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The New Year's debts are paid, the May-daymoving is over and settled, and stilla remnant of money is found sticking to thebottom of the old marmalade pot. Whereshall we go?

But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of itssangre azul. We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect thelast new villa: we like the beach, and they bid us enjoy the gardens, brought everyspring in lace-paper out of the florist's shop. We like to stroll on the shore,[pg 610]barefooted if we choose, and Newportis become an affair of toilette andgold-mounted harness, a bathing-placewhere people do everythingbut bathe.

Suppose we try the Isles ofShoals? Appledore and Duck Islandand White Island, now? OrNantucket, or Marblehead?

Too stony, and nothing in particularto eat. You ask for fish,and they give you a rock.

In truth, under that moral andphysical dyspepsia to which webring ourselves regularly everysummer, the fine crags of the northbecome just the least bit of a bore.They necessitate an amount ofheroic climbing under the commandof a sort of romantic and do-nothingGirls of the Period, whosit about on soft shawls in the leeof the rocks, and gather their shellsand anemones vicariously at theexpense of your tendon achilles.We know it, for we have suffered.We calculate, and are prepared toprove, that the successful collectionof a single ribbon of ruffled seaweed,procured in a slimy haystackof red dulse at the beck ofone inconsiderate girl, who is keepingher brass heels dry on a safeand sunny ledge of the Purgatoryat Newport, may require more mentalcalculation, involve more anguishof equilibrium, and encouragemore heartfelt secret profanitythan the making of a steam-engineor the writing of a proposal.

No, no, we would admire nothing,dare nothing, do nothing, butonly suck in rosy health at everypore, pin our souls out on the hollyhedge to sweeten, and forget whatwe had for breakfast. Uneasydaemons that we are all winter,toiling gnomes of the mine and theforge—"O spent ones of a workdayage"—can we not for one[pg 611]brief month in our year beTurks?

Our doctors, slowly acquiring alittle sense, are changing theirremedies. Where the cry used tobe "drugs," it now is "hygiene."But hygiene itself might bechanged for the better. We canimagine a few improvements inthe materia medica of the future.Where the physician used to ordera tonic for a feeble pulse, he willsimply hold his watch thoughtfullyfor sixty seconds and prescribe"Paris." Where he was wont torecommend a strong emetic, hewill in future advise a week's studyof the works of art at our NationalCapital. For lassitude, a donkey-rideup Vesuvius. For color-blindness,a course of sunrises fromthe Rigi. For deafness, Wachtelin his song of "Di quella Pira."For melancolia, Naples. For fever,driving an ice-cart. But whenthe doctor's most remunerativepatient comes along, the pursymanufacturer able to afford theluxury of a bad liver, let him consultthe knob of his cane a momentand order "Atlantic City."

—Because it is lazy, yet stimulating.Because it is unspoilt, yetluxurious. Because the air thereis filled with iodine and the seawith chloride of sodium. Because,with a whole universe of water,Atlantic City is dry. Because ofits perfect rest and its infinitehorizons.

But where and whatis AtlanticCity? It is a refuge thrown up bythe continent-building sea. Fashiontook a caprice, and shook itout of a fold of her flounce. Arailroad laid a wager to find theshortest distance from Penn'streaty-elm to the Atlantic Ocean:it dashed into the water, and aCity emerged from its freight-carsas a consequence of the manoeuvre.Almost any kind of a parent-agewill account for Atlantis. Itis beneath shoddy and above[pg 612]mediocrity. It is below Long Branch andhigher up than Cape May. It is differentfrom any watering-place in the world, yetits strong individuality might have beenplanted in any other spot; and a fewyears ago it was nowhere. Its successis due to its having nothing importunateabout it. It promises endless sea, sky,liberty and privacy, and, having madeyou at home, it leaves you to your devices.

Two of our best marine painters intheir works offer us a choice of coast-landscape.Kensett paints the bare stiffcrags, whitened with salt, standing outof his foregrounds like the clean andhungry teeth of a wild animal, and lookinghard enough to have worn out thepainter's brush with their implacableenamel. From their treeless waste extendsthe sea, a bath of deep, purecolor. All seems keen, fresh, beautifuland severe: it would take a pair of stoutNew England lungs to breathe enjoyablyin such an air. That is the northerncoast. Mr. William Richards givesus the southern—the landscape, in fact,of Atlantic City. In his scenes we havethe infinitude of soft silver beach, therolling tumultuousness of a boundlesssea, and twisted cedars mounted liketoiling ships on the crests of undulatingsand-hills. It is the charm, the dream,the power and the peace of the Desert.

And here let us be indulged with a fewwords about a section of our great continentwhich has never been sung inrhyme, and which it is almost a matterof course to treat disparagingly. Acheap and threadbare popular joke assignsthe Delaware River as the easternboundary of the United States of America,and defines the out-landers whosehomes lie between that current and theAtlantic Ocean as foreigners, Iberians,and we know not what. Scarcely moreof an exile was Victor Hugo, sitting onthe shores of Old Jersey, than is thedenizen ofNew Jersey when he bringshis half-sailor costume and his beach-learnedmanners into contrast with thethrift and hardness of the neighboringcommonwealth. The native of the alluviumis another being from the nativeof the great mineral State. But, by thevery reason of this difference, there is a[pg 613]strange soft charm that comes over ourthoughts of the younger Jersey when wehave done laughing at it. That broad,pale peninsula, built of shells and crystal-dust,which droops toward the southlike some vast tropical leaf, and spreadsits two edges toward the fresh and saltwaters, enervated with drought and sunshine—thatflat leaf of land has characteristicsthat are almost Oriental. Tomake it the sea heaved up her breast,and showed the whitened sides againstwhich her tides were beating. To walkupon it is in a sense to walk upon thebottom of the ocean. Here are strangemarls, the relics of infinite animal life,into which has sunk the lizard or thedragon of antiquity—the giganticHadrosaurus,who cranes his snaky throatat us in the museum, swelling with thetale of immemorial times when he welteredhere in the sunny ooze. The countryis a mighty steppe, but not deprivedof trees: the ilex clothes it with its set,dark foliage, and the endless woodsof pine, sand-planted, strew over thatboundless beach a murmur like the sea.The edibles it bears are of the quaintestand most individual kinds: the cranberryis its native condiment, full of individuality,unknown to Europe, beautifulas a carbuncle, wild as a Tartarbelle, and rife with a subacid irony thatis like the wit of Heine.

Here is thepatate douce,with every kind of sweet-fleshed gourdthat loves to gad along the sand—thecitron in its carved net, and the enormousmelon, carnation-colored withinand dark-green to blackness outside.The peaches here are golden-pulped, asif trying to be oranges, and are richlybitter, with a dark hint of prussic acid,fascinating the taste like some enchantressof Venice, the pursuit of whom ismade piquant by a fancy that she maypoison you. The farther you penetratethis huge idle peninsula, the more itsidiosyncrasy is borne in on your mind.Infinite horizons, "an everlasting washof air," the wild pure warmth of Arabia,and heated jungles of dwarf oaks balancingbalmy plantations of pine. Then,toward the sea, the wiry grasses thatdry into "salt hay" begin to disputepossession with the forests, and finallysupplant them: the sand is blown intocoast-hills, whose crests send off intoevery gale a foam of flying dust, andwhich themselves change shape, underpressure of the same winds, with a slowerimitation of the waves. Finally, by[pg 614]the gentlest of transitions, the desertsand the quicksands become the ocean.

The shore melts into the sea by a networkof creeks and inlets, edging theterritory (as the flying osprey sees it)with an inimitable lacework of azurewaters; the pattern is one of loopingchannels with oval interstices, and thedentellated border of the commonwealthresembles that sort of lace which wasmade by arranging on glass the food ofa silk-spinning worm: the creature ateand wove, having voracity alwaysbefore him and Fine Art behindhim. Much of the solider partof the State is made of the materialswhich enter into glass-manufacture: amighty enchanter might fuse the greaterportion of it into one gigantic goblet. Aslight approximation to this work ofmagic is already being carried on. Thetourist who has crossed the lagoons ofVenice to see the fitful lights flash upfrom the glass-furnaces of Murano, willfind more than one locality here whereleaping lights, crowning low banks ofsand, are preparing the crystal for ourinfant industries in glass, and will remindhim of his hours by the Adriatic.Every year bubbles of greater and greaterbeauty are being blown in these secludedplaces, and soon we hope to enrichcommerce with all the elegances oflatticinio and schmelze, the perfectedglass of an American Venice.

But our business is not with the land,but the sea. Here it lies, basking atour feet, the warm amethystine sea ofthe South. It does not boom and thunder,as in the country of the "cold graystones." On the contrary, saturatingitself with sunny ease, thinning its bulkover the shoal flat beach with a successionof voluptuous curves, it spreadsthence in distance with strands and beltsof varied color, away and away, untilblind with light it faints on a prodigiouslyfar horizon. Its falling noises are assoft as the sighs of Christabel. Its colorsare the pale and milky colors of theopal. But ah! what an impression ofboundlessness! How the silver ribbonof beach unrolls for miles and miles!And landward, what a parallel sea ofmarshes, bottoms and dunes! The[pg 615]sense of having all the kingdoms of theworld spread out beneath one, togetherwith most of the kingdoms of the mermen,has never so come to one's consciousnessbefore. And again, what anartist is Nature, with these faint washesand tenderest varied hues—varied andtender as the flames from burning gases—whileher highest lights (a painter willunderstand the difficulty ofthat) arestill diaphanous and profound!

One goes to the seaside not for pompand peacock's tails, but for saltness,Nature and a bite of fresh fish. To builda city there that shall not be an insultto the sentiment of the place is a matterof difficulty. One's ideal, after all, is acanvas encampment. A range of solidstone villas like those of Newport, so faras congruity with a watering-place goes,pains the taste like a false note in music.Atlantic City pauses halfway betweenthe stone house and the tent, and erectsherself in woodwork. A quantity ofbright, rather giddy-looking structures,with much open-work and carved rufflingabout the eaves and balconies, arepoised lightly on the sand, following thecourse of the two main avenues whichlead parallel with the shore, and theseries of short, straight, direct streetswhich leap across them and run eagerlyfor the sea. They have a low, broodinglook, and evidently belong to a class ofsybarites who are not fond of staircases.Among them, the great rambling hotel,sprawling in its ungainly length here andthere, looks like one of the ordinary tallNew York houses that had concluded tolie over on its side and grow, rather thantake the trouble of piling on its storiesstanding. In this encampment of woodenpavilions is lived the peculiar life ofthe place.

We are sure it is a sincere, natural,sensible kind of life, as compared withthat of other bathing-shores. Althoughthere are brass bands at the hotels, andhops in the evening, and an unequalstruggle of macassar oil with salt andstubborn locks, yet the artificiality iskept at a minimum. People really dobathe, really do take walks on the beachfor the love of the ocean, really do pickup shells and throw them away again,really do go yachting and crab-catching;and if they try city manners in the evening,they are so tired with their honestday's work that it is apt to end in misery.On the hotel piazzas you see beauties thatsurprise youwith exquisitetouchesof the warmand languidSouth. Thatdark Baltimoregirl,her hair a constellation of jessamines, isbeating her lover's shoulders with herfan in a state of ferocity that you wouldgive worlds to encounter. That pair ofproud Philadelphia sisters, statues sculpturedin peach-pulp and wrapped ingauze, look somehow like twin Muses atthe gates of a temple. Whole rows ofunmatched girls stare at the sea, desolatebut implacable, waiting for partnersequal to them in social position. In sucha dearth a Philadelphia girl will turn toher old music-teacher and flirt solemnlywith him for a whole evening, soonerthan involve herself with well-lookingyoung chits from Providence or NewYork, who may be jewelers' clerks whenat home. Yet the unspoiled and fruitybeauty of these Southern belles is verystriking to one who comes fresh fromSaratoga and the sort of upholsteredgoddesses who are served to him there.

Some years ago the Surf House was[pg 616]the finest place of entertainment, but ithas now many rivals, taller if not finer.Congress Hall, under the managementof Mr. G.W. Hinkle, is a universal favorite,while the Senate House, standingunder the shadow of the lighthouse, hasthe advantage of being the nearest to thebeach of all the hotels. Both are ampleand hospitable hostelries, where youare led persuasively through the Eleusinianmystery of the Philadelphia cuisine.Schaufler's is an especial resort of ourGerman fellow-citizens, who may there beseen enjoying themselves in the mannerdepicted by our artist, while concocting—aswe are warned by M. Henri Kowalski—theambitious schemes which they concealunder their ordinaryenveloppe débonnaire.

There is another feature of the place.With its rarely fine atmosphere, so tonicand bracing, so free from the depressingfog of the North, it is a great sanitarium.There are seasons when the PennsylvaniaUniversity seems to have bredits wealth of doctors for the express purposeof marshaling a dying world to thecurative shelter of AtlanticCity. The trainsare encumbered with thehalt and the infirm, whoare got out at the doorslike unwieldy luggage in the arms ofnurses and porters. Once arrived, however,they display considerable mobilityin distributing themselves through thethree or four hundred widely-separatedcottages which await them for hire. Asyou wander through the lanes of thesecunning little houses, you catch strangefragments of conversation. Gentlemenliving vis-à-vis, and standing with oneleg in the grave and the other on theirown piazzas, are heard on sunny morningsexciting themselves with the maddestabuse of each other's doctor. Thereare large boarding-houses, fifty or moreof them, each of which has its contingentof puling valetudinarians. The healthyinmates have the privilege of listeningto the symptoms, set forth with that fulland conscientious detail not unusualwith invalids describing their own complaints.Or the sufferers turn their batterieson each other. On the verandahof a select boarding-house we have seena fat lady of forty lying on a bench likea dead harlequin, as she rolled herselfin the triangles of a glittering afghan.On a neighboring seat a gouty subject,and a tropical sun pouring on both.

"Good-morning! You see I am tryingmy sun-bath. I am convinced itrelieves my spine." The same remarkhas introduced sevenmorning conversations.

"And my gout has shot[pg 617]from the index toe to the ring toe.I feared my slipper was damp, andI am roasting it here. But, dearma'am, I pity you so with yourspine! Tried acupuncture?"

The patient probably hears theword as Acapulco. For she answers,"No, but I tried St. Augustinelast winter. Not a morsel ofgood."

Among these you encountersometimes lovely, frail, transparentgirls, who come down with cheeksof wax, and go home in two monthswith cheeks of apple. Or stout gentlemenarriving yellow, and goingback in due time purple.

Once a hardened siren of manywatering-places, large and blooming,arrived at Atlantic City withher latest capture, a stooping invalidgentleman of good family inRhode Island. They boated, theyhad croquet on the beach, theypaced the shining sands. Both ofthem people of the world and pasttheir first youth, they found anamusement in each other's knowingways and conversation thatkept them mutually faithful in akind of mock-courtship. The gentleman,however, was evidentlyonly amusing himself with this travestyof sentiment, though he wasnever led away by the charms ofyounger women. After a monthof it he succeeded in persuadingher for the first time to enter thewater, and there he assisted herto take the billows in the gallantAmerican fashion. Her intentionof staying only in the very edge ofthe ocean he overruled by mainforce, playfully drawing her outwhere a breaker washed partiallyover her. As the water touchedher face she screamed, and raisedher arm to hide the cheek that hadbeen wet. She then ran hastily toshore, and her friend, fearing someaccident, made haste to rejoin her.His astonishment was great at findingone of her cheeks of a ghastly,unhealthy white. Her color had[pg 618]always been very high. That afternoonshe sought him and explained.She was really an invalid, she saidcalmly, and had recently undergonea shocking operation for tumor.But she saw no reason forletting that interfere with her usualsummer life, particularly as she feltyouth and opportunity making awayfrom her with terrible strides. Havinga chance to enjoy his societywhich might never be repeated,fearing lest his rapid disease shouldcarry him away from before hereyes, she had concluded to makethe most of time, dissemble her suffering,and endeavor to conceal byart the cold bloodlessness of herface. This whimsical, worldly heroismhappened to strike the gentlemanstrangely. He was affected tothe point of proposing marriage. Atthe same time he perceived withsome amazement that his diseasehad left him: the, curative spell ofthe region had wrought its enchantmentupon his system. They werewedded, with roles reversed—he asthe protector and she as the invalid—andwere truly happy during theeighteen months that the lady livedas his wife.

There are prettier and more innocentstories. Every freckle-nosedgirl from the Alleghany valleys whosweeps with her polka-muslin thefloors of these generous hotels hasan idyl of her own, which she is rehearsingwith young Jefferson Jonesor little Madison Addison. In thegolden afternoons they ride together—notin the fine turn-outs suppliedby the office-clerks, nor yet on horse-back,but in guiltless country wagonsguided by Jersey Jehus, whereclose propinquity is a delightful necessity.Ten miles of uninterruptedbeach spread before them, whichthe ocean, transformed for the purposeinto a temporary Haussmann,is rolling into a marble boulevardfor their use twice a day. On thehard level the wheels scarcely leavea trace. The ride seems like[pg 11]eternity, it lapses off so gentle and smooth,and the landscape is so impressivelysimilar: everywhere the plunging surf,the gray sand-hills, the dark cedars withfoliage sliced off sharp and flat by thekeen east wind—their stems twisted likea dishclout or like the olives aroundFlorence.

Or she goes with Jefferson and Madisonon a "crabbing" hunt. Out in aboat at the "Thoroughfare," near therailroad bridge, you lean over the sideand see the dark glassy forms movingon the bottom. It is shallow, and ashort bit of string will reach them. Thebait is a morsel of raw beefsteak fromthe butcher's, and no hook is necessary.They make for the titbit with strangemonkey-like motions, and nip it withtheir hard skeleton ringers, trying to tuckit into their mouths; and so you bringthem up into blue air, sprawling andastonished, but tenacious. You can putthem through their paces where theyroost under water, moving the beefabout, and seeing them sidle and backon their aimless, Cousin Feenix-likelegs: it is a sight to bring a freckle-nosedcousin almost into hysterics. Butone day a vivacious girl had committedthe offence of boasting too much of herskill in crab-catching, besides being quiteunnecessarily gracious to Mr. JeffersonJones. Then Mr. Madison Addison,who must have been reading Plutarch,did a sly thing indeed. The boat havingbeen drawn unnoted into deeper water,a cunning negro boy who was aboardcontrived to slide down one side withoutremark, and the next trophy of the femininechase was a redboiled crab, artificiallyattached to a chocolate caramel,and landed with mingled feelings by thepretty fisherwoman. Then what a tumultof laughter, feigned anger and becomingblushes! It is said that that crimsonshell, carved into a heart-shape of incorrectproportions, is worn over Mr.Jones's diaphragm to this day.

At the Inlet, which penetrates thebeach alongside the lighthouse, is draughtfor light vessels, and the various kindsof society which focus at Atlantic Citymay be seen concentrated there on thewharf any of these bright warm days.A gay party of beauties and aristocrats,[pg 620]with a champagne-basket and hamperof lunch, are starting thence for a sailover to Brigantine Beach. Two gentlemenin flannel, with guns, are urginga little row-boat up toward the interiorcountry. They will return at night ladenwith rail or reed-birds, with the additionalburden perhaps of a great loon, shotas a curiosity. Others, provided withfishing-tackle, are going out for flounder.Laughing farewells, waving handkerchiefsand the other telegraphic signsof departure, are all very gay, but thetune may be changed when the greatsailing-party comes back, wet andwretched, and with three of the principalbeauties limp as bolsters on the gentlemen'shands with sea-sickness.

Another spirited scene takes place atfive in the morning—an hour when thecity beauties are abed with all thattenacity of somnolence which characterizesKathleen Mavourneen in the song.The husbands and brothers, who aredue in the city before business hours, areout for a good, royal, irresponsible tumblein the surf. There is the great yeastybath-tub, full of merry dashing figures,dipping the sleek shoulder to the combingwave. On the shore, active humanitieshastily undressing. Then the heavensare filled with a new glory, and thedazzling sun leaves his bath at the sametime with all these merry roisterers whohave shared it with him. He takes uphis line of business for the day, and sodo the good husbands and brothers, firstgoing through a little ceremony of toiletfrom which he is exempt.

Thus does the New Atlantis providefor her republic, holding health to herchildren with one hand, and shakingfrom the other an infinity of toys anddiversions; while for those of morethoughtful bent the sea turns withoutceasing its ancient pages, written all overwith inexhaustible romance.

The great architect of the city was thePower who graded those streets of immaculatesand, and who laid out thatpark of mellow, foam-flowered ocean.Its human founders have done whatseemed suitable in providing shelter fora throng of fitful sojourners, not forgettingto put up six neat and modestchurches, where suitable praise and adorationmay be chanted against thechanting of the sea. In several respectsthe place grows somewhat curiously.For instance, a lawn of turf is made bythe simple expedient of fencing off thecattle: the grass then grows, but if thecows get in they pull up the sod by theroots, and the wind in a single seasonexcavates a mighty hollow where thegrassy slope was before. So much forbuilding our hopes on sand. An avenueof trees is prepared by the easy plan ofthrusting willow-stems into the ground:they sprout directly, and alternate withthe fine native cedars and hollies inclothing the streets with shadow. Severalcitizens, as Mr. Richard Wright andMr. Thomas C. Hand, whose handsomecottages are tasteful specimens of ourseaside architecture, have been temptedby this facility of vegetable life at AtlanticCity to lay out elaborate gardens,which with suitable culture are successful.Fine avenues of the best constructionlead off to Shell Beach or to the singlehill boasted by the locality. Finally,remembering the claims of the greatdemocracy to a wash-basin, the aedilesinvited Tom, Dick and Harry, and setup the Excursion or Sea-View House,with its broad piazzas, its numberlessfacilities for amusement, and its enormousdining-hall, which can be changedon occasion into a Jardin Mabille, withflowers and fountains.

To a great city all the renovating andexhilarating qualities of sea-breezes andsea-bathing are but as the waters ofTantalus, unless the place which offersthese advantages be easy of access. Inthis respect Atlantic City has for Philadelphiaa superiority over all its rivals.The Camden and Atlantic Railroad, towhose secretary and treasurer, Mr. D.M.Zimmermann, we are indebted for muchinformation, has simply drawn a straightline to the coast, which may be reachedin an hour and three-quarters from Vinestreet wharf. The villages on the route,like the seaside terminus, owe their existenceto the road, which is now reapingthe reward of a far-sighted enterprise.

THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

A noble life, whose course belongsto the subject of these pages, is,while they are preparing, apparentlydrawing to a close. The severe illnessnow reported of Abd-el-Kader, comingupon old age, disappointment, war andthe lassitude of a great purpose foiled,can have but one result. Dimmed to-day,as our hurrying century so rapidlydims her brightest renowns, Abd-el-Kader'sexistence has only to cease andhis memory will assume the sacredsplendor of the tomb.

Hapless Washington of a betrayedrevolution! In these latter days of enforcedquiet in Palestine how his earlyscenes of African experience must haveflooded his mind!—his birth, sixty-sixyears ago, in a family group of Moslemsaints; the teachings of his beautifulmother Leila and of his marabout father;his pilgrimage when eight years old toMecca, and his education in Italy; hisvisions among the tombs, and the crownof magic light which was seen on hisbrows when he began to taste the enchantedapple; then, with adolescence,the burning sense of infidel tyranny thatmade his home at Mascara seem only acage, barred upon him by the uncleanFranks; and soon, while still a youth,his amazing election as emir of Mascaraand sultan of Oran, at a moment whenthe prophet-chief had just fouroukias[pg 622](half-dimes) tied into the corner of hisbornouse!

The tourist remembers the trinity-portraitof him, by Maxime David, in theLuxembourg Gallery at Paris, where hisface, framed in its white hood, is seenin full, in profile and in three-quartersview. The visage is aquiline, olive-tinted,refined; but we can describe itmore authentically in the terms of oneof his enemies, Lieutenant de France,who became his prisoner in 1836, and[pg 623]who followed his movements for fivemonths, taking down his daily talk andhabits like a Boswell, but leaving nothingin his narrative that is not to thesultan's credit. Of Abd-el-Kader attwenty-eight the lieutenant says: "Hisface is long and deadly pale, his largeblack eyes are soft and languishing, hismouth small and delicate, and his noserather aquiline: his beard is thin, butjet-black, and he wears a small moustache,which gives a martial character[pg 624]to his soft, delicate face, and becomeshim vastly. His hands are small andexquisitely formed, and his feet equallybeautiful." Every interlocutor leaves asimilar portrait, impressing upon themind the image of some warrior-saintof the Middle Ages, born too late, andbeating out his noble fanaticism againstour century of machines and chicanery.

Himself, according to some accounts,a Berber, the young marabout early sawthe importance of inducing the Kabylesto join with him and his Arabs in expellingthe French. He affiliated himselfwith the religious order of Ben-abd-er-Rhaman,a saint whose tomb is one ofthe sacred places of Kabylia; and it iscertain that the college of this order furnishedhim succor in men and money.He visited the Kabyles in their rock-builtvillages, casting aside his militarypomp and coming among them as asimple pilgrim. If the Kabyles hadreceived him better, he could haveshown a stouter front to the enemy.But the mountain Berbers, utterly unusedto co-operation and subordination,met him with surprise and distrust.

At least, such is the account of GeneralDaumas: in this interesting relationwe are forced to depend on the French.Daumas, amply provided with documents,letters and evidence, has arrangedin his work onLa Grande Kabyliethe principal evidence we possessof this epoch of Abd-el-Kader's life.

The chief appeared in 1836 at Bordj-Boghniand at Si-Ali-ou-Moussa amongthe mountains. The Kabyle tribes visitedhim in multitudes. He addressedthem at the door of his tent, and theserude mountaineers found themselvesface to face with that saintly sallow visage,those long gazelle eyes and theprophetic countenance framed in itsapostolic beard. Raising his arms inthe attitude of Raphael's Paul at Lystra,he said simply, "I am the thorn whichAllah has placed in the eye of theFranks. And if you will help me I willsend them weeping into the sea."

But when it came to a demand for[pg 625]supplies, the Kabyles, says Daumas,utterly refused.

"You have come as a pilgrim," saidtheir amins, "and we have fed you withkouskoussu. If you were to come as achief, wishing to lay his authority on us,instead of white kouskoussu we shouldtreat you to black kouskoussu" (gunpowder).

Abd-el-Kader, without losing the serenityof the marabout, argued with theKabyles, and succeeded in obtainingtheir reverence and adhesion; but whenhe mounted his horse to go the aminssignificantly told him to come amongthem always as a simple pilgrim, demandinghospitality and white kouskoussu.

At Thizzi-Ouzzou he met the tribe ofAmeraouas, who promised to submit tohis authority as soon as the fractionssurrounding that centre should do so.The Sons of Aicha received him withhonor and games of horsemanship. Atthe camp of Ben Salem the chiefs ofseveral tribes came to render homage tothe noble marabout, descendant of Berberancestry and of the Prophet. Fromthence he sought tribes still more wild,discarding his horse and appearingamong the villagers as a simple foot-pilgrim.The natives approached himin throngs, each family bearing a greatdish of rancid kouskoussu. Layingthe platters before his tent and plantingtheir clubs in them, all vociferated,"Eat! thou art our guest;" and thechieftain was constrained to taste ofeach. Finally, near Bougie he happenedto receive a courier sent by theFrench commandant. The Kabyles immediatelybelieved him to be in treasonablecommunication with the enemy, andhe was forced to retire.

The young chief was in fact at thattime in peaceful communication with theFrench, having made himself respectedby them in the west, while they were[pg 626]attending to the subjugation of Constantinaand founding of Philippeville in theeast. Protected by the treaty of Taafnain 1837, Abd-el-Kader was at leisure toattempt the consolidation of his littleempire and the fusion of the jealoustribes which composed it. The lowmoral condition of his Arabs, who werefor the most part thieves and cowards,and the rude individuality of his Kabyles,who would respect his religious butscoff at his political claims, made thetask of the leader a difficult one. Tothe Kabyles he confided the care of his[pg 627]saintly reputation, renouncing theircontributions, and asking only for theirprayers as a Berber and as a khouan ofthe order of Ben-abd-er-Rhaman. Fora few years his power increased, withoutone base measure, without any soilureon the blazon of increasing prosperity.In 1840 the sultan of Oran, at the zenithof his influence, swept the plains beneaththe Atlas with his nomad court, defendedby two hundred and fifty horsemen.Passing his days in reviewing his troopsand in actions of splendid gallantry, heresumed the humility of the saint atevening prayers: his palace of a nightreceived him, watched by thirty negrotent-guards; and here he sheltered hislowly head, whose attitude was perpetuallybowed by the habitual weight ofhis cowl. The French soon becamejealous, and encroached upon theirtreaty. The duke of Orleans, we aretold, had Abd-el-Kader's seal counterfeitedby a Jewish coiner at Oran, andwith passports thus stamped sent scouting-partiestoward the sultan's dominions,protected by the sultan's forged safe-conduct.Open conflict followed, and asuccession of French razzias. In 1845,Colonels Pelissier and St. Arnaud, underMarshal Bugeaud, conducted that expeditionof eternal infamy during whichseven hundred of Abd-el-Kader's Arabswere suffocated in a cave-sanctuary ofthe Dahra. This sickening measure wasput in force at acul-de-sac, where a fewhours' blockade would have commandeda peaceful surrender.

"The fire was kept up throughout thenight, and when the day had fully dawnedthe then expiring embers were kickedaside, and as soon as a sufficient timehad elapsed to render the air of thesilent cave breathable, some soldierswere directed to ascertain how matterswere within. They were gone but a fewminutes, and then came back, we aretold, pale, trembling, terrified, hardlydaring, it seemed, to confront the lightof day. No wonder they trembled andlooked pale! They had found all theArabs dead—men, women, children, alldead!—had beheld them lying just asdeath had found and left them—the oldman grasping his gray beard; the deadmother clasping her dead child with thesteel gripe of the last struggle, when allgave way but her strong love."

Abd-el-Kader's final defeat in 1848was due less to the prowess of Lamoricièreand Bugeaud than to the cunningof his traitorous ally, the sultan of Morocco,who, after having induced manyof the princely saint's adherents to desert,finally drove him by force of numbersover the French frontier. Confrontingthe duke of Aumale on the Moroccoborders, he made a gallant fight, butlost half his best men in warding off anattack of the Mencer Kabyles. Fatiguednow with a long effort against overwhelmingpressure, and world-weary,he met the duke at Nemours, on the sea-coastclose to the Morocco line. Depositinghis sandals, Arab-fashion, outsidethe French head-quarters, he awaited theduke's signal to sit down.

"I should have wished to do thissooner," said the broken chief, "but Ihave awaited the hour decreed by Allah.I ask the aman (pardon) of theking of the French for my family andfor myself."

Louis Philippe could not come in contactwith this pure spirit without anexhibition of Frankish treachery, liketinder illuminating its foulness at thestriking of steel. The sultan's surrenderwas conditioned on the freedom to retireto Egypt. The French government nosooner secured him than it treacherouslysent him to prison, first to the castle ofPau, then to that of Amboise near Blois,where he was kept from 1848 to 1852,when the late emperor made an earlyuse of his imperial power to set him atliberty. Since his freedom, at Constantinople,Broussa and Damascus the ex-sultanhas continued to practice the rigorsand holiness of the Oriental saint,proving his catholic spirit by protectingthe Christians from Turkish injustice,and awaiting with the deep fatigue of amartyr the moment destined to unite hissoul with the souls of Washington, Bozzarisand L'Ouverture.

This noble life, which impinges a momenton our course through Kabylia, is[pg 628]surely the most epical of our century,which can never be reproached for thelack of a hero while Abd-el-Kader'sname is remembered.

The descent from the rock-perchedcity of Kalaa having been made in safety,and the animals being remounted atthe first plateau, our Roumi traveler andhis guides arrive in a few hours at themodern, fortified, but altogether[pg 629]Kabylian stronghold of Akbou. Here aletter from a French personage of importancegives us the acquaintance of aKabyle family of the highest rank.

The ancestors of Ben-Ali-Cherif, remotelydescended from Mohammedthrough one of his sisters, were of Kabylianrace, and one of them, settled inChellata, near Akbou, founded there aprosperous college of the Oriental style.Ben-Ali-Cherif, born in Chellata andresiding at Akbou, receives the touristwith a natural icy dignity which only aczar among the sovereigns of Europecould hope to equal: those who havebut seen Arabs of inferior class can formno notion of the distinction and loftygravity of the chiefs of a grand house(or of a grand tent, as they are called):the Kabyle noble is quite as superb asthe Arab.

Ben-Ali seats us at a rich table coveredwith viands half French and halfOriental: a beautiful youth, his son,resembling a girl with his blue head-draperyand slim white hands, placeshimself at table, and attracts the conversationof the guest. The young mananswers in monosyllables and with hislarge eyes downcast, and the agha significantlyobserves, "You will excusehim if he does not answer: he is notused to talk before his father."

The host, disposing of the time of hisguests, has arranged a series of diversions.The valley of the river Sahel isfull of boars, and panthers and monkeysabound in the neighboring spurs of theZouaouas. While the Roumi are examininghis orchards of oranges andpomegranates the agha's courtyard fillswith guests, magnificent sheikhs on Barbaryhorses, armed with inlaid guns.These are all entertained for the night,together with the usual throng of parasites,who choke his doors like the clientsof the rich Roman in Horace.

At sunrise the party is mounted. Themare of the agha, a graceful creaturewhose veins form an embroidery overher coat of black satin, is caparisonedwith a slender crimson bridle, and asaddle smaller than the Arab saddlesand furnished with lighter stirrups. TheChristian guests are furnished with veritablearquebuses of the Middle Ages;that is to say, with Kabyle guns, thestock of which, flattened and surmountedwith a hammer of flints, is ignited bya wheel-shaped lock, easier to be managedby a Burgundian under Charlesthe Bold than by an unpretending modernRoumi.

The usual features of an Algerian huntsucceed. A phantom-like silence pervadesthe column of galloping horsemenup to the moment when the boar is beatenup. Then, with a formidable clamorof "Haou! haou!" from his pursuers,the tusked monster bursts through thetamarinds and dwarf palms: after a longchase he suddenly stops, and then hisform instantly disappears under the giganticAfrican hounds who leap uponhim and hang at his ears. A huntsmandismounts and stabs his shoulder withthe yataghan. After a rest the chase isresumed, but this time under the formof a hawking-party.

Only the djouads and marabouts—thatis to say, the religious or secular nobles—havethe privilege of hunting with thefalcon. The patrician bird, taken bythe agha from the shoulder of his hawk-bearer,is about as large as a pigeon, thehead small, beak short and strong, theclaws yellow and armed with sharp talons.The bird rides upon his master'sleather glove until a hare is started:then, unhooded and released, his firstproceeding is to dart into the zenith asif commissioned to make a hole in thesky. No fear, however, that the poorpanting quarry is lost for an instant fromthe vision of that infallible eye, whichfollows far aloft in the blue, invisible andfatal. Soon the cruel bird drops like anaërolite, and, as the deed is explained tous, doubles up his yellow hand into afist, and deals the animal a sharp blowon the skull. Directly, as the horsemenapproach, he is found with his obtusehead bent over his prey, digging out itseyes by the spoonful.

By noontide the troop is naturallyfamished. A luncheon, has, however,been prepared by the thoughtfulness ofthe agha. Riding up to a tent which[pg 630]appears as by magic in the wilderness, theprovisions for a sumptuous repast arediscovered. Two fires are burning inthe open air, and are surrounded by ahost of servants or followers. The Roumiand their host adjourn from the neighborhoodof the preparations, and areserved under a plane tree beautiful as[pg 631]that whose limbs were hung by Xerxeswith bracelets. A soup, absolutely seton fire with red pepper, introduces therepast: pancakes follow, and variousmeats smothered with eggs or onions.Then two half-naked cooks stagger upbearing on a wooden dish, under a gold-borderednapkin, a sheep roasted entireand still impaled with the spit. Thechief cook takes hold of the skewer anddraws it violently toward himself, applyinga smart stroke with his naked heelto the tail of the creature—a contactwhich would seem almost as trying asthe ancient ordeal of the ploughshares,or as the red-hot horseshoes which thefire-eating marabouts are accustomed todance upon. The Roumi travelers tastethe succulent viand, taste again, eat tillashamed, and are ready to declare thatnever was mutton properly dressed before.If possible, they vow to introducethe undissected roast, the bonfire, thespit and the cook with imperturbableheel into the cuisine of less-favored landsmore distant from the sun.

Champagne, which the cunning Mussulmansdo not consider as wine, washesthe meal, and coffee and pale perfumedtobacco supplement it. But when theappetite has retired and permitted somesharpness to the ordinary senses, thetravelers are amazed at the gradual andsilent increase which has taken place intheir numbers. Every group of guestsis augmented by a circle of prone andcreeping forms that, springing apparentlyfrom the earth, are busily breakingthe fragments of the feast under the careof the servitors, who appear, rather toencourage than repel them. Ben-Ali-Cherif,being interrogated, replies calmly,"They are Tofailians."

The Tofailian is a parasite on system,an idler who elevates his belly into adivinity, or at least a principle. Hisprophet or exemplar is a certain Tofail,whose doctrine is expressed in a fewpractical rules, respectfully observed andnumerously followed. "Let him who attendsa wedding-feast," says one of hisapophthegms, "having no invitation,avoid glancing here and there dubiously.Choose the best place. If the guestsare numerous, pass through boldly withoutsaluting any one, to make the guestsof the bride think you a friend of thebridegroom, and those of the groom afriend of the bride."

An Arab poet said of Tofail: "If hesaw two buttered pancakes in a cloud,he would take his flight without hesitation."

A Tofailian of marked genius oncelearned that a festival was going on ata grand mansion. He ran thither, butthe door was closed and entrance impossible.Inquiring here and there, helearned that a son of the house wasabsent on the Mecca pilgrimage. Instantlyhe procured a sheet of parchment,folded it, and sealed it as usualwith clay: he rolled his garments in thedust and bent his spine painfully over along staff. Thus perfect in what anactor would call his reading, he sentword to the host that a messenger hadarrived from his son. "You have seenhim?" said the delighted Amphitryon,"and how did he bear his fatigues?""He was in excellent health," answeredthe Tofailian very feebly. "Speak,speak!" cried the eager father, "andtell me every detail: how far had hegot?" "I cannot, I am faint with hunger,"said the simple fellow. Directlyhe was seated at the highest place ofthe feast, and every guest admired thatsplendid appetite—an appetite quite professional,and cultivated as poultererscultivate the assimilative powers of livers."Did my son send no letter?" asked thepoor father in a favorable interval causedby strangulation. "Surely," replied thegood friend, and, comprehending thatthe critical moment had arrived, hedrew to himself a chine of kid with onehand while he unwound the letter fromhis turban with the other. The seal wasstill moist, and the pilgrim had not foundtime to write anything on the parchment."Are you a Tofailian?" asked the hostwith the illumination of a sudden idea."Yea, in truth, verily," said the stranger,struggling with his last mouthful. "Eat,then, and may Sheytan trouble thy digestion!"The parasite was shown thedoor, but he had dined.

Men of rank and wealth, like Ben-Ali-Cherif,turn the Tofailian into a proverb,and thus laugh at a plague theycannot cure.

The Algerine coast has enriched ourlanguage with at least two words, respectivelywarlike and peaceful—razziaandfantasia. The latter is applied to agame of horsemanship, used to expressjoy or to honor a distinguished friend.A spirited fantasia is organized by theguests of the agha on returning to Akbou.Twenty of the best-mounted horsemenhaving gone on before, and beingcompletely lost to sight in the whirlwindof dust created by their departure, allof a sudden reappear. Menacing theirhost and his companions like an army,they gallop up, their bornouses flyingand their weapons flashing, until at afew paces they discharge their long gunsunder the bodies of the horses opposite,and take flight like a covey of birds.Loading as they retire and quickly forming,again they dash to the charge, shouting,galloping, and shooting among thelegs of their host's fine horses: this shamattack is repeated a score or two of times,up to the door of the agha's house. TheBedouins, in their picturesque expression,are making the powder talk. Finer horsemanshipcan nowhere be seen. Theirhorses, accustomed to the exercise, enterinto the game with spirit, and the riders,[pg 633]secure in their castellated saddles, sit withease as they turn, leap or dance on twofeet. Used, too, from infancy to thesociety of their mares, they move withthem in a degree of unity, vigor andboldness which the English horsemannever attains. The Arab's love for hishorse is not only the pride of the cavalier:it is an article of faith, and theProphet comprehended the close unitybetween his nation and their beasts whenhe said, "The blessings of this world,up to the day of judgment, shall be suspendedto the locks which our horseswear between their eyes."

Truly the Oriental idea of hospitalityhas its advantages—on the side of theobliged party. This haughty ruler, onthe simple stress of a letter from a Frenchcommandant, has made himself our servantand teased his brain for devices toamuse us. His chief cook precedes usto his birthplace at Chellata, to arrangea sumptuous Arab supper. After a ridemade enervating by the simoom, we descendat the arcaded and galleried Moorishhouse where Ben-Ali-Cherif was born,and are visited by the sheikh of the collegewhich the agha maintains. It is astrange, peaceful, cloistered scene, consecratedto study and hospitality. Chellata,white and silent, sleeps in the giganticshadow of the rock Tisibert, andin its graveyard, among the tombs ofsacred marabouts, walk the small bald-headedstudents reciting passages of lawor of the Koran. Algeria is dotted overwith institutions (zaouias) similar to this,which, like monasteries of old, combinethe functions of seminaries and gratuitousinns. That of Ben-Ali-Cherif, to whichhe contributes from his own purse a sum[pg 634]equal to sixteen thousand dollars a year,is enshrined in buildings strewn aroundthe resting-place of his holy ancestors.The sacred koubba (or dome) markingthe bones of the marabout is swept byshadows of oak and tamarind trees:professors stray in the shadow, and thepupils con their tasks on the adjoiningtombstones.

