The Project Gutenburg ebook of The Galaxy, Vol. 23, No. 3

More than one reader must have felt impatient with Milton for spoiling the fine epitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester with such unfortunate lines as "A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir," and "No Marchioness, but now a queen." Probably the expressions sounded less absurd to his contemporaries than they do to us, for titles of nobility, however unworthily conferred, had more significance in the reign of James I. than they bear in the reign of Queen Victoria. The memorable despatch in which Collingwood announced the victory of Trafalgar, and which has been described by great writers as a masterpiece of simple narration began with these words: "Sir: The ever to be lamented death of Vice Admiral Lord Viscount Nelson, in the moment of victory," etc. Now peers of all ranks, except the highest, are commonly spoken of under the general designation of "Lord So-and-So," and are rarely accorded in conversation the honors of "my lord," or "your lordship." Generally speaking, it may be said that in England titles, like decorations, are still greedily sought after, but when won are not openly displayed. They are felt by their bearers to be an anachronism, though no doubt a sufficiently agreeable one to those most immediately concerned.

Successive governments give as large a share of patronage to the peers and baronets, and their kinsfolk, as they reasonably can; while the Premier is only too glad to select men of rank as his colleagues in the Cabinet, if they are only possessed of decent abilities, and will work—for a minister must be a hard worker in these days. Thus, Mr. Gladstone's administration, the first which was ever designated as "Radical," contained a large proportion of the aristocratic element in its ranks, though it was even made a charge against Mr. Gladstone by conservative and pseudo-liberal papers, that he unjustly deprived the peerage of its due representation in the Cabinet.

As a matter of fact, when the Cabinet resigned it consisted of sixteen members. Of these, eight were peers or sons of peers. Of the remaining thirty-six Parliamentary members of the administration, fourteen were peers or sons of peers. Mr. Disraeli's Cabinet numbers but twelve ministers. Of these six are peers, another is heir presumptive to a dukedom; while an eighth is a baronet; and of the remaining members of the administration, nineteen out of thirty-eight are peers, baronets, or sons of peers. In the army and navy, in the diplomatic service, the peerage equally secures its full share of prizes; and even in the legal profession it is far from being a disadvantage to a young barrister that his name figures in the pages of Burke. In the Church a large proportion of the best livings are held by members of the same privileged class, and even the Stock Exchange lately showed itself eager to confer such honors as were in its gift on a duke's son, who had been courageous enough to "go into trade."

The British aristocracy is still, therefore, "a fact," if a favorite term of Mr. Carlyle's may be permitted in such a connexion, as it probably may, for the author of "The French Revolution" has himself been one of the latest eulogists of the governing families of England, and perhaps a few notes on the origin and history of some of the principal houses may not be unacceptable to American readers.

The House of Lords, as at present constituted, consists of something less than five hundred temporal peers. The first in order of hereditary precedence, after the princes of the blood royal, is the Duke of Norfolk, a blameless young gentleman of eight-and-twenty years, and a zealous Catholic, as it is generally supposed that a Howard is compelled to be by a mysterious law of his nature. As a matter of fact, however, no family in England has changed its religion so often. Henry Charles, thirteenth duke, seceded from the Church of Rome on the occasion of the papal aggression. He declared himself convinced that "ultramontane opinions were totally incompatible with allegiance to the sovereign and the Constitution." The Duke's expression of opinion might have had more weight with his coreligionists had his own reputation for wisdom stood higher. But it stood very low. His Grace had made himself very conspicuous during the agitation for the repeal of the corn laws by recommending a curry powder of his own manufacture as a substitute for bread, which singular piece of advice to a starving people earned him the sobriquet of "Curry Norfolk." Charles, eleventh duke, also renounced the old faith about the year 1780. He had not yet succeeded to his title, but was known as the Earl of Surrey; was immediately returned to Parliament for one of his father's boroughs. (The dukes of Norfolk had eleven boroughs at their disposition before the passing of the reform bill.) He was a notable personage in his day, and acted in concert with the party of Fox. For giving the toast of "The people, our Sovereign," at a public dinner he was deprived of his lord-lieutenancy and of his colonelcy of militia. He was remarkable, too, for a dislike of clean linen, which his friends were grieved to see him carry to excess.[A] Three other Howards of the same stock are more honorably distinguished in their country's annals. They are the victor of Flodden and two of his grandsons; the one the Surrey of history and romance, the other, Charles Lord Howard of Effingham, the conqueror of the Spanish Armada. The origin of the family is involved in obscurity, some maintaining that it sprung from the famous Hereward, the Wake, of whose name they affirm Howard to be a corruption; while others assert that the word Howard is neither more nor less than a euphonious form of Hogward, and that the premier duke and hereditary Earl Marshal of England might ultimately trace his descent to a swineherd if he were disposed so to do. The first Howard of whom genealogists can take serious cognizance was a respectable judge of the court of common pleas in the reigns of Edward I. and Edward II. (1297-1308). His descendant was ennobled in the reign of Edward IV.

Next on the roll of the Lords to the Duke of Norfolk is Edward St. Maur, the Duke of Somerset, an extremely clever man, "with a passion for saying disagreeable things." He recently published a smart attack on the evidences of Christianity, which occasioned not a little difficulty to some worthy editors. They were sincere Christians, but it jarred against their feelings to speak harshly of a duke. The St. Maurs (or Seymours) are of genuine Norman descent, and began to be heard of in the thirteenth century. They apparently remained estimable till the time of Henry VIII., when that uxorious monarch married Jane, the daughter of Sir John Seymour, by whom he became the father of Edward VI. Strangely enough, Jane's brother, Lord Seymour of Sudeley, afterward married Henry's widow, and the knot of family relationships becomes a little complicated in consequence. More inauspicious unions were never contracted. Lord Seymour was executed by order of his brother, the Protector (and first Duke of Somerset), and three years later the Protector's death-warrant was signed by his own nephew. From the close of this short chronicle of blood, the Seymours practically disappear from the pages of English history, though Macaulay has left a graphic picture of that Sir Edward Seymour who was Speaker of the House of Commons under Charles II., and who proudly replied to William III., when asked if he belonged to the Duke of Somerset's family, that "the Duke of Somerset belonged to his family." Francis, fifth duke, was the occasion of a few days' gossip and much scandal. During his travels in Italy he visited the convent of the Augustinians at Lerice, where he was foolish enough to offer an impertinence to some ladies of the family of Botti, and was shot by an angry Signor Botti a few hours later. His brother Charles, who succeeded him, is the hero of a less tragic story. His second wife, Lady Charlotte Finch, once tapped him with her fan, when he is said to have rebuked her in these terms: "Madam, my first wife was a Percy, and she never ventured to take such a liberty." He was known among his contemporaries as "the proud Duke of Somerset."

The next of the ducal houses in order of precedence traces its descent from Charles II. and Louisa de Querouaille, "whom our rude ancestors called Madam Carwell." The Dukes of Richmond have always been known as honorable gentlemen, but they have left no mark on the political history of England. The present Duke is perhaps the most distinguished man of his family, being leader of the Conservative party in the House of Lords, and, as is generally thought, Mr. Disraeli's destined successor in the Premiership. The third Duke held high office in the early part of the reign of George III.; while his nephew, Colonel Lennox, who afterward succeeded him in the title, had the honor of fighting a duel with a son of George III. Neither of the combatants suffered any hurt, and Colonel Lennox was reserved for the most melancholy of deaths; falling, thirty years after, a victim to hydrophobia, caused by the bite of a dog. His royal antagonist was Frederic, Duke of York, who subsequently became Commander-in-Chief of the British army in the most inglorious period of its annals. Indeed, so disgraceful was his Royal Highness's conduct of the campaign of 1794, that Pitt demanded one of two things from the King; viz., either that the Prince should be brought before a court-martial, or that the Prime Minister should in future have the right of appointing to great military commands. It must have cost George III. a bitter pang to accept the latter alternative.

The Duke of Grafton, who holds the fourth place on Garter's Roll, is equally descended from his Majesty, King Charles II., of happy memory. Henry Fitzroy, son of Barbara Villiers (created Duchess of Cleveland), was raised to the highest rank in the peerage, as Duke of Grafton, in 1675. He was one of the first to desert his uncle's cause in 1688, and two years later he died a soldier's death under the walls of Cork, fighting for William III. and the liberties of England. His great grandson was Augustus Henry, third Duke of Grafton, who may still be seen gibbeted in the pages of Junius. His Grace was a member of Chatham's second ministry, and succeeded his chief in the Premiership. Of other Dukes of Grafton history makes no special mention.

The fifth of the dukes in order of precedence quarters the royal arms of France and England, but without the bâton sinister. Henry Charles Fitzroy Somerset, Duke of Beaufort, is lineally descended from "old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster" (third son of Edward III.) and Catherine Swinford. John of Gaunt's children by this union were afterward legitimatized by act of Parliament. Henry, the second son, took holy orders, and became Bishop of Lincoln, and afterward of Winchester, as well as Cardinal and Lord Chancellor. He is the Cardinal Beaufort who figures in the stately Gallery of Shakespeare. He and his brothers took the name they bore from the Castle of Beaufort, in Anjou, the place of their nativity. The Cardinal's elder brother was created Earl and afterward Marquis of Somerset. His descendant, Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, fell into the hands of the Yorkists, at the battle of Hexham, and was succeeded in the family honors by his brother Edmund, who was soon to share the same fate. With him the legitimate male line of John of Gaunt became extinct. Duke Henry, however, had left a natural son, who was called Charles Somerset, and who, to use the appropriate language of chronological dictionaries, "flourished" in the reigns of Henry VII. and Henry VIII. He was a brave soldier and a skilful diplomatist; having been chosen a Knight of the Garter; he was also appointed captain of the King's Guards for his services. Sir Charles Somerset obtained in marriage Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of William Herbert, Earl of Huntingdon, and Lord Herbert of Rayland, Chepston, and Gower; and, in his wife's right, was summoned to Parliament as Lord Herbert, in the first year of Henry VIII. In 1514 he was advanced to the Earldom of Worcester, having previously been constituted Lord Chamberlain for life, as a reward for the distinguished part he had in the taking of Terouenne and Tournay. He died in 1526, and was succeeded by his son. Little is heard of the Somersets—Earls of Worcester—during the sixteenth century, though the marriage of two ladies of that house called forth the well-known Epithalamium of Spenser. Henry, the fifth earl, created Marquis of Worcester by Charles I., is celebrated in English history for his defence of Rayland castle against the forces of the Parliament, under Sir Thomas Fairfax. On this subject, Mr. George MacDonald's last novel of "St. George and St. Michael" may be consulted with advantage.

The brave old cavalier did not long survive the surrender and destruction of his ancestral home. The same year he died, and was succeeded in his title by his son Edward, the famous author of the "Century of Inventions." It is scarcely too much to say that had this man been divested of rank and fortune, and had he been furnished with the requisite motive for exertion, he might have anticipated the work of Watt and Stephenson. As it was, the discoveries he made served but to amuse his leisure hours. The Marquis of Worcester was well-nigh the last of his race about whose doings his countrymen would much care to be informed. His son was created Duke of Beaufort in 1682, and with the attainment of the highest rank in the peerage came a cessation of mental activity in the family. One more Somerset, however, deserves honorable mention—Fitzroy, who was aide-de-camp to Wellington, and lost an arm at Waterloo. Raised to the peerage in 1852 as Lord Raglan, he was named two years later to the command of the English army in the Crimea. What he did, and what he did not, in that post, is still remembered. In truth he was a gallant soldier, distracted by contradictory instructions, feeling keenly the criticisms of newspaper writers, who complained that one of the strongest fortresses in the world was not taken in a few weeks. The siege had lasted eight months, when Lord Raglan resolved to make one desperate effort to carry the place by assault on the 18th of June, the fortieth anniversary of Waterloo. The attack failed, and the allies were repulsed with severe loss. Ten days later the English general succumbed to sickness and chagrin.

The Dukes of St. Albans enjoy precedence after the Dukes of Beaufort. William Amelius Aubrey De Vere Beauclerk, present and tenth duke, is lineally descended from the Merry Monarch and Nell Gwynn, and through the marriage of the first duke, from the De Veres, Earls of Oxford. His Grace is Hereditary Grand Falconer, a pleasant little sinecure of some $6,000 a year. Of the Dukes of Saint Albans history has nothing to say. The ninth duke married the widow of Mr. Thomas Coutts, of banking renown.

Next on Garter's roll comes the Duke of Leeds, lineally descended from Thomas Osborne, Earl of Danby and Lord High Treasurer under Charles II., whom Dutch William afterward made Duke of Leeds. Danby (for he is better known by this title than by the one which he dishonored) must be considered to have been an average statesman, and even a patriot, as public spirit then went. He steadily opposed French influence under Charles II., and afterward contributed to the success of the Revolution. He was subsequently impeached by the Commons for taking bribes, but the principal witness on whom the House relied to substantiate the charge mysteriously disappeared when most wanted. From that day, however, the Duke of Leeds was morally extinguished. The subsequent Dukes led worthy and honorable lives, but were not otherwise notable. The seventh married (24th of April, 1828) an American lady, Louisa Catharine, third daughter of Mr. Richard Caton of Maryland, and widow of Sir Felton Bathurst Hervey.

The two next of the ducal houses, those of Bedford and Devonshire, are invested by Whig writers with almost a halo of glory, though in truth they have produced respectable rather than great men. The beginnings of the house of Russell are somewhat curious. One of the earliest ancestors of the family of whom anything is accurately known was Speaker of the House of Commons in the second and tenth years of Henry VI. His grandson, John Russell, a gentleman of property, resided at Berwick, about four miles from Bridport, in the county of Dorset. He was a bookish man, and would probably never have gone to seek out fortune; but fortune, as is her wont, came to him in the person of the Archduke Philip of Austria. This Prince, the son of the reckless Maximilian, having encountered a violent hurricane in his passage from Flanders to Spain, was driven into Weymouth, where he landed, and was hospitably received by a Sir Thomas Trenchard, who immediately wrote to court for instructions. Meanwhile he deputed his first cousin, Mr. Russell, to wait upon the Prince. His Highness was so fascinated by the conversation of Mr. Russell, that he begged that gentleman to accompany him to Windsor, where he spoke of him in such high terms to the King (Henry VII.), that the monarch at once took him into his favor. He subsequently accompanied Henry VIII. in his French wars, and afterward becoming a supple instrument of his master's ecclesiastical policy, was rewarded with a peerage and a grant of the Abbey of Tavistock, and the extensive lands thereto belonging. To these possessions the Protector Somerset added the monastery of Woburn and the Earldom of Bedford. Nor did the star of John Russell grow dim under the reign of the Catholic Mary, who named him Lord Privy Seal, and Ambassador to Spain, to conduct Philip II. to England. He died in 1555. From him were descended various Russells who enjoyed as many of the good things of this life as they could decently lay hands upon, and two of whom were famous men in their day. William, Lord Russell, is best known to posterity as the husband of the admirable Rachael Wriothesley, daughter of Thomas, Earl of Southampton, and widow of Francis, Lord Vaughan. With respect to his execution there has been some difference of opinion; but the probability is that it was a judicial murder of the worst kind. Immediately after the Revolution, Lord Russell's attainder was reversed by Parliament. His widow survived him forty years, and lived to see George I. on the throne and the Protestant succession firmly established. What is not so generally known, perhaps, is that the mother of Lord Russell was the daughter of Carr, Earl of Somerset, by the divorced wife of Essex. She was herself a virtuous lady, and is said to have fallen down in a fit when she first learned the horrible details of her family history.

Lord Russell's cousin was the victor of La Hogue, created Earl of Orford in 1697. He died in 1727 without issue, when the title became extinct—to be renewed fifteen years later in favor of Sir Robert Walpole.

Lord Russell's father was created Duke of Bedford by William III., May 11, 1694. He was succeeded by his grandson, Wriothesley, who was married at the ripe age of fourteen and elevated to a separate peerage the same year. He had previously been requested to come forward as a candidate for the county of Middlesex; but the prudent Lady Russell refused to allow him. In the then state of public opinion he would have been elected without opposition.

The eighteenth century was the golden age of Whig families, at least till George III. became king, and the house of Russell continued to provide the country with a succession of dignified placemen. John IV., Duke of Bedford, was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in 1756. In 1762 his Grace, as the plenipotentiary of England, signed the preliminaries of peace at Fontainebleau with France and Spain—a work on which he can scarcely be congratulated, seeing that by it England was juggled out of nearly every advantage she had won by seven years of victory. The Duke's son, Francis, called by courtesy Marquis of Tavistock, married Lady Elizabeth Keppel, who literally died of grief when her husband was killed by a fall from his horse. Dr. Johnson's characteristic comment on this event was that if her ladyship had been a poor washerwoman with twelve children to mind, she would have had no time to die of grief. Lord Tavistock left three sons, Francis and John, successively fifth and sixth Dukes of Bedford, and William (posthumous), the unfortunate nobleman who, within living memory, was murdered by his French valet Courvoisier.

John, Earl Russell, the distinguished statesman who "upset the coach," is a son of the sixth duke, Lord Odo Russell, one of the ablest of modern diplomatists, a grandson of the same peer.

On the day after the head of the house of Russell was raised to ducal rank, the head of the Cavendishes received the same honor, being created Marquis of Hartington and Duke of Devonshire. This family claims descent from Sir John Cavendish, Lord Chief Justice of England in 1366, 1373, and 1377. "In the fourth year of Richard II. his lordship was elected chancellor of the university of Cambridge, and was next year commissioned, with Robert de Hales, treasurer of England, to suppress the insurrection raised in the city of York, in which year the mob, having risen to the number of fifty thousand, made it a point, particularly in the county of Suffolk, to plunder and murder the lawyers; and being incensed in a more than ordinary degree against the Chief Justice Cavendish, his son John having killed the notorious Wat Tyler, they seized upon and dragged him, with Sir John of Cambridge, prior of Bury, into the marketplace of that town, and there caused both to be beheaded." Thus far Burke, who has small sympathy to bestow on Wat Tyler, albeit that reformer was murdered in a cowardly way, whether it were Walworth or Cavendish who struck the blow. "For William Walworth, mayor of London, having arrested him (Wat Tyler), he furiously struck the mayor with his dagger, but being armed [i.e. the mayor being in armor], hurt him not; whereupon the mayor, drawing his baselard, grievously wounded Wat in the neck; in which conflict an esquire of the King's house, called John Cavendish, drew his sword and wounded him twice or thrice, even unto death. For which service Cavendish was knighted in Smithfield, and had a grant of £40 per annum from the King." The great-great-grandson of this Sir John Cavendish was gentleman usher to Cardinal Wolsey; after the death of his master King Henry took him into his own employment, to reward him for the fidelity with which he had served his former patron. His elder brother William was in 1530 appointed one of the commissioners for visiting and taking the surrenders of divers religious houses. Needless to add that from that day Mr. Cavendish had but to do as the King told him and make his fortune. Before his death he had begun to build the noble seat of Chatsworth, in Derbyshire, which his descendants still possess. His second son, and eventual heir, was created Earl of Devonshire by King James I. in 1618. The first earl's nephew was the renowned cavalier general created Marquis and subsequently Duke of Newcastle. He was at one time governor of the Prince of Wales (afterward Charles II.), and there is a touching epistle extant in which his youthful charge entreats the Marquis that he may not be compelled to take physic, which he feels sure would do him no good.

William, fourth earl of Devonshire, although raised to a dukedom by William III., distinguished himself, as did his son, the Marquis of Hartington, in the House of Commons, by vehement opposition to the King's retention of his Dutch guards after the conclusion of peace in 1697; and for this uncourtly conduct the country owes them a deep debt of gratitude. The Dutch guards were not likely to do much harm, but foreign troops have no business in a free state.

Henry Cavendish, the eminent chemist and philosopher, was grandson to the second duke (who married Rachel, daughter of William, Lord Russell). The present duke was senior wrangler of his year; his eldest son is leader of the Liberal party in the House of Commons.

Of the dukes of Marlborough, who are next on the list, it is unnecessary to say much. All the world knows the strange history of John Churchill, the noblest and the meanest of mankind. The great duke's only son died of the smallpox while yet a boy; but his honors were made perpetual in the female as well as the male line. The present duke is lineally descended on the father's side from a most worthy country gentleman, Sir Robert Spencer, of Althorp, raised to the peerage as Lord Spencer by James I. Lord Spencer's name should be dear to every American for the friendship he showed his neighbors the Washingtons. The Washingtons had at one time rather a severe struggle to make both ends meet, but they saw better days. John Washington, the heir of the house, was knighted and fought for Charles I. in the civil war. Disgusted with the commonwealth, he emigrated to America, hearing that men were more loyal on the other side of the Atlantic. He is commonly believed to have been the ancestor of George Washington. Such is the irony of fate.

The second Duke of Marlborough who, when unwell, would limit himself to a bottle of brandy a day, proved a real source of danger to his country. When he succeeded to his grandfather's honors in 1733, the faults of the victor of Blenheim were forgotten and only his surpassing military achievements remembered. King and people were alike determined to honor the man who bore his name, and, it was fondly deemed, inherited his qualities. He was made lord lieutenant of two counties, a knight of the garter, and promoted to high military command. Having conducted himself without discredit at Dettingen, he was thought equal to anything, and in the year 1758 Pitt, who felt kindly toward the Churchills, and who had been left £10,000 by Duchess Sarah, was so rash as to name him commander-in-chief of all the British forces in Germany destined to act under Prince Ferdinand. After all, the appointment did no harm, for the Duke died the same year. Exeunt the Dukes of Marlborough into infinite space. Henceforth they and their doings have no more human interest.

The Dukes of Rutland are another family dating their greatness from a share in the spoil of the monasteries. Thomas Manners, first Earl of Rutland, drew one of the best repartees ever made from Sir Thomas More, then Lord Chancellor. "Honores mutant mores," said the Earl to Sir Thomas in resent for some fancied affront. "Nay, my lord," replied More; "the pun is better translated into English—Honors change Manners." Among the descendants of this nobleman two are worthy a passing notice; viz., John, Marquis of Granby, the most dashing of cavalry officers, whose bluff features may still be seen on the signboards of many taverns in England; and Lord John Manners, heir-presumptive to the Dukedom of Rutland, and a member of the present Cabinet. Lord John is chiefly famous as the author of a poem in which occur the oft-quoted lines:

perhaps the most remarkable sentiment ever uttered even by a young man. It is fair to Lord John Manners to add that he was a fairly successful Minister of Public Works under two administrations, showing indeed a good deal of taste and no contempt at all for the arts. Another Manners was Archbishop of Canterbury from 1805 to 1828; but beyond having an income of something like $130,000 punctually during nearly a quarter of a century, this prelate cannot be considered to have done anything noteworthy. The Archbishop's son was Speaker of the House of Commons from 1817 to 1834, and was raised to the peerage in 1835 as Viscount Canterbury—a peerage being the invariable termination of a modern Speaker's career. The present Lord Canterbury (his son) has been Governor of Victoria and two or three other colonies; for men do not belong to a ducal family for nothing.

There are but eleven Dukes of England properly so called; that is, Dukes sitting in the House of Lords as such, and deriving their titles from creations before the union with Scotland. The Duke of Norfolk, as before stated, is the first of these, and the Duke of Rutland the last in order of precedence. The patent of the latter as Duke bears date March 29, 1703. There are also Dukes of Great Britain and of the United Kingdom, as well as of Scotland and Ireland; but those of the two sister kingdoms sit by inferior titles among their peers, and all the Dukes not of England take precedence among each other by somewhat intricate rules of precedence, into which it is not worth while to enter. The dukedoms are twenty-eight in all, exclusive of those held by princes of the blood royal. The honor has been very sparingly bestowed in late years. The last conferred by George III. was that of Northumberland, the King refusing to make any more creations, except in favor of his own descendants. The Prince Regent made Lord Wellington a duke, and after his accession to the throne raised Lord Buckingham to the same dignity. William IV. made two more, and her present Majesty has added an equal number to the list.

The history of one ducal family is the history of all. They generally boast a founder of some abilities, and produce one or two men, seldom more, who leave their mark on the annals of their country. It would be strange if it were otherwise, considering the enormous opportunities which a title, joined to fair means, gives to its possessor in England. The privileges with which acts of Parliament and courtly lawyers in bygone ages invested the nobility have long since become nominal. A peer has now no right as such to tender advice to the Queen. If libelled, he can no more terrify the offender with the penalties of scandalum magnatum, but must content himself with the same remedies as do other folk; if he cannot be arrested for debt, he shares that privilege with all the Queen's subjects; and if he continues to be a hereditary member of the Legislature, it is because the chamber in which he sits has been reduced to a moderating committee of the sovereign assembly. But the nameless privileges of persons of rank are great indeed. The army, the navy, the Church are filled with them or their dependents. Till within the last few years, the diplomatic service was regarded as their peculiar property. In the present House of Commons, the second elected by household suffrage, fully one-third of the members are sons of peers, baronets, or closely allied by marriage, or otherwise, to the titled classes. A fair proportion of these are Liberals; the Queen's son-in-law, Lord Lorne, member for Argyllshire, being a professor of "Liberal" opinions, as also Lord Stafford, son of the Duke of Sutherland, and Lord de Gray, son of the Marquis of Ripon. Such Liberals serve the useful function of "watering" the creed of their party, which might otherwise prove too strong for the Constitution. Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright would doubtless have gone much further in the path of reform if unfettered by ducal retainers.

And yet, though England is still very far from the realization of that political equality which American citizens enjoy among themselves, and which is perhaps one of the few ascertainable benefits Frenchmen have derived from the revolution, there can be no doubt as to the direction in which England is advancing. Democracy is the goal of the future, and it is even in sight, though a long way off. For instance, considerable as is the parliamentary influence of certain noblemen in the present day, it is influence and no more. Before the Reform act of 1832, the parliamentary "influence" of a peer, as it was euphemistically termed, meant that he had the absolute disposal of one or more seats in the House of Commons. The Duke of Norfolk, as before mentioned, returned eleven members, the Duke of Richmond three, Lord Buckingham six, the Duke of Newcastle seven. In the year 1820, out of the twenty-six prelates sitting in the House of Lords, only six were not directly or indirectly connected with the peerage; while the value of some of the sees was enormous. Now public opinion is too formidable to allow of jobbery that is not very discreetly managed, and a great deal no doubt is thus managed. But appearances must be kept up.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

CHAPTER IV.

"OH, MUCH DESIRED PRIZE, SWEET LIBERTY!"

The summer had gone and much even of the autumn, and Miss Grey and her companion were settled in London. Minola had had everything planned out in her mind before they left Dukes-Keeton, and little Miss Blanchet was positively awed by her leader's energy, knowledge, and fearlessness. The first night of their arrival in town they went to a quiet, respectable, old-fashioned hotel, well known of Keeton folk, where Miss Grey's father used to stay during his visits to London for many years, and where his name was still well remembered. Then the two strangers from the country set out to look for lodgings, and Miss Grey was able to test her knowledge of London, and satisfy her pride of learning, by conducting her friend straightway to the region in which she had resolved to make a home for herself. She had been greatly divided in mind for a while between Kensington and the West Centre; between the neighborhood of the South Kensington Museum, the glades of the gardens, and all the charms of the old court suburb, and the temptations of the National Gallery, the British Museum, and the old-fashioned squares and houses around the latter. She decided for the British Museum quarter. Miss Blanchet would have preferred the brightness and air of fashion which belonged to Kensington, but Miss Grey ruled that to live somewhere near the British Museum was more like living in London, and she energetically declared that she would rather live in Seven Dials than out of London.

To find a pleasant and suitable lodging would ordinarily have been a difficulty; for the regular London lodging-house keeper detests the sight of women, and only likes the gentleman who disappears in the morning and returns late at night. But luckily there are Keeton folk everywhere. As a rule nobody is born in London, "except children," as a lady once remarked. Come up to London from whatever little Keeton you will, you can find your compatriots settled everywhere in the metropolis. Miss Grey obtained from the kindly landlady of the hotel—who had herself been born in Keeton, and was married to a Glasgow man—a choice of Keeton folk willing to receive respectable and well-recommended lodgers—"real ladies" especially. Miss Grey, being cordially vouched for by the landlady as a real lady, found out a Keeton woman in the West Centre who had a drawing-room and two bedrooms to let.

Had Miss Grey invented the place it could not have suited her better. It was an old-fashioned street, running out of a handsome old-fashioned square. The street was no thoroughfare. Its other end was closed by a solemn, sombre structure with a portico, and over the portico a plaster bust of Pallas. This was an institution or foundation of some kind which had long outlived the uses whereto it had been devoted by its pious founder. It now had nothing but a library, a lecture hall, an enclosed garden (into which, happily for her, the windows of Miss Grey's bedroom looked), an old fountain in the garden, considerable funds, a board of trustees, and an annual dinner. This place lent an air of severe dignity to the street, and furthermore kept the street secluded and quiet by blocking up one of its ends and inviting no traffic. The house in which our pair of wanderers was lodging was itself old-fashioned, and in a manner picturesque. It had broad old staircases of stone, and a large hall and fine rooms. It had once been a noble mansion, and the legend was that its owner had entertained Dr. Johnson there and Sir Joshua Reynolds, and that Mrs. Thrale had often been handed up and down that staircase. Minola loved association with such good company, and it may be confessed went up and down the stairs several times for no other purpose whatever than the pleasure of fancying herself following in the footsteps of bright Mrs. Thrale, with whose wrongs Miss Grey, as a misanthrope, was especially bound to sympathize.

The drawing-room happily looked at least aslant over the grass and the trees of the square. Minola's bedroom, as has been said, looked into the garden of the institution, with its well-kept walks, its shrubs, and its old-fashioned fountain, whose quiet plash was always heard in the seclusion of the back of the house. Had the trunks of the trees been just a little less blackened by smoke our heroine might well have fancied, as she looked from her bedroom window of nights, that she was in some quaint old abode in a quiet country town. But in truth she did not desire to encourage any such delusion. To feel that she was in the heart of London was her especial delight. This feeling would have brightened and glorified a far less attractive place. She used to sit down alone in her bedroom of nights in order to think quietly to herself, "Now I am at last really in London; not visiting London, but living in it." There at least was one dream made real. There was one ambition crowned. "Come what will," she said to herself, "I am living in London." In London and freedom she grew more and more healthy and happy. As a wearied Londoner might have sought out say Keeton, and found new strength and spirits there, so our Keeton girl, who was somewhat pale and thin when she sat on the steps of the ducal mausoleum, grew stronger and brighter every day in the West Centre regions of London.

A happier, quieter, freer life could hardly be imagined, at least for her. She spent hours in the National Gallery and the Museum; she walked with Mary Blanchet in Regent's Park, and delighted to find out new vistas and glimpses of beauty among the trees there, and to insist that it was ever so much better than any place in the country. As autumn came on and the trees grew barer and the skies became of a heavier silver gray, Minola found greater charms in their softened half tones than the brighter lights of summer could give. Even when it rained—and it did rain sometimes—who could fail to see the beauty, all its own, of the green of grass, and the darker stems and branches of trees, showing faintly through the veil of the mist and the soft descending shower? It was, indeed, a delightful Arcadian life. Its simplicity can hardly be better illustrated than by the fact that our adventurous pair of women always dined at one o'clock—when they dined at all—off a chop, except on Sundays, when they invariably had a cold fowl.

Much as Miss Grey loved London, however, it was still a place made up of men whom she considered herself bound to dislike, and of women who depended far too much on these men. Therefore she made studies of scraps of London life, and amused herself by satirizing them to her friend.

"I have accomplished a chapter of London, Mary," she said one evening before their reading had set in. "I have completed my social studies of our neighbors in Gainsborough Place"—a little street of shops near at hand. "I am prepared to give you a complete court guide as to the grades of society there, Mary, so that you may know at once how to demean yourself to each and all."

"I think," Miss Blanchet said with a gentle sigh, expressive of no great delight in the story of the lower classes, "I would rather you begin low down, dear, and get done with them first."

"Very well; now listen. The lowest of all is the butcher. He is a wealthy man, I am sure, and his daughter, who sits in the little office in the shop, is a good-looking girl, I think. But in private life nobody in Gainsborough Place mixes with them on really cordial terms. Their friends come from other places; from butchers' shops in other streets. They do occasionally interchange a few courtesies with the family of the baker; but the baker's wife, though not nearly so rich, rather patronizes and looks down upon Mrs. Butcher."

"Well, the pastry-cook's family will have nothing to do, except in the way of business, with butcher or baker; but they are very friendly with the grocer, and they have evenings together. Now the two little old maids, who keep the stationer's shop where the post-office is, are very genteel, and have explained to me more than once that they don't feel at home in this quarter, and that their friends are in the West End. But they are not well off, poor things, I fear, and they like to spend an evening now and then with the family of the grocer and the pastry-cook, who are rather proud to receive them, and can give them the best tea and Madeira cake; and both the little ladies assure me that nothing can be more respectable than the families of the pastry-cook and the grocer—for their station in life, they always add."

"Oh, of course," Miss Blanchet said, who was listening with great interest as to a story, having that order of mind to which anything is welcome that offers itself in narrative form, but not having any perception of a satirical purpose in the whole explanation. Minola appreciated the "of course," and somehow became discouraged.

"Well," she said, "that's nearly all, except for the family of the chemist, who live next to the little ladies of the post-office, and who only know even them by sufferance, and would not for all the world have any social intercourse with any of the others. It's delightful, I think, to find that London is not one place at all, but only a cluster of little Keetons. This one street is Keeton to the life, Mary. I want to pursue my studies deeper though; I want to find out how the gradations of society go between the mothers of the boy who drives the butcher's cart, the baker's boy, and pastry-cook's boy."

"You think all this very unpoetic, Mary, and you are shocked at my interest in these prosaic and lowly details. But it is a study of life, my dear poetess, and it amuses and instructs me. Only for chance, you know, I might have been like that, and it is a grand thing to learn one's own superiority."

"Yes, yes, dear, that is quite true. I belong to the higher classes entirely; my father was a country architect, my stepfather is a Nonconformist minister—these are of the aristocracy everywhere."

"You are a lady—a woman of education, Minola," the poetess said almost severely. She could not understand how even Miss Grey herself could disparage Miss Grey and her parentage in jest.

"I can assure you, dear, that one of the pastry-cook's daughters, whom I talked with to-day, is a much better educated girl than I am. You should hear her talk French, Mary. She has been taught in Paris, dear, and speaks so well that I found it very hard to understand her. She plays the harp, and knows all about Wagner. I don't. I like her very much, and she is coming here to take tea with us."

The poetess was not delighted with this kind of society, but she never ventured to contradict her leader.

"You can talk to every one I do really believe," she said. "I find it so hard to get on with people—with some people."

"I feel so happy and so free here. I can say all the cynical things that please me—you don't mind—and I can like or dislike as I choose."

"I think I could like any one who had some strong purpose in life; not the getting of money, or making a way in society. There are such, I suppose; I don't know."

"When you meet my brother I am sure you will acknowledge that he has a purpose in life which is not the getting of money," said Miss Blanchet. "But you don't like men."

Minola made no reply. Poor little Miss Blanchet felt so kindly to all the race of men that she did not understand how any woman could really dislike them.

"I am going to do something that will please you to-morrow," Miss Grey said, feeling that she owed her companion some atonement for not warming to the mention of her brother. "I am positively going to hunt out Lucy Money. They must have returned by this time."

This was really very pleasant news for Miss Blanchet. She had been longing for her friend to renew her acquaintance with Miss Lucy Money, about whom she had many dreams. It did not occur to Mary Blanchet to question directly even in her own mind the decrees of Miss Grey, or to say to herself that the course of life which they were leading was not the most delightful that could be devised. But, if the little poetess could have ventured to translate vague yearnings into definite thoughts, she would, perhaps, have acknowledged to herself a faint desire that the brilliant passages of the London career she had marked out for herself in anticipation should come rather more quickly than they just now seemed likely to do. At present there was not much difference perceptible to her between London and Duke's-Keeton. Nobody came to see them. Even her brother had not yet presented himself. Her poem did not make much progress; there was no great incentive to poetic work. Minola and she did not know any poets, or artists, or publishers. Mary Blanchet's poetic tastes were of a somewhat old-fashioned school, and did not include any particular care for looking at trees, and fields, and water, and skies, although these objects of natural beauty were made to figure in the poems a good deal in connection with, and illustrative of, the emotions of the poetess. Therefore the rambles in the park were not so delightful to her as to her leader; and when the evening set in, and Minola and she read to each other, Mary Blanchet was always rather pleased if an opportunity occurred for interrupting the reading by a talk. She was particularly anxious that Minola should renew her acquaintance with her old schoolfellow, Miss Lucy Money, whose father she understood to be somehow a great sort of person, and through whom she saw dimly opening up a vista, perhaps the only one for her, into society and literature. But the Money family were out of town when our friends came to London, and Miss Blanchet had to wait; and, even when it was probable that they had returned, Miss Grey did not seem very eager to renew the acquaintance. Indeed, her resolve to visit Miss Money now was entirely a good-natured concession to the evident desire of Mary Blanchet. Minola saw her friend's little ways and weaknesses clearly, and smiled now and then as she thought of them, and liked her none the less for them—rather, indeed, felt her breast swell with kindliness and pity. It pleased her generous heart to gratify her companion in every way, to find out things that she liked and bring them to her, to study her little innocent vanities, that she might gratify them. What little dainties Mary Blanchet liked to have with her tea, what pretty ribbons she thought it became her to wear—these Miss Grey was always perplexing herself about. When she found that she liked to be alone sometimes, that she must have a long walk unaccompanied, that she must have thoughts which Mary would not care to hear, then she felt a pang of remorse, as if she were guilty of a breach of true camaraderie, and she could not rest until she had relieved her soul by some special mark of attention to her friend. On the other hand, Mary Blanchet, for all her dreams and aspirations, was a sensible and managing little person, who got for Miss Grey about twice the value that she herself could have obtained out of her money. This was a fact which Minola always took care to impress upon her companion, for she dreaded lest Miss Blanchet should feel herself a dependent. Miss Blanchet, however, in a modest way, knew her value, and had besides one of the temperaments to which dependence on some really loved being comes natural, and is inevitable.

So Minola set out next day, about three o'clock, to look up her schoolfellow, Miss Lucy Money. She went forth on her mission with some unwillingness, and with a feeling as if she were abandoning some purpose or giving up a little of a principle in doing so. "I came to London to live alone and independent," she said to herself sometimes, "and already I am going out to seek for acquaintances. Why do I do that? I want strength of purpose. I am just like everybody else"; and she began, as was her wont, to scrutinize her own weaknesses, and bear heavily on them. For, absurd as it may seem, this odd young woman really did propose to live alone—herself and Mary Blanchet—in London until they died—alone, that is, so far as social life and acquaintanceships in society were concerned. Vast and vague schemes for doing good to her neighbors, and for striving in especial to give a helping hand to troubled women, were in Miss Grey's plans of life; but society, so called, was to have no part in them. It did not occur to her that she was far too handsome a girl to be allowed to put herself thus under an extinguisher or behind a screen. When people looked after her as she passed through the streets, she assumed that they noticed some rustic peculiarity in her dress or her hat, and she felt a contempt for them. Her love of London did not imply a love of Londoners, whom in general she thought rude and given to staring. But even if she had thought people were looking at her because of her figure, her face, her eyes, her superb hair, she would have felt a contempt for them all the same. She had a proud indifference to personal beauty, and looked down upon men whose judgment could be affected by the fact that a woman had finer eyes, or brighter hair, or a more shapely mould than other women.

Once Minola was positively on the point of turning back, and renouncing all claim on the acquaintanceship of her former school companion. She suddenly remembered, however, that in condemning her own fancied weakness she had forgotten that her visit was undertaken to oblige Mary Blanchet. "Poor Mary! I have only one little acquaintanceship that has anything to do with society, and am I to deny her that chance if she likes it?" She went on rapidly and resolutely. Sometimes she felt inclined to blame herself for bringing Mary Blanchet away from Keeton, although Mary had for years been complaining of her life and her work there, and beseeching Miss Grey not to leave her behind when she went to live in London.

It was a beautiful autumn day. London looks to great advantage on one of these rare days, and Miss Grey felt her heart swell with mere delight as she looked from the streets to the sky and from the sky to the streets. She passed through one or two squares, and stopped to see the sun, already going down, send its light through the bare branches of the trees. The western sky was covered with gray, silver-edged clouds, which brightened into blots of golden fire as they came closer in the track of the sun. The air was mild, soft, and almost warm. All poets and painters are full of the autumnal charms of the country; but to certain oddly constituted minds some street views in London on a fine autumn day have an unspeakable witchery. Miss Grey walked round and round one of the squares, and had to remind herself of her purpose on Mary Blanchet's behalf in order to impel herself on.

The best of the day had gone, and the early evening was looking somewhat chill and gloomy between the huge ramparts of the Victoria street houses by the time that Miss Grey stood in that solemn thoroughfare, and her heart sank a little as she reached the house where her old school friend lived.

"Perhaps Lucy Money is altogether changed," Miss Grey said to herself as she came up to the door. "Perhaps she won't care about me; perhaps I shan't like her any more; and perhaps her mamma will think me a dreadful person for not honoring my stepfather and stepmother. Perhaps there are brothers—odious, slangy young men, who think girls fall in love with them. Oh, yes, here is one of them."

For just as she had rung the bell a hansom cab drove up to the door, and a tall, dark-complexioned young man leaped out. He raised his hat with what seemed to Miss Grey something the manner of a foreigner when he saw her standing at the door, and she felt a momentary thrill of relief, because, if he was a foreigner, he could not be Lucy Money's brother. Besides, she knew very well that the great houses in Victoria street were occupied by several tenants, and there was good hope that the young man might have business with the upper story, and she with the ground floor.

"Mr. Money lives here," she answered, with the manner of one resolute to close the conversation. The young man did not seem in the least impressed by her tone.

"Perhaps I have the honor of speaking to Miss Money?" he began, with delighted eagerness.

No words could say more distinctly than the young man's expression did, "I am sorry to hear it." Indeed, no young man in the world going to visit Mr. Money could have avoided wishing that the young lady then standing at the door might prove to be Miss Money.

The door opened, and the young man drew politely back to give Miss Grey the first chance. She asked for Miss Lucy Money, and the porter rang a bell for one of Mr. Money's servants. Miss Grey had brought a card with her, on which she had written over her engraved name, "For Lucy Money," and beneath it, "Nola," the short rendering of "Minola," which they used to adopt at school.

"If Mr. Money is at home," said the latter, "I should be glad to see him. I find I have forgotten my card case, but my name is Heron—Mr. Victor Heron; and do, please, try to remember it, and to say it rightly."

CHAPTER V.

MISS GREY'S FIRST CALL.

Mr. Money's home, like Mr. Money himself, conveyed to the intelligent observer an idea of quiet, self-satisfied strength. Mr. Money had one of the finest and most expensive suites of rooms to be had in the great Victoria street buildings, and his rooms were furnished handsomely and richly. He had servants in sober livery, and a carriage for his wife and daughters, and a little brougham for himself. He made no pretence at being fashionable; rather indeed seemed to say deliberately, "I am a plain man and don't care twopence about fashion, and I despise making a show of being rich; but I am rich enough for all I want, and whatever money can buy for me I can buy." He would not allow his wife and daughters to aim at being persons of fashion had they been so inclined, but they might spend as much money as ever they pleased. He never made a boast of his original poverty, or the humbleness of his bringing up, nor put on any vulgar show of rugged independence. The impression he made upon everybody was that of a completely self-sufficing—we do not say self-sufficient—man. It was not very clear how he had made his money. He had been at the head of one of the working departments under the Government, had somehow fancied himself ill treated, resigned his place, and, it was understood, had entered into various contracts to do work for the governments of foreign States. It was certain that Mr. Money was not a speculator. His name never appeared in the directors' list of any new company. He could not be called a city man. But it was certain that he was rich.

Mr. Money was in Parliament. He was a strong radical in theory, and was believed to have much stronger opinions than he troubled himself to express. There was a rough, scornful way about him, as of one who dearly considered all our existing arrangements merely provisional, and who in the mean time did not care to occupy himself overmuch with the small differences between this legislative proposition and that. It was not on political subjects that he usually spoke. He was a very good speaker, clear, direct, and expressive in his language, always using plain, effective words, and always showing a perfect ease in the finishing of his sentences. There was a savor of literature about him, and it was evident in many indirect ways that he knew Greek and Latin much better than most of the university men. The impression he produced was that of a man who on most subjects knew more than he troubled himself to display. It seemed as if it would take a very ready speaker indeed to enter into personal contest with Mr. Money and not get the worst of it.

He was believed to be very shrewd and clever, and was known to be liberal of his money. People consulted him about many things, and to some extent admired him; some were a little afraid of him, and, in homely phrase, fought shy of him. Perhaps he was thought to be unscrupulous; perhaps his blunt way of going at the very heart of a scruple in others made them fancy that he rather despised all moral conventionalities. Whatever the reason was, a certain class of persons always rather distrusted Mr. Money, and held aloof even while asking his advice. No one who had come in his way even for a moment forgot him, or was confused as to his identity, or failed to form some opinion about or could have put clearly into words an exact statement of the opinion he had formed.

On this particular day of autumn Mr. Money was in his study reading letters. He was talking to himself in short, blunt sentences over each letter as he read it, and put it into a pigeonhole, or tore it and threw it into the waste-paper basket. His sentences were generally concise judgments pronounced on each correspondent. "Fool." "Blockhead." "Just so; I expected that of you!" "Yes, yes, he's all right." "That will do." Sometimes a comment, begun rather gruffly, ended in a good-natured smile, and sometimes Mr. Money, having read a letter to the close with a pleased and satisfied expression, suddenly became thoughtful, and leaned upon his desk, drumming with the finger tips of one hand upon his teeth.

A servant interrupted his work by bringing him a message and a name. Mr. Money looked up, said quickly, "Yes, yes; show him in!" and Mr. Victor Heron was introduced.

Mr. Money advanced to meet his visitor with an air of cordial welcome. One peculiarity of Mr. Money's strong, homely face was the singular sweetness of the smile which it sometimes wore. The full lips parted so pleasantly, the white teeth shone, and the eyes, that usually seemed heavy, beamed with so kindly an air, that to youth at least the influence was for the moment irresistible. Victor Heron's emotional face sparkled with responsive expression.

"Well, well; glad to see you, glad to see you. Knew you would come. Shove away those blue books and sit down. We haven't long got back; but I tried to find you, and couldn't get at your address. They didn't know at the Colonial Institute even. And how are you, and what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Not much good," Heron replied, thinking as usual of his grievance. "I couldn't succeed in seeing anybody."

"Of course not, of course not. I could have told you so. People are not yet coming back to town, except hard working fellows like me. Have you been cooling your heels in the antechambers of the Colonial office?"

"Yes, I have been there a little; not much. I saw it was no use just yet, and that isn't a kind of occupation I delight in." The young man's face reddened with the bare memory of his vexation. "I hate that sort of thing."

"To go where you know people don't want to see you? Yes, it tries young and sensitive people a good deal. They've put you off?"

"As I told you, I have seen nobody yet. But I mean to persevere. They shall find I am not a man to be got rid of in that way."

Mr. Money made no observation on this, but went to a drawer in his desk and took out a little book with pages alphabetically arranged.

"I have been making inquiries about you," he said, "of various people who know all about the colonies. Would you like to hear a summary description of your personal character? Don't be offended—this is a way I have; the moment a person interests me and seems worth thinking about, I enter him in my little book here, and sum up his character from my own observation and from what people tell me. Shall I read it for you? I wouldn't, you may be sure, if I thought you were anything of a fool."

This compliment, of course, conquered Heron, who was otherwise a good deal puzzled. But there was something in Mr. Money's manner with those in whom he took any interest, that prevented their feeling hurt by his occasional bluntness.

"Of course you don't. What busy man, who has to know other people, could have time to study himself? That work might do for philosophers. I may teach you something now, and save you the trouble."

"I suppose I ought to make my own acquaintance," said Heron resignedly, while much preferring to talk of his grievance.

"Heron, Victor.—Formerly in administration of St. Xavier's settlements. Got into difficulty; dropped down. Education good, but literary rather than businesslike. Plenty of pluck, but wants coolness. Egotistic, but unselfish. Good deal of talent and go. Very honest, but impracticable. A good weapon in good hands, but must take care not to be made a plaything."

Heron laughed. "It's a little like the sort of thing phrenologists give people," he said, "but I think it's very flattering. I can assure you, however, no one shall make a plaything of me," he added with emphasis.

"So we all think, so we all think," Mr. Money said, putting away his book. "Well, you are going on with this then?"

"I am going to vindicate my conduct, and compel them to grant me an inquiry, if you mean that. Nothing on earth shall keep me from that."

"So, so. Very well. We'll talk about that another time—many other times; and I may give you some advice, which you needn't take if you don't like, and I shan't be offended. Now, I want to introduce you to my wife and my girls, and you must have a cup of tea. Odd, isn't it, to find men drinking tea at five o'clock in the afternoon? Up at the club, any day about that hour, you might think we were a drawing-room full of old spinsters, to hear the rattling of teacups that goes on all around."

He took Heron's arm in a friendly, dictatorial way, and conducted him to the drawing-room on the same floor.

The drawing-room was entered, not by opening a door, but by withdrawing some folds of a great, heavy, dark-green curtain. Mr. Money drew aside part of the curtain to make way for his friend; and they both stopped a moment on the threshold. A peculiar, sweet, half melancholy smile gave a strange dignity for the moment to Mr. Money's somewhat rough face, and he gently let the curtain fall.

"Wasn't there some great person, Mr. Heron—Burke, was it?—who used to say that whatever troubles he had outside all ceased as he stood at his own door? Well, I always feel like that when I lift this curtain."

