THE GALAXY. VOL. XIH.JANUARY, 1872.No. 1. ARCHBISHOP MANNING. QT. JAMESS HALL, London, is primarily a place for concerts and singers, as Exeter Hall is. But, like its venerable predecessor, St. Jamess Hall has come to be identified with political meetings of a certain class. Exeter hall, a huge, gaunt, unadorned, and dreary room in the Strand, is resorted to for the most part as the arena and platform of ultra-Protestantism. St. Jamess Hall, a beautiful and almost lavishly ornate structure in Piccadilly, is corn- monly used by the leading Roman Catholics of London when they desire to make a demonstration. There are political classes which will use either place indifferently; but Exeter hall has usually a tinge of Protestant exclusiveness about its political expression, while the ceiling of the other building has rung alike to the thrilling music of John Brights voice, to the strident vehemence of Mr. Bradlaugh, the humdrum humming of Mr. Odger, and the clear, delicate, tremulous intonations of Stuart Mill. But I never heard of a Roman Catholic ~, meeting of great importance being.held anywhere in London lately, except in. St. Jamess Hall. Let us attend such a meeting there. The hall is a huge oblong, with gal-. leries around three of the sides, and a platform bearing a splendid organ on the ~ fourth. The room is brilliantly lighted, and the mode of lighting is peculiar ~ and picturesque. The platform, the galleries, the body of the hall alike are crowded. This is a meeting held to make a demonstration in favor of some Roman Catholic demandsay for separate education. On the platform are the great Catholic peers, most of them men of lineage stretching back to years when Catholicism was yet unsuspicious of any possible rivalry in England. There are the Norfolks, the Denbighs, the Dormers, the Petres, the Staf- fords; there are such later accessions to Catholicism as the Marquis of Bute, whose change created such a sensation, and Lord Robert Montagu, who went over only last year. There are some recent accessions of the peerage also Lord Acton, for instance, head of a distinguished and ancient family, but only - lately called to the Upper House, and who, when Sir John Acton, won honora- ble fame, as a writer and scholar. Lord Acton not many years ago started the Home and Foreign Review, a quarterly periodical which endeavored to reconcile Catholicism with liberalism and science. The universal opinion of England and of Europe declared the Home and Foreign Review to be un- surpassed for ability, scholarship, and political, information by any publication 1 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by SHELDON & COMPANY, in the Offic# of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 6 ARCHBISHOP MANNING. [JAN. in the world. It leaped at one bound to a level with the Edinburgh, the Quarterly, and the Revue des Deux Mondes. But the Pope thought the Review too liberal, and intimated that it ought to be suppressed; and Lord Acton meekly bowed his head and suppressed it in all the bloom of its growing fame. Some Irish members of Parliament are on the platformmen of sta- ~on and wealth like Munsell, men of energy and brains like John Francis Ma- guire; perhaps, too, the handsome, brilliant-minded ODonoghue, with his pic- turesque pedigree and his broken fortunes. But in general there is not a very cordial rapprochement between the English Catholic peers and the Irish Catholic members. Of all slow, cold, stately Conservatives in the world, the slowest, coldest, and stateliest is the English Catholic peer. Only the common bond of religion brings these two sets of men together now and then. They meet, but do not blend. In the body of the hall are the middle-class Catholics of London, the shopkeepers and clerks, mostly Irish or of Irish parentage. In the galleries are swarming the genuine Irishmen of London, the Paddies who are always threatening to interrupt Garibaldian gatherings in the parks, and who throw up their hats at the prospect of any row on behalf of the Pope. The chair is taken by some duke or earl, who is listened to respectfully, but with- out any special fervor of admiration. The English Catholics are undemonstra- tive in any case, and Irish Paddy does not care much about a chilly English peer. But a speaker is presently introduced who has only to make his appear- ance in front of the platform in order to awaken one universal burst of applause. Paddy and the Duke of Norfolk vie with each other; the steady English shop- keeper from Islington is as demonstrative as any ODonoghue or Maguiro. The meQting is wide awake and informed by one spirit and soul at last. The man who has aroused all this emotion shrinks back almost as if he were afraid of it, although it is surely not new to him. He is a tall thin personage, some sixty-two years of age. His face is bloodlesspale as a ghost, one might say. He is so thin as to look almost cadaverous. The outlines of the face are handsome and digniflcd. There is much of courtly grace and refinement about the l)earing and gestures of this pale, weak, and wasted man. lie wears a long robe of violet silk, with some kind of dark cape or collar, and has a inns -sive gold chain round his neck, holding attached to it a great gold cross. There is a certain nervous quivering about his eyes and lips, but otherwise he is per- fectly collected and master of the occasion. His voice is thin, but wonderfully cicar and penetrating. It is heard all through this great balla moment ago so noisy, now so silent. The words fall with a slow, quiet force, like drops of water. Whatever your opinion may be, you cannot choose but listen; and, in~ deed, you want only to listen and see. For this is the foremost man in the Catholic Church of England. This is the Cardinal Grandison of Disraelis Lothair Dr. Henry Edward Manning, Roman Catholic Archbishop of Westminster, successor in that omce of the late Cardinal Wiseman. It is no wonder that the Irishmen at the meeting are enthusiastic about Archbishop Manning. An Englishman of Englishmen, with no drop of Irish blood in his veins, he is more ilibernian than the Hibernians themselves in his sympathies with Ireland. A man of social position, of old family, of the high- est education and the most refined instincts, he would leave the Catholic noble- men at any time to go down to his Irish teetotallers at the East End of Lon- don. He firmly believes that the salvation of lEngland is yet to be accom- plished through the influence of that religious devotion which is at the bottom of the Irish nature, and which some of us call superstition. He loves his own 1872.] ARChBISHOP MANNING. 7 country dearly, but turns away from her present condition of industrial pros- perity to the days before the Reformation, when yet saints trod the English soil. In England there has been no saint since the Reformation, he said the other day, in sad, sweet tones, to one of wholly different opinions, who listened with a mingling of amazement and reverence. No views that I have ever heard put into living words embodied to anything like the same extent the full claims and pretensions of Ultramontanism. It is quite wonderful to sit and lis- ten. One cannot but be impressed by the sweetness, the thoughtfulness, the dignity, I had almost said the sanctity of the man who thus pours forth, with a manner full of the most tranquil conviction, opinions which proclaim all mod- ern progress a failure, and glorify the Roman priest or the Irish peasant as the true herald and repositary of light, liberty, and regeneration to a sinking and degraded world, Years ago, henry Edward Manning was one of the brilliant lights of the English Protestant Church. Just twenty years hack he was appointed to the high place of Archdeacon of Chichester, having also, according to the manner in which the English State Church rewards its dignitaries, more than one other ecclesiastical appointment at the same time. Dr. Manning had distin- guished himself highly during his career at the University of Oxford. His I~ther was a member of the House of Commons, and Manning on starting into life had many friends and very bright prospects. Nothing would have been easier, nothing seemingly would have been more natural than for him to tread the way so plainly opened before him, and to rise to higher and higher dignity, until at last perhaps the princely renown of a bishopric and a seat in the house of Lords would have been his reward. But Dr. Mannings career was cast in a time of stress and trial for the English State Church. I have described briefly in a former article the origin, growth, and effects of that remarkable movement which, beginning within the Church itself and seeking to establish loftier claims for her than she had long put forward, ended by convulsing her in a manner more troublous than any religious crisis which had occurred since the Reformation. Dr. Mannings is evidently a nature which must have been specially allured by what I may be allowed to call the supernatural claims put for- ward on behalf of the Church of England. lie was of course correspondingly dis- appointed by what he considered the failure of those claims. As Coleridge says that every man is born an Aristotelian or a Platonist, so it may perhaps be said that every man is born with a predisposition to lean either on natural or super- natural laws in the direct guidance of life. I am not now raising any religious question whatever. What I say may be said of members of the same sect or churchof any sect, of any church. One man, as faithful and devout a be- liever as any, is yet content to go through his daily duties and fulfil his career trusting to his religious principles, his insight, and his reason, without requiring at every moment the light of spiritual or supernatural guidance. Another must always have his world in direct communion with the spiritual, or it is no world of faith to him. Now it is impossible to look in Dr. Mannings face without seeing that his is one of those sensitive, spiritual, I had alniost said morbid natures, which can find no endurable existence without a close and con- stant communion with the supernatural. Keble, Newman, Time and the hour, called out for the assertion of the claim that the Church of England was the true heir of the apostolic succession. Such a nature as Manning~s must have delight- ~dly welcomed the claim. But the mere investigation sent, as I have already explained, one Newman to Catholicism and the other to Rationalism.. Dr. Man- 8 ARCHBISHOP MANNING. EJAN. fling, too, felt compelled to ask himself whether the Church could make good its claim, and whether, if it could not, h~ had any longer a place within its walls. The change does not appear to have come so rapidly to fulfilment with him as with John Henry Newman. Dr. Manning seems to me to have a less aggressive temperament than his distinguished predecessor in secession. There is more about him of the quietist, of the ecstatic, so far as religious thought is concerned, while it is possible that he may be a more practical and influential guide in the mere policy of the church to which he belongs. There is an amount of scorn in Newmans nature which sometimes reminds one of Pascal, and which I have not observed in Dr. Manning or in his writings. I cannot imagine Dr. Man- fling, for example, pelting Charles Kingsley with sarcasms and overwhelming him with contempt, as Dr. Newman evidently delighted to do in the famous controversy which was provoked by the apostle of Muscular Christianity. I suppose therefore that Dr. Manning clung for a long time to the faith in which he was bred. But his whole nature is evidently cast in the mould which makes Roman Catholic devotees. He is a man of the type which perhaps found in Finelon its most illustrious example. I think it is not too much to say that to him that light of private judgment which some of us regard as mans grand~ est and most peculiarly divine attribute, must always have presented itself as something abhorrent to his nature. I am judging, of course, as an outsider and as one little acquainted with theological subjects; but my impression of the two men would be that Dr. Newman joined the Roman Catholic Church in obedience to some compulsion of reason, acting in what must seem to most of us an inscrutable manner, and that Dr. Manning never would have been a Protestant at all if he had not believed that the Protestant Church was truly all which its rival claims to be. Dr. Manning in fact did not leave the Church. The Church left him. He had misunderstood it. It became revealed at last as it really is, a church founded on the right of private judgment, and Manning was appalled and turned away from it. Something that may almost be called accident brought home to his mind the true character of the Church to which he belonged. Many readers of The Galaxy may have some recollection of the once cele- brated Gorham case in Englanda case which I shall not now describe any further than by saying that it raised the question whether the Church of En~- land can prescribe the religion of the State. Had the Church the right to de- cide whether certain doctrine taught by one of its clergy was heretical, and to condemn it if so declared? In England, Church and State are so bound up to- gether, that it is practically the State and not the Church which decides whether this or that teaching is heresy or true religion. A lord chancellor who may be an infidel, and two or three law lords who may be anything or nothing, settle the question in the end. We all remember the epigram about Lord Chancellor Westbury, the least godly of men, having dismissed 11911 with costs, and taken away from the English Protestant his last hope of damna- tion. The Gorham case, twenty years ago, showed that the Church, as an ecclesiastical body, had no power to condemn heresy. This, to men like Stuart Mill, appears on the whole a satisfactory condition of things so long as there is a State Church, for the plain reason which he givesnamely, that time State in England is now far more liberal than the Church. But to Dr. Man- ning the idea of tIme Church thus abdicating its function of interpreting and de- claring doctrine was equivalent to the renunciation of its right to existeuce. - He strove hard to bring about an organized and solemn declaration and pro- 1872. ARCHBISHOP MANNING. 9 test from the Churcha declaration of doctrine, a protest against secular con- trol. He became the leader of an effort in this direction. The effort met with little support. The then Bishop of London did indeed introduce a bill into the House of Lords for the purpose of enacting that in matters of doctrine, as distinct from questions of mere law, the final decision should rest with the pre- lates. Dr. Manning sat in the gallery of the House of Lords on that memo- rable night. The Bishop of London wholly failed. The House of Lords scoute~I the idea of liberal England tolerating a sort of ecclesiastical inquisition. Every one admitted the anomalous condition in which things then were placed; but few indeed would think of enacting a dogma of infallibility in favor of the bishops of the Church. Lord Brougham spoke against the bill with what Dr. Manning himself admits to be plain English common sense. He said the House of Lords through its law peers could decide questions of mere ecclesias- tical law, and the decisions would carry weight and authority; but neither peers nor bishops could in England decide a question of doctrine. Suppose, he asked, the bishops were divided equally on such a question, where would the decision be then? Suppose there was a very small majority, who would ac- cept such a decision? Or even suppose there was a large majority, but that the minority comprised the few men of greatest knowledge, ability, and au~- thority, what value would attach to the judgment of such a majority? The bill was a hopeless failure. Dr. Manning has himself described with equal candor and clearness the effect which the debate had upon him. He mentally supplemented Lord Broughams questions by one other. Suppose that all the bishops of the Church of England should decide unanimously on any doctrine, would any one receive the decision as infallible? He was compelled to answer, No one. The Church of England had no pretension to be the infallible spiritual guide of men. Were she to raise any such pretension, it would be rejected with con- tempt by the common mind of the nation. hear then how this conviction af- fected the man who up to that time had had no thought but for the interests and duties of the English Church. To those, he has himself told us, who believed that God has established upon the earth a divine and therefore an un- erring guardian and teacher of his faith, this event demonstrated that the Church of England could not be that guardian and teacher. While Dr. Manning was still uncertain whither to turn, the celebrated Papal aggression took place. Cardinal Wiseman was sent to England by the Pope, with the title of Archbishop of Westminster. All England raged. Earl Russell wrdte his famous Durham Letter. The Lord Chancellor Camfr bell, at a public dinner in the city of London, called up a storm of enthusiasm by quoting the line from Shakespeare, which declares that Under our feet well stamp the cardinals hat. Protestant zealots in Stockport belabored the Roman Catholics and sacked Fheir houses; Irish laborers in Birkenhead retorted upon the Protestants. The Gov- ernment brought in the Ecclesiastical Titles Billa measure making it penal for any Catholic prelate to call himself archbishop or bishop of any place in England. Let him be Archbishop Wisernan or Cardinal Wiseman, Arch- bishop of Mesopotamia, as long as he likedbut not Archbishop of Westmin- ster or Tuam. The bill was powerfully, splendidly opposed by Gladstone, Bright, and Cobden, on the broad ground that it invaded the precincts of re- ligious liberty; but it was carried and made law. There it remained. There never was the slightest attempt made to enforce it. The Catholic prelates held 10 ARCHBISHOP MANNING. to the titles the Pope had given them; and no English court, judge, magistrate, or policeman ever offered to prevent or punish them. So ludicrous, so barren a proceeding as the carrying of that measure has not been known in the Eng- land of our time. Cardinal Wiseman was an able and a discreet man. He was calm, plausi- ble, powerful. He was very earnest in the cause of his Church, but he seemed much more like a man of the world than Newman or Dr. Manning. There was little of the loftily spiritual in his manner or appearance. Ilis bulky person and swollen face suggested at the first glance a sort of Abbot Boni- face; he was, I believe, in reality an ascetic. The corpulence which seemed the result of good living was only the effect of ill health. lie had a. persuasive and an imposing way. his ability was singularly flexible. his eloquence was often too gorgeous and ornamental for a pure taste, but when the occasion needed he could address an audience in language of the simplest and most practical common sense. The same adaptability, if I may use such a word, was evident in all he did. He would talk with a cabinet minister on terms of calm equality, as if his rank must be self-evident, and he delighted to set a band of poor school children playing around him. He was a cosmopolitanEnglish and Irish by extraction, Spanish by birth, Roman by education. When he spoke English he was exactly like what a portly, dignified British bishop ought to be a John Bull in every respect. When he spoke Italian at Rome he fell in- stinctively and at once into all the peculiarities of intonation and gesture which distinguish the people of Italy from all other races. When he conversed in Spanish he subsided into the grave, somewhat saturnine di~nity and repose of the true Castilian. All this, I presume, was but the natural effect of that flexi- bility of temperament I have attempted to describe. I had but slight personal aequaintance with Cardinal Wiseman, and I paint him only as he impressed me, a casual observer. I am satisfied that he was a profoundly earnest and single-minded man; the testimony of many whom I know and who knew him well compels me to that conviction. But such was not the impression he would have left on a mere acquaintance. He seemed rather one who could, for a purpose which he believed great, be all things to all men. lie impressed me quite differently from the manner in which I have been impressed by John Henry Newman and by Archbishop Manning. He reminded one of some great, capable, worldly-wise, astute Prince of the Church of other generations, politician rather than priest, more reiidy to sustain and skilled to defend the temporal power of the Papacy than to illustrate its highest spiritual influence. The events which brought Cardinal Wiseman to England had naturally a powerful effect upon the mind of Dr. Manning. It was the renewed claim of the Roman Church to enfold England in its spiritual jurisdiction. For Dr. Manning, who had just seen what he regarded as the voluntary abdication of the ~nglish Church, the claim would in any case have probably been decisive. It stepped between him and his fighting soul. But the personal influence of Cardinal Wiseman had likewise an immense weight and force. Dr. Man- ning ever since that time entertained a feeling of the profoundest devotion and reverence for Cardinal Wiseman. The change was consummated in 1851, and one of the first practical comments upon the value of the Ecclesiastical Titles Act was the announcement that a scholar and divine of whom the Pro- testant Church had long been especially proud had resigned his preferments, his dignities, and his prospects, and passed over to the Church of Rome. I cannot better illustrate the effect produced on the public mind than by saying 1872.] ARChBISHOP MANNING. 11 that even the secession of John Henry Newman hardly made a deeper im- pression. Dr. Manning, of course, rose to high rank in the church of his adoption. lie became Ronian of the RomansUltramontane of the Ultramontanes. Oa the death of his friend and leader, Cardinal Wiseman, whose fui~eral sermon he preached, Henry Manning became Archbishop of Westminster. Except for his frequent journeys to Rome, he has always since his appointment lived in London. Although a good deal of an ascetic, as his emaciated face and figure would testify, he is nothing of a hermit. He mingles to a certain extent in so- ciety, he takes part in many public movements, and he has doubtless given Mr. Disraeli ample opportunity of studying his manner and bearing. I dont be- lieve Mr. Disraeli capable of understanding the profound devotion and single- minded sincerity of the man. A more singular, striking, marvellous figure does not stand out, I think, in our English society. Everything that an ordi. nary Englishman or American would regard as admirable and auspicious in the progress of our civilization, Dr. Manning calmly looks upon as lamentable and evil-omened. What we call progress is to his mind decay. What we call light is to him darkness. What we reverence as individual liberty he deplores as spiritual slavery. The mere fact that a man gives reasons for his faith seems shocking to this strangely-gifted apostle of unconditional belief. Though you were to accept on bended knees ninety-nine of the decrees of Rome, you would still be in his mind a heretic if you paused to consider as to the accept- ance of the hundredth dogma. All the peculiarly modern changes in the legis- lation of England, the admission of Jews to Parliament, the introduction of the principle of divorce, the practical recognition of the English divines right of private judgment, are painful and odious to him. I have never heard from. any other source anything so clear, complete, and astonishing as his cordial acceptance of the uttermost claims of Rome; .the prostration of all reason and judgment before the supposed supernatural attributes of the Papal throne. In one of the finest passages of his own writings he says: My love for England begins with the England of St. Bede. Saxon England, with all its tumults, seems to me saintly and bcautiful. Norman England I have always loved less, because, although majestic, it became continually less Catholic, until the evil spirit of the world broke off the light yoke of faith at the so-called Reforma- tion. Still I loved the Christian England which survived, and all the lingering outlines of diocese and parishes, cathedrals and churches, with the names of saints upon them. It is this vision of the past which still hovers over England and makes it beautiful and full of the memories of the kingdom of God. Nay, I loved the parish church of my childhood and the college chapel of my youth, and the little church under a green hillside where the morning and evening prayers and the music of the English Bible for seventeen years became a part of my soul. Nothing is more beautiful in the natural order, and if there were no eternal world I could have made it my home. To Dr. Manning the time when saints walked the earth of England is more of, a reality than the day be- fore yesterday to most of us. Where the ordinary eye sees only a poor, igno- rant Irish peasant, Dr. Manning discerns a heaven-commissioned bearer of light and truth, destined by the power of his unquestioning faith to redeem perhaps, in the end, even English philosophers and statesmen. When it was said in the praise of the murdered Archbishop of Paris that he was disposed to regret the introduction of the dogma of infallibility, Archbishop Manning came eagerly to the rescue of his friends memory, and as one would vindicate a per- 12 ARCHBISHOP MANNING. [JAN. son unjustly accused of crime, he vindicated the dead Archbishop from the stigma of having for a moment dared to have an opinion of his own on such a subject. Of course, if Dr. Manning were an oi:dinary theological devotee or fa- natic, there would be nothing remarkable in all this. But he is a man of the widest culture, of high intellectual gifts, of keen and penetrating judgment in all ordinary affairs, remarkable for his close and logical argument, his persua- sive reasoning, and for a genial, quiet kind of humor which seems especially calculated to dissolve sophistry by its action. He is an English gentleman, a man of the world; he was educated at Oxford with Arthur Pendennis and young Lord Magnus Charters; he lives at York Place in the London of to-day; he drives down to the House of Commons and talks politics in the lobby with Gladstone and Lowe; he meets Disraeli at dinner parties, and is on friendly terms, I dare say, with Huxley and Herbert Spencer; he reads the newspapers, and I make no doubt is now well acquainted with the history of the agitation against Tammany and Boss Tweed. I think such a man is a marvellous phe- nomenon in our age. It is as if one of the mediawal saints from the stained windows of a church should suddenly become infused with life and take a part in all the ways of our present world, I can understand the long-abiding power of the Catholic Church when I remember that I have heard and seen and talked with Henry Edward Manning. Dr. Manning is not, I fancy, very much of a political reformer. His incli- nations would probably be rather conseivative than otherwise. lie is drawn toward Gladstone and the Liberal party less by distinct political affinity, of which there is but little, than by his hope and belief that through Gladstone something will be done for that Ireland which to this Oxford scholar is still the island of the saints. The Catholic members of Parliament, whether English or Irish, consult Archbishop Manning constantly upon all questions connected with education or religion. His parlor in York Placenot far from where Mine. Tussauds wax-work exhibition attracts the country visitoris the fre- quent scene of conferences which have their influence upon the action of the House of Commons. He is a devoted upholder of the doctrine of total absti- nence from intoxicating drinks; and he is the only Englishman of real influence and ability, except Francis Newman, who is in favor of prohibitory legislation. lie is the medium of communication between Rome and England; the living link of connection between the English Catholic peer and the Irish Catholic bricklayer. The position which he Occupies is at all events quite distinctive. Tbere is nobody else in England who could set up the faintest claim to any such place. It would be superfluous to remark that I do not expect the readers of The Galaxy to have any sympathy with the opinions, theological or political, of such a man. But the man hhnself is worthy of profound interest, of study, and even of admiration. He is the spirit, the soul, the ideal of medheval faith embodied in the form of a living English scholar and gentleman. He repre- sents and illustrates a movement the most remarkable, possibly the most por- tentous, which has disturbed England and the English Church since the time of Wyckhiffe. No one can have any real knowledge of the influences at work in English life to-day, no one can understand the history of the past twenty years, or eyen pretend to conjecture as to the possibilities of the future, who has not paid some attention to the movement which has Dr. Manning for one of its most distinguished leaders, and to the position and character of Manning himself. JUSTIN MCCARTHY~ THE REAL GULF STREAM.* SINCE the day of its discovery, the Gulf Stream has never ceased to perplex mankind. The navigator has tried to utilize or avoid it; the philosopher to understand or pooh-pooh it. Franklin has written learnedly upon it; so have Bache and Edmund Blunt and Mr. Fiudlay. Many others equally wise, and many more not so wise, have had a hand in describing it. In the long run commerce has been benefited in the process, and some obscure phenomena of nature have been made clear. But along with what has been made clear there is much that has been made confusing. The Gulf Stream has inspired many strange inventions. Weather predicters without end have launched upon it their stupidities; meteorologists have deluged the world with their assumptions respecting it; theorists of all kinds have floated their notions upon it. One whirls it away into the Arctic regions and opens a passage to the Pole with it; another compels it to give a climate to countries where otherwise there would be no climate worth mentioning; while still another spins it around in the At- lantic Ocean, and its wide-spread arms close upon a stagnant Sargasso Sea. Maps representing a whole hemisphere are spread before you, gaudy with color, and there is the Gulf Stream clapped down for you, after the fashion of the North Sea skipper who had lost his reckoning in a tempest, but who, noth- ing daunted when asked where the ship then was, covered ninety thousand square miles of his chart with his outspread hand, exclaiming while he did it, There you are! Through means such as these mankind has come to look upon the Gulf Stream with a certain degree of awe. It is a breeder of storms, the giver of heat; it might become the father of pestilence. Will it always continue to do its duty as hitherto? or will it start off suddenly with some new fancy and by pursuing another course upset the physical and moral status of the world? You would thiak so if you believed in that extraordinary youth Lothair and his numerous friends; for we read that Apollonia was stat.~ lag to him with perspicuity the reasons which quite induced her to believe the Gulf Stream had changed its course, and the political and social consequences that might arise; and then Apollonia continues, The religious sentiment must be wonderfully affected by a more rigorous climate, and I cannot doubt that a series of severe winters would put an end to Romanism. From which it is clearly to be inferred that the Gulf Stream is a propagandist in certain geo- graphical quarters, and would be in othe.rs if it only had a mind toan infer- ence, we must say, wholly unjust to the Gulf Stream, which never interfered with the Roman question nor with any other. Even a former director of the National Observatory must indulge the world with some pleasant fancies re- specting it. He calls it a river in the ocean; he declares that it runs up hill, and accounts for its birth and being by saying that, like all constant cur- rents of the sea, its existence is due mainly to the differences in the specific gravity of sea water; three declarations which at once recall to mind the fa- mous decision of the French Academy on the crab, and the bon mot of Cuvier: * For a very large portion of the materials and suggestions which go to make up this article, the writer is indehted to Mr. George W. Blunt, whose accuracy of hydrographic knowledge is well known; and in the preparation of the article the chief pnrpose has heen to correct the prevalent Idea that the ice of the North Atlantic and the Gulf Stream influenced the climate of that region.

THE REAL GULF STREAM.* SINCE the day of its discovery, the Gulf Stream has never ceased to perplex mankind. The navigator has tried to utilize or avoid it; the philosopher to understand or pooh-pooh it. Franklin has written learnedly upon it; so have Bache and Edmund Blunt and Mr. Fiudlay. Many others equally wise, and many more not so wise, have had a hand in describing it. In the long run commerce has been benefited in the process, and some obscure phenomena of nature have been made clear. But along with what has been made clear there is much that has been made confusing. The Gulf Stream has inspired many strange inventions. Weather predicters without end have launched upon it their stupidities; meteorologists have deluged the world with their assumptions respecting it; theorists of all kinds have floated their notions upon it. One whirls it away into the Arctic regions and opens a passage to the Pole with it; another compels it to give a climate to countries where otherwise there would be no climate worth mentioning; while still another spins it around in the At- lantic Ocean, and its wide-spread arms close upon a stagnant Sargasso Sea. Maps representing a whole hemisphere are spread before you, gaudy with color, and there is the Gulf Stream clapped down for you, after the fashion of the North Sea skipper who had lost his reckoning in a tempest, but who, noth- ing daunted when asked where the ship then was, covered ninety thousand square miles of his chart with his outspread hand, exclaiming while he did it, There you are! Through means such as these mankind has come to look upon the Gulf Stream with a certain degree of awe. It is a breeder of storms, the giver of heat; it might become the father of pestilence. Will it always continue to do its duty as hitherto? or will it start off suddenly with some new fancy and by pursuing another course upset the physical and moral status of the world? You would thiak so if you believed in that extraordinary youth Lothair and his numerous friends; for we read that Apollonia was stat.~ lag to him with perspicuity the reasons which quite induced her to believe the Gulf Stream had changed its course, and the political and social consequences that might arise; and then Apollonia continues, The religious sentiment must be wonderfully affected by a more rigorous climate, and I cannot doubt that a series of severe winters would put an end to Romanism. From which it is clearly to be inferred that the Gulf Stream is a propagandist in certain geo- graphical quarters, and would be in othe.rs if it only had a mind toan infer- ence, we must say, wholly unjust to the Gulf Stream, which never interfered with the Roman question nor with any other. Even a former director of the National Observatory must indulge the world with some pleasant fancies re- specting it. He calls it a river in the ocean; he declares that it runs up hill, and accounts for its birth and being by saying that, like all constant cur- rents of the sea, its existence is due mainly to the differences in the specific gravity of sea water; three declarations which at once recall to mind the fa- mous decision of the French Academy on the crab, and the bon mot of Cuvier: * For a very large portion of the materials and suggestions which go to make up this article, the writer is indehted to Mr. George W. Blunt, whose accuracy of hydrographic knowledge is well known; and in the preparation of the article the chief pnrpose has heen to correct the prevalent Idea that the ice of the North Atlantic and the Gulf Stream influenced the climate of that region. 14 THE REAL GULF STREAM. [JAN. The crab is not a fish, is not red, and does not go backwards. So in like manner the Gulf Stream is not a river in the ocean, it does not run up hill, and it is not caused mainly by the difference in the specific gravity of sea water. It is questionable, indeed, whether the difference in the specific gravity of sea water has anything at all to do with it. Be this, however, as it may, and let still other causes operate in a greater or less degree to promote the flow of this wonderful stream, the primary cause is the trade winds of the Atlantic re- gion, which tend, as Franklin has well expressed it, to heap up the waters in the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico. The influence of the wind acting upon the surface of a body of water is everywhere attended with most important results, for to it is due that general circulation of the waters of the earth which we designate as ocean currents. It is, however, to the sun perhaps that we must look for the beginning of it. The great part which the heat of the sun plays in disturbing the equilibrium of the surface of our globe, wrote the late Professor A. I). Bache, is well understood. Wherever he shines upon the surface, the air resting upon it is set in motion; so that the circle of the suns illumination, as it advances over the earth, is a circle of disturbance. This disturbance is continually manifested to the senses in the air about us. We may not speculate upon the cause, but we observe the result. We see the leaves fluttering in its gentle zephyrs; clouds of dust roll away before its gales; the waters swell into waves which sweep irresistibly on before its firm pres- sure. That a moderate but continuous wind will produce a steady current of the waters in the direction the wind blows, is shown in our lakes and rivers; and that there is a set of the water before the wind, is proven by the action of ships. When scudding before a gale shipmasters allow two knots an hour for the heave of the sea. That a heaping u~ of water may take place where resistance is opposed to its flow, even although the wind may be of short duration, has been shown by observation. It is known, says Dr. Franklin, that a large stream of water ten miles broad and only three feet deep has, by a strong wind, ha~d its waters driven to one side and sustained so as to become six feet deep, while the wind- ward side was laid dry, This, be continues, applying his reasoning to ac- count for the Gulf Stream, may give some idea of the quantity heaped up on the American coast. A remarkable instance of the heaping up of water before a wind of short duration we find on Lake Nicaragua. This lake is ninety miles long, and trends N. N. W. and S. S. E. It was noticed by the buccaneers as having an ebb and flow of the tide, tbe cause of which, however, they did not assign. Toward the evening of each day there is on its northwest shore a rise of about a foot, and at the same time on the opposite end a fall of about six inches. This oscillation, says the late Edmund Blunt (who ran a series of levels across that re~ion in 1826), in an admirable article upon the Atlantic Ocean in the New American Cyclop~edia, is owing entirely to the increased strength of the wind blowing from the eastward in the latter part of the day; and in bring- ing this simple fact to its logical conclusion, the writer continues, Such being the effect on a small body of water in so short a period, what must it be where the action of the wind is continuous for 4,000 miles on the surface of water whose motion is unobstructed for that distance? The immediate result of the northeast and southeast trades, to which this oh. 1872.] THE REAL GULF STREAM. 15 servation applies, is the great equatorial current, which is not however confined to the Atlantic, but extends around the globe, except where the continents inter- vene. Our concern with it is however confined to the Atlantic Ocean, in which we may rather say that it recommences than commences off the west coast of Africa. At first it is some 160 miles in width, and steadily widening thereafter, it flows on at the rate of from 25 to 30 miles in four-and-twenty hours. Properly speaking, we should say two currents, the one caused by the south- east trades, the other by the northeast. The former, after setting across the At- lantic in a direction slightly to the north of west, is deflected by the northeast coast of South America, and as the Guiana current enters the Caribbean Sea, and thence, between Capes Catoche and Antonio (of Yucatan and Cuba respect- ively), the Gulf of Mexico. The current of the northeast trades enters the same region through the passages between the Windward and Leeward Islands. The rapidity of the flow of these currents varies with the season, and this variance is due to the difference in the strength of the prevailing winds; the maximum being reached about the latter part of August, the minimum in the latter part of February. In a corresponding degree the Gulf Stream fluc- tuates from season to season. The Gulf Stream results from the pressure of this current, or, to use Frank- lins method of illustration, the heaping up of the waters in the Gulf of Mexico. From that gulf there is but one outlet, which lies to the north of Cuba, between that island and the Florida reef, and thence between the coast Florida and the Great and Little Bahama Banksin other words, the Florida channel. Through this outlet the waters flow from 3 to 3~ miles an hour, or say from 60 to 90 miles in the four-and-twenty hours, according to the season, as it modifies the strength of the trade winds. The Gulf of Mexico forms, therefore, as has been well observed, a reser- voir for the Gulf Stream, that being the name by which the outflow of waters from the Gulf of Mexico has been known since the movement of the waters there was first observed. The waters of the equatorial current enter the Gulf of Mexico with a mean temperature, which they acquire at the equator, of 88 deg., being heated to that degree l)y the atmosphere which has driven them along. Within the gulf they receive no accession of heat, and with their original temperature little changed they enter the north Atlantic, riding in their course over the compar atively cold waters which fill up that great basin; and it affects but slig~htly the strata beneath it, some of whose waters move in exactly the opposite direction, and, so far as known, never with the surface stream from the gulf. There has been observed a temperature of the snrface watel 280 miles off Sandy Hook of 80 deo~., while that of the deep-sea water at 400 fathoms was 51 deg. To quote Professor Bache, The Gulf Stream is comparatively a superficial cur- rent, and is underlaid by a vast ocean of cold water. Once in the Atlantic, it pursues a certain definite course, to be hereafter pointed out; but it does not readily mingle with the colder waters on either, and especially the western side of it, nor with those beneath it, which is not at all surprising, since we all know how reluctantly cold and warm water unite; at least everybody who has ever turned hot water into a cold bath knows that, unless he kicks about at a pretty lively rate, and sets currents going in every direction, one end of the tub will for a very long time remain cold while the other is hot; streaks of hot and cold meander here and there as if trying to avoid each other as disagreeable acquaintances. 18 THE REAL GULF STREAM. [JA!