheUng unless 
something ^hould come to make them more than suspicions. She hurried up 
stairs, and merely told the old lady that she thought she must go over to the 
hotel and ask for Mr. Walraven. Alexia Jay still and open-eyed as before, 
and Isolind knew that Mrs. Atheling could take good cfore of her. 

So she put on her hat and shawl and went on her dismal walk. As she was 
in the habit of going out before breakfast most mornings, no one in the house 
felt any surprise now. 

But she had not gone a dozen paces from the door when she saw a little 
chambermaid from the Hdtel Imp<^rial, whom she well knew as the usual at- 
tendant at Alexia's apartment, coming hurriedly and out of breath toward her. 
The girl hardly waited to answer Isolind's questioh as to the truth of the story 
about Walraven's death, but pulled hastily from her bosom a letter which 'she 
thrust into Isolind's hand. She was the first -who entered the room, the girl 
said, and she 'found a letter there addressed to Isolind which — which she 
thought mademoiselle would like to have, would think it well to have, before 
justice should proceed to inform itself of why monsieur had slain himself. The 
girl eyed Isolind with intense curiosity and interest. Isolind took the let- 
ter — she knew Alexia's hand — ^with eager and trembling fingers. She thanked 
the girl cordially, gave her a few francs out of her slender purse, and hurried 
back toward the cottage. Isolind will never to her dying day have the faintest 
suspicion of the conjecture formed by that French girl as to the reason of mon- 
sieur's " suicide," and the purport of the letter found on his dressing-table and 
addressed to the belle Amdricaine, the friend of the little dark-haired dame An- 
glaise, his wife. 

Isolind did not wait to get home before opening and reading the letter. 
She turned down a little rocky path, or rather cleft in the clifls and rocks lead- 
ing t» the strand, and there, where no eye could see her emotion, she read poor 
Alexia's words of &rewell. 

Wednesday Evening. 

My Dear Isolind : I suppose I ought to begin this in the regular style of a 
heroine of romance, and say : Before these lines trmch your hand the writer 
will be no more. Seriously — and indeed, my dear, things look very serious 
with me now — I have made up my mind to die. You know why ! I am of no 
value to any one ; I have no motive in living. I always hated life until lately, 
for a short happy time, and now I hate it more than ever. Please don't be too 
much shocked and horrified. I am going to kill myself to-night, late, when I 
have seen Eric for the last time. Of course he shall know nothing about it un- 
til he wakes in the morning and finds that his unhappy distracted wife is dead. 
Perhaps he can make a poem out of it; I shouldn't wonder! O God, how I 
loved him! 

Tell Lady Judith, if ever you should see her again» that she needn't distress 
herself too much about my eternal salvation. I dare say I shall come out all 
right; I don't feel at all afiraid. I don't believe God is half as bad as some peo- 
ple make him out. 

Some time, Isolind, you will be happy and will marry Angelo Volney. Tell 
him I always loved him dearly, and tiiAt I think him a youth favored of the 
gods — ^first because he marries you. and next because he escaped me. 

Is it not strange, I feel in quite a wild, excited, half-delighted condition at 
sndi a thno, not at all like one sentenced to death? I feci as if I had been tak- 
ing opfmn or hasheesh, or the greenish stuff they drink in Paris. Because I 



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24 LADY JUDITH. [Jllt, 

have been so sick of life and I long for rest. Didti^t some philosopher or poet 
or somebody say life was only a disease of- the soul? Ah God, how some of us 
hare felt the truth of that! 

Perhaps I shall meet my father! Good-by, Isolind. Think sometimes of 
the friend you have lost! 

Don^t blame hifn too much. It is not his fault! Alexia. 

Isolind^s tears fell thick and fast as she read and re-read these lines, seem- 
ingly the last farewell of the writer^s extinguishing reason. She could some- 
times scarcely read the p^es for the tears that blotted them, could hardly hold 
the letter in her trembling fingers. The characteristic style, full to the last of 
petulance and audacity, covering still a heart that might have been fidl of love 
and rich in the power of giving happiness — the style, so reckless, bold, and 
cynical — added new and unspeakable pathos to the sadness of the whole trag- 
edy. But the letter, with all its audacious firankness, threw hardly any light on 
the subsequent events. One passage only, that in which Alexia spoke of wait- 
ing to see Eric once more, served in any way to help Isolind to guess at the re- 
ality. Alexia had waited to see him once more, had- perhaps wholly lost her 
reason in tlie mean time, or had been driven wild by some slight or harsh- 
ness on his part. This seemed the only possible explanation, as we now 
know it was !» substance the true one. But, however it had come to pass, Iso- 
lind now felt not the slightest doubt that from the hand o£ Alexia Walraven 
came the death-blow to her husband. 

Even at that moment Isolind could hardly spare one gleam of pity for the 
dead man. That he, that any creatm'e, had been so suddenly slain and by such 
a hand, was a thing appalling to contemplate ; but Isolind's pity went wholly 
to Alexia. In this case the victim seemed indeed the evil-doer, the slayer the 
object of compassion and sympathy. Erom the first hour when she saw him, 
Isolind had felt an unaccountable dislike and contempt for Eric Walraven. 
She had read the man^s shallow nature like a book. Pure and womanly as was 
her own noble heart, yet she had enough of dramatic perception to see into the 
feeble viciousness of his character, combining as it did the meanest cunning of 
a low woman with the most selfish passions of the basest man. Her tlioughts 
were now therefore all for Alexia; how to save her, if it might be, from expo- 
sure; how, perhaps, even to save her from the knowledge of what she had 
done, should reason one day return to her distracted and tempest-tossed mind. 

It seemed to Isolind that the two things now to be hoped for and aimed at 
wwe, that Eric Walraven should be supposed to have died by suicide, and that 
Alexia^s madness should be regarded as the result of the shock produced upon 
her by the sight of his dead body. Oh, how she longed for Judge Atheling to 
be near! The counsel and the active assistance of a Tyrant Man like him, to 
whom everything could be trusted, would have been of inestimable value. Is- 
olind came mournfully to the conclusion that she had better not make a confi- 
dante of good Mrs. Atheling, whose discretion and skill were to be hnplicltly 
trusted in ministering to an ordinary patient, in preparing a soothing draught, 
smoothing a piUow, or changing a garment; but whose courage and discretion 
might perhaps give way before the utterly unexpected difficulty of having to 
care for an insane woman who had killed her husband. 

Meanwhile, it was certain that the fact of Alexia^s being in Isolind^s room 
could not much longer be concealed. Isolind therefore at once made a virtue. 
of necessity, and returning home took the madame into her confidence and told 



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1671.] LADY JUDITH. 25 

her that the young English lady, evidently driven mad by the sight of her hus- 
band's dead body, had wandered during the night to her threshold and was now 
lying in Isolind^s bed. Madame was a little shooked at first; if we all kept 
lodging-houses, we should not like to hear of maniacs in our apartments ; but 
she soon warmed into sympathy, and agreed with Isolind that the little lady 
must not be removed, at least, until her mother could be sent for. It must be 
owned that Isolind dwelt strongly on the immense wealth, splendid rank, and 
august pride of the little lady's mother, leaving madame to foi'm vague and 
vast expectatious of the possible advantages which might accrue to those who 
helped to render a service to so I'ioh and powerful a personage. So madame 
promised to do all she could, and to exert herself to the utmost m order to keep 
the servants quiet and discreet. 

Isolind requested madame to send for a physician, who came and saw poor 
Alexia, but of course could say nothing of her condition which was not ah'eady 
patent to every eye. He o^mied that he should have to make a report to the 
autiK)rities, and that justice would presently inform herself; intimated that per- 
haps justice might feel called on to take charge of Alexia pending the develop- 
ment of instructions. Whereupon Isolind declared that she was herself ready 
to lend every aid and give every information in her power to further -the mis- 
sion of justice ; and that if justice desired to come and see Alexia in her bed, 
justice was welcome to do so. But our heroine peremptorily announced that 
until Lady Judith Scarlett could be sent for and arrive, neither justice nor any- 
body else save herself, Isolind, and her moUier should take charge of the un- 
happy ^1. The physician began perhaps to have vague ideas of Isolind^s 
spreading the flag of the Stars and Stripes across the threshold of the cottage, 
and defying the Emperor himself to tread where that emblem lay^ He under- 
took at her suggestion to telegraph at once to Lady Judith Scarlett, whose ad- 
dress in London Isolind gave him, and summon her to the bedside of her child. 

Presently justice did make her aj^arance, in the person of a magisti'ate 
and one or two other functionaries. They were admitted to see Alexia, who 
gazed on them with her open black eyes, but was utterly unconscious of their 
presence. Isolind told all that she knew of Eric Walraven^s circumstances, his 
poverty, his debts, and his probable despair when he found that Lady Judith 
would do notiiing for him. She described plainly and truthfiilly Alexia's wan- 
dering round the cottage, and how she had seen her and brought her in. She 
did not feel bound to produce or even allude to the letter written by Alexia td 
her. In truth Isolind was, like most other persons, women especially, totally 
indifferent to the maintenance of the formulas of legal procedure in a foreign 
country; and she felt neither inclined nor in duty bound to help French justioe 
to a true understanding of all this sad and shocking story. 

Meanwhile the whole population of yillefleui*s began to learn what had hap- 
pened and to grow excited about it. In the Etablissement, a new building 
where in wet weather you could look at the sea from a glass gallery, and where 
journals were read, billiards and croquet were played, and fashions were ex- 
hibited, it formed the grand theme of conversation. In the small cabarets at 
the port, where groups of bearded men in blouses played dominoes and drank 
an extraordinary liquid supposed to be beer, the story was told and commented 
on and criticised. The bonnes on the beach chattered of nothing else. The 
bare-legged fisher girls even had the tale distorted out of all reality by grotesque 
and hideous additions. The English residents held a meeting, presided over 
by Ihe Vice-Consul, at which they adopted resolutions of sympathy with the 



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ae LADY JUDITH. [July. 

poet^s bereaved widow, and lud the ba^is of a subecription for a monumeut to 
the poet himself. Those who the pi*evioii8 day sneered at Eric Walraven, or 
cut him dead on the pier, or denounoed him as a humbug, cad, and swindler, 
were now among the loudest in their appreciation of his high poetic genius and 
their admiration of his noble character. Eric himself held lordly kve'e all the 
time in his room in the Hdtel Imperial. He lay in his bed* as supreme an ob- 
ject of interest, as completely master of the bourns attention, as though he had 
been the Grand Monarch himself. If the poor poet was really at that moment 
. looking down upon his body as it lay there, and if Eric WaJtraven in the skies 
retained any flavor of the nature of Eric Walraven on the earth, how proud 
and delighted he must have been to find himself the object of so intense and 
general an interest. Why, it was almost like being canonized. Vanity itself 
oould have asked for no richer satisfaction. All his life through the poor wretch 
now dead had placed himself in an attitude to extort human admiration. To 
be looked at, to be pointed out, to be admired by the eyes of women, to ))e en- 
vied by the hearts of men — ^tiiis had been the object and motive of his life; and 
if he could only have seen himself now in death, he must have owned with 
pride that he had at last achieved a great part of his ambition. Surely it would 
be worth the while of such a man to die, if he could, a thousand deaths, were 
it but to exyoy the tears and the ejaculations of admiration which broke from 
theteyes and lips of the few privileged women who were permitted to enter the 
room and peep at him as he lay dead. His last public exhibition had been as 
carefully and picturesquely arranged as he himself could have planned it. The 
bedclothes were neatly disposed so as to show to the utmost advantage his face, 
his curls, his arms, and his wounds. He looked so young, so noble, and so 
beautiful, that no chambermaid saw him without shedding tears of sentiment. 
Justice came and inspected him ; took solemn note of his wounds, and carried 
off, as a usefiil and valuable memento, the little poniard wherewith he was done 
to death. Surgery came and studied him and did him honor ; minutely in- 
spected his gashes as if they had been those which let out the life of Julius Cae- 
sar, and prepared reports of his corporeal condition solemn and specific enough 
to have registered the fette of the first of murdered men. Every official per- 
sonage, French, English, and American, in the place was allowed to enter and 
pass through the room where the dead body lay in state. Sevei'al photogi*a- 
phers, native, English, and American, were permitted to reproduce the fine face 
and rich black curls of the dead man in cheap and ready portraiture. The poet 
who had discovered or invented the locality, and who has been already men- 
tioned, was prompt to pay his respects to 1^ dead brotibei*; and although he 
had never read one line of the writings of Eric Wakaven or of any English 
versemaker whatever, yet he was stricken by such an inspiration of fraternity 
and admiration that he threw off some powerful and thrilling lines that very 
evening, about the minstrel from the foreign soil, tossed on the shore of beau- 
teous France, ** es^firarU " there " sur sa lyre,^' and having chaplets of myitle 
and laurel flung upon his immature ceroueil by the hands of those who, rivals 
once, were only votaries and admkers now. 

This little place had as yet no direct communication with any foreign coun- 
try. The English and American visitors who began to pour in thei-e came from 
Paris by railway to a station some seven miles away, and made the rest of the 
Journey on wheels, or they came from England to one of the established and 
famous bathing places on the coast, and journeyed thence by diligence or car- 
riage. This particular day, when the evening was beginning to descend, a car- 



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1871.] LADY JUDlTfl. 27 

riage with poBtOUonfl drove into the town, comiag from one of the places lately 
mentio&ecU and drew op in fcont of the Hdtel Imperial. Monsieur the landlord 
came out, and a stately, beautifld English lady (he knew by her accent that she 
was Engli^ althoogfa she spoke French admirali^y) alighted, followed by an- 
otiber lady and a maid, and inquired for Madame Walrayen. The startled land- 
lord told the lady the appalling story which such a question naturally inyited, 
and Judltii Soarlett hetud that her daughter's husband lay dead within a few 
paces of where she stood. Her errand of mercy came aQ too late, ^e had 
tamed her proud heart and r^ented in Tain. 

Lady Judith had left London, as we know, on her own impulse. She had, 
of course, not reoeired the telegraphic message of that morning. She had left 
town the previous idght. Sbe was on her way to save her daughter even while 
the daughter's hand was descending madly to seek that heart which in IHe Eric 
Walrayen had never showed tliat he possessed. Too late by one day, by one 
night — too late by a thousand years, by all time! 

**May God forgive him — ^and me! " was Lady Judith's murmured ejacula- 
tions. Then she asked more loudly : 

•• Where is my daughter? " 

Monsieur the landlord hardly knew; he was not clear; he knew she was 
somewhere ; he had heard that an American lady had taken her in charge. 

Half a dozen Ibungers round the door were better informed. They could 
direct the coachman to the very place. 

Lady Judith got into her carriage ag)iin. She spoke not one word to Miss 
Bruce, who was her companion. The carriage drove on for a little way along 
the clifSs, and then stopped at a pretty cottage, the wrong one ; then at another, 
the right one. Madame of the house came out, and was surprised to find that 
she stood already in the presence of the grand English lady, the mother of the 
poor mad creature within. Madame began in her kindly way to prepare Lady 
Judith for what she was to see, telling her that the shock had been too much 
for the nerves of la patsvre peiUe dame^ but tliat without doubt the good God 
would soon restore her, and that meantime the American ladies had been all 
kindness and devotion. But Lady Judith hardly heard a word of this, and did 
not heed what she heard. She only asked in weary tones to be allowed to see 
her daughter. 

Then madame led her up stidrs, tapped at a door, said a word or two to Iso- 
lind which caused her to start and grow red, and presently the good woman 
led in the visitor, and Lady Judith stood by the bedside of her daughter. 

The Venetian blinds of the room were partly closed to ahut out the slanting, 
pitiless rays of the evening sun. Lady Judith did not stay to observe who the 
other figure in the room might be. She hastened to the bed and bent over Alexia. 
At the other side of the bed, withdrawing herself as well as she might from 
observation, stood IsoMnd. Mrs. Atheling was not then in the room. 

Judith Scarlett bent her proud and beautiful form over her pallid child, 
whose bright black eyes looked vacantly up. 

•* Alexiar-O my child, my daughter-— don't you know me? " 

And it was then that Alexia gave her first sign of the possession of any ray 
of consciousness. The voice seemed to rouse her into a vague, dim sort of rec- 
ognition ; and the girl's form shrank together, and she drew herself away as far 
as she could, drew herself to the other side of the bed, and there, becoming in 
some way conscious of Isolind's presence, feebly made a. movement as if she 
would extend her arms toward her. Isolind did not at first respond to this sign 



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28 ABBA3rE AUX DAMES. [July, 

of unexpected reoognition, this pathetio appeal. In tiie presence, oi Alexia^6 
mother it seemed like a cruelty, almost a profanity, for any other arms to enfold 
the child. 

Lady Judith was stricken to the heart. She had seen her daughter's fir^t 
impulse of recognition, and it was shown in an involuntary, a convulsive e£E6rt 
to escape from her. But the bitterness of the pang was still to come. For 
when Alexia turned toward the other figure in the room the English lady a8r 
sumed that it was that of the person who, as she qow vaguely remembered 
having heard the landlady say, had taken Alexia in charge — some kindly and 
generous woman utterly unknown to her, but whom she was now in her hum- 
bled and agonissed condition prepared to acknowledge m a benefactress. Fol- 
lowing then with a quick glance the movement of her daughter. Lady Judith 
looked for the first time closely at the figure which on the other side of thQ bed 
seemed retiring into the dim lig^t, and she saw that Alexia, from the touch of 
her mother, was feebly trying to stretch her arms to embrace Isolind Atheling. 

A cry broke from the afflicted mother — a wail which no agoi^ of her previ- 
ous life had ever wrung from her — the death-shriek of her haughty self-reliance 
and long-enduring pride. She pressed her hands to her forehead and covered 
her eyes for a moment— only a moment — during which her whole heart and 
natiure were torn by one of those terrible struggles which now and then con- 
vulse strong souLs, and which in a mere flash can destroy or reorganize a whole 
character. Then Lady Judith said in a low, calm tone, not speaking that any 
one might hear, but as if she were uttering an acknowledgment which she felt 
to be a solemn and righteous expiation : 

" This is indeed the judgment of God! Thy will be done ! " 

Then she looked firmly and bravely to where Isolind still seemed shrinking 
back, and said in a voice that hardly trembled : 

** She appeals to you. Miss Atheling. Don^t refuse the appeal. Take my 
poor child in your arms ; you have the right, for you have been kind and lovipg 
to her. I thank you from my heart for trying to spare my feelings — ^I did not 
try once to spare yours." 

*' Oh, Lady Judith," murmured Isolind with eyes full of tears, ** 1 never 
blamed you, and I loved you so much." 

A light of sudden and genuine surprise came, even at that moment^ into 
Lady Judith's eyes. There was then some one who had loved her, and that was 
the daughter of the woman she had hated most on earth. 

Now she knelt by the bedside of her own daughter and prayed in silence. 
For more than an hour no word was spoken as the sinking sun still faintly 
lighted that melancholy room. 



ABBAYE AUX DAMEa 



SWEETEST place to live or die in, 
Lovely, smiling, fresh to view; 
Hillocks green the weary lie in. 
Fallen asleep in Botd^Dieul 



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1871.] ABBAYE AUX DAMES. 29 

Holy living, holy dying, where each path seems good and true. 
Only tiiat the fatal motto haunts us, ** Elles ne sortent plus." 

Haunts us w^ a thought of pressing 

All the ruby from the rose, 
By an ashen hue coufes.iog 
Bloom with fragrance idly blows. 
Not aloue are flowers protesting; diamonds flash from out the dew; 
From the zenith stars are gleaming; naught saith, ** Elles ne sortent plus." 

Naught but man the God denieth« 

Spurning boldly of His good ; 
EearM of what He supplietb, 
Hiding from His angry mood! 
Better, to our Christian thinking, mingled rosemary and rue, 
Than the heart's-ease singly blowing, whispering, "• Elles ne sortent plus." 

Through each life some knell is ringing. 

Closing £Eist a garden door. 
Dumb to all our tenderest singing. 
Wildest pleading, evermore! 
But to dioose this cloistered living, from the sunshine seek the yew! 
No, ah no! till God has said it, say niC^ *' Elles ne sortent plus." 

He to each a cross is sending, 

M^»d with divinest eye ; 
To it low and lower bending. 
Not out-reaching while on hi^. 
He retains it, not rejecting fairest gems that earth bestrew ; 
We, as tmstfhl children haj^^, wait Eis ** Elles ne sortent plus." 

Crentle sisters! softly gliding 

Where your st^Tiest duties call. 
Can there be an angel guiding. 
When in stone your hearts you wall? 
Awe and love for your devotion to the poor our doubts subdue, 
Bi^ •* the poor are with y<Mi always " ; why then " Elles ne jsortent plus " P 

Thus I mused as sauntering slowly 

Through the Abbaye and SoteU 
Where lea damea in office holy 
Strive in goodness to excel. 
Still I mused in thought conflicting, till this truth its radiance threw. 
That true souls bloom best in freedom, not when ** elles ne sortent plus." 

Mbs. Mabx B. Dodge. 



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REPUBLICANISM IN ENGLAND. 
\ 

ABOUT the middle of September last, on a beantiM and wann eyenin^, 
there was a great publfe meeting or <* demonstration " in Trafalgar 
Square, London. To describe Tra&lgar Square to any one who has been in Lon- 
don would be almost as superfluous as to faror liie readers of ** The G^alaxy " 
with a description of City Hall Park, or to entertain the veteran European tour- 
ist with an account of the Place de la Coneorde in Paris. But there may be 
some of my readera who have not been in London, and to these I may say that 
Trafalgar Square (pronounced by the late Sir Robert Peel the finest site in 
Europe) is a huge open space in the very heart of London life. It is a square 
much lower in level at one side than at the other ; it is bounded at one end by 
the National Gallery and Pall 'Mall, at another by Nortinunberland House and 
the Strand. It looks from one comer right down to the Houses of Parliament, 
and from another along to St. Jameses Palace. It has no gardens in the midst, 
but only a stony plateau, adorned with fountains which might remind a New 
Yorker of the public works of •* Boss " Tweed, and statues which suggest per- 
petual contracts witli Vinnie Ream paid in advance; but, injustice to London 
it should be added, adorned too by 1% Edwin Landseer's four g^antio majestic 
lions of bronze. Such is Trafalgar Square physically and materially ; but of late 
it has come to possess a moral individuality, a political significance. Trafalgar 
Square is tlie unroofed Faneuil Hall or Cooper Institute of the London working 
man. On Trafalgar Square were held all the great popular meetings which 
helped so much toward the passing of the reoent Reform Bill. The multitude 
fills the square, the chairman and orators gather round the base of the Nelson 
. column, the gamins scramble and duster on the badu of the bronase lions. No 
voice of mortal orator could be heard beyond a very limited section of the |||reat 
enclosure ; and indeed the speech-making seldom amounts to much. Perha])s 
it is needless to say that no speaker of any political mark ever makes his ap- 
pearance at one of these demonstratioDS. They are ** demonsti-ations ^^ and 
nothing else ; eloquence would be wfaoUy thrown away there. Nobody listens 
to much of the speech-making, even among those who are near enough to hear 
it; but there is abundant cheering and gix>aning as the names of popular or 
unpopular men and measures are shouted out. Popular reform songs or revo- 
lutionary songs are sung in chorus, and banners are displayed, and torches are 
sometimes flourished, ^and bands play; and the whole thing is irregular, inco- 
herent, noisy, tumultuous, but in its way very sincere and very effective. The 
great political leaders never make their voices heard at Trafalgar Square ; but 
Trafalgar Square makes its voice heard by all parties. Some lau^ a good 
many ^neer; but they all have come of late to acknowledge that Trafalgar 
Square demonstraticms are things which have to be tak«ii into aooouot in the 
calculations of a statesman. 

Now, the meeting held on this September evening was different in aspect, 
purpose, and character from the ordinary assemblages. Red caps of liberty 
were hoisted on poles everywhere, and the Marseillaise was chorused even 
while the orators were tiying to speak. Collections were going on for the 
wounded of the French army (close by within tlie railings of the churchyard of 
St. Martin-in-the-Fields the ground was heaped and lumbered with bales and 



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1871.] RfiPUBUCANISM IK ENGLAND. 81 

boxes bearing the red cross, and intended for the relief of war^s rictims far 
away by Grayelofete and Forbaeh), Mid cheers for the fVenoh Bepablio eyerjr- 
where rent the air. This was in &ot a meeting of the industrial and political 
organizations of London, called for the purpose of giving a welcome to the new- 
bom Republic of France, and at the same time denonncing Mr. Gladstone and 
his Calnnet for not having done what France herself had not yet done— recog- 
nized the Republic. I made my way though the crowd and stood not fiur from 
the speakers. The Atlantie oaMe, as I afterward heard, did me the unmerited 
honor to announce that I addressed the meeting in a fervid fuid flamii^ speedi. 
I neither spoke nor was asked to speak. I did not even know, and don't know 
now, who organised the meeting; my sympatlnes were and are strongly with 
the Gennans, and I thought Mr. Gladstone was qcdte ri|^ in seeing whether 
there was a repnblic to recognize before he vdunteered to recognize it. I 
could not hear much of the speaking, and it did not matter. I could hear that 
every ezfHression of sympathy with republican France was applauded to the 
echo; that every allusion to the supposed eddness or s^fishness oi England's 
XM>licy brought ont a very tumult of clamor; that the family connection of 
Queen Yietoria with the G^ermMis was regarded with intense and vehement 
dislike. When the speaking was over the Marseillaise began anew, and then 
some band 6ta*uck up the first notes of ** God Save the Queen," but a positive 
shower of hisses drowned the loyid air, and the musicians Judiciously dropped 
it forthwith and substituted ** Rule Britannia! " I have seen a good many po- 
litical meetings in England, but I never saw any one more earnest, more in- 
tense in its significance than this. The meaning of the thing was plain, let wlio 
would pretend to ignore or to deny or to despise it. The meaning was that the 
vast majority of tiie intelligent working men of London are thoroo^y, ear- 
nestly, and even passionately republican. 

I had been absent from England for about two years; and I was much im- 
pressed by the rapidity of the advance which republican sentiment had made 
in the mean while. When I left England very few indeed of tiie working men 
or their leaders openly avowed republicanism. It was rather the fiishion to 
proclaim a sort of vague and formal loyalty to the principle <^ monarchy, even 
while demanding orgemo changes hi the Constitution. But now, it would seem, 
the London working men were poentlvely impatient of the least word which in- 
dicated any toleration of the princifde of royalty. The Bftct ^lat France now 
had proclaimed a repuUic was treated as if it ought to condone all past of- 
fences ; as if a republic were the consecrated of the Lord, wMch profknity alone 
could dare to touch with unreverential hand. Nothing worse was said of the 
Germans than that they followed '*a despot;" nothhig worse seemed nec- 
essary or possible to say. A republic could do no wrong; a raonardiy could 
do no ri^t. Argument of the questtcm between France and Germany there 
was none. No matter who began the quarrel ; no matter who was in the 
right. Enou^ that here were people calling themselves (or rather supposed 
to intend soon to call themselves) republieans ; yonder were people following 
a king. Every true-hearted London working man must throw up his hat Idr 
the former. 

I attended another and much smaller raeethig— a meeting held in a room, 
and made up of del^;ates from the various political organizations of London 
operatives and other representative men. It was a meeting strictly for de- 
liberative purposes. Leaders of the working men like Potter and Applegarth 
were there ; Mends and backers of the working man like Baxter Langley were 
fiiere ; Dr. Congreve, the distinguished, eeoentric, fanatical head of the EngliA 

uigiiizea oy ^.._j vj' vJ V Lv^ 



32 REPUBUCAKISM IN ENGLAND. [JutT. 

Positivists, was there. But the Beotimeut of the meeting was just the same as 
that of Trafklgar Square. The working men would listen patiently while Bax- 
ter Liangley put in a quiet word for Germany, so far as to plead that pei'haps 
she was not wholly in the wrong whan resisting invasion. They only seemed 
to haye a kind of whimsical curiosity while Congreve was urging that all the 
civilized nations of the earth ought to fight for France, because the birthplace 
of Auguste Comte must be the Mecca of the new religion. They were de- 
lighted to hear any denunciation of the fallen Emperor Louis Napoleon and 
the Bonapartes generally. But the one feeling uppermost in their minds and 
hearts was evidently that of vehement, passionate, uncompromising a£fectioii 
and devotion for the French Republic. All they knew, all they cared to know, 
was that France now called herself republican; and as such they gave her 
their cordial, unquestioning, unlimited sympathy and allegiance. They seemed 
to attach to a republic the same idea of sanctity which the old Scottish lady in 
the stc»:y did to the person of the youthftd King James. She flew into a pas- 
sion with George Buchanan for having birched his royal pupil, and demanded 
of him why he had dared to touch the Lord^s anointed. Perhaps the Germans 
might fairly have answered in the words attnbuted by the story to the tre- 
mendous schoolmaster: **I have whipped the person of the Lord^s anointed; 
you may kiss him if 70U please.*' I believe old Geordie is said to have used 
plainer and homelier phraseology, but this was the purport of his answer ; and 
one can easily imagine Bismarck adopting it as a reply to those who held it 
profanity to lay a rude chastising hand on the sacred form of a republic. 

Now, I can remember well enough the excitement of 1848, and the fervor 
among English artisans and Lrish republicans during the brief, splendid mad- 
ness of that crisis. But I am much mistaken if the republicanism of the Lon- 
don artisan of to-day be not a far strongs, more intelligent, and more deeply- 
rooted conviction than the passionate sentiment of 1848. Then the thing had 
all the feverish vagueness of a disordered dream. Its general character was 
rather social than political. It was Chartism with a strong suffusion of French 
socialism in it. It was a clamorous and almost purposeless commotion of what 
Victor Hugo would call the proleiaire, who, feeliug himself miserably mbrep- 
resented and uncomfortable, joined in the ci*y of any movement which raised 
its voice against existing institutions. But the republicanism of to-day is as dif- 
ferent from that kind of thing, as the London working man this year is from 
the London waking man of 1848. Perhaps some of my readers have read and 
remember ** Alton Locke," the book which made Kingsley's celebrity — a book 
like its author full of inflation and blundering and nonsense, but having too, 
like him, a core of generous purpose and manly feeling. Alton Locke repre- 
sented accurately enough the general character and object of a certain kind of 
London Chartist in the days when Fergus O'Connor was regarded as a power- 
ful popular leader. *But Alton Locke is about as much out of date in Eng- 
land now as Jack Cade or Robin Hood. The London artisan, always rather 
intelligent and always inclined to radicalism, is to-day a man well read in the 
politics of his time, highly practical in all his objects, well drilled into the dis- 
cipline of organization and cooperation by his trade unions, and as little in- 
clined to rave of social contracts or demand redistribution of property as 
Horace Greeley would be. He means what he says ; ho knows what he is talk- 
ing about. When he throws up his hat for a republic, he has not the remotest 
expectation that a republic would make him rich or place the property of his 
wealthy neighbor at his disposal. But he has acquired a clear and strong con- 
viction that a republican government is the fairest, the cheapest, and the best 

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1S71.] REFUBUOANigM IN ENGLAND. 8S 

political system, and he sees plainly the real, not Hie imaginary, defects and 
sins of the system which snrronnds him. The London artisan of to-day has 
very different teachers from wild, gifted, crazy Fergus O'Connor. He has 
among his own class cool, sensible, practical men, like Odger and Applegarth 
and Potter — men who never indulge in any bombast about tiie proletaire and 
the brotherhood of humanity. He has leaders and teachers outside his own 
class, in men like Professors Beesly and Frederic Harrison for example — men 
of culture and keen thought, fearless and often fantastic in their views, but 
always able to defend tiiem by the closest logic and the most bewildering array 
of facts and figures. I hold that one of the most remarkable phenomena of 
English political life to-day is this extraordinary and apparentiy instinctive 
fraternization between the ** thinkers" and the working men. On almost all 
public questions these seem to stand together. If, as I believe, the working 
man of London was making a somewhat foolish exhibition last autumn, when 
he allowed his devotion to the republican principle to drown all sober consider- 
ation of tiie right and wrong of a controversy, if in fkot he was making a fetish 
of the mere name of republic, it must be remembered that Beesly, and Harrison, 
and Ludlow, and the great majority of the school to which they belong, were 
ddng just the same thing. Oti most political subjects now, if you want to know 
what the London working man believes, you have only to inquire what Mill 
and Huxley and tiieir less renowned companions and followers believe. I 
attended a great meeting held at an earlier part of last season, to consider the 
education scheme then before the House of Commons. Several members of 
Parliament were present. 'The audience was mainly composed of working 
men. Professor Fawcett, M. P., in the course of his speech uttered sentiments 
which would have been regarded as absolutely seditious a few years ago, but 
which found universal acceptance and drew forth unanimous applause from the 
meeting. Observe at what a rate English democracy has been lately travel- 
ling. It seems to me only the other day when I heard Lord Palmerston de- 
clare amid the cheers of the House of Commons, that ** tenant right was land- 
lord's wrong; " and he said this in condemnation of an Irish land scheme which 
was positively conservative when compared with Mr. Gladstone's measure of last 
year. Some five years ago Sir George Grey, then a colleague of Mr. Gladstone, 
declared amid great applause that the disestablishment of the Irish Church would- 
be revolution, and the Irish Church was disestablished the year before last. 
Household suffrage has been conferred on the people. Vote by ballot is coming ; 
the army is about to be made a profession or business o^^^n to all classes alike. 
In all this work of progress Trafalgar Square has borne its part, and knows it. 
Trafalgar Square knows too how little it owes for education or emancipation 
to the earnest good-will of Belgrave Square or Park Lane, or even of Russell 
Square and Bedfbrd Square. Such as the political organization of the London 
working classes now is, it has grown up as utterly without the support and 
patronage of prince or prelate as Schiller boasted justly that tiie literature of 
Germany had done.' All tiiat great trade organization which proved so power- 
ihl an instrument for political work, when it declared on the side of tiie late 
reform movement, is the creation of the artisans themselves. It has its own 
laws, its own principles, its own offioeiB, its own system. If there were any 
thinking men among tiie opponents of progress in England, they must have 
been fairly startied when there suddenly appeared in the midst of society, in 
full and flexible cn^anization, tiiat great marcMng army of trades unions, 
whose very existence had been previously unsuspected by the classes that once 
ware ruling. I beg my readers not to accept Charles Reade's brilliant and 



lOOgle 



U BSPUBLICAinSM IN ENGLAND. [July, 

]k>werfbl novel, '* Put Yoms^ in his Place," aa a pietmiD of the English trad« 
union system. It is troe eaougfa as a portn^al of a plaee and an orgaaizatioA 
idtogetiier peeoliar, eaceeptSonal, and eten mdastrooi. It is grotesquely ua- 
trne as a lecture of the oommon eondituHi of things. If a ma& were to write a 
novel founded on the present state of afihirs in oertain parts of Georgia or 
Tennessee where the Ku-Elox organization reigns, and were to paint his pio- 
tores with entire truthMnees and fidelity to looal coloring, that would be about 
as accurate a representation of the genoal condition of the United States as the 
incidents of Charles Beade's nov^ present of the general system of tradee- 
unionism in England. The general system is one based on clear, practical, per^ 
haps somewhat selish good seme and class interest; and it has been W(»rked 
out with remarkable patienoe, fidelity, and ability. While the upper and mid- 
dle classes were asleep and comfortable in the conviction that ever3rthing in 
England was settled forever, this gigantic organisation was quietly preparing, 
moulding, and remoulding itself. One day at laet it stood up and said, '* I am 
here, and I am resolved to interfere in politics ; " and the men who saw in it noth- 
ing more formidable than might have been found in one of the vague, imprao- 
tioable, purposeless, tumultuous Chartist demonstrati<ms, were just the kind of 
men who are alwa^rs snugly fost asleep on the brink of the revolution's op^^ 
ing chasm. Nothing could show the inh^renti patient* natural strength of the 
class to which this organiaation belongs more eflSdotively than the way in whidi 
it grew to maturity. It had outside itself no supportert, no patrons, and no 
Mends. The English press, when it spoke on the subject at all, spoke decid- 
edly against Hie trades unions. Even journals avowedly radical were opposed 
to these organizations of labor. Even demagogic popular leaders were not in- 
clined to fi&vor them. Ten years ago it was the recognized fidth of England's 
average mind, that combinations of workmen could do nothing but harm to 
the workmen themselves; that the eternal verities had somehow pronounced 
against them ; that the law of feup]^ and demand settled everything (especially 
vfhtn worked out by capital and employers) ; and that all the workman had to 
do was to open his mouth, shut his eyes, and see what Providence would send 
him. In the lEaoe of every kind of opposition which tiie weight of public opin- 
ion, the vis inerHas of PhilistinisBii, and the more direct force of tiie strength 
and interest of the empk^yer and the middle classes generally could extort, the 
English working men in the large cities persisted in their organization of labor. 
They made many sad mistakes and committed somie grievous errors on their 
way; but they at last attained their end, and they established an association 
which will surely operate on the whole ikr nftore for good than for ill, and 
which in any case is a new element* a new power of as yet incalculable force 
in English social life. When once this organization had frankly taken its 
jriaoe among pcditioal bodies, it might as well have been admitted that a new 
estate had been added to the British constitutional system. The Sovereign, the 
Lords, the Commons, are theoretically the tteree estates. To theM common par- 
lance, half seriously, half in jest, has more lat^ added the f>re8g as a fourth e»- 
tiOe, although Mr. Disradi, himself a newspaper man, stigmatized s<»3h a phrase 
as '* vulgar jargon." I tiiink we may now reoognize the creation of a fifth 
estate in the uprising of the organized working men. 

Now, I am sure I an warranted in sayii^ that as a whole this new estate 
is emphatioally republican. Us own organization is strictiy republican. It 
has been hitherto an association formed virtoally outside the English Constitu- 
tion and with no jn'Oteotion from the Ehglish law. It hai looked royalty in the 
ihoe« and seen that there was nothing cKvine there; it has counted how mu^ 



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l«71.] REPUBLICANISM IN ENGLAND. 86 

kings and qtieena cost, and found tii&t they are not worth the money. Most of 
its members have relatiyes or friends across the Atlantic ; some of its leaders 
liave been in the United States and seen for themselves that nations can get 
along somehow Without an aristocracy and without a king. Of late, too, the 
London working man has discovered that he counts for something. He has 
been called into council with the great political leader or the great aristocrat, 
and he sees that ttiey are only men like himself. I read lately a report of a 
sbxrp debate at one of the London Boards of Education, those new institutions, 
the most splendidly revolutionary i^ich England has created in my time, and 
wbSch in their living illustration of the principle of social equality have no par- 
idlel that I know of even on the American side of tiie Atlantic. This is one of 
the school boards elecled by ballot, and on the cumulative vote system, to ad- 
minister the education of the country, and the debate I allude to was on a very 
essentS^ and critical question — ^the question of religious or theological teaching. 
A late Grovemor-Qeneral of India, Lord Laurence, presided, and the principal 
debaters were a nobleman, a Church of England divine, a great scientific 
teacher (Professor Huxley), a woman (Miss Garrett), and a working man. The 
savant, the woman, and the working man held generally to the same side of 
the question, and tiie working man was as firm and cool in his objection to the 
introduction of dogmatic theology as ttiough it were quite a traditional and fa- 
miliar thing in England for an artisan to sit in council and on terms of equality 
Willi noUemen and divines. The right to sit in that council and on those 
terms the working man owes mainly to himself. By his own sti'ength and his 
own brains he fought Ws way upward. It was not until Ws trade organizations 
had made their reality, their power, and their permanence as clear as the 
light, that these organizations began to find friends among infiuential legisla- 
tors. Always there were peers and members of Parliament ready to patronize 
the working man, but there were few indeed of these, his gracious* patrons, 
who were anxious to set him up for himself as an independent individuality and 
one of the ruling powers of the constitutional system. Nor even yet has there 
been much done which could have the effect of charming the working man into 
the belief that he can get anything without exacting it. As yet no. working 
man has got into Parliament or received any cordial assistance from his old po- 
litical masters in the seeking of a Parliamentary seat. The class formerly 
mling could not have conferred a cheaper and more harmless favor on the 
working men than to have assisted them in returning some Odger or Leecraft 
to Parliament. It would not in the slightest degree have aflfbcted the rulership 
in Parliament of the dominant interests, and it might have done much in the 
way of conciliation. Therefbre the working man still learns, by the teaching 
of events, that he can expect nothing except what he is strong enough to exact ; 
that a middle-class Parliament would be hardly one whit more inclined toward 
him than an aristocratic Parliament; and his tendencies toward republican de- 
mocracy are not likeiy to be diminished by the knowledge. 

I have hitherto spoken almost exclusively of the Ixmdon artisans. In most 
of the great tojvns, however, I presume that much the same thing might be 
said as regards'this tendency toward republicanism. Probably in Manchester, 
for example, there is a yet more general absence of anything like a tinge of 
the French hue at social democracy tlian in London, and in Liverpool there is 
a pretty strong Orange or ultra-Tory mob. The Irish element has, of course, 
to be taken into account in aU these places ; and whether we regard the Irish as 
Fenians or as Ultramontane Roman Catholics, we shall find few points of ad« 
hesion between them and their English brothers. But the Irish are nothing as , 

uigiiizea oy %_j \_/ v_) V I C 



86 BEJJUBUCANISM IN ENGLAND, [July. 

an organizatiQn in England. Numerically strong as they are in London, in 
Manchester, in Liverpool, Leeds, and other great towns, they reckon in poliU* 
cal straggles for hardly more than the Chinese do in San Francisco. Work- 
ing men haying been antil lately practically excluded from the franchise, the 
Lrishmen who came to live and work in English cities had no direct incentive 
to interest themselves in English politics, which they could not contarol or af- 
fect in any direct way. Therefore they always remained as strangers in tiie 
land, and never took any part in a political controversy unless when it assumed 
the tempting aspect of a '* row." That this will be different in the future with 
our popularized sufl^*age may be taken for granted. Perhaps in some of the 
large cities the Irish vote may hereafter become as distinct an element of polit- 
ical calculation as it is now in Philadelphia or Chicago. But even when that 
does come about, I think I may venture to predict that the Irish vote will in no 
way retard the progress of English republicanism. That indeed should be an 
objectionable and odious form of government, the alternative of which would 
induce the Irishman in Great Britain to become a loyal champion of the house 
of Brunswick. 

All this is of the cities. How of the rural populations ? Of oomrse the fiurmers 
of the English counties as a rule are stolidly and sluggishly conservative. 
They are naturally under the traditionary iniiuence of the landed aristocracy, 
and they have little knowledge of or care for what passes in the world outsic^. 
Of the mental condition of the English peasant, the laborer in the fields, who 
ought at least to be the peer of the artisan in the towns, I hesitate to speak in 
language which would seem to be adequate, lest I should appear to be guilty 
of gross exaggeration. I doubt it any country in the dvilized world has a 
class among its people so stupid, so ignorant, so debased in the passive sense, 
as the English agricultural laborers, more especially of the southern counties. 
The typical Giles Scroggins of this class may be fairly described as a man wlio 
knows nothing — nothing whatever — ^beyond the common drudgery of his daily 
labor and the mechanical routine of his daily life. He gets wages enough to 
keep soul and body together, and he has no prospect of ever getting any more. 
His boys and girls, when they pass the years of infancy, can earn a shilling or 
two in the week by shouting in the fields to frighten the crows away, or some 
such easy and elementary labor. When he gets too old and stiff in the joints 
^ to work any more, he goes into the union workhouse. He has never thought 

of seeking any other country; perhaps be hardly knew that there existed any 
country other than his own ; probably he never thought of such a subject at all. 
Letters, art, science, commerce have been busy for all the rest of the world, but 
not for him. The animals who are his fellow-laborers know how to do then* 
work and eat their food and find their place of rest, and he knows hardly any 
more. The blue sky, the shadows succeeding each other on the hillside, the 
murmur of the brook, the song of the spring birds in the branches, have no 
charm or beauty for him. Such vague joy as the ox may haye in the comfort 
of sun or shade, he has, and no more. Nor is this stolidity, nor is this igno- 
rance atoned for by pastoral simplicity, purity, and innocence. The evidence 
taken before Government commissions, the experience and observation of 
every qualified inquirer, have made it clear that there is as much vice in the 
stagnant puddle of the rural laborer^s life as in the seething whirlpool of city 
dissipation. The boys and girls work together in gangs in the fields, and they 
are just as virtuous as dogs or cattle would be under the same conditions. 
There is in the Celt, I do not know why, a certain subtle, suffusing element of 
the poetic, which seems to save him always from this utter degradation to tlio 

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1871.] BEPUBLICAKIBli m ENCIAKD. 97 

ferel of bovine stolidity. Partiy owing to tills ftict» pftrtly perhapg to the fiiot 
that tiie Irish priests hicve done tiieir duty, aocoriUng to their lights, far better 
than the English landlords have, there never was in Ireland any class of men 
and women so absolutely stnpid and ignorant as whole masses of tiie English 
peasantry are. Ask an Englnh rural laborer 1^ name of the river that flows 
witiiin sight of his own cottage, and if it be not near enough to have something 
to do with the business of his daily life 'somehow, the chances are that he wiH 
be unable to give an answer. Put such a question to an Irii^ peasant, and he 
win give you the Irish name, the English name, and half a doaen legends iQus- 
tratb^ one or the other, or botii. Of course I need hardly say that in intelli- 
gence and education the Scottish peasant is half a century ahead of his English 
compeer. Scotland ranks among the most educated, England among the lea«t 
educated of civilized peoples. England has at laiA adopted a measure of na^ 
tfonal education. It is not indeed all that the most active Intelleets of the coun- 
try could desire, but it is a decent compromise, and we seldom get anyttilng 
better than a decent compromise at a time in England. Such as it is, it wHl 
undoubtedly come to affsct in due course even the rural population of the 
country ; and therefore I am reluctant to venture on any suggestion of proph- 
ecy as to what the English laborer of the fhture may be. But fbr the present 
the agricultural workers may be set down in polities simply as a torpid mass, 
as incapable either of individual or collective action, even in their own inter- 
ests, as the pigs and the oxen who are their famfliar companions. At present 
these men have no vote, and I hardly tliink the most airdent upholder of ex- 
tended suflftage could find much cause to desire the immediate extension of the • 
franchise to them. Of course they are destined to become voters, and let us 
hope to become educated voters, some thne or other, but for the present they 
nmply count for nothing in politics. They cannot promote organic change, 
and, with whatever impulse, direction, and injunctions from their landlords, 
they would, I feel convinced, prove equally incapable of resisting or «ven re- 
tarding it. 

Nothing therefore can be more unlike than town and country among English 
laborers. In the United States people generally look to the rural population, 
ttie territorial democracy, to redress the balance, correct the errors, compensate 
for the vices of the towns. But in England we look to the towns for all man- 
ner of political enlightenment and advancement. The country has hitherto, 
chiefly occupied itself in endeavoring to fhistrate, or at least to impede the en- 
lightened efforts of the town. London, Manchester, and Leeds are always 
busy in proposing measures of reform which the counties are busy in striving 
to prevent, l^e country always resists, and the country always is beaten in 
the long run. Town proposed to abolish the Com Laws ; country resisted. 
Town proposed the late Reform BiH ; country resisted. The result is always 
the same. An English county member means almost as a rule a stolid conser-, 
vadve. Hie towns govern in the end. They, too, have their conservatism. 
The small boroughs often sink wholly under the influence of the county — that 
is to say, of the county peers and territorial magnates. In Tx)ndon a consider- 
able portion of the shop-keeping class is opposed to ra^calism, and devoted t€ 
the aristocracy, just as a footman is, because the court and the aristocracy are 
its patrons and give it its pay. But the influence of such a class is only nega- 
tive at its best, and in times of tumult counts for nothing. All the clear pur- 
pose and organized strength of will which exist in England to-day may be 
regarded as on the side of radical advance. Even that strength of will which 



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88 REPUBIJCANISM IN ENGLAND. [Juur, 

comes from die naked s^fiahncss of a privileged class, amdoos to keep the ad- 
Tantages it has got, loses much of its resisting power when, having already 
yielded a good deal, it is uncertain wliother its o¥m intei^ests do not require it to 
yield yet more, and if so, how mucli? Prindpiia obsta is the grand rule of a 
privileged class. Let the principle of social equality obtain ever so small a 
footing, and it is sure to win its way in. Now the whole tendency of things in 
England, so far as radicalism is concerned, is toward equality. Political liberty 
England has always had in our time, and it u^ to be commonly and truly said 
that the Englishman cared nothing about equality provided he had his Individ^ 
ual liberty, while the Frenchman could endure any restraint on. his per^nal 
liberty provided he saw that no other class enjoyed special privileges denied to 
his own. But of late years the former part of the proposition, at least, has 
ceased to be true, and the unprivileged Englishman has beg^un to ask veiy seri- 
ously why other classes should have advantages denied to him and his. I do 
not see how the aristocratic system can long endure against the encroadunents 
of the popular demand for equalizing of classes. I even think it quite among 
possibilities that a time may come when the popolar inclination would once 
more sanction a temporary strengthening of the influence of the Crown, in order 
to weaken tJie power and diminish the privileges of the aristocracy. Mean- 
while these latter are undergoing invasion quickly enough as it is. The hered- 
itary privilege of governing England is passing rapidly out of the hands of the 
great £etmilies. Indeed, in our day, we see middle-class men of quite moderate 
ability called to fill seats in the Cabinet, ifdiich the genius and profound knowl- 
• odge of Burke could never have procured for him, merely because it is neoessary 
that t2ie growing sentiment of class equality ^ould be conciliated and appeased. 
I am not aware of any instance in modern history where this natui*al, manly, 
and just principle, having once fairly come into operation, has ever sufiered any 
serious reaction. 

Thus, therefore, did the political condition of England present itself to my 
mind when, after an absence of two years, I endeavored to study it impartially 
and coolly. I take it that the artisans of the towns are about to become an ac- 
tive and dkect political power. The Reform Bill of 1831-^82 brought in middle- 
class wealth to compete with aristocratic rank. The Reform Bill of 1868 has 
brought in artisan labor to share the competition. I have wholly mistaken the 
meaning of what I saw and heard, if the working men of the En^ish cities 
have not quite made up their minds to the conviction that republican democ- 
racy is the best form of government. The English Qhurch seems to have be- 
come almost wholly alienated fi'oin the sympathies of the working man. One 
branch of it concerns itself abont candles and screens and genuflexions ; an- 
other about denouncing the Papists and the Lady of Babylon. Between the 
two the working man has been allowed plenty of time to learn that there are 
such persons as Mill and Huxley. On the side of tlie working man there is 
growing up that school I have already mentioned, of keen, clever, bold, and 
penetrating political writers, whose tendency is undoubtedly toward republican- 
ism, even if they do not preach republicanism as a creed — ^men who subject 
every existing institution of the English political system to a criticism as sharp 
and searching as if ** the wisdom of our ancestors ^^ really had no manner of 
sanctity about it at all. Decidedly the age is a skeptical one in English politics ; 
and the artisan of the cities is a very Thomas in his reluctance to believe in tho^ 
reality of anything he has not had a cliance of testing for himself. Loyalty of 
the old-fiftshioned kind he has wholly ceased to feel or to respect. He has just as 
much faith in the sanctity of the monarchical principle as he has in the power of ' 



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16710 REPUBLICANISM W ENGLAND. M 

I 
the sovereign's touch to heal the scrofttlons. He is not in any Irnrry about rev- 
dntionarj change. He seenis to wait rather composedly, beUeTing that events 
are working oat gradually, but very surely, the conolnsifMis he desires to see 
accom|dished. We do not therefore hear of any vehement agitation or clam- 
orous demand for a republic going on in England. I have read indeed of a 
meeting convened in London by Mr. Odger, one of the very ablest and best 
among the working-men leaders, at \duch a resolution was adopted declaring 
the republican form of government the best for England, and announcing that 
a republican programme or ** puMorm *^ is to be formally presented to the na- 
tion. This in itself is a very remarkable and significant thing. We may be 
sure that there was none of the ** rowdy ^^ element, or the wild and anarchical 
turbulence of mere revolution, in any meeting organized by such a man as 
Odger; and indeed the resolution in favor of a republic was worded in the 
most cool and practical style, urging as the grand recommendation of the re- 
publican form of government, that it was the one '* best calculated to develop 
the resources of the coi&try.^^ I attach very great importance to the fact that 
such a meeting was held and such a resolution calmly adopted. But I do not 
expect just yet to see anything like a definke and organized agitation or even 
propaganda in favor of a republic. I think the London working man is dis- 
posed to take matters coolly and patiently if no unforeseen event drives him 
on. He believes in a possible English republic; probably he is%ven convinced 
in his own mind that the thing must come some time, and he does not caro to 
take the responsibility of trying to precipitate it. But he is resolved that when 
such a crisis arises as that of France in last September, there shall be no possi- 
ble doubt of the earnestness and fervor of his republican sympathies. Be sure 
he was not among the crowd who in the royal town of Windsor offered such 
uproarious welcome to Louis Napoleon. So far ais he is a republican, he is so 
by virtue of a downright practical conviction, not because of the fascination of 
some leader^s dazzling eloquence. The influence of the working man has grown 
up, as his convictions have, without leadership outside his own class, and with- 
out any remarkable brilliancy of leadership within. Through the whole of 
these recent years of struggle for political rights and of successful endeavor 
after trade organization, no genuine popular orator has appeared among Eng- 
lish working men, or has arisen in any other rank specially to address and to 
lead them. There is no Fergus O'Connor movement now, to collapse with the 
collapse of Fergus himself. There is no man, so far as I know, whose exist- 
ence or whose efforts are essential to the political influence of the English arti- 
san body, or whose disappearance from politics would produce any noticeable 
effect whatever upon English political life. It is an upward movement of the 
whole body, an advance along the whole line, that we are now witnessing. I 
have great faith in the English artisan — all the more because there is so little 
of the '* Red ^^ about him, and because he is so little given to rhetoric and extrav- 
agance. Above all, I have faith in him because he has proved so well that he 
can do without the leadership of persons who think themselves his social supe- 
riors. Now this English artisan is assuredly a new power in the Stave, and 
when he proclaims himself even a theoretical republican, I cannot but think 
that he means what he sa3rs, ^d that some time or other the meaning will find 
{n^tctical expression and resolve. As I turned to leave the scene of the great 
meeting, that fine September evening, and made my way slowly through crowds 
cheering for republican France ; through little groves of poles crowned with 
caps of liberty ; through marching bodies of industrial associations returning 
with bondft and banners to thehr several localities ; through small, compact, and 



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40 THBOIJaH A WINDOW. [Juw. 

ifolatod masses gathwed round lome spot where a vokmteer orator had sod*- 
denly started up to tell to all who would li^^n his tale of tlie strettgth and A» 
glory of republioan instltutioiis ; and through tlie fringe of wondering, or scorn«> 
ful, or vaoantly-curious spectators, belonging (^efly to the middle, but not a 
few to the higher classes, I could not help thinking that if there were any peer 
or other noble personage among those lookers-on, wiio possessed in his cranium 
anything of tlie brains and foresight of a Chesterfield, he must have come to 
the conclusion already that that demonstration of sympatiiy with repubMoaa 
France was a ** first warning ^^ to the aristocrftlc 83rstem of Enghuod. Nothing 
would have been more easy than to turn the whole thing into ridicule. It» 
one-ideaed, almost blind partisanship for France was perhf^ in itself ridicu- 
lous. But at the heart of the whole a&ir was the sober fact that the London 
working men are earnest republicansr-repul^licans by oonvictiioaBL and by sym* 
pathy ; and I hardly think a Chesterfield would have seen much to laug^ at in 
that. JusnK McCaiitht. 



THROUGH A WINDOW. 



I LIE here at rest in my chamber, 
And look through the window again. 
With eyes that are changed since the old. time, 
And the sting of an exquisite pain. 

Tis not much that I see for a picture. 

Through boughs which are green wiUi the spring — 
An old bom with its roof gray and mos^y. 

And above it a bird on the wing. 

Or, lifting my head a thought higher, 

Some hills and a village I know. 
And over it all the blue heaven. 

With a white cloud floating below. 

In the old days the roof seemed a jH^son, 

My mind and the sky were free, 
My thoughts with the birds went flying, 

And my h<^pes were a heaven to me. 

Now I come from the limitless distance 

Where I followed my youth's wild will. 
Where they brew tlie wine of delusion 

That you drink and are .thirsty still. 

Now I know why the bird, with tlie springtime, 

To the gnarled old tree comes back; 
He has tried the soul^ and the summer. 

He has felt what the sweet things lack. 

80 I come with a sad contentment. 

With eyes that are changed I see : 
The roof means peace, not a prison. 

And Heaven smiles down on me. 

Louise Ohandleb MouLtoK. 



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OVERLAND. 

By J. W. De Forest, Author of " Miss Raveners Converaon," eta 



C3HAPTERXL. 

"TTTHEN ThmiBtaiid got into Hie cabin, he fotind it pretty nearly clear of wa* 
VV ter, the steward having opened doors and trap-doors and drawn off the 
delnge hito the hold. 

The first object that he saw, or could see, was Clara, curled up in a chair 
^which was lashed to the mast, and secured in it by a lanyard. As he paused 
at tlie foot of the stairway to steady himself against a sickening lurch, she ut- 
tered a cry of joy and astonishment, and held out her hand. The cry was not 
speech; her gladness war for beyond words: it was simply the first utterance 
of nat^ire ; it was the prhnal inarticulate language. 

He had expected to stand at a distance and ask her leave to save her life. 
Instead of that, he hurried toward her, caught her in his arms, kissed her hand 
over and over, called her pet names, uttered a pathetic moan of grief and affec- 
tion, and shook with inwsord sobbing. He did not understand her; he still be- 
lieved that she had rejected him — ^believed that she only reached out to him for 
help. But he never tiiought of charging her with being folse or hard-hearted 
or selfish. At the mere sight of her asking rescue of him he devoted himself to 
her. He dared to kiss her and call her dearest, because it seemed to him that 
in tills awful moment of perhaps mortal separation he might show his love. 
If they were to be torn apart by death, and sepulchred possibly in different 
caves of the ocean, surely his last farewell might be a Mss. 

If she talked to him, he scarcely heard her words, and did not realize thehr 
meaning. If it was indeed true that she kissed his cheek, he thought it was 
because she wanted rescue and would thank any one for it. She was, as he un- 
derstood her, like a pet animal, who Ucks the face of any friend in need, though 
a stranger. Never mind; he loved her just the same as if slie were not self- 
ish ; he would serve her just the same as if she were still his. He unloosed 
her arms from his shoulders, wondering that they should be there, and crawl- 
ing with difficulty to the cabin locker, groped in it for life-preservers. There 
was only one in the vessel ; that one he buckled around Clara. 

•• Oh, my darling! " she exclaimed ; " what do you mean ? " 

••My darling!" he echoed, ••bear it bravely. There is great danger; but 
dont be afraid— I will save you." 

He had no doubts in making this promise ; it seemed to him that he could 
overcome the billows for her sake — that he could make himself stronger than 
the powers of nature. 

""Where did you come ftrom — fh>m another vessel?" she asked, stretching 
out her arms to him again. 

••I was here," he said, taking and kissing her hands; ••I was here, watch- 
ing over you. But there is no time to lose. Let me cany you." 

** They must be saved," retm-ned Clara, pointing to the staterooms. *• Gar- 
cia and Coronado are there." 

Should he try to deliver those enemies from death? He did not hesitate a 
moment about it, but bursting open the doors of the two rooms he siiouted, 
•• On deck with you! Into the boats! We ai-e sinking! " 



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42 OVERLAND. [Jult, 

Next he set Clara down, passed his left arm aronnd her waist, clung to 
tilings with his riglit hand, dragged her up the companiouway to the quart<^r- 
deck, and lashed her to the weather shrouds, with her feet on the wooden lead- 
er. Not a word was spoken during the five minutes occupied by this short 
journey. Even while Clara was crossing the deck a frothing comber deluged 
her to her waist, and Thurstane had all he could do to keep her from being 
flung into the lee scuppei-s. But once he had her fast and temporarily safe, he 
made a great effort to smile cheeifully, and said, •* Never fear; I won^t leftv« 
you." 

"Oh! to meet to die!" she sobbed, for the strength of the water and the 
rage of the surrounding sea had frightened her. ** Oh, it is cruel ! " 

Presently she smothered her crjdng, and implored, " Come up here and tie 
yourself by my side ; I want to hold your hand." 

He wondered whether she loved him again, now that she saw him ; and in 
spite of the cliilling seas and the death at hand, Jie thrilled warm at tlie 
thought. He was about to obey her when Coronado and Garcia appeared, pale 
as two ghosts, clinging to each other, tottering and helpless. Thurstane went 
to them, got the old man lashed to one of the backstays, and helped Coronado 
to seciure himself to another. Gai'oia was jabbering prayers and crying aloud 
like a scared child, liis jaws shaking as if in a palsy. Coronado, who seemed 
resolved to bear himself like an hidalgo, maintained a grim silence, although 
his face was wilted and seamed with anxiety, as if he had become an old man 
in the night. It was rather a fine sight to see him looking into the face of the 
storm with an air of defying death and all tha/t it might bring; and perhaps he 
would have been helpful, and would have shown himself one of the bravest of 
the brave, had he not been prostrated by sickness. As it was, he took little in- 
terest in the fate of others, hardly noticing Thurstane as he resumed liL post 
beside Clara, and only aadressing the gui with one word: ** Patience ! " 

Clara and Thurstane, side by side and hand in hand, were also for the most 
part silent, now looking ai'ound them upon their fate, and tlien at each other 
for strength to bear it. 

Meantime pai*t of the crew had tried the pumps, and been washed away 
from them twice by seas, floating helplessly about the main deck, and cluteh- 
ing at rigging to save themselves, but nevertheless discovering that the brig 
was filling but slowly, and would have full time to strike before she could 
founder. 

** ^Vast there ! " called the captain ; ** Vast the pumps ! All hands stand by 
to launch the boats ! " 

*' Long boat^s stove! " shouted the mate, putting his hands to his mouth so 
as to be heard through the gale. 

**A11 hands aft!" was the next order. "Stand by to launch tdie quarter- 
boats!" 

So the entire remaining crew-— two mates and eight men, including the 
steward — splashed and clambered on to the quarter-deck and took station by 
the boat-falls, hanging on as they could. 

" Can I do anything? " asked Thui-stane. 

"Not yet," answered the captain; "you are doing what^s right; take care 
of the lady." 

" What are the chances? " the lieutenant ventured now to inquire. 

With fate upon him, and seemingly irresistible, tlie skipper had dropped his 
grim air of conflict and become gentle, almost resigned. His voice was friend- 



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1871.] OVERLAND. 48 

ly, sympathetic, and qiute calm, as he stepped up by Thnrstane^s side and said, 
** We shall have a tough time of it. The land is only about ten miles away. 
At tills rate we shall strike it inside of three hours. I don*t see how it can be 
helped.'* 

" Where shall we strike?" 

" Smack into the Bay of Monterey, between the town and Point Pinos." 

"Can I do anything?'* 

" Do just what you've got in hand. Take care of the lady. See that she 
gets into the biggest boat— if we try the boats." 

Clara overheard, gave the skipper a kind look, and said. *• Thank yon, cap- 
tain." 

" You're fit to be capm of a liner, miss," returned the sailor. *• You're one 
of the best sort." 

For some time longer, while waiting for the final catastrophe, nothing was 
done but to hold fast and gaze. The voyagers were like condemned men who 
kre preceded, followed, accompanied, jostled, and hurried to the place of death 
by a vindictive people. The giants of the sea were coming in multitudes to 
this execution which they had ordained ; all the windward ocean was full of 
rising and falling billows, which seemed to trample one another down in their 
savage haste. There was no mercy in tiie formless faces which giimaced 
around the doomed ones, nor in tiie tempestuous voices which deafened them 
with tiireatenings and insult. The breakers seemed to signal to- each other; 
they were cruelly eloquent with menacing gestures. There was but one sen- 
tence among them, and that sentence was a thousand times repeated, and it 
Was always Death. 

To paint the shifting sublimity of the tempest is as difficult as it was to paint 
the steadfast sublimity of the Great Cafion. The waves were in furious move- 
hient, continual change, and almost incessant death. They destroyed them- 
Belves and each other by their violence. Scarcely did one become eminent be- 
fore it was torn to pieces by its comrades, or perished of its own rage. They 
were like barbarous hordes, exterminating one another or falling into dissolu- 
tion, while devastating everything in their course. 

There was a frantic revelry, an indescribable pandemonium of transforma- 
tions. Lofty plumes of foam fell into hoary, flattened sheets; curling and 
howling cataracts became suddenly deep Ifollows. The indigo slopes were 
marbled with white, but not one of these mottlings retained the same shape for 
an instant; it was broad, deep, and creamy when the eye first beheld it; in the 
next breath it was waving, shallow, and narrow; in the next it was gone. A 
thousand eddies, whirls, and ebullitions of all magnitudes appeared only to dis- 
appear. Great and Uttie jets of froth struggled from the agitated centres to- 
ward the surface, and never reached it. Every one of the hundred waves 
which made up each billow rapidly tossed and wallowed itself to death. 

Yet there was no diminution in the spectacle, no relaxation in the combat. 
In the place of what vanished there was immediately something else. Out of 
the quick grave of one surge rose the white plume of another. Marbling fol- 
lowed marbling, and cataract overstrode cataract. Even to their bases the 
oceanic ranges and peaks were flill of powei^ activity, and, as it were, explo- 
sions. It seemed as if endless multitudes of transformations boiled up through 
them fVom their abodes in sea-deep caves. There was no exhausting this re- 
productiveness of form and power. At every glance a thousand worlds of 
waters had perished, and a thousand worlds of waters had been created. And 



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U OVERIAND. [JVLT» 

all these worlds, the new even more than the old, were full of maligmty toward 
the wi'eck, and bent on it» destnaction. 

The wind, though inykible, was not less wonderful. It surpassed the ocean 
in strength, for it chased, gashed, and deformed the ocean. It inflicted upon i^ 
countless wounds, slashed fresh ones as fast as others healed. It not only tore 
off the hoary scalps of the billows and flung th^n through the air, but it 
wrenched out and hurled large masses of water, scattering them in rain and 
mist, the blood of the sea. ^ow and then it made all the air dense with spray, 
causing the Paciflc to resemble the Sahai'a in a simoom. At other times it lev- 
elled the tops of scores of waves at once, crushing and kneading them by the 
immense force that lay in its swifl;ness. 

It would not be looked in the face ; it blinded the eyes that strove to search 
it; it seemed to flap and beat them with harsh, chm*lish wings; it was as full 
of insult as the billows. Its cry was not multitudinous like tliat of the sea« but 
one and incessant and invariable, a long scream that almost hissed. On reach- 
ing the wreck, however, this shriek became hoarse with rage, and howled as it 
shook the rigging. It used the slirouds and stays of the still upright main- 
mast as an seollan harp from which to draw horrible music. It made the tense 
i*opes tremble and thrill, and tortm*ed the spars untU they wailed a death-song. 
Its force as felt by the shipwrecked ones was astonishing; it beat them about 
as if it were a sea, and bruised them against the shrouds and bulwarks ; it as- 
serted its mastery over them with the long-drawn cruelty of a tiger. 

Just around the wreck the tumult of both wind and sea was of course more 
horrible dian anywhere else. These enemies were infuriated by the sluggish- 
ness of the disabled hulk ; they treated it as Indians treat a caj)tive who oannot 
keep up with their mareh ; they belabored it with blows and insulted it with 
howls. The brig, constantly tossed and dropped and shoved, was never still 
for an instant It rolled heavily and somewhat slowly, but with perpetual 
jerks and jars, shuddering at every concussion. Its only regularity of move- 
ment lay in this, that the force of the wind and du*ection of the waves kept it 
larboard side on, drifting steadily toward the land. 

One moment it was on a lofty crest, seeming as if it would be hurled into 
air. The next it was rolling in the trough of the sea, between a wave which 
hoarsely threatened to engulf it, and anotlier which rushed seetliing and hiss- 
ing from beneath the keel. The deck stood mostly at a steep angle, the weather 
bulwarks being at a considerable elevation, and the lee ones dipping the surges. 
Against this helpless and pai'tially water-logged mass the combers rushed in- 
oessantly, hiding it every few seconds with sheets of spray, and often sweeping 
it with deluges. Around the stern and bow the rush of bubbling, roaring 
whirls was uninterrupted. 

The motion was sickly and dismaying, like the throes of one who is dying. 
It could not be trusted; it dropped away under the feet traitorously; then, by 
an insolent surprise, it violently stopped or lifted. It was made the more un- 
certain and distressing by the swaying of the water which had entered the hull* 
Sometimes, too, the under-boiling of a crushed biUow caused a gi*eat lurch to 
windward ; and after each of these struggles came a reel to leeward which 
threatened to turn the wreck bottom up ; the breakers meantime leaping aboard 
with loud stampings as if resolved to beat through the deck. 

During hours of this tossing and plunging, this teai'lng of the wind and bat- 
tering of the sea, no one was lost. The sailors were clustered around the 
boats, some clinging to the davits and others lashed to belaying pins, exhausted 
by long labor, want of sleep, and constant soakings, but ready to fight for Ufa 



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1971.] OYEBiAKD. 45 

to the last. Coronado und Gfurcia were gtiU £ut to the baokstays, the fonaer a 
good deal wilted by his harahipSt and the latter whimpering. Thurstane had 
literally seized ap Clara to the outside of the weather shrouds, so that» although 
she was terribly jammed by the wind, she could not be carried away by it, 
while she was above the heaviest pounding of the seas. His own position was 
alongside of her, secured in like manner by endi^ of cordage. 

Sometimes be held her hand, and sometimes her waast. She oould lean her 
shoulder against his» and she did so nearly aU the while. Her eyes were fixed 
as often on his face as on the breakers which ^eatened her life. The few 
words that she spoke were more likely to be confessions of love than of terror. 
Now and then, when a billow of unusual size had slipped harmlessly by, he 
gratefully and almost joyously drew her close to him, uttering a few syllables 
of cheer. She thanked him by sending all her affectionate heart through her 
eyes into his. 

AlHiough there had been no explanations as to the past, they understood 
each other^s present feelings. It could not be, he was sure, that she clung to 
him thus and looked at him thus merely because she wanted him to save her 
Hfe. She had been detached fi'om him by others, he said ; she had been drawn 
away from thinking of him during his absense ; she had been bi ought to judge, 
perhaps wisely, that she ought not to many a poor man ; but now that she 
saw him again she loved him as of old, and, standing at death^s door, she felt 
at liberty to confess it. Thus did he translate to himself a past that had no ex- 
istence. He still believed that she had dismissed him, and that she had done 
it with cruel harshness. But he could not resent her conduct; he believed 
what he did, and forgave her; he believed it, and loved her. 

There were moments when it was delightful for them to be as they were. 
As they held fast to each other, though di*enched and exhausted and in mcH'tal 
peril, they had a sensation as if they were warm. The hearts were beating 
hotly clean through the wet frames and the dripping clothing. 

**0h, my love!" was a phrase which Clara repeated many times with an 
lur of deep content. 

Once she said, ** My love, I never thought to die so easily. How horrible 
it would have been without you! " 

Again she murmured, "I have prayed many, maay times to have you. I 
did not know how the answer would come. But this is it." 

" My darling, I have had visions about you," was another of tliese confes- 
sions. ** When I had been praying for you nearly all one night, there was a 
great light came into the room. It was some promise for you. I knew it was 
then ; something told me so. Oh, how happy I was ! " 

Presently she added, ** My dear love, we shall be just as happy as that 
We shall live in great li^t together. God will be pleased to see plainly how 
we love each other." 

Her only complaints were a patient ** Isn^t it hard? " when a new billow had 
covered her from head to foot, crushed her pitilessly against the shrouds, and 
nearly smothered hw. 

The next words would perhaps be, " I am so sorry for you, my darling. I 
wish ibr your sake that you had not come. But oh, how you help me ! " 

•* I am glad to be here," firmly and honestly and passionately responded 
the young man, raising her wet hand and covering it with kisses. " But you 
shall not die." 

He was bearing like a man and she like a woman. He was resolved to fight 
his battle to the last; she was weak, resigned, gentle, and ready for heaven. 



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46 OVERLAND. [July. 

The land, even to its minor featores, \ras now disdnctly visible, not more 
than a mile to leeward. As ihey rose on the billows they ccrald distinguish the 
long beach, tiie grassy slopes, and wooded knolls beyond it, the green lawn on 
which stood the village of Monterey, the whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofe 
of the houses, and the groups of people who were watching the oncoming 
tragedy. 

** Are you not going to launch the boats? '^ shouted Thurstane after a glance 
at the awHil line of frothing breakers which careered back and fordi athwart 
the beach. 

** They are both stove," returned the captain calmly. " We must go ashore 
as we are." 



CHAPTER XU. 

When Thurstane heard, or rather guessed from the captain^s gestures, that 
the boats were stove, he called, " Are we to do nothing? " 

The captain shouted something in reply, but oltiiough he put his hands to his 
mouth for a speaking trumpet, his words were inaudible, and he would not 
have been understood had he not pointed aloft. 

Thurstane looked upward, and saw for the first time that the maintopmast 
had broken off and been cut clear, probably hours ago when he was in the 
cabin searching for Clara. The top still remained, however, and twisted 
through its openings was one end of a hawser, the other end floating off to lee- 
ward two hundred yards in advance of the wreck. Fastened to the hawser by 
a large loop was a sling of cordage, from which a long halyard trailed shore- 
ward, wliile another connected it with the top. All this had been done behind 
his back and without his knowledge, so deafening and absorbing was the tem- 
pest. He saw at once what was meant and what he would have to do. When 
the brig sti-uck he must carry Clara into the top, secure her in the sling, and 
send her ashore. Doubtless the crowd on the beach would know enough to 
make the hawser fast and pull on the halyard. 

The captain shouted again, and this time he could be understood : *• When 
she strikes hold hard." 

** Did you hear him? " Thurstane asked, turning to Clara. 

'* Yes," she nodded, and smiled in his face, though faintly like one dying. 
He passed one arm aroimd the middle stay of the shrouds and around her waist, 
passed the other in front of her, covering her chest; and so, with every muscle 
set, he waited. 

Surrounded, pursued, pushed, and hammered by the billows, the wreck 
diifted, rising and falling, starting and wallowing toward the awful line where 
tlie breakers plunged over the undertow and dashed themselves to death on the 
resounding shore. There was a wide debatable ground between land and 
water. One moment it belonged to earth, the next lofty curling surges foamed 
howling over it ; then tlie undertow was flying back in savage torrents. Would 
the hawser reach across this flux and reflux of death? Would the mast hold 
against the grounding shock? Would the sling work? 

They lurched nearer ; the shock was close at hand ; every one set teeth and 
tightened gi*ip. Lifted on a monstrous billow, which was itself liftied by the 
undertow and the shelving of the beach, the hulk seemed as if it were held 
aloft by some demon in order that it might be dashed to pieces. But the wave 
lost its hold, swept under the keel, staggered wildly up the slope, broke in a 
huge white deafening roll, and rushed backward in torrents. The brig was 



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x871.] OVBBI-AND. 47 

between two forces ; it stniok once, bat not heavUy ; then« raised by the inoom-* 
ing surge, it struck again ; there was an awful oonsoionsneas and uproar of 
beating and grinding; the next instant it was on its beam ends and covered 
with cataracts. 

Every one aboard was submerged. Thnrstane and Clara were overwhelmed 
by such a mass of wiU^r that they thou^t themselves at the bottom of the sea. 
Two men who had not mounted the rigging, but tried to cling to the boat davits, 
were hurled adrift and sent to agonize in the undertow. The brig trembled as 
if it were on the point of breaking up and dissolving in the horrible, furiods 
yeast of breakers. Even to the peo|de on shore the moment and the spectacle 
were sublime and tremendous beyond description. The vessel and the people 
on board disappeared for a time from their sight under jets and cascades of surf. 
The spray rose in a dense sheet as lugli as the maintopmast would have been 
had it stood upiight. 

When Thnrstane came out of his state of tempcwrary drowning, he was con- 
scious of two sailors clambering by him toward the top, and heai*d a shout in 
his ears of *' Cast loose.'' 

It was the captain. He had sprung alongside of Clara, and was already 
unwinding her lashings. Thrice before the job was done they were buried in 
surf, and -during the third trial they had to hold on with their hands, the two 
men clasping the girl desperately and pressing her against the rigging. It was 
a wonder that she and all of them were not disabled, for the jamming of the 
water was enough to break bones. 

They got her up a few ratlines ; then came another surge, during which they 
gripped hard; then there was a second ascent, and so on. The climlnng was 
Uie easier and the holding on the more difficult, because the mast was depressed 
to a low angle, its summit being hardly ten feet higher than its base. Even in 
tlie top there was a dcsj^erate struggle with the sea, and even after Clai*a was 
in the sling she was half drowned by the surf. 

Meantime the people on shore had made fast the hawser to a tree and 
manned the halyard. Not a word was nttered by Clara or Thnrstane when 
they parted, for she was speechless with exhaustion and he with anxiety and 
terror. The moment he let go of her he had to grip a loop of tophamper and 
hold on with all his might to save himself from being pitched into the water 
by a fresh jerk of the mast and a ftesh inundation of flying surge. When he 
could look at her again she .was far out on ^e hawser, rising and Mling in 
quick, violent, perilous swings, caught at by the topi^ing breakers and howled 
at by the undertow. Anoth^ deluge blinded him ; as soon as he could he gazed 
shoreward again, and shrieked with joy ; she was being carefully lifted from 
the sling; she was saved — ^if she was not dead. 

When the apparatus was hauled back to the top the captain said to Thur- 
stane, •• Your turn now." 

The young man hesitated, glanced around for Coronado and Garcia, and 
replied, "Those first." 

It was not merely humanity, and not at all good-will toward those two men, 
which held him back fh)m saving his lifb first; it was mainly that motto of no* 
bility, that jdurase which has such a mighty influence in the army, " an officer 
and a gentiemany He believed that he would disgrace his profession and him- 
self if he diould quit the wreck while any civilian remained upon it. 

Coronado, leaving his uncle to the care of a sailor, had already climbed the 
shrouds, and was now crawling throng the lubber hole into the top. For onco 
his hardihood was beaten ; he was pale, tremulous, and obviously in extreme 



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IS 0VBBLAm>. IJvtJU 

terror; he olatdied %t tb« slin^ the momeiit he was pofaited to it. Wkh tlw v^ 
most care, and without even a look of repnuM^ Thurstane helped secure him 
in the loops and launch him on his journey. Next came the torn of GarcU. 
The old man seemed already dead. He was livid* his lips blue, his hands help»> 
less, his yc^ce gone, his eyes gkuBSd and set. It was necessary to knot him into 
the sling as tightly as if he were a eorpse; and when he reaclied shore it could 
be seen that he was borne off like a dead weight. 

**Now then,*' said the oi^ptain to Thurstane. ''We canH go till you do. 
Passengws first'' 

Exhausted by Mi drencMngs, and by ft kind of labor to which he was not 
ftcoustomed, t^ lieutenant obeyed tiiis order, took his place in the sling, nodded 
good-by to the bmve sailors, and was hurled out of the top liy a plunge of surl^ 
SB a criminal is pushed from the cart by tiie hangman* 

No idea has been given, and no complete idea can be given, of tie difficulo 
ties, si:^ring8, and perils of liiis transit shixreward. Owing to tbe lising and 
fidllng of the mast, the hawser now tautened with a jerk ^Hiioh flung the voy- 
figer up against it or even over it, and now drooped in a large bight which let 
him down into the seethe of water and foam that had just rushed over the ves- 
sel, forcing it down on its beam ends. Thurstane was four or five times tossed 
and as ofi»n submerged. The waves, the wind, and the wreck i^yed wi^ 
him successively o^ all together. It was an outrage and a torment whidi sur- 
passed some of the tortures of the Inquisition, ilrst came a quick and breath- 
less plunge; then he was imbedded in the rushing, swirling waters, drumming 
in his ears and stifiing his breath; then he was dragged swifiJy upward, the 
sliRg turning and swingfaig frightfhlly ; then down again into tiie shrieking sm'ge. 
As the billow dashed in, he dropped ; and as the undertow swept back, he rose. 

Progress too was slow; for there was no rtmning gear except a «mple loop 
wiiich dragged heavily along the hawser ; and at the more violent crisis of bis 
fate the people ashore ceased to haul for fear of tearing the sling loose <^ throw- 
ing him out of it. It seemed to him that t^e breath would be out of ins body 
before the transit was over. When at last he landed and was detached from 
the cordage, he was so bruised, so nearly drowned, so every way exhausted, 
that he could not stand. He lay for quite a whUe motionless, his head swim- 
ming, his legs and arms twitching convulsively, every joint and muscle in his 
body sons, catdiing his iH'eath with painful gasps, almost fafai^ng, and feeling 
much as if he were d3ring. 

He had meant to help save the captain and sailors. But there was no more 
work in him, and he just had strength to walk up to the village, a citizen hold- 
ing him by eitheor arm. As soon as he could speak so as to be understood, he 
asked, first in English and then vH Spanish, ''How is the lady? " 

" 8he is insensible," was the reply— « reply of unmeant cruelty. 

Remembering how he had siifi'ered, Thurstane feared lest Clara had received 
her death-stroke in the sling, and he tottered forward eagerly, saying, " Take 
me to her." 

Arrived at the house where she lay, he insisted upon seeing her, and had his 
way. He was led into a room ; he did not see and could never remember what 
sort of a room it was; but there she was in bed, lier flice pale and her eyes 
dosed; he thought she was dead, and he neairly fell. But a {nt^mg womanly 
voice murmured to him, " She lives," with other words that he did not under^ 
stand, or could not afi)arward recall. Trusting that this uneunsdousness was a 
sleep, he suffered himself to be drawn away by helfiing hands, and presently 
was himself in a bed, not knowing how be got there. 



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i87L] OVBWUiOro. « 

Meo&tiiiie the tan^goclj o£ the wreek w$ hmBg aoM 4>«t. The sliiig farokt 
once, the sailor who was in it falling into the undertow, and perishing there i» 
qnte of a roah of the townspeople. One of the two men who were washed 
overboard at the first shock waa aLM> drown^. The rest escaped, including 
the heroic captain, who was the last to come ashore. 

When Tharstane was again permitted to see Clara, it waa, to his great a» 
tonishment, the morning of the following day. He had slept lik^ the dead; if 
any one had sought to awaken him, it would have been almost impos«ble; 
there was no strength left in body or mind but for sleep. Clara^s story hail 
been much the same: insensibility, than swoons, then slomher; twelve hours 
of utter unconsciousness. On waking, the first words of each were to ask for 
the other. Thurstane put on his scarcely dried uniform and hurried to the 
girVs room. She received him at the door, for she had heard his st^ although 
it was on tip-toe and she knew his knock although as light as the beating of a 
bird^s wing. 

It was another of those interviews which cannot be desmbed, and perhaps 
should not be. They were uninterrupted, for the ladies of the house had 
learned fi*om Clara that this was her betrothed, and they had woman^3 sense 
of the sacredness of such meetings. Presents came, and were not sent in ; Cor- 
onado called and was not admitted. The two were alone for two hours, and 
the two hours passed like two minntee. Of course all the ugly past was ex- 
plained. 

*' A letter dismissing you! " exclaimed Clara with tears, '* Oh I how could 
you think that I woold write such a letter? Never— never I Oh, I never 
could. My hand should drop off fii*st. I should die in trying to write sneh 
wickedness. Whatl don^t you know me better? Don't you know that I am 
true to you^^ Oh. how could you believe it of me? My darling, how could 
you?" 

*' Forgive me," begged the humbled young follow, trembling with joy in his 
humility. ** It was weak and wicked in me. I deserved to be punished as I 
have been. And, oh, I did not deserve this happiness. Bu^ my little girl, 
how could I help being deceived? There was your handwriting and your sig^ 
nature." 

'* Ah ! I know who it was," broke out Clara. ** It has been he all thixragh. 
He shall pay for this, and for all," she added, her Spanish blood rising in her 
cheeks, and her soft eyes sparkling angrily for a minute. 

**I have saved his life for the last time," returned Thurstane. *'I havo 
spared it for the last time. Hereafter " 

** My darling, my darling! " begged Clara, alarmed by his blackening brow.. 
** Oh, my darling, I don't love to see you angry. Just now, when we have 
just been spared to each other, don't let us be aqgry. I spoke angrily first. 
Forgive me." 

** Let him keep out of my way," muttered Thurstane, only in part pacified. 

*' Yes," answered Clara, thinking that she would herself send Coronado ofi^. 
so that there ml^t be no duel between him and this dear one. 

Presently the lov«r added one thing which he had felt all the time ou^t to 
have been said at first, 

** The letter — ^it was right. Although he wrote it, it was right. I have no 
claim to marry a ric^ woman, and you have no right to marry a poor man." 

He uttered this in profound misery, and yet with a firm resolution. Chura 
tomed pale and staxed at him wiHi anxious eyes, her lips parted as though to 
speak, but saying nothing. Knowing his fostidious sense of honor, she guessed 



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ho OYEilLAND. tJm.Y, 

the full foroe with wfai^ this sorople weighed upon him, and die did not know 
how to drag it (^ his soul. 

*^ Yon are #orth a million,^ he went on, in a hroken-hearted sort of voice 
which to us may seem laughable, but which brought the tears into Clara^s eyes. 

The next instant she bri^tened; she knew, or thought she knew, that she 
was not worth a million;, so she smiled like a sunburst and caught him gayly 
by the wrists. 

" A million! " she scoffed laughingly. " Do you believe all Coronado tells 
you?" 

" What! isn't it true? " exclaimed Thurstane, reddening with Joy. •* Then 
you are not heir to your grandfather's fortune? It was one of kis lies? Oh, 
my little girl, I am forever happy." 

Slie had not meant all this ; but how could she undeceive him? The tempt- 
ing thought came into her mind that she would marry him while he was in 
this ignorance, and so relieve him of his noble scruples about taking an heir- 
ess. It was one of those white lies vdiich, it seems to us, must fade out of 
themselves from the record book, without even needing to be blotted by the 
tear of an angel. 

"Are you glad?" she smiled, though anxious at heart, for deceptaon 
alarmed her. •* Really glad to find me poor? " 

His only response was to cover her hands, and hair, and forehead with 
kisses. 

At last came the question. When? Clara hesitated; her face and neck 
bloomed with blushes as dewy as flowers ; she looked at him once piteously, 
and then her gaze fell in beautiftd shame. 

** When would you like? " she at last found breath to whisper. 

** Now— here," was the answer, holding both her hands and l>egging with 
his blue-black eyes, as soft then as a woman's. 

" Yes, at once," he continued to implore. •* It is best every way. It will 
save you (com persecutions. My love, is it not best? " 

Under the circumstances we cannot wonder that this should be just as she 
desired. 

" Yes — ^it is — ^best," she murmured, hiding her face against his should^. 
•* What you say is true. It will save me trouble." 

After a short heaven of silence he added, ** I will go and see what is needed. 
I must find a priest." 

As he was departing she caught him ; it seemed to her just then that she 
could not be a wife so soon ; but the result was that after another silence and a 
Mnt sobbing, she let him go. 

Meantime Coronado, that persevering and audacious but unlucky conspira- 
tor, was in treble trouble. He was afraid that he would lose Clara ; afhiid that 
his plottings had been brought to light, and that he would be punished; afraid 
that his uncle would die and thus deprive him of all chance of succeeding to 
any part of the estate of Muftoz. Graroia had been brought ashore apparently 
at his last gasp, and he had not yet come out of his insensibility. For a time 
Coronado hoped that he was in one of his fits ; but after eighteen hours he gave 
up that feeble consolation; he became terribly anxious about the old man ; he 
Mt as though he loved him. The people of Monterey universally admitted 
that they had never before known such an affectionate nephew and tender- 
hearted Christian as Coronado. . 

He tried to see Clan, meaning to make Ae most with her of Garcia's con- 
dition, and hoiking that thus he could divert her a little fhmi Thurstane. But 



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ISn.l OVERLANa Si 

somehow all his messages failed; the little house which held her repelled him 
as if it had been a nnmieiy ; nor could he get a word or even a note from her. 
The truth is that Clara, fearing lest Coronado should tell more stories about her 
million to Thurstane, had taken the women of the family into her confidence 
and easily got them to lay a sly embargo on callers and correspondence. 

On the second day Garcia came to himself for a few minutes, and struggled 
hard to say something to his nephew, but could give forth only a feeble jabber, 
after which he turned blank again. Coronado, in the extreme of anxiety, now 
made another effort to get at Cltura. Reaching her house, he learned from a 
bystander that she had gone out to walk with the Americano, and then he 
tibougfat he discovered them entering the distant church. 

He set off at once in pursuit, asking himself, with an anxiety which almost 
made him feint, " Are they to be married? " 



CHAPTER XLH. 

In those days the hymeneal laws of California were as easy as old shoes, 
and people coidd espouse each other about as rapidly as they might want to. 

The consequence was that, although Ralph Thurstane and Clara Van Die- 
men had been only two days in Monterey and had gone tlirough no forms of 
publication, they were actually being married when Coronado reached the vil- 
lage church. 

Leaning against the wall, with eyes as fixed and face as livid as if he were 
a corpse from the neighboring cemetery, he silently witnessed a ceremony 
which it would have been useless for him to interrupt, and then, stepping sofUy 
out of a side door, lurked away. 

He walked a quarter of a mile very fast, ran nearly another quarter of a 
mile, turned into a road, sought its thickest underbrush, threw himself on the 
ground, and growled. For once he had a heavier burden upon him than he 
could bear in human presence, or bear quietly anywhere. He must be alone ; 
also he must weep and curse. He was in a state to tear his hair and to beat his 
head against the earth. Refined as Coronado usually was, admirably as he 
could imitate the tranquil gentleman of modern civilization, he still had in him 
enough of the natural man to rave. For a while he was as simple and as vio- 
lent in his grief as ever was any Celtiberian cave-dweller of tiie stone age. 

Jealousy, disappointed love, disappointed greed, plans balked, labor lost, 
perils incurred in vain! All the calamities that he could most dread seemed to 
have fallen upon him together; he was like a man sucked by the arms of a 
polypus, dying in one moment many deaths. We must, however, do him the 
justice to believe that the wound which tore the sharpest was that which lacer- 
ated his heart. At this time, when he realized that he had altogether and for- 
ever lost Clara, he found that he loved her as he had never yet believed himself 
capable of loving. Considering the noUlity of this passion, we must grant 
some S3rmpathy to Coronado. 

Unfortunate as he was, another misfortune awaited him. When he returned 
to the house where Garcia lay, he found that the old man, his sole relative and 
sole friend, had expired. To Coronado this dead body was the carcass of all 
remaining hope. The exciting drama of struggle and expectation which had 
so violently occupied him for tiie last six montlis, and which had seemed to 
promise such great success, was over. Even if he could have resolved to kill 



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6« OVERLAND. [j0Lr, 

Clara, there was no longer anything to be gained by h, for her money would 
not descend to Coronado. Even if he should kiU Tliurstane, that would be a 
harm rather than a benefit, for hid widow would hate Coronado. If he did any 
evil deed now, it must be from jealousy or from vindictiveness. Was murder 
of any kind worth while? For the time, whether it were worth while or not, 
he was Ihrious enough to do it. 

If he did not act, he must go ; for as everything had miscarried, so much 
had doubtless been discovered, and he might fSsdrly expect chastisement. While 
he hesitated a glance into the street showed him something which decided him, 
and sent him far from Monterey before sundown. Half a dozen armed horse- 
men, three of them obviously Americans, rode by with a pinioned prisoner. In 
whom Coronado recognized Texas Smith. He did not stop to learn that his old 
bravo had committed a murder in the village, and that a vigilance committee 
had sent a deputation after him to wait upon him into the other world. The 
sight of that haggard, scarred, vncked face, and the thought of what confessions 
the brute might be led to if be should recogni^ his former employer, were 
enough to make Coronado buy a horse and ride to unknown regions. 

Under the circumstances it would perhaps be unreasonable to blame him for 
leaving his uncle to be buried by Clara and Thurstane. 

These two, we easily understand,' were not much astonished and not at all 
grieved by his departure. 

•* He is gone," said Thurstane, when he learned the fact. •* No wonder.'* 

" I am so glad! " replied Clara. 

*' I suspect him now of being at the bottom of all our troubles.'' 

" Don't let us talk of it, my love. It is too ugly. The present is so beauti- 
ftd!" 

•* I must hurry back to San Francisco, and try to get a leave of absence,** 
9aid the husband, turning to pleasanter subjects. ** I want full leisure to be 
happy." 

" And you won't let them send you to San Diego? " begged the wife. *• Nd 
moi*e voyages now. If you do go, I shall go with you." 

" Oh no, my child. I cant trust the sea with you again. Not after this," 
and he waved his hand toward the wreck of the brig. 

" Then I will beg myself for your leave of absence." 

Thurstane laughed; that would never do; no such condescension in ht3 
wife! 

They went by land to San Francisco, and Clara kept the secret of her mil- 
lion during the whole journey, letting her husband pay for everything out of 
his shallow pocket, precisely as if she had no money. Arrived in the city, he 
left her in a hotel and hurried to headquarters. Two hours later he returned 
smiling, with the news that a brother officer had volunteered to take his detail, 
and that he had obtained a honeymoon leave of absence for thirty dajrs. 

** Barclay is a trump," he said. *'It is all the prettier in him to go that he 
has a wife of his ovm. Hie commandant made no objection to the exchange. 
In fSsMst the old fellow behaved like a father to me, shook hands, patted me on 
the shoulder, congratulated me, and all that sort of thing. Old boy, marl'ied 
himself, and very fond of his fiimily. Upon my word, it seems to better a 
man's heart to marry him." 

•• Of course it does," chimed in Clara. " He Is so much happier that of 
course he is better." 

"Well, my little princess, where shall we go?" 



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1871.] OVERLAND. M 

^ €ro first to see Aunt Maria. There! don^ make a fkce. 6he is very good . 
in tJbe long ran. She will be sweet enough to yon in three days." 
"Of conrse I will go. Where is she?" 

" Boarding at a hacienda a few mfles fbom town. We can take horses, can- 
ter out liiere, and pass the nigfat.^^ 

She was ftill of spirits; langhed and chattered all the way; laughed at 
everything that was said; chattered like a pleased child. Of oonrse she was 
thinking of the snrprise that she wonld give him, and how she had circum- 
Tented his sense of honor about marrying a rich gh*l, and how hard and faat 
she had him. Moreover, the contrast between her joyoos present and her anx- 
ioos past was alone enongh to make her ran over with gayety. All her troubles 
had vanished in a pack ; she had gone at one bound from purgatory to paradise. 
At the hacienda Hiurstane was a little struck by the respect with which the 
servants received Clara; but as she signed to them to be silent, not a word was 
uttered which could give him a suspicion of the situation. Mrs. Stanley, more- 
over, was taking a siesta, and so tiiere was another telltale mouth shut. 

*< Nobody seems to be at home," said Clara, bursting into a merry laugh 
over her trick as they entered the house. ** Where can the master and mistress 
beP" 

They were now in a large and handsomely fhrnished room, which was the 
parlor of the hacienda. 

'* Don^ sit down," cried Clara, her eyes sparkling with joy. " Stand just 
there as you are. Let me look at you a moment. Wait till I tell you some- 
thing." 

She fronted him for a few seconds, watching his wondering fieMse, hesitating, 
blushing, and laugiiing. Suddenly she bounded forward, threw her arms around 
his shoulders and cried excitedly, hysterically, '* My love! my husband! all this 
is yours. Oh, how happy I am ! " 

The next moment she burst into tears on the shoulder to which she was 
clinging. 

** What is the matter? " demanded Thurstane in some alarm ; for he did not 
know that women can tremble and weep with gladness, and he thought that 
surely his wife was sick if not deranged. 

'* What! donH you guess it? " she asked, drawing back with a little more 
calmness, and looking tenderly into his puzzled eyes. 

"You don't mean ? " 

•• Yes, darling." v 

• « It cant be that ? " 

•• Yes, darling." 

He began to comprehend the trick that had been played upon him, although 
as yet he could not fhlly credit it. What mainly bewild^^ him was that 
Clara, whom he had always supposed to be as artless as a child — Clara, whom 
he had cared for as an elder and a father — should have been able to keep a se- 
cret and devise a plot and carry out a mystification. 

"Great Scott!" he gasped in his stupefaction, using the name of the 

then commander-in-chief for an oath, as officers sometimes did in those days. 

'*Yes, yes, yes," laughed and chattered Clara. '* Great Scott and great 
Thurstane! All yours. Three hundred thousand. Half a million. A million. 
I dont know how much. All I know is that it is all yours. Oh, my darting! * 
oh, my darling! How I have fooled you! Are you angry witii me? Say, aro • 
you angry? What will you do to me? " 
4 •^ 



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64 OTERLAND. [Jutr, 

We mtist excuse Thnrstane for finding bo other ehustifiement than to sqaecze 
her in his arms and oboke her with kisses. N«xt he held her £rom him, set her 
down upon a sofa, fell back a pace and stared at her much as if she w^e a to- 
tally new ^soovery, something in the way of an mrival from the moon. He 
was in a state of profound amazement at the dexterity with which she had 
taken his desthiy otit of hSs own hands into hers, without his knowledge* He 
had not supposed that she was a tenth part so clever. For the first dme he 
perceived that she was his match, if indeed she were not the superior nature ; 
and it is a remarkable faot, thoo^ not a dark one if one looks well into it» that 
he respected her the more for being too much lor him. 

** It beats Hannibal,** he said at last. ^* Who would have e^>ected such 
general^p in youP I am as much astonished as if yon had turned into a 
knight in armor. Well, how much it has saved me I I should have hesitated 
and been miserable ; and I should have married you all the same ; and then 
been ashamed of marrying money, and had it rankle in me for years. And 
now— oh, yon wise little thing! — all I can si^ is, I worship you." 

** Yes, darling," replied Clara, walking gravely up to him, putting her hands 
on his shoulcters, and looking him thoughtfiiUy in the eyes. ** It was the wisest 
thing I ever did. Don't be afraid of me. I never shall be so clever again. I 
never shall be so tempted to be devw." 

We must pass over a few months. Thurstane soon found that he had the 
Muiioz estate in hisliands, and that, for the while at least, it demanded all his 
time and industry. Moreover, there being no war and no chance of martial 
distinction, it seemed absurd to let himself be ordered about from one hot and 
cramped station to anothei-, when he had money enough to build a palace, and 
a wifb who could make it a paradise. Finally, he had a taste for the natural 
sciences, and his observations in the Great Oa&on and among the other marvels 
of the desert had quickened tills inclination to a passion, so that he craved 
leisure for the study of geology, mineralogy, and chemistry. He resigned his 
commission, established himself in San Francisco, bought all the scientific 
books he could hear of, made expeditions to the California mountains, effected 
garrets fhll of qiecimens, and was as happy as a physicist always is. 

Perhaps his happiness was just a little increased when Mrs. Stanley an- 
nounced her intention of returning to New York. The lady had been amiable 
on the whole, as she meant always to be; but she oould not help daily taking 
up her parable concerning the tyranny and stupidity of man and the superior 
virtue of woman ; and sometimes she felt it her duty to put it to Thurstane tiiat 
he owed everything to his wife ; all of which was more or less wearing, even 
to her niece. At the same time she was such a disinterested, well-intentioned 
creature, that it was impossible not to grant her a certain fuoaount of admira- 
tion. For instance, when Clara proposed to make her comfortable for life by 
settling upon her fifty thousand dollars, she replied peremptorily that it was 
fiir too much for an old woman who had decided to turn her back on the firivoli^ 
ties of society, and she could with difficulty be brought to accept twen^ thou- 
sand. 

FurtlMrmore, die was oapable, that is, in certain favored moments, of oon^ 
fbssing error. '*My dear," she said to Clara, some we^s afi«r the marriage, 
'* I have made one great mistake since I came to these eountries. I believed 
that Mr. Coronado was the ri^t man and Mr. Thurstane the wrong one. Oh, 
that smooth-tongued, shiny-eyed, meeching, bowing, complimenting hypocrite! 
I see at last what a villain he was. I see it," she emphasized, as if nobody 
else had discovered it. ** To think that a person who w«s so right on the main 

uigiiizeo Dy ^^jOOvlv. 



qae«l»m [female lofirage] owM be so wroog on eTerytbiag ^se! The contra* 
diction adds to his guilt. Well, I have had mj leston. Every one mn«t make 
her mistake. I ahaU never be so humbugged again.** 

Some littie time after Thozstaae had reoeived the acceptance of hia resigna- 
tion and establiAed himself in his handsome dty house. Aunt Maria observed 
abrupdy, *'My dears, I nmsl go back.** 

*' Go back where? To the desert and tnm hermitP ** asked Clara, who was 
aooostomed to Joke her relative about ^ spheres and missions.*' 

** To New York,** replied Mis. Stanley. ** I ean accomplish nothing here. 
This mJse^ble Legislatare will teice no notice of my petitions for female suf- 
firage." 

** Oh, that is because you sign them alone,** laaghed the younger lady. 

** I oan*t goA anybody else to sign tiiem,** said Aunt Maria with some asperi- 
ty. ** And what if I do sign them alone? A house full of men ought to have 
gallantry enough to grant one lady*s request Calift>mia is not ripe for any 
great and nob&e measure. I oan*t remain -v^iere I find so little sympathy and 
ooUaboration. I mnst go wheiw I can be of use. It is my duty*** 

And go she did. But before riie shook off her dust against the Pacific ooast 
there wm an interview with an old acquaintance. 

It must be understood that the fatigues and sufferings of that terrible pil- 
grimage through the desert had bothered the constitution of little Sweeny, and 
that, after lying in ganiaon hospital at San Francisoo for several months, he 
had been cGs<^arg««l from the service on ** certifioate of physical disability.** 
Thurstane, who had kept track of him, immediately took him to his house, first 
as an invalid hanger-on, and then as a jack of all work. 

As the fiimily were sitting at breakfast Swoeny*s voice was heard in the ve- 
randa outside, '* coDogning ** with another voioe which seemed fiuniliar. 

<« listen,** whispered Clara. <*That is Captain Glover. Let us hear what 
they say. They are both so queer ! ** 

"An* what** (**fwBt** he pronouaeod it) "the divil- have ye been up to?** 
demanded Sweeny. " Ye*re a purty sailor, buttoned up in a long^tail coat, 
wid a white hankerehy round yer naok. Have ye been foolin* pople wid makin* 
*em think ye*re a Protestant praste? ** 

" I*ve been blofwin* glaas. Sweeny,*' rq[died the sniflling voice of Phineas 
Glover. 

"Blowin'g^assi Och, 3reeswas always powerful atblowin*. Butlniver 
heerd ye blow glass. It was big lies mostly whin I was a listing.** 

"Yes, blowin* glass,** returned the Fahr Havener in a tone of agreeable re- 
miniscence, as if it had been a not unprofitable oocupation. " Found there 
wasn't a glass-blower in all Cafifbmy. Bought *n old maofaine, put np to the 
mkes with fU blew all sorts *f jigmarigs *n' thingumbobs, *n* sold *em to 1^ 
miners *n' Lojuns. Them critters is jest like sailors ashore; they*ll buy any- 
thing they set eyes on. Besides, I sounded my horn; advertised big, so to 
speak; got up a sensation. Used to mount a stump *n* make a speedi; told 
*em I*d hhofw Yankee Doodle in ^ass, any color they wanted; give 'em that 
sort f gospel, ye know.** 

"An* could ye do it? ** inquired the Paddy, confounded by the idea of Wow- 
ing a ^ass tone. 

"Lord, Sweeny! you*re greener 'ntfae miners. When ye swallw things 
that way, don*t laugh *r ye^lt choke yerself to death, like the elephant did when 
he read the comic almanac at break&st.*' 



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U OVKBLAND. [JIjly. 

'* I dcm^t belave tliat nnther/^ aMererated Sweeny, imxloiis to dear himsdf 
from tiie chwge of credulity. 

<« Don't believe that ! '' exclaimed Olover. •« He dld> twke.'' 

**Ooh, go way wid ye. He cooldn^ choke hiaself alttier he waa dead. I 
wooldn^t belave it, not if I see him torn black in tbe ikoe. It's yeraelf 11 get 
choked some day if yees don't quit blatherin\ Bat what did ye get ibr yer 
blowin'P Any more 'n the clothes yeVe got to yer baokP " 

For answer Glover dii^>ed into his pockets, to(^ oat two handAils of gold 
pieces, and chinked them under the Irishman's nose. 

** Blazes! ye're lousy wid money," commented Sweeny. ** Ye want some- 
body to scratch yees." 

"Twenty thousan' dollars in bank," added Glover. ««A11 by blowhi* 'n' 
tradin'. Qoiu' hum in the next steamer. Anythia' I oaa do for ye, dd mess- 
mate? Say how much." 

**Ifs the liftinantis takin' care avme. He's made a betther livin' nor 
yees, a thousand times over, by jist marryin' the right leddy. An' he's going 
to put me in charrge av a fSurum that they call the liayshiiidy, where I'll sell 
tlie cattle for myself, wid half to him, an' make slodiers o' money." 

'* Thunder, Sweeny! You'll end by ridin' in a coach. What'U ye take for 
yer chances? Wal, I'm glad to hear ye're doin' so welL I am so, for old 
times' sake." 

** Come in. Captain Glover," at this moment called Clara tiirough tiie blinds. 
'* Come in. Sweeny. Let us all have a talk together about the dd times and 
the anew ones." 

So there was a long talk, misoellaneous and delightful, fhll of reainiaoeiices 
and eongratnlaticHis and good wishes. 

** Wal, we're a lucky lot," said Glover at last "Sh'd like to hMur 'f some 
good news for the sergeant and Mr. Kelly. Sh'd go back hum easier for it." 

*« Kelly is first sergeant," stated Thurstane, ** and Meyer is quartermaster- 
sergeant, with a good chance of being quartermaster. He is capable of it and 
deserves it. He ought to have been promoted years ago for his gallantry and 
services daring the war. I hope every day to hear tiiat he has got his com«- 
mission as lieutenant." 

'* Wal, God bless 'em, 'n' God bless the hall army ! " said Glover, so grati- 
fied that he felt pious. " An' now, good-by. Got to be movin'." 

** Stay over night with us," urged lliarstano. '* Stay a week. Stay as long 
as you will." 

<• Do," begged Clara. " You can go geologiaing with my hnsband. You 
can start Sweeny on his fiurm." 

** Och, he's a thoosin' times welkim," pat in Sweeny, '* though I'm afeard 
av him. He'd tache the cattle to trade their skins wid ache other, an' father 
me wid lies till I wouldn't know which was the baste an' which was Sweeny." 

Glover grinned with an air of being flattered, but refdied, ** Like to stay 
first rate, but can't work it. Passage engaged for to-morrow momin'." 

*' Indeed! " exclaimed Aont Maria, agreeably surprised by an idea. 

And the result was that she went to New York under tho care of Captain 
Glover. 

As for Clara and Thurstane, they are surely in a state which ought to satisfy 
their firiends, and we will therefore say no more of them. 



THE XHD. 



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THE METUER SIDE OP NEW YORK. 



YI.— PABO-OAMBUKG, 

•«What! CleaiiedeittP'' 

"Yoabet. Birt if that dealer hadnH raifaroaded, Td a got square copperin* 
theaoe.*^ 

The words being spoken at two oVlock in the morning in a basement ooflfee 
saloon which had the <me merit of cheapness, and the speakers being men of 
genwallj mildewed appearanoe, with monstaohes sorfHisingly huge and hats 
sqspidoiisly gloMy, I was aware that I had been made acquainted with one of 
& Tezations of grorelling gambling lifb, at no greater cost than some exeora* 
ble refreshments and the temporary oompaniondiip at a ^ostly hoar of three 
accomplished pickpockets, one burglar c^ excellent reputation in his profession, 
a dilapidated skinner, six abandoned women, and four victims of the uno^- 
taintiesoffaro. 

