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'" JUNE i JULY, 1898. No. aj. 



H. A. Hogg' 


7 h M. DENT & ca 

Cfj^ ^ * ^ * ^* 

V.5^^ -t.^^ '^Pf^'-^'i NOVELS. 

™^«XtJ?t^^^. VISIT. By H. G. Wk^h, „««,, 

tin T^miMmmtmJttm 11 V;^ • • . 


'^''^'!^^V±t±:i,^^:^.s^^^^ th. 



SmiNOTON. ThW edition, Crovhi ftSfs. ^*^*^" '^™"' 

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THE MASTER BEGGARS, a i,*n«r .# 4u «r 

*r '* *■ • thrilling romance, admiiably writtm »nJk .Mti«i- *. . 

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OMigiud h H. S. Fmgtl. 

Dtdgmd ty Hmri Qnut. 

THE QUARTER LATIN, published ontfl 

recently u a mid-monthly, Appears — beg^inning: 
with the October number — on the first of each 

ArrangementB have been 

made for binding the issuei 


Latin (July, 1896— June, 1897). 

The vDlume ia bound Jn 

reversed clotti, covered with 

. design t>y Mr. Alfred Jones, 

Linped in gold, who tias also 

le the title-page decorations, 

The natural deckle of the 

:r is preserved, but the top of 

book is trimmed and gilded, 

by special binding the silk 

iB are kept in each copy. Id 

arrangement of the pictorial 

srtisements, monthly covers, 

etc., great care has been taken to render the volume as 

handsome and attractive as possible. With this end 10 

view the difference between the price for covers, on the 

one hand, and for covers and binding, on the other, has 

been cut down as much as possible, to encourage our 

subscribers to have their binding orders go through us, 

our binder having particular instructions regarding the 

make-up and paging of the volume. 

For binding purposes, the copies of the first year (July, 
1896 — ^June, 1897) must be sent. Return carriage will 
be paid by us. 

i. 4. 
Cover 4 o 

Cover and binding ... 4 6 

(Co^e* to be tent nt in good cmidition.) 
Volume complete (cover, binding, copies, etc.) to 

THB PLOUOHMAN Drawn by Q. O. Onion* 

Vhe @uartier Icatin 

Vol. V JUNE & JULY, 1898 

No 23 



Ftottd arch, upreared to him of mazikind first t 
Thou clarion voice of Ansterlitz's story I 
Even like the sudden and the bright sunburst 
That poured its splendour on his triumph gory— 
On the red field— the fight— his foes dispersed— 
Thou and the tale upon thy mcurble versed, 
Dajszle the heart. Till Time himself grows hoary 
Here shall man's soul m wonderment immersed 
Thrill at the record of his quick- winged glory. 

About thee circle palaces— the fane 
Of his CflBsarean line ; and yonder looming 
A nobler arch I— but built like thee in vain ; 
For, hark I the guns of Waterloo are booming ; 
And on Sedan thy foiled Mars sinks again ; 
(After the conqueror's crown the captive's chain I) 
These are thy Nemesis— and disgrace thee, dooming 
Thy stones to front yon shaft of shame, where rain 
A people's tears to mock at thine assuming. 

T. W- 


An old NeapoUtan proverb readi, ** Good men are ae rare 

as wkUeflUi." 

CHOLMOKDELET dubbed his picture of ber <* Tbe 
Model of the Tear," and received a Honourable 
Mention in conBequence thereof. He said ehe 
dcBerved the reward; that a woman ''who could hold 
her own as she had for a whole year in Bohemia by rig^t 
of beauty deserved the property of others." Me had 
painted her as Spring, only a twist ol rose silk about her 
supple loins; a rose of deeper hue was stuck daringly 
among its folds. Her head was thrown back as though 
drinking its fill of the sunshine above, which fell in great 
yellow necks about her hair, and down one side of her 
usBome body until the ray slanted off into the grass and 
was there lost to view. Such a subject 1 Such lifel 
One could almost hear it throbbing in her veins. Such 
warmUi of tint — ^the deepest shades in a Guido Beni! 
She was symmetry itseli. Other models possessed a 
pretty turn of the ear, perhaps ; or a line of beauty in the 
torse; or a suggestion of grace in the curve of the nostril. 
But her beauty lay in every feature, and was, like 
Cleojpatra's, infinitely various. 

We all agreed, quite ignorantlv, to paint her from our 
individual point of view — and thus each tell her story 
after his own fashion. 

Baymond*s version of her I remember. He named it 
" A Child of Nature." It represented her as she seemed 
the night we had made her acquaintance. Duval had 
brought her down to the Bullier, protesting and molest- 
ing, fighting savagely against his arms; and had 
triumphantly thrown her into our midst after the 
high-handed manner that obtains in Boul* Mich' society. 

We had, then and there, gathered about her, and 
gradually evolved from the mass of quaint rags in which 
she was enveloped a head, and face, and finally a form 
which made us draw our breath ! 

We were merciless. She meant art to us. Alas I the 
heart falls out too often in these matters I The fact of 
her being a woman was no consideration to our unruly 
souls, except as a means to our end. Had we stopped to 
think at all we would have argued that boisterous aomira- 
tion and rough interest were little short of insult and 
cruelty to this friendless child. 

Baymond had painted her against a background 
positively sinful in its impotence to frame her as she 


deserved. A few glaring gas lamps ; boards for a floor ; 
a raised platform for musicians ; the stndent world in a 
little cluster at the back, looking on. In their midst, the 
girl: warm, glowing, vicious; her eyes blazing; her 
tiny, pearly teeth showing ; her perfect arms rai^ in a 
gesture of menace. Alive, so vividly, vitally alive that 
we shouted for joy I 

Then and there, at the Bullier, she had danced for us. 
She was straight from the Pyrenees, we learned later, 
and as ardent a child of blood and sinew as the sun ever 
warmed into womanhood. I remember that night, her 
supple body turned and tossed before us like a leaf before 
a storm. 

"When she had finished, perhaps our eager young faces 
had startled her; she stopped, suddenly, with a little, 
low moan, and covered her face with her hands. 

Sturgis stood on one side during the dance. I had 
seen him start as she entered, as though he could not 
believe in her perfection ; then his head had sunk on his 
chest a little, and he had, at a distance, devoured her 
with his eyes. But when she lifted her little hands like 
that, the colour rushed in a purple flood to his face, the 
veins in his forehead swelled up, and he strode for- 
ward and dispersed us like a band of young vultures. 
" Wretches," he had muttered, angrily. " Get out 
of this I Can't you see she's only a cluld ?" 

And Sturgis never painted her. She had run wild in 
the Quarter, the enfant gdtie of the year ; as noted for 
her escapades as for her wild grace, and her ardent young 
spirits. She was at the head of the wildest freaks, the 
arbiter of our youthful destinies for the time being, and 
she governed us by right of her matchless young Mauty 
like the siren that she was. 

To-night, however, she was in a strange mood. We 
had halted after a night spent in drinking, and carousing, 
at the Vachette, and she was leaning forward on the 
table, her lips wan, her eyes hollow, her slender, supple 
hands stretched out before her. 

Sturgis, who somehow always managed to be about 
where she was, albeit he seldom accosted her, sat with 
his chair tilted up against the dirty wall, his hat fallen 
over his eyes, apparently auite asleep. He was a man 
of gigantic frame, with a lion's head and genius of the 
first order, but so morose that we all rather feared than 
liked him ; although we ranked his approval as a thing 
worth working for. 


Raymond sat with a toothpick between his teeth, 
reading a Quarter paper, La Plume; two or three 
Italians^ a Spaniard, and four Greeks were playing 
baccarat at the end of the room — the talkative Greeks 
explaining why their countrymen had not taken Con- 
stantinople in the recent war. 

Suddenly the girl broke the silence with a low sigh. 
I looked at her and started, she looked so ill. Her par- 
lance was a picturesque mixture of Italian, Spanish, and 
French, halUng and disconnected enough ; at times she 
would drop into broken English mixed with argot — 
which made us nearly die of laughter. She liad a 
wonderful knack for languages, and could chat fluently 
with any foreigner in the Quarter. 

'* DiUa 1 " she said to me, leaning forward suddenly, 
with a swift glance across her shoulder at Sturgis, and 
then around the room, and then back again to me, '* I 
like to know wat ees a perfec' zing ?" 

The question seemed so odd, coming from her, that 
although aware of her sudden change of manner, and 
filled with an absolutely ungovernable apprehension in 
regard to her which I could not define, I lauffhed. 

She frowned darkly. "You lafif," sne sneered, 
bitterly, her splendid eyes measuring me contemptuously, 
**maM avec qaf B&ponds to me my question," im- 
periously. She was accustomed to my obeying her. 
'* You've put a pretty difficult problem," I argued. 
" Yes," she assented, idly ; then feverishly, *' Answer 
me queek." 

'* What makes you ask ?" I demanded. 
She seemed to recognise at once that until she com- 
plied with my peremptory demand I would not give her 
satisfaction. She seized, like all her race, a hint on the 

Again she turned and cast a wary glance over her 
sho^der. There was no doubt Sturgis slept. Ghol- 
mondeley had joined the baccarat table. Raymond was 
laughing uproariously over some tale of Duval's. 

Her face paled still more as once again she turned 
towards me, and shoved her chair a little nearer mine. 

" He," she muttered, suddenly, pointing to Sturgis, 
" wy spiks he nevair to me ? Wy has he nevair paint 
me ? Instead he waits toujours, like zis." In an instant 
she had lowered her head, folded her arms, and was look- 
ing at me with Sturgis's morose, heavy gaze. 

*' Oh, he," I retorted, lightly, ** he scarcely can be said 
to be one of us. He will be a great painter some 
day, sure and lasting. He is studying you, that's all. 
You should consider yourself highly honoured." 


As if she had not heard me, she returned teasingly to, 
lier former question ; moving close to me this time, and 
laying her hand upon my knee. Her breath was warm 
and fragrant, like not spices. The dusk of her hair, 
lying along her cheek, reminded me of velvet against 
satin. The radiant youth in her permeated my axtistic 
senses until everything she was throbbed in my unruly 
veins like a sledge-hammer. She stirred us all tifiat way. 
We never tired laudins her manifold perfections, while 
she looked on and laughed her mischievous, childish peal 
of bells. 

"Wat ees eet ? " she murmured, peevishly, "tell me '* 
— with a push — " a perfec * zing ? " 

•* But, why do you ask ? " 

"]Scoute$/ To-day I go to zee Galerie des Champs 
£lys^8 to see my portrait. Michel tell me zay write 
of eet een zee papairs. I had see eet k Tatelier- 
Chohnondeley's. I desire to see eet along zee galerie 
wall. J^entre. I never see so much peeps; nevair so 
much reech women, comme dea ^iewn ; an* mens, cqmvM 
du vin du hon ! Zee trees outside wair all over wite wit 
blossom. L'oAT itmt douxt doux. Ten iiais ivre . . . 
et une foule assomcunie. My head reel. I dimb an 
e$ealier. Splendidef I push tro*. It seem to me I 
walk des hUombtrea. Tout d coup my eyes seize mon 
portrait. The 8alle was itouffante. The ceiling? 
Citait glass. Zee sun shined f&roce on eet like zee 
sun wich shine ovair my mountains at 'ome. Quelle 
chaUwr I " She checked herself suddenly. A grey pallor 
spread from the roots of her hair to her chin. 

I pushed a hock across to her. She refused it, 
pettishly, apparently fearful I should interrupt her flow 
of thought. 

'* Zay stand before me,*' she continued, " all zat grand 
crowd. I leesten to wat zay say. tPen avals le coeur 
gros I Ugh 1 Zay tell heestories of me. 'Ow I run 
wile een zee Quarter. Zen a beauteeful lady comes een 
a wonderful silk robe. Zair wair crowds of mens about 
her— JlAnewrs — houleva/rdi&r$f comme fen conna/ie trop. 
Zee listen to zair hhigue, to leurs protestations comms si 
tout cela itait vrai ! Tawrais pu lui dire le eontraire. 
Zee wair pitite, mads douce — douce commie le muguet aux 
luUles wn mati^ du printemps. When zee come before 
my portrait zee stand much time, and look. Zen zee 
cry, *0w fair and beauteeful a chile, Freycinet. Who 
ees zee ? 

" Freycinet he lafif a leetle. ' Bomanesque as ees 
usual, Germaine.* He mock at me. * Zat ees zee model 


of zee year. A paragon, no doubt. Qu'ett-ce-que cela 
veut dire — a fcuragon V* wistfully, " Her eyes wair blue 
comme des vtoleties. He 'ad mocking ones. She gaze 
at 'im. tPai vu v/n agnectu donner v/n coup dceil pa/reii 
d $a mort" reflectively. " * How you scoff,' zee zay, * air 
YOU nevair done wid laffing at ze world, Baoul? Oh, 
if zis beauteeful leetle chile could only be here in wicked 
Paris, zat pearl of great price, a perfeo' zing?* But 
Baoul he turn to talk wid some ozzer person. Her hand 
hang by her zide. Je Vai scmie et keesed eet zen, 
monsieur. I could not *elp eet. I zay trds s&ricuseTnent, 
staring up at her, * Oh madame, tell me wat ees zat, a 
perfec* zing ? * 

"Zee start. Zee look eento my face. Zee stroke my 
hair. Zee smile so sweet, so kind, I tink zee sweetest 
smile a/u monde entier. 

t( 1 ^y QQ^ yoy^^ chilc,' zcc whecspalr. Zen zee ask 
my name. I could but ansair, ' I am zee model of zee 
year.' I say, slowly, and very clear, ' in zee Quartier zay 
call me Phryn^." 

'* Zee start back zen, monsieur, and such a look grow 
een her face of pain and grief 1 I stoop to kees her hand 
once more. It seem to me je hd cuoom fmt bien du mal ; 
I knew not *ow. 

*^ Encore zee lay her hand upon my hair. * And you 
would know wat eet ees — a perfec' zing,' zee say. 
* Pauvre enfcmt V 

** We stand an' talk zair hum dw tempg. Tout a coup 
zee group nous approcJiait, Men conune des prmces, 
so tall, so grand, rings on zair fingairs and chains a 
havers zair breasts. 

'* * Go, chile," zee wheespair. Zee push me from her. 
Zee force a card eento my hand. Zee say, ' Come to me 
to-morrow.' Wee| zee tell me, croyez vous, what ees 
a perfec' zing?" 

But I did not answer. I had fallen into a brown study. 
I was asking myself, bitterly, why this woman of fashion, 
to gratify a momentary whun, sought to stir this child's 
conscience? A woman's trick, I thought, angrily, to 
suppose a soul where none exists. After a Uttie I roused 
myself. I lifted my gaze, and fastened it again, a little 
curiously, on the girl before me. Never before had I 
searched for the woman in her as I did to-night. We had 
taken her young animalism for granted. I could not tell 
why, unless by force of environment. One searches no 
more for soul in the Latin Quarter than for a diamond in 
a dunghill. (So thought I then in my assuming ignor- 
ance.) I shook myself finally, and rose. " Then you go 


to her to-morrow ?" I qaestioned. To my intense 
astoniBhment I found myself awaiting anxiously her 

" Demaifiy^ she replied, firmly, as though registering a 
T>w. I think her will and her purpose were bom t£at 

* Xc * 

I never learned the upshot of that famous interview* 
She never told it to me. I only knew she changed from 
that on. She was no lonffer the reckless thing we had 
known, but a Ustless, half -m child, with a tired smile, and 
sad eyes. The beautiful face grew thin and peaked ; she 
startled us now and then with the most unexpected 
queries. We tried to cha£f her out of them to no purpose. 

The only vivid feature that remcuned of her former 
fascinating personality was pain. 

One day she stood with Sturgis and me on the Quai 
Voltaire watching the boats steam up and down the 
Seine. It was bitter cold, and those little pleasure 
houses were stormily cutting their trembling way 
through the ice. 

Skurgis and I were playing off for an hour : ostensibly 
for rest ; in reality to see if we could not rouse the girl 
into some of her accustomed frolicsomeness. So much 
of her sweetness had been like the gambolling of an 
inconsequent kitten full of little pranks that it gave us 
real sorrow to see her so changed. 

Sturgis had a mainspring to his work — ^his mother, a 
winsome little lady with a sad, cameo-like profile, and 
gentle manners. She had never relaxed a wholesome 
hold upon her boy — a hold which, no matter how selfish 
and personal the devotion his comrades yielded to art, 
still was the stamina of Sturgis's inspired achievement. 

To him she was the one noblest being on earth ; the 
wise friend to be consulted ; the dread critic to be 
coerced or appeased; the omnipotent guide and shield 
against that dire enemy of art — self-indulgence. She 
took long trips in the East, and returned to Paris at 
intervals laden down with spoils, which she showered 
upon her boy. So wrapt was she in him that I feel 
convinced that his pictures were often as much the 
interpretation of her character and moods as of his own 
strong individuality. She had the purest eyes I ever saw 
in any human face. When she was not with Sturgis in 
person she was in sweetest memory. He was fond of 
saying he was ** half a pair of scissors without her." 

At the time of this story Mrs. Sturgis was abroad. 
Her quaint sayings and picturesque mannerisms none 


the leBS were part and paieel or om dailj lives, and we 
missed her aadl;. She was oa rue a quantity in the 
Latin Quarter as a monotaiD ash in a jungle. 

Stnrgis was painting like mad that winter. I never 
nntdl now had suspected him ot being able to do bait so 
well. A strange conception, his picture ; and powerful as 
strange — the legitimate school, however. There was 
ipote of that sort in those days than there is now, when 
every Hottentot, with his little idea, plunges in and 
seeks to float up stream, to win the rielatne of in- 
dividualimn in art. 

Storgis had named his punting, before it was fioiihed, 
" 'Twixt Fire and Sea." 

A ship, a graceful hulk such as one sees in acoieiit 
naval battles in Venetian waters. One aide of it wiifl all 
afire. The sea was dashing high over the other. We 
all wondered which element would predominate ; how 
Sturgis would consiimnuiite it. Curiously enough, he 
seemed at war with the idea himself. There an no 
words to describe the colour in it, nor the incompatable 
matttrioi it displayed. The ship itself appeared a 
vital thing, battling almost hopelessly with two terrible 
odverBariea. We could not tell what tortnre was 
storming it ont of old Sturgis. One day the canvaa 
would H red as blood, the ship — seen throurii the 
flame — ^bnt a vague shadow of its farmer self. The 
next the sea would have dashed its white-crested greeD 
over the canvas, and all bnt pat out the fire, the ship 
tosung like a frightened gull of gigantic size in tbs 
water's embrace. 

Oar studios stood side by side. One entrance served 
for the two. I knew every shade and grade of my 
neighbour's character, I thought in my egotistical yoong 
vanity: I learned later that living side by side with a 
man does not always invite soul exposure. 

Sturgis's hair silvered rapidly about the temples that 
winter, albeit he iuid barely turned five and thirty. 
Sometimes I perceived lines about hifl eyes which had 
never struck me before. He smoked and wrote many a 
night until dawn ; when day broke be would dash down 
bis pen, onl;f to seize bis brush again, with the first hist 
of the morning light that punters so cherish when they 
adore their woni as did this enthusiast. 

The girl saw all this too (somehow I felt it), but she 
said nothing. She regarded )iipi silently, often with 
a deep, questioning gaze I could not understand. " Apri4 
tout, art ees zee perfec' zing," she said to me one day, 
to my great amazement. 

Drtiirn by H. A. Hoyg 


• Ab we stood lomigiiig against the Quai (under the 
ehadow of tiie Institute of France), endeavouring to oatoh 
-our breaths, after a sharp encounter with the rain — 
which swished round the comer of the little crooked rue 
•de Sdne — some eaily dressed women passed us with fair, 
bright faces and soft, foreign voices. They glanced 
askance at her ; I wondered were they conscious of the 
intense beauty and illimitable pathos of her face ? At 
times the latter struck me so forcibly it almost made me 
cry out. 

As they passed she drew a long, tired breath, and said, 
very simply and slowly, as though offering an explana- 
tion for their rude staore, " They are een zee vrai : tu 


Sturgis turned instantly and looked into her face. 
" In the *vrai* what ?" he demanded. 

'* Zee tdl me,** answered the girl, dreamily, her lips 
paling a Mttle after a fashion of hers when she was very 
much in eaxnest, ** Zee tell me zair are two kind of 
women — ^zee women who are vn zee vrai^ and zee women 
like m^." 

The last was so low we were obliged to bend our heads 
forward to hear. 

'* Child,'* began Sturgis, his face furiously indignant. 
But she checked him, and continued : 

*' Zee tell me more,*' she said. '* Oh, don't blame her. 
Zee open zee way to much zat was beautiful ; to aU I 
nevair see before. Zee tell me I nevair feel zee real love 
if I cannot see zat zee love like mine weel nevair 'elp a 
man to do bees best. Only women like zose who pass 
us zair do zat." 

" She told you that r 

But again she stopped him, this time by laying a gentle 
hand upon his wrist — "Not zat zee mens air uways 
wort' zee loving. Zee say, oh, so sadly — c'Stmt triste d 
mov/riTf tu sais — ^ Mais when zee mens air wort' zee 
loving, my chile, zair ees zee one perfec' zing een life : to 
love zem well enough to leave zem eef eet must he. 
Sometimes zat ees zee only zing wich makes mens 
great.' ** 

For a moment she paused and shivered. She drew 
her thin shawl more closely about her. She went on, 
her voice like a low, monotonous wail, " I ask 'er, * Air 
zair zen so few good mens ? * Zee ansair, * Zair ees an old 
Neapolitan provairb, ** Good mens air rare as wite flies" 
— comrne des mouchea blanclies — tu ecouteeJ* Zen zee lay 
her hand on my hair, and tole me to remembair eet.' " 

"What utter nonsense," cried Sturgis, ironically. 


" you could have taught her more of life in an hour than 
she could preach to you in a week.*' He hit his lip, 
however, and frowned heavily. 

But the girl continued as though she had not heard 
him. *' I ask her 'ow I tell when a man is wort* loving ? 
Zee ansair, * When he fights for fame, mon enfant Fcone 
means more zan name. It means wat ze workair 
puts a coU een ordair to arrive A 90 per/eeHonner.' *' 

That night she came to his studio as he and I sat 
smoking our pipes hefore a meagre fire. 
She dropped in on us without warning to bid us 

Her tiny packet was in her hand. About her pretty 
dark head was knotted a soft^ellow, silk handkerchief. 

How we laughed at her. We used every means in our 
power to induce her to alter her decision. We coaxed, 
and teased, and commanded, and implored by turns, but 
she was firm. Sturgis grew pale and set about the lips, 
and his eyes were like pools of burning lava. He caught 
her little hands in his, but she snatched them away. 

She was her old, vivacious self that night, with a wild, 
almost unearthly, beauty in her vivid cheeks and lips. 
Her voice was sweeter than I had ever known it. Her 
supple, untamed grace had never been so apparent. More 
than ever she looked like a wild flower torn from its roots, 
and set in among our grey dingy walls. 

Suddenly she lifted the cloth from his canvas. 

It was all aflame 1 Hp must have painted like a 
raging demon since our return home from our walk of 
that afternoon ; when we had left it the predominating 
colour was of the sea ; the fire had been almost totally 
in abeyance. What did it mean to her untutored mind t 
She turned to him and smiled ; then burying her face in 
her hands, burst into tears. 

Sturgis had leaped forward and was gazing at her 
as though he could not believe his senses. 

** The child is mad ? *' he muttered between his teeth, 
but in his eyes lay a fierce, ungovernable joy. 

*' Zee lady tell me,** cried the girl, her face now white as 
driven snow, and lifted as though in an ecstasy of remem- 
brance, ** zair are deux chosen for wich the world calls 
women mad — * zee love of love for love's sake, or zee 
hatred of gold.' " llien very softly, she added, as if to 
herself, ''I mus* be mad." Sturgis stood as though 
tiurned to stone, his eyes devouring every line of her 
matchless figure and face. 


The door opened. A little old lady drifted into the 
room quite simply — one of those events which we take 
for granted in supreme moments, and wonder over, and 
name the " ingenuity of fate " later. 

Sturgis started forward as she entered, pity, protest, 
pasdon, power, working in his features. The new comer 
raiaed her hand. 

" She has said it all — ^the little one," vouchsafed this 
remarkable specimen of social propriety. She had 
caught the last words of the girl. Then, with a very 
pitiful look in the girl's direction, she held out her arms 
to Sturgis. 

He stumbled forward, and fell on his knees at her feet. 
Like a child at prayers he hid his fsuse in her dress. 

'* Sturgis, I trust," she murmured, *'that your mother's 
precepts— your birth — ^your name — ^your fortune will not 
permit you to 


The girl had stood spellbound mitil now, a great peace 
upon her beautiful face. Suddenly a vivid, palpitating 
horror grew in it as she took in the import of the words 
concerning her. 

"With a loud, uncontrollable sob she cried, sharply, 
" EUe ne comjprend pas. Oh, mon Dieu /" 

Then with tear-stained cheeks, but with a forced and 
conscious pride in her walk, eJie crossed the room; 
seized her Uttle packet in her trembling hands ; and was 

Sturgis had lifted his head and was gazing at her with a 
dull stare. As the door closed behind her he gave vent 
to a hoarse cry, reached his arms out vaguely, and fell 
like a log to the floor. 

His picture caused tremendous comment. It was the 
beginnmg of his ultimate fame. He altered the title of 
the painting, when, after three months' illness, in which 
he had raved like a maniac, and it had taken aU our 
united strength to nurse him and bear with his moods, he 
was well enough to set to work again. On the walls of 
the Salon it bore the title : ** Through Fhre and Sea." 

A stately diip, its sails frayed and burned, its timbers 
scorched as though from contact with a fire; great 
waves rolling mountains high behind it in the open ; 
ahcAd, a splendid dty, its spires glistening in the 
sunlight; the ship itself lying peacefully at anchor in 
plaoia waters — safe in harbour. 

Sturgis never married. He stands to-day at the head 
of his profession as fine a specimen of conscientionB 


effort, of niter self-abnegation in the cange of his life 
work as any arrvv4 that lives. 

He carries two women in his heart: his mother in 
behalf of whom he made his most gigantic sacrifice, 
without her knowledge; and the woman who, 
fignratiyely, laid down her life to save his. 

To broad and world- worn Stnrgis, they one and each 
are perfect things. 

Jbhmib Bullabd Watbbbubt. 


I loved thee once unto idolatry, 

And still I love, but in a different fashion ; 
Small comfort is it now, when thon art nigh, 

That changed in many growths is my love's passion ; 
For, with a love as woman's for her lord, 

Undoubting, never asking reasons why ; 
Or of fair mistress for a prince adored, 

Who in her love the lovelier grows thereby. 
So loved I, till experience of ill 

Made me distrust all virtue — woe is me ! 
And my poor heart disturbing doubts did fill. 

That till life's close shall scarcely cease to be. 
Still, whether trusting then, or doubting now, 
I'm linked with thee, but cannot tell thee how. 

Walter F. Smith. 


(a.d. 1789.) 

sweet indeed thy charms may be, 
Thine eyes than none less bright, 

And o'er thy brow the mantling glow 

Of love my kiss invite ; 
But I must scorn thy witchery, 

My fair Suzanne, to-night. 

Unwind thy soft arm from my breast ; 

My captive hand release ; 
Thou dost not reck what dangers beck 

Me from such bonds as these ; 
And ask not, little maiden, lest 

The words I speak displease. 

Suzanne, Suzanne, thy kisses stir 
My blood to madness — no, 

1 must not stay — away I away I 
Unhand me — ^let me go I 

I do not love thee — Jupiter I — 
Thou know'st how well I do. 

Yet I must from thy presence fly 
(Sweet love must yield to pride I) 

My steed awaits hard by my gates, 
My bark is on the tide ; 

Good bye, my little one, good bye I 
And God with thee abide 1 

A moment — well, and see here is 

My farewell gift to thee ; 
And now we part, sweetest heart, 

So rise up from my knee ; 
Ha, but thy violence is amiss I 

Suzanne, what may this be ? 


Thon triflest with my love, until 

Thon'dst Beal thy lover's fate ; 
Hear*Bt thou yon shout of rage without ? 

Yon cnrses winged with hate ? 
Why smil'st thou thus — ^why stay'st me still- 

Thou mock'st me, wench — ^too late ! 

They come, and still thy tightening grasp 

Is round my throat — now 
I see thy wiles — ^I know the smiles 

That wreathe thy harlot brow ; 
Thus do I rend thy coils — ^thou asp ! — 

And trample thee below. 

Too late I ye hated rabble, here 

Behold your traitress slain ; 
Now take my blood, base-bom brood. 

And see 'tis quickly ta*en, 
For by St. Paul, the sword I wear 

Shall not be drawn in vain. 

Down, slave I — d toi I — well hit, I say ; 

And Jean I — ^pray, is this well ? 
See here where lies with staring eyes 

Thy daughter ? Gan'st thou tell 
How long 'twill take thy soul (Umchi I) 

To follow her to hell ? 

But zounds — ^ye press me closer — ^what I 

I'm wounded. On my life, 
A butcher struck the blow. Ah luck, 

To die in this base strife. 
Slashed, slaughtered — I, the Comte d'Enfrotte, 

By a cursed butcher knife. 



Oy HE eyes of the sleepy little Breton village were 
Qp -winking and blinlong, and the coif-like roofs 
of the hoases gleam^ white in the moonlight, 
almost seeming to flutter as they were lazily fanned by 
the warm smnmer breeze. Oat of the shadow came 
the figores of a man and girl, who sauntered by 
slowly and reluctantly, for they were taking their last 
walk before parting, perhaps, for ever. She rested lightly 
on his arm as he said, looking down on her with a grave 
smile, *'Are you accustomed to take what does not 
belong to vou — tell me, Margery ?" He pressed her 
hand a littie closer to his side, while his thoughts flew 
fax away to a distant land — ^to one who was waiting 
for him — ^who was not accustomed to take what was 
not her own. With a pang he realised that the memory 
he had once cherished in his heart so fondly had grown 
dim and pale, and that the dainty summer girl at his 
side had in some subtle and mysterious way become 
dangerously dear to him. How had it happened ? 

She, too, thought of the girl-wife far away. Then 
she mused on the happy summer they had spent 
together — ^the pleasant hours, the walks and talks. Her 
heart beat fast, and she caught her breath as she said to 
herself, **Am I taking what does not belong to me ? Am 
I robbing her ?" 

Slowly they walked on in the moonlight, the dark hill- 
side, fringed with tall trees, rising silhouetted against the 
sky, while the gleaming, glistening river rippled at their 
feet. After some moments she looked up at nim timidly, 
and said, *' In a garden watched over by a loving heart 
and tender hands grew a beautiful rose. A happy voice 
cried, 'It is mine. It blooms for me. Its roots are 
growing in my garden, and its petals unfold one by one 
only for me.* But an artist coming that way saw the 
nodding rose's head bending over the wall, and with 
his deft pencil caught its wild ^[race and glowing colours, 
imprisonmg it for ever on his canvas, saying, ' It is 
mine; it grows for me.* Then, in like manner,'* she 
continued, " a dusty bee, buzzing lazily in the sunshine, 
hiunmed, ' The rose is mine ; it blossoms for me,* and 
tumbled right into its blood-red heart, powdering its 
legs with gold, and finding there that which neither 
the maiden nor the artist saw nor eared for. And the 
maiden was not robbed.'* 



**Ah, yes" he said, "I must commend your pretty 
thought ! But don't say a rose, nothing so exquisite 
as that 1 Call me a weed or a creeper. Yes, that's it, a 
creeper, whose roots are planted in a garden, but whose 
branches have strayed away over the wall, and are 
hanging with their red blossoms tossing idly in the 
wind. The soil in the garden, perhaps, is too rich, too 
well tended, and the wild vine in consequence grows rank ; 
and its long branches seek the imtranmielled freedom 
outside the wall. You know," he went on, " it is the 
nature of some vines to wander awav from the hooks 
and bands that endeavour to confine them, and to freely 
fling about their blossoms, courting thus the kiss of the 
breeze, and the visits of the butterflies and bees." He 
longed to say, ** Take the gold from my heart, it is all 
yours. I live only for you," but he dared not, for he 
remembered how that the vine was still nourished in the 
garden, and thought of the loving heart that was still 
watching over it, and he suspected also that the artist 
and the bee, as are their natures, often hie off, spoil- 
laden, to other beauties and other flowers, forffetful of 
the charm they have used and robbed. So he only 
sighed, and touched her fair, young cheek with his 
hand — ^but, O, so lightly. "Yes, your thought is very 
beautiful, quite up to date. But a literary girl like 
yourself, Margery, must be full of such sweet fancies." 

Eathabinb a. Smith. 

By G. O. 

*- IcH Glaube nub Gott tehsteht unseb Mttsik." 

HEBMANN proposed we should finish up the evening 
at the jovial brasserie, where the Master once 
took his daily bocJc. After three years of 
separation we had come across each other in the street, 
drawn by mere accident and by our mutual love of 
Wagner to Bayreuth for the same occasion. 

In old days we had been hand and glove ; over our 
art we had raved together, argued together, practised 
together, and struggled together — over our frivolities we 
had also been at one; we had '* frivolled " copiously 
together, and to our mutual satisfaction. But for three 
years our paths had lain apart. Americsui dollars had 
tempted him away from Paris, and something more 
romantic had lured me back to London. It was to this 
something that Hermann alluded when we had ensconced 
ourselves in a comfortable comer. Among the crowded 
tables we found a privacy nearing on BoUtude ; for the 
atmosphere was veiled with dense douds of tobacco- 
smoke, and the sound of our voices was lost in the clatter 
of beer mugs and the peals of laughter which greeted the 
sallies of the younger customers, or the smart repartees 
of the buxom Hebe, who plied her way among the 
gallant and thirsty throng. 

" I heard of your marriage, old man," Hermann said — 
*' and marvelled — I expected to see you again as a sober 
old paterfamilias with grey hair I" 

** It's all off," I said, draining my mug to check the 

"What I The hair? Tou've got a stunning crop 

'* Don't joke, man — the thing's too serious." 

Hermann's face fell at sight of mine. I saw he was 
burning with curiosity, and that he expected to be en- 
lightened; but when you've lost sight of a fellow and 
lived through the three worst years of your life without 
meetine hirn, it's hard to lay hold on the first meshes 
that led to the tangle in your affidrs. 

** I'd like to tell you all about it. It would be a relief 
to me — ^but I can't. I can't, because, to explain matters, 
I must either seem to lay the blame on Fauvelle or on 
myself. But the long and the short of it is, we are 
separated. We separated after six months, and we've 
learnt to ' gang our ain gait,' as the Scots say, and very 
comfortably — ^yes, for the last two years." 


Had we reallj, I wondered. Had I known an hour, a 
moment of real comfort sinoe the accursed day when 
Fauvelle had betaken herself to her mother's house ? 
And was she happy ? Might she not, after all, have 
found her husband, bad as she thought him, to be better 
than the petty saintlings of her poHte world, where vice 
and virtue are too shallow for a dive either way ? I think 
Hermann must have read the disturbance of my thoughts, 
for he said : 

<* We can always persuade ourselves we are comfortable 
in any circumstances, if we try long enough. We all can 
drop into the hog instinct of contentment, but it*s more 
difficult to rise to a divine discontent, and insist on 
having something better. Just think where we artists 
would be if we were without that divine discontent ? 
Why, directly I'm inclined to be pleased with myself, 
I know I'm mentally going to pot. If, therefore, you're 
contented to part with a pretty wife — she's pretty, I'll be 
bound 1 — I'll bet there's something rotten in the State of 

" Well, if you will have it so^I wiU confess — I'm not 
content ; not a bit content. I've written her letters — 
heaps of letters, raving, cursing, cringing — oh 1 I've 
travelled from the Gommination Service to Swinburne, 
made myself thoroughly ridiculous on paper, but she 
hasn't read a word. Returned everything unopened. 
She'll have none of me I " 

** A woman at the bottom of it, of course ? " said 

" No new one. You remember Thelalia ? You know 
she threw me over for Mings, the fat stockbroker, and 
married him ? Well, she took it into her head to write 
to me as if I was incurably in love with her still. I hadn't 
seen her since my marriage ; and she must have done it 
out of sheer cussedness." 

'* You could have explained that stupid Uttle episode." 

^' So you would think ; but you don't know Fauvelle ; 
you don't know FauveUe I She is all Uf e and fire and 
emotion, a bubbling fount of sentiment and poetry ; I 
can't make it dear to you because you must know the 
individual to understand. If you could see her you'd 
believe how readily art, with her for its priestess, could 
become a religion to a man. To describe the serene 
depth of her eyes, one would need all the eloquence of 
your Muse. Has it ever struck you how crude are 
literature and painting in comparison to music ? They 
both set as their highest task the imitation, the 
reproduction of what is before us in nature, the 


faithful repetition of only the real and the ewistvng, 
while music is absolutely creative ; it gives birth to 
the unspoken, the untranslatable, the unoopyable. 
Music conjures up the vibrating thrill of a blush, the 
choking throb of a teaf — ^you can't put them down in 
black and white any more than you can put in words, 
before the one you love, the essence of your soul's 
sincerity. I met her once ; I might have spoken to her, 
but it was just this — the fadlure of words to express my 
desolation. Words froze on my tongue, for she seemed 
suddenly to have become " 

'* Pride, pride, pride," broke in Hermana, "and 

" Her lack of faith t " I retorted, hotly. 

*< Faith may move mountains, but it doesn't ffild the 
idol's clay feet," said Hermann, lapsing into his old habit 
of argument, as though we had parted but yesterday in 
the Latin Quarter. 

" It does," I affirmed ; " or, if not, it accepts them, at 
least, as symbolical that nothing here below can be com- 
pletely Godlike and golden. You remember the boy who 
was gilded all over to represent Cupid and died in conse- 
quence of choked pores? Well, I always think that 
humanity, when it gets entirely hidden with an artificial 
coating of excellence will share the same fate as the 

Hermann laughed. And here the dosing of the 
brauerie was announced. 

" I'm afraid it won't be in our time," he said, rising 
and preceding me into the moonlight while he discoursed 
in his half merry, half cynical fashion till we reached my 

The next day when he joined me at the midday t€ible 
d*h6te he did not again mention the sore subject of my 
marriage, and, in the broad daylight, I was glad to forget 
my annoyances. 

There was something soothing to my fretted soul, 
not only in the sleepy charm of the quaint town as it 
dozed amongst the picturesque hills, but in the mvsterious 
tranquillity of the atmosphere. The simple tomb of grey 
granite, the garden and its bushes of hlac and arbutus, 
which mark the resting place of the Master, on these a 
holy cabn seemed to brood, and it pervsbded every comer 
of the locality. I felt as if the spirit of the great Dead 
floated wide- winged over the whole region. To my ear, 
as we wound our uphill way to the Opera House, even 
the rustle of the leaves of the chestnut trees sounded 
more hannonious and musical in their gentle whisperings 


because of the hallowed influence that prevailed. At the 
expression of these sentiments some might scoff, but that 
Hermann echoed tiiem in his heart I felt convinced with- 
out asking. For us the illusion was not even dispelled by 
the murmurs and animation of the concourse of German, 
French, English, and Italian pilgrims that was also 
mounting to the great shrine, on foot and in ramshackle 
vehicles of divers sizes and shapes. Observing and listen- 
ing, we proceeded in a dreamy mood in whidi reverence 
and romance were wedded. We decided to prolong our 
walk in the open air as long as possible, for our seats at 
the Opera, taken at different periods, and months in 
advance, were situated far apart ; and Hermann, imme- 
diately after the performance, was going off by night 
train, and might not come across my path for years. It 
was in speaking of his future engagements that he again 
made reference to my misfortunes. 

" I hope when we do meet I shall find you all right 
again. Fixed up somewhere, you know, with — ^with " 

'* Never 1" I afi&rmed, decisively. 

" Why don't you get someone to patch it up— some 
intermediary who'll make madame listen to reason." 

" It would be worse than useless. I'm fairly eloquent 
when put to it, but if I can't trust myself to speak to her, 
I can't trust my case in the hands of any third person. 
You see poor Fauvelle was brought up in a convent, and 
she expected to find me " 

" Tes, I know. It is that expectation that makes some 
girls so adorable." 

'* She doesn't understand that love, like taste, must 
be satisfied with the commonplace till it discovers the 
refined. She will not believe — ohl Hermann, it's no 
use explaining, for you wouldn't appreciate unless you 
could see her, that it would be impossible for a fellow to 
talk of another woman in Hie same breath with her I" 

Just then from the corner of the great porch the 
trumpets pealed out, calling Hie faithful to their worship 
of the prophet. The vast crowds filed into the building 
while Hermann and I, not without a touch of melancholy, 
lingered over a few parting words. He was the first soul 
to whom I had revealed my troubles since these days of 
my second bachelorhood had been forced upon me, and 
now I felt the advantage of having unpacked my con- 
science ; and a certain satisfaction in having wmnff the 
hand of a friend who knew the worst of me, and dia not 
think me half such a brute as I had grown to think 

While we were thus lingering, Hermann was accosted 


Drown by QUbnt Jaat* 


by a Frenchman, a notable one, witJi whose face I was 
familiar, owing to its continual reappearance in illustrated 
journals. I stood aside, then walked backward and 
forward, waiting till he should go, but longing to listen, 
for the Frenchman excited my curiosity. He was making 
some remarks about the opera, and it was the tone of 
these that caught my ear as I passed and attracted me. 
There was in his voice the devout note which is to be 
found in the voice of the true musician when he mentions 
his art, a note that was infinitely soft, though clearly to 
be distinguished among the polyglot chatterings of the 

"He holds the four winds of the Emotions in the 
hollow of his hand," he was saying. *' Though the pen of 
the UtUraieti/r should fail, though the voice of the preacher 
shall fall on^deaf ears, there will yet be Wagner to speak 
to the immortal soul, and tecush it of what quality it is." 

Hermann, quoting Goethe somewhat sententiously, 
said, " Where language ends, music begins, eh ? " 

But the Frenchman interrupted him : 

"Ah ! I think your poet meant that music will begin 
to speak to your veins, to intoxicate your blood, or soothe 
the frenzy of your passion, but, for me, I should say it is 
music that gives illumination to our psychical darkness, 
calls aloud to the Unknown that dwells in the comers 
and the depths of our soul, and it is by the answer of 
that Unknown we prove ourselves to be the Sons of 
God ! " 

I passed the Frenchman, nodded to Hermann, and 
withdrew. I was in no mood for a controversy. In 
other circumstances I should have hailed with joy a 
debate on the ethical element in abstract music; but 
ethics and philosophy had lost their interest now that I 
had perceived their powerlessness to impart peace and 
gladness into the dismal prospect of my disappointed 

My loitering had made me a little late, and I hurried 
into mv seat just a moment before the doors were closed, 
and while there was Ught enough to mark in my score 
one or two bars which I wished particularly to study. 
Then the huge building was reduced to silence, and 
darkness prevailed. 

There was a wondrous hush — solemn, almost breath- 
less, as when a high priest at an altar kneels alone and 
prays. It seemed as though in the awful stillness the 
unseen presence of the Master rose up majestically in act 
to speak. 

The music began, floating out from the concealed 


orcheska, like the incantationB of a magician. Then 
the crimson curtains opened wide and disclosed the 
first act of Tristan and Isolde. A rustle of silk from my 
neighbour on the right was somewhat disturbing, but 
presently even that ceased, or it ceased to worry me, so 
spellbound did I become in music, and story, and singing. 
But at the end of the first scene, in spite of my interest in 
the music, a strange unrest seized me, and I could not resist 
attempting some sideway glances at the neighbour whose 
personality roused my curiosity. A strange presentiment 
unnerved me. I longed to turn quite around, but this 
action towards one so immediately at my elbow savoured 
of the brusque, the impertinent. Instead, my eyes fell 
on the small, ungloved hand that la^ on the young 
woman's lap, and with a strange thnll of emotion I 
observed on the third finger, over a wedding circlet, a 
ring faced with two little hearts in diamonds, the fac- 
simile of one which had been presented by me to Fauvelle 
on our engagement. The little emblem — ^the design, 
I beUeve, is common enough — fascinated me, and I 
watched for a movement of the fingers to see if the nails 
were opal-pink, fine-pointed, and of Parisian delicacy 
and daintiness. Yes, in a few moments, after some 
tremulous, lynx-eyed glances, I recognised the hand to 
be the hand of my wife — ^I knew for a certainty that 
close beside me, almost behind my shoulder, must be the 
fair face of the woman so dear to me and who should 
have been mine but for a foolish and desperate misunder- 

How the scenes of the opera proceeded I scarcely 

The music and the drama inseparably wedded flowed 
subtly on, while I almost lost count of my own identity, 
almost believed that in a dream I found myself seated 
again by the side of my beloved, taking my position for 
granted, as one in a dream is apt to do. It seemed a 
glorious delusion that I longed might never be broken, 
a delusion that took stronger and stronger possession of 
me as the familiar scent of lilac, her favourite perfume, 
mingled with my senses and carried me back nearer and 
nearer to the time when there had been no rift between 

Everyone knows the story of Tristan and Isolde. How 
Isolde invites Tristan to drink the cup of atonement for 
the sin of having slain her betrothed, and how, when he 
obeys, she resolves to share his fate, and snatching the 
cup from him drains it to the dregs. Then they stand 
gazing at each other mutely — stonily — while in the 


music and in their brains the horror of death contends 
with the exultation of martyrdom. They go on thus 
gazing and ffazing till slowly, gradnally, the passionate 
defiance of dissolution changes, expands to the fiercer 
passion of love. For a love filter has unwittingly been 
substituted for the draught of death 1 What hsu3 happened, 
they themselves know not. Mutely thev press burning 
hands to their reeling brains, to tibeir ^robbing hearts. 
Is it intoxication? Is it delirium? Are they passing 
through the terrific depths of Hades, or entering on the 
divine heights of Elysium ? What mystery and marvel 
is this? The music bursts on, swelling, swaying, throb- 
bing like pulses quickening, and leaping with enchanted 
fires, tUl every fibre of being seems to thrill, to cry aloud 
with rapture at a glorious awakening. We breathe! — 
we live ! — we love I 

Spellbound by Wagner's enchantment, scarce daring 
to oraw breath, I msbde a slight movement of my right 
hand. There was a response. Without surprise, with 
only a quick-drawn gasp of joy and thanksgiving, I felt 
the touch of warm fingers on mine— clasping them with 
a soft, downward pressure, the pressure of trembling 
torust—of trust, imploring, hoping, pleading. 

I can remember little more of that wondrous moment 
of mental exaltation and reconciliatory soul- communion. 
It was a moment of rapture that has no parallel — and if 
recollection should serve, language still would fail me 
utterly. I only know that later on, as we strolled arm 
in arm under the avenue of chestnut trees, speechlessly 
staring out at the glow-worm lights of the little town, 
and thrilling in an ecstasy of unspeakable happiness, we 
came upon Hermann hurrymg to his train. 

He stopped abruptly, amazement graven in every 
feature of ms face. 

I left her for a moment and drew him aside. 

" That is Fauvelle," I only said. 

"What 1 Have you had an explanation ?" 

" No I" 

" Then, how the deuce did you " 

" Ask your Frenchman ! " I said, laughing from sheer 
exuberance of joy. 

And we left Hermann standing stock still in the road, 
an ungainly figure of bewilderment. 

Louis Cbbswiokb. 

Draain by J. J. Gutftrit 


Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, 
AVe are sure to find something blissful and dear, 

And that, when we're for from the lips we love, 
We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 

Q^ FENCER was an omnivorous reader. It did not 
iB) take him long to devour " Squaw Mouise,'* 
•^ " Told in the Hills," " Boots and Saddles," and 
any other literature he could lay hands on, bearing, 
however remotely, upon the country through which he 
had passed on his way West, or upon the region where 
he was now resting. But his heart was heavy. Neither 
the reading of books nor the study of nature served as a 
sufficient antidote to arouse his drooping spirits. He 
was desperately in love. Quite true, he had been in 
love many a lame before, but never in his life did he 
experience such an overwhelming sense of sadness as in 
those summer days when he tried to make holiday while 
the girl of his heart was four thousand miles away. 
So oppressed was he with love of the absent one, that 
he sought a short forgetfulness in the smiles of some of 
the frank, sweet girls who grow up with the loud, 
resounding music of the Pacific in their ears. He was 
not insensible to the lack of loyaJty which this implied, 
but his utter loneliness naade him desperate, and he tried 
to find some justification in Tom Moore's thought as to 
what makes life blissful and dear. 

Never before had Spencer seen so much rude health 
and wild sweetness among the women of America as 
he saw in the stately beauties of the West Coast. Hither- 
to he had believed that the blue-black tresses of the 
Irish maiden were far beyond compare, that the 
delicately tinted cheeks of the English girl were not to 
be surpassed, that the vivacious grace of the French 
mademoiselle was matchless, that the burning black 
eyes of the Spanish senorita were the only ones which 
made men sleepless ; and that the luxuriant lips of the 
Italian maid brought more joy and woe to man than those 
of any other land. But here on this far-off coast of the 
American continent nature seemed to have surpassed itself, 
and to have selected all that is admirable in the fair ones 
of foreign lands and condensed it with all that is exquisite 
in these American girls. Kathleen was fit to be a court 
beauty in any land, lone's Grecian face did not belie her 
Athenian name, Ada's chic was captivating, ^e hue of 


BoBalind*8 fanltilessly curved cheek, unmarred even by 
the faintest quiver, was the nearest possible approach to 
the tint of the wild rose, and so varied and complicated 
were the charms of Amelia that it were easier to de- 
scribe in words the cathedral of Milan. 


*' Far away I there is no far. 

Nor days nor distance e'er can bar 
My spirit from your spirit — nay, 
Farewell may waft a far away." 

Apart altogether from the fact that Spencer's far-ofiT 
sweetheart was always ravishingly gowned, Clara 
Constans would attract attention anywheife. She was 
very tall and very dark, so much so that her friends used 
to say she was black. Her abundant hair, richly waving 
over an agreeably low forehead, was not quite as dark as 
midnight, for it was of Spanish rather than of Irish hue. 
Her rich, warm lips were ripe and red. Her well-arched 
neck, her generously displayed bust, her faultless figure, 
her coal-black eves, her luxuriant mouth, her marble- 
moulded hands, her rounded arms, and her Hogarthian 
cheek, would appeal to any except such as have hearts 
as cruel as St. Kevin or St. Anthony. 

Clara's charms were developed almost to matronly 
proportions. Though still young she no longer formed 
the dinging friendships of ner early girlhood, and pre- 
ferred rather to look for a thrill. She exacted the most 
implicit obedience from those who attempted to pay 
court to her, and she ruled her admirers with a rod more 
despotic than any ever wielded by a Bussian Tzar over 
his wretched serfs. In spite of a certain appcurently cold 
stateliness of demeanour when she was in repose, her love 
was a fire, her jealousy a poison, her hatred a whirlwind, 
her vanities tyrannies, and her fancies passions. 

Almost every day brought a burning letter from Clara 
to the lovelorn Spencer. Am^e Bives writes of a hero 
whose " heart gives a hot leap along his breast to his 
throat, leaving a fiery track behind it as of sparks " ; and 
of another whose '* eyes went so deep into those of the 
heroine that she almost felt the warmth of that loving 
gaze." Yet this Virginian heat of the fair Am^lie's style 
is hardly fit to be compared to the perfervid glow of 
Clara Ccmstans's letters, so freighted were they with love. 
It seemed as though they bore some mesmeric power to 
steep Spencer's soul in overwhelming rapture. What to 


him were the great glories of clondless western sky and 
sparkling sea, of haunted glen and of leafy dale ; what 
cared he for the swish of the waters or the splash of the 
trout, or the warble of the wildbird, compared with the 
all-consuming delight to be deriyed from one of Clara's 
languishing letters ? She wrote to him to come back to 

** Come, Sidney, come back to me even if you can stay 
only a few days. These happy hours will be to me like 
sunbeams caught and imprisoned. You make me ache 
with longing. Do come, Mahomet. Come, 'tis the love- 
liest time of the year here, full of inherent possibilities, 
of hope, of promise, of sweet suggestiveness. Come, and 
let our love ripen with the season. 

** I am writing this in the semi-light of evening while 
the sky has befi;un to make its toilet for the night by 
drawing over the earth a cloak of grey with a crimson 
border ! 

" Every night since you went away I have cried myself 
to sleep. You have something with which to occupy 
your mind, but for me there is nothing to fill the void 
caused by our separation. I have so many things to tell 
you, all of which will be begun and ended with the 
phrase, * I love you.* " 

Every day the look of far-off fixedness in Spencer's 
eyes became more decided. Under the fiery influence of 
Clara's volcanic letters he coldly turned away from the 
bright gaze of the beautiful girls of the coast country, 
and he now felt that, for weal or woe, his heart was 
unalterably another's. Willingly would he obey Clara's 
command to come back could he make any vaUd excuse, 
but he had bade adieu to his Mends for a two months' 
absence, and he feared the terrible ordeal of the chaffing 
of the clubmen if he returned before. In spite of the 
unspeakable melancholy which oppressed him, he stiU 
had literary sense enough left, as Clara's letters poured 
in, to see the splendid force of the remark of him who 
wrote that if you want really good literature, break the 
mail boxes and read the love-letters of the ladies. He 
felt that if writers could only bring such warm enthusiasm 
to their work the golden age of literature might be 

Clara's imperious nature still further asserted itself, 
and her letters became more and more urgent. She 
wrote: "I do not mean to be fretful and selfish, but. 
oh 1 I want you so. I do not think you have caught 
more than a glimpse of that inland red of tenderness 
which lies so deep in my heart for you. Those first 


nights after you had gone away I sat oat in the silvery 
wonder of the moonlight till very late, and I knew your 
spirit would come hack to me, for my soul almost 
swooned in its hopeless longing to be with you. The 
clasp of your hand is more to me than all the pleasures 
of earth, for earth would hold no happiness for me if 
I thought that I should not again feel your caress. My 
love for you cannot be out of tune, for it ever sings to 
me with the sweetest harmony. You have asked me to 
write to you my every thought ; I have not done so 
lest I should startle you by my very intensity. I 
TO ME. In the past when I wanted to see you I 
went, though not always. But whenever the misery 
of separation had become so great that I could no longer 
bear it, then 'I wandered back again.*" 

Other letters came pouring in, from which the following 
are culled : 

"I have your photograph in a beautiful jewelled frame 
on my dresser, and I keep flowers always before it, deep 
blood-red roses which you love so weU. Thus I make 
you my divinity. I must be very heavily charged with 
humanity, else the flame- winged love I bear you would 
lift me to the clouds. And yet I am not satisfied with 
the word ' love.' It does not appear to me to express 
mv feelings towards you sufficiently well. They used to 
tell me at school that words are the vehicles of our 
thoughts, the means of extemating our ideas. I never 
knew before how wholly inadequate words are to tell the 
way I feel towards you. I want a word which will 
express an emotion the tenderest, the warmest, the 
truest, the dearest, the sweetest that ever a girl's heart 

** I always long to read your letters to some friend, 
sacred as they are to me. They are such masterpieces, 
it is a pity to destroy them ; I would as soon think of 
destroying a beautiful painting. If I should fall into 
the realm of eternal sleep, I wish you to see to it that 
all these letters are buried with me ; I want their ashes 
to mingle with mine." 

3|C * « 

** Do not accuse me of studied formalism. If there 
has been any sueh it is because of the rebound of my 
overwhelming eiffection for you. The first moment I 
met you in the hollow of the hill, under the beautiful 


shade-trees, I surrendered to discretion, or, more 
accurately speaking, without any discretion. I did not 
even attempt to defend my assaulted affections. I have 
but one kind of love for you, the old love. It is the 
kind of love that rushed to you when first I saw you. 
You and you alone are my being. Within your embrace 
lies the kingdom of my heart. Such as I have I give 
you — a heart overflowing with devotion and a boTmcUess 

* 9|e « 

'*Gome back to me. I want to put my arms 
around your neck and tell you how I adore you, how 
everything is heaven when in the sunlight of your 
presence, and chaos when you are absent. Oh, I am 
yours now and for ever ! Come back and lavish the 
wealth of your beautiful nature upon me. It will 
receive measure for measure. 'Tis true I have seen 
much of life, more than falls to the lot of most girls 
of my age, and this is why I love you so. Mine is 
not the vapid love of a school-girl. It is the outpouring 
of a woman*s heart pulsating with burning intensity. 
When you return, nothing but death shall ever again 
separate us, and then only for a short time. For whoever 
goes first will call the other ; that will be all-sufiGlcient, and 
then we shall love on and on through endless SBons." 


'* Oh, woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; 
And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, 
When he held you were but materials of pleasure. 
And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. 

By your heart, when the fond, sighing lover can wi n it, 
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; ^PZM 

But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute — 
If he live but a day he'll be surely betray'd." 

The fieiy phrases of Clara's correspondence burned 
their way into Spencer's soul. The thrilling incidents 
recalled by his cnats with Princess Angeline, daughter 
of the IncQan Chief Seattle, no longer had any attraction 
for him ; the matchless scenery of the coast country was 
lost upon him ; even the ponderous music of the Padfio 
grated upon ears now deaf to everythinff save the silvery 
tones of Clara's far-off voice. Unable to bear the 
melancholy of separation longer, he made some pro- 
fessional excuse to his frienos of the Far West and 


returned at onoe. On the way back he tried to while 
away the time with Robert Louis Sbevenaon^a " Across 
the Continent." The gentle philosopher's plea for 
consideration for the Chinese because their ancestors 
studied the stars when his own British forbears 
herded pigs was entirely lost upon Spencer, whose 
highest mental effort under existing circumstances could 
not rise beyond some soft, spoony, school-girl verses. 
Upon reaching his own city, he hastened at once to the 
Press Club to ascertain whether or not any letters had 
arrived in his absence. In the billiard room his eye fell 
accidentally upon a crumpled sheet of paper. He recog- 
nised Clara's clear caligraphy at once. Quickly reading 
the fragment of what nad evidently been a long letter, 
he saw that it was written to a rich acquaintance of his, 
and that it was in the same strain as the passionately 
voluptuous letters which she had sent to himself, and 
under whose intoxicating influence he had hastened to 
return. A fierce flush of indignation mantled his brow 
as he recognised the same lubricity of words, the same 
reckless use of adjectives, the same Oriental phrases. 
To her newly-foimd sweetheart she wrote in the following 
fashion : 

'* The surface emotion others are capable of exciting 
in me evaporate when I think of you, and every nook 
and cranny of my heart (which I explore to tell you its 
secret) whispers only one name with sweet monotony. 
There is but one image in my hesurt; I have but one love, 
and I cannot change. We meet every requirement of 
each other's nature. I have many things to tell you, all 
of which will be begmi emd ended with the phrase * I 
love you.' Truly 'uiere's no one beside thee and no 
one above thee.' I am much more of a plebeian than 
you are. I am jealous, horribly, insanely jealous, of 
every woman who even looks at you. Do not hurt me 
by doubt or by pride. Some women might feel proud of 
awakening such feelings in one like you — I do not, for I 
worship you too much to cause you even the slightest 
pang. What right has fortune to give me so 
bounteously of her gifts, and yet to deny me, even for a 
short time, the one whom I love so fondly, the one I 
must have, the one for whom my soul starves *? " 


"And do I then wonder thctt Jnlia deoeives me, 

'When snietjr there's nothinainn&tnre more ootmnon? 

She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me — 
Bnt could I ezpeot any more from a womui ? " 

Speneet was cured. Eia firat impulse was to commit 
Buidde. Then be decided that this was ioo vulgar. 
Bendea, he did not relish the idea of giving an opportnnit; 
to voung DymoBd, on Sporting Life, of maJdng oopv out 
of nim. The bare thought of s^-destruction penahed 
within his brtun, He might have sought surcease of 
Borrow in the flawing howl, but this Ukewise was too 
vulgar. He turned finally to philosaphy and his meer- 
BChaum. He resolved to be a stoio, and to forget. For 
this purpoee — or perhaps to test his nerves — ne re-read 
Clara's pile of letters. Bash deed — for on the instant 
they stirred up all the <Ai feeling — which, like a deluge, 
came mshinK npon him, and he was all but lost again 
in the whirlpools. Thoroughly frightened he tied the 
dangerons letters together in a red string and set them 
by— and allowed his emotions to subside. 

Clara cried, protested her innocenee, made a scene, 
and wrote more fervid letters, hut to no end, for Spencer 
had grown to distrust. 

J. J. Conway. 

A. Campbell Croii 


®N the morning of a cool day of March, two strange 
figures issued cautiottsly from a sniiedl hpuse m 
the West Central district of London. Of the 
pair the man was swarthy-complexioned, with a dark 
moustache, and long curling black hair which reached his 
shoulders ; he wore a shabby suit hanging in folds about 
him ; the coat was open and disclosed a dingy flannel 
shirt and coloured mn£9er. The woman with' 
him was of the same dark-hued complexion and strag- 
gling black hair, but in strange contrast had large bine 
eyes. She wore a red handkerchief tied round her head, 
a blue blouse with an old velvet zouave, and a short 
skirt covered with a soiled apron. (In real life the man 
was a rising but blasi young doctor, fair and of aristo- 
cratic feature, and the woman was the writer.) 

People regarded us curiously, as though hall-suspectinff 
our niake-up, as we strolled to a photographer's and 
were " taken,'* and later, on a 'bus, tne driver chaffed us 
about our appearance. As we walked in the direction 
of the Italian quarter to hire a piano-organ, cries of 
" Git yer 'air cut " greeted my companion, and this line 
with its well-known air followed us all day. It was 
a delightful sensation for once to cast convention- 
ality to the winds — ^to be able to run about the 
streets and eat apples. A moment later we were 
greatly amused by the sarcastic comment of a 
bystander, "You're in luck. Bill," as we hailed an 
astonished cabmcm. In the cab I laughed as Dr. B., 
regardless of the amazement of the tram passengers 
alongside, to whom he doubtless seemed a fugitive 
criminal effecting a hasty disguise, put a few more 
discreet touches of brown paint to his face. 

In the centre of the squalid quarter where the Italians 
— dirty and poorly dad — ^loitered, we descended from 
the cab, in itself a suspicious proceeding on the part 
of two would-be organ-binders. A swarthy man 
addressed us in Italian ; Dr. B. answered in French ; 
and I explained our wishes in broken English. We felt that 
things were not going quite smoothly when several 
bystanders stared, and followed us to the organ firm, 
and our fears were not albogether groundless, for the 
man in charge looked us over rather dubiously, 
and finally asked, "Where you come from? " and Dr. B.'s 
hesitating answer, " I am hsJf French," did not appear 
to satisfy him. He led the way, however, to a small 


office, and there asked as how long we wanted the 
organ, why for one day only, had we been out before, 
etc. ? At last, in desperation, I suggested leaving a 
deposit, which seemed to find ^voxur in the eyes of our 
interlocutor. Six shillings as a sign of good faith, and 
two shillings for hire, was the outcome of our 
negotiations, and we were off, pulling after us an 
immense organ, like a cottage piano on wheels, throu^ 
some steep and narrow streets, while evil-looking men 
and women whispered together, but lent no helping 
hand. The Italian professionals do not like English 
imitators, and I was relieved when we emerged into the 
main thoroughfare. 

Our first nalt was outside Dr. B.*s pention^ where 
several of his friends greeted us liberally with coppers. 
Dr. B. mc^e a graceful bow (acquired in Paris), while I 
kissed my hands in professional style. I heard after- 
wards that his friends thought for the naoment 
that I had taken fright and bolted, because 
I darted along the street to greet my friend, the 
artist Cynicus, and his sister. Like true-hearted 
Bohemians, this pair did not refuse to acknowledge 
my greeting, but stood chatting, and contributed liberaUy 
to our exchequer Our next move was to the 
residence of a lady friend. I rang at the door. ** What 
do you want, please ? " came in a rough voice from the 
area. "I want to see Mrs. P.," said I, meekly. The 
maid took in my card, requesting me to wait on the 
doorstep; in a moment sne reappeared witii altered 
demeanour, and asked me to " come this way, please, 
miss." My entrance created a small sensation, but 
after introducing Dr. B., and explaining our 
mission, I was treated politely, and departed 
with good wishes and an apple. To my amuse- 
ment, I heard later that the landlady, the usual type of 
Bloomsbury landlady — adecraate description to those 
who know her — ^had protested, styled it ** venr shocldnff,'* 
and stated that ** not even a Gaiety girl would do such a 
thing I" 

Two other amusing incidents occurred in this district. 
Dr. B. wrote on one of his cards, " For heaven's sake give 
me a copper or a whiskey and soda — we are waiting 
outside," and handed it to a reluctant servant at a house 
where he thought friends lived. But no answer came to 
this pathetic appeal, save some unknown, amused faces 
at the window, nor would the maid admit us. Only later 
my friend discovered he had mistaken the house. 

In Great Bussell Street, as I turned the handle, a 


llower-giil came to me and eud, pointing to Dr. B., ** He 
your brother?*' and, as I affected not to understand, 
aaked him, " She your aster?** 

I had not noticed that we were just oatdde the British 
Mnseom, and was startled when a polioeman told us to 
move on. ** Why ?" said I, snUdly. '* Why— indeed I** 
snapped he. "Never heard such cheek — because I tell 
yer to, that's why !" And so we " moved.*' 

From Bloomsbury to Harley Street the siately houses 
frowned severely upon us, ana no ring of fslling money 
greeted our ears ; so not, I admit, without a sU^t twinge 
of that rudimentary article which serves me as a oon> 
science, I looked beseechingly at a kind-faced lady irtio 
passed, and was rewarded by a copper dn^ped in my 
sooty, outstretched hand. 

Thence, as day declined, we went on to St. John's 
Wood, stopping once to play in the Edgware Boad, where 
several clmdrui commenced dancing in the street, while 
others, to their great delight, were allowed to turn the 
handle. Here Dr. B. ordered a whiskey at a public-house 
where he had a few minutes previously begged for a 
penny. And so won everybody's contempt. 

About five o'clock we stood and played outside the 

house of Mr. well, he has asked me not to mention 

his name, but I may say that he is a well-known poet, 
and a whQom inhabitant of the Quartier Latin. 

As no one appeared. Dr. B. rang and sent up his card, 
which wss taken ra^er hesitatia^y by the man. After 
a few minutes, the poet himself came down, and asked 
us to follow him upstairs. Here we vrere introduced to 
his charming wife, who, in spite of our disreputable 
i^pearanoe, was exceedingly kind, and revived our 
flagging spirits with tea. I am the first lady, except, of 
course, his wife, who has entered the poet's sanctum, 
and I am very proud of the honour. When we left the 
cheery room, we found hung in the haU the key of our 
neglected organ. The latter we were told had almost been 
arrested by a policeman for refusing to move on. It was 
excused, however, when the owners were described by 

the servant as ''friends of Mr. ." I fear the poet's 

local reputation has suffered. 

In Edgware Boad on our way back I smoked a cigar- 
ette, but being taken for Italian, was little remarked, 
mudi to my disappointment. In Park Lane, 
solely for our own enjoyment, we devised a new mode of 
playing, namely, one of us ran alongside and played in 
order that the other who pulled might be inspirited by 
the strains. In the same select neighbourhood, no doubt 


from pure cussedness, Dr. B. climbed up a lamp-post, to 
the amazement of bystanders, and lit his cigarette (an 
economical habit acquired in the Latin Quarter). Our 
next halt was before the house of Mr. Jerome E. 
Jerome. Though I had heard him utter dire and 
murderous threats against the musical fraternity of the 
street, I thought we might risk it ; and I commenced to 
play. I scribbled on my card, meaning to write, ''Please 
come out a moment, we are organ-grinders," but, drop- 
ping unconsciously into the spirit of the man I was 
addressing, found 1 had written, "We are organisms." 

Hardly had the first semi-quavers of discord melted 
on the misty air, when the door opened, and a familiar 
figure stood in the stream of light which shone from the 

*' Will vou please go away at once ? You will wake 
up the baby," was her greeting. 

*' Good evening," said I, advancing, ''don't you know 
me?" Mrs. Jerome eyed me in dignified surprise. 
"No; I do not." "Oh, but I think you do," said I, 
lamely, somewhat taken aback, for I had not imagined 
my disguise so effective, and was, for a moment, assailed 
by the thought that she purposely would not know me in 
my disreputable garb. 

" I am sure I do not," repeated Mrs. Jerome, taking 
slowly the card I held out. After looking at it, she 
regarded me a moment incredulously, and said, "Is it 
reaUy you? But why do you do it? I was really a 
little aoraid, and had it not been for your voice, whi(£ I 
thought sounded incongruous, I would not have looked at 
your card." 

After introducing Dr. B. and asking Mrs. Jerome to 
regard the matter in the journalistic spirit, which does 
not regard as vnfra dig any bond-fide investigation, we 
left, Mrs. Jerome begging me to come and see her as soon 
as possible in my ordinary dress, that she might banish 
from her mind the awful impression I had made upon 

Up Piccadilly, through the greasy mud and heavy 
traffic, amid sarcastic remarks &om cabmen who were 
compelled to make way for us, we dragged the organ. 
At last we reached Arundel Street, rang for the lift at 
Howard House, and I bade the outraged attendant take 
my card to Mr. Jerome. A little crowd was looking in 
through the doorway, and Mr. Jerome wisely sent down 
word that "he could not consider the matter just 

Next came a visit to some friends at an imposing 


mansion in Westminster. Hopeful sign of progress, that 
my friends were liberal-minded enough, regardless of 
possible conmients, to receive us, bid the porter watch 
the organ, and take us into their elegant drawing-room. 

Beluctaiitly we left for our final destination, Drury 
Lane, where we mtended to visit Cyidcus. It was just 
nine o'clock, and at my suggestion, we stopped before a 
publiohouse for a final jaunt. In a moment a crowd 
had gatiiered, and I was implored, " Let's 'ave a turn, 
missus," to which I replied, **Turn away," and relin- 
quished the handle, for which a free fight ensued, the big 
girls roughly shoving the little ones aside and monopo- 
using the coveted privilege. In the meantime, several 
couples had begun dancing jigs and waltzing in the road- 
way, and I could no longer resist. " Can you waltz ? " 
said I to a girl, a typical Drury Lane girl of about 
eighteen, who stood next me. *' Yes, come along," she 
answered, whirling me round. The crowd became 
denser ; organ-grinders who gave up their instrument to 
the mob, while they danced instead of collecting money, 
were no doubt a novelty. 

But we oould stay no longer, and, in spite of entreaties, 
moved on towards Gynicus's studio. To our dismay, we 
had some fifty httle friends following us, and the climax 
was reached when we found the handle missing. 
Fortunately, it was returned to us, and, as we were so 
late, we decided to stop outside the studio, and com- 
menced to play, sternly refusing to allow the handle to 
be touched. Before our friends had time to come out, 
hoarse voices whispered, '*Look out, 'ere comes the 
copper," and, indeed, he did come, and in an autocratic 
manner requested us to move. *' Ask the crowd to move, 
we are doing nothing," we protested, but it was useless, 
and, not having made arrangements to spend the night 
at the police-station, though, obviously, it would have 
been the most appropriate and dramatic ending to our 
day, we trudged off. Then Cynicus's brother came out 
and explained matters to the policeman, who, thoush 
greatly interested, said that had we not moved the 
crowd might possibly in its excitement have smashed 
the organ. By this time we were both lousing for the 
easy-chairs and coffee, which we felt we fully deserved, 
and which we knew were awaiting us at the studio, but 
the difficulty was where to tie up our organ. Some 
little girls from Drury Lane still followed us, offering 
"ai'pennyif yer give us one more tune; if yer don't, 
we'll foller yer the 'ole time." But Dr. B. and I sat 
down on the damp kerbstone — it was a luxury to sit 


down anywhere — ^while Gynions^s brother obtained the 
address of a neighbouring warehouse where we might 
succeed in procuring an hour's rest for our instrument. 
Alasl the woman who peeped cautiously through the 
dighUy opened door peremptorily refused to store it, 
hinting that our story sounded queer, and that perhaps 
our organ was a stolen one ! At last, it was decided that 
my two companions should take it back to Clerkenwell, 
and that I should go to the studio and wait there till 
they returned. Still followed by some children, I 
reached the haven at la.8t and related our adventures, 
and when Dr. B. returned, he told us that the owner of 
the organ had implored the favour of our custom, should 
we decide to go barrelling again. 

After a most welcome supper, we shared profits (9d. 
each), and here, in justice to the profession, I should 
mention that there is a good living to be made at it, and 
that our failure was due to our using our time for visits, 
and not doing the thing in a business-like way. 

We reached home about ten p.m., having walked at 
least twelve miles with that heavy load, hastily doffed 
our wigs, and covering our costumes with coats, we drove 
to a restaurant. Ah, never has dinner tasted as sweet to 
a tired labourer as our chop and claret did to us that 



M. H. Mott-Smith, to the regret of his many friends, has 
left Paris again for America. His departure made vacant 
the place of Vice-President of the American Art Association, 
to which position Mr. T. A. Lescher has been elected. 
Mr. Lesdher's elevation to Uie Vice - Presidency caused a 
vacancy in the office of Librarian. Mr. T. A. Breuer was 
elected his successor. This created a vacancy on the Board 
of Directors, and Mr. S. L. Landeau (recently returned to 
Paris) at present fills it. 

Mr. Stephen Wirts has been appointed Vice-Chairman of 
the Entertainment CJommittee of the Association, and 
preparations are under way for the 4th of July celebration. 
Meantime a dance will be given. 

Mudha, the famous master of decorative art, has 
established a school of design in Paris yclept the 
** Atelier Mucha"~and this title should prove, we tnink, a 
splendid advertisement. A course of eompoHHon d*art 
dieoraUf will be held all the year, except during the period 
of " vaeanceSj" August 1st to October 1st. 

The Third Annual Exhibition of Posters, Designs, and 
Show Cards, held by Messrs. Hare & Co., Ltd., in Bride 
Lane, Ludgate Circus, London, is well worth visiting. The 
various work displayed is representative not only of the 
British school — ^bnt of the French and American as well. 
The most attractive contributions to this exhibition are from 
the brush and pen of Miss Ethel Burgess. Her two large 
designs — "So. 7 and No. 50 — are full of refined sentiment and 
artistic colouring. The former, in subdued greys, is almost 
too delicate and quiet for a poster, though by way of contrast 
and real merit it might strike an effective note on a flashy 
hoarding. The latter in yellow and salmon — represent- 
ing a girl near a line of blowing clothes — ^is the 
more " poetery " — yet lacks nothing in beauty as a 
purely artistic production. Her pen-and-inks idiow 
the same skill — the simpler and less crowded of the 
designs being the best — ^full of masterly chmn. Mr. 
A. S. Forrest hangs a number of designs. No. 16, a shep- 
herd near a brook, and 111, a soldier of the last century 
smoking (the rings of smoke being effectively used as the 
only wMte in the design), and No. 54, a girl in riding habit, 
are all excellent. Mr. J. P. Pemberton, of Paris, is 
represented by four designs — two of which are very attrac- 
tive. No. 76, a girl in dull red, seated on a greensward 
sprinkled with wfdte daisies, and 75, a negress, clothed in 
many but decorative colours, and bearing a tray, are success- 
ful both from the artistic and conmiercial standpoint. Misti 


(French) displays an exoellent oyole ad.— a girl en bicydetu in 
inU career on her wheel. ' ' I soothes 'em "~a ** Somebody's " 
food advertisement— by Charles Robinson, is good. A Beef 
Fluid advertisement by Mr. Maurice Clifford is charming in 
colour, and Mr. Lewis Banner exhibits several aristocratic 
poster girls in big hats. A design, in red and black, by 
Mr. HasseU for the Draper's Record is very effective, and 
Hilda Cowan shows us the usual interesting children with 
spider legs. A characteristic *' cat " to the right bespeaks 
the handicraft of Mr. Wain. A number of the drawmgs 
that have appeared in our pages as advertisement designs 
are on view. 

We have received from the Bowyer Press a very hand- 
some volume of poems, "In the Wake of Spring/' by 
Richard C. Jackson. The book, long and narrow in shape, 
with cover of mingled and subdued tints, and yellow silk 
binding ribbons, is artistically printed on imitation deckle- 
edge Holland paper, and does the greatest credit to the press 
that issues it. It includes some seventy songs of sprmg — 
in many of which an original personal note is struck. 
Throughout the author testifies to his great admiration for 
the poet Dante, to whom he also devotes a portion of the 
notes that follow on the poems. This volume inspired by 
Spring is naturally (and befittingly) dedicated to Eros — 
whose praises are hymned on every other page. Long and 
heroic pieces are omitted, the author filling his pages with 
a collection of short verses, light erotics, etc. — a form of 
poetic compilation so successfully employed by Horace in 
his odes, and Moore in his lyrics. To the honour of Mr. 
Jackson it must be said that his amatory verses — though 
lacking nothing in fervour and passion — are not blemished 
by undue licence. The grossness of the Latin and voluptu- 
ousness of the Irish bard are happily absent from his lines. 

As to VCEuvre — founded some months since in the Latin 
Quarter ! It is a " revtLe inUmathnale arUttique ei liuiraire 
pubUie en frangaU, aUemandj etpngnol, itolien, anglaUf tie" 
The " etc." stands for other and various tongues — and makes 
one rather uneasy. Cotmopolit has been ont-polyglotted t 
The Tower-of -Babel is rebuilding ! And, without referring 
to the fate of the earlier Tower, we wish to say that the 
editor, or editors, of L*(Efwre have pledged theznselves to 
a mighty task indeed, and (we whisper it under our breath) 
they credit the dull old public with greater learning and 
linguistic ability than it really has. Even in dual 
languages periodicals have, as a rule, a hard road to travel. 
Will L*(Euvre stand forth where others have fallen ? The 
numbers issued so far, we are pleased to note, are full of 
interest and good literary matter (or, at least, that part of 
them written in the seven languages we can read), and every- 
thing augurs long life and success — which tne Quartier 
Latin, for one, sincerely hopes to see her enjoy. 