It was a pretty sight, as he again raised the curtain and led Heron in. The drawing-room was very large, and was richly, and, as it seemed to Heron, somewhat oddly furnished. The light in the lower part was faint and dim, a sort of yellowish twilight, procured by softened lamps. The upper extremity was steeped in a far brighter light, and displayed to Heron, almost as on a stage, a little group of women, among whom his quick eye at once saw the girl who had come up to the door at the same time with him. She was, indeed, a very conspicuous figure, for she was seated on a sofa, and one girl sat at her feet, while another stood at the arm of the sofa and bent over her. An elderly lady, with voluminous draperies that floated over the floor, was reclining on a low arm-chair, with her profile turned to Heron. On a fancy table near, a silver tea-tray glittered. A daintily dressed waiting-maid was serving tea.

"Take care of the floors as you come along," said Money. "We like to put rugs, and rolls of carpet, and stools now in all sorts of wrong places, to trip people up. That shows how artistic we are! Theresa, dear, this is my friend, Mr. Heron."

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Heron," said a full, deep, melancholy voice, and a tall, slender lady partly rose from her chair, then sank again amid her draperies, bowed a head topped by a tiny lace cap, and held out to Heron a thin hand covered with rings, and having such bracelets and dependent chainlets that when Heron gave it even the gentlest pressure, they rattled like the manacles of a captive.

"We saw you in Paris, Mr. Heron," the lady graciously said, "but I think you hardly saw us."

"These are my daughters, Mr. Heron, Theresa and Lucy. I think them good girls, though full of nonsense," said Mr. Money.

Lucy, who had been on a footstool at Miss Grey's feet, gathered herself up, blushing. She was a pretty girl, with brown, frizzy hair, and wore a dress which fitted her so closely from neck to hip that she might really have been, to all seeming, melted or moulded into it. The other young lady, Theresa, slightly and gravely inclined her head to Mr. Heron, who at once thought the whole group most delightful and beautiful, and found his breast filled with a new pride in the loved old England that produced such homes and furnished them with such women.

"Dear, darling papa," exclaimed the enthusiastic little Lucy, swooping at her father, and throwing both arms round his neck, "we have had such a joy to-day, such a surprise! Don't you see anybody here? Oh, come now, do use your eyes."

"I see a young lady whom I have not yet the pleasure of knowing, but whom I hope you will help me to know, Lucelet."

Mr. Money turned to Miss Grey with his genial smile. She rose from the sofa and bowed and waited. She did not as yet quite understand the Money family, and was not sure whether she ought to like them or not. They impressed her at first as being far too rich for her taste, and odd and affected, and she hated affectation.

"But this is Nola Grey, papa—my dearest old schoolfellow when I was at Keeton; you must have heard me talk of Nola Grey a thousand times."

So she dragged her papa up to Nola Grey, whose color grew a little at this tempestuous kind of welcome.

"Dare say I did, Lucelet, but Miss Grey, I am sure will excuse me if I have forgotten; I am very glad to see you, Miss Grey—glad to see any friend of Lucelet's. So you come from Keeton? That's another reason why I should be glad to see you, for I just now want to ask a question or two about Keeton. Sit down."

Miss Grey allowed herself to be led to a sofa a little distance from where she had been sitting. Mr. Money sat beside her.

"Now, Lucelet, I want to ask Miss Grey a sensible question or two, which I don't think you would care twopence about. Just you go and help our two Theresas to talk to Mr. Heron."

"But, papa darling, Miss Grey won't care about what you call sensible subjects any more than I. She won't know anything about them."

"I didn't mean that," Mr. Money said with a smile; "I meant that it looked sensible and thoughtful. Now, go away, Lucelet, like a dear little girl."

Miss Grey sat quietly through all this. She was not in the least offended. Mr. Money seemed to her to be just what a man ought to be—uncouth, rough, and domineering. She was amused meanwhile to observe the kind of devotion and enthusiasm with which Mr. Heron was entering into conversation with Mrs. Money and her elder daughter. That, too, was just what a man ought to be—a young man—silly in his devotion to women, unless, perhaps, where the devotion was to be accounted for otherwise than by silliness, as in a case like the present, where the unmarried women might be presumed to have large fortunes. So Miss Grey liked the whole scene. It was as good as a play to her, especially as good as a play which confirms all one's own theories of life.

"England, Mr. Heron," said Mrs. Money in her melancholy voice, "is near her fall."

"Oh, Mrs. Money, pray pardon me—England! you amaze me—I am surprised—do forgive me—to hear an Englishwoman say so; our England with her glorious destiny!" The young man blushed and grew confused. One might have thought his mother had been called in question or his sweetheart.

"She is near her fall, Mr. Heron! You cannot know. You have lived far away, and do not see what we see. She has proved faithless to her mission."

"Something—yes—there I agree," Mr. Heron eagerly interposed, thinking of the St. Xavier's settlements.

"She was the cradle of freedom," Mrs. Money went on. "She ought to have been always its nursery and home. What have we now, Mr. Heron? A people absolutely in servitude, the principle of caste everywhere triumphant—corruption in the aristocracy—corruption in the city. No man now dares to serve his country except at the penalty of suffering the blackest ingratitude!"

Mr. Heron was startled. He did not know that Mrs. Money was arguing only from the assumption that her husband was a very great man, who would have done wonderful things for England if a perverse and base ruling class had not thwarted him, and treated him badly.

"England," Theresa Money said, smiling sweetly, but with a suffusion of melancholy, "can hardly be regenerated until she is once more dipped in the holy well."

"You see we all think differently, Mr. Heron," said the eager Lucy. "Mamma thinks we want a republic. Tessy is a saint, and would like to see roadside shrines."

"Oh—I only believe in the regeneration of England through the renaissance of art. So we all have our different theories, you see, but we all agree to differ, and we don't quarrel much. Papa laughs at us all when he has time. But just now I am taken up with Nola Grey. If I were a man, I should make an idol of her. That lovely, statuesque face, that figure—like the Diana of the Louvre!"

Mr. Heron looked and admired, but one person's raptures about man or woman seldom awaken corresponding raptures in impartial breasts. He saw, however, a handsome, ladylike girl, who conveyed to him a sort of chilling impression.

"She was my schoolfellow at Keeton," Lucy went on, "and she was so good and clever that I adored her then, and I do now again. She has come to London to live alone, and I am sure she must have some strange and romantic story."

Meanwhile Mr. Money, who prefaced his inquiries by telling Miss Grey that he was always asking information about something, began to put several questions to her concerning the local magnates, politics, and parties of Keeton. Minola was rather pleased to be talked to by a man as if she were a rational creature. Like most girls brought up in a Nonconformist household in a country town, she had been surrounded by political talk from her infancy, but unlike most girls, she had sometimes listened to it and learned to know what it was all about. So she gave Mr. Money a good deal of information, which he received with an approbatory "Yes, yes" or an inquiring "So, so" every now and then.

"You know that there's likely to be a vacancy soon in the representation-member of Parliament," he added by way of explanation.

"I know what a vacancy in the representation means," Miss Grey answered demurely, "but I didn't know there was likely to be one just now. I don't keep up much correspondence with Keeton. I don't love it."

"You are smiling because you think that a woman's answer? So it is, Mr. Money, and I am afraid it isn't true; but I really didn't think of what I was saying. I do know why I don't care much about Keeton."

"Yes, yes; well, I dare say you do. But to return, as the books say—do you know a Mr. Augustus Sheppard?"

She could not help coloring slightly. "Yes, I know him," and a faint smile broke over her face in spite of herself.

"Well liked, respectable, a likely kind of man to get good Conservative support if he stood for Keeton? You don't know, perhaps?"

"Yes, I think I do know. I believe he wishes to get into Parliament, and I am sure he is thought highly of. He is a very good man—a man of very high character," she added emphatically, anxious to repair the mental wrong doing of thinking him ridiculous and tiresome.

Just at this moment Mr. Heron rose to take his leave, and Mr. Money left the room with him, so that the conversation with Miss Grey was broken off. Then Lucy came to Nola again, and Nola was surrounded by the three women, who began to lay out various schemes for seeing her often and making London pleasant to her. Much as our lonely heroine loved her loneliness, she was greatly touched by their spontaneous kindness, but she was alarmed by it too.

"Oh, how delightful!" Lucy exclaimed. "So glad he has come, mamma. Nola, dear, a poet—a real poet!"

But Nola would not prolong her visit that day even for a poet. A very handsome, tall, dark-haired man, who at a distance seemed boyishly young, and when near looked worn and not very young, was shown in. For the moment or two that she could see him, Minola thought she had never seen so self-conceited and affected a creature. She did not hear his name nor a word he said, but his splendid, dark eyes, deeply set in hollows, took in every outline of her face and form. She thought him the poet of a schoolgirl's romance made to order.

Minola tore herself from the clinging embraces of Lucy, with less difficulty, perhaps, because of the poet's arrival, to whose society Lucy was clearly anxious to hasten back. It so happened that Mr. Money had kept Mr. Heron for a few minutes in talk, and the result was that exactly as Miss Grey reached the door Mr. Heron arrived there too. They both came out together, and in a moment they were in the gray atmosphere, dun lines of houses, and twinkling gaslights of Victoria street. Minola would much rather have been there alone.

Victor Heron, however, was full of the antique ideas of man's chivalrous duty and woman's sweet dependence, which still lingered in the out-of-the-way colony where he had spent so much of his time. Also, it must be owned that he had not yet quite got rid of the sense of responsibility and universal dictatorship belonging to the chief man in a petty commonwealth. For some time after his return to London he could hardly see an omnibus horse fall in the street without thinking it was an occasion which called for some intervention on his part. Therefore, when Miss Grey and he stood in the street together Mr. Heron at once assumed that the young woman must, as a matter of course, require his escort and protection.

He calmly took his place at her side. Miss Grey was a little surprised, but said nothing, and they went on.

"Of course, yes—I beg your pardon for the mistake. It was only a mistake of the tongue, for I knew very well that you were not Miss Money."

"And your first name is so very pretty and peculiar that I could not have easily forgotten it."

"Why do you hope that?" Miss Grey said, turning her eyes upon him with an air of cold resolution, which would probably have proved very trying to a less sincere maker of compliments, even though a far more dexterous person than Mr. Heron.

"But there is no need of your coming out of your way for me. I don't require any escort, Mr. Heron."

"I couldn't think of letting a lady walk home by herself. That would seem very strange to me. Perhaps you think me old-fashioned or colonial?"

"I have heard that you are from the colonies. In London people have not time to keep up all these pretty forms and ceremonies. We don't any longer pretend to think that a girl needs to be defended against giants, or robbers, or mad bulls, when crossing two or three streets in open day."

"Yes, if you call that being lighted! You have such bad gas in London. Why does not somebody stir up people here, and put things to rights? You seem to me the most patient people in all the world. I wish they would give me the ruling of this place for about a twelvemonth."

"Do you?" and he looked at her with a glance of genuine gratitude in his dark eyes, for he thought she meant to express her entire confidence in his governing power, and her wish to see him at the head of affairs. Miss Grey, however, only meant that if he were engaged in directing the municipal government of London he probably would be rather too busy to walk with her.

"Yes," he went on, "you should soon see a change. For instance"—they were now at the end of Victoria street, near the Abbey—"I would begin by having a great broad street, like this, running right up from here to the British Museum. You know where the British Museum is, of course?"

"Do you really? I am so glad to hear that. I have been there lately very often. How happy you Londoners are to have such glorious places. In that reading-room I felt inclined to bless England."

Miss Grey was now particularly sorry that she had said anything about her place of residence. Still it did not seem as if much would have been gained by any reticence unless she could actually dismiss her companion peremptorily. Mr. Heron was evidently quite resolved to be her escort all the way along. He was clearly under the impression that he was making himself very agreeable. The good-natured youth believed he was doing quite the right thing, and meant it all for the very best, and therefore could not suppose that any nice girl could fail to accept his attendance in a kindly spirit. That Miss Grey must be a nice girl he was perfectly certain, for he had met her at Mr. Money's, and Money was evidently a fine fellow—a very fine fellow. Miss Grey was very handsome too, but that did not count for very much with Heron. At least he would have made himself just as readily, under the circumstances, the escort of little Miss Blanchet.

So he talked on about various things—the Moneys, and what charming people they were! the British Museum, what a noble institution! the National Gallery, how hideous the building!—why on earth didn't anybody do something?—the glorious destiny of England—the utter imbecility of the English Government.

It was not always quite easy to keep up with his talk, for the streets were crowded and noisy, and Mr. Heron talked right on through every interruption. When they came to crossings where the perplexed currents and counter-currents of traffic on wheels would have made a nervous person shudder, Mr. Heron coolly took Miss Grey's hand and conducted her in and out, talking all the while as if they were crossing a ball-room floor. Minola made it a point of honor not to hesitate, or start, or show that she had nerves. But when he began to run into politics he always pulled himself up, for he politely remembered that young ladies did not care about politics, and so he tried to find some prettier subject to talk about. Miss Grey understood this perfectly well, and was amused and contemptuous.

"I suppose this man must be a person of some brains and sense," she thought. "He was in command of something somewhere, and I suppose even the Government he calls so imbecile would not have put him there if he were a downright fool. But because he talks to a woman, he feels bound only to talk of trivial things."

At last the walk came to an end. "Ah, I beg pardon. You live here," Mr. Heron said. "May I have the honor of calling on your family? I sometimes come to the Museum, and if I might call, I should be delighted to make their acquaintance."

"Thank you," Miss Grey said coldly. "I have no family. My father and mother are dead."

"Oh, I am so sorry! I wish I had not asked such a question." He looked really distressed, and the expression of his eyes had for the first time a pleasing, softening effect upon Miss Grey.

"We lodge here all alone—a lady—an old friend of mine—and I. We have no acquaintances, unless Lucy Money's family may be called so. We read and study a great deal, and don't go out, and don't see any one."

"I can quite understand," Mr. Heron answered with grave sympathy. "Of course you don't care to be intruded on by visitors. I thank you for having allowed me the pleasure of accompanying you so far."

He spoke in tones much more deferential than before, for he assumed that the young lady was lonely and poor. There was something in his manner, in his eyes, in his grave, respectful voice, which conveyed to Minola the idea of genuine sympathy, and brought to her, the object of it, a new conviction that she really was isolated and friendless, and the springs of her emotions were touched in a moment, and tears flashed in her eyes. Perhaps Mr. Heron saw them, and felt that he ought not to see them, for he raised his hat and instantly left her.

Minola lingered for a moment on the doorstep, in order that she might recover her expression of cheerfulness before meeting the eyes of Miss Blanchet. But that little lady had seen her coming to the door, and seen and marvelled at her escort, and now ran herself and opened the door to receive her.

"My dear Minola, do tell me who that handsome young man was! What lovely dark eyes he had! Where did you meet him? Is he young Mr. Money?"

The poetess's susceptible bosom still thrilled and throbbed at the sight, or even the thought, of a handsome young man. She could not understand how anybody on earth could avoid liking handsome young men. But in this case a certain doubt and dissatisfaction suddenly dissolved away into her instinctive gratification at the sight of Minola's escort. A handsome and young Mr. Money might prove an inconvenient visitor just at present.

Minola briefly told her when they were safe in their room. Miss Blanchet was relieved to find that he was not a young Mr. Money, for a young Mr. Money, if there were one, would doubtless be rich.

"I hardly know," Minola said distressedly; "perhaps he is. I really didn't notice. He goes to the Museum, and I must exile myself from the place for evermore, or I shall be always meeting him, and be forced to listen politely to talk about nothing. Mary Blanchet, our days of freedom are gone! We are getting to know people. I foresaw it. What shall we do? We must find some other lodgings ever so far away."

"Lucy? Oh, yes, very much. But there is Mr. Money; and they are going to be terribly kind to us; and they have all manner of friends; and what is to become of my independence? Mary Blanchet, I will not bear it! I will be independent!"

"If it please the destinies, not news of any more friends! Why, we shall be like the hare in Gay's fable if we go on in this way."

"Not of any more friends, darling, but of one friend. My brother has been here."

Minola sincerely wished she could say that she was longing to see him. But she could not say it, even to please her friend and comrade.

"But you do, dear," Miss Grey said; "and I shall like to see any one, be sure, who brightens your life."

This was said with full sincerity, although at the very moment the whimsical thought passed through her, "We only want Mr. Augustus Sheppard now to complete our social happiness."

CHAPTER VI.

IS THIS ALCESTE?

Minola's mind was a good deal disturbed by the various little events of the day, the incidents and consequences of her first visit in London. She began to see with much perplexity and disappointment that her life of lonely independence was likely to be compromised. She was not sure that she could much like the Moneys, and yet she felt that they were disposed and determined to be very kind to her. There was something ridiculous and painful in the fact that Mr. Augustus Sheppard's name was thrust upon her almost at the first moment of her crossing for the first time a strange threshold in London; then there was Mary Blanchet's brother turning up; and Mary Blanchet herself was evidently falling off from the high design of lonely independence. Again, there was Mr. Heron, who now knew where she lived, and who often went to the British Museum, and who might cross her path at any hour. Sweet, lonely freedom, happy carelessness of action, farewell!

Mr. Heron was especially a trouble to Minola. The kindly, grave expression on his face when he heard of her living alone declared, as nearly as any words could do, that he considered her an object of pity. Was she an object of pity? Was that the light in which any one could look at her superb project of playing at a lifelong holiday? And if people chose to look at it so, what did that matter to her? Are women, then, the slaves of the opinion of people all around them? "They are," Minola said to herself in scorn and melancholy—"they are; we are. I am shaken to the very soul, because a young man, for whose opinion on any other subject I should not care anything, chooses to look at me with pity!"

The night was melancholy. When the outer world was shut out, and the gas was lighted, and the two women sat down to work and talk, nothing seemed to Minola quite as it had been. The evident happiness and passing high spirits of the little poetess oppressed her. Mary Blanchet was so glad to be making acquaintances, and to have some prospect of seeing the inside of a London home. Then Minola's kindlier nature returned to her, and she thought of Mary's delight at seeing her brother, and how unkind it would be if she, Minola, did not try to enter into her feelings. Her mind went back to her own brother, to their dear early companionship, when nothing seemed more natural and more certain than that they two should walk the world arm-in-arm. Now all that had come to an end—faded away somehow; and he had gone into the world on his own account, and made other ties, and forgotten her. But if he were even now to come back, if she were to hear in the street the sound of the peculiar whistle with which he always announced his coming to her—oh, how, in spite of all his forgetfulness and her anger, she would run to him and throw her arms around his neck! Why should not Mary Blanchet love her brother, and gladden when he came?

"What is your brother like, Mary, dear?" she said gently, anxious to propitiate by voluntarily entering on the topic dearest to her friend.

"Now, Minola, I know what you are smiling at; you think it is my sisterly nonsense, and all that; but wait until you see."

Miss Grey did not go out the next day as usual, although it was one of the soft, amber-gray, autumnal days that she loved, and the Regent's Park would have looked beautiful. She remained nearly all the morning in her own room, and avoided even Mary Blanchet. Some singular change had taken place within her, for which she could not account, otherwise than by assuming that it was begotten of the fear that she would be drawn, willingly or unwillingly, into uncongenial companionship, and must renounce her liberty. She was forced into a strange, painful, self-questioning mood. Was the whole fabric of her self-appointed happiness and independence only a dream, or, worse than a dream, an error? So soon to doubt the value and the virtue of the emancipation she had prayed for and planned for during years? Not often, perhaps, has a warm-hearted, fanciful, and spirited girl been pressed down by such peculiar relationship as hers at Keeton lately; a twice removed stepfather and stepmother, absolutely uncongenial with her, causing her soul and her youth to congeal amid dull repression. What wonder that to her all happiness seemed to consist in mere freedom and unrestricted self-development? And now—so soon—why does she begin to doubt the reality, the fulfilment of her happiness? Only because an impulsive and kindly young man, whom she saw for the first time, looked pityingly at her. This, she said to herself, is what our self-reliance and our emancipation come to after all.

It was a positive relief to her, after a futile hour or so of such questioning, when Mary Blanchet ran up stairs, and with beaming eyes begged that Minola would come and see her brother. "He is longing to see you—and you will like him—oh, you will like him, Minola dearest?" she said beseechingly.

Miss Gray went down stairs straightway, without stopping to give one touch to her hair, or one glance at the glass. The little poetess was waiting a moment, with an involuntary look toward the dressing table, as if Miss Grey must needs have some business there before she descended, but Miss Grey thought nothing of the kind, and they went down stairs together.

Minola expected, she could not tell why, to see a small and withered man in Mary Blanchet's brother. When they were entering the drawing-room, he was looking out of the window, and had his back turned, and she was surprised to see that he was decidedly tall. When he turned around she saw not only that he was handsome, but that she had recognized the fact of his being handsome before. For he was unmistakably the ideal poet of schoolgirls whom she had met at Mr. Money's house the day before.

The knowledge produced a sort of embarrassment to begin with. Minola was about to throw her soul into the sacrifice, and greet her friend's brother with the utmost cordiality. But she had pictured to herself a sort of Mary Blanchet in trousers, a gentle, old-fashioned, timid person, whom, perhaps, the outer world was apt to misprize, if not even to snub, and whom therefore it became her, Minola Grey, as an enemy and outlaw of the common world, to receive with double consideration. But this brilliant, self-conceited, affected, oppressively handsome young man, on whom she had seen Lucy Money and her mother hanging devotedly, was quite another sort of person. His presence seemed to overcharge the room; the scene became all compound of tall, bending form and dark eyes.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Blanchet," Miss Grey began, determined not to be put out by any self-conceited poet and ideal of schoolgirls. "I must be glad to see you, because you are Mary's brother."

"You ought rather to be not glad to see me for that reason," he said, with a deprecating bow and a slight shrug of the shoulders, "for I have been a very neglectful brother to Mary."

"So I have heard," Miss Grey said, "but not from Mary. She always defended you. But I have seen you before, Mr. Blanchet, have I not?"

"At Mrs. Money's yesterday? Oh, yes; I only saw you, Miss Grey. I went there to see you, and only in the most literal way got what I wanted."

"But, Herbert, you never told me that you were going, or that you knew Mrs. Money," his sister interposed.

"No, dear; that was an innocent deceit on my part. You told me that Miss Grey had gone there, and as I knew the Moneys I hurried away there without telling you. I wanted to know what you were like, Miss Grey, before seeing my sister again. I hope you are not angry? She is so devoted to you that she painted you in colors the most bewitching; but I was afraid her friendship was carrying her away, and I wanted to see for myself when she was not present."

Miss Grey remained resolutely silent. She thought this beginning particularly disagreeable, and began to fear that she should never be able to like Mary Blanchet's brother. "Oh, why do women have brothers?" she asked herself. There seemed something dishonest in Mr. Blanchet's proceeding despite the frank completeness of his confession.

"Well, Herbert, confess that I didn't do her justice; didn't do her common justice," the enthusiastic Mary exclaimed.

"If Miss Grey would not be offended," her brother said, "I would say that I see in her just the woman capable of doing the kind and generous things I have heard of."

"Yes; but we mustn't talk about it," the poetess said, with tears of gratefulness blinking in her eyes; "and we'll not say a word more about it, Minola; not a word, indeed, dear." And she put a deprecating little hand upon Minola's arm.

Then they all sat down, and Herbert Blanchet began to talk. He talked very well, and he seemed to have put away most of the airs of affectation which, even in her very short opportunity of observation, Minola had seen in him when he was talking to the Money girls.

"If you call it travelling. I have drifted about the world a good deal, and seen the wrong sides of everything. I make it pay in a sort of way. When any place that I know is brought into public notice by a war or something of the kind, I write about it. Or if a place is not brought into any present notice by anything, I write about it, and take a different view from anybody else. I have done particularly well with Italy, showing that Naples is the ugliest place in all the world; that the Roman women have shockingly bad figures, and that the climate is wretched from the Alps to the Straits of Messina.

"Don't I? Well, I don't know. I almost think I do for the moment. One can get into that frame of mind. Besides, I really don't care about scenery. I don't observe it as I pass along. And I like to say what other people don't say, and to see what they don't see. Of course I don't put my name to any of these things; they are only done to make a living. I live on such stuff as that. I live for Art."

"It is glorious to live for art," his sister exclaimed, pressing her thin, tiny hands together.

"My art isn't yours, Mary," he said, with a pitying smile. "Pictures of flowers and little children saying their prayers, and nice poems about good young men and women, are your ideas of painting and poetry, I am sure. You are a lover of the human race, I know."

"I hope you do, dear. All good little women like you ought to do that. Do you love your neighbor, Miss Grey?"

"I don't care much for any one," Miss Grey answered decisively, "except Mary Blanchet. But I have no particular principle or theory about it, only that I don't care for people."

Although Miss Grey had Alceste for her hero, she did not like sham misanthropy, which she now fancied her visitor was trying to display. Perhaps too she began to think that his misanthropy rather caricatured her own.

Miss Blanchet, on the contrary, was inclined to argue the question, and to pelt her brother with touching commonplaces.

"The more we know people," she emphatically declared, "the more good we see in them. In every heart there is a deep spring of goodness. Oh, yes!"

"For shame, Herbert! How else could you ever feel impelled to try and do some good for your fellow creatures?"

"But I don't want to do any good to my fellow creatures. I don't care about my fellow creatures, and I don't even admit that they are my fellow creatures, those men and those women too that one sees about. Why should the common possession of two legs make us fellow creatures with every man, more than with every bird? No, I don't love the human race at all."

"This is nonsense, Minola; you won't believe a word of it," the little poetess eagerly said, divided between admiration and alarm.

"You good, little, innocent dear, is it not perfectly true? What did I ever do for you, let me ask? There, Miss Grey, you see as kind an elder sister as ever lived. I remember her a perfect mother to me. I dare say I should have been dead thirty years ago but for her, though whether I ought to thank her for keeping me alive is another thing. Anyhow, what was my way of showing my gratitude? As soon as I could shake myself free, I rambled about the world, a very vagrant, and never took any thought of her. We are all the same, Miss Grey, believe me—we men."

"Of course you can. In all our dealings with you women we are just the same. Our sisters and mothers take trouble without end for us, and cry their eyes out for us, and we—what do we care? I am not worse than my neighbors. But if you ask me, do I admire my fellow man, I answer frankly, no. Not I. What should I admire him for?"

"One must live for something," the poetess pleaded, much perplexed in her heart as to what Miss Grey's opinion might be about all this.

"Of course one must live for art; for music and poetry, and colors and decoration."

"Nature—no! Nature is the buxom sweetheart of ploughboy poets. We only affect to admire Nature because people think we can't be good if we don't. No one really cares about great cauliflower suns, and startling contrasts of blazing purple and emerald green. There is nothing really beautiful in Nature except her decay; her rank weeds, and dank grasses, and funereal evening glooms."

While he talked this way he was seated on the piano stool, with his face turned away from the piano, on whose keys he touched every now and then with a light and seemingly careless hand, bringing out only a faint note that seemed to help the conversation rather than to interrupt it. He was very handsome, Minola could not help thinking, and there was something in his colorless face and deep eyes that seemed congenial with the talk of glooms and decay. Still, true to her first feeling toward all men, Minola was disposed to dislike him, the more especially as he spoke with an air of easy superiority, as one who would imply that he knew how to maintain his place above women in creation.

"I thought all you poets affected to be in love with Nature," she said. "I mean you younger poets," and she emphasized the word "younger" with a certain contemptuous tone, which made it just what it meant to be—"smaller poets."

"Well, because the elder ones I think really were in love with Nature, and didn't affect anything."

"We don't want to be known in the country; we couldn't endure to be known in the country."

"Oh, Miss Grey, do pray excuse me, but you really don't understand us; we don't want fame. What is fame? Vulgarity made immortal."

He rose from his seat and seized his hair with both hands; then constrained himself to endurance, and sat down again.

"My dear young lady, we don't publish; we don't intend to publish. No man in his senses would publish for us if we were never so well inclined. No one could sell six copies. The great, thick-headed public couldn't understand us. We are satisfied that the true artist never does have a public—or look for it. The public can have their Tennysons, and Brownings, and Swinburnes, and Tuppers, and all that lot——"

"That lot!" broke in Miss Blanchet, mildly horrified—"that lot! Browning and Tupper put together!"

"My dear Mary, I don't know one of these people from another; I never read any of them now. They are all the same sort of thing to me. These persons are not artists; they are only men trying to amuse the public. Some of them, I am told, are positively fond of politics."

"Don't your school care for politics?" Miss Grey asked, now growing rather amused.

"Oh, no; we never trouble ourselves about such things. What can it matter whether the Reform bill is carried—is there a Reform bill going on now?—I believe there always is—or what becomes of the Eastern Question, or whether New Zealand has a constitution? These are questions for vestrymen, not artists; we don't love man."

"There I am with you," Miss Grey said; "if that alone were qualification enough, I should be glad to be one of your fraternity, for I don't love man; I think he is a poor creature at his best."

"So do I," said the poet, turning toward her with eyes in which for the moment a deep and genuine feeling seemed to light up; "the poorest creature, at his best! Why should any one turn aside for a moment from his path to help such a thing? What does it matter, the welfare of him and his pitiful race? Let us sing, and play, and paint, and forget him and the destiny that he makes such a work about. Wisdom only consists in shutting our ears to his cries of ambition, and jealousy, and pain, and being happy in our own way and forgetting him."

Their eyes met for a moment, and then Minola lowered hers. In that instant a gleam of sympathy had passed from her eyes into his, and he knew it. She felt a little humiliated somehow, like a proud fencer suddenly disarmed at the first touch of his adversary. For, as he was speaking scorn of the human race, she was saying to herself, "This man, I do believe, has suffered deeply. He has found people cold, and mean, and selfish—as I have—and he feels it, and cannot hide it. I did him wrong; he is not a fribble or sham cynic, only a disappointed dreamer." The sympathy which she felt showed itself only too quickly in her very eloquent eyes.

Herbert Blanchet rose after an instant of silence and took his leave, asking permission to call again, which Miss Grey would have gladly refused if she could have stood up against the appealing looks of Mary. So she had to grant him the permission, thinking as she gave it that another path of her liberty was closed.

Mary went to the door with her brother, and, much to Minola's gratification, remained a long time talking with him there.

Miss Grey went to the piano and began to sing; softly to herself, that she might not be heard outside. The short autumnal day was already closing in London. Out in the country there would be two hours yet of light before the round, red sun went down behind the sloping fields, with the fresh upturned earth, and the clumps of trees, but here, in West-Central regions of London, the autumn day dies in its youth. The dusk already gathered around the singer, who sang to please or to soothe herself. In any troubled mood Miss Grey had long been accustomed to clear her spirits by singing to herself; and on many a long, dull Sunday at home—in the place that was called her home—she had committed the not impious fraud of singing her favorite ballads to slow, slow time, that they might be mistaken for hymns and pass unreproved. Her voice and way of singing made the song seem like a sweet, plaintive recitative, just the singing to hear in the "gloaming," to draw a few people hushed around it, and hold them in suspense, fearful to lose a single note, and miss the charm of expression. In truth, the charm of it sprang from the fact that the singer sang to express her own emotions, and thus every tone had its reality and its meaning. When women sing for a listening company, they sing conventionally, and in the way that some teacher has taught, or in what they believe to be the manner of some great artist; or they sing to somebody or at somebody, and in any case they are away from that truthfulness which in art is simply the faithful expression of real emotion. With Minola Grey singing was an end rather than a means; a relief in itself, a new mood in itself; a passing away from poor and personal emotions into ideal regions, where melancholy, if it must be, was always divine; and pain, if it would intrude, was purifying and ennobling. So, while the little poetess talked with her brother in the dusk, at the doorway, with the gas lamps just beginning to light the monotonous street, Minola was singing herself into the pure blue ether, above the fogs, and clouds, and discordant, selfish voices.

She came back to earth with something like a heavy fall, as Mary Blanchet ran in upon her in the dark and exclaimed—

To say the truth, Miss Grey did not well know. "I wonder is he an Alceste?" she asked herself. On the whole, his coming had made an uncomfortable, anxious, uncanny impression upon her, and she looked back with a kind of hopeless regret on the days when she had London all to herself, and knew nobody.

WORDSWORTH'S CORRECTIONS.

When an author, in his later editions, departs from his earlier text, he is apt to reveal some traits of his method and genius that might not otherwise have been so evident, and a poet's corrections may thus have more than a merely curious interest. Take Mr. Tennyson's, for instance: "The Princess," to say nothing of his shorter emended poems, has been, one might say, rewritten since the first edition, and his corrections are always interesting. Yet they spring, I think, from a narrower range of motive than Wordsworth's; they are directed more exclusively toward the object of artistic finish; they commonly show the poet busied in casting perfume upon the lily. Take this example from "The Miller's Daughter." In the first version of that poem, as it appeared in 1842, we are told that before the heroine's reflection became visible in the mill-pool—

Unquestionably that is an improvement, and of a sort which Wordsworth was continually making. But Wordsworth's corrections do not merely illustrate the effort to reach artistic finish, though very many of them are made with that intent; they have a relation to his theories, tastes, creeds, to his temperament and training, to his manner of receiving friendly or hostile criticism; and in comparing these textual variations we seem to watch the artist at his work—to enter in some sort into his very consciousness—as we see him manipulating the form or the thought of his verses:

Nor is this to consider too curiously; Wordsworth himself has invited us to the task. In his letters as well as in the notes to his poems, frequent mention is made of these labors of emendation. Writing in 1837 to Edward Quillinan, he asks him to "take the trouble ... of comparing the corrections in my last edition [that of 1836] with the text in the preceding one," "in the correction of which I took great pains," as he had written to Prof. Reed a month before. And there is ample opportunity of this sort; I do not know an ampler one of the kind in the works of any other poet. Tasso's variæ lectiones are numerous, but they were mostly made to conciliate his critics; Milton's are of great interest, but they are comparatively few in number, and Gray's are fewer still: Pope's are numerous, but not often interesting; while Tennyson's, as I have intimated, seem to me to spring from a less serious poetic faculty than Wordsworth's, and are therefore less significant. But I am anxious not to claim too much significance for Wordsworth's corrections, for I can do little more here than to point out some of them, leaving for the most part their interpretation to the reader. To attempt more than this would be to enter upon an analysis of Wordsworth's genius, for which this is not the occasion.

And yet we shall see, I think, that his genius might be in some sort "restored," as naturalists say, were it necessary, from these fragmentary data, for Wordsworth's corrections cover the whole term of his literary activity. He preferred, one might say, to correct after publication rather than before; and, revising his youthful writing during a second and a third generation following, his final texts had received the benefit of more than half a century of criticism by himself and others. From the year 1793, in which his first volumes appeared, the "Evening Walk" and the "Descriptive Sketches," to the year of his death, 1850, he put forth not fewer than twenty-four separate publications in verse, each of which contained more or less of poetry previously unpublished; and in the greater number of these texts may be found variations from the previous readings. The larger part of them, indeed, are slight—the change of single words, the alteration of phrases, the transposition of verses or stanzas. And yet few of them, I think, are quite without interest for persons in whose reading, as Wordsworth himself expresses it, "poetry has continued to be comprehended as a study." I have noted some thousands of his corrections; but a copious citation of them might weary all but actual students of poetic technique, a class that is hardly as numerous, I suspect, as that of the actual practitioners of poetry, and I will therefore keep mainly to such variæ lectiones as may be referred to motives of more general interest.[B]

The first question which we naturally ask about Wordsworth's corrections is this: Were they improvements? My readers will decide for themselves; for my own part, it seems to me that they generally were improvements; that Wordsworth bettered his text three times out of four when he changed it. Nor is this surprising; few admirers of Wordsworth's poetry will deny that there were many passages quite susceptible of amendment in it; for that task there was ample room. But on the other hand, it happened not infrequently, as we might expect, that when the poet returned, in the critical mood, to mend his first form of expression, he marred it instead. In the poem, for instance, beginning, "Strange fits of passion have I known," the second stanza as originally published ran thus:

Is there not some loss of vividness here? The later reading is perhaps the more graceful, and yet the picture seems to me brighter in the early version. This, too, seems a doubtful improvement; it occurs in "The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale." Wordsworth wrote at first:

Here the last line is bettered; but I, for one, am sorry to lose the sunflower comparison; it is picturesque, and it aptly describes this hearty child of the earth.

It is now sixty years since "dear brother Jim" was dismissed from his place in these lines—dismissed, perhaps, with the less compunction because the stanza was written by another hand—Coleridge's—as an introduction to the rest of the poem. But I think the lines were better as the young poets first sent them forth. "Brother Jim" had, perhaps, no clearly demonstrable business in the poem; and yet, having been there, we miss him now that he is gone. That homely apostrophe had in it the primitive impulses of the Lake school feeling; the phrase refuses to be forgotten, and seems to have a persistent life of its own. I have seen the missing words restored, in pencil marks, to their rightful place in the text of copies belonging to old-fashioned gentlemen who remembered the original reading. Nor can we easily deny existence to our "dear brother Jim"; his name still lingers in our memories, haunting about the page from which it was excluded long ago; he lives, and deserves to live, as the symbol of immortal fraternity.

But as I have said, Wordsworth mended his text oftener than he marred it, and first by refining upon his descriptions of outward nature. Among the cases in point, one occurs in a poem entitled "Influences of Natural objects in calling forth and strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and early Youth"—a cumbrous heading enough. May I digress for a moment upon the unlucky titles which Wordsworth so often prefixed to his poems, and the improvements occasionally made in them? Surely a less convenient caption than the one just quoted is not often met with, or a less attractive one than this other, prefixed to an inscription not very many times longer than itself:

"Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the termination of a newly-planted Avenue in the same Grounds."

Titles like these are not only fatiguing in the very reading, a preliminary disenchantment, but they are not properly names at all; they are headings, rubrics, captions which do not name. Wordsworth seems to send forth these unlucky children of the muse with a full description of their eyes, hair, and complexion, but forgets to christen them; and I believe that this oversight, though it may not appear a very serious one, has interfered more than a little with the effectiveness of his minor poetry, and consequently with the fame and influence of the poet. For it makes reference to them difficult, almost impossible: how is one to refer to a favorite passage, for instance, in a poem "Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the termination of a newly-planted Avenue in the same Grounds"? These titles are fit to discourage even the admirers of Wordsworth, and to repel his intending students; nor will they attract any one, for they are formless; they are the abstracts of essays, the précis of an argument, rather than fit designations for works of poetic art. A considerable number, too, of Wordsworth's minor pieces remain without name, title, or description of any kind whatever. If that desirable thing, a satisfactory edition of his poems, should ever appear, it will be given us by some editor who shall be sensitive to this northern formlessness, and who may venture, perhaps, to improve the state of Wordsworth's titles.

Let me end this digression by noting another singular title, with its emendation. In the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1798 appeared a poem with this extraordinary caption:

Now, certainly, Wordsworth did not intend to teach the art of lying, yet nothing can be clearer than his declaration. He failed to see the ludicrous meaning of these words, and it took him thirty years, apparently, to find out what he had said; but he saw it at last, and dropped the explanatory clause of the title, quoting in its place an apt motto from Eusebius; and we now read:

"Anecdote for Fathers. Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges;" and the charming story professes no longer to show how boys may be taught to lie, but to point out the danger of making them lie when you press them to give reasons for their sentiments.

And now, returning to the corrections of text in the descriptive passages, let us note a curious change in the poem already mentioned, "On the Influence of Natural Objects," etc. Wordsworth is describing the pleasures of skating; and these are some of them, according to the passage as originally published in "The Friend":

To do this is of course impossible, and the lines which I have italicized are mere closet description. We cannot skate across the reflection of a star until we can skate into the end of a rainbow; and the curious thing is that the so-called "poet of nature" should ever have fancied, even for a moment at his desk, that he had ever done it. Clearly, Wordsworth's study was not always out of doors, to use a favorite phrase of his; on the contrary, this passage is so unreal that a critic unacquainted with the personal history of the poet might argue that he had never been on skates—as Coleridge wrote the "Hymn in the Valley of Chamouni" without ever visiting that valley. But Wordsworth seems to have found out that his description was false; for he made a compromise, in the later editions, with the optical law of incidence and reflection; and we now see him attempting merely, but not achieving, the impossible thing:

But Wordsworth held stoutly, in the main, to his own experience, his own impressions; and he did this even to the injury of his descriptions. He was never, for instance, in sailor's phrase, "off soundings"; he never saw the mid-ocean; and consequently, when he described Leonard, in the first edition of "The Brothers," as sailing in mid-ocean, he says that he gazed upon "the broad green wave and sparkling foam." But he found out his mistake at last; he was fond of reading voyages and travels, and he seems to have become convinced finally, perhaps by the testimony of his sailor brother, that the deep sea was really blue and not green; that the common epithet was the true one; for he corrected the line to read "the broad blue wave."

Let us now examine some of those curiously prosaic passages which Wordsworth strove faithfully to convert into poetry, and strove with various success. And first, those famous arithmetical passages in "The Thorn," one of which stands to-day as it stood in the "Lyrical Ballads." We still read there, indeed, of

the precise altitude that Wordsworth gave it in 1798; not an inch to the critics, he seems to have said. But these other peccant lines in the preceding stanza he recast, and in a way that is curious to follow:

Of these lines Crabb Robinson said to Wordsworth that "he dared not read them aloud in company." "They ought to be liked," rejoined the poet. Well, we may not like them; but they are interesting, for they present a really instructive specimen of bad art. Clearly enough, here is a poet in difficulties. The "little muddy pond" was not a pond in nature, but a pool; and a pool it would have been in verse, but for the particular exigency—the necessity of rhyming with the word beyond. Note now the honesty of our poet. For rhyme's sake he has temporarily sacrificed accuracy; he has called a pool a pond; but to show what the piece of water actually was, that actually it was a pool, though the exigencies of rhyme had forced him to call it provisionally by another name, he goes on to give us its accurate measurement, not only from "side to side," but from end to end as well. "'Tis three feet long and two feet wide," he tells us; and now his northern conscience is satisfied; he seems to say, "I was unfortunately compelled to use the wrong word in this passage, but I make amends at once; these are the precise dimensions of the object, and you can give it the right name yourself." This devotion to the topographical truth of the matter was abated, however, in later editions, perhaps by the derision of the critics. Wordsworth rewrote the passage, one would say, to please the graces rather than the mathematical verities; and the lines now read thus:

Another considerable improvement was made, a little further on, in the same poem. These are the lines as they ran in the "Lyrical Ballads":

Certainly there was room for improvement here; and in the edition of 1815 we find the lines recast as follows:

Or see again this prosaic passage from "The Brothers," as first published in the "Lyrical Ballads." The lines describe the parting of James from his companions at a certain rock:

It would occur to few readers to call this poetry were it not visibly divided into verse; and Wordsworth himself seems to have thought as much, for after many years he rewrote the passage, condensing and poetizing it as follows:

There are hundreds of corrections in this style; and we naturally ask what made it necessary for Wordsworth to weed his poetic garden so often, to amend with care and trouble what some other poets would have done well at first? We need not hold with some of his critics that Wordsworth had in any peculiar sense a dual nature, to explain the amount of prosaic poetry, if I may call it so, that he wrote. No real poet ever wrote, as I take it, a greater amount of prosaic poetry than he; and no real poet ever published a greater number of verses that might fairly be called not only poor poetry, but considered as proof that their author could not write good poetry at all.

What critic would believe before the proof, that the poet who had written the lines just quoted from "The Thorn," and others like them, could have written also the "Lines to H. C." and "She Was a Phantom of Delight"? But to inquire at length into this contrast is to inquire into the deepest traits of Wordsworth's genius. One cause of his prosaic verse, however, may be mentioned here. Wordsworth had injurious habits of composition; he dictated his prose to an amanuensis, and he composed his poems in the fields as he walked. He was thus a libertine of opportunity, and though he strictly economized his subjects, and made the least yield him up its utmost, yet he was prodigal in the quantity of his expression. He did not wait for what are called moments of inspiration; he was always ready to compose, and thus he composed too much; he made verses whenever he was out of doors, "murmuring them out" to the astonishment of the rustics. Doubtless the first factor of genius is this abundance of power. But, on the other hand, the control, the direction of power is the first essential to the beauty of the work of art. "Good men may utter whatever comes uppermost; good poets may not," says Landor; and the aphorism touches upon a serious fault of Wordsworth's method. He lacked due power of self-repression; he was too much interested in his own thoughts to make a sufficiently jealous choice among them when he came to write them down. Two qualities, indeed, of his nature he kept in such abeyance, the amative and the humorous—and he was not without a humorous side—as to express but little of them in his writings. But he seems to have recorded almost everything, not humorous or amatory, that came into his mind; and, in consequence, we feel that his poetry comes perilously near being a verbatim transcript of his processes of consciousness. But no man's thought is always sufficiently valuable for a shorthand report; and we often wish that Wordsworth had reflected, with Herrick, that the poet is not fitted every day to prophesy:

Does it seem an invidious task to recall the unhappy readings that I have mentioned—readings abandoned by Wordsworth long ago, and unknown to many of his younger students? To do it with slighting intent, or from mere curiosity, would be unworthy; nor will the routine mind be persuaded that there is anything more than a merely curious interest in the comparison of editions. We, thinking that Wordsworth cannot really be understood in a single edition, must leave the routine mind to its conviction that one text contains all that there is of value in his poetry. And to offset the ungraceful verses that we have just considered, let us look at some changes by which Wordsworth has made fine passages finer still. Of the sonnets published in 1819 with "The Waggoner," none is more striking, as I think, than the one beginning, "Eve's lingering clouds extend in solid bars." In it at first he spoke as follows of the reflection of the heavens at night in perfectly still water:

In the later editions this passage is enriched by a grand stroke of imagination:

The following change is from the same sonnets; the passage describes a bright star setting:

That is scarcely an improvement; but the alteration of epithet is curious: the substitution of fact for fancy in changing the low star's "sullen fire" into a "dusty fire."

Here, again, is a case where the new reading has a fresher phrase than the old. It occurs in the last stanza of "Rob Roy's Grave," where Wordsworth spoke thus of the hero's virtues:

And Wordsworth insisted, quite as strongly as his severest critics, upon finish, upon literary art as discriminable from the substance. While he was blaming Byron, Campbell, and other eminent poets for its lack, his assailants were loud in the same charge against him; they protested that whatever other merits the new poetry might have, that of artistic finish was surely not one. Jeffrey wrote in 1807 that Wordsworth "scarcely ever condescended to give the grace of correctness or melody to his versification." But Wordsworth, in a letter lately first published, criticises Campbell's "Hohenlinden" in a way that shows him by no means unstudious of form. He writes thus to Mr. Hamilton:[C] "I remember Campbell says, in a composition that is overrun with faulty language, 'And dark as winter was the flow of Iser rolling rapidly'; that is, 'flowing rapidly.' The expression ought to have been 'stream' or 'current.'... These may appear to you frigid criticisms," he adds; "but depend upon it, no writings will live in which these rules are disregarded." This is good doctrine, and we have seen Wordsworth striving to realize it in his practice. He did realize it to a certain extent; if his style was not always eloquent, not always poetical, it was generally better English than that of his popular contemporaries. And yet a critic in "The Dial," following, as recently as 1843, the lead of Jeffrey in this blame of Wordsworth, could write of him as follows:[D] "He has the merit of just moral perception, but not that of deft poetic execution. How would Milton curl his lip at such slip-shod newspaper style! Many of his poems, as for example the 'Rylstone Doe,' might be all improvised.... These are such verses as in a just state of culture should be vers de Société, such as every gentleman could write, but none would think of printing." That passage is worth reading twice; note the condescension of the praise, the flippancy of the blame, the inaccurate English and French; and what a jaunty misquotation of Wordsworth's title! It was not very profitable censure; but Wordsworth received much criticism by which he was glad to profit. Let us look at some of the cases in which he turned the strictures of friends or of enemies to account. The changes that he made in deference to criticism are striking, and so too are some of the cases in which he refused to profit by criticism. I will speak of both.

Of the former kind are the corrections in "Laodamia." That poem appeared first in 1815, having been suggested during a course of classical reading which Wordsworth had taken up for the purpose of directing the studies of his son. Landor criticised this poem in the first volume of his "Imaginary Conversations," and in the main very favorably; he makes Porson say that parts of it "might have been heard with shouts of rapture in the regions he describes"; he calls it "a composition such as Sophocles might have delighted to own." But he points out blemishes in two stanzas, the first and the seventeenth; he blames the execution of one and the thought of the other. Wordsworth rewrote both of them, and I quote the second passage as affording the more interesting change. In the first edition Protesilaus, says the poet, returning from the shades to visit Laodamia,

How unseasonable is the allusion to witness and second birth, which things, however holy and venerable in themselves, come stinking and reeking to us from the conventicle. I desire to see Laodamia in the silent and gloomy mansion of her beloved Protesilaus; not elbowed by the godly butchers in Tottenham court road, nor smelling devoutly of ratafia among the sugar bakers' wives at Blackfriars.

In the first volume of his "Imaginary Conversations" Landor said of Wordsworth: "Those who attack him with virulence or with levity are men of no morality and no reflection." In a later volume, however, Landor attacks him thus himself, with both virulence and levity, as I fear we must say, and Wordsworth declined to profit by these later gibing criticisms, though some of them, and especially those upon the "Anecdote for Fathers," were valuable, and suggested real improvements of text. In this attack, which is contained in the second conversation of Southey and Porson, Landor had noticed Wordsworth's adoption of his earlier criticism of Laodamia; and this circumstance was probably a reason why Wordsworth refused to receive further critical favors at his hands. The poem "Goody Blake and Harry Gill," for instance, sharply criticised by Landor, stood almost untouched through the editions of fifty years. And in a letter of 1843, recently published for the first time,[E] Wordsworth speaks thus severely of an attack made upon his son-in-law, Edward Quillinan, by Landor: "I should have disapproved of his [Quillinan's] condescending to notice anything that a man so deplorably tormented by ungovernable passion as that unhappy creature might eject. His character may be given in two or three words: a madman, a bad man; yet a man of genius, as many a madman is." That criticism seems rather more than righteously severe; but Wordsworth, while he cared little for the criticism of the reviews, felt keenly the lash of the violent Landor. The violent Landor we must call him, for violence was the too dominant trait of his noble genius; and he exasperated Wordsworth, as we see. But compare what I have just quoted with his familiar remark about the small critics: "My ears are stone dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as insensible as iron to these petty stings." That Wordsworth said at thirty-six years of age; and here is a striking reminiscence recorded during his later years, and published in the "Prose Works." At seventy-one he said to Lady Richardson:

It would certainly have been a great object to me to have reaped the profits I should have done from my writings but for the stupidity of Mr. Gifford and the impertinence of Mr. Jeffrey. It would have enabled me to purchase many books which I could not obtain, and I should have gone to Italy earlier, which I never could afford to do until I was sixty-five, when Moxon gave me a thousand pounds for my writings. This was the only kind of injury Mr. Jeffrey did me, for I immediately perceived that his mind was of that kind that his individual opinion on poetry was of no consequence to me whatever; that it was only by the influence his periodical exercised at the time in preventing my poems being read and sold that he could injure me.... I never, therefore, felt his opinion of the slightest value except in preventing the young of that generation from receiving impressions which might have been of use to them through life.