Every impression of Chellata is silveredover, as with a moonlight of beneficence,by the attentions of Ben-Ali'shouse-steward, who rains upon our appetitesa shower of most delicious kouskoussu,soothes us with Moorish coffee,and finishes by the politeness of lightingand taking the first whiff of our cigarette—abit of courtesy that might be spared,but common here as in parts of Spain.

With daybreak we find the town ofChellata preparing to play its rôle as amart or place of industry. The laborseems at first sight, however, to be confinedto the children and the women:the former lead the flocks out at sunriseto pasture in the mountain, the womenmake the town ring with their busy work,whether of grinding at the mill, weavingstuff or making graceful vases in pottery.The men are at work in the fields, fromwhich they return at nightfall, sullen,hardy and silent, in their tattered haiks.These are never changed among thepoor working-people, for the scars of abornouse are as dignified as those of thebody, and are confided with the garmentby a father to his son. The women, aswe have remarked before, are in a stateof far greater liberty than are the femaleArabs, but it is more than anything elsethe liberty to toil. Among these mountaineersthe wife is a chattel from whomit is permissible to extract all the usefulnesspossible, and whom it is allowableto sell when a bargain can be struck.The Kabyle woman's sole recreation isher errand to the fountain. This issometimes situated in the valley, farfrom the nodding pillar or precipice onwhich the town is built. There the travelerfinds the good wives talking andlaughing together, bending their lively—sometimesblonde and blue-eyed—facestogether over their jars, andgossiping as in Naples or as in the streetsaround Notre Dame in Paris. The Kabyles—differingtherein from the Arabs—providea fountain for either sex; anda visit by a man to the women's fountainis charged, in their singular code ofpenal fines, "inspired by Allah," a sumequal to five dollars, or half as much asthe theft of an ox.

By the white light of day-dawn wequit Chellata, with the naked crests ofthe Djurjura printing themselves on thestarry vault behind us and the valleybelow bathed in clouds. As we descendwe seem to waken the white, red-roofedvillages with our steps. The plateausare gradually enlivened with spreadingherds and men going forth to labor.We skirt the precipice of Azrou-n'hour,crowned with its marabout's tomb. Theplains at our feet are green and glorious,pearled with white, distant villages.Opposite the precipice the granite rocksopen to let us pass by a narrow portalwhere formerly the Kabyles used tostand and levy a toll on all travelers.This straitened gorge, where snowabounds in winter, and which has variousnarrow fissures, is named the Defileof Thifilkoult: it connects the highwaysof several tribes, but is impassable fromDecember to April from the snow andthe storms which rage among the cliffs.We are still four thousand feet abovethe plain, whose depth the swimmingeye tries in vain to fathom, yet the snowypeaks above us are inaccessible. Descendingchains of rocks mingled withflint and lime, we attain a more clementlandscape. Kabyle girls crowd arounda well called the Mosquitoes' Fountain,a naked boy plays melancholy tunes ona reed, and the signs of a lower levelare abundant in the fields of corn andorchards of olive. But the rugged mountains,in whose grasp we have found somany wonders, are not left without regret.The most picturesque part of ourcourse is now behind us, and as daydies upon our crossing through Iferaouenen,we turn back to behold the fineline of the mountains, half sad and regretful,

Fourteen expeditions were found necessaryby the French between 1838 and1857 to subdue the Kabyles, who underleaders such as Ben-Salem, Ben-Kassim,the Man-with-the-Mule, the Man-with-the-She-Ass,and other chiefs less celebrated,defended their territory step bystep. In the great chastisement of 1857,Marshal Randon, after subduing this partof the Djurjura ridge in detail, determinedto preserve the fruits of victoryby two new constructions—a fort anda military road. France was to resideamong her unwilling colonists, and shewas to possess an avenue of escape.The building of these two conveniences,as we may call them, over the smokingruins of victory, was a conspicuous exampleof the excellent engineering geniusof the nation. An English officer, Lieutenant-colonelWalmsley, witnessed, andhas left a spirited account of, the greatconquest, and the immediate improvementof it. The strongholds of theDjurjura (it being May, 1857) weretaken: the most difficult, Icheriden, wassoon to fall, yielding only to the assaultof the Foreign Legion—that troop ofArabs and of Kabyles from the Zouaouaplain wherefrom we derive the wordzouave.Marshal Randon selected for hisfort the key of the whole district: it wasa place known as the Souk-el-Arba("Market of Wednesday"). It was inthe heart of the Beni Raten land, andin a spot where three great mountain-ridgesran down into the plain of theSebaou. These ridges, subdued andfriendly, would be held in respect bythe garrison of the fort, and the otherridge of Agacha, still rebellious, wouldlikewise terminate at the fort. Theworks were immediately laid out andquickly built. As the road sprang intoits level flight like magic, the peepingKabyles, perfectly unaware that theywere conquered, laughed in derision."It is to help the cowards to run away,"they said. In due time rose the palewalls of the citadel, with mountainsabove and hills below. The Kabylescall it the White Phantom. Their songs,the "traditions" of illiterate tribes, recitethe building of the terrible stronghold:"The Roumi has arrived at the Market:he is building there. Weep, O my eyes!tears of blood. The children of Ratenare valiant men: they are known asmasters of the warlike art. They fellupon the enemy at Icheriden. TheFranks fell like lopped branches. Gloryto those brave men! But the Roumihas peeled us like seeds. The powdertalks no more. The warlike men arefainting. Cover thyself with mourning,O my head!"

As the tourist turns the summit ofAboudid suddenly appears, like an ornamentaldetail in a panorama, thisvast fortress, originally named Fort Napoléon,and since the collapse of theempire called Fort National. Duringthe French troubles of 1871, in themonth of August, General Cérès wasobliged to inspire terror by burning thevillage of Thizzi-Ouzzou beneath, andthen went on to relieve the fort. Whenthe next opportunity will occur for theBeni Raten to assert their rights it is impossibleto tell. We descend from thefort, and all becomes commonplace.The charred ruins of Thizzi-Ouzzou inits valley-bed are being replaced bynew buildings. All wears a look ofevery-day thrift. The Arab, moving hishousehold goods, drives before him hispoor dingy wife, loaded down with worthlessvaluables and also with copper jewels,in which she clanks like a fetteredslave. A negro musician from the Desert,a true African minstrel, capers beforeus and beats the tom-tom, until,distracted with his noise, we pay himand bombard him off the face of theroad with projectiles.

From Thizzi-Ouzzou to Algiers it isbut four hours' journey, and the fourhours are passed in a diligence. Yes,our circumstances are subdued to theconditions of the diligence! Adieu, ourspahi guides, like figures fromLallaRookh! Adieu, our dream of an AfricanSwitzerland! The Roumi, outsideof Kabylia, quickly fades into the lightof common day, and becomes plainTom or Harry.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867.

"Well, the way it came about was this:Annie and I had been sent from Englandto a small French town on thecoast, for the benefit of the warm sea-waterbaths. It was a quaint little port;all the houses reminded you of ships intheir fitting up; the beds were set intothe wall like berths; closets were stowedaway in all sorts of impossible places;the floors were uncarpeted and white asa main deck; and articles from distantcountries hung about the walls or stoodin the corners—East Indian sugar-cane,cotton from America, Chinese crockeryand piles of sea-shells. The great seaby which we lodged was representedeverywhere. Our food was fish, shrimpsand water-fowl—our acquaintance, fishermen,shrimpers and sailors. The leadingevent of the day was the coming inand going out of the tide, and ducksand geese were the chief domestic animals.On one side was a prospect ofwind-tossed waves and the sails of ships,on the other wind-beaten fields and thesails of mills: the few cabins that hadrashly ventured beyond the protectionof the village shortly lost courage, and,with their thatched roofs not a yard fromthe earth, seemed crouching low to avoidthe continuous blasts. The church aloneon the high sea-wall raised itself fearlesslyagainst the tyrant, and though hisbaffled voice still howled without, withinthe pious prayed securely before a faith-inspiringaltarpiece of Christ stilling thetempest.

"In a few weeks, after we had exhaustedevery amusement that the dull townafforded, become intimate with all theold gossips, tired of listening to theyarns of the pilot-tars off duty, driventhe donkeys over the country until theyinstinctively avoided us whenever we appeared,sailed in the bay and sufferedperiodic attacks of sea-sickness therefrom,finished the circulating library,and half learned some barbarous sentencesof Norman patois, we sat downdisconsolate one afternoon to devisesome means of employing the remainderof our time. It was then that the brightidea struck Annie, and she exclaimed,'Let us go to the Paris Exposition!'

"'Just the thing!' I answered withenthusiasm. 'I wonder when the nexttrain starts?'

"'I'll go and inquire: you begin andpack the trunks. If we can get off to-day,by to-morrow morning we can beginseeing it;' and she left the room in greatexcitement.

"The result was, that by seven o'clockthat evening we had made our hastypreparations, and were ready to set out.It was raining terribly when the onlyhack of the village (which, by the by,was an omnibus) called for us at thedoor. The dripping fluid oozed andsparkled over the blinking lamps, theribbed sides of the antiquated machinewere varnished with moisture, and thehorses looked as if each hair was awater-spout to drain the sky. Noah'spatriarchal mansion might have presenteda similar appearance during the firstdays of that celebrated wet season.

"The motherly woman with whom wehad been boarding turned dismally fromthe weather to her invalids and tried todissuade us from leaving that night, littleunderstanding that we considered it 'fun.'[pg 637]As a parting advice she told us to calleach othermadame: it would procureus more consideration. 'For you know,young ladies,' she remonstrated mildly,'it is not quite proper for you to travelalone.' After this prudent counsel andmany warm adieus we sallied forth.

"The omnibus was crowded, and Ihad perforce to sit on Annie's knees.This, with the jolting, the queer effectof the half-light in the rickety interior,together with the expression of the goodpeople, who evidently could see no funin rain, excited my risibility so stronglythat I indulged in a smothered laugh,tempered to fit the publicity of the occasion.

"The rest of the way was accomplishedin silence. We soon arrived at thestation and bought our tickets. Of coursewe had half a dozen bundles: in gatheringthem up a most gentlemanly personaccosted us and asked, 'Avez vous perduquelque chose, mademoiselle?'

"Annie replied in the negative withgreat dignity, and so cut off any chanceof adventure in that quarter.

"On came the train. In France thereis fortunately a provision made for womentraveling without an escort. Inyour country they have, I believe,smoking-cars especially for the gentlemen:in that blessed land there is a compartmentfor 'ladies alone,' orDamesSeules, as it is called. A good Americanonce read this inscription with muchcommiseration,D—— souls, and returningtold his friends that the 'wicked'French allowed His Satanic Majesty theright of running a special car on theirroads for his greater accommodation.

"As we were hastening to this mostdesired refuge I noticed two very student-lookingyoung men walking near us, andcaught a bit of their conversation.

"As we found our car and entered thestudents passed on, not daring to ignorethe magic words on the door; so AdventureNo. 2 was nipped in the bud.

"Nan and I were the only lady-passengers,and we sank back into the softcushions with the pleasant sense that nofurther effort would be needed duringthe journey. We had been told that thetrain would arrive in Paris about midnight,but the lateness of the hour causedus no uneasiness, as we had been therebefore and remembered the city prettywell; and, besides, we thoroughly believedin our ability to take care of ourselves.

"In an interval of wakefulness wediscussed our plans, and concluded tospend the night at some hotel near thestation, the next morning looking up ourfriends (several of whom we knew to bein town) and consulting them about ourfuture proceedings, feeling that a midnightvisit from us would scarcely bewelcome to any one. Annie recalled afine-looking hotel just opposite the terminus,and, having made our selectionin its favor, we dozed off again verycomfortably.

"I think we had been on the waysome four hours when the welcomelights began to appear—first in the skyabove the city, as if the earth in this favoredspot threw out rays like the sun;next through the darkness over the countrybelow; and then we plunged tunnel-wiseinto the earth under the busy streetsand fortifications, to emerge at the endof our route.

"We gathered up our bundles in haste,thanking the stars that we had accomplishedour ride so safely, and werewalking off to the hotel when we suddenlythought of the trunks. Another consultationwas held, and we decided toleave them in the baggage-room untilmorning.

"'Vos clefs, s'il vous plait,' said a politeofficial as we entered the door, and anotherlaid hands on the satchels we carried,to examine them.

"We had entirely forgotten the octroiofficers. 'Oh my! this affair may keepus another half hour,' thought I, 'and Iam so sleepy!' I have often found (Iconfide this to you as an inviolable secret)that to be unreasonable is a woman'sstrongest weakness: it is a shieldagainst which man's sharpest logic is invariablyturned aside. The next thingto there not being a necessity, is not seeinga necessity, and this I prepared inthe most innocent manner to do.

"'Gracious me!' I exclaimed—or itsFrench equivalent, which I suppose is'Mon Dieu'—'you don't mean to detainus here opening those bags, and we sotired, and they packed so full that wecould scarcely shut them; and if youdoopen them, we cannot get all the thingsinto them again, and shall have no endof trouble!' Then I looked as injuredas if they had been thieves or highway-men.

"Had a man made this speech theywould have mistrusted him, but as womenhave a reputation for shallowness,such talk is never thought suspicious inthem.

"'I don't know what all: we havebeen at the sea-side, and they are fullof trash. There are some shells and anold hat in mine, and—and things.'

"He tried to conceal a smile, andlooked toward the other, who nodded,and we saw the welcome 'O' put on inchalk, upon which the bags were givenback to us.

"'Now the trunks,' said the first whohad spoken, holding out his hand forthe keys.

"'Oh, we are going to leave themhere till to-morrow: they are all right—youcan mark them too;' and withoutfurther ceremony we moved toward thedoor. One of the men stepped after us.I thought it was to make us return, butit was only to ask if he should get us acarriage.

"We thanked him and replied thatwe were going to the hotel opposite, anddid not need one: he then turned to aperson who seemed to be the porter ofthe establishment, and told him to carryour satchels for us. Now we felt ourjourney was well at an end, for the windowsof our welcome asylum were blazingnot more than a hundred feet off.

"We crossed the street, rang at theladies' entrance and asked for rooms.After a few moments the servant returned,and, much to our chagrin, said thatthere were none to be had, every cornerwas full.

"'Do let us see the clerk. Wemusthave a room: you can surely find usone somewhere.'

"'Please go and try,' we insisted: 'weshall be satisfied with anything for thenight. Won't you go and ask again?'

"'It is of no use,' he answered obstinately,à cause de l'Exposition;' andhe opposed a shrug of his shoulders toevery other effort at persuasion that wemade.

"Just then a chambermaid passed.'Do come here,' I called. 'Can't youfind us a room? I will pay you;' and Iput my hand significantly in my pocket.

"This was a contingency we had notprovided for: we looked at each otherblankly, and, though loath to do so, weboth came to the conclusion that theywere telling the truth.

"Just then the porter with our satchelsspoke: 'There is another hotel near,ladies, and if you will come I will showyou to it,'

"I consulted Annie with a look, andshe assented. Any prospect was betterthan a midnight drive of several miles,with no certainty as to our lot at the endof it. So we turned from the inhospitabledoor and followed our guide.

"The latter walked quickly for perhapsa square, stopped before a neat-lookinghouse and rang. Our couragerose as the door opened and revealeda clean-looking court surrounded byorange trees in boxes, with small coffee-tablesunder them for the convenienceof the guests.

"The trim but sleepy servant lookedat us a moment, as if not comprehendingthe situation, then slowly pronouncedour sentence in two words, 'No rooms!'and as if to emphasize them threw upthe palms of his hands, shook his headand added 'Full!' after which he closedthe door with a hasty click and returnedto his nap.

"Our night-errant was visibly disappointedwith this reception—not more sothan we were—but without allowing ustime to speak he said in his most reassuringvoice, 'Never mind, ladies: thereare plenty of hotels about here, and weshall soon find lodgings for you.' Havingundertaken the task, he seemed to thinkit his duty to comfort and provide for us.

"Alas! this was not soon accomplished.Two other hotels were successivelytried in vain, and still our indefatigableguide went on. It appeared as if wehad walked a considerable distance, butthe streets cut each other at odd angles,and we had been turning so often that Iconfess I had but little idea where wewere, or how far we had come, whenwe entered a quarter where the waysbecame narrower, passed into a dingyalley, thence plunged through a stilldarker court, from that to another alley,and the next moment our porter wasringing at the door of a tall, sombrehouse. I truly hoped that we should notfind rooms here, and was turning toAnnie to advise a cab and an attempt ina more civilized-looking locality, whenthe bell was answered and the old questionrepeated.

"To my surprise and dismay the servantsaid they could accommodate us.Should we stay? I knew that in theolder parts of Paris the best of housesare sometimes found in the poorer streets,and that in no city is a person less able tojudge of the interior comfort of a buildingby its external aspect. We were verytired, and should we turn away from thisopen door where should we find anotheropen for us? The porter, however good-natured,could not continue to run aboutwith us all night, and our faith in ourselveswas considerably diluted sincewe left the cars: even a cab might bedifficult to get at this hour of the night.Annie did not object: indeed, she lookedtoo worn out to have an opinion inthe matter, and as I could think of nothingbetter to do, I began to make theusual inquiries: 'Have you two adjoiningrooms?'

"I remembered the advice that hadbeen given us on starting: here surelywas a place to use it, so I said to theservant in a marked tone, 'Takemadame'sbag and show us to our chambers.'

"I dismissed our faithful porter withregret, and followed the other up stairs.While ascending I racked my brain todetermine what peculiarity of mannerwe could adopt that would give us amore matronly air while traveling, but Icould think of nothing. I may as welltell you now that we never for an instantdeceived any one on this subject duringour stay, and we soon ceased trying todo so.

"Our rooms were much better than Ihad expected to find them, but even thiscaused in me a feeling of doubt. Theyhad a hypocritical air, a grasping afterappearances that I believe always accompaniesdeceit and imposition—a sleekshabbiness that I detest. I knew by instinctthat if I examined I should findthe carpets worn out under the mats,and the chairs faded beneath their smartchintz covers. There was not a candid-lookingpiece of furniture in the apartment:the table was an impostor withone short leg; the drawers of the bureauwould not open; the glasses were allaskew, and twisted your face to such adegree that it frightened you to catch a[pg 640]glimpse of yourself in passing. But thiswas not the worst: from the moment Ientered the rooms I felt that theyhadbeen waiting for us.

"I did not venture to mention mysuspicions to Annie, and tried to keepup a cheery sort of conversation whilewe undressed, but I could see that shetoo began to be uneasy. We carefullyinspected our doors, and found the lockswere good, then looked to see that therewas no one lurking under the beds. Itwould be difficult to tell you exactlywhat I feared, but somehow everythingimpressed me as mysterious—the quietof the streets through which we hadcome, and the quiet of the house. Itwas such a lonely, eerie kind of place:our feet echoed on the stairways as ifhuman feet seldom ascended them; theshadows appeared especially dark; ourcandles' small light made little impressionon the gloom; the very air seemedharder to breathe than ordinary; and onrecalling the face of the impertinent servantI thought that it had a sinister look.

"I tried to recall whether we were ina good or bad faubourg, but could not;and then I remembered that Paris wasnow divided into arrondissements, whichhad a much less ill-omened sound. Iwent to the window to reconnoitre thelocality, but, though the rain had ceased,darkness covered all so thickly that Icould see nothing. As I stood there theclock on the station struck, first the quarters,and thenone, in a doleful, muffledtone. It told me one thing I was gladto know—namely, that we could nothave wandered very far during our walk;but there was little comfort in that, afterall, since the walk had terminated here.

"Stories that I had read of strangeadventures and accidents to midnightguests now trooped into my head. Ithought of one in particular, in whichthe tester of the bed slowly descendedto smother the sleeping inmate for purposesof robbery; whereupon I minutelyexamined mine, and found to mysatisfaction that it was scarcely able todischarge the single duty of holding upthe curtains, and looked most innocentof further intentions. Finding myselfagain peering into corners I had alreadysearched, and feeling this general unrestto be growing upon me, I began to thinkI must be nervous from over-exertion,and determined to get rid of my sillyfancies in sleep. Then, as if to takemyself by surprise, I suddenly blew outthe light, sprang under the covers andshut my eyes tight, afraid that somethinghateful might glare upon me in the dark.

"Just then Annie came to the communicatingdoorway, and with an effortto speak in her natural voice she said,'Jane, I am going to sleep here.' Andas if this endeavor had consumed herlast bit of resistance, she closed andlocked the door quickly, ran to my bedand threw herself shivering beside me.

"She put her lips to my ear and answered,'I found a door in my room behindthe bed-curtains, and it leads I don'tknowwhere."

"'No indeed! I would not open it forthe world. There might be somethinghorrible in it;' and she shuddered.

"'I don't care. I won't go back: noindeed, Icould not.' There was silencefor a few minutes: neither of us moved,when Nan again whispered, 'Do youthink this room quite safe?'

"The very idea made me creep. Putmy hand behind those curtains and touch—what?Even the cold wall would besufficient to terrify me. For reply I remarkedsuggestively, 'If we had the lightwe could see.'

"I felt that something must be done,and soon, or I should be in no state toaccomplish it. If Nan would not go, Imust: when we had the light half our[pg 641]trouble would be over, and, after all, shemight have been mistaken.

"'No, it didn't do anything—at least Idon't think it did—but itlooked so awfulthat it frightened me.'

"'I will go with you half-way,' shevolunteered, 'and stand there while yourun in quick. Come on, and don't letus talk any more about it: we shall onlyget more and more frightened.' Youwill see that Annie's gifts lay more inpersuasion than in action.

"Thus adjured, I went with her to thecommunicating door, cautiously listened,then looked through the keyhole. Thesilence within was oppressive, but theflickering bougie warned me that I mustmake an effort, and without allowingmyself time to think I hastily turned thekey and opened the door.

"At that moment it seemed to me thatI heard distant footsteps. I rushed forthe light and turned to go back, when Iran against some one: the candle wasextinguished by being jerked from theholder to the floor, and a hand which Ivainly tried to shake off clasped myarm. My blood grew thick and stillwith sudden terror. I tried to speak, butcould not. What increased my dreadwas that I could not tell whether theThing by my side was a reality or aspectre. I had caught a glimpse ofsomething white as the light disappeared,and I believe that a pistol at my headwould have caused me less alarm thanthis horrible idea of the supernatural.I began to feel that I could endure it nolonger, that I should stifle, should die,when Annie's voice spoke in the darknessquite near, and I found it was shewho had grasped my arm.

"'I could not stay in that room alone,'she whispered. 'Don't you hear?—footsteps!They are coming.'

"'You have half frightened me todeath,' I murmured trembling: 'I thoughtyou were something.'

"It was true enough. Through thequiet of the house came stealthy footsteps.Nearer, nearer. They were ascendingthe stairs, at times delaying aninstant, as if groping for the way, thenon.

"'Come into your room,' said Annieconvulsively: 'come, and we can lockourselves in. Oh, whereis your door?I cannot find it, and they are coming.What shall we do? what shall we do?'

"We were in total darkness: not aray of light came from the window, andin our confusion we had lost our bearings.Neither of us had the least ideain what direction the other room lay.

"'No, no, I cannot move. I wish wehad never come. I am dying.' Shewas shaking with fright, and would notleave my arm for an instant.

"Just then, from somewhere near us,we could not tell from what side, camea long low whistle, so mournful and unearthly,with such a summons in its tone,that I shivered: then a faint movementfollowed from the same place.

"'It is a signal for the other,' gaspedAnnie: 'it is in that door: they arecoming, they are here. Shall I screammurder? shall I?' giving my arm anemphasizing grip.

"She groaned, slipped down on herknees, with one arm still round me, herface pressed against my side, holdingher other hand over the unprotected ear,so that she should hear no more; andin this position she began to repeat'Now I lay me down to sleep' just asfast as she could gabble it.

"I was no less frightened, and wouldwillingly have crouched down also, butshe held me so tight that I could notwithout a struggle, and above all thingsI did not want to make a noise.

"It was thus we awaited the crisis.The steps were certainly coming to ourroom, but whether by the door we had[pg 642]entered or by the one Annie had seenbehind the bed, I could not tell. I wastoo bewildered to locate the sound, nordid I know whether the bed was at myright or left hand. I had a slight hopethat the steps might pass on.

"They came—near, nearer. For atime my heart ceased beating. Annieslipped lower, until she lay on the floor,and I could no longer hear her breathe.My whole being was merged in listeningto that step. I could feel that now itwas on a level with our room—was therealmost beside us. Lightly though distinctlya hand passed over the door, asif fumbling for the latch. This was theintense moment. Had the person pausedor hesitated an instant, I think it wouldhave killed us both. But no, he did notfalter. Steadily on, the step, guided bythe hand, went as it had come, and as Istood, not daring to move, I heard it recedingin the distance of the great house.Then all was silence.

"When sensation returned to me Ifelt as if I had awakened from a nightmare,and found myself shaking fromthe nervous reaction and the cold. Istooped to find poor Nan on the floor,and said through my chattering teeth,'It must have been only a late boarder.Don't be afraid. It is all over: come,get up.'

"'Can't you get a light?' she begged.'I cannot move until you have a light.I am still afraid.'

"I now remembered that the bureaumust be behind me, for I had merelyturned when I encountered Annie anddropped the candle. There were probablymatches upon it: yes, there theywere. I struck one and easily found thecandle: then Annie rose with the meekestair possible, and, without lookingat the obnoxious corner where the bedstood, we walked into the other roomand locked the door.

"It was not until the gray morninglight crept into the window that we feltquite safe. Every crack in the floor ornibbling mouse caused us to start, andat each quarter the clock of the stationwould strike as if to warn us to be onthe alert. But the bed was not bad, andthe house remained quiet; and as soonas the dawn made our candle useless,we began to think we had been veryfoolish, and the result was a sound sleep.

"When we awoke it was ten o'clock:the morning was bright and clear, andthe terrors of the night had all departedduring our refreshing rest. The roomcertainly looked shabby, but if that werea crime, half the houses in the worldwould be sent to prison. There wasnothing in the least mysterious about it.Our courage rose with the day, and weteased and joked each other about ourfright. Then, anticipating the glories ofthe Exposition, we congratulated ourselvesthat we had come.

"'We won't breakfast here,' said Annieas she was dressing: 'we will godown town to a nice restaurant, and sitat a window and see the people go by.Afterward we will look up our friendsand find a good hotel or boarding-house;and wemust go to the Exposition thisvery day. We shall have a famous time.We can make up parties to drive out,and go monument-hunting and sight-seeing,and to the theatre. Ain't youglad you came?'

"'The first thing we do must be to goback to the station and leave these bagswith our trunks until we find lodgings,'I remarked.

"Nan went into the next room to getsome of the clothing she had left there.When she returned, lowering her voiceshe said, 'Jane, thereis a door behindmy curtains.'

"'No such thing: it don't look like acloset; and why would they hide a closet,I should like to know? Come in andsee it.'

"She walked back, and as I followeddrew the curtain aside, and there in factit was.

"'I am going to open it before I leavethe room,' she said in a determinedtone: 'there is something not right aboutit.'

"'I am going to see: I must look intoit. It is daylight, you know, and wesha'n't be much frightened. Help me topush away the bed.'

"'I won't do anything so absurd.This is a hotel, Annie, and there mustbe plenty of adjoining rooms in it. Supposethat room is now occupied by aboarder?'

"'If it is occupied they will lock thedoor on the other side, and I will try thelatch softly to see; but I know it is not.Don't you see that the only entrancemust be from here? There is the entry.opposite, and here is the court: now,how could any one get into it but throughthis room? It must be a small place,too, for here is the corner of the house,and it has been evidently planned to bekeptconcealed."

"'No matter: we have no right to anyrooms but these we are in. Come away,and let well enough alone.'

"'It is not "well enough," as you callit. I am going to see into it, and whythey hide it. I declare,' and she examinedthe door critically, 'it looks like theentrance to Bluebeard's chamber. Lookat these queer marks, these dents andstains, as if there had been a struggle.It is our duty to investigate;' and hervoice grew impressive. 'Perhaps wehave been brought here for that verypurpose, and, Jane, if thereis a deadbody in there, I shall inform the police.'Annie was very brave in daylight.

"'Fiddle-de-dee!' I replied to this finespeech. 'What you call duty, I callcuriosity. I am ravenously hungry, andI wish you would finish dressing and letus get to breakfast.'

"'I will just tell you this,' she answeredindignantly, and yet with a quiver inher voice, 'I never in my life felt as Idid last night when I saw that door. Itwas quite like what people write of amysterious influence, or the presence ofsome one unseen; and that whistle orvoice or moan, as if a soul was calling,came from here; and you must help meto find out what it really was, for I can'tgo away without knowing.'

"I saw it was useless to try longer todissuade her. The bed moved easily:she took my hand and led me behind it;then warily tried the latch. It rose, butshe was obliged to lean all her weightagainst the door before it would giveway, and finally it opened so unexpectedlythat she almost fell forward.

"What did I see? At the first glimpsea faint light from a cobwebbed window,a narrow room and a floor—red. Wasit blood? A sickening mouldy smellcame forth, but as I forced myself tolook again I saw that it was only redtiles that had startled me. There wasan upright brick range in a corner, anold water-tank, some shelves and a cupboard.A missing pane of glass left aspace through which the air had enteredand moaned up the broad-mouthed fluethat opened above the range. This wasthe ominous 'signal' we had heard inanswer to the footsteps. The dust wasthick over everything, and the only signsof life were the rat-tracks on the floor.We stood still for a few moments, overwhelmedat this solution of the occult'influence' that had so subtly acted onAnnie's nerves, and filled me with noless terror.

"The house had been built for ahôtelgarni; that is, a house with furnishedrooms or apartments, something like atenement-house in your country. Thiswas the kitchen of the suite, and belongedto the two rooms we had taken.Being unused for its proper object, andtoo small for a bed-chamber, it had beenclosed, and appeared as if it had beenunentered for years. I turned to Annieto see how she would bear this prosaicexplanation of our alarm, but with theair of one who had expected nothingbut this from the beginning, she remarked,'Now you see how much better itis to look into such things. This roomwould have furnished me with baddreams for the remainder of my life,and here I find it is only a commonplacekitchen. Think how ludicrous to havethe horrors over a kitchen! Sha'n't Itell of your fright when we get home—howyou didn't want to open the door,and wanted to 'let well enough alone'?The placemight be haunted by theghost of a chicken or a rabbit, but, my[pg 644]dear, you should not allow that to terrifyyou.'

"'Perhaps it was the ghost of a chickenthat you feared last night, and thatcaused your presentiments this morning.I hope you will inform the police of whatyou have discovered here,' I remarkedquietly.

"'A truce, a truce, good Jane! I willsay no more. We were both boobies.But wouldn't it be 'cute to live here, youand me, and make our own breakfast?Look at the hole for charcoal, and thelittle cupboard, the nails for the potsand pans to hang on: everything iscomplete. That room could be fordining, the other a parlor, and—'

"'The only drawback would be that,except at the North Pole, the night comesonce in twenty-four hours.'

"'You will certainly make a housekeeperif a kitchen gives you such ecstasy.Come out, I am so hungry. Puton your bonnet and leave this elysium:I have had enough of it.'

"'You come in for a second: it willshake the terror off and you won't dreamof it. That is a cure my old nurse oncegave me for laying ghosts.'

"'It may be a good plan to shake offthe terror, but the dust on you will notbe shaken off so easily.'

"'Suppose,' and she stamped her foot—'supposethat the floor should be hollow,and that this were only a pretendedkitchen after all, or that there was atrap-door painted to resemble tiles, or asliding panel.' Here she felt over thesurface of the wall. 'Why should I feelso queer last night if this was really nothingbut a kitchen?'

"'Because you are a goose,' I answeredimpatiently, 'and if you don't comeI will leave you. If you like, you canengage boarding here for a week, andraise the tiles one by one with a knifeand fork. As for me, I am going tobreakfast.'

"'But don't you think it really has anuncanny look?' she asked, giving a lastglance over her shoulder as she cameout.

"'If you call dirt uncanny, there isplenty of that. Shut the door, and Iwill push back the bed.'

"'Jane,' she again remarked as shewas trying on her bonnet before thecrooked glass, 'if ever I tell of thisnight, I think I will say that therewasa trap-door in the kitchen: you knowthere might be one and we not see it.'

"'Oh yes,' I answered as patiently asI could, 'I suppose a fib more or lesswill make but little difference in yourlifetime. While you are at it, however,you may as well make a few more additions.'

"We found the house a most every-day-lookinghouse, seen by sunlight;but there had lain the difficulty. Theclerk in the office did not particularlyresemble a cutthroat, or even a cutpurse,and, strange to say, did not overchargeus: in fact, he behaved very civilly.We found we were not far from thestation, and depositing our bags there,we walked down the beautiful Rue La Fayette.

"'It is a great deal pleasanter to travelalone in this way,' said Nan gayly, herspirits rising in the delightful air. 'WhenI was here before with all the family, itwas not near so jolly; and I think wemanage well, don't you? Oh, there isan omnibus notcomplet: let us get in.I am too hungry to walk.'

"After we were seated she continued:'I wonder what will happen to us to-night.Suppose we find every place full,and have to sleep in a garden or on thesteps of a church, or something? Isn't itdelightful not to know in the least what isgoing to happen next?—just as in fairy-land.Don't you hope we may have anadventure every night?'

"'I should not call last night an adventure:it seems to me it was more like apanic,' I said drily.

"'You will never let anything be agreeable,'in a hurt tone: then recoveringher good temper, she went on: 'Well,call it a panic if you like. Now, suppose[pg 645]we had one every night, and we stayedhere two weeks, there would be fourteenpanics before we go home. Wouldn'tthat be glorious?'

"'At the time I did not,' she admittedfrankly. 'Weren't we frightened? Butthen, you know, how nice it will be totalk of it afterward!'

"We arrived at a restaurant in thePalais Royal, and found a seat by thewindow, and a breakfast. We had alreadyfinished the latter, and were playingwith our fruit, when a party enteredwho attracted our attention by speakingEnglish.

"'One of them is Miss Rodgers,' Anniewhispered excitedly. 'I know herwell: hadn't we better run away? Whatwill she think of our being here alone?'

"'Nonsense! You had better ask herwhere she is staying. Remember, weare houseless as yet.'

"'Introduce me: I will ask.' Theidea of spending the night in a gardenor on a church-step did not possess thesame charms for me as for Nan. Thusprompted, she walked forward and spoketo her friend, afterward presenting me.We chatted a few minutes, when MissRodgers asked Annie where she wasstaying, and how her mamma was.

"I went to her rescue, and divertedthe questions by asking some myself:'Miss Rodgers, where are you staying?We do not like our hotel and want tochange.'

"'There is not a room in our housethat is unoccupied, and you won't findgood accommodation anywhere. Youhad better not change if you have aplace to lay your head. Paris is socrowded that everything has been takenup long ago. You can ask at a dozenhotels or boarding-houses and not finda garret to let. You have no idea of thedifficulty.'

"Yes, we had an idea, and believedevery word she said: in fact, we wouldrather have felt less convinced on thesubject. Even Annie seemed to thinkthat traveling alone might present somedisagreeable features, and looked quiteunhappy, notwithstanding her love ofadventure. But before our mental anguishhad time to become unbearablea young girl, a niece of Miss Rodgers,spoke: 'Auntie, if the young ladieswould like, I know of just the place thatwould suit them.' Then turning to us,she continued: 'I am at school a fewmiles out of the city, and madame toldme that if I knew of any one, she hadroom for a few parlor-boarders. It is alovely spot, and no end of trains comingand going all day; so that it would bejust as convenient as living here, andyou would have excellent accommodation.Then, too, I could speak Englishto you sometimes. I am so tired oftalking for ever without half knowingwhat I am saying.'

"I could have embraced the chatterboxon the spot for this opportune proposal,but controlled my feelings andlooked at Nan to see if she approved.She was consenting with every one ofher expressive features, and did not appearat all anxious to enjoy one of herfourteen delightful panics this eveningif it could be avoided. Being spokesman,I said, 'I would willingly try theschool on your recommendation, MissAda, if you think madame could beready for us this evening.'

"'Of course she could: come out withme now and see her. I must go at one,and can show you the way. Will youmeet me at the station? or shall we callfor you at your hotel?'

"'We will meet at the station,' I replied,glad to settle it so quickly, 'ifyou are quite sure that your madamewill like our unceremonious arrival.'

"'That will be all right, I know. Shehas several empty rooms, and will behappy to have them filled. You canleave your trunks until to-morrow if youdon't like to come bag and baggage.'

"We needed no further pressing.Here was deliverance and safety, andwe bade good-morning to the party withlight hearts.

"We found the school all that MissAda had promised, and thus ended thenearest approach to an adventure thatwe had during the two weeks that weremained."

"Certainly. In the first place, it wasvery big, and everybody was there, so itwas crowded; and you met your friendsand you talked; and—and you got fearfullytired; and it was wonderful; andthere were ever so many restaurants,and a soda-water fountain, and queerthings that you never expected to seethere, like the Mexican techcatl andRussian horses; and everything wasreal—real lace and cashmeres and diamonds,and nothing but what was verynice. But, after all, I think you hadbetter get a file of old newspapers andread about it, for I really have no talentfor description—or, better still, go andsee the one in Vienna this summer."

SLAINS CASTLE.

In traveling over the old lands of Europeone is sometimes apt to thinkmore of historical and genealogical traditionsthan of the natural beauties orpeculiarities of the country. The oldlandmarks of a nation, whether monumentsbuilt by the hand of man or archivescarefully preserved by him, tellus of its growth, just as the strata of themountain tell of its progress to the geologist;and as every successive layer hassome relation both to its predecessor andits successor, so the traditions of eachgeneration have a perceptible influenceupon the moral development of the generationfollowing. Every nation is thusthe growing fruit of its own history, andevery visible step of the grand ladderof facts that has led up to the presentresult must needs have for a student ofhuman nature an intrinsic interest.

This comes very clearly before mymind as I think of Slains Castle (Aberdeen),a massive crown of granite seton the brow of the rocks of the GermanOcean, and the seat of one of those oldScottish families whose origin is hiddenaway among the suggestive mists oftradition.

Slains Castle stands alone, a giantwatchman upon giant cliffs, built uponly one story high, on account of thetremendous winds that prevail there inspring and autumn, and cased with thegray Aberdeen granite of the famousquarries near by. The surroundingcountry is as bare and uninviting as onecould imagine; the road from Aberdeen(twenty miles) is bleak and stony; theyoung trees near the castle are stunted,and in many cases disfigured by the inroadsof hungry cows among their lowerbranches, and a damp veil of mist hangsperpetually over the scene, softening thelandscape, but sometimes depressing thespirits. As the hours pass the placegrows on you: a weird beauty begins toloom up from among the mist-wreaths,the jagged rocks, the restless waves, andyou forget the desolate moor, which initself displays attractions you will realizelater, in the grandeur of the desolate sea.

The original building is of the time ofJames VI. (of Scotland), and is due toFrancis, earl of Erroll, whose moreancient castle, bearing the same name,was destroyed by the king to punish hisvassal for the part he had taken in a rebellion.In the seventeenth century EarlGilbert made great improvements in it,and early in the eighteenth Earl Charlesadded the front. In 1836 it was rebuilt[pg 647]by Earl William George, the father of thepresent owner, with the exception of thelower part of the original tower. In thisthere used to be in olden times anoubliettein which unhappy prisoners werelet down. All at first appeared darkaround them, but when they had thankfullyassured themselves that they atlast stood upon solid ground, they wouldlook about them and presently descry aline of fitful light coming from a doorajar in their dungeon. The poor victimswould then go in haste to this door, pullit open and, blinded by the sudden light,step out upon the green slope terminatingquickly in a precipice, which went sheerdown to the sea.

The rest of the house is built arounda large covered piazza, intersected bycorridors where pictures, armor and allkinds of old family relics decorate thewalls. The drawing-room is on the veryedge of the rock, and on stormy daysthe flocks of uneasy sea-gulls almostflap their wings against its window-panes,while the clouds of spray dash up againstthem in miniature waterfalls. The rocksin the immediate neighborhood of thecastle are rugged in the extreme, hereand there rent by a gigantic fissurereaching far inland, and up which thefoaming waters gurgle continually as ifin impatience of their narrow bounds,now jutting far into the sea like a Titanicstaircase and thickly matted with coarsesea-weed, and again reared up on high,a sheer glistening wall, with not a crannyfor the steadiest foot, and with Niagarasof spray for ever veiling its smooth, unchangingface. In wonderful hollowsyou will come upon pools of green waterwith sea-anemones, delicate sea-weed ofpink, yellow or purple hue, and gem-likeshells resting on a bottom of clearestsand; and while the waves are roaringon every side, and flinging their dampnessinto your very face, these fairypools will lie at your feet without abreath or ripple on their surface.