The season tiokets of the Gompagnie da Chemin de Fer 
de rOneet are composed of ihree conpons; two of them 
deyoted to advertisements, and one to the ticket proper. 
The company has made it imposaihle (without inviuid- 
ating the ticket) to detach any portion of the extra 
Qoapons while the ticket is in use. And thereby hangs a 
tale. For the Yrenoh barrister, M. Adrien Oudin, took his 
season ticket, together with the company that issued it, into 
the law courts. He desired to find out why he should be 
forced by the company to carry about the two extra pages 
of ads, which is a tyranny, he exclaimed, that may assume 
colUmaiA proportions. The learned judge of the 8th 
Arrondissement of Paris evidently took the same view of 
the matter, and condenmed the company to present M. 
Oudin with a new (and valid) ticket innocent of all 
advertisement matter. While testifying, M. Oudin, with 
some heat, expressed his determination not to be transformed 
into " ufi AomnM-sandwidh.'' This expression was new to 
the judge, who, wishing, however, to understand the case in 
all its lights and bearings, sent for a dictionary. The 
definition he found agiainst the word ** sandwich " led to still 
farther complications. But, in the end, everything was 
cleared ap— with the result already noted. 

The recent adventure of a burglar in Paris has a decidedly 
Poesque flavour of tragic horror about it. It seems that for a 
number of years there has been living in the Observatory dis- 
trict an ex-captain of the merchant marine in company mth 
an ourang-outang, captured by him in Borneo. Tne strange 
pet had grown much attached to his master, who allowed it to 
roam unchained through his rooms. But, to prevent any mis- 
ohief to his neighbours, or outbreak of savageness on the part 
of the beast, the owner always kept the doors of his residence 
securely fastened. Now, a burglar, who had just served out 
his term, broke one night into the ex-captain's residence. 
Through want of time or carelessness he had evidently 
failed to make the usual professional enquiries regarding 
the innoates of the house he was to pillage. Scarcely had he 
crept into the place, when he found himself in the 
shaggy embrace of the monster, which proceeded at 
once to mangle him in the most terrible manner, tearing 
his clothes to tatters, wounding his body, and laying open 
his left jaw. The burglar yelled lustily for the police, who 
arrived in time to save his Ufe. His wounds were attended 
to, and he was at once removed to the depdt infirmary. As 
a consequence of his adventure, the burguur is now a raving 

The Annual Ck>mpetitive Exhibition at the American Art 
Association of Paris, announced for July 4, has been post- 
poned to the autumn. 



HNrveUons, tarn, to Uie lut dcgrM, 
To tn ali«n-bom from ovw ttia bm 
Ib tiiia BUne oit; of gay Faraa I 

EveiTthisg seemB bo exceedln^y droll 
To my Biyn plj^ AmArioui, hozno-bied bo^ « 
Hathods uid maimerB and mor^ appaar 
So reiy anoommonly qtuintl; qae«r. 


The ClMTiot Houa, Tailor* .. A. 0. 

Tilti,ArtAaKlniiT A. Bun 

OlandBimiiig, Halt Wine . . H. 0. FinsBL 

Hatual BeaervB Fund Life Am. . . Rtaaao Mdbbit 

CaDlb«rw d«a Toilsriei A. Cummj. Ombb 

BroaUno'B, BookBttllen J. 8. OomnoM 

North Owmui IJoyd, Btaamihlp Oo.. . H. A. HoM 

Bpavldlng A Co., Jamllan .. H-G-F. 

by A. 



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The Quartfer Uatf^ 

A little Book devoted to the Arts. 

Trist Woodj Editor. 

■ . -N 

Published at the commencement of each month. 


In AMERICA the trade supplied by 
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THE WONDERFUL VISIT. By n. o. Wkm^, author 

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Daily Ta§grapk.—** It would Indeed be dllBcult to OTerpialse the eraoe, the 
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such a pure jet of romanuo &ncy as that with which Mr. Wells refreshes 
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THE WHEELS OF CHANCE. A oyolintf romanoe. 
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SUMMER IN ARCADY. By James Lank Allen, author 

of ** The Choir Inv isible/' etc Poap 8vo, 3j. net. 
Library World.--*' The setting of this stonr Is charming. Indeed, the little 
book may be cordially recommended in all respects." 

Jl Jt Jl Jt 

London : J. M. DENT A CO., 29 A 30. Bkpkobp Stiekt. W.C. 

American Art Association 
of Paris, 

« « « 
Programme of Exhibitions 
AND Prizes established by 
THE Hon. John Wanamakkr 
, 5000 frs. 

SEA-SOTT isev-iess. 

NOVBMBBE EXHIBITION — To be held first in 

Not., 1898. 


DBOBMBBB EXH I BITION —Dm. 18, 1897, to Jan. 

2, 1898. 


To TBS BiST Work or Abt: lat prize 600 frs., Snd prize 

100 tn., 8r d prize 100 frs. 

JANUART BXHTBITION— Jan. 15 to Jan. 26. 



For Brbt ^laor Aim Whitb, Postkr, or Drsioh : Ist prize 

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To IHB But Work op Art : let prize 600 frs., 2nd prize 
100 tra., Srd prize 100 frs. 
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To TBI BiST Work of Art : 1st prize 160 frs., 2nd price 

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Trantlatod from the Polish by JmEMun ( Utrtin . Of this book, 
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Pall Mall GaM$tU.-'**lt is not often in current literature that yon find yourself 
Caee to face with a work of genius, of masterful genius, that grips yon, thrills you, 
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London: J. M. DENT & CO., 20 A- 30, 15i:i>ror.i) Street, W.O. 


DttitnMl by H. 0. r<mg*t. 


Caver Detign 

3. J. ODnuKT 

Tabte-of-CtrntenU Dmgn 

J. J. Odtkub 

Pnmlupitet—A Sitmmtr Night, 


Alfred J«™ 

Bpri-g in At TuOeriu, pom 

Wm. Theodiwe Fxms 


CluBUoe Bowa 

Eithai WooB 

" Tk$ avttn," dramng 

A. CunpbeU Gww 

L .pant 

J. B. Bbntihok 

Art from a Material Point of View 


Wslter Be> Baleiou 

The Has, drawing 

John P. Pbiibibion 



J. J. Oimtmni 

" I have laid, ye are Qoit 1 " jxvnt 

A. StMdey Coou 

A Roman Painter 

Haignnt Quunn 




Thb Biiin» 

i SfittJy, <irawBV 


St. EtitoM du Mont, Pari,, 




Huk FmoaiHi 

Lttt qfDttigittrt of Advertiumentt. 

i. SUMMBR NiOHT Draim b]/ Alfred Joiui 

Vhe guartier Itatin 

AUGUST. 1896 

The QueCD of May freqaente ODce more 

Her stately Tuileriea. 
Spring days have never seemed before 
So exquisite aa these. 
Acacia trees are flovering, for winter time is past ; 
Ob, let me be yonr first love, and you iriU be my last 1 


Two moons are shining ; one above. 

One in the troubled Seine. 
A tiny bird is telling of 
Its ooHtaay and pain. 
The daisies join the violets, for winter time is past ; 
Oh, let me be your firet love, and you will be my last 1 


May, 1698. 


HOLF UNDERWOOD hailed a hansom, and 
directed the driver to St. Jameses Hall. He 
would at least do the thing in style this 
time. He lit a cigarette, readjusted to his left breast 
pocket the scrap of red silk that was to look the 
part of handkerchief, and scrutinised once more a care- 
fully watered pen*orth of violets, bought from a little 
lad in Shepherd* s Bush — because he loved stray children 
better than the plump, costerlv flower-girls of the town. 
Behind these sentiments he had the saving grace of 
laughter for his own vanities. He chuckled at the 
spectacle of himself — ^reporter, leader-writer, musical and 
dramatic critic and general factotum of an obscure 
suburban paper, enjoying the dummy handkerchief, the 
rare cab, and the slightly overblown violets. 

His arrival was well-tuned for the crush. His hansom 
must take its turn with a dozen others, from which came 
other young men, pale, square-jawed, smooth-haired; 
far smarter than mmself, out neither interesting nor 
enthusiastic. ELis healthy skin and quick brown eyes 
had not yet taken the London look. He realised, as he 
watched the rapidly swelling stream in the vestibule, his 
own absurd contrast to these sleek habituis, and the 
fatuity of trying to play the fashionable man. Still 
laughing at Li^self . L pulled out hia oompUmentary 
ticket, and raised his soft felt hat to a trio of ladies in 
fluttering cr^pons and heavy patterned veils who chanced 
to pass in at the same moment. 

" How d'ye do, Miss Armitage ? — ^how d*ye do, Misa 
West? Awfully full, apparenUy. Looks like a good 
programme, doesn't it ? — ^hope they'll all turn up. She's 
immensely popular, isn't she ? Lovely singer too." 

" Oh, lovely," one of them answered him in a high- 
pitched monotone, plaintive and slow. " But her voice- 
is absolutely nothing to what it was. Of course, you 
know she's giving up singing altogether. Terribly sad 
for her, isn't it ? But, you know, she's had the most 
frightful laryngitis, and aU sorts of things. Her throat is 
a perfect wrecK. Volkheimer didn't want her to do this 
even — ^it's such a risk ; but she said she must have some 
sort of farewell." The group dispersed. Rolf found a 
vacant place, and sat uneanly, waiting for a form, a 
voice, a recognition. He scanned the programme : 
" Madame Edith Stanbury's Farewell Beeital . . . 
assisted by " — then followed a dozen names of the best 


artistes in town. He had heard aU of them, and was 
weary. When would she appear ? 

A clatter of applause — ^perfectly well-bred Regent 
Street applause — rose from gloved hands and sunshades 
at a little white-clad figure coming up the steps ; colour- 
less, save for the sunny yellow of her hair; white 
bouqueted, pale, but radiant; a snow- vision good to 
look at in the broiling afternoon. 

She bowed with quiet self-possession, and turned her 
eyes at once to the accompcknist, and to the shadowed 
space beyond him under the balcony, where Bolf 
happened to be. The recognition he wanted flashed 
from her lips and eyes, and ceased as it shot from them. 
Her square little shoulders slowly heaved to sing. 

Then the voice came — ^the surprising voice, so un- 
warranted by the almost girlish figure, and the frank 
and simple face; so mature, so strong it sounded; so 
passionate and compulsive, so admirably controlled I 

for a day of spring ! 

Her opening phrase rang down the hot room, and a 
rapt silence followed it. Those who knew her well 
smiled and nodded gently, whispering, ** Ah 1 Is she not 
as we said ? " The new admirers si^^ regrets. ** Is 
this indeed her last appearance ? Why have we never 
heard her before ? ** The old men listened delightedly, 
for her voice had that strange reminiscent quality about 
it, so rare in a soprano — ^the thriU, the challenge, that 
seems to well up like perpetual lamentation out of the 
past, charged with the memories of things lost, or never 
attained to. And to the young, in whom the conscious- 
ness of the past is sometimes exquisitely keen — ^the more 
poignant perhaps because their own share in it is yet so 
Uttfe — ^to these Edith Stanbury's singing seemed the 
utterance of all their unordered worship and desires; 
making eloquent for them the sorrow of growth, the 
mystery of change, the imnost pain and pathos of the 

And now this passionate love-song thrown on the 
warm May air, over the scent of early roses, seemed 
like the cry of one starved in the midst of plenty; 
siricken down amid the joys she might not share. The 
singer stood with folded hands — a sUp of paper ignored 
between them — looking straight down the hall. Her 
deep and steady breathmg, reflected in the rise and drop 
of the white gown from toe to bosom, alone gave motion 
to the severe outline of her form. 


for a day of love, 

A day ivith you and pleasure 


Her voice caressed the very words, filling them with 
sweetness. Her face wa^s delicately fair, and its small, 
clear-cut features gleamed in the heavy half-light. Only 
those near to her could see the heginnings of age 
upon it — ^the slightly drawn look about the mouth and 
temples ; a sort of wistful weariness in the eyelids. 
And they that saw this heard more ; heard the cry of 
the desolate for her mate, and the barren for her children ; 
while she that had been beautiful mourned a beauty but 
just gone by; she that had surely been beloved called 
upon love for penitence and pity ; she that had known 
youth &nd passion — would Time never stay his hand '? 

O for a day of days — 
Of love in all its ways^ 
And life in all its meature t 

Bolf Underwood leaned his arms upon the padded 
bench before him, and sat forward, his young heart at 
strife with its first passion. When the song was done, 
he leaned back again without applauding, his eyes 
unmoved from the place where she had stood. She 
declined gravely the proffered encore ; was twice recalled, 
and still refused it. Another performer followed — ^a 
violoncellist, shaggy of aureole, but excellent in art ; then 
a stout amiable tenor from a popular church choir, - 
declaiming militant chivalry in G major ; then reciters, 
pianists, duettists from the Italian Opera ; a frail con- 
tralto, ^esh from a sick bed, to assist at her collea.gue'8 
farewell. Then came an interval for scrutiny of the 
audience by one another; then again a round of mis- 
cellaneous soloists. Bolf knew many of them and their 
histories — how the violonceUist had tuned pianos at the 
amiable tenor's shop — how the frail contralto drudged 
away at teaching to keep her husband and child (she 
passed his door every Tuesday and Friday — he supposed 
Edith Stanbury would have to give lessons now) — Edith 
Stanbury : why had he not Imown her before ? Had 
he not heard his sisters rave about her singing when she 
was a little board school pupil tea.cher twelve years ago ? 
Evidently she was not surprised to see him here. Might 
he, on the strength of a week's acquaintance, go round 
and speak to her afterwards? Surely, she would at 
least shake hands. 

* •-;: sp 


Ah! how tired she looked. The weird afternoon 
shadows in the crowded ante-room emphasised this, 
and revealed, at the same time, the alertness of her 
spirit by the quick play of emotion in her face. Sorely it 
was but temporary weariness, not the so dififerent fatigue 
of age, that showed on her ! Singing, she had loosed 
past thirty. Now with the animation of her greetings, 
she might pass for twenty-five. 

" How land of you to come." She gave him her small 
hand, dry and cold, and the warmer solace of her eyes. 
'* I saw you in your dark corner, and hoped you*d come 
round. Are you writing me up for the Mercury f " 

" No," he said, shortly. '* The dad's here. I came to 
enjoy myself." 

She was not disconcerted by her blunder. *'Tonr 
father," she said, ** was kind enough to give me some good 
notices in his paper when I was a very young amateur, 
before I dreamed of anything higher than the Lansdowne 
Assembly Booms for a show of my own I Have you 
anyone else with you ? " she added, softly — ** are you 
going home?" 

He lowered his voice. *' Not if I may come and see 
you — ^but you'll be so tired ; no, it's a shame — ^hadn't I 
better not ? " 

" I'm all right — do come, if you're not busy I Will you 
be at my rooms in half-an-hour's time ? I must get rid 
of all these people^^xcuse me I " 

She vanished ; and Bolf made his way slowly to the 
Baker Street fiats. 

'* I was afraid you would have a whole crowd here," 
he said, frankly, his brown eyes bright with pleasure, as 
she greeted him alone in her quiet room. 

" No ; I told them I was positively too tired to enter- 
tain anyone. But you see you're nobody, so you don't 

Her face was flushed now, and she had washed it 
hurriedly, bringing down bright threads of hair about 
her forehead. She had set her fiowers to revive in water, 
while she herself in her wliite gown looked fresh and 
at ease. The dress, for all its elegance of fit, was so 
simple of form and texture that she might have picked 
buttercups ''and daisies in it without harm. She had 
that rare gift of bodily daintiness which speeds a woman 
tlurough a grimy world with sure feet and unruffled 


Bolf tried to pass some trite congratulations on the 
concert, and condolences on her retirement. She waived 
them a little sadly. 

" I don't think anyone but a singer can quite under- 
stand," she said, apologetically, ** what it means to me to 
give up my ccureer. It*s not mere vanity on my part, 
you know that ; it's not admiration and flattery that I 
want ; it's the sense of dealing directly with one's own 
public — doing one's work in their presence and running 
the risk — I mean, of being in bad voice sometimes, and 
yet succeeding, or, at least, giving the best results of 
one's private work openly. I love big audiences ; I can't 
sing to a mere roomful — I want space and chance. So if 
I can't have great triumphs any more, I will, at least, 
retire with dignity, and nail my diplomas to my door." 

She sat down with him near the open window, where 
the faint town lilacs were sweet to smell, and the late 
hawthorn sparkled, white and red. The sight of beauty 
sickened her for more beauty, and for the fulness of 
the spring's delight. In both of them the same words 
echoed, with their perpetual challenge and revolt : 

for a day of spring^ 

A da/y of strength and passion t 

At last Bolf gave them utterance. 

" This is a day of days," he said, softly, looking out to 
the May sun, that blazed redly behind the hawthorn. 
** Will you sing that again — can you ? " Her eyes had 
followed his towards the sky, bright with clouds drifting, 
fleecy and illumined. Now they moved to meet his, and 
the blue of them seemed like the image of the heavens. 

The piano was open ; her little music-case lay on it 
just as she had brought it home. Bolf rose to fetch it, 
and took out the song. But she shook her head. *' Do 
you think I don't know it by heart ? " she said, sitting 
down to the keys. 

Bolf drew back to watch and listen. In her own room 
the spring light was kind. The lines it showed in her 
face were tender and generous ; strong, too, but never 
hard or sour. The betraying kiss of Time had been upon 
her ; could not Love wipe it out, so there had been no 
bitterness in the imprint ? Faint seals of care and pain 
— could he not melt and scatter them for ever ? 

*' I can't sing it now," she faltered, conscious of his 
expectation. Yet, bowing her head a little, she set 
herself to begin. 

for a da/y of youth ! 


(How young he looked! One could enjoy and suffer 
most at twenty-five.) 

I would not le<we untatted 
One glory while it lasted! 

(Time enough for him : All life before him to taste and 

Win me that day from sorrow ^ 
And let me die to-morrow ! 

(0, the long drudgery of teaching, day by day I No more 
pretty evening gowns and bouquets ; never again the 
sound of applause in her ears, never again her own voice 
superb, dominant, under a great roof, echoing and 

The pure notes wavered a little, the blue eyes drooped, 
the delicate hands pursued the music tremblingly. 
Something was changed in her singing — was the cry 
more hopeless and submissive? — or was it that the 
juiswer was too near her ? 

Music gave place to speech, broken and hushed, 
pleading and resistant. 

** Dear girl, let me win that day for you ! Try to 
-forget the sorrow — can*t you let me, Edith ? " 

Bolfs eager face was warm against her own; his 
brown eyes shone with promise, with radiant hope. 

But she turned upon him with tender indignation. 

" What ! — let you sacrifice yourself to make me a 
spring day, dearie ? " 

All the warmth of June was in her voice, wooing him 
awhile she bade him away from her. 

*' There*s no sacrifice, except on your side," he 
whispered, seeking her hands. 

She answered hun with such a smile as the dying use 
io quench a vain suggestion of recovery. 

" Bolf, Bolf, don't tempt me, old boy. I ought not to 
have sung it to you, but I never meant this.*' (The 
«temal he of the successful wooer came instinctively, 
«ven from those honest Ups.) He kissed her in protest 
and denial, taking her face in his hands. The softiiess of 
her hair seemed to caress his fingers. She looked up 
from them in tender shame and terror. 

"Dear lad," she cried, **you must go away; I was 
wrong to let you come like this. I love you too dearly — 
far t^ dearly — to take you at your word. See now, I 


don't want to banish you altogether — you shall come 
another day, dear, and we will be wtaer.' 

Again be eUenoed her with kisaeB. The cup of love 
was at her lips ; must she indeed thrust it away tor ever f 
Her day of spring had dawned, sweat, shining, paHfiionato. 
But dose behind it autumn loomed severe. Looking 
beyond this day of days, she saw others throng up, dull 
and sterile for him who sought life and that abundantly ; 
already she seemed to see luin languish under her in toe 
long drought of middle age, gone past tbe heallDg of 
iem. So Time and Love strove with each other till 
night fell. . . . The soent of London lilacs and 
May blossom grew sweeter in the air. The dunk waa 
warm ; tbe fire died out unnoticed. The dull roar of 
tbe traffic was bushed, or somehow seemed more far 
away, and (or one brief spring hour Love had the 

But Time was stronger. Wisdom wuted on his 
footsteps, and Love himself turned traitor against Love. 
The haott still young and passionate within her mocked 
Itself with the echo of her own words : " If I must have 
no more triimiphs, I will at least retire with dignity." 
Come to her aid then. Dignity, thou phantom friend, and 
lead tile tired singer from her last platform! 

Next noon brought Bolf this note from Editb 
Stanbury : " Bolf, my beloved, yon must let me go. I 
was very vreong to take advantage of your pity »nd 
tendamess. I was weak, selfish, and contemptible ; and 
now I am ashamed. Forgive me, and remember always 
that you gave me bank one spring day out of eternity. 
I bless Qod and you for the joy of it. 

" I have accepted a teaching appointment in Leipzig, 
and shall leave London the day after to-morrow. I wUl 
send you my address. You will be perfectly free, and 
welcome, to write to me, or to nee me agtun at any 
future lime, if you think you can do so wiUi less pain 
than pleasure. I put no barriers between us, save one. 
That one is demanded by your own honour and 
happiness, and therefore, as I love you, it is final and 

" If you can bear it, I would very much rather yon 
would not come to say good-bye. Let the memory of 
our last good-bye be with us — it was such a happy one. 
When tbe day comes that you can thank me for thiSr 


vou will know, too, how much I need your 

Rolf stuffed the letter into his pocket and started out 
post-haste for Baker Street. 

Yesterday^s sunshine was lost in rain; cold, gusty, 
and persistent. The sky, which then had shone bo 
pearly -blue behind the hawthorn and lilac, was now a 
dead monotony of grey. All that was left of last night's 
glory was the faint fragrsince of drenched flowers. The 
sense of some implacfi9)la fate, roused suddenly against 
him, stirred his blood. He fought against it with the 
arguments of desperation. Surely she had not already 
taken back the gift so briefly given I Surely she would 
listen to him — ^he would prove to her that he was serious 
— ^that he had loved her — oh, interminably 1 

He reached the gate of Marlborough Mansions, and 
hurried in, noticing without curiosity a brougham 
waiting in the street. 

'* Is Mrs. Stanbury at home ? " How the title of 
wifehood and widowhood seemed to encumber her 
name 1 

** Mrs. Stanbury is very ill, sir," said the maid. 

Rolf started, and stood blankly, waiting for more. 

** If you'd like to leave your card, sir — she's too ill to 
be told of anyone caJling." 

''Thanks — I — I'm very sorry. It must have been 
sudden," he faltered, questioningly. ** Has she any 
friends with her ? " 

'* We've telegraphed for her sister," said the girl, " and 
a nurse. The doctor's with her now. Would you like to 
wait and speak to him ? — it's Mr. Underwood, isn't it ? " 

A slight half-sympathetic recognition had crossed the 
girl's face, as if remembering his visit the evening before. 

Rolf went into the little sitting-room. Could it be the 
same ? A great stillness had fallen upon it, to which even 
the duU noise of traffic came as a welcome relief. The 
clock had stopped. He shuddered to see the piano closed, 
the music primly ranged in heaps beside it. The cold- 
ness of the place appalled him; the neatness of an 
uninhabited dwelling, swept and garnished for fresh uses, 
which calamity delayed. Behind this loomed the sense 
of a closed door, an unattainable presence, a joy remote, 
which yesterday was warm at his breast. 

Then the doctor entered, surprised, but imperturbable, 
resentful of intrusion. 

** Mrs. Stanbury's condition is very critical," he said. 
"I have seldom seen a case of laryngitis develop so 
rapidly. And there are heart complications which make 


fever very dangerous to her. I'm afraid that is all I can 
tell you. I need hardly add that if she should recover 
she will be quite unable to see anyone at present." 

The doctor bowed him out firmly. 

Bolf crept away, he cared not whither ; anywhere to 
be alone, and to get away from the spring — ^the hateful, 
treacherous spring with its bitter winds and pitiless rain. 
Flower-girls with violets pestered him in the street. He 
turned into Begent*s Park. But there he found even less 
seclusion. Every wayfarer, in the pelting downfall, 
seemed to observe him as he passed. The swelling 
water rushed loudly down the gutters. He crossed over 
and found a higher road, between wet pastures. The 
sounds of wheels grew duller and more mournful. With 
them, in his fancy, mingled another sound, the sound 
of yesterday's music : 

Win me that day from sorrow^ 
And let me die to-morrow f 

Yes, he had won that for her — she said so, didn't she ? 
He took the letter from his pocket and read it over and 
over. ** Bemember always uiat you gave me back one 
spring day out of eternity.'* And now — ^to let her die ! 
No ! No : it was absurd. The doctor was fooling him. 
People didn't die like that, without a long illness — at 
least, young people didn't. Young — ^young — ^how old did 
they say she was ? 

Some new sound — ^perhaps the shrill chirp of a robin 
in the tree — altered the current of his thought, and his 
mood with it. A rush of hope and gladness came over 
him. This illness, at all events, would give him another 
chance to woo her. It was better than if she had gone 
off to Leipzig in a day or two. Surely by the end of the 
week he would be allowed to see her I And then there 
would be the convalescence. He would go every day 
and take her flowers. And he would work for her — ah, 
how he would work ! He could earn money ; he must 
earn it. She should not have to drudge at teaching 

So he walked on with aimless feet, that ached at last 
with the wet and weariness. Then he dropped into a 

seat and stared at the inscrutable horizon 

Towsurds nightfall the drenched shadow of himself came 
back, with fearsome footsteps, to her door. 

A piece of white paper was stuck with three drawing 
pins on one of the upper panels. He counted the pins : 
it wanted another at that comer. The door was green. 


newly painted. The beading of the panels caiiffht the 
rain. Me lowered his eyes as if to avert a stroke that 
threatened them. There were confused brown marks of 
many footprints on the step, as if the door had been 
besieged with callers. Bolf remembered that it was her 
day at home. 

Then he faced it and read. Dazed and undone he 
struggled vainly to make some other sense out of the 
brief, cold words. 

" Died". . . his dry lips repeated silently. . . . 
" at six o'clock. ... at six o'clock." . . . 

As he moved, the maid, red-eyed and dishevelled, 
came hurriedly to the window and pulled down the 

EsTHBB Wood. 

Twin violets with the morning dewdrop bright, 

These are her eyes ; 
Clear as the star that first lends heaven its light 

When daylight dies. 

A sound of summer woods when day first breaks, 

This is her voice ; 
Sweet as the chime of golden bells, it makes 

My soul rejoice. 

A stricken deer tha^ lies and gasps for breath, 

This is my heart ; 
For she regards me not, and only death 

Can ease its smart. 

J. H. Bkntinck. 



»0 matter how ethereal or beautiful an idea may be, 
once brought within the region of actuality it is 
bound to have its prosaic side. Art, we know, 
is by no means free from this reproach, if reproach it be, 
for our most cherished and beautiful possessions, gifts 
from the children of genius to all other children of the 
world, are bartered and sold as so much merchandise in 
the auction and sales room; "knocked down" in the 
majority of instances, not to the surt lover, who wishes 
to be enabled to contemplate their beauty at will, but 
to the speculator generally, who sees in them a safe 
investment, and a good return. 

Another question, apart from that of actual filthy lucre, 
which the painter, howsoever he be absorbed in lofty and 
idyllic dreams, is forced to contemplate, is the question 
of the material mediums and accessories of his craft. 
No artist can afford to leave the ordering of such details 
to subordinates as beneath his notice. His dream of 
inunortality will be signally defeated if he ventures to do 
BO. In one of the well-lmown picture galleries of the 
world there are to be seen several examples of a 
celebrated painter actually fading and vanishing before 
our sight, and this is due simply to the fearful extent 
to which the adulteration of the cheaper colours was at 
one time carried. 

So that these chef% d^csuvre^ which should have 
remained *'a joy for ever," will be but so in name 
or memory to our unfortunate posterity, so unhappUy 
deprived of them. The artists of the Middle Ages — 
to particularise, dining the Fifteenth and Sixteenth 
Centuries— did not disdain to grind and mix their colours 
with their own hands, by this means giving and 
guaranteeing to their works a beauty which time can 
never blemish. 

But I desire to go back still further, to begin at the 
very beginning, to take, for example, tiie earliest efforts 
of art, the most elementary of pictorial representations 
— ^those of our primitive ancestors, in that period of 
forgotten and uninscribed history we call '* Paleolithic." 

At that time the artist's cloth or paper of our day was 
replaced by flint, and as this useful, though apparently 


nnyielding, material sufficed for all his simple needs, and 
was almost the only substance of whicn he availed 
himself, it is not surprising to learn that his toob came 
from the same storehouse — an outfit before which some 
of our strongest (I use this term advisedly) might well 
feel discouraged. Not so Primitive Man of the Stone 
Age ; he set to work imdauntedly, and has left us some 
very remarkable specimens of his skill. But (and though 
I feel here that I am wandering from my subject) 
perhaps I may be aUowed to remark that I see no 
reason why we should pin our faith so absolutely to his 
sincerity of purpose as to imagine that his representations 
of megalosauri, ichthyosauri, megalonyxes, and so on, 
were true to nature, and positively uninfluenced by 
fancy (or a bad light). Can we consider imagination 
as only a modem evolution that its possession or 
exercise by the Stone Man be strenuously denied? 
We know that it is one of the earliest manifestations of 
intellect that wakes in the child. If a Stone Man, 
crediting his posterity with no imagination, chanced to 
awake and find himself in a gallery of modern 
impressionist paintings, he could hardly refrain from 
concluding that Nineteenth Century folk had developed 
an extraordinarily attenuated and angular habit of body, 
with blue, mauve, and green hair, not to catalogue other 
equally interesting and abnormal features. 

But to return, or rather, to come forward at a bound, 
the earUest Indian and Egyptian artists, economically 
inclined, utilised the interior walls of religious grottoes 
and sepulchres as canvases, where are found some of 
their best handicraft; the enduring nature of the 
masonry being perhaps accountable for the preservation 
of their pictorial achievements rather than any special 
exertions on the part of their admirers. The lurking 
fancy of artists for converting various walls into wall- 
paper, so to speak, culminated in the achievements of 
Michael Angelo and Raphael. When other "musketeers 
of the brush" were first revelling in the liberty and 
delights of oil, they remained faithful to their mortar and 
distemper, and have been rewarded by the gratitude of 
every nation but their own, to whom they have caused a 
great expense for restoring and preserving their frescoes 
in order to conceal their inappreciation from the eyes 
of enthusiastic foreign critics. 

Frescoes should not, by the way, be confounded with 
the encaustic paintings of the ancients. These were 
posed on a wall prepared by a coating of oil and resinous 


sabstanoes. Afterwajrds this was covered with a coat of 
wax, white or tinted. The colours employed were also 
mixed with wax and resin, and the painting being 
finished, it was covered with a thick coat of varnish. 

So at least le^^end has it, but the tnie process has long 
perished, and is forgotten. Schnorr endeavoured to 
revive it at Munich, but his Schnorring was unsuccess- 
ful, and the work remains a mute testimony to his 

Many of the most ancient churches, notably those of 
St. Sophia at Constantinople, and St. Mark at Venice, 
are almost entirely covered with examples of the 
painter* s skill. The only objection to be raised against 
this method of procedure, which has at the same time 
much to recommend it, is that it is quite impossible to 
borrow all or any of such work for foreign exhibition 
purposes, and the same insuperable argument may be 
urged against the marvellous mosaic work of the Jews 
and Egyptians, which reached the height of its develop- 
ment under the Greeks. Notwithstanding the fact that 
such specimens of art were not executed with a brush, 
they constitute a remarkable series of pictures and 
designs, as none who have ever seen or studied the 
Sylla mosaics found at Palestine would be inclined 
to doubt. The materials of these old masters con- 
sisted of slips of variously coloured marbles, or enamelled 

Before the introduction of cloth, when the picture as 
a movable a^cessorv had gained in popularity, wood 
carefully prepared with chalk was most frequently used, 
but its tendency to become worm-eaten and rotten was 
always a serious drawback. It was also liable to split, 
and however that might intensify the humour of a 
portrait, one could not fail to observe that it was not 
included in the original design. 

Paintings on metals have been popular from the 
earliest tunes downwards, copper being, perhaps, the 
favourite material on account of the beautiful, polished 
surface it presents to work on. A background of gold 
or blue enamel was as a rule affected by those who 
selected this medium, notably by the Byzantines. 

I must not omit the paintings on glass, though I have 
necessarily omitted to notice countless other materials. 
This, another lost art, reached its height in the Four- 
teenth and Fifteenth Centuries. Jan Van Eyek, Albert 
Dikrer, and Lucas van Leyden all arrived at some remark- 
able and astonishingly beautiful results by their works in 


this direction. The earlier workers on glass built np 
their pictures by means of little coloured slips held 
together by lead pipizigs. Their attempts as regards 
defden and composition were, generally speaking, 
pitiaole, but their colours ha^e certainly never been 
excelled, if equalled. Jan Van Eyck, who was a bit 
of a chemist as well as an artist, invented several 
vitrifiable paints, and in later days much has been done 
in the hope of reviving interest in this beautiful applica- 
tion of the painter's ait. 

Materials of to-day, narrowing again the scope of my 
remarks to painting proper, are too well known to need 
reference. To-day the student or worker ** swims in a 
sea of doubt and uncertainty" as to selection, the choice 
being so wide and varied. So much has been done for 
him that following the general law of ingratitude it is not 
surprising to find him grumbling that his aids are 
insufficient. Nevertheless, when we hear of a painter 
photographing his model on to his canvas in order to 
dispense with possibly unskilful drawing, one is apt to 
consider that material aid has gone quite far enough. 
If we ever achieve the not impossibility of photogrwDhinff 
in colours, gentlemen of the type last mentioned will 
certainly sink to ** retouchers." Art, however, is as 
strong as our love for her, and that being (let us believe) 
an integral part of human nature, it follows that in what- 
ever form or substance we may best appreciate her, she 
will not lack expression while present civilisation endures. 
And that is a species of extreme unction, which it will be 
found truly comforting to lay to heart. 

Leah Anson. 


(After the picture by Nicolas Ponssin.) 

In the great darkness o'er His Holy Land 

Stark lies the murdered God of Galilee ! 

The world has stopped I Wan men can hear Death*s 

Boar on the reefs where ends Life's surgy strand ! 

The dead are in the glooms — ^a grisly band I 
Bapt in pale dreams the Babbi on his knee 
Swathes his dear Lord for sleep, long sleep, that He 

May know Love's touch through Death, and understand. 

O red-eyed mourner, was he man, and dead ? 

women three, by agonies of tears 
Hope ye to rouse the regal wounded head ? 

Or sees your Faith across these swamps of fears 
Stem soldiers sleeping, tenantless His bed, 

And mild-eyed Christs enhaloed in the years ? 

Walter Bea Baleigh. 

Droirn hij John P. Paaberton 

^* En meWageJ' 

QVHE *' <^<]]Q[o " numbered seven — all good men and 
^^ true. There were Travera of Boston, Brown of 
the School of Architecture, and little Johnny 
Hardstone, M.D., Dumoulin of the College de France, 
and Daw8on of the Beaux Arts, to say nothing of Alison, 
the nowveam from Julian's, who, with the cmuracteristie 
impertinence of youth, had assumed the chair at the top 
of the table. 

Never sinoe the " clique " took to dining at Madame*6 
had dinner proved such a dull and miserable failure, and 
when Martin, just back from Milwaukee and his sister's 
wedding, came in along with the coffee and cordials, the 
gloom mcreased till we atmosphere was absolutely 
oppressive. Shaking hands all around the new comer 
dropped in a chair by Brown, his fidiu Achate9, and 
oallea for drinks. " I've counted noses, and can't make 
it oat«" he said, with a puzzled air, as he raised his ^lass. 
" As nsnal, * we are seven,' like the wonderful family in 
the objectionable poem, yet, somehow, I don't see Bill." 

" I'm only newfy elected," chiraed the nouvecm, 

*'Qne of us in the churchyard lies," misquoted the 
little doctor, mournfully. 

" And I'll stake my chances of the Eternal," drawled 
Travers, with his abominable down-east accent, "that 
one has gone to heaven." 

" What's that you're hinting at, you chaps ? " queried 
Martin, uneasily ; " not that Bill ? " 

'* That's about the size of it," growled Brown. 

" Ah, pawvre Beel !" squeaked Dumoulin in his queer, 
high-pitched voice. 

" But, see here," gasped Martin. " Tou don't mean t 

"It's true, poor boy I" said AUson, who was old for 
his years, being just eighteen. 

"Good Lord, it's too horrible. Why didn'b you write 
or teO me ? Poor old Bill, dear old chap I" and Martin 
broke down. 

" Time enough to tell you now you're here," drawled 

" When did it happen, and how ? " asked Martin. 

"I should call it a general breakdown," suggested 
Hardstone, witii a grave professional air that at another 
time would have sent them all into fits of lauchter. 

"Too much work," added Brown, carefully flicking 
the ash from his cigarette. 


" Poor old chap,*' mattered Trayers under his breath, 
"he was simply tired of life, and had the courage to 
quit it." 

"Ah, cher Bed!*' came plaintively from the oomer 
where Dmnoulin sat. 

"He wasn't to blame," blmidered Alison; "poor 
fellow, his mind was upset." 

Marlon looked roimd the table from byoe to face. 
" We are all old friends," he said, sternly; " tell me tiie 
truth ; was it suicide ? " 

"We're afraid it was," growled Dawson, with a 
suspicious quiver in his usualty rough voice. 

" Tell me all ? " begged Martin once more. 

A partv of Americans who had strayed into the 
Bougerie by chance sat giggling at the opposite table, 
and shouting to the waiter in villainous French. "I 
can't tell you here," Brown said, with a disgusted look 
at the unconscious tourists ; " it would be nothing short 
of desecration to attempt it. Let's settle the score and 
go round to Bill's old diggings. They're mine now," he 
added; "and you'll fina nothing changed, for I took 
things over at a valuation. 

" It all dates back to the night of the Julian ball," 
Brown resumed, when he'd lighted the studio lamps and 
seen that his guests aU had seats and plenty of matches 
and smoking things. " It all dates back to the ball and 
the stiff-necked and unrighteous propriety of that DoUiber 
girl from Chicago." 

" Then it had nothing to do with AngWque ? " said 
Martin, with a curious tiffhteninff of his lips. 

" It had all to do witii Ang^que," answered Alison 
from his perch on the box that had once served Bill for a 
model throne. 

Brown stilled the talkative nouvecM with a wave of 
his hand. " I can see now," he said, slowly blowing a 
great wreath of smoke upwards into the air. " I can see 
now clearly that I was partly to blame, because I invited 
the women. You know," he explained, " a lot of them 
wanted to see my ' get up,' and Dawson's and Alison's, 
too, so I told my sister and one or two of the girls to call 
in early the night of the ball, and feast their eyes on us 
and our toggery." 

"And of course they came," chimed in Alison the 

" Of course," admitted Brown, " and Bill, who didn't 
know, they were expected, came too, and brought Ang^l' 
for a look at our war paint." 

" Yes, yes, go on," urged Martin, impatiently. 


BN utvAon** 6l 

" And by some ill chance," said Brown, " my sister 
iKtfQtdA the DoDiber oirL" 

" And yon know she was awfully in love with Bill," 
intermpted Dawson. 

*'Ii was splendid to see lum rise to the occasion," 
drawled Travers. *' Of course it was horribly awlnrard, 
but he introduced Ang^que to each in turn as 'my 
wife, Madame Swift.' The g^irls behaved like thorough- 
breds, although they knew the truth — ^all but that beast 
of a DoUibar girL" 

*«And she?" asked Martin, expectantly. 

" Turned on her heel and tossed her head, declining 
the intended honour in the most siffnificant and sarcastic 
way," said Alison, and he mimicked both words and 

"And Ang^lique, little Ang^lique!" cried Martin. 
** How did she stand such an insult, poor child ? " 

" She turned very white, and caught at Dawson's arm. 
At the thne I thought she was only angry, but it seems 
she misunderstood, and fancied she'd got poor Bill into 

" She was horribly jealous," insisted Alison. 

" Gt> on," said Martin, unheediug the interruption. 

" She slipped out of the room while Swift was squaring 
himself wiw the girls, and I was trying to appease the 
outraged feelings of itie immaculate young lady from 
Chicago. Bill was so angry he gave up the ball, but, of 
course, the rest of us went. Next day Bill came to my 
place to inform me that Ang^lique could nowhere be 
found. I soothed him as best I could, for he was 
terribly cut up, I could see. We searched everywhere, 
but without avail. Three weeks after they discovered 
what had once been Ang^l' afloat in the Uttle cross 
current below the Cit^." 

'* Dead," groaned Martin, in a voice that was almost a 
sob, «* dead, my httle Ang^l'." 

The others sat silent before this sudden, unexpected 
self-betrayal ; even the thoughtless rumveoM had the 
grace to hold his tongue. After a bit Martin raised his 
head, and turned wearily to Brown, ''And Bill?" he 
asked, hoarsely. " What of poor old Bill ? " 

Brown sho^ his head and looked at Dawson, who, 
with obvious unwillingness, went on with the story. 
" Poor old chap, he took to unlimited absinthe after the 
funeral^ and refused to eat. Then? — well — one morning 
when the eonoierge carried up the letters she saw him, as 
she supposed, lying fast asleep ; later in the day Alison, 
there, went in and found him dead, with an empty chloral 

Dtttgned by J. J. Quthri* 

Dtiifneil by J. J. Quihrit 


bofetle on the table, and a letter beside it addreaeed to 
Brown. Like the wise boy he is he pocketed the letter 
before he aroused the house, and tne verdiet in eon- 
sequence was ' Accidental.* It came a lot easier on his 
people like that, you know, and they don't suspect ; lor, 
of course, we held our toncues, and the Chicago ^1 had, 
fortunately, done for herself, and was muciled." 

"How?" asked Martin, speaking like a man but 
half awake. 

'* I'll tell you the scandal later," ftowM Dawion ; 
" and it waa a scandal," he added, with evident relish. 
*'Nine times out of ten it's the natural end of your 
ultrsHprudish sort." 

" They're not aU like that," young Alison wai 
ing when the studio door creaked uneasily on its 
and a woman came into the room. She looked' in 
surprise at the stupefied faces turned to hers. *'Beel, 
where is Beel?" she asked, impatiently. "It is I, 
Ang^lique, and I ask you where is Beel ? " 

For a moment no sound nor movement was made — 
the little group were held spellbound and rigid in utter 

Brown, recovering first, arose and pushed her gently 
into a chair. *' Poor Bill is dead," he said, sorrowfully. 

" And we thought you, too, were dead," said Travers, 
nervously taking ner hand. 

Ang^lique looked from one to another in a dazed 
manner, out her colour did not lessen — ^for the matter 
of that, perhaps it was artificial and couldn't — ^nor did 
she seem sreatly shocked by the news. " Bed is dead," 
she remarked indiffBrently, as she patted the gleaming 
coil of hair in the nape of her shapely neck. " Bed 
you say is dead, and from what ? " 

Patiently and tenderly Brown tried to explain till 
Ang^lique interrupted him with a flood of broken English. 
** £n* I, you tink me one fool to drown for £at leetle cat 
of an AmMeadne, MaU^ now," she said, with a careless 
snap of her finger, " I care not zat for what she say. 
Mon Dieu, Ang2lique Dubois hav* not live twenty-tree 
an' in zis quarHer to die like one crassy." 

Martin rose from his seat and stood before her. " Why 
did you go away ? " he demanded, sternly. 

"Pou^ I go for EC chanse, an' because Philippe 
Armand, my ver* good fren', have need for one moaaU. 
I make ze petUe voyage, an' I make ze r e t urn v aUA 

The men looked uneasily at Martin while Angdique 
went flippantly cm. " Behol', I hav' return, an' sere la 

*'BH MiNAOl'* 65 

no welcome, no Bed, no mSnage^ not eyen one drink. 
Yon elan' like a crod of ghoe*. Yon are no more my 
{ren*8, an* I hay* not a sou. 

"I — ^I think I*m cured," Martin whispered brokenly 
to Brown. " Let us give her some money and tell her to 
go.*' On which advice Brown straightway acted. 

« « 4c 

Last week at the BuHier, however, Ang^Iique, in a 
bright-flowered siUc, danced gaily with Martin, while the 
rest of the "clique,** grown accustomed to the new 
nUnage in their midst, looked on with indifference as 
they chatted and sipped their cofifee. 



Streaming from dingy alleys of the town, 

A motley rabble, grimy and unkempt. 
At sultry eve with hurried steps come down 

The pebbled beach, to where cool waters tempt. 
They stand in sombre phalanx at the verge — 

A squalid host — and chide the lagging hour 
That frees for them the waves* inviting surge ; 

And waiting hear it vibrate from the tower. 

Now frcan mean raiment springs each youthful form, 

And flashes like the mom from cloudy fold ; 
All — ^radiant — glorious — ^bathed with sunlight warm, 
In native beauty, man of primal mould : 

Untrammelled, as when first the earth he trod 
In innocence — ^the image of his God ! 

A. Stanlby Cookb. 


4^ PAINTEB and his pupil were togeiber in the 
j^^ garden of Villa Borgnese one April morning. 
She was sitting under a tree on a camp stool 
with her easel before her ; a pale, small girl, with 
amazingly large, lustrous, black eyes. The painter, a tall, 
spare man with a countenance alternately intent and 
dreamy, stood watching. She desisted a moment, and 
looked up at him. 

** Is it right ?" she asked, 

He paused before he replied ; and then he looked — 
not at the painting, but at her. 

** jToo ri^t, Donna Olimpia." 

In the look, and in the tone also, was a strange mixture 
of deference and pity. She seemed startled. 

*• How, too right ?" 

" Too right for a princess. You should dispose of your 
genius to my poor little model, who has to earn her 

" I wish I could change with her, and have nothing 
else to do but paint aU day, instead of spending half my 
time in wearisome receptions." 

The painter sighed. He dared not say how much 
he wished so too. 

'* Let us forget everything but nature for a little 
while," he said, and "let us leave off trying to imitate it, 
but sit here and merely enjoy it." 

His pupil threw herself on the grass. She was a 
simple, natural girl, although she went out in the most 
corrupt society in Europe. 

The master stood and gazed — at the blue Italian sky. 
at the graceful trees with their new foliage, at the 
brilliant carpet of grass, in which every weed was a 
flower, at the fragments of stataes and pillars strewn 
amongst them with studied negligence ; at the oowa 
grazing, and the ragged children plaving. The birds, 
the hununing and buzzing insects — aU seemed to share 
in the spirit of happiness. It was, as he looked upon it, 
an innocent world. Pain seemed to have no part m it. 

The painter stretched himself on the grass near his 
pupil, and they talked, not wisely, not learnedly, but 
naturally ; expressing the thoughts suggested by the scene 
around them. They were pnmitively simple thoughts, 
and expressed with simplicity, and they were all good 
and pure. 

Suddenly Donna Olimpia started up exclaiming : 


'^ Here comes the carriage, and I mast go T' 
She gathered up her painting materials, and the 
master carried them for her to the carriage, in which 
the " dame de compagnie" had been taking a little tour 
round the gardens for the exercise of the horses and her 
own delectation. 

The painter long followed with his eyes the little figure 
in the white gown and the straw hat, who, turning and 
smiling brightly, waved a last farewell to him. 

*'Ah, if she were not a princess 1 " he sighed. *' So 
simple, so natural, so sweet ; and with all an artist's soul, 
but weak ! Alas, she is doomed. If I were but a prince ! 
For the first time in my life X wish that I belonged to 
her set. I could save her then ; but as it is, how dare I 
now?" Giulio Gennaro usuaJly was known by the 
designation of "that painter of the Princess Santa- 
marina's." The great lady employed him as decorator of 
her palace ; as drawing master for her daughter ; asked 
him to breakfast and to dinner occasionally, and would 
have made him her tame cat had he submitted 
— but for some unaccountable reason he would not. He 
seemed content to perform his work faithfully, and to get 
his pay regularly — ^no more, no less. Duty done and 
requited, he would make his bow and depart. The 
Princess was not accustomed to this sort of behaviour 
from a person of his low station in life. She was 
astonished and hurt and indignant. 

" Why, I asked the man to breakfast and he begged to 
be excused I What does he mean by it ? " Worse still — 
when her particular friend, the Duchess of Martorelli, 
thought she would like a few drawing lessons to amuse 
her mornings, he actually told her that she hod no 
talent, and that he only took pupils who were worth 
teaching. In short, the Princess's lion was untamable. 
The Boman aristocracy was piqued. All its daughters 
were conducted to his studio, and were, with but few 
exceptions, declared ineligible — and whenever he accepted 
one for a pupil there was, as a consequence, great 
rejoicing on her own family's part. The rejected ones, 
on the other hand, were obliged to content themselves 
with that cringing little Gaprioli. Caprioli had, until 
recently, been cJl the rage because he assured the girls that 
they were geniuses, and executed all their drawings for 
them whilst they talked together ; and these performances 
were afterwards exhibited in their mamma's drawing- 
rooms as their own. This was very convenient ; and 
Caprioli had had a great success as drawing master until 
the Princess Santamarina chose to discover Gennaro. 


She was a clever woman, and she knew what art was. 
Gennaro taught her daughter how to draw and paint, 
and the other girls began to be a little ashamed of their 
productions — even those corrected by Caprioli himself^ 
when they cajne to be compared with Olimpia di Santa- 
marina*s. So by and by it came to be a great honour 
to be accepted as a pupil by Gennaro, but some 
demurred to the society wnich their daughters met in 
the other students taught by this *^ originiue.*' He was 
requested to keep his studio more select, but even to 
this moderate request he would not accede. His studio 
should be open to all who had talent, he said, of 
every sort and degree, and he would not send away 
the former model who now sought to earn her 
living in a more noble fashion as an artist. This 
lost him some of his good pupQs, and Caprioli now 
began to hold his own against nim ; but Gennaro did 
not seem to worry over that. Nobody could make him 
out a bit. Some of his acquaintances were of opinion 
that his behaviour proceeded from infantUe simplicity ; 
while others credited him with Machiavelian astute- 
ness. That he was merely an honest man, who tried to 
do his duty, was a possibility that had not occurred to 
anybody. It was perhaps as well ; it would have made 
)iim exceedingly unpopular, and swept away the remain- 
ing patronage he enjoyed, had the fact gotten abroad — 
and he never proclaimed it. 

The Princess di Santamarina gave a great ball at the 
end of the season to celebrate the betrothal of her 
daughter to Don Leone Delfinoro, future head of one of the 
greatest Roman families. That capable woman had done 
very well for Olimpia, and was immensely pleased with 
herself. Olimpia felt rather like one in a dream. Only a 
year before she had been a little schoolgirl, and in a few 
weeks she was to be a great lady, envied, courted, 
deferred to. 

Don Leone was handsome and amiable. She had no 
objection to try and fall in love with him, and altogether 
it was a pleasant state of bewilderment. The painter 
Gennaro was actually present at this ball, quite a con- 
descension, as the Fxincess ironically remarked. He 
went up to Olimpia, like all the rest, with his congratu- 
lations. *' So it seems that I am to lose my best pupil," 
he said, and his lips quivered a little. Olimpia noticed 
his agitation. 

" Are you sorry ? " she asked. 


He paused some seconds before he could reply. 

'* I shall try not to be, if yon are happy." 

" And if I should not be happy ? " A new light was 
dawning in her eyes. 

**Then I shall allow myself to be very sorry, very 
sorry indeed." 

She looked at him again, and then blushed crimson 
from brow to chin. Don Leone, who came to claim her 
for the dance, saw the rich colour mounting 
in his bride's cheek, and smiled with great self-satis- 
faction. The painter bowed and retreated, and Donna 
Olimpia took the arm of her betrothed. But all of a 
sudden the world had changed to her. The ballroom 
was no longer a scene of enchantment, Leone no longer 
a foiry prince, but only a very commonplace young man. 
Congratulations no longer pleased but sickened her. 
Yet her pulses were beating with a fearful joy, and her 
brain reeling with the new discovery— 

" My master loves me I me ! me 1 poor little me ! '* 

It was the last lesson in Villa Borghese ; but the pupil 
was not painting. There had been little attempt at it. 
A few last touches to the picture, and then the easel was 
folded up, and the paints put by in the box, and master 
and pupil wandered amongst the trees talking. 

" It istime to go back," said the master, '* for our lesson 
is over, and we are here under false pretences. I hope 
you will keep up your painting after you are married. 
It will be a resource and comfort to you." 

He had so lone been used to school his face and his 
voice that he fmt sure that he now betrayed nothing, 
but the girl looked at him with those blazing eyes of 
hers in a way that made him tremble. 

"Ton are going to be very happy," he continued. 

Then she burst fortii : " Happy I This wiU be my last 
day of happiness, and you know it, Giulio Gennaro. For 
once let us speak the ^th together — for once." 

He tried to stop her. 

** Come I come ! you like this young man. I saw you 
at your mother's ball. You seemed happy — ^it rejoiced 
my heart." 

"I was a vain fool, and my head was turned by 
flattery. No, I don't love ' this young man.* I love you, 
and you love me. Why try to hide it? You can't 
deceive ipe. I can't deceive myself, and though I am 
a poor weak thing, I would brave the world with you, 
my dear, dear master I Oh, save, save me before it is 


too late, before I get wicked, as I know that so many of 
us do who marry without love." She threw herself at 
his feet, sobbing, in an abandonment of despair. The 
painter groskned, but he did not say one word to comfort 
her. On the contrary, he bade her, almost harshly, to 
rise and dry her tears. *' It must not be ! Get up and 
dry your eyes, Donna Olimpia I We will go and look 
for the carriage." 

'* I will when you have acknowledged that you love 
me. You shcUl say it," cried the girl. " I will not be 
cheated like this ?" 

But the painter would not say it. '* I do not forget, 
if you do, that you are betrothed to another," he said. 
** If you wish to please me you will be a true and loving 
wife. It would give me great pain not to be able to 
respect you." 

Then she rose, angrily. 

** You are brutal, and I hats you," she exclaimed, all 
aglow with wounded pride — for a moment — and then she 
fell to weepinff again, just as the Princess came upon 
them through the trees. 

« Gennaro 1 Is this the way you abuse my confidence ? 
What is all this ? What have you to say for yourself 7 " 

*' Nothing," he said, indifferently. 

"He loves me," cried Olimpia. "He does, and he 
shall not deny it." 

" I do not deny it," said the painter. 

" A pretty story 1 When you are betrothed to 
Delfinoro — and you are not ashamed of yourself ? " 

" No, mamma, for I love him, and would Uve in a 
dungeon with him, rather than in a palace with 

" I am afraid you will have to put up with the palace," 
said the princess with good-himioured contempt ; " but 
you are only a silly cluld and don't know what you are 
talking about. Gennaro, if there is any scandal about 
this, I shaU know how to revenge myself, remember 
that 1 " 

" There shall be no scandal, Princess." The indignant 
lady carried off her daughter, and Gennaro went back to 
his work in the studio. 

The next morning the Santamarina equipage stopped 
at the door of the painter's studio, and the Princess 
walked in. He was alone, putting the finishing touches 
to a portrait of Olimpia, wmch he had been working on 
in secret. 


" My daughter is to be married in a month," she said. 
" Yon have behaved abominably, Gennaro, but I will for- 
give you on condition that you help me in this business. 
You have tmmed the silly child's hecbd, but it seems by 
her own account that the fault has been partly hers. I 
will try and believe that you did not me£tn to make 

The painter said no word in his own defence, but he 
begged earnestly that Olimpia might not be harshly 
treated, insisting that the fault was not hers. 

** Oh, she has come round. Leave me to manage my 
own daughter ; but you know what Roman tongues are. 
Ah I you have been painting her portrait. That will tell 
nice tales if you keep it in your studio. You shall give 
it to me, and say it was a commission. I will pay you 
for it, of course. Name your price !" 

** It is priceless ; but I wiU send it you — as a present. 
You shall have it this afternoon." 

** Very well ; you owe it to me perhaps for the way 
you've behaved." 

There came a look into Gennaro' s eyes which rather 
alarmed the Princess. She noticed also a brace of 
pistols lying on the table. 

" Those pistols are prettily mounted," she said. " My 
husband would like to have them for a pattern. They 
are not loaded, I suppose ?" 

'* They are loaded — ^because I am all alone here, and I 
keep them for my defence ; but I will discharge tiiem if 
you like." 

** I should be much obliged." 

He went into his garden and fired the pistols in the 

" Shall I send them with the picture ? " he asked. 

"No — ^I wiU take them witn me in the carriage. 
Come to dinner this evening, and meet Delfinoro. It 
would be as well to advertise what good terms we 

are on." 

'* I am too much honoured. I will present myself." 
He handed her into her carriage, ana placed the pistols 
on the seat opposite. 

The Princess drove off quite happy. " If I had not 
been vigilant there would have been a suicide," she said 
to herself ; " a nice stoiy to go about Home. I was a 
fool to trust that stupid old companion of mine, but I 
really thought Olimpia would have had more sense of 
propriety than to get into a scrape with her drawing 
master. Yet I am rather glad on the whole. I have got 
them both under my thumb now. There is just one good 


thing about Gezmaro's ridiculous pride. It preventB him 
from taking any advantage ; and it's pleasant having the 
portrait for nothing — ^if it had been Oaprioli !" 

Gennaro turned back into his studio, but for once he 
could not work. He sat for many hours with his arms 
spread before him on the table, and his head upon them. 
A friend, coming in, could not rouse him, so he went for 
the doctor, who said it was prostration from overwork. 

Gennaro sent the doctor's certificate as an excuse for 
not dining with the Princess that evening ; but she let 
him know that she considered his conduct " inexcusable." 

A year after, the April sim shone again in Villa 
Borghese, and there again the former master and 
pupil met, in the spot where the picture had been 
pamted that hung in the Duchess of Delfinoro's 
drawing-room. But they did not meet by appoint- 
ment, and the painter, who was standing with folded 
arms gazing, gave a start as the Duchess approached. 

She was very different from the little pupil of a year 
ago. She had developed the dignity due to her position, 
and her face was no longer a nurror reflecting every 
transient feeling, but an impenetrable mask. Something 
of the old light dawned m her eyes as she saw the 
painter. She went up to him without embarrassment, 
and held out her hand. 

'* I have come," she said, '* to sit where I used to sit. 
It gives me a little pleasure to remember those simple 
old days. You, I suppose, are here quite by accident ?" 

The painter did not gratify her curiosity. He did not 
admit that he had come thither through sentiment — 
that what she had done once he did every day. He 
asked if she was well. 

<* I am well," she said, but sighed. 

" Your husband ?" 

" Oh, he — ^is very well indeed, I think." 

*' I am glad to hear that, for it shows that you make 
him happy." 

"I do my duty," she said, coldly; "but duty and 
happiness seem to be at opposite poles for me." 

" They are, for most people." 

"Why?" she cried, passionately. "Why? We were 
doing no harm here a year ago. We were so innocently 
happy. Why are we to be punished for it ?" 

" I cannot tell. Perhaps it is not punishment, but 
discipline. I salute you, Duchessa." 


He bowed and departed, leaving the world for ever 
desolate to the poor little Duchess. That five minuteH 
of a reflex gleam of life and love, as it should be, was all 
her portion in this world. She dared not cry, tar she 
had company to the lat« breakfast, and fita of tears 
plajed havoc with her delicate complexion ; so presently 
she eot DP with a little shiver, and walked to her carriage. 
Nei^er she nor the painter ever came to that spot again ; 
but they both dream of it often, and poasibty in their 
dreams their spirits uieet. 

There has never been any scandal about the Duchess 
of Delfinoro. She is the most correct person in all the 
Roman society. Her mother attributes this good 
behaviour to her own excellent example and bringing up. 
Oannaro sells his pictures well, and is a prosperous 

Society will not bestow eren the crown of thorns 
npon her martyrs. 

Masoarit Quxbtti. 


By It cannot be gainsaid that M.A.P., T. P. O'Connor's 
th* society brochure, is interesting and readable to a degree, 
Ediiof full of gossip and small talk, yet free from scandal and 
offensive innuendoes, a sort of Town Topics in fact, 
without the sting i' the tail. M,A,P., as all know, 
stands for *' Mainly Abont People," and that title covers a 
multitude of sins — editorial and otherwise— for, except it be 
loyalty to the title, why have we such an account of the 
exhibition and sale of Bume- Jones's pictures at Christie's as 
appears in a recent issue of the paper, under the heading 
"M.A.P. in the Boudoir." If, in reading the first of the 
series of notes about the sale, we thought that, for the 
moment, the order of the day was changed (as it well might 
have been) to *' Mainly About Pictures," we quickly, as we 
perused further, saw our mistake. In this first note we are told 
that Sir Edward Bume-Jones was a faultless and pains- 
taking draughtsman, the " countless little finished sketches*' 
going to prove this fact — and this in spite of anything that 
may be said by his detractors. Following this, the 
elaborate finish and method of his work is further 
dilated on. And so far, so good. 

Note No. 2 opens promisingly. We are given the names 
of some of the great people present at the view on Friday, 
and that, too, is well. Then, just as we are told that 
at the sale on Saturday the chairs were all filled, and a 
great crowd had collected long before the appointed time — 
just as our interest is being goaded on, and everything is 
leading up to the great climax, we are suddenly informed : 
*' Mrs. Asquith, in cool, printed gauze, wore a fichu held by 
two little knots of black velvet, centred by turquoise 
brooches, and a Tuscan straw hat." As an excuse, pernaps, 
for the richness of her costume, the reporter adds, " No doubt, 
she was interested in the sale." Yes, no doubt I — but the 
scribe might certainly have found some better reason for his 
belief than the one he hastens to give us, namely, that 
**her father Sir Charles Tennant was represented in the 
room to bid for a picture." [Sic J] Next we are told, 
" Mrs. Charles Wilson, in black and white striped silk, wore 
a prettv mauve hat, with a mauve paradise plume, and a 
ficnu of yellowy lace." [Again this fichu /] We skip to the 
next note, and are greeted with : '* Mrs. Anstruther Thomp- 
son, in tan colour, was busy with her eyeglass." [Heavens ! 
— let us hope that once in awhile she directed it towards the 
pictures.] Then we have more fashion notes about Mrs. 
Murray Guthrie, who, it is gravely noticed, "occupied a 
seat in the front row," as ii there was something very 
unusual in this. "Lady Hood," we see, "came in ivory 
canvas, sashed with black, etc." — but whether in compliment 



\j Charlti Ptarl 

NOTBS 75s 

to the dead artist or not, we are not informed. In canvas 
and black, forsooth! Here at least we have something 
appropriate to the occasion, and if we, who are not oracular 
in matters of the boadoir, be allowed to express an opinion, 
we shonld say that this " creation " scored ! Other modiste 
items follow. 

Then in the last and smallest note, the sale of the pictures- 
is spoken of. In six lines we have it ail. Briefly, ninety 
lots were ofifered, and produced £28,000. 

In the following note (the sale being thus disposed of) we 
are edified at learning that Lady Uxbridge has hereditary gout 
of the heart, etc. Elsewhere, we are told that Lady Chelsea 
could not attend Mr. and Mrs. Rochefort Maguire's party 
because her ** eldest little girl was operated upon in the throat • 
for the fashionable * adenoids,' and her mother did not like to 
leave her, although she was going on very well." (Surely a 
Victoria Cross should be established for the heroes and 
heroines of society.) Lady Baincliffe gave a dance and wore- 
a " beautiful tiara in her fair, fluffy hair." And so on a<f 

injitntum and ad n m. But should we object? The 

reading public like, and crave for, " personalism," and their - 
cravings must be appeased. The days of ponderous leaders 
and profound editorials are nnmbered. The public are' 
more interested in an account of the necktie President 
McKinley wore when he signed his message than in the 
message itself; more deeply concerned in Chamberlain's 
orchids and monocle than in his colonial policy. And all 
this makes us think. Does not this far reaching innovation 
in journalism apply to a Bohemian publication as well?' 
Do not our readers, also, crave personalities and items of 
gossip ? They have a right to be heard, if they do. 

Mr. H. O. Tanner, whose "Raising of Lazarus" luuk 
brought him recently into such prominence, visited the 
American Art Association on July 22nd in pearl-coloured 
corduroys ; Mr. Stephen Wirto, who returned to Paris last 
month from America, where the noise and hubbub annoyed 
him, is suffering from the fashionable complaint of 
*' myopia," and so has bought a pair of pince-nez ; Mr. 
Ernest Haskell, we are glad to say, has added another chair 
to his studio, which he has been forced to do owing to the- 
number of friends who continually track him to his flato^ 
on the island. Mr. John P. Pemberton, of New Orleans, 
was seen a fortnight ago walking on the Boul' Mich'. He 
was looking well. The pretty model, Mile. Yirginie de la 
Tour des Cazelles, has had a row with her friend, Mr. Abe- 
Jokkel, of Chicago. She is at present a guest of Mr. Paul 
Dupuy, of the Beaux Arts. Mr. Leonidas Smith, the minia- 
ture painter, called in at a coiffeur' st recently, where he^ 
parted with his fair, fluffy beard. 


We throw out this as a feeler. If it proves snccessf nl and 
attractive, we shall start a page or two of '* Personal Items 
in Bohemia "—and the laws of conventionality being less 
rigid and exacting in the society of the Latin Quarter than 
in the circles of the London upper ten, we shall enter into 
the duties of our new department with reckless enthusiasm, 
filled with a fine determination to show M.AJ^, et al. what 
impudence and personalism really mean. 

The American Chamber of Commerce of Paris, which, 

-since its establishment, has controlled and organised the 
4th of July celebration in that city, held a banquet in the 

•Grand Hotel on recent Independence Day, which, in 
point of magnificence and in the number of distinguished 
people present, excelled that of any previous occasion. 
One remarkable feature of the evening was its cosmo- 
politan and inclusive nature. All cre^s, politics, pro- 
fessions, and nationalities were represented. And though 
the ^reat central idea of the pte was admirably carried 
out, the widest recognition of varied thought and interests 
seemed aimed at in its splendid programme. Some 
four hundred guests, sixty of them of the fair sex, 
were assembled. After their reception by the President of 
the Chamber of Commerce, Henry Peartree, they entered 
the banquet hall of the hotel to the strains of the 
"Washington Post." Mounted French cuirasners kept 

^ard at Uie entrance of the hotel, and the famous band of 
the Garde R^publicaine played throughout the repast. 
Among those present were the American Ambassador, 

■General Horace Porter ; the President du Conseil des 
Ministres ; the Prefect of the Seine ; M. George St. 
Armant ; the Gk>vemor of the Bank of France ; M. Bar- 
tholdi, the sculptor ; Mr. M. F. Bust ; the French Minister 
of Commerce ; Dr. Stephen H. Tyng, formerly President 
of the Chamber of Coomierce ; M. Chardon, representing 
H. Picard, Commissioner Gteneral of the 1900 Exposition ; 
Colonel Cbaill6-Long, Secretary of the United States Com- 
mission for the Exposition of 1900 ; the Prefect of the Paris 
Police ; Mr. Charles F. Greene ; Commandant Truzza de 
Musella; Mr. J. H. Harjes; the President of the Paris 

'Chamber of Commerce ; Mr W. Seligman ; Mr. John 
Munroe ; Mr. N. A. Bothas ; Mr. £. P Maclean, U.S. Vice- 
consul General ; Mr. George P. Ostheimer, Mr. Guernsey 
Mitchell, and many otiiers prominent in diplomatic, art, 

.and mercantile circles in Paris. Eloquent speeches were 
made by President Peartree ; the American Ambassador ; 
the French Minister of Commerce, and by M. Chardon 
and Lieut.-Col. Chaill6-Long, etc. In the addresses of the 
French guests, particular stress was laid on the goodwill 
which France cherishes for her sister republic — the reports 

•of recent native animosity towards Americans being refuted 
with spirit. 

N0TB8 77 

In the July 9th issue of The EngUsk and American Gazette^ 
** D" in one of his able editorials entitled *' Effusive Affec- 
tion," has a few words to say about this banquet. He uses 
it, in fact, as the text of a sermon in which he roundly 
•denounces the present tendency to immoderate national love 
making. He scores Miss Britannia on her unbecoming 
attitude of would-be bride-elect of Uncle Sam, who remains 
a decidedly reticent, though eligible, bachelor— prone, how- 
ever, to offer sly encouragement at times. He calls upon 
his countrymen to enter with more moderation and less 
gush into their new policy of frieudship and alliance with 
America — and not to mistake flattering fallacies for fact. 
£ach nation, he hints, is humbugging the other — and 
poesibly itself. He tells us that to get at a true complexion 
of matters, it is necessary to be out of either country, 
America or England, and therefore free from deceptive 
environment. And, after speaking at some length of the 
English and American colonies of Paris, which might be 
considered representative specimens of their respective 
oountriee, clinches his argument by asking what their 
attitude is towards each other. 

In answer he draws a comparison between what was done 
in Paris on July 4th and the celebration in London. And 
this comparison, like all other comparisons, does not escape 
being ** odious." In Paris, m fact, two banquets were 
given, one by the American Chamber of Commerce to 
celebrate the Declaration of Independence, 1776 ; the other 
by the British Chamber of Commerce to discuss certain 
•commercial conundrums that were agitating that body — 
•questions of expertise and classification and fines. At the 
xormer banquet no reference was made to England, except 
once, and that auually ; at the latter, America and the 
'* Glorious Fourth " seemed " clean forgot." So much for 
Paris. ** What, on the contrary, was done in London ? " 
asks " D," indignantly. ** While General Porter, the 
Ambassador to the l^lys^e, was receiving only his country- 
men and women and French friends in the afternoon 
at his Paris residence. Colonel Hay, the United States 
Ambassador to the Court of St. James, was hobnobbing 
with English noblemen and women who had never before 
set foot inside the United States Embassy — or at any rate 
on the * Glorious Fourth.' And, in the evening, a mixed 
Anglo-American company sat down to dinner at the Hotel 
Ce^, in which the British speakers and celebrities far out- 
numbered the Americans, outdid the Transatlantickers in 
their cheers for the President, while their voices were 
loudest in joining in the strains of the * Star-spangled 
Banner.' " 

So ssith our contemporary, and we do not wish to carp 
and criticise — there is too much good sense, for that 


matter, sprinkled all through " D*8 *' article— bat, Barely, a 
few inoidents and accidento in the Amerioaui Foorth in 
Paris— celebrated, as he admits, in a happy-go-lacky spirit 
— need not be taken as indicative of the nature of the 
relationship between the two colonies. As a matter of fact» 
at all American celebrations and entertainments in Paris, 
the British element is often disproportionately large (we are 
speaking in the language of mathematics, not in the spirit 
of hospitality), and when statistics are not forthcoming, it 
is simply that Americans don't trouble to notice who are 
their fellow countrymen and who Britishers. It was not 
long since when all Europe was set talking by the spectacle of 
the British Ambassador presiding at a dmner in Paris given 
by Americans in honour of Washington, and making an 
address which in point of lofty sentiments of admiration and 
reverence for America's idol could not have been excelled by 
the efforts of the most patriotic Yankee. (This, too, before 
the present outburst of enthusiasm for the Anglo-American 
alliance!) The American Art Association of Paris 
accords all the advantages of its membership to English 
students; and we may note that somewhat recently 
at an entertainment given by that Institution both the 
British and American Ambassadors were guests. A 
thousand similar facts and incidents could be pointed 
out. We know only one American social organisation in 
Paris which is exclusively American — and that is the- 
University Dinner Club. The writer of this, however, at 
one of its latest banquets sat opposite two gentlemen who, 
if they did not come from Yorkshire— well, then, he's no 
judge of modem languages. So we must take issue with 
the eloquent but somewhat severe **D'* — whose diatribes, 
are not uninfluenoed, perhaps, by his recent tour through 
Spain, and the recognition and welcome (it is stated) he 
received there from our friends the enemy. 

The brilliant festivities of the French FIte Nationale 
began this year on the 13th of July with the Michelet cere- 
monies, and lasted through the 15th and 16th. And for once, 
even in spite of the concurrent sensational arrests of two of 
its dramatis prrsona^ Picquart and Esterhazy, the dreadful 
Dreyfus case was relegated to a secondary place in the 
public attention. AU Paris danced and laughed and gaily 

earticipated in the thousand and one open-air haU and fite» in 
er streets, as though there was no such thing as a huge 
cloud surcharged with national danger and disgrace looming 
on the horizon. The weather, which had long oeen lowering^ 
and uncertain, seemed to recognise the national holiday, for 
the " 14th " was a *' day of days." Paris, with her Italian 
sky overhead, fluttering under her burden of countless flaga 
and streamers, presented a scene of untoward beauty and 
magniflcence^-only equalled by her aspect at night, when 
she became one great tangle of pyrotechnic decorations, and 


her palaces and towers had all, as by some magic, been 
changed into shapes of fire. 

The usual military review took place at Longchamp, and 
the annual pilgrimage of Alsace-Lorraine residents wended 
its way to the Place de la Concorde, and added a few more 
wreaths to the heap of floral and bead offerings that smothers 
the statne of Strasbourg. The lions of the hour in Paris, the 
dusky envoys of H.I.M. Menelik of Abyssinia, seemed happy 
and impressed, and they were the "clou" of the review. Among 
these picturesque gentlemen of colour may be noted Dedoz 
Voldie, Likamakona Nado, Dedjazmatoh Birraton, etc., the 
prenoms being, of course — as our readers can't see — titles of 
distinction, not mere baptismal names. The day of rejoicing 
passed without incident. No infernal machine was thrown 
at the President, and only three murders were committed in 
the streets. 

The famous old Mazas prison in Paris is being demolished. 
The municipality, which humours the public with free 
performances at the opera and theatre, bethought them of 
throwing open the building for popular inspection as a 
means of economic entertainment, with the result that the 
place was invaded by a mob of the lowest element of Paris 
life — attracted thither, no doubt, through reminiscent 
sentiment — and in their struggle for loving mementoes they 
began to hurl brickbats and pieces of mortar at one another's 
heads, so that ^the police on duty being powerless to 
sabdue the tumult) the Municipal Guard had to be called in 
to disperse them with fixed bayonets. Most of the pro- 
minent politicians of France have at one time or another 
been made acquainted with the interior arrangements of 
this gaol, but the way in which they ignored the general 
invitation of the civic authorities to be present shows how 
little they appreciated its former hospitalities. The place 
was named after General Mazas, slain at Austerlitz, whose 
name was conspicuously set up over its entrance, until it 
struck someone that this compliment was at best but a 
dubious one, when the inscription was forthwith erased. 

The centennial anniversary of the birth of France'^ 
great historian Michelet was celebrated in Paris with 
befitting solemnity and splendour ; and a long and brilliant 
programme successfully followed through. On July 13th a 
formal ceremony was inaugurated at the Panth6on, under 
the auspices of the President of France, at which there 
were addresses from notables, and music from a combina- 
tion of orchestras and bands, etc. The same day other 
ceremonies were set down to take place at the Hdtel de 
ViUe, which had been lavishly decorated for the occasion. 
First the "Crowning of the Muse" in the square before the 
Hdtel, together with an " Apotheosis," which was to be 
witnessed by tiie President and all the dignitaries of Paris, 


and at which, besides singers, dancers from the Opera, 
historical costumes, pageantry, and so forth, a chorus of six 
hundred voices was to assist. Then a banquet in the Hdtel^ 
and later on a ball. Bain interrupted the out-of-door 
exercises, which were postponed, and took place on the 24th,. 
but the banquet and ball came off at the time appointed^ 
and were the successes that la Yille Lumi^re always scores 
when she sets about to give a civic or national entertainment. 

These ceremonies were more than interesting to a foreigner 
— who, had they been carried out with less skill and 
impressiveness, might have voted them a trifle theatrical. 
The central figure of the celebration, the Muse, was per- 
sonified by Mme. Ernestine Gurot, a pretty, modest little 
ouvrQre, who, among a host of fair but jealous candi- 
dates, had been elected by the Bourse de Commerce to 
that position. Her one hundred and forty-four unfortunate 
rivals were indemnified for their want of success by being 
offered seats at the "plein air" spectacle. Crowned by 
her companions, the Muse in turn crowns the bust of 
Michelet. In another part of the ceremonies, " La Glorifi' 
cation de Michelet " two allegorical figures, Truth and Poetry, 
are discovered at the foot of Michelet's bust. They open a 
volume, " The History of France," and straightway the 
heroes and statesmen oi Fraaoe appear and group themselvea 
into a great historic tableau in the background. The widow 
of Michelet was a prominent figure at these ceremonies. 
Deputations from various foreign universities were present. 
Through the courtesy of Mme. Michelet — herself a native 
of Louisiana — Mr. Trist Wood, of The Quartier Latin, was 
appointed to represent Tulane University of Louisiana. 