~. The cold water beneath the Gulf Stream can scarcely be said to ever crop nut through the warm water in the actual body of the stream, but it approaches and recedes from the surface as the bottom of the sea is depressed or elevated. Where there is a lofty ridge the cold water comes up along its sides and overlies its crest, thus giving rise to what are known as cold bands. In places these cold bands approach very near the surface; in other places they are only found at considerable depth. A cropping out does, however, occur when we have reached soundings, whei~e we find occasional bands of warm and cold water alternating at the surface. The exact point at which the Gulf Stream may be said to begin is not known. If we could find its limit at any one time, it would not suit for the opposite period of the year; for the inward pressure of the equatorial current, being different at different seasons, would necessarily produce a perturbation of the point where a positive flow outward can be observed. Over the Campeachy Banks there is a current setting from W. N. W. to N. W., which dies out almost completely in Campeachy Bay. To the north of Vera Cruz a current sets N. about half a mile an hour. Beyond it sets N. N. E. with a somewhat increased velocity. But not until we reach a point nearly opposite the mouth of the Mississippi river do we find any current prac- tically worthy of the name. Here, however, we discover the waters setting S. S. E. at the rate of nearly a mile an hour. We follow this to the Florida reefs, and between them and Cuba. Opposite Havana the set is to the east; beyond it is N. E., then N., and now between Florida and the Bahama Banks the flow assumes for the first time a strong and definite shape. It is then truly a cur- rent, flowing at a maximum of about 90 knots a day, or, we should say, nauti- cal miles, a knot in nautical phrase representing a geographical or sea mile of 6,080 feet. So far, therefore, as we can go toward locating the actual point where we may say the Gulf Stream originates, we may find it here in this Florida channel. Emerging from the Florida channel, it flows nearly parallel with the coast, first N., then nearly N. E., to Cape Hatteras, its western edge t& uching the coast or receding from it, as at Cape Hatteras, 15 or 20 miles, according as the prevailing winds for the time are easterly or westerly. This coast gives it, therefore, the direction, nearly N. E., with which it sets out into the mid- dle of the North Atlantic basin. And in that direction it would continue to the end did not other forces intervene. The principal of these we find in the westerly winds which prevail over the easterly, in the region which the Gulf Stream now enters, as two to one. In obedience thereto the current assumes steadily a more easterly course, and flows almost due east before it disappears as a specific current, blending with the general drift, which in the Atlantic, as in all other waters, follows a prevailing wind. Throughout its progress it steadily increases in width, diminishes in depth, and loses velocity. From 3~ knots an hour which it had in the Florida channel, it has come down off Cape Hatteras to two; and off Sandy Hook, New York, it is about one. These data we have from the sectional surveys made under the direc- tion of Professor Bache, as Superintendent of the United States Coast Survey. Indeed, to that admirable bureau of the national Government, first organized by Mr. Ilassler, and by the incomparable administrative skill and power of adaptation to practical purposes of Professor Bache made inestimably valuable to the mariner, we owe nearly all the knowledge we possess respecting this 1872.] THE REAL GULF STRl~AM. IT remarkable current. To a certain extent Professor Bache and his assistants may be said to have mapped it, from the first point where we find any trace of it to its final departure from our shores; and with this portion of the stream we may almost say we are as well acquainted as with any of our best plotted rivers. He has penetrated to its profoundest depths; he has shown the divid- ing line between its warm azure water and the cold strata which it overflows; and he has drawn topographically the bottom upon which that, cold water rests in its turn. He has pointed out where the underlying cold water, following the ridges of the sea bottom, comes far up through the warm, as winds of the valley creep up the mountain side; and he has shown how this warm stream of water (heated by the hot atmosphere of the equatorial region) thins away toward nothing as it spreads out in mid-ocean. The officers of the, Coast Survey ran nine distinct lines across the stream perpendicular to its axis (beginning always with the shore), ascertaining at stated intervals the surface of the cold water and sounding for the bottom of the seafor the one using their thermometer, for the other their lead; and when they had got across, their astronomical observations told them how far they had come. Off the coast of Florida, in latitude 28 deg., the extreme width of the stream is about 140 miles; off Cape Hatteras, 350; and off Nantucket, 410, according to the coast survey reports. On its western side, between it and the land, the water which flows from the north over the Banks of Newfoundland, and finally disappears beneath the Gulf Stream, is from 20 to 30 deg. colder at certain times than the ordinary temperature of the gulf water adjacent. The meeting of these waters is perceptible to the eye, as there is comparatively little mingling. Not only is the temperature different, but the color as wellthe Gulf Stream water being blue, while the colder water is slightly green. The abruptness with which this meeting of the waters takes place (and it is by no means superficial, but ex- tends in places to a considerable depth) has given rise to the term cold wall. The opposite limit of the stream is much more difficult if not impossible of de- termination, with any great degree of accuracy. After leaving the American coast the course of the Gulf Stream is between the parallels 35 and 43 deg.; but its velocity after passing Nantucket has not been much noted. In Blunts Coast Pilot we find the most valuable obser- vation in that quarter on record. The ship Trade Wind, on the 26th of June, at llh. 30m. i. in., came in contact with the ship Olympus, and both vessels went down in latitude 41 deg. 30 mm., longitude 57 deg. On the 1st of July, 2h. 30m. P. ai., the ship Empire took a sailor from the foremast of the Trade Wind in latitude 42 deg., l~ngitude 55 deg. 30 mm., thus showing that the mast had drifted 72 miles on a N. 66 deg. E. true course, in 101 hours, making 72-100 of a knot an hour. This seven-tenths of a knot an hour is as against one knot off Nantucket. But how rapid the decrease is afterward we do not know. Beyond this point we have no reliable observations, and, in fact, we are as ignorant of exactly where the Gulf Stream ends as of where it begins. Dr. James Stork, in an admirable paper published in the Nautical Magazine for 1859, states as fol- lows: No facts known to me trace the heated waters of the Gulf Stream fur- ther east than west longitude 30 deg. And here they are only met with as heated water, spreading out without almost any perceptible current. If he had substituted west longitude 40 deg. for 30 deg., he would probably have been nearer the mark. 18 THE REAL GULFSTREAM. rJA~. It is an error, and one into which many persons have been led* through lack of familiarity with facts, to suppose that the Gulf Stream sends off a branch from its northern limit to the Arctic Ocean, or even, as we shall presently have occasion to show, that it touches any part of the coasts of Europe. As a defi- nite current it is completely lost in mid-ocean; and indeed it is this very point, or rather the thermal questions involved therein, that has inspired this article. That there is, however, a general set of the waters of the North Atlantic between Iceland and the Shetland Islands in a northerly and easterly direction, appears to be pretty well established by observation. Of this fact we have been assured by Captain Bang, one of the most cultivated and skilful of the shipmasters in the employ of the Greenland Mercantile Company. The emi- nent Danish hydrographer Admiral Irminger writes: According to these observations, it can be said with certainty that the current ia the northern Atlantic flows toward the north even up to the icy sea. The observations referred to give~the set of waters as being from N. 32 deg. E. to N. 72 deg. E., and the rate ranging from eight-tenths of a mile per day to 4.7 miles per day. Such a sluggish flow, and one that extends uniformly throughout so broad an area, can hardly be called a current; certainly there is no warrant, in tempera- ture or otherwise, to call it the Gulf Stream. Passing to the south, we find at the Azores or Western Islands that the waters have an easterly set of ten miles per day. In neither quarter is this flow of waters the Gulf Stream. The flow would take place with the superior prevalence of westerly winds if the Gulf Stream bad no existence; at least it cannot be asserted that the Gulf Stream has any concern in the matter, further than a very general one which affects all the movements of all the waters of the earth. For that there is a general circu- lution of waters throughout the globe all admit. Each great ocean, says Mr. Findlay, has a circulating system within itself, and there is also a con- stant intercommunication and interchange of the whole surface water of the en- tire oceans. This takes place through a general system of currents which, originally started by the winds, are heated or chilled by the same agency, while the land gives them direction. But it cannot be said that there is one particu- lar current set in motion in one particular quarter, and made continuous, kept in motion perpetually by the original impetus given to it. For all parts of the ocean are affected by the winds more or less; when they are most constant the current is most steady, as with the equatorial current. The Gulf Stream is, on the other hand, a resultant current, and having no force applied to it to keep it in motion, its strength diminishes; the air of a higher latitude brings its temperature down to that of the North Atlantic generally; the water loses all its Gulf Stream character, as to course, warmth, and flow, and it dies away into the sluggish Atlantic drift which sets from a westerly to an easterly direction. With many writers upon the subject of the North Atlantic currents there seenis to be an utter inability to think of anything else but the Gulf Stream, as if other winds did not blow than the equatorial trades; as if waters might not be heaped up elsewhere than in the Gulf of Mexico; as if a force once applied must be forever propagated and never give place to another. The truth is. the waters in all parts of the earth are being continually set in motion by local causes, some acting permanently, some only for a time; but when the cause ceases to operate the current ceases to flow, and this is precisely what happens with the Gulf Stream. A ball fired from a cannon stationed on * Including the writer of this artiele. I. I. H. 1872.] THE REAL GULF STREAM. 19 a hilltop will lose its velocity with every second of its progress; and the im- pelling force being at length exhausted, the ball falls to the earth. Thence it may roll down hill by force of gravity, which is a new power applied to it. This illustration will serve for our argument. A striking illustration of whatwe have just stated is found in the sea bordering on Labrador, where the prevailing winds in winter and spring are from north to northwest. Then there is a strong current setting down the coast, bringing with it immense fields of polar ice, upon which innumerable seals have sought a place whereon to rest and bring forth their young. This current reaches its maxi- mum about March, after which time the winds cease to have such a decidedly northern character. By midsummer the prevailing winds have become south and southeast, and before the end of August the current has not only ceased ab together, but has turned sometimes in the opposite direction. This is the expe- rience of the seal-fishers of the spring, who swarm then along the coast from Newfoundland northward, and of the cod and herring fishermen of the summer and autumn; and the result is confirmed by our own experience. The immediate result of the general oceanic circulation is to bring the hot and cold waters within the range of different climatic influences from those whence the currents sprung, and, in consequence, we find a generally uniform temperature of the ocean water after we have passed beneath the surface, which alone becomes much disturbed, rising to 88 deg. in the equatorial region, and at the poles sinking to the freezing point. We say generally uniform (from about 32 to say 42 deg.), for it must not be understood that we meet with the same temperature throughout, since all surveys of the deep sea indicate the ex- istence of strata of water with different densities and different temperatures. And each of these strata in a certain measure sustains certain characteristic forms of life. It is well known that upon the land there are vertical as well as lateral zones of both the animal and vegetable kingdoms, the boundary lines between which, although not well defined, are yet preserved within certain lim- its. For instance, at latitude 80 deg. we find certain hardy plants growing upon land at the level of the sea; upon land two hundred feet higher they are not seen, since vegetation ceases entirely. These same plants at latitude 60 deg., in South Greenland, are met with at an elevation of about 2,000 feet, while under the equator, as on Chimborazo, they are found growing at an elevation of about 15,000 feet. So, in like manner. certain living creatures of the sea, which in the cold waters of the arctics live at the surface, toward the tropics dive far down beneath such heat-charged strata as the Gulf Stream, the very touch of which would be death to them. In this connection the observations made by the British surveying vessel Porcupine, as reported by Dr. W. B. Carpenter, have great interest. Between Scotland and the Far6e Banks, where the surface temperature was uniformly 52 deg., the deep sea showed 46 deg. and 32 deg. at the bottom. In the colder deep water was found a fauna essentially boreal, while in the warmer area the animal life which it supported is characteristic of the warmer tempered seas. And further on Dr. Carpenter says: The deep-sea dredgings of the Porcupine expedition have shown that many species of mollusks and crustacea previously supposed to be purely arctic, range southward in deep water as far as these dredgings. extended, namely, to the northern extremity of the Bay of Biscay; and it becomes a question of high interest whether an extension of the same mode of exploration would not bring them up from the abysses of inter- tropical seas. 20 TIlE REAL GULF STREAM. [JAr. The existence of a deep-sea current beneath the Gulf Stream and Atlantic drift is shown in a very practical manner by the drift of icebergs, which not un- frequently cross the Gulf Stream completely, propelled southward by this un- dertow; and this movement will be readily appreciated when it is borne in mind that icebergs are often as much as 200 feet above the surface of the sea, which would give them a depth beneath the surface of 1,400 feet, equal to the depth of the Gulf Stream water at its deepest point, and deeper by three-fourths than at any point east of Nantucket. An iceberg from 80 to 100 feet high was passed l~ Captain Courtney, April 27, 1829, in latitude 36 deg. 10 mm. N., longitude 39 deg. W.; and August 17, 1831, he met with one in latitude 36 deo. 20 mm., longitude 47 deg. 45 mm.; both of which were about on the southern edge of the Gulf Stream. We have now, as far as our limited space would allow, traced the course of the Gulf Stream and described its principal features. The reader will bear in mind that we have aimed to show that the Gulf Stream is lost in mid-ocean; that whatever causes may operate beyond to produce other currents or drifts, the forces which originated the Gulf Stream have ceased to exert their, influ- ence, and the Gulf Stream has no immediate concern in whatever disturbance of the waters may take place beyond its own comparatively small limits. An excellent illustration of how quickly a current is lost after the original force that caused it has ceased to operate, is shown in the Gulf of Mexico, into which the Mississippi river pours its turbid waters. The current from that river into the gulf through the Northwest Pass is about two miles an hour, or three feet per second, according to General A. A. Humphreys, the distinguished Chief Engineer of the United States Army, whose report upon the Mississippi river is one of the most able and exhaustive works of its kind in existence. General Ilumphreys, writing to Mr. Blunt, says: Meacle, in his survey of 1838, found the current to extend in certain weather seven miles from the bar The bar is five miles seaward of the light-housemaking twelve miles alto- gether. The distance at which the current is felt, or rather the distance at which the water is discolored, is represented differently by different persons, some going as high as tx~enty miles. . . . The river was well up when Meade made his observations, and his observations should be accepted, I think, as to any appreciable or material current. The distance at which this current. is perceived is dependent upon the height of the river, being greatest when the river is well up, and least when the waters are low; and, in like manner, the Gulf Stream is prolonged to its full- est extent and greatest volume when the pressure of the equatorial current is greatest, and is diminished when the strength of that current falls off. To the Gulf Stream is assigned a great deal that does not belong to it; and we think we have shown that there is, to begin with, no cause for assuming that it is prolonged indefinitely, but, on the contrary, have demonstrated that it is not, by such proofs as we found available to that end. The simple truth of the matter is, the Gulf Stream is made use of to account for whatever pheno- mena of our watery world and aerial space cannot be accounted for other- wisea circumstance due partly to a lack of observations, which is natural enough since scientific exploration is yet in its infancy, and partly to a lament- able poverty of invention, which is not usually the fault of theorists. Among these questions in which the Gulf Stream is held accountable, is the climate of the North Atlantic region. Now we claim that there are no facts to show that the Gulf Stream has any influence upon the climate of the North At- 1872.] THE REAL GULF STREAM. 21 lantic region whatever. Its waters are to those of the great body of the North Atlantic basin as the insignificant rivulet running through a farm is to the farm itself, and its effect upon the temperature not greater; and as fQr imagining, as Apollonia in Lothairis made to do, that a change in the direction of the Gulf Stream would change the character of mankind, it is the most arrant non- sense ever utteredeven by a Prime Minister. We have repeatedly heard and seen it written, that the Gulf Stream has an influence upon the climate of Newport, and that to this cause we must attribute the soft and delicious climate, of that most lovely of all lovely watering places. Now, the nearest point of the Gulf Stream to Newport is 156 miles, the prev- alent winds are westerly, and how temperature is, in sailor phrase, to beat to windward all that distance, we are quite at a loss to see. It is 45 miles nearer to Nantucket than it is to Newport, and only 35 miles further from Boston, where an easterly wind of a summers day gives you the shivers. The simple truth is, that the Gulf Stream loses its temperature steadily as it progresses beneath more rigorous airs than those which caused its birth, and that every trace of it is lost, as we have soen, in mid-ocean, so far as distinctive temperature or distinctive flow is concerned; that the temperature of the water is that of the general temperature of those regions, and the set of the water to the east is the general set of the North Atlantic, as we have before stated.* Its alleged effect upon the climate of the British Isles, and on Norway, Portugal, and Spain, is as remote from the truth as its alleged effect upon the climate of Newport. In relation to this matter Dr. Stork, whom we have had occasion to quote before, makes the following observations in referring to his experiments upon the temperatures of the air aad sea about the islands and coasts of Scotland. This whole investigation, says Dr. Stork, leads to the conclusionindeed, seems to me to provethat the climate of Britain is in no respect influenced by the heated waters of the Gulf Stream, which do not am proach our island within thousands of miles. It also confirms the conclusion that the mildness of the winters in Britain is chiefly due to the S. W. or anti- trade winds, which are the prevalent aiirial currents in this latitude during win~ ter; and this conclusion is confirmed by the observations of Professor James Glaisher, F. R. S., chief of the meteorological department of the Greenwich ob- servatory, who thus records the results of an ascent made by.him on January 12, 1864 (Travels in the Air, page 85): A warm current of air was met with of more than 3,000 feet in thickness, moving from the southwest, that is to say, in the direction of the Gulf Stream. This was the first time a stream of air of higher temperature than on the earth had been encountered. Above this the air was dry, and higher still very dry. Fine granular snow was falling into this current of warm air. The meeting with this southwest current is of the hi,,hest importance, for it goes far to explain why England possesses a winter temperature so much higher than is due to our northern latitudes. Our high winter temperature has hitherto been mostly referred to the iniluenee of the Gulf Stream. Without doubting the influence of this natural agent, it is necessary to add the effect of a parallel atmospheric current to the oceanic current coming from the same regionsa true aerial gulf stream. This great, energetic current meets with no obstruction in coming to us or to Norway. but passes over the level Atlantic without interruption from mountains. It cannot, however reach France without crossing Spain and the lofty range of the Pyrenees, and the effect of these cold mountains in reducing its temperature is so great that the former country derives but little warmth from it. This accord of temperature of sea and air is due, as we shall have occasion * These views Mr. Blunt originally communicated to lion. C. P. Daly, President of the Amer. Ican Geographical and Statistical Society, and they were published in the Journal for 1870. Although somewhat at variance with views which the writer formerly held, they have been adopted after a more careful study of the subject.J. I. H. 2 22 THE REAL GULF STREAM. [JAN. to show, to the fact that the air gives heat to the water, and in no case receives heat from the water. The Gulf Stream does not reach Britain; but even where it does reach, and is best known and most frequently traversed, its waters have no appreciable effect upon the atmosphere even in passing over it. And this is in obedience to a general law of nature which may be thus briefly stated: air when uncon- fined receives no perceptible accession of beat from water. Applying this to the air above and the waters beneath throughout the globe, we can truly say that the air is the general giver but is not a receiver of heat. It gives temperatures high and low to all and everything it touches. Water speedily assumes the temperature of the air above it. A warm wind heats it, a cold wind freezes it; but on the other hand, it must be observed that eold water does not chill the air nor does warm water heat it. The air which sets the water of the sea in motion throughout the globe, that grand circulating system whose influences are so beneficent, likewise imparts to it the heat with which it sustains the life of its inhabitants, or changing its heat drives them to seek more congenial quarters; all of which is susceptible of proof. We have seen and examined the weather register kept on board the light- ship off Sandy Hook. It shows that the temperature of the water follows that of the air with remarkable precision, whether on the ascending or descend- ing scale. The observations were made three times daily, and they show a range throughout the year of from 29 to 78 deg. This latter temperature was nearly as high as the highest temperature of the air on that day. The lowest temperature of the air was 4 deg., which brought the water down to freezing and some ice was formed. The average temperatures for nine consecu- five days in July were: air 74 deg., water 71 deg.; for a corresponding period in February, air 32 deg., water 31 deg. February 11 to 12 (1857), the air was 9 to 23 deg., water 29 deg., with the wind ranging from S. W. to S. E. Again, January 8 (1866), the air was 4 deg., water 35 deg. The following high ranges of temperature are given by way of contrast: July 20 (1859), air 84 deg., water 73 deg.; July 28 (1862), air 86 deg., water 73 deg.; July 8 (1866), air 80 deg., water 70 deg. In a recent work entitled Papers on 1~he Eastern and Northern Extension of the Gulf Stream, translated from the German of the distinguished geog- rapher Dr. A. Pctermann and others, and published by the Hydrographic Office at Washington, we find the following statement made by Mr. James Croll in a paper on the distribution of heat over the globe by ocean currents: The winds are heated by warm water in two ways, namely, by direct radict- tion from the water and by contact with the water; and that the Gulf Streum may in an obliging manner do the most it can in this way, the author pro- ceeds to say that in order that a very wide area of the Atlantic may be cov- ered with the warm water of the stream, slowness of motion is essential. It is certainly very good of the Gulf Stream to slow its speed and spread itself for the benefit of the winds; but unfortunately they are utterly insensible to any such condescension. XVitness the following: In February, 1869, the Pacific mail steamer Alaska sailed for Aspinwall, and at the request of Mr. Blunt her master, Captain Gray, a skilful and accurate navigntor, kept a thermometric journal during the voyage. We use that part relating to the Gulf Stream. At midnight, Feburary 22, she was, in latitude and longitude, 148 miles north of the Gulf Stream. The temperature of the air at the time was 22 deg., 1872.] THE REAL GULF STREAM. 23 water 39 deg., ship steering south. At 2h. 5Gm. i~. ~. the air was 39 deg., water 46 deg., which is the general winter temperature of the ocean water in that latitude on our coast; at 2h. 54m. the Alaska entered the streamair 40 deg., water 65 deg. Afterward the water rose to 70 deg., but the air re- inained at 40 deg. until the stream was crossed. Then the air rose to 44 deg., while the water was 62 deg. We do not allude to the amount of heat water will communicate to the air in a confined space, having made no experiments under that head; but, as be- fore observed, when the air is free the influence of water upon it is scarcely if at all perceptible. We have tested this over a running stream of hot water. This hot water was escaping at a temperature of 126 deg. from the condenser of a sugar refinery in Brooklyn. The stream ran in the open gutter in the street, the atmosphere and area of which bore a much smaller proportion to the stream than the atmosphere and area of the Atlantic Ocean do to the Gulf Stream. The thermometer was held over thc stream within a foot of it for the space of several minutes, and then registered 74 deg. only, the water, it will be remembered, being 126 deg. and flowing along beneath it. At two feet eleva- tion the temperature was 73 deg., at four 72 deg., at six 74 deg., at ten 75 deg. The atmosphere in the street at the time was 72 deg. That great bodies of water do not, on the other hand, cool the air to any ap- preciable degree, is shown by the iceberg, which is only water in a solid state. Who has not been told that ships crossing the Atlantic discover the presence of icebergs by the temperature of the air and water? Thus, as they say, the thermometer becomes the only safe pilot over that ice and fog-infested track. If the mariner should hang his hopes of safety upon such a very slender thread, it would be like the blind leading the blind. There is little or no truth in the assumption. A thermometer brought in actual contact with it will show a fall of the column within the tube, but not otherwise. We have ap- proached icebergs hundreds of times, often in thick weather when they came suddenly in view, and still more frequently when they could be seen for a long distance, and the temperature of the air was repeatedly noted. We never in any single instance saw,an appreciable change. With the temperature of the sea in which the iceberg floats and is being steadily dissolved, the case is of course somewhat different; but even here the influence is not felt to any considerable distance, certainly never far enough to enable one to escape danger, if the presence of an iceberg was left to that means alone of detection. Upon this matter there can be no better authority than the lai~e Dr. Scoresby, whose testimony we quote: As to security against falling in with ice to be derived from watchful attention to the temperature of the sea, and as to the thermometer being capable of insuring safety by giving indications of approach toward it, my personal experience and consideration of the question have not brought me to agree. . . . The chilling or radiating influence of an isolated iceberg cannot sensibly affect the temperature of the air to windward of it, or on the sides to any considerable distance; nor could the sea be altered in its gen- eral temperature for miles around, except in the track perhaps of its drifting. It is not, however, to the influence of the ice upon the water in which it floats that we wish to call attention; our concern is only with the air, our purpose being to show that the air which floats upon the earth receives neither heat nor cold from the surface water, but, on the contrary, imparts to it what- ever heat or cold it may have. 24 THE REAL GULF STREAM. [JAN. A simple experiment will show our meaning more clearly. July 8th, with the temperature of the air at 80 deg., the water of a stream into which we in- serted our thermometer was 76 deg. On the following morning at 4h. 3Gm. the air had fallen to 70 deg., the stream to 74 deg. At the same time, however, rain water in a tank was exactly that of the air, namely, 70 deg. The water in a neighboring well, 15 feet deep, was 54 deg., only 4 deg. greater than its lowest temperature of midwinter. If this relation of air and water were better understoodif theorists would only reason from the proven fact that the air determines the temperature of water in contact with it, and cannot therefore be violently disturbed by itwe would not have anybody to slander the Gulf Stream by calling it a storm breeder, or anybody to believe such an assertion with respect to its paternal disposition; nor would anybody have conceived the idea that the Gulf Stream modifies the climate of western Europe. The waters of the Atlantic which bathe the coast of western Europe have the same temperature as the air, or nearly so. When the temperature of the air rises, that of the water follows it; when the temperature of the air falls, that of the water does likewise. The mean of the day for the one is usually the mean of the day for the other. And from month to month of the round twelve the uniformity of this mean is remarkably preserved. In the Nauti- cal Magazine we find some valuable observations under this head, made in 1857 by Dr. Stork upon the air, earth, and sea, on the coast of Scotland. The annual mean was as follows: Air, 48.7 deg.; earth (one foot below the surface), 49 deg.; sea, 49.3 dog. The general results were as before stated: the tem- perature of the sea followed that of the air with great regularity, not simply at long intervals, but within the space of a single day. During six days in November the mean of the air was 34.5 deg.; the sea cooled to 45 deg. Then warmer weather set in, and the temperature of the air rising to 47.2 deg., the sea came up to 46.2 deg. The air, therefore, remarks Dr. Stork, could not have received its heat from the sea, seeing that the sea was colder than the air. From Dr. Stork we will make a further quotation, recounting the observa- lions of Mr. McDonald. From Mr. McDonalds observations, says Dr. Stork, it appears the Atlantic which washes our shores attained its lowest temperature for the year (namely, 40 deg. at the surface and 43 deg. at the depth of 24 feet) between the 8th and 12th of March, during which period the air attained its lowest mean temperature on that coast, namely, 30 deg. at Ber- nera and 34 deg. at Easdale. The temperature of the sea after this gradually rose; and at Bernera, where a strong tidal current washes round the bay where the observations were taken, two maxima were attained during the summer, namely, during June and again during August. During the very warm weather which prevailed in June, nariiely, from the 14th to the 25th, the air at- tained a mean temperature of 60.8 deg., while that of the sea rose to 58 deg. Gold weather followed, and from the 1st to the 14th of July the mean tempera- ture of the air was only 53.6 deg., and the temperature of the sea fell under ita. cooling influence to 54.2 deg. After this the weather got warmer, and the air attained a second mean maximum temperature of 61.2 deg. between the 7th and 12th of August; and the sea temperature again attained a second maximum, its mean temperature during that period being 58.5 deg. From that period the temperature of air and sea fell pretty regularly together, the mean tempera~. ture of the air during the latter half of September being 53.8, that of the sea 1872.] THE REAL Gull? STREAM. during the same period, 56.3 deg. During October the mean temperature of the air fell to 45.2 deg., and that of the sea fell regularly with it, but of course more slowly, to 49 deg. From the 1st to the 13th November the mean tem- perature of the air was 44.7 deg., that of the sea 48 deg. From the 14th to the 20th November the mean temperatuie of the air fell to 34.5 deg., and the sea, cooling in consequence more rapidly than before, showed a mean temper- ature of 45 deg. during the same period. After this warmer weather occurred, and the mean temperature of the air till the close of the mouth was 45.6 deg., that of the sea during the same period being exactly the same. From the Journal of the Scottish Meteorological Society for 1865 we ex- tract the following: The maximum temperature (of the air) occurs about 3 r. ~i. and the minimum about 3 A. M. (at Harris, Scotland). Since the maxi- mum and minimum temperatures of the sea occur respectively at 4 i. ni. and 5:30 A. M., it follows that the extreme temperatures of the sea occur from one hour to two and a half hours later than those of the ~iir In this same journal it is further recorded that the sea about the 21st of May and the 10th of November is about the mean of the year, or 48.9 deg. The mean temperature of the air occurs about the beginning of May and middle of October. From which it will be seen that the temperature of the air is in its fluctuations invariably in advance of the sea, and that the former controls the latter. Could indeed any proof be more conclusive of the coi~rectness of the propositions with which we set out, naniely, that the water receives its tem- perature from the air, that the water has no heating effect upon the air, and that the Gulf Stream has nothing to do with the climate of the western coast of Europe? And this proof, added to others which we have brought forward, we think shows conclusively that the Gulf Stream has nothing more to do with the climate of the North Atlantic region than the vats of the Lion Brewery have to do with the climate of Manhattan Island, or a boiling teakettle in Union Square would affect the temperature of New York. And what is the Gulf Stream after all, that so much should have been as- sumed for it? When the Gulf Stream, emerging from the Gulf of Mexico, at- tains its greatest velocity, it is not above 40 miles in width, and its average depth does not exceed the fifth of a mile. Mr. Findlay estimates its sectional area there at from 5 to 8 miles, which comparatively insignificant volume of water, riding along and spreading over the cold water, of the Atlantic basin, would re- quire from 20 to 25 days to reach Nantucket, and 50 days to arrive off the Newfoundland Banks. Its temperature has meanwhile cooled off at a steady rate15 to 20 deu. in winter and 5 to 15 deg. in summer. Off the Bankn the whole volume of the Gulf Stream water, spread out over four hun- dred and odd miles of width, would not form a layer upon the sea a hundred feet thick. From the Newfoundland Banks to the British Isles would require over 130 days for the water to flow, even assuming the last determined rate to prevail throughout the entire distance. And what hu~ become of the hot tem- perature with which it emerged from the Gulf of Mexico? The answer is sim- ple enough. The air has brought it to the same level as its own. Meanwhile, as we have shown already, the Gulf Stream has every distinctive character ss a current: first, in rate of flow, which has become that of the general easterly set of the Atlantic; second, in temperature, which ha~ become that of the gen- eral temperature of the air; third, in color of water, which has lost the blue that it had when emerging from the Gulf of Mexico; in everything in fact which goes to make up what we designate as an ocean current, for we 26 THE REAL GULF STREAM. [JAN. can hardly call a current that slow set of from less than one mile to a max- imum of 4.7 miles which we find between the Shetland Islands and Iceland, nor yet that somewhat faster set produced by the same means which we find further south toward the Azores. But how then account for the mild climate of Norway, the British Isles, and the western coasts below? Although this is foreign to our present inquiry, we will briefly answer the question by quoting Mr. Findlay. He says: The reason is most simple and obvious. The great belt of anti-trade or passage winds which surrounds the globe northward of the tropics, passing to the north- eastward or from some point to the southward of west, pass over the entire area of the North Atlantic, and drift the whole surface of that ocean toward the shores of northern Europe, and into the arctic basin, infusing into high lati- tudes the temperature and moisture of much lower parallels, and which alone would be sufficient to account for all changes of climate by their variations, without any reference whatever to the Gulf Stream. That we must look for the phenomena of climate in the effect of the air and not of the sea, must be clear enough after the citations we have made. The climate of the British Isles is milder than any other part of Europe in the same latitude. March is the coldest month in Scotland. Then the easterly winds prevail, but throughout the winter the prevalent winds are from the south and southwest. With them there is never any intense cold. They extend even to Norway, where the winter is mild compared with similar latitudes on the east coast of America, where northwest winds prevail through the winter. Portugal and the south of Spain are similarly situated with respect to Britain and Norway, and the winter climate there is delightful. But before these winds can reach any other countries of Europe they must cross high mountain ranges, which throw them into the upper regions of the air and chill them. As a result we find France with a much more severe winter climate than that of Britain, although much to the south of that fast-anchored isle. We have now seen that the winds, prolonged throughout the year or con- tinued for a considerable period of time, not only move the waters of the sea, but temper them as well, while at the same time producing those strange mod- ifications of climate which we are often at a loss to understand. Of the causes which set the great currents of air in motion we remain in complete ignorance. While we cannot yet satisfactorily explain the great and prevailing currents of the air which move over vast spaces, still less can we account for those small local disturbances with which daily life is everywhere made acquainted. We have in New York strong northwest gales in the winter, bringing low temper- atures. This storm may continue for days, and we may possibly trace its course through thousands of milesto the very confines of the Arctic Ooean. But this is not proven to have ever happened. Even that prevailing wind of our winter comes upon us as a local burst. We suffer tortures from it; the snow whirls madly through every crack and cranny into our very sitting- rooms. We read the next day a letter from a friend who lives in the very quarter whence that storm comes, and not sixty miles away, We are having capital weather; come up for a little shooting. Would we have escaped had that northwest storm stretched away over the vast plains of the northwest on to the Polar Sea? This cold wind comes from above. But why? And then hot storms occur in like manner within small areas. Wlwre do the hot winds come from? A continuous wind does sometimes occur in the region of the variables, as ours for instance, but it is rare. Storms are usually local. Wit 1872.] THE REAL GULF STREAM. 27 ness how utterly without any apparent natural system does that well-organized weather bureau of the Signal Service show the winds to be. According to the Signal Service reports, the winds blow from all the cardinal poinis at one and the same time, within a radius of a hundred or so of miles. It is these winds which bring us heat and cold, and temper the waters of the sea. It is certainly safe to assume that cold winds come from above. Witness the low temperatures which prevail in the upper regions of the air, according to the testimony of all who have penetrated them, either by climbing lofty mountains or ascending in a balloon. The very rapidity with which cold winds succeed hot winds is proof that they cannot come from any great distance. We trust now that we have made it clear that the Gulf Stream does i~ot af- fect the climate of the region through which it flows, that it does not breed s& ,rms, and that it does come to an end soon after leaving the American coast. It is hardly necessary for us, therefore, in conclusion, to more than briefly men- tion the absurd suggestion which so many charts contain, that the Gulf Stream wheels around below the Azores, and returning to the west encloses the myste- rious Sargasso Sea. Since it does not approach the Azores within many hun- dreds of miles, nor the British Isles within thousands, and since it does not put out any arms in any direction, but dies like a good creature when its time has come, it can hardly enclose anything. This false idea of a whirl of waters in the North Atlantic within the vortex of the Gulf Stream, has gone far to create in the imaginations of men that usually calm grassy sea and the horse latitudes, where Columbus was for so many days so provokingly delayed. Imaginative men have even gone so far as to construct maps which represent that sea, looking like the marshes that we shoot snipe over. It is needless to say there is no such absurd vortex to the Gulf Stream, and no such sea upon the face of the globe so far as known. Where Washington Irving received his ideas concerning it is a mystery. In his Life of Columbus he thus writes: It had the appearance of a vast inundated meadow. And again, These fields of weeds were at first regarded with great satisfaction; but at length they became in many places so dense and matted as in some degree to impede the sailing of the ships. No such record is found in the journal of Columbus, at least if we are to credit that edition of it pub- lished by the Spanish hydrographer Navarrete. These are all the allusions made to it: September 16, Weeds met with which appeared fresh and occa- sioned the belief that the ships were approaching some island ; 21st, Large collection of weeds from the west; 22d, A short interval withoutweed and afterward abundance of it; 23d, Weed plentiful and crabs found in it; 28th, Met with little weed; October 2, Much weed from eastward to west, contrary to former; 3d, Much weed about; some very old and some fresh with berries; 8th, Weeds apnear fresh. On the 11th, a strong wind re- lieved the daring voyagers of the tedium which had been so oppressive in this calm region of the weeds, and on that day they were rewarded with the discovery of land, which, although but a little island in the sea, was to make them famous through all time. All of these allusions to the weed were clearly made with reference to their proximity to land, and were signs of hope rather than impediments to naviga- tion. The weed is a marine alga growing upon the Andros Islands, which are upon the eastern edge of the Bahama Banks, and being detached from the rocks floats away upon the sea before the winds. Nobody has ever seen the sea encunibered by it to such a degree as to impede the progress of ships. 28 SINCE TO MY LIPS. [JAN. Lieutenant Walsh, U. S. N., makes the following sensible remarks respecting this wonderful whirlpool of the Gulf Streamwonderful at least as romances have made it wonderful, and a whirlpool as theorists have consulted their imag-~ ination for their facts. We saw, says Lieutenant Walsh, very little gulf or sea-weed in it, hut much on its outer edge. While mentioning this weed I may here remark that we looked in vain in the region assigned to the sargasso, for the great fields of it which have been reported. Small patches of five or six feet, generally arranged in long parallel lines in the direction of the wind, were seen daily in crossing the Atlantic till we reached the longitude of 28 deg., where it disappeared altogether. My frequent examinations of this weed satisfy me that wherever it may originally have come from, it feeds and grows upon the waters of the sea, which is certainly not more strange than the plant ~hieh feeds upon the air. And now, having settled with the famous Sargasso Sea, and got the Gulf Stream within reasonable limits, let us hope that we may have done some- thing to stimulate our Navy Department to bestir itself in behalf of a much- needed exploration; for we think it due to the character of the United States that this Gulf Stream, which takes its departure from our shores, should be ex- plored to its end. The United States Coast Survey has done all or nearly all that has been done hitherto; but let the Secretary of the Navy direct that ships of war or the practice ships of the Naval Academy cruise in the stream and examine it thoroughly. This would cost the country nothing, and we should only contribute a small portion of the debt we owe to the fund of hydrographic knowledge created by England and France. Dii. I. I. HAYES. SINdE TO MY LIPS. [moM THE maz~cu or vicron HUGo.J SINCE to my lips I pressed thy brimming bowl; Since on thy hands my pallid brow I laid; Since I have breathed the sweet breath of thy soul, A perfume hidden deep in depths of shade; Since from thy star, I caught one brilliant beam, Now veiled, alas! forever from my gaze; Since fell upon my lifes full-flowing stream One rose leaf torn from thy young joyous days; Since I have heard thy murmuring accents, while Thy heart poured out its wealth of love divine; Since I have seen thee weep, have seen thee smile, And felt thy loving lips and eyes on mine; Now I can say, while flit the rapid hours, Passpass forever; I no more grow old. Fleet fast away with all your faded flowers; One flower, no hand can cull, my heait shall hold. Thy wing, in brushing by, no droplet dashes From the full vase that to my lips I press. My soul has more of fire titan thine of ashes; My heart more love than thine forgetfulness! C, P. CRANCH.