This is grand self-confidence; and it is in the same tone that elsewhere he says:

Feeling that my writings were founded on what was true and spiritual in human nature, I knew the time would come when they must be known.

In this connexion the English reviews of that time are still interesting reading, particularly the "Quarterly" and the "Edinburgh." What was Jeffrey saying in his "organ" during the years of Wordsworth's earlier fame? In 1807 he described the poem of "The Beggars" as "a very paragon of silliness and affectation"; and he said of "Alice Fell," "If the printing of such verses be not felt as an insult on the public taste, we are afraid it cannot be insulted." Two years later he calls upon the patrons of the Lake school of poetry to "think with what infinite contempt the powerful mind of Burns would have perused the story of Alice Fell and her duffle cloak, of Andrew Jones and the half-crown, or of little Dan without breeches and his thievish grandfather." Wordsworth dropped the poem of "Andrew Jones," and never restored it—an omission almost unique, as we shall see; for he stood by the substance of his work, if not always by the form, with great pertinacity. He said of "Alice Fell," in his old age, "It brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends." Wordsworth had no stancher friend, his poetry had no more delicate critic, than Charles Lamb; and Lamb wrote thus in 1815 to Wordsworth about "Alice Fell" and the assailants of the poem. He said: "I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice: I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."

Jeffrey decried two other pieces that rank among the most perfect of Wordsworth's minor poems, as "stuff about dancing daffodils and sister Emmelines," and spoke of another, which we count for pure poetry to-day, as "a rapturous, mystical ode to the cuckoo, in which the author, striving after force and originality, produces nothing but absurdity." And he attacked these lines in the "Ode to Duty":

This, Jeffrey said, is "utterly without meaning: at least we have no sort of conception in what sense Duty can be said to keep the old skies fresh, and the stars from wrong." We need not be surprised at Jeffrey's failing to admire these lines: they are transcendentalism, and it would have troubled Wordsworth himself to render them into the plain speech which he recommended as the proper diction of poetry. For they have not a definite translatable content of thought; and we cannot read them as philosophy or ethics; but as poetry we may feel their power; we are willing to enjoy them for their own sake, because beauty is enough. But this Jeffrey did not admit; Jeffrey was not vulnerable by magnificent phrases, and of course he could not foresee what a power Wordsworth's transcendentalism was to exert. When the ode "Intimations of Immortality" first appeared (with the edition of 1807), Jeffrey called it "the most illegible and unintelligible part of the publication."[F] The remark need not surprise us. Jeffrey looked for logical thought in the poem, and logical thought it had not; whatever else it may contain, it will hardly be said to propound any new arguments for immortality. But Jeffrey wrote in all sincerity, and later in his life he read Wordsworth's poetry a second time, with a view to discover, if he could, the merits which he had failed to see when he criticised it—the merits which the English public had then found out. His effort was a failure: for him the primrose remained a primrose to the last, and nothing more. The acute lawyer was not a poet, nor a judge of poets; he had an erroneous notion of what the office of poetry is; of what it has been and will be—to please, to elevate, to suggest, but not to argue or convince; and to the last he did not get beyond his early decision, which, in the article just quoted from, runs as follows:

We think there is every reason to hope that the lamentable consequences which have resulted from Mr. Wordsworth's open violation of the established laws of poetry, will operate as a wholesome warning to those who might otherwise have been seduced by his example, and be the means of restoring to that ancient and venerable code its honor and authority.

But the critic cannot always tell what the new "song is destined to, and what the stars intend to do." It is now evident enough where the early assailants of Wordsworth were mistaken; and yet which critic of to-day would be sure of his ground in a similar case? For the faults of genius are old, familiar, and easily to be discerned; while, on the other hand, genius itself is always novel, and therefore may be easily mistaken. It takes genius to recognize genius; and most of Wordsworth's critics were not men of genius. Landor, who was one, made a wise remark upon this point. He said, "To compositions of a new kind, like Wordsworth's, we come without scales and weights, and without the means of making an assay."

But by pointing out his faults, his critics did him and us a service; and it was one by which the poet profited, as we have seen, in spite of his independence.

Let us now look at some of Wordsworth's multiple readings, if we may call them so—passages, namely, in which he has returned, year after year, to certain peccant verses, changing them again and again in the quest of adequate expression. After repeated experiments he sometimes finds a reading to please himself; sometimes, having allowed a provisional text to stand throughout many years, he discards it and returns to the original form; and sometimes, again, he abandons a passage entirely, after scarring it with a lifetime's emendations. Of the first sort I will cite three readings of a stanza in "A Poet's Epitaph." As first published in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, the poem contained this adjuration to the philosopher "wrapped in his sensual fleece"

Lamb did not like this; and he wrote to Wordsworth: "The 'Poet's Epitaph' is disfigured, to my taste, by the coarse epithet of 'pin-point' in the sixth stanza." In the edition of 1815 the "coarse epithet" disappears, and the passage is modified as follows:

The years that "bring the philosophic mind" did not, however, reconcile Wordsworth with the particular "philosopher" here in question. (Sir Humphrey Davy, as Crabb Robinson, if I am not mistaken, tells us). On the contrary, the poet devised a still more injurious epithet for that unhappy physicist; and the passage now reads:

Another of these multiple corrections has attracted much notice; it occurs in the successive descriptions of the craft wherein the "Blind Highland Boy" went sailing. In the first edition of that poem Wordsworth called it

It would seem difficult to defend this couplet upon any accepted theory of aesthetics, rhyme, or syntax; and the "Household Tub" provoked quite naturally a shout of derision from all the critics; it became the poetical scandal of the day. Jeffery, mindful of "the established laws" of poetic art, protested that there was nothing, down to the wiping of shoes, or the evisceration of chickens, which may not be introduced in poetry, if this is tolerated. The tub, in short, proved intolerable to the reviewers; and when next the poem appeared in a new edition, that of 1815, Wordsworth transmuted the craft into a green turtle shell, noting the change as made "upon the suggestion of a Friend ":

I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast, or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could be fairly said against it. You say you made the alteration for the "friendly reader," but the "malicious" will take it to himself. Damn 'em, if you give 'em an inch, etc.

Wordsworth, however, instead of restoring the old text, went on amending, and with reason; the reading just given is diffuse. But see now the third and final form which he gave to the passage. The sublimation of the Household Tub is now completed; it becomes, at last,

Here again are some new readings that Wordsworth discarded after long trial. A well-known sonnet, one of his earliest, began thus in 1807:

But in the later editions the first reading was restored, except the words "vital blood," and we now read:

In "The Nightingale" Wordsworth first called that bird "a creature of a fiery heart"; but in the edition of 1815 it became "a creature of ebullient heart," a flat disenchantment of the verse. The change was questioned from the first, as Crabb Robinson tells us, and in later editions the first reading was restored. A fortunate correction made in the same edition was retained—the change of "laughing company" to "jocund company," in "The Daffodils":

The poem "Rural Architecture," in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, was curtailed of its closing stanza in the edition of 1815:

But in Lamb's correspondence of the same year he complains to Wordsworth that the omission "leaves it [the poem] in my mind less complete," and the lines were restored in the later editions. Not to differ hastily with Lamb, the lines yet seem lines to be spared. In the same sentence he complains that in the new edition there is another "admirable line gone (or something come instead of it), 'the stone-chat, and the glancing sandpiper,' which was a line quite alive. I demand these at your hand." Wordsworth restored the line, and the three versions of the passage are worth comparison. It is from the "Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew Tree," and describes a wanderer in the solitude of the country:

Here the "line quite alive" is gone—to be restored in deference, apparently, to Lamb's request. Another assonance is got rid of in the later editions, the "thistle thinly sprinkled o'er," and the passage now reads melodiously as follows:

Wordsworth struck out many lines and stanzas in the course of his revisions, besides main passages of considerable length, as from the "Thanksgiving Ode" and the patriotic ode of January, 1816. These omissions are too long to quote here; but the following lines dropped from the ode on "Immortality" will have interest; they are not to be found, I think, in any English edition since that of 1815. Addressing the child over whom Immortality, in the language of the ode,

Another notable omitted passage is the introduction to "Dion," published in 1816:

Here nineteen lines full of beauty are sacrificed by Wordsworth in the interest of the unity of the poem. He struck out, too, some lines from "The Daisy," "The Thorn," and "Simon Lee," and eight stanzas have disappeared from "Peter Bell" since the first edition of that poem. Among them are these grotesque lines, favorites with Charles Lamb:

And here are some verses that have interest from the glimpse they give of Wordsworth's faculty in a field that he declined to cultivate—the amatory or "fleshly," as it has been conveniently named for us of late. I quote from that rare book, the "Descriptive Sketches" of 1793; and as the lines are not included in any edition of his poems, they are unfamiliar to most readers. But two copies of this book, so far as I know, exist in this country. One of them, which belonged to the late Prof. Henry Reed, Wordsworth's American editor, is full of corrections in Wordsworth's own handwriting; and it is by the courtesy of its present owner that I am enabled to give here the early text with these corrections, never before printed. The young Wordsworth takes leave of Switzerland, at the conclusion of his pedestrian tour, with this glowing apostrophe:

Wordsworth thus dropped, for one reason or another, many passages from his poems. But did he abandon entire poems? That did not often happen. He strove patiently to perfect the form of his thought; but he was unwilling to let the substance of it go. In the seven volumes of his poetry, as they now stand, but two poems are lacking, to the best of my knowledge, of all that he ever published. One of these, an unimportant piece beginning, "The confidence of youth our only art," was printed with the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" (1822), and no longer appears in the collected editions. The other missing poem, "Andrew Jones," was abandoned for reasons, as I think, of considerable critical interest. In the "Lyrical Ballads" it began thus:

This poem may be found (with, slight emendations) as late as the edition of 1815; but after that date I meet with it nowhere but in foreign reprints. Why was it dropped? It is doubtless a story of unrelieved though petty suffering; it corresponds, in small, to what Mr. Matthew Arnold calls the "poetically faulty" situation of Empedocles, a situation "in which there is everything to be endured, nothing to be done." But, on the other hand, that fragment of Æschylus, the "Prometheus Bound," in which everything is endured and nothing done, yet remains a work of the deepest interest: nor need we think that Wordsworth abandoned his little poem for a reason so refined as that which led Mr. Arnold to abandon one of his own. There was, as I take it, a moral reason which led to Wordsworth's decision; namely, that the story of "Andrew Jones" is told with bitterness of feeling from beginning to end; and against bitterness of feeling Wordsworth had recorded, during his earlier years, a striking protest. We shall read it presently; but first let us couple with the poem a sentence from his prose—a sentence full of the same feeling, and which was early dropped for the same reason. We shall find it in the edition of 1815, in the essay supplementary to the famous Preface of that date. There Wordsworth turns upon his critics as follows:

"By what fatality the orb of my genius (for genius none of them seem to deny me) acts upon these men like the moon upon a certain description of patients, it would be irksome to enquire: nor would it consist with the respect which I owe myself to take further notice of opponents whom I internally despise."

This is not quite in the vein of the serenely meditative poet; and if we look back to a time twenty years earlier than this, we shall find that Wordsworth had reproved his heat beforehand. In 1795, when he first chose definitely the poet's career, he had written these lines:

That is the teaching of earlier and serener years, of the time when the poet was still quietly embayed in youth, when jealous criticism, and envy, and disappointment were still trials of the future. Youth has its own passions; but it has also its peculiar serenity; and after Wordsworth had passed through the stormy years which gave him fame, we see the maturer man recalling the teaching of his calmer self. It was in obedience to this, as I believe, that he cancelled the passages that have just been mentioned; feeling their discord with the pure song of that early time.

Let us now look at some of the passages which Wordsworth has emended, not by taking away from the words of his book, but by adding to them. As he wrote to Mr. Dyce, he diligently revised the "Excursion," in the edition of 1827, and got the sense "in several instances, ... into less room"; and minor changes are to be counted by hundreds. But he made some additions to this poem, and for significant reasons.

Readers of Christopher North's essay, in the "Recreations," on "Sacred Poetry," will remember the long indictment which he there brings against the earlier poems of Wordsworth; he complains of them as being irreligious. It is interesting to find the earthly Christopher displaying the pious zeal of an inquisitor in the matter, declaring that in all of Wordsworth's writings, up to the "Excursion," "though we have much fine poetry, and some high philosophy, it would puzzle the most ingenious to detect much, if any, Christian religion"; and lamenting its absence even in the "Excursion," in the story of "Margaret," as told in the first book. This tale Christopher North calls "perhaps the most elaborate picture he [Wordsworth] ever painted of any conflict within any one human heart;" but he adds, with how much sincerity we will not now ask, that it "is, with all its pathos, repulsive to every religious mind—that being wanting without which the entire representation is vitiated.... This utter absence of Revealed Religion ... throws over the whole poem to which the tale of Margaret belongs an unhappy suspicion of hollowness and insincerity in that poetical religion which at the best is a sorry substitute indeed for the light that is from heaven."

That Wordsworth laid to heart this criticism, will appear on comparing the original passage, as reprobated by Christopher North, with the form which the poet gave it in the latter editions. Originally the peddler, finishing the story of "Margaret," moralizes thus:

My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given; The purposes of wisdom ask no more: Be wise and cheerful, and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye; She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent raindrops silvered o'er, As once I passed, into my heart convey'd So still an image of tranquillity, So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the griefs The passing shows of Being leave behind, Appear'd an idle dream, that could not live Where meditation was. I turn'd away, And walk'd along my road in happiness.

"What meditation?" cries out Christopher North. "Turn thou, O child of a day, to the New Testament, and therein thou mayest find comfort." And Wordsworth in his revision made the following additions to this fine pagan passage:

Then follow the beautiful lines about the weeds, the spear-grass, the mist and rain-drops, as quoted above; but the close of the passage is extended as follows:

It remains to be said that a certain number of Wordsworth's poems—and these were, as we might expect, among his best—have stood unchanged in all the editions from the first, running the gauntlet of their author's critical moods for half a century, and coming out untouched at last. I will not call them uncorrected poems, but rather poems in which all the needed corrections were made before their first publication, for they belong to that exquisite class of creations—too small a class, even in the works of the greatest masters—in which the poet has fused completely the refractory element of language before pouring it out into the mould of poetic form. Among these untouched poems are three from the "Lyrical Ballads"—"A slumber did my spirit seal," "Three years she grew in sun and shower," and "She dwelt among the untrodden ways"—all written at the age of twenty-nine; such are the "Yew Tree," written four years later, and "She was a phantom of delight." Several of the best sonnets, too, were unchanged; as that on "Westminster Bridge," and "Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour."

And lastly, I may mention one or two changes of text which Wordsworth did not make, but which belong to the class for which careless editors or proofreaders are responsible. An edition well known to the American public is especially peccant in this respect; that beautiful line, for instance, in "The Pet Lamb"—

And here is a really interesting erratum; it occurs in the poem of "The Idiot Boy," where it has stood unnoticed for twenty years and more. Wordsworth's stanzas, describing the boy's night-long ride under the moon, "from eight o'clock till five," hearing meanwhile "the owls in tuneful concert strive," originally put these words into his mouth, the actual words of his hero, as Wordsworth tells us in a note:

But this reading puzzled the proofreader. How could the sun shine at night? This being clearly impossible, he restored the idiot boy to partial sanity. He made him say:

Some one proposes, I believe, a similar emendation in "As You Like It," intending to make the Duke speak better sense than Shakespeare put into his mouth. He is to say,

But while in the main the text of Shakespeare is bettering under criticism, Wordsworth is suffering miscorrection; and for the good that he has to give us we cannot quite dispense with the original editions.

[B] After the early poems just mentioned and the "Lyrical Ballads," 1798 to 1802, the chief editions to be consulted for the changes of text are the complete editions of 1807, 1815, and 1836, and the original issues of "The Excursion" (1814), of "The White Doe of Rylston" (1815), of "Peter Bell," and of "The Waggoner" (1819). Unfortunately I have not been able to get access to Mr. W. Johnston's useful collection of Wordsworth's "Earlier Poems" (London, 1857): it would have lightened the task of collecting the variantes, the more important of which, for the period covered by the collection, are given in it. But, having gone in nearly every case to the original texts, I need hardly say that I have been careful to quote them accurately in the present article.

[G]I venture to note, in passing, a small class of corrections in which the poet has cleared his text from certain innocencies of expression that were liable to be misread by persons on the alert for double meanings. The following are among the Wordsworthian simplicities that have been amended in the later editions; the reference is made to the octavos of 1815, which may be compared with any of the editions since 1836:

Vol. I., page 111, "The Brothers," passage beginning, "James, tired perhaps."

Vol. I., page 210, "Michael," passage beginning, "Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms."

Vol. I., page 223, "Laodamia," stanza beginning, "Be taught, O faithful Consort."

PORTRAIT D'UNE JEUNE FEMME INCONNUE,

I saw a picture in a gallery: Go where I will, it still abides with me. The hair rich brown, one lovely golden tress Strayed from the braid and touched the loveliness Of the fair neck, so smooth, so white, so young, It shamed the pearls a prince's hand had strung. The dress is white, with here and there a gleam Of amber brilliant, sunlight on a stream! And hanging on her arm, a scarf; the thing About that glorious head and neck to fling, Protecting from the night, scarlet and black and gold, And gems are woven in each gleaming fold. The picture has that gracious air which tells The hand that painted it was Raphael's. They know she's beautiful, and know no more. Thus questioned I, as many did before: "Why art thou sad, thou delicate, proud face? Thou art a Dame of bright and cheerful race, Thy fortunes grand, thy home this Florence fair. Does an unworthy heart thy palace share? Or with a soft caprice dost turn from joy, And play with sorrow as a costly toy? Or has thy page forgotten, or done worse— Failed he to find the fond expected verse Thy lover promised thee? I know not why I linger near thee, beautiful and sad, Yet with such sorrow, who would have thee glad?" (Is she not gifted with the anointed eye That sees the trouble of the passer-by?) "Is thine that great, that tender sympathy That calls all heart-aches nearer unto thee? Or a great soul with aspirations rife, Feeling the insufficiency of this our life? Thou hast attraction of a grander tone, Some charm more subtle e'en than beauty's own! "Though woman throws no greater lure than this, The lip regretful which we fain would kiss, The eye made softer by the unfallen tear, And sunlight brighter for the shadow near. Why do I ask? will woman ever tell The secret of the charm that fits her well?" She did not answer, sweet, mysterious Dame. I left her sadly, locked in gilded frame.

MISS TINSEL.

A GOLD-MINER'S LOVE STORY.—IN FIVE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

A GOLD-DIGGING RECLUSE.

On a knoll, not far from a running stream, was pitched a rough canvas tent. It was of the "wall" sort, and was pegged to the ground with strong fastenings. Inside were a hammock, a coarse table, two or three stools, and some boxes and barrels. There were likewise a gridiron, a "spider," an iron kettle, some tin dishes and cups, and a pair of candlesticks of the same material. Outside there was a trench dug, by way of drainage, so that the floor within was kept hard and dry; but the floor was of earth merely. There was not a flower, or a picture, or the least attempt at ornament whatever within the tent. Hence the interior looked bare, sordid, and forbidding. And yet, grim as it was, the tent had been the solitary abode of its occupant for many months. In the midst of gold, in quantity outstripping the wildest dreams of his boyhood, this man had chosen to be a miser. In the midst of a society whose reckless joviality and wild profusion were perhaps without precedent, he had chosen to be a recluse. For this self indulgence he had to pay a price. But he consoled himself, remembering that a price has to be paid for everything.

Chester Harding came to Bullion Flat about a year before. He had no friends and no money. The former he could do without, he thought, but the latter was indispensable. So he got work on the Flat, turning a spade and plying a rocker for five dollars a day. Such work was then better paid as a rule, but Harding, though diligent and strong, was not used to toil, and hence was awkward and comparatively inefficient. He improved with practice and strove doggedly on, never losing a day, saving every penny, spending nothing for drink or good fellowship, courting no man's smile, and indifferent to all men's frowns. He was savagely bent on achieving independence, and in no long time, after a fashion, he got it. Independence, in this sense, consisted in a share of a paying claim, and in the whole of a "wall" tent. In the former he dug and washed, morosely enough, with five or six partners; but he made up for this enforced and distasteful social attrition by living in his tent alone.

Harding was a man getting toward middle life, strongly built, but not tall, with a grave, handsome face and speech studiously reserved and cold. He seemed to fear lest he might be thought educated, and, as if to disarm such a suspicion, his few words were apt to be abrupt and homely. When he first came to the Flat he had two leathern trunks, and these in due time were bestowed in the tent on the knoll. One Sunday Harding opened them. The first contained some respectable garments, such as might belong to the ordinary wardrobe of a gentleman. There were white shirts among the rest, and some pairs of kid gloves. Of all these articles Harding made a pile in the rear of his tent and then deliberately set them on fire. "I couldn't afford it before," he muttered. "They might have bought a meal or two if need were; but now——" To be rich enough to gratify a caprice was clearly very agreeable to the man; for presently he brought out a number of books—old favorites obviously—and treated them in the same incendiary manner. The Shakespeare and the Milton, the Macaulay and the Buckle spluttered and crackled reproachfully in the flames; yet their destroyer never winced, but added to the holocaust heaps of letters, and at last two or three miniatures saved for the fire as a final tid-bit, and gazed with grim joy as the whole crumbled in the end to powdery ashes. Chester Harding reserved nothing but one little volume, bound in velvet with gilt clasps, and one faded old daguerreotype, which he replaced in his trunk side by side, and then covered quickly so that they should be out of sight. It seemed to be his wish to hide and to forget every trace of his past life.

That life had been a hard and bitter one. From his earliest childhood Harding had been a victim of the weakness and cruelty of others. A miserable home, made a hell by drink and contention, was at last broken up in ruin, and the young man went forth into the world to meet coldness and injustice at every turn. Suspicion and selfishness are among the almost certain fruits of an experience like this, and the world is naturally more ready to condemn such fruits than to find excuses for them. When Harding found himself unpopular and distrusted he as naturally shaped his conduct so as to justify its condemnation. Surrounded from the beginning of his life by bad influences, and by these almost exclusively, he found little to soften his harsh judgment of men or to mitigate his resentment for their ill treatment. In time he fell in with one who with greater strength and higher wisdom might perhaps have led him up to nobler views and a loftier destiny. For he loved her deeply and without reservation. But her charms of person found no counterparts in her mind or heart, and Harding was cheated and betrayed. To escape old thoughts and associations, and to mend if possible broken fortunes, he sought the Land of Gold. He had heard that men were more generous there than elsewhere, less cunning, tricky, and censorious. Perhaps even he might find average acceptance among new scenes and among a new people.

But on the day he landed at San Francisco Harding was robbed by a fellow traveller, whom he had befriended, of the last penny he had in the world. The man had shared his stateroom on board the steamer, and knew that he had a draft on the agent of the Rothschilds. When Harding cashed his draft he took the proceeds, in gold coin, to his hotel. That night he was visited by his shipmate, who contrived to steal the belt containing this little fortune, and to escape with it to the mines. Next morning Harding sought a near relative, an older man of known wealth, his sole acquaintance on the Pacific coast.

"I've come to you," he said, after receiving a somewhat icy greeting, "to ask you to help me. A serious misfortune has overtaken me, and——"

This was not the usual fashion of the pioneers. Happily most of them were made of sweeter and kindlier stuff. But the fates had woven out poor Harding's earlier fortune, and it was all destined to be of the same harsh, pitiless web. He bowed his head when these words were said to him, and with the kind of smile angels must most hate to see on the faces of those so near and so little below them, he went forth in silence. Next morning he pawned his watch and made his way up into the mines.

"He's cracked; that's what he is," decided Jack Storm. Since the great find of gold at Bullion Flat there had been a great rush thither from the immediate neighborhood, and among the rest quite a deputation arrived from Boone's Bar. Jack was as great a dandy as ever, and still wore his gaudy Mexican jacket, with its silver bell buttons, his flapping trousers to match, and his gigantic and carefully nourished moustache.

"Cracked!" repeated Mr. Copperas suavely. "Not he. He takes too good care of his money for that. No, boys, that ain't the trouble. He's been 'chasing the eagle' in times past; the bird has been too many for him, and now he's playing to get even."

"Stuff!" gurgled Judge Carboy, unwilling to part by expectoration with even the smallest product of his favorite quid. "He's done sutthin' he's ashamed of. No trifle like that, Cop. He's proberly committed a murder out East. Bime by we'll hear all about it."

Jack Storm shook his head. "He's worked side by side with me for nigh a year, and he wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, it is his turn next week to go to 'Frisco for stores."

"A durned sight," returned the other. "Ain't they after these cusses with a sharp stick who've got in hot water at home? And ain't goin' to 'Frisco for such chaps jes' like walkin' into the lion's mouth? Why, there's honest miners—and them as ain't honest miners, Cop—who'd a leetle rather not go down to the Bay jes' now, even among the quiet folks over at Boone's Bar."

Mr. Copperas coughed uneasily. "So Harding's going down, is he?" he inquired. "Right off?"

There was a murmur of amusement at this. Everybody at the "Bella Union" knew that something had been in the air touching chirographic exploits of Mr. Copperas a few years back at New Orleans, and before he kept the faro bank at Boone's Bar.

"For my part," put in Jim Blair, who liked to hear injustice done to no man, "I s'pose there's reasons why a chap might want to live alone, and yet mightn't a knifed anybody nor robbed 'em either."

"That's so, Jim," affirmed Judge Carboy oracularly. "No doubt on't. But when it's so we usually hear what them reasons is. Now, who knows air a word on 'em in the case afore us? Anyhow, I hope he's good—good as gold—only we've had our sheer of troubles in the county, and it's well to look sharp."

"When I was a little chap," proceeded Jim Blair with retrospective deliberation, "I lived in a village on the further side o' the Ohio. Most folks did their business on t'other bank, and went over generally by the eight o'clock ferry in the mornin.' Now, there was two or three that didn't; men whose work lay nigher home, or who went later. But the crowd went over reg'lar at eight. Arter awhile they got awful sot agin them who didn't go over at the same time. There weren't no hell's delights you could think of them fellers didn't lay to the men who didn't travel by the eight boat; and at last, damn me if they didn't want to lynch 'em!"

"Lynch 'em for not goin' in the eight boat!" cried the Judge, whose respect for the majesty of the law always asserted itself, as was meet, on hearing any tale of its infringement.

Jim Blair nodded. "Not so much, I reckon, for not goin' in the eight boat as for not doin' what other folks did. However, them who ever try to trouble Ches Harding'll have a rough time, I guess."

"That may be too. But what I meant was, there's them on the Flat who believe in Ches for all his lonesome ways, and won't see him put upon. For my part I reckon he's more sinned against than sinnin'."

"I guess you're half right, Jim," admitted Judge Carboy with diplomatic concession; "more'n half right. But mark my words"—and the Judge's voice rose to the orotund swell which denoted his purpose to be more than commonly impressive—"thar'll be the devil's own time on the Flat some day, and that air duck'll be king pin and starter of it. I never know'd no such silent, sulky cuss as that moonin' round but that he kicked up pettikiler h— in the long run."

It will be seen from this that there were differences of opinion respecting Chester Harding at Bullion Flat, and it cannot be denied that there was some reason for it.

CHAPTER II.

MISS TINSEL.

It was in a magnificent theatre that Chester Harding first saw her—a theatre grand in size and tasteful in decoration. It had only lately been opened, and was one of the lions of the Golden City. Harding went there to while away an idle hour, and in order, perhaps, that he might see all there was to be seen before leaving San Francisco. His visit was one of merest chance, and no trifle had seemed lighter in all his California life than his straying that night into the Cosmopolitan Theatre.

And yet perhaps it was the turning-point in his existence. Others who were there from Bullion Flat said afterward that from that night Harding was transfigured. A blaze of chandeliers, with golden fretwork skirting the galleries and rich dark velvet framing the boxes, could hardly surprise him. Nor was there much to astonish—whatever there might be to admire—in the rows of handsomely dressed women who gave brilliancy to the audience. Neither could the drama itself, which the manager was pleased to style "a grand legendary fairy spectacle," move Harding seriously from his equilibrium. All these splendors, together with the resonant orchestra, the dazzling scenery, rich in Dutch metal and gold foil, the sanguinary and crested Baron, the villain of the play, the iridescent youth, its hero, the demons, who went through traps, vampire and other—one Blood-Red Demon with a long nose being especially conspicuous—the fairies, who brought order out of chaos—of whom the "Queen of the Fairy Bower" was the large-limbed and voluptuous principal—the "Amazonian Phalanx," who went through unheard-of manœuvres with massive tin battle axes and spears—all these failed, it must be owned, to startle Mr. Harding from his propriety. He had seen such things, or things very like them, before. And yet he was taken off his feet, to use the metaphor, and swept away captive by a very torrent of emotion excited by Miss Tinsel.

She was only a coryphée; that is, she was but one among the minor subordinates of the ballet. Her advent was accomplished as one of the "Sprites of the Silver Shower." She had to come chassezing down the stage, and she never raised her eyelids—before most demurely cast down—until she was close upon the footlights. But when those eyelids did go up it was—well, as Judge Carboy afterward used to say, it was just like sunrise over the mountains at Boone's Bar! A girl with a mass of bright hair, almost red it looked by daylight, and large gray eyes that looked as black as soot by the gas, but took on more tender hues by day—a girl with a figure that was simply perfection, and yet one who with all her archness seemed to have no vanity. She had many dainty white skirts, one above another like an artichoke, of fluffy and diaphanous texture, and although these, it cannot be denied, were perilously short, somehow Miss Tinsel did not look in the least immodest.

All the men from Bullion Flat knew it was Miss Tinsel, since the "Queen of the Fairy Bower" addressed this charming figure more than once as "Zephyrind," and a reference to the play-bill thereupon at once established her identity.

What strange magnetism there was about this girl Harding, and indeed all who looked at her, found it hard to define. Perhaps, apart from her lovely eyes and hair and her exquisite figure, it was because she always seemed to be drawing away that she proved so fascinating. Even when she advanced straight toward you she seemed for ever to retreat. By what subtle and skilful instinct of coquetry Miss Tinsel was enabled to convey this impression cannot here be explained. That she did convey it was universally admitted. It appeared, however, on inquiry, that her dramatic powers were of the slightest. Her beauty and charm were such that the manager would gladly have put her forward could he have seen his way to do so. But her success had been so moderate, when the experiment was tried, in one or two of the "walking ladies" of farces, that it was thought wisest to let her be seen as much and heard as little as possible.

When Harding last saw her that night she was going up to Paradise on one foot, the other pointing vaguely at nothing behind, the intoxicating eyes turned up with a charming simulation of pious joy, and the cherry lips curled into a smile that showed plenty of pearls below. She vanished from his gaze in a glory of red fire, amid the blare of gongs and trumpets, while the "Blood-Red Demon" went down to the bad place under the stage through a trap, and the "Queen of the Fairy Bower," with felicitous compensation, ascended to the heaven of the flies.

That a Timon like himself—a misogynist indeed of the first water—should fall in love at first sight with a ballet girl certainly furnished matter for reflection. But reflection did not prevent Timon from seeking an interview with his unconscious enslaver the next day. Even cold and soured natures may become under some incentives enthusiastic and ingenious.

Harding found out where Miss Tinsel lived, learned that she usually came from rehearsal at about two, called consequently at three, and coolly sent in his name, telling the servant that the young lady would know who he was. As he hoped, the device got him admittance. The girl supposed he was some one from the theatre whose name she had not caught or had forgotten.

It was a very plain and humble room, almost us bare and forbidding perhaps as the inside of Harding's tent on the knoll, and yet how glorified was the place with the purple atmosphere of romance!

Miss Tinsel was as simply equipped as her room: a gown of dark stuff with a bit of color at the throat, and that was all. Harding saw that she was not quite so perfect physically as he had thought, and this, strange as it may seem, instantly increased his passion for her. Nothing could make her figure other than beautiful, or impair the lustre of her eyes; but the fair creature had a little range of freckles across her delicate nose and cheeks, and her hair by day appeared, as has been said before, nearly red. Her natural smile, on the other hand, as distinguished from her stage smile, which was merely intoxicating, was almost heavenly; and it was not made less so by an occasional look that was grave almost to sadness.

"Sit down." He was standing stock still and silent in the middle of the room. "You come from the theatre, don't you?"

It was a sweet voice—sweet and low—too low, in truth, which was one of the reasons of its failure in the drama—one of those thrilling contralto voices, most magnetic and charming when heard by one alone, or close by, but which lost their magnetism and charm if strained to fill the ears of a crowd.

"No—yes—that is, I was there last night. I saw you there," he replies stupidly.

"A perfect love—a beauty—it was thrown at my feet; but I gave it to her of course."

"Miss De Montague—don't you know—the 'Queen of the Fairy Bower?' She gets all the bouquets."

"Certainly. She is the principal, you know. Her engagement calls for all the bouquets."

"Ah, but they oughtn't to be intended for somebody else. If any one is so silly as to think somebody else ought to have a bouquet, any one has to be punished. Then they forfeit him."

"Or his flowers. They always forfeit you in theatres—if you're late at rehearsal, you know, or if you keep the stage waiting. But then you needn't mind. Miss De Montague is a dear, good soul. She took the bouquet for the look of the thing, you know; that's business; but she gave me half the flowers when we got home."

"Why, to be sure. You know, we always go to the theatre together. Only for her I should be quite alone."

She bursts into a merry laugh. "Like it? Why, I get my living by it. We all have to live, you know, and I've no one to look out for me but myself, and——"

She pauses suddenly, having caught his eye fixed upon her with a gaze of passionate admiration. This first calls up the look of gravity we have spoken of, and then brings the color sharply to her face. It also reminds her of the somewhat peculiar character of the interview. The instant after she resumes, as if continuing her sentence, "Did you come here to ask me that?"

"No," he replies bluntly. "I never thought of the question until the moment before I asked it."

"Please tell me, then," she proceeds, with gathering surprise, "what did you come for?"

He hesitates a moment, moved by the superstition or the honest feeling that he must tell her no word of untruth, and then quietly answers:

"I didn't say that. You look and talk like a gentleman, and if, as I hope, you are one, you will know that I can't see strangers—people who have no business with me—and so you must excuse me." She has risen and moves with some dignity toward the door.

"One moment," he interposes. "Forgive me; you know for your part that it is impossible I should wish to offend——"

"Then I wish you would go away!" she goes on with apprehension. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bellario is here, and he's—oh, terribly strong!"

"Yes. The 'Blood-Red Demon,' you know. Didn't you see him go through the traps?"

Harding laughs, very much amused. "And you mean to threaten me with the 'Blood-Red Demon,' do you?"

"Oh, no," she responds gently, but again edging toward the door—"not threaten; but"—in a very conciliatory tone—"if you won't say what you come for and won't go away——"

"Nor I. Now I will tell you. I came because I could not possibly stay away—because you drew me toward you with an irresistible force——"

"Unconsciously, of course. You may think me foolish—wild if you please. I can't help that. You will know better in time. I come to you saying not a wrong word, thinking not a wrong thought. There is nothing against me. At home I was a gentleman. I ask leave to visit you, respectfully as a friend, nothing more."

"Because I admire you greatly, inexpressibly, and I must tell you so." She turns scarlet now. "But I shall never tell you this—not again—or anything else in words you do not choose to hear. All I ask is the leave now and then to see and to speak with you."

This was very embarrassing. Had he said he loved her, and at first sight, she would have turned him away. She would have distrusted both his sincerity and his motives. But he did not say this. On the contrary, he offered in explicit terms, it would seem, not to say it. She therefore naturally took refuge in generalities.

"But what you ask won't be possible. What would people say? This is a very bad, a scandalous country, I mean. What would Miss De Montague think, or Mr. Bellario?"

"What people will say or think hardly needs to be considered," said Harding steadily, "since in a week I shall have gone to my home in the mines. You won't be troubled with me long—twice more perhaps. Only once if you prefer it. All shall be exactly as you wish it. Is not that fair?"

Miss Tinsel was saved the present necessity for replying to a question or coping with a situation both of which she found extremely perplexing, since at this juncture the door opened and admitted the "Queen of the Fairy Bower" and the "Blood-Red Demon," who had apparently been out for a morning walk. To Harding's surprise, the "Queen" was a motherly looking woman of forty-five and the "Demon" a weak-eyed young man, with a pasty white face, and some fifteen years younger. Both were much overdressed, and both stared vigorously at Harding—the "Queen" with an air intended to represent fashionable raillery, the "Demon" with haughty surprise. But the visitor avoided explanations that might have been embarrassing by bowing low to the company and passing from the room.

CHAPTER III.

THE CUP AND THE LIP.

Her real name was Jane Green. But Jane Green would never do for the play-bill; so the manager, exercising his peculiar and traditional prerogative, had rechristened the young lady for the histrionic world, and she appeared as "Aurora Tinsel." A poor, almost friendless girl, she had left the Atlantic States with an aunt who had been the wife of the "property man" in the theatre. Soon after the aunt died, and Jane had gladly accepted the offer of Miss De Montague to live with her, and, by helping that lady with her dresses, to render an equivalent for her society and protection.

Harding was a wise man in his generation, foolish as in some respects he may appear. We offer no explanation of his swift and unreasoning infatuation, because it is just such men who do just such rash and impulsive things. But he was sagacious enough to know that a man who really wants a woman is less likely to get her by being too quick than even by being too slow. Women who are interested always maintain the contrary; but this is because they want to bag their game instantly, whether they mean to throw it away afterward or not. The sex are not apt, however, to err by over-rating the value of what they get too easily, and this Harding was philosopher enough to know.

Hence, while he again sought Miss Tinsel twice before his departure, and while his admiration, although respectful, was not concealed, he did not go so far as to ask the girl to become his wife. It appeared that after the run of the current spectacle at the theatre a "great tragedian" was to play an engagement there, and the opportunity was to be taken for the ballet and pantomime troupe to make a tour of the mines. Miss De Montague was to go as a chief attraction, and Miss Tinsel was to go also, and among the places they were to visit was Bullion Flat.

These plans left open a space of three months, during which Harding could think of what he was at, and Miss Tinsel could think of what he meant, and several other persons who were interested could make up their minds what to do.

The first step taken by Harding on his return was highly confirmatory, in the judgment of the Flat, of the opinion expressed by Jack Storm some time before. A contract was made with a builder, and close by the tent on the knoll there speedily arose a cottage of fair proportions, which was evidently meant to supersede the humbler structure which for a year had formed Harding's home. No one doubted his ability prudently to incur such an outlay. He had been saving to parsimony, and he had been prosperous. But why, when a tent had so long sufficed to him, and when he so disliked to part with money, he should go to so needless an expense, was so obscure that to accept Jack Storm's solution impugning Harding's sanity was the easiest and consequently the most popular way of solving the enigma.

The cottage was built notwithstanding, and it was soon the subject of general remark that Harding was becoming more genial and "sociable" than before. He astonished Judge Carboy and Jim Blair by asking them to drink one night at the "Bella Union." He smiled affably and passed the time of day with Jack Storm and his other companions when they met to begin work on the claim for the day. He ordered champagne for the crowd on the evening when a green tree was lashed to the rooftree of his cottage on the knoll; and at last he raised wonder and surprise to their perihelion by actually giving a housewarming.

"I know'd it all along," affirmed Judge Carboy that night to his familiars. They were taking a cocktail at the "Bella Union" by way of preface to "bucking" against Mr. Copperas's bank—"I know'd it all along. He's got a wife out East, and she's a comin' out to jine him in the new house."

"Is that the 'suthin' you talked of that he was ashamed of, Judge?" laughed Jim Blair. "It looks like it, for sartin he never said nothin' about her."

"A man may git married," retorted the Judge with judicial acumen, "and yit do suthin' else to be ashamed of, mayn't he? There's been murderers and horse thieves stretched afore now who had wives, hain't there? And the last chap the boys hung to a flume up to Redwood, he had three wives, didn't he? And they all come to the funeral." And with this triumphant vindication of his position the Judge sternly deposited half a paper of fine-cut in his mouth and started for the luxurious apartment of Mr. Copperas.

Next morning Bullion Flat was in a flurry of excitement and pleasurable anticipation. The "Grand Cosmopolitan Burlesque, Ballet, and Spectacle Troupe" had arrived, and were to play in the theatre attached to the "Bella Union." It was not, however, until the succeeding afternoon that Chester Harding called upon Miss Tinsel at the same hotel.

It was a good sign that that young lady crimsoned at the first sight of him; what she first said was another:

"I supposed you would be very busy," said he smiling, and devouring her with his eyes. "Were you so anxious to have me come?"

"Anxious?" she repeated; and then added, illogically, "I supposed you would please yourself."

"I think it ever so pretty—only I don't like the earth all torn up, and such ugly holes and scars."

"We have to get at the gold, you know," he explained, "even at such a cost. But the hilltops, anyhow, are spared."

She looked through a window and pointed at the most picturesque eminence in the neighborhood—the knoll. "That is your house?" she observed shyly.

"Oh," she said, laughing, "we show-folks see a great many people—besides being seen by them—and I've heard a lot about you."

"I've heard that some say so. But what of that? Miss De Montague says she wouldn't give a fig for a man everybody speaks well of—and she quoted something from a comedy—the 'School for Scandal.'"

"Oh, that you are gloomy, reserved, and live all alone, and that you are—are not extravagant, and that you haven't had a very happy life."

"It's all misfortune, ain't it?" said the girl sagely. "People don't make themselves. There's Mr. Bellario now. He thinks nature really meant him for a great warrior—somebody like Napoleon, you know. And instead of that he's—well, he calls himself a professional gentleman, but the boys call him a tumbler. I suppose it would be much grander to kill people than to jump through 'vampire traps'; but you see he didn't get his choice—any more than I did."

"No, indeed. It was just for bread. Aunty was a 'second old woman'—and they got me in for 'utility,' as they call it. There was no one to care for me, and I was glad to earn an honest living; but like it! Never!"

"You say there was no one to care for you?" said Harding gently. "Had you no friends—no parents?"

Jane reddened painfully, and the sad look came quickly into her face. "My mother is dead, you see," she replied, with hesitancy, "and—and—I'd rather not speak of this any more, please."

"Surely," he exclaimed hastily, "I've no right to catechize you. Pray forgive my asking at all. I ought to have been more careful. I know what trouble is, and how to feel for those who suffer."

She looked at him earnestly. "You have suffered yourself, then—they were right when they said yours had not been a happy life?"

"They said that lately you have been happier—gayer than ever before—and that people liked you—oh, ever so much better than they used to. Why is it that people like those the best who seem to need help and sympathy the least?"

Jane leaned from the window as she spoke and toyed with some running vine that clambered to the casement. The grace and beauty of her figure were made conspicuous by the movement, and Harding paused a moment before he replied:

"People like to be cheerful, I suppose, and people like others to be like themselves, I know. It is true that I have been unhappy—that my life has been morose and solitary. How much this has been my own fault and how much that of others, need not be said. But it is also true that of late I have been far happier. Shall I tell you why?"

His voice was deep and earnest, and something in his eyes made the girl crimson again, and turn her own to the distant hills.

"Shall I tell you too why I have built that cottage you are looking at?" he went on with increasing earnestness. "It is because it has been my hope, my prayer, that this sad, lonely life of mine was nearly over. It is because I have believed that after much pain, and doubt, and bitterness my trust in men might be brought back through my love for a woman. The cottage—it is for you, Jane. I love you, Jane. Do you hear me? From the moment I saw you, I loved you. I resolved to ask you to marry me. Jane, will you do so?"

While he spoke the color had been fading steadily from her face, and when he stopped the girl was ashy pale. He looked at her anxiously and impatiently.

"I—I—am—so sorry," she muttered at last, as if each word were a separate pain.

"Sorry? God! Why?" Then with swift suspicion, "Jane, do you care for—are you engaged to some one?"

"Do you see that sun going down over the hills?" She turned her beautiful eyes full upon Harding as she spoke, with a look of ineffable tenderness and sorrow. "Well, you must let what you have said go down with that sun, and never think of it—never speak of it again."

It was Harding's turn to blanch now, and the blood retreated from his swarthy cheeks until they looked almost ghastly.

"I must ask you," he cried impetuously, "but yet I need not perhaps. You care for no one else? Then it must be that you do not, you cannot, care for me. Is that it, Jane?"

"Not it!" he cried joyfully. "Then you do care for me a little—just a little, Jane?—a little which is to grow into a great deal by and by! Oh, child, child, think how wretched I have been all these years! Think how I have waited and waited. I lived for twelve long months, Jane, alone, without a soul, without even a dog, in a tent on that knoll; and so hungry, Jane—so hungry for sympathy, for love. It comes to me at last, dear Jane, what I have longed for and begged for so long. Don't, don't—as you hope for mercy, don't take it away again!"

"You are good," she said softly, "whatever they may say. It is good and noble of you. Why should I tell you lies? I do like you very much, for all," looking down with a faint blush, "we have met and known each other so little. But all the same, it cannot be."

"Cannot again," he cried impatiently. "Once more, I ask you, will you tell me why not?"

She looked at him half frightened, for there was something of mastery in his tone; then, standing erect, and with a positiveness as strong as his own, she answered, "Because I should disgrace you."

"That is something," returned Jane humbly, "but perhaps not much. I am hardly important enough to be worth even that sort of reproach. And besides the people of California are too liberal to apply it. I know I am only a ballet dancer"—and the poor girl tried to smile here—"and a pretty bad one at that. But I work hard for an honest living, and no one can say I have ever disgraced myself."

"I must!" cried Harding passionately; "and I have the right to do so. Would you have me take your cool 'no' when you care for no one else and do care for me, and to go my way satisfied? I can't—I won't!"

"Well then." She turned her back now: and looked from the window with her grave, sad face, and spoke in a dull, measured way, like the swinging of a pendulum. "I am a convict's daughter. My father is in the State prison of New York at Auburn."

"Murder. It was in the first degree. The Governor commuted it to imprisonment for life. There were extenuating circumstances. I went down on my knees and prayed that he might be saved from the gallows."

CHAPTER IV.

A MYSTERY AND A PARTING.

The troupe of which Miss De Montague and Mr. Bellario were prime spirits made a profound impression at Bullion Flat; so profound, in truth, that before their three nights were over a fresh engagement was made for their return a fortnight later. It was agreed that at that time, and on their return from other points, they should appear for an additional three nights, and thus afford their admirers opportunities for which the first essay had been insufficient. This arrangement was highly agreeable to Miss De Montague and Mr. Bellario for reasons largely connected, respectively, with the excellent cuisine and bar of the Bella Union. "Why, my dear," observed the lady, "when I fust come up to do the 'legitimate,' fifteen months ago, love nor money could buy a morsel of supper after the play. We had to do with a pot of ginger, and dig it out with the Macbeth daggers, and wash it down with bad beer."

The arrangement was also satisfactory to Miss Tinsel. It seemed well to her that she should be absent for a time; and yet she could not deny a feeling of joy over the thought of returning. Her lover had been greatly shocked by the dismal tale she had recited; but, to the credit of his manliness, he had refused to accept the facts as conclusive arguments against his suit. "Was it her fault," argued he, "that her father was a scoundrel?" Why should stigma or disability of any sort attach to her for that which she had no hand in, and had been powerless to prevent? On the contrary, should not the world, or any part of it that might come in contact with her, treat a helpless and innocent girl with even greater tenderness and commiseration because of the undeserved and terrible misfortune that had befallen her?

Jane had resolved that she ought not to be moved by such arguments, and yet she could not help liking to hear them. It was in the end agreed between them—by Harding's earnest entreaties—that she should think the matter over, and that her final decision should be withheld until the return of the troupe to perform its second engagement. Jane had talked with Miss De Montague, who, in spite of some foibles, was a kind-hearted and right-minded woman, and Miss De Montague had strongly urged that Jane's sensitiveness was overstrained. If Mr. Harding had been told all the truth without reserve and he still wished to make Jane his wife, and Jane wished to marry him, that was enough. To stand about and moon over it, and wonder or care what people would say, was all fiddle-faddle, and all sensible people would call it so. Besides, California was different from other places. It was the custom there to give everybody a chance, and value them for what they did and what they were now—and not for what other people, or even they themselves, had done before. It is right to admit that the amiable lady's passion for Mr. Bellario—whose similar feeling for Miss Tinsel was more than suspected—had something to do with inspiring all these sage suggestions; but the suggestions were not deprived of good sense by that.

During the fortnight that passed between Jane's departure and her return the cottage that Harding designed for her future home fast approached completion. Meanwhile its owner's claim was doing better, and his coffers were consequently fuller than ever before. He resolved that, come what might, Jane should become his wife; and it was in this frame of mind that Harding walked out by the riverside on the night the troupe returned. As before, he resolved not to hurry in his suit, and therefore determined to omit calling until the following day.

The night was clear, the stars shining brightly, and the stream ran gurgling forward with a pleasant sound. Suddenly, as Harding strolled musing along the bank, some one touched him on the shoulder from behind; and turning, he beheld the "Blood-Red Demon," Mr. Bellario. That gentleman wore a long cloak, tossed across his breast and left shoulder, and a slouched sombrero; and his white, pasty face wore a look of inscrutable mystery.