During the past month another bust has been unveiled in 
the Luxembourg Gardens. The late Leoonte de Lisle, 
author of the '* Po^es Antiques " and '* Po^mes Barbares," 
was a well-known figure in the Latin Quarter, and now, like 
Murger and Sainte-Beuve, is commemorated in noarble in 
the district in which he lived. At the unveiling there was 
a large assembly of Ministers, Academicians, and Utterateun. 
M. Bourgeois, Minister of Public Instruction, M. de Herrida, 
of the French Academy, were among the speakers. The 
dedicatory verses were by Catulle Mendds. The bust is the 
work of Puech, and was one of the attractions rt last year's 
Salon. The beautiful Luxembourg Gardens are little by 
little being transformed into a people's temple to France's 
painters and poets, and no more befitting spot, lying as they 
do in the heart of artistic and literary Paris, could be chosen. 
In this connection we venture to ask if it would not be 
well to start a subscription among English and American 
students and artists for the purpose of erecting a bust 
to Du Maurier. Surely the man who has made the 
Latin Quarter a household word in America and England, 
and who, in his own way, has been as great an apoetle of 

Bohemianism as his French predecessor Murger, deserves 
some sach memorial recognition, and the civic authorities 
of Paris, if approached, would no doubt be only too willing 
to allot a place in the grounds of the Luxembourg for 
his monument. 

The Entertainment Committee of the American Art 
Association of Paris, under the direction of Mr. Stephen 
Wirts, Vice-Chairman, which had increased its numbers bj 
the appointment of Messrs. J. Bakewell, jun., and Ernest 
Haskell, arranged an informal but very successful banquet 
for the 4th of July. Mr. Theodore Lescher, the newly -elected 
Vice-President, presided, and Governor McCarthy, on a visit 
to Paris, was the guest of the evening (though in Bohemian 
spirit he insisted in paying his subscription " like any 
ordinary artist"). Among those present were Messrs. H. O. 
Tanner ; C. B. Bigelow ; M. P. Main, of TJu English and 
American Gazette; Dr. Lindefelt; A. Lewis; E. H. Moyle 
Cooper, of Cambridge; F. T. Hutohens; C. W. Ayton; A. C 
Simons ; etc. Mr. Hodman Wanamaker, the President, was 
unable to attend. Mr. Elwyn A. Barron, inspired by the occa- 
sion, made a stirring patriotic address, Mr. Haskell amused 
the banqueters by a few of his " stunts," while Mr. H. Dey 
told an original story. The architect, Mr. Southwick, made 
the T-square element of the club justly proud of him (and 
of themselves) by the triumph he scored in his impersona- 
tion of a New England preacher. During the evening 
Gov. McCarthy announced the fact that the American 
ambassador had received official confirmation of Sampson'a 
glorious naval victory at Santiago, and the wild enthusiasm 
that followed led to the destruction of a dozen or more 
champagne glasses. After the banquet the participants 
marched around town singing patriotic songs, and making 
night hideous with ** Yankee Doodle" and ** Dewey ? Don't 
wel" The procession went to the N,Y, Herald office, then 
to the Grand Hotel to visit the Chamber of Commerce 
l»bAquet (which had already broken up), and, returning to 
the '* rive gauche" ended their celebration with great eclat 
in the Taverne du Pantheon. Several days previously the- 
committee had organised a subscription dance at the Asso- 
ciation, which was likewise a gratifying success; and, so 
report has it, they felt duly elated over the result until they 
began to make up the deficit which they discovered had 
somehow crept Into their finances. 

The question of rapid transit across the ocean is always 
an interesting subject — especially to American tourists and 
colonists in Paris. The exploits of the Kaiser Wilhehn der 
Grosse of the North German Lloyd are known to every 
one, and now the public learn that that "greyhound" 
has broken her own record. In a recent trip to America 
she bowled along steadily with an average of 22.51 
knots an hour to her credit, and completed her journey in the- 


astonishinglyshort space of five days and nineteen hours. 
The Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse is one of (he largest steamers 
afloat, and the tremendous force that most he generated 
in her engines to drive her at such a rate through the water 
almost staggers the imagination. 

The Anglo-American League, recently inaugurated at 
Stafford House under the presidency of the Duke of Suther- 
land, is gaining the support of English artists. Beoent 
recruits are Sir W. B. Richmond, Mr. G. F. Watte, and 
Mr. Briton Biviere. The League includes already four 
dukes — Westminster, Newcastle, Sutherland, and (of course) 
Marlhorough ; lords and sirs ad libitum ; some fifteen 
bishops; fSty lord mayors and mayors; and a host of other 
people prominent in various walks of life. That this looks 
formidable and businesslike, ** D " himself will not deny. 

A beauty show was recently organised in Belleville, one 
of the suburbs of Paris, by a band of painters, poeto, and 
sculptors. Some one hundred beauties entered the lists to 
compete for the prizes promised. After much ceremony 
and suspense the first award was bestowed on a Mile. 
Bochet; but her pretty face fell when she discovered 
it to be — a fat rabbit. The second prize was carried 
off — or rather down — ^by a MUe. Boux, to wit, a bottle 
of strawberry syrup. This competitor was remarkable 
among the rest, owing to the red Phrygian cap she had 
donned for the occasion. The winner of the rabbit — who 
■ could not be made to understand that it was the honour of 
the prize, not its value, that she should consider — showed 
lively symptoms of resentment, when one of the artists 
promised to place her profile on a medallion, as a memento 
of her triumph, and so there was peace and happiness. 

The new magazine. The Poster ^ has been at once a matter 
of surprise and congratulation to all Interested in poster 
art in England, in which country, though the appreciation 
for that form of art is daily growing, and though some of 
the London hoardings are here and there decorated with 
veritable c/t^/s-d'osuvre— and, in fact, not a few of the best 
specimens of native handicraft are in great demand with 
French and American collectors — the spread of the poster 
cult has been of comparative recent date, and has 
been marked by the usual British conservatism. Long 
after the public streets and private studios of New York 
and Paris were made beautiful by the works of Mucha, 
Grasset, and Louis Bhead, London remained plunged in 

. a nightmare of post-bill barbarism. But the torch of beauty 
and progress has begun to shine ; and to repeat in meta- 
phors what we said above, its rays are of the finest 

.quality, and give promise of excellent brilliancy — ^a consum- 
mation devoutly to be wished, more notably as the genius 

. ^TIBNNB DU MONT, PARIS Draicn fcj H. L. Biirker 


of the English people is to advertise profusely — eren 
eztravagantly, widely, and without stint. And the nature 
of the medium theiefore is of the deepest concern to all 
art lovers. London, from heing a huge phantasmagoria of 
hideous and crude-coloured art depravities, may become 
(indeed, is on the high road to becoming) a colossal and 
pleasurable open-air gallery of charming pictures. Even now 
the works of Dudley Hardy, the Beggarstaff Brothers, and 
John Hassall make us in a measure forgive the flash light 
advertisements which, when the soft twilight hour of repose 
steals over the tired city, spring out on tower and wall and 
bum themselves into our throbbing brains. 

It is poor grace to discuss the legitimacy of poster art — 
all art, in our humble opinion, being per $e legitimate. 
Rather, we may ask, is not such art more legitimate, and 
more commendable, than the selfish and so-called high art 
which jealously hides away from the public in the study of 
the connoisseur or parlour of the millionaire ? The hue and 
cry that the poster is the degradation of art seems unworthy 
of notice. The only degradation of art that we know of is 
a sheaf of brushes and a palette in the hands of an 
ignoramus, or an— amateur I Does it pay ? That, in faith, 
is another question. But, judging from the amount of 
popular attention a truly artistic poster always attracts, we 
may safely answer that it does. We venture on the asser- 
tion, indeed, that no advertiser has ever regretted the gilt- 
edge premium paid to a good artist or faithful lithographer. 
Tnie oeauty and charm make a deeper impress than mere 
crudity and flash of colour. The fallacy of howling posters 
is dymg out of the land. For their perpetrators are 
begiiming to find, alas ! that they howl in vain. 

80, as showing the trend of the times, The Poster — 
whether it will survive or not — ^has come among us. 
France and the States have long had their poster magazines 
and publications, as witness Patter Lore and Let Maitres 
d'Affiehe^ etc., etc., and these have found a large clientele (of 
which fact we are aware through other sources of information 
than the kindly data furnished by their advertisement 
managers). We hope The Potter will meet with the same 

As another indication of the strides that the poster cause 
is making in England, we may cite the number of new 
poster shops recently established in London, which, unless 
we greatly err, contain all the possibilities of evolving, 
thoi^ it may be slowly, into establishments such as 
Sagot's or Deschamps' in Paris. Li a conversation we 
recently had with the proprietor of one of the largest of 
these shops, M. Huardel (himself a Frenchman), we were 
informed that the designs of Mucha are particularly popular 
among London collectors — a healthy sign, surely, ana one 


indicative of a tme sort of interest, devoid of faddism; for 
Madia's work is ^t ezeeUence on the most refined and 
snbdaed order, with no element of flashiness abont it lil^ely 
to catoh the eye of the wonld-be dilettante or ignorant 
faddist. If the public bays a Gh^ret, we may yet be in 
doabt whether love for Gh^ret's art, or ohildiwh delight in 
bright coloars and shapelv girls indaced the porchaee, bat 
if the public hands ten snillings or fifteen shillings oat of 
pocket for a " Dame aux Gam^lias," we may diagnose the 
case as one of acute artistic appreciation either in partial or 
fall development. 


PhiloBopiiy enables us to bear our troubles — ^until they 

The wisdom of the fool lies in his folly ; but the ioUy 
of the wise man exceedeth all foolishness. (This is not 
in the Bible 1) 

Believe what you see if you desire happiness on earth, 
for you seldom see what you believe. 

If " curses oome home to roost," where do bleasingB 
go to? 

Originality is the faculty of remembering things for- 
gotten by others. 

Mabk PsBuaiNi. 


The Gheviot House, TaUors . . . . A. G. 

Yitti, Art Academy A. Staub 

Glendenning, Malt Wine . . . . H. G. Famoxl 

Mutual Beserve Fund Life Ass. H. A. Hooo. 

Gonfiserie des Tuileries . . *. . . A. Gaxfbbu. Gaoas 

Hotel Haute Iioire Lester Balph 

North German Lloyd, Steamship Go. . . H. A. Hooa 

Spaolding A Go., Jewellers • . . . H. G. F. 



fofflWflr A< ft mU mnnttily. ftppean new on 
tlic fitft •( eaeb nxmth. 

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I Pun 

DMignti ty A^nM Wart. 


LIFE J* ^ 



ABOUT 40% 


& DUANE St. 







Vhe guartier Itatin 

Vol. V SEPTEMBER, 1898 No 



My very tsetlUM Relative, bring, at I fuive dUeovered, 
■tiumotirtd of siy Ltuty, hath by very foid inflvettcd got me 

exiled from Court 

Extract {rom Letters of Marco. 
If I'd m; win, straight would I hasten to 
Seek out a certain Belative of mine 
Towards whom m j heart holds love like proffered wine — 
Poiaoned perohance i Lord, no I as this is tme. 
'Swiftly I'd give him jnst his proper dne : 
A slip-knot in a piece of hempen twine, 
With jagged, ms^ nails along the line 
"Wfaeie it vonld kiss his throat — they'd not be few. 
Then with his bimds made fast, and feet as well, 
Tight'ning the noose abont his bloody neck. 

Delightful sport I'd have, to heart's content ; 
Adding what torture hatred could invent ; 
So crying, "Mate," where hitherto but " Check." 
I lore him ? Yea I— even as God lovee Hell. 

H. P. 



^Bj^HE last loiterers had left the Parade; the waTea 
Q^ broke and the moon shone, unwatched. The 
twinkling lights had disappeared from the crescent^ 
of houses which swept round from horn to horn of the 
bay — all but one faint gleam in the third storey of a 
house at the north end. There, in a room dim with the 
obscure ravs and tremulous shadows of a shrouded lamp, 
sat a watcher by a bedside. His head was leaned upon 
his hand, but he never removed his sidelong gaze from 
the woman who lay upon the bed, with closed eyes, and a- 
grey pallor on her fsbce. She was young, though worn 
with illness, and there was a pitiful beauty in the death- 
like mask relieved against wild tresses of golden hair» 
The doctor had left her late, and he was to return early 
in the morning. He had resigned the case to Nature. 
" Patience T* he said. *' It is only weakness. She will 

From time to time she spoke in a low murmur. She 
was but faintly aware of her circumstances. Her thoughts 
were far awav. 

** It is so lonely," she said. ** Will he never come ? 
How tired I am of waiting ! How tired I am of life 1 It 
is very dark. Surely he will come soon ? " 

*' Claire I" the man cried, raising a haggard &ice, 
*' don't you know me ? " and he took her hand. 

*' Is that you, Guy ? How late you are I I have been 
so bored, sitting and staring into the fire. I can't see 
castles there any more, Guy ; the old dreams are dead. 
Only the past, the old house — it was so gloomy, so dull, 
and I did not mind leaving it in the least. I thought I 
was going to be so happy, and we did love each other so 
much. But love isn't everything — ^you know it is not 
You have your work and your mends, and I have — 
nothing. I can only sit and mope, and stare out of the 
window, and wonder when you will come. Oh, Guy, I 
am sick and weary of the blank street, and the dingy 
bricks of the house opposite, and the fog, and the poola 
of rain in the road. Don't you know, Guy, I am young, 
and I want change, and movement, and bright faces, and 
people who are frivolous sometimes ? Oh, I want it, I 
want it so badly." 

She broke into a low sobbing. 

Her husband bent over and kissed her. 

" Oh, hush, Claire 1 my dear, my poor darling I " 

l'abt pour l'art 87 

The present had only the slightest hold on her. She 
was Bometunes half conscious of it ; she was not delirious^ 
but her mind kept wandering back to the past in a mourn- 
fol reverie, feedmg itself upon melancholy recollections. 

"That tiresome Mr. Broomhall was here to-day. I 
ought to have been proud to listen to him, for he talked 
of nothing but your genius; how great you would be 
some day ; how devoted you are to your art ; how stead- 
fast you are to your ideal. But I don't understand half 
he says, and, I can't help it, but what I do understand 
seems to be cant. I know it is treason to you, but, oh t 
I wish you could be one of those popular artists that 
your friends despise. 

"How wretched it is to be so poor! One can do 
nothing, nothing when one is poor. Everything is so 
hopeless, wherever one turns one is shut in by an 
impassable barrier. Even to see the country — ^when I 
was at home I scarcely cared for it, I wanted life and 
movement — ^but now, I feel that I must renounce every- 
thing. Enjoyment is not for a broken creature like me. 
But if I could see the hills, and breathe the clean air of 
the country — ^that would be something. 

" I have tried to be brave. Do you think I complain ? 
I cannot endure any longer. It is all over — ^I am done 

A deep groan from the man called back her wandering 
thoughts. She raised herself slightly, and looked up. 

" You, Guy ? You are very kmd. Have I been talk- 
ing ? I thizik I must have been in a dream." 

"Are you better now, darling?" he asked, in a 
sjaradned voice. 

"Oh, ever so much better. I think I wiU take my 
medicine now, and after that I shall be able to sleep." 

He went to the mantelpiece to pour out the draught, 
and she followed his movements with languid eyes. 

" Do you know," she repeated, " I feel ever so much 
better, only tired ? I am sure I am going to get well, 
and we will be so happy and contented, won*t we ? " 

" Please God, you shall have a happier life than you 
ihave had," he said, brokenly. 

" Oh, don't talk that way, Guy I But I shall sleep 
now. Do go and lie down. You are so tired." 

" No, no, let me sit and hold your hand. But first 
drink this." 

She drank the medicine, supported by his arm ; then 
sank down with a little sigh^ and was soon asleep, still 


holding his band. He B&t there long in sileiice, n pt^ 
to Bombre and deBpairmg regreta. 

On; Tollingtoa htid left Oxford with a brilliant but 
froitlesB repatation, and onl; a small remnant of ft 
modest patrimonj, to venture, with reckless courage, on 
the desperate chancee of a literarj career. He spent 
the long vacation, after going down from the Universitj, 
in a quiet oouatry town, at work on a novel from wbidi 
he looked for great results. There he made the acquaint- 
ance of Claire Holberton, the only daughter of a rich 
solicitor. The young people soon become attached to 
each other. Claire's home was dull, and her life loneW. 
Her father was engrossed in his business, and seemingly 
indiSerent to her happiness. Guy soon declared nlB 
love, and when old Holberton met his avowal with 
rudeness sjid angry scorn, he easily persuaded Claire to 
make a runaway match. Her father swore that he 
would never forgive her, and died soon after her flight, 
leaving all hie fortune to found an agricnltural college. 
The Tollingtons passed their honeymoon gaily in Franoe 
— the only period of gaiety in the poor girl's life. When 
they had taken and furnished a little villa in Brixton, 
Ouy'e purse was fairly emptied. He worked occasional!; 
for several weekhes, his novel brought him some reputft- 
Man, though it did not run to a second edition, and he 
formed a number of acquaintances among artists and 
authors. Perhaps he might have had more work, bnt 
he was fitful and erratic. He loved to theorise on hia 
art among his friends. He was rather pleased than 
otherwise by the thought that his work was not popular. 
His wife seemed always cheerful and contented. She 
did not understand the jargon talked by his critic-friende, 
but she was as eager as a child over every bit of praise 
that feU to his share. She took the keenest interest in 
his books, and their conversation always tamed in the 
end to the triumph that he was to achieve. The publlo 
wonld, at some time or other, be forced to admire his 
genius. That oonsoled for everything. In the mean- 
time, the great thing was only to work at bis beet, and 
not to write anything that was not worthy of himself. 

So three years slipped away. He wrote a eouple of 
novels, which gained him very favourable oritioianiB, bat 
very little money. Their housekeeping had BtUl to 
confine itself within very modest limits. For all those 
three years his wife bad no holiday, though he himadi 

l'abt pour l*abt 89 

spent a couple of months in Norway, gathering hints of 
looal colour for one of his novels, and a few weeks in 
Paris, writing up criticisms on the Salon for an art 
iounud. On both these occasions he was struck, when 
he returned, by his wife's pale and sickly looks, and was 
visited by compunctions and alarms. She laughed at 
his forebodings. ** Did he think she was not fit to be 
the wife of a literary man? She quite enjoyed being 
left to herself. It was a rest ; it was a pleasant change.*' 
Then she kissed him, and cried a Uttle, and said he Imew 
how glad she was to have him back. 

He was blind. He did not see that she was pining 
away in an atmosphere of poverty, pining for change, and 
pleasant society, and excitement. If he had only known 
that — as he ought to have guessed — how regularly and 
systematically he would have toiled I What a straggle 
he would have made to cure himself of that trick of 
writing above the comprehension of his audience I But 
the knowledge came at last, when it was all too late. 

His latest novel had appeared a few months before. 
When his Bohemian friends discovered that it was even 
more distinguished than his previous work, they gave a 
joint picnic to Bichmond to celebrate the event. It was 
a men's party, and of course he could not take his wife. 
They were almost aU young; they were all in high 
spirits ; they all held lofty notions of the dignity of Art. 
Every kind of delicate compliment was showered upon 
him. Broomhall, the dramatic critic, made a brilliant 
and witty speech, proposing the health of the hero of the 

Guy returned home dashed with excitement and 
flattery. His wife's interest seemed fainter than usual, 
and he was chilled for a moment. Soon he grew 
animated again, repeating the prophecies that had been 
uttered on his behalf, and painting in the brightest colours 
the future that awaited him. Claire burst into a passion 
of hysterical weeping. 

"Oh, Guy, Guy, will your success come soon? It 
must come soon, Guy — at once, or it will be of no use." 

The doctor that Guy called in, in alarm, did not think 
there was any immediate cause for anxiety. Mrs. 
Tollington must have change at once. She could not 
stand a long journey. One of the watering-places on the 
South Coast would bo best. 

Guy was now trying to atone, by desperate assiduities, 
for the suffering inflicted by three years' blindness. 



When the night was wanmg, and the first pallid wam- 
inff of dawn crept in at the window, Claire's grasp 
ti^tened on her husband's hand. 

" Guy I '* she murmured, " dear Guy ! It has come at 
last — Buoeess 1 Now we shall be so happy." 

She gave a contented little sigh, and a smile settled 
upon her lips. Guy sat rigidly still, for fear of waking 
her. He must have sat there for a couple of hours longer, 
falling at intervals into a broken sleep. The wan light of 
mominff was streaming into the room, making the flame 
of the lamp look struige and spectral. Suddenly he 
awoke from an uneasy dream. The hand which he held 
was cold. He bent over Claire, and watched. He ooulii 
not see, could not hear, her breath come and go. Such 
alarms are common to anxious watchers, and he knew it. 
It was a silly fancv, yet he must wake her to reassure 
himself. He kissed her forehead. It was cold ; so cold 
that he was terrified. 

'* Claire I " he cried, " Claire ! *' but her sleep was im- 
broken. Then he tried frantic means to wake her. She 
could not feel his touch ; her ear, so quick to catch his 
lightest tone, was deaf to him now. 

He made no effort to rouse the house, to call for help. 
All help was past. 

Bemorse and sorrow filled his heart. 

A bottle of strychnine, from which minute doses had 
been administered to the patient, was on the mantel- 

He drained it. 

Then he sat down, and taking once more that cold 
hand, waited for the death*pang. 

In the morning there was a letter for Guy Tollington 
from his publisher, announcing that the second edition of 
his latest novel was exhausted, and all the copies of a 
third had been sold in advance. The next day all the 
leading journals regretted that Mr. Tollington had not 
been spared to witness the success which he had so well 
deserved. But, they said, it must have been sufficient 
gratification for so disinterested an artist to know that 
ne had always made his work as perfect as possible, and 
had never sacrificed in the least to popularity. In his 
case it might truly be affirmed that Art had proved its 
own reward. 



A Balxjld. 

l^j dost thou look at me bo, babe Maurice ? 

"Why, why wilt thon look at me so ? 

^Twas done in the dead of the night, babe Maurice, 

And never a man will know. 

Oh slippery was the way we trod, 

For the ice lay under the snow ; 

And the moon looked down like the eye of God, 

And the winter wind did blow. 

TVe stood on the cliff, and the angry flood 

Boar'd deep in the dark abyss ; 

And, far in the gloom, whilst there we stood 

We heard it boU and hiss ; 

And a madness burned along my blood . . . 

'Twas just such a night as this, babe Maurice, 

A heaven-cursed night as this. 

A slip, and a cry for a helping hand, 

But never a hand got he t . . . 

'Twas there on the lonely mountain-side, 

And only the stars could see — 

And I was the heir to his acres wide ; 

And his soul's eyes stared at me 

As he fell — down — down : God I how he cried 

Out, out in his agony. 

why wilt look at me so, babe Maurice ? — 

1 never told one but thee ; 

'Twas done neath the silent midnight sky. 

And only the stars could see, 

And the dumb, round moon, with her blood-red eye. 

And the wind wailed fearfully 

As a brother's last despairing cry 

Bang up through the dark to me. 

Joat ten ymn gone to-day, babe BiMirioe, 

Hia mangled body was found 

By one whose heart e'er loTed hun best, 

His dumb and faithful hound. 

And we placed a lily upon his breast, 

And laid him in holy ground. 

'Why wilt thou look at me so, babe Maurice, 

Why, why wilt look at me so ? 

'Twae done in the dead of the still midnigfat 

Yest're'en ten years ago. 

He lies full deep in the oold, oold ground. 

His grave is white with snow ; 

And over his acres wide around 

The winter wind doth blow. 

And never a trace of the truth will be found — 

Though Heaven and Hell both know 1 

Why look at thy father ao, babe Maurice ? 

Can Heaven have made thee wise 

To pierce to the core this heart that is sore 

With its burden of agonies I 

A heart that dreams of blood, and wakes 
To uoken when a low wind blows ; 
That dreadeth the dumb, red dawn, and quakes 
At the aight of a erimaon rose I 

Sleep, sleep, nor gaae at me ao, babe Maurice ! . . 

Snow hangB on tower and tree ; 

The moon ahines bright through the chill midni^t. 

And the lawns are fair to see. 

But there, from a grave all cold and white, 

A dead man calleth me ; 

And hist t like an anguished aoul in flight, 

The wind wails fearfully. 

Jahks a. Maokbbith. 

BV THE BOADsinE Praim bt/ A. CampMl I'ra 


^^ *^ND theL^drmidenum in Hi, <non imager 
J^^^ Broken, decrepit, shrunken, shrivelled, bent, 
and hideous, the Modem repeats the words 
and breathes his prayer for resurrection in the flesh. 

" To meet thy Maker I " 


It is usually believed that if one knows the Lord's 
Prayer, has been baptised, and duly dons a suit of black 
clothes he is ready. 

" To meet thy Maker/'' 

What a mystery I a joy I a wonder t 

But do the most devout believe also in the resiurection 
of the clothes ? 

Do we stand naked and ashamed with all our imper- 
fections on our heads ? or do the white wings sprout out 
through black broadcloth ? 

Does our body recompose itself in radiance and beauty ? 

Then it would not be our body. 

The seal of ignorance and shame will not drop away. 

The Voice will say : Tou were given a beautiful form. 
What is this that comes before me ? 

How wiU the poor, broken, tired creature, that was 
afraid to meet me light of this world, stand in the 
radiance that knows no darkness ? 

It was ashamed to live — it drew on the garment of 
night as the day-garment fell to its feet, and ned to bed- 
clothes if it but saw a gleam of its own flesh — will it 
ever be bold enough to drop the grave-clothes for the 
Judgment of Truth ? 

We cover our physical mistakes, and pronounce them 
indecent, but some kind of a physical judgment may be 
expected — we cannot lie down Methodist and rise up 

Oiu: clothes are made for dummies, not for men. 

The brain to plan an organisation or to direct a 
machine is all we require of a man, and if the man is 
crushed in the process, what do we care ? 

lihe splendid optimistic physical religion of the Greeks 
is unknown. 

We are not flesh, we are only canned-meat. 

We worship the statue and painting — ^if only the 
scales might fall from our eves that we might see the 
wonder of the Uving flesh : the incarnation of the word 
of God. Under our hideous clothes and customs classic 


beauty still exists, and might be awakened again to 
become a joy to the world. 

The welcome given to '* Living Pictures *' was a sign 
of better things. A few still make the vulgar jest and 
quib — but the majority of the audience sit husned and 
dumb to see that such perfections are not the dream of 
the artist and sculptor. They exist in life. The body 
itself is clothed in harmony; and only ugliness and 
deformity are improper. 

The laughing Venus, the triumphant Circe, the 
beautiful-winged Psyche, all speak a lesson that we have 
been waiting to learn. 

We are sJl '* Yellow Asters," fearing to bloom into 
natural life. Wrinkled faces tell their story, with hard, 
duW-set jaws and staring eyes. 

We know it all, but daxe not tell our nearest and 
dearest what we feel. 

The physical expression of the noblest feelings is 

What mother is not afraid of her son ? What son does 
not hold back the caresses that he would so freely give, 
and that his mother would die rather than ask for. 

The stifled physical life looks out of its prison with 
the windows of its eyes, and only meets other hard-set 
faces and longing eyes ; and sighs, and says the world is 
" practical" now, and the time for happiness is passed. 

Muscles cannot feel that for years have been dead to 
exercise and expression. 

Nerves cannot pass along a message of joy that have 
not spoken for years. 

There is the general idea that if the feeling is true the 
body tuill speak. It is not so — even feeling will not 
awaJsen the dead. The body grows dumb and unsym- 
pathetic, and the heart wastes itself in smothered fire. 

Universal feelings cannot come if we stifle universal 

People who turn their heads away at the sight of an 
ankle, who call for an officer when they see a little boy 
in bathing, who cannot face the sight of themselves 
in a mirror, are the objects of a healthy mind's pity. 
Imagination sees them in the streets of Athens — they 
would have been swept from the pavement as impious 
and unnatiural. 

The physical training of children should be such that 
a bent back or hollow chest would be as disgusting to 
them as drunkenness — ^that they should be aSiamed to 
be ill. Hiat bad legs and wrinkled faces are inunoral 
and evil. That their personal associations should be 


those only of truth and sincerity. It will give strong 
basic foundation to their life's careers, and, above all, 
executive activity to their mental powers. They should 
be brought up without shame ; and always in sight of a 
good cast of an antique statue, a Hermes, Apollo, or 
Antinous, that nudity may seem only to them what is 
natural and noble. 

Personal control wiU save from the usual nervous 
wreckage, and their physical knowledge give an armour 
against the accidents of life. 

We are brought up without any physical ideals at all. 
We have scarcely any perception of physical condition. 
When we enter school we say the Enghsh alphabet, and 
it does not matter how we breathe or stand. The 
teacher does not realise that here is a little growing 
machine whose wheels should be put in order at the 
beginning of life. When we leave school we say the. 
alphabet in Greek and begin life physically with less 
equipment than a Greek peasant. 

Our mental success cures our physical breakdown; 
when things go wrong we take a piU, and order more 
padding to our coats. We dare not look. The ugly are 
always morbid. 

The relieion of the Greeks was to stand in perfect 
physical relation with the universe — ^they gladdened the 
eyes of the gods with perfect men and women. Their 
training did not produce alone physical results — ^it gave 
the greatest poets to the world, artists, philosophers, 
warriors, statesmen, undying ideals of heroism and gloiy. 

Their clothes were not clothes — they were elotha 
covering the body, but not destroying its sweep of limb, 
its ever-changing composition of Hue, its nobility of union 
part with part. 

Ours not only hide, but degrade, compress, deform. 

If the Greeks could have seen such bent and wizened, 
intellectual and mechanical, beings as now crowd our 
streets they would have easily taken them for escaped 
incurables from an asylum. And even we, could we but 
train ourselves to look with eyes unwarped by custom, 
would start back at the sight of such derelicts of Nature. 
The Aveugles of Maeterlinck out for a holiday. 



The lovely Columbine once found 
A small red heart upon the ground. 

Would it be indiscreet, thought she, 
To see if it belongs to me ? 

This little red sweet heart, why not ? 
I'll plant it in a flower-pot. 

And then, if anything appears, 
1*11 water it with honest tears. 

She watched until a sprout was seen, 
That turned to lusty leaves of green. 

"Why, it's a rose," she cried ; " but no, 
It is an exquisite Pierrot." 

" Bonjour ! ! prettiest in the land,'* 
He said, and stooping kissed her hand. 

William Theodorb Pbtbbs. 



(( V MDST have Bomething striking and novel at my 
J wedding," said Beea, ailer having disposed of 
that inc«t important of all things, the final 
trying on of her bridal sown. " Yes, I must have some, 
tlung novel. There's Naney Sherwood, why she had 
two or three things at her wedding that were quaint and 
original, and everyone talked abont them for weeks 
afterwards. We've all just got to put onr heads together 
and think of something out of the ordinary. We miut ! " 
she added, desperately. 

" I've got it, BesB," said her cousin Bob, as he entered 
the room, whence he had been expelled for the twentieth 
time during the trying on of the aforesaid and other 
gowns. " I've got it. All the family are going to give 
yon some kind of a present, yon know; now, suppose I 
don't give you anything; is that striking enough for 
yon ? " 

" Oh, stop your fooling. Bob," returned 
Bess, in her good-natured way. " This is a 
serious matter, and somebody's got to suggest 

" Well, my suggestion doesn't seem to 
cut much ice, and the only thing that is 
striking about it is that I v/ill have to 
pot^ up a tenner for a present." 

This reply was in keeping with the usual 
sally between the cousins, there being a con- 
tinual passage at arms, as it were, in which Bob's 
self-credited victories were often questionable. 

No one thought Bob's remarks worth answering, a 
thing that did not seem to bother Bob in the least. Bess 
sat on the sofa, with her feet tucked up under her, 
gazing at the floor, as if expecting to find thereon this 
novel feature that was to be the talk of her wedding ; 
Aunt Sally, reclining in an easy chair, vrith her head 
thrown back, gazed upwards, as if she expected the 
inspiration to &ap from the ceiling ; while sister Carry, 
off in a comer, was talking in a Tow tone to the seam- 
stress ; and as for Bob, he sab there with both hands 
around one knee, mattering something about marriage 
itself being novel enough to his thinking, and he couldn't 
understand what else Bess wanted. Presently Carry 
finished talking to the seamstress, and then she, too, eat 
still, giving the room a Quaker-meeting atmosphere, only 

qS the quartier latin 

for the hum of the sewing machine, through which yard 
after yard of " stuff," as Bob put it, was passing. 

The silence was beginning to tell, especially on Bob, 
who was seen moving uneasily ; but now that Carry had 
entered the field of discovery, something was sure to 
present itself, and for anyone else to suggest anything 
until she had had her say was to break an unwritten law 
of their little world. 

** You've hit it. Bob!" she finally exclaimed, so 
suddenly that Bob let go his knee, and his foot came 
down on the floor with a bang that gave everybody but 
Aunt Sally a start, brought Bess out of her reverie, and 
on her knees upon the sofa; and even the seamstress 
stopped and turned around, while Aunt Sally, having 
lived all her life in the country, and having no ner\*es 
accordingly, sat quietly waiting for Carry to continue. 

"You've hit it. Bob! We will aU buy Bess some 
present for her wedding day, of course ; all but you. Y^^ou 
must make yours." 

" Make mine ? Why, Cousin Carry, I don't mider- 
stand. Make it?" 

Thev were all attention now. Bob would have thought 
it a joke coming from anybody else but Carry, but she 
was never known to joke about anything, and had ideas. 

"Easily enough," continued Carry. "You've been 
making pretty things in clay, figures and the like. Now 
why not carve something appropriate in ice for the table, 
a — an elephant, with the carriage on its back for ovsters, 
and an owl, standing on the rim of a bowl, and have 
that fiUed with oysters, too. There's both an elephant 
and an owl sitting up there on the mantelpiece now, and 
you can use them for models." 

" That's the very thing," cried Bess. " No one has 
ever had that before, and you can do it superbly, too, 
Bob. I accept the proposition ; don't buy me a present, 
make it." 

" That's all very well," returned Bob, recovering from 
his surprise, " you're talking of carving in ice ; I don't 
know anything about ice. While in day I " 

"A moment ago," interrupted Aunt Sally, "you 
seemed to be complaining that you * cut no ice,' what- 
ever that means. Now you have etn opportunity, and a 
good one, too." 

This brought a hearty laugh from all assembled, the 
full cause of which Aunt Sally fedled to imderstand. 
Then Bess said, pleadingly : 

" Never mind now. Bob, about it bein^ in ice ; I know 
you can do it to perfection, 8bnd I'm willing to run the 

THE ics CUPID ()g 

risk of having yaar present [or my ' striking feature,' or 
not have any at all ; bo there now, you Bee what confi- 
denoe I have in youi ability, aad, say, Boh, if you would 
only make a little Cupid, about so high," measuring with 
her hajids, "and seb it in the conservatory, that would 

" Oh, yes, certainly," returned Boh, with 
good-natured banter. " A little Cupid, shooting 
icicles at everybody ; of course — anything else 
you can t.ViinW of? If so 'speak now or 
for ever hold joar peace,' " as he spread bis 
hands over Bess's nead. Then seriously he 
added, " Say, Bess, I'll buy your present, a 
twenty dollar one, sure." 

'■ No, you won't. No, you don't ! " stamp- 
ing ber pretty foot. " I won't have it 1 Now, 
Bob, please. Bob I A girl doesn't get married 
ever; day," she pleaded, putting her arms 
around his neck. " Please, Bob, try I I must 
have something novel for my wedding." 

Bob wilted. Under those pleading eyes I doubt very 
much whether the ice he was to carve could have stood 
long enough to become a recognisable object. Bess saw 
the victory, and said, " There," kissing him upon the 
cheek, " there's a good fellow, I knew you would do it, 
because, you know I love you better than anyone else, 
except George." 

" I've heard that fairy tale before," returned Bob, 
although knowing full well the truth of her statement. 
" Always next to George ; well, thank the Lord, you will 
marry hint in two days, then you will love me first. 
That's always the way it goes," for which remark he got 
a resounding slap where her lips had just been pressed. 

So it was decided that upon Bob's broad shoulders 
was to rest the responsibihty of producing the "striking 
feature " of this pretty wedding. 

One after the other of the family left the sewing room, 
Ull, finally, Bess was alone with the old seamstress, who 
presently quitted her machine, and going to her large 
work-basket, drew from among a multitude of things 
two small, fuzzy black bears, and as she laid them in the 
young girl's lap she said, witii a voice full of emotion ; 

"Miss Bessie, I can't afford to pve you a very fine 
present, and, if I could, I would stul want to give you 
these. I ask yoa to keep them upon your mantel in 
your room; and"— ven? solemnly — "always remember 
the two bears — bear and forbear ! " 

That was all. The old seamstress returned to ber 


work. BeBs sat as one in a dream ; then she knelt down 
on a hasBook beside the seamstress, and, borjing her 
fac« in her hands, sobbed softly. 

"Why, Miss Bessie I I didn't mean anything, my 
child, to hurt you," raising the young girl, and sitting 
beside her upgn the sofa. "It's only a little gift of 
mine; there now, you're not going to cry over my 
present, are you ? That's right, I am glad to see that 
smile retnm again. How long did you say you wanted 
these white ribbons? " 

So the bride-to-be and the seamstress were bnsily 
engaged diBouasing ribbons and other things, as Bob, 
who couldn't keep out of the room for more than ten 
minntes at a time, entered, and about the first object to 
catch his eyes were the two bears. 

" Here I You people must have been out buying more 
models! I object; I don't mind making elephants. Mid 
owls, and Cupids — but I'll be hanged if I'U make a 
whole ice menagerie. I'm not going to do it now, Bess," 
he aaid, as if he could have refused Bess's pleadings, 
bad she desired them. 

But that young lady surprised him by taking the two 
bears and putting them into the basket again, remarking 
as she did so, " They're not tor you, Bob," so hnmblv 
that Bob looked at her in amazement ; then be said, 
" Whew 1 Cry number one ! This is no place for me ! " 
and darted out of the room. 


Next morning Bob rose early— for >iini — and surprised 
the ioe man by selecting several large pieces of clear ice. 
He ordered Uiem to be token into the cellar, where 
no one would be likely to distuib him as he worked. 
Then opening the windows, to let in the cold iur,he soon 
bad the place below freezing point, and cutting one of 
the large pieces into two or three smaller ones, ne tried 
first one chisel, then another, " to get the chip of it," as 
he said, then commenced a study or two, and was 
surprised at the results. But no one else would have 
been, as all knew Bob had undisputed talent in that 
direction. Soon he became very much interested in 
the work in hand. 

"An elephant, an owl, and a Cupid I That's a great 
combination. Strength, Wisdom, and— bur-r-rl Too 
cold for love," he said, as he started on the first figure. 

He worked on in silence for some time ; then, aa the 
figure took shape under his skilful hand, he began to 


think of the coming weddiDg, and wondered if the figures 
would reallj create tne talk Bess hoped for. 

" What an idea, e.a ice Cupid, ana suggested, too, by a 
girl about to get niarried. I'd like to know where the 
poet comes in who sings about fiery love and burning 
nearte. Oh, they will talk about it, all right. IJess, 
dear, you've gob a great head — and I'm thinking this 
elephant's bead is a Uttle too great, too — there," stepping 
bock and surveying the figure, "that's better." 

Thinking of one girl might have had something to do 
with his thoughts toming to another, but as the other 
girl hod been uppermost In Bob's mind for the past 
month or two, it was only natural that, at work there 
all alone, he thought of her, and thought pretty bard. 

" I wonder what she will say about all Utese ice things, 
and I wonder if they will please her aa much as they 
will Bess. What a dear girl Corinne is. I'm next to 
George, Bess says, and I say Bess is next to Corinne, 
though I dare not tell Bess that now ; because I don't 
know jnst how I stand — but, by Jove, I'd like to 

He worked away in silence tor a while ; then be con- 
tinned, " My love for her is as the strength of the 
elephant compared to that of the ant (chip, chip) ; as the 
wisdom of the owl compared to the clam (chip, chip, 
chip) ; and as — oh, no — yes, as a furnace compared to 
this block of ice — even if it is going to be Cupid. 
Whew," blowing through his bands to warm them, 
" wouldn't mind a furnace now myself." 

"What a bewitching laugh Corinne has. I 
wander if she knows I am going to propose 
to her. It's been on the tip of my tongue 
half a dozen times, but, confound it, some- . 

thing always seems to turn up at that ■ 

moment, and I haven't been able to say 
the word. I wonder if she noticed that. 
Well," regarding the figure, "that's coming 
acoond all right ; getting along better than 
I expected. 

" By Jove, after I finish Cupid, I'll make a 
slipper in ice for her. Wish I had one of her didnty, 
little things for a model, but I never could make it like 
here ; no, couldn't do it. That's it, I'll fill the slipper 
with rice, and place it in her favourite comer in the 
conservatory, and then I'll lead her there, and — -yes," 
with adetennined frown, " I'll propose to her to-morrow 
night, hanged if I don't. A wedding is a good place to 
propose to a girl. You're in the atmosphere, and that 


gives a fellow nerve. I wonder if I will be able to do it 
before Bess leaves for the train, so that I can get even 
with her, and tell her that I love her better than anyone 
except Corinne. That would be another * strUdng 
feature * at her wedding." 

As he worked on he thought of what he would say, 
and how he would say it, and under the inspiration, 
piece by piece the block was chipped away, until Cupid 
stood there, a marvel in ice. Bob shoved his hands into 
his pockets, and, regarding Cupid critically, said : 

" Say, Cupid, you're a fraud. For once I can see clear 
through you. Why do you go around upsetting people's 
equilibrium, and mcdiing them blind as bats, and having 
feUows get thrown overboard ? And how are you going 
to deal with me, you little rascal ? See clear through 
you I Well, one doesn't gain anything by that. Your 
mischief is more than skin deep, I know ; and yet, seeing 
through you, and seeing nothing, adds httle to our know- 
ledge of you. But I'm going to expose you to the whole 
world to-morrow night, and some clever man may yet 
diagnose you, and then we will know how to handle 
you, and, maybe, will let you alone. But, never mind, 
little Cupid," he added, as he placed the figure in a safe 
corner, ** I'll defend you, for Corinne's saJke ; I will be 
your champion, and a right good champion, too. Ah, 
you imp, there is something in you — there's hope, there's 
happiness, there's life itself in you. Our eyes are dull, 
whilst yotirs are sharp, and as beautiful as Corinne's — 


The wedding march had been played. The bride had 
received the congratulations of all assembled, and led the 
way into the dining room, where the great table was soon 
surrounded by the guests ; and many were the exclama- 
tions of wonder and deUght as the two ice figures were 
brought in by the waiters, and placed at each end of the 
table, while a third waiter caxried Cupid around the 
room and placed him on a large platter in the con- 

The effect was all Bess could wish for. The novelty 
and beauty of the figures, as they reflected back the 
hght in hundreds of shades, and glistened like huge 
diamonds, awoke admiration in all beholders. 

]3ut it was Cupid that attracted the most attention. 
All tlirough the evening the httle statue was surrounded 
by an admiring and wondering throng, and many were the 


remarks as to it being a good or bad omen. It was a 
" striking feature " indeed. 

The guests soon fomid out that Bob had executed the 
figures, that they were his present to the bride ; and the 
voung sculptor was the recipient of universal congratu- 
lations ; but he cared more for the few words of praise 
that one person gave than for the combined applause of 
aU the rest. 

He sat next to that one at the banquet, and patiently 
awaited the time when he could ask her to go with him 
to their favourite comer in the conservatory, where he 
might sprinkle the rice taken from the ice slipper upon 
her heaa, and ask her to share his fate. 

She seemed very restless and nervous, starting every 
now and then, and watching the door as if she thought 
someone unexpected might enter. Bob thought it was 
because she realised he would speak to-night. She 
must know it. 

The wedding feast was over at last. Through the 
assembly into the conservatory he led her. *' See, this 
is your slipper, though I could not do it justice quite. I 
suppose I should have been traditional, and have made 
an old shoe to hold this rice, but you see I wanted one 
like yours to take the rice from, to sprinkle it on your 
hair, so, and to — Corinne I will ! You must let me 
sx>eak ! " 

As the grains fell upon her head Corinne grew pale, 
and turned quickly to re-enter the house, and as Bob 
continued to speak, loud exclamations of greeting rang 
through the adjoining rooms, and many were the hands 
extended to a belated guest. 

*' Harry, old boy," someone was heard saying. " Glad 
to see you. Just got in ? Well, you're in good time, 
the bride has not left yet." 

Corinne, psde and trembling, rushed through the con- 
servatory into the anteroom, from which the voices 
came — ^Bob following as far as he dared and demanding 
to be heard. 

As Corinne entered the room the figure of a man 
appeared at the other door. Both paused for a moment, 
then she ran swiftly to him. 

'* Hairy," she cried. " I was so afraid you would not 
come. I am so glad you are here — so glad 1 " 

Bob stood speechless in the doorway, wondering if he 
heard and saw aright. 

" Corinne I " cried Harry, kissing her. " Don't be 
alarmed there. Bob, old boy. Come on with us ; we are 
going to announce our engagement. We made up our 



minds two months ago, before I went away, to do it at 
this wedding. So come on, old fellow, and congratulate 
us,'* and the happy pair moved rapidly towards the main 

Bob stood dazed and clutched the door for support. 
He could not realise what he had seen and heard. Fear 
and anguish were written upon his face. Then he was 
conscious of the rapping for order, then a man's voice, 
low, scarcely audible, making a short speech, and then the 
clapping of hands, and a buzz of congratulations, and he 
knew he had seen and heard aright. He stood there as 
one paralysed, great drops of perspiration covering his 
brow. How insufferably hot the room was ! 

He went into the conservatory. The guests were once 
more seeking their nooks and comers ; and sls they passed 
one or two asked him if he had heard the announcement 
of the engagement, and went on their way laughing, 
without waiting for an answer. 

He paced up and down several times, trying to collect 
his thoughts. The usual crowd was surroimding Cupid, 
and as he passed that way some one cried : 

** Oh, see how the heat hcbs affected it. You 
can hardly recognise it now. "Why, look 1 Bob, 
Bob! Come here, quick! Watch out, it is 
• going to fall 1 " 

As the crowd moved back, Bob stepped 
before them, just as an unrecognisable mass of 
ice pitched forward, and fell, shattered into a 
thousand pieces, at his feet. 

Charles William Ayton. 

■i TUB THAMES Draicn by C. B. Sigtloa 

In the Key of Besrboh^. 

MAX BEEBBOHM— he has that kind of name 
which makes it seem but insult to prefix so 
usual an address as Mr. — ^has been spoken of 
by " G.B.S." as " the incomparable Max." The adjective 
is admirably fit. But G.B.S., like Max, is much mis- 
understood. Not that I lay claim for a moment to any 
special imderstanding of either, or would endeavour to 
explain the inexplicable ; but I take leave to think that 
it is not generally realised that Max is incomparable 
simply because he is inexplicable. 

Once I asked a friend, in whose opinion I have faith, 
wherein he considered lay the secret of Max*s power. 

He answered : *' Max has Mind ; Max is Mystery ; the 
two combined mean — Mastery." A somewhat forced 
and alliterative mot perhaps — aUiterative enough even to 
make one question its truth ; but few, I think, on quiet 
consideration, will dare to say that power ever existed 
without mind, or that Max lacks either. Undoubtedly 
he is elusive, but the elusive attracts just to the degree 
that it successfully eludes. 

In these days of self-expression, so profuse and fatuous 
as to amount in many cases almost to self -suppression, 
it is refreshing to look on one who avoids all seli- explana- 
tion, and remains for ever something undefined. And 
Max is certainly refreshing. He does not bury himself 
in a profusion of domestic facts — facts are always 
domestic — ^nor mislead by definite opinion ; he takes you 
into his confidence, as one might a little child, and tells 
you — nothing. But he does it with a charming smile. 
He is wise enough to know that trut^ is falsified when 
expressed with a view to finahty, and that truth so 
expressed becomes, first, a concretion ; then, a common- 
place; and, finally, effete. And so with admirable 
success he retains his personality by frankly holding it a 
mystery, and remains, in writing, ever virgmal. 

The obtuse detest Max — which is perhaps the happiest 
if not surest proof of his genius ; for the obtuse have only 
sufficient sense to vaguely feel that he has " the satiric 
temperament," and that he is, for some imearthly 
reason, laughing at them. They lack perception to know 
certainly, and the education to see why. Because he 
bafiles them they are suspicious, and he baffies them 
because he is so admirably veiled. But then he laughs 
at all. 


Unless of that small breed whose petty minds run only 
to sour grapes, we must always adinire that whicn 
provokes yet foils all enquiry or elucidation ; and surely, 
the question as to whether Max is serious or whether 
Max is smiling is one which, if the general public 
possessed the subtlety or interest, would create a demand 
for its discussion in the columns of the Telegraph or 
Daily Chronicle, 

Nowadays, when large achievements are so little it is 
gladdening to find less achievements that are so great. 
Measured by mere extent his works are not terrific ; he 
has not written perhaps a tenth of what his slaughtered 
lambs — Caine and Corelli — have flooded the libraries 
with ; but on the other hand, they have never in any 
sense, or single' sentence, approached him in thought, or 
his thought's excellent expression. His "Works," as 
published by Mr. John Lane, extend only to one 
volume t How few men have hetd the daring so to limit 
their published " Works * ' I The volume has not achieved 
the commercial distinction of editions running to twenty- 
five thousflbnd copies, but its innate distinction happily 
has limited its sale to a circle of sane readers. 

Who, in reading " The Works of Max Beerbohm," or 
in looking at the caricatures from the same hand, can but 
admire the deftness and decision shown in all that hand 
has done ? What more subtle and entirely delightful 
hoax is there than "A Good Prince"? Where is more 
delicate discrimination than is shown in the essay on 
King George IV. ? And what history displays a keener 
insight than the history of " 1880 " ? Of work subae- 
quent to the issue of those "Works" the "Happy 
Hypocrite " is chiefly notable, for the perfect restraint 
and balance of its refined satire. In a recent number of 
The Idler an essay on Aubrey Beardsley shows Max in a 
new and nicer phase than yet he has offered to his 
admirers ; he has proved himself possessed of a more 
sincere quality of sympathy than one had hitherto 
expected. But to speak thus briefly of his work might 
seem but scant courtesy, were it not that I desired to 
write, not so much of his work, but of the man himself 
as he appears to my particular temperament through the 
medium of his work. And that I have no other, or 
more personal, knowledge of him may be easily seen 
perhaps from this short but well-intentioned sketch. 

I once held in my " mind's eye " a picture of Max as a 
very tired-looking youn^ man in a heavenly frock-coat. 
He seemed as one havmg knowledge of all things, and 
weary only at the thought that fife could offer him 


nothing new ; as one bold ajid coorageoas, and prepared 
to bear nobl^ that burden of leolatioa which Qenius easts 
upon her children. But a better Imowledge of his works 
has softened the harrowing impreBsion in some respectB. 
The frock-coat remains the same; but its lices, so full of 
grace, suggest reserre, serenity, and resignatdon ; and 
the expression of its wearer's countenance is very sphinx- 
like — and likely so to remain. 

Readers of Punch may recall the ilaiie Utile girl who, 
disoovaring that the world was hollow, and that her doll 
was " stuffed with sawdust," decided she " would like to 
be a nun." Max baa passed the age when he " would 
like to be a nun " — he passed it, I fancy, ere he was bom 
— and now sita high aloft, aloof, among the smiling gods. 
And so " I like to think of him." 

But lest all this seem rampant adulation I prithee, 
reader, consider it^a paradox. 

March Pakb. 


Humanity I What heritage of shame 
Is thine 1 How hectic bums the scholar^s cheek, 
When thumbing worm-spoiled fohos to seek 
Light on thy hidden sins, he reads aflame 
The obUquities of many a kingly name ; 
Of maladies that vexed the lettered Greek, 
That bore far back the stamp of things antique, 
When Abram, chaste, austere, to Sodom came. 
Humanity I We sicken at the page 
AVhereon the cajidid storier doth confess 
That some who were the passion of their age, 
Outstripped the Ceesars in their wantonness. 
Humanity ! When rotting empires fell, 
Why sounded not the leprosarium*s knell? 

St. George Best. 


Draicn by Emat HaikcU 

A Bbgoomition bt a Woham. 

MB. GEOBGE MOORE has, I believe, a theory 
that only a man can define the intiniatB 
motives, feelings, soul — if you like, of a woman. 
That it is only in a man that she confides ; that a woman 
understands a woman very little ; that she lies to another 
woman out of self-interest and self-defence ; and that a 
man does the same to a man. There are things one 
woman will never tell another. She knows they will 
call forth no sympathy. It may be her plan of cam- 
paign in awakening the interest of a man, her joy of 
possession, her sense of failure, her hesitations and 
scruples, her aspirations — all these she will spread 
before the eyes of an interested man, knowing they 
wiU but enhance his interest in her; but to a woman 
she will pose as an immaculate heroine, knowing 
that a discount is inevitably knocked off her actions, 
and that ife will be assuredly none too light. Tliis 
seems to me greatly true. Women don't mind being 
found out by the other sex. When Mr. Bernard Shaw 
with his detective mind turns his light on to our failings 
and inmiediate motives, we cry, *' Agreed I agreed 1 *' and 
are mightily tickled ; but then he only detects — ^he has 
not the power of penetration to enable him to conceive 
essential motives, or else as that ** Spirit overhead,** with 
" that slim feasting smile," he does not care to recognise 
them. But Mr. Aioore is very penetrating — strangely so, 
and very sympathetic. As he can put two and two together 
better than Mr. Shaw, so he does not deal only with the 
superficial, evoking a fantastic image which amuses us, 
because we recognise a part of ourselves, but he focusses 
his lens unerringly on that essence of a woman's character, 
that moral instinct, mitigated from time to time by know- 
ledge and culture, but always there, like a deterrent hand 
laid upon the arm. 

Evelyn Innes is a tvpical woman, and the way in which 
she remains herself through idl her experiences is quite 
marvellously told. She is a suburban middle-class miss, 
with an artistic temperament, which inclines her towards 
refined tastes. All her subsequent culture and refine- 
ment are superimposed, and she relishes them with a 
vulgarity which never quite assimilates them. The 
artist side of her nature, Mr. Moore has represented so 
truly as something aside. Her life and temperament 
influence it, but it seldom influences her fife. She 


avails herself of its helps in the scene of reconcilia- 
tion with her father, but, with fatal truth, it stands 
her in no stead in her great hour of need, and 
craving for the real meaning of life. This discon- 
necte&ess between the artist and the woman might 
have been made more valuable if there had not been 
that sudden gap between promise and achievement. 

The men of the book are less convincing. Mr. Moore 
has treated them analytically — Evelyn synthetically — ^and 
they are a little bit out of relation to her. They are 
much less human, and are so evidently portraits — slight 
ones, but amusingly reminiscent. There ought to have 
been a little more of Aleck or a little less, ffis mystical 
spirituality supports Evelyn's spiritual awakening, but 
in spite of that the physiciJ allurement is rather forced* 
He IS a pis-<dler, at a moment when she requires physical 
emotion for her creation of Isolde, and he serves as an 
irritation to her conscience when she begins to revert 
to her sense of sin. This sense of sin, the religious 
activity of the moral sense, is logically needful in such a 
type as Evelyn Innes, though it narrows the statement 
of the book. Still, her struggles, hesitations, difficulties, 
reactions, are none the less interesting and vital to the 
main question because of the religious background, and 
the '* chatter of her conscience, tireless as a cricket," is 
none the less real because it finds itself soothed at last 
by the absolution of a priest. Mr. Moore is appallingly 
candid and open-minded. He is never dominated by a 
desire to proselytise. What he wants to say is that if yon 
were Evelyn you would have done this or that, and he 
takes infinite trouble to convince you. Her actuality 
never weakens for one moment, and so insistent is it that 
we are fatigued when she is fatigued, relieved when she 
is relieved, indifferent when she is indifferent. To read 
the book is sometimes a great spiritual strain, and the 
£^nastics it requires induce a worthy weariness. 
There is wit enough, as in aU that Mr. Moore writes, but 
littie humour, except in the scene where Owen Asher 
tells his friend of his dismissed by Evelyn. Then it is of 
the grimmest sort. 

The book closes softly and satisfyingly in the beautiful 
scenes of the convent, so simple, so remote in feeling, 
and yet tinged with the healthiness of everyday duties. 
The life from outside intrudes, however, and re-awakens 
Evelyn's sympathy with it. At last the convent gates 
open to return her to the world, and as she drives back 
to London, we wonder what will be the event when her 
story begins again. B. N. 


One of the onrions oharaoten in PftrU is Pere Gonjon, f^ 
who for twenty-eight years has been the naurrieier of the 
fsmons prison of 8(e. P^logie. This institution, like ite 
sisteir gsol MasM, has been given over to destniotion ; and 
by its fall we lose two historic landmarks in Paris — the 
prison itself, and the restaurant over the way, wherein the 
meals of the political prisoners were daily prepsjred. For 
P^re Goujon has put up (or rather, in Parisian style, pulled 
down) his shutters, and retired (with a fortune). The P^re 
is of a good-natured, philosophic disposition, and has taken 
a just pride in his calling. Over his establishment was the 
quaint sign : '* Id on ei C mietus qu'en face" which modest 
assertion was no doubt calculated, not only to inspire greater 
confidence in Uie passing guest, but to serve him as a 
well-meant warning also. Goujon's first customer was the 
redoubtable Bochefort, who was arrested in February, 1870, 
on his way to preside over a public meeting in the Bue de 
Flandre. A long dynasty of political culprits followed as his 
patrons — and the rim is proud of the fact that in many 
cases he not only won their ** reconmiendations," but their 
friendship as welL 

Ste. Pelagic was built in 1666 by Marie Bonneau, widow 
of Beauhamais de Miramion, and has been used as a refi^ 
for filUs d» joU, as a reformatory, and as a hospital. In 
1797 it was ^vided into two parte, La Dette and La Deten- 
tion, and this change continued in effect for many years 
after. A portion of the building, known as the Pavilion des 
Princes, was set apart for political offenders, who were thus 
spared contact with the criminal inmates. The prisoners slept 
not in cells, as at Mazas, but in large dormitories, and ate 
together in the courtyard. One result of their free inter- 
course was that Bte. P^lagio became a hotbed of all manner 
of dark plots and future misdeeds. An institution for the 
punishment and prevention of vice, it more than defeated 
its own ends — and, indeed, had the Gk>vemment planned 
an experimental farm for the propagation of crime, it 
could hardly have been more successful than with its good 
prison of Ste. P61agie. 

H. Jean Barris, a wealthy native of France, who seems 
anzions to get rid of the large fortune he amassed some 
time ago in the Argentine Bepublic, has hit upon the 
following novel method. He intends to organise a vast 
company for the purpose of perfecting French orthography. 
He will subsidise a periodical La Refornte Orthographiquif 
and will send out well-known lecturers north, south, east, 
and west to convert the orthographic heathen. He is 
determined to spare neither efforts nor money to induce a 


French phonetio milleimiiim. On his death he will bequeath 
hU fortune to the good canse, the apoetles of whioh will 
thai have some $50,000 a year with wnich to carry on their 
work. The underlying reason for this reform is the effect 
it wiU produce on French colonial expansion. M. Bands 
feels convinced tiiat France has been impeded in her efforts 
to control foreign land by the complicated difficulties in 
French orthography, and he means to sweep away this 
barrier to the realisation of her imperialistic dreams. 

We hope the brave Sir Jean Barres all success ! Pray 
Ood he slays the dragon of False Phonetics — and while on 
his errant quest, we earnestly hope that he may impale a 
few of the unregular French verbs on his good stout lance 1 
And now if some other doughty knight would only arise 
(we must not lay this burden, too, on Sir Jesn) to make war 
on Vaeeent anglaU -^to destroy that fearful monster once 
and for ever— our joy would be complete. 

There seems to be a tendency in literature to revert to 
the romantic school, and soon "The Woman Who Did," 
" The Heavenly Twins," and novels of that outspoken and 
fleshy type, will be consigned to cobwebs and top shelves. 
In sxt the signs of revolt are manifest. The impres- 
sionistic pictures have had their day (for a time), and 
older and honester methods are succeeding. In keeping 
with this reversion to earlier tastes and styles is the 
resurrection of miniature art, which though sorely hit 
by photography first and the new-school afterwards, 
is now clinibing back into its pretty, jewel-set throne, 
as fresh and winning as ever. Miniature painting is 
the lover*s art, and this in itself assures it eternal life. 
Bemembrance and poetry cling about the dainty tit-bit of 
coloured ivory long after they have forsaken the common 
photo^aph. And there are good reasons for this. The 
lover IS essentially selfish. He sets a higher value on a 
painting of which he believes himself to be the sole possessor 
than on a portrait which, like a newspaper, may nave run 
to a large edition, and be in the nands of, O heaven! 
how many other admirers. Besides this, the ideality with 
which the niiniatarist Invests the fair one is more likely lo 
keep the flame of love alive in his adormg heart than 
the often-undisguisable and candid truth of the solar 

Miniature painting seems eminently a feminine pursuit — 
as somehow doth china painting. For this very reason, 
perhaps, the average girl student in Paris fights shy of it, 
and, as a rule, the more delicate and fragile she is, the 
larger her canvas, and the more bold and distressful her 
bnush strokes. Our dear sisters would all be Bosalinda— but 
they can't deceive their professors, much less the publio. 

K0TB8 X 13 

Since girls are made of moonshine, and love, and sweet- 
ness, and airy ideals— or, in the words of oar nnrsery 
dajrs, of " all that's nice "—let them see to it that their art 
be in accord with their pretty natures. Delicate miniatures, 
beantifnl embroidery, china-cap ornamentation — ^these are 
more fitting employment for their rosy fingers, more fitting 
pursoits or pastimes for their equally artistic temperaments 
— for, mind you, we say nothing in disparagement; nor 
even deny their superiority over man in their own sphere 
— than forlorn attempts at Sargent-like portraiture, or 
8 X 10ft. heroics. 
[The above Is quoted firom ■ firlend.] 

In one of its branches, however, the new-school of art 
grows more flourishing and aggressive than ever, i.e., poster 
decoration. The peculiar nature of the poster, which, as a 
work of art, must be at once striking, attractive, simple, and 
decorative, has given rise to a variety of bold experiments, 
more or less in the vein of what we are pleased to term the new- 
school. There have been, it is true, a few attempts in several 
recent posters to revive the old Christmas-card style, but these 
throw-backs have not been successful. It must be confessed 
that in this field of art, if in no other, the romantic school is at 
an utter disadvantage. We do not expect nor wish Raphael- 
like oil paintings— or weak imitations thereof —on our hoard- 
ings, for such art always seems, however skilfully executed, 
hopelessly out of place " en plein air," and a feeling about it 
of missing roofs and absent gilt-wood frames makes the 
sensitive observer resentfully nervous. 

Mr. Alyn Williams, according to Harnuworth's Magazine 

Sorice raised to 3^d.), tells the following story, " which he 
oes not claim to be original." We hope not, for it is as 
old as Father Time himself. But Mr. Williams's version of 
the tale is an excellent one, and we therefore reproduce it : 
<• A man who distinctly ciime from the provinces once went 
to an artist who had painted a celebrated picture of David, 
and said that he wanted him to paint a picture of his 
father. The artist consented, and suggested that it would 
be necessary for the subject to come to his studio. That, 
however, the son declared to be impossible, and at last the 
fact came out that he was dead. * Have you a photograph ?' 
asked the artist. No ; a photograph had never been taisen. 
* Then I cannot paint him,' declared the artist. * But you 
painted David,' retorted the man, ' and he has been dead 
much longer than my father !' This was irresistible, and 
so the artist consented to do his best When the fancy 
pictore of his father was finished, the faithful son came to 
see it, and liked it very much. * It is very good,' he said ; 
'bat,' he added, after a little reflection, *how he has 
changed !' ** 


" La Biamine de Charley " (" Charler's Aunt ") is " stiU 
nmning '' at the Climy, the Parisians being apparently as 
appreciative of this bit of aproarions fun as the Londocien 
l£emselves. " La Marraine de Charley," as pat on the 
boards in Paris, is worthy of notice chiefly because it has 
been widely and persistently advertised as a piece free from 
all toaoh oi immorality. Mothers have been aasored that 
l^ey could, without fear or risk, take their daughters to 
see it ; and, as though the dawn of better things were at hand, 
the managers have cried out from the housetops : " Lo ! a 
clean play at last is given to the Paris public." The present 
scribe, attracted by this clamour, went to the Clnny. 
True enough, ** Charley's Aunt," in its reproduction 
at the Cluny, is of the respectable sort— served to 
the French public without a particle of added oondi- 
ment or sauce. But, sad to relate, "Charles's Aunt" 
does not happen to be the only play of the evemng. It is 
introduced by a curtain-raiser wbich for unadulterated 
roiciness and rUqtU abandon may be considered as about the 
ultima Thule of the censor's widest leniency. Evidently 
this play does not count. "It is such a little one," you 
know ; and who will take the trouble to forbid the banns ? 

Menu cards have, for some time, attracted the attention of 
the decorator and ajfichUtet and now the theatre programme 
has fallen a happy victim to their artistic zeal. The pro- 
grammes furnished at several of the Paris theatres may be 
reckoned as a part of the evening's entertainment and enjoy- 
ment. At the Bodinidre and Th^&tre Libre the play-biUs 
are particularly attractive, bearing, as they do, thedemgna of 
Tolouse-Lautrec, Synave, Ibels, etc. ; even the ladies- 
Bergto occasionallv offers the public some preservable bit 
of art — usually ox a naively unconventional nature— 
from the hand of one of the well-known ntaitres. It is a 
great pity that a few of the better-class theatres in Paris — 
now that the tide of artistic progress has set in — do not 
rid themselves of their hideous and superfluous advertise- 
ment-curtains — or, at the least, do not hasten to cover 
them with sightly decorations, and good afflehes. To 
sit wrapped in a ^low of romantic feeling, and even as the 
music oreathes its mournful strains, and the refulgent 
moon throws her soft beams on the faces and forms of the 
suiciding hero and heroine, to see a cataract of block-letter 
advertisements roll solemnly out of the sky, intenperaed 
here and there with crude designs of boots, crutches, hair- 
curlers, sardine boxes, ood-liver-oil bottles, and an india- 
rubber bath tub or two, is somewhat jarring to the most 
matter-of-fact and prosaic nerves. 

The recent three days' Hcfde race in Paris furmshed the 
sensation-loving Parisians with about as much sensation as 
they could comfortably stomach. A more cruel and ghastly 


M0TB8 115 

qpectecle has never been witnessed in Paris. By the seoond 
day the competitors had began to show fearful traces of 
wear and tear, and bore, as one put it, the appearance of so 
many animated corpses on wheels. The tiack was in the 
open — ^without the slightest shelter ; and the cyclists rode 
■ILday under the fierce heat of a blazing sun — in weather 
that was, perhaps, the hottest and most insupportable of 
the season. Liquid food was given them (in cans) as they 
rode — ^to cause no delay, and their brutal pacemakers goaded 
them on and worried them almost into desperation. One poor 
fellow about the sixtieth hour declared that he had gone blind 
from the glare of the track, and seemed determine to back 
out. They quickly procured him a pair of green goggles, 
and with these on ms nose he was soon flying around the 
coarse again. Another chap descended from his wheel for 
a moment in a state of complete collapse. He was stripped 
of all clothing and laid upon the grass (the public were 
too much interested apparently to be shocked over a 
tr^Qing indecorum like this), and there subjected to rough 
massage treatment. When placed on his feet he collapsed 
again, and his head sank hopelessly on his breast, 
^niat he seemed more fit to fill a hospital bunk than to 
finish the race was apparent to all — but his trainers were 
reeolved that he should go in again. Several vigorous 
blows on his back partially revived him, and, though still 
speechless, he was carried to his wheel. He presented a 
sorry figure as he was lifted on the machine — his head still 
drooping, his knees each swollen into a gigantic shape- 
less ball. His trainers ran along with him for some twenty 
or thirty yards, and then let him go. For several 
minutes he swerved hopelessly from side to side — as a 
drunken man— all but falling once or twice, and catch- 
ing himself in a most grotesque and surprising manner — 
then, as though regaining consciousness, he began to brace 
up, and suddenly rode straight ahead. ** When I left two 
hours later," the person added who was giving us an account 
of the affair, " he was going to beat the band." As in the six 
days' race in New York, the participants in this Parisian 
horror iJl went out of their minds b^ore the finish — which, 
of course, greatly lent to the interest of the event as an 
athletic competition. One of them thought he was climbing 
a steep hill, another that he was dying of hunger, etc., etc. 
Fisher, conspicuous among the crew of lunatics, suddenly 
sprang off his wheel, and mfore anyone could interfere had, 
monkey-like, run up a chestnut tree. ** I want to eat chest- 
nuts," ne grinned, and it was only with the greatest difficulty 
that^e was gotten out of his perch. 

Tents were erected along the track for the families of the 
competitors. At night the scene bore a touch of the weird 
and gruesome. The tents; the number of people lying 
around on the grass, some wrapped in blankets — " sports," 

^ I 


perhaps, who too weary to stand at the traok-side, yet felt 
it their dnty to stay to see the game oat— the spectral riders, 
always in a hunch, now running slowly and evenly, now 
spurting together, and never saying a word to one anotiier, 
hut all muttering incoherent nonsense to themselves — all 
this was delightfully interesting and horrihle to the audience 
of men and women, who looked on and laughed and chatted 
and applauded. 

To those interested in three-days' cycle racing, we may 
mention the fact that Miller, the American champion, who 
carried off the honours in the six days* inferno in New 
York, won handily— if it be not a bull to say so. All honour 
to the brave! Now, if we could only have a few other 
tournaments of this delectable order, perhaps the better 
element of the public would grow to pardon and relish the 
new school of athletics. Prizes, lor instance, might be 
offered to the competing athlete who stays under water the 
longest — ^providing, of course, he breathes, or can be made to 
breathe, on coming to the surface. Some half-dozen oom- 
petitors might be hung up by the thumbs, and a third of the 
gate receipts given to him who last yells for mercy— or, better 
still, who survives his weaker rivals. The test of endurance 
by the falling of water, drop by drop, on the shaven head, 
might famish excellent sport, and give good opportunity as 
well for the study of facial expression. In fact, there 
seems no end to the novel and hizzare features the advocatee 
of sensational athletics might introduce in their future 
Olympics, providing an unappreciative law does not step in 
and rudely interfere. 

One of the handsomest books of the year, from an artistic 
standpoint, has been issued by Eugene Fasquelle, of Pazis. 
It is ** Lysistrata," a translation into French by C. Zevort 
of Aristophanes' great play. The illustrations are by Notor, 
from authentic works of art in European museums. A 
judicious selection from different sources has been made of 
Grecian pictures, which, indeed, in many cases, seem as 
though specially designed for the text they are made to 
accompany. And thus old Aristophanes is, in modem 
times, illustrated by his own Greek contemporaries. 
The translation keeps to the original as far as even 
French candour will allow. When " Aristophane " 
grows too Greek, however, a French makeshift and Latiii 
note reproduce the original text. In one case, as it is, the 
translator even fears to trust himself to Latin. The draw- 
ings are excellently reproduced ; and arranged throughout 
the book in illustrative form, give us some idea of the 
supreme glory the old Greeks would have achieved as book 
illustrators and decorators. As it is we nught chaUenge 
modem art in vain to give us the same splendid results in 
book illustration as this fragmentary collection of random 
Greek designs. 


NOTBS 117 

Pi$t ! continaes to flourish in spite of Ihe marked abate- 
ment of interest in the Zola-Dreyfus-Esterhasy case. We 
are loath to hazard a reason therefor — whether it comes 
from the perennial Jew-phobia of the Parisian, who hardly 
needs the stimolation of a Dreyfus scandal to make him a 
regular reader of such a sympathetic paper as Ptst, or his 
love for good art as exemplified in the designs of Forain and 
Caran d*Ache. But the fact remains that (up to the present 
moment) the merciless little wasp in question hums and 
buzaes about the boulevards as lively and savagely as ever. 

We had once thought that the American Puck had 
reached the acme of Hebraical caricature, but Caran 
d'Acbe and his collaborator go Opper one better. Poor 
Zola, of course, is a star character in nearly every number 
of Put, and the resources of ridicule, wit, and rancour are 
exhausted in making him an object of cheap contempt to 
the public. With all this, however, and whether or not 
we hold the same political, or rather religious, opinions as 
the paper in question, we are forced to acknowledge its 
extreme cleverness — ^its artistic merit. 

Many are the changes taking place at the American Art 
Association of Paris. The downstairs restaurant has been 
closed ; and the servants from the first floor brought to the 
second, and those of the second given eongi. And thereby 
hangs a sorrowful tale ; for our worthy and buxom concierge 
and her husband had grown to be a part and parcel 
of the club, and seemed to "fit in with things," as 
one expressed it. Efficient servitors are difficult to find 
in Pans — popular ones, still more so — and therefore the 
members, especially the old ones, deeply regret this 
enforced exodus 01 these worthies. And Julukl Julia 
and Marie Louise! — these two pretty handmaids of the 
A^.A ! — ^they , too, have gone — ^like a beautiful dream. The 
usurping Max and Bubbo (or whatever his name is) may 
serve us in their drees suits, and with professional air — 
but what is chateaubriand^whtkt are detM-UmdrU — ^without 
the smiles of Julia? 

Some of the new theatre regulations in Paris, issued by 
the Prefect of Police, seem admirable and to the point — for 
example, theatres hereafter erected are- to be isolated, t.«., 
approachable on all sides — a conformation to which statute 
will not only ensure from the danger of fire, but (what is of 
more importance) will enhance the architectural charm of 
these buildings to be. It is further decreed that each 
manager is bound to produce an author's work in strict con- 
formity with the original MS. — under penalty of police 
proeecution and fine. This will be balm to some few cut- 
and-garbled dramatists who have long suffered persecution 
without redress. Furthermore, a regulation forbids the 
obstruction of the spectator's view of the stage ** in any 


nuuiner whatsoever." Whether this ia aimed at iron piUars 
or ladies* hats it is hard to say. Bat it's a vary good 
regulation, anyway. One olaose, however, we mast d^ieot 
to, which deals with the eafe-eoneertt (music-halls). On the 
supposition that they are poaching on the preserves of the 
theatre proper, these places of amasement are to he shorn 
of half their glory — to be relegated to the type primaUf, We 
do not know what power behind the throne has led to 
this stem decree— or what share theatre proprietors have 
had in its adoption — bat sorely the eafg-eaneert, which is now 
looked upon (and quite legitimately so) as a sort of variety 
performance, has a right to vary its prognunmes as it sees 
fit, and not have its nambers scrutinised and regulated by a 
quibbling inspector. 


I look on her and all the world I see, 
For she alone is all the world to me ; 
Were she not here, the world had oeased to be. 



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OCTOBER, 1898 


" Here, then, where hill and vaJe kiss hands and pait, 
'Twere best we parted too. Didst thou love well — 
Eager as laden bee to gain its cell, 
Love's sweet desire would to thy bosom dart 
But thou dost ever from all passion start 
In wilful mood ; or, with a fiown, repet 
The closer clasp that might thy spirit quell, 
And make thee own that thou too hast a heart '. " 

At my hot speech with biliemess o'erwrought, 
Tbe wayward girl became a woman, pale. 
A sudden sense of what we twain had missed 
Swept through her soul, and left it pity-fraught 
For fruitless days; and ihen — where hill and vale 
Kiss hands and part — she clung to me and kissed. 

A. Stanley COOke. 



« iByOU don't believe it, then ?" 
W " No, emphatically I don't ! » 

€m The two men were seated in the smoking-room 
of the Irish Literary Club, and the discussion had turned 
on women ; as the first speaker was one of the most 
renowned students of character among latter day writers, 
and the other a reputed physician whose profession had 
revealed more secrets than usually fall to the lot of man, 
it may be safely averred that the discussion was more 
than usually interesting. 

Adrian Lacaux, the novelist, bent forward and laid his 
hand on the doctor's arm — 

" You don't believe there is a woman living, leading 
the ordinary unsheltered life of those thrown on their 
own resources, poor, and at the world's mercy, who can 
retain not only her innate womanly self-respect, but also 
her belief in her ideals and mankind, even to the end of 
her life ? " — ^he said, slowly. 

The physician shrugged his shoulders with a cynical 
gesture. "My dear Lacaux," he smiled, " I thought you 
knew more of human nature than to believe such a 
thing yourself." 

"My books are a study of human nature," said the 
other, calmly, " and I think even you will admit, a true 
study. Eraser ; yet this side of it I have not touched, for 
two reasons ; firstly, I loved the woman who proved the 
exception to the rule ; secondly, there are some con- 
fidences that even the desire for fame could not tempt 
me to violate." 

The listener remained silent, and Lacaux went on, 
earnestly : " She is dead now. I shall not have failed in 
my estimate of you, if, after hearing her story, I can 
convince you of your error. I tell you, had I known, 
years ago, what now I know of this side of a woman's 
character, all my efforts would have been concentrated 
on showing forth the immense superiority of woman's 
love balanced against that of man's." 

As he spoke some members strolled up and interrupted 
his discourse, and for a while the subject dropped. 

Not till some months later did Adrian Lacaux, critic 
and novelist, find the opportunity to reopen the dis- 

The two friends found themselves, one bright spring 


evening, alone in a small inn, half-way up a mountain 
side in Switzerland. It was a place and time for dream- 
ing, and Eraser broke the silence in an unexpected 
manner. " By Jove ! " he said, in a sudden burst of 
enthusiasm, " what a place for dreams ! One could 
almost imagine we were the only living creatures in this 
vast solitude, except for the tinlde of those sheep-bells in 
the valley 1 Tell me one of your yams, Adrian — one of 
your best— one to make me forget there is a struggling, 
tossing, troubled world to which we must soon return ! '' 

He spoke half earnestly, half banteringly, and Lacaux 
paused suddenly in the action of blowing rings of smoke 
mto the air. 