The last were types of a class to be met in certain localities and at certain 
hours, widi such frequency as to prove that it is respectable in numbers if 
nothing else. At any of tiie later hours of the night, in any one of the cheap 
eating shops in or near Broadway, from Spring stoeet north to Tenth street, can 
be found one or more of the shabby-genteel men who bear unmistakable evi- 
denoe in thefar speech, manner, and appearance of long and generally disastrous 
fighting with the tiger. These are the oanaUk of gamblers, who hang preca- 
rioosly on tlie edge of a terrible fascination, and manage to supply the neces- 
sities of life in a <&eap way, fh>m chance success in small bets and by a 
few dollars picked up by guiding more profitable customers to the houses 
where they are known. Strictly speaking, more ** cappers" than gamblers, 
they are not only at tiie bottom of the profession, but their right to the 
proud title of ^'-sporting men " is stoutly denied by their more prosperous and 
reputable brethren of the green cloth. Improvident, unclean in habits and lan- 
guage, unscrupulous, they are the natural products of sporting life, but which 
the faro banks nevertheless strive, although in vain, to shake o£f. Every house 
has several ci these forlcmi attaches, who play when they have money, and in- 
troduce a desirable stranger when they can, but are constant in their attendance 
upon the banquets daily spread in these houses, and are thus obliged to take 
the chances as to lodgings and raiment only, save when their hospitality has 
been worn threadbare, and they are then found in the places where I heard one 
of them declare the emptiness of his pockets in such emphatic manner. 

Very different in most respects is another class of gamblers who can be 
seen any fine af!«moon decorating Broadway with the splendor of their ai^Murel, 
for as a rule the sporting firatemity is unexcelled in elegance of raiment. If 
you meet in Broadway a man who lounges listlessly onward as though he had 
no w^-defined ob}ect in life, and whose gannents are cut in the latest style and 
of the finest material, you may wager he is a gambler in good luck, provided his 
silk hat is in the highest possible state of polish and his watch chain unjosually 
heavy. Yeiy elegant in af^pearanoe, very quiet and gentlemanly in their de- 
meanor, are these professional sports of the better class at all times and in all 
places. I have met men eminent in science, literature, art, politics, and the 



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68 THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. [Jult, 

last in great numbers, in faro resorta, no one of whom conld exceed in good 
breeding the polished proprietors, nor even some of the professional gamblers 
who were presezitL Generally they are men of fidr i^ttlHgenoe and education, 
who can converse agreeably upon current topics ; and I have met some few who 
were possessed of the highest intellectual powers, which had been most liber- 
ally cultivated. One whom I knew, but who is now dead, was the son of a 
Portuguese nobleman, exiled for political reasons, who, with the finish of f 
courtier, had a mind of great originative power, fdiioh had been trained ikoA 
stored in the best oniv^rsitieB of Europe. Hub man, who wma capable of out- 
stripping his fellows in almost any field of human effort, was the keeper of aa 
ordinary duro bank; and although an exception perhaps, men but little less 
than he was in gifis, acqiriremenU, and opportumties, can be found in almost 
every first-class gambling resort, trustiBg to the tamof a card for the means of 
life. They are men who are so convinoed of the emptiness of life that they are 
incapaUe of making an efEort fer any of its prices, and are oonftent to take snoh 
pot-luck with the world as their perfect mastory of the sciettce of chanoes ia 
card-playing may give. Scorning equally to take a dotiso: by felse play or to 
introduoe a novioe to their method of living, there are many worse men to be 
met, and in much more reputable places, than these professional gamblers, 
who wrong only themselves. A public danger as they are in the exaaiple 
they set, it is impossible not to deal more in sorrow than in anger with men 
who do evil so suavely, and who tacidy admits by every act of thw lires, 
that they are ftdly aware of the wrong they are dohig th^nselves and the com- 
munity. 

Another class of men who live by the cards are not entitled to any such con- 
sideration. Coarse-featured, moust»die bristly, hair close-shaven like a con- 
vict*s, apparel obtrusively gaudy and loaded wkh massive ornaments pretend- 
ing to be of gold and precious stones, these are men to be shunned as the shaiks 
which their appearance and their every act proclaim them to be. They are 
the proprfeCors or enticers on oommissioii of the third-rate dens, where a 
'* square '" game fe never played even by accident. Faro feUhig to return a 
profit, these fellows are ready to try an]rthing else, from a game of poker to 
downright robbery, as a means of obtaining money without honest labor, which 
they abhor as the lowest estate of man. Any one can make a living by wcnrk, 
they say, but it requires a smart man to get it without; and they are so bloated 
with a sense of their exceeding shrewdness, that they sometimes try their hand 
at some one of the confidence operations in which the skinners are adepts, and 
almost invariably do it so dnmsily that feUure is the result. Thetr cliief ooon- 
pation and main refianoe for a livelihood, when they are not the owners of a 
small den, is as *< ropers in ^^ ; and it is surprising, considering how uncouth they 
are in appearance and address, that they are so snccessftd in enticing strangers 
into the holes where they can be fleeced. These strangers thus inveigled come 
under the name of occasional players, whether guided by the better class of 
ropers into the first-elass saloons, or by these viler ones into the low cribs; and 
whether in the one or the other, they are the vivifioation of all gamblings So 
long as one sport wins or loses from or to another, no harm is done the com* 
munity at large, but no good is done the gamblers. The oooasional players 
frimish the means to replenish the faro banks, or they would soon be empty; 
and the strangers who play not more than two or three times in their lives are 
the meat upon which this vice has grown so great. 

It is not singular that the novice is so apt to try his luck when he has onot 



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1671.1 THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YO&K. • 59 

been indooed to eater the gambling room. The uni^erial Americao game is 
^iuro," and it looks so dmple, so safe, so entirely &ir, that the chanoes appear 
in fiiyor of radier than- against the ontside player. There is, first, the large 
to aosi v o taUe ooTered with green cloth, and on it, oooapying less than half its 
»arflK;e> is the '*lay-oat,** which is a Ml snit of cards, from the ace to the king, 
painted in a parallelogram. Then there is the deaUng box, into which the 
eaxds are put feoe npward, and the whole game consists in guessing what card 
will be reached as they are drawn tmxA the box. All being ready, the players 
make thahr bets by placing upon a card in the Jt^-oot the amoont they desire 
to risk upon it, and the game can be best described by supposing that one of 
these is sanguine the queen w|ll win. He therefore puts on the card tiie small 
round pieces of ivory called ** checks," which he has purchased of the dealer, 
and eadli ci whkh represents a certain sum, ranging all the way from twenty- 
five oenAs to one hundred dollars. The first card, having been exposed before 
the giune opens, is ** dead,** and does not count. If the second should be a 
queen, the supposed player loses; but if the third, he wins. The same rule holds 
good through the seventeen turns in each deal, the dealer winning on each al- 
tenuiite card beginning with &e second. But when only four cards remain in 
the box, the game assumes a new phase as the last turn ^ called. The first and 
fourth card being ** dead,** only the seeond and third are open to speculation, 
and the chances are considered so greatly against the player that the dealer 
pays four for one on this turn. All this appears veiy simple to the tyro, and 
he cannot be made to understand that the bank has any advantage over, him in 
gues^ng the order in which the cards in the box will be readied. He is folly 
prepared to believe that the only chance against him is the ** splits,** as the 
bank takes half of whatever may be bet upon the card when two of die same 
suit appear on the ** tum,*^ and gives him nothing. Ckmvinced, as the great ma- 
jontf of people are that there is only this risk against them, it is not strange 
ttiat iuo has beeome the most popular and universal of games of chance. 

It is made oftore alluring by its surroundings. Nowhere has sumptuous el^ 
eganoe been attained in such perfection as in the first-lass gambling saloons 
of New York. Generally each has a suite of rooms, the largest of which is de- 
voted to faro, with perhaps a roulette wheel in one corner, while others are sa- 
cred to sboit card games, and one is always exclusively usM aa a banqueting 
haU. All are fomished without regard to cost, but there is never anything in 
any of them to offend the most iastidioas taste, although there may be some- 
times a grim humor in some of the decorations, as is the case in one house 
wliere a magnificent oil painting of a tiger is suspended to the wall immediate- 
ly over the table, so that none of the players can look up without meeting the 
glaring eye of the beast which is held to be the presiding deity of ihs game. 
But such suggestions as this are rare, as in general there is nothing anywhere 
but the foro table to declare the uses of the place; take that away, and the vis- 
itor would imagine liimself in the private parlors of a gentleman whose great 
wealth was fortunately equalled by his refined taste. This delusion would be 
strengthened by a seat at the banquet, where the viands of all posdble varie- 
ties are of the best quality, and are served with a finished elegance in the 
plate and all table appointments, including the waiters, which is not ex- 
ceeded even in the most select houses. At the table and on the sideboard 
in the salo(A are liquors of such excellent quality that they would have an- 
gered oM blear-eyed, besotted SUenus, as wanting in the fire ho demanded in 
his drams, but ahhougfa freely offered they are never pressed upon the visitor. 



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^ THE N£TH£B SIDiE OF K£W YQEK. [Jult, 

and it is possible lot a man to frequent these saloons for years whhoui aoqvir- 
ing a taste for liquor. There is, in £EU3t, very little drinking in them, and noiie 
at all of that fast and fiirious potation which barrios so many thonsands of 
Americans to physical and mental ruin. No sight is rarer in a gaming4ioase 
than to see a man mandliu drunk, and still more rare is it to find one ond^ 
the influence of liqaor engaged in heavy "baiting. An intoxicated man is never 
allowed to profiuie the jdaoe, and if he appears in the person of a valuable pat- 
ron is quietly led away, to be put to bedin some remote room; but if he oomes 
as an unknown oasoal, he is put into the street with little ceremonyt but no 
violence. 

What has been said of the appointments of £ux> houses applies of course only 
to the first-dass and most prosperous establishments. The places next in <mlor 
ape them in everything, but are far below them in all. A second-class house 
has sometimes even more of glitter than its rival, but it is easy to see that it is 
pinchbeck grandeur. There is an entire absence too of the refined taste igrhich 
presided over the decoration and furnishing of the better houses. Tlie rooms 
are glaringly painted, filled with odds and ends of furniture of all i^pes and 
patterns, so that they kx^ not unlike the wards of a hospital Sor superannuated 
and diseased housdiold goods turned over in their old age to the auctioneer's 
hammer. The suppers and liquors, however, most plainly proclaim the lower 
caste of the place. While the variety in both is abundant, the first are exe- 
crably cooked and served, and the quality of the latter would not be strange 
to the most experienced patron of the ordinary Broadway saloons, which are 
proverbial for fhmishing every kind of beverage except good. But if the sec- 
ond grade houses are bad in these respects, there are some b^w them which 
are much worse. If a man can digest the so-called game suppers and survive 
any considerable drinking of the liquids which are offered as pure wiiiskoy and 
brandy in the lowest class of faro-houses, he ought to be able to insure his life 
upon the most favorable t^rms. And the appointments of these houses are in 
keeping with thefa: entertainment. The diairs, sofas, and carpets wore of the 
most tawdry description when new, but are ragged with long and ill usage ; 
the gambUng-checks, which range in price tcom twenty-five cents to one dollar* 
are grimed and dented with much handling; the £uro-table, which elsewhere 
is enticing in its newness and cleanliness, here is old and smeared with grease ; 
the dealing-box, which in first-class houses is of pure and polished silver, in the 
seoond-class of German silver, but equally polished, here is of pewter and dingy. 
So in all the minutisB of the place it is repulsively suggestive of squalid and un- 
prosperous vice, and if by any chance a gentleman enters, he leaves at onoe to 
lose his money under more elegant or at least cleaner audioes. 

Provideda ** square ^* game is dealt, &e actual playing of faro is (wedsely the 
same whether thousands are wagered in the elegance of Twenty-fourth street, or 
as many pennies in the squalor of the Bowery. The players being seated around 
three sides of the table, where there is room for six or eiglit, the dealer takes up 
the other side, with the marker of the game generally at his elbow. This 
marker has the cue-box, a glance at which at any time will show the players 
which cards of each suit are out and which yet remain \n the box; aiid it is 
a knowledge eagerly sought by the bettors, who are to a great extent guided by 
it. There is rarely a word spoken during the progress of a deal, for fiiro is the 
most quiet, and in that respect the most gentlemanly of all games. A glanoe 
at the cue-box teUs the placer the oondition of the dealing-box, and he silently 
places his wager in the shape of checks upon his chosen card or cards* ¥dth a 



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Wl.] THE IIBZHSB SIPB OF MBW YO&K. 61 

eoppor upon them if he desires to bet iipcm the tide of the bftiik, as he is at Uber^ 
to do. After each tarn the dealer glances over the board, and without a word 
picks up the oheoks he has won* or adds the same number to those ^eady upon 
the cards in the cases where he has lost Any player is free to cease playing 
at any moment, and at the dose of * deal can obtain Hie money for whatever 
nnmber of checks he may possess by handing them in to the deal^. From this 
opemti(m» suggestive of a closed career, has come one of tiie most common of 
modem slang phrases, ^handing in his checks*" as a synonyms for death; and 
there is something of m grotesque hnmor in the metaphor, wlien the oiroun- 
stanoes which gave it birth are Ailly considered. There is something fimereal in 
the gravity and decorom of the hro room, and there is a deal of the otter 
abamdon of death in the staid reddessness with which an infiitoated play^ 
stakes his last dollar on the torn of a card. 

Even where the game is not '^square,*^ it is nsnally marked by the same 
solemn propriety during its progress, for it is not often the victim discovers 
that he has been cheated until long after tiM doseof the operation. Thecfiraods 
of fiurok once known, are so transparent that it is amazing that they were not 
discovered at the moment their perpetration was attempted. The most com- 
mon is that of the sanded cards, l^ which is meant cards with the sur&oe 
roogfaened, so that the two being handUed in a certain way will adhere and ap- 
pear as one. The dealer, intending to make assurance doubly sure, and to be 
certain that the player» shall lay down and take up their money only at his 
pleasure, arranges the cards before beginning the deal so that he knows precisely 
the order in which they will come out. During the progress of tJie deal he is 
thor^oTO able to baffle chanee by polling out one card or two, as the bets upon 
the talde may demand. If the patron to be fleeced has wagered on the ace, the 
dealer easily makes that card win or lose, to serve his purpose ; and in these 
"skin games,^^ where everybody but the goose who is being (ducked is in the 
confederacy of roguery, nobody keeps tally of the turns, and the victim at the 
close of the deal is ignorant ^vi^ether there have been seventeen turns or half 
tiiat number. Yet the most superficial knowledge of the game and the subt- 
est practice ou^t to save any one from a swindle that is daily practised, and 
is but little less clumsy and transparent tiian the next most ordinary fraud of 
dealing fkrom a pack with more Hian the fifty-two cards, where the presence 
of the dishonest supernumeraries immensely increases the chances against the 
playw. Of course a little observation would reveal the superfluous knave, but 
ttie cheat is usually practised upon men who hardly know one card from an- 
other, and has therefore been soocessftd ihr beyond its merits. Even if the 
dupe should discover his true position, he has wit enough as a rule to do noth- 
ing more than cease playing upon the first i^usible pretext, and go quietly out 
of the hoQse. There is hardly any podticm in ndiich a man can be placed 
which is more trying to tlie nerves than to find himself alone in a " skin ^* 
house, as the dens where cheating games are played are called, with a terse 
truthfolness tliat is in itself quite appalling. Surrounded by the mfiians of 
the gambling ihUernity, whe watch his every movement with suspicious greed, 
he is not conscioos of his peril until he finds that he is being cheated, and be- 
trays tiie consciousness by some word or look. Then he feels himself walled 
up from sympathy and safety by the merciless gamesters around him, and noth- 
ing is ftirther from his thoughts than to demand the return of his money. All 
that he asks is a chance to breathe tJie firee air of the streets again, and that is 
all his despoOers will allow. A patrdman padng his beat in the small hours 



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<d I^SE KTEOTHSR SIDS OF NBW ¥OBK. [Jult 

of a sleety morning wm acooitod by a pallid stnager, who, pointing to 
Ifae lighted second-floor wiaderws of a well-known **8]da*^ house, aeked« 
•« Stranger, what's tfaatr' "fiupo," was lh» answer; bat tlie stranger saki» 
**No, sir; it's helll I Ve been there! The deyils will be oot presently; pleaee 
dont let 'em follow me.*^ And havingras he tiiovf^t, establisiied a strong rear* 
goard in the polioeman, the Tiellni retreated hastily b^ in good order. Soeh 
horrora as this man had evident^ m^ ihoe to fiMie ase nightly enooua t e r ed in 
ttie great city, where the «Un game is played in scores c^ dens that wear a 
charm against tilie penalties of the law in the terror they oreate in those who 
have beeki cheated in them. * 

I\&ro booses in New YoriE have xar^ exceeded one hondred in number, ex- 
oept during the latter paitof the war, when spceufatJon going mad in Wall 
street stalked over the land, demoralising and mining thousands. In tfaoeo 
ftrrerish times fiuxv-playing naturally inoreased wMi stook-gambling, and the 
too houses multiplied until th^ vibrated between one hundred and twenty 
and ohB hundred and thirty in number. Of late years, however* they have 
sfeeacUly decreased, and dnring the present year, when thA poUio excitement 
upon the subject has caused the sensational statement tiiat the city contains six 
hundred of them, ninety-t^nro has been the largest number open at any time. 
The number seems small in comparison with the siae of the city, whioh« besides 
the large resident reckless population, contains tens of thousands of strangers 
anxious not to miss any of the sensatioM of the metropolis. Yet these £upo 
banks not only are enough to do all tte business presented and enticed to them* 
bat some have a very precarious life owing to the lack of oastom. The first 
and second class houses are under very heavy expenses, a principal item of 
which takes the diape of rent They mast be and are looated in the principal 
thoroughtoes, near tlie leading hotels, wit^ the exception of thoee anomalous 
institutions known as '* de^ games,'' wliidii an found in Ann, Fulton, and 
Chambers streets, for the accommodation of business men, many of ^Hiom have 
acquired the bad habit of se^dng solaoe for iht vexations of legitimate trana- 
aotions in the delights of too. A eeianre was made of diese pkices lately, npoa 
the ground tiiat they are of all the gambling estal)lishments in the city the moat 
dangerous to the puUic It is not necessary to endcMrse this statement in order 
to justify the attempt to suppress day gambling; but if activity in this direo* 
tlon is intended to excuse the toleratio4 of *all other houses, it will result in 
more of evil than good. The niglit houses into which strangeu are hiveigled 
and robbed, wiiich are the resorts of young bmb ai fortone, who here take tlMi 
first steps in a downward road wliioh leads tlwm and their toailieB to shame 
and ruin, are worthy of at least equal attention. Besides being more fre- 
quented, these nig^ houses have a much greater number of hours to play. 
The day houses are only in fhll operation four or five hours pc&r day ; but in the 
nig^t houses a game can be had during the afternoon and at any hour of the 
xiiglit, while the average of play, take them altogether, is fhlly tw^ve hours in 
each twenty-four. Tlie nigiit houses, therefore, which can be ioand in upper 
Broadway and the oroe»«treetB near the large hotels, do the most too-playing, 
and are necessarily greater evils than places which are only accessible dnring 
a few hours, and then only to a single elass. In the absorption and waste of 
capital, the half score of day houses cannot be compared to those idiese moat 
of the jitAj is at night. 

I have endeavored, but wittbont the soooess I hoped and desired, to gat 
accurate stetistics upon this point» and am til^erefose tooed to .use approod* 



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1871.] THX IfETHER SIDB OF NSW TOBX. m 

mate figuros, wUoii are, howdvnr, T«ry nsar the eacact tratlL The isro 
1iAii]»V>f New YcM-k iMirTe m eapitel a littte 1«B8 tibaa oae nullion of dtdiara, 
wfakb is Tmry luieqiially dfrldedU as the afaket^t-two honiei vary from i8»000 to 
960,000 eaoh, altiioagh only tiiree or four hmr^ liie latter aiDeiiii^ and die areis 
Bf^ baakiiig cajrftal fe about tlOtOOOt. It ie iBi|»s^le to aay what amouat of 
money diaagee han^ upoA Ada haeiSt bat I hare learned that the mv^fni^ 
yeariy wiimiiigs of all 6he banks taken together k ahout fifty per oent» exoiaaiTa 
of the oapStid reqnhnd to ke^ up the eetablitfameiita^ so that crrery year Ateaa 
gamblers abeoib about •60Q,00(\ and tiw aotaal pnoilB ava mmae than 100 per 
oent. 

Theee figures are condusive that the -vmj of Ifae ts aM g ross or is hard. Yet 
it Is tiie uncertainty of faro tiiait oeastitutes its fiMoinatioti, aad maJces it posaible 
fior tile houses to hare so large an average of profit As against a single player 
the bank k estimated to hare an adnuBlage of but fifteen per ceut. in the ohaaoes, 
but as against all of its patrons its odds are almost InnalonkiHfi, I have seen 
a game where one man would win steadily th r o q gh several deals, while the 
several other players as steadily lost, and was tcHd by experienoed pcofhssionals 
that I was witnessing an en^it of ooastant and ezpeetsd ooourrenoe. But I 
was also warned not to Judge of ultimate resutts by tlie one looky man, as my 
kindly mestot assured me that ait sene time that huAvidaal woidd lose back to 
that bank, or some other, every dollar of his winnings. In tiie long run 
the bank must always win. it has been said that no f^nehman oan avoid 
death, or the Cross of the Legion «f Honor, aad gamUers have a saying 
as caustio and more true, that a ** Slormer is sure to be a piker.^' The first 
term interpreted into English, meaaa one wiio has an extraordinary run of 
good luok by wMch he has pocketed thoosandsy wUle a ^* piker '' is a tolafated 
collapse who makes a stray bet when he oan beg or borrow a ^eheck.*' 

These ups and downs are the safeguards of the banki and the ruin of the 
players: Ko man woidd plsfy long or heaviiy if constnntly ii loser £KMn the 
start, but buoyed by occasional gains, the fimgs of the game are fastened into 
his very nature. There are exceptions, of course, of whidi I have seen somo* 
and heard of others; but ^e nde is that a begkmer beoomes a oonfirmed pteyer 
and ends in bankruptcy. No vioe has Uiglited so many lives, has illustrated so 
many epics of angutsh, or has eost the productive A&dw^ of tbe nation so many 
millions of money, as fiuro gambling. Hiere is soaroely a bushiess itnan who 
oiumot point out some htdk floatfaig In the streets ooveced with the mire of 
poverty, who once had taXe behind him, but, forsaking tnubs lor &roy became 
wliat he is; and the liberal prddssions^-but especially the law--can fbmish in 
proportion even a greater number d these wamiiq^ exampieB. There is 
scarcely a lady in good society who cannot tell of some refined and elegimt 
woman, once the pride of her circle, now living in penury and neglect, whose 
fortune has been wrecked by her husband on that &tal table. There are 
hundreds of orphais wailing for bread, whose guardians have sunk their por« 
tions in the maelstrom of int>. Trust iini4b, pnblio and private, have been 
piled upon the green doth, to ^sappear in tbe insatiable drawer of tlie dealer. 
And all this misery, sliame, and loss has been inflicted upon tbe ciountry be* 
oause faro honestly played is a game of pure dfcianoe, and sometimes &vors the 
unfortunate who meddles with it 

It is scarcely necessary t» prove these general truths l^ the rsoitnl of special 
cases, for every reader of the daily newspiqiets can recall the hsart-innding 
history of some victim of this deadly jfascination. It is not often that the splen* 



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M THE HETHER SIDE OF NEW TOSS. [Jult, 

dOTS of the gambling lalocmf an dabbled wMfa Mood, but the ilafaiii tun soared j 
yet remoTod fh>m a day hooae where an hifiilnated yoodi balanced aeooiints 
with the deepitelbl aoe by blowing out his bniins beside the gambling taUe* 
If soch tragedies wwe more oomsion, thsre woald be fewer viotiias of Iha 
game; lor that rerelation of the innermost secrets of fiuro liib did more to 
startle the detrotees of the game into abstineaoe than anything which conld be 
said or done oonoendng the viae. The experience of all the years during 
which hro has flourished in Kew York is convincing that moral force is pow« 
erless against the game, and that the law which has been made for its suppres- 
sion cannot, or at least will not be enforced. The penalties of the statute wliieh 
was enacted in 1851, are sufBcleatly seveve if they could be inflicted upon even 
a moiety of the houses, to entirely suppress the game. But it is a suggestire 
&et that there lias never been but one oonvieticm for the offwoe of gambling 
in the city of New York.^ The statute specifloally enacts that ''if any person 
for gambling purposes shall keq[> or ezhibh any gambling table, device or i^ 
paratus, or if any person or persons shall be guilty of dealing 'foro,^ or bank- 
ing for otiiers to deal 'ikro,' or acting as 'look-out,^ or gamekeeper for the 
game of 'faro,' shall be taken and held as a c(mmion gambler, and upon con- 
viction thereof shall be sentenced to not less than ten days hard labor in the 
Fenitentl«ry, or not more than two years iiard labor in the State Prison, and be 
fined in any sum not more than one thoosand dollars." It is made a misde- 
meanor punishable by fine, fbr any person to persuade another to enter a gam- 
bling room, or for the ownmr or lessee of any premises to permit gambling 
therein, and it is '^ the duty ci all sherifBi, police-offioera, constables, and pros- 
ecuting or district attorneys to inform against and prosecute all persons whom 
they shall have credible reason to believe are offanders; '^ and it is a misde- 
meanor punishable by a fine of not more than five hundred dollars ISor any of 
these officials to neglect this duty. 

Armed with these great powers, it would seem to be no very difficult task 
fbr the people to suocessfliUy battle with "liuro'' ; yet this stringent law, which 
the casual reader would suppose a most efBdctive i^ece of correctional mechan- 
ism, has been inoperative from its enactment. Many attempts have been made 
to enforce it, some of which had an honest intent to accomplish its purpose, 
vdiile others had no better design than to blackmail the gamblers; but both 
ended in ignominious fkilure. The seisures of tlie houses and implements of 
the game permitted by the law, have been sooeessfully made many tbnes, and 
the supposed principals have as often been held fbi- trial in the Court of Gener- 
al Sessions by the polioe magistrates, but with the single exception of the com- 
plaint against Fat Heam, no case has ever gone to a conviction. The abnor- 
mal result in Heam's case ought to have encouraged the autiiorities to use all 
possible means to secure a like conclusion in others, as it fbr the time entirely 
suppressed foro gamWng in New Y<Nrk. But it has never bad a companion, 
and fiiro as a consequence has had a long career of uninterrupted prosperity. 
Various district attorneys have attempted to explain why an eflfecdve remedy 
for a gigantic evil has been so seldom used, by the excuse tliat in all the cases 
the proof is so defective that a conviction could not be ha4 and no good could 
be efllBcted by bringing them to triaL To tlie general mind it would appear a 
not impossible task to obtain the necessary evidence at least once a year against 
some one of the ninety liyx> houses, and by tlie condign punishment of the 
conductors of that one, cause all their follows to flee from the wrath to come. 



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\ 

1871.] CJONSCIENCE. 65 

For thirty years there has heen a strong oonyictioii hi the pablk mhid that the 
eommiinity can be saved from the dangers and losses of &ro by ponitiye law 
alone, and adndrable af^diances to this end having long ago been provided, a 
day must soon come when the peofde will demand of their servants that the 
law shall be enforced against those glittering, fiiscinating hells, where 

Borne men creep in ddttiih fortune*! hall, 
While othen play the idiots in her eyes. 

Edwabd Crapset. 



C0N8CIENCK 



MY wife sits with her hand in mine. 
My child is on my knee : 
My litde village sweetheart, here. 
Yon must not fcdlow me ! 

I loved yoa once— I dread yon now. 

Yon are no welcome corner ; 
For I am married, yoo are dead — 

I saw yonr grave last summer! 

Above it grew the brier-rose. 

The flower yoa loved the best : 
It is a qniet sleeping-jdace — 

Go, rest, and let me rest! 

Whyslioiildyoahaimtme thiisP ^Tistme, 

A careless-hearted student, 
Witdied by yonr fhee, I should have been 

Less tender and more pmdent. 

But, can I help itP Have I power 

To heal tlie wound I gave, 
With love and death between us now, 

My marriage, and yonr grave? 

Then leave me ; let me dwell in peace, 

SInee vain is all regretting; 
And sleep benealii the brier-rose. 

Poor child! life's grief forgettmg. 

In vain I pray; where'er I go 

I find you by my side! 
The heart that once I wronged what grave 

Is deep enough to hide? 

Marian Dottolaa 



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THE DUTCH AT HOME. 



HOLLAND is as level and ^een as a billiard taUe, and, were it firmer, 
would meet the requirementB of a Titanic game with the balls and one. 
Volta!re» with more alliteration than truth, described the country in three 
words : Canattx, canards^ canaille — a sacrifice of fact to smartness from which 
the French wit could not refrain. The first and second words are happy, but 
the last is unmerited. It is easy to rmderstand his antipathy to the country and 
its people, since both are in antithesis to what they are in France. There the 
land rolls in gentle swells of real hard earth and rock; in Holland it is spongy 
and flat, intersected with canals and surrounded with dikes. There the inhabi- 
tants are vivacious ; here, phlegmatic. 

As to names, the eonntry has two. Official hands wif te and official lips call 
the kingdom The Netherlands. Tfaa people know H only as Holland. In spo- 
ken language of most circles, at home and abroad, the latter name is generally 
employed among Dutch, English, and Amedoans. The Fi^ench use their old 
translation of the Low Countiies — ^Pays Bas. 

The Netherlands consists chiefly of made ground, which in the dry^ sea- 
son of the year is not dry, and the greater part of the time is satm-ated. One 
feels almost as if it were a sham ocmntry, and that one might go through the 
sofii crust of earth and sink into th« sea. The groond is so loose that high 
winds occasionally tear up large trees by the roots. The spongy soil, steeped 
in that element in which the oonntry 8wim»-^water — nourishes vegetation 
greatly. Doubtless owing to tikis, the eonstry is in advance of her southern 
neighbor, Belgium, ten days or two weeks in spring vegetation. The product, 
like the soil from which it comes, is poroos and lacking in firmness; its fibre 
is gross and sofii, and it imparts its character to all that feeds upon it. The 
flesh of man and animals has tbe same softness, abondanee, and coarseness of 
texture which characterize the vegetable kingdom. Hie brain fibre, like that 
of the flesh, lacks Jine$ee said delioaey. The mind, like the body, is heavy and 
slow in its operations. The intelligence of the animal possesses the same 
bluntness and tardiness as that of the man. Thus constituted, Dutchman's 
thought finds expression in heavy, practical platitudes. The movement of ev- 
erything is slow — of the ships on the water, cows in the field, horses on the 
street, the commonplaces between man of the oonnter, and the dallying words 
of the wooing and the wooed. Alertness of intellect scarcely exists except so 
far as found in driving a shrewd bargain. In a word, the mind is as pudgy as 
the flesh. 

Fatness is normal. It grows at the same pace as the great, gross-veined, 
plump cabbages, which bulgo out over all tkie land. Hie generating power is 
remarkable in all nature-^-in animals, vegetailion, and men. Life, such as it is, 
chubby and slow, is abundant. Grasses, of the richest blade and trees of the 
fullest leaf, or fat cows and calves and ewes and lambs, fill the land to surplus. 
Procreation is constantly going on in every department of nature. Sterility is 
not known, either in the soil, the animal, or woman. The physical conforma- 
tion of woman here seems better adapted to the work ci generation than in 
other conntrfes. Her breasts are high and full, pressing outward not unlike 
the bow of one of her native, old-fashioned ships, and from her waist down a 
pelvic width is indicated which admirably fits her to be a mother. 

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laTlO . TBB BUTCH AT HOME <7 

The mother Instinot is strong in the wovua of the Nethevlands. Fdlow- 
ing the general order of everything in nature in her country, she is prolific and 
remarkably gifted in her oapacily lor nonrlshment. As regards sustenance, the 
child may be said to be bom in the lap of plenty, lor it has a mother rich in 
the juices of life, who always rears her own ofbpring. The preservation of a 
healthihl appearance in the rearing oi a large &mily is more remarkable here 
than elsewhere. The fructiiying power of nature quickly repaurs losses, and 
the humid climate moistens the complexion and brings the rosy tints to the 
snr&ce. The dry, camel-like jQesh which covers ttod frame of an Arab, it would 
be safe to affirm, does not exist in a single individoal of the Dutch race in the 
^Netherlands. 

Eubens has often been accused of exaggerating the forms of his women ; 
but those who are fiuniliar with the hoge-limbed, rose-tinted, moist-sldnned 
women of Holland willingly concede hi« truthfhlness to nature. He £(iithfully 
portrayed what he saw around him. The plicate, spiritual creations limned 
by sMlAil masters in other lands he seemed to be unacquainted with, or if he 
was, eschewed them a6 not being the most natural Ibrm of beauty. His ideas 
of perfectioga were developed among his own peofde, and he saw it as they saw 
it To him and to them the Dutch or Flemish type must have seemed nearly 
faultless. 

The woman^s positi<m is not a oonspicuous one. An exemplary wife is ex- 
pected litendly to obey h&c husband, to remain at home and look after the 
linen, kitdien, and s<^rubbing. As for reading current literature, tra^lHng, 
and having reception days, all this to her is a sealed book. Hence her ideas of 
life are limited to the little local events of every day which transpire in her im- 
mediate vicinity or within the cirde of her relations. Eea|ed and dwelling in 
such narrow limits, she has no curiosity for anything beyond what her neigl^ 
bors eat and wear and the little occurrences of her provincial neighborhood. 
The £Edl of an ^mpire^ as a piece of news, does not possess to her anything like 
the same interest as the kittening of her cat or the discovery that one of her 
neighbors is out in a new bonnet. She is enabled to gratify her lively curiosity 
for things local by means of the small loc^dng-glasses whfeh are attached out- 
side of tiie windows in such fitshion as to permit her to see what is going on 
outside without herself being seen. Thus quietly seated with her knitting at 
the window, she takes in the perspective of the street from end to end in oppo^ 
site directions, and her eye of Eve rakes it like a piece of ordnance from one 
extremity to the other. Much of her time is spent at this out-look, and it is 
her prindpal pleasure — always, however, with sewiii^ or knitting in her hands^ 
for she is no idler. When the door-bell rings she can see the ringer from her 
seat — a gratLQcation she especially eigoys.. From this point her searching eye 
notes with unerrii^ exactitude what goes in and out of her neighbors^ doors, 
whether it be butter, beef, eggs, or dry goods. The exterior looking-glass is 
the Eye Terrible of Holland, feared of man, woman, and child. People have a 
certain air of self-consciousness in the street, possibly becaose they know that 
the eyes of the feminize world are on them. 

Everything goes in at the front door, for ten to one the rear gives on a ca- 
nal. When the butcher, baker, or what not makes his appearance, the senti- 
nel of the window leaves her post to hold personal parley with the vender, and 
holds him strictly to the mark in price, weight, and quality. All provisions 
are submitted to her feeling and smelling inspection, and she acquits herself of 
the duty with a conseieutiousness that would surprise the American woman. 



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68 THE DUTCH AT HOME. [Jult, 

When the Dutch woman finds benelf in I2ie sodety of a stranger— a rare 
oocnrrenoe — she is silent and embarrassed. She will not be drawn oat and 
speak of what she knows, and the oonversation, snob as one hears in the society 
of most countries, is to her pore Sanscrit. She is not the mistress of the boose, 
as it is generally understood, bot rather an opper servant or bousekoeper. In 
the fiunily groop it is the man who is the central flgnre; the woman is kept in 
the backgroond. The retirement in which she lives resembles moch that tf 
the woman of the East. Fcnr her there is but one man in the world, and he is 
her bosband. She lives in such constant and secluded intimacy with him that 
any other acquaintance is impossible. 

The basement of the building is generally usod as the counting-house of the 
husband, for the Dutdmian is bom a merchant. Overhead is the family dwell- 
ing, so that husband and wife are within call of each other. The chief advan- 
tage of this arrangement for the head of the fiunOy is its convenience for tak- 
ing his numerous repasts. Tlie fiunily eats four times a day. At eight in the 
morning, bread and butter, a slice of almost tasteless cheese, and coffee with 
milk, or tea— the usage of the latter being mcnre general. At noon, exactly the 
same nourishment. Four o^clock brings with it a solid dinner of meats, fair 
Bordeaux wine, and numerous vegetables, among which figures conspicuously 
the potato sprinkled with ground nutmeg. Indeed, most vegetables are gar- 
nished in the same way. The extraordinary use of nutmeg is the most striking 
feature of the Dutch Idtchen. The potatoes are perhaps the best in the world, 
and if properly cooked would be delicious. In the evening at eight, the tea, 
bread and hotter, and dieese come into play again. If the bosband be a club- 
man and ho should find himself out at the unusual hour of eleven or twelv<r 
o^clock, he will be|found again nourishing himself at that hour with a slice of 
cold beef, or something nearly as solid, at his club. As a rule, the married 
man is not given to clubs. . He passes his evenings in the bosom of his fkmily, 
in the best room of their dwelling— the drawing or sitting room. The tea is 
made here by the mistress of the house. An open portable kind of fbmaoe, 
looking something like a coal-scuttle, containing live coals, on which reposes a 
seething 'teakettle, is brought in by a maid-servant and placed alongside the 
mistress. A large tray is also brought in and placed before her, which bears 
the teapot and cups and saucers. Thus, cosfly surrounded by the members of 
her fitmily, the mistress makes and passes tea of such strength as would keep 
any other tlian Dutch people awake all night. It is doubtftil if tea is consumed 
even in Russia in as great quantities as in the Netherlands. It is served to the 
clerks in all the counting-houses, in caf^s, and at all places of amusement, at a 
moderate price, usually four cents (American) a cup. 

The ambition of every Dutchman, if lie has a garden, is to have a tea-house 
in which to take bis tea in tho summer. It is lattice-worked and vine-clad, and 
answers to the description of our summer-house. Here he sips his tea and 
smokes his cigar in coi\jugal felicity, regardless of the world^s revolutions, changes 
of governments and dynasties. The wealthier buy country seats in the vicinity 
of the town, when they straightway cot a canal around the house and construct 
a drawbridge. Printed in plain letters on the arch of the bridge, or oyer dio 
door of the villa, is the name of the place. There is not much variety of nom- 
enclature, for the Dutchman has but little imagination ; the most common is 
** Sommerlnst." There is a tendency toward Biblicfd names, such as *' Jerosa- 
lem," •• Jericho," etc. The little drawbridge tlurown across two or throe yards 
of water to admit, and carefblly drawn op after departure, is soggestive of 



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.1871.3 'wm ixixcb; ax HO)p:. 69 

feudal tuae«- Thss is H^ ix&are si^gul^r, oa the J>utch are ^fi moet law-abid- 
ing of any people. The qountrj-bioase is coDstruQte^ as if it were under an 
Italian sky, with veranda and many large doors and windows. 

The rich have places in. the country, the well-to-do have a Uttle patch of 
garden in the town, and ti)e poor cojitent themselyes with a poA pf flowers in 
the window. 

A pronainent trait in tiiie character of the woman is her lore of scrubbing 
and cleaning. A house already dmnp from a moist climate is made n^ore 80 
from the quantities of water with wliich it is continually dr/^nched. To slop is 
h^ mission, and she fulfils it with a fervor frightful to a person subject to 
rJKBunwtaftm. To sl<^i»ng wittiin there is no limit» but without there is restrio- 
tion. The beating of carpets and mats in Uie streets, and the dashing of water 
against the windows and outside of houses, grew to such an extent that the city 
fftthers were compelled to make a law forbidding it after ten in the morning, 
which law is at present in force. Up to this hour, the buxom maid-servaniB 
with bared arms hold possession of the streets, when they are impassable to 
tho^e who wish to avoid dust and water. Cleanliness is traditional. Tliere is 
a village not far froi« Amsterdam where horses and vehicles are forbidden to 
enter, lest they dirty the streets. In most places poverty and dirt are found 
together. In Holland the houses of the poor are almost always clean and tidy ; 
the bare floor and table af e as white as soap and water can make them ; all 
pots and pans of tin shine like polished steel ; and window-cleaning is canned 
to perfection. They are not, however, even the rich, as clean in their persons 
as they are in their houses. 3ath-rooms are seldom found in their dwellings. 
There is not the same hygienic necessity for the bath co accoont of the humidity 
of the climate. Puhlio bathing establishnients are not known, except in the 
three principal townsi, the Hague, Rotterdam, and Amsterdam. 

Rotterdam is noted for the good looks of its maid-servants. The type ^ 
aoft-eyed, ruddy-eheeked, dark-haired, and of course atont, with plump mottled 
arms and large hands and feet I have seen a porter wooing a maid throw 
his great ha^d like a grappling-iron upon her shoulder with sufficient force 
to have overturned a delicate creature, and she received the demonstration with 
a gratifled giggle in which he joined with a laugh like a donkey^s braying. A 
delicate caress would doubtless have been lost upon her, but the amatory grip 
touched her. With taste it is the same as with fedUng. Freijich wine mer- 
ohai^ say there is but little delicaey of appreciation in the Dutch palate; that 
Bordeaux wines, to be marketable among them, must be aoujp^ with alcohol 
and strong Spanish wines. This is alleged of the ordinary population only, 
for the cultivated Putchman who has travelled is epicurean in his tastes; but 
when delicate wine 'flows into the throat of the bourgeoisie, it finds its way into 
a receptacle of cumbrous vitality. The wii?ke coupit from rudeness and raspi- 
aess, produces a gentle irritation of the stpi^ach, and the alcoholic spirit goes 
to the head, the whole aronauig the lethargic nature into something like liveli- 
ness. Dinners begin with diffidence and mauvaUe horUe, and end with coarse 
iumliarity. At the dinners which precede fill weddings, chorus songs contain- 
ing indelicate allusions to the bride and groom are sung, little slips containing 
the ^en^ being parsed around to the gueats for this purpose. On these occa- 
sions excesses obtain toward the end of the entertainment^ such as amatory 
demonstrationf and allusions and something like intoxication* which is not alto- 
gether confined to the men. 

At social'gatherings the young women call the young men by their abbre* 
6 



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A) THB DUTCH AT EKAIE. [ Jui.T, 

▼iated CSnristfftii iiameg, such as Jan Mid Pete, and Hie latter reciprocate tlia 
fiuniUiir ciirtsilmeiit. If a young person were to adopt the iuag« prevalent in 
most polite coontriest it would be regarded as alfectation. 

In oontraoting marriages, tbe yoong people are sim^e, honest, and primW 
tive. The courtship, engagement, and marriage with one woman, is the ftiU 
heart-story of almost every Dntdmian. He oomrts the olject of Us alfeotkMiii 
sentimentally, and is soon engaged. The engagement often lasts years, daring; 
wfalch he addresses his betrothed with a tender asridnity which is never r»* 
taxed. He glorieb in it, and ^ralks about with her always on his arm, makea 
visits with her to friends and kindred, and when they are invited to any enter* 
tainment, they are by common consent always placed together, where they ooo 
together lilce doves regardless of the public gase. 

Hie engagement is a solemn obligation, and puUic ofrfnion anathematises 
him who brealm it The Lotliarios and Almavivas would have no occupation 
here, for husbands and wives righteously cleave together. There is a simple 
purity in the relation between man and woman wiiich is touching; they love» 
and marry, and are happy. If Jan^s pecuniary position wUl not enable thenk 
to marry, they can wait for years with the patience and fidelity of Jacob and 
Rachel, until the happy period arrives. The parents, however, if it be in 
their power, generaUy come to the rescue and open up the way to coiyugal' 
Joy, in a much more kindly and parental manner than is usually practised in 
America. 

Flhiation is incomprehensible, and the gay dangler with pretty nothings on 
his tongue is regarded with general disfkvor. There is no strategy, intrigue, 
or detour in the aflkirs of the heart, but directness uid publicity. The indeli- 
cacy of the proceeding is more than compensated for by its candor and good 
fiuth. Swains from all time have been romantic and given to verse-making in 
honor of their mistresses. Not so the Dutohman. He is incapable of anything 
in the way of moonlight and guitar, or the perpetration of Byronio rtiyme. 
Kor is he eloquent in presence of his. beloved ; flat, meagre, and provincial is 
his conversation, and wearisome to a degree for a third pair of ears, but emi- 
nently satisfiictory to those immediately concerned. Half of the time of thehr 
long iHe-^i4ite8 is passed in silence, squeezing eadi other^s hands, and looking 
sentimentally foolidi but happy. 

The Dutdi bourgeoisie are not a hospitable people. They rarely if ever in- 
vito a stranger or fordgner to their bed or board. On Sundays they fluently 
have their immediate connections at dinner, when they in their turn invite, to 
balance the account, which is kept with a bookkeeper's punctuality and cor^ 
rectaess. Lest one side should be left in debt in this respect, the custom every- 
where prevails among the better dasees of bestowing a florin on the servant 
when passing out of the house, which is to a certain extent paying tbr ih» din- 
ner. When a servant is engaged these florins form part of the wages, for the 
master knows how many dinners he wUl give during Uie year and how many 
people at each, neither more nor less, and makes a statement to this effect to 
the servant wishing to enter into his employment, and this is the basis of the 
negotiation. The Dutch amphitryon, for a year in advance, almost knows the 
particular persons he wUl have in his house, and the kind of meat which will 
be set before them, together with the cost of the same. The dinners are gen- 
erally good and with many courses. The Dutoh are heavy feeders, particular- 
ly of meats and vegetables, but eat little or no bread. They are silent o# 
speak but little untU toward the latter part of the repast, when the copious li- 



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ISn.] THB DOTGB IT HOME. 71 

toftlaoiu tbey have draok loosen likeir tangam to ttie ntterlngofhesTy Jokes mad 
brottd htonor. The Datohmsn has slow, beavj aaimal pro p e nsid os, but no im- 
pulses whedier fbr good or erfl. In msny other respeots, as in the matter of 
impolse, he is the antitype of the American. There is the same diiferenoe be- 
tween them that there is between a light, dancing New YorlE clipper, which is 
sensible to ererj pnff of wind, and a heayy, soggy Dnteh Ingger, which feels 
nothing bnt a stiff Inreeee. 

The chief ends of life for the Dutchman are the aoenmnlatioii of money and 
domestic peace. The Jew and Armenian concentrate their fkculties on money- 
getting as much as he, bat it is doubtfol if either holds on to it with his tenacity. 
fialzao^s type of the shrewd, araricioos money-lender is Gobseck— half Dutch 
and half Jew. Publio-spirited men, as they are eaUed in America, are un- 
known in the Netherlands. As a role, men do not embark in disinterested 
enterprises, make donations, or leave charitable legacies. The Peabodys and 
Couttses rarely exist on Dutch soil. 

On the other hand, there is less crime in the Netherlands than elsewhere. 
The Dutchman is honest and truthful. He does not lie himself nor does he tol- 
erate lying in ot&ers. There are no shams about him. He does not know how 
to dissemble, and would not if he oonld. The nearest thing to it is the shrewd- 
ness which veins the strata of bhmt honesty. like truthful people generally, 
he is slow in giving his word, but miee given he is pledged. Like all money- 
getters, he is prudent, and possessed of the qualities which are always grouped 
around it. 

History tells us that by long and contanued hammering and blowing, where 
their interest or religion was at stake, they have been brought up to a white 
heat, as in the tulip excitement and the Spanish invasion. Since then they 
liave grown old as a nation and as individuals. They have lost most of their 
ancient virtue. The traits of heroism which belonged to them of old are eaten 
out by the love of gain. The days when Van Tromp swept the seas with a 
broom at his masthead will never retmm, and it would be a great mistake to 
eappoBe that the Dutch woqM now fight on land and sea for religion or nation- 
ality, as they did in former thnes. 

There is no boldness in their aetion. They da not take the initiative in 
trade or politics. They wait fbr others to open up the wny, and then they fol- 
low. When the nation assumes a position in politics, it is in a spirit of depre- 
cation. More advanced peoples plant themselves squarel/in their declarations ; 
the Dutch creep to theirs apparently with fear and trembling. We are con- 
strained to accept the melancholy &ot that the heroic Dutchman so graphically 
described by the gifted Motley is dead. 

The Dutchman is gregarious, of the race sheep. Peaceable as a merino, 
he rarely if ever comes to Idows. Gregarious in hia opinions and feelings, he 
travels in his ideas on a dead level, for monotony and absence of originality are 
bis. The land is barren of invention, progress, and ideas; it has given birth 
in these latter days to no new thing, nor done anything for the advancement of 
science or the amelioration of tlie human race. 

There is little or no ctiriosity to see or honor the world^s celebrities. It only 
exists for things local, such for instance as are of a domesHo character. If Glad- 
stone, Thiers, or President Orantweretoarrivein Rotterdam, there would scarce- 
ly be any manifestation of interest, When their King eon^Ss, it is an ovation— a 
gala day; soldiers parade with music, cannons are fired, and genuflexions are 
made in his honor; and for aU this their sovereign snnbe tliem, for he is of 



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72 HALF AX HOUR. [Jcu; 

tiM>Mirlio b«H0Telli«fepeoplflf wet»«vMted Ibrlfaflkro^ 80 laeeklythey 
eaft their hamble-pi«--« dainty dUkk %b Mi before tiie King. Whatever n^ajr he 
Ide roj«l shorteomings, the Dntdi eannoi see them, fer the sentiment of loyahyi 
wiiich a Ualted fiteites repiMiean can nerer understand, blinds tlienu 

National oharaoteristies only are here spoken oL There are a lew oosmo- 
politan Dntohmen who are travelled and ooUiTated, who entertain eaoh other 
and foreigners hospitably, and whom it is a privilege and pleaanre to beoome 
ao^piainted witk; hot they are not typieal DabDhmen. 

Albert Ehodss. 



HALF AN HOUR 



IllET her last year, in the stndio 
Of Weymer, in tiie Roe de Oharente ; 
She oame in widi eheeks all aglow 

IVom tiie wBd antomn wiiidi» and bent 
To my greetings with a flow 

Of light murmured words, silver sweet» 

DeUoate flattering phrases, 
Whioh my own words sprang forth to meet, 

As if I believed in her praises. 
Dropped with a smile at my feet. 

Goortesy, high-handed, and bred 
In the translnoent Uood of ber veins: 

Such a lady! who can flatter, instead 
Of your flattering her fbr your pains. 

Without a change of lier cool white and red. 

Saying, " Tve heard of you much"— 
Smiling—'* and glad lixos to meet; " 

While her hand^s tender touch 
Bmshed my own, to complete 

The ohasto ohaxm : oall it such. 

For I knew that it meant nothing more 
Than the gracious refinement of art; 

The exquisite odorous core 
Of a flower, not its heart. 

What wanted I moref 

Tlie flower Uself for my share? 

Well, I hove it liere in my palm-<- 
A Toee that Ml fimn her hair 

Into my hand, like a charm, 
Just as we parted Hiere. 



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1871.] HALF AN HOUR. 73 

And half smiling I took it away — 

Half amiUng, but was I in jest? 
Well, what next? shall I say 

I have worn it here on my br ea st 
Since that red autumn day? 

Only tlie swift short half 

Of a long-drawn hour, 
Aa aroh phrase or two, and a lao^: 

What if the power- 
Did sbe give me win* to quaff P 

Fott ever Tm seeing a fiioe. 

Like a £eM)e in a delicate dveam. 
Laikspor eyes and rose t|)e tltfo^ the laoe 

Of a veil glide and gleam, 
TOl I half lose the trace. 

Then a torn of the head shows such hair! 

Black hair like wet silk. 
Breaking loose from a silken snare. 

And a hand white as milk. 
Thrusting it back without care. 

More than a year, you know. 

And much has happened since then — 
The world^s ebb tide and flow, 

And a man^s life with men ; 
But rd let it all go 

For the swift short half 

Of a loBg*drawn iioor. 
An aroh idirase or two, aad a laugh, 

And the possiUe power 
To sit there and quaff 

That fine hbj wine. 

Which has kept its sweet spell. 
Kept its sparkle and shine, 

Down a yearns surge and swell. 
From that half hour of mine. 

Of mine! yes, of mine, sweet t 

YouVe met millions of men 
And dropped a smOe at their feet, 

But that half hour was mine then. 
And in it I olaha you, aweet* 

And in it I have you and hold you, 

Larkspur eyes an4 blush roses! 
And in it I dasp you and fold you. 

Where Hiis rose reposes. 

There, my pasdon IVe tdd you! 

ITOBA Pebbt. 

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OUGHT WK TO VISIT HER? 



CHAPTER XX. 



nUENDS. 



EEADEB, do yoa know what il ib af- 
ter some open or ball to be haunted^ 
against will of yoois, l^ the importaDate 
burden of a single tone? 

Rawdon Grosbie is so haunted now. 

He gets ap in the morning, bwakfiiate, 
prosecutes his courtship, dines, sleeps, 
dreams, all to the tune of '* Jane." Her 
fiMse, her laugh, her trick of voice and man- 
ner are neyer absent from him. A dozen 
times a day he gi?es stealthy looks at the 
stolen silver locket. (Poor Emmy remarks 
that Rawdon has always the scent of those 
new yesuvians about him now.) He treas- 
ures jealously a morsel of flowers, ''a 
withered weed " that she has worn in her 
waist-belt, or that Bloesy's little hand has 
picked for him. The prose of his life, in 
short, 80 intensely prosaic hitherto, has be- 
come a poem. ' * The light that Jierer was 
on sea or land " shines for a brief space 
across the dead level of his path and makes 
it lovely. 

How will it end ? How do all such hal- 
lucinations end when the tune has worn 
itself silent, the light died out, the poem 
lapsed back into dullest, tritest prose? 
What &te can there be in store for Raw- 
don Grosbie but this, that Jane when she 
finds out his folly will laugh at him, and 
that Emma, excellent little foargiving Em- 
ma, will become his wife? Well, and in 
the mean time he would change places 
with no crowned head in Europe! The 
ratified blessings, the heavy responsibili- 
ties of life will rest, securely enough no 
doubt, on his shoulders some day. But 
the some day has not conie. And, mean- 
time, he holds the present, the golden, 
stolen midsummer hours, between his 
hands ; and Jane receives him always with 
a smile of welcome ; and he is to go with 
her to the theatre three evenings, at least, 
next week! The prospect of escorting his 
mother and Emma to ezhibitioos— of 
&mily luncheons with the Herveys— even 
the prospective patronage of his cousin 
Adonis, the man Rawdon Grosbie dislikes 
most on the fiuse of the earth, is not suffi- 
cient to damp him. 



Sunday drags its accustomed slow length 
along at The Hawthorns, and Rawdon be- 
haves hfanself beautifully ; goes to church 
twice at Emstt's side, eats his cold two 
o'ck>ck dinnflr at Emma's side, listens to 
plans for the ensuing week's pleasure with 
those dear Herveys, all with exemplary 
patience. At kst comes evening ; Emma 
must assist the maid in laying things 
nady— no sin in merely laying things 
ready for to-morrow's packing— and Raw- 
doD. is free. He is free, goes out of doors, 
lights his pipe, fidls into a reverie, and a 
quarter of an hour later finds himself look- 
ing over the fence which divides his fib- 
ther's last field from the kitchen garden 
of Theobald. 

He bade Jane good-l^ last night, fore- 
seeing that Sunday would be a day dT seri- 
ous duty at home. And still his feet have 
led him, *' who kaowa how? " along the 
accustomed path. Now what excuse must 
he make for his coming? Will Jane laugh 
at him? Will she be bored by him? Not 
expecting his advent, is she verifying the 
Lidlington gossip-dealers by having her 
house full of officers at this moment? 

He hesitates— half turns away— gives 
one lingering look at the gray old vralls 
of Theobalds; then sees Jane emerging 
from amidst the apple trees quite dose at 
hand, her little daughter beside her. 

<<DoKdy,Doi4y!" sing9 out Miss The- 
obald, the nearest approach her tongue 
can nuJce to Rawdon's name, and runs for- 
ward with hands of welcome outstretched. 
Jane follows and unbolts the garden gate 
for him. He has no choice left in the mat- 
ter ; does he want to have a choice but to 
stay now? 

'* I vras not quite sure about your num- 
ber in Maddox street, Mrs. Theobald "— 
something in Jane's &ce seems to ask him 
the reason of his coming^—** and, as I vras 
smoking my pipe in the plantations, I 
tiiought " 

"Pray, don't apologise," interrupts 
Jane, a little oooUy. ** As for our num- 
ber in Maddoz street, you vrill find it in 
your pocket-book. I wrote it dovm for 
you myself, last night." 

" Of course you did ; " and Rawdon 
tries hard not to look as foolish as he feels 



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ou^rr WE TO yisit h£r> 



7i 



* BMiUy I MQfli bag joor ptidott ftr Iroob* 
iin^ yoa 80 Mach. I " 

" Let me shut Uie gate, please ; oome in 
<c out, or we aiiaU be baving the pigs in 
agun. Did I tell yon that we Icmnd your 
liUber'B pigi quietly grubbing up our let> 
tooes yesterday morning? Tht Uessing 
«f haTing near neighbon." 

'* We shan't be near neighbors after to- 
day .'^ Bawdon remarks. '* Or at least I 
shan't. Imean it for a kind of P. P. 0. 
Tisit to Theobalds." 

*' How sad! You did mean it for a visit 
then, after all? If your ftelings will per- 
mit yon to eat, Mr. Crosbie, will you have 
some of Cousin James's zaq;>berrieB? 
Bloeqr uid I hare just fi)und out that they 
are getting ripe." 

Jane turns as she speaks into a narrow 
side-path, Blosqr fi>llowing with her tiny 
hand in Bawdon's. The kitohen garden 
of Theobalds is an exceedingly old-&sh- 
ioned one, and something of the quaint 
home flavor that onoe belonged to the 
woid « garden " clingB to it still. There 
are tall ill-bearing apple trees, amidst 
whose branches Fiancis Theobald perched 
when he was an urchin ; cucumber frames 
of a style of architecture of thirty years 
ago ; beehiyes ^ narrow cinder paths lead- 
ing from the main walks among the nsj^ 
berry and gooseberry boshcB; and evea 
some unpretending flowers, such as mari- 
golds, columbines, and baohelor's buttons, 
nnged along the outer edges of the rege- 
tablebedi. 

" P^le may talk as they like about 
fine lawns and parterres," ories Jane, her 
mouth full of raspberries. ''A good 
kitchen garden is much more to my taste. 
To see all the lettuces and cabbages, yes, 
and the smell of the raspberries, eren, re- 
minds one of CoTent Qarden." 

''And is that an advantagef" asks 
Bawdon, toerer on the poin^ (yet nerer 
reaching the point) of being disenchanted 
fay Jane's want of redfaiement. 

" Oertahdy it is, to a cockney like me. 
My jolliest hours weare all spent within 
half a mfle of the Gorent Qarden cabbage 
baskets. Blooy, you have eaten fnoogh ; 
yes, but you haTe. I don't want you ill 
to-monow. Bawdop, be good enough to 
take BlosB^ in your arms and carry her 
bodily away from the raspberries* We 
mmy as well go and haye another look at 
oar magnifloent garden that was to have 
been," she adOs. " likelier than not it 



^riU never be a ggrdn, or a croquet ground 
either, in my day. I begin, but I've no 
heart to finish things." 

Evidently there is something amiss vrith 
Jane's q>irit to-^iight. Bawdon, who 
knows nothing about the hour at which 
Mr. Theobald came home this morning, 
nor of the oonfioBsion mrung from him re- 
q>ecting an impromptu a4Joumment from 
the barracks to Lady Boss's— Bawdon, 
knowing nothing, I say, of Jane's domes- 
tic troubles, and self-occupied as befits the 
frtuify of Wa age, connects the change in 
some mysterious manner with himselfl 
And his foolish heart beats quicker ; and 
he forgets Emmy and all he owes to Emmy 
more and more; and every word he utters 
brings him nearer to the betrayal of his 
ovm ridiculous secret. 

When they reach the garden " that vras 
to have been ," they sit down beneath the 
turf bank where the happiest hours of 
Bawdon Crosbie's life have already flown, 
and bit by bit their talk comes round to a 
plti^ i^^ generally unpq;>ular vrith boys 
and girls of their age, but of which, 
thanks to Bawdon's shyness, or to Janets 
matter-of-&ct good sense, this boy and 
girl have never spoken yet. 

Tho hour, the solitude, a certain wistftil 
half-sad expression on his companion's 
fiikrfiuse lend Bawdon inq;>iration« Words 
flow vrarmly, readily from his lips; as 
words will now and then flow fi^ the 
lips of the least eloquent men, when they 
chance to talk about something which 
they themselves feel strongly, and so for 
the time believe in. 

" You should put aU that in a book,** 
remarks Mrs. Theobald. He has been 
making her some effusive fq>eech about the 
impossibility of love, genuine love, losing 
its fire under the chilly hand of time or 
circumstance. "Tou express yourself 
very well, and I daie say it wouldn't look 
silly— hi print!" 

" Although in real life you would call 
it most supremely so?" he asks her. 

" I don't believe in the sort of thing at 
all^-as fiir as men are concerned. I never 
knew, I never heard of any man being in 
love fer longer than six vreeks at a tune." 

' ' In love ! But what do you understand 
by being in love? We must come to a 
definition of terms." 

He approaches a few inches nearer ; he 
vratohes her transparently clear fece nar- 
rowly. It has grovm grave almost te 



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7^ 



OU<JHT Wte to YMIT HBB?' 



[J»T 



dtemneBB ; lines that can make yoa imag- 
ine what Jane win be when Ae to an old 
woman are round her Kps. 

** I dont know what yoa mean hy defi- 
Mtions. 1 kn6w I don't believe in men's 
lore and in men'A constancy, except in 
books. Why cihoold I? I'm ahnost 
twenty years old. I*Te fired every day 
&ce I could run alone. What I say I say 
out of my own Experience of the world, 
not out of mawkish, bread-and-butter 
novels." 

" One may have' reached twenty, and in 
a certain sense have lived every day of 
one's life, and yet still have some things 
to learn," remarks Rawdon Orosbie. 
' '' Of a man that may be true. A wo- 
ftian of twenty knows as much of life as 
she will ever know, unless ^e is a fool, 
and I don't take Ibols into account." 

Kow all ihls conversation, interesting 
no doubt ftom different causes to the two 
persons who are holding it', is profoundly 
dull to Blofisy's btelligence. Bloesy, 
newly torn away -from raspbenry beds, has 
for the first three minutes no feeling, 
thought, emotion, but raspberries, and sits 
longing fer those lost d^hts, a fhiit- 
ftained finger between her fhiit-stained 
lips. Then a small white moth flutters 
llnrth from a holly edge close at hand, 
tmd Blofisy's eyes and soul fellow it. The 
inotii's flight is upward. At the aWful 
height of six or eight feet, Blos^ can 
Irace it no fbrther against the dome of 
pnmrose sky. All she can see is a star 
that has newly come out overhead, and at 
this she gases steadfestly fer anotiber sec- 
ond or two. But stars are stupid things, 
not eatable like raspberries, not diasable 
like moths. Blossy's thoughts and eyes 
mxm feu to earth again, and before three 
more minutes have fled the well-known 
sentiment of Dr. Watts respecting SataA 
iBid idle hands is verified. 

I have said that Blossy llieobald, when 
bent on miscliief, has the movements of a 
mouse, the fingers of a pickpoc^. like 
all healthy children of her age, she is a 
thorough bandit at heart. To conquer, 
destroy, possen, are the primitive Instincts 
of Blofisy '« nature. And with that peadi- 
bloesom fiice, thooe heaven-blue eyes of 
lien, she coounits her sins so innocently ! 
VesUing dose at Rawdon's side, her soft 
iittie fingers creep over his waistcoat, find 
ftbeir vray into his waistcoat pocket, ab- 
ntnct its contents, before ei^er he or 



Jane has noticed vrfaat she is about. %r 
laugh, her little triUing laugh of exuHa^ 
l3on, first arrests Jane's attention. 

''Blbss, yoa have been at mischief. Oh, 
I see you, Miis, with your fist doubled tip. 
You've been pickii^ Rawdon's packet. 
Kow open your fingers dtrectly." 

Mechanically, Rawdon Orosbie^ hand 
goes to his vraistooat pocket. The little 
ricented locket, his treasure, his amulet, is 
gone. 

*' Blosqr, you small thief! give me back 
my proper^. Fll never love you agam, 
Blossy, if you don't. Now give it badk at 
once." 

His eagerness tells Blossy that she has 
stolen something of importance ; and her 
fingers close tighter over her prise. ^' Me 
teep him feir mine self," she remain, 
in her language, noddii^ triumphantly 
at Ravrdon and shovring her small 
teeth. 

*' Give it to Mamsey, Bloss," says Jane, 
whose sjstem of education is not based on 
rigidly exact principles. '* Mamsey shaU 
keep it," holding out her hand, " and 
BlosB shall have twelve raspberries." 

Bloss hesitates for a moment ; then, 
peeping through her fingers and IhMlIng 
nothing particularly seductive in. the mp» 
pearance of her booty, strikes the bargain. 
Rawdon Crosbie's secret, her own Uttie 
ffllver locket, is in Jane's hands. 

"Mrs. Theobald, give it me! please 
give it me!" cries Rawdon, his tMb 
flaming irith blushes like a guilty school^ 
boy's. *'tt is nothing— it is something 1 
value particularly— it's of no value to any 
tme but me ! " 

This piques Jane's curiosity, of whidi 
riie pom ea a m her Aill woman's share. 
**Kotliing! something! of no value! of 
great value! I suppose I may look at it at 
least?" 

** Ko, please don't ! " In his eagemesa 
Rawdon has seised her hand and covered 
it irith his own. " HI never forgive yon 
^—I mean yoall «ver fergive me, if yoa 
see it.'* 

The situation become critical. . Blossy 
has flown back to the itapbtrry beds, lib- 
erally to ealrry out her part of the eon- 
tract, and Ihey are alone ; Ravrdon hold- 
ing Mrs. Theobald's hand and pleading to 
her as if his life depended on the prayesr. 
" I'll never finrgive yow, sir, if you don't 
let go my hand." He obeys her imrtantly. 
'* As to seeing, what can there be to a^Y 



z?a by Google 



lun.] 



OtJCJHlWE lO ¥lBmi£BF 



n 



Now, trust to my bonor. Ill nerer tell 
HiagMarskncl. IpitMxifee^lMaiy.'* 
And she looks. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

^^ Oa TBB DOLL GOT A BKAKT 7 " 

Ttenue 18 dead sUenee ftnr » mhrate; » 
mmate— an hour H seenM to Bswdon 
Crosbie, uncertain tbat imtaiit diflgmee 
and dismissal maynot awtit bim on tbis 
disooTety of bis orime. 

*' And wbatpat it iilto your bead to tak» 
property that did not belong to yo4 ? ** in- 
qubes Jane, oolcBy, at kst. 

<'I--I don't nndeistand yoo," be be- 
gins. 

"Ob, eome; no pretence! TUsIooIdbI 
is mine, and yon took it, yen knoir yon 
did, the morning yon left yonr eard on wm 
at SpA, I miasod it from my box dii«et- 
ly we got back, and a e cu s e d Bloaqr, 
the nnrse girl, half tlie waiters in the h»- 
tel of the theft. Be Lauao akid I banted 
ibr it ev e ryw he re." 

At the name of De LanSaC) Rawdon b*^ 
gins to recover bis p res en e e c^ mbid. '' 1 
have no widi to pretend anything, Mrs. 
Theobald, bat I wonld saggest itai there 
may— it is just possible thai there may be 
two surer lockets in the wofid^ eaoh iMfa- 
ioned in the shape of a heart." 

**Bnt not each with a J. T. cat on the 
ibce," says Jane, holding np the loeket 
and examining it doeely. ^* I ba^ had 
this poor little old heart for ages; Isfaoold 
know it among a thousand* Pe Lansao 
had the initials cat fbr me in Paris yean 
ago." 

She pots it wtth ostentatiotii eare hito 
her pocket, and again there Is silenoe. 
'*Gome, don't let as qnanel. Don't be 
fboiish enough to deny that yon were kn 
honest than you might hate been," Jane 
remarks, at last. 

'* Xo, nrs. Theobald, I deny Botfahig. 
If I bad known the peootiar, the tHidep 
interest that attacbes te that * poor littie 
dd heart,* yoti maybe teiy sure I shoald 
bate left it akme!" 

** Ton wooM have done wisely," Jane 
answershim. ** Honesty is gensmlly tiie 
Itest policy. I don't know at tbb same 
thne what I hat^ said to yom abent temtaor 
or pecaliar interest. The looket fe mine, 
ilot yoon : oonseciuently Ms ri|^itfiil piaNso 
is— not your pocket ! Simply that." 



UawAmplMkinp small tafts of graas 
and ibagi them fiwm him dkdalafally. 
** I agree with Dandieaiy," be burst ool 
after amnate ; <*tbc«e are thin0i DO fellow 
em uatestand, and one of them is^I 
hatea't a pn^dioe, I hope I haven't • 
pi^udioe beiongmg to ne, Imt bow Eng^ 
lishwomen can k)ok--y0i, can MIt at for* 
eigners with the twombfe eyes they do, 
is a marvel that passes my eomprehen- 
Am." 

*' It might eariiy do that, I should si^, 
witboat being much of a marvel," ob- 
serves Mrs* Theobald With ooohmss. 

'* But womexy— there's no doubt of it-« 
judge by some standard of theur own; 
some standsrd we know nothing about. 
That g^ib iuem^ that passes for wit, 
that a oeum te knowledge of tueken and 
itoanees, those graoes learned from a po»- 



^ Don't talk so qxack^ pray, you'll 
hurt yourself. And before yon go any 
farther, would yea kindly sity who" (alas 
te Jane's eassB !)^'« who aU thmfine sar- 
casm is directed agahist? " 

" Against all foreigners who worm their 
wiE^ into Aig^iBbwomen's hearts," si^ 
Ravrdon, losmg his head completely. 

" Do yon, by any ehanoe, mean De Lan- 
sae,Mr. Oosbie?" 

" Ton know best, Mrs. Theobald. I 
i^ioke of foreigners who have womed their 
way faito £nglishwoBien's hearts. If 
Monsieup— if the person you' mention 
cones, as I sap|xise be does, andttr that 
category, certainly I mean him." 

Sorth flans Jane's hot temper; ap 
starts the angry blood upon htf eheek. 
** And what possible interest can yon have 
in theaul^jeet?" she cries. ''What right 
\mt9 yon to Bpmk slighting of any 000, 
Bni^ish or foreigbi who happens to be 
deartome?" 

*'What right? "--her flashing &oe, 
berindignint voles goading Inm on into 
more absc^ato loss of self-^MnmandU^ 
«' What right? An easy question for you 
to ask now! It would be more to the 
pobit to ask me what thought, what ob» 
jeet, what intereat I have left that is nel 
wra^ np in you ! " 

««Mr.Orosbie!" 

<' Oh, it k jost as well said," ories 
lawdon, waxmg desperate. " From the 
fisst hour I saw yoo* my life and every- 
thing belonging to it have been set adrift. 
And if I could choose— if I oould ohoose " 

uigiiizea oy ^^jOOvlv. 



n 



"•-•lid bis anger «ooIs, hk tane aoAiu, in 
apite of kimnl^*' I woakl hH haveit ^- 
inrent. The gain has been g ra a t ar than 
any Iobb yon ean iniiafc upon ne now." 

Juia, on thia, tuma nmnd and IoqIdi 
at him fall. /'Well, whatorer dee I 
thought, I did not tl^nk yon would be 
such a Ibol as this!" she Gvias, with 
Uiint, nnaftcted aatoniabaMnt 

** I sappose not," he aaaweis. '* I sap- 
pose that's always the proper thing for 
women to say. Lead a man on nntii he 
makes the besotted i<ttot of himself I hnf» 
done, and then be soiprised at bia 
idiocy!" 

'' I don't onderetaad what yoa mean by 
the proper thing! Toor q[>inions are 
framed, yoa see, on women oif yoar own 
tltmciUSbjqfwkomlkmawnMkii^f If 
you mean that I, Jane Theobald, woald 
lead you or any other man on ki&owingiy 
kito talking rubbish, you make a ridien- 
loos mistake. Nothing bores md more 
tiian scenes ! If yoo had known a Teiy 
little more of the world, yoa woald never 
have 80 misunderstood me." 

'* And you ha^ thought I oooid be alone 
with you as I have been— for hours, £m 
days, akme here with yon— and not giow 
to care ibr yoo more thatn I oaght? " 

'' Ought? Oh, dear me, don't let na 
^t up on moral stflts in addition to ere- 
lything else! " says Jane, with a laugh 
that cuts him horribly. <'It isn't the 
rfght or the wrong of your talking so, it^ 
the ftbsuidity of it that tains away my 
breath!" 

Not a Tory exalted standpoint, it mnst 
beidlowed. Andyet if Jane had planted 
herself upon the highest of all gromMl, bad 
ad dr essed him from the topmost pinnaele 
of a Teiy Mont Blane of tirtae, Bnwdon 
Ottxsbie could not hare been made to fral 
the wrongnesB of his position with move 
galling completeneBB. 

** The absurdity of a man of my age loe- 
ing bis senses under the constant indueaoe 
of a &ce like yours ! " he remarin. 

<<Afrce-afrce! Tes, that's all men 
think of! " cries Jrae. <* A pink and 
white o(AnpleKion, a pair of Mne doll's 
eyes, a stray dimple or two, are excuse 
enough for anything. Has the doll got a 
heart? Ah, not worthlteleesof thneto 
guess at that! And as woaasn gO' - aa 
women go," she adds, a littlb bitterly, 
*< men are right, I dare say, in theh' w«y 
of Judging of them." 



aOQBJ WB TO YWaS HSftP 



[JcMf 



Something in the tone of her Toice soft- 
ene Bnwdon's anger more and more. 
''And you?" he asks her— ''you, Bfrs. 
Theobald? Is it loss of time to speculate 
if you haye a heart, I wonder? " 

She turns pale— ^ can see the change 
of hoe e?en in that indistinct light— she 
ikishesroqrred. Ailer » minnte : '^ From 
moat men," sheeKclaimw " from most men 
I shoaldjaateall a question like that bal- 
derdash— the kind of stuff that passes cur- 
rent with weak leaMuade between the 
dances at a ball ! With yoa, I'm sure I 
donH know why, I ean talk differently 
to how I ever talked befinw. I like you. 
There's the truth. I Uked you from the 
fint ix yoor plook in standing up for me 
and coming to see me in spite of yoor 
sweetheart and yoor mamma. I like you 
becauae you are good to Blosqr. I like 
you for everythii^ ! " 

Bnwdon Grosbie he^yes a miserable 
sigh. He knows, too well he knows, what 
these candid admisBinnw must herald. 

'' And so I'll say to you what I'm sure 
I neyer thought to hare said to any one 
bridle I iiyed. I km)e a heart— and it's 
ftill." A» she says this each word seems 
to be wrong from her lips with an effi>rt. 
" Fuller than it can hold— the wone for 
me perimpa— already*" 

She haa made him the confession for his 
good, honestly, frankly, to cure him of 
his fbUy. And tiie result is the direst 
fiolore that eyer honest truth-tolling 
broogfat about. Till now B&wdon's feel- 
ings haye b e e n h e himself could not haye 
tokl you what !— • compound of admira- 
tieo for Jane's beaufy, of boyish yanity, 
of generous reyolt against the treatment 
she haa met with at the hands of Emma 
and his mother* In his new-bom, pes- 
sionato jealousy, a flood no longer of yague 
sentiment, bat ef loye— the word must be 
written— loye, otroi^ in yeiy proportion 
to its hopelessness, goes forth from his 
heart toward this woman who has feltered 
oot her hq^leas secret to him alone heroy 
midtr thestarUght^in the fragrant night. 
Ah, hn SMS eyeiythiag with fetal dear- 
now ! He Imows what prenumition, 
than leaaoBi made him hato De 
Lonaac from the tot! 

'' So I hope yoo will belieire me when I 
repeat thai I neyer led yon or any one 
else on knowi^g^," saya Jane, a kind of 
ahynem, vety laoBoal with her, in her 
manner. 



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1871.] 



CmSBT WS TO VMiT HSBf 



7* 



'*B^am% you, Mb. ThMbiOd? I W- 
litre yoa only loo Matty/' be eaawenu 
'* If I bed eboMD to keep oiy ^yes open» I 
night keTe seeB fieooi the irai wl»i wm 
in stove lor aie." 

*< Bot it's ell ofer DOW, iUwikMi. tea 
hMe fiosgotten to be wise ton e moment, ss 
we en dasoHMitimwi ; bat I em yoer friend 
end eommde the seme as e?er. I only 
bq>e," she goes oi>— *' lonly hojp^ that i& 
the fatme yoa will be made as faai^l^ 
Miss Bianhmd asl wish you to be." 

**l!hefateie don't telle to me of the 
fbtne ! " Bnwdon intenupts. '* How, in 
Qod's neme, oen I be be^ away " 

''Away from a woman who does not 
eue tor yoa," says Jane, with kindly, 
orael finnnesi, '' end with one who does? 
Ah, you will kern- how in time, my dear 
bc^!" 

" I may learn many things," sayB Baw- 
don slowly, and with empheris. '* I shall 
never learn to fivget yoa and all the houm 
I have spent wi^ yoa." 

And be rises, and walks away along 
^ path by whieh thqr same, Jane fol- 
lowing him ii\ silenee. 

^ I sappcm it will be better ibr me not 
to eooM and see yoa any more," heiemarks 
when th^ have leaohed the garden gate. 

*' I sappoee so," says Jane, not with- 
oot a fiJter in her Toioe. 

''Not tbfe week that yoa will be in 
Londcm, <tf eoozse? Well, then, I may as 
well say geod-lqr to you now." 

''GooMy,Bawdon." 

He takes her hand, holds it for a mo- 
ment with a grip of iron in bis own; then 
goes, without another word. 

"Dnedy, Dandy!" eries BkisBy from 
the nn|>besiy hnahee Blosqy, 
I ei seeing her pbymate leave with- 
oat his aoeustomed kiss. 

Bnt Bawdon never turns his head. 
Stnight onward toiward home, toward 
Bmma, toward duiy, be mardbes, nor 
looks bshind him more. 

He must neve»— in this moment's ex- 
bitterness Jbe toUe hiiMelf— be 
look baek moce. The light 
bee gene suddenly ont, the tune stopped; 
the one ehapter worth leading in bis life's 
dnil book is shut, <de4>ed with a clasp ; 
and then is an end of it ! He must never 
bek back mom. 

And he locte back belufe he bes gone a 
deeen steps, and with >akK« ^es watches 
the figures of Jane and her child, until 



the iistriillii^ shadows hide tbemawi^ 
ont of his sight. 

CHAPTER XXn. 

ahono "the raonssiox." 
It is curious how many old friends we 
are sure to run across when we have come 
lately into money; carious how well every- 
bo<j(y remembers our fiice, how eager 
everybody seems to be to renew the plea- 
sure of our acquaintance. 

Before ^. Theobald has been twenty- 
four hours in town he has made half a 
dosen engagements. After congratulat- 
ing a man upon a crusty cousin's demise, 
what can come more naturally to the lips 
than to ask him to dinner? He must 
aptae a day to mess with his old regiment 
at Aldershot, must dine at the dub with 
an Eton chum of twenty years ago, must 
join a jovial " literary " party given by 
his old friend JadL Thornton at Rich- 
mond. Quite easily and without an ef- 
fort, Francis Theobald, actually possessed 
of six hundred, and ready to spend at the 
rate of six thousand a year, finds himself 
dravm toward the world, the associates 
that knew and ruined him in his palmy 
days. And equally vrithout an effort does 
his wi& gravitate back toward hers— the 
world, the associates of that painfully un- 
genteel period when Jane wore shabby 
boots and a darned merino frock— the 
world that vras so all-sufficient for her be- 
fore her marriage brought her within the 
possible reach of people who visit and are 
visited. 

Not a creature but who is in or con- 
nected with the profession does Jane know 
in London : Unde Dick, " the person who 
plays the trombone in an orchestra " ; Un- 
cle Didc's wi&, once an actress whom the 
town ran after, vrardrobe-keeper now at 
one of the minor theatres; Miss Minnie 
Arundel (nte Mary Johnson), and their 
friends. And oh, how happy, how thor- 
oughly, vulgarly happy Jane is among 
them all. She goes with Miss Arundel to 
rehearsal, she sups on the humble fare, 
the cold roast pork and pickles of old days, 
at Mr. Richard Johnson's, and, while Un- 
do Dick sips his gin-and-water, listens to 
his wife's stories of how Juliet Montmo- 
rend irill not wear such a dress in the 
forthcoming piece, and how Charlotte de 
Yere insists upon wearing such another, 
and how that artful Aurora Stanley, a fii- 



lOOgle 



8«- 



oaomr wa^nx> ywarr 



IJVhJf 



T<lrite of the aoibar'0, has fofc her part 
written up expressly to adMit of a ptak 
satin train since last rdieaisal. And then 
ib» pleasure of eihiUiing IBiomy before 
all these people ! the pleasure of seeing 
Blossy hugged, of hearing herself called 
"my dear" by every kindly, albeit out- 
at-elbow soul she meets within theatrical 
prelsincts. 

We can none of us— let the Mrs. Coven- 
try Browns of the earth look to the &ct-^ 
be much more exalted, much more refined, 
than our earliest associations. Jane feels 
a glow of pride in keeping so completely 
on a level still with hers. Mrs. Chroebie, 
the Miss Theobalds, every thing and per- 
son connected with Chalkshire Philistin- 
ism, cease as utterly to trouble her oonr 
science during these few happy days au 
though &die had never known the blessingB 
of Chalkshire or of Philistinism at all. 
She almost forgets her new-bom distrust 
of Theobald and Lady Rose. She entirely 
forgets poor young Rawdon's oonfessioa 
of Sunday evening and his present banish^ 
ment. 

Is not that the way with most of us, 
reader? A and B like each other, quai^ 
rel, part, and to-morrow A is philander^ 
ing unconcerned among other scenes and 
people, and B debaiang frenxied between 
a revolver and prussio acid. Admirable 
provision of nature that the balance of sa& 
fering should be so nicely acljtisted ! 

Rawdon Crosbie does not quite hover 
*twixt bowl and dagger yet, but he really 
does hesitate between emigrating to a 
sheep farm in South America and insist* 
ing that y^mnm. Marsland shall many him 
in three days. Some kind of action, des- 
perate and immediate, it seems, he must 
have to fill the blank that Jane has left in 
bis existence. Oh the dreary vight-seeing 
with his affianced! Oh the pictures at 
that Royal Acaden^, the fhmily luncheon 
with those dear Herveys! Oh the intol- 
erable pain and burthen and weariness of 
evOTything! 

He struggles on for three whole days, 
submitting, rebelHng, growing worse in 
everyway hourly. On the afternoon of 
the fourth, Thursday, he can bear up no 
longer, and finds himself knoeking at the 
door of the Theobalds' lodgtngp in Mad- 
dox street. 

" Yes, Mrs. Theobald is at home, and 
will see him.'* So the servant who has 
takra in his card brings him word. He 



eaters^ walks up the siairBi with tfae sen- 
sation, stotti young fellow though he is, 
of his legs toembiing uider him, and finds 
Jane in her walking dseas jost rea^y to 
go out ; finds her blooming, in egeellanl 
spuits, soMttaL 

'< I was afinud^ didn't know whethev 
you wovkl admit me— I ceuUn^t ksap 
away any longer," ha «xpkins laoidly, as 
be holds her hand in his. 

Jane is mmtflf takea aback by the 
change in the lad's fece. Bawdon Cn»- 
bis looks eider by a doasn yeam than when 
she saw him last in the garden at Theo* 
balds. He has lost fleshin the quick waj 
some people do luider bm^ wear and tear 
ofthespirit; his ej^ have grown hollow; 
in the eickesMnt of seeing her again his 
svihomt ohe^s tsra' to a kind of sickly 
greenish yellow. Not, I must say, in 
beauty has Rawdon gakied under the in- 
floeBos of the tender paorion, and stiliso 
pki^lly inolined aie wemen's hearts, he 
has acquired interest ne good looks oould 
have lent him in Jane's sight. She likes 
the pecnr boy as she never did befeoe, «t 
this moment; is sony fi)r^him; feels a 
pang or two of remorse even, as she re- 
fleoti iQKMfe her own aTOusements and the 
heazilees way in which she has forgotten 
net enly his possible suffisrings, but his 
very existence, during the past feat da^« 

" Of course yon oonUnt keep away. 
Why should you? Yon banished yonri- 
self, remember. I only ventored a mild 
* yes ' when you sw(»e yon woold never 
ooBM and see me again. You ind me all 
akme, Rawdon," and now she takes her 
hand from his and widens the apace be- 
tween thean. ^^ Theobald is out and 
Blossy has been seised opon bodily and 
oanied <^ to aty UiM^ Disk's till to-flK»- 
row." 

Rawdon SMbkes ne repty. He stands 
upright as a ramrod, and looking— poor 
young feol thai he MH-in«o her feir, un- 
troubled fece vrith the kind of hongry loc^ 
we give to anything we love oeermtich, 
after long separaiien. Long s^McatioiH^ 
alas, it is only sines Sunday thai he hss 
been parted from ber ! 0^ four days. 
And his yfe, thirty or forty yean, k to be 
140 parted, and he will have to live 
through it all. The myriad-tongned soar 
of Regent street ebbs and swells. I^fsoti 
is shining eheerfnlly thKMigh the ^)en 
window, as it is sMi^ng, we may be ease, 
en mai^ a pair of happy lovers, on nutty 



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OUOBT W£ TO VfSrr HBB? 



1^ dead im tfavbvghonfc ike ki^ith and 
bmdtfa of LobdoD. Doum in the «lf0tt 
•n orgiJi griudwy igiH bhIIj iroaieal, is 
pbyimg Ibe bum eraade DneheMe 
vbUms to whMh thqr first dftDMd togetktr 
IB flpft. All the worid, in nbort, foing on 
■■ it nioallj goes toiTMrd Ibv o'doek ef B 
I ftAeniooBy aad one ptrfeotly in- 
gumw^ny MtiBg Ub little 
part in the great dmaa, and bearing 
that na one ef«r Mfc, mibfed, dtep aii ad 
as be deee at this ttonent. 

** K jan btfUbeen lire niBateB latsryou 
voald haveiiiiPid me/' aajra Jane in bar 
bright Twoe.'-^^ I am jnst going round to 
theBgymlforJKn. Did I tell yon Un^ 
WA baa got be^ an wigaganiffnl tfaara ibr 
thenevrastvairaguim? Soeh a atari for 
ber-iioor old Mm! Tbirty abiUingi a 
iPBak and tba proqieet of a leading pavt 
after Cfaxiatmaa. Ate yon free for an 
boor? If yoo arOyyoQ mayiralk to the 
Boyml with me. I shonld Ittn yen and 
Ifin to aae what yoa can make of each 



Bawdon is taeMy engaged-*ia vadto oa^ 
dM, tfait la tMay-^ dine wiA bk moth- 
er and Smma ataftc a'elock, and go with 
tibem and the Harfe^a aftemmd to the 
IhiafrB. 60 he anewoa nnh a ait atiagly 
that he ia free, and lea^tj^ready \ beav- 
flBa,hofW weak en aoBM oecaaiona is h«- 
mm language !— 4a aeoamiway Ifra* The- 
obald wheeetfOr abe ^^ooaea. 

''lanppoaeyionava not disengaged for 
the eianing aa waU?" Jane goea on. 
**Mbasetoask,llhoagh. Hebodyiserer 
M the elerentb honrhi Lon- 



"^Botl donHbriong to London," sa5B 
Bawdon. '* I eame np frsm Woolwieh an 
boor ngo, {tttmrffaig, I'p sale I donH 
know why, to atay till te"norvow bmh^ 
Jag, and I bn^ no engagementB of any 
khai that aan't be baokcai." 

**ABd none that yon nifaid biaaking? 
fban 111 tall yon what yen nmy da. Mhi 
do«'t net to-nlgh*^t% n beneit, and 
d»deesnH appear; and aa a* her own x»- 
fMBl Fm going with her to the mnea of 
Walea'atoaee'Sohoal.' TbatVithewny 
wWiailnanetMMB*" Itpleaaea Janato 
even hanelf among the proAanion to 
nUehfaifoat Aanaferbi^eaiged. '«We 
git » hottday from onr own hot tbeahre for 
aae ai|^, and Ino grestBat praaaom' we 
mahirfeis to ga to anoihtv hot theatre 
ta aea anethitf aotana net. Jfow would 
yoQ like to go with as? " 



""Wonld I fibe it!" oriea Bawdon, 
flashing op with sadden animation. 

'* I eali give yon n place. We have an 
order for tbe alaUs, and of ooom at the 
last moBMnt Theobald baa phqred OS fblse. 
So Min is goii« to alay with me till to- 
momiw. Ton and riie will fratemiie 
fr[>dy,Bawdan; orifyoadon't,it will be 
yonr foalt. Min's aare to take to yon be- 
eaaae yon are in tbe army. She takes to 
all man who aae in the amy. Min 
wooldn't give a thairic»you to go any- 
iHieie with a London elea k or anytbii^ 
of that kind, the people she calk cada ; 
and aa to an actor'-^^ Bat we mustn't 
stoy chattering here," Jane intermpts ber- 
a^, lookmg at her wateh. ''Half-past 
three already ! Then we haTe no time to 
, loae. Bebearsal ia ofer at foar, and 1 
ptomawd Min foithfalty to beat tbe the- 
atee to meet her." 

She rises, walks np to the glass aboro 
the cfainnieypieoe, and pins on a UUipa- 
tian atrip of spotted net aenas her fiiea. 
'* Theobald laways tells me to wear a Toil 
when I go ont akme in London. As if I 
wanted anything or a^y penon to j^foteot 
ma-*I, who knew erery tuning and eor- 
ner from Pieeaailfy to St. F^uil's by the 
time I was eight yean old. Good gra- 
eions, my dear boy! "-^Bawdon has fol- 
lomred her and again set op the laefarymoae 
gaae at her free— ^* what are yoa looking 
at so? What do yoa want? Too make 
lie qaite nerrons." 

** Mn. Theobald," aays the poor wietoh, 
'^ I want to know if yoa have forgiren 
me ! I give yea my honor IVe tbonglit 
of nothing ni^t or day aince but yonr 
anger. Oan yon forgive me ? Canyon 
over foel the same to me aa yon Mi before 
my mdeneaa, iiy stapidify on Sonday 
night?" 

Now there can be no doubt that a di»- 
cnet womian of the world--a Loo Ghild- 
eaa^ a Lady Rosa Golightly-^woald know 
how to aet in sndi a position as this with 
amct paopriefy; would manage, while 
teaching a too pertinacious lover to keep 
withm due boniida,ao to temper the leawn 
as to leave a g li aMnaring blae line of hope 
before fab mind'a horiaon. Unveiaed in 
tbe disorhninating taetks (^ fine breeding, 
ontqioken, whether fijr good or avil, Jane 
Theobald does notbmg of the kind. '<If 
I hadn't foigiven you, aa yoa call it, I 
dov'tauppoBB I should have told the girl 
toletyouln. Wbyinthawotldaboaldl 
not foel the same to you as ever? You 



m 



OUGHT WE lO TIBIT HEftf 



[Jolt 



kaowl nertr thooglit » great deal of your 
wisdom at the best of times I " 

*' And neyer eaied a great deal about 
aiy Bodety. Pray si^ it oat ! " 

'* After tbo fiuhio&yoa mesa, neser, my 
dear ehUd, and nerer shoold if I saw yon 
ereiy day for twenfy years. I thoogfa* I 
expli^ned att that to yoa plain enongli on 
Sonday night. Now hold my parasol, 
please ; I can pat on my gk^es as we go 
oat. And take my adrice," adds Jane, 
looking with her frank eyes into his fiiee : 
** don't go to trying anything in the * Ro- 
meo and Joliet' line before Min. Toa 
won't fotrget it in a harry if 3FOU do« I esn 
tell yoa." 

They walk leisarely down the shady side 
of Regent street, Jane's hand on Rawdon 
Grosbie's arm. It is Uie most stirring 
hoar of the afternoon, and London, dar- 
ing these last days of one of the slKNrtest, 
gayest seasons on record, is dammed. 
What strings of carriages; what high- 
stepping horses ; what towering bonnets ; 
what golden chignons ; what an aflaenoe 
of that poor man's bread which weU-Jn- 
tentioned people rail out against as wicked 
laxury! Among the motley crowd will 
fkte conftont them with Mrs. Herrey and 
his mother, in thefar Jointly-hired, shun 
private brongfaam 7 Yoang Rawdon speo> 
nlates, not without some cowardly trepi- 
dation, at the possibility, remote thoi^ 
it be. 

No each antoward accident bdhOs 
tiiem jost.at present; bat in walking 
along from Maddoz street to Drary Lane 
Rawdon comes acroes more than one 
of his brothers-in-aims from Woolwidi; 
and the admfarmg glances bestowed by 
each yoang warrior apon the pretty wo- 
man at his side go a long wi^ toward re- 
paying him for his anhappiness of the last 
four days. He is no more hi reality to Mrs. 
Theobald than Hie handle <^ her parasol : 
this he knows; bat Jones of the engineen 
and Brown of the artillery do not know it. 
And blighted thoagh Rawdon's state may 
be, it is not so bad as to be qaite beyond 
fhb aUeriatiiws gratiled vanity can oflbr. 

Tliey reach the stage-entmnce of the 
Royal, and are admitted mqaestkmed by 
the doorkeeper. Jane stops for a minnte's 
ailbctioBate chat with a little old thread- 
bare gentleman, who happens to be leav- 
ing the theatre jast as they en te r th e 
very old Adolphe Dido who taaght her to 
kwheniritowasacfaMd. 1lMa,qa{#^ 



ting Rawdon^ aim, she poshes open a 
doaUe red baiie door, and leads the vray 
along a pawage and down some steps, to 
lighten whose obscority even at tius bias- 
ing hoar ef the simmer day a IndMuMd 

jetofgaaisB ny> Amrfliei inwamt, 

md Iheyaia in tiie midst of that atmos- 
phere of carpentry, paint, and stale gas, 
tinse r^oos of canvas, trap-doois, and 
weird-looking stage machinery, wliidi to 
Jane are the SMSt ikmSliar and cheerful 
sanoandingB the worid can aibrd. 

Tlie rehteraal of the 4itaavagann is 
still gohig on, and to Hn wian^ anprefos- 
sional eyes a pale and ftmereal piece of 
bosineBB it seeaw, with th* yawning bo^* 
groand of empty hoose, ttie or^iestia 
playing jost and only Jost saiBcientiy kmd 
to mark the time, the middle-aged heroine, 
the pathetically rimbby crowd of gtrh 
who are to shine forth as princesses in 
gold and irilver bmvery by night. *' I'm 
glad vre are in time for the finish," Jane 
whispers to him as theypaase in an oft- 
occupied comer of the stage. *'Yoa'll 
see Mhi direct ; yes, Aere she is on the 
prompt side, in a hke dress and pink 
bonnet. Now mind, I expect yoa to lose 
yoar heart to her on tiie spot." t 

Ravrdon*s eyes have to grow aocostomed 
to ^ dim light around before he can 
dimem any of tiie people on the stage 
vritii deameas, and then— then he cer- 
tainly does not lose Ida lieart to lififls 
MhmieArondel. »ie is like her sister but 
without a tithe of Jane's grace and <»rig^ 
inality : she is Jaoe volgariied. A good- 
tempered-looking, foded little woman of 
five-and-twenty, vrith brovm hair cut m a 
line across her forehead, ifaie stage eyes, 
marred somewliat for daylight use by the 
ineftceaUe traces of bisBBnith beneath the 
lower Uds, and expresive large month 
andsfaapelywhita teeth, of whidi, whether 
before or behind the footlights, she makes 
the most—such is Ifias Minnie Arundel. 

Ravrdon does not kxn his heart, periiapa 
beoaose he has not above an ounoe of that 
organ left to lose; but he feels Umsitf 
dravm toward the miUng fiMe of the poor 
little humble actress as if by magic. Hisr 
bonnet is too bright a pink, and her dresB 
too bright a lilao; and hermoutii is toe 
large, and her chaeks have been too long 
femiUar witii red paint and pearl powder 
to h«ve any more natural blocMn hift tlmn 
tiiosa of a bali-gotng young lady after fonr 
or five London seasons. Bat taken alt»> 



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OtJGflT WE TO VlSrr HEttP 



gedier poor M]ii*s k « food &ee, freriier, 
Id one aenn, tbaa Lb^ Boee's or Loo 
ChDdeiB's. She ^eaks, haTing oome for- 
vmid In the T«cy miimporteiit purt a0> 
lEgDed to her in tiie piece : her toioe k 
i^pethetic, the Mine kfaid of deer tane- 
fol organ is Jeiie% and Rawdon*s predi- 
ketlon for her is complete. 

^ And Uttt is my Unde Dick," iriqni 
Ifn. Theobald, when Rawdon has soiinded 
as many notes of praise as heoan compaaa 
on the score of Wbb Anindel'ii charms. 
^'Im't he a dear old Mlow? Ton are 
looking in the wrong direction ; musician 
nomber three in the otehestra, jost be- 
hind the antiior. There, he is wiping his 
trombone at this moment." 

Mofflcun nomber three is wiping his 
trombone, then his fbrehead, with a Une 
pocket handkerchief large enough for a 
modoate-sind mainsail, and retiered hy 
acaDge qpots. Honest, kindly Unde Dick 
—with yiat shining, warm ftuse of his 
(that has something of Jane in itsexpres- 
«»), and that greasy coat collar, and 
that Mae and orange pocket handker- 
diief ! If Uiere were no Francis Theobald, 
ad Knmn Musland in the world, Rawdon 
Croebie would give ereiy terrestrial pos- 
Bemion for the hope of calling Jane 
"wife." But it does occur to hfan, 
atrangly, that he would rather Francis 
Theobald tiian himsdf should have the 
priTilege of calling mondan number 
three " Undie." 

** He took Min and me when we were 
little," says Jane, as though she divined 
his tbonghtB, ** took us when he had woric 
enou^ to do to get bread for himself, and 
brooglit us both up fbr the stage. Our 
&ther was killed by the &11 of a lift; he 
was a scene-painter-4id I ever tdl you 
tiie femily history?— and mother was dy^ 
lag of consumption; and then Uncle 
Dii^ came forward and paid— God knows 
liow—fiir ererythfaig she wanted, and 
took us home when she was buried. I 
know he doesn't come within a hundred 
miles of what yon or Theobald would call 
a gentlemiffl, poor old Mow, and I know 
if he was a soberer man it would be att 
tiK better fbr himsdf. But if erer I get 
toheaTen,"say8 Jane warmly, "it witt 
be a Teiy poor place for me— IVe told 
Theobald so often— unlen Unde Didt 
gets there too— yes, and Is thought good 
and refined enough, ereiy way, fbr general 
aodety." 



The sentiment is liiot expressed in a Tery 
orthodox ftshk>n, but the moisture in 
Jane's blue eyes shows how much she is 
in earnest. Rawdon aski, penitentially, 
to be introduced to Mr. Ridmrd JoluBon. 

" Not to-day," says Jane, nodding to 
Unde Dick, as, the rehearsal orer, the 
muddans scuttle like mice through the 
ordiestra door. " Nothing puts the dear 
old soul out more than to boUier him when 
he is deepy after rehearsal. Some eTe»> 
ing, when we are in town next, I'll take 
you to his house to supper perhaps — an* 
less you get married meantime. Now 
come and I'll introduce you to BOn, and 
we can settle about to-night." 

MisB Minnie Arundel and Rawdon thtr 
temixe, as Jane predicted, at once. A 
young fellow of two and twenty, who 
should not fraternize with Minnie Arojo- 
del, must be a tery great philosopher 
or a Teiy deq>erate fool indeed ; perht^ 
both. She is sure she remembers his fiioe 
down at Aldershot. Crosbie— in the Blu» 
is he not? Oh, artillery. Well, at all 
erents, she acted once with some Crosbie, 
or Croften, was it? in some r^ment or 
other, and he was about Rawdon's height. 
She k certain, raking her dark eyes to 
hk &ce, Rawdon would ect beautifially in 
tender sentimental parts. Would he like « 
some lessons from her? Very much in- 
deed. What a pity she has no time to 
give him any, just at present ! 

" If yon dnir the poor child like that, 
you'll frigh4»n him away at once, Min," 
says Jane gravely. '* He k not used to 
it. Mr. Croebie bdongs to a yery serious 
fiunUy indeed." 

"Then how comes Mr. Croebie to be 
running about with you, Jenny dear?" 
asks the actress. They issue forth fVom 
the theatre together, and proceed all three 
in the direction of Jane's lodgings. Miss 
Arundel, as I mentioned, k dressed in 
most of the colors of the rainbow ; the 
namdess untidiness of her dress, the free- 
dom of her demeanor^ her short-cut hair, 
her bismuthed eyes, all speak in plainest 
language to what pntaiion and to what 
bwly rank of the prolesnon she bekmgs. 
Now would be the time for the jointly-hired 
Herrey-Croebie brouf^iam, with ite grand 
mock-prirate coachman, to pass akmg! 
The awfiil vision of such an encounter 
darts unbidden across Rawdon's brain, 
and with it a recollection that at tiik 
very moment he should be at No. 106 , 

uigiiizeo Dy x_j v^^ v_) V I C 



u 



0D99T WS XQ TI^IT HER? 



tJvw, 



^(jUKm Bow, ai^jMneUed in limk snii^nd 
white cxATftt, fo a Budly entortainment. 

*' Yoa will dine with us at six," wro^ 
Emma, in her little loTe-dcspatoh of or^ 
den, '* and we will 99 to whatever theatvf 
Hi^ Her?ey takei a box lor afterwards. 
3<it oome 9M mneh sooner as you like, I 
shall dress early," 

And here he b, sauntering cbeeifbUy 
along at the side of Miss Arundel and 
Jane through Leicester Square, just as 
though time and liberty were his own 
possessions still ! He takes out his watch 
with a sudden twingeof oonscienoe, as the 
wording of Emma's note reeois to his 
mind , and disoovets that it is alYea4y half- 
past five. , 

'* If you want to run away, run," si^^ 
Minnie Arundel, as if she were speaking 
to a child of six. '* Little boys need 
never take out their watches twice in my 
society." 

Rawdon explains, addressing Mrs. Theo* 
bald, for he is a&aid of the lurking mock- 
ery in Min's black eyes, that he has an en- 
giigement, an unimportant one, but from 
which he must needs free himself before 
he goes aws^ to his hotel to dress. 

" I thought you told me an hour ago 
that you had no engagement at all?" 
Jane remarks. 

''No ei^gaipement that could not be 
broken," answers Rawdon GrosbJe. 

** All engagements can be broken, if one 
has menal courage— moral courage and 
sufficient means to pay the forieit-money," 
says the actress, whose turn of mind sharp 
contact with the world has rendered com- 
mercial. 

" Moral courage and sufiSdeat means to 
pay the forfeit-money." Bawdon hails a 
hansom, promising to call by half-past 
seven at Jane's lodgings ; and as he rat- 
tles quickly along toward Solton Row, he 
pcmders long and deeply over the practi- 
cal wisdom contained in Miss Minnie 
Arundel's remark. 



CHAPTER XXm. 

THOSE DBAR HERVXTS. 

For he can no longer hide from himself 
in what position he stands. If he did not 
realise the truth befoie, this sweetness of 
feooDciliation, this hour and a half q>ent 
at Jane's side, have brought him to see it 
ill' its very nakedness at last. As mooh 



mad, pasBiqBate devotion as his nature is 
capable of, he, Emma Marsland's affianced 
husband, is feeling for a woman, the tipf 
of whose fingers he will never be allowed 
to kiss while he lives. Now, what does 
honor at a pass like this bid him do? 

"All engagements may be broken if 
one has moral courage— moral courage 
and means sufficient to p^ the fei&it 
|non^." 

Has he such moral courage and such 
means? Courage to break the heart of 
the good and amiable girl who, until she 
became his betro^i^ wife, was his sister 
and best friend ; means to pay the forfeit 
(not the loss of Enuaa's Ibrtune— let me 
do Rawdon jostioe— this is the lightest of 
his CQOBideration8)«^tb6 forfeit of self-re- 
fiiptoty of credit befiire his own femily and 
before the world, which breach of fiiith so 
flagrant must entail ? 

Well, then, shall he teU the truth, the 
absolute, honorable, ridiculous truth, and 
let Emma deal with the future of both as 
she chooses ? "I thought I loved you, my 
dear Emma," such a confession must run ; 
" I was sure, at all events, that it was my 
mamma's wish we should marry ; and as 
you have thirty thousand pounds, and as 
I knew that you had long ago bestowed 
your affections upon me, I proposed. And 
on the day you accepted me, my dear, 1 
fell in love with some one else—needless, I 
believe, to mention her name— and have 
been stealthily seeing her and falling deep- 
er 8Jid deeper in love ever since. She 
laughs in my &ce, was good enough a 
few days ago to tell me that her heart 
was not in her own keepmg, and I think 
that this has had the effect of rendering 
my passion for her a little the stronger. 
The possession of a torn glove, of a faded 
flower that she has worn, renders me hap- 
pier than Would the gif^, my dear Emma, 
of your hand and all the substantial bless- 
ings your hand would bring with it. How- 
ever, as I am trying to act like a man of 
honor, you see, I tell you the truth. Do 
with me, decide forme, as you think best.'* 

If he said this to Emma Marsland, nay, 
if he embodied the spirit of this in terms 
of t^e nicest cireomlocution and delicacy, 
he would be a brute. And if he contin- 
ues in the path wherein he walks at pres- 
ent, he will be a scoundrel. And— tha 
cab turns with a jerk round the comer by 
Devonshire House into Bolton Row just 
at this point of his meditation— and wliat 



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OUGHT WE TO VISIT HERP 



65 



the dkkens, thinks Rairdon, descending 
saddenly fix>m theory to practiee, what 
tiie dickens can he say, short of absolate 
&lsehoody that shall aoooimt to poor 
Iknmy fiv his desertion of the &mily din- 
ner party and the fiunily theatre-going to- 
night? 

He stops at No. 105, and bidding the 
cabman wait for him, inns np the steps and 
gives a knock whose londness and decision 
iis in a direct inverse ratio to his inter- 
nal frame of mind. No. 105 Bolton 
Bow is a lodging-house of the most pri- 
▼ate and elegant kind, the master of 
which, Mr. Maurice, after two o'clock 
in the day, transforms himself into a state- 
ly and imposing-looking fiunily bntler. 
Mr. Maorice has been in the confidence of 
the Henrey &mily for about half a cen- 
tury ; needless to say that he knows all 
about the impending marriage between 
Bawdon Crosbie and Mias Marsland. ** I 
am to discharge the cab, Mr. Bawdon? " 
This with a glance at Bawdon's morning 
ooat, as Mr. Maurice, dignified and in iiill 
dress, stands on the summit of his own 
doorsteps. 

" No," answers Bawdon shortly ; " the 
Cab will wait. My mother is at home, 
Maurice?" 

* '* The Udies are in the drawing-room, 
dressed for dinner, sir." 

And np the stairs walks Maurice, a 
model of all the respectabilities, in his 
patent shoes and black suit; Mr. Baw- 
don in his Oxford mixture, and with con- 
science to match, following. 

He is ushered into the drawing-room, 
and for a moment sees neither Emma nor 
Mrs. Crosbie; sees only towering pyra- 
mids of silver-gray moir^, held aloft by a 
much grander dressed young gentleman 
than himself, whose insignia of office, a 
yard measure, lies, with laces, ribbons, 
and other adjuncts of female loveliness, on 
an adjacent table. 

** Bawdon, at last," says Mrs. Crosbie, 
advancing and giving her son three fin- 
gers, but too engrossed in the thrilling 
perplexities of millinery to notice whether 
he is in orthodox sables or not. '* Take 
eare where you step, Bawdon ; you find us 
in the middle of a most important matter. 
Tes," addressing herself to the shopman, 
** 1 am almost sure the moir^ is not the 
right shade. I am thankfiil I saw it at 
home before having it cut. At a little 
distance it might be taken for a dirty 
6 



white. Bmma, my dear, you are nearest 
to Mrs. Hervey ; ask if she does not think 
the dr coD es pecially for the occasion — 
will have too much the appearance of a 
dirty white?" 

Emma, who is looking rather less at- 
tractive than usual in ribbons of the 
wrong color, stoops on this to a very hand- 
some, very deaf old lady in an arm-chair, 
and shouts out the desired question : 
*' Does Mrs. Herv^ not think, when the 
moir^ is made up, and considering the oc- 
casion it is vranted for " — ^here a meaning 
smile is furtively addressed by poor Emmy 
to Bawdon — 'Hhat it will have rather too 
much the look of a dirty white? " 

'* Considering what occasion ? " says the 
old lady, raising her eyelids about the 
eighth of an inch. " Lower your voice, 
my dear Miss Marsland, and I shall un- 
derstand. I never can hear when people 
speak so loud." 