"Hist!" he enjoined in a stage whisper; "all is discovered!" Then he drew back, with finger on lip, as if to watch the effect of his revelation.

"Mean! Ha! ha!" and the "Demon" laughed witheringly. "He asks me what I mean! Mark me," proceeded he, with a sudden transition, "I know your secret!"

"I have neither time nor heart to trifle," said the "Demon," waving his arm with an air of ineffable majesty. "I shall be brief and to the point."

"Enough. What prompts me to this midnight deed, 'twere bootless now to ask, and idle to reveal. Therefore to my tale. You are in love with Aurora—with Miss Tinsel?"

"Is that so strange? Long ere you crossed our path I knew and loved her. But this is neither here nor there."

"Professionally," continued the "Demon," with great dignity, "she is, of course, my inferior. Socially—well, you know, I think the damning family secret——"

"Whatever that may be, it is no sin of hers. I think you may wisely leave it a secret—so far, that is, as to omit crying it on the housetops."

"Save to yourself and Miss De Montague, no hint of the tragedy has passed my lips. But to the business between us——"

"My good sir," said Harding, with irritation, "I know of none, so far. If you have anything to say to me, I'll listen. If not, I'll pass on."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the "Demon" with bitter mockery. "I come to serve ye, and ye would spurn me from yer path! Poor, poor humanity! Why, why should I laugh when I should rather weep?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Harding simply, "and I don't want to be uncivil. But it certainly isn't asking too much to want to know what you mean."

"No," responded the "Demon," with melodious sadness—"not too much. Though every word be torture, yet I will e'en go through the ordeal. Sir, what I have to say—and it cuts me to the heart to say it—is that this lady—this young girl—this Aurora Tinsel—is worthy of neither of us."

The "Demon" drew suddenly back, clapped his hand to an imaginary sword hung at his left side—and then thought better of it.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed lightly, but keeping at a wary distance from Harding's reach. "Why should I yield to rage? My prowess is well known—and, after all, this worthy gentleman speaks in ignorance. Sir," he added, changing his tone with elaborate and chivalrous grace, "I speak of what I know, and speak only with the best of motives. But it is due to you that I offer to make good my words. I can absolutely prove that what I have said is true."

Harding hesitated. To take the course proposed seemed like doubt, and doubt was unworthy. To refuse to take that course might subject Jane to calumny, which he might on the other hand nip in the bud. Presently he spoke:

"That you go with me at once, and judge for yourself. We may fail tonight, but if so, our success to-morrow will be all but certainty."

The man's air of conviction was impressive, and Harding, fearful, yet hoping that he might unearth some strange mistake or deception, agreed to the plan proposed. It was settled that the two should meet an hour later at the "Bella Union," and they parted now with that understanding. Bellario, however, took occasion before leaving his companion to make his insinuations so far specific as to tell him that Miss Tinsel had made the acquaintance of a certain handsome, dark-eyed man, who had followed the troupe ever since it had last been at Bullion Flat; that this man evidently admired the girl very much, and that she had encouraged his advances in the most unmistakable manner; that she had gone so far as to receive her admirer at her room in the hotel, and that at so late an hour as to excite the censure of the not over-prudish Miss De Montague; and that, in fine, Miss Tinsel's hitherto spotless name had been so tarnished by the events of the last fortnight as to make it certain none would ever again think her the pure girl she had always hitherto been held to be.

With the blood tingling through every vein, with nerves at extreme tension, and a heart full of bitterness, Chester Harding passed away. Something told him that the tale, black and dismal as it was, was likewise true. When Jane told him the story of her father's crime and its punishment, Harding felt as if there had fallen between him and his prospect of happiness a veil that made it look doubtful and unreal. The girl's firmness in telling him the truth, and the assertion of her opinion as to the proper bearing and consequence of that truth on her relations with Harding, had assuredly deeply impressed and comforted him. It was something to face, after all, and even in California, this wedding the child of a murderer and felon. Yet her own perfect goodness was the justification and would be the reward of such an act. But when Jane's goodness itself was in question it was no wonder that Harding's heart sank within him. He was no coward, but his experience had taught him distrust; and he waited for the stipulated hour to pass in an agony of doubt and pain.

The "Bella Union" had two long wings, perhaps thirty feet apart, running at right angles with its façade toward the rear. In the second story of one wing there were sleeping rooms. Both stories of the opposite wing were occupied by the theatre. The latter was quite dark, and hither Bellario conducted Harding after they had met in the saloon below.

Up two winding staircases, then through a long passage, and they stood in a gallery over the stage and directly facing the other wing.

"Look!" said the "Demon"; "he's there now!" He still whispered, for the night was hot and windows were everywhere open. Through one of these directly opposite Harding distinctly saw Miss Tinsel. She was talking earnestly with some one not in sight. Harding gazed breathlessly and listened. Presently a second figure came between the window and the light within. It was that of a tall, handsome man with dark eyes. He replied to the girl with earnestness equal to her own, but in tones as carefully suppressed. As the eyes of the observers got used to the situation, they descried a bed on the further side of the room. On this Miss Tinsel, after a time, sat down. The man followed and seated himself by her side. A moment or two more, and he took both her hands and clasped them in his own. They still talked, obviously with deep feeling, and at last Miss Tinsel threw her arms around her companion's neck and kissed him.

"Not an instant. Can't you conceive, man—you who profess yourself to have cared for her—what a hell this is?"

"I've been through it before," muttered the "Demon," "and the wound isn't quite so fresh."

"See here—you've saved me from a great peril—and although I think I had rather you had shot me outright, you deserve no less gratitude. If you want help—money—for instance——"

"As Claude Melnotte says, sir, I gave you revenge—I did not sell it. There are better men than I in the world, and lots of them. But I try to do as I would be done by—at least in a scrape like this. I wish you good night, and I hope you'll take comfort. After a little it'll seem easier to you. Certainly the ill news should come easier even now than it would afterward. As Othello says, ''Tis better as it is.'"

He bowed and passed away. Ascending to the apartment of Miss De Montague, he made himself so agreeable as to be able to borrow from that lady a dozen shining eagles; and, thus provided, descended promptly to Mr. Copperas's bank, where he whiled away the night—assisted by copious drinks and unlimited cigars—at the enlivening game of faro.

As for Harding, he went to the bar of the saloon and took what was for him a stiff glass of brandy. Then he turned abruptly on his heel, and without sending his name before him, marched straight up to Miss Tinsel's room.

"I see," she murmured, in her low, sweet voice, "you don't care to have me repulse you again. You have thought it over—and you agree that it is better not."

He came just inside the door, but did not sit, although she motioned him to a chair.

"I agree," he repeated mechanically—"I agree—with you that it is better not." Then he looked suspiciously around the room. There was no one there—but a door opened into another room beyond. Jane followed his eyes. "That is Miss De Montague's room," she said; "we are always next to each other."

Harding paused a minute, and then went on in a hard, constrained voice, like one who repeats a disagreeable lesson.

"I have thought it right to see you—now, for the last time—and say I think it best—and right—that we should part."

Jane turned very pale, and the old grave look of hopeless pain came over her face. But she answered with infinite softness and humility:

"It is right—you know I thought so from the first. You should not marry a—a convict's daughter."

"I repel it," he cried vehemently—"I will have none of it—I told you so before—I repeat it now. Listen," and he crossed the room swiftly and closed both doors.

"I loved you for yourself—dearly—dearly. What did it matter to me—what fault was it of yours—what other people did, or what or where they were? In this grand, new country, men—some men, at least—have grown high enough and strong enough to shake off such paltry prejudices as those. To me they are as nothing."

"Why should I care for your being a ballet-dancer—or for the other thing, when you had never disgraced yourself? But now it is different."

"Different in this," pursued he with growing excitement, "that before you were a pure girl—pure as snow—everybody said that—and now you are—are—compromised."

"Alas, Jane," he replied, "don't make things worse by deception at parting. Let us be at least as we have always been, honest and unreserved to each other."

"What you have said just now," said the girl' proudly, "is an insult. The time has been when you would not have heard another say such words—either to me or of me; and yet they are as little deserved now as they have ever been."

"They are, are they?" he retorted. "Then pray tell me who was that man you have had here within an hour?"

She turned deadly white, and opened her lips thrice to speak before the words would shape themselves.

"Ah, you confess it then," cried he, as if her admission made what he knew more heinous. "Who was this man? Confess all!"

"He—he—wanted help—asked for money. He saw me in the play at Boone's Bar—and thinking me richer than I am, asked me for money."

"It is true," she hurried on nervously. "He said he was desperate and must have money to get away."

"Oh, Jane—Jane!" he cried with a burst of bitter sorrow; "why couldn't you have been truthful to the end? Why—why must you make me look back—always and only to despise you!"

"Jane, it cuts me to the heart to say it—but I saw you—do you hear?—saw you. He took both your hands in his—you threw your arms about his neck and kissed him. Do you deny this?"

She still looked him straight in the face, but two tears brimmed into her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. "No, it is true," she then answered.

"Then farewell. We can meet no more." He turned, and stood with his hand on the door, and with the action the girl's overstrained nerves gave way.

"Oh, no, no, no! Oh, Chester, I have loved you so! Don't—for mercy's sake—don't leave me in anger—when I so need comfort—help—and—p—pity!"

As she did so, a burst of strange, mocking laughter resounded from the adjoining room, and Harding started as if he had been stung.

"It must be!" he hissed, all that was hardest and worst in his nature suddenly possessing him. "After this it would only be torture—to both!" He bent suddenly and kissed—not her lips, no longer pure—but her forehead, once, twice, thrice, passionately, and then fled away into the darkness.

CHAPTER V.

GOOD OUT OF EVIL.

Harding went up to his lonely tent. Like a wounded animal, he sought his lair, and the memory of the many solitary hours he had passed there, even at this sad moment, refreshed his spirit. There he could be alone—away from men's eyes—free from their curiosity, from their comments, or, what would be worse, from their pity.

He had made himself comparatively rich; he had built up a home, as it were, in the wilderness; he had even tried, and with some success, to gain men's esteem—and what were all these worth to him now?

Such bitter thoughts as these filled Harding's mind as he arranged his coarse pallet, and then, throwing himself upon it, sought to forget his grief during the short space that remained before daylight. He was awakened, almost instantly, it seemed to him—although, in fact, three hours had passed—by the sharp crack of a rifle. Harding leaped up and ran to his door.

It was a dull, gray dawn—the sky overcast, but the air free from wind or rain. A little below Harding's tent there spread a plain about a mile wide. This extended along the bank of the river, and terminated in a clump of redwoods which grew far up the mountain beyond. Here and there on the plain were scattered a few small trees and copses of manzanita; but for the most part it was clear from the outskirts of the village up to the redwoods.

On this plain Harding now saw a remarkable sight. A man was running from tree to tree, striving always to get nearer the mountain. Perhaps three hundred yards behind him were five or six armed pursuers trying to close in on the fugitive, and occasionally firing at him. As Harding gazed, three shots were discharged in rapid succession. Yet the man still held on his way, apparently unhurt, and it looked as if he would quickly gain the cover of the forest. But there was one behind him far swifter than the rest, who ran like an Indian on the river or further side from Harding, and who threatened in a few moments to get dangerously near. It was because this man was so distant from himself that Harding did not at first recognize his own partner, Jack Storm, although he was in his usual well known Mexican dress. Now, Storm was the best rifle shot on Bullion Flat.

It appeared that the fugitive knew this. At all events, as if suddenly realizing his peril, he turned and ran straight toward Storm, resolved to draw his fire, apparently, and by confusing his aim to have a better chance of escape. Storm's ready rifle flew up to his shoulder instantly, and Harding saw the pale blue ring of smoke and heard the quick report. Still the fugitive sped on. He was plainly unscathed, or in any case not disabled; and in his hand there now flashed a bright something which Harding knew was a bowie-knife. With that, although the combatants were a mile away, Harding seized a revolver, and dashed at his highest speed down the hill. Almost at the same moment, there also started in company from Bullion Flat three figures on horseback. These were Miss Tinsel, the "Demon," Mr. Bellario, and Judge Carboy. All who were now making for the scene of the combat heard in sharp repetition five or six shots from revolvers; but after the last of these, all was still. When they got to the spot they found Jack Storm fainting from loss of blood, but hurt only with flesh wounds; and they were told that the other man, his opponent, was mortally wounded, and had been taken, by his own request, up on the mountain side, among the redwoods, to die.

With a choking cry, Miss Tinsel galloped on, and in a few moments Chester Harding and she were again face to face over the dying man's body. Ghastly white as he was, all dabbled with blood, and the foam oozing from his lips, her lover at once knew Jane's visitor of the night before. What had happened had been hurriedly revealed to Harding—in broken whispers by the bystanders—before Jane came up.

The man had robbed several rooms at the "Bella Union" during the night, and had succeeded in gathering a large sum. Among the treasures stolen were all the loose funds belonging to the "Combination Troupe," the night's winnings of Mr. Copperas's faro bank, and Miss De Montague's diamonds. But just as the robber, toward daylight, was on the point of making off in safety, he met a lion in the path in Jack Storm. It happened that Jack wanted to have a talk with his partner, Harding, and, as they were then very busy on the claim, made up his mind to compass this purpose bright and early, before getting to work. Stumbling on the marauder, the latter was secured after a struggle, and "the boys" speedily determined to make an example of him. The man begged for a chance of life, and after some debate, had been given the option of the halter or running the gauntlet, with three hundred yards' start, in the way we have described. In the subsequent struggle he had been shot through the lungs, and terribly cut with his own bowie-knife—wrested from him by Jack Storm—and his life was now fast ebbing away.

As she came up Jane sprang from her horse, and threw herself on the ground beside the dying man. They had propped his head on a hillock of turf, and some charitable soul had brought water from the river. Judge Carboy quickly put a flask of brandy to the sufferer's lips, and he opened his eyes:

"Ja—Jane," he gasped, "my pretty Jane—this is the end—the end of it—a dog's death—and deserved, too-but—I—I—always loved you!"

"Don't, darling—don't, little Jenny—it won't be long—I am better away—better for you—there—there! I'm sliding away somewhere—and——"

His voice failed, and his dark face began to grow blue. The doctor, who had ridden hastily up, forced between the man's teeth some strong restorative.

"I want you to remember—always—that I was drunk when I did it—drunk and crazy. I was bad—vile—but not so bad as that. Don't tell who—who I am. It will only disgrace you—only disgrace you—I'm going, little Jenny——"

"Oh, father! father!" and the poor child bowed down her pretty head on the breast of the wretched thief and murderer, and wept as if her heart would break.

"No—no," he muttered; "no, little Jenny, I'm not worth it. Only—don't think worse—worse of me than I deserve. Perhaps mother—in heaven—has forgiven me! She knows—knows—I was mad when I did it."

"Yes—yes—I shall remember," whispered she, "always. Now don't talk more—not now."

"No—I shan't talk—much more"—a strange wan smile came over his face—"not much more, little Jenny." He put up his hand and stroked her sunny hair.

"Tell them about this last—that I was desperate—I had broke jail—knew the officers were on my track—and was penniless. Give me—more—brandy. So. Why, I can't see you any more, little Jenny—and yet it is morning, isn't it, not night!" He gasped for breath and clutched feebly at the air. "Kiss me—little Jenny—mer—mercy—Lord Jesus—better—better times—hereafter!"

A shudder, and the man was dead, and Jane was left all alone in the world. Poor, besotted, frantic Michael Green, all sin-scorched as he was, had passed from the judgment of men to the more merciful judgment beyond. Yet the orphan, if alone, lacked neither sympathy nor protection. Nor did she ever lack from that moment the respect and confidence of the man of whose heart she had from the first been mistress. So that the true happiness came in time which is so often the sweeter for being deferred.

DEFEATED.

Give me your hand—nay, both, as I confront you. Let me look in your eyes, as once before. I gaze, and gaze. Oh, how they change and soften! I stand within the portal: lo! a door—

A door close shut and barred. I knock and listen. No sound, no answer. Doubtingly I wait. Oh! for one glance beyond that guarded entrance, The power that mystic realm to penetrate.

I touch the barrier with hands entreating, If it would yield to me, and none beside. What bitter pain, what sense of loss and failure, To come so near, and come to be denied!

Softly I call, but only silence answers— Silence, and the quick throbbing of my heart. Immovable, the frowning bar abideth: Kneeling, I kiss the threshold and depart.

SHALL PUNISHMENT PUNISH?

It is published that in England a man has been undergoing an aggregate imprisonment of ten years for breaking a shop window, at different times, and that when recently pardoned he immediately broke the same window again for the purpose of being again arrested. One who knows nothing more than this of the facts cannot presume to determine what punishment should in justice be given to this particular offender; but the case is interesting as an extreme example of what frequently occurs in a less striking degree in this country. Police courts become acquainted with a class of criminals who would rather go to jail for their dinner, especially in winter, than earn a dinner by hard work. They are the confirmed vagabonds from whom the army of summer tramps is chiefly recruited. They never feel truly virtuous and happy in cold weather except when they have committed a petty offence and are on the way to "punishment," which consists in accepting from a thoughtful public a warm shelter and all the food they want. It is their business to live, at times if not constantly, in this way. Sending them to jail for their offences is known by the courts that send them to be nothing but a sorry farce.

There is another equally incorrigible class, who commit greater crimes, but not chiefly for the sake of "punishment." Detectives keep themselves advised of the sentences of these offenders, and prepare to shadow them anew whenever they are released from confinement. It is not expected that incarceration will have any reformatory effect. The question of reforming them, as of reforming those who offend to get rid of the trouble of taking care of themselves, comes to be left out of consideration, after a little experience, by the officers whose duty it is to deal with them. Only intimidation remains for a considerable number. With these, rather than with the English window-breaker, should probably be classed the subject of this item from a late newspaper: "Charles Dickens is dead, and died of honest work; but the German prisoner, Charles Langheimer, whom he saw in the penitentiary at Philadelphia thirty-three years ago, and over whose punishment by solitary confinement he lamented in 'American Notes,' describing him as 'a picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind,' still lives at the age of seventy-five, and has just been sent back to his old quarters the sixth time, for his chronic offence of petty theft, which has kept him in jail full half his long life."

That punishment for crime is necessary, and therefore a public duty, is admitted, and every community professes to impose it. But what of the criminals whom punishment as now administered does not punish—who actually commit crimes for the purpose of receiving it? It would seem that society has not the power or has not the wisdom to protect itself. It has the right, of course. It has the power also.

The law does not succeed in what it attempts and professes to do. At present when we find a criminal who has sufficient good in him to feel our methods, we punish him in proportion to his—goodness. When we find one so vile that our methods are like water on a duck's back, we do not punish him—except as water punishes a duck. He goes unpunished because he is so bad, while a better man is punished because he is better. What is this but rewarding insensibility? It is very creditable to the hearts of the lawmakers—perhaps—but it is fraud on the community. It is legalized wickedness. It permits incarnate nuisances to wax fat, and prey upon honest industry, and increase and multiply, until they become the only prosperous and protected class.

It has been suggested that a criminal on his second conviction be deemed a professional, and incarcerated for life. It would no doubt be cheaper for the public to shut him up thus and support him permanently. But there is the objection that the punishment would generally be out of proportion to the crime, if it were a punishment at all; and if it were not a punishment, we would be offering a greater premium on vice than we now are. To punish petty larceny as if it were as great a crime as manslaughter or murder would be too unjust to be long possible. The case seems to demand a new medicine rather than a greater dose of one which has failed when tried in any practicable quantities.

There is one remedy, so far as the infliction of real punishment is a remedy, although those who administer justice as above described will hold up their hands in horror at the mention of it. If it be a fact that the punishment of criminals is necessary, and if it be a fact that a class of them is impervious to any punishment except physical pain, then we are bound to either inflict this pain or else abandon the principle of punishment. There is no third course if the two facts are admitted—and to those who will not admit them an unprejudiced reading of the criminal news of the past three hundred and sixty-five days is commended. If one man's heart is callous to what will break another's, all men's backs are of nearly equal tenderness. It is doubtful whether the whipping-post ever had a fair trial without proving that it might be made a good thing under such circumstances as we must very soon, if we do not now, confront.

The fact that it was once used and then abandoned does not settle the case. It was erected for those who could have been otherwise dealt with, and for those who deserved no punishment at all. It was not reserved for only those deserving punishment, on whom our more refined penalties had been tried and had failed. It is not a fair trial of it to put it into the hands of a drunken or passionate ship's captain; or the hands of a religious bigot; or the hands of a slave-driver; or the hands of a tyrant or autocrat of any kind; or the hands of an incompetent judge; or the hands of any judge in a ruder age than this. If an ignorant or brutal use of it in the past condemns an enlightened use of it now, we should abandon life-taking and imprisonment, for these have been even more abused. We have no fear that the death penalty will be misused hereafter because men have been hung for petty larceny heretofore. When the lash is wielded by a barbarous hand, as it generally has been, of course we abhor it. But how about it when the hand of Christ wields it in the temple? Although the incarnation of charity made him a scourge for those who needed it, yet we cannot follow His example because Torquemadas have made scourges for those who did not need them. Such is the logic of those who would cite the past in this matter. The truth is, the lash was abandoned in the humane belief that criminals could be punished without it; and the truth also is, some criminals are now proving that they cannot be punished without it.

Go over the subject as we may, we come back to the question, Is the lash or something equally unrefined necessary to accomplish all the law now attempts? It must be looked at in the cold light of certain very sad facts, as well as in the warm blaze of "chromo" civilization. If we are not yet compelled to answer it in the affirmative, there is so much evidence pointing toward such an answer, that it is well to consider very respectfully indeed whatever can be said on the unpopular side. It need not frighten those who accept the idea so tersely presented by the Hare Brothers—of which one is strongly reminded by Mr. Greg in the "Enigmas of Life," although perhaps he does not expressly state it—that the tendency of civilization is to barbarism.

Of course flogging is not a panacea; but it is for those who profit by nothing gentler; and the more enlightened society becomes the more certainly can these be identified. The generous feeling that has discontinued it would not cease to be a guarantee against its abuse. Our courts cannot depart far from public sentiment. We can trust judges and juries to determine who deserves castigation just as safely as to determine who deserves imprisonment or death. Most of the censure they now receive in their treatment of the hopelessly depraved is for their lenity and not their rigor. There is no offender would not dread and wish to avoid whipping. Certainly no one would offend for the purpose of receiving it; and it would probably discourage a man in less than ten years from breaking the same window. It would be inexpensive, and would have the merit of being short and sharp, if not decisive. Punishment, intimidation, is what is here considered, and the point is whether it shall be administered to all who deserve it, or whether the law society finds necessary for its protection shall be a falsehood, at war with itself—a sham. The law cannot shrink from anything that is necessary to its purpose without impeaching its purpose.

And is it more inhuman to hurt the back of one who cannot be made to feel anything else than it is to pain the heart and hurt the soul of one who can? How can Christians so exalt the flesh above the spirit? They did not do it in the primitive days of the faith. Is it more barbarous to scourge the body than to gall it with irons, or poison and debilitate it by confinement, or wear it out by inches at hard labor? We have not abolished corporeal punishment—only rejected a form of it which is frequently more merciful, if more dreaded, than some that are retained.

All wrongs right themselves by "inhumanity," if permitted to go far enough. You are told by good authority, and you know without telling, that if you find a burglar in your house at night, you perform a public duty by shooting him dead rather than see him escape. From the humanitarian point of view, this is certainly more dreadful than it would have been to stop, by flogging, any minor offences that led him into your house. Indeed, if the penalty for the burglary itself were a "barbarous" laceration of his back, it would doubtless have more effect in keeping him from the burglary and from a bloody death, than does the risk of imprisonment. We must not whip him in obedience to the law, but we may safely shoot him dead without regard to it. It is our tenderness that becomes "inhuman" if it be not wisely bestowed. Would it be quite in keeping with the pretensions of "advanced" civilization to see the matrons and maids of the rural neighborhoods going about their dairies and summer kitchens with revolvers in their belts, and bowie-knives in their bosoms? That is the spectacle the "tramp" nuisance promises to produce. Would the whipping-post, set up in the slums of the great cities, where the miscreants among the tramps breed and form their characters, look any more like barbarism? The voluntary tramp has but shown the countryman during the summer what the city suffers during the winter. He is simply trying to distribute and equalize himself, and while enjoying his country air, collects the same taxes he collects all the rest of the year in town. Let the city continue to rear him tenderly, and not hurt his precious carcass, and feed and warm him, and punish only his sensitive spirit, until the country people get down their shot-guns and make a barbarous end of him. And this is being true to the cause of humanity.

It is noble for the law to withhold its hand when one who has taken a wrong step can be won back to a good life by other means; and if the wretches hopelessly saturated with vice can be intimidated by anything milder than flogging, by all means be mild; but when we find one who cannot, why not acknowledge the fact and act on it?

The reason why we do not so act is only a sentimental one. A sentimental reason, however, may be a very good one. Society feels that it is better to suffer, and to see its laws become a mockery to this degree, than to shock its own best instincts. This sentiment that obstructs absolute vindication of the law is respectable so long as it can be respected with tolerable safety and public satisfaction. But it interferes with justice by courtesy, and not by right. It is all very well so long as society does not complain. But if its mouthpieces are to be believed, society does complain. The public is not satisfied with the present punishment of certain offenders—indicated with sufficient accuracy by the tough old Langheimer and the English window-breaker—and is restive under the pecuniary burden they impose.

Although the history of the whipping-post is nearly worthless to one seeking to know what its value might be under all the favorable conditions with which it could be surrounded now and here, yet it is possible to point readily to one trial that should have been, and probably was, a fair one. A very few years ago—perhaps four or five—garroting became a terror to the London pedestrian. For assault and robbery, without intent to kill, the death penalty was too terrible, and the other penalties failed to intimidate, as they generally do when the crime is lucrative, easily accomplished, and not immediately dangerous. It could not be trifled with, and something had to be done. A "barbarous" whipping of the bare back was resorted to, and garroting subsided. The result was what the public wanted. Sentimental eyes may show their whites, horrified hands may go up, floods of twaddle may come forth in sympathy with the discouraged garroter, but men of common sense, especially if they have been garroted themselves, will say the end was worth what it cost, and believe in the inhumanity that achieved it.

Nothing has been said of Delaware. No valuable lesson could be drawn from her without considerable investigation, and perhaps not then. She may do too much flogging, or she may not do enough. Her ministers of justice may be models of enlightenment, or they may be models of debasement. The lash there may be still a class instrument, or it may not. She has no great city—an exceedingly important consideration—and two portions of her people are jostling each other as nominal equals in the race of life, who but the other day held the relation of master and slave. She is probably not indifferent to a good name, and her retention of the whip under all the sneers she receives is some evidence that she at least regards it as still having a defensible use.

RENUNCIATION.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.

"The last word in the Eastern Question," said Lord Derby, "is Constantinople." If for Constantinople we read not merely the city itself, but that half of Turkey in Europe bordering upon the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora, and understand the real point to be, Shall or shall not Russia have it? we have the whole Eastern Question in a nutshell. Russia is bound by every consideration of policy and interest to get it if she can. Great Britain is bound by every consideration of interest, and even of self-preservation, to prevent it if she can. Germany, Austria, and France are bound to prevent it, if possible, unless they can at the same time gain equivalent advantages which shall leave them relatively to each other, and especially to Russia, not less powerful than they now are. The other nations of Europe may be left out of view in considering the question; for their interest in it is less vital, and they could do little toward the result, except as allies to one side or the other, in case of a general European war in which the great Powers should be quite evenly balanced, when their comparatively small weight might turn the scale.

A glance at the map will show the paramount importance to Russia of the acquisition of this territory. Comprising more than half of all Europe, she is practically cut off from the navigable seas. She has, indeed, a long coast-line upon the Arctic ocean, but she has there only the inconsiderable port of Archangel, and this can be reached only by rounding the North Cape and sailing far within the Arctic Circle, while the port itself is blocked up by ice seven months of the year. She also borders for seven hundred miles upon the Baltic and the Gulf of Bothnia; but here, in the northwestern corner of her territory, she has only two tolerable ports, Cronstadt and Riga, and these are frozen up for nearly half the year; but from these ports is carried on three-fourths of her foreign commerce. She next touches salt water in the Black Sea, almost 1,500 miles from St. Petersburg, on the extreme south of her territory. This sea, half of whose shores belongs to Russia, is 720 miles long, and 380 miles wide at its broadest point, covering an area, including the connected Sea of Azof, of nearly 200,000 square miles—more than twice that of all the great lakes of North America. Russia wishes to be a great maritime power. The Black Sea has good harbors and abundant facilities for building ships and exercising fleets. Into it fall all the great rivers of the southern half of Russia, except the Volga, whose mouth is in the Caspian; and the Volga may properly be considered a Black Sea river, for a railway, or perhaps even a canal of a few leagues, would connect it with the Don and the other rivers of the Black Sea system. The Black Sea is emphatically a Russian sea; but Russia enjoys the valuable use of it only by the sufferance of whomsoever holds Constantinople. By the treaty of Paris, concluded in 1856, after the reverses of the Crimean war, Russia agreed not to maintain a fleet there; and it was not till 1870 that taking advantage of the critical position of the other great Powers, she declared that this article of the treaty was abrogated. She has now a strong fleet of iron-clads and other steamers in the sea, but the actual strength of this fleet is unknown except to herself. It was certainly powerful three years ago, and is doubtless much more powerful now. A vessel and crew which has navigated the "Bad Black Sea." as the Turks call it, has nothing to fear from the broadest ocean. But this sea is liable at any moment to be a closed one to Russia. No Russian man-of-war has, we believe, ever sailed into or out of it; no merchantman can enter or leave it except by the Bosporus and the Dardanelles, which are its gates, and of these gates Turkey holds the keys.

The Black Sea is joined to the deep, narrow Sea of Marmora by the straits of the Bosporus, twenty miles long and from three-quarters of a mile to two and a half miles wide. Just where the straits open out into the Sea of Marmora stands Constantinople, a spot marked out by nature as the one on the whole globe best fitted for the site of a great metropolis. At its western extremity the Sea of Marmora—about one hundred miles long, with a maximum breadth of forty-three miles—contracts into the straits usually called the Dardanelles, which is properly the name of four castles, which, two on each side, command the passage, here less than a mile wide. Both straits could easily be so fortified as to be impassable by the combined navies of the world; and even now we suppose that only the best armored iron-clads could safely undertake to force the passage, in or out, of the Dardanelles.

Let us now consider the fearful preponderance which Russia would gain by the possession of these straits, including of course that half of European Turkey bordering upon them. We have seen that the shores of the Black Sea furnish every facility for the construction of a navy of any required strength, and its waters afford ample space for its training. With these approaches in her grasp, Russia might in ten years construct and discipline her fleet there, perfectly safe from molestation by the navies of Europe. Fleets built and equipped at Sebastopol, Kherson, and Nicolaief, could sweep through the Dardanelles, closed to all except themselves, enter the Archipelago and the Mediterranean, and dominate over their shores and over the commerce of every nation which has to use these waters as a highway. In case of its happening at any time to find itself overmatched, the Russian fleet could repass the gates of the Dardanelles, and be as safe from pursuit as an army would be if sheltered behind the rocks of Gibraltar.

Great Britain would be first and most immediately menaced by this; for a strong military and naval power established on the Bosporus would hold in command the shortest way of communication with her possessions in India. The Czar would hold in control the route by way of the Suez canal: or at best Great Britain could keep it open only by maintaining a vastly superior fleet in the Mediterranean; and it would be difficult for her to maintain there a fleet which would not be practically overmatched by one which Russia could easily keep up in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora. The days are past when a Hood or a Nelson might safely risk a battle if the odds against him were much less than two to one. A British admiral must henceforth make his count upon meeting skill and seamanship equal to his own, and whatever advantage he gains must be gained by sheer preponderance of force.

If Great Britain is to retain her Indian empire, a collision there between her and Russia is a foregone conclusion. An empire which, under a succession of sovereigns of very different character, has steadily pressed its march of conquest through the deserts of Turkistan, will not be likely to look without longing eyes upon the fertile valley of the Indus; and here Russia would have a fearful advantage in position. The Suez route practically closed, as it would be in the event of a war, Britain could only reach India by the long voyage around the Cape of Good Hope, while Russia would have broad highways for the march of her troops to the banks of the Indus, whence she could menace the whole peninsula of Hindostan.

We indeed do not think that the possession of her Indian empire adds anything to the power of Great Britain. She has never derived any direct revenue from it. The Indian expenditures to-day exceed, and are likely in the future to exceed, the revenues. All the vast amounts of plunder and "loot" which individuals, the East India Company, or the Crown have gained, have cost to get them more than they were worth. Unlike Australia and the Dominion of Canada, India offers no field for colonization for men of British blood, where they or their children may build up a new Britain under strange stars. It has come to be an accepted fact that Englishmen cannot long retain health and vigor in India, and that their offspring, born there, rarely survive childhood unless sent "home" at an early age. Britain holds India purely and absolutely as a conquered and subjugated territory. Whether British rule in India is, upon the whole, a blessing or a curse to the natives, is a matter of grave doubt; that it is most unwillingly borne, is beyond all question. It is a despotism pure and unmixed, and a despotism of the most galling kind—a despotism exercised by a horde alien in race and religion, alien in habits and modes of thought, in life and manners, in customs and ideas. Macaulay, when in power in India, forty years ago, said of it the best that can be said: "India cannot have a free government; but she may have the next best thing—a firm and impartial despotism." To maintain this despotism, even against the feeble natives alone, imposes a heavy strain upon the British government. The British empire in India is only a thin crust overlying a bottomless quagmire, into which it is in peril of sinking at any moment by a force from above or an upheaval from below. How nearly this came to pass during the accidental Sepoy mutiny of twenty years ago, is known to all men. Had that mutiny chanced to have broken out three years before, during the Crimean war, it is safe to say that the course of the world's history would have taken a different turn. Since then Great Britain has apparently somewhat consolidated this crust, but it is yet thin, and the weight of Russia thrown upon it could scarcely fail to break it through.

The commercial value of India to Great Britain is, we think, vastly exaggerated. India, in proportion to her population, has always been, and is likely long to be, a very poor country. The trade of Great Britain with India—exports and imports—is not much greater than that with France, considerably less than that with Germany, and far less than that with the United States; and we see no reason to suppose that it is perceptibly increased by the subjugation of India to the British crown. India sells to Great Britain what she can, and buys from her what she wants and can pay for, and would continue to do so in any case. Still, we do not imagine that the British government or people will ever be brought to take our view of the value of India to them. It will be held to the last extremity of the national power, and will only be abandoned under stress of the direst necessity. And for her secure possession of India it is absolutely essential, for reasons which have been stated, that whoever else may have Constantinople in the future, Russia shall not have it. England's interest in the question is a purely selfish one. She is content to have the Turks there because for the time being they keep the Russians out. Whatever worth may formerly have been in the sentimental averment that it is the duty of the European family of nations to see to it that no weak member of it is gravely wronged by a stronger one is past and gone. It is from no love for the Turks that Great Britain desires that the Sultan should continue to hold at least nominal sovereignty over Turkey in Europe, and the actual custody of the keys of the Black Sea. An able English writer says:[H]

The position of the Turk at Constantinople is no choice of ours, nor any creation of our policy. We do not maintain him for any love of himself, nor because we rely on his strength to guard the post—though that is absurdly underrated. His corruption and weakness are at least as great an embarrassment to us as an injury to the nations of his empire. But the whole Eastern question hangs upon the fact that he is there, and has been there with a long prescriptive right which he is not likely to yield, or to have wrested from his grasp till after a frantic struggle of despair. Nor is any practical mode apparent by which he will be soon displaced, save that, after a convulsion which would involve all Europe, the Czar should be enthroned upon the Bosporus. To prevent that catastrophe, and to avert the horrors that must precede it, is our real Eastern policy.

Still more emphatic is the declaration of Lord Derby, the British Premier, when defending the action of the Government in sending the Mediterranean fleet, last May, to Besika Bay, at the mouth of the Dardanelles: "We have in that part of the world great interests which we must protect.... It is said that we sent the fleet to the Dardanelles to maintain the Turkish empire. I entirely deny it. We sent the fleet to maintain the interests of the British empire."

Let us now glance rapidly at Turkey in Europe, the coveted prize in this case. Nominally, and upon the maps, it comprises all except the southern apex of the great triangular peninsula bounded on the east by the Black Sea, the Sea of Marmora, and the Archipelago; on the west by the Adriatic; on the north, the broad base of the peninsula, it is bounded by Austria; on the south, the narrow apex, by Greece. Russia touches it only on the northeast corner. Its area is in round numbers 200,000 square miles, not differing materially from that of France or Germany, or about five-sixths of that of Austria. No other part of Europe, of anything like equal extent, combines so many natural advantages of geographical position, soil, and climate. The population is variously estimated at from 13,000,000 upward; we think that 17,000,000 is a tolerably close approximation. Of these, in round numbers, only about 2,000,000 are Turks, or, as they style themselves, Osmanlis; 11,500,000 are of various Sclavonic races; 1,500,000 are Albanians; 1,000,000 Greeks; the remainder Armenians, Jews, and Gipsies. In religion there, there are about 4,800,000 Mohammedans, nearly half of whom are not Osmanlis, the remainder being of Sclavonic descent, whose ancestors embraced Islam in order to save their estates; they are, however, quite as devoted Mussulmans as are the Osmanlis themselves. There are now about 12,000,000 Christians, of whom some 11,000,000 belong to the Greek Church, and nearly 1,000,000 are in communion with the Church of Rome. The name Ottomans is officially given to all the subjects of the empire, irrespective of race or religion; all except Mussulmans are specifically designated as Rayahs, "the flock." Nominally, at least, by the new Constitution promulgated in December, 1876, while Islam is the religion of the State, all subjects are equal before the law, and all, without distinction of race or creed, are alike eligible for civil and military positions.

But a very considerable part of this territory is not properly included in the Ottoman empire. The principality of Roumania, in the northeastern corner, made up of what was formerly known as Wallachia and Moldavia, with a population of about 4,500,000, is practically independent, under a prince of the house of Hohenzollern, elected in 1866. It merely acknowledges the suzerainty of the Sultan, to whom it pays an annual tribute of some $200,000. Servia, on the north, bordering upon Austria, with a population something less than 1,500,000, has for years been really independent, merely paying a tribute of less than $100,000.

Roumania and Servia are strongly under Russian influence. Besides these is the little State of Montenegro, on the Adriatic, with a population of less than 200,000, which disowns the suzerainty of the Sultan, and has for many months waged a fierce but desultory war against him.

Of what properly constitutes Turkey in Europe, with a population of some 11,000,000, the following are the principal divisions, designating them by their former names, by which they are still best known: south of Roumania, and between the Danube and the Balkhan mountains, is Bulgaria; south of Bulgaria is Roumelia, in which Constantinople is situated; in the northwest is Herzegovina; between which and Servia is Bosnia; on the west, along the Adriatic, is Albania. In estimating the defensive strength of the Ottoman empire we must take main account of Turkey in Asia, with a population of some 17,000,000, by far the larger portion of whom are Osmanlis, devoted to Islam, warlike by nature, and fully capable, as was shown in the Crimean war, of being moulded into excellent soldiers. But our present concern is with Turkey in Europe.

If the ingenuity of man, working through long centuries of misrule, had set itself to the task of developing a form of government the most potent for evil and the least powerful for good, the system could not have been worse than that which exists in European Turkey; and the worst of it is that no one but the most hopeful optimist can perceive in it the slightest hope of reform or practical amendment. In theory the Sultan is the recognized organ of all executive power in the State. The dignity is hereditary in the house of Osman; but the brother of a deceased or deposed Sultan takes precedence of the son, as being nearer in blood to the great founder of the house. A Sultan, therefore, must see in his brother a possible rival, who must, in case his life is spared, be kept immured in the seclusion of the harem. A Sultan who succeeds his brother naturally comes to the throne at a somewhat mature age, but as ignorant as a babe of all that belongs to the duties of government; lucky it is if he is not also physically and mentally worn out by debauchery and excess. Turkish history is full of instances where one of the first acts of a Sultan has been to order the execution of his brothers and nephews. Thus Mahmoud II. put to death his infant nephew, the son of his predecessor, and caused three pregnant inmates of the harem to be flung into the Bosporus in order to make sure the destruction of their unborn offspring. The actual task of government is in some sort divided between the Sultan and the "Porte," a term which is used to designate the chief dignitaries of the State. The "Sublime Porte" is the Council of the Grand Vizier, who presides over the Council of State, consisting of the ministers for home affairs, for foreign affairs, and for executive acts, with several secretaries, one of whom is supposed to be answerable that the acts of the ministry are in conformity with, the supreme law of the Koran. The Porte of the Defterdar, or Minister of Finance, whose council is styled the "Divan," consists of several ministers and other functionaries. The "Agha" formerly comprised many civil and military officials whose duties were in some way immediately connected with the person of the Sultan, not very unlike what we call a "kitchen cabinet." The foregoing are all designated as "Dignitaries of the Pen." The "Dignitaries of the Sword" are the viceregal and provincial governors, styled pachas and beys. They are at once civil and military commanders; and, most important of all, tax-gatherers, and not infrequently farmers as well as receivers of taxes. If they forward to the Porte the required sum of money, little care is had as to the manner in which their other duties are performed or neglected. The manifold extortions of the local pachas keep one part or another of the empire, not only in Europe, but in Asia, in a state of perpetual insurrection, of which little is ever heard abroad.

The Koran is the acknowledged source of all law, civil and ecclesiastical. Its interpreter is the Sheikh-ul-Islam, "the Chief of the Faithful," sometimes styled the "Grand Mufti." He is the head of the Ulemi, or "Wise Men," comprising the body of great jurists, theologians, and literati, any or all of whom he may summon to his council. He is appointed for life by the Sultan, and may be removed by him. His office is in theory, and sometimes in practice, one of great importance. To him and his council the Sultan is supposed to refer every act of importance. He does not declare war or conclude peace until the Grand Mufti has formally pronounced the act "conformable to the law." It is only in virtue of his fetwa, or decree, that the deposition of a Sultan is legalized. A fetwa from him would summon around the standard of the Prophet all the fanatical hordes of Islam to fight to the death against the infidels, in the firm belief that death on the battlefield is a sure passport to Paradise. With the Koran as the supreme law, and the Sheikh-ul-Islam its sole interpreter, nothing can be more futile than the provision of the new Constitution of December, 1876, that "the prerogatives of the Sultan are those of the constitutional sovereigns of the West."

It is necessary here to touch only briefly upon the rise and decline of the Turkish empire in Europe. The Osmanlis take their name from Osman, the leader of a Tartar horde driven out from the confines of the Chinese empire, who overran Asia Minor. His great-grandson, Amurath I., crossed into Europe, took Adrianople in 1361, and overran Bulgaria and Servia. Several of his successors pushed far into Hungary and Poland. Mohammed II. took Constantinople in 1453, and brought the Byzantine empire to a close. Selim I. (1512-'20) extended his dominion over Mesopotamia, Syria, and Egypt. Solyman II., "the Magnificent" (1520-1566), raised the Turkish power to its highest point. He took Buda in 1529; and in 1532 besieged Vienna with a force of 300,000 men, but was routed by the Polish John Sobieski, with a force hardly a tenth as great. But for another half century the Turkish power was sufficient to inspire terror in all Christendom. With the death of Solyman, the power of the Turks began to wane, slowly but surely, and at the close of the last century the expulsion of the Turks from Europe seemed close at hand. The great wars of the French Revolution gave them a new lease of possession, and at its close Sultan Mahmoud II., who was by blood half French,[I] endeavored to introduce reforms which some men hoped and others feared would restore the Ottoman Empire. But the result showed the impossibility of patching up rotten garments with new cloth. The Greek revolution broke out, and at its close the Sultan found himself no match for his vassal, Mehemet Ali, Pacha of Egypt, and it was only the intervention of Russia, Austria, and Great Britain which prevented the Pacha from establishing at Constantinople the seat of a new empire, which, be it what it might, would not have been Turkish. What were the reasons of Great Britain and France it is not now easy to say. Those of Russia are patent: she wanted Constantinople to remain in the hands of the Turks until she herself was in a position to seize it. From that time the Ottoman Empire became the "sick man of Europe," around whose bedside all the other powers were watching, each determined that none of the others should gain the greater share in his estates when he died. In 1844 they formally adopted him into the family of the nations of Europe, and promised that his safety should be the common care of all.

Russia, in the mean while, was busy in endeavoring to make herself the patron of the Christian subjects of the Sultan, and when the time appeared ripe, entered upon those overt acts which led to the Crimean war. Out of this war the Ottoman Empire came with considerable apparent advantage. The man supposed to be sick unto death showed that there was unexpected vitality—of a spasmodic sort indeed—in his Asiatic members; and again there were hopes and fears of his ultimate convalescence, if not of restoration to robust health. That those hopes and fears were baseless is now clear enough. Never was the sick man so feeble as within the last five years.

The existing crisis in the Eastern Question came about in the ordinary course of things. In the summer of 1875 the pecuniary needs of the Sublime Porte were more than usually urgent, and the tax-gatherers were even more than usually exacting. The normal result ensued: there were local risings in Bosnia and Herzegovina. A secret Bulgarian revolutionary committee, favored by Russia, has for years existed in Bucharest, the capital of Roumania. They sent emissaries into Bulgaria to excite an insurrection in that province. The plan was to set fire to Adrianople and Philippopolis, each in scores of places, to burn other towns, mainly inhabited by Mussulmans, and force all the Bulgarian Rayahs to join the uprising. The insurrection broke out prematurely in May, 1876, and only a few were actively engaged in it. Two or three thousand troops would have been sufficient to have quelled the rising; but there were none in the province, and despite the urgent appeals of the Pacha none were sent. The Mussulmans, who are in a fearful minority there, were thrown into a panic; and the Pacha gave orders for calling an ignorant and fanatical population to arms. Regular troops were at last sent. The Turks gained an easy victory, and perpetrated those ineffable atrocities, the recital of which sent a thrill of horror throughout Christendom. The Bulgarians fled northward toward Servia, pursued by the Turks, who it is said made predatory incursions. Prince Milan made some extraordinary demands upon the Sultan, among which were that the government of Bulgaria should be committed to him and that of Bosnia to Prince Nicholas of Herzegovina. The Grand Vizier refused to listen to these demands; whereupon the Prince called the Servians to arms, declared war against the Sultan, invaded Bulgaria, and soon assumed the title of King of Servia. His invasion of Bulgaria met with ill success. Although aided by many Russian soldiers and officers, absent on special leave from their regiments, the Servians were driven back over their frontiers; and the war was finally suspended by a truce for six months. We suppose that there can be no doubt that the rising in Bulgaria and the action of Servia were favored, if not by the Czar personally, yet by the Russian government, although it would, if possible, have withheld Prince Milan from declaring war when he did. The Servian Bishop Strossmayer expressly affirms that the insurrection in Herzegovina was prematurely commenced against the advice of Russia, and that Servia and Montenegro went to war of their own accord, though they have naturally accepted the Russian aid since accorded to them. He adds that Prince Gortschakoff, who in the Russian government is all that Prince Bismarck is in that of Germany, the year before last "informed Prince Milan that Russia was unprepared; that only within three years did she count on taking Constantinople; and that only then would she call on the Sclaves of the South to plant the Greek cross on the dome of St. Sophia."

Meanwhile, on the news of the Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria, the Czar put his troops in motion toward the Turkish frontier, and made demands upon the Sultan which, if acceded to, would have practically made the Czar the actual sovereign of all Turkey in Europe north of the Balkhan. Great Britain sent her fleet to the mouth of the Dardanelles to "maintain the interests of the British empire" in that part of the world. Diplomatic notes and rejoinders passed between the cabinets of the great Powers; and early in January an International Conference was assembled at Constantinople to endeavor to settle, or at least to stave off the present crisis in the Eastern Question; Great Britain, through her representative, the Earl of Salisbury, apparently taking the lead. As we write, in the early days of February, all that is definitely known is: The Conference has utterly failed; the Sultan absolutely refused to accede to the propositions made to him; and the ambassadors of the great Powers have been withdrawn from Constantinople. Surmises and rumors as to what will next be done are rife; not the least significant or the least probable being that the Emperors of Germany, Russia, and Austria are consulting as to taking the matter into their own hands. Whatever the immediate issue may be—whether a peace of some kind; a partial war between Russia on the one side, and Turkey, with or without Great Britain, on the other; or a general European war—of one thing we may be certain: it will not cause Russia to more than postpone still longer her long-cherished determination to have Constantinople.

Mr. Carlyle has suggested, as a final settlement of the Eastern Question, that Turkey in Europe should be divided between Russia, Austria, and Great Britain. But, as is his wont, he leaves out some essential factors in the problem. No part of this territory would be of the slightest use to Great Britain, except perhaps the island of Candia as a sort of half-way house in the highway to India by the Suez canal. She has everything to lose and little more than nothing to gain by any such partition, which, as it necessarily must, would give Constantinople to Russia. Mr. Carlyle has so thorough a dislike to France—and with him dislike is nearly equivalent to contempt—that he naturally leaves her out of the problem. But it is surprising that he leaves out his favorite Germany, perhaps the most important factor of all.