" One of my yams ? " he queried, in surprise ; then his 
voice grew soft and dreamy. " One to make you forget — 
yes, I will tell you a story, the story of TAe Woman who 
Worshipped Idols. It may make you a little sad, it may re- 
mind you of the tossing, and struggling humanity you desire 
to shun, but the end signifies peace, and a dreamless rest. 
What more could any have .? " He spoke half to himself, 
and the other waited silently. " That was the title under 
which she wrote the diary entrusted to my care shortly 
before she died," he continued, in low, even tones. 
^ ' You will be able to make good copy out of that,' she had 
said, with one of those fleetmg smiles that always seemed 
to draw the very heart out of me, and, as I hesitated, she 
had frowned imperiously, * I know what you are thinking 
of,' she had cried impatiently, ' you, who know so much 
of my life, you shrink from making it public because you 
have been my friend. Yet why should you not ? I tell 
you, it will be interesting to women. It will help them, 
too, the women who have been placed as I have, and 
who feel as I have felt.' 

" But there she erred, Fraser, and there you are right 
in your theory, for she was a woman in a million, and 
because she felt things acutely, she fell into the not un- 
expected error of supposing that her fellow-sisters suffered 
in a like manner. She was not strong in appearance ; 
I often marvelled that such a brave spirit could exist 
within such a frail body. She was small and dark, with 
that dusky, blue-black hair which does not curl, but 
clusters in wavy masses about the brow. I don't know 
what fatal charm she possessed to attract attention ; her 
features were irregular, and no one would have called her 
beautiful ; perhaps it lay in the ivory pallor of her face, 
perhaps in the wistful droop of her scarlet mouth, or in 
the changing lights of her passionate grey eyes. 1 never 
looked at her but a pain tugged at my heartstrings— a 


wild longing to gather her in my arms and hold her 
for ever away from the pain and evil that threatened 

" She was a song-writer by profession, and she num- 
bered among her acquaintance some of the cleverest 
men of the day — ^artists, musicians, journalists, novelists, 
poets, and a sculptor. Many of them loved her, but she 
was impervious. She made a study of each and all, and 
being well read and a woman, the study of man became 
absorbing to her. If she had been emotional and im- 
pressionable, it would have been impossible for her to 
have judged them all impartially, because she must 
necessarily have fallen into the snare of love and 
marriage. So she made idols of them all, each in his 
different standard of excellence ; and, because she loved 
none of them, the experience she so dearly bought failed 
to embitter her. 

" Her utter inability to fall a prey to the tender passion 
was at first a source of delight to her, but, as the years 
went on, it became a pain. Because she was a woman 
in a million, I loved her, and, for the same reason, the 
man she loved tired of her ; but she, like the true 
woman she was, still clung to her ideals and her ideal 
love. Even I, who knew her for years, longer, indeed, 
than any of her idols, was ignorant, till I read her diary, 
of the just passion of shame, of the horror and humilia- 
tion that shrouded her girlish heart, when first her eyes 
were opened to the baser side of a man's nature ; what 
passed as a compliment to the ordinary run of women, 
wounded her as only an insult can wound a proud 
nature. She had no relations and no women fnends, 
but this did not trouble her, and she scorned the con- 
ventions that hedged the average woman ; receiving her 
male friends impartially, in spite of the censorious advice 
of well-meant advisers ; always contending that a man 
would treat a woman with respect, if she gave him no 
cause for doing otherwise. 

" Of course you will say that, if she disregarded the 
conventions, she brought all her troubles on herself. I 
will not judge her. To read those pages of her earlier 
womanhood seared my heart, and opened my eyes to the 
innate purity of a nature that, to the last, kept itself 
unspotted from the world. 

" The thing which the world calls temptation was not 
in her eyes even a temptation ; yet she hved and moved 
in a circle where high-mindedness was openly sneered at, 
and the only doctrine was — that sin is not sin unless the 
sinner be found out. 


" You smile. The temptation is only when one loves, 
you say ? 

" That is what I am coming to. The day came when 
she loved. He was a sculptor, and her passionate love 
of art, in every shape and form, led her 6rst to form a 
preference for his society, till, all unconsciously, she 
loved him. Though most of her idols had tottered and 
fEdlen, she made one more. 

*' She had gained much by past experience, and knew 
that this idol was of clay like the rest, knew that he was 
a man with all a man's mstincts ; but because she loved 
him she clothed her idol with the sweetness of her love, 
and the only claim on it, the only reward that she asked 
for her priceless dower, was this, that he should love her, 
in turn, with all his strength. 

"And he — ^as a reward, he took the treasure she 
bestowed, and played with it a little, till he was sure of 
her devotion, then he put it to the test. 

'^ He spoke of his unworthiness, of how he dreaded 
the day when she should discover that the idol she had 
made was of clay, and how, if they did not marry, they 
would always keep their ideals, and how much sweeter it 
would be could they live together with the knowledge 
that, as soon as the tie became irksome, they would have 
the power to break it. The love that bound them 
was too ideally sweet to be subjected to the tedious 
sameness and monotony of married life, and so on, 
through the whole gamut of a man's argument when he 
bargams for the price of a woman's honour and the ruin 
of her life. She saw him in his true light at last, saw the 
insult in all its naked bareness, though he tried to clothe 
it with semblance of love ; and though, at the time, her 
heart was stunned with the pain of it, she did not at first 
repulse him with the scorn his cowardice merited. 

^' It is a conunon error to believe that love cannot 
exist without respect ; therein lies the boundlessness of a 
woman's love, that her love still clings, no matter to 
what depths of degradation the object of it may sink ; 
and men trade on this generosity. ' He does not know,' 
she wrote at this period, ' how should he, when his better 
nature has been deadened by the influence of the life in 
which he moves. How should he remember what is due 
to me when his constant companionship is with artists' 
models, and the loose women he meets in the studios at 
home and abroad. A man must forget sometime, must 
even forget his mother and sisters, if he lives such a life, 
away from their influence I My love must indeed have 
been unworthy, since it brought me nothing but shame 


and insult ; my pride has indeed deserted me since I can- 
not even resent it.* 

" That piteous, written cry of her wounded heart stung 
me beyond all," — he laughed a short laugh that sounded 
perilously like a sob. " She still believed in him, you see, 
and prayed that his better nature would assert itself. His 
better nature ! God 1 how little women know of men, 
after all. What did he care for her forgiving tenderness, 
her charity deep and wide as the sea, her love that even 
insult could not kill ? He had failed to win her on his 
own terms and so — he let her go. 

" He affected to doubt her love for him, thinking that, 
to vindicate it, she would relent. When that ruse failed 
he wrote her a last letter, suggesting that they should be 
merely friends — a cool, heartless, cynical letter that he 
knew would wound her proud heart and leave a lifelong 

"He threw off the mask at last, revealing the truth in 
all its bitterness, leaving not the faintest covering to dis- 
guise the absolute baseness of his character. 

" You know the saying, * Hell has no fury like a 
woman scorned.' I need not tell of the storm of pain 
and passion that shook her woman's heart ; she prayed 
then as David prayed for vengeance — and, with her, ven- 
geance had become a noble duty — on the man who had 
outraged her love and pride. She prayed that he might 
love her, now that he had lost her, with a consuming love 
that wovild be an hourly agony, while her love should 
fade and die in the proportion that his increased. 

" She did not gather up the shattered fragments of her 
idol and hide them away, or turn his picture to the wall, 
but kept them always before her, lest, as the years went 
by, her heart might soften against her will. She did not 
lose her passion for worshipping idols, but so went on to 
the end, through all the years, till death claimed her, 
and, as though in compensation, some kept their glorified 
forms and repaid her in part for the belief she put in 
them ; but it was always evident that though all had 
tottered and fallen, she would not have grieved had the 
one she loved but proved worthy of her trust. 

" What of the man ? Fortunately I never knew his 
name, and possibly her prayer for vengeance was veri- 
fied, though the chances are that it was not ; that kind 
of apology for manhood usually gets off scathless," his 
voice sank almost to a whisper. " She gave her love to a 
brute, who threw aside the priceless gift, and I— would 
have died for her." 

He covered his eyes with his hand, and then came a 


faint, inarticulate sound, half cry, half ^roan, which 
caused the physician to nse hastily, take his candle and 
retire. Alone in his room, he lit another cigar. Facing 
the windows he could trace, in the moonlight, the out- 
lines of the mountains. Not a sound disturbed the 
intense stillness. For the first time in his successful life 
there came to the doctor the sense of something missed, 
a vague, intangible sweetness that withal belonged to the 
man in the room below i and he fell to musing on the 
strange, subtle, inexplicable tangle called life, which 
deals out to mankind its unequal gifts of passion and 
pain and death ; and still the solution puzzled him, as he 
pondered on the story he bad just heard — the love-story 
of Adrian Lacaux, talented, admired and courted, the 
invulnerable bachelor, the cynic and woman hater, sitting 
forlorn among the ruins of his life ; and again came the 
burden of that strange cry — the strained, stilled tones of 
his voice quivering through the silence — " I would have 
died for her." 

. M. Kettenus. 


A lurid light above ; and wide around, 

Mile after mile, the swelling purple moor 

And lonely stillness — save where o'er the ground 

The peewit wailing sweeps, in flight unsure. 

Solemn the scene. Day's dying glories lie 

Fringing the distant hills, and, nearer, fall 

Aslant a ripened comGeld. In the sky 

Black clouds are gathering. One lone wind doth call 

Cer the wild, weary waste, and sinks and dies 

Far off, and wakes anon, and moans and sighs 

About the dreary hollows. A dog's bark 

Shakes the grey gloom, and high, on fluttering wings, 

The startled grouse fly over. Broods the night 

Upon the heathy uplands. A gate swings 

To, and a sturdy sportsman, faint to sight. 

Tramps homeward with his spoil ; and through the dark 

Lone stars come throbbing, with pale lustre pure, 

And night's wind- voices wail across the moor. 

James A. Mackereth. 

•I by A. Camphill Cren 


T was a queer friendship : on the ivm 
one side a bias/, cynical man, well Ultis-.ralit. 
in the thirties ; on the other, a ir 
small girl-woman, with a plain, A.c.Cmt 
cold, little face, in which the eyes 
alone were enthusiastic And the 
IViendship had commenced in a 
queer way. 

They had been introduced to 
each other by his aunt, who had 
laughed in her sleeve as she said, 
" Isma, let me make my nephew, Mark Kingston, 
known to you. Mark, Miss Wynne is, like yourself, 
my guest for the week-end — and, like you, usually makes 
her home in London ; so you will have lots of things 
in common." 

Then Mrs. Kingston had wandered otf down her sunny 
garden path, and left them. And Mark had sworn 
vengeance against her for leaving him to entertain a 
stupid girl, who had not even ordinary prettiness to com- 
mend her to his fastidious taste, as he told himself dis- 
contentedly. And then, in turning to make some common- 
place remark, he had given an inward start of surprise, 
for he had met the girl's eyes fully, fixedly bent on 
himself^and in them a look of quiet disapproval. 

That one look decided Mark Kingsley. He bad learned 
what he knew of wornen in a school where men leam 
quickly, unwisely, and in a manner that serves them in 
little stead afterwards. He had thought he could gauge 
any woman's soul by the knowledge he had thus acquired. 
And lo ! in a plain girl's blue-grey eyes he had found 
his mistake. "Every woman has her price "had been 
his axiom for some years, and in one instant, in a quiet, 
old, Surrey garden, he knew how untrue it was. 

And charming little Mrs. Kingston, his aunt, from her 
snuggery window, smiled knowingly as she saw Mark 
talkmg animatedly to ha proUg/t, Isma Wynne, with less 
of a ifas/, man -of'the- world air than she had seen in him 
since the day when he had come into his grandfather's 
wealth, at two-and-lwenty. 

"Now, then, listen how this reads: — ' We, the under- 
signed, do hereby declare that we conjointly agree to 


lunch, dine, and attend a theatre together once a week, 
or such place of amusement as may be mutually agreed 
upon ; and that, for the time we may be together, we 
shall each prove amusing to the other. That, at such 
time as one or both cease to be amusing, this agreement 
shall be considered null and void. 

"Signed, this the twelfth day of June, eighteen 
hundred and ninety-four." 

" How do you like it ? Sounds rather legal, doesn't it, 
Miss Wynne?'' and Mark Kingston looked quizzically 
across the table at his companion, who was, with a grave 
air of consideration, slowly severing cherries from their 
stalks and eating them. 

" Yes, on the whole, I think that will do. If you will 
pass it over, I'll sign it now. You see, like a careful 
journalist, I have my pen with me. There ! ** 

The paper was handed back, with the signature in firm, 
clear characters — " Isabel Mary Wynne." 

" H'm, so that is your name in full, is it, Miss Wynne ? Do 
you know, I have often been puzzled over your curioiLs 
name, *Isma'? I see now that it is simply formed of the 
first syllables of your Christian names. Now for mine ! " 

To complete the agreement, Mark dashed down — " Mark 
Pryor Kingston " ; then said, " See, for the future, I am 
going to call you Isma, and you shall call me Mark, or 
anything else you like. There is nothing amusing about 
surnames, and^ besides, life's too short to be always using 
them. Where shall we go this evening — to what theatre, 
I mean?" 

"Thanks, I don't want to go anywhere this evening. 

We'll start in next week. And, just now, I would like to 

say that I am going to allow you to pay for my lunches, 

dinners and theatres occasionally, as agreed upon, not 

because you are a man and I am a woman, but simply 

because you can easily afford it, and I cannot If the cases 

were reversed, I should pay for you — that's understood, I 

think ; and for the future, when we meet we must do our 

best to amuse each other, and so keep to the letter and 

spirit of our agreement. Now, good-bye ! I must get 

back to the office." 

o o o 

What was there behind all her quiet little face, and in 
spite of her curiously incomplete education, which gave 
Isma Wynne such a keen understanding of men in 
general, and of clever, cynical Mark Kingsley in 
particular? He knew, and the knowledge piqued him 
more than he cared to admit, even to himself, that this 
plain girl, who was so witty and amusing, and who 


accepted his hospitality so frankly, was able to keep 
him in hand. 

Their agreement was all very well, thought the man 
half sneeringly, but it would surely be more interesting, 
if less amusing, to occasionally be personal in their con- 
versations. After all, to be amusing had its limitations. 
There was something weird and unnatural in a girl who 
was distinctly and decidedly the mere friend and comrade, 
and not a bit the lover. How would she look with those 
calm, grey-blue eyes of hers aflame with passion, and the 
stem young lips quivering with feeling. Bah 1 It was 
gainst all reason for a girl to be so self-controlled as 
Isma always was. Good Lord ! what a farce the whole 
affair was ! What business had this plain-faced little 
Puritan to dictate to any man what his conversations 
should, or should not, be? It would serve her right to 
teach her to love ; yes, to love as he, Mark, knew she 
was capable of loving. 

With an oath on his lips, he leapt to his feet, and 
striding the length of his comfortable sitting-room he 
passed into the hall, and, taking up his hat, went out, 
slamming the door behind him. 

He walked on through the warm night air, with a 
feeling of undefinable shame somewhere about him, that 
he should be taking such an unaccountable interest in a 
girl who was nothing to him. But there was no pity in 
his heart for Isma : her very independence had roused 
all the aggressive part in the man's nature. 

♦ ♦ * 

No one but Mark Kingsley knew how hard he fought 
during the next few weeks to pass that line of demarcation 
which the .woman had drawn between friendship and 
sentiment. He looked in the girl's eyes, and swore 
softly to himself when he saw they met his just as calmly 
as ever. Had they faltered never so slightly, he would 
have been satisfied — ^perhaps ; but their calmness enraged 
him, and pricked him on, and he longed to hear her 
confess that she loved him. She would not be easy to 
win ; but when he thought of the unstirred depths of her 
eyes, he knew he must ^o on with the game. 

One day they had varied their usual proceedings by 
going down by train to Walton, and taking a row on 
the river. Mark was in flannels, and he knew he was 
looking his best. Isma sat in the stem of the boat, 
lazily pulling the tiller ropes as directed, and watching 
the long, easy strokes of the oars as the man pulled up 
against the stream. 

Something in the set of his well-shaped lips interested 


her ; she had never noticed them quite so firm and 
determined before, she thought ; and, in spite of her 
Puritanism, she felt that the man in front of her, plying 
the oars so steadily, was worth loving — one day he 
would make some woman happy by caUing her wife. 
Isma caught her breath at the thought, and there was a 
queer little pain in her heart, and the beautiful day had 
all at once grown dull, and between her eyes and the 
sunny river was a mist. 

Just at that moment Mark Kingsley looked up at her, 
and seeing the shadow in her eyes he felt a most unholy 
triumph. He rowed in to the bank, where the trees hang 
low to meet the water ; then, shipping his oars, he leaned 
forward, and placed his hands lightly on Isma's, as they 
lay in her lap, with the tiller ropes loosely between them. 

For a few blissful seconds she allowed the contact, 
and felt glad because of the man's quick sym|>athy. 
Then she raised her eyes and saw — well, more than 
Mark intended her to, he had been so sure of victory. 
With a short laugh, that had no mirth in it, she moved 
her hands away and grasped the ropes tighter, saying, 
" Why, Mark, you lazy fellow ! what do you mean by 
only rowing this distance ? 1 am sure you cannot be tired 
already, but, if you like, I Ml row you as far as Halliford.'' 

He knew she had seen the danger, and, woman-like, 
was pretending she had not ; but his mind was made up, 
and even the steady courage glowing in her eyes once 
more could not stay him. 

So he caught her hands, and, holding them closely in 
his, he said passionately, " Isma, I love you. I, who 
have seen women of all lands, and have had the choice 
of beauties, love you, you — cold little Puritan. Will you 
love me in return, and be my wife ? " 

He had slipped to her side, and passed his arm about 
her slender figure, and as he spoke he turned her small, 
pale face upwards. If the eyes quailed for an instant, 
and then flashed an answer back to the passionate glow 
in his, he never could be sure, they were steady again bO 
quickly. But there was no mistaking the cool raillery in 
her voice, as she smilingly said : 

" Surely you are never growing sentimental, Mark I 
Why, I know nothing that is so far from being amusing ; 
and I remember our compact, even if you don't Really 
I am afraid, Mark, that you are degenerating dreadfully 
— becoming pass/y in fact. If you have exhausted amus- 
ing subjects already, let's start fair again." 

Mark Kingsley bit his lip, and rowed back quickly to 


He loved the cirl as well as he knew huw to love ; and 
he hated himself for not finding it out sooner, and at the 
same time for not having been more successfiil in his 
wooing. He was a cool~headed man, however, and be 
knew when he was beaten. 

When Isma reached her rooms in Torrington Square, 
she indulged in the luxury of tears ; and in her innermost 
heart she cursed her knowledge of men — a knowledge 
that told her that Mark Kingsley would not !ove a woman 
more nobly because she was his wife according to the 
law of the land. He had loved many women, and she 
knew it, and the thought was gall and wormwood to her, 
for she also knew that there was but one man in the 
world for her, and him her Puritanism debarred. But, 
even as she admitted her weakness, she was strong ; so 
she drew a blue pencil through her copy of the agree- 
ment, and returned it to Mark Kingsley, with the words 
scrawled across il, " Null and void." 

Mabel E. E. Edwards. 



«HE room was quite still save for the merry song of 
the little brass kettle which hummed knowingly 
to itself as if conscious that a crisis was imminent 
in the affairs of the two sitting so silently before the fire. 

Unthinkingly, Thorold reached for his cigar-case, then 
dropped it back into his pocket with a regretful sigh and 
a sidelong glance at the big arm-chair opposite and the 
woman lying back among the pillows. 

" Smoke," she said, noticing his gesture. " Smoke ; 
don't think I mind. In the old days tobacco always 
stimulated your speech if not your thoughts ; let me see 
if any virtue remains in nicotine." 

" You are thoughtful as ever,*' Thorold said, with a 
curious uplifting of the muscles about the corner of his 
mouth, which, while it lasted, gave his face a vague yet 
unmistakeably cat-like look. "If I may be allowed I will 
follow your advice, and perhaps some of the charm of 
long ago may come back to us with the smoke." 

The woman shrugged her shoulders and rose to her 
feet. " I hate reminiscences," she said with a weak 
pretence at stifling a yawn, " but I'll aid and abet you in 
raising the spirit of dead and bygone days, by giving you 
a light.'* Stooping, she struck a vesta against the bar of 
the grate, then held it towards him till the end of the 
cigar glowed steadily. 

Thorold, who, from long experience with both, was a 
bit of a connoisseur in all pertaining to horses and 
women, noticed that her hand was as slender and white 
as ever, and free from the journalistic ink-stains of the 
past five years, the nails as rosy as a child's and beauti- 
fully shaped. From the tips of her fingers, his eyes 
travelled lazily up her firm well-rounded arm to her bare 
throat and finally rested on her face, with the decided 
conviction, however, that in looks at least Mrs. Despard 
wasn't half the woman she had been as Elizabeth Daw- 
son. Looking down at him, through the misty curtain of 
smoke spreading out between them, she met his gaze 
with an odd, defiant smile, ** Yes, I'm growing old," she 
said, as if in answer to his unspoken thought. "See, 
there are lines under my eyes at times, and now and 
again in the morning, before I pull them out, there are 
grey hairs here at the temples." 

" You are jesting," Thorold answered with an uneasy 
feeling that there was danger in the air. She had always 

AFTER years" 133 

been unpleasantly earnest and sincere, even when a girl ; 
that, with other things, was what had wearied him so 
quickly. He looked at her critically from beneath his 
half-shut lids ; unquestionably she was right, he decided ; 
fire years of worry and brain work had left an indelible 
impression on her face. She was appreciably older now 
than the girl he had loved and ruined long ago ; ruined, 
not in the sense in which the world uses the word, yet 
none the less surely, by crushing her ideals one by one, 
till her belief in humanity and the God of her childhood 
was a thing of thft past ; till disillusioned, almost unsexed, 
she had come to judge by reason instead of instinct. 
. *' Well?" she said at last with the air of an inquisitor. 

Thorold, disturbed in his dream, started suddenly 
and flicked the ash from his cigar while vainly 
hunting for something to say. " You have changed but 
little," he ventured at last, feeling bored and vaguely un- 
comfortable at the proximity of this woman who knew 
his weakest points and touched them one after another 
with all the skill of a musician playing on a well-known 
instrument. In a word, she knew too much. From a 
man's point of view the ignorance so often mistermed 
innocence is the most desirable thing in woman. It 
satisfies the masculine instinct to destroy it even as the 
vain flutterings of an impaled butterfly satisfy the lad who 
studies entomology instead of — life. 

"You are sorry I've come back," she went on, once 
more reading his thoughts. 

" You are unkind. I am glad of your return, glad you 
turned to me with the old feeling of good fellowship," he 
said with an undercurrent of sarcasm in his placid tone. 

Mrs. Despard moved restlessly and shook her head, 
but if Thorold noticed it, he gave no sign,.but went on in 
a slightly aggrieved voice : " The news of your marriage 
surprised me— it was so unexpected." 

For the first time in her life she felt lacking in loyalty, 
for instinctively she had been true to others if not to her- 
self, lacking too where loyalty most was due, to the man 
who had married her, and while he lived made her 
quietly happy, restoring some of her former illusions, 
cracked to be sure but still usable— the man to whom 
she owed it that she still possessed a share of goodness 
and human charity. 

" Now that you are alone again," Thorold went on 
evenly, " perhaps we can be ^ends once more — tiH my 
marriage, at least" 

She mterrupted him eagerly. " Your marriage ! What 
is she like ? " 


*' She has money," he answered, philosophically. 

^ So she is old — a gilded pill/' Mrs. Despard said with 

" No, not old," smiled Thorold. 

" The older she is the sooner youMl be rid of her," she 

'* Perhaps I don't want her to die," he said with 
cheerful persistency. 

** Then her interest in her money dies with her ; it 
must be to your advantage to keep her alive." 

Thorold frowned and shrugged his shoulders, but wisely 
held his tongue. 

"If the Gods gave me choice,*' Mrs. Despard said 
meditatively, after a pause, " I would pray for my life to 
last till I saw you a victim of Eros." 

" I was never capable of loving," and Thorold 
laughed insolently. 

The woman's face flushed at the thought of the kisses 
he had given her ; at the memory of the days when he 
fooled her into caring for hinL "Perhaps — when you 
were young ? '* she queried hopefully. 

Thorold disdained to escape by the offered loophole. 
" Not even then," he insisted. " Now, you ?" he said, 

*' I— -I could play at love, at least," she answered, with 
well-assumed indifference. " What you once called my 
ability for producing stage effects helped me there. 
But your cigar has gone out," she said, with a sudden 
change of tone ; " let me light it." 

Leaning across the back of his chair, she held out a 
lighted match ; her hair just brushed his neck, her arms, 
perfect as the lost limbs of the Louvre Venus, lay on his 
shoulder ; a vague odour of violets rose from the filmy 
black masses of tulle about her low-cut bodice. Tossing 
his cigar into the grate, Thorold caught and detained 
her lumd. " Bess," he whispered, with a quickening of 
breath not altogeUier simulated, " Bess." 

Her face hardened, but a triumphant light shone in her 
eyes as she deliberately bent her head till it rested 
against his. " Yes," she said softly, almost shyly, " Yes !" 

With a quick movement he drew her down beside him 
till she lay motionless in his arms, her &ce well hidden 
against the lapel of his coat. " Bess, I love you," he 
whispered, knowing full well all the time that he lied. 
Throwing aside all self-restraint, he kissed her eagerly — 
her shoulder, her arm, her neck, where the delicate 
tendrils of hair met in a point just under the heavy 
golden braids. " I love you, Bess," he whispered, " as I 

Dravm by Phihf Cennaril 


never did in the old days. The first time I kissed you 
you weren't much more than a child, Bess— in a white 
woollen frock, all fluffy about the neck, and I kissed you 
like this, iust there underneath the chin.'' He tried to 
raise her head, but she kept her face persistently hidden, 
and lay rigid, a dead weight against his shoulder. 

" Bess, tell me," he went on, in the voice of a man who 
believes he has conauered, '^ tell me you care for me still, 
after all these years." 

She raised her eyes, and with no trace in her face of 
the tumult of passion and unsatisfied longing Uiat filled 
her soul, drew a little away from him. ^^l don't care 
for you in the least," she said steadily, " and I'm sure I 
never did, but thanks all the same for your declaration. 
You certainly are impulsive sometimes." 

Constance Compton Marston. 

1^ ^ ^ 


Can we live thus— disdain our senses' call. 
Deny the human heart its wonted flow, 
Close our young lives to Life's warm, magic glow. 
And strew Love's roses on scorned Passion's pall ? 

Ay surely, dear, if duty calls, for we 

Have met on spirit-planes where heart knew heart. 

Our love is of our flesh a thing apart ; 

And though the golden fruit on Nature's tree 

Were sweet to pluck, they find supremer things 

Who taste the buoyant peace denial brings. 

A wider world than passion round us lies — 

A world of minds united, love divine 

Twixt soul and soul. Ah, dear ! shall we repine. 

And miss the higher for a lower prize ? 

Herbert Jamieson. 


CB|f HE fish were not biting well that morning, but old 
Qp William Searle kept beating up and down the 
brook, now in the sun and now in the shade, 
trying to get a few trout for Martha Adams, who was 
ailing, and who, when he was about to leave her cottage, 
where he had gone to inquire after the state of her 
health, had said with a sigh, " 1 do wish I had jest a few 
trout for my supper. It seems ez though I couldn't 
eat nuthin' thet weVe got!" In five minutes he was 
in his bam taking down an old second-growth hickory 
fishing pole ; then he had dug some bait ; and, wrapping 
up in a paper bag some apples and bread and butter, he 
was soon on his way to Trout Hollow. One undersized 
fish was all that he had captured, and his legs were 
growing tired as he walked along, dropping his hook in 
the likely places and waiting patiently for nibbles. 

And all the time he was thinking and planning. 

When they were young, William and Martha had been 
spoken of as lovers by all the gossips of the village ; but 
though there was undoubtedly much feeling between them, 
it had never been definitely ascertained that William had 
declared himself, though it was an old story that Martha 
had encouraged him both by look and word to open his 
heart. Years had passed, and as they both grew old, the 
fact that neither married was the only indication that 
there had been an affair of the heart between them, 
unless that William sent his first radishes and onions, 
and the first pick of his strawberry bed to Martha, meant 
something, or that sitting once a month with her in the 
straight-backed chairs of her prim living room, and talk- 
ing about the weather and other common matters, indi- 
cated it. 

Feeling his interest in Martha greatly renewed through 
her sickness, the old man became reminiscent, and 
wandered back in memory to the hours when he had 
seen her for the first time, a slender red-cheeked girl, 
leaving the church on Sunday. All eyes dwelt upon her 
then ; and young men to the number of six or seven were 
gathered near her, each hoping that he might be the first 
to offer his arm in the homeward walk. 

Years had passed ere William dared, partly through 
courage and partly through fear of greater suffering if he 
refrained, to offer his arm at the church door. 

But after the ordeal had been passed through, how 
sweet, he thought, to walk along the grassy path. 


Martha's little hand just resting on his coat-sleeve, while 
they talked of the music or the sermon, both conscious 
of dearer things than these hidden in the heart, no 
doubt, but making their presence felt in every utterance : 
a rich undertone in a simple melody. And he was some- 
times admitted to her home, there to sit happy but 
almost silent through the evening, watching her quick 
fingers as the needles flashed in and out of the stoclcing 
she was knitting. A hundred times he had the words 
on his lips to ask her ; but as often as he thought to 
speak, and uttered her name, a look from her clear eyes, 
though kindly given, sent the words hurrying back to his 
heart, and he stammered out something else to hide his 
weakness and his intention. 

" I wonder why I never told her ! " the old man 
exclaimed, as he mopped his brow with a big red hand- 
kerchief and coughed slightly, ashamed of his shame. 

" William Searle, you never did hev no courage with 
wimmin ; it took you five years to get up enough spunk 
to be seen walkin' with Martha Adams, an' now you've 
waited forty years more 'cause you're afraid to tell her. 
Do you think she's goin' to know it 'cause you're gettin' 
these fish ? Why don't you act like a man ? " He jerked 
savagely at his hook. 

Blackbirds were rasping in the trees under which he 
stooped, intensifying the stillness ; and the odours ot 
wildflowers were all about him as he sat down to rest 
and eat a part of his lunch. He was very tall, and his 
white hair hung about a fa^e which, old as it was, held a 
peculiar delicacy of expression, as though it had been 
made for a world wherem there are no difficulties. 'Mt's 
nice here, an' I like to hear the birds ; it makes me think 
of the time when I wuz a boy," he said, as he peered up 
among the branches. 

He ate abstractedly soon, for the sick old woman came 
back to his mind, and excluded all else He thought 
again of the walks to Martha's house in the cool of the 
evening, and how he used to go with the intention of tell- 
ing her all, only to become terror-stricken when she 
answered his knock with a conventional " Good evening, 
Mr. Searle.'' Even the flowers at the door reminded 
him that he must not be too familiar, standing straight 
up, and seeming to say from their orderly rows, ** Be 
careful, William Searle, of what you do and say ; our 
mistress is not a common young lady ~ she may laugh at 

His thoughts began to grow bitter to him, as he 
contemplated all the past. 


*' I must get more fish than I hev," he suddenly ex- 
claimed ; and putting aside his lunch, he walked resolutely 
out into the sun. 

But recollection would not leave him. It seemed as 
though he were again young ; and he could feel the pride, 
mixed with trepidation, which filled his heart as he passed 
the Smiths' house, with Martha at his side, on the way 
home from church. Martha's green bonnet was not only 
the most beautiful head-covering in the village, and for 
that reason good to look upon, but it had been purchased 
with William's own money in Boston. When Martha 
received a mysterious package from the hands of Jonas 
Beane, the stage-driver, she asked, *' What is it, and who 
sent it?" but only received a wise shake of the head in 
reply. William, not daring to g^ve it to her in person, 
had taken this means of presenting it. Jonas Beane 
boarded with the Smith family, and a certain con- 
descension in his bow, as William and Martha passed, 
made William tremble. But Martha continued to wear 
her bonnet, unconscious of the donor, though she 
wondered always. 

How he regretted all his weaknesses ? Was it too late 
to make amends ? 

The old man spoke again, softly, for he had journeyed 
up to where he believed the fish were thickest, a long 
walk for him. " How nice she used to look in them white 
dresses ; she always seemed like an angel, 'cept when 
she turned her eyes on me— then I wilted. Why didn't I 
hev no spunk ? She must hev cared for me a little, else 
she'd mittened me — thet's sure. Hullo, there's another 
fish 1 " and he drew a second trout from the water. He 
wiped his forehead tremblingly ere rebaiting his line. 

^' Marthy liked me, I do believe ! " he exclaimed, and 
tears came to his eyes through the mere repetition in 
words, of the old, old thoughts. I wonder if Marthy 
will live ez long ez I do. Seems ez though we two ought 
to be together, somehow, but dinged ef I know how ! 
I 'm goin' to tell her enyway ; yes, I 'm £OtW to tell her. 
I guess we ain't too old." He leaned against a tree, bis 
eyes on the ground as he thought. 

Martha Adams' house sat straight and white among its 
lilacs, surrounded at a greater distance by tall ashes, 
which seemed to realise a responsibility to that which 
they enclosed, and stood very straight themselves. Inside 
the house all was the same. The floors were very clean ; 
the home-made rugs were square with the sofas ; the 


vases on the mantel were filled with dried grass having 
waving plumes ; the chairs all stood seriously, with their 
backs against the wall ; while, in the second best bed, in 
a white-walled chamber, Martha, arrayed in a lace cap 
with lavender ribbons, lay like something which had 
found its place, and knew it. Samantha Lane sat by her 
side, fannmg her. 

^' Don't fan so, Samanthy ; I want to tell you some- 
thing. Do you remember William Searle an' me, when 
we WU2 all young ? " 

'^ Yes," the expectant Samantha replied. 

" We wuz pretty sweet on each other, wan't we ? " 

" You wuz ; and a nice couple you made," said 
Samantha encouragingly. 

" Well — well, William never asked me to hev him, all 
those years." 

" Never told you that he wanted you ? " 

« No." 

"He didn't?" 

« No, he didn't ! '' 

" Well, I do declare ! Everybody always thought it wuz 
very strange thet you an' William Searle didn't marry 
each other ; but folks didn't suppose that he never asked 

" Don't you tell no one, Samanthy." 

" No, I sha'n't." 

" I'm goin' to tell you somethin' more, Samanthy." 


" I wanted him to ask me, awful bad ! " 

"You did?" 

" Yes ; an' he wanted to ask me, but wuz afraid to say it." 


"Thet's the truth, Samanthy." 

" 1 kin hardly believe it. A man to act thet way ! " 

"It's the truth. We used to go everywhere together ; 
an' he always wuz tryin' to say what wuz on his mmd, but 
he couldn't speak it out. I did all I could to help him^ 
but it only seemed to make things worse. He wuz almost 
afraid to touch my hand." 

"The great !" 

" Samanthy, William couldn't help it." 

"He's been a-comin' here ever since then, too,'' said 

" Yes ; I think — I think he— although we're both so 
old — I think he wants to say it yet." 

"Well, I tell!" 

"Didn't you see him go after the fish awhile ago? 
He hunied." 


" Miss Adams, be you crazy ? " Samantha said, boldly. 

"No, I ain't crazy ; an* youll make me sorry ihet I've 
told you if you talk thet way," the invalid replied. "It 
seems ez though I ought to hev William after waitin' so 
long ; it seems ez though we ought to get " 

" I don't deny it ; but you're both too old now to be 
thinkin' of sech things." 

I always loved him, Samanthy," the old woman said, 

Samantha coughed. 

"He never even kissed me ; he wuz afraid to.*' 

" Thet wuz too bad." 

" I wish he'd come with them fish." 

Samantha got up and began dusting the furniture 
vigorously. There was moisture on her cheeks which 
she wiped away with the dust-cloth, leaving a slight 
tell-tale stain 

Martha Adams turned on her bed, and lay gazing out 
of the window. One who looked at her there, had he 
not been deceived into thinking that she was abstractedly 
watching the swaying hollyhocks, would have seen 
mirrored on her face all the unsatisfied longings of her 
life — a regret that lay deeper than the source of tears. 

When Samantha looked at her again she seemed to 
be sleeping ; so, sitting down and smoothing her apron, 
the watcher took an unfinished stocking: from the window- 
sill and began knitting with swift, nervous fingers. 

William Searle had caught three fish, and, very tired 
at last, he began turning his pole over and over in his 
hand, winding up the line slowly, in his way, preparatory 
to going home. He had searched his memory for all 
the events of the past years which concerned Martha and 
himself, and had affirmed again and again, almost with 
an oath, that the time for foolishness was at an end, 
that as soon as Martha could sit in a chair he would go 
to her, and, recalling their youth, his love and his 
weakness, would say — Martha, I'm a fool, and I know 
it, so do you. Here I've been holding off all these years 
as though I didn't mean anything, while I wanted to tell 
you that I loved you all the while. I know that we are 
both old, and folks will laugh, but I've wanted you all my 
life ; haven't you wanted me, Martha ? Let's live to- 
gether the rest of our lives in the old home. I'm con- 
siderable sprier than you, and can take care of you. We 
can have some happiness yet I'm not worthy of you, 
Martha, I know that. But will you have me as I am ? 


He felt the scene rise before him. He had two thousand 
dollars in the bank in Boston, that would keep them as 
long as they would live He felt sure that nothing now 
could prevent him from speaking. 

He moved, as though to leave the bank of the river, 
but some thought, new and important, or else the weari- 
ness which he felt in his aged bones, made him hesitate, 
and then he turned a few steps from the water and sat 
down on the soft grass with his back against a tree. His 
stiff old fingers picked to pieces a leaf which fell upon 
his hand, "Ifn kinder tuckered out," he said with a sigh ; 
" Marthy*ll hev a late supper." 

It was just at sunset that a joyous p-arty of young berry- 
pickers wound along the river, singing, laughing and ex- 
changing jests. There was a fine colour in the cheeks of 
the girls, showing through their falling hair, which they 
were too happy to notice, and the young men were 
patient under the double load of baskets not their own, 
their eyes dwelling oft on those movements which youth 
and health make seem so natural to budding womanhood, 
while they thought each of the approaching cool of the 
evening, and the sweet chance to be alone with one whose 
heart might be had perhaps for the asking. 

It was a glorious ending of a beautiful day. A wind 
which had the odour of dew upon it breathed in their 
faces as they passed along ; in open spaces amidst the 
trees the crimson glory of the western sky came through ; 
and already those soothing voices of the evening, the 
lowing of cows and chirping of field crickets, came to 
their ears with a tender insistence. 

Suddenly those in advance recoiled with a startled cry, 
and all eyes looked where a finger pointed at the body of 
an old man lying on the grass, a fishpole leaning agamst 
a tree near it. " Who is it ? " some one asked, when the 
first shock of terror was abating. 

The oldest of the youths advanced, and, looking down 
into the dead face, replied, " Old Mr. Searle." 

Some of the girls began to weep. 

" All but four of the strongest boys had better go on," 
said the eldest of the group again. " Mr. Searle was a 
bachelor and lived alone. Some one ought to tell the 
people in the next house to his, so that they can open the 
door somehow and have the place ready. We can carry 
him on a litter. Poor old man ! " 

They broke down some young trees, and, laying the 
smaller branches across the two poles, formed a stretcher, 


on which they tenderly laid the white-haired dead, with 
his basket by his side containing three small trout. 
Then they raised the burden and began to bear it along 
through the twilight, following their companions to the 
village. They had all grown silent and serious. 

" Martha Adams and Mr. Searle used to be lovers, IVe 
heard my father say," ventured one of the bearers, the 
first to break the silence of their march ; '* I wonder what 
she'll say." 

" Oh, she's getting very old herself ; she won't notice it 

" Mr. Searle used to go there and sit with her for hours, 
years ago ; but father says he guesses she wouldn't have 
him, and so he kinder gave it up. He never asked any- 
one else though. He has lived alone for forty years. 
He looked young for his age, didn't he ?" 

" Don't talk," was the reply ; and they paced along, 
pantinfi^ under their load. 

As the bearers turned into the village street, they could 
see that quite a crowd awaited them in the little green 
square. It seemed to be gathered dose to Martha 
Adams' gate, out of which more people were passing. 

At last they reached the crowd, which looked very 
solemn, and laid their burden down to rest. No one 
spoke, till Samantha Lane pushed her way through, 
holding her handkerchief to her eyes, and said, as she 
looked at the body, " Is Mr. Searle dead ? " 

" Yes, we found him dead in the north fields, by the 
river," was the reply. 

The woman's voice trembled as she spoke. 

" Martha Adams is gone too ; and the things thet 
she said are all come true enough. She died about 
two hours ago, very peaceful." 

William Francis Barnard. 


Dtatt-n iy f{. F. IVtUs 


Fragrant and cool her garden bowers— 

She wandered out and in ; 
So fair she was, the very Flowers 

Acclaimed her as their kin. 

The Lily cried : ** Her step, how light I 

Upon the scarce-pressed grass ; 
And see that brow of purest white — 

A Lily once she was.'* 

The Red Rose smiled in answer : " Nay, 

As past my bower she goes, 
I mark her ruby lips and say 

She once did live a Rose." 

A random Field-flower peeping up, 

" Her hair is gold," he cried ; 
For, once a golden Buttercup, 

She grew m meadows wide." 

A small Flower cried : ** I too have seen 

Her pass this sheltered spot ; 
Whence came those azure eyes serene. 

But from Forget-me-not ? " 

Overheard she then their idle talk. 

And smiled to be so praised ; 
Then kissed the Lily's slender stalk. 

The Rose's drooped head raised ; 

Nor chid th' ambitious flower that dared 

Despise its pastoral fame, 
And for Forget-me-not she spared 

One tear — and breathed his name. 

" And would ye make me yours ? " cried she : 

Alas ! if this is so. 
Would God that I once more might be 

A Flower as long ago ; 

Were't glowing Rose, or Lily white, 

Blossom of gold or blue ; 
For Flowers may dream both day and night, 

And all their dreams come true 1 

Kathleen Haydn Green. 


aOBERT CARTER, known to his familiars as 
Bob, continued his way down between the rows 
of marigolds, his generous ears unwarmed by a 
tingle. The vision of a certain apple-tree in Abel 
Marvin's field had been with him, spasmodically^, during 
the afternoon, and had now gained full possession. He 
mounted the fence at the end of the garden, pausing on 
the top rail to let his eye travel over the sweep of 
meadow and orchard below, girdled in the distance by 
faint hills. The apple-tree stood in the foreground, fair 
as his dream — a paler green against the dark of the 
farther foliage, its leaves turning and twinkling in the 
sun. It was a versatile tree, possessing the essential 
<)ualities of a flirt. Having drawn him, headlong, with 
its suggestions of hidden fruit, it now brought him to a 
full and bewildering stop, and began to exercise a 
different spelL 

"Jolly, down there I What a picture ! Wish I had 
my pad 1 " 

Bob wriggled into a comfortable sitting posture, and 
twisted his feet into the lower bars of the fence. There 
was a varied assortment of old envelopes in his pockets, 
bills, notices, and letters sentimental. One of these he 
selected and was presently lost in transferring the 
pastoral scene before him to its somewhat limited area. 

Robert Carter was one year old — in the world of art. 
He was not without some of the attributes of that tender 
age. The craze had " taken him '' quite suddenly. His 
folks, who had him down as a merchant in the catalogue 
of life, decided that this affection, like the " stamp mania,'' 
would be quickest cured by humouring. So they gave 
him a long rope, that he might not know he was tied. 

He had registered in one of the New York art schools 
the previous October, and, armed with his new-born zeal, 
and a very elaborate outfit, had worked himself up from 
the contemplation of " block " hands and feet to drawing 
from " rounds." When he was promoted to " cast heads " 
his own became subject to a malady not uncommon with 
young genius. 

" I ou^ht to have a skeleton ! " he told himself one 
day, pacing his room in lofty abstraction. " Success 
depends on going to the foundation. Every great artist 
must be a student of anatomy ! " 

He presented his new effort, a drawing of the bust of 


Cicero, next criticism day, and found this opinion 
emphatically confirmed. 

"The head is soft ! " raved the great instructor, ^^ soft/ 
I could punch it in I You have no skull — no bones ! " 

Bob salved his pride by muttering that he'd anticipated 
wisely, anyhow. 

" IVe got to have a skeleton ! " he declared aloud. 

A fellow-student heard him, a sickly youth, with 
Rembrandt locks. He moved up, speaking in a high- 
pitched tone. 

" One of the fellahs has a cast he wants to get rid o£ 
He'll sell out cheap ! '' He tried to look as though he 
weren't going to get a commission. 

" Don't want a cast / " growled Bob. " I want a 
skeleton 1 " 

" A cast's a skeleton," said the thin voice. " Same 
thing, you know. Imitation — iron cast." 

The sickly boy made the sale, and had the gruesome 
thing 'sent round. Bob was pleased as a child. He 
pored over it for hours, rapping on the skull, twisting 
the joints, and moving the legs and arms up and down. 
Then he put its box away, and hung it on a peg beside his 
bureau. For that night ! After the fuss his aunt made next 
morning, he felt that it was hardly safe in the closet. 

The art school year was then so near its close that he 
could scarcel)^ judge of the improvement in his work 
from the acquisition of the skeleton. He determined to 
make the most of the vacation. He had taken a few land- 
scape sketching lessons during the winter, and thought 
he ought to go off and board in the country for a month 
or two to pursue that branch— or join a summer class. 
He inclined favourably to the former course. The family, 
following deep tactics, offered no objection. His aunt 
had at one time boarded in North Loon vi lie, a primitive 
hamlet, some distance in from the seaboard. She thought 
"it would be a good place to sketch" (knowing nothing of 
sketching, and anxious to be quit of the skeleton). Bob 
(knowing of no place he could reasonably suppose to be 
better) considered her suggestion. 

About the ist of July he saw the family off, with great 
cheerfulness, for their usual resort, and transferred his 
belongings to North Loonville, finding a lodging with 
Zebulon Palmer, a petty farmer living about two and a-half 
miles from the railroad station. Zebulon owned a small 
house and a stony lot, on which he managed to raise 
enough vegetables for the support of himself and Mrs. 
Palmer — borrowing a "boss" when he needed one of 
Abel Marvin, his only neighbour. 

BOB carter's skeleton I47 

Bob won the old man's heart by a little subtle flattery 
— the fact that he i>aid well being nothing to his hurt — 
bat by none of his wiles could he make the slightest 
impression on Mrs. Palmer. She regarded him from the 
first with suspicion, which increased with every effort he 
made to allay it He felt himself always within the 
range of her sidelong look, his least movement becoming 
weighty in the evidence collecting against him. Zebulon 
dared not resort to language, but his attitude was on 
the defensive, and between the two Bob, possessing an 
ordinary meed of humour, was often at his wits' end. 

He was roused from his reverie on the fence-rail by 
the old man's voice. The Marvins had come up from 
the village, and brought a letter. Zebulon turned it over 
and over as he came down the walk, eyeing Bob with 
keen interest while he read. 

The letter was from a boy friend. 

"Just found out you were so near," it ran. "Come 
over and spend Sunday. No time to reply— just come ! " 

Time to reply 1 Guess not — Saturday afternoon. 
Come? Of course he would. He explained hurriedly 
to Zebulon, and bolted into the house to pack his grip. 

"Be home by Monday afternoon,'' he called Imck. 
" Can just about make the late train " — ^to himself. 

Bob's room, located to the right of the stair leading up 

from the kitchen, was the repository for all his artistic 

paraphernalia. He dared not fasten his door during an 

absence for fear of raising a family breeze. One article, 

however, he did keep under lock and key — remembering 

his aunt. Haste on this occasion is the only explanation 

for his carelessness. He left his cast dangling from its 

hook in the wall. 

o o o 

The timepiece on the mantel and the dull patch of sun on 
the kitchen floor agreed that it was passinp^ four o'clock. 

Zebulon sat in a padded rocker beside the table, 
directly over the patch. Sunday being the only day 
when he was afflicted with a collar he looked more than 
ever overborne, and quite at the mercy of his clothes. 
He had a Bible in his lap and one finger fastened in the 
Psalms of David — but he was in reality studying a seed- 
catalogue. He glanced up furtively now and then to 
listen to the footsteps of his wife on the floor above. 

" Ye'd think a wumman's feet was cannon-balls ! " he 
snickered, in the freedom of being alone. 

There was a long interval of silence, overhead. A fly 
droned on the window. The loud pendulum began to 
lull him ; the square of sun moved behind his chair. . . . 



Zebulon jumped. He crammed the seed-book into the 
shelf under the table, and opened to the Psalms. 


^^ Come here! ^^ The voice penetrated to him through 
the stair-door that opened into the kitchen. There was 
something ominous m the words. 

He put down the Bible, and clambered up the stair, 
poking his white face above the bannister. Nor did the 
attitude of his wife relieve his apprehensions. 

" Come up here— Jess come on ! " 

He came, stumblmg. 

She held him with her eyes, like a prisoner at the bar, 
pointing at the door on the right. 

" What did I tell ye wuz up with that young man ? " 

He opened his mouth and shivered. There was awful 
meaning in her words. 

" Why, mother," he queried, " what ? " 

Mrs. Palmer triumphed in every rustle of her stiff 
percale. She drew nearer. Her cap -bows trembled on 
her head. 

" Well — ^he's a murderer !" 

" F— fiddlestick ! '' 

" He's a murderer ! Did I tell ye ? There's a dead 
man hanging in his room ! " 

"Wha— w>6a//" 

" A dead man's bones ! " 

Zebulon seized her by the arm, and shut his eyes. 

" Mother! " he gasped, ^^Come down stairs /^^ 

But his wife shook him off. 

^^Come down stairs/ — an' leave that skeleton under my 
roof.? Zebulon Palmer, them bones are goin' to come 
down 1 " 

« U— mother r 

" They're goin' to come down. I tell ye ! An' if you 
aint man enough, I'll git 'em out myself! " 

Zebulon saw she made no move toward the fearful 
door. He became eloquent, for the first time in his 

** Leave him be, mother ! Leave him be till we git 
h?;lp — and turn the key ! Pit go — let me go ! Lemme 
git the Marvin boys I I won't bs a minnit, mother ! " 

That turned the balance. 

" Git the Marvin boys ? — ^an' raise a scannel to blacken 
yer name ? Father ! stay here / You come on 1 " 

^^Ican^t/" whimpered the old man, piteously, then 
courageously — ** you go first ! " 

BOB carter's skeleton I49 

" 'Do, Mr. Palmer ! " Bob nodded to Zebulon, who 
was weeding his aster-bed with uncommon care. He 
latched the gate behind him, lingeringly, and paused on 
the walk to watch the old man's labours. It was late 
Monday afternoon. 

" Your asters are looking well this year, Mr. Palmer ! 
Guess my back's younger than yours ! " he added, drop- 
ping his grip, and getting down with his usual good- 
nature to assist. 

Zebulon's hands seemed violently agitated. Bob laid 
it to fatigue, from his stooping posture. 

*• Don't do any more, Mr. Palmer ! Leave it to me ; 
I'll finish it up to-morrow. 

Poor old fellow's tired out ! '' he thought, with a secret 
thrill of resentment toward the wife. 

A gratifying suggestion of supper drew his glance 
houseward. He got up, stiffly, and stood stock still, 
staring as though his eyes had for one time played him 
false. He took a step forward, and rubbed them with 
his sleeve. Then he brought himself with great strides 
before the porch. 

"What m the name of 1 I say, Mrs. Palmer — 

what's up ? " 

His landlady stood within the wire door (carefully 
fastened from within), her glasses assuming a fearful 
glitter behind it. 

Before her, on the porch-floor, were huddled hats and 
papers, brushes, neckties, shoes and easels— the dese- 
crated medley of his earthly goods. 

She regarded him and them unflinching. 

" Them's yer traps ! " she asserted. Her voice might 
have lain overnight in the refrigerator. "Ye can tek 
'em soon's yer ready ! " 

Bob was unable to recover. He clasped his bewildered 

" I can take em, can I ? The {ieuce I can I See here 
— am I boarding at this house ? " 


" / had that impression ! Paid my board, too, didn't 
I ? Well, then, what's all this ? What have I done to 
be turned out ? " 

" Perhaps ye know ! " 

" Perhaps I do, Mrs. Palmer ! Perhaps I do — since 
you say so ! " 

He wheeled as though to shout to Zebulon, but that 
worthy man had disappeared. He ^azed right and left, 
but no human being was visible within the radius of a 
mile. Bob turned his helpless eyes on Mrs. Palmer — 


and back again upon his belongings. A steely look 
flashed suddenly into their blue. Stooping, he snatched 
away the heap of clothes piled upon his trunk, and 
rummaged through the litter on the floor. 

" Where's my cast ? " he demanded. 

There was an awful silence. 

" Where's my castf^^ he inquired, more wrathfuUy. 

Mrs. Palmer raised her hand. 

" Don't try to clean yer soul," she said, " by any high- 
falutin* words 1 If ye mean them dead men's Iwnes — 
they're in the lot ! I give 'em Christian burial. 

Rage drowned Bob's every sense. He sprang sharply 
to his feet. 

" You buried them ? " he shouted. " You buried them ? 
Well, you can dig them up / " 

Then he tore ofl" his cap and flung it clear to the gate. 

"You buried my castr" he groaned. "You buried 

He sat down on a log and began to swear at Philis- 
tines. The wind blew his sketch-book over him across 
the drive, where a waggon, jolting into view at this 
moment from a sharp turn in the road, promptly rolled 
over it 

Mrs. Palmer rustled down the hall, and disappeared 
by a gap in the fence into the Marvins' yard. 

She brought them back with her on tip-toe — Zebulon 
and Abel, and Abel's wife, and Zebulon's brawny sons. 
They stood, a silent, awful audience — behind the 
sheltering medium of the firm wire door — gazing on the 
dreadful man from the city. 

Robert Carter did not get his "cast*'— but he got out 
of North Loonville. The effect of the experience upon 
his artistic career, it is said, was very serious — almost 

Catharine Young Glen. 

A Studio Story. 

I WAS studying art in Paris, and had been in lodgings 
for about the space of six months, when a friend 
of mine, whose name was Maizeroy, and who 
was fond of telling people what he would do if he were 
in their place, advised me to take a studio, because, said 
he, all artists who are worth anything live in studios ! 
This advice found favour in my eyes, and I started off 
the very next morning in search of a suitable studio, 
which, after much fruitless tramping around, I found in 
a house in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs. Maizeroy 
came up that evening, and seemed rather surprised to 
find that I had followed his advice with such promptness. 
Two days later, I moved into the above-mentioned studio, 
and, after disposing of my worldly goods in different 
comers, and nailing up a choice collection of rusty 
weapons, oriental draperies, and plaster casts, I sat down 
and surveyed the result of my labours with the proud 
consciousness that I was now, at any rate, a real artist I 
When Maizeroy came in and stared fixedly about — as was 
his wont, before delivering an opinion — I waited rather 
fearfully ; but he pronounced my artistic furnishing 
arrangements ^patant! and this reassured me. 

We lunched together near the Pantheon, before which 
meal I drank my usual glass of absinthe, and, as is also 
my habit, I drank another afterwards. I have grown to 
like absinthe, and, somehow, it seems to help me with 
my work. 

The studio proved a success, not only as a place ot 
abode but also as a place for work. The light was good 
and the neighbours auiet. During the first week after 
my arrival, I worked steadily at my Salon picture. 
Naturally, I felt fagged out now and again, but on such 
occasions I could ^ways rely on help from the green 
fisury, who more than restored my flagging energies. 
One evening I was sitting before my easel, gazing 
intently at the picture upon it, which, though a work ot 
my own hand, strangely fascinated me. I had christened 
it '' The Slave,'' and it represented a man sitting at a 
bare, wooden table, on a comer of which was a battered 
candlestick, with a spluttering candle in its socket ; the 
man sat with his hands in his pockets, his head slightly 


drooping, his horror-fixed, glassy eyes staring straight 
before him into space. An empty rum-bottle beside hmi, 
and a half-filled glass, told the story. 

Sitting thus, there came over me suddenly a feeling of 
uneasiness, for which I was unable to account. I felt 
convinced that I was being watched. I knew there was 
none but myself in the studio, but the feeling grew 
momentarily, and made me so nervous that I jumped up 
from my seat and commenced searching hither and thither 
for the unknown and unseen intruder. Scarcely necessary 
to say, I could find none, and I was returning to my 
previous position when, by chance, I directed my gaze 
to a certam comer of the room. Great Heavens! was 
I mad, or dreaming? There, looking up at me from 
the floor, were two human eyes — weird and beautifiiL 
I stood spellbound, speechless, gazing down into th e 
lic^uid depths of those mysterious eyes, yet deliriously 
drinking in their beauty with every faculty I possessed. 
Suddenly, I seemed to wake from a dream, and found 
myself staring fixedly at a dull, red stain on the floor in 
the same comer of the studio. The wonderful eyes were 
gone, and I turned away with a feeling of disappoint- 
ment, the exact reason for which I hardly knew. I went 
out, and during the rest of the day drank a double 
quantity of absinthe, feeling unusually reckless and excited. 
I met Maizeroy that evening, but I did not tell him about 
the apparition of the eyes. When I went back to the 
studio, I felt too inervi to think of sleep, so lighting my 
lamp and placing it on the table, I drew up a low chair 
and made myself comfortable, with the intention of 
having a good smoke. 

I had hardly finished my first cigarette, when the 
uneasiness I had felt a few hours before returned to me, 
and I knew that the mysterious eyes were upon me 
again. Lamp in hand, I crossed over to the comer 
where I had first seen them, and once again I met their 
searching gaze. As I looked, a wonderful thing hap- 
pened. Whereas I had only perceived two eyes before, 
now, line by line, there grew out of the dark boards a 
beautiful woman's face, with its every feature as perfect 
and noble as a Greek cameo. 

How long I stood there I know not, but it seemed to 
me that I was lulled into sleep and began to dream. 
Finally, I awoke with a start to find myself lying on the 
floor, my lamp overturned near me and smoking thickly. 
I remembered having placed the lamp on the floor, but 
nothing after ; and I felt very queer and dizzy as I slowly 
got on to my feet and staggered to a chair. The dawn 


was already filling the studio with its misty light. At 
my feet was a dull, red stain on the boards — nothing 
more. The beautiful face had vanished, as the eyes had 
done before, and I smiled vaguely to myself, thinking 
what a fool I was not to see that I had dreamed it all 

That evening I returned to the studio earlier than was 
my wont ; I had felt restless all day, and had not been 
able to do much work at the Academy ; the afternoon 
and part of the evening I had spent in the Luxembourg 
Garaens, wandering aimlessly about their shady paths, 
seeking rest, but finding none. 

When I entered my studio, moved by a feeling of 

curiosity, I walked straight over to the spot where the 

face had been the night before. I shuddered — it was there 

again, with its star-like eyes shining out of it as before. 

It was almost twilight, and a shadow lay across the 

beautiful face, concealing the mouth with its tender 

curves, but throwing into greater relief the upper part of 

the countenance and the brilliant eyes, which stared into 

mine so inunovably. After awhile, as the shadow across 

the face deepened, and I could only see the eyes, an 

unnatural horror of them grew upon me, a horror 

that made my limbs grow numb and weak, and 

seemed to paralyse even my mental faculties. Finally, 

I tore myself awa)r from that fatal gaze, and with 

trembling fingers lighted my lamp. I took down a 

bottle of absinthe from a shelf, and poured out two or 

three ^lassfulls ; then, feeling possessed of fresh courage, 

1 carried the lamp over to the comer I had just left, and 

placing it on the floor near the face, I stood and 

looked down at those beauteous features, till my brain 

reeled with mad longing. To that longing succeeded an 

equally mad hatred, and I cursed that face, with its siren 

eyes, as I had never cursed anything before. But, all 

through my cursing, the glittering orbs met mine 

steadily, menacingly, question ingly. Then darkness 

came over me. I felt myself falling through blank space, 

still with the terrible eyes upon me, impelling me further 

and further downwards. ... 1 knew no more till I 

recovered consciousness the next morning, to find that I 

was again lying on the floor, near a comer of the studio, 

where in the growing light I could see, once more, the 

dull, red stain. 

o o 

I had good news that afternoon. M^ picture had been 
received, and Maizeroy, in company with several others, 


came up to congratulate me. Maizeroy said that I 
looked awfully seedy, and asked me what the matter 
was. I did not mean to tell anyone about the face, so I 
just laughed his enquiries off, and got all of them (the 
other congratulators, I mean) out of the studio as quickly 
as possible. This I did by taking them to dinner, and 
I treated them all round to champagne and various other 
favourite drinks, absinthe among the rest, of which I 

Cartook plentifully. The delusion that absinthe should not 
e drunk during a meal is too ridiculous to call for com- 
ment. After dinner, we adjourned to one of our haunts, 
where there was more drinking, and with it music and 
dancing and brilliant lights. I felt as if liquirl fire were 
running in my veins instead of blood, and my head was 
aching furiously. At last, I could bear it no longer, so 
seizing my hat, I got out somehow into the fresh night 
air, which, ho^vever, was powerless to cool my heated 
brain ; and I staggered, rather than walked, homewards. 
When I entered the studio, I found it literally flooded 
with brilliant moon-light. Over in the mysterious cor- 
ner, I discovered the face and eyes waiting for me, and 
I shivered as I realised what awful power they 
had, a strange and terrible power that seemed 
to be able to draw the very soul out of my body. 
I fetched a chair, and sat down and looked at that face, 
striving to brave its magic influence — but in vain. 
Presently, I became conscious of strange murmurings 
round about me in an unknown tongue, and when I 
turned my head I saw numbers of skeleton figures, with 
livid faces and bloodless lips, beckoning to me with bony 
fingers. I turned away in horror. My gaze wandered 
up to where a favourite plaster cast of mine was always 
placed, but in its stead a grinning demon leered at me, 
and, looking further, I saw a hundred other such beings, 
each one uglier than the rest. With a shudder, I directed 
my gaze once more towards the face and let my eyes rest 
with pleasure on its faultless outline. Then I talked to 
it, thmking, in my madness, that it was the face of a 
living woman whom I loved, and I knelt down and 
whispered tender words of love and passion to those un- 
heanng ears, and once I leaned down, and, had not some 
invisible hand withheld me, would have pressed my 
kisses on those beauteous lips. 

Then a great weariness took possession of me and I 
slipped down and lay along the floor, truly happy that I 
was so near that lovely face, and soothed and lulled to 
rest by a strange murmur of rippling waters. 

Not for long though ; the nameless horror seized me 


with such force again, that I sprang to my feet and tried 
to shriek aloud, but I could not. 

Once more I fell myself faJling, falling through space, 
not blank this time, but peopled with hideous laces, and 
right before me, drawing me irresistibly downwards, 
were the two burning eyes of the face on the floor, 
Down, down, still ever downwards, the darkness growing 
deeper and more gruesome as I fell. " This must be 
death," 1 whisfiered, and then I smiled, for suddenly the 
darkness ended and all was light, glorious, dazzling 
light I 




ND the Willows swayed from side to side, and the 
light Wind sighed around the Rushes, and the 
Waters seemed troubled. 

For it had all passed away now, and would neuer 

He used to row her up the stream, and moor by the 
Willows : the Rushes knew it all, for they had listened. 

She was the solitary lady of the manor, and he the 
son of the neighbouring squire. In their childhood 
they had been companions, and after seven years' 
separation he had returned to avow his love — yes, the 
Rushes heard it all. 

Then, every twilight afterwards, the bark of the happy 
twain would speed up stream, and they would speak their 
love. He was passionate, and as he would tell his tale, 
his handsome face would light up with glowing impulse ; 
and she would listen breathlessly. Then — they would 
glide away. 

How she seemed to love those days ! — how noble he 
was I and how strangely happy were they both ! Bliss- 
ful, happy, happy hours I 

fiut, one day, he was called to the war, and it was the 
saddest parting in the world. The twilight before had he 
brought a tiny ring and placed it on her finger, and said 
in fervent tones, ** Keep this always, and remember that, 
however far away I may be, I am your betrothed, and 
will be true. Weep not, dear one, for do not we love 
each other ? and soon will I be here again at your side." 

Days passed, and the little craft was often moored, as 
of old, to the friendly Willows ; and she would come and 
sit therein and read his messages with a glowing face. 

And so the autumn went slowly by with its rustling 
leaves, and the birds prepared for flight ; but the youth 
kept not his promise. 

Then winter followed ; so the Rushes forgot for a time 
their summer dreams, and began to think of sheltering 
themselves from the cruel north Wind, which made them 
shiver. And the snows clung to the Willows, and it 
was long ere they saw again the winsome lady. 

But when the spring gradually approached, and the 
stripped Willows began shyly putting forth little, peeping 

IRIS 157 


buds, and birds commenced to build their nests on the 
swaying branches, then the Rushes said, '* She will come 
now." So they, too, put forth their leaves and waited 

And one warm spring day she came — but strangely 
different. Had the winter been cruel to her^ too ? Why 
did she start when the Rushes moved, and why was her 
&ce so pale and wan ? 

She drew a letter from the folds of her dress and read 
and re-read it — ^then kissed it vehemently ; then crushed 
it, and cried, " Cruel, cruel !" and, wrapping the little ring 
in the letter, dropped it over into the water. 

But the Rushes kept the crumpled letter from sinking 
quite — and there it lay in their keeping. 

Days passed, but she came no more — but still the 
Rushes guarded faithfully her letter. 

And when the sixth day was waning, lo, the youth 

But the Rushes were indignant, and thev beat to and 
fro. and the Waters tried vainly to upset the little bark, 
and the zephyr Wind blew the crumpled paper hither and 
thither ; so that while leaning over the water he dis- 
covered it, and unfolded it and read. 

What made his face start and his hands clench ? 

Then— and the Rushes bent forward to hear — she had 
never known that he . . . never received his last 
letter which .... And the eavesdroppers heard 
muttered curses on the weary months he had been kept 
a prisoner, and on his perfidious cousin at home. 

Then the strong man buried his face in his hands and 
wept. He understood it all at last " Leonore,'' he cried, 
^ if only you had waited ; but now you are lost to me 
for ever. Too late, too late.*' Then he put the little ring 
next to his heart and rowed away. 

So the Rushes were mistaken after all — and the light 
Wind sighed — and the Waters were troubled; yes, very 
troubled ! 

F. Mary Young. 


I HAD just finished reading "Evelyn Innes" when 
the September number of The Quartier Latin 
came to my hand, and it is probably owing solely 
to the appreciation therein of this latest book of Mr. George 
Moore's that the present notice is due. I had been 
wondering if there could possibly be two opinions about 
it, when The Quartier Latin unexpectedly settled the 
question. Evidently there can. 

The outlook of The Quartier Latin is that of art, 
and as Mr. Moore's is the same, it will be most fitting to 
consider "Evelyn Innes" from the artistic stand-point. 
Mr. ^foore, judging from internal evidence alone, has 
come largely under the spell of Meredith. Indeed, 
" Evelyn *' reads like a very inferior copy of " Sandra 
Belloni," from the ambitious attempt, through dozens of 
weary pages, at similar introspection, to the constantly 
reminiscent turn of the sentences. But in Meredith we 
have real thought going to the roots of things ; in Moore, 
merely vapounngs of an hysteria abnormally sexuaL Has 
Moore forgotten Meredith's canon of art in fiction : 
" The realistic method of a conscientious transcription of 
all the visible, and a repetition of all the audible, is mainly 
accountable for our present branflilness . . . from which, as 
from an undrained fen, steams the malady of sameness — 
our modem malady " — that he has in "Evelyn Innes" 
unconsciously given us such perfect proof of it? The 
function of the artist is to be selective, to touch in sug- 
gestion with high light and shadow so judiciously blended 
that we do not perceive where the visible ends and 
imagination begins. Mr. Moore, far from having this 
power, runs to deadly replication of details absolutely 
foreign to the matter in hand ; so that his work bears 
much the relation to art that an endless panoramic scene- 
painting does to a picture of Leighton's. Only the time 
necessary for a performance limits the one, and the 
number of pages that go to the making of a six-shilling 
novel the other. Otherwise "Evelyn' might have run 
through as many thousand pages as it does hundreds. 
Here is an average sample of how the thing is 
done : — 

" At this moment they were interrupted by a loud caw, 
and looking round, Evelyn saw the convent jackdaw. 
. . . The bird hopped about, feigning an interest in the 
worms, but getting gradually nearer the two women. At 
last, with a triumphant caw caw, he fiew on to Sister 


Mary John's shoulder, eyeing Evelyn all the while, clearly 
bent on making her acquaintance. 

" * HeTl come on your shoulder presentljr,' said Sister 
Mary John, and after some plausive coquetting, the bird 
fluttered on to Evelyn's shoulder, and Sister Mary John 
said: — 

" * You wait ; you'll see what he'll do.' 

''Evelyn remained quite still, feeling the bird's bill 
caressing her neck. When she looked round she noticed 
a wicked sparkle in his eyes. 

"'Pretend,' said Sister Mary John, 'not to notice 

" Evelyn did as she was bidden, and, satisfied that he 
was no longer observed, the bird plunged his beak into 
Evelyn's hair, pulled at it as hard as he could, and then 
flew away, cawing with delight. 

" * That is one of his favourite tricks. We are so fond 
of him, and so afraid that one day a cat will take him. 
But there is Mother Hilda Mary coming to fetch you for 
your lesson.' 

" Evelyn bade Sister Mary John good-bye and went 
forward to meet her instructress.'^ 

And there the incident ends. This is mere inanity of 
padding, and excerpt after excerpt like it might be given, 
of matter that in no way sheds a light on, or carries for- 
ward, the subject. Even when the matter is pertinent it 
neither rises above the level of platitude nor the language 
of journalism. 

As to the truthfulness to life of Mr. Moore's charac- 
ters, that, I suppose, is largely a matter of opinion. 
Evelyn is,« of course, the central figure, and possible 
enough, but I hope she is far from being *' typical " of her 
sex. She is unhealthy to start with, neurotic, incapable 
of love as of continuity, incontinently sexuous, dishonest, 
— one could add on adjectives by the page. Her lovers 
are only so many animal attractions for her, and she has 
a nauseous way of " throwing " herself at them on the 
advent of the psychological moment — when she is lucky 
enough to be able to forestall it — which is not always. 

" When the small, grey, smiling eyes looked at her, a 
delicious sensation penetrated Qie very tissues of her 
flesh, and she experienced the tremor of a decisive 
moment." Then there is her synchronous intimacy with 
two lovers, and her despicable deception of both, though, 
truth to telJ^ the lovers are priggish and insignificant 
enough to elicit no personal sympathy from us on their 
situation. Brainless, also, she is. Critics speak of her 
" awakening to the spiritual " when such consciousness 


as she exhibits is merely the subjective side of a fresh 
sex-attraction. To change of colour she is as plastic as 
a chameleon ; becomes vaguely transcendental with Ulick^ 
and religious with Monsignor — under whose spell she is 
when the bcok closes, and at whom she would " throw " 
herself in turn were it continued longer. For the sake 
of the race, women like her are, I hope, rare. 

The other characters are undeserving of notice. A 
society in which a book like this ftasses (or coin of value 
is still in ihe intellectual age of its milk-teeth. 

James Ferguson. 


I.— Temple Bar. 

GS^HE first number of Temple Bar^ described as a 
^1^ London nnagazine for town and country readers, 
was published in December, i860, under the 
editorship of the late George Augustus Sala. Upon the 
cover is depicted old Temple Bar, which was removed 
a few years ago to make room for the busy traffic of the 
Strand. The magazine contains some twenty-four pages 
of advertisements, among which the following are not 
without interest : — 

New work by Mr. Charles Dickens, In number 84 
of All the Year Rounds will be commenced^ Great Ex- 
peclationsy by Charles Dickens, A new serial story. To 
be continued from week to week^ until completed in about 
tight months. 

New ready, Mr, Tennysoris May Queen, choicely 
Printed, and illustrated from designs by E, V, B, 

Two pages further on is announced, A handsomly 
illustrated edition of Mrs, Catty's Parables from Nature. 
Designs by W, Hotman Hunt, Otto Speckter, C. IV, Cope^ 
R.A,, E, Warren, f, E, Millcds, H, Calderon, and G. 
Thomas, Few of the others call for any particular 
notice, with the exception of The Author's own edition 
of the Biglow Papers. Newly edited with a preface 
by the author of Tom Browris School Days; and 
Shakespear^s Tempest, illustrated by Birket Foster^ 
Gustave Dori, and others. 

The contents proper of Temple Bar begin with the 
first instalment of the novel ** For Better, for Worse." 
Next to this is placed a long well-written review of 
Hepworth Dixon's ** Personal History of Lord Bacon.'* 
Then follows " The Northern Muse," a poem of some 
thirty-four stanzas, by William Stigant, author of "A 
Vision of Barbarossa, and other Poems," which, according 
to the Athenceum w^s "a volume to be set apart from 
ephemeral books of verse." After this comes by far 
the most interesting piece of work in the number, an 
account of the onein and development of French 
journalism, entitled "The Father of the French Press." 
This was, of course, Renaudot, physician and philan- 
thropist, who established the first Mont'de-Piiii in Paris, 
and founded the Gazette, to which the great Richelieu 
was wont to contribute. On the subject of the then 
modem French newspaper our author waxes eloquent : 


"In crimerieSy where students with empty pockets con- 
gregate; in pe^^ter-countered wine-shops, where the 
patois of Brittany and of Marseilles pleasantly com- 
mingle ; in black wood-sheds, where the Auveignat 
works and screeches ; — ^from garret to porter's hole, from 
the Quartier d'Antin to the Montagne Sainte-Genevi^ve, 
is this paper, call it Patrie or Presse, thumbed and 
devoured. It is by turns lively and grandiose. It gives 
to a fraccLS in the street the dignity of an historical 
event ; but, then, on historical events proper, it is, as 
a rule, silent." This paragraph, written nearly forty 
years ago has lost little of its truth to-dav. 

A sonnet, " Two Rocks," by Edmund Yates, is good 
of its kind ; and, to students of Finnish mythology, 
John Oxenford's paper on "The Kalewala," an epic 
poem made up of a strange cycle of legends, must have 
been interesting. The next contribution is a somewhat 
commonplace short story, " Gold and Dross.'* The first 
instalment of " Travels m the County of Middlesex," by 
the Editor, is most entertaining, and full of the out-of- 
the-way knowledge which characterised all the produc- 
tions of his ready pen. With the exception of the poem 
on Temple Bar, from which we quote two stanzas, it will 
be sufficient to give the titles of the other contributions. 
These are : " Notes on Circumstantial Evidence ; " 
" Soldiers and Volunteers ; " also " Over the Lebanon 
to Baalbek," by J. C. M. Bellew ; " Always with us," by 
F. D. Finlay ; and an interesting paper on " Criminal 

" For evermore through Temple Bar 

A mighty music rolls, 
A troublous motion urging on 

The march of human souls ; 
The City palpitates around 

With streets that seethe and roar, 
And still thai living sea of sound 

Aches to an unseen shore : 
The music goes and comes —who knows 
From whence it comes or whither goes ? 

O City !— Poet darkly veiled, 

Unveil thy secret heart, 
Breathe out thy song of toil, and show 

The Prophet that thou art ; 
Sing, Life is equal in us all — 

Blind arms stretcht out on air 
To touch the robe of Beauty, who 

Is with us unaware— 
Part of the Eden yet untrod, 
Th' unfathomable secret, — God ! ' 


NOTES 163 

In conclusion, the magazine, which ends with a pretty 
love-poem by Mortimer Collins, shows in its first number 
evidences of that literary excellence and interesting 
variety of matter, which have enabled it so successfully 
to weather the journalistic storms of thirty-eight years. 

E. H. MoYLE Cooper. 

^ ^ ^ 


London Ltfcy a new fledgliDg, modestly declares itself to be 
the snuurtest paper in London — and time is too precious Jto enter 
into a dispute over this point, which, after all, means what? 
That it is smart and up-to-date, and full of sparkling bon mois^ is 
most true— as a glance in its pages will prove, and therefore its 
town crier is expensively unnecessary and superlatives out of 
place. The breezy interviews by R. G., which in style are a 
happy mixture of Artemus Ward and the late lamented Bill 
Nye, are alone worth the price of the paper, and en passant 
excite one's merry wonder as to whether the redoubtable scribe 
ever honours his subject with proof sheets. 

The Windmill^ Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent 
& Co., Limited, a new art magazine, in the form of a quarterly, 
has just made its bow to the public. It purposes to give its 
readers "good, honest wheat — ^free from chaff." We make 
pause to say that it must depend on itself for supplying this 
honest wheat — as for the absence of chaff, that will fitter lie 
with the reviews. For our own part, we wish to praise the 
handsome frontispiece *' Bacchanalians," by Amy Sawyer, and 
the rambling but interesting prefisitory notice by Gleeson 
White, written in a rather more cynical vein than is usual with 
this author. The cover design, by Starr Wood, and title page, 
by James Thorpe, are well executed. The quarterlyis devoted 
almost entirely to stories, which are printed on deckle-edge 
antique, with plate paper illustrations and drawings distributeid 
between, and m shape and make-up shows excellent taste. We 
hope it will find the large circle of readers which it deserves. 

H.LM. Whistler and H.R.H. Macmonnies (as such in the 
Kingdom of Art) have astonished the Art Colony of Paris by 
collaborating in a new art-school venture. The school is situated 
in the Passage Stanislas, off the Rue Notre Dame des Champs — 


and the names of these great masters will no doubt attract a 
large number of students, and ensure the immediate success of 
the undertaking. The outer wall of the school bears the l^end 
*' Academy Whistler," and is decorated with the Stars and 
Stripes and Union Jack. The proprietress of the school is 
Mme. Rossi, known as ''Carmen" — who for the last seven 
years has been Whistler's model. It is owing to her instigation 
that Whistler has established the school. The prices mil be 
the same as at Julian's ; and two or three free scholarships will 
be founded for the deserving. That Whistler should have con- 
sented at last to the fetters of routine work and teaching, may 
be a mortification of the flesh for that gentleman, but it will be 
a decided gain for future art. 