The most magnificent of these rocksis one called in Gaelic "Dun-Bug"("Yellow Rock"), the favorite haunt ofthe white sea-gulls. It stands alone, asif torn from the land and hurled into thetossing waves by some giant hand. Twohundred feet in height and a thousandin circumference, it forms a natural arch,being pierced from its base upward byan opening that widens as it ascends.The waves dash through it with terrificviolence, and the very sight of its grimsplendor conjures up a vision of shipwreckand danger. Scott has made mentionof it inThe Antiquary, and Johnsonin hisJourney to the Hebrides, recallingthe grandeur of the rocky coast of Slains,has said that though he could not wishfor a storm, still as storms, whether wishedfor or not, will sometimes happen, hewould prefer to look at them from SlainsCastle. These rocks and the caves thatalternate with them were once famousas a smuggling rendezvous, and as suchScott has again immortalized them in hisGuy Mannering. The Crooked Mary,a noted lugger, had many an adventurealong this coast during the last century.The skipper's arrival was eagerly lookedfor at certain stated times, the preconcertedsignal was given by him, and theinhabitants bestirred themselves withcommendable haste. All ordinary businesswas immediately suspended: menmight be seen stealing along from houseto house, or a fisher-girl, bareheaded andbarefooted, would hurry to the neighboringvillage, and deliver a brief messagewhich to a bystander would sound verylike nonsense, but which neverthelesswas well understood by the person towhom it was given. Soon after a plaidor blanket might be seen spread out, asif to dry, upon the top of a peat-stack.Other beacons, not calculated to drawgeneral notice, but sufficiently understoodby the initiated, soon made theirappearance, telegraphing the news fromplace to place. As soon as the eveningbegan to close in the Crooked Marywould be observed rapidly approachingthe land, and occasionally giving outsignals indicating the creek into whichshe meant to run. Both on sea andland hairbreadth escapes were the rulerather than the exception, and it is relatedof one of the Crooked Mary's confederateson shore, poor Philip Kennedy,that one night, while clearing the way for[pg 648]the cargo just landed from the contrabandtrader's hold, he was simply murderedby the excise-officers. The heavycart laden with the cargo was yet somedistance behind, and Kennedy withsome dastardly companions was slowlygoing forward to ascertain if all wassafe, when three officers of the customssuddenly made their unwelcome appearance.Brave as a lion, Kennedy attackedtwo of them, and actually succeededfor a time in keeping them down in hispowerful grasp, while he called to hisparty to secure the third. They, however,thinking prudence the better partof valor, decamped ignominiously, andthe enemy remained master of the braveman's life. Anderson, the third officer,was observed to hold up his sword to themoon, as if to ascertain if he were usingthe edge, and then to bring it down withaccurate aim and tremendous force uponthe smuggler's skull. Strange to say,Kennedy, streaming with blood, actuallysucceeded in reaching Kirkton of Slains,nearly a quarter of a mile away, butexpired a few moments after his arrival.His last words were: "If all had beentrue as I was, the goods would havebeen safe, and I should not have beenbleeding to death." The brave fellowwas buried in the churchyard of Slains,where a plain stone marks his grave,and bears the simple inscription, "Tothe memory of Philip Kennedy,in Ward,who died the 19th of December, 1798.Aged 38."

My own earliest recollections of thegrand, desolate old castle are derived,not from my first visit to it made in infancy,but from the descriptions of onewhose home it was during a brief butintensely observant period of childhood.There came one day a storm such asseldom even on that coast lashes up thegray, livid ocean. The waves, as far outas sight could reach, were one mass offoam, and the ghastly lightning flashedupon the torn sails of a ship as neardestruction as it well could be. Criescame up from below in the brief pausesof the storm, and above lanterns werequickly carried to and fro, while paleattendants hurriedly and silently obeyedthe signals of a more collected master.The occupants of the castle hardly knewto what its chambers might be destined—whetherto receive the dead or to affordrest to the saved. Beds, fires and cordialswere in readiness, and strong menbore dread burdens up dizzy paths leadingfrom beneath. The ship broke inpieces on the merciless rocks, and manya drowned sailor went down to meet thearmy of his fellow-victims of all timeswho no doubt lay sleeping in the submarinecaves of Slains. Those who survivedsoon disappeared, full of gratitude forthe timely relief offered them at the castle,but one old man remained. He wasnever known by any other name than"Monsieur," and was beloved by everyindividual member of the household. AFrenchémigré of the old school, withthe dainty, gallant ways of theancienrégime, he still clung to the dress of hisearlier days, and wore a veritablequeue,silk stockings and buckled shoes. Forsome time he remained a welcome guestin the "red chamber," where the host'slittle children would sometimes join himand play with his watch and jeweledbaubles. But one day poor little "Monsieur"sickened, and the tiny feet thathad made such haste to run to him, nowtrod the corridor softly and bore a baby-nurseto the gentle invalid. It was ahigh and coveted reward for the littlegirls to carry "Monsieur's" medicine tohis bedside, and everything that kindnessand hospitality could suggest wasequally lavished on him; but his feeblelife, which had no doubt received ashock from the shipwreck it had barelyescaped, went out peacefully like thesoft flame of a lamp.

Slains Castle had many gentle andpleasant memories about it, as well asits traditional horrors, and among thesewere many connected with the historyof the old family that owned it. In oneof the corridors hangs the picture ofJames, Lord Hay, a fair-haired, sunny-facedboy, tall and athletic, standingwith a cricket-bat in his hand. Hewould have been earl of Erroll had helived, but if we follow him in his shortlife from classic Eton to the field of[pg 649]Quatre-Bras, we shall find him again, ona bright June day in 1815, lying as ifasleep, as fair and noble-looking as before,but silent in death. Simple Flemishpeasants stand in a group aroundhim, awed and admiring, asking eachother if this beautiful youth is an angelfallen from heaven, or only a mortalman slain for the Honor of his country.His was a noble death, and worthy ofthe suggestive memento of his early boyhoodbefore which we stood just now inthe corridor of Slains Castle.

A little farther down this corridor,which to all intents and purposes is afamily picture-gallery, we shall be forcedto stop before the portrait of a darkwoman, masculine and resolute, notbeautiful nor like the handsome race ofthe Hays, of which she was yet the lastdirect representative. This is the famousCountess Mary, one of the centralfigures of the family traditions. TheHays were hereditary lords high constableof Scotland, and also one of the fewScottish families in which titles and offices,as well as lands, are transmittedthrough the female line. So this CountessMary found herself, at the death ofher brother, countess of Erroll in herown right andlord high constable ofScotland. In one of the two pictures ofher at Slains, if I remember right, sheis represented with the bâton of heroffice, with which badge she also appearedat court before her marriage (afterthis it was borne by her husband inthe character of her deputy). Her husbandwas a commoner, a Mr. Falconerof Dalgaty, whose reported history inconnection with her is curious and deservesto be told, though the old traditionis moulded into so many differentforms that it is very difficult to disentanglethe truth from its manifold embellishments.Toward the beginning ofthe eighteenth century this intrepid andindependent lady fell in love with Mr.Falconer, who at first did not seem eagerto return or notice her affection. High-strungand chivalric by nature, she didnot droop and pine under her disappointment,but vowed to herself that shewould bring him to her feet. Mr. Falconerconer left the country after some time,and went to London. The CountessMary also traveled south the same year,and no news of her was heard at Slainsfor some time. Meanwhile, she andMr. Falconer met, but unknown to thelatter, who about the same time becameacquainted with a very dashing youngcavalier, evidently a man of high birthand standing, but resolutely bent onmystifying his friends as to his origin.The two saw each other frequently, andwere linked by that desultory companionshipof London life which sometimesindeed ripens into friendship, but asoften ends in a sudden quarrel. Suchwas the end of this acquaintance, andone day some trifling difference havingoccurred between the friends, a cartelreached Mr. Falconer couched in veryhaughty though perfectly courteous language.These things were every-daymatters in such times, and very nonchalantlythe challenged went in the earlymorning to the appointed place to meetthe challenger. Here the versions ofthe story differ. Some say that Mr. Falconerand his antagonist fought, butwithout witnesses; that the former gotthe worst of the encounter, and remainedat the other's mercy; that then,andnot before, the Countess Mary made herselfknown to him and gave him hischoice—a thrust from her sword or aspeedy marriage with herself. Otherssay that it was before the duel that sheastonished her lover by this discovery,and that the choice she gave him wasbetween marriage and ridicule.¹

The fact of her marriage, and that itproved a happy one, is certain. Mr.Falconer dropped his own name to assumethat of Hay. The countess was adevoted Jacobite and an earnest churchwoman.When Presbyterianism had gotthe upper hand in Scotland, and was repayingchurch persecutions with terribleinterest, a Mr. Keith was appointed tothe Anglican parish of Deer. This waswithin the Erroll jurisdiction, and it wasnot long before the zealous CountessMary came to the rescue of the congregation,who had assembled for some timein an old farmhouse. In 1719 or '20 shehad the upper floor of a large granaryfitted up for their accommodation, andthis afforded them a grateful shelter formore than a quarter of a century. Ofthis same parish of Deer a curious storyis told in the local annals, showing howconservative and tenacious of traditionsthe north of Scotland still was in 1711.The skirmish to which it relates goes bythe quaint title of the "Rabbling of Deer,"and is thus reported: "Some people ofAberdeen, in conjunction with the presbytry ofDeer, to the number of seventyhorse or thereby, assembled on the twenty-thirdof March, 1711, to force in aPresbyterian teacher in opposition to theparish; but the presbytry and their satelliteswere soundly beat off by the people,not without blood on both sides."

There was little of the martyr aboutthe Scot of that warlike day, and mostemphatically and literally did he showhimself a "soldier of the Lord."

The aisle of the old church of Slainscontains the graves of Countess Maryand her husband, with an epitaph inLatin, of which the following is a translation:"Beneath this tombstone thereare buried neither gold nor silver, nortreasures of any kind, but the bodiesof the most chaste wedded pair, Mary,countess of Erroll, and Alexander Hayof Dalgaty, who lived peaceably andlovingly in matrimony for twenty-sevenyears. They wished to be buried herebeside each other, and pray that thisstone may not be moved nor their remainsdisturbed, but that these be allowedto rest in the Lord until He shall callthem to the happy resurrection of thatlife which they expect from the mercyof God and the merits of the Saviourand Lord Jesus Christ."

The central figure, however, in thehistory of the Hays of Erroll, and thatwhich no one who bears the name ofHay can think of without a thrill ofpride, is the Lord Kilmarnock who fell,in 1746, a victim to the last unsuccessfulbut heroic rising in favor of the Stuarts.I have heard it whispered as an instanceof "second sight" that some years beforehe had any reason to anticipatesuch a death he was once startled by theghostly opening of a door in the apartmentwhere he was sitting alone, and bythe apparition, horribly distinct and realistic,of a bloody head rolling slowlytoward him across the room; till it restedat his feet. The glassy eyes were upturnedto his, and the bonny locks wereclotted with blood: it was as if it hadjust rolled from under the axe of theexecutioner; and the features, plainlydiscerned,were his own!

His part in the rising of 1745 belongsto history, but his personal demeanorconcerns my narrative more closely.All the contemporary accounts are loudin praise of his beauty and elegance ofperson, his refinement of manner, hisvariety of accomplishments; and Scott,in hisTales of a Grandfather, relates acurious circumstance concerning his finepresence at the moment of his execution.A lady of fashion who had never seenhim before, and who was herself, I believe,the wife of one who had much todo with Lord Kilmarnock's death-warrant,seeing him pass on his way to theblock, formed a most violent attachmentfor his person, "which in a less seriousaffair would have, been little less than aludicrous frenzy."

The grace and dignity of his appearance,together with the resignation andmildness of his address, melted all thespectators to tears as they gathered roundthe fatal Tower prison to witness hisdeath: the chaplain who attended himsays his behavior was so humble and resignedthat even the executioner burstinto tears, and was obliged to use strongcordials to support him in his terribleduty. Lord Kilmarnock himself wasdeeply impressed by the sight of theblock draped in funereal black, the plaincoffin placed just beside it, the sawdustthat was so disposed as speedily to suckup the bloody traces of the execution,and the sea of faces surrounding theopen enclosure kept for this his lastearthly ordeal. It was certainly not fromfear that he recoiled, but his proud, sensitive,melancholy nature was thrilledthrough every nerve by this dread publicity,and we cannot wonder that, leaningheavily on the arm of a trusty friend,he should have whispered, almost withhis last breath, the simple words, "Home,this is dreadful!"

One who was the lineal descendant ofthis earl of Kilmarnock, and whose onlybrother long bore the same blood-stainedand laurel-wreathed title, has oftentold me of the strange link that bridgedthe chasm of four generations from 1746to 1829, and bound her recollections tothose of a living witness of the scene.She was so young as not to have anydistinct impression of other events thathappened at the same time, but this livedin her mind because of the importanceand solemnity with which her own parentshad purposely invested it in hereyes. One day, at Brighton, this littlegreat-great-grand-daughter of the LordKilmarnock of 1745 was brought downfrom the nursery to see an old, morethan octogenarian, soldier who had distinguishedhimself in recent wars, andreached the rank of general. This totteringold man, more than fourscoreyears of age, took the wee maiden ofhardly four upon his knee, and told herin simple words the story she was neverto forget—how he had been a tiny boyrunning to school on the day of theexecution of the "rebel lords," and how,seeing a vast, eager crowd all settingtoward the Tower quarter, he was temptedto play truant, and flinging his satchelof books over his shoulder, had pushedhis way as far as the great state prison.Then of his frantic efforts to secure apoint of vantage whence to see the greatdeath-pageant—of his childish admirationfor the handsome, manly form ofLord Kilmarnock, of his enthusiasmwhen Lord Balmerino, the other victim,had cried in a loud voice, "Long livethe king!" and of the fascination hecould not resist which led his eyes fromthe shining axe and the draped block tothe auburn locks of the prisoner, andsoon after to his bleeding head laid lowin the sawdust around the coffin. Allthis the old veteran told thrillingly, theshadow of a boy's awed recollectionmingling with his Scottish exultation asa compatriot of the victim, and evenwith a touch of humor as he recalledthe domestic scolding which marked thetruant's return.

In the charter-room at Slains Castle,where the records, genealogies, privatejournals, official deeds, etc. of the familyare kept, one might find ample materialfor curious investigation of our forefathers'way of living. Among otherpapers is a kind of inventory headed,"My Ladies Petition anent the Plenissingwithin Logg and Slanis." The listof things wanted for Slains speaks chieflyof brass pots, pewter pans and oilbarrels, but, the "plenissing" of Logg(another residence of the Errolls),"quhilk my Ladie desyris as eftir followis,quhilk extendis skantlie (scantily)to the half," contains an ample list ofcurtains of purple velvet, green serge,green-and-red drugget and other stuffshardly translatable to the modern understanding,and shows that in those dayswomen were not more backward thannow in plaguing their liege lords aboutupholstery and millinery. But the mostamusing and natural touch of all is inthe endorsement, hardly gallant, butvery conjugal, made by the fair petitioner'shusband: "To my Ladyes gredie(greedy) and vnressonable (unreasonable)[pg 652]desyris it is answerit...." Herefollows a distinct admission that the furnitureof both houses, put together, istoo little to furnish the half of each ofthem, and therefore nothing can bespared from Logie to "pleniss" Slains.

The family coat-of-arms commemoratesto this day the poetical genealogyof the Hays. Its supporters are twotall, naked peasants bearing plough-yokeson their shoulders: the crest is afalcon, while the motto is also significant—"Servajugum." Scottish traditiontells us that in 980, when the Danes hadshamefully routed the Scots at Loncarty,a little village near Perth, and were pursuingthe fugitives, an old man and histwo stalwart sons, who were ploughingin a field close by, were seized with indignation,and, shouldering their plough-yokes,placed themselves resolutely in anarrow defile through which their countrymenmust pass to evade a secondslaughter by the victors. As the Scotscame on the three patriots opposed theirpassage, crying shame upon them forcowards and no men, and exhortingthem thus: "Why! would ye rather becertainly killed by the heathen Danesthan die in arms for your own land?"Ashamed, and yet encouraged, the fugitivesrallied, and with the three dauntlesspeasants at their head fell upon theirastonished pursuers, and fought withsuch desperation that they turned defeatinto victory. Kenneth III., the Scottishking, instantly sent for the saviors of hisarmy, gave them a large share of theenemy's spoils, and made them marchin triumph into Perth with their bloodyplough-yokes on their shoulders. Morethan that, he ennobled them, and gavethem a fair tract of land, to be measured,according to the fashion of that day, bythe flight of a falcon. From the nameof this land the Hays came to be called;lords of Erroll, and it is said that theHawk Stone at St. Madoes, Perthshire,which stands upon what is known tohave been the ancient boundary of thepossessions of the Hays, is the identicalstone from which the lucky falcon started.It was left standing as a specialmemorial of the defeat of the Danes atLoncarty. Another stone famous in theHay annals, and conspicuously placedin front of the entrance to Slains Castle,is said to be the same on which thepeasant general rested after his toilsomeleadership in the battle.

Our walks over the bleak moors onone side, with the heather in bloom andthe blackberries in low—lying purpleclusters fringing the granite rocks, weresometimes rendered more interesting,though more dangerous, by the suddenfalling of a thick white mist. Slowly itwould come at first, gathering little filmyclouds together as it were, and hoveringover the gray sea in curling tufts, andthen, growing strong and dense, wouldswoop down irresistibly, till what wasclear five minutes before was impenetrablywalled off, and one seemed to standalone in a silent world of ghosts. Oragain, our walks would take us on theother side, over the Sands of Forvie, adesolate tract where nothing grows savethe coarse grass calledbent by the Scotch,and where the wearied eye rests on nothingbut mounds of shifting sand, drearilyshaped into the semblance of gravesby the keen winds that blow from overthe German Ocean.

This miniature desert, tradition says,was an Eden four hundred years ago,but a wicked guardian robbed the helplessorphan heiresses of it by fraud andviolence, and the maidens threw a spellorweird upon it in these terms:

I must not forget the "Bullers," anatural curiosity which is the boast ofthe neighborhood of Slains, and is moreoverconnected with a feat performed bya former guest and friend of one of thelords of Erroll. We drove there in alarge party, and passed through an untidy,picturesque little fishing-hamlet onour way, where the women talked toeach other in Gaelic as they stood barefootedat the doors of their cabins, andwhere the children looked so hardy, fearlessand determined that the wildestdreams of future possible achievement[pg 653]seemed hardly unlikely of realization inconnection with any one of them.

"The Pot," as it is locally called, is ahuge rocky cavern, irregularly circularand open to the sky, into which the searushes through a natural archway. Anarrow pathway is left quite round thebasin, from which one looks down asheer descent of more than a hundredfeet; but this is so dangerous, the earthand coarse grass that carpet it so deceptiveand loose, and the wind almost alwaysso high on this spot, that only themost foolhardy or youngest of visitorswould dare in broad daylight to attempttowalk round it. Yet it is on recordthat the duke of Richmond, some sixtyor seventy years ago, made a bet at LordErroll's dinner-table that he wouldrideround it after dark. He accomplishedthe feat in safety. His picture, life-size,hangs in the dining-room to this day,and as he is represented standing in allthe pride of a vigorous manhood by theside of his beautiful charger, he does notseem to belie the reputation which thisincident created for him in the old districtof Buchan.

The peasants of this wild and primitiveneighborhood, though to some extentslightly infected by modernization,are yet very fair specimens of the hardy,trusty clansmen of Scottish history, andthe present owners of Slains certainlygive them every reason to keep up theold bonds of affectionate interest withevery one and everything belonging to"the family." To my own observationof the ancient seat of the Hays I oweone of the most delightful recollectionsof my life, that of a Christian home.Not only the outward observances, butthe inner spiritual vitality of religion,were there, while unselfish devotion toall within the range of her influence orauthority marked the character of herwho was at the head of this little familykingdom. The present head of thehouse, a Hay to the backbone, has triumphantlycarried on the martial traditionsof his ancestry, and on the roll ofEngland's victorious sons at the battleof the Alma his name is to be found.He was there disabled by a wound thatshattered his right arm and cut short hismilitary career. Domestic happiness,however, is no bad substitute for a brilliantpublic life, and there are duties,higher yet than a soldier's, that go fartoward making up that background ofrural prosperity which alone ensures thegrand effect of military successes. Afterhaving done one's duty in the field, it isto the full as noble, and perhaps morepatriotic, to turn to the duties of theglebe, thereby finishing as a landlordthe work begun as a soldier.

It is a touching custom, hardly yetobliterated in the district over which myreminiscences have led me, for one peasant,when coming upon another employedin his lawful calling, thus to salutehim: "Guid speed the wark!" the rejoinderbeing, in the same broad Buchandialect, "Thank ye: I wish yeweel."

I can end these pages with no morefitting sentiment. As a tribute of gratefulrecollection to those who made mydays at Slains a happiness to me, andin the first fresh sorrow of a deep bereavementoffered me distractions themore alluring because the more associatedwith Nature's changeless, silentgrandeur, I pen these lines, crowningthem with the homely Scottish wish thatwherever they are and whatever they do,"Guid speed the wark!"

OUR HOME IN THE TYROL

CHAPTER III.

We were soon comfortably settledin the old Hof. The spaciousrooms, always deliciously cool, were fragrantwith rare and delicate blossoms—Alpineroses from the rocks, white liliesfrom Moidel's special little garden-plot,grasses and nodding flowers, campanulas,veronicas, melisot, potentillas andlady's bedstraw, which, according toAnton, no cattle would touch, whilst theroots of others were good for man orbeast, their various qualities being allknown to him. But soon the wavingflowers bent beneath the scythe. It wasthe eve of St. Peter and St. Paul's Day,a festival when all work must cease, andthe Hofbauer, whose word was law, hadgiven orders that the hay in the wood-meadowmust be carried that evening.Seeing, therefore, that the more handsthere were the better, the two Margaretsseized each a rake and worked as hardas any woman in the field.

On we labored, the golden eveningsun glinting down upon our picturesquerow of haymakers, nor did we ceaseuntil the angelus sounded from the villagespire. Then Anton, Jakob, Moidel,their men and maids, fell devoutly upontheir knees and thanked God that ChristJesus had been born. These humbleTyrolese remember thrice daily to praisethe Lord, as David did. With a hushed,subdued look upon their honest faces,they arose, and we joining them thefresh, fragrant hay was carted triumphantlyhome. The hay is cut long beforewe should consider it ready, and ishoused whilst still green and moist.The newer the hay the richer the cream,they say. The Hofbauer has threecrops yearly, but his neighbors, who liehigher, have only two, and sometimesbut one.

The good old Kathi stood at the doorcooling a gigantic pan of buckwheatpolenta, and when she had set downthis dish, intended for the haymakers'supper, she brought us each, as our pay,a couple ofkrapfen, which are oblongdough-cakes fried in butter.

Although the haymakers were wornout and weary with a long day's workof twelve hours, still Rosenkranz soundedin the chapel like the humming ofbees in lime trees. This pious customduly impressed us, until on the very nextday, as we walked up our village streeton the evening of the festival, our solemnfeelings received a great check.We observed that the prayer-leaders,who knelt at the open windows of eachseparate house, followed our every movementwith their eyes, whilst their mouthsmechanically repeated sonorous AveMarias and Paternosters. Nay, therewas our own pious Moidel watching usfrom the kitchen window, her Hail Marysmingling with her friendly greetings; butthen Moidel was waiting upon us andour supper whilst her family were ontheir knees in the chapel. Still, we soonlearnt to perceive that Rosenkranz wasconsidered quite as efficacious if merelyuttered by the tongue, whilst the mindwas far away. This being a festival,and no one tired with work, the householdtrooped into the old pleasaunceafter supper. The elders sat togetherin a row, whilst the younger memberscongregated on a second long stonebench and struck up singing, Moideland her elder brother beginning with aduet:

Nanni, the chief maid, next sang ina clear, flexible voice, which trembledno little when she perceived that theHerrschaft now formed part of the audiencein the balcony—

A WEEK'S SORROW.

In order to catch the meaning ofthe words, which were sung in strong dialect,Margaret and I had descended tothe garden. The Hofbauer looked sadwhen he saw us approach, and quietlybrushed a tear away with his shirt-sleeve.We consequently asked Moidel when westood alone with her whether anythingwere troubling her father.

"It strikes me not," she said. "Ifancy that it is but the music. Fatherand uncle may both seem quiet anddull now, yet they have been celebratedsingers; only when my mother diedfather left off singing, and so did uncleafter Uncle Jakob's death."

"Ah yes!" said the aunt, who hadalso joined us, "they were the threehandsomest, best—grown men in theparish, living happily together withoutan ill word, until four years ago Jakobwas trampled upon by a yoke of viciousoxen, and in three days he was dead.Yes, that was a sorrow almost as cuttingas the death of the Hofbauerin, soyoung when she died. Only marriedfive years, and leaving four little children,not one of whom ever knew her!Yes, Moidel is a good girl, and is wearingher linen now, but she can nevercome up in looks to her mother. Ahja! and now the trouble is about Jakob."

"Why yes, that he has been drawnfor the Landwehr. Ah, I thought youknew. It was last autumn that he wasdrawn. The Hofbauer would have soldhis best acres to release him, but the recruiting-officerwould have no nay:Jakobi was a fine, well-behaved youngfellow, and such were needed in thearmy. He had to serve two monthsthis spring, and with his comrades dayby day had to run up the face of mountainssome four thousand feet. It quitewore Jakob out, though he is so good-tempered.He declared that he wasused, to be sure, at the Olm to climb upto the glaciers of the Hoch Gall afterhis goats, often bringing the kids in hisarms down the precipices, but to havehis back broken and his feet blisteredin order to know how to shed humanblood was what he hated. Yet he boreit so well, doing his best, that when theother recruits could return to theirhomes, Jakob, being so clever and well-behaved,had to stay a fortnight longerto brush, fold up and put away all theregimentals. However, the under-officerdid have him to dine with him everyday."

"Yes, and Jakob will in his turn bean officer," we replied, trying to reassureher.

"Oh, na, na, that can never be: elevenmore long years must he serve, andalways as a private. I thought like you,until the Hofbauer explained to me thatall the officers were foreigners—Saxons,Bavarians, Würtembergers, put in bythe Austrian ministry, who are tyrantsto Tyrol. Ah, if the good emperorwould only interfere, for he loves Tyrol!but he leaves everything to the ministry.Austria may itself be overthrown in theseunrighteous days before my Jakobi isfree." Now it was the good soul's turnto wipe her eye with the corner of herample blue apron.

We were venturing some fresh attemptat consolation when fortunately an eventoccurred which drew her thoughts fromthe deep shadow which we had just discoveredhung over the peaceful Hof.Jodokus, the village schoolmaster in thewinter, when the children had time tolearn, but during the busy summermonths one of the men, had challengedJakobi to a wrestling-match. Hardlyhad the two antagonists encounteredeach other on the grass in a stout set-to,when the sound of the goatherd's whip[pg 656]was heard on the hilly common above,sending forth a succession of reports likethose of a pistol, becoming stronger andlouder when the game and the assembledcompany were seen. At last theyoung "whipper-snapper," as we calledhim, made one long final succession ofcracks and reports, and springing overthe wall, and casting his instrument oftorture on one side, he boldly challengedAnton.

The young man, whose skill andstrength were well known, smiled, halfamused, half incredulous, on his antagonist.The younger athlete, a lad of thirteen,firmly built and agile, mistook thelook for a sneer, and the blood ran fastand hot into his face. So, Anton acceptingthe challenge, they immediatelybegan to spar. They first fearlessly regardedeach other, then bowing theirheads they rushed forward, butting likerams. The lad, with his head fixed firmin Anton's chest, tried to find his adversary'sweakest point, and with his armsround his waist endeavored cunninglyto make him slip; but it was soon theyoung champion who was tripped up,and who in playful, half-serious angerdealt blows and tugs right and left, almostmanaging to bring Anton sprawlingto the ground. The lad, however,suddenly stopped: he had lost a littletin ring off his finger and a four-kreuzerpiece from his pocket—too great a lossfor a shepherd-boy. The combat thereforewas speedily closed, both antagonistsand their partisans hunting in theunmowed grass until the treasures wereagain trove.

At the same time an elderly man approachedand opened the gate—a peasantevidently, although, instead of theusual long white apron and bib, he woreone of new green linen, shining as satin—aman of a strong although delicatemake, the head slightly stooping forward,and a face that beamed with genuinepleasure as half a dozen voicessimultaneously burst forth with a "Godgreet you, Alois!"

This then was Schuster (or Shoe-maker)Alois, in preparation of whoseadvent the good aunt had scrubbed abed-room, and Moidel had beautifiedthe window with pots of blooming geraniums.The room was a large chamber,set apart for the different ambulatorywork-people who came to the Hofin the course of the year. The weaver,who arrived in the spring to weave theflax which the busy womankind hadspun through the winter, had been thelast occupant of the room, and hadwoven no less than two hundred andninety-three ells of linen, which now inlong symmetrical lines were carefullypegged down on the turf of the pleasaunceby Moidel, who walked over themdaily with her bare feet, busily wateringuntil the gray threads were turningsnowy white.

Later on in the year the sewing-womanwould appear, and then the tailor, tomake the clothing for this large household,the servants, according to an oldcustom long since extinct in most countries,being chiefly paid in kind. SchusterAlois had now come to make theboots for Jakob and the Senner Franzpreparatory to their going with the cattleto the Alpine pastures.

I greatly doubt whether the tailor orthe weaver was so well waited upon asthe shoemaker: I fancy they were leftmore to the maids. Passing the opendoor of the family house-place, aunt andniece might now be seen sitting hourafter hour, the elder lining the soles ofJakob's stockings with pieces of strongwoolen to prevent mending on the Alp,or attending to other needs of his homelytoilet; the younger at her paste-boardor kneading-trough, whilst Schuster Aloissat between them in the sunny oriel window,and while he steadily plied his awlappeared to be either telling them talesor reciting poetry.

The Alp, or Olm (to use the provincialword), lay at the distance of about sixhours, and the Hofbauer went up to examinethe state of the pasturage beforehis son and the cattle finally started.In two days he returned. "The goingup of the cattle must be postponed atleast a week," he said, "for snow hadfallen at the huts the depth of a man;and the river had swollen to such a[pg 657]height that it had carried two housesaway in St. Wolfgang, the highest mountain-village;and even life had beenlost."

This delay caused a respite from hardwork. The next morning Alois's armsdid not move like unwearying machinery,and, the ten o'clock-dinner being over,we saw him seated at his ease on theadjoining hillside. Should we go andspeak to him? He appeared differentfrom the ordinary run of his class (thoughcobblers are often clever men enough),and moreover of a decidedly friendlyturn of mind. We determined that wewould. We joined Alois on the stony,waste hillside, crowned by two treeswith a crucifix in the centre, which formedfrom the house, with its backgroundof mountains, ever a melancholy, soul-touchinglittle poem.

He smiled and said, "Do your workbetimes, and then rest; and where betterthan under the shadow of the cross?"

"Yes, and the crucifix which you havechosen is more pleasing than the generalitywhich are sown broadcast overthe fields of the Tyrol. Why are theymade so hideous and revolting?"

We spoke out freely, because the unusuallyintelligent face before us evidentlybelonged to a thinker. Candor ofspeech pleased him. Nevertheless, heanswered as if musing, "They appearugly to you: well they may be. Ja, butthe most who look upon them are menand women acquainted with many sorrows—suddendeaths by falls from precipices,destruction of house and homeby lightning, floods, avalanches, failureof crops, and many another visitation—andit soothes their perhaps selfish naturesto see these anguished features,these blood-stained limbs—signs of stillgreater suffering—whilst they pray thatonly such crosses may be laid on themas will keep them in obedience to Hiswill. Just before you came up the hillI was thinking of a strange history connectedwith a crucifix—one that I readonly ten days ago in the house of aHochmair himself."

It merely needed silence for SchusterAlois to repeat the tale, and he soon began:"It is the Tyroler Adolph Pichlerwho narrates it. He says that once inhis rambles he came to a little chapel,over which hung a blasted larch—sucha desolate wreck of a tree that he naturallyasked the guide he had with himwhy it was not cut down. Now, theguide was an old man who knew every,tradition and legend, besides all thefamily histories in that part of the Tyrol.'That tree,' said he, 'is left there purposely,as the reminder of a great crime,and nobody would think of touching it.If you look into the chapel, you'll see aChrist on the cross which has been shotthrough the breast. That was once acrucifix under this very tree.' Then theguide made a remark which had oftenstruck myself—that there are some familiesin which everything that is strangeand dreadful happens, whilst there areothers that go on for generations andare no more distinguishable than thevery weeds themselves. In that valleywere the Hochmairs, and they were ofthis prominent sort, and odd enough,as I said before, it was at a Hochmair'shouse that I read this account. Well,some generations back there was aHochmair who was a regular ruffian.He cared no more for the life of a manthan that of a chamois. The governmentkept the game strictly on the mountains,and he was suspected of havingput more than one of their keepers outof the way. In short, he had such abad character that when he went to confessionthe priest would not give himabsolution. This put him in a greatrage, and it is remarkable that from thatday his luck in hunting forsook him.He could not take aim—a sort of mistwas ever before his eyes, his hand trembled.People believed that he was perpetuallyhaunted by the ghost of a youngman whom, after he had shot, he hadbeaten to death with his gunstock, andthen flung down a crevasse. Be that asit may, he would be absent for weeks inthe mountains. He did no good, andthe little he possessed fell into ruin.

"His creditors were about to sell him[pg 658]up, stick and stone, when he put, as onemay say, the finishing stroke to everythinghimself. It was Corpus ChristiDay: the bells were ringing and theprocession moving through the fields,the holy banners waving, the choir-boyssinging the sanctus, when just as thepriest lifted the Host in the golden monstrance,a shot was fired from the bushesin front of a crucifix. Lightning flashedfrom heaven, and the house of thewicked Hochmair, which was at no greatdistance, burst into flames. An awfulcry rang from the bushes: the processionrushed forward, the priest only remainingwith the Host and a few attendants.And what did they see? There was theimage of the crucified Saviour piercedby a bullet, and out in the road stoodthe wretched Hochmair, with his handsclasped on the lock of his gun and hiseyes rolling in frenzy. Everybody perceivedthe crime he had committed, andremained motionless, whilst he beckonedwildly to the priest, who came up ingloomy silence. After they had talkedtogether alone for some time, the priestwent into the church, where he remainedall night in prayer. The wretched man,whom nobody dared to touch, disappearedinto the thicket, and all trace waslost of him. In the mean while the injuredimage of the Saviour was removedinto the church. So years went on, andthen one Sunday after service the priestannounced from the pulpit that the formersinner Hochmair was dead, but thatafter years of penitence he had receivedthe forgiveness of the Church and ofGod. 'Therefore,' said the good man,'let all forgive him, and remember onlytheir own sins, and pray Christ to bemerciful to them.' After that it wasknown that he had become possessedwith the crazy notion that if he firedinto the breast of the Saviour on CorpusChristi Day, just when the Host wasbeing elevated and the benedictionspoken, it would make his gun unerring.He fired therefore, and at the same momentthe Saviour on the cross raised Hishead and, fixing on him His eyes full oftears, gave him a look which pierced himto the very marrow, and that terrifiedhim far more than the lightning which,flashing from his forehead, set fire to hishouse, whilst the thorn-crowned countenanceseemed to float before him, andhe knew that this was his punishment.Such was his confession at the time tothe priest who laid the penance of theChurch upon him. So he went out intothe world like another Cain, and God inHis own time was merciful to him. Still,the wounded effigy of the Saviour andthe blasted larch tree remain as witnesseson earth against him.

"And," continued Schuster Alois, "thatis only one tale amongst the hundredswhich could be related concerning thesecrucifixes. Ah, there is many an old,bleached, weather-beaten crucifix oncrag or highway-side from which theanguished face of the Saviour has bothsmitten and healed the sinner. Crucifixescut deeper into most Tyrolese heartsthan shrines, some way."

"Strange," we replied, "for these oldshrines are not only quaint, but oftenbeautiful, as, for instance, the one onthe roadside turning into town."

"Ah, I am glad you like it," saidAlois, "for there are those who wouldwish it pulled down and a lofty woodencross, as a landmark, placed there instead.The Capuchins in the adjoiningmonastery are opposed to it, however,and no wonder. Have you ever remarked,"he continued, becoming quiteaglow, "that although it is greatly injuredand many of the figures lost, stillthere are others who look at you socalmly and seriously with their marred,dilapidated countenances that you feela peace steal into your heart? Andwhoever the painter was, he must haveloved his work, for Saint Gregory couldnever have been more dignified in reallife than he looks in the shrine."

"Are you a painter?" we asked, almostwithout knowing what we were saying,for it was hardly probable.

"Oh, I only touch colors now andthen, when there's a purpose in it or Ican serve the Church," he returned. Hebecame embarrassed, and explained thatit was time to return to his work.

We afterward learnt from Moidel that[pg 659]Alois bore in the neighborhood far andwide the reputation of an artist, althoughhe did not consider himself such, seeinghe could not paint saints and angels. Itwas, however, a great source of pleasureto him to paint mottoes and devices andto arrange floral decorations, especiallywhen they could serve as a surprise forsome private name-day or church festival.

One afternoon we were told that theboots were made, that Anton had broughtthe flour from the mill, that two hundredloaves of rye bread were baked, and,the weather being sufficiently fine andall the preparations being completed, thecattle would now start for the Olm. First,Anton and the Senner Franz set off atfour o'clock in the afternoon, with thecalves in advance, the young thingsbeing unable to keep up with the cattle.Then aleiterwagen which had beendrawn into the lower corridor and filledwith sacks of flour, meal, salt and thetwo hundred loaves, was driven by theHofbauer as far as Taufers, whence thesupplies for the Alpine residents wouldbe borne on men's backs up to the huts.

In the evening Jakob came into thegrand old sitting-room to bid us good-bye.He appeared in his shirt-sleevesand the indispensable white apron, andwith the utmost self-possession and refinementof manner he presented uswith a little bouquet of edelweiss, promisingto send us down a larger supply byhis brother. We talked with him aboutthe Olm, and found him enthusiastic onthe subject, his one regret being that, ashe must return for several weeks of drillingon August 22d, his stay there thissummer would be greatly curtailed. TheOlm was very extensive, lying on a mountain-platformwhich was only bare ofsnow for about three months in the year.When, however, the snow was off, theflowers came up by thousands, the grasssprang up by magic, all the mountainswere filled with the rushing and roaringsound of waters, which came down infoaming cascades, often of wonderfulbeauty, amongst the rocks and the pinewoods which clothed the steeper mountain-sides.Nor was the life at all solitary,for various farmers were sendingup their cattle to other Olms about thesame time, so that no one was withoutneighbors, although they might be at aconsiderable distance apart.

Jakob spoke on until we became wildto go up to the Olm too. "Could wego thither," we asked, "and pay him avisit?"

"That we could," he replied, "if wedid not mind sleeping in the hay. Onlywe had better wait for settled weather inAugust."

There was now no talk of our leavingthe Hof at St. Jakobi. The Hofbauerhad declared that the house was at ourdisposal until Martinmas—longer if wewanted it. He also fell into the schemeof our visiting his Olm, where he intimatedhis desire to be host, saying thatall the dairy produce would be at ourservice.

In the night, exactly at one o'clock,Jakob and Jodokus started: we heardthem go, the cattle-bells ringing and the"Leben Sie wohl!" "Behüt Euch Gott!"shouted lovingly after them from theopen door and the lower windows ofthe silent old mansion. Six and twentyhead of cattle: the goats, pigs and sheepwere to follow later. It was a calm andbeautiful night, the three-quarters moonjust dropping behind the mountains, andthe stars shining out brightly from thedark cloudless sky.

CHAPTER IV.

The Alpine caravansary was hardlysettled at the Olm when the air becameintensely hot and oppressive. Day byday black thunder-clouds gathered onthe horizon. They crested the mountainsin three directions, at times appearingto repel each other, at others marchingfiercely on to conflict, when, thezenith becoming pitch-dark, they flungout long spears of lightning and explodedin overwhelming thunder. Veryterrible were these perpetual storms.With the first peal the church-bellsalong the valley began solemnly to toll.It mattered not whether by night or day,the faithful bellringer was at his post, and[pg 660]with rain pouring down outside and fiery,vivid lightning playing around him, hestill went tolling on, for evil spirits mustbe driven away, and people reminded tomake the sign of the cross and prayGod to protect them.

At length, to use an expression ofAlois's, "Saint Florian had left off playingat skittles, and Saint Leonhard haddriven his hay over the heavenly bridge."The warring elements were still, but theearth seemed smouldering with heat, andwe panted and gasped after the loftymountain-slopes which lay on all sides.At the same time it came most opportunelyto our knowledge that the Tyrolwas rich in baths—primitive establishmentsmost of them, but dotted overmountain and valley, so that each villagehad half a dozen to choose from, whereevery peasant, be he ever so poor, couldat least dip and soak for an eight-days'sommerfrisch. Why, then, should notthe two Margarets, they being the mostdesirous of a change, have at least asommerfrisch?

But which amongst all these bathswas the one to choose? Good Kathirecommended her baths at Innichen.She herself evidently did not derivemuch pleasure from her yearly visitsthere. Still, we, being ladies, would findmore people to talk to, and the bath-house,which was always full to overflowing,stood in a wood, and we likedtrees. Schuster Alois—for the conversationtook place before he left—saidthat most gentlefolks went to Maistall.There was not onlyluxus, but a greatdeal of life and spirit there. His MajestyEmperor Max as early as 1511 tookup his quarters at Maistall during hiscampaign against the Venetians, andhe had heard say that in the last centurythe visitors formed a society and madeit a rule that none but the purest Germanshould be spoken. Every fault ofpronunciation cost a kreuzer to the offender:the money went to the chapel,and amounted one season to twenty-oneflorins six kreuzers.

But one Margaret decidedly objectedto going to a place where there wasthe faintest chance of herloiter wagonforleiterwagen, herpison forspeisen,hervulgarborn forwohlgeboren, beingfined by agazel-schaft (gesellschaft).Besides, these places sounded too grand:we did not want a Gastein, but a Wildbad,if one could be found that did notbelie its name. So the peasant-bathsof St. Vigil, Mühlbach and Scharst werenamed to us, and the lot fell upon Scharst,we having heard that all the school-childrenin town had just been taken therefor a long day's holiday, and had returnedto their proud and happy parents,who waited for them in double ranks below,radiant with pleasure, waving theirbanners and Alpine roses.

It was accordingly arranged that onthe following Sunday Anton should driveus to Reischach, where there was tobe a great festival, with candles in thechurch as big as a man's arm: so saida woman from Reischach. Anton wasof a retiring nature, and did not likecrowds, but he would gladly drive theladies over. And at Reischach we shouldbe sure to find some peasant returningthat evening by Scharst, who could carryour belongings.