We can conceive of a partition of Turkey between Russia and Austria which would be so manifestly and equally advantageous to both that they might agree to it. And the line of division is clearly indicated by nature. Austria, like every other great civilized nation, desires to be a maritime power; but she touches the sea only at one point, the head of the Adriatic, with the narrow strip known as Dalmatia, running half way down its eastern coast. There are only two considerable ports, Trieste and Fiume. Eastward, and back of Dalmatia, are Servia, Bosnia, and Herzegovina; and below these, on the Adriatic, is the long coast-line of Albania, with several good harbors. Across the narrowing isthmus is the Archipelago, with the excellent harbor of Salonika. Now look on any tolerable map, and one will see on the eastern borders of Servia, where the Danube breaks through the Carpathians, a range of mountains shooting southward to and crossing the Balkhan, from which it is continued still southward to the Archipelago, the whole dividing European Turkey into two almost equal halves. Let Russia take the eastern half, comprising Roumania, Bulgaria, and the half of Roumelia, including Constantinople, the whole shore of the Sea of Marmora and the Dardanelles—all that she really needs or cares for. Let Austria take the other half, which would give her the whole eastern coast of the Adriatic, and a large frontage on the Archipelago, and so a double access to the Mediterranean and thence to the ocean. She would acquire thereby an access of valuable territory equal to almost half of her present dominions, which would render her relatively to Russia fully as strong as she now is.

But such a partition could not be carried into effect without the concurrence of Germany, for Germany is undoubtedly as a military power much stronger than Russia. Germany certainly would never assent unless she could somewhere get something equivalent to that gained by Austria and Russia, and not an inch of Turkey would be of any use to her. But in quite another part of Europe is a territory comparatively small in extent, which would be of priceless value to Germany. This is the little kingdom of Holland, which is indeed physically a part of Germany, and essential to the rounding off of the boundaries of the new empire. It would give her an extended sea-front, which is what she also needs in order to become a great naval and commercial power. It would give her also in the Zuyder Zee a naval depot and harbor of refuge inferior only to that of the Black Sea, and immeasurably superior to any other in Europe. Furthermore, with Holland would go the possession of Java and as many other great islands in the Indian Ocean as she might choose to seize and colonize. To Holland, indeed, we think such an annexation would be a decided gain. Her people are in race, language, and religion closely allied to the Germans. It would be better for her to become a State, inferior only to Prussia, of the great German empire, than a feeble kingdom, always at the mercy of her powerful neighbors. But whether it would be for her good or not, would not be likely to be much taken into account should the great Powers agree upon a reconstruction of the political map of Europe. The interests of France would suffer no material damage from this, provided she were left free to extend her Algerian possessions over the whole Mediterranean coast of Africa, now almost a desert, but once the granary of the Roman empire, and abundantly capable of being restored to its ancient fertility; or in case she should think her dignity required something more, she might receive in Belgium far more than a counterpoise for her recent loss of Alsace-Lorraine.

Suppose that in some not remote future the policy of Russia, Germany, and Austria shall happen to be directed by statesmen as able and unscrupulous as Gortschakoff, Bismarck, and Von Beust, we think such a settlement of the Eastern Question by no means an improbable one. And should these Powers agree to effect it, all the rest of Europe could do nothing to the contrary.

THE LASSIE'S COMPLAINT.

ASSJA.

I was then twenty-five years old, began N. N. As you see, the story is of days long past. I was absolutely my own master, and was making a foreign tour, not to "finish my education," as the phrase is nowadays, but to look about me in the world a little. I was healthy, young, light-hearted; I had plenty of money and as yet no cares; I lived in the present and did precisely as I wished; in one word, life was in full flower with me. It did not occur to me that man is not like a plant, and that his time of bloom is but once. Youth eats its gilded gingerbread, and thinks that is to be its daily food; but the time comes when one longs in vain for a bit of dry bread. But it is not worth while to speak of that.

I was travelling without aim or plan: made stops wherever it pleased me, and went on whenever I felt the need of seeing fresh faces—especially faces. Men interested me above all things. I detested monuments, collections of curiosities. The mere sight of a guide roused in me feelings of weariness and fury. In the Dresden "Grüne Gewölbe" I nearly lost my wits. Nature made a powerful impression upon me; but I did not love her so-called beauties—her mighty hills, her crags and torrents. I did not like to have them take possession of me and disturb my tranquillity. Faces, on the contrary—living, earthly faces, men's talk, laughter, movements—I could not do without. In the midst of a crowd I was always particularly gay and at my ease. It gave me real pleasure merely to go where others went, to shout when others shouted, and at the same time to observe how these others shouted. It pleased me to observe men—yes, I did not observe them merely; I studied them with a delighted and insatiable curiosity. But I am digressing again.

Twenty years ago, then, I was living in the little German town of S——, on the left bank of the Rhine. I sought solitude. I had been wounded to the heart by a young widow whose acquaintance I had made at a watering-place. She was extremely pretty and vivacious, flirted with everybody—alas! with me also, poor rustic! At first she had lifted me to the skies, but soon plunged me in despair when she sacrificed me to a rosy-cheeked lieutenant from Bavaria. Seriously speaking, the wound in my heart was not very deep; but I considered it my duty to give myself for a time to melancholy and retirement—what pleasure youth finds in these!—and accordingly settled myself in S——.

This little town had attracted me by its position at the foot of high hills, by its old walls and towers, its hundred-year-old diadems, its steep bridges over the clear little brook which flowed into the Rhine, but above all by its good wine. And after sunset—it was in June—the loveliest of fair-haired Rhineland girls sauntered through the narrow streets and cried, "Good evening!" in their sweet tones to the stranger whom they met, some of them even lingering still when the moon rose behind the peaked roofs of the old houses, and the little stones of the pavement showed distinctly in her steady light. Then I delighted in strolling about the old town. The moon seemed to look down benignly from a cloudless sky, and the town received this glance and lay peacefully there wrapped in sleep and veiled in moonbeams—the light that at once soothes and vaguely stirs the soul. The weathercock upon the high, sharp spire gleamed in dull gold; long gleams of gold quivered on the dark surface of the stream; some dim lights—O thrifty German folk!—burned here and there in the small windows under the slated roofs; the vines stretched out mysterious fingers from the walls; something stirred perhaps in the shadow of the fountain in the little three-cornered market-place; suddenly the sleepy cry of the watchman sounded; then a good-natured dog growled in an undertone; and the air kissed the brow so softly, and the lindens smelled so sweet, that the breast involuntarily heaved quicker, and the word "Gretchen" rose to the lips, half a cry, half question.

This little town of S—— lies about two versts from the Rhine. I went often to look at the majestic river, and would sit for hours upon a stone bench under a lonely, large oak, thinking, not without a certain exertion, of my faithless widow. A little statue of the Virgin, with a red heart pierced with swords upon her breast, looked sadly out from the leaves. On the opposite bank lay the town of L——, somewhat larger than the one in which I had established myself. One evening I was sitting in my favorite spot, looking in turn at the stream, the sky, and the vineyards. Before me some white-hooded urchins were climbing over the sides of a boat that was drawn up on the shore and lay there keel upward. Little skiffs with sails hardly swollen passed slowly along; green waves slid by with a gentle, rushing sound. All at once strains of music greeted my ears. I listened. They were playing a waltz in L——. The double bass grumbled out its broken tones, the violins rang clear between, the flutes trilled noisily.

"What is that?" I asked an old man who approached me dressed in a plush waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.

"That?" he replied, shifting his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Those are the students who have come from B—— to the Commers."

"I will see this Commers," I thought. "Besides, I have not yet been in L——." I found a ferryman and crossed the river.

Perhaps not every one knows what a Commers is. It is a particular kind of drinking bout, in which the students from one section, or of one society, unite. Almost every participant of a Commers wears the conventional costume of the German student: a short jacket, high boots, and a little cap with colored vizor. The students generally assemble at midday and carouse till morning, drinking, singing, smoking, and occasionally they hire a band.

Such a Commers was at this moment held in L—— at a little inn called the Sun, in a garden adjoining the street. Flags were flying from the inn and over the garden itself. The students sat round tables under the spreading lindens; a huge bulldog under one of the tables. The musicians were under a trellis at one side, playing with great spirit, and refreshing themselves from time to time with mugs of beer. A great crowd had collected in the street before the unpretending little inn. The good citizens of L—— were not of the stuff to let slip a good opportunity of seeing strange guests. I mingled with the crowd of lookers-on. It gave me an immense satisfaction to watch the faces of the students, their embraces, their exclamations, the innocent affectations of youth, the eager glances, the unrestrained laughter—the best laughter in the world. All this generous ferment of young, fresh life, this striving forward, no matter whither so it be forward, this rollicking, untrammelled existence excited and infected me. Why not join them, I thought?

"Assja, have you had enough?" suddenly asked in Russian a man's voice behind me.

"Let us wait a little longer," answered another voice, a woman's, in the same tongue.

I turned hastily. My eyes fell on a handsome young fellow in a loose jacket and cap. On his arm hung a girl of medium height, with a straw hat which entirely hid the upper part of her face.

"Nor did we," he interrupted me. "But what does that signify? All the better. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Gagin, and this is"—he paused for an instant—"my sister. May we ask your name?"

I told him, and we began a conversation. I learned that Gagin, like myself, was travelling for pleasure; that he had arrived at L—— the week previous, and was now staying there. To speak candidly, I was always unwilling to make the acquaintance of Russians in other countries. I could recognize them at any distance by their gait, the cut of their clothes, and more than all by the expression of their faces. The self-satisfied, scornful, and usually haughty expression would change suddenly to one timid and suspicious; in a moment the whole man is on his guard, his glance wanders about unsteadily. "Have I said anything ridiculous? Are they laughing at me?" this anxious look seems to say. But a moment more, and the majesty of the physiognomy is restored, only occasionally replaced by stupidity. Yes, I avoided Russians, but Gagin pleased me at once. There are such fortunate faces in the world. To look at them is a pleasure for every one. One feels at once cheered and caressed by them. Gagin had just such a gentle, attractive face, with great soft eyes and fine curly hair. When he spoke, even if you did not see his face, you felt by the mere sound of his voice that he was smiling.

The young girl whom he had called his sister also seemed to me at the first glance very lovely. There was something peculiar and remarkable in the traits of her round, brown face, with its thin, delicate nose, its round, almost babyish cheeks, and its clear, dark eyes. Her form was graceful, but apparently not yet fully developed. She did not in the least resemble her brother.

"Will you come home with us?" Gagin asked me. "I think we have seen enough of the Germans. Our beloved countrymen would certainly have broken some window panes or smashed a few chairs, but these fellows are quite too well behaved. What do you say, Assja, shall we go home?"

"We live just beyond the village," Gagin continued, "in a little solitary house far up the hillside. It is really fine there. You shall see for yourself. The landlady promised me to have some buttermilk for us. It will be dark very soon, and then you can cross the Rhine far more pleasantly by moonlight."

We set out. Through a low gate—for the town was surrounded on all sides by an old wall, some of whose loop-holes even yet remained undestroyed—we gained the open country, and after we had walked about a hundred paces beside a stone wall we came to a steep and narrow path up the hill, into which Gagin turned. The slope on both sides was planted with grapes. The sun had but just set, and a soft purple light rested on the green vines, the long poles, the dusty soil covered with bits of broken slate and stone, and upon the white walls of a small house with steep roof and light windows, which stood high above us on the mountain which we were climbing.

"Here is our place!" exclaimed Gagin as we drew near the house. "And here is the landlady just bringing us our buttermilk. Good evening, madam! We will be there in a moment. But first," he added, "look about you once. What do you say to this outlook?"

The view was indeed charming. The Rhine lay before us, a strip of silver between green banks. In one place it glowed in the purple and gold of the sunset. All the houses in the little towns clustering on the shores stood out distinctly; hills and fields spread far before us. Below us it was lovely, but above it was lovelier still. The brilliant transparency of the atmosphere, and the depth and purity of the sky, made a profound impression on me. The air was fresh and exhilarating. It blew with a light wave motion, as if it felt itself more free on the hilltop.

"Assja found it out," Gagin answered. "Now, Assja, give your orders. Let us have everything brought here. We will take tea in the open air. We can hear the music better here. Haven't you noticed it?" he went on. "A waltz close at hand may be often good for nothing—mere commonplace jingle. It becomes exquisite at a distance; sets all the sentimental strings in one's heart a twanging." Assja (her name was properly Anna; but Gagin always called her Assja, and I shall allow myself that privilege)—Assja went into the house and soon returned with the landlady. Both together they carried a great tea-tray with a jug full of milk, plates, spoons, sugar, berries, and bread. We seated ourselves and began to eat. Assja took off her hat. Her black hair, cut rather short, and curled like a boy's, fell in thick ringlets over neck and shoulders. At first she was shy; but Gagin said to her:

She smiled, and immediately addressed a little conversation to me. I have never seen a more restless creature. She did not sit still a moment. She stood up, ran into the house, came out again, sang in an undertone, and laughed often in an odd way. It seemed as if she was not laughing at what she heard, but at stray thoughts which came into her head. Her large, clear eyes looked at us frankly and fearlessly. Now and then, however, the lids fell, and then her glance became suddenly deep and gentle.

For nearly two hours we chatted together. Daylight was long past, and the twilight had changed from scarlet and gold to a faint redness, then to a clear gray, and finally all was lost in night; but our speech flowed as uninterruptedly, peaceful, and quiet as the air that surrounded us. Gagin brought a bottle of Rhine wine, and we drank it leisurely. We could still hear the music. The notes seemed fainter and sweeter to us. Lights began to appear in the town and on the river. Assja's head drooped forward so that her hair fell over her eyes. She was silent and breathed heavily. Then she declared that she was sleepy, and went into the house; but I saw that she stood for a long time behind the closed window without lighting her lamp. Then the moon rose, and her beams quivered on the surface of the water. Everything was bright or in deep shadow, but certainly took on a different appearance. Even the wine in our glasses sparkled with a mysterious brilliancy. The wind had fallen as if it had folded its wings and were resting. Warm, spicy odors of the night rose from the ground.

We descended the footpath. Suddenly stones began to rattle down. Assja was running after us.

"Aren't you asleep then?" her brother asked her. But she ran on before us without replying. The last dim lights which the students had lighted in the little inn garden showed through the branches of the trees, and lent them a gay, fantastic appearance. We found Assja at the shore talking to the old boatmen. I sprang into the boat and took leave of my new friends. Gagin promised to visit me on the next day. I shook his hand and held mine out to Assja, but she merely looked at me and nodded. The boat was pushed off and was borne down on the swift current. The ferryman, a hale old fellow, dipped his oars deep into the dark flood.

The boat touched the bank. I stepped out and looked back, but could see no one on the shore behind me. The moonshine spanned the stream again like a golden bridge, and like another good-by I caught the strains of an old country waltz. Gagin was right. I felt that all the strings of my heart trembled responsively. I crossed the dusky fields to my house, drinking great draughts of the balmy air, and giving myself up wholly to a sweet, vague feeling of expectation. I felt myself happy. But why? I wished for nothing, I thought of nothing. I was merely happy.

Still smiling from the fulness of delightful and changing sensations, I sank into bed, and had already closed my eyes when it suddenly occurred to me that I had not thought of my cruel fair one once in the whole evening. "What does it mean?" I asked myself. "Am I not hopelessly in love?" But just as I put this question to myself I fell asleep, as it seemed, like a baby in its cradle.

The next morning (I was awake, but had not risen) some one knocked with a stick under my window, and a voice that I immediately recognized as Gagin's began to sing,

"Good morning," said Gagin as he entered. "I disturb you a little early. But what a morning it is! Fresh, dewy; the larks singing." With his wavy, shining hair, his bare neck and ruddy checks, he was as fresh as the morning himself.

I dressed myself, and we went out into the garden, sat down upon a bench, ordered coffee, and began to talk. Gagin confided to me his plans for the future. Possessed of a fair property, and entirely independent, he wished to devote himself to painting; only he regretted that this decision had been a late one, and that he had already lost much time. I also detailed my projects, and even took him into the secret of my unhappy love affair. He listened patiently, but, so far as I could see, the story of my passion did not awake any very lively sympathy in him. After he had sighed once or twice out of good manners, he proposed to me to come and see his studio. I was ready at once.

We did not find Assja. She had gone to the "ruin," the landlady assured us. Two versts from L—— were the remains of a castle of the middle ages. Gagin laid all his canvases before me. There was life and truth in his sketches, a certain breadth and freedom of treatment, but not one was finished, and the drawing was careless and often faulty. I told him my opinion frankly.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted me with a sigh. "You are right; it is all weak and unsatisfactory. But what is to be done? I haven't studied properly, and the inexcusable carelessness shows everywhere. Before working it always seems as if I were capable of eagle flights—it seems as I could hurl the earth out of her course; but when it comes to execution one loses strength quickly enough, and is tired."

I began to encourage him, but he motioned with his hand that I should be silent, rolled up his canvases, and threw himself on the sofa. "If my patience lasts, I shall make something yet," he muttered in his beard; "if not—then I shall stay a country lout. Come, let us look after Assja." We started.

The way to the ruin wound round the slope of a wooded valley, at whose bottom a brook flowed noisily over its pebbles as if it were anxious to lose itself in the great stream that was shining peacefully behind the sharply indented mountain side. Gagin called my attention to some partially lighted spots; in his words the artist certainly spoke, if not the painter. The river soon appeared. On the summit of the naked rock rose a square town, black with age but in tolerable preservation, though it was cleft from top to bottom. Moss-grown walls adjoined this town, ivy clung here and there, a tangle of briars filled the embrasures and the shattered arches. A stone foot-walk led to the door that remained intact. We were already near it when suddenly a girl's figure sped by us, sprang over the heaps of rubbish, and seated herself on a projection of the wall directly over the abyss. "There is Assja," cried Gagin. "Is she mad?"

Through the gate we stepped into a spacious courtyard half filled with wild apple trees and stinging nettles. It was indeed Assja, who was sitting on the projection. She looked down at us and laughed, but did not stir from her place. Gagin threatened her with his finger. I began to expostulate aloud with her on her recklessness.

"Don't do that," Gagin whispered to me. "Don't exasperate her. You don't know her. She would be capable of clambering up the town. Look yonder, rather, and see how ingenious the people hereabouts are."

I looked about me. A thrifty old lady had made herself very comfortable in a kind of narrow booth made of boards piled up in one corner, and knitted her stocking, while she occasionally glanced askance at us. She had beer, cake, and soda-water for tourists. We sat down on a bench and attacked our heavy tin mugs of cooling beer. Assja still sat motionless; she had drawn up her feet, and wound her muslin scarf about her head. Her charming, slender figure showed sharp against the sky, but I could not look at it without annoyance. Even on the previous day I had seen something intense, unnatural in her. "Does she want to astonish us?" I thought. "What for? What a childish freak!" As if she had fathomed my thought, she cast a quick and piercing glance at me, laughed loudly, sprang in two bounds from the wall, and going to the old woman, asked for a glass of water.

"You think that I want to drink it?" she said, turning to her brother. "No; there are some flowers up there that I must water."

Gagin made no reply, but she scrambled up the ruins glass in hand, and, stopping from time to time and bending down, with extraordinary painstaking she let fall some drops of water, which glistened in the sun. Her movements were full of grace, but I was vexed as before, although I was forced to admire her lightness and dexterity. In one perilous spot she uttered a little shriek with design, and then laughed loudly again. That annoyed me still more.

"The young lady climbs like a goat," mumbled the old woman, and stopped knitting for a moment.

Meanwhile Assja had emptied her glass and come down, roguishly swaying to and fro. A strange, imperceptible smile played round her brows, and nostrils, and lips; half audacious, half merry, the dark eyes were shining.

"You find my behavior scandalous," her face seemed to say. "Very well. I know that you admire me."

It seemed as if she felt suddenly ashamed of herself. Her long lashes fell, and she sat down near us meekly, as if conscious of naughtiness. Now for the first time I could see her face fairly—the most changeful that I had ever beheld. For a few moments it was very pale, and took on a reserved, almost a melancholy expression. Her features seemed larger, stronger, and more simple. She was perfectly still. We made the tour of the ruins (Assja followed us), and were very enthusiastic over the view. Meanwhile dinnertime approached. Gagin paid the old woman, asked for another glass of beer, and cried, turning to me with a sly look,

Assja became thoughtful. Her face assumed yet another expression. The challenging, almost bold smile returned.

On the way home she laughed more, and her behavior was more whimsical than ever. She broke for herself a long branch, carried it over her shoulder like a gun, and bound her scarf about her head. A party of fair-haired young English dandies met us. As if at a word of command, they all stood aside to let Assja pass, with a cold glare of astonishment in their eyes, while she began to sing loudly in mockery. As soon as we had reached the house she went to her chamber, and appeared at dinner in a most elaborate dress, with carefully arranged hair, and wearing gloves. She behaved with great propriety, not to say stillness, at table, hardly touched her food, and drank water out of a wineglass. Evidently she wished to appear before me in a new rôle, that of a conventional and well brought up young lady. Gagin let her alone. It was easy to see that it had become a habit with him to let her have her will in all things. At times he looked at her good-naturedly and shrugged his shoulders slightly, as much as to say, "Be indulgent; she is only a child." When the meal was ended Assja rose, made us a courtesy, and taking up her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise.

"Since when have you begun to ask permission?" answered Gagin with his ready smile, but with a little astonishment. "Is the time long to you with us?"

"No; but yesterday I promised Frau Luise that I would visit her. And then I think you two would rather be alone. Mr. N." (she pointed to me) "may have something to tell you."

"Frau Luise," Gagin began, taking pains to avoid my glance, "is the widow of a former burgomaster of this place; a good old soul, but rather narrow-minded. She has taken a great fancy to Assja. It is Assja's passion to make the acquaintance of people of the lower classes. I have found that pride is at the bottom of the matter every time. I have spoiled her thoroughly, you see," he went on after a pause; "but what was there for me to do? I never could carry a point by firmness with any one; most of all not with her. It is my duty to be indulgent with her."

I was silent. Gagin gave another direction to the conversation. The more I learned of him the more he pleased me. I soon understood him. His was a real Russian character—truth-loving, faithful, simple, but unfortunately rather sluggish, lacking firmness, and without the inward fire. Youth did not flame up in him; it burned with a gentle glow. He was most amiable and sensible; but I could not imagine what he would become in manhood. He wished to be an artist. Without constant, absorbing endeavor, no one is an artist. You exhaust yourself, I thought, looking at his gentle face and listening to the slow cadence of his voice. No; you will not strain every nerve; you will never succeed in mastering yourself. And yet it was impossible not to be attracted by him. My heart was really drawn to him. It may have been four hours that we talked together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking quietly up and down before the house; and in these four hours we became real friends.

"She is a wild creature," Gagin said. "If you please, I will go back with you, and we will go to Frau Luise's on the way, and I will ask if she is still there. The distance is trifling."

"We descended to the town, turned into a crooked and narrow cross street, and came to a standstill before a house of four stories with two windows on a floor. The second story projected into the street beyond the first; the third and fourth reached still further forward than the second. The whole house, with its old-fashioned carving, its two thick pillars below, its steep, tiled roof, and the beak-shaped gutter running out from the eaves, had the appearance of some monstrous, squatting bird.

A lighted window in the third story was thrown up, and Assja's little dark head appeared. Behind her peered forth the face of a toothless and blear-eyed old woman.

"Here I am," answered Assja, coquettishly leaning over the window-sill on her elbows. "It is exceedingly pleasant here. Catch," she added, flinging a bit of geranium down to Gagin. "Imagine that I am the lady of your heart."

"Indeed?" said Assja. "In that case give him my sprig. I am coming home directly."

She shut the window, and I fancied that she gave Frau Luise a kiss. Gagin handed me the sprig without a word. Without a word I put it in my pocket, went to the ferry, and crossed to the other side.

I remember that I went home thinking of nothing definite, but feeling a certain dull ache at my heart, when suddenly a strong odor, well known to me, but not usual in Germany, made me stop puzzled. I stood still and recognized by the roadside a hemp field of moderate size, whose smell reminded me at once of my native steppes. A mighty homesickness arose in me. I had a longing to feel Russian air blowing on my cheeks, to have Russian ground beneath my feet. "What am I doing here? Why am I wandering about among strangers in a strange land?" I cried aloud, and the vague uneasiness that weighed on my spirits changed suddenly to a bitter burning pain. I reached the house in a mood entirely different from the one of the preceding day. I was strangely excited. I could not compose myself. A feeling of vexation which I could not explain to myself possessed me. At last I sat down to think of my faithless widow (for I devoted the close of every day to official recollections of this lady), and I took out one of her letters. But this time I did not even open it. My thoughts had taken another turn; I thought—of Assja. I remembered that Gagin, in the course of conversation, had spoken of certain obstacles which would make his return to Russia very difficult. "Is she then really his sister?" I cried aloud.

I undressed myself, went to bed, and tried to sleep; but an hour afterward I was sitting up with my elbow on the pillow, and still thinking of the "capricious maid with her affected laugh." "She has a form like the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnese," I said to myself. "Yes, and she is not his sister."

However, on the following day I went again to L——. I said to myself that I wished to visit Gagin, but in truth I was curious to watch Assja, to see if she would pursue the extravagances of the day previous. I found them both in the parlor, and wonderful!—was it because I had thought so much of Russia in the night and the morning?—Assja appeared to me a real Russian girl—yes, even a very ordinary one, almost like a servant. She wore a shabby gown; her hair was combed back behind her ears. She sat quietly by the window, busy with some sewing, sedate and still as if she never in her life had been otherwise. She hardly spoke, examined her work from time to time; and her features had an expression so dull and commonplace that I was involuntarily reminded of our own Kathinkas and Maschinkas. To complete the resemblance, she began to hum "My darling little mother." I looked at her sallow, languid face, thought of yesterday's fantasies, and got suddenly out of temper. The weather was magnificent. Gagin declared that he was going to sketch from nature. I asked if he would permit me to accompany him, if it would not disturb him?

He put on his Vandyk hat and his painting blouse, took his canvas under his arm, and started. I followed him slowly; Assja remained at home. In going out Gagin begged her to take care that the soup should not be too watery. Assja promised to oversee it in the kitchen. Gagin reached a dell which I already knew, sat down upon a stone, and began to sketch an old, hollow, wide-branched oak. I lay down in the grass and took out a book, but my reading did not advance beyond the second page, nor did he blacken much paper. We chatted a great deal, and, if my memory does not deceive me, we discoursed very subtly and profoundly about work: what one should avoid, what strive for, and in what consisted the real merit of the artists of our day. At last Gagin declared that he was not in the mood for work, threw himself down beside me, and then for the first time our youthful talk flowed free, now passionate, now dreamy, now almost inspired, but always vague—a conversation peculiar to Russians. After we had talked ourselves tired we started for home, filled with satisfaction that we had accomplished something, had arrived at some result. I found Assja precisely as I had left her. Whatever pains I might take with my scrutiny I could discover no trace of coquetry, no evidence of a part designedly played. This time it was impossible to accuse her of oddity. "Aha!" Gagin said; "you have imposed penance and fasting on yourself." In the evening she gaped several times without pretence at concealment, and retired early. I also took leave of Gagin betimes, and having reached home, I gave myself up to no more dreams. This day ended in sober reflections. But I remember that as I settled myself to sleep I said aloud, "What a chameleon the girl is!" And after a moment's thought I added, "And she is certainly not his sister."

In this way two whole weeks passed. I visited the Gagins every day. Assja seemed to shun me. She indulged in no more of those extravagances which had so astonished me on the first days of our acquaintance. It seemed to me that she was secretly troubled or perplexed. Neither did she laugh so much. I observed her with interest.

She spoke French and German indifferently well, but one could see in everything that she had not been in the hands of women since her childhood, and the strange, desultory education which she had received had nothing in common with Gagin's. In spite of the Vandyk hat and the painter's blouse, the delicate, almost effeminate Russian nobleman was always apparent in him; but she was not in the least like a noblewoman. In all her movements there was something unsteady. Here was a graft lately made, wine not yet fermented. Naturally of a timid and shy disposition, she yet was annoyed by her own timidity, and in her vexation she compelled herself to be unconcerned and at her ease, in which she did not always succeed. Several times I turned the conversation to her life in Russia, her past. She answered my questions reluctantly. I learned, however, that she had lived in the country for a long time before her travels. Once I found her with a book. She was alone. Her head supported by both hands, the fingers twisted deep in her hair, she was devouring the words with her eyes.

"Do you really think that I can do nothing but laugh?" she said, and was about to withdraw.

"What shall I read then?" she cried. And throwing her book on the table, she added, "It's better that I fill up my time with nonsense," and with this she ran out into the garden.

That evening I read "Hermann and Dorothea" aloud to Gagin. At first Assja occupied herself rather noisily near us, then suddenly ceased and became attentive, seated herself quietly beside me, and listened to the reading to the end. On the following day I was again puzzled by her mood till it occurred to me that she had been seized with a whim to be womanly and discreet like Dorothea. In a word, she was an enigmatical creature. Full of conceit and irritable as she was, she attracted me even while she made me angry. I was more and more convinced that she was not Gagin's sister. His behavior toward her was not that of a brother; it was too gentle, too considerate, and at the same time a little constrained. A singular occurrence seemed, by every token, to confirm my suspicions.

One evening, when I came to the vineyard where the Gagins lived, I found the gate locked. Without much thought I went to a broken place which I had often noticed in the wall, and sprang over. Not far from this place, and aside from the path, there was a small clump of acacia. I had reached it, and was on the point of passing it. Suddenly I heard Assja's voice, the words spoken excitedly and through tears:

"Listen, Assja. Compose yourself," replied Gagin. "You know that I believe you." I heard the voices of both in the arbor. I saw both through the sparse foliage. They were not aware of my presence.

"You—you alone," she repeated, threw herself on his neck, and clinging to his breast, she kissed him amid violent sobs. "Come, enough," he said, while he smoothed her hair gently with his hand.

For a moment I stood motionless. Suddenly I recollected myself. Enter and join them? For nothing in the world! it shot through my brain. With hasty steps I gained the wall, leaped it, and reached my dwelling almost on the run. I laughed, rubbed my hands together, and congratulated myself on the chance which had so unexpectedly confirmed my suspicion (whose truth I had not doubted for an instant); but my heart was heavy. "They dissemble well?" I thought. "And for what purpose? Why do they wish to amuse themselves at my expense? I would not have thought it of them!" What a disturbing discovery it was!

I slept ill, and on the following day I rose early, buckled on my knapsack, and after telling my landlady not to expect me at night, I turned my steps toward the mountains, following the stream on which the town of S—— is built. These mountains are very interesting from a geological point of view; they are particularly remarkable for the regularity and purity of their basaltic formations; but I was not bent on geological investigation. I could give no account to myself of my own feelings. One thing, however, was clear: I had not the least desire to see the Gagins. I insisted to myself that the only ground of my sudden distaste for their society lay in vexation at their falseness.

What had been the necessity of calling themselves brother and sister? I resolutely avoided thinking of them, loitered idly among the hills and valleys, spent much time in village inns in friendly talk with the landlord and his guests, or lay on a flat or sunny rock in the lovely weather, and watched the clouds float over. In this way three days passed not unpleasantly, though from time to time I had a stifled feeling at my heart. This quiet nature accorded perfectly with my state of mind. I gave myself up completely to the chance of the moment and the impressions that it brought to me; following one another without haste, they flooded my soul, and left finally a single feeling where everything which I had seen or heard or experienced during these three days was blended—everything: the faint resinous smell of the woods, cry and tapping of the woodpeckers, the continual murmur of the clear brooks with spotted trout in their sandy shallows, the not too bold outlines of the mountains, gray rock, the friendly villages with venerable churches and trees, storks in the meadows, snug mills with wheels merrily turning, the honest faces of the country people with their blue smocks and gray stockings, the slow creaking wagons and well-fed horses, or sometimes a yoke of oxen, long-haired lads strolling along the cleanly kept paths under apple and pear trees. To this day I remember with pleasure the impressions of that time. I greet you, little nook of modest ground, with your modest content, with your signs everywhere visible of busy hands, of labor constant if not severe—greetings to you and peace.

At the end of the third day I returned to S——. I have forgotten to say that in my vexation with the Gagins, I had endeavored to reinstate the image of my hard-hearted widow. But I remember, as I began to think of her, I saw before me a little peasant girl, about five years old, out of whose round little face a pair of great innocent eyes were regarding me curiously. The look was so childlike, so confiding, a kind of shame swept over me. I could not continue a lie before that gaze, and at once and for ever I said good-by to my early flame.

I found a note from Gagin waiting for me. My sudden whim astonished him. He made me some reproaches that I had not taken him with me, and begged me to come to him as soon as I should return. Distrustfully I read this note, yet the following day found me at L——.

Gagin's reception was friendly. He overwhelmed me with affectionate reproaches; but no sooner had Assja caught sight of me than she broke into loud laughter, designedly, it seemed, and without the least cause, and ran away precipitately. Gagin lost his temper, grumbled at her for a crazy girl, and begged me to excuse her. I must confess that I was very cross with Assja. I was uncomfortable before, and now this unnatural laughter and ridiculous behavior must be added. However, I acted as if I had observed nothing, and detailed to Gagin all the incidents of my little journey. He told me what he had done during my absence. But the conversation went lame. Assja kept running in and out. Finally I declared that I had some pressing work, and that it was time for me to be at home. Gagin tried to detain me at first, then looking keenly at me, he begged permission to accompany me. In the hall Assja approached me suddenly, and held out her hand to me. I gave her fingers an almost imperceptible pressure, and bade her good-by carelessly. We crossed the Rhine together, strolled to my favorite oak tree near the little shrine to the Virgin, and sat down on a bench to enjoy the landscape. There a remarkable conversation took place between us.

At first we only spoke in the briefest words, then fell into silence and fixed our eyes on the shining river.

"Tell me," Gagin began suddenly, with his accustomed smile, "what is your opinion of Assja? She must appear a little singular to you. Not so?"

"Yes," I answered, not without a certain constraint. I had not expected him to speak of her.

"One must learn to know her well to form a judgment upon her," he continued. "She has a very good heart, but a wild head. It is hard to live quietly with her. However, it is not her fault, and if you knew her history——"

"Her history!" I interrupted him. "Isn't she then your——" Gagin looked at me.

"Is it possible that you have doubted that she was my sister? No," he went on, without heeding my confusion. "She is; at least she is my father's daughter. Listen to me. I have confidence in you, and I will tell you all about her.

"My father was a very honest, sensible, cultivated, and unfortunate man. Fate had no harder blows for him than for others, but he could not bear the first one that he felt from her. He had married early—a love match; his wife, my mother, soon died, and I was left a six months' old baby. My father took me to his country estates, and for twelve whole years he lived there in absolute seclusion. He himself took charge of my education, and would never have been separated from me if my uncle, his brother, had not come to visit us in our country house. This uncle lived in Petersburg, where he held a rather important post. He persuaded my father, who could not be induced to quit his home under any consideration, to trust me to his care. He showed his brother what an injury it was to a boy of my age to live in such complete isolation, and that, with a companion always melancholy and silent as my father, I should inevitably remain behind boys of my age—yes, that my character might easily be endangered by such a life. For a long time my father resisted his brother's arguments, but at last he yielded. I cried at parting from my father, whom I loved, though I had never seen a smile on his face; but Petersburg once reached, our gloomy and silent nest was soon forgotten. I went to school, and was afterward placed in a regiment of the Guards. Every year I spent some weeks at our country house, and with every year I found my father more melancholy, more reserved, and depressed to an alarming degree. He went to church daily, and had almost given up speech. On one of my visits—I was then in my twentieth year—I saw for the first time about the house a little lean, black-eyed girl, who might have been about ten years old. It was Assja. My father said she was an orphan whose care he had undertaken: those were his own words. I gave her no further attention. She was as wild, quick, and shy as a little animal, and if I entered my father's favorite room, a great dismal chamber in which my mother had died, and which had to be lighted even by day, she always slunk out of sight behind my father's old-fashioned easy chair, or hid behind the bookcase. It happened that for the three or four years following I was prevented by my service from visiting our estate. Every month I received a short letter from my father, in which Assja was spoken of seldom and always incidentally. My father was already past his fiftieth year, but looked still a young man. Imagine my distress then when I suddenly received a perfectly unexpected letter from our steward, announcing the fatal illness of my father, and begging me urgently to come home as quickly as possible if I wished to see him alive. I rushed headlong home, and found my father, though in the last agony. My presence seemed the greatest joy to him; he clasped me in his wasted arms, turned on me his gaze half doubtful, half imploring, and after he had obtained from me a promise that I would carry out his last wishes, he ordered his old servant to fetch Assja. The old man brought her. She could hardly support herself on her feet, and was trembling in every limb.

"'Now take her,' said my father to me with earnestness. 'I bequeathe to you my daughter, your sister. You will hear everything from Jacob,' he added, while he pointed to his valet.

"Assja burst out sobbing, and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour afterward my father was dead.

"I learned the following story: Assja was the daughter of my father and a former waiting maid of my mother's, named Tatiana. She rose distinct to my remembrance, this Tatiana, with her tall, slender figure, her serious face, regular features, her dark and earnest eyes. She had the reputation of a proud, unapproachable girl. As nearly as I could learn from Jacob's reserved and respectful story, my father had entered into close relations with her some years after my mother's death. At that time Tatiana was not in her master's house, but living with a married sister, the dairywoman, in a separate hut. My father became very much attached to her, and wished to marry her after my departure, but she herself refused this in spite of his entreaties.

"'The departed Tatiana Vlassievna'—so Jacob told me, standing against the door, with his hands crossed behind his back—'was in all things very thoughtful, and would not lower your father. "A fine wife I should be for you—a real lady wife!" she said to him—in my presence she has said it.' Tatiana never would come back to the house, but remained, together with Assja, living with her sister as before. As a child I had often seen Tatiana at church on saint days. She stood among the servants, usually near a window. She wore a dark cloth wound about her head and a yellow shawl on her shoulders—the strong outline of her face clear against the transparent pane; and she prayed silently and humbly, bowing very low after the old fashion. When my uncle took me away Assja was just two; when she lost her mother, just nine years old.

"Immediately after Tatiana's death my father took Assja home to himself. He had already expressed a wish to have her with him, but Tatiana had refused it. You can imagine what Assja must have felt when she was taken into the master's house. To this day she has not forgotten the hour when for the first time they dressed her in a silk dress and kissed her little hand. In her mother's lifetime she had been brought up with great strictness: my father left her without a single restraint. He was her instructor; except him, she saw no one. He did not spoil her; at least he did not follow her about like a nursemaid, but he loved her fondly, and refused her nothing. He was conscious of guilt toward her. Assja soon discovered that she was the principal person in the household. She knew the master was her father, but at the same time she began to understand her equivocal position. Wilfulness and distrust were developed to an extreme degree in her. Bad manners were contracted; simplicity vanished. She wished (she herself told me) to compel the whole world to forget her origin. She was ashamed of her mother, was ashamed of being ashamed, and was in turn proud of her. You see that she knew and knows still many things that should not be known at her age. But does the blame rest with her? Youth was strong in her: her blood flowed hot, and no hand near to guide her—the fullest independence in everything! Is such a fate easily borne? She would not be inferior to other girls. She rushed headlong into study. But what good could result from it? The life, lawlessly begun, seemed likely to develop lawlessly. But the heart remained true and the reason sound.

"And so I found myself, a young fellow of twenty, weighted with the care of a thirteen-year old girl! In the first days after my father's death my voice caused her a feeling of feverish horror, my caresses made her sad, and only by degrees and after a long time did she become accustomed to me. And later, when she had gained security that I really considered her my sister, and that I loved her as a sister, she attached herself passionately to me: with her there is no half feeling.

"I brought her to Petersburg. Hard as it was to leave her—I could not live with her in any case—I placed her at one of the best boarding-schools. Assja agreed to the necessity of our separation, but it cost her a sickness which came near to being a fatal one. Little by little she reconciled herself, and she staid four years in this establishment. But contrary to my expectations, she remained almost her old self. The principal of the school often complained to me. 'I cannot punish her,' she would say; 'and I can do nothing by kindness.' Assja comprehended everything with great quickness, learned wonderfully—better than all; but it was utterly impossible to bring her under the common rule. She rebelled; was sulky. I could not blame her much. In her position she must keep herself at the service of every one, or avoid every one. Only one of all her companions was intimate with her—an insignificant, silent, and poor girl. The other young girls with whom she was associated, of good families for the most part, did not like her, and taunted and jibed her whenever they could find opportunity. Assja was not behind them by a hair's breadth. Once, in the hour for religious instruction, the teacher came to speak of the idea of vice. 'Sycophancy and cowardice,' said Assja aloud, 'are the meanest vices.' In a word, she continued to walk in her own way, only her manners improved somewhat; but even in this respect, I fancy, she has made no wonderful advance.

"She had reached her seventeenth year. It was useless to keep her longer at school. I found myself in great perplexity. All of a sudden a happy thought struck me: to quit the service, and to travel with Assja for a year or two. Done as soon as thought. So here are we both now on the banks of the Rhine: I occupied in learning to paint, she following out her whims in her usual way. But now I must hope that you will not pass too harsh judgment upon her; for however much she may insist that everything is indifferent to her, she does care very much for the opinion of others, and especially for your own."

"That is how it stands now," Gagin continued. "But I have my hands full with her. A real firebrand, that girl! Up to this time no one has ever pleased her; but alas if ever she falls in love! At times I do not know what to do with her. Lately she took it into her head to declare that I was growing cold to her, but that she loved only me, and would love only me her life long. And how she sobbed!"

"So that was it," I said to myself, and bit my lip. "But tell me," I asked Gagin, "now that our hearts are open, has really no one ever caught her fancy? Surely she must have seen many young men in Petersburg?"

"And they are all absolutely distasteful to her. No. Assja is seeking a hero—an entirely extraordinary man, or else an artistic shepherd among his flock. But enough of this gossip. I am detaining you," he added as he rose.

I made no reply. Gagin laughed good-naturedly, and we returned to L——. As the well-known vineyard and the little white house on the hillside came in sight, my heart was warmed in a curious way—yes, that was it—warmed and soothed as if, unknown to me, some one had poured some healing drops there. Gagin's story had made me cheerful.

Assja met us at the threshold. I had expected to find her still laughing, but she stepped forward to us, pale, silent, and with eyes down cast.

"Here he is again," Gagin said to her, "and be sure of this: it was his own wish to come back."

Assja looked at me inquiringly. I held out my hand to her, and this time I grasped tightly her cold and slender fingers. I felt deep pity for her. Now I understood much that had before disturbed me in her: her inner restlessness, her offensive manner, her endeavor to show herself other than she was—all was clear to me. I had had a glimpse into this soul. A constant weight oppressed it. Fearfully the untrained will fought and struggled, yet her whole being was striving after truth. Now I understood why this singular girl had attracted me: it was not only the charm which invested her whole body; it was her soul which drew me.

Gagin began to fumble among his sketches. I asked Assja to come for a walk with me through the vineyard. She gave a ready, almost humble assent. We climbed the hill about half way, and stopped on a broad plateau.

"Yes," she replied. "Is it pleasant in the mountains?" she immediately continued. "Are they high? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you have seen. You have told my brother, but I have heard nothing about it."

"I went—because—— Now I will not go away," she added in a gentle, confiding tone. "You were cross today."

"I don't know; but you were cross, and went away cross. It was very unpleasant to me to have you go away in that manner, and I am glad that you have come back."

Assja moved her shoulders slightly, one after the other, as children do when they are in good humor.

"Oh, I am famous at guessing," she went on. "Long ago my father had only to cough, and I knew instantly whether he was pleased with me or not."

"You loved your father very much?" I asked, and I felt to my great annoyance that I was blushing.

She did not answer, but she also blushed. We were both silent. In the distance a steamboat with its trailing smoke was descending the Rhine: our looks followed it.

"I do not know myself. Sometimes I want to cry, and yet must laugh. You must not judge me by what I do. Ah, by the way, what a wonderful story it is about the Lorelei. Isn't it her rock that we see yonder? They say that at first she drew every one else beneath the water, but after she was acquainted with love, she cast herself in. The story pleases me. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of fairy stories. Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes——"

At this moment broken, monotonous tones fell on our ears. Hundreds of voices in unison repeated a hymn with measured pauses. A troop of pilgrims was moving along the way beneath us with flags and crosses.

"I would like to go with them!" cried Assja, while she listened to the sound of the voices, gradually dying away.

"I would like to go somewhere far off, to pray, to accomplish something difficult," she added. "The days hurry by, life will come to an end, and what have we done?"

"You are ambitious," I said. "You do not wish to live in vain. You would like to leave behind some trace of your existence."

"Impossible," I had nearly repeated. I looked into her clear eyes and only said:

"Tell me," Assja began after a little silence, while flying shadows followed each other across her face, which had grown pale again—"did that lady please you very much? You remember, my brother drank to your health once, in the ruins; it was the day after we had made acquaintance."

"It was a jest of your brother's; no lady has pleased me, at least no one now pleases me."

"What is it that pleases you in women?" asked Assja, tossing back her head in childish curiosity.

"I should not have asked the question—not so? Forgive me. I am used to chatter about everything that goes through my head. That is why I am afraid to talk."

"Only talk, for heaven's sake! Don't be afraid," I broke in. "I am so glad that at last you cease to be shy." Assja lowered her eyes and laughed; a still, gentle laughter that I did not recognize as hers.

"Well, tell me something then," she said, while she smoothed her dress and tucked it about her feet as if disposing herself to sit for a long while—"tell me something, or read something aloud, as that time when you read to us out of 'Onegin.'"

"I would have liked to be Pushkin's Tatiana," she continued, still lost in thought. "Tell me something," she cried suddenly, with vivacity.

But I could find nothing to say. I looked at her as she sat there, gentle and peaceful, surrounded with the clear sunshine. Everything about us glowed with happiness; the sky, the earth, the water. It seemed as if the very air was bathed in a splendor.

"Yes, beautiful," she answered as gently, without looking at me. "If we were both birds, we would fly high up there—would soar. We would sink deep into that blue. But we are no birds."

"In time you will discover. There are feelings that swing us off from the earth. Don't fear; you will have wings."

"Then come, come—I will ask my brother to play a waltz for us—we will imagine that we are flying, that our wings have grown."

She ran to the house. I hastened after her, and in a few moments we were whirling round the narrow room to the music of a charming waltz. Assja danced exceedingly well, with lightness and skill. Something soft and feminine came suddenly into her childish, earnest face. For a long time afterward my hand felt the contact of her delicate form, for a long time I seemed to feel her close, quickened breathing, and to see before me the dark, fixed, half-closed eyes, and the animated pale face with its wreathing hair.

This whole day passed so that one could not have wished it better. We were merry as children. Assja was very lovable and natural. It was a pleasure for Gagin to see her. It was late when I went away. In the middle of the Rhine I told the ferryman to leave the boat to the current. The old man drew in his oars and the majestic stream bore us onward. While I looked about me and listened, and called forgotten things to memory, I felt a sense of unrest in my heart. I turned my eyes to the heavens, but in the heavens was no rest; with its glittering host of stars it was in steady motion, revolving, trembling. I bent to the river, but there also in the dark, cool depths the stars were dancing and flickering; everywhere the restless spirit of life met me, and the restlessness in my own heart grew stronger. I leaned over the side of the boat. The murmuring of the breeze in my ears, the low splash of the water against the stern of the boat, excited me, and the freshness of the waves did not cool me. Somewhere on the shore a nightingale began her song, and this music worked upon me like a sweet poison. Tears filled my eyes, but not the tears of an indefinite rapture. What I experienced was not the vague feeling of boundless longing in which it seems as if the heart could embrace everything: no. In me arose a burning desire for happiness. Only as yet I did not dare call this happiness by its real name. But bliss—bliss to overflowing was what I longed for. The boat drifted further and further, and the old ferryman sat bowed over his oars and fast asleep.

On my way to the Gagins the following day I did not ask myself if I was in love with Assja, but I thought of her continually; her destiny absorbed me, and I rejoiced over our unhoped-for meeting. I felt that I had known her only since yesterday. Until then she had always avoided me. And now that she had finally admitted me to her friendship, in what a bewitching light did her image appear to me; what a mysterious charm streamed from it to me.

Hastily I sprang up the well-known path, straining my eyes for a glimpse of the little white house in the distance. I did not think of the future; I did not think even of the morrow; but my heart was light in me.

Assja blushed as I entered the room. I observed that she had again dressed herself with great care, but the expression of her face did not correspond with her finery; it was melancholy. And I had come so happily disposed! I believe that she was inclined to run away in her usual fashion, but forcibly compelled herself to remain. I found Gagin in that peculiar mood of artistic enthusiasm which catches dilettanti by surprise whenever they imagine themselves about to take nature by storm, as they express it. He stood with hair disordered, and bedaubed with paint, before a fresh canvas, drawing madly. Furiously he nodded to me, stepped backward, half closed his eyes, and then precipitated himself again upon his work. I did not like to disturb him, and sat down beside Assja. Slowly her dark eyes turned on me.

"You are not as you were yesterday," I ventured, after I had made some vain attempts to bring a smile to her lips.

"No, I am not," she replied, with a slow, suppressed voice. "But that is nothing. I did not sleep well. I was thinking the whole night."

"Oh, I thought about many things. It has been my habit from childhood, even when I was living with my mother."

"When I was living with my mother I—I wondered why no one can know beforehand what is to happen to him. Sometimes one sees a misfortune coming, and yet cannot turn away from it; and why cannot one always say boldly the truth? Then I thought that I do not know anything, and that I must learn. I must be educated over again. I have been very badly brought up. I do not know how to play the piano, I cannot draw, I sew dreadfully; I have no capacity; I must be very tiresome."

"You are unjust to yourself," I answered. "You have read much, you are cultivated, and with your intellect——"

"Have I an intellect?" she asked with such naïve curiosity that I could not help laughing. She did not laugh.

He made her no answer, but continued his work, busily laying on his colors, and with one arm flourished in the air.

"Sometimes I hardly know myself what goes through my head," Assja went on with the same thoughtful expression. "At certain times I am actually afraid of myself. Ah, I wish—— Is it really true that women ought not to read much?"

"Will you tell me what to read? Will you tell me what to do? I will do everything that you tell me," she said, turning to me with an innocent confidence.

"I imagine that I shall die soon. Sometimes it seems to me as if everything about me was taking leave of me. It is better to die than to live as—— Ah, don't look at me so. Indeed I am not a hypocrite. I shall be afraid of you again."