In the present issue of the The Artist^ we have an ably- 
written article on '* Her Majesty the American Woman," by 
S. C. de Soissons, sicklied o'er in parts by the pale cast of 
French thought. As to the illustrations, we look in them 
in vain tor American traits and characteristics. Yet these 
character studies of the fair American are by no less artists than 
Charles Dana Gibson, A. 6. Wenzell, Theodore V. Chominski, 
Boldini, and W. T. Smedley. Gibson and Smedley produce 
nondescript types. Wenzell's typical American Gitl is a 
typical comospolitan Jewess. Boldini*s, an Italian. And 
Chominski's, a Russian, for aught we know. Gibson is, as the 
article states, the Court painter to the fair sex of America — and 
a better example of his powers might easily have been selected. 
We do not often speak of the camera in the same breath with 
hallowed Art — much less point out its superiority. But in the 
present instance we must cite a concurrent article in Harms- 
worth's (that fearfully cheap magazine), on '' American Wives of 
English Husbands, illustrated by a number of reproductions 
from photographs of various Duchesses, Countesses, Ladies, &c, 
which gave a far better impression of the Transatlantic beauty. 

We take the following from the Autumn Special Number of 
77ie Draper^ Record, as an eloquent testimonial of the wide- 
spread interest the advertisements in The Quartier Latin 
have attracted. Such a criticism in the journal which has the 
largest circulation of any trade paper in the world is — together 
widi the frequent notices and articles that have appeared in the 
press in England and abroad — a guarantee that the pictorial 
and attractive form of advertising adopted by our magazine 
has more than justified the trouble and pains expended upon it. 
The blocks referred to in the article, and specially reproduced 
therein in colour, are the Table-of-Contents of the November, 
'97, number, by H. A. Hogg ; Centre-piece Cover design of the 
May number, '98, by G.^. Onions; Cheviot House, Scotch 
Tailors, Paris, by F. D. Marsh ; John Wanamaker, Merchant, 
Paris and New York, by H. G. F. ; Remington Typewriter, by 
H. A. Hogg; Spaulding & Co., Jewellers, New York and 
Paris, by A. Campbell Cross. 


The above title contains a dual sigoi^cance, of which only 
one at a time will be likely to strike 3ie casual reader, that one 
according to his accustomed mental bias I mean that the 
heading I have chosen for the words of advice and wisdom 
following may suggest either the judicious employment of adver- 
tising with knowledge and skill as a means of arriving at a 
certain end, or the study of the Beautiful, as applied to that 
means. I propose to consider both questions equally, and if at 
times I seem to subju;;ate the economical to the b^utiful, it is 
because I am assured that the best is always cheapest in the 
long run, and the long run is, as every advertiser is aware, the 
run that pays. 

We have proceeded so far along a certain path in this latter 
part of the 19th century that it may be laid down as an almost 
uiiversally accepted &u;t, if not as a positive axiom, that 
iudicious advertising is an essential to success in any and every 
kind of enterprise. 

Judicious advertising cannot be altogether summed up in the 
curt and witty style of a certain expert, who, being appealed to 
for his opinion, replied with a smile, ** Advertise I ** Yes, but 
how ? " urged his interlocutor. The oracle spread out his hands 
and shrugged his shoulders, ** That really does not matter," said 
he. Advertise ! That is all that is necessary." 

But that is not quite the fact. Something more than bare 
repetition and reiteration is required, though even that, con- 
tinued long enough, would not be without its due effect, I grant 
— ^but what a waste of ammunition ! 

An advertisement should be clear, concise, and, above all, 
striking. It should convey the largest possible amount of in- 
formation in the briefest possible manner. It must be interesting 
and catchy, or it will not arrest attention, and above all, and 
this should be specially born in mind when considering sheets 
of such size as some of our oldest and best-established London 
journals issue, it must be so arranged as to stand out amongst 
other announcements, or it will be lost in the mass. The posi- 
tion of an advertisement may, in my opinion, even be considered 
secondary to its arrangement, for what would be a bad position 
for the usual stereotyi^ square might prove the most attractive 
comer of the whole page with an original or daring bit of design. 
Uniformity is the death of truly effective advertising, and it is 
much to be regretted that, even at the present day, publishers 
are so loth to disturb their evenly-arranged sheets to admit of 
innovations on the regulation 6th, 8th, or half-page. Of course, 
with a whole page one is under no such restrictions, and in that 
faci lies, beyond other merit, a decided value for the outlay. 
Under almost any conditions, as will be readily conceded by all, 
by &r the most effective advertisement is that pictorially illus- 
trated, and who will be bold enough to deny that, as a beautiful 
thing will invariably attract more attention than an ugly one, so 


it follows " as the night the day," that the more cfaanning the 
advertisement the greater the amount of attention it will attract? 
And that is the ne plus ultra of the riclame — to attract atten- 
tion. It can do no more ; if it does any less it is worthless. 
Beautiful advertising has made great strides of late. The 
advance, indeed, from the primitive woodcuts which formed the 
only attraction of our earliest illustrated papers is so great as to 
be almost beyond compare. There is no analogy between the 
advertisement pages of a typical modem issue on beaatifol 
paper, clearly printed, sometimes accompanied by graceful and 
charming illustrations serving at a glance to point the moral and 
adorn the tale, and the flimsy, rough, and often even illegible, 
production of only some 50 or 60 years ago. But in regard to 
the Art in its widest sense, the graceful delineation, the skilfbl 
and artistic grouping and arrangement of colours employed in our 
pictorial advertisements, there is still much, very much, room for 
improvement. The subjects, inevitably homely perhaps, are 
generallv treated in as conventionally commonplace a manner 
as possible, as if to permit the introduction of a spark of fancy 
or imagination would be at once to be misunderstood of the 
multitude. Not a very good compliment to the intelligence cyf 
the great British public, surely ; yet there are no real grounds 
for such a supposition, the appreciation instantly called forth by 
any efibrt in the opposite direction rather pointing to the contrary. 

The Qu artier Latin, an artistic magazine, which I may 
justly term the pioneer in the development of artistic advertising, 
nas given me permission to prove my theory by drawing upon 
their liberal store of illustrations. The care and judgment 
exercise in relation to each advertisement that app^rs in this 
journal will be apprecuited when I state that an original design 
is produced for each order given, and sometimes as many as 
three or four drawings are rejected before the critical suscep- 
tibilities of the Editors are satisfied. 

Nor would I admit for a moment that such a proceeding 
could "degrade Art," as some of our dear good Philistines, 
who think it, like their religion, too precious tor everyday use, 
- would be inclined to argue. On the contrary, nothing can do 
that, but Art can yet do a great deal more towards ennobting 
and uplifting commerce. 

I must refer for a moment to the cover design, surely the 
most effective advertisement possible of the magazine itsell It 
is frequently varied, while nevertheless the title and other 
characteristics are so displayed, that there could never be the 
slightest difficulty in its identification. This appears to be a 
better advertisement than the unchanging cover of green, red, 
fawn, or drab hue adopted by most contemporary publications. 
The old idea of recognising a journal bv its colour has long 
been exploded and rendered nil by tne multiplication of 
periodicals of every size, shade, and form. 

The element of"^ variety thus introduced is also, on their own 
confession, distinctly pleasing and interesting to the subscribers 
of this periodical. 

Drawn by Charles Pepptr 


The same may be said regarding the manner of presenting 
the table of contents, which are included each month in a new 
design.' The old method of losing the index of a magazine in 
a mass of advertising matter, often necessitating a rigorous 
search therefore is here superseded by the plan of devoting a 
separate page to the purf)ose with an accompanying decorative 
or illustrative design, thus making a drv list of matter and 
names an artistic pleasure to the eye. The desien (No. I) by 
Mr. H. A. Hogg, of London, is selected at random from the 
great number of table of contents designs that have ap- 
peared, and will explain better than words the nature ot 
these drawings. The effective use of red in the costume of 
the encroyable, and the dash of pink on the dress of the 
girl shows what can be done witn two-colour work. The 
subject chosen is in keeping with the magatine, and visitors 
to Pahs will recognise in the sketchy bit of background 
the Luxembourg Gardens and towers of St. Sulpice. A 
characteristic and particularly interesting cover was that designed 
for a recent is^ue by G. O. Onions, and reproduced at the foot 
of the preceding page. Its artistic merit will be plain to every 
critic, and its charm cannot fail to recommend it. A fine example 
of artistic advertisement is by the well-known American artist, 
F. D. Marsh. The Ufe of colour to form the tartan background, 
and the happy conformity of this design to its intended purpose, 
the advertisement of a Parisian Scotch establishment (the 
Cheviot House) gives rise to the reflection that the artist's pencil 
may often accomplish what words should fail to do, the instanta- 
neous presentation to the public's eye of the advertiser's idea. 
Below is a peculiarly clever and effective advertisement designed 
for the house of John Wanamaker, a man who, being the 
greatest merchant in the world, may be expected to appreciate 
advertising at its proper value. 1 he designs in The Quartibr 
Latin for the regular advertisers are constantly varied, and in 
this way interest in them is encouraged and even increased. 
The Remington Typewriter, as other advertisers, has been 
advertised in a series of original designs. One of these is repro- 
duced on the next page. It is also by Mr. H. A. Hogg, and, as 
a change from the conventional typewriter girl, portrays a 
mediaeval clerk with the clumsy writing paraphernalia of that 
date. The moral is obvious to all, and the compan\ 's motto is 
made doubly effect ive by this contrasting glance into the dreadful 
past. I will conclude with an advertisement designed espeaally 
for Messrs. Spaulding & Co. by Mr. Campbell Cross. Seen 
anywhere, this could not fail to attract attention. It is happy, 
significant, and with the minimum amount of type, its purpose 
and raison (tftre are seen to be fulfilled. The entire design, 
needless to say, is suggestive of jewellery. 

The happy thought of relieving black and white advertise- 
ments illustiations and type alike, with a judicious use of red, 
meets with popular favour, and the honour of developing this 
idea must be given to The Quartier Latin. Various other 
publications more or less of this genre, the Sketch, IVest End 



Riview, Black and White, and so on, now introduce this wann 
tint into their fiill-page illiistrations and supplements. In many 
of last year's Christmas numbers its presence was decidedly ooo- 
spicnons, but in The Quartibr Latin alone it is applied to 
the advertisements, while the illustrations in the boay of the 
book, beautifully " got up/' it is true, remain severely black and 
white. The consequence is, of c ^urse, that the announcements 
'* stand out *' to a remarkable degree, and the advertiser has 
here a bonne houche of which he is not slow to take the fullest 




Spirit of Greece, that with thy wings of Morn 
And radiant brow— still loving, yet forlorn ! — 
Lingerest on earth, which thou in love would'st fain 
The Arcadian seat of beauty make again ; 
Thy ministering visitations cease, 
For the dear heart afire of lovely Greece 
Shall throb no more — by Greed and Mammon slain ; 
Alloyed the clay, and broken is the mould 
That formed her children in the days of old. 
And thou, that once on them didst breathe, when they 

Became the inspired equals of the gods, 
Must breathe on us, poor clods of baser clay. 
In vain ; for clods inspired — lo ! still are clods. 





Dent, Publisher 

Wanamaker, Merchant 

The Cheviot House, Tailors ... 

Vitti, Art Academy 

Glendenning, Malt Wine 
Mutual Reserve Fund Life Ass. 
Confiserie des Tuileries 

Hotel Haute Loire 

Spaulding & Co., Jewellers ... 

H. A. Hogg 

H. G. F. 

A G. 

A Staub 

H. G. Fangbl 

H. A. Hogg 

A Campbell Cross 

Lester Ralph 

Alfred Jones 


formerly as a mid-monthly, appears now on 
the first of each month. 

Arrangements have been ^^^^ 
made for binding the issues ■J' ^ ^ 
of the first and second years of 
The Quartier Latin (July, 1896 
— ^June, 1897, and July, 1897 — 
^^) May, 1898). The volumes are 
)| bound in reversed cloth, covered 
with a design by Mr. Alfred 
Jones, stamped in gold, who has 
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tions, etc. The natural deckle of 
the paper is preserved, but the tops 
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silk cords are kept in each copy. In 
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For binding purposes, the copies must be sent as 
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Translated from the Polish byjEREMiAH Curtin. Of this book, 
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Pall Mali Gatette. — *' It is not often in current literature that you find yourself 
face to face with a work of genius, of masterful genius, that grips you, thrills you, 
and impotent though you may be to analyse it, makes you feel its power Such 
a book IS ' Quo Vadis ' as I read it.'* . • 

•!• eJ* t^ 

London: J. M. DENT & CO., 29 & 30, Bedford Sirekt, W.C. 

Dttigncd by H G. Fsmgtt 

Howmbcr, 1898. 

Ceninpieet ef Cover Louis Ginnktj' i 

TaiU ■ of' Cemtnit 

dtsign .... James /. Ghthkie 
FioDtUpiece, When 

tht bjih IVart 

in llu FitU U dtiu 

(draanng) . . B. H. ^mai.e 
Ftrgti Th^t (fetm) Kzt Kebm \ 

Tkt Trets , , . Arthur Karwkli. 
The WemaH ivUk 

NiiuSmls(pMm) NoKA Hopper 
Ah Early Explertr 

[/traant^ . . W. EnwARD Wigpxll 
An Ocleier Night's 

Driam . . , CHAItLE.sSlBLEIGK 
"Afy Pip," (r«- 

deau) .... J. Shkeevc Lef, 
A Letter a/ Cletstn 

A PtitKiis ef Flu- ' 

rtHie {draieiitg) . D[ox Cai.tiirop 

Dovni St Frii!" 

dmbli) ... A. Stanlkv Cookk 
A WomtaftCau . Herbert Jamirson 
The Lady and tht 

SftHdntwiiig) . Charles Peppkh 
"Mart Henryi" 

Ultimatmn . . Chas. Wm. Ayton 
Grief {dramn^ . LEIGH Eu-lS 

7^ Girli tflki BtatixArts \dra-aiiis\ . . . H£NK[ Goussi^ 
Qtie le Baistr ne Meurt Paint ! [ftem.from lie 

Prtneh) Mabv K. Daviv 

IVken hope wot Dead F. Ernest Holman 

Asa Thor Uirawing) Carl Lindik 

Hanitst ifotm) Kathleen Havpn Green 

In Sack and Buskin " The Owi. " 

Afrs. Pairici Campbell as Lady Macbeth [forirait) G. O. Onioks 

Ltvt GrmvH Wise [patm) John E. Eilam 

first Kuniets. I/.—The Cvmiili Magaiint E. H, MOVLI Cooper 

I^aUi, Perieiials 

An Ameritun Art Attaciation Menu (design^ E. S. CRAWFORD 

Tht Taken Idraunng] ETHEL K. Burgess 

Oh being ashed tc nrile in an Album {lints). . J. Healy 
Lilt tf Disigntrs tf Advertisements 

Pmtt Dntrallfu ami Itltiah if Phlif Cnmini. /. /.., ami/. /. CmtZ-ni. 


%hc @uartier Icatin 



Forget thee ! When the Spring forgets 

Its blossoms and its bees ; 
Forget thee ! When the Fall forgets 

The heavy-fruited trees ; 
Forget thee ! Yea, I will forget 
As soon as these. 

Forget thee ! When the Dawn forgets 
The watching mountains gray ; 

Forget thee ! When the Brook forgets 
Its laughter on the way. 

Forget thee ! O, I will forget 
As soon as they. 


N the days before man attained sup- 
remacy upon the earth the trees wert 
the chief claintaats to that honour. 
In those days they were not, I assure 
you, the home-abiding, harmless and 
I peaceable creatures that they are 
now, but were addicted lo arrt^ance, 
assertiveness, conceit, violence, and 
alt manner of evil ways, although 
not wanting at times in tenderer 
emotions. In fact, they could walk 
about as they pleased, using their 
roots for legs — planting them- 
selves in the earth, as men plant 
themselves nowadays in chairs, only 
when they wished to dine. It was 
very comical, you may imagine, to see a scrubby 
little fir-tree stumping across the desert by the side 
of a slender and gracious palm, almost a doien 
times its own height, telling him of the severity of 
the winter at home in Norway. The friendship of the 
fir tree and the palm was an old one. When Heine 
wrote of their state of separation and longing for each 
other, he was not aware that the passion was deep- 
rooted and of old. And it was most absurd to see a 
lordly and courteous pine tree, out for a morning stroll, 
ofienn^ at least a dozen anns at once to as many 
lady birches of the forest, and endeavouring to sustab 
his end of a gallant conversation with each. How dis- 
gracefully often he did step on their toes 1 And how 
delightful to witness his embarassment and to hear his 
gracious apologies. 1 strongly suspect those lady birches 
of purposely putting their toes in his way, for bis gallan- 
tries most evidently amused them, and they often turned 
aside, the other side from which he was conversing for 
the moment, and laughed in their sleeves. And, oh : 
upon other occasions, when only his lady-love birch was 
there, how wildly he embraced her, with a plurality of 
arms that made the poor palm, which happened to be 
looking over a neighoauring hill, green with jealously. 
Alas ! they could not fly into the depths of the wood to keep 
their tryst, any more than a Tristan and Isolde of lo-day 
could fly into a gathering of King Marke's Court for the 
same purpose. 
There were, of course, enmities and feuds without 


number. The prickly pear was always brushing up 
against the tender maple in the most annoying way, but 
the latter displayed the greatest forbearance, disdaining 
to take advantage of anyone of inferior size. The 
Ulmiceae and the Salic^ceae were involved for genera- 
tions in a feud which threatened the entire destruction 
of both families, and was only terminated when the race 
of trees was vanquished and overthrown once for all by 
the magician Abracadabra, as will be duly narrated. 
This feud began through the indiscretion of a member 
of the Salicdceae, who, to prove a wager regarding 
the age of a certain spinster of the Ulmdceae, took 
advantage of his first opportunity and summarily 
cut her in two in the middle to find out how old 
he was. Let us pause to say that the most dire 
conse<]uences would ensue, should any aspiring 
magician succeed in releasing the trees again to their 
pedestrian state. It was a feather in the cap of the 
Ulmdceas when Bimam Wood (which was made up of 
that family) came to Dunsinane, where there was a forest 
of the Saliciceae fast rooted in the ground. They ill- 
treated them spitefully, coming upon them unawares, and 
made faces, or leaves, at them in the most insulting 
manner, knowing it was most unlikely that the Salic^ceae 
would ever be in a position to retaliate. I fear that the 
judgment day of trees has unpleasantness in store for 
both families. 

The trees were annoyed to the verge of distraction by 
birds, who insisted upon building their nests in them 
while they were asleep. Under such circumstances, a 
tree upon awakening would first stand on its head and 
endeavour to shake out the offending nests, eggs and all ; 
and if this did not suffice, it would employ, to have its 
leaves combed out, the services of the cactus, who made 
an excellent living in this manner. Alas ! it is all very 
different now, and the poor trees must submit, without 
murmuring, to the grossest indignities. 

The Oak, being given to arrogance, and accounting 
himself king among trees, one day sent a message to all 
the trees, by the wind, inviting them to convene and hold 
a public discussion as to their respective merits. In 
those days, the wind and the trees were good friends and 
on equal terms, both being nomadic by nature. They 
therefore performed various services for each other, as 
occasion demanded, the wind bearing messages for the 
trees, and the latter in their turn assisting the wind to 


Stop, when unable to of its own accord by virtue of its 
reckless and uncontrollable spirit. All that is changed 
now, and the wind, being fickle, sneers a bit at the 
trees — so irrevocably fallen from their high estate. 
On the occasion mentioned, however, the wina delivered 
the message to all parts of treedom, and whoever was 
there at the time, might have seen pakns striding, vines 
crawling, cypresses treading funereally, willows tottering 
feebly, ashes walking briskly, and myriad others all 
proceeding to the scene of the debate. 

Having arrived, they were arranged in a large circle, 
with those who had come prepared to set forth their 
virtues, in an open space in the centre. Thereupon the 
Oak, who had appointed himself master of ceremonies, 
stepped forth and addressed the assemblage. 

"Setting aside all false modesty," he bep;an (only a 
few heard a little Hazel Bush say " Ahem ! '' m an under- 
tone), " I, the acknowledged king among trees, have 
invited you, my loyal subjects, to set forth to-day yodr 
respective and several merits, to the end that a better 
understanding may be arrived at among you, and your 
individual rights and proper spheres be universally 

" A good way to set about it," grumbled an old Elm ; 
but the remark passed unnoticed. 

" And that this may be a festive occasion as well," the 
Oak continued, " I have laid out on the hillside yonder a 
large amount of refreshments," adding, with a twinkle in 
his eye, " principally liquid." 

The young Ash, who was a reckless fellow, and knew 
it would be a very strong tree who could break kis bones, 
was seen to move off promptly in the direction of the 

" Although my royal prerogative," continued the Oak, 
^* would seem to make it fitting that I should first address 
the convention upon the subject of my own acknow- 
ledged rights and superior qualifications, yet because 
they are so obvious and already well understood, I will 
waive that prerogative and ask for a few words from our 
brother the Elm." 

This magnanimous speech was followed by a loud 
knocking together of branches and rustling of leaves, for 
the Oak was, despite all his arrogance, a good fellow, 
and even had he not been, there are always a multitude 
of those who are ready to espouse the cause of anyone 
who has sufficient spirit and address and lack of modesty 
to proclaim himself ruler. 

The Elm stepped forward — a gruff old fellow — ^and 


began in a voice which showed that he did not intend to 
be bullied by any conceited Oak. 

'* I should like to observe/' said the Elm, ^* that as to 
superior qualifications, I can show as many as anybody." 
(Cushing's Manual was not popular with them, and so they 
dispensed with such refinements as addressing the chair.) 
" It my legs are shorter than the Oak's," he went on, 
'' my arms are longer to make up for it, and moreover 
my tongue is not hung so nearly at the centre of oscil- 

" Gently, gently," said the Oak, who fortunately pos- 
sessed, in common with other conceited people, that 
faculty which prevents them from too easily losmg their 
temper. The surly honesty of the Elm, in fact, rather 
amused him. 

" It's all very well to say * gently,'" retorted the Elm, a 
bit ruffled, " but if any self-respecting tree will allow that 
the preliminary remarks of the Oak were what might be 
called gentle, let him stand up and proclaim it." 

" I nse to a point of order," cried the Ash, returning 
just in time to see that there was a fight brewing. ^* I 
was given to understand that this was to be a festive 

" And so it is," said the Oak, in a tone of dignified 
authority. "Perhaps some one else less ill-humoured than 
the Elm will volunteer to make a few remarks." 

" I will," said the Apple Tree — 2l jolly little chap — and 
the Elm retired grumblmg. " I may not be as handsome 
as some, but I am much more useful than — well, than 
that Ash there, who never " 

"Have a care,'' broke in the Ash, "or in a few 
moments you may be neither handsome nor useful.*' 

" No offence," answered the Apple Tree, cheerfully ; 
" when it comes to the point, I can drink as merrily as 
you ; but until you find some employment as useful as 
polishing up apples, I shall not allow that you are my 

" Oh, keep to your trade," said the Ash ; " I prefer 
being a gentleman of leisure." 

A tall and stately Palm Tree now stepped forwards and 
executed a series of the most polite bows ever seen up to 
that time. 

" Oh, how delightful 1 " exclaimed all the lady trees in 
the assemblage ; " oh, how charming ! " 

" I am sure,'' said the new speaker, "that, in the matter 
of height, you will all give me the palm." (Even the Elm 
laughed outright, for it was the first pun ever made.) 
" My particular clai n to your respect and esteem," he 


continued, " lies in my renunciation, by virtue of which I 
live, not as I might, in the luxury of cheerful valleys, but 
in the sandy deserts, where I give what shade I can to 
the poor camels." 

Let me tell you that in those days camels were 
esteemed above Arabs, or, in fact, any men. 

" Pooh ? '' remarked the Quince, who was an epicurean, 
''this stoicism is all foolishness. Give me the luxurious soil 
of Japan and the outline of Fuji in the distance, and ** 

" I rise to a point of order," interrupted the Ash. " We 
were listening to an elo(][uent discourse from the Palm, 
and now this miserable little Quince has to get up and 
tell us what he thinks." 

The Ash was undoubtedly a little exhilarated by the 
refreshments in which he had indulged. 

" Vd like to see you giving up your life of luxury for a 
few beastly camels," said the Quince. 

" A plague on the camels," retorted the Ash, " the Palm 
can make a speech worth listening to, and you can't, and 
there is an end of it." 

" Order ! '** roared the Oak, who was beginning to feel 
rather left out of the discussion, and now wildly waved 
his arms about in the air. 

At this the Aspen was taken with such a violent fit of 
trembling, that his friend the Mulberry Tree was obliged 
to run and fetch him cold water. The Palm was 
meanwhile executing a second series of bows more 
elaborate than the first, and waiting his opportunity to 
resume speaking. 

" I do not wish to discuss ethics with the Q uince,'* he 
-said politely, " but I should like to ask which of us has 
the most to show for his method of living ?" 

" You certainly have the most neck,'' interrupted the 

The familiar voice of the Ash was heard. " I rise to a 
point of " 

" Silence I " roared the Oak. 

" I was about to ask," said the Palm, " which were the 
better eating, quince or cocoanuts ? " 

"Do camels eat cocoanuts ? " ingenuously asked a little 
Rose Bush, who could not very well keep pace with the 
discussion, but wanted to say at least one word in the 
great convention. 

" A truce to this squabbling," growled the Elm, who 
had long remained silent, *' that has nothing to do with 
the case. I knew how it would be when these small trees 
once began talking. Let us hear a word of wisdom from 
the Cypress." 


The Cypress stepped forward with a most funereal 

"My friends," he began slowly, " it is indeed vain to 
continue further this useless discussion. In the end you 
must all bow to me." 

The Ash gave a start, and was evidently growing 
more and more uncontrollable. The Aspen had fainted 
away entirely. 

** I am," continued the Cypress, " the guardian of 
graves and tombs ; the dignity of no other calling 
approaches to that of mine *' 

"Treason,'* bellowed the Oak, black in the face with 

The Ash could contain himself no longer. 

" I rise " But he rose for the last time. With one 

accord the entire assemblage pounced upon him, and oh, 
what was worse, upon each other as well, for, I regret to 
say, many had come with no other purpose than to settle 
their ancient grudges. 

And that is how it began. Such a crashing of boughs 
you never heard, and never will hear until the judgment 
day of trees. They thrashed, they stamped, they clubbed, 
they butted one another until finally nobody knew with 
whom he was fighting or why. ^d when they could 
fight no longer, they crawled home upon all fours — 
or all twenty-fours, if you will — and planted their aching 
selves in the earth for a long rest. 

It was just at this juncture, when the race of man was 
gaining the ascendancy, that the magician Abracadabra 
stepped in, and, learning through his arts the state of 
affairs with the trees, contrived to throw a spell over 
Chem, which obliged them to remain for ever implanted 
in the earth. And when the wind is feeling rather bored, 
and wishes to indulge in a little innocent amusement, it 
visits the trees and reminds them of the fatal invitation 
of the Oak ; and even to this day they tremble and moan 
to think of the awful cudgelling they each received. 

Arthur Farwelu 

A Japakbsb Lbgbnei. 

: Gods that give and undo, aod 

withhold and gather, 
lie Gods that darkened the lamp in 

my father's shrine, 
lie Gods that lighted their flame in 

the heart of my father 
iave, for the greatening of grief, to 

this body of mine, 
Souls that are nine. 

Soul of the water of tears, soul of sea-water, 
Soul of earth-clod, soul of the fire divine. 
Souls of hope and of fear, and desire, hope's daughter. 
Soul of a flower, and soul of the crystal fine ; 
My souls are nine. 

My flower-soul laughs when Spring brings the flowers of 

My sea-soul bums when the sun turns the sea to wine ; 
My soul of earth in the season o( harvest's merry ; 
But how shall I confort the sorrowful souls of mine ? 
My souls are nine. 

How shall I turn my maiden heart to a lover P 
My lire'Soul seeketh a fire-soul to be mine ; 
Then my desire with water of tears brims over, 
And all my life lies low tike a broken shrine : 
My souls are nine- 

Ah, Gods too lavish ! great Gods of the lord my father, 
Undo your gifi, for my life is a marred design 
With too much colour. Undo it, or slay me rather. 
For I at the wind's will go, and no love is mine. 
Whose souls are nine, 

Nora Hopper. 

Dniwn /y|l'' Edvam ll'ixf'^l 


BOR a word she said, I closed the book I was 
reading and went out into the street. 

It was about six o'clock in the evening, and 
though October was drawing to an end, the night was by 
no means cold. In fact it could hardly be said to be 
night, for all the street lamps were not yet lighted, and 
the towers of Notre-Dame could still be distinguished, 
just across the river, enveloped in a strange, uncertain, 
misty light. 

There are times in the life of every man when it seems 
absolutely necessary to quarrel with some one, even, it 
may be, with his best friend, and that for no reason 
whatever. No explanation can be offered, but the fact 
remains. On this particular evening nothing out of the 
ordinary had occurred. We had finished dinner early, 
and, while the coffee was infusing, Dora, without the 
slightest suggestion on my part, had taken down her 
violin and was playing a certam weird Hungarian air that 
I so love to hear. On any other evening I should have 
been charmed, but that night the music maddened me, 
and I showed her my resentment. It was a climax, — 
so to avoid a senseless quarrel with one to whom I 
have never said a harsh word, I closed the book I was 
reading and, ignoring the remark she had made, went 
out into the street. 

I walked on, hurriedly, aimlessly, that weird air still 
ringing through my brain. I crossed the Pont St. Louis 
and passed by the garden that hides under the shadow of 
the massive towers of the old cathedral. The few leaves 
that still clung to the overhanging branches of the trees 
shone brilliantly near the yellow, flickering gas jets. They 
were not many, for in Paris the leaves fall while they are 
yet green, torn down by the first winds and rains of the 
close of the year. They were not many, but they had 
been granted the supreme favour of a caress from the 
hand of autiunn, and all she touches turns to red and 
gold. They seemed proud of their colours, but I pitied 
them, for I knew that on the morrow they might be swept 
aside by the slow methodical sweep of the gardener, or 
relentlessly chased along the muddy street by the envious 

Over the parapet of the quay hung an indistinct figure, 
an angler, for whom old Izaak has written his book in 
vain. I think I smiled at the sight of this solitary, woe- 
begone fisher, so unwilling to give the lie to the sentiment 


that hope springs eternal And that air still 

rang through my brain. 

So I walked on until I came to the Petit Pont, which I 
crossed, hardly stopping to cast a glance at the reflection 
of the great round moon that shimmered on the swift but 
silent waters of the Seine. 

Soon I found myself being carried along the Boulevard 
St. Michel by a noisy band of fils-d-papay and other 
students, who occasionally find time to enliven a quarter 
which otherwise would be far from gay. Seeing another 
group taking their after-dinner coffee on the terrasse of 
a caf6, I suddenly remembered that mine would pro- 
bably by that time be waiting me in the Rue St. Louis. 
I did not feel inclined to turn back yet, so I went on, 
deciding to take a coffee at the Caf(£ Procope, in the Rue 
de I'Ancienne Com^die, which was only five minutes' 
walk from where I was standing. 

Arrived at the Procope I took a seat at the red marble 
table in the little scdle at the back of the caf^. And 
while I waited for the coffee I had ordered, 1 studied 
the painting on the wall facing me. It is a picture in 
oils, by Thomas, and represents Danton and Marat 
playing chess : and the king is Ifeing mated. They are 
shown playing on the very table at wnich 1 was sitting : 
the table on which Voltaire and many others have 
played chess ; and which, later on, was broken 
by Hubert, while making a speech to the assassins of 
Louis XVI. 

The coffee had been poured out, but I sat looking 
steadily at the painting, ani pondering over the events 
that had taken place in Paris during the hundred years 
that had passed since Marat and Danton played chess 
in the Caf^ Procope. 

I think I must have gone to sleep. At any rate, when I 
heard some one cry ^^Mchec, et mat /^ I raised my head 
and did not feel at all surprised at seeing, to my ri|[ht 
and at the end of the table. Monsieur de Voltaire playing 
chess with a little, fat man in a wig that gave one the 
idea it was an heirloom. 

The face of Voltaire was lit by a kindly, good-natured 
smile, very different from the smile he is represented as 
bestowing on his arch-enemies, the theologians. It was 
not the scholar's mate, nor the fool's mate, that had 
undone his opponent, but from what I remember the 
victory had not been difficult. 'Mf I had done this 
. . . and not done that. . . ** and the defeated one 
mumbled excuses. If he had followed his own choice. 
. . . Why didn't he? But what is that animated 


conversation in an undertone that I hear going on to 
the left? Is it a plot against the Government that is 
being hatched ? Evidently a number of Aa^'tu/s 'think it 
is, for there is quite a crowd around the principal person- 
age of the little group which has attracted ,my attention. 
It is, in fact, a plot, but not against the Government. That 
is the Chevalier de La Morli^re, a man of undoubted 
talent, but a great rascal all the same, who has hit on a 
means of making money by a novel species of blackmail. 
He had invented a system of extorting their hard- earned 
francs from the authors and actors of the Com^die 
Frangaise, which, 1 can see in my dream, is situated 
exactly in front of the Procope. And it is precisely the 
details of his scheme that he is developing to a band of 
boon companions. They are the pioneers of that 
abomination of the French stage, the claque. 

After a short time, the group of conspirators 
disappears, and I see another group enter. This time 
it is Rende Duvallon and her friend Philippe de 
Moriac, with about half-a-dozen other artists who have 
stepped across from the Comddie. Philippe is excited 
and speaks in a loud tone ; Ren^e seems sullen, and says 

" I tell thee he loves thee," cries Philippe, as soon as 
he enters, and he marches backwards and forwards 

Ren^e takes a seat before she replies, and then it is 
quietly, almost conciliatorily, that she answers : 

" Well, what if he does ? What is that to thee ?— or to 
ntiy for the matter of that — if / don't love him ? " 


" If ! Always thy ifs ! All day long thou hast been 
too disagreeable to be supported, and then to-night, 
when Clovis played that horrible tune thou art so fond 
of. . . ." 

And then she hums that air that had haunted me for 
the last two hours ! 

" Come, then," she says, " sit down by me, and finish 
telling me that story of the knight who lost the red 

And he sits down and kisses her, so tenderly, that the 
red roses of her own cheek grow but slightly redder 
under the light touch of his lips. 

" Yes, it was in 1789 that the Bastille " 

I wake with a start, for the history of the latter 
quarter of the i8th century is so distasteful to me 
that I think the very mention of the word " Bastille " 
would wake me, even though I were dead. 


So I got up and, without tasting the icy-cold coffee 
which stood before me, I went home. 

I embraced Dora, and the word she had said was 
remembered no more. 

Charles Sibleigh. 

^ ^ toi 



My pipe I smoke when troubles come, 
When Fear has voice, and Hope is dumb, 
When doubts perplex and fret the mind, 
And some short respite I would find 
From griefs that heart and brain benumb. 

Despair's dark depths no more I plumb, 
But count my joys — no slender sum — 
As on my quiet couch reclined, 
My pipe I smoke. 

Swarmed cares that round me buzz and drum, 
Smoke-startled, fly with lessening hum ; 
And should my Chlo^ prove unkind, 
I wait her smiles with heart resigned, 
While in the firelight, prone and mum. 
My pipe I smoke. 

J. Shreeve Lee. 



WE publish the following letter from Mr. Gleeson 
White — whose recent death has been such an 
irreparable loss to the world of art and Ittera- 
tui^&— to Mr. A. Stanley Cooke, of Brighton, one of our 
contributors, not only on account of its intrinsic interest, 
but as showing Mr. White's generous and genuine devotion 
to the cause of letters, Mr. Cooke, at the time, being per- 
sonally unknown to its writer. The rondeau redouble 
referred to was " On the Downs " — subsequently a contri- 
bution to The Quartier Latin (November, 1897). In 
this connection it may be of interest to say, especially to 
those appreciative of this form of poetry, that Mr. White, 
an ultimate authority on such matters, wrote his opinion 
of the rondeau " My Pipe," in our present number, as the 
best composition of its nature that he knew. 

My dear Sir, — For my delay I owe you an apology, but your 
package only reached me tp^-day. Since my little anthology 
[** Ballades and Rondeaus "] was published I havf bad many 
courteous letters and examples of new work, some of which (to 
be honest) have caused some little trouble to acknowledge 
kindly and yet truthfully ; but in your case I can speak quite 
ffankly. You have caught the spirit of the forms, and: I think 
the R(mdeau Redoubli is quite a memorable instance of ease 
within their formal measures. The Pantoum — which I never 
essayed (I wrote and destroyed many hundreds of the others) — 
seems to me also ingenious and very clever. Oddly enough, at 
first, the Rondeau Redouble, which I expect you like .be»t (we 
all do those that are the least spontaneous) did not touch me^ 
yet some of its lines are distinctly worth existing. *' Fill sun> 
down air with sunshine melodies,", is, so far as I know, a. new 
thought charmingly phiased. • I shall prove my gratitude by 
aski^ for more, and if you knew how solicitous I am to ward 
off MSS. as a rule, you would at least believe that my apprecia- 
tion of your work is not merely formal. You make splendid 
fiulures of some lines — and extremely good successes of others— 
with always a good mastery of the mechanism of the ver>e, 
hence the real pleasure you give to one who, by virtue of cir> 
cumstances, gets wearied of the commonplace. If you were near- 
me I should dare to point oat your weaknesses and to fully 
encourage you to go on rhyming, for here and again is a really 
delightful thought deftly and admirably turned 

Smce I wrote so far I have read the Rondeau Redouble- 
again, and I feel I did not do it justice. It is exceedingly good, 
and shows " a love of lovely words" tbat i« rare, and a power to 
reclothe familiar impressions with the fine 6avour of newness that 
is, perhaps, the first and last word of art. — Faithfully yours, 

(Signed) Glskson Whits. 

12, Philbeach Gardens, 

Earl's Court, S.W.,June 15th, 1892. 

Drawn by Dian CaUhrgp 




What is the charm, and wherein lies the spell 
That leads us hitherward of our free wills, 

To wonder why in beauty they excel. 
These lovely Downs — God's everlasting hills ? 

Tis not alone that tender colour fills 

The gracious curves of summit, slope, and dell — 
Nor lovely hue nor form the question stills — 

" What is the charm and wherein lies the spell ? " 

Is it sweet music of the tinkling bell. 
Or freedom's happy range, or lark that trills ; 

Delight of velvet sward, or thymy smell. 
That leads us hitherward of our free wills ? 

To seek a solace for our petty ills, 
To find it in each softly-folded swell — 

Where nothing harsh abides, nor aught that chills— 
To wonder why in beauty they excel. 

In pearly tints of opalescent shell, 

The hill-tops shimmer, and the distance thrills : 
Encrowned with gold of furze, serene they dwell. 

These lowly Downs — God's everlasting hills. 

With perfumed wind to turn the busy mills ; 

With solitude, and haunts of peace as well ; 
With silence sweeter than the sound of rills ; 

o o o 

When all is said or sung, it £Eiils to tell 

What is the charm 

A. Stanley Cooke. 


G9^H£ commencement of August had seen the 
^^ customary exodus from town, and London was 
deserted. In the streets a sprinkling of country 
cousins, betrayed by their healthy looks and unfashion- 
able clothes, brushed shoulders with those unfortunate 
Londoners still confined to their posts of duty in the 
city. Conductors from the platforms of half-filled omni- 
buses disregarded no probable fares, whilst news-boys 
resorted to fictitious excitement to help on the sale of 
their papers. London's vitality seemed at its lowest 

In business quarters the absence of people was not so 
marked ; but a traveller westwards —along Piccadilly and 
the district beyond— at once realised the surrounding 
stagnation of life. One still met people, but in scattered, 
and uncertain numbers ; and sunny looks, happy, satisfied 
expressions, were conspicuous by their absence. Among 
those sombre folk there were no bright-eyed, smartly- 
gowned young girls to add a touch of colour and variety. 
Sunshine and innocence were making holiday by the 
sea ; men and women of the world were in possession of 

It was a close, overcast afternoon, the warm, infrequent 
breeze making most ineffectual dissipation of the city's 
odours. One naturally sought the open spaces of Hyde 
Park, but there the desolation was more patent than else- 
where. Two riders had the whole length of the Row to 
themselves ; stacks of disused chairs brought into melan- 
choly prominence the protracted dearth of occupants ; a 
policeman on duty was actually stifling a yawn. 

On one of the public seats, its whole length to herself, 
sat a young woman. Grace Harwood had had a hard 
fight with life, and to-day she seemed to have come to 
the end of her resources. She had earned her bread by 
type-writing manuscripts, but most of her clients were 
now away from home, and work had temporarily ceased. 
The last coins in her pocket had been counted ; one 
shilling and sixpence represented the means of existence. 

As yet she scarcely felt depressed by the situation. 
The quiet repose of this unfrequented park infected her 
like a dream, and lent strange unreality to the struggle 
for life. She possessed but httle, but she could sit here, 
and feel the full flow of her personality riding through 
her veins. What more could any woman want ? 

Drawn iy Charlei Pepfer 

A woman's case 185 

Imagination, too, was very vivid and very sweet. She 
had been one of the gay, well-dressed throng peopling 
the park a few weeks back. Handsome young men, 
irreproachably clad, had doffed their hats to her, enter- 
tained her with the usual civilities. She had smiled at 
their compliments, retorted to their banter, and while 
favouring none, had been the favoured of all. She — 
now, she was only a poor type- writer, sitting in a deserted 
park with eighteenpence in her pocket. 

As the aitemoon wore on, her thoughts grew more 
serious and self-centred, and consequently more morbid. 
Like all women who have felt the hard pressure of cir- 
cumstances, she realised how the fact of her womanhood 
hampered and endangered her. If only one might live 
and work without the persistent intrusion of sex ! 

She had had but one experience of love, and had paid 
dearly for it. Believing herself genuinely and honour- 
ably loved, and knowing at that time but little of life, she 
had given her heart in trust and keeping to a man 
considerably older than herself, and higher in social 
position. His passion had been roused by her innocence 
and good look^ and she was not long in discovering his 
dishonourable intentions. From the terrible ordeal he 
had prepared for her she had escaped, but not unscathed, 
for when a woman has had to fight for morality to the 
rejection of love's instincts she is never the same again. 
That episode had changed the current of her existence, 
and had led, through a series of interwoven misfortunes, 
to the cruel position in which she was presently placed. 

In her pocket, that very moment (for a residue of love 
forbade its committal to the flames) Lay a letter from him, 
received a couple of months before, and as yet un- 
answered. " If ever you are in want or trouble " —it ran 
"come to me, and I will take care of you.'* Slowly 
removing and unfolding the message, she read the lines 
afresh. She knew the man's character, the terrible 
meaning of his words, and yet — a glow of the old-time 
love swept over her heart at the nioment, and turned 
aside her horror and indignation. 

Then she fell to musing on her fearful situation. On 
the one hand was probable starvation, on the other shame 
and dishonour. These were absolutely and hopelessly 
the only alternatives. She clenched her hands, driving 
the nails into her palms in the violent stress of thought. 
Bitter contempt of the world that heeded not her wel- 
fare, of men callous to women's honour, filled her eyes 
with passionate tears. Was fate so inexorable that she, 
loathmg wrong-doing with all her heart, must yet abandon 


every principle of virtue in the desperate effort to obtain 
bread ? And this under God's sky — ^among^t a so-called 
civilised society — in the wealthiest city of the world. 

Grace rose to her feet. The fact had been forgotten, 
but she had had no nourishment for over seven hours, 
and when the physical life is low, moral principles are 
always weaker. She did not feel hungry— but action of 
some sort seemed necessary, and, wending her way out 
of the park, she passed down towards Knightsbridge, still 
battling hard with her griefs. 

Vague ideas crossed her disordered mind of imploring 
some passer-by for assistance. Women were hard- 
hearted and cynical, however ; men sometimes vielded to 
generous impulses, but to ask from them would seem as 
though she were already surrendering her purity. 

She had proceeded for nearly a mile, when a row of 
gay flags, cresting a brightly-painted building, attracted 
her attention. Led by a curious impulse, she crossed the 
road and read the words. 

"Exhibition of International Art Admission is." 

A strong, quite irresistible, impulse came over her to go 
within. In a dazed way she argued feebly with herself, 
that she would realise her position better when her last 
penny was spent ; she loved pictures, too, and for a time 
would lose herself and her trouble in their contemplation. 
There reasoning ceased. The shilling was forfeited, and 
she passed through the turnstile. 

" Catalogue, miss ? Sixpence each ! " 

She put down sixpence, bought one, and was penniless. 
Then she laughed out loud, and the attendant gazed at 
her in astonishment. 

"That's my last coin— that's all ! " 

" Indeed, miss ! " and the functionary looked un- 

Grace hurried on into the gallery. She must now 
forget herself or go mad. 

Round the walls of that admirably-hung, curiously un- 
orthodox, wholly interesting exhibition — a symphony in 
Whistlerism, one might say— Grace slowly took her way, 
dwelling longest on those pictures which seemed re- 
sponsive to her mood. There were few visitors besides 
herself, for picture seeing as a fashionable amusement 
ends with the closing of the Royal Academy, and so her 
attention was confined altogether to studying the paint- 
ings. At first it was difficult to consider them properly — 
her own trouble was too aggressive — but gradually some- 
thing of the fine restfulness of art, its rare atmosphere, its 
infinite breadth — stole into her mmd, crowding out the 

A woman's case 187 

personal matters that had lately loomed so large. She even 
smiled at Mr. Whistler's vaganes with the catalogue, and 
then, looking closely at his paintings, wondered why she 
had heard his name so often. 

Her interest, at first forced, afterwards spontaneous, 
had helped to sustain her ; but when three parts of the 
way round the centre gallery, a sudden faintness came 
over her, and compelled her to hurry to a seat. The room 
whirled around her ; then she remembered the time of 
her last meal, and that all her money was spent. Closing 
her eyes, she clutched the cushioned arm of the seat ; 
the reality of it all was back again — she was ill, miserably 
ill. There was no help for her now. She must go to the 
one man willing to take care of her — and pay his price. 
Yes, she was feeling better ; things were steadier ; in a 
minute or two she would be able to move. 

Would it be her fault -her sin ? She had not brought 
it upon herself. The world had beaten her down— that 
was all ! Ah, could she only at that moment pass out of 
of life, fit and innocent for God's presence. God was very 
close to her now. Those works of art about her were 
dim mirrors men had made to catch the reflection of His 
face. That dark woman opposite, with the dreamy 
eyes, was looking through the veil of the future upon 
her Maker's brow. Grace held her breath before one 
picture ; it was the supreme expression of love itself. 
If then death would only come now — ^now, and bring her 
eternal life indeed — love, Christ, God. To-morrow would 
be too late. A few hours more and her guilty soul might 
well shudder at the very thought of death. 

She staggered to her feet, and as she did so her mind 
seem to grow clearer, her limbs stronger. She could 
weigh matters calmly now, and her resolution was soon 
taken. To-night she would go to him. Life, food, 
clothes, at any cost. 

She had almost reached the door, when a picture by 
the entrance came obliquely into her range of sight. She 
stopped, a curious, numbing sensation passing through 
her. It was as though her exit was barred, all power of 
free will destroyed, for the canvas drew and fixed her 
attention with the strength and tenacity of a magnet. 

Her catalogue gave the picture s name, '*bin"; the 
artist's, "Franz Stuck." Round the shoulders of a woman, 
and mingling with the masses of her long, dark hair, a large 
green snake was coiled, poison and venomous hate lurk- 
ng in its uplifted head. The woman's face was in shadow, 
so that at nrst one did not perceive its grim repulsiveness. 
Little by little, however, the frank evil in every distorted 


feature — the haggard, restless eyes, the loose, coarse lips 
— forced themselves upon the view: the painter had 
shown consummate skill in carrying out his idea. Here 
indeed lived sin without any disguismg cloak or mask — a 
warning and sermon in paint. 

It seemed to Grace Harwood, still standing before the 
picture and drinking in its deep significance, that a great 
rush of waters was drowning her, and that now was the 
time to sink or swim. The contrast between right and 
wrong in her normal moods was none too sharply defined, 
her course of conduct being an easy, indeliberate flow, 
determined by hereditary and early-instilled principles. 
In ordinary moments her conception of the true nobility 
of life was vague and weak, but at the same time she 
managed to avoid all pit-£aills — ^her will acting without any 
apparent reference to the moral standard set up in her 

To her excited imagination the picture bore an awfiil 
significance. It was the vision of herself, sent to warn 
her of her impending fate. She was craving for life, sacri- 
ficing honour for life ; but was life, shorn of its sweetest, 
purest elements, worth having ? To drag about with her 
a woman's body, and yet to be without the soul of woman- 
hood ! To be, at last, as one of the bedraggled creatures 
of the streets— ghastly memories her only attendants ! 
To speak hollowly, to live hollowly— to be a lie incarnate ! 
Was she mad that she should desire to win the right to 
live on such terms ? 

Something seemed to stop in her head. It was the 
wheel of over-wrought thought. She tried to recall her 
last idea ; there was only blankness in her brain, and a 
dreadful buzzing in her ears. Presently some one seemed 
to be whispering to her, " Home ! home ! home ! " and 
with unseeing eyes and aching heart she passed out 
into the street. 


Over a quiet lake, whose surface was never stirred beyond 
the faintest ripple, the sun was casting his last radiance. 
Overhead the glory still lingered, as though the gold- 
touched clouds were loth to lose their borrowed beauty. 
The day had been insufferably sultry, but a light breeze 
from the west was now at work allaying the heat, and 
restoring physical vitality to listless mortals. Occa- 
sionally the whistle of a train sounded in the distance ; 
otherwise the silence was unbroken, save by the murmur 
of the trees. 

In front of an ivy-clad, little house stretched a sloping 

A woman's case 189 

lawn, turfed and kept so well that it felt like carpet to the 
feet, and was an excellent foil to the strugghng, unre- 
strained flower-beds lining it on either side. At the foot 
a narrow stream flowed, navigable in either direction for 
perhaps a mile, but leaiding to no place mentioned on 
any map. In its isolation and picturesqueness — its 
aloofness from the world, and yet its ouiet possession of 
everything in life worth living for ana aspiring to— the 
spot was the ideal home of the artist and thinker. 

On two wicker chairs, drawn to the water's edge, a man 
and woman were seated, their souls surrendered to the 
soft ministry of the twilight hour. It was the time when 
speech comes gladly and spontaneously to the lips, and 
words have a flavour of personality which seems to shrink 
before the blazing light of day. 

The woman was sitting with closed eyes ; the man 
was watching her with the keen gaze of affection, yet 
without the intrusive familiarity that is so often charac- 
teristic of masculine love. His cap was tilted back, 
revealing a high, broad forehead, from which the dark, 
curly hair was brushed away ; the eyes were full of ex- 
pression and, as habitually, alert. By the listless attitude 
of the limbs, thft frank laziness of his present mood, you 
might have been momentarily deceived as to the measure 
of his vitality— a vitality both of body and mind which 
was the envy of his inferiorly-endowed friends. 

" Sitting like that, Grace, you remind me of a picture." 

She opened her eyes with a startled but bright smile. 

"I do? How is that .J»" 

** Well — I saw it years back — so long ago, in fact, that 
I cannot remember where. The subject was Faith, and 
it showed a woman seated as you were, with closed eyes 
and a perfectly peaceful expression. I thought the treat- 
ment exceedingly novel — almost far-fetched, indeed — 
until I rememt^red that faith does not walk by sight. 
Do you believe in the influence of pictures, Grace ? " 

His gaze was then turned away, so he missed the 
shadow of reminiscence across her face as she earnestly 
replied, " Yes ! " 

** So do I. It would seem strange to say it, dear, to 
anyone else, but I sometimes think that much of the 
reverence I have for womanhood has been derived from 
my fondness for art One can't love beauty in form and 
character, and tune one's life to low ideals. Why, Grace, 
you are crying ! " 

" Yes, Robert — you don't know why." 

Tact and kindness dictated silence. He watched the 
dwindling light through the trees ; then, where its surface 


had been disturbed, a circle spreading across the 
darkened water. The key to Nature s sweetest harmonies 
had been lately put within his grasp, and every thought 
thrilled to an exquisite accompaniment. 

^'You asked me a very a^ecting question just now, 
Robert ; that was why I was so silly. Six weeks ago — 
oh, it seems years and years past now I — I had an 
experience, a terrible temptation, from which you saved 
me Your reference to the influence of pictures brought 
it all back. I will tell you about it —now, while the mood 
is on me. You are good — and will understand — and 
perhaps love me still." 

He drew his chair closer and pressed her hand in 
silent sympathy. 

" There is no doubt of that, dear.'' 

" You remember the day when you brought me that 
long story to type, and found me shockingly ill?" 

He nodded. Had not that day seen the first link of 
their friendship fashioned — Grace Harwood, the woman 
who "typed'' his manuscripts, awakening to distinct 
individuality in his eyes as a suffering human being 
worthy of his help and interest. 

" I was without money, and you advanced me some, 
and then we grew to know each other ; and now — but 
oh ! Robert, I have never told you the worst I was 
unstrung, fainting for food the previous evening, and I 
was tempted to do wrong ; perhaps the greatest wrong a 
woman can do — to give herself to some one for money 
and for bread. I saw a picture, and it seemed to save 
me — or rather, it kept me safe and brave till you came. 
I ran home, saying to myself that I would hold out for a 
little longer — till the morning. And then you came." 

Bit by bit the whole story was told, Grace minimising 
and withholding nothing. Her own dishonoured affec- 
tion, her desperate necessity, the visit to the gallery, her 
agony of mind and soul, the impression created by the 
pictiu-e — every thought of her heart was laid bare. She 
commenced slowly and with difficulty, but the man's 
perfect sympathy, expressed in his whole face and mien, 
dissolved all her fears and made the confession easy. 
He understood her with the complete knowledge that 
another woman mi^ht have shown. Moved by this fresh, 
unexpected revelation of her suffering, his love touched 
a level even deeper than before. 

When the tale was concluded, he bent forward and 
kissed her passionately, reverently. Her lips trembled 
under his. In that moment her sum of happiness was 

A woman's case 191 

She thought of her misery six weeks before, and 
contrasted it with the present. It all seemed a wonderful, 
incredible dream. Surely this peaceful scene — the trees, 
that distant peep of meadows, the calm, still water, the 
man beside her with the love-light in his eyes — was a 
mirage of her imagination ! Her thoughts had lost the 
last taint of their disease. She scarcel^r knew herself. 
The old disgust of life had changed into an almost 
pagan joy in existence. 

*^ I wonder sometimes, Robert, if this is all real. Shall 
I not wake up and find you just an ordinary client, our 
intercourse stdl confined to the exchange of Postal Orders 
for manuscripts more or less correctly copied t '' 

" No, no, Grace ! Or if illusion it be, leave me to 
share it with you, please ? I am resident, too, in your 
palace of dreams, and claim equal proprietorship in all 
your follies." 

She laughed, but the words made her think. What an 
impossible task has cynicism in proving love an illusion, 
when its foundation is character, its comer- stones far- 
seeing insight and trust I 

The light had died between the trees ; you could not 
see beyond them now. The blue from the sky had quite 
faded ; a couple of bats dodged swiftly through the air, 
while a large moth, dimly seen, was haunting a neigh- 
bouring bush. 

" How terribly you have suffered, Grace ! That 
man " 

^* Oh, don't speak of him t He is gone out of my life 
for ever. I am happy now." 

" I will try to make up to you for all your sufferings. 
God helping me, your way shall be smooth, Grace, when 
you become my wife.*' 

Her heart was too full for speech, but she put her 
hand in his, and held it there. In the action love fore- 
shadowed its own exquisite fulfilment. 

Herbert Jamieson. 



CLAR' to goodness, ef dem two gals ain't got de 
debble in 'em dis night, sho'. De/s bof got der 
heads tergedder close, like de big sunflowers dat 
grow in our yard. I knows dat sign, en I 'low dar's 
some'n' in de air,'' said Aunty Martin, as she, with the 
other negro servants, stood peering through the slats 
of the shutters into the brightly-lighted room, where 
the '* white folks" were dancmg. 

" Hit ain't in de air you 11 6nd dat some*n'," answered 
old Pete, who accompanied his master everywhere, and 
whose admiration for " Mars Henry" was known through- 
out the county. "Hit ain't in de air you '11 find dat 
some'n'," he repeated ; hit's right dare in dat ball-room, 
standin' fiat-footed on de fio\" 

** Who dat standin' flat-footed on de flo*, you ?" 

" Mars Henry, dat's who ; en he's dat some'n' dat you 
say is in de air too. Ain't 1 he'rd 'im say dis ve'y evenin' 
dat he 'low he '11 know jes' how he stan', or jes' how he 
don't Stan', 'fore dis night wuz ober ? He say he gwine 
fer to giv' Miss Marie a ultermattumeses ! " 

" Giv' her a w'atzesname ? " 

" A ultermattumses I en w'en Mars Henry say dat, 
vou kin jes' bet he mean it, too. £n Miss Marie, who 
been cuttin' up mighty pert wid 'im fer a long time, — Miss 
Marie, — she got fer to speak right out, jes' like dey do 
in meetin', even ef she do git Miss Nola fer to try en help 
her out ; kaze Mars Henry, w'en he do git started, he 
powerful 'termined like. I see 'im make a mule team 
mov' long w'en nobody else could. Mars Henry, he 
scientific — he is." 

The old darky would have used up the rest 6f the 
evening telling about his " Mars Henry," but Aunty 
Martin had a weakness for boasting too ; and her 
favourites were never at a loss for her diampionship, so 
she mterrupted him with : 

" Dat's ail right 'bout your Mars Henry's 'termination, 
but I 'low he got to be a heep more of a scientisticus den 
he is now, ef he think, 'kase he giv' Miss Marie his 
watchyoumaycallum, dat he kin make her com' roun' en 
do as he say. She's jes' 'joyin' herself, en projec'kin' wid 
'im, dat's all ; en I tell you, old Pete, dar's some'n' in 
de air, en it ain't no Mars Henry, nor not'in' else 
you t'ink 'bout Don't I know dem two gals better'n 

So the old darkies had it, and in a way both were right, 

Draam ty IMgh BIHs 


for there was " some'n' in de air," and Henry Tibbits* 
ultimatum was the cause thereof, and that " some'n' " the 
young girls were planning, was for the humiliation, rather 
than the glorification of old Pete's " Mars Henry," and 
was abo to be a source of enlightenment for that old 
darky himself. 

It was true that Marie had kept the determined Henry 
on the anxious bench for some time, and it was also true 
that Henry had made up his mind to have an answer to- 
night, and having told her so in as many words, now 
stood aloof, like a knight of old, waiting for the gauntlet 
to be taken up. 

She loved him — there was no doubt about that, and 
had he been less persistent, she would have come around 
with a grace and willingness that would have surprised 
htm ; but there was something so sweet in hearing him 
plead, then storm and plead again, that she had kept 
him off so long. She knew full well that she would give 
in in the end, but this ultimatum of his nettled her, and 
she resolved to make one more stand, and elude him 
just once more. But how ? — that was the point, and to 
settle that point she sought the advice and assistance of 
her cousin Nola ; and it was the action of the two, with 
their heads close together, that called forth the remarks 
of the old darkies. 

No one noticed the girls as they slipped away from the 
merry dancers, and, putting on their wraps, stole softly 
to the fence at the side of the house, where a score or 
more of vehicles of all kinds were standing. 

They surprised their half-sleeping negro boy, and, 
ordering him to brin^ Mr. Henr/s norse and carriage into 
the road, they told him he must get them home quickly, 
and if they arrived safely he should receive a big silver 
dollar. And then, when all was ready, off they went at 
a Hvelv pace, and soon the lights and music were left 

In fifteen minutes Henry missed the girls, but seeing 
their cousins and their old servant around as usual, 
thought little of it, and had no idea of what had occurred ; 
and so another fifteen minutes went by before he insti- 
tuted a search, which led to the discovery that the g^rls 
were not in the dancing or the supper rooms, so he 
instructed old Pete to inquire of the maids upstairs, 
while he went to look about the grounds, where he soon 
found that his horse and carriage were ^one. 

With this discovery it dawnea upon him, too, that there 
was mischief afoot, for experience had taught him that 
he could never be sure as to just what to expect ftt)m those 

" MARS henry's *' ULTIMATUM 1^5 

two girls under anv circumstances or conditions, and he 
recaUed with what apparent pleasure Marie had 
received his consent to delay her answer until the ride 
home ; and so, jumping at the conclusion that they had 
started home in his rig, and thereby hoped to evade him, 
he vaulted upon old Pete's horse without waiting for that 
individual to return with the information as to whether 
the girls were in the house or not, and put out at a lively 
pace, hoping to overtake the runaways. 

As he tore down the road, old Pete appeared. Looking 
after him and rubbing his eyes, he said, with a loud 
whistle : — 

*' De good Lord, ef ebber I thought it wuz in dat boss to 
git 'long like dat He been playin' 'possom mighty smart 
wid dis ole nigger, but he can't fool Mars Henry," 
with a chuckle, ** 'deed he can't, en dem gals can't nudder. 
He'll cotch 'em, sure pop ! " And more convinced if possible 
than ever as to " Mars Henry's '' greatness, he went back 
to the house to think over what he had seen. 

Meanwhile, the two girls kept their driver urging the 
horse on at a good pace, until they entered the long 
wooded lane about a mile from their home. Then, think- 
ing that none could or would overtake them, and the 
horse showing signs of fatigue, thev told their boy to let 
him walk, and, feeling well-pleased with the outcome of 
their coup^ and the novel experience of their runaway ride, 
they began to sing a song, popular on the eastern shore 
of Maryland so long ago. 

Sweetheart, the day has no gladness 

While we thus linger apart, 
Moonlight and starlight bring sadness — 

Thou art the light of my heart. 
Here in the darkness entreating, 

Urging my love for thee, 
Softly thy name Fm repeating, 

Come thou, my love, back to me I 

The moon was shining brightly, but the great trees, 
with their blending branches overhead, kept out the pale 
light, save here and there, where ir fell upon the roadway 
in white patches, giving a weird, though pleasant, aspect 
to the darkened lane. 

A f^entle breeze swept through the trees ; and the song 
rose m full unison, and so completely charmed the young 
negro boy, that he let the horse pick his own way along 
the road. 

The young girls finished the first verse, and renewed 
their conversation as to just what each one thought 


Henry would do when he found out thev had run away 
with his carriage, and then commenced the second : — 

"What though the world be deceiving, 
Round us though shadows may lie. 

Safe in each other believing. 
Bravely love on, thou an 

when, with a slow, gradual motion, the front wheels rose 
up, the carriage tipped, and the three occupants were 
landed on the grass beside the road, while the carriage, 
with two wheels in the air, rested on the other two, and a 
white and black object, which proved to be a cow, gave an 
angry switch of her tail, and sought another resting-place 
among the trees. 

So slowly had the cow risen, that all three had ample 
time to clear the turning carriage, and although 
frightened, no one was hurt, and the darky, still holding 
the reins, was the first to recover his speech. 

'* Lordy ! I thought dat cow wuz one ob dem er' white 
places dare. Wat right she got In dis 'ere road 

For a moment the girls stood still, but the negro's 
voice aroused them, and they both burst out laughing at 
their situation, while the boy shifted all blame from his 
own shoulders to the broader ones of the cow. 

Then came the task of righting the carriage. The 
horse was unhitched, and all three went eagerly to work ; 
but the girls gave the young darkie little help, and the 
carriage settled back again at each effort. 

It was while they were in the midst of this now serious 
matter that the rattle of a horse's hoofs was heard 
advancing down the road they had just travelled, and 
the three runaways stood silent, realising one another's 
fears. Marie was the first to speak. 

** He's coming ! I'm sure it is he ! What shall we 
do ! Quick ! Here, into the bushes ! You too ! " turn- 
ing to the now frightened darky. '* In with you, and 111 
tell you what you are to say ; and mind you, you look 
sharp, or ^ou lose your dollar, and I'll have you punished 
for upsettmg us I " 

** You all been singin' fo' 'im to come, an' I speck he 
is come," said the boy, as they all three hid away in the 

Then hastily giving him his instructions — which he 
grasped quickly, havmg full knowledge of what they 
were doing from what he had heard in their conversation 
during the ride, and commanding him that under no 
circumstances was he to betray them, Marie pushed him 

**MARS henry's" ultimatum I97 

into the road just as the horseman's outlines showed up 
in the darkness. 

Nearer and nearer came their pursuer. Faster and 
faster beat the hearts of the hiding girls. 

" Hello, what the devil's happened here ! Oh ! It's 
you, is it ? and with my horse and carriage, you infernal 
young rascal. Who told you to take them ? Where are 
the young ladies, Miss Marie and Miss Nola ?" 

*' I donno, sir. 1 don lef 'em bof back dar at de dance, 
an' 1 comes 'lon^ dis way an' I run over a cow w'at wuz 
in de road, an' dis here kerridge is upside down." 

''What a glorious little liar that boy is," whispered 
Nola, as the two girls breathed easier after this first 

" Whaf s that ? You say you left both Miss Marie and 
Miss Nola at the dance ?" 

^ Yesser. Miss Marie, she come out to me, an' she says 
fer me to take )rour kerridge to her house, kaze Miss 
Nola, she wuz gwine home in some odder foke's kerridge, 
an' you an' Miss Marie wuz to come home in Miss Nola's 

** She said that you were to take my carriage to her 
house?" asked the now bewildered Henry. 

" Yesser, kaze you an' Miss Marie was to come home 
in Miss Nola's kerridge, and then you could take your 
own kerridge to your own home ; but I don run over a 
cow, an' dis kerridge is upside down. Ain't you seen 
Miss Marie ?" 

Henry paid no attention to this last remark. He stood 
there muttering to himself, rubbing his legs, and looking 
at old Pete's horse and saddle. Presently he said : 

" Here you, tie this beast to the fence ; I'll be lame for 
a week riding such an old broken-down hack, and on 
such a saddle — and all for nothing, too. Come here," 
he continued, ''get hold of that wheel there -up she 
goes ! Now hitch up my horse, and be lively about it." 
And as the boy jumped to fulfil his commands, Henry 
went on muttering to himself: "So they haven't left the 
house after all, and I guess that's why old Pete whistled 
as I went down the road. This is what I get for being 
so hasty. Hang it all, how am I ever going to 
explain matters ? And this to happen to-night, of all 

He was pacing up and down the road as he talked, 
seemingly to have forgotten the negro's presence, and 
the hi£ng girls were enjoying his discomfiture, as only 
thev could, when suddenly he turned to the waiting boy, 
ana said a few words that caused their hearts to sink 


lower than they ever sank before, and made their situa- 
tion anything but an enjoyable one. 

*' Here, hitch that old saddle-beast on behind. I'll go 
on home with you. It's too late to return to the dance, 
and rU try and see her to-night, and explain matters.'' 

It was a good thing Henry did not notice the bi^ white 
eyes of the boy, as he peered into the bushes, hopm^ for 
some sign to appear ; but there was nothing to mdicate 
the presence of the now frightened, though determined 
girls, and it was a scared and pale darky that gathered 
up the reins. 

But Henry's next remark lightened the hearts of the 
guilty three, for he said :— 

" Drive lively there now ; the others will be coming 
along this way m their cariiages pretty soon, and I don't 
want them to reach home first ; and mind you, don't you 
run over another cow." 

" Dat's jes' w'at dey will be doin', sho' ; dey will be 
comin' right 'long in dere kerridges, sho' nufT," and he 
cracked his whip and away they went. 

The boy had spoken louder than was necessary, and 
the hiding girls knew that the information was meant for 
them. They had not thought of the rest of the party that 
was to return by this road, and with gladdened hearts 
they welcomed the news. 

The two girls crept from their hiding place among the 
bushes, and viewea the fast disappeanng vehicle, and 
laughed and cried, and laughed again. Then, without 
saymg a word, Nola walked to where the cow had taken 
up her new resting place, and giving a jerk to the rope 
which was fastened to the base of her horns, said : — 

" Come along here ; you have been the cause of all 
this trouble, and I vow you shan't lie there while we 
have to tramp this road. You are not as good as a dog, 
but you're something ; so along you go." 

Marie stood in the middle of the road, watching the 
queer proceeding, which was being enacted with too 
much sincerity to be laughed at. Then they decided to 
walk slowly along towards their home, hoping that ere 
long one of the carriages would overtake them. 

It was a weary trio that, fortunately, the expected 
carriage overtook shortly on that lonely half-lit road, in 
the dead of night— those two girls and the cow ; but that 
cow had served a purpose, for, not relishing the midnight 
walk, nor the loss of sleep, had been somewhat stubborn, 
and had occupied more or less of their thoughts, and 
consequently saved their nerves. 

Of course explanations were necessary, and the girls 

*'MARS henry's" ultimatum I99 

made a clean breast of the whole thing, and besought 
their cousins to help, or at least not to betray them, and 
to let them carry out the plot to the end, which the 
cousins agreed to do. As they had thought Henry had 
taken the girls home long ago, they had not felt uneasy 
about them. 

At last they drove through their own gate. As the 
house came into view they could see the form of a man, 
pacing nervously up and down before the lighted hallway, 
and as the carriage swung around the great circle before 
the house, they heard a piping voice, the voice of their 
boy driver, saying as he ran along with the carriage : 

" Is you dare. Miss Marie ? Is you dare, Miss Nola?" 

" Yes," answered Nola. " Have you told him any- 

" No, miss ; I ain't say a word cept w*at you year me 
say on de road. Mars Henry, he mighty worrit 'bout you, 
an' so wuz I. I kum mighty nigh goin' atter you on de 
old man's boss, 'cept Mars Henry might fin* out." 

" You are a good boy, and you will get your dollar to- 
morrow. Now, not another word," as the carriage 
stopped before the door. 

Henry was down the steps in an instant, and was 
making the best of broken apologies, but neither of the 
young girls noticed him, and his humiliation was com- 
plete as they swept by him into the house and into their 
rooms. The cousins acted politely, though coolly, and 
soon Henry was seated in his carriage and on his way 
home, with these words of the darky boy ringing in his 
ears : 

** I speck you make 'em bof mad, kaze you didn't take 
her home like Miss Marie say you wuz gwine to." 

The next morning, after spending a miserable night, 
Henry called ; but the girls were indisposed, and, conse- 
quently, could not be seen. Then notes, flowers, and 
candies found their way to their rooms ; but Henry sought 
in vain for an interview. Miss Marie was determined he 
should suffer for that ultimatum he had given her, and 
for the consequent happenings of that eventful night. 
But the story was too good to keep, and, fearing he might 
learn the truth from other lips than hers, and thereby 
regain the whip handle, as he would do, she decided to 
see him and allow him to apologise to his heart's content. 
So she summoned him to her presence ; and before they 
parted, she told him all. 

" And you will make me the happiest man on earth ? " 

" On one condition — on two," she answered. 

" Name them — they are granted." 

" That you will never, never again, give me an ulti- 
matum — and you won't punish that dear darky boy." 

" Wat I tell you 'bout Mars Henry dat night at de ball, 
w'en dem two gals giv' 'im de slip, en make 'em feel 
mighty humble like," was Aunty Martin's greeting to old 
Pete, as they again stood peering through the slats into 
the room where the happy pair were receiving the con- 
gratulations of their friends. 

" Well, it do seem like his ultermattumses didn't come 
round dat night somehow," softly returned old Pete, who, 
now that Miss Marie was to be his mistress, was for back- 
ing her up with the same ardour that had heretofore be- 
longed solely to Mars Henry, " but he most suttinly 
did make dem mules git 'long," he said, making his last 

But Aunty Martin had a prior claim on those girls, and 
she felt it to be her duty to give old Pete one more slap, 
so she said : — "He drive mules? Co'se he kin, 1 'low dat 
He even make your ole hoss mov* 'long 'sprisingly. Don't 
you talk to me t Human nater's thicker'en blood ; en you 
fin' me de man w'at kin drive the most stubbem's mules 
dat dare ebber wui, en right den an dar you got a man 
w'at's like a babe in dese yer two arms, w'en hit comes 
fer 'im to handle hi^h-spirited gals like dem two. I done 
had de spe'ance on it." 

Charles William Avtoh. 

Girls of the Beaux -Arts. — 
Ul Paris has been amused, and the 
roman -rightists duly horrified, at the 
ittitude of the male students of the 
^rench National School of Fine Arts 
o wards their recently, and some- 
what tardily, admitted sisters. The 
iioscile feeling generated by their 
presence has, we blush to say, led to much ungallantry, 
and, on several occasions, to miniature riots. The gitl- 
artist's lot at the Beaux-Arts is not a happy c ' 

hysterics are all butlepidemic. 

f r 


Let us live and die for Eve ! 

For love, torment sublime, /^^^ /A« 

Is the only dream we weave Frtnch 0/ 

That outlives time. ^ 

Mmy K. Daviy 

When on highways desolate, 
From snow-piled hearth we roam, 
Even mourning shall he/?/e, 
And exile, home ; 

Nor temptation, nor regret, 
ShaU earthly bliss alloy, 
Nor shall eyes with tears be wet, 
Except from joy. 

When she with golden hair, 
Or brunette pale as night, 
Whose fondest love we share, 
Laughs clear and bright. 

What profits talk of tombs 
After the dark night falls ? 
Where the mouldering ruin glooms, 
List, the dove calls ! 

From the sombre cypress glade. 
Mingling, in plaintive swell. 
Brightest hope with evening shade. 
Hear Philomel 1 

In the all engulfing grave. 
Glory 'dures perhaps a day ; 
Naught else survives, nothing save 
Love's potent sway. 


There ambition buried deep 
Of Death borrows this alone — 
Its long unremembering sleep 
Beneath the stone. 

Cold and narrow beds they seem, 
Damp the sod, far off the sky ; 
Yet there united lovers dream 
While time drifts by. 

Death's dark hour draws on apace, 
When in sealed oaken bier, 
One by one, there all the race 
Shall disappear. 

Swallowed in eternal night. 
Rose and star alike shall fade ; 
All things fair and pure and bright 
In earth be laid. 

Only kisses, honey-flame — 
Deepest draught or simple taste, 
Bitter, sweet, or without name, 
Impure or chaste — 

Burning with passion's fever. 
Or soul-wings brushing by — 
Twixt giver and receiver. 
Shall never die ! 


'* Ah, Love, could you and I with Fate conspire 
To change this sorry scheme of things entire, 
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then 
Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire." 

CH^HESE words from old Omar were in his mind as 
^^ he sat down in the little Caf(£, and leaning forward 
wearily, with his elbows on the table, lighted a 
cigar and gazed moodily about him. 

Across from where he sat, four people laughed and 
talked and opened wine, as if oblivious that sudi a thing 
as unhappiness existed. How he envied them. A man 
and a girl came in and seated themselves on his right. 
He watched the man as he helped the girl remove her 
coat, and noticed with a little pang how the man stealthily 
took the opportunity to let his face brush against her hair. 
How many times had he done the same thing when he 
had been with Her I He wondered if She ever came there 
now, and if so, who brought Her. How many times had 
they been in that little Caf6 together ! What good times 
had they had ! He wondered vaguely if She was as fond 
of broiled live lobster as She used to be. And if She 
still preferred Milwaukee lajg^er to musty ale. 

He had done everything in his power to forget Her ; he 
had dissipated in London ; gambled in Monte Carlo ; 
and champagne-supped in Paris — but to-night, his first 
night in Boston since the day when She had broken the 
engagement, he felt that the old love for Her was stronger 
than ever. 

It had been such a senseless affair, the breaking of the 
engagement — ^but She was very proud and had admitted 
of no explanations. He had been no worse than any 
young man about town. His acquaintance with the 
actress had dated long before he had met Her ; and he 
had at least been true to Her, from the moment he bad 
told Her that he loved Her, till Her sudden estrange- 
ment. The actress had been jealous of Her from the 
first. Then when the engagement was announced, he 
had broken from the actress entirely, put all the old 
thoughtless life behind him, and truly believed that it 
and the actress were done with. 

For six months he had been the happiest man in the 
whole world. He had loved Her with all the passion of 
which his warm Southern nature was capable. And She 
had loved him. He was sure of that. 


One night he got a letter, a pleading, heart-sick letter 
from the actress. She was ill, very ill, she had written, 
and never likely to be better. There was something she 
wished to say to him. Would he write and tell her he 
would come and see her — just one night? It would not 
harm him, and would do her infinite good. She would, 
in all truth, feel better able to die, if she could see him 
just once more. 

Filled with sudden pity for her, and greatly shocked at 
her illness, he had written her a little note, perhaps a 
trifle more affectionate than it absolutely need have been 
— but then, the actress was a dying woman — and told 
her that he would come and see her the next 

When the actress received this note, she had opened it 
slowly, read it carefully, and then smiled .... and 
promptly remailed it to Her. 

She had little known how complete her revenge 
would be. 

When he had called on Her the next day, She had re- 
fused to see him — returned him his ring and his letter to 
the actress, and ignored his presence the next time they 
had met. Then he had gone abroad and tried his best to 
forget Her And to-night, sitting in the Cafi^ where they 
two had enjoyed so many happy little dinners, he realised 
perhaps more forcibly than he had ever before that he 
still loved Her above all else on earth, and would so love 
Her to the end. 