28 SINCE TO MY LIPS. [JAN. Lieutenant Walsh, U. S. N., makes the following sensible remarks respecting this wonderful whirlpool of the Gulf Streamwonderful at least as romances have made it wonderful, and a whirlpool as theorists have consulted their imag-~ ination for their facts. We saw, says Lieutenant Walsh, very little gulf or sea-weed in it, hut much on its outer edge. While mentioning this weed I may here remark that we looked in vain in the region assigned to the sargasso, for the great fields of it which have been reported. Small patches of five or six feet, generally arranged in long parallel lines in the direction of the wind, were seen daily in crossing the Atlantic till we reached the longitude of 28 deg., where it disappeared altogether. My frequent examinations of this weed satisfy me that wherever it may originally have come from, it feeds and grows upon the waters of the sea, which is certainly not more strange than the plant ~hieh feeds upon the air. And now, having settled with the famous Sargasso Sea, and got the Gulf Stream within reasonable limits, let us hope that we may have done some- thing to stimulate our Navy Department to bestir itself in behalf of a much- needed exploration; for we think it due to the character of the United States that this Gulf Stream, which takes its departure from our shores, should be ex- plored to its end. The United States Coast Survey has done all or nearly all that has been done hitherto; but let the Secretary of the Navy direct that ships of war or the practice ships of the Naval Academy cruise in the stream and examine it thoroughly. This would cost the country nothing, and we should only contribute a small portion of the debt we owe to the fund of hydrographic knowledge created by England and France. Dii. I. I. HAYES. SINdE TO MY LIPS. [moM THE maz~cu or vicron HUGo.J SINCE to my lips I pressed thy brimming bowl; Since on thy hands my pallid brow I laid; Since I have breathed the sweet breath of thy soul, A perfume hidden deep in depths of shade; Since from thy star, I caught one brilliant beam, Now veiled, alas! forever from my gaze; Since fell upon my lifes full-flowing stream One rose leaf torn from thy young joyous days; Since I have heard thy murmuring accents, while Thy heart poured out its wealth of love divine; Since I have seen thee weep, have seen thee smile, And felt thy loving lips and eyes on mine; Now I can say, while flit the rapid hours, Passpass forever; I no more grow old. Fleet fast away with all your faded flowers; One flower, no hand can cull, my heait shall hold. Thy wing, in brushing by, no droplet dashes From the full vase that to my lips I press. My soul has more of fire titan thine of ashes; My heart more love than thine forgetfulness! C, P. CRANCH. FIFTEEN YEAThS A SHAKERESS. INTRODUCTORY ~om.The writer of the following pages has often been questioned concern- ing the purity of Snaker life. It is her experience and belief that as a sect the Shakers are pure. The whole commiinity would collapse if chastitythe great bulwark of their faithwere not rigidly enforced and ob- served. The few who do transgress are instantly turned out of the society. This little narrative is quite true, as many who have lived in Wisdoms Valley have attested; the writer only putting into words those thoughts which necessarily must have passed through the minds of some of the subjects of these reminiscences. I. IN the summer of 1832. when cholera was devastating New York city, my father with difficulty obtained a refuge for his wife and two little sonsall the children he then hadin the Mohawk Valley, among the people called Shakers. It is not the custom of this strange sect to entertain worlds peo- ple; but the awful reign of terror and death in the city induced them to sus- pend their rules for the time. The calm of the surroundings, the healthy, in- vigorating air, and the perfect neatness and order, made the place seem a par- adise of repose to my mother after the turmoil and fevered throb of the plague- stricken city. As for the little boys, it was bliss supreme to roam the woods in search of sweet-scented treasures, to climb the hills, and to trot after the ploughmen and haymakers. The good Shakers regarded Samuel, the elder, with especial in- terost, for he was a gentle spirit and meet for Gods service. Clinton, on the contrary, was a boisterous, mischief-loving, standing-on-his-head urchin of five years, who stoutly informed the brethren that they couldnt convert him, be- cause they did not keep Independence Day and love General Washington. He might make a bargain with them for a load of fire-crackers with which to cele- brate the Fourth of July, but otherwise his patriotism would bind him hard and fast to the world. My mother staid with the Shakers till mid-autumfl, respecting and admh- ing their simple manners and dress, their cleanliness and chastity, and the se- clusion which protected their society from the trials and cares of the outcr world. But their articles of faith were not hers; she Was the happy, loving wife of a faithful husband, and both love and duty summoned he~ back to her home. The elders of the society, with keen, subtle arguments, tried to induce her at least to leave her children, that they might be educated in the faith of Shakerism, and thus escape the snares of the devil, and be numbered with Gods chosen few. But a mother does not willingly part with her offspring, and so it caine to pass that one clear, frosty morning in October, with crisp snow on the ground, after many hand-shakings and fare-ye-wells, Brother Justice stowed them snugly in the green box sleigh, and touching up his fat hosses upon which his heart was set in a very worldly fashionoff they started at a quick trot, the boys screaming with nierriment and delight. Ar- rived at Albany, they entered the boat, and the next moment they had seen the lmst of the good old Broadhriin in his long drab surtout. Clinton told his mother that Brother Justice was old King Cole dressed like a Shaker; he was such a jolly old soul, and shook his fat sides at such a rate when he laughed. Ten years elapsed, bringing with them many sad t~hanges. Two little girls now shared my mothers love, and soon after she became a widow. Grief and trouble brought on heart disease, and poverty ]ike a grim goblin sat on the

FIFTEEN YEAThS A SHAKERESS. INTRODUCTORY ~om.The writer of the following pages has often been questioned concern- ing the purity of Snaker life. It is her experience and belief that as a sect the Shakers are pure. The whole commiinity would collapse if chastitythe great bulwark of their faithwere not rigidly enforced and ob- served. The few who do transgress are instantly turned out of the society. This little narrative is quite true, as many who have lived in Wisdoms Valley have attested; the writer only putting into words those thoughts which necessarily must have passed through the minds of some of the subjects of these reminiscences. I. IN the summer of 1832. when cholera was devastating New York city, my father with difficulty obtained a refuge for his wife and two little sonsall the children he then hadin the Mohawk Valley, among the people called Shakers. It is not the custom of this strange sect to entertain worlds peo- ple; but the awful reign of terror and death in the city induced them to sus- pend their rules for the time. The calm of the surroundings, the healthy, in- vigorating air, and the perfect neatness and order, made the place seem a par- adise of repose to my mother after the turmoil and fevered throb of the plague- stricken city. As for the little boys, it was bliss supreme to roam the woods in search of sweet-scented treasures, to climb the hills, and to trot after the ploughmen and haymakers. The good Shakers regarded Samuel, the elder, with especial in- terost, for he was a gentle spirit and meet for Gods service. Clinton, on the contrary, was a boisterous, mischief-loving, standing-on-his-head urchin of five years, who stoutly informed the brethren that they couldnt convert him, be- cause they did not keep Independence Day and love General Washington. He might make a bargain with them for a load of fire-crackers with which to cele- brate the Fourth of July, but otherwise his patriotism would bind him hard and fast to the world. My mother staid with the Shakers till mid-autumfl, respecting and admh- ing their simple manners and dress, their cleanliness and chastity, and the se- clusion which protected their society from the trials and cares of the outcr world. But their articles of faith were not hers; she Was the happy, loving wife of a faithful husband, and both love and duty summoned he~ back to her home. The elders of the society, with keen, subtle arguments, tried to induce her at least to leave her children, that they might be educated in the faith of Shakerism, and thus escape the snares of the devil, and be numbered with Gods chosen few. But a mother does not willingly part with her offspring, and so it caine to pass that one clear, frosty morning in October, with crisp snow on the ground, after many hand-shakings and fare-ye-wells, Brother Justice stowed them snugly in the green box sleigh, and touching up his fat hosses upon which his heart was set in a very worldly fashionoff they started at a quick trot, the boys screaming with nierriment and delight. Ar- rived at Albany, they entered the boat, and the next moment they had seen the lmst of the good old Broadhriin in his long drab surtout. Clinton told his mother that Brother Justice was old King Cole dressed like a Shaker; he was such a jolly old soul, and shook his fat sides at such a rate when he laughed. Ten years elapsed, bringing with them many sad t~hanges. Two little girls now shared my mothers love, and soon after she became a widow. Grief and trouble brought on heart disease, and poverty ]ike a grim goblin sat on the 30 FIFTEEN YEARS A SIIAKERESS. [JAN. hearthstone. With the assistance of a good old auntwho, like Betsy Trot- wood, would sit crimping the border of her nightcap with the skirt of her gown turned back on her kneesshe secured a situation for my elder brother; but Clinton, full as ever of Fourth of July and patriotism, would not brook confine- ment in a store, and it was decided that he should enter the navy. When the day came for him to leave his home, the brave boy, though blinded by his tears, shook his gay littI~ handkerchief on high, and shouting Good-by, Im off, kissed his mother for the last time on earth. Soon, no longer able to support her children by mental labor, my mother took us in her arms and told us what I have here written, and tried to prepare us for the overwhelming loss which soon would leave us orphans. She pic- tured in engaging terms the beautiful home of the kind Shakers, and implored her aunt when all was over to take us to the quiet, safe retreat where she and her boys had spent those few happy months, and where in sweet seclusion her girls might escape trials like her own. Her aunt, now an aged woman, with scarcely means to support herself, yielded to our dying mothers entreaty, who then, clasping us in her yearning, fond embrace, and praying that God would love and protect her friendless orphans, lay gently down, and the tired, trou- bled soul fell asleep, and so passed away. One month after my~mothers death we were sailing up the Hudson river to the Shaker settlement. The good souls greeted our great-aunt with Come right in, you are kindly welcome here, and immediately asked our ages. Miunette will be ten in July and Daughtie six on New Years day, said our aunt. Well, we think Judith and Tabitha would be soberer names; thee knows we are sober people. But my great-aunt at once overruled this proposal. Then she recalled to their memory the visit my mother had made them, and repeated her reasons for placing us in their care, adding that she had but a small sum of money out at interest for each of us, which was to remain until we were of age. My sis- ter all this time was contentedly rocking in a queer little rocking-chair, while I had a curiously-shaped ottoman which kept me jumping up every moment to examine it. The house where we were received stood apart from the rest of the village. Here the trustees reside who transact,business and entertain visitors. They are called office deacons and deaconesses. There were three of the last in the room, the eldest of whom remembered our mother, and shed tears when our great-aunt recounted her trials, her solicitude for her little children, and her great desire that the good Shakers Would receive them. That we will, said the good old deaconess. They shall find a far hap- pier home here than in the wicked, God-forsaken city of New York. They shall be as children and joint heirs among us; and they shall be trained in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Take them then, returned our great-aunt, and may the God of the wid- ow and the fatherless reward you. At this moment a light knock at the door was heard, and a pleasant-looking brother entered who inquired, Are these the children who are going to become young Believers? Yea, said Sister Abigail, and the youngest is born on the same day as yourself. You are appointed to be their especial guardian, and it is proper for you to inform Sarah Clinton what is required of her before she leaves the chil 1872.] FIFTEEN YEARS A SHAKERESS. 81 dren in Wisdoms ValIey.* Brother Archibald, sit down and explain to the aunt the rules practised in taking children from the world. Brother Archibald is tall and erect, with a fine, intelligent brow, and a pres- ence that inspires, one with reverence and affection. his countenance is ex- pressive of benignity and goodness, his hair is soft, beautiful, and snowy-white. and his voice musical and low. He said: If your nieces are to make Wisdoms Valley their abiding home, you must resign all claims to them forever. They must be indentured to one of the brethren or sisters until each becomes eighteen years of age; but if be- fore that time they are discontented and wish to return to the world, they are at liberty to do so. If you are agreed to it, I will act as their guardian. Our great-aunt regarded this apprenticing business as very unpleasant, but there was no appeal from the rules, and she indentured us to Brother Archi- bald forthwith, with the stipulation that she might visit us at her pleasure. My sister was a beautiful little creature with golden hair, but mine was nearly as colorless as Brother Archibalds, who, beckoning us to him, gently stroked my head, calling me Little Moonlight, and telling us that we were greatly blessed in having our lot cast with the chosen people of God. It was late in October, and the weather much colder than in the city. The ground was covered with snow. Not a sound even broke the quiet of the place, save the clanging of the great bell which awoke the society in the morn- ing, called them to meals, and to the half-hours solemn meditation before the Sabbath and evening services. While our great-aunt remained we were contented little things, playing with the dolls and toys which we had brought from the world; but when the parting came we clung to her, and prayed her to take us back to New York. It cost her poor heart a severe struggle; but with a hurried kiss, and God bless and keep you, my dear, dear children! she was gone, and we two poor little kittens were left terrified and alone among strangers. We wanted to lie down and die, and we clung to each other bereft of comfort. But the good little deaconess Abigail had sweet, consoling ways. She took us to the apartment where we were to sleep, and told us that no harm could come near us in Wisdoms Valleythat our own dear mother would be our guardian angel, and watch over us. Our poor little hearts were somewhat quieted with this sweet assurance, and we knelt down that first night among the Shakers, and repeated the prayer she taught us with hushed whispers. But, oh! we wanted a good-night kiss; the tears burst out again, and we sobbed ourselves to sleep in each others arms. The next morning, as we were looking out of the window, there issued from a large brick building about twenty boys walking two and two dressed in gray woollen frocks, butternut trousers, and caps, the last surmounted by a woollen pompon. From another building the same number of girls followed the boys at a short distance. They wore long drab cloaks, with hoods drawn over their heads. They paced along so demurely, keeping their eyes and heads severely straight forward, that Minnette laughed at the funny little nuns. We were soon summoned to join them, and were hastily collecting our dolls and toys to take with us, when we were told that only little worlds girls cared for such foolish things, and that if we meant to be Believers we must renounce such vanities. So we left poor Dolly behind, burying her as effectually as Esther in Bleak House did her inanimate friend and consoler. The instinctive ma- ternal feeling was systematically crushed out in little girls; a good Believer * The spiritual name of the Shaker society near Albany. FIFTEEN YEARS A SHAKERESS. [JA1~r. never thought of the word mother save in a spiritual sense; it was a nam6 and feeling not to be tolerated in the flesh by Shaker brethren and sisters. But I was rebellious, and often made a corn-cob wrapped in a bit of muslin, with a chestnut-shell cap on the smaller end, the confidant of ffiy troubles and sharer of my joys; and the little illegitimate was soon as dear to my heart as my waxen-faced, gayly-dressed doll had been. After the lecture on dolls, Eldress Oi-angia led us over to the building occu- pied by the girls and presented us to her sister, who was now to take the place of our dear dead mother. Sister Myra, or Mother Mia as the girls liked to call her, was a very tall large woman, with slightly-stooping shoulders, an awkward and ungainly appear- ance, and the very largest hands and feet I ever saw. She wore peculiarly- shaped shoes, with long pointed toes, and heels so high that she seemed elevated on stilts. She kissed me with such wet loose lips, that I took the opportunity while Minnette was undergoing the same unpleasant caress to wipe my mouth; yet it was not long before I learned to love her and watch her soft brown eyes; and many a time I have kissed the dimple in her prettily-inoulded chin. The room we were in was large and well lighted, with clean whitewashed walls, and a dark, polished, and very slippery floor. Accustomed to carpets, 1 had net walked half a dozen steps before I came to grief in a sitting position, looking up very much mortified and astonished. But the little Shakers never raised their eyes. They were all busily working, making small whisk brooms, weaving prettily-striped woollen tape for chair seats, braiding straw, sewing, and knitting stockingsa very hive of industry. At evening, the girls were assembled to sing a hymn; and as they were marshalled in a straight line some smaller children entered, and arranged themselves at the end of the long row, flanked by a young woman of eighteen, who led by the hand a beautiful little creature whom she introduced as Joy. I was just one day her senior, but much taller and larger; and after I had dis- carded my worlds clothes, and had commenced my career as a believer, Joy stood next below me, the Shakers being thus particular regarding age. Joy was clothed like all the rest in heavy dark homespun, which looked rough enough against the delicate purity and firmness of her skin, and her slight wil- lowy figure. Her hair fell on her neck in pretty soft curls, cut quite short in front, without parting, like the hair, in a Vandyke portrait, giving her a boyish appearance. She was the loveliest little creature in Wisdoms Valley, and when she turned that first day and looked pityingly on my sad white face and sorrowful black dress, my grieved childs heart, longing for love, went out to her with an intense affection which has never lessened. Sister Myra and the young governess seated us, and then we sang our even- ing hymn, without musical accompaniment. The sweet young voices sounded very pleasant, and we joined in with all our might. It is considered a great thing to be a good vocalist, as singing and dancing make the principal part of Shaker worship, and Minnette and I were invited to give a specimen of our ability. Supposing something solemn would be the most acceptable, we began a little hymn our dear mother used to sing, commencing Shed not a tear, my dear friends, oer my biet, When I am gone It was too much; we broke down utterly, sobbing in each others arms. Not a word was spoken. They had all seen homesick desolate children, and had come to the conclusion that the lees notice taken of us, the sooner we should be restored to tranquillity. 1872.J FWEEEN YEARS A SHAKERESS. Sister Myra tucked us up in ~ great feather bed that night~ telling us with an affectionate kiss that we. would soon feel hetter, and that if we would love her we should be her own dear children in Wis4oms Valley. II. IT may interest the reader to learn the fundamental principles, doctrines, and faith of the sect termed Shakers hy the world. Our community is called The United Society of Believers. Their pri- mary principles are, Faith, hope, honesty, continence,, innocence, simplicity, meekness, prudence, patience, thankfulness, and charity. A virgin life is strictly believed to be essential to a true follower of Oliriet; only the children of the world marry and are given in marriage. A true Believer~ s union is spiritual, and needs no fleshly support. Their par- entage is spiritual, and produces no fleshly offspring, Their inheritance is. spiritual, and cannot be controlled by human laws. Their temporal property, which is necessary for the support of the body while in life, is regulated by a sacred compact. By mutual agreement it is consecrated to religious uses, for the benefit of the whole body, and descends to their spiritual heirs. The first gospel dispensation appeared in the male, in the person of Jesus Christ. The second gospel dispensation was manifested in the female, and is the second appearing of Christ in the person of Ann Lee, in which appearing the woman as well as the man is restored to her proper lot and order in the new creation. The society do not believe that death is the. closing scene of mans proba- tion for eternity. The doctrine of a probationary state beyond the grave was. explicitly taught by Mother Ann Lee, the spiritual head and founder of the sect. Confession is maintained to be the only method whereby one can he clesnsed~ from his sins; and this infallible key to heavenso long and so much abused in the church of Antichristwas renewed in all its purity at the commencemen1~ of the United Society. Th~se who have no opportunity in this world of em- bracing the gospel of Christs second appearing in the female, it is believed, will have it offered to them in the next, with the other dogmas of their faith. But awful, awful will be the sentence on those souls irho, having this privilege, reject it in this world; and they alone of all Gods creatures are forever and eternally lost, who, having once embraced Shakerism, turn away and beoome reprobates! A virgin life and perfect continence must be the end and aim of a true cross-hearer and faithful follower of Christ. For an elaborate and ingenious argument in behalf of their faith, which would well repay the perusal, I refer my reader to a work entitled The Testimony of Christs.SucQnd Appearing, edited by the Brother Archibald mentioned in these pages. lie is the ables# scholar in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin in the United Society, having been edu- cated for a Lutheran clergyman before he embraced the faith of Shakerism. The society of Wisdoms Valley is composed of four families or orders, em- bracing four villages, separated a short distance, each having it~ own elders and eldresses, deacons and deacomfesses. The ministry is composed of f~ur-~ two male and two female~who preside over the society at Wisdoms Valley, and also over another located on the Lebanon Mountains. The spiritual name of the Lebanon society is Holy Mount. These two are the senior societies, having been established some time before those in the New England, Western, and Southwestern States. 34 FIFTEEN YEARS A SHAKERESS. [JAN. Two societies form a bishopric, having their own spiritual controllers. The elders are confessors to the males, the eldresses to the females. The deacons and deaconesses are the trustees, and have charge of the temporal affairs in their respective departments. Labor is a part of worship, and thought honor- able, for it was enjoined by Mother Ann: Your hands to work, and your hearts to God. Not an atom is allowed to be wasted, and every good Believer is devoted to the interest of the whole commonwealth. Christmas and Mother Anns birth- day are kept like the Sabbath. The Shakers believe in a dual God a Father, fountain of wisdom and power, and a Mother, fountain of goodness and love. They believe in direct divine communication the revelation from the first parents of all souls not only to the man Jesus, as the first born of humanity in the male line, eighteen hundred years ago, but also to the woman Ann Lee, the first born of humanity in the female line in modern times. Womans rights are fully recognized by giving her a mother in Deity. Equal suffrage and equal participation in the government of an order founded by a woman, is an inevitable sequence. The ministers live in a house by themselves. The power vested in them is absolute. They make all the appointments; each succeeding minister is ap- pointed by his predecessor. They claim the true apostolic succession, or holy anointing from Mother Ann and the first fathers and mothers in the church, which is the Millennial Church. Every member has access to the confessional at all times, but there is one day in the year especially set apart as a season for fasting and confession. It occurs about the thanksgiving period in the New England States. It is inva- riably appointed for a Sabbath daywhether to save time or from the fact that bread and salt are not very substantial articles of food to labor upon, it does not appear. The ordinary services are dispensed with, and the day seemed to us children interminable. While the worlds peo~le were feasting on thanks- giving fare, we were ruminating the bitter food of reflection. For social purposes there is a retiring house, which is occupied evenings and Sundays by the brethren and sisters. Here are the sitting-rooms wherein to wait for a few moments, until all descend together and in order to the dining- hall. The sleeping apartments are in the same building, situated on either side of long corridors. The rooms to the right as you enter are devoted to the use of the sisters; the opposite ones belong to the brethren. Four or five persons occupy the same suite, which consists of the sleeping-room, leading to a clotl~s- room and bath-room. Shaker neatness and cleanli~ness are proverbial. On Sunday, Tuesday, and Friday evenings, an hour is devoted to a union meeting. Then the brethren and sisters living in opposite apartments meet for conversation. Each sex sits in a long row facing the other, about five feet apart, to enjoy this feast of reason and flow of soul. Anecdotes are related, and poetry is repeated, provided it is original or by another Believer, for worlds poetry is tabooed, lest it might contain sentiments of love. New songs which have been sent by other societies are learned, and visitors discussed, and perhaps criticised by a young brother or sister, who are sharply reproved by their se- niors as not competent to pass judgment; but stocks, bonds, real estate, the Gold Board, and politics are especially forbidden. In the large hall above the refectories, evening services are held on Wed- nesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings of every week, and on stormy Sun- days when the meeting-house is not opened. 1872.] FIFTEEN YEARS A SHAKERESS. 85 This strange faith may be styled absurd and impracticable, unscriptural and without foundation, and impossible to be embraced save by certain organizations and temperaments; but at least it may be commended for its purity, free as it is from the degrading features of Mormonism, and the disgusting and repulsive doctrines of the Oneida Community or Perfectionists, as they style them- selves. To this belief my little sister and myself were to be trained. We assumed the garb of Believers; our hair was cut after the enjoined fashion, and we made our first confcssion to Sister Myra with all the solemnity of nuns about to take the veil. During the winter our grent-aunt, Sarah Clinton, made us a visit, bringing with her a lad of whose mothers school Minnette had been a member. There had been a child-promise on my sisters part to become the wife of this little fellow when she was grown up, and Sister Myra, after hear- ing the innocent confession, denounced it as the very sinful promise of a de- generate little worlds girl, and would neither allow us to see him nor accept the presents he had brought us. As we were now supposed to have recovered from our home-sickness, I was separated from Minnette and placed with the smaller children in another part of the building, only seeing my sister at meals and at the evening assembling. Our young governess was a delicate woman, with large bright eyes and an ominous hectic flush. Her frail health made her often irritable and impatient, so that I would gladly have resigned my quickly-acquired position of favorite. Her loving marks of attention consisted in putting her cold hands down my back to receive heat from my warm healthy flesh, and converting my lap into a warming-pan for her chilled feetwhich last delicate compliment was con- sidered quite an honor. One day, when she was unusually good-tempered, she took my hand, declaring it to be a little plump cushion, and taking a pair of scissors that hung at her side she said she would see what it contained. The cold steel blades were pressed against the soft flesh, but I did not flinch. The warm crimson blood spurting out ended this cruel pleasantry, and I was called a little foolish toad for not flinching, while she sought to heal the wound she had made with a stick of checkerberry candypart of a package which our great-aunt had brought expressly for us, but which we were not permitted to have, save at the will and pleasure of our superiors. All adults who join the society live at first in what is called the fourth order. In this was a widow, whose daughter Isabella, nine years of age, was with us in the girls order. She was a sensitive little thing, with a haughty, passionate temper, and many were the indignities put upon her by our govern- ess to break her will. I have seen the mottled blood appear under her transparent skin, and the veins in her temples and neck strained to the utmost tension, from the terrible excitement occasioned by injudicious management. To us she was an affectionate, generous playmate, and we all loved her dearly. Seraph and Lily were twins who had lived in Wisdoms Valley since they were eighteen months old. They were such gentle little things that they had never received correction, but suffered nearly as much to see any of us punished. My especial discipline was to wear a frilled nightcap which I had brought from the world. If it had been a crown of thorns, it could not have hurt me more. My darling playmate of all was little Joy. Once, when she had been very ill, I folded her in my rugged little arms, and, child as I was, lugged her up the steep old stairs, and set her gently down in my own little chair, to the great amusement of the governess. What pleasant times those were! We wandered FIFTEEN YEARS A SHAKERESS. [JA1~. in the great garden, and if we found a birds nest, we would rush and gather strawberries, and choke the fledglings by lovingly stuffing the finest ripe fruit down their throats. Hiding beneath an arcade of the bridge which spanned the dear old creek, we would pull off shoes and stockings, and wade knee-deep in the cool, bright water. Then, loading our long palm-leaf Shaker bonnets with dandelions, which, grown to seed, looked like little white-capped Shaker- esses, we would float them down the stream in a race, the boat whi h won be- ing decorated with buttercups and violets. What mud-pies we made and baked in the sun! What fun we had secreting golden kernels of corn in clam~ shells, and peeping from our hiding-place to see the chickens find them and peck them up, firmly believing that they gave thanks when they turned their bills up to heaven after sipping water. These were happy days. We had no worlds toys, but were just as contented with ou~ corn-cob dolls, clam- shell plates, acorn-top cups, and chicken-coops for baby houses. It was not very long before our young governess was taken away. Toward the last she became very patient and gentle. She did not fear death, for she said: Has not Mother Ann promised to guide my frail bark safely beyond this sea of sorrow to heavenly joys beyond? I will watch and be ready, for lo! I feel that Thou wilt come at noonday. In this faith she died; and over her grave the brethren and sisters sang these words: How happy that immortal mind Who rests beneath Jehovahs wings! There sweet employment they can find Withont the help of earthly things. When such do lay their bodies by, And from their mannal labor cease, They find a band of angels nigh To guide them safe to realms of peace. They wing their ways to mansions fhir, Where Christ the Lord in glory reigns,, Mid hosts of shining angels, there Released from death and earthly pains. There is no fear of death to a Believer. They live with a promise of great reward hereafter, and in the belief that they are the only chosen people of God. If faith in Shakerism is absolute and steadfast, there are no ties to draw them to earth, no wealth nor worldly ambition, no fame to resign, no widows nor helpless children to cling to them with weeping appealing eyes, no feeble aged parents looking for support, no sorrowing friends mourning their loss. If they have died in the faith, they have gone to receive their just reward, their places will be occupied by others, and the old routine go on. After the death of our governess, Sister Myra, who had the charge of the older children, took us little ones also; and my sister Minnette and I were again united. I distinguished myself immediately in the new dispensation by exercising my talent for drawing upon Sister Myras bright britannia lamp, de- corating it with scratches intended to represent birds, beasts, and trees; when it was discovered, all the girls were called up for examination. It was not I. It was not I, was eagerly echoed from one to the other, until Minnette was reached, who quickly responded, It was not I, nor little Daughtie either. It cost me more anguish to convince Minnette of her loving mistake than to own the birds and beasts on the lamp, for Minnette was sharply told to 1872.] FIFTEEN YEARS A SIJAKERESS. 87 speak only for number one hi future, and not let her natural aflections exhibit themselves quite so conspicuously, and I received a sharp reprinmnd. At the age of seven children are considered accountable for sins of com- mission; and as I had itow arrived at this nature period of my life, one of tl~e brethren composed a poeni, which I repeated to Sister Myra On my birthday. As it describes our early teaching, I will transcribe it here. Full sevent3# years ago, niy blessed Mother Ann Came from European shores to this high-favoi~ed land. And by the gift of God, this sorrow, grief, and pain, A sure foundation laid in this delightsome plain. Twas here her voh~e was heard, by aged and by young, And here she was endeared to every faithful one. Yea, here she lived and died, and oft did bend her knee In prayer to God on high for such small ones as me. She said when we were seven of sin we must beware, And seek to be forgiven in confession and humble prayer, And that we must henceforth be chasteimed when we err, Nor let the worlds gay toys ourgospel speed deter. The second verse ended with Ill now close my address, and after hearing this, I hope you Will not fail to give me a sweet kiss, which the good Sister Myra did, and constituted the day as a holiday. About this time the Shakers were having extraordinary communications from the spirit jvorld. It was before the Fox family had made a sensation by their Rochester knockings. It began in the s6Oiety by whirling and spin- ning round furiously, speaking in unknown tongues, takiug in and acting all nations and characters of spirits. Some were gifted with spiritual songs, and would shout twenty in a stringwords and musicin the space of an hour. All the patriarchs, prophets, savants, martyrs, apostles, and disciples were represented, and one and all testified to the truthfulness of Christs second appearing in the person of Ann Lee. All the great reformers visited us and pointed out wherein they had erred in instructing mankind; and one of these, John Calvin, seized upon a writing medium and compelled him to write a vol- ume detailing the mistakes and errors of the Calvinistic creed. The lively spirits were delightful to us children. It was like witnessing a play. But the time came for their departure, and a great gloom fell upon Wis- doms Valley. The gates were locked foP forty days, and intelligence came from the spirits that they were guarded by sentinels clad in impenetrable ar- mor, with two-edged swords. No wicked spirits should enter, no business must be transacted with the world, nor was a worldly person allowed to enter Wisdoms Valley during those forty days. What now seem blasphemies were then to me solemn and awful truths. The dual God, male and female, called Heavenly Father atid Holy Mother Wisdom, Christ being the son and Ann Lee the daughter in the new creation, were to come among us and draw a dividing line between the precious and the vile, the former to receive bless- ings, the latter curses, and doomed to be cut oft as vessels of wrath fit for de- struction. The instruments chosen to bestow these Divine blessings and curses were a brother and sister, the brother administering to the brethren, the sister to the sisters. Strange to relate, the thoughts of many Were laid bare. Some re- ceived extraordinary promises and predictions of great usefulness as pillars in Zion, and among the rest I, a little child, was sealed and clothed with a garment of Divine love, and a star of great magnitude and brightness was ANOTHER YEAR. [JAN. placed on my brow, as a token that I was ever to remain one of the chosen few. Many were cut off and sent to the world, and years after the very broth- er who had received the power of blessing or cursing left the society, but the Believers never acknowledged him to be a man who had stolen the livery of heaven in which to serve the devil. No; he had slighted his great gifts and privileges; he had been the recipient of Divine love and favor, and he was now doomed to wrath and utter darkness, never to know happiness or peacea sort of Wandering Jew forever. ANOTHER YEAR. ANOTHER year, she said, another year, JiX. These roses I have watched with so much care, Have watched and tended without pain or fear, Shall bud and bloom for me exceeding fair. Another year, she said, another year. Another year, she said, another year, My life perhaps may bud and bloom again, May bud and bloom like these red roses here, Unlike them, tended with regret and pain Another year perhaps, another year. Another year, ah yes, another year, When bloom my roses, all my life shall bloom; When summer comes, my summer tooll be here, And I shall cease to wander in this gloom Another year, ab yes, another year. For ah, another year, another year, Ill set my life in richer, stronger soil, And prune the weeds away that creep too near, And watch and tend with never-ceasing toil Another year, ab yes, another year. Another year, alas! another year, The roses all lay withering ere their prime, Poor blighted buds, with scanty leaves and sere, Drooping and dying long before their time Another year, alas! another year. And ab, another year, another year, Low, like the blighted dying buds, she lay, Whose voice had prophesied without a fear, Whose hand had trimmed the rose-tree day by day, To bloom another year, another year. NOUAH Pimni

ANOTHER YEAR. [JAN. placed on my brow, as a token that I was ever to remain one of the chosen few. Many were cut off and sent to the world, and years after the very broth- er who had received the power of blessing or cursing left the society, but the Believers never acknowledged him to be a man who had stolen the livery of heaven in which to serve the devil. No; he had slighted his great gifts and privileges; he had been the recipient of Divine love and favor, and he was now doomed to wrath and utter darkness, never to know happiness or peacea sort of Wandering Jew forever. ANOTHER YEAR. ANOTHER year, she said, another year, JiX. These roses I have watched with so much care, Have watched and tended without pain or fear, Shall bud and bloom for me exceeding fair. Another year, she said, another year. Another year, she said, another year, My life perhaps may bud and bloom again, May bud and bloom like these red roses here, Unlike them, tended with regret and pain Another year perhaps, another year. Another year, ah yes, another year, When bloom my roses, all my life shall bloom; When summer comes, my summer tooll be here, And I shall cease to wander in this gloom Another year, ab yes, another year. For ah, another year, another year, Ill set my life in richer, stronger soil, And prune the weeds away that creep too near, And watch and tend with never-ceasing toil Another year, ab yes, another year. Another year, alas! another year, The roses all lay withering ere their prime, Poor blighted buds, with scanty leaves and sere, Drooping and dying long before their time Another year, alas! another year. And ab, another year, another year, Low, like the blighted dying buds, she lay, Whose voice had prophesied without a fear, Whose hand had trimmed the rose-tree day by day, To bloom another year, another year. NOUAH Pimni MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. As a fitting introduction to some of the personal incidents and sketches which I shall hereafter present to the readers of The Galaxy, a l)rief description of the country in which these events transpired may notbe deemed inappropriate. It is but a few years ago that every schoolboy, supposed to possess the rudi- ments of a knowledge of the geography of the United States, could give the boundaries and a general description of the Great American Desert. As to the boundary the knowledge seemed to be quite explicit: on the north bounded by the Upper Missouri, on the east by the Lower Missouri and Mississippi, on the south by Texas, and on the west by the Rocky Mountains. The boundaries on the northwest and south remained undisturbed, while on the east civiliza- tion, propelled and directed by Yankee enterprise, adopted the motto, West-. ward the star of empire takes its way. Countless throngs of emigrants crossed the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, selecting homes in the rich and fertile territories lying beyond. Each year this tide Qf emigration, strength- ened and increased by the flow from foreign shores, advanced toward the set- ting sun, slowly but surely narrowing the preconceived limits of the Great American Desert, and correspondingly enlarging the limits of civilization. At last the geographical myth was dispelled. It was gradually discerned that the Great American Desert did not exist, that it had no abiding place, but that within its supposed limits, and instead of what had been regarded as a sterile and unfruitful tract of land, incapable of sustaining either man or beast, there existed the fairest and richest portion of the national domain, blessed with a climate pure, bracing, and healthful, while its undeveloped soil rivalled if it did not surpass the most productive portions of the Eastern, Middle, or Southern States. Discarding the name Great American Desert, this immense tract of coun- try. with its eastern boundary moved back by civilization to a distance of nearly three hundred miles west of the Missouri river, is now known as The Plains, and by this more appropriate title it shall be called when reference to it is necessary. The Indian tribes which have caused the Government most anxiety, and whose depredations have been most serious against our frontier settle- ments and prominent lines of travel across the Plains, infest that portion of the Plains bounded on the north by the valley of the Platte river and its tributa- ries, on the east by a line running north and south between the 97th and 98th meridians, on the south by the valley of the Arkansas river, and west by the Rocky Mountainsalthough by treaty stipulations almost every tribe with which the Government has recently been at war is particularly debarred from entering or occupying any portion of this tract of country. Of the many persons whom I have met on the Plains as transient visitors from the States or from Europa, there are few who have not expressed surprise that their original ideas concerning the appearance and characteristics of the coun- try were so far from correct, or that the Plains in imagination, as described in books, tourists letters, or reports of isolated scientific parties, differed so widely from the Plains as they actually exist and appear to the eye. Travellers, writers of fiction, and journalists have spoken and written a great deal con-

MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. As a fitting introduction to some of the personal incidents and sketches which I shall hereafter present to the readers of The Galaxy, a l)rief description of the country in which these events transpired may notbe deemed inappropriate. It is but a few years ago that every schoolboy, supposed to possess the rudi- ments of a knowledge of the geography of the United States, could give the boundaries and a general description of the Great American Desert. As to the boundary the knowledge seemed to be quite explicit: on the north bounded by the Upper Missouri, on the east by the Lower Missouri and Mississippi, on the south by Texas, and on the west by the Rocky Mountains. The boundaries on the northwest and south remained undisturbed, while on the east civiliza- tion, propelled and directed by Yankee enterprise, adopted the motto, West-. ward the star of empire takes its way. Countless throngs of emigrants crossed the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, selecting homes in the rich and fertile territories lying beyond. Each year this tide Qf emigration, strength- ened and increased by the flow from foreign shores, advanced toward the set- ting sun, slowly but surely narrowing the preconceived limits of the Great American Desert, and correspondingly enlarging the limits of civilization. At last the geographical myth was dispelled. It was gradually discerned that the Great American Desert did not exist, that it had no abiding place, but that within its supposed limits, and instead of what had been regarded as a sterile and unfruitful tract of land, incapable of sustaining either man or beast, there existed the fairest and richest portion of the national domain, blessed with a climate pure, bracing, and healthful, while its undeveloped soil rivalled if it did not surpass the most productive portions of the Eastern, Middle, or Southern States. Discarding the name Great American Desert, this immense tract of coun- try. with its eastern boundary moved back by civilization to a distance of nearly three hundred miles west of the Missouri river, is now known as The Plains, and by this more appropriate title it shall be called when reference to it is necessary. The Indian tribes which have caused the Government most anxiety, and whose depredations have been most serious against our frontier settle- ments and prominent lines of travel across the Plains, infest that portion of the Plains bounded on the north by the valley of the Platte river and its tributa- ries, on the east by a line running north and south between the 97th and 98th meridians, on the south by the valley of the Arkansas river, and west by the Rocky Mountainsalthough by treaty stipulations almost every tribe with which the Government has recently been at war is particularly debarred from entering or occupying any portion of this tract of country. Of the many persons whom I have met on the Plains as transient visitors from the States or from Europa, there are few who have not expressed surprise that their original ideas concerning the appearance and characteristics of the coun- try were so far from correct, or that the Plains in imagination, as described in books, tourists letters, or reports of isolated scientific parties, differed so widely from the Plains as they actually exist and appear to the eye. Travellers, writers of fiction, and journalists have spoken and written a great deal con- 40 MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. EJAN. cerning this immense territory, so unlike in all its qualities and characteristics to the settled and cultivated portion of the United States; but to a person familiar with the country the conclusion is forced, upon reading these published descrifr tions, either that the writers never visited but a limited portion of the country they aim to describe, or, as is most commonly the case at the present day, that the journey was made in a stage-coach or Pullman car, half of the distance trav- elled in the night time, and but occasional glimpses taken during the day. A journey by rail across the Plains is at best but ill adapted to a thorough or sat- isfrictory examination of the general character of the country, for the reason that in selecting the route for railroads the valley of some stream is, if practica- ble, usually chosen to contain the road-bed. The valley being considerably lower than the adjacent country, the view of the tourist is correspondingly lim- ited. Moreover, the vastness and varied character of this immense tract could not fairly be determined or judged of by a flying trip across one portion of it. One would scarcely expect an accurate opinion to be formed of the swamps of Florida from a railroad journey from New York to Niagara. After indulging in criticisms on the written descriptions of the Plains, I might reasonably be expected to enter into what I conceive a correct descrip- tion, but I forbear. Beyond a general outline embracing some of the peculiar- ities of this slightly known portion of our country, the limits and character of these sketches of Western life will not permit me to go. The idea entertained by the greater number of people regarding the ap- pearance of the Plains, while it is very incorrect so far as the latter are con- cerned, is quite accurate and truthful if applied to the prairies of the Western States. It is probable, too, that romance writers, and even tourists at am ear- lier day, mistook the prairies for the Plains, and in describing one imagined they were describing the other; whereas the two have little in common to the eye of the beholder, save the general absence of trees. In proceeding from the Missouri river to the base of the Rocky Mountains, the ascent, although gradual, is quite rapid. For example, at Fort Riley, Kansas, the bed of the Kansas river is upward of 1,000 feet above the level of the sea, while Fort Hays, at a distance of nearly 150 miles further west, is about 1,500 feet above the level of the sea. Starting from almost any point near the cen- tral portion of the Plains, and moving in any direction, one seems to encounter a series of undulations at a more orless remote distance from each other, but constantly in view. Comparing the surface of the country to that of the ocean, a comparisoa often indulged in by those who have seen both, it does not re- quire a very great stretch of the imagination, when viewing this boundless ocean of beautiful living verdure, to picture these successive undulations as gi- gantic waves, not wildly chasing each other to or from the shore, but standing silent and immovable, and by their silent immobility adding to the impres- sive grandeur of the scene. These undulations, varying in height from fifty to five hundred feet, are sometimes formed of a light sandy soil, but oftei~ of dif- ferent varieties of rock, producing at a distance the most picturesque effect. The constant recurrence of these waves, if they may be SQ termed, is quite puz- zling to the inexperienced plainsman. He imagines, and very naturally too, judging from appearances, that when he ascends to the crest he can overlook all the surrounding country. After a weary walk or ride of perhaps several miles, which appeared at starting not more than one or two, he finds him- self at the desired point, but discovers that directly beyond, in the direction he desires to go, rises a second wave, but slightly higher than the first, arid 1872.] MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. 41 from the crest of which he must certainly be able to scan the country as far as the eye can reach. Thither he pursues his course, and after a ride of from five to ten miles, although the distance did not seem half so great before starLing, he finds himself on the crest, or, as it is invariably termed, the divide, but again only to discover that another and apparently a higher divide rises in his front, and at about the same distance. Hundreds, yes, thousands of miles may be journeyed over, and this same effect witnessed every few hours. As you proceed toward the west from the Missouri, the size of the trees di- minishes as well as the number of kinds. As you penetrate the borders of the Indian country, leaving civilization behind you, the sight of forests is no longer enjoyed, the only trees to be seen being scattered along the banks of the streams, these becoming smaller and more rare, finally disappearing altogether and giving place to a few scattering willows and osiers. The greater portion of the Plains may be said to be without timber of any kind. As to the cause of this absence scientific men disagree, some claiming that the high winds which prevail in unobstructed force prevent the growth and existence of not only trees but even the taller grasses. This theory is well supported by facts, as, unlike the Western prairies, where the grass often attains a height sufficient to conceal a man on horseback, the Plains are covered by a grass ~ hich rarely, and only under favorable circumstances, exceeds three inches in height. An- other theory, also somewhat plausible, is that the entire Plains were at one time covered with timber more or less dense, but this timber, owing to various causes, was destroyed, and has since been prevented from growing or spread- ing over the Plains by the annual fires which the Indians regularly create, and which sweep over the entire country. These fires are built by the Indians in the fall to burn the dried grass and hasten the growth of the pasturage in the early spring. Favoring the theory that the Plains were at one time covered with forests, is the fact that entire trunks of large trees have been found in a state of petrifaction on elevated portions of the country, and far removed from streams of water. While dwarfed specimens of almost all varieties of trees are found fringing the banks of some of the streams, the prevailing species are cottonwood and poplar trees (Populus monilifera and Populus anguloscs). Intermingled with these are found clumps of osiers (Salix longifolia). In almost any other por- tion of the country the cottonwood would be the least desirable of trees; but to the Indian, and, in many instances which have fallen under my observation, to our troops, the cottonwood has performed a service for which no other tree has been found its equal, and that is as forage for horses and mules during the winter season, when the snow prevents even dried grass from being obtainable. During the winter campaign of 186869 against the hostile tribes south of the Arkansas, it not unfrequently happened that my command while in pursuit of Indians exhausted its supply of forage, and the horses and mules were sub- sisted upon the young bark of the cottonwood tree. In routing the Indians from their winter villages, we invariably discovered them located upon that point of the stream promising the greatest supply of cottonwood bark, while the stream in the vicinity of the village was completely shorn of its supply of timber, and the village itself was strewn with the white branches of the cotton- wood entirely stripped of their bark. It was somewhat amusing to observe an Indian pony feeding on cottonwood bark. The limb being usually cut into pieces about four feet in length and thrown upon the ground, the pony, accus- tomed to this kind of long forage, would place one fore foot on the limb in 42 M~ LIFE ON TIlE PLAINS. [JAN. the same maner as a dog secures a bone, and gnaw the bark from it. Al. though not affording anything like the amount of nutriment which either hay or grain does, yet our horses invariably preferred the bark to either, probably on account of its freshness. The herbage to be found on the principal portion of the Plains is usually sparse and stunted in its growth. Along the banks of the streams and ,in the bottom lands there grows generally in rich abundance a species of grass often found in the States east of the Mississippi; but on the uplands is produced what is there known as the buffalo grass, indigenous and peculiar in its character, differing in form and substance from all other grasses. The blade under favorable circumstances reaches a growtji usually of from three to five inches, but instead of being straight, or approximately so, it assumes a curled or wav- ing shape, the grass itself becoming densely matted, and giving to the foot, when walking upon it, a sensation similar to that produced by stepping upon moss or the most costly of velvet carpets. Nearly all graminivorous animals inhabiting the Plains, except the elk and some species of the deer, prefer the buffalo grass to that of the lowland; and it is probable that even these exceptions would not prove good if it were not for the timber on the bottom land, which affords good cover to both the elk and the deer. Both are often found in large herds grazing upon the uplands, al- though the grass is far more luxuriant and plentiful on the lowlands. Our domestic animals invariably choose the buffalo grass, and experience demon- strates beyond question that it is the most nutritious of all varieties of wild grass. The favorite range of the buffalo is contained in a belt of country running north and south, about two hundred miles wide, and extending from the Platte river on the north to the valley of the Upper Canadian on the south. In mi- grating, if not grazing or alarmed, the buffalo invariably moves in single file, the column generally being headed by a patriarch of the herd, who is not only familiar with the topography of the country, but whose prowess in the field entitles him to become the leader of his herd. He maintains this leadership only so long as his strength and courage enable him to remain the successful champion in the innumerable contests which he is called upon to maintain. The buffalo trails are always objects of interest and inquiry to the sight-seer on the Plains. These trails made by the herds in their migrating movements are so regular in their construction and course as to well excite curiosity. They vary but little from eight to ten inches in width, and are usually from two to four inches in depth; their course is almost as unvarying as that of the needle, running north and south. Of the thousands of buffalo trails which I have seen, I recollect none of which the general direction was not north and south. This may seem somewhat surprising at first thought, but it admits of a simple and satisfactory explanation. The general direction Qf all streams, large an~ small, on the Plains, is from the west to the east, seeking as they do an entrance to the Mississippi. The habits of the buffalo incline him to graze and migrate from one stream to an- other, moving northward and crossing each in succession as he follows the young grass in the spring, and m oviug southward seeking the milder climate and open grazing in the fall and winter. Throughout the buffalo country are to be seen what are termed buffalo wallows. The number of these is so great as to excite surprise; a moderate estimate would give from one to three to each acre of ground throughout this vast tract of country. These wallows 1872.] MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. 43 are about eight feet in diameter and from six to eighteen inches in depth, and are made by the buffalo bulls in the spring when challenging a rival to com- bat for the favor of the opposite sex. The ground is broken by pawingif an animal with a hoof can be said to paw~-and if the challenge is accepted, as i~ usually is, the combat takes place; after which the one who comes off victori- ous remains in possession of the battle-field, and, occupying the wallow of fresh upturned earth, finds it produces a cooling sensation to his hot and gory sides. Sometimes the victory which gives possession of the battle-field and drives a hated antagonist away is purchased at a dear price. The carcass of the victor is often found in the wallow, where his brief triumph has soon terminated from the effects of his wounds. In the early ~pring, during the shedding sea~ son, the buffalo resorts to his wallow to aid in removing the old coat. These wallows have proven of no little benefit to man, as well as to animals other than the buffalo. After a heavy rain they become filled with water, the soil being of such a compact character as to retain it. It has not unfrequently been the case when making long marches that the streams would be found dry, while water in abundance could be obtained from the wallows. True, it wa~ not of the best quality, particularly if it had bpen standing long and the buf- falo had patronized the wallows as summer resorts; but on the Plains a thirsty man or beast, far from any streams of water, does not parley long with these considerations. Wherever water is found on the Plains, particularly if it is standing, in- numerable gadflies and mosquitoes generally abound. To such an extent do these pests to the animal kingdom exist, that to our thinly-coated animals, such as the horse and mule, grazing is almost an impossibility, while the buffalo with his huge shaggy coat can browse undisturbed. The most sanguinary and de- termined of these troublesome insects are the buffalo flies; they move in my- rinds, and so violent and painful are their assaults upon horses that a herd of the latter has been known to stampede as the result of an attack from a swarm of these flies. But here again is furnished what some reasoners would affirm is evidence of the eternal fitness of things. In most localities where these flies are found in troublesome numbers,. there are also found flocks of starlings, a spa- cies of blackbird; these, more, I presume, to obtain a livelihood than to become the defender of the helpless, perch then~selves upon the backs of the animals9 when woe betide the hapless gadfly who ventures near, only to become a choice morsel for the starling. In this way I have seen our herds of cavalry horses grazing undisturbed, each horse of the many hundreds having perched upon his back from one to dozens of starlings, standing guard over him while he grazed. One of the first subjects which addresses itself to the mind of the stranger on the Plains, particularly if he be of a philosophical or scientific turn of mind. is the mirage, which is here observed in all its perfection. Many a weary mile of the traveller has been whiled away in endeavors to account for the fitful and beautifully changing visions presented by the mirage. Sometimes the distor- tions are wonderful, and so natural as to deceive the most experienced eye. Upon one occasion I met a young officer who had spent several years on the Plains and in the Indian country. He was, on the occasion alluded to, in com- mand of a detachment of cavalry in pursuit of a party of Indians who had been committing depredations on our frontier. While riding at the head of his com- mand he suddenly discovered, as he thought, a party of Indians not more than 44 MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. [JA~r. a mile distant~ The latter seemed to be galloping toward him. The atten- tion of his men was called to them, and they pronounced them Indians on horseback. The trot was sounded, and the column moved forward to the attack. The dist~nce between the attacking party and the supposed foe was rap- idly diminishing, the Indians appearing plainer to view each moment. The charge was about to be sounded, when it was discovered that the supposed party of Indians consisted of the decayed carcasses of half a dozen slain buftk- bee, which number had been magnified by the mirage, while the peculiar mo- tion imparted by the latter had given the appearance of Indians on horseback. I have seen a train of government wagons with white canvas covers mov- ing through a mirage which, by e1e~ating the wagons to treble their height and magnifying the size of the covers, presented the appearance of a line of large sailing vessels under full sail, while the usual appearance of the mi- rage gave a correct likeness of an immense lake or pea. Sometimes the mi- rage has been the cause of frightful suffering and death by its deceptive ap- pearance. Trains of emigrants making their way to California and Oregon have, while seeking water to quench their thirst and that of their animals, been induced to %lepart from their course in the endeavor to reach the illviting lake of water which the mirage displayed before their longing eyes. It is usually repre- sented at a distance of from five to ten miles. Sometimes, if the nature of the ground is favorable, it is dispelled by advancing toward it; at others it is like an ignisfatuus, hovering in sight, but keeping beyond reach. Here and there throughout this region are pointed out the graves of those who are said to have been led astray by the mirage until their bodies were famished and they sue- eumbed to thirst. The routes usually chosen for travel across the Plains may be said to furnish, upon an average, water every fifteen miles. In some instances, however, and (luring the hot season of the year, it is necessary in places to go into what is termed a dry camp, that is, to encamp where there is no water. In such ~mergencies, with a previous knowledge of the route, it is practicable to trans- port from the last camp a sufficient quantity to satisfy the demands of the people composing the train, but the dumb brutes must trust to the little moisture pbtained from the night grazing to quench their thirst. The animals inhabiting the Plains resemble in some respects the fashionable society of some of our larger cities. During the extreme heat of the summer they forsake their accustomed haunts and seek a more delightful retreat. For, although the Plains are drained by streams of all sizes, from the navigable river to the humblest of brooks, yet at certain seasons the supply of wat~r in many of them is of the most uncertain character. The pasturage, from the excessive heat, the lack of sufficient moisture, and the witherii~g hot winds which sweep across from the south, becomes dried, withered, and burnt, and is rendered incapable of sustaining life. Then it is that the animals usually found on the Plains disappear for a short time, and await the return of a milder season. Having briefly grotiped the prominent features of the central Plains. and as some of the incidents connected with my service among the Indian tribes oc- curred far to the south of the localities already referred to, ~ hurried reference to the country north of Texas, and in which the Wichita mountains are located, a favorite resort of some of the tribes, is here made. To describe as one would view it in journeying upon horseback over this beautiful and ro~antio country, to picture with the pen those boundless solitudeso silent that their 1872.] MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. 45 silence alone increases their grandeurto gather inspiration from nature and to attempt to paint .the scene as my eye beheld it, is a task before which a much readier pen than mine might well hesitate. It was a beautiful and ever-changing panorama which at one momentexcited the beholders highest admiration, at the next impressed him with speechless veneration. Approaching the Wichita mountains from the north, and after the eye has perhaps been wearied by the itameness and monotony of the un- broken Plains, one is gladdened by the relief which the sight of these pictur- esque and peculiarly beautiful mountains affords. Here are to be seen all the varied colors which Bierstadt and Church en- deavor to represent in their mountain scenery. A journey across and around them on foot and upon horseback will well repay either the tourist or artist. The air is pure and fragrant, and as exhilarating as the purest of wine; the climate entrancingly mild; the sky clear, and blue as the most beautiful sap- phire, with here and there clouds of rarest loveliness, presenting to the eye the richest commingling of bright and varied colors; delightful odors are con- stantly being wafted by; while the forests, filled with the mocking bird, the colibri, the humming bird, and the thrush, constantly put forth a joyful chorus, and all combine to fill the soul with visions of delight and enhance the perfec- tion and glory of the creation. Strong indeed must be that unbelief which can here contemplate nature in all her purity and glory, and, unawed by the sub- himity of this closely-connected testimony, question either the Divine origin or purpose of the beautiful firmament. Unlike most mountains, the Wichita cannot properly be termed a range or chain, but more correctly a collection or group, as many of the highest and most beautiful are detached, and stand on a level plain solitary and alone. They are mainly composed of granite, the huge blocks of which exhibit numer- ous shades of beautiful colors, crimson, purple, yellow, and green predominat- ing. They are conical in shape, and seem to have but little resemblance to the soil upon which they are founded. They rise abruptly from a level sur- faceso level and unobstructed that it would be an easy matter to drive a car- riage to any point of the circumference at the base; and yet so steep and broken are the sides that it is only here and there that it is .possible to ascend them. From the foot of almost every mountain pours a stream of limpid water, of almost icy coldness. If the character given to the Indian by Cooper and other novelists, as well as l)y well-meaning but mistaken philanthropists of a later day, were the true one; if the Indian were the innocent, simple-minded being he is represented, more the creature of romance than reality, imbued only with a deep veneration for the works of nature, freed from the passions and vices which must accom- pany a savage nature; if, in other words, he possessed all the virtues which his admirers and works of fiction ascribe to him, and were free from all the vices which those best qualified to judge assign to him, he would be just the character to complete the picture which is presented by the country embracing the Wi- chita mountains. Cooper, to whose writings more than to those of any other author are the people speaking the English language indebted for a false and ill-judged estimate of the Indian character, might well have laid the scenes of his fictitious stories in this beautifuland romantic country. It is to be regretted that the character of the Indian as described in Coop.. ers interesting novels is not the true one. But as, in emerging from childhood into the years of a maturer age, we are often compelled to cast aside many of our earlier illusions and replace them by beliefs less inviting but more real, 46 MY LIFE ON THE PLAINS. [JAN. so we, as a people, with opportunities enlarged and facilities for obtaining knowledge increased, have been forced by a multiplicity of causes to study and endeavor to comprehend thoroughly the character of the red man. So inti- mately has he become associated with the Government as ward of the nation, and so prominent a place among the questions of national policy does the much mooted Indian question occupy, that it behooves us no longer to study this problem from works of fiction, but to deal with it as it exists in reality. Stripped of the beautifql romance with which we have been so long willing to envelop him, transferred from the inviting pages of the novelist to the lo- calities where we are compelled to meet with him, in his native village, on the war path, and when raiding upon our frontier settlements and lines of travel, the Indian forfeits his claim to the appellation of the noble red man. We see him as he is, and, so far as all knowledge goes, as he ever has been, a savage in every sense of the word; not worse, perhaps, than his white brother would be similarly born and bred, but one whose cruel and ferocious nature far exceeds that of any wild beast of the desert. That this is true no one who has been brought into intimate contact with the wild tribes will deny. Perhaps there are some who, as members of peace commissions or as wandering agents of some benevolent society, may have visited these tribes or attended with them at councils held for some pacific purpose, and who, by passing through the vil- lages of the Indian while at peace, may imagine their opportunities for judging of the Indian nature all that could be desired. But the Indian, while he can seldom be accused of indulging in a great variety of wardrobe, can be said to have a character capable of adapting itself to almost every occasion. He has one character, perhaps his most serviceable one, which he preserves carefully, and only airs it when making his appeal to the Government or its agents for arms, ammunition, and license to employ them. This character is invariably paraded, and often with telling effect, when the motive is a peaceful one. Prominent chiefs invited to visit Washington invariably don this character, and in their talks with the Great Father and other less prominent personages they successfully contrive to exhibit but this one phase. Seeing them under these or similar circumstances only, it is not surprising that by many the Indian is looked upon as a simple-minded son of nature; desiring nothing beyond the privilege of roaming and hunting over the vast unsettled wilds of the West, inheriting and asserting but few native rights, and never trespassing upon the rights of others. This view is equally erroneous with that which regards the Indian as a creature possessing the human form but divested of all other at- tributes of humanity, and whose traits of character, habits, modes of life, dis- position, and savage customs disqualify him from the exercise of all rights and privileges, even those pertaining to life itself. Taking him as we find him, at peace or at war, at home or abroad, waiving all prejudices, and laying aside all partiality, we will discover in the Indian a subject for thoughtful study and investigation. In him we will find the representative of a race whose origin is, and promises to be, a subject forever wrapped in mystery; a race incapable c~f being judged by the rules or laws applicable to any other known race of men; one between which and civilization there seems to have existed from time immemorial a determined and unceasing warfarea hostility so deep-seated and inbred with the Indiafi character, that in the exceptional instances where the modes and habits of civilization have been reluctantly adopted, it has been at the sacrifice of power and influence as a tribe, and the more serious loss of health, vigor, and courage as individuals. G. A. CUSTER. THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. THOUGH there are estimated to be between sixty and a hundred thousand Jews on Manhattan Island, and every city of the Union has also its large share of them, yet the people generally know almost as little of the sen- timents, customs, and interior movements of this g~reat Hebrew community as they do of those of the Brahmins of India. It is curious to see how much ig- norance most of the writers who attempt to describe and discuss them exhibit. To a large share of Americans the Jew of Chathain street is the typical Jew, and so the whole race suffers by being judged by its worst part. In Europe, in Germany, for instance, the long residence of the Jews has made them easily distinguishable by the Christian inhabitants. The people have become so ac- customed to their peculiar facial expression that they can detect it wherever they meet it, however much it may be subdued by education and association. Even where the usual characteristic external appearance and the unmistakable accent are wanting, they instantly recognize all who belong to the race. They are thus enabled to judge the race correctly. Natives of the United States, on the contrary, cannot easily distinguish an educated German Jew from an educated Gernian Christian. Manners, appear- ance, and language may all be strange, but they are simply foreign, and reveal nothing. An ignorant, unenlightened Jew, however, is known to all. No resident of New York can mistake a clothier from Chatham street, a peddler from Division street, or a glazier from East Broadway. So it happens, as I have said, that the whole race has here been judged by its worst part; just as if one were to estimate the people of New York city by the inhabitants of the Sixth Ward. I shall, therefore, perhaps do a service in describing the Jews of the United States as they really are. Moreover, the time is exceedingly ap- propriate, for there is just now beginning a new departure, which promises to lead, and I verily believe will lead, the American Jew far away from the religious and race distinctions which have hitherto shut him out from the sympathy of his fellow-men and made him one of a peculiar people. It is the first step in that progressive movement favored by our free institutions, which is to eventually obliterate the barriers that now separate Jew and Gentile. American Jews are known as Reformed and Orthodox, but the distinction between the two is not settled and definite. The reform movement dates from the time when the lot of the race began to grow lighter. It con- sists in purifying their belief of the usages and ceremonies which the sacred writings of the Jews command, and which separate that people from the mass of humanity. Those who are at the head of this movement are the most advanced, and those who have made least progress with it are the most ortho- dox. I shall call the first the Radicals and the others the Orthodox; and be- tween the two are what I shall term the Conservatives. The influences which retard or hasten the movement, which place some in the van and others in the rear, it is hardly necessary to say, are education of a general kind, the spirit of free institutions, and intercourse with liberal and enlightened men. For this reason the great majority of Jews who have settled in the United States do not remain stationary in their religious belief and practice. They may be ultra-orthodox at their arrival, but within a decade are sure to have

THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. THOUGH there are estimated to be between sixty and a hundred thousand Jews on Manhattan Island, and every city of the Union has also its large share of them, yet the people generally know almost as little of the sen- timents, customs, and interior movements of this g~reat Hebrew community as they do of those of the Brahmins of India. It is curious to see how much ig- norance most of the writers who attempt to describe and discuss them exhibit. To a large share of Americans the Jew of Chathain street is the typical Jew, and so the whole race suffers by being judged by its worst part. In Europe, in Germany, for instance, the long residence of the Jews has made them easily distinguishable by the Christian inhabitants. The people have become so ac- customed to their peculiar facial expression that they can detect it wherever they meet it, however much it may be subdued by education and association. Even where the usual characteristic external appearance and the unmistakable accent are wanting, they instantly recognize all who belong to the race. They are thus enabled to judge the race correctly. Natives of the United States, on the contrary, cannot easily distinguish an educated German Jew from an educated Gernian Christian. Manners, appear- ance, and language may all be strange, but they are simply foreign, and reveal nothing. An ignorant, unenlightened Jew, however, is known to all. No resident of New York can mistake a clothier from Chatham street, a peddler from Division street, or a glazier from East Broadway. So it happens, as I have said, that the whole race has here been judged by its worst part; just as if one were to estimate the people of New York city by the inhabitants of the Sixth Ward. I shall, therefore, perhaps do a service in describing the Jews of the United States as they really are. Moreover, the time is exceedingly ap- propriate, for there is just now beginning a new departure, which promises to lead, and I verily believe will lead, the American Jew far away from the religious and race distinctions which have hitherto shut him out from the sympathy of his fellow-men and made him one of a peculiar people. It is the first step in that progressive movement favored by our free institutions, which is to eventually obliterate the barriers that now separate Jew and Gentile. American Jews are known as Reformed and Orthodox, but the distinction between the two is not settled and definite. The reform movement dates from the time when the lot of the race began to grow lighter. It con- sists in purifying their belief of the usages and ceremonies which the sacred writings of the Jews command, and which separate that people from the mass of humanity. Those who are at the head of this movement are the most advanced, and those who have made least progress with it are the most ortho- dox. I shall call the first the Radicals and the others the Orthodox; and be- tween the two are what I shall term the Conservatives. The influences which retard or hasten the movement, which place some in the van and others in the rear, it is hardly necessary to say, are education of a general kind, the spirit of free institutions, and intercourse with liberal and enlightened men. For this reason the great majority of Jews who have settled in the United States do not remain stationary in their religious belief and practice. They may be ultra-orthodox at their arrival, but within a decade are sure to have 48 THE JEWS: WhAT THEY ARE COMING TO. [JAN. measurably modified their faithto have ceased obeying many laws and ob- serving many customs which in their younger days they held absolutely sacred. The number of those who remain unchanged all their lives is e~xceedingly small. They must have immigrated at an advanced age, and have been reared in a country in which their treatment was of the harshest, and the peo- ple about them extremely bigoted. Having made the above distinction, we know the only important one that exists, although there areaho lines produced by a difference of language and by national predilections. To the United States the Jews have flocked from all parts of the world. We find that the great majority of those born abroad are Germans and Poles, but there are also Bohemians, Dutch, French, and Eng.~ lish. The Portuguese are chiefly natives; their ancestors lived here before the Revolution. Theirs was the deserted synagogue in Newport, Rhode Island. Strange to say, the influence of American thought and American institutions has not made that impression upon them which it makes upon the later immi- grants. It has left them thoroughly orthodox. In the great agitations of the race they take no part, and even when the most vital qnestions are raised, their voice is nowhere heard. It is only the Portuguese of the rising generation who show that they entertain no reverence for the antiquated usages of their people. The English, French, and Dutch Jews are too few and too uninfluential to merit separate remark. The Polish Jews are emigrants from Russian and Austrian as well as Prus- sian Poland. They resemble those who have come from the south of Russia so closely that it will do to group them all together. What their lot has been, his- tory tells us. In Prussian Poland their treatment has been comparatively the most humane, and those who have been reared there are consequently superior to their brethren under Russian and Austrian sway. With this difference of degree, however, all are ignorant and bigoted. They have all the vicious traits that men treated as they have been are likely to have. In the United States they have found an asylum to which they emigrate by thousands yearly. A large proportion of them settle in New York city, attracted by those who have taken up their home there before them. It is they who become clothiers in Chatham street, dealers in second-hand garments, peddlers of cheap jewelry, glaziers, and pawnbrokers. Wherever you find a Jew in one of these voca- tions, you may be pretty sure that he is a Pole. The Polish Jew is the Eng- lish old do man, and so in fact is every third Jew who calls himself a na- tive of Great Britain. After residing in England long enough to learn the lan- guage, he changes his name, and from Moses he makes Moss, Morse, or Mor- ris, and out of Jacobsohn a Johnson is created. But he is to be recognized wherever he is seen, and too often is taken to be a representative of the whole race. In the United States it is the roles who are the most orthodox in their reli- gious belief. Even among them there are of course shades of orthodoxy, but with the strictest there is not a law, Rabbinical or Biblical, which is not fol- lowed to the letter by the women as well as the men. They have their schools for the study of the Talmud, which are known as Batei Midrashim, and in which rabbis of acknowledged learning and piety preside; and these not only expound the doctrines of the ancient sages, but they also hold themselves in readiness to listen to the housewives who come to them with abstruse ques- tions about the eating of certain articles of food, or the use of dishes which have been defiled by the contact of milk and meat, or about any of their household 1872.] TIlE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARIi~ COMING TO. 49 afildrs or their domestic relations; and they sometimes act the part of judges in difficulties which otherwise would find their way into the courts of law. The language commonly spoken by the Polish Jews is neither that of their native country nor that of the land in which they have settled. It i~ a jargon composed of broken German and Hebrew, which is the only medium of con- versation permitted in their homes in Russia, but which in the United States they speak, no longer from motives of piety, but because they find it easier than any otherare more at home with it. Such printed circulars and cards as in their peculiar s6cial condition may prove necessaryinvitations to wed- dings, society notices, and the likeare ex~5ressed either in Hebrew or in their own jargon; and in the latter a newspaper was founded recently by one of their countrymen, a remarkable man, who desired thereby to enlighten and elevate them. It is a curious and interesting fact that a similar characteristic to this was observed in the whole race nearly 2,500 years ago. It was during the Baby- lonian captivity. Maimonides says of it: When the Israelites were exiled in the days of the ungodly Nebuchadnezzar, they became scattered among Per- sians, Greeks, and other peoples. The children which were born to them in the various countries Apoke a dialect composed of different languages, and were unable to express themselves perfectly in any recognized tongue. lIe goes on to quote the twenty-fourth verse in the thirteenth chapter of the book of Nehemiah: And their children spake half in the speech of Ashdod, and could not speak in the Jews language, but according to the language of each people. The religious services of the Polish Jews are well worth observing. They are characterized, as one would expect them to be, by a- noisy devotion which is intolerant of criticism, which is exaggerated like the devotion of a barbarous people, which substitutes physical demonstrations for that repose which they cannot comprehend, and which renders hideous and senseless the most beauti- ful and significant ceremonies. That there are none among them who have risen above their general con- dition, cannot be said~ If there were not, it would be an almost unique fact in the history of oppression. The German Jews are the most active as well as the most numerous. They compose the Orthodox in part, and the ~nservatives and Radicals almost wholly. It is among the Germans that the great agitations of the last half cen- tury found their beginning. The influence of their thought has ever since been exerted powerfully upon the rest of the race, and to them belongs the honor of all that has thus far been achieved in the direction of progress. From them have arisen all the great reformers and progressive rabbis of the day. Slightly separated from them, hut of like sentiments and subjected to the same influences, are the Bohemian Jews, to whom it would be unnecessary to refer, were it not that there is a shade of difference based upon their na- tionality between them and the Germans. Wherever they exist in sufficient numbers, they form separate congregations, attend separato synagogues, and to a great extent associate in ~private life exclusively with each other, in the same way as do the English Jews, and the Portuguese, and the Poles. Between the last and the rest there is indeed a far more distinct line. They are regarded not alone with contempt for their ignorance, their bigotry, and their y~cious traits, but there is even a degree of dislike that borders on hatred shown them, for the reason, as I have explained, that the whole race is judged by them, and has to bear the imputation of resembling them THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. [JAN. At the same time, it must be said that, notwithstanding the reserve which is maintained between the Jews of different nationalities, yet if a single member of the race comes to his fellow, from no matter what qutirter of the globe, and claims his hospitality or charity, or if not in need looks to him nevertheless for friendly treatment, he is welcomed without hesitation as a brother. His neces- sity, if he is destitute, is at once relieved; and if sick, he is well cared for. The more orthodox the hosts may be, the heartier the welcome; and there are many who retain the European custom of inviting such applicants to their houses after service in the synagogue on Friday evening and Saturday morn- ing, to partake with them of theiiC Sabbath evening meal of fish, and their Sabbath dinner. But as they grow less orthodox this peculiar hospitality be- comes less general, and among the Radicals it has disappeared. Indeed, the further they advance the weaker grows their connection with the Jewish race, and the stronger that with the human. Thea such a stranger is hardly re- garded as akin, or as having any peculiar claim, unless he has been oppressed and has suffered, and then he is treated as any human being would be under similar circumstances, of whatever nation, creed, or race. Of the traditionary customs of the Jews there are hardly any which the Radicals of to-day observe. About minor usages, such as wearing hats and the thalith in the synagogues, and the white robe, the symbol of contrition, on the day of atonement, or the keeping of the Sabbath with that repulsive strictness which forbids the tearing of paper or the breaking of a twig, the lighting of a match or riding in a street car, there is no longer any question; they have been brushed away forever; and in the case of the great majority, the venerated dietary laws have shared the sain~ fate. Milk and meat are eaten together with a relish, aad from the flesh of the squirrel and the hare few turn in disgust. A wild duck that is shot on .the wing is enjoyed as well as a tame one that has been properly slaughtered by a shochet, provided its flavor is equal; nor are they a small number who have leavened bread on their tables side by side with the mctzoth during the passover festival. All fasting, except that on the day, of atonement, has been allowed to drop into oblivion; and were the festivals not very agreeable interruptions of daily toil, some of them would undoubtedly have taken the same route. It is only the ultra-Orthodox who to-day believe in all the miracles related in the Old Testament. As for the R~fdicals, they are not content with disbelieving some portions of the Bible; they boldly announce that they have no faith what- ever in the divinity of any part of the book, so far as that is taken t~ mean the writing of it by the direction of the Supreme Being, or by his express dicta- tion. The Jews may be said, in fact, to he travelling on a highway whose terminus is pure Deism, with the extreme Radicals at the very goal, while back from the point at which they have arrived to the beginning of the road the rest of the race is scattered. But tho travellers are all in motion, there is con- stant progress, and with every step that is taken some relic of the past, sotne tradition or some habit, is thrown aside, and lightened by so much of their bur- dens they continue their journey the easier. When I say it is simple Deism at which they arrive in the end, I think I speak within the facts. What is it that the Radicals believe? That there is a Supreme Being, intelligent and beneficent, and the logical sequence of such a faith; but hardly anything further. They may still retain certain forms and obey certain laws which rest for their authority upon the religious system which is known as the Judaism of the Bible; but that they do so proves nothing fur- ther than their inconsistency. They continue to observe many of the festivals 1872.) 61 THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. in a kind of liberal way, not because they believe an obligation to do so rests upon them, but partly because it does no harm, affords them some pleasure, and recalls pleasant reminiscences, and partly because some think the practice ought to be maintained to commemorate those extraordinary passages in the history of the race which in the festivals are recalled to mind. The most prominent Radical synagogues are: in New York, the Temple Emanu-El, and that presided over by Dr. Einhorn; and in Philadelphia, that of Dr. Hirsch. Besides these, there are none which can strictly be regarded as coming within the meaning which I have assigned to the term Radicals; but it should not be supposed that these thre? congregations embrace all who have reached their extreme position. There are many who attend no public wor- ship whatever, and belong to no synagogues from choice; while in every city of the United States others may be found who would gladly join a Radical con- gregation were it possible, but, finding (as is usually the case) that there are not enough Israelites in their town to form more than one, must be content to be- come members of an Orthodox or Conservative congregation, or of none at all. Their most influential rabbis are those just named, and Dr. Adler, of th~ Temple Emanu-El. Although the doctrines taught by these divines differ in some respects, they resemble each other closely in being all of the most cos- mopolitan and liberal character. Their theory is that the Judaism of the Bible had only one essential feature, and that this stands forth prominently all through the sacred writings: it is the doctrine of a single, indivisible God. Every- thing else in the system was unessential detail, adapted to the spirit of an elder age, and in stripping the religion of it to-day no harm is done. Let priestcraft and ritual go; they are not wanted in the nineteenth century. The simple monotheistic idea remains, and that is the foundation and the whole foundation of modern Judaism. Of Conservative synagogues the number is greater, in due proportion to the body itself, which is also naturally far more numerous. The time will proba- bly come when all will stand on the same ground on which the Radicals do to-day; but at the present moment that position is extreme, and the great mass prefer, as they always do under such circumstances, to let themselves be borne to it by the main current rather than strike out for it of their own accord. There is also another reason for the large number of Conservativc syna- gogues, and this applies likewise to the Orthodox. With them everybody at- tends public services regularly, and is a member of some congregation. With- out that he lacks a certain dignity and consideration. He is not a Ba~il Habaith a householder. Thus it happens that we find Conservative houses of worship in every town, while in each of the larger cities there are generally several. Their book of prayers (except among the Portuguese, who have one of their own, but one that resembles the other in all essential features) is that which has been used by the ultra-Orthodox in Germany and Poland for centuries; but while the Orthodox consider everything in it as sacred and necessary to be read, the Conservatives omit such parts as imply their belief in doctrines which they repudiate. Even with the omissions, however, there is such a vast amount to be recited, so very much ground to be gone over, not alone on the Sabbath and the holidays, but even in the daily private devotions, that in the latter case to have done within an hour, and in the former within three or four, it is absolutely necessary to read as rapidly as human capacity will admit of. As a general thing, the words are slurred over, some skipped entirely, and altogether such indecorous haste exhibited that to a stranger it is astonishing how men of in- TIlE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. UfAN. telligence can be content to see a religious service conducted in such a manner. To account for it, one must remember that there was a time when a much greater portion of the day was devoted to prayer and the study of the Scrip- tures than ordinary Israelites of the present century have found it possible to spare. Instead of curtailing the prayers, they have endeavored to finish them in less time, and the result has been what I have just stated. Forced to make the entire round whenever the proper occasion arrived, each generation acquired this style from their parents~ and clung to it from sheer force of habit. Of course, in going over the body of the prayers no chance is given of understand- ing or appreciating them (they are written in Hebrew); and as far as genuine devotion is concerned, it is an utter impossibility. To be sure, there is a con- sciousness of being in a place of worship, and there is a certain elevation of feeling, like that of the pious Jew who lived a long time ago and was so ignorant that he could no~ even read the prayer-book, but who, in lieu of that, leaped back and forth a number of times over a small hillock as a sign of his reverence for his Maker. There are many short prayers also, and numerous psalms, which have been repeated so often that they are known by heart. These are, of course, exceptions. The whole system,however, has so many objectionable features about it that Dr. Wise of Cincinnati some years ago prepared a new and more ap- propriate prayer-book. It was received with favor at first, but it has since, to say the least, not increased in popularity; and, as I have said, in the great majority of the Conservative synagogues the regular orthodox editioa, with all its passages from the Pentateuch in relation to the sacrificial oflbring~, is still in use. The many reforms which these congregations have made plainly show their progressive tendency; but the bigoted stubbornness with Which they cling to some petty and almost unmeaning customs is, on the other hand, ex- ceedingly curious. Of the Conservative rabbis there are some whose names are more familiar to the general American public than those of the Radical rabbis whom I have named. The reason of it is that the latter, unfortunately, have not an ade- quate command of the English language; they neither write nor speak Eng- lish. Dr. Wise of Cincinnati is probably the best known Conservative. In this class I think I may place him, although he is at times sufficiently extreme. l)r. Lilienthal, of the same city, has also frequently figured in public; he is influential and esteemed. Dr. Huebsch, of the Bohemian synagogue in New York, is another, and so is Dr. Mielziener, of the Norfolk street synagogue. In fact, every prominent city in the United States has its distinguished Conser- vative divine. The Radical clergy have few changes to propose at the present time. They have gone about as far as they dare for the moment; and for the little which is yet to be done, they are content to wait. The Conservatives, on the other hand, are in constant activity, agitating new reforms. As soon as one cobweb has been swept away, they assail another. As a general thing, the sen- timents of their congregations are in harmony with their own, and they only require some leading mind to shape their course and impel them on; but often the case is the reverse. Even then there are a few, probably, who assist the rabbi in his efforts; but as for the rest, they raise a storm of indignation at every new change that he advocates, and every step which they take forward costs a score of sermons. This is especially true of the congregations in the smaller towns, where, the Israelites being usually too few to support more than one synagogue, we find 1872.] THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. 