"If I am unlike other people, the fault is not mine," she answered. "Already, you see, I cannot laugh any more."

She was melancholy and depressed until evening. Something was passing in her that I could not understand. Her eyes often rested on me, and every time they did so I felt my heart chilled by their strange expression. She was quiet—and yet whenever I looked at her it seemed to me that I must beg her to be calm. Her appearance fascinated me; I found the greatest charm in her pale features, in her slow, aimless movements; but she fancied—I do not know why—that I was in ill humor.

"Listen," she said to me a little while before my departure. "The thought haunts me that you think me frivolous. In future you must believe everything that I tell you, and you must be frank with me. I will always tell you the truth, I give you my word of honor."

"Oh, do not laugh," she broke in with eagerness, "or else I must say to you to-day what you said to me yesterday: 'Why do you laugh so much?'" And after a short silence she continued: "Do you remember, yesterday we were talking of wings? My wings are grown—but where shall I fly?"

"What is the matter with you two to-day?" Gagin interrupted me. "Shall I play a waltz for you as I did yesterday?"

"No, no," exclaimed Assja, clasping her hands together—"not for the world to-day."

Does she love me? I thought, as I came to the Rhine, whose waves rolled swiftly by.

Does she love me? I asked myself when I awoke the next morning. I did not wish to look into my own heart. I felt that her image—the image of the "girl with the bold laugh"—had impressed itself upon my soul, and that I could not easily get rid of it. I went to L—— and remained there the whole day; but I had only one glimpse of Assja. She was not well; her head ached. She came down stairs for a few moments with her head bound up, her eyes half closed, pale and weak; she smiled feebly, said, "It will pass; it is nothing; everything passes, does it not?" and went away. I was depressed and had a painful sense of blankness, but I would not go home till very late, without, however, seeing her again.

I spent the next day like a man walking in his sleep. I tried to work, but could not; then I tried to be absolutely idle, and to think of nothing; but neither did that succeed. I strolled about the town, returned home, and went out again.

"Are you Mr. N.?" said suddenly the voice of a child behind me. I turned. A little boy was standing before me. "From Miss Annette," and handed me a note.

I opened it, and recognized Assja's irregular and scrawling handwriting. "I must see you," she wrote. "Come to-day at four o'clock to the stone chapel on the way to the ruins. Something unexpected has happened. For heaven's sake, come. You shall know everything. Say to the bearer, 'yes.'"

When I had reached my room I sat down and fell into deep thought. My heart beat forcibly. I read Assja's note several times over. I looked at the clock; it was not yet midday.

His face was gloomy. He seized my hand and shook it warmly. Apparently he was very much excited.

Gagin took a chair and drew it near mine. "Four days ago," he began with a forced smile, and stammering a little, "I amazed you with a confidence; and to-day I shall amaze you even more. With any other I probably should not—so plainly. But you are a man of honor; you're my friend, are you not? Well, here then; my sister Assja loves you."

"Yes, yes," Gagin interrupted me. "I tell you she has lost her senses and will make me lose mine, moreover. Happily she is not used to lying and has great trust in me. Oh, what a soul the girl has! But she will surely do herself a mischief."

"No, I'm not. Yesterday, you know, she staid in bed nearly all day; she ate nothing: to be sure she complained of nothing. She never complains. I was not uneasy, although toward evening she grew feverish. But at two o'clock this morning our landlady roused me. 'Come to your sister,' said she. 'There is something wrong with her.' I hastened to Assja, and found her not yet undressed, very feverish, in tears: her head was burning hot, her teeth chattered. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Are you sick?' She threw herself upon my neck, and insisted that I should take her away from there as speedily as possible if I wished her to remain alive. I could make nothing of it—tried to pacify her. Her sobs increased, and suddenly among her sobs I heard—well, in one word, I discovered that she loves you. I assure you, neither of us, being reasonable men, can have the smallest idea of the impetuosity of her feelings and the incredible violence with which she expresses them; it is as sudden and as inevitable as a thunder storm. You are a delightful fellow," Gagin continued, "But I must confess that I do not see why she has fallen in love with you. She believes that she has loved you from the first moment she saw you. She was crying lately on that account, even when she was declaring that she loved nobody but me. She imagines that you despise her; she fancies that you know her origin. She asked me if I had told you the story of her life. I naturally denied it, but it is astonishing how keen she is. She wishes only one thing: to go away: immediately away. I staid with her till morning. She wrung a promise from me that we would leave here to-morrow, and then at last she fell asleep. I thought it over and over, and decided—to talk with you. Assja is right, in my opinion. It is best that we should both leave this place. I should have taken her away to-day if an idea that has got into my head didn't prevent it. Perhaps—who can tell?—my sister pleases you? If this should be the case, why should I take her away? So I determined to put shame aside. Besides, I have myself noticed—so I decided—from your own mouth to learn——" Poor Gagin became hopelessly confused. "Pray excuse me," he added. "I am inexperienced in such matters."

"You wish to know whether your sister pleases me? Yes, she pleases me," I said in a steady voice. Gagin looked at me.

"How can I answer such a question? Think, yourself, how could I at this moment——"

"I know, I know," Gagin interrupted me. "I have not the least right to expect an answer from you, and my question was improper—to the last degree. But what was I to do? One cannot play with fire. You do not know Assja. It would be possible for her to drown herself—to run away, to seek an interview with you. Any other girl would know how to conceal everything and to wait opportunities—but not she. This is her first experience. That is the worst of it! If you had seen her as she lay sobbing at my feet, you would share my anxiety."

I became thoughtful. Gagin's expression, "seek an interview with you," sank into my heart. It seemed abominable not to answer his confidence with confidence as free.

"Yes," I said at last. "You are right. An hour ago I received a note from your sister. Here it is."

Gagin took the note, read it hurriedly, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of his features was ludicrous enough, but I was in no mood for laughter.

"You're a man of honor. I repeat it," he said. "But what is to be done now? What! She wishes to hurry away from here, yet she writes to you and reproaches herself for her own want of foresight. And when can she have written this? What does she want of you?"

I succeeded in calming him, and we began to talk, as coolly as we could, about what we might have to do.

At last we decided as follows: To guard against any desperate step on her part, I was to meet Assja at the appointed place, and have a fair explanation with her. Gagin pledged himself to remain at home and to avoid all appearance of knowing about the note. In the evening we agreed to meet again. "I have full confidence in you," said Gagin, and pressed my hand strongly. "Spare Assja and myself. But we shall leave to-morrow," he added as he rose, "for you will not marry Assja."

He went away. I threw myself on the sofa and shut my eyes. My head spun round like a top. Too many emotions came crowding upon me. Gagin's frankness annoyed me, and I was angry with Assja. Her love distressed and delighted me at once. I could not understand how she could betray herself to her brother. The necessity of a hasty, an instantaneous decision tormented me. "Marry a seventeen-year-old girl of such a disposition! How can I do it?" I said, getting up from my seat.

I crossed the Rhine at the appointed hour, and the first face that met me on the opposite shore was that of the same boy who had come to me in the morning. He seemed to be waiting for me.

"From Miss Annette," he said, and gave me another letter. Assja wrote to appoint another place for our meeting. In half an hour I was to come, not to the chapel, but to the house of Frau Luise, knock at the door, and ascend to the third story.

"Yes," I answered, and walked along the bank of the river. There was not time to return to my house, and I had no inclination to stroll about the streets. Just beyond the limits of the village there was a little garden with a covered bowling alley and tables for beer drinkers. I entered it. A few middle-aged men were playing ninepins. The balls rolled noisily, and from time to time I caught expressions of applause. A pretty girl, with eyelids reddened by crying, brought me a glass of beer. I looked her in the face. She turned hastily away and disappeared.

"Yes, yes," said a fat and ruddy-cheeked man who was sitting near me. "Our little Nancy is in great trouble to-day. Her lover is gone with the conscripts." I looked after her. She had retired to a corner and buried her face in her hands. One after another the tears trickled through her fingers. Some one called for beer. She brought it, and went back to her place. Her grief reacted upon me. I began to think of the interview before me; but I thought of it with anxiety, not with joy. I did not go light-hearted to the rendezvous. No joyful exchange of mutual love was before me; I had a promise to redeem, a hard duty to perform. "There is no jesting possible with her"—this expression of Gagin's pierced my soul like an arrow. And was not this the very happiness for which I had longed four days ago, in the little boat which the waves bore onward? Now it seemed to be possible—but I wavered, I thrust it from me; I must put it away from me. The very unexpectedness of it confused me. Assja herself, with her impetuosity, her past history, her education—this charming but singular being—let me confess it—inspired me with fear. For a long time I gave myself up to these conflicting feelings. The deferred tryst was at hand. "I cannot marry her," I decided at last, "and she shall not know that I love her."

I rose, and after I had pressed a thaler in poor Nancy's hand (for which she did not even thank me) I went straight to Frau Luise's house. Already the shadow of dusk was in the air, and above the darkening streets a narrow streak, the reflection of the sunset, reddened in the sky. I knocked lightly at the door. It was opened instantly. I stepped across the threshold and found myself suddenly in darkness.

"Yes," the same voice answered. "Yes, it is I, my handsome young gentleman." The old woman led me up one steep staircase and stopped at the bottom of a second. By the dull light which came in through a little window I recognized the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster's widow. A hateful, sly smile distorted her shrunken lips and half closed the little bleared eyes. She pointed out a small door to me. I opened it with a hand that trembled, and shut it again behind me.

It was nearly dark in the little room which I entered, and at first I did not discover Assja. Wrapped in a great cloak, she was sitting in a chair by the window, with her head averted and almost hidden, like a frightened bird. Her breath came quickly, and she was trembling in every limb. I felt an inexpressible pity for her. I approached her; she turned her head away still more.

She started suddenly as if she wished to look at me, but dared not. I took her hand. It was cold, and lay in mine like a dead thing.

"I wished," Assja began, and tried to smile, but her pallid lips would not obey her—"I wanted—no, I cannot," she said, and was silent. And in truth her voice broke at every word.

There was a silence. I still held her hand and looked at her. She was in the same constrained attitude as before: breathed heavily, and bit her under lip in order to keep back her tears. My eyes were fixed on her. There was something touchingly helpless in her shy immobility. It seemed as if she had just been able to reach the chair, and had fallen there. My heart overflowed.

Slowly she raised her eyes to mine. Oh, the glance of a woman who loves! Who shall describe it? Her eyes expressed entreaty, trust, questioning, surrender. I could not withstand their magic. A burning fire thrilled me like the prick of red-hot needles. I bent down and pressed my lips to her hand.

A little hurried sound as of a broken sob fell on my ear, and I felt on my hair the tender touch of a hand that trembled like a leaf. I raised my head, and looked in her face. The expression of fear was gone from her features. Her glance swept past me into the room. Her lips were a little apart, her forehead white as marble, and the hair pushed off as if the wind had blown it back. I forgot everything; I drew her toward me; willingly her hand obeyed, and her whole body followed; the shawl slipped from her shoulders, and her head bowed silently to my breast and laid itself against my burning lips.

Already my arm was about her, when suddenly, like a gleam of lightning, the thought of Gagin flashed through my brain. "What are we doing?" I cried, and moved roughly away. "Your brother knows all—he knows that we are here together."

"Yes," I went on, while I rose and went over to the other side of the room. "Your brother knows everything. I had to tell him everything."

"You had to?" she stammered unintelligibly. She could not come to herself, and only half comprehended me.

"Yes, yes," I repeated with a certain bitterness, "and you are to blame for it—you alone. Why did you betray your secret? Who compelled you to tell your brother? He himself was with me to-day, and told me of your conversation with him."

I avoided looking at Assja, and went up and down the room with great strides. "Now everything is lost—everything, everything."

"Oh, sit still," I cried; "sit still, I beg you. You have to do with a man of honor—yes, with a man of honor. But in Heaven's name what disturbed you so? Have you seen any change in me? But it was impossible for me to conceal it from your brother when he made me a visit to-day."

"What am I saying?" I thought to myself, and the idea that I should be a base hypocrite, that Gagin knew of this meeting, that everything had been talked over, twisted and spoiled, maddened me.

"I did not call my brother," Assja said, in a frightened, harsh voice. "He came of his own will."

"Yes, I must go," she said in a whisper, "and I only asked you to come here that I might take leave of you."

"Why were you obliged to tell my brother?" repeated Assja with an expression of amazement.

"I had locked myself into my chamber," she answered simply. "I did not know that my landlady had another key."

This innocent speech from her mouth at such a moment nearly cost me my self-control. Even now I cannot think of it without emotion. Poor, honest, innocent child!

"And so it is all over," I began again. "All. Now indeed we must part." I threw a stolen glance at Assja, whose face became more and scarlet. She was, I felt, alarmed and ashamed. I myself was greatly agitated, and spoke like one in a fever. "You did not leave the budding feeling time to unfold itself. You yourself have torn the bond between us. You had no confidence in me; you cherished suspicion against me."

While I was speaking Assja bent forward more and more, then sank suddenly on her knees, let her head fall into her hands, and broke into sobs. I rushed to her and tried to raise her, but she resisted me. I cannot endure women's tears; when I see them I lose my self-possession at once.

"Anna Nicolaevna, Assja!" I cried repeatedly. "I beg, I implore you! Stop, for God's sake!" I took her hand again.

But to my extremest astonishment she sprang up suddenly, sped like a flash through the door, and vanished.

When Frau Luise came in a few moments later, I still stood in the middle of the chamber as if thunderstruck. I could not believe that the interview had come to an end so abrupt, so unmeaning, when I myself had not said the hundredth part of what I meant to say, and was, besides, quite uncertain how it should finally terminate.

"Is the young lady gone?" Frau Luise asked me, and raised her yellow eyebrows quite to the parting of her hair.

I left the village and made my way into the fields. Vexation, the keenest vexation possessed me. I overwhelmed myself with reproaches. How had it been possible for me to misunderstand the reason which had induced Assja to change our place of meeting? How could I have failed to know what it must have cost her to go to the old woman? Why had I not detained her! Alone with her in the dim, empty room I had found the strength, I had had the heart to drive her from me—even to reproach her for coming. Now her image followed me; I besought her pardon. The memory of that pale face, those shy, wet eyes, that hair flowing over the bowed back, the soft nestling of her head against my breast, consumed me like a fire. "Yours!" Her whisper still rang in my ears. "I have acted conscientiously," I tried to say to myself. Lies! What was the conclusion I truly wished? Am I in a condition to part with her? Can I lose her? "O fool! fool!" I repeated with bitterness.

By this time the night had fallen. With hasty steps I sought the house where Assja lived.

"No. Excuse me," Gagin went on. "I could not stand it. I went to the chapel in spite of our agreement; she was not there; she cannot have gone there."

"At Frau Luise's. We separated an hour ago," I added. "I believed certainly that she had come home."

We entered the house and sat down near each other. We were silent. Neither of us was without anxiety. We watched the door and listened. At last Gagin rose.

"This is the end of everything," he cried. "I don't know if my heart is in my body. She will kill me yet, by God! Come, let us search for her."

"Of what did you talk with her?" asked Gagin as he crushed his hat down over his eyes.

"I was with her five minutes at longest," I answered. "I spoke to her as we had decided."

"Well," he said, "we would better go, each for himself; in that way we shall find her sooner. In any event, come back here in an hour."

Hastily I descended the hill and ran to the town. I made my way rapidly through all the streets, staring in all directions, took another glance at the windows of Frau Luise's house, reached the Rhine, and began to walk quickly along its bank. From time to time I met women, but Assja was nowhere to be seen. It was no longer vexation that I felt. A secret fear oppressed me, and not fear alone; no, remorse, the warmest pity. Love! yes, tenderest love! Wringing my hands, I called on Assja, into the gathering darkness of the night; softly at first, then louder and louder; a hundred times I repeated that I loved her. I swore never to part from her. I would have given everything in the world to hear her gentle voice again, to hold her cold hand, to see herself standing before me. So near had she been to me, in perfect trustfulness, in utter simplicity of heart and feeling had she come to me and laid her inexperienced youth in my hands; and I had not caught her to my heart; I had thrown away the bliss of seeing the shy face bloom into a joy, a rapture of peace—this thought drove me to madness.

"Where can she be gone? What is become of her?" I called out, desperate with helpless fears. Suddenly something white glimmered near by on the shore. I knew the spot. An old half sunken cross with quaint inscription stood there, over the grave of a man drowned seventy years before. My heart stood still in my body. I ran to the cross. The white figure had disappeared. "Assja!" I shouted. My wild cry terrified me. No one made answer.

As I hastened up the footpath I saw a light in Assja's chamber. It calmed me a little.

I drew near the house. The door was fastened. I knocked. A window in the darkened first story was carefully raised, and Gagin's head showed itself.

"She is come back," he whispered to me. "She is in her chamber, and undressing. All is as it should be."

"God be thanked!" I cried, in a transport of inexpressible joy. "God be thanked! Now all will be well. But you know we have something to say to each other."

"Another time," he answered, softly closing the window—"another time. For this, good-by."

"Good-by," Gagin repeated, and the window was shut. I came near to knocking again. I wished to tell Gagin at once that I sought his sister's hand. But such a wooing, at such an hour! "Till to-morrow then," I thought. "To-morrow I shall be happy!"

"To-morrow I shall be happy!" Happiness has no to-morrow; it has no yesterday; it knows of no past; it thinks of no future. The present belongs to it, and not even the present day—only the moment.

I do not know how I reached S——. Not my feet brought me; not the boat carried me; I was borne over as if on broad, mighty wings. My way led me by a thicket in which a nightingale was singing. It seemed to me it sang of my love and my joy.

The next morning, as I drew near the familiar little house, one circumstance seemed strange: all its windows were open, and the door as well. Scraps of paper lay strewn about the threshold, and behind the door a maid was visible with her broom.

"They're off!" she volunteered, before I could ask her if the Gagins were at home.

"They went at six o'clock this morning, and did not say where. But stop. You are surely Mr. N."

"There is a letter for you inside." She went in and returned with a letter. "Here it is, if you please."

"But it isn't possible. How can it be?" I said. The maid stared at me stupidly, and began to sweep.

I opened the letter. It was Gagin who wrote. From Assja not a line. He began with a hope that I would not be angry with him on account of his sudden departure. He felt assured that, after mature thought, I would agree to his decision. He had found no other way out of a situation which might easily become difficult, even dangerous. "Yesterday," he wrote, "as we were both waiting silently for Assja, I convinced myself fully that a separation was necessary. There are prejudices which I know how to respect. I understand that you cannot marry Assja. She has told me everything. For her own sake I am compelled to yield to her repeated, desperate prayers." In conclusion he expressed his regret that our acquaintance should be broken off so abruptly; wished me happiness; shook my hand affectionately; and assured me that it would be useless for me to try to find them.

"What prejudices?" I cried out, as if he could hear me. "Nonsense! Who has given him the right to rob me of her?" I clutched my head with my hands.

The maid began to call loudly for the landlady. Her terror rendered me my self control. One thought took possession of me—to find them, to find them at whatever cost. To submit to this stroke, to calmly accept it, was impossible. I learned from the landlady that they had taken a steamboat about six o'clock in the morning to go down the Rhine. I went to the office. There I was told that they had taken tickets for Cologne. I went home with the intention to pack at once and follow them. My way led me by Frau Luise's house. All at once I heard some one call me. I raised my head, and saw the Burgomaster's widow at the window of the very room where, the day before, I had met Assja. She summoned me with her disagreeable smile. I turned away, and would have gone on, but she called after me that something was there for me. This brought me to a standstill, and I entered the house. How shall I describe my feelings as I again beheld that little room?

"To tell the truth," the old woman said to me, handing me a little note, "I was only to give you that if you came here of your own free will. But you are such a handsome young gentleman. Take it."

"Farewell! We shall not see each other any more. It is not from pride that I go. No; I cannot do anything else. Yesterday, when I was crying before you, it only needed a word from you—only one single word. I should have staid. You did not speak it. It must be better so. Farewell, for always."

One word! Fool that I had been! This word! I had said it with tears over and over. I had scattered it to the wind. I had repeated it—how often—to the lonely fields; but to her I had not said it. I had not told her that I loved her. And now I must never say it. When I met her in that fatal room, I myself had no clear consciousness of my love. Perhaps I was not even yet awakened to it while I was sitting with her brother in helpless and fearful silence. A moment later it broke out with irresistible force as I shuddered at the possibility of harm to her, and began to seek her, to call her, but then it was already too late. "But that is impossible," you say. I do not know whether it is possible, but I know that it is true. Assja would not have left me if there had been a trace of coquetry in her, and if her position had not been a false one. She could not bear that which every other girl could have borne; but that I had not realized. My evil genius held my confession back from my lips, as I saw Gagin for the last time, at the dark window, and the last thread that I might have seized slipped from my fingers.

On the same day I returned to L—— with my travelling trunk, and took passage for Cologne. I remember that, as the boat was under way, and I was taking leave in spirit of the streets and the places I should never lose from memory, I saw Nancy on the bank. She was sitting on a bench. Her face was pale, but not sorrowful, and a stalwart young peasant stood beside her, laughing and talking to her. On the other shore of the river the little Madonna looked out, sad as ever, from the green shadow of the old oak tree.

I found myself on the Gagins' track in Cologne. I learned that they had started for London. Hastily I followed them; but in London all my inquiries were fruitless. For a long time I would not be discouraged, for a long time I kept up an obstinate search; but at last I was obliged to give up hope of finding them.

And I never saw them again; I never saw Assja again. Of her brother I heard brief news sometimes; but she had for ever vanished from my sight. I do not know if she is yet living. Once, while travelling, years afterward, I caught a hasty glimpse of a woman in a railway carriage whose face reminded me vividly of features never to be forgotten, but I was deceived by a chance resemblance. Assja remained in my memory as I had known her in the fairest days of my life, and as I had last seen her, bowed over the arm of the low wooden chair.

But I will confess that I did not grieve too long for her. Yes, I have even fancied that Fate had been kind in refusing to unite us. I consoled myself with the thought that I could not have been happy with such a wife. I was young, and the future—this short, fleeting life—seemed endless to me. Why should not that be again which once had been so sweet, and even better and more beautiful? I have known other women, but the feeling which Assja awakened in me—that deep and ardent tenderness—has never repeated itself.

No! No eyes could compensate me for the loss of those that once were lifted, with such love, to mine. No heart has ever rested on my breast which could make my own beat with such delicious anguish! Condemned to the solitary existence of a man without a family tie, I bring my life to its gloomy end; but I guard still, as a sacred relic, her letters and the dried geranium sprig which she once tossed me from the window. There clings a faint fragrance to it even yet; but the hand that gave it, the hand that it was only once vouchsafed to me to kiss, has mouldered, perhaps, for many a year in the grave. And I—what has become of me? What remains to me of myself—of those happy and painful days—of those winged hopes and desires? So the slight fragrance of a feeble weed outlasts all the joys and all the sorrows of a man. Nay, it outlasts the man himself!

TO BEETHOVEN.

Clasped in a too strict calyxing Lay Music's bud o'er-long unblown, Till thou, Beethoven, breathed her spring: Then blushed the perfect rose of tone.

O loving Soul, thy song hath taught All full-grown passion fast to flee Where science drives all full-grown thought— To unity, to unity.

For he whose ear with grave delight Brings brave revealings from thine art Oft hears thee calling through the night: In Love's large tune all tones have part.

Thy music hushes motherwise, And motherwise to stillness sings The slanders told by sickly eyes On nature's healthy course of things.

It soothes my accusations sour 'Gainst frets that fray the restless soul: The stain of death; the pain of power; The lack of love 'twixt part and whole;

The yea-nay of Free-will and Fate, Whereof both cannot be, yet are; The praise a poet wins too late Who starves from earth into a star;

The lies that serve great parties well, While truths but give their Christs a cross The loves that send warm souls to hell, While cold-blood neuters live on loss;

Th' indifferent smile that nature's grace On Jesus, Judas, pours alike; Th' indifferent frown on nature's face When luminous lightnings blindly strike;

The sailor praying on his knees Along with him that's cursing God— Whose wives and babes may starve or freeze, Yet Nature will not stir a clod.

If winds of question blow from out The large sea-caverns of thy notes, They do but clear each cloud of doubt That round a high-path'd purpose floats.

As: why one blind by nature's act Still feels no law in mercy bend, No pitfall from his feet retract, No storm cry out, Take shelter, friend!

Or, Can the truth be best for them That have not stomachs for its strength? Or, Will the sap in Culture's stem E'er reach life's furthest fibre-length?

How to know all, save knowingness; To grasp, yet loosen, feeling's rein; To sink no manhood in success; To look with pleasure upon pain;

How, teased by small mixt social claims, To lose no large simplicity; How through all clear-seen crimes and shames To move with manly purity;

How, justly, yet with loving eyes, Pure art from cleverness to part; To know the Clever good and wise, Yet haunt the lonesome heights of Art.

O Psalmist of the weak, the strong, O Troubadour of love and strife, Co-Litanist of right and wrong, Sole Hymner of the whole of life,

I know not how, I care not why, Thy music brings this broil at ease, And melts my passion's mortal cry In satisfying symphonies.

Yea, it forgives me all my sins, Fits Life to Love like rhyme to rhyme, And tunes the task each day begins By the last trumpet-note of Time.

THE DRAMATIC CANONS.

At intervals of varying length, the journals of the Anglo-Saxon races are given to discussing the question whether the present age be one of decadence or progress in dramatic art. Most readers of "The Galaxy" have seen some phases of this discussion, which starts up afresh after the arrival of every noted foreign actor or the production of a new play. It is at present confined to the English-speaking nations, and prevails more in America than England just now.

In France there is no lively interest in the theme. The French dramatic authors seem to be pretty well satisfied themselves, and to satisfy their audiences; their best claim to success being found in the fact that English and American dramatic authors of the present day almost invariably pilfer from them.

In the course of this perennial discussion we constantly meet with appeals, on the part of those learned gentlemen, the theatrical critics, to the "dramatic canons." Such and such a play is said to offend against these "canons," and they are spoken of as something of which it is shameful to be ignorant, but at the same time with a vagueness of phrase betraying a similar vagueness of definition. It has seemed to us that an inquiry into the nature of these canons may not be out of place at the present time. This we propose to determine by consulting the practice of those authors of former times whose productions still hold the stage as "stock plays," so called, and of those modern authors still living whose plays are well known and famous, being still successfully acted. By such an analysis we may possibly settle something, especially if our inquiry shall call forth the actual experience of those living who have attained great success, whether as authors or adapters.

The most obvious division of our subject is into tragedy, comedy, melodrama; but inasmuch as it is plain that the laws of success in all these walks of dramatic art must contain much in common, we have preferred a different division for analysis, leaving the kind of drama as a subdivision common to each part of the inquiry. A less obvious but equally just division will be as to the canons regulating the subject, the treatment, and the production of a successful drama, in whatever walk. We propose to ascertain our canons from the successful plays, still holding the stage, of Shakespeare, Sheridan, Knowles, Bulwer, Dion Boucicault, Tom Taylor, Augustin Daly, and Gilbert, together with such single plays, like "The Honeymoon," "Masks and Faces," and a few others, as are better known to the public than their authors, whose sole dramatic successes they were. Ephemeral successes, however great, cannot be safely taken as guides to a canon; but an established success of long standing, however repugnant to our tastes, must be examined, even if it take the form of the "Black Crook."

The influence of the French drama on Anglo-Saxon art has been so decided that no safe estimates of canons can be made which do not take into account the works of Sardou, Dumas, and the minor French authors, whose name is legion. Fortunately for our subject, the French work on simple principles, and will not confuse us any more than the Greeks, whom they imitate. Let us try, then, to ascertain our canons in their order, beginning with the subject of the drama.

What subjects are fit for dramatic treatment, and are there any entirely unfitted therefor?

We find a pretty wide range in the successful dramas of modern time. In tragedy we have ancient history, as shown by "Coriolanus," "Julius Cæsar," "Virginius," "Alexander the Great"; medieval history, in "Macbeth," "Richard III."; legendary stories, in "Lear," "Hamlet," "Othello," "Romeo and Juliet." In comedy and melodrama we have an almost infinite variety, as much so as in novel writing. History, legend, and pure invention claim equal right in the field. We have "The Tempest," "As You Like It," "Much Ado about Nothing," "Twelfth Night," "Henry IV.," "Henry V.," "Merchant of Venice," "The Wonder," "The Honeymoon," "Masks and Faces," "London Assurance," "School for Scandal," "The Rivals," "The Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," "Wild Oats," "The Colleen Bawn," "Arrah-na-Pogue," "The Shaughraun," "The Wife," "The Merry Wives of Windsor," "Under the Gaslight," "Don Cæsar de Bazan," "American Cousin," "Rip Van Winkle," and the "Black Crook," all well known and successful plays, many perhaps being acted this very night all over the Union and England. We are not here examining the question of the goodness or badness of these plays, their merits or demerits: we are merely recognizing them as well known plays, constantly being acted, and always successful when well acted. Of all of these, the most constantly successful and most frequently acted are those of Shakespeare, Sheridan, and Bulwer, among the old plays, and those of Boucicault and Daly among living authors. Almost all playgoers are familiar with these works, and have seen them once or more; and every new aspirant for histrionic honors has one or more of the plays of the first three in his list of test characters. If he be a man and a tragedian, he must play Hamlet, Othello, Richard, Shylock, Macbeth, Richelieu, Claude Melnotte; if versatile, he must add Benedick, Charles Surface, Captain Absolute, and others to the list; if a lady, she must be tested in Portia, Ophelia, Pauline, Lady Teazle, Juliet—who knows what? Some very versatile ladies have tried all the light comedy characters, finishing with Lady Macbeth as an experiment. A short time ago there was quite an epidemic of Lady Macbeths, but that is over for the present. The stray sheep have returned to the fold. Let us return to them.

What can we glean about the limitations of the dramatic subject from these successful plays? There is a limitation somewhere, and the first and most obvious is—time. A novelist can make the minute description of a life interesting. The most celebrated novels, such as "Robinson Crusoe," "Vicar of Wakefield," "David Copperfield," "Pendennis," "The Three Guardsmen," and others, have been just such books, imitations of real biographies. But a play is limited in length to five acts, or six at most, and its time of acting has a practical limit of three hours, with the inter-acts. Each act is further practically limited to five scenes, and it is but seldom that it stretches over three, while the latter average is never exceeded and seldom reached in a five-act play. No scene can properly contain more than a chapter of a novel, so we find ourselves practically limited to a story which can be told inside of fifteen chapters, the further inside the better. The French, who are much more artificial than the English in their dramatic canons, almost invariably limit their acts to a single scene, reducing their story thereby to only five chapters. A careful comparison of successful acting plays will generally end in bringing us to one obvious canon:

I. The subject of a drama must be capable of being fully treated in fifteen chapters at most.

The next limitation that we meet is in the nature of the story. A novelist can describe his hero and heroine and the scenes in which they move. He can depict them in motion, and describe a long journey in strange countries, trusting to picturesque scenery and incident to help him out. He can give us a sketch of their former life, and tell how they fared after they were happily married. The dramatist cannot do this. He must put his people down in a given place and leave them there till his scene is over, opening another scene or another act after a silent interval. He can, indeed, put a narrative of supposed events into the mouth of any of his characters, but such narratives are always dull and prosy, and to be avoided. Shakespeare uses them sometimes, but only when he cannot help himself, and always makes them short. The nearest instances that occur to us are, the description by Tressel to Henry VI. of the murder of Prince Edward, usually put now in the first act of "Richard III.," and the story of Oliver in "As You Like It." Sometimes a short story cannot be helped, but if told, it is always found to be of a collateral circumstance not directly leading to the catastrophe. It generally is brought in only to explain the presence of a character on the stage in the successful drama. Sometimes it happens otherwise. For instance, Coleman makes Mortimer, in the "Iron Chest," tell the whole mystery of his life in the form of a story instead of acting it. The result is a poor play, seldom acted, and generally to small audiences, being only valuable for some special features of which we shall speak later. It is not too much to ask for acceptance of this second canon regarding the subject:

Is it still possible to limit the subject, and do novels and dramas differ still further? A third limitation will reveal itself, if we compare a typical drama, like "Much Ado About Nothing," or "Hamlet," with a typical novel such as "David Copperfield" or "Robinson Crusoe." These latter depend for their interest on a series of adventures which befall a hero, sometimes entirely unconnected with each other, just as they happen to a man in real life, wherein he meets many and various scenes and persons. Neither possesses any sequence of events, depending on each other, such as pervades "Hamlet" and all acting plays. It is true that some few novelists, such as Wilkie Collins, write novels that depend on plot for their interest, but those typical novels which stand at the head of the list do not. The masterpieces of Scott, such as "Ivanhoe," "Talisman," "Old Mortality," are antiquarian studies, with very slight plots; Dickens and Thackeray's best novels have no plot worth mentioning; and where perfect plots are found, it is rare to find a lasting and enduring novel. In a play, on the other hand, a plot seems to be absolutely necessary to interest the spectator, the more intricate the better. We have all seen Shakespeare's plays so often, that we are apt to forget how intricate and involved many of his plots are; and when we consider that most of his plots were taken from very bad novels which have utterly perished from sight, while the plays still live, we begin to realize by the force of contrast another canon relating to the subject, which is this:

III. The subject must have a connected plot, in which one event depends on the other.

When we come to restrict the dramatic subject any further, we encounter more difficulty. Some might hold that the interest of the subject should depend on either love or death, but we are met at once by instances of plays in which the real interest is almost wholly political, such as "Henry V.," "Richard III.," or moral, such as "Lear." Referring once more to the effect of contrast with the novel for guidance, we find it very difficult to separate subjects proper for dramatic treatment any further than we have done, and almost impossible to lay down any absolute rule to which distinguished exceptions cannot be quoted. It might be said that the interest should turn on a single action, as it does in most plays, and especially in tragedies, but here we are met by "Much Ado About Nothing," "The Honeymoon," and other plays, where two or three plots progress side by side in perfect harmony. It seems, therefore, that any further absolute limitation of the abstract dramatic subject is impracticable, and we must be content with adding a mere recommendation for our fourth canon, much as follows:

IV. The interest of the plot generally turns on either love or death, and generally hinges on a single action or episode.

When we come to speak of the best subjects of dramatic writing, we are really approaching the domain of treatment, which is much wider and better defined. There it becomes a question for judgment and discretion, and much more certainty can be attained. Instead of considering all dramas, we narrow our search to the best only, judging them by the simple tests of success and frequency of acting, and finding what sort of subjects have been taken, and how they have been treated.

Let us then come at once to the question, What is the best method of treating a given subject? Here we are again confronted by a variety of decisions, some of which seem to conflict with others, but which all agree in some common particulars. In the dramas written, down to the time of Boucicault, it seemed to be assumed as a matter of course that every first-class play, comedy or tragedy, must be written in five acts. All of Shakespeare's, Sheridan's, Knowles's, follow this old rule, as inflexible and artificial as some of the French canons, but with the same compensating advantage, that author and audience knew what was expected of each, and troubled themselves little over the structure of their dramas. Of late years another custom has taken the place of the five-act play, and many if not most of the modern dramas, while of the same length as the old ones, are divided into four and even three acts. Especially is this the case with comedies, and those nondescript plays that are variously called "melodramas," "dramas," and "domestic dramas." In the case of three-act plays, the number of scenes in each act is frequently five, sometimes six or seven, but the common modern practice restricts the last act, if possible, to a single scene. The number of scenes must of course depend on how many are absolutely necessary to develop the story. The French system of a single scene to each act has one great advantage. It permits of very much finer scenery being introduced than in a scene which is to be shifted, whether closed in or drawn aside. For instance, when the curtain comes down between each scene, the stage may be crowded with furniture, and those temporary erections called "set pieces." There will always be plenty of time to remove these between the acts, and noise of hammering is of no consequence when the curtain is down. If there is more than one scene in the act, all this is changed. Let us say there are only two scenes. One of these must be a full-depth scene, but all the furniture and set pieces are restricted to that part of the stage which lies behind the two "flats" which make the front scene. In that front scene furniture is inadmissible, without rudely disturbing the illusion. Let us suppose the front scene to be the first, and that any furniture is left on the stage. At the close of the scene the characters leave the stage, but there stands the furniture. The old way to get rid of it is simple. Enter a "supe" in livery, who picks up the one table and two chairs. Exit, amid the howls of the gods in the gallery, who shriek "Soup! soup!" as if they were suddenly stricken with hunger. Of course this spoils the illusion; and the better the scenery, the more perfect the other illusions, the easier they are disturbed by such incongruity. Sometimes the set pieces in front, if there are any, and the furniture, disappear through trap doors. In the large city theatres, such as those where spectacular pieces are constantly produced, this method of changing a scene is common, but such theatres themselves are not common, and it costs a great deal to run them on account of the number of workmen required. Our present inquiry is directed to the ordinary theatre, with its stock company, simple scenery, and few traps. Of this kind of theatre every town furnishes at least one sample. In such theatres at least it will always be best to keep furniture and set pieces out of the front scenes as much as possible, to preserve the illusion. If the front scene come after the full-depth one, the wisdom of this rule becomes still more apparent. A "supe" taking out furniture is not half as ludicrous as one bringing it in, and without a trap such a spectacle is unavoidable. The first canon offered by common sense is obviously sound:

This rule being followed, will probably reduce the front scenes of a drama to the open air, woods, gardens, halls, streets, church porches, and similar places, where the attention will be concentrated on the actors, not the picture. The scope of a front scene is further restricted by the fact that you must bring your characters on and take them off, being deprived of that valuable ally to illusion, the "tableau." If the scene be the first of the act, a tableau may indeed be discovered, but it cannot close the scene. The most common place for a front scene is between a first and a third full-depth scene, to give time for the change that goes on behind. This change always makes a certain amount of noise, and the use of the front scene is to take off the attention of the audience. This intention must be hidden at any price, for, if perceived, it is fatal to the illusion. To hide it there is only one method always reliable, which is to rivet the attention of the audience on your characters, put in your best writing, and get up an excitement to cover the scene. If you have any brilliant dialogue, any passage of great emotion, any mystery to be revealed, put it in your front scene so that your design may not be suspected, but the scene appear natural. In brief the canon says:

The next question that arises as to the front scene relates to the character of incident that should be treated therein. It is obvious that it will not do to put in a crisis or a climax at such a place. At its best a front scene is only a makeshift, a preparation for the full scene. Its employment necessitates a loss of nearly three-quarters of the available space, and the tableau loses all its power, as developed in the full-depth scene. Its use is therefore a disagreeable necessity, so disagreeable that the French discard it entirely. Mechanically it is only an introduction to the full scene, and the more it partakes of the same character intellectually, the less will it weary the audience. The best preparation an audience can have for a scene is to make them eager therefor, and the best way to make them eager is to leave them in suspense, so that they are impatient for the movement of the flats that opens the next picture. A familiar instance of this employment of the front scene is found in the "Shaughraun," by Boucicault, before the Irish wake. The front scene represents the outside of a cottage with a door in the right flat; the peasants and other characters come in, talk about the wake, and enter the house one after another. In this scene it is also explained that the supposed corpse is not dead, but shamming, so that there is no tragic interest associated with the coming scene, but every one is anxious to see it. At last all the characters are off, the flats are drawn aside, and the celebrated Irish wake makes its appearance, taking the whole depth of the stage. The audience is satisfied, and the front scene has answered its end, as expressed in this canon:

VII. Front scenes ought to terminate in a suspense, which the following scene will relieve.

From this canon it follows that the front scene should deal only with explanatory and dependent matters, not the principal action of the drama. Sheridan, in "The Rivals" and the "School for Scandal," opens his first acts with front scenes, which introduce little of the matter of the story. I am inclined to think that he had a reason for this which still prevails, in the noise made by the audience. The beginning of the first act of most plays is distinguished in the auditorium by much shuffling of feet, opening of doors, taking of seats, especially by those who take the reserved seats in front of the house. All this disturbs the audience and makes them lose any fine points at the beginning of a play, unless the actors strain their voices unduly. In a front scene the flats immediately behind the actors serve as a sounding board for the voice, and reduce the volume of space to be filled by the speakers. The advantage gained in this way is balanced by the loss to the eye in losing the full-depth scene, wherefore this method of opening a play is not much in favor; but its use in the cases mentioned leads to a general canon as to the first act of a play, which also recommends itself to common sense:

VIII. Avoid fine points, and have plenty of action at the beginning of the first act.

This rule, however safe and sensible, is hampered by the necessities of the subject, to which everything must be subordinated. Let us see how the greatest masters of dramatic construction in modern times open their first acts. Of these Boucicault comes first, facile princeps. We will take the "Shaughraun" and "Flying Scud" for examples. Both open in a similar manner: in the first a young woman, in the second an old man, engaged in household work, singing away at nothing particular. A quiet picture not requiring close attention. To each, enter a disturber, somewhat disagreeable, arresting attention. A short squabble, then more characters coming on, one or more at a time, till the stage is pretty full, and no flagging of interest. The act does not drag. Compare this with Sardou's "Frou-Frou," "Fernande," and others. Sardou's first acts almost invariably drag, and the success does not come till afterward. One great difference is immediately perceptible. Sardou almost always brings on his people in pairs, and takes them off together, leaving the first act a succession of dualogues, with very little action. Now take "The Lady of Lyons," an old success, which nowhere drags. It opens with a picture, mother and daughter, doing nothing particular. Enter disagreeable Beauseant, who makes an offer and is rejected. A mild excitement at once arises, shut in by a front scene, short, lively, and spirited, where Glavis and Beauseant plot for revenge on Pauline. The scene ends in suspense, the actors having gone for Claude Melnotte, and the flats draw aside, revealing Melnotte's cottage and introducing the hero. By this time the audience is quiet and can take the fine points, so the third scene of the first act can be made exciting. There is thus no flagging of interest in either Bulwer or Boucicault. One does the thing in three scenes, the other in a single scene, but both employ the same means, which are thus expressed:

IX. Open the first act with a quiet picture, and bring in the disturbing element at once. Having aroused attention, bring on all your characters, and end with an excitement. Avoid bringing on characters in pairs in this act.

The first act of a play is always surrounded with difficulties. The interest of the audience has to be aroused, and all the characters brought in. Every part of it must hang together, and the attention must be excited more and more as the act progresses. This rule applies to the whole play likewise, but in the first act it is especially necessary, because there are so many things to divert attention, and the object of the act is to catch it. After a certain period it must flag, and the object of the dramatist must be to close his act before that dreadful period. The office of the first act is to prepare for the second; therefore it resembles the front scene in one important principle—it should end in suspense, and make the audience eager for the second act. Ending as it should in a full scene, it has the advantage over the front scene that a tableau is possible, and should be used. This tableau must be natural, and must come, as all tableaux come, out of a climax, but the climax must not be complete. It must leave the audience in suspense, and give them something to talk about in the inter-act. It must not be too long delayed, or the act will drag. These and various other reasons have led to this further canon, generally observed:

X. The first act should be the shortest, and as soon as a partial climax is reached the curtain should come down. The tableau and action should indicate suspense and preparation.

This general rule indicates that the villain should be temporarily triumphant, if the play is to end in his discomfiture. If his first scheme fails in the first act, it is difficult to arouse interest in the nominally imperilled innocence which is left in danger. The structure becomes too artificial, and the dictum ars est celare artem has been violated. No rule is so safe in dramatic writing, as also in acting. The end is—illusion.

The rule of putting only suspensory and preparatory action in the first act is universally followed by Shakespeare and all other successful writers of plays, and is better settled than any other. The first act occupies the office of the first volume of a novel, explaining all the story. Very frequently, in the modern French drama especially, it assumes the form of a prologue, the action transpiring at an interval of several years, sometimes a whole generation, before the rest of the play. Only one instance of this character is found in Shakespeare, in the "Winter's Tale," where the action of the drama demands a prologue, but it is quite common in modern times, while another custom of Shakespeare's—that of dividing a historical play into two "parts"—has quite gone out of fashion. Its only modern example is that of Wagner's opera of the "Niebelungen Ring," which takes a week to get through. The Chinese and Japanese have a strong taste for this kind of play, but the practice has vanished from Anglo-Saxon civilization. It must be confessed that the employment of a prologue is rather a clumsy way of opening a play. It is too apt to be complete in itself, and to join clumsily to the rest of the drama. Besides this, it is hard to preserve the illusion that the small child who appears in the prologue has developed into the good-looking young person who is the heroine of the rest of the play. The "Sea of Ice" is a familiar instance of this sort of thing, where the same actress who personates the mother in the first act, and gets drowned, blossoms into a girl of eighteen in the second act, supposed to be her own daughter, last seen as a small child. In "Winter's Tale" there is nothing of this. The supposed Perdita of Act I. is merely a rag baby, and mother and child reappear together thereafter. In cases where the interval between prologue and play is limited to a year or two, this objection does not apply; in fact such prologues are quite common and useful. The fanciful and magic prologue to the "Marble Heart" is a very happy instance of conquest of the difficulties inherent in long separated prologues. The wrench is so sudden from a Greek sculptor to a French sculptor, from Athenian dresses to Parisian, that the main interest of the play lies in the identification of the ancient characters in the new dress, and the very fanciful absurdity of the plot lends it an air of reality essentially dramatic. The end is illusion, and illusion it is.

There is little more clear and positive to be said about the first act. Study of the best models will reveal many points inherent in all, but no general rules so clear as those of brevity, action, and suspense. The practical limit of time is from fifteen to thirty minutes, the medium of twenty being common to mono-scenic acts, but on this no positive canon can be ascertained. It depends on the interest, and only this general rule is partially true, that no interest can carry an audience through a first act of forty-five minutes.

We next come to the middle acts of the play, and here again general rules are hard to find. The number of acts varies so much that nothing positive can be said except as regards fixed lengths of drama. Treating all between the first and last acts as a whole, the first certain rule that meets us is this truism:

XI. From the second to the last act the interest must be regularly increased, and each act must end in suspense, leading to the next.

Without an observance of this rule no play can ever be permanently successful as a general thing. There have been some poor plays with little interest, that have been bolstered up for a time by the force of a single character, portrayed by a peculiar actor, but in that case the play becomes a mere "star play," not amenable to the common rules, and useless out of the hands of the peculiar star who owns it. Of such are those multiform dramas, constantly varying, of which Mr. Sothern makes Lord Dundreary and Sam the central figures. The actor found he had made a lucky hit in his character, and he hired out the work of altering the play to any sort of literary hacks, so that he himself is really the creator of the plays, and when he dies they will die. In the "American Cousin," as it was first played, the interest lay entirely in Asa Trenchard, and the drama was very skilfully constructed, with ascending interest, to develop the ideal Yankee. In that part Jefferson made his first public hit. As soon as he found that Dundreary had stolen the play from its hero, Jefferson was wise enough to drop the contest between high comedy and broad farce, in which the latter must conquer when they come together. By taking up the ideal Dutchman (or rather German, as he makes it) in Rip Van Winkle, he created a part of which no one can deprive him, but which will probably die with him. No one else has succeeded with it to the same degree, and "Rip Van Winkle" stands as a model of a successful star play, wherein all the interest hangs on a single character.

It is not the intention of this article to enter into the question of what constitutes the interest of such plays as "Rip Van Winkle." To do so would be to enter into a field where everything is uncertain, and where judgment is only an expression of individual liking. The main elements of the success appear to be humor and pathos, those twin brethren of genius whose identity and individuality are frequently so inextricable from each other. Both are drawn in broad, simple lights and shadows, so that the simplest audience can take the points, while the most cultivated members of that audience are studying the delicate touches of the actor. The contrast between—but we must refrain from the digression, however tempting. We are examining the dramatic canons, and the only settled canons about which there is little doubt are those relating to construction, not to sources of interest. In the kingdom of invention genius is supreme, and amenable to no rules. Each writer must work out his own salvation.

Constructively it is obvious that the number of acts in a play must be regulated by the number of natural episodes in the action of its subject; and the perfection of its construction is tested by the liberties that can be taken with the acts and scenes. Of late years it has become the fashion to alter and remodel Shakespeare's and other old plays, by changing scenes and acts, cutting out and putting in. To an ardent worshipper of Shakespeare as read, these alterations frequently appear desecrations, but there is little question that they were and are improvements. The construction of many of Shakespeare's plays is decidedly faulty, and the nature of the improvements made by managers and actors is best illustrated when the original play unaltered is tried against the adaptation. The acting edition of "Richard III." is a familiar instance of this. Colley Cibber arranged it, he being a shrewd old actor and manager. His edition holds the stage today, and always succeeds, where the original "Richard" fails. In this matter of construction the chances are all in favor of the improvement of a work by a shrewd adapter. His attention is directed to only one thing, the successful presentation of the play. He is not an artist so much as a workman. He creates nothing, he only alters and improves. He may be perfectly incapable of creating an ideal character, while yet he can make its language more compact, can concentrate its action. Such an adapter is a skilful gardener. He cannot create the fruit tree, but he can prune it, and stimulate it to the perfection of fruit-bearing.