Old Mrs. Hervey is one of the most 
marvellous specimens of antique beauty 
ever seen. • She is a Harvey by blood — it 
is an hereditary custom among these people 
to intermarry — and has the typical fiimily 
fiu>e : a delioite, longish nose, that, if it 
only stood out sufficiently, would be a 
noUe one ; a mouth whose thin lips, even 
in extreme old age, keep their high-bred, 
scornful curves; a complexion of finest 
marble, discolored merely, not seamed by 
age ; eyebrows elevated as though in pity 
of the rest of the world for not being Her- 
veys ; long-cut eyes, cold and black as jet, 
and the " Hervey eyelids." Her dress is 
of pearl-colored satin ; Elizabethan ruffles 
of softest lace are round her throat and 
unwrinkled jewelled old hands ; above her 
forehead ascends such a structure of snow- 
white hair — the most expensive color in 
the world, by the way — and yellowish 
Mechlin as Vandyk would have loved to 
paint. A marvellous specimen of antique 
beauty, preserved as only the antiseptic 
virtues of a cold heart could preserve any 
human creature for more than seventy 
years, and likely to last another decade 
or so with ease. 

What shall kill a woman who has been 
strong enough to outlive youth and love, 
joy and sorrow, all hopes and all regrets? 
The friends and lovers of Mrs. Hervey *s 
youth, her husband, her blooming sons 
and daughters (of whom only one wreck 
remains) — all these were gone from her, 
hushed in the mould long years ago. And 



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Mrs. Hervey not only lives on, but enjoys 
life—think of that, reader of twenty-five 
— eiyoys life still ! Divides her time be- 
tween Bath, Cheltenham, and London; 
plays short whist with just as wholesome 
a gusto as erewhiie she played long; 
goes to the theatres of the (ky to see 
French actresses and £nglisb breakdovms, 
as once she went to see Siddons and Kem- 
ble in their prime; lives in the world, 
and keeps the world's pace still. A vrise 
old philosopher who conquers time by ac- 
commodating herself to time's changes — 
just that. This gift of long living would 
probably, if we understood it better, turn 
out to be only the gift of superior pliabil- 
ity. Mrs. Hervey has seen all fimshions 
in manners, art, dress, morals, and has 
conformed herself to each in its turn. 
When she vnis bom, George the Third 
and good Queen Charlotte had long been 
holding their model court of dull decorum 
and strictest domestic fidelity. Her early 
youth was epeai under the influence of 
the Regency. Then, by the time she was 
middle-aged, had come a turn in the 
kaleidoscope, and the bits of glass were 
back in the old George the Third or 
courtly domestic pattern. And now, here 
is everybody wearing high heels to their 
shoes again, and rouge, and alluring 
domesticity, and going to see Mademoi- 
selle Boulotte. 

Mrs. Hervey has known virtue to be in 
vogue and vice at a discount, and again 
vice regnant and virtue nowhere, not 
ODce^but a good many times during her 
life ; the change recurring, indeed, almost 
with as regular persisteni^ as large bon- 
nets and small ones. And she has been a 
citizeneas of the world, loyally following 
the world's current always. 

At her request a box has been taken for 
the French play to-night. 

'^ Boulotte is really an amusing crea- 
ture," says Mrs. Hervey, ''and as the 
pky is in another language, we need un- 
derstand no more about her than we think 
fit. We are sure of a better audience 
there than at any theatre in town ; all the 
best people go to have a look at Boulotte, 
and a good audience is what a little country 
mouse like Miss Marsland should be taken 
to see." 

It is some minutes before Rawdon, ner- 
vously vratching the clock upon the man- 
te^iece, can get a chance of speaking. 
The silver-gray moir^— «o a whisper from 



"Rmm^ informs hint— is to be '' mamma's 
wedding drees, I mean the drees worn by 
mamma at our wedding.'* And having 
firmly resolved to become the poasessor of 
this moir^, Mrs. Crosbie rings every dis- 
paraging change that she can think of 
with respect to it into the ears of the 
long-suflkring, silken-tongued shopman. 
It will certainly look too much like dirty 
white for a bridal occasion. The water is 
not large enough. £very here and there 
— ^yes, but Mrs. Crosbie is certain of it — 
every here and there you can see a decided 
unevenness in the cord. Emma joins in 
chorus. The silken-tongued shopman ex- 
plains ; the ladies return to the charge ; 
retire, make a feint of withdrawing whol- 
ly firom the bargain ; at last get the dress, 
<* as it is the close of the season, not from 
any flaw in the article," for two guineas 
less than its original price. And then 
come the ribbons and the laces and the 
trimmings, all of which must be had at 
close-of-the-«eason prices too. 

Sick at heart, fuming with impatience 
he dare not show, young Rawdon listens. 
Oh the paltriness, he thinks, the vulgarity, 
the sordid smallness of all this huckster- 
ing! Unless women wish to make the 
men to whom they belong despise them 
utterly, never should they su£kr them to 
be present at these sorts of commercial 
transactions. Why, Helen herself would 
have lost half her lovers could her lovers 
have heard her haggling, an hoar at a 
time, with a smirking man-milliner, over 
silk dresses and ribbons. But then men- 
milliners belong to such a much more ad- 
vanced stage of civilixation than Helen's. 

At last it is over. The grandly-dressed 
young gentleman gathers up his remain- 
ing v^ares and bows himself backward 
from the room. And Rawdon, lashed by 
this tune into a very fever of impatience, 
may speak. 

" I'm sorry to say, Emmy, your note 
did not come soon enough. I am engaged 
for to-night." 

''Engaged!" cries Emmy dismally. 
" Oh, Rawdon, how horrid of you ! Oh, 
mamma, what shall we do ? " 

" Thirteen guineas for fifleen and a half 
yards," says Mrs. Crosbie, holding the 
drees between her shapely fingers and 
looking up dreamily at the ceiling. 
" That comes to less than eighteen shil- 
lings a yard. There can be no doubt of it, 
Emimy, fdlks are to be got cheaper in Tot- 



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OUCrHT WE TO TISIT HERF 



87 



tenhaoi Court Road tban at th« West End 
ghops. And if oo/d baa the credit of al* 
urays dealing at Howell & James's, " adds 
Mrs. Crosbie, *' who can say where any 
particular thing comes frmn? Rawdon, I 
hope yon admire the dress in which I 
mean to do hoaot to a certain great occa* 
Hon?'* 

" I don't know which to admire most, 
mother," answers Bawdon, *' the dress or 
the admirable principles of economy yon 
dkplayed in baying it. I hope the bride- 
cake and &TorB are to be bargained ibr in 
the same &6hion 7 " 

The bride-cake and &Tors! Yes, his 
projects of tmth-telling, of paying forfeit 
should honor bid him do so, haye come to 
this already. Chafed in temper, wearied 
in spirit though Bawdon Crosbie may be, 
the sight, the very rustle of these wedding 
garments seem (boy that he is still at 
heart) to haTC irreyocably sealed his doom. 
Half an hour ago reprieye might haye been 
possible. He can hear the *'Neyer, 
neyer " sounding from eyery fold of the 
gray moir^, held, like the web of fate, be- 
tween his mother's hands. The more rea- 
son, thinks Rawdon, with another glance 
at the clock, to make the most of this 
dwindling span of liberty that is still his ; 
of this eyening, this whole intoxicating, 
unlayrful, most delightful eyenuag, from 
half-past seyen till twelye, that he is to 
pass at Jane's side. 

There is silence after his little question 
about the bride-cake and fayors— silence 
relieyed after a few moments by a depre- 
cating ''ahem" from behind Mrs. Her- 
▼ey's easy-chair. 

" Aftier the breaking off of Miss Copple- 
stone's marriage," says a Heryey yoice, 
'* after the breaking off of Adelina Copple- 
stone's marriage with the Hon. Charles 
Gascoigne, 1 remember the cake was put 
up for sale in the window of the chief con- 
fectioner at Harrowgate. It was thought 
rather bad teste on the part of the C<^ple- 
etone &mily ; still, as dear old Lady Cop- 
plcstone said, ' What is the use of a wed- 
ding cake except at a wedding ? ' And a 
doctor, or solicitor, or some such person, 
eyentually bought it, at cost price, on the 
occasion of his daughter's marriage." 

Old Mrs. Heryey opens her eyes, which 
haye been closed eyer since she ggve her 
final opinion on the silyer-gray moir^. 

'' What in the world are you talking 
about Maria? You speak more unintel- 



ligibly every day. Repeat your obserya- 
tion, pray, and distincdy. It driyes me 
distracted to hear people mumbling their 
wotda as if they were ashamed of them." 

Upon this the narratiye has to be re- 
peated, yodierated, syllable by syllaUe, 
into the old lady's ear. 

*' Who are tl^ Coppleetones, and where 
is the point? " is her chilling commenta- 
ry. *' Don't get into the habit of telling 
pointless stories, my good Maria. life is 
quite tedious enough already without 
that." 

My good Maria is old Mrs. Heryey's 
uiq)aid white slaye or companion, and an- 
other Heryey. She is a young lady of dim 
and shadowy age, who until a few years 
ago haunted the ball-room walls of one 
of our inland watering-towns with mourn- 
ful tenacity, and from whose h^art a soli- 
tary matrimonial hope has not yet fled* 
Tall and wa^ish of figure, acid of expres- 
sion, sallow with the sallowness engen- 
dered by a life to which exercise and fresh 
air are alike unknown, my good Maria 
has certainly not her share of the fiitadly 
looks. She will tell you confidentially 
that she had eyelarites, complexion, ani- 
mation once, but adds with pathetic 
truthfulness that she tost them all after 
measles. And old Mrs. Heryey will not 
allow her to patch up deficiencies by art. 
'* In our position, my good Maria, the leas 
we try to attract the attention of others 
the better taste we shall show." As a 
consequence Maria's &ce is, like her whole 
poor, disappointed, colorless existence, a 
blank. 

She is the most useful Companion to Po- 
lite Society or addenda to the Peerage 
extant; old Mrs. Heryey knows that no 
money could eyer refill her good Maria's 
place did she loee her ; has the nobility by 
heart, and is a poatiye new edition, with 
notes, of the Landed Gentry of Great Brit- 
ain and Ireland. Who's who ? is no mys- 
tify to Maria Hery^. She can tell you 
to a nicety where eyerybody was bom, 
and where their grandfiither was buried, 
and the exact date when plebeian blood 
from the yeins of a *' solicitor, or doctor, 
or some such person," first made its way 
into the family. Especially are the mar- 
riages and burials of defunct Heryeys her 
glory and delight. With her own fiiir fin- 
gers she has drawn out a miraculously 
minute and ancient genealogical record, 
showing forth all the noble femilies who 



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from the time of Bdward tibe Sixth donn- 
ward, b»Te oontanotod alliances with her 
anoeBton. She etobes littie petbaad-ink 
bill of architeotove on card (moeily oon* 
etaniotod on the priBciple of the fiunooA 
leaning tower of Bologna), and presents 
them to strangers as the tombs or birth* 
places of the Herreys. She knows Eng- 
lish hkUsrj well, in as fiir as it forms a 
fi!aniework or baokgnnmd to Herrey ex- 
istenoe ; oan tell yoo aocoxately at what 
siege one of her forefiEitheiB deroared his 
own leathern doublet, and at what battle 
another, both arms ^ot away, managed 
to get his bridle round his neck, and thrice 
shouting '* Pour y parvenir^^^ the feunily 
motto, rushed on, fiillowed by erery Her- 
Tey on the field, fe a i^oos martyr- 



*' An in?alaable dietionaiy of reference, 
though somewhat badly boimd," Mrs. 
Herrey says of her in her pleasant, cruel 
wtay. To be ill-&Tored in person is, 
in the old lady's eyes, the worst crime a 
woman and a Hervey can commit. *' If 
my good Maria married, it would positively 
take a lilnruy to replace her. Happily, 
there is little ohanoe of that.'* 

Between Maria and Rawdon Oroebio 
there has long existed bitter blood, on 
Maria's side at least. When Rawdon 
was a small boy he onee sent Miss Hervey 
a yalentine drawn by himself, in which 
occurred a riohly illuminated derice of a 
Heryey swimming toward the ark after 
the deluge, with the femily pedigree be- 
tween his teeth. And Mw^a never could 
get rid of the affiront. She spits forth a 
little mild venom at him now. 

'* Rawdon spoke of bargaining for the 
bride-cake and &vore, ma'am. I men- 
tioned the Oopplestones to show ihsX there 
may be extraordinary instances of such 
things going cheap. Adelina Copplestone 
was an heiress," adds Maria with spite- 
ful retrospection, '^ and changed her mind 
about the Hon. Charles Qascoigne quite 
at the last, Rawdon." 

" And did the Hon. Charles drovm him- 
self, Maria? " Rawdcm asks. " You know 
how interested I am in every detail con- 
nected with the aristocracy." 

Before Maria can answer, Mrs. Crosbie, 
waking at length from the contemplation 
of her moir^, remarks that her son is not 
in evening dresB. Is Rawdon aware that 
in another five minutes dinner will be on 
the table? 



And now, his mother asking him ques- 
tions, the eyes of Emma, of old Mrs Her- 
vey, of liforia, all fixed upon him, he 
must put his defalcation in the best Hght 
ke can. If Eomiy^s note had ocnne one 
post earliw — an engagement to dine with 
an old academy chum, starting for China^ 
next week — an engagement there is nn 
getting out of. He meant to say a simple 
honest '* No," and started by saying it. 
Before he knows where he is, he finds bim-' 
self drawn on into half a dozen small 
white lies— veiy small, very white ones, 
but that are lies notwithstanding, and 
that, sooner than he wots of, may rise up 
in judgment against him. 

"Whatever pleases you, pleases us," 
cries Emma, doing her best to be dignified 
and cool. " Fortunately, we are not left 
quite vrithout an escort. Fortunately, 
Mi^r Hervey has not throvm us over at 
the last." 

A loud double knock comes at the house 
door at this very moment. " There is 
Alfred," says the old lady, raising her eye- 
lids by about the sixth of an inch. 
" Punctual to the moment as usual. Tou 
young men of the new school, Rawdon — 
Miss Marsland, you allow me to lecture, I 
hope?— might take an example in punc- 
tuality from Alfred." 

Rawdon, who wants neither examples 
nor lectures either Just at present, takes 
his leave with all the haste he can ; and 
closely following his departure Mnjor 
Hervey, Alfred Hervey, the celebrated 
Adonis and flower of all the Herveys, is 
ushered with ceremony by Mr. Maurice 
into the drawing-room. 

Adtmis is a small, very vfell made man, 
who gets up for thirty-eight, and is, in 
nality, slightly over fifty ; like his moth- 
er, but with every peculiarity of the Her- 
vey fiice accentuated — ^the contemptuous 
eyebrows more upraised, the lids more 
dbrooping, the delicate greyhound nose 
flatter to the &oe. Not a handsome man, 
above all in profile ; and yet one who, if 
only a fraction of his own modest hhits 
are to be believed, has proved more de- 
structive to women's hearts and to the 
domestic peace of households than any ac- 
knowledged Beauty man in London. 

No one knows how or why Alfred Her- 
vey was first christened Adonis. I believe 
that he originated and stood sponsor for 
the name himself in the first instance, and 
that the vrorld adopted it as a covert weap- 



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OUGHT WE TO VISIT HERP 



80 



on of ridicule afterwards. But the Her- 
tey oonstraction of intellect woald nerer 
allow any member of the fitmily to realize 
^e poBBibility of his or her being ridi* 
coled. 

" These sobriquets are a sort of heir- 
loom with 08," says Adonis, palling down 
his long pnrple-black whiskers, and look- 
ing at yon from under his heaTy eyelids. 
** Recollect the celebrated Hancteome Hea^ 
Tey, time of George I. ? Not our branch 
of the fiunily— came oxer three hondred 
years before they were heard of— still, the 
Hervey name-aw " — all M%jor Hcrvey's 
speeches "um^'and "aw" themsehes 
into nonentity before he has done with 
them — ^"the Hervey &mily. This kind 
of sobriqaet-er^-^oite an heirloom in the 
femily." 

He advances to his mother and goes 
through the form of imprinting a salute 
upon her white old cheek ; then, having 
languidly bestowed his small gloved hand 
upon MrH. Crosl&ie (and a forefinger upon 
Maria) on his way, comes to £mma*s side 
—poor little Emma, who from behind the 
window-curtain has been watching the 
hansom that bore Rawdon away, and at 
the present moment is trying with all the 
fortitude she possesses to keep herself f^om 
tears. 

Adonis ox pr c as oa his happiness at find- 
ing the heiresB alone. He whispers, so 
close that his whiskers tickle her ear, that 
she never before looked so charming. He 
makes her feel, without uttering Rawdon 
Crosbie's name, that her lover is a mon- 
ster of cruelty and bad taste for having 
left her. 

" I suppose you know, then, that Raw- 
don has deserted us for good? " cries Em- 
ma. " I suppose you know that we are 
thrown altogether upon your tender mer- 
des, Msyor Hervey?" 

"Rawdon rushed post me— an ava- 
lanche, upon my word an avalanche— on 
the stairs," says the beau. " His face 
and size" — Adonis has an irrepressible 
dislike for men a head and shoulders taller 
than himself-" his &ce and size-er made 
me retreat as far as possible ; but I as- 
sumed, enpasMontj from Rawdon*8 appear- 
ance, that he could scarcely be thinking 
of spending the evening in the society of 
la^es." 

" And we have no one to take care of us 



but you. Think of that, l^or Hervey," 
says Emma piteously ; " four forl<»n la* 
dies all under your charge." 

Old Mrs. Hervey, whose power of beai^ 
ing is curiousty caprkioos, turns her head 
round on this toward her son and Smma. 
"What is that you are saying, Miss 
Marsland? " she asks in her silvery, well* 
bred, insincere old treble. " Four ladies 
under AlfM's charge? In virtue of my 
preadamite age you reckon me as two, I 
conclude?" 

Emma answers that Rawdon 's ])kice— 
with a little tremble of the voice, tlus-^ 
Rawdon *s place being left vacant, she im- 
agined Maria would like to occupy it. 

" You are very obliging, my dear," says 
the old lady calmly, " very obliging ; but 
I think not. Our good Maria has letters 
to write this evening." 

Our good Maria, used though she is to 
being left at home on every occasion whea 
her services are not absolutely vnintad, 
bites her lip and colors. "I thhik I 
should like to go to the theatre this 
once," she says fhintly, and gives a glanoe 
towsurd her one hope in existence, Mi^ 
Hervey. 

" Five people are a wrong number fyt 
any box," answers Adonis with cold- 
blooded promptness. " Even with four, 
impossible for eveiy one to see the 
stage." 

" But I don't care fyr seeing the stage. 
I preffer the back place. I prefer—" 

" My good Maria," says the M lady 
suavely, " let us have no discussion. You 
have your letters to write, and we will tell 
you to-morrow what we think of Made- 
moiselle Boulotte." 

So it is settled. They go down to din- 
ner in old Mrs. Hervey 's parlor, which she 
kindly lends to her rations during their 
stay in town as a dinhignroom. Mrs. 
Crosbie, that is to say, orders the daily 
dinner (and pays for it), and the old lady 
and Maria are saved the trouble of order- 
ing theirs. The Herveys have a perfect 
genius for doing kindnesses of this unos- 
tentatious sort to their friends. 

Emma i<^ placed next to Adonis, and by 
the time dinner is over has almost eea«ed 
to regret young Rawdon's absence. She 
loves Rawdon Crosbie heart and soul; 
loves him as youth bves youth. Bat the 
flatteries, the tender wliispers of the hard- 



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ened old heiress-hnnter at her side do not 
£ill altogether powerless on her ea^. 
Long ago, before it was at all a settled 
thing that she was to be Bawdon*s wife, 
Emma in her inmost heart knew that if 
she chose she might be M^jor Henrey'a ; I 
think had decided that sach a &te would 
be endnrable. Sach love as she felt for 
Rawdon she could of course nerer feel for 
this elderly Adonis ; but she admired him, 
took him at his own valuation, said to 
herself that even Rawdon would be im- 
proved could he only adopt the finished 
dress, the Qrandisonian manner, the ex- 
quisite refinement of style of Mtgor Her- 
vey . * * Wherever Adonis goes people look 
at him, and every one knows him, and he 
knows every one, and it makes one feel 
like somebody to be with him . " To many 
a plain little country girl as well as Emma 
Marsland, these are powerful* attractions 
for a man who lays himself at fier feet to 



By the time dinner is over Emma has 
got over her disappointment at her lover's 
absence; by the time they are leaving 
their box at the theatre has almost forgot- 
ten the existence of any other man in the 
world but Mfgor Hervey. The house, as 
old Mrs. Hervey foretold, is crowded with 
the best people in London, from royalty 
downward. Bows and smiles of recogni- 
tion come to Adonis from every side. He 
points out to Emma's dazzled gaze lords, 
ladies, foreign ambassadors, two cabinet 
ministers, and a dean in disguise, all look- 
ing delighted with the vivacities of Made- 
moiselle Boulotte. Poor Bawdon ! sacri- 
ficing himself at the dull altar of friend- 
ship with that academy chum of his who 
IS bound for China. Emma cannot but 
fiMl some tiiinges of remorse as she thinks 
of him, and reflects upon her own ei\joy- 
jnent, her own readiness to be consoled by 
other society in his absence. 

When they are leaving the theatre old 
Mrs. Hervey declares herself ready for 
supper. (Think, reader, of the constitu- 
tion such a declaration implies. After 
seventy years' eating and drinking, to be 
able to dine at six and cry out for supper 
at eleven!) *'Tou young people have 
grown too delicate or dine too late to care 
about supper," she remarks. "In my 
day we would have gi^en nothing for Sid- 
dons herself unless we had supper after- 



ward. What do you say ,< Mias Marsland ? 
Shall Alfred take us somewhere— I sup- 
pose such places exist— where we can have 
another hour of each other's society and a 
chicken salad as well ? " 

Emma, never averse to the prospect of 
sustenance, gives an animated yes to this 
proposal; and Adonis is called upon to 
think of some restaurant to which ladies, 
at this hour of the night, may toUh pro- 
jprt€/y— the parenthesis from Mrs. Crosbie 
— be taken for refreshments. 

He answers, with withered playfulness, 
that he considers — upon his soul, he con- 
siders his mother the fostest ddbutante of 
the season. At this hour of the night 
where may ladies be taken without im- 
propriety? Well, really, Adonis asks, 
where may ladies nowadays not be taken 
without in4)ropriety? You know there's 
that comer place close to the Haymarket 
— Wilmot's, Wilcock's, what the deuce is 
the name of it? comer place — ^where you 
are not inordinately poisoned, for an Eng- 
lish restaurant. Wilcock's, of course it is. 
Liable to mixed company— actresses and 
that sort of thing; still, every one goes 
to Wilcock's— every one. M^jor Hervey *8 
particular friend, the Marchioness of Yeri- 
phast, and her cousin Lady Caroline, were 
there together only the other night ; and 
the best of the joke was, poor Lady Caro- 
line ran across her own husband — had it 
from the Marchioness herself. 

" Well , wherever such excellent examples 
lead we surely may follow,'* says the old 
lady gayly. Mrs. Hervey is really the 
liveliest companion imaginable to go 
about London with ; has always stupidly 
left her purse behind her (a family trick 
of forgetfulness in Adonis also) ; but, ex- 
cept as regards the payment of money, 
ready and full of spirit for everything. 
" Now, what do you say, Juliana; may 
we venture with safety? " 

And Mrs. Crosbie, the still small voice 
drowned, I fear, in the music of that 
delicious word *^ Marchioness," has not 
strength of mind to say " No." 

So to the comer place near the Hay- 
market, where you are not inordinately 
poisoned, but where actresses and that 
sort of thing may have to be encountered, 
the coachman of the mock-private Hervey 
and Crosbie brougham is ordered to pro- 
ceed. 



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EDINBURGH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS. 



THERE are few more pleasant ways of 
q>endiiig a summer's day than to 
pass the morning hours in wandering about 
the ancient city of York, gazing your last 
upon its curious old walls, its placid ri?er 
Ouse, and its' glorious Minster, then to 
take the train for Edinburgh, and, travel- 
ling comfortably and speedily north, with 
glimx)ses of the sceneiy, which rapidly 
grows wilder and becomes more like 
American sceneiy as yon approach Scot- 
land, finish your day in Edinburgh. 

And you have one great advantage at 
Edinburgh. Tou are met on the thresh- 
old of the city by a most hospitable no- 
bleman, who proceeds to do the honors of 
the town with a rare and unequalled cour- 
tesy. You mutter against him none of 
those ^aculations which you have been 
uttering against the tiresome cioerones of 
other places. You cannot tire him, nor 
can he, unless you are entirely deficient in 
imagination , tire you. Whatever is beau- 
tiful becomes more so as he points it out 
to you, and over whatever is ugly he throws 
the royal mantle of his imagination, until 
the veiy streets are paved *' with patines 
of bright gold." 

The name of this hospitable nobleman 
is, as you have guessed. Sir Walter Scott. 
It requires one glance only at Edinburgh, 
the city he so dearly loved, to understand 
his rapturous greetings 

Bdinal Scotia*e darling seat, 
AH hail thy palaces and towersl 

But the best of memories will not serve to 
bring back to you all that he has said to 
immortalize its history, legends, and nat- 
ural beauties. 

Edinburgh is ready, however, with its 
wonderful picturesquenees to astonish you, 
and to affirm for itself all that its ardent ad- 
mirers have claimed for it. So beautiful 
and unusual is it that you rub your eyes 
to assure yourself that you are not dream- 
ing. Can that be a real rock which out- 
lines one side of the railway, while a glo- 
rious city springs up on the other? Yes, 
that is one of the spines of the great Rock 
of the Castle, that stupendous giant Rock 
which sends its bng fingers down into the 



valley. And is this the old town, with its 
sixteen-story houses? and is that the new 
town, grand, respectable, palatial ? Yes ; 
here wildness and finish, palace and pre- 
cipice, newness and oldness, are all mixed, 
like those fiintastic dreams in which you 
many an Indian chieftain in red paint and 
feathers to Mary Queen of Scots in her bra- 
very of black velvet, white coif, and pearis. 
Mary, Queen, reigns here still. What 
reader of history does not seek first for the 
window of the old Castle from which she 
so often looked down ? How furtively yon 
glance up the Canongate to see if she is 
not gayly riding down, on her 

^palfirey proudly prancing^ 

For he knew he bore a queen ? 

How your eyes seek out Holyrood, and 
how soon your faithful footsteps make the 
pilgrimage thither to see the '^ real blood- 
stains " where Rizzio fell. It is astonish- 
ing we never tire of her, or of the smallest 
fragment of her story. 

But to *' begin at the beginning," as the 
children say. The Rock of the old Castle 
is the keynote to Edinburgh. Here first 
the village and then the city crept up un- 
der the shadow of this natural fortalice, 
which protected their infant kingdom from 
the days of Eadwin, one of the Northum- 
brian kings (and who gave the city its 
name), down through the stormy times of 
David, Alexander, Malcolm, William the 
lion, and so on. 

To write the history of this Rock and 
Castle would be to write the history of 
Scotland. Let it be enough for us to see 
how it looks now, and what it looks down 
upon. For a few days eyes and memory, 
past and present, have a battle of it. You 
want merely to look, and you know you 
ought to remember. 

The Castle, which in itself is the most 
striking ol^'ect to look at, is also the best 
place to look from. Therefrom you gain 
the best idea of Edinburgh, with its hills 
and hollows, its superb boundary of Salis- 
bury Crags, the Frith of Forth, its glorious 
parks, statues, churches, Arthur^s Seat, 
and Calton Hill. 

There, leaning on "Mons Meg," the 



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EDINBURGH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS. 



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ciuioos old gan, you look at this scene of 
unrivalled beauty till your eyes are dim. 
" Coast cities alone are queens/' says one 
of the eloquent lovers of Edinburgh : here 
is indeed one in her own right, a crowned 
queen of beautly. 

One of these descriptions floated through 
my memory as I looked. I give it in its 
completeness : 

During the day the Castle looks down upon tlie 
city as if out of another world; stern with all Its 
peaceAilness, its garniture of trees, its slopes of 
grass. The rock is dingy enough in color, but 
after a shower its lichens laugh out greenly in 
the returning sun, while the rainbow is brighten- 
ing on the lowering sky beyond. How deep the 
shadow which the Castle throws at noon over 
the gardens at its feet where the children play I 
how grand when its giant bulk and towering 
crown blacken against sunset I 

Standing here, and gazing on the glori- 
ous view beneath me, with the frowning 
battlements of the Castle behind me, with 
Romance and History contending for the 
mastery, what was needed but the charm 
of music? and at that moment it came, 
solemn, beautiful, appropriate, some mi- 
nor strains rich and heavy with feel- 
ing. It was the regimental band of the 
Fourth Highlanders, who then garrisoned 
the Castle. They came winding up the 
pab'saded path, flinging their music to the 
winds and to me, and adding, with their 
Gaelic dress, plumed bonnets, and bright 
plaids, a gleam of color to the gray fort- 
ress. For Edinburgh Castle, although no 
longer of importance for defence, does 
duty as a barrack, and serves, as the 
guide book sententionsly remarks, "for 
some purposes of state pageantry." 

Within the Castle, I remember but two 
rooms. In one the regalia of Scotland is 
preserved. Some faded crowns, some rus- 
ty-looking chains, some jewels bequeathed 
by. the Cardinal of York, " the last of the 
Stuarts," some curious relics, a few bril- 
liant gems, all full of suggestion and 
association, lie here under a glass case. 
Sir Walter Scott wrote a history of them, 
which you buy on the spot for sixpence, 
which is worth more than all the jewels. 
He describes their loss for seventy years ; 
the fear that England had carried them 
off; the pleasure with which the Edin- 
burgbere heard that the iron chest was in- 
tact ; '^ the wise and beneficent consent " 
of the Regent that it might be opened ; the 
grave and dignified company who asMm- 



bled to open it; and the deep, abiding joy 
which filled every heart, as they discov- 
ered that the ancient regalia of Scotland, 
so intertwined with her history, so dear 
to every Scottish heart, lay there intact. 
You can almost feel the swelling of hig 
heart as he describes the salute fired by 
<* Mons A^eg," and the unfurling of the 
flag, and the shouts of triumph from the 
citizens, as they learned that their an- 
cient emblems were still in. their own cus- 
tody. 

How the antiquaVy and poet revels in 
the old description, in antique spelling, of 
the gems: 

*' The Croune had in the neder circle thairof 
nine granittes, four fiisientis, ttiree counterfiite 
emerandes, four amatystis, and tweanty-twa 
pearle,'' and so on. 

I suppose the '* counterfate emeraudes" 
got in in those troublous times when there 
was "scandalous dilapidation" made 
upon the crown jewels by the Regent 
Murray and the enemies of Queen Mary ; 
perhaps the same sacrilegious hand which 
stole her black pearls and sold them, to 
use the money against her, may have also 
appropriated the real '^ emeraudes." 

We can readily imagine how gladly the 
'' Lord President, and the Lord Provost of 
Edinburgh," and all the other grave Scots- 
men who conducted this search for the 
regalia, saw in the modest barrister, 
Walter Scott, Esq., the man who was to 
write the story of the regalia. They 
gave to him the congenial task. Dipped 
anew in the crucible of his genius, the 
&ded emblems of a departed sovereignty 
flash out with pristine splendor ; the dia- 
monds glow ; the rubies reveal their hid- 
den fire; and even the '^counterfate 
emerandes " show an unwonted brillian- 
cy, and " keep his memory green." 

The other room which I remember Is 
the one in which James . I. of England 
and VI. of Scotland was bom. There 
are the pretty lines emblazoned on the 
wall, which his beautiful young mother — 
then only twenty years old — wrote to him. 
Who can read them unmoved? Who can 
look on this mean apartment, these stone 
walls, and not pity Scotland's anointed 
Queen? The meanest cottager in Scot- 
land has more comfort to-day than she 
had in that hard, ferocious S(X)tland, her 
&tal inheritance. Here are the lines in 
old English : 



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EDINBURGH AND ITS SUBROUNDINQS. 



n 



Lmd J«raCkr7!Bt» timteioimit wm witk tlu>Bkef, 
FiU BCT iw the birth qohois Badgie beir is borne. 
And aexid hir Sonne saccessiooe to Reigne stille 
Lang in ttds Benline, if that It be thy wiUe. 
Ab* giant, O Lovd, qofaat ever of hir proceed 
Be to tbj Honor and Praiae, sebeid. 
19. JumU 1M6. 

It aeeoM haid, after reading this, to be- 
bere in the horrible story of the neigh- 
bonng " Kirk of Field " ; and It must al- 
vmjB be remembered in poor Mary's de- 
faioey that everything she wrote remains 
to praJae her. From her girlish letten 
down to her magnificent^ Latin prayer, 
efetythtng qieaks an aooomplished, re* 
iigioos, and noble mind. 

Theantfaor of the '< Cloister life of 
Giaries V^" a most learned and agreea- 
Ue Sootchman, »ir WiUiam Sterling Maz- 
wcU of Eier, said of Mary : *« She has 
inftnenced e? ery age since, more than she 
did her own." 

Siey show yon a window in this room 
where James was bom which gives on an 
immeDse and fearful precipice. The le- 
gend runs that Maiy let the baby down 
in a basket one dark night, that he might 
be baptiied by a Catholic priest. It looks 
a peribos journey enough for the poor lit- 
tie ieUow, but he made others quite as 
perilooa before he came to his inherit- 
uee ; and unfortunately for his fame as 
a sanffihlft man, he sorvived them all. 

We came from the Castle down the great 
street running to Holyrood, called vari- 
01^ the " Lawnmarket,'' the "* High 
street," and the '^Canongate." Here are 
those curious houses of which we have 
heard, which climb heavenward. 

lliis romantic and picturesque ''old 
town" now is given over to a seething 
population of pauperism, one of Nature's 
qoarrieB of bone and muscle, which she 
leaves to the influence of cold and poverty, 
making a hardy race who can do the work 
of the world. The mannfitcture is mot in- 
teresting to any of the senses. It is one 
of the sightB which make the American 
travdler grateful for the broad acres and 
equal rights of his own land ; and if he 
have a particle of philantbrq)y, he prays 
that the denizens of these overcrowded 
•iieetB may be transported on some " en- 
ehanted carpet" to our ovrn Western 
pfairies. 

A drive of a Sunday afternoon around 
the '* Queen's Walk," whkh surrounds 
ArAnr's Seat, brought us to see the better 
dasi ci the poor people, who came out to 



take their pleasure in their holiday. This 
was a pleasant sight ; not unlike our own 
Central Park on a similar oooasiun. This 
drive and its views are of course delightful. 
You see *' Muscat's Cave," St. Anthony's 
chapel, Jeannie^Deans's cottage, and oth- 
er scenes fiimillar to the readers of the 
''Heart of Midlothian." 

I owe a great debt to that novel. It 
vraa the first. It opened to me the flood- 
gates of fiction, in whose deli^tful waters 
I have since bathed freely, to my great in- 
struction and delectation ; and I was sorry 
to see on the site of the old Tolbooth a 
real sUnu heart built into the pavement. 
It materialised too much the beautiful and 
suggestive title. 

The visits to Abbotsford, Meboee, and 
Dryburgh Abbey, to the richly-decorated 
chapel of Roslyn, wero of course the 
proper pilgrimages. Abbotsford has been . 
too oflen described to need another word. 
Yet it is new, firesh, interesting to an 
American. Unf(»rtunately it is too new. 
The caro taken of the relics of Sir Walter 
is most commendable, and the family pio- 
tures, his old chair, his beautiful library, 
and the last suit of clothes he wore, are 
all interesting and affecting. 

I found, however, more of him at Md- 
rose. In the churohyard were some me- 
morials he had reared to his faithful ser- 
vants ; there was the stone on which he 
used to sit looking at the carvings, many 
of which he caused to be c(^ied for his 
house at Abbotsford. The drive to Dry- 
burgh, where he lies buried, is indeed most 
interesting. The country is charming, 
and Dryburgh a picturesque ruin. Under 
(me of the arehes, which looks as if it too 
would &11 before long, lies Sir Walter 
Scott. His noble relative, the Earl of 
Bachan, gave him right of sepulture here, 
which right he dearly prised. It seems 
strange to us that any nobleman had such 
place and ppwer that Sir Walter Scott 
must ask and thank him for a grave. To 
us it seems as if all Scotland were his, and 
that he had but to choose. But it Ib a 
lovely and a|H>ropriate place. The ivy 
hangs in long banners from the ruined 
battlements, and the gray old stones, the 
richly-eculptured rose-window, still kft 
intact amid the general decay, are so ez^ 
actly what he has described a thousand 
times in his own immortal words, that you 
leave him to his rest with the feeling that 
he is fitly lodged* 



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EDINBURGH AND ITS SURBOUimiNQS. 



fJOLT, 



His wife, Lockhaiii snd his son Colonel 
Sir Walter Scott, who died at the age of 
forty, coming home from India, shaie the 
tomb with him. 

Leaving Dryburgh, and to regain the 
high-road, we were obliged to walk 
through a ''pleached alley,'' like that 
down which /'Beatrice like a bowing 
runs," a delicioiiis bower of shade and re- 
tirement. Where it opened on the dosty 
highway we met a lady, who, recognizing 
in us pilgrims to the shrine of him whom 
all Scotland loves, asked us to take a little 
walk to the right and eiyoy a view from her 
grounds. So she opened with a key a door 
in a wall, and we foond oaiselves in one 
of those jealously-guarded lovely spots, an 
old avenue and carefully-kept lawns, 
from which we saw the curious notched 
hills which Michael Scott is said to have 
. taken on his back and to have deposited 
on the other side of the valley. These 
were the " Eildon Hills," and we crossed 
the Tweed in an open row-boat at the fa- 
mous ford where " Father Philip " met 
the " white lady of Avenel." 

What haunted ground! I have heard 
often that the next generation will not 
read Scott ; that we have outgrown his 
books ; and that they are to be put on the 
shelf. So much the worse for the next gen- 
eration ! The age that can do without Scott 
is a poorer age than that which could not 
do without him ; and I do not envy those 
who shall hereafter visit this poetic re- 
gion, whose romance is history, and whose 
history is romance, who have not with 
them the golden memories of a life-long 
intimacy with his unrivalled books. ' 

Roslyn Chapel is the richest specimen 
of ecclesiastical work in Scotland. The 
sculptures are like lace-work, the roof 
especially rich. I have a photogrf^f>h of 
the roof which looks like a pattern of 
Honiton lace. The chapel unites " the so- 
lidity of the Norman with the latest sp^d- 
mens of the Tudor age," and it is a hap- 
py union. 

Here is one of those lichly-sculptnred 
pillars, unlike the rest, which you some- 
times find in these old Norman chapels, 
as if some one genius, too original to 
copy, had worked out his dream of beau- 
ty his own way. The story runs that the 
apprentice, more clever than the master, 
did this in the master's absence ; but that 
the master on his return, devoured by jeal- 
ous, killed him on the spot. Th^ show 



yon his mother's fiuse among the sculp- 
tures; a face divinely sad, almost like 
those women's Gauces at the foot of the 
cross — the apotheosis of maternal sorrow, 
bearing the mark of a wound that never 
heals. I believe, however, to spoil the 
story, that this legend of the " 'I^ontice's 
Pillar" is told in more chapels than 
this. 

Certidnly the work done in stone, in an 
age we are disposed to consider and call 
" barbarous," is a severe commentary on 
the use of w^rds. Such work mm/ be 
done now ; it might be done now ; but it 
is not done now. Look at the exquisite 
traceries of Mebrose ; those leaves so ten- 
derly detached from the main stone, that 
you can run a spear of grass in and 
out their involuted curves. Look at Ros- 
lyn, built in 1446. When will the rich 
cities of the present day present sudi stotte 
work? Is it that in the religious retire- 
ment of those ages, when convent and 
church were the only safe refuge for men 
of artistic tastes, the patient idealist 
worked all through his life, and then 
handed to another his exquisite design? 
This chapel bears the quotation from 
the book of Esdras : " Forte est vinum, 
fortior est rex, fortiores sunt mulieres; 
super omnia vincit Veritas." Which 1 
commend to the woman's rights move- 
ment. 

The clmpel is interesting to the general 
reader by its being the subject of Sir Wal- 
ter's fine ballad of " Rosabelle." 

Oh, lUton, listen, ladles gayf 

No haughty ftat <tf arms I tell. 

Soft Is the note, and sad the lay. 

That mourns the lovely RosabeUel 

All about in this delicious region lie 
Auchindinny's hazel glade 

And haunted Woodhonselee. 
Who loves not Melville's beechy grove 

And Roelyn's rocky glen; 
Dalkeith, whieh all the virtoes love, 

And olassio Uawthornden? 

Near by is Sir Walter's cottage at Laas- 
wade, where he is said to have q>ent some 
of ihe happiest hours of his life. 

The landlady at the little inn where we 
lunebed remembered him well, Mid bore 
the universal testimony to his kindly man- 
ners and noble character. Surely no lit- 
erary man in the world has left so pure a 
record as Sir Walter Scott. 

Dalkeith Palace is simply one of those 
superb residences of which one sees so 
many in these fortunate isles. It Is intm*- 



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EDINBURGH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS 



95 



eaiHiig^ historically as the residence of 
Honmoath, and as the temporary abode 
of Charles I. in 1633. The gardens and 
parit are as perfectly cared for and pre- 
sent as mooh beauty as those of Blenheim 
or Eton Hall, or other show houses of 
Great Britain, and praise can go no fur- 
ther. I was mach delighted with the 
hea?y masses of the rhododendron, oar 
American shmb, made much of in Eng- 
land and Scotland, and in that more genial 
clime becoming an ornamental plant of 
rarest beauty. 

The present Duke of Buccleugh, the 
inhabitant and owner of Dalkeith, is one 
of the richest noblemen of Scotland, and 
owns, I believe, nearly a whole county. 
To these men, who are really princes, 
the traTcUer from the New World owes 
much— perhaps I should say to the sys- 
tem which makes them. With time and 
noble ancestry behind them, with bound- 
less wealth, why should they not show the 
rest of the world how much can be done 
to adorn, enrich, and beautify this thing 
we call Life? - 

For the sake of the " Fortunes of Ni- 
gel," I am afraid, more than for its in- 
trinsic merits, did we go to see Heriot's 
Hospital. " For the wealth God has sent 
me, it shall not want inheritors while there 
are orphan lads in Auld Reekie," says 
George Heriot, in the pages of the novel . 
And we saw some of these orphan lads, two 
hundred years after their bene&ctor had 
ceased to breathe, enjoying his thoughtful 
bounty. I stopped one of them, a pretty, 
Ught-haired fellow, who was scampering 
across the court with his Latin book in his 
hand, and asked him what he studied. I 
found that he was going through the usual 
course of a boy at one of our public schools. 
He seemed happy and well fed, and an- 
swered my questions with the uncon- 
Bcions, pleasant, boyish simplicity which 
should belong to thirteen, which was his 
age ; and so his careless, happy &ce disap- 
peared raider the gray archway ( built by 
Inigo Jones), leaving with me a human 
memory to add to the many which the 
name of George Heriot awakens in the 
novel-reader, and affirming the value of 
the sentiment put into his mouth by the 
great enchanter : '* I think mine own es- 
tate and memory, as I shall order it, has a 
&ir chance of outliving those of greater 
men." 



John Knox's house is exceedingly pic- 
turesque, much more so than he was. If 
the old iconoclast were living now, he 
would tear it down and build an ugly 
square red brick one. Over the door is 
the admonitory inscription, the latter part 
of which he certainly did not take to 
heart: *'Love God above all, and your 
neighbor as yourself." 

The Ganongate! "down which once 
limped a little lame boy who vras to vn'ite 
its Chronicles." How sad that this noble 
street should be given over to filth and ir- 
remediable poverty. It is " pretty peril- 
ous, and a good deal odoriferous," to walk 
through this famous street now. Scotland 
should have bought it and consecrated 
it to the memory of the past. But 
apart frt>m its own picturesqueness, it 
leads to Holyrood, " Sic itur ad astra." 
This is the way to "Mary Queen of 
Scots." Noble old palace, fitly back- 
grounded by Arthur's Seat, it looks all 
the lonely celebrity that it has. A sort 
of " neighborly remoteness " connects it 
vnth the city ; it is in and not of Edin- 
burgh. Not a half mile from one of the 
busiest cities in the world, it is as alone 
as if in the centre of the great desert. 

" I feel," says Mr. Howell in his " Ve- 
netian Sketches," " that when I attempt 
to describe the lido, my pen catches in the 
tatters of a threadbare theme. " With his 
pen the tatters would soon have become 
cloth of gold. I dare not hope for such 
good fi>rtune. I must, get away from 
Holyrood as soon as I can ; with this soli- 
tary remark, that the supper room where 
Rizzio is said to have been killed, and 
where Mary and Damley, four or five la- 
dies, courtiers, and the iron-clad warriors 
who stabbed the poor, defenceless, de- 
formed little musician, are supposed to 
have been, will not hold at the present 
moment more than four people standing ; 
so that I constructed a new arrangement, 
an improvement on history, and placed 
the table in the large outer room, where 
the bed now stands, and firom which as 
they dragged the bleeding victim his dy- 
ing struggles may have well been finished 
at the top of the stairs where you see the 
blood-stains. 

It is hard to tear oneself away from Holy- 
rood, both in reality and in memory ; but 
there is one castle near Edinburgh which 
has not, I think, been done to death by tonr- 



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EDINBURGH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS. 



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lats. It is the iTy-crowned, owl-haanted, 
Biern old rain of Craigmillar. We dro^e 
thither £rom Dalkeith one lovely summer 
evening, and saw the splendid view which it 
oommands by the doable charms of sanset 
and moonrise. It is said to have a secret 
underground passage which leads to 
Edinburgh Castle. A human skeleton 
was found built up in the walls in 1813. 
It is a strong tower flanked by turrets, a 
most interesting and curious ruin. For 
the time it must have been a noble resi- 
dence, &i surpassing the Sootch castles of 
its day. Here Queen Mary lived so oflen 
that the a4Jaoent village, filled by her 
French guards and servants, acquired the 
name of Little France." 

It seemed a pity that such noble walls, 
large rooms, and beautiful prospects should 
not be utilized. *'It would require a 
royal equipage to fill it and keep it up," 
said the poor old woman who shows the 
ruin to strangers. It was well said, for 
the word *' royal" seems to pertain to 
Craigmillar. What a chance lor the bud- 
ding Radcliffiw does this old ruin offisr, 
with its skeleton and its underground 
passage! 

One conoession, and one only, did we 
make to the present centuiy. That was a 
drive to New Haven to realize our '* Chris- 
tie Johnstone." That first, freshest, 
and still to me most delightful novel of 
Charles Eeade,'has given the little fishing 
village of New Haven a world-wide r^ 
nown. We saw no Christie Johnstones, 
but the oostumee of the women are curious, 
and the expedition was pronounced a suc- 
cess. 

Tes, one more concession to the present 
— Sir Walter's monument in East Print's 
street Garden. This is a handsome iron 
monument two hundred feet high, en- 
riched by statues of Scott's principal chai^ 
actefs. It is interesting, too, as memorial- 
izing the sad fiite of the architect, Mr, 
Kemp, who died young, just before it wa« 
finished. He produced the design for 
this elegant Gothic tower, as he said him* 
self, &om studies of the beauties ol Mel- 
rose. 



But the best part of this mcmumeiit is 
the part which cannot be seen. It is tlj^ 
inscription on the plate beneath the founda- 
tion stone. It is vrritten by Lord Jeffir^, 
and, as the tribute of one man of genius 
to another, seems to me one of the finest 
thin^i in literature : 

ThtB graven plate, deposited in the base of a 
TotiTe baikUng on the ISth daj of Augatft, in 
tlie year of Christ 1840, and never likely lo see 
the light again till all the fionoonding stmotnres 
are crumbled to dust by the decay ot time, or by 
human or elemental violence, may then testily 
to a distant posterity that bis countrymen began 
on that day to raise an elBgy and arohiteetural 
monument fo the memory of Sir Wmlter Soott, 
Bart., whose admirable writings were then al- 
lowed to have given more delight and suggested 
better fbelings to a larger class of readers In 
•very rank of society than those of any other au- 
thor, with the exoeptkni of Shakespeare a^ne, 
and wtiich were therefore thougtit likely to be 
remembered long atter this act of gratitude on 
the part of the first generation of his admirers 
should be forgotten. 

He was bom at Bdinburgh ISth Augoat, 
im, and died at Abbotsford 21st September, 
isaa. 

The other great names of Edinburgh 
suflTer on a first visit a temporary ecl%)se 
before the radiance of Scott; but cm 
another visit I am sure the reader would 
gladly follow up the remembrance of '* Kit 
North," of Dugald Stewart, of Allan 
Bamsey, '* the gentle shepherd," and of 
many others. The genial author of * * Rab 
and his Friends " is still living, but was 
not, we were told, well, or able to see vis- 
itors. Let us hope that the hand which 
has given such pleasure to the world and 
has patted the head of so many good dogs, 
may not lose its cunning, nor the fine 
mind of the authiv of ** Hor8» Subseciv» " 
suffer a decay. 

Edinburgh is not *' done in a day." I 
have not mentioned half its points of in- 
terest. I can only wish the visitor to its 
romantio borders fine weather, good 
health, and a devout knowledge of the 
works of Walter Scott. Armed with these 
weapons, he could b6 happy anywhere, but 
doubly happy in that city whose bounda- 
ries are the Frith of Forth, the water of 
Leith, Calton Hill, and Arthur's Seat 
M. fi. W. S 



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THE MAN I DID NOT MARRY. 



I THINK that her ultimate detitiny as 
somebody's wife is one of the earliest 
impressions received by the feminine soul. 
Is not oar tender infancy one prolonged 
serieB of bridal processions, where dolls 
in white satin and Teils marry dolls in 
dress-coats and boots to-day, and are 
Dot those same boots and coats mated 
afresh with other satins and veils to-mor- 
row ? And from these early antitypes of 
disinterested maternal diplomacy we pass 
easily to speculation upon our own possi- 
ble future. I distinctly remember that 
at six years of age I had firmly resolved 
that nothing should induce me to marry 
Tommy, the son of our nextrdoor neigh- 
bor ; for Tommy v^as greedy, and refused 
to share with me a beantifal oocoanut 
cake with a red centre, for a taste of 
which my mouth vratered; and when I 
said with tears in my voice, " Please, 
Tommy, just a little bite," Tommy made 
a derisive gesture (known to boys) with 
his nose and thumb, and holding the tempt- 
ing moxsel just out of my reach, asked in 
withering accents, "Will you have it 
now or vrait till you get it? " No, I never 
would marry a Greedy. 

I still meant to marry somebody, how- 
ever ; but my somebody was a long time 
in growing up to man*s estate. He passed 
through many stages; migrated into as 
many forms as a Hindoo's soul ; and in 
proportion to the amount of incense 
poured at each shrine, was the loathing 
which ensued when the smoke blew aWay 
and I saw of what cheap material my 
idol was made. At fourteen I went to 
dancing-school with George. George was 
a head taller and three years older than 
myself, so I looked up to him as a man ; 
he knew lAtin, so I reverenced him as a 
sage. George always danced with me, 
and I lent him my seal ring to wear. I 
declined dancing with the small boys, and 
pinched my feet almost numb that he 
might compliment me on my beautiful lit- 
tle bronze boots. But one day George 
gave me back my ring saying he was 
afraid he might lose it. "Oh, no matter 
if you do," I replied, feeling it would be 
happiness to have my ring even lost by 



George. But no; he said, "I think I 
won't keep it any longer, Ellie." He 
did not ask me to dance again that 
day, and he danced four tunes with Daisy 
Jones, a new girl and a very pretty one. 
I turned my back hair to them, and 
hummed a second to the fiddles very loud 
when they passed me ; but my heart sank 
down into my little bronze boots till they 
or it or both— it was all so dreadful I 
don't remember which — ached to bursting. 
I staid out the lesson ; George should never 
suppose I cared whether he danced with 
Daisy Jones all night; but gradually 
(}eorge came down off the shrine, and I 
got a severe bit of celiba<jy, which lasted, 
with occasi9nal intervals, for several years. 
I should never marry. Men were frivo- 
lous ; easily beguiled by meretricious ap- 
pearances. No one worthy of the price- 
less treasure of my affections would be 
likely to discover their existence. I was 
** the violet by the mossy atone." Some 
day all these men who thought me severe, 
sedate, slow, should be crushed into long- 
ing admiration, and omnpletely over- 
whelmed by a revelation of my manifold 
unappreciated virtues. 

But my fit of celibacy passed off like the 
others ; it thawed, if I must oonfiess it, un- 
der the sunshine of a young man's smile ; 
and I went as girls so oflen go from one 
extreme to another, and from being cold, 
dignified, and reserved, became, through 
the mysterious alchemy of this sunshine, 
a little volatile, perhaps gay and light- 
hearted. No radical change of nature. 
I found my world liked me better when I 
evinced some interest in its affiiirs, and 
some appreciation of its attractions. So 
I turned over a new leaf, and life became 
a more interesting volume to me, albeit 
it lost somewhat in dignity and meaning. 
I vras experimenting in life with that un- 
defined consciousness young people have 
of the great outlying issues all about 
them ; feeling their way with touch and 
sense, in a labyrinth for which as yet they 
have found no clue, and perhaps glad fi>r 
a while to encourage the uncertainty ; to 
accustom their eyes to the darkness, and 
venture something in paths unexplored. 



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THE MAN I DID NOT MARRY. 



[July, 



The poflsible danger adds to the exoite- 
ment, for they all know and feel that 
when the olue is found, the path made 
straight to their feet, then most their 
feet be trained and compelled to walk in 
it ; and libert3' is sweet, and youth is fond 
of wanderings. So standing at the en- 
trance of my labyrinth without a clue, I 
saw much to beguile my lingering foot- 
steps, and many rifts of sunshine through 
the trees. And much of the sunshine 
emanated from my cousin Philip. 

For my cousin Philip now occupied the 
position of hero to my tale, and like too 
many of women's heroes he had but little 
of the heroic element about him. But 
Philip and 1 were engaged ; we sauntered 
about together in the moonlight; we 
TOwed such tows as young lovers mean to 
keep. He looked into my eyes and swore 
I was Mr ; as mine sank beneath his, I 
felt he was— charming ; and we were 
happy, till the serpent entered* into Eden. 
My wrpent was of course a woman, 
handsome, cicTer, and unscrupulous ; and 
as thinking of her always suggests that 
gorgeous Egyptian serpent of old times, I 
shall call her here Cleopatra. 

She sailed into my life one day in a 
shimmer of silks and a gfitter of jewels ; 
dark-eyed, dark-haired — a lustrous wo- 
man who perraded the room the moment 
she entered it, diffusing a subtle odor of 
jessamine. When she raised her dark 
eyes to mine I felt my spirit was in arms 
against her, though we had exchanged no 
words but such as society listens to with 
complaisance at a morning call. When 
she sailed out of the room again, wafled 
by soft jessamine-scented zephyrs, a well- 
bred murmur ran about. I breathed freer 
without knowing I had felt oppressed, and 
joined the polite chorus — *^ Yes, a splendid 
woman." "By Jove, yes, a devilish 
handsome woman," I overheard a young 
man saying to his friend ; and it echoed in 
my ears as I too went dovm stairs— a devil- 
ish handsome woman, a devilish handsome 
woman, though I was fiir too well brought 
up to echo it with my voice. Cleopatra 
thought me worth cultivating, and imper- 
ceptibly we glided into a show of friend- 
ship. I sometimes thought she liked me 
to be seen beside her as a foil to her own 
brilliant Oriental charms. My Saxon 
complexion and tawny hair made a back- 
ground against which she shone more re- 
splendently, and she liked the whisper of 



" Night and Morning," as we appeared to- 
gether. Yet there was no sympathy and 
no real intimacy between us ; but by care- 
lessly woven threads Cleopatra established 
its semblance to suit at first a whim of her 
vanity, and afterwards a purpose which 
took shape in her waywurd brain and 
stubborn will. 

My cousin Philip was a singularly 
handsome man, and quite as conscious of 
his advantages as singularly handsome 
men, who have dallied through many sea- 
sons in the far niente of drawing-room life, 
are apt to become. And yet one could 
not call him vain. A sense of his advan- 
tages, personal and intellectual, gave him 
a rather noble charity for what, in his 
lordly way, he no doubt classed as the 
ordinary herd of mortals. It was simply 
no case for comparison, so he always found 
something to like or commend in others. 
But he was indolent and quite content 
with the applause of what he chose — ^what 
in those days we both chose— to call " the 
world," limiting that term, after the &sh- 
ion of our caste, to the elect who wore the 
purple and fine linen of fortune's provid- 
ing. And- I was used to Philip; his 
worldly wisdom was the sort of wisdom I 
had grovm up to believe in. He was far 
cleverer than any man I knew. He had 
plenary indulgence to gather honey from 
any flowers that pleased him, and I in the 
freshness of happy girlhood and guaran- 
teed liberty, with the bond between us un- 
derstood and accepted, gave myself to the 
eiyoyment of life as it was. On a rainy 
morning Philip would entertain me in his 
ovm irresistible way with his sayings 
and doings of the last week or fortnight ; 
and sometimes moonlight made us senti- 
mental, and he dropped into poetry and 
praised my eyebrovro in well-chosen quo- 
tations. In short, we suited one another, 
and had so thoroughly accepted our posi- 
tion as future husband and wife, that our 
days glided by undisturbed even by lovers* 
quarrels. 

Perhaps it was this that drifted into my 
mind one day, as we idled away the sunny 
morning beside a brook in the country. 

** Philip," said I to the great handsome 
figure behind a cloud of smoke at my feet, 
"it seems odd that we never quarrel 
We scarcely disagree enough to make our 
relations interesting." 

" Name the sulject, my dear girl," he 
lazily rejoined; "I'd even quarrel vrith 



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THE MAN I DID NOT MAERT. 



99 



yoa&ra quiet life. What shall it be? 
The whole sweep of nature and art, be* 
sides the £roitful field of our matoal ao- 
qnaintanoe, is (q[>en for disemiion. Shall 
it be your antipathy for OffBobaoh? I 
will detiBod him with all the obstinaf^ of 
ignorance and the peisistenoe of a devotee ; 
yon shall declare him a degrader of your 
snblime art, a demoralizing agent, a tres- 
passer in the temple (^ the Moses. Not 
Ofenbach? Well, suppose we try that 
dark-eyed daughter of the gods, who yoa 
say gives you moral chills and fever." 

" No," I interrupted, '* we will not 
talk about her here ; she is a being of the 
city and city life. Nature and Cleopatra 
are not of kin ; " and I pitched p€A>bles 
into the brook and mused a little, my 
musings being no deeper than the water, 
and veiy commonplace. This brook just 
babbles along, carrien and merry. When 
it gets to be a river its merry babble is 
lost, but the noise the river makes is a 
rush and a roar : it is swollen by storms, 
it is angiy when the winds arise ; it is so 
de^ that it becomes a power. At this 
point I threw my last pebble a little wist- 
fhlly, and rose. 

'* Tired so so(m, my blossom ? " asked 
Philip, lighting a firesh cigar. ** I could 
lie here very comfortably all day, with 
your profile against the clear blue yondw 
to look at, and the tinkle of the water to 
drive dull care away." 

'*What does the water say to you, 
Philip? " I asked, vnth just a slight, un- 
nsoal stir of uneasiness. 

He murmured gayly : 

u »Ti8 wen to be merry and glad, 
Tis well to be honest and tme.*' 

The monotonous murmur of that brook 
had put me sadly out of tune, for I shook 
off the arm he bad passed round my waist, 
with the first sting of womanly pain I had 
almost ever felt, and repeated the remain- 
ing couplet : 

** Tte weU to be off with the old love 
Belbre you are on with the new.'' 

Philip looked at me a little curiously, 
and did not attempt to replace his arm. 
As we crossed the lawn a carriage drove 
rapidly up the street. Cleopatra's radi- 
ant fifcce beamed upon us through the vrin- 
dow. We reached the house just as she 
alighted. 

"Bid me welcome, ChAtehime," she 



said, 
tie." 



^ I have come to storm yoor cas- 



Day succeeded day in a round of plea- 
surable engagements. A house full of 
goests created a succession of ei\)oyments, 
but for me a cloud lay over the sunshine. 
The shadow of approachmg trouble filled 
me with a nameless apprehension. Since 
the m<»ning of Cleopatra's sudden advent 
Philip and I had become slightly es- 
tranged, and yet no sign, or word, or act 
gave either of us a reason for explanation 
or complaint. It was the intangible in- 
flnence of that w(nnan. I watched daily 
the subtle ligaments by which she was 
binding him to herself, yet felt ihtki I was 
powerless. A sort of numbness came over 
all my senses but that of perception. It 
seemed to me, however low they spoke to- 
gether, I always heard what they said ; 
whatever glances passed between them 
passed through m^ eyeballs ; every touch 
of her hand on his arm thrilled me. And 
yet our outward relations were nndianged. 
He vras, so fer as other people saw, the 
same gentle, considerate lover, who sprang 
to fulfil my uneipresBed wishes, and dis- 
tinguished me by his graceful homage be- 
fore the world as the woman of his 
choice. It was as yet only what a 
woman's quick intuitions can feel, not 
what her friends can pity her fer; and 
vri^ my newly sharpened perceptions, 
which I did not analyze to separate in 
them love and pride, I sharply resolved 
that before the second point could be 
reached .1 vrould save myself the blow. 
But I could only fellow circumstances, not 
ferce them. Fortunately fer me, my posi- 
tion as hostess required constant exertion 
and self-forgetfulness, and left me little 
time to brood over my troubles. 

As 1 entered a drawing-room one alter- 
no(xi, an opposite door closed upon some 
retreating figure, whose I did not see, 
but the lingering soup^on of jessamine 
would have told me had I needed other ev- 
idence than that of my cousin's face as he 
stood by the window. A stragglhag sun- 
beam lit it up, and I thought it had never 
worn such depth of expression. He looked 
as if he had been moved to the bottom of 
his soul. 

"Alcme?" I asked ns I passed him. I 
vras curious to know what he would say. 

*' You leave me very much alone of late^ 



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100 



THE MAN I DID NOT MAERY. 



iJULt, 



belliasima,'* he said, not taming his &oe 
from the window. 

*' I can scarcely think you suffer from 
n^Wct, ' ' I rejoined somewhat grimly ; ^' I 
hope you eontriye to amuse yourself," and 
would have passed on, hut Philip tamed 
suddenly, and selling hoth my hands in 
his glared down into my eyes with a look 
of suppressed emotion which almost 
soorched me, while he asked with fererish 
intensity of tone : 

" Tell me, cousin, do yon loTe me truly? 
Do yon lore me with all your heart? " 

His grasp tightened to a gripe on my 
wrists ; with a little cry of pain I shook 
myself free. As I did so my ^e fell on a 
yellow rose at my feet. I rememhered 
that Cleopatra had worn it in her hair an 
hour before. I silently picked it up and 
presented it to my cousin ; as silently and 
with a passive hand he received it, and I 
left the room. 

I shut myself into my own room and de- 
termined to look the crisis in tiie fitoe. 
No man should ask me twice in that tone 
whether I loved him ; rather let him ask 
at once the question which larked beneath, 
*^ Would it break your heart to give me 
np?" I looked into my own heart and 
discovered some things which surprised 
me, not being much given to introiq;>eo- 
tion. The result was of coarse a foregone 
conclusion, but the examination of those 
past years of my life was a revelation of 
myself to myself. I found a very bitter, 
vengefril hatred toward the woman who 
had broken down my paradise. The in- 
tensity of my hate toward her frightened 
me. My pride, which had never been 
disciplined, was outraged to such a point, 
that for hours I paced the room unable to 
control myself, and it was long before I 
began to understand my position and to 
ask myself the question. Have I really 
loved Philip ? 1 had never loved any (me 
else, so I had nothing with which to com- 
pare this sentiment that had been ac- 
cepted as love. But sitting thinking in 
the darky I was little by little forced to 
the conclusion that '* it was not a broken 
heart I had to mourn over, but a broken 
dream." I had iufinite tenderness for my 
cousin, but many a vague apprehension 
of times past, which had been cast out as 
nnworthy, came back and took shape and 
asserted itself; and bitterer and more 
poignant than the torments of jealous rage 
or the humiliation of wounded self-love. 



vras the conviction that I could not love, had 
not loved Philip with the best part of my 
nature. I did not sit hi judgment on my 
cousin, but the truth forced itself npon me 
with irresistible power. 

The house was quiet for the night when 
I stole through the deserted passages to 
the great piasza which sarrounded three 
sides of the main building. My bead 
throbbed, and the cool night air refreshed 
my ercited frame. I paced up and down, 
growing calmer in mind and body, and at 
last, tired, thre:^^^ myself into a chair and 
leaned my head against the stone coping 
of a window. I had sat for some moments 
unconscious of anything bat the chaotic 
monotone of my own mind, when Philip's 
voice, speaking in low, agitated tones, 
made itself audible : 

*' I shonld be less than a man were I to 
take advantage of her momentary piqae. 
I believe she loves me, and cost what it 
may— imd you know the cost— I most ful- 
fil my engagement." 

** Yes, believe me, your sufiering inten- 
sifies my own," rejoined Cleopatra's sibi- 
lant voice, '* and the sympathy draws as 
nearer even than the accomplishment of 
oar wishes. But," she added, after an 
instant's pause," I think you deceive yoor- 
self somewhat. Your cousin has little 
depth of feeling, and what would be a life- 
long sorrow to many women would not 
sink deep into her heart. Do yoa know, 
my friend, those blonde women do not love 
as we do. Nay, I have piqued you ! She 
loves you, no doubt, to the extent of her 
nature ; but her blood is to mine what eau 
sucrie is to eau-de-vie. Should you care 
much for an unlimited privilege of eau 
sucrie 7 She would love no one better than 
she loved you. She would be an immacu- 
late matron, a true and virtuous wife, a 
lovely figurehead for your dinner-table, 
and the mother of unexceptionable chil- 
dren. But I, Philip," and I could feel 
how she leaned toward him and dropped 
the liquid passion of her eyes into his, '^ I 
would give you the love your soul de- 
mands. I would love you with an inten- 
sity which should consume the very being 
which fed it. I should be a priestess mak- 
ing perpetual sacrifice before her shrine. 
Ah, Philip, we dark women hold the se- 
crets of love ! " 

I had already heard too much. I sprang 
from my seat to leave them undisturbed, 
but my dress caught in a chair and over- 



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THE MAN I DID NOT MARRr. 



101 



tamed it, and with strange incaution they 
)>oth stepped through the window on the 
jpiazza. 

We three conironted one another in the 
moonlight. For a moment there was a si- 
lence so profound that the beating of my 
lieart seemed to echo like a sledge-hammer. 

Philip's face was ghastly in its rigid 
pallor. He did not even attempt to speak. 
Cieq>atra was first to break the spell. 
With a laugh which stung me by its in- 
solence through the sweetness of her per- 
fectly modulated voice, she said : " Well 
met by moonlight, fair hostess! This 
enchanting night seems to have beguiled 
us all. It must be late; haye you the 
time? " looking at Philip. 

He took out his watch somewhat me- 
chanically, and answered that it was hard 
en two o'clock. 

She gave a little start of well-acted sur- 
prise. " Your cousin has tempted me to 
renounce my beauty-sleep, '* she said, and 
took my hand. 

Her touch unloosed my tongue. '^ My 
cousin is evidently either tempter or 
tempted," I replied ; ** which, I do not 
presume to decide. But since the temp- 
tation has proved irresistible, pray "con- 
sider all obstacles removed from the way 
of that perfect union of souls which you 
a^ire after. Such imaginary right or 
title as I may have heretofore possessed in 
this gentleman's affections, I wiUingly 
transfer to you, who understand so well 
the requirements of his higher nature. 
This, too," I continued, gainmg courage 
&om the steadiness of my own voice, 
'* may have some significance for you ; for 
me it is only the unpleasant reminder of 
a delusion past ; " and I held toward 
her the hoop of diamonds which two years 
before, on that same piazza and under just 
such a bright harvest moon, Philip had 
placed on my willing hand. 

For the honor of my sex I am glad to 
be able to say that Cleopatra was discon- 
certed. Even her consummate tact and 
TeadinesB were for once at fault ; though 
whether she regretted my outraged hospi- 
tality, or its inopportune discovery, is 
not a matter for me to decide. However, 
she gracefully converted a yawn into a 
smile, and, with a parting thrust as to the 
embarrassment of interfering in fieimily 
dissensions, bade us good night with the 
ntmost sweetness, and retired . The move- 
ment knocked the bauble from my hand, 
7 



and it rolled glittering on the pavement 
to Philip's feet. With a scarcely sup- 
pressed oath, he raised his powerful foot 
and ground it with his heel against the 
stone, and then kicked off the flattened 
fragments on to the grass, and then our 
eyes met. ** Even so, Philip, let the past 
be thrust out of sight. It has been a 
great mistake, and I am reasonable enough 
to acknowledge it ; and I also acknowl- 
edge the greatness of your temptation. 
For the future I will try to forget our 
temporary delusion." 

^^ I cannot even ask you to forgive me, 
Elinor," Philip at last said, with a visi- 
ble effort ; " neither will I ask you to try 
not to despise me. I understand too well 
your capacity for contempt, and my ovrn 
deserts." 

'*Nay, Philip," and I am afraid the 
smart of my wound made my voice ring 
somewhat sharp and bitter, ^^ man is but 
mortal; I do not expect chivalry from 
carpet knights." He winced, but made 
no reply ; and I, with my wretched wo- 
man's weapon whetted on both sides, still 
probed the wound. ''I am a proud 
woman, Philip, and the pride you have 
wounded vnll be its own safeguard." 

" I am glad you have so secure a ref- 
uge," he rejoined dryly. The tone re- 
called me to my better consciousness. 

" Forgive me ; I did not mean to re- 
proach you. Let us say an amicable good 
night and begin again as acquaintances — 
cousins — ^perhaps even as friends." 

Afrer a moment's hesitation he said: 
^' I have no right, I know, to ask you 
any questions ; but if I am to accept your 
forgiveness, I should like to have one 
point made quite clear. I am perhaps ob- 
tuse in not accepting your tacit aclmowl- 
edgment of the state of the case ; but I 
might feel a shade less culpable toward 
you were I to ask the question." 

He looked at me inquiringly, and I mo- 
tioned him to proceed. 

'' Has this wound— such you have called 
it" — he spoke slowly— "cut no deeper 
than your pride ? " 

I could not speak. Two scalding tears 
forced themselves from my eyes, and in 
shame I covered my face ; for through the 
unspeakable tenderness without which 
I, even now, cannot think of my cousin, I 
felt that the true love a man has the right 
to demand from the woman who consents 
to be his wife had never been given to him. 



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•XHE MAN I DID NOT MARRY. 



fJULT, 



"It is enough," said Philip, coming 
close to me and remoTing my hands that 
be might study my face for a moment ; and 
had I been lees humiliated, I might have 
drawn comfort firom the intense mortifica- 
tion of his tone. " At least I have not to 
repent having broken a woman's heart — 
if women have hearts/' he added bitterly, 
" and if they are made to break. But,*' 
he continued more gently, " I must ask 
you to believe that I never intended to de- 
ceive you." 

"As for all that, I think we may cry 
quits, Philip," I interrupted. " We have 
deluded ourselves, and all that is left for 
us is to part in peace ; " and as he held my 
hand a moment, and we stood looking 
sadly at one another in the truth-telling 
moonlight, the ghosts of our wasted youth 
rose up between us with all the undevel- 
oped possibilities of our lost years : he, in 
his godlike strength and beauty, purpose- 
less and effeminated; and I, with the rich 
dower of vigorous womanhood, selfish, 
frivolous, and aimless. So &r we had 
both missed the use and meaning of our 
lives. Which should cast stones at the 
other ? He raised my hand to his lips, and 
I turned sorrowfully into the house, leav- 
irig him to his ovm reflections. 

It was late th0 next momipg when I 
opened my eyes after a heavy and unre- 
fireshing slumber. A maid stood at the 
bedside with a letter. As I tore it open 
a telegTfim fell out, 4ireoted to Philip ; on 
the back of it he had vnritten, "This will 
explain my hasty departure." The tele- 
gram contained these words: "Your 
mother is dangerously ill ; come at once. " 

A few hc^rs later Cleopatra too took 
hec departure. We shook hands as cour- 
teously before the assembled household, 
and she made her adieux with as assured 
a grace, as if her visit had been one of 
unmixed satisfiM^on— as possibly it had 
been to her. For the next few days the 
accounts of my aunt's increased illness 
were so alarming that my guests, with a 
consideration I could not too highly appre- 
ciate, relieved me of their presence. In- 
deed, it was with the utmost effort that I 
could discharge my social duties respect- 
ably, and I could not but feel a little 
wholesome solitude as a relief after the 
prolonged and subdued excitement of 
the imst weeks. I was too wearied in 
mind and body to apply myself to any- 
thing. I wandered about, allowing my 



thoughts to drift as they would, hoping 
they might settle down into order and 
reason ; and then becoming so tired of 
their monotony that I would spend hours 
at the piano striving to drovni all thought 
in sound. A wearisome disgust of self 
took possession of me, a fruitless moan 
over my wretched past. How should I 
take up life again with the old illusionB 
destroyed, the old props knocked away? 
To empfy the heart of idols is all very 
well ; but the heart cannot remain empty 
healthfully, neither must it feed up6n it- 
self; and between self-accusations, in- 
definite yearnings, miserable questionings 
of &te and Providence, and fruitless 
efforts after self-control, I got day by day 
deeper and deeper into the Slough of 
Despond. If the charitable world in 
which I lived had possessed any knowledge 
of our recent ^ckdrdssement, how easily, 
naturally, nay, reasonably would it have 
smiled a commiserating smile and whim- 
pered," Disappointed in love, poor thing ! " 
Yes, I vnis disi^pointed, but not in any 
such vray ; but I began to hate everything 
bright, even the sunshine, and to cry very 
bitterly, " My little body is aweary of this 
great world." 

I received frequent accounts from my 
cousin Alice, Philip's sister, of my aunt's 
illness — ^from Philip himself never a word ; 
and from the allusions in her letters 1 
judged her to be still in ignorance of our 
interrupted relations. It was of course 
no time for the discussion of such a&irs. 
The fever had run its long and wejurisome 
course in my aunt's case, &n9 at kst 
there was hope of a favorable change. 
The same letitor which brought theese good 
tidings mentioned that Philip was worn 
out with vratching, and not quite well. 
" I scarcely think he will be able to write 
to you to-day," eoncluded Alice, evidently 
imagining me to be in daily receipt of let 
ters from him. In a few days she wrote 
again : " We are terribly alarmed about 
Philip ; he has taken the fever." 

Thus for a week daily came gloomy ti- 
dings. Once Alice said : " I asked Philip 
for a message to send you, and he would 
not answer. I know you would not be 
afraid of infection, and if it will C(Hnfort 
you to be near him, do come to us." 

I left this unanswered. I could not 
make up my mind to add to their sad- 
ness by telling the truth. My marriage 
with Philip had been one of their dearest 
wishes. 

Digitized by LjOOQIC 



1871.] 



THE KISS. 



103 



A{;am Alice wrote: "Why do you 
neither write nor come 7 He rayes all day 
and night, sometimes about yon, and 
sometimes accusing himself of all sorts of 
horrors. What does it all mean? Has 
there been any trouble 7 ' ' Again I could 
not answer. I walked the floor night af- 
ter night, praying in my wretchednefs for 
the cousin I lored and yearned over in his 
extremity like a mother with a sick child. 
I was bound hand and foot , and could only 
wait for the end. It came^ alas, too soon ! 
A telegram containing only the words, 
*^Come immediately, (nryou may be too 
late," seemed so imperative that I felt 
the bond of cousinship was strong enough 
to warrant me in putting aside erery other 
consideration. The hours I was forced to 
wait before the arriyal of the train seemed 
interminable, and the pace at which we 
traTclled was exasperating. 

It was dusk when I reached the house. 
My uncle met me at the door, kissed me 
sil^tly, and led me into the library. 
There was such a hush over the house I 
dared ask no questions. He took off my 
wraps with the utmost gentleness and 
placed me in a great chair, and still hold- 



ing my hand looked down wistfully into 
my face. I could not bear his tenderness 
and made a motion to rise. " Do not try 
to go up stairs till you are rested, my 
love," he said kindly. " The delay only 
makes it more painful," I r^oined weari- 
ly ; " let us go at once." He did not at- 
tempt to detain me again, but went up 
stairs before me, paused an instant at the 
door as he opened it, and with a soft '^ Qod 
pity you, my poor child,** dosed it upon me. 

I gave one quick glance around the 
room. It v^as bright vrith gas-light. The 
windows were open to admit the chill 
night air, and a heavy perfume of flowers 
smote my senses with a sickening dread. 
Philip was there ; but Philip marble white 
and cold, without voice or language. 
Philip was dead. Under the white sheet 
which covered the bed was sharply de- 
fined a human figure. In a sort of dream 
I moved towards it, and in a sort of dream 
drew the sheet away firom the head, and, 
without tears or much consciousness of 
what I was doing, looked long at the 
beautiful marble &uce. 

Death had stepped into the breach. 
Our fiuewell had been a fifurewell forever. 



THE KIS3, 



UPON ae stormy Sunday, 
Coming adoon the lane, 
Were a score of bonny lassies, — 
And sweetest, I maintain. 
Was Caddie, 
That I took tmneath my pladdie, 
To shield her firom the rain. 

n.. 

She said that the daisies blushed 

For the kiss that I had ta*en : 
I wadna hae thought the lassie 

Wad sae of a kiss complain. 
"Now, laddie! 
I winna stay under your pladdie. 

If I gang hame in the rain ! " 
HI. 
But on an after Sunday, 

When cloud there was not ane. 
This self-same winsome lassie— 

We chanced to meet in the lane- 
Said: "Laddie," 
Why dinna ye wear your pladdie I 

Wha kens but it may rain '. " 



Chahlbs Sibltt. 

Digiiizeo oy ^^jOOvlC 



SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD WOMAN. 



I SAID in an earlier paper that I am 
neither a dif»contented nor yet a no- 
tably retrospective old woman. I am cer- 
tain that I spoke quite truly. I am far, 
far from thinking that all mundane things, 
principles, virtues, customs, and graces 
of life were at their sublimest height or 
wore their most benignant aspect in the 
blithe days when I and my compeers were 
young. That that wbh then^ and this is 
now, inclines me neither to f&yor nor 
to dis&Yor. If all excellence has had its 
time of blossom and fruitage, to return 
never again with the recurring years, why 
should we toil further over what is but 
exhaustion? — to what end are the earlier 
and latter rains? alternate dew and sun- 
shine? careful shelter and considered ex- 
posure? restful nights and wooing days? 
the ward and watch of incessant love and 
care? 

No, no, beloved young people ! Believe 
that which is so solemnly true, that *' the 
world is all before you where to choose," 
and that never since time was might you 
have been nobler, wiser, sweeter, more 
charming in every way than now. Be 
assured, too, that we elders are a little 
reticent as to the unlovely things of the 
past. Sometimes they are beneficently 
forgotten ; always the harsh outlines are 
soflened. Of the material past we recall 
that matchless, unconscious digestion of 
youth, and forget the coarse, ignorant 
viands that ruined it ; we sigh over those 
early, perfect, unbroken, recreative slum- 
bers, but we fail to perfectly restore the 
rude bedchambers where we balled our- 
selves up shudderingly in frosty beds, and 
ached finely before, by inch ventures and 
protracted agonies, we were at length and 
full-length uncurled; never do we re- 
produce upon oar faces now the noses that 
on our awaking then were as those of 
snow images, nor see the snow-wreaths 
that (if perhaps we are very old) had 
sifted through upon the coverlets ; never 
do we remake those hurried, red, numb- 
fingered toilettes, or recomb that hair 
bewitched as any puss's " indignant fur "; 
nor do we, I think, fondly relace upon 
our feet (with leathern lacets) the shoes 
made for us by the itinerant shoemaker in 



his loitering annual progress— shoes which 
with one cobbling must, for all needs, last 
us two years, and which seemed as if for 
solidity, shapeleaaness, and total lack of 
pliability, they must outvie wooden sabots 
or any people's most primitive foot-gear. 
And precisely as we innocently omit these 
and a myriad more incommodities of the 
outer, physical life, so we do in spiritual, 
moral matters. A haze almost impene- 
trable has fallen upon blemishes, upon 
whatsoever was neither excellent nor easy 
to. endure ; and only what was £etirest lin- 
gers in the memory, standing out against 
the blur of years like sun-lighted head- 
lands against dense-wooded and blackly- 
shadowed shores. 

And I think we ancients would . scarce 
turn back the hands upon the dial if we 
might. Just as the great city, though 
filled with sin hidden and manifest, yet 
seems to bring us nearer to God, to make 
for us opportunities with Ilim far oflener 
than the sublimest, peacefuUest solitudes 
can do, because peopled with His dearest 
creation, human souls, so the life of to-day 
has its sin, its frequent shallowness, dis- 
honesty, and offence, so redeemed by its 
innumerable intelligences all keenly alert, 
its tireless activities for good, that I think 
we account it in our hearts far better than 
the placider existence we led of yester-time. 

But every period has its characteristic 
defects. Are we wrong, we old people 
who are neither unfriendly nor bitter, if 
we sometimes regretfully conclude that 
this age is too hurried to be well-bred? 
too awkward and self-conscious to express 
its really good heart? But the age calls 
itself Christian. Can it be Christian and 
discourteous to the very verge of brutality ? 
Are not the virtues that genuine courtesy 
would imply of a saintly type ? Must not 
there be patience, humility, unselfishness, 
charity that judgeth not, unalterable 
sweetness, quick sympathy to transport 
one's self into the neighbor's place, the 
Golden Rule first and last, with all the 
self-abnegation it includes? 

But of such alloyed courtesy as has been 
current up and down the world — ate we 
in America to-day reputed rich even in 
this baser metal? Have not we associat- 



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RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD WOMAN. 



lOo 



ed charm and ease of maimer with insin- 
cerity ? Don't we call our bluntness An- 
glo-Saxon frankness, and pride ourseWes 
thereupon like those intensely-disagree- 
able people who deliver themselves of 
opinions wholly uncalled-for and savage 
to personal affix>nt, and then assuage all 
wounded feeling by acknowledging with a 
meek air of compelled superiority, that they 
are " very plain-spoken " and *' must say 
just what they think." 

Is it that republican air is too bracing 
for the softer virtues? that fine manners 
can flourish therein no more than grati- 
tude is alleged to do? 

In support of this theory, what does An- 
thony Trollope say of the Irishman in 
America, and the same Irishman on his 
native bog? That at home he is flexible, 
coaxing, flattering, witty, delightful, as he 
often is ragged ; while here— perhaps we 
do not need to be told, what he is here, but 
Mr. Trollope, though he honorably confesses 
how overwhelming is the balance in favor 
of Pat's status in America, of his comfort, 
of his self-respect as a man, declares he is 
spoiled as a companion — a lament which 
is like a mother's for the child grown out 
of its clinging, caressing dependence, 
flourishing sturdily, but oh, spoiled for a 
baby! 

But can it be all democracy? Look at 
the rougher German laborers — stolid, 
bard, avaricious, sometimes ferocious. 
V^ery seldom that Pat has not a heart or 
a quick sense of humor by which a lit- 
tle skill may gain leverage; but how to 
move one oi these lowest-class Germans? 
And what is the English *' navvy," as 
drawn by his own countrymen, like? 
Could anything human be much more 
loutish, stupid, brutal? 

Bat leaving foreigners and coming back 
to ourselves, to Americans descendants of 
those English who in a flowery Mayflower 
came grimly at a grim season to land 
npon a grim coast ; and of that selecter 
bend of Britons who in such goodly com- 
pany grew tobacco upon the James, no- 
bly devoting the firuit of their toil to the 
importation of the mothers of the colony ; 
to Americans of pure blood, descendants 
of Hollanders and Swedes, French Hugue- 
nots, and French and Spanish Catholics ; 
to Americans all of the first fitmilies, be it 
well nnderstood, tracing their lineage 
proudly back, shall we say, to the days 
when all vras sweet peace and largest 



religious freedom in New England? to 
that early time of wife-importation upon 
the James? to the manor of the "Pa- 
troon" on the Hudson. If it be too 
fatiguing to carry this weight of years 
into our consideration, let us lighten mat- 
ters by assuming that I mean Americans 
of the best class, educated with inherited 
instincts of culture and refinement. Does 
it mean a deterioration of manner in this 
class that we are wont to say of a certain 
gracious mingling of stateliness, deference, 
precision, and thoughtfulness of others : 
" There you have the old-time politeness," 
or, '* a fine specimen of the old school 
manner"? What would a cavalier of 
this school say to the recognitions gentle- 
men nowadays accord their friends in the 
street ? Precisely, I think, what we ladies 
are oft«n inclined to do : ** Gentlemen, 
either lift your hats fairly from your 
heads, or let them quite alone ; but for 
pity's sake spare yourself the labor of any 
more footman salutations. ' ' What would 
he think of the practice of smoking on pro- 
menades frequented by ladies? or, some- 
times, directly in their society without the 
formula of asking leave? And what of 
the portly, rubicund, middle-aged gentle- 
men, who tuck their umbrellas horizon- 
tally beneath their arms and so oommodi- 
ously bear them through crowded streets? 
Would he be likely to view properly the 
personal phase of modem ** newspaper en- 
terprise "? Had an " OurSociety "or any 
similar weekly snobbery, impertinence, 
and flimsiness been possible in his time, 
would he have complacently read therein 
that his sister, Mistress God's-gift Ar- 
nold, let us say, was a " charming young 
beauty of the true Rossa type, possessing 
a sweetly tender and languishing counte- 
nance, love's divine melancholy in its every 
expression, and the cynosure of all eyes 
in a ravishingly decoUetd robp )f blue ten." 
dre satine^^? Or that tLj lady of his 
thoughts and hopes was '*a tall and 
graceful brunette, a great favorite with 
the officers at the fort, noted widely for 
the magnificence and style of her dress — 
also a devoted worshipper at St. Nego's 
(O Lady O'Looney !)— St. Nego's of the 
eloquent rector, Bionifacius Bland " ? 
And what would he think of the tricks 
that sell books and periodicals? the self- 
laudation, the convenient suppressions, 
and half or wholly lying statements? 
Would he find the "retort courteous"! 

uigiiizea oy -vj v^' v_) V I v. 



106 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD WOMAN. 



[JULT, 



anywhere in American ruffianly cut-and- 
thrust journalism? Would it be possible 
for him, this dull-witted gentleman of the 
past, ever rightly to apprehend the ghast- 
ly humor at present displayed in the re- 
porting of calamities, sudden, violent 
deaths? Would loss of life in drunken 
af&ay or drunken exposure, from poison, 
the accidental burning to death of women 
and children, fatal explosions, collisions, 
sad haps of travel by land and on sea — 
would these ever be jocular incidents to 
him? In his day the simple instinct of 
humanity was strong ; life was— just life, 
with all its folded-away may be^s, the 
common round of joy and sorrow to every 
human being ; and the meanest soul rudely 
di^oined therefrom, and gone to prove 
the awful mystery beyond, was thenceforth 
invested with a dignity that none cared 
urgently to invade. 

Finding contempt of courtesy, decency, 
honor, finding a hideous callonsness, irrev- 
erence, blazoned on almost every page of 
the periodic literature of which we proudly 
boast that it is ** sovni broadcast through- 
out the land'*— columns upon oolunms 
given up to the shameful details of scandal- 
ous trials, long leaders in our gravest news- 
papers devoted to heroes of the prize-ring 
and pot-house brawb— could our olden 
cavalier justly rate our Eastern civiliza- 
tion greatly above the recklessness, the 
unscrupulousness, the lawless ferocity, the 
blasphemy of Western frontier life in its 
roughest aspects? 

I scarce dare, even in imagination, place 
him in a horse-railway passenger car 
('vrare car-manners being a universal feel- 
ing) ; but if he were there, and if I ven- 
tured to dream how he would comport him- 
self—indeed, I am not equal to the temeri- 
ty of assuming that if he were not infirm 
he would stand so long as any woman be- 
yond a schc^^-i?irl age must do so, but I 
will assert that if he gave up his seat he 
would relinquish it as if it were his hap- 
piness to do so, and afford to th^ lady tak- 
ing it an opportunity of thanking him for 
the courtesy; not gruffly turn his back 
and retreat to the end of the car, there to 
grumble audibly concerning ladies enter- 
ing crowded cars, ^* Expect a man to give 
up his seat," and so onr-a monologue as 
agreeable to the poor lady as was Captain 
Clarence Baker's to Elizabeth : <' Shpose 
she did dansh at Prinsh Theatre to shport 
her family," etc. 



This question of car-etk^uette is, I 
know, one of those many-fiided ones 
women are not held to settle brilliantly, 
but how have gentlemen succeeded with 
it? It is veiy well to say that corpora- 
tions trade upon man's gallantry : has it 
been found that since man sat down and 
declined to get up, more liberal provision 
has been made for the standing woman ? 
And I doubt if my gentleman of antique 
mould would not have hesitated to accept 
a solution so fitvorable to his own ease. 
It is folly to say women should never en- 
ter a crowded carriage— public convey- 
ances ought to be for the convenience of the 
general public. City distances are hope- 
less to busy pe(^le, and business hours 
and engagements imperative ; many sub- 
urban residents must ''make" certain 
trains or boats ; there is a sudden storm ; 
and of mornings and evenings most cars 
are crowded: pray what are we to do, 
Messieurs? • 

Suppose — ^be tolerant ! this is but an old 
woman's suggestion— yon gentlemen were 
to take more active measures. Should not 
you remember Ui&t in this matter women 
are powerless to help themselves? Do 
you think corporations are sensitive 
enough to feel how stem must be your de- 
termination not longer to endure their 
frauds and oppressions, since you can so 
unanimously, so resolutely trample on 
your dearest instincts of manhood and 
chivalry, and obstinately remain seated 
though files upon files of women plunge 
about at your knees or dangle frt>m straps 
before yon? Do at least publish a card. 
Tell them that what looks like selfish com- 
fort, covrerdly passivity, a pitiful lack of 
gallantly, and strange misdirection of an- 
tagonism, meuDS force, bodies corporate ! a 
mighty, an invincible will to wreBt from 

you our rights. Tell 'em, Mr. Speaker I 

(I beg your pardon, gentlemen ; I wander 
strangely, the masculine style and argu- 
ment being but unfamiliar. But you will 
yourselves at once divine what should fol- 
low such an opening, and do publish a 
card!) 

Can I say, on the other hand, that 
womeJi's behavior in public carriages and 
in halls of assembly has been miijttstly as- 
persed? I never beheld the traditional 
unhappy gentleman speared finm off his 
seat by a parasol, but how many have I 
seen glared into a state that would resign 
life itself for relief. How often have I 

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RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD WOMAN. 



107 



▼ainly watched for some recognition of lit- 
tle serrices, proffered places ; the *^ Thank 
you," the *^ jintlemanly smile," the gra- 
cioas hearing that would go &r to com- 
pensate gentlemen naturally disqualified 
for membership in the aboye-mentioned 
league against those robber-knights, the 
servants of the public. But the sins of 
women toward men have never yet iailed 
of the scourge. If the delicacy of respecta- 
ble women would suffer them to recount 
but a thousandth part of the annoyances, 
the insults, to which even brief solitary 
Joumeyings subject them, the retaliation 
would be overwhelming, and the record but 
a sorry one for chivalry and civilization. 

But, to go back a little way, if it be not 
the air of freedom that braces backs, 
thrusts hands in pockets, rivets hats on 
heads, divests speech of pleasant round- 
aboutness, makes many species of labor 
defiant with the I'm-as-good-as-you pro- 
test, induces and maintains our absurd 
little social struggles * and ferments 
('' Was your mother able to engage to do 
so large a washing?" I asked lately of 
the half-grown daughter of a poor, ailing 
woman in whose hard life I was inter- 
ested. "No'm," was the reply, "but 
she got the lady in the basement, Mrs. 
Finnegan, to do it, and right glad she was 
to get it. ' ' And we have the " Me 'n' an- 
other lady," to balance the stock ; " I and 
another gent " of Uie same class) , to what 
influence shall we ascribe the uncomfort- 
able manifestations? ■ 

If people could only be taught that 
suavity does not, in the laboring ranks, 
more than amcmg idlers, imply servility ! 
Can they not understand that a pleasant 
addreas wins its way, pays everywhere ? 

Illustrations of its commercial advantage 
are surely plentiful enough in every call- 
ing. Let me give a trifling one : In a 
large town wherein I lately dwelt are two 
brotiiers, the one a mason, the other a 
darpenter. They are both exceedingly il- 
literate, but in what is called "hard 
sense " the mason fiir exceeds his brother. 
The carpenter never served an apprentice- 
ship to his trade ; he began rather as gen- 
eral handy man, his only capital great in- 
genuity, the most obliging alacrity to do 
anything desired, and a manner that could 
hardly be improved. With these gifts, 
without influential friends, appallingly 
destitute of all book knowledge, he is, 
though still a young man, well pn the 



way toward modest fortune, and possesses 
a flattering local &me as a builder. 

The instant he comes into the house his 
hat is in his hand, his feet are scrupu- 
lously cleaned upon the mat ; he moves 
about gently ; he always has time to as- 
certain just what is wanted, and whether 
it be some intricate household contrivance 
or fantastic ornament, his patience, 
&cile comprehension, and valuable sug- 
gestions are unfailing, his executive skill 
sure to realize the ideal. He is besides a 
kind of encyclopaedia of household science. 
Was there fault or friction of the do- 
mestic machinery, we said comfortably : 

" Oh, Mr. will be sure to know 

what's amiss and devise a remedy."' In 
short, he treats his lady patrons as if they 
were duchesses, and though he makes 
them pay like duchesses too, they cheerful- 
ly admit that such qualities as his can 
scarce be too highly rated ; and they are, 
moreover, usually in such a state of laugh- 
ter and perplexity over his bills, so trium- 
phant in each fresh conquest of enigmatic 
items, that Uieir amount is almost un-* 
heeded. 

His mason-brother is the oompletest con- 
trast. A ruJQSan ingrain, who can hardly, 
I should think, ever find a second entrance 
into any house save his own. He bursts 
in at the head of a gang of laborers, his 
head tight-covered, his feet laden with 
mud and plaster, himself saturated with 
pipe-reek. The difficulty that compelled 
his summons is stated. "Smokes, hey? 
won't draw ? Now I know all about that 
chimney, ma'am, and it can't smoke. 
Somebody's just fooled with the furnace 
till it's all out of kilter. And draw? 
Why, look a here " — and befi>re one has 
time or vdts for remonstrance, so wildly 
are one's emotions somersaulting, he has 
caught np and lighted the morning's un- 
read paper, thrust it against the register, 
thereby blackening the shining steel and 
the wall-paper around it, and lo ! instead 
of an inward suction, an outward gust 
drives the flame violently back over his 
hand— scorching it well, hopes the ag- 
grieved house-mistress with pardonable vin- 
dictiveness. He Maculates something fit for 
no presence, tramples the burning paper out 
on the delicate carpet, mutters something 
about an ill-doing chimney-cage: and 
what an evil morning follovrs ! There is 
whistling ; there is trolling of tavern dit- 
ties; there are cavalry charges up and 



lOogle 



108 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD WOMAN. 



down stairs; ballowings in chimneys; 
scratching of matches on soHrtinted walls ; 
expectoration as on a ferry-boat; and 
when the terrible horde has completed its 
ra?ages and withdrawn, so defiled is ev- 
erything, so gritty with mortar-dost, and so 
spent the spirit of the household, that it is 
no wonder each successive suffering house- 
wife vows a vow that condemns this ram- 
pant mason in perpetuity to the poverty 
he endures and has surely done his best to 
deserve. 

But of the roughnesses, the incivilities 
constantly borne from tradespeople, labor- 
ers, servants, it seems idle to speak. To 
a venerable person who does not profound- 
ly believe that popular education is the 
fount of all blessings, who finds the little 
ameliorations of imperfect knowledge 
both tardy and irritating in their manifes- 
tation, and who yet cannot wish that 
good manners, a readiness to serve, to 
oblige, should be in these classes matters 
of course for the same reason that they 
are in overcrowded Europe, the prospect 
'is not cheering, and there appears to re- 
main but the resource of arming one^s self 
vrith a suavity that shall be proof against 
whatever rude attack, that shall perhaps 
end by conquering as the sunshine does. 

Are we so arming ourselves? Is that 
what American children are doing in 
homes and schools from ocean to ocean 7 
What do foreigners say who behold these 
children abroad, in hotels and at springs 
and seaside resorts, when they come 
among us here? 

Are not these small people a sort of im- 
possible monsters to them? Are they not 
a by-word among them for their preter- 
natural sharpness, coolness, their insubor- 
dination, their shrill-voiced wilfulness, 
their exactions, their absolute despotism? 

And what do we ancient people think 
as we encounter them in the streets, in 
railway travel — as in our reciprocal visit- 
ings we shrink terrified from before each 
other's grandchildren? Do we recognize 
many familiar traits in these descendants 
of our old playfellows ? In these weirdly- 
wise, self-poesessed, opinionated, patron- 
izing, voluble young creatures, do we find 
any characteristics of the childhood of our 
own day? Does the weight of our sixty, 
seventy, eighty years entitle us to a shade 
of consideration from them? Have our 
whitening locks any sacred claim upon 
their deference? 



[July, 



Unless we are persons of strong self-as- 
sertion, what place do we hold in the fiun- 
ily circle, in ordinary society? 

Interrogated upon this subject, what do 
teachers reply ? That their position of it- 
self confers neither authority nor dignity. 
These are to be won only by personal 
force of character and by long and cease- 
less struggle. That children of this time, 
in this country, are essentially and uni- 
versally mutinous, disrespectful, ungentle, 
rude, nay, cruel among themselves — the 
youthful " Reds " of America. That not 
the veriest shadow of discipline is to be 
maintained without endless and most har- 
assing vigilance. That the license of 
home life renders trebly painful and exas- 
perating the necessary restraints of the 
school-room, and makes the labor expended 
therein upon these youthful re&actories 
dishearteningly like the pouring of water 
into a sieve. 

Said one of these teachers, a lady most 
carefully educated in a foreign school, re- 
lating to me some of the early experiences 
of her working career : " At first I was 
like one dazed. I felt sure the familiari- 
ty, the sans gine manner were not often 
malicious; but I did not know how to 
meet them, and was near ruining myself 
by n^aking my pupils hate me for the ig- 
norant tactics to which I had recourse. 

** That was in my private classes, where I 
soon found I had almost nothing to endure 
if I was wise ; but when I first took a class 
in a school! This first class was in the 
most exclusive and fiishionable of the yonng 
ladies' schools in our quiet city. I called 
one morning, by request, upon its princi- 
pal in the school building. I found her 
engaged with a class, and begged that I 
might wait her leisure in the room where 
the lesson vras going on. What a novel 
scene it was to me— the class scattered all 
over the large room, some near her, some 
at their desks, some with their backs very 
nearly turned upon her, and two or three 
in the window-seat actively observing do- 
mestic transactions in the yard, two or 
three stories below. The lesson was one 
in geography. 

** * Becky Price,' demanded Mademoi- 
selle the principal, ' for what is Magde- 
burg remarkable? ' 

*' Nonchalant silence on the part of Miss 
Becky. 

'* * Oh, but, Becky, I am sure thee 
knows! Think!' 

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KECOLI^CTIONS OF AN OLD WOMAN. 



109 



** If Becky thinks, absolutely she can 
drag up DothiDs^ from the depths. Still, 
therefiwe, a wary silence. 

*' * Becky, thee knows that in certain 
cities of Earope there are great annual 
sales ; ' and instantly Becky breaks forth : 

"'Oh, I know, I know, Mif« V. 
Magdeborg is remarkable for its yearly 
feir.' 

"'Right, Becky. Susie Evans, thee 
will tell me where the Volga rises, in what 
direction it flows, and where it empties.* 

*' ' I don't know, Miss V.,' replies Susie 
with charming candor. 

" * Thee don't know ! Does thee mean 
thee didn't learn thy lesson ? ' 

" 'Yes, Miss V.' 

"* And why?' 

" ' Mamma took me out with her all yes- 
terday afternoon, and last night 1 was too 



"Finally some one is found who dis- 
poses satis&ctcoily of the Volga. 

" ' Laora Elliott, thee will bound Rus- 
aa.' 

" * Miss v., Kate Van Eyck told me we 
lad not to bound Russia.' 

" Instantly there was a war of cries : 
•Yes, we had. Miss V.' « No, Miss V., 
we had not.' * Fan Sloane's always try- 
ing to tack more on to our lessons than 
yon giTe us. Miss V.' *And Kate 
shirks ail she can. Miss V.' ' I don't 
shirk. Miss V.' There is such move- 
ment, such animation, that even the win- 
dow-seat party are diverted from their ob- 
serraUon of the world without, and hasten 
to range themselves in one eamp or the 
other. Alas that boundaries must always 
be such an nnhappy question ! 

" Miss V. wavers, then weakly snubs 
both bands in the most impartial manner, 
and proceeds to award merits and demer- 
its. 

"•Becky Price?' 

"'WeU, Miss v., you know about— 
Magdeburg.' 

" ' Oh, thee knew that, Becky ; it only 
slipped thy memory for a moment. Ten ' 
(the highest mark) . 

"'Susie Evans?' 

" ' I told you mamma took me out, Miss 
v., 80 1 didn't learn my lesson.' 

" ' Did thy mother send an excuse ? ' 

" 'No, Miss V.' 

" ' Does thee think she forgot to send 
one?' 

" ' No. She told me to learn my lesson 



in the evening, but I wa& too sleepy. I 
guess she would have written an excuse 
though, if I had asked her.' 

" ' Well, I can't give thee higher than 
eight, Susie. Thee is too careless.' 

" And so on. 

" In this school I taught three cUisses, 
taking them consecutively each for a half 
hour twice a week, and I assure you my 
three hours weekly there wore me more 
than all my other work. 

" At first there was nothing like punctu- 
ality ; they straggled in through the en- 
tire lesson, and nothing I could say 
availed. Then casuals were constantly 
coming and going for matters forgotten in 
their desks and needed elsewhere. So I 
adopted sharp mei^ures. Within three 
minutes after the ringing of my bell I 
locked the door, and all stragglers were 
reported absent. To casuals I announced 
that their case was hopeless. Had one 
left her head even in my class-room, it was 
imperative that she must dispense with it 
while my lesson lasted. 

" There was wonderful seething outside 
my door; entreaties, plausible excuses, 
messages from teachers, demands, once or 
twice a storm of kicks ; but I held stanch, 
and was, luckily for discipline's sake, so 
much the fashion just then, that I could 
do almost what I would. * 

' * But the manners of those girls ! I had 
been educated where a double divinity 
hedged about the teachers — the fespect 
that is the legitimate due of the teaching 
office, and the instinctive reverence that 
the religious life compels. Never had I 
dreamed that it was possible for a class to 
remain comfortably seated during a teach- 
er's entrance into or departure from the 
class-room ; to answer the question of an 
older person standing, vrithout springing 
upon my feet ; to meet a teacher without 
accost ; to come into Or go from a room 
where a teacher vras present without po- 
lite recognition of her presence ; and had 
it ever occurred to me to contradict a 
teacher, to jostle rudely against her, cer- 
tainly I should have believed the last evil 
days were come upon me. 

" And here at Miss V.'s scholars swept 
in masses up and down the halls and stair- 
cases, and any unfortunate teacher therein 
or thereon encountered or overtaken cow- 
ered away against the wall, clutching her 
garments out of the rush as securely as it 
might chance. If she came to her class, , 

uigiiizeo Dy x_j v^^ v_) V I C 



110 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. 



[July. 



she found tbem lounging, hanging out of 
window, squabbling; to her salutation 
only the two or three nearest her deemed 
it necessary to respond^ and no one 
thought for an instant of rising and re- 
maining upon her feet until the teacher 
was seated. 

'* Sometimes the feshion of her garments 
was subjected to an almost insolent scru- 
tiny; personal peculiarities were criti- 
cised; decisions loudly contested. One 
poor teacher I did so pity. She had been 
&gging away with her drawing classes for 
more than thirty years, and being but a 
meek little creature, with no more spirit 
than a skein of silk, the long struggle had 
worsted her completely, and nobody 
minded her more than they would have 
done one of her crayons. * Is not that 
Miss Thomas's bell? ' I said one day to a 
knot of chatterers ; * why do you not go? ' 

" * Oh yes, that's Tommy's bell,' an- 
swered a ten-years bit of audacity, ' but 
we don't mind Tommy. We never hurry 
ourselves for her.' 

'* On one occasion some permission was 
sought of me that it was not in my prov- 
ince to grant. ' You must ask Miss V.,' 
I said. ' No one else can decide that.' 

** * But we can't ask Miss V.,' I was 
told ; ' we are angiy with her and do not 
speak to her.' 

'* ' You impertinent chits ! what do you 
mean by being angry with Miss V . ? ' 

" * Why, Miss V. scolded us very hard 
for throwing orange peel and chestnut 
shells on the floor at lunch-time day before 
yesterday, and we haven't spoken to her 
since. And she picked up some more 
shells to-day and didn't dare say a word.' 

*' I ought to confess that no other school 



was so intolerable as this, but oh for some 
real children once more — ^frank, modest, 
simple, sweet, with some pofisibilities of 
reverence in them ! " 

Another teacher, the principal of a 
school for girls, a woman grown famous 
and aged in her work, while lamenting 
the deterioration of manners among her 
pupils, declared she believed much of the 
evil to come from the daily riding to and 
from school unattended, in public convey- 
ances, during the formative years of a 
girl's life. She added that she also saw 
much change since women's dress took on 
more masculine fiishion — the rough, huge- 
buttoned coats, the infinitesimal hats, re- 
sounding boot-heels, etc. — and ardently 
wished for a return to more feminine ha- 
biliments—fine, soft, flowing drapeiy, cov- 
ering bonnets, sheltering veils. 

Yes, I admit freely all the evils of the 
past ; I cordially ei^joy this present, and 
am even sometimes a little sad to think 
my time is so nearly ended I can scarce 
hope to see this or that fine thing com- 
pleted, this or that grand ideal realized ; 
but I cling to the antique courtesy: in 
that realm ** better a single year " of the 
grandparents '* than a cycle " of their 
grandchildren. 

Dear grandchildren, is there no hope. 
Will you be long content to be pilloried, 
the civiliied world over, as the exemplars 
of all that is rough, unlovely, ungracious, 
to be shunned, in the outward bearing ? 
Like Jenny Wren, ** I know your tricks 
and your manners," and I ciuainot, cannot 
like them ; but must those who come af- 
ter me, vdth reason, dislike them also? 
£. ns M. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCL 



IN fiincy I cherished her dearly. 
And longed for a place in her heart ; 
But my share in the property, clearly. 
Is reduced to a minimum part. 

Not to say that with sofl agitation. 
Her soul ne'er responsively bums , 

But with wonderful skill in rotation 
She returns aU our passions by turns. 



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1871.] LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. Ill 

I knew she was rather flirtatiocs, 

Bat her appetite puzzles me quite ; 
For I never knew flirt so voracious 

As to take in a dozen at sight ! 

In her tablets, to save her confusion, 

Not a doubt but she has us all pat, 
Marked and labelled by grades of delusion, 

Fortune, stature, complexion, <ttat. 

But 'twould save her iuch oaie and reflection 

If she made os all drill at her nod. 
Let DS languish and o|^e by section, 

And sigh out our souls by the squad 

'Tis a pleasure sometimes to be jealous, 

And to serve out one rival is " prime ; " 
Bat how can you hate twenty fellows, 

Or punch twenty heads at a time? 

It was all very well for Othello 

To decline to " count in " number two ; 
But suppose he's but twentieth fellow, 

Pray what's a poor fellow to do ? 

For a spooney of my constitution, 

'Tisn't quite the ideal of bliss 
To get smiles at the hundredth dilution, 

Or the echoed reflex of a kiss. 

Just to dwell in her heart were ecstatic. 
If one lodged hel-etage au premier ; 

But a little sky-den in the attic- 
Cats and chimney-pots over the way ! 

For such living en pension— thank'ee ! 

I prefer a whole floor, not a shelf, 
Very like I'm exacting and cranky, 

But I vrant all the room to myself. 

• ••••• 

Here she comes^in her beauty's effulgence. 