63 gathered into a single fold partisans of ultra orthodoxy and of extreme reform. The majority is generally Conservative, bnt is swayed from one side to the other by the arguments and exertions of the opposing parties. The rabbi is usually more inclined to the Radicals than to the other side, and in addition to using his influence from the pulpit, occasionally joins, where he is a regular member, in the debates which arise during the meetings of his congregation. The chances are that some of the agitators are hot-tempered and lose control of themselves, and a perfect tempest at once sweeps over the deliberating as- sembly. They have been known to come to blows. On such occasions it is usually the rabbi who fares worst. The rage of the majority centres on him ; he is upbraided on every side, is threatened with removal from his position, sometimes is removed, and more than once has been actually beaten. There is neither respect nor consideration for ~is person or his office. But the latter, it must be remembered, is of comparatively recent origin, and has not the claim of antiquity to anybodys reverence. Its duties were formerly discharged by the official reader, and consisted chiefly in expounding the sayings of the sages and the text of the Scriptures on a Saturday afternoon. In taking to themselves a modein preacher at all, the Jews simply follow the fashion of the present day. In the Orthodox synagogues violent scenes are rarely witnessed. There is little commotion about stagnant water. Of their rabbis nothing is expected further than that they should be excellent Talmudical scholars and very pious: Other good qualities will recommend them the more; but even without these they are looked up to. There are many large synagogues which may be termed Orthodox; but the ultra-Orthodox are small and little known. In the great cities they are scat- tered about in out-of-the-way places, and are stumbled on unexpectedly. In New York, for instance, they are situate in the lower wards, in the most dense- ly-populated streets, and the places of worship are bare, wretched rooms, i.u equally wretched houses. There is seldom any indication of their existence to passers in the street; they are known only to the initiated. It is the newly- immigrated Poles who attend them, as well as some whose poverty is too great to allow them to pay the dues in a more stylish house of worship. After a while, the new immigrants grow discontented with the style of service, and betake themselves to the synagogue in Chrystie street or some other that is orthodox, but in which the manner of worship is more agreeable to the eye and the ear. Their places in the congregations which they have forsaken re- main vacant for only a short time; they are soon refilled by newer immigrants. There have been numerous rabbinical conferences. Their motive and their influence have both been misunderstood by the general public, for whose pe- rusal the proceedings were reported in the daily newspapers. The highest value was affixed to each. There was a vague impression that the gentlemen who attended had been delegated from their congregations, that they had been clothed with certain powers of assent and dissent in the case of particular questions which were to be raised, and that the decision of the majority would be binding on the congregations represented. An impression wider of the mark there could not well have been. - Whatever the conferences might have decided on, it would have been utterly immaterial. Every congregation in the United States is a perfect autonomy. It acknowledges no superior. Its rabbi holds office only so long as it is satisfied with him, and for priestcraft general- ly it entertains no admiration. Whatever it may think of one particular 4 54 THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. [JAN. divine, for divines distinctively, as such, it feels aversion rather than respect. The influence of the rabbinical conferences may therefore be imagined. Who- ever attended them did so of his own desire, and represented only himself. The only value the deliberations ever had was that a kind of programme was drawn up for coming work, by which all were enabled to co6perate in agitat- ing the same reforms at the same time; and, secondly, That certain changes, about advocating which there was some fear, as being too premature, were presented in a form which was calculated to set the Jews of the country think- ing, without alarming them or setting the Orthodox frantic with indignation. That there were no ultra-Orthodox represented in the conferences, it is hardly necessary to say. Those who attended were desirous of progress. From what I have already said of the Radicals, the feeling with which they regard their Christian neighbors may be readily inferred. They are well edu- cated, philanthropic, of liberal views, cosmopolitan, and progressive in every sense of the word; in short, they are to be ranked with the best class of Amer- ican citizens. How would such men be apt to regard their neighbors, of no matter what religious belief? They would judge them, I. should say, entirely upon their individual merits; and that is what they do. There can be no bet- ter illustration of this than the relations which they bear to the Unitarians. In Cincinnati Jewish divines have exchanged pulpits with Unitarian clergymen. Although it is true that the report of this action was not received with much favor elsewhere, it was because it looked too much like quackery and sensa- tional display, and not because such fraternization was displeasing. The Conservatives certainly esteem a good man none the less for his being a Christian; in fact, that he is the latter is a thing which they never consider, which never enters their thoughts, unless he announces it purposely, and calls their attention to it, and then it affects them disagreeably. They are exceed- ingly sensitive to reflections on their belief or their extraction. This point they have not yet passed, and if there is anything which is calculated to in- spire them with dislike for Christians, it is this, since daily they must listen to taunts that fill them with irresistible bitterness. Were they to find the rabble only guilty of it, no doubt they would take it with something like indifference; hut it is often people of what is known as the better class who show themselves most prejudiced. Such persons they regard as their ancestors did the priests who incited the mob at them with the cry Hep, hep! They have a Hebrew term for such a foe of Israel, and it has been used so universally that it has ac- quired a special meaning. It is rashct, which, originally signifies the wicked one, the sinner. The Orthodox do as their ancestors did when speaking of Christians. They never call a Christian girl a girl, or a lad a lad. They have Hebrew names for them, and for a man the word goi, gentile, and for a woman its feminine form. They retain this custom, however, simply because it is a custom, and because, even if they had any reason for desiring it, they would find it difficult to wean themselves from it. It is in no way expressive of feeling. The senti- ment which they harbor toward Christians is one I should say of apprehension, and dates from their native lands; but in the United States there is no fuel to keep it alive. A New York clergyman recently asserted that the Jews never cheat each other, but think it nothing wrong to swindle a Christian. About this statement there are two things to be said. Ordinarily it would be absurd; from such a source it is shameful. The Radicals, after my description of them (I have en- deavored to make it fair), it is certainly not necessary to defend against the 1872.] THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. accusation. The Conservatives, though not so far advanced in their religious belief, nor as a whole in their intellectual status, are for all that not dishonor- able. Their average morality is of the very same standard as that of ordinary average men in any community, and it is neither more nor less. The habitual knaves and sharpers are. to be found among the Polish Jews, and it is there one should look for them, as one would look among the most illiterate in any state or city to find the lesser criminals who are lodged there. But if a Polish Jew is a swindler, he is not fastidious about whom he cheats. Gentile and Jew are alike welcome to him; and if the former falls oftener into his net, it is because the lattei~ knows him and his ways too well. There is certainly nothing in the religion which justifies the defrauding of either, any more than there is in any religion. The scarcity of the more dangerous kind of criminals among the Jews, and the fact that so few of them are to be met with in any State prison, have often been remarked. The only reason that can be assigned for this is that the life which the Jews led until very recently, and which the Polish Jews still lead to a certain extent within their native boundaries, was hardly calculated to make them think of assailing others. All their energies, their vigilance, and their dexterity were required to defend themselves against murder and pillage; and I am inclined to think that this has left an impress upon their character. Al- though they showed themselves excellent soldiers in the two great wars of the last decade, they have always displayed marked aversion to occupations which might make it necessary to participate in street fights, or in unlawful and vio- lent encounters of any nature. A Jewish police officer, for instance, is exceed- ingly rare. In short, it seems to me that the reason why so few Polish Jews turn burglars or highwayman, is their characteristic lack of the first requisite, brutal courage. Of Christ the Jews have no uniform opinion. The Radicals regard him very much as a good many Deists and Atheists have done before themthat is, they believe him to have been either a great reformer or a religious enthusiast; and the New Testament they suppose to have been written long after his death, and to have been made up in part of material taken from the Old Testament, the maxim Love thy neighbor as thyself being considered an illustration of this. In fact, whatever opinions they may have on this subject, they have formed by thinking for themselves over the writings of the great skeptics, just as many others have done who are not Jews; and this is the case as well with the most advanced of the Conservatives, as no doubt also with many of the least advanced and of the Orthodox. Of the last, however, a very consider- able majority have expended no thought whatever on the matter. Their no- tions about Christ are of the vaguest, and to some lie is even veiled in mystery. What they know most clearly is his fate, and the persecution of themselves and their ancestors on account of it. They have a very peculiar name for him. It is not often that they have occasion to allude to him; but when they do they call him to-luithe hanged one. He is rarely the subject of conversation among them; it would be a distasteful topic, and they would have no motive for bringing it up. There is, as I have said, no uniform sentiment entertained in regard to him; but one thing may nevertheless be safely asserted of the whole race: All expectation that they will ever come to regard him as anything but a man and a son of man is based on desire only. As for the New Testament, the average Orthodox would no more think of looking over its pages than they would of swallowing deadly poison. It has [JAN. 56 THE JEWS: WIXAT THEY ARE COMING TO. been translated into Hebrew for their benefit by one who hoped to convert them by its agency; but the labor was utterly thrown away. That they offer so little opposition to the reading of the book in the public schools may seem sur- prising. There are two reasons for it, however. Before they came to the United States, they rarely ventured to question the policy of their governments or to assail anything that had been established by them; and in the land in which they are now settled they are equally timid, whether it is the decision of the majority that is to be opposed or the action of the chosen legislators. The second reason is their confidence in their children, of whose yielding to the influ- ence of what is read to them from the New Testament they have no fear. They entertain no dread of the book; they rather regard it as wicked aad blasphe- mous. The Radicals, on the other hand, and the more intelligent of the Con- servatives, think the reading of it in the schools a matter of small moment, and, in case the majority of the community desire it, not worth debating; but when the Roman Catholics begin to agitate the question, as they have done more than once, and the country is in commotion about it, they are apt to join the opposition to it, and to explain their previous contentment with it and their present action, as iDr. Lilienthal of Cincinnati did in the excitement of last year. Before the present moment, he said in substance, it was not worth ones while to speak about it, but now that the question is xuised, Is the read- ing, ete., right and just? the subject assumes a different form and becomes im- portant as a possible precedent. The futility of all attempts to convert the race or any portion of it to Chris- tianity has been demonstrated repeatedly in the utter failure of the a~so~iations founded with that aim. Occasionally, it is true, a convert was gained in whom the motive was purely honest conviction, but it is venturesome to say that he is even one in a thousand. When an educated Jew becomes dissatisfied with his own faith, when the progress of the Radicals even is too slow for him, when all compromise or temporary expediency is distasteful to him, he will not bend his convictions in the slightest degree; he severs all connection with the re- ligion of his race, and assumes at once the position of deist; or perhaps he goes further and allies himself to the extreme Unitariansmany, for instance, ad- miring Dr. Frothingham; and occasionally one embraces Atheism, Pantheism, or some other form of utter unbelief in an intelligent Ruler of the universe. But he has no thought of joining a denomination which holds the doctrine of the Trinity. On the other hand, to convert an average Orthodox is a hopeless task. To argument he is literally deaf. If he cannot turn his back, he can at any rate refuse to hear; and that he does. lie is nearly as difficult to deal with by the reformers in his own faith. It is the progressive influence of the age, and the spirit of the people with whom he dwells, which must be re- lied on to elevate him. Arguments, unless they are drawn from the Talmud, have no weight with him; and in the Talmud he is a poor scholar who can- not find authorities to support him, whether he is on the side of orthodoxy or of reform. The belief in the coming of a Messiah is utterly repudiated by the Radicals and by a large portion of the Conservatives; and with that, of course, the be- lief in the reunion of the nation and the return to Jerusalem is also thrown overboard. The Biblical prophecies on these points are taken in a figurative sense, and so explained. The Orthodox, on the contrary, hold tenaciously to the doctrines. In the thirteen articles of belief drawn up by Maimonides, and professed by them, the twelfth reads thus: I believe firmly and honestly in 1872.] THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. 57 the advent of an anointed Redeemer, and notwithstanding his remaining away so long, I nevertheless yearn daily for his coming. They are taught this article with the remaining twelve, and they utter no lie in repeating it. The seven hundred years which have passed since it first was framed have apparently robbed it of none of its vitality. Many speculate about the circumstances under which the Messiah will probably appear, and the preponderance of opinion seems to be that he will first be seen riding along on the back of an ass. Simultaneously the blowing of a great trumpet will resound through the world, and from all the quarters of the globe are to be gathered together the scattered children of Israel, to be conducted once more to the Holy Land, and to be installed there in their pristine glory, with their Redeemer on the throne of the ancient Jewish kings. The following extracts are taken from the prayer-book used by the Ortho- dox and very nearly all Conservatives; but, as I have Said, passages like these are omitted in their services by many of the latter: Let the great trumpet sound for our liberation, raise the standard for the reunion of the scattered, and gather us together from the four ends of the earth. Praised be thou, 0 Eternal! who reunitest the persecuted of thy people Israel. Oh, return with mercy to Jerusalem, thy city, and reign therein as thou hast promised to do; rebuild it soon, during our existence, to remain imperishable, and speedily re-estab- lish in it the throne of David. Praised be thou, 0 Eternal! who buildest up Jerusalem. Let the stock of David, thy servant, soon bloom again; exalt its splendor through thy support. O Eternal, our God, show thyself favorable unto thy people Israel and its prayers; intro- duce again the holy service into the sanctuary of thy temple! Fill us with rejoicing, 0 Eternal, through Elijah the prophet, thy servant, and through the royal house of David, thy anointed; may he soon come and gladden our heart. Upon his throne let no stranger sit, no others take unto themselves his glory; for by thy hol~r name hast thou sworn unto him that his light shall neve~ be extinguished in all eternity! Prai~ed be thou, 0 Eternal, the shield of David! And still, notwithstanding these prayers, of which all but one are daily, no Orthodox Jew hesitates about securing naturalization papers in the United States, nor about investing his money in real estate, or even in chattels which will not fetch half their value if it becoine~ necessary to dispose of them at short notice. The truth is that this belief never enters into their practical busi- ness calculations, nor does it ever give them serious trouble; in fact, the en- treaties copied above are understood by2 comparatively few of those who give - them utterance. The thirteen articles of faith just referred to profess in substance the con- viction that God is the Creator and Ruler of the universe; is single and alone, with none like him; is ineorporet~l and incomprehensible to those senses by which a corporeal being may be comprehended; is the first being and will be the last; that to him only are the prayers of men to be directed; that all the words of the prophets are true; that the pvophecies of Moses are fine, and that he was the greatest of all prophets; that the Pentateuch (the Holy Law) as it has been handed down is the same which was given to Moses; that it will never be changed, and no other will ever be given to man by the Creator; that the Creator knows all the doings of men as well as all their thoughts; that he re- wards those who keep his commandments and punishes all Who transgress them; that (the twelfth article) a Messiah will some day make his appear- ance; and finally, that there will be a resurrection of the dead. What, now, have I shown? The most advanced of the Jews stand practi- cally on the same ground in point of belief with the extreme Unitarians, and 58 THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO [JAN. would perhaps combine with them at once, were there not danger that such a movement would alienate the rest of the race, were it not too early as yet to expect them to do away at once with all their forms and customs, and finally, did not lifelong habit invariably exercise powerful influence upon those sub- jected to it, With every year, however, the obstacles grow less, and al- though of the present generation nothing can be expected except the steady progress whicb they are making, the rising generation may take much bolder strides. Exclude those who were reared in Europe and were brought to the United States by recent immigration, take only those who have been born on American soil (they form three-fourths of the whole number), and you have a generation the like of which there has not been since the dispersal. Of a common nationality, and speaking English as their common mother tongue, there can be no differences between them except religious and educational. By the latter, a large proportion of those born of the Polish Jews will be separated from the rest; for although many of them attend the free public schools, yet a considerable number attend none, and do not even study the Talmud as their fathers did. These can hardly turn out men of elevated aims and characters. But take the whole body, and it has one marked characteristic. The influ- ence of religious habits is not felt by them as by their parents; nor do they believe whatever is taught by cunning or fanatical rabbis, as many of the present generation do; nor, if their parents are Orthodox, will they do what is done in every religion the world overaccept without question the belief of their parents, since in that there is far too much which is ridiculous and repug- nant to reason such as it is in the United States, in the nineteenth century; while if their parents are Conservative or Radical, they have the example set before them of thinking for themselves, and eagerly follow it. The conse- quence of this state of affairs is, that such a thing as faith in religion is utterly unknown to them; that for the traditionary customs of their race they have lost all reverence; and that if any of them attend services in any synagogue, or, by the observance of Jewish usages or Jewish fasts or festivals, still show ad- herence to the religion in its old form, it is simply to satisfy the prejudices of Orthodox parents. A very large proportion of the generation have been edu- cated side by side with Christians in the public schools, and by that have been still further drawn from Jewish orthodoxy into closer fellowship with their Christian neighbors, and iearer to a religion of pure reason, and, in many in- stances, to utter irreligion. The best portion of the generation is marked by the following traits: a sin- cere affection for their country and its republican institutions; a simple mono- theistic belief; humanitarian ideas which do not admit of distinguishing be- tween Christian and Jew or Jew and Christian; and finally, though this may be only a temporary characteristic, by sympathies more cosmopolitan and lib- eral without doubt than those of their Christians neighbors, from the very na- ture of the movement in which they were born to participate, and the charac- tor of the reading to which by circumstances they are directed. In fact, this trait is frequently immoderate in them. They are thoroughly illiberal to an illiberal person, and in their judgment of him extravagantly severe. Such is the rising generation of Jews in the United States to-day. What under ordinary circumstances is to prevent their being merged with their Christian neighbors, and becoming utterly undistinguishable from them? Only two agencies can be mentioned in reply: they are the law which forbids intermarriage with Gentiles, and the ordinance which commands circumcision. The former would alene be effective; the latter would be an auxiliary, and by 1872.] THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. 59 itself might prove a considerable bar. And notwithstanding their liberal sen- timents, the rising generation will obey both laws. But it is not from conviction; it is on account of their parents, on account of the conservative ideas, combined with the unreasoning prejudices, of the majority of the present generation. Of circumcision they have a pretty uniform opinion: they regard it as a purely sanitary regulation, intended to guard against the natural consequences of excesses in a climate like that of Palestine, but of doubtful benefit in the United States. They ask the natural question: Can man improve upon the form in which he is born? Statements have often been made that on an aver- age Jews live to a greater age than Christians; but they rest upon doubtful autho~4ty, and bave never been satisfactorily substantiated. As far as these youth can judge of the Christians who live about them, there is not under the same general conditions a whit of difference between their average physical condition and their own. The only reason, therefore, that exists at present for keeping up the prac- tice so far as it concerns the children that may be born to them is the desire of their parents; but that is sufficient, for it is so intense, so unreasoning, that filial duty would make a refusal impossible as long as no principle, no sense of right or justice, was to be violated. There are many, no doubt, among the most advanced who will readily consent to their children doing as they think proper in this or any similar matter; but take a representative of the main body, and it may be said of him that, although he can listen placidly to argu- ments which prove the needlessness or even the absurdity of the usage, and can calmly hear that the rabbinical conference in Philadelphia and the recent synod in Augsburg held that a child born of a Jewish woman but not circuin- cised is nevertheless a Jew in all respects, yet when the proposal to disregard the ordinance is brought home to him, is to be carried out hy anybody who is dear to him and over whom he has any authority, his opposition is simply wild. He does not argue, he cannot argue, but he has the strongest apprehensions of awful disasters that may befall those who are guilty of the transgression; and were the refusal to yield to him persisted in, he would certainly suffer the profoundest grief, and might even do what has been done repeatedlypart with those who have disobeyed him, with his curses resting upon their heads. Of the women it need only be said that they are what women in religion, be the reason what it may, have always been: they are even more bigoted than the men. The opposition to intermarriage is of very much the same nature; but it is strengthened by two circumstances. One is the uhhappy result of nearly all such unions hitherto, by reason of the prejudices entertained by the connec- tions of each of the parties; and the other is that even the rising generation have a certain sensitiveness on the score of their faith and their extraction, and meeting in society with Christian maidens, are very often repelled and disgusted by detecting in them evidences of a repugnance which may be ever so slight, but which they cannot for an instant endure. These circumstances, however, are of the same general nature, and daily lose more of their force, since the prejudice against the Jews is rapidly vanishing. Although the ris- ing generation may still be affected by it, their children, it may be assumed, will not encounter much of it; and it is with them that the commencement of a general intermarrying and of the utter neglect of the practice of circumcising their male offspring is to be dated. Many illustrations of this theory might be adduced; but there are two 60 THE JEWS: WHAT THEY ARE COMING TO. [JAN. which are so especially striking that they are well worth relating. The son of a Conservative Connecticut rabbi, who was a surgeon in the Union army during the war of the Rebellion, is at present one of the most prominent phy- sicians in the city in which he resides, and at the same time holds a high public office, moves in what is known as the best circles of Christian society, has considerable political influence in the Statein short, has had an exceptionally fortunate careeroffered his hand to a Christian lady of one of the oldest fami- lies in Connecticut, and was accepted by her. Unable to resist the unusually happy features of the proposed union, the gentlemans father yielded; but the mother, on the other hand, was so frantically opposed to it that, to avoid em- bittering the remainder of her days, the gentleman severed the engagement. Suppose, now, that he marries a Jewish girl, and that children are born to him, is it probable that he will oppose their marrying whomsoever their hearts are drawn to? Or will he demand that the practice of circumcision be main~ ~ained with his grandchildren? In the second case there figures the eldest son of the most prominent rabbi in Frankfort-on-the-Main. The fame of this rabbi has reached the ear of every Jew, in whatever part of the world he may be. His eldest son left bis native city and settled in the United States. After a year or two letters were no longer received from him, and no information could be gathered concerning him. It was supposed that he was dead, and the family mourned for him. A few months ago one of hi~ brothers, while on a visit to Philadelphia, met him in one of the hotels. It was then ascertained that soon after coming to the United States he had married a Christian maiden, and that he was afraid of receiving the curses of his aged father if the fact became known to him. lie had therefore conveyed the impression that he was dead. The end of this romantic story is that the younger brother instantly communicated his discov- ery to his father, and that the latter, whatever his prejudices may have been, at once gave evidence of his happiness at the recovery of his first-born, tied to a Christian though he was. Need it be said that the grandchildren of this renowned rabbi had not been circumcised? That these are exceptional cases is true enough; but they are exceptional only in immaterial features. The sentiments of the rising generation on the subject of intermarrying and on that of circumcision cannot be mistaken; and although they may not act in accordance with them, they will for a certainty offer no opposition to their children doing so. It is by the second generation born on American soil that obedience to these two ancient ordinances will first be refused (though, to be sure, they will interman~y only with Christians who are as unprejudiced and as free in belief as themselves). Within fifty years, then, we may expect to see the beginning of this move- ment; and of all who participate in it, the grandchildren, at the latest, will be undistinguishable from the mass of humanity which surrounds them. The peculiar facial expression of the Jew will not rest upon their faces; any or- dinary observation in the case of such intermarriages as have already occurred will prove this true. And the movement once begun, can it take long to break down the barriers that surround the rest of the race? for it must be remem- bered that meantime their progress will he uninterrupted in every land which is blessed with free and liberal institutions. Of that ai~cient people only the history of their perils and their sufferings will remain, and the story of the change that came over them in an enlightened ago. W. M. ROSENnLATT. TIIE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. B~ ANTHONY TROLLOPE. CHAPTER XIX. which sign, if verily seen by them, mIght be taken to signify that they themselves A5 MY BROTHER. were esteemed holy, and fit for heavenly T ORD FAWN had promised, as he joy. One would have thought that no .1.4 put Lizzie into her carriage, that he theme could have been less palatable to would come to her soonbut he did not such a one as Lizzie Eustace; but the come soon. A fortnight passed and he did melody of the lines had pleased her ear, not show himself. Nothing further had and she was always able to arouse for her- been done in the matter of the diamonds, self a false enthusiasm on things which except that Mr. Camperdown had written were utterly outside herself in life. She to Frank Greystock, explaining how im- thought she too could have travelled in possible it was that the question of their search of that holy sian, and have borne possession should be referred to arbitra- all things, and abandoned all things, and tion. According to him they belonged to have persevered, and of a certainty have the heir, as did the estate; and no one been rewarded. But as for giving up a would have the power of accepting an string of diamonds, in common honesty, arbitration respecting theman arbitra- that was beyond her. tion which might separate them from I wonder whether men ever were like the estate of which an infant was the that? she said, as she allowed her cousin owner for his lifeany more than such to take the book from her hands. arbitration could be accepted as to the Let us hope not. property of the estate itself. Possession Oh, Frank!~~ is nine points of the law, said Frank to They were, no doubt, as fanatic and himself, as he put the letter asidethink- foolish as you please. If you will read to ing at the same time that possession in the end the hands of Lizzie Eustace included cer- I have read it all, every word of it, tainly every one of those nine points. said Lizzie, enthusiastically. Lizzie wore her diamonds again and then Then you know that Arthur did not again. There may be a question whether go on the search, because he had a job of the possession of the necklace and the work to do, by the doing of which the publicity of its ~historywhich, however, people around him might perhaps be like many other histories, was most in- somewhat benefited. accurately tolddid not add something I like Launcelot better thati Arthur, to her reputation as a lady of fashion. In said Lizzie. the mean time Lord Fawn did not come So did the Queen, replied Frank. to see her. So she wrote to him. My Your useful, practical man, who at- dear Frederic: Had you not better come tends vestries and sits at boards, sad to me? Yours affectionately, L. I go to measures out his gifts to others by the the North at the end of this month. ounce, never has any heart. Has he, But Frank Greystock did visit her, Frank? more than once. On the day after the 1 dont know what heart means. 1 above letter was written he came to her. sometimes fancy that it is a talent for get- It was on Sunday afternoon, when July ing into debt, and running away with was more than half over, and he found her other mens wives. alone. MissMacnulty had gone to church, You say that on purpose to make me and Lizzie was lying listlessly on a sofa quarrel with you. You dont run away with a volume of poetry in her hand. She With other mens wives, and you have had in truth been reading the book, and heart. in her way enjoying it. It told her the But I get into debt, unfortunately; story of certain knights of old, who had and as for other mens wives, I am not gone forth in quest of a sign from heaven, sure that I may not do even that some

TIIE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. B~ ANTHONY TROLLOPE. CHAPTER XIX. which sign, if verily seen by them, mIght be taken to signify that they themselves A5 MY BROTHER. were esteemed holy, and fit for heavenly T ORD FAWN had promised, as he joy. One would have thought that no .1.4 put Lizzie into her carriage, that he theme could have been less palatable to would come to her soonbut he did not such a one as Lizzie Eustace; but the come soon. A fortnight passed and he did melody of the lines had pleased her ear, not show himself. Nothing further had and she was always able to arouse for her- been done in the matter of the diamonds, self a false enthusiasm on things which except that Mr. Camperdown had written were utterly outside herself in life. She to Frank Greystock, explaining how im- thought she too could have travelled in possible it was that the question of their search of that holy sian, and have borne possession should be referred to arbitra- all things, and abandoned all things, and tion. According to him they belonged to have persevered, and of a certainty have the heir, as did the estate; and no one been rewarded. But as for giving up a would have the power of accepting an string of diamonds, in common honesty, arbitration respecting theman arbitra- that was beyond her. tion which might separate them from I wonder whether men ever were like the estate of which an infant was the that? she said, as she allowed her cousin owner for his lifeany more than such to take the book from her hands. arbitration could be accepted as to the Let us hope not. property of the estate itself. Possession Oh, Frank!~~ is nine points of the law, said Frank to They were, no doubt, as fanatic and himself, as he put the letter asidethink- foolish as you please. If you will read to ing at the same time that possession in the end the hands of Lizzie Eustace included cer- I have read it all, every word of it, tainly every one of those nine points. said Lizzie, enthusiastically. Lizzie wore her diamonds again and then Then you know that Arthur did not again. There may be a question whether go on the search, because he had a job of the possession of the necklace and the work to do, by the doing of which the publicity of its ~historywhich, however, people around him might perhaps be like many other histories, was most in- somewhat benefited. accurately tolddid not add something I like Launcelot better thati Arthur, to her reputation as a lady of fashion. In said Lizzie. the mean time Lord Fawn did not come So did the Queen, replied Frank. to see her. So she wrote to him. My Your useful, practical man, who at- dear Frederic: Had you not better come tends vestries and sits at boards, sad to me? Yours affectionately, L. I go to measures out his gifts to others by the the North at the end of this month. ounce, never has any heart. Has he, But Frank Greystock did visit her, Frank? more than once. On the day after the 1 dont know what heart means. 1 above letter was written he came to her. sometimes fancy that it is a talent for get- It was on Sunday afternoon, when July ing into debt, and running away with was more than half over, and he found her other mens wives. alone. MissMacnulty had gone to church, You say that on purpose to make me and Lizzie was lying listlessly on a sofa quarrel with you. You dont run away with a volume of poetry in her hand. She With other mens wives, and you have had in truth been reading the book, and heart. in her way enjoying it. It told her the But I get into debt, unfortunately; story of certain knights of old, who had and as for other mens wives, I am not gone forth in quest of a sign from heaven, sure that I may not do even that some 62 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. VAN. day. Has Lord Fawn been here? She I do not doubt his love. And when shook her head. Or written? Again you are his own he will love you dearly. she shook her head. As she did so the Ah, yes; as he would a horse or a long curl waved and was very near to him, picture. Is there anything of the rapture for he was sitting close to the sofa, and of love in that? Is that your idea of love? she had raised herself so that she might Is it so you love your Miss Demure? look into his face and speak to him almost Dont call names, Lizzie. in a whisper. Something should be I shall say what I please of her. You settled, Lizzie, before you leave town. and I are to be friends, and II may not I wrote to him yesterday, one line, speak? No; I will have no such friend- and desired him to come. I expected him ship! She is demure. If you like it, here to-day, but you have come instead, what harm is there in my saying it? I Shall 1 say that I am disappointed? am not demure. I know that. I do not, No doubt you are so. at least, pretend to be other than I am. Oh, .Frank, how vain you men are! When she becomes your wife, I wonder You want me to swear to you that I whether you will like her ways? lie would sooner have you with me than him. had not yet told her that she was to be You are not content withthinking it, his wife, nor did he so tell her now. He unless I tell you that it is so. You know thought for a moment that he had better that it is so. Though he is to be my bus- tell her, but he did not do so. It would, bandI suppose he will be my husband he said to himself, add an embarrassment his spirit is not congenial to mine, as is to his present position. And as the mar- yours. riage was to be postponed for a year, it Had you not loved him you would not might be better, perhaps, for Lucy that have accepted him. it should not be declared openly. It was What was I to do, Frank? What am thus he argued with himself, but yet, no I to do? Think how desolate I am, how doubt, he knew well that he did not de- unfriended, how much in want of some dare the truth because it would take one whom I can call a protector! I can- away something of its sweetness from this not have you always with me. You care friendship with his cousin Lizzie. more for the little finger of that prim If 1 ever do marry, he said, I hope piece of propriety down at the old dowa- I shall like my wifes ways. gers than you do for me and all my sor- Of course you will not tell me any- rows. This was true, but Frank did not thing. I do not expect confidence from say that it was true. Lord Fawn is at you. I do not think a man is ever able any rate respectable. At least I thought to work himself up to the mark of true he was so when I accepted his offer. confidence with his friend. Men together, He is respectable enough. when they like each other, talk of poli- Just thatisnt it?and nothing ties, or perhaps of money; but I doubt more. You do not blame me for saying whether they ever really tell their thoughts that I would be his wife? If you do, I and longings to each other. will unsay it, let it cost me what it may. Are women more communicative? He is treating me so badly that I need not Yes; certainly. What is there I go far for an excuse. Then she looked would not tell you if you cared to hear it? into his face with all the eagerness of her Every thought I have is open to you if gaze, clearly implying that she expected you choose to read it. I have that feeling a serious answer. Why do you not an- regarding you that I would keep nothing swer me, Frank? back from you. Oh, Frank, if you under- What am I to say? He is a timid, stood me, you could save meI was going cautious man. They have frightened him to sayfrom all unhappiness. about this trumpery necklace, and he is She did it so well that he would have oehaving badly. But he will make a been more than man had he not believed good husband. He is not a spendthrift, some of it. She was sitting almost up- lIe has rank. All his people are respect- right now, though her feet were still on able. As Lady Fawn any house in Eng- the sofa, and was leaning over towards land will be open to you. He is not rich, him, asthough imploring him for his aid, but together you will be rich. and her eyes were full of tears, and her What is all that without love? lips were apart es though still eager with 1872.] THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 63 the energy of expression, and her hands were clasped together. She was very lovely, very attractive, almost invincible. For such a one as Frank Greystock oppo- sition to her in her present mood was im- possible. There are men by whom a wo- man, if she have wit, beauty, and no con- science, cannot be withstood. Arms may be used against them, and a sort of battle waged, against which they can raise no shieldfrom which they can retire into no fortressin which they can parry no blow. A man so weak and so attacked may sometimes run; but even the poor chance of running is often cut off from him. How unlike she was to Lucy! He believed herin part; and yet that was the idea that occurred to him. When Lucy was much in earnest, in her eye, too, a tear would sparkle, the smallest drop, a bright liquid diamond that never fell; and all her face would be bright and eloquent with feeling; but how un- like were the two! He knew that the difference was that between truth and falsehood; and yet he partly believed the falsehood. IfI knew how to saveyou from an hours uneasiness, I would do it, he said. Nonono!~ she murmured. Would I not? You do not know me then. He had nothing further to say, and it suited her to remain silent for the moment, while she dried her eyes and recovered her composure, and prepared herself to carry on the battle with a smile. She would carry on the battle, using every wile she knew, straining every nerve to be victorious, encountering any and all dan- gers, and yet she had no definite aim before her. She herself did not know what she would be at. At this period of her career she did not want to marry her cousinhav- ing resolved that she would be Lady Fawn. Nor did she intend that her cousin should he her loverin the ordinary sense of love. She was far too wary in the pursuit of the worlds goods to sacrifice herself to any such wish as that. She did want him to help her about the diamonds; but such help as that she might have, as she knew well, on much easier terms~ There was probably an anxiety in her bosom to cause him to be untrue to Lacy Morris; but the guiding motive of her conduct was the de- sire to make things seem to be other than they were. To be always acting a part rather than living her own life was to her everything. After all we must come to facts, he said, after a while. I suppose it will be better that you should marry Lord Fawn. If you wish it. Nay; I cannot have that said. in this matter you must rule yourself by your own judgment. If you are averse to it She shook her head. Then you will own that it had better be so. Again she shook her head. Lizzie, for your sake and my own, I must declare that if you have no opinion in this matter, neither will I have any. You shall never have to say that I pressed you into this marriage or debarred you from marrying. I could not bear such an accusation. But you might tell me what I ought to do. No; certainly not. Think howyoung I am, andby com- parisonhow old you are. You are eight years older than I am. Renieiaber, after all that I have gone through, I am but twenty-two. At my age other girls have their friends to tell them.. I have no one, unless you will tell me. You have accepted him? Yes. I suppose he is not altogether indiffer- ent to you? She paused, and again shook her head. Indeed I do not know. If you mean, do I love him, as I could love some man whose heart was quite congenial to my own, certainly I do not. She continued to shake her head very sadly. I es- teemed himwhen he asked me. Say at once that, having made up your mind, you will go through with it. You think that I ought? You think soyourself. So be it, Frank. I will. But, Frank, I will not give up my property. You do not wish me to do that. It would be weak nowwould it not? I am sure that it is my own.