The French stage has been a prolific nursery for these skilful workmen, and they have managed to extract splendid successes from their work. It is by comparing their English adaptations with a simple translation of the work that one best sees the improvement. For instance, there is the "Two Orphans," with a plot and incidents so repulsive in the original that its translation failed in London in spite of its weird power. Adapted and cleansed by a clever American author, it was the great success of last year in New York, and is now running a fresh career of success. Another instance that occurs is Sardou's "Fernande." It was altered and adapted in New York by Augustin Daly, and succeeded. Another version by Mr. Schönberg, then of Wallack's, a straight translation, failed to secure a hearing in Boston, and ended in a lawsuit. This was not for want of merit in the translation, which was excellent, but, as appears from a comparison of the two plays, simply because Daly had improved on Sardou. The alterations were small, but masterly, and showed that Daly understood his business. In Sardou's play there appears a certain character, a young count (I forget his name) who comes in at the beginning of the first act, the close of the last. In the last he has some very important business to do, but he appears nowhere else. Of himself he does not aid the plot, but his last action is indispensable. In the original play also appears the Spanish Commander, a mere sketch in the first act. Daly suppressed the Count altogether, gave his best business to the Commander, and brought the latter in all through the play. The result was one good character instead of two poor ones, and indicates a canon which can be confirmed by many other instances. This canon shapes itself something like this:

XII. Concentrate the interest on few characters, and avoid numerous unimportant parts.

This canon rests on the necessities of a stock company, as those before rest on the nature of scenery and audiences. Every company has its leading man, leading lady, low comedians, old man and old woman, and those ordinary characters which all playgoers know by heart. If the play does not fit these, it will not succeed. The appreciation of this fact is one secret of the great success of Boucicault, Daly, and Lester Wallack as play writers. They know the exact capacity of their stages and companies from long experience, and write their plays to fit them. With even ordinary talents they would have a great advantage to start with over writers of greater genius, writing with vague ideas of what the manager wants. As managers they know exactly what they want, and what their companies can do. To a young writer the difficulties are all in the start, unless he be an actor, or so closely related to actors or managers as to be able to get behind the scenes at all times, and become familiar with scenery, traps, machinery, rehearsals, and all the details of the business of theatricals. In former times, especially two centuries ago, the task of writing a good acting play was far easier than now. Scenery was simple, access behind the scenes easier—there was not such a wall of separation as now exists between actors and audience in a first-class city theatre. Even in those days, however, the writing of plays was confined chiefly to actors, managers, and those men of fashion who were given to haunting the green room. In the present day no amount of talent in a writer seems capable of overcoming the difficulties of technical construction of a drama. It is rare to find an author of acknowledged talent in other departments, especially in America, distinguished as a dramatist, and when one of them tries his hand at playwriting he fails, not from lack of good dialogue and literary finish, but solely from lack of knowledge of the business of the drama, the limitations of actors and scenery, and the technique of dramatic construction.

There is more hope to the American stage in the future in the production of such undeniably original if mechanically faulty plays as Bret Harte has given us in the "Two Men of Sandy Bar," than in the rapid carpentry and skilful patchwork of hosts of French adaptations, whether they run ten or five hundred nights. Our Hartes and our yet unknown writers daily coming to the front, with freshness in their hearts and brains in their heads, lack only technique and the custom of the stage, which no one can give them but the managers and actors, who shall welcome them as apprentices to learn the trade. That these latter will find it to their advantage in the end to encourage a cordial alliance between the men of the quill and the men of the sock and buskin, follows from a simple calculation. If men of confessedly small talent and low character, such as the host of lesser playwrights who furnish pabulum for the outlying theatres, can write fair acting plays, simply by using mechanical knowledge and stolen materials, it is probable that men of original talent, already experienced writers in other branches of literature, will end by producing much better and fresher work, when they are offered and have enjoyed the same technical advantages.

AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE COSSACKS OF THE DON.

Sunset on the Lower Don; a dim waste of gray, unending steppe, looking vaster and drearier than ever under the fast falling shadows of night; a red gleam far away to the west, falling luridly across the darkening sky and the ghostly prairie; a dead, grim silence, broken only by the plash and welter of our laboring steamer, or the shrill cry of some passing bird; an immense, crushing loneliness—the solitude not of a region whence life has died out, but of one where it has never existed. Even my three comrades, hardened as they are to all such influences, appear somewhat impressed by the scene.

"Cheerful place, ain't it?" says Sinbad, the traveller; "and the whole of southern Russia is just the same style—multiply a billiard board by five million, and subtract the cushions!"

"I wonder what the population of this district can be," muses Allfact, the statistician, looking disconsolately at his unfilled note-book. "It's almost impossible to get any reliable information in these parts. But I should think one man to three square miles must be about the proportion."

"And not a feather of game in the whole shop!" growls Smoothbore, the sportsman, with an indignant glance at his pet double barrel. "It's as bad as that desert where the old sportsman committed suicide, leaving a letter beside him to the effect that he must be firing at something, and there being nothing else to shoot, he had shot himself!"

"I'll give you one entry for your note-book, Allfact, my boy," interrupted I; "there are thirty-nine sand banks between this and Rostoff, at the head of the estuary; and the upper stream is all banks together—no navigation at all!"

"I should think not, by Jove, with that kind of thing going on!" says Smoothbore, pointing to a solitary horseman who is coolly riding across our bows with an aggravating grin, his dog following. Our outraged captain has barely time to hurl at him some pithy suggestions respecting his portion in a future life, which had better not be quoted, when there comes a tremendous bump, and we are aground once more!

Just at this moment two wild figures come dashing along the bank at full gallop, sitting so far forward as to be almost on the horse's neck—their hair tossing in the wind like a mane, their small black eyes gleaming savagely under the high sheepskin cap, their dark lean faces thrust forward like vultures scenting prey—shooting a sharp, hungry glance at us as they swoop by, in mute protest against the iron age which compels them to pass a party in distress without robbing it. These are the famous Cossacks of the Don, the best guerillas and the worst soldiers in the world; at once the laziest and most active of men—strangest of all the waifs stranded on the shore of modern civilization by the ebb of the middle ages—a nation of grown-up children, with all the virtues and all the vices of barbarism—simple, good-natured, thievish, pugnacious, hospitable, drunken savages.[K]

It takes us fully ten minutes to "poll off" again, and we have hardly done so when there comes a sound through the still air, like the moan of a distant sea; and athwart the last gleam of the sinking sun flits a cloud of wide-winged living things, shadowy, silent, unearthly, as a legion of ghosts. The wild fowl of the steppes are upon their annual migration, and for many minutes the living mass sweeps over us unbroken, orderly, and even as an army in battle array—a resemblance increased by the exertions of an active leader, who keeps darting back from his post at the head of the column, and trimming the ranks like an officer on parade.

"I wonder how many birds there are in that column," says Allfact, instinctively feeling for his note-book, as if expecting some leading bird to volunteer the desired information.

"Just like their mean tricks," mutters Smoothbore savagely. "First the game won't show at all, and then they come so thick that no fellow would be such a cad as to fire at 'em."

Night comes on, and the foul-creeping mist begins to steam up from the low banks of greasy black mud, driving us perforce into the cabin, where we speedily fall asleep on the benches along the walls—for bed-places there are none. About midnight I begin to dream that I am a Christian martyr in the reign of Diocletian, "in the act" (as Paddy would, say) of being burned alive; and I awake to find it all but true. The fact is, the steward, with a thoroughly Russian love of overheating, has put wood enough into the stove to roast an ox; and there is nothing for it but to bolt on deck again, where we remain for the rest of the night.

The panorama of the deck in the early morning forms an ethnological study hard to match, except perchance by the Yokohama packet steaming out of 'Frisco, or a "coolie boat" coming over from Demerara to Trinidad. Gaunt, aquiline Cossacks, and portly Germans, and bumfaced Tartars; red-capped, broad-visaged, phlegmatic Turks; slim, graceful Circassians, beautiful with all the sleek tiger-like beauty of their gladiator race; sallow, beetle-browed Russians, and black-robed, dark-eyed, melancholy Jews. We have one Persian on board—a lanky, hatchet-faced rogue, half buried under a huge black sheepskin cap not unlike a tarred beehive. He smokes one half the day and sleeps the other half, and is only once betrayed into any show of emotion. This occurs at one of our halting places on the second day, when he comes on board again grinning and whooping like a madman, having succeeded (as I learn when his excitement subsides) in cheating a Cossack out of a halfpenny.

But the appearance of the Russian mujiks (peasants), and the manner in which they curl themselves up anywhere and anyhow, and sleep the sleep of the just with their heads in baskets and their feet in pools of dirty water, baffles all description. A painter would revel in the third-class deck about sunrise, when the miscellaneous hash of heads and limbs begins to animate itself, like a coil of snakes at the approach of spring—when mothers of families look anxiously about for the little waddling bundles of clothes that are already thrusting their round faces and beady black eyes into every place where they ought not to go; and when brawny peasants, taking their neighbor's elbow out of their mouth, and their knee out of their neighbor's stomach, make three or four rapid dips, like a drinking duck, to any village church that may be in sight, and then fall to with unfailing zest to the huge black loaf which seems to be their only baggage. The whole thing is like a scene in a fairy tale:

As we move southward, our surroundings alter very perceptibly. A genial warmth and a rich summer blue replace the cold gray sky of the north; the banks begin to rise higher, and to clothe themselves with thick patches of bush, and even trees, instead of the coarse prairie grass; while at every halting place the little wooden jetty is heaped with perfect mounds of splendid grapes, sold at three cents per pound, by men in shirtsleeves—phenomena which, to us who are fresh from the furred wrappings and snow-blocked streets of Moscow, have a rather bewildering effect. But the most striking sight is (to our friend Allfact at least) the huge masses of coal which now fuel the steamer instead of the split logs of the Volga.

"You see Russia's richer than her neighbors think," remark I. "On the Don alone there are 16,000 square miles of the finest anthracite, which leaves only two per cent. of ashes in burning."

"Sixteen thousand square miles!" cries the statistician, whipping out his note-book. "Why on earth doesn't she use it, then, instead of destroying all that valuable timber?"

"Well, you see, the railways are not completed yet; but when they are I can promise you that Russia will cut out England altogether in supplying Constantinople and the Levant."

One by one the little villages slip by us: Alexandrosk, the first sign of which is the glitter of its gilded church-tower; Nikolaievo, with its black marble monument to the late Crown Prince; Konstantirovskoë, the birthplace of Prince Potemkin, brightest and most worthless of Russian favorites, who "lived like an emperor and died like a dog." They are all vary much of one pattern: substantial log-cabins, curiously painted, with little palisaded gardens in front, and red-shirted men sitting smoking at their doors, alternating with little wickerwork hovels daubed with mud, which look very much like hampers left behind by a monster picnic. Gangs of lean dogs (the pest of every Cossack village) are sniffing hungrily about, while scores of sturdy wenches, with berry-brown arms and feet, and sunburnt children clothed only in short pinafores lined with dirt, run to stare at the wonderful fire-breathing vessel as she comes gliding in.

The sun is just dipping below the horizon as we reach Semi-Karakorskaya, and anchor for the night as usual; for to navigate the Lower Don in the dark is beyond the power of any pilot afloat. Here a Cossack official,[L] whose acquaintance we have made on board, proposes to us to land and be presented to the "Ataman," or chief of the tribe, with the certainty of seeing something worth looking at. The offer is joyfully accepted, and five minutes later we are scrambling up the steep, crumbling bank—in the course of which feat Allfact slips and rolls bodily down into the river.

"There's something for the notebook at last, old boy!" cries Smoothbore spitefully. "Write down that you notice a great falling off in this part of the country!"

To find one's way into a Cossack village at night is almost as hopeless as the proverbial hunt for a needle in a haystack. The whole country seems to consist of a series of carefully dug pitfalls, into which we tumble one over the other, like fish out of a net; and our final approach to the village is only to be guessed by the yells of the dogs, which come about us with such zeal as to necessitate some vigorous cudgelling, and a shower of trenchant Russian oaths, in which our leader, thanks to his official character, seems to be quite a proficient. At length a few lights, which appear to start from the very ground under our feet, announce that we are among houses—underground ones, it is true, but houses still. Then the first glimmer of the rising moon lights up a row of log-cabins on either side, and the abyss of half-dried mud between them; and at last, following our leader, we enter one of those immeasurable courtyards in which the Cossack heart delights, pass through a low doorway, ascend a creaking, ladder-like stair, and, entering a small room at the head of it, find ourselves in the presence of two men—one old and decrepit, the other in the prime of life. The younger is the Ataman himself; the elder is his father, an old soldier of the first campaigns of Nicholas.

Seen by the dim light of the lamp that stands on the rough-hewn table, the "interior" is sufficiently picturesque: the heavy crossbeams of the roof, the skins that cover the walls, intermingled with weapons of every kind, from the long Cossack lance to the light carabine which is fast superseding it; the fresh complexions and Western costume of the English party, contrasting strangely enough with the commanding figure and dark, handsome face of our host, in his picturesque native dress and high boots; the long white beard and vacant, wondering eyes of the ancient soldier; the picture of the Ataman's patron saint in the corner, with its little oil light burning before it, and a pious cockroach making a laborious pilgrimage around its gilt frame; and, through the narrow, loophole-like window, a glimpse of the great waste outside, lit by fitful gleams of moonlight.

Hospitality has been a Cossack virtue since the day that Bogdan Khmelnitski gave meat from his own dish to the prisoners whom he was about to slaughter; and we have hardly time to exchange greetings with our new friends when we are set down to a plentiful meal of rye bread, the splendid grapes of the Don, and "nardek"—a rich syrup strained from the rind of the watermelon, not unlike molasses both in appearance and flavor.

The "bread and salt" (as the Russians technically call it) being despatched, my three comrades, with the native official as interpreter, fasten upon the Ataman, while I devote myself to the old soldier, and begin to question him on the Danubian campaign of 1826. It is a sight to see how the worn old face lights up, and how the sunken eyes flash at the sound of the familiar name; and he plunges at once into his story. Seldom is it given to any man to hear such a tale as that to which I listen for the next half hour, told by one of its chief actors. Weary struggles through miles of hideous morass—men dropping from sheer exhaustion, with the wheels of the heavy artillery ploughing through their living flesh; vultures haunting the long march of death to tear the still quivering limbs of the fallen; soldiers, in the rage of hunger, feeding upon the corpses of their comrades—all the hideous details of that terrible campaign, told in a quiet, matter-of-course way, which makes them doubly horrible. My impromptu Xenophon is still in full swing when high above the clamor of tongues rises a sound from without, which nothing on earth can match save the war whoop of the Western Indian—the shrill, long-drawn "Hourra!" of the Cossack, which made many a veteran grenadier's stout heart grow chill within, as it came pealing over the endless snows of 1812. We rush headlong to the outer door, and this is what we see:

In the centre of the courtyard, under the full splendor of the moonlight, stand some twenty tall, sinewy figures, in the high sheepskin cap, wide trousers, and huge knee-high boots of the Cossack irregular. They salute the Ataman as he appears by drawing their long knives and waving them in the air, again uttering their shrill war cry; and then begin to move in a kind of measured dance, advancing and retreating by turns, to the sound of a low, dirge-like chant. Presently the music grows quicker, the motion faster and fiercer; the dancers dart to and fro through each other's ranks, brandishing their weapons, turning, leaping, striking right and left—acting in terribly lifelike pantomime the fury of a deadly battle. Seen in the heart of this great solitude, with the cold moon looking silently down upon it, this whirl of wild figures, and gleaming weapons, and dark, fierce faces, all eyes and teeth, has a very grim effect; and even Sinbad's seasoned nerves quiver slightly as the dancers at length join hands, and, whirling round like madmen, burst forth with the deep, stern chorus with which their ancestors swept the coasts of the Black Sea five hundred years ago:

The volume of sound (stern and savage to the last degree, but yet full of a weird, unearthly melody) fills the whole air like the rush of a storm; and now, the Cossack blood being thoroughly heated, the play suddenly turns to earnest. The nearest dancer, a tall, handsome lad with a heavy black moustache, suddenly fells his next neighbor with a tremendous blow between the eyes, which Heenan himself might have applauded. The next moment the conqueror falls in his turn before a crushing right-hander from his vis-à-vis; and in an instant the whole band are at it hammer and tongs—apparently without "sides," order, or object of any kind, except the mere pleasure of thrashing and being thrashed. There is little science among the combatants, who deliver their blows in a slashing, round-hand style that would agonize a professional "bruiser"; but every blow dealt by those brawny arms leaves its mark, and the whole company speedily look as if they had been taking part in an election.

"By Jove!" says Smoothbore, with considerable feeling; "it does one good to see a real good fight so far away from home!"

"You'd see plenty such in Central Russia," answer I. "Two villages often turn out to fight, just as we'd turn out to play cricket.[M] They call it 'Koolatchni boi.'"

But Sinbad, being a man of humane temper, thinks that the sport has gone far enough, and appeals to the Ataman to stop it. One word from the all-powerful chief suffices to part the combatants; and, a messenger being despatched for some corn-whiskey, they are speedily chinking glasses as merrily as if nothing had happened. I am standing unsuspectingly in their midst when suddenly the whole company rush upon me as one man, and I find myself lifted in their arms and tossed bodily into the air six times in succession, amid yells of applause, to which all the previous uproar is as nothing.[N] Next they pounce upon Allfact, who, in his thirst for new ideas, submits readily enough; but Sinbad and Smoothbore take to their heels at once, and are with difficulty pacified by our host and his venerable father, who are looking on from the doorway.

This closes the entertainment, for it is now nearly midnight, and we are to start again at sunrise. We take a cordial leave of our new friends, and depart, laden with bunches of grapes which are somewhat difficult to carry conveniently.

"I wonder why they tossed me up like that?" muses Allfact, as we grope our way down to the shore.

DRIFT-WOOD.

"Nothing so generally strikes the imagination and engages the affections of mankind," says Sir William Blackstone, "as the right of property." Sure it is, that society palpitates whenever a great estate passes to a new owner, disclosing its vastness in the act of transit. Perhaps for this fact we may find another reason in Blackstone, where he says: "There is no foundation in nature why the son should have the right to exclude his fellow creatures from a determinate spot of ground because his father had done so before him, or why the occupier of a particular field or of a jewel, when lying on his death-bed, and no longer able to maintain possession, should be entitled to tell the rest of the world which of them should enjoy it after him." But since the law, to reward thrift and avoid strife, has established this artificial right of disposal, the disparities of fortune, on these signal occasions of transfer, always set us to pondering.

Vanderbilt, last of the three monstrously rich men of New York who have died within three years, furnishes in his will the now tripled evidence of a new ambition in American Crœsuses—an aim to keep their fortunes rolling and greatening for several generations in the exact paths where they were started. Supposing that Mr. Stewart's bequest to Judge Hilton was designed to purchase his entrance into the dry goods firm, we should have a common aim of the triumvirate, since each has put a chosen man into his shoes, as if with the hope to live on in this successor, like Mordecai in "Deronda." The master passion of acquisition is thus striving to outwit death. Astor and Vanderbilt found their second selves in favorite sons; childless Stewart could only take his confidential agent. Each conceivably died in the hope that a successor so carefully selected and endowed would in turn hand over the bulk of his gigantic wealth, in its original channel, to some steward chosen with equal care; so that ages hence the Astor fortune still in houses, the Stewart fortune still in trade, the Vanderbilt fortune still in railways, might flourish under successive guardians, faithful to their tradition and training. The John Jacob, the Cornelius, the Alexander of the past has been blessed with the vision of his millions multiplying as he would have them multiply, and haply has dreamed of accomplishing by his own foresight an entail which he could not create under the laws.

If this be the new tendency that American life is called upon to face, it is at least not hard to account for. The thirst for posthumous fame which inflamed old heroes and poets rages still in days when greatness collects rents, sells dry goods, and corners stocks. And after all, what is there stranger in struggling to prolong after death one's imperious railroad sway, his landlord laws, his massive trade monopolies, than in slaving out one's childless old age in the hard rut of traffic, in order to turn five surplus millions into ten?

To Dives, after a life of accretion, the prospect of frittering his wealth into fragments must be painful. Heirs will waste what he toiled to win. That fortune which grew so great while he rolled it on turns out, after all, but a snowball, to be broken apart and trampled by careless spoilers when he is gone. There are, to be sure, hard-headed philosophers who contemplate coolly the dispersion of their hoard. I remember from boyhood that when somebody rallied Squire Anthony Briggs, of Milldale, on his veteran vigilance in money-getting, saying, "Your children will spend as fast as you have made it," stanch old Tony answered: "If they get as much pleasure from spending my money as I have in making it, they are welcome." But with prodigious fortunes like Astor's and Vanderbilt's, the instinct of accumulation which increases what is already preposterously great may struggle to keep it accumulating after death. When Bishop Timothy sonorously declares from the desk that we brought nothing into this world, neither may we carry anything out, Crœsus in the pew below takes this as a very solemn warning to him—warning to secure betimes the utmost posthumous control of his money that the laws allow. Dombey's soul is not wrapt up in the miser's clutching love of money, but in the money-getting institution of Dombey & Son; and not only in the Dombey & Son of to-day, but the Dombeys & Sons of centuries hence. To found a dry-goods dynasty, a line of railway kings, a house of landed Astors, its owner puts the bulk of his vast wealth into a single hand—in that exegi monumentum spirit common to bard and broker, soldier and salesman. Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei vitabit Libitinam, the millionaire may then triumphantly say.

On the other hand, the Cornells and Licks of our day, wonderfully numerous, have made America renowned by their public uses of wealth, either in lifetime gift or testamentary bequest; and this devotion of private fortune to the common weal is fostered by the observed independence of each generation in pursuing its own mode of life without regard to the customs of ancestors.

But the testamentary aim of the richest trio that ever lived in America was to escape this national trait of beneficence; to substitute the perpetuity of one's business monopoly or family trade; to struggle against any serious division of the enormous fortune, even at the cost of preferences among equal children; to spare not one dollar out of fifty millions for the public; to heap the gigantic hoard, save what for other legatees propriety demands, on some "chip of the old block" or business "bird of a feather." This purpose also influenced their lives. "Magnificence is the decency of the rich," but little magnificence marked the lives of those three rich New Yorkers. Powerful, self-willed, all-conquering they were, but hardly magnificent. Unprecedented and incredible thing in America, neither Stewart nor Vanderbilt left one poor dollar of his fifty or sixty millions to any municipal or charitable purpose. Filled with his posthumous business plans, neither cared for New York as Girard cared for Philadelphia and Hopkins for Baltimore. True, each of the Gotham triumvirate endowed in life an institution of public beneficence—Astor his library, Vanderbilt his college away in Tennessee, Stewart his hotel for women. It is further true that men who, like Vanderbilt and Stewart, give sure pay for many years to thousands of employees, are benefactors. But to do this, and then to leave besides some testamentary memorial to the city where one has heaped up his wealth, has hitherto been the aim of the rich men of America. Girard not only founded his orphan college, ornament and pride of Philadelphia, but left great sums to beautify and improve the city by removing wooden houses and widening thoroughfares. Stewart, scrupulously just in business dealings, deserves public gratitude as the apostle of "one price," and as the cash-selling reformer who protected prudent folk from the higher prices caused in trade by the allowances for bad debts; but, this apart, in the will of Stewart and the will of Stephen Girard, what a world-wide difference of public spirit! That one act of grace that might have tempered his forgetfulness toward New York—the gift of his picture gallery for public uses—even this act Stewart did not do. The contrast is startling between the bequests of an Astor, a Stewart, a Vanderbilt, and those of a Girard, a Peabody, and a Johns Hopkins.

Barring the two services, doctors used, I fancy, to be the great duellists among professional men. And still, ever and anon, some irascible Sawbones rushes to the ten-paced turf, where, though he be spectacled or pot-bellied, those disadvantages rarely calm his blood-letting rage. But editors are the modern magnates of the code; not because they thirst for gore, but only because the guild of M. Paul de Cassagnac is professionally liable to give offence, and hence to be dragged to the field of glory and to die with boots on. I once saw a statement that the famous fighting editor of the "Pays" had taken part in eighteen duels, "besides having a man to kill next month"; and he was greatly coveted by a Missouri paper that had been losing its writers in street encounters too rapidly for convenience.

The newspapers have emptied their vials of wrath or ridicule upon Mr. Bennett for his duel with young May: now in horror over his resort to the measured ground, and anon in scorn at the bloodless result. Nevertheless, had Mr. Bennett failed to fight that duel, he and his newspaper would have been butts during his lifetime for the shafts of half the editorial archers of the land. A noble refusal to resent the public insult would have been misrepresented with ingenious malice, in the hope to disgrace him and ruin his property. In answer to "Herald" arguments on disputed questions, the unresented cowhiding of its owner would have been paraded by rival sheets. Rarely in business or political controversy would they have failed to taunt him with cowardice. Life would have been a burden to him; and if the consciousness of having refrained in that instance from breaking the laws of man and of God could have saved him from desperation, it would not have been for lack of the sneers of newspapers continually fomenting and reviving public contempt against him. Sometimes a man is goaded by such stings into a second duel, after having been able to resist fighting the first; or else he puts an end to a life which has been made unendurable through constant imputations. Let those who doubt what would have occurred recall the instantaneous newspaper sarcasms, after the street assault, on the question "whether a man is answerable for hereditary tendencies to receive a public cowhiding without resenting it." The satirist who eggs on a duel in that fashion feels justified afterward in invoking public contempt for the man that fights it.

What is the upshot of this comment? That duelling is ever commendable? Most emphatically no. Duelling, branded by the law, is also now so branded in public opinion that it would be waste of words to anathematize it. But what is suggested by the venom of some of the press writers is that they have never put themselves into the place of a man who, with the average sensitiveness to personal affront, and with thorough-going physical courage, had also a clear perception of the remorselessness of his journalistic rivals. From some of them he could expect no more mercy than from the red gentry of the plains. Let those who are sending their arrows into Mr. Bennett ask themselves whether they are wholly sure that in his position, with his family history behind them, they would have done otherwise after the street assault. At any rate, neither duelling nor that cowardly substitute, shooting down an unprepared man who has done some wrong, will be driven out of fashion by bringing newspaper taunts of "showing the white feather" against those who fail to resort to such lawlessness.

It was a quarrel totally apart from newspaper affairs, as we all know, that carried the editor of the "Herald" to the field of honor at Marydell. Indeed, Mr. Bennett's conduct before and after the duel was so "unjournalistic" that the Philadelphia reporters are said to have sent him a letter, while he tarried in that city, protesting that a gentleman so well aware of the "usages of the profession" ought to submit to be interviewed. But the physician does not always swallow his own drugs. Mr. Bennett, on receiving the missive, remarked that it was "all right," and remained uninterviewed, thus setting an awful example to the community.

A public attack by a man armed with a cowhide upon another not so armed is hardly a feat that excites admiration, while the affair at Marydell was in no sense such reparation for the previous insult as in common parlance to be thought "satisfaction." But one feature of the Bennett-May quarrel not unpleasant to read was the outwitting of the news-gatherers and their resulting desperation. "Had the duel taken place on the Canada border the parties to it could hardly have evaded our extensive arrangements to report it," said one journal after the affair, in a somewhat lugubrious and yet self-vindicating strain. The promptness of Mr. Bennett's movements, and his skill in throwing the reporters off the scent, lest the duel might be stopped, were hard blows to the newspapers. But theirs was no dishonorable defeat—it was one of the fraternity that beat them. Even the device of giving imaginary accounts of the battle in order to draw out the true one was unsuccessful until Mr. Bennett had sailed for Europe.

On the May side there was a trifling gain for the interviewers, but not much. Dr. May, senior, seems to have been condemned to a copious acquaintance with journalists; for, though in knowing Mr. Bennett he had already perhaps known one too many of them, his house appears to have been overrun, after the Fifth avenue assault, with the fraternity, who, in the "strict discharge of professional duty," swarmed multitudinously upon him. At least, one morning the "Tribune" said:

Here, it will be observed, is a claim to something professional in the very aspect of the "newspaper inquirer" whereby the sable guardian of the portal may know him well enough to take the responsibility of slamming the door in his face. Again, we observe here a tribute to the interviewer's skill; for, prior to the duel, Dr. May, though politely presenting himself, could give no news; but his lynx-eyed visitors had gathered from the very attitude, tone, and look of their host the material for an item as picturesque as any tidings. So the besieged householder, as we have seen, took refuge in total eclipse, leaving only a "negro in charge" to determine the status of his callers.

Yet the most discerning negro in charge sometimes proves a weak barrier against invasion. The trained interviewer can take a protean shape, and introduce himself under disguise of the most sympathetic friendship or the most urgent business. Sometimes he is the picture of respectful woe, or anon it is he who has a favor to confer by bringing news of pressing importance. Close and private indeed must be that conference whose secrets he cannot worm out. He gave to the public the "family scene of astonishment at the opening of the Vanderbilt will" the very morning after the affair occurred. Should moral borings fail, he can resort to material ones, as when, a few months since, he cut a hole in a hotel floor, to apply his ear to, over the room where a Congressional committee sat in secret session, being detected only by the unlucky plaster falling among the astonished statesmen below. He is the animal of the fable, who, having once "got in," cannot be got out until ready to go. In our war times some commanders looked upon him, coming to camp in never so fair a guise, with the misgivings of the hapless Trojan regarding the wooden horse; and it is said of Baron Von Werther that he "treats as an enemy all newspaper correspondents, even though they have the best personal introductions to him." Such fears of warriors and diplomats, who quail before no ordinary foes, are tributes to the interviewer's prowess.

It must go hard but he gets something from the sullenest and most refractory customer. We have seen his harvests at the May mansion, when baffled by real ignorance on the part of his victim; hence we may guess whether he is to be checked by a mere wilful purpose to conceal, or the whim to keep a matter private. At very worst, his own description of his rebuff will be humorous and piquant. Often do we have an entertaining half column beginning, "Our reporter waited upon," etc., and, after descriptions of household ornaments, personal dress, and so on, ending in this way:

But these defeats form a rare experience of the interviewer, who even then continues to pluck victory (that is to say, an item) out of their jaws. His ordinary career is a round of triumph which has made him a leading figure in the portrait gallery of modern society. I wonder that Mr. Daly does not introduce it at length into some of his comedies of American life. Drawn faithfully, and personated by Mr. James Lewis, the dramatized interviewer would be a wealth of pleasure.

SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY.

The old story of a bombshell filled with water and left to burst by freezing, upon the plains of Abraham, near Quebec, may now be superseded as an illustration of the power of frost. The men at a Western dockyard were surprised to find one morning that the paddle-wheel of a steamer in the dry dock had fallen from the shaft, and was broken in two pieces. The hub of the wheel, about fifteen inches long, was slightly hollowed out at the centre to admit of its being slipped on without difficulty over any uneven portion of the shaft-end. This recess was full of water when the boat was placed in the dock, and the keying had been so close that the liquid—about a pailful—was exposed to the frost. As the water congealed under the sharp wintry atmosphere of the night it expanded and burst asunder the five-inch walls of iron, and the broken wheel fell with a crash.

Two accidents, both fatal, have lately occurred from the use of nitro-glycerine for blasting. In one case some frozen cartridges were recklessly placed in the oven of a stove, while others were held up to the fire. That an explosion should take place under such circumstances is not surprising, and comment is unnecessary. The other explosion partook more clearly of the nature of an accident. A well digger, living near Sing Sing, had buried a can of nitro-glycerine in his garden for future use; and while digging it up, January 18, his pick struck the can, ignition followed, and he was blown to pieces. No doubt the can was frozen, thus proving anew that frozen nitro-glycerine is more dangerous to handle, though not so powerful in its effects, as in the liquid form. This is singular behavior and contrary to theory. In general terms, explosion may be defined as the result which takes place when a portion of the nitro-glycerine is raised to a given temperature. Now, to produce this temperature by the friction resulting from the blow of a pick is manifestly more difficult with frozen than with tepid liquid. In the former case some of the heat produced would be absorbed by the liquefaction of the solid substance, and therefore there would be less available for producing the temperature of explosion. But, plain as this proposition is, there must be some unknown condition, for it has been frequently observed in practical work that nitro-glycerine is never so dangerous to handle as when frozen. This result, however, is directly opposed to the experiments of Beckerhinn, of Vienna, who lately experimented to decide this question. He placed a thin layer of nitro-glycerine on a Bessemer steel anvil, and a weight of about five pounds, having a small hardened steel face, was dropped upon it. The height to which it was necessary to raise this weight in order to produce explosion determined the comparative delicacy of the explosive. With tepid nitro-glycerine explosion took place when the weight dropped about 31 inches (0.78 metres), but with frozen liquid the fall had to be increased to about 85 inches (2.13 metre). Thus the experimental results are opposed to the acknowledged experience of practical work in the hands of common laborers. Mr. Beckerhinn found the density of the solid nitro-glycerine to be 1.735, that of the liquid 1.599, and the average melting heat to be 33.54 heat units. Thus the explosive shrinks about one-twelfth in crystallizing.

The largest rifled cannon in the world is a 100-ton gun, made for the Italian government by Sir William Armstrong's firm. But the English government is preparing to outdo this, and already has the plans ready for a gun of 164 tons. It hesitates, in fact, between a weapon of this size and one of 200 tons, a mass of metal which its shops are now perfectly able to handle. The meaning of the term—200-ton gun—is simply this: a tube of iron and steel of that weight, fifty feet long, having a calibre of 20 inches, and firing a shot of 3,500 or 4,000 pounds weight, with a charge of 800 pounds of powder! The human capacity for astonishment has grown perforce as the successive steps have been taken from the guns of ten and twenty tons to these weapons, which must remain huge whatever further advances are made. The character of warfare with them is best indicated by the fact that the 200-ton gun must be handled entirely by machinery. The advent of these unmanageable weapons is signalized by the invention of a hydraulic apparatus for working them. The vast shock of the recoil from the bursting of thirty-two kegs of powder—enough to throw down 1,200 tons of rock in mining—is taken up by a cylinder pierced with small holes. These holes are capped with valves, held down with a pressure of fifty tons to the square inch. When the force of the recoil exceeds this the water is forced out of the holes and the recoil thus taken up in work done. The breech of the piece is supported on a hydraulic ram, the elevation of which depresses the muzzle of the gun below the level of the deck, and brings it exactly in line with an iron tube carrying the sponge. This is run up to the base of the powder chamber, a deluge of water rushes from apertures in its head, and the bore is completely cleaned out and every spark of remaining fire extinguished. The rammer then retires, the sponge is taken off, and the powder hoisted by tackle to the muzzle, whence the rammer pushes it home, and then does the same for the shot. The shot and cartridge, weighing together about 1,350 pounds, are stored on little iron carriages, every charge in the magazine having its own carriage. The loading finished, the gun is raised, pointed, the port flies open, and the discharge immediately follows. What the result of the blow from such a projectile would be is not to be imagined. It is acknowledged, however, that in the struggle for mastery the gun has beaten defensive armor. No ship has been built to stand the shock of a 3,500 pound bolt moving at the velocity of 1,300 or 1,500 feet a second.

Prof. Henry has turned his attention to the discovery of means for increasing the distinctness of sound signals at sea. It is a very large hearing trumpet, projecting mouth foremost from the top of the pilot-house of a steamboat. But he soon found that a single hearing trumpet would not answer the purpose, for though it greatly augmented the perceptive power of the ear, it destroyed the capacity of that organ for distinguishing the direction of sound. For this purpose two ears are necessary. Prof. Henry then made use of two hearing trumpets, the axes of which are separated about 30 inches. An india-rubber tube proceeding from the axis of each is placed so as to terminate in the ear of the observer—one in each ear. With this instrument the audibility of the sound was very much increased, but as a means of determining the direction of the source of sound, it was apparently of little use. For this purpose the unaided ear is sufficient, provided the head is placed above all obstructions and away from reflections.

We have before alluded to the investigations made to ascertain the reason why clay settles more rapidly in solutions of some salts than in pure water, a fact which appears contrary to reason, since it might be inferred that the greater the specific gravity the more buoyant the fluid. But the fact is abundantly confirmed, and it is likely to find important application some day in the arts. The property which every substance has of sinking through a fluid of less density than its own forms the basis upon which nine-tenths of the gold and copper, and probably six-tenths of the silver produced in this country, is extracted from its ores. It is the foundation of the art of ore dressing, one of the most important parts of metallurgy. Anything which increases the rapidity and thoroughness of the process may have a fortunate application in this art. Mr. Ramsay, of the Glasgow university laboratory, thinks the property in question depends upon the varying absorption of heat by the different solutions. When water containing suspended clay is heated the rapidity of settling is proportional to the heat of the water. This mode of accelerating the movement of fine sediments in water is perhaps more easily applied than the solution of caustic soda or potash, or of common salt. Rittinger, by a mathematical discussion of the principles which control the downward movement of solid particles in an ascending stream of water, showed that the separation of light from heavy minerals is more complete with solutions of density greater than that of water than in water alone. He found a solution of 1.5 sp. gr. extremely favorable. If the addition of heat will increase the effect of such a solution, it may become possible to separate, by means of the continuous jig, minerals so near in specific gravity as barite and galena. This whole subject of ore dressing is one of the most important questions connected with the future of mineral industry in America. In the Mississippi valley everything connected with metallurgy, from the fuels to the finished metal, will one day be closely dependent on it.

Prof. Henry communicated to the National Academy at Philadelphia his latest researches into the subject of sound, and among them an explanation of the echo observed on the water. This echo he had formerly been inclined to attribute to reflection from the crests of the waves. Tyndall holds that it is due to reflection from strata of air at different densities. Prof. Henry's present explanation is that this echo is produced by the reflection of the sound wave from the uniform surface of the water. The effect of the echo is produced by the fact that the original sound wave is interrupted. It has what the learned Professor calls shadows, produced by the intervention of some obstacle in its path. Sound is not propagated in parallel, but in diverging lines, and yet there are some cases where what may be called a "sound shadow" is produced. For instance, let a fog-signal be placed at or near water level on one side of an island that has a conical elevation. Then the signal will be heard distinctly by a vessel on the opposite side of the island at a distance of three miles. But when the vessel sails toward the island (the signal being on the opposite side), the sound will be entirely lost when the distance is reduced to a mile, and in any smaller distance it is not recovered. In this case the station of the vessel at the shorter distance is in the "sound shadow." The termination of that shadow is the point at which the diverging beams of sound, passing over the crest of the island, bend down and reach the surface of the water. The formation of the sound echo may be explained by this extreme divergence of the sound waves, for it is rational to suppose that at a great distance from the source of sound some of the dispersed waves will reach the water surface at such an angle as to be reflected back to the hearer. This was well illustrated by an experiment made to test Tyndall's theory. A steam siren was pointed straight upward to the zenith, but no echo from the zenith was heard, though the presence of a cloud from which a few raindrops fell certified the presence of air strata of different densities. But, strange to say, an echo was heard from every part of the horizon, half of which was land and half water. The only explanation of this fact is that the sound waves projected upward were so dispersed as to reach the earth's surface at a certain distance, and at that point some of them had curled over and assumed a direction that caused their reflection back to the siren.

In making chemical balances for fine work the beam is made in the truss form to prevent the bending which takes place even under such small loads as an ounce or two. Prof. Mendeleef has a balance that will turn with one-thousandth of a grain, when each pan is loaded with 15,000 grains. This extreme sensibility is obtained by the use of micrometer scales and cross threads at the end of the beam, these being observed by means of a telescope. Of course one weighing with this complicated apparatus occupies a long time. In most balances the beam rests on steel knife edges; but a maker who has lately obtained celebrity makes his supports of pure rock crystal. The steel edges can be seen with the naked eye; the quartz edges cannot be seen even with a magnifying glass. One writer on this subject thinks that with these perfect crystal edges, with an inflexible girder beam, a short beam giving quick vibrations, and a sensitiveness that can be increased by screwing up the centre of gravity, there can hardly be a practical limit to the smallness of the weight that will turn the beam. The amount of motion may be very small, but if this can be observed, the limit of possible accuracy is very much extended.

What the population of European countries was a hundred years ago it would be hard to tell with accuracy; but the nations have doubled and trebled in strength within the century. Sanitary precautions have increased in importance, and the very noticeable movement in regard to social hygiene which now possesses English society is perhaps due in part to the obvious dangers to which thirty million human beings are subjected when living together on such a small area. The medical officer for Birkenhead has pointed out that it may be necessary for the government authorities to take more complete charge of the dead as a possible source of infection. He says that the intelligence of deaths from infectious diseases now furnished by local registrary would be much more useful than it is as a means for limiting the spread of disease if the medical officer were vested with further powers in respect to the infected dead body. At present neither the medical officer nor any one else has any power to order the immediate removal of an infected body, and those in charge of it might do what they liked with it. He advocated the necessity of power being given to medical officers to order the immediate removal of the infected bodies to a public mortuary and their speedy burial.

Dr. Leidy lately described to the Academy of Sciences in Philadelphia an encounter for life which he witnessed between two microscopic animalcules. The two creatures were respectively 1-625th and 1-200th of an inch in diameter. On the morning of August 27, from some mud adhering to the roots of sphagnum, obtained the day previously in a nearly dried-up marsh at Bristol, Pennsylvania, he obtained a drop of material for examination with the microscope. After a few moments he observed an amoeba verrucosa, nearly motionless, empty of food, with a large central vesicle, and measuring 1/25th of a millimetre in diameter. Within a short distance of it, and moving directly toward it, was another and more active amoeba, regarding the species of which he was not positive. It was perhaps the one described by Dujardin as amoeba limax, by which name it may be called. As first noticed, this amoeba was one-eighth of a millimetre long, with a number of conical pseudopods projecting from the front border, which was one-sixteenth of a millimetre wide. The creature contained a number of spherical food spaces with sienna colored contents, a large diatom filled with endochrome, besides several clear food spaces, a posterior contractile vesicle, and the usual glanular endosarc. The amoeba limax approached and came into contact with the motionless amoeba verrucosa. Moving to the right, it left a long finger-like pseudopod curved around its lower half, and then extended a similar one around the upper half until it met the first pseudo-pod. After a few moments the ends of the two projections actually became continuous, and the verrucosa was enclosed in the embrace of the amoeba limax. The latter assumed a perfectly circular outline, and after a while a uniformly smooth surface. It now moved away with its new capture, and after a short time what had been the head end contracted and became wrinkled and villous in appearance, while from what had been the tail end ten conical pseudopods projected. The amoeba verrucosa assumed an oval form, and the contractile vesicle became indistinct without collapsing. Moving on, the amoeba limax became more slug-like in shape. The amoeba verrucosa now appeared enclosed in a large oval, clear vacuole or space, was constricted so as to be gourd-shaped, and had lost all trace of its vesicle. Subsequently it was doubled upon itself, and at this point the amoeba limax discharged from one side of the tail end the siliceous case of the diatom, which now contained only a shrivelled cord of endochrome. Later the amoeba verrucosa was broken up into fine spherical granular balls, and these gradually became obscured and apparently diffused among the granular contents of the endosarc of the amoeba limax. The observations from the time of the seizure of the amoeba verrucosa to its digestion or disappearance among the granular matter of the entosarc of its captor, occupied seven hours. From naked amoeba the shell-protected rhizopods were no doubt evolved, and it is a curious sight to observe them swallowed, home and all, to be digested out of their house. It was also interesting to observe the cannibal amoeba swallowing one of its own kind and appropriating its structure to its own use, just as we might do the contents of an egg. The amoeba verrucosa he describes as remarkable for its sluggish character, and in appearance reminds one of a little pile of epithelial scales or a fragment of dandruff from the head. It is oval or rounded, transparent, and more or less wrinkled, or marked with delicate, wavy lines.

In the British Social Science meeting, Mr. Latham, a civil engineer of London, brought up the question of water supplies and endeavored to find rules for the guidance of water engineers in those apparently contradictory facts which the observation of recent years has produced so abundantly. It has been generally considered that water which has received the sewage of large populations must be unfit for domestic use; but careful investigation would show that when such polluting matter has been passed into a river, and exposed to the influence of light, vegetation, etc., it becomes innocuous. This is shown by the good health enjoyed by the inhabitants of London, which place receives its supply chiefly from the Thames and the Lea, both of which rivers receive a considerable amount of sewage pollution. The author instanced Wakefield, Doncaster, and Ely as towns that draw their supplies of water from sources into which sewage matter enters, and yet whose inhabitants are healthy. The cholera epidemic at Newcastle-on-Tyne in 1853 was supposed to have been caused by the use of polluted Tyne water, and yet it was clearly ascertained that disease was much more rife among those persons who used local well water. These facts, which have often been quoted, were not favorably received by the audience, who greeted with laughter Mr. Latham's assertion that water into which sewage matter has entered can be purified by a short exposure to the air. That statement may be too strong; but there is acknowledged truth in the author's main point. He considered it was clearly proved that water derived from underground sources, or from which light and air have been excluded, is impure, and consequently unfit for domestic use. Universal testimony showed that decaying matter easily found its way into underground sources of supply. Well water may become seriously contaminated by the slow steeping of noxious matters, and be less wholesome than the water of a running stream that receives much larger quantities of impurity.

Prof. Crookes has at length announced a theory in explanation of the movements exhibited by the remarkable "light mill" of his invention. He says: "The evidence afforded by the experiments is to my mind so strong as almost to amount to conviction, that the repulsion resulting from radiation is due to the action of thermometric heat between the surface of the moving body and the case of the instrument, through the intervention of the residual gas. This explanation of its action is in accordance with recent speculations as to the ultimate constitution of matter, and the dynamical theory of gases." The most refined means for exhausting the air from the glass bulb which contains the suspended vanes of the radiometer leave, and if they were to be carried to absolute mechanical perfection, would still leave a certain amount of gas in it. But Dr. Crookes has carried this attenuation so far that the number of gas molecules present can no longer be considered as practically infinite. Nor is the mean length of their paths between their collisions any longer very small compared to the size of the bulb. The latest use to which the radiometer has been put was to test the viscosity of gases at decreasing pressures. The glass bulb was furnished with a stopper lubricated with burnt rubber. This was fixed and carried a fine thread of glass which is almost perfectly elastic. To the end of this thread hung a thin oblong plate of pith to which a mirror was attached. The glass stopper being fixed, and the bulb capable of rotation through a small angle, it is evident that when the bulb is rotated the pith ball will remain at rest except as it yields to the friction of the air moved by the bulb. It does move, swinging a certain distance and then back, like a pendulum. The amount of this movement is carefully observed by a telescope, and recorded for five successive beats. As the pith and glass fibre form a torsion pendulum, it is evident that these beats will gradually die down in consequence of the resistance of the air. By exhausting the air to various degrees of rarity, it was proved that Prof. Clerk Maxwell's theory, that the viscosity of a gas is independent of its density, is correct. The logarithmic decrement of the first five oscillations (that is, the decrease, oscillation by oscillation, of the logarithm of the arc through which the pith vanes swing), was found to be nearly the same when the air was almost exhausted as when it was at its natural pressure, proving that its viscosity remained nearly equal for all pressures. Only in the exceptionally perfect vacuum referred to above did this logarithmic decrement sink to about one-twentieth of what it had commenced with. Repulsion of the vane by the action of light commences when this decrement is one-fourth of what it was before the exhaustion of air began. As the rarity of the air within the bulb increases the force of this repulsion begins to diminish, like the logarithmic decrement, and when the latter has sunk to one-twentieth the former has fallen off one-half. All these and other facts previously obtained prove that the action of light is not direct, but indirect; and Dr. Crookes has, after repeatedly refusing to consider hasty judgments, in consequence come to the conclusion stated above, that the rotation of the light mill is the result of heat. This decision accords with the opinion of other observers. The radiometer has already entered the field of industrial science, and is used to measure the duration of exposure of photographic plates. De Fonvielle has made with it a new determination of the sun's thermometric power. He made a spectroscope with a graduated screen, which permitted the amount of light that entered the apparatus to be graduated at will. In the path of the beam he placed a radiometer, and by comparing its action in the graduated light ray, and in the light of a standard oil lamp, burning 42 grammes (11.3 ounces Troy) per hour, he found that at 4 o'clock, on June 4, 1876, the radiating force of the sun was equal to 14 lamps placed 25 centimetres (10 inches) from the radiometer.

The "tempered glass," which has made the name of M. de la Bastié, its discoverer, so well known, does not prove to be always manageable. It was to have the strength of metal, and not shiver with changes of temperature. But an English lady has found that it sometimes has precisely the contrary characteristics. She purchased twelve globes for gaslights, and they were made in the manufactory of M. de la Bastié himself. But one night, after the gas had been extinguished for exactly an hour, one of the globes burst with a report, and fell in pieces on the floor, leaving the bottom ring still on the burner. These pieces, which were of course found to be perfectly cold, were some two or three inches long and an inch or so wide. They continued for an hour or more splitting up and subdividing themselves into smaller and still smaller fragments, each split being accompanied by a slight report, until at length there was not a fragment larger than a hazel nut, and the greater part of the glass was in pieces of about the size of a pea, and of a crystalline form. In the morning it was found that the rim had fallen from the burner to the floor in atoms. In all these phenomena the behavior was that of unannealed glass, of which so many curious performances have been related.

A marine and fresh-water aquarium has been opened in New York, and both from its intrinsic merits and as the first attempt to institute in this country a valuable mode of scientific amusement and instruction, it deserves mention. It does not equal in size or arrangements any of the celebrated places of the kind abroad. Still it contains tanks of considerable size, and in them some very interesting denizens. The shark, sturgeon, skate, sea-turtle, and other fishes are represented by large individuals, and their habits can be watched at leisure. A small white whale was also at one time one of the attractions. Fish breeding is carried on in the establishment, which receives constant additions to its occupants by expeditions which are said to be especially planned for this purpose. In any case New York is an excellent point for an aquarium, and probably receives every year enough rare living fish at its great markets to maintain such an institution. The commencement now made is a worthy one, and it can easily become an important source of pleasure and usefulness. The system employed is that of constant circulation, the water being pumped from a reservoir to the several tanks. Pumps and pipes are made of hard rubber. A library, a naturalists' laboratory, equipped with tables, microscopes, etc., are either established or projected in the building.

The outcry against the practice of making surgical experiments upon living dogs, rabbits, and other animals has roused some vivisectionists to return to the subject of hunting. This is one of the principal themes of the philosophic philanthropist, whose opposition to the practice seems to be an outgrowth of the better acquaintance which man has made, through science, with the lower animals. He accomplishes his task very effectively by calculating the number of animals which are wounded but not recovered by English sportsmen every year. The official returns show that in 1873-'4 there were 132,036 holders of gun licenses, and 65,846 holders of licenses to kill game in the British dominions. In 1874-'5 the numbers were 144,278 and 68,079, showing that the disposition and ability to hunt are on the increase. As a basis for computation, the partridge season of 21 weeks is taken, and two days' hunting are allowed for each week; while three birds are supposed to be wounded and "lost" daily by each sportsman. This gives 126 birds wounded and left to suffer unknown torments by each one of the 68,079 holders of game licenses. The total is no less than 8,296,496 "lost" birds in 1873-'4, and 8,577,954 in 1874-'5. Then the holders of gun licenses have the right to shoot birds which are destructive to crops, etc., and two lost birds each week in the year is calculated to be the average. This makes no less than 13,731,744 wounded birds in 1873-'4, and 15,004,912 in 1874-'5. The total is in round numbers twenty million birds injured each year! These estimates are made by "Nature," and they correctly represent the ground on which the modern opposition to the hunt as a cruel and unnecessary occupation is based. Of course the figures are not exact. The only effort made was to have them within bounds; and considering all the varieties of game pursued in England, and the extraordinary keenness of Englishmen for sport, this estimate is probably correct. Quite lately they have been confirmed by a noted hunter on the western plains, who says that in his case a day's sport was usually marked by the "loss" of two or three animals. As he is an uncommon shot, his experience cannot be more unfortunate than the average. Such calculations show us how enormous are the results when the whole human race engages in one action. At present, English society offers the contradictory spectacle of a large and increasing body of hunters who oppose vivisection on the ground of cruelty, and a small and increasing body of vivisectionists who oppose hunting also on the ground of cruelty.

Great interest attaches to the career of the young gorilla now in the Berlin aquarium. Dr. Hermes described some of his peculiarities at a late meeting of the German Association of Naturalists and Physicians. He nods and claps his hands to visitors; wakes up like a man, and stretches himself. His keeper must always be beside him and eat with him. He eats what his keeper eats; they share dinner and supper. The keeper must remain by him till he goes to sleep, his sleep lasting eight hours. His easy life has increased his weight in a few months from thirty-one to thirty-seven pounds. For some weeks he had inflammation of the lungs, when his old friend Dr. Falkenstein was fetched, who treated him with quinine and Ems water, which made him better. When Dr. Hermes left the gorilla on the previous Sunday the latter showed the doctor his tongue, clapped his hands, and squeezed the hand of the doctor as an indication, the latter believed, of his recovery. Apparently he means to support, by every means in his power, the effort at a hot-house development of the ape to the man. A large glass house has been built for him in connection with the palm house.

The Boston Institute of Technology is somewhat noted for its boldness in making educational experiments; its efforts so far having been directed toward the introduction of practical trade instruction into an advanced school. Some years ago it endeavored to establish a model room for dressing ores and another for smelting them; but the success of this trial seems to be more than doubtful. Both of these pursuits are too extensive to be represented by one shop or by sample work. Nothing daunted by this failure, President Runkle has lately introduced a "filing shop" as the first step toward practical instruction in engineering work. This shop has about thirty work tables, each provided with a vise and tool drawers. Filing is one of the first things the young apprentice has to learn; and those who think that anybody can file who has hands may be surprised to learn that the filing of a hexagon bolt head is one of the tests for a Whitworth prize scholarship. The difficulty of making a flat surface is in that task combined with the necessity of having the faces of equal size and placed at equal angles to each other. The plan in the Boston institute is to have the student spend ten weeks in filing, and then the same length of time in each the forging shop and the turning shop. The two latter are not yet ready. These three steps form part of a two years' course in mechanical engineering, the tuition fee to which is $125 yearly. The main objection to such schools is that engineers and practical men persist in refusing to accept such instruction as a substitute for actual work. The Boston institute is making praiseworthy efforts, but it seems to be adopting a system which has never been in favor just at a time when the smelting works and machine shops of the country appear willing to unite with the scientific schools in supplying students with real experience of work as a requirement for a diploma.

A new mode of compressing arteries is by the use of a hard pad having a prominent projection, which is pressed against the artery or vein by a strong elastic ring of rubber passed over the limb.

The Harvard summer schools were so far successful that the last catalogue reports forty students in geology, twenty-five in chemistry, twenty-five in phenogamic botany, and six in cryptogamic botany.

A case in which the heart was severely wounded without causing immediate death lately occurred in England. The wound was made by a knife which passed between the third and fourth ribs, through the wall of the heart into the cavity of the left ventricle. The man lived sixty-four hours.

M. Peligot warns housekeepers against the advice so often given, to use borax for the preserving of meat. He finds that borax and the borates affect plants very seriously, and doubts whether it can be innocuous to animals. French beans watered once with a solution of borax quickly withered and died.

A young American, Dr. James by name, was killed with his partner (a Swede) at Yule Island in September last, by the natives of New Guinea. They were hunting birds of paradise at the time. Dr. James left some valuable collections which have been described before the Linnæan Society of London.

In extending the underground railway of London, the excavations disclosed Roman and other remains of considerable interest. Among the former there were found fragments of urns, specimens of pottery, and bronze coins. The most remarkable discovery was that of a thick stratum of bullock's horns, commencing about twenty feet below the surface, and extending to an unascertained distance beneath. Although the deposit was doubtless made many centuries ago, the horns had suffered so little by decay that they found a ready sale in the market. This road has carried in thirteen years 408,500,000 passengers. In 1863, the first year, the number was 9,500,000, which increased to 48,500,000 last year.

Foreign papers say that Mr. Floyd, the President of the board of trustees for the Lick donation, has come to an arrangement with M. Leverrier, the celebrated French astronomer, for the better execution of the instruments to be made for the Lick Observatory. The masses of glass required are to be made in Paris, at Feil's glass works, and the object-glasses very likely by an English optician.

Two distinguished men were officially superannuated last year: Profs. Milne-Edwards and Delafosse of the Paris Museum. The son of the former takes his place, and Descloiseaux succeeds to the chair of mineralogy. Professors Dove of Berlin and Wöhler of Göttingen have had their jubiläum or fiftieth anniversary of their doctorates. All these facts illustrate the conservative influence of student life.

The Western mines of gold and silver have lately yielded some new and interesting minerals. Roscoelite is a vanadium mica from a gold mine at Granite creek, California. The vanadic acid varies from 20 to 23 per cent. Psittacinite is a vanadate of lead and copper, which occurs associated with gold, lead, and copper minerals at several mines in Silver Star district, Montana. It is considered to be a favorable indication, for when that is found the vein is said to become rich in gold. Coloradoite is a telluride of mercury, also a new mineral and quite rare.

Dr. Piggott proposes to replace the spider's web of telescopes by a star illuminated transit eye-piece. A sheet of glass, on which a thin film of silver is deposited, is placed in the focus of the eye lens; transparent lines are drawn on the film, instead of wires, and as the star passes across the lines it is seen to flash out brightly. The film of silver is made sufficiently thin to permit of the star being seen when it is between the lines, but it appears that the lines themselves are only visible, except in the case of very large stars, when the star disc is in transit across a line.

Singular results of strains existing in the granite rocks through which the St. Gothard tunnel is passing are recorded. When the shots are fired at the end of the gallery they are sometimes succeeded at unequal intervals by other explosions at points where there is no drill hole and no powder. Workmen have been injured by these spontaneous explosions, which are to be explained only on the theory that there are strains in the rock; and when this tension is increased by the shock of a heavy explosion, the rock flies in pieces with noise. Similar effects have been noticed in other granites.

It is said that aniline colors are now used to color wines, and that enough of them is taken into the Bordeaux district of France to color one-third of its whole product. Husson gives the following method for detecting it: Take a small quantity of the wine and add a little ammonia, when the mixture turns a dirty green. Steep a thread of white woollen yarn in the liquor and allow a drop of vinegar to flow along it. If the color of the wine is natural, as the drop advances the original whiteness of the wool is restored; but if the wine has been sophisticated with magenta, the wool will take a rose color. This test is simple, easily tried, and effective.

An inquiry into the results of systematic gymnastic exercises in a French military school shows that the strength is increased on the average 15 to 17 per cent., and is also equalized on both sides of the body. The capacity of the chest is increased at least 16 per cent. and the weight 6 to 7 per cent. Coincident with this increase is a decrease in the bulk of the body, showing that fat is changed to muscle. The improvement is confined to the first three months of the course unless the exercise is then moderated. If continued at too high a rate, weakness succeeds the increase of strength. It would be a good plan to place a dynamometer in every gymnasium as a measure of the changes which take place in the gymnast.

The popular belief that the moon's rays will cause madness in any person who sleeps exposed to them has long been felt to be absurd, and yet it has appeared to have its source in undoubted facts. Some deleterious influence is experienced by those who rashly court slumber in full moonshine, and probably there is no superstition to which the well-to-do pay more attention. Windows are often carefully covered to keep the moonbeams from entering sleeping rooms. A gentleman living in India furnishes "Nature" with an explanation of this phenomenon which is at least plausible. He says: "It has often been observed that when the moon is full, or near its full time, there are rarely any clouds about; and if there be clouds before the full moon rises, they are soon dissipated; and therefore a perfectly clear sky, with a bright full moon, is frequently observed. A clear sky admits of rapid radiation of heat from the surface of the earth, and any person exposed to such radiation is sure to be chilled by rapid loss of heat. There is reason to believe that, under the circumstances, paralysis of one side of the face is sometimes likely to occur from chill, as one side of the face is more likely to be exposed to rapid radiation, and consequent loss of its heat. This chill is more likely to occur when the sky is perfectly clear. I have often slept in the open in India on a clear summer night, when there was no moon; and although the first part of the night may have been hot, yet toward two or three o'clock in the morning, the chill has been so great that I have often been awakened by an ache in my forehead, which I as often have counteracted by wrapping a handkerchief round my head, and drawing the blanket over my face. As the chill is likely to be greatest on a very clear night, and the clearest nights are likely to be those on which there is a bright moonshine, it is very possible that neuralgia, paralysis, or other similar injury, caused by sleeping in the open, has been attributed to the moon, when the proximate cause may really have been the chill, and the moon only a remote cause acting by dissipating the clouds and haze (if it do so), and leaving a perfectly clear sky for the play of radiation into space."

An English physician opposes compulsory vaccination on the ground that it prevents further discovery, and compels medical science to halt at just that point, because it forbids experiment upon methods of prevention that may prove to be better. He says: "It stereotypes a particular stage of scientific knowledge, and bars further progress. If I remind you of the great improvement thought to have been made by the introduction of inoculation by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu at the end of the last century, and ask you to suppose that Parliament might then have passed an act to compel every one to be inoculated, you will, I think, see what is meant. This method was tried for some years with great éclat, but afterward it was found to spread the smallpox so much that an act of Parliament was passed to forbid its use. Vaccination, introduced by Dr. Jenner, has followed, and this was another step in advance. I was the first child in my father's family vaccinated seventy-one years ago, several elder brothers and sisters having been inoculated. Both methods answered in our cases. But for many years I have been satisfied that other diseases besides the modified small-pox (called cow-pox) are now introduced by the old vaccine, and have steadily refused to use it, seeking rather, at increased trouble and expense, new vaccine. And the question which comes forcibly to the front is this: May not some other preservative be discovered which shall be a further improvement? This question cannot be answered so long as vaccination is compelled by law. There are no persons upon whom experiments can be tried." So far as it goes, this is valid ground for criticising vaccination laws. But the proof that small-pox is more disastrous to the human race than the evils that vaccination brings with it is so strong that there is little likelihood society will subject itself to the attacks of the greater enemy in order to avoid the lesser. The evils of the old system of using vaccine taken from human beings for new inoculations are now no longer inevitable. Fresh vaccine direct from the calf, and called "Bovine," can be had everywhere. A large establishment for obtaining it is situated near New York.

CURRENT LITERATURE.

Colonel Dodge's "Plains of the Great West"[O] is one of the most entertaining and important books of the kind we have met with. Whether he treats of the chase, the natural history of the wild animals found on our continent, or the Indians, he draws upon abundant resources of observation and experience. His description of the much talked of "plains" is new. He distinguishes three of these, the first lying next the mountains, the next known as the "High Plains," being to the eastward, and finally the broad surface of the lower plains. As the high plains are more fertile than either of the others (owing to diversities of soil), we have the singular effect of a country suddenly becoming more fertile as the interior of the continent is more deeply penetrated. Of other peculiarities exhibited in this region our author gives a vivid account, and it requires all our faith in his accuracy to have confidence in the following description of the famous Bad Lands, the scene of so much Scientific search:

His description of other features of this vast region is full of interest. The two remarkable belts of forest, called the cross timbers, stretching for a hundred miles through a trackless country, but not increasing their width beyond their normal eight to twelve miles; the extraordinary rivers, half sand, half water, the mazes of which confound the Indian, usually so acute in the field; the sand streams, which repeat in that material the puzzle of the cross timbers, and are even more inexplicable. While the desert does not narrow the cross timber belts, nor water widen them, the wind seems to have no effect on these sand streams, though the material that composes them is so light as to rise on every puff of air. Like the cross timbers, the sand streams pursue their way across the country, regarding neither wet nor dry, hill nor stream. Their origin lies in forces not yet known, and though they may seem to be the sport of existing conditions, they really maintain themselves indifferent to their surroundings. Things like these prove that Americans need not go to the Sahara for novel aspects of nature. Our author has a quick perception of what is striking in these scenes, and describes them in vigorous and pictorial language.

Colonel Dodge is one of the most noted hunters in our army, and his descriptions of the chase deserve to rank with those of Cummings, Baker, and other great African sportsmen. It is true our country does not afford the hunter such a slaughter field as South Africa has been. A few animals have increased on our soil to such an extent as to afford at certain seasons opportunities for unlimited slaughter. But the past five years have seen such destruction of the last of these—the buffalo—that wholesale killing is no longer possible on any ground the white man is suffered to visit. Three years more will carry us to the end of the decade, and probably of the buffalo hunt as it has been in the past. About five years ago a change came over the pursuit of this animal. He began to be killed for his hide alone, and the results are almost incredible. Colonel Dodge shows that in three years no less than 4,373,730 buffalo were killed by whites and Indians. It is evidently impossible for any animal, bringing forth but one at a birth, to maintain its increase against such heedless destruction. The present winter has witnessed what is probably the last grand attack upon these animals, as they took refuge in the sheltering mountains of northwestern Texas from the cold and snow-covered plains. Very soon the noblest prey of the sportsman on this continent will be one of his rarest prizes. Colonel Dodge does not lack the usual hunter's fund of anecdote. His own adventures are modestly told, and when "seven antelope and a fine dog" are bagged with one shot, the story is credited (with the Colonel's guarantee) to an anonymous "old hunter"! We have said that the plains do not rival the African field in quantity of game, but the dimensions of two separate "bags," shot in successive years, shows how great even in this country the rewards of the chase may be. In 1872 five gentlemen, of whom Colonel Dodge was one, bagged 1,262 head, and next year four shot 1,141 head on the same ground, and the author thinks "the whole world can be safely challenged to offer a greater variety of game."

But interesting as the chase is in our author's hands, the most important part of the book is that in which the Indians are described and discussed. To one who knows the unanimity of army opinion concerning the much debated Indian question in the West, it is almost unnecessary to say that Colonel Dodge wishes to see the tribes transferred to the sole control of the War Department, treaty-making stopped at once, discipline introduced, the vagabond whites eliminated from the tribes, and the never-ceasing stream of outrages stopped. These opinions, which the author shares with the Western community at large, are founded on a very intimate knowledge of the Indians, and while they are invaluable as the testimony of so competent an authority, they must yield in immediate interest to the very vivid picture which the author gives of Indian life and his estimate of Indian character. While what he says is not novel, and could hardly be novel after the many thousands of works on the same subject, his views are based on his own observation, and the facts are presented with so much force that we gain a new idea of the American savage. His essential moral characteristic is his love of cruelty. What the savage thinks about in the frequent and long continued seasons of idle solitude, it has long puzzled the ethnologist to discover. Colonel Dodge says that a large part of the Indian's brooding thoughts are given to the invention of modes of inflicting pain when he has the opportunity to do so, and many of the camp fire discussions are upon suggestions for cruelty. When the captive is brought in his tortures are not inflicted in mere accordance with the momentary promptings of a brutal nature. They may have been invented years before in some far distant camp, in the profoundest peace, or may be copied from some noted example of successful cruelty. They may have grown by one suggestion added to another, among men whose knowledge of natural history includes a marvellous perception of what parts of the frame are most sensitive to pain. The Indian's cruelty is his pride. He gains credit by it among his people, and he who invents a new torture is a leader. Cruelty is a merit among these savages. It has rewards which make this passion one of the most noticeable elements in their system of morality. No other author has presented this aspect of Indian character with the clearness of Colonel Dodge. His frequent illustrations show that it is no temporary impulse, but a race characteristic carefully fostered by tradition and perhaps by religion. But what position does all this give the Indian among other races of men? Clearly he stands apart. The cannibal may dance around the living victims who are soon to appear upon his table, and the prisoner may be made to grace his conqueror's triumph, or the altar of his conqueror's god, at any cost of suffering to himself, but no other race, savage or civilized, has ever been shown to cultivate cruelty for its own sake as the American Indian does. It is not from fear, revenge, hate, or any other extraneous cause that he studies so fondly and long over the means of giving pain. Cruelty is a thing to be enjoyed for itself. The author has spoken with such plainness upon the position of captive women in the hands of Indians, that we fear his book will be objected to in just those quarters where its revelations are most likely to do good. There is one thing which we wish he had made clear—whether the brutality shown toward captive women is a practice which has grown among the Cheyennes since they were driven from their old home, or whether that has always been their mode of procedure. In some quarters this particular brutality has been spoken of as the outgrowth of their sufferings at the hands of the whites.

Colonel Dodge's book shows a rare combination of acute observation, long experience, and the spirit of good fellowship. It is one of the best books of hunting we know of, the best book ever written about the plains, and its pictures and anecdotes of hunting life and Indian fighting are a faithful reproduction of the peculiar conditions to be found only on our great plains, with the anomalous relations of the civilized and barbarous races that haunt them. The publishers have illustrated it liberally. The Indian portraits are worthy of especial mention for the minute accuracy which makes them ethnological examples of unusual value.

The zoölogical collections described in the fifth volume of Reports, Survey west of the Hundredth Meridian,[P] were all obtained in that zoölogical province known as the "Campestrian region," from the great plains which it includes. There the animal colors are pale and tend toward uniformity, corresponding to the low rainfall of from three to twenty inches per year. In this peculiarity, and also in comparison with the surrounding more humid regions, the district of country in which the Government surveys are now carried on sustains the general theory that coloration in animals is closely dependent on rainfall, a humid atmosphere serving to cloak the sun's rays and preserve the natural dyes (mostly organic) from bleaching out. Dr. Yarrow thinks that the entirely rainless parts of this vast Campestrian region may ultimately deserve recognition as a separate zoölogical province. The observations made as to the mimicry of color which some animals, especially reptiles, exert or suffer lead him to believe that "a law may yet be formulated in this respect which will equally apply to all classes of animals." This mimicry was especially noticed in serpents and lizards found near red sandstone deposits, the well-known little Phrynosoma, or horned toad, being greenish gray, nearly white, or deep red, as it was found on the plain, the alkali flat, or the sandstone soil. But however profound the change, the skin returned to its normal color within a day or two after removal from the determining locality. In regard to the rattlesnake, we have the welcome information that it is apparently decreasing in numbers, and the less agreeable fact that with other serpents, it principally frequents the neighborhood of settlements. The collections of all kinds made by the explorers prove to be unexpectedly perfect in spite of the rapidity with which they are forced to move, and losses by fire and railroad accident. The report upon these collections is drawn up with the care and thoroughness that are such creditable features of recent American official work. A copious bibliography and synonomy is attached to the descriptions of species. The allotment of reports is as follows: Geographical Distribution, Dr. H. C. Yarrow; Mammals, Dr. Elliott Coues and Dr. Yarrow; Birds, H. W. Henshaw; Batrachians and Reptiles, Dr. Yarrow; Fishes, Prof. E. D. Cope and Dr. Yarrow; Insects, E. T. Cresson, E. Norton, T. L. Mead, R. H. Stretch, C. R. Osten-Sacken, H. Ulke, R. P. Uhler, Cyrus Thomas, H. A. Hagen; Mollusca, Dr. Yarrow. These names show how carefully the head of the survey, Lieutenant Wheeler, has sought assistance in the important work of classification. But these are by no means all from whom he and his assistants acknowledge service. The list given in the preface numbers more than forty persons, and includes the best known specialists in this country. Forty-five plates, colored when necessary, accompany the text. In every respect the report is worthy the important survey from which it emanates.

Though it is now quite common to find the life of two or even three continents mingled in one web of fiction, few writers make so close a subjective study of the immigrant's experiences as Mr. Boyesen has done in his "Tales from Two Hemispheres."[Q] In fact he stands almost alone in this field, and for a good reason; he is a participant where others are onlookers. We are often told of the impression American ladies make on foreign gentlemen, but rarely receive an analysis of it or are offered even an attempt to analyze it. And yet this appears to be one of the most promising exhibitions of human feeling ever studied. The intercourse of the sexes, necessarily the subject of all romance, may obviously have its situations heightened in every way by the juxtaposition of two races, two diverse educations, and two opposite moral systems, conjointly with the customary incidents of love-making. Our author is fully alive to his opportunity, and, short as his tales are, they bristle with dramatic scenes, and have an element of the mythical and legendary in them, even when they are removed from such professedly mystical subjects as he has treated in "Asathor's Vengeance." Even in drawing-room scenes in New York the love-making is ideal and romantic instead of calculating or passionate, as the current novel commonly paints it. This mode of treatment implies that the tales are either pathetic or fanciful, and in Mr. Boyesen's hands they are all pathetic. He shows unusual power in this style of writing, and has the natural and quiet humor which it demands. But there is a rudeness in the construction and language of all of these stories which sometimes blinds the reader to the really delicate insight into human feeling displayed in them. The author writes like one who has the conception of what he wants to do, but not yet the full command of the means. But this is a fault that practice cures, and we trust Mr. Boyesen will continue his studies in this essentially novel and peculiarly promising field of literature.

—In "Captain Mago"[R] we have a kind of book which with proper attention may be made extremely interesting and valuable. It is an attempt to reconstruct the life of three thousand years ago, not merely among the Phœnicians, but in many other countries. Under the guise of an expedition sent by the King of Tyre to Tarshish for the purpose of collecting materials for the Jewish temple which King David was then planning, we are taken to Judæa, Egypt, Crete, Italy, Spain, France, England, and Africa. Such an expedition of course gives the author an opportunity to present a panoramic view of the civilization in those countries thirty centuries ago. We cannot say that he has performed the task well. He dwells too much upon what he imagines to be the language and conversation of the ancients and too little on those material facts in their life which can be proved or plausibly imagined from the remains of it which we have gathered. Ancient habits are but very obscurely exhibited in the rude tools, the fragments of village houses, the necklace of the Man of Mentone, the whistles and other toys of the caves, the funereal fireplaces, and similar objects, but they are much more plainly discernible than are the peculiarities of speech which must have made up the bulk of daily conversation among our ancestors. A reconstruction of ancient life based on a good knowledge of these objects is likely to be more instructive and real than one that depends for its force on a fanciful conception of their thouing and theeing, their love-making, and what oaths they swore. In fact, real service could be done to "popular" science by a book that should exhibit our remote forefathers as we really know them, and not attempting to go beyond that point. Difficult as it will necessarily be to make such an undertaking successful, we have no doubt that it will one day be accomplished. "Captain Mago," though falling far short even of excellence in this field, is nevertheless an interesting and peculiar book.

—The defect of "Captain Mago" is that its author has endeavored to reconstruct from remains of a purely literary kind the life of a time which was antecedent to the most of our oldest literature. Another author, Mr. Mahaffy, has had great success in a similar field because he chose for reconstruction a society which has left literary monuments of a very varied character and great abundance. His "Social Life in Greece" and other works about the ancient Greeks were written before he ever saw that historic country, and yet he tells us in his last work,[S] written after a personal visit and stay of some time, that his former writings were sufficiently true to the Greece of to-day to deceive living Greeks into the belief that he had been intimately acquainted with their landscapes and familiar customs. Mr. Mahaffy's "Rambles" among modern Greeks are a very interesting finish to his idealizations of their ancestors. It is comforting to know that after all her spoliations the country is still so rich in remains of ancient art as to retain more fine and pure specimens of the best work than are to be found in all the rest of the world. Very little is done toward uncovering and nothing toward restoring these sculptures, for the Greeks are jealous of foreigners and unable or not sufficiently interested to do this themselves. They are willing to allow others to do the work, but Greece must have all the profit. Still, there the works lie, and may be recovered at some future day. We may even be comforted to think they are well covered with soil, for the present inhabitants of the country, with exquisite barbarity that their ancestors could not have practised, use the standing monuments of art as a mark for pistol practice! Another point in which they show a constitutional divergence from their forefathers is in the singular barrenness that has fallen upon their women. Once their land teemed with a native-born population. Now the household remains so long childless that it is very common to find the wife's mother a permanent member of the household, being retained for companionship! Even the mature family contains but few children, and this in the best agricultural parts of the country. While these differences exist the author is not at a loss to find strange resemblances. The yellow hair and fair complexion, the forms which are even now types of the same race that stood for the old statues, the language, and a multitude of other things prove that the old race continues in purity and that Greece is not now filled with a mere mixture of Turks, Albanians, and Sclaves. Our author has a poor opinion of the Greek's capacity for government, and likens them to the Irish. He thinks that both these races are constitutionally incapable of government, and need subjugation by a foreigner. In this characteristic he finds a strong resemblance between the modern and the ancient Greek, for both have suffered personal jealousy to outweigh the strongest promptings of patriotism. Mr. Mahaffy shows himself to be as able as an observer as he is as an historian.

—The peculiar character of De Quincey's work gives unusual opportunity for such a volume of selections as this, published under the untasteful name of "Beauties."[T] He had all the mental power required for sustained efforts in composition, though his plans for such works were always defeated by physical weakness. His productions, therefore, though incomplete, are not those of a literary trifler. His genius and methods seem to be especially suited to the tastes of the present day, for he excelled in the qualities that make the professional magazinist: great learning, research, and acuteness, combined with a humor that sports most waywardly through everything he wrote, a vivid fancy, a wonderful use of words, and a style which even in its faults exhibits the needs of periodical literature. He was, perhaps, more exactly fitted to serve the world in its chosen field of current publications than any other man who has written for it. Were he living now he would be acknowledged the prince of the nebulous gentlemen who occupy easy chairs, gather in contributors' clubs, and fill up "editors' baskets" with their effusions. We have additional respect for the somewhat chopped up productions of these gentlemen, after reading the numerous volumes that bear his name, for there we find how much of every sort of literary good they can contain. The editor of these selections is a lucky man, for his work has the merit, rare among such books, of being thoroughly good in itself. He has with excellent judgment given us somewhat of autobiography, somewhat of the rare and indescribable dream life of De Quincey, and somewhat of his tales, essays, and critiques. The character of his author's writings relieves these morsels from the air of incompleteness and decapitation which so often attaches to selections. What he has given us is not all of De Quincey, but each chapter is complete in itself. Selections usually repel us. We cannot join in the argument so often found in prefaces to such works, that the reading of them may lead to the reading of the author's whole works. On the contrary, we are of that class to whom the cutting up of a good author is apt to seem like vivisection—necessary, perhaps, but revolting. This book, however, does not leave such an impression. On laying it down we wonder why we are not constantly reading the great essayist, the precursor of the literary spirit of our own times, probably a better example than any now living of the many virtues demanded from the popular writer.

Under the editorship of Mr. John Austin Stevens we may look for a valuable and permanent publication in the "Magazine of American History, with Notes and Queries," of which A. S. Barnes & Co. are the publishers. The position of the editor as librarian of the New York Historical Society will, or at all events should, be an additional source of strength to the publication. Experience shows that literary undertakings which possess more merit than popularity can derive great advantages from the official countenance of societies pursuing allied subjects of investigation. Properly managed, the two modes of obtaining union in action can be made to help each other materially. This hint will perhaps be considered not amiss since the pamphlet, printed with the neatness characteristic of such works, which lies before us, is but a specimen and preliminary number, which is to be followed by monthly issues in quarto form, at $5 yearly, if sufficient support is obtained. The editor says: "Each number will contain: I. An original article on some point of American history from a recognized and authoritative pen. II. A biographical sketch of some character of historic interest. III. Original documents, diaries, and letters. IV. Reprints of rare documents. V. Notes and queries in the well-known English form. VI. Reports of the proceedings of the New York Historical Society. VII. Notices of historical publications." He also promises to keep it free from sectional prejudices and "from personality and controversy in any form." He has ready for publication a large number of interesting old manuscripts contributed by historians and collectors, and it is to be hoped his attempt to establish a periodical for historical literature will be sustained.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

"The Plains of the Great West." Illustrated. Lieutenant Colonel Richard I. Dodge. G. P. Putnam's Sons.

"Personal Relations Between Librarian and Readers." Sam. S. Green. Chas. Hamilton, Worcester, Mass.

"Cholera Facts of the Last Year." E. McClellan, M.D. Richmond & Louisville Medical Journal office.

"History of the City of New York." Parts 5 to 10. Mrs. M. J. Lamb. A. S. Barnes & Co.

"The Magazine of American History." Jno. Austin Stevens, editor. A. S. Barnes & Co.

"National Survey West of 100th Meridian." Vol. 5, Zoölogy. Dr. H. C. Yarrow and others. Government Printing Office.

"Planetary Meteorology, Mansill's Almanac of." R. Mansill. R. Crampton, Rock Island.

"Marie. A Story of Russian Lore." Marie H. de Zielinski. Jansen, McClurg & Co.

"The Barton Experiment." By the author of "Helen's Babies." G. P. Putnam's Sons.

NEBULÆ.

—It would seem that we must return to the old fashion of strong boxes, old stockings, and cracked pipkins as the receptacles of our savings. As to savings banks and trust companies, and life insurance companies, the revelations of the last few months go to show that they do anything but save; that they are no longer to be trusted, and that they ensure nothing but total loss to those who put their money into them. Ere long it will be said of a young man that he was poor but honest, although he had the misfortune to have a father who was a director in several important financial institutions. The state of affairs in this respect is frightful; and it frightens. The financial panic has been followed by a moral panic which is really as much more deplorable than its predecessor as moral causes are more radical in their operation and more enduring than those which are merely material. Confidence is gone. How it is to be restored is a problem far more perplexing than how to revive drooping trade. For that the real wealth of the country, never greater than it is now and constantly increasing, must bring about sooner or later. But if men of wealth and of fair reputation are no longer to be trusted, what is the use of saving, to put money into a box where it gains nothing and where thieves break through and steal? Robbery seems to be the fashion; on the one hand masked burglars with pistols at your heads and gags in the mouths of your wife and children, and on the other hypocritical, lying, false-swearing, thieving scoundrels who get your money under fair pretences, and because of your trust in their characters and good faith, and then waste it in speculations and in luxurious living. Of the two, the burglars seem to be rather the more respectable. It is said, on good authority, that the West India slaves of a past generation could be trusted to carry bags of gold from one part of the Spanish Main to another, and that they were constantly so trusted with entire impunity. They would kidnap, and on occasion stab or cut a throat; but if they were trusted, they would not break their faith. The honesty of the Turkish porters is so well known that it has become almost proverbial. Does not the honesty of these pirates and pagans put to shame the Christians who with the professions and the faces of Pharisees "devour widows' houses"?

—For as to the business of life insurance, savings banks, and trust companies, it is somewhat more, or surely somewhat other, than mere business. And so those who practise it and profit by it profess that it is. A life insurance company is a grand combination philanthropico-financial corporation whose motto is, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt receive it again." But the truth of the matter turns out to be that if you cast your bread upon the waters, the chances are that you will see it devoured before your eyes by financial sharks. One case in point has come directly to our knowledge. A gentleman, a Government officer, who has a moderate salary, with little or no hope of acquiring property, insured his life twenty years or more ago in what was thought a good company. His premium was always promptly paid even in the flush times of the war and afterward, when the fixed salaries of public officers lost more than half their purchasing power. Within the last few months he has suddenly found that his policy is not worth the paper on which it is magnificently printed. But worse than this: within the last few years, as age has crept upon him, there has come with it a disease which is incurable although he may live for some time longer. Now, however, he cannot get his life insured at all; no company will take his life; (it is a rueful jest to say that the company in question did take his life); and he has the prospect before him of a widow left entirely without provision, although for nearly a quarter of a century he and she stinted themselves to provide against such a contingency. Meantime the officers of the company lived luxuriously, and used the money in their hands for speculation, and in living which if not riotous, was at least shameless and dishonest. And they were all men of reputation, were selected for their positions because it was thought that men of their position and habits of life and outward bearing were incorruptible. Have they not devoured that prospective widow's house? If He who condemned the hypocritical Pharisees of old were on the earth now, would he not pronounce Woe upon them? And much would they care about His condemnation if they could get their commissions, and their pickings and stealings, and live in splendid houses, and be known as the managers of an institution that handled millions of dollars yearly, and whose offices were gorgeous with many-colored marbles, and gilding, and inlaid wood, and rich carpets!

And like their predecessors in the devouring of widows' houses for a pretence, they make long prayers. They, we say; but of course we do not mean all; for there are honest officers of life insurance companies, and even sound companies; but the number of both is shown day after day to be less and less; and when we think that those that we hear about are only they which have reached the end of their tether in fraud, perjury, and swindling, the prospect before us is one of the most disheartening that could be presented to a reflecting people. For remember, these defaulting, false-swearing life insurance and savings bank officers are picked men, and that their dishonest practices are from their very nature deliberate, slow of execution, and that in fact they have gone on for years. It is no clutch of drowning men at financial straws that we have here; it is the regular "confidence game" played on an enormous scale by men who are regarded as the most respectable that can be found in the whole community. They are vestrymen, and deacons, and elders, and grave and reverend signors, and these men have deliberately used and abused the confidence not only of the community in general, but of their friends and acquaintance, to "convey" in Nym's phrase, to steal in plain English, money which was brought within their reach because of their pretended high principle and their philanthropic motives. For, we repeat, it must constantly be kept in mind as an aggravation of these wrongs, that life insurance companies and savings banks are essentially and professedly benevolent institutions. They are, and they openly profess to be, chiefly for the benefit of widows and children. The man who takes to himself the money of a life insurance company or of a savings bank is not a mere thief and swindler; he robs the widow and the fatherless; he takes his place among those who are accursed of all men; and moreover, in all these cases he is a hypocrite of the deepest dye.

—In any case, however, there is reason for fearing that the business of life insurance has in the main long been rotten, even when it has not been deliberately corrupt. Professedly and originally a benevolent contrivance by which men of moderate incomes could year by year make provision for wives and children who might otherwise be left destitute, it was reasonable and right to expect that the business of life insurance would be conducted upon the most economical principles and in the simplest and most unpretending fashion; that there would have been only as much expenditure as was absolutely necessary for the proper conduct of the business; and that safety for the insured would have been the first if not the only ruling motive with the insurers. And such indeed was life insurance in the beginning. But by and by it was found that there was "money in it," and the sleek, snug hypocrites that prey upon society under the guise of philanthropy and religion began to swarm around it. Life insurance companies began to have a host of officers; they had "actuaries," whatever they may be, who, by whatever motives they were actuated, contrived and put forth statements which to the common mind were equally plausible and bewildering; they entered into bitter rivalry with each other in their philanthropic careers; they had agents who went abroad over the land in swarms, smooth-speaking, shameless creatures who would say anything, promise anything so long as they got their commissions; they published gorgeous pamphlets, tumid and splendid with self-praise, and filled with tabular statements that justified and illustrated the denying that there is nothing so untrustworthy as facts, except figures; they contrived the "mutual" plan, by which they made it appear to some men that they could insure their own lives—which is much like a man's trying to hoist himself over a fence by the straps of his boots—and yet these mutual officers, benevolent creatures, were as eager to get business and as ready to pay large commissions as if, poor, simple-minded souls, they had expected to get rich by life insuring; and then they put up huge and enormously expensive buildings, more like palaces than any others known to our country. And all this came out of the pockets of those who are, with cruel mockery, called the insured. It is the old story: ten cents to the beneficiary and ninety cents to the agent through whose hands the money passes. Is it not plain, merely from the grand scale and the large pretence on which this life insurance business has been carried on of late years, that it is rotten? It is a scheme for making money. Now, making money is right enough; but when it is carried on under philanthropic and benevolent pretences its tendency must naturally be, as we have seen that it has been, to gross corruption and the most heartless fraud.

So wrote Cowper in his "Conversation," nearly a century ago, when duelling was beginning to go out of fashion, even among men who did not look upon it from a religious point of view. There is no doubt that the passage which these lines introduce did much to bring the custom of settling personal quarrels by single combat into disrepute. Cowper, the moral poet par excellence of the English language, attained this eminence chiefly because he wrote, not like a fanatic, or a canting pietist, but like a Christian gentleman and a man of sense. A man of family, he thought and felt as a gentleman, and addressed himself to gentlemen; and indeed, in his day poetry, at least of the quality that he produced, had very few readers outside the pale of gentry. His view of duelling is the one which now prevails in most communities of English blood in all parts of the world. Germans and Frenchmen and the Latin races generally still fight upon personal provocation, and in our late slave States and among the rude and fierce men who guard and extend our western borders, "misunderstandings" are settled by the bullet or the knife, and if not on the spot, with the weapon at hand, then in a regularly arranged duel in which the forms are entirely subordinate to the essentials of a bloody and vindictive contest. With these exceptions, however, duelling among the English-speaking people has come to be regarded as both folly and crime. Nothing could evince more strongly the change that has taken place in the moral sense of the world; for to resent an insult by a challenge to fight, and to accept such a challenge without a moment's hesitation, were once the highest duties of a gentleman. There was a reason for this; and without advocating or defending the practice of duelling, it may be questioned whether that reason has entirely disappeared.

—Our readers need not fear that we are about to defend or to palliate the conduct of either of the parties to the recent affair which began in Fifth Avenue in New York and ended on the Maryland border; but the fact that that occurrence or series of occurrences has attracted the attention of the whole country, makes it a proper occasion of remark upon the questions involved in such encounters. And first we must set aside the Cowper view of the subject, not in its conclusion, but in its reasoning. For however Christian in sentiment and sound in its final judgment the passage in the "Conversation" may be, its author's position is not logically impregnable. For it rests upon the assumption embodied in the couplet—

But if this be true, it follows that a man cannot be insulted, which is an absurdity; for men are insulted, as we all know—and we are happy if we do not know it by experience. Moreover, men are insulted more frequently where the "code of honor" does not prevail than where it does; for that code is of use; and if it does not teach good manners, it certainly does curb abuse. The question to be decided is whether in the teaching of manners and the curbing of abuse by the alternative and arbitrament of bloody combat we are not paying too high a price for what we gain. To consider the example which is the occasion of our remark. A man is met in the street by another with whom he has been upon terms of social intercourse, and is there publicly whipped. He faces his assailant, resists, but is overcome because the assailant is the stronger and the more dexterous. What shall he do? Submit quietly? That may be Christian conduct; but whether it is good public policy, to say nothing more, may at least be questioned; for it would place the greater part of the community at the mercy of the strong brawling bullies. Two courses are open to a person so assailed—either to place the matter in the hands of the law, in a civil or a criminal suit, or to challenge the assailant. In most cases it may be admitted that the former course is the wiser and the better course. Where mere protection against personal injury is sought a police justice and a police officer are the effective as well as the lawful means. But there is something else to be considered. The mere personal injury may be slight, and there may be no fear of its repetition, and yet there is a wrong done that may rankle deeper than a wound. Personal indignity is something that most men of character and spirit feel more than bodily pain or than loss of money or of property. It is a sentimental grievance, and therefore one which the law cannot provide against or punish. It cannot be estimated in damages; none the less, therefore, but rather the more, does the man who suffers it take it to heart; none the less, therefore, but rather the more, do gentlemen set up barriers against it which, although invisible, and not even expressed, if indeed they are expressible in words, are more forbidding in their frown, more difficult of assault than the regular bulwarks of the law. It must be repeated that this wrong is not to be measured by the bodily injury or the bodily pain that is inflicted. Two men may be boxing or fencing, and one may severely injure the other; but no sense of wrong accompanies the injury, and that not because no injury was intended, but because no offence was meant; whereas the flirt of a kid glove across the face, or a word, may inflict a wrong that if not atoned for or expiated, may rankle through a man's whole life. To attempt to set aside or to do away with this feeling is quite useless: as well attempt to set aside or to do away with human nature. It is this feeling that has been at the bottom of most duels since duels passed out of use as a mode of determining guilt or innocence, or of deciding questions as to property, or position, or title. In the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries duels were chiefly the remedy for wounded honor, as they are when they are rarely fought nowadays. True there was the duel fought between two gentlemen "to prevent the inconvenience of their both addressing the same lady"; but the duel for that reason pure and simple was always comparatively rare, as, owing to the infirmity of human nature, the agreement in opinion of the lady and the disagreement as to the disposition to be made of her were almost sure to take the form of a more reasonable if not more deadly cause of quarrel.

—But society—that is, society in which Anglo-Saxon modes of thought and feeling prevail—says that no matter what the provocation, or how great the sense of wrong, the duel shall not be; it has been made a crime in some if not in most of such communities even to send a challenge. This is done on grounds of public policy and of morality, and not, as some persons seem to think, because killing in a duel is murder. Murder is more than a mere killing, and is in its essence entirely inconsistent with the fact that the person killed voluntarily placed himself, and generally with much trouble and at great inconvenience, in the way of his death. The duel is in fact a sort of hari-kari, or happy release, as our Japanese friends have well phrased it, but it is with the coöperation of a second party who voluntarily places himself in similar peril, the happy release being in both cases from the stigma of dishonor. This is shown very clearly by the distinction which is drawn in general estimation between the man who challenges because he has suffered an insult or an injury to his family honor, and one who does so from a feeling of revenge and with the intent to rid himself of a hated opponent, as for example in the case of Aaron Burr in his duel with Alexander Hamilton. That was more than half a century ago, when there were no such laws against duelling as now exist; but Burr, although he rid himself of his hated rival on what was called the field of honor, was from that day a degraded, detested, ruined man. If Hamilton had offered him a personal indignity, or had injured him in his family relations, the result of the duel would have added nothing to the weight of disrepute under which Burr was already suffering. The whole world recognizes this distinction, and there is hardly a man whose breeding and habits make him what is rightly called a gentleman in the full sense of the term, who, however his judgment may condemn the duellist who fights because of an insult or an injury to family honor, does not feel a certain sympathy with him. Notwithstanding the teachings of Christianity, and the example of its founder as to the patient suffering of indignity, notwithstanding the law, we all, or most of us, have the feeling that Barclay of Wry's battle-tried comrade had when he saw his old friend and heroic commander openly insulted by a throng of swashbucklers in the streets of Aberdeen, because he had become a Quaker, and which Whittier has expressed with such spirit in his poem on the subject, which is one of the few truly admirable ballads of modern days (although its author does not so class it), and which is, we are inclined to think, the most admirable of them all:

—What then is to be done? for the question is a serious one. We all feel that personal indignity is of all wrongs the hardest one to bear; we know that it is a wrong of a kind that cannot be redressed by law; and yet we restrain men from the only redress, "satisfaction," as it is called, that human ingenuity has bean able to devise, and with which human nature, of the unregenerate sort, is satisfied. We cannot expect all men to behave like members of the Society of Friends. All men have not proved their courage and high spirit like Barclay of Wry, who

We cannot compel all men to be Christians; and yet we would compel them by law to bear insult as if they were Christians and great captains turned Quakers. We can do this, which thus far society has neglected to do: we can put a social ban upon the man who deliberately offers a personal indignity to another. This should be a social duty. Let it be understood, according to one of those silent social laws which are the most binding of all laws because the sheriff cannot enforce them, that the man who flourishes a horsewhip over another's head, or who uses his tongue as a scourge with like purpose, or who offers personal indignity of any kind, insults society as well as his victim, and is not to be pardoned until he has made the amend to the injured party, and there would soon be an end of provocation to duelling, except that which touches the family, and that cannot be done away with until men have so developed morally and intellectually that they see that a man's honor is not in the keeping of a woman, not in that of any other person than himself, not even his wife. Her conduct may indeed involve his dishonor, if he is what used to be called a wittol, but even then his dishonor is because of his own disgrace. Only then can we reconcile the making of a challenge a felony with the feeling that a man who has had a personal indignity put upon him has suffered the deepest wrong he could be called upon to bear, yet a wrong which society fails to right while it forbids him to seek the only reparation.

—That reparation is defined, if not prescribed, by the code of honor, as to which code there seems to be a very general misapprehension. The purpose of the code is this, that no gentleman shall offer a personal indignity to another except with the certainty of its being at the risk of his life. If society would provide a remedy or preventive that would operate like this risk, the code would soon pass absolutely out of practice and into oblivion. It is generally supposed that the code is a very bloodthirsty law, and that those who acknowledge it and act upon it are "sudden and quick in quarrel," lovers of fighting, revengeful and implacable, and that the code gives them the means of gratifying their murderous or combative propensities. No notion of it could be more erroneous; the misconception is like that which supposes military men to be desirous of using arms on slight provocation; whereas the contrary is the case. No men are so reluctant to begin fighting as thoroughbred soldiers; for they know what it means and to what end it must be carried if it is once begun. The code has been reduced to writing, and by a "fire-eating" South Carolinian, so that we can see just how bloodthirsty it is. It provides first that if an insult be received in public it should not be resented or noticed there, out of respect to those present, except in case of a blow or the like, because this is insult to the company which did not originate with the person receiving it; that a challenge should never be sent in the first instance because "that precludes all negotiation," and that in the note asking explanation and reparation the writer should "cautiously avoid attributing to the adverse party any improper motive"; that the aggrieved party's second should manage the whole affair even before a challenge is sent, because he "is supposed to be cool and collected, and his friends' feelings are more or less irritated" ["more or less" here is excellent good as expressive of the state of mind of a man so aggrieved that he is ready to risk his life]; the second is to "use every effort to soothe and tranquillize his principal," not to "see things in the aggravated light in which he views them, but to extenuate the conduct of his adversary whenever he sees clearly an opportunity to do so"; to "endeavor to persuade him that there has been some misunderstanding in the matter," and to "check him if he uses opprobrious epithets toward his adversary"; "when an accommodation is tendered," the code says in a paragraph worthy of the most respectful consideration, "never require too much; and if the party offering the amende honorable wishes to give a reason for his conduct in the matter, do not, unless it is offensive to your friend, refuse to receive it. By doing so you heal the breach more effectively." Strangers may call upon you for your offices as second, "for strangers are entitled to redress for wrongs as well as others, and the rules of honor and of hospitality should protect them." The second of the party challenged is also told, "Use your utmost efforts to allay the excitement which your principal may labor under," to search diligently into the origin of the misunderstanding, "for gentlemen seldom insult each other unless they labor under some misapprehension or mistake," and if the matter be investigated in the right spirit, it is probable that "harmony will be restored." The other parts of the code refer to the arrangements for and the etiquette of the hostile meeting, of which we shall only notice the censure passed upon the seconds if after either party is hit the fight is allowed to go on. The last section implies, although it does not positively assert, that "every insult may be compromised" without a hostile meeting, and it is directly said that "the old opinion that a blow must require blood is of no force; blows may be compromised in many cases." We do by no means advocate the fighting of duels; but we must say that we cannot see in this code the blood-thirstiness and the quarrel-seeking generally attributed to it. On the contrary, all its instructions seem to tend toward peacemaking, the restoration of harmony, the restraining of even expressions of ill feeling. It does recognize as indisputable that an insult must be atoned for, and if necessary, at the risk of life. That necessity society can do away with by placing its ban upon the man who insults another.

—It is generally supposed that the "average American" beats the world in his love of big titles, and in his use of them; but the freed southern negro beats his white fellow citizen all hollow. We hear from Texas of one who is Head Centre of a Lodge—exactly of what sort we don't know, but we suppose that it must be a lodge in the wilderness or perhaps, in Solomon's phrase, a lodge in a garden of cucumbers. This cullud pusson will spend two months' wages to "report" at a grand junction "jamboree" of his "lodge." The titles of the officers of these associations are something wonderful. A negro office boy down there asked leave of absence for a day to attend a meeting. "Why," said his master, "Scip, I didn't know you belonged to a lodge." "Oh, yes, boss," replied Africanus, "Ise Supreme Grand King, an' Ise nowhar near de top nuther." Who shall say that the abolition of slavery was not worth all that it cost?

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors corrected. Footnotes moved to end of applicable article.

The Greek word "κᾀυτονομάζει" in the Wordsworth article appears in other editions as "κᾀντονομάζει."

Where thought breaks appear in the original text as short lines, lines were used; otherwise, thought breaks are indicated with asterisks. Thought breaks were added in Scientific Miscellany and Nebulæ chapters with changes of topic.

The remaining corrections are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will appear.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Galaxy, March, 1877

THE GALAXY.

VOL. XXIII.—MARCH, 1877.—No. 3.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by SHELDON & CO., in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

THE ENGLISH PEERAGE.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

CHAPTER IV.

"OH, MUCH DESIRED PRIZE, SWEET LIBERTY!"

CHAPTER V.

MISS GREY'S FIRST CALL.

CHAPTER VI.

IS THIS ALCESTE?

WORDSWORTH'S CORRECTIONS.

PORTRAIT D'UNE JEUNE FEMME INCONNUE,

MISS TINSEL.

A GOLD-MINER'S LOVE STORY.—IN FIVE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

A GOLD-DIGGING RECLUSE.

CHAPTER II.

MISS TINSEL.

CHAPTER III.

THE CUP AND THE LIP.

CHAPTER IV.

A MYSTERY AND A PARTING.

CHAPTER V.

GOOD OUT OF EVIL.

DEFEATED.

SHALL PUNISHMENT PUNISH?

RENUNCIATION.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.

THE LASSIE'S COMPLAINT.

ASSJA.

TO BEETHOVEN.

THE DRAMATIC CANONS.

AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE COSSACKS OF THE DON.

DRIFT-WOOD.

SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY.

CURRENT LITERATURE.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

NEBULÆ.

Transcriber's Notes:

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by SHELDON & CO., in the office of the
Librarian of Congress, at Washington.