Looking sweet and benign as a saint, 
With her glance of sad, pitying indulgence, 

Till my soal-fibres qaiver and &int. 

With that smile, too, of infantile candoi^- 
How it makes my heart tremble and beat ! 

I repent me my imbecile slander, 
And could weep out my sins at her feet ! 

Hallo ! what ? Who's that cad with her talking ? 

Was there such a coquette ever seen ? 
With Brown, Robinson, Jones, she's been vralking. 

And now, by the gods ! she's hooked Green ! 

Oh* this won't do ! There's no use in tiying ! 

For a stem resolution I'm ripe. 
If she asks for me, Tom, say Fm dying; 
I'm off for the club and a pipe. 

Charles Carroll. 

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DRIFT-WOOD. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 

People on this side of the Atlantic were 
almost givinj^ up Alabama diplomacy as a 
delusion, when fresh hands at the bellows 
blew our expiring faith in statecrafl to a 
glow. 

The Treaty of Washington is a great 
triumph for America, and much more than 
that. It is a victory for modem civilization, 
being one of good sense over bad blood, 
and of the pen over the sword. English- 
men and Americans can all alike rejoice in 
it, save those people across the water who 
are troubled with Americophobia, and 
these can be left to their own unenviable 
meditations. First, however, they shall 
do us the service of letting us know how 
much we have won, since we may be sure 
they will concede to us only what we have 
earned. 

Well, then, " the treaty with America," 
iiccording to the "Saturday Review," 
** proves to be an absolute surrender of 
every point for which successive English 
Governments have contended . It commen- 
ces with the humble apology which was 
demanded in vain by Mr. Sumner and Mr. 
Fish ; and the English Commissioners, as 
if for the express purpose of humiliating 
their country, have committed the blunder 
of declaring that the law which they re- 
cognize for the purpose of compensation 
was not in force when the supposed liabil- 
ity was incurred. A penalty inflicted for 
the breach of a legal obligation would 
have been comparatively endurable." 
The same authority proceeds to declsure 
that the English Commissioners *' consent- 
ed to surrender the main point in dis- 
pute;" that "General Grant and Mr. 
Hamilton Fish have the good sense to pre- 
fer a substantial victory to any political 
advantage they might secure by keeping 
the quarrel open ;" and that " the more 
generous section of Mr. Sumnw's country- 
men will be satisfied with the ample re- 
venge which they have secured for all real 
and imaginary offences." So much for 
the Alabama apology and payment. Then, 
touching " the additional quarrel with 
respect to the fisWies, which has recently 
been fastened on England and C^inada," 



the " Saturday Review "declares that " in 
this case also the Government of the Uni- 
ted States has succeeded in its main con- 
tention ;" that a " dispute datingfrom 1812 
is now to be settled in &vor of the Amer- 
icans ;" and that " the American demands 
had been extended even beyond the limits 
which were defined by Mr. Sumner ; but 
the Ministers probably only wished to 
find a decent excuse for giving way, and a 
commission might be supposed to give a 
kind of judicial color to a predetermined 
surrender." This, then, is what America 
can fairly claim to have won. 

But in the next place, the way in which 
this triumph has been secured is doubly 
gratifying. We have in the treaty a pre- 
amble containing the official expression of 
regret foi* the Alabama's escape " under 
whatever circumstances," which has long 
been demanded in vain. In the next 
place, a new legal rule of national respon- 
sibility has been invented to cover this 
special case, solely, as the treaty declares, 
because under the rule which existed at 
the time of the Alabama's escape we 
never could have recovered damages ; and 
this rule, being invented, is allowed to have 
all the force of an ej? post facto la^, so as 
to secure those damages. The ' ' Pall Mall 
Gazette " happily defines this ingenious 
arrangement as consisting of " a new 
rule combined with a sort of fiction under 
which the rule is supposed to have always 
existed. ' ' The same paper, which supports 
the treaty on honorable grounds, declares 
that " the new obligation is extremely on- 
erous, but no less burdensome rule would 
have contributed to the settlement of the 
Alabama question ; under any other it is 
very doubtful whether the Americans 
could have recovered a dollar of compen- 
sation. Having committed themselves to 
an extreme complaint, they can only re- 
ceive satis&ction through a decision under 
an extreme rule." 

Of course all this is proportionally 
pleasant for us to reflect upon, and pro- 
portionally unpleasant for those who are 
not overstocked with good-will to the trea- 
ty. " The sting of the convention," says 
the "Saturday Review," "apart from 

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1871.] 



DRIFT-WOOD 



113 



considerations of national honor and self- 
respect, Ilea in the retrospectiye efifeot 
which is given to the new provision of inters 
national law. . . It would have beoii a 
siinpler course to state that the conduct of 
the £nglkh Government in the Alabama 
case was a breach of international law ; but 
the £ngiish Commissioners may be excused 
for preferring a form of expression which 
partially veils the real character of their 
decision. The machinery which they have 
provided for determining the claims is 
highly decorous, and even ornamental. 
It is perhaps pleasanter to be fined by a 
Court of Kings and Presidents of Repub- 
lics than by a vulgar Board of Arbitra- 
tors." 

The next question, therefore, which 
comes up 18, '' What motives have influ- 
enced ^gland in yielding the Alabama 
claims?" Three motives are conceiva- 
ble : First, that they are just ; secondly, 
that England was determined to cultivate 
firiendly relations with the United States ; 
thirdly, that the English Commissioners 
believed it was folly to go to war for the 
sake of a few millions in money. Amer- 
ica, of course, desires to put the decision 
on the first of these grounds; but the 
wording of the treaty, and the admirable 
public speeches of the English Commis- 
sioners before their departure from Amer- 
ica, seem to show that they were chiefly 
swayed by the two last named considera- 
tions. The " Saturday Review " claims, 
however, that their professions of amity 
were shams, and that they were only influ- 
enced by a groundless fear. " The excuse," 
it says, *' for their inconsistency is founded 
on the professed desire of the English Gov- 
ernment to cultivate friendly relations 
with the United States. A thinner veil 
could not have been woven to disguise the 
true motive of unqualified submission. 
It is not easy to understand the imminence 
of the danger which seems to have fright- 
ened the Commissioners. At the worst 
the American Government could only have 
threatened a lawless invasion of Canada." 
But even ituB paper, which represents 
the conduct of its country in so unflatter- 
ing a light, admits that it '* could not be 
be forgotten that a struggle in Canada 
would be conducted under the most un- 
fitvorable conditions. There was nothing 
to gain, and much to lose, in a conflict 
with the United States." 

The best interpretation of the affitir 



seems to be that the Commissioners on both 
sides determined to discuss with plain 
good sense a matter which had been for 
six years befogged with technicalities, and 
delivered over to diplomatic trickery. On 
one side, the Americans abandoned Mr. 
Seward's absurd claim regarding the 
" premature recognition of Confederate 
belligerency," and Mr. Sumner's equally 
absurd demand for ''consequential and 
exemplary damages. ' ' On the other side , 
the ihiglishmen abandoned Lord Russell's 
ground that their Gk>vemment had exer- 
cised '' due diligence " because the Attor- 
ney-General happened to be non compos 
mentis that week, and could not give an 
opinion. The one party conceded all that 
the other party had the right to demand, 
and the other demanded only what it felt 
that it had the right to exact. 



SUMMBB SPORTS. 
The base-ball season has come again ; 
bats ply merrily from Maine to Mexico, in 
many a strife of alertness and dexterity. 
Every fine day a hundred thousand people 
are playing at this ^>ort or vratching it ; 
ask for a book-keeper, a mechanic, a 
tradesman, a dovni-town friend, the odds 
are that he has gone to some match' be- 
tween the Hittites and Gittites ; scarcely 
a village is without its club, and the cities 
have hundreds ; fields are alive with ath- 
letes ; open town lots are seized by squat- 
ter sovereignty for the game ; youngsters 
not yet in their teens throw the ball and 
strike it with true aim and measure of 
distance, or catch the hot missile vrith 
palms and vrrists of iron. The cemt phrase 
is just — this is '' the national game," and 
one for us to be quite as nationally proud 
of as the Romans were of their gymnastic 
ball-game. Young America, also turning 
gymnast, plays with skill and science. The 
youngster is no slouch ; he is strong, adroit, 
swift of moti(m. How he pulls the oar 
and pitches the ball, making our perform- 
ances in the days when toe were Young 
America, seem dumsy scooping and ran- 
dom hurling by comparison! The Hay- 
makers (who play while the sun shines) 
and the Stockings of rival hues equal in 
base-ball the British elevens at cricket. 
If you and I, Horatio, dreaming of the 
** Iris Tacheia," so swift and slim, should 
now essay a spoon-oar on the thvrart of an 
ou triggered shell, could we do anything 
with it for a while but catch crabs and 



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lU 



DRIFT-WOOD. 



[July, 



capsize the fragile craft (to say the truth 
the old Tacheia was a tub) , or ridiculously 
chum the water into spray? If we, in- 
spired by memories of '* Three-old-cat,'*and 
bygone '' tick-a-lioks," and '' goals " built 
oyer with brick and mortar these twenty 
years, should undertake to wield the bat^ 
stick with some of yonder toddlers, the 
little blackguards would cry out ** butter- 
fingers! " and we should deserve the ig- 
nominy. 

Is there more fun in these scientific 
games than in our old less rigid, more rol- 
licking sports? Isn't this new kind of 
play something like work. Isn't it more 
exacting than amusing, like whist among 
martinets? The universal worship of base- 
ball has narrowed the range of juvenile 
games, making some pastimes rare and 
others obsolete. Boys are prematurely 
brought to base-ball and rowing dubs, 
which in primitive times engaged a less 
exclusive devotion. Possibly it is only a 
change of perspective and standing^plaoe, 
but it certainly seems as if streets and 
play-grounds were no longer as resonant 
as of old with leap-frog, priscmer's base, 
duck, I spy, snap the whip, egg in the 
hat, or that game, unregretted of house- 
keepers, in which house comers are ohalkod 
in turn by pursuers and pursued, till 
medera cities are marked like Bagdad in 
days of olden story. It was like meet- 
ing an old friend to see adiagramof Hop- 
Scotah inscribed npon the pavement year 
terday, doubtless an addition^ pleasure 
to find the rude drawing Executed on a 
nei^bor's sidewalk, not on mine. I fimcy 
nowadays there are fewer battles and cam- 
paigns of hawkey ; fewer boys " basting 
the bear "-*-bear taking with Indiap for- 
titude such a knoutting fh)m knotted handr 
kerohiefs as, if administered in school, 
would make him howl with anguish; 
fewer urchins engrossed in whistle-mak- 
ing or in cutting leathem suckers ; fewer 
kites flying in the air; fewer hogshead 
ho(H>Sf iron-bound, broomstick-driven, 
thundering along the thoroughfiires as 
terrible to the younger fry as a wheel of 
Hectov's car. 

What hours one recalls of industrious 
juvenile mechanism, now devel(^)ed in the 
fly-trap or figure o'4 trap; anon in the 
leaden whirligig with its saw-like edge, 
fatal to school-benches ; or again in the 
potato-mill with busy, unproductive whirr; 
or else in the pop-gun made of elder in 



the country, and in the city (for furtive 
artillery practice in the schoolhouse) with 
quill, and wooden ramrod , and ammuniti(»i 
stamped out of sliced raw potato ; or yet 
again in the arrovrs, justly dreaded by 
housewives; or the solid elastic ball, 
made in those aDte-Gk)odyear days from 
the nucleus of a cubic ha^-inch of school 
rubber (or haply cut surreptitiously fr(»n 
the stout overishoe of the period), &itli- 
fully punctured into hollovmess by the 
needle, and stuffed again by turns, till the 
orb is done. What an afbir kite-making 
was— monstrous kites vrith a string of 
bobs fit for the tail of a comet, and mes* 
sengers to fly up along the string to the 
clouds. There went to it great whittling 
and notching, and dovetailing of cross 
pieces, bending of hoops and pasting of 
paper, oouncils of war over number of bobs, 
and length and strength of twine, and then 
what joy when the fiibric took its flight, 
and we could cry *' There she rises ! Oh, 
crackey , how she pulls ! Let her her out ! 
Draw her in ! Now she pitches ! Hooray ! " 
There was the building and rigging of 
boats — we made them as the first boat 
builders did — they vrere dug-outs : 



Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 
Presstng down npon sail and mast, 
Might not the sharp bOws overrtrhelm ; 

in fiwjt only Longfellow's ** Building of 
the Ship " could sing these feats in wor- 
thy numbers. Kin. Pearce was our chief 
of modellers. We supposed he would 
turn out a Qeorge Steers at the very least, 
but he only sells hats in the city of his 
origin — hats, too, not of his own devising. 
Then, in its appi^riate season — ^for an 
occult and arbitrary bat sacred mle or 
tradition assigned each sport to the metes 
and bounds of its own season— marbles, 
for example, coming vnth the birds of 
early iq[>ring, and fi)otball being a<^umed 
till &ll|.with peg-tops appearing in their 
full time and balloons as duly in theirs — 
in its appropriate season, I tepeat, as 
Rogers says. 

Each eve we shot the marble throogh the ring 
When the heait danced and life was in its spring; 
only it vraa oftener in the mom than in 
the eve, partly because the mom vras 
lighter, and sometimes perhaps because 
by eve we were already "busted," or 
bankrupt as to our stock in trade. I loit- 
ered by a group of boys at marbles the 
other day, and could not understand their 
deep litUe game, though the traditional 



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1871.] 



WHY IS IT SO ? 



115 



iraming of centuries stUl cried oat ^* knuc- 
kle down tight." Who knows but with 
the general advance of cirilization, agates 
are now as common as alleys were in days 
of yore? 

If base-ball has somewhat eclipsed in 
popularity for younger lads a few o£ the 
olcl-time sports, it has yet brought much 
good to American youth. After all, why 
should notfiishion carry the town and age 
by storm, in boys' pastimes as well as in 
ladies' dress or the trades of men? We 
sometimes cry out against base-ball and 
boating, because they are infested with 
betting ; but a man bent on gambling can 
lay money upon the &11 of a feather or 
the shock of an earthquake. This train- 
ing of eye and hand, this firm control and 
unerring use of muscle and nerre, this 
habit of physical self-reliance, joined 
with mutual help and interplay, is good 
for the man and good for the State. Lat- 
imer's fi^er taught him to '* lay the body 
in the bow, and not to draw with stceogth 
of arms as other nations do, but with 
strength of body;" and similar are the 



lessons that Harrard rowing and Red 
Stocking batting teach. The Greeks cul- 
tiTated the game of ball among their Tery 
Bret gymnastic exercises, because it gave 
their youth elasticity and grace ; they had 
special teachers of it, as we have teachers 
of the flute or of dancing, and a space in 
every gymnasium set apart to it; they 
raised statues to skilful ball-players, and 
gave them civic honors ; when the Romans 
took it up they made it a game for all 
ranks, from emperor to slave, and for 
all ages, from childhood to old age, now 
using the soft air-filled ball, and now 
a solid one our champions might covet. 
They affected all our lordly modem in- 
difference as to which hand should catch 
the swift ball, or the posture in which it 
should be seized, and they applauded as 
we do adroit captures " on the fly " or 
other feats of address and strength. In 
fine, the *' national game " comes, though 
in modified form, of honorable origin, and 
we cannot do better than continue it in 
honoiuble &me. 

Philip Quilibbt. 



WHY IS IT SO? 



A CLOUDLESS stretch of heavenly blue, 
The sun so brightly shining— 
Ah, me, what mockery is the day 
To spirits dumbly pining ! 

The brooks go singing sof^Jy on, 

The flowers above them nodding. 
What care the brooks and sweet-breathed flowers 

For weary mortals plodding? 

The trees put on their sofl new robes, 
Glad birds flit through them singing. 

Bear heart, 'twould all be just the same 
Were oeaseless death-knells ringing ! 



The earth is sadly out of tune. 
Our life-strains vnth it jarring. 

Whatever in the sweet spring bloom 
Can blot out Sin's deep scarring? 



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lie WHY IS IT so ? [JuLT. 

What matters if the wrong be oars^ 

Or of another's doing, 
When shapeless wrecks of fondest hopes 

Are all Life's pathway strewing? 

And still the brooks go singing on, 

And still the flowers keep nodding. 
And all the trees hang ont their plnmes 

While Grief and we are plodding ! 

The earth came glowing, pure and sweet, 

From out the womb of morning, 
God saw that it was Tery good 

Fresh from His fiiir adorning. 

No inharmonious, jarring notes 

Through aisles of space went ringing, 
When Earth, and Stars, and Sons of God 

Were their grand anthems singing ! 

£den, arrayed in stany blooms. 

And rarest incense breathing. 
Received His image pure from God, 

His smile of love enwreathing. 

Dear heart, how could our mother Eve, 

With every bliss surrounded. 
Reach up ambitious hands to take 

That fruit so fairly rounded ! 

How small to her the action seemed-^ 

How wide and deep its grapple ! 
The sweetest chords of being broke 

With breaking of that apple ! 

Then Ignorance and Purity, 

With tear-stained, awe-struck feces. 
Hushed with a wail their harmony, 

And lefl to Sin their places 

Dear heart, that wail goes sounding on, 

Sin's bold tones with it jarring ! 
Thank God that Earth is not in tune 

With such ignoble vrarring ! 

But still the brooks go singing on. 

Sweet flowers their banks adorning. 
To lifl our souls above Sin's night 

To Christ's new, glorious morning ! 

F. A. Blaisdell. 



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SCIENTinC MISCELLANY. 



MOVING THE SEWING-MACHINE BY 
ELECTRICITY. 

Two things are established with refer- 
ence to electricity as a motiye power : first, 
it cannot compete with steam in point of 
economy; and second, it can be employed 
for Tarioos kinds of light work where cost 
is a secondary thing. The sewing-ma- 
<^une, therefore, comes within the range 
of its legitimate application. There can 
be little doabt that on physiological 
grounds it is desirable to apply a motor 
to the sewing-machine to relieve the at- 
tendant. That mischief has been done 
by it in many cases to the female consti- 
tution is unquestionable, although its 
amount may have been exaggerated. Bo- 
sides, it will take more time than we have 
jet haA vnth its use to determine the kind 
and degree of reaction upon those who do- 
Tote themselves to it. But no change can 
be expected on purely hy^enio grounds. 
Men, women, and children have been long 
offered up by manufacturers on the altar 
of Mammon; they are still by tens of 
thousands, and long will be where it is 
printable to do it. Life has its market 
price just as truly now as in the slave dis- 
pensation. It is only where profit hap- 
pens to coincide with hygienic conditions 
that there is hope of improvement. The 
application of electricity to the propulsion 
of the tfewing-machine has been tried for 
years, but the mechanical impediments 
have been formidable. Mr. Heniy Selig- 
man has been long at work upon it, his 
first machine having been exhibited at the 
&ir of the American Institute several 
years ago. He has been earnestly at work 
upon it since, and claims that it is now 
entirely practicable. We have seen it 
work, and it is certainly an apparent suc- 
cess. The girls assured us that they could 
do a third more work with it than when 
driving the machines themselves. It is 
daimed that the power costs less than 
twenty-five cents a day, a statement that 
B easily verifiable by those who care to 
know about it. Of course there remain 
the questions of complication, liability to 
get out of order, and the practicability of 
its movement. The inventor claims that 
8 



the thing is complete in these respects, 
and is so simple that any woman can use 
it; upon which the obvious comment is 
that if the mechanism be intrinsically sa^ 
isfactory, the owner will be compelled to 
learn to take care of it. If it be a success, 
it will not be the least of its good effects 
that it will coerce a little practical scien- 
tific education for woman. 



SCIENCE IN FRAGMENTS. 
Such is our way of presenting it, and it 
is undoubtedly the best way. Professor 
Tyndall has given us a charming book en- 
titled " Fragments of Science for Unscien- 
tific People," which just describes our 
miscellany, and, as he says in his preface. 
*' From America the impulse came which 
induced me to gather thfse * fragments ' 
together, and to my friends in the United 
States I dedicate them," we conclude 
that he has been studying the scientific de- 
partment of "The Galaxy," and takes 
this mode of making his acknowledg- 
ments. We cannot fail to be pleased, as 
imitation is always the most delicate flat- 
tery ; but wherever he got his inspiration. 
Professor Tyndall has made a most fasci- 
nating book^-indeed, a model book. Tb 
have gone down to the depths of the 
truths of nature, to dwell among its har- 
monies until they pervade the intellectual 
life, and then to be able to reveal them to 
others with a clearness and force that cap 
tivates the understanding and kindles the 
enthusiasm, is what is given to but few 
men to do ; and this is done by Tyndall 
perhaps more successfully than by any 
other man of his age. To please as well 
as to instruct, to carry the feelings as well 
as the intellect, continually to keep facts 
and principles within the limits of logic, ' 
and yet to irradiate the sulyect with the 
glow of poetry — this is the enviable ideal , 
of a public teacher ; very rarely realized, • 
but finely realized by the Lecturer on 
Physics of the Royal Institution of Great 
Britain. Fragments are well ; it is desi- 
rable sometimes to magnify them, but it 
is well also that they should be sometimes 
fused and harmonized— especially in char- 
acter. The dry retailer of di^ointed facts 

uigiiizeo Dy ^.-Jv^^v^'pi i.v^ 



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SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY. 



[JULT, 



is hat a sorry fragment of a man, and so is 
the poet vacant of ideas — the rhymer of 
fimcifd nothings. Each needs something 
of the other to make the roonded, syn- 
thetic expositor, who thrills as he teaches. 
Nor is this all : the full-orbed man will not 
be a craven ; he must be intrepid, strong, 
master of the occasion. There must be 
fitithfulness and conscience in all excellent 
Work. Professor Tyndall's book shows 
these manly traits in a marked degree. 
He is not the man to move only when he 
is moved by the gales of popular favor ; he 
has views of his own, and he states them, 
not offensively, but firmly. There are 
some things in his book that may startle 
the timid, but what in the world are the 
timid for except to be startled ? Professor 
Tyndall has, however, no desire to wound 
people's prejudices, and while steadfast to 
his own convictions, he is not without due 
rcBpect for the convictions of those whom 
he opposes. Science has got in bad odor 
with many on account of the pugnacity of 
some of its cultivators. Mr. Tyndall sets 
a good example of the chivalric bearing of 
the true controversial knight. His book 
will prove quickening and healthy in its 
influence. 

ORIGIN OP THE AUSTRALIANS. 
In his late work on the origin oi civili- 
sation, Sir John Lubbock takes the ground 
that existing savages are not the descend- 
ants of civilized ancestors, and that the 
primitive condition of man was one of ut- 
ter barbarism, from which several races 
have independently advanced. He does 
not claim that all are necessarily improv- 
ing, but that while some are apparently 
stationary and others actually deteriorat- 
ing—the latter condition being almost in- 
variably associated with the dying out of 
a race— the history of the human race on 
the whole has been one of progress. In a 
late paper on the position of the Austra^ 
lian languages, read by W. H. J. Bleek 
before the Anthropological Society of Lon- 
don, of which Sir John Lubbock is Pres- 
ident, evidence which seems opposed 
to the foregoing views was incidentally 
furnished. Dr. Bleek maintains that, 
looked at from the standpoint of language, 
the Australian native is to be regarded as 
the degenerate ofbpring of the South In- 
dian race ; and a comparison of the reli- 
gious customs an 1 observances of the past, 
with those of the present among them, 



would also indicate that they had fidlen 
from a higher state of civilization. The 
artificial nature of their weapons, their 
knowledge of the art of spinning, and the 
peculiar system of castes existing among 
them, were cited as still further evidence 
in &vor of this belief. 



INSOLATION OR SUNSTROKE. 

As the time when attacks of sunstroke 
are most frequent is now approaching, it 
seems desirable to correct certain misap- 
prehensions on the part of the public con- 
cerning the causes of this dangerous afieo- 
tion. It is commonly supposed that at- 
tacks occur only during cfxposure to the 
direct rays of the sun. But this is not 
so. The causes of sunstroke are classi- 
fied by medical authorities as predispos- 
ing and exciting causes, and of the latter 
exposure to the heat of the sun is un- 
doubtedly the most frequent ; but the cir- 
cumstance that attacks are common in 
sheltered situations, and sometimes actu- 
ally come on in the night-time, shows 
that the direct action of sunshine is not 
alone responsible. Any vitiated condition 
of the system, arising either from living in 
a foul atmosphere or frx)m dissipation, 
great fatigue, a lack of nourishing food, 
garments worn so tightly about the neck 
and chest that they restrain the free action 
of the parts, are all powerful predisposing 
causes, which combined with exposure to 
great heat are liable at any time to induce 
an attack. The influence of great fatigue 
in predisposing to an attack can hardly be 
overrated. The experience of the British 
army in India is conclusive on this point. 
In the case of a particular body of troops 
obliged to make a hurried march of upwuxl 
of eleven hundred miles during the hottest 
season of the year, all stood it well until 
some three-quarters of the distance had 
been passed, when the men began to ex- 
hibit unmistakable signs of fatigue in the 
shape of languor, loss of flesh, and foiling 
strength. It was iat this time that cases 
of sunstroke first appeared, and they con- 
tinued with alarming frequency, coming 
on in the night as well as in the daytime 
during the remainder of the march. 
Testimony from the same quarter con- 
cerning the bad effects of overcrowding 
and insufficient ventilation is equally ex- 
plicit. It is remarked by Dr. Butler, 
that the men under his charge who, though 

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1871.] 



SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY. 



119 



not overworked or fetigued, were housed 
in crowded and badly Tentilated barracks, 
were the ones who furnished the greatest 
number of serious cases. Out of sixteen 
cases mentioned by Mr. Longmore as oc- 
curring in a company belonging to his 
regiment, thirteen were attacked in bar- 
rack or in hospital. Insolation has also 
been firequently obserred on board ship, 
most often where OTercrowding and im- 
pure air were added to the influence of 
excessive heat. It is not uncommon on 
board the mail steamers in the Red Sea 
during the months of August and Sep- 
tember, and it has been observed that 
most of the cases occurred while the suf- 
ferers were in the horizontal position in 
their ill-ventilated cabins. The symptdms 
preceding an attack are in some cases 
scarcely observable, the person sudden- 
ly falling in fetal syncope, and dying 
before assistance can be of any avail. 
More fre«iuently, however, they are well 
marked, and if early recognized much 
may be done even by the non-medical 
to avert the serious consequen<}es that 
might otherwise ensue. The more obvi- 
obs symptoms are extreme heat and dry- 
ness of skin, often accompanied by a pecu- 
liar stinging sensation over the whole sur- 
fece of the body, giddiness, congestion of 
the eyes, a sense of oppression about the 
chest, and a firequent desire to micturate. 
Contrary to the general opinion, headache 
is not a common symptom, though occa- 
sionally present. After a longer or 
shorter continuance of these symptoms 
the padent becomes insensible, the heat 
and dryness of skin increase, the respira- 
ticms become hurried and labored, and 
unless remedial measured are speedily ap- 
plied death soon follows. At the eailiest 
moment after the attack, let the patient be 
carried to some cool shade where there is 
firee circulation of air, his body stripped, 
and his &ce, neck, and chest, freely 
douched with cold water. Continue this 
until the more serious symptoms, such as 
absence of consciousness, disturb^ breath- 
ing, and great heat of skin, are relieved, 
or until the arrival of some competent 
physician, who on the discoveiy of the 
trouble should at once be called.. Cold 
water may be freely given inside as well 
as out if the patient demand it. The 
causes of sunstroke previously enumerated 
will suggest the means to be adopted for 
its prevention. 



THE DISTRIBUTION OP KINGFISHERS. 

The manner in which this family of 
birds is distributed over the earth offers 
some strange anomalies, which up to the 
present time remain quite unaccounted 
for. According to a recent monograph 
devoted to their treatment, and written by 
Mr. R. B. Sharp, there are something 
like one hundred and twenty-five distinct 
species known, which belong to nineteen 
genera ; yet but eight species, all belonging 
to a single genus, are to be found in the 
whole continent of America — a continent 
with more rivers and more. fish than any 
other. No part of the world equals 
America, and especially its southern half 
in peculiar forms of bird life, notwith- 
standing which it is the poorest of all 
parts in kingfishers. The single island of 
Celebes actually contains as many differ- 
ent kinds of kingfishers as all North and 
South America, and New Guinea contains 
more than twice as many. Neither have 
we any peculiar type of kingfisher. All 
our species belong to a single genus, and 
this is also found in Europe, Asia, and 
Africa. A&ica has three peculiar genera 
and twenty-four, peculiar species ; conti- 
nental India has five peculiar species, but 
no peculiar genus ; the western Malay is- 
lands have one peculiar genus and eleven 
peculiar species; the Philippines seven 
peculiar species; the island of Celebes 
eight peculiar species and three peculiar 
genera ; but the Australian region has no 
less than ten peculiar genera and fifty-nine 
peculiar species, or nearly half those of 
the whole world. 



SUNSHINE AS FORCE. 
A GOOD illustration of man^s inability 
for self-support independently of sunshine, 
is afforded by the following calculation. 
The mechanical equivalent of the vertical 
sonshine received upon a square mile of 
the earth's surface, is computed to be 
3,323,000,000 pounds raised a foot high 
in a second. Under the most fevorable 
circumstances, a square mile of terrestrial 
soil receiving this amount of sunshine, if 
planted with bananas, would yield accord- 
ing to the estimate of Baron Humboldt 
50,000 tons of nutritious food yearly. 
This is the greatest amount of food-pro- 
ducing power of which the earth appears 
to be capable. But this quantity of food 
would suffice tor only 100,000 men, whose 
united mechanical force .imnld^nat , 



120 



SCIENTinC MISCELLANY. 



[JULT, 



more than 10,000,000 pounds a foot high 
in a second. It would therefore not 
be possible for any number of men, by 
their mere mechanical force, to produce 
anything like sufficient light and heat in 
the absence of sunshine to raise ^m the 
soil the food needful for their own sup- 
port. 

ABSOBPnON OF HEAT BY ATMOS- 
PHERIC MOISTURE. 

Contrary to the generally received 
opinion, it has been shown that the ex- 
cess of sun oyer shade temperature is 
quite independent of the season of the 
year, being about the same in midwinter 
that it is in midsummer ; the fluctuations, 
however, being greater in the latter sea- 
son. This appears all the more surpris- 
ing when it is remembered that the at- 
mospheric tract through which the rays 
have to pass is much longer in winter 
than in summer. The mystery is cleared 
up by some late experiments of Professor 
T^rndall, which prove that the watery 
vapor of the air exerts a strong absorp- 
tive power upon the heat of the solar 
radiations, and that the greater the amount 
of vapor the greater will be the quantity 
of heat absorbed. This amount is great- 
est in summer, least in winter ; and the 
adjustment is so nice that the sun's rays 
traverse nearly the same mass of moisture 
at both seasons, the longer track in vnnter 
containing no more vapor than the shorter . 
track in summer. In temperate climates 
where the amount of suspended moisture 
varies the least, the excess of sun over 
shade temperature near the middle of the 
day averages about 22 deg. Fahr. for 
both summer and winter. The more hu- 
mid the atmosphere the greater the ab- 
sorption and the less the excess ; so that 
at sunset, when the humidity is generally 
greatest, the absorption becomes sufficient 
to reduce the excess to only 10 deg. or 12 
deg. Fahrenheit at the sea-level. Ac- 
cording to Dr. Hooker's observations, 
made at various heights from the level of 
the sea up to 18,000 feet, it appears that 
at elevations ranging from 7,000 to 8,000 
feet, the excess of sun over shade temper^ 
ature is increased to about 67 deg. Fahr., 
or 45 deg. Fahr. above the mean at the 
sea-level. This difference is due to the 
absorption exerted by the moisture 
contained in the intervening column of 
tir. 



Alff ALYSIS or SOILS. 
In a Tecent lecture on the subject of 
soils. Dr. Voelcker vigorously opposes the 
belief that soil analysis alone can deter- 
mine the kind and quantity of fertilizer re- 
quired for a given crop. To those know- 
ing little of the teachings of modem agri- 
cultural science, it appears very simple 
to remedy a deficient soil by finding out 
through analysis the wanting constituents, 
and then to supply them. But this is not 
so. It is not only difficult to exactly 
analyze a soil, but many other things be- 
sides its chemical composition have to be 
observed. The state of combination in 
which the mineral constituents of a soil 
are found, its physical eondition, the 
presence or absence of substances ii\juri- 
ous to the growth of plante, are so many 
points of great importance upon which 
soil analysis casts a very dim and uncer- 
tain light. The fertility of the soil can- 
not be maintained, much less increased, 
if only as much of fertilizing constituents 
IS applied to the land as vras removed by 
the crop. Waste takes place in various 
directions, and one important source of 
this is through the process of drainage. 
Careful collection and examination of 
drainage waters has shown that a large 
proportion of nitrogen is carried off in this 
way, chiefly in the form of nitrates. Dr. 
Yoelcker's analysis of drainage waters 
also shows that potash and phosphorio 
acid, both most important mineral con- 
stituents for the plant, are abnost entirely 
retained in the soil ; while others less im- 
portant, such as lime, magnesia, or sul- 
phuric acid, pass with greater readiness 
out of the land. 

KON-EXPLOSIVE GUN-COTTON. 
It is said that gun-cotton which has 
been immersed in a solution of bisulphide 
of carbon will not explode when flame is 
applied. The liquid takes fire and bums, 
but the gun-cotton remains intact. 
Dipped in a solution of either alcohol, 
ether, or benzol, and then lighted, it be- 
haves in the same way. Phosphorus 
placed upon gun-cotton that has been thus 
treated melts, and even boils, but will 
not bum. 

A NEW CINCHONA ALKALOID. 
In addition to the several cinchona al- 
kaloids already made known, another has 

uigiiizea oy %_j\_/v>'p^i\^ 



1871.] 



SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY. 



121 



latdy been discovered, which is stiongly 
distinguished from its associates by the 
ready solubility of its salts. It has the 
appearimce of a yellowish oil, and has 
hitherto resisted all attempts to solidify it. 
It is soluble in alcohol and ether, has a 
peculiar though mild bitter taste, and its 
salts are neutral to test paper. It was 
fi>und by Mr. D. Howard while examining 
the mother waters left in the manu&cture 
of sulphate of quinine. Quinidina is also 
a constituent of these waters, but differs 
from the substance in question in being 
readily crystallizable, while the latter is 
not 

DECORATION OF METALLIC SUBPACES. 
Attention is called by Dr. Puscher to a 
new and simple process for decorating the 
surfitces of metals. A solution is first pre- 
pared by diasolTing hyposulphite of lead 
in hyposulphite of soda. This is then 
heated to about 212 deg. Fahr., and the 
metal to be colored dipped into it. A 
thin film of lead is deposited, producing a 
beautiful display of colors upon any metal 
that may be employed. , 



SCIENCE FOB COMMON SCHOOLS. 
Ws give below the substance of a plan 
for teaching science in the common 
schools, which was lately submitted by 
Mr. R. 0. Morris to the consideration of 
the London School Board. The want of 
competent teachers and the cost of appa- 
ratus have hitherto dtood in the way of all 
efforts in this direction ; both these points 
are sought to be met in the proposed 
scheme. The sul^ects for study are 
chemistry, heat, light, sound, electricity, 
magnetism, telegraphy, mechanic^, hy- 
drostatics, steam-engine, geology, metal- 
lurgy, botany, zoology, animal physiolo- 
gy, health, etc. In the matter of books 
it is recommended that a committee be 
formed to select, revise, and compile a full 
set of suitable text-books, which are to be 
issued in a cheap form, bearing the sanc- 
tion of the committee. Concerning appa^ 
ratus it is advised that a depot be estab- 
lished where complete sets, sufficient for 
illustrating the sciences mentioned, may 
be provided at much below the usual 
rates. Each set is to be limited in cost to 
one hundred pounds, and is to be divided 
into ten cases at ten pounds each, a sin- 
gle case to be complete for the illustration 
of one or two subjects. The teacher is to 



be a visiting one, going from school to 
school, and giving one or two hours in- 
struction in each two or three days in the 
week. In this way a single teacher might 
attend to seven or eight schools, taking 
the pupils through three or four of the 
subjects annually, and thus in three or 
four years each school would have com- 
pleted the course. Separate apartments 
for scientific instruction are advised, but 
if these are not to be had, the instruction 
is to be given when it will least interfere 
vnth the other business of the school. An 
institution where teachers may have an 
opportunity of acquiring a practical 
knowledge of their profession, and where 
their qualifications for the work maybe 
thoroughly tested, is also recommended. 
Periodical examination, and a regular 
system of rewards are likewise provided 
for in the plan. The books and apparatus 
are to be supplied by Government, and tho 
teachers are to be paid by the schools, with 
governmental assistance when necessary. 



PRESERVATION OF FOOD. 
The following method of storing pota- 
toes, recommended by Dr. F. Moigno, is a 
simple and said to be a sure way of pre- 
serving them from rot. When mature, 
the potatoes are dug and allowed to dry, 
and are then put into pits that are lined 
with straw. As they are deposited in the 
pit, either charcoal powder, gypsum, or 
the ashes of coal or wood, should be freely 
scattered among them, in quantity suffi- 
cient to fill up all the interstices. They 
should then be protected from the action 
of direct sunlight, and after a few days 
covered with two, or what is better, four 
feet of soil; care being taken that the 
ground about the pits is effectually 
drained . D^clat of Paris suggests the use 
of solutions of carbolic acid as a means of 
preserving meats and vegetables. The 
course of proceeding is to immerse the ar- 
ticles to be preserved in weak aqueous 
solutions of carbolic acid, the strength 
varying from one-half to four or five 
per cent, of the acid, according to the 
climate and the length of time it is re- 
quired to keep them. Another method 
for preserving meat has been suggested 
by Pelouze. The moat or other animal 
substance is first cut up into pieces of 
convenient size and placed in an atmos- 
phere of carbonic oxide gas, where it is 
kept all the way from twenty-four to forty- 

uigiiizea oy %_j v^^v^/p^iv^ 



122 



SCIENTinC MISCEIJANY 



[JULT. 



eight hours. It is then deprived of its 
moistaie by exposure to a current of dry, 
cold air, and afler this superficially treat- 
ed with some antiseptic solution, such as 
strong brine, saltpetre, or carbolic acid, 
and then put into cans and hermetically 
sealed. 



GEOLOGY AND THE DARWIN THEORY. 

Dr. Moritz Waoner, in a late contribu- 
tion to the derivative theory of species, 
holds that the evidence furnished by geol- 
ogy in support of the theory is both clear 
and strong. He says that the sudden ap- 
pearance in palsdontology of organic 
forms strongly differentiated firom any 
earlier ones, is alvrays in direct proportion 
to the amount of disturbance characteris- 
tic of the strata in which they are imbed- 
ded ; the more confi)rmable to one another 
are two a^jaoent strata, the greater affinr 
ity is there in their organic remains. 
Further evidence in the same line is found 
in the afiKnity of the land animals now in 
existence in any part of the world with 
those which inhabited the same country at 
an earlier period, as shown by their fossil 
remains. In the diluvial and pliocene de>- 
posits of South America, fbr instance, are 
found the remains of marsupials and 
edentata, intermediate between those forms 
which still exist and those which are 
found in the lower tertiaiy strata of ihe 
same region. The ape remains of the 
bone caves of Brazil can be assigned to 
living New World genera, while those 
ibund fossil in Europe and Asia belong to 
existing genera of the Old World. The 
fossil remains of mammalia hitherto found 
in Australia belong exclusively, like the 
living forms, to marsupial orders. Gen- 
era of marine animals such as trilobites, 
braohiopods, etc., are found distributed in 
paUaozoic strata over the whole worlds 
while the extent to which land animals 
are distributed is generally very restricted. 
All these hcto are what would be expect- 
ed were the theory in question true, while 
they would be inexplicable by any doctrine 
of special creations. 



THE CRYFTOGAMIC THEORY OF 
CHOLERA. 

DuRiNO the cholera epidemic which oo- 
corred in England in 1853-'54, the theory 



was broached that this disease owed its 
difi\isi(Mi to organic particles, which found 
their vray into the system through the 
medium of air or water, or both combined. 
Bodies were discovered in the air of chol- 
era rooms which resembled others found 
in cholera discharges and in the water of 
neighborhoods where the disease was 
prevalent. These bodies were afterwards 
shovm to consist chiefly of starch granules 
with a small admixture of a species of 
nredo or blight, and thus for the time the 
notion fell into discredit. In subsequent 
epidemics, however, organic matter con- 
tinued to be found in abundance both in 
the air and the vrater of a£^ted districts ; 
and this circumstance, coupled with the 
fact that vrater tainted with cholera dis- 
charges is known to convey the disease if 
taken into the system, has sustained the 
belief in the minds of many that some 
iq>ecific cause which was of organic ori- 
gin, and capable of transmission from one 
person to another, either by means of air 
or water, or otherwise, did actually exist 
and vrould yet be found. The more recent 
researches of Hallier and Pettenkofer 
served to strengthen this belief, as they 
claimed to have discovered in the dis- 
charges of cholera patients certain or- 
ganized structures which were peculiar to 
that disease, and which they regarded as 
its cause. Mr. T. R. Lewis, who is a mil- 
itary surgeon in the British service in In- 
dia, and who therefore et\joys unusual 
facilities fbr studying the subject, has late- 
ly made a report on the supposed fun- 
goid origin of cholera, wherein he main- 
toins, in opposition to the conclusions of 
Hallier and Pettenkofer, iBrst, that chol- 
eraic discharges contain no cysts which 
are not found under other conditions ; sec- 
ond, that cysts or sporangia of fungi are 
very rarely found under any circum- 
stances in alvihe discharges; third, that 
no special /ungus has been developed in 
choleraic discharges, the fungus de- 
Scribed by Hallier being certainty not con- 
fined to such ; fourth, that there are no 
animalcular developments, either as to 
nature or proportionate amount, peculiar 
to cholera, and that the same organisms 
may be developed in nitrogenous materi- 
als even outside the body ; fifth, that the 
supposed d^ris of intestinal epithelium 
is not of this origin, but appears to result 
from effused blood plasma. 



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CUmiENT LITERATURE. 



" Thoughts about Art," by Philip Gil- 
bert Hamerton (Roberts Brothers, Bos- 
ton) , is a collection of essays first published 
in £nglisb periodicals, now revised by the 
author and offered, with a preface written 
specially for the edition, to the American 
public. The author discusses almost all 
subjects that come to the surface in the in- 
tellectual fermentation of art ; its practice, 
its theories, its writers, its private and pub- 
lic encouragements, its criticism, the status 
of the artist, its relations to nature and to 
society, and so on through a suggestive 
table of contents. He is neither profound 
nor superficial ; we should call him an ex- 
perienced eclectic. Being a painter him- 
self, an ardent student of nature, camp- 
ing out to study nature in various ways 
and everywhere with the ardor of a genu- 
ine Englishman in quest of game, famil- 
iar with other lands besides his own, and 
a refined and cultivated man, he is in art 
oosmopolitan, and admirably qualified to 
diffuse the spirit wherever his book can be 
read. No person who pretends to be cul- 
tivated, no one who is seeking for new 
outlets of intellectual pleasure, should 
fail to read Mr. Hamerton^s thoughts on 
art. In the essay on " Picture-BujTug," 
Mr. Hamerton analyzes the growth of 
art, healthy and morbid. First comes 
portraiture, " self and selfs wife," which 
so long as confined to conjugal canvasses 
is mere egoism; that of friends, heroes, 
and benefiuitors is of a higher order. Af- 
ter this, naturally evolved from the same 
sentiment, little pictures of domesticities, 
^ mammas and babies and cradles and 
that sort of thing, returns of school-boys, 
scenes of wooing and billing and cooing," 
oonstituting the most salable works in our 
exhibitions, and much of which is weeded 
out through the cheaper and more fac- 
simile agency of photography. Next come 
engravings, " religious prints, and sport- 
ing prints, and licentious prints; prints 
theatrical, prints military, prints ecclesi- 
astical." If, on entering a house, he sees 
an engraving of scrpliced choristers with 
certain aii^uncts, he knows that its mis- 
tress, is a Puseyite ; if there is one of 
John Knox, there is a leaning to Low 
Ghnich ; if in a bachelor's room prints of 



female charms cover the walls, it sliows 
like the others a love of something ehto 
besides art. After rustic and amatory in- 
cidents fondness for animals must not be 
omitted — the dogs, horses, and cattle that 
find so many painters and purchasers. 
The gratification of a personal taste in this 
way is a dubious sign of moral or aesthetic 
interest in the world around one. The 
idea is that the art which reflects selfish- 
ness or animality is not truly fine art. 
** The love of landscape," of which Mr. 
Hamerton is a special advocate, *' is rarest 
and latest of all." It shows an interest 
in nature. In this respect our world of 
art is not behindhand. Our limitless ter* 
ritory, the nomadic habits of Americans, 
our facilities for travel, outdoor labor, 
and a clear atmosphere foster the growth 
of a sentiment for nature, the result of 
which is a predominance of landscape 
art. " In France, " he says, " landscapes 
are scarcely to be got rid of at all unless 
enlivened by animals ; in England, when 
they predominate in an exhibition, it is 
spoken of as uninteresting in the newspa- 
pers." The value of the milieu is sug- 
gested by a story he tells of a Parisian in 
Scotland, who was " quite seriously vexed 
at some cloud shadows he saw on a moun- 
tain because he could not make out what 
they were." On explaining the phenom* 
enon to him, he asserted that ''no artist 
could have any business to paint them; 
they are not fit subjects for art, which 
ought to deal with what is intelligible in 
nature." To the Frenchman nature con- 
sisted perhaps of Montmartre, or the 
usual flat pkin of French pictures with 
its little pool and tall poplars, and conse- 
quently on a grand scale put him out. 
** The Painter in his Relation to Society " 
IS an analysis of the social status of the 
artist. He has no "governmental posi- 
tion" among his fellows. The idea is 
that the potentiality of the artist socially 
is of no account relatively to that of other 
classes. Let the means or influence of, 
say a merchant, be correlated with the 
judgment of an artist in a matter in 
which he ought to be authority, should 
an issue arise the opinion of the former 
would prevail. Mr. Hamerton says we 



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LITERATURE. 



[JULT, 



might as well own ap that the brain is the 
siaTe of the purse. *' Men respect only 
power, *^ Diverse terms stand for power 
m the course of ages — the sword, the pal- 
pit, the bar, the pen, in these days money, 
l^t never the pencil of the artist. Mr. 
Hamerton hopes its time will come. He 
admits that the power of the artist is of 
too subtle a nature, and too dependent on 
isolation, to be made materially efl^tive 
socially. It might be contended that the 
opulent or any other man respects the ar- 
tist's power, on a kindred basis of social 
force, every time he purchases one of his 
pictures. The artist serves him by meas- 
uring for him his emotional capacity. The 
office of the artist is to furnish society with 
visible signs of its unselfish &.ith and af- 
fections. When artists are busy and well 
paid for their labor, society may be sure 
that human energy and faculty is in the 
highest and best state of activity. Both 
tibe Greek and the Renaissance epochs sub- 
stantiate the assertion. The artist proba- 
bly could not fulfil his function, and at the 
same time be a social power in the sense 
postulated by Mr. Hamerton. Neverthe- 
less, money aids the artist socially. When 
cue sees artistic reputations expand in 
proportion to their connection with capi- 
tal, when one sees SBsthetic merit estimat- 
ed so generally by the number of dollars 
a picture brings, one can appreciate with- 
out envying a '* govemmented position" 
of this stamp. 

Mr. Wekks^s volume of '* Episodes and 
Lyric Pieces," a few of which are re- 
printed from the pages of this magazine, 
will do much toward gaining its author a 
definite and by no means undesirable rank 
as a poet. His verses stand very well the 
diflGu;uIt test to which collection sul^'ects 
them, and give a pleasanter impression of 
their authof than we at least have gained 
from his occasional poems. In those the 
most noticeable points had seemed to us a 
rather too marked tendency toward a sen- 
timental melancholy, and an effort after 
simplicity in thought and expression which 
occasionally resulted in a rather unpleas- 
ant baldness. In this volume, however, 
the modesty of Mr. Weeks's pretensions, 
his freedom from small affectations, and 
the genuineness of his poetical gift are 
the qualities which strike us most fiivora- 
't. The least agreeable poems in the 
are perhaps its most ambitious ones. 



" The Return of Paris," " In Corinth," 
and *'In Ck)llatia," where the themes 
seem to demand a more vigorous treat- 
ment than Mr. Weeks's peculiarly modem 
sentiment and his deficient dramatic sense 
enable him to give them. But the shorter 
poems are, with hardly an exception, 
smoothly versified, pleasant in thought 
and in suggestion, and give good prom- 
ise of still better things from their author 
in the future. Whether to wish that men 
and women and nature moved him to emo- 
tions not quite so gently pensive we hard- 
ly know. Such as he is, he has the great 
Cerit of not suggesting, not at least when 
) is doing his better work, any other 
poet, and of making his readers feel that 
his sentiment and his need of expression 
are both entirely genuine. 

*♦ My Study Window." By James Ru». 
sell Lowell, A. M. Boston : James R. Os- 
good & Co. 1871.— It is pleasant to learn 
from Mr. Lowell's prefatory note that 
in ''ridding his mind" of these essays 
by publication, he is making ready for a 
new departure, and that this second vol- 
ume may in due time be followed by a 
third. The encouragement of a kind re- 
ception will certainly not be wanting. 

The books within, we are warned, have 
a smaller share in these studies than the 
world without. Only a few pages are 
given to technical criticism, and even the 
keenness and wit of its application serve 
to illustrate something broader than mere 
correction. Discipline may not be more 
welcome to the sul^'ect because it is so ad- 
ministered on principle, but the reader 
will ei\joy the reasons as impartially as 
the punishment. The paper on the *' Li- 
brary of Old Authors " isan excellent ex- 
ample of censure justified by reference to 
standards, and enriched with research and 
citations.' In the '' life and Letters of 
Percival" great pains are taken to ex- 
plain why that poet, whose merit has 
rather been taken on trust, ever grew into 
any reputation, before proceeding to show 
that he deserved none. And the artic]# 
on *' Swinburne ^s Tragedies " dihpoMs of 
its subject in a few sentences, serving 
merely to introduce general reflections on 
certain grounds of selection and methods 
of treatment in poetry. 

There is an affectionate reverence, a 
mingling of recollection with judgment, 
throughout the sketch of Emerson, inclin* 



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LITEEATURE. 



125 



ing the reader to oaation in aocepttng its 
▼iews. Not to distrust, for Lowell's crit- 
ioai insight is too troe to be misled bj 
firifiodship. Yet, conceding ^ his masca- 
line fiicnlty of fecundating other minds," 
we are in this latitude (no doubt to our 
misfortune) so free from the epttU of his 
personality as to believe, even in a deeper 
sane than his disciple means to convey, 
that he '^sometimes mistakes the queer 
for the original." But how true and 
timely are these words of recognition: 
** If ever there vras a standing testimonial 
to the cumulative power and value of 
character (and we need it sadly in these 
days) , we have it in this gracious and dig^ 
nified presence." Among the minds so 
fecundated, Thoreau's attracts from our 
critic a notice marked l>y just and sharp 
discrimination. He is characterized as 
" a man with so high a conceit of himself 
that he accepted inthout questioning, and 
insisted on our accepting, his defects and 
weaknesses of character as virtues and 
powers peculiar to himself," and as one 
of those who '* solace an unea^ suq>i- 
ci<m of themselves by professing contempt 
for their kind." But admitting that his 
aim was a noble and useful one, and his 
style, like his life, one of simplicity and 
purity, Lowell takes him chiefly as a text 
for vnse discourse on the folly of with- 
drawing from an active and ^sympathetic 
life. 

In trutii, a great charm of these eattys 
is the ease, the instinctive spring, with 
which the author rises at once from the 
limits of personality into the region of 
principles. His topics serve as sugges- 
tions rather than subjects, every one of 
them becoming simply and naturally a 
eentre of illustration for some wide circle 
of truth. Take the study of P(^, so fin- 
ished in detail, or the graver and fuller 
perron Chaucer. Not Ihnited by the 
men or their themes and styles, not rest- 
ing vrith their circumstances of time and 
manners, nor content only to trace the 
needs that formed them and the schools 
they formed, he rises at <»ice to influences 
of national character, to broad theories of 
art, to philosophizing on man's nature. 
The poet's work in each case, with all 
that gave it shape and coIot, is clearly set 
forth, mainly as the source of large and 
generous infinrences bearing oa art and 
life, and full of instruction. 

There is the same e:q>ansion in the rare 



enay ** On a Certain Condescension fai 
foreigners," with its few quiet opening 
sentences, sketching an evening land- 
scape, filling it with kindly associations 
that widen by easy transition into sad 
memories, lifted with a touch into thoughts 
of honor and feme. How the phrase of 
fine humor, by a slight quick movement, 
flashes out a truth ; how the deprecation 
turns a sudden fece of grand assertion ; 
and fr(»a the height of confident proph- 
ecy '* that it is the collective, not tiie in- 
dividual humanity that is to have a chance 
of nobler development among us," how 
smoothly we pass to the witty conviction 
of individual equality with the rest of the 
world after all ! (But mi^t not the men- 
tion of Leigh Hunt's notion of America 
well have been pointed by some phrase 
characterizing that ingrained cockney?) 
Again, in the review of Josiah Quincy 's bi- 
ography how natural the movement is from 
a local point to the circle of the whole coun^ 
try, and still cm to the vride prosaic life 
of modem times ; how neat and careful 
the picture of old Boston, which to us in 
this region, even more than to those who 
follow after it there, ** seems a life of the 
past, near in date yet alioi in manners." 

So, in the thoughtful study of Carlyle, 
Lowell begins by doing full justice to his 
manliness and sincerity, his pictorial in- 
tensity, his vigorous eonc^tion, while 
impartially noting his pugnacious para- 
dox and acrid cynicism. Then the gradual 
depravation of his taste for the eccentric 
into grotesqueness is traced, and the course 
by which his castigating dominie spirit 
grew to idolatry of mere pluck, and 
ended at last in the cudgel as the latest 
theory of divine government. But the 
personal treatment throughout is made 
subordinate to the study of the distinction 
between popularity and feme, and drawn 
out to the yet wider range of an author's 
duty in dealing with truth modestly and 
sincerely. And, in fine, faithful to the 
highest view of democracy, for the whole 
book is instinct with philosophic patriot- 
ism, he reminds us that ** a wiser temper 
than Carlyle's might have found in the 
continual feilure of men . . . an inspiring 
hint that it is mankind and not special 
men, that are to be shaped at last into tim 
image of Qod." 

Questions of dissent from any of Mr. 
Lowell's theories either in art or politics 
would find no place or room for discus* 



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UTEBATUKB. 



[JuiX 



ston in these pages ; but we mmy be al- 
lowed to point oat one or two blemishes, 
OS theyseemtoosyinhiswoi^. Wegrant 
the j ustioe of his criticism on Bin. Brown- 
ing's expression as being ^* poshed to the 
last gasp of sensaons exhaustion ; " but 
h it not coarsely harsh as well as i^ooa^ 
rect to call her muse in ^' Aurora Leigh " 
'^a fiist young woman with the layiah 
ornament and somewhat overpowering 
perfume of the demi-monde " ? As a mat- 
ter of style, why use '* somewhat " at all? 
A thing is never partly overpowering, and 
we should be glad to cite Mr. Lowell's au- 
thority against that genuine reporter's 
^< somewhat." Again, our essayist has 
store of illustration enough at command 
to spare us a second or third repetition of 
the cherrynstone carving. And why, un- 
warned by the fiulure of his attempt to 
natmalixe the fiunous ** undisprivacied," 
should he persist in his &tal attachment 
to the particle dis^ in the use of such 
neologisms as '* disquantitied," ^' dissatu^ 
rate"? These are unwarranted trifles 
that mar the general finish of his style. 
Usually it is clear and nervous, and c^n 
picturesque, forming a fitting dress for his 
dose keen observation, his earnest moral- 
ixing, and the purpose that runs visibly 
through all his work of reaching central 
truths and controlling principles upon the 
■nbjects of his essays. We may fiUrly ap- 
ply to his aims the reverse of his judg- 
ment upon British criticism — ^that it is al- 
ways more or less parochial , and has never 
quite fineed itself £rom sectarian cant, and 
planted itself honestly on the aesthetic 
point of view ; and may signaliie as one 
of his highest merits, in his own words of 
another, *' the sleuth-hound instinct with 
which he presses on to the matter of his 
theme." 

Foe some reason not easy to explain, 
the labor of miners has always been dig- 
nified with a romance which mankind has 
entirely refused to throw about the work 
of the &rmer. We say always, for in the 
literature of Germany and other countries 
where mining industry has written rec- 
ords extending back for centuries, we find 
the delver in the earth occupying a place 
in the oldest romantic fiction of the coun- 
try. This fiction now forms the faiiy tales 
which children read, but in dd times it 
was the '* folk lore " of the people handed 
down by word of mouth. What is more 



singakr is that tins sentiment has not 
been c(mfined to those who never saw a 
mine and who are vaguely impressed with 
the terrors and woncbrs of a subterranean 
life, but it was and still is common among 
the miners themselves, who know very 
well that mining is as practical as turnip* 
raising, and that the whole process of dig^ 
ging mines and smelting ore for its metal 
is simply an industiy as unromantio as 
sheep-clipping and wool-weaving. For 
the ignorant miners of Europe of a centu- 
ry or two ago, and their bell^ that their 
daily labors were carried on in the midst 
of spirits watching to take advantage of 
some slip to entrap them into heathen 
fiiiiyland, there was some excuse. If 
their mine yielded a new mineral which 
refused to succumb to their empirical 
methods of treatment, they were convinced 
that the Eobalts and Nickels had laid a 
q)ell upon it. These fimcies have dianged 
their character as time has advanced and 
experience discovered that nature has no 
storehouse of secrets which study cannot 
nnlook. Fancies equally gross exist how- 
ever to-day, even in practical America. 
Our ores are sui^>osed by the min^Rs to be 
much more re&aotory than any othen, 
and there is a feeling astonishingly strong 
that science must undergo some regenei^ 
ating miracle before the true process for 
American ores is discovered. Coupled 
with this impression is the belief that no- 
where but in America are men of the ne- 
cessary originality and acnteneas to be 
found. 

The result of these dogmas has been 
that many Americans have for years re- 
fused to use the long experience of Europe 
ki their own benefit. Supposing that all 
must be new, they have preferred to start 
with absolute ignorance; and believing 
that science was at fiiult and that the new 
discovery— the process, as the cant term 
for it goes in the West— was as likely to 
be the result of chance as of direct search, 
like the finding of a great nugget, they 
have placed their fidth in men unable to 
write their own names, and knowing as 
little of mining or metallurgy as a beggar 
knows oi banking. Lideed, such men 
have been preferred, so intense has been 
the belief in a mysterious difference be- 
tween their mines and others, and in the 
equality of ignorance and knowledge be- 
fore the great chance of finding a new 
process. So hurtful were these pr^udices 



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1871.3 



LITERATUBE. 



IV 



to the Talae of the mines and the wealth 
of the nation, that the GoTemment fire 
years ago appointed a Commissioner to in- 
quire into the state of the mines and re- 
port measures for improving this part of 
the oountxy's industry. The Commission- 
ers have found the collection of statistics 
Teiy diMcult, as may be seen frcon the 
present year's report, which the Commis- 
sioner has issued as a book under the title 
of ^' Mines and Mining of the Rocky Moun- 
tains, the Inland Basin, and the Pacific 
Slope. By Rossiter W. Raymond, Ph.D. 
New York : J. B. Ford & Co. 1871." 
Mr. Raymond sent out blanks to be filled 
up. Of the two hundred and thirty-four 
which went to California, only thirty-one 
came back properly filed, and yet Cidifor- 
nia made the best returns and was the only 
State in which the questions were proper- 
ly answered. Hopeless aa the task of col- 
lecting statistics from an nnstatistical 
people is, the Commissioner can still per- 
fiirm an important work — ^more important 
in &ct than making tables of figures — in 
criticising the methods used in extracting 
the metals, and in writing instructire pa- 
pers upon professional questions. Far as 
this task may seem from the proper sphere 
of a GoTemment Commissioner, it in the 
most necessary part of his work ; for there 
is at present no one else to do it. The 
written mining science of the country lies 
for the time being almost entirely in his 
hands. Mr. Raymond's present report 
fulfils this duty in part by papers on 
" Mineral Deposits " and " Metallurgical 
Prooeeses," by himself; " The Mechani- 
cal Appliances of Mining," by Professor 
W. P. Blake ; an excellent discussion of 
the mining law by Mr. Dunne of Nevada ; 
and finally a chapter on '* Wind as a Mo- 
tor," by Dr. Vander Weyde. 

These papers contain a great deal of in- 
fimnation which will benefit the miners 
of the West, and they are not one whit too 
profound for the miners. These men are 
by no means ignorant, and have a way of 
understanding anything however abstruse, 
if it is to their advantage to understand it 
and IS presented clearly enough. In some 
respects they are not what we would like 
to see. Professor Blake's paper under- 
takes to cover the whole ground of mining 
machines, but in the .in^>ortant part of 
are-dressing &ils to make more than cas- 
ual mention of the principles that under- 
lie the industry. This &ilure is the more 



serious as amid the thousands of ore- 
dressing works which have been built in 
the West, there are not more than a dozen 
or two which have been planned in ao- 
oordance with these principles. With 
very few exceptions they lack just one- 
half of the apparatus which is necessary 
to make them efficient; and this for the 
simple reason that only one-half the prin- 
ciples are generally knovm there. Mr. 
Raymond gives us some of the criticism 
which the miners need, and we would like 
to have more of it and more vigor and 
decision in what there is. There is one 
thing that is not likely to hurt our miners 
or their mines, and tlutt is intelligent crit- 
icism heartily delivered. Mr. Raymond 
passes by many of the vagaries current in 
the West, such as the " leaking " of bat- 
teries and the grinding efiect of round 
stamps, without giving the criticism which 
would be more effective from him than 
firom any other engineer. This report, by 
the way, aside firom its value to the miner, 
deserves a place on every engineer's table, 
for the great number of follacies, some 
past, some still extant, which its pages con- 
tain. The reports fixon the different sec- 
tions reflect with amusing fidelity the old, 
wild, local theories which have prevailed ; 
and as the Commissioner cannot go over 
this ground again, we have them now once 
for all. But it is not for these curiosities 
alone that the report is valuable. To the 
miner it offers a vast deal of information 
which he may study with profit, and to 
the engineer the reports on Western mines 
and the exhibition of the country's miner- 
al wealth o^r elements which will con- 
stantly come into use in his professional 
work. 

*'Thb Diabgues of Plato translated 
into English." By Professor Jowett. 
(Oxford : Clarendon Press. Macmillan & 
Co.) The Clarendon Press, through the 
house of Messrs. Macmillan, is giving to 
the reading world a class of works as 
weighty and important in matter as they 
are attractive in typographical form. 
Among the best hitherto given, we must 
range the four stately volumes now before 
us of " Professor Jowett's Plato." 

In reading Plato, it is well to remember 
that he was bom some twenty-three hun- 
dred years ago, that he was a Greek by 
race, a skeptical pagan, and wrote under 
the social influences of Athens, the most 



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LTTERATURB. 



[July, 



mtelleotoal city of tbe world. He lived 
also at a time when old forms of thought 
were yanishing, and new were straggling 
into existence, of which he was destined 
to be one of the CTer-living types. He 
not only gave mental life to the genera- 
tion in which he lived, but has caused an 
ever-abiding fermentation in the minds of 
all succeeding generations. The sciences 
not yet called into existence, the phenom- 
ena of the physical world hung like a 
shadow over the senses of man, and 
thought had to turn all but exclusively on 
the inward consdousnesss. Words had 
to be tortured to explain what was then 
inexplicable, and which to this day baffles 
our best minds. If, therefore, Plato's 
thoughts are cloudy, if his philosophy is 
mystical, if his logic is tortuous, and his 
dialectics are darker than the questions 
he tries to explain, let it be attributed to 
the Vitality of his birth and nof to any 
defect of his genius. If subsequent East- 
em and Western theologies and metaphys- 
ics, theosophies, theurgies, pantheistio 
reveries, and unfledged crudities of the 
Renaisance are in any vray coupled with 
his name, let it be freed from such an in- 
justice. As Mr. Jowett says, Plato's 
mode of revealing truth is by lights and 
shadows, and far-off and opposing points 
of view, and not by dogmatic statements 
or definite results. Such are the shifting 
points of view which he presents to us in 
his life-long effort to work out the great 
intellectual puule of his age — the nature 
of knowledge and of good, and their rela- 
tion to one another and to human life. 

Many have undertaken before Mr. Jow- 
ett to give Plato's dialogues in mod- 
em languages. That of all these at- 
tempts, the translations of M. Cousin and 
Mr. Jowett should be the most success- 
ful , is not to be wondered at. Taylor's and 
Whewell's translations are things for 
oblivion; Schleiermacher's labor is es- 
teemed through courtesy ; and Mr. Grote's 
great work is justly admired rather for 
its accurate annotations and emdite anal- 
ysis, than for the translation of the aes- 
thetical original into the English of Shel- 
ley. A competent judge seems to think 
that the French language has given to 
the version of M. Cousin a slight advan- 
tage over that of Professor Jowett. As 
we hold this opinion to be a matter purely 
of taste, we shall not discuss it. In tem- 
perament, in constitution of mind, in gen- 



eral acquirements, and a mastery over the 
Greek language, we regard Mr. Jowett to 
be a first-class modem Hellenist, and an 
expert in translating the Greek oi Plato 
into the English of Tennyson. The best 
translation of any work is that wherein 
to the integral substance of the original 
is added the freshest and most artistio 
verbal form of the tongue into which the 
translation is made. Looking at Mr. 
Jowett's version from this point of view, 
we hold it to be the best hitherto published. 
His beautiful labor on St. Paul, so shame- 
folly neglected through religious pr^u- 
dices, bore the marks of an original and 
gifted mind, and was worthy to be the 
precursor of his present great work <m 
Plato. 

Each dialogue of Plato is preceded by an 
introduction by our author, in which the 
light of Aiodem knowledge is beautifrilly 
woven round the massive though discur- 
sive thoughts of Plato. It is shown how 
many of the questions started by Plato, 
and funning dovm through long centuries, 
are still in agitation, and are perplexing 
the brains of some of our best modem 
speculators. Apart from the physical 
sciences, in whichsnch remarkable progress 
has been made since Plato's time by long- 
continued labor, observation, experiment, 
and the well-applied use of scientific in- 
struments, how many social problems 
have been definitely solved and universally 
accepted? Have we a trae historical 
theory in use by which to work the scat- 
tered Augments of the Past into a scien- 
tific volume, and by which to dominate and 
settle the angry discussions of the Present? 
Apart from the shifting assumptions of 
conflicting theologies, have we a true 
moral theory in use and unanimously re- 
ceived, by which to take apart the cor- 
rupt elements of our social system, ana- 
lyze them, discard them, and' give to so- 
ciety a more healthy growth and better 
me<Uum in which to regenerate itself in 
its onward course ? Apart from the some- 
what traditional crudities of a material- 
ized political economy, have we any true 
theory of riches in use and general accept- 
ance by which to judge what should be its 
social ministrations, its mdividual duties, 
and its moral distribution throughout the 
channels of society ; and by which to ap- 
pease the eternal war between labor and 
capital, between the honest needs of the 
poor and wicked extravagances of the rich 7 

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LITERATURE. 



129 



Ab the writings of Plalo maybe ooisid- 
ered the first historieal nadeas of eooial 
philosophy, the foregoing qonsideratioiis 
spring naturally from a meditation of 
them, and onght to remore the snew of 
some modem sciolists who look apon 
them as the raTings ci an ancient Greek 
quack. 

Thitmgh ignorance of Ghreek, the want 
of a proper translation, the &lse reports 
of more recent writers, and the general 
misreinpesentation of Plato's real opinions, 
his character as an author has been sadly 
and shamefally blackened. Our best 
homage is therefore due to Professor 
Jowett for haying made him an English 
dassic, and his immortal dialogues ac- 
cessible to eyery intelligent English reader. 

CUBBBNT GERMAN LrTERATURE.* 
The English novel has always been pop- 
ular in Qermany. From the period of 
the immense Togue of Walter Soott and 
Oooper down to that of Dickens, the 
^nach dem Englischen," or "aus dem 
Englisohen ttbeisettt,*' on the title-page 
of a novel " done into German," was the 
well-knovnii signal of attack along the en- 
tire line upon the German circulating 
library. For it is a somewhat remarkable 
&ct that your careful German, even when 
well-to-do^ and how devoted soever he may 
be to literature in general and to books in 
particular, never buys novels. Works in 
history and serious literature he may pnr- 
ohase; novels very rarely. He borrows 
or hires them. Eight novels out of ten 
read in Gennany are takoi from the circu- 
lating library. Here is an illustration of 
the fiist hold of that institution upon the 
German mind, when novels are in ques- 
tion. Some six ' months ago the well- 
known author Freytag told a friend of 
ours that a few weeks before, at a brilliant 
evening party in Berlin, he vras over- 
whelmed with the compliments of a really 
distinguished lady, the vrife of a wealthy 
banker. The lady in question expressed 
the greatest regret that she had not yet 
been able to read Freytag's last work, for 
the reason that she had found it impossi- 
ble to procure it. The celebrated novel- 
ist naturally ex pres s ed some surprise. 
*' Quite impossible, I assure you," she re- 
peated. *' I have sent for it several times 
to the library" (LeihbibUothek), ''but 

• Wotto noticed berein mar be obtained of E. 
Btelgar, No. 94 Frankfort ftreet. 



alvrays with the same result— the answer, 
•Out.'" 

For tboogb on pleasiue the was bent, 
She had a frugal mind. 

Now that Dickens is gone and Bulwer 
silent, the army of Germant translators — 
and an admirably appointed army it is, 
ready at a moment's notice to translate 
anything, from Sanscrit to Icelandic or the 
last discovered dialect of Polynesian — this 
army, we say, has thrown itself, horse, 
foot, and dragooi», on Miss Braddon, Mrs. 
Stephens, EEarrison Ainsworth, and Mrs. 
Wood. " Oldtown Folks " is lately an- 
nounced, as also *' Blithedale," a novel by* 
Hawthorne. 

PaonssoR Hausrath publishes at Hei- 
delberg "Der Vier-Capitel Brief des 
Paulus an die Korinthen." By this four- 
chapter letter the author means that por- 
tion of Second Corinthians which is made 
up of chapters 10 to 13 inclusive. He con- 
tends, as did Semler, that they have no con- 
nection with the preceding nine chapters. 

Wb have occasionally made reference in 
these articles to the endless Yanfhagen 
von Euse memoirs. During their years 
of progress through the press, generations 
of readers have disappeared from the face 
of the earth, and yet other generations 
surviving declare they will **see no 
more." The incidents of an eventful and 
distinguished life, extending from 1785 to 
1858, form but a very small portion of the 
material of his multitudinous writings. 
The record of intercourse, correspondence, 
or friendship with scores of world-re- 
nowned notabilities — kings, princes, war- 
riors, professors, authors, poets, and artists 
— ^furnishes a mass of anecdotic and bibli- 
ographic sketches of the highest interest. 
Not even the death of the author could 
stay the perennial flow of his volumes. 
The occasional announcement of a fresh 
Vamhagen von Ense publication appeared 
to have grown into a positive German bib- 
liographical necejssity, and for the past 
fifteen years we have a fresh and appa- 
rently exhaustless supply furnished from 
his papers by his heirs or literary execu- 
tors. 

And now the evil — that is, we mean the 
series— has reached such appalling dimen- 
sions that publishers, with some dim pnr- 
ception of the fiuit that human existence 
has limits, despair of finding renders, buy- 



uigiiizeo Dy -^.^x^^^^ 



130 



tlTERATURB. 



[JULT, 



ing readers, for this immense mass oi 
tomes. Life is clearly too short for the 
performance of sach a feat as reading 
them. The first result of these conclu- 
sions is the announcement by Brockhaus 
of Leipsic of an edition of the " selected '* 
works of Von £nse C* Ausgew'ahlte 
Schriften von E. A. Vamhagen yon 
£nse "). This edition is to be within the 
possible limits of three Tolumes : the first 
dcToted to the leading incidents of the au- 
thor's life, the second to biographical rem- 
iniscences, and the third to miscellaneous 
personal sketches of a wonderful number 
und variety of distinguished characters, 
among whom we remark Gondorcet, Vol- 
taire, La&yette, Bollmann, and Huger, 
the Emperor Alexander, Achim yon Ar- 
min, Gentz, Scholz, Sohleiermacher, 
Schlegel, Humboldt, Ghamisso, GOethe, 
Schiller, Tieck, etc. 

In an octavo volume of S68 pages. Dr. 
Hartwig makes historical examination of 
the facts connected with the *' Uebertritfe 
des Erbprinzen Friedrich von Hessen-Cas- 
sel zum Eatholicismus." The *' going 
over " (uebertritt) of the Prince of Hesse- 
Oassel was one of the most important 
events of the Seven Years' War. 

Thb last number of Ghmndemann's 
''Mission Atlas," issued by Perthes in 
Gotha, presents geographically the mis- 
sions of Asia. The map of Palestine indi- 
cates no less than ten separate and dis- 
tinct Christian nuasions. 

A rRESH, entertaining, and exhaustive 
book of travels in a country little known 
and less visited, is a newly-published 
work on the isluid of Sardinia — " Reise 
auf der Insel Sardinien. Von Heinrich 
Freiherm von Maltsau. Leipzig." 

Situated almost on the confines of Africa, 
off all the ordinarily travelled routes, Sar- 
dinia offers the adventnrous tourist an al- 
most untrodden field and great freshness 
of manners, customs, and costumes. The 
author claims that the island is unknown 
in Germany, although rich to overflowing 
in archaeological treasures of Phoenician, 
Greek, and Roman times. The work is 
provided with a full appendix on the sub- 
ject of the vroll-known Phoenician in- 
scriptions in Sardinia. 

DimcuLT as it is to improve upon the 



manuals on the subject already ixi use m 
Germany, the new History of Roman Lit- 
erature (*' Gesdiichte der Romischen Lite- 
ratur") by Teuffel is recognized as of 
perit superior to any of its predecessors. 

Brockhaus of Leipsic has just published 
the fourth volume of Moritz Carri^re's 
*' Die Kunst im Zusammenhang der Cul- 
turentwickelung and die Ideale der Men- 
schheit." 

The sul^ect treated in this last volume 
is *' The Renaissance and the Reformation 
in Cultuns, Art, and Literature." The 
vast theme of art in its connection with 
the development of culture is handlied by 
the author with learning, eloquence, and 
phUoeophical mstinct. His work is what 
the French would call un ouvrage de 
longue haleine, the first volume having ap- 
peared in 1863, the second in 1866, the 
third in 1868. It is suppof>ed that one or 
two more volumes will complete it. 

Thx subject of Greek moods and tenses, 
on which we have an excellent American 
work by Trofessor Goodwin, is learnedly 
treated in '* Der Gelnrauch des Ooi\jane- 
tivs und Optativs im Sanskrit und Grie- 
chischen," by B. Delbrtick, and in •• Syn- 
taktische Forsohungen," by B. Delbriick 
and £. Wmdisoh. (HaUe, 1871.) 

Giovanni Antonio Ba2zi, sumamed il 
Soddoma, was a painter of the period 
of Julius II. and Leo X. He is known 
to the present generation by his *' St. Se- 
bastian" Ip the Florence gallery, his 
frescos in the Chapel of St. Gatharine at 
Sienna, and by his marriage of Roxana 
in the Famese Palace.^ Bazzi is men- 
tioned in a very unsatis&ctory manner by 
Vasari, who either had very insufficient 
material to work upon, or else, through 
some pr^udice against the artist, fiuled 
to use it. 

A German scholar has now undertaken 
to vmte the life of this, one of the most 
interesting masters of the Ginqueoento 
period, and has admirably executed his 
task. The author, Albert Juisen, v^as 
already &vorably known to the artistio 
world by an essay on the celebrated group 
in the ViUa Ludovici, pronounced by 
him to represent Theseus and Atrea. 
This essay was published with the appro* 
bation of the Aiohadologieal Institats of 
Bcnne* 



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LITERATUTIE. 



181 



Mr. Jtmsen in his work—" Das Leben 
des MaleisGioTaimantonioBazzi, genannt 
il Soddoma. mm ersten Male beschrie- 
ben Yon Albert Jansen " (Stattgart, 1871) 
-H[iot only presenta a full and interesting 
biography of Bazzi, who from a pupil of 
Leonardo da Vinci became an admirer and 
Imitator of Pinturicchio, bat admirably 
portrays the artistic life of that day, and 
gives historical sketches of decided merit. 

A GSBAT name in German literature is 
that of Herder, although what he so no- 
bly did fi>r literature, history, and human- 
ity is nowadays known to but few out- 
side the circle of literary historians. His 
principal book, *' The Philosophical His- 
tory of Mankind," is a noble production. 
It penetrates the spirit and history of the 
most ancia:it people, and lights up the 
darkness of ages that hung upon them. 
To borrow the words of an elegant French 
writer : " We seem in reading this book 
to wander in the midst of the ancient 
world with a historian-poet,- who touches 
the ruins with his wand, and reconstructs 
the (Tumbled edifices before our eyes." 
Herder is thought to have ii\jured himself 
by a^iring to uniTersality in letters. That 
dangerous fiidlity of acquisition, which 
tempts its possessor into path after path 
of knowledge, without suffering him to 
remain long in any one, drew Herder into 
the study of erery department of litera- 
ture, metaphysics, and theology. It is 
probably owing to this &ct that the Ger- 
mans, severe to excess in their requisi- 
tioDB of scholarship, accuse him of want 
dl profundidy in liis acquirements. 

Herder was the first to give to German 
literature that cosmopolitan tendency 
which has since his day increased to such 
tkdegndBB to have become at once its 
marked characteristic and peculiar boast. 
To his rare erudi^n Herder joined great 
degance of style. Nearly all that he has 
written bears the impress of the ardor and 
purity of feeling which animates him. 
Vice he never spares, and his writings are 
a refreshing contrast vrith the sensuality 
of the age that preceded, and the ration- 
alism of the period that followed him. 
He WB8 inclined to melancholy, and his 
imagination has been compared to the 
night-blooming cereus, which spreads its 
perfume only to darkness and silence. 
Bven his fondness for nature was tinged 
vrith this feeling. Jean Paul relates of 



him, that hearing on one occasion the 
strains of choral music that streamed from 
a neighboring cathedral, as from the bo- 
som of some distant century, he exclaimed, 
with a sorrowful allusion to the frosty 
spirit of his day, " Would that I had been 
bom in the middle ages ! " 

Herder's chronological position in Ger- 
man literature may be conveyed most 
clearly to the mind of the reader by the 
feet that in the year 1770, while travelling 
in France, and during a sqjoum at Stras- 
burg, he there made the acquaintance of 
a young German law-student, who profit- 
ed much by his advice in matters social 
as well as literary. The young German 
law-student was — Goethe. 

Herder's name is thus recalled to us by 
A late work which treats of him as the 
central figure in the humanitarian efforts 
of the last century—" Johann Gottfried 
von Herder und die HumanitStsbestrehun- 
gen der Menzeit. Bine literat-historische 
Studie von Adolph Eohut." (Berlin, 
1871.) 

The civil and social condition of the 
Jews at that period may be readily esti- 
mated ia the light of a prophecy of Her- 
der, which is cited by the author, and 
which when made vras thought to be the 
dream of a visionary : " A time will come 
when the question whether a man be 
Christian or Jew will not be asked in Eu- 
rope ; for then the Jew will have adapted 
himself to European customs, and be 
found ready to do his duty as a citizen— a 
duty which he is only prevented firom ful- 
filliug by a barbarous custom which 
thrusts him forcibly into a position hurt- 
ful to both himself and the State." 

In his labors fi>r humanity, as mani- 
fested in his desire for the social emanci- 
pation of the Jews, Herder found a worthy 
successor in Alexander von Humboldt, 
whose eff>rts in this behalf are also re- 
corded by the forementioned author, 
Adolph Eohut, in another late work: 
" Alexander von Humboldt und das Ju- 
ddnthum. Ein Beitrag zur Eulturge- 
schichte des Neunzehnten Jahrhunderts." 
(Leipeic, 1871.) 

The condition of semi-serfdom in which 
the Jews were held in all the countries of 
Germany until within comparatively very 
few years seems now almost incredible. 
We obtain a glimpse of one of its phases 
in what Wolfgang Menzel writes concent 

uigiiizea oy ^.._j v,/ vJ V Lv^ 



J 



1S2 



LITERATURE. 



[July. 



log Bdtne. At Frankfori-on-the-Main, 
where the great Goethe was cockered ap, 
a patrician child, a poor, diseased in&nt 
came into the world — Barach the Jew. 
He was ridicaled by Christian children 
while yet a boy. He saw daily on the 
Sachsenhaus bridge the infiunoas statue 
which represents Jews grouped in the 
most offensive manner with a sow. The 
curse of his nation weighed heayily upon 
him. When he set out upon his travels, 
'* Juif de Frankfort " was insultingly put 
upon his passport. *' Am I not a man 
like others?" he exclaimed; ''has not 
God furnished my mind with every power ? 
And you venture to despise me ! I will 
avenge myself by the noblest means. I 
will help you fight for your freedom." 
He became a Christian, assamed the name 
of Borne ; he joined the German patriots ; 
he burned and wrote for German freedom. 
Even Joseph Gorres furnished articles for 
his *' Balance." 

But this noble ebullition was terribly 
disappointed. Nothing vras seen in Borne 
afterward, as well as before, but the Jew ; 
and this was the more studiously cast iuto 
his teeth the more he yearned to be a pa- 
triot. Finally patriotism itself came to such 
a lamentable issue that Borne looked vainly 
around him to find it, and laughed bitterly. 

Long after many important concessions 
had been made to the spirit of freedom in 
other States of Germany, Alexander von 
Humboldt made his celebrated and suc- 
cessful struggle for the admission of Riess, 
a Jew, into the Berlin Academy. An in- 
teresting portion of the work is the ac- 
count of Humboldt's intercourse and cor- 
respondence with numerous distinguished 
personages of the Jewish faith, and in 
particular Henriette Herz, Rahel and 
Fanny Levrald. 

A POETICAL author named Joseph Ja- 
mish fiivors the world with an epic poem 
in four cantos on Washington, of which 
the title runs : '' Washington, Historisch- 
epische Dichtung in vier Gesangen, von 
Joseph Jamish," with historical notes 
and a pc»*trait. (Quarto, Leipsic.) 



As an epic poem the work— and we 
have not the slightest hesitation in mak- 
ing the assertion — is not a suoce» . 

As a chronicle in verse, a rhymed nar- 
ration, it has its merits. Here is a stanza 
from his description of the attack on tho 
English works at Yorktown, Lafayette 
and Yiomenil commanding separate col- 
umns, and Hamilton leading in the path 
of victory : 

Befetallgt wand die elne Sturmcoloime 

Von Lafliyette, nnd von YtomenU 

Die andere. Hamilton Btrabit als Sonne 

Den Siegespferd voran zum hehren Ziel. 

Und lOiwenkiilu, dnrehgliibt von Heldenwomie^ 

Hat Jede Scharr gekampft im StarmgewiihL 

So worde dieses Bollwerk denn bezwnngen, 

Comwallis' Handen aiegreich es entrungen. 

Wi have occasionally referred during 
the past year to the extraordioary atten- 
tion given in Germany to the cultivati<m 
of Dante's works, and already mentioned 
the Dante Jubilee of 1805, the existence 
at Dresden of a large Dante Society com- 
posed of poets, historians, and literati, of a 
" Life of Dante " by Wegele, another 
more important one by Scartazzini (a 
German, notwithstanding his Italian 
name), and numerous translations, prose 
and poetical, of the " Divine Comedy " in 
whole or in part. 

One might have thought that even Ger- 
man enthusiasm and industry might now 
have exhausted themsdves. Not at all. 
Li studies, essays, and translations, the 
Teutonic mind still finds the great Italian 
poet ** ever ancient, ever new." Amonic 
the latest Dante publications are '* Dante 
Alighieri in die Gottliche Eomedie " — a 
contribution to the history of philoso- 
phy and to the philosophy of history, 
by H. E. Hugo (Leipsic, 1871) — and a 
translation of the *' Divina Commedia " 
by R. Baron. 

This Dante fever appears to have also 
invaded the Slavonic countries, for we see 
announced among late Polish publications 
* * Two Lectures on the Divina Commedia , ' 
delivered at Cracow and Lemberg in 1867 
by J. Kraszewiski, the distinguished Po- 
lish novelist. 



AU communications intended for the Editorial management of The Galaxt 
should be addressed to Messrs. W. C. and F. P. Church, P. 0. Box 8,201, New 
York, Business communications should he addressed to the PuMishcrSt 677 
Broadway, New York. 

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THE GALAXY CLUBJM)OM. 



A (SBXfVDus fonnerly of Porkopolfs, 
•nd an enthnalaflt on hog, sends the 
dab »n tecoTmt of ihe oebbnted learned 
pig Ben, smoe deeeased, so that this no^ 
hie effi)rt is a tribute to his memoxy : 

ISS LKAKNXD PIO. 

I hare a turn ibr swine. I might say 
thatlharea taste fin* swine. Idonotmean 
a taste for pork, but a liking for the lir- 
ing pig. To put it in plain English, I 
like the hog. The hog to me is like the 
fool V the forest, meat and drink. I 
8tady him. I understand him. I am 
anuued at his ways and am filled with ad- 
miration of bis sagacity. I was broughl 
apon hog. I had rare opportunities to 
study hs character and appreciate his 
traits. With due deliberation I assert 
that for shrewdness of obsenation, knowl- 
edge of character, for thought and mem- 
oiy, your hog excels all the other beasts 
of the field and forest. 

He is selfish. Well, looked at firom a 
certain standpoint, hoggy is selfish. But 
deprire a man of his hands and tongue ; 
put in him a stomach that will digest 
Bancroft's" History of the UnitedStates,** 
B stomach of great capacity and inordinate 
demands in the way of appetite; then 
build up fences, shut the gates, and turn 
looue your dogs, and what will become of 
a man's generous impulses, etc. 7 They 
will go " where the woodbine twincth " over 
the Erie stock. As it is, with all his ad- 
Tantages, man comes nearer to the hog in 
^ quality than any other anhnal. As 
the pig puts at least one foot in the trough 
while eating, so a man will degrade his 
poeeesdons in proof of his owner^ip. 
This is especially the case with his wife, 
aod would be with his children, but that as 
they grow older and stronger he grows 
older and weaker, so the pig mastery pre- 
dommates in the oflkpring. 

With these tastes and ideas I was walk-? 
ing slowly along Pennsylvania arenue, 
when I saw the sign of ** Learned Pig " 
diMie in huge letters upon the side of a 
house. T read further along that the 
•dmiasion fee was ** twenty-five cents— 
■ernmte, children, ministers of the gospel, 



and Sunday schools admitted half prioe." 
I broaght up a promise to pay issued by 
our paternal Government to the amon|it 
of twenty-five cents, as I did not come un- 
der either of theexceptipns, and presented 
it to the guardian of the entrance, who, 
glancing at me, gaxe the fractional bit of 
currency an insulting examination. 

" All right," he said, motioning an in- 
vitation to enter, and adding apologeti- 
cally, " No offence, Cftp, but oounterfeitB 
do gravitate toward scientific swine most 
amazingly." 

The choice language of the dporkeeper 
impressed me deeply. It was as surpris- 
iog as the educated hog. Learning had 
seized upon the concern. 

I entered a room that had once been 
devoted to the sale of intoxicating drinks. 
It yet retained its counted and its odor. 
One's nostrils recognized the spirit of de- 
parted cocktails and mint-juleps that 
pervaded the atmosphere, mingling with 
the vile smell of old cigars. The educated 
swine was not visible; but certain emi- 
nent statesmen, distinguished by their 
thirst for knowledge, were of the audience. 
A Consumptive young man labored steadily 
at a hand organ that gave as the air of 
** Shoo Ffy " as if the air of ** Shoo Fly " 
was being jolted over a stumpy corduroy 
road. In the pauses of this orchestra that 
came kindly to our relief, we heard certain 
Snores and grunts, indicating that the 
learned beast of tusks and bristles vras re- 
posing irom his laborious studies unknown 
to the audience. 

When the room was sufficiently filled, 
the consumptive orchestra abandoned his 
post, and going to the door relieved the 
gentleman who had expressed the sage 
opinion touching the tendency counterfeit 
currency had to gravitate to the learned 
swine. This taker-in of dimes and curi- 
ous people proceeded in a business-like 
manner to the counter, and rapping on 
the side ordered the educated pork, under 
the name of " Ben," to come forth. A 
grunt of recognition vras the only response. 
A louder rap and a more imperative or- 
der brought a series of grunts, that to 
those acquainted with hog language 



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184 



THE GALAXY CLUB-ROOM. 



[JULT, 



meant a Temonstfanoe ; wbereupon the 
ieotnrer reached ander and administeired 
OBrtain blows that Inrpaght oat a sqaeal 
and the kanied shote. &e was of the 
speoies known at the West as ''-saw- 
backi"aiiddesoril^ in the language of 
that region as ** slab-sided, long-snojuted, 
and q;>indled-legged " ; of Uie sort to break 
a loan's heart, if Uiat heart was bent opoo 
adding some adipose to the bone and 
muscle, 80 as to bring out the pork in 
merehantable quantities. 

He had, however, an intellectual ex- 
pression of &oe, and it was really comical 
to see the poor animal snapping his jaws 
together with that emphasis peculiar to an 
indignant porker, and all the while eye- 
ing from under his lop-ears the holder of 
the rattan. 

''Ladies and gentlemen," began the 
etchibitor, " this animal is the most intel- 
ligent and the best edioated hog in the 
' world. There be some pig^ on exhibit 
that pretend to be edicated pigs, and I 
don't deny that such creatures have 
daims ; but edication, ladies and gentle- 
men, to be wonderful, must have a sound 
basis— an S. B. Now what do I mean by 
S. B.? I mean mind— I mean brain. 
Without the S. B. what's a man, let alcme 
a hog? Why, he's an edicated ass. This 
hog, ladies and gentlemen, has mind- 
he has edicated mind. He can tell 
the time of day. He can play poker equal 
to ai^ Congressman. He can tell the age 
of an individual, so as to please the ladies 
and astonish the gentlemen. And don't 
he know liquor? Well, may be he don't. 
But Just try him, that's all ; and if you 
don't find him drunk as a senator, why 
constipate my disgestion, that's all. Now , 
Ben, wide awake, old fellow ; eyes of Del- 
aware and my stick are on you ; astonish 
these intellectual encyclopaadiasof homo- 
geneous locomotion.*' 

This amaiing use of heavy English evi- 
dently impressed Ben with the belief that 
his exhibitor was swearing violently, and 
he set about his tasks with a cheerflil 
^ alacrity that was manifested by a continu- 
ous twisting and untwisting of his caudal 
appendage, aooosnpanied by a series of 
grunts that t^ of his anxiety. He gave 
us the time wiih accuracy ; and as for ages, 
Ben*s education was perfect. He invari- 
ably flattered the ladies by reporting their 
yearn to be about half the number nature 
^had allowed them, while the men were 



made so old that the sting was removed 
in the absurdity. His games of poker 
and old sledge Inrought down the house, 
th^ were so dexterous and perfect. 

After the audience had retired, I yet 
lingered upon the threshold* I was loath 
to leave a specimen of hog so entertaining 
is this Ben. To learn something more, 
I approached the odd specimen of human- 
ity, and earnestly invited him to a little 
refreshment at Harvey's. Consenting, 
we were soon seated, and I led him over 
his lager and oysters to the sul^ect we 
were both so interested in. I have had in 
my time all sorts of table-talk, from horses 
to wines ; but for the first time had a frill 
dish of hog talk. 

" Now, my dear sir," I said, leaning 
over confidentially, with my &ce braced 
between my two hands and my elbows 
planted on the table, <* how under heaven 
do you manage to instruct a hog? " 

'< "Easj enough, Cap, when you once get 
the hang of it." 

"And how?" 

'* The hang of it lies in the feed. The 
road to a hog's intellect lies through his 
stomach. A low diet with high culture 
is my motto." 

*' And how did you make this wonder- 
ful discovery ? " 

'* Easy enough. I had a cousin in the 
show bu«ness,and he used to tell me how 
they edicated the animals. The first 
thing. Cousin Jake said, was to get your 
ftmniftl that had a turn for things nature 
ally smart, you know. Well, I turned 
that over in my mind, for I v?as bound to 
make a raise. The old fium had run un- 
der until it looked like a widow's well. 
While I was thinking about it, I observed 
that hog. He was the cunningest hog 
ever set on hoofr. He belonged to an old 
nigger, and had an eye to cultivating our 
&rm. £f there was a hole, he'd find it ; 
and ef there was no hole, he'd make it ; 
and ef he couldn't climb an ordinary fence 
<^ histe a gate, no hog could. His only 
enemy was Uncle Sammy's dog ' Camo- 
mile.* And here's where the surprising 
part comes in. Every Saturday Uncle 
Sammy went off to town and got drunk, 
and be was preUy sure not to turn up be- 
fi>re Monday night ; and that dog Camo- 
mile went along to take care of the old 
man. When the old man got into a fight 
on the ordmance of '87— he v^as infernal 
ugly on them ordiaances when half tight — 



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THB GALAXY CLUB-ROQM. 



las 



OuMMik, who dStbi'i mte a tmm for the 
oidiiiiiioeB, bat did for Uncle JSuuny, 
wmi for tbe seat of the eaen^'e breo^ieB. 
But that's neitber here nor there. I 
otmiiid that that hog was fery atten- 
the to our Sum on them days, and I 
took to Hatching him. I'll be hanged ef 
Ihrt hog hMhi't the nm of the week good 
as a boman, and that dog Camomile 
wouldn't be foiriy oat of sight afore Ben 
'd torn opy and ocnne in spitm of Ph>?i- 
Qne day I eai^t him a-waiting 
' the bosh in the cfosa-roadsy on a 
ne where be ooold see both ways, a- 
watching; and when Ounomile and old 
Sunmy ware fiuriy oat of sight, be gave a 
grant and set oat on a trot for oor form. 
And he talked to himself all the way. 

''I went for that hog. 1%at mteUeetaal 
besst took me. I bought him of his prcK 
prietor, the odored citken, for a jog of 
okl lye^and then I set aboatbisedioi^on. 
i isstened him op in a bos, and gate him 
not a ration for twenfy-foor boon. Yoo 
ought to hate heard that hog remonstrate 
St the 9Bd of that probation. I began 
with the alphabet and figares. It was 
Okigfatj slow at first. I really thoag^ 
that swine woald haTe died at college. 
Bat as soon as he got the hang of it, and 
knew what I was trdriTing at, he did pick 
up amadngly, I tell yoa. I used to gi?e 
him stick com and tiie rithermatiok six 
hoanadsy." 

" And yon have done wdl with him?" 

"HaYcn'tl? Tbat hog Ben has lifted a 
Bortgige, bailt a new bam, repaired the 
old boose, and pat oor fiurm onder fonoe, 
so is to be hog-proof, I tell yoo." 

'' Yoall make yoor fortone oot of him. " 

'* Noy Gap. The intellectoal process is 
too mneh for hog nator. He is in a de- 
cline. The brain-wo^'s too macfa for 
Ben. Yoa see it ain't tfa^ nator. In 
another year he'll haTe passed away amcmg 
the enlightened beailB of the past." 

*' Why don't yoa torn him oot to re- 
craU?" 

"Osa't do it; tried, bat can't. AU 
the natoial dd hog sense has been edica* 
ted oot of that beast. He has soch a han- 
kering for inteUeotoal porsoits that he 
can't tfatire. Ko! that hog's a goner^ 
move's the pity." 

And a tear rolled down the nose of the 
profoasor. Whether Uds came from lager 
or loife^ or a kas of i«oAt, I ooald not 
detenaiae. 



BOOK OF LIKB8 AXD DiWLnnC8. 
Ora of the meanest asnudta on one's 
common sense and happinesB eomes onder 
the above head. Oneofoor dab wasaa- 
sailed by a lady ktely with one o( these, 
in whioh the following qoestaona were to 
be answered. He worried oat of it ratbar 
saooessfoUy, and when last heard from 
was as well as eoold be expected : 

(1), Write your AkTorite Tlitae; («), Akforite 
chMsoter In hisloiy; (8), the ohanetar in bltto- 
ry yon dM|>i8e moct; (4), Ikrortte proae eatbors 
(5), IkTorite poet; (6), fKrorite oooupaUon; (7) 
IKvortte color; (8), fKrorlte flower; (9), fliTorite 
food; (10), fliTorlte name; (11), ikTorite motto; 
(lS),wliatyoadldikemott; (18), wlMt you oob- 
aider the gi ^ te e t lapptoeM oa earth; (U),y<Nir 
petnam^; (15), ftiU algnatore. 

1. JiylKTorlteTlrtiie,wlMtiathat? Ahme, 
ru '< make a Tirtne of Neceaaity I »> 

t. That anoiapt apple aater I Uke, wiadame 
The ftenttapieee af aU hiatory--the Old 



8. Tyrants and traitora, hloody-handed men« 
I tUnk of theae with bedtating pen, 
And lo I ttom grayee abhorr'd and floweiieaa 

riae 
(Bat Kera'a onee had flowers) llMlr ghoats 

andedeal 
They datan appeal with pale, imploring look; 
"The Supreme Court— the Tnie Historian's 

Book!" 
4. HypetofauliiorBmiiatlnametaLproae? 
Fm sure I know not. The dear Lord oa|y 

knows! 



9. The efaOdran of ttw Ifoae, 



gie«t nor 



I can but see the Mother's flMM In aU 
Beflected. Some hare names, as— thus and 

thus. 
Beibre and after walks Anonymous. 

6. With "good Intentions,'' watering to and 

fto. 
To pare thoee soorehfaig sidewalks Down 
Betowl 

7. The ebon Black that makes the star mora 

t»i*gl»t. 
The White wiiaralB an colon end in light. 

8. Rose, lily, and Yiolet-^lbe lorely Three 
That represent their race hi poetry. 

». " Sour grapea." 

10. I thhik that name of all the host 

I like the best Is— hers I love the most. 

11. " 8ie irwU gloria MuniUJ* (Let it pass I) 

18. Tb see my death's-head's yanlty in a glass. 

18. The earliest Bream of Happiness, at most 
To (beam— nor wake to see its latest ghost. 

14. 'TIS closed on Memory's lips, now dearl 

15. 



rve answered, I remain 



Now, that 
J. J. P. 



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▲ lIIMVBaOTA wurrEB. 



Thbcb is 80 maoh anzi6ty now, as there 
iMfl beeoo for yean, to get aoeunite knowl- 
edge of the climate tii Minnesota, that I 
make no i^logy for introducing the fol- 
k>wing to the Club. Why any one oatBtde 
of Minnesota should wish to know any- 
thing about its climate bothars the will 
and oonfoonds the ondarstaiiding. Those 
in Minnesota know too much. 

Nearly eyery ooantiy to which ciriliced 
man has penetrated has a climate. Bos- 
ton, for instance, has three or four, all in 
the same day. That of Alaska is mild and 
salubrious, if we may judge firom the 
i^>edmens on exhibition at Washington 
before Mr. Seward eflbcted the purchase 
that extended the inestimable blessings of 
our internal revenue system over that vast 
territory. (Vast and rich no doubt be- 
yond measure, only it happened to be on 
the *' shilling side '' of the Mntinent, so 
to speak; thJEit was all.) 

Texas boasts a climate at once fascinat- 
ing and healthy, except for horse thieves. 
The name of Florida awakens pleasing 
thoughts of orange blossoms and the sin- 
ewy mosquito. New Hampshire suggests 
blasts from her Granite and her Isaac 
Hills. But of Minnesota it may be said 
that her climate, though new and hardly 
yet organized, has already won fbr her a 
pMud preeminence over her sister States, 
In her winters, at all events, she may &ir- 
ly claim to out-weather-strip aU her com- 
petitors. There is a clearness and purity, 
an exhilarating vigor in the air, that- in- 
vites one all day to breathe it. It sends 
the blood tingling through the veins, 
somewhat as did our schoolmaster's fer- 
ule, only the blow is more agreeable and 
the oeremony a good deal leas formal. 

I know a manu&cturer who runs the 
largest sash tiad. blind factorj in the State ; 
in &ct, he leads the blind men of the North- 
west. He informs me that he has tried 
very hard to keep ready-made doors on 
hand ; but whether the country is set- 
tling up at a rate faster than he can keep 
pace with, or whether it is the climate, 
he has found himself almost constandy 
out of doors. 

People who know nothing about it en- 
tertain erroneous ideas of Minnesota ; not 
• so erroneous, it is true, as those who have 
read much of what has been published 
upon the sutject. They imagine that the 
oonntry ^ cold and drear]^, swept over by 



iey and pfateing winds, and ahogather nn- 
oomfbrtable for a man who hasnt tbe M> 
sure to thaw out his &ose, or an ear or 
two, every twenty-^Hir hous. The snow 
would eeem to be about fire or six foot. 
These misguided Indiridaals sappoae that, 
strictly speaking, Minneaota boa do win- 
ter: it is one oontinaed fiill— of the ther- 
mometer; that it makes vary littlo dif- 
ference whether man wants but little 
here below or nol"-he is sure to get 
a good deal, seldQin less than twen^MHe 
and often fifty degrees. Tb^ tell os of 
the sun-dogs ; tliey call them eonof k>w 
degree, inamuoh as yon see them ki the 
sky only when the days an ooklsHt. The 
"• FMher of Waters,'' it v believed, is mne 
to have a cold in his bead the eotixe winter. 

Now it is true that there are oold day 
in Minnesota, and a good many of tfaam; 
in flMt, so much oold that one gets fiuniliar 
with it, has it at his fingers' ends ; so mach 
fifost and ioe that it is the constant tbenie 
of oonversation, is on everybody's lips 
who qseaks to you on the street. )fet tkm 
air is never raw or chilly. Third stnet, 
the chief buriness tboroogh&ra of St. 
Pbul, seeing that it is narrow and lined 
with tall buildings that shot out the son, 
is indeed bleak. But it mast be remeni- 
bered that there is a Bleecker street in 
New York. 

The air is dry. In fiiet, I dare say it 
may not have escaped the attention of my 
readers that an air of drynen pewades 
what I have afaready written ; sin^ is the 
marvellous eflbct of leaving my writing 
materiab near an open window. The 
winter knows no rain ; the dry bones of 
ihe umbrella you borrowed kst fidl rattle 
in your doset ; the san shines brightly al- 
most every day ; the system rejoioes in an 
unwonted ebsticity. 

<' All the air a solemn stafaiess holds,*' 
to borrow tntm Mr. Bartlett's exoelknt 
work upon ''Familiar Quotations." In 
short, I may oonfess it to be my favorite 
air, next to "Mary of Argyle." What 
wonder that bivalids make it a plaoc of 
permanent residenoe; that there are so 
many instanoes where those 

Wte eame to oougta lemalaed ti» itayP 

Then is never a very great auKHint of 
snow— just enough usually for eaeelient 
Sighing. There are many Seandinavians 
in the State, but Thor is almost unknown. 

Out-of-door Work can be piMKuted ail 
winter long. I have often notiosd bttitd 



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; vp m tha oatikirts of the ca|>- 
iMy and I ihiiik it may aa£Bly be alleged 
tet, al aU aeasoBB, '<by St. Piuil, the 
vork goes bnTely oo.*^ 
Ifaefe is a peeoliar dryoMi in the air. 
It la eieven o*€loek in tha fiveBOOD. 
I viU BOl write any mote now. 

8AR3riKLP YouNO. 



The Club, 



WAnSNG FOR THB LAST TRUMP. 

A ooBBESPQinnBtT, whe forwarda his ad^ 
dieEs, polB to reocnd the last wocdi of a 
noted gambler : 

Being ** a ooostant reader of yoor valu- 
able paper/' and also an old friend of 
Mark Twaim's, he and I having worked 
mny a day fflde by side '*at case'* — 
I am sorely templed to addreaa yon, and, 
like Adam of old, being tempted-, ikll. 

We faa^, OT had whilom, ia these parts, 
a man named Westfitll, a gamUer by pro- 
fiMskm, who oseillated up and down the line 
of te M., K., and T. R. R., turning an 
banest penny whenever and however he 
ODold, and who, after a prolonged i^ree, 
tamed op in Homboldt, siek, and became 
tmpraaaed with the idea that he iras about 
to hand in his checks, and requested the 
p w s e Be e of some minisler; wherenpoB 
one &rtman, an ex-Methodist ezhorter, 
whose »nds of life had nearly run out, 
was called in to administer the desired 
spffitual consolation. 

*' What can be done £» me? " anxious- 
ly inquh^ Wesl&U. 

^ Repent and you will be saved," was 
the answer. 

*' And wiU I go to heaven? " 

"1 hope 80." 

''And be an angel?" 

"Y€»." 

'' And wiU I have wings?" 

"Yes." 

" Will yon go to heaven too? " 

'' 1 hope and believe so." 

"Wm yon be an angel?" 

"I hope to be." 

" WiU you have wings? "i 

"Yes." 

'*' When I get to hesven imd you get to 
Itesven, and I asm an angel and you are 
an aagel, and I have idngs and you have 
wingi, V\\ fly yon lor a ten-dollar note." 

Was not that the ruling passion strong 
m-lUe? 

A CHAaniHa Uttle Frenchwoman writes 
her exparienees in sweet simple English 



that goes at once to the heart, 
calls for m<»e : 
JIfr. tJU Eiiion 

I hap^f you shall pardon me, to vrrite 
to you without invitation ; but the Amer- 
icans are so poUiie, the Editors peculiarly, 
that I address myself to you in all cquH- 
dence. 

Why write I to you? I go, sir, to 
tell you. I have remarked that your lit- 
erature interest herself much in foreign- 
ers; in your journals and magacines I 
perceive many poesies and little histories 
wrote by Gormans, Yankees, and even 
Heathm-CSunees ; and I have imagined 
that perhaps it should be pleasant to you 
to read something upon some French {(»• 
eignen who have transmigrated into yoor 
noUe country. Veritably it is the land 
of great souls and of extended com- 
merce ; but, sir, if you can prevent your^ 
self, never transmigriMie. You know not 
which great difiBculties, which suflerings, 
which disappointments you should have to 
surmount ! After one year is passed it is 
better, but the arrival is truly terrible. 
You know not where to dwell ; you ignore 
what they say to you ; and it is impossi- 
ble to apeak to tbem. During six weeks 
I could converse only to my husband ; but 
aftier that he had a malady to the ear— it 
was an effi»ct of the climate— cknd I was 
forced to be silent. Then I tried to speak 
in English. Ah, sir, your language! But 
I must reserve the recital of my tribula- 
tions for another time, and commence at 
the commencement. 

Not to abuse of your patience, I will tell 
nothing of my marriage, solely that my 
husband is an artist and aman most truly 
remarkable. \^ were not rich, but we 
were young and full of good-will, and 
thus we were happy, and dwelled in Paris. 

One day a friend of my husband comes 
from America, and tells fine stories of it; 
that you can do all you will there ; that 
everybody is rich and equal; that the 
American hdies are so beautiful and af- 
fectionate ; it appears that they all loved 
him much, and be had a great album filled 
of curls of ladies, with the name and the 
age of each wrote under. 

I believed him not at all, for I knew 
that the ladies economise their hairs, and 
never tell their age, even in a republic. 
But with the sknplicily of a man, my 
husband believed all that he said. Hy 
poor. Leon talked of America firom momr 



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[Juur, 



ing until night; bo sud we mast go 
there ; that it was an indication of Provi- 
dence. It was in Tain tliati diioouised 
wMy and leaaonably ; I was foroed to 
aabmit myself, for it was my duty to obey. 

I bad loat my parents in my in&ncy, 
hot I possessed an old cousin, and when I 
go sadly to tell her the bad news, she 
cries: '* Ah, my poor child ! that is what 
it is to espouse an artist, a republican." 
That puts me in anger, and I become in- 
stantly penuaded that it is a true hap- 
piness to go to America. I tell so to my 
CDushi ; then we dispute, then wecry, and 
then we make our peace. And before I 
Iea?e Paris she gave me several beaatiful 
pnsents. 