~~ His faith to you should not depend on that. No, of course not; that is just what I mean. He can have no right to inter- fere. When he asked me to be his wife, he said nothing about that. But if he does not come to me, what shall I do ? I suppose I had better see him, said Frank slowly. Will you? That will be so good of you. I feel that I can leave it all safely 64 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. fJAN. in your hands. I shall go out of town, you know, on the 30th. I feel that I shall be better away, and I am sick of all the noise, and glitter, and worldliness of London. You will come on the 12th? Not quite so soon as that, he said after a pause. But you will come? Yes; about the 20th. And, of course, I shall see you? Oh, yes. So that I may have some one to guide me that I can trust. I have no brother, Frank; do you ever think of that? She put out her hand to him, and he clasped it, and held it tight in his own; and then, after a while, he pulled her towards him. In a moment she was on the ground, kneeling at his feet, and his arm was round her shoulder, and his hand was on her back, and he was embracing her. Her face was turned up to him, and he pressed his lips upon her forehead. As my brother, she said, stretching back her head and looking up into his face. Yes; as your brother. Thcywere sitting, or rather acting their little play together, in the back drawing- room, and the ordinary entrance to the two rooms was from the landing-place into the larger apartment; of which fact Liz- zie was probably aware, when she per- mitted herself to fall into a position as to which a moment or two might be wanted for recovery. When, therefore, the ser- vant in livery opened the door, which he did as Frank thought somewhat sudden- ly, she was able to be standing on her legs before she was caught. The quickness with which she sprung from her position, and the facility with which she composed not her face only, hut the loose lock of her hair and all her person, for the reception of the coming visitor, was quite marvel- lous. About her there was noneof the look of having been fouz~d out, which is so very disagreeable to the wearer of it; whereas Prank, when Lord Fawn was announced, was aware that his manner was awkward, and his general appearance flurried. Liz- zie was no more flurried than if she had stepped that moment from out of the hands of her tire-woman. She greeted Lord Fawn very prettily, holding him by the hand long enough to show that she had more claim to do so than could any other woman, and then she just murmur- ed her cousins name. The tWo men shook hands, and looked at each other as men who know they are not friends, and think that they may live to be enemies. Lord Fawn, who rarely forgot anything, had certainly not forgotten the Sawab; and Frank was aware that he might soon be called on to address his lordship in any.. thing but friendly terms. They said, however, a few words about Parliament and the weather, and the desirability of escaping from London. Frank, said Lady Eustace, is com- ing down in August to shoot my three annual grouse at Portray. He would keep one for you, my lord, if he thought you would come for it. Ill promise Lord Fawn a fair third at any rate, said Frank. I cannot visit Portray this August, Im afraid, said his lordship, much as I might wish to do so. One of us must remain at the India Office Oh, that weary India Office! ex- claimed Lizzie. I almost think that you official men are worse off than we barristers, said Frank. Well, Lizzie, good-by. I dare say I shall see you again before you start. Of course you will, said Lizzie. And then the two lovers were left togeth- er. They had met once, at Lady Glenco- ras ball, since the quarrel at Fawn Court, and there, as though by mutual forbear- ance, had not alluded to their troubles. Now he had come especially to speak of the matter that concerned them both so deeply. As long as Frank Greystock was in the room his work was comparatively easy, but he had known beforehand that he would not find it all easy should he be left alone with her. Lizzie began. My lord, she ~aid~i considering all that has passed between us you have been a truant. Yes; I admit itbut-- With me, my lord, a fault admitted is a fault forgiven. Then she took her old seat on the sofa, and he placed himself on the chair which Frank Greystock had occupied. He had not intended to own a fault, and certainly not to accept forgive- ness; bnt she had been too quick for him; and now he could not find words by which to express himself. In truth, she con- tinued, I would always rather remember one kindness than a dozen omissions on the part of a friend. Lady Eostace, I have not willingly omitted anything. 1872.] THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 65 So be it. I will not give you the slightest excuse for saying that you have heard a reproach from me. You have come at last, and you are welcome. Is, that enough for you? He had much to say to her about the diamonds, and when he was entering tbQ room he had not a word to say to her about anything else. Since that another subject had sprung up before him. ~rhether he was or was not t~ regard himself as being at this moment engaged to marry Lady Eustace, was a matter to him of much doubt; but of this he was sure, that if she were engaged to him as his wife, she ought not to be entertaining her cousin Frank Greystock down at Por- tray Castle unless she had some old lady, not only respectable in life but high in rank also, to see that everything was right. It was almost an insult to him that such a visit should have been ar- ranged without his sanction or cognizance. Of course, if he were bound by noengage mentand he had been persuaded by his wife and sister to wish that he were not boundthen the matter would be no af- fair of his. If, however, the diamonds were abandoned, then the engagement was to be continued; and in that case it was out of the question that his elected bride should entertain another young man, even though she was a widow and the young man was her cousin. Of course he should have spoken of the diamonds first; but the other matter had obtruded itself upon him, and he was puzzled. Is Mr. Grey- stock to accompany you into Scotland? he asked. Oh dear, no. I go on the 30th of this month. I hardly know when he means to be there. He follows you to Portray ? Yes; he follows me of course. The king himself has followed her, when she has gone before. Lord Fawn did not remember the quotation, and was more puzzled than ever. Frank will follow me, just as the other shooting men will follow me. He goes direct to Portray Castle? Neither directly nor indirectly. Just at present, Lord Fawn, I am in no mood to entertain guestsnot even one that I love so well as my cousin Frank. The Portray mountains are somewhat exten- sive, and at the back of them there is a little shooting-lodge. Oh, indeed, said Lord ~awn, feeling that he had better dash at once at the dia- monds. If you, my lord, could manage to join us for a day, my cousin and his friend would, I am sure, come over to tbe castle, so that you should not suffer from being left alone with me and Miss Macnulty. At present it is impossible, said Lord Fawn; and then he paused. Lady Eustace, the position in which you and I stand to each other is one not altogether free from trouble. ~ You cannot say that it is of my mak- ing, she said with a smile. You once askedwhat men think a favor from me~-.~ and I granted it, perhaps too easily. I know how greatly I am indebted to your goodness, Lady Eustace And then again he paused. Lord Fawn! I trust you will believe that nothing can be further from me than that you should be harassed by any conduct of mine. I am harassed, my lord. And so am I. I have learned that you are in possession of certain jewels which I cannot allow to be held by my wife. Jam notyour wife, Lord Fawn. As she said this she rose from her reclining posture and sat erect. That is true. You are not. But yoti said you would be. Go on, sir. It was the pride of my life to think that I had attained to so much happiness. Then came this matter of the diamonds. What business have you with my dia- monds more than any other man? Simply that I am told that they are not yours. ~ Who tells you so? Various people. Mr. Camperdown. If you, my lord, intend to take an attorneys word against mine, and that on a matter as to which no one but myself can know the truth, then you are not fit to be my husband. The diamonds are my own, and should you and I become man and wife, they must remain so by special settlement. While I choose to keep them they will be mine, to do with them as I please. It will be my pleasure, when my boy marries, to hang them round his brides neck. She carried herself well, and spoke her words with dignity. 66 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. [JM~. What I have got to say is this, began Lord Fawn. I must consider our en- gagement as at an end unless you will give them up to Mr. Camperdown. I will not give them up to Mr. Cam-. perdown. Thenthenthen And I make bold to tell you, Lord Fawn, that you are not behaving to me like a man of honor. I shall now leave the matter in the hands of my cousin, Mr. Greystock. Then she sailed out of the room, and Lord Fawn was driven to es- cape from the house as he might. He stood about the room for five minutes with his hat in his hand, and then walked down and let himself out of the front door. CHAPTER XX. THE DIAMONDS BECOME TROUBLESOME. THE 30th of July came round, and Liz- zie was prepared for her journey down to Scotland. She was to be accompanied by Miss Macnulty and her own maid and her own servants, and to travel of course like a grand lady. She had not seen Lord Fawn since the meeting recorded in the last chapter, but had seen her cousin Frank nearly every other day. He, after much consideratioR, had written a long letter to Lord Fawn, in which he had given that nobleman to understand that some explanation was required as to con- duct which Frank described as being to him at present unintelligible. He then went at considerable length into the matter of the diamonds, with the object of proving that Lord Fawn could have no possible right to interfere in the matter. And though he had from the first wished that Lizzie would give up the trinket, he made various points in her favor. Not only had they been given to his cousin by her late husband; but even had they not been so given, they would have been hers by will. Sir Florian had left her every- thing that was within the walls of Por- tray Castle, and the diamonds had been at Portray at the time of Sir Florians death. Such was Franks statementuntrue in- deed, but believed by him to be true. This was one of Lizzies lies, forged as soon as she understood that some subsid- iary claim might be made upon them on the ground that they formed a portion of property left by will away from her; some claim subsidiary to the grand claim, that the necklace was a family heirloom. Lord Fawn was not in the least shaken in his conviction that Lizzie had behaved, and was behaving, badly, and that, therefore, he had better get rid of her; but he knew that he must be very wary in the reasons he would give for jilting her. He wrote, therefore, a very short note to Greystock, promising that any explanation needed should be given as soon as circumstances should admit of his forming a decision. In the mean time the 30th of July came, and Lady Eustace was ready for her jour- ney. There is, or there was, a train leaving London for Carlisle at eleven A. H., by which Lizzie purposed to travel, so that she might sleep in that city and go on through Dumfries to Portray the next morning. This was her scheme; but there was another part of her scheme as to which she had felt much doubt. Should she leave the diamonds, or should she take them with her? The iron box in which they were kept was small, and so far portable that a strong man might carry it without much trouble. Indeed, Lizzie could move it from one part of the room to the other, and she had often done so. But it was so heavy that it could not he t~sken with her without attracting at- tention. The servant would know what it was, and the porter would know, and Miss Macnulty would know. That her own maid should know was a matter of course; but even to her own maid the journey of the jewels would be remark- able because of the weight of the box, whereas if they went with her other jewels in her dressing-case, there would be noth- ing remarkable. She might even have taken them in her pocket, had she dared. But she did not dare. Though she was intelligent and courageous, she was wm- derfully ignorant as to what might and what might not be done for the recovery of the necklace by Mr. Camperdown. She did not dare to take them without the iron box, and at last she decided that the box should go. At a little after ten, her own carriagethe job-carriage, which was now about to perform its last journey in her servicewas at the door, and a cab was there for the servants. The lug~age was brought down, and with the larger boxes was brought the iron case with the necklace. The servamt, certainly making 1872.] THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 67 more of the weight than he need have done, deposited it as a foot-stool for Liz- zie, who then seated herself, and was fol- lowed by Miss Macnulty. She would have it placed in the same way beneath her feet in the railway carriage, and again brought into her room at the Carlisle Hotel. What though the porter did kaow! There was nothing illegal in travelling about with a heavy iron box full of diamonds, and the risk would be less this way, she thought, than were she to leave them behind her in London. The house in Mount street, which she had taken for the season, was to be given up; and whom could she trust in London? Her very bankers, she feared, would have betrayed her, and given up her treasure to Mr. Camperdown. As for Messrs. Harter & Benjamin, she felt sure that they would be bribed by Mr. Camperdown. She once thought of asking her cousin to take the charge of them, but she could not bring herself to let them out of her own hands. Ten thousand pounds! If she could only sell them and get the money, from what a world of trouble would she be relieved. And the sale, for another reason, would have been con- venient; for Lady Eustace was already a little in debt. But she could not sell them, and therefore when she got into the carriage there was the box under her feet. At that very moment who should ap- pear on the pavement, standing between the carriage and the hoi~e-door, but Mr. Camperdown? And with Mr. Camper- down there was another mana very sus- picious-looking man, whom Lizzie at once took to be a detective officer of police. Lady Eustace! said Mr. Camperdown, taking off his hat. Lizzie bowed across Miss Macnulty, and endeavored to restrain the tell-tale blood from flying to her cheeks. I believe, said Mr. Camper- down, that you are now starting for Scotland. We are, Mr. Camperdown; and we are very late. Could you allow me two minutes con- versation with you in the house?~ Oh dear, no. We are late, I tell you. What a time you have chosen for coming, Mr. Camperdown! It is an awkward hour, Lady Eustace. I only heard this morning that you were going so scon, and it is imperative that I should see you. Ila.d you not better write, Mr. Cam perdown? You will never answer my letters, Madame. III really cannot see you now. William, the coachman must drive on. We cannot allow ourselves to lose the train. I am really very sorry, Mr. Cam- perdown, but we must not lose the train. Lady Eustace, said Mr. ~Damper- down, putting his hand on the carriage- door, and so demeaning himself that the coachman did not dare to drive on, I must ask you a question. He spoke in a low voice, but he was speaking across Miss Macnulty. That lady, therefore, heard him, and so did William, the ser- vant, who was standing close to the door. ~ I must insist on knowing where are the Eustace diamonds. Lizzie felt the box beneath her feet, and, without showing that she did so, somewhat widened her drapery. I can tell you nothing now. William, make the coachman drive on.,~ If you will not answer me, I must tell you that I shall be driven in the exe- cution of my duty to obtain a search-war- rant, in order that they may be placed in proper custody. They are not your prop- erty, and must be taken out of your hands. Lizzie icoked at the suspicious man with a frightened gaze. The suspicious man was, in fact, a very respectable clerk in Mr. Camperdowns employment, but Lizzie for a moment felt that the search was about to begin at once. She had hardly understood the threat, and thought that the attorney was already armed with the powers of which he spoke. She glanced for a moment at Miss Macnulty, and then at the servant. Would they be- tray her? If they chose to use force to her, the box certainly might be taken from her. I know I shall lose the train, she said. I know I shall. I must in- sist that you let my servant drive on. There was now a little crowd of a dozen persons on the pavement, and there was nothing to cover her diamonds but the skirt of her travelling-dress. Are they in this house, Lady Bus- tace? Why doesnt he go on? shouted Liz- zie. You have no right, sir, to stop me. I wont be stopped. Or have you got them with you? 68 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. [JAN. I shall answer no questions. You with the box. The footman struggled have no right to treat me in this way. with it into the waiting-room, and the Then I shall be forced, on behalf of porter struggled with it from the waiting- the family, to obtain a search-warrant, room to the carriage. Lizzie could not both here and in Ayrshire, and proceed- but look at the porter as he carried it, and ings will be taken also against your lady- she felt sure that the man had been told ship personally. So saying, Mr. Cam- of its contents and was struggling with the perdown withdrew, and at last the car- express view of adding to her annoyance. riage was driven on. The same thing happened at Carlisle, As it happened, there was time enough where the box was carried up into Lizzies for catching the train, and to spare. The bedroom by the footman, and where she whole affair in Mount street. had taken was convinced that her treasure had be- less than ten minutes. But the effect come the subject of conversation for the upon Lizzie was very severe. For a while whole house. hi the morning people she could not speak, and at last she burst looked at her as she walked down the long oat into hysteric tearsnot a sham fit, platform with the box still struggling be~ but a true convulsive agony of sobbing. fore her. She almost wished that she All the world of Mount street, including had undertaken its carriage herself, as her own servants, had heard the accusa- she thou~,ht that even she could have man- tion against her. During the whole morn- aged with less outward show of effort. ing she had been wishiug that she had Her own servants seemed to be in league never seen the diamonds; but now it was against her, and Miss Macnulty had never almost impossible that she should part before been so generally unpleasant. Poor with them. And yet they were like a Miss Macnulty, who had a conscientious load upon her chest, a load as heavy as idea of doing her duty, and who always though she was compelled to sit with the attempted to give an adequate return for iron box on her lap day and night. In the bread she ate, could not so far over- her sobbing she felt the thing under her come the effect cf Mr. Camperdown s feet and knew that she could not get rid visit as to speak on any subject without of it. She hated the box, and yet she being stiff and hard. And she suffered, must cling to it now. She was thorough- too, from the box, to such a degree that ly ashamed of the box, and yet she must she turned over in her mind the thought seem to take a pride in it. She was hor- of leaving Lizzie if any other possible ribly afraid of the box, and yet she must home might be found for her. Who keep it in her own very bedroom. And would willingly live with a woman who what should she say about the bo~ now always travelled about with a diamond to Miss Macnulty, who sat by her side, necklace worth ten thousand pounds, lock- stiff and scornful, offering her smelling- ed up in an iron safeand thnt necklace bottles, but not offering her sympathy? not her own property? My dear, she said at last, that hor- But at last Lady Eustace, and Miss rid man has quite upset me. Nacnulty, and the servantsand the iron I dont wonder that you should be boxreached Portray Castle in safety. upset, said Miss Macruilty. And so unjust, tooso falsesoso so They are my own as much as CHAPTER xxi. that umbrella is yours, Miss Macnulty. , I dont know, said Miss Macnulty. IANTHB 5 SOUL. But I tell you, said Lizzie. LADY EUSTACE had been rather cross on What I mean is, that it is such a pity the journey down to Scotland, and had al- there should be a doubt. most driven the unfortunate Macnulty to There is no doubt, said Linzie; how think that Lady Linlithgow or the work- dare you say there is a doubt? My cou- house would be better than this young ty- sin, Mr. Greystock, says that there is not rant; but on her arrival at her own house the slightest doubt. He is a barrister, she was for a while all smiles and kind- and must know better than an attorney ness. During the journey she had been like that Mr. Camperdown. By this angry without thought, but was almost time they were at the Euston Square sta- entitled to he excused for her anger. tion, and then there was more trouble Could Miss Macnulty have realized the 1872.] THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 69 amount of oppression inflicted on her pa- troness by the box of diamonds, she would have forgiven anything. Hitherto there had been some secrecy, or at any rate some privacy, attached to the matter; but now that odious lawyer had discussed the matter aloud, in the very streets, in the presence of servants, and Lady Eustace had felt that it was discussed also by every porter on the railway from London down to Troon, the station in Scotland at which her own carriage met her to take her to her own castle. The night at Carlisle had been terrible to her, and the diamonds had never been for a moment off her mind. Perhaps the worst of it all was that her own man-servant and maid-servant had heard the claim which had been so vio- lently made by Mr. Camperdown. There are people in that respect very fortunately circumstanced, whose servants, as a mat- ter of course, know all their affairs, have an interest in their concerns, sympathize with their demands, feel their wants, and are absolutely at one with them. But in such cases the servants are really known, and are almost as completely a part of the family as the sons and daughters. There may be disruptions and quarrels; causes may arise for ending the existing condition of things; but while this condition lasts the servants in such households are for the most part only too well inclined to fight the battles of their employers. Mr. Biuns, the butler, would almost foam at the mouth if it were suggested to him that the plate at Silvercup Hall was not the undoubted property of the old squire; and Mrs. Pouncebox could not he made to believe, by any amount of human evi- dence, that the jewels which her lady has worn for the last fifteen years are not her ladyships very own. Bians would fight for the plate, and so would Pouncebox for the jewels, almost till they were cut to pieces. The preservation of these treas- ures on behalf of those who paid them their wages and fed them, who occasion- ally ~scolded them, but always succored them, would be their point of honor. No torture would get the key of the cellar. from Binas; no threats extract from Pouncebox a secret of the toilet. But poor Lizzie Eustace had no Bians and no Pouncebox. They are plants that grow slowly. There was still too much of the mushroom about Lady Enstace to permit of her possc~sing such treasures. Her footman was six feet high, was not bad- looking, and was called Thomas. She knew no more about him, and was far too wise to expect sympathy from him, or other aid than the work for which she paid him. Her own maid was somewhat nearer to her; but not much nearer. The girls name was Patience Crabstick, and she could do hair well. Lizzie knew but little more of her than that. Lizzie considered herself to be still en- gaged to be married to Lord Fawn, but there was no sympathy to be had in that quarter. Frank Greystock might be in- duced to sympathize with her, but hardly after the fashion which Lizeie desired. And then sympathy in that direction Would be so dangerous should she decide upon going on with the Fawn marriage. For the present she had quarrelled with Lord Fawn; but the very bitterness of that quarrel, and the decision with which her betrothed had declared his intention of breaking off the match, made her the more resolute that she would marry him. During her journey to Portray she had again determined that he should be her husband; and, if so, advanced sympathy sympathy that would be pleasantly ten- der with her cousin Frankwould be dan- gerous. She would be quite willing to accept even Miss Macnultys sympathy if that humble lady would give it to her of the kind she wanted. She declared to herself that she could pour herself out on Miss Macnultys bosom, and mingle her tears even with Miss Macnultys if o.iiy Miss Macnulty would believe in her. if Miss Macnulty would be enthusiastic about the jewels, enthusiastic as to the wickedness of Lord Fawn, enthusiastic in praising Lizzie herself, Lizzieso she told herselfwould have showered all the sweets of female friendship even on Miss Macnultys head. But Miss Macnulty was as hard as a deal board. She did as she was bidden, thereby earning ber bread. But there was no tenderness in her; no delicacy; no feeling; no coinpre- hension. It was thus that Lady Eustace judged her humble companion; and in one respect she judged her ri~htly. ~ iss Macnulty did not believe in Lady Eustace, and was not sufficiently gifted to act up to a belief which she did not entertain. Poor Lizzie The world, in judging of people who are iiilse, and bad, and self- ish, and prosperous to outward appear~ 1() THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. [JAN. ances, is apt to be hard upon them, and to forget the punishments which generally accompany such faults. Lizzie Eustace was very false, and bad, and selfish, and, we may say, very prosperous also; but in the midst of all she was thoroughly un- comfortable. She was never at ease. There was no green spot in her life with which she could be contented. And though, after a fashion, she knew herself to be false and bad, she was thoroughly convinced that she was ill-used by every- body about her. She was being very bad- ly treated by Lord Fawn; but she flat- tered herself that she would be able to make Lord Fawn know more of her char- acter before she had done with him. Portray Castle was really a castle, not simply a country mansion so called, but a stone edifice with battlements and a round tower at one corner, and a gate which looked as if it might have had a portcullis, and narrow windows in a portion of it, and a cannon mounted upon a low roof, and an excavation called the moat, but which was now a fantastic and somewhat picturescjue garden, running round two sides of it. In very truth, though a por- tion of the castle was undoubtedly old and had been built when strength was needed for defence and probably for the custody of booty, the battlements, and the round tower, and the awe-inspiring gateway had all been added by one of the late Sir Flo- rians. But the castle looked like a cas- tle, and was interesting. As a house it was not particularly eligible, the castle form of domestic architecture being exi- gent in its nature, and demanding that space, which in less ambitious houses can be applied to comfort, shall be surren- dered to magnificence. There was a great ball, and a fine dining-room, with plate- glass windows looking out upon the sea; but the other sitting-rooms were insignifi- cant, and the bedrooms were here and there, and were for the most part small and dark. That, however, which Lizzie had approprmM3ed to her own use was a grand chamber, looking also out upon the open sea. The castle stood upon a bluff of land, with a fine prospect of the Firth of Clyde, and with a distant view of the Isle of Arran. When the air was clear, as it often is clear there, the Arran hills could be seen from Lizzies window, and she was proud of talking of the prospect. In other respects, perhaps, the castle was somewhat desolate. There were a few stunted trees around it, but timber had not prospered there. There was a grand kitchen garden, or rather a kitchen gar- den which had been intended to be grand; but since Lizzies reign had been coIn- menced, the grandeur had been neglected. Grand kitchen gardens are expensive, and Lizzie had at once. bcen firm in reducing the under-gardeners from five men to one and a boy. The head gardener had of course left her at once; but that had not broken her heart, and she had hired a modest man at a guinea a week instead of a scientific artist, who was by no means modest, with a hundred and twenty pounds a year, and coals, house, milk, and all other horticultural luxuries. Though Liz- zie was prosperous and had a fine income, she was already aware that she could not keep up a town and country establishment and be a rich woman on four thousand a year. There was a flower garden and small shrubbery within the so-called moat; but, otherwise, the grounds of Portray Castle were not alluring. The place was sombre,exposed, and in winter very cold; and except that the expanse of sea beneath the hill on which stood the castle was fine and open, it had no great claim to praise on the score of scenery. Behind the castle, and away from the sea, the low mountains belongin~, to the estate stretched for some eight or ten miles; and toward the further end of them, where stood a shooting-lodge, called always The Cottage, the landscape became rough and grand. It was in this cottage that Frank (ireystock was to be sheltered with his friend, when he came down to shoot what Lady Eustace had called her three annual grouse. She ought to have been happy and com- fortable. There will, of course, be some to say that a young widow should not be happy and comfortablethat she should oe weeping her lost lord, and subject to the desolation of bereavement. But as the world goes now, young widows are not miserable; and there is, perhaps, a growing tendency in society to claim from them year by year still less of any misery that may be avoidable. Suttee propensi- ties of all sorts, from burning alive down to bombazine and hideous form s of cloth- ing, are becoming less and less popular among the nations, and womon are begin 1872.] TIlE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 71 fling to learn that, let what misfortunes will come upon them, it is well for them to be as happy as their nature will allow them to be. A woman may thoroughly respect her husband, and mourn him truly, honestly, with her whole heart, and yet enjoy thoroughly the good things which he has left behind for her use. It was not, at any rate, sorrow for the lost Sir Florian that made Lady Eustace uncom- fortable. She had her child. She had her income. She had her youth and beauty. She had Portray Castle. She had a new lover, and, if she chose to be quit of him, not liking him well enough for the purpose, she might undoubtedly have another whom she would like better. She had hitherto been thoroughly success- ful in her life. And yet she was unhappy. What was it that she wanted? She had been a very clever childa clever, crafty child; and now she was be- eoming a clever woman. Her craft re- mained with her; but so keen was her outlook upon the world, that she was be- ginning to perceive that craft, let it be never so crafty, will in the long run miss its own object. She actually envied the simplicity of Lucy Morris, for whom she delighted to find evil names, calling her demure, a prig, a sly puss, and so on. But she could seeor half seethat Lucy with her simplicity was stronger than was she with her craft. She had nearly capti- vated Frank Greystock with her wiles, but without any wiles Lucy had captivat- ed him altogether. And a man captivated by wiles was only captivated for a time, whereas a man won by simplicity would be won for everif he himself were worth the winning. And this too she feltthat let her success be what it might, she could not be happy unless she could win a mans heart. She had won Sir Florians, but that had been but for an hourfor a month or two. And then Sir Florian had never really won hers. Could not she be sim- ple? Could not she act simplicity so well that the thing acted should be as power- ful as the thing itself; perhaps even more powerful? Poor Lizzie Eustace! In thinking over all this she saw a great deal. It was wonderful that she should see so much and tell herself so many home truths. But there was one truth she could not see, and therefore could not tell it to herself She had not a heart to give. It had become petrified during those les- sons of early craft in which she had taught herself how to get the better of Messrs. Harter & Benjamin, of Sir Florian Eus- tace, of Lady Linlithgow, and of Mr. Camperdown. Her ladyship had now come down to her country house, leaving London and all its charms before the end of the season, actu- ated by various motives. In the first place, the house in Mount street was taken furnished, by the month, and the servants were hired after tl~ same fashion, and the horses jobbed. Lady Eustace was al- ready sufficiently intimate with her ac- counts to know that she would save two hundred pounds by not remaining another month or three weeks in London, and suf- ficiently observant of her own affairs to have perceived that such saving was need- ed. And then it appeared to her that her battle with Lord Fawn could be better fought from a distance than at close quar- ters. London, too, was becoming abso- lutely distasteful to her. [here werc many things there that tended to make her unhappy, and so few that she could enjoy. She was afraid of Mr. Camper- down, and ever on the rack lest some dreadful thing should come upon her in respect of the necklace, some horrible pa- per served upon her from a magistrate, ordering her appearance at Newgate, or perhaps before the Lord Chancellor, or a visit from policemen who would be em- powered to search fbr and carry off the iron box. And then there was so little in her London life to gratify her! It is pleasant to win in a fight; but to be al- ways fi~hting is not pleasant. Except in those moments, few and far between, in which she was alone with her cousin Frankand perhaps in those other mo- ments in which she wore her diamonds she had but little in London that she en- joyed. She still thought that a time would come when it would be otherwise. Under these influences she had actually made herself believe that she was sighing for the country, and for solitude; for the wide expanse of her own bright waves as she hsd called themand for the rocks of dear Portray. She had told Miss Mac- nulty and Augusta Fawn that she thirsted for the breezes of Ayrshire, so that she might return to her. books and her thoughts. Amid the whirl of London it was impossible either to read or to think. And she believed it too herself. She so believed it that on the first morning of her arrival she took a little volume in hei 72 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. [JA~N. pocket, containing Shelleys Queen was now manitest to her that unless she Mab, and essayed to go down upon the could get up much earlier in the morning, rocks. She had actually breakfasted at or come out to her reading after sunset, nine, and was out on the sloping grounds the knob of rock would not avail her. below the castle before ten, having made She began her reading, resolved that she some boast to Miss Macnulty about the would enjoy her poetry in spite of the morning air. narrow seat, She had often talked of She scrambled down, not very far down, Queen .Mab, and perhaps she thought but a little way beneath the garden gate, she had read it. This, however, was in to a spot on which a knob of rock cropped truth her first attempt at that work. out from the scanty herbage of the incipi- How wonderful is Death, Death and his ent cliff. Fifty yards lower the real rocks brother Sleep. Then she halfZclosed the began; and, though the real rocks were volume, and thought that she enjoyed the not very rocky, not precipitous or even idea. Deathand, his brother Sleep! bold, and were partially covered with salt- She did not know why they should be f~d mosses down almost to the sea, never- more wonderful than Action, or Life, or tneless they justified her in talking about Thought; but the words were of a nature her rock-bound shore. The shore was which would enable her to remember hers, for her life, and it was rock-bound, them, and they would be good for quoting. This knob she had espied from her win- Sudden arose Janthes soul; it stood all- dows; and, indeed, had been thinking of beautiful in naked purity. The name of it for the last week, as a place appropri- Janthe suited her exactly. And the an- ate to solitude and Shelley. She had tithesis conveyed to her mind by naked stood on it before, and had stretched her purity struck her strongly, and she de.~ arms with enthusiasm toward the just- termined to learn the passage by heart. visible mountains of Arran. On that oc- Eight or nine lines were printed separately,, casion the weather, perhaps, had been like a stanza, and the labor would not be cool; but now a blazing sun was over- great, aad the task, when done, would be head, and when she had been seated half complete. Instinct with inexpressibla a minute, and Queen Mab had been beauty and grace, Each stain ot earthliness withdrawn from her pocket, she found Had passed away, it reassumed Its nativa that it would not do. It would not do dignity, and stood Immortal amid ruin.~~ even with the canopy she could make for Which was instinct with beauty, the stain herself with her parasol. So she stood up or the soul, she did not stop to inquire, arid looked about herself for shade; fbr and may be excused for not understanding. shade in some spot in which she could still Ah, she exclaimed to herself, how look out upon her dear wide ocean with true it is; how one feels. it; how it comes its glittering smile. F or it was thus home to one ! Sudden arose Janthes that she would talk about the mouth o~ soul. And then she walked about tbe the Clyde. Shelter near her there was garden, repeating the words to herself, none. The scrubby trees lay nearly half and almost forgetting the heat. Each a niile to the right, and up the hill too. stain of earthliness had passed away. She had once clambered down to the actual Ha; yes. They will pass away and be- shore, and might do so again. But she come instinct with beauty and grace. A doubted that there would be shelter even dim idea came upon her that when .this there; and the clambering up on that for- happy time should arrive, no one w9uld mar occasion had been a nuisance, and claim her necklace from. her, and that would be a worse nuisance now. Think- the man at the stables would not be so ing of all this, and feeling the sun keenly, disagreeably punctual in sending in his she gradually retraced her steps to the bill. All beautiful in naked purity! garden within the moat, and seated her- What a tawdry world was this in which self, Shelley in hand, within the summer- clothes and food and houses are necessary! house. The bench was narrow, hard, and How perfectly that boy poet had under- broken; and there were some snails stood it all. Immortal amid ruin! which discomposed her; but, neverthe- She liked the idea of the ruin almost as. less, she would make the best of it. Her well as that of the immortality, and the darling Queen ~Iab must be read with- stains quite as well as the purity. As out the coarse, inappropriate, every-day immortality must come, and as stains surroendings of a drawing-room; and it were instinct with grace. why be. afraid 1872.1 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 73 of ruin? But then, if people go wrong at least womenthey are not asked out anywhere! Sudden arose Lanthes soul it stood all beautiful. And so the piece was learned, and Lizzie felt that she had devoted her hour to poetry in a quite rapturous manner. At any rate she had a bit to quote; and though in truth she did not understand the exact bearing of the image, she had so studied her gestures and so modulated her voice, that she knew that she could be effective. She did not then care to carry her reading further, but returned with the volume into the house. Though the passage about Ianthes soul comes very early in the work, she was now quite familiar with the poem, and when in after days she spoke of it as a thing of beauty that she had made her own by long study, she ac- tually did not know that she was lying. As she grew older, however, she quickly became wiser, and was aware that in learning one passage of a poem it is expe- dient to select one in the middle or at the end. The world is so cruelly observant nowadays that even men and women who have not themselves read their Queen Mab will know from what part of the poem a morsel is extracted, and will not give you credit for a page beyond that from which your passage comes. After lunch Lizzie invited Miss Macnul- ty to sit at the open window of the draw- ing-room and lcok out upon the glitter- ing waves. In giving Miss Macnulty her due we must acknowledge that, though she owned no actual cleverness herself, had no cultivated tastes, read but little, and that little of a colorless kind, and thought nothing of her hours but that she might get rid of them and live, yet she had a certain power of insight, and could see a thing. Lizzie Eustace was utterly powerless to impose upon her. Such as Lizzie was, Miss Macnulty was willing to put up with her and accept her bread. The people whom she had known had been either worthlessas had been her own father, or cruellike Lady Linlith- gow, or falseas was Lady Eustace. Miss Macnulty knew that worthlessness, cruel- ty, ~tnd falseness had to be endured by such as she. And she could bear them without earing much about them; not condemning them, even within her own heart, very heavily. But she was strange- ly deficient in this, that she could not call these qualities by other names, even to the owners of them. She was unable to pre- tend to believe Lizzies rhapsodies. It was hardly conscience or a grand spirit of truth that actuated her, as much as a want of the courage needed for lying, She had not had the face to call old Lady Linlithgow kind, and therefore old Lady Linlithgow had turned her. out of the house. When Lady Eustace called on her for sympathy, she had not courage enough to dare to attempt the bit of acting which would be necessary for sympathetic ex- pression. She was like a dog or a child, and was unable not to be true. Lizzie was longing fbr a little mock sympathy was longing to show oft~ her Shelley, and was very kind to Miss Macnulty when she got the poor lady into the recess of the window. This is nice; is it not? she said, as she spread her hand out through the open space toward the wide expanse of glittering waves. Very nice, only it glares so, said Miss Macnulty. Ah, I love the full warmth of the real summer. With me it always seems that the sun is needed to bring to true ripeness the fruit of the heart. Nevertheless she had been much troubled both by the heat and by the midges when she tried to sit on the stone. I always think of those few glorious days which I passed with my darling Florian at Naples; days too glo- rious because they were so few. Now Miss Macnulty knew some of the history of those days and of their glory, and knew also how the widow had borne her loss. I suppose the bay of Naples is fine, she said. It is not only the bay. There are scenes there which ravish you, only it is necessary that there should be some one with you that can understand you. Soul of lanthe! she said, meaning to apostrophize that of the deceased Sir Florian. You have read Queen Mab? I dont know that I ever did. If I have, I have forgotten it. Ah, you should read it. I know nothing in the English language that brings home to one so often ones own best feelings and aspirations. It stands all beautiful in naked purity, she con- tinued, still alluding to poor Sir Florians soul. Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, each stain of earthli- ness had passed away. I can see him now in all his manly beauty, as we used 974 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. EJAN. to sit together by the hour, looking over the waters. Oh, Julia, the thing itself ha8 gone, the earthly reality; but the memory of it will live forever. He was a very handsome man certain- ly, said Miss Macnulty, finding herself forced to say.something. I see him now, she went on, still gazing out upon the shining water. It reassumed its native dignity and stood primeval amid ruin. Is not that a glori- ous idea ,gloriously worded? She had forgotten one word and used a wrong epi- thet; but it sounded just as well. Pri- meval seemed to her to be a very poetical word. To tell the truth, said Miss Macnul- ty, I never understand poetry when it is quoted unless I happen to know the pas- sage beforehand. I think Ill go away from this, for the light is too much for my poor old eyes. Certainly Miss Macnulty had fallen into a profession for which she was not suited. CHAPTTER XXH. LADY EUSTACE PROCURES A PONY FOR THE USE OF HER COUSIN. LADY EUSTACE could make nothing of Miss Macnulty in the way of sympathy, and could not bear her disappointment with patience. It was hardly to be ex- pected that she should do so. She paid a great deal for Miss Macnulty. In a mo- ment of rash generosity, and at a time when she hardly knew what moneymeant, she had promised Miss Macnulty seventy pounds for the first year and seventy for the second, should the arrangement last longer than a twelvemonth. The second year had been now commenced, and Lady Eustace was beginning to think that sev- enty pounds was a great deal of money when so very little was given in return. Lady Linlithgow had paid her dependent no fixed salary. And then there was the ladys keep and first-class travelling when they went up and down to Scotland, and cab-fares in London when it was de- sirable that Miss Macnulty should absent herself. Lizzie, reckoning all up, and thinking that for so much her friend ought to be ready to discuss Lanthes soul, or ny other kindred subject, at a moments warning, would become angry and would tell herself that she was being swindled out of her money. She knew how neces sary it was that she should have some companion at the present emergency of her life, and therefore could not at once send Miss Macnulty away; but she would sometimes become very cross and would tell poor Macnulty that she wasa fool. Upon the whole, however, to be called a fool was less objectionable to Miss Mac- nulty than were demands for sympathy which she did not know how to give. Those ten first days of August went very slowly with Lady Eustace. Queen Mab got itself poked away, and was heard of no more. But there were other books. A huge box full of novels had come down, and Miss Macnulty was a great devourer of novels. If Lady Bus- tace would talk to her about the sorrows of the poorest heroine that ever saw her lover murdered before her eyes, and then come to life again with ten thousand pounds a year, for a period of three weeks or till another heroine, who had herself been murdered, obliterated ~he formei~ horrors from her plastic mindMiss Mac- nulty could discuss the catastrophe wj~h the keenest interest. And Lizzie, finding herself to be, as she told herself, unstrung, fell also into novel-reading. She had intended during this vacant time to master the Fairy Queen; but the Fairy Queen fared even worse than Queen Mab; and the studies of Por- tray Castle were confined to novels. For poor Mlacnulty, if she could only be left alone, this was well enough. To have her meals, and her daily walk, and her fill of novels, and to be left alone, was all that she asked of the gods. But it was not so with Lady Eustace. She asked much more than that, and was now thor- oughly discontented with her own idleness. She was sure that she could have read Spenser from sunrise to sundown, with no other break than an hour or two given to Shelley, if only there had been some one to sympathize with her in her readings. But there was no one, and she was very cross. Then there came a letter to her from her cousin, which for that morning brought some life back to the eastle. I have seen Lord Fawn, said the letter, and I have also seen Mr. Camperdown. As it would be very hard to explain what took place at these interviews by letter, and as 1 shall be at Portray Castle on the 20th, I will not make the attempt. We shall go down by the night train, and I will get over to you as soon as I have 1872.] THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 7,5 dressed and had my breakfast. I suppose I can find some kind of a pony for the journey. The we consists of myself and my friend Mr. Herriot, a man whom I think you will like, if you will conde- scend to see him, though he is a barrister like myself. You need express no imme- diate condescension in his favor, as I shall of course come over alone on Wednesday morning. Yours always affectionately, F. G. The letter she received on the Sunday morning, and as the Wednesday named for Franks coming was the next Wednes- day, and was close at hand, she was in rather a better humor than she had dis- played since the poets had failed her. What a blessing it will be, she said, to have somebody to speak to. This was not complimentary, but Miss Macnulty did not want compliments. Yes, indeed, she said. Of course you will he glad to see your cousin. I shall be glad to see anything in the shape of a man. I declare I have felt almost inclined to ask the minister from (Jraigie to elope with me. He has got seven children, said Miss Macnulty. Yes, poor man, and a wife, and not more than enough to live upon. I dare- say he would have come. By the by, I wonder whether theres a pony about the place. A pony! Miss Macnulty of course supposed that it was needed for the pur- pose of the suggested elopement. Yes; I suppose you know what a pony is? Of course there ought to be a shooting pony at the cottage for these men. My poor head has so many things to work upon that I had forgotten it; and youre never any good at thinking of things. I didnt know that gentlemen wanted ponies for shooting. I wonder what you do know? Of course there must be a pony. I suppose youll want two? No, I shant. You dont suppose that men always go riding about. But I want one. What had I better do? Miss Macnulty suggested that Gowran should be consulted. Now, (Jowran was the steward, and bailiff, and manager, and factotum about the place, who bought a cow or sold one if occasion required, and saw that nobody stole anything, and who knew the boundaries of the farms, and all about the tenants, and looked after t~ie pipes when frost came, and was an hon- est, domineering, hard-working, intelli- gent Scotchman, who had been brought up to love the Eustaces, and who hated his present mistress with all his heart. He did not leave her service, having an idea in his mind that it was now the great duty of his life to save Portray from her ravages. Lizzie fully returned the cim- pliment of the hatred, and was determined to rid herself of Andy Gowran s services as soon as possible. He had been called Andy by the late Sir Florian, and, though every one else about the place called him Mr. Gowran, Lady Eustace thought it became her, as the mans mistress, to treat him as he had been treated by the late master. So she called him Andy. But she was resolved to get rid of him, as soon as she should dare. There were things which it was essential that some- body about the place should know, and no one knew them but Mr. Gowran. Every servant in the castle might rob her, were it not for the protection afforded by Mr. Gowran. In that affair of the garden it was Mr. Gowran who had enabled her to conquer the horticultural Leviathan who had oppressed her, and who, in point of wages, had been a much bigger man than Mr. Gowran hiniself. She trusted Mr Gowran and hated him, whereas Mr. Gowran hated her, and did not trust her. I believe you think that nothing can be done at Portray except by that man, said Lady Eustace. hell know how much you ought to pay for the pony.~~ Yes, and get some brute not fit for my cousin to ride, on purpose, perhaps, to break his neck. Then I should ask Mr. Macallum, the postmaster of Troon, for I have seen three or four very quiet-looking ponies standing in the carts at his door. Macnulty, if there ever was an idiot you are one, said Lady Eustace, throw- ing up her hands. To think that I should get a pony for my cousin Frank out of one of the mail carts. I daresay I am an idiot, said Miss Macnulty, resuming her novel. Lady Eustace was, of course, obliged to have recourse to Gowran, to whom she applied on the Monday morning. Not even Lizzie Eustace, on behalf of her cousin Frank, would have dared to dis- turb Mr. Gowran with considerations re 76 THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. [JAl~. specting a pony on the Sabbath. On the Monday morning she found Mr. Gowran superintending four boys and three old women, who were making a bit of her ladyships hay on the ground nbove the castle. The ground about the castle was poor and exposed, and .her ladyships hay was apt to be late. Andy, she said, 1 shall want to get a pony for the gen- tleinen who are comin~, to the cottage. it must be there by Tuesday evening. A pownie, my leddie? Yes; a pony. I suppose a pony may be purchased in Ayrshire, though of all places in the world it seems to have the fewest of the comforts of life. Them as find it like that, my leddie, neednt bide there. Never mind. You will have the kind- ness to have a pony purchased and put into the stables of the cottage on T~ies- day afternoon. There are stables, no doubt. Oh, ay, theres shelter, nae doot, for mair pownies than theys ride. When the cottage was biggit, my leddie, there was nae cause for sparing nowt. Andy Gowran was continually throwing her comparative poverty in poor Lizzies teeth, and there was nothing he could do which displeased her more. And I neednt spare my cousin the use of a pony, she said grandiloquently, but feeling as she did so that she was ex- posing herself before the man. Youll have the goodness to procure one for him on Tuesday. But there aint aits nor yet fother, nor nowt for bedding down. And whas to tent the pownie? Thcres mair in ke~p- ing a pownie than your leddyship thinks. Itll be a matter of auchten and saxpence a week, will a pownie. Mr. Gowran, as he expressed his prudential scruples, put a very strong emphasis indeed on the sixpence. Very well. Let it be so. And therell be the beastie to buy, me leddie. Hell bea lump of money, my leddie. Pownies aint to be had for nowt in Ayrshire, as was ance, my leddie. Of course I must pay for him. Hell be a matter often pound, my leddie. Very well. Or may be twal; just as likely. And Mr. Gowran shook his head at his mistress in a most uncomfortable way. It was not strange that she should hate him. You must give the proper priceof course. There aint no proper prices for pow- nies-~as there is for jewJs and sich like. If this was intended fbr sarcasm upon Lady Bustace in regard to her diamonds, Mr. Gowran ought to have been dismissed on the spot. In such a case no English jury would have given him his current wages. And hell be to ~elJ .a~ain, my led- die? We shall see about that afterwards. Yell neverlet him eat his head olfthe~e a the winter! Hell be to sell. And the gentlesll ride him, may be, ance across the hillside, out and back. As to the grouse, they cant coteh them with the pownie, for there aint none to cotch. There had been two keepers on the mountainsmen who were paid five or six shillin~s a week to look after the game in addition to their other callings, and one of these had been sent away, actually in obedience to (low- rans advice; so that this blow was cruel and unmanly. He made it, too, as severe as he could by another shake of his head. Do you mean to tell me that my cou- sin cannot be supplled with an animal to ride upon? My leddie, Ive said nowt o the kind. There aint no useful animal e I kens the name and nature of as he cant have in Ayrshirefor paying for it, my leddie; horse, po~vnie, or ass, just whichever you please, my leddie. But therell be a sed- dIe Awh t? There can be no doubt that (iowran purposely slurred the word so that his mis- tress should not understand him. Sed- dIes dont come for now, my leddle, though it be Ayrshire. I dont understand what it is that you say, Andy. A seddle, my leddie, said he, shout- ing the word at her at the top of his v6ice and a briddle. 1 suppose as your leddyships cousin dont ride bare- back up in Lunnon? Of course there must be the necessary horse-furniture, said Lady Eustace, re- tiring to the castle. Andy (lowran had certainly ill-used her, and she swore that she would have revenge. Nor when she was informed on the Tuesday that an ade- quate pony had been hired for eighteen pence a day, saddle, bridle, broom, and all included, was her heart at all softened towards Mr. (lowran. MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES. NT0 partof the world astonishes the ~-LJN fresh traveller more than Northern Italy. Expecting to see the ruin, the inac- tion, the mendicity, so unfortunately asso- ciated with the beautiful, which has become our idea of this lovely land, we are aston- ished on entering Milan tofind a neat, pros- perous, and busy city, having every mark about it of energy and success. In fact there is almost an American air of thrift, which is excessively disappointing. For we were in love with antiquity, and we had seen enough of thrift at home. How- ever, the cathedral came, like a strain of music, to soothe our wounded sensibili- ties, and we began to rejoice, as good citi- Zeus of the world, that Milan offered such a contradiction to our cherished ideas. The railway station, to begin with, was a shock; it was as new, as commodious, as modern, as that at Springfield, Mas- sachusetts. But unlike that fine model, it was beautiful and painted with frescoes. I see before me now the lovely faces which the artist had given the heads of Coin- merce and Industry, and it is certainly agreeable to have such works of art to look at while you are waiting for the cars. The mind is aroused from that miserable torpor (not to mention less agreeable feelings) with which we gener- ally greet the passing moments in our own cells of railway torture. The next shock is the Hotel Cavour, a new and most luxurious house in a new square. We chose it from our reverence for Italys greatest modern statesman, and were rewarded by seeing in front of us a statue of the Brain of Italy, so taste- ful, so appropriate, that I desire to see it copied, with a difference, for Mr. Lincoln. Cavour, a short and rather stout man, carved in marble, standing on a pedestal, could be no particularly picturesque sight; but the delicate Italian fancy has placed at the foot of the pedestal a bronze figure of Italia, writing with a golden pen and in letters of gold the name Ca- your. This flash of color, of sentiment, and the beauty of the female fl~ure, -make this a group worthy of the man whom it honors. If beneath the strangely grotesque and infinitely dear figure of our martyr d President we could place a liberated slave, a figure of natural bronze, and if from the hand which writes the name of Lin- coln should fall the fragments of a broken chain, what better monument could we design for him? But we washed our hands of newness, by going immediately to see the fresco of the Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci. There, in a miserable apartment, show- ing the detestable desecration of a cavalry barrack, is all that is left of the most fh- mous picture in the world. Were we not so familiar with its outlines, they would be scarcely discernible. As it is, a certain majesty in the figure of Our Saviour, and the gentle sweetness of the attitude of the beloved disciple, are almost all that you can distinguish. By the aid of a gl ss and diligent comparison with the engravin~s and copies in the same room, you make out more and more of the faded outline. The brutal soldiery who were quartered here amused themselves by flr- ing their pieces at the picture, cracking the plastering, and otherwise defacing it; so it is a wonder that anything remains. Yet so wonderful is its merit that young artists are always at work copyin~ the noble lines, which neither time nor man can ruin. From this picture we went to the very heart of Milan, her noble cathedral. The world is flooded with pictures of this eighth wonder of the world, but not one of them gives an idea of its majesty, its rich, rare, unapproachable beauty. As it rises with its thousands of statues into the bluest sky, -it seems like one of those snow niountains you have just left behind you in the fastuesses of Switzerland. A giant of the north has strayed down to these sunny plains, and yields himself to the soft enchantment of the scene. So purely, perfectly white, so symme- trical, finished, vast, whether you gaze at it from far or near, it never loses, it always gains. You summon your whole strength and mount i s five hundred steps. After the first hundrud you are allowed to emerge on the roof of some chapel, and to survey 78 MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES. [JAN the statues. Even here you must look at them through a glass. Four of Canovas masterpieces are pointed out to you. One of them bears the Roman impress of the modern Cmsar, the first Napoleon. His were indeed imperial features, worthy of marble and of Canova. You go on, and on. After three hundred steps have been achieved, you are allowed another exit. IJere you are among the statues. A fro-. zen army, a procession of heroes, saints, apostles, martyrs, passes before you; every pinnacle of the elaborate Italian Gothic church is finished with a human form. The church of Marim Nascenti blossoms, as it should, with the hnman race, and far above you still stands in glorious majesty and clothed in brightest gold she who, first amon~ women, names this great church as her footstool; she, Mary, the mother of our Risen Lord! You go on ascending till one regiment after another of marble men are left be- neath you, till the great cathedral seems youronly world. Look where you will, blue sky and statues are all you see ; still higher, and the city of Milan lies at your feet, and beyond you the soft landscape, and in the far horizon, dimly visible, the superb outlines of Monte Rosa and the Alps. The interior of the cathedral is worthy of its exterior. Never have I seen such vistas, such surprises of color from the stained glass. Remain alone in it as long as you will; take walks to different chap- els; gaze upward at the cherub heads which seem to be lookin~. at you from heaven, gather all the delicious memo- ries from its long aisles and shady alcoves; kneel at its altars, whatever your faith, for the prayer of the humble heart will be none the less acceptable that it is winged with the twin delights of gratitude and surprise at all this majestic beauty. I saw afterward a grand ceremonial in this church. Except the music, it did not impress me; the silent service was far more impressive. The gray-haired soldier who knelt at that distant altar, the young girl with her roses who prayed as if it were a part of the music of life, the care- worn, heart-broken women, who came there to lay down their burdens for a mo- mentthese are the services which affected me, and which seemed a fitting tribute to Marite Nascentis Heaven-given Son. Here in this church I saw the relics of a great and good man, a saint for Pro- testants and for Catholics, one of the worlds heroesCarlo Borrorneo. This young prince, .rich and powerful, the nephew of a pope, the ai4stocratic and handsome descendant of a pleasure-loving flimily, took to himself the lesson the Saviour gave to the rich young man. In 1576, when the plague was devastutiug the earth, and the foar of contagion was such that no minister of God could be found to bury the dead, Carlo Borrumeo went forth barefooted, with his wooden crucifix, to work among these stricken creatures. Lie studied medicine that he might minister to them, and not only in his religious, but in his medical capacity, showed that heroism and devotion which was so rare in a superstitious and bigoted age. He had better fortune than most reformers, for his great family influence saved him from persecution, and he rose to be a cardinal. They show the rich gold and silver and jewelled tributes which were presented to him by the powerful peo- ple of his day; but to a man of his great soul, the tears and prayers of the lowly must have been infinitely more precious. Wri4e him as one who loved his fellow-men. On Isola Bella, the beautiful island, the Borromeos wear proudly on their feudal castle the motto of their great cardinal- uncle and chief, Humilitas. It is the purest pearl in their princely coro- net. The famous Ambrosian Library in Milan was founded by Archbishop Car- dinal Frederic Borromeo, another of this admirable family. The Brera, or Palace of Science and Arts, contains that famous statue of Na- poleon dressed as a Roman Emperor, with the little statue of Victory in his right hand, which has pointed a sentence for so many a budding rhetorician. It is by Canova, and very fine. Here, too, is a statue to a man who deserves a wider fame, the great jurist Beccaria, who first called in question the justice of capital punishment. The picture gallery is not as rich as those of Bologna or Florence, of course; still there are good pictures and admira- ble frescoes. Titians St. Jerome, and Guercinos Abraham and Hagar, and Guido Renis Peter and Paul, occur to me. In the church of Maria delle Grazie 1872.] MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES. 79 are some lovely pictures by Luini, an ar- tist seldom seen out of Italy, but worth going there to see. A sweetness and delicacy and religious sentiment make the works of this artist especially charming. Why are they so seldom engraved or copied? In the church of St. Ambrosio are some beautiful Luinis, particularly a fresco of his, preserved under glass. Here the Kings of Lombardy and the Emperors of Germany used to be crowned with the fa- ruous iron crown, made of nails of the true cross, now preserved, however, at Monza. In the tribune are mosaics of the ninth century, earlier, it is said, than those at Venice. After all, there is some antiquity left at Milan. The church of San Lorenzo is the oldest church in Milan, and considered of great interest to architects. it is an octagon, surmounted by a noble dome, and contains very ancient mosaics, not at all interest- lag, I fear. Milan has eigbty churches, and it would be a liberal education to see any one of them; but human strength gives out, and you visit the gay Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele, which is simply a splendid place to go shopping, to buy pretty jew- elry, to eat ices, and to see the life of the Milan of to-day. It is an immense structure, reaching from La Scala to the cathedral, a len,,th of 220 yards. It cost 320,000 English pounds, and it has a cu- pola 170 feet high. Lighted at evening by 2,000 jets of gas, it is the most bril- liant gay place imaginable. It is in fact a square of a busy city enclosed in masonry, where one cnn promenade at will. It has been built since the emancipation of Mi- lan from the Austrian yoke, and seems a fittin~ symbol of their joy at that event. It speaks vohimes for their enterprise and prosperity. La Scala was closed, to my infinite dis- appointment, for the glories of all the queens of song, past and present, seem to halo this famous opera house, and its size and beauty have passed into a pro- verb. The weary traveller is often sheep- ishly relieved when some fiimous ~,allery is inaccessible. He is glad that his tired back will be spared one more strain; but no such disloyal sentiment consoled me for the loss of La Scala. Like Tony Lump- kin, I could not abide to disappoint myself.~ I must not forget the Arco della Pace, that beautiful triumphal arch, built by Napoleon to finish the great Sim- plon route. It is a lofty gateway of white marble, with three openings for carriages. On top is the goddess of Peace in a chariot with six splendid bronze horses. At each corner stands a horseman ready, appar- ently, to scamper to the ends of the earth. It is a very spirited and noble group. The arch is enriched by statues and bas-re- lief~, and has been successively written over by inscriptions to Napoleon, the Em- peror Francis, and Victor Emmanuel, as the fickle star of fortune has risen or set on these monarchs. They make no more of erasing a marble inscription than we do of rubbing out the writing on a slate. It is a splendid terminus, as we should say, to the noble Simuplon road, and we are never tired of adding it to tne plea- sures of our coming drive. The Corso Vit- torio Emmanuele is a favorite prou~euade, and the vast empty field about the Arco della Pace affords an admirabl9 race- ground, where we saw the Italian horses run very respectably. They were not quite as handsome or as spirited as their bronze brothers on top of the arch, but that would be asking too much. Milan has had an eventful and an hon orable history. Great under the Romans, it has been repeatedly almost annihilated. Its struggles with the German emperors, and its utter destruction by Barbarossa, scarcely left it a name. Four Italian cities united to rebuild their favorite capital of Lombardy, and for four hundred years it was constantly growing richer and more industrious. It is one of the great silk manufactories of the world, that silk which Mantua after- wards fashioned so gracefully that the word mantun-maker belongs to all languages, as a generic term for those who are tailors for women. Milan fell into Spanish hands with the rest of Lombardy, and in 1714 became Austrian. The Cisalpine Republic made it its capital in 1796. The King- dom of Italy claimed it till 1815. In 1848 the hated Austrians were driven out, and now Milan, prosperous, happy, healthy, is the bright and beaming star of revivified Italy. From Milan to Sosto Calende is an easy railway trip, Lad a sail to Baveno 80 MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES. [JAN. takes you to the very spot where you can best see Lake Maggiore; but if you have come from Switzerland, you leave the Simplon Pass at Domo dOssola and drive over to this very spot, reserving Milan for a bonne bouche. There is only one disagreeable thing about the Italian lakes, and that is that you have to leave them. That is the place to live! that tranquillity, that noble view, that mixture of mountain and lake, that healthful perfect climate, the sense and sobriety of the whole thing, mark them the spot which sages and philosophers have celebrated as the proper garden of the human race. Why do we tempt the east winds of Boston, the dust and dirt of New York, the severe bowed shutters and white steps of Philadelphia, even the fogs of London or the frosts of Paris, when here is perfection? What does anybody ~vant better than that blue outline of mountains? what can compare for a house with these villas? I am sure children never have the scarlet fever or the mea- sles. Nobody ever has a sore throat or cough on Lake Maggiore. It is no won- der the Borromeos have been so good. It is the climate for virtue. They own all round the Lake Mag~iore; they ownthe fortunate family !Isola Bella, where the Olin fragrans blossoms all the year round, filling the air with happiness. One wishes, no matter how Anglo-Saxon his blood, to be in a perpetual state of apostrophe in this delicious place, where every prospect pleases, and man is not vile. They say the lake can get up a storm when it chooses. I saw a little blow myself, coming from Isola Ma- dre. But it is only your commonplace things which are perfect. I liked Mag- giore better for havin,, a temper of her own. It redeemed her from that only de- fect of perfect beauty, insipidity. We drive to Orta, twelve miles back. There is one of those singular things call- ed a religious mountain, or a Gal- vary. From one little expiatory chapel to another, you go on and upward, if you are a devout Catholic, saying your pray- ers in each. I am afraid I looked in only to wonder at, to laugh at, and to ad- mire certain figures in terra cotta, memo- riali~ing experiences in the history of St. Francis dAssisi, whose life had been an exciting one. Some of these fi~ ures were very well done, some ludicrous; but the little chapels, embowered in the trees, were altogether beautiful, till at last, foot. sore and weary, I reached the top of the hill, and saw beneath me Orta, a gem of a lake, with wooded mountains all about it, and an island on its bosom holding the queerest, most ancient church and convent in all Italy. When you hear those convent bells float upward through the oft, still air, you know why so many pieces of music have been written with the title. It is a composition which few men could improve in itself. The drive back from Orta to Maggiore is very characteristically Italian. You see the poorer kind of Italian villages, and those beautiful peasant women and chil- dren whom the old painters loved. The old woman driving oxen and spinning with her distaff at the same time, was so ludi- crously like one of the Three Fatal Sis- ters of Leonardo da Vinci, that we spoke of it simultaneously. Lu fiict every foot of Italy tells the story of the old painters. The distant line of the Apennines, when you first see it, gives you that blue-green distance we all know so well in Raphael, Leonardo, Guido, and Correggio. These Italian children have the same large eyes, curly hair, and intense physiognomy which seem like an artists dream to us. Their noble limbs, their glorious flesh, promise better things than they perform as a race, for the Italian men are small and often ignoble-looking. The drive from Maggiore to Lugano is exquisite, and Lugano is wildly, pictur- esquely beautiful. The mountains are higher, nearer, and more precipitous. The shores are splendidly fertile with vines and olive and walnut groves. Ths union is as close as can be desired between the savage and the civilized. Here at Luino we found that our friend Luini, painter, was simply the Bernardino of the books, a native of this place, surnam- ed Luini. Such are some of the pleasures (not sufficiently vaunted) of the ignorant. You are always finding out something new. How I pity those well-informed, stupid travellers who know everything be- fore they start. What can the world be to them but perpetual disappointment? Here in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli are some of the most beautiful frescoes of Luini, tender and religious soul that he was. 1872.] MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES. 81 The far-famed Lake of Como I thought less beautiful than the other three, per- haps because I expected more; but it is not as picturesque as Lugano, nor as beau- tifilly set as Maggiore With its islands, nor as quaint and sweet as Orta, a vio- let by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye.~~ Como, of course, is beautiful; all lakes are, particularly Italian lakes; and the Villa Carlotta on its banks is a delightful and much-to-be-coveted place of resi- dence. Yet nobody resides there; in fact, who resides anywhere in Europe in these beautiful places? They are all to be shown to visitors at one franc a head, and they are as empty of human life as was Dick Swivellers pocket of the needful. This beautiful Villa ~Carlotta belongs to the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, who has named it for his deceased wife, the Prin- cess Charlotte of Russia. It contains many choice marbles collect- ed by its former owner, Count Lomariva, whose name sounds as if he had just come out of the opera. Here is Thorwaldsens famous frieze representing the triumph of Alexander. here the most beautiful of all Canovas works, the Cupid and Psyche. These two lovely children, scarcely past the boy and girl age, in their immortal emrace, are the only inhabitants of the Villa Carlotta. Its delicious saloons, with windows opening to the ground, its deli- cate furniture, awaiting the soft pressure of muslins and silks, its noble works of art (including many portrait busts of the Bonaparte fitmily), its well-kept gardens, its long, shady walks, are deserted. A few old servants take care of it, and we learned that its proprietor had not seen it for five years. Its flowers are born to blush unseen save as the wandering tour- ist sees them, and in its elegant and aris- tocratic apartments Cupid and Psyche in marble, not in the flesh, reign alone. When I see such a house as this empty and forlorn, and think 9f the refined and msthetic souls who are pining in prisons of red brick, and whose eyes are tortured by the horrible architecture of a pros- perous town, I am pierced anew by the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Why should there not be a grand congress of nations, in which these matters can be arran~,ed? And why cannot we appeal to the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen and ask him to let his house, at a moderate income, to some deeply grateful and architecturally starved Americans? It was near Baveno, I think, that we saw great granite quarries, immense masses, with a beautiful pink tint, being taken out for a church in Rome. I tliounhl~ all the granite in the world was in New hampshire and at Quincy; but here, on these soft lakes, was the old familiar friend cropping out, having, however, this Italian trait about it: it was couleur de rose. They are wonderful places, these lakes. Some sensible American families were spending the summer at the well-kept hotels. They told me it was never too warm there, never disagreeable. Of course they afford no end of study and amusement to the traveller from their his- torical and local attractions. here in 1848 Garibaldi made one of his unsuccessful attempts. The patriotic landlady at Caden- nabbia remembered it well, and they all sympathized with him. On the shores of Como you are pointed out the villa of Taglioni the dancer, and of Pasta the sing- er, and one called La Pliniana, where Pliny is supposed to have lived. The rich Milanese aristocracy take their pleasure here, and the royalty of all nations own villas around the lake, but, so far as we could find out, nobody lived in any of them. The town, Como, at the end of the lake, is a most interesting place. The old cathedral, wonderfully rich in has-relief. Such a doorway! It is an imposing church (without being an imposition). It is entirely of marble, and, although the in- terior has been marred by restoration, is one of the grandly beautiful and curious of the lesser cathedrals of Europe. it contains an Adoration of the Magi, by Luini, and other good pictures. On the two sides of the entrance to the entrance stand statues of the older and the younger Pliny, put up in 1498. The Lake of Como looks on the map like a giant fighting. Lugano might be his long arm, Lake Lecco his left leg. We had crawled like mites down his right leg from Cadennabbia, ~nd now left him, casting manyregretful glances back on the bright waters and beautiful views, and the tranquil villas which adorn his banks. M. E. W. S. THE MARQUISE. THE Marquise de R. never said bril- liant things, although it is the rule in French literature that every old woman shall sparkle with wit. Her ignorance was extreme on all points which the con- tact of the world had not taught her, and she had none of that nicety of expression, that exquisite penetration, that marvel- lous tact, which belong, it is said, to wo- men who have seen all the different phases of life and of society; she was blunt, heedless, and sometimes even cynical. She put to flight every idea I had formed concerning the noble ladies of the olden time, yet she was a genuine marquise, and had seen the court of Louis XV. But as she was, even then, an exceptional charac- ter, do not seek in her history for a serious study of the manners of any epoch. So- ciety seems to me, at all times, so difficult either to know or to paint, that I prefer having nothing to do with it. I shall be satisfied with relating some of those per- sonal anecdotes which establish a sym- pathy between men of all societies and all times. I had never found much pleasure in the society of the lady. She seemed to me re- markable for nothing except her pro- digious memory of the events of her youth, and the masculine lucidity with which she expressed her recollections. For the rest, she was, like all aged persons, for- getful of recent events, and indifferent to everything in which she had no personal interest. Her beauty had not been of that pi- quant order, which, lacking splendor and regularity, cannot please in itself; a wo- man so made learns to be witty, in order to be as beautiful as those who are more so. The Marquise had had the misfortune to be unquestionably beautiful. I have seen her portrait, for, like all old women, she had the vanity to hang it up for ex- hibition in her apartment. She was represented in the character of a huntress nymph, with a low satin waist painted to imitate tiger-skin, sleeves of antique lace, a bow of sandal-wood, and a crescent of pearls lighting up her hair. It was an admirable painting, and, above all, an admirable woman, tall, slender, dark, with black eyes, austere and noble features, unsmiling deep-red lips, and hands which, it was said, had thrown the Princess of Lamballe into despair. With- out lace, satin, or powder, she might in- deed have seemed one of those fair and haughty nymphs who were fabled to ap- pear to mortals in the depths of the forest or upon the solitary mountain side, only to drive them mad with passion and re- gret. Nevertheless, the Marquise had made few conquests; according to hcr own ac- count, she had been thought dull and spiritless. The worn-out men of that time cared less for the charms of beauty than for the alluremnents of coquetry; women infinitely less admired than she had robbed her of all her adorers, and, strange enough, she had seemed indiffer- ent to her fate. The little she had told me of her life made me believe that her heart had had no youth, and that a cold selfishness had paralyzed all its faculties. Yet several sincere friends surrounded her old age, and she gave alms without os- tentation. One evening I found her even more com- municative than usual: there wa.s a good deal of sadness in her thoughts. My dear child, said she, the Vicomte de Larrieux has just died of the gout. It is a great grief to me, for I have been his friend these sixty years. And then, there is something fri~htful in so many deaths. His, however, was not surprising; he was so old. What was his age? asked I. Eighty-four years. I am eighty, but I am not as infirm as he was, and I can hope to live longer. Nimporte! Several of my friends have gone this year, and although I tell myself that I am younger and stronger than any of them, I cannot help being frightened when I see my contemporaries sinking around me. And these, said I, are the only regrets you feel for poor Larrieux, a nian who worshipped you for sixty years, who never ceased to complain of your cruelty and yet never revolted from his allegiance

THE MARQUISE. THE Marquise de R. never said bril- liant things, although it is the rule in French literature that every old woman shall sparkle with wit. Her ignorance was extreme on all points which the con- tact of the world had not taught her, and she had none of that nicety of expression, that exquisite penetration, that marvel- lous tact, which belong, it is said, to wo- men who have seen all the different phases of life and of society; she was blunt, heedless, and sometimes even cynical. She put to flight every idea I had formed concerning the noble ladies of the olden time, yet she was a genuine marquise, and had seen the court of Louis XV. But as she was, even then, an exceptional charac- ter, do not seek in her history for a serious study of the manners of any epoch. So- ciety seems to me, at all times, so difficult either to know or to paint, that I prefer having nothing to do with it. I shall be satisfied with relating some of those per- sonal anecdotes which establish a sym- pathy between men of all societies and all times. I had never found much pleasure in the society of the lady. She seemed to me re- markable for nothing except her pro- digious memory of the events of her youth, and the masculine lucidity with which she expressed her recollections. For the rest, she was, like all aged persons, for- getful of recent events, and indifferent to everything in which she had no personal interest. Her beauty had not been of that pi- quant order, which, lacking splendor and regularity, cannot please in itself; a wo- man so made learns to be witty, in order to be as beautiful as those who are more so. The Marquise had had the misfortune to be unquestionably beautiful. I have seen her portrait, for, like all old women, she had the vanity to hang it up for ex- hibition in her apartment. She was represented in the character of a huntress nymph, with a low satin waist painted to imitate tiger-skin, sleeves of antique lace, a bow of sandal-wood, and a crescent of pearls lighting up her hair. It was an admirable painting, and, above all, an admirable woman, tall, slender, dark, with black eyes, austere and noble features, unsmiling deep-red lips, and hands which, it was said, had thrown the Princess of Lamballe into despair. With- out lace, satin, or powder, she might in- deed have seemed one of those fair and haughty nymphs who were fabled to ap- pear to mortals in the depths of the forest or upon the solitary mountain side, only to drive them mad with passion and re- gret. Nevertheless, the Marquise had made few conquests; according to hcr own ac- count, she had been thought dull and spiritless. The worn-out men of that time cared less for the charms of beauty than for the alluremnents of coquetry; women infinitely less admired than she had robbed her of all her adorers, and, strange enough, she had seemed indiffer- ent to her fate. The little she had told me of her life made me believe that her heart had had no youth, and that a cold selfishness had paralyzed all its faculties. Yet several sincere friends surrounded her old age, and she gave alms without os- tentation. One evening I found her even more com- municative than usual: there wa.s a good deal of sadness in her thoughts. My dear child, said she, the Vicomte de Larrieux has just died of the gout. It is a great grief to me, for I have been his friend these sixty years. And then, there is something fri~htful in so many deaths. His, however, was not surprising; he was so old. What was his age? asked I. Eighty-four years. I am eighty, but I am not as infirm as he was, and I can hope to live longer. Nimporte! Several of my friends have gone this year, and although I tell myself that I am younger and stronger than any of them, I cannot help being frightened when I see my contemporaries sinking around me. And these, said I, are the only regrets you feel for poor Larrieux, a nian who worshipped you for sixty years, who never ceased to complain of your cruelty and yet never revolted from his allegiance 1872.] THE MARQUISE. 83 He was a model lover; there are no more they had learned, and, without taking such men. any account of the doubts and anguish of My dear child, answered the Mar- my heart, boldly declared that I despised quise, I see that you think me a cold all men. There is nothing which men and heartless woman. Perhaps you are will not more readily pardon than this right; judge for yourself. I will tell you feeling; my lovers soon learned to detest my whole history, and whatever opinion me, and continued their flatteries only in you may have of me, I, at least, shall not the hope of finding an opportunity to hold die without having made myself known me up to ridicule. I saw mockery and to some one. Perhaps you will give me treachery written upon every forehead, some mark of compassion which will and my misanthropy increased every day. soften the bitterness of my recollections. About this time there came to Paris When I ~as sixteen I left Saint-Cyr, from the provinces a man who had neither where 1 had been educated, to marry the talent nor any strong or pleasing quality, Marquis de H. He was fifty, but I dared but who possessed a frankness and upright- not complain, for every one congratulated ness of feeling very rare among the peo- me on this splendid match, and all my pIe with whom I lived. This was the portionless companions envied my lot. Vicomte de Larrieux. He was soon ac- I was never very bright, and at that knowledged to be my most favored suitor. time I was positively stupid; the educa- lie, poor fellow, loved me in the sin- tion of the cloister had completely be- cerity of his soul. His soul! Had he. a numbed my faculties. I left the convent soul? lie was one of those cold prosaic with that silly ignorance of life and of men who have not even the elegance of the world which is foolishly considered a vice or the brilliance of falsehood. lie merit in young girls, and which often was struck only by my beauty, and took results in the misery of their whole lives, no pains to discover my heart. This was As a natural consequence, the experi- not disdain on his part, it was incapacity. ence brought me by my brief married life Had he found in me the power of loving, was lodged in so narrow a mind that it he would no thave known how to respond was of no use to me. I learned, not to to it. understand life, but to doubt myself. I do not think that there ever lived a I was a widow before I was seveneteen, man more wedded to material things than and as soon as I was out of mourning I poor Larrieux. He ate with delight, he was surrounded with suitors. I was then fell asleep in all the arm-chairs, and the in all the splendor of my beauty, and, it remainder of the time he took snuff. He was generally admitted that there was was always occupied in satisfying some not a face or a figure which could be com- appetite. 1 do not think that he had an pared to mine, idea a day. But my husband, an old, worn-out, and And yet, my dear friend, will you be- dissipated man, who had never shown me lieve it? meyer had the energy to get rid anything hut irony and disdain, and who of him! For sixty years he has been my had only married mae to obtain an office torment. Constantly offended by my re- promised with my hand, had left me such pulses, yet constantly drawn to me by the an aversion to marriage, that I could very obstacles I placed in the way oF his never be brought to contract new ties. passion, he has had for me the most faith- In my ignorance of life I believed that all ful, the most untiring, the most wean- men resembled him. and that in a second some love that ever man felt for woman. husband I should find M. de R.s hard I am surprised, said I, that you heart, his pitiless irony, and that insult- never should have met, in the course of ing coldness which had so deeply humiliat- your life, a man capable of understanding ed me. This fatal entrance into life had you, and worthy of converting you to real dispelled for me all the illusions of youth. love. Must we conclude that the men of My heart, which perhaps was not natur- to-day are superior t6 those of the olden ally cold, withdrew into itself and grew time? fall of suspicion. That would be a great piece of vanity I was foolish enough to tell my real on your part, answered she, laughin~. feelings to several women of my acquaint- I Imave little reason to speak well of the ance. They did not fail to divulge what men of my own time, yet I doubt whether 84 TIlE MARQUISE4 you have made much progress; but [will not moralize. The cause of my misfortune was entirely in myself. I had not the sense to judge. A woman as proud as I was should have possessed a superior character, and should have been able to distinguish at one glance among all the insipid, fMse, and insignificant men who surrounded me, one of those true and no- ble beings who are rare in every age. I was too ignorant, too narrow-minded, for this. As I have lived longer I have ac- quired morejudgment, and I have learned that several of the objects of my hatred de- served far other feelin~s. But I was then old, and my knowledge caine too late. And while you were young, I re- joined, were you never tempted to make a second trial? Was this deep-rooted aversion never shaken? It is strange. The Marquise was silent, then hastily laying her gold snuff-box on the table: I have begun my confession, said she, an(l I will acknowledge everything. Listen! Once, only once in my life, I have loved, hut loved as none ever loved, with a love as passionate and indomitable as it was imaginative and ideal. For you see, my child, you young men think you understand women, and you know nothing about them. If many old women of eighty were frankly to tell you the history of their lives, you would perhaps find that the feminine soul contains sources of good and evil of which you have no idea. And now, guess what was the rank of the man for whom I entirely lost my headI, a Marchioness, and one prouder and haugh- tier than every other? The King of France, or the Dauphin, Louis XVI. Oh, if you begin in that manner, you will be three hours before you reach my lover. I prefer to tell you at once, lie was an actor. A king notwithstanding, I imagine. The noblest, the most elegant that ever trod the boards. You are not amazed? Not much. I have heard that even when the prejudices of caste were most powerful in France, ~uch ill-assorted pas- sums were not rare. Those ill-assorted passions were not tolerated by the world, I can assure you. The first time I saw him,I expressed my admiration to the Countess de Ferri~res, who happened to be beside me, and she answered: Do not speak so warmly to any one but me. You would be cruelly taunted were you suspected of forgetting that in the eyes of a woman of rank an actor-can nev~r be aman. Madame de Ferrli~ress words remain- ed in my mind, I know not why. At that time this contemptuous tone seemed to me absurd, and this fear of committing mayself a piece of malicious hypocrisy. His maine was Lelio; he was by birth an Italian, but spoke French admirably. He may have been thirty-five, although upon the sta~e he often seemed less than twenty. He played Corneille better than he did Racine, but in both he wns inimi~ table. - I am surprised, said I, interrupting the Marquise, that his name should noi appear in the annals of dramatic talent. lie was never famous, answered she, and was appreciated neither by the court nor the town. I have heard that he was outrageously hissed when he first ap- peared. Afterwards he was valued fhr h-is sensibility, his fire, and the efforts he made to improve himself. He was toler- ated, and sometimes applauded, but, on the whole, he was always considered an actor without taste. In those days tragedy was played pro- perly; it was necessary to die with taste,to-fall gracefully, and to have an air of good-hreeding even in giving a blow Dramatic art was modelled upon the usages of good society, and the diction and gestures of the actors were in harmony with the hoops and hair-powder which even then disfigured Phedre and Clytem- nestra. I had never appreciated the de- fect.s of this school of art. My reflections did not carry me far; I only knew that tragedy wearied me to death. I bravely endured it twice in the week, for it was the fashion to like it; but I listened with so cold and constrained an air that it was generally said I was insensible to the charms of fin& poetry. One evening, after a rather long ab- sence from Paris, I went to the Comedie Fran~ ise to see Le aid. Lelio had been admitted to this theatre during my stay in the country, and I sn-w him for the first time. lie played Rodrigue. I was deep- ly moved by the very first tones of hL voice. It was penetratin~ rather than sonorous, but vibrating and strongly ac- centuated. his voice was much criticised. 1872.j THE MARQUISE. 85 That of the Cid was sepposed to be deep hour for the theatre sounded in the large and powerful, just as all the heroes of an- clock of my drawing-room, I was seized tiquity were supposed to be tall and strong. with violent palpitations. While my car- A king who was but five feet six could riage was getting ready, I tried to col- not wear the diadem; it would have been lect, to control myself; and if Larrieux contrary to the decrees of taste. happened to be with me, I was harsh and Lelio was small andslender; his beau- rude to him, to send him away. I used ty was not that of the features, but lay infinite art to rid myself of all other in the nobleness of his forehead, the ir- intruders. The ingenuity with which this resistible grace of his attitude, the care- theatrical passion iaspired me is incredi- less ease of his movements, the proud and ble. 1 must have had great dissimulation melancholy expression of his face. I never and great tact to have hidden it for five saw in a statue, in a painting, in a man, years from Larrieux, who was the most so pure and ideal a capacity for beauty. jealous of men, and from all the malicious The word charm should have been invent- people who surrounded me. ed for him; it belonged to all his words, I must tell you that instead of sting- to all his glances, to all his motions. gling against this passion, I yielded to it What shall 1 say? It was indeed a with eagerness, with delight. It was so charm~ which he threw around me. pure! Why should I have blushed for it? This man, who stepped, spoke, moved, It gave me new life; it initiated me into without system or affectation, who sobbed all the feelings I had wished to experi- with his heart as much as with his voice, ence; it almost made me a woman. who forgot himself to become identified I was happy, I was proud to feel my- with his passion; this man, in whom the self thrill and tremble The first time my body seemed wasted and shattered by the dormant heart beat aloud was to me a soul, and a single one of whose glances triumph. I learned to pout, to laugh, to contained all the love I had failed to find in be playful and capricious. It was re~ real life, exercised over me a really mag- ~narked that I grew handsomer every d~iy, netic power. He had not been born in an that my dark eye softened, that my smile age which could give him sympathy and was more expressive, that what I said was fame; I alone could follow and understand truer and had more meaning than could him, and he was for five years my king, have been expected. my life, my love. My recollections of this period of my I could no longer live without seeing life are dis~,onnected, for their number him; he ruled, he governed me. To me overwhelms me. As I tell them to you, he was not a man, but in a different sense it seems to me that I grow young again, from that of Mine. de Ferni?~res. To me and that my heart beats once more at the he was much more; his was an intellec- name of Lelio. I have just told you that tual power, which formed my soul at its when I heard the clock strike I trembled will. Soon I was unable to conceal the with joy and impatience. Even now, 1 impression he made upon me. I gave up seem to feel the delicious oppression whicl~ my box at the Comddie Fran~aise in order used to overwhelm me at the sound of not to betray myself. I pretended I had that clock. Since then, through the vicis- become pious, and that in the evening I situdes of fortune, I have come to find went to pray in the churches. Instead myself very happy in the possession of a of that I dressed myself as a workwoman, few small rooms in the Marais. Well, of and mingled with the common people, my magnificent house, my aristocratic that I might listen to him unconstrained. faubour~, and my past splendor, I regret At last I bribed one of the employees of only that which could have recalled to me the theatre and obtained possession of those days of love and dreams~ I have a little hidden corner where no one could saved from the general ruin some pieces see me, and which I reached l~y a side cor- of furniture which belonged to me at, that ridor. As an additional precaution, I time, and which I look upon with 85 dressed myself as a school-boy. The fol- much emotion as if the hour for the thea- lies I committed for a man with whom I tre were about to strike and my horses had never exchanged a word or a glance, were pawing at the door. Oh, my child, had for me all the charms of mystery and never love as I loved. It is a storm which all the illusions of happiness. When the death alone can quell! 6 86 THE MARQUISE. [JAN. Then I started, young, gay, and hap- py. I learned to take pleasure in baing young, wealthy, and beautiful. Happi- ness revealed itself through every sense, by every pore. Seated in my coach, my feet buried in furs, I could see myself re- flected in the mirror in front of me. The costume of that time, which has since been so much laughed at, was of extraor- dinary richness and splendor. When ar- ranged with taste, and modified in its ex- aocrerations, it endowed a beautiful wo- man with dignity, a softness, a grace, of which the portraits of that time can give you no idea. A woman, clothed in this panoply of feathers, silks, and flowers, was obliged to move slowly. I have seen very fair women in white robes with long trains of watered silk, their hair powdered and dressed with white plumes, who might without hyperbole have been com- pared to swans. Despite all Rousseau has said, those enormous folds of satin, that profusion of muslin, which enveloped a slender little body as down envelopes the dove, made us resemble birds rather than wasps. Long wings of lace fell from ou~ arms, and our ribbons, our dresses, and our jewels were variegated with the most brilliant colors. Balancing our- selves in our little high-heeled shoes, we seemed to fear to touch the earth, and we walked with the disdainful circumspec- tion of a little bird on the edge of a brook. At the time of which I am speaking blond powder began to be worn, and gave the hair a light and soft color. This method of modifying the crude shades of the hair gave softness to the face, and an extraordinary brilliance to the eyes. The forehead was completely uncovered, its outline melted insensibly into the pale shades of the hair; it thus appe~red high- er and broader, and all women had a ma- jestic air. It was then the fashion to dress the hair low, with large curls thrown back and falling on the neck. This was very becoming to me, and I was celebrated for the taste and magnificence of my dress. I sometimes wore red velvet trim- med with grebe-skin, sometimes white satin edged with tiger-skin, sometimes lilac damask shot with silver, with white feathers and pearls in my hair. Thus at- tired I would pay a few visits until the hour for the second piece at the theatre, fo~ Lelio never played in the first. I created a sensation wherever I ap- peared, and, when I again found myself in my carria~e, I contemplated with much pleasure the reflected image of the woman who loved Lelio, and mi~ht have been be~ loved by him. Until then, the only pleas- ure I had found in being beautiful lay in the jealousy I excited. But, from the moment that I loved, I began to enjoy my beauty for its own sake. It was all I had to offer Lelio as a compensation for the tri- umphs which were denied him in Paris, and I loved to think of the pride and joy this poor actor, so misjudged, so laughed at, would feel, were he told that the Mar- quise de R. had dedicated her heart to him. These were but dreams, however; as brief as they were beautiful. As soon as my thoughts assumed some consistency, as soon as they took the form of any plan whatever, I had the fortitude to suppress them, and all the pride of rank reasserted its empire over my soul. You seem sur- prised at this. I will explain it by and by. Let me still linger in the magic world of my recollections. About eight oclock my carriage stopped at the little church of the Carmel- ites, near the Luxembourg, and I sent it away, for I was supposed to attend the religious lectures which were given there at that hour. But I only crossed the church and the garden, and came out in another street. I went to the garret of a young needlewoman named Florence, who was devoted to me. I locked myself up in her room, and joyfully laid aside all my adornments to don the black, square-cut coat, the sword and wig of a young col- lege provisor. Tall as I was, with my dark complexion and inoffensive glance, I really had the awkward, hypocritical look of a little priestkin who had stolen to the play. I took a hackney-coach, and hast- ened to hide myself in my little box at the theatre. Then my joy, my terror, my impatience ceased. A profound calm de- scended upon me, and I remained until the rising of the curtain as if absorbed in the expectation of a great solemnity. As the vulture surrounds the part. ridge in his magnetic flight, and holds her panting and motionless in the magic cir- cle he describes above her, the soul of Lelio, that great soul of a poet anda trage-. dian, enveloped all my faculties and plung- ed me into a torpor of admiration. I lis 1872.] THE MARQUISE. 87 tened, my hands clasped upon my knees, my chin upon the front of the box, and my forehead bathed in perspiration. I hardly breathed; the crude light of the lamps tor- tured my eyes, which, dry and burning, were fastened on his every gesture, his every step. I wished to seize his least breath, the slightest shadow upon his brow. His feigned emotions, his simu- lated misfortunes impressed me as if they were real. I could hardly distinguish between truth and illusion. To me, Lelio no longer existed; he was Rodrigue, Ba-. jazet, Hippolyte. I hated his enemies; I trembled at his dangers; his sorrows drew from me floods of tears; and when he died I was compelled to stifle my screams with my handkerchief. Between the acts I sank down exhausted in the back part of my box; I was as one dead until the meagre tones of the orchestra warned me that the curtain was about to rise again. Then I sprang up, full of strength and ardor, to admire, to feel, to weep. How much freshness, poetry, and youth there was in that mans talent! That whole generation must have been of ice not to have fallen at his feet. And yet, although he offended every conventional idea, although he could not adapt himself to the taste of that silly public, althou~gh he scandalized the wo- men by the carelessness of his dress and deportment, and displeased the men by his contempt for their foolish exactions, there were moments when, by an irresist- ible fascination, by the power of his eye and his voice, he held the whole of this ungrateful public as if in the hollow of his hand, and compelled it to applaud and to tremble. This happened but seldom, for the entire spirit of an age cannot be sud- denly changed; but when it did happen, the applause was frantic. It seemed as if the Parisians, subjugated by his genius, wished to atone for all their injustice. As for me, I believed that this man had at times a supernatural power, and that those who most bitterly despised him were compelled to swell his triumph in spite of themselves. In truth, at such times, the Com~die Fran9aise seemed smitten with madness, and the spectators, on leaving the theatre, were amazed to remember that they had applauded Lelio. As for me, I seized the opportunity to give full career to my emotion; I shouted, I wept, I passionately called his name. Happily for me, my weak voice was drowned in the storm which raged around me. At other times he was hissed when he seemed to me sublime, and then I left the theatre, my heart full of rage. Those nights were the most dangerous for me. I was violently tempted to seek him out, to weep with him, to curse the age in which we lived, and console him by offer- ing him my enthusiasm and my love. One evening, as I left the theatre by the side passage which led to my box, a small slender man passed in front of me, and turned into the street. One of the stage carpenters took off his hat, and said: Good evening, Monsieur Lelio. Eager to obtain a near view of this extraordinary man, I ran after him, crossed the street, and, forgetting the danger to which I ex- posed myself, followed him into a coffee house. Fortunately, it was not one in which I was likely to meet any one of my own rank. When, by the light of a smoky lamp, I looked at Lelio. I thought I had beea mistaken and followed another man. He was at least thirty-five, sallow, withered, and worn out. He was badly dressed, he looked vulgar, spoke in a hoarse, broken voice, shook hands with the meanest wretches, drank brandy, and swore horri- bly. It was not until I had heard his name repeated several times that I felt sure that this was the divinity of the the- atre, the interpreter of the-great Corneille. I could recognize none of those charms which had so fascinated me, not even his glance, so proud, so ardent, and so sad. His eye was dull, dead, almost stupid; his strongly accentuated pronunciation seemed ignoble when he called to the waiter, or talked of gambling and taverns. lie walked badly, he looked vulgar, and the paint was only half wiped from his cheeks. It was no longer Hippolyte, it was Lelio. The temple was empty; the oracle was dumb; the divinity had be- come a man, not even a manan. actor. He went out, and I sat stupefied, with- out even presence of mind enough to drink the hot spiced wine 1 had called for. When I remembered where I was, and perceived the insulting glances which were fixed upon me, I became frightened. [t was the first time I had ever found myself in such an equivocal position and in such immediate contact with people of that class; since then, the emigration has ac 88 THE MARQIJISE. [JkL customed me to make very light of such sompletely disenchanted with Lello, I situations. thought I no longer ran any risk in bray- I rose and tried toescape, but forgot to ing his fascinations in public. I dressed pay my reckoning. The waiter ran after myself with excessive brilliance, and, in me. I was terribly ashamed; I was a great proscenium box, affronted a danger obliged to return, enter into explanations in which I no longer believed. at the desk, and endure all the mocking But the danger was never more im- and suspicious looks which were turned minent. Lelio was sublime, and I had upon me. When I left, I thought I was~ never been more in love with him. Yes- followed. In vain I looked for a hackney- terdays adventure seemed but a dream. I coach; there were none remaining in front could not believe that Lelio was other than of the theatre. I constantly heard heavy he seemed upon the stage. In spite of steps echoing my own. Trembling, I myself, I yielded to the terrible agitations turned my head, and recognized a tall, into which he had the power of throwing ill-looking fellow whom I had noticed in me. My face was bathed in tears, and I one corner of the coffee-house, and who was compelled to cover it with my hand- had very much the air of a spy or some- kerchief; in the disorder of my mind I thing worse. He spoke to me; I do not wiped off my rouge and my patches, and know what he said; I was too much the Comtesse de Ferrihres advised me to frightened to hear, but I had still presence retire to the back of the box, for my emo- of mind enough to rid myself of him. tion was creating a sensation in the house. The boldness which terror gives trans- I fortunately had the skill to make every formed me into a heroine. I struck him one believe that it was the playing of in the face with my cane, and, leaving MIle. Hippolyte Clairon which affected him stunned at my audacity, I started me so deeply. She was, in my opinion, away swift as an arrow, and did not stop a very cold and formal actress, too superior till 1 reached Florences little garret. perhaps to her profession, as it was thea When I awoke the next morning in my understood; but her manner of saying bed with its wadded curtains and coronal Tout beau, in Cinna, had given her a ef pink feathers, I almost thought I had great reputation. dreamed, and felt greatly mortified when It must be said, however, that when I recollected the disillusions of the pre- she played with Lelio she outdid herself. vions night. I thought myself thoroughly Although she took pains to proclaim her cured of my love, and I tried to rejoice at share in the fashionable contempt for his it, but in vain.~ I was filled with a mor- method of acting, she unconsciously felt tal regret, the weariness of life again en- the influence of his genius, and was in- tered my heart, the world had not a spired by him when the passion of the pleasure which could charm me. scene placed them in relation. Evening came, but brought no more That evening Lello noticed me, either beneficent emotions. Society seemed to on account of my dress or my emotion; me insipid. I went to church, listened to for I saw him, when he was not acting, the evening lecture with the determina- bead over one of the spectators who, at tion of becoming pious; I caught cold, that epoch, sat upon the stage, and inquire and came home quite ill. my name. I guessed his question by the I remained in bed several days. The manner they both looked at me. My Comtesse de Ferribres came to see me, as- heart beat almost to suffocation, and I sured me that I had no fever, that lying noticed, during the play, that Lelios still made me ill, that I must amuse my- eyes turned several times toward me. self, go out, go to the theatre. She com- What would I not have given to hear pelled me to go with her to see Cinna. what the Chevalier de Br6tillac, whom You no longer go to the theatre, said he had questioned, had said to him she to me; your health is undermined about me! Lelios face did not indicate by your piety, and the dulness of your the nature of the information he had re- life. You have not seen Lelio for some ceived, for he was obliged to retain the time; he is improved, and he is now expression suited to his part. I knew sometimes applauded. I think he may this Br~t,iHac very slightly, and I could some day become very tolerable. not imagine whether he would speak well I do not know why I allowed myself or ill of me. to be persuaded. However, as I was That night I understood for the first 1872.] TH1~ MARQUISE. 89 time the nature of the passion which en- chained me to Leijo. It was a passion purely intellectual, purely ideal. It was not him I loved, but those heroes of an- cient times, whose sincerity, whose fidel- ity, whose tenderness he knew how to represent; with him, and by him, I was carried back to an epoch of forgotten vir- tues. I was proud enough to think that in tJ~ose days I should not have been mis- judged and hated, that my heart could have given itself, and that I should not have been reduced to loving a phantom of the footlights. Leljo was to me but the shadow of the Cid, the representative of that antique chivalric love now ridiculed in France. The man, the actor, I did not fear, for I had seea him; I could love him only upon the stage. My Lelio was a fictitious being who had no existence out- side the theatre. The illusions of the stage, the glare of the footlights, were a part of the being whom I loved. Without them he was nothing to me, and faded like a star before the brightness of day. I had no desire to see him off the boards; I should have been in despair had I met him. It would have been to me like con- templating the ashes of a great man. One evening, as I was going to the Carmelite church with the intention of leaving it by the opposite door, I per- ceived that I was followed, and became convinced that henceforth it would be al- most impossible to conceal the object of my nocturnal expeditions. I decided to go publicly to the theatre. I acquired by degrees enough hypocrisy to hide my feel- ings, and, besides, I began to profess a warm admiration for Mile. Hippolyte Clairon, which accounted sufficiently for the emotion I showed. I was now under greater constraint, and, compelled as I was to be perpetually conscious of myself, my enjoyment became less poignant and profound. But this circumstance involved another, which soon established a com- plete compensation. Lelio saw me and watched me; my beauty had struck him, my sensibility flattered him. His atten- tion sometimes wandered so much as to displease the public. Soon I could no longer doubt. He was madly in love with me. My box had pleased the Princesse de Vaudemont. I gave it up to her, and took for myself a smaller one, less in view of the house, and better situated. I was al most upon the stage, I did not lose one of Lelios glances; and he could look at me without its being seen by the public. But I no longer needed to catch his eye in order to understand all his feelings. The sound of his voice, his sighs, the expres- sion which he gave to certain verses, cer- tain words, told me that he was speaking to me. I was the happiest and proudest of women, for then it was the hero, not the actor, who loved me. After two years of an unknown and solitary love, cherished in the depths of my own soul, three winters passed over this same love now shared by him; yet ne~ver a look, a glance of mine gave Lelio reason to hope for anything beyond this mysteri~ ous and tacit correspondence. I have heard since that Lelio often followed me in my walks and drives ; so little did I de- sire to see him outside the theatre, that I had never perceived it. Of the eighty years I have passed in the world, those five are the only ones in which I really lived. One day I read in the Mercure de France the name of a new actor en~ gaged at the Com~die Fran~aise to re- place Lelio, who was about to leave France. This announcement was a mor- tal blow to me. I could not conceive how I should exist when deprived of these emotions, this life of passion and storm. This event gave an immense development to my love, and was well nigh my ruin. I no longer struggled with myself; I no longer sought to stifle at once all thoughts contrary to the dignity of my rank. I regretted that he was not what he appeared upon the stage; I wished him as young and handsome as he seemed each night before the footlights, that I might sacrifice to him all my pride, all my pre- judices. While I was in this state of irresolu~. tion, I received a letter in an unknown hand. It is the only love-letter I have ever kept; though I.~arrieux has written me innumerable protestations, and I have received a thousand perfumed declarations from a hundred others, it is the only real love-letter that was ever sent me. The Marquise rose, opened with an un~. trembling hand an inlaid casket, and took from it a crumpled, worn-out letter, which I read with difficulty. MADAM: I am ccrt~in that you will feel noth- ing but coutempt for this letter; you will not THE MARQUISE. even deem it worthy of your anger. But, to a man falling into an abyss, what matters one more stone at the bottom? You will think me mad, and you will be right. You will, perhaps, pity me, for you will not doubt my sincerity. However humble your piety may have made you, you will understand the extent of my de- spair; you must already know how much evil and how much good your eyes con do. If you give me one compassionate thought, if~ to-night at the theatre, I perceive upon your features a slight expression of pity, I shall be less wretched when I depart; I shall bear with me a memory which may give me strength to live far from France, and there pursue my ar- duous and barren career. But you mustkuow this already, madam; it is impossible but that the violent emotions I have betrayed upon the stage, my cries of wrath and despair, have twenty times revealed to you my passion. You cannot have lighted all these flames without being conscious of what you did. Perhaps you played with me as a tiger with his prey; perhaps the spectacle of my folly and my tortures were your pastime. But, no; to think so were to presume too much. No, madam, I do not believe it; you never thought of me. You felt the verses of the great Corneille, yon identified yourself with the noble passions of tragedy; that was all. And I, madman that I was, I dared to think that my voice alone some- times awoke your sympathies, that my heart echoed in yours, that between you and me there was something more than between me and the public. Oh, my madness was arrnnt, but it was sweet! Leave me my illusions, madam; what are they to you? Do you fear that I should boast of them? By what right should I do so, and who would believe me? I should only make myself the laughing-stock of sensible peo- ple. Leave me this conviction; it has given me more joy than the severity of the public has caused me sorrow. Let me bless you. let me thank you upon my knees, for the sensibility which I have discovered in your soul, and which no other soul has ever shown me; for the tears which I have seen you shed for my fictitious sorrows, and which have often raised my inspi- ration almost to delirium; for the timid glances which sought, at least I believed so, to console me fur the coldness of my audience. Oh, why were you born to pomp and splendor! Why am I an obscure and nameless artist! Why have I not riches and the favor of the public, that I might exchange them for a name, for one of those titles which I have hitherto disdained, and which, perhaps, would permit me to aspire as high as you are placed! Once I deemed the distinctions conferred upon talent superior to all others. To what purpose, thought I, is a man a chevalier or a marquis but to be. the sillier, the vainer, and the more insolent? I hated the pride of men of rank, and thought I should be sufficiently avenged for their disdain if my genius raised me above them. Dreams and de- lusions all! my strength has not equalled my mad ambition. I have remained obscure; I have done worse, I have touched success, a~ud allowed it to escape me. I thought myself great, and I was cast down to the dust; I imagined that I was almost sublime, and I was condemned to be ridiculous. Fate took me, me and my au- dacious dreams, and crushed me as if I had been a reed! I am a most wretched man! But I committed my greatest folly when I cast my eyes beyond that row of lights which marks between me and the rest of society a line of invincible separation. It is to me the circle of Popilius. I, an actor, I dared to raise my eyes and fasten them upon a beautiful woman! upon a woman, young, lovely, and of high rank; for you are all this, madam, and I know it. The world accuses you of coldness and of ex- aggerated piety. I alone understand you. tour first smile, your first tear, sufficiently disproved the absurd fi~bles which the Chevalier de Bra- tillac repeated against you. But, then, what a destiny is yours! What fatality weighs upon you as upon me, that in the midst of a society so brilliant, which calls it- self so enlightened, you should have found only the heart of a poor actor to do you justice! Noth- ing will deprive me of the sad and consoling thought, that had we been born in the same rank, you would have been mine in spite of my rivals, in spite of my own inferiority. You would have been compelled to acknowledge that there is in me something greater than their wealth and their titlesthe power of loving you. LELIO. This letter, continued the Marquise, was of a character very unusual at the time it was written, and seemed to me, notwithstanding some touches of theatr~- cal declamation at the beginning, so powerful, so true, so full of fresh bold passion, that I was overwhelmed by it. The pride which still struggled within me faded away. I would have given all the remaining days I had to live fbr one hour of such love. I will not tell you of my anxiety, my uncertainty, my terror; I could not recol- lect them with any coherence. I an- swered in these words, as nearly as I can remember: 1 do not accuse you, Lelio, I accuse Destiny; I do not pity you alone, I pity myself also. Neither pride nor prudence shall make me deny you the consolation of believing that I have felt a preference for you. Keep it, for it is the only one I can offer you. I can never consent to see you.~ Next day I received a note which I hastily read and threw into the fire, to prevent Larrieux from seeing it, for he caine suddenly upon me while I was read- ing it. It read thus: MADAi: I must see you or I must die. Onceonce only, hut for a single hour, if such is your will. Why should you fear an interview, since yoim trust my honor and my prudence? Madam, I know who you are; I am well 90 [JAN. 1872.] THE MARQUISE. 91 aware of your piety, of the austerity of your life. I am not fool enough to hope for anything but a word of compassion, but it must fall from your own lips. My heart must receive and bear it away, or my heart must break. LELlO. I must say in my own praise, for a generous and magnanimous trust is al- ways praiseworthy, that not for a moment did I fear that Lelio would betray the trust I placed in him. I believed implicitly in the humility, in the sincerity of Lelio. Besides, I had am~ie reason to trust my own strength. I resolved to see him. I had completely forgotten his faded features, his low-bred manners, his vulgar aspect; I recollected only the fascination of his genius, his let- ters, and his love. I answered: I will see you. Find some secure place, but hope for nothing but for what you have asked. Should you seek to abuse my trust, you would be a villain, and I should not fear you. - Answer: Your trust would save you from the basest of villains. You will see, madam, that Lelio is not unworthy of it. The Duke has often been good enough to offer me the use of his house in the rue de Valois; to what use should I have put it? For three years there has been but one woman in the world for me. Deign to go thither after the play. Some explanations and directions as to the locality of the house followed. I received this note at four oclock. The whole negotiation had occupied but a day. I had spent it in wandering through the house like one distracted; I was in a fever. This rapid succession of events bore me along as in a dream. When I had made the final decision, when it was impossible to draw back, I sank down upon my ottoman, breathless and dizzy. I was really ill. A surgeon was sent for, and I was bled. I told my servants not to mention my indisposition to any one; for I dreaded the intrusion of offi- cious advisers, and was determined not to be prevented from going out that night. I threw myself upon my bed to await the appointed hour, and gave orders that no visitors should be admitted. The blood-letting had relieved and weakened me: I sank into a great depres- sion of spirits. All my illusions vanished~ with the excitement which had accompa- nied my fever. Reason and memory re turned; I remembered my disenchant- ment in the coffee-house, and Lelios wretched appearance there; 1 prepared to blush for my folly, and to fall from the height of my deceitful visions to a bare and despicable reality. 1 no longer un- derstood how it had been possible for me to consent to exchange my heroic and ro- mantic tenderness for the revulsion of feel- ing which awaited me, and the sense of shame which would henceforth poison all my recollections. I bitterly regretted what I had done; I wept my illusions, my love, and that future of pure and secret joys which I was about to forfeit. Above all, I mourned for Lelio, whom in seeing I should forever lose, in whose love I had found five years of happiness, and fer whom in a few hours I shotdd feel noth- ing but indifference. In the paroxysm of my grief I vio- lently wrung my arms; the vein reopened, and I had barely time to ring for my maid, who found me in a swoon upon my bed. A deep and heavy sleep, against which 1 struggled in vain, seized me. I neither dreamed nor sufferedI was as one dead for several hours. When I again opened my eyes, my room was almost dark, my house silent; my waiting-woman was asleep in a chair at the foot of my bed. I remained some time in such a state of numbness and weakness that I recollected nothing. Suddenly my memory returned, and I asked myself whether the hour and the day of rendezvous were passed, wheth- er I had slept an hour or a century; wheth- er I had killed Lelio by breaking my word. Was there yet time? I tried to rise, but my strength failed me. I struggled for some moments as if in a ni~,htmare. At last I summoned all the forces of my will to the assistance of my exhausted body. I sprang to the floor, opened the curtains, and saw the moon shining upon the trees of my garden. I ran ~to the clock; the hands marked ten. I seized my maid and waked her: Quinette, what day of the week is it? She sprang from her chair~ screaming, and tried to escape from me, for she thought me delirious; I reassured her, and learned that I had only slept three hours. 1 thanked God. I asked for a hackney-coach. Quinette looked at me with amazement. At last she became convinced that I had the full use of my senses, transmitted my order, and began to dress me. 92 THE MARQUISE. EJA~r, I asked for my simplest dress; I put no ornaments in my hair, and refused to wear any rouge. I wished above all things for Lelios esteem and respect, for they were far more precious to me than his love. Nevertheless I was pleased when Quinette, who was uxuch surprised at this new caprice, said, examining me from head to foot: Truly, madam, I know not how you manage it; you are dressed in a plain white robe without either train or pan- nier; you are ill and as pale as death; you have Rot even put on a patch; yet I never saw you so beautiful as to-night. I pity the men who will look upon you! Do you think me so very austere, my poor Quinette? Alas I madam, every day I pray Heaven to make me like you; but up to this time Come, simpleton, give me my mantle a,nd muff. At midnight I was in the house of the rue de Valois. I was carefully veiled. A sort of valet de chambre received me; he was the only human being to be seen in this mysterious dwelling. He led me through the windings of a dark garden to a pavilion buried in silence and shadow. Depositing his green silk lantern in the vestibule, he opened the door of a large dusky room, showed me by a respectful gesture and with a most impassive face a ray of light proceeding from the other ex- tremity, and said, in a tone so low that it seemed as if he feared to awaken the sleeping echoes: Your ladyship is alone, no one else has yet come. Your ladyship will find in the summer parlor a bell which I will answer should you need anything. Lie disappeared as if by enchantment, shutting the door upon me. I was terribly frightened; I thought I had fallen into some trap. I called him back. He instantly reappeared, and his air of stupid solemnity reassured me. I asked him what time it was, although I knew perfectly well, for I had sounded my watch twenty times in the carriage. It is midnight, answered he, without rais- ing his eyes. I now resolutely entered the summer parlor, and I realized how unfoanded were my fears when I saw that the doors which opened upon the garden were only of painted silk. Nothing could be more charming than this boudoir; it was fitted up as a concert room. The walls were of stucco as white as snow, and the mirrors were framed in unpolished silver. Musical instruments of unusually rich material were scattered about, upon seats of white velvet trimmed with pearls. The light came from above through leaves of alabaster which formed a dome over- head. This soft even light might have been mistaken for that of the moon. A single statue of white marble stood in the middle of the room; it was an antique, and represented Isis veiled, with her fin- ger upon her lips. The mirrors which re- flected us, both pale and draped in white, produced such an illusion upon me that I was obliged to move in order to distin-. guish my figure from hers. Suddenly the silence was interrupted; a door was opened and closed, and light footsteps sounded upon the floor. I sank into a chair more dead than alive, for I was about to see Lelio shorn of the illu- sions of the state. I closed my eyes, and inwardly bade him farewell before I re- opened them. But how much was I surprised! Lelio was beautiful as an angel. He had not taken off his stage dress, and it was the most elegant I had seen him wear. His Spanish doublet was of white satin, his shoulder and garter knots of cherry ribbons, and a short cloak of the same color was thrown over his shoulder. He wore an immense ruff of English lace; his hair was short and unpowdered, partially covered by a cap with white feathers and a diamond rose. In this costume he had just played Don Juan in the Festin do Pierre. Never had I seen him so beauti- ful, so young, so poetical, as at that mo. meat. Velasquez would have worshipped such a model. He knelt before me. I could not help stretching out my hand to him, he seemed so submissive, so fearful of displeasing me. A man sufficiently in love to tremble be- fore a woman was so rare in those times, and this one was thirty-five and an actor! It seemed to me then, it seems to me still, that he was in the first bloom of youth. In his white dress he looked like a young page; his forehead had all the purity, his heart all the ardor of a first love. He took my hands and covered them with kisses. My senses seemed to desert me; I caressed his burning fore- head, his stiff black hair, and the brown neck which disappeared in the soft white-. 1872.] THE MARQUISE. 93 ness of his collar. He wept like a woman; I was overwhelmed with his sobs. I wept delicious tears. I compelled him to raise his head and look at me. How beautiful he was, great God! How splendid, how tender were his eyes! How much fascination his warm, true soul communicated to the very defects of his face, and the scars left upon it by time and toil! Oh, the power of the soul! He who understands not its miracles has never loved! When I saw the premature wrinkles upon his beautiful forehead, when I saw the pallor of his lips, the languor of his smile, ray heart melted. I felt that Jmustneeds weep for his griefs, his disappointments, the labors of his life. I identified myself with him in all his sor- rows, even that of his long hopeless love for me, and I had but one wishto com- pensate him for the ills he had suffered. My dear Lelio, my great Rodrigue, my beautiful Don Juan! cried I in my delirium. He spoke to me, he told me all the phases of his love; he told me how from a dissipated actor I had made him a man full of life and ardor; how I had raised him in his own eyes, and restored to him the illusions of his youth; he spoke of his respect, his veneration for me, of his contempt for the species of love which was then in fashion. Never did a more penetrating eloquence speak to the heart of a woman; never did Racine make love utter itself with such a conviction of its own truth, such poetry, such strength. Everything elevated and profound, every- thing sweet and fiery which passion can inspire, lay in his words, his voice, his eyes, his caresses, and his submission. Alas! did he deceive himself? was he playing a part?~ I certainly do not think so, cried I, looking at the Marquise. She seemed to grow young as she spoke, and, like the fairy Urgela, to cast off her hundred years. I know not who has said that a womans heart has no wrinkles. Listen to the end, said she. I threw my arms around his neck; I shiv- ered as I touched the satin of his coat, as 1 breathed the perfume of his hair. My emotion was too violent, and I fainted. He recalled me to myself by his prompt assistance. I found him still kneeling at my feet. Pity me, kill me, cried he. He was paler and far more ill than I. Listen, Lelio, said I. Here we separate forever, but let us carry from this place a whole future of blissaful thoughts and adored memories. I swear, Lelio, to love you till my death. I swear it without fear, for I feel that the snows of age will not have the power to extin- guish this ardent flame. Lelio knelt before me; he did not im- plore me, he did not reproach me; he said that he had not hoped for as much happiness as I had given him, and that he had no right to ask for more. Neverthe- less, as he bade me fhrewell, his despair, the emotion which trembled in his voice, terrified me. I asked him if he would not find happiness in thinking of me, if the ecstasy of our meeting would not lend its charm to all the days of his life, if his past and future sorrows would not be softened each time he recalled it. He roused him- self to promise, to swear all I asked. He again fell at my feet and passionately kissed my dress. I made a si~n, and he left me. The carriage I had sent for came. The automatic servant of the house knock~. ed three times outside to warn me. Lelio despairingly threw himself in front of the door; he looked like a spectre. I gently repulsed him, and he yielded. I crossed the threshold, and as he attempted to fob. low me, I showed him a chair in the mid- dle of the room, underneath the statue of Isis. He sat down in it. A passionate smile wandered over his lips, his eyes sent out one more flash of gratitude and love. He was still beautiful, still young, still a grandee of Spain. After a few steps, when I was about to lose him for- eyer, I turned back and looked at him once more. Despair had crushed him. He was old, altersd, frightful. His body seemed paralyzed. His stiffened lips at- tempted an unmeaning smile. His eyes were glassy and dim; he was now only Lelio, the shadow of a lover and a prince. The Marquise paused; then, while her aspect changed like that of a ruin which totters and sinks, she added: Since then I have not heard him mentioned. The Marquise made a second and a longer pause; then, with the terrible for- titude which comes with length of years, which springs from the persistent love of life or the near hope of death, she said with a smile: Well, do you not now be- lieve in the ideality of the eighteenth cem.. tury? GEORGE SAND. OUGHT WE TO VISIT hER? By Mas. EDWARDS, Author of Susan Fielding, Archie Lovell, eto. CHAPTER XL. GOOD-BY FOREVER. YET another sin worth sinning, another dance worth dancing, is Rawdon Crosbie fated to enjoy in this life. Jane walks up to his side, without the Duke of Malta, and asks for it herself, just as he is standing, jealous, miserable, undecided whether he shall invite the least musical of the Miss Pippins for the ensuing waltz, or rush away from every- body, smoke a pipe of despair in the star- light, then return to his hotel, and have done with ladies and ladies society for- ever! Can I have the honor of this waltz, Mr. Crosbie? It seems I may wait forever if I wait until your highness will condescend to ask me. She looks beautiful, almost startlingly beautiful, as she speaksher lips smil- ing (Jane knows a good deal about that smiling art; before the footlights has she not seen ballet-girls practise it in the face of the most atrocious bodily tortures? here, on the stage of life, with adverse eyes, not those of a friendly public, watch- ing her, shall she not show front as brave?) the hectic of her cheeks contrasting vivid- ly with the marble of her round young neck and arms, her blue eyes all aglow with feverish light. Rawdon looks at her like one who dreams; looks at her with a mingling of feelings that I find it hard to describe in words. She is nothing to him, and yet as she stands here at his side smiling into his face, and speaking to him with that voice of hers, she is everything. The past that has been Francis Theobalds, the fu- ture that may be, Rawdon does not ask himself what, matter nothing. He, he alone in the world possesses the present moment, and will make the most of it. A man going to execution might surely drink with zest a draught of rarest wine offered him by some pitying hand on his road. She takes his arm, they stand for a min- ute or two in silence, and then the music begins and they start. if Rawdor~ lives to be an old man, surely the keen pain, tee keenest enjoyment of the next five minutes must remain no dry mental record, but a warm and living sensation in his memory. As the waltz proceeds he goes again through every scene of their brief friend- ship. He remembers the first look Jane gave him on the promenade at Spa, the bnll and the Grande Duchesse waltzes, the walk home in the perfumed summer moonlight, their supper beside the win- dow, the ineffaceable picture of her as she stood, the half-dead roses in her hair, smiling good-by to him in the early morn- ing on the staircase. lie remembers the day of the Lidlington Flower Show, his jealousy, their walkthat for him might have been in Arcadiaamong the flowers, and how they laughed and jested in the level sunlight; and the hours alone to- gether in the silent garden of Theobalds; and the night at the Prince of Waless, and the sermon by gaslight~ on the pnvement of Maddox street. And now all is over. Just as unmistakably as a dying man knows that he is dying, Rawdon Crosbie knows that his ill-starred passion, with all it has given and all it has taken away, is in its death ngony. He is drinking the last dregs of the poison-cup, and the poi- son tastes like nectar to the last. When the waltz finishes Jane declares herself tired, and instead of walking about the room on Rawdons arm, takes posses- sion of the first vacant chair that comes tc hand, Rawdon placing himself at her side They are, as it chances, ex~tctly opp~ site poor Emmy, who, partnerless dur ing the last dance, is sitting in the same place where Adonis left her some quartex of an hour ago. Rawdon, cries Jane, apropos of nothing, and turning her eyes full upon the lads face, that waltz was our good- by. Did you know it? Not the cut eter- nal, but good-by all the same. Well, when people go away they sometimes ask a favor of the friend they leave, dont they? I want t~ ask a favor of you.~ Going away! repeats Rawdon blank

OUGHT WE TO VISIT hER? By Mas. EDWARDS, Author of Susan Fielding, Archie Lovell, eto. CHAPTER XL. GOOD-BY FOREVER. YET another sin worth sinning, another dance worth dancing, is Rawdon Crosbie fated to enjoy in this life. Jane walks up to his side, without the Duke of Malta, and asks for it herself, just as he is standing, jealous, miserable, undecided whether he shall invite the least musical of the Miss Pippins for the ensuing waltz, or rush away from every- body, smoke a pipe of despair in the star- light, then return to his hotel, and have done with ladies and ladies society for- ever! Can I have the honor of this waltz, Mr. Crosbie? It seems I may wait forever if I wait until your highness will condescend to ask me. She looks beautiful, almost startlingly beautiful, as she speaksher lips smil- ing (Jane knows a good deal about that smiling art; before the footlights has she not seen ballet-girls practise it in the face of the most atrocious bodily tortures? here, on the stage of life, with adverse eyes, not those of a friendly public, watch- ing her, shall she not show front as brave?) the hectic of her cheeks contrasting vivid- ly with the marble of her round young neck and arms, her blue eyes all aglow with feverish light. Rawdon looks at her like one who dreams; looks at her with a mingling of feelings that I find it hard to describe in words. She is nothing to him, and yet as she stands here at his side smiling into his face, and speaking to him with that voice of hers, she is everything. The past that has been Francis Theobalds, the fu- ture that may be, Rawdon does not ask himself what, matter nothing. He, he alone in the world possesses the present moment, and will make the most of it. A man going to execution might surely drink with zest a draught of rarest wine offered him by some pitying hand on his road. She takes his arm, they stand for a min- ute or two in silence, and then the music begins and they start. if Rawdor~ lives to be an old man, surely the keen pain, tee keenest enjoyment of the next five minutes must remain no dry mental record, but a warm and living sensation in his memory. As the waltz proceeds he goes again through every scene of their brief friend- ship. He remembers the first look Jane gave him on the promenade at Spa, the bnll and the Grande Duchesse waltzes, the walk home in the perfumed summer moonlight, their supper beside the win- dow, the ineffaceable picture of her as she stood, the half-dead roses in her hair, smiling good-by to him in the early morn- ing on the staircase. lie remembers the day of the Lidlington Flower Show, his jealousy, their walkthat for him might have been in Arcadiaamong the flowers, and how they laughed and jested in the level sunlight; and the hours alone to- gether in the silent garden of Theobalds; and the night at the Prince of Waless, and the sermon by gaslight~ on the pnvement of Maddox street. And now all is over. Just as unmistakably as a dying man knows that he is dying, Rawdon Crosbie knows that his ill-starred passion, with all it has given and all it has taken away, is in its death ngony. He is drinking the last dregs of the poison-cup, and the poi- son tastes like nectar to the last. When the waltz finishes Jane declares herself tired, and instead of walking about the room on Rawdons arm, takes posses- sion of the first vacant chair that comes tc hand, Rawdon placing himself at her side They are, as it chances, ex~tctly opp~ site poor Emmy, who, partnerless dur ing the last dance, is sitting in the same place where Adonis left her some quartex of an hour ago. Rawdon, cries Jane, apropos of nothing, and turning her eyes full upon the lads face, that waltz was our good- by. Did you know it? Not the cut eter- nal, but good-by all the same. Well, when people go away they sometimes ask a favor of the friend they leave, dont they? I want t~ ask a favor of you.~ Going away! repeats Rawdon blank 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT HERP 95 ly. And are you going away, Mrs. The- obald? Are you going to leave Chalk- shire? Yes, Im going to leave Chalkshire. There was no great love between us from the beginning Jane has never read Shakespeare, but she has got a little stock of her own of stage quotations, There was no great love between us from the be-. ginning, and it has pleased God to decrease it on further acquaintance. Chalkshire air doesnt agree with me, so Im going a quiver, as though some spasm of pain had seized her, contracts her lips Im going to have a change from it. Well, that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. If I ask a favor of you, my dear boy, will you promise beforehand to grant it? Youll never repent it if you do. Rawdon, I havent much good left in me, I know, but Im not quite so vile as to want to hurt you. Will you promise? Most faithfully, says Rawdon Cros- bie without a seconds hesitation. You should know that pretty well, I think, without going through the form of ask- ing. Go this momentno, not this moment, I want you for a little while longer, but go, the moment you leave me, to Miss Marsland and try once more to set things straight, ask her once more ~o forgive you. She will not say No to-night, Ill answer for that. Rawdon Crosbie turns white to the very lips. Thisthis is the last thing I should have expected you to ask me, Mrs. Theobald. No doubt of it, says Jane quietly. But everything that is least to be ex- pected is happening to-night. Did you see me dance ray lancers, Mr. Crosbie? I was in the same set with Lady Laurie and a Miss Archdeacon and your mamma. And the set did not melt away like the first one I tried with Dolly Standish, and the ladies all gave me the tips of their fin- gers and managed not to faint. I have learned a lesson by that, Rawdon, my dear. If one would rough-ride the prejudices of good English society, one must have a Duke of Malta, not a 1)olly Standish, for on& s partner. She laughs rather loudly. Emma Marsland across the room can hear her. But it is a laugh from which all the old merriment, all the hearty ring which once made Janes laughter so goodathingto listen to, has fled. And so, remembering the lancers, I think we may say that everything least likely to happen is happening to-night. Rawdon after a second or two some day or another, a long time hence it may be, just one more thing I should be glad for you to do. But you neednt promise about this; do it only if it seems good to you. Some day or other, then, when you are a steady old married man, and when you are talking to your wife about the past, I should like you to say to her that before I left Chalkshire I, Jane Theo- bald, wished her happiness, and that if I ever gave her pain I was sorry for it. Do you hear? I hear, answers Rawdon very low, and not once raising his eyes to Janes face. And, without my making any fine- company speeches, my dear boy, you must take for granted all the good things I wish you. The only happy hours I ever had in Chalkshire were the hours I spent with you. I shall like, whatever becomes of me, to look back to them and to remember how pluckily you used to stand my friend. And now, she goes on a little hastily, I dont know that theres anything more for us to talk about. Good-by forever is a nasty thing to say, Rawdon, so we wont say it. We wont think that our good-by forever is really being spoken just at this moment. And I shall never feel that it has been spoken at all, says Rawdon stoutly. , As long as you live and I live, Mrs. Theobald, I shall never feel that we have wished each other a last good-by. You think so now. The day will comeyes, Rawdon, yes, the future is uncertain; impossible to say how any of us may turn out in the futurebut the day will come, depend upon it, when youll thank your stars good-by forever was said between you and me, and then oh, heaven, whatever we do, dont let us get lachrymose and sentimental ! With a sort of start