He cursed himself for a fool, but he sadly realised that 
his return to Boston was due to the one fact that —She was 

He wondered where She was to-night. He had looked 
into Keith's, but the box She always had was empty. And 
now he had dropped in here, more from habit than any- 
thing else. Or was it in the hope that he might find Her 
here ? 

The people opposite had become almost hilarious, and 
they were still opening champagne. The couple at his 
right were talking in low tones, and the girl was looking 
at the man with a world of tenderness in her eyes. With 
a muttered curse, he shoved his chair back from the table, 
paid the waiter, and went out on the street. With quick 
strides he crossed the street by the Parker House, and 
walked on down by the Common and the Public Gardens. 
His heart was filled with bitterness and a fierce desire to 
see Her. He stopped finally in front of Her home. There 
were lights in Her room ; and in the parlour a subdued 
flicker gave evidence of an open fire. His pulse quickened 

Drawn iy Cml Li»din. 

F'tm B. B. Ff^tlberfi slatui in Iht 

SteeditA National Museum. 


as the shadowy outline of a girFs form was for a momciit 
silhouetted against the window curtain. 

He walked up and down a minute, and, in a sort of 
mechanical and foolish way, counted the cracks in the 
flagging of the walk. Then he went up the steps and rang 
the bell. 

After a moment, during which his heart beat hope- 
fully, a maid came to the door and took his card. She 
went away with it, only to return, in a few minutes, to 
say that She was not at home. Not at home ? The same 
old story ! The year he had been away hadn't changed 
things then. The hope that had filled his heart was gone, 
like a lamp blown out, and he went down the steps dazed 
and unstrung. Not at home ! It was all over. The longing 
that he had cherished secretly, almost unconsciously, was 
not to be satisfied. As he went toward his hotel he 
thought of many things. One thing he thought of made 
him laugh out loud ; but it wasn't a good laugh to hear. 

The next day a little scented envelope addressed to 
him arrived at his hotel. This was the message it con- 
tained : — 

"My Dearest Boy,— I was really, really out last night 
when you called. Will you come again to-night ? Oh, 
Jack, 1 have missed you so, and I know what it means 
now. Come to me to-night and I'll tell it all to you right 
in your arms. Come, Jack, I want you. — With all the 
love of my heart, Mary." 

But hope and courage had for ever de>erted him on the 
eve of victory. Upstairs, stretched across the bed, with 
the wintry sunshine streaming over the pillows, and a 
weary smile on his cold lips, Jack lay dead — a jest and 
victim of old Father Time. 

F. Ernest Holman. 


Across the furrowed pathway of the sea 

I sowed a crop of sand ; 
" Lo ! what a golden gathering there shall be 

When Harvest opes her hand ! " 
What my reward when reaping time had come ? — 
Only an empty store of wild sea-foam. 

Amid the azure pathway of the sky 

My store of tears I shed ; 
And cried, " There will fall star-gems by and by, 

A harvest from overhead ! " 
What drenched the barren earth and dreary plains ?- 
My salty tears, that fed the Autumn rains. 

Adown the fragrant pathway of the Spring 

Sweet roses did I strew ; 
With hopeful eye a happy garnering 

In Harvest-time 1 knew. 
What did I gain ? — whereat my soul yet grieves — 
A meagre pile of pale and mouldy leaves ! 

Fate ! ruler of griefs harvesting, despair, — 

Fate ! we have deified ; 
Tears evanescent, bhghted leaves and bare, 

Foam of the fleeting tide : 
These to thine altar, thine own choice, we bring — 
With satiate wrath accept the offering ! 

Kathleen Haydn Green. 


TAe Owl." 

^ ^^PROPOS of Mrs. Campbell's "Macbeth," the 
^/.. ^^tL following is an extract from a letter of Mrs. 

Siddons. She says : — 
"It was my custom to study my characters at night 
when all the domestic cares and business of the day 
were over. On the night preceding that on which I was 
to appear in the part for the first time, I shut myself up 
as usual when all the family were retired, and commenced 
my study of Lady Macbeth. As the character is very 
short I thought I should soon accomplish it. Being then 
only twenty years of age, I believed, as many others do 
believe, that little more was necessary than to ^et the 
words in my head ; for the necessity of discrimmation 
and development of character at that time of my life had 
scarcely entered into my imagination. But to proceed. I 
went on with tolerable composure in the silence of the 
night (a night I shall never forget) till I came to the 
assassination scene, when the horrors of the scene rose 
up to a degree that made it impossible for me to get 
further. I snatched up my candle, and hurried out of 
the room in a paroxysm of terror. My dress was of silk, 
and the rustling of it as I ascended the stairs to go to 
bed seemed to my panic-struck fancy like the movement 
of a spectre pursuing me. At last I reached my chamber, 
where I found my husband fast asleep. I clapped my 
candlestick down upon the table, without the power of 
putting it out, and I threw myself on the bed without 
daring to stay even to take off my clothes." 

A man is never a hero to his valet, nor, for thrt matter, 
is he an Apollo to his immediate family ; but exceptions 
will crop up now and again to prove these hard and fast 
rules. The most recent is furnished by a brother of Mr. 
Forbes Robertson, who does not admire the illustrious 
actor as Macbeth so ardently as in the rSie of Hamlet, 
because— the Thane gives him no opportunity of 
showing his magnificent profile. 

Miss Ellen Terry invariably wears her stage dresses 
trailing in front two or three inches beneath her feet, in 
order to "stretch grace as much as possible." This is 
one of the tricks of the trade, or rather the stage. 
Herein lies an infinitesimal part of her majestic length 



and graceful sweep. "It was no easy task," she was 
heard to remark, *' to learn to walk in them. I had many 
a stumble and many a tumble, before I mastered them to 
my satisfaction.*' 


Those who saw " Sans G^ne " were astonished to find 
the completeness of Sir Henry's disguise as Napoleon. 
There was so little of Irving, as his audiences knew him, 
about it. The reason, he explained, was that in all his 
other characters he moved his eyebrows — those character- 
istic eyebrows! Not so, however, as Napoleon. He 
made them up sharp and straight, to denote indomi- 
table determination, and they remained immovable 
throughout the impersonation. 

Sir Henry believes in hard work. No amount of 
pains, patience or trouble is too much for him where a 
result is aimed at. During rehearsals scenes are often 
repeated a score of times, which does not always please 
those who are not immediately concerned and conse- 
quently kept waiting. The members of the company 
claim to be able to discern in advance whether the 
rehearsal will be a short or long one. ** If,'' said one of 
them, " he arrives wearing a felt hat, we know it won't 
last long ; if a * topper ' we know what we're in for." 
What does Sherlock Holmes say to that ? 

The fire of genius is often accompanied by the fire of 
a furious temper ; but, when seriously ruffled, the Divine 
Sarah is snperb. Racked with passion, quivering with 
rage, she does not "break out," but turns her anger 
inwardly^ and lashes herself into repose. A triumph of 
subjugation 1 

o o o 

Charles Wyndham is 58 )rears old, and was bom at 
Liverpool. He studied medicine in Dublin. Later he 
went to America, and served in the medical department 
of the Federal Army during the Civil War of 186 1. He 
then joined Mrs. John Wood's company in New York, 
and on his first appearance (as I learn from one of 
our contemporaries) "dried up" with stage fright. 
''Dearest, I am drunk with that enthusiasm of love, 
which once in a lifetime fills the soul of man,'' was his 
line. " Dearest, I am drunk," was all he could say. 

At the Lyceum, London. The final chord 
THE LADY of introductory music, and total dark- 
MACBETH ^^ss ! A frightful crash ! (like an acci- 
nv TvrR<; ^^^^ ^^ ^^® property thunder) — ^a sug- 

ur MK^. gestion of light ;— three scarcely visible 

PATRICK creatures in nets, scudding about, ges- 

CAMPBELL. ticulating and chanting, unintelligibly, 

with comic effect; — total darkness again; 
a titter through the audience ; another accident to the 
property thunder ! and the first scene of " Macbeth" closes. 
Such is the representation of the three " secret, black, 
and midnight hags," which Shakespeare portrayed weird 
and gruesome, and over-production with distorted read- 
ings have made— fimny ; upon whose prophecies the 
audience are expected to believe that Macbeth and Lady 
Macbeth build their evil designs. Still more humorous 
are they in the second Heath scene, when Mr. Forbes 
Robertson makes his first entrance and at once creates a 
good impression as Macbeth, which he sustains through- 
out, adding to it by many masterly touches. He realises 
so satisfactorily the man who is '^ not without ambition 
but without the illness should attend it," that Mrs. 
Campbell is fortunate in the opportunity of playing the 
rS/e of Lady Macbeth — whose character is perhaps 
more important than that of her husband, constituting 
the most powerful agent of Destiny in encompassing 
his destruction, and, therefore, being to a great extent 
dependent upon the actor's conception of his part— to so 
excellent a Macbeth. 

As Mrs. Campbell enters, in the famous letter scene, 
she looks every inch Lady Macbeth. She reads the 
letter (unfortunately recalling those unconvincing witches) 
well, and expectation runs high ; but in the soliloquy 
which immediately follows, wherein she resolves upon 
the murder of Banquo, intuitively fears Macbeth's tenaer- 
ness of heart, and prays for his return, that she may 
chastise with the valour of her tongue all that impedes 
him from the golden round, her character appears to 
fade, and a strange elocution steps in to take its place, 
a sort of practised monotonic recitation of words of 
almost equal accent and equal duration. In the subse- 
quent assassination and other scenes this rhythmic 
beating constantly lecurs, ever reminding us that the 
text is written in blank verse, and making it so difficult 
for us to see before us the real Lady Macbeth. The 
sleep-walking scene, in which her lines are in prose, is 
well enough conceived, but, unfortunately, the monotone 


that she uses to represent the talk of sleep is so near like 
her rhythmic reading of blank verse that, relatively, it 
loses much of its value. 

In the "Second Mrs. Tanqueray," Mrs. Campbell 
was convincing. But then she was in a familiar 
atmosphere, wearing familiar dresses, and speaking a 
familiar language. When, however, she essays the rdUs 
of Shakespeare, and enters the domain of blank verse, 
the beauty of its rhythm seems to charm her to such an 
extent that she translates all her emotions into its music. 
There is always some controversy amongst actors as to 
what constitutes the best Shakesperian readings. Some 
contend, as, I understand, Mrs. Campbell does, that the 
accentuation of the metre should not be broken up by 
pauses, inflexions, or other considerations of, shall I say, 
Its prose meaning. Others, amongst whom I think I may 
include Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Beerbohm Tree, 
Forbes Robertson, Robert Taber, and Julia Arthur, strive, 
in different degrees, to make the rhythm judiciously sub- 
servient to the thought underlying the words. 

Mrs. Campbell's passion for the rhythm of blank verse 
is so ardent that she appears to have come to the belief 
that by these ten-feet cadences she can give to the gamut 
of emotion a higher expression, a higher meaning. She 
loves it to such an extent that, by accentuating, she leads 
us to the impression that Lady Macbeth also loved the 
rhythm of blank verse. In the same way, Banquo's ghost 
leads to the impression that Macbeth, in the figment of his 
imagination, sees the corpse decked out and swathed in 
netting- as if the pallid face and hands are not sufficient 
to excite supernatural dread. 

But Mrs. Campbell's standpoint commands respect and 
consideration. It is not in the spirit of finding fault that 
I write, so much as in the belief that, in bounding the 
music of Shakespeare within the nutshell limitations of 
blank verse rhythm^ she clips her interpretation of his 
characters of a world of possibilities. It is passing 
strange, too, that she should place these limitations upon 
the works of Shakespeare, the one man, above all, who, 
though he chose the form of blank verse to hold *' the 
mirror up to Nature" — in commonplace remarks, we 
often fall unconsciously to talking in blank verse — yet 
understood the music of all the spheres. 

Surely no one would suggest that Shakespeare, who 
regarded the stage as a world and the world as a stage, 
did not consider the rhythm of a pause, the rhythm of 
inflexion, the rhythm of silence, the rhythm of a look, the 
rhythm of a gesture, the rhythm of repose, the rhythm of 


action, the rhythm of thought, the rhythm of the elements, 
the rhythm of darkness, the rhythm of light, the rhythm of 
soul, the rhythm of all nature, but meant to confine his 
creations within the rhythm of 

Te-dee, te-dee, te-dee, te-dee, te-dee. 

The simple but impressive reading of Mr. Taber as 
Macduff, especially in the fourth act, when he is informed 
of the massacre of his wife and children, is very signi- 
ficant and instructive in this production-mad day, when 
actors rely so much lipon their surroundings for effects. 
The scene is merely an ordinary exterior " drop " in the 
first groove, and the audience is deeply moved and held 
by Mr. Taber's acting — the art, pure and unbolstered. 

My pencil was not pointed for a dissertation on this 
new elocution, but it crops up in almost every scene with 
one actor or another until it forces itself forward as the 
central distraction. It is not only popular but even 
cultivated, for have not Miss Georgina Thomas and 
master Garnet Vayne, the second and third apparitions, 
been coached into these faulty intonations ? Is it not 
obvious that the natural, simple, sad recitation of a child 
is more spirituelle than any monotonic moaning of man's 
teaching ? 

^ ^ ^ 

On October 28th, Mr. R. Wanamaker, the recently re-elected 
President of the American Art Association of Paris, was 
tendered a fieirewell reception by its members on the occasion 
of his approaching departure for America. 

The menu, in colours, by Mr. E. S. Crawford, which appears 
in our present number, was one of the exchange menus at the 
last Thanksgiving Banc^uet of the Association, and was selected 
as a present to the President, by whose courtesy it is reproduced. 


Ah, no I we will not foolish be ; 
If thy love be denied to me, 
If my love be denied to thee, 

Tis better far that nre should part ; 
Though Eros wound us with his dart, 
The balm of time will heal the smart. 

And, in the future, we shall see 
The wisdom of the stem decree 
That brought such pain to ihee and me. 

John E. Ellam. 

II. — The Cornhill Magazine. 

aNDER the editorship of Thackeray, this magazine 
published by Smith Elder and Co., made its firs 
appearance in January, i86a After the first 
instalment of " Framley Parsonage," an article on " The 
Chinese and the Outer Barbarians '' claims our attention. 
As an exposition and criticism of the policy of the day 
regarding the East, the paper possesses ccMisiderable 
interest, and the following parag^ph, in view of recent 
events, is worth quoting : — " We cannot afford to over- 
throw the government of China. Bad as it is, anarchy 
will track its downfall, and the few elements of order 
which yet remain will be whelmed in a convulsive desola- 
tion." The next two contributions are the first chapter 
of " Lovel the Widower," by the Editor, and " Studies in 
Animal Life." After this we have Father Prout*s 
" Inaugurative Ode to the Author of Vanity Fair." The 
first stanza gives a fair idea of the whole : — 

Ours is a faster, quicker age : 
Yet erst at Goldsmith's homely Wakefield Vicarage, 
W^le Lady Blarney, from the West End, glozes 

'Mid the Primroses, 

"Fudge 1 " cries Squire Thornhilt., 
Much to the wonder of young greenhorn MosKS. 

Such word of i>com ill 
Matches the " Wisdom Fair " thy whim proposes 

To hold on Cornhill. 

These witty verses are followed by an article on " Our 
Volunteers " ''A Man of Letters of the Last Generation^ 
is an interesting paper on Leigh Hunt. Hunt was above 
all a pleasant writer. In his essays we find a delightful 
spirit of keen enjoyment of the little things of life. He 
gossips about a variety of subjects — books, flowers, 
breakfast in summer, sleep, love, etc — in a manner which 
suggests that he must have been something of a philo- 
sopher in his own way. But he did not content himself 
with writing in this style alone, for, together with his 
brother John, he spent two years in prison for printing 
in his paper, Tht Examiner^ a very plain-spoken article 
on the Prince Regent. Touching on The Kxaminer^ we 
will digress to quote our author : — ** It was established 
with little premeditation, a literary ambition, and the 
hope of realising a modest wage for the work done. It 
found literature (poetry especially) sunk to the feeblest, 


tamest, and most artificial of graces — the reaction upon 
the long-felt influence left by the debauchery of the 
Stuarts and the vulgarer coarseness of the early Georges/' 
There can be no doubt but that Hunt, in The Exafntnety 
and in its successors. The Reflector^ IndiccUor and TcUler^ 
influenced for good both the general tone and the inde* 
pendence of literature. "His public conduct, his devo- 
tion to truth, whether in politics or art, won him admi- 
ration and illustrious friendships. In a society of many 
severed circles he formed one centre, around which were 
gathered Lamb, Oilier, Barnes, Mitchell, Shelley, Keats, 
Byron, Hazlitt, Blanchard, Forster, Carlyle, and many 
more. .... Few essayists have equalled, or ap- 
proached, Leigh Hunt in the combined versatility, 
invention, and finish of his miscellaneous prose- 
writings ; and few, indeed, have brought such varied 
sympathies to call forth the sympathies of the reader 
— and always to good purpose — in favour of kind- 
ness, of reflection, of natural pleasures, of culture, and 

of using the available resources of life 

He vindicated human right against official wrong, and 
suffered imprisonment and denunciation more bitter than 
that poured on Shelley, whose political vindication burst 
forth with such a torrent of eloquence and imagination in 
the ' Revolt of Islam.' .... In society, Leigh Hunt 
was ever the perfect gentleman, not in the fashion, but 
always the scholar and the noble-minded man." 

An article on ** The Search for Sir John Franklin '' ; 
a poem entitled "The First Morning of i860"; and 
No. I of the " Roundabout Papers " complete the number. 
In this last paper are a few words about the magazine 
itself : — "Our Comhill Magcusine owners strive to 
provide thee with facts as well as fiction ; and though it 
does not become them to brag of their ordinary, at least 
they invite thee to a table where thou shalt sit in good 
company. That story of the Fox was written by one 
of the gallant seamen who sought for poor Franklin 
under the awful Arctic Night ; thiat account of China is 
told by the man of all the empire most likely to know of 
what he speaks ; those pages regarding Volunteers come 
from an honoured hand that has borne the sword in a 
hundred famous fields, and pointed the British guns in 
the greatest siege in the world." 

It is not too much to say that the successive conductors 
of the magazine have adhered closely to the principles 
thus duly set forth in the first number. 

E. H. MoYLE Cooper. 



The annual elections at the American Art Association of 
Paris have taken place, and the result duly appears in the card 
of the Association in our advertisement pages. We certainly 
may congratulate the Association on its new roster of officers. 

The Association, as all in Paris know, was the debating 
ground of a furious and long-standing fight this past year, which 
sprang up over The Quartier Latin, and culminated in a 
series of meetings in which our friend the enemv was utterly 
and hopelessly thrashed, beaten and squashed— with two votes 
of the entire assembly of members to his credit. In view of the 
result, it is somewhat amusing to say that our enemy was the 
instigator and caller of these meetings. The club, split into 
factions over the -troubles referred to, might have sufiered 
material damage had not the exploitation of the whole matter, 
and a searching investigation, thrown the entire weight of the 
sentiment of the members into one scale of the balance, and 
averted the prophesied crash. The recent elections were the 
tidal wave after the storm, and have swept away the last vestige 
of the old; distressful order of things. 

Although this affair at the Association vitally concerned the 
magazine, and had become public property through the medium 
of the Paris press, we have refrained, so far, from making any 
comment, or giving any account. We offer our good wishes to 
the new officers, and hope them a prosperous administratioiL 
In doing .so, however, we must state that — perhaps as an 
inevitable outcome of the desperate struggle in which reputa- 
tions and interests were so deeply involved — there is, still, an 
undercurrent of bitter feeling among certain of the members, 
who believe that the Association's lenient and kindly efforts at 
effacing - spots with whitewash have transgressed the bounds of 
its dignity. By the palliative and apathetically-sweet policy 
that that insitution has adopted towards the unsuccessful few 
who were the cause—and head and front — of all this wrong and 
commotion, encouragement is given to further disturbances. 

The friends of the Association, however, should feel no 
concern at this flare-up in their midst. Where, may we ask, is 
the club free from rows and ructions of one sort or another? 
Societies composed of artists are notoriously given over to 
rioting and revolutions, owing to the high-strung nature of the 
members, and their strongly-felt, but often divergent ideas. The 
highest. art clubs of France are stirred up at times with internal 
disorders. And even those greatest of art associations — the two 
Salons — are no exception to the rule. The New Salon, in 
fact, owes its very existence to a secession of members from 
the Old. The American Art Association has, in the sum total, 
made enviable progress since its foundation : and under the 
presidency of Mr. Rodman Wanamaker has taken its rank among 
the leading art institutions of Europe. In saying this, the 
whole matter is summed up. 

Deii^neJ ij- E. S. Craiaford 


Drawn ly Ethel K. Burgtii 

Artistic Posters, 



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LIFE ■:- <■ 





ft DUANE St. 



8 r. HALilVY 


Vhe @uartier Icatin 


Ctaitr .... Alfrrd Garth Jonbs 


{dnming\ Charles Pbars 
7T*« P^chalagieal 

Moment. . . R. DouciAS Masson 
Tit Last Cllauc 

{drawing) . . D. C. CaltMROP 

An Appreciation {potm) ff. A. Robinson 

Thf Weird Musician {drmnng) . . Philip Conkarp 

AthinI [potm ) H. Hedi>ERWICK Browns 

At the Boulevard A .... Maudb Stbbnbr 

Illustratiaus A. Cami'bkll Cross 

Ckrittmas in Unkall^vtd Prtnncts . Horacb W. C. Nbwtb 

In a Paris Cafl (draain^ . . . Ernest Haskbll 
" fVhy so palt and -man, fond 

LffiKr?" {draming] ALFRED G. Jonbs 

/n /At H'aodland {drawing) ... J- J. GOTHRIE 

A Bundit of Lttttrs {eontinucd) . . Mary Kbecan 

Afier tie iirvict {drimins) ■ ■ - J. S. Goriwn 

Saint Ignatius {fotm) Wm. Thio. Pbters. 

Tie Serenade {drawing) W. E. Webster 

Ciristmas Books 

Alfred Garti Jones" " MiUon" . . 

In Sock and Buskin "The Owl" 

Mr. Wyndhain in "The Jest" 

{drawingi G. O. Onions 

ITu Incnius Madde BATransiiALL 

Tie Tempest {drawing) A. Lewis 

In Paris {stetci) A. RouBILLE 

Noc/ume CHARLES Pbars 

A IVindy Day {drawing) . . . . W. E. WiOFULL 

Migneaetle {ViilanelU) St. George Bksi' 

List of Designers of AdvtrtisemeMs 

Pete itictnUioo, and inillal, b, J. J., Pltilip Ct-nmrd. If. E. IVicfMI. lie. 


CVHE Blas^ Poet felt that he had dined very well 

^^ indeed. The wine — good old claret — he could 

aver, had been really remarkable, and that last 

cup of coffee had positively marked an epoch in his career. 

Valentine, his host, certainly knew a good cigarette 

The Blas^ Poet went into the garden. "Hideous 
statuary 1 Vile masonry ! ^ the poet denounced it all ; 
spat metaphorically at a brazen Venus ; and at the absurd 
heroics of an apoplectic gentleman called Achilles he 
discharged epigrams. *' Caricatures," quoth he, shaking 
an admonitory finger at a shapeless mass of stone that 
tried hard to look like Apollo, "however happily they 
misinterpret their prototypes, are not the proper embellish- 
ments for a garden. 

The stars were so splendid, that the Blas^ Poet 
became, for the moment, positively reconciled to Nature, 
and did them honour in a stanza of his own composition. 
Moreover, he addressed a stirring quatrain to the moon ; 
but the majestic Luna evidently thought little of his 
rhymes, for she steered her silver course unemotionally 
through space — in maiden-meditation, £uicy-free. 

A slight cough warned him that he was not alone in 
the garden. Advancing, he beheld the Dear Creature — 
sitting in solitude. She made room for him. 

"How long you men take over your coffee ! I preferred 
the stars to scandal in the dravang-room, and came here 
to spend an hour with them." 

" The stars to scandal ! " The poet affected concern. 
" My dear madam," he remonstrated. 

"Oh !" said the Dear Creature, "I heard you acclaiming 
them not a moment since. What a lovely night ! I 
thought you didn't care for Nature." 

" Oh, the stars are ri^ht enough ! " unpoetically 
returned the poet. " Valentine keeps an excellent ckef^ 
he added, with a reminiscent glow. 

" Do you believe," asked the Dear Creature, " in the 
transmigration of souls ? " 

" I would prefer," replied the Blas^ Poet, conscious of 
a sudden tightness at tne chest, " to believe in the trans- 
migration of livers. But what a question, madam ! " 

" You have not answered it, sir," was the response. 

The Blas^ Poet reflected. "The Dear Creature," 
thought he, " clearly inclines to sentiment." He scanned 
her obliquely. Certainly she was still beautiful ; beautiful 
with a cosy, conventional, almost suburban beauty. The 


moon had just emerged from the shadow of a mountain- 
ash, and gave her the full benefit of its silver charm. The 
years had dealt very kindly with the Dear Creature, and 
what light blows Time had dealt, her artifice had cunningly 
concealed. The Blasi Poet knew that she was painted ; 
but then there was something intensely fascinating about 
painted faces. Rouge had for him all the sparkle and in- 
consequence of champagne. He was sure she was not a 
day over thirty ; and he, blas^ one, had scarcely left his 
teens. He thought it would be very delightful to be 
sentimental with the Dear Creature, and sound the 
harmonies of her Philistine soul. Dear little worldly 
widow ! how alluringly sweet she looked in the moonlight ! 
Yes, certainly he would honour her with an affaire. 

The Blasi Poet descended from otiose heights — the 
moment his feet touched earth he became the Animated 
Young Man 

Slowly, at length, the Animated Young Man repeated 
the question, ''Do I believe in the transmigration of 
souls r" For a moment he reflected; then, bending 
eagerly forward, he answered, " Yes, madam, I think I 
do. Hitherto I have avoided the subject, as being too 
hackneyed to admit of serious consideration ; but when 
the question is breathed from such lips as yours, how 

could it seem ? You were not happy with your first 

husband, madam ? '' 

" Poor Charles ! Alas, no ! I married his guineas." 

" Then you have never loved ? Now, love is the great 
transmigrator. Between those who love, and love truly, 
reciprocally, there is a rapid and constant interchange 
of soul ! The soul, passing from the one body to the 
other, thriUs the blood and inflames the senses so 

that " The Animated Young Man paused, gazing 


" You are very young," said the Dear Creature gently. 

"In years, madam, — in years," he corrected her. 

" But you do not allow the question sufficient scope." 

'You mean that transmigration is not confined to 
mortals only ? " 

" Yes, child," assented she. 

He interpreted the maternal appellation in a sense 
favourable to the emotions which the moonlight, and 
possibly the claret, had created. Drawing imperceptibly 
nearer to the Dear Creature, he continued — " In life 
transmigration is possible only between mortals. After 
death, it may be, the soul will grow up symbolical of the 
human body whence it derived existence. Consequently, 
the virgin soul will realise its purity in the pale petals of 


the lily ; the sensuous will blossom into scarlet orchids ; 
and the souls of all the Philistines will count themselves 
countless in the green and yellow of pumpkins and 
water-melons, while the choicer spirits embrace the 

rarer blossoms. But " But the Dear Creature was 

hiding her smiles behind a tiny lace-fringed handkerchief. 
A faint odour of opoponax pervaded her vicinity. The 
Animated Young Man sighed deeply. 

^ I think/' said he, *' that women are quite incapable of 
love; they have sentimental attachments, but never 
experience anything akin to passion." 

The Dear Creature sighed deeply. " Have you found it 
so?" she asked. 

" I speak as a student of metaphysics," he answered. 
" Tell me, madam, have you ever loved — really loved ? " 

Again the Dear Creature sighed. " May I confide in 
you?'* she asked. 

He seized her hand and pressed it eagerly. "• Madam — 
Gwendoline — let me call you Gwendoline — I am all 
sympathy ; tell me everything." 

The Dear Creature rose. "Not now," she said, 
smoothing out her skirt. " I was going to tell you about 
your uncle, Lord Croesus ; he proposed to me this 
morning. 1 know that he's sixty if he's a day — ^but he 

has money. I thought, perhaps, you might how very 

late it's getting ; it would never do for us to be discovered 
here. But, of course, you're quite harmless, and I'm old 
enough to be your mother." 

" Never, madam ! " replied the B/as/ Poet gallantly. 

" Won't you call me Gwendoline ? " bantered the Dear 
Creature, as she tripped across the garden. 

The B/as/ Poet looked up. Immediately above him, 
half hidden among shrubbery, stood a hideously de- 
formed little cupid. The thing's hands ^^rasped a tiny 
bow, the cord of which was slack, intendmg, doubdess, 
to convey the impression that Love's messenger had just 
been loosed. And, as the B/as/ poet looked, it seemed 
to grin. 

R. Douglas Masson. 


Drawn ly Dion Claylon Callhraf 


I never have seen the man in the moon — he isn't 

there, I swear, 
But whenever 'tis full I plainly see a girl with out- 

streaming hair — 
A girl with vaporous skirts spread wide, like a dancer 

poised, I see. 
And as I look up at her ladyship, she laughs and 

looks down at me. 

Oh ! she must be lonely dancing there, alone through 

the endless years, 
With the little stars to peep at her, and the music of 

the spheres 
To time her delicate, airy steps, while the sound of the 

wind and rain 
Tones deep and dull — she can hear it there — like a 

bass to the starry strain. 

Majestic music, methinks too grand, too vast for the 
little girl, 

Who looks to me of a moonlight night with her thin 
grey skirts awhirl, 

Till I feel sometimes she is very fain on a clear 
moonbeam to slide 

Down a-down till she found the Earth, and — ^a wel- 
come at my side. 

For who in the world has ever marked my dancer up 

in the sky, 
Or gazed amazed at her magic grace and her dainty 

pose, but I? 
The time has been surely over-long, and centuries 

have rolled. 
But fresh is she — ay, warm and young, when all's 

grown dead and cold. 

And the Earth is waning— ^ojj/, too— and the old sun 

waxeth chill ; 
The man in the moon is a dreamer's dream, but the 

dancer danceth still. 
So I like to think that she feels, at last, the thrill of 

applauding hands, 
And her thousand years' deferred "Encore" — and I 

know she understands. 

ff. A. Robinson. 



Give me thy lips, for, oh, my soul's athint, 
And at Love's fountain, sweet, I &in would drink. 

What tho* the cheating draught should be accuist? 
And Death himself lurk at the niddy brink? 

I (car him not, for Death is not Life's worst. 

Give me thy lips, and even as I drain 

The dregs of death, look in mine eyes with thine, 
And crush me to thy breast despite the pain ; 

And let no tears dilute the strong rare wine 
While its sweet poison steals o'er heait and brain. 

M. Hedderwick Browne. 

By miif CnrnmrJ 

1 rigutly wb)- Beryl had d> 

GVHERE are twelve studios in the Boulevard A— 
^^ up near the Lion de Belfort, in the Latin t 
Quarter. ' 

One passes a high while wall, with "defins£ (Pafficher" 
upon it, enters at a little plain door, [lainted green, and 
on the other side is the usual flawed courtyard ; the 
usual drab and valuable, but calmly irresponsible 
fonaerge ; the usual pump, black with age and covered 
with ivy, and—an unusual garden. Most people take 

the studios in the Boulevard A because they cannot 

resist the garden. 

Fancy to yourself hollyhocks and marigolds, stock 
and mignonette, roses, wallflowers, purple pansies, 
poppies, all jumbled together in one blazing mass of 
colour; and place in the path that divides it, the figure of 
a girl in a white frock— Nan iche, perhaps, with a green 
sunshade ; her half — her charming, lank, unruly hair-r- 
straggling down either side of her face. Then considtjr 
that you are an artist "tt violA tout," as Naniche herself 

There is an intoxicating, ambition-stirring odour — a 
mixture of oil paint and plaster, turjientine and JixaHf~ 
permeating the court, especially in the Spring-time, which 
is also Salon time ; a reminder that there are great 
pictures to be painted, great statues to be modelled, 
great lives to be lived. Then it is that the boys go out 
on the Boul' Mich' and buy Braun photographs of the 
Masters, and casts of Donatello, and despair and an 
happy by turns, the way people with nice artistic tempera- 
ments should be. 

Bui, on the whole, ihey are a very decent lot — the men 

in the studios at the Boulevard A . At least, Nanichb 

says so — and Naniche knows. 

The series of little stories to follow, some grave, some 
gay, gathered from each door in passing to and fro 
through the courtyard, are merely impressions, jotted into 
an idler's notebook, during a happy year spent in this 
Bohemian abode. 


Studio No. I. 

Beryl occupies Che first studio to the right of the 
Archway. His full name is Bertram Ackroyd Beryl, 
but He has been rechristened " Ce petit Babs" by 
the fellows, chiefly, I believe, because he stands six 
feet one in his stockings. He is far and away the 
best painter in the court ; and for this, and one or two 
other reasons besides, Naniche adores him. 

So, when he fell in love with the Princess and dro[^ied 
the capital A from Art, for the time being, Naniche wept, 
and posed badly — that is to say, nervously — for the life 

This was as unpardonable as it was unprecedented. 
Then the Salon loomed in the distance, and every one 
began to compose great pictures — to be hung on the line 
or "skied" as the case might be— excepting Beryl He 
was driving in the Bois, and making stupid, unwwkman- 
like little sketches of the Princess. His attention was 
claimed by balls and the opera, and various other 
frivolous diversions, which are the special prerogative ot 

Princesses from the Champs Elys^es, and not of hard- 
working artists of the Latin Quarter. Naniche did not 
understand this ; but she did know that it was barely 
three months to the first of May, and that on the first of 
May the exhibition of the Champ de Mars opens. 


She also knew that U takes more than '- 
three months to paint a good picture, and 
more than ten to paint a great one. A 
"great work" was therefore out of the 
question, but Naniche had flilly made up 
her mind that Beryl should follow up his 
" mention " of last year with a " second 
medal " at the very least— and the Princess 
interfered materially with her plans. Naniche 
does not allow anybody to interfere with her j 
pl^s. Her attitude towards the boys at ) 

the Boulevard A is of a somewhat ( 

ntaternal character, and she therefore excused 
Beryl's filings, and, woman-like, allowed the fury of her 
wrath to concentrate upon the unconscious and, for that 
reason, defenceless head of the Princess. She sulked and 
was silent — to the dis^^ust of Van Camp, who, attempting 
to paint her as an ambitious, and (he said) entirely ongiral 
conception of the Lady of ShaloCi, found that Naniche, 
for the first time in his experience, did sot readily adapt 
herself to his idea. 

^Vhen the first of March arrived, and the big square 
canvas still stood untouched in the middle of Beryl's 
studio, a desperate resolve was bom, and grew apace in 
Naniche's breast. 

This might have proved interesting, had it been put 
into execuiion ; but, unfortunately, or fortunately, some- 
thing happened which, rendering urmecessaiy her bolder 
plan of action, answered her purpose as well- 
It befell that the Princess, bored to extinction, took it 
into her charming head to visit Beryl's studio without 
warning. She was a wilful young person, and she was 
sick of the regulation red-carpet, flower-strewn pomp 
and circumstance which generally is the fate of^little 
deities like henelf. 

Some one had told her that studios were — well — 
amusing, if you surprised them in all their primitive 
Latin Quarter Bohemianism. Of course, they didn't 

mean studios like those in the Boulevard A , which 

are quite staid and proper, and sufiiciendy dull ; but the 
Princess was not aware of the 6ne distinction which 
divides things in the Latin Quarter, any more than she 
was capable of taking Beryl seriously, or realising that 
a portrait migl^ have a value, apart Iroro its flattery or 
injustice to her particular sel£ 

She arrived — an awe-inspiring personage, clad in a 
Long black gown, and a hat with waving plumes, and 
leaning gracefiiUy upon an ebon Directoire slick, nobbed 


in gold — at a moment when, providentially, Beryl was 
out ! More providentially still, she was received by 
Naniche herself, who had just come across with a 
message from Van Camp for '*Ce petit Babs." 

Naniche wore the green velvet gown in which she had 
been posing, and her head was bound by a gold chain, 
through which her hair straggled picturesquely. When 
the Princess announced herself, she smiled with malicioos 
triumph. We all fight our enemies best on our own 

Naniche bowed gravely, and seated herself in Beryl's 
big Dutch armchair, indicating the divan for Madame la 
Princesse with an air which distinctly amused Her Serene 
Highness, who had inherited slightly radical tendencies 
from an American mother. 

She said, " You are M. Beryl's model, are you not ? " 

" I am," answered Naniche calmly. 

'* Ah ! " said the Princess pleasantly, but in the tone of 
one bom to command, " Then — since M. Beryl is away — 
you shall show me M. Beryl's things." 

There was a pause. 

Naniche felt that it was not a moment too soon, at this 
point, to inform her ladyship that there are some things 
that must, to a certain extent, always remain closed 
books to princesses —work, and good art, and other trifles 
of that sort, for instance. 

She sat forward in her chair, i>ushed back her hair 
impatiently, and eyed the Princess with a stare of dignified 
superiority. Then she began hurling " home trudis " at 
the Princess in a manner which, if not exactly tactfiil, was 
at any rate decidely effective — and unpleasant 

The Princess raised her head, and stared at Naniche 
— but said nothing. 

Naniche was very simple. Her remarks all tended to 
convey to the Princess the fact that Beryl was a genius, 
and that his friends expected much from him, and hoped 
much for him. If he dropped his work to admire the 
Princess, she explained, he would fall out of the race, 
and be lost, and that would break their hearts — ^Van 
Camp's, and Castillion's, and the Rivingtons', and — 
hers— because they were proud, unspeakably proud of 
" Ce petit Babs." 

She said a great deal more, but it all resolved itself 
ultimately into a very obvious and direct accusation, that 
the Princess was wasting Beryl's time ! 

When she had finished she rose, and led the Princess 
round the studio, showing her Beryl's studies, his land- 
scapes, the picture commended by the great L , his 


portrait of Lady Parkwell, which had created such a stir 
at the Royal Academy the y^ear before, and his *' mention " 
Salon picture of the same time. 

And the Princess compared with them the trivial 
little sketches Beryl had made of her, and marvelled, 
almost sadly. 

What she said to Naniche was : — 

''You have courage, mademoiselle !'' 

Naniche shrugged her shoulders expressively and 
answered that " she didn't count." 

Her tone suggested that Madame la Princesse did not 
count either, beside such a gigantic calamity, as Beryl's 
failure to appear in the Salon. Her words carried con- 

" Madame la Princesse," she said, " does not under- 
stand. It is not to be supposed that Madame la Prin- 
cesse should." 

Whereupon the Princess smiled brilliantly and touched 
the ends of her feather boa with her slim black-gloved 

She was a very spoiled Princess, and the truth amused 
her, simply because she hadn't heard it as often as you 
and I have. 

What moved her to cross the studio, place her hands 
lightly on Naniche's shoulders, and look down into 
Naniche's eyes is not clear. 

" I believe," she said softly, " that you love him — you 
little model-girl." 

Naniche returned the Princess's gaze steadily for a 
second, forgetting the Serene Highness part of it all, and 
remembering only that she was a woman, that the 
Princess was a woman, and that explanations were un- 
necessary. It was she ^ho drew away eventually ; 
but the hardness had gone out of her eyes, and she 
smiled honestly, and shrugged her shoulders again. 
She was thinking what she would do with her spoils. 

The Princess drew her boa closely around her neck 
and stood up straight. Her eyes were bright, and her 
voice sounded designedly clear, to hide the tremor, which 
would not be entirely concealed. She stood considering 
Naniche for a second thus ; and Naniche, watching her in 
all her beauty and her charm and pride of race, under- 
stood vaguely why Beryl had deserted Art — with a big A 
— for her. 

The lady bent her head, thoughtfully contemplating 
the point of her patent shoe tip, upon the polished 

'* The strange part of it is," she said nodding her head 


and Speaking as thoueb she were merely finishmg a 
sentence instead of a thought, " that 1 beiieve yoo are 
right." She broke off smiling, "It was courageous of you 
to teU m& I like courage." 

" Why ? " said Naniche. 

" Oh ! because I do," said Madame la Princesse. 

Then she moved slowly across the floor witb her 
trailing draperies, her Directcnre slick, and her head held 

But at the door she turned ^ain and smiled back at 

" Listen," she said ; " 1 promise ^ou that he shall not 
waste any more of his precions time driving, frivolling, 
idling with me. The Marquis" — as if speakmg to her- 
self — " will do very well for that, and your M. BeryL 
with his grand talent, shall paint, paint, paint, all 
the time ; and then you will be satisfied. Is it not so? 
I— I wilt do this myself." She laughed gleefully. " It is 
good of me, because the Marquis is stupid, and )-our 
Beryl he amused me— but, as you say, the Salon must 
have him this year, and we do not count." 

Before Naniche could speak she had pushed open the 

door and disappeared, and a moment later Naniche 

heaid the wheels of her carriage roll away down the 


Afterwards, the Princess wrote Beryl a charming note, 

a note quite gracious, courteous, fascina- 

FtTMceSbE. ting— the sort that princesses know best 

k — »« ..™.;.- ii conveyed to him, with 

listakable stamp of finality, 

must not come to see her 

any more. Beryl swore, 

and sulked, by turns, ftir 

four days exactly ; then lie 

painted his Salon picture. 

The funny part of it was 

that he thought the credit 

of painting it belonged to 


M.*UDE Sterner. 


" TW ^^' HASTINGS''' guests had eaten their 

XyJL Christmas dinner, decorously, if a trifle dully. 
Lillie Grover, a member of the Frivolity 
Chorus, who prided herself on her intimacy Mnth the habits 
of society, after surveyin^^ the bronzed faces, the glazed 
linen of the men ; the pamted faces, the exposed persons 
of the women, declared to her neighbour that the com- 
pany might almost be mistaken for the real thing. 

The men, excepting a couple of stray stockbrokers, 
were, by birth, irreproachable. Elsie Hastings attracted 
to her table the smartest men that frequented similar 
gatherings. Her refinement, her prettiness of manner, 
her sequence of moods, fascinated them. 

One of these, as a means of escape from her mode of 
life, had once offered her marriage. Elsie's heart was so 
moved by such exceptional chivalry that, though in 
refusing she lost a possibility of life-long happiness, she 
felt such a lover deserved a better mate than her soiled self. 

When Lillie Grover heard of this abnegation, she forgot 
the restraints imposed by good society, and used strong 
language in denouncing what she called Elsie's — pig- 
head edness. 

To-night Elsie was not her usual self. She was sad in 
demeanour, absent-minded when addressed. Her guests 
rallied her on her low spirits. 

The day had certainly commenced inauspiciously. 

She had expected a remembrance from her latest 
admirer. It had not arrived. But such depression was 
not to be accounted for by a trifling disappomtment. 

She shared with her guests ignorance of its cause. 
While the men dawdled over their cigars and stories, the 
conversation in the drawing-room was sufficiently futile 
to rival that of the aristocratic womenkind pertaining to 
Elsie's men guests. 

Excepting Lillie, no one made pretence of entertaining 
her neighbour. They waited, their feet supported by 
chairs — heavy with food, flushed with wine, over-dressed, 
audacious with jewels. They were reserving their spon- 
taneity for the men. 

Now and again they alternated an undisguised yawn 
with mysterious toilette rites, performed with a tiny hand- 
mirror and powder-puff. These, when not in use, were 
concealed in the depths of apparently inaccessible 


Those who listened to Miss Grover heard her reprove 
a fellow-chorister, who that evening made her ddbut into 
this particular set, for drinking her coffee while the spoon 
lingered in the cup. She was then heard haranguing^ a 
redundant-figured lady, who called herself Mademoiselle 
Something, but who had been domiciled in London long 
enough to acquire a Cockney accent. *' I'm sick of 
French cooking," said Lillie, "and for a whole week, 
when nine o'clock, the latest fashionable dinner-hour, 
came round, I merely had a couple of cutlets sent up to 
my boudoir on a silver dish." 

Elsie had luxuriously nestled herself on a rug before 
the fire. She was intent in the fascinating pastime of 
watching the kaleidoscope presented by the glowing 
coals. Now and again she would stifle a sigh, a form of 
emotion she had long been a stranger to. To dissipate her 
increasing melancholy, her glance lingered on the luxu- 
riousness of her drawing-room. Then she shut her eyes 
and contrasted this with the crowded workroom, the 
scanty food, the shabby finery peculiar to the days when 
she came to London to relieve her parents of the burden 
of her support. 

She counted in her mind girls of her acquaintance who 
had died from diseases primarily caused by the atmo- 
sphere of that workroom — ^a contingency provided against 
by legislation, but evaded by the German employer, who, 
knowmg to the minute the time of the inspection, ii'as 
enabled to make her dispositions accordingly. 

True, her opulence was purchased by a life that had 
many disadvantages. But when she gave this matter 
thought, she consoled herself by the trite reflection that 
millions of better women openly sell themselves, the sale 
being dignified with the title of marriage. 

Though Elsie could congratulate herself on the im- 
provement in her material surroundings, the conviction 
did not relieve the depression that afflicted her. More 
than once her mind was inclined to wander to days before 
' she came to London, more especially to celebrations of 

But these vagaries were restrained with a determination 
that, though requiring considerable effort, had so often 
been performed that its action was automatic. Even the 
striking of an eight-day clock that decorated a comer of 
her room failed to soothe her, this being a form of consola- 
tion that had secured it a place in her favorite apartment. 
She was shaken from her reverie by the welcome that 
greeted the longed-for entrance of the men. 

A magician's wand had been waved in Elsie's drawing- 

Dravm by EratU HOiktll 


room. Boredom and ennui had surrendered to pretty 
petulance and animated conversation. 

Music was suggested. Mademoiselle of the redundant 
charms sang a chansonette in cockney French. She accom- 
panied herself. This was fairly accurate in the earlier 
part of the song, but wavered considerably towards the 
termination. The concluding stanzas were sung to a 
single chord. The audience had heard the song before. 
They talked during its performance and applauded its 

The efforts of each performer were similarly welcomed. 
When it came to Miss Graver's turh. she protested that 
to talk during music was latterly considered the very 
worst of bad form. This silenced her hearers for the two 
first lines of her ballad. 

The conversation that ensued was interrupted by the 
entrance of a servant with glasses and decanters. The 
women heaved a sigh of relief. The men lit cigarettes. 
A youth in mixing a brandy and soda for Lillie G rover 
asked her how much minerad water she preferred. ''What 
is usual for a lady, of course," she snapped. 

More songs followed, chiefly recruited from the music- 
hall. Elsie's guests joined in the chorus in proportion to 
their acquaintance with the words. In these the stray 
stockbrokers were specially proficient. 

Elsie meantime, in the words of one of her guests, ''took 
rather a back seat." Never before had the inanity of the 
music-hall melodies, the vulgarity of the rhymes, the 
staleness of their subjects, been so glaring. Her guests 
annoyed her. If they had left at Ave mmutes' notice, 
she would have been filled with delight. She was 
in the mind to take them by the shoulders and bundle 
them from the room. Once she almost shrieked aloud. 
The evening had got on her nerves. The glasses were 
replenished. The women lit cigarettes. Some one 
happened on a box of crackers. Laughter alternated 
with the feminine shriek of fright incidental to the pulling 
of these. The men and the women rakishiy wore the 
paper caps furnished by the crackers. The glasses were 
replenished for the third time. 

Games were proposed. 

Games were highly popular in the best sets, com- 
mented Miss Grover. Games were played. They com- 
menced with Consequences. The risqtU complications 
induced by the fertile imaginations of Elsie's guests 
excited shouts of laughter. Consequences made way for 
Hunt the Slipper. This in turn surrendered to Hide 
and Seek. Elsie excused herself on the score of head- 


ache. She still sat with a cigarette in her hand she had 
forsrotten to light, gazing before her into the fire. 

Now and again, more or less distant laughter reminded 
her of the progress of the game. One or two men who 
returned to bear her com{>any she dismissed. She was 
a woman of moods. To-night she desired, before every- 
thing, solitude A lonely island in a remote sea — she could 
be happy there. She would have loved to wander in the 
depths of primeval forests. Rustling of leaves, singing ot 
winds that had never known human presence, would have 
been music to her soul. Even if her guests would leave 
her, she would be almost satisfied. She wished to rouse 
secure from interruption. She scarcely heard the voice 
that called from the door, 

" What do you think, dear ? — a hamper's just come for 
you. It's ever so bi^, and we're bringing it up. I hope 
you don't mind, but it'll be such fun opening it. We were 
playing Hide and Seek in the hall, and a young man left 
it. Said ifd been sent to an old address of yours last 
night, and as he >vas driving some friends to a Christmas 
party, he thought he'd leave it. And here it is — what a 
whopper ! " 

Noisy laughter ascended the stairs. Her guests tum- 
bled into the room, dragging and coaxing a hamper. It 
was of large proportions and old-fashioned design. 

The room rang with gaiety. It infected Elsie ; in a 
moment she was as exuberant as her guests. 

" It's come at last I knew it would ! " She clapped 
her hands together with childish elation. 

'* Elsie ! " they exclaimed, surprised at her sudden 
" Oh, give me something to drink," she cried. 
** Are you any better ? *' they asked. 
" Rather. Now I'm going to enjoy myself." 
" That's right, old girl," cried Lillie. She added, from 
the decanters : " Brandy or soda, or shall I ring for fiz ?" 
" Both if you like," answered Elsie, with piquant reck- 

Congratulations overwhelmed her. They now realised 
what a wet blanket she had been on the evening's 

" I've been a stupid to -night. That's all off now." 
cried Elsie, " Til give you a toast Till next Christmas or 
this time a hundred years, or what — ** She held her 
glass high. 
" Your favourite," suggested an old admirer. 
"So be it," she cried. "Let us eat, drink and be 
loved. To-morrow we die." 


They drank with unsteady hands. 

" What shall we do now?" cried Elsie. 

" Open your hamper,'* they chorused. 

^' Hang the hamper ; I waited for it ; it can wait for 
me. Lc?s dance." 

A slight, frail girl, with imaginative green eyes, sat at 
the piano. The obstructing furniture was removed into 
the pass^e. The hamper occupied the centre of the 
room. The piano girl played a dreamy waltz. Elsie's 
guests responded to the music. 

The piano girl played a barn dance. They danced 
gaily, joyfully. The piano girl played a middenmg galop. 
They danced wildly, fantastically. In all these gyrations 
Elsie was conspicuous. A sudden impulse seized the 
dancers. They joined hands and capered madly about 
the hamper. 

They broke exhausted; Each woman hung heavily on 
the arm of the adjacent man. 

The glasses were again replenished. The men and 
women talked with voices subdued. Again the passion 
for solitude moved Elsie. The presence of others 
fatigued her. She yawned frequently, protractedly. 
This spread infectiously. Women saw more distinctly 
the paint on each other's faces. 

They became vasruely conscious of their own stupen- 
dous limitations. They feared the men would be bored. 
This fear was a sword, ever suspended by masculine 
caprice above their necks. Should it fall, at best it meant 
temporary impecuniosity. At worst it rolled their heads 
down the steep gradients of the night clubs, the Burling- 
ton Arcade, and finally — God knows where. Boredom is 
the courtesan's Sedan. 

The evening threatened to splutter out. Many of them 
felt the glitter of the trembling sword. The crowsfeet 
of some defied veneering powder. 

Lillie Grover saved the necks of many. " The hamper. 
We've forgotten the hamper. Let's open it," she cried. 

Lillie and the hamper were enveloped by the others. 
Elsie sat apart in mental isolation. She watched the 
opening of the hamp)er curiously, coldly ; with the 
detached interest she would regard the behaviour of the 
beings of another world. 

If she thought at all about them she felt pity for their 
childish facility in obtaining diversion. 

The lid was removed by Lillie's deft hands. A smell 
peculiar to apple-lofts filled the room. Such eloquence 
from the country almost stifled senses long inured to 
town atmosphere. 


The scent awoke recollections in Elsie's mind. So 
potent were the/ that they all but overwhelmed her. It 
seemed like some more than usually realistic dream. 
Her guests assumed a mass of blurred colour. From 
this rose laughter. Coherent sentences were occasionally 

" What loads of hay ! *' 

^ Smells like Covent Garden market." 

" Apples. What whoppers ! '* 

" Labelled, eh ? " 

" * From the orchard.' " 

Elsie trembled. 

" Sausages. A goose." 

** A game pie, and something written on it." 

" ' Cooked by—' " 

" Hush—" 

" * Cooked by little Mary/ les a hoax 1 " 

Shouts of laughter. A great fear stole into Elsie's 

" A hare." 

" Heavens : tarts. It must be a hoax." 

" But there'll be a lovely present at the bottom-" 

" Parsnips and cauliflowers." 

" More apples." 

" And here's a letter. Four pages, closely written." 

" The present, the present," at last some one shouted. 

Heads knocked together in their eagerness to view the 
mystery. Lillie Grover triumphantly produced it. It was 
wrapped in folds of white paper. 

" Goodness ! It's labelled." 

" What ! " in chorus. 

" * A present from mother.' " 

" Gracious ! " 

Shouts of laughter tore the air. 

Elsie's ears burned. The white paper cover had been 
hastily removed. It revealed a woollen wrapper of homely 
make, homelier desi^. 

" There's more writing : read it," cried one. 

" * For winter evenings. A present from mother.' " 

" For winter evenings," repeated Lillie Grover, laugh- 
ingly, proceeding to use it for the purpose for which it 
was intended by the donor. The contrast between the 
luxuriousness of her apparel and its homeliness was 

" It must be a mistake," cried another. " See to whom 
it's addressed ! " 

"*Miss Prior.'" 

"And the post mark's * Hautbois Magna.'" 

"IBI)s so piU nik toiit, tmi It/ktti" 

Dr»wm h AUrtd Gank Jmet 


Then the mists fell from Elsie's eyes, the dizziness fled 
from her head. She sprang forward : — 

" Stop," she cried. " Stop ! how dare you.*' She 
parted tier guests. She almost fell upon Lillte Grover. 
" Give me that. How dare you — " 

She was like a mother defending her young. 

" Eh ! " 

"YouVenot fit to touch it. My mother made that. 
How could — how — oh, how could you ! " 

They fell back. 

She spread out her arms as if to shield the home 
offerings from the profanity of their gaze. 

One or two tittered. She glared their superciliousness 
into silence. The eyes of many furtively sought the 
decanters. Then Elsie commenced to bundle the various 
articles into the hamper. Straw, present, poultr>', were 
tumbled together. 

She pressed the lid on the whole. 

Her work completed, she rested with her elbow on the 
hainper and stared vacantly about her. 

" They hadn't forgotten me at home, you sec" She 
laughed a little laugh. 

Miss Grover scarcely concealed her derision. Good- 
natured Cockney Mademoiselle effusively praised the 
generosity of Elsie's parents. The stray stockbrokers 
thought it a splendid joke. Those of the men who cared 
to think about it felt rather sorry for Elsie. With the 
others it confirmed them in the opinion that Elsie always 
was a " rum girl." 

" Cheer up, Elsie," said the green-ej^ed piano girL 
^* Remember your toast. Drink it again and forget." 

Elsie stared before ber. She only heard the ticking 
of a clock — not the r gnificent piece of furniture that 
adorned her room, b. w a homelier, older relative that 
had told the hour to Elsie's great-grandfather. 

Now she understood why her clock so often soothed 
her. It reminded her of home— of the clock her 
youth had heard ticking against the silence of night. 
She again looked helplessly about her. 

The words addressed to her some moments before 
penetrated her consciousness. **Eat, drink, and be 
merry, for to-morrow we die, eh ! Why not ? Don't think 
me * down.' I'm comparing the old Christmas with to- 
day. No lying in bed and eating sweets ; no lovely 
presents by the post ; no — no anything exciting then, eh, 
girls ! " 

'* No," they said in positive chorus. 

" Let's drink to the new times." 


They all drank with the exception of Elsie. 

"Makes me laugh to think of it," Elsie resumed. 
" Laugh, laugh, laugh." 

Her lau^h seemed out of tune. They would have 
prevented it. She felt wound up. If she hesitated or 
stopped something would happen. She continued : — 

" I lived in a farm then, a mile from the high road. 
Ordinary mornings breakfast at half-past seven in the 
big kitchen, with hams and rows of onions dangling from 
the roof. On Christmas Day, birthdays and Sundays, 
breakfast at eight. We'd come down and find on our 
plates cards bought at the nearest village, that we'd sent 
to each other. The home-post : the home-post." 

Again she laughed. It jangled her hearers' nerves even 
more than her previous effort at hilarity. 

"At half-past ten my rustic lover would call— all smiles 
and velveteen." 

" Quite proper, I hope ? '* put in Lillie. 

" He wanted to marry me," continued Elsie, seeming 
not to hear her friend's remark. " And when I came to 

town and did not write, he 'listed and — and " Her 

voice faltered. Her eyes dimmed. She was lost in 

Lillie put her hestitation down to shame at confessing 
one of her acauaintance was a common soldier. She 
essayed consolation. "Even gentlemen enlist. Why, 
poor Jack Drake did when I broke him." 

" They say I broke his heart, but I know men's hearts 
don't break. He went abroad where there was fighting, 
and— and — oh, we won't speak of that." 

Then after a little pause : — 

" What was I telling you about ? " 

" Christmas at home," sniggered one of the stray stock- 

" Ah, yes. At eleven we'd walk across the fields to 
church ; evergreens and soapy-faced children. One, 
dinner. Such a feed. Father behind a great hunk of 
beef ; mother looking after endless vegetables and the 
pudding. We all clapped our hands when it appeared. 
And we'd all have helpings according to our ages. In 
the afternoon we'd sit round the fire in the parlour and 
eat oranges and crack nuts. Father would read from a 
jest-book and we'd all laugh at last century's jokes as if 
they were the finest ever made. And mother, though 
she'd heard them every year for thirty years, would laugh 
most of all, Ixxause it pleased father. That brought us 
to tea." 

" You surely had tea in the parlour," hinted Lillie. She 


feared Elsie's confession of homely bringing up reflected 
in some measure on herself. 

" No," answered Elsie, '*tea in the big kitchen, as end- 
less as the dinner. And the cake. How we staffed 
ourselves with it ! And ^Either made jokes and — and — 
after tea games. Romping, tiring games till the ham 
people would come in from their supper and there'd be a 
square dance. And then more cake and elderberry wine 
and crackers. And by-and-bye mother would wipe 
Other's spectacles, and he'd read a chapter from the 
family Bible, which I found ; I found ! just imagine it, 
because father thought me so good. And then a short 
prayer. And then we'd all kiss &ther and mother and 
wish them — and wish them — " 

She waited for words. They refused to come. She 
repeated in monotone : — 

*'And then we'd all kiss father and mother and wish 
them — And I'd sit up half an hour with them because 

father thought me so — so ^" She paused, a vacant look 

in her eyes. There were short catches in her breath. 

^ Drink this," said kindly Cockney Mademoiselle. 

But Elsie did not drink. She sat staring. Her guests 
felt uncomfortable. The contents of the decanters re- 
fused consolation. Elsie had intended to caress them 
into laughter. Instead she had lashed them into sullen- 

One or two suggestions were made to enliven the 
evening. Their feebleness was apparent. Every one 
knew the evening's gaiety was concluded. Good- 
natured Cockney Mademoiselle attempted rescue. 

" Elsie isn't cjuite herself. We'll leave her, and she* 
pull herself quite together in no time." 

They rose eagerly. Five minutes later the last of 
their broughams drove from her door. 

^' Mrs. Hastings" was alone with her pain. It 611ed 
her heart and seemed to exhaust her being. She longed 
for tears as a means of release ; they refused to flow. 
Though her life seemed naked and ashamed, it was but a 
trifling trouble beside the pain that gnawed her soul. 

ff er mother's letter was still unread. Though she 
could guess the loving messages it contained, though 
she knew its perusal would increase her agony, she 
resisted an impulse to throw it on the fire. That letter, 
small enough punishment as it was, must be read. She 
braced herself for the effort and deciphered the crooked 
characters by the firelight 

It was four pages of living remembrances, mention of 
local gossip, anxiety at Elsie's infrequent letters, and 

Drawn by J, J. Giilkril 


particulars of her father's increasing infirmities. It con* 
eluded by hoping that Elsie would accept the wrapper 
and excuse its homeliness as its manufacture meant many 
hours of loving toil. 

The pain was such at Elsie's heart that she shut her 
eyes. This gave her considerable relief. The ticking of 
the clock smote upon her brain. 

Elsie convinced herself it was all a mistake. She was 
either in the old kitchen at home, or she was in her 
luxurious London villa, and the hamper was a night- 

She opened her eyes fearsomely. There was no relief ; 
only pain. She gathered the remembrances from home 
about her a little timidlv but tenderly. Their very 
presence seemed a motherly reproach. 

The pain at her her heart became violent. She closed 
her eyes, while the ticking of the clock imparted a 
rhythmical throb to her agony. 

After awhile she thought : 

"Whether Pm right or hopelessly wrong — whether 
I'm happy or in trouble, making others happy or 
miserable, that's the only true thing : that ticking resolves 

She again opened her eyes. And, oh, the pain at 
her heart ! She feared she could bear it no longer. 
She longed for oblivion. She could have cried aloud. 
Ten o'clock struck. In a moment the old home, the old 
familiar scene was before her. Prayers for the absent 
one were mingled with those peculiar to the occasion. 
Her brothers and sisters had gone upstairs to bed. The 
old couple were lamenting the absence of the one who 
used to sit up with them because she \vas so good. 
Elsie feared her pent-up heart would break. 

Then God had mercy upon her. 

** Mrs. Hastings " was aione with her tears. 

Horace W. C. Newte. 


TT^ A M YRZA was the premilre danseuse at the Opera 
Jm for several seasons. 

There was no one to compare with her — such 
an ankle, such a figure, such a poise of the head. 

I cannot speak from personal observation, as her life 
was lived many years ago, but so the journals said, and 
they ought to know, for they echoed the sentiments of 
the gilded youth of the time, who, alas ! are dead, most 
of them, too. 

There are a few left, however, here and there in the 
world, and when they meet in Paris, in Vienna, in 
London, they put their pink and shining heads together, 
and once more, invoked from the buried past, La Myrza 
floats before them in spangles and gauze. Then they hold 
their sides and chuckle over her refusal of the Marquis 
de C, and the Due de V., and many another, to bestow 
her favour, as she used to tell them herself with a 
charming shrug of her shoulder, on one of her own 
world, with no fortune but a talent for painting, and a 
love of nature — how ridiculous ! 

But, as I said, this all happened long ago ; and I would 
not waste your time with an account of this, or any 
other poor gilded moth that passed through the ^lare and 
was forgotten, were it not that La Myrza dignified her 
life by her devoted love. 

Although she came from out the darkness into the 
light, and hovered about it, and beat her wings against 
it, she was not consumed in the flame ; but, singed unto 
death, she had time before she fell, to flutter into the 
darkness again, so that no one saw her writhe and die. 

In an attic very high up, so high indeed that an 
excellent view of Paris might be obtained — had a little 
soap and water ever been brought into touch with the 
small-paned window — lived an artist. 

When I say lived, I may be laying myself open to an 
accusation of venial exaggeration. I should oe nearer 
the truth if I said starved, and yet to starve is to live, 
but— well, I am straininj^ at gnats ! 

At the time this narrative begins, the place was emptjr, as 
the occupant was away, but poor and bare as it certainly 
looked, it was not difficult to discover his occupation (or 
want of it). There was a large, battered, flat tin box 
lying open on the floor and filled with empty things — 


empty oil-bottles, emptv turpentine bottles, empty tabes. 
A few much-worn, hog-hair brushes were scattered here 
and there, and a large square palette hung on a nail which 
had been pushed into a crack in the wall. On the floor, in 
another comer, was a tin basin with a broken earthen 
jug beside it, and next to that stood an empty easel. 

There was no furniture except a rambling old bedstead, 
on which were a couple of threadbare blankets, together 
with a velvet coat, green with time, which was rolled into 
a bundle at the head to do service as a pillow. 

There had been a brave attempt to straighten things 
in that poor place, and a good deal of taste displayed in 
the arrangement of some canvases upon the slanting 
wall. They spoke eloquently of the green, fresh, French 
country, and they bore the signature, "A. Cazals.*' 

The ceiling, which amounted to neither wall nor ceiling, 
but a combination of both, was terribly cracked with age, 
and stained with rain, but the canvases had been so 
deftly arranged as to partially conceal this dilapidation. 

The occupant of this room was at that moment trying to 
impress the concierge and thereby to impress himself 
with the fact that when things get very bad, as bad 
indeed as they can get, it is just the moment to expect 
them to take a turn for the better. 

^^ Mais oui^ monsieur^ mats oui /" the good tempered 
woman agreed, with an encouraging smile and nod. 

^ Because )rou see," continued the painter, '' when one 
is practically in a cul-de-sac there is nothing for it but to 
jump over the wall and thereby end it all, or turn back 
and go by another road, and the other road is the thing, 
fiesUce pasy madoffie ? " 

^^ Mais ouiy monsieur^ mais oui!^^ replied the good 
woman, i^ho had been surreptitiously looking in her 
husband's coat pockets for a cigar. 

Finding two, she handed them to the painter with a 

"^A, madamef^ raising his eyebrows deprecatingly 
and with an eloquent gesture. 

"My husband will be very glad,*' she answered, 
slipping them into one of his worn pockets and turning 
her back on him with a laugh. 

She did not notice that the cigars, through no fault of 
hers, had fallen on the floor from under the painter's 
coat. He picked them up and smuggled them into a 
sound pocket. Then putting his head through the open 
upper part of the door, 

'* Merciy merci^ madame^ 

" Pas du iouty du tcuty monsieur!^ 


Drawn ly /. S. CvriiiiH 


" Bonsairy tnadame / ** 

" Bonsair^ monsieur / " 

The old man was so light-hearted that he mounted with 
the greatest ease as far as the entresol, without stoppings 
to take breath. 

The kind-hearted concierge had been there now nearly 
eleven years, and when she came Monsieur Cazals was 
living much as now in his attic under the roof. 

Every time he passed out and in~it was not every 
day, nor sometimes once a week, but it had been many 
times — he had stopped to say practically what he had 
said that day. Often he had used the same words 
precisely, and she had always made the smiling answer, 
" Mais ouiy monsieur, mats oui / " Very often she had 
found the cigars, and he had been deprecating ever ; 
but she had seldom failed to make him take them. 

After reaching the entresol on the occasion of which we 
are speaking, the old man moved slowly, and it took him 
a long time to mount the last flight of stairs, which was 
very narrow and steep, leading to his attic. 

Moreover, he had not eaten properly for many days, 
but, as he said to himself over and over again, he had 
not the appetite of youth. 

" You are an old man now, Antoine," he would mutter 
admonishingly, ** you are an old man now, mon cher ami. 
You have stopped growing these fifty-five years at least 
You ought not to be so hungry now, mon ton Antoine ! " 

But that day he did not think of hunger, he was like 
a boy who was all delight at prospect of his first smoke. 
He went to the velvet coat that served as pillow and felt 
in the pocket for matches. As he did so the joyous look 
faded from his eyes, and tears gathered there. He took 
out a packet. It was covered with old, blue linen, sewn 
up at one end with coarse thread. 

A tear rolled down his withered cheek and fell upon 
the little package ; then another. He held it reverently 
to his lips and put it back again. In another pocket he 
found the matches and, carefully striking one — he had 
not many left — lit a cigar. 

He took a few puffs with much satisfaction, then he 
pushed down the upper part of the low, slanting window 
and looked out. It was a late October afternoon, and a 
bright but chilly sunlight shone over all. 

He rubbed his numbed fingers together as he looked. 
He took an almost childish delight in the view, partly, 
perhaps, because he so seldom opened his window to 
enjoy it. He could see the great square towers of Notre- 
Dame, and innumerable spires of other churches, and a 


section, too, of the Pont-Neuf, over which black objects 
coming and going were in an incessant stream. 

The beautiful spires of the Sainte Chapelle were bathed 
in the pale yellow light, and far over there, across the 
vrater, he could see the Invalides, where lay all that re- 
mained of the p:reat little man who had done so much and 
failed. He could look down into the Jardin du Luxem- 
bourg, and he sighed when he did so. 

By leaning out and looking round to the left he could 
catch a glimpse of the Boulevard St.- Michel, and a little 
of St.-Germain, where the gay and careless students were 
thronging the caf<6s, and he sighed again. 

He could, with a stretch of the imagination, see the 
opaline lights in the absinthe on the tables before them, 
and he could almost hear the merry words they were 
exchanging with their fair companions. 

Although he liked the feeling of bonne camaraderie^ 
which the sight of the Boulevard inspired, still he 
was not altogether in sympathy with the Boulevards 
themselves, and he always shook his head when he gazed 
upon them, because they put so many of his memories 
out of joint, and jarred on his old-time susceptibilities. 

He stooped a little as he stood there, not because he 
was too tall, for he was a small man, but because he was 
old, and memories and years had weighed him down 

There were a few people — only two or three — to whom 
he had often wished he might show that bird's-eye view 
of Paris, people who had never seen Paris at all. and who 
had spent their simple, uneventful lives far away in the 
Midi, far, far away at the foot of the Pyrenees. 

But now, alas ! it was too late to wish these things, 
too late, too late, and as Antoine Cazals thought this he 
threw the tiny end of his cigar away, and hastily shut the 
window. He sat on the side of his poor, big bed, he so 
withered, so old, so hopeless, and bowed his head. 

An hour passed as the old man ssit thinking and 

There was a grave down there in the Midi, at the foot 
of the Pyrenees. He had never seen it, but in thought 
his hand moved gently over the grass that had sprung up 
above it. 

In thought he laid his head down upon it and wept his 
weary heart out, and as these things came to his spirit, 
the tears oozed out from between his withered fingers. 

" Myrza ! " he whispered, '* Myrza ! forgive me if I do 
it, Myrza, for oh ! I am so poor, mignonne^ so hopelessly, 
desperately poor, ma mie I 

To be continued 



The twentieth of December furnished forth 

The closing sports. The amphitheatre 

Was packed with human heads, tier above tier ; 

Keen vestal virgins, senators and knights, 

Freedmen and plebs, matrons and half-grown lads. 

And high up, on rich cushions, Caesar lolled , 

With heavy eyelids and congested cheeks, 

His stiff lacema clasped with cameos, 

A wreath of gilded laurel on hi^ brow ; 

One fat hand trimmed with scarabees and sards 

Toyed softly with a peacock-feather fan. 

Below, there knelt in the arena, Saint 

Ignatius, the Bishop of Antioch, 

That very morning fetched to Rome by way 

Of Asia, Macedonia and Greece. 

A venerable beard fell to his waist, 

His strong face spoke of passions overcome. 

But his blue eyes were innocent as a child's. 

Indeed, the rumour ran he had been that child 

Whom Jesus took upon His lap and blessed ; 

Whence his regard was ever young and pure. 

Two lions were let loose out of the grille ; 

Crouching, they swayed their mighty tails and yawned. 

But Saint Ignatius raised his hands and prayed, 

" I am the grain of God that must be ground. 

Ground by the fierce to make the bread of Christ." 

Lo ! the whole scene around him disappeared ; 

Caesar, the cruel vestal virgins, all 

The angry rabble thirsting for his blood 

Melted away, and in their place arose 

A lovely vision : troops of little children. 

While in their midst the Christ holding a child ; 

And Saint Ignatius saw it was himself ; 

And heard an infinitely sweet voice say : 

" Suffer Uttle children to come unto Me^ 

For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven^ 

William Theodore Peters 

Dravin by tV. E. Webslcr 

Frem " The Inge/dily Legetids " 
llluslratian by A. Rackhani 

J. M. Dent & Co., London 



HE large number of handsome books published by 
Messrs. J. M. Dent & Co. for the New Year 
prevents a complete notice of ihem, or even a 
lalogue, in our pages ; but we think it will not be 
without interest (o 
our readers to say 
a word or two 
about several of 
these, and to ad- 
join pictorial ex- 
tracts from their 

■je by the Press 
and public that 
has bMn extended 
to the edition <rf' 
"The Ingoldsby Legends," with illustrations by A. Rack- 
ham (large crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. net), shows thai the publication 
of these classical and ever- interesting bits of literature, in 
artistic form and embellished with art that is fully equal 
in merit to the text, has been a happy idea. The volume, 
besides some ninety illustrations, contains twelve coloured 
plates, in which the singular charm and merit of the original 
drawings have been skilfully preserved. The drawing we 
reproduce (an illustration to the merry tale that all will 
recognise at once) gives a good idea of Mr. Rackham's 
handicraft in this publication. 

The Banbury Cross Series of Children's Folk Lore 
and Other Stories have been republished at a more 
popular price, 6d. each net (in a superior style of bind- 
ing IS. each). As is well known, the 
services of the best artists of the day 
have been engaged upon this series, 
and their contmued and growing suc- 
cess has fully justified the publishers' 
original experiment, and, no doubt, 
wilTequally justify their present venture 
in making so great a reduction — the 
reasons for which they set forth r 

So wide an acceptance have these Utile 
books received, and so ^ntifyii^ is the 
appreciation of the genuine itient of the 
series among the general public, thai it has 
been decidnl, with * view of still furtiter 

extendine their popula- 
rity, to issue the whole 
seriei in a somewhat 

pence pet volume, a 
price wnich will enable 
any one desirous of pie- 
Eenling a child with a 
leally acceptable gift to 
secure the entire set of 
13 Tolutnes with an oat- 
lay eqniraleDt to the 

of I 

Christmas literature. 



by R. 

Anninc Bell. 



TV. Illustrated by 

R. AnnihgBbll. 



lustraled by I 

Grahvillb Fbll. 



RHYMES. Illus- 
trated by Misses V. 

and E, Holden. 

hy Mrs. H. I. Adams, 
R. Hbighway. 

^SOFS FABLES. Illustrated by Charles Robinson. 
tniled hy Sidney H. Hbath. 



bj H. Granville Fell. 

llluEUalcd by Miss A. B. Woodward. 
*a* Each volume contains about forty Drawii^ in black and 
white. Piice of the set cased, Eixpeiuijr stylr, 7s. 6cl., shilline 
style, I3». 6d. each nei. 

The pUyfiil fancy and pure grace of Aiming Bell's genitis 
and style, which have found ample scope in the field 
presented by " Midsummer Night's D ream ." have made 
that volume not only (xjpular with the younger folk, for 
whom it is intended, but with the getwral 
i long been counted 
'Oiks of Ei^lish art. 
Israel Goll^ci, and 
nty drawings by the 
;iced, as illustrations, 
i, etc. Foolscap, 410, 
iteen cloth, 5s. net 
ommenting on this 
work the DaSf 
ChrotUcU has pro- 
nounced it "The 
most beaotiful de- 
corated piece of 
work that has yet 
been produced in 

Drooling by Anning Bell 

Shaiapearis " Midsummtr 
digit's Dream " 


4QpM0NG the many handsome books published 
Jf^^ recently we must single out the volume of " The 
Minor Poems of John Milton," illustrated by Mr. 
A. G. Jones, printed by the Chiswick Press for Messrs. 
George Bell & Sons. Mr. Jones' tastes and qualifications 
have evidently made this work a labour of love ; and the 
formal and classical ideals of the poet find, at last, their 
best interpretation through the medium of his art. There 
are some sixty drawings and decorations in the book ; 
and though these are uniformly chaste and severe in 
style, sufficient variety has been introduced to prevent 
any monotony in turning from page to page. 

Among the best of Mr. Jones' drawmgs we may cite 
the two first to " II Penseroso,*' one of which, through the 
courtesy of the publishers, we reproduce on the opposite 
page ; the tit)e decoration to ^* Lycidas " and next follow- 
mg illustration ; and the introductory page decoration to 
** Comus." 

The aims of the artist, happily set forth in the short 
prefatory notice, have been so faithfully carried out, that 
we quote this notice in full as the best criticism that could 
be passed on the volume : — 

In illustrating the shorter poems of Milton the maker of these 
designs has naturally chosen those subjects that most appealed 
to him. In interpretation and execution he has striven to keep 
to what he conceives to he the Miltonic spirit, and has aimed 
generally at avoiding incident as likely to obscure that intentioD. 
For the same reason he has dispensed with abundance oi merely 
decorative detail ; the marked sanity and severity of Milton's 
writing seeming to be incompatible with the daborate and often 
intricate design so much in vogue at the present day, whereby 
the poetic feeling in decoration is in danger of degenerating 
into a commonplsure formalism. 

In Milton's work there is a rare combination of gracelul 
scholarship and classic method with the high and severe ethical 
idcaeds of the Puritan, which is perhaps hardly expressible in the 
medium of the draughtsman's art ; and if he has leant rather to 
the severer side and the more solemn aspect of the poet's work, 
it is in the belief that this aspect is the one which presents itself 
to the great mass of his readers. The charm of Milton is 
chiefly of an intellectual kind, appealing to the thinker and the 
scholar, and in the eyes of such the designer would hope that 
his work, deficient though it may be in accessory graces, will 
not be found out of sympathy with the spirit of the poet 

* "The Minor Poems of John Milton." Illustrated and decorated by 
A. Garth Jones. Londcm . George Bell & Sons ; post 8vo, 69. ; also 
limited edition on Japanese vellum, »xs. 


A. G. feat 


By At the Criterion, London. What shall 

"TAiOwi*' ^j^ CHARLES ^^ c^m be said in praise of this gveat 
AA7VM n u A M ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ already been written ? 
.J «^™ Whether as Bob Sackett in " Brighton," 

IN "THE Geoffrey Gordon in "The Great 

JEST" Divorce Case," Charles Greythome in 

" Pink Dominoes," Peregrine Porter in 
"Fourteen Days," Lord Oldacre in "The Candidate," 
Mr. Hedley in "The Headless Man," Dazzle in ** London 
Assurance," Rover in " Wild Oats," Charles Surface in 
" The School for Scandal," David Garrick in the play of 
that title (what a treat were he to revive all these !X or 
as Cesare in "The Jest," he is always the fascinating 
artist, refined, scholarly, subtle, with methods so simple 
yet trenchant, that to watch him affords the keenest 
pleasure to the theatre-goer, and is the best of educa- 
tions to the young actor. 

In some respects, Cesare is the best part Mr. 
Wyndham has had in the new plays of the past four 
years. It has been likened to Cyrano because Cesare at 
first sacrifices his own love for Fiorella to help his rival 
In the second act, however, Cesare, contrary to Cyrano, 
marries the object of his adoration, and in this, " The 
Jest" is more dramatically concise than "Cyrano de 
Bergerac." But Messrs. Parker and Carson's play is not 
satisfactory. They have not illumined the subject of 
" The Jest " with such masterful skill, care, and origin- 
ality of detail as Mons. Rostrand has his masterpiece. 
The evolution of thought and character, the impelling 
motives, sequences and transitions of action, though 
often worked out with much beauty and strength, are 
more often out of joint and distressing to the con- 
centration of attention. But such flaws are not so 
serious as to destroy the interest in many finely conceived 
scenes and passages, affording Mr. Wyndham 
opportunities of pn[ving us a liberal taste of his rare 
abilities, opportunities which, with his accustomed zeal, 
he uses to their uttermost. It may be that some of the 
blame attributed to the author is due to the actors who 
support Mr. Wyndham. The romantic school is ever 
the test of an actor's calibre. In doublet and hose, both 
grace of movement and eloquence of diction must go 
hand in hand with true conception and convincing 
renditions. There is a pitiable demonstration of the 
contrary of this in " The Jest." Perhaps it is because 




Mr. Wyndham's acting is so transcendentally superior to 
that of the players who surround him, with the exception 
of Mr. Bishop, whose work is always within the magic 
circle of art, that they pale into comparative automatons 
beside him, and this does not derogate so much from 
their general sincerity and special abilities, as it tends to 
exalt the masterly work of Charles Wyndham. Miss 
Moore, who was so admirable and naive in " The Liars," 
seems in **The Jest," but to speak her lines, hardly 
impressing us with any of Fiorella's emotions. Mr. 
Bellew attitudinises and elocutes ; so earnestly, I admit, 
that he succeeds in a measure in making us believe he 
is Cosmo, but he is less that impetuous youth, that 
winning, passionate lover, than the self-conscious orna- 
mental actor. Mr. Femie makes a very fine effort, but 
misses the subjective side of the mad Orsino ; this may 
not be entirely his fault ; the part very likely lacks 
repression and subtlety ; still, he might subdue much that 
goes before the climax, which he plays admirably. Miss 
Brooke, with all her personal charm, dignity and beauty 
of voice, does not make Annunziato's exalted words ring 
true. Miss Talbot's Teresa was somewhat forced and 
declamatory. The minor parts were much more satis- 
factorily rendered. 

Mr. Wyndham must take upon himself the burden of 
exposing their artificiality, for it is his absolute freedom 
from the least taint of any of these defects that makes 
their slightest fault glaringly evident His bearing is so 
easy and unstrained. His acting is so rich in colour, a 
very kaleidoscope of emotions, changing at will to 
magnanimity, tenderness, love, joy, courage, hope, 
resolution, exultation, jealousy, remorse, pity, despair, 
humility ; giving to each its exact shade and gradation 
of intensity ; showing nature her very form and feature. 
His dynamic force and magnetism even disseminate 
truth in an atmosphere of untruth. This unfavourable 
condition, however, should not exist. It does not exist 
on the French stage at its best. There the smallest part 
is represented by a thoroughly schooled actor. The 
thought occurs : cannot Mr. Wyndham rehearse and 
instruct the actors about him, thought for thought, detai 
for detail ? The answer at a hazard is, that, as far as is 
possible, he dqes so ; but some will not, others, in the face 
of long contracted habits, cannot learn, and the work of 
it all is too long and arduous for an actor-manager to 
accomplish during his productions. Here rests the 
crying need for a school, where the solid foundations and 
technique of acting are taught. Not a mere rule-of- 


thumb academy where individuality is suppressed, bat 
rather a school where it is fostered and developed, 
leaving to such actors as Charles Wyndham the 
pleasant duty of aiding the student in practically 
polishing his work. 

It would be well for Her Majesty's and The Globe 
Theatres to look to their laurels. If report speak 

true, another and most formidable 
rival will shortly darken their hori- 
zons in the shape of an entirely new 
version of "The Three Musketeers.' 
It is to be entitled "The Three 
Dusky Dears." Stage-struck Virginia 
beauties may apply at Mohawk's. 

Actors are proverbially generous. They may be 
touchy about the centre of the stage ; jealous of the 
limelight's rays ; hurt over an interrupted point or a 
laugh ; but they seldom let their left hands Know what 
their right hands give. " The little Church around the 
Comer" will tell you so. It is situated in Twenty-ninth 
Street, near Fifth Avenue, in the City of New York. It 
was very poor many years ago, but that suddenly changed, 
and it is now wealthy and famous. And it came about 
this way : — 

A poor actor died in a strange land without kith or kin, 
but like mortals who strut and fret their hour upon life's 
stage, his remains needed interring. His friends made 
the pardonable error of imagining that the finer the 
church edi6ce the finer the religion within, and so they 
knocked at the gates of an imposing House of God and 
sought Christian burial for their colleague. The minister, 
with fat capon lined, nodded his head gravely and 
negatively to denote that the idea was preposterous. 
" Go," said he, in all his official pride, " go to the little 
church around the comer." The little church around 
the comer was a meek and lowly looking edifice. Dr. 
Houghton, its pastor, as the imposing edifice minister in 
his great wisdom had prophesied, made no distinction 
between the body of a poor actor and that of a rich stock- 
broker, and undertook to perform the last reverential 
rites to the departed player. The story soon leaked out, 
and the reputation of the good Doctor spread apace. 
'The little Church around the Comer" had cast its 
bread upon the waters, and within a few short months it 

came back in the shape of subscriptions and benefits 
firalore. Since that time some of the most honoured of 
America's actors and actresses have been married 
in the little Church, and others, aniongst whom u-as 
the late Mr. Edwin Booth, have pass^ to th«ir last 
resting-place through its portals. 

Charles Frohman Isgifted vvith no little histrionic talent. 
Some ^ears ago, whilst in Paris, he called upon Sardou 
on business and in the course of conversation wished to 
refer to a certain situation in one of that eminent 
dramatist's plays. Not being able to make himself 
understood in French, he removed his overcoat and 
enacted the scene so vividly that Sardou not only com- 
prehended but heartily applauded him. 

In his later days poor Lawrence Barrett would not 
countenance chailing during performances. Therefore 
Louis James, prince of ^yers, found him a 
interesting subjeci for his jokes— but at the 
time as difficult to disconcert. He upset him 
pletely on one occasion. The play was 
"Julius Ciesar." Barrett played Brutus; 
James, Cassius. In the scene where Cassius 
pays a visit to Brutus to arrange the con- t 
spiracy, Brutus was seen suddenly to act in n 
a strange manner. He was evidently holding / 
somethmg in his hand that he was trying I 
to conceal, and seemed anxious but unable to get 
rid of His toga, alas, like a modem lady's dress, 
was not blessed with pockets. The explanation of the 
matter was that Cassms on greeting him had gently 
deposited in his hand— an egg. 

The representation of birds, beasts and fishes who talk 
and cavort about in pantomime with truly human 
intelligence is as old as the stage. Aristophanes used 
them ; and later, during the reign of Edward VL, we 
read of a play called ".^sop's Crow," which was per- 
formed by the King's players, in which most of the actors 
dressed as birds. The custom did not meet with 
universal approval, as the following " controversie " 
shows : " Maister Ferrers, then maister of the King's 


Majesties pastimes, Maisler Willot, the King's astixmo- 

mer, and Maister Stremer the King's divine:, jolly good 

bed-fellows, chatted away the miiuiight oil one night, 

and Maister Willot discommended the devise of acttwt 

being birds, saying it was not comicaJl to make either 

sse things to speake, or brutish 

} commun reasonably. Mr. Stiemer, 

lorde's divine, being more dtvine in 

point, held the contrary parte, affinn- 

that beasts and foules have reason, 

that as much as men, yea, and in 

some points more." 

Dnrmit if W. E. IViff^ 


©UT over the bay the moon made a glittering white 
path leading up to Naples Close in beneath the 
sheer Sorrento rock the darkness lay thick and 
cavernous out to the sharp line where the cliffs shadow 
ended. At the shadow's edge the ripples danced and 
sparkled, elate in the moonlight. On a balcony, high 
above the water, two people, moved by the still beauty of 
the night, drew close together, listening silently to the 
small, lazy waves which, far below, swished softly 
against the narrow beach. A boat drifted out of tlie 
darkness, a speck upon the white path, and a woman's 
voice, singing, came up to them on the puffs of the damp, 
salt air. 

This man and this woman were happy, knowing the 
infrequency of happiness : they were happy in the zest 
and fulness that comes of mutual understanding. The 
woman sighed unconsciously, and the man spoke in a low 
tone, loth to break the exquisite hush about them. 

" What is it, dear ? You are happy ? " 

"Yes," she answered, with a depth in her voice which 
answered all his doubts. 

"Why do you sigh?" he asked. 

" I am remembering another night, a beautiful night, 
when we heard that wonderful voice in the open air at 
Berlin. You were sad and strange. ... I have so 
often wondered why," she went on timidly. " Ah, why 
do you do that ?" He had drawn away his hand. 

" Don't speak of that night," he said quickly ; " we are 
too happy." 

There came a little sinking at her heart. For a 
moment she stopped breathing ; then she said, quietly : 

" I have always wondered whether it was the woman 
herself, the singer, who meant something to you that you 
never told me. We were very happy. We had been all 
day, a June day, in the fields. At night we came home 
with the cornflowers — do you remember ? There was a 
concert and a woman was singing. We could not see 
her ; but i saw you start with surprise and something 
like dismay. You left me for a moment, and when you 
came back there was a strange look in your eyes that 
said to my reading, ' Yes, I was right ; it is she.' " 

She waited, but he did not speak. "I have never 
asked you what it meant, but tell me now while we are 
happy and alone, so that it will go out of my mind for 
ever. TeU me, did you know her ? " 



She trembled a little at his voice, and then, with a 
nervous laugh : 

" You didn't sometime " 

"Yes," he said, " I loved her." 

She could not see his face in the darkness ; but his 
voice said plainer than any words, " If you ask me, I will 
speak." But there was an ominous note, a wammj^ that 
struck her with a chill. She shivered, and drew m her 
breath, knowing that she had gone too far to turn back. 

" Is that all ? " 

" No." 

" Will you tell me ? " she whispered. " What ?-— did she 
love you?'* 

" Yes.*' 

There was a gasp in the voice that she tried to make 
calm. " And you ? — ^you ?— did you ? " 

"Yes," he answered again, his voice dull, almost in- 

In a moment she had passed through the high window 
into the dark room. Somewhere in the darkness her 
hand brushed a chair. She held it tightly with a sense 
of relief. "Why, why did I come in? What is it? 
What is changed ? I am the same ; he is the same. We 
love each other — nothing can change that. Is it not true ? 
Tell me, tell me," she repeated to herself passionately, 

" is it not true ? What was it that— that " A storm 

swept over her. She could not think. Then she spoke 
to herself calmly. She repeated to herself the intonations 
of his voice. It was torture. But, after all, she was no 
foolish girl ; she was a woman, beloved, trusting, trusted, 
with memories of happiness. Ah, the word pierced her. 
He too had memories, and some were not of her. What 
should she do? She fought to escape this agony of 
mind. It was senseless ; she wanted to accept this fact 
as quietly as might be. She wanted no tears, no 
reproaches, no scenes. She wanted to understand. But 
what could she do with this hateful emotion that tore her 
throat with violence? Cry? That was hysterical and 
useless. She thought of him, and knew that he, too, 
suffered ; she understood his helplessness and loved him. 
He could not come to her — what could ke say? She 
knew, too, that she trusted him absolutely. " But we love 
each other," she whispered insistently ; " what does any- 
thing matter ? " And, yet, with the sob that shook her, 
she knew that always, to the end of life, this moment 
would return to her. She could be reasonable, sensible ; 
but, oh ! could she forget ? 

Suddenly, with a [^sionate gesture, she swept aside all 
thoug'hts and reasoning ; she was out upon the balconv, 
on her knees beside him, her arms about his neck, 
sobbing out the trouble of her heart. 

Far out across the bay the lights of Naples twinkled, 
a gigantic ate along the shore. Down the toivering cone 
of Vesuvius glowed a ruddy stream of lava. Near by 
all was dark and silent. 

Maude Batter shall. 


Drawn by A. Lewii 

A. Rambilh 

Chenis n/females in backgnund: Vilul ridiculous clothes 
lho«e foreigners do wear ! 


Wtiiten by Anna Gannon. 

rhiladelt>liia and London : J. B. LtPPtNCOTT Companv. 

DroTrn hy L'harlt! Plan 

Drawn by W. E. Wigfua 



This bunch of withered mignonette 

My lady gave with good-byes tender, 
White April skies with tears were wet. 

With what sweet mixture of regret 

Did her fair hands that night surrender 
This bunch of withered mignonette ! 

How soon for us that evening, set 

The half-hid moon in watery splendor. 
While April skies with tears were wet 1 

Slow dragged a twelvemonth by, and yet 
Each day but dearer seemed to render 
This bunch of withered mignonette. 

Alas my hopes ! The sad coquette 

Now spurns me for a stripling slender. 
While April skies with tears are wet. 

No more for her Til moan and fret. 

But straight to-morrow mom V\l send her, 
While April skies with tears are wet, 
This bunch of withered mignonette. 

St. George Best. 


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LIFE ■<• <• 




& DUANB St. 


8 r. HAL^VT 

Heir at Bnal 



Dnmin by Jamt! DurJtn 

Vhe @u£irtier Icatin 

Vol. VI 

JANUARY, 1899 

No 29 


Cover .... Ai-FRKD Garth Jones 


{drawing) James Durden 

A Studio Party 
in the Latin 

Quarter . . Wella Dayk 

The Rose Bush 

{drawing . . William Shackleton 

Illustration to 

Foe's ''Ula- . 

Inme" . . . Sydney Prentice 
l^he Song of the 

Cross . . . Mark Perugini 

Lion de Belfort (drawing) .... John P. Pembkrton 

Solitude {drawing) J* J- GUTHRIE 

Down Channel {drawing) W. E. Wigfull 

At the Boulevard A Maude Sterner 

Illustrations A. Campbell Cross 

A Bit Of the Yorkshire Coast {drawing) Charles Pears 

Ex Libris A. G. Jones 

Ballade . . ff. A. Robinson 

Rosalind Telleth How She would be 

Loved M. Green 

At Julianas {lines) W. 

A Bundle of Letters {conclusion) . . Mary Keegan 

Th£ Death of Death {drawing). . . Cyril Goldie 

The Coufttry Road {drawing) . . . J. B. Yeats 

Art on the Stage "The Owl" 

Afrs. JCendal as the Elder Miss 

Blossom {drawinj^) . . . . . . G. O. Onions 

The Eternal Mystery {poem) . . . NoRMAN A. HiLL 

The Conciergerie {drawing) . . . . H. L. BARKER 

Tom Brace's Scheme Mont. St. Lo. 

Illustration H. A. liOGG 

At the Window {drawing) .... Gilbert James 

Arrofel Constance Compton 

The Crusader's Return {from Le Rire) Marston 

W /Vote •...««.•.« A. 

A Lady Killer {drawing) .... A. ROUBILLE 

The Gallery Entrance {drawing) . . William Shackleton 

A Toast {poem) Walter Smith 

List of Designers of Advertisements 

Initials and Marginals by /. 5., /. Bakewell^ G. O. Onions^ etc. 



By One of the Guests. 

HAVING arrived at the address inscribed on our 
invitation cards, we passed through the con- 
ventional Parisian **porte coch^re*' and ascended 
to the fifth floor, where we found the door standing 
hospitably open, inviting entrance to a Japanese lantern- 
lighted comdor. At the far end of this corridor, seated 
on a high stool, was a charming little Pierrot, who, with 
a comprehensive sweep of his tin^ hand, indicated to 
ladies and gentlemen their respective disrobing rooms, 
by delivering in high-pitched tones the following an- 
nouncement : '* Los dames ^ droite ; les messieurs i 
gauche." Before being permitted to enter the sacred 
precincts of the studio, we were all blindfolded by order of 
our hosts, who rejoiced in the temporary but exceedingly 
appropriate titles of Damon and Pythias ! We were then 
led in one by one, and presented with a lighted taper 
each. After a few short minutes had elapsed, during 
which some confusion occurred, owing to the efforts made 
by Damon and Pythias to arrange their blindfolded and 
taper-burdened guests to the complete satis&ction of all, 
we were allowed to remove the bands from our eyes and 
contemplate, at our ease, the wondrous scene before us. 
We had been placed in two rows, ladies on one side, 
gentlemen on the other, of a table on which burned 
fiercely, in a dish, some strange and fearful compound, 
whose livid light lent us the appearance of corpses. We 
gazed our fill at this remnant of the sorcerer's art, which 
burned itself out rather rapidly ; and once again the hue 
of health adorned our cheeks ! At this juncture, we also 
extinguished our tapers, as they had begun to melt, and 
were showing a decided tendency to transform themselves 
into hoops and corkscrews. 

The next item on the programme was an autographical 
competition ; each guest, armed with a pencil as long 
and as thick as a man's arm, had to inscnbe his or her 
name upon a sheet of paper affixed to the wall. At the 
close of this trial of slcill, the paper was covered with 
hieroglyphic scrawls, which result was not very flattering 
to our writing capabilities. 

During all this time, three dark-skinned musicians had 
been playing away most perseveringly, noticing which 

1 iy iVilliaat Skatlililon 


kindness on their part, we determined to show a practical 
appreciation of it by dancing, which we accordingly did 
without further delay. Now and again, a heated couple 
would seek the cool night air on the little balcony, to 
which one gained easy access from the studio by 
mounting some movable steps, and where one could 
see, twinkling brightly up in the clear, dark sky, one or 
two silver stars. 

When the dancing had come to an end, there ensued a 
short interval for repose, during which some of the 
guests had their portraits executed de profil on charcoal 
paper. Then Damon and Pythias disappeared from our 
midst abruptly, to return a moment later arrayed in full 
cook's costume— snowy jackets and caps complete. 
Their appearance, thus attired, awakened in our minds 
a vision of supper, and we were glad when, a few 
minutes after, this vision became a pleasant reality, of 
which we partook in the form of turkey salad, cress 
sandwiches, and all sorts of other dainties — and, by way 
of beverage, some delicious cherry-coloured punch, which 
we drank out of quaint little bowls, each guest retaining 
his bowl as a souvenir. 

Supper over, we re-entered the studio, where we 
arranged ourselves in a picturesque group, Damon and 
Pythias being desirous of handing us down to f>osterity 
by means of flashlight pictures ! 

A little before midnight, the signal for departure was 
given, and down the stairs we tramped, our hosts 
lighting the way with two immense candles, from which 
the grease dropped abundantly on our retreating forms. 

Soon we had left the dear old Latin Quarter with its 
merry student life behind us. We were in the act of 
crossing that bridge so familiar to the student, the 
Pont des Arts, when the old Church of St Germain 
PAuxerrois sent out its midnight peal to the great city, 
and, instinctively, we stayed our steps for a moment, 
while the words of the well-known song rose to our 
lips, " I stood on the bridge at midnight, as the clock 
was striking the hour." We went no fiirther than 
these two lines, for there was no moon rising o'er the 
city "behind the old church tower." 

Wella Daye. 

(The above is printed to show the astonished Philistine that all 
studio parties in the Latin Quarter are not '* Orientals." — Ed.) 


Driam by Syiiiuy Frtniiit 


ET the world hear my voice ! 

For my song shall rise aboTC 

Till the whole great eanh rejoice. 
And men forget their fears. 

I am the Life and the Death ; 
The weapon and joy of ihe 

The inward and outflowing breath ; 
The blade and the hilt of His 


I am — to-day and to-morrow — 

The one thing never vain ; 
The symbol of pitying sorrow, 

The emblem of infinite pain. 
I am the world's release ; 

I am the end of the Life— 
The gate of the path to Peace ; 

But I myself am— Strife. 
My weight is — lo-day and to-morrow — 

As much as a man may gain 
Of the knowledge of pitying sorrow, 

And knowledge of mfinite pain ; 
1 am the symbol of sorroiv, 

The innermost emblem of pain. 

Mark Pf.rlcini 

Drawn ly J. /'. rimbcriim 

Dravin iyJ.J. Gmkrit 

J3rau>H hy W. E-fvard H'isfi!! 


Studio No. II. 

HEY say you cannot fit a square peg into a round lUuumcd 
hole, and this is a true tale which illustrates the by 

A, a CroH 

Stuyvesant Mott is a cousin of Van Camp's. He is a 
swell, and a personage in his own country ; but why he 
came, and shared Van's studio for three months, instead 
of remaining over in his proper place on the right side of 
the Seioe, at the Binda, or the Grand, or wherever it is 
Stuyvesant Motts usually congregate, was, and is to this 
day, a mystery. 

Stuyvesant was badly addicted to frock coats and top 
hats, and the latest thing in gloves. He was smooth- 
bced, ingenuous, and given to talking a. great deal, chiefly 
of himself. But, apart from these things and a tendency 
to boast of his enormous success with the fair sex, he 
was a harmless child, and, I maintain, did not deserve his 
fate. That Van accepted resignedly the holes burnt by 
Stuyvesant's cigarettes in his best Persian praying rug, I 
admit. He also tolerated in an almost cheerful spirit 
Stuyvesant's beautiful trans- Atlantic and utterly de- 
moralismg system of over-" tipping" the condere* and 
the old woman who called \it.Tst\la.\& femme de cham^t, 
and even allowed Stuyvesant to make love to Naniche 
(beneath whose sway he, of course, fell at once) in 

But when Stuyvesant overstepped the bounds, and 
informed Van, widi a significant smile and a wave of his 
perfectly manicured hands, that Naniche had told him 
(Stuyvesant) that she was ready to die for him, or words 
equivalent to this extravagant assertion. Van glared at 
him with the air of a man whose patience has at last 

He eyed Stuyvesant contemptuously, and made a 
savage cah at the poster he was concocting on the easel. 
(Van has a genius for poster- making. When he is hard 
up, be turns out things which delight the world and bring 
him in cheques of astonishing largeness.) 

In answer to Van's stare of disgust, Stuyvesant nodded 


his bead and set his lips together, in the initating' ^hion 
which mysteriously suggests triumph. 

He was dining that night at Bignon's, with an old 
college chum of his, and he buttoned his long, light 
Newmarket careliilly over his evening clothes, and 
prepared to depart. 

As he opened the door of the ante-room. Van 
looked up from the easel, and remarked meditatively — 

" I'll bet you anything that Naniche won't look at you.' 

Stuyvesant continued smiling the superior smile, and 
Van pursued with an air of carefclly-assumed indifference : 
" 111 bet you she wouldn't come, if you wrote and made 

fifty appoi 

" murmured Stuyvesant, in what he considered 
a maddening way. 

" If you're so deuced clever, I'll tell you what you do 
to prove it," said Van Camp slowly. "You write a note 
to Naniche, and ask her to meet you in the courtyard to- 

lain btemt in 

night at, say, two — that is, in the morning, I mean, ot 
course— and I'll see that she gets it. Then, if the " 

" I can't," began Stuyvesant, deprecatingly. " I shan't 
get away from Bangley — you know Bangley?'' 

" Yes, I know Bangley," assented Van ; " but that's a 
way of getting out of it. ' He made a few more absent- 
minded dabs at the face of the poster-lady. 


Then Stuyvesant stepped back into Ihe room and 

" Of course not," he chuckled ; " I don't mind in the 
least. May be a jolly lark. Now, what is it you want 
me to write ? You'll lose your bet, anyhow." 

" I don't care a damn what you write," retumed Van. 
" It isn't my af&ir. What I say is, that she won't come." 

" How will you know f " asked Stuyvesant, after he 
bad written and sealed the note. 

" I'll take your word for it, of course," said Van sweetly. 
"Don't wake me up when you get home to-night," he 
added. " I've got a model to-morrow, and I'm going to 

git up early,'" which was all in the nature of a challenge. 
ut the story comes now ; — ■ 

Van told a lie ; but he is not a liar — that is, habitually. 
This 1 say by way of excuse, because,*when Stuyvesant 
had taken his de[^ure, Van did not retire to rest. He 
set to work instead with energetic vigour that lasted far 
into the night, and surprised Castillion, who came in to 
call upon him, and was requested to "get out," with 
more frankness than politeness. 

When the work was finished, Van opened his door, 
and looked but cautiously into the counyard. There 
had been a snowstorm the night before, but it bad grown 
wanner during the day, and dirty rivulets ran down the 
paths, and made puddles by the studio walls There 
was a moon which lighted things generally, like a calcium 
in a melodrama, and an air of calm stillness further 
heightened this effect. The gleam in Durblan's studio, 
at Ihe far end of the garden, was the ontv spot in the 
landscape not distinctly blue and silver, and that shone 
out with a biting yellowness, contrasting queerly with 
the soft shadows made by the moonlight. 

Van slipped stealthily down the four steps which led 
to his own place, and walked along until he reached a 
point about half-way between his and Beryl's eUelier. In 
his hand he carried something laive and imposingly 
white ; and his tall, lank, ridiculously high-shouldered 
figure seemed to be shaken at frequent intervals by a 

The proceedmgs with which be followed these actions 
were, to say the least, not characterised by what the sane 
and ordinarily disposed mind would have called usual. 
From the conventional standpoint they appeared, in 
&ct, slightly mad. 

He stood away from his handiwork at last, eyed with a 
sense of artistic appreciation the effect produced, and 
finally hurried back to Studio No. 2, closing the door 




carefullv after him ; all of which was irreguUr, not to say 

A few moments later, when the window of the ante- 
room looking out on to the court was raised an inch ot 
so, with the evident desire to create as little disturbance 
as possible (a difficult matter touching windows in Parish 
things became positively ghoulish. 

The clock of St. Sulpice struck two sbatp peals on the 

stillness, and a cab — Stuyvesant's cab—clattered up the 

Boulevard and stopped with a jerk at Na — . It took 

some time evidently to ccMuplete airangemeats between 

the youth in question and the extortionate Jehu, because 

6vc agonising minutes passed, 

during which Van, crouching 

in an uncomfortable attitude 

along the ledge under the 

window, suffered the toituits 

of uncertainty as to whether 

the late -comer was really 


But presently ibejlacrt drove 
noisily away, and a figure ap- 
peared at the top of the court- 
yard, and began to more with 
delicious aimlessness and want 
of purpose toward him. 

That Stuyvesant had been 
dining heavily was obviously 
illustrated by bis gait. 

He wore the air of a man who 
would be glad of support if 
support were availabk, but 
who was making the best of a 
lack of it ; and his hat was set at 
a rakish angle upon his rumpled 

Where his Newmarket gaped 
open the dead white of his shirt- 
front gleamed, and an end of 
his silk muffler floated with airy 
carelessness behind him. He 
advanced recklessly, splashing 
his way among the puddles, 
and, judging from his uncon- 
cemed expression, it was dear 
that he had completely for- 


gotten his appointment with Naniche — a circum- 
stance not surprising considering the character of 
the interval. 

But as he reached the stage in his journey across the 
courtyard where it became necessary for him to dis- 
tinguish which of the distressingly similar doorways was 
the particular one for which he was bound, something 
white and slim and interesting arrested his attention. It 
was Naniche ! She seemed to be standing, or, rather, 
clinging against the wall under Van's window, both hands 
grasping the frostbitten ivy, her chin raised a little in 
supplication. About the Figure there was something 
utterly incongruous and grotesque, but Stuyvesant was 
much too drunk to stick at details. 

" By Jove I " he exclaimed. " Is that you, Naniche? It 
wcold, isn't it?" 

The Fi^re sobbed slightly. 

"Yes," it said in tremulous tones, "it is. I — I got 
your note — and I came — because I — didn't under- 
stand " 

Stuyvesant considered. He appeared to be gently 
forcing himself to remember something he had for the 
moment forgotten. 

" Oh yes ! yes I yes ! " he cried suddenly. " I know 
now, Naniche. It's all right It's a bet. Van'll tell you 
aU about it !" 

"But," said the Figure, beginning severely, "is 
this why you have brought me here, monsieur? Is 

this " the CEdm broke, and the voice trembled 

with tears. " It is always so. If one loves, one must 
suffer. I was so happy, so unspeakably happy, when I 
got your note — ^and now " 

The wailing accents were pitiful to hear, and Stuy- 
vesant shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortably 
conscious that something was expected of him — what, he 
did not clearly comprehend. 

But he blinked an apology, and waved his hand with 
deprecating earnestness toward the Fi^^e. 

" I say, Naniche, aren't you a — er — ^bit strong ? I didn't 
know you loved me so much." 

"Yes, you did. You told Van that I loved you. You 
told Van that I told you so." 

" Damned shabby of him to repeat," murmured Stuy- 
vesant. Then, with inspiration — 

" But you didn't, did you ? So you oughtn't to mind." 

" I didn't 1 What— do— you— mean ? " 

"Why! that you didn't tell me you Ibved me, of 
course," he explained, wisely nodding his head. 


The Figure seemed to shrink, if possible, more closely 
against the wall. The grim pallor of its face was increased 
somewhat by the moonlight, and the tragically fixed 
stare of the eyes, peering beneath long, irregular wisps of 
hair, gave it the look of a hunted thmg, driven to bay. 
It lifted up its voice and wept at this pomt 

" Perhaps you will deny that you promised — ^yes — here 
on this very spot — to marry me ? " 

Stuyvesant started. 

His expression of amiable stupidity changed first to one 
of amazement, then to distinct tear. Quickly through his 
mind there passed a review of the occasions upon which 
he remembered having been sufficiently intoxicated to 
make a recollection of the words he had said or the 
promises he had given, a practical impossibility. There- 
lore, that he had inadvertently asked Naniche's hand in 
marriage was quite probable, though, of course, a con- 
summation of such an act would be ridiculous — mad — 
preposterous — out of the <^uestion. 

" I say, Naniche," he said gravely, " I didn't, did I ? " 

" Yes," coldly " you did. Here on this very spot, 

before witnesses.*' 

"Damn it!" shouted Stuyvesant, "I couldn't— 
besides " 

"I shall hold you to your word," solemnly and 

" Great Caesar ! Nanicbe, you don't mean it ? You 
can't— my people " 

Poor Stuyvesant's knees shook. He had a vision of 
his stately home up the Hudson— his mother — his sister, 
who was about to marry an English lord— and himsdf, 
the heir, bringing home as his wife a model from the 
Latin Quarter! 

Tears rose in his eyes as the full horror of the situation 
unfolded itself before his partially numbed senses. 

If there was anything to be done with this white, immov- 
able Figure, this stem, judicially accusing thing ! — it was 
through pity. 

Stuyvesant looked around him once or twice with a 
sort of grim desperation — then down on his knees, into 
the dirty snow, he fell at the Figure's feet ! He was so 
beautifully abject that his own mother wouldn't have 
recognised him, and so bedraggled that even his valet 
would have pitied him. His hat dropped absurdly over 
his eyes, and the tails of the long sometime " smart " 
Newmarket dragged along in the wet, whilst his shirt, 
which had been so spotless— so thorouehly the shirt of the 
exquisite — was spattered with mud and crumpled badly. 

will you, Huliche ? " he whined. 


'* You won't hold me to it, will you, Naniche ? " he 
whined. "It isn't for my sake —but because " 

" Listen," said the Fi^re, standing perfectly still, and 
speaking first in a voice which contained a suspicious 
note of huskiness, then more clearly : ^ I will release you 
from your promise on one condition only. You shall pro- 
mise me —now, here — ^as you kneel — never to boast alxMit a 
woman again. Never to lie, and say that she encouraged 
you when she hadn't Never to do these things so long 
as you live. Swear ! " 

" I swear ! " murmured the culprit weakly. 

"The day you do it, I, in my full rights, will come 
forth and force you to marry me. Remember, I have 

" I swear I " repeated Stuyvesant. 

Then the Figure said : " You may rise and touch my 
hand in token that you will not break your oath." 

Stuyvesant bowed his head humbly and began to pull 
himself painfully to his feet, and when he had finally 
raised himself, he would never have been recognised as 
the same youth who had departed, six hours before, 
immaculate and self-assured. 

He stepped forward and held out his hand diffidently- ; 

but as the Figiu-e did not advance to meet him, or move, 

he grasped what he believed to be its hand. Ghastly 

to relate, it was not a hand. The sound of Michelet 

paper crackled characteristically under his fingers — and 

a large and exceedingly realistic poster fell forward 

against his shirt bosom. 

e o o 

When Stuyvesant entered the studio he presented a 
meek and lowly appearance. Van was smoking a long 
pipe, calmly reposmg in a far comer of the room. 

As the Prodigal pushed open the ante-chamber door, 
he raised one eye carelessly from his book and asked him 
what time it was. 

" I thought you were going to bed," remarked 
Stuyvesant, in a suppressed tone of irritation, by way of 

" Oh, I didn't ! " yawned Van, throwing his long legs 
over the arm of his chair and twisting his body 
so as to get a better view of his young relative. 
" Great Scott ! Did you fall out of the cab ?" he chuckled. 
" You must have been badly screwed this time, and no 

Stuyvesant assumed an attitude indicative of as much 
dignity as his exceedingly soiled and dishevelled appear- 
ance would admit. 

k. *• 


" Yes," he said grimly, " I was — horribly ; but I didn't 
tail out of the cab !" 

Then he betook himself, sorely aching, dejected and 
saddened, to bed. 

He went back to New York by the next steamer— be- 
cause the boys at the Boulevard A are apt to express 

their appreciation in a matter of this sort — crudely. 

Maude Stekner. 

Alfrid G. 


The Willow-pattern Plate and the Lady. 

I am a willow-pattern plate, 

Correct in glaze and azure hue ; 
I hang in long discounted state, 

On dadoed walls, demodi too. 

Where alien folk, with altered view, 
Regard me with disdainful stare ; 

None marking in my china blue. 
The glamour of the days that were. 

Ah, yes ! I know Pm out of date. 

But she — poor darling — still is true 
To her first love, and sees me yet 

A chosen vessel for the few. 

Pm cracked and stitched, and dull with glue, 
No charm lies in me anywhere ; 

But she — she holds a magic clue — 
The glamour of the days that were. 

Now are the times no man can wait 

The dear delays of art : A crew 
Of restless Decadents they prate, 

Of deeds they have no heart to do. 

Ah 1 quiet, cultured days — for you ! 
For clinging frocks, and floating hair I 

When she was young, before she knew 
The glamour of the days that were. 


Lady, there floats between us two, 

A silvery veil we ill could spare : 
Each sees the other sweetly through 

The glamour of the days that were. 

ff. A. Robinson. 



BENTIVGGLIO had just made a proposal of 
marriage to Rosalind. Rosalind had rejected 
him. As he was in every respect an eligible 
young man, we warmly canvassed the propriety of her 
doing so. After listening some time, apparently uncon- 
cerned, Rosalind launched a vigorous protest against 
men as lovers, perhaps with a special reference to the 
unfortunate Bentivoglio. This took place under the 
stately beech trees of a forest where we journeyed one 
Saturday afternoon. We lay on the grass with our 
backs against one of the largest of the woody 
patriarchs, while a few yards from us our bicycles formed 
a sort of circular rampart. 

" I have been reading," said Rosalind, '* a love scene 
from a play of that great, unread Englishman, William 
Shakespeare. It is of no consequence which play, but it 
charmed me by its sportive and spontaneous grace. On 
one side was manly passion and courtly homage ; on the 
other " — here the eyes of Rosalind flashed brightly with 
emotion — " was queenly tenderness and soft acceptance 
of woman's destiny. I could wish that I had been the 
lady of that scene ; I believe that the lover would have 
had no cause to regret it." Here Bentivoglio sighed 
deeply. "But, indeed,'' continued the unkind fair one, 
" this is not how love is made nowadays, and the blunt 
avowals and spasmodic trivialities of modem lovers fall 
harshly on ears that have become acquainted, even in 
literature, with such honeyed vows. Do you ever think, 
you men, how you should approach the woman you 

" We do I we do ! " answered a hoarse chorus of 
masculine voices, whose very tones revealed much 
ineffectual pondering on this interesting subject. The 
curves of Rosalind's face assumed a delicious roundness ; 
one red lip slid up, disclosing a tow of pearly teeth. She 
was manifestly moved to laughter. 

" If so," she said, " then I must pity your misdirected 
energies. As it seems to me, you come hot and breathless 
to the pursuit, caring little how or why you conquer us, 
relying solely on the prerogative of man, and sometimes 
you are mistaken." This last very maliciously. " Do 
you know how you appear to the eyes of a woman ? 
Have you ever considered yourselves in any looking-glass 
except a material one, which indeed you use as much as 


we ? Let me tell you ! We meet you strutting along the 
street, dressed in some weird combination, which may be 
a iiEishion, if that is an excuse. You are smoking furiously, 
beating the air with your sticks, hustling the passers-by ; 
your heads are full of every thought but of her you 
pretend to love. It is a great mercy if you are not ogling 
every prl you meet, as though you thought your reputa- 
tion with your adored would be increased by the number 
of scalps at your belt.'* 

" And there is no doubt that that is so,'* interrupted the 
cynical relater of these circumstances. 

" Continue to think this," said Rosalind, " until you are 
undeceived. The remark is characteristic of your youth. 
What is there that is so very important in the affection of 
men ? I don't say it's good for us to live alone, but at 
least we can endure that calamity with patience ; but 
when that happens to men, how morose and blas^ they 
become. Then after a time they marry their cooks or 
their washerwomen, or they bring in creatures from the 
streets, only to escape what they are so much afraid of— 
loneliness without love. Well then, since you need us 
more than we need you, who ought to study and obey 
the other ? I remember a girl telling me that her fianci 
proposed to her while he was lighting a cigarette. If" — 
here she extended a hand by no means formidable in 
appearance — *' if that had happened to me, I should have 
imprinted on his face in red and white my appreciation of 
the favour he had done me." 

Here Celia, who possesses some of the characteristics 
of her immortal namesake, interrupted plaintively, ** Oh, 
Rosalind ! if you had done that, you would have ruined 
your life's happiness." 

"No, I shouldn't have cared a bit" 
" Well then, you couldn't have loved him." 
" No," said Rosalind decisively, " I have suffici^t 
intuition not to love a man who could do a thing like 
that." Whereupon a babel of voices broke out, of which 
the burden was something like this: "Then that destroys 
the case, and vitiates your argument. This girl was in 
love, and consequently didn't care how she was proposed 
to, so long as it was done. You would not have been in 
love, and so would not have cared, even if his proposal 
had been couched in the most fantastic terms that were 
ever used by a hare-brained Romeo." Then over the 
neck, face and brows of Rosalind there swept a wave of 
colour Titian would have bartered his soul to imitate. 
Her hands, not unlike mountain snow, touched by the 
first rosy light of dawn, clasped each oUier firmly. One 


pearly tooth imprinted determination on the crimson lip 
below. For some minutes she sat silent, only she dug up 
the loamy soil with her heel. 

At last, as suits her sex, she began inconsequently : 
'* Well, I don't care. If it's useless to appeal to the self- 
respect of my sex, cannot I hope for something from the 
justice of yours ? You may be common and dull ; you 
may be selfish and vain ; but at least you have reason, 
and reason is justice, isn't it ? We all see you the same ; 
it's only our timidity" — here she put a caressing arm 
round Celia — "only that which prevents us saying so. 
So there ! Who but man spills the afternoon coffee down 
his legs and on the carpets, and worse still, asks for 
a second cup ! Who but man tears the dresses in the 
ball-room, and inflicts the pang of martyrdom on his 
partners feet by his evolutions of a dancing bear? I 
have a sort of relic at home — the train of a dress that 
has gone through as many engagements as the fia^ of 
the 42nd. It's a pitiable sight, I assure you. Then, if at 
a public ball you have to get us some supper, you appear 
to grudge us every morsel we take. Some fellows really 
ought to bring a graduated medicine-glass, to put the 
champagne in, so as to see how much we consume. 
Somenow or other, you make up your minds that a girl 
is in love with you, and you offer a remedy. Some girls" 
— tickling Celia's neck pleasantly — "really don't know what 
to do with a husband. It's not in their line ; but what 
would you have ? one must be in the fashion. So there 
is the usual ceremony, which is really very charming, 
especially if one can have a good fit of hysterics when 
it's all over. For the first week, you seem to think you're 
living with an angel, and after that you love us just in 
proportion to your morality, which, for my part, I don't 
value at all, not I ! But that's anticipating. That's what 
you offer us after marriage ; but what do you do to lead 
us there ? I have a vivid recollection of certain young 
gentlemen who have been good enough to spend a few 
evenings with me for that ostensible purpose." 
Bentivoglio produced a large silk handkerchief, and hid 
his burning countenance. " It was very kind of them, no 
doubt. They certainly were very amusing. For one 
thing, they talked ! Oh yes ! they talked — ^about them- 
selves ; what fine fellows they were ; and, still more 
interesting, what fine fellows they would have been if 
luck had not been against them. They gave me 
catalogues of their virtues, which contained everything 
outside the Ten Commandments, and lists of their accom- 
plishments, of which there were none I did not possess 


myself. Then sometimes," continued Rosalind, with a little 
grimace, changing for the nonce her mask of tragedy into 
one of comedy, " they kissed me ! " Peculiar contortions 
appeared in the features of Bentivoglio, as he endeavoured 
to realise mathematically his share in these favours. 
" Sometimes their kisses tasted of wax ; sometimes of 
tobacco ; sometimes of ' special Scotch.* Sometimes they 
tried to jam my poor little nose out of position, or dash 
my hair into my eyes, or dint a hole in my forehead. Only 
one thing I can say, they did hot * suck forth my soul/ — 
my soul, indeed ! I scarcely know if a bevy of lovers ever 
had to be satisfied with so few incentives to passion." 
Then came a pause, full of memories. 

" Well, have you finished ? " we asked. 

" There is just one touch to complete your character, 
messieurs Us amoureux^ said Rosalind, "and that is 
your chivalry. I used to think — you know, I was very 
badly brought up— that a lover's desire was to protect his 
mistress, to enshrine her with praise, and to repel 
every breath of scorn, every murmur of scandal that 
sought to touch her. However, I pity the girl whose 
reputation depends upon her lover's tongue. Not con- 
tent with boasting of every favour he has obtained with 
lies and promises enough to make Ananias turn in his 
grave, your modem lover brings his imagination to the 
service of his mistress, and invents for her more 
charming tricks than she ever dared dream of in reading 
the Decamerone. How many a delicate lily has your 
ardent fancy invested with the blatant odour of an 
orchid? How many a white soul sinks beneath your 
conquering tongues and is besmirched with calumny? 
And for all this thanks, many thanks ! " 

Rosalind had risen ; her voice sank to a whisper or a 
sigh, and her grey eyes seemed full of mist as she 
looked westward where, beneath the gnarled boughs of 
a long avenue of trees, the sun was sinking, his refining 
fire turning all to gold. The stately form of Rosalind, 
outlined by curves such as we thought only the ancients 
had seen, rose proudly above us — a statue of contem- 
plative disdain. Her bronze hair flashed in a parting 
shower of sunbeams, and suddenly a smile ran across her 
face — a little closing of the eyelids, a darkening at the 
comers of the mouth, another dimple in the chin — and 
was gone. Which of us could have put it there ? 

Then Maggie Durham, who is a cheeky little thing, 
said, " I don't agree with you at all. I think men are 
awfully jolly, ^d for a girl to talk as you've been 
talking well I " 


But Rosalind was so beautiful that we told the other to 
keep quiet, and waited with bowed heads for further 
reproofs. Rosalind did not appear to have noticed any 

'*Some day, perhaps, I shall meet him," she said. 
" He must he brave and tender, especially courteous, and 
not boastful. He must love me alone, but he must not 
disparage other girls to please my vanity. He will 
flatter me, but at least he will half mean it ; and if he 
has my £sivour he will consider it too precious to speak 
of to any one but her who gave it. I think, too, 
that he ought to be tall, and his hair — his hair shall be of 
what colour God pleases.** 

Then, drawing a cigarette from her pocket-case, she 
lighted it, and mountmg her bicycle, rode off, waving 
her hand to us. 

M. Green. 

f f f 


Before his brand-new easel. 

The nervous nauveau stood, 
And mixed his costly pigments 

In nervous, mixed-up mood ; 
For, on the throne before him. 

In witching attitude, 
The dainty model posed, and this 

Was his first . . . attempt 



Begun in ^^STE Stretched out his hands to her, as if she were 
our last J^^ alive, before him. 

numbtr u 5^ j^^^^ q|^| | j^^^^ ^^ mtgnofute, and poor ! 

Look at my coat, with its worn-out pockets and shabby 
seams 1 I have tried to mend it for a long time now, Myrza, 
but it is too old, too old — like me. They won't buy my 
pictures now, Mrie. I was proud once, you remember, 
Myrza ? I was proud once ; but now you should see 
tkem^ parbUu ! They are proud now, and I cannot coax 
them mto having a smgle one ! ^ The old man rose half 
fiercely at this, throwing back his head, and beating his 
chest hard with his clenched hands. 

" My work — ^mine, Myrza, and they will not have it ! 
They are imbiciles^ chdrie^ imbeciles! Seigneur! They 
will find out one day — one day ; but it will be when I am 
gone, Myrza — too late for you and me, too late ! If I 
could only make you understand, tmgnanne^ I am 
sure you would forgive me. They are such beauti- 
ful letters, Myrza, and if they are our secrets ; no 
one will understand quite but ourselves, chMe^ even if 
the whole of France should read them I See ! " the old 
man went on, in his tone of earnest persuasion, and 
taking out a folded manuscript from one of the pockets of 
the velvet coat, " see ! I have copied them all out so 
carefully. You are simply * Myrza,' and I am * Antoine' ! 
They will make quite a big book, and they are so 
beautiful, ma mie! I will give them up now, Myrza, 
because I feel that you will understand "; and, taking off 
his old, shabby coat, he put on instead the older, but more 
jaunty, velvet one. 

He removed the blue bundle from the pocket, and, 
reverently wrapping it in the other coat, put it at the 
head of die bed. 

Then, arranging his old, soft felt hat very carefully 
upon his head, where the hair only grew at the back, and 
was long there, he lit his last cigar, and, with the manu- 
script in his hand, descended to the street below. 

As he went down, he heard unpleasing sounds issuing 
from the apparUfnent of the concierge^ and the repetition 
of the word " cigares^' in the loud and guttural tones of 
the husband. The old man quietly put his behind his 
back as he went by. A piquancy was given to the 
discussion by a trail of smoke, which was wafted in at the 
door as he passed out. 

He went down the Boulevard, and past the fountain in 



Drawn iy 
CyrU G»ldU 


the Place ; over the river he went, leaving the " Rive 
Gauche " behind him, and on, on to the Rue Richelieu. 
He stopped at a publisher's there, and when he entered, 
one or two employes smiled, without taking the trouble to 
hide their mirth. 

Perhaps he noticed this and was sensitive, or perhaps 
he was afraid of changing his mind. However, he 
hurriedly laid the manuscript down. 

" 1 will come back in a few days — ^it's a manuscript — 
for an answer," he said, and quickly left the office. He 
threaded his way back over the river, and to his own 
part of the world again. His old eyes had a little eager 
light in them, and his step was more alerL There was a 
certain amount of excitement about his look. It was 
unusual, and it soon faded, for the walk had been a fairly 
long one, and he was feeling very weak. 

There were lights along the Boulevard now, and the 
caffs looked warm and bright. 

He walked very slowly past them. He thought, 
perhaps, some old friend, who had not died, might be 
mside, and, remembering other days, would beckon him 
to go and sit at his table. 

But no such luck was in store for him that day, and he 
went slowly back to his attic and his view of Paris. But 
he did not look out, for he was tired. 

He changed his coat again, returning the blue bundle 
with great care to the pocket of the velvet jacket. Then 
he rolled it up at the head of his bed again. He was 
very weary, and very drowsy, and, almost as he stood, 
he fell asleep. 

He had a sharp pain, too, in his chest, which aroused 
him for a moment, but the drowsiness got the better of 
him, and his head fell heavily upon the velvet coat 
He babbled on a little to Myrza, of days when they 
were children. He told her not to dance and laugh 
so much together— that it would kill her, and then 
he laughed and tried to dance as she did. He told 
her they would go to Paris, and be rich one day. And 
then he sank into drowsiness again. He called feebly to 
Myrza to bring him a little water, and he held out his 
hands feverishly to take it from her, and the tears rolled 
down his cheeks because she did not come. 

Then he sank into heavy sleep. 

There was great excitement at a certain publisher's in 
the Rue Richelieu. The cause of it was a manuscript 
which had been left three or four days previously by a 


person described and styled by the two employes who 
had set eyes upon him as " un drSle de vitillard." 

But the evciiement was intense, nevertheless, for the 
manuscript, bearing the simple title " Lettres de Myiza 
k Antoine," was worth, to quote the publisher, a fortune 
to its author. 

The publisher did not speak of himself in the matter, 
he was too enthusiastic, too curious. Who was the 
author? There was no signature, no address. 

TiiK weeks passed on, and as the author did not make 
himself known, the firm decided to publish the letters 
and in that way startle, or force him, into doing so. 

The book was everything that the publishers antici- 
pated. It created a sensation, a furore. The title was 
on everybody's lips, and the volume in everybody's 

But the author? The appearance of the book had 
neither forced him into protesting or exulting. 

He was dumb. 

One morning, Madame la Concierge was studiously 
devouring her Petit Journal. 

On a sudden she gave a little scream. Her husband, 
who was about takmg his departure, gave a guttural 
growl of indifference, but stopped in surprise on seeing 
her face. 

"Ql^il y a-l-ilf" he asked quickly and suspiciously. 

She was fumbling in a box containing papers and 
letters and did not answer. 

He seized the journal and scanned a page carefully, 
spelling over one or two headlines. 

"Ql^il y a-l-il!" he repeated angrily. 

" Taii-toi," she answered shortly, still fumbling in the 
box. " Ah I Dieu merci f I thought I had lost it ! ' 

He snatched a little piece of crumpled paper from her 
hand. She gave a cry lest he should tear it. 

He took it deliberately to the window and tried to spell 
it out while she stood with beads of perspiration on her 
forehead, though the day was cold. 

" M — y — r — ,'' then he threw it on the floor with an 
oath, and, banging the door after him, lefi her alone. 

"* Duu merci!" she ejaculated, picking it up. "Myria 
\ Antoine," she read, scanning the paper eagerly, 

" Lettres Rue RichelieiL Je ne veuxpas qu'elUs soient 

tuii here were two or three dabi with the pencil, 

but no ending of the vrord. The hand had evidently 

She picked up I^ Petit Journal excitedly, and com- 
pared the two. 


" Lettres de Myrza k Antoine, Paris, Dupont, 27 Rue 

'Mt is the same. I will go." 

She slipped the scrap of paper into her pocket, and 
putting a wrap about her shoulders, walked quickly oat 
into the street 

She found an acquaintance, her usual substitute when 
she went out, to replace her, and. getting into an omni- 
bus at the Place St. Michel, was not long in reaching 
her destination. 

She asked for the head of the establishment 

" Monsieur Dupont, st dest possible f^ 

The employ^ smiled at one another and coughed. 

^ The head of the establishment is engaged, madame," 
said one, " will you tell me your business ? " 

** It is about * Les Lettres de Myrza '" but before 

she could finish, he interrupted her with ''Will you please 
to wait a moment, madame, I will carry your message" — 
and he was gone. 

In a moment he returned. 

" Will you follow me, madame ? " 

The publisher asked her to be seated. 

'*You have come with some business concerning 
' Lettres de Myrza k Antoine,' madame ? *' 

" Ouiy monsieur,'* and she handed him the scrap of 

He looked at it, and then at her with a puzzled 

*' I do not understand," he said. " You know ihc 
author, madame ? " 

" Yes, monsieur, that is, I knew him. He is dead." 

"Dead!" echoed the publisher, ''and his name, his 
name, madame?" 

"Cazals, Antoine Cazals, peinire. I don't know 
whether he was the author, monsieur, but I found 
this," indicating the piece of paper, "crushed up 
in his hand when he was dead. From what was said, it 
must have been pneumonia that killed him. I am the 
concierge where he lived — his appariement was up at 
the top and he was very, very poor, pauvre Tneillard!* 
Her eyes filled with tears. 

"Ah," exclaimed the publisher, "it must be the 

"He had been dead many days before I found him," 
went on the concierge, "He had been dead many days, 
and it was the 'merest accident led me to him then. 1 
found this paper in his hand, monsieur, and kept it 
because I felt it to be a message from the dead. I only 


Ih-aarn by /. B. YcaU 


saw a clue to it in Le Petit Journal this morning, and so 
came straight to you." 

*' It is too late," said the publisher, '' the book is out ; 
besides, how can you assure me that you are right? 
This is not signed.* 

" He left a bundle of letters behind ; they were wrapped 
in blue linen, but they were addressed to himself, and in 
a woman's hand. They were signed * Myrza.' There 
was a photograph, too, and a lock of hair '* 

" Did you resid any of the letters ? " 

'* One or two, but, finding they were all from the same 
person, and that they were love letters, I felt they 
belonged to the dead, so could not read any more.'* 

" Have you not broufi;ht them } " 

" No, they are buried with him." 

The publisher called down a tube— "Bring me the 
manuscript of * Lettres de Myrza k Antoine?" And 
when the manuscript was brought, and the door closed 
again — " Now, madLame, see if you can find the letters 
you have read ?" 

She looked over a few pages carefully, but with no 

" Take your time, madame," said the publisher, as the 
concierge looked helplessly at the closely written sheets. 

Presently she ^ave a little gasp. The publisher looked 
at her interrogatively. 

" Celle-lcL I " she cried, putting her finger on a page 
and handing it to him. 

**That will do. I see the writing on the scrap of 
paper is the same as in the manuscript, though more 
feeble. And the letters were written by that woman after 

all ! Will you give me your address, madame ? " he 

continued. " I regret that this message has not reached 
us sooner. The book is published, and all over France 
by this time, but I thank you for the trouble you have 
taken." And he bowed the woman out. 

The concierge has a cheque and a volume of the 
"Lettres," and when the spring comes she will plant 
flowers and put a stone upon the old man's grave. But 
now the wind whistles cheerlessly about it. 

In the Midi, at the foot of the Pyrenees, the soft warm 
breezes play with the grass over another grave that long 
ago hid a lovely fiace, and a lonely, aching heart. 

You wonder, and you well may wonder, why they 
spent their lives apart. 

Some tragedies are hidden under the sod, and so great 


are they that one is amazed they do not burst forth and 
cry aloud. Instead, they lie quite still and sleep. 

But this has cried aloud, as those who read the book 
can testify. It has told its story to many thousands, 
even now. 

There are alreadv people who visit the grave of Myrza 
as they would a holy shnne. 

She threw aside ambition, power, all that this world 
could give her, in the very height of an unparalleled 
success, that she might live out her life and end it, as it 
had begun, in all its simple sweetness and untarnished 

She did this for Antoine Cazals' sake, because he asked 

He never followed her. Success came to him soon 
after, and, when it did, she asked no sacrifice of him, and 
he offered none. 

He forgot her, and she died, broken by grief and 
weary waiting. When failure came, as it does often, and 
he was neglected and poor and lonely, he remembered 
her again. That is all. 

Mary Keegan. 

t t ^ 


By The recent appearance of Mrs. Kendal 

*• Tht Owi» Mrs. at the St. James's Theatre in that v«ry 

KENDAL. pure, charming and clever, if not quite 

perfect, com^y, ^^The Elder Miss 
Blossom," gave Londoners a sharp reminder of the pity 
of allowing a comedienne of such rare calibre to stray so 
much from our Metropolis. Gifted with an abundance (rf 
delicate nervous force, she controls it with exquisite skilL 
As an actress alone, her name well merits the nonouiable 
place which she has established for it in the annals of the 
stage; but Mrs. Kendal, like all truly great artists, 
tempers her talents with graciousness, her art with 
modesty, and finds the keenest pleasure in advising, 
admonishing, and instructing those who have seriously 
chosen the stage for their life's study, thus deserving a 
double fee of public gratitude. Nevertheless, she deeply 
deplores the fact that hers is the one profession to which 
thousands aspire, and too many enter, without the least 
. qualification : to which, in her own words, " there are no 
barriers.'' In all other callings, some fitness, some 
aptitude, some knowledge is required, but almost every 
handsome, straight-limbed, well-dressed young person 
feels that Providence could not have blessed him with these 
all and only important attributes, without predetermining 
for him, nay, even insisting on his following, the avocation 
of an actor. Now if anyone should have easily mastered 
her art, it is Mrs. Kendal. Descended, as she is, for 
generations, from a prolific line of actors, she was born 
and bred, so to speak, in the Theatre ; yet she found, 
and still finds that nothing of any value can be accom- 
plished without hard and persistent work. Her devotion 
to its power may be seen m the perfection of her mise en 
seines. The careful and exquisite polish which she 
gives to the detail of her own part does not, in the least, 
deter her from taking equal pains with the play and its 
other interpreters. Very seldom, indeed, is one aware of 
any stage management at all, so completely is it con- 
cealed by her art. 

Time plays divers tricks with divers persons, but he 
has laid his hand on Mrs. Kendal's heart gently. She 
will tell you with fervour that she does not regret the loss 
of her youth ; that experience and knowledge have 
brought new hopes, new desires, fresh fields to delight, 
fresh worlds to explore, which more than compensate for 
^ its evanescent glory. Were she aware that her buoyant 


spirit and earnest enthusiasm made this somewhat 
obvious, I am inclined to believe she would see just a 
little bit of humour in her delightfully modest apology for 
the vanished years. That Time has allowed her to play 
the part of Dorothy Blossom as she plays it, is the surest 
evidence that he has made the most generous compensa- 
tions in her case. 

In fact, after seeing her in '^The Elder Miss Blossom,'' 
it would be rather difficult to speak of Mrs. Kendal quite 
apart from Dorothy Blossom. Dorothy is in the noon- 
tide of life. For three years she has lived in ecstatic 
expectation of the return of her first love, Andrew Quick, 
an explorer, to whom she believe herself engaged. By 
an artnil complication Andrew is in equally bliss^ antici- 
pation of marrying — not Dorothy, but her young niece, 
Sophia Blossom. Three years of delicious comedy before 
the play opens ! Delicious, because founded upon the 
most pardonable of all human vanities, that of imagining 
we are loved by those we love, because we love them. 
Those who had the good fortune to see Mrs. Kendal as 
Dorothy Blossom, must have been deeply impressed by 
the calm stren^h of her affection for Andrew, her radiant 
happiness at his home-coming. It became something of 
a revelation in Mrs. Kendal's hands. To engender pity 
at Dorothy's misfortune and laughter at her mistake, 
was the keynote of the comedy, and few, very few 
actresses could have struck it so exactly as did Mrs. 
KendaL Well, this calm strength, this faith without 
guile is, in some way or other, part of Mrs. Kendal's 
nature. She is acting certainly,' but acting that which 
she, in some form, by virtue of her constitution or educa- 
tion, has experienced, which enables her, the more readily 
and truly to get into touch with the soul of Dorothy. 
Mrs. Kendal would not say that in order to act the part 
of a good woman, an actress must necessarily be good 
herself, any more than to play a murderess she must 
have killed somebody ; but she would suggest that ex- 
perience is the most trenchant school for the imagination, 
and that imagination is the very life of art. Of course, 
this vexing question as to whether real tears, or feigned 
ones are the best art on the stage must ever remain 
unsettled. Coquelin and Diderot favour the latter view ; 
Irving conmiends the former. " If tears, he wrote," be 
produced at the actor's will and under his control they 
are true art ; and happy is the actor who numbers them 
among his gifts." Mrs. Kendal tells of spending an 
afternoon in America with the elder Salvini, his son 
Alexander, Edwin Booth, Joseph Je£ferson, and Mod- 


jeska— "A nice little tea party" she called it When 
the subject came up, Salvini the elder said, " The tmood 
the actor is in at the momfn/ entirely governs his emotions 
and brings forth tears or keeps them back." Jefferson 
related that he had on one or two occasions shed real 
tears in " Rip Van Winkle," and that witnesses had come 
to him after those particular performances and told him 
his acting was noticeably inferior to his usual standard, 
not having moved them. Mrs. Kendal's view of it is, 
that "Art is inside of heart" — heart, I take it, being 
temperament ; art the subjective rontrol of it. She very 
often f^nds herself in quite the opposite mood to thai <rf 
the woman whose feelings she must on the moment 
enact ; then it is that art steps in, gently brushes aside 
her own emotions and calls forth those of her character. 

Recurring to "The Elder Miss Blossom," we 
wanted more, much more of Dorothy, certainly of 
Mrs. Kendal's Dorothy, after the second act. Her 
love for Andrew and her mortification when she 
finds it unrequited are beautifully drawn ; not so well the 
re-incarnation of her shattered hopes. It was all too 
sudden. We would like to have seen the noble Dorothy, 
despite her sorrow, trying to pick up the threads of the 
spinster life, which she had, during three years, 
gradually dropped. Who could have piointed this dis- 
tinction with subtler finesse than Mrs. Kendal ? Her 
assumption of gay resignation would have served to 
disarm and disconcert tne downcast, manly Andrew, 
making it all the more difficult for him to prove the 
sincerity of his new-bom love. The dramatic need for 
his going away would have " kept." The situation 
between Dorothy and Andrew was m the first place a 
happy idea ; then it was ingeniously constructed and 
formed so solid a foundation that it would nnt hav* 
detracted one jot from the strength of the ph 
added another story to the delicate structui 
comedy ; and would, I think, have given 
and longer life to the recollection of one of Mrs 
most enchanting creations. 

The popular notion that actors and actress 
find happiness in intermarriage has made no i 
on Mrs. Kendal. In a contribution to Murra 
tine she once wrote ; " My father was an actoi, wuw ^.m 
he believed that the greatest amount of domesticity and 
happiness in a life devoted to art could exist upon the 
stage, provided husbands and wives never parted. If, on 


the contrary, a man, because he could cam ^lo a week 
more, went to one theatre, whilst his wife, for a 
similar reason, went to another, their interests tended to 
become divided ; their feelings ran in separate grooves, 
and gradually a shadow would grow up at home which 
divided them for ever. On my expressing a wish that I 
shculd marry an actor, he said that only on this condi- 
tion would he allow me to marry my husband — that we 
should never be parted. Mr. and Mrs. Kpj^h 
always acted tc^ether, and she endorse 
father's words." 

The "divine Sarah "says "Had 1 not 
been an actress 1 would have been a 
nun.'' A nun? She would have been 

Reliability is an all-impottant attribute 
of the successful modem actor. It is a 
virtue which lends grace to its possessor 
in all walks of life, but particularly the 
sta^e walk, with its never ending chapter of unrehearsed 
accidents. Formerly, this was not so fully appreciated. 
No sane actor would now, for instance, be found guilty of 
the tricks which were practised by Palmer, the nrst and 
foremost Joseph Surface of the stage. He seldom studied 
his lines, and one of the happy excuses he set forth on 
every occasion was the accouchement of his wife. He 
would postpone an engagement or disappoint an 
audience without the least compunction. Once, at the 
■act m^ment, he sent the following message : " My 
friends, this is the most awfiil period (^ 
I cannot be with you ; my beloved wife, 
Incr of my sorrows and my joys, is just 
d." He merely smiled with an accustomed 
bland benignity when congratulated by the 
manager upion the happiness of havmg a 
wife who, at least once in two monuis, 
rendered him a contented fother. 


Be careful, O Managers 1 how you slight the 
" extra i^entlemen.' They, too, have their 


" Well, what if I am only a banner-bearer ? There's 
bigger blokes than me what begun as 'supers,' and see 
where they've got to. I needn't be ofiended ? All right, 
old pal, I ain't, though I was 'urt when that utility cove 
said I was only a banner-bearer. Why, I should like 
to know where they'd be without us — all diem old spoutin' 
tragedy merchants I Tliey'd have no armies, conse- 
quently they couldn't rave at 'em, and lead 'em on to 
victon and things. They wouldn't 'ave no sennits, so 
they'd 'ave to cut out their potent, grave, and reverent 
seniors, an' that 'ud worry 'em. They wouldn't 'ave do 
hexcited citizens, and so they couldn't bury old Ceser nor 
praise him neither. They couldn't strew no fields with 
no dead soldiers. TTiey'd 'ave nobt)dy to chivy 'cm when 
they came to the throne, or returned from the wars. 
They couldn't have no processions ; as for balls and 
parties, and tomemongs, why, they couldn't give 'em- 
And where 'ud they often be without the distant ' oUer- 
ings?'" And fiirther on; "They could do without me 
in the modem drama ? The modern drama, my boy, ain't 
actin'. It's nothing but ' cufT-shiwtin'. ' You just has to 
stand against a mankel- shelf, with your hands in Poole's 
pockets, and say nothing elegantly. You don't want no 
chest-notes ; you don't want no action ; you don't want 
no excitement. Why, my boy, if they was to offer me an 
engagement as a guest in one of them cufT-shooling plays, 
'; me to go on in eveni^ dress, I'm blest if 1 
't ' throw up the part.' Trousers and white ties 
)p me. I wants a suit o* mail an' a 'alberd, a tunic 
my legs free ; a dagger in my teeth— not a tooih- 
; a battle-axe in my 'and — not a crutch. I likes 
e led to victory, I does. 1 likes to storm castles 
trampel on the foe, I does. I likes to hang our 
ners on the outward walls, I does. I'm a bom 
banner-bearer, I am, and I gloties in it. No, 
my boy, none of your milk-and-water 'guests' 
and such for the likes of me ! An' if I was 
the Lord Chambermaid I'd perhibit the modem 
drama altogether. Them's my sentiments. If 
he don't perhibit it, actin' uU soon be mod- 
den'd out of existence. . . . Good night, old 


The years and the children of years from the womb 
universal that bore them 

Arise, gfather strength and are spent like the inrush of 
waves on the foreland : 

And the new groweth old, and the past is renewed in the 
record of heroes. 

But, eternally shaping their course o'er the trail and the 
dust of the fallen, 

The ranks of the living press on, advancing in serried 

And each in his place stands alone, the searcher, the 
questioning unit 

And the question is great, and the soul of the seeker is 
vexed in the solving. 

Yet unblenched in the hum of the fight and the feverish 
ebb of its legions, 

He wrestles with God for a sign, with the consorts of 
God for an answer — 

With the terrible sea and the sweep of its reaches that 
rock with destruction ; 

With the blatant, implacable wind ; and the torrent that 
shakes his red pmions. 

Till the thews of the forest are girt with the withering 
fire of its onset. 

To the tenantless spheres that are swathed in the snows 
of a winter eternal, 

To the worlds that are cradled in flame, to the heights 
and their splendours abyssmal. 

He cries, and for ever his cry in the chaos of change 

Is "Whither?" and "Whence?" but in vain to the 
walls of the gulf everlasting, 

To the chasm that sunders the bournes of delight from 
the vision of mortals. 

Its echoes are borne — ^and are lost in the realm of the 
pitiless silence ; 

For the voices are far that abound at the porch of the 
great Uncreated. 

Norman A. Hill. 


Dntam by H. L. Btrkv 


y£S I that's the Admiral in command down 'ere, 
the finest sailor afloat, an' a man every inch 
of 'im. Saved my life when we was both 
younger. Jumped overboard in the Western Ocean, 'e 
did, when I'd fallen from the topmast 'ead into the main 
rigging, 'an from there plump over ther rail into the 

But 'e seys I repaid 'im when I married 'im to Miss 
Kate O'Grady, ther then Port Admiral's daughter. 

Ycr see, it were this way. 

Miss Kate (O lor, weren't she a beauty in them days) 
were in love with 'e, and 'e with 'er — in love, why 'e 
could'nt eat, nor smoke, nor chew, and when a sailor 
can't smoke nor chew, it's 'orrible. 

Now you must know that ther Captain (as 'e then was) 
were a brave man, but when it came to tellin' that ther 
little girl. Miss Kate, that 'e were dead gone on 'er, why 
he couldn't screw 'is courage up to ther point, 'an if I 
'adn't a stepped in an' 'elped 'im out, why 'ed 'a' been 
single yet. Yer see my financy were maid to Miss Kate, 
an' 'er name were Kate likewise, an' I'm a namesake o' 
the Captain's (Admiral as now is) : Thomas — Tom, for 

Well, I went to my Kate an' seys : — 

" Kate," seys I, " we must do somethin' for them poor 
young people," meanin' Miss Kate an' ther Captain. 

" Yus," seys she, "but 'ow?" 

" Kate," seys I, " I've got a scheme." 

" What is it," seys she. 

" Like this,'' seys I. " I'll write you a letter, an' tell 
yer I love yer fit to bust, and arst yer to marry me quick 
next week." 

"Well?" seys she. 

(I was took flat aback, for I were poppin' the question 
for myself like, at the same time.) 

"Why I" seys I, "don't yer see? Yer'U write back, 
and say yus.'' 

" Oh, will I ? " seys she. 

"Yer will if yer wants to please Miss Kate an' ther 
Captain, let alone me," seys I. Things some'ow did seem 
a trifle mixed. 

" Oh, well 1 if yer puts it like that, of course I can't 
refuse," seys she blushing. (An' I kissed 'er.) 

" Yer'U write an' say yus ; an' your name is Kate, an' 
mine is Tom. Do yer twig now ? " seys I. 


" No, I don't," seys she. 

" Why ! ther letter I writes to you, asking ycr to marry 
me, an' signed Tom, must find its way into Miss Kate's 
ands, see ? an' the answer yer writes to me, signed Kate, 
will find its way into ther Skipper's. Savey de rat," 
seys I. 

"Lor' Tom ! " seys she, " what a lovely idea ! But your 
writin' — ^'ow about ? " 

*' I'll get the purser to write it for me, pertending I've 
'urt me 'and ; an' you, ther kid's governess to write your 
answer. So's ther Captain won't suspect anything, any- 
how," seys I. 

"Then when they meet, if ther 'Cap' don't fix things 
somehow, I'm a bloomin' Dutchman." 

Shure enough the next day I filets a sweet-scented little 
" billy dew," addressed to plam " Tom," with " To be 
delivered private " writ in ther comer. 

Just then ther Skipper passed ther word for ther " Code " 
Signal-book, an' I slips ther note 'twixt ther leaves an' 
carried it up on ther bridge. 

" Mornin', Tom," seys ther Captain. 

" Mornin', sir," seys I. 

" What do you make them sisals," seys 'e, an' 'e 
opens ther book an' out falls ther little " billy dew." 

" Come ashore at once, sir," seys I. 

All of a suddent 'e gives one jump an' yells out — 

" Pipe away the gig s crew, Bo'sun ! tell 'em to look 

" Tom," seys 'e, " I've 'ad good news, my lad." 

" I wish yer joy, sir," seys I. 

An' with that 'e jiunps down the side-ladder into ther 
gig an' sings out for 'em to give away. "A sovereign if 
yer do it in twenty minutes," seys 'e. 

About three hours after 'e comes aboard lookin' down- 
right good and cheerful, an' I heard 'im say — 

" Pass the word for Tom Brace to tumble aft." When I 
gets into ther cabin 'e were writin' like mad. "Tom 
Brace," seys 'e, without lookin' up from 'is writin', 
" you will be spliced on Wednesday tner 25th o' March," 
says 'e. '£ paused a bit, then continued " the same day as 
Miss Kate O'Grady an' myself." 

An' I was. 

Mont. St. La 

Drawn by H. A. Hegg 


Drawn by Gilbtrt Jamtt 


immeasurably superior to their inane prettiness and 
painful attention to detail, that it suggested the work of 
another man. 

** Tell me,'' he said curiously, " who was your model ? " 

Arrofel hesitated a moment, though not from a motive 
of delicacy, and helplessly shrugged his shoulders. **^ I 
can't be sure of her name — it was Agnes, I think — Agnes 
— Oh ! Agnes something or other." 

" A French ^irl, I suppose ? " 

" No ; English, I believe, or American. She wasn't 
the ordinary sort ; that is, not a professional model, you 
know ; only a little art student I knew years ago in Paris.*^ 

" And she posed for you — like that ? " 

" Well, she had to do something. She was clever in a 
way, but untaught, and quite without money to pay for 

"Well?" queried Mundaugh, with his eyes on the 
tender, appealing face in the picture. 

" Oh ! it's the old story. We lived on the same ^iage^ 
the fifth I think or the seventh, and got ver>' friendly. 
I was awfully sorry for the poor little thing, I was, really, 
and well — you understand, after a bit she i>osed for 

" Poor little girl," muttered Mundaugh, too softly for 
the other to hear. 

Arrofel went on : " She was pretty, you know, quite 
pretty ; but with a failing your pretty woman seldom has ; 
her conscience made life a burden to us both. I can 
stand a woman with scruples — one gets accustomed to 
them after a bit ; but fancy cutting up rough because I 
wanted to send that picture to the Salon. I can 
remember even now the row she made, raking up some 
absurd promise of mine not to exhibit it ; and actually 
she bolted the day it went to be judged." 

" What happened to her afterwards } " 

Arrofel pulled at his moustache a moment before 
answering. " Well," he confessed at last, " I concluded 
I was well rid of her, and never made any enquiries." 

Mundaugh, repressing an inclination to swear, looked 
from the " Youth '' to the student's almost completed 

" Pardon me,'' he said courteously, " but may I ask 
why you are so altering the face in the copy you are 
doing ? In the original the expression is that of a griev- 
ing child ; you have made it that of a woman who has 
known much sorrow." 

She paused before' answering. " I am painting her as 
I knew her," she said at length. 

^^ 4 

ARROFEL, A.R.A. 313 

" You knew her, then ? Were her friend, perhaps ? " 
queried Mundaugh. 

" Yes ; years ago, in Paris." 

" Where is she now ? " broke in Arrofel eagerly. " Gad, 
but rd like to paint her." 

The woman went on with her work. "Why.-^" she 
asked presently. 

" She must have developed into a superb beauty. Jove ! 
but rd like her to pose for that picture of Magdalene I've 
had in mind for the past ten years." 

" Is that the only reason .'*" she asked, and to Mun- 
daugh her voice sounded unsteady. 

" Isn't that reason enough?" 

" Then, sir, your picture must go unpainted.'' 

" She wouldn't be so absurd as to bear malice all these 

" You wrong her, she is beyond malice. She is dead." 

" Too bad, too bad ; just my luck," grumbled Arrofel 
as they moved away. 

After a little the woman went feverishly on with her 
work, but instead of the dark, shadowy hair of the won- 
derful " Youth " of ArrofeFs picture, that which she painted 
was thin and streaked with gray ; the beauty and fresh- 
ness of the girl were gone, and the student's own face, 
drawn and haggard and grief-stricken, yet still strangely 
like, looked out from the canvas instead. 

For a moment she stared at her work with tear-filled 
eyes, then burying her head in her hands, sobbed softly, 
" Thank God, thank God, he didn't know me." 

Constance Compton Marston. 

Drvum by A. RttMU 

DratuH by Witliam SkatiUlen 

Dttignid by Regimaid Wells 

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, i8th Cenrory.^,. . 
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19th Cenrtitf^. 
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"'OODWARD. Royal 

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The VTild Ass's Skin (U Peau de Chagrin). 

The Chouans (Les Chouans). 

The Country Doctor (Le M^ecin de Campagne). 

At the Sign of the Cat and Racket, etc. (La Maison 
du Chat-qui Pelote. Le Bal de Sceaux. La Bourse. La Ven- 
detta. Mme. Firmiani). 

Eugfoie Grandet (Eug6nie Grandet). 

The Quest of the Absolute (La Recherche de L*Absolu). 

Old Goriot (Le P^re Goriot). 

The Atheist's Mass, etc. (La Messe de TAthee Honorine. Le 
Colonel Chabert. L'Interdiction. Pierre Grassou>. 

Ursule Miroudt (Ursule Mirouet). 

The Rise and Fall of C^ar Blrotteau (Grandeur et D^- 

dence de C6sar Birotteau). 
La Grande Bret^he, etc. (La Grande Breteche. La Paiz du 

Manage. La Fausse Maltresse. Etude de femme. Autre ^de 

de fenune. Albert Savarus). 

Pierrette and The Abb6 Birotteau (Les C^libataires — I. 
Pierrette. Le Cur6 de Tours). 

A Bachelor's Establishment (Les C^libalaires— IL Un Menage 
de gar9on). 

Modeste Mignon (Modeste Mignon). 

The Unknown Masterpiece, etc. (Le Cbef-d'ceuvre inconnu. 
T^us-Christ en Flandre. Melmoth r^ncilie. Les Marana. Adieu. 
Le R^quisitionnaire. El Verdugo. Un Drame au bord de la mer. 
L*Auberge rouge. L'Elixir de longue vie). 

Beatrix (Beatrix). 

The Country Parson (Le Cur^ de Village). 

A Harlot's Progress. 2 vols. (Splendeurs et Mis^res des 

Spectator, — '* Balzac was ' one of the purest moralists of his age/ 
which was a wicked one, and he paints it as such, but he never 
disguises the truth ; with bim vice is always hideous, and under his 
guidance we are never led to admire it or to take it for virtue." 