My ha^tNmd has only his &ther, who is 
married again to a rich widow. He says 
probably we shall succeed in America, 
because it is the country of liberty. These 
men are so droll with their eternal lib- 
er^! Bat he adds that he shall pay the 
expenses of our voyage, which aided us 
much ; and he gifted me with a shawl of 
cachemete, and two silk dresses, and I felt 
myself more courageous. 

What astonished me much was that 
some of oar friends, who had never been 
to America, appeared to know perfectly 
what the Americans do. Some say that 
the Indians, pigs, and savage animals 
ran in the streets of their c^>ital. Some 
give us advice to take all we shall need 
for several years, becaiise Americaos know 
how to do nothing but mechanisms. But 
some others say : '' Ah, if we could go 
also ! After France, America is the most 
great country ; there is liberty, equality, 
fraterni^, and never mind what man can 
become President!" 

I was veiy tired of Uie name of Ameri- 
ca, and wished never to have heard speak 
of it ; but when a thing is dedded we 
must take oar eoarage with the two bands 
and not pity ourselves. Finally we are 
ready. Wesay adieu to our good friends ; 
we leave our beloved Pcuris. We arrive at 
the Havre, to embark ourselves, and we 
decide to go upon what is called a sailing- 
she^, becaose it is less dear than a steam 
vessel, and we desire to economixe our 
money more than our time. 

Soon ire mount upon the dieep, and for 
the last time behold the shore of our beau- 
tiftil coontry. Shall we never see it 
again? After some while I have a singu- 
lar iwtfon as if I was a drunken man, 



and my bead taniB. Befone to depart my 
husband had bought some leMedy against 
tiie seasickneas. <*Take some of it, n^y 
friend," he said. I take some of ii. It is 
vrith horror thai I leBMmber that time. 
During all a wedL behold me artepded 
upon the hard bed of o«r little cabin, de- 
testing America, Christopher Columbus, 
everybody. After that week I was well, 
exoepthig during the stonos, of wideh we 
had three. L^on says we had only o»e, 
but I am perfectly sure it was three, be- 
cause I counted them. 

Our voyage lasted forty days, and I be- 
came extremely tired of it. The interior 
of the sheep contained sixty Germans, 
poor peoples, very dirty; in the Sunday af- 
ternoon they had the habit to diink, to 
dance, and to sing '* FridoUn " continu- 
ously. In the cabins were not many pas- 
sengers. There was a lady widow with 
her two children ; shiQ had always fear of 
something. If the wind blowed a little 
strong, she cried : '< Oh, we are lost, we 
are lost ! " When we had some storms 
she throwed heiself on her knees before 
the c^>tain, with her children in her arms, 
in dying : *' Ah, man brave and gener- 
ous, save us— save my children ! " and the 
poor captain knew not bow to disembar- 
rass himself of her ; she was truly a ro- 
manish woman, and liked to make an ef- 
fect. It was so ridiculous. Also there 
was at the other side of us two genUfimen 
of ripe age, very amusing. They occupied 
the time in changing their flannel waist- 
coats, and wearing one, two, or three, ac- 
cording as the weather variedly changed ; 
often in the middle of conveiBation one 
would go away in saying : *' Ah, the wind 
is more cool, I must add another flannel." 
And when the one did it the other also 
immediately, for they were rivals; they 
vm>te a journal of their seusatioDs, and fi^ 
vorixed everybody by reading it to them in 
confidence. It appears that their health 
was not good, and each one wanted to be 
more sick than the other. One morning 
their intercourse became animated. "Per- 
mit me to look at yoor tongue, air," said 
one. "With pleasure, sir," the other 
anfwered. " Your tongae is white, sir, 
but not so much white as mine." "I de- 
mand your pardon, sir, but it is much 
more white than yours." " Pardon me, 
sir, mine is the most white, it is visible." 
" Not at all, sir." I know not how ended 
the dilute, for I precipitated miyself out 



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(/ Hie irty in fear tiiej a^ed me to d0eid» 
the importuit qaesdoo. 

The other persons were not so duurao* 
teristio, bat we made ooDrrersation togeth- 
er and exchanged the books we bad. L^on 
Obswred the effects of Ught, and I amosed 
myself in biittfaig. 

At last we found oimelTes at tiie bay 
of New Tork. The Germans aecoid and 
pat themsehes to ronning and sfaoating 
and to brandishing in the air bundles of 
their baggage. Some officers of hei^th 
and taxes come to make a visit. All be* 
comes a oonfhsion of trunks and of peo> 
pies. Soon we attain to New York. 
Some soiled old women and some little ne- 
groes come to bring us some refteshments 
in bariLcts. I approach myself and I be- 
hold some firuits, some tarts, and some cu- 
rious lumps, yeUow and brown, sur- 
rounded by grease, and, reposfaig upon 
them, a qnanti|y of flies, apparently dead. 
I understood not well what it was, and I 
Imagined that perhaps this was q)eoimens 
of natnnd history oombined with pastry, 
and probably a new American inTentkm 
for the instmotioii of native fore^nen. I 
tjj to look Inglish, and I ask to one of 
these tig&A penone : " What is the name 
of those thiiqpB? " She replies qmokly, 
" F^Tcentsom," and she takes one in her 
quite dirty hand to give me. But I want 
it not, and I laugh and shake my head. 
At that instant my husband tells me that 
a carriage awaits me, and I go. We were 
drove across some streets truly liquid in 
mud; thero was such great quantity of 
other cairiages of all sorts, and so many 
houses tore down to the street, that we 
stop oftea, and our coachman, with the 
other ooaefamen, become furious, and 
sweared sostfon^y that I treadbledof fear 
ofaninsnrreetioo; it was moiie dangerous 
than to be on the sheep. But no serious 
misfortune happened, and we were grate- 
hi to arriviB in oafenosa to a hotel in 
Eroadway fflraet. 

Biddy's knent has more poetry than 
Irit and mere truth than poetry in it. 
The dob nuanittpusiy pronounce Biddy's 
iameni aa eousallettt q^edmen of bad Eng- 
lish and ipood Irish : 

MDtrrs liAME^n. 

Oohf Jody, tbe faayttiiiii are oomin% our notes 

•seyatonlvTj'iat- 
fte «Mira Jaoldn\ nagurUb ciaytbers, with eyes 

numin' up to a p'lat^ 



▲a' pettlooats oa «mi, die vUliiiDi, an' hair In a 

long qame beliiiKl, 
Ban, JIrt ft)r ttie wvnld at oar wee little Maggf 

wean ben, do ye miod? 
eavettiatlieraiaUgbt brown aad tbelr'a black, 

an' they've one an> sbe two ; 
Aa* ttey eat lati and miee an' young kitten»— 

kidade thfai, H^ thme^ 
Aaf purty Urda'-neatf too^ did iver ye's bear or 

the likee nv that? 
SiBhatlngindadel aabone bafaran' thrlOi^Uke 

a dirty door>niat. 
1V> tUnk that aieh vUlahtooa baatea aboold Ivor 

ait down at the table 
Wl' daeent, leaiMCtable bodiaa Uke ua, an' ikith 

it's not able 
FdbetoeatdlrUabit. Beme80wl,theO*Qni- 

diea uv Cork 
Mlver kioked to stt down wl* aieb like, natn* 

attoiEsftirafark^ 
An' pdkin' thim thia way an' that way ftir all 

the nice bits. 
An' talkin' their furriner's gtbberlah, to scare oa 

all off hito fits. 

An' thin. It's their own dlr^ moottia, too, ttiay 
use fbr sprtailLUn' fine linen. 

Unchristian, ye say ? an' bedad it's Just UmL The 
BaiSthreaa, Pm thinktn', 

Will soon nv her bai^gain be sick, if the spal- 
peens are given 

Tobaoky; an' if they*re not now, they aoon Will 
be, ftir ne'er in 

This land can they live without lanin' that in- 
daoent fiishion, 

Like sleepy okl cows kapin' up an unolane maa- 



The gooJ days are over, my darlint, we'll i 

mount the high borae again, 
Fur sure it's ab:eady the misthress Is drawin' a 

mighty tight rein. 
The sngar an' tay are locked up, niver dhrop oan 

I carry to cheer 
My poor old bttnd Ikyther an* mHher, who have 

not bought tay tax a year, 
Staiee Ihrst I whit om Into sarvlee; indade thfai, 

my lady is mane. 
An' oar anemoons oat now, I'm thinkin', win 

soon be.a long way betwane. 
A silk gooo,.dld ye say? Ocb, be jabers, ina- 

voomeen, it's few 
Uv sicb like yell be afllier gettin', whin wiifvea 

is comin' down too. 
TCU not have yer Pat here aioh Sunday, the 

masther's line whiskey to taste, 
Kor yer IHnds droppin' in av an evenm' to ait at 

a snag little fkste. 
An* sure dldnt misthress last night tell me Ml* 

ohael, the broth av a lad, 
Sfaoolda't come here bat onoe tai three weeks a 

aparUn' so tinder an' glad. 
Bed-headed Binke--did ye say ? Troth now that 

same iligant red 
Is considered most highly jhitala by aB stylish 

fMks,ftff the head. 
Oeh, Mike, shaU I iver fiugit the first time I set 

eyes on yer ihoe. 
As ye stood all atrfm ftir a jig, a picture fhr 

beauty an' grace? 



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Sore mr bent WM too lrfgfkirinyciM,an''tte 

breath flew right out or mj thraat^ 
An* I ktoeed imbcacnowDet e'en the ioor, iM(A» 

dear by the toach nr ycr taL 
Bat now will the day be aU dreMry^aU dnarj 

and dismal ttie da^, 
My heart win be filed with Ibe lone apaUa, and 

like a poor flower die away. 
An' sure ft is all fhr them spalpeens-OiUadali 

I*m thinkin' they oaU them, 
They'd beet not tovfte e'er a taata of my m- 

chael's shillaleh, he*d nuud 'cm; 
For a pair or austial blaok eyea, P ftlth, they'd 

soon be his debtors, 
An* Jist their desalts toOi ftir daring to Hip hi the 

ihoes uv their betthers. 
Bkit snre we most hang np onr Addles, the ana 

nv oold Erin is set. 
Git married, jre say? lliat's throe for yee8,dap> 

lint Och, Jody, there's lUh in yeea yet. 



Frox the note book of one of our most 
fitmons humorists, I have been permitted 
to take the ftOlowing for the Club : 

IS WILLIE GONE? 

BY THE BBV. T. W. GOHWAT, BUVEMOnmMWOn 
QV EI>UOATI<»r OV IX>UI8IAir A» 

Is Willie gon»-gone to the land above- 
Gone where ail Is good— where all is love? 
Yes, yes; on angel wings away 
To the land of love, the land of day. 

Ko night, no plood, no " Beax4et ftrer " there 
Nor sin, nor pain, nor death itself is where 
Our Willie's gone— a land so rich, so good, 
Tlmt sahits are fi9d on angels' fttod. 

Is Willie gone— gone so flir away. 

That we no more shall hear him say: 

'* Papa, ten cents for cake, and ril love yon— 

m lore Mamma, Geoigle, and Grandma too." 

Tea, gone where others, sweet and dear. 
Said, " Come, Willie, please eome op here ; 
wen wait for Bapa, Mamma, and Georgle too, 
And« wbOe waiting, sing— we'll shig with yoo." 

Ib not that a sweet thing? The Rev. 
Mr. Conway published it himself, in his 
own educational journal, for he knew 
very well that it was good. He knew ihat 
the suggested absence of scarlet fever in 
heaven was a fine thought ; and if he had 
had room to mention the absence likewise 
of teething, summer comi>laint, and mea- 
i»y this would have been one of the most 
Itrikfng and instructive stawns in the 
whole range of English poetry. There is 
rare creative power and originality of fen- 
cgr in the Itkaof a land ''so rich, so 
good," that no invidious distinctioBB are 
made, and the commonest saints sit at the 
flnt table with the angels. We envy not 
the nature that can read the third stanza 
without emotion. I would rather be the 



eiotlMrof that Mttle Terse than the ooo- 
quer(»r of an empirp. Yet if the author 
of it had pabliabed it in some places in 
the earth, they would have destroyed him. 
There are oommunities that cannot abide 
pathos like that. Bat in Louisiana they 
honor poesy— they exalt the Bard, they 
make him SoperinteDdent of Education. 
Is it not grand. Is it not great and good 
^ai noble of them to do it? I think it is. 
I hope they will continue to be kind and 
good to him— no doubt we all hope it. 
And when he has got the poetry all vrrit- 
ten and fixed for '' Mamma and Papa, and 
Grandma, and Georgie," I h<4>e the com- 
munity he will have done so much fi)r 
will elevate him still higher and su^>end 
him fVom his labors— or ftom a rafter. 
Do not you? 

WASHINGTON PASTRY. 

A sojovsNiR in WashingtoB sends the 
fi^ofwing: 

I am partioulariy fond of lemon pie and 

ice cream for dessert. At Hotel I 

went along peaceably for a oonple of 
weeks, but always eating my lemon pie 
under a silent protest, fori wwastianger, 
and did not like to make ot^tioDS. fV < 
nally I called a waiter and said : 

" John, I have nothing to say about the 
Me eream, but what kind of pie is this? " 

''What kind of a pie did. yoa order, 
sah?" 

*«I ordered lemon pie, bat this ai^>ear8 
to me to be dried^i^." 

"Dat's lemon pie, sah. Yoa kmow 
dcy Ins a way of mixin' dried apples in 
de lemon pies here, sah, to d»t«dBnt dat 
it requires a man of 'bUity for ta distior 
guish 'em apart, sah. Lemoas is sease, 
you know, and dey has to 'eenomiie 'em 
so as to make one lemon d» for sixteen 
piee,8ah." 

THB UTKKAL DOKOmk 

Rcr. Mr. T., of Hartfocd, slated bt ms 
hearing once thafhe hod either heard or 
read of a clergyman who was so rigidly 
and frigidly literal , so densely aad swhiiidi^ 
ly unimaghmtiTS and ma t twv o f fo o t, i^ 
he was wholly incapable of entertirining 
or comprehending a metq»hor of any kind 
whatever; and instanced the fcot that this 
clergyman believed to hiadyaig day that 
Shakespeare^s mindwM uf emti aiiwid and 
confused by too intense sppfioatiCD ' 
he wrote that there be 



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141 



senDoiM-iii stonei^ 

Books in the nmning brooks. 
And good in ererythlog, 

and QODtended that it was perfectly plain 
that what he meant to say was that there 
be * 

— sermons in hooka ^ 
Stone* in the nmning brooks. 
And good In ererything. 



TO A CX>BBS8P0ia>EHT. 

"AjfATSUR Agricultubist." — No, air; 
the eaikd io a diioken's ciaw u not put 
there for tlie purpose your gnuod&ther 
told yoa. Why do not you read? By 
referenoe to Mr. Greeley's intalnable 
work on what he Knows About Fanning, 
you will see that the sand is put there for 
hallaat. 

CoMPLAifiT has veaehed me that the 
Club-Room has been entirely too trivial for 
the gigantic intellects of learning scattered 
over the land ; and to correct this I giye to 
the Room a most learned poem from the 
pen of the erudite Carl Benson : 

. VATIS TESTAMENTUM. 
i Jm m e rtg mt ia Sibemiei Poemat Latin* redditum.) 
i^tam semel in placid oonstratos morte quies- 
cam. 

Cor mens, extremnm nmnns, babeblt amor, 
mdte, dnm media ter r arum In sede moraitum 
«Bt, 

Dolcia com vino pabnla risns emt. 
He lacryroam ftmdat mcerore oppressa Jabeto, 

Ne tantom lacrymis inquinet ilia decus; 
SeUiqnias nvA nostras expressa nibeate 

Boeoida scpe die nocteque gntta la^et. 

Gsrmina qamn fberink flagrantla morte repreesa, 

Aoclpiat retos hoc barbiton aula memn; 
Pendeab ex aUo Umenqae coronet amicam 

Feasns nbi errando staxe Tiator amat; 
Deriiis et siqnis longis smbaglbns, Ulic 

Perreniens, motos non sinat esse modos, 
Tun mihi, com risa, memores Hellconis alunmi« 

Vatem com dtbarl concelebrato soft. 

Feiids domini pateram desmnite ; plena est, 

Fotnris dapibns valde superbos bcmor ; 
At precor, ilto latex ne post oontigat ad ora 

Fotmoaie ■naqnsB iMsta beata ktteia ; 
Faridnsat aiqaie Udosqneooraoet amator 

Pocola delieiis plena bibenda suis, 
IQe latex spumans, qaoties droomftrar mnbra, 

In cyatho ftustus sacer et omnia erft. 

Cabl Bensoit. 



Li the same spirit of accommodation I 
^re these bits from a college scrap-book. 
Jones of oar Club says they are not so on- 
ghial aa they might be; but Jones of our 
Ohib ahraya ii^a that when the good 
thing oomes from somebody eba : 



COLLBGB CONCEITS. 
A few days since the bulletin startled 
us with the following announcement from 
Professor H. : 

NOTICE I 
The /our o'clock recitation tiUs afternoon wID 
be at two o'clock, 

(Signed) . 

The P^resident of Trinity College on go- 
ing to prayers the other morning was sur- 
prised to find a sign over the chapel door 
inscribed: "To PioynnDrcs urn Wat 
Stations!" It had been b(ffrawed by th« 
students from the ndhoad depot. 

Why is a professor like a locomotiye? 
Because you have to " look out" for him 
"when the bell rings." 

A good housewife's motto: "What- 
ever thou dost," dust with all thy might. 

A "class-leader" recently asked a 
scientific student what profession he in- 
tended to follow. " Citil engineering," 
was the reply. " Well," remarked the 
scholar, " I supjfose when a man gets a 
good engine he beccHnes refy much a^ 
tached to it." 

Brown (to Jones dressed in armor (br a 
masquerade)— What's the matter, old fel- 
low? You look grieved. 

Jones (riled as it were) — Nothing of 
the sort; never felt gayer. 

Brown— Bat I know you are grieved 
about something. 

/(mc»— What? 

Brown — About the calves of your legs. 

Freshman (reading aloud from Bartlett's 
" familiar Quotations ")— That's a beau- 
tiful idea. 

Chum — Where from ? 

jFVwAhmiti— Tennyson. 

Chum — ^Yes, but I mean what piece? 

Freshman — It says Ibid, but I didn^t 
know he wrote that. 

Student (translating Aristophanes) — Qo 
to the devil ! 
Instructor — ^You may stop there. 

Freshman (reciting Roman Antiqn- 
ttes) — " And at the conclusion of the ban- 
quet epicures would frequently take an 
e^demk, and " the class coUapsad 



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THE GALAXY CLUB-ROOM. 



[Jcur. 



The following sign ornaments a prom- 
inent street of a Ck>nnecticut college town : 
Thomab Bishop Imfobtbd 
aad 



'^ I 8AT, Jack, how did they get the 
cow up stalls the other night ? '^ Twisted 
her tail." '' Well, how did th^ get her 
down?" " Untwisted it." "Oh!" 

ShuierU (reciting an cheek)^'* Well, 
King John he— he— he got ap a crowd 
and went down and rescued Magna Cbarta, 
and " then he sat down. 

A neighboring picture store invites us 
to purchase *< The Monuments of Europe, 
photographed from Nature." 

Chum dropped into a Romish church 
the other Sunday, and was informed by 
the preacher that " the generally of man- 
kind is apt to do just as the rest of the 
world does." 

Virago is said to be derived from Wr, 
a man, and qgo, to stir up. 



Motto for Freshman : 
from no conditions rise.' 



'Honor and fame 



Scene in recitation on metaphysics : 
Prqfessor^^^ How does Hamilton illus- 
trate this matter of association, by his re- 
visiting Ben Lomond? 

Senior— He says he went to see Ben 
Lomond, and he being a Prussian , etc. 

The latest gravestone discovery is as 
follows: 

Our Little Jacob 

Has Been Taken Away From This Earthlj 

Garden, 

To Bloom 

In A Superior Flowerpot 

Above. 

Two citizens of the Modem Athens dw- 
ooasing the decoration of that celebrated 
dty : 



First atixen—Yea, there at the end 
of Columbus Avenue they ought to put 
up a burst of Columbus himself. 

Second Ciiizenr-YeB ; and one of the 
hands of the burst ought to rest on the 
globe. 

Chum recently overheard the foUow- 
ing dispute between two negro minstrels, 
as to whfch of them had pk^ in the 
most places : 

First AGnstrel-'Vii bet I've played 
where you never have. 

Second Minstrel^l don't believe it. 
Where? 

First Mnstrel-^Egypt. 

Second Aftnj^ne^j^gypt ! Humbug ! 

First Minstrel— YeBy sir; I played id 
Egypt in the Great Pyramid. 

Second Mnstrei.—Wh^ did yea play 
in Egypt, Td like to know? 

First Minstrel— I played faro, of 
oottise. 

Two gentlemen discussing Cuban mat- 
ters: 

First (xentleman— The papers say that 
there is a battle on the tapis. * 

Second Geniiemanr— The Tapis; yes, 
that flows through the eastern port of 
Cuba, don^t it? 

Chum went to hear ^laggie Mitchell not 
long since, and while waiting in the 
file at the ticket-oflGice was thus enter- 
tained by the man behind : 

Man Behind— Wh&t does Maggie 
Mitchell play to-night? 

Chum—FtLTiehxm . 

Man Behind— Weli^ I thought she 
played Fanchon; but when I came m 
there to the door I saw Mat-tin-ny an- 
nounced. 

Qui punehum disiderat, doclaret, is the 
motto of a college convivial elub. Tbey 
have appointed St. JuUenU day as their 
anniversary. 



The Editor of Xhk Galaxy thankfully acknowledges the receipt of man^ 

oontritnUioni intended for this department. Some of these necessarily lie over 

untU another number. The Editor renews his request for ooniributitmSy aad 

Lsks that they he forwarded addressed to the Editor <rf Thb Galaxy {Box 3,201. 

^eiD Tork)y and marked ''For Gjllaxt .CltUhBoom.^ 



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NEBULA. 



— It 18 to be hoped that the warm 
weather this season will not have the 
effect which it sometimes has of promot- 
ing pablic and private qnarrels. Fortu- 
nately there was a short session of Ck)n- 
gresB this year. Neyertheless that body had 
already inaugurated— as our dear Jenkins 
would say— a new style of provocation, 
whidi consists in loolUng at the other 
par^. True, the proverb says that a cat 
may look at a king ; but there are dlfer- 
ent modes of visual inspection, and puss 
most be supposed to examine his Majesty 
with respectful gaze, and not grin sarcas- 
tically like a feline of the Cheshire breed. 
Jealous husbands have sometimes attacked 
strangers for staring at their pretty wives 
in public places ; but on the whole the 
aggravating a man by sheer dint of looks 
seems to be a new practice— new in Anglo- 
Saxondom at least ; something of the kind 
has been current on the European conti- 
nent. As a bad example is catching, some 
of the jeunesse dorie of New York have 
imitated the rulers of the people, and im- 
proved on them in a Hibernian &shion ; 
for, strange to say, the gentlemen behaved 
worse than the M. C.'s ; the latter stopped 
at bad language, the former came to hard 
blows. It happened that the person struck 
was seated at the time, and this &ct 
caused a curious discussion among some 
swells who were speaking of the affiiir. 
Qne interlocutor declared that to strike 
a sitting man under any circumstances 
was taking an unfiiir advantage, and 
therefore cowardly ; but another replied 
that a person who used grossly insulting 
language must know beforehand that it 
was likely to cause a breach of the peace, 
and should therefore be on his feet pre- 
pared to abide the consequences of his 
words. The rest of the party assented to 
this view, and it may therefore be consid- 
ered an established rule in Our Best Soci- 
ety that when one gentleman calls an- 
other an, etc., etc., he must first "rise 
to explain.'* 

— LooEB, however, are not the oddest 
ground of quarrel that has been recently 
guggeeted. An eccentric reformer, suffi- 
dfinUy well knovm to find many quoters, 



seriously asserts that to send a letter in a 
mourning envelope is an insult; it may 
shock the tender sensibilities of the re- 
cipient—which is arrant bosh. It might 
as well be said that a visit paid in a 
mourning dreas was an insult, or that the 
wearing of black in public was an inde- 
corum. And certainly many good people 
have ol^'ected to the use of mourning 
apparel, both on religions and economical 
grounds. Their ol^'ections are well-mean- 
ing, but short-sighted and rustic. Whether 
mourning be ever a superfluity in the 
country or not, it is an absolute necessity 
in a city, fer the sake of the public, that 
is, of Ms public, even more than of the 
wearer. What dty-dweller keeps an accu- 
rate necrology of aU the fiunilies of all his 
acquaintance? How is he to remember at 
any moment that within the last six months 
Jones has lost a grandmother, and Brown 
a maiden aunt, and Robinson a brother 
who lived in South America? But the 
crape hatband and the black gloves remind 
him that he must not ask Brovm, or Jones, 
or Robinson to a supper or a picnic. Even 
with this help absent-minded men some- 
times make queer mistakes. A great 
luminary of the Boston bar once meeting, 
in mid- August, the very respectable son 
of a much less respectable fether, dumb- 
feunded him by inquiring hovo the old 
gentleman stood the heat. The old gentle- 
man had been dead two months. 

— Ahusexbnts change with the sea- 
sons, but there is one vnnter diversion 
which can be and often is extended mto the 
summer. We refer, not to the sempiternal 
round dances and German cotillion, but to 
private theatricals of the genuim private 
description, ^t up in private houses, with 
little costume and no scenery. (The more 
ambitious variety in which amateurs ap- 
pear on a real stage and provoke a direct 
comparison with professionals is naturally 
confined to the winter season.) Our 
motive for introducing the suli^ject here is 
an idea vrhich has more than once occurred 
to us. Private theatricals may be made 
a serious literary vehicle as the means of 
trying, preparatory to public representa- 
tion, original plays of real life. Once, 



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NEBULA. 



[July, 



in the ante helium days, when the Nebulous 
happened to say that a good saddle oould 
be made in America, John Van Btiren 
remarked : '^Tes, if you have an Englif4i 
tree, English leather, and an English 
workman." In the same way it might be 
said that the only good American plays 
have been written by Englishmen, on 
English sul^jects, and represented (partly 
at least) by English actors. Oux chief 
hope of a real society play lies among the 
members of the society to be represented. 
There was a specimen produced a few 
years ago in Boston which went, some 
way toward realizing that hope. 

'—Tableaux are another all-the-year- 
round amusement ; but they are tame and 
weak compared with theatricals, fit rather 
for children, or for adults with more beauty 
than brains. There is nearly as much me- 
chanical worry and expenditure of time on 
them as on the former, without any head- 
work, except what is sometimes required 
for the composition of a tableau not copied 
from any well-known picture. In fact, 
they are properly chQd's play, and with 
pretty children may be made very pretty 
exhibitions. On the other hand, charades, 
the last species of this class of enter- 
tainment, involve too much brain-puzzling 
to be in place during the hot months. 

— While reflecting on the multi&rious 
miseries of poor France, the impression 
has often forced itself upon us that the 
(led Republicans may all along have been 
the tool of him who has made tools of 
many abl^ and better men, the wily and 
unscrupulous Bismarek. We know (as 
fiur as anything can be known about so 
crai^ a character) that he relied on th^ 
indli^Bct cooperation for the reduction of 
Paris ; indeed, that it led him to ejq)ect the 
&11 of the French capital sooner than that 
event took pla€e. This is, of course, a 
mere surmise about bygones, but there is 
^ speculation in reference to the foture 
more practical and worthy of attentiqn. 
The unanimous verdict of our journalists 
seems to be that the only possible salvation 
and rehabilitation of France must be 
looked for in (intellectual) education. 
The topographical and statistical know- 
ledge of German soldiers, contrasted with 
the ignorance of even French officers, has 
furnished a most plausible excuse for this 
"mption ; but let us see how a compar- 



ison of the tV'ench among themselves will 
bear it out. There can be no doubt that the 
French townsman is fitr more intelligent 
than the French peasant; there can be 
little doubt, though we have not the sta^ 
tistics at hand to show it in black and 
white, that he is better fhmished with 
what we usually agree to call education, 
whether as regards mental training ot 
knowledge of individual facts. Tet it is 
the people of the great towns, not those of 
the country, who have either threatened 
or actually opposed the chief obstacles to 
the restoration of settled government ; and 
we must bear in mind that many of these 
townsmen are emigrants finom the country, 
and have grown unruly as they grew intel- 
lectual. We do not mean to deny that edu- 
cation, in its popular sense, is a great need 
of the French nation ; but we do most posi- 
tively deny that by itself and of itself it is 
adequate to bring about the desired results. 
Moral ballast, rather than either olevemess 
or knowledge, is what the French want. 
The greatest defect in their character is 
the inability to connect theory with facts j so 
as to- develop the former without doing 
violence to the latter. Either your French- 
man is a materialist and an animal, or be 
IS a sheer theorist, always in Cuckoocloud- 
land, always '* walking in the air and 
thinking all round," like the model soph- 
ist of the Attic comedian. Their careless- 
ness about truth and their violent repug- 
nance to unpleasant truths are natural 
developments of this incapacity, which is 
surely rather a moral than an intellectual 
foiling, though it may partake somewhat 
of the latter quality. It was truly unfor- 
tunate for France that the tyranny and 
bigotry of Louis XTV. drove out the great- 
est portion of her strongest and steadiest 
moral element ; and she is now stripped by 
Prussian ocmquest of the most solid sec- 
tion of het population. Perhaps some 
great man may arise who will inspire the 
French with a true moral perception, as 
Bismarck has inspired the Germans vrith 
activity; but the lookout at present is 
very unpromising. 

— However this may be, (me thin^ is 
certain, that the mass of European think- 
ers are (pace President White of Cornell 
University) reverting to the original judg- 
ment of civilization upon the first French 
revolution. That judgment, as our read- 
ers well know, pronounced it a teirrible 



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efttecijmif which might well be tha ine?- 
itable resalt of the blnndenqg and grmd- 
ing oppreaaioQ that preceded it, but n^as 
fkot by any meauB a goo& thiog in itself. 
The barbarous autocratio leaetioa that 
luUowed the &11 of Napoleon drove moat 
lib^al men into a diflkrent appreeiatioii of 
it. It was regarded as a rude and exag- 
gerated expression of potent and progre»- 
aire truths. But now that the third and 
fiKiTth gemratioBB can build with nothing 
better than slime, the oonTiotion returns 
that the original Babel was a baa^eas and 
airy fiU)rio. liberty has proved an altar- 
native of anarchy and autoenu^; equality 
has not solved the problems of poverty and 
has abolished nobility rather than nobles ; 
£ra4emity has made class hatreds ohiUnie. 
^^ By their &aits ye shall know them." 
What froit has 17B9 thought toperieetion? 

— AfTES heroio struggles Commander 
Selfridge has &iled to disoover a practir 
cable Darien route. But is it after all a 
&ilurey or if a £ulore, is it not better than 
aome suooeases? ** Better rMBorse than 
regret," said an unscrupulous Frenehwo 
man. The sentimoit was questionable 
oiough inhersooialapplioationofit; but 
in a high^ sense it is not to be absolutely 
rejected. Better spomd money and risk li£b 
than lose any efaoneeof a great and virtuous 
achievement, bMieSeial alike to science 
and to commerce. 

— XB0Lix)PB'8 last and in seme respects 
cleverest novel contains some semi-Thack- 
etayssh, m&re than semt-ironieal observa* 
tioDs on the beatitude of dtaaoe maniages, 
and the worldly wisdom of trusting to luek 
in saatrimonial oomiections. It may, be 
doubted, howev^, if there is not more real, 
earnest truth in all this than the shrewd 
aotbor sees, or chooses to see. Love 
matches, even when founded on years of 
previous aequaintance, may neverthelest 
&il to be happy. Strange qualities some- 
times develop themselves on one or both 
aides^ perhaps with the new relatioo, per- 
haps not till after years of wedk)ok. In 
the wisest and most careful marriages 
theie is a great deal of lottery, lookmg 
merdyatthe di^Mxdtions of the two ooft- 
ftraeting parties, <iad without taking into 
account the physical and moral ptoperties 
of oftprtng, the cfaaacee of badness, and 
ether doubtfiil elements. AH whkh con* 
firms and emphasises what we recently 



mid abottt fiMfrligs portions. SuialgF, 
surely, when so many leaps must be made 
in the dark, if we can do any of our jump- 
ing by daylight, we ought to do it. It is 
not mercenary or selfish for a young man 
to say,'*! will never decline a wife, in 
other respects suitable, because she is por^ 
tionkss; but I demand that her pecuniary 
position be made plain to me, and her for- 
tune, so &r as it depends on her &mily, 
assured now, one way or the other." As 
it is, many parents are guilty of passing 
their daughters off under &lse pretences, 
bringing them up and marrying them 
under an organized system of deception. 

— When Leland wrote Hans Breitmann's 
" Barty " more than ten years ago, it was 
extensively circulated and read. When 
he afterwards developed his hero in a 
series of more recondite and elaborate bal^ 
lads, these were better received by sofaolars 
than by the multitude. The lucky accident 
of choosing a &shionable toy as the sul>- 
ject of his verse restored Breitmann to 
popular &Tor, and made him a pecuniary 
success ; and no sooner had this happened 
than a number ofthe critics turned against 
him. This difference of taste among dif- 
forent dosses in regard to various pro- 
ductions of the same author seeo^ likely 
to receive a firesh illustotion m the case 
of Mr. Hay. His *' little Breeches " and 
''Jim Bludso," though praised by some 
critics, were, on the whole, greater fovor- 
ites with the mass than with the literati. 
But " Gilgal " took strong hold of the 
scholars. They saw in its quaint terms 
and pregnant suggestiveness a first-KsIass 
specimen of the Bret Harte school. On 
the other hand, the general public, which 
had applauded the previous poems, hesi- 
tated somewhat at this. Such is the 
author's own statement, which our obser- 
vation conforms. 

— Mr. HxifRT WaUd BxBCBBft is not 
always the best judge of proprieties and 
improprieties, but he has done a good 
work in protesting against the absurd ftiss 
made aboct Rulioff. Of all mcHrbid curios^ 
i^, the curiosity which expends itself on 
a murderer is the most morbid and the 
most unreasonable. The prestige of a 
seducer, fidse and corrupt as it is, rests 
nevertheless on the perv«rsion of qtmlities 
lovely and attective in themselves. The 
admiration which follows the suecessful 



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^£BULu£. 



[JULT, 



ipeeuktor cfr Tinf-tiiiflf, and whieh som»- 
tiiDes palroaizes him after be has met Willi 
deeerred shipwredc, m still lower and 
more vulgar ; bat at any rate the tangible 
frait is pleasant, though it may have 
q)rang from dirt and filth. Bat the delib- 
erate and prc^Bssional morderer is simply 
an enea^ of the haman raoe, and the 
lesoltB of his work are as ghastly and 
repulsive as its motives are diabolical. 
To dally with him is about as proper as to 
fondle a mad dog. Sooiety is merely act- 
ing in self-defenoe when it exterminates 
such wild beasts, and it ought to exter- 
minate them swiftly and silently, with no 
more delay or publicity than is necessary 
to secure strict justice. 

— In these summer days it is refireshing 
to an imaginative person to read the re- 
port of what the scientific parly saw and 
felt, who passed last winter on the top of 
Mount Washington. There must have 
been s(mie fun in it ; though on the days 
when the hurricanes blew at the rate of 
about ninety miles an hour, one would 
hardly ei^joy that situation, atad, as a gen- 
eral thing, indeed an unscientific mind 
might prefer the comer of the hearth, 
leaving his companions to make their ob- 
servations on the temperature outside, 
while he would take his own firom the inr 
side, and then compare notes. In these 
June days at any rate, it will be no heresy 
if asked '' of the seasons of the year which 
to you is the most dear? " to decline to re- 
ply ** winter." There is a class of stoics, 
we know, to whom even fix>Ken ears seem 
to give pleasurable sensations, as being 
the work of Jack Frost. We confess that 
we prefer his handiwork on the window- 
pane ; and last winter be was not a very 
successful draughtsman— there seemed to 
be unusual monotony in his designs, great 
blotches of white, with few intricately del- 
icate little patterns. We serve Queen 
June rather than King Frost. 

— Thi papera hare lately been report- 
ing that a Bostonian visiting £n|^d a 
short time since, was inquired of in Lon* 
don " if the Indians in Boston wcH^ipped 
at the same diurohes as the white resi- 
dents. ' ' We can voudi for the authenti- 
dty of a remark still more brilliantly ig- 
norant, whi^ was made on this sub- 
ject in the same great city of London, to a 
New Yorker laM year. A £unily of 



Americans lived for a few months at ont. 
of the London hotels. The nurses used to 
squat upon the floor sometfanes, to play 
with tiie babies! An Shiglish lady wht 
saw them said, in perfect sincerity, that 
siie '* supposed the nurses had learned thi| 
fesbion fiom the Lidians," constant inter 
oouise making them naturally adopt their 
eustoms. 

—It is one of the most delightfid of the 
women writers fer *' The Galaxy " who 
sends the Nebulous Person this little essay 
<m a snl^ect he has himself sometimes ven- 
tured to lightly discuss : On one or two 
ocoasl£»8 lately there have been in these 
pages words concerning types of men and 
wmfien most popular or unpopular witii 
their own or the complemental sex ; and 
evraywhere we cons^tly meet with as- 
sumptions that such and such qualities of 
mind, heart, and person must be class 
characteristics of those predestined to 
achieve sodal success, or surest to compel 
or win individuid admiration and devotioq. 
For this general belief there must be a 
foundation of truth, though it is quite 
certain that to many women that some- 
what sapless creature known as a ladies' 
man is quite as flavorless and unheroic as 
he can be to tiie brother men to whcnn be 
is like in unlikeness ; and the ideals of all 
men are as certainly not to be found in the 
ranks of fond incapacity, among the Ame- 
lia Osbomes, the Doras, the Hettys and 
Tessas, where women generally rather con- 
temptuously assign ihsm. But the (^ynic's 
assertiim that propinqui^ makes most 
marriages has the greater truth. Who, 
in fece of Hbe daily encounters with the 
wildest insanities of lore, would venture 
to assort that any man or woman bom to 
the purple of great, unreckoning aflbction, 
to the sway of many hearts, must of ne- 
cessity be of thii or that defined type? 
L(y?e befidls, overtakes, and motley is in- 
deed his only wear. Who can say how it 
happensT There is a patent nolMlity, a 
divined sweetness and stead^uitness, a tridc 
of thought, speech, or look — any or all 
these ; or there is nothing tangible ; even 
there may be that which hurts principle, 
gallstaste ; and before one dreams of lin- 
gering one is bound hand, foot, will, past 
idl praying fyt. With even the briefest 
looking at life one ought to aooept love's 
marvels placidly ; yet how we pusile to 
account for an occasioDal exaggerated vt^ 



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KEBUUE. 



147 



gftrf. Here is a faadielor who we settle 
ii to be a beehelor always : he hae a pae- 
•ioo tar nrasie, or art, or seieiioe in one 
fiinn or anotbei^--a pasiion ao strong that 
heart and soai seem wholly abearfoed ; or 
he is oveir-exacting and fiustidioas, and 
thou^ he has flattered here and paused 
there, thoogh this time his ehoioe would 
have been perfect aotoally and romantio- 
ally, and another time it is, yes ! qaite 
eirtain, still he passes on, the benignant 
handkearohief is not dxqoped, and his soli- 
tacy state beooraes firmly assured. Sad> 
defily this Ibfeoidained eelibate, after a 
oourtBhip brief and ardent as a Norwegian 
summer, marries a woman neither young 
nor beautiful, a woman who does not eien 
simulate the smalleet ifympath|^ with his 
dominant taste ; a Tixen, an invalid, whom 
saftring has so well-nigh erased that her 
own fiuaily remonstrate with the reckless 
lover, rake open to his gase the buried of- 
feooes of the past ; yet his infatuation is 
not to be one whit allayed, his haste one 
momeiit stayed. Or it is a beautiful wo- 
man who, in a long and ^lendid career <^ 
beUeship, has rejected a procession of ir> 
reproaohabie adorers to bestow herself 
finally upon weakness pitiable or &reical ; 
a man so spent with the stmg^ of life 
that no freshness of spirit remains to him ; 
a boor or solemn prig unable to api»ectate 
her charm ; a man physically or mentally 
twiated all awry ; in short, a cms for the 
gmans <^ protesting friends. It is, with 
flOflBesB shades and gradations, the story 
of Dofia P^ulilla del Flor over and over 
again— the beautiful, delicate girl who 
turned her back upon the vrorld and hid 
hetself in a convent to the despair of a 
city fUl of lovers, yet who presently there- 
after lost her soul lor asavage bandit with 
" ia mam plus rode qu'un gant*^^ And 
incessant as the refrain of the sea upon 
the shore should sound that of the poem 
through a haughty world, 

Ebfimts, void dee bcBuft qui iMMsent, 
CMbei Vos roogee taUienl 

To evny reader will occur many inezi^- 
cable instances of mdividual or general 
fiiseinatioii within her or his ezperienoe 
ormemovy. Of for veiy certain the strang- 
est that ever foil beneath my ken let me 
make record. My school days were but 
just over, and I was stajdng for a few sum- 
mer vreebi with some fHends at theft coun- 
tiy house quite near a great city which 
was neither London, P»kin, tior yet Teddo 



— O^ton perh^w, or shall we say LassaT 
Now my hostess was a woman given, to 
the great discomfort ^ the ftmily, to the 
fostering of all manner of lame ducks ! 
disagreeable, even she admitted, in their 
quacking, vraddling, indiscriminate-de- 
vouring state, but then this state wai 
transitory; rather, it was a cruellest en- 
chantment, they being not really ducks at 
all, and very soon would be seen what 
svrans of snper-ezoelling snowiness and 
statefiness ! And the queer, queer birds 
of odd plumage, odder utterance, oddest 
antecedents, and cranks muldform and 
manifold, were constantly precaented to the 
sufiering household in such a humane, 
good-iTorks aspect that the gruffest dis- 
senter submitted, doubting lest a swan, if 
not verily an angel, might not be enter- 
tained unavrares. And truth to tell, the 
burdm fiM heaviest on these meek surren- 
derers, for iSb» dear, great4iearted woman 
herself liked and disliked veheniently , and 
could in no vrise tolerate bores; if she 
could descry in her du(^ no fibre that made 
him of her special kinship, " her own '' 
as she was vront to say, then the shelter 
of her home and every possihle aid and 
comfort to soul and body vrere fre^ ae^ 
corded; but the dead ireight of entertain- 
ment and all minor cares fell upon whom- 
soever could find it in their Christian char- 
ity to shoukler these ferdels. When I 
arrived at ''the house beside the sea" 
(Lassa has a superb bay!), my hostess 
seised upon me : Work for you, my dear 
child! Such a hopeful, hopeful duck! 
Such excellent dispositions ! A soul all 
wearied out vrith shaCms, doubts, strug- 
gles, and yearning for surety, feith, rest. 
A sorrowful— nay, a sinful past that had 
left its stain ; great present darkness and 
worldliness, but better gleams through the 
cloud. And so on until my heart quite 
melted within me. At supper I encoun- 
tered the olyect of this tender compassion 
— a woman of thirty or thereabouts. For 
a quarter hour I listened to her conver- 
sation, and the melted heart turned to 
adamant. I had never dreamed that any 
wcsnan could soil her lips with talk so bit- 
ter, so reckless, so scuidalous. Neither 
monosyllabic replies nor silence abashed 
her in the least. Presently she turned her 

attention toward me : " Mrs. tells me 

you are a pupil at convent ? * " Yes,** 

I answeied, hoping that now I might 
dare to lift my eyes fW>m my plate. "Are 



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148 



KEBUL^. 



[JCLT, 



not the ofaikbeii of — ^ and there? " 

menttoning twomoton of repute m Laasa. 
I named the ec^olais, and then from the 
terrible woman came another scandalous 
history, in the midst of which I plucked 
to attentive, round-eyed child of nine or 
ten from her seat at table, and with my 
prey retreated from the room with scant 
ceremony. During that same evening I 
beard the woman remark that she be- 
lieved more love had fiiUen to her share 
than to that of apy otiier woman in Amer- 
ica ; and upon my quoting this statement 
with somewhat incredulous scorn to « 
member of the household who had not 
been present, I vras assured that the wo- 
man had been noted for her success social- 
ly , and had indeed had many loven. After 
1^ vras married, one literary man in LASsa 
of much ability had oommitted suicide for 
her sake, quite uselessly, as it seemed 
now; for the vroman's present troubles, 
doubts, depresBioos, grew out of a divorce 
from her husband which she had been in- 
stigated to obtain, and which her hu^Muid 
had been hired to allow, by a lover whose 
irife she was now vraiting to become. 
Waiting vainly, sbp almost feared, for the 
honorable lover, a professional man of 
high standing, belonged to a &mily justly 
proud of their irreproachable record, and 
they, well-nigh frandc at the prospect of 
this disgraceful marriage, were moving 
the heavens and the earth to prevent it. 
And on her aide it was as bitterly opposed 
by her friends and ardent admirer*. Now 
this woman was the mother of several 



children, all of whom their fetfaer tctriirf 
save a baby of eight or ten months. Tbert 
was no alleged ill-treatment, no fooling of 
violent dislike ; simply indifforenoo^ and a 
preference for a younger man of fiur high* 
er position. And where, where lurked 
the wpman's chaim? for patent It was 
not to ordinary observers. Anezprearion* 
leas fooe of sandy whiteness, pale eye* 
brows and eyelashes, sparse dead-coloied 
hair foiling in one lank curl behind eMa&t 
ear, a long thin neck, narrow and exow- 
sively sloping shoulders, great hands and 
feet, and a figure utterly destitute of the 
least womanly roundness or allurement. 
Her toilettes were too tasteless to render 
her any service, her conversation intolera- 
ble to old-fo^doned people. Peritaps 
the secret dwelt in the kind heart and lav- 
ish hand she vras said to posBesi. It may 
not be amiflB to add that the period of her 
spiritual anxiety coincided closely with 
the duration of her lover's hesitancy, and 
vanished with her reeHtabKshment among 
the matrons of Lassa, and that at the 
mention of one lame duck a ^' good gray 
head " was wont to be shaken sadly. It 
is true, too, that a sympathetic heart need 
not include maternal tenderness, and I be- 
lieve I encountered that baby's name late- 
ly in an account of some juvenile per- 
formanco in a school very distant from 
Lassa ; and the account went on to say 
that the school might well chum to be the 
little lad's Alma Mater, sinee he had been 
there from infency , two years old or theie- 
aboats. 



The present (July) number of The Gat-axt opens the twtifth tfolume ef tbe 
magoHne. The volume Just closed ended with a circulation larger by full ten 
thousand than it had at its opening ; and appearances indicate that this twelfth 
volume will experience a like gain in its regular readers before it also is brought 
to its conclusion. The Editor feels sure that the friends of The Galaxy will 
ivekome the new type upon which this number is printed. While presenting a 
larger and fuller face it yet allows the giving of an amount of reading matter 
at least equal to that b^ore contained in these pages. The attraoHans which Ths 
Galaxt has heretofore offered will be kept up during the present volume. Ar- 
ticles from prominent leaders of opinion on politioal and social subjects may be 
expected regularly ; the departments now established will be fully niaintaiiied ; 
new tcriters wUl frequently appear ; and every effort will be used to secure what- 
ever nwst deserves the attention of magazine readers^ whether written on this or 
the other side of the Atlantic. Whatever the most liberal expenditure can pro- 
cure and the largest hospitality to fre^.frte, individual, natural^ and original 
Uierary production invite, the readers qf The Galaxy shall always Iiave. 



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JOHN STUART MILL. 



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THE GALAXY. 



VOL. Xn.— AUGUST, 1871.— No. 2. 

LADY JUDITH: 

A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS. 
By JuBiur McCabteet, Author of ** My Enemy's Daughter," eto. 



CHAPTER XXVn. 

"JOHN." 

A SMALL blue lake lies glowing under a sky of burning blue. The lake 
itself is but the ornament of a great grassy plain, through which a river 
now trickles and now flows. Sometimes the river becomes a broad stream, 
sometimes and suddenly it is seen only as a thin thread of water; sometimes 
its progress or even its existence can hardly be traced at all, except through 
the &usb that the grass shows wet and marshy where the water still oozes along. 
The lake is very deep and marvellously clear and blue. The eye can see 
down, down to its lowest depths, bo transparent is the water. The ^hoal of lit- 
tle fish you see below, and which you thhik yqia could touch with your hand, 
are twenty feet beneath the sur&ce. This pool which we call a lake is not 
known by such a name or by any name, there on that broad plain which it 
adorns. Lx England or Lreland, in Switzerland or Northern Italy, it would be 
a lake with a name and a fame. Here, where the name of lake suggests a 
great sea furrowed by perpetual lines of steamers and having populous com- 
mercial cities rising everywhere on its shores, this pretty little pond is not 
worth classifying or naming. Even when this plain grows peopled that water 
will still be a nameless little pond. 

The plain is completely girt around by mountains. They are bare and 
stony, but of exquisite and noble outline, like the mountains of Greece. They 
are of lofty height— higher fkr than any of the hills of Attica— but they are only 
the spurs, the stragglers of a grand and celebrated chain of mountains, and 
have themselves no feune and hardly any name. There are few trees anywhere 
over the plain— none indeed except a little clump which stands near the lake — 
and there is hardly any verdure on the mountains. The grass on the plain is 
still green; it keeps its color along the river-track even through the heats of 
summer, when the ground elsewhere changes its hue to a kind of arid, ashy 
white. The weather just now is beautiful, fit to lull the soul of a poet or a 
dreamer into a heaven of sensuous delight. But the changes of climate are 
sudden, fierce, and, to a stranger, seem sometimes almost supernatural. The 
traveller has perhaps toiled across the plain some burning September day. 

Entered according to Act of Ck>ngrees, in the year 1871, by Sheldon ft Company, in the Offloe 
of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
10 



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160 LADY JUDITH. [August, 

when tlie sky was dazzlingly bright and tihe torrid rays of the son were ahnost 
Insupportable. He has camped on the groond at night, and even in sleep has 
revelled in a growing and unestpected coolness, and he opens his eyes in the 
morning to find the ground covered everywhere with a thick white mantle of 
snow. 

This plain and that cincture of hills form a scene common enough in the re- 
gion where we see them. The traveller may journey for days, nay, for weeks, 
through a succession of such landscapes. This is in the.western region of the 
United States ; the reader may locate the precise i^ace either in the neighbor- 
hood of the Rocky Mountains or the Sierra Nevada, according to his pleasure. 
Some years ago this plain was bare of 3II inhabitants. It lay out of the track 
of the regular emigrant trains, which T^ould have had to turn aside and cross 
ranges of mountain barriers to reach it; and it was not a good hunting ground, 
and therefore was avoided by the Indians. IL^oi^g ago, it is believed, there was 
A small offshoot of an Indian tribe settled there, having gone there to escape 
some powerful enemies. But the enemies discovered their retreat, hunted them 
down, and slaughtered theni all-— every one to the last man, the last woman, 
the youngest baby. Then the victors took the scalps of the vanquished, left the 
corpses to bleach and rot, and returned to their own hunting-ground. It lay 
in the track of. dvUisatlon represented by emigrant trains and militai^ folrts, 
and th^retee ijmy te their tarn were gradually extirpated. Since the raid of 
th« iiwiJUii— jlMi Wllley with the bine lake had known MtlJe or nothhig of the 
Indlansi 

More hMj a few refugees firom civilization had found out this place and 
settled there. They planted the trees whidi grow by the lake and pleasantly 
shade the spot, and they i built a few log houses, and lived secluded, peacefhl, 
sometimes very laborious lives there. They were men brought together by no 
other bond or affinity than a common desire and determination to live away 
from civilization, and periwps, too> a common vague £u(^ or at least hope^ 
that a better Hfb, a stronger inspiring principle, a purer element of religions in- 
tuition, might grow up among ihem in the work and the ways of this lonely 
eompanioDship, tiiis hermitage finternity. They were not the founders of any 
new sect; there was no name by which to define or classify them, even if they 
had been numerous enough to invite any attempt at classification ; they sought 
no adbereotot not po speak of converts, and asked of tiie world and civilization 
nothing but to be let alone. Which the world and civilization readily did, no- 
body caring or knowing anything of this small group of self-made exiles. 

In the United States here and there are many such littie groups, not nearly 
large enough to be called settlements, or to be heard of in books of travel or In 
newspapers. There is no form of human ecoentriclty so absurd or extravagant 
that it cannot find some one man of force and ability ready ta become its glori- 
fier and apostle, and soase few other men willing to come out of the world and 
associate in a sort of exile for its sake. In one of tiie States vflmh used to be 
called the Far West, but which are recently beginning to be regarded as Mid- 
dle States, and will be classed as Eastern the day after to-morrow or there- 
abouts, there lately stood, and probably still stands, a solitary house on a hill- 
side, containing a whole sect or community thus associated as voluntary out- 
easts from society. This was a community of Free-Lovers. It had never num- 
bered' more ttan ten; the other day it had dwindled down to five. Yet the 
Free-Lovers insisted on regarding themselves as a community of exiles, and 
were proud of their withdrawal from civilization in the neighboring town, 
where their very existence had been long forgotten. 



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UB71.] : tADTJUPECa HBL 

Bat soch a8sociatk>iia are by no meaiiB generally, or eCTeo «>Aeiv ctode up of • 
persons who bold any extraordinary views, or come together for the indnlgence 
of any freaks of sensualism or fantastic humor. The facility for isolation in*, 
such a country as America naturally suggests and tempts to voluntary isola- 
tion. Many of the fraternities least known to society at large are .perfectly . 
harmless, inoffensive, honorable communities, made up of men who, out of a » 
fellowship of disappointment or aspiration, rather, than of creed, are. drawn to- 
gether into a settlement isolated from civilization and prc^ess all around. 
These £or the most part attract no attention — are wholly unknoivii/iindeed, to 
the pul^ outside. The ouidoiity and observation which follow such eccentric, 
positive, and comparatively influential associations as that of the Mormons or 
that of the Shakers never touch these small and purposeless unions. The^ votes 
sacer who made the Brook Farm enterprise .immortal is wanting to them^ as 
well perhaps as the high poetic purpose And the adnrnrnftnt of varied intellect . 
and culture which would have rendered the Brook Farm scheme. interesting « 
even though HawthomiB had never enshrined it in romanoe. Yoti may find a 
dozen or twenty such Mttie settlements in the United States as .this of whioh.we : 
are now speaking, too small and insignificant even for Hepworth Dizofn to 
think them worth study or description. 

Such a littie cluster of ten or a dozen men had settled some years ago in tiiis 
valley by the lake. They had come there from some place farther eastward, 
because there the land around them was becoming too thickly populated, and 
they fied before the <ioming of their Mud. Wandering hither and thither, tax 
and wide, they had come at length upon this lonely piain within its rampart of 
mountains, quite out of the way, off the line of the steady westward Boaroh of 
civilization. There they had set up theu: staffs and for some few years had had 
undistarbed quiet. But of late the mountain girdle had been discovered to be 
as rich in precious minerals as the zone of a sultana; and in all the passes and 
gullies of the mountains, and along the beds of the mountain rivers, rough, 
reckless explorers were soon swarming, and on the edges of the plain canvas 
towns were rising. A canvas town, it may be well to explain, to some Euro- 
pean readers at least, is a cluster of tents to cover and shelter the miners and 
squatters who have been attracted by some new-found riches in the earth. 
One tent has a bar, with perhaps a couple of flashy-colored lithographs over it, 
and a few botties and glasses, and this institution has a sign hung up outside 
proclaiming it to be a hotel or restaurant or sample-room, as the case may be. 
The owner of another tent goes in for financial dealings, and announces his 
canvas house as the Bank or the Exchange. Another sets up a " grocery ^' 
store, wherein he.sells everything he can get together, from candies and canned 
oysters to bowie knives and huge thigh boots. In a canvas town of considera- 
ble standing, large population, and bold social pretensions, may be seen a tent 
which displays half a dozen crinolines swinging in the breeze, and has bright 
shawk and ribbons and women^s boots inside. But the canvas settlement at 
Uie feet of the mountains we are now describing was very far as yet from this 
stage of dviliiation. Not one solitary crinoline could have found a purchaser 
there. The ungracious Saints Senanus and Kevin, of the Irish legends, might 
have been happy there. No voice of woman would ever have disturbed the sa- 
cred stillness of tiieir prayerftd thoughts. 

Unwelcome indeed was the intrusion of this form of active civilization to 
the hermits by the lake. It became wearily apparent that they must endure a 
constantly increasing pressure of rough companionship, or pull up stakes and 



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162 LADY JUDITH. [August; 

seek elsewhere a i^ew home. Some of the hermits were now getting old, and 
shrank from fhrther wandering; were perhaps losing £Edth in the possibility of 
an3rwhere escaping from their busy brother man. Some perhaps were losing 
faith in the dream of isoUtion altogether. There was therefore much hesitancy 
and delay, and meanwhile they began inevitably to get known among the new- 
comers, the mining folk. They were not misanthropists, and they were able 
to render many good tarns to the invading barbarians. They could always 
give medicine to any one who was sickly; they could acit as surgeons to a 
wounded or injured man; they had plenty of gunpowder; they were not afraid 
of an3rthing; they acted sometimes as advisers and arbiters in disputes; they 
had joined energetically in the expulsion or other punishment of robbers, mur- 
derers, and such like evil-doers. They came to be respected among the barba- 
rians, and it was understood that they were to be treated with some considera- 
tion, and that their settlement was to be held saored against all disturbance or 
molestation. 

Now in this little community of hermits, apparently about to be driven on to 
seek a new h(Hne, were two or three natives of Great Britain, two or three na- 
tive Americans, a German, two Swedes, and a Wallachian Jew. No one knew 
or cared to know the real name of the other, or any of his antecedents and his- 
tory. It was understood that no allusion to the past or the outer world was to 
be made. If by chance any one of the fraternity should come to hear of any- 
thing going on in New York, or San Francisco, or Europe, he kept it to him- 
self and said nothing of it. Sometimes it became necessary that one of the 
body should journey to the nearest large city to make purdiases. When he 
did so, he avoided as J&ur as he could hearing anything of what mi^t be going 
on in the active world. If he did nevertheless hear anything, he bore with it 
and said nothing about it They lived on game, on fish, on maize, and fruits 
which they had with infinite labor compelled the desert to grow abundantly. 
They lived in separate huts quite independently of each other, not even pray- 
ing together. Sometimes one of the body never for days interchanged a word 
with any of his fellows ; sometimes two or three would work or read together 
for a long succession of days. Each respected as far as possible the peculiari- 
ties and idiosyncrasies of the others. The bond of union was the understand- 
ing that each considered himself absolutely cut off from the living world, and 
was striving to purify himself from earthly passion and selfishness, and to pre- 
pare his soul for the better life. 

The oldest man in this little brotherhood was a tall, lean, dry Scotchman, a 
man apparently of great scientific attainments, and who seemed to have trav- 
elled &r over the earth^s surface. He was growing gray and shrivelled; had 
a hard, thin £EU)e, lighted by gray eyes, which sometimes gleamed with a spar- 
kle of humor. He was a m3rstic and a humorist at once ; Swedenborg and 
Captain lismahago in one. He believed that through a pure life of labor and 
unselfish devotion man would at last become perfect, absolutely impervious to 
temptation and to sin upon this earth; and when the mood was on him and he 
could find listeners he loved to expatiate upcm this £Edth of his, and to explain 
and illumine it by all manner of illustrations drawn from history and science, 
fh>m the Scriptures and the open book of Nature. There was something won- 
derful now and then in the rich roll of his ek>quenoe when the talking fit was 
on him, and in accents like those of a Chalmers, with gesticulation like that of 
a Guthrie, he poured out his argument for the new creed which ordered man 
to seek not merely perfection, but even immortality, on this earth by the cul- 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 153 

tore of the soil, by habitual seclusion, by absolute purity of body, by the con- 
quest of the passions and bitternesses of the heart. 

This man, though the eldest, was not the founder or pioneer of the little 
body of companions. The leader was younger in years and far less fixed in 
habits. Lately this founder of the society had taken to long wanderings away 
from the place. He would disappear for weeks or months, so that his compan- 
ions sometimes thought he would reappear among them no more. He always, 
however, did come back; and a certain quick energy and forcefWness of char- 
acter enabled him to retain tacitly the kind of virtual leadership which he had 
held from the beginning. He never expounded any faith, or oared to listen to 
an exposition from the lips of others. He frankly told his fellows that there 
were times when he could not endure any companionship, and when he could 
not rest tranquilly in any place. He therefore commonly made any expedi- 
tions which were requisite for the benefit of the whole company. Expiation, 
rather than aspiration, seemed to be the unpulse of his self-banishment from 
the world. 

One of the Swedes was a man of high culture, who had evidently at one time 
been in the military service. The death of his young wife in child-bed long 
ago had so deeply affected Mm that his friends believed his reason was touched. 
He wandered out to America, crossed the plains, fell in with the leader of this 
party on one of the latter^s expeditions, and joined the settlement The other 
Swede was a mere peasant who had been enticed out to the Mormon commu- 
nity, became disgusted with it, and came at last to the scene and the people 
with whom we find him. The German had been a professor in a college in 
Baden. He got mixed up with the Baden revolution, was severely wounded in 
the head, and escaped to the United States, where he was seized with a passion 
GT craze for a new religion and new kind of life. The Wiillachian was little 
better than a religious lunatic — at best, an extravagant and hyperbolical en- 
thusiast The Americans, two of whom had been ministers of churches, be- 
longed to that class more common in America than in any other country — the 
class of able, well-educated, and restless devotees of new '* isms '^ and crotchets, 
men who thirst always for a new theory to put into practice, with whom noth- 
ing is settled, and who, the moment they are stricken by any notion or conceit, 
however wild, damor for a new school, a new religion, to give it expression. 
There is in America a constant collision or at least contrast of two forces, 
which in great measure explains the fact, so odd-looking to a stranger, that 
every little crotchet or craze gathers a little school or sect around it. Nowhere 
is there less reverence for authority, more audacity of freakish thought than 
among certain classes in the United States ; nowhere is there a more slow and 
solid conviction and conservatism than among others. There are small Amer- 
ican towns, there are sects and churches in American towns, small or large, 
which are as rigorous as the infallible Popt himself could be in refusing to 
their members any personal independence, any conceivable laxity from set and 
orthodox opinion. If you will start a new theory in one of these communities, 
you must in self-defence endeavor to cinotore yourself by a seceding sect; and 
probably in the end you will find it more convenient to betake yourself and 
your feUow rebels into the seclusion and freedom of a voluntary exile. Thus 
had the American members of this little community been led to adhere to it 
for the i^esent They had all the sense of dignity and complacent martyrdom 
which self-exile natorally gives; and althou^ their fellow-exiles were not up- 
holders of their special oroCdiet or of any other, yet they were free to nurse 
and indulge their cnuie to the fhll« pending the longed-for time when they 

uigmzea by LjOOQIC 



154 LADY JUDITH. [Augus^ 

oould iidude a whole school to fally round ft and force it oh tiie world. Non^ 
of the Americans had been very lon^i^ residents of this little camp, and no!i0 
was likely to oUn^ tait even for its brief day. 

T Three of the brotherhood have been described as natives of Great BritainI 
These were the founder, an Englishman; the elderly Scotchman; and an Eng- 
lishman who had joined the group when they were on their search for this 
rery valley, and had remained widi them ever since. It should be said that 
some changes had taken place since t^en. The number had always been about 
the same; but now a companion died, now one wandered away and did not re- 
turn, makmg his way probably to the track of the regular emigrant trains, and 
so getting back to. civilization somewhere. Chance brought accessions to the 
group to supply the vacant places. Tlie oldest members now in the body were 
the two Englishmen, the Scotchman, ahd the. mystic Swede. Of these, the 
second Englishman was the latest aooessioni. Each man was called but by one 
name — Alexander, Paul, John, and so on. * 

The evening was beginning to set in on this beautiful soene, when the 
Scotchman, who Was tobwh among his fellows simply as Brother Alexander, 
came out of his little hut, around which he had with wondrous labor and pa^^ 
tience managed to cultivate a rich and glowing garden of flowers. He wore s 
long gray coat of some rough material, buttoned up to his chin despite the heat 
of the season, and a broad-brimmed felt hat. He walked slowly along by the 
lake. On his way his eyes rested upon the second Englirimian, who was lying 
on the ground under a tree reading a Ixx^. The two men interchanged tL 
fiiendly greeting. Alexander stopped in his walk and the Englishman rose td 
bis feet. Th&ae two men had perhaps more of social companionship between 
them than any other two in the ecoeutrio fiiihily. 

The Englishman was dressed in a plain blue shirt or blouse, asd wore high 
boots drawn up over hid trousers, and a brdad-leaved hat He was dressed in- 
deed like three out of four of the figures to be seen in a western settlement. 
He was a tall man, finely made, with a Certain quiet dignity about him. His 
face was handsome and noble, although worn and deeply lined. Exposure to 
sun and breeze had not aflfected in the least th» remarkable whiteness of hi^ 
broad forehead and small hands. He wore a fhll beard, and except on his tem- 
ples, which were growing bald, his hair curled thickly. Hlls eyes had that 
pddlyTCombined expression of dreaminess and restlessness in them which seems 
to be peculiar to the mystic or the hermit, and which to the ordinary or hasty 
observer is almost sure at first to suggest the idea of hisanlty. In all men 
who lead a life remarkably diverging from the oommonplace, &e eye s<x>n 
oomes to have something of this peculiar expression. 

There was a singular and wkming sweetness in the smfle with which the 
Englishman, who was known in the community simply as John, welcomed the 
other. • 

** Always reading, John? Not got over your book-reading days yet, at your 
time of life! " Alexander spoke with a good-humored glanoe of aflfected an- 
ger. The Englishman's time of life was apparently under fifty. ** What ar^ 
ye poring over the dj^# man? »» . 

'* Fye been reading'Sopbocles, Alexander. Isn^t it good readitigP " 

' ,"* Well, it's n<>t Ju0t that bad readii^ ; it's very good in ieusL But I think a 

man ou^t to have done all his reiading of books at thirty years of age. You 

don't leufk anything out of bo<^ i^ter that time. I dare say you'll have read 

the 'El^ctra* and * Antijirone ' and all tiie rest of it many itimes over already.'* 

<* Several times. I think IJcnow aamp of the plays almest by heart." 

uigiiizea oy ^^jOOvlv. 



1871.] LADY JUDITH. IW 

'* Then what do yon read them any more forP " 

**How often have yon sat for hours looking at that water and that sunset? 
Why do you look at them now? " 

** Ah, lad, I haye you there, though. The sun and the sky and the water 
never look the same twice over, nor the same £Dr two mortal minutes. They 
always tell you something new, hut your bonny Greek Antigone is always just 
the same.^^ 

*' Not at all. I get new ideas from her erery time.^* 

Alexander shook his head. ** Books at best only bind one to the old world 
and the old flesh. They don^ set us free and make us strong and self-reliant, 
as Nature and Thought do. But you are all the same, jon. young fellows." 

'* Why, yen were talking of my advanced years just now." 

** Advanced for book-stnd3dng like a schoolboy, lad->-young and frivolous 
when compared with me or with Christian" (the Swede). «*The last time 
Paul #88 here" (Paul was the founder of the conmranity), **wfaat d'ye think I 
found him readingP Rousseau, man, Boosseau ! All the sentimentalities about 
Julie— was that her name? To think that mountains and lakes like yon " (Al- 
lexander. jerked his head to indicate more oleariy the precise location of Switz- 
erland) " should turn out a Bousseau for their prophet! When^s Paul coming 
backP" 

«* I don^ know," John replied, with B<»nething ^ the ourt coldness of the 
Ritish national manner now Ibr the first time perceptible in him. The truth 
tras that Paul andhe had but little assodation or interoourse. 

*" But he is ooming back? " 

•HE prestnne so, Alexander." 
' ^The place doesn*t seem quHie itself without him, ahhoogfa there^s no arga- 
hlg him into anything or keeping hinv stSU* for any time. Periiaps, with his 
clever head and his joumeyings, he can find out where we are to go next, for I 
don^ see how we can remain here much longer, and I'm sore grieved for it. 
Pve gotten to love this place, uid tiiat itself is a weakness and a reason why I 
^otdd leave it; for no place is more dumb than another, and all ean help in 
teadling the grAnd lesson." 

•*I am sorry for the place," said the other. "I caa^ help regretthig it. I 
hav6 groihilo love it. ' I have had calm and hsappy years here. I begin te 
despond and to doubt the use of trying new scenes any more." 

**Hu8h, man; ve mustn't despond ever. The Lord is everywhere except 
only where ikie crowds are. Only the tnoney-ohangers poUule the temple— 
and a inretty lot^of' money-changers we are having about us down yonder; " 
and he glanced toward the canvas town on the edge of the plain. 

** Well, Alexander, t Wirii they wouldn^ come and <fiiv« as but of this place ; 
I don't foel the spirit for new wanderings, I seem to have grown to be a part 
of this place. There was until lately sueh a splendid sense of seclusion and 
safety about it. I spent years, Alexander, in a monastery on Mount Athos ; I 
wandered through Asia in the dress of a Mussulman pilgrim ; and I never felt 
the same sense of freedom from the intrusion of the world that I have felt here. 
I begin to be aJhiid and to doubt; it almost seems as if tlie world would n^ver 
telax its hold upon us." 

Alexander shaded his eyes and gazed steadily toward tlie west. Out of tiie 
i*adiance of the sinking sun, as it seemed, two figures came riding rapidly, dark 
against the lustrous and golden glow. 
^ «* Here's the lad F»ul coming home," he said. It was one of the ways of 



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156 LADY JUDITH. [August, 

Alexander to treat John and Paul, and all others whose age did not much ex- 
ceed fifty, as lads. He himself looked hardly more than fifiy, but he had in 
reality passed his seventieth year. 

J(^ looked in the same direction. 

" Yes, it is Paul," he said, and he turned as if to go to his hut 

*' Who can this be that comes riding with him, I wonder?" the ojd man 
asked. 

" I don't know, Alexander ; but whoever it is, you will welcome him more 
agreeably than I could, and I shall go in." 

This little community, fleeing from human society, yet never refhsed tem- 
porary shelter, welcome, and hospitality to any wajrfarer, even though be came 
utterly without recommendation. Paul had been the Means of introducing to 
the brotherhood some of its best members, John included; and anybody com- 
ing with him was therefore sure to be recdved with honor and affection. 

But John turned away and presently disappeared within his log-cabin. 

Alexander looked after him curiously and rather sadly. He never could 
understand why John and Paul seemed always anxious to avoid each other. 
He loved them both, and they seemed to respect each other; yet they did not 
willingly associate or even meet. 

Presently Paul and his companion came galloping up, and Paul, seeing Al- 
exander, checked his stout little Mexican horse and leaped to the ground. His 
companion, a dark-haired and handsome young man, also ali^ted, looking 
rather puzzled and anxious, as one who is not quite certain what he is to do 
next. If it were not rather a frivolous sort of comparison, one might say that 
a guest brought by a friend to the dinner-table of a host whom he has never 
seen before, and in a country whose language he only imperfectly understands, 
might have worn on his face such an expression as that which was now seen 
on the countenance of Paul's companion. 

«« Brother Alexander," said Paul (whom we have seen before in San Fran- 
cisco), ^I have brought a friend with me for whom I ask your welcome." 

Alexander made a bow which had in it a dignified and grand association of 
the finest days of society in Edinburgh, Auld Reekie, *' mine auld romantic 
town," and pressed the hand of the new-comer. 

** Shall I introduce you," Paul asked, turning to the latter, '' by your 
worldly, I mean your usual name? Here we only care for realities, not names. 
Every one calls hunself what he will." 

" My own name, by all means," the other replied with a bright smile. " It 
isn't worth concealing, and I can't readily invent any other. My name is An- 
gelo Volney." 

*' Let us say Angelo for shortness," said Alexander cheerily. *' Well, Ange- 
lo, I give you a welcome, and we here haven't much more to give. Paul has 
doubtless told you something about us. Stay as long as ye like ; go when ye 
will. We will do all we can to make your stay tolerable, and to help and 
speed your going if ye must go." 

*'Is John anywhere near? " asked Paul. 

** John was here two moments ago; he is now in his home.'* 

«* Then 111 leave Angelo in your charge for a short time. He has come to 
see John, and I had better go in first and ask John to receive him." 

Paul walked toward John's hut, leaving Angelo with Alexander. The lat- 
ter sounded a whistle, and one of the fraternity «ame and looked afi;er the 
horses : each denizen of the place took his regular turn of such service. Hien 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 157 

Alexander pointed oat to Angelo the beauties and wonders of the scene, de- 
scribed the changes that had taken place there and the sudden incursion of the 
mining population, and played in every respect the part of a courteous and 
genial host. But covrtesy at that moment was almost thrown away upon 
Angelo Volney. The young man^s heart and mind were wholly engrossed by 
the wonderful nature of the situation in which he found himself placed, and the 
possible results which might arise from it. The mystery of a life, nay; of many 
liyes — at least involying directiy the fate of many lives — ^had bUnd chance then 
thrown this into his power to solve? Since his childhood he had been haunted 
by the overhanging presence of one mystery, oppressing, torturing, and be- 
wildering the lives of those then most near and dear to him. Lately this one 
same mystery had come to involve and enwrap another life — another feune 
dearer to him than any, than all. Could it be possible that Heaven, working 
apparentiy through the agency of a wild, sightiess chance, had dngled him out 
to bring back the lost, to restore to life the Ihring dead, to explain the enigma 
which so deeply concerned the happiness of his benefactress, his heart-sister, 
and his loveP 

Meanwhile Paul knocked at the door of John^s hut, and a deep, sweet voice 
called out, ** Come in," and Paul entered. 

The occupant of the cottage was seated in the sunlight by the window, still 
reading his Sophocles. The fhmiture of the hut consisted of a table, two 
chairs, a bed in a camp bedstead, and some neatiy carved wooden shelves, on 
which books were lying. 

John looked a littie surprised at the appearance of his visitor, but at once 
arose, laid his book aside, and courteously offered him a chaur. 

''Thanks — ^I don't need to sit down,'' the other replied rather coldly. '*I 
have come on an unpleasant errand; at least one that will hardly earn me any 
-thanks. I have thought you a visitor." 

The occupant of the hut looked surprised. # 

•* A visitor to me — ^to me in particular? " 

** To yoo, and you alone. One who knows you only by your w(»*ldly name, 
and desires to see you." 

A flush came over John's foce, and his eyes flashed with momentary anger, 
fiut he controlled himself and said calmly : 

*' You know that I wUl see no such visitor. You know, too, that no such 
person could have found me out unaided by you. Have you then betrayed me? 
If so, it was to no purpose. Tell the emissary, whoever he may be, that his 
journey is for nothing. I'll not see him ; and I don't even ask who he is." 

'* I have not betrayed you. He doesn't even yet know where you are to be 
found; and he is not an emissary from any one. Only the strangest chance 
brought him and me together, and he told me strange news which I think you 
ought to hear." 

** What news can affect me any more? " John asked with an impatient ges- 
ture. " Why do you torment me in this useless way? Do you think I can be 
dragged back to the world again? Do you— you, of all men— want to help in 
urging me back? Am I never, to the end of my life, to have the security of 
peace?" 

He sprang to his feet and walked impatientiy up and down. 

''I knew that you would blame me for brin^g this on you," Paul calmly 
■Md; ** but I f<&lt that I must do it. Do, pray, do me justice. I am not likely 
to interfere needlessly in what does not concom me« We have not been fnendu ; 



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ifi8 LADY JUDITH. [August, 

we can't be Mends. There tat memories which rise up between us and keep 
lis apart. I look on yon as the principal cause of the misery that fell on my 
dster^ whole existence. But if we can't be Mends, neither can we be ene- 
mies; and you must know that I am incapable of doing anything to give you 
needless pain. But I have thought this thing over, and I tell you again this 
man outside has some news for you whioh you ou^t to know," 

**Then tell it to me.at once yourself^ and be done with it. Feriiaps I can 
guess it. If it be as I conjecture, God knows I am sorry for it. I lament £or a 
life mined like my own, but I envy (he early stroke ci fiiCe," 

" You can't guess it; you are wholly wrong." 

** Tell me then, in heaven's name " 

" Not I. Let it come with its fhll effect from one vrho knows all that I 
don^ know. You must see this man! '* 

"What is his name?" 

" You don't know it. He is called Angelo Volney." 

«* Is he sent by ^" 

" He is sent by no one, except, as I firmly believe, by God! " 

The other stopped in his walk and laid his hand on Paul's shoulder. 

** If you are distracting and torturing me uselessly," he said, in a deep stern* 
voice, "then may Crod forgive you for inflicting wanton pain on one whose 
only prayer in life is to be allowed to repent the pasi in peace. You know mcf 
Well; you know how I have been tormented between my hatred of the world, 
my dread of it, and yet all the old impulses and temptations of aml^on. Deal 
ikirly with me, Paul. We are not friends, I suppose. I am indeed the de- 
stroyer— the murderer if you choose to have it so— of your sister ; but you know 
that I would have given my life to save her, and that I flung away every 
worldly prospect and hope for her. Don't tempt and torture me for nothing. 
I have been expectiilg this or something like it. Some presentiment-I cant 
eiplain told me that this temptation was coming. Tell me, on your word, on 
your soul, is this meeting inevitable? " 

* " On my word, on my soul, I b^eve you must meet this man, and that 
when you have heard what he has to tell you, you would curse any obstacle 
whidi could have held you back from bearing it. You must see him." 

" Strange that there can be anything to be told which could affect me and 
my ways in life!" Jolm said, irresolutely. "In one word, is it news of 
death?" 

" In one word, no." 

John turned away and again walked impatimitly to and fro across the nar^ 
tow floor— the bare earth that formed the floor^-of the hut, hardly a broader 
^ur&ce than the lion's cage gives to the restless, impatient lion. At last h% 
stopped, looked fixedly at Paul, and said : 

" You would not torment me idly. I can't believe such a thing possible of 
you. I have never known any levity in you which 6ould allow me to think it. 
Bring in your new acquaintance— I will see him ! " 

While the man called Jdm was speaking these words, the strange look in 
his jE^yes which has been already mentioned beoame so remarkable that any or- 
dinary spectator might well have been excused for supposing that he saw be- 
fore him a madman. When the words were finished; the speaker turned away 
and fiung himself into his chair and leaned his chin upon his hand. 

Paul left the hut without speaking. In a lew moments itis inmate heard 
tfootsteps at the door, and he rose to receive his scarcely welcome visitors. He 



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J871.] - LADY JUDITH. 15Q 

stood in a calm and dignified attitude, hardly evincing now any emotion, even 
of curiosity, as the stranger entered, introduced by Paul. The latter said to 
Angelo Volney : 

"All that you want to say or to ask is to be said now and here! You re- 
member the conditions and the pledge on which I have consented to bring yoU 
here. 1 leave you." 

And he left the hut, closing the door behind him. 

Angelo Yolney saw before him a tall, dignified, and handsome man, whose 
rough garb and rugged surroundings could hardly keep any intelligent eye 
from recognizing in him a cultivated and high-bred gentleman. The occupant 
of the hut bowed, handed a chair to his visitor, and looked at the latter with a 
penetrating glance. But he did not open the conversation, and Angelo had to 
begin. 

••I am afraid I must appear a very unwelcome and intrusive visitor," he 
said. " But I know I can justify. my intrusion. I believe I have the honor of 
speaking to a gentleman who can at least help me to communicate with— with 
Mr. Charles 6rey Scarlett? " 

** Your business will have to be urgent and important indeed," the other 
said, coldly and firmly, *• to justify a visit to one who desires, above all things 
on earth, to be left to the life of seclusion he has chosen for himself. Pray let 
tis not waste tame or words. My name is Charles Grey Scarlett." 



CHAPTER XXVm. 

.^I MIGHT HAVE SAVED HEM] NOlf SHE'S OOKE FQBEVEB! " 

•' Call it not vain," sings the Minstrel of the North ; ''they do not err who 
say that, when a poet dies, mute Nature mourns her worshipper and celebrates 
his obsequies*'** Accepting this declaration as a scientific fact, we take it for 
granted that mute Nature went into mourning when Eric Walraven died. 
Mute Nature bad tiie mourning all to herself. Nd one else Wept. The poet 
had no funend- cortege, no ftmeral oration, cfaaplet, or other gratifying mark of 
public sorrow. The general conviction that he had killed himself— which was 
all diat ^ustioe could make of the matter when she came to inquire into it — 
chilled and scnr^d away any desire to do honor to the dead. So Walraven was 
laid in learth with Amend rites very much maimed. The absence of any posi- 
tive proof iha€ he hadldlled himself allowed him a comer in the little Protes- 
tant cemetery then recently o^pened, and where, since then, many consumptive 
English and many pale-chewed daughtei*s of Ameiican dyspepsia have feen 
laid to Test. • Mr. Gostick caihe to TiHefieurs and had a cheap and decent mon* 
mnent Erected over the grave, simply finnouncing that there lay ibe mortal re- 
main^ 6f Eric G. Walraveh, Of London, son of the late Rev. Edward Walraven 
and Jane his wife. A few lines of obituary appeared in the leading daily and 
weekly |)apers of London, wherein Walraven was gwatfy spoken of as a poet 
whose first efforts had had some promise in them, and who perhaps, if he had 
lived, might have achieved something worthy of preservation. That was his 
Ihnend dirge. That moan was soon made. Next day he was utterly forgot 
ten. The onfy monument to his fame that seemd likely to be abiding in Lon- 
don is a solitary dusty copy of "The Mystery of the Universe," sticking up in 
^ bookstall in Southampton How, Holbom, and vainly offered to the public for 
eigh^nee. » 



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160 LADY JUDITH. [August, 

Meanwhile Walraven^s young, unhappy wife was fiiding away. She re* 
mained for days and days in the same condition of aknost utter unconscious- 
ness that has already been described. Lady Judith took up her residence alto- 
gether in the cottage with the Athelings. They offered to give up the place 
wholly to her, but the poor stricken lady, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, 
seemed to cling to the companionship of Isolind, and to dread being left alone. 
Lady Judith^s maid was left with Miss Bruce at the hotel, to be ready when 
needed; but Lady Judith had seldom need of them. She watched by her 
daughter night and day, except in the intervals when sheer physical exhaus- 
tion compelled her to lie down and sleep. A great London doctor and a great 
Paris doctor were sent for and kept in constant attendance. Madame who 
owned the house was literally bewildered by the prodigality of expense which 
seemed to be going on, and felt herself immensely elevated in personal dignity 
by the whole series of events. Mrs. Atheling kept habitually in the back- 
ground. She never could quite warm to Lady Judith, even in the latter^s hour 
of deep afiiiction. 

After a while Alexia seemed to rally a little, both in physical and mental 
condition. She swallowed certain foods and drinks with apparent relish. She 
smiled on Isolind when Isolind entered the room, and looked wistfully after 
her when she left it. By degrees, under the influence of Lady Judith^s de- 
voted attention, the girFs heart appeared to thaw toward her mother, and she 
would smile sometimes upon her and take food from her hand. Lady Judith 
felt a thrill of joy and gratitude pass through her when first she saw this 
change. An infant of six months would have shown much clearer and more 
cordial sign of recognition than Alexia did ; and yet Lady Judith welcomed 
the faint dawn of that first smfle as if it were the proudest triumph a mother^s 
heart could win. Ah, heaven! what miserable anomaly sometimes is human 
happiness ! Lady Judith felt almost happy that first day of kindly recognition, 
and turned to Isolind with a proud, triumphant smile, as if to say, «* You see 
my daughter pardons and loves her mother, after all! ** 

What strange days those were for the two watching women — ^those days 
when Alexia was still weak as a new-bom infant, and almost as unconscious. 
What strange days and still more strange nights ! How often Isolind and Lady 
Judith together saw the dawn flush over the sea, togetlier heard tlie bells chime 
the midnight. Isolind^s helpful, loving, pitying, womanly nature took all 
weariness fh)m her task; and the whole vitality and energy of Lady Judith^s 
frame was engrossed in it, and allowed her to feel no fatigue. Sometimes, 
when the two sat together by the bedside of the patient, the thought would 
ariA in the mind of each, '* How strange that she and I should be fellow-watch- 
ers!" Lady Judith now and then sent a sudden glance of her dark eyes to 
where Isolind sat, and wondered within herself that anything could have so 
wrought a charm upon her bitter vindictiveness as to make her cling to the 
companionship of Agnes Revington^s daughter. But she did cling to it. She 
could hardly endure the girPs absence. ** Am I the same — am I really Judith 
Scarlett? " she would ask of her own heart. *' Is it the Spirit of God that has 
poured grace into my soul; or is it only that my misfortune has enfeebled my 
mind and broken my spirit? " More than once did Lady Judith start suddenly 
from her chair and walk up and down the room, and Isolind looked at her 
with kindly sympathizing eyes, believing that she was thinking only of her 
sinking daughter ; but the mother was asking of her distracted soul whether 
the love growing up within her for the fair-haired watching girl was a heaven- 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 161 

sent inspiration or a sinfbl and shameM weakness. More than once did Lady 
Jnditli suddenly panse in her walk and stoop over Isolind and kiss her fore- 
head ; and Isolind never knew what a victory of sweetness and love over ran- 
cor and bitterness was symbolized by that kiss of affection and peace. 

A change began to take place in Alexia^s condition. She grew physically 
stronger, and the state of torpid nnconsciousness seemed to have almost wholly 
vanished. It was succeeded by fitfhl, frequent outbursts of genuine madness — 
wild, delirious raving — and then intervals which might be called comparatively 
locid; intervals, that Is, when the patient knew those around her and called 
them by their names, and talked an irregular and incoherent talk indeed, hav- 
ing seldom much meaning in it, but yet not frenzied or extravagant. In such 
times it did not appear that Alexia had any recollection /of an3rthing that had 
jMissed, nor did her manner now show any of the old bitterness toward her 
mother. She would ask Lady Judith questions and not wait for an answer ; 
she would begin long and rambling accounts of imaginary walks and rides and 
adventures ; she would ask Isolind to sing for her, and burst into talk again in 
the middle of the singing. Once or twice she asked when Angelo was coming 
home, and she went off into some talk in which Charles Escombe's name oc- 
curred ; and the two watchers turned pale and exchanged glances of signifi- 
cant alarm, believing that she would next come to speak of Eric Walraven. 
But she did not now appear to have any recollection whatever of him. 

The physicians had still some hope that when the merely physical prostra- 
tion of the shock should have passed away, and the shattered nerve-system 
should have begun to reorganize itself, Alexia^s reason might return. But they 
were therefore the more anxious that her memory should if possible be guarded 
against any intrusion from the terrible associations of the tragedy wl^ch had 
broken her down. They, like Lady Judith and everybody else save Isolind 
alone, assumed that Walraven had committed suicide, and that the sight of the 
deed had overthrown Alexia^s reason. Isolind of course had never breathed a 
hint of her terrible suspicions ; and she had kept Alexia's &rewell letter a 
secret. 

One night Lady Judith received a new and fearful shock. During Alexia^s 
wilder moods it was often necessary to have the attendance of a hired nurse. 
But this particular night the paiient seemed very tranquil, and Lady Judith not 
only insisted that Isolind must go to bed early, but sent away the nurse as 
weU, and chose to spend the night alone with her daughter. It was a warm 
night, and Lady Judith was dressed in a light muslin wrapper wherein she 
looked woflderfnlly picturesque and stately, The whole scene was a picture 
ready to the hand of any artist could he have seen it. Ihe simply-furnished 
French room with its little white bed ; the pale, thin, beautifhl face of the girl, 
whose arms wandered vaguely outside the coverlet, whose short-cropped black 
hair (how long and luxuriant it was the other day!) looked so black against the 
white pillow, and whose ever-open glittering eyes beamed restlessly every- 
where ; and then the statuesque and noble figure of the pale, sad, dark-haired 
woman, in the loose light-colbred dress who sat by the bedside, her chin resting 
on her arm — % very embodiment of sleepless sorrow. The murmur of the 
waves could be faintly heard in the room ; save for that sound and the occa- 
sional cry of a seabird across the waters, all was silent. 

Lady Judith held a book in one hand, but she had not been reading. In 
Ihe silence of the hour the sad past had once again been unrolling itself before 
her newly-opening eyes. She saw her own proud, egotistic, and loveless 



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162 LADY JUDITH. [Auoofli^ 

youih ; her ill-assortod marriage ; her cold and stem refusal to practise any o£ 
the genial arts by which a woman seeks to conquer the love of a man ; the 
lonely dlsdainfUl independence wherein she hod wrapped herself as in a man^ 
tie of pri4e. She saw the husband of her youth, so noble, so gifted, so mucl\ 
admired by all the world else, but to whose heart she never could approach — 
alas ! never tried to approach — ^from the fieital hour when she learned that he hod 
once loved another woman in vain. She saw herself deserted by him — and 
then by all ; she saw that all hod gone wrong with her; and at last, at last she 
was learning to the f\ill the lesson which pride and egotism find it so hard to 
learn— the lesson that the world goes wrong only with those who have not 
themselves gone right. Now at last she saw with clear sad eyes where her 
own £Ekult hod been. Calamity had beaten down the rampart of pride, and 
there came from out the very heart of the solitary woman the vain immemo- 
rial cry, •• Oh, give me back the years I flung away ; give me back the oppor- 
tunities I wasted or scorned; let it not be too late, let it not be all too late! " 
Unknown to her, thousands of miles away the some hopeless appeal against 
Time and Destiny was going up from another heaxit, pncQ erring like hers, now 
penitent like hers, and which in the hour of her present trial ought to have 
been pressed against her^own. 

Lady Judith hod become thus buried so completely in her memories of self- 
reproach, that she had almost lost any consciousnesa of the present. Suddenly, 
however, she was recalled to quick keen life and attention by a shriek which 
rang out through the tortured air. Alexia was sitting upright in the bed, her. 
thi^ arms flung over her head, the hands clasped together, and her white 
breast gleaming through her disarranged night-dress. Pouring out shriek 
after shriek, she tried to rise and to escape from the bed. Lady Judith put. 
her strong white arms around the child and tenderly held her down— it was an 
easy task — ^and tried to soothe and quiet her. After ^ few struggles and. 
shivers Alexia resisted no more, but she broke into a passion of tears and sobs,' 
through whi(di there came again and again in disjointed words one fearful ac- 
cusation of herself, one revelation which made her mother start and tremble, 
and then put h^ hand over the gkVs mouth and try to hush her wailing voice. 
Again Alexia^s mood changed, and her face became rigid, and she spoke in a 
low, calm tone, more terrible than her most ear-piercing scream ; but in the 
altered tone there still came with thrilling dbtinctness the same tale of horror. 
Sometimes with frantic gestures she reenocted the scene of tragedy ; sometimes 
she moaned aitfl crooned and murmured to herself; but while the fit lasted 
every gesticulation she used, every word she uttered bore distinct and ghastly 
evidence of the truth of the one story. 

Lady Judith^s blood was running cold while she listened to this awful reve- 
lation. In the first moment, so great was the shock and so profound the horror, 
that she actually drew away her arms from her daughter's support and let the 
girl fall back upon the bed. There was a terrible preciseness, a cruel coher- 
ency in the words she heard, which seemed to distinguish them from the mean- 
ingless outbursts of mere raving in which Alexia's disorder sometimes dis- 
played itself. What the feelings of that mother were during the watches of 
that heavy night, no man could attempt to describe. 

** Oh, my unhappy child! " murmured the wretched lady, " if this be true, I 
must pray no more for the restoration of tliat reason which would be only a 
torture to you ! And yet not you — not you, poor child, are guilty of any crime I 
The guilt is mine — all mine! May Heaven visit it on me alone, and grant me 
life long enough to expiate and atone for it! " 



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1871.] . LADY JUDITJi. 168 

More tenderly ihxa before did she press her dai^@;h€er to hfer bosom*. Herer 
idien Alexia was an in£EUit had she felt so much of the nnfathomable lore and 
pity which belongB to motherhood as now, when she held to her heart the frei>- 
zied girl whoee innooently-guilty hands were fltained with the Uood of a hn»- 
bandi 

With 4he early morning eame a soft, low tapping at tho door, and Lady 
Judith, well bsowing who was th^e, called ** Come in! ^ and IsoMnd entered^ 
AlUr a night of wild and sobbing delirium Alexia had relapsed into her old 
ecmditlon of aUnost ntter onoonscionsness. 

"Yon look very pale and worn, dear Lady Judith," Isolind said. «*You 
have not slept all the night? Where is the nurse? Did she not come? " 

'*8he came, dear, but I sent her away. Gome here, Isolind; I want to ask 
yoa aom^thmg,'' 

l4idy Judith was seated by the bedside. Isolind approached her, and Lady 
Judith took the girFs hand in hers and looked earnestly into her gray sympa- 
thetic eyes. 

*' Isolind, answer me frankly ; don^t think of my feelings or of anything but 
the reality! Do you know or suspect anything about — about — ^the death — of 
that wretdied man — that mau Walraven, which others don't know or don't 
guess at? " 

'* Oh, Lady Judith," Isoliud answered, turning pale, as though she were 
herself accused of the guilt of blood, .*\why ask me such a question? Why 
eyen think of it? Should we not try to shxit out firom our minds such tetrible 
conjectures? Nothing about it can erer be known as a certainty except to 
God. What is the use q( trying to know? " 

" There is some use, dear ; for we can at least endeavor to preVeut others 
from hearing what X heard last night." 

•• Then she spoke— she told you? " 

«*She spoke in delirium; but there was a terrible clearness in ber words I 
Isolind, I want you to teU me all you know— all you suspect or conjecture 
about this — all, every word! The only kindness is to tell me all ; the worst of 
cruelty is to keep anything back from mte ! " 

Thus pressed, Isolind told her in low whispering tones all that she had con- 
jectured ; and she could not withhold Alexia's last letter. Cruel as it was to 
allow the eyes of the mother to fall upon Alexia's bitter alludon to her, Isolind 
saw no choice for herself but to produce the letter. 

Lady Judith read it with lips oompressed. Once she started as if she had 
been smitten. It was when she came to the words wiiich spoke <^ herself. 
But she bowed her head, as if she meant to signify her acceptance of one other 
crod rebuke from Heaven, Mid she made no allu^n to that passage in the let- 
ter. She sighed deeply. 

**This, then," she said, *Ms all that is left to throw any light on the poor 
child's fiite?" 

<«This is all. Lady Judith, thank God! We may be quite wrong in our 
wild ideas, and her delirious words are as nothing." 

Ijady Judith made no re^y. To her, too, the whole truth now seemed 
dear. She knew that Eric Wcdraven had not killed himself. From that hour 
she never allowed any nurse to attend Alexia, and she ceased to supplicate 
Heaven that her daughter might live and be restored to reas<m. 

The days passed languidly and heavily away for Isolind and* Lady Judith. 
Periiaps it may seem strange at first to say that Isolind, with all her anxiety. 



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164 LADY JUDITH. [AuouOT, 

her nursing, and her watching, was looking better in health, and even brighter 
in face, than when her pale cheeks attracted the attention of poor, lost Aleida. 
In truth, Isolind^s was a nature which can bear anything better than inactivity, 
which must work for somebody, help somebody, or perish. Eating her own 
heart, in her first loneliness of grief, she was pining and withering away. 
Now, the knowledge that she could be useftil, that there was some one she 
could help, some load of sorrow she could at least try to lighten, consoled and 
even animated her. Her step grew firmer, and her eyes lost the expression of 
vacant and brooding sadness which was becoming habitual to them. Her 
time was very busily engaged; she had hardly a moment to spare for thoughts 
of herself. She had to take care of Mrs. Atheling; to walk with her, read to 
her, and be as much as possible a companion to her. For, although the dear 
old lady insisted that there must be no thought of her in the matt^, and that 
the poor sick girl and her mother must have all the attention, yet ''our Iso- 
lind " was not likely, firom any consideration of sympathy or pity toward oth- 
ers, to neglect one who had ever been more than a mother to her^ motherless. 
So, in that, the brave girl had no time to give to brooding and personal sorrow. 
She delighted to go into the little market-place of the town every morning, and 
bring fresh flowers and fruits, in tlie hope that they might please Alexia; and 
she brought the London papers to Lady Judith, who felt, of course, a close in- 
terest in all the stirrings of Parliament and politics. Isolind even contrived to 
pay several visits to poor Miss Bruce, who moped piteously at the Hdtel Im- 
perial, and she took Miss Bruce out for a little walk now and then, and showed 
her most of the points of interest around the village. Once she nearly induced 
Miss Bruce to join her in a bath in the sea, one of Isolind^s most cherished 
delights. But Miss Bruce was fresh from Scotland, and though she got so £ar 
as to put on the bathing tunic and the picturesque ca^epofM, she utterly refused 
to emerge from the cover of the bathing-hut and allow even the sea to behold 
her in such unmiddenly attire. So Isolind gave up for the rest of the time any 
attempt at lightening the load of Miss Bruce^s monotony by persuading her to 
shake it off in the salt waves. 

Ah, but one day, one memorable day, there came to Villefleurs something 
which caused Isolind^s cheek lo flush with a long unaccustomed glow, and her 
eyes to sparkle, and then to stream with tears, bom of the blended passions of 
gladness and grief. It was Angelo^s letter, written ever so many months— or 
was it not years and ages?— ago, pledging himself to unchangeable, eternal 
love, and vowing that he would never, never consent to renounce her, let her 
resolve be what it might. This was the letter which, enclosed in one addressed 
to Judge Atheling, Angelo had sent off before he left for America, and which, 
wandering about from place to place ever since, or lying sometimes for weeks 
amid heaps of dusty documents in some post-office, had at last reached its des- 
tination, having twice crossed the Atlantic, in the effort to get from London to 
Isolind on the north coast of France. How proud and glad it made the girl! 
What cruel griet what bitter shame it brought to her! She could not be other- 
wise thian proud and glad to know that she was so passionately and truly loved. 
She had always felt, despite of her resolve and of herself, a gnawing pang of 
pain and doubt, because Angelo seemed to have accepted her farewell without 
even a protest. But the letter brought her grief, because she still was as reso- 
lute as ever that she would not marry Angelo ; and she wept, not for her own 
sorrow alone, but also for the cruel wound she must deal to that loving, gal- 
lant, tender heart. And it brought shame, for it renewed the memory of the 
stigma which rested on her, and which doomed her to a blank and lonely life. 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 165 

Yet the sum of her emotions was gladness. ** He loves me ! He loves me ! " 
Nothmg» no shame, no agony, can countervail the pride and joy of that convic- 
tion, when it is brought home to the hearts of the loving and tlie absent. 
When Isolind went to Lady Juditli's room, with the precious letter — ^the crum- 
pled, faded, yello^ving, ti'avel-soiled letter — lying hidden in her bosom, tliere 
was a brightness in her eyes, tear-stained though they were, which even the 
sad watcher by the bedside could not fail to observe. Lady Judith looked up 
at the strong, shapely form of the girl, with her clustering fair liair falling 
upon her neck and shoulders, her cheeks once more colored with the roseate 
and purple lights and hues of youth and health ; her eyes, like tliose of one of 
Chaucer's lovely heroines, "gray as glass"; her elastic step, her gi-aceful 
movements ; and then she looked down at the pale, wasted, fading little face 
in the bed, and she could not suppress a sigh. Isolind saw the glance and 
knew the meaning of the sigh, and sighed herself and felt her heart bleed for 
the motlier. 

Yes, that day was remarkable. Isolind will never forget it. She did not 
leave Lady Judith^s side for many hours. ' They two kept watch, seldom speak- 
ing, by Alexia^s bedside. A change had set in; the fierce feverishness had 
gone, the girl's pulse was low and feeble, her eyes had lost much of their un- 
meaning restlessness. She seemed composed and tranquil, and more like a 
rational creature than at any time since the night when Isolind brought her 
into the cottage. The doctors had seen her and shaken their heads, and did 
not appear to think there was anything in particular which they could do. 
They did not speak of any immediate danger, but they had ceased to talk of 
hope. They agreed in declining to regard it as a favorable symptom that 
Alexia had once or twice that day put a question which was quite calm and 
rational, and had waited for an answer, and understood the answer when it 
was given. 

What a lovely day it was ! The sky was pure and cloudless, and yet with 
no intense heat; the sea was of brightest emerald; aU objects, the hills, the 
houses, the trees, the boats, were outlined with a radiant clearness tliat re- 
minded Isolind of the atmosphere of her own much-loved bay of New York. 
The shore in front of the little town made a great curve, thus embracing in its 
arms the expanse of water where the bathers enjoyed themselves ; and beyond 
the chord of that arc stretched the sea, whose further waves lapped against 
the shingly beaches of the English coast. All over the shore and tlie sands of 
Yillefleurs there was color, life, movement, animation. Children scrambled 
and shouted, dug holes in the sand, gathered shells, or tried in vain to catdi 
the swifb-darting, infinitesimal, bloodless, boneless things in the shape of fish, 
which shot like tiny shadows beneath the surface of the small salt pools left by 
the receding sea in the little rock-beds among the sands. Up a steep path that 
climbed the cliffs went a merry procession of fisher-girls, bearing baskets of 
shining, scaly fish on their heads, and singing as they went, their short red 
petticoats scarcely reaching to the knee, displaying bare, bronze-colored legs, 
firm and shapely enough to have excited the futile envy of a whole ballet 
chorus in the Op^ra Comique. Along the sand lounged a little, idling group 
of soldiers from the neighboring caserne — soldiers in blue coats and scarlet 
trousers — adding with their brightrcolored uniforms gleaming in the snnli^it 
another element of life and brilliancy to the many-tinted scene. All along the 
edge of the shore the green waves were studded with laughing, joyous bathers 
•i— girls in costumes of pink and white and crimson and purple. A blind man 
U 

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166 LADY JUDITH. [AuauST, 

seated on the sand had before him a tray covered with gUttering, varioosly- 
colored shells, which he was hoping to sell ; and as tlie light foil upon the con- 
tents of his tray it made the spot where he sat to gleam and flash like a sun, so 
that the eyes of gazers from far-off windows were snddenly dazzled into dark- 
ness by the beams that seemed to shoot directly from his poor little unpur- 
chased collection. A short distance fm*ther out than the line of bathers the 
boat belonging to the local society for the rescue of drowning persons was 
lazily rowing up and down — a good Samaritan keeping a keen eye out for any 
possible object of rescue. On the horizon were seen the white wings of a 
whole flotilla of fishing boats sailing in, twenty abreast, and the smoke of a 
passing steamer now and then revealed itself faint against the sky. Blue sky, 
green sea, white sails, golden sunlight, yellow strand, and on that strand all 
manner of colors, purple, crimson, gray, orange, black, fantastically contrast^ 
ing, blending, and constantly changing — ^here was a display of Nature at her 
brightest, humanity in its mood the gsiyest, the most careless, gleesome, and 
happy. 

The room became too hot where Alexia lay, watched by Lady Judith and 
Isolind, this glorious day. Isolind threw the windows open, and the pure soft 
air came in, too late to bear healing on its wings. The young poetess looked 
out upon the scene which these pages have attempted so vainly to describe. 

Lady Judith noticed the kind of silent rapture with which Isolind gazed out 
upon the scene, and said in a low toue : 

** It seems a beautiful day, Isolind, and you ought not to be pent up here. 
Go out, my dear, and breathe the fresh air." 

** Dear Lady Judith, I can breathe it here, and I don^t care to go out. But 
the whole scene is so bright and delightful that I could not keep from admiring 
it. Do come here and look out; it will do you ever so much good. I will sit 
by Alexia, and you hardly ever now enjoy the pm*e air and see the sunlight on 
tlie water." 

Isolind left the window and came quietly over and took Lady Judith's seat. 
Lady Judith went to the window, leaned upon the sill, and surveyed the scene. 
Perhaps she was endeavoring to find out whether she too could not open her 
eyes and soul to the sacred influence of that charm with which sea and sky and 
sunlight can touch the wounds of certain suffering natures and bid them to be 
healed. But the flashing colors, the joyous sounds fell sadly on tlie ears and 
eyes of the unhappy woman. She had never cai*ed, in her days of pride, for 
the charm and the glory of Nature, and Nature now refused to accept the offer 
of a homage that came so late. In certain stem creeds it is held that when a 
siujier has 1)een too long impenitent, Heaven itself hardens his heart so that if 
he afterward would fiun repent, his utmost effort shall be unavailing, and he 
shall not know the sacred sweetness of expiating sorrow. Would it be too fiin- 
ciful to suggest that perhaps Nature sometimes exercises such a remorseless 
power that when one has refhsed to open the heart and the mind to her in good 
time, she deliberately and sternly closes both, so that they may be barred 
against her consoling, sweetening influence forever.^ 

Some such feeling may perhaps have vaguely suggested itself to Lady Ju- 
dith's breast. She turned away from the window, and approaching Isolind 
touched her gently on the shoulder and quietly whispered : 

** Go back, my dear, and enjoy the scene and the sunlight while you can. 
I^eare me to sit here, Isolind. All that brightness outside is lost on me. I 
don't believe my eyes were ever opened to the loveliness of Nature and the 



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1871.] LADY JUDITH. 167 

world when I was yoang, and it is too late to hope to cure their blindness now. 
I wish it hadn^ been so; but how few things there are in me and my life of 
which I could not say the same with all my heart.** 

An hour or two passed away, and the son was beginning to sink and the 
sound of the waves to be heard more clearly as the noisy life of the day grew 
quieter. Alexia now and then looked up and asked a question calmly and ra- 
tionally enough; and having received an answer seemed each time to fade away 
into unconsciousness again. Since her outburst of grief and passion on tiie 
night when she so appalled her mother,- she had never made the £Euntest allu- 
sion to the tragedy of her life. Even when she was most clear and rational 
she seemed now to have no recollection of her recent days and sufferings. 
When she was not frenzied she was merely infantile. 

The sounds of sprightly music were heard somewhere on the road outside. 
Alexia^s ear caught the strains, and she smiled a weak, sweet smile, and asked, 
as a little child might do : 

" What is that? " 

" What, my child? " 

" That sound." 

•* It is music, dear." 

♦•Yes; but what music?" 

Isolind, hearing the question addressed by Alexia to her mother, looked out 
of the window in the hope of being able to give an answer. She saw a pro- 
cession of young men and women, some beai'ing garlands and some with mu- 
sical instruments, winding along the road. 

She drew near the bed, and Alexia smiled and held a hand toward her. 
**It is the music of some procession, dear Alexia; some young men and 
women." 

There was a mementos pause, and the watchers thought Alexia had faHen 
away into forgetfulness again, as she oommonly did after the exertion of the 
shortest conversation. But she presently said, in her child-like tones : 

*' Please tell me what the procession is — ^I should like to know." 

" I'll find out, dear." 

Isolind stepped to the door and asked one of the maids to learn what the 
procession was and let her know. She and Lady Judith exchanged glances of 
satisfkction. There seemed something hopeful to them in this awakened and 
sustained curiosity. 

Presently ^hefille returned, tapped at the door, and being allowed to come 
in said in a tone intended to be soft and low : 

'• But, milady, it is a marriage procession — a youth and gu*l who have just 
been married." 

A wild, agonized cry broke from Alexia. The unlucky serving-woman 
hastily disappeared. Lady Judith gently put her arm round her daughter. 
Alexia sobbed and sobbed, and fell from oonvulsion into convulsion ; it seemed 
as though she could hardly struggle through her agony with life. Isolind sent 
at once for one of the physicians, who came and remained for some time, and 
gave all the aid and advice he could — which indeed availed but little. As he 
was leaving the room — Lady Jndith did not care that he sliould remain — ho 
invited Isolind by a glance to follow him. She did so; and when tliey had 
crossed the threshold of the room and the door was closed belli nd them, he 
told her quietly that the utmost care must be taken to keep tlie patient undis- 
turbed ; that the least shock caused by tlie revival of any painful memoi^ might 



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168 LADY JUDITf .. [August, 

vj)e fatal. At the same time he acknowledged the almost total impossibility of 
securing perfect mental quietude for a patient whose own mind might at any 
moment, without any external impulse or reminder, bring back all the bitterest 
associations of the past; and in any case he feared there was little hope or 
chance. 

•* And is there nothing to be done — nothing? " 

" Absolutely nothing. You can but wait. The end is not fisu* off. Perhaps 
to-night even — ^perhaps to-morrow, or later; but unless a miracle should come, 
the end is near." 

So Isolind returned to the already darkening room. Lady Judith, wholly 
engrossed with the care of her daughter, had not noticed Isolind^s absence. 