Imagine us, therefore, at Reischach,the church-bell ringing for vespers, whichbegin at one o'clock. We wear bouquetsof carnations and rosemary, presentedto us by the family at the Hof, ascorrect decorations for a festival. AndAnton!—how to present him to you ashe deserves to be presented? His truthful,guileless face is his best ornament:nevertheless, he too wears carnations androsemary caught in the silver cord andvieing with the silver tassels of his broad-brimmed,low-crowned beaver hat. Hisrough jacket, made by the tailor lastautumn, and therefore too new to beworn on a less special occasion, is shortand loose enough to leave ample space forthe display of hisrauge, or broad leatherbelt of softest chamois-skin, worked inscrolls surrounding his name, with splitpeacock quills, no little resembling Indianhandicraft. His snow-white kneesappear between his short leather breechesand his bright blue knitted stockings.These Nature's garters, when perfectlywhite, are regarded as a mark of great[pg 661]distinction amongst the dandies, andthose of our Anton may be consideredthe veryknee plus ultra.

A parliament of men—a few still inbreeches with Hessian boots, which appeareda characteristic of Reischach, butthe majority, having succumbed to modernideas, wearing trowsers—were seatedin the shadow of a comfortable house,discussing the different stages of theirrye and flax crops. Their wives anddaughters, following their natural impulse,were already kneeling in church,confiding their cares of kitchen andfarmyard to the ever-ready ear ofMutterGottes—one dense mass of simple,believing women, in broad-brimmedbeaver hats, with here and there a conicalwoolen beehive as a contrast.

The church in itself, although it lackedthe candles as big as a man's arm,must truly have shone like the gate ofheaven to peasant eyes. Many of themore substantial families had lent theirprivate saints for the occasion. Theyhad brought Holy Nothburgs and SaintLeonhards and Virgins, generally preservedin wardrobes at home, but nowbrought to participate in the festival, besidesadding to its great solemnity. Itwas Scapulary Sunday, we were told,and although the words conveyed noclear idea to us, we were soon to learntheir significance. A Tyrolese anthemhaving been sung by some invisiblevoices, in which jodels leapt up andsmothered Gregorians, a middle-agedCapuchin took his stand in the pulpit,and having greeted the congregation,promised to explain to them the mysteryand the advantage of the HolyScapulary.

"My beloved," he began, "there aresome who think too little of the scapulary,and there are others who lay toogreat a stress on this aid to faith. Letus meditate on both these conditions.But first, how must we ourselves regardthe scapulary? Now, we are told not tolove the world nor the things of theworld. The scapulary, with its sacredimage of Mary worn next the heart, isa great shield against this love of theworld. It places you under the especialprotection of the Queen of Heaven: youare as much her servant as those whoserve king or kaiser, and equally wearher livery. Some think too little of thescapulary. Yet what incidents can betold of its efficacy! Let one suffice. Inthe year 1866, when the war raged betweenAustria and Prussia, the Catholicsoldiers of the latter country immediatelybefore the war entered by hundredsinto the Society of the Scapulary. Wearingthis sacred charm upon their hearts,they went into the battle-field, and thecannons roared and the bullets whizzedthick and fast around them, and not oneof them fell, for they wore the scapulary.Indeed, their miraculous preservationcreated so much excitement that Lutheransmarveled over it, and asked theCatholics how it came that they were nowhit hurt. And they answered, 'We wearthe scapulary of Mary, and she savesus.' Then many Lutherans said, 'Come,we will have scapularies,' and wrotetheir names down in the society. Andnow hark ye, my brethren. There wasa Catholic soldier, and there was a Lutheran,and the latter said, 'Lend me thyscapulary for this one day only, and see,here is a thaler for thee.' Then the foolishCatholic drew the scapulary off hisneck, handed it to the Lutheran, tookthe thaler, went into battle: whiz wentthe bullets round him, and he fell."

We could stand no more. The church,now crowded with men as well as women,reeked with perspiration, the sermonoppressed us, and thus our senseand senses drove us out into the openair. Here the fresh breeze came acrossfrom the Ziller snow-fields, health-givingas a breath from heaven. Peasant-womenwho were too late to squeeze intochurch were seated amongst the ironcrosses of the graves. The more serious-mindedhad managed to cluster togetherround a side-door which, being adjacentto the pulpit, proved an advantageousspot for hearing. The less particularsat in the shade, feeling it sufficient tobe in holy ground and to pass theirbeads through their fingers whilst theystudied up our novel attire. Approachingthe more attentive members, we[pg 662]found that the Capuchin had reachedthe second part of his discourse, and wasdilating on those who thought too highlyof the scapulary. We gathered the followingfragment:

"Now, the man was nigh unto death,and it was neither for confession nor forthe death-sacrament that he craved.No, it was for a scapulary. 'A scapulary!'he cried, 'a scapulary!' Mybrethren, you know well he should haveasked for the priest and for the blessingof the Church, but it was merely for ascapulary."

Later on we asked permission to see ascapulary. It consisted of two smallsquares of cloth, herring-boned roundthe edge, and united by a narrow ribbonof sufficient length to permit onesquare to rest on the breast, whilst theother hung between the shoulders. Thatin front bore the image of the Virgin,designed by the nuns in the convent,whilst the simpler work had been givento some poor old woman, or even man,who was past harder employment. Theprivilege of wearing this charmed badgeentailed the payment of a small yearlysubscription and the repetition of sevenPaternosters daily.

The procession followed the sermon.Mary, Joseph, Saint Nothburg (once agood peasant-girl, now a saint) wereparaded round the village by children,and borne back to church. Peasant-menstaggered under large silk banners,which swayed and fluttered in the blusterywind, and, but for the steady graspof the strong men who carried them,threatening at each moment to crush thepious throng. The four chief peasantsof the district, wearing their robes ofstate, the Noah's ark coats in which theywere married, bore the baldachin overthe head of the Capuchin who elevatedthe Host: the village priest, in whitesurplice and Hessian boots, swung thecenser at his side. The men were infront, the women, a long, broad file, dividedin the procession by the priestsfrom their male relations, followed—adense black mass, but relieved in colorby the whiteness of their short linensleeves.

Men and women, carefully severed intheir prayers and on the very steps ofthe altar by Holy Church, were soonable to come together again under thespacious, hospitable roof of Herr Kappler,the wirth. Innumerable cleanwooden tables, forms, and stiff, high-leggedwooden chairs were ranged upstairs and down stairs and in the orchardwithout, for the accommodation of thescapularists and their friends.

We sat at a side-table in an upperroom partaking of grilled fowl and salad,whilstbuben and theirdirnen, or ladsand their lasses, middle-aged couples,old men and women, poured into thehouse, filling every chair, bench andtable. They came thither from all thecountry-side, and endless were the greetingsamongst cousins and cousins' cousins.The Tyrolese, like the Scotch, keepup every link of relationship, claimingthe fiftieth cousin. Relationship, in fact,never does die out; and though it maybecome an abstract during busy seasonsof ploughing and sowing, it becomes astrong reality at wakes and festivals.Thus, at Kappler's, on this scapulary afternoon,Barthel's brother-in-law's cousindrank with "Cousin Barthel," and Seppl'ssister-in-law's niece was treated by "OnkelSeppl." There was one square-built,good-humored old man who appearedto be the whole world's cousin: he passedfrom table to table, and had to sipfrom fifty offered glasses.

With our delicious coffee and boiledcream we ordered the host, as a suitableperson, to find us a guide to carry ourvalise and shawls to Bad Scharst. Probablythe perpetual and loud demandsfor pints of wine left him but little timeto make a wise selection, seeing thatthere soon stood before us a small manwith so subtle and malignant a look thathis exorbitant demand made us onlytoo gladly dismiss him. Our confidenceshaken in the landlord's powersof discrimination, we sent word belowthat if Anton had returned we should beglad to speak with him. He had beenin the village to visit his cousins, butwas waiting our orders below. Althoughhis native shyness made it hard for him[pg 663]to step forward and address ladies underthe curious gaze of all the relative Sepplsand Barthels, he did it with manliness,and turning round and addressing thepopular old man as Hansel, asked himif his brother Jörgel were below; andbeing answered in the affirmative, hehastened away, and returned with anothercompact little peasant, whom heintroduced to us as Senner Franz's brother,with an aside, that he was "a friendlymortal and Count Arlberg's forester."

The agreement was soon made, thesullen-looking man glowering at us frombehind a stack of firewood, whilst Hanseland Anton packed akraxe or woodenframe and fixed it on Jörgel's back.As we set off, Anton drove away homeward,although the skittle-balls were justbeginning to roll, and the sound of "Ibin a lustiger bua" and other Tyrolesesongs came floating from the windows.

SAINT ROMUALDO.

I give God thanks that I, a lean old man,

Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains

By austere penance and continuous toil,

Now rest in spirit, and possess "the peace

Which passeth understanding." Th' end draws nigh,

Though the beginning is as yesterday,

And a broad lifetime spreads 'twixt this and that—

A favored life, though outwardly the butt

Of ignominy, malice and affront,

Yet lighted from within by the clear star

Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged

To see at last its utmost goal attained.

I speak not of mine Order and my House,

Here founded by my hands and filled with saints—

A white society of snowy souls,

Swayed by my voice, by mine example led;

For this is but the natural harvest reaped

From labors such as mine when blessed by God.

Though I rejoice to think my spirit still

Will work my purposes, through worthy hands,

After my bones are shriveled into dust,

Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit

Of holy satisfaction, sure and real,

Though subtler than the tissue of the air—

The power completely to detach the soul

From her companion through this life, the flesh;

So that in blessed privacy of peace,

Communing with high angels, she can hold,

Serenely rapt, her solitary course.

Ye know, O saints of heaven, what I have borne

Of discipline and scourge; the twisted lash

[pg 664]

Of knotted rope that striped my shrinking limbs;

Vigils and fasts protracted, till my flesh

Wasted and crumbled from mine aching bones,

And the last skin, one woof of pain and sores,

Thereto like yellow parchment loosely clung;

Exposure to the fever and the frost,

When 'mongst the hollows of the hills I lurked

From persecution of misguided folk,

Accustoming my spirit to ignore

The burden of the cross, while picturing

The bliss of disembodied souls, the grace

Of holiness, the lives of sainted men,

And entertaining all exalted thoughts,

That nowise touched the trouble of the hour,

Until the grief and pain seemed far less real

Than the creations of my brain inspired.

The vision, the beatitude, were true:

The agony was but an evil dream.

I speak not now as one who hath not learned

The purport of those lightly-bandied words,

Evil and Fate, but rather one who knows

The thunders of the terrors of the world.

No mortal chance or change, no earthly shock,

Can move or reach my soul, securely throned

On heights of contemplation and calm prayer,

Happy, serene, no less with actual joy

Of present peace than faith in joys to come.

This soft, sweet, yellow evening, how the trees

Stand crisp against the clear, bright-colored sky!

How the white mountain-tops distinctly shine,

Taking and giving radiance, and the slopes

Are purpled with rich floods of peach-hued light!

Thank God, my filmy, old dislustred eyes

Find the same sense of exquisite delight,

My heart vibrates to the same touch of joy

In scenes like this, as when my pulse danced high,

And youth coursed through my veins! This the one link

That binds the wan old man that now I am

To the wild lad who followed up the hounds

Among Ravenna's pine-woods by the sea.

For there how oft would I lose all delight

In the pursuit, the triumph or the game,

To stray alone among the shadowy glades,

And gaze, as one who is not satisfied

With gazing, at the large, bright, breathing sea,

The forest glooms, and shifting gleams between

The fine dark fringes of the fadeless trees,

On gold-green turf, sweetbrier and wild pink rose!

How rich that buoyant air with changing scent

Of pungent pine, fresh flowers and salt cool seas!

And when all echoes of the chase had died,

Of horn and halloo, bells and baying hounds,

How mine ears drank the ripple of the tide

[pg 665]

On that fair shore, the chirp of unseen birds,

The rustling of the tangled undergrowth,

And the deep lyric murmur of the pines,

When through their high tops swept the sudden breeze!

There was my world, there would my heart dilate,

And my aspiring soul dissolve in prayer

Unto that Spirit of Love whose energies

Were active round me, yet whose presence, sphered

In the unsearchable, unbodied air,

Made itself felt, but reigned invisible.

This ere the day that from my past divides

My present, and that made me what I am.

Still can I see the hot, bright sky, the sea

illimitably sparkling, as they showed

That morning. Though I deemed I took no note

Of heaven or earth or waters, yet my mind

Retains to-day the vivid portraiture

Of every line and feature of the scene.

Light-hearted 'midst the dewy lanes I fared

Unto the sea, whose jocund gleam I caught

Between the slim boles, when I heard the clink

Of naked weapons, then a sudden thrust

Sickening to hear, and then a stifled groan;

And pressing forward I beheld the sight

That seared itself for ever on my brain—

My kinsman, Ser Ranieri, on the turf,

Fallen upon his side, his bright young head

Among the pine-spurs, and his cheek pressed close

Unto the moist, chill sod: his fingers clutched

A handful of loose weeds and grass and earth,

Uprooted in his anguish as he fell,

And slowly from his heart the thick stream flowed,

Fouling the green, leaving the fair, sweet face

Ghastly, transparent, with blue, stony eyes

Staring in blankness on that other one

Who triumphed over him. With hot desire

Of instant vengeance I unsheathed my sword

To rush upon the slayer, when he turned

In his first terror of blood-guiltiness.

Within my heart a something snapped and brake.

What was it but the chord of rapturous joy

For ever stilled? I tottered and would fall,

Had I not leaned against the friendly pine;

For all realities of life, unmoored

From their firm anchorage, appeared to float

Like hollow phantoms past my dizzy brain.

The strange delusion wrought upon my soul

That this had been enacted ages since.

This very horror curdled at my heart,

This net of trees spread round, these iron heavens,

Were closing over me when I had stood,

Unnumbered cycles back, and frontedhim,

My father; and he felt mine eyes as now,

[pg 666]

Yet saw me not; and then, as now, that form,

The one thing real, lay stretched between us both.

The fancy passed, and I stood sane and strong

To grasp the truth. Then I remembered all—

A few fierce words between them yester eve

Concerning some poor plot of pasturage,

Soon silenced into courteous, frigid calm:

This was the end. I could not meet him now,

To curse him, to accuse him, or to save,

And draw him from the red entanglement

Coiled by his own hands round his ruined life.

God pardon me! My heart that moment held

No drop of pity toward this wretched soul;

And cowering down, as though his guilt were mine,

I fled amidst the savage silences

Of that grim wood, resolved to nurse alone

My boundless desolation, shame and grief.

There, in that thick-leaved twilight of high noon,

The quiet of the still, suspended air,

Once more my wandering thoughts were calmly ranged,

Shepherded by my will. I wept, I prayed

A solemn prayer, conceived in agony,

Blessed with response instant, miraculous;

For in that hour my spirit was at one

With Him who knows and satisfies her needs.

The supplication and the blessing sprang

From the same source, inspired divinely both.

I prayed for light, self-knowledge, guidance, truth,

And these like heavenly manna were rained down

To feed my hungered soul. His guiltwas mine.

What angel had been sent to stay mine arm

Until the fateful moment passed away

That would have ushered an eternity

Of withering remorse? I found the germs

In mine own heart of every human sin,

That waited but occasion's tempting breath

To overgrow with poisoned bloom my life.

What God thus far had saved me from myself?

Here was the lofty truth revealed, that each

Must feel himself in all, must know where'er

The great soul acts or suffers or enjoys,

His proper soul in kinship there is bound.

Then my life-purpose dawned upon my mind,

Encouraging as morning. As I lay,

Crushed by the weight of universal love,

Which mine own thoughts had heaped upon myself,

I heard the clear chime of a slow, sweet bell.

I knew it—whence it came and what it sang.

From the gray convent nigh the wood it pealed,

And called the monks to prayer. Vigil and prayer,

Clean lives, white days of strict austerity:

Such were the offerings of these holy saints.

How far might such not tend to expiate

[pg 6790]

A riotous world's indulgence? Here my life,

Doubly austere and doubly sanctified,

Might even for that other one atone,

So bound to mine, till both should be forgiven.

They sheltered me, not questioning the need

That led me to their cloistered solitude.

How rich, how freighted with pure influence,

With dear security of perfect peace,

Was the first day I passed within those walls!

The holy habit of perpetual prayer,

The gentle greetings, the rare temperate speech,

The chastening discipline, the atmosphere

Of settled and profound tranquillity,

Were even as living waters unto one

Who perisheth of thirst. Was this the world

That yesterday seemed one huge battle-field

For brutish passions? Could the soul of man

Withdraw so easily, and erect apart

Her own fair temple for her own high ends?

But this serene contentment slowly waned

As I discerned the broad disparity

Betwixt the form and spirit of the laws

That bound the order in strait brotherhood.

Yet when I sought to gain a larger love,

More rigid discipline, severer truth,

And more complete surrender of the soul

Unto her God, this was to my reproach,

And scoffs and gibes beset me on all sides.

In mine own cell I mortified my flesh,

I held aloof from all my brethren's feasts

To wrestle with my viewless enemies,

Till they should leave their blessing on my head;

For nightly was I haunted by that face,

White, bloodless, as I saw it 'midst the ferns,

Now staring out of darkness, and it held

Mine eyes from slumber and my brain from rest

And drove me from my straw to weep and pray.

Rebellious thoughts such subtle torture wrought

Upon my spirit that I lay day-long

In dumb despair, until the blessed hope

Of mercy dawned again upon my soul,

As gradual as the slow gold moon that mounts

The airy steps of heaven. My faith arose

With sure perception that disaster, wrong,

And every shadow of man's destiny

Are merely circumstance, and cannot touch

The soul's fine essence: they exist or die

Only as she affirms them or denies.

This faith sustains me even to the end:

It floods my heart with peace as surely now

As on that day the friars drove me forth,

Urging that my asceticism, too harsh,

[pg 668]

Endured through pride, would bring into reproach

Their customs and their order. Then began

My exile in the mountains, where I bode

A hunted man. The elements conspired

Against me, and I was the seasons' sport,

Drenched, parched, and scorched and frozen alternately,

Burned with shrewd frosts, prostrated by fierce heats,

Shivering 'neath chilling dews and gusty rains,

And buffeted by all the winds of heaven.

Yet was this period my time of joy:

My daily thoughts perpetual converse held

With angels ministrant; mine ears were charmed

With sweet accordance of celestial sounds,

Song, harp and choir, clear ringing through the air.

And visions were revealed unto mine eyes

By night and day of Heaven's very courts,

In shadowless, undimmed magnificence.

I gave God thanks, not that He sheltered me,

And fed me as He feeds the fowls of air—

For had I perished, this too had been well—

But for the revelation of His truth,

The glory, the beatitude vouchsafed

To exalt, to heal, to quicken, to inspire;

So that the pinched, lean excommunicate

Was crowned with joy more solid, more secure,

Than all the comfort of the vales could bring.

Then the good Lord touched certain fervid hearts,

Aspiring toward His love, to come to me,

Timid and few at first; but as they heard

From mine own lips the precious oracles,

That soothed the trouble of their souls, appeased

Their spiritual hunger, and disclosed

All of the God within them to themselves,

They flocked about me, and they hailed me saint,

And sware to follow and to serve the good

Which my word published and my life declared.

Thus the lone hermit of the mountain-top

Descended leader of a band of saints,

And midway 'twixt the summit and the vale

I perched my convent. Yet I bated not

One whit of strict restraint and abstinence.

And they who love me and who serve the truth

Have learned to suffer with me, and have won

The supreme joy that is not of the flesh,

Foretasting the delights of Paradise.

This faith, to them imparted, will endure

After my tongue hath ceased to utter it,

And the great peace hath settled on my soul.

A PRINCESS OF THULE.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

"O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!"

Consider what a task this unhappyman Ingram had voluntarily undertaken!Here were two young peoplepresumably in love. One of them waslaid under suspicion by several previouslove-affairs, though none of these, doubtless,had been so serious as the present.The other scarcely knew her own mind,or perhaps was afraid to question herselftoo closely, lest all the conflict betweenduty and inclination, with its fears andanxieties and troubles, should be toosuddenly revealed. Moreover, this girlwas the only daughter of a solitary andirascible old gentleman living in a remoteisland; and Ingram had not onlyundertaken that the love-affairs of theyoung folks should come all right—thusassuming a responsibility which mighthave appalled the bravest—but was alsoexpected to inform the King of Borvathat his daughter was about to be takenaway from him.

Of course, if Sheila had been a properlybrought-up young lady, nothing ofthis sort would have been necessary.We all know what the properly brought-upyoung lady does under such circumstances.She goes straight to her papaand mamma and says, "My dear papaand mamma, I have been taught by myvarious instructors that I ought to haveno secrets from my dear parents; and Itherefore hasten to lay aside any littleshyness or modesty or doubt of my ownwishes I might feel, for the purpose ofexplaining to you the extent to whichI have become a victim to the tenderpassion, and of soliciting your advice. Ialso place before you these letters I havereceived from the gentleman in question:probably they were sent in confidenceto me, but I must banish any scruplesthat do not coincide with my duty toyou. I may say that I respect, and evenadmire, Mr. So-and-So; and I should beunworthy of the care bestowed upon myeducation by my dear parents if I werealtogether insensible to the advantagesof his worldly position. But beyond thispoint I am at a loss to define my sentiments;and so I ask you, my dear papaand mamma, for permission to study thequestion for some little time longer, whenI may be able to furnish you with a moreaccurate report of my feelings. At thesame time, if the interest I have in thisyoung man is likely to conflict with theduty I owe to my dear parents, I ask tobe informed of the fact; and I shall thenteach myself to guard against the approachof that insidious passion whichmight make me indifferent to the highercalls and interests of life." Happy theman who marries such a woman! Noagonizing quarrels and delirious reconciliations,no piteous entreaties and fitsof remorse and impetuous self-sacrificesawait him, but a beautiful, methodical,placid life, as calm and accurate andsteadily progressive as the multiplicationtable. His household will be a miracleof perfect arrangement. The relationsbetween the members of it will be asstrictly defined as the pattern of thepaper on the walls. And how can aquarrel arise when a dissecter of theemotions is close at hand to say wherethe divergence of opinion or interest began?and how can a fit of jealousy beprovoked in the case of a person whowill split up her affections into fifteenparts, give ten-fifteenths to her children,three-fifteenths to her parents, and theremainder to her husband? Shouldthere be any dismal fractions goingabout, friends and acquaintances maycome in for them.

But how was Sheila to go to her fatherand explain to him what she could not explainto herself? She had never dreamedof marriage. She had never thoughtof having to leave Borva and her father'shouse. But she had some vague feeling[pg 670]that in the future lay many terrible possibilitiesthat she did not as yet dare tolook at—until, at least, she was moresatisfied as to the present. And howcould she go to her father with such achaos of unformed wishes and fears toplace before him? That such a dutyshould have devolved upon Ingram wascertainly odd enough, but it was not herdoing. His knowledge of the positionof these young people was not derivedfrom her. But, having got it, he hadhimself asked her to leave the wholeaffair in his hands, with that kindnessand generosity which had more thanonce filled her heart with an unspeakablegratitude toward him.

"Well, youare a good fellow!" saidLavender to him when he heard of thisdecision.

"Bah!" said the other with a shrugof his shoulders. "I mean to amuse myself.I shall move you about like pieceson a chess-board, and have a prettygame with you. How to checkmate theking with a knight and a princess, inany number of moves you like—thatis the problem; and my princess has astrong power over the king where she isjust now."

"Well, it is. Old Mackenzie is a toughold fellow to deal with, and you'll do nogood by making a fight of it. Wait!Difficulties don't look so formidablewhen you take them one by one as theyturn up. If you really love the girl, andmean to take your chance of getting her,and if she cares enough for you to sacrificea good deal for your sake, there isnothing to fear."

"I can answer for myself, any way,"said Lavender in a tone of voice thatIngram rather liked: the young mandid not always speak with the samequietness, thoughtfulness and modesty.

And how naturally and easily it cameabout, after all! They were back againat Borva. They had driven round andabout Lewis, and had finished up withStornoway; and, now that they had gotback to the island in Loch Roag, thequaint little drawing-room had even toLavender a homely and friendly look.The big stuffed fishes and the spongeshells were old acquaintances; and hewent to hunt up Sheila's music just asif he had known that dusky corner foryears.

He had a notion that he was himselfrather a good hand at a part song—justas Sheila had innocently taught him tobelieve that he was a brilliant whist-playerwhen he had mastered the art ofreturning his partner's lead—but fortunatelyat this moment he was engagedwith a long pipe and a big tumbler of hotwhisky and water. Ingram was similarlyemployed, lying back in a cane-bottomedeasy-chair, and placidly watchingthe smoke ascending to the roof. Sometimeshe cast an eye to the young folksat the other end of the room. Theyformed a pretty sight, he thought. Lavenderwas a good-looking fellow enough,and there was something pleasing in thequiet and assiduous fashion in which hewaited upon Sheila, and in the almosttimid way in which he spoke to her.Sheila herself sat at the piano, clad allin slate-gray silk, with a narrow band ofscarlet velvet round her neck; and itwas only by a chance turning of thehead that Ingram caught the tender andhandsome profile, broken only by theoutward sweep of the long eyelashes.

Sheila sang, with her father keeping timeby patting his forefinger on the table.

Or were there not three voices? Surely,from the back part of the room, themusicians could hear a wandering basscome in from time to time, especiallyat such portions as "Ah, he never—ah,he never touched thy heart!" which oldMackenzie considered very touching.But there was something quaint andfriendly and pleasant in the pathos of[pg 671]those English songs, which made themfar more acceptable to him than Sheila'swild and melancholy legends of the sea.He sang "Ah, he never, never touchedthy heart!" with an outward expressionof grief, but with much inward satisfaction.Was it the quaint phraseology ofthe old duets that awoke in him somefaint ambition after histrionic effect? Atall events, Sheila proceeded to anotherof his favorites, "All's Well," and here,amid the brisk music, the old man hadan excellent opportunity of striking inat random—

These two lines he had absolutely mastered,and always sang them, whatevermight be the key he happened to lighton, with great vigor. He soon went thelength of improvising a part for himselfin the closing passages, and laid downhis pipe altogether as he sang—

From that point, however, Sheila andher companion wandered away intofields of melody whither the King ofBorva could not follow them; so he wascontent to resume his pipe and listenplacidly to the pretty airs. He caughtbut bits and fragments of phrases andsentiments, but they evidently were comfortable,merry, good-natured songs foryoung folks to sing. There was a gooddeal of love-making, and rosy mornsappearing, and merry zephyrs, and suchodd things, which, sung briskly andgladly by two young and fresh voices,rather drew the hearts of contemplativelisteners to the musicians.

"They sing very well whatever," saidMackenzie with a critical air to Ingramwhen the young people were so busilyengaged with their own affairs as apparentlyto forget the presence of theothers. "Oh yes, they sing very wellwhatever; and what should the youngfolks sing about but making love andcourting, and all that?"

"Natural enough," said Ingram, lookingrather wistfully at the two at the otherend of the room. "I suppose Sheila willhave a sweetheart some day?"

"Oh yes, Sheila will hef a sweetheartsome day," said her father good-humoredly."Sheila is a good-looking girl: shewill hef a sweetheart some day."

"Oh yes, she will marry—Sheila willmarry: what will be the life of a younggirl if she does not marry?"

At this moment, as Ingram afterwarddescribed it, a sort of "flash of inspiration"darted in upon him, and he resolvedthere and then to brave the wrathof the old king, and place all the conspiracybefore him, if only the musickept loud enough to prevent his beingoverheard.

"It will be hard on you to part withSheila when she marries," said Ingram,scarcely daring to look up.

"Oh, ay, it will be that," said Mackenziecheerfully enough. "But it issevery one will hef to do that, and nogreat harm comes of it. Oh no, it willnot be much whatever; and Sheila, shewill be very glad in a little while after,and it will be enough for me to see thatshe is ferry contented and happy. Theyoung folk must marry, you will see;and what is the use of marrying if it isnot when they are young? But Sheila,she will think of none of these things.It was young Mr. MacIntyre of Sutherland—youhef seen him last year inStornoway: he hass three thousand acresof a deer forest in Sutherland—and hewill be ferry glad to marry my Sheila.But I will say to him, 'It is not for meto say yes or no to you, Mr. MacIntyre:it is Sheila herself will tell you that.'But he wass afraid to speak to her; andSheila herself will know nothing of whyhe came twice to Borva the last year."

"It is very good of you to leave Sheilaquite unbiased in her choice," said Ingram:"many fathers would have beensorely tempted by that deer forest."

Old Mackenzie laughed a loud laughof derision, that fortunately did not stopLavender's execution of "I would thatmy love would silently."

"What the teffle," said Mackenzie,"hef I to want a deer forest for mySheila? Sheila is no fisherman's lass.[pg 672]She has plenty for herself, and she willmarry just the young man she wants tomarry, and no other one: that is whatshe will do, by Kott!"

All this was most hopeful. If Mackenziehad himself been advocatingLavender's suit, could he have saidmore? But notwithstanding all thesefrank and generous promises, dealingwith a future which the old man consideredas indefinitely remote, Ingram wasstill afraid of the announcement he wasabout to make.

"Sheila is fortunately situated," hesaid, "in having a father who thinks onlyof her happiness. But I suppose shehas never yet shown a preference for anyone?"

And Ingram laughed too, but in anembarrassed way, and his sallow facegrew darker with a blush. Was therenot something painful in the unintentionalimplication that of course Ingramcould not be considered a possible loverof Sheila's, and that the girl herself wasso well aware of it that she could openlytestify to her regard for him?

"And it would be a good thing forSheila," continued her father, moregravely, "if there wass any young manabout the Lewis that she would tek aliking to; for it will be some day I canno more look after her, and it would bebad for her to be left alone all by herselfin the island."

"And you don't think you see beforeyou now some one who might take onhim the charge of Sheila's future?" saidIngram, looking toward Lavender.

"The English gentleman?" said Mackenziewith a smile. "No, that any wayis not possible."

"I fancy it is more than possible,"said Ingram, resolved to go straight atit. "I know for a fact that he wouldlike to marry your daughter, and I thinkthat Sheila, without knowing it herselfalmost, is well inclined toward him."

She caught sight of a strange look onhis face, and in an instant was by hisside: "Papa, what is the matter withyou?"

"Nothing, Sheila, nothing," he saidimpatiently. "I am a little tired of themusic, that is all. But go on with themusic. Go back to the piano, Sheila,and go on with the music, and Mr. Ingramand me, we will go outside for alittle while."

Mackenzie walked out of the room,and said aloud in the hall, "Ay, are youcoming, Mr. Ingram? It iss a fine nightthis night, and the wind is in a verygood way for the weather."

And then, as he went out to the front,he hummed aloud, so that Sheila shouldhear,

Ingram followed the old man outside,with a somewhat guilty conscience suggestingodd things to him. Would itnot be possible now to shut one's earsfor the next half hour? Angry wordswere only little perturbations in the air.If you shut your ears till they were allover, what harm could be done? Allthe big facts of life would remain thesame. The sea, the sky, the hills, thehuman beings around you, even yourdesire of sleep for the night and yourwholesome longing for breakfast in themorning, would all remain, and theangry words would have passed away.But perhaps it was a proper punishmentthat he should now go out and bear allthe wrath of this fierce old gentleman,whose daughter he had conspired tocarry off. Mackenzie was walking upand down the path outside in the cooland silent night. There was not muchmoon now, but a clear and lambent twilightshowed all the familiar features ofLoch Roag and the southern hills, anddown there in the bay you could vaguelymake out the Maighdean-mhara rockingin the tiny waves that washed in onthe white shore. Ingram had neverlooked on this pretty picture with a lessfeeling of delight.

"Well, you see, Mr. Mackenzie," he[pg 673]was beginning, "you must make thisexcuse for him—"

But Mackenzie put aside Lavender atonce. It was all about Sheila that hewanted to know. There was no angerin his words; only a great anxiety, andsometimes an extraordinary and patheticeffort to take a philosophical view of thesituation. What had Sheila said? WasSheila deeply interested in the youngman? Would it please Sheila if he wasto go in-doors and give at once his freeconsent to her marrying this Mr. Lavender?

"Oh, you must not think," said Mackenzie,with a certain loftiness of aireven amidst his great perturbation andanxiety—"you must not think I hef notforeseen all this. It wass some day orother Sheila will be sure to marry; andalthough I did not expect—no, I did notexpectthat—that she would marry astranger and an Englishman, if it willplease her that is enough. You cannottell a young lass the one she shouldmarry: it iss all a chance the one shelikes, and if she does not marry him itis better she will not marry at all. Ohyes, I know that ferry well. And I hefknown there wass a time coming whenI would give away my Sheila to someyoung man; and there iss no use complainingof it. But you hef not told memuch about this young man, or I hefforgotten: it is the same thing whatever.He has not much money, you said—heis waiting for some money. Well, thisis what I will do: I will give him all mymoney if he will come and live in theLewis."

All the philosophy he had been musteringup fell away from that last sentence.It was like the cry of a drowningman who sees the last life-boat setout for shore, leaving him to his fate.And Ingram had not a word to say inreply to that piteous entreaty.

"I do not ask him to stop in Borva:no, it iss a small place for one that hasslived in a town. But the Lewis, that isquite different; and there iss ferry goodhouses in Stornoway."

"But surely, sir," said Ingram, "youneed not consider all this just yet. Iam sure neither of them has thought ofany such thing."

"No," said Mackenzie, recoveringhimself, "perhaps not. But we hef ourduties to look at the future of youngfolks. And you will say that Mr. Lavenderhass only expectations of money?"

"Well, the expectation is almost a certainty.His aunt, I have told you, is avery rich old lady, who has no other nearrelations, and she is exceedingly fond ofhim, and would do anything for him. Iam sure the allowance he has now isgreatly in excess of what she spends onherself."

"But they might quarrel, you know—theymight quarrel. You hef always tolook to the future: they might quarrel,and what will he do then?"

"Why, you don't suppose he couldn'tsupport himself if the worst were to cometo the worst? He is an amazingly cleverfellow—"

"Ay, that is very good," said Mackenziein a cautious sort of way, "buthas he ever made any money?"

"Oh, I fancy not—nothing to speakof. He has sold some pictures, but Ithink he has given more away."

"Then it iss not easy, tek my wordfor it, Mr. Ingram, to begin a new tradeif you are twenty-five years of age; andthe people who will tek your pictures fornothing, will they pay for them if youwanted the money?"

It was obviously the old man's eagerwish to prove to himself that, somehowor other, Lavender might come to haveno money, and be made dependent onhis father-in-law. So far, indeed, fromsharing the sentiments ordinarily attributedto that important relative, he wouldhave welcomed with a heartfelt joy theinformation that the man who, as he expected,was about to marry his daughterwas absolutely penniless. Not evenall the attractions of that deer forestin Sutherlandshire—particularly fascinatingas they must have been to a manof his education and surroundings—hadbeen able to lead the old King of Borvaeven into hinting to his daughter thatthe owner of that property would like tomarry her. Sheila was to choose for[pg 674]herself. She was not like a fisherman'slass, bound to consider ways and means.And now that she had chosen, or at leastindicated the possibility of her doing so,her father's chief desire was that his futureson-in-law should come and takeand enjoy his money, so only that Sheilamight not be carried away from him forever.

"Well, I will see about it," said Mackenziewith an affectation of cheerfuland practical shrewdness. "Oh yes, Iwill see about it when Sheila has madeup her mind. He is a very good youngman, whatever—"

"He is the best-hearted fellow I know,"said Ingram warmly. "I don't thinkSheila has much to fear if she marrieshim. If you had known him as long asI have, you would know how consideratehe is to everybody about him, howgenerous he is, how good-natured andcheerful, and so forth: in short, he is athorough good fellow, that's what I haveto say about him."

"It iss well for him he will hef such achampion," said Mackenzie with a smile:"there is not many Sheila will pay attentionto as she does to you."

They went in-doors again, Ingramscarcely knowing how he had got soeasily through the ordeal, but very gladit was over.

Sheila was still at the piano, and ontheir entering she said, "Papa, here is asong you must learn to sing with me."

He put his hand on her head andsaid, "I hope it will be a long time beforehe will thin your hair, Sheila."

The girl looked up surprised. Scotchfolks are, as a rule, somewhat reticentin their display of affection, and it wasnot often that her father talked to herin that way. What was there in hisface that made her glance instinctivelytoward Ingram. Somehow or other herhand sought her father's hand, and sherose and went away from the piano, withher head bent down and tears beginningto tell in her eyes.

"Yes, that is a capital song," saidIngram loudly. Sing 'The Arethusa,'Lavender—'Said the saucy Arethusa.'"

Lavender, knowing what had takenplace, and not daring to follow with hiseyes Sheila and her father, who hadgone to the other end of the room, sangthe song. Never was a gallant anddevil-may-care sea-song sung so hopelesslywithout spirit. But the piano madea noise and the verses took up time.When he had finished he almost fearedto turn round, and yet there was nothingdreadful in the picture that presenteditself. Sheila was sitting on her father'sknee, with her head buried in his bosom,while he was patting her head and talkingin a low voice to her. The King ofBorva did not look particularly fierce.

"Yes, it iss a teffle of a good song," hesaid suddenly. "Now get up, Sheila,and go and tell Mairi we will have a bitof bread and cheese before going to bed.And there will be a little hot water wantedin the other room, for this room it isstoo full of the smoke."

Sheila, as she went out of the room,had her head cast down and perhapsan extra tinge of color in her youngand pretty face. But surely, Lavenderthought to himself as he watched heranxiously, she did not look grieved. Asfor her father, what should he do now?Turn suddenly round and beg Mackenzie'spardon, and throw himself on hisgenerosity? When he did, with muchinward trembling, venture to approachthe old man, he found no such explanationpossible. The King of Borva wasin one of his grandest moods—dignified,courteous, cautious, and yet inclined totreat everybody and everything with asort of lofty good-humor. He spoke toLavender in the most friendly way, butit was about the singular and startlingfact that modern research had provedmany of the Roman legends to be utterlyuntrustworthy. Mr. Mackenzieobserved that the man was wanting inproper courage who feared to accept theresults of such inquiries. It was betterthat we should know the truth, and thenthe kings who had really made Romegreat might emerge from the fog of[pg 675]tradition in their proper shape. There wassomething quite sympathetic in the wayhe talked of those ill-treated sovereigns,whom the vulgar mind had clothed inmist.

Lavender was sorely beset by the rivalclaims of Rome and Borva upon his attention.He was inwardly inclined tocurse Numa Pompilius—which wouldhave been ineffectual—when he foundthat personage interfering with a wildeffort to discover why Mackenzie shouldtreat him in this way. And then it occurredto him that, as he had never saida word to Mackenzie about this affair, itwas too much to expect that Sheila'sfather should himself open the subject.On the contrary, Mackenzie was benton extending a grave courtesy to hisguest, so that the latter should not feelill at ease until it suited himself to makeany explanations he might choose. Itwas not Mackenzie's business to ask thisyoung man if he wanted to marry Sheila.No. The king's daughter, if she wereto be won at all, was to be won by asuitor, and it was not for her father tobe in a hurry about it. So Lavender gotback into the region of early Romanhistory, and tried to recall what he hadlearned in Livy, and quite coincidedwith everything that Niebuhr had saidor proved, and with everything thatMackenzie thought Niebuhr had saidor proved. He was only too glad, indeed,to find himself talking to Sheila'sfather in this friendly fashion.

Then Sheila came in and told themthat supper was laid in the adjoiningroom. At that modest meal a greatgood-humor prevailed. Sometimes, itis true, it occurred to Ingram that Sheilaoccasionally cast an anxious glance toher father, as if she were trying to discoverwhether he was really satisfied, orwhether he were not merely pretendingsatisfaction to please her; but for therest the party was a most friendly andmerry one. Lavender, naturally enough,was in the highest of spirits, and nothingcould exceed the lighthearted endeavorshe made to amuse and interest and cheerhis companions. Sheila, indeed, sat uplater than usual, even although pipeswere lit again, and the slate-gray silklikely to bear witness to the fact in themorning. How comfortable and homelywas this sort of life in the remotestone building overlooking the sea! Hebegan to think that he could live alwaysin Borva if only Sheila were with himas his companion.

Was it an actual fact, then, he askedhimself next morning, that he stood confessedto the small world of Borva asSheila's accepted lover? Not a word onthe subject had passed between Mackenzieand himself, and yet he found himselfassuming the position of a youngerrelative, and rather expecting advicefrom the old man. He began to take agreat interest, too, in the local administrationof the island: he examined thewindow-fastenings of Mackenzie's houseand saw that they would be useful in thewinter, and expressed to Sheila's fatherhis confidential opinion that the girlshould not be allowed to go out in theMaighdean-mhara without Duncan.

"She will know as much about boatsas Duncan himself," said her father witha smile. "But Sheila will not go outwhen the rough weather begins."

"Of course you keep her in-doorsthen," said the younger man, alreadyassuming some little charge over Sheila'scomfort.

The father laughed aloud at this simplicityon the part of the Englishman:"If we wass to keep in-doors in the badweather, it would be all the winter wewould be in-doors! There iss no day atall Sheila will not be out some time orother; and she is never so well as inthe hard weather, when she will be outalways in the snow and the frost, andhef plenty of exercise and amusement."

"She is as strong as a young pony,that is what Sheila is," said her fatherproudly. "And there is no one in theisland will run so fast, or walk so longwithout tiring, or carry things from theshore as she will—not one."

But here he suddenly checked himself."That is," he said with some little expressionof annoyance, "I wass saying[pg 676]Sheila could do that if it wass any use;but she will not do such things, like afisherman's lass that hass to keep in thework."

"Oh, of course not," said Lavenderhastily. "But still, you know, it ispleasant to know she is so strong andwell."

And at this moment Sheila herself appeared,accompanied by her great deerhound,and testifying by the bright colorin her face to the assurances of her healthher father had been giving. She hadjust come up and over the hill from Borvabost,while as yet breakfast had notbeen served. Somehow or other, Lavenderfancied she never looked so brightand bold and handsome as in the earlymorning, with the fresh sea-air tinglingthe color in her cheeks, and the sunlightshining in the clear eyes or giving fromtime to time a glimpse of her perfectteeth. But this morning she did notseem quite so frankly merry as usual.She patted the deerhound's head, andrather kept her eyes away from herfather and his companion. And thenshe took Bras away to give him hisbreakfast, just as Ingram appeared tobid her good-morning and ask her whatshe meant by being about so early.

How anxiously Lavender now beganto calculate on the remaining days oftheir stay in Borva! They seemed sofew. He got up at preposterously earlyhours to make each day as long as possible,but it slipped away with a fatalspeed; and already he began to thinkof Stornoway and the Clansman andhis bidding good-bye to Sheila. He hadsaid no more to her of any pledge asregarded the future. He was content tosee that she was pleased to be with him;and happy indeed were their ramblesabout the island, their excursions inSheila's boat, their visits to the WhiteWater in search of salmon. Nor hadhe yet spoken to Sheila's father. Heknew that Mackenzie knew, and bothseemed to take it for granted that nogood could come of a formal explanationuntil Sheila herself should make herwishes known. That, indeed, was theonly aspect of the case that apparentlypresented itself to the old King of Borva.He forgot altogether those precautionsand investigations which are supposedto occupy the mind of a future father-in-law,and only sought to see how Sheilawas affected toward the young man whowas soon about to leave the island.When he saw her pleased to be walkingwith Lavender and talking with him ofan evening, he was pleased, and wouldrather have a cold dinner than break inupon them to hurry them home. Whenhe saw her disappointed because Lavenderhad been unfortunate in his salmon-fishing,he was ready to swear at Duncanfor not having had the fish in a bettertemper. And the most of his conversationwith Ingram consisted of anendeavor to convince himself that, afterall, what had happened was for the best,and that Sheila seemed to be happy.

But somehow or other, when the timefor their departure was drawing near,Mackenzie showed a strange desire thathis guests should spend the last two daysin Stornoway. When Lavender firstheard this proposal he glanced towardSheila, and his face showed clearly hisdisappointment.

"But Sheila will go with us too," saidher father, replying to that unutteredprotest in the most innocent fashion;and then Lavender's face brightenedagain, and he said that nothing wouldgive him greater pleasure than to spendtwo days in Stornoway.

"And you must not think," said Mackenzieanxiously, "that it is one day ortwo days or a great many days will showyou all the fine things about Stornoway.And if you were to live in Stornowayyou would find very good acquaintancesand friends there; and in the autumn,when the shooting begins, there aremany English who will come up, andthere will be ferry great doings at thecastle. And there is some gentlemennow at Grimersta whom you hef notseen, and they are ferry fine gentlemen;and at Garra-na-hina there iss two moregentlemen for the salmon-fishing. Oh,there iss a great many fine people inthe Lewis, and it iss not all as lonely asBorva."

"If it is half as pleasant a place tolive in as Borva, it will do," said Lavender,with a flush of enthusiasm in hisface as he looked toward Sheila andsaw her pleased and downcast eyes.

"But it iss not to be compared," saidMackenzie eagerly. "Borva, that isnothing at all; but the Lewis, it is aferry different thing to live in the Lewis;and many English gentlemen hef toldme they would like to live always in theLewis."

"I think I should too," said Lavenderlightly and carelessly, little thinking whatimportance the old man immediately andgladly put upon the admission.

From that moment, Lavender, althoughunconscious of what had happened, hadnothing to fear in the way of oppositionfrom Sheila's father. If he had thereand then boldly asked Mackenzie forhis daughter, the old man would havegiven his consent freely, and bade Lavendergo to Sheila herself.

And so they set sail, one pleasantforenoon, from Borvabost, and the lightwind that ruffled the blue of Loch Roaggently filled the mainsail of the Maigh-dean-mharaas she lightly ran down thetortuous channel.

"I don't like to go away from Borva,"said Lavender in a low voice to Sheila,"but I might have been leaving the islandwith greater regret, for, you know,I expect to be back soon."

"We shall always be glad to see you,"said the girl; and although he wouldrather have had her say "I" than "we,"there was something in the tone of hervoice that contented him.

At Garra-na-hina Mackenzie pointedout with a great interest to Lavender atall man who was going down throughsome meadows to the Amhuinn Dhubh,"the Black River." He had a long rodover his shoulder, and behind him, atsome distance, followed a shorter man,who carried a gaff and landing-net.Mackenzie anxiously explained to Lavenderthat the tall figure was that of anEnglishman. Lavender accepted thestatement. But would he not go downto the river and make his acquaintance?Lavender could not understand why heshould be expected to take so great aninterest in an ordinary English sportsman.

"Ferry well," said Mackenzie, a trifledisappointed, "but you would find severalof the English in the Lewis if youwass living here."

These last two days in Stornoway werevery pleasant. On their previous visitto the town Mackenzie had given upmuch of his time to business affairs, andwas a good deal away from his guests,but now he devoted himself to makingthem particularly comfortable in theplace and amusing them in every possibleway. He introduced Lavender,in especial, to all his friends there, andwas most anxious to impress on theyoung man that life in Stornoway was,on the whole, rather a brilliant affair.Then was there a finer point from whichyou could start at will for Inverness,Oban and such great centres of civilization?Very soon there would even bea telegraphic cable laid to the mainland.Was Mr. Lavender aware that frequentlyyou could see the Sutherlandshire hillsfrom this very town of Stornoway?

There Sheila laughed, and Lavender,who kept watching her face always toread all her fancies and sentiments andwishes in the shifting lights of it, immediatelydemanded an explanation.

"It is no good thing," said Sheila, "tosee the Sutherland hills often, for whenyou see them it means to rain."

But Lavender had not been taught tofear the rain of the Western Isles. Thevery weather seemed to have conspiredwith Mackenzie to charm the young manwith the island. At this moment, for example,they were driving away from Stornowayalong the side of the great baythat stretches northward until it finds itsfurthest promontory in Tiumpan Head.What magnificence of color shone allaround them in the hot sunlight! Wherethe ruffled blue sea came near the longsweep of yellow sand it grew to be abright, transparent green. The splendidcurve of the bay showed a gleaming lineof white where the waves broke in massesof hissing foam; and beyond that curveagain long promontories of dark red[pg 678]conglomerate ran out into the darker watersof the sea, with their summits shiningwith the bright sea-grass. Here, close athand, were warm meadows, with calvesand lambs cropping the sweet-scentedDutch clover. A few huts, shaped likebeehives, stood by the roadside, close bysome deep peat cuttings. There was acutting in the yellow sand of the bay forthe pulling up of captured whales. Nowand again you could see a solan dartdown from the blue heavens into theblue of the sea, sending up a spurt ofwater twenty feet high as he disappeared;and far out there, between the redprecipices and the ruffled waters beneath,white sea-fowl flew from crag to crag ordropped down upon the sea to rise andfall with the waves.

At the small hamlet of Gress they gota large rowing-boat manned by sturdyfishermen, and set out to explore thegreat caves formed in the mighty wallof conglomerate that here fronts the sea.The wild-fowl flew about them, screamingand yelling at being disturbed. Thelong swell of the sea lifted the boat, passedfrom under it, and went on with majesticforce to crash on the glowing redcrags and send jets of foam flying upthe face of them. They captured oneof the sea-birds—a young thing aboutas big as a hen, with staring eyes, scantfeathers, and a long beak with which itinstinctively tried to bite its enemies—andthe parents of it kept swoopingdown over the boat, uttering shrill cries,until their offspring was restored to thesurface of the water. They went intothe great loud-sounding caverns, gettinga new impression of the extraordinaryclearness of the sea-water by the depth atwhich the bottom was visible; and heretheir shouts occasionally called up fromsome dim twilight recess, far in amongthe perilous rocks, the head of a youngseal, which would instantly dive againand be seen no more. They watchedthe salmon splash in the shallower creekswhere the sea had scooped out a tinybay of ruddy sand, and then a slowlyrolling porpoise would show his blackback above the water and silently disappearagain. All this was pleasantenough on a pleasant morning, in freshsea-air and sunlight, in holiday-time;and was there any reason, Mackenziemay fairly have thought, why this youngman, if he did marry Sheila, should notcome and live in a place where so muchhealthy amusement was to be found?

And in the evening, too, when theyhad climbed to the top of the hills on thesouth of Stornoway harbor, did not thelittle town look sufficiently picturesque,with its white houses, its shipping, itsgreat castle and plantations lying inshadow under the green of the easternsky? Then away to the west what astrange picture presented itself! Thickbands of gray cloud lay across the sky,and the sunlight from behind them sentdown great rays of misty yellow on theendless miles of moor. But how was itthat, as these shafts of sunlight struck onthe far and successive ridges of the moorland,each long undulation seemed tobecome transparent, and all the islandappeared to consist of great golden-brownshells heaped up behind eachother, with the sunlight shining through?

"I have tried a good many new effectssince coming up here," said Lavender,"but I shall not trythat."

"Oh, it iss nothing—it is nothing atall," said Mackenzie with a studied airof unconcern. "There iss much morebeautiful things than that in the island,but you will hef need of a ferry longtime before you will find it all out. That—thatiss nothing at all."

"You will perhaps make a picture ofit some other time," said Sheila with hereyes cast down, and as he was standingby her at the time, he took her handand pressed it, and said, "I hope so."

Then, that night! Did not every hourproduce some new and wonderful scene,or was it only that each minute grew tobe so precious, and that the enchantmentof Sheila's presence filled the airaround him? There was no moon, butthe stars shone over the bay and theharbor and the dusky hills beyond thecastle. Every few seconds the lighthouseat Arnish Point sent out its wildglare of orange fire into the heart, ofthe clear darkness, and then as suddenly[pg 679]faded out and left the eyes too bewilderedto make out the configuration ofthe rocks. All over the north-west therestill remained the pale glow of the twilight,and somehow Lavender seemed tothink that that strange glow belonged toSheila's home in the west, and that thepeople in Stornoway knew nothing ofthe wonders of Loch Roag and of thestrange nights there. Was he likelyever to forget?

"Good-bye, Sheila," he said nextmorning, when the last signal had beengiven and the Clansman was about tomove from her moorings.

She had bidden good-bye to Ingramalready, but somehow she could notspeak to his companion just at this lastmoment. She pressed his hand andturned away, and went ashore with herfather. Then the big steamer throbbedits way out of the harbor, and by and bythe island of Lewis lay but as a thinblue cloud along the horizon; and whocould tell that human beings, withstrange hopes and fancies and griefs,were hidden away in that pale line ofvapor?

CHAPTER IX.

"FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!"

A night journey from Greenock toLondon is a sufficiently prosaic affair inordinary circumstances, but it need notbe always so. What if a young man,apparently occupied in making himselfcomfortable and in talking nonsense tohis friend and companion, should be secretlycalculating how the journey couldbe made most pleasant to a bride, andthat bride his bride? Lavender madeexperiments with regard to the waysand tempers of guards; he borrowedplanks of wood with which to makesleeping-couches of an ordinary first-classcarriage; he bribed a certain officialto have the compartment secured;he took note of the time when, and theplace where, refreshments could be procured:all these things he did, thinkingof Sheila. And when Ingram, sometimessurprised by his good-nature, andoccasionally remonstrating against hisextravagance, at last fell asleep on themore or less comfortable cushions stretchedacross the planks, Lavender wouldhave him wake up again, that he mightbe induced to talk once more aboutSheila. Ingram would make use ofsome wicked words, rub his eyes, askwhat was the last station they had passed,and then begin to preach to Lavenderabout the great obligations he wasunder to Sheila, and what would be expectedof him in after times.

"You are coming away just now," hewould say, while Lavender, who couldnot sleep at all, was only anxious thatSheila's name should be mentioned, "enrichedwith a greater treasure than fallsto the lot of most men. If you knowhow to value that treasure, there is nota king or emperor in Europe who shouldnot envy you."

"We'll see about that afterward, bywhat you do. But in the mean time youdon't know what you have won. Youdon't know the magnificent single-heartednessof that girl, her keen sense ofhonor, nor the strength of character, ofjudgment and decision that lies beneathher apparent simplicity. Why, I haveknown Sheila, now—But what's theuse of talking?"

"I wish you would talk, though, Ingram,"said his companion quite submissively."You have known her longerthan I. I am willing to believe all yousay of her, and anxious, indeed, to knowas much about her as possible. Youdon't suppose I fancy she is anythingless than you say?"

"Well," said Ingram doubtfully, "perhapsnot. The worst of it is, that youtake such odd readings of people. However,when you marry her, as I nowhope you may, you will soon find out;and then, if you are not grateful, if youdon't understand and appreciatethenthe fine qualities of this girl, the sooneryou put a millstone round your neck anddrop over Chelsea Bridge the better."

"She will always have in you a goodfriend to look after her when she comesto London."

"Oh, don't imagine I mean to thrustmyself in at your breakfast-table to giveyou advice. If a husband and wife cannotmanage their own affairs satisfactorily,no third person can; and I amgetting to be an elderly man, who likespeace and comfort and his own quiet."

"I wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense!"said Lavender impetuously."You know you are bound to marry;and the woman you ask to marry youwill be a precious fool if she refuses. Idon't know, indeed, how you and Sheilaever escaped—"

"Look here, Lavender," said his companion,speaking in a somewhat moreearnest fashion, "if you marry SheilaMackenzie I suppose I may see somethingof both of you from time to time.But you are naturally jealous and exacting,as is the way with many good fellowswho have had too much of theirown will in the world; and if you startoff with the notion now that Sheila andI might ever have married, or that sucha thing was ever thought of by either ofus, the certain consequence will be thatyou will become jealous of me, and thatin time I shall have to stop seeing eitherof you if you happen to be living inLondon."

"And if ever the time comes," saidLavender lightly, "when I prove myselfsuch a fool, I hope I shall remember thata millstone can be bought in Victoriaroad and that Chelsea Bridge is handy."

For some time after Ingram was permittedto rest in peace, and it was notuntil they had reached some big stationor other toward morning that he woke.Lavender had never closed his eyes.

"You seem to have acquired a trickrecently of looking at all the difficultiesof your position at once. Why don't youtake them singly? You've just got ridof Mackenzie's opposition: that mighthave contented you for a while."

"I think the best plan will be to saynothing of this to my aunt at present. Ithink we ought to get married first, andwhen I take Sheila to see her as my wife,what can she say then?"

"But what is Sheila likely to say beforethen? And Sheila's father? You mustbe out of your mind!"

"Scenes don't hurt anybody, unlesswhen they end in brickbats or decanters.Your aunt must know you would marrysome day."

"That is nothing. Every old ladyhas a fancy for imagining possible marriages;but your aunt is a reasonablewoman, and could not possibly objectto your marrying a girl like Sheila?"

"Oh, couldn't she? Then you don'tknow her: 'Frank, my dear, what arethe arms borne by your wife's family?''My dear aunt, I will describe them toyou as becomes a dutiful nephew. Thearms are quarterly: first and fourth,vert, a herring, argent; second andthird, azure, a solan-goose, volant, or.The crest, out of a crown vallery, argent,a cask of whisky, gules. Supporters,dexter, a gillie; sinister, a fisherman.'"

"And a very good coat-of-arms, too.You might add the mottoUltimus regum.OrAtavis editus regibus. OrTyrrhenaregum progenies. To think that youraunt would forbid your wedding a king'sdaughter!"

"I should wed the king's daughter,aunt or no aunt, in any case; but, yousee, it would be uncommonly awkward,just as old Mackenzie would want toknow something more particular aboutmy circumstances; and he might askfor references to the old lady herself,just as if I were a tenant about to takea house."

But now Ingram felt himself just asunable as his companion to escape intounconsciousness, and so he roused himselfthoroughly, and began to talk aboutLewis and Borva and the Mackenzies,and the duties and responsibilities[pg 681]Lavender would undertake in marryingSheila.

"Mackenzie," he said, "will expectyou to live in Stornoway at least halfthe year, and it will be very hard onhim if you don't."

"Oh, as to that," said the other, "Ishould have no objection; but, you see,if I am to get married I really think Iought to try to get into some position ofearning my own living or helping towardit, you know. I begin to see howgalling this sort of dependence on myaunt might be if I wished to act for myself.Now, if I were to begin to do anything,I could not go and bury myselfin Lewis for half the year—just at first:by and by, you know, it might be different.But don't you think I ought tobegin and do something?"

"Most certainly. I have often wishedyou had been born a carpenter or painteror glazier."

"People are not born carpenters orglaziers, but sometimes they are bornpainters. I think I have been bornnothing; but I am willing to try, moreespecially as I think Sheila would likeit."

"I would fix first what your occupationwas to be, if I were you. There isno hurry about telling Sheila, althoughshe will be very glad to get as muchnews of you as possible, and I hope youwill spare no time or trouble in pleasingher in that line. By the way, whatan infamous shame it was of you to goand gammon old Mackenzie into thebelief that he can read poetry! Why,he will make that girl's life a burden toher. I heard him propose to readParadiseLost to her as soon as the rain setin."

"I didn't gammon him," said Lavenderwith a laugh. "Every man thinkshe can read poetry better than everyother man, even as every man fanciesthat no one gets cigars as good and ascheap as he does, and that no one candrive a horse safely but himself. Mytalking about his reading was not as badas Sheila's persuading him that he canplay whist. Did you ever know a manwho did not believe that everybody else'sreading of poetry was affected, stiltedand unbearable? I know Mackenziemust have been reading poetry to Sheilalong before I mentioned it to him."

"Well, Sheila would believe that herfather could command the Channel fleet,or turn out the present ministry, or builda bridge to America, if only anybodyhinted it to her. Touching that CrystalPalace: did you observe how little notionof size she could have got from pictureswhen she asked me if the Crystal Palacewas much bigger than the hot-houses atLewis Castle?"

"What a world of wonder the girl iscoming into!" said the other meditatively."But it will be all lit up by one sunif only you take care of her and justifyher belief in you."

"I have not much doubt," said Lavenderwith a certain modest confidencein his manner which had repeatedly oflate pleased his friend.

Even Sheila herself could scarcelyhave found London more strange thandid the two men who had just returnedfrom a month's sojourn in the northernHebrides. The dingy trees in EustonSquare, the pale sunlight that shonedown on the gray pavements, the noiseof the omnibuses and carts, the multitudeof strangers, the blue and mist-likesmoke that hung about Tottenham Courtroad,—all were as strange to them as thesensation of sitting in a hansom and beingdriven along by an unseen driver. Lavenderconfessed afterward that he waspervaded by an odd sort of desire toknow whether there was anybody inLondon at all like Sheila. Now andagain a smartly-dressed girl passed alongthe pavement: what was it that madethe difference between her and that othergirl whom he had just left? Yet he wishedto have the difference as decided aspossible. When some bright, fresh-colored,[pg 682]pleasant-looking girl passed, he wasanxious to prove to himself that she wasnot to be compared with Sheila. Wherein all London could you find eyes thattold so much? He forgot to place thespecialty of Sheila's eyes in the fact oftheir being a dark gray-blue under blackeyelashes. What he did remember wasthat no eyes could possibly say the samethings to him as they had said. Andwhere in all London was the same sweetaspect to be found, or the same unconsciouslyproud and gentle demeanor, orthe same tender friendliness expressedin a beautiful face? He would not sayanything against London women, for allthat. It was no fault of theirs that theycould not be sea-kings' daughters, withthe courage and frankness and sweetnessof the sea gone into their blood. Hewas only too pleased to have proved tohimself, by looking at some half dozenpretty shop-girls, that not in London wasthere any one to compare with PrincessSheila.

For many a day thereafter Ingramhad to suffer a good deal of this sort oflover's logic, and bore it with great fortitude.Indeed, nothing pleased himmore than to observe that Lavender'saffection, so far from waning, engrossedmore and more of his thought and histime; and he listened with unfailinggood-nature and patience to the perpetualtalk of his friend about Sheila and herhome, and the future that might be instore for both of them. If he had acceptedhalf the invitations to dinner sentdown to him at the Board of Trade byhis friend, he would scarcely ever havebeen out of Lavender's club. Many along evening they passed in this way—eitherin Lavender's rooms in King streetor in Ingram's lodgings in Sloane street.Ingram quite consented to lie in a chairand smoke, sometimes putting in a wordof caution to bring Lavender back fromthe romantic Sheila to the real Sheila,sometimes smiling at some wild proposalor statement on the part of his friend,but always glad to see that the prettyidealisms planted during their stay inthe far North were in no danger of dyingout down here in the South. Those weregreat days, too, when a letter arrivedfrom Sheila. Nothing had been saidabout their corresponding, but Lavenderhad written shortly after his arrival inLondon, and Sheila had answered forher father and herself. It wanted buta very little amount of ingenuity to continuethe interchange of letters thus begun;and when the well-known envelopearrived high holiday was immediatelyproclaimed by the recipient of it. Hedid not show Ingram these letters, ofcourse, but the contents of them weresoon bit by bit revealed. He was alsopermitted to see the envelope, as ifSheila's handwriting had some magicalcharm about it. Sometimes, indeed, Ingramhad himself a letter from Sheila,and that was immediately shown to Lavender.Was he pleased to find that thesecommunications were excessively business-like—describinghow the fishing was going on, what was doing in theschools, and how John the Piper wasconducting himself, with talk about theprojected telegraphic cable, the shootingin Harris, the health of Bras, and otheresoteric matters?

Lavender's communications with theKing of Borva were of a different nature.Wonderful volumes on building, agricultureand what not, tobacco hailingfrom certain royal sources in the neighborhoodof the Pyramids, and now andagain a new sort of rifle or some freshinvention in fishing-tackle,—these werethe sort of things that found their way toLewis. And then in reply came haunchesof venison, and kegs of rare whisky, andskins of wild animals, which, all veryadmirable in their way, were a triflecumbersome in a couple of moderaterooms in King street, St. James's. Buthere Lavender hit upon a happy device.He had long ago talked to his aunt ofthe mysterious potentate in the far North,who was the ruler of man, beast and fish,and who had an only daughter. Whenthese presents arrived, Mrs. Lavenderwas informed that they were meant forher, and was given to understand thatthey were the propitiatory gifts of a half-savagemonarch who wished to seek herfriendship. In vain did Ingram warn[pg 683]Lavender of the possible danger of thisfoolish joke. The young man laughed,and would come down to Sloane streetwith another story of his success as anenvoy of the distant king.

And so the months went slowly by, andLavender raved about Sheila, and dreamedabout Sheila, and was always goingto begin some splendid achievement forSheila's sake, but never just managed tobegin. After all, the future did not lookvery terrible, and the present was satisfactoryenough. Mrs. Lavender had noobjection whatever to listening to hispraises of Sheila, and had even gonethe length of approving of the girl's photographwhen it was shown her. But atthe end of six months Lavender suddenlywent down to Sloane street, foundIngram in his lodgings, and said, "Ingram,I start for Lewis to-morrow."

"You'll have to bear worse if you go.You don't know what getting to Lewisis in the winter. You'll be killed withcold before you see the Minch."

"I can stand a good bit of cold whenthere's a reason for it," said the youngman; "and I have written to Sheila tosay I should start to-morrow."

"In that case I had better make useof you. I suppose you won't mindtaking up to Sheila a sealskin jacketthat I have bought for her."

How could he have spared fifteenpounds out of his narrow income forsuch a present? And yet he laughed atthe idea of his ever having been in lovewith Sheila.

Lavender took the sealskin jacket withhim, and started on his journey to theNorth. It was certainly all that Ingramhad prophesied in the way of discomfort,hardship and delay. But one forenoon,Lavender, coming up from the cabin ofthe steamer into which he had descendedto escape from the bitter wind andthe sleet, saw before him a strange thing.In the middle of the black sea and undera dark gray sky lay a long wonder-landof gleaming snow. Far as the eye couldsee the successive headlands of pale whitejutted out into the dark ocean, until inthe south they faded into a gray mist andbecame invisible. And when they gotinto Stornoway harbor, how black seemedthe waters of the little bay and thehulls of the boats and the windows ofthe houses against the blinding white ofthe encircling hills!

"Yes," said Lavender to the captain,"it will be a cold drive across to LochRoag. I shall give Mackenzie's man agood dram before we start."

But it was not Mackenzie's notion ofhospitality to send Duncan to meet anhonored guest, and ere the vessel wasfast moored Lavender had caught sightof the well-known pair of horses and thebrown wagonette, and Mackenzie stampingup and down in the trampled snow.And this figure close down to the edgeof the quay? Surely, there was somethingabout the thick gray shawl, thewhite feather, the set of the head, thathe knew!

"Why, Sheila!" he cried, jumpingashore before the gangway was shovedacross, "whatever made you come toStornoway on such a day?"

"And it is not much my coming toStornoway if you will come all the wayfrom England to the Lewis," said Sheila,looking up with her bright and gladeyes.

For six months he had been trying torecall the tones of her voice in lookingat her picture, and had failed: now hefancied that she spoke more sweetly andmusically than ever.

"Ay, ay," said Mackenzie when hehad shaken hands with the young man,"it wass a piece of foolishness, her comingover to meet you in Styornoway;but the girl will be neither to hold norto bind when she teks a foolishness intoher head."

"Is this the character I hear of you,Sheila?" he said; and Mackenzie laughedat his daughter's embarrassment, andsaid she was a good lass for all that, andbundled both the young folks into theinn, where luncheon had been provided,[pg 684]with a blazing fire in the room, and akettle of hot water steaming beside it.

When they got to Borva, Lavenderbegan to see that Mackenzie had laidthe most subtle plans for reconcilinghim to the hard weather of these northernwinters; and the young man, nothingloath, fell into his ways, and wasastonished at the amusement and interestthat could be got out of a residencein this bleak island at such a season.Mackenzie discarded at once the feebleprotections against cold and wet whichhis guest had brought with him. Hegave him a pair of his own knickerbockersand enormous boots; he made himwear a frieze coat borrowed from Duncan;he insisted on his turning downthe flap of a sealskin cap and tying theends under his chin; and thus equippedthey started on many a rare expeditionround the coast. But on their first goingout, Mackenzie, looking at him, saidwith some chagrin, "Will they weargloves when they go shooting in yourcountry?"

"Oh," said Lavender, "these are onlya pair of old dogskins I use chiefly tokeep my hands clean. You see I havecut out the trigger-finger. And theykeep your hands from being numbed,you know, with the cold or the rain."

"There will be not much need of thatafter a little while," said Mackenzie;and indeed, after half an hour's trampingover snow and climbing over rocks,Lavender was well inclined to pleasethe old man by tossing the gloves intothe sea, for his hands were burning withheat.

Then the pleasant evenings after allthe fatigues of the day were over, clotheschanged, dinner despatched, and Sheilaat the open piano in that warm littledrawing-room, with its strange shellsand fish and birds!

they sang, just as in the bygone times ofsummer; and now old Mackenzie hadgot on a bit farther in his musical studies,and could hum with the best of them,

There was no winter at all in the snuglittle room, with its crimson fire andclosed shutters and songs of happiertimes. "When the rosy morn appearing"had nothing inappropriate in it;and if they particularly studied the wordsof "Oh wert thou in the cauld blast," itwas only that Sheila might teach hercompanion the Scotch pronunciation, asfar as she knew it. And once, half injoke, Lavender said he could believe itwas summer again if Sheila had only onher slate-gray silk dress, with the redribbon round her neck; and sure enough,after dinner she came down in that dress,and Lavender took her hand and kissedit in gratitude. Just at that moment, too,Mackenzie began to swear at Duncan fornot having brought him his pipe, andnot only went out of the room to lookfor it, but was a full half hour in findingit. When he came in again he wassinging carelessly,

For it had been all explained by thistime, you know, and Sheila had in acouple of trembling words pledged awayher life, and her father had given hisconsent. More than that he would havedone for the girl, if need were; and whenhe saw the perfect happiness shining inher eyes—when he saw that, throughsome vague feelings of compunction orgratitude, or even exuberant joy, she wasmore than usually affectionate towardhimself—he grew reconciled to the waysof Providence, and was ready to believethat Ingram had done them all a goodturn in bringing his friend from the Southwith him. If there was any hauntingfear at all, it was about the possibility ofSheila's husband refusing to live in Stornoway,even for half the year or a portionof the year; but did not the young manexpress himself as delighted beyondmeasure with Lewis and the Lewis people,and the sports and scenery andclimate of the island? If Mackenziecould have bought fine weather at twentypounds a day, Lavender would havegone back to London with the conviction[pg 685]that there was only one thing better thanLewis in summer-time, and that wasLewis in time of snow and frost.

The blow fell. One evening a distinctthaw set in, during the night the windwent round to the south-west, and in themorning, lo! the very desolation of desolation.Suainabhal, Mealasabhal, Cracabhalwere all hidden away behinddreary folds of mist; a slow and steadyrain poured down from the loweringskies on the wet rocks, the marshy pasture-landand the leafless bushes; theAtlantic lay dark under a gray fog,and you could scarcely see across theloch in front of the house. Sometimesthe wind freshened a bit, and howledabout the house or dashed showersagainst the streaming panes; but ordinarilythere was no sound but the ceaselesshissing of the rain on the wet gravelat the door and the rush of the wavesalong the black rocks. All signs of lifeseemed to have fled from the earth andthe sky. Bird and beast had alike takenshelter, and not even a gull or a sea-pyecrossed the melancholy lines of moorland,which were half obscured by themist of the rain.

"Well, it can't be fine weather always,"said Lavender cheerfully when Mackenziewas affecting to be greatly surprisedto find such a thing as rain in the islandof Lewis.

"No, that iss quite true," said the oldman. "It wass ferry good weather wewere having since you hef come here.And what iss a little rain?—oh, nothingat all. You will see it will go awaywhenever the wind goes round."

With that Mackenzie would again goout to the front of the house, take a turnup and down the wet gravel, and pretendto be scanning the horizon for signs of achange. Sheila, a good deal more honest,went about her household duties,saying merely to Lavender, "I am verysorry the weather has broken, but it mayclear before you go away from Borva."

"Well, I don't care," said the youngman, "though it should rain the skiesdown, if only you would keep in-doors,Sheila. But you do go out in such areckless fashion. You don't seem to reflectthat it is raining."

"Why, when you came up from theshore half an hour ago your hair was aswet as possible, and your face all redand gleaming with the rain."

"But I am none the worse. And Iam not wet now. It is impossible thatyou will always keep in a room if youhave things to do; and a little rain doesnot hurt any one."

"It occurs to me, Sheila," he observedslowly, "that you are an exceedinglyobstinate and self-willed young person,and that no one has ever exercised anyproper control over you."

She looked up for a moment with asudden glance of surprise and pain:then she saw in his eyes that he meantnothing, and she went forward to him,putting her hand in his hand, and sayingwith a smile, "I am very willing tobe controlled."

"Then hear my commands. Youshallnot go out in time of rain withoutputting something over your head ortaking an umbrella. You shallnot goout in the Maighdean-mhara withouttaking some one with you besides Mairi.You shall never, if you are away fromhome, go within fifty yards of the sea, solong as there is snow on the rocks."

"Then you are a more obedient girlthan I imagined or expected; and youmay now, if you are good, have the satisfactionof offering me a glass of sherryand a biscuit, for, rain or no rain, Lewisis a dreadful place for making peoplehungry."

Mackenzie need not have been afraid.Strange as it may appear, Lavender waswell content with the wet weather. Nodepression or impatience or remonstrance[pg 686]was visible on his face when he went tothe blurred windows, day after day, tosee only the same desolate picture—thedark sea, the wet rocks, the gray mistsover the moorland and the shining ofthe red gravel before the house. Hewould stand with his hands in his pocketand whistle "Love in thine eyes for everplays," just as if he were looking out ona cheerful summer sunrise. When heand Sheila went to the door, and werereceived by a cold blast of wet wind anda driving shower of rain, he would slamthe door to again with a laugh, and pullthe girl back into the house. Sometimesshe would not be controlled; andthen he would accompany her about thegarden as she attended to her duties, orwould go down to the shore with her togive Bras a run. From these excursionshe returned in the best of spirits, with afine color in his face; until, having gotaccustomed to heavy boots, imperviousfrieze and the discomfort of wet hands,he grew to be about as indifferent to therain as Sheila herself, and went fishingor shooting or boating with much content,whether it was wet or dry.

"It has been the happiest month ofmy life—I know that," he said to Mackenzieas they stood together on thequay at Stornoway.

"And I hope you will hef many likeit in the Lewis," said the old man cheerfully.

"I think I should soon learn to becomea Highlander up here," said Lavender,"if Sheila would only teach methe Gaelic."

"The Gaelic!" cried Mackenzie impatiently."The Gaelic! It is none ofthe gentlemen who will come here in theautumn will want the Gaelic; and whatfor would you want the Gaelic—ay, ifyou was staying here the whole yearround?"

"But Sheila will teach me all thesame—won't you, Sheila?" he said,turning to his companion, who wasgazing somewhat blankly at the roughsteamer and at the rough gray sea beyondthe harbor.

Lavender returned to town more inlove than ever; and soon the news ofhis engagement was spread abroad, henothing loath. Most of his club-friendslaughed, and prophesied it would cometo nothing. How could a man in Lavender'sposition marry anybody but anheiress? He could not afford to go andmarry a fisherman's daughter. Otherscame to the conclusion that artists andwriters and all that sort of people wereincomprehensible, and said "Poor beggar!"when they thought of the fashionin which Lavender had ruined hischances in life. His lady friends, however,were much more sympathetic.There was a dash of romance in thestory; and would not the Highland girlbe a curiosity for a little while after shecame to town? Was she like any ofthe pictures Mr. Lavender had hangingup in his rooms? Had he not even asketch of her? An artist, and yet nothave a portrait of the girl he had chosento marry? Lavender had no portrait ofSheila to show. Some little photographshe had he kept for his own pocket-book,while in vain had he tried to get somesketch or picture that would convey tothe little world of his friends andacquaintances some notion of his futurebride. They were left to draw on theirimagination for some presentiment ofthe coming princess.

He told Mrs. Lavender, of course.She said little, but sent for EdwardIngram. Him she questioned in a cautious,close and yet apparently indifferent way,and then merely said that Frank wasvery impetuous, that it was a pity he hadresolved on marrying out of his ownsphere of life, but that she hoped theyoung lady from the Highlands wouldprove a good wife to him.

"I hope he will prove a good husbandto her," said Ingram with unusual sharpness.

By and by, as the spring drew on andthe time of the marriage was comingnearer, the important business of takingand furnishing a house for Sheila's receptionoccupied the attention of the[pg 687]young man from morning till night. Hehad been somewhat disappointed at thecold fashion in which his aunt lookedupon his choice, admitting everything hehad to say in praise of Sheila, but neverexpressing any approval of his conductor hope about the future; but now sheshowed herself most amiably and generouslydisposed. She supplied the youngman with abundant funds wherewith tofurnish the house according to his ownfancy. It was a small place, fronting asomewhat commonplace square in NottingHill, but it was to be a miracle ofartistic adornment inside. He torturedhimself for days over rival shades andhues; he drew designs for the chairs;he himself painted a good deal of paneling;,and, in short, gave up his wholetime to making Sheila's future homebeautiful. His aunt regarded thesepreparations with little interest, but shecertainly gave her nephew ample meansto indulge the eccentricities of his fancy.

"Isn't she a dear old lady?" said Lavenderone night to Ingram. "Look here!A cheque, received this morning, for twohundred pounds, for plate and glass."

Ingram looked at the bit of pale greenpaper: "I wish you had earned themoney yourself, or done without theplate until you could buy it with yourown money."

"Oh, confound it, Ingram! you carryyour puritanical theories too far. DoubtlessI shall earn my own living by andby. Give me time."

"It is now nearly a year since youthought of marrying Sheila Mackenzie,and you have not done a stroke of workyet."

"I beg your pardon. I have workeda good deal of late, as you will see whenyou come up to my rooms."

"Have you made any effort to getthem sold, or to come to any arrangementwith any of the dealers?"

"I have been too busy of late—lookingafter this house, you know," saidLavender with an air of apology.

"You were not too busy to paint a fanfor Mrs. Lorraine, that people say musthave occupied you for months."

Lavender laughed: "Do you know,Ingram, I think you are jealous of Mrs.Lorraine, on account of Sheila? Come,you shall go and see her."

"I am afraid that you are a very foolishboy," said the other with a good-humoredshrug of resignation, "but Ihope to see you mend when you marry."

"Ah, then youwill see a difference!"said Lavender seriously; and so the disputeended.

It had been arranged that Ingramshould go up to Lewis to the marriage,and after the ceremony in Stornowayreturn to Borva with Mr. Mackenzie, toremain with him a few days. But atthe last moment Ingram was summoneddown to Devonshire on account of theserious illness of some near relative, andaccordingly Frank Lavender started byhimself to bring back with him hisHighland bride. His stay in Borva wasshort enough on this occasion. At theend of it there came a certain wet andboisterous day, the occurrences in whichhe afterward remembered as if they hadtaken place in a dream. There weremany faces about, a confusion of tongues,a good deal of dram-drinking, a skirl ofpipes, and a hurry through the rain;but all these things gave place to theoccasional glance that he got from apair of timid and trusting and beautifuleyes. Yet Sheila was not Sheila in thatdress of white, with her face a trifle pale.She was more his own Sheila when shehad donned her rough garments of blue,and when she stood on the wet deckof the vessel, with a great gray shawlaround her, talking to her father with abrave effort at cheerfulness, althoughher lip would occasionally quiver as oneor other, of her friends from Borva—manyof them barefooted children—cameup to bid her good-bye. Her fathertalked rapidly, with a grand affectationof indifference. He swore at theweather. He bade her see that Bras[pg 688]was properly fed, and if the sea brokeover his box in the night, he was to berubbed dry, and let out in the morningfor a run up and down the deck. Shewas not to forget the parcel directed toan innkeeper at Oban. They wouldfind Oban a very nice place at whichto break the journey to London, but asfor Greenock, Mackenzie could find nowords with which to describe Greenock.

And then, in the midst of all this,Sheila suddenly said, "Papa, when doesthe steamer leave?"

"I want you not to stay here till theboat sails, and then you will have allthe people on the quay vexing you whenyou are going away. I want you to bidgood-bye to us now, and drive awayround to the point, and we shall see youthe last of all when the steamer has gotout of the harbor."

"Ferry well, Sheila, I will do that," hesaid, knowing well why the girl wished it.

So father and daughter bade good-byeto each other; and Mackenzie went onshore with his face down, and said nota word to any of his friends on the quay,but got into the wagonette, and, lashingthe horses, drove rapidly away. As hehad shaken hands with Lavender, Lavenderhad said to him, "Well, we shallsoon be back in Borva again to see you;"and the old man had merely tightenedthe grip of his hand as he left.

The roar of the steam-pipes ceased,the throb of the engines struck the water,and the great steamer steamed awayfrom the quay and out of the plain ofthe harbor into a wide world of graywaves and wind and rain. There stoodMackenzie as they passed, the dark figureclearly seen against the pallid colorsof the dismal day; and Sheila waveda handkerchief to him until Stornowayand its lighthouse and all the promontoriesand bays of the great island hadfaded into the white mists that lay alongthe horizon. And then her arm fell toher side, and for a moment she stoodbewildered, with a strange look in hereyes of grief, and almost of despair.

"Sheila, my darling, you must go belownow," said her companion: "youare almost dead with cold."

She looked at him for a moment, asthough she had scarcely heard what hesaid. But his eyes were full of pity forher: he drew her closer to him, and puthis arms round her, and then she hidher head in his bosom and sobbed therelike a child.

THE EMERALD.

Dutens and several others whohave written upon gems and preciousstones during the last two centurieshave asserted that the ancients wereunacquainted with the true emerald, andthat Heliodorus, when speaking nearlytwo thousand years ago of "gems greenas a meadow in the spring," or Pliny,when describing stone of a "soft greenlustre," referred to the peridot, the plasma,the malachite, or the far rarer gem,the green sapphire. But the antiquaryhas come to the rescue with the treasuresof the despoiled mounds of Tuscany, theexposed ashes of Herculaneum and Pompeii,and now exhibits emeralds whichwere mounted in gold two thousand yearsbefore Columbus dreamed of the NewWorld, or Pizarro and his remorselessband gathered the precious stones bythe hundred-weight from the spoils ofPeru. Although these specimens of antiquejewelry set with emeralds may benumbered by the score or more in the[pg 689]museums and "reliquaries" of Europe,but very few engraved emeralds havedescended to us from ancient times:This rarity is not due to the hardness ofthe stone, for the ancient lapidaries cutthe difficult and still harder sapphire:therefore we must believe the statementof the early gem-writers that the emeraldwas exempted from the glyptic art bycommon consent on account of its beautyand costliness.

The emerald is now one of the rarestof gems, and its scarcity gives rise tothe inquiry as to what has become of theabundant shower of emeralds which fairlyrained upon Spain during the earlydays of the conquest of Mexico andPeru, bringing down the value of finestones to a trifling price. As with allcommercial articles, there is a waste andloss to be accounted for during the wearof three centuries, but this alone will notexplain their present rarity in civilizedcountries. Even in the times of CharlesII., when the destitution of the countrywas extreme, the dukes of Infantado andAlbuquerque had millions in diamonds,rubies and precious stones, yet hardlypossessed a single sou. So impoverishedwas the land, and so slender were thepurses of all, that the duke ofAlbuquerque dined on an egg and a pigeon,yet it required six weeks to make an inventoryof his plate. At this period,when the nobles gave fêtes the lampswere often decorated with emeralds andthe ceilings garlanded with preciousstones. The women fairly blazed withsparkling gems of fabulous value, whilethe country was starving. Most, if notall, of this missing treasure was transferredto Asia, and with the silver currentwhich flowed steadily from theSpanish coffers into India went many ofthe emeralds also; for in those regionsthis gem is regarded as foreign stone,and the natives, investing it with thepossession of certain talismanic properties,prize it above all earthly treasures.

When the Spaniards commenced theirmarch toward the capital of Mexico, theywere astonished at the magnificence ofthe costumes of the chiefs who came tomeet them as envoys or join them asallies, and among the splendid gemswhich adorned their persons they recognizedemeralds and turquoises of suchrare perfection and beauty that theircupidity was excited to the highest degree.During the after years of conquestand occupation the avaricious spoilerssought in vain for the parent ledge wherethese precious stones were found. Recenttimes have, however, revealed thehome of the Mexican turquoise, whichhas proved to be in the northern part ofMexico, as the Totonacs informed theinquiring Spaniards. The first of thesemines, which is of great antiquity, issituated in the Cerrillos Mountains,eighteen miles from Santa Fé. Thedeposit occurs in soft trachyte, andan immense cavity of several hundredfeet in extent has been excavated by theIndians while searching for this gem inpast times. Probably some of the fineturquoises worn by the Aztec nobles atthe time of the Spanish Conquest camefrom this mine. Another mine is locatedin the Sierra Blanca Mountains in NewMexico, but the Navajos will not allowstrangers to visit it. Stones of transcendentbeauty have been taken fromit, and handed down in the tribe fromgeneration to generation as heirlooms.Nothing tempts the cupidity of the Indiansto dispose of these gems, andgratitude alone causes them to part withany of these treasures, which, like themountaineers of Thibet, they regard withmystical reverence. The Navajos wearthem as ear-drops, by boring them andattaching them to the ear by means ofa deer sinew. Lesser stones are pierced,then strung on sinews and worn as neck-laces.Even the nobler Ute Indians,when stripping the ornaments of turquoisefrom the ears of the conqueredNavajos, value them as sacred treasures,and refuse to part with them even forgold or silver.

All the Spanish accounts of the invasionof Mexico agree in the great abundanceof emeralds, both in the adornmentof the chiefs and nobles and also in thedecoration of the gods, the thrones andthe paraphernalia. The Mexican historianIxtlilxochitl says the throne of gold[pg 690]in the palace of Tezcuco was inlaid withturquoises and other precious stones—thata human skull in front of it wascrowned with an immense emerald of apyramidal form.

The great standard of the republicof Tlascala was richly ornamented withemeralds and silver-work. The fantastichelmets of the chiefs glittered with goldand precious stones, and their plumeswere set with emeralds. The mantle ofMontezuma was held together by a claspof the green chalchivitl (jade), and thesame precious gem, with emeralds ofuncommon size, ornamented other partsof his dress.

The Mexicans carved the obduratejade and emerald with wonderful skill,using, like the Peruvians, nothing butsilicious powder and copper instrumentsalloyed with tin. They also worked withexquisite taste in gold and silver, andthey represented Nature so faithfully andso beautifully that the great naturalistHernandez took many of these objectsthus portrayed for his models whendescribing the natural history of thecountry.

When Cortés returned home he displayedfive emeralds of extraordinarysize and beauty, and presented them tohis bride, the niece of the duke de Bejar.On his famous expedition along the Pacificcoast and up the Gulf of Californiahe was reduced to such want as to beobliged to pawn these jewels for a time.One of them was as precious as Shylock'sturquoise, and Gomara states thatsome Genoese merchants who examinedit in Seville offered forty thousand goldenducats for it. One of the emeralds wasin the form of a rose; the second in thatof a horn; the third like a fish with eyesof gold; the fourth was like a little bell,with a fine pearl for a tongue, and itbore on its rim the following inscriptionin Spanish: "Blessed is he who createdthee!" The fifth, which was the mostvaluable of all, was in the form of asmall cup with a foot of gold, and withfour little chains of the same metal attachedto a large pearl as a button: theedge of the cup was of gold, on whichwas engraved in Latin words, "Internatos mulierum non surrexit major."These splendid gems are now burieddeep in the sand on the coast of Barbary,where they were lost in 1529, whenCortés was shipwrecked with the admiralof Castile whilst on their way to assistCharles V. at the siege of Algiers.

The quantity of emeralds obtained bythe Spaniards in their pillage of Mexicowas large, but it was trifling when comparedwith that collected by Pizarro andhis remorseless followers in the sackof Peru. Many large and magnificentstones were obtained by the Spaniards,but the transcendent gem of all, calledby the Peruvians the Great Mother, andnearly as large as an ostrich egg, wasconcealed by the natives, and all theefforts of Pizarro and his successors todiscover it proved unavailing.

The immense uncut Peruvian emeraldgiven by Rudolph II. to the elector ofSaxony is still preserved in the GreenVaults at Dresden. This collection isthe finest in the world, and is of thevalue of many millions of dollars. Thetreasures are arranged in eight apartments,each surpassing the previous onein the splendor and richness of its contents.This museum dates from theearly period when the Freyburg silver-minesyielded vast revenues, and madethe Saxon princes among the richestsovereigns in Europe. With lavish handthese potentates purchased jewels andworks of art, and the treasures they havethus accumulated are of immense value,and remind the traveler of the gorgeousdescriptions of Oriental magnificence.

The finest emerald in Europe is saidto belong to the emperor of Russia. Itweighs but thirty carats, but it is of themost perfect transparency and of themost beautiful color. There are manyother fine emeralds among the imperialjewels of the czar, some of which areof great size and rare beauty. Theancient crown of Vladimir glitters withfour great stones of unusual brilliancy.The grand state sceptre is surmountedby another emerald of great size. Thesceptre of Poland, which is now treasuredin the Kremlin, has a long greenstone, fractured in the middle. It is not[pg 691]described, and may be one of the Siberiantourmalines, some of which closelyapproach the emerald in hue. The imperialorb of Russia, which is of Byzantineworkmanship of the tenth century,has fifty emeralds. This fact alone wouldseem to prove that emeralds were knownin Europe or Asia Minor long before thediscovery of America; but, on the otherhand, the ancient crown which was takenwhen Kasan was subjugated in 1553 isdestitute of emeralds. And hence weare inclined to believe the imperial orbto be of modern workmanship, especiallyas some of the ancient state chairs donot exhibit emeralds among their decorationsof gems and precious stones.

Nowhere in North America do thetrue emeralds occur. Professor Cleaveland,who was one of the best authoritiesof his day, maintained nearly halfa century ago that emeralds which exhibiteda lively and beautiful green huewere found in blasting a canal througha ledge of graphic granite in the townof Topsham in Maine. Several of thecrystals presented so pure, uniform andrich a green that he ventured to pronouncethem precious emeralds. Butto-day we are unable to verify the assertion,or point to a single specimen similarin hue to the emerald from theabove-mentioned locality.

The nearest approach to the emeraldin color, with the exception of the incomparablegreen tourmalines fromMaine, are the beryls of North andSouth Royalston in the State of Massachusetts.These beautiful stones exhibitthe physical, characteristics of emeraldswith the exception of the color, in whichthey differ very perceptibly. But to appreciatefully the difference in hue wemust compare the two gems. Then thelively green of the beryl fades away beforethe overpowering hue of the emerald,whose rich prismatic green may betaken as the purest type of that colorknown to the chemist or the painter.

Two summers ago we visited the localitiesin Massachusetts which werefamous in the days of Hitchcock andWebster. We found that the beryls occurredin a very coarse granite, wherethe quartz appeared in masses and thefelspar in huge crystals. These alsooccur in finer granite, and exhibit noindications of veins or connection witheach other. They are few in number,and are soon exhausted by blasting,being generally very superficial. Afterremoving several tons of the rock at thelocality at North Royalston, where theberyls appear on the summit of the loftiesthill, our labors were at length rewardedwith two beautiful crystals. Oneof them was a fine prism an inch indiameter, of perfect transparency andof a deep sea-green color, which, howeveris far from being similar to thetranscendent hue of the Granada emeralds,which exhibit an excess of neitherblue nor yellow. The other was yellowish-green,resembling the chrysoberylsof Brazil.

Other but imperfect crystals werebrought to light, some fragments ofwhich exhibited the deepest golden tintsof the topaz, and others the tints of thesherry-wine colored topazes of Siberia.Magnificent crystals have been found inthese localities in times long past, andfrom the fragments and sections of crystalsfound in the débris of early explorationswe observed the wide range of colorand the deep longitudinal striae whichcharacterize the renowned beryls fromthe Altai Mountains, in Siberia. Livelysea- and grass-green, light and deep yellow,also blue crystals of various shades,have been found here.

At the quarries on Rollestone Mountainin Fitchburg beryls of a rich goldencolor have been blasted out. Some ofthese approach the chrysoberyl and topazin hardness and hue. Others soclosely resemble the yellow diamondthat they may readily be taken for thatsuperior gem. The refractive power ofthese yellow stones is remarkable, andthe goniometer will probably reveal ahigher index than is accorded to all thevarieties of beryl by the learned AbbéHaüy.

Beautiful transparent beryls have beenfound among the granite hills of Oxfordcounty in Maine, and the late GovernorLincoln nearly half a century ago[pg 692]possessed a splendid crystal which wouldhave rivaled the superb prism found atMouzzinskaia, and which the Russiansvalue so highly. The extended and unexploredledges of granite which rise fromthe shores of the ocean at Harpswell inMaine, and stretch north-westward fornearly a hundred miles, quite to the baseof the White Mountain group, are notonly rich in beryls, but they containmany of the rarest minerals known tothe mineralogist. And perhaps there isno other field of equal extent in thecountry which offers to the mineralogistsuch a harvest of the rare and curiousproductions of the mineral kingdom.

At Haddam in Connecticut beautifulcrystals of beryl have been discovered,and one of these, of fine green color, aninch in diameter and several inches inlength, was preserved in the cabinet ofColonel Gibbs. Professor Silliman possessedanother fine one, seven inches inlength.

The mountains in Colorado have yieldedsome fine specimens. But the finestof the beryl species come from Russia.In the Ural Mountains the crystals aresmall, but of fine color; in the AltaiMountains they are very large and of agreenish blue; but in the granitic ledgesof Odon Tchelon in Daouria, on the frontierof China, they are found in the greatestperfection. They occur on the summitof the mountain in irregular veins ofmicaceous and white indurated clay, andare greenish-yellow, pure pale green,greenish-blue and sky-blue. The chiefmatrix of the beryl all over the worldis graphic granite, but it may occur inother rocks. The light green stones ofLimoges in France appear in a vein ofquartz traversing granite. At Royalstonwe observed them to spring seeminglyfrom the felspar and project into smokyquartz, becoming more transparent asthey advanced into the harder stone.

The beryl possesses the same crystallineform and specific gravity as the emerald,but its hardness (especially in theyellow varieties) is sometimes greater.The only perceptible difference in thetwo stones is in the color. Cleavelandthought that as the emerald and berylhad the same essential characters, theymight gradually pass into each other;and Klaproth, finding the oxides of bothchrome and iron in one specimen, wasled to take the same view. The crystalsof true emerald are almost always small(with the exception of those found in theWald district in Siberia), whilst those ofthe beryl vary from a few grains tomore than a ton in weight. The crystalsof both are almost invariably regularhexahedral prisms, sometimes slightlymodified. Those of the beryl we sometimesfind quite flat, as though they hadbeen compressed by force: then againthey are acicular and of extraordinarylength, considering their slender diameter.Sometimes their lateral faces arelongitudinally striated, and as deeply asthe tourmaline, so that the edges of theprism are rendered indistinct. Othercrystals are curved, and some perforatedin the axis like the tourmaline, so as tocontain other minerals. Sometimes theyare articulated like the pillars of basalt,and separated at some distance by theintervening quartz. These modifiedforms give rise to curious speculationsas to their formation and origin. If weadmit the action of fire (which is improbable),then the separation may beeasily explained; but if we insist thatthey were deposited in the wet way andby slow process, how can we accountfor the dislocation? "By electricity,"whispers a friend—"by telluric magnetism,that wonderful unexplained andmysterious force which has caused thegrand geological changes of the globe,and is still at work."

No other gem has been counterfeitedwith such perfection as the emerald; andin fact it is utterly impossible to distinguishthe artificial from the real gems bythe aid of the eye alone: even the littleflaws which lull the suspicions of theinexperienced are easily produced by adexterous blow from the mallet of theskilled artisan. Not only emeralds, butmost of the gems and precious stones,are now imitated with such consummateskill as to deceive the eye, andnone but experts are aware of the extentto which these fictitious gems are worn[pg 693]in fashionable society, for oftentimes thewearers themselves imagine that theypossess the real stones. There is not onein a hundred jewelers who is acquaintedwith the physical properties of the gems,and very few can distinguish the diamondfrom the white zircon or the whitetopaz, the emerald from the tourmalineof similar hue, the sapphire from iolite,or the topaz from the Bohemian yellowquartz. Jewelers are governed generallyby sight, which they believe to be infallible,whilst hardness and specific gravityare the only sure tests.

Artificial gems rivaling in beauty ofcolor the most brilliant and delicatelytinted of the productions of Nature arenow made at Paris and in other Europeancities. The establishments atSeptmoncel in the Jura alone employ athousand persons, and fabulous quantitiesof the glittering pastes are madethere and sent to all parts of the world.

A fine specimen of prase when cutaffords a fair imitation of the emerald.The green fluor-spar which Haüy called"emeraude de Carthagène" may also besubstituted, but the application of thefile detects the trick with ease. Some ofthe green tourmalines approach the emeraldsin hue very closely, and by artificiallight it is impossible to distinguishthem from each other. Fragments ofquartz may be stained by being steepedin green-colored tinctures. The Greeksstained quartz so like the real gem thatPliny exclaimed against the fraud whiledeclining to tell how it was done. TheAncona rubies at the present day aremade by plunging quartz into a hottincture of cochineal, which penetratesthe minute fissures of the rock.

But notwithstanding the high art reachedby modern glass-makers, they are yetfar behind the ancients in imitating theemerald in point of hardness and lustre.Many emerald pastes of Roman timesstill extant are with difficulty distinguishedfrom the real gem, so muchharder and lustrous are they than modernglass. The ancient Phoenician remainsfound in the island of Sardiniaby Cavalier Cara in 1856 show fine colorin their enamels and glass-works. Thegreen pigment brought home from theruins of Thebes by Mr. Wilkinson wasshown by Dr. Ure to consist of blueglass in powder, with yellow ochre andcolorless glass. From Greek inscriptionsdating from the period of the Peloponnesianwar we learn that therewere signets of colored glass among thegems in the treasury of the Parthenon.

Of all the emerald imitations that havedescended to us from antiquity, none aremore remarkable, none more interestingto the antiquary and historian, than thefamous Sacro Catino of the cathedral ofGenoa. This celebrated relic is a glassdish or patera fourteen inches in width,five inches in depth and of the richesttransparent green color, though disfiguredby several flaws. It was bestowed uponthe republic of Genoa by the Crusadersafter the capture of Caesarea in 1101,and was regarded as an equivalent fora large sum of money due from theChristian army. It was traditionally believedto have been presented to KingSolomon by the queen of Sheba, andafterward preserved in the Temple, andsome accounts relate that it was used byChrist at the institution of the Lord'sSupper. The Genoese received it withso much veneration and faith that twelvenobles were appointed to guard it, andit was exhibited but once a year, whena priest held it up in his hand to theview of the passing throng. The statein 1319, in a time of pressing need,pawned the holy relic for twelve hundredmarks of gold (two hundred thousanddollars), and redeemed it with apromptness which proved its belief inthe reality of the material as well as inits sanctity. And it is also related thatthe Jews, during a period of fifty years,lent the republic four million francs,holding the sacred relic as a pledge ofsecurity. Seven hundred years passedaway, when Napoleon came, and as heswept down over Italy, gathering herart-treasures, he ordered the "HolyGrail" to be conveyed to Paris. It wasdeposited in the Cabinet of Antiquitiesin the Imperial Library, and the mineralogistsquickly discovered it to beglass. It is due to the memory of[pg 694]Condamine to state that he was the first todoubt the material of the Sacro Catino,for, when examining it by lamplight in1757, in the presence of the princes Corsini,he observed none of the cracks,clouds and specks common to emeralds,but detected little bubbles of air. In1815 the Allies ordered its return to thecathedral of Genoa. During this journeythe beautiful relic was broken, butits fragments were restored by a skillfulartisan, and it is now supported upon atripod, the fragments being held togetherby a band of gold filigree. This remarkableobject of antiquity, which isof extraordinary beauty of material andworkmanship, furnishes a theme overwhich the antiquaries love to muse andwrangle.

Another of the antique monster emeralds,weighing twenty-nine pounds, waspresented to the abbey of Reichenaunear Constance by Charlemagne. Beckmanhas also detected this precious relicto be glass. And probably the greatemerald of two pounds weight broughthome from the Holy Land by one of thedukes of Austria, and now deposited inthe collection at Vienna, is of the samematerial. The hardness of our glass isyet far inferior to that of the ancients,and even the ruby lustre of the pottersof Umbria, which was so precious to thedilettanti of the Cinque Cento period, hasnot been recovered.

The emerald has been a subject ofcontroversy among the chemists andmineralogists, and its character, especiallythe cause of its beautiful color, is notclearly defined even at the present day.But that distinguished chemist, ProfessorLewy of Paris, seems to offer, thus far,the most correct and plausible theory.Ten years ago he boldly asserted thatthe hue is not due to the oxide of chromium,and with this opinion he confrontedsuch eminent men as Vauquelin,Klaproth and others of high rank in thescientific world. Not content with hisresearches in his laboratory in Paris, heresolutely crossed the ocean and soughtthe emerald in its parent ledges in thelofty table-lands of New Granada. Herehe obtained new information of ageological character which goes far tostrengthen his position. The experimentsof M. Lewy indicate, if they donot prove, that the coloring matter ofthe emerald is organic, and readily destroyedby heat, which would not be thecase if it was due to the oxide of chromium.All my own fire-tests with theGranada emerald corroborate the viewsof M. Lewy, for in every instance thegem lost its hue when submitted to ared heat.

Nevertheless, the recent researches ofWöhler and Rose give negative results.These experienced chemists keptan emerald at the temperature of meltedcopper for an hour, and found that, althoughthe stone had become opaque,the color was not affected. They thereforeconsidered the oxide of chromiumto be the coloring agent, without, however,denying the presence of organicmatter. The amount of the oxide ofchromium found by many chemists variesfrom one to two per cent., whileLewy and others found it in a quantityso small as to be inappreciable, and toominute to be weighed.

Before the ordinary blowpipe the emeraldpasses rapidly into a whitish vesicularglass, and with borax it forms afine green glass, while its sub-species,the beryl, changes into a colorless bead:with salt of phosphorus it slowly dissolves,leaving a silicious skeleton.²

M. Lewy visited the mines at Muzoin Granada, and from the results of hisanalyses, together with the fact of findingemeralds in conjunction with thepresence of fossil shells in the limestonein which they occur, he arrived at theconclusion that they have been formedin the wet way—deposited from a chemicalsolution. He also found that whenextracted they are so soft and fragilethat the largest and finest fragments can[pg 695]be reduced to powder by merely rubbingthem between the fingers, and the crystalsoften crack and fall to pieces afterbeing removed from the mine, apparentlyfrom loss of water. Consequently,when the emeralds are first extractedthey are laid aside carefully for a fewdays until the water is evaporated.

This statement relative to the softnessof the gem and its subsequent hardeninghas been met with a shout of derisionfrom some of the gem-seekers—nonelouder than that of Barbot, the retiredjeweler. Barbot seems to forget that therock of which his own house in Paris isconstructed undergoes the same changeafter being removed from the deep quarriesin the catacombs under the city.This phenomenon is observed with manyrocks. Flints acquire additional toughnessby the evaporation of water containedin them. The steatite of St. Anthony'sFalls grows harder on exposure,and other minerals when quarried fromconsiderable depths become firmer onexposure to the action of the air. Observationsof this kind led Kuhlman toinvestigate the cause, and he believes thatthe hardening of rocks is not owing solelyto the evaporation of quarry-water,but that it depends upon the tendencywhich all earthy matters possess to undergoa spontaneous crystallization byslow dessication, which commences themoment the rock is exposed to the air.

The coloring matter of the emeraldseems to be derived from the decompositionof the remains of animals whohave lived in a bygone age, and whoseremains are now found fossilized in therock which forms the matrix of the gem.This rock in Granada is a black limestone,with white veins containing ammonites.Specimens of these rocks exhibitingfragments of emeraldsin situ,and also ammonites, are to be seen inthe mineralogical gallery of the Jardindes Plantes in Paris. Lewy believes thatthe beautiful tint of these gems is producedby an organic substance, whichhe considers to be a carburet of hydrogen,similar to that called chlorophyll,which constitutes the coloring matter ofthe leaves of plants; and he has shownthat the emeralds of the darkest hue,which contain the greatest amount of organicmatter, lose their color completelyat a low red heat, and become opaqueand white; while minerals and pasteswhich are well known to be colored bychromium, like the green garnets (thelime-chrome garnets) of Siberia, are unchangedin hue by the action of heat.

Since the time of the Spanish Conquest,New Granada has furnished theworld with the most of its emeralds.The most famous mines are at Muzo, inthe valley of Tunca, between the mountainsof New Granada and Popayan,about seventy-five miles from Santa Féde Bogota, where every rock, it is said,contains an emerald. At present thesupply of emeralds is very limited, owingto restrictions on trade and want ofcapital and energy in mining operations.

Blue as well as green emeralds arefound in the Cordillera of the Cubillari.The Esmeraldas mines in Equador aresaid to have been worked successfullyat one period by the Jesuits. The Peruviansobtained many emeralds fromthe barren district of Atacama, and inthe times of the Conquest there werequarries on the River of Emeralds nearBarbacoas.

Emeralds are found in Siberia, andsome of the localities may have furnishedto the ancients the Scythian gemswhich Pliny and others mention. Inthe Wald district magnificent crystalshave been found embedded in mica-slate.One of these—a twin-crystal, nowin the Imperial Cabinet at St. Petersburg—isseven inches long, four inches broad,and weighs four and a half pounds.There is another mass in the same collectionwhich measures fourteen incheslong by twelve broad and five thick,weighing sixteen and three-quarterpounds troy. This group shows twentycrystals from a half inch to five incheslong, and from one to two inches broad.They were discovered by a peasant cuttingwood near the summit of the mountain.His eye was attracted by the lustroussparkling amongst the decomposedmica and where the ground had beenexposed by the uprooting of a tree by[pg 696]the violence of the wind. He collecteda number of the crystals, and broughtthem to Katharineburg and showed themto M. Kokawin, who recognized themand sent them to St. Petersburg, wherethey were critically examined by VanWorth and pronounced to be emeralds.One of these crystals was presented bythe emperor to Humboldt when he visitedSt. Petersburg, and it is now depositedin the Berlin collection. Quite anumber of emeralds are now broughtfrom the Siberian localities, and it is believedthat enterprise and capital wouldproduce a large supply of the gem.³

The supply of emeralds from SouthAmerica is very limited, and may beascribed to want of skillful mining, aswell as to climate, the political conditionof the country and the indolence of itsinhabitants. The localities cannot beexhausted, for they are too numerousand extensive. The elevated regions inGranada admit of scientific explorationby Europeans, and at the present daythe only emerald-mining operations conductedin South America have beenprosecuted near Santa Fé de Bogota bya French company, which has paid thegovernment fourteen thousand dollarsyearly for the right of mining, all theemeralds obtained being sent to Paristo be cut by the lapidaries of that city.

In the Atacama districts, and alongthe banks of the River of Emeralds, thephysical obstructions are difficult toovercome, and pestilential diseases ofmalignant character forbid the long sojournof the European. Yet the introductionof Chinese labor may provesuccessful and highly remunerative,since the coolie reared among the junglesand rice-swamps of Southern China isquite as exempt from malarial fevers asthe negro.

The price of the emerald has no fixedand extended scale, like that of the diamond,and the fluctuations of its valueduring the past three centuries form aninteresting chapter in the history of gems.

In the time of Dutens (1777) the priceof small stones of the first quality wasone louis the carat; one and a half carats,five louis; two carats, ten louis; andbeyond this weight no rule of value couldbe established. In De Boot's day (1600)emeralds were so plenty as to be worthonly a quarter as much as the diamond.The markets were glutted with the frequentimportations from Peru, and thirteenyears before the above-mentionedperiod one vessel brought from SouthAmerica two hundred and three poundsof fine emeralds, worth at the presentvaluation more than seven millions ofdollars. At the beginning of this century,according to Caire, they were worthno more than twenty-four francs (orabout five dollars) the carat, and for along time antecedent to 1850 they werevalued at only fifteen dollars the carat.Since this period they have become veryrare, and their valuation has advancedenormously. In fact, the value of the emeraldnow exceeds that of the diamond,and is rapidly approaching the ratiofixed by Benevenuto Cellini in the middleof the sixteenth century, which ratedthe emerald at four times, and the rubyat eight times, the value of the diamond.Perfect stones (the emerald is exceedinglyliable to flaw, the beryl is more free,and the green sapphire is rarely impairedby fissures or cracks) of one carat inweight are worth at the present day twohundred dollars in gold. Perfect gemsof two carats weight will command fivehundred dollars in gold, while largerstones are sold at extravagant prices.

Most of our aqua-marinas come fromBrazil and Siberia, and small stones aresold at trifling prices. Some of them,however, when perfect and of fine color,command fabulous sums. The superblittle beryl found at Mouzzinskaia is valuedby the Russians at the enormoussum of one hundred and twenty thousanddollars, although the crystal weighsbut little more than one ounce. Anotherrough prism preserved in the Museumat Paris, and weighing less than onehundred grains, has received the temptingoffer of fifteen thousand francs.

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER VIII.

It rained during the night. The windblew feebly in the morning, andthe sunlight glimmered dully from behindthe flying gray clouds. Catharinelooked out of her window, anxiouslypushing aside the boughs full of wetwhite roses. The sense of desolationwas not strong enough upon her to makeher forget that Peter had not yet cut theclover in the lower meadow, and thatsuch a rain was bad for the tomatoes.Doctor McCall was at the gate, proppingup an old Bourbon rose, an especialfavorite of her father's. Somebodytapped at her door, and Miss Mullerrustled in in a flounced white muslinand rose-colored ribbons. She too hurriedto the window and looked down.

"I asked him to meet me here, Kitty.I can't make you understand, probably,but the Water-cure House is so baldand bare! There is something in theshade here, and the old books, and thiswilderness of roses, that forms a fittingbackground for a friendship like ours,aesthetically considered."

"I'll go down," interrupted Miss Muller,"and direct her about the table.Coarse tablecloths and oily butter wouldjar against the finest emotions. Whatvery pretty shoulders you have, child!Such women as you, like potatoes, arebestau naturel. Now, with those corsets,and this red shawl over the backof your chair, you would make a verygood Madonna of the Rubens school.Men's ideal of womanhood then was tobe plump, insipid and a mother."

"But about the oily butter?" saidKitty, glancing back over the aforesaidshoulders as she stooped to lace hershoes, while Maria hurried off to thekitchen. "Jane will jar against her fineremotions, I fancy, when she begins toorder her about."

But Kitty lost all relish for fun beforeshe sat down to the breakfast-table. Mr.Muller came in. The poor little manhurried to her side: "I passed a sleeplessnight, Catharine. I feared that Ihad been rough with you. I forget sooften how gentle and tender you are, mydarling."

Catharine was puzzled: "Upon myword, I've forgotten what happened.And I really never feel especially gentleor tender. You are mistaken aboutthat."

When she took her place behind theurn, Maria motioned her brother to thefoot of the table, and then nodded significantly."Now you two can imaginea month or two has passed," she said.

Even Doctor McCall smiled meaningly.Mr. Muller blushed, and glancedshyly at Catharine. But she looked athim unmoved. "Our table will not belike this," gravely. "You forget thethree hundred blue-coats between." Marialaughed, but Doctor McCall for thefirst time looked steadily at the girl.

First of all, perhaps, Kitty was justthen a housekeeper. She waited anxiouslyto see if the steak was properlyrare and the omelette light, noddedbrightly to Jane, who stood watchful behindher, and then looked over at herbetrothed, thinking how soon they wouldsit down tête-à-tête for the rest of theirlives, perhaps for eternity, for, accordingto her orthodoxy, there could be no newloves in heaven. How fat he was, andbald! The mild blue eyes behind theirglasses took possession of her and heldher.

She listened to the talk between DoctorMcCall and Miss Muller in a languageshe had never learned. Maria'sshare of it was largely made up of headlongdives into Spencer and Darwin,with reminiscences ofThe Dial, whileDoctor McCall's was anchored fast downto facts; but it was all alive, suggestive,brilliant. They were young. They weredrinking life and love with full cups.[pg 698]She (looking over at the bald head andspectacled eyes) had gone straight outof childhood into middle age and respectability.

The breakfast was over at last. MissMuller followed Doctor McCall into theshop, where he fell to turning over theold books, and then to the garden.What was the use of a stage properlyset if the drama would not begin?

"Pray do not worry any longer withthat old bush," as he went back toPeter's rose. "It is not a trait of yoursto be persistent about trifles. Or stay:give me a bud for my hair."

"Not these!" sharply, holding herhand. "I could not see one of these roseson any woman's head."

She smiled, very well pleased: "Youperceive some subtle connection betweenme and the flower?"

"Nothing of the sort. There are some,planted, I suppose, by that little girl,which will be more becoming to yourface."

"You are repelled by 'the little girl,'I see, John. I always told you your instinctswere magnetic. That type ofwoman is antipathetic to you."

He laughed: "I have no instincts,hardly ideas, about either roses or typesof women. If I avoided Miss Vogdes,it was because her name recalled one ofthe old hard experiences of my boyhood.The girl herself is harmless enough, nodoubt."

"The rose? Why, we have no timeto waste in such talk as this. You havenot yet told me how you managed to getyour profession. When I last saw youyou had set all the old professors in theuniversity at defiance. Did you carrylectures and cliniques by strategy or assault?You have good fighting qualities,Maria."

She would rather not have gone overher battle with the doctors just then:she would rather he had talked of her"magnetic instincts," her hair, her eyes—anythingelse than her fighting qualities.But she told him. There was aninexplicable delight to her in telling himanything—even the time of day. Washe not a pioneer, a captain among men,a seer in the realms of thought, keepingstep with her in all her high imaginings?Ordinary people, it is true, set McCalldown as an ordinary fellow, genial andhearty—not a very skillful physician,perhaps, but a shrewd farmer, and thebest judge of mules or peaches in Kentcounty. Maria, however, saw him withthe soul's eye.

Kitty meanwhile sat by the windowmending the clothes that had come outof the wash. Mr. Muller was readingsome letters relative to the school to her.This was the day of the week on whichshe always mended the clothes, and Mr.Muller had fallen into the habit of readingto her while she did so. But to-daythe Reformatory rose before her a prison,the gates of which were about to closeon her. The heap of stockings, thetouch of the darning cotton, the soundof Mr. Muller's droning voice, weremaddening to her: every moment shemade a tangle in her thread, lookingdown at Maria under the Bourbon rose,and the attentive face bent over her.Where should she go? What shouldshe do? Had the world nothing in itfor her but this? Yesterday she hadmade up her mind to go to Delaware tofind Hugh Guinness, alive or dead, andbring him to his father. That would bework worth doing. This morning sheremembered that Delaware was a widehunting-ground—that she had neverbeen ten miles from home in her life.If there were anybody to give her advice!This Doctor McCall had seemed to herto-day as, in fact, he did to most people,practical, honest, full of information.He would too, she somehow felt, understandher wild fancy. But—

"Why should Doctor McCall dislikeme?" she broke in at the close of oneof Mr. Muller's expositions.

"What an absurd fancy, child!" lookingup in amazement. "The man wascivil enough to you for so slight an acquaintance."

"It was more than dislike," vehemently."He watched me all through breakfastas though he owed me a grudge. Icould see it in his eyes."

"You oughtn't to see any eyes butmine, Cathie dear," with anxious playfulness."Why should you care for theopinion of any man?"

"Because he is different from any manI ever knew. He belongs to the worldoutside. I always did wonder if peoplewould like me out there," said Kitty, toodoggedly in earnest to see how her wordshurt her listener. "If one could be likethose two people yonder! They seemto know everything—they can do everything!"

"Maria is well enough—for a woman,"dryly. "But I never heard McCall creditedwith exceptional ability of any sort."

Kitty glanced at him: "Of courseyou're right," quickly. "Men only canjudge of character: we women are aptto be silly about such things." Herkind heart felt a wrench at having hurtthis good soul. She put her fingers onhis fat hand with a touch that was almosta caress. He turned red with surpriseand pleasure. "But it is pleasant," shesaid, glancing down again to the Bourbonrose, "to see such love as that.They will be married soon, I suppose?"

"Very likely. I never knew of anylove in the case before. But Maria issuch a manager! And you think oflove, then, sometimes?" timidly puttinghis arm about her.

"Oh to be sure! How can you doubtthat? But it grows chilly. I must bringa sacque," hurrying away; and in factshe looked cold, and shivered.

CHAPTER IX.

"Doctor McCall recognizes theBook-house, just as I did, as the rightbackground for communion like ours,"Miss Muller said complacently to Kittya week later. "He meets me here everyday."

"Yes," said Catharine with a perplexedlook. She had no special instinctsor intuitions, but her eyes were as keenand observant as a lynx's. He came,she saw, to the Book-house every day.But had he no other purpose than tomeet Maria?

"I did not know that McCall affectedscholarship," said Mr. Muller tartly thenext day. "He tells me that he has apeach-farm to manage. August is notime to loiter away, poring over oldbooks. Just the peach season."

"No," Kitty replied demurely. Buther face wore again the puzzled look.She began to watch Doctor McCall.He really knew but little, she saw, ofrare books: his reading of them was amere pretence. He was neither a lazynor a morbid man: what pleasure couldhe have in neglecting his work day afterday, sitting alone in the dusky old shopas if held there by some enchantment?Kitty knew that she herself had nothingto do with it: she appeared to be nomore in his way than a tame dog wouldbe, and, after the first annoyance whichshe gave him, was really little more noticed.But there is a certain sense ofhome-snugness and comfort in the presenceof tame dogs and of women likeKitty: one cannot be long in the roomwith either without throwing them a kindword or petting them in some way.Doctor McCall was just the man to fallinto such a habit. Down on the farm,his cattle, his hands, even the neighborswith whom he argued on politics, couldall have testified to his easy, large good-humor.

"Oh, we are the best of friends," hesaid indifferently when Maria foundKitty chattering to him once, very muchas she did to old Peter. But when MissMuller, who had no petty jealousies,enlarged on the singular beauty of hereyes and some good points in her shape,he did not respond. "I never could talkof a woman as if she were a horse," hesaid. "And this little girl seems to meunusually human."

"There's really nothing in her, though.Poor William! He is marrying eyes,I tell him. It's a pitiable marriage!"

After that he neglected the old bookssometimes to talk to Kitty. He thoughtshe was such an immature, thoughtlesscreature that she would not notice thatthe subject he chose was always the[pg 700]same—her daily life, with old Peter forher chum and confidant.

"Mr. Guinness, then, has had no companionbut you?" he said one day, aftera searching inspection of her face.

"No, nobody but me," quite forgetful,as she and Peter were too apt to be, thather mother was alive.

Doctor McCall was looking thoughtfullyat the floor. He rose presently andtook up his hat: "The old man cannothave been unhappy with such love asyou could give him. No man could."

Kitty was sitting, as usual, on a lowstool pasting labels on some dog-earedbooks: as long as McCall stood lookingat her round cheeks and double chin shepasted on, apparently unconscious thathe was there, but when he turned awayshe watched him shrewdly as he wentuneasily up and down the shop, andfinally, with a curt good-bye, turned outof the door. As the stout figure passedthrough the low branches of the walnutsher gray eyes began to shine. HerMystery was nearly solved.

Dropping paste and books in a heap,she ran after him, taking a short cutthrough the currant bushes, so that whenhe passed on the outer side of the gardenfence there she was quietly waiting,her head and face darkly framed by athick creeper.

"Doctor McCall," in the queer formalfashion that was Kitty's own, "I shouldbe glad if you would come back thisevening. Without Maria. I have somebusiness—that is, a plan of mine. Well,it is a certain thing that—"

"Very well." He stood looking ather arm on the fence, and the face restingwith its chin upon it. McCall, of allmen, hated a scene, and he had an uneasyconsciousness that he had just betrayedunexplained feeling in the house,and was therefore glad to slip back tocommonplaces. Besides, Kitty was exactlythe kind of woman whom all menfeel an insane desire to help at first sight."You have a plan, eh? and you wantadvice, not knowing much about business?"

There was not the least necessity forhim to say this, having asked it before.But he did it, and waited to hear Kittysay yes again, and waited still, beforehe lifted his hat and said good-bye, tosee the shadow of a waving branchcreep over her white chin and lose itselfin her neck. Most men would havedone the same, just as they would stopto whistle a laugh from a fat, prettybaby on the street, and then go on,leaving it behind. The last thing in theworld to consult on their business, or toask for help or comfort when troublemet them, or death.

Miss Muller spent the whole day atthe Book-house, but Doctor McCall didnot come, as she expected. As eveningapproached she began to shiver, andhad premonitory symptoms of clairvoyance,and went home at last, to Kitty'srelief. A slow drizzling rain set in: thedamp fogs that belong to that river-bottomwalled in the house and hungflat over the walnuts like a roof. Catharinehad made her own corner of theBook-shop snug and cheerful. Thespace was wide, the light soft and bright.She placed her own chair by the table,Peter's not far from it. She meant toproduce a great effect on this man to-night,to change the whole current ofhis life, without having the help of eitherlove or even friendship. Unconsciouslyshe planned to bring him close to her,though very likely she had never heardof personal magnetism, or any of thecurious secrets political speakers or actorsor revivalists could have told herof the deadening effects of distance andempty benches.

Then Kitty, in her room overhead,looked at herself in the glass, arrayedin a soft cashmere, in color blue, stillfarther toned down, by certain softerfringes and loops, into the very idealgarb for a man's type of "yielding, lovely[pg 701]woman." It was one of the sacredwedding-dresses.

"Maria could never look like this,"tying a lace handkerchief about herneck, pulling the soft rings of hair looserabout her ears, setting her head on oneside, and half shutting her eyes to seethe thick and curly lashes.

There was no danger of interruption.Maria was safely lodged in the Water-cureHouse, and the very idea of Mr.Muller's glossy black shoes and daintybrown umbrella venturing out in therain made Kitty laugh.

"The dear, good soul is finical as acat," with the good-natured indulgenceof a mother for a child. Suddenly shestopped, stared at herself in the glass."Why, he is my husband!" she said,speaking to the blushing, blue-robedfigure as to another person. Then shehastily unbuttoned, unlooped the prettydress, threw it off, putting on her usualgray wrapper and knotting her hair moretightly back than ever in a comb. "Hehas been very good to me—very goodto me," her chin trembling a good deal.

Then she went down to meet DoctorMcCall, who that moment came into theBook-shop, stopping at the door to takeoff and shake his oilskin coat.

"It is a wet night," she said, just asthough he were a stranger. She did notknow what else to say or what he answeredas she went about, trimming thelamp, dragging out a chair for him,closing the window curtains. Both McCalland Catharine were ordinary people,accustomed to keep up a good flowof talk on ordinary subjects, the weatheror any joke or gossip that was nearest tothem. There had been no passages oflove or hate between them to accountfor her forced formality, her tremblingand flushing, and urgent almost angrywish to remind him that she was Mr.Muller's affianced wife. She felt thiswith a new contempt for herself.

As for Doctor McCall, he leaned comfortablyback in his arm-chair and driedhis legs at the grate filled with red-hotcoals, while he listened to the soft rustleof her skirts as she moved noiselesslyabout him. It is the peculiarity ofwomen like Kitty, to whom Nature hasdenied the governing power of ideas orgreat personal beauty or magnetism,such as she gave to Miss Muller, thatthere is a certain impalpable force andattraction in their most petty actions andwords, to which men yield. Miss Mullercould have watched Kitty all daydragging chairs and trimming lamps,unmoved farther than to pronounce herlittle better than an idiot. But Peter,Muller or John McCall could not lookat her for five minutes without classingher with Cordelia and Desdemona andall the other sweet fools for whom menhave died, and whom the world yetkeeps sacred in pathetic memory. Someday too, when Catharine should be amother—though giving to her older children,little more than to the baby on herbreast, soft touches and gentle words—shewould bind them to her as no otherkind, of mother could do—by such bondsthat until they were gray-haired no powershould be like hers. Miss Mullerneither saw nor foresaw such things.But Doctor McCall did. "If I had hadsuch a mother I should not have beenwhat I am," he thought. It was a curiousfancy to have about a young girl.But she seemed to embody all the womanlinessthat had been lacking in hislife. Of course she was nothing to him.She was to be that prig Muller's wife,and he was quite satisfied that she shouldbe. If he married, Maria Muller wouldbe his wife. Yet, oddly enough, he feltto-night, for the first time, the necessitythat Maria should know how marriagewas barred out from him, and felt, forthe first time, too, a maddening angerthat it was so barred. However, DoctorMcCall was never meant by Naturefor a solitary man housed alone withmorbid thoughts: he was the stuff outof which useful citizens are made—JohnAndersons of husbands, doting, gulliblefathers.

Remembering the bar in his life, hisskeleton, ghost or whatever it was, hewas only moved to get up and stretchhimself, saying, "I've stayed in Berrytowntoo long. When you have told meyour plan, I'll say good-bye to you, Miss[pg 702]Vogdes, and this old house. I shall beoff to-morrow."

Kitty had just caught a moth in theflame of the candle. She carried it tothe window. "You will come back soon,of course?" her back still toward him.

"No, I think not. I am neglectingmy business. And I, of all men in theworld, have least right to loiter aboutthis old house, to look in on its home-lifeor on you."

Kitty gave him a sharp glance, asthough some sudden emergency wasclear before her which her tact failed tomeet. She was folding the bits of muslinat which she had been sewing in abasket: she finished slowly, put the basketaway, and sat down at the table,with her elbow on it and her chin on herhand, her gray eyes suggesting a deeperand unspoken meaning to her words:"But for my plan?"

"Ah! to be sure! You want advice?"seating himself comfortably. Her confusionwas a pretty thing to watch, thered creeping up her neck into her face,blotting out its delicate tints, the uncertainglances, the full bitten lip. DoctorMcCall quite forgot his own trouble inthe keen pleasure of the sight.

"Perhaps—You do not quite understandmy position here? Mr. Guinnessis not my own father."

"But you cannot know what he hasbeen to me:I never knew until the lastfew days."

"Because I saw you and Maria: I sawwhat love was. I began to think aboutit. I never have loved anybody buthim," she went on headlong, utterlyblind to all inferences. "There's a thingI can do for him, Doctor McCall, beforeI marry Mr. Muller, and I must do it.It will make his old age happier thanany other part of his life has been."

McCall nodded, leaning forward. Itwas nothing but an imprudent girl draggingout her secrets before a stranger;nothing but a heated face, wet eyes, asweet milky breath; but no tragedy hehad ever seen on the stage had movedhim so uncontrollably—no, not any crisisin his own life—with such delicious,inexplicable emotion.

"My father," said Kitty, "had once agreat trouble. It has made an old manof him before his time. I find that Ican take it from him." She looked upat him with this. Now, there was a certainshrewd penetration under the softnessof Kitty's eyes. Noting it, McCallinstantly lost sight of her beauty andtears. He returned her look coolly.

"Mr. Guinness had a son. He hasbelieved him to be dead for years: Iknow that he is not dead."

"And then," pushing back the tableand rising, "when I heard that, I meantto go and find Hugh Guinness, and bringhim back to his father."

Whatever this matter might be to herhearer, it was the most real thing in lifeto Catharine, and putting it into wordsgave it a sudden new force. She feltthat she ought to hold her tongue, butshe could not. She only knew that thelighted room, the beating of the rainwithout, the watchful guarded face onthe other side of the table, shook andfrightened and angered her unaccountably.

"You should not laugh at me," shesaid. "This is the first work I ever setmyself to do. It is better than nursingthree hundred children."

"I am not laughing at you, Godknows! But this Guinness, if he bealive, remains away voluntarily. Theremust be a reason for that. You do notconsider."

"I do not care to consider. Is theman a log or a stone? If I found him,"crossing the room in her heat until shestood beside him—"if I brought him tothe old house and to his father? Why,look at this!" dragging open the drawerand taking out the broken gun and rod."See what he has kept for years—all[pg 703]that was left him of his boy! Look, atthat single hair! If Hugh Guinnessstood where you do, and touched thesethings as you are touching them, couldhe turn his back on the old man?"

Now, Doctor McCall did not touchgun nor cap nor hair, but he bent overthe table, looking at them as if he werelooking at the dead. He seemed tohave forgotten that Kitty was there.

At last he stood upright: "Poor littlechap!" with a laugh. "There seemedto be no reason, when he went gunningand fishing like other boys, why heshould not stand here to-day with asfair a chance for happiness as any otherman. Did there? Just a trifling blocklaid in his way, a push down hill, andno force could ever drag him up again."

Kitty, her eyes on his, stood silent.Do what he would, he could not shakeoff her eyes: they wrenched the truthfrom him, "I knew this man Guinnessonce," he said.

But she did not sit down. An unaccountableterror or timidity seemed tohave paralyzed her. She looked aside—everywherebut in his face: "I wantedyou to tell me how to reach him, how totouch him: I know what manner of manhe is."

"You have heard from your mother?A mixed Border Pike and Mephistopheles,eh? The devil and his victim rolledinto one?" He shifted his heavybody uneasily, glancing toward the door.Chief among the graver secret emotionswhich she had roused in him was themomentary annoyance of not knowinghow to deal with this chicken-heartedlittle girl before him, scared, but on firefrom head to foot.

Kitty was quite confident. If it hadbeen Maria Muller who had thus setherself to tamper with a man's life, shewould have done it trembling, with fearand self-distrust. She had brains whichcould feel and react against the passionsshe evoked, and were competent to warnher of the peril of her work. But as forKitty—

Here was Hugh Guinness before her,a Cain with the curse of God upon him.It was clearly her business to bring himback again to his father, and afterwardconvert him into a member of the church,if possible. She went about the workwith as little doubt as if it had been themaking of a pudding.

But she was shy, tender, womanlywithal. Doctor McCall laughed as helooked down at her, and spoke deliberately,as though giving his opinion of apatient to another physician. "I'll tellyou honestly my opinion of Hugh Guinness.He was, first of all, a thoroughlyordinary, commonplace man, with neithergreat virtues nor great vices, nor forceof any kind. If he had had that, hecould have recovered himself when hebegan to fall. But he did not recoverhimself."

He hesitated: "I suppose that hishome and religion became hateful tohim. Boys have unreasonable prejudicesat times."

"Despair? Nonsense! Now don'tfigure to yourself a romantic Hotspur ofa fellow rushing into hell because heaven'sgate was shut on him. At nineteenHugh Guinness drank and fought andgambled, as other ill-managed boys doto work off the rank fever of blood.Unfortunately—" he stopped, and thenadded in a lower voice, quickly, "hemade a mistake while the fever was onhim which was irretrievable."

"A mistake?" Kitty was always ofan inquiring turn of mind, but now shefelt as if her curiosity was more than shecould bear, while she stood, her eyespassing over the burly figure in summerclothes and the high-featured, pleasantface with its close-cut moustache. Whatdreadful secret was hid behind this good-humored,every-day propriety of linenduck, friendly eyes and reddish moustacheover a mouth that often smiled?You might meet their like any day uponthe streets. Was it a murder? At bestsome crime, perhaps, which had sent himto the penitentiary. Or—and church[pg 704]taught Kitty shuddered as a vague remembranceof the "unpardonable sin"rose before her like an actual horror.Whatever it was, it stood between herselfand him, keeping them apart forever.

"Irretrievable?" she said. It was onlycuriosity, she knew, but her voice soundedoddly far off to herself, the room washazy, her whole body seemed to shrinktogether.

"What can it matter to you? Youbelong to another man, Miss Vogdes."She lifted herself erect. Doctor McCallwas speaking more loudly than usualand looking keenly into her face.

"I know: I shall be Mr. Muller's wife.Of course, I recollect. But you—thisHugh Guinness is my father's son,"stammered Kitty, her face very white."I had some interest in him."

"Yes, that's true. He is, as you say,in some sort a brother of yours." Hetook her hand for the first time, lookingdown at her face with some meaning inhis own, inexplicable, very likely, to himself,though the thoughts in Kitty's shallowbrain were clear enough to him."You are tired of standing," seating hergently in Peter's chair. A thick lockof hair had fallen over her face: he putout his hand to remove it, but drewback quickly. "We have talked too long,Miss Vogdes," in a brisk, cheerful tone."Some other time, perhaps, we can returnto this question of Hugh Guinness. Thatis," with a certain significance of manner,"if it be one in which Mr. Mullerwishes you to take an interest." Noddinggood-humoredly to her, he buttonedon his oilskin cape and went out intothe rain without another word. Hepulled off his cap outside to let the rainand wind reach his head, drawing along breath as if to get rid of some foulair and heat.

CHAPTER X.

Of all that wet August the next morningwas the freshest and cheerfulest.Doctor McCall had packed his valise,carried it to the station, and was nowwalking up the street, his hands claspedbehind him and his head down, after theleisurely fashion of Delaware and Jerseyfarmers. People nodded an approvinggood-morning to him. Busy Berrytownhad passed verdict on him as a manwho was idle for a purpose, who permittedhis brain to lie fallow, and who"loafed and invited his soul" duringthese two weeks for the best spiritualhygienic reasons.

"Too much brain-work, my friendDoctor Maria Muller tells me," said thelawyer, De Camp, to a group of men atthe station as McCall passed them. "Ishere for repose."

"Well, no. But Doctor Maria thinkshis mind is open to conviction, and thathe would prove a strong worker shouldhe remain here. She has already begunto enlighten him on our newest theoriesas to a Spontaneous Creation and a ConsolidatedRepublic."

"Should think his properer studywould be potatoes. Smells of the barn-yardin his talk," rejoined one of theparty.

"Doctor Maria's a fool!" snappedBluhm. "She has read the index toBastian's book, and denies her Creator,and gabbles of Bacteria, boiled and unboiled,ever since."

Doctor McCall meanwhile went downthe cinder-path, to all passers-by a clean-shaven,healthy gentleman out in searchof an appetite for breakfast. But inreality he was deciding his whole life inthat brief walk. Why, he asked himselfonce or twice, should he be unlikethe other clean-shaven, healthy menthat he met? God knows he had norelish for mystery. He was, as he hadtold Kitty, a commonplace man, a thriftyDelaware farmer, in hearty good-fellowshipwith his neighbors, his cattle, theground he tilled, and, he thought reverently,with the God who had made himand them. He had made a mistake inhis early youth, but it was a mistakewhich every tenth man makes—whichhad no doubt driven half these men andwomen about him into their visionary[pg 705]creeds and hard work—that of an unhappymarriage. It was many yearssince he had heard of his wife: she hadgrown tired of warning him of the newpaths of shame and crime she had foundfor herself. In fact, the year in whichthey had lived together was now so longpast as to seem like a miserable half-forgottendream.

Irretrievable? Yes, it was irretrievable.There was, first of all, the stupid,boyish error of a change of name. Ifhe came back as this child wished, allthe annoyance which that entailed wouldfollow him, and the humiliating circumstanceswhich had led to it would bebrought to life from their unclean graves.His father believed him dead. Betterthe quiet, softened grief which that hadleft than the disgrace which would followhis return. "I should have to tellhim my wife's story," muttered McCall.But he did not turn pale nor break intoa cold sweat at the remembrance, asMiss Muller's hero should have done.This was an old sore—serious enough,but one which he meant to make thebest of, according to his habit. He hadbeen a fool, he thought, to come backand hang about the old place for thepleasure of hearing his father talked of,and of touching the things he had handleda day or two before. Growing intomiddle age, Hugh Guinness's likenessto his father had increased year by year.The two men were simple as boys insome respects, and would have beensatisfied alone together. The youngerman halted now on the foot-bridge whichcrossed the creek, looking out the differenthollows where his father had takenhim to fish when he was a boy, andthinking of their life then. "But hiswife and mine would have to be putinto the scales now," with an attempt atwhistling which died out discordantly.

There was one person to whom theshameful confession of his marriagemust be made—Miss Muller. That wasthe result, he thought, of his absurdwhim of loitering about Berry town.When he had met Maria Muller before,he had no reason to think she cared adoit whether he was married or single.Now—McCall's color changed, aloneas he was, with shame and annoyance.With all his experience of life and ofwomen, he had as little self-confidenceas an awkward girl. But Maria hadleft him no room for doubt.

"It would be the right thing to do. Iought to tell her. But it will be a slightmatter to her, no doubt."

If he had been a single man, in allprobability he would have asked MariaMuller to marry him that day. He wasa susceptible fellow, with a man's ordinaryvanity and passions; and Maria'sbright sweet face, their loiterings alongshady lanes and under Bourbon roses,the perpetual deference she paid tohis stupendous intellect, had had dueeffect. He was not the man to see astrong, beautiful woman turn pale andtremble at his touch, and preserve hisphlegm.

He threw away his cigar, and jumpedthe fence into the Water-cure grounds."I'll tell her now, and then be off fromold Berry town for ever."

Miss Muller was standing in the porch.She leaned over the railing, looking atthe ragged rain-clouds driven swiftlyover the blue distance, and at the wetcornfields and clumps of bay bushesgray with berries which filled the dampair with their pungent smell. Her dog,a little black-and-tan terrier, bit at herskirt. She had just been lecturing toher three students on the vertebrae, andwhen she took him up could not helpfumbling over his bones, even while sheperceived the color and scent of themorning. They gave her so keen apleasure that the tears rushed to hereyes, and she stopped punching Hero'sback.

"'The rain is over and gone,'" she recitedsoftly to herself, "'the vines withthe tender grape give a good smell, andthe time of the singing of birds hascome.' There is no poetry like that oldHebrew love-song. If only it had notbeen hackneyed by being turned into atheological allegory! Ha, doggy, doggy!There comes a friend of ours!"suddenly laughing and hugging him asshe caught sight of a large man coming[pg 706]up the road with a swinging gait andloose white overcoat. She broke off arose and put it in her breast, tied on herhat and hurried down to meet him, theSong of Solomon still keeping time withher thoughts in a lofty cadence: "'Whois this that cometh up from the wildernessleaning upon his beloved? Set meas a seal upon thine heart, as a sealupon thine arm. For love is strong asdeath.'"

"What's that, Maria? I heard youintoning as I came up the hill?" Hereyes were soft and luminous and hervoice unsteady. I am afraid DoctorMcCall's eyes were warmer in their admirationthan they should have beenunder the circumstances. Why shouldshe not tell him? She repeated it. Shehad been chattering for two hours oncervical, dorsal and lumbar vertebrae,without stopping to take breath. Butshe grew red now and broke down miserably.

"'Love is strong as death,' eh?" saidMcCall, awkwardly holding the gateopen for her. "Friendship ought to betough enough to bear a pretty stout strain,then. Such friendship as ours, I mean.For I think a man and woman can befriends without—without—Well, whatdo you think, Maria?" feeling a suddenimbecility in all his big body.

The little woman beside him lookedup scared and ready to cry: "I don'tknow, John, I'm sure. Do be quiet,Hero!" Then like a flash she saw thathe meant to ask her to marry him: hemeant to place love upon the higherbasis of friendship. Maria was used topeople who found new names for oldthings. Why! why! what folly wasthis, as she grew cold and hot by turns?So often she had pictured his coming toclaim her, and how she would go out asone calm controlling soul should to meetanother, to be dual yet united throughall eternity; and here she was shiveringand tongue-tied, like any silly school-girl!Love-making and marriage wereat a discount with the Advanced Clubof which she was a member, and classedwith dancing, fashionable dressingand other such paltry feminine frivolities.But Maria had meant to show them thata woman could really love and marry,and preserve her own dignity. She triedto find her footing now.

"Come into the summer-house, John.I should think our friendship would bearany strain, for it does not depend on externalties."

"No, that's true. Now, as to yourphalansteries and women's clubs andsitz-baths, why that's all flummery tome. But young women must have theirwhims until they have husbands to occupytheir minds, I suppose. There'sthat little girl at the Book-shop: howmany leagues of tatting do you supposeshe makes in a year?"

"Yes. There may be a lack of externalbonds" (speaking deliberately,for she wanted to remember this crisisof her life as accurate in all its minutiae);"but there is a primal unity, a mysterioussympathy, in power and emotion.At least, so it seems to me," suddenlystammering and picking up Hero toavoid looking at McCall, who stood infront of her.

"I don't know. Primal unities arerather hazy to me. I can tell by a woman'seye and hand-shake if she is pure-mindedand sweet-tempered, and prettywell, too, what she thinks of me. That'sabout as far as I go."

"It pleases you to wear this mask ofdullness, I know," with an indulgentsmile, with which Titania might havefondled the ass's head.

"But as to our friendship," gravely,"I feel I've hardly been fair to you.Friendship demands candor, and thereis one matter on which I have not dealtplainly with you. You have been anhonest, firm friend to me, Maria. I hadno right to withhold my confidence fromyou."

If Miss Muller had not been knownas an advanced philosopher, basing herlife upon the Central Truths, she wouldhave gained some credit as a shrewdwoman of business. "What do youmean, John?" she said, turning a coolI steady countenance toward him.

The patients, taking soon after theirtwo hours' exercise, made their jokes onthe battle between the two systems, seeingthe allopathist McCall and DoctorMaria Haynes Muller in the summer-houseengaged in such long and earnestconverse. Homoeopathy, they guessed,had the worst of it, for the lady wasvisibly agitated and McCall apparentlyunmoved. Indeed, when he left herand crossed the garden, nodding to suchof them as he knew, he had a satisfied,relieved face.

Maria went immediately in to visit herward as usual. The patients observedthat she was milder than was her wont,and deadly pale. One of them, addressingher as "Miss Muller," however, wassharply rebuked: "I earned my right tothe title of physician too hardly to giveit up for that which belongs to everysimpering school-girl," she said. "Besides,"with a queer pitiful smile, "thesooner we doctors sink the fact that weare women the better for the cause—andfor us."

She met her brother in the course ofthe morning, and drew him into theconsulting-room.

"William," she said, fumbling withthe buttons of his coat, "he is going: heis going to take the afternoon train."

"Why do you speak so of him, William?He has just told me his story.He is so wretched! he has been used sohardly!" She could scarcely keep backthe tears. In her new weakness andweariness it was such comfort to talkto and hang upon this fat, stupid littlebrother, whom usually she despised.

"Wretched, eh? He don't look it,then. As stout and easy-going a fellowas I know. Come, come, Maria! Theman has been imposing some story onyou to work on your sensibilities. Inever fancied him, as you know. Hedoesn't want to borrow money, eh?"with sudden alarm.

"What is it, then? Don't look at mein that dazed way. You, are going tohave one of your attacks. I do wishyou had Kitty's constitution and somesense."

"William," rousing herself, "he is going.He will never come back to Berrytownor to me. Our whole lives dependon my seeing him once more. Ask himto wait for a day—an hour."

"If he doesn't take the noon express,he can't go in an hour. You certainlyknow that, Maria. Well, if I have tofind him, I'd better go at once," buttoninghis coat irritably. "I never did likethe fellow."

"Beg him to stay. Tell him that Ihave thought of a way of escape," followinghim, catching him by his sleeve,her small face absolutely without colorand her eyes glittering.

"Yes, I'm going. But I must find myovershoes first. It begins to look likerain."

Miss Muller watched him to the door,and then crossed the hall to her ownroom, locking the door behind her.The square table was piled with medicalbooks. She sat down and dropped herhead on her arms. Over went a boundvolume of theLancet and a folio ondiseases of the kidneys to the floor. Shelooked down at them. "And I was willingto give him up for that—that trash!"sobbing and rubbing her arms like abeaten child. But she had so strong ahabit of talking that even in this painthe words would come: "I loved himso. He would have married me! AndI must be kept from him by a law of society!It is—it is," rising and wrenchingher hands together, "a damnablelaw!"

BOWERY ENGLAND.

A party of four Americans in London—Mr.Hill Bunker of Boston,Mrs. Bunker, his wife, Miss Amy Abellof New York, and myself—we find ourselvesgrowing weary of that noisy town.We talk of a trip to the country. It isthe merry month of May.

"Just the time for 'bowery England,as Bulwer phrases it," says Amy. "Letus go to Romsey and see the Boyces."

Carried unanimously. We take thetrain from the Waterloo Station twohours later. When we get down atRomsey, "Fly, sir?" asks the attentiveporter—carries our luggage, calls the flyand touches his hat thankfully for three-pence.The Romsey fly is a lumbering,two-seated carriage, rather more pretentiousthan a London cab, but far behindthe glossy gorgeousness of a New Yorkhackney-coach.

A short drive brings us to the WhiteHorse Inn, under whose covered archwe roll, and are met at the door by amaid. She conducts us to a stuffy coffee-roomup a flight of crumbling oldstairs, and meekly desires to know ourwill.

The landlord comes, bowing low, andwe make inquiries concerning the distanceto Paultons, the estate where theBoyces have been spending the summer,and where we venture to hope they stillare. He says it is a matter of four miles,and that we can have a fly over for sixshillings. We order the fly to be gotready at once, and inquire if we canhave dinner now, it being late in theafternoon.

As this means a matter of an hour, Iask if he can't get us up something in ashorter time. He suggests that chopscan be cooked sooner.

"Chops be it, then. In the words ofthe immortal Pickwick, chops and tomatosauce."

He retires, and we all rush to the windowsand look out upon the quaint oldvillage—a curious, old-fashioned scene.We feel as if we had somehow becometransmogrified, and instead of being flesh-and-bloodmen and women from practicalNew York, were playing our partsin some old English novel. Oddlittle tumble-down houses, with peakedroofs and mullioned windows, rangedabout a triangular common, look sleepilyout upon a statue of Palmerston inthe middle of the open place, the graywalls of Romsey Abbey, a thousandyears old, against the blue sky behindthem.

About six o'clock our fly is at the door,and we are off, rattling through the ancientstreets into the smooth open country.Oh the quaint, delightful old hedge-linedroad, deep down below the levelof the fields on either side—a green laneshut in with fragrance and deliciousquiet! The hedges, perched upon thebank, tower high above our heads, andthere is no break in them save at rusticgates. We meet characters on the roadwho have just stepped out of Trollope'snovels. A young man and girl standon a bridge across which we trundle,leaning companionably on the old stoneparapet, and looking up the little riverthrough a long avenue of trees to thepillared mansion of "Broadlands." Alaborer, with a gay flower stuck in thebuttonhole of his smock-frock, goeswhistling along the brown road underthe hedgerows. A country gentleman,driving alone in a basket phaeton, looksinquisitively at our half-closed windowsas if expecting the sight of an acquaintance.Crumbling milestones stand bythe wayside, with deep-cut letters so[pg 709]smoothed by the hand of time that wecannot read them as we pass. Flowersgrow thick in the hedgerows. A boy islolling on the green grass in front ofa cottage door—an uncombed Englishhind, with a face of rustic simplicity andstolid ignorance.

At last we come to a gate which barsthe road. The driver gets down andopens it, and when we have passedthrough in the fly he tells us we are nowon Mr. Stanley's broad estate of Paultons.The driver wears corduroy trousers,and touches his hat every time wespeak to him and every time he answers.He does not merely touch it when he isfirst addressed, but he touches it continuallythroughout the conversation.Bunker considers his conduct extremelytouching.

We are presently driving through abosky wood, and the driver touches hishat to remark that we are nearly therenow, he thinks.

"Yes: the landlord said we could notdrive fast because the road was bad.Where is it bad?"

"All along back of 'ere, sir," touchinghat. "We have pahst the worst of itnaow, sir: the rest is not so 'illy, sir,"touching hat.

"Hilly? We haven't passed over anythingbigger than a knoll. If this iswhat the landlord meant by a hilly road,itis a rich joke. Why, it's as smooth asa floor, almost."

"He should go to California," saysAmy, who has feeling reminiscences."He should go to the Yosemite Valley,over the road which runs through ChineseCamp and Hodgden's. Probablythe man never saw a rough road in hislife. I doubt if there is such a thing inEngland."

After half an hour's trundling alongthe unfenced roads of this fine old estate,crossing ancient stone bridges, rollingthrough leafy groves, startling fat cattlefrom their browsing, getting a hat-touchfrom a shepherd who is leading his flocksacross the fields in true pastoral style, wereach the manor-house, standing statelyamid dells and dingles, pollards of fantasticgrowth and patches of fern andgorse. The Boyces have returned toParis, but nurse and the children arestill at the gardener's house, and thitherwe drive along the banks of a sylvanlake, beyond which the rooks are cawingabout the chimneys.

The old gardener is nurse's father,and though he is now so old that he nolonger does any work, he is maintainedin comfort by the family in whose servicehe has spent a lifetime. Fortyyears of honest service in one family!No wonder he feels that his destiny isfor ever linked with that of the peoplewho have been his masters, man andboy, for forty years. He has a delightfullittle cottage with thatched roof andmullioned windows, and pretty vinesrioting all over it, and in front of it aflower-garden full of early bloom. Thelilacs which grow about so profusely arenot of the color of our lilacs in America,being of a rich purple; we shouldnot know they were lilacs but for thefamiliar odor.

A delicious ride back to Romsey inthe twilight, carrying two of the Boycechildren with us. In the evening I strollout alone, to look at the village in themoonlight. The streets are like narrowlanes. The houses are very old, andfor the most part dilapidated, but streetsand houses are all as clean and neat aswax. Presently I come upon the oldabbey, its rugged walls and towers loomingsolemnly in the moonlight, and passthe parson's house near by, all overrunwith vines, thinking of Trollope againand Framley parsonage.

Before going back to the White HorseInn I wander round the village until Ifind that I am lost. The discovery isnot very alarming in a place so smallas this, even at night. I resolve to turnevery corner to the left, and see whatwill come of it. I presently find thatgetting out into the country comes of it;and having crossed a bridge and comeupon a silent brickyard, and seen thelong road winding away into the opencountry, I am reminded of Oliver Twist—or[pg 710]was it Pip?—running away fromhome and trudging off under the starsto London. Somehow, it seems this roadmust lead to London.

Turning about, but still walking atrandom and turning left-hand corners,I presently see the abbey tower again,and make for it. The street throughwhich I pass is apparently the home ofthe British working man. A light burningin any house is most rare. Occasionallya man can be seen through theodd little windows, smoking a pipe bythe blaze of the fire on the hearth. Hereare the abbey windows, and now I knowwhere I am. Down this narrow, windingstreet, across the open place whereLord Palmerston stands stonily in themoonlight, and I am at the White HorseInn again.

At nine o'clock next morning there isa rap at the door of my room. Thedoor being opened a man-servant is discovered,who touches his forehead (havingno hat to touch) and says, "Theladies would like to 'ave you breakfastwith them, sir."

He is so very respectful in his mannerof saying this that he is inaudible, andbeing asked what he said, repeats thetouching his forehead and then repeatshis words.

There are no muffins at breakfast—afact which I record merely because thisis the first time since we have been inEngland that this peculiarly Englishdish has been omitted at breakfast. Itappears on inquiry that muffins are aluxury of large towns. In villages theyare rarely obtainable at less than about aweek's notice. In fact, you can't get anythingto eat, of any sort, without prettyliberal notice.

After breakfast we go to see the oldabbey. It is an imposing and well-preservedpile. It was founded by Ethelwold,a thane—one of those righting,praying, thieving old rascals who livedin the tenth century, and made thingslively for any one who went past theirhouses with money on his person. WhenEthelwold had stolen an unusually largesum one day, he founded the monasteryand stocked it with nuns. It was but awooden shanty at first, but after havingserved till it was worm-eaten and rottingwith age, it was torn down and a finestone convent was built.

We walk about in that part of the abbeywhich is free from pews—by far thelarger part—and stare at the monumentalstones let into the floor and walls.If we did not know that Romsey hadbeen the home of Palmerston, we shouldlearn it now, for these stones are thicklycovered with the legends of virtue in hisfamily—wives, sisters, sons and so forth,whose remains lie "in the vault beneath."After perusing these numeroustestimonials to the truly wonderful virtuesof an aristocracy whom we are permittedto survive, and after droppingsome shillings in the charity-box, whichrather startle us by the noise they make,we pass out of the cool abbey into thehot churchyard, and read on a lonelystone which stands in a corner by thegate that here lies the dust of Mary AnnBrown, "for thirty-five years faithful servantto Mr. Appleford." Mary Ann nodoubt had other virtues, but they are notrecorded: this is sufficient for a servant.

An hour's ride on the velvet cushionsof a railway carriage brings us, with ourPaultons friends, the Boyce boys, toSouthampton, which was an old townwhen King Canute was young. Wetake rooms at a pretentious marble hotelwith a mansard roof, attached to thestation—a railroad hotel, in fact, butstrikingly unlike that institution as weknow it in America. Wide halls, solidstone staircases, gorgeous coffee-room,black-coated waiters, and the inevitablebuxom landlady with a regiment ofblooming daughters for assistants—onepresiding over the accounts, anotherofficiating at the beer-pumps, a third toanswer questions, and all very muchunder the influence of their back hairand other charms of person. One ofthem alleviates the monotony of theoffice duties by working at embroideryin bright worsteds.

Strolling out, Bunker and I consultcertain shabby worthies who are yawningon the boxes of a long line of wretchedhacks drawn up by the sidewalk[pg 711]across the street, and find that we cancharter a vehicle for two shillings anhour. These cabbies have more nearlythe air of our own noble hackmen thanany we have seen in England. Americansare no novelty to them, for ship-loadsof American tourists are put offhere at frequent intervals, and the cabbieshave a thin imitation of the votinghackman's independence. They stopshort, however, of his impudence. Theyare lazy, but they touch their hats occasionally.

We choose two of the tumble-downvehicles and go after the ladies. Mydriver is an elderly man with a hatwhich has seen better days, and I havechosen his hack, not because it is lesslikely to drop off its wheels than theothers, but because he himself lookslike a seedy Bohemian. He proves tobe a very intelligent fellow, with a readyturn for description which serves him ingood stead whenever his horse gets tiredof walking and stops short. At suchtimes our Bohemian pretends that hehas stopped the horse himself in orderto point out and comment upon somecurious thing in the immediate vicinity.

It is pleasant driving. The hack isopen, and we hoist sun-umbrellas andlook about comfortably. Presently theweary horse stops in the middle of thestreet.

"'Ere you are, sir," says Cabby briskly,turning half round on his box andpointing to an old stone structure whichstretches quite across the High street."This 'ere is the old Bar Gate, sir, oneof the hancient gates of the town. Partof the horiginal town wall. Was a largeditch 'ere, sir, and another there, and astone bridge betwixt the two, and theyoung bucks in them days did use topractice harchery right 'ere where yousee the lamp-post. The Guild'all ishinthe gate, sir, right hinside it, with a passagehup. I'll drive through the harch,sir, and you'll see the hother side.Cluck!" (to the horse).

On the other side, the horse not takinga notion to stop again, the driver is notforced to resume his remarks. Turningabout as we pass on, we look up at theold Norman gate-tower, with its handsomearchway and projecting buttresses,and Amy says she fancies she sees aknight in armor looking out through thenarrow crevice which may have been awindow in olden times. This, being analtogether proper fancy for the place, isreceived with applause.

The next time the horse concludes tostop we are in the midst of what is herecalled the Common—in fact, a magnificentold forest park, with a smooth roadrunning through it, and numberless windingpaths in among the bosky depths.I fancy Central Park might come to looklike this if allowed to go untrimmed andunfussed-over for two or three hundredyears.

"The Common, sir," says Cabby,turning about, "where King Chawles diduse to 'unt wild boars. Fav'rite walk ofHalexander Pope, sir, the poet, and DoctorWatts, which wrote the 'ymn-book.Cluck!"

From the top of a high hill a splendidwide landscape is seen, with Romsey inthe distance, and (the horse havingstopped again) Cabby points out QueenElizabeth's shooting-box across the fields.In a lot close by cricketers are at play,and a little farther on, where there is avine-covered beerhouse, a crowd of clod-hoppersare gathered in a green field,looking at two of their number engagedin a rough-and-tumble fight in theirshirt-sleeves.

The road after this running down hill,the horse continues to jog along for aconsiderable distance, stopping at lastunder a towering old wall looking outon the sea.

"Wind Whistle Tower, sir," says Cabby,pointing up at a square tower projectingfrom the old wall overhead, andabove it the remains of an old roundtower thickly overrun with ivy. And,using his fingers industriously, Cabbyproceeds to call off the names of variouscastles and towers here visible—notably,Prince Edward's Tower, bold and round,from whose summit three men were lookingdown.

"What are those?" asks Bunker inthe carriage behind us, pointing to the[pg 712]old brass guns which sit on the wall likeHumpty Dumpty.

"Them, sir," says Cabby, "was putthere by 'Enry the Heighth, and this'ere wall was the purtection of the townwhen the Frenchmen hassaulted it."

"Ho!" says Bunker, contemptuously."Just fancy one of our ironclads payingany attention to the barking of thosepopguns!"

Whereupon the horse starts again, andwe go lazily on, Cabby dropping in aword of enlightenment here and thereto the effect that this old tumble-downpart of the ancient wall is the celebratedArcade, which formed part of the wallof the King's Palace; and this queerold lane running up through the wallslike a sewer is Cuckoo lane; and thatis Bugle street, where in olden times thewarden blew; and here are the remainsof Canute's palace, with its elliptical andcircular arches and curious mouldings.

Discharging the cab in the High street,we walk about. In a shop where wepause for a moment there is a quartetteof half-naked barbarians, such as, withall our boasted varieties of humanity,were never yet seen in New York. Wehave abundant Chinese and Japanesethere, and occasionally an Arab or aTurk, and the word African means withus a man and a brother behind our chairat dinner or wielding a razor in a barber-shop.These men here are pure barbarians,just landed from a vessel directfrom Africa. Hideously tattooed, andtheir heads shaved in regular ridges ofblack wool, with narrow patches of blackscalp between, they are here in a smalltradesman's shop in bowery Englandbuying shirts. They know not a word ofEnglish, but chatter among themselvesthe most horrible lingo known to theHamitic group of tongues. They grimacein a frightful manner, and skip anddance, and writhe their half-naked bodiesinto the most exaggerated contortionsknown to the language of signs.The dignified English salesmen are attheir wits' end how to treat them. Theinstinct of the British shopkeeper fightsdesperately with his disposition to beshocked. From the Ashantee gentlemen'sgestures it can only be concludedthat white shirts are wanted, but whenwhite shirts are shown the negroes makefurious objection to the plaited bosoms.They want shirts such as are fashionableat home. It is easy to be seen thatthey are Dandy Jims in Africa. Theyare all young, and, in a sense, spruce.One of them carries a little switch cane,evidently just bought: while he examinesthe shirts, testing the strength of the stuffby pulling it with his two hands, he holdshis cane between his bare legs for safe-keeping.

Sitting in the billiard-room of the hotelin the evening smoking our cigars, Bunkerand I are accosted by a brisk littleman, who asks us if we play billiards.Bunker doesn't. I do sometimes athome, but not the English game.

"Oh, we play the 'Merican game too.'Appy to play the 'Merican game withyou, sir."

Not liking to refuse an invitation froma polite Englishman, who appears to bea stranger here, I consent. This is billiard-roometiquette the world over.

The cue is like a whip-stock. It positivelyruns down to a point not biggerthan a shirt-button, and it bends like aswitch. The balls are not much largerthan marbles. To make up for this, thetable is big enough for a back yard,broad, high, dull of cushion, and withsix huge pockets. I am ignominiouslybeaten. My ball jumps like a livingthing. It hops off the table upon thefloor at almost every shot, and when itdoes not go on the floor it goes into oneof the six yawning pockets. The pocketsbear the same relative proportion tothe balls that a tea-cup bears to a Frenchpea. At the end of the game my ballhas been everywhere except where I intendedit to go, and I have "scratched"thirty.

I wonder if this is an English custom—topay your victor a shilling, insteadof paying the keeper of the tables. But[pg 713]as there is no one else to pay, I pay theEnglishman. Bunker has fallen asleepin his chair.

I am on the point of saying that guidesare a nuisance I do not tolerate, whenthe Englishman hands me a bit of paste-board."There is my card, sir," he says."A. SHARPE, Interpreter and Courier."On the opposite side I read—

At present he has charge of this billiard-room,but he is ready to follow meto the ends of the earth for a period ofnot less than three months. I tell himI can get on without a guide.

"But I would go on the most reasonableterms. I would go for as low asten pounds a month and my expenses."

"Would you go for nothing?" Bunkerwakes up and pops this out at himso suddenly as to quite take his breathaway.

He expands his hands at his trouserspockets, shrugs his shoulders and looksvolumes of reproach.

"Because," Bunker adds, in a soothingtone, "I shouldn't like to have youalong, even at that price."

"Horrible breath that man had," saysBunker when we come out: "did younotice it?"

"Take that breath around with us onthe Continent! Why, if he was in Cologneitself, his breath would be in themajority."

I had my umbrella in the billiard-room,and next morning I can't find itanywhere. At breakfast I ask the pompoushead-waiter if he knows of myumbrella. He states that he does not.After breakfast I look in the billiard-room.It is not there. I go down tothe office, and interrupt the worstedwork there in progress by requestingthat a search be made for my missingumbrella. The young lady whose ear Ihave gained kindly condescends to callthe porter, and turning me over to thatfunctionary returns to her worsted. Theporter is respectful, but doubtful. Themoment he learns that the lost articleis an umbrella his manner is pervadedwith a gentle hopelessness. He, however,listens forbearingly to my story.

"Oh, then the night porter ull knowof it, sir. He's abed now. I'll ask himwhen he gets oop."

And so, when we go to Netley Abbey,I take a covered cab, because of my lostumbrella. It was a beautiful umbrellato keep off the sun. Nobody can makean umbrella like an Englishman. Ishould be sorry to lose it. I bought itin Regent street only a few days ago,but I already love it with a passionateaffection.

Through the hot paved streets, over afloating bridge, past the cliff at the river'smouth, through a shady grove ofnoble yews and sycamores, past a picturesquehamlet full of vine-curtainedand straw-thatched cottages, through aforest of oaks and past a willow copse,and there is the grand old ruin of NetleyAbbey lifting its picturesque and solemnfingers of ivy-hung stone above the topsof the trees which surround and shelterit in its hoary age.

It is really curious how dramaticallyeffective a grand old ruin is. The weirdsense of being in the presence of oldentime comes over us immediately. Welook about us to see the spirit of somecloistered monk come stealing by withhood and girdle. Here—actually here,in these nooks all crumbling underTime's gnawing tooth—did old Cistercianmonks kneel with shaved headsand confess their sins, and their boneshave been powdered into dust threehundred years! Romsey Abbey—withinwhose well-kept walls we rather yawnedover Palmerstonian eulogiums—is a[pg 714]thousand years old. This abbey is onlysix hundred and thirty-two years old.Romsey has been restored, and modernmen go to church there on Sunday decorously.Netley has been left to go toutter ruin. Grass grows in its long-drawnaisles. Owls hoot in its moss-clothedchimneys. It is dramaticallyeffective.

We wander through cloistered courtsinto the main body of the church. Yonderstood the pulpit, here gathered theworshipers. The carpet is green grass.Trees grow within the walls. Ivy clambersfrom side to side of the tall windows,in place of the stained glass once there.Most of the windows have tumbled todecay, walls and all. The roof is thesky—naught else.

We climb up the stone staircase in theturret. All the stone steps are wornwith deep hollows where human feet havetrodden up and down for centuries, andstorms have sent rivulets of water pouringthrough many a wild night. Someof the steps are worn quite in two andbroken away, which makes the ascentfrightening to the ladies.

Up here ("on the second floor," asBunker says) the carpet is again grass,and Bunker and I clamber through alittle archway into the cloister gallery,where the monks used to look down onthe service below when they felt inclined.The ladies look after us, brave adventurersthat we are (only two or threemillion men have been here before us,perhaps, since the ruin became a popularsuccess), and refuse to follow in ourrash footsteps. The crumbling wall isfull of owls' nests. Rooks and swallowsfly continually in and out of their holes.We could kick a loose stone down intothe chancel if there were any stones tokick.

The ladies declare themselves dizzyand afraid, and we help them down thedark winding turret staircase again, andgo into the enclosed parts of the ruin.Here is where the monks lived. Thewalls still stand, and parts of the roof.The windows are thickly ivy-hung andmoss-grown. Here is the room wherethe monks did whilom dine. For threehundred years this dining-room was indaily use, and in the spot where erst thedining-table stood now grows a stalwarttree, whose branches tower and spreadbeyond the crumbling walls. Passingstrange!

More strange is the sight in the nextroom, the chapter-house, where the abbotheld his gravest councils, and wherethe most honored of the monks wereburied beneath the floor when they died.And since the roof fell in, after longbattling with storms, perhaps a hundredyears after the last monk was buried,one day a seed fell. A tree grew up inthe room. It spread its tall brancheshigh above the piled-up stones, andshook its brown leaves down, autumnafter autumn, for years and years. Itgrew slowly old, and at last it died. Itfell down in its death in the room whereit had grown, and its once sturdy trunkstruck against the old ruined walls andbroke. Its roots were torn out of theground by the fall, and stuck up theirgnarled fingers in the empty room. Andthe grass grew over the roots, weavinga green cloak to hide their nakedness.The old trunk stretches now across thespace in the room, and leans its oldhead against the abbey wall. I didn'tread this story in a guide-book. It wastold to me by the principal actor, the tree.

In the abbot's kitchen we get into thehuge hooded fireplace—seven of us—andthere is room for more. We lookup the chimney and see the glossy greenivy leaves overhead, and the blue skyshining beyond them. We toss a pebbledown into the subterranean passagewhere, they say, the monks were wontto pass out after provisions during a timeof siege; which must have been somewhatdemoralizing to the besiegers, whoeverthey were. I stoop to pick up somethingin the grass of the kitchen floor,which has a glitter of gold upon it, andmy face flushes with eager anticipationas I seize it.

"It's a champagne cork," I am forcedto reply. "The truth is, Netley Abbeyis a show, like Niagara Falls and Bunker[pg 715]Hill Monument. Of course crowdsof tourists come here, and of coursethey pop champagne and ginger beer,and cut their confounded initials in thevenerable stones."

"Yes," says Bunker, "I saw 'W.S.'cut in the wall at the top of the turretstairs. Saves you the trouble, youknow."

Nevertheless, it was curious to seesome nobody's name cut at full lengthin the stone, with the date underneath—1770.

When we return to the hotel the nightporter reports that he has not found myumbrella. So I must go off without it.Our train leaves at ten minutes past fivethis afternoon, and we shall be in Londonearly in the evening. It is now fouro'clock: we have ordered dinner for thishour, and so we sit down to our soup.

"Please give us our dinner without anydelay now," I say to the pompous head-waiter,"for we must take the train atten minutes past five."

The man bows stiffly and retires. Wefinish the soup, and wait. When we gettired of waiting we call the head-waiterto us: "Are you hastening our dinner?"

"Fish directly, sir," he answers, andwalks solemnly away. We begin togrow fidgety. Fifteen minutes since thesoup, and no fish yet. Bunker swearshe'll blow the head-waiter up in anotherminute. Just as he is quite ready forthis explosion the fish arrives. All hail!I lay it open.

"Why, it's not done!" I cry in consternation."There, there! Take itaway, and bring the meat."

With an air of grave offence the manbears it solemnly out. Then we waitagain. And wait. And wait.

"Good gracious!" cries Bunker,"here's half an hour gone, and we'vehad nothing but soup! I really mustblow this fellow up."

Enter the waiter with great dignity,and solemnly deposits before us—thefish again!

He has had it recooked. We attackit hurriedly, and bid the waiter for Goodness'sake bring the rest of the dinnerinstantly, or we must leave it.

"Oh come, I can't stand this!" criesBunker, jumping up with his napkinround his neck, and striding over to thehead-waiter, where he stands in a Turveydroppyattitude, leaning against asideboard with his arms folded. "Lookhere!" Bunker ejaculates: "can you bemade to understand that we are in ahurry? Would half a dollar be any inducementto you to wake up and lookaround lively? Because we have got totake those cars in exactly twelve minutes,"showing his watch, "and as thedinner is already paid for, I want to getit before I go."

"Certainly, sir," says the pompous asswith slow indifference, "dinner directly.John!" to our waiter, who is now placingthe meat on the table, "serve the genl'm'n'sdinnerdirectly."

Bunker stares at the fellow as Clownstares at Harlequin after having cut himin two, in dumb amazement at the factthat Harlequin is not in the least disturbedby being cut in two.

"I wonder," he mutters as he returnsto the table, "if that unmitigated woodenimage of a dunderhead would pay anyattention if I were to kick him?"

"No—not if you were to tie a packof fire-crackers to his coat-tail and lightthem. He knows his business too well.The first duty of an English head-waiteris to be dignified, as it is that of a Frenchhead-waiter to be vigilant and polite."

"Besides," remarks Amy quietly, "Idon't suppose the man had an idea ofwhat you meant by 'those cars,' if heeven knew what a half dollar signified."

"Well, we must be off. Time's up.We shall miss the train. Good-bye,boys. You can sit still and finish yourdinner in peace."

Good-bye to our friends from Paultons—good-bye.And then we rush out, anddo miss the train. It is five o'clock tenminutes and a quarter.

We finally get off at seven o'clock.Just before we leave a waiter comes upto me and says in a casual manner,"Found your humbreller yet, sir?"

"W'y, I wouldn't wonder if that wasyour humbreller in the corner now in thereading-room, sir."

I make haste to look. Yes, there itis, my beloved, long-lost umbrella, quietlyleaning against the wall in a darkcorner, behind a pillar, behind a bigarm-chair, where nobody ever placed it,I'll take my oath, but this rascally waiter,who expects to get a shilling forshowing where he hid it.

"Isthat your humbreller, sir?" thewaiter says, rubbing his hands and gettingin my way as I walk briskly out, atperil of being stumbled over by my hurryingfeet. I scorn to reply, but I givehim a glance of such withering contemptthat I trust it pierced to his wicked heart,and will remain there, a punishment anda warning, to the last day of his baselife. An English waiter's hide is verythick, however. He has probably hiddenmany a gentleman's umbrella since.

At eleven o'clock we are back in ourcozy London lodgings, and at twelvewe are sleeping the sleep of profoundfatigue, and dreaming of ghostly monkswandering among the weird old ruins ofNetley.

DAY-DREAM.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

There is no doubt that had Mr.Gladstone followed his personalinclinations when his Irish educationscheme broke down last March, hewould have retired from office. He isnow sixty-four, and it may be fairlyquestioned whether there exists a manwho for forty-six years has worked hisbrain harder. It is no light labor toread for the highest honors in even oneschool at Oxford, and Mr. Gladstoneread for them in two. He gained "adouble first," which meant at that timea first class both in classics and mathematics.Forthwith he plunged into politicalessay-writing, until in 1834 hefurther added to his labors by enteringthe House of Commons as M.P. forNewark.

Mr. Gladstone's father was, as mostpeople are aware, a Liverpool merchantof Scotch descent. This gentleman wasthe architect of his own fortunes, whicharose in no slight degree out of his connectionwith the United States. Havingbeen sent to this country by a firm largelyinterested in the corn trade, he dischargedtheir business to their entiresatisfaction, whilst at the same time hemade very valuable business connectionson his own account, which materiallyserved him when at a later period hehimself embarked in business. Hemade a large fortune, but it did not appearat his death to be so great as it was,because he gave his younger sons thebulk of their portions during his lifetime—toavoid legacy duty, people said. Tohis eldest son he left considerable estatesin Scotland—to the younger sons, aboutone hundred thousand pounds apiece.The eldest, Sir Thomas Gladstone, isa very worthy man, but nowise remarkablefor ability. He has one son, andhas had six daughters. Four survive,and all are unmarried.

The next brother, Robertson, an eccentricperson whose indiscreet speechesmust often have made his statesmanbrother feel very hot, continues the paternalbusiness at Liverpool. The third,John Neilson, was, socially speaking,the flower of the flock. He was a captainin the navy, from which he had retiredmany years prior to his death in1863, and a member of Parliament.By his wife, a singularly excellent andcharming woman, he had several children,who may be said to pretty nearlymonopolize the feminine charms of theGladstone family. One of these marriedthe earl of Belmore, an Irish nobleman,who lately returned from a not verysuccessful gubernatorial career in NewSouth Wales. Both Sir Thomas andCaptain Gladstone were decided Conservatives.

William Ewart is the fourth brother."That young brother of mine will makea noise in the world some of these days,"said Captain Gladstone to a fellow-middyas his brother turned away from biddinghim good-bye just before he wasabout to start on a cruise; and the wordswere certainly prophetic. Mr. Gladstonemarried when he was thirty. His wifewas one of the two sisters of Sir StephenGlynne. The English aristocracycontains a great many sets, and theGlynnes were in the intellectual set,comprising such men as the dukes ofArgyll and Devonshire, and Lords Derby,Stanhope and Lyttelton. Mrs. Gladstoneand her sister were married on thesame day to two of the finest intellectsof their time. The younger, whose mentalgifts were far superior to those of hersister, married Lord Lyttelton.

Mr. Gladstone has a large family.The eldest son has for some time beenin Parliament, but has established noreputation for notable capacity, and it issaid that, with the exception of one ofhis younger brothers, none of the familyare remarkable in this respect. Mrs.Gladstone is a person of great kindnessof heart and untiring benevolence. She[pg 718]is full of schemes for doing good: hospitals,convalescent institutions, etc. findin her an ever-ready friend, to the neglect,it is whispered, of her domesticduties. There is an amusing story toldof how some time ago a few guests arrivedat her house in response to an invitationto dinner. They waited in vainfor the rest of the party, for whose delaytheir hostess was at a loss to account.At length she turned aside and openedher blotting-book, which quickly revealedthe cause of the guests' non-appearance—theinvitations were lying there.They had been written, but never sent.

In London the prime minister—whohas an indifferent official residence,which he and his family have occasionallyoccupied, in Downing street—lives inCarlton-House Terrace. It is a beautifulhouse, but not by any means welladapted for party-giving, for it is soconstructed that circulation is almostimpossible. If you once get into aroom, you must stay there; whereashalf the charm of Lady Palmerston'sfamous parties at Cambridge House wasthe free circulation the rooms afforded,enabling you to pass right round a quadrangle,and thus easily find an acquaintanceor get away from a bore. Mr.Gladstone's house has a fine doublestaircase, and it will derive interest inafter days from the circumstance that,standing at the head, Lord Russell tookleave of the party he had led, and pointedto his then host as his successor.

Carlton-House Terrace is in manyrespects the most delightful situation inLondon, for, whilst extremely central, itis very quiet. It stands between Pall Malland St. James's Park. One side faces astrip of beautifully kept garden, whichlies between the terrace and the row ofpalaces formed by the Senior UnitedService, Athenaeum, Travelers' and CarltonClubs. The other side has a charmingprospect over St. James's Park. Insummer this is really lovely, for all uglyobjects are obscured by the foliage, amidwhich glimpses are obtained of the pinnaclesand fretted towers of the palaceof Parliament on the one hand, andthose of its venerable neighbor, themajestic abbey, on the other. It was herethat Bunsen passed his London days,and the reader of his memoirs willremember frequent references to thecharms of his house. It may well beimagined how great a boon it is to thetoil-worn minister to find himself, as itwere, in a garden, with only the distantroar, like that of the sea, to remind himas he sits in his study that five minuteswalk across that pleasant park will bringhim to Downing street, and three moreto the Treasury bench in the House ofCommons.

In the country most of his time isspent at Hawarden Castle in Flintshire,about six hours from London. This isthe ancestral seat of Mrs. Gladstone'sbrother, Sir Stephen Glynne, lord lieutenantof the county, whose family haveheld this property for centuries. SirStephen is a very shy man of retiredhabits. By a family arrangement hishouse is the country abode of his sisterand brother-in-law.

In earlier life, Sir Stephen and his twobrothers-in-law, Mr. Gladstone and LordLyttelton, formed an unfortunately favorableestimate of certain mines, intowhich much of the fortune of Sir Stephenand his sisters went, and from which itnever came out again. There was oneother brother, the late rector of Hawarden.He died about a year ago, andMr. Gladstone's second son, Stephen,was appointed his successor. The living,in the gift of Sir Stephen, is very valuable.Mr. Glynne, the clergyman, diedwithout a son, and the title will thereforeon Sir Stephen's death be extinct. Asmatters now stand, it may be presumedthat Mr. W.H. Gladstone, the primeminister's eldest son, will succeed to theHawarden estates.

Mr. Gladstone has himself recently increasedthe family interest around Hawardenby purchase. About five yearsago the state of his finances were thetalk of the town, and a number of people,especially of the Conservative party,avowed themselves in a position to assertfrom personal knowledge that he wasruined. There was no just ground forsuch a statement, and like so many other[pg 719]absurd rumors it died out. None of Mr.Gladstone's daughters are married, noris his eldest son.

WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS.

Certain great festivals of the ChristianChurch which were ignored by thePuritans and Quakers have always continuedin high repute among the PennsylvaniaGermans. Christmas, Easter,Whitsuntide and Ascension Day are celebratednot only in the Lutheran, theReformed or Calvinistic and the Moravianchurches, but among the descendantsof those Swiss Anabaptists who,being driven from their homes by religiouspersecution, finally took shelter inthat part of the land of Penn now calledLancaster county, these quiet sectariansbeing known among us by the namesof Mennists and Amish (pronouncedMenneests and Ommish).

The movable feast of Whitsunday orPentecost, which occurs on the seventhSunday after Easter, is a solemn occasionin the Mennonite meetings, for atthis time is held one of the great semi-annualobservances of bread-breakingand feet-washing. The ensuing day,Whitmonday, is a great secular festival.All the spring bonnets are then in readinessfor the "Dutch" girls. The youngfarmer of eighteen or more, whose fatherhas granted his heart's desire in the formof a buggy, or who has otherwise attainedto that summit of rural felicity, harnessesand attaches to it one of the horseswith which the farm is so well supplied,and takes his girl into the county-town.Here they walk the streets, partake ofsimple refreshments, meet their acquaintancesor talk with them in the tavernparlor. Sometimes they visit a circus ormenagerie whose managers have madea timely visit to our inland city.

On the ensuing day, Tuesday, whilethe Dutch boys are working the corn,you may perchance hear their father'svoice raised to a higher pitch than usual,which circumstance he explains whenhe comes in sight, thus: "The boys issleepy to-day. Yesterday was Whissuntide,you know. They got home late."For custom forbids their leaving the girlof their choice before the small hours,and allows them, nevertheless, no remissionfrom labor on the succeedingday.

The people, however, whose religiousservices I am about to describe imposeupon their members a stricter rule ofearlier hours, etc. They are called New(or Reformed) Mennists.

It was on Whitsunday, May 31, 1868,that I paid a visit to one of our NewMennist meeting-houses, and found beforenine o'clock in the morning that theservices had already begun. The firstapartment we entered was a sort of tiring-room,where along the walls hung theshawls and black sun-bonnets of thesisters. Here were also traveling-bags,and a cradle stood ready to receive oneor more of the babies that were in attendance.In the adjoining room were heardthe familiar notes of "Old Hundred,"and "Du bist der Weg" was sung pleasantlywithout any instrumental accompaniment.

When we entered the whitewashedapartment in which the meeting had assembledI saw upon a small platform atthe farther end five men, who were apparentlypreachers or elders. At thesame end of the room were seated thesoberly clad members of the sect—themen on one side of the apartment, withtheir broad-brimmed hats removed; onthe other side the sisters, with their extremelyplain book-muslin caps andotherwise sober attire.

A portion of the services was in English.Dr. ——, a practitioner of medicineand a bishop in this Church, spokeextemporaneously in our language. Hegave a long account of the ordinancesof the Jewish Church, and then of thosewhich the "Lord Jesus instituted in theplace of these—the baptism that wascelebrated a week ago, and this Lord'sSupper, this feet-washing, this kiss ofpeace, this manner of visiting offenders;"the last phrase being an allusionto the severe rule which forbids the Newor Reformed Mennists to eat, etc. withthose excommunicated by the society.

The Mennists, as I understand, holdin general those doctrines that are[pg 720]considered evangelical. The services weremuch prolonged, and the congregationbecame restless. But at length, whilea younger brother was speaking in"Dutch" or German, there came in anotherbearing a parcel wrapped in a whitecloth. He was followed by onecarrying something tied in a blue-and-whitecloth, which being opened discloseda demijohn. The white parcelwas received by the preacher upon thedesk, and when opened showed a greatloaf of our beautiful Lancaster countybread divided into slices. After prayerseveral preachers took slices, and passingaround among the congregationbroke off bits which they gave to thecommunicants. The wine in the demijohnwas then poured into small, brighttin cups, like milkmen's measures, andwas distributed among the members. Ahymn in the German language wassung, two lines at a time, while the winewas handed round.

After these services were concludedfeet-washing began by reading the passagefrom the 13th chapter of John onthe subject, and this was followed bymany remarks. I observed that oneelderly brother, speaking in a mournfultone and in our Dutch manner, quoted,"Nimmermehr soll du mein Feeswasche" ("Thou shalt never wash myfeet"). These discourses were followedby the announcement, "Next Sundaythere will be bread-breaking atLandisville."

Now arose a confusion from carryingout benches, from arranging others in twolong rows facing each other, etc. Thetwo principal preachers were seen disencumberedof their coats, much animatedconversation began, and feet-washingdid not seem to be observedwith so much seriousness as the Supper.I took a seat near the end of two longbenches which were arranged to faceeach other, and on which sat some ofthe brethren whose feet were to be washedby one of the preachers. Commonunpainted tubs containing water werebrought in by two men. Dr. ——, thebishop already mentioned, had a greatpiece of white linen tied around hiswaist. He passed along between thetwo rows of men as they sat facingeach other, bearing his tub alternatelyfrom a brother in one row to one in theother, so that both rows were finished atabout the same time. Quietly the mentook off their shoes and stockings. Theydid not put their feet forward much. AsDr. —— came to each participant heset his tub down before him, washed hisfeet a little, wiped them on the longwhite apron or towel, then shook handswith him and kissed him. He thusministered to thirty persons, a somewhatlaborious undertaking, but his powerfulframe was suited to the exertion. Thesame water and the same towel servedfor all.

Meantime, the sisters, in another partof the room, were arranged in smallercompanies on benches placed in a similarmanner. I said to a sister, "Do thepreachers wash the sisters' feet?"

Some of the sisters were very friendly,and not unwilling to converse. Onesaid, "One sister washes as many as sheis pretty well able: it's hard on theback."

"Yes, without they feel that they havesomething against another. Now if Ifeel that I have something against her—placingher hand upon a sister.

"I understand," interrupted I. "'Ifthou bring thy gift to the altar—' Andhow many," I continued, "will therebe in such a meeting as this that willnot commune? Will there be half adozen?"

"Oh yes; but by another year all willlikely be right, and then they will[pg 721]commune. Now, I did not commune norhave my feet washed."

"Why, I felt at this time such confusionof mind, as if the Enemy wasagainst me—"

At the conclusion of the feet-washinga hymn was sung. Among those whohad their feet washed was a young manapparently about twenty-two, and wholooked full of fun. It seems that evensuch may be in membership with sostrict a sect. It was about one o'clockwhen the meeting ended, having beenin session four hours and a half.

The great simplicity of the surroundingson this occasion may lead the readerto suppose that the congregation waspoor. It was, however, composed in agreat measure of some of the thriftiestfarmers in one of the richest upland sectionsof the United States.

Some time after attending this meetingI called upon an aged Amish man toconverse with him upon their religioussociety, etc. The Amish are anotherbranch of the Mennonites, and thoseamong us are likewise descendants ofSwiss refugees. They are the mostprimitive of the three divisions of thesect, preserving the use of the Dutch orGerman language not only in their religiousmeetings, but almost entirely intheir own families.

I mentioned to this aged man the feet-washingthat I had attended, and toldhow Dr. ——, the bishop, had washedthe feet of the other brethren.

"They wash each other's, every twoand two. If he washes them all, heputs himself in Christ's place.He says,'Wash each other's feet.'"

This, I am also informed, is the ruleamong the third division, the Old Mennists,the most numerous branch of theseremarkable people.

THE RAW AMERICAN.

London at present abounds in Americanson their way to the Vienna Exposition.Many of them are commissionersfrom various States. Some havelands to sell or other financial axes togrind. Of such the Langham Hotel isfull. The Langham is the nearest approachto an American hotel in London.There, though not a guest, you may passin and out without explaining to thehall-porter who you are, what you are,where you come from or what you want:you may there enter and retire withoutgiving your pedigree, naturalization papersor a certificate of good character.At other English hotels something analogousto this is commonly required.

We, who have been in England a fullyear, look down with an air of superiorityon the raw, the newly-arrived American.We are quite English. We haveworn out our American clothes. Wehave on English hats with tightly-curledrims and English stub-toed boots. Weknow the intricacies of London streetnavigation, and Islington, Blackfriars,Camden Town, Hackney, the "SurreySide," Piccadilly, Regent and Oxfordstreets, the Strand and Fleet street, areall mapped out distinctly in our mind'seye. We are skilled in English money,and no longer pass off half crowns fortwo-shilling pieces. We are real Anglo-Americans.

But the raw American, only arrived aweek, is in a maze, a confusion, a hurry.He is excited and mystified. He triesto appear cool and unconcerned, and issimply ridiculous. His cards, bearinghis name, title and official status, he distributesas freely as doth the winter windthe snow-flakes. Inquire at the Langhamoffice for Mr. Smith, and you findhe has blossomed into General Smith.

He is always partaking or about topartake of official dinners. He feelsthat the eyes of all England are uponhim. He is dressedà la bandbox—hatimmaculate in its pristine gloss, whitecravat, umbrella of the slimmest encasedin silken wrapper. A speck of mud onhis boots would tarnish the nationalhonor. Commonly, he is taken for a[pg 722]head-butler. He drinks much stout.He eats a whitebait dinner before beingforty-eight hours in London, and tells ofit. All this makes him feel English.

You meet him. He is overjoyed. Hewould talk of everything—your mutualexperience in America, his sensationsand impressions since arriving in England.He talks intelligibly of nothing.His brain is a mere rag-bag, shreddy,confused, parti-colored. Thus he emptiesit: "Passage over rough;" "Londonwonderful;" "Dined with the earl of —— yesterday;""Dine with Sir ——to-day;" "To the Tower;" "Westminster;""New York growing;" "SaintPaul's"—going, going, gone! and heshakes hands with you, and is off at aBroadway gait straight toward the EastEnd of London for his hotel, which liesat the West End.

In reality, the man is not in his rightmind. He is undergoing the mental acclimatizationfever. Should he stay inLondon for three months, he might recoverand begin to find out where he is.But six months hence he will have returnedto America, fancying he has seenLondon, Paris, Rome, Geneva, Vienna,and whatever other places his body hasbeen hurried through, not his mind; forthat, in the excitement and rapidity ofhis flight, has streamed behind him likethe tail of a comet, light, attenuated,vapory, catching nothing, absorbingnothing.

Occasionally this fever takes an abusivephase. He finds in England nothingto like, nothing to admire. Sometimeshe wishes immediately to revolutionizethe government. He is incensedat the cost of royalty. He sees on everyside indications of political upheaval.Or he becomes culinarily disgusted.Because there are no buckwheat cakes,no codfish cakes, no hot bread, no porkand beans, no mammoth oysters, stewed,fried and roasted, he can find nothingfit to eat. The English cannot cook.Because he can find no noisy, clattering,dish-smashing restaurant, full of acrobaticwaiters racing and balancing underimmense piles of plates, and shoutingjargon untranslatable, unintelligible andunpronounceable down into the lowerkitchen, he cannot, cannot eat.

FAREWELL.

The occasion commemorated in thefollowing verses—one of those festivemeetings with which tender-heartedPhiladelphians are wont to brace themselvesup for sorrowful partings—calledforth expressions of deep regret and cordialgood wishes, in which many of ourreaders, we doubt not, will readily join:

NOTES.

Between the careers of Cavour andThiers no sound parallel can easily betraced, but in their characters—or ratherin their diplomatic methods and arts—therewould seem to be some curiousand almost ludicrous points of resemblance,if we may accept as true a sketchof the great Italian statesman madeby M. Plattel, the author of "CauseriesFranco-Italiennes," fifteen years ago.M. Plattel, who wrote from close personalobservation, at that time describedCount Cavour as being physically "M.Thiers magnified;" or, if you prefer, M.Thiers is the count viewed through thebig end of an opera-glass. The count,says M. Plattel, "has the spectacles, andeven a similar expression of finesse.When things take a serious turn, thecount puts both hands in his pockets;and if you see him do that, expect tohear this threat: 'If you do not passthis bill,signori deputati, I consider youincapable of longer managing the affairsof the country: I have the honor of biddingyou good-evening.' For (and thisis a strange peculiarity) this first ministeris never steadier than when in dangerof falling; and his grand oratorical, orrather ministerial, figure of speech is toseize his hat and his cane, whereuponthe chamber rises and begs M. de Cavourto sit down. M. de Cavour letsthem plead a while, and then—he sitsdown again! Reading his speeches nowin Paris, I can fancy the count with hishat by his side and his hand on thedoor-knob. Heaven knows how manytimes that comedy-proverb of Mussetcalled 'A door must either be open orshut,' has been gravely played by theSardinian Parliament and the prime minister!"It is with a very droll effect thata French paper has revived this curiousdescription,à propos of the perpetualrepetition of the drama played by theFrench Assembly and the French president,in which the constant threats ofresignation on the one hand are invariablyfollowed by passionate and despairingentreaties to "stay" on the other.It is the old story of Cavour and thedoor-knob over again; and even thegreat Bismarck, by the way, does notdisdain a resort occasionally to the sameterrible pantomime. "The onlycoupd'état to be feared from M. Thiers," saidM. Dufaure in the Assembly, "is hiswithdrawal." It is, the quarreling andreconciliation of Horace and Lydia:"What if the door of the repudiatedLydia again open to me?" "Thoughyou are stormier than blustering Adriatic,I should love to live with you," etc. Suchis the billing and cooing, after quarrel,between the president and the Assembly.Still, it is clear that the puissanthat-and-cane argument must date backto Cavour.

The recent proposition of some Englishwriters to elevate a certain classof suicides to the rank of a legalized"institution," under the pleasant name of"euthanasia," suggests the inquirywhether, without any scientific vindicationof the practice, there will not alwaysbe suicides enough in ordinary society.At any rate, however it may be in England,just across the Channel, in France,thousands of people every year breakthe "canon 'gainst self-slaughter," leavingthe ills they have to "fly to othersthat they know not of." The officialfigures show that in a period of twenty-twoyears no less than 71,207 personscommitted suicide in France. The causeswere various—business embarrassments,domestic chagrins, the brutishness producedby liquor, poverty, insanity, thedesire to put an end to physical sufferingby "euthanasia," and so on; butthey are pretty nearly all included in the"fardels" which Hamlet mentions, fromthe physical troubles of the "heartacheand the thousand natural shocks thatflesh is heir to," up to the mental distresswrought by the "whips and scorns oftime, the oppressor's wrong, the proudman's contumely, the pangs of despisedlove," and so on in the well-rememberedcatalogue. Perhaps the most interestingpoint in these statistics concerns themeans employed for suicide. These arethus tabulated: Hanging, 24,536; drowning,23,221; shooting, 10,197; asphyxiaby charcoal fumes (a true Paris appliance),[pg 724]5587; various cutting instruments,2871; plunging or jumping from anelevated place (an astonishing number),2841; poison, 1500; sundry other methods,454. Hanging and drowning arethus accountable for more than half theFrench suicides. The little stove ofcharcoal suggests itself as a remedy athand to many a wretch without themeans to buy a pistol or the nerve touse a knife. The cases of voluntaryresort to poison are astonishingly few,but it must be remembered that the foregoingfigures only embrace successfulsuicides, and antidotes to poison oftencome in season where the rope or theriver would have made quick and fatalwork.La France notes, regarding thesestatistics, that their details show that menoftenest use pistols, and women oftenesttry poison, in their attempts at suicide.What is more curious, each man is likelyto employ an instrument familiar tohim: thus, hunters and soldiers resortto the pistol, barbers trust the razor,shoemakers use the knife, engravers thegraving-tool, washerwomen poison themselveswith potash or Prussian blue;though, of course, these are only generalrules, with a great many exceptions.And in Paris it is said that among allranks and professions, and in both sexes,at least half of the suicides are byasphyxiation with charcoal. Surely inFrance one hardly needs to preach anydoctrine of not patiently suffering theslings and arrows of outrageous fortune.A healthier and more inspiring moralitywould be that of the story of the baronof Grogzwig and his adventure with the"Genius of Despair and Suicide," asnarrated in an episode ofNicholasNickleby; for the stout baron, afterthinking over his purpose of making avoluntary departure from this world,and finding he had no security of beingany the better for going out of it, abandonedthe plan, and adopted as a rulein all cases of melancholy to look atboth sides of the question, and to applya magnifying-glass to the better one.

In Philadelphia, at least, where thereis still a respect for age, the tidings willbe received with respectful regret of thedeath of Nono, a noted pensionary ofthe Jardin des Plantes in Paris, at theripe age of more than a hundred years.To have achieved the celebrity of beingthe oldest inmate of that institutionwas no despicable distinction, butthe venerable centenarian had otherclaims to honor. A native of the MarquesasIslands, he was brought by Bougainvillein 1776 to the Royal Museum,afterward known as the Jardin desPlantes. It has frequently been allegedthat parrots may live a hundred years:Nono has established the fact by livingstill longer. As he thus contributes anillustration to science, so surely he mightpoint a general moral and adorn a historictale. If Thackeray could discourseso wisely on "Some Carp at Sans Souci,"the vicissitudes which this veteran Parisianwitnessed in the French capitalfrom 1776 to 1873, under two empires,two royal dynasties and three republics,might be worth a rhapsody. Nono seemsto have been a well-preserved old parrot.Magnificent in youth, he attainedliterally a green old age, for his plumagewas still fresh and thick. Very naturally,he had lost his houppe, and wasalmost totally bald. However, his eyewas clear and bright enough to haveread the finest print or followed thefinest needlework; and it had thenarquois,lightly skeptical look of those whohave seen a great deal of life. In short,Nono was a stylish and eminently respectableold bird. That worthy person,Monsieur Chavreul, who treats theanimals of the Jardin like a father,has stuffed and mounted the illustriousNono as a testimonial of affection andrespect.

The connection between war andbotany is, at first, not specially obvious,and yet a very clear bit of testimony totheir relation was disclosed by the siegeof Paris. Two naturalists have publishedaFlorula Obsidionalis, which, as itsname partly indicates, is a catalogue ofthe accidental flora of the late investmentof Paris. They reckon in theirlist not less than one hundred and ninety[pg 725]species before unknown to the neighborhoodof the French capital, whereoffifty-eight are leguminous (such as peas,beans, etc.), thirty-four are composite,thirty-two areplantes grasses, and sixty-sixbelong to other families. Almost allare to be found chiefly on the left bankof the Seine, though also discoverableat Neuilly and in the Bois de Boulogne.Of course, these new-comers are allaccounted for as the produce of seedsbrought by the German army. Theywill gradually die out; and yet some fewmay remain as permanent conquerorsof the soil, since among the flora ofParis is still reckoned one plant whoseseed was brought into France by someRussian forage-train in 1815.

As the impudence, dishonesty, lazinessand rapacity of servants at watering-placeshave long been familiar subjectsof satire, it is just to say a word onthe other side in favor of some extremeNorthern resorts. At the White Mountains,for example, the waiters and waitressesare of a better class than is generallymet. Some of the young girls arefarmers' daughters, who go to the hotelsto see the fashions and earn a littlepocket-money. The colored cook atone of the great houses teaches dancingduring the winters. Not a few areschool-teachers, others students at countryacademies, who pass their vacationin this way in order to earn enoughto buy text-books or pay the winter'stuition. Many of them are more intelligentand well educated than some ofthe shoddies they wait upon. They areusually quicker in movement and ofmore retentive memory than the averageAmerican waiter; and though each hasa great deal to do at times, yet evenduring the tremendous moment of dinnerthey contrive to find a few little intervalsfor harmless flirtations in thedining-room. They are for the mostpart well-mannered too, and if they talkto you of each other as "this lady" or"that gentleman," what is it more thansome waiters do with far less reason?The New Hampshire villages becomeversed every summer in the latest importedfashions, thanks to the quick eyesof the hotel waitresses.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Mr. Taylor's muse has of late become verystill-faced, decorous and mindful of the art-proprieties.Cautious is she, and there isperhaps nothing in this pastoral that willcause the grammarian to wince, or make thecensorious rhetorician writhe in his judgment-seatwith the sense that she is committingherself. Not such were the early attributesof the great itinerant's poetry. When heused to unsling his minstrel harp in the wildsof California or on the sunrise mountains ofthe Orient, there were plenty of false notes,plenty of youthful vivacities that overborethe strings and were heard as a suddencrack, and, withal, a good deal of youngfrank fire. Now there is much finish andthe least possible suspicion of ennui. Butthe life-history ofLars is worth reading. Itis a calm procession of pictures, without pretence,except the slight pretence of classicalcorrectness. The first part, which reflectsNorwegian manners in a way reminding usmore or less of the exquisite stories of Bjornsen,tells how two swains of Ulvik, Lars thehunter and Per the fisher, quarrel for loveof Brita, and at a public wrestling decide thequestion by a combat, fighting with knives,in Norse fashion, while hooked to each otherat the belt. They strip,à la Heenan andSayers. Mr. Taylor, who does not oftencome behind the occasion when he can geta human figure to describe statue-wise or[pg 726]under a studio light, is perhaps a trifle tooPhidian in bringing out the good looks ofhis fish-eating gladiators:

Lars, the victor, has all the ill-luck. Hisfoe falls lifeless, his sweetheart calls him amurderer, and he flies from the law. Anotherscene quickly shows him crossing thebroad ocean, as so many Norwegians andSwedes had crossed before him, and seekingthe protection of Swedish forts on Delawarebanks. Long, sad days pass on the ocean,

and soon he leaps to shore in New Sweden,only to find that the civilization he seeks hasset like a sinking planet into the abidingenlightenment of another race and creed.Governor Printz's fortress on Tinicum isle isa ruin of yellow bricks: the wanderer straysup the broad stream

The governor is a myth, the Swedes aredead, the Scandinavian tongues have beenchanged to English, and an English exactlyconformed to King James's translation of theScriptures. The first girl he speaks to checkshim for addressing her with a civility:

With the father of this primitive Nausicaa,on Hockessin Farm, the wanderer abides asherdsman. Soon, under the propaganda ofRuth's soft eyes and the drowsy spell of theDelawarean society, he joins the peacefulsect amongst which he labors. It is easier,though, to change his plural pronouns to thescripturalthou andthee of King James'stranslators than to tame his heroic Vikingblood, swift to boil into wrath at the showof oppression. Such an outburst leads to aquaint scene of acknowledgment and repentance,where lies

Lars, prayed over by the brethren, burstsforth in tears and supplications among theworshipers, and is received into full harmonywith them:

It is not often that a liturgy has been translatedinto metre with less change of its formand substance.

The imbedding of a raw Northern nativein this lap of repose and in this transfiguringmatrimonial alliance is the grand problemof the poem. What will Lars do, now thathe is a man of peace and a Child of Light,with the burden of conscience? In Americahe is a saint and an apostle. In Europe heis known but as a proscribed murderer. Thelater scenes, where Lars, accompanied by histrue and tender wife, meets his old love,his neighbors, and his rival restored to life,are of a more ambitious character than anythat have preceded. The holy principlesimbibed on the shores of Delaware are madeto triumph, and Lars, dropping the sharpblade from his hand in the thronged arenawhither he is forced once more, stands firstas a laughing-stock, and then as an apostle,among his old neighbors. It is a positionfull of moral force, and we find ourselves—suddenlyrecovering in a degree from thecalm view we had taken of the poem as awork of art—askinghow we should be sosensible of the grandeur of the situation ifthe poet by his skill had not brought out itspeculiarity.

This is the life of a lady remarkable inherself and in her surroundings. Of everyday in her life she could say, in the wordsof Horace, "I have lived." "She neverhad a fool for an acquaintance," says herbiographer, "nor an idle hour in the sense ofidleness." Her father, Mr. Robinson, whobelonged to an eminent family which had[pg 727]been settled about a century at Rokeby, subsequentlythe seat of Scott's friend Morritt,in Yorkshire, married when a boy of eighteena rich young lady of very superior quality inevery respect, and by her had a large family.His wife's mother married secondly Middleton,the biographer of Cicero, who took agreat fancy to her grand-daughter, ElizabethRobinson, and paid much attention to herintellectual development. In fact, from thecradle to the grave she was thrown amongstthe erudite and cultivated in a very uncultivatedage. During her girlhood ElizabethRobinson had every advantage and pleasurewhich wealthy and devoted parents couldgive her, and when twenty-two she marriedMr. Edward Montagu, a grandson of the firstearl of Sandwich, and first cousin of thecelebrated Lady Mary's husband.

Mrs. Montagu was far more fortunate inher choice than the brilliant daughter ofthe duke of Kingston. Her husband was inevery way estimable and amiable, and herletters afford ample evidence how thoroughlyshe appreciated his character. They hadonly one child, who died in infancy, andwhen Mr. Montagu died he bequeathed tohis widow the whole of his property, whichshe in turn left to her nephew, who took thename of Montagu and became Lord Rokeby.

A few years after their marriage Mr. Montagu,already affluent, received a great accessionof fortune in the shape of collieryproperty in the north of England. This enabledhis wife to entertain very liberally,and, in conjunction with her talents andhigh connections, gave her a commandingplace in society. They took a large housein Hill street, then the extremity of the WestEnd, which became the resort of that classwho, being anxious to put an end to eternalcard-playing and introduce rather more of theintellectual into social intercourse, receivedfrom a chance circumstance the name of"blue-stockings." There were to be seenBurke, Fox, Hannah More, Johnson, LordLyttelton, etc. Subsequently, Mrs. Montagufitted up a room whose walls were hung withfeathers, and thence came Cowper's well-knownlines and Macaulay's passage: "Therewere the members of that brilliant societywhich quoted, criticised and exchangedrepartees under the rich peacock hangingsof Mrs. Montagu." After her husband'sdeath a great deal of business devolved onher in the management of his estates, andhere she showed those qualities which aresingularly conspicuous in Englishwomen ofrank. She went down to Northumberland,inspected her farms, visited her colliers, andmade acquaintance with her tenants. Sheseems particularly to have appreciated thepeople in Yorkshire, and her descriptions ofthem recall in no slight degree some of thoseof the sisters Bronté. Her principal seatwas at Sandleford in Berkshire, where shespent large sums in improvements under thecelebrated landscape-gardener "CapabilityBrown."

She survived her husband twenty-fiveyears, and about twenty years before herdeath removed to a fine house which shehad erected in a then new part of London,Portman Square, and which is still knownas Montagu House. But the entertainmentsthere given were, though more splendid, lessnotable than in the humbler mansion in Hillstreet, for Mrs. Montagu herself was gettinginto years, and many of those who had beenthe brightest ornaments of the Hill streetparties were passing away. Mrs. Montagudied in 1800, at the age of seventy. Shewas of an affectionate disposition, but hadsomewhat less sensibility perhaps than mostmen would like to see in a woman; yet, onthe whole, she played her part in life extremelywell, being wise, generous and true.

The book is particularly interesting for therich aroma of association around it, andwould have been far more so had Dr. Dorantaken the trouble to give a few notes, ofwhich there is not a single one in the wholebook—a serious drawback, more especiallyto American readers.

The Treaty of Washington: Its Negotiation,Execution, and the Discussions relatingthereto. By Caleb Cushing. New York:Harper & Brothers.

Mr. Cushing has given another proof ofthe great capacity of some men to do veryclever work, but to fail utterly in giving anadequate account of the work itself or of theway in which it was done. Trained by longexperience in public business, and intimatelyacquainted by long residence in Washingtonwith the methods of diplomatic negotiationand interpretation, he was eminently fittedto be the colleague of Mr. Evarts as counselfor the government before the Geneva arbitration.Here he undertakes to give an accountof the task there brought to a result so[pg 728]favorable to the United States. Unluckily,he shows that he is always and only an advocate.Much that may have been usefulfor his duties in that office is prominent in adisagreeable way in his recital of the Genevaaward. His language is loose and offensive,often without meaning to be so, but oftenerin a way that shows how much he must havebeen galled by the lord chief-justice of England.Whatever Sir Alexander Cockburnmay have done there, and however much hemay have fallen from his high estate as oneof the arbitrators to the less dignified positionof an advocate for English claims, he willhave a sweet revenge in seeing the angerthat he has excited in one of the Americanrepresentatives, now become their spokesman.Mr. Cushing falls into the blunderthat was once so common in our Americanstate papers as to give good cause for thathappy phrase of Nicholas Biddle—"WesternOrientalisms." The tone of the book, whichought to be a simple story, is stilted andrhetorical. The result of all the long discussionsis the best praise of our Americanstatesmen who were its authors, but it isdwarfed and lessened by the fulsome praisegiven to the foreign representatives whobrought it about. Of "bad language," inkeeping with the bad spirit of the book, thefollowing may serve as specimens: "Pretensiveness,""frequentation," "annexion,""capitulations" instead of "treaties," "monogram"for "monograph," "it needs to,""howmuchsoever," "law-books investedwith the reflection of fine scenery," "imposeditself," "I demand of myself," andother such phrases without number.

Once done with Sir Alexander Cockburnand the work at Geneva, Mr. Cushing showshimself and his country to much better advantagein discussing the "Mixed Commission"now sitting at Washington, the NorthwestBoundary, the Fisheries, and the generalprovisions of the Washington treaty.He has, however, simply forestalled theground for some better writer on the importanthistory which belongs to that negotiation,and will give the reading and reflecting public,both abroad and at home, a very unfavorableimpression of the great task in whichhe played so important a part, and of thequalities of mind and temper he must havebrought to it, since at this late day he findsno better impetus to the work of writing itshistory than unexplained anger at one of themembers of the board before which Mr.Cushing argued the cause of his country,and helped to win it.

Books Received.

The Drawing-Room Stage: A Series ofOriginal Dramas, Comedies, Farces, andEntertainments for Amateur Theatricalsand School Exhibitions. By George M.Baker. Illustrated. Boston: Lee &Shepard.

Five Years in an English University. ByCharles Astor Bristed, late FoundationScholar of Trinity College, Cambridge.Third edition. Revised by the Author.New York: G.P. Putnam & Sons.

Memoirs of Madame Desbordes-Valmore.By the late C.A. Sainte-Beuve. With aSelection from her Poems. Translatedby Harriet W. Preston. Boston: RobertsBrothers.

Livingstone and his African Explorations:together with a Full Account of the Young,Stanley and Dawson Search Expeditions.New York: Adams, Victor & Co.

The Mother's Register: Current Notes ofthe Health of Children. From the Frenchof Professor J.B. Fonssagrines. NewYork: G.P. Putnam & Sons.

Thorvaldsen: His Life and Works. By EugenePlon. Translated from the Frenchby J. M. Luyster. Illustrated. Boston:Roberts Brothers.

Scientific and Industrial Education: its Importanceto our Country. By G.B. Stebbins.Detroit: Daily Post Printing Establishment.

Never Again. By W.S. Mayo, M.D.,author of "Kaloolah," "The Berber,"etc. New York: G.P. Putnam & Sons.

The World-Priest. From the German ofLeopold Schafer. By Charles T. Brooks.Boston: Roberts Brothers.

The Cuban Question in the Spanish Parliament.London: Press of the Anglo-AmericanTimes.

Treason at Home: A Novel. By Mrs.Greenough. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson& Brothers.

An Account of the Sphynx at Mount Auburn.Illustrated. Boston: Little, Brown& Co.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE OF POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE, VOLUME 11, NO. 27, JUNE, 1873 ***

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SPEAKS	SPRICHT	PARLE	PARLA
French,	Französich,	Frangais,	Francese,
German,	Deutsch,	Allemand,	Tedesco,
Italian and	Italienisch u.	Italien et	Italiano ed
English	Englisch	Anglais	Inglese
fluently.	sehr geläufig.	courrament.	correntemente.

Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 11, No. 27, June, 1873

LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

June, 1873.
Vol. XI., No. 27.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

A NEW ATLANTIS.

THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867.

SLAINS CASTLE.

OUR HOME IN THE TYROL

CHAPTER III.

A WEEK'S SORROW.

CHAPTER IV.

SAINT ROMUALDO.

A PRINCESS OF THULE.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

"O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!"

CHAPTER IX.

"FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!"

THE EMERALD.

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

BOWERY ENGLAND.

DAY-DREAM.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS.

THE RAW AMERICAN.

FAREWELL.

NOTES.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Books Received.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 11, No. 27, June, 1873

LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

June, 1873.Vol. XI., No. 27.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

A NEW ATLANTIS.

THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867.

SLAINS CASTLE.

OUR HOME IN THE TYROL

CHAPTER III.

A WEEK'S SORROW.

CHAPTER IV.

SAINT ROMUALDO.

A PRINCESS OF THULE.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

"O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!"

CHAPTER IX.

"FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!"

THE EMERALD.

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

BOWERY ENGLAND.

DAY-DREAM.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS.

THE RAW AMERICAN.

FAREWELL.

NOTES.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Books Received.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

June, 1873.
Vol. XI., No. 27.