Times, — ''Certainly few English critics are better qualified than Mr. 
Saintsbury to write either a general introduction such as he here gives, 
dealing with Balzac's life and the general characteristics of his work 
and genius, or a series of prefaces such as he promises for each 
succMding volume." 


Balzac's c^in^dl^ |>uinaliie* 

An Ulustrated Edition now compiete in 

40 Voiumes. J. M. Dent 

About Catherine de M^icl (Sur Catherine de M^dtds). 6f* Co,, 

The Peasantry (Les Paysans). 29, Bedford 

A ^Woman of Thirty, etc. (La Femme de Trente Ans. La Street, 
Femme abandonn^ La Gremuli^re. Le Message. Gobseck). Strand^ 

The Lily of the Valley (Le Lys dans la Valine). London, 

Lost Illusions (Illusions Perdues — I. Les Deux Pontes. Eve et 

A Distinguished ProTincial at Paris (Illusions Perdues— II. 
Un grand Homme de province a Paris. I and 2). 

Seraphita (Seraphita. Louis Lambert. Les Proscrits). 

The Seamy Side of History (L'Envers de THistoire Contem- 
poraine. Z. Marcas). 

Cousin Betty (Les Parents Pauvres--I. La G>usine Bette). 

Cousin Pons (Les Parents Pauvres — II. Le Cousin Pons). 

A Daughter of £ve (Un Fille d'Eve. M^moires des deux Jeunes 

The Unconscious Mummers, etc. ( Com^ens sans le 
savoir. Un Prince de la Boh^me. Un Homme d'af&ires. 
Gandissart II. La Maison Nucingen. Facino Cane). 

A Marriage Settlement (Le Contrat de Mariage. Un D^but 
dans la Vie. Une Double Famille). 

Parisians in the Country (Le Parisiens en Province. L'illustre 
Gandissart. La Muse du d^partement). 

The Jealousies of a Country Town (Les Rivalit^. La Vieille 
Fille. Le Cabinet des antiques). 

The Thirteen (Hiytoire des Treize. Ferragus. La Duchesse de 

A Princess's Secrets (Les Secrets de la Princesse de Cadignan. 
Les Employes). 

The Member for Arcis (Le D^put^ d'Arcis). 

The Middle Classes (Les Petits Bourgeois). 

A Father's Curse (L*Enfant Maudit Gambara. Massimila Doni. 
Maltre Cornelius). 

A Gondreville Mystery (Une Tenebreuse Affiure. Un Episode 
sous la Terreur). 

Athenaum. — *'Got up with the t<iste the publishers have taught the 
public to expect of them." 

Giasgow Herald. — "The series has the singular merit of being so 
idiomatic and natural that those who do not know the original might 
easily take it to be an English story of Parisian life, and yet so true to 
Balzac's manner that those who are familiar with him will recognise 
many of his peculiarities even in the version, and almost find them- 
selves doubting whether they are reading him in French or 


[LIFE <■ ■* 

[cost price 




ft DUANB St. 


8 r. HALiyr 



%hc Qnarticr Ilcatin 

Vol. VI FEBRUARY— MARCH, 1899 No 30 


Cover . , . , 

TAe C6tUr 


Marie Bashkirt- 

seff in Paris . 

Iliustrated from 


Art Gleaninss . 

A. Campbkll Cross 


J. J. Conway 




h. Fofiy 

At the Boulevard A- 

A Street {drawing) Charles Pears 

MAUDK Sterner 

Illustrations A. Campbell Crcss 

Love^ the Pilgrim {poeni) ff. A. Robinson 

Albumblatt Al. Humphreys 

Moonrise {drawing) W. E. WiGFUiL 

A Study in Hysteria Constance Compton 

Iford Church in the Rain {drawing). . A. Packham [Marston 

Herein the Dust ^0 God {poem). . . . Mary Kent Davey 

Illustration, . Alfred Garth Jonks 

Queer Story ff. A. ROBINSON 

Tlu Farm uttder the Hill {drawing) . . J. J. Guthrie 

A Ballade W. 

Art tm the Stage "The Owl" 

Beerbohm Tree as D'Artagnttn {drawing) G. O. Onions 
Paris from the Church of Scuri Carur 

{poem) A. Mackereth 

Dreams Mary Kent Davey 

Moulin Rouge (lines) Wm. Theodore Peters 

H. L. Barker 
J. J. Guthrie 
Charles Pears 

F. Anger 

A. Campbell Cross 

French Farm Houses {sketch) 

Evening {drawing) 

A Misty Evening {drawing) . . 


Portrait of a Child 

On the Old Stone Pier {drawing) . 

Croquis J. P. P. 

Alfred Humphreys^ with reproduction 

of' La Nui't". . ' 

Sketch of Mrs. Patrick Campbell . . . William Shackleton 
Seekers after Treasure {panel) . - . . J. J. Guthrie 
List of Designers of Advertisements 

Intials and Tailpieces by H. Foley ^ F.A.^ etc. 



HOSE who have 
not examined the 
facts of the case, 
frequenily express 
surprise why Marie 
BashkirtsefT, a 
young Russian girl 
who died at the age 
of twenty - three, 
should still continue 
Co be much talked 
about in Paris and 
should have so as- 
sociated herself with 
certain studios and 

American and other 
lourisis to make pil- 
grimages to them. 
The reason is not 
lo be sought alto- 
gether in her actual 

though these were 
wondeiful for a girl 
of her tender years. 
One sometimes 
hears it said that 
the appreciative ar- 
ticles ol Mr. Glad- 
one and Francois Cop- 
■e account for the fame 
hich lingers round the 
ity of this mar^ellou^ 
young girL But these critical 
tributes were consequences rather than 
causes, and were based upon many excel- 
lencies with which the young woman was endowed. 
Pious people make pilgrimages to the places hallowed 
by St. Agnes and St. Calixta, not because these 
young women had achieved a long series of heroic 
sanctities, but because they did much for their years, 
and because they showed the promise and potency 


of vastly more. So with Marie Bashkirtseff. She was a 
female Admirable Crichton. It is said that Russian 
children have no childhood. Marie Bashkirtseff was 
certainly very precocious. She knew Greek and Latin, 
she spoke five living languages, she sang with all the 
art of a finished singer, she played six different instru- 
ments well. We read with astonishment of the marvel- 
lous memory of Lord Macaulay, who used to test and 
train that mental faculty by repeating Milton's "Paradise 
Lost.'' Marie Bashkirtseff performed feats of memory 
almost as wonderful. Often after having returned from 
a long visit to the Chamber of Deputies she amused her 
companions of the studio by repeatmg one of the stances. 
Taking the part of each speaker, she would reproduce 
not only his speech, but also his gestures and attitudes 
and mannerisms, the inflections of his voice and the 
various tricks of his oratory, to the uproarious delight of 
her fellow-students. 

The fact that she belonged to the old nobility of Russia 
lent her an air of attraction in France, where, notwith- 
standing its professed Republican equality, the lines of 
social demarcation are very clearly drawn. 

Her personal appearance was decidedly attractive. 
After making due allowance for French gallantry, it is 
still remarkable that a veteran like Francois Copp^e 
should write of her : " I saw her once ; I saw her only 
for an hour ; I shall never forget her." When Coppee 
saw her she was twenty-three, but she looked much 
younger. She narrowly escaped being petite ; her pro- 
portions were as symmetrical as those of Cleopatra. Her 
round face was exquisitely modelled ; her hair was mildly 
blonde ; her eyes were dark, and flashed with thought. 
They expressed a devouring ambition and a thirst for 
knowledge. They said in eloquent expression : "I de- 
sire to know and to be known." Her mouth, though 
firm, was gentle and dreamy. She conveyed, says 
Coppee, the rare sensation of will in sweetness, of energy 
in grace. Under her feminine charm, one felt the 
strength of iron. Her delicate and distending nostril 
bespoke gentle blood ; her rosy cheeks suggested almost 
rude health; her high cheek-bones told of her Tartar 
descent ; her full-busted form was such as sculptors love 
to portray in cold and passionless marble. 

Notwithstanding her abnormally strong powers of 
intellect and the versatility of her genius, there are 
evidences that Marie Bashkirtseff was not without the 
excusable vanities peculiar to her sex. It is held that 
intellectual women are often careless of their appearance. 


Marie was always neat and well-gowned. Her singularly 
small feet were usually encased in open shoes with high 
heels, which her envious companions said she wore in 
order lo make her appear taller. She whose library 
shelves groaned beneath the weight of ponderous clas- 
sics, and who wandered freely through the flowery fields 
of French, Italian, English, German, Latin and Greek 
literature, did not disdain to be comforted by the admira- 
tion of the sterner sex. In one of her letters she tells 
iriumphantly of a group of young men who, within her 
hearing, gave expression to their admiration of her. Bui 
no recognised standard of Judgment can be applied lo a 
vivacious young beauty who was given to deep intro- 
spection, who preferred to slay at home rather than go 
shopping, who said that dancing is one of the exercises 
which go to demonstrate the decadence of the human 
family, and, when speaking of money, asked, "Who the 
devil invented the vile thing ?" 

It is difficult for a professor in one of Julian's studios 
to remember the qualities and capacities of the pupils 
who pass under his direction, because they are very 
numerous. Marie BashkirtsefT is an exception here, as 
she is in so many other cases. Her professor was Robert 
Fleury. In a chat with him recently, he proved lo me 
that he still retained a vivid recollection of his 
nreily and promising young Russian pupil, and 
this after a lapse of fifteen years. He said : 
"Marie Bashkinseff had a high order of 
intellect, and had great powers of application. 
She was belier as a draughtswoman 
than as a colourist. I cannot now recall 
any pupil who made so much progress in 
the same length of lime. When she came 
to the studio in the Passage des Pano- 
ramas she was only seventeen years old 
and scarcely knew how to hold a penciL ' 
Her progress from the very first was re- 
markable. She could catch the expres- 
sion of a model as quick as hghtning. 
Her industry and talent were backed up by 
a strong will and extraordinary concentration. 
She gave much promise for a great future. 
She was very proud, even haughty, which, 
however, did not hinder but rather helped her in her 
studies. She could not bear the thought of others 
approaching her in intellect." 

I asked ihe distinguished professor how he accounted 
for her desire to change from one branch of study 


to another ? The characteristically French shrug of his 
shoulders and the eloquent expression oJf his face spoke 
far more than his few quiet words of reply : 

"There was something in her life which made her 
crave for change," said M. Fleury. " Shortly before her 
death she went from painting to sculpture. The im- 
pression was that Mane Bashkirtseff had had a love 
affair, and that it left a strange impress upon her proud 
spirit. Yet it does not seem to have been a disappoint- 
ment in love which sent her to study art as a distraction. 
Were distraction the impelling cause, she could never 
have succeeded so well. She loved art for art's sake. 
She had an exquisite voice, which somehow became 
impaired, and then she gave a more undivided attention 
to her art. The girls at the studio used to gossip about 
an unhappy love affair, and because of it, they played the 
rdle of the magnanimous, and pretended to overlook 
what they called rudeness, but what was in reality the 
eccentricities of genius. One of the reasons why her 
fellow-students revelled in a little feminine tittle-tattle 
about her was because she did not think women 
sufHciently intellectual, and preferred the company of 
men. Another reason was because the nude model used 
to have to take up attitudes at her orders, given in frank 
and fearless fashion, perfectly intelligible to a mind 
thoroughly imbued with the artistic spirit, but slightly 
shocking, perhaps, even to the average girl student. The 
name of Bastien Lepage is sometimes mentioned in 
connection with hers. There is no evidence that she was 
in love with him. The fact that he was extremely ugly 
would not have deterred her from loving him, for she 
liked extremes, and her artistic eye could see in super- 
lative ugliness the point where it meets beauty. A 
commonplace man she could never love ; an unqualifiedly 
ugly man, yes ! The truth seems to be that she admired 
the talent of Bastien Lepage, and for this reason she 
liked to work with him. At all events she knew him for 
a short time only ; and four weeks after her death poor 
Lepage followed her to the grave. Nor is there any 
evidence whatever that this young girl was really capable 
of feeling the influence of the Blind Deity in favour of 
any man. Her intellectual development may have 
crushed the ordinary tendency of the young woman to 
have some hero of her heart. She was sought in 
marriage, but the wooing seems to have made no impress 
upnon her further than to gratify a vanity. When a 
prince asked her for her hand she rejoiced, forgetful of 
the fact that Paris is the happy hunting-ground of all 


the European princes who are bankrupt in morals and in 
purse. Another evidence of her incapacity for romantic 
attachment is that when on a certain occasion two ymmg 

and wealthy suitors presented themselves, she i 
her father for advice, disclaiming all personal preference, 
and saying that both were the same to her. The woman 
who has outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or the 
man who has passed his time amid the gay heartlessness 
of a dissipated life could not have been more apathetic 
to amorous attachment than was this lively young girl." 
A hitherto unpublished anecdote told to me by one 
of her professors throws more lijiht upon this aspect of 
the character of Marie Bashkirtseff Her mother sug- 
gested marriage to her. She consulted her teacher, and 
the latter coincided with Madame BashkirtsefF, where- 
upon the young woman said : " What, you also I Can 
anyone find a husband to suit me ? He ought to be my 
equal in rank, in fortune, in talent, in knowledge, in 
ambition. More than that, he ought to be my superior. 
Where can you find such a man?" The professor, 
evidently subdued by this sublime torrent of self-apprecia- 
tion, meekly admitted that he did not know where such 
matrimonial timber existed. "Quite true there is Gam- 
betta," he continued, "but you would be an ill-assorted 
pair. You are a delicate and refined creature ; you 
would be disgusted by contact with this gross man, who, 
doubtless, will one day be President of the Republic." 
J. J. Conway. 

r r 



Nature's is the only book in which to learn Art. — Benvenuto 

The true mission of Art is to endow the very walls with life ; 
but for practice, the artist should never paint a pictuie larger 
than the palm of his hand. — Pwis de Chavemnes, 

The Realists believe that they have Nature in their power, and 
do not see that what they have in their power is no more than 
the mean inheritance of the greater part of mankind. — Conrad 

A work of Art must be like Nature, for it is her glorified 
image ; it should not be easily comprehensible in its entirety by 
the deepest, most scrutinising glance, yet even to the merest 
contemplation it should yield something, and, indeed, something 
important. Whoever creates something that signifies nothing to 
the intellect of the common human henl, but is only explicable 
after long, deep, and anxious reflection, has, perhaps, happily 
fitted a philosophical problem with a poetical exterior, but he 
has not built a work of Art, — Franz Grillparzer, 

If we listen to S., we shall believe that every one of our old 
witnesses to Art are absolutely worthless, if for no other reason 
than that they are old. Art is, then, no better than Fashion, 
and it is not worth the trouble to speak earnestly concerning it. 
If in Art nothing is immortal and eternal, then to the Devil 
with her 1 In science, in mathematics, you perhaps consider 
Euler, Laplace, Galileo, or Gansz as settled people? Not 
entirely ; but you are willing to recognise their authority. But 

Raphael and Mozart, these are fools in your eyes, and led by « 

you rebel against their authority. The laws of Art are more 
difficult to discover than those of Nature — I admit it — but they 
exist, and he who denies their existence is blind. — Ivan 

As Alt once bound herself in the service of Beauty and 
Idealism, so she now bends beneath the more crushing burden 
of Realism. Her tasks cannot therefore be otherwise than slow 
and painful, and their accomplishment is equally penible for 
those who elect to serve beneath her banner. Must not all who 
have ever given any attention to the results of modern realism 
feel that the much-vaunted freeing of Art from conventional 
shackles and turning her loose in the pastures of Life and 
Nature U only a false pretext, and that as she bends beneath 
the yoke within the narrow limits assigned her by modern 
realism, so the only effect she produces upon men is to make 
them painfully conscious of the traces of repression and servi- 
tude visible in her expression. — A Modern Painter. 

Drawn iy Charla Ptatt 



Studio No. IH. 

CBj^HERE have been many things wise and unwise 
^Ip said concerning the married artist. i 

They are all generalisations, and for that ' 
reason absurd ; but the curious foct which attaches to the 
subject and forces itself with a persistence grimly 
proving its existence is that the supremacy of the Goddess 
Art is questioned, aay, rivalled, with poor success by the 
Eternal Feminine. 

Rivington was a good painter and a very good illustra- 
tor. That is, he made and paid his way fay illustrating, 
and longed to paint, with a longing which amounted to a 
positive passion — at times. 

But he liked the good things of this earth also, and 
because he was not a gpreat man he liked them more. 
When you are a bachelor with a studio in Paris, you do 
pretty much as you please. If you find your money 
giving out, you send in some of the work you should have 
finished months ago, and dun the publisher for a 
cheque ; or if you don't, you borrow ; or something 
happens, and you never worry. 

But when you are married, it is, of course, different. 
You don't mind meeting the man who has lent you 
money, but the man who is helping to keep your wife is — 
well, an unpleasant reminder that you are a fool not to do 
it better yourself. 

When Rivington fell in love with Miss Bellett, and 
signified his intention of marrying her, his friends 
solemnly treated htm to the formula which had been used 
in the case of every man who had gone and done likewise 
before him. Rivington, who hadn't much sense of 
humour, replied in exactly the same terms employed by 
the dozen or so other men who had fought valiantly and 
fell upon the batdefield of matrimony. He was firmly 
convinced that his experience was to be the exception 
which proved the rule. 

Miss Bellett was an art student— a dear, sweet, 
charming girl, who had a genius for arranging flowers. 
She criticised Rivington's work freely, and he used to 


talk about " her natural ' insight into art matters " with a 
contradict-me-if-you-dare air which told its own tale. 

Not that Miss Bellett wasn't a perfect sort of girl. She 
insisted upjon being married quite simply in a studio, and 
she and Riv went honey-mooning to Barbizon, because it 
was cheap. She told the boys she wanted Rivington to 
paint, when they came back they went on living in the 
studio, just as in his bachelor days, except that it was 
cleaner and better- smelling, and altogether more com- 
fortable. Mrs. Rivington posed for him nearly always 
herself and after the sittings were over she sometimes 
mvited Van Camp, and Beryl, and Castillion, and the 
others over for tea, which she made with her own white 
hands in a wonderful brass kettle. You see, there 
wasn't a doubt as to her perfect tact and charm and 

And sometimes Beryl chanced to look across from his 
solitary and ill-arranged meal, in the sununer-time, and 
watch the Rivingtons at their pretty candle-shaded table. 
He could see the flutter of her white gown, which looked 
blue where the gleam of light had not touched it, the 
movements of her hands amongst the flowers and silver, 
and then he felt that, after all, marriage has its com- 

But with Beryl this was only at meal-time, when his 
work was done. 

Rivington went about in an absurd way, advising 
everybody to marry, and he set to work illustrating 
more than ever. Candle-shades and silver, and glass 
and flowers, cost money ; but, then, so do garance rose, 
and costumes and models and things. 

They hired a funny, antique Pleyel piano, at which Mrs. 
Rivington sat, in a graceful attitude, playing old world 
sonatas, and inspiring Rivington to paint great pictures 
that somehow never got accomplished. Then she would 
turn on the stool, with her face in the shadow, and talk 
(Van called it '^ gassing*') in a low voice about the things 
she meant him to do in the years to come. 

It was all very pretty and Arcadian, and stereotyped, 
but nobody took it seriously except Mrs. Rivington and 
Rivington himself. 

The rest of the courtyard looked upon his ^ Gondoliers" 
of the year previous to his marriage as his death song, 
where pigment and canvas were concerned. He now 
sent in little figures of his wife to the exhibitions, and 
more little figures of his wife adorned the walls of the 
studio, but they were never talked about or counted ; and 
then finally he ceased to think of it at all, and settled 


down into the business of— being " happy ever after," as 
they say in the fairy tales. 

Then something queer happened. YouVe heard of war 
horses dying on &e field ot battle roused to action at a 
bugle note. It's instinct, they say. 

Mrs. Rivington's sister came to Paris. She was an 
utter fool, but so wonderful to look at, that men turned, 
open-mouthed, in the street and stared at her. She had 
the eyes of a devil, the nose and chin of a saint, the brow 
of a goddess, and hair the colour of copper when the sun 
shines on it ; and, as I said, she was stupid. But she shared 
the family talent for clever dressing, and knew how to 
keep her mouth shut, so that the men who adored her 
could but consider her profound, with a face like that. 

It was just the most obvious sequence in the world 
that Rivington should want to draw her. From the 
moment she entered the studio he kept seeing her in 
attitudes, artistic, inspiring, marvellous ; and, of course, 
only as a model ; a beautiful piece of statuary ; the 
thing of perfect lines. 

One day when she came forth in a ball-dress for his in- 
spection, a flimsy arrangement, all white with touches of 
red at the waist and where the shoulders drooped — the 
war-horse reared I Rivington, poor old Rivington, who 
had been illustrating for candle-shades, and rent, and 
pianos, went paint mad I 

He shut himself in the studio, posed Berenice Bellett 
to his satisfaction, and accomplished the best thing he 
had ever done in his life. 

He never knows to this day how he did it. He couldn't 
tell you if he tried. It just arrived. Beryl looked at it, 
and was angry that he hadn't done it himself. 

Not that he was jealous ; but simply because the 
portrait was so much finer than anything one does in the 
ordinary way. 

The perfect face of Miss Bellett stared at him from 
the canvas in its vacuous fashion, the head thrust back, 
the eye smiling unintelligently — everything. 

Rivington seemed to have caught the inner essence of 
the woman — her shallowness, her vanity, her cold soul ; 
and sealed one's lips with the wonderfully moulded 

He stood by, watching Beryl's expression of involuntary 
admiration with a grim smile. 

" You thought I couldn't do it," he said, stroking his 
chin. ^ Damn it, none of them can say I haven't done it 
this time." 

"No," assented Beryl conclusively, "they can't.'' 


Then he went up, in his usual hearty, bearish fashion, 
and slapped Rivington on the back, told him the thing 
was sure to gel a medal ; and was genuinely glad on the 
whole, because he couldn't help it, being the best fellow 
in the wide world. 

After he had got Beryl's opinion, which he valued 
beyond everything, Rivington took his wife by the hand, 
and led her mto the studio. He was just as enthusiastic, 
and keen, and joyous about it as a baby ; and he knew — 
that is, he thought he knew— exactly what Mrs. Rivington 
would say, and how proud she would be of him. 

Most of all, he was glad to be able to show her that her 
trust in him, her faith, had not been misplaced. 

So, with a beating heart — absurd in a married man — 
he rolled the easel, the portrait upon it, into the best 
light, and waited. At first, when Mrs. Rivington did not 
speak, he buoyed himself lamely with the hope that her 
prolonged silence was due to the fact that she was 
considering the best words to convey to him how much it 
meant to her. 

He experienced a moment of ecstatic happiness, in 
which he believed that his wife, the woman he had 
married with the idea that she was simply a charming 


young person, had risen to heights unattainable by the 
ordinary mortal. Only for a moment. 

When Mrs. Rivin^fton turned her head, her face was 
drawn, hard, and Imed with passionate, unmistakable 

And though for a few painful seconds she did not 
speak, Rivington knew that he couldn't be ecstatic any 
longer. It was as if some tension bad snapped, and the 
ideal of his wife, who was to crown a triumph with her 
approbation, had realised, maddeningly, as an angry 
sullen creature, who not only discouraged, but actually 
antagonised the best in him. Now, when the best — the 
real, great, rarely attained best — is antagonised in a man, 
he pursues one of two courses. He fights like the devil, 
or he dies — and this is the test. Whether Rivington, 
under other conditions, would have fought, could never be 
discovered. As it was, there were Circumstances and 
Reasons and Consequences involved, so he did what any 
man on God's earth, except a brute, would have done — 
he figuratively died. 

Mrs. Rivington had conceived a mad, preposterously 
ridiculous notion that, because he had painted a wonderful 
portrait of Berenice Bellett, he must necessarily be in love 
with her ! It was wholly feminine, and argued from no 
premise whatsoever, but nevertheless she clung to it with 
a tenacity that made it hopeless and futile for Rivington 
to reason with her. 

When he told her that she was crazy, she enquired 
obstinately whether he had ever done anything so good 

Rivington laughed a bitter laugh, and said, " No.'' 

" Then," cried Mrs. Rivington in a tone of triumphant 
anger, " is it likely that I am going to stand by, and hear 
the world say that you soared above yourself, surpassed 
yourself, outdid yourself— inspired by another woman? 
Dofit you see that everybody standing before that thing 
will say, * Here is a man who never did anything 
wonderful in his life ; he must be in love with the 
woman ' ? Dot^t you see ?" 

" No," said Rivmeton, " I do not." 

" Oh ! because its true," wailed his wife illogically. 
Her voice came in little hysterical gasps, and she threw 
herself into a chair, and leaned her head, with a gesture 
of despair, upon the edge of the table. 

The train of her long wrapper-like gown made a jutting 
line along the polished boards. There was a splash of 
Chinese white on the floor close by, and Rivington 
watched it, fascinated with intense fear. Every movement 


sh« imade, she advanced nearer the spot Then her 

gown would be stained. TTien 

When he looked up his eye met the smile of Berenice. 
On her left cheek was a patch which made her skin stand 
out marvellously. She was so beautifully, obviously 
8tupid, so imbecile — and he had painted it realistically 
~-as he had always wanted to paint ; as he bad never 
painted before. 

Mrs. Rivington, at the table, went on sobbing heart- 

" Do you think I could Cice it 1 Do you think I could 
stand having people say my husband was faithless. Oh! 
yes — I know tocy do. But — they — they're hotrid French- 
men. If you have no respect for me, at least think of— 

the child who is soon to — to '' 

"What is it you would like me to do?" asked Rivington 
in a gentle voice, presently. It was Ml of a Idnd of 
weariness, and he did not touch or ko near to her. 

He was weighing within himself the Circumstances and 
Reasons and Consequences. 

" Oh, anything !— anything,'' shrieked Mrs. Rivii^on 

uncontrollably. " I can't bear to see it — oh ! I hate it. 

Only take it away, and never let me see it again,'' etc, etc. 

Rivington did the only thing he possibly 

Id — after weighing the circumstances, 

walked slowly to the paint table, fiUed 

palette knife with colour, and, turning 

he easel, deliberately smeared over and 

ruined the classic features of 

Berenice Bellett. 

e felt his wife's arms round his neck. 

laughed, half cried, and clung to him, 

g him to forgive her— to forgive her 

eing so jealous. She loved him— and 

1 he forgive her ? 

i^ngton said, of course he would, 
made her go and lie down, because he 

be must be tired, and then he walked 
into the empty studio, and finished 
illustrations, which he should have been 

; whilst he was painting Berenice. 

t he always does them promptly now, 

use he has put all that nonsense about 

ing out of nis head. 

Maude Sterner. 


" Maybe, perhaps— ah ! who can tell ? 

Maybe, Love is not dead,'' said she ; 
" Not dea^ though he lies there as he fell. 
With his broken wings at the feet o' me ; 
But he cannot indeed be quite, (juite dead 

(Love, the Pilgrim, lyin^ so stdl !) 
I will kiss him back into life," she said 
(And the shrill wind piped o'er the purple hill). 

So she knelt by him, and into his ear 

Whispered the words he used to know— > 
Tender words ; but he did not hear, 

Nor stirred at all when she kissed him sa 
" And O ! " she sobbed, " if he be quite dead 

(Love, the Pilgrim, so still, so still). 
How shsdl I live my life ? '^ she said 

(And the wild wind whistled around the hill). 

O ! she held him close to her breast. 
Laid her lips to his eyelids white ; 
" Lord, thou knowest I love him best. 
Give these eyes again to my sight" 
So she pra/d with drooping head — 
(Love, the Pilgrim, lying so still) — 
" Give him back to me. Lord ! *' she said 

(And the wind shrieked back to her over the hill). 

" This is a dream — I shall soon awake 
And find the world as it used to be ; 
Love, that has lived alone for my sake. 

Cannot, I know, have died for me. 
What have I done ? alas ! '* she said 
(Love, the Pilgrim, lying so still), 
** What have I done that he should be dead ? '' 
(And the wind sigh'd over the twilight hill). 

Darkness fell, and the fire waned black ; 

Cold he lay at her heart — so cold ; 
The moon look'd in, and her arms ^rew slack, 

The straining fingers relaxed their hold. 
Praying no more, for hope was fled 

(Love, the Pilgrim, lying so still) — 
Well for her if she too be dead ! 

(And the sad wind wailed o'er the eerie hill). 

ff. A. Robinson. 

(Leaf from an Album.) 

I.— -Two Characters. 

CB^HIS one — ^the first time you met, how brilliant he 
^^ was. You were dazzled— content to listen and 
admire : fortunately, for you could not have got 
in a word if you had tried. Next time he came, you 
looked in vain for the brilliancy — it had been like fire- 
works : and there was nothing left but " the stick." 

The other — like a flowerbud hiding timidly in the 
shadow of the leaves. Not beautiftil at first, but gradually 
unfolding itself to you day by day— each petal a new 
revelation, until, full blown and perfect, you stood lost 
in admiration. Then, when through storms and age 
you saw them fall one by one, there was still left " the 

II. — In Love. 

I am in love 1 My lady love lives in the Rue Br^ 
Every day I see her at the window of a perfumery store. 
She always has the same pleasant look, yet has never 
actually smiled at me. None have lips of richer red 
than she ; and her complexion, although a little sallow, 
is redeemed by a rosy blush. DecolUtiey but only modestly 
so, and with a magnificent coiffe of black hair — in 
fact "a model girl"— she never abuses her neighbours, 
nor talks back to me. If she dared, she would give me 
a "melting glance," but she dares to do nothing 
** melting " — for she is only wax. 

Al. Humphreys. 




Dian'H h IV. E. Wiifail 

5i7i St. Antoinb Stkbbt, Montreal, Canada, 

314/ Ociobir, 1898. 
Tkg SdiUr ^Tm Qoastibk Latin, 

Dear Sir,— I am sendips yoa a Uttle sketch, *' A Study in Hysteria." It 
has long been a belief with me that reaUy good women, from a certain over- 
active sense of doty, do much to spoil tnor own future as wdl as that of 
their husbands by making nnneoesaary confidences, instead of acting on the 
comfortable theory that ** any woman is better than every man." I don't 
believe in the angelic woman, much less in the foolish one, and I think I 
could rest quite satisfied if I were the means of indudog just one member 
of my sex to realise that women. like peaches, ar« best with a semblance 
of the bloom left on. I wonder if^it's a hopeless task? 

I am, smooely yours, 

Constance Compton Marston. 


Woman is the lesser man, and her passions, matched with 

Are as moonlight onto sanlight, as water unto wine. 

IN obedience to the man's low-voiced order to ef&ce 
himself, Pierre backed out of the room with 
smiling acquiescence and a last admiring look at the 

Your wide-awake waiter has opportunities undreamed 
of by the generous dispenser ot shilling tips, for it {alls 
to his lot to see more ot raw humanity in a month than the 
average mortal ever learns even in Uie allotted years of 
three score and ten. The mere physical acts of eating 
and drinking serve in some occult way to turn back the 
product of modem civilsation to something approaching 
nrst principles ; to loosen the close-meshed mantle of 
hypocrisy, and reveal unexpected glimpses of a being as 
G(xl, instead of Society, made hioL 

The true philospher of the table-cloth is an excellent 
judge of mankind, and classifies his patrons unerringly as 
he hands the menu or settles a chair to his liking. Yet 
Pierre of the '' Trans-Continental," though a person of 
rare discernment, who g[auged his man at a glance, was 
compelled to confess himself beaten as he closed the 
door of nutnero dix. 

The dessert stood neglected on the little round table 
before the fire ; a handful of roses, half withered by the 
heat, nodded languidly over the fluted rim of a low silver 
dish. The soft, shaded light of the candles filled the 
room with a delicate glow, tinging even the shadows in 
the distant comers with warm, delightful colour. The 
man, idly balancing a spoon on the edge of his half- 
empty cofiee-cup, was big and muscular and tmmistak- 
ably English, with just a trace about him perhaps of too 


much fat His hair, somewhat thin about the temples, 
¥ras sprinkled with grey ; beneath his dark eyes, as he 
turned slightly towards her, the woman opposite, for the 
first time caught sight of that {ami puffiness and sagging 
of the muscles which suggests a life that has embraced 
every opportunity. Studymg him carefully from between 
her hafr-dosed lids she compared him, with the odd 
conceit of a fenciful mind, to tne frost-touched foliage of 
autumn ; brilliant, glittering with a hundred charms of 
which the young spring knows knothing, yet, none the 
less, surely well past the summer of life. Sighing 
involuntarily, she lifted the long-stemmed glass before 
her and drank till the wine brought a flush to her face, 
and her grey eyes sparkled unnaturally. 

The man glanced up at her from time to time as he 
pufTad at his big cigar. Physically she was perfect, tall 
and straight and stately-looking, with well-poised head 
and ma^ificent column-like throat that rose blue-veined 
and white from her simple, square-cut gown. There was 
something repressed, he decided, in her appearance 
which he had never noticed before ; sometnmg that 
promised immunitv from nerve-jangling outbrea£s and 
womanish tears. ^ My happiness took long to come,'' he 
said presently, exhaling a doud of fragrant smoke, that 
floated lazily on the rosy air ; ''but I've got it now, 
sweetheart, and I mean to guard it for ever." 

Mrs. Atherton looked up, with a quick indrawing of 
her lip, expressive of distaste or annoyance, or both. 
"The patience of Job was as nothing to yours," she said 

"Isn't it strange?" he went on, with all the average 
man's inability to steer dear of the breakers when a 
woman's eyes cry " danger.** " Isn't it strange that, after 
that youthful fnendship of ours, and your flying off to 
marry Adair, that the Fates should bring us together at 
last? They re kindly old ladies, the Fates, and know, 
after all, what*s best for improvident mortals. By Jove, 
though, Margaret* I can hardly credit my own good 
luck t but I'm awfully happy, dear girl " ; and he smiled 
at her brightly, almost boyishly, across the disordered 

The pulse in her throat beat madly— beat till every 
nerve in her body vibrated in unison ; but her hand was 
steady as she drained her glass, and refilled it carefidly 
from the decanter beside her. 

" Somehow,'* he went on, trying hard to smother a yawn 
as he spoke, " somehow you don't ieem yourself to-night. 
I suppose the excitement has tired you out" 


A look of decision settled down on her face, and two 
straight little lines disfigured her forehead* "WeVe 
been married three hours," she said, slowly sipping at her 
glass as she spoke. " Isn't it almost time we began to 
understand each other?" 

Atherton smiled uneasily, with a sense of impending 
trouble ; for, in the forty odd years of his life, he had 
learned as much as it is meet for man to know of woman 
and her ways. Since his first flirtation, at the age of 
seven, with a much be-pigtailed young person of fi\ty he 
had made things feminine his daily study. While still 
under twenty, he ran the gamut that transforms raw boy- 
hood into finished men of the world — entered into its 
mysteries with ardour, and ran it with zest ; the gamut 
that begins so discreetly with a blue-sashed tng/nue^ in 
the season of holidays, and ends — unless one is lucky — 
after a piquant flavouring of demt-mondaine^ and the 
joyous friendship of barmaids, with the disastrous 
publicity of the divorce court, and the wife of one's 
bosom friend. Like most men, till harvest time comes, 
he held himself none the worse for his reckless sowing. 
He could tell a good woman when he met her, and if she 
was plain, respected her goodness by avoiding her 
presence. Fair game in open field, with an hour of 
poaching now and then, had been the sum of Atherton's 
creed more years than he cared to count 

At forty, finding his imagination in need of a fillip, he 
declared for matrimony, and the middle-class virtues that 
are caviare tO his kind. As co-partner in the domestic 
Eden he proposed setting up at Grosvenor Square, he 
selected a woman he had Known in the school-girl stage 
— a woman who was i)lacid, correct, and ungiven to the 
vulgar display of emotion. A woman, in fact, on whom, 
in the fashionable jargon of the day, he felt he could 
safely bet. 

He smiled at her now across the roses, in the soothing 
way he found so effective when a woman grew restive 
or unpleasantly mindful of her conscience or that absurdly 
brittle seventh commandment. " Why, Margaret," he said, 
with a much-injured air, deeming it safest in war to 
assume the defensive, *^ why, Margaret, I thought there 
wasn't a shadow between us." 

She turned her head slightly to hide her tears, and 
peered down into the deep-red, heart of the blazing fire. 
He watched her admiringly, with all a man's pride in a 
new possession, whether horse, or dog, or gun, or woman. 
Without doubt she was lovelier even than he had 
imagined ; her ear was so delicately pink, the baby-like 


curls of soft brown hair lay so tenderly against her 
white neck. His heart beat quickly, and his hand was 
unsteady as he lifted the cofTee cup and drained its luke- 
warm contents at a gulp. Throwing his cigar on the 
table he half-rose to his feet. "Margaret," he said, 
questionin^ly, " Margaret ! " 

She tooK no apparent notice, but laying her head 
against the rough velvet of the cushion, sobbed quietly 
to herself. ^ Margaret," he said again, with an impatient 
note in his voice, for tears invariably disturbed his 
digestion. " Mai^garet ! " he repeated, and pushed back 
his chair. 

At the gliding sound of the casters, she turned quickly 
and faced him, the tears still wet on her cheeks. " Don't," 
she entreated. " You must stay where you are till I tell 

Muttering a curse, he dropped heavily back in his 
chair. ** So," he thought dully, with a grim appreciation 
of retributive justice, and guessing, man-like, at the 
worst. "So, I'm fooled after all. She's only like the 
rest of 'em, no better, no worse ; just a woman of &shi6n 
instead of a saint." 

Margaret, with her eyes fixed intently on his face, 
spoke sternly and as one sitting in the seat of judgment. 
" It began long ago when I was a girl at Duneaton ; that 
summer you spent with Robert, and idled about, and fed 
me with bon-bons and teased me unmercifully. Next 
year you came down again, but bon-bons and teasing 
were things of the past — I was too old for either, you 
said — so you gave me kisses instead. Has your life been 
so full that you have forgotten how the sun shone down 
through the leaves that day when you told me you loved 
me ? Shone in a slanting little path of yellow that gilded 
my life as it folded us round with its soft, mellow light. 
You laughed and declared that a sybil was speaking, 
and kissed me again, and swore that you loved me, 
and with a child's unquestioning feith I believed you." 
Atherton, who had forgotten it all, stared gloomily at 
her and played a devil's tattoo with his fingers. " Next 
day you were summoned to town and sent off to Russia 
as something or other in the Diplomatic service.'* 
Leaning forw^ird in her chair she stretched out her beauti- 
ful arms on the table. " Did you ever think of me then ? " 
she asked softly. 

Before he could answer she went rapidly on, her voice 
rising slightly. "I can remember even now how the 
hours drafifged on through that maddening summer ; how 
deserted the trees look^ with their naked, wind-kissed 


branches stretching up to Heaven; how I envied the 
earth when the snow hid it softl v from pxying eyes. 

She paused for a moment, and passed her hand wearily 
over her forehead. "The evenings, 1 think, were the 
worst, with their horrible sameness. I was embroidering 
some violets for mother that winter, on strips of linen, 
and stitch by stitch all the good that was in me went into 
my work. Even now a whifT from the violets in a flower- 
girl's basket brings back all the dull, throbbing ache and 
the horrible pain. Oh ! those intolerable evenings, with 
the dogs stretched out on the hearthrug, and father deep 
in his chess, while mother sang ClaribePs songs in a 
thin treble voice, or played Schubert's * Serenade' on 
our old-fashioned piano. Sometimes," she went on, 
passionately, " I think the ' Serenade ' will haunt me till 
I die — that, and the odour of violets." 

Atherton watched the smouldering cigar on the table 
eat slowly into the damask till an ever-increasing brown 
spot disfigured its snowy sur&ce. As a coal dropped 
noisily on to the hearth he started to his feet, and, 
crossing to the window, looked out at the lights reflected 
in long yellow streaks on the slippery asphalte, at the 
slow crawling cabs, and the hurrying throngs of people. 

Margaret, with her face half-shaded by her hand, 
went mechanically on with her story. " I was utterly mad 
that day when Robert asked me to marry him. Pd have 
married the devil, I think, to escape from the life I was 
leading. Six weeks later I left my girlhood behind me 
with nothing to bind me to the future but the hall-mark 
of respectability which shone on my finger. He was 
very kind in his grave, quiet way, and left me alone after 
a little, and stopped tormenting me with useless protesta- 
tions of love. God ! How IVe stretched out my 
arms in the night and longed for you ; how IVe prayed, 
with the feeble strength of my soul, to see you again ! 
then, when morning and reason came to my aid, battled 
with my self and triumphed as long as the daylight lasted. 
But when darkness crept on again, my madness came 
with it. I craved for the presence, not of you as you are, 
but as you were when 1 loved you." 

"Margaret," he interrupted, with a dawning percep- 
tion that things, perhaps, were not so bad after all. 
" Margaret ! " 

But she warned him back into silence. " After a little, 
as the days passed on, I dreamed once more that it was 
summer-time and August, and you again what I believed 
you — when I was seventeen. But dreams don't last for 
ever, and I learned at last to know myself, an unworthy 


woman, an unfaithful wife, in thought at least fallen low 
as the lowest." 

Her voice sank to a whisper, and her eyes were 
blinded with tears. '* Then after a time that seems like 
a nightmare, a kaleidoscopic succession of honors, poor 
Robert died. And I, God forgive me ! was glad ; so 
horribly elad to be free that I laughed aloud, laughed till 
1 grew afraid of myself, and felt more wicked than ever." 

" Margaret, don't," he interrupted, irritably. " Why 
torment me — and yourself— with things that are past 
and gone?" 

But she went on without heeding, impelled by growing 
hysteria, and the morbid desire for self-dissection that is 
latent in every woman. "Then you came into my life once 
more, that day at Lady Beston's, when Pontiawslu was 
playing Schubert's * Serenade,' because some' fool had 
asked him. Soon, urged on by caprice or a sudden 
inclination to marry, you begged me to be your wife, and 
to-day, though you haven't a failing I do not know, a 
weakness I havn't probed, I promised to honour and love 
you. I married you because the curse of inherited social 
mstinct compelled me ; married you to be less like a 
creature of the pavement and more like an honest woman. 
Now," she went on, with a pitiful break in her voice as 
the stimulating effect of the wine she had taken b^an to 
pass off—" now you know the truth of what your wife is. 
Twice forsworn and grossly unfaithful, yet loyal through 
it all to a foolish ideal, true to what you were, or I thought 
you, ten years ago, in the woods of Duneaton." 

Atherton sip^hed, with the full-grown conviction that the 
wildest vagaries of the most extravagant mistress were 
less nerve-destroying, because less lasting, than the over- 
strained conscience of a wife. Being a man, however, 
and fortunately a man with a large past experience to 
draw upon, he did a thing worthy of much-married 
Solomon, and took his wife in his arms. Worn out with 
excitement, and still sobbing feintly, she nestled against 
him like a tired child. " Forgive me," she whispered, 
" for hurting you so, but I couldn't be happy till you knew." 

He smoothed her hair softly as he marvelled at her 
stupidity. " Margaret," he said at last, convinced that a 
woman and a wife were two distinct entities ; the woman, 
a being all glitter and sweetness ; the wife, a monster who 
throws away tact in exchange for a ring, " Margaret, let 
us make for ourselves an ideal Duneaton." 

Flin^ng a last inward curse at the honourable estate 
of matrimon]^ and its binding fetters, he bent and covered 
her mouth with kisses. 

Draam by A. Paikham 

liere in m dwt, eod. tbpF creatnts 



Dere in tbe 5ii0t, 9 (3o», tbe creatuccd crawL 
Sin* witb Distorted tace» anO 50norance, 
jSUnb bau0btet of midiiufMnd Ctance, 

XeaMitd tbem alL 
Mnt> tbc^f unbeeMttd ot unknowing tLbcc^ 
<5tope in tbe bacftness to etemit)2» 

Stumble anb tnll 

mbcUf it tbeis woulb but raise tbeit c^e anb teabt 
Ot 0tanb erect like men, not ibli? list 
Vo siren voices from tbe mist^ 

Bbt tben inbeeb, 
9ut ot tbe wonbrous paaes ot Zbut book, 
1)ealind anb comtbrt woulb tbei^ Unb, wbo look, ^ 

Vlot empti? creeb. 

Mary Kent Davey. 

AVred Garth fan. 


WHO was the author of the immortal observation 
that "women are kittle cattle"? I wish I 
knew. It is not given to many to succeed in 
condensing such a profound, for-reaching reflection in so 
idiomatic and so finely expressive a form. If he wrote 
nothing else, those four words should win him feme, or, 
above many volumes, stand out in letters of ^old. As is 
doubtless apparent, I have lately had a convmcing proof 
of its veracity. So curious, that it were almost increaible, 
if one had not learnt by virtue of repetition that truth 
goes one better than fiction ; always and always. 

Let me tell you my quaint experience. 

I am a writer of minor verse. Naturally I think it has 
higher claims than the title suggests ; but so my excursions 
into poesy are classified. For the present I accept the 

When one considers how few the readers, and how 
much fewer are the buyers of poetry, the continual 
increase of minor poets must be a thing to marvel at. 
Yet so it is ; almost daily a new and yet a newer appears, 
and the slim volumes, with wide-margined page, tnrough 
which meanders a slender trickle of verse, mdiflerent as 
to moral, and doubtful in quality, have nearly ceased to 
excite comment So decaaent have we become, that it is 
only the ultra-decadent who win a hearing or a hooting 
at all. By a patient minority I am heard, and hooted by 
the. soulless majority, and a certain mede of notoriety is 
mine. It is then hardly necessary to say that my fimtasies 
are of the most modem, and are clothed in language 
which, I hope and believe, is away from the l^ten 

It was my misfortune one day last week to be present 
at one of those most dreary entertainments, a sunirban 
afternoon at home, with music, etc — music of the 
agonising, amateur dass which is fast dying out in cities, 
but lingers still in the suburbs, and flourishes with 
^wing vigour in the country. On this occasion recita- 
tions — ^amateur also — varied the programme, and the 
reciting was just one degree worse than the music You 
may ask why I was there, enduring the knotted horrors 
of a boredom which demanded an amiable,, accommo- 
dating expression, and forbid even that last solace of a 
small conversation. My hostess, however, had made a 
very particular point of my presence. It seems some 
roaring lion had failed her, ana she had written me ** an 


urgent appeal,'' to which I could not say no, despite that 
I am convinced she never read a line of my works, 
being an absolutely illiterate woman. My name, how- 
ever, was sufficiently well known ; hence her great desire. 
The people she had assembled in her bedecked shrine 
that June day were exactly what one would expect. All 
sober, eminently respectable, middle-class folk. Matron 
and maid, and a rare young man or two— in short, a 
typical gathering of your English people, taking their 
pleasure sadly but respectably. 

A heavenly June day it was, the sort of day that mounts 
to your brain. And here we all sat stolidly in the stuffy 
drawing-room, redolent of continuous tea and cake, while 
within a few feet a fragrant garden stretched away down 
to the river. The sky like a sapphire, and the red 
and pink roses out on the lawn under the hot sun 
drooping their heavy heads, and we listened the while to a 
ballad about *' Golden lilies, lilies golden," in a bower of 
art muslin and printed wall-paper. 

Was there nothing beautiful to distract the senses ? 
Yes, there, with her back to the window, was a girl in a 
nimbus of red hair, white-frocked, cool, and very good to 
look upon. More bizarre than beautiful, however— a 
little slip of a woman. " A rag and a bone and a hank 
of hair,' with a celestial nose and the kind of red-brown 
eyes that go with that right shade of hair. Silent she 
sat, apparently listening devoutly like the rest, but ever 
and anon she would stray in spirit (I could see) down 
the scented garden— only to be recalled by the last 
triumphant whoop of the accomplished singer and the 
usual, murmurous appreciations. 

By and by my hostess trundled over to her, and 
entreated her, in italics, to amuse the company— how 
I could not make out, and in any case I felt furious at 
my harmony being disturbed. The Harmony remon- 
strated in a sincerely serious and explanatory manner, 
which the other waved airily away — " Oh, it doesn't in 
the least signify ! I am sure it will be charming." And 
finally the Harmony, consenting, followed her affair^e 
hostess leisurely across the room. How slight and 
diaphanous she looked by contrast with that burly, 
bedecked matron ; how ostentatiously simple her muslin 
gown, her creamy bare hands how attractive ! But what 
was she about to do ? Yes, she was going to spoil it all 

and recite I Her name was : Moriarty. Flight I 

meditated. Such an infliction was more than I could 
tolerate. It was time to go, but ere I could carry out 
my resolve fate interposed. 


She had begun. The first lines, delivered in a 
penetrating, deep voice, set my heart suddenly and 
violently beating. It was one of my own poems, and 
moreover one of the very most advanced m a pioneer 
volume. I half-rose, my first, instinctive feeling was to 
stop her at all costs — ^Not that one,'' was trembling 
into speech. But the next moment my whole mind was 
concentrated — strained with the anxiety to know how the 
precious lines would fare, if she would say them as they 
must be said. Would she lay the right stress Where it 
should fall, thrill where thrill was essential ; had her voice 
the passion, the range of music demanded by the poem ? 
But directly I was at rest, and gave myself entirely up to 
the joy of hearing that wonderful recitation. 

Of her audience she had apparently no thought — that 
audience whose restlessness betokened the quickening 
fear that all was not well. At first they had listened 
complacently, amiably, ready to be pleased. ^»/— -well, 
what I have written, I have written, and am no whit 
ashamed of it — but — unquestionably the lines were 
amazingly— almost impossibly out of place on that 
occasion. She slurred not, she left not out, but went 
straight and very beautifully on. You would have thought 
the beauty might atone for the unusual, were atonement 
needed, which I strenuously deny, but it was manifestly 

One could see that they were listening with all their 
ears, but the manifold expressions — the wrath of the 
mammas and the interest of the maids, and all the rest of 
it, would take a humourist's pen to describe. I, alas ! am 
not a humourist, but none the less I marked it all and 
made merry in my heart. Securely certain that none 
knew I was the awful author, I enjoyed it to the utter- 
most ; surely a novel sensation. When it was over there 
was a brief, ominous pause, broken almost immediately 
by the ladies spreading their pinions to fly the tainted 
house. In other words they were saying their polite fare- 
wells. But through the bustle I could see my hostess 
acrimoniously thanking the damsel, who alone looked 
self-possessed and unconscious. And the same moment 
her leave-taJcing was effected. 

I hastily did likewise, to catch mv train home, and to 
see if by any chance the recitress and I could manage to 
meet. I had naturally a consuming curiosity to talk with 
her. Fate was kind. She was London bound, too, for 
there, a few yards ahead of me, on the dusty country 
road leading to the station was the white gown under a 
white sunshade. Regardless of convention I hastened 

Dramt iy f. /, GMhrit 


after her. She met my salute with a slightly severe 
expression. My ardour was chilled ; what did an intro- 
duction avail between two such unfettered souls ! How- 
ever, she appeared to think differently, and was distinctly 
haughty, not to say snubby. But as I hardly could drop 
back now without a loss of dignity I persisted. Great, too, 
was my desire to know why she had recited *^ me," and if 
she knew me in the flesh. The rural station loomed near, 
and the silence was oppressive. Hastily I plunged out 
of it into the subject at heart I began awkwardly enough. 

*' Your recitation this afternoon was very strilang, such 
a great contrast to all the others — ah " 

''Did you think so?" with a small show of interest ; 
'* I wasn't sure if it was liked.*' 

" Well," I said cheerfully, " I'm really not sure if it was 
liked ; you see, so unexpected ; they like something 
popular, pathetic, about a little news-boy being run over 
and killed, or else the broadly humourous, like the story 
of the old woman who plucked her geese when they were 
dead drunk, and made them red flannel jackets when they 
came to life again ; and, of course, your choice was so 
exceedingly ^/Aifr." She looked sad. 

**' But I thought you began by saying you liked it" 

This massing of me with the fi^eneral was too provoking, 
and I answered with a touch of acerbity : 

" Yes, / liked it very much indeed, but " here again 

words were inadequate ; I looked at her feebly to see if 
the situation did not gleam on her intelligence. 
Apparently not, she gazed straight ahead with luminous 
eyes, and seemed not anxious to pursue the subject 
further. We drew very near the sleepy little station ; I 
grew desperate. 

" May I ask, at least, what influenced your choice ; do 
you, perhaps, know the author, or anything of that sort ?" 

It sounded horribly rude and crude ; I have not the 
gift of happy speech. This time, however, after a scarcely 
perceptible pause, she smiled and answered : 

"Yes, I know the author intimately." 

Amazement deprived me of speech, but seeing her 
tranquil after such a statement, I began : 

" And when had we the pleasure of meeting before ? 
It is extraordinary, but I cannot recollect the occasion." 
I murmured this hazily and indistinctly. Indeed, I was 
lost in mists of wonder at this impossible She. She 
looked an interrogation with lifted brows. My one idea 
now was to get from the centre of the labyrinth regardless 
of aught else ; we were just at the station, so I spoke out 


** Win you tell me this, I really want to know, who is 
the author that wrote those verses ? *' 

Thus directly appealed to she answered, at the same 
time looking straight in my fece for the first time — 

^ Certainly, since you are so anxious about it, I wrote 
them myself. It was my own composition ; now, is there 
anythinfi[ else you would like to be told ? '* — we were on 
the plaaorm by now — '* because I want to secure a com- 
partment to myself." 

I could only take off my hat and bow in silence, and 
not until the train was well in motion did I recover 
sufficiently from the effect of her monumental words to 
try and account for them. 

ff. A. Robinson. 

t ^ t 


Which sbeweth that ye Impressionistic school is become sliehtly 
out-of-date and over-done, and no longer attracteth ye 
rich buyer. 

Four years he toiled, four years he moiled, 

A hopeful, hungry martyr, O ! 
With naught inside but empty pride, 

All in the Latin Quarter, O ! 

Ah me, poor fool, against the school 

Romantic his face set he; 
Manet, Sisley — he swore by they, 

And went in for confetti. 

Then sailed he home across the foam, 
To win both name and lucre, O! 

But alas and alack I we have him back. 
And he's studying under Bouguereau. 



«"TO /i-.f» ^ ®"^® heard a celebrated French 

Mr. painter call Mr. Tree "The Paradox 

BEERBOHM ^^ Actors." It describes him to per- 

Z; fcction. He confounds his critics ; up- 

TREE. sets their theories ; often unwittingly 

leads them to attack him with more 
ferocity than justice, and as often, with eaual unconscious- 
ness, compels them to repent their reckless conclusions 
by some unexpected and Whistlerian stroke of art. 

This shows him to be an artist of quality and resource. 
Besides, his magnetism is evidencea by his success, his 
versatility by the variance of his Rev. Robert Spalding, 
Falstaff, Svengali and Hamlet, and his service to the 
stage is written in every production of his managerial 
career, which may be said to be still in its youth. 

The series of Monday night performances which Mr. 
Tree inaugurated in 1890 for tne purpose of rendering 
plays of a high literary order, was suspended, unfortu- 
nately, through no fault of his. When interrogated upon 
the subject he said sadly, but not quite hopelessly, that "a 
man must square his artistic conscience as he squares his 
bank account." This would imply that the experiment 
cost him many a heart-pang and probably only requited 
him with those unpleasant experiences usual to high art 
endeavours, but which, if hurtful to the sensitive soul, 
are certainly of incalculable utilitarian advantage to the 
actor-manager. The actor-manager, nowadays par- 
ticularly, IS compelled, unfortunately, to keep an inartistic 
eye on the box-office. 

To regard Mr. Tree's work from an academic point of 
view would be as ridiculous as to look at electricity from 
an artistic standpoint. His acting is never academic, and 
yet it reaches, nay, surpasses the best result of academic 
mtention. To eet a glimpse of his methods one must 
first understand what constitutes good art in acting. 
It is not only to give life to a written character by 
dressing the part, walking and talking according to the 
book, but to absolutely create, mind, body and soul, the 
feeling, the disposition, the very heart of the person 
represented. When Fr^dric Lemidtre interpreted Ruy 
Bias, Victor Hugo wrote that " Fr^dric made the part not 
a performance but ^transfi^roHan.^ This, says Coquelin, 
is "the supreme effort of the actor's art." One actor 
reaches this goal by close analytical mental application, 
another by force of temperamental activity. Mr. Tree's 
course is almost entirely the latter. No English actor of 


our day, nor I believe of any time, possesses or has 
possessed a greater abundance of acting temperament 
than Mr. Tree. Note him as Antony in " Julius Caesar'* — 
the vindictive look with which he follows Brutus, Cassius 
and the rest when they leave him alone with the corpse 
of Caesar. Or in the great Forum scene, that triumph 
of stage composition, standing dogged and apparently 
resigned under the ieers of a wild mob, his attitude, his 
whole expression denoting the working of some deep 
plan, a silent determination to conquer, twist, and win it 
over to himself. Observe him as Svengali, giving 
Gecko a patronising, egotistical little side kick, or as 
D'Artagnan, throwing a kiss to his Constance, which 
being interrupted by the entrance of the Kin^, he dex- 
terously turns off into a stroke of his moustachio. Then 
realise that these effects are not intently studied, 
laboriously resolved, but are achieved by his intuitive 
sensing of the characters, and the wealth of his inherent 
tailent may, in a measure, be grasped. If, by relying on 
his intuitions, he often for moments appears to drop 
entirely from his characters— caused, possibly, by a re- 
laxation of vigilance — he is, by that same reliance, 
enabled to mount to relatively greater heights. His 
work is a mixture of subtlety and obviousness, of careful 
art and daring caprice. The exact proportion of each 
matters little. The prescription as he concocts it 
produces a very fine art — nothing one can compare to 
any other — ^because it is the result of the individuality of 

" The Paradox of Actors." 

• • • 

Gesture is not, as one would suppose, an important 

study at the Paris Conservatoire. Frenchmen naturally 

use correct gestures. Fencing, suggestion of character^ 

pure pronunciation and articulation constitute the main 


o o o 

It is interesting to mark the distinction in the manner 
of the conquest which La Loie Fuller made of Paris and 
London. Commercially there is little difference : tl\e 
coffers of the Folies Berg^re or our own music halls and 
theatres overflow whenever she appears. La Loie 
unmistakably *' draws," and will continue to do so for an 
indefinite period. But one has only to glance at the 
artistic illustrations of this wonderful skirt dancer in the 
Parisian Journals and compare them with our own banal 
prints to understand that, to us, La Lolfe partakes of the 
nature of a novelty; to the Parisians she is a unique 
and gifted artist. 


La Loie's Art is phantasmagorial, mystic, obscure. 
It defies human scrutiny whilst it enthrals human 
interest ; La Lole herself is mystified by it In her 
laboratory at Paris she experiments with chemicals 
and the elements, probes nature for effects of light 
and colour, and as these reveal themselves, she 
grasps what satisfies her sense of beauty, and 
subserves it to her purpose. Where her researches will 
lead her none can say ; she herself can only wonder. 
Her work is in a scientific dreamland. It is awe- 
inspiring. It is grand. To-day it suggests the dawn, 
the lily, the butterfly, fiame, and the angels ; to-morrow it 
may suggest the sea, the sky, chaos, eternity, eveiy- 
thine, nothing ; and that is why the artists of Paris, 
G^rome, Le RoUe, Ch6ret, Benjamin Constant, Jean 
Paul Laurens, and a legion of others, appreciate and 

rave about La Loie. 

• • • 

In France, the social standing of actors b much 

beneath ours in England. The badge of the Legion of 

Honour is a distinction refused to the French actor. 

Coquelin has done much to modify this prejudice. He 

is an enthusiastic upholder of the dignity and usefulness 

of his art. " A strike of actors," he says, '' would make 

a somewhat similar reversal of the order of nature, as 

Sully-Prudhomme's 'Revolt of the Flowers.'*' When 

the theatres cease to be, the winter of society will have 

truly set in. 

o o o 

A frontispiece iUustrating a pamphlet published in 
1824, and entitled Shakespeare and Honest King George 
versus Parson Irving and the Puritans^ is a drawing by 
Cruikshank. King George is represented as standing in 
a Royal box erected upon the stage. In front of him is 
a bust of Shakespeare, on whose shoulder the King 
lovingly rests his hand. Opposite is a pulpit in which 
Parson Irving and a colleague, the latter just beneath 
him, are angrily storming. On the pillars of the Royal 
box are inscribed on one side *' Religion," ^ Hope," 
"Faith,"" Charity"; on the other, "Hamlet" "IGng 
Lear," " Romeo and Juliet," " Merchant of Venice." On 
the pulpit appear the words HatUm Garden Puritanical 
Gasometer Exploded From the bust of Shakespeare a 
ray of bhnding light is shed on the vituperative, gesticu- 
lating^ preachers. Parson Irving is yelling " Ye followers 
of Shakespeare, you'll all be damn'd ! " His brother 
below, "Yes, you'll all be damn'd because you are not 
oiK\Mt elect!'* 


The impression a good actor can make upon his audience is 
not easily efiaced. when M. Provost played the part of the 
▼illain, Sir Hudson Lowe, at the Porte Saint Martin, he was 
such a convincingly black villain that every night, after the 
performance, he had to escape from the theatre by a back door 
tn disguise* 

• • • 

Mr. Tree ** makes up" very quickly.^ His D'Artagnan takes 
but a few moments. FalstaflF, wnich appeared to be a stupen- 
dous work of disguise, only required twenty minutes. 

f ^ ^ 


(Fragment adapted from the French.) 

Moulin Rouge ! Moulin Rouge ! 
Why do you grind and grind your grain? 
Is it for pleasure, is it for pain? 
Is it for bliss or for despair? 
Is it for loss, is it for gain? 
O red windmill of Cytkkre! 
Moulin Rouge ! 

William Theodore Peters. 


^If OHN and I had been discussing the stuff that 
dP dreams are made of, he advancing the old theory 
that the partially disembodied spirit actually par- 
ticipates in the action of the dream. With more 
common sense than poetry, I contended that dreams 
were but cases of mental indigestion, mal-assimilation, 
as it were, of brain food. 

As I unfolded the Figaro the next morning, while 
waiting in the onmibus at Saint Germain-des-Pr^, my 
eye fell on the following paragraph : — 

'* Her Majesty, the Queen of England, accompanied 
by the Court, leaves London for Windsor to-day." 

In a flash my thoughts reverted to one lovely Septem- 
ber day, when a merry party of Americans journeyed 
down from London to see the grey old castle perched 
on the rock. 

I could not fix my attention on the usually interesting 
columns of the Figaro^ the incidents of that day's 
journey and the jolt of the lumbering old omnibus 
effectually aided my lapse into day-dreams. 

Once more I wandered through Bumham Beeches, 
with the September sunshine filtering down in warm 

gatches of golden light on the late blooms of purple 
eather. And then the ride through the still, still air, 
with the soft blue haze in the distance, to the quiet 
churchyard at Stoke Poges, with its towering yew tree, 
and the simple grave of him who wrote the immortal 

I distinctly remember crossing the Place du Carrou- 
sel, and reading the sign on the Pavilion de Rohan, and 
then I seemed to be back in my room, on the other side 
of the river. 

The morning mail had just been brought up, and 
among the letters was one in a bulky envelope, which 
I mentally concluded must be a wedding invitation of 
regulation French size. 

I turned it over and saw the monogram " V. R.," sur- 
mounted by a crown. 

"Victoria Regina," I murmured ; " wonder what Vickey 
can be writing to me," mentally chiding myself for 
my uncalled-for familiarity with the good Queen's name. 
(I had been re-reading the " Toumad of our Life in the 

'* The Queen commands your presence at dinner this 


evening at Windsor Castle," I read aloud as I sipped 
my caji au lait. 

Nonchalantly, I glanced at my watch — "9.15; I can 
just nuike the 10 o'clock train," I murmured, and 
without more ado, as if it were the most natural thing 
in the world to be commanded to dine at royal castles 
every day, I walked downstairs. Three flights down I 
suddenly remembered that I had no hat on. Retracing 
my steps, I commenced the search for a hat, looking 
in all the unlikely places, even to peering up the 
chimney place, whence I re-appeared witli a vast smooch 
of soot on face and hands. (The chimney-sweeps 
had been "yoy-hoying" down the chimney the day 

Finally, a discarded, old, white sailor hat deigned to 
make its appearance, and then commenced another 
search for hat-pins. Not one to be found, and a com- 
promise with a knitting needle was effected, the end of 
a blue wrister attached thereto seeming to offer no 
impediment to its usefulness as a skewer of hats. 

"Might as well take an evening waist," said I to 
myself. "She's awfully particular." Whereupon I 
fished out of the work-basket a black lace bodice in 
process of repair, and calmly sat down to get it into 
shape for court use. 

" Tiens / Half after nine, I must set the sun back." 
Whereupon, with calm assurance I walked to the 
window, apostrophising the orb of day in the words 
of Joshua, " Sun, stand thou still in Gibeon," (the day 
before was Simday, and that was the lesson), and then 
calmly sat down again with an inward chuckle over the 
discomfited individuals awaiting my arrival in the Gare 
St. Lazare. 

Finally, as the hands of the clock slowly reverted to 
nine, I started once more — the white sailor hat, 
cocked jauntily over one ear, in a way that would have 
been the despair of Tommy Atkins, the dangling blue 
wrister slowly unravelling, trailing behind me like the 
tail of a comet, the evening waist in a state of disrepair 
pitiable to behold, bursting at every hook (I had it on 
over a street jacket), on my feet a pair of Trilby slippers, 
over a pair of thick white woollen stockings, such as I 
have not seen even in dreams since the days my 
sainted grandmother used to set me an afternoon 
*^ stent." 

On the way downstairs I encountered the concierge^ to 
whom I airily remarked that I was dining with the Queen 
that evening, and should not be in till late. 


** AmuseS'Vous bien^^ she replied, without moving a 

" That woman never did have any sense of humour," 
said I to myself, as, like a ship under full sail, I continued 
on my way, leaving behind a wake of blue worsted. 

Arrived at the street, I suddenly remembered that it 
usuaUy rained in London, and was preparing to retrace 
my steps, when, glancing down, I found myself the 
possessor of an umbrella that would have made even 
Sairey Gamp herself blush. 

Enfin^ me vailh prHe^ said I, hailing a passing cab, 
after having carefully attached the blue yam to the big 
brass knob on the street door. " Theseus might come 
while I am out,'' said I, in response to the concUr^^s 
inquiring gaze. (The previous day I had been looking 
up ^^Ananism" in the encyclopedia, and stopped to 
read, by way of diversion from the pros and cons of 
consubstantiation, the short paragraph treating of the 
woes of Ariadne.) 

The next thing I remember is of ascending the grand 
staircase which leads to the state dining room at 
Windsor. Painfully conscious of the sans-gine of my 
costume, I proudly held up my head as a '* good Ameri- 
can,'' when something impelled me to look back. Lo ! a 
court train of enormous proportions swept the stairway 
behind me, I felt the white sailor transforming itself 
into a tiara, and was painfully conscious of a jar as 
Louis XV. heels were slipped under my feet. No 
chrysalis just transformed mto a goigeous butterfly 
ever fluttered its wings with more pride than I sailed 
into the festal hall. 

The Lord High Chamberlain, or whatever dignity it 
is who receives such guests as I, advanced to meet me, 
extending as he bowed low, a red velvet bag fastened 
to a long bamboo rod, which I recognised as the mate 
to one I had picked up in the park at Hampton Court 
some weeks gone. 

** Take this," he said, " and make a collection for the 
famished and plague-stricken ones of India." 

In a twinkling the lights and the gaily dressed com- 
pany had disappeared, and in the chrysalis costume I 
was wandering up and down the streets of foggy 
London, with side-trips to Stratford-on-Avon, Stoke- 
Poges and Eton, until I found myself standing on the 
old Coronation stone in the market place of Kingston- 
on-Thames, proclaiming, "Long live Edward the 

^^ Palais ' Royal I Le Louvre! Descendez doncy 


, '' cried the conductor, as the omnibus stopped 
with a jerk before the station in the Place du Th^tre- 

My dream had lasted, at the outside, two minutes. 
But John, man-like, though silenced, is still unconvinced- 

Mary Kent Davky. 



Paris, thou mighty city, in whose womb 

All arts, all aims, all vices are contained ; 

Godlessly grand ! — Pride's proudest daughter ! stained 
With hushed dishonours, and shadowed with a doom, 
Like Nineveh of old, of dole and gloom, 

Thou art. Within thy walls is Justice chained ; 

Faith fouled with intrigue ; grand old chivalry ^vaned ; 
And Chastity pale, weeping o'er her tomb. 

Wrapt in yon glorious sunset's gracious sheen 

There liest thou, like harlot Babylon, 

Lovely in degradation. Paragon 

Of pomps ! whose feet on martyrs* prayers have trod, 

Lo ! on its hill this prophet pile, proud Queen, 

Appeals, high o'er thy shadows, unto God. 

James A. Mackereth. 


DroKti by Ckarlt! Ptari 


Paris has now definitely decided to adopt the Anglicism 
"smart." It has not quite dispossessed "shocking, but, 
although that is, of course, always amusing, it is no more in its 
first freshness, and numdcUns and mondcUnes now swear by their 
"smart." The word was first introduced (after the advice of 
John Gray, author of " Spiritual Poems," had been solemnly 
required and received) in the Cri de Paris, and, as our 
American cousins say, immediately "caught on." Everything 
has been " le smart " in turn, and it is now the cravat that is 
honoured. The cravat is at present not only the thing, but 
the smart. Beware, however, of being too smart in this 
respect, for if to be bitn cravati is infallibly a sign of rank 
and wit, so, undoubtedly, to be tfop bien cravati is, like Dog- 
berry, to write oneself down an ass. This sounds a trifle 
paradoxical, but we have only to accept Lombroso's theory of 
rachitiqueA&va and all is explained. Genius is allied to mad- 
ness, and a too well-dressed neck denotes an empty head. The 
manufactured cravat is a horror — every lover of the aesthetic is 
agreed upon that. Oh, shade of Brummell ! Oh, degenerate 
generation ! which is capable of hooking or attaching a cravat in 
some unholy manner at the back, instead of in the front. 

For twenty-five years Brummell wore no other cravats than 
those cut from the discarded gowns of Georgiana Spencer, 
Duchess of Devonshire. He was the only person to whom 
this favour was accorded, and with a proper sense of the 
fitting, he invariably arranged them with his own hands. The 
incomparable arbiter of fashion during so many years delivered 
himself as follows upon this subject : " The cravat," he said, 
" must harmonise perfectly with the remainder of the costume. 
It should be, preferably, subdued in colour, but it must be 
rich, sumptuous, noble, of costly material. It should embrace 
the neck lightly, and lay in graceful folds, which " — and here is 
the crucial point — * ' should appear more natural than arranged, 
more careless and accidental than designed." A fine Byronic 
negligence, combined with a touch of Praxiteles' abihty, is 
really all that is necessary. 

The special attraction recently in Berlin was, of course, Cl^ 
de M erode, at the Wintergarten ; but it must be confessed that 
the measure of applause accorded her was totally out of pro- 
portion to the audience she drew. It was, indeed, most luke- 
warm ; after the first week even the claque, who are very 
industrious here, lost heart and let it alone. In the estimation 
of the crowd, poor Cl^o was completely eclipsed by Saharet, 
one of the school of acrobatic and high-kicking dancers, who 
may, of course, excel in their genre of contortionist, but about 
whose performance there is certainly no suggestion of artistic 
merit. C16o cannot dance, but she is an artist. The pity is 


that she is not a complete arti&t. She fails to do hei self justice. 
I>et me explain. To all those who could appreciate style and 
beauty; her first appearance was in itself a delight. She wore 
a Directoire gown of some soft white material, bordered with a 
Byzantine pattern worked in gold ; a bolero of gold-coloured 
Velvet and long Directoire sash of pale apple green and gold 
plaid ; add to this Cl^'s black hair set off by a gold chain, 
another long gold chain at her neck, and you have a charming 
and perfectly harmonious ensemble. When ten minutes later 
she appeared again in the banal fleshings and stiff tulle skirts of 
the ballerina, a chill lan through me, and I went out. Her 
performance was received in silence, and I really believe every- 
body present was wondering how on earth she could do it. 
Cleo is not a woman of the Saharet-Otero type. One who 
could conceive and carry out the beautiful costume she «ore at 
first, which was perfect in every detail, and accorded exactly in 
style and colour with its wearer, is certainly an artist capable of 
better things. She is out of place in such a setting as that 
of the Wintergarten. She is indeed, in my opinion, seen to 
the best advantage in her portraits, and would be well advised 
in future to appeal to the public through the medium of the 
dark-room, not before the glare of the footlights. 

Here is a good story which is now going the round ot 
German literary and artistic circles. It concerns a lady, 
notoriously absent-minded, who is fond of studying and sketching 
the proletariat in its native haunts. An admirer, who had 
been solemnly prohibited from interfenng with her pursuit of 
knowledge, was in the habit of following her at a respectful 
distance, and could not retain his impatience as he remarked an 
insect upon the back of the bench in the park where she was 
intent upon her favourite occupation. ** Excuse me," he 
whispered in her ear, " but there is a little beast behind you." 
** Good gracious," cried the startled damsel, breaking her pencil, 
** I did not know you were there." 

Brighter — I might say, perhaps, more verdant — days appear 
about to dawn on Italy. A new industry has just been 
born in the most distressed country of Europe, and although we 
may feel inclined to depxecate its motive, we cannot help feeling 
pleased that it will allow the poor Italian, without much labour, 
to attain to no little profit — as it is thought. Of that Time must 
be the best judge, it appears that the origin of the commerce 
in question is directly traceable to a doctor at Turin, who, 
having extracted a nail from a child's stomach, remarked that 
the appearance presented by the iron exactly resembled the 
peculiar verdigris which covers ancient pieces of money when 
they are first removed from the earth. This unhappy observation 
was repeated in the neighbourhood as a bon mot^ and led to 
results that may, likely enough, prove a good thing for the 
enterprising Italian, but a sorry jest for numismatists the world 
over ; for the new industry which this medical gentleman has, 


/)i/itf/i by A. Camfiell Croit 


as il were, established, is no less tluui the tnaklng of ancient 
cnira. A duck is forced to swallow a collection of coin<, of the 
time of Trajan for preference ; there being, according to 
authorities, a decided boom in "Trajans" at present. In 
about a week's time the bird is killed, and the coins aie found 
to have aged a great many centuries, presenting such a, 
perfectly disreputable appearance that even the most expert 
numismatists (in Italy) liave avowed themselves unable 10 
dist'ngitish betneen the real and the counterfeit. 

Uerr Friedrich Schmidt, a well-known diUltaiile of Prague, 
has 1>e()ueathed 50,000 gulden (roughly about ^f 1,500) to the 
"Society flit the Promotion of German Science, Art, and 
Literature in Bohemia." As a mark of gratitude, the society 
has decided to place a portrait of the generous donot in 
their Art Caller)', and the commission has just been entrusted 
to Frau E. von Wagner, of Munich, The artists of Munich, 
by the way, appear to he carrying off the majority of the 
(jerman art prizes and commissions. Heinricn Schlilt has 
just sold his famous "Gnome Painter" (" Der Gnomen- 
maler") to the Wiesbaden Gallery; Professor Walter Fitles 
has sold his enormous canvas, whidi cretitcd such a sensation, 
"Forgive us our Trespasses" ("Ve^b uns unsere Schuld "), 
to the Wallraf-Richartz Museum in Cologne, and Mr. Hans 
Augsmair, also of Munich, has accepted the commission for 
the new Kriegerdenkmals (War Memorial Stalncl, to be erected 
on the site of the old, in that town. The Munich schools are 
going ahead rapidly, and (he artistic fame of the city, already 
great, bids fair to outrival that of the foremost Continental 

An exhibition of the historical and "story " paintings of the 
tale George Comicelius will be held in Hanover about (he 
middle of February. I( is intended to make the collection as 
complete as it can pos'ibly be by borrowing and hiring in every 
necessary direction. The as yet unknown treasures of studies 
and sketches which are hidden in the many portfolios of his 
now deserted studio will also be shown, and it is expected that 
an unusual number of visitors will be attracted (o do honour to 
the memory of the late master. 



IN most of the work of the younger artists of to-day 
one can plainly discern the influence of the men 
with whom they have studied or whose work has 
impressed them most strongly. 

It is the absence of this ihal one noticed first at the 
exhibition of Mr. Alfred Humphreys' paintings, held 
recently at theBeaudouin Gallery, Rue St. Honor^. One 
was struck by the originality and very strong individuality 
shown in his sketches and nocturnes. 

Painting with breadth and vigor, Mr. Humphreys has 
rendered, with singular sincerity and deep poetic feeling, 
those phases of nature that have appealed to him most. 

His most important canvases, "LeSoir," "La Nuit," 
" Le Brouillard," " Un Soir d'EtC are full of a certain 
mystery and charm, as are many of his smaller paintings 
— notably a "Notre Dame by Night," a view of the 
Chamber of Deputies seen against a stormy sunset sky, 
and a landscape in which rolling clouds overhang a low, 
flat plain— the latter painted with remarkable effect. 

It is the work of such men as Mr. Humphreys that 
makes one hopeful for the future of An-.erican Art. 

By tlic couitesy of the ariist we toproduce " I.a Nuil.'' 

Stt/ri of Mks. I'atrk 

hy iViiUam Shaikliloii 

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The Cheviot House, Tailon ... 

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the first of each month. 

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for binding the iuues of the fan l>* 

»nd second yean of the Qoartier A. C. Crass 

Latin Quly. 1896, to May, 1898). 

The volumes are bound in canvas 

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handsome and attractive as posajble- 

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