Isolind again drew near the window. A certain sense of the sanctity of the 
mother^s place and right generally urged her to keep at some little distance 
from the bed, unless when there was some help to be rendered, or when Alexia 
called to her, or Lady Judith signed to her to draw near. She leaned upon the 
window, her noble head and neck and bust outlined darkly, like a statue, 
against the violet evening sky. 

Alexia murmured : 

"Is Isolind there?" 

Isolind came over and kneeled by the bed. Alexia's little hand wandered 
feebly out. Isolind took it in her own. Lady Judith held her daugliter's 
other hand. 

"Mamma!" 

"My child?" 

" I want you to love Isolind very much. She was very kind to me." 

Then she remained silent for a few moments, and though she still held their 
hands, and her eyes were open, she appeared to have no consciousness of their 
presence. Suddenly she withdrew both her hands and stretched them out as 
if to reach toward some distant object, and there came a light of inefiable 
sweetness and gladness into her face ; an expression quite new to it during all 
her time of prostration. She endeavored to raise herself up, and with her 
eyes still looking brightly out, she cried : 

" Oh, mamma, I see him, I see him ! " 

Lady Judith started and laid her finger on her lips as a sign to Isolind to 
ask no question* She feared that Alexia was speaking of Eric Walraven, and 
that to her present flush of joy would succeed a terrible reaction into memory 
and grief. The same thought was uppermost in Isolind's mind, and both 
women listened with bated breath and beating hearts, hoping that Alexia^s fan- 
cy might fade away. Bat Alexia still looked bright and joyous, and she said : 

" Qh, yes, I saw him — ^I can see him still ! Mamma, don't you see him too? 
Look there ! Don't you see him ? " 

Her voice grew so thrilling, her manner became so excited, that Lady Ju- 
dith could not choose but answer. 

" See whom, my child? There is no one here but Isolind.' 

" Oh, yes; my father, my father! I see him now again, oh, so clearly; and 
he beckons to me — see, he takes my hand in his. Mamma, give me your hand 
too — quick, quick!" 

Lady Judith, all trembling, laid her cold hand in the thin, burning fingers 
of the girl, who pressed it almost fiercely, and smiled delightedly now at her 
mother, now at the form which her delirium made her believe that she saw. 
Tlien with a tranquil, satisfied air. Alexia said: 

"I knew we should find him at last." 



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1871.] SOME DAY OF DAYS. 169 

She closed her eyes, and the hand she had held outstretched gradually sank 
by her side. Lady Judith found the hand that lay in hers growing weaker in 
its pressure, then lax and languid, then colder and colder. Alexia gave forth 
a sigh which seemed rather one of relief and gratification than of sorrow, and 
she breathed heavily once or twice, and then more softly, and then the room 
was hushed in silence. 

Jsolind stooped oyer the bed, drew gently back, and whispered : 

" She is asleep." 

Lady Judith pressed to her lips the oold hand she still held clasped in her 
own, and said : 

** She is awake — in heaven!" 

The moon, which had been rising over the sea, now looked into the room. 
Its first entering light fell upon the face of the dead girl, and, leaving all else 
in shadow, seemed to glorify with a pure and silvery halo the pallid cheeks and 
the lips whereon yet lingered the smile with which Alexia had welcomed the 
dawn of her new Ufe. 



SOME DAY OF DAYS. 



SOME day, some day of days, threading the sti*eet 
With idle heedless pace, 
Unlooking for such grace, 
I shall behold your face! 
Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. 

Perchance the sun may shine fi^om skies of May, 

Or winter's icy chill 

Touch whitely vale and hill. 

What matter? I shall thrill 
Through every vein with summer on that day. 

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back. 

And for a moment thei*e 

I shall stand fresh and fan:, 

And drop the garment care ; • 

Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack. 

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 'twill be — 

How faoe to face each soul 

Will slip its long control. 

Forget the dismal dole 
Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea ; 

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting. 

The past with all its fears. 

Its silences and tears. 

Its lonely, yearning years. 
Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting. 

NoBA Pebrt. 

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THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. 



Vn. — TENEMENT LIFE. 

AS we stopped in Cherry street at the entrance to Gotham Court, and 
Detective Finn dug a tunnel of light with his bullseye lantern into tlie 
foulness and blackness of that smirch on civilization, a score or more of boys 
who had been congregated at the edge of the court suddenly plunged back into 
the obscurity, and we heard the splash of their feet in the foul collections of 
the pavements. 

«• This bullseye is an old acquaintance here,^' said the detective, '/ and as its 
coming most always means 'somebody wanted,' you see how they hide. 
Though why they should object to go to jail is more than I know ; Fd rather 
stay in the worst dungeon in town than here. Come this way and PU show 
you why." 

Carefully keeping in the little track of light cut into the darkness by the 
lantern, I followed the speaker, who turned into the first door on the right, and 
I found myself in an entry about four feet by six, with steep, rough, rickety 
stairs leading upward in the foreground, and their counterparts at the rear giv- 
ing access to as successful a manuDeu^tory of disease and death as any city on 
earth can show. Coming to the first of tihese stairs, I was peremptorily halted 
by the foul stenches rising from below; but Finn, who had reached the bottom, 
threw back the relentless light upon the descending way and urged me on. 
Every step oozed with moisture and was covered sole deep with unmentionable 
filth ; but I ventured on, and reaching my conductor stood in a vault some twelve 
feet wide and two hundred long, which extended under the whole of West 
Grotham Court. The walls of rough stone dripped with slimy exudations, 
while the pavements yielded to the slightest pressure of the feet a suffocating 
odor compounded of bilge-water and sulphuretted hydrogen. Upon one side 
of this elongated cave of horrors were ranged a hundred closets, every one of 
which reeked with this filth, mixed with that slimy moisture which was every- 
where as a proof that the waters of the neighboring East River penetrated, 
and lingered here to foul instead of purify. 

" What do you think of this? " said Knn, throwing the light of his lantern 
hither and thither so that every horror might be dragged firom the darkness 
that all seemed to covet. *'A11 the thousands living in the barracks must 
come here, and just think of all the young ones above that never did any harm 
haying to take in this stuff; " and the detective struck out spitefiilly at the nox- 
ious air. As he did so, the gurgling of water at the Cherry street end of the 
vault cau^t his ear, and penetrating thither, he peered curiously about. 

*' I say, Tom," he called back to his companion, who had remained with me 
in the darkness, ** here's a big break in the Croton main." But a moment 
later, in an affi-ighted voice : ** No, it ain't. It's the sewer! I never knew of 
this opening into it before. Faugh! how it smells. That's nothing up where 
you are. I'll bet on the undertaker having more jobs in the house than ever." 

By this time I began to feel sick and faint in that tainted air, and would 
have rushed up the stairs if I could have seen them. But Finn was exploring 
that sewer horror with his lantern. As I came down I had seen a pool of stag- 
nant, green-coated water somewhere near the foot of the stairs, and, being 
afraid to stir in the thick darkness, was forced to call my guide, and, frankly 



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1871.] THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. 171 

state the urgent necessity for an immediate return above. The matter-of-fact 
policeman came up, and cast the liberating light upon the stairs, but rebuked 
me as I eagerly took in the comparatively purer atmosphere from above. '* You 
can't stand it five minutes ; how do you suppose they do, year in and year out? " 
** Even they don't stand it many years, I should think,'' was my involuntary reply. 

As we stepped out into the court again, the glare of the bullseye dragged 
a strange face out of the darkness. It was that of a youth of eighteen or 
twenty years, ruddy, puffed, with the corners of the mouth grotesquely twisted. 
The detective greeted the person owning ttiis face witli the fervor of old ac- 
quamtanceship: "Eh, Buster! What's up?" "Hello, Jimmy Finn! What 
yez doin' here? " •♦ Never mind. Buster. What's up? " " Why, Jimmy, didn't 
yez know I lodges here now?" "No, I didn't. Where? Who with?" "Be- 
yant, wid the Pensioner." " Go on. Show me where you lodge." " Sure, 
Jimmy, it isn't me as would lie to yez." 

But I had expressed a desire to penetrate into some of these kennels for 
crushed humanity; and flnn, with the happy acumen of his tribe, seizing the 
first plausible pretext, was relentless, and insisted on doubting the word of tlie 
Buster. That unfortunate with the puf^ face, who seemed to know his man too 
well to protract resistance, puffed ahead of us up the black, oozy court, witii 
myriads of windows made ghastiy by the pale flicker of kerosene lamps in 
tiers above us, until ho came to the last door but one upon the left side of the 
court, over which the letter S was sprawled upon the coping stone. The bulls- 
eye had been darkened, and when the Buster plunged through the doorway he 
was lost to sight in the Impenetrable darkness beyond. We heard him though, 
stumbling against stairs that creaked dismally, and the^lide being drawn back, 
the Mendly light made clear the way for him and us. There was an entry 
precisely like the one we had entered before, with a flight of narrow, almost 
perpendicular stairs, with so sharp a twist in them that we could see only lialf 
up. The banisters in sight had precisely three uprights, and looked as if tlie 
whole thing would crumble at a touch ; while the stairs were so smooth and 
thin with tiie treading of innumerable feet that they almost refused a foot- 
hold. Following the Buster, who grappled with the steep and dangerous as- 
cent with the daring born of habit, I somehow got up stairs, wondering 
liow any one ever got down in the dark without breaking his neck. Tliinking 
ft possible there might be a light sometimes to guide the pauper hosts from 
theu: hazardous heights to the stability of the street, I inquired as to the fact, 
only to meet the contempt of the Buster for the gross ignorance tiiat couhl 
dictate such a question. " A light for the stairs! Who'd give it? Sweeney? 
Not much! Or the tenants? Skasely! Them's too poor!" While he mut- 
tered, the Buster had pawed his way up stairs with surprising agility, until he 
reached a door on the tiiird landing. Turning tnumphantiy to the detective, 
he announced: "Here's where I lodges, Jimmy! You knows I wouldn't 
lie to yez." 

" We'll see whether you would or no," said Finn, tapping on the door. Be- 
ing told to come in, he opened it; and on this trivial but dexterous pretext we 
invaded the sanctity of a home. 

No tale is so good as one plainly told, and I tell precisely what I saw. Tliis 
home was composed,' in the parlance of the place, of a "room and bedroom." 
The room was about twelve feet square, and eight feet from floor to ceiling. 
It had two windows opening upon the court, and a large fireplace filled witli 
a cooking stove. In the way of additional furniture, it had a common deal ta- 
ble, three broken wooden chairs,* a few dishes and cooking utensils, and two 



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172 THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW TORK. [August, 

*' shakedowns, as the piles of straw stoflfed into bed-ticks are called; bnt it 
liad nothing whatever beyond these articles. There was not even the remnant 
of a bedstead ; not a cheap print, so common in the hovels of the poor, to relieve 
tlie blankness of the rough, whitewashed walls. The bedroom, which was little 
more than half the size of the otlier, was that outrage of capital npon poverty 
known as a " dark room," by which is meant that it had no window opening 
to the outer air ; and this closet had no furniture whatever except two ** shake- 
downs." 

In the contracted space of these two rooms, and supplied with these scanty 
appliances for comfort, nine human beings were stowed. Rrst there was the 
•* Pensioner," a man of about thirty-five years, next his wife, then their three chil- 
dren, a woman lodger with two children, and the ** Buster," the latter paying 
fifteen cents per ni^t for his shelter ; but I did not learn the amount paid by 
the woman for the accommodation of herself and children. The Buster, hav- 
ing been indignant at my inquiry as to the Mght upon the stairs, was now made 
merry by Finn supposing he had a regular bed and bedstead for the money, 
** Indade, he has not, but a • shakedown ' like the rest of us," said the woman ; 
but the Buster i*ebuked this assumption of an impossible prosperity by promptly 
exclaiming, "Whist! ye knows I stretch on the boords without any shake- 
down whatsumdever." 

Finn was of opinion the bed was hard but healthy, and fixing his eyes on the 
Buster's flabby face thought it possible he had any desirable number of " square 
meals " per day ; bnt that individual limited his acquirements in that way for 
the day then closed to four. Finn then touching on the number of drinks, the 
Buster, being driven into conjecture and a comer by the problem, was thrust out 
of the foreground of our investigations. 

By various wily tricks of his trade. Detective Finn managed to get a deal of 
information out of the Pensioner without seeming to be either inquisitive or in- 
trusive, or even without rubbing the coat of his poverty the wrong way. Fi'om 
this source I learned that five dollars per month was paid as rent for these 
two third-floor rooms, and that everybody concerned deemed them dirt cheap 
at the price. Light was obtained from kerosene lamps at the expense of the 
tenant, and water had to be carried from the court below, while all refuse 
matter not emptied into the court itself had to be taken to the foul vaults be- 
neatli it. The rooms, having all these drawbacks and being destitute of the 
commonest appliances for comfort or decency, did not appear to be in the 
highest degree eligible ; yet the Pensioner considered himself fortunate in hav- 
ing secured them. His experience in living must have been very doleful, for he 
declared that he had seen worse places. In itself, and so far as the landlord 
was concerned, I doubted him ; but I had myself seen fouler places than these 
two rooms, which had been made so by the tenants. All that cleanliness could 
do to make the kennel of the Pensioner habitable had been done, and I looked 
with more respect upon the uncouth woman who had scoured the rough floor 
white, than I ever had upon a gaudily attired dame sweeping Broadway with 
her silken trail. The thrill that had so little for its nourishment had not been 
expended wholly upon the floor, for I noticed that the two children asleep on 
the shakedown were clean, while the little fellow fom* years of age, who was 
apparently prepared for bed as he was entirely naked, but sat as yet upon one 
of the three chairs, had no speck of dirt upon his fair white skin. A painter 
should have seen him as he gazed wonderingly upon us, and my respect deep- 
ened for the woman who could, spite the hard lines of her rugged life, bring 
forth and preserve so much of childish symmetry and beauty. 



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1871.] THE NfrXHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. 173 

Having absorbed these general facts, I turned to the master of tliis house- 
hold. He was a man of small stature but rugged frame, and his left sliirt 
sleeve dangled empty at his side. That adroit Finn, noticing my inquiring look, 
blurted out: "That ai*m went in a street accident, I suppose? " 

•• No, sir ; it wint at the battle of Spottsylvania." 

Here was a hero! The narrow limits of his humble home expixnded to em- 
brace the brown and kneaded Virginian glades, as I saw them just seven years 
ago, pictured with the lurid pageantry of that stubborn fight when Sedgwick 
fell. This man, crammed with his family into twelve feet square at the top of 
Sweeney's Shambles, was once part of that glonous scene. In answer to my 
test questions he said lie belonged to the Thirty-ninth New York, which was 
attached to the Second Corps, and that he received a pension of $15 per month 
from the gratefhl country he had served as payment in full for an arm. It was 
enough to keep body and soul together, and he could not complain. Nor could 
I ; but I could and did signify to my guide by a nod that I had seen and heard 
enough, and we went down again into the slimy, reeking court. 

Looking upward, I saw the vast tenement house, which contained two hun- 
dred such suites of apartments as the one I had just left, rising five stories above 
the narrow court, and I tried to imagine the vast total of human misery it em- 
braced. The reflective official at my side guessed my thoughts, for he assured 
me that, coming as I had on a pleasant night of the early summer, I had seen 
the place at its best. In August, when these two hundred homes had been 
blistered for two months, the odors would be unendurable by a sti'anger ; and 
although the atmosphere would be purer in ^vinter, the place was tlien made as 
ghastly in a different way by the sight of these thousands of human beings suf- 
fering for want of fuel and clothing. For I knew, without being told, that only 
the wretchedly poor would harbor in these holes. In many of the rooms were 
widows struggling to maintain children by their scanty earnings as char- 
women. Where there was a male head to the family, he was usually either 
physically disabled by sickness or injury, as in the case of the Pensioner, or was 
one of tiie wretched army of unskilled labor. There were however among the 
tenants some craftsmen, such as printers, carpenters, and in fact representa- 
tives of all trades, who had lost their cunning through the bottle ; and knowing 
tills fact, ** Sweeney's Shambles " loomed into the misty night an irrefutable 
temperande argument. But whatever the failings of these wretched people, or 
whatever the reason of their poverty, there could not be any excuse for tlie 
barbarity which crams one hundred families into one building having a front 
of fifty feet, a depth of one hundred and fifty feet, and five fiooi*8, when that 
building is " Sweeney's Shambles," devoid of every appliance for health, pri- 
vacy, or decency, and with those terrible vaults under the two courts upon 
which the east and west sides of the edifice open. 

Picking our way by the lantern light thi'ough such kitchen refuse as rem- 
nants of fish and vegetables, mixed with more offensive offal, with which the 
court was covered, we slowly made our way to Cherry street again. Passing 
along I glanced through a score of first-floor windows, and saw in every room the 
same evidences of poverty and overcrowding. Every apartment was a " liv- 
ing-room " choked with adults and children, with such articles of furniture as I 
had seen in the Pensioner's room, and, worse than all, with foul odors evolved 
from the room itself, and the vaults beneath. It was plain there could be no 
cleanliness, no privacy, no chance for decency, no godliness among these hun- 
dreds of people ; and I had the chief moral and sanitary problem of the great 
city tbrust thus forcibly upon me aa I made my way through the court, which 

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17i 



THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. 



[August, 



is the commoQ thoroughfare of all these hundreds, but which the landlord does 
not light and which nobody cleans. 

It was a relief to get out of Gotjiam Court into the fetid atmosphere of 
Cherry street, and wo passed hurriedly up the court on the other side of the 
building, for the odors were coming up through the grating from the vault be- 
neath like steam ; and I was glad when, at the upper end of the court, we 
passed into Rooseyelt street by a narrow entrance. 

I hs^d started out to see the worst human habitation in New York, and was 
convinced that my object had been fully accomplished. I knew that the law 
classes all domiciles containing three or more families as tenement houses, and 
that there are in the city of New York 20,000 such houses, in which 160,000 
families and more than a half million of persons are packed. I knew of the 
cramming and foulness of the barracks Nos. 7 and 9 Mulberry street, where a 
stray spark from somebody^s pipe will some night breed a conflagration which 
will destroy scores of the wretched inmates. I knew of those vast houses of 
the better sort in the German portions of the city, which are furnished with 
gas, have tolerable ventilation, and water as high as it can be forced, but 
which have narrow halls and steep stairs, to make them in moments of alarm 
perfected machines for the killing or maiming of a large per cent, of the hun- 
dreds who inhabit each of them ; in short, I had a general idea of the high 
state of perfection to which the art of crowding the largest possible number of 
people into the smallest possible space had been brought in this Christian ci^, 
but I had not imagined the possibility of such things as the kennels for human- 
ity which overhang Gotham Court. 

The glimpse I have given of one of the 20,000 tenement houses affords a 
view in' detail' of the chief evil of the metropolis, but a proper sense of the over- 
crowding with which New York is afflicted can perhaps be better obtained from 
some general facts. London has had some centuries of experience in packing 
away the poor, but that New York, after scarcely a generation of trial, has sur- 
passed her, can be seen by the following comparative statement of the popula- 
tion of the more densely peopled quarters of each city : 



NEW YORK. 


London. 


Di$tricU, 


i 

i 


ft* 


5 

1 


Diatrict*. 


1 


1 


1 

5 


Fomth Ward 

Sixth Ward 

Seventh Ward 

Tenth Ward 

Eleventh Ward 


83 
88 
110 
196 
196 
107 
96 
831 


17,893 
19,764 
86,903 
31637 
88,968 
26,888 
2S;{83 
79,668 


209 
280 
187 
287 
801 
247 
944 
241 


Whitechapel 

St. GUes 

St. James West .... 

East London 

Strand 


8»l 
246 
164 
168 
140 
820 
196 
126 


78,970 
M,076 
85,396 
40,687 
42,079 
67,078 
44,862 
27,145 


206 
221 
216 
206 
807 


TWrteenth Ward .... 
Fourteenth Ward .... 
Seventeenth Ward . . . 


St. Lake»s 

Holboni 

West London 


269 

229 
215 


Totals and averages . 


1^ 


288,801 


248 


Totals and averages . 


1,627 


881,118 


284 



This carefully prepared statement, which appeared in the report of the Board 
of Health for 1860, was based upon the census of 1865, so that now the comparison 
must be much more unfavorable to us, as the population of the city has increased 
in an undue ratio in these densely peopled wards. But while this exhibit gives 
a general view of a gigantic evil, it affords no adequate idea of the exceptional 
exaggerations by which some portions of these wards become ulcers upon the 
body politic. There are many blocks where the population exceeds one thou- 



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1871.] THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. 175 

sand to the acre, and localities where the living have but little more of the 
oarth^s surface than the minimum allotted to the dead. It is not strange then 
that the tenements become nurseries of social degradation, and only escape be- 
ing intolerable pests by causing a mortality of seven per cent, per annum of 
the inmates, as the average of all the houses, while in such dens as 35 Baxter 
street, where fifty beggars and prostitutes are stowed in indescribable filth, the 
mortality reaches seventeen per cent. 

It has been truly said that the hQme is the last analysis of the state, and it 
is not strange that the civic virtues decay in a community where one-lialf the 
people have no home in the true meaning of the word. The profligacy of New 
York, after allowance has been made for the gross exaggerations due to ignorance 
and partisan rancor, is considerable and shameful ; but resting as the city does 
upon this tenement system, it is wonderful that it retains so much of physical 
and moral vitality. Family privacy, wliich is the foundation of public morality 
and intelligence, is within the reach of but a small fraction of the population. 
It requires at least $6,000 per annum for a man with even a small family to 
live in tiie metropolis with the domesticity necessary to the successful propaga- 
tion of the home virtues ; and as very few possess an income of that amount, tlie 
strictly private houses in the city are proportdonately scarce. Thousands 
escape the horrors of the tenements by subletting portions of their houses 
either to a family or in f\irnished rooms, and in either case only succeed in 
mitigating an evil that every year presses more sorely upon the city. But 
these semi-private families feel only the distant glow of the flame that is con- 
suming the moral stamina of the tenement population. It is not necessaiy to 
face the horrors of Sweeney's Shambles and see the Pensioner with his wife and 
three children, his female lodger and her two children, supplemented by the 
Buster, enveloped in the foul odors of the vault, and stowed away in a space 
barely sufficient for the healthful and decent accommodation of at most two 
human beings, in order to fully realize the individual suflering and public peril 
which these tenements produce. A stroll at random through any portions of 
the Tenth, Eleventh, or Seventeenth Wards will force it upon the most careless 
of observers. 

A walk during any hot evening of summer through Avenue A, or any of the 
streets crossing it at right angles below Fourteenth street, will be sufficient to 
convince the most skeptical that I have adhered literally to fact. Almost every 
house in these streets will be found to be a tenement five or six stories high, 
with two or more human beings gasping for air at each one of the numerous win- 
dows, while foot room can scarcely be found on the sidewalks or roadway because 
of the multitude of children incumbering them. It is only by entering these 
houses that it can be seen how it is possible for them to shelter so many thou- 
sands ; and in examining them it must be remembered they are nearly all tene- 
ments of the better class, provided with all the appliances for health required 
by the tenement-house law. Each family will be found to have the inevitable 
•* living-room" and "bedroom," and the improvement in the latter consists in 
its having a small window near the ceiling opening into the narrow hall, which 
in its turn has a window at each end opening to the outer air. . But at the rear 
this hall window is of small service, as it looks out upon another tenement 
twenty-five feet distant which is built upon the rear of the lot ; and in this fact the 
observer has the key to the mystery of housing the thousands he sees at the 
windows of the front houses, and the other thousands he sees in the streets. 
Upon each lot of one hundred feet in depth two distinct edifices are erected. 



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176 THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. [August, 

with the space of twenty-five feet left between only because it is imper- 
atively demanded by the law ; and knowing this fact, the secret of the density 
of population in these wards is learned. It is not the least painful of the facts 
discovered in these quarters, that almost without exception the tens of thou- 
sands of inmates of these houses thus subjected to physical discomfort and 
moral jeopardy belong to the industrial classes. The great metropolis, with its 
vast enterprise, its restless ingenuity, and its imperial revenues, can furnish its 
skilled labor, upon which its prosperity so largely depends, with no better homes 
than these. Its mechanics of every grade and trade, who elsewhere would find 
their wages amply sufiicient for the reputable maintenance of their families, and 
enough to place them in the second class of the population, which is the bul- 
wark of the State, are here compelled by the enormous rents and the high 
charges for all the necessaries of life to live in these tenements, where they be- 
come negligent as citizens, and their children, owing to the influences which 
su^ound them, growing dangers to the commonwealth. In a sanitary sense the 
tenements are a perplexity and a vexation ; but it is in their moral and social 
aspects that they are perilous. There are hundreds of tliese immense barracks 
in which from fifteen to fifty families live under one roof, using halls, stair- 
ways, closets, and all the conveniences for the privacy of life in common. In 
every one of these families there are females of coui^e, and ther^ are very few 
in which there are not several children. No truth is more universally recog- 
nized than tliat barrack life is demoralizing even in the army ; and remember- 
' ing this fact, some idea of its destructive influences when it is inflicted upon a 
half million of men, women, and children can be formed. With half its popu- 
lation camped in its heart, the city has a disheartening future to the reflective 
publicist who traces effects to the first cause. The first generation of tenement 
life has destroyed in a great measure the safeguards which a genuine home 
erects around a people, and it is inevitable that in the second or third genera- 
tion it must brutalize its victims, and leave vice and ignorance as the founda- 
tion stones of the municipality. 

But while the tenements suggest politically these grave apprehensions for 
the future, to the sanitarian they are a present peril. Since the enforcement 
of the present admirable law regulating their construction and occupancy, they 
have been so greatly improved that they are £u: less of a menace than before 
to the public health, but they are yet nurseries of disease and death. Dr. Elisha 
Harris, the late effective Sanitary Superintendent of the city, with the assist- 
ance of his learned and careful chief clerk Mr. Norris R. Norton, who is now 
deceased, did this community an incalculable service by making tenement- 
house mortality a special study and the subject of full and exact statistical com- 
pilation. The last report published by these gentlemen shows a total mortality 
in the city during the year of 25,167. Of this army of the dead 4.065 had been 
recruited firom the public institutions, 7,817 from private houses, hotels, or 
boarding-houses, and 13,285 from the tenement houses. In the first class the 
percentage of the whole mortality was 16.15, in the second 31.06, while the 
deadly tenements yielded a per cent, of 52.79, or more than half the mortality of 
the year when w« consider only the deaths actually occurring in them. But 
the tenements are the reservoirs from which the public hospitals are fed, and 
charging the mortality of the latter to the former, where it rightfully belongs, 
these dens of death produced 68.94 per centum of the whole mortality of the 
year. The forced community of families, which is the great social and sani- 
tary evil of the city, can have no more startling commentary tlian this brief 



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1871.] THE NETHER SIDE OF NEW YORK. 177 

statement of general facts; but some details of these nests where only moral 
and physical death is hatched will be both interesting and valuable. 

These human hires are the natural nurses of epidemics. Smallpox, malig- 
nant fevers, and all contagious diseases revel in them. There is hardly a day 
tiiroughout the entire year when some one of these dreaded foes of human life 
is not present in these choked centres of population, to occasion public alarm 
and tax the skill of the health authorities to keep it within bounds. During 
the past two years tiie viler of the dens, and especially the cellar lodging- 
houses, have propagated a new pest in the relapsing fever — ^that sorrowfully 
suggestive disease of privation which slays comparatively few, but destroys the 
physical vigor of thousands, and thereby has become the most efficient recruit- 
ing officer pauperism has ever had. Dr. Harris says in one of his invaluable 
reports that ** die inevitable and the preventable among the causes of mortality 
become strangely blended and combined in the imventilated and unscavenged 
houses of the overcrowded poor. Consumption and all tiie inflammatory dis- 
eases of the lungs vie with the infectious and other zymotic disorders, in wast- 
ing the health and destroying the life of the tenement population." It is not 
singular, therefore, that the tenement mortality has occasioned the gravest alarm, 
for these perpetual fever nests not only infect special localities but also the 
whole city, and render the death rate of the metropolis excessive. It could not 
be otherwise when a single house in SheriflT street, having fifby-eight persons, 
had four deaths in nine months, thus giving a death rate of 84 in 1,000. The 
same grave facts are almost as forcibly illustrated in the block bounded by 
Madison, Grand, Corlears, Monroe, and Jackson streets. In this area, where 
the population is so excessive as to give but 9.15 square yards to each inhabi- 
tant, there are eighteen tenements containing 153 families, which gave 25 
deaths in nine months. One house with a population of 36 had 4, three others 
with a population of 110 had a mortality of 6 in the same period, and the case 
was no better in the other. Nor was this block the most serious in its sugges- 
tions, for I have been careful to select from a large mass of statistics facts 
which would present a fair average of the deaths in these overcrowded dens. 

The humanitarian might almost refuse to regret that these tenements con- 
statute the modem Herod, for the children who grow up in them are inevitably 
doomed to a life of infamy or suffering. Breeders of contentions, brawls, do- 
mestic murders, these houses subject children from earliest infancy to incidents 
which must bestialize them. Aside from the intermingling of families so that 
there can be no such thing as home privacy, these houses are frequently the 
scene of brutal murder. Almost without exception the domestic murders oc- 
cur in them, and as these homicides are invariably the results of drunken quar- 
rels, the details of the crime are always sickening to the reader, and must have 
been terribly demoralizing to the inmates of the house who, as is sometimes 
the case, stand idly by and see the butchery done. Intoxication is responsible 
for another horror of these houses. It was but yesterday that one of them was 
discovered in a Mulberry street tenement. A woman occupying a squalid 
room not having been seen for some hours, another woman living on the same 
floor went to the room and found her lying dead upon her •• shakedown," with 
her three children playing innocently about her. Such incidents are constantly 
occurring, and I have seen more of them than I care to experience again by 
narrating them. 

As briefly as the disagreeable task could be performed, I have endeavored 
to present the tenements of the metropolis in such matters of detail and gener* 



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178 " DIED YESTERDAY ! " [August. 

alization that their present and probable fUture effect upon the community 
which tolerates them can be fairly estimated. There is nothing in the criminal 
statistics of the city so alarming as this overcrowding of the population in 
houses unfit to be the kennels of dogs ; and the Nether side of New York has 
nothing more distressful than these huge contrivances for the production of 
moral and physical death. Take a common case. An artisan in middle life 
has growing sons and daughters around him. The mother has gone to her 
rest, and he, being a man of strong will, struggles with some success to pre- 
serve his children from the demoralizing influences of the den in which ho is 
forced to shelter them. Suddenly, 

Of all the fevers that inf^ 
His temi)orary farer neat. 
He takes a deadly one. The rest 
Is eauly oopjectured. 

Edwaud Crapset. 



"DIED YESTERDAY I" 



SO it stands on the record there ! 
I read the words with a vacant stare. 
Strange that my eyes are cold and diy. 
That I make no moan, I heave no sigh ; 
Only with doubting voice I say : 
"Is it true it was but yesterday — 

•* Just one day since his spirit fled, 
Though I have mourned him long as dead ; 
Just one day since Lifers curtain fell, 
Shifting the scene to Heaven or Hell, 
For him I worshipped long ago, 
For him who wrought my soul such woe ? " 

I know the printed types lie not! 
Yet in my heart's drear depths a spot 
For years I've kept with mournful care, 
Hanging griefs pale immortelles there : 
Down in those depths his form I laid. 
With tears and groans his grave I made. 

When faith was broke and Love had fled, 
Twas then I wrote him among my dead. 
The rolling years have brought their balm. 
Blessing my soul with Lethe's calm ; 
So now with thankful sighs I say : 
•* 'Twas not my love died yesterday! " 

EixiE Lee Hakdenbrook. 



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THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 



WHEN the astronomers came home to Cambridge from Kentucky afte 
the total solar eclispe of 1869, so fall of the great phenomenon and it 
tantalizing yet beckoning mysteries, that they were determined, if it were a 
possible thing, to see the one which was to take place in Spain and Sicily in a 
year from the following December, I thought to myself that to take such a 
journey for the chance of a moment was indeed the very wildness of scientific 
enthusiasm. 

Sicily, in particular, had always seemed to me an ** ultimate dim Thule " — 
one of the jumping-off places of the world, where, if indeed the morning sun of 
civilization had ever shone, it had faded so long ago that it was all one as though 
the island had never emerged from the midnight of barbarism. It is true I 
-wns dimly conscious that in the palmy days of Greece Athens had begun her 
own ruin by the siege of Syracuse in Sicily ; also that in the golden age of 
Rome Sicily was her granary, and that the white slaves who raised the splen- 
did harvests were so frightfully treated that they rose against their masters 
in tlie most desperate insurrections ; that in the feudal ages both the Normans 
and the German Emperors had had something to do with Sicily, and that once 
there was a massacre there called the ** Sicilian Vespers.^' But its history was 
all utterly vague and misty to me ; and as for its geography, had any one asked 
me whether its inhabitants wandered ab6ut Mount Etna with one shoulder 
draped in skins, or walked paved streets in the clothes of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, I should probably have answered, *• I'm sure I don't know " ; and yet, 
dear reader, I did attend ** public school " in my youth, and was often at the 
head of my class too! 

When, therefore, the destinies of things had actually brought it about that 
the United States granted its Coast Survey $29,000 wherewith to go and ob- 
serve the eclipse, and I all suddenly found myself a member of Professor 
Peirce's own division of the expedition, the very last thing present to my 
thoughts was that 1 should find any pleasure in visiting Sicily. What I should 
see on my way thither and back was the great anticipation to me, and Sicily I 
classed with the voyage across the Atlantic, as the inevitable bore that in some 
shape or other dogs all human enjoyment, and is endured for its sake. I sup- 
posed that beauldful Naples would be our last stage of civilization, and there 
nerved myself up for indefinite dirt, fleas, and bad dinners, until we should see 
once more its heavenly bay and hear again the delightful hurly-burly of its 
streets. 

It is a truly Italian fact that there is as yet no railway from Naples to the 
end of the peninsula — the toe of the boot — so that instead of being able to cross 
from Italy to Sicily by ferry in an hour, you have to take a little steamer at 
Naples and coast down the Italian shore for a day and a night, more or less, as 
it happens, until you get to Messina. And it is an equally peculiar Italian fiict 
that there is no wharf in the Bay if Naples for the said steamer to lie at, but 
you and your luggage are rowed out to her in an open boat in the dark, and 
have to climb into her by a narrow ladder ; and if this happens to be in a 
drenching rain, as was the case with us, one is very apt to think fondly on one's 
native land, where covered piers and broad gangways are natural rights 
just as much as the ballot! We unluckily had taken the Peirano instead 6f 
the Florio line, and found ourselves next morning, after not a bad night, on 



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180 THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. [August, 

board a boat whose deck was grimy beyond conception^ and full of Italian sol- 
diei*s or opera bravos, I am not sure which. However, a nice little English 
library had been bought, probably with the steamer, and as the Mediten*anean 
was smooth to glassiness, I preferred to ensconce myself on a sofa in the cabin 
and while' away the day with Mrs. Piozzi's " Reminiscences of Dr. Johnson," 
to spending it up stairs staring at the Apennines that lined die shore, for they 
are the most repellent mountains I ever saw, gray, bald, and bare, without 
anything grand to redeem them — much like the backbone of the modern Italian 
character. 

We arrived at Messina about nine o'clock at night — a soft, exquisite, star- 
liglit night— and were rowed ashore in the same primitive fashion in which we 
had embarked. The back windows of our hotel looked out on the quay, so we 
were soon in it; and, with its barn-door entrance into an inner court round 
which its stone pillars and galleries and staircase were built, the Hotel Yit- 
toria, if not *• Sicilian," was certainly unlike any other I had seen. I was shown 
up to the third story into just the room for a summer land — ^large, dusky, with 
a stone floor and a deep grated window set in the thick wall, and looking out 
upon the bay with its lights and the s^ with its stars in so romantic a fashion, 
that as I leaned back in the old casement to dream, I could not help hoping that 
many tender lovers had breathed their vows to each other ** on such a night as 
this " and in that very spot. 

The next morning we were up very early to take the first train for Catania, 
tiiat city of our destination which in America I had thought of as probably a 
straggling village with nothing fit to eat in it. The railway carriage was new 
and quite elegant with its drab brocade cushions, and the four hours' journey 
along the seashore certainly one of the most beautiful I ever took. On one 
side the Mediterranean glittered like silver in the sunshine between the bold 
shore near us and the blue Italian heights across the straits ; and on the other 
was the Sicilian landscape, with its wild hills covered with the gross and 
savage cactus, crowned here and tiiere by castie, monastery, or ruin, and cut 
by the wide beds of immense torrents, at whose shrunken rill women would 
perhaps be washing; with its lemon and orange orchards laden with fiiiit, 
and its vineyards pruned for the winter; with its wayside villages, whose 
loungers and whose workers alike sit out in the sun, some of them so dark 
as to- remind one that AMca in truth was not far off; and with nowhere any 
trees — the guide-book says, because two hundred years ago or so the inhab- 
itants thought that the birds injured their splendid grain crops, and so they out 
down the great forests that until then had characterized Sicily; and now the 
whole island suffers every year more for want of water. Such is " popular " 
wisdom, and, judging from the senseless passion for fence-making which is 
devouring the forests in this country, drying up tiie land before its time, and 
plotting it out in short, straight lines like a patch-quilt, it is a very good exam- 
ple too. Looking out of the car window at the resources of this wondrous isl- 
and compared with its development, one of our party said, in the American 
vernacular, ** If the Italians could only be cleaned out of Italy, what a splendid 
country it would be." ** What a splendid ooutitry it would be if the Italians 
could only be cleaned in Italy," suggested some one else; and amid a general 
laugh tiie amendment was agreed to. 

I think we were about half-way to Catania when we caught our first 
glimpse of Etna, and a very disappointing one it was, and I suppose generally 
is, particularly if one has just left Naples. It is nearly three times as high as 
Vesuvius, but Vesuvius has the advantage of rising steeply from the plain very 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 181 

near you without intervening hills, so that the whole hei^t is apparent ; where- 
as the base of Etna is 120 miles round, and the slope so gradual that, though it 
bears many Vesuvii, like pigmies upon its mighty bosom, its snowy top is too 
distant and too dwarfed by its other proportions to affect one at first with its 
true grandeur. Here we were, however, in the land of classic stoiy, and ac- 
toaUy beholding that Etna beneath which the Cyclops were imprisoned by 
2^us, while soon after we were whirled by the very rocks that the ** one-eyed 
Polypheme " had hurled after Ulysses into the sea! Sicily is indeed enchanted 
^ound, and I thought so none the less when at ten o'clock we reached 
Catania, and were met at the station by the advance guard of the party, who 
informed Professor Peirce that the authorities of the city had placed the empty 
Benedictine monastery at the service of the American and English eclipse ex- 
peditions, and that the hotel was " excellent." We soon drove to it, and found 
it large and new, set in a garden, and kept by the ubiquitous German with the 
honest face, who giv^ one most of the comfort one gets on the Continent. 
Everything was fresh, clean, and airy ; and though there were no fireplaces, the 
carpets on the floors (things almost unknown in Sicily) anpplied the extra 
warmth required by the season. It was the 12th of December, yet my long 
Dvindow was wide open, the curtains fluttering in a balmy breeze, and from my 
balcony I could either look down on a blossoming rose-tree in the garden be- 
low, or across the housetops to stately, snow-capped Etna, which in all its ma- 
jesty filled the northern horizon and seemed to upheave the whole surrounding 
country with it. The cup of our contentment fairly overflowed when, having 
found Sicily, Catania, our hotel, and our rooms all delightful, we were called 
down to •* fork-breakfast," as we freely translated it, and were served with dt>- 
iicioos fish, and with as nice steak, fried potatoes, coffee, and vin ordinaire as 
one could desire. 

But the day that had begun so auspiciously was destined to end in gloom. 
Jnst before dinner came the startling news that the English party, which was 
to come to Sicily from Naples by the Government yacht Psyche, had been 
wrecked outside the harbor of Catania, and that they were all at the hotel. 
In the evening we learned the particulars, and they were indeed of the most 
aggravating description. It seemed tliat this yacht was the Admiral^s own 
despatch boat — ^the pet messenger of the British navy — ^lined throughout with 
mahogany and finished in the most beautiful manner ; being in fact the same 
one tbokt took the Prince and Princess of Wales to Egypt. She had been put at 
the service of the eclipse expedition, and was to take different observers to va- 
rious points, as should be decided after they aU reached Catania. They had 
nearly made the harbor that morning, and were running a little nearer inshore 
than the usual course, in order to give the party a better view of the beautiflil 
coast, when the captain was called away from the helm for a moment, and 
while he was absent the lieutenant changed the course of the ship. Alas! in 
bright sunshme, and on a sea like glass, she struck a rock not down in the 
chajrt, and was completely impaled in a moment. There was just time to get 
the observers, with their instruments and luggage, safely off, but the officers 
and crew lost everything. The young captain who was in command had only 
been in charge of her three months, and sh^ was his first ship, while the terri- 
ble rule of the British navy is that a captain who once loses a vessel is never 
given another, but is put on half-pay for life. Moreover, the eclipse expedi- 
tion itself, we understood, was not popular in England. When Professor 
Peirce reached London he found an almost perfect apathy upon the subject^ 
12 



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182 THE MEDITERRAKEAN SOLAE ECLIPSE. [August, 

and was fearful that the English were not going to send out any expedition at 
all — so much so that he did not hesitate. to appeal in the strongest manner to 
scientific men, and even to the GoTernment^ not to let the Americans and the 
Itiilians be the only nations interested in the great phenomenon.' His'enthusi- 
asm at last communicated itself; the scientific men made their arrangements 
to go, and the Government granted them £2,000 and the use of the Psyche. 
But still, as one of themselves told us, tliey had left behind them a good deal 
of opposition and heartburning in England, and to have this dreadful misfor- 
tune come upon them the very fiurst thing, and through them upon the young 
captain who seemed to have won all their hearts, was crushing. It took all 
mirth completely out of botli expeditions from the beginning.* 

Catania was founded by Greeks twenty-six hundred years ago, but it has 
been destroyed so many times by wars and earthquakes that it presents no 
traces of an ancient town, and what Greek and Roman remains there are, are 
mostly underground. It is a cheerful city of 64,000 inhabitants, built upon 
the seashore, and possessing a public promenade, a public garden, a university, 
a cathedral, and other churches, I should say, by the hundred (for it seemed to 
me as if we passed one every few steps), all of them in that base and inverted 
architecture that seems to have developed itself in the Roman Church sinpe the 
Reformation. The fa9ade of the modern Italian church is as utterly devoid of 
beauty, and, no matter what its cost, wears as degraded an expression as any- 
thing my eyes have ever gazed upon. In Rome I think the fa9ades are, as a 
rule, peculiarly distressing ; but in. Catania many of them have a touch of the 
grandiose that redeeuLS them a little. By the time I had got to Naples, I was 
very tired of bronze horses and marble lions, and began to wonder why no 
other animals were ever chosen to adorn the public places, when, the very first 
thing in Catania, in the middle of the cathedral square, I saw an elephant 
standing with an obelisk on his back, and looking so old that I was afraid to 
inquire his age lest I should learn he was modem. The elephant is the device 
of Catania, and I thought it so original to have gone all the way over to the 
East, perhaps, or all the way back to Pyrrhus and Hannii3al for an inspiration, 
tliat it endeared the city to me at once. And, indeed, I have a high respect for 
its people on account of their industry. Drive through any street you will, and, 
in great contrast to any other Italian city I remember, you will see the men, 
women, and children, even quite little ones, clustered within theur doors and as 
busy as they can be. Nor are there nearly so many degraded and wretched 
objects lounging about as in other places. 

But the glory of Catania is the Benedictine monastery, now empty, and 
said to be, with a single exception, the most imposing in Europe. The church 
belonging to it is as large as a cathedral, and contains an immense organ un- 
siirpassed in the world. The monastery itself is built around two gardens, and 
h.is a beautiful great hall for its library, with tiled floor and frescoed ceiling, 
and a similar one for its refectory. At the back is a large open garden made 
entirely of soil carted there upon the black lava rocks, and as beautiful as a 
dream, with its walks among lemons and oranges and roses, and at the very 
end a great stone terrace commanding the most superb view of stateliest Etna 
possible to imagine. The monks were ** knowing ones ^^ in their day, and the 
monastery in any town is very apt to be in the finest situation in it. So it was 
here. There was room enough in it to accommodate a thousand monks, all 
nobles. They had dwindled down to about forty, and four years ago, along with 

* The captain was acquitted, lioweTer, but the lieatenant was not. 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 183 

all the other monks in Italy, they were " suppressed." Now their wide and in- 
deed magnificent home is going to decay ; the great corridors and staircases 
are dirty; the marble and sculptured entrance-hall cobwebbed and dusty; their 
church desolate; their library deserted; their frescoed dining-hall profaned 
and ruined by the scene-painters of the theatre ; their exquisite gardens neg- 
lected and fast running to weeds ; even the rich organ is silent, for the monk 
who play^ it will not exhibit his beloved instrument for money, and there are 
services in the church now only a few times a year. It is such a terrible waste! 
These monasteries would make the most splendid schools and colleges in the 
world, would the Italians only use them for such purposes ; but it is said that 
there are so many all over Italy that the authorities know not what to do with 
them, so they let them go to decay, as the English did theirs at the time of the 
Reformation ; and some day, like them, they will regret that they would not 
spend a few hundreds to repair what it cost tens of thousands to build, and once 
gone, will never be replaced. 

It was nothing less than this grand place that the city had courteously 
placed at the service of the observers, and thither on the day after our arrival 
they all repaired to unpack their instruments. Our party experienced a re- 
verse the first thing. In arranging for the expedition Professor Winlock of the 
Cambridge Observatory had invented for the spectroscopes he and his assistant, 
Mr. C. S. Peirce, had used in the eclipse of the previous year, an adjustment he 
called an " achromatic recorder," by which during the eclipse the observer 
could himself count the spectrum lines he saw, instead of having some other 
person do it for him. Mr. Peirce was looking forward to using it with great 
interest, but case after case was opened and it was not forthcoming. It was 
not there! Great dismay and much telegraphing; but the instrument had 
gone hopelessly to Spain, through some misunderstanding that Mr. Peirce was 
to join Professor Winlock's party there instead of going to Sicily with his 
father. Fortunately the English had more polariscopes than they needed, and 
they very kindly furnished him with one, or he would have been without any 
instrument at all. Xs for me, I had expected to be put on ** general observa- 
tions," but to my consternation was told that I must sketch the corona. Now 
I believe I can draw a very faithful outline of an object if I have time enough, 
but I am not very rapid with the pencil, and do not dare to trust my memory 
of objects, just as some persons cannot trust their memory of music away firom 
notes. I decided that the only drawing I could votick for would be simply 
what I should succeed in putting down at the moment of the eclipse. So I 
followed Mr. Lockyer's advice and took a dashing picture of Secchi's of a former 
corona — ^fuU of rays and long streamers, but the only one I had — and pinning 
it upon the hanging of my bed, I practised from it diligently all the week, until 
r could draw it several times in a minute. I also sketched often the steam- 
cloud that rolls out of Etna, changing from moment to moment, and any other 
object that my eye lighted upon suddenly. Meantime the other observers were 
at the monastery, setting up their instruments and practising with them. And 
so the ten days wore away and the eventful 22d drew near. 

The whole interest of the solar eclipse of 1870 centred in the corona. Up 
to this eclipse, other and minor phenomena had divided the attention of as- 
tronomers. The changes of color in the sky, clouds, and landscape ; the ap- 
proach and retreat of the dark shadow at the rate of a mil^ a second ; the beads 
into which the sun's crescent breaks up just before totality ; the degree of dark- 
ness during totality ; the shining out of the stars ; the red flames or ** promi- 



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184 THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. [August, 

nences " round the moon^s disc — all these had been as interesting to the ob- 
server as the size, shape, color, and sti*ucture of the corona. But all of these 
were now settled and underatood, while the corona, though indeed the most 
stinking feature of an eclipse to the eye, was still a mystery, and had therefore 
come to be the most absorbing problem engaging solar scientific attention. 

" Imagine, at the departure of the last ray of the sun in its retreat behind 
the moon, an awful gloom diffused over the fiace of Natm*e ; and round a dark 
circle near the zenith, an immense radiated glory like a new creation in a mo- 
ment bursting on the sight, and for several minutes fixing the gaze of man in 
silent astonishment.^^ The solar eclipse here so beautifully described is the 
one seen at Albany in 1806, and the *' glory " spoken of is tiiat corona to in- 
vestigate which so much time, money, and thought has since been expended. 

Astronomy has been strangely fortunate in having three solar eclipses fol- 
low each other in three successive years in accessible places. The first was in 
India in 1868, where for the first time in a solar eclipse the wonderfhl powers 
of the spectroscope were brought into play. With its aid, the English observ- 
er hoped to discover of what elements both the red prominences and the corona 
were composed. With the latter they were not successful, only one observer. 
Major Tennant, obtaining an indefinite result of '* a faint continuous spectrum, 
without lines either dark or bright ^^ — that is, with nothing to show whether 
the corona shone by its own light or by light reflected from the sun. But the 
prominences they discovered to be immense flame-tongues or whorls of in- 
tensely heated hydrogen, which burst up from the sun to a height of from 
60,000 to 160,000 miles, or play around him in lower flame billows. Moreover, 
Jannsen found that with the spectroscope he could continue to observe the 
prominence he had been looking at duiing totality long after it was over ; and 
simultaneously Lockyer in England discovered that prominences could be 
studied on any clear day, and that tihey belonged to a complete hydrogen at- 
mosphere that enveloped the sun, and which he called the "chromosphere." 
Observers, however, did not find aZl the lines that had been seen during the 
eclipse, and they did see others which had not been noticed during it at all. 
Much of the precious time of our own magnificently clear eclipse in 1869, 
therefore, had to be given to verifying these conflicting observations. Professor 
Winlock gave his attention to counting the spectrum lines of the prominences, 
and his assistant, Mr. C. S. Peirce, to determining whether the prominences 
were identical in constitution by observing the differences in tibe relative inten- 
sity of the same lines in those of different shapes. Professors Young, Harkness, 
and Pickering, however, observed the corona, and gave to astronomy the first 
definite knowledge of its constitution. Judging from the incredulity with 
which their observations were received in England, the triumph for American 
science was worth having. ** Upon the faint, continuous, rainbow-tinted spec- 
ti'um seen by Major Tennant in India, Professor Harkness saw one bright 
green line ; Professor Toung recognized the same line and suspected the exist 
ence of two others ; and Professor Pickering saw three bright lines." These 
observations told the scientific world in unmistakable spectroscopic language 
that the corona contains some substance that shines by its own light. What is 
this substance? Its place in the spectrum is or very nearly corresponds with 
that of a green line (1474 of KirohhofTs scale), which belongs to the spectrum 
of glowing vapor of iron. The conclusion of Professor Harkness therefore was, 
that *' the corona is a highly rarefied self-luminous atmosphere surrounding the 
sun, and perhaps principally composed of the incandescent vapor of iron." 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 185 

But in the aurora borealis there is a green line which also corresponds to 1474 
Kirchhoff. Hence arose the very natural theory that the corona is a perpetual 
solar aurora, and it is that adopted by Professor Young. Professor Winlook 
was at first struck by this view, but on returning to Cambridge after the 
eclipse and going over the observations, he formed a different hypothesis. For 
the photographs taken on tliis occasion had also something to say. Hitherto, 
photographs of total eclipses had been taken through a telescope, first small 
and afterwards enlarged. Professor Winlock arranged to have photographs 
taken through a telescope of the size desired in the first place, and this was 
found much more successful in giving the true proportions of the corona. But 
it did not take all of the corona that is visible to the naked eye. Only the 
inner and brighter portions showed on the negative, the long outside " radia- 
tions," as some call them, being entirely absent. What did that mean? As 
interpreted by Professor Winlock, it meant that the corona is two-fold, and 
consists first of an inner luminous envelope of gas^ markedly quadrilateral in 
shape, which is the irtie solar atmosphere ;* and woovl^l of outer streamers or 
radiations formed from the vapors or gases of our own upper atmosphere, and 
var3ring with its own variable conditions. Professor Winlock stated these as his 
conclusioDS in a letter to Mr. Lockyer after the eclipse of 1869, but the letter 
was not published in ** Nature," and neither it nor the communications of the 
other American astronomers made any impression on the great solar spectr*- 
soopist, his tlieory being that the sun had no envelope outside the chromosphere 
or hydrogen envelope, and that the corona therefore was simply '* a terrestrial 
phenomenon due to the passage of the sun!s rays through our own atmosphere." 

In 1870 then the corona problem stood thus : 

The ^eat luminous orb of the sun is called the ** photosphere " ; his hydro- 
gen envelope is called the ** chromosphere." Now was there still another sun- 
envelope beyond this (whether a glowing iron vapor or an aurora), which in an 
eclipse appears as the whole corona^ as Professor Young supposed? Or was 
the corona nothing but an effect of our own atmosphere, as Mr. Lockyer main- 
tained? Or was it, according to Professor Winlock's view, partly solar and 
partly terrestrial ? 

It may easily be imagined how anxiously, during the ten days previous to 
the eclipse, the astronomers watched that weather which might so easily pre- 
vent an answer to these questions. Professor Peirce's observers in Sicily were 
about twelve, but the English party was much more numerous. At its head 
was Mr. Lockyer himself, the most eminent solar spectroscopist in- England, 
and with him were the distinguished chemist Professor Rosooe of Owens Col- 
lege, Manchester, Professor Adams of King^s College, Mr. VignoUes, a famous 
engineer and o^omporary of Robert Stephenson, and a crowd of clever and 
educated young men, fully armed and equipped with instruments, instructions, 
and enthusiasm. 

Mr. Lockyer strikes one at once as a man of genius. He is very small 
and compact, with a pleasant and almost vivid face and frank impulsive man- 
ner, and wit^ so much nervous energy tdiat he resembles the typical American 
rather than his own calmer countrymen. He was evidently so eager to see 
with his own eyes whether indeed the corona were anything more than the 
continuation of his ** chromosphere," and from his mastery of the subject he 
had such a right to see it. (to speak h VAmericaine), that I confess I hoped that 
whoever else were disappointed ho would not be. He was accompanied by 

• See " smiman't idomal^'' Koremoet. liTO. * 



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186 THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. [August, 

Mrs. Lookyer as his own assistant* a lady as tranquil as her husband is excit- 
able, but who pursues his soiefice, and has written several books upon it, so 
that together they seem to lead that double life deroted to one end of whidi 
we hear not unfrequently in England, but of which in this country, so far as I 
know. Professor and Mrs. Agassiz are the only examples. Professor Roscoe 
I fancied not only to be the typical, but the ideal Englishman — ^the fair-haired 
Viking translated into modern man, gentleman, and scwantt and with a certain 
sweetness, a serene and broad and gracious kindliness of mien, that I nerer 
saw in an American ; for in' our drive and fret of life it is impossible. 

The great day broke at last in splendor, after wind and clouds the previous 
afternoon, and a rain in the night which made our hearts quake lest it should 
last. It had only washed the atmosphere into perfect clearness, however, and 
we were all exultant, though somewhat uneasy about the observers who had 
gone up Mount Etna, for the whole mountain was wrapped in a white man- 
tle of snow. The Marquis of San GiuUano, a leading nobleman of Catania 
and a member of the Italian Senate, had offered to the observers the use of 
two villas as different posts of observation. Mr. Lockyer, however, decided to 
remain at the monastery with one division of his observers. Professcnr Peirce 
stationed there also our photographers sad our time-observer, Mr. Schott. Pro- 
fessor Roscoe and his party took Mount Etna, where we were represented by 
Dr. Peters of Hamilton College, New York (who had in past years surveyed the 
whole of Etna), and by General Abbot of the U.' S. Engineers, who was to sketch 
the corona from the highest point possible. Professor Adams took a large 
party, principally polariscopists, to Agosta and Villamonda, and two English 
photographers went to Syracuse, where also Professors Harkness, Newcomb, 
Hall, and Eastman were stationed on the part of the U. S. Navy, ^ofessor 
Watson of Ann Arbor, Michigan, took up his station at Carlentini to sketch the 
corona, while Professor Peirce accepted the invitation of the Marquis for his 
own party, and with his son, myself, and some American friends drove out to 
the Villa San Giuliano, which is two or three miles north of Catania, on the road 
to Etna and up-hill nearly all the way. We arrived about two hours before to- 
tality, which was to take place at two o'clock, and found the villa a sort of 
earthly paradise. The fbrst tiling we saw on alighting was a bed of scarlet ge- 
raniums in full bloom, and a wall close by was covered with a great vine full of 
purfde blossoms. The Marquis and his son courteously received us on the steps 
of the viUa, and introduced us to a party of friends who had also come up to 
behold the great event. The terrace in front of the house commanded the most 
enchanting view of the valley below, with Catania and its harbor in the centre, 
and the Mediterranean stretching broadly beyond, while above it all hung the 
bright sun, yet unconscious of the dark enemy that was lurkingvin his beams in 
order soon to cover his ** glorious fEioe ^' from the world. We all chose our 
posts of observation : Professor Peirce on an elevation behind the house, Mr. C. 
S. Peirce in the garden with his polarisoope, the Marquis and his guests on the 
terrace, and I and another lady in a room of the villa just over it. A table was 
arranged for me in a window conunanding the landscape just spoken of, and 
at a quarter past one, with my drawing materials before me, I sat down to wait 
for totality with a beating heart. I had been copying rays all the week, and if 
there were any rays in the corona rays I was determined to see ; for I could not 
bear the idea of accepting so much pleasure from the United States and mak- 
ing no return. A strong wind blew in upon me and chilled my fingers, but in 
the excitement I neither felt it much nor took any cold. For some time the 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. . 187 

sun reigned supreme, and until about half an hour before totality kept all 
clouds at a distance in spite of the foe that was now closing with him. But 
then they suddenly came upon his diminished crescent and hemmed him round, 
now serrying, now breaking, until, when he was but a shrinking silver rim, they 
united in a dense storm-wall, solid from the very horizon, and blotted him com- 
pletely from our sight. I had no watch with me. The gentlemen walked in 
almost dead silence up and down the terrace, and as I sat watching that re- 
lentless gray veil the rain began to fall. The landscape was very dark (though 
not more so, nor more ^)eculiar in its tint, than J have often observed just be- 
fore sudden storms), and as the long seconds rolled on I felt sure that totality 
-was being enacted behind tliat intolerable pall, and that all hope was over. 

Dear reader, if you have a weakness, and ever undertake to observe a total 
eclipse, where coolness and presence of mind are the^r^^ requisites, be sure that 
-weakness will find you out. I liave no less than two— two small but intense 
unpolses, remnants of original sin, I suppose, not to indulge which is always 
an effort with me, and which have often caused me serious annoyance, and I 
snppose oflen will again. One of them is, as soon as all apparent use is over 
for a thing, to get rid of it. As soon as I have read a letter I long to put it in 
the fire. Whenever my husband has got through with a coat (as I think), I 
"wish to give it away, etc. The other is, that when I am in a tremendous hurry 
"with anything and much agitated with the thought that I haven't time enough 
to do it in, instead of simply driving through the main point, I am very apt to 
try to accomplish also some non-essential connected with it, which of course 
gives me every chance of being behind time altogether, and sometimes in fact 
bas made me so. Now, why of all moments in my life should these two im- 
pulses combine against me as they did? For, lest it should be too dark for me 
to see to sketch during totality, as is sometimes the case, I had been provided 
-with a dark lantern. I had lit it with difficulty in the strong wind, and had 
had it burning for some time. It was but a small bit of candle that was in it. 
I should never use it again. Why, then, could I not have let it bum on even 
supposing totality wcbs over? But no. If totality were over, as I was sure it 
-was, the occupation of the burning candle was gone ; indeed, its flame was a mock- 
ery if not an insult At any rate, impulse No. 1 came strongly upon me, and in 
my heartache I blew it out! Some hundred seconds after a gentleman came up 
stairs with a watch, from whom I learned the time. It wanted yet five min- 
utes of totality, and the cloud had begun to look thinner. Shocked at my own 
rashness, I tried to light my lantern again, but the -wind and my agitation both 
together were too much for me. I gave it up and looked up at the sun. He 
was there. The clouds had broken and totality had not yet begun, for there 
was a thread of him, though but a thread, left. Of course I should have let all 
thoughts of the lantern go, and given my whole attention to the great spectacle 
and its accessories. But my demon of the impossible, or impulse No. 2, goaded 
me once more to try and light the paltry thing, and I made another effort, 
which was soon cut short by a bright red light as from a fire falling upon my 
paper, and I looked up just in time to see the horizon-clouds that bordered the 
sea transformed by it into dancing witches, and to catch sight of the beads that 
the sun's crescent breaks up into as it disappears. In another second, in a lit- 
tle lake of clear sky, almost as by a miracle, was the totality we had come so 
for to see — the black moon-disc, the white corona around it, a bright star 
near it ; and simultaneously the Sicilians on the terrace burst into the most tre- 
mendous excitement, shouting and cheering and calling out ** Stel-la! stel-lat*^ 



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188 , THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECUPSE. [August, 

(The star! the star!), and keeping it up through the whole hundred seoonds of 
totalit}*. 

But how different was the corona &om what I had expected! All the draw- 
ings I had seen gave one the idea of bright beams streaming out on all sides 
from the moon^s disc, as they seem to do from the sim himself if one tries to 
look at him with the naked eye ; whereas to me it looked like a soft, yellowish 
white halo or aurora, bright and well defined for a narrow distance all round 
the moon, then changing into so indistinct an outline that I thought there was 
a cloud over it; and in fact the whole corona looked pale and watery to my 
wrought-up imagination. I began to sketch the brighl Inner rim, which was 
crossed by dark lines, and then said to myself, **It will do no good for me to 
try and get the outline of the corona, for evidently there is a cloud over it. I 
had better first look for my rays and put those in their exact places. ^^ I found 
no rays in the upper half of the corona, only the dark lines which I had first 
jotted down, and then looking at the lower half, found instead of bright rays, to 
my intense surprise, pale gray or steel-colored spaces or channels, three of 
them, where the corona-light was interrupted as if from a shadow falling 
across it, and which I put down in the exact places and proportions as they ap- 
peared to me, beginning with No. 1, and then totality was over, and I had had 
no time to go back and give the outline of the whole. Therefore I only say 
that my whole sketch is but tl^e general idea or impression made upon me in 
the first momentary glance before beginning to draw, but the three lower 
spaces I can most positively certify to, for they are all that I fairly allowed my- 
self to look at during the eclipse. They are all that I can vividly recall ; and in 
short, I most certainly saw them, and with an eye not unaccustomed to careful 
and minute observation of general things — ^thanks to Mr. Ruskin^s books first 
and to Mr. Agassiz^s lectures afterward. It is my belief, however, that cloud 
was either over them or light shining through them, for they were so pale as 
veiy easily to be lost to the casual observer in the general brightness of the 
halo. (See illustration, p. 192.) 

After the eclipse I was in no hurry to go down stairs, for my paper had 
nothing to show on it but those rays and a few other marks, and I felt that I 
had acquitted myself even worse than I had feared I should. However, some 
one came to call me to a collation that the Marquis had hospitably prepared for 
us ; so I hid my sketch and went down into the drawing-room to be served by 
footmen in livery for the only time in my life. The Sicilians and the Ameri- 
cans made a very triumphant and happy party, diinking the Marquis's won- 
derful old Etna wine, exchanging congratulations in broken French, and other- 
wise playing the agreeable to each other. After the collation we walked round 
the lovely grounds ; some one gathered me a beautiful bouquet, and then it waa 
time to bid adieu to the charming villa and the courteous Marquis, and go down 
to Catania to learn the fate of the other observers. 

Alas! the cloud that had so nearly ruined our prospects had ruined theirs 
completely. A second and a half was all the view of totality vouchsafed them 
at the monastery ; our photographers had taken nothing, and Mr. Lockyer had 
not seen the corona / It was dreadful, and in the evening the Etna party came 
home with the same sad tale. In spite of the snow-storm of the previous night, 
they had got their instruments safely set up, even Professor Roscoe's very del- 
icate and complicated one, over which I had seen his assistant Mr. Bowen shake 
his head gloomily and ominously more than once as he was adjusting it at the 
monastery. Our General Abbot liad actually climbed 8,400 feet up Mount Etna, 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 189 

and flattered himself that he at least woald have a perfectly clear view, when 
he, as well as the ohservers below him, was suddenly enyeloped in a hail- 
storm, which lasted throng totality. Of all the Catania observei-s, then, we 
had been the only fortunate ones ; and though of course we should have felt 
very badly, since Uncte Sam had given us the money to come out with, to have 
gone home without knj report to make him, yet when the spectroscope obser- 
Tations were of such high importance, and when such very eminent men with 
splendid instruments were there to make them, I felt as if on this occasion it 
would have been better to have had the race to the swift and the battle to the 
strong, seeing we at the viUa only had one borrowed polariscope among us. 

However, the English observers at the other Sicilian stations were more for- 
tunate ; their polanscopist at Y illamonda had clear weather ; their spectroscopist, 
Mr. Burton, at Agosta, detected the green coronal line observed by the Ameri- 
icans in 1869 ; while at Syracuse their photographer, Mr. Brothers, obtained 
with a common camera a negative, showing not only the inner but al^o the 
whole of the outer corona; a novel and brilliant achievement, and one which 
an enthusiast in the ** Spectator " declares to be '* alone worth all the cost of 
all the expeditions put together.^' 

At Carlentini, Professor Watson of our party had splendid weather, and fiom 
his observations made two valuable drawings, which will be referred to later in 
the article. At the monastery, Mr. Sc^ott, to whom was intrusted the noting 
of the moments of the four contacts, recorded a great triumph for American 
science in the fact that the Americanos time of the first contact of the moon's 
disc with the sun^s, as computed by Professor Peirce's Tables of the Moon, was 
right to within five seconds ; while the English computation of the same con- 
tact, made after Hannsen^s celebrated Tables, was out by fifty seconds. Pi-o- 
fessor Peirce himself, at the villa, had noticed the corona visible before totality 
began, and upon the outer corona he saw pink reflections from the red protu- 
berances, which would be one proof that the outer corona is terrestrial. Mr. 
C. S. Peirce, observing with a polariscope, found *• polarization radial to the 
sun, showing that light was reflected from the sun " ; which observation agreed 
with that of Mr. Ranyard, the English polariscopist at YiUamonda, aind with 
those of Professor Pickering in Spain; but other instruments gave a difiere;it 
result, and Professor Pickering is now endeavoring to reconcile them in hopes 
of getting a uniform one. In Sjn-acuse, Professor Harkness of the U. S. Navy 
observed the green corona line that he had seen in the preceding year, and fol- 
lowed it out as far as 10 min. (800,000 miles) from the sun. In Spain the ob- 
servers generally had clear weather. Professors Winlock and Young followed 
the green line out to 20 min. (600,000 miles) from the sun, observing nearer to 
the sun other lines in it that belong to the chromosphere. Two young Eng- 
lishmen, Mr. Abbay and Mr. Pye, who observed under their direction, ob- 
tained similar results. Professor Young and Mr. Pye also got an observation 
which is said *' to close satisfactorily a discussion as to the existence of a thin 
shell of vapors dividing the photosphere from the chromosphere, which has 
occupied many pages of the scientific publications during the past year."* Two 
photographs were taken by Professor Winlock's photographer, which, if they 
show less of the external corona than those of Mr. Brothers (from having been 
taken with a telesco|>p), are perfectly accurate in the details of the inner one, 
and therefore of equal scientific importance. One of the English parties observ- 
ing under Father S. J. Perry, at San Antonio, found in the corona ** no streamers 

♦ Bev. S. J. Peny, Monthly Notices, Royal Aatronomloal Society, March 10. 



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190 THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. [August, 

or curves, but only a uniform glow of light, fading off as it receded from the 
sun, and broken hyfour or Jive darker gapsy Capt. McClear of the British 
Nayy saw bright spectrum lines on the dj^rk body of the moon, which, as Father 
Petjy .remarks, " show that we must receive with great caution any obsenrationB 
of bdght lines in the corona which are coincident with those of the chro- 
mosphere, especially when the bright lines of the prominences are dispersed 
by intervening Qlouds and atmof?phere." At Lord Lindsay^s station " stream- 
ers " were seen in the out^r corona. 

This,. I believe, is a summary of all liie observations bearing on the corona. 
I did not learn them at the time in Catania*, but since from scientific publica- 
tions; and I have been rather surprised. to find tiiat though the English have 
written more articles, favorable weather had given the Americans the majority 
, of the observations. Inimedlately ailer the eclipse the Catania parties broke 
up and went their ways — perhaps I should say endeavored to go tiiem, for 
Sicily is a siren, who, when she has once got you, will not let you go for the 
asking. There was a five days' storm on the Mediterranean, which kept us all 
in Messina, waiting for a boat, from Sunday night pntil FWday afternoon ; and 
when we did get off at last, it was at the price of a far more agonizing night 
than any we spent on the Atlantic. So it is no wonder that, as modes of com- 
munication are, travellers so seldom penetrate to Sicily. But how beautiful, 
how captivating she is! and we only saw a small part of her fascinations. 
Would tiiat I could stop to tell more even of that littie, but I must end with 
trying to state liow tib^e problem pf tiio corona stands now. 

The first result was,, as Mr. Lockyer telegraphed to London immediately 
after the eclipse, that "the Ame^can observations of 1869 were confirmed." 
All astronomers now agree that there really is " surrounding the sun a mass of 
self-luminous gaseous matter, whose spectrum is characterized by the green 
1474 line."* 

The problems remaining are, how far does this sun-envelope extend, and 
of what is it composed? 

The sun or " photosphere," as we see it, is 850,000 miles in diameter. Out- 
side of this, as Professor Young proved in the eclipse, is a thin shell of many 
commingling glowing vapors, about 1,000 miles thick. Outside of this again is 
the narrow red hydrogen ring less than 7,000 miles thick, but that rushes 
up into prominences that are occasionally 150,000 miles high. Finally, outside 
of all these is the corona as seen in an eclipse, pearl-white and very bright 
near the sun, and fading gradually off to a distance equal to or greater than 
his diameter ; that is, it extends apparently for a million miles more or less all 
round hipa ! Now in 1869, when Professor Young saw this in perfectiy clear 
weather, he thought it was all solar, and possibly a perpetual solar aurora. 
Professor Winlock thought that only the inner portion that showed on his pho- 
togra^ and which ranged from 90,000 to 250,000 miles in width, was solar, 
and that the outer portion was due to " atmospheric glare," as astronomers 
say. He has not published anything on the eclipse of 1870, but I have his per- 
mission to say that his opinion of 1869 remains unchanged. His photographs 
of 1870 have a wider margin than those of 1869 (though not so wide as that of 
Mr. Brothers), and on giving the negatives to an artist ^^o had never seen an 
eclipse or a picture of one, and requesting him to copy for him merely the 
brightest parts of the corona, the artist produced an outline almost identical 
with the corona-outline of the 1869 photograph, except that it has a rift where 

• Professor Toung, In " Nature," Pebmary 28. 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECUPSE. 191 

the latter has onlj a deep indentation^ This coincidence Professor Winlock val- 
ues as tendinf^ to confirm his original view, that the solar corona should be lim- 
ited to the bright inner ring, whose average width is .one-quarter of that of the 
Tifiible corona. 

Mr. Lockyer started with the theory that there was no corona outside of the 
chromosphere, and I fear I may not get his opinions without mistake, for these 
seem to change while his term does noL By '* chromosphere " I believe he 
originally meant the same thing that Mr. Airy had previously called '* sierra, ^^ 
. Tiz., the red hydrogen ring from which the prominences rise, and which is 
' less than 7,000 miles wide. But the tops of the prominences are sometimes 
160,000 miles high ; and influenced perhaps by the American obervations of 
1869, though he did not accept them, Mr. Lockyer decided before the eclipse to 
enlarge the tl] re to the height of the prominences at least, 

since its last L cool hydrogen which would give a different 

spectrum fron i near t^e sun, and thus possibly account for 

the green line )en in 1869. Since the edipse he has ex- 

pressed himse 3 elements already constitotlhg the chromo- 

sphere (hydrogen with a little iron, sodium, etc.) a new green-Tlne-giving ele- 
ment sufficiently lighter than hydrogen to float above it, and thus to carry the 
boundary of the chromosphere •* to six, eight, ten minutes " (200,000 to 300,000 
miles) — ^he ** cares not which " — ^beyond the sun's disc ; just twice, that is, what 
he at first allowed. The outer corona he regards still as terrestrial, as nothing 
more than a halo; and thus. in truth, to use his own laughing expression after 
the eclipse, he has ** annihilated the corona'' — ^there is none left — it is all 
** chromos{^ere " and atmospheric halo. Various astronomers of eminence 
agree with Mr. Lockyer in this his extension of the chromosphere to the whole 
region that gives bright spectrum lines. Professor Young and others, however, 
though willing to admit a portion of the outermost visible corona to be cer- 
tainly due in cloudy weather, and probably always, to atmospheric glare, still 
.think that the wide green-line-giving stratum may be a solar aurora having no 
definite outer limit, but quite distinct from the narrow red-prominence stratum 
below it. Therefore he is in favor (if I understand him) of limiting the word 
chromosphere to the latter as originally intended, and of giving to the former 
the new term ** leucosphere " that has lately been proposed for it in England. 
As far as I can make out, then. Professor Winlock and Mr. Lockyer are 
practically at one ; for Mr. Lockyer's enlarged " chromosphcw •* has about the 
limit of Professor Winlock's " solar atmosphere " or " true corona," and all be- 
yond that they are disposed to think terrestrial. The next eclipse battle will 
therefore perhaps be fought between them and their adherents on the one side, 
and Professor Young and his on the other ; for he gives to the true corona or 
•* leucosphere " an average extension of 260,000 or 500,000 miles, " with occa- 
sional horns of twice that height, and perhaps even no upper limit at all."* 

We come then to o«r last question, viz., whether there are any grounds for 
this theory; and I am sure the dear realder will be glad to know that here my 
poor little observation may perhaps lift up its timid voice, for the '* rifts " in 
the corona are exciting interest as possible proof that more than the bright 
inner ring is solar. 

Professor Winlock's Spanish photographs show one very sharp rift start- 
ing fVom the disc and going beyond the inner corona, and decided indications 
of several others. The cut given in ** Nature " (March 9) of Mr. Brothers's pho- 

* " Kature,** Febmaiy 23. There is eren an opinion that the zodiacal light may be an extension 
of the corona : also, that the corona may be a ring of meteoric dust revolving round the sun. 



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192 



THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 



[August, 



tograph taken at Syracuse, shows four very wide rifts or gaps in the enter co- 
rona, but none in the inner. Professor Watson^s water color drawing, taken 
through a telescope at Carlentini, shows four rifts in the inner corona, two of 
which agree well with two of Mr. Brothers^s in the outer corona, but the others 
less well. Professor Winlock^s photograph on glass is almost precisely the 
same size as my sketch, and when the former is superposed upon the latter his 
distinct rift coincides precisely with my No. 1, and two of his indentations with 
my No6. 2 and 3. Here are all the witnesses in outline. The reader will per- 

Fig. 2. 



Fig. 1. 



FnoM Prof. Winlock's piioto- 
aii.\ru AT Xeres, Spain. 



Fbom the Wkiter's SKKrcH AT Catania, 
Sicily. 

Fig. 4. 



Fipr. 3. 



r 




From Mb. Bbothers's Photo- I^bom Prof. Watson's Tele>coi'ic Dbawino at Cab- 

OBAPH AT SYBACUSE, SldLT. LENTINI, SlCILY. 

ceive for himself the above correspondences, and iilso that in the position of 
No. 1 all seem to agree, and that this mt>st important of the rifts seems to 6e- 
long equally to the inner and otUer coronas* Of the others, some belong to one 
corona and some to the other, and the different observers have placed them in 
slightly different positions, so that the correspondences can only be said to be 
general. The black dots indicate the prominences. 

Mr. Lockyer says in " Nature," February 23, ** that if in the two photo- 
graphs taken at stations so wide apart as Spain and Sicily (1,100 miles), the rift 
had been in the same positions, the presumptive evidence in favor of the solar 

• Mr. Gordon's drawing in Spain gives also Uie great rift, but no other. 



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1871.] THE MEDITERRANEAN SOLAR ECLIPSE. 19S 

nature of tlie corona for a distance outside the son equal to its diameter would 
have been overwhelming.^^ He concluded, however, that '* the two cameras 
had noi photographed the same phenomenon,^^ and states that "the sketches in 
Sicily had not recorded a single riffc,^^ and that in Professor Watson^s drawing 
there "is no indication whatever of tiiem." Now, as to my drawing, no one 
at Catania had thought it worth while to ask what /had seen (being a woman, 
I suppose), and Professor Watson shall speak for himself, since I have just had 
the honor to receive firom him (May 2) photograi^ of his drawings, with a 
recapitulation of his report to the United States Coast Survey. He says: 
*• Where the naked-eye view shows indentations in the corona, the telescopic 
view exhibits well-defined cusps (i. e, rifts), the points of which reached almost 
to the moon's limb. These cusps were bounded by regular curved outlines, as 
shown in the drawing, and were delicately shaded in respect to light, having 
been darkest at the apex, and gradually becoming brighter and brighter, until 
at the limit of the inner or solar corona they were considerably brighter than 
the exterior halo." 

Now, can any of the discrepancies between these photograph sketches be 
accounted for so as to make it probable that the rifts or cusps when shown on 
all our pictures are the same? No one will deny that we all saw the same in- 
ner corona, yet our representations of that diflfer even more than those of the 
rifts. Professor Toung says that **even skilled observers, standing side by 
side, describe phenomena differing in very essential points." The last scien- 
tific opinion given by the late venerable Sir John Herschel in answer to a letter 
written him by Mr. Brothers upon the subject of the rifts, was in favor of the 
rifts being identical in the two photographs, and if in those, then they probably 
are so in the drawings. At any rate, several scientific men in Cambridge have 
compared the four pictures, and their verdict is that the balance of the evi- 
dence seems to be in favor of the three lower rifts or indentations being iden- 
tical and common to both coronas, in which case they are solar; the true coro- 
na may turn out to be as extensive as Professor Toung thinks, and Mr. Lock- 
yer will have to double his "chromosphere" again.* 

I will close by quoting the words of Professor Watson upon a new and 
most important observation, which may change the study of the corona into an 
every-day matter, as Mr. Lockyer and Mr. Jannsen changed that of the prom- 
inences. *• I saw the corona beautifully," he writes, ** many seconds before the 
eclipse became total ; and having been convinced of its being a direct appen- 
dage of the sun, possibly an extension of what has been called the chromo- 
sphere, I concluded to observe carefiilly whether it might not be visible during 
a partial eclipse, and I was able to see it distinctly by the visibility of the limb 
of the moon beyond the limb of the sun, until only a few minutes before the 
end of the eclipse. Hence I have ventured the prediction that a careful scru- 
tiny will show the corona during any partial eclipse of the sun, and that it is 
possible even to observe it in the spectrum as the prominences are now ob- 
served." 

Should this possibility be realized* "eclipse expeditions," with all their 
pains and pleasures, their triumphs and disappointments, will be things of the 
past; but if not, since American science has so honorably distinguished itself 

* There Is no theory as jet as to what the dark rifts or cusps may be, but Mr. C. S. Peirce 
has 8U|(gested that if the solar spots are caused hj down rushes of colder currents, the rift 
may be the wboil of such down-rush through the solar envelopes. He says he cannot remember, 
however, whether he or some one in Catania first thought of this explanation ; but if it has any 
weight, It would be Interesting to see whether there were any relation between the position of the 
great rUt and any of the sun-spots of the 22d of December. 



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194 MAEGUERrrE. [August, 

upon this difficult question, it is my puivate advioe to our beloved and liberal 
Uncle, that he organize a permanent eclipse party of a few skilfiil observer»— 
if they will go—U> follow eclipses all round the world until they haye got out 
all their secrets. For though we know, from this last one, that die corona is 
largely, and perhapis wholly solar« yet the question as to what it is made ot— 
what element it is that gives the green spectrum line — still remains. In fine, 
scienpe so fkr has but collected a mt^s of facts; the hypodiesis to fit and ac- 
count for them all has yet to be found; and therefore this article cannot con- 
clude wiUi a conclusion. 

Z. F. P. 



MARGUERITE. 



FROM dawn to night&ll, at her window sitting, 
She waits, while drift the heavy boors away ; 
And like the swallows all her thoughts go flitting 
To that sweet South wherein they fain would stay. 

Up from the street there comes the lazy laughter 

Of girls who linger by the fountain's fall ; 
She heeds them not — her gase still follows after 

The clouds that roll beyond the dty wall. 

She vaguely hears her mother's firetful chiding, 

Her idle wheel grows dusty at her side ; 
Listless, she wonders where her Love is biding, 

Where'er he be there must her heart abide. 

All the di^ long she listens for his coming, 

All the long day she dreams of one dear face ; 
She hears his whisper in the bees' low humming, 

She feels his kisses in the wind's embrace. 

I/)nely she dreams while the warm sanshine lingers 

Upon the carven angels of her chair — 
Alone sits sobbing, while with silver fingers 

The moonbeams thread her soft, unbraided hair. 

Ah, heavy heart ! so passionate its yearning. 

She needs must know that all her peace is o'er ; 
That eager pain 'neath her white bosom burning 

Tells her 'tis gone, to enter there no more. 

But once to feel, unchecked, his fond caressing ! 

One wild, sweet hour close to his heart to press ! 
There her thought stops ; what else of bliss or blessing 

The great world holds she does not care to gaess. 

Still at her window, dreaming, longing, weeping, 
While to their mates the gray doves coo and call. 

She leans and watches the slow clouds go creeping 
Far down the blue, beyond the city wall. 

Nbllt Hutchinson. 



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THREE GHOSTS. 



WE are all born into the world livibg interrogataon marks'. The sting that 
tingled in poor Popovs soul so long, defining him to Imnself as "a lit- 
tle crooked thing that asks questions/^ has a broader application, characterizing 
the whole race of man. Unlike most other distinctiye traits of the race, this 
" grows with what it feeds on." The castle that parleys, the woman who lis- 
tens, have alike began a career of disastrous de^3at; and the sotd ^at'fiieglna^to 
question has but begun to sBde'toward ihe dafk and slippery sfeps of hell. ' It 
is the office of faith to lay her calm, cold fin^r upon' the trembling lips, to ar- 
rest the wandering steps, to teach us the last and hardest lesson of life, that all 
things come to him who can wait. 

For with questioning comes speculation; we pull up our anchor of cohtent- 
ed ignorance, and trust to unknown seas, in hope of equally unknown shores. 
When we begin to define We begin to wahder, and to wander in ^ih. Yet 
there is a subtle fiEiscination in the very danger that tempts us continually ; and, 
like a child on the shore that dips its dimpled foot hito the cool foam of the ad- 
Tancing wave, and follows its retreat with dancing footsteps, oViefrtaken by the 
mightier rush of the nearer billow, which, sweeping away all fbofllbM, and toss- 
ing those desperate arms and that betvUdered face a moment oh its surfkce, 
forever hides them from the eyes of love and the arms of maternity; so we, 
once beginning to lift the veil of Isis, fearless of its pure and tempting fblds, 
smitten with the madness of curiosity so fEur transcending even the madness of 
passion, we too raise the divine drapery with irreverent hands, and are struck 
lifeless with spiritual paralysis. 

Of all these questions that vex and nfook us, perhaps the most cornmon is 
the relation of mind and body ; that problem which babies and philosophers 
alike endeavor, each in their own fashion, to solve, and each with similar re- 
sult ; and of all its protean shapes, the most fascinating is the theory of dreams. 
What, where is this wondrous country, so full, so far fuller than daylight life, of 
passions, people, nature, art,*that ni^t transports us to? Why are its glories 
so incontinuous, its speech so incoherent, its agonies so terrible, ^o helpless, so 
ludicrous even, and yet so brief ? Why do we wake night after night exhausted 
and panting with insane terrors, or calmed with impossible delight? Why is 
sleep so peopled, so tortured, so raptured, that waking alone is rest? 

" Behold, the dreamer cometh! " was the ironic salute of Joseph's brethren; 
and '* dreamer" is the worlds titie of scorn in all time, till men are ashamed 
of their visions and proud of their facts. Alas! what is fact and what is vis- 
ion? Are they visions, the dead who return to me night after night, whose 
fond eyes shine, whose voices comfort, whose arms clasp me, whose tender 
faith so far transcends the realit«y of life and day? Is the love that visits me in 
sleep, the fear that maddens, the tongue that reviles, any less fact than if the 
sun shone upon them ? Do they not console, thrill, distress, with the same viv- 
idness as their daylight congeners? What is it that gives me warning days 
beforehand of a sorrow that impends, or a delayed delight? Why do I inter- 
change dreams with the few whom I know to be of my kind? How do I know 
that I do not interchange them with others whom mine eyes in the flesh have 
never seen and never shall see? How do I know that those strange, sudden per- 
ceptions of places, faces, thoughts, words, which startle all our souls at times, 
like lightning out of a blue sl^» and are oftenest credited to some vague theory 



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196 THREE GHOSTS. [August, 

of preexistence, are not due to this subtle kin-ness of souls — this counterpart 
sympathy that we recognize when we meet and can compare ourselves, but 
which may be equally potent in its nature and effects if we never meet? 

For myself, subject all my life to their dominion, 1 dare not deny the mys- 
tery of dreams. Mental philosophers tell us, with the shallow wisdom of all 
moital philosophy, that dreams are the result of association; that like spiritual 
parrots they only repeat in garbled language the events of the day or the past; 
that no dream has ever exceeded the limits of human experience, or even 
equalled in the enjoyments of sense the exercise of our waking senses ; prem- 
ises so false that their conclusion fails. 

Many years ago I had myself a dream that, among others, perhaps more 
than any other, exceeded all those conditions. With the strange inconsequence 
of dreaming, I found myself in the street, walking quietly toward home ; all 
my suiToundings were actual and commonplace. I could point out to-day the 
very flag-stone where my feet were arrested, the very tree above whose stately 
green pyramid the heavens opened to my sight; for they opened not with the 
breaking apart of piled thunder-clouds, or the radiance of storm lifted from 
the hills at sunset, or even as the rolling away of a scr^^ll ; but the serene, blue 
heaven parted as with a clean rift into deeper and still deeper azure, up, up, 
up! with an expression of space and distance beyond any aspect of faintest 
stars or midnight's purple depth, ** as the body of heaven in its clearness,^' 
but bluer and still bluer to immeasurable heights, and calm with the intensity 
of color ; and in this parted rift stood three colossal angels, so grand, so tran- 
quil, so lofty, that their very size expressed the immensity of space beyond 
them. Tet, not like any pictured or storied angel-shapes w^e these; no spot- 
less robes clothed them, and whatever were their method of descent from those 
infinite spaces beyond, no conventional wings indicated it to be flight; yet 
every figure was so full of rest, of rapture, of still li^tness, that wings oould 
no more have expressed soaring, although they stood and stayed themselves 
upon great harps of crusted gold all lit with blazing gems, such as no cavern 
of earth ever nursed, and no earthly sun ever lit with cognate ray ; while all 
their robes floating and flowing against the heavenly blue were dyed with min- 
gled colors, for which earth has no name, language no words to describe — 
colors no human eye has capacity to see, no human thought to form for itself^ 
dazzling, wondrous, a blaze of mystery, such as only the Creator may know, 
hiding in his boundless stores of eternal glory secrets for that endless exist- 
ence, food for the ever-hungry souls, the transfigured and fire-refined senses of 
his children. 

Nor were those garments and those types of music tlie chief assertion of 
these wonderful spirits. That they were of God was written on those &ces, 
whose rapture was too calm, too rapt, too utterly divine to be uttered in any 
human speech ; all three upturned toward this far height in the rifted heavens, 
through whose illimitable space streamed down waves of some atmosphere 
beyond the name of brightness, or splendor, or glory, or fire, or sunshine, or 
anything that wears mortal aspect; likest perhaps in its soft, flueirt, free, ever 
and overflowing waves, in whose tender and splendid radiance those calm fiioes 
basked like a happy child in a happier mother's smile, to the visible expression 
of Tx)ve so utter, so ine^ble, so divine, that it manifested itself as atmos- 
phere, and made mere existence an absorption of rapture, an annihilation even 
of individuality in the hour of manifestation. 

Never while I live will that vision pass from my soul. For the whole fol- 
lowing day I spoke no loud word, and held tlie breath of my thoughts; even 



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1871.] THREE GUOSTS. 197 

now, after long years, its recall thrills all the spiritual nature life has left mo 
with unspeakable awe. Where was this dreani born and nursed? Or where 
that other, when, standing on a vast plain, I beheld on its further edge the slow 
and nieasnred rise of clouds, pearl-topped, lurid, heaped height on height 
against the quiet field of azure air ; so grand, so awful in their vast upward lift 
and lingering procession, that my heart failed and my flesh crept, wliile the 
words formed themselves on my consciousness, "Behold he cometh with 
clouds!" when, like a sigh of some far-creeping, wailing, shiveiing, April 
wind, there breathed from beneath that awful and majestic canopy a strain of 
music, that sobbed its first anguish into the rest of mild despair, and rose by 
wondrous gradations into triumph and repose ; so sad, so calm, so throbbing 
with a hum An sorrow, weeping itself out upon the bosom of Divine Love, that * 
even its inexpressible anguish ceased to rend my listening soul, but calmed it 
as a child is calmed ^ith sudden surcease of tears, though still its slumber 
thrills with painless sobbing and soft sighs of peace? 

Years after, when the dream, if dream it were, was nowise present to me, 
suddenly it sprang up to the very chords of that same music, so long unheard, 
Bo long what men call forgotten. I asked, and found it was that very work 
of Mendelssdin^s that was uttered in its living melody over his grave. Dates 
eluded me, for who dates a dream? but so far as I could recall the time, it cor- 
responded with that midnight when his own soul, through those who loved him 
88 their souls, uttered his own requiem. 

What metaphysician shall expound to me the birth and nurture of that vis- 
ion? Or where, whence, came another that through all^tftie long agony of our 
civil war kept my soul in peace above its distracting fluctuations, sure of a 
just ultimate end? Hardly was the conflict begun when **I dreamed a 
dream ! " Out of some thick and darksome wood, where close boughs* and 
clinging vines blinded and strangled me, where my steps slipped on sodden 
leaves and wandered in pathless mazes, I came suddenly into a vast plain girt vdth 
forests, and apparently unknown to man, except that on its most distant verge 
stood a lofty castle, wliite as if fashioned from polar ice, lifting alabaster towers 
for heavenward above the smooth greensward of the plain ; and on its front there 
leaned a shield stainless also, dead-white as marble, and so high, so wide, that its 
ripper edge overtopped the highest tower, and its width concealed the broad front 
of the supporting castle. This I did not see at fii*st; for, coming from the for- 
est gloom, a. strange and awftil light poured itself from the upper air upon my 
level eyelids — ^light born neither from sun nor star ; nor yet from the ghastly 
flames that stream and flicker in the north was that strange brilliance shed. 
I lifted my fearftd eyes above me, and there, reaching in stature from the 
horizon even beyond the zenith, bending over earth, I beheld a seraph clothed 
in dazzling garments, and holding in his right hand a turreted sceptre, from 
whose every point streamed light, so formless, so pure, so efifiilgent in its blind- 
ing rays, that ftx)m the Source of Light alone its brightness could have ema- 
nated. Wonderihl as were its garments and its sceptre, transcendent as its 
illumination or the quivering depths of air, there was a sight more wondrous 
yet to behold in that seraphic face. Colossal in its stature, every lineament vast 
and m^estic, its fiEtce was yet t^e tranquil, innocent, pure face of a baby; tlio 
ftuent and unformed lines, the lips, the brow, so inexpressive, so content, yet 
80 sad because of that innocent content, all were there. It was the face of an 
untried seraph, so bom and cradled of love, so informed and interpenetrated 
with Divinit}', that even its woful and awful message to earth could not 

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198 THREE GHOSTS. [AuGUS- 

breathe one troubled breath across its all-loving and all-tmstlng existence; 
could not shadow the bright calm that shone on those serene, infantile features, 
gazing from mid-air with eyes that saw but the recent face of a Father, an' 
lips but just closed from the rare breath of heaven's own atmosphere. 

I said its wofiil and awful message ; for while its right hand bore at rest 
the turreted sceptre, its left, as if directed by some will not its own, but in 
whose possession its own was passive and insensitive, pointed downward and 
backward to the great sliield afar off, upon whose sui'face under that indicative 
finger grew these words : 

I am weary of delaying; 

I am weary of oppreflsors and oppreasion. 

Now is my time come; 

Now will I avenge myself on the earth* 

So I awoke — ^and behold it was a dream ! 

And to come nearer the absolute dominion of spirit, the " dead-line " as it 
were, beyond which our audacious mortal theories are put sharply out of ex- 
istence by inexplicable truths, why did I year after year awake in the night, 
roused by tlie sound of drums beating reveilld and muster, and all their camp- 
calls (which I never then had known nor thought to know), from a hillside 
just beyond the city subm*b where I lived? Two and three years before the 
war of secession, these sounds haunted me night after night; time after time 
I awoke some member of the family to listen ; but the rattle and rush that fell 
so distinctly on my ears were dumb to them. 

I heard and knew them again, with a curious thrill of awe and recognition, 
when the Twelfth regiment C. V. for weeks camped on that same hillside, and 
marched from there straight to the battle-field, to the beat of those very 
drums I had heard so often so long before. 

Or what shall we call it, when once, utterly exhausted by acute disease, so 
weak I could not turn on my pillow without the greatest exertion, yet free from 
illness, which indeed was short, though sharp, and had never affected my 
brain, I became suddenly conscious that I was not m my body. There was no 
other person in the room. I had been lying wide awake (as I thought then 
and think still), so weak that it was an almost impossible effort to breathe; 
and at once I was free, painless, self-sustained in air; and beneath me lay 
that nerveless shape that had been mine — ^the man-face, the thin features, the 
damp, tangled hair, all at rest; peaceful as a deserted nest; quite quiet for the 
first time in its brief existence; serene, insensitive, dead! And the first 
thought that came to me was, *' How easily I died! it was slippping off a cloak 
only ! how good to be over with all ! '* And tlien those indestructible and mys- 
tic threads of relative existence vibrated suddenly. 

" I must get back! I can't die! What will and do without 

me?" I made a dreadful but clearly conscious effort to reunite myself with 
tliat pale shape of clay on the pillows below me; it Avas a struggle of absolute 
Agot^Yf a P^ng so mighty that it compelled success. I was again there, 
wretched, languid, drenched with a sweat of terror, trying to %tifle a useless 
but sharp regret; but again an embodied soul, or spirit, or consciousness, 
whatever name best defines the dualities we call life. Had all these things 
occtirred to an organization distorted by organic disease or hysteric spasms 
and their various remedies, medical science might dismiss tiieir recital with a 
sneer ; but a temperament that forbids the use of narcotics except in such ex- 
trcniity that it is relief to substitute one disease for another — a temperament 
tlk-it receives no exhilaration and very little effect from any stimulus except 



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1871.] THREE GHOSTS. 199 

the purely cerebral ones of tea and music, surely may be considered a fair sub- 
ject for spiritual tests, and yet here have all my experiences ended. I do not 
mean in these instances, but at these bounds one would naturally expect tliat a 
nature so toned and affected by what we call the supernatural would be the 
prey of so-called ** spiritualism," and be also a veteran ghost-seer's. But com- 
mon sense has kept me from the one, and the limitations of my nature from 
the oth.er. Yet from the extent of my own experience I should be as I am a 
firm believer in ghosts, even had I not received from eye-witnesses evidence on 
that head which is in itself convincing to any candid mind. And it is througli 
this long avenue of their forerunners that I venture to lead my patient readers 
np to a trial of apparitions, whose evidence is certainly as fully to be relied on 
as human evidence can be ; as unprejudiced and as honest as is in human na- 
ture to give or to receive. 

The first relation of a ghostly apparition from a living (still living) eye- 
witness which I ever received was made to me by a young woman whom I 
have known for many years ; a person of great tact and perception of character 
and more than ordinary intelligence, perfectly honest in word and deed, and 
one of those women who have done tlie duty that lies nearest with faithful per- 
sistence, though it involved hnt-d work, coui"age, and great unselfishness. If I 
give the story (so far as I can recall it) in her own words, it is to save the 
awkwardness of a narration in the third person. Let me premise that her 
fatlier and mother were Irish Protestants, religious and respectable people ; 
she herself was bom in Canada, where these events happened. 

•* When I was about ten years old, I tliiuk, though I can't remember, we 

went away from Toronto. Father had got better work in H , and sent word 

to mother we must all come there right away, for he had liired a house and it 
was ready for us to move into; so we packed up all our things and went. I 
was the oldest but one, and there were four younger than me, besides my 
mother's sister, Aunt Lyddy. She was about thiity, and lived with us to lielp 
mother, there were so many children. 

"When we got to the house father had hired, we liked it veiy much; it was 
bigger and better than we expected. It wasn't in the town exactly, but just a 
little way out, maybe a quarter of a mile, and it stood in a large green yard that 
had a road in it coming in at a gate at one comer, and sweeping round before 
the fix)nt door and down to the other comer, where there was another gate. It 
was meant for a carriage-road, but was all grass-grown now, and only showed 
the track. It was a white house with two stories, and a partition right through 
the middle that made it into two tenements, though it was built for a single 
house ; and it had a piazza mnning clear across the front of the lower stoiT. 
Somebody lived in the other half of the house, only a man and his wife, no 
children. They were a Mr. and Mrs. Gray ; Scotch people I believe ; the man 

worked in H . We liked the house very much ; there was room enough, and 

the children liked the green yard. None of us went to school that summer. After 
we had been there a few days mother and I were sewing one afternoon in tlie 
kitchen, and we heard a dreadful crash up stairs, something as if all the chairs 
and tables had fallen down. We ran right up, but there was not anything 

amiss; the children were in the yard and Aunt Lyddy gone to H . Then 

we started to go into the loft that ran over the house without any partition, and 
had a scuttle-window; but just as we opened the stair door there came another 
worse crash from down stairs, seemingly in the pantry ; and we went down witli 

all speed, but there was nothing there either! Why, Miss , you would liave 

thought every dish in tliat closet liad been thi'own down and broken, and tliere 

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200 THREE GnOSTS. [August, 

wasn't even a cobweb stirred. Mother said she thought it was the blinds per- 
haps in the next part; there was a soft wind blowing. I didn^t Uiink any more 
about it then. Next day I had toothache, and mother put me down on the 
kitchen settle so she could poultice my fiwe. I got so easy with the heat I fell 
asleep, and the first thing I knew I woke up with the kitchen old& striking. 
I don't know what time it was, but it was night and there was a mooii ; it 
shone into the window. Mother's bedi'oom door was open into the kitchen, but 
she was asleep ; I could hear her breathe hard. I hadn't been awake but a few 
minutes before I heard a carriage drive very fast up the road to our door. 
Somebody jumped out, and tiiere was a soft clear knock three times on tlie 
front door, which opened right into our parlor, mother's room being partitioned 
off from that and the kitchen, wiiich opened into both rooms in a kind of L part . 
behind. I had just got up on my elbow to call father when I heard him jumi) 
out of bed, and in a qiinute he came through and went to the door. I could 
see, for he left the kitchen door wide ; and when he opened the other tliere was 
nobody at all there, only the moon shone as still and cold as could be on eveiy- 
thing. He went out into the road and down to the gate. I heai'd him tell 
mother when he came back that both gates were shut and no sound to be 
heard. Then they thought it must have been .\ dream. I don't know why I 
didn't tell about hearing it. I suppose I was afraid to. Father never en- 
couraged us to talk much, and they didn't know I was awake either, and I went 
right to sleep again. I didn't really think any more about it till afterward. 

** After that we heard the crashes a great many times in different places. 
Mother said it was rats in the wall, or blinds, or the wind. Somehow we chil- 
dren all got used to them ; we did not mind, not even when the next moonlight 
nights came, and we heard the carriage-wheels and tlie knocks more than 
once. Father went to the door a few times, then he stopped going. I don't 
know what he said to mother ; she never spoke to us about anything, but she 
seemed to get uneasy and irritable a little. Aunt Lyddy said she was nervouB> 
but mother didn't like that. 

*• We didn't see much of our neighbors. Mr. Gray was gone all day, and 
Mrs. Gi*ay went out a good deal to di'essmaking ; when she was at home she 
always went to the gate as soon as ever it was sunset, and stood there till her 
husband came home; and when she went out she always came back with him, 
never alone. Aunt Lyddy would laugh and say she guessed she wouldn't be 
quite so ready in winter-time to go and meet him! 

** By-and-by it got to be July. The weather was hot, and Aunt Lyddy had 

walked into H one day with some shop- work she had been doing. She had 

errands besides, and walked a great deal, so her feet were very sore when she 
got back ; for she had dreadftil chilblains always in tlie winter, and somehow 
they always hurt her in hot, dry weather. I used to sleep with her, and that 
night she couldn't sleep a bit, nor I either. She used very often to go out 
nights when her feet bm'ned so, and step in the grass to cool t^em ; she said 
the dew was healing; but that was generally just before she went to bed. She 
didn't go that night, being so tired, but when she found that she couldn't possi- 
bly sleep she got up, though it was far into the ni^t — ^I think about one o'clock 
— and said she must go outdoors. The neighbors had been gone away a week 
visiting somewhere, so we shouldn't scare t'lem opening the front door, and she 
stopped to tell mother wliat was tlie matter. I went with her, partly because 
she wanted to have me, partly because I tliought it was fun. I was wide 
awake, and didn't want to lie there alone in a hot room when it was cool and 
fresh outiloors. She walked on tlie grass till her feet were all cooled and 



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1871.] THREE GHOSTS. 201 

dripping with dew, while I kept on the step, or went in the path, for our steps 
had worn a bare path up the grassy road by this time. Then she came on to 
the piazza and says to me, *E., let^s walk up and down here a bit; it's so cool 
I hate to go in.' So we walked along till we got to the furthest window on 
Mrs. Gray's side, and there was a light showing through the blind (outside) of 
her parlor window. There were shutters inside, and they were always shut at 
night, so we were surprised to see them open now, and the blind-slats turned 
straight. We were both barefoot, so we had made no noise ; and now, without 
once thinking it wasn't very polite, we peeped in through the blind. The 
chimney was at that ^nd of the house, and though the night was so hot, there 
was a great blazing fire on the hearth. That was what made the light, for 
there wasn't any lamp or candle ; and right in front of the fire, all huddled up 
on a low, Uiree-legged stool, sat a little old man. He was dressed very oddly ; 
he had on blue breeches and long, gray, ribbed stockings, with low shoes, a 
striped short jacket, black and white, and on his head a dark red woollen cap 
with a tarnished gilt tassel. I took notice of all this, for it was so queer, and 
next morning father made me tell it all over to him, so it fixed it in my mind. 
I couldn't se« the man's face very well, for he made a kind of rest for his chin 
witli both hands, and he was looking straight into the fire ; his hair and short 
whiskers were grizzled and thick ; his eyes, I remember, looked very bright 
and fierce. He did not move while I looked, but Aunt Lyddy plucked my sleeve 
and beckoned nie away. * Come,' she whispered, as we got to our own door ; 
• they've got company, and it an't over-polite to be peeping in at the window ; 
but wasn't he odd-looking? ' Then we went to bed and to sleep, and while wo 
were at breakfast-table next morning Aunt Lyddy says to mother : 

"* When did the neighbors come back? ' 

•• • They didn't come back yet at all,' says mother. 

•* • Why, yes they did, and they've company with thera,' says Aunt Lyddy 
back again, and then told what she and I saw in through the blind. 

♦• • It was not them,' says father. • It couldn't be them, Lyddy, foi: here's 
the house key they left with me, safe in my pocket; it must be some one came 
on no good errand. I'll step in and see. What was the man like? ' 

•• Aunt Lyddy had stepped to the shed for some water, so I spoke up and told 
£ithcr just how he was dressed. Mother laughed and says, * E. has always 
the quick eye for dresses ; I'll lay she'll be a milliner yet.' And so father says 
he'll go for a policeman into H., and see If the house is robbed. 

•• I had to go out into the country a mile after butter that day, and I took the 
children; and when I got back I asked mother if the house was robbed in Mr. 
Gray's part, and she saj^ no, maybe it had been a tramp. So I thought no more 
about it, nor should hav§ to this day only that we moved into H. in a month, 
and there fiither took sick and died, and after we came away into the States to 
live, and Aunt Lyddy with us, she told me all what happened after. You see 
father got the policeman while we were gone that day, and they went in, and 
there was no signs of anything there — all the shutters shut, no smoke at all on 
the chimney back that was all lime-washed clean, and no three-legged stool in 
all that house ; and when the policeman asked father if he'd seen the robber and 
what he was like, then father had Aunt Lyddy tell, and the policeman shook 
his head up and down. *0h ho! oh ho! ' says ho, * I've heard tell of him be- 
fore!' 

•• * And what did you hear? ' says fatlier. 

•* *No good,' says O'Brien. * It's a ghost he is, to be sure, an' iver an' al- 
ways walkin' this place.' 



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202 THREE GHOSTS. [August, 

" • Stuff ! ' says my jQither to him. * There's no such thmg as ghosts/ 

*•• Ah, Ihin, may the divil fetch ye for a hlack Protestant!' says O'Brien; 
• an' he will that same ef ye don't belave in spirits. But jest ye go to yer own 
praste an' ask him an' see what risponses ye'U get out o' that.' ' 

** And so he went off quite angry, and father angry too, so he forbid Aunt 
Lyddy to mention the thing again, for he'd not liave us children scared witli 
nonsense. But for all he wasn't easy in his own mind, so finally he went to the 
Rev. Mr. Gassett, who was rector of the church we went to, and Mr. Gassett 
says to father : ' Mr. Dunbar, there's many things in the ^orld past explaining ; 
it behooves ye to have faith in the Lord, but I must tell ye one thing that I 
know to be true : In that house where you live, and in that very room where 
your child and sister saw the apparition, I beheld its likeness in the flesh die 
with yells and cursings like one of the devils. His name was Gaspar Xerez, 
whereby I do take him to have been Spanish born ; but no man knew his his- 
tory in this place, save and except that he built that lonesome house and there 
lived, paying all his moneys out in coin, both silver and gold, of foreign lands. 
And when death took him of a sudden and they called me after the doctor, both 
came too late, for we were there scarce five-and-twenty minutes when his soul 
departed this life, or this clay, and went unto its own place in a torrent of 
blasphemy. Yea! he died as the fool dieth; and many times since have I 
heard that his likeness hath walked in the place of his abode, but have never 
credited it. You say that both your sister and daughter wist not that they had 
seen a spirit? ' 

•• * Yes, sir, as yet they know no more.' 

** ' Let them be then ; ignorance is oft-times blessed. I advise you to leave 
that house, and oven in your own mind ask no questions of the Lord, for in- 
scrutable are all His ways.' 

** But before father got home Aunt Lyddy had seized hold of Mrs. Gray, just 
then appeared from her visit, and told her what we had seen. Poor Mrs. Gray 
burst out crying at once. She said she was so glad somebody else had seen 
that man ; he had been the plague of her life since she had been there, and she 
never would stay in the house alone after sunset, as we had noticed. Only the 
week before her husband had seen him for the first time, and finally was lis- 
tening to her trouble and making up his mind to move. Father came back in 
the midst of this talk and forbid Mrs. Gray speaking about the matter to us 
children; but for all that he thought best to move directly, and so did the 
Grays, and nobody ever dared live in that house after. . And that's all the 
ghost I ever saw in my life, and I saw it as plain as I see you before my eyes 
this minute, neither scared nor sleepy, and me not knowing it to be a ghost all 
the time. What do you think of that. Miss ? " 

I thought but one thing. 

The next story of life beyond, or rather after death, is a story of the last 
generation in part. On the old turnpike road from Hartford to Albany, some 
four or five miles west of the low mountain range that bounds the western edge 
of the Cojinecticut valley, there is a wild and curious formation of rocks, bear- 
ing half a dozen names in the country thereabout. A sharp ledge springs from 
the otherwise level fields, and at one end, severed from it by a small mai'sh, 
rises a jagged mass of rock, inaccessible save on one side, and presenting an 
aspect of savage nature so abrupt, so sudden, so altogether weird and myste- 
rious, that in any other country it would have been hung with legends as it 
is now with hoary moss. On its peak grow only a few dwarfed and scant- 
leaved cedars, from whose brittle and grotesque boughs long sprays of gray 



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1871.1 THREE GHOSTS. 203 

mo88 float idly on the moaniiig winds ; now and tlien a snake basks on the pre- 
ciiHce^s edge heated by intense summer suns, or a nest of young bats, disturbed 
from their sheltering covert, fly shrieking and staggering through the air, 
blinded, as a flight of imps miglit be, by heaven's pure daylight. From this 
strange height, whose lift is but a few score feet above the smiling fields be- 
yond it, yet whose front bears scars of time and climate, venerable as the 
mighty mountains of the North, ther explorer looks down upon a pond that 
washes the abrupt precipice of the ledge on one side, and at its noilhern end 
degenerates into a low plashy marsh. Northward still of this pond the turnpike 
tHToceeds through a small village, and just as it enters it tliere stands to tliis day 
an old house known as Horsford's tavern. In Revolutionary times taverns on 
all high-roads were of precarious profit, but this one had been less exposed 
than many others to the demands of the English troops, and had a good deal 
of custom from the go-betweens, express-riders, and despatch-bearers of the 
American army. Here, one day during the height of the war, there alighted at 
night a handsome, slight young oflicer, evidently a foreigner, though he man- 
aged enough broken English to demand supper and a l>od; and the sinister- 
fooed landlord, giving a sm-ly response, sent out his two equally ill-looking sons, 
one to stable the horse and one to fetch in the saddle-bags. 

As Luke Miller threw this then imiversal baggage on the barroom floor, a 
little boy who stood in the corner waiting for his father's bottle of rum remem- 
bered afterwards hearing a heavy chink, and that the stranger with much ex- 
citement of manner ordered them carried up to his own bedroom. When 
morning came, and the miserable old drunkard who had sent that child for his 
dram tottered into the tavern, and asked, ** What kem o' that 'ere feller Jake sez 
stopped here las' night?" he was told with a growl that the stranger had 
gone on to Albany before daylight, and further interrogations were stopped 
with a gratuitous drink. 

But not long afterward messengers came to that tavern trying to trace Ma- 
jor Laborde's route from Hartford to Albany. He had left Hartford afler dinner 
of a Tuesday, carrying ten thousand dollars in gold and bills of exchange, to 
pay the troops at Albany, and had never arrived at his journey's end. OKI 
Miller and both his sons swore that Major Laborde had left their house in the 
morning before dawn, and sundry people in the village testified to having been 
roused from their sleep that morning while it was yet dark by the sound of 
horses' feet going westward at a heavy ti*ot. Beyond Canton all trace was lost. 
Perhaps he had b^en swept away in fording some wild mountain brook, just 
then swollen by spring freshets. Perhaps the Nepash, loveliest of mountain 
torrents, but fierce as any panther in its overflow, had borne him into the deeper 
pools of the Tunxis river; or it might be that in his haste he had not delayed 
for food or rest, but come at night into the treacherous Naugatuck or Housa- 
tonic fords, and been swept seaward with the uprooted ti*ees and broken bridges 
that were the yearly tribute of those rivers to the sea. At any rate the poor 
young Frenchman was gone, and neither trace nor hearing of him could be 
found beyond Canton village, nor did any suspicion alight on any spot or per- 
son as to his fate. 

But in a year or more, like a slight autumn mist creeping upward from a 
meadow at dawn, vague, intangible, having neither definiteness nor shape at 
first, there began to spread a feeling through Canton that some mystery hung 
about the Ledge. Boys who had fished there all their little lives for " pump- 
kin seeds " and shiners, began to take holiday in other regions ; older fisher- 
men who now and then captured a brigand of a pickerel, or from the black 
hole? of some tributary brook brought a gold and crimson spotted trout, were 



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2(H THREE GHOSTS. [August, 

obeeired to come home before sunset. And when this stnmge, shivery feeling 
of apprehension took words to itself^ some one or two, bolder than the others, 
declared they liad themselves seen at twilight tike shape of a headless man, 
clothed in white, sitting on the pond shore in places inaccessible from the land 
side because of that plashy marsh, or from the water save by a boat. So the 
pond was deserted. In the mean time the Millers — ^if that was their name — 
kept on still at the tavern, year after year expending the proiits of their trade 
in buying land, and building a good house in the village, as they said for their 
father to live in, but in that house their father neither lived nor died. He was 
seized suddenly at the bar, dealing out rum bitters, with a brain-fever almost 
like sunstroke. The two sons carried him out to his bedroom frenzied and howl- 
ing, with their own hands stifling the incoherent words that burst from his lips. 
No nurse, no physician ministered to that brief but mortal sickness ; his sons al- 
ternately watched over him, and nothing was known of him among his con- 
temporaries in the village till they were summoned to his funeral. After this 
the brothers, being obliged to admit outsiders into the tavern as help, for Luke 
had taken to drink and could not be trusted, were known to be veiy quarrel- 
some, even sometimes coming to blows as was supposed. Still they accumulated 
money, and when they left the tavern, going to live in the house they had built, 
and Luke was also smitten with mortal illness, no human eye saw, no human 
liand ministered to him in all those weeks of agony and delirium, but those of 
his brother Mat. And when Mat himself, old, gray, morose, and penurious, 
yielded to the fate of man, no creature entered his chamber to the last hour but 
his patient, emaciated, heart-broken wife ; and with the yell that broke from his 
parting soul and body she fainted on his corpse, and was only recovered to sink 
into her grave a speechless and idiot pauper ; for their money had taken wings, 
their stock had died, their crops failed, their gi*ain blasted, dieir barns burned. 
Neither name, good fame, nor money remained to them ; for Luke had not been 
laid in his grave a year when a certain " shiftless " idler of the village, wander- 
ing about the marsh above the Ledge pond in search of boneset blossoms, found 
lialf buried in one of its black pools a saddle, so moulded, so sodden, so utterly 
rotted, that nothing was left In indicate its maker or owner, except Uiat deep in 
one of the stirrup irons the Frenchman who wrought that now rust-eaten metal 
had cast his own name, which time had butlialf «J)literated. It ran: **Jul 

otard," but •* Paris " was intact yet. This odd discovery, though 

it came to pass twenty years after the disappearance of Major Laborde, set the 
village tongues wagging mightily, but all in vain. There lived no old maid 
even in all Canton daritig enough to question Mat Miller of the past, and within 
six months the still sterner silence of inexorable death had frozen his lips for- 
ever, and the tale died out. 

But full fifty years after the gay and gallant young Frenchman came to 
his mysterious death my informant, a sensible, practical farmer, of the real 
sturdy New England type now so fast disappearing, a man who has the best 
butter, the best poultry, the best wife in the township, told me that he i*emem- 
bered as a boy some ten years old, there came an Irishman to Canton who had 
been in this oountiy but a short time, and wanted to get work as a farm hand. 
Irish labor was not so common then as now, and he readily obtained occupa- 
tion. The story of Major Laborde^s disappearance had long died out of Canton 
gossip, and Tim Malony was gradually getting used to his new life in America, 
when one Saturday he asked leave to go fishing in the Ledge pond for an 
afternoon. Nothing pressed just then, corn-hoeing was over and lia3ing not 
begun ; so he was readily allowed a holiday, and started off alone with rod and 



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1871.] THREE GHOSTS. 206 

bolt, hoping for a good three hoars* sport. By sunset he had a good sti-ing of 
roach and perdi, he said ; bat nobody ever saw them ! Just at dusk, witli glar- 
ing eyes and frothing lips, hatless, trembling, and uttenng inaiticulate cries 
Uke a beast in pain, he borst into the kitchen of my friend^s father. Mr. D. 
supposed him to have a fit, but when his speech and sense returned he declared 
that he bad been sitting quietly on the edge of the little scow that was the only 
boat kept on the pond, waiting for a nibble, not twenty feet fronfi the shore, 
and drifting nearer all the time with the light motion a southerly wind gave 
the water, when looking up he saw about four yards before him, sitting on a 
tossock of swamp grass and reeds, with its feet apparently hanging into the 
water, a headless body in ft white shut. How he got to land or to Mr. D.'s he 
never knew, nor had he, or the little boy who forty years after told me the tale, 
ever heard that legend of the Hoi*sford tavern or the haimted pond ; but old Mr. 
D. shook his head, and Tim took his knapsack next morning and left town. 
""Goold wouldn^t timpt me, surr, to see the likes iv that ag^in! '' 

Hie Ledge stands yet in its drear and savage beauty against the sky, and 
at its feet the silvery pond still laps tlie shore with inarticulate murmm*, rosy 
with faint tints of dawn, or silvered with the melancholy splendor of a waning 
moon, bat still silent and wan as with some oppressive secret; but never again 
has mortal eye, expectant or unconscious, beheld that ghastly and ghostly wit- 
ness of erime which now shall never be avenged on earth, though it be judged 
in heaven. 

The last and most recent of these three tales I have to tell, I received from 
the lips of a physician, a near and dear relative of my own, a man in the prime 
of life, well educated and highly cultured, and a person of wonderfully sunny 
and baojant temperament. Had he been nervous, hypochondriac, or melan- 
choly of nature, there woold be more chance to cavil at his story ; but ho is a 
practical, hearty, cheerful man, an unbeliever in all sorts of spiritualism and 
sapematarallsm, a man without superstition and without fear. He had lived 
and jHractised for many years in a large Western city, had grown up with its 
growth and identified himself with its interests, not infrequently extending 
his praodce ten or twelve miles into the country about, though naturally pre- 
ferring to confine it within city limits. A few years ago, wlien the increase of 
population bad brought its natural increase of medical men, and he hiul given 
np to yoonger persons all his country practice except as consulting physician, 
he was called upon by an old Crerman of the name of Eberstein, whose family he 
had attended when they first appeared in C. on occasion of some slight illness, 
but who had sinoe bought a farm in the country some seven miles out, and had 
employed a younger {^ysioian on finding Dr. T. unwilling to go so for. To- 
day, old Eberstein was importunate enough. His daughter was very ill with 
fever; Dr. Parker, who attended her, had said and thought thaJt her illness 
would be tedious but not fi&tal, and in that persuasion had gone East to be 
married, leaving directions for her treatment, and would not be liome for a 
week. In the mean time her disease had taken a sadden direction for the worse ; 
in &ct its character had entirely changed as £ar as Dr. T. could discover, and 
assumed the aspect of malignant typhus. He was very unwilling to take up 
the case, but the old Crerman was so unhappy and so resolute that the physioian^s 
kind heart could not withstand him, aUd he promised to find his way out to the 
farm in the course of a few hours. 

It was a brilliant autumn day, the air clear and golden as Greek wine, and 
fon of that inefiable and sod perfrime called out from fallen leaves and honeyed 
bat £idlng blossoms. Over the undulating fields of northern Ohio a fiunt mist 

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206 THREE GHOSTS. [August, 

stole upward and shrouded tlie dazzling forest tints with friendly dimness, 
smitten here and there into glory by the level rays of a gorgeous sunset. And 
upon this solemn brightness of departing day arose a full harvest moon, slow 
wheeling above the eastern horizon its placid and mysterious orb, and flooding 
with light which is not brightness and glitter that is not glow, all the unwill- 
ing gloom of lake and forest. Such nights are rare in the rank and poisonous 
West — ^happily rare, since their tempting beauty breathes a deadly breath : that 
riotous color of foliage and sky is the burning forerunner of more burning 
fever; that mysterious moonlight lays upon its worshipper^s brow the long and 
pallid fingers of a living death that is called ague. 

The nightmare Life in Death is she, 
Who chills man's breath with fear. 

Dr. T. had eyes to see and heart to feel all shapes of beauty in earth or heaven ; 
but he had shaken hands with the awful spirit men call malaria and knew her 
lK)wer. He drove his good horse at full speed, and reached Eberstein's farm in 
about an hour. Here he tied the animal to a post by the barn and went over to 
the house, not expecting to stay more than half an hour. The house was a neat 
two-story frame building, the lower story almost directly on the ground, hav- 
ing a deep cellar below, and a piazza running round its east and south sides. 
On the north side there were but two windows below stairs, one opening into 
the pantry, the other into the lower bedroom where the sick girl lay, from 
which also a door opened northward, and another window to the east piazza, 
and still another door into the parlor, which occupied the southeast corner of 
the hoase, opening on the piazza, and through which the doctor approached the 
sick-room. The night was so warm as to be sidtry, and, regardless of the dan- 
ger which all Western people well know lurks in the breath of night, all the 
doors and windows were set wide, evidently to give air to the girl who lay 
motionless upon her bed, deserted of life as ashes are of fire, though yet there 
linger in their cold gray heap one leaping spark that presently flashes and is 
gone. All the family were gathered in the room, but not about the bed, and 
only on the southern and eastern sides of the chamber. Of various ages, all 
bore to each other that curious resemblance we call the mark of race, and that 
still more intimate and peculiar one of family; tall, fair-haired, blooming, as 
were the living, their traits were moulded in the same mould with her fair but 
sunken lineaments who lay on that little bed, with damp masses of dead yel- 
low hair trailing to the floor across her lifeless arm. 

Dr. T. proceeded to examine the state of his patient, and found her rapidly 
sinking; the fever had evidently been severe, though in its typhus stage brief, 
and liad left her utterly drained of vitality ; the most powerful stimulants and 
aromatics only aroused a momentary flutter of the all but inaudible pulse as 
they were dropped into her blackened and parched lips. Already the death- 
sweat stood upon her 8hai*ply lined temples and about the pinched nostrils ; 
her great blue eyes were pale and ray less; evidently the senses were fkst 
deserting their outposts. After giving all the stimulus possible, with the habit 
if not instinct that possesses physicians to labor while life lasts, Dr. T. ordered 
hot applications to be made to the patient^s body, and taking the Other's arm 
gently withdrew him to the piazza to tell him his opinion. 

*< And how long is it she shall live? '^ inquired the old Grerman, his voio« 
trembling as he spoke. 

•• Perhaps an hour, no longer," was the doctor's reply. 

'• Then to her I must go ; come, Herr Doctor, como mid." 



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1871,] THREE GHOSTS. 207 

** There are too many people there now, Eberstein ; why do you have them 
all in the room?" 

"They wait for tlie Watcher," said the old man. **I must go too. I 
know him ; my woman she know him ; but the leetl6 ones not so. X must be 
there." 

** What do you mean, man! " impatiently exclaimed the doctor, muttering 
to himself, " Too much beer ! " 

"It is the Watcher I mean; he come alway to the window when Von 
Eberstein die ; in Tcherman country we was Von." 

" Stuff and nonsense! don^t be a fool, man, and scare the gh*l to death with 
your trash!" 

" Scared is Adelheid not to tall. She have seen the Watcher herself. Mein 
fader he have die in this land, and to the north window came the Watcher, 
just so as in mine own country; so as he shxill to-night come for my girl, mein 
kleine kint! " 

A great sob shook his broad breast, first sign of emotion ; and then through 
the parlor came his wife, a j&dr and placid Teuton woman, pale and tearful 
now, but still placid. 

** They not can warm her, Herr Doctor. I think she will now go." 

Dr. T. hastened in, observing as he passed to the bedside that the l)ed 
itself had been shoved aside, so that his patient's countenance faced the north 
window. Passing behind it, he saw that every face was tm*ned in the same di- 
rection ; every eye riveted on the sash, now closed, but filled with rather larger 
panes of glass than those common to such structures. A slight exclamation 
of anger rose to his lips ; but the rapid refiection that the girl was now, and 
had been for some hours, past any injury from such a superstitious observance, 
silenced him ; and taking the nerveless hand in his, he felt her pulse, scarce 
perceptible even to his skilled fingers. Suddenly it gave one firmer beat, she 
opened her eyes and fixed them on the window. Across that wide, blank gaze 
flashed a sudden gleam of recognition, not to be mistaken in its vivid signifi- 
cance. The doctor turned instantly and instinctively to follow that gaze, and 
fsistened his own on an appearance pressed close to the glass — a shape — a face 
— at least lineaments, so awful, so indesi'.ribable in their lurid, shifting, form- 
less stare, so utterly and wordlessly horrid, that for an instant his own heart 
stood stiU, and the blood curdled in his veins, even as if that ghastly terror had 
been his own summons. A low moan, that would have been a shriek had not 
awe stifled it, burst from every lip. Dr. T. turned to look at Adelheid; she 
lay back on her pillows quite dead. 

He rushed at once to the northern door, not three feet from that window, and 
let himself out. Not a leaf moved, not a sound lingered in the dead silence ; 
broad and still the moonh^t lay on those unshadowed stubble fields, and filled 
as with milk of the gods the jewelled cup of the blue firmament above : light, 
silence, everywhere ; not even a sign of life ; not even a sailing, filling stai*! 

And so he went away from that house neither believing nor unbelieving, 
and told me the tale as I have told it, without note or Qpmment; leaving it as 
I shall leave it, without hope or attempt of explanation, a bare but undenia- 
ble &ct. 

We are si; ih stuff 
As dreams are made of; and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep! 

Rose Terrt. 



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THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. 



THE patriarch Jacob, in blessing bis large family of sons, ascribes or pre- 
dicts a condition to one which distinguished him ^om the rest, and made 
him typical of the great majority of the human race in all times. This honest 
and patient son is represented as •• a strong ass crouching down between two 
bm-dens." His patience is suggested by the term croudiing, instead of kicking. 
We may also infer his honesty as one who believed he was made to bear bur- 
dens, and perhaps deserved to have them put upon him. For the prophecy 
goes on to say that '* he saw that rest was good, and the land tliat it was 
pleasant; and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a servant unto tribute." 
This all goes to show a quiet disposition and a contented mind under difficul- 
ties. He did not like to make trouble. If the pasturage was decent and he 
could browse out a living, he would " bow his shoulder to beai\ and become a 
servant unto tribute, ^^ without uttering that complaint that an abused and dis- 
contented ass often puts forth. 

Now this son' of the patriarch was typical of the workingmen of Christen- 
dom as a mass; especially, if not exclusively, of European Christendom. 
While gleaning out a living fi*om among the thorns^ of then* lean pasturage of 
labor, they are compelled to bow their shoulders to bear, and become servants 
unto tribute to a taskmaster or a tax-gatherer, who does not give them back 
straw for their tale of bricks. Every mother^s son of their millions is crouch- 
ing down between two burdens ; and every ounce of both is put upon him by 
war, past or prospective. I repeat, every ounce. For, remove the annual 
tiibute to war from the workingmen of Europe, and put upon them only their 
proportion of the expenditure for civil government and all it embraces, and thQ 
tax would hardly equal a feather^s weight on their shoulders. Not a custom- 
house would bar the mouth or freedom of any foreign port; not an excise or 
octroi knife would slice a penny's worth from anything grown or made at home. 
Like Jacobus Issachar, the workingmen of Europe have been very patient while 
crouching down between these two burdens. No one can say they have been 
restive or complaining under the load. They saw that rest or quietness was 
good ; and as long as the field of labor yielded a tolemble or possible living un- 
der the< sweat of their brows, they were willing to bow their shoulders to bear, 
and become servants unto tribute to the burdens that war has put upon them. 
But as the labor-field becomes more and more crowded with bread-seekers, 
they are beginning to fill Europe with the earnest and impatient voices of com- 
plaint ; and these voices, or some mysterious fellowships of sympathy or of expe- 
rience, have reached thousands of workingmen in America, and the labor ques- 
tion is ^t coming to the front, and putting out of comt the " Eastern Question," 
and the other political questions that have hitherto agitated nations. And all 
these nations, including our own, will have to confront this new question. It 
Avill not •• down " with any cheap sop of sophistry, or catch-word of national 
glory or patriotism. It will not down to quiet under the waving of any nar 
tional banner, whether it bear gilded eagles, or lions, or stars and stripes. So 
it behooves all these nations, for their peace and well-being, to listen to these up- 
rising voices, waxing in strengtli from murmuring to thi'eatening remonstrance, 
and to reply to their argument. 

Now, the ass in Scripture, while crouching down between two burdens, 
of course could not see what they were or of what composed. The parallel 
^\olds good in the condition of the workingmen of Christendom. For fifty years 



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1871.] THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. 209 

and more they have fek the two hardens growing upon their shoulders, hut 
they could not see to analyze them. They lumped together all the taxes and 
tributes pat upon them as a debt, or the annual rent of their lives, which they 
had to pay to their governments. But the schoolmaster has been abroad with 
his primer mcnre extensively in these latter years, and he has given reading 
and thinking lessons in the homes of the poor. A new generation of working- 
men 18 ootming up from these homes— men who can read and think and speak 
for themselves. They are speaking as they never spoke before, and speaking 
their own thoughts to each other as individuals and as communities. They are 
speaking across the national boundaries which the bragging and brazen patriot- 
ism of the old school made a bar to their human S3rmpathie3. They are speak- 
ing acrosa these to men of the same lot and condition in other countiies. Tliey 
are interfolding hands in brotherly fellowship across these boundaries ; and in 
these tofl-hardened hands they feel the pulses of hearts fashioned alike in hu- 
man sympathies. They are forming national associations, and these again are 
being confederated into a vast international organization, with an annual Inter- 
national Parliament. The leading journals of Christendom are beginning to 
report speeches and resolutions made and adopted in this Congress of Allied 
Powers of lAbor, bearing upon the rights and condition of workingmen. 
These men are beginning to look into the origin and nature of the burdens 
they have borne so long and patiently; and when they get tlieir eyes open a 
little wider, they will rebel against the heavy weights under which they have 
erooched. If the governments of Christendom do not volunteer to remove or 
reduce these burdens, they will encounter an agitation at home more embar- 
rassing than their fears of foreign hostility. And these burdens they cannot 
remove or lighten by brushing off a fly from the head of an ass crouching down 
between two loads of sand. The workingmen of Christendom have emerged 
from that ignorance in which they groped about for the cause of their depres- 
non. Now they are beginning to grasp it in all its dimensions and bearings. 
They are beginning to discuss it in their annual Congresses ; and if the govern- 
ments that claim them as subjects do not begin to discuss with an honest pur- 
pose to remove it, they will encounter a bloodless trouble at home more com- 
plicated and annoying than a war abroad. Let them look at the facts and fig- 
ores as to these burdens, as these workingmen are looking at them. Here are a 
few, which will serve in estimating the great total borne by the civilized nations. 
England has not pretended to he a great military nation like France, 
Roflsia, Prussia, or Austria. In all her wars with the French Republic and 
l^inre, she never could muster an army of 50,000 English soldiers on the Con- 
tinent at once. She only had about 86)000 at Waterloo. But let us see what 
she has pud for war, past and possible, within a few of these latter decades, 
and how the two burdens it has put upon her people have grown in gross 
wei^it, and until one is as heavy as the other. England came back from 
Waterloo with a war debt of over £900,000,000 upon her. The annual interest 
on this vast sum was the heaviest burden upon her people. It was more than 
twice as heavy as that for war prospective or possible. But see how this last 
load has grown in weight. For the ten years from 1840 to 1850 her army and 
navy cost £156,000,000, or £15,600,000 annually. Look at the next jump. 
Prom 1850 to 1860 "the two services" demanded and received £243,000,000, 
or £24,300,000 per year. Still like the horse leech their cry was, ** Give, give " ; 
"The country is in danger of fbreign invasion." Well, the country yielded to 
the heroic cry, and gave to them £260,000,000 during the next decade from 
1860 to 1870; and tite cry is more eager and loud than ever, Oive, give* 

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210 THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR, [August. 

Here, then, we come to a result in the condition of tihe English people 
parallel to that of the honest and patient beast the patriarch likens a beloved 
son to. The two burdens between which they crouch are equalling each other 
in weight. They differ only by a few pounds now ; and if die one tliat was 
lightest for forty years goes on growing at this rate, it will be the heaviest be- 
fore this decade is ended. Why, tlie progression is almost at a geometrical 
ratio tlirough the three last decades : in round numbers, £15,000,000 a yesir 
from 1840 to 1850, £24.000,000 from 1850 to 1860, and £26,000,000 from 1860 to 
1870. Let us now look at the load the English nation has carried on its back dur- 
ing thirty years from 1840 to 1870, in these two burdens, war past and war possible. 
The annual interest and charges on the old war debt have amounted to an aver- 
age of £28,000,000 during this period. Here then we hav e for wars past £840.- 
000,000, or $4,032,000,000, at the rate of $4.80 to the pound sterling. Let us put 
this amount of gold in one end of the bag and the £659,000,000, or $3,163,200,- 
000, paid for army and navy in the thirty years, in the other. Weighing both 
masses of gold paid for wars past and prospective in one scale, we have £1,499,- 
000,000, or $7,194,200,000, which these have cost England in the last thirty 
years. Every farthing of this has been actually paid, and paid out of the earn- 
ings of her capital and labor ; and not a day^s labor of her poorest peasant, nor 
a cup of tea nor a morsel of bread at his poorest meal, has been free from tlie 
pressure of these two aggregated burdens. 

Weigh them in one scale, did we say? What counter- weights have we to 
put in the other scale against them? Take the net earnings of all the manu- 
factures, commerce, or agriculture of England, and weigh the annual total 
against this vast sum, and you will have a clearer idea of its magnitude. It is 
estimated that the annual amount paid to all the agricultural laborers of England 
averages £18,000,000. Certainly there is no country in the wide world in 
which so much money per acre is paid for labor as in England. No other 
country in the world shows such careful and costly culture of the soil, or such 
varied beauty and wealth produced by cultivation. Every observant American 
who travels in Europe must notice and admit this &ct. Well, weigh tlie 
£18,000,000 a year that make England such a garden of beauty and produc- 
tion, against the £1.499,000,000 she has spent for wars past and prospective in 
the last thirty years. It is like weighing a mountain on a pair of hay-scales. 
This great total would pay for cultivating eighty-three Englands for one year, 
as beautifully and richly as her own island. But divide up the mass of war ex- 
penditure into yearly portions : annual interest of debt, £28,000,000 ; ai*my and 
navy, £26,000,000— £54,000,000. Now this annual total is just three times tlie 
amount paid to the agricultural labor that makes England what it is as the 
best cultivated country in the world. This is a rather slow march toward tlie 
millennium : three dollars to the sword, and one dollar to the plough. And yet 
** the two services " cry. (Hve, give ! and press and people are afrtdd enough has 
not been given to these "defences " of the country. Outside powers and peo- 
j)les have been reproaching England because she is not on a better war footing, 
and not more ready to be first and foremost in any great war, and fight to 
keep up her old military prestige, irrespective of the cause and origin of the 
conflict. Under this pressure from without and within. England^s Cliancellor 
of the Exchequer tries to squeeze half a million pounds a year out of the peo- 
ple from a tax on lucifer matches, an expedient borrowed from the govern- 
mental economy of the United States. His only plea for the tax in Parliament 
is. that it is only for the increased defences the country is clamoring for. Al- 
tlio'.igh the English people rebelled against a tax which ours bear without a 



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1871.] THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. 211 

mormiir, still they are importunate for more tUfencea ; and the Chancellor will 
doubtless have to provide them out of increased taxation. Even the working- 
men who denounced the dowry-gift and annuity of a few thousand pounds to 
the Princess Louise, were urgent that England should endower the dogs of war 
with a hundred millions to save France from what she intended to inflict on 
Crermany. So it is quite probable that, under this pressure, England will this 
very year even raise 'and pay for her defences a sum equal to ttie interest of 
her national debt; and then the two bm'dens will exactly balance each other, 
so that she will start off in the first year of this late and hopeful decade with 
just £28,000,000 on each side to w^k under. And all the experience of the 
past shows that she will be just as subject to invasion-panics as heretofore. 
They are the natural and inevitable emotions produced by this preposterous 
armed-peace system, that sits like a nightmare upon Christendom. 

This armed-peace system is both the product and the parasite of modern 
ciyilization. We read of the case of a poor unfortunate man who was afflicted 
by a wen, that grew out upon his head to such a size and effect upon his brain 
that he began to regard the wen as the head, and the head as the wen, and to 
nurse the unsightly excrescence tenderly under that hallucination. Europe 
seems to have reached this stage of fantasy in regard to its armed-peace sys- 
tem, as if i^ were the head, not the wen of civilization. We have taken the 
tax this system puts upon England, or one nation only, as a kind of measure of 
the burden it saddles upon other countries. Indeed, when we come to aggre- 
gate the burdens apportioned among them into one great total, its very mag- 
nitude conceals its dimensions, like a mountain which the eye cannot take 
whole into its grasp. Still, it may be instructive and useful to trace the out- 
lines of this mountainous total with a few figures. 

Dudley Baxter is one of the most deeply-read and accurate statisticians in 
Europe, and he makes up the war debts of Christendom to September last, or to 
the day of Sedan. And this is tlie instnictive tabulation of figures he gives us : 

Great Britatn, • £800,000,000, eqnal to $:J,840,000,000 

Continent of Enrope, 2,165,480,000, •' " 10,394,OM,000 

America, 766,820,000, " " 8,67»,636,000 

Asia 104,716,000, " " 602,636,000 

^VlHca, 89,656.,000, '* *' 190,344,000 

Australasia, 85,744,000, " " 171,5n,200 

Grand total £3,910,866,000, " " $18,772,151,200 

• 

Now this vast amount does not include the £200,000,000 which France is to 
pay Germany for the chastisement she has received, nor the debt she has con- 
tracted for carrying on the war against that power. To be within the mark, or 
this side of the actual fact, let us assume that the latter debt will not exceed 
£100,000,000, and that the whole aggregate debt of France for this war will 
be £300,000,000; and also that what she pa3rs Germany will reimburse that 
power for all its increased expenses on account of the conflict. This is a very 
moderate estimate, and yet it adds to the total we had at the beginning of tlie 
war £800,000,000. raising it to £4,210,866,000, or $20,212,152,000. This, then, 
is the load that Christendom starts off with on its back in this opening year of 
a new decade. And, it must be remembered, this is merely the unpaid bill for 
past wars, which they have put upon this and coming generations to pay. It 
does not include a farthing that was paid for them at the time of their incep- 
tion and prosecution. Now, what well-trained financial eye can take in at a 
glance Twenty Thousand Millions of Dollars 9 But if such an eye cannot grasp 
% the honest, hard- worked hand of the people's industry p:iust do it. That 



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212 THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. [August, 

heavily-laden industry must at least pay the annual Interest on this vast sum, 
if it cannot melt down an iota of the principal. Tliis interest, including all 
the charges on its collection, must average 6 per cent., and on the principal, 
£4,210,865,000, would be £252,651.900 or $1,312,729,120 per annum. This, 
then, is the annual tax on the people of Christendom for wars past: thirteen 
fmndrcd miliums of dollars ! 

Having weiglied the burden on that side of the people, let us now put into 
the scales the one on their nenr side, not to use disrespectfully a term applied 
to beasts. Before tliis last great condict, Europe and the United States paid for 
wars prospective £140,000,000 or $672,000,000 per annum in money alone. 
But money is only a part of tlie actual payment for these armed-peaoe estab- 
lishments. These armaments withdraw from productive mdustry 5,000,000 
of picked, able-bodied men, who now compose the standing armies of Chris- 
tendom, besides the militia and volunteers. Certainly it must be a moderate 
estimate to put the value of tlieir labor at 10 English shillings, or $2.40, per 
week. This is the average wages of farm laborers in England, the lowest in 
the scale of compensation in that coimtry. J think no one will demur to tliis 
estimate. This rate, then, would make the labor of every one of these picked 
men wortli $125 per annum in round figures; and consequently the labor of 
5,000,000 for a year equal to $625,000,000. Throwing in tiie bibor of militia 
and volunteers, and the money paid them for their service, tliis amount must 
appear reasoiuU)le to all who consider the estimate fairly. Now, then, putting 
the money cliarge and labor charge for these armed-peace establishments to- 
gether, or $072,000,000 plus $625,000,000, we have $1,297,000,000 per annum 
paid by Christendom for wars prospective. This is the load on the near side 
of the patient beast of burden. It lacks but a little of being as heavy as the 
other, and, at the rate of its growth in the last decade, will soon equal it. Let 
us put the two in one scale, and we have $1,312,729,120 plus $1,297,000,000, 
making a total of $2,609,729,120 for tlie good and glory that the war system 
has won for Christendom. Who can measure the heights and depths of this 
amount of gold, sweat out of the honest industi'ies and earnings of these civil- 
ized nations? Twenty-six Imndred millions of dollars a year for Mars, against 
perhaps twenty-six millions for Messiah! 

Is there any reason to wonder tliat tlie low and fitful murmur of patient, 
shoulder-peeled labor in past years has taken on the angry emphasis of loud 
and stern complaint in all these countries? Labor is the most compact and sen- 
sitive solidarity in Christendom. It crouches lower between these two burdens 
than any other interest. Even the most generous legislation of one country 
can do but little to lighten the load. This has been tried in England more sys- 
tematically and extensively than in any other country. Taxes have been lifted 
off from the shoulders of laboring men; exceptional laws have been passed 
in tlieir favor. Their Government has sought to lighten taxation upon their 
necessaries of life ; but it could not protect them f^om the heavy taxes other 
countries put upon their labor. They are taxed not only for wars waged and 
expected by England, but for the same wars of other countries. The smaller 
the area of their own land, the more dependent are they for a market for their 
industry in others of larger extent. But these countries have wars past and 
possible to pay for, and they must raise most of the money by taxing the pro- 
ductions of foreign labor which tiieir own people buy and use. This tax 
weighs almost as heavily on that foreign labor as on the people at home who 
use its productions. These productions must be cheapened in their manufiic- 
ture, or the American, French, or Russian markets will be shut against them. 



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1871.] THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. 213 

The workingnaen must be cut down in their wages, or a couple of additional 
hours must be put to their daily labor, or the factory wheels must stop. Even 
the most wealthy and generous manufacturers cannot go on at a loss ; they 
must make a little profit at least; and if they give up ten per cent, of tlieir 
legitimate earnings or gain, surely their workingmen should do the same. This 
is meeting them half way ; and they do go on together on this b^is of mu- 
tual reduction, which keeps open the foreign market to them. Now it must be 
clear to every fair mind that the English, French, Belgian, or German laborer, 
subjected to this necessary and mutual reduction, is taxed ten per cent, of his 
wages toward the war bills of other countries, while contributing his full share 
to those of his own. For the civil expenses of the various governments are so 
small, that one can hardly conceive the possibility of their resoi*ting to the 
costly machinery of custom-houses to collect such moderate sums. 

Here, then, we have a cursory glimpse of the bearing of these two burdens 
on labor, and of their even and simultaneous pressure upon it, in all the coun- 
tries of Christendom. This, as a great human solidarity, feels, in a new 
weight, the loss of every dollar wasted in war past or prospective. Every sol- 
dier, every cannon ball and bayonet, added to the armaments of one power, in- 
creases the pressure upon labor throughout the civilized world. You might as 
well hope to " fall a drop of water into the breaking gulf, and take that drop 
unmingled thence," as to fall an ounce weight of these war bm'dens upon the 
shoulder of an English, French, German, or American workingman, without 
p!itting an additional pressure upon labor from the centre to the circumference 
of its field of industry. This is worse than a mathematical abstraction or a 
philosophical fivct. It is an active, working truth, that millions of workingmen 
in Christendom are studying with profound sensibility. The blind Samson is 
feeling for the corner-posts of the system that has imprisoned him in his condi- 
tion. In the dimness of his sight, for which he is not to blame, he is trying to put 
his strong arms around the wrong pillars of the fabric. It is this that should 
hasten all the governments of Christendom to the rescue of society from his 
mistaken grasp. Bending and blind under these two burdens, he is beginning 
to look upon property as the spoils that luxurious and idle wealth has ^vrenched 
from his half-requited labor. This grievous and dangerous thought is perme^it- 
ing the wide-spread race he represents in Europe ; and, with all the superior 
intelligence of our workingmei;i, the same idea, in a modified form, is being 
boldly reproduced in America. It finds expression in different theories in labor 
conventions in New York and other capitals. There is a new and alarming 
significance of this sentiment both in Europe and America, which is exciting 
tlie surprise and apprehension of statesmen, journalists, and thoughtful men 
abraid ; and it ought to cause the same solicitude to ours. 

This new phase of the sentiment manifests itself in an almost sudden indif- 
ference in thousands of workingmen to jwlitical reforms, and to the political 
influence they have won or may win. Take England, for example. Did the 
workingmen in any country ever agitate and strive for political rights and 
power more earnestly than did their brethren in Great Britain for fifty years .^ 
The People's Charter would be a panacea for all their social and industrial ills. 
It would educate, elevate, and rescue them from all the grievous disparities 
they had borne so long. Well, the masses in England have now obtained 
nearly all ** the points " of their Charter, and a good deal more than it contem- 
plated, in other advantages. Universal suffrage is virtually established; for 
every man who cares to cast a vote may have one. Every session of Parlia- 
14 



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2U THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. [August, 

ment is marked by some act or proposition to lighten the burdens on the 
laborinoj masses, or to improve their condition. Not only legislation, but the 
sympathy and good- will of the middle and upper classes are, moving in the 
same direction. " The education of every child in the three kingdoms " has 
become a general watxjhword. Sanitary improvements, model lodging-houses, 
penny railway trains, penny readings, penny lectures, jfree' libraries, and free 
di'inking fountains of knowledge for workingmen, are among the public and 
private eflforts to raise them in the social scale by increasing thoir intelligence 
and enjoyment of life. But in spite of all the new political power they have 
obtained, and of all that has been done and promised by legislation and gener- 
ous goood-will and sympathy on the part of the upper chisses, they seem to 
be growing hopeless of bettering their condition by these means. Thousands 
of them are boldly sounding, in sight and hearing of St. Stephen's, the tocsin of 
that terrible proposition of French communism, " Proberty is theft! " The 
leaven of this pernicious idea is spreading among the masses ; and its permeat- 
ing process is quickened and widened by parallel theories of profound thinkers 
and philosophers, who are putting forth a new terminology all tending in the 
same direction, such as unearned property, meaning the increased value which 
mere increase of population gives to land in and near fast-growing towns and 
villages, or that which railways give to lands through which they pass — in a 
word, the increased value which unpaid labor gives to the estate of a rich pro- 
prietor. Thus philosophy combines with ignorance in generating these popu- 
lar ideas and platform cries, " Down with rents! down with interest on money] 
down with tenure of land! " etc. Now the masses of workingmen in England 
and all other European countries know and feel that they can never carry these 
ideas or theories by universal sufl&'age, or by political action ; so they look for 
their realization not only to a radical revolution of governments, but to a com- 
plete and forcible reconstruction of society itself. 

Now let us look at home and see how the leaven of these ideas is producing 
the same theories and the same terms and phrases here. We see the same 
hopelessness of political action creeping into the mind, represented in such 
labor conventions as have been recently reported in New York. Universal 
suffrage cannot or wiU not cm'e the complaint. The American Republic will 
no sooner down with rents or down with interest, or increased proi>erty in 
land, than will or can the German, Russian, or British Empire. The civil war 
between labor and capital that has been going on in Pennsylvania and other 
States for a year or more, has been as bitter and obstinate as any conflict be- 
tween these two great forces of society waged in either of those countries. We 
see how powerless both our national and State Legislatures are to arrest this 
civil war, or to arrange a basis and treaty of peace between the two parties to 
it. At an immense cost we have righted the wrongs of African labor in the 
Southern States. We have adopted and enforced amendments to our Constitu- 
tion in favor of the colored workingmen in those States ; but there is no fom-- 
teenth or twenty-fourth amendment that we can interpose between capital and 
labor in these hereditary free Sttvtes of the North, to unite them in one har- 
monious fellowship of interest and sympathy. 

Now there is but one legislative remedy, as there is but one cause for these 
evils that are breaking the domestic peace of nations. The two burdens that 
war has put upon them produce these evils. They press alike upon capitsd and 
labor, and the balancing of them between the two creates tliese conflicts, jeal- 
ousies, and alienations. It is impossible for capital to take the whole burden 
upon itself. I^bor must bear its just i)roportion of it. There is no possible re- 



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1871.] THE TWO BURDENS OF WAR. 216 

lease from that condition, any more than from death itself. There is no finan- 
cier in the wide world who can put an annual tax of twenty-six hundred mil- 
Kons of dollars on the people of Europe and America, without apportioning a 
heavy weiorht apon every man, woman, and child in Christendom. It is impos- 
sible for the governments to remove both these burdens at once. The load 
saddled upon them by past wars must remain until the tremendous tax for 
wars prospective is abolished or greatly reduced. All other taxes are a mere flea- 
bite to the people of these countries. To abolish tliis preposterous armed-peace 
system is a step that can be easily taken. It would have been taken ten years ago 
if England had accepted the proposition of Louis Xapoleon for a congress of 
luitions to agree to some basis for simultaneous and proportionate disarma- 
ment. Whatever else be said against tljat fallen potentate, let this be remem- 
bered to his credit : he was the first and only sovereign m the world who ever 
proposed such a congress for such an object, d propria motu. Had England 
united with France in this scheme for organizing peace as heartily as she did 
in the war against Russia, there is good reason to believe that all the bloody 
conflicts that have desolated Europe since the French Emperor issued that prt>- 
position would have been avoided. 

There is but one possible way by which the present armed-peace system of 
the civilized world can be abolished, or so reduced as to relieve the people 
to any sensible degree from the burden upon them. And this is by the very 
method proposed by Louis Napoleon — the convening of a congress of nations 
to agree upon the ratio of mutual disarmament. It is utterly idle to expect one 
power is going to lead off in reducing its armaments, trusting merely to the in- 
fluence of its example to induce others to follow it. It is this very armed-i>eace 
system that has produced the disease which it essays to cure. It was generated 
in suspicion, and it has grown by that it fed upon. France bas been made the 
scapegoat of the system. She has been charged with the folly and wrong of 
keeping up great standing armies, which forced other powers to follow her ex- 
ample. And yet it is rather singular that the outside world, which complained 
of her excessive armaments, almost reproaches her for not doubling them if 
she deemed it necessary to provide against the contingency of a war with Ger- 
many. Even England, who condemned and feared the French peace establish- 
ment as a menace to Europe, is now all astir to level up her own forces to meet 
the contingency of a war with Germany. So the system cannot be charged 
upon the example of any one power ; nor can it be abolished or reduced by the 
example of any one power. They must all be brought together in a congi*ess 
fi)r this special and only object — to apply to their armaments the mathematical 
verity, *♦ If from equals you take equals, the remainders will be equals." This 
rate of reducticm would not in the sliglitest degree affect their present balance 
of forces. Withdrawing each half its force by land and sea would leave them 
all on the same relative footing as before the reduction. If they had not faith 
enough in each other and in Providence to go tliis length at tlie fii'st step, let 
them take two for it by way of experiment. Even reducing their armed-j^eace 
e^blishments by only one-fourth would lift an annual tax of i?324,()00,000 
from their people. Only make a beginning, however small, in this direction, 
and one step would be sure to follow another until the end was reached. 
Doubtless the people of these countries would be quite willing to allow all the 
nioney saved for a few yeai*s from the cost of wars prospective to be applied 
to melt down the debt for wars past, thus reducing the two burdens simulta- 
^"^usly. What a jubilee would hail tlieir taking off ! 

EunU BURRITT. 



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OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER ? 

By Mrs. Edwaeds, Author of " Susan Fielding," " Archie Lovell," etc. 



CHAPTER XXIV 

A MIDNIGHT MEETING. 

AND Rawdon? Driving back as 
quickly as a well-bribed cabby can 
drive him to his hotel, Rawdon orders sume 
f'jod, rushes up to dress, swallows a beef- 
steak, tough and gory a.s a British steak 
should be, and arrives at the Theobalds' 
lodgings in Maddox street exactly a quar^ 
tar of an hour behind the appointed time. 

When the door opens the two ladies are 
in the act of descending the stairs. Jane 
is simply dressed in white, no ornaments 
in her brown hair, a bouquet of flowers, 
fresh from Covent Garden this morning, in 
her hand. Miss Minnie Arundel is a 
vision of grandeur awful to behold : hair 
raised in elaborate pyramids at the back ; 
hair descending in fluffy clouds to the eye- 
brows ; a satin train ; a panier trimmed 
with tulles and laces ; rouge ; pearl pow- 
der ; a strong odor of Guards bouquet ; 
a laced pocket handkerchief; a pair 
of costly opera glasses and a fan. It 
is a theory of poor Min's that if you hide 
handsome presents under a bushel, you 
may just as well never get handsome pres- 
ents at all. (Not an incorrect theory sure- 
ly ; see the Court newspaper if you would 
learn how even the brides of refined soci- 
ety display their trophies to an admiring 
world.) And to-night, with some covert 
design perhaps of bewildering Rawdon 's 
infantine mind, she has literally hung her- 
self round with spoils. 

How can so much grandeur ever be com- 
pressed within the narrow limits of a 
four-wheeler? Jane gets in first; Miss 
Arundel follows ; the cab is more than 
fall ; laces, tulles, and ribbons puff forth 
through the open windows on either side. 

** And I'll go on the box,'' says Rawdon 
ai5 he stands, his opera hat under his arm, 
his slim six-foot JBgure very upright, on tlie 
pavement. 

** Indeed, you'll do nothing of the kind," 
cries Jane. " I felt a drop of rain on my 
face as we came out. You must get as 
close to me as you can, and we'll let Min 
have a whole side to herself and her fin- 
ery." 



Rawdon not very reluctantly obeys; 
the cabman shuts the door with a bang ; 
and off they start. Perfumed clouds of 
gauzy material pervade the whole cab, 
settle on the young artilleryman's knees, 
ascend and touch his chin ; he can scarce 
get a glimpse of the poor little happy, 
over-rouged, over-dressed woman opposite, 
to whom they belong. 

" We were just beginning to think what 
.we should do if you didn't come," she 
cries — shrieks rather — in vain efforts to 
outvoice the rattling of the cab. " What 
made you late? Did the extremely* seri- 
ous fiimily enter objections at the last? " 

** Why, Min, you little goose ! " says 
Jane, " the serious family are all safe 
down in Chalkshire. Do you think Raw- 
don would dare be dancing attendance 
upon you and me if his lawful ovmeis 
were in London?" 

And Rawdon volunteers no explanation. 
Oh, what spirits he is in ! how thoroughly 
he enjoys his drive with Jane and her sis- 
ter in this dingy four-wheeler, and through 
un&shionable London streets, redolent of 
the dust and heat and closeness usdcU to 
London streets of an August evening ! 
Min loses her i^, her opera glasses, the 
order for the theatre, before they have 
gone a hundred yards ; and Rawdon must 
help her to search for each in its turn. 
And the fan is found hanging on her wrist, 
and the opera-glasses — how in the world 
did they get there? — are in Rawdon 's 
hand, and the order is inside her own 
glove. And then how they both laugh, 
as if they had been saying or doing some- 
thing wonderfully witty over each discov- 
ery ! 

** I'm sure 1 hope you are going to be- 
have yourselves like rational beings at 
last," says Jane when they are entering 
the theatre. "Rawdon, give Min your 
arm and lead the way — oh, but I wish it, 
please. Just as if I would take our only 
beau away from Min ! " 

And so they proceed to the stalls. Here 
Miss Arundel draws back for her sister, 
who, as a married lady, enters and takes 
her place first. The natural consequence 
of this is that Rawdon, following last, is 



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1871.] 



OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? 



217 



divided during the whole of the evening 
from Mrs. Theobald. 

He feels certain that the arrangement 
was preconcerted between the sLsters ; tarns 
furious ; turns sulky ; then, resolving to 
show that he in his turn can be indiffer- 
ent, begins to flirt with all his might with 
MiiS Minnie Arundel. 

This is exactly the object for which Jane 
invited him to accompany them. Poor 
old Min must be amused! She looks 
round at him with one of her friendliest 
smiles, leans over and whispers that unless 
they behave better she shall feel it her 
duty — her positive duty " as a friend of 
Mr. Crosbie's family" — to divide them. 
And Rawdon's ill temper flies. 

Jane in her simple dress looks doubly 
fair to him, contrasted with the marvels of 
hair-dressing and millinery presented by 
her sister. Amid the mingled odors of 
Miss ArundePs laced handkerchief and 
of the dainty pink play bills with which 
the stalls are rustling, Rawdon can detect 
— or, the same thing, imagines he can 
detect — the faint country smell of the 
flowers in her hand. He whispers, flirts, 
looks tenderly into Miss Arundel's black 
eyes. But Miss Arundel is not here at all ! 
And the theatre, and the soft-placing or- 
chestra, and the well-dressed people, and 
the pink play bills are not real. And he 
stands with Jane alone as he stood in the 
starlight at Spa, or in the silent old gar- 
den at Theobalds. She listens to his 
pleading at last. There is no Francis 
Theobald, no Emma Marsland in the 
world, and 

*' You are talking great rubbish," says 
Miss Arundel coquettishly, in answer to 
one of his most high-flown compliments. 
" Who would have thought a child of your 
age would have learned the ways of this 
wicked world already ? " 

Well, the evening passes only too 
quickly, and, although he does not speak a 
dozen words to Jane, proves certainly one 
of the red-letter evenings of Rawdon 
Croebie's life. ** Excellent company to 
oe at a play with " is Miss Minnie Arun- 
del. She is the humblest of all humble 
actresses herself, but not a point, not a 
delicate shade in the acting of artists gifted 
with superior powers to her own, is lost 
upon her. And Rawdon, quick to see as 
others see, to feel as others feel, eiyoys 
with her enjoyment. A pleasant and ap- 
preciative companion, a cool, softly-lit 



theatre, a luxurious stall, the perfect re- 
presentation of the most perfect love story 
ever put upon the stage, and the presence, 
divided from her though he may be, that 
constitutes the whole world to his foolish 
boy's heart. What happier evening is 
Rawdon Crosbie ever likely to know ? 

When it is over and they are leaving 
the theatre, the question of supper arises 
(as in another case we know of) , or rather 
the question where they shall sup — sup- 
per being looked upon as a matter of course 
by Miss Minnie Arundel. 

She proposes one or two rather well- 
known places of popular entertainment, 
but at each proposal Jane shakes her 
head. 

" I haven't much belief in your recom- 
mendations, Min, and I don't want to take 
this poor child anywhere outrageously 
fast. Rawdon and I have a character to 
lose, remember." 

** Oh, I don't know anything about 
characters," cries Min with her hearty 
laugh. " The question tliat concerns me 
is, where can we get the best supper and 
the most amusement? Of course, if we 
wanted to do the thing in style, and," 
with a glance at Rawdon, " if expeu.«e 
was no object, we ought to go to Wil- 
cocks's. Wilcocks's is a tip-top place 
close to the Haymarket," Miss Arundel 
goes on to explain — ** a place where you 
see the very heaviest swells. The Inst 
time I supped there, I and Blanche Bo- 
lingbroke, we had little Fred Ramsay with 
-us. Fred has got the aristocracy at his 
fingers' ends, you know, and 1 can tell you 
he pointed out two ladies of rank and title 
in the rooms at the same time." 

** Then by all means let us go to Wil- 
cocks's at once," says Rawdon. " How 
can we tell, if we are very lucky, that we 
may not see some ladies of rank and title 
too? Only unfortunately we shall have 
no one to point them out." 

"Except Charles, the head waiter," 
says Min in all simplicity. ** He's an old 
friend of mine ; 1 knew him well when he 
was in the restaurant at the Cr>'stal Pal- 
ace. Charles knows almost as many of 
the swells by sight as Fred Ramsay him- 
self." 

And a minute or two later, Rawdon, hav- 
ing hailed and piloted the ladies to a cab, 
to VVilcocks's they drive. 

They are early, not having waited for 
the afterpiece at the Prince of Wales's, 



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218 



OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? 



[August, 



and find the rooms nearly empty. Min, 
who is evidently quite at home with the 
establishment and the people belonging to 
it, points out a little marble table in the 
comer immediately iaeing the entrance as 
one of the most desirable in the rooms. 
You are cool there, close by the ferns and 
fountain and out of the way, and have the 
advantage of seeing all the company as 
they pass in and out. And accordingly 
at this table — fatal little marble table — 
when will Rawdon forget it?— they take 
their places and prepare to look over the 
carte. 

At Rawdon's request, Miss Arundel un- 
dertakes to preside at the entertainment ; 
and this, reader, is the barbaric bill of &Lre 
selected by her : 

fried kidneys — Min knows nothing 
about gastronomic laws of sequence, but 
orders things pell-mell, just as they strike 
her fancy — fried kidney's, sausages, cold 
duck, fried potatoes, cherry tart and cream, 
Stilton cheese, pulled bread, radishes; 
and champagne to begin, continue, and 
finish the repast with. 

Barbaric, but not unappetizing; and 
Rawdon, after his wretched dinner, is 
hungry, and the ladies, who dined early, 
are hungrier still ; and they all sup, not 
fashionably dallying with a fork and a bit 
of bread over a mayonnaise, but with a 
will. 

The viands are good ; the champagne, 
if not of the very choicest vintage, is 
sparkling, sweet, and heady. By the time 
the stage of cherry tart is reached they are 
all in the highest spirits, and making, I 
will not say more noise, but more open 
(lemoastrations of light-heartedness than 
the finest breeding might perhaps approve 
of in a public supper room. 

However, there Ls no one present to be 
shocked. The ladies of rank and title 
have, it would seem, gone elsewhere to- 
night. There is certainly no outward sign 
of their presence among the company at 
Wila)cks's. 

** You told us we should be certain of a 
gjod supper here. Miss Arundel," says 
Rtxwdon, ** and we are having a most excel- 
lent one. But where are the heavy swells ? 
What a pity your friend with the aristoc- 
racy at his fingers' ends is not here. He 
might tell us whether we are supping 
among common people like ourselves, or 
dukes and marchionef^ses in disguise." 

" Tiie aristocracy will come by and by 



in crowds," says the little actress, jealous 
for the reputation of Wilcocks's. *' At 
this moment I can see ladies in opera 
cloaks getting out of a private carriage." 
Min is so placed as to command a view of 
the pavement outside the restaurant. 
** Yes, here we are in great form — black 
velvet and marabout feathers, scarlet hair 
and scarlet ribbons, venerable old party in 
point lace, oppressively fine gentleman 
with Dundreary whiskers. The heavy 
swells are coming in earnest at last." 

"Better late than never," says Rawdon 
cheerily. Have I not said that the cham- 
pagne has taken favorable e^ct on the 
spirits of them all? And leaning back in 
his chair, he turns in order to get a fuller 
view of the new arrivals. 

They enter in a group of four. Little 
Miyor Hervey first, in finished ' evening 
dress, with eyelids- drooping, with his 
large flat nose in the air, his opera hat 
under one arm ; Mrs. Crosbie, aflSible yet 
slightly rigid of demeanor, as though pre- 
pared for contingencies, upon the other. 
Emma and old Mrs. Hervey foUow be- 
hind. 

** Well, they are queer-looking samples, 
I must say," cries Min when she has ex- 
amined them critically. '* Unless Wil- 
cocLs gets better specimens of aristocracy 
than that, I shall take my patronage else- 
where . Have some sweets , my dear boy ? ' ' 
liberally piling up the plate of the un- 
happy young gunner with cherry tart and 
cream. "Oh, nonsense about having done. 
You must be in love as well as engaged if 
you can't eat. I want you to keep me in 
countenance. Jenny, my dear, pass over 
the champagne. The evening is only just 
beginning." 

Only j ust beginning ! A chiU of horror 
passes through Rawdon Crosbie 's suddenly 
sobered veins at the thought. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

WITH DOUBTFUL ASSOCIATES. 

A WAITER bows the new-comers forward 
to one of the centre tables. They take 
their places. Mayor Hervey, scanning the 
carte at arm's length, and with uplifted 
eyebrows, orders one or two of the dishes 
** that we may hope will be least likely to 
pob«on us with wine, whatever it is that 
is sure to poison us ; " and then the ladies 



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begin to look a little about them at the sur- 
rounding company. 

" I trust Alfred has done right in allowing 
ns to come here,*' whispers Mrs. Crosbie to 
old Mrs. Hervey, who generally manages 
to get beck her sense of hearing in public 
places. " Do you really think ail these 
—persons look correct? " 

" In the present day, my dear," answers 
the old lady cheerfully, " it is quite impos- 
sible to say who is correct and who is in- 
correct. There used to be a costume for 
the members of each world ; but fashion 
has changed; class trenches upon class 
more and more, and we must go with the 
times. I hope they will serve us with a 
tolerable mayonna ise. I protest Mademoi- 
selle Boulotte has given me quite an appe- 
tite." 

But Utrs, Crosbie, at once less of an op- 
timist and less of a cynic than the older 
woman, is not so easily made (X)mfortable. 
If she could but be assured of the presence 
of a marchioness, a Lady Carolina, nay, 
even of a plain knight's wife, in these heat- 
ed, flaring supper rooms, she would be sat- 
isfied. For it is not so much evil itself, 
evil in the abstract, as the fear of doing 
what no one else does, of being seen where 
no one else is seen, that ever lies with heavi- 
est weight on Mrs. Crosbie's conscience. 

** I wish Rawdon had come with us," 
she remarks, leaning forward and address- 
ing Major Her>'ey,who is with £mma upon 
the other side of the table. '* I am sure at 
these kind of doubtful places one cannot 
have too strong an escort of gentlemen." 

** Oh, mamma, I think we are getting 
on delightfully ! " cries Emma. Mtyor 
Hervey is unfastening the heiress's glove, 
and either his elderly eyes do not see very 
clear, or some peculiarity about the button- 
hole causes the process to be unusually 
slow. * ' If Rawdon chose to have a stupid 

engagement elsewhere, why — ^why " 

' The words die on her lips ; her face 
turns to a sickly pallor, then crimson. 
** Why, there is Rawdon himself ! " gasps 
out Miss Marsland, sinking back in her 
chair and giving fiery glances across at the 
comer table, where her lover sits facing 
her ; facing her, but I am bound to say 
looking, soldier though he be, as if he 
Would fain sink bodily down through the 
floor, and with his eyes ignominiously 
fixed upon the heap of cherry tart and 
cream with which Min's friendly hand has 
loaded his plate. 



'* Rawdon ! " repeats Mrs. Crosbie, get- 
ting ready her double eye-glasses. " Now 
I call this a very timely rencontre. With 
his academy school friend, no doubt ? " 

** Rawdon is with Mrs. Theobald," says 
Emma, her voice trembling — ** Mrs. The- 
obald and a person — a i>erson who is no 
doubt Mrs. Theolmld's sister, the actress. 
Oh, I'm sure of it, mamma, from the like- 
ness. Oh, how dreadful ! " And Eimma's 
vei-y breath fails her, so vehement is her 
righteous indignation. 

" Yes, there is our young Rawdon," 
says Mtyor Hervey with charming amia- 
bility. ** Saw him the moment we came 
in. Perhaps," he pointedly addresses 
Mrs. Crosbie, not Emma, " as Rawdon is 
in another kind of society, it is a case — um 
— in which recognition may be— er — as 
well left alone?" 

Mrs. Crosbie turns her head, gracefully 
severe in its black velvet bands and mara- 
bout feathers, and for the space of some 
moments gazes stonily through her glasses 
on the culprits ; on Mrs. Theobald, whose 
blue eyes return the gaze as steadily as on 
the day when she was first mistaken in Spa 
for a princess ; on Rawdon, purple with 
confusion ; on Min, duly informed by Jane 
of the serious family's advent, and upon 
whose expressive mouth the broadest mei> 
riment is visible. 

** I must ask you to conduct us from this 
place, Alfred." And as she speaks, Mrs. 
Crosbie turns slowly round again from the 
awful sight of Rawdon 's iniquities. " You 
are of course not aware in what society 
Rawdon is? An inhabitant of our neigh- 
borhood whom we do not visit, and a per- 
son whom I believe — I can have no certain 
knowledge on such a point — I believe to 
be — theatrical ! I must ask you to give 
Emma your- arm and conduct us to our 
carriage at once." 

Adonis now leans across the table and 
in four words puts the situation before old 
Mrs. Hervey. " Rawdon supping with 
actresses." Awkward position ; but still, 
Adonis believes his mother will agree with 
him, " one in which good taste bids one — 
aw — see nothing, and act — er— just as if 
nothing had happened." And his fingers, 
which still enclose Emma's wrist, give her 
a tenderly reassuring little pressure as he 
says this. 

" Of course, of course we see nothing," 
saj's the fine old Pharisee pleasantly. 
•* Miss Marsland, my dear, you have the 



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gas immediately before your eyes. You 
had better come on this side. These things 
occur every day, and Rawdon has far too 
much good taste, I am sure, to recognize us. 
Yes, Mademoiselle Boulotte has given me 
quite an appetite. She is the best actress 
1 have seen the last hundred years." 

But Emma is neither a Pharisee nor a 
woman of the world, but a girl very 
warmly, very earnestly in love, and trem- 
bliqg in every fibre with anger and jeal- 
ousy. ** Thanks, Mrs. Ilervey. I think 
I shall be glad to change my position." 
And she rises, and with cool, insulting 
emphasis of manner turns her back delib- 
erately upon her lover and his jfriends, 
then draws her chair to old Mrs. Hervey's 
side. " These things may happen every 
day," adds Emma, in a voice of suppressed 
passion; and somehow as sne says this 
she knows that her eyes seek Major Her- 
vey's for support. " They will not happen 
to me twice. I am very sure of that." 

Mrs. Crosbie's maternal heart gives a 
throb of cold terror. Is the price of this 
escapade, this crowning folly of Raw- 
don's, to be Emma Marsland's thirty thou- 
sand pounds and all the county position, 
all the sacred blessings of existence that 
thirty thousand pounds can bring with 
them ? 

" Don't you think the feult may be a 
little ours in coming here, my dear Em- 
ma? We must scold Alfred for that. 
As regards Rawdon, young men " 

** If they be men of honor, speak 
the truth at least," cries Emma, with 
greater spirit perhaps than she had ever 
shown in her life before. " Rawdon could 
not come with us, remember, because he 
had to dine with a school friend who was 
going to China — to China, indeed ! How- 
ever, it will l>e a question to settle between 
Rawdon and me— between Rawdon and 
me alone," adds Emma indignantly. 
*' Don't let any one's supper be spoiled by 
talking about it now." 

And so, the shoulders of the three ladies 
set resolutely against the faces of the foe, 
supper is eaten. Mtyor Hervey seems to 
be in unwonted spirits, and never lets the 
conversation flag for an instant. Disre- 
garding the poisonous nature of the dishes 
set before him, he even eats and drinks ; 
shows bis magnificent teeth to the gold as 
he smiles at Emma and his own stories ; 
•and all the time manages to give an occa- 
sional glance of insolent admiration in the 



direction of Jane and of her sister that 
makes young Rawdon 's blood boil. 

What an anticlimax to the evening that 
began so happily at the Prince of Wales's, 
listening to a delightfully acted love idyl, 
dreaming a still more delightful idyl of 
one's own ! Were he to follow impulse 
merely, Rawdon Crosbie would march 
straight with his companions from the 
rooms, and spare Jane the humiliation, 
covert though it be, with which his own 
ludicrous position is clothing her. But 
with Min's laughing eyes fixed upon him 
he dare not thus show the better part of 
valor ! All he dare do is — sit still ; return 
the glances of Adonis with savage inter- 
est ; force himself to laugh and jest with 
the best grace he can ; drink champagne, 
every drop of which seems to make his 
soul flatter and flatter; and wAtch tlie 
back of Emma's scarlet streamers and of 
his mother's marabouts. 

Jane at length brings his sufferings to 
an end. "If we have all finished — it 
seems a pity to hurry when we are so 
comfortable — but if we have all really fin- 
ished, we may as well be ofl^. 1 don't want 
Theobald to get home before I do." And 
Rawdon acquiescing only too promptly, 
she rises (by a furtive turn of the head, 
Emma's jealous eyes can watch every 
movement of her rival's slight, graceful 
figure) , coolly surveys herself as she ad- 
justs her opera cloak, in a neighboring 
mirror ; then with an air of calmest ap- 
propriation, puts her hand within Raw- 
don's arm, and followed by Min, who be- 
stows a saucy smile of adieu upon the 
family party as she goes by, leaves the 
rooms. 

Rawdon pays the cost of the entertain- 
ment to the head-waiter, who stands, bill 
in hand, at the door, and to whom the ac- 
tress gives a friendly ** Good-by, Charles," 
at parting. And then they go out into 
the night. 

Min is in the sort of wild spirits that 
succeed naturally to a pleasantly spent 
evening, and an excellent supper, and 
heady champagne; and she "chaflfe" 
Rawdon unmercifully. His mamma, his 
sweetheart, the gentleman with the eye- 
lids, the lecture that awaits him, Rawdon, 
to-morrow — all are pantomimed by MLss 
Arundel for his benefit, as they stand out- 
side the door of Wilcocks's, waiting for 
an empty cab to pass along. But Jane 
is dead silent, and continues so during 



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the whole of the drive back to Maddox 
street. 

" Thanks for a very jolly evening," 
says Min, when Rawdon, alter dismLssing 
the cab, is preparing to wish the ladies 
good night at the door of the Theobalds' 
lodgings. '* I suppose we shall see each 
other again before we die? " 

" A great many times, I should hope, if 
life is to be worth holding," answers 
Rawdon Crosbie. 

"I'm going to the Chalkshire races 
with Jane and Theobald, if I shouldn't see 
yod before, and then — but no," cries the 
little actress, looking up in his face with 
an air of /mock pity. " After to-night's 
experience we won't make plans. Cruel 
to talk of what the future may bring 
forth to any one in your precarious situ- 
ation." • 

And then, with all her satins and furbe- 
lows rustling, away Min runs up the stairs ; 
and Rawdon, whose present fate appears 
to be to feel like a culprit before every one, 
is left alone with Jane. Maddox street at 
this hour is almost silent. An occasional 
passer-by on foot, the distant drone of car- 
riage wheels in Regent street, are all that 
break the quiet. They are as much alone 
as they were on Sunday evening in the 
moss-grown garden at Theobalds. 

" That was a queer kind of meeting for 
us all to-night, I must say," remarks 
Jane, amicably, yet with a certain tone in 
her voice that Rawdon has learnt to dread. 
**Why didn't you tell me your people 
were in town? " 

"I — I thought I had mentioned it. 
Yes, my mother and Emma came up on 
Monday. They are spending a few days 
with our relations, the Herveys." 

He does his best to speak lightly, as if 
nothing of any moment had occurred, and 
feils egregriously. 

'* The Herveys. Are those the people 
I saw them with at the supper rooms? " 

"Yes." 

Jane hesitates for a minute before she 
speaks again. A street lamp immediate- 
ly opposite shines full upon her face, and 
Rawdon can see a telltale quiver about 
the comers of her lips. She hesitates, 
but for a minute only ; then, in her usual 
unpetuons fiishion, breaks forth thus: 
" I'm sorry this has happened, Rawdon, 
because it is going to bring things to a 
smash between you and me ; and yet, in 
another way, I'm glad. It has opsned 



my eyes pretty sharply to something good 
for me to see. Now, my dear child, listen 
and take the best bit of advice that has 
ever been given you in your life yet. Cut 
me. I'm a bad business as far as you are 
concerned. Have nothing more to say to 
me." 

He makes no answer, and probably 
Jane expects none. She must guess pretty 
accurately, one would think, what the 
poor young fellow feels just at this mo- 
ment. 

" Of course I know how we stood 
toward each other before this, or I ought. 
I've had lessons enough on all useful sub- 
jects of late. But it never came home to 
me as it did to-night. For there was 
Min, you see ! I've been so long out of 
the profession that I seem neither one 
thing nor the other to myself, at least. 
Min is the real genuine article, an actress 
in heart, soul, body. Min shows me what 
/am to people like your mother and Miss 
Marsland. Rawdon, if we had been — if 
poor Min and I had been a pair of escaped 
convicts," cries Jane, with a half-fierce, 
half-sad sort of little laugh, " we could 
scarce have been looked ' at with eyes of 
more pious horror. Why, even you — ^ 
No ; hear me out. Even you knew 
too well what was due — that's the word I 
think ? — due to yourself and to the girl you 
mean to rtarry to leave our side and speak 
to her. Well, you see I don't mean to be 
placed like that again, * not never no 
more,' as Blossy says. If those ladies 
were— anything to you but what they are, 
I should say simply, choose between them 
and me, and I am the best worth choos- 
ing ! I can't say that as it is, can I ? '' 

Yes, she can say what she likes; she 
has only to speak to command him in all 
things! cries Rawdon 's heart. But his 
lips do not give utterance to this avowal 
of disallegianoe. 

*' And so, what I do say is — cut me. 
I'll give you another bit of wise and 
wholesome advice. Run away to-morrow 
morning, early, to Miss Marsland and 
make the prettiest apology you can for 
being seen with such doubtful associates. 
You broke some lawful engagement, by 
the by. Master Rawdon, did you not, in 
order to go to * school ' with us ? " 

'*I would have broken any engage- 
ment, lawful or the reverse, on the chance 
of going anywhere vnth you," answers 
Rawdon Crosbie. 



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** I thought so, Theobald says I have 
iastinct, no reason. I suppose it most 
have been instinct made me guess how 
the land lay as I sat humbly looking at 
the tips of your mamma's marabouts. 
Well, apologize ! Say you will never do 
it again ; say we over-persuaded you ; put 
as much blame on Min and me as you 
like ! But make things straight if you can, 
and get Miss Marsland to name the wed- 
ding day as soon as possible. Goodnight." 
** And you think — ^j'ou think that you 
are going to be rid of me like this ! " cries 
Rawdon hotly ; and as he speaks he leans 
his arm within the door so as to hinder 
Jane, if she wished to do so, from shut- 
ting it. " Be a little franker, Mrs. Theo- 
bald ! Say, straight out, you are tired of 
me ; say that, from some cause or another, 
you want me out of the way for a time, 
and I'll stop away till you bid me come 
back " 

** And suppose I am not tired of you, 
and suppose I have no reason whatever 
for wishing you out of the way ? " she in- 
terrupts. ** Don't be a fool a second 
time, Rawdon. - Take what I say in 
plain good part, as I mean it. Miss Mars- 
land lives in a world that is not the world 
of women like Min and me ; and you 
cannot honestly remain her sweetheart 
and my friend. You have to make your 
choice.' Well, there can't even be a ques- 
tion as to where your choice must lie. I 
am nothing to you ; Miss Marsland is, 
or will be, everything. Cry ' Peccavi,' 
Rawdon, as you ought, and be quite sure 
—although most likely we shan't know 
each other to speak to in the time to 
come — that I shall be your friend at heart 
always. Now, really, good night. I am 
standing in a draught." 

But Rawdon 's arm does not move. 

*^ I have only one thing more to ask 
you. When is this cut eternal of which 
you talk so cheerfully to take place? I 
like to know accurately on what ground I 
stand." 

"When? Why, when you are mar^ 
ried, to be sure. Do you think I would 
speak to any man whose wife—" 

" No," interrupt Rawdon quickly, 
" of course you would not ; I know that 
only too well. But suppose I never have 
a wife at all? Oh, such a contingency is 
quite on the cards, Mrs. Theobald! I 
promise to follow your advice before I go 



back to Woolwich to-morrow morning. 
If truth-telling can set things straight," 
almost with a groan be brings out this, 
" well and good. Bat suppose truth-tell- 
ing results, as it will very probably do, 
in things becoming more crooked than be- 
fore, will you cut me then? " 

** It makes my head ache to think of S3 
many * ife ' and* ands,' " says Jane, a little 
coldly. ** Do what you know to be right, 
without thinking of anything but that it 
15 right, and be kind enough to forget 
that there is suclj a person as Jane Theo- 
bald in the world." 

"Forget!" But now Rawdon takes 
his arm away from the dooi". ** Yes, 
that sort of cold-blooded advice is so re- 
markably easy to give ! When may I see 
you next? " he persists. " When may I 
come down to Theobalds to tell you — that 
I have forgotten you? Sunday? No. 
Monday, then? I know I can get leave 
on Monday." 

" Leave— who from ? Your command- 
ing officer, or Miss Marsland? Rawdon, 
child, don't play fast and loose with your 
conscience any more. What earthly thing 
can you want at Theobalds now? " 

" I shall want to tell you the result of 
your own good advice, in the first place.'* 

** I shall guess that when I hear the 
wedding bells ringing in Lidlingtoa 
church." 

" And if no wedding bells are ever rung 
with which I am concerned? Oh, Mrs. 
Theobald, don't trifle with me, don't tor- 
ture me ! Tell me when I may come and 
see you next?" 

For a brief space Jane remains silent : 
then, ** You will not come to see me, and 
you will not write to me for one clean fort- 
night," she tells him firmly. ** By that 
time you'll know, I suppose, whether you 
are in a position to have doubtful associates 
or not. And then — the odds ?lre, my 
dear boy, you will cut me, or I you, which 
will come to the same thing. Now good- 
by . " For a moment she lets Rawdon hold 
her hand, then moves away from him into 
the house. " Perhaps if the fiites are 
kind," turning to give him a last smile 
over her shoulder, " the cut eternal won't 
come till after the Chalkshire races! I 
hope it won't — ^for Min's sake." 

And with this exceedingly small crumb 
of coa*»olation young Rawdon Crosbie is 
forced to be satisfied. 



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CHAPTER XXVI. 

RAWDON CRIES PECCAVI ! 

Br eleven next morning, angry, repent- 
ant, resolute, all in a breath, he calls in 
Bolton Row. 

The ladies up yet? Yes, it is Mr. Mau- 
rice's belief that the ladies har up ; yes, it 
is Mr . Maurice's belief (solemn is Maurice's 
tone and manners, as of a man aware that 
iamily feuds are brewing) that the ladies 
will be able to see Mr. Rawdon Crosbie. 
But he will just inq^uire. 

Mr. Rawdon Crosbie is kept waiting a 
couple of minutes or more on the door-step 
— a council of war he feels sure going on as 
to whether he shall be admitted at all — 
then is ushered, not up stairs to his moth- 
er's drawing-room, but into old Mrs. Her- 
Tcy's parlor on the ground floor. 

This looks significant — a kind of " scene 
in the firont grooves," introduced to allow 
the machinist to prepare some set picture 
in the back ground — and Rawdon ooUects 
his strength together for the ordeal which 
he knows to be impending. The sitting- 
room communicates with another by fold- 
ing doors which are closed. Maria Hervey 
alone sits at a small table near the window 
pretending to write. 

She rises, gives Rawdon a clammy hand 
and pointedly cool reception ; then takes 
a chair at as safe and unoontagions a dis- 
. tance as the dimensions of the room will 
permit and looks at the hearth-rug. Evi- 
dently this ancient maiden has heard of last 
night's misadventure, and will contract as 
little contamination as possible from a per- 
son of Rawdon Crosbie 's desperate and 
abandoned character. He is not in a tem- 
per to derive amusement, as he generally 
does, from Maria's hatred for him, and in- 
quires somewhat curtly for his mother and 
Emma. He must return to Woolwich by 
the midday train, and has not much time 
to lose, so— ^ 

' * Your poor mamma, I believe, purposes 
to see you shortly, Rawdon," interrupts 
5Iaria without lifting her eyes from the 
hearth-rug. ** I am quite unable to in- 
form you whether Miss Mars land will feel 
equal to the reception of visitors to-day." 
" Equal ? Why, what's the mattw ? " 
says Rawdon, determined to set things 
straight even with Maria Hervey. ** Em- 
ma looked in very good health and spirits 
when I saw her last at about one o'clock 
this morning." 



** Oh, indeed. I know nothing at all 
about that. Miss Marsland has been very 
fiaur fifom well for some hours past — out of 
one hysterical fit into another — herstrength 
quite exhausted. Indeed, I believe it is 
Mrs. Hervey's intention to send for the 
family apothecary." 

" And I of course am not wanted," says 
Rawdon. *^ So unless there is a chance of 
my mother being able to see me for five 
minutes, I may as well be oiF at once." 

Maria, hearing this, rises and leaves the 
room. Stealthy whispers are audible 
through the folding doors ; the rustle of a 
silk dress is presently heard ascending the 
stairs, then comes the sound of descend- 
iiig footsteps. An instant or two later 
the door opens and in walks, not Mrs. 
Crosbie, but Adonis Hervey — Adonis, 
who on no ordinary occasion is ever ready 
for the eye of man, much less of woman, 
before two or three o'clock in the after- 
noon. 

He enters. For once in his life lifts his 
eyelids suflSciently to give Rawdon Crosbie 
a steady stare. 
*' Good morning to you." 
*' Good morning." 

Mtyor Hervey extends*a couple of chill, 
thin fingers, which his young relative 
barely touches in return. Then there is 
silence. Rawdon stands before the fire- 
place, his head, at the altitude of five feet 
eleven, held superbly aloft. Adonis, at the 
altitude of five feet four, stands languidly 
pulling his scanty purple-black whiskers 
for a minute, then sinks down into the 
nearest arm-chair and begins to contem- 
plate his nails. 

" Deuced foolish little rencontre that 
last night, eh, Rawdon? " The shape of 
one of his long delicate nails seems vrrong, 
for as he speaks Migor Hervey surveys it 
closely and with an air of discontent. 

Rawdon, who, as we have seen, is in 
no humor for circumlocution, responds 
brusquely, " What rencontre? " 

** Why, running across you and your 
friends in those infernal supper rooms — 
Wilmots, Wilcocks— what the deuce is the 
name ? Ladies would go— know what la- 
dies are when they take a thing into their 
heads. ' ' I omit the multitudinous ' ' ums ' ' 
and *'ahs" with which Major Hervey 
interlards conversation. ** Mrs. Crosbie 
terribly cut up, poor thing; MissMaisland 
hysterical. Tried to reason with them — 
my mother tried to reason with them — 



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extraordinary experience in these little 
matters, my mother. . No use." M^or 
Hervey shakes bis head with an air of 
bored but well-bred sympathy. 

** I am excessively indebted to you and to 
Mrs. Hervey, if you have been trying to 
reason on my behalf," says Rawdon coldly. 
* At the same time I really cannot see 
how or why any argument wfts necessary. 
Perhaps you would be good enough to 
speak in plainer language? I am a very 
poor hand at expounding riddles. Has 
my mother, has Miss Marsland sent me 
any message through you, and if so, will 
you be good enough to tell it me in three 
words?" 

Miyor Hervey takes out a gold tooth- 
pick and looks at it attentively ; then, r^ 
membering perhaps of what his teeth are 
made, returns it to his waistcoat pocket. 
** I am somewhat older than you, my dear 
Rawdon," he remarlcs, putting an elbow 
on each arm of the chair and joining the 
extreme tips of his fleshless white fingers. 

Rawdon does not dispute the proposition. 

** Somewhat older and somewhat world- 
ly wiser. This foolish little rencontre, the 
society — deuced nice society in its way — 
which Miss Marsland met you in last night 
— um — ah. Deuced bad thing, I'm afraid, 
for your prospects as an engaged man, 
Rawdon." 

" I am much obliged for your solicitude. 
At the same time I must repeat, I think 
you are expending it needlessly." 

** You think so? I do not. Women — 
women," says Mtyor Hervey complacently, 
" have been the study of my life. I have 
had extraordinary opportunities, especial- 
ly as regards phases of jealousy^ of ana- 
lyzing their little weaknesses " — ^Raw- 
don looks at his watch impatiently — 
**and I seldom find myself wrong in 
any of the conclusions I come to on the 
subject. This foolish contretemps of last 
night is the worst thing— just the worst 
thing — that could have happened for you 
at the present time. You understand 
me?" 

" I hear you." 

"And really, the whole a^ir is too puer- 
ile ! For don't, don't for a moment think, ' ' 
adds Adonis with a little outbreak of boy- 
ish expansion, ** that I put myself in the 
position of a mentor. On the contrary, 
personally speaking, I only commend your 
taste. That blonde with the bine eyes, 
my dear Rawdon — all I regretted vras that 



circumstances did not permit me to ask for 
an introduction." 

** You would have asked in vain, I'm 
afipaid," says Rawdon with the air of a 
young emperor. ** I am not in the habit 
of introducing men I meet in public places 
to the ladies of my ^quaintance." 

** Ah ! dog in the manger on principle, 
eh ? Wis3 rule, I dare say, for you ! 
Who is your other friend, Rawdon, 
the little thing with black eyes and the 
fan? Your mother, poor dear soul, has 
been telling me about the blonde (upon 
my word, in a certain demi-monde style, 
she's as fine-looking a woman as I've 
seen out this season); but the other ?r— we 
only surmise as to the other." 

'* The little thing with black eyes and 
the fan is a Miss Johnson, tolerably well 
known in theatrical circles as Miss Minnie 
Arundel," Rawdon answers, holding his 
nose still in the air, but keeping his tem- 
per miraculously. 

** So we imagined and feared ! Absurd, 
positively absurd, the dread women all 
have of actresses. Well, and this Mrs. 
Theobald? From what your mother tells 
me she appears to be the lawfully wed- 
ded wife of a man I remember once in 
Paris. Tall man? yellow hair? eyeglass? 
Exactly. Didn't know him personally. 
Not in my set at all. Man with a story 
attached to him — turns the king a little 
too easily at icartiJ Well, if not that 
something of the kind." This is the true 
Hervey mode of suggesting away charac- 
ter. *' And now it seems married, married 
to a dancing girl. Rawdon, my dear fel- 
low, take the advice of a man old enough 
to be your — elder brother, and follow your 
good mother's wishes. I came down at 
her request, poor soul, to speak to you. 
Drop the acquaintance of this too charm- 
ing Mrs. Theobald, until af^r your mar- 
riage at least." 

" And then resume it, I suppose? " Raw- 
don asks. 

" Then do as you see fit," says Adonis 
with a satyr-like little chuckle. *' A 
married man is in a very difierent position 
to an engaged one. How is your excellent 
father, Rawdon?" Miyor Hervey sup- 
presses a yawn and looks miserable. The 
discharge of all this heavy family duty has 
evidently been too much for his strength. 
** Fewer gouty s^Tnptoms than when I was 
lastinChalkshire?" 

Boiling over at heart, but still keeping 



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his temper outwardly, Rawdon gives as 
succinct an account of Mr. Crosbie's state 
as can be given short of positive rudeness ; 
and his mentor closes his eyes and leans his 
head back in his chair. After two or three 
minutes thus spent the door again opens 
noiselessly, and Maria, putting on a face 
and voice as though some one lay dead in 
the house, informs Rawdon that he may 
go up to his poor mamma in the drawing- 
room. 

He goes up and finds his poor mamma 
waiting in state to receive him, an open 
letter in her hand. Emma, with emerald- 
green ribbon in her hair and with swollen 
red eyes, reposes on the sofa, a shawl over 
her feet, and a smelling bottle applied to 
her nose. Why should a man be made to 
feel himself a brute by the mere fact of a 
young woman holding a smelling bottle to 
her nose and having swollen eyes? As 
Rawdon ran up the stairs his spirit was re- 
bellious, his heart, under the influence of 
Mjyor Harvey *8 good advice, hard as the 
nether stone. And lo ! at the first sight 
of Emma, and of her little apparatus of 
hysterics, he softens into repentance. 

" Maria tells me— I'm very sorry to 
hear you are not well, Emmy,'' he cries, 
coming up to her side, with hand out- 
stretched. 

By way of answer Miss Marsland raises 
her handkerchief to her face. "I've been 
very foo — ^foo— foolish ! " she sobs. '*It 
will never happen — ^no,. no, it will never 
happen again. Ah !" 

'* My dearest girl," says Mrs. Croebie, 
leaning over her soothingly, ** be com- 
p3sed. Rawdon, have the goodness^ to 
stand aside. My dear Emma requires air. 
Be perfectly composed, my love, and allow 
me to speak. Now, remember your pro- 
mise!" 

Thus appealed to. Miss Marsland buries 
her head down on the sofa cushion and apr 
plies her salts bottle to her nostrils with 
such vigor that her poor swollen eyes wink 
again. Very few women look their faii^ 
est under the influence of strong mental 
excitement ; and Emma is no exception to 
the rule. 

** Dear Emma has gone through a most 
distressing night," says Mrs. Crosbie, re- 
garding her son with icy sternness. * * But 
the does not judge you, Emma is too gen- 
erous to judge you, unheard. For what 
occurred yesterday evening, the humiliat- 
ing circumstances under which we met 



you, sir, I leave you to make your apolo- 
gies to her, and te her alone. But I hove 
a word or two which we both — Emma, 
my love, which we both think should be 
said first. I have had a letter ftom Mrs. 
Pippin, Rawdon." 

** From Mrs. Pippin !" repeats Rawdon 
with unafiected innocence. 

" And she tells me — but I almost refuse 
to believe it ; yes, even on Mrs. Pippin's 
word, and in spite of what I saw last night, 
I almost refiise to believe such an accusa- 
tion against my own son — that you, you 
have put this woman's name up for ballot 
at our Lidlington Croquet Club." 

" Seconded by Mr. Smylie," cries Emma 
from the depths of the sofa cushion, ** and 
just going to take his priest's orders ! 
I'm sure the bishop ought to be written 
to." 

**Is it true? Is this scandalous accu- 
sation true?" says Mrs. Crosbie, as the 
culprit stands silent. ** If you have done 
this thing, you will not, I conclude, be 
ashamed to acknowledge it." 

* ' Ashamed ! What of ? " answers Raw- 
don . He speaks with an attempt at cheer- 
fiilness, but his voice is very far indeed 
from natural. His mother's ice-cold face^ 
those quivering green ribbons, those 
plump, white fingers passionately twitch- 
ing round the salts bottle, are by no 
means reassuring objects to him to look 
at. ** If by * this woman ' you mean Mrs. 
Theobald, certainly I proposed her as a 
member of the Lidlington Croquet Club, 
and Smylie seconded the proposition. 
Let me see," he goes on, with the cooln^s 
of desperation, " that was on Saturday 
last. I think I said something to you 
about it, Emmy? Mrs. Theobald will be 
balloted for to-morrow." 

"Mrs. Theobald balloted for! Rawdon, 
but that this person has been put up by 
you, by my son, I doubt if the form of 
ballot would be gone through at all. You 
are not aware, perhaps, that there is a 
rule empowering the Club, under certain 
most rare, most aggravated circumstances, 
to dispense with a ballot altogether? 
Well, there is such a rule then ; number 
twenty-three : * If any person notori- 
ously ' " 

" Mother, sto^ !" interrupts Rawdon, 
the blood rushing hotly across his fece. 
" I will hear no one— no, mother, not even 
you — speak lightly of Mrs. Theobald." 

" I do not speak lightly of her, Raw- 



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don, at all events upon my own responsi- 
bility. I trust I know my Christian duty 
too well for that. If you had beard me 
out you would hare seen that the severest 
word employed in rule twenty-three is 
ineligible. ' If any person notoriously in- 
eligible shall ' " 

** And why is Mrs. Theobald ineligible? 
Before I acknowledge myself to be in the 
w^rong in proposing her, let me know on 
what grounds my offence is based. Why 
is Mrs. Theobald notoriously ineligible? '' 

" Simply because she is not visited. 
Your own good sense, your own good taste 
might supply you with that answer." 

*' The answer is no answer. You make 
up your minds, all of you, not to visit A. 
B. or C. and then when you are asked 
what her crime Is, you say, * She la not 
visited.' Is this justice, is this honesty? " 

** Rawdon,** says Mrs. Crosbie coldly, 
"I am in no humor for hair-splitting. 
You have acted, I am willing to hope, 
under evil influence, and in a manner that 
you yourself, a few years hence, would be 
the first to condemn. Uear what our rela- 
tive, hear what Alfred Hervey, a man of 
the world, a man accustomed to the high- 
est society, thinks about it." 

** I have heard, mother. No number of 
years, I believe, will ever bring me to the 
way of thinking of Alfred Hervey." 

" Acting under evil influence, you have 
foolishly betrayed us all into a most pain- 
ful and unfortunate position. You must 
very well know, Rawdon, your ignorance 
of common decency cannot be so great but 
that you must very well know the Lid- 
lington Croquet Club can never admit 
the person you have proposed as a 
member?" 

For a minute or two Rawdon makes no 
answer. "I don't seek to change your 
opinions, mother," he breaks forth at 
last. " Blackball Mrs. Theobald, taboo 
her, persecute her as you like. It is no 
business of mine. One thing, only, I 
think I may fairly ask you before the sub- 
ject is done with for ever." For ever ! 
The green ribbons flutter up suddenly, 
and Emma looks very full and very stead- 
ily at her lover. ** What is the charge 
brought against her? I have listened to 
a great many hints, I have seen a great 
many shakes of the head from the day 
when we mistook her for the Princess Czar- 
torlska in Spa till now. I have never 
heard one fair, aboveboard statement. 



WAflrf is Mrs. Theobald's crime? Why is 
she not to be visited? " 

'* Do you wish such a subject discussed 
in Emma's presence, sir?" 

* * Most certainly I do. Why not ? " 

" Well, then, in the first place, Mr. 
Francis Theobald's wife does not belong 
by birth to the same station of life as our- 
selves." 

" Birth ! And Mrs. Coventry Brown is 
the leader of the Lidlington society." 

** Her ideas, her habits, her associa- 
tions must be — fast ! I detest the word, 
Rawdon, but you oblige me — ^you oblige 
me to use it." 

Rawdon Crosbie on this looks straight 
into his mother's face ; then he bursts 
into a laugh. "Fast! Mrs. Theobald 
&st ! Mother, let me ask you who at the 
present time is the most sought-after woman 
in Chalkshire? Who dines everywhere, 
from the archdeacon's upward and down- 
ward ? Whom have we importuned, vain- 
ly, to belong to our croquet club ? Who 
is the show-guest at our little entertain- 
ments? To whose table do we move hea- 
ven and earth to get an invitation ? VLsitr 
ing Lady Rose Golightly, associating with 
her, courting her, have we the right— I 
put it to you, mother, as a question of 
abstract justice — the right to condemn any 
woman upon the bare supposition of her 
being fiast?" 

Just for one instant Mrs. Crosbie does 
not find a fitting .answer come readily to 
her lips. Emma, who is at all times beau- 
tifully superior to argument, hastens to 
her relief. 

** We must take the world as we find 
it, mamma. Mcyor Hervey said so this 
morning. Every one in the county knows 
Lady Rose Golightly, and no one in the 
county knows Mrs. Theobald. What has 
abstract justice got to do with people's vis- 
i^ng lists? I suppose Rawdon thinks we 
ought to set ourselves above the archdea- 
con and every respectable person in the 
neighborhood! " 

** It. would be a hard matter, my dear 
Emma, to know what Rawdon does think," 
says Mrs. Crosbie, with chill dignity. 
** But it is not at all hard to know liow 
this Quixotic championship of unpopular 
persons must end. I am far from accus- 
ing Rawdon of anything, as yet, but boy- 
ish folly ; but folly beyond a certain point 
becomes guilt — yes, Rawdon , gu i 1 1 ! " And 
Mrs. Crosbie 's voice trembles, her eyes 



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fill. * ' And now, to-day, while there is still 
time, and here in our dear Emma's pres- 
ence, I ask you to draw back from an ac- 
quaintance—I fear I must say an intimacy 
— which can only end in discredit and un- 
happiness to us all ! " 

With true maternal instinct, she has 
made the very most that can be made of 
the situation. In argument, the advan- 
tage is wholly on Rawdon's side ; recrim- 
inations, anger, are thrown away upon 
him ; at this sudden softening of his moth- 
er's tone, at this first sign of tears, this 
first quiver of her lip, all his boyish heart 
gives way ! He made himself Mrs. Theo- 
bald's champion in the beginnmg more 
ftom a freak of obstinacy than of set pur- 
pose. That he has gradually fallen away 
from the narrow path, from his plighted 
word to Emma, ever since, his conscience 
knows only too well. And horribly sharp 
is the prick conscience gives him at the 
moment. 

**I came here this morning, mother, 
prepared to ask Emma to forgive me, pre- 
pared to tell you both how annoyed I was 
about — about the way we met last night. 
If you had let me see you at once, instead 
of putting me through a homily from Ma- 
jor Hervey, matters might have been 
sooner mended, perhaps." 

" I don't see that at all ! " cries Emma, 
suddenly sitting upright, and putting 
down her smelling bottle. " Oh, mam- 
nia, indeed you must let me speak now, 
please. It is very easy for Rawdon to 
talk in that airy kind of way about mat- 
ters being mended sooner, and to sneer at 
Mjyor Hervey for his advice. M^or Her- 
vey has been most kind, and I value his 
opinion most highly. Msyor Hervey 
would not have excused himself from es- 
corting us on a paltry pretext, and then 
have gone to a public supper room — and 
any one, Freddy Pippin or any one from 
Chalkshire, might have been there and 
seen you — with a Creature like that ! " 

The scorn, the emphasis with which 
Emma brings out this deadliest epithet of 
her vocabulary is startling. 

** Alfred Hervey," observes Mrs. Cros- 
bie suavely, **is a man of the world, dear 
EjMna. Alfred knows the value of eti- 
quette, as Rawdon will have to learn it in 
time. My dear, dear old uncle, your god- 
papa, sir. Canon Hervey, used to say that 
good manners are the small change of 
good morals. * In our transitory state, we 



have not time, we have not wisdom,' the 
venenible man used to say, * to decide on 
the spur of the moment whether any in- 
tended action be intrinsically ri^ht. We 
can always say to ourselves. Is it usual 
for persons in a refined class of life to do 
so and so ? And we shall seldom find our- 
selves misled in the result.' " 

'* Mrs. Theobald herself is bad enough," 
cries Emma appositely. **Mrs. Theo- 
bald has only to move her head or open 
her lips for you to see what she is. But 
the other person, with the dreadful eyes, 
and covered with gewgaw trash, and the 
rouge evident ; and I heard her call you 
Rawdon! yes, though my back was 
turned, I heard her call you Rawdon ! " 

Poor Emma's voice chokes as she recalls 
this crovnaing enormity of Rawdon 's com- 
panion. She lifts her handkerchief once 
more to her eyes ; and Mrs. Crosbie steals 
discreetly from the room . And now comes 
the tug of war for young Rawdon. 

" The * other person,' Emma, of whom 
you speak so strongly, is Mrs. Theobald's 
sister, a poor little very hard-working 
actress. The world of a girl like this is 
not your world " 

" You may very well say that, I think ! " 

"Her ideas of conventional propriety 
are not yours ; perhaps it would be cor- 
recter to say that she has no ideas of con- 
ventional propriety at all. I was intro- 
duced to Miss Arundel at rehearsal for the 
first time yesterday, and I think two min- 
utes afler my introduction to her she call- 
ed me by my Christian name." 

'* And what business had you to be in- 
troduced to any Miss Arundels, pray? 
And how, as your engagements would not 
.let you come here till six, had you time 
to go to all these horrid rehearsals and 
things?" 

Rawdon hesitates. He has determined 
to set himself straight with his betrothed, 
so far as this setting straight may be ac- 
complished by absolute truth-telling. But 
absolute truth-telling is no such easy task, 
he finds, now that it has to be put into 
practice ! 

•* One can never exactly say how any- 
thing happens, Emmy. I met Mrs. Theo- 
bald ; she was going to call for her sister 
at the Royal, and " 

** Spare yourself all this, Rawdon!" 
cries Emma with rising passion. " You 
used to meet Mrs. Theobald accidentally, 
perhaps, day after day, in Chalkshire. 



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You could not meet her accidentally in 
the streets of London. Of her want of 
principle and of right feeling in trying to 
entrap the attentions of an engaged man, 
I won't speak. Thank Heaven, I have 
nothing to do, even in idea, with such 
women. But you, Rawdon — ^yes, for the 
time has come when I mean to speak in 
plainest language — you must make your 
choice between her and me ! " 

" Emma " 

" If I were your wife, I would bear your 
neglect in silence, and as duty bade me." 
And in saying this Emma really believes 
herself to be uttering the truth. ** But I 
am not your wife. My duty is to myself 
still ; and I repeat, you will have to make 
your choice between your present associ- 
ates and me." 

She stops, fairly out of breath, her brow 
moistened with agitation, the green rib- 
bons standing up on end, her swollen pink 
eyes fixed angrily upon her lover's fiice. 
Never, it miust be confessed, has Emma 
looked less lovely in Rawdon 's sight than 
at this moment; never has the contrast 
seemed sharper between her and Jane ! 

Jane — he thinks of her as she stood last 
night, her lip trembling, her fair face 
kindling as she made use of nearly the 
same words as Emma is using now ; the 
same words, but with what a difference of 
tone and spirit ! 

"You have to make your choice, and 
there can't be a question as to where your 
choice must lie. Do what you know to 
be right, and forget that there is such a 
person as Jane Theobald in the world." 

A desperate resolve comes upon him to 
take his betrothed at her word ; free him- 
self at all costs ; say one bitter good-by, • 
for the last time feel the clasp of Jane 
Theobald's hand, then emigrate— to Cali- 
fornia, to Tasmania, any place where love 
and engagements and tnarriages are not ! 
But just at this point Emma gives a con- 
vulsive sniff, and once more arms herself 
with the handkerchief and salts bottle ; 
and Rawdon 's better angel touches his 
heart again. 

In this engagement of his he does not 
stand, it must be remembered, in the posi- 
tion of most engaged men. Emma Mars- 
land, good, little, plain, long-suffering 
E:imia, was his sister until the last few 
mistaken weeks that she has become his 
sweetheart. Emma to Rawdon Crosbie 
really means home, father, mother, every* 



thing in the world the lad holds dear — 
save one thing. There is something mon- 
strous in the idea of any lasting quarrel 
between him and the poor child whose 
love for him has been as the love of a 
spaniel for its master from the day when 
she first ran panting afler his cricket 
balls, and stuck fish-hooks into her patient 
little stupid, fat fingers in vain attempts 
at making flies ! 

*' You take things too seriously, Emmy. 
Afler such a ridiculous affair as that 
meeting we all had last night — it was 
very ridiculous, Emma, confess it — to talk 
about my choosing between you and any 
one! On your word, now, and in cold 
blood, Emma, do you mean to tell me you 
would be glad to have your freedom 
back?" 

All this time he has been standing, cold 
and distant, a couple of yards or more 
away from her. He comes close now, 
and stoops until his lips are very near Miss 
Marsland's cheek. Her breath comes 
thick and fast ; her easily agitated heart 
begins to palpitate. Never has the affec- 
tionate little heiress loved Rawdon better 
than in this moment of acutest jealousy ! 
And still she is stubborn ; will not retro- 
grade one inch from the position which 
she feels (which M^jor Horvey has taught 
her to feel) dignity and self-respect require 
her to hold ! 

** I don't know what you mean by talk- 
ing about * my freedom.' Do you think I 
should have written all the way to Mr. 
Mason in Jamaica unless 1 had known my 
own mind? Have back my freedom in- 
deed ! And the wedding dresses bought, 
and bridesmaids settled on, and every- 
thing ; and to think of what the Pippins 
will say — actually writing such a letter 
to manmia about her — and of course they 
talk to everybody in the same way, for I 
have always thought them most ill-na- 
tured, in spite of that friendly manner. 
If you wanted me to give anybody up, if 
you said to me, ' Don't flirt with So-and- 
so,' do you think I should not feel it a 
duty and a pleasure to obey you ? " 

The illustration, considering the amount 
of attention Emma ordinarily meets with,* 
is not perhaps a forcible one. But Raw- 
don makes the most of it. 

"If engaged i»eople were to quarrel 
every time either was amused with any- 
body else, their existence would not be a 
very lively affiur. Suppose I chose to bo 



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229 



jealous of Adonis? Adonis has scarcely 
been away from your side since the day 
you came to London. You were rery 
much more engrossed by him last night 
than I was by Miss Arundel. Gome, 
Emma, confess that you were." 

^'It is not a question at all of Miss 
Arundel, except that I am sorry for your 
taste in being seen with such a Creature,'' 
cries Emma, keeping Kawdon well to the 
point, however discursive she may be her- 
self. '* It is a question of Mrs. Theobald. 
Do you mean to give Mrs. Theobald up, 
Bawdon, or do you not ? " 

*' Give up a lady who has a husband, 
home, child, already, and who cares about 
as much for me as I do for Mrs. Pippin ! 
What do you mean, Emma? Reflect a 
litUe on what you are saying.*' 

** I have reflected, and I think you must 
know pretty well what I mean. Will you 
give up calling at the Theobalds' house 
when you are in Chalkshire ? If you meet 
ber at any time and [ am with yon, will 
you pass by without recognizing her? 
That is what I want to know." 

" Emma," answers Rawdon, but he 
draws away from her, he takes his former 
frigid attitude as bespeaks, '* do you think 
you are acting generously, acting as one 
woman should toward another, in making 
that request? I— I" — oh, how horribly 
hard it is for him to say this ! — *' know that 
my acquaintance, such as it is, with the 
Theobalds cannot continue on its present 
footing. You have decided, all of you, 
God knows why ! that Mrs. Theobald shall 
not be visited; and if you wish it, I shall 
have no choice but to leave off calling at 
their house." 

*' If I wish it ! As though there could 
be ajdoubt on the subject ! " 

'^ It matters little whether there is or 
not, Emma," cries Rawdon, waxing hot. 
" After what occurred last night there 
would be precious little chance of my 
being admitted at Theobalds if I did 
call. ^Irs. Theobald has told me that 
much." 

"Has she indeed? Excessive imperti- 
nence I consider it, on her part, toward 
the whole family then," says Emma, col- 
oring scarlet. 

. " You think so, after the treatment she 
has received from the whole family during 
the past three weeks? However, this is 
beside the question. As far as I am con- 
cerned, I can promise with the most per- 
15 



feet safety never to bring Mrs. Theobald 
and you into any sort or kind of collision 
again." 

*' And you will never call at their house, 
and if you meet her when you are with 
me you will not bow ? " 

Rawdon turns sharply round from Misi^ 
Marsland, and in doing so confix>nt8 the 
reflection of his own flushed, horribly per- 
plexed face in a mirror between the win- 
dows. Was ever man, he asks himself, in 
so humiliating a strait as this? What is 
a man to do, what do men do when fem- 
inine jealousy presses them thus hard? 

His knowledge of life is sufficiently 
wide to teU him that if all wives and sweet- 
hearts exact such reasonless promises as 
Emma seeks to exact now, a considerable 
number of men must be under the neces- 
sity of perjuring themselves. Is peijury 
in matters pertaining to love and ladies 
to be counted dishonor? A deliberate 
fitlsehood to man has Rawdon Grosbie 
never uttered yet. A good many little 
white lies his mother and Emma have of 
late forced him into telling. Shall another 
one rather bigger, rather less white per- 
haps than its predecessors, be added to the 
number ? 

" You seem to require a long time to 
consider a most simple matter," says 
Emma, not perhaps in her sweetest tone. 
"Is *yes' such a very difficult word to 
speak?" 

" To such a question as you have asked 
me, I think it is a very difficult word to 
speak." 

" Then you stand quite alone in your 
opinion. Mrs. Hervey, and Alfred Her- 
vey, and everybody consider that I am 
perfectly justified under the circumstances 
in requiring that your acquaintance with 
the Theobalds shall come, at once and fur 
ever, to an end." 

After this Rawdon Grosbie softens no 
more. He turns, he looks, I must say 
with no lover-like expression, very straigl.t 
into Miss Marsland 's face. 

"Mrs. Hervey, Mjyor Hervey, and 
everybody ! You have been holding a de- 
lightful family conclave then upon my 
conduct, and the fitting punishment to be 
awarded me?" 

" I don't know what you mean by a 
family conclave. Mfyor Hervey saw how 
dreadfully hurt I was la.st night, and be- 
haved most kindly. He was here directly 
after breakfast to-day, and has said every- 



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230 



ALONE BY THE BAY. 



[August. 



thing that was considerate to mamma and 
me." 

'* And he advised you what tenns you 
<}hould dictate to me, Emma? Let us 
have the truth out." 

"Miyor Hervey has been excessively 
kind and considerate," says Emma rather 
doggedly, j ** Whatever opinions he gave 
about you were given with the utmost del- 
icacy and forbearance." 

'^ And he considers you justified in ask- 
ing me to break off my acquaintance at 
once and for ever with the Theobalds? " 

** Most decidedly he does." 

"Very well, Emma! As you have 
thought fit to consult Major Hervey on a 
matter that concerns you and me alone, 
M^or Hervey has, I have no doubt, pre- 
pared you for the probable result. I will 
not, under any pressure whatsoever, break 
off my acquaintance with the Theobalds, 
either in Chalkshire or elsewhere. Wher- 
ever and whenever I meet Mrs. Theobald, 
I shall hold myself only too much honored 
if she will condescend to notice me." 

"This, this is quite sufficient!" cries 
Emma, starting to her feet. " From this 



moment forth everything is at an end be- 
tween us." 

" That is as you like. If you choose to 
give me up because I refuse to offer a gra- 
tuitous insult to a perfectly innocent wo- 
man " 

" Innocent I " 

' * Yes, innocent ! By heavens," he cries, 
getting hotter and hotter, " and not only 
innocent, but honester, truer, better in 
every vwiy, than half the people you court 
as associates. If you feel yourself justified 
in doing this, do it. You will at least 
have the good opinion, the delicate sense 
of honor, the worldly knowledge of Miyor 
Hervey to support you ! " 

An hysterical sob, a whole crescendo 
passage of hysterical sobs from Mi^ 
Marsland concludes the scene. Enters Mrs. 
Grosbie with a conciliatory, well-timed 
speech. Enters Maria Hervey with a vi- 
naigrette. Adonis, slowly moving, and 
suppressing a yawn, appears on the stair- 
case ; and Rawdon, uncertain whether he 
is the most miserable or the happiest man 
alive, rushes wit houtspeaking pa«<t them 
all, and fh>m the house. 



ALONE BY THE BAY. 



HE Ls gone, my heart, he is gone ; 
And the sea remains, and the sky ; 
And the skifi^ flit in and out. 
And the white-winged yachts go by. v 

And the waves run purple and green. 

And the sunshine glints aaid glows. 
And fireshly across the Bay 

The breath of the morning blows. 

I liked it better last night. 

When the dark shut down on the main, 
And the phantom fleet lay still. 

And I heard the waves complain. 

For the sadness that dwells in my heart, 

And the rune of their endless woe. 
Their longing, and void, and despair, 

Kept time in their ebb and flow. 

Louise Chandler ^Ioulton. 



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AN EVENING WITH SWINBURNE. 



IT was the middle of September, and we 
had taken shelter in the safe and 
solid precincts of London from the dan- 
gerous excitements of Paris. The Repub- 
lic was dawning as we left that paradise 
of Americans, and all good citizens of the 
United States had hurried, like ourselyes, 
to the surer protection of monarchical in- 
stitutions. Ererybody seemed to have 
fled to London as the only ark capable of 
riding the stormy waters of the times ; the 
sonny side of Regent street resounded with 
rapid French ; and bewildered foreigners, 
lost in the intricacies of Cockney pronun- 
ciation, were continually appealing to one 
for aid. Nothing was talked of but the 
war, and Sedan and Gra?elotte were the 
&Torite topics. That very morning we 
had been to hear an eloquent discourse on 
" Warj as I saw it at Gravelotte " — from 
the Prussian standpoint of course ; CTCiy- 
body was Prussian there. Mr. Conway's 
brilliant lecture was hardly needed to 
rouse all the Teutonic sympathies latent 
in our boBoms— perhaps, after all, I should 
say in oar imaginations. We had seen 
King William and the Crown Prince in 
the course of our wanderings ; the King 
tall, erect, composed, every mch the sol- 
dier and the gentleman, nothing but his 
grizzled moustache to accuse him of age ; 
the Crown Prince large, heavy^ tawny- 
haired, with the light blue eyes that can 
be cruel at times, and something of coarse- 
ness and brutality beneath his lazy smile ; 
the King bebred by his servants, the 
Crown Prince feared and disliked. Such 
was the picture we got at Ems and Babels- 
beiT5. 

We were well prepared, therefore, to 
partake of a Sunday evening tea at the 
house of a fiimous German patriot and 
sdiolar, at least as fieu* as sympathy with 
his fatherland went, all minor considera- 
tions baring been swallowed up in the 
scheme of a United Germany. The days 
had gone by when German ladies wrote 
, at the foot of their invitations " 0. P." 
(Ohne Preussen) ; we were trying to for- 
get them as &st as we could, and to make 
believe that Prussian and German were 
^ynonymooa and exchangeable terms. 



Over the fragrant cups of tea all individ- 
ual preferences and party feelings were 
merged into the general pride and hope 
in the success of the fatherland, and the 
talk rippled on most amiably. It would 
be of no use to try to recaU it, because 
opinions of future events are so hopeless- 
ly futile afler the events have happened, 
and the wisest men of yesterday become 
babies in comparison with the children of 
to-day. 

Ailer a while we fell to discussing the 
Ammergau miracle-play, from which 
shrine we pilgrims had just returned. 
If we knew its present, mine host was 
thoroughly acquainted with its pa.st, and 
poured forth from his large stores of know- 
ledge many interesting details concerning 
the earliest history and origin of these re-' 
markable plays. It was a mistake, he 
said, to trace them back in the first place 
to either Scriptural story or Greek trar 
gedy, as so many had done. The open- 
air theatre, the broad stage, the explain- 
ing, commenting chorus, with their sweep- 
ing antique draperies^these and other 
points that the plays possessed in common 
with the Greek drama were but superfi- 
cial resemblances, and their real origin 
was something far more recondite. Here 
a va^e shudder swept over his atten- 
tive listeners, who dimly foresaw ready to 
spring fbrth upon their oft-shocked senses 
another myth of the Sun and the Dawn. 
For since we first arrived in London and 
sat at the feet of the philosophers of the 
Royal Institution, every cherished fable 
of our childhood, the few remnants of a vast 
faith in the impossible, had been turning 
into myths of the Sun and the Dawn. 
Not a shred was left to us, from Mother 
Goose down to Lafontaine; and as for 
the Greek mythology, it was a continual 
iteration of the same old story. Eren Rus- 
sian fairy stories and German Mdrchen 
turned out to be our old friends in slight 
disguise. It was a regular case of Mons. 
ToDson, and we looked apprehensively to 
have the Ammergau play dissolve into 
an ethereal c(Hnbination of sun and dawn. 
But it was not quite so bad as that. 
' " These plays are not Grecian in their 



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232 



AN EVENING WITH SWINBURNE. 



[August, 



origin," said our learned host. " They 
are founded upon old heathen supersti- 
tioas, pagan rites commemoratiTe of the 
death of Winter and the return of Spring. ' ' 

We breathed again. The sun was in 
it, to be sure, but nothing was said about 
the dawn. 

'* Just as all the Christian feast days 
are continuations of pagan ceremonies, 
just as the early builders of churches 
erected them, if possible, upon some site 
already hallowed to the heathen mind, 
so were these histories of Christ^s death 
and resurrection built by the earliest 
Christian teachers of Germany upon the 
pagan rejoicings at the resurrection of the 
Earth from the death of Winter. The cross 
itself is not a Christian symbol, but is 
found among all nations. With the 
Egyptians it was connected with the year- 
ly fertilizing of the country by the oTer- 
flowing of the Nile. Even so lately as 
my own boyhood," continued our host, 
" I remember taking part in a Tillage fes- 
tiyal descended from these early heathen 
lites. We buried a straw figure repre- 
senting Winter, and then carried fir-trees 
about from house to house, singing as 
we went a rude old chorus. The trees 
were hung all over with blown eggs, typi- 
fying the fertility of the earth ; and the 
fresh green of the young leaves was a 
promise of the returning verdure of the 
fields. The first miracle-plays were a 
mere substitution of the resurrection of 
Christ for the resurrrection of Nature. 
The earliest on record is of the twelfth 
century, but nothing is left of it but the 
stage directions. The plays were origi- 
nally in Latin, but the comic part, intro- 
duced to catch the ear of the populace, 
was written in its mother tongue. Grad- 
ually, as the people grew more important, 
the plays grew more German and less 
Latin, till in the fifteenth century we get 
the first play wholly written in German 
These plays were often made the vehicle 
of the severest satires upon unpopular 
princes and kings." 

All this and much more, that memory 
fails to retain, did we listen to, interrupt- 
ed at last by the incoming of other guests, 
scholars and artists, and beautiful women, 
who were also artists themselves, and of no 
small skill. We had music, the *' Wacht 
am Rhein " and other patriotic songs. 

Then a gentle flutter among the ladies, 
and a little, slight, boyish figure entered. 



his immense forehead towering above a 
&ce of unhealthy pallor, and dwarfing the 
other features (well proportioned in them- 
selves) into comparative insignificance. 
The large head was made still larger by 
the great waves of hair of a deadened 
tawny hue that swept back from the brow, 
and the face still paler in contrast with 
the slight reddish beard and moustache 
that tried in vain to hide the fatal weak- 
ness of the mouth. Eyes of a clear yel- 
lowish gray looked out upon the world 
with cold and restless glances, and the 
hands and arms were in constant nervous 
motion. A murmur among the guests 
carried the name of ** Swinburne I " round 
the room. 

This then was the terrible lion of whose 
wonderful eccentricities we had heard 
such strange tales ; whom even his radical 
and unconventional friends were shy of 
inviting to their houses; about whom 
Browning, most charitable of men, spoke 
in terms of pitying compassion ; of whom 
less Christian brethren told dreadful tales ; 
who had made the hair of Europe and 
America to stand on end by his wild ex- 
cesses in words, and horrified London so- 
ciety out of its conventional wits ; who had 
written some of the best poetry of the age 
(as well as some of the worst), and who 
would at least leave the world a precioa<^ 
legacy in "Atalanta" — ** Atalanta, the 
pure among women, whose name is as 
blessing to speak"; that poet, finally, 
who, whatever may be his failings, has 
shown always the keenest and quickest 
appreciation of the work of other men, 
and has exhausted his richest store of ad- 
jectives in generous and enthusiastic 
praises of his rivals. No ! of course there 
should be no such thing as rivalry in art, 
and every artist in words, or color, or 
form should be the first to recognize his 
brother's merit and trumpet forth hi 
praises to the world ; but do they? How 
many of your literary and artistic friends 
do you know who spend half their time in 
publicly as well as privately celebrating 
each other? And can you count on your 
fingers the names of those who criticise 
and condemn their brother's work ? 

Presently, according to the hospitable 
and ever-refreshing German fashion, cake 
and wine appeared, and people got into 
little knots and grew communicative and 
chatty. The rampant lion of whom we 
had heard so much was, if anything, 



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1871.] 



AN EVENING WITH SWINBURNE. 



233 



rather more quiet and gentlemanly and 
soft-spoken (eTen after the wine) than 
any one there. We chatted about Koa- 
setti^ and about Swinburne's late article 
in the " Fortnightly," in which his gener- 
ous admiration of the great artist-poet 
had fairly run riot. He again extolled 
him to the skies, but with the most quiet 
and measured tone and manner. We ven- 
tured to mention '* Atalanta," and how 
much it had been admired at home. " Yes, 
I like ' Atalanta,' " said its author, in his 
calm, modest way, without a particle of 
a&ctation, a^nd quite as if he had had no 
more to do with it than any casual reader. 
Then he gradually diverged into a talk 
about criticinns and reviews generally, 
and of one of the modem poets who is ter- 
ribly affected by revievrs^ood or bad. 

*'*' But how anybody can be affected by 
a review-^seriousiy, I mean," continued 
Swinburne, '* I cannot understand. Of 
course praise of one's works is always very 
encouraging, but indiscriminate praise is 
worse than nothing. One always knows 
the real merits of one's works, and no 
praise of the poor things in them can pos- 
siUy please. There is * Ghasfcelard,' for 
instance. There is one character in that 
poem over which 1 worked very hard and 
hoped to succeed in it, but it is an utter 
and complete &ilure. That is the char- 
acter of Klaiy Beatoun ; and when an en- 
thusiastic review of the book appeared, it 
was entirely spoiled for me by the author's 
undiscriminating admiration of that char- 
acter, in which I knew I had hopelessly 
failed." 

We evaded the dangerous sul^ect of 
Mary Beatoun \fj a judicious reference to 
the brilliant advantages of Mary Stuart as 
a charapcter for tragedy. 

** Y€S,"said Svrinbume, " * Chastelard ' 
is only one of a trilogy that 1 am writing 
apon Mary Stuart. The next is to be 
called 'Bothwell,' and the last one 
* Fotheringay.' " 

Unfortunately one cannot remember 
everything that is said in an evening, even 
by a great poet; and not having either 
the note-book or the imagination of an 
*' interviewer," but scanty fi-agments of 
the talk remain in my memory. Some 
association turned the conversation to 
Walt Whitman, a poet greatly admired 
by all but his own countrymen, and with 
a reputation abroad that would astonish 
Longfellow and make Lowell's hair stand 
on end. 



" I read Walt Whitman a great deal," 
said Swinburne ; ** I have every edition of 
his books that has been published. He 
is one of the great geniuses of our time. 
That Victor Hugo is the greatest living 
poet there can be no manner of doubt, and 
I am almost inclined to think that Walt 
Whitman holds the second place." Very 
much the same thing he had asserted in 
the '^ Fortnightly " article upon Rossetti 
(May, 1870), only there it was not said, 
but broadly hinted, that to Rossetti be- 
longed the disputed second place. We 
could not help having a sly suspicion that 
this post of the viceroy of poetry vras a 
very unsettled appointment in our young 
poet's mind, and conferred in a generous 
haste upon the favorite of the moment. 
But as to his enthusiastic admiration of 
Walt Whitman there could be no doubt, 
although that admiration was by no means 
wholesale. 

*' The most beautiful poems in all his 
books," said Swinburne, " are the * Word 
out of the Sea,' and the poem on the 
funeral of Lincoln. I confetss I cannot see 
the poetry in his long catalogues of names 
and things." 

'* But his defenders say that these long 
catalogues are absolute beauties and not 
feults, are evidences of his affluence, pro- 
fusion, teeming richness ; that they show 
the variety and multitudinousness of his 
knowledge, the scope of his vision and 
sympathy, and enhance and enforce his 
doctrine. Also they assert that these are 
fortified by the precedents in other great 
poets — Homer with his catalogue of ships, 
Juvenal with his catalogue of the gods, 
Ezekiel with his catalogue of measure- 
ments, Virgil with his catalogue of the 
warriors, etc." 

** Yes, but are these any more poetry 
because they are found in Homer, Virgil, 
and the rest? I confess I cannot see it," 
said Swinburne; **to me, beauty is an 
essential and indispensable element of 
poetry." 

"But one of these defenders, whom we 
both have the pleasure of knowing, would 
say that the beautiful things were the 
least things in Walt Whitman, only the 
confectionery, and so on." 

" I don't like the catalogues, neverthe- 
less," persisted Swinburne ; ** and as for 
the catalogue of ships in Homer, who 
ever reads it? It is always skipped, and 
BO are all the others. Still I admire and 
love Walt Whitman, and have dedicated 

uigiiizea oy %_j\_/vJvIv^ 



234 



THEN AND NOW. 



[August. 



my new book to him. I am going to copy 
the ode and send it out, for I want him to 
hare it before the book appears." 

About this time one of the ladies of the 
honse approached, and begged the poet to 
fulfil his promise of reading something 
from his new book, or rather from the 
proof-sheets, which, in a most promising 
state of crumple and confusion and new- 
ness, were produced from some hiding- 
place for the purpose. 

He took his seat accordingly at a little 
table in the middle of the room, and be- 
gan to read, or rather to chant, in a sin- 
gular, high-pitched, unmodulated toioe, 
with a curious fall at the end of each line, 
that gaye it the effect of in toning. His read- 
ing was as bad as that of an intelligent 
man could be, and yet the splendid beau- 
ty of the ** Ode to Walt Whitman," with 
which he began, triumphed oxer the ner- 
Tous manner and the wailing voice, and 
drew loud plaudits even from his adverse 
eritics, of whom there were several present. 
Then he read " Litany of the Nations," 
addressed to Hertha, the mother Earth, a 
poem which seemed to some of us the fin- 
est he had ever written. At the request 
of one of the ladies he followed it up with 
Hertha 's answer to her children, ** most 
musical, most melancholy," but too mys- 
tical withal to be thoroughly compre- 
hended by one who was growing rapidly 
distracted by the effect of voice and man- 
ner. It was rather a relief as the poem 
ended to hear that our hour had come 
and we must go. 

We carried away with us a memory of 
a very pleasant evening, however, and a 
recollection of one of the candidates for 



that disputed ''second place" that has 
served to balance many an idle slander. 
That his physique is accountable fot 
many of his sins no one can help perceiv- 
ing ; and we were most agreeably disap- 
pointed in the poet^s unexpected gentle- 
ness and quiet bearing, his entire freedom 
from self-consciousness or self-assertion, 
bis modest manner in speaking of himself 
or others, and his hearty and generoud 
admiration of his fellows. That this ad- 
miration is often extravagant and undis- 
criminating detracts nothing from its 
generosity, and we would that more of 
our poets erred in the same way. Al- 
together, we came away convinced anew 
of the great truth hidden in the homely 
old proverb that " not even the devil is as 
black as he is pamted." Philip drunk 
shall appeal to Philip sober, and we will 
forget the author of ** Laus Veneris," to 
remember the poet who sang of Atalanta, 
and who wrote the superb lines begin- 
ning: 

Unto each man his handiwork ; unto each his 
crown. 
The Just fiite gives; 
Whoso takes the world's liHe on him, and liis own 
lays down, 
He, dying io, lives. 

Whoso liears the whole heaviness of the wronged 
world's weiglit, ♦ 

And puts it by, 
It is wen with tiim suffering, thongh be fiice 
man's flite ; 
How sliould he die? 

Seeing death has no part hi him any more, no 
power 
Upon his head ; 
He has bought his eternity with a little hour. 
And is not dead. 

Lucy FouNTAiir. 



THEN AND NOW 



A STRETCH of primrose sky, 
The robins madly singing, 
While fer away or nigh 
The maples softly sigh, 
With scarlet blossoms swinging. 

Two lovers at the gate ; 

They linger, linger, linger 
He binds the ring of fate— 
The ring of love and fate — 

With a kiss upon herfins^. 



.<9ky, too sad for tears ! 

naked trees above us ! 
See how the cruel years 
Turn all our hopes to fears, 

Bob us of all who love us* 

fitful wind that grieves ! 

empty gate, wide swinging ! 
O dead bird 'neath the leaves ! 
These are life's han'est sheaves, 

The end of all our singing. 

Sade M. TowjfB. 



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THE GOLDEN ARROW. 



THIS 18 the story of a dissolute saUor 
who was ruined by a woman no bet- 
ter than himself. If it seems sensational as 
well as vulgar — for I understand that any 
story dealing with low people is necessa- 
rily Tulgar — I can only say that it is 
strictly true. To-day there are scores of 
seamen to be met on South street or in the 
. neighborhood of Long Wharf who have 
seen '* Bloody Dick/' and know the story 
of the mutiny on board the Golden Ar- 
row. I have exaggerated nothing, bu t, on 
the contrary, have avoided dwelling at 
greater length than was absolutely neces- 
sary upon the horrors which led to the 
mutiny. Let the reader remember that 
the sea and the land are two distinct 
worlds, and that the landsman knows less 
of the daily life of him who toils and suf- 
fers (m the sea than the average American 
knows of the life that is led by the Kal- 
muck Tartar or the wandering Arab. 

In the days when America possessed a 
mercantile marine, the American clipper- 
ships vrere among the just objects of na- 
tional pride. No patriotic American 
woaM willingly admit that our English 
oDusinB could build a ship capable of out- 
sailing such splendid vessels as the Sov- 
ereign of the Seas, the Contest, or the 
Comot. We agreed to ignore the exist- 
ence of the Aberdeen clippers and the 
Clyde-built ships, and firmly believed that, 
in comparison with our McKays and 
Webbs, the British shipbuilders were but 
little in advance of the Dutchmen who, 
until a few years since, still clung fondly 
to the quaint model of the old Dutch gal- 
liot. And indeed we had good reason to 
be proud of the beauty and speed of our 
own clippers. It is true that occasionally, 
as in the race between the British Chal- 
lenger and the American 'Challenge, the 
British ship proved faster than her ri- 
val ; still, we could point to the fitmous 
log of the Sovereign of the Sees and chal- 
loige the world to produce its parallel. 
Such a magnificent fleet as our California 
and China trade could boast had never 
before been seen, and has never yet been 
surpassed. Where is it now ? What has 
became of the TyphoonSj the Tornadoes, 



the Whirlwinds, and the White Squalls 
the Wings of the Morning, the Winged 
Racer, and the Neptune's Car? Were 
they wrecked on coral reefe, or-nstill sad- 
der fate— <lo they float alien flags and coin 
fireight for foreign co£fers? 

The average public, proud as it was of 
the American clipper-ships, little knew 
how cordially they were hated by the men 
who manned them — the ** common sail- 
ors," as respectable landsmen usually call 
them. On board these ships everything 
was sacrificed to the one object of making 
a rapid passage. They were commanded 
by the boldest and most reckless men in 
the service. Sail was carried until the 
latest possible moment, and, as the safety 
of the ship oflen hung on the rapidity with 
which the captain's orders were executed, 
instant and intelligent obedience firom the 
men was a necessity. In many, if not in 
most cases, this sharp severity of discipline 
degenerated into reckless brutality. The 
slightest hesitancy on the part of a sailor, 
whether it arose from ignorance or reluc- 
tance, was met by a blow from the fist or 
a belaying pin. No slaves were ever 
driven with the cruel brutality which vras 
the ordinary lot of the crew of a California 
clipper. The splendid ship, whose grace- 
ful lines made her a vision of poetic beau- 
ty, was oflen a floating hell to the miser- 
able men whose prison-house she was. 
The brutalities which had given a sombre 
reputation to certain lines of Liverpool 
packets were completely eclipsed by the 
ingenious cruelties common on board the 
clippe^ships. They were hated and 
shunned by seamen, and their crews were 
usually made up in great part by kidnap- 
ping drunken sailors and '* shanghaing ** 
unsuspecting landsmen. 

I had been for two years in the Liver- 
pool trade when I decided to ship for Sbn 
Francisco on board the clipper-ship Gold- 
en Arrow, Captain James Smith. To 
my inquiries as to the captain I received a 
variety of information. 1 was told by one 
that old Jimmy Smith had been for years 
one of the easiest and best men in the 
£ast India trade; by another, that he 
was one of the hardest of the Black Ball 



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236 



THE GOLDEN ARROW. 



[August, 



eaptains; by a third, that he had been 
master of a Nantucket whaler, and was a 
ikirt of father to his crew. The truth 
jwemed to be that no one really knew any- 
thing about him, so I accepted the assur- 
aace of the shipping-master that he was 
precisely the man to make a ship comfort- 
able, and signed the articles without hesi- 
tation. 

The ship was lying in the East Riyer 
waiting for a crew when I joined her, and 
I was detained at the ladder by«the delay 
incident to slinging and hoisting on board 
a young sailor who was literally ' dead 
drank. I reached the deck while one of 
the officers was searching the man's bag 
fjr concealed liquor, and had time to no- 
tice how superb was the figure and hand- 
some the face of the young fellow who lay 
helpless and unconscious on the deck. 
The search ended, he was dragged forward 
by a couple of riggers who were still em- 
ployed on the vessel, and deliberately 
thrown down the forecastle hatch, his oan- 
vaA bag being thrown afler him ; when in 
a few moments afterward I went below, I 
found him still lying at the foot of the lad- 
der, with his head severely cut against a 
link of the chain cable. 

I dragged him out of the vray, and pat- 
ting his -bag under his head looked around 
me. In that dark, unventilated den there 
were a dozen men in various stages of 
drunkenness. Some were sleeping sound- 
ly ; one was talking rapidly and unintel- 
ligibly to himself, in the madness of de- 
lirium tremens ; and two were clinched in 
a futile effort to fight, although they were 
flu* too drunk to stand. The latter as they 
Tolled about the deck finally fell over the 
young sailor, and, afler a few aimless 
blows, went sound asleep npon their acci- 
dental pillow. Accustomed as I was to 
sights hardly less brutal, this scene' was 
intolerably repulsive to me, and I hastily 
nought the fresh air and the open deck. 
Before sunset we dropped down to the 
Quarantine ground and anchored for the 
night. 1 lay in the lee of the caboose till 
morning, and slept fitfully, while yells, 
oaths, and songs resounded from the pan- 
demonium below. 

Early the next morning, while I was 
drawing a bucket of water for the pur- 
poses of a primitive morning toilet, the 
young sailor made his appearance, and 
lounging near me said : " Afler you, 
mate." He was quite sober, and but £<>£ 



the blood that matted his hair showed lit- 
tle trace of his late besotted condition. 
Afler he had plunged his head into the 
bucket and dried his face on his sleeve, he 
turned to me and asked, '* What ship's 
this?" 

"The Golden Arrow," I replied, 
" bound for Frisco." 

** For Frisco," he repeated. " I thought 
80 from the look of her. What's the old 
man's name?" 

*' James Smith," I answered. 

*'I don't know him," he returned. 
Then, as if struck with a new idea, he 
asked, " What day is it? " 

I told him it was Wednesday, Decem- 
ber 10. 

" Well," he replied, " that's rough wi 
me. I only got in from Havre yesterday, 

in the old ship Rhine^and here some 

has shanghaied me. I don't care though. 
Do you know who stove my head in? " 

"Thankee, shipmate," said he, when I 
bad explained the cause of his accident. 
*' If you want anything of me on this voy- 
age, just pass the word far Bill and he'll 
be there every time," 

He left me to beg a drink from the 
mate— a fevor which no intelligent officer 
refuses to a sailor who has just come out 
of a drunken debauch. He returned, 
however, disappointed, and cursing the 
mate heartily. We stood leaning over the 
rail when a small boat from the shore ap- 
proached the ship. As she came along- 
side. Bill remarked upon the hard, cruel 
face of the slight-built, thin-lipped man 
who was her solitary passenger. " I hope 
that ain't Cap'n James Smith," said he. 
** If it is, we're goin' to have a lively 
time." 

" That ain't no James Smith," chimed 
in an old sailor who had approached us, 
" but I can just tell you who it is. That 
there is ' Bloody Dick,' and if he's goin* 
to take this ship out you'll know what 
hell is before you're off soundings." 

" Bloody Dick " was the nickname of a 
eaptain so notorious as the hardest master 
afloat that no ship advertised in his name 
could obtain a crew. The mention of his 
name created an immediate stir among the 
men who were now on deck, and they* 
crowded to the side to look at the hated 
tyrant. 

** — him," said the old sailer who 

had already spoken, ** I know his ngly 
mug. He stove my ribs in on bottd the 



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THE GOLDEN ARROW. 



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eld Vicksbarg, and give me this here 
list to port that spiles me for heavy work, 
f oat 8 his old game— putting op his ship 
m another man's name, and oomin* aboard 
at Quarantine. Serves me right fyr ship- 
ping aboard a clipper. — — Gap'n 
James Smith!" 

The salject of so maoh notice had al- 
ready reached the quarter-deck, and, from 
t je obseqabos manner in which he was 
SAlated by the mates, was evidently the 
man who was to command the ship. The 
bjat which conveyed him turned back to 
the shore. The great wheels of the 
steamriug that was made &st to our side 
began to revolve, and we entered upbn 
oar three months' voyage at the absolute 
merqr of the worst tyrant that the sea, 
which breeds its petty Neros and Oalignlas 
by the score, had ever known. 

While passing down the bay, the men 
were mustered for division into watches. 
Among them was the man with the de- 
lirom tremens, who vras outwardly quiet 
floongfa, but whose eye was wild and wan- . 
dering. No sooner had he caught sight 
of the captain, who vras standing in the 
waist of the ship, than he uttered a wild 
scream. '* Bloody Dick is after me," he 
cried, with a terror that vras frightful to 
witness; and springing on the rail, he 
threw ap his hands and plunged over- 
board. Not the slightest attempt vras 
made to rescue him, but I fancied that 1 
^wa grim smile on the captain's thin 
lips as he witnessed this tribute to his-ter^ 
hble reputation. 

With the story of the first few weeks of 
the vqyage I need not trouble you. It 
was a daily succeasion of vranton brutali- 
ties. The mates, either from inclination 
or policy, imitated the cruelties of the 
master, and were apt schokre in his in- 
fiunous school. Every day some bn&rtu* 
nate sailor was knocked down or beaten. 
*' Bloody Dick " had made a study of the 
science of torture, and often put in prao* 
tice erueltaesthat in their devilish ingenu- 
ity made the Old World inqnisiton seem 
bat doUards at their trade. Graver crimes 
than the infliction of bodily torture were 
moreover frequent. Off Hattoas, while I 
and Ifane others were furMag the main- 
topgallant sail^it blowing heavily at the 
time— the second mate, enraged at the de- 
lay eaosed by the stiflhess of the fit)aen 
flail, came aloft to hasten our movements, 
aolstanding in tho slings of the yard de- 



liberately kicked the sailor nearest him 
until he lost his balance and fell over- 
board. *' That's the second man gone," 
said '* Turpeatine Jack," the man whose 
ribs had been broken on a former voyage. 
" He'll have lots of company before we 
reach the Horn." A week afterward an- 
other man was so severely beaten <m the 
head with a hand^ike that he died raving 
mad. About the same time ^the cap- 
tain became exasperated at the slowness 
of the sailor who was passing the weather 
earing while reefing the mizzen-topsaii, 
and, going into the cabin, returned with a 
pistol and shot the man, who fell over- 
board dying or dead. The shot was really 
an excellent one in view of the distance 
and the uneai^ pitching of the vessel, 
and '* Bloody Dick " seemed quite proud 
of it. In one vray or another the number 
of our crew steadily diminished, and when 
we reached Cape Horn seven men had 
died, either directly or indirectly from the 
effects of their inhuman treatment. Our 
crew at the outset was fiur smaller than it 
should have been for the efficient working 
of so large a ship, and I began to fear that 
the black cook's prophecy might prove 
true when be said, ** Bloody Dick won't 
leave enough of you fellers to work her 
into port. He'll have to put me and the 
stevrardeas into his watch." 

For though we had no passengers, vre 
had a stewardess— « slight, sad^yed, 
though rather pretty woman, whose gay 
ribbons sometimes fluttered on the deck. 
^* Bloody Dick " did not except her from the 
cruel treatment which he gave to his crew, 
and the cook, who had access to the cabin, 
BYTcm that he had seen the captain more 
than once strike her in the face. 

All this time Bill and myself had been 
extremely fortunate. A few blovrs had 
fidlen to our share, but neither of na had 
much reason to complain. One day, how- 
ever, two of the men dragged Bill for- 
ward from the wheel utterly insensible, 
and vrith his hands(Hne face beaten out of 
recognition. According to the story of 
one of the two. Bill was at the lee wheel 
— ^two men being needed to steer the ship 
in heavy weather— when the stewardess 
came on deck. It had so happened that 
he had never before seen her since leaving 
port. As he caught sight of her fiice he 
uttered a ery, and letting go the wheel 
ran toieard her. The vroman in her turn 
gaye a shriek and ran below. Then the 



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THE GOLDEN AKROW. 



[August, 



captain and the second mate set upon 
him, and beat him ontil they were tired. 

Bill was on deck again the next day, 
and I took an opportunity of asking him 
the reason of his extraordinary oonduct. 
But he would give me no satisfactory ex- 
planation. He insisted that he had never 
noticed the woman, and that he lefl the 
wheel because he wanted some tobacco. 
Of course I knew that this was untrue, 
but he evidently had his reasons for refus- 
ing to be communicative, and I had grovim 
so warmly attached to him that I did not 
press him further on a subject which was 
clearly painful to him. But from this 
time he grew silent and moody. All his 
gay spirits, that had k^t heart in us even 
in the horrors of that slaughter-ship, van- 
ished. The men adopted the theory that 
his brain had been affected by his ii\juries. 
However, he never relaxed in his prompt 
performance of duty, and never again 
committed a fault which could give our ty- 
rants an excuse for maltreating him. 

One night Bill and I came on deck, when 
we heard shrieks issuing from the cabin. 
Neither of us spoke a word, but Bill's &ce 
grew set and fierce in the moonlight. In the 
morning I noticed that he had a whispered 
conference with the cook, and that after- 
wards he was more than usually silent 
and unapproachable. He had moreover a 
dangerous look in his &oe. One would 
have said that the man was meditating 
some desperate enterprise. It is doubtful 
if at this time he had formed the wild 
scheme which he afterward attempted to 
execute. He was, however, a desperate 
man, who might at any moment throw off 
the mask of quiet obedience, if the motive 
and opportunity were at hand. 

Once I fancied that I saw him talking 
with the stewardess in the shadow of the 
house amidships ; but when I approached 
him a little while afterward he was quite 
alone. He affected complete ignorance of 
the miserable woman, whose relation to 
" Bloody Dick " vras evident, and could 
not be drawn into conversation about her. 
She rarely came on deck, and Bill and I, 
who were in the same watch, scarcely ever 
caught a glimpse of her. At last, how- 
ever, an afternoon arrived when we two 
were sitting on the lee side of the quarter- 
deck mending a split sail ; we were work- 
ing rapidly and silently when ''Bloody 
Dick " appeared, foUovred with evident re- 
bictanoe by the woman. They stood near 



the oompanionway, and the captain plain- 
ly spoke to her of Bill, fer he pointed 
toward him as he was questioning her. 
We could not bear his questions nor her 
answers, but the latter threw '' Bloody 
Dick" into one of his quiet, devilish 
rages. He turned on her with a torrent 
of the foulest language spoken in soft and 
measured accents, and ordered her bek>w. 
Then he approached Bill, and kicked him 
till he grew weary of the exerdse. Nei-. 
ther of us said a word, as remonstrance 
would only have made matters wane. 
The sailor tiiat is in the power of a brutal 
captain has no possible redress at sea. No 
one dare lift a fixiger to protect him, and 
there are no p(^ice to answer his czy for 
help. 

A few nights afterward Bill came to 
me in the first watch, and drawing me 
apart from the other m^i said to me : 

" You're my friend, and I'm proud of it, 

for you've been something a sight 

bett^ than a sailor before you came to 
this. I vras a decent man too, once, but 
I was ruined by a woman. I wasn't a 
gentleman, yon understand, but my dad 
was a req[>ectable man, and my mother 
was as niee a woman as there was in Lon- 
don. I grew up at hcmie, and was in 
dad's shop selling groceries and keeping 
myself pretty straight. I didn't driiik.in 
them days, you understand, and I was a 
quiet, faard-woridng young fellow, only I 

was fool enough to. get mazried. 

I wam't twenty years old, mind you, and 
she was three years younger than me— the 
prettiest girl in the Tower Hamlets. And 

by she was innocent and good when 

I knew her, and she was fond ofnme too, 
till she got her head filled with notions of 
bemg a &ie'lady. It vras an Ii\jee mate, 
one of Chsen's fi»llovra — them chaps that 
wears uniforms and gold lace. He ruined 
her. He made her think I wam't enough 

of a swell for her, and Well! the 

end of it was she left me, and everybody 
knew she went off vnth the Ii\jee fellow. 
Give me some tobacco, will you ? I can't 
think of her without chewinji: like -— — . 
Well ! I went just mad about that woman. 
I took to drinking day and night till I see 
that my folks was as miserable abont me 
as I was about her. So I says one day, 
' Dad, I'll never disgrace you as she has 
me. I'm a-going to sea, and you'll never 
hear of me till I can tell you I've choked 
the — villain that ruined her.' So I 



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1871.] 



THE GOLDEN ARROW. 



239 



went to sea. That's three years ago, and 
I*Te been knocking round ever since." 

" Have you ever found the man? " I 
aaked. 

" Not yet," he answered ; " but^but " 
>-«nd he seemed unable to speak. 

"Bat what, BiU?" said I. "Speak 
out, old man; you know you can trust 
. me." 

" I've found Aer," heamrwered ; " she's 
aboard this ship. The girl the old man 
licks when he's tired of licking us is my 
little Nell." Here he walked suddenly 
away from me, and stood alone by the 
fore-rigging, his head bent upon his arm. 
By and by he came back to me, and went 
on with the story. ** She knows me, and 
she ain't afraid of me. I couldn't hurt 
her, you know. I've had a talk with her, 
and she hates ' Bloody Dick ' worse thwi 
we do. He won ' t beat her again, though. ' ' 

" How do you know that? " I asked. 

** Because," he replied fiercely, ** he's a 
dead man before twenty-four hours is oTer. 
I'ye got the whole thing fixed. The men are 
all in it but you. I wam't going to say 
a word to you about it, so as you'd be all 
right if we failed. But we ain't going to 
&il. To-morrow night we'll take this ship, 
or there won't be men enough lefl to sail 
her." 

. "But, BUI!" I urged, "you've lost 
your senses, man. You'll ruin the whole 
of us. If you can trust the men to fi^ow, 
which I don't believe you can, for they've 
no heart left in them, what could you do ? 
You'd be hung if you took the ship into 
port; besides, none of us can navigate 
her." 

" Bum her," he replied, " and take to 
the boats. We're on the Pacific now, and 
you can cruise all over it in a small boat. 
When we're picked up and swear the 
officers went down with the ship, who's to 
prove the contrary ? " 

"Bill," said, I, earnestly, "don't do 
tills mad thing. I won't betray you, 
though I won't join yon. Whether you 
&il or not, we shall be worse off than we 
are now." 

"And the woman," he demanded 
hoarsely — " what's to become of her? " 

I was silent, for after what he had said, 
how could I tell him that she waa not 
worth the danger and crime of m utiny and 
murder? 

" 1 love her yet," Bill continued ; " she 
was such a young bit of a thing that I 



can't help forgiving her. And she's had 
such a hell of a life since the It\jee mate 
was drowned in the Hoogly. Do you 
suppose I'm going to stand still and let 
* Bloody Dick ' hammer her whenever he 



Here we were called to shorten sail, 
and our conversation came to an end. 
Bill did not speak to me again that night, 
nor the next day. I anxiously awaited 
the approach of the following night. So 
far as " Bloody Dick" was concerned, I 
would not have lifted a finger to save him ; 
but I knew how mad and hopeless any at- 
tempt at mutiny must necessarily be. 

The next day, soon after one o'clock, 
when all hands were on deck — for on the 
Golden Arrow, whether the weather was 
hit or foul, all hands were kept at work 
in the afternoon — I vraa aloft reeving a new 
leech-line to the mizzen-topsail. I was 
not looking for any demonstration on the 
part of the mutineers until night&ll, and 
therefore, though I saw Bill and the rest 
of the crew gathered together on the fore- 
castle, I did not suspect that any out- 
break was at hand. Presently, however, 
the group separated, and five men, Bill 
leading them, came aft together, the 
others remaining on the forecastle. The 
five approached the quarter-deck, where 
" Bloody Dick " was pacing up and dovm, 
and the mate was leaning over the rail 
speaking to the second mate, who was in 
the mizzen-chains examining a defective 
dead-eye. Suddenly Bill threw himself, 
knife in hand, on the captain, while two of 
his companions attacked the mate, and 
the other two, armed with iron belaying- 
pins, stood at the companionway ready to 
strike down the third and fourth officers, 
should the noise bring them up from thoir 
dinner below. I ceased working, and 
watched the scene. The mate made a 
stout defence, though taken completely by 
surprise ; but he waa soon overpowered 
and beaten dovna. The second mate, 
however, sprang over the bulwarks, and 
unarmed rushed gallantly to his rescue. 
Meanwhile, Bill had planted a severe stab 
in the captain's left shoulder. " Bloody 
Dick," bully though he was, did not know 
the meaning of fear. He sprang back- 
ward from the sailor's first attack, and 
striking him a terrific blow under the chin 
he sent him heavily to the deck. Draw- 
ing a revolver, he instantly fired at him, 
and then turning to the aid of the second 



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240 



THE GOLDEN AREOW. 



[August. 



mate shot both bis aesailants. The two 
men at the companionTcay, seeing the 
fate of their comrades, turned to fly just 
as the two officers firom below rushed on 
deck. The oaptain's unerring pistol struck 
one of the fugitives down dead, and the 
other, seeing that the game was hopeieHS, 
hurled his belaying-i>in at the nearest of 
his pursuers, and leaping overboard sank 
instantly out of sight. The mutiny had 
hardly lasted five minutes and not one of the 
mutineers remained unhurt. It was plain 
that at the last moment Bill had been 
deserted by all except his five desperate 
comrades. I was not surprised at this. 
We were slaves, and slaves are usually 
cowards. Moreover, the man who en- 
gages in a mutiny Imows that even if he 
Hucoeeds he puts a rope about his neck. 
Few think it worth while to engage in a 
desperate battle in order to exchange the 
certamty of being beaten at sea for the 
probability of being hung ashore. 

As soon as the fight was over all bands 
were called aft, myself included, and 
** Bloody Dick," with his smoking revolv- 
er in his hand, demanded to know who 
were concerned in the conspiracy? So 
great was the terror which this man exer- 
cised, that the men stood silent and irreso- 
lute, lacking even the spirit to deny their 
crime. Bill, however, who was lying on 
the deck with a ball through his spine, 
answered for them. " They were all in 
it except him," he said, pointing to me ; 

** but the d d oowards went back on 

me when there was a fight on hand. He 
(still meaning myself) is the only man 
who didn't know what we meant to do, 
and that I'll swear to." 

" Bloody Dick " looked at us for a few 
moments with a smile of the bitterest con- 
tempt, and then ordered ns forward. 
"Heave those carcasses overboard," he 
continued, turning to the mates — " the 
whole of them, mind, whether they've 
croaked or noK Overboard with them." 
Spuming one of the bodies with his foot, 
be went below. 



But as the barbarous order was about 
to be executed, the stevrardess rushed wild- 
ly on dedL and threw herself on Bill's dying 
form, crying and weeping in passionate 
grief. 

Bill's arm stole slowly and weakly 
about her neck. " Don't take on so, dai^ 
ling," he said. " I did it for your sake. 
Don't mind me." 

** Oh, Bill, dear Bill," she sobbed, " 1 
have killed you, I have killed you! You 
can't forgive me now." 

" I do forgive you free and earnest," he 
answered. "You was only a child any- 
how, and perhaps I didn't treat you kind 
enough. Tell me you love me now, and 
I die aU right." 

** I do love you," she cried, ** my dear 
old Bill. They slmn't take you from me. 
Ifyou die, I'll die too." 

A sweet imile passed over Bill's fiu», 
and his hand played with her disordered 
hair. " Let me see Jim," he said &intly, 
without, however, taking his arm from the 
woman's neck. 

I bent down to him in spite of the pres- 
ence of the officers, and he whispered, 
** We've stove in the water tanks, and 
you'll have to put into port for water. 
Get Nell out of this ifyou can." 

The mates roughly dragged tfie shriek- 
ing woman away, and (Aie of them carried 
her into the cabin. I reluctantly obeyed 
the order to go forward, and from the 
forecastle I saw the living and the dead 
cast overboard. Thus ended the mutiny 
of the Goklen Arrow. 

As Bill had said, the fr^sh water tanks 
had been tampered with, and five days 
afterward we put into Valparaiso for a 
new supply. Here I with most of the 
crew deserted the ship at once, and 
" Bloody Dick " did not care to pursue 
US. Of the woman I never heard again. 
She did not show herself after the mutiny. 
Poor Bin ! I never think of him without 
wondering why it is that the gentlest and 
kindest souls are the very ones whom 
Tain and silly women deceive and ruin. 



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AT ISELLA, 



"11 TT story begins properly, I suppose, 
-ixL with my journey, and my journey 
began properly at Lucerne. It had been 
on the point of beginning a number of 
times before. About the middle of August 
I actually started. I had been putting it 
off from day to day in deference to the 
opinion of several discreet friends, who 
solemnly assured me that a man of my 
make would nerer outweather the rage of 
an Italian August. But erer since decid- 
ing to winter in Italy, instead of subsid- 
ing unimaginatively upon Paris, I had 
had a standing quarrel with Switserland. 
What was Switzerland after all ? Little 
else but brute Nature surely, of which at 
home we have enough and to q[>are. 
What wd seek in Europe is Nature refined 
and transmuted to art. In Switzerland, 
what a pale historic coloring; what a 
penury of relics and monuments ! I pined 
for a cathedral or a gallery. Instead of 
dutifully conning my Swiss Badeker, I 
had fretfully deflavored my Murray's North 
Itoly. Lucerne indeed is a charming little 
city, and I had learned to know it well. 
I had watched the tambling Renss, blue 
from the melting pinnacles which know the 
blue of heaven, come rushing and swirling 
beneath those quaintly-timbered bridges, 
vaulted with mystical paintings in the 
manner of Holbein, and through the sev- 
ered masB of the white, compact town. 
I had frequented the great, bald, half- 
handsome, half-hideous church of the 
Jesuits, and listened in the twilight 
to the seraphic choir which breathes 
through its mighty organ-tubes. I had 
taken the most reckless pleasure in 
the fact that this was Catholic Switz- 
erland. I had strolled and restroUed 
across the narrow market-place at Altorf, 
and kept my countenance in the presence 
of that ludicrous plaster-cast of the genius 
lod and his cross-bow. I had peregrinated 
further to the little hamlet of Biirglen, 
and peeped into the frescoed chapel which 
commemorates the hero's natal scene. I 
had also investigated that sordid lake-side 
sanctuary, with its threshold lapped by 
the waves and its walls defiled by cock- 
ney which consecrates the spot at which 



the great mountaineer, leaping fr^m among 
his custodians in Gesler's boat, spumed 
the stout skiff with his invincible heel. 
I had contemplated from the deck of the 
steamer the images of the immortal trio, 
authors of the oath of liberation, which 
adorn the pier at Brunnen. I had so- 
journed at that compact little State of 
Gersau, sandwiched between the lake and 
^e great wall of the Righi, and securely 
niched somewhere in history as the small- 
est and most perpetual of republics. The 
traveller's impatience hereabouts is quick- 
ened by his nearness to one of the greatest 
of the Alpine highways. Here he may 
catch a balmy side-wind, stirred fr^m the 
ranks of southward-trooping pilgrims. The 
Saint Got bard route begins at Lucerne, 
where you take your place in the diligence 
and register your luggage. I used to 
fiucy that a great wave of Southern life 
rolled down this mighty channel to expire 
visibly in the blue lake, and ripple to 
its green shores. I used to imagine great 
gusts of warm wind hovering about the 
coach office at Fluelen, scented with 
oleander and myrtle. I used to buy at 
Fluelen, t? the great peril of my digestion, 
certain villanous peaches aud plums, of- 
fered by little girls at the steamboat land- 
ing, and of which it was currently whis- 
pered that they had ripened on those fur- 
ther Italian slopes. 

One fine morning I marked my luggage 
Milan! with a great imaginative flourish 
which may have had something to do with 
my subsequent difficulty in recovering it 
in the Lombard capital, banished it for a 
fortnight fr^m sight and mind, and em- 
barked on the -steamboat at Lucerne with 
the interval's equipment in a knapsack. 
It is noteworthy how readily, on leaving 
Switzerland, I made my peace with it. 
What a pleasure-giving land it is, in truth ! 
Besides the massive glory of its mountains, 
how it heaps up the measure of delight 
vfith the unbargained grace of town and 
tower, of remembered name and deed ! 
As we passed away fi^m Lucerne, my 
eyes lingered with a fresher fondness than 
before upon an admirable bit of the civic 
picturesque— a great line of mellow-stuc- 



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242 



AT ISELLA. 



[August, 



coed dwellings, with verdurous water-steps 
and grated betsements, rising squarely 
from the rushing cobalt of the Reuss. It 
was a palpable foretaste of Venice. I am 
not ashamed to say bow soon I began to 
look out for premonitions of Italy. It 
was better to begin too soon than too late ; 
80, to miss nothing, 1 began to note ** sen- 
sations '* at Altorf, the historic heart of 
Helvetia. I remember here certain formal 
burgher mansions, standing back from the 
dusty highroad beyond spacious, well- 
swept courts, into which the wayfarer 
glances through immense gated of an- 
tique wrought iron. I had a notion that 
deserted Italian palazzos took the linger- 
ing sunbeams at s(»newhat such an angle, 
with Just that coarse j^re. I wondered of 
course who lived in tiiem, and how they 
lived, and what was society in Altorf; 
longing plaintively, in the manner of 
roaming Americans, for a few stray crumbs 
from the native social board; with my 
fancy vainly beating its wings against th« 
great blank wall, behind which, in travel- 
haunted Eurc^, all gentle private inter- 
ests nestle away from intrusion. Here, 
as everywhere, I was struck with the 
mere surface-relation of liie Western tour- 
ist to the soil he tieads. He filters and 
trickles through the dense sooial body in 
every possible direction, and issues forth 
at last the same virginal water drop. 
'' Go your way,'* these antique houses 
seemed to say, fh>m their quiet courts and 
gardens; ^fthe road is yours and wel- 
come, but the land is ouk. You may 
peas and stare and wonder, but you may 
never know us." The Western tourist 
oonsolee himself, of course, by the reflec- 
tion that the gentry of Altorf and other 
ancient burghs gain more from the imagi- 
nation possibly than they might bestow 
upon it. 

I confess that so long asl remained in the 
land, as I did ibr the rest of the afternoon 
—a pure afternoon of late summer, charged 
with mellow shadows from the teemiiig 
verdure of the narrow lowland, beyond 
which to-morrow and Italy seemed merged 
in a vague bright identity — ^I felt that I 
was not fairly under way. The land ter- 
minates at Amstaeg, where I lay that 
night. Early th^next morning I attacked 
the mighty slopes. Just beyond Amstaeg, 
if I am not mistaken, a narrow granite 
bridge spans the last mountain-plunge of 
the Reuss; and just here the great white 



road begins the long toil of its ascent. 
To my sense, these mighty Alpine high- 
ways have a grand poetry of their own. I 
lack, doubtless, that stout stomach for 
pure loneliness which leads your genuine 
mountaineer to pronounce them a desecra- 
tion of the mountain stillness. As if the 
mountain stillness were not inviolable! 
Gleaming here and there against the daric 
sides of the gorges, unrolling their meas- 
ured bands further and higher, doubling 
and stretching and spanning, but always 
climbing, they break it only to the anx- 
ious eye. The Saint Gothard road is im- 
mensely long dravm, and, if the truth be 
told, somewhat monotonous. As you fol- 
low it to its uppermost reaches, the land- 
scape takes on a darker local color. Far 
below the wayside, the yellow Reuss tum- 
bles and leaps and foams over a perfect 
torture-bed of broken rock. The higher 
sLopea lie naked and raw, or coated with 
slabft of gray. The valley lifts and nar- 
rows and darkens into the scenic moun- 
tain pass of the &ncy. I was haunted as 
I walked by an old steel plate in a French 
book that I used to look at as a child, 
lying on my stomach on the parlor floor. 
Under it was vnritten *< Saint Gothaid." 
I remraibered distmctly the cold, gray 
mood whi<^ this picture used to generate ; 
the same tone of feeling is poroduced by 
ths actual scene. Coming at last to the 
Devil's Bridge, I recognised the source 
of the steel plate of my infimcy. You 
have BO impure here to linger fondly. 
You hurry away after a moment's halt, 
with an impression fierce and chaotic as 
the plaee itself. A great torrent of wind, 
sweeping from a sudden outlet and snatch- 
ing uproar and spray from the mad torrent 
of vraler leaping in liquid thunderbolts 
beneath; agiddy, deafened, deluged stare, 
with my two hands to my hat, and a rapid 
shuddering retreat— these are my chief 
impressions of the Devil's Bridge. If, on 
leaving Ainstaeg in the morning, I had 
been asked whither I was bending my 
steps, '* To Italy ! " I would have i^iswer- 
ed, with a grand absence of detail. The 
radiance of this broad &ct had quenched 
the possible side-lights of reflection. As 
I i^^roaehed the summit of the pass, it 
beaune a profoundly solemn thought that 
I mighty by pushing on with energy, lay 
my weary limbs on an Italian bed. There 
was something so ddightful in the mere 
protracted, suspended sense of approach, 



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that it seemed a pity to bring it to so 
abrupt a close. And then sappoee, meta- 
physical soal of mine, that Italy should 
not, in Tulgar parlance, altogether come 
up to time? Why not prolong awhile 
the possible bliss of ignorance— -(^ illu- 
sion ? Something short of the summit of 
the Saint Gothard pass, the great road 
of the Fnrca diTerges to the right, passes 
the Rhdne Gla(;ier, enters the Rhdne Val- 
ley, and conducts you to Briegand the 
foot oi the Simplon. Reaohii^ in due 
coarse this di^rgence of the Faroa road, 
I tarried awhile beneath the mountain 
sky, debating whether or not delay would 
add to pleasure. I opened my Badeker 
and read that within a couple of boors' 
walk from my hiUting^place ma the 
Alberto di San Gothardoy vaste et sombre 
auberge ItaUerme, To think of being at 
that distance from a yast, sombre Italian 
inn ! On the other hand, there were some 
Teiy pretty things said of the Simplon. I 
tossed up a napoleon ; the head fell apper- 
mosT. I trudged away to the right. The 
road to the Fnrca lies across one of those 
high desolate plateau which represent the 
hard prose of mountain scenery. Naked 
and stem it lay before me, rodk and grass, 
without a shrub, without a tree, without 
a grace — ^like the dry bed of some gigan- 
tic riTer of prehistoiio times. 

The stunted hamlet of Rea^, beside 
the road dwarfed by the boge scale of 
things, seemed little more than a duster 
of naked, sun-blackened bowlders. It 
contained an inn, howerer, and the inn 
contained the usual Alpine larder Of cold 
real and cheese, and, as I remember, a 
very a&ble maid-servant, who sgokt ex- 
cellent lowland French, and confessed in 
the course of an after-dinner conversation 
that the winters in Bealp were un pen 
tristes. This conversation took place as I 
sat resting outside the docnr in the* late af- 
ternoon, watching the bright, hard light 
of the scene grow gray and cold beneath a 
clear sky, and wondering to find humani- 
ty lodged in soch an exaltation of desola^ 
tion. 

The road of the Furca, as I discovered 
the next morning, is a road and little else. 
Its massive bareness, however, gives it an 
incontestable grandeur. The broad, sei^ 
pontine terrace uncoils its slanting cor- 
dons with a multiplicity of curves and 
angles and patient rea<^e8 of circumven- 
tion, which give it the air of some wanton 



revelry of engineering genius. Finally, af- 
ter a brief level of repose, it plunges down 
to the Rhdne Glacier. I had the good 
fortune to see this great spectacle on the 
finest day of the year. Its perfect beauty 
is best revealed beneath the scorching 
glare o^ an untempered sun. The sky was 
without a cloud — the air incredibly lucid. 
The glacier dropped its billowy sheet--a 
soundless tumult of whiteness, a torrent 
of rolling marble — straight from the blue 
of heaven to the glassy margin of the road. 
It seems to gather into its bosom the 
whole diffused light of the world, so that 
round about it all ol^ts lose their color. 
The rodcB and hiUs stand sullen and neu- 
tral ; the lustre of the sky is turned to 
blackness. At the little hotel near the 
glacier I waited for the coach to Brieg, 
and started thitherward in the early at 
temoon, sole occupant of the coupd. 

Let mie not, however, forget to com- 
memorate, the French priest whom we 
took in at one of the squalid villages of 
the dreary Haut-Valais, through which 
on that bright afternoon we rattled so su- 
perbly. It was a Sunday, and through- 
out this long dark chain of wa3rside ham- 
lets the peasants were straddling stolidly 
about the little central place in the hid- 
eous festal accoutrements of the rustic 
Swiss. He came fi>rth from the tavern, 
gently cleaving the staring crowd, accom- 
panied by two brother ecclesiastics. These 
were portly, elderly men ; he was young 
and pale and priestly in the last degree. 
They had a little scene of adieux at the 
coach door. They whispered gently, 
gently hiding each other's hands and 
looking lovingly into each other's eyes, 
and then the two elders saluted their 
comrade on each cheek, and, as we de- 
parted, blew after him just the least little 
sacramental kiss. It was all, dramatic- 
ally speaking, delightfully low in tone. 
Before we reached Brieg the young priest 
had gained a friend to console him for 
those he had lost. He proved to be a 
most amiable person; full of hcmiely 
frankness and appealing innocence of 
mundane things; and invested withal 
with a most pathetic air of sitting there 
as a mere passive o\^eci of transmission — 
a simple priestly particle in the great ec- 
clesiastical body, transposed by the logic 
of an inscrutable ^7Aer/ and thus! On 
learning that I was an American, he 
treated me bo implicitly as a travelled 



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man of the world, that he almost per- 
suaded me for the time I was one. He 
was on pins and needles with his sense of 
the possible hazards of trayel. He asked 
questions the most innocently saugrenues. 
He was convinced on general grounds that 
our driver was drunk, and that he would 
surely overturn us into the Rhdne. He 
seemed possessed at the same time with a 
sort of school-boy relish for the pro&ne 
humor of things. Whenever the coach 
made a lurch toward the river-bank or 
swung too broadly round a turn, he would 
gra^ my arm and whisper that our hour 
had come ; and then, before our pace was 
quite readjusted, he woul4&ll to nursing 
his elbows and snickering gently to him- 
self. It seemed altogether a larger possi- 
bility than any he had been prepared for 
that on his complaining of the cold I 
should offer him the use of my overcoat. 
Of this and of other personal belongings 
he ventured to inquire the pri^e, and in- 
deed seemed oppressed with the sudden 
expensiveness of the world. But now that 
he vras fairly launched he was moving in 
earnest. He vras to reach Brieg, if possi- 
ble, in time for the night diligence over 
the Simplon, which was to deposit him at 
the Hospice on the summit. 

By a very early hour the next morning 
I had climbed apace with the sun. Brieg 
was far below me in the valley. I had 
measured an endless number of the giant 
elbows of the road, and from the bosky 
flank of the mountain I looked down at 
nestling gulfe of greenness, cool with 
shade ; at surging billows of forest 'crested 
with the early brightness; at 8lc^>es in 
light and cli£& in shadow ; at all the heav- 
ing mountain sone which belongs to the 
verdant nearness of earth; and then 
straight across to the sacred pinnacles 
which take their tone from heaven. 

If weather could bless an enterprise, 
mine was blessed beyond worcb. It 
seemed to me that Nature had taken an in- 
terest in my little prqject and v^as deter- 
mined to do the thing handsomely. As I 
mounted higher, the light flung its das- 
zling presence on all things. The air 
stood still to take it ; the green glittered 
within the green, the blue burned beyond 
it ; the dew on the forests gathered to dry 
into massive crystals, and beyond the bril- 
liant void of space the clear snow-fields 
stood out like planes (^marble inserted in 
a field of lapi^-lazuli. The Swiss side of 



the Simplon hw the beauty of a boundless 
luxury of green ; the view remains gentle 
even in its immensity. The ascent is 
gradual and slow, and only when you 
reach the summit do you get a sense of 
proper mountain grimness. On this fii- 
voring day of mine the snovry horrors of 
the opposite Aletsch Glacier seemed fiiir- 
ly to twinkle with serenity. It seemed to 
me when I reached liie Hospice that I had 
been winding fi^r hours along the inner 
hollow of some mighty cup of verdure to- 
ward a rim of chiselled silver crowned 
with t(^)ai. At the Hospice I made bold 
to ask leave to rest. It stands on the bare 
topmost plateaa of the pass, bare itself as 
the spot it consecrates, and stem as the 
courage of the pious brothers who admin- 
ister its charities. It broods upon the 
scene with the true, bold, convent look, 
with rugged yellow walls and grated win- 
dows, striving to close in human weakness 
from blast and avalanche, as in valleys 
and cities to close it in from temptation and 
pollution. A few St. Bernard dog^were 
dozing outside in the chilly sunshine. I 
climbed the great stone steps which lift 
the threshold above the snowland, and 
tinkled the bell of appeal. Here for a 
couple of hours I vras made welcome to 
the cold, hard fiuie of the convent. There 
was to my mind a solemn and pleasant fit- 
ness in my thus entering church-burdened 
Italy through the postal of the church, 
for from the convent door to the plain of 
Lombardy it was all to be dovmhill work. 
I seemed to feel on my head the hands of 
especial benediction, and to hear in my 
ears the premonition of countless future 
hours to be passed in the light of altar- 
candles. The inner &ce of the Hospice is 
well-nigh as cold and bare as the face it 
turns defiant to the Alpine snovirs. Huge 
stone corridors and ungamished rooms, in 
which poor unacolimatized friars must sit 
aching and itching with chilblains in high 
midsummer; everywhere that peculiar 
perfume of churchiness — ^the odeur de so- 
cristie and essence of incense — ^whioh im- 
part throughout the world an especial 
pungency to OathoHcism. Having the 
good fortune, as it happened, to be invited 
to dine with the Prior, I found myself in 
fine priestly company. A dozen of us sat 
about the board in the greasy, brick-paved 
refectory, lined with sombre cupboards 
of ponderous crockery, all in stole and cas- 
sock but myself. Several of the brothers 



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were in transitu firom belovr. Among 
them I had the pleasure of greeting my 
oompanion in the coup4 to Brieg, slightly 
sohered perhaps by his relapse into the 
clerical ranks, but still timidly gracious 
and joyous. The Prior himself, however, 
especially interested me, so every inch 
was he a prior — a priest dominant and mil- 
itant. He was still young, and familiar, 
I should say, with the passiops of youth ; 
tall and powerful in frame, stout-necked 
and small-headed, with a brave beak of a 
nose and closely placed, fine, but sinister 
lyes. The simple, childish cut of his 
black cassock, with its little linen band 
across his great pectoral expanse as he sat 
at meat, seemed to denote a fantastical, 
ironical humility. Was it a mere fency 
of a romantic Yankee tourist that he was 
more evil than gentle ? Heaven grant, I 
mused as I glanced at him, that his fierce 
and massive manhood be guided by the 
Lord's example. What was such a man 
as that doing up there on a lonely moun- 
tain top, watching the snow clouds from 
closed windows and doling out restorative 
cognac to frost-bitten wagoners? He 
ought to be down in the hard, dense world, 
fighting and sinning for his mother 
Church. But he was one who could bide 
his time. Unless I'm scribbling nonsense, 
it will come. In deference probably to 
the esoteric character of a portion of the 
company, our conversation at dinner was 
not rigidly clerical. In fact, when my at- 
tention wandered back to its theme, I 
found the good brothers were talking of 
Alexandre Dumas with a delightful air of 
protest and hearsay, and a spice of priest- 
ly malice. The great romancer, 1 believe, 
had among his many fictions somewhere 
promulgated an inordinate fiction tonch- 
uig the manners and customs of the Hos- 
pice. The game being started, each of 
them said his say and cast his pebble, 
weighted always with an " on </*/," and I 
was amazed to find they were so well qual- 
ified to ^reprobate the author of ** Monte 
Cristo." When we had dined my young 
Frenchman came and took me by the arm 
and led me in great triumph over the 
whole convent, delighted to have some- 
thing to show me — ^me who had come from 
America and had lent him my overcoat. 
When at last I had und^ his auspices 
made my farewell obeisance to the Prior, 
and started on my downvv^ard course, he 
bore me company along the road. But 



before we lost sight of the Hospice he gave 
me his fraternal blessing. " AUons! " he 
was plearf^ed to say, ** the next time I shall 
know an American ; '' and he gathered up 
his gentle petticoat, and, as [ looked be- 
hind, I saw his bla^k stockings frolicking 
baclL over the stones by a short cut to the 
monastery. 

I should like to be able to tell the vera- 
cious tale of that divine afternoon. I 
should like to be able to trace the soft 
stages by which those rugged heights melt 
over into a Southern difference. Now at 
last in good earnest I began to watch for 
the symptoms of Italy. Now that the 
long slope began to tend downward un- 
broken, it was not absurd to fiincy a few 
adventurous tendrils of Southern growth 
might have crept and clambered upvrard. 
At a short distance beyond the Hospice 
stands the little village of Simplon, where 
I believe the coach stops for dinner ; the 
uttermost outpost, I deemed it, of the 
lower world, perched there like an empty 
shell, with its murmur not yet quenched, 
to6«ed upward and stranded by some 
climbing Southern wave. The little inn 
at the Italian end of the street, painted in 
a bright Italian medley of pink and blue, 
must have been decorated by a hand which 
had learned its cunning in the land of the 
fresco. The Italian slope of the Simplon 
road commands a range of scenery wholly 
different from the Swiss. The latter wind< 
like a thread through the blue immenf^ity ; 
the former bores its way beneath crag and 
cliff, through gorge and mountain crev- 
ice. But though its channel narrovrs and 
darkens, Italy nears and nears none the 
lees. You suspect it first in— what shall 
I say"? — the growing warmth of the air, 
a foncied elegance of leaf and twig ; a lit- 
tle while yet, and they will curl and wan- 
ton to your heart's content. The fiimous 
Gorge of Gando, at this stage of the road, 
renews the sombre horrors of the Via 
Mala. The hills close together above 
your head, and the daylight filters down 
their corrugated sides from three inches 
of blue. The mad torrent of the Dau- 
ria, roaring through the straitened vale, 
fills it forever with a sounding din, as — to 
compare poetry to prose — a railway train 
a tunnel. Emerging from the Gtorge of 
Gando, you fairly breathe Italian air. The 
gusts of a mild climate come wandering 
along the road to meet you. Lo! sud- 
denly, by the still wayside, I came upon a 



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[August, 



sensation : a little house painted a hot 
salmon color, with a withered pine-twig 
over the door in token of entertainment, 
and above this inscribed in square chirog- 
raphy — literally in Italics — Osleria! 1 
stopped devotedly to q&affa glass of sour 
wine to Italy gained. The place seemed 
wrapped in a desolation of stillness, save 
that as I stood and thumped the doorpost, 
the piping ory of a baby rose from the 
lofl above and tickled the mountain echoes. 
Anon came clattering down the stairs a 
nursing mother of peasants ; she gave me 
her only wine, out of her own bottle, out 
of her only glass. While she stood to 
wait on me, the terrible cry of her infant 
bscame so painful that I bade her go and 
fetch him before he strangled ; and in a 
moment she reappeared, holding him in 
her arms, pacified and utterly naked. 
Standing there with the little unswaddled 
child on her breast, and smiling simply 
fi*om her glowing brow, she made a pic- 
ture which, in coming weeks, I saw imi- 
tated more or less vividly over many an al- 
tar and in muny a palace. Onward still, 
tlirough ite long-drawn evolutions, the 
valley keeps darkly together, as if to hold 
its own to the last against the glittering 
breadth of level Lombardy. In truth, I 
had gained my desire. If Italy meant 
stifling heat, this was the essence of Italy. 
The afternoon vras waning, and the early 
shadows of the valley deepening into a 
dead summer night. But the hotter the 
better, and the more Italian ! At last, at a 
turn in the road, glimpsed the first houses 
of a shallow village, pressed against the 
mountain wall. It was Italy — the Doga- 
na Isella ! so I quickened my jaded steps. 
I met a young officer strolling along the 
road in sky-blue trousers, with a mous- 
tache a la Victor Emanuel, puffing a 
cigarette, and yawning with the sensuous 
ennvi of Lsella — the first of that swarm- 
ing company of warriors whose cerulean 
presence, in many a rich street-scene, 
in later hours touched up so brightly the 
foreground of the picture. A few steps more 
brought me to the Dogana, and to my first 
glimpse of those massive and shadovry ar- 
cades so delightfully native to the South. 
Here it was my privilege to hear for the first 
time the music of an Italian throat vibrate 
upon Italian air. "Nothing to declare — 
niente ? ' ' asked the dark-eyed functionary, 
emerging from the arcade. •' Niente " 
seemed to me delicious ; I would have told 
a fib for the sake of repeating the word. 



Just beyond stood the inn, which seemed 
to me somehow not as the inns of Switzer- 
land. Perched something aloft against 
the hillside, a vague light tendency to 
break out into balconies and terraces and 
trellises seemed to enhance its simple fa- 
cade. Its open windows had an air of 
being familiar with Southern nights; 
with balmy dialogues, possibly, passing 
between languid ladies leaning on the 
iron rails, and lounging gentlemen, star- 
gazing from the road beneath at their 
mistresses' eyes. Heaven grant it should 
not be fiwtidiously neat, scrubbed and fui* 
bished Kudfrotte like those prosy taverns 
on the Swiss lakes ! Heaven -was gener- 
ous. I was ushered into a room whereof 
the ceiling was frescoed with flowers and 
gems and cherubs, but whose brick-tiled 
floor would have been vastly amended by 
the touch of a wet cloth and broom. Af- 
ter repairing my toilet within the limits 
of my resources, I proceeded to order sup- 
per. The host, I remember, I decreed to 
have been the chrf de cuisine of some 
princely house of Lombardy. He wore h 
grizzled moustache and a red velvet cap, 
with little gold ear-rings. I could see 
him, under proper iaspiration, whip a 
towel round h'm waist, turn back his 
sleeves, and elaborate a masterly pasticcio. 
" I shall take the liberty," he said, " of 
causing monsieur to be served at the same 
time with a lady." 

"With a lady— an English lady?" 1 
asked. 

* * An Italian lady. She arrived an hour 
ago." And mine host paused a moment 
and honored me with a genial smile. " She 
is alone — she is young — she is pretty." 

Stolid child of the North that I was, 
surely my smile of response was no match 
for his ! But, nevertheless, in my heart 
I felt that fortune was kind. 1 went forth 
to stroll down the road while my repa.st 
was being served, and while daylight still 
lingered, to reach fonvard as fer a3 possi- 
ble into the beckoning land beyond. Op- 
posite the inn the mountain stream, still 
untamed, murmured and tumbled between 
the stout parapet which edged the road 
and the wall of rock which enclosed the 
gorge. I felt indefinably curious, expect- 
ant, impatient. Here was Italy at last ; 
but what next? Was I to eat my supper 
and go contentedly to bed? Was there 
nothing I could see, or do, or feel ? I had 
been deeply moved, but I was primed for 
a deeper em3tion still. Would it oome? 



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Along the road toward Domo d'Ossola the 
evening shadows deepened and settled, 
and filled the future with m^-stery. The 
future would take care of itself; but ah, 
for an intenser present ! I stopped and 
gazed wistfully along the broad dim high- 
way. At this moment I perceived beyond 
ma, leaning against the parapet, the figure 
of a woman, alone and in meditation. 
Her two elbows rested on the stone coping, 
her two hands were laid against her ears 
to deaden the din of the stream, and her 
face, between them, was bent over upon 
the waters. She seemed young and come- 
ly. She was bare-headed ; a black organdy 
shawl was gathered round her shoulders ; 
her dress, of a light black material, was 
covered with a multitude of little puflfe 
and flounces, trimmed and adorned with 
crimson silk. There was an air of intense 
meditation in her attitude ; I passed near 
her without her perceiving me. I ob- 
served her black-brown tresses, braided 
by a cunning hand, but slightly disar- 
ranged by travel, and the crumpled dis- 
order of her half-fimtastic dress. She was 
a lady and an Italian ; she was alone, 
young, and pretty ; was she possibly my 
destined companion? A few yards be- 
yond the spot at which she stood, I re- 
traced my steps ; she had now turned 
round. As I approached her she looked 
at me from a pair of dark expressive eyes. 
Just a hint of suspicion and defiance I 
fancied that at this moment they express- 
ed. " Who are you, what are you, roamr 
ing so dose to me?" they seemed to 
murmur. We were alone in this narrow 
pass, I a new comer, she a daughter of the 
land ; moreover, her glance had almost 
audibly challenged me ; instinctively, 
therefore, and with all the deference I 
was master of, 1 bowed. She continued 
to gaze for an instant ; then suddenly she 
perceiyed, I think, that I was utterly a 
foreigner and presumably a gentleman, 
and hereupon, briefly but graciously, she 
returned my salute. I went my way and 
reached the hotel. As I passed in, 1 saw 
the fair stranger come slowly along the 
road as if also to enter the inn. In the 
little dining-room I found mine host of 
the Telret cap bestowing the finishing 
touches upon a small table set en tite-h- 
tete for two. I had heard, I had read, of 
the gracious loquacity of the Italian race 
and their sweet familiarities of discourse. 
Here was a chance to test the quality of 
the iQatter. The landlord, having poised 



two fantastically folded napkins directly 
vis-a-vis, glanced at me with a twinkle 
in his eye which seemed to bespeak recog- 
nition of this cunning arrangement. 

'* A propos,^^ I said, " this lady with 
whom I am to dine? Does she wear a 
black dress with red flounces? '* 

** Precisely, Signore. You have already 
had a glimpse of her? A pretty woman, 
isn't it so?" 

" Extremely pretty. Who is the lady?" 

'* Ah ! " And the landlord turned back 
his head and thrust out his chin, with 
just the least play of his shoulders. 
"That's the question! A lady of that 
age, with that face and those red flounces, 
who travels alone — ^not even a maid — ^you 
may well ask who she is ! She arrived 
here an hour ago in a carriage from Domo 
d'Ossola, where, her vetturino told me, 
she had arrived only just before by the 
common coach from Arona. But though 
she travels by the common vehicle, she is 
not a common person ; one may see that 
with half an eye. She comes in great 
haste, but ignorant of the ways and means. 
She wishes to go by the diligence to Brieg. 
She ought to have waited at Domo, where 
she could have found a good seat. She 
didn't even take the precaution of engag- 
ing one at the office there. When the 
diligence stops here, she will have to fare 
as she can. She is pretty enough indeed 
to fare very well — or very ill ; Isn't it so, 
Signore?" demanded the worthy Boni- 
fazio, as I believe he was named. "Ah, 
but behold her strolling along the road, 
bare-headed , in those red flounces ! What 
Ls one to say? After dusk, with the dozen 
officers in garrison here watching 'the 
firontier ! Watching the ladies who come 
and go, per Diof Many of them, saving 
your presence, Signore, are your own 
compatriots. You'll not deny that 8om3 
of them are a little free — ^a little bold, 
What will you have? Out of their own 
country! What else were the use of 
travel ? But this one ; eh ! she's not out 
of her own country yet. Italians are 
Italians, Signore, up to the frontier — eh ! 
eh ! " And the Signor Bonifazio indulged 
in a laugh the most goguenard. * * Never- 
theless, I have not hept an inn these 
twenty years without learning to know 
the sheep from the goats. This is an 
honorable lady, Signore ; it is for that 
reason that I have offered to you to sup 
with her. The other sort ! onecanalwayi 
sup with them ! " 



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It seemed to me that my host^s fluent 
commentary was no meagre foretaste of 
Italian frankness. I approachecl the win- 
dow. The fair object of our conversation 
stood at the foot of the stone staircase 
which ascended to the inn door, with the 
toe of her shoe resting upon the first step. 
She was looking fixedly and pensively up 
the road toward Switzerland. Her hand 
clasped the knob of the iron balustrade and 
her slight fingers played an impatient 
measure. She had begun to interest me. 
Her dark eyes, intent upon the distant 
turn of the road, seemed to expand with a 
vague expectancy. Whom was she look- 
ing for ? Of what romance of Italy waa 
she the heroine? The mattre d* hotel ap- 
peared at the head of the steps, and with 
a flourish of his napkin announced that 
the Signora vras served. She started a 
little and then lightly shrugged her shoul- 
ders. At the same moment I caught her 
eye as I stood gazing from the window. 
With a just visible deepening of her 
color, she slowly ascended the steps. I 
was suddenly seized with a sense of being 
dingy, travel-stained, unpresentable to a 
woman so charming. I hastily retreated to 
my room, and, surveying myself in my 
dressing-glass, objurgated fortune that I 
lacked the wherewithal to amend my at- 
tire. But 1 could at least change my cra- 
vat. I had no sooner replaced my black 
neck-tie by a blue one than it occurred to 
me that the Signora would observe the 
difference; but what then? It would 
hardly o^nd her. With a timid hope 
that it might faintly gratify her as my 
only feasible tribute to the honor of her 
presence, I returned to the dining-room. 
She WBs seated and had languidly address- 
ed herself to the contents of her soup- 
plate. The worthy Bonifieizio had adorned 
our little table with four lighted candles 
and a centre-piece of Alpine flowers. As 
I installed myself opposite my companion, 
afler having greeted her and received a 
murmured response, it seemed to me that 
I vras sitting down to one of those &cti- 
tious repasts which are served upon the 
French stage, when the table has been 
moved close to the footlights, and the rav- 
ishing young widow and the romantic 
young artist begin to manipulate the very 
nodus of the comedy. Was the Signora 
a widow? Our attendant, with his crim- 
son cap, his well-salted discourse, his 
light-handed gestures, and his smile from 
behind the scenes, might have passed for a 



classic valet de thddtre, I had the appe- 
tite of a man who had been walking since 
sunrise, but I found ample occasion, while 
I plied mylmife and fork, to inspect- the 
Signora. She merely pretended to eat; 
and to appeal, perhaps, from the over- 
flattering intentness of my vision, she 
opened an idle conversation with Bonifa- 
zio. I listened admirii\gly, while the 
glancing shuttle of Italian speech passed 
rapidly from lip to lip. It vras evident, 
frequently, that she remained quite heed- 
less of what he said, losing herself forever 
in a kind of fretful intensity of thought. 
The repast was lung and multifiurious, 
and as he tiqie and again removed her 
plate vrith its contents untouched, mine 
host would catch my eye and roll up his 
own with an air of mock commiseration, 
turning back his thumb at the same mo- 
ment toward the region of his heart. " Un 
coup de tite,^^ he took occasion to murmur 
as he reached over me to put down a dish. 
But the more I looked at the &ir unknown, 
the more I came to suspect that the source 
of her unrest lay deeper than in the petu- 
lance of wounded vanity. Her &>ce wore 
to my eye the dignity of a deep resolution 
— a resolution taken in tears and ecstasy. 
She was some twenty-eight years of age, 
I imagined ; though at moments a pain 
ful gravity resting upon her brow gave 
her the air of a woman who in youth haA 
anticipated old age. How beautiful she 
was by natural gift I am unable to say ; 
for at this especial hour of her destiny, 
her face was too serious to be &ir and too 
interesting to be plain. She was pale, 
worn, and weary-looking; but in the 
midst of her weariness there flickered a 
fierce impatience of delay and forced re- 
pose. She was a gentle creature, turned 
brave and adventurous by the stress of 
fate. It burned bright in her soft, grave 
eyes, this longing for the larger freedom 
of the tarrying morrow. A dozen chance 
gestures indicated the torment of her spi- 
rit — the constant rapping of her knife 
agaiost the table, her bread crumbed to 
pieces but uneaten, the frequent change 
from posture to posture of her full and 
flexible figure, shifting through that 
broad range of attitude— the veiy gamut 
of gracefulness — fiimlliar to Italian women. 
The repast advanced without my finding 
a voice to address her. Her secret puzzled 
me, whatever it was, but I confess that I 
vras afraid of it. A coup de iete ! Heaven 
only knew how direful a coup ! My mind 



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AT ISELLA. 



249 



was flooded by the memory of the rich ca- 
pacity of the historic womanhood of Italy. 
I thought of Lacrezia Borgia, of Bianca 
Capello, of the heroines of Stendahl. My 
fair Mend seemed invested with an atmos- 
phere of candid passbn, which placed her 
quite apart from the ladies of my own 
land. The gallant soul of the Signor Boni- 
faziOy however, had little sniferance for 
this pedantic view of things. Shocked by 
my apparent indifference to the privilege 
of my rare position, he throst me by the 
shoulders into the conversation. The 
Signora eyed me for a moment not ungra- 
ciously, and then, "Do you understand 
Italian? " she asked. 

I had come to Italy with an ear quite un- 
attuned, of course, to the spoken tongue ; 
but the mellow cadence of the Signora 's 
voice rang in upon my senses like music. 
" I understand you," I said. 

She looked at nle gravely, with the air 
of a woman used to receive compliments 
without any great flutter of vanity. ** Are 
you English? " she abruptly asked. 

" English is my tongue." 

" Have you come from Switzerland ? " 

" He has walked from Brieg ! " pro- 
claimed our host. 

** Ah, you happy men, who can walk — 
who can run — who needn't wait for coaches 
and conductors!" The Signora uttered 
these words with a smile of acute though 
transient irony. They were followed by 
a silence. Bonifazio, seeing the ice was 
broken, retired with a flourish of his nap- 
kin and a contraction of his eyelids as 
much in the nature of a wink as his re- 
spect for me, for the Signora, and for him- 
self allowed. What was the motive of 
the Signora 's impatience? I had a pre- 
sentiment that I should learn. The Ital- 
ians are confidential ; of this I had al- 
ready received suflBcient assurance; and 
my companion, with her lucid eye and her 
fine pliable lips, was a bright example of 
the eloquent genius of her race. She sat 
idly pressing with her fork the crimson 
substance out of a plateful of figs, without 
raising them to her lips. 

** You are going over into Switzerland," 
I said, " and you are in haste." 

She eyed me a minute suspiciously. 
" Yes, I'm in haste ! " 

** I, who have just begun to feel the 
charm of Italy," I rejoined, " can hardly 
understand being in haste to leave it." 

" The charm of Italy ! " cried the Si- 
gnora, with a slightly cynical laugh . ' ' For- 



eigners have a great deal to say about 
it." 

"But you, a good Italian, certainly 
know what we mean." 

She shrugged her shoulders— an opera- 
tion she performed more gracefully than • 
any woman I ever saw, unless it be Mile. 
Madeleine Brohan of the Theatre Fran9ais. 
** For me it has no charm ! I have been 
unhappy here. Happiness for me is there! ^^ 
And with a superb nod of her head she 
indicated the Transalpine world. Then, 
as if she had spoken a thought too freely, 
she rose suddenly from her chair and 
walked away to the window. She step- 
ped out on the narrow balcony, looked 
intently for an instant up and down the 
road and at the band of sky above it, 
and then turned back into the room. 
I sat in my place, divided between my 
sense of the supreme sweetness of figs 
and my wonder at my companion's mys- 
tery. " It's a fine night ! " she said. 
And with a little jerk of impatience »he 
flung herself into an arm-chair near the 
table. She leaned back, with her skirt 
making a great wave around her and her 
arms folded . I went on eating figs. There 
was a long silence. " You've eaten at 
least a dozen figs. You'll be ill! " said 
the Signora at last. 

This was friendly in its frankness. "Ah, 
if you only knew how I eiyoy them I " I 
cried, laughing. "They are the first I 
ever tasted. And this the first Asti wine. 
We don't have either in the North. If 
figs and Asti wine are for anything in your 
happiness, Signora," I added, " you had 
better not cross the Alps. See, the figs 
are all gone. Do you think it would hurt 
me to have any more ? " 

"Truly," cried the Signora, "I don't 
know what you English are made of ! " 

" You think us very coarse, and given 
up altogether to eating and drinking?" 
She gave another shrug tempered by a 
smile. " To begin with, I am not an 
Englishman. And in the second place, 
you'd not call me coarse if you knew — if 
you only knew what I feel this evening. 
Eh ! such thick-coming fancies ! " 

"What are your fancies?" she de- 
manded, with a certain curiosity gleam- 
ing in her dark eye. 

" I must finish this Asti ! " This I pro- 
ceeded to do. I am very glad I did, 
moreover, as I borrowed from its mild and 
luscious force something of the courage 
with which I came to express myself. "I ^ 

uigiiizea oy ■%_J\_/v_/pi i\^ 



250 



AT ISELLA. 



[August, 



don't know how it is that Fm talking 
Italian at such a rate. Somehow the 
words come to me. I know it only from 
books. I have never talked it.'' 

*' You speak as well,'* the Signora gra- 
ciously affirmed, ** as if you had lived six 
months in the country." 

** Half an hour in your society," said I, 
" is as profitable as six moiiths elsewhere. '' 

** Bravo ! " she responded. " An Ital- 
ian himself couldn't say it better." 

Sitting before me in the vague candle- 
light, beautiful, pale, dark-browed, sad, 
the Signora seemed to me an incorporate 
image of her native land. I had come to 
pay it my devotions. Why not perform 
them at her feet? **I have come on a 
pilgrimage," I said. ** To understand 
what I mean, you must have lived, as I 
have lived, in a land beyond the seas, bar- 
ren of romance and grace. This Italy of 
yours, on whose threshold I stand, is the 
home of history, of beauty, of the arts — of 
all that makes life splendid and sweet. 
Italy, for us dull strangers, is a magic 
word. We cross ourselves when we pro- 
nounce it. We are brought up to think 
that when we have earned leisure and rest 
— at some bright hour, when fortune 
smiles — we may go forth and cross oceans 
and mountains and see on Italian soil the 
primal substance — the Platonic * idea * — 
of our consoling dreams and our richest 
fancies. I have been brought up in these 
thoughts. The happy hour has come to 
me — Heaven be praised ! — while I am still 
young and strong and sensitive. Here I 
sit for the first time in the enchanted air 
in which love and faith and art and 
knowledge are warranted to become deep- 
er passions than in my own chilly clime. 
I begin to behold the promise of my 
dreams. It's Italy. How can I tell you 
what that means to one of us? Only see 
already how fluent and tender of speech 
I've become. The air has a perfume; 
everything that enters my soul, at every 
sense, is a suggestion, a promise, a per- 
formance. But the best thing of all is 
that I have met you, hella donna! If I 
were to tell you how you seem to me, you 
would think me either insincere or imper- 
tinent. Ecco!** 

She listened to me without changing her 
attitude or without removing her fathom- 
less eyes from my own. Their blue-black 
depths, indeed, seemed to me the two 
wells of poetic unity, from which I drew 
my somewhat transcendental allocution. 



She was puzzled, I think, and a little 
amused, but not offended. Anythir^ 
from an Inglese .' But it was doubtless 
grateful to feel these rolling vmves of sen- 
timent break soflly at her feet, chained as 
she was, like Andromeda, to the rock of a 
lonely passion. With an admirable ab- 
sence of mincnLderie, ** ^ow is it that I 
seem to you, Signore? " she asked. 

I lefl my place and came round and 
stood in front of her. ** Ever since I could 
use my wits," I said, ** I have done little 
else tUau lancy dramas and romances and 
love-tales, and lodge them in Italy. You 
seem to me as the heroine of all my sto- 
ries." 

There was perhaps a slight movement 
of coquetry in her reply : ** Your stories 
must have been very dull, Signore," and 
she gave a sad smile. 

** Nay, in future," I said, ** my hero- 
ines shall be more like you than ever. 
Where do you come from?" I seated 
myself in the chair she had quitted. 
*' But it's none of my business," 1 added. 
** From anywhere. In Milan or Venice, 
in Bologna or Florence, Rome or Naples, 
every grave old palazzo I pass, I shall 
fancy your home. I'm going the whole 
length of Italy. My soul, what things I 
shall see! " 

"You please me, Signore. I say to 
you what I wouldn't say to another. I 
oame from Florence. Shall you surely go 
there?" 

"I have reasons," I said, "for going 
there more than elsewhere. In Florence * ' 
— and I hesitated, with a momentary hor- 
ror at my perfect unreserve— r" in Flor- 
ence I am to meet my — ^my promessa spo- 
jfl," 

The Signora's face was instantly irra- 
diated by a generous smile. " Ah ! " she 
said, as if now for the first time she really 
understood me. 

" As I say, she has been ^)ending the 
summer at the Baths of Lucca. She 
comes to Florence with her mother in the 
middle of September. ' ' 

"Do you love her?" 

" Passionately." 

"Is she pretty?^' 

" Extremely. But not like you. Very 
feir, with blue eyes." 

" How long since you have seen her? ** 

" A year." 

" And when are you to be married? " 

" In November, probably, in Rome." 

She covered me for a moment with a 

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1871.] 



AT ISELLA. 



251 



glance of the largest sympathy. "Ah, 
what happiness! " she cried abruptly. 

" After oar marriage,*' I said, " we 
shall go down to Naples. Do you know 
Naples?'' 

Instead of answering, she simply gazed 
at me, and her beautiful eyes seemed to 
grow larger and more liquid. Suddenly, 
while I sat in the benignant shadow of 
her vision, I saw the tears rise to her lids. 
Her face was convulsed and she burst into 
sobs. I remember that in my amazement 
and regret I suddenly lost my Italian. 
" Dearest lady," I cried in my mother 
tongue, '* forgive me that I have troubled 
you. Share with me at least the sorrow 
that I have aroused.'' In an instant, 
however, she had brushed away her tears 
and her face had recovered its pale compo- 
sure. She tried even to smile. 

"What will you think of, me?" she 
asked. " What do you think of me al- 
ready?" 

" I think you are an extremely interest- 
ing woman. You are in trouble. If there 
is anything I can do for you, pray say the 
word." 

She gave me her hand. I vras on the 
point of raising it to my lips. " No — h 
VAnglaisey*^ she said, and she lightly 
shook my own. " I like you — ^you're an 
honest man — ^you don't try to make love 
to me. I should like to write a note to 
your promessa sposa to tell her she may 
trust you. You can't help me. I have 
committed myself to God and the Holy 
Virgin. They will help me. Besides, it's 
only a little longer. £h, it's a long story, 
Signore ! What is said in your country 
of a woman who travels alone at night 
without even a servant? " 

* • Nothing is said . It's very common. ' ' 

"Ah! women must be very happy 
there, or very unhappy ! Is it never sup- 
posed of a woman that she has a lover ? 
That is worst of all." 

"Fewer things are 'supposed' of 
women there than here. They live more 
in the broad daylight of life. They make 
their own law." 

" They must be very good then— or veiy 
bad. So that a man of fancy like you, 
with a taste for romance, has to come to 
poor Italy, where he can suppose at leisure ! 
ikit we are not all romance, I assure you. 
With me, I promise you, it's no light- 
minded coup de titey And the Signora 
enforced her candid assurance with an al- 
most imperious nod. " I know what I'm 



doing. Eh ! I'm an old woman. I've 
waited and waited. But now my hour 
has come ! Ah, the heavenly freedom of 
it! Ah, the peace—the joy ! Just God, 
I thank thee! " And sitting back in 
her chair, she folded her hands on her 
bosom and closed her eyes in a kind of ec- 
stasy. Opening them suddenly, she per- 
ceived, I suppose, my somewhat intent 
and dilated countenance. Breaking then 
into a loud, excited laugh, " How you 
stare at me ! " she cried. " You think 
I've at least poisoned my husband. No, 
he's safe and sound and strong ! On the 
contrary, I've forgiven him. I forgive 
him with all my heart, with all my soul ; 
there ! I call upon you to witness it. I 
bear him no rancor. I wish never to 
think of him again ; only let me never 
see him — never hear of him ! Let him 
never come near me : I shall never trouble 
him ! Hark ! " She had interrupted her- 
self and pressed her hand with a startled 
air upon my arm. I listened, and in a 
moment my ear caught the sound of roll- 
ing wheels on the hard highroad. With 
a great effort at self-composure, appar- 
ently, she laid her fingw on her lips. " If 
it should be he— if it should be he ! " she 
murmured. " Heaven preserve me ! Do 
go to the window and see." 

I complied, and perceived a two-horse 
vehicle advancing rapidly from the Italian 
quarter. " It's a carriage of some sort 
from Italy," I said. " But what — ^whom 
do you fear?" 

She rose to her feet. " That my hus- 
band should overtake me," and she gave 
a half-&antic glance round the room, like 
a hunted stag at bay. " If it should be 
he, protect me ! Do something, say some- 
thing—anything ! Say I'm not fit to go 
back to him. He wants me because he 
thinks me good. Say I'm not good — to 
your knowledge. Oh , Signore— Holy Vir- 
gin! " Recovering herself, she sank into 
a chair, and sat stiff and superb, listening 
to the deepening sound of the wheeL<5. 
The vehicle approached, reached the inn, 
passed it, and went on to the Dogana. 

"You're safe," I said. "It's not a 
posting-chaise, but a common wagon with 
merchandise." 

With a hushed sigh of relief she passed 
her hand over her brow, and then looking 
at me : "I have lived these three days in 
constant terror. I believe in my soul he 
has come in pursuit of me ; my hope is in 
my having gained time through his being 

uigiiizeo Dy x.jv^'v^/pi iv. 



S52 



AT ISELLA. 



[August, 



absent when I started. My nerres are 
broken. I have neither slept nor eaten, 
nor till now have I spoken. But I must 
speak! I'm frank; it's good to take a 
friend when you find one." 

I oonfess that to hare been thus freely 
admitted by the fair fugitive into the 
whirling circle of her destiny was one of 
the keenest emotions of my life. * *I know 
neither the motive of your flight nor the 
goal of your journey," I answered ; ** but 
i£ I may help you and speed you, I will 
joyfully turn back from the threshold of 
Italy and give you whatever furtherance 
my company may yield. To go with 
you," I added, smiling, " will be to re- 
main in Italy, I assure you." 

She acknowledged my oflfor with a 
glance more potent than words. **I'm 
going to a friend," she said, after a si- 
lence. " To accept your oflfer would be 
tf) make friendship cheap. He is lying ill 
•it Geneva ; otherwise I shouldn't be thns! 
But my head is on fire. This room is 
close; it smells of supper. Do me the 
favor to accompany me into the air." 

She gathered her shawl about her 
nhoulders, I offered her my arm, and we 
passed into the entry toward the door. 
In the doorway stood mine host, with 
his napkin under his arm. He drew him- 
Hdlf up as we approached, and, as if to 
deprecate a possible imputation of scandal, 
honored us with a bow of the most cere- 
monious homage. We descended the steps 
and strolled along the road toward the 
Swiss frontier. A vague remnant of day- 
light seemed to linger imprisoned in the 
narrow gorge. We passed the Dogana 
and left the village behind ns. My 
thoughts reverted as we went, to the ach- 
ing blank of my fancy as I entered Isella 
an hour before. It seemed to palpitate 
now with a month's experience. Beyond 
the village a narrow bridge spans the 
stream and leads to a path which climbs 
the opposite hillside. We diverged from 
the road and lingered on the bridge while 
the sounding torrent gushed beneath us, 
. flashing in the light of the few stars which 
sparkled in our narrow strip of sky, like 
diamonds tacked upon a band of velvet. 
I remained silent, thinking a passive 
silence the most graceful tribute to the 
Signora's generous intentions. **I will 
tell you all ! " she said at Uwt. " Do you 
think me pretty? But you needn't an- 
swer. The less you think si, the more 
you'll say it. I was pretty ! I djn't pre- 



tend to be so now. I have suflfered too 
much. I have a miserable fear that when 
he sees me, after these three years, he'll 
notice the loss of my beauty. But, pov^- 
rino! he is perhaps too ill to notioe any- 
thing. He is young — a year younger than 
I — ^twenty-seven. He is a painter; be 
has a most beautiful talent. He loved me 
four years ago, before my marriage. - He 
was a friend of my poor brother, who was 
fatally wounded at the battle of Mentana, 
where he fought with Garibaldi. My 
brother, Giuseppiuo, was brought home 
with his wound; he died in a week. 
Ernesto came to make a drawing of his 
face before we lost it forever. It vi-as not 
the first time I had seen him, but it was 
the first time we understood each othpr. 
I was sitting by poor Giuseppino's bedside, 
crying — crying ! He, too, cried while be 
drew and ^joade great blisters on the paper. 
I know where to look for them still. They 
loved each other devotedly. I, too, had 
loved my brother! for my mother was 
dead, and my father was not a mother- 
not even a father! Judge for yourself! 
We placed together the love which each 
of us had borne for Giuseppino, and it 
made a great love for each other. It was a 
misfortune ; but how could we help it ? & 
had nothing but his talent, which as yet 
was immature. I had nothing at all but 
the poor little glory of my father's beug a 
Marchese, without a soldo^ and my pretti- 
ness! But you see what has become of 
that! My father vras furious to have 
given his only son to that scoundrel q£ a 
Garibaldi, for he is of that vray of think- 
ing. Tou should have heard the scene be 
made me when poor Ernesto in dee^ir 
asked leave to marry me. My husband, 
whom I had never seen or at lea^t never 
noticed, v^as at that time in treaty for my 
hand. By his origin he vras little better 
than a peasant, but he had made a fortune 
in trade, and he was very well pleased to 
marry a marchesina. It's not every man 
who is willing to take a penniless girl ; it 
was the first chance and perhaps the best. 
So I was given over blindfold, bound hand 
and foot, to that brute. Eh! what I 
hadn't brought in cash I had to pay down 
in patience. If I were to tell you what 
I've suffered these three years, it would 
bring tears to your eyes — ^Inglese as you 
are. But they are things which can't bei 
told. He is a peasant, with the soul of a 
peasant — the taste, the manners, the vices 
of a peasant. It was my great crime thai 

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1871.] 



At ISELLA. 



253 



I wa8 proud. I had macfa to be ptond of. 
If I had only been a woman of his own 
flort ! to pay him in his own coin ! Ernesto, 
of oonrse, had been altogether sappreased. 
He proposed to me to escape with him be- 
fore my marriage, and I confess to yon 
tlmt I would haye done it if I coald. I 
tried in vain ; I was too w^ Watched. I 
implored him then to go away till better 
days ; and he at last consented to go to 
Paris and pnrsne his studies. A week 
after my marriage he came to bid me fare- 
well. My husband had taken me to Na- 
ples, to make me belieie I was not 
wretched. Ernesto followed me, and I 
contrived to see him. It lasted three min- 
ntes by the clock : I have not seen him 
since. In three years I have had five let- . 
tens from him ; they are here in my drees. 
I am sure of his love ; I don't need to 
have him write, to tell me. I have an- 
swered him twice. These letters — seven 
in all, in three years ! — are all my husband 
has to reproach me vrith. He is furious 
at not having more. He knows of course 
that I love another ; he knows that to 
bear such things a woman must borrow 
strength somewhere. I have had &ith, 
bat it has not been all &ith ! My hus- 
band has none ; nothing is sacred to him, 
not the Blessed Virgin herself. If you 
were to hear the things he sa3^ about thid 
Holy Father ! I have waited and waited. 
I confess it, I have hoped at times that 
my husband would die. But he has the 
health of a peasant. He used to strike 
me— to starve me— to lock me up without 
light or fire. I appealed to my father, 
but, I'm sorry to say it, my father is a 
covrard ! Heaven forgive me ! I'm saying 
dreadful things here ! But, ah, Signore, 
let me breathe at last ! I've waited and 
waited, as I say, for this hour ! Heaven 
knows I have been good. Though I stand 
here now, I have not trifled vrith my duties. 
It's not coquetry ! I determined to en- 
dure as long as I could, and then to break 
— to break forever ! A month ago strength 
and courage left me ; or rather, they came 
to me ! I wrote to Ernesto that I would 
come to him. He answered that he would 
come down to meet me — if possible at 
lililan. Just afterwards he vrrote me in a 
liUle scrawl in pencil that he had been 
taken iU in Geneva, and that if I could I 
must come alone, before he got worse. Here 
I am then, alone, pursued, frantic with 
ignorance and dread. Heaven only keep 
him till 1 come. I shall do the rest! 



Exactly how I left home, I can't tell you. 
It has been like a dream ! My husband — 
God be praised ! — ^was obliged to make a 
short absence on business, of which I took 
advantage. My great trouble was get- 
ting a little money. I never have any. 
I sold a few trinkets for a few francs — 
hardly enough! The people saw I was 
too frightened to make a stand, so that 
they cheated me. But if I can only come 
to the end ! I'm certain that my husband 
has pursued me. Once I get to Switzer- 
land, we 6an hide. Meanwhile I'm in a 
fever. I've lost my head. I began very 
well, but all this delay has so vexed and 
confused me. I hadn't even the wit to 
secure a place in the coach at Domo 
d'Ossola. But I shall go, if I have to sit 
on the roof— to crouch upon the doorstep. 
If I had only a little more money, so that 
I needn't vrait for coaches. To overtake 
me my husband, for once in his life, won't 
count his Zire/" 

I listened with a kind of awe to this 
torrent of passionate confidence. I had 
got more even than I had bargained for. 
The current of her utterance seemed to 
gather volume as it came, and she poured 
out her tragic story with a sort of raptu- 
rous freedom. She had unburdened at 
last her heavy heart. As she spoke, the 
hot breath of her eloquence seemed to 
pass fhr beyond my single attwitive sense, 
and mingle joyously vrith the free air of 
the night. Her tale, in a measure, might 
be untrue or imperfect ; but her passion, 
her haste, her sincerity, were imperiously 
reaL I felt, as I had never felt it, the 
truth of the poet's claim for his touch of 
nature. I became conscious of a hurrying 
share In my companion's dread. I seemed 
to hear in the trembling torrent the sound 
of rapid wheels. I expected every mo- 
ment to see the glare of lights along the 
road, before the inn, then a strong arm 
locked about her Waist, and, in the ray of 
a lantern from the carriage window, to 
catch the mute agony of her solemn eyes. 
My heart beat fiist ; I was part and parcel 
of a romance! Come! the denouement 
shouldn't fkil by any prosy fhult of mine. 

" How I've talked ! " cried the Signora, 
after a brief pause. " And how you stare 
at me ! ISh ! don't be afraid. I've said 
all , and it has done me good. You '11 laugh 
with your promessa sposa about that crazy 
creature who was flying fh)m her hus- 
band . The idea of people not being happ5 
in marriage, you'll say to h« ! "j> t 

uigiiizea oy ■%^jOOvlv^ 



254 



AT ISELLA. 



[August, 



** I thank yoa with all my heart," I 
Faid, *' for having trusted me as you have. 
But I'm almost sorry you have taken the 
time. You oughtn't to be lingering here 
whileyour husband is making thedust fly . " 

"That's easy to say, Signore; but I 
can't walk to Brieg, like you. A carriage 
costs a hundred and fifty francs. 1 have 
only just enough to pay my place in the 
coach." 

I drew out my portemonnaie and 
.emptied it in my hand ; it contained a 
hundred and seventy francs. " Ecco / " I 
said, holding them out to her. 

She glanced at them an instant, and 
then, with a movement which ef^tually 
rounded and completed my impression of 
her simple and passionate sincerity, seized 
with both her hands my own hand as it 
held them. " Ah, the Blessed Virgin be 
praised!" she cried. "Ah, you're an 
angel from heaven! Quick, quick! A 
carriage, a carriage ! " 

She thrust the money into her pocket, 
and, without waiting for an answer, hur- 
ried back to the road, and moved swiftly 
toward the inn. I overtook her as she 
reached the doorstep, where our host was 
ei\joying a pipe in the cool. "A car- 
riage ! " she cried. " I must be off. Quick, 
without delay ! I have the money ; you 
shall be well paid. Don't tell me you 
haven't one. There must be one here. 
Find one, prepare it, lose not a moment. 
Do you think I can lie tossing here all 
night? I shall put together my things, 
and give you ten minutes ! You, sir, see 
that they hurry ! " And she rapidly en- 
tered the house. 

Boni&zio stared, somewhat aghast at 
the suddenness and the energy of her re* 
quisition. Fearing that he might not be 
equal to the occasion, I determined to take 
him by his gallantry. ** Come, my 
friend," I said, " don't stand scratching 
your head, but act, I know you admire 
the Signora. You don't wunt to see so 
charming a woman in trouble. You don't 
wish to have a scandal in your inn. It is of 
the first importance that she should leave 
in ten minutes. Stir up your hostler." 

A wise grin illumined his &ce. " Ah," 
said he, " it's as bad as that. I had my 
notions. I'll do what I can." He ex- 
erted himself to such good purpose that in 
the incredibly short period of twenty min- 
utes a small closed carriage was drawn by 
a couple of stout horses to the door. Go- 
ing in to summon the &ir fugitive, I 



found her in the dining-room, where, fret- 
ting with impatience, and hooded and 
shawled, she had suffered a rather bun- 
gling chambermaid to attempt the insertion 
of a couple of necessary pins. She swept 
past me on her exit as if she had equally 
forgotten my face and her obligations, and 
entered the carriage with passionate a(\iu- 
rations of haste. I followed her and 
watched her take her place; but she 
seemed not even to see me. My hour was 
over. I had added an impulse to her 
straining purpose; its hurrying current 
had left me alone on the brink. I could 
not resist the influence of a poignant re- 
gret at having dropped from her con- 
sciousness. Learning from a peasant who 
was lounging near at hand that an easy 
footpath wound along the side of the 
mountain and struck the highroad at the 
end of half an hour's walk, I immediately 
discovered and followed it. I saw beneath 
me in the dimness as I went the white 
highroad, vrith the carriage slowly begin- 
ning its ascent. Descending at last from 
the slope, I met the vehicle well on its 
way up the mountain, and motioned to the 
driver to stop . The poor Signora , haunted 
with the fear of interruption, thrust her 
pale £Qioe from the window. Seeing me, 
she stared an instant almost vacantly, 
and then passing her hand over her face 
broke into a glorious smile. Flinging 
open the carriage door from within, she 
held out her two hands in farewell. 

" Give me your blessing," she cried, 
" and take mine ! I had almost forgotten 
you. Love is selfish, Signore. But I 
should have remembered you later and 
cried with gratitude. My £mesto will • 
vnrite to you. Give me your card— write 
me your address, there in the carriage 
lamp. No? Asyou please, then. Think 
of me kindly. And the young girl you 
marry— use her well— love her if only a 
little— it will be enough. We ask but a 
little, but we need that. Addio ! " and 
she raised her two hands to her lips, 
seemed for an instant to exhale her whole 
soul upon her fiinger tips, and flung into 
the air a magnificent Italian kiss. 

I returned along the winding footpath 
more slowly, a wiser, possibly a sadder 
man than a couple of hours before. I had 
entered Italy, I had tasted of sentiment, I 
had assisted at a drama. It was a good 
beginning. I found Bonifazio finishing his 
pipe before the inn. " Well, well, Sig- 
nore," he cried, " what does it all mean? " 



uigiiizeo Dy ^.jv^v^'p 



1871.] 



VOX CLAJViANTIS IN DESERTO. 



255 



** Aren't yoa enough of an Italian to 
guess?" I asked. 

" Eh, eh, it's better to be an Inglese and 
to be told," cried Bonii'azio with a twinkle. 

" You must sleep to-night with an ear 
open," I said. ** A personage will arrive 
post-baste from Domo. Stop him if you 
can." 

Bonifazio scratched his head. ^' If a 
late supper or an early breakfast will stop 
him ! " he murmured. I looked deep in- 
to his little round eye, expecting to read 
there the recipe for the infusion of a 
sleeping potion into cnfi au lait. 

My room that night was close and hot, 
and my bed none of the best. I tossed 
about in a broken sleep. I dreamed that 
I was lying ill in a poor tavern at Naples, 
waiting, waiting with an aching heart, &r 
the arrival from the Baths of Lucca of a 
certain young lady, who had been forced 
by her mother, Mrs. B. of Philadelphia, 
into a cruel marriage with a wealthy Tus- 
can contadirio. At last I seemed to hear 
a great noise without and a step on the 
stairs; through the opened door rushed 
in my promessa sposa. Her blue eyes 
were bright with tears, and she wore a 
flounced black dress trimmed with crim- 
son silk. The next moment she was kneel- 
ing at my bedside crying, " Ernesto, Er- 
nesto ! " At this point I awoke into the 
early morning. The noise of horses and 
wheels and voices came up frx)m outside. 
I sprang from my bed and stepped to my 
open window. The huge, high-piled, yel- 
low diligence from Domo d'Ossola had 
halted before the inn. The door of the 



cou^^ was open ; from the aperture half 
emerged the Personage. " A peasant," 
she had called him, but he was well di- 
crottiy though he had counted his lire and 
taken the diligence. He struck me as of 
an odd type for an Italian: dark sandy 
hair, a little sandy moustache, waxed at 
the ends, and sandy whiskers h VAnglaise, 
He had a broad face, a large nose, and a 
small keen eye, without any visble brows. 
He wore a yellow silk handkerchief tied as 
a nightcap about his head, and in spite of 
the heat he was very much muffled. On 
the steps stood Bonifiwio, cap in hand, 
smiling and obsequious. 

" Is there a lady here? " demanded the 
gentleman from the coupi. * * A lady alone 
— good-looking — with little luggage ? " 

"No lady, Signore," said Bonifazio. 
" Alas ! I have an empty house. If eccel- 
lenza would like to descend " 

** Have you had a lady — ^yesterday, last 
night? Don't lie." 

** We had three, eccellenza, a week ago — 
three Scotch ladies going to Baveno. 
Nay, three days since we had a prima 
donna on her way to Milan." 

"Damn your Scotch prima donna! ^^ 
said the other. * * Have you had my wife ? ' ' 

** The wife of eccellenza? Save the la- 
dies I mention, we have had neither wife 
nor maid. Would eccellenza like a cup of 
coffee?" 

*' Sangue di Dio ! " vras eccellenza* s sole 
response. The coupi door closed with a 
slam, the conductor mounted, the six 
horses started, and the great mountain 
coach rolled away. 

Henbt James, Jr. 



VOX CLAMANTIS IN DESERTO. 



CRYING, passionate heart, be still and strong. 
Waiting in faith the good time of the Lord, 
And trusting to the promise of His Word, 
That they who suffer patiently through wrong, 
His arm shall succor and redress ere long. 
And crown with palms of triumph evermore. 
So shall they stand, and glorify in song 
The Hand that brought them to the shining shore. 
Through mth and trial, sorrowing full sore, 
And d^rken'd seasons of distrust and doubt. 
Know, fainting heart, out of His mercy's store, 
Thy wail may yet be changed to song and shout, 
And thy rent sackcloth, litten by His grace. 
Shine like the light that shone on Christ's transfigur'd face ! 

Ed. S. Gregory. 

uigiiizeo Dy %_j\_/vJvlv^ 



SIGNATURE-HUNTING. 



a 



IT is a perfectly simple thing to ob- 
tain a signature, when the signer is 
to be specially benefited thereby/'said they. 
^* Not so felicitous as you imagine. 
Listen to a page oat of my book," said I. 

Once upon a time, not so Tery long ago, 
it was suddenly decided by some great 
publishers to storm Congress with a cer- 
tain petition on behaff qf authors — a so- 
phistical way of patting it inoonceiTably 
funny to those who know — and 1, a mere 
morsel of a woman, not an atom strong- 
minded, but steadfast and strong-hearted, 
was chosen as the best person to go hither 
and yon after the authors' signatures nec- 
essary to this petition. If the publish- 
ers sent a mere employee, the door 
would be shut in his fiice three times 
out of four by the busy and absorbed men 
and women whose names were wanted; 
bat my sex and weakness would gain me 
courtesy, spite of much inward howling 
at the interruption, and my haying ar- 
rived at outward years of discretion would 
be my strength and safety. 

But first, they asked my opinion of the 
petition. I immediately became grim, 
and censoriously critical. If my opinion 
had not been asked, I should only hare 
seen a paper of a gorgeous aspect, em- 
bodying a joyful, a doUarous future for 
authors ; which future I confess so taxed 
my utmost politeness to believe, that I 
found it rather a relief to chop off the head 
of this " phantom of hope '* at once ; and 
looking like seven and twenty owls all in 
a row, I said, ** It will be a good thing 
for publishers, but it's too long. Brevity 
i» the soul of business, as well as of wit. 
Let us cut these five pages down to one.'' 

Then I and that excellent man and pub- 
lisher, Mr. G. P. Putnam, sat like two 
conspirators in my parlor, one winter 
morning, and condensed the document 
into just one written page, and it was 
ready for the Honorable Committee, with 
their ways and their means, and their 
" tricks and their manners." 

And now I hastened to assume my pil- 
grim's staff and wallet, and forthwith 
commenced my mission in the city of New 
York. 



''These signatures should be headed 
with some great name," I observed to my- 
self. " It will arrest attention." 

Accordingly, I first demanded admit- 
tance at the castle of a most noble knight 
of the pen, Mr. George Bancroft, philos- 
opher, historian, and now ambassador. 
The servant conducted me at once into h» 
sanctum. He was not there; he would 
come immediately; but great books 
crammed with learning were everywhere, 
on the floor, on the table, and covering 
the walls. While I waited trembling, 
some scientific apparitions floated down 
from the books on the wall, and with 
overwhelming menace and soom de- 
manded to know who it was that consid- 
ered herself one of their august guild ? 

Upset, flustered, aggravated, astounded, 
and horrified, I replied breathlessly, *' Ob, 
please, it was me^ but I will never do it 
again ; " as the poor little urchin an- 
swered, with his soared eyes upon the up- 
lifted whip, when his school-ma'am, rear^ 
ing suddenly up at him like a boa con- 
strictor, hissed out, " Who made the 
world?" 

You may suppose that my imagination 
concocted the above-mentioned and &itb- 
fully recorded ghosts, and perhaps you 
are right, as doctors and other supposers 
are— now and then. 

My heart was still beating violently 
with my ghostly fright, when a tall, slen- 
der, dignified man entered, and with grave 
courtesy inquired my errand. 

I gave him the petition, and steadied my 
voice to say that I came to him first be- 
cause he v^as so great. 

But would you believe it? He read it 
carefully, and rrfused to sign! then, with 
serious but perfect politeness, he waited 
upon me to the outer door. 

Here was an unexpected and tremendous 
hitch in the programme ! As I walked 
along Fifth Avenue in the broad sunshine, 
two big rel)ellious tears rose from the bit- 
ter well of vexation arid du^ppointment in 
my heart, and overflowed at my eyes. 

** It will all end in smoke," I said. 
** I might as well give it up and go home, 
and have the comfort of a good cry." 

Ujme I wont, and cry I did ; when tho 

uigiiizea oy ^^jOOV Iv: 



1871.] 



SIGNATURE-HUNTING. 



257 



^ood man who only asks me to ** obey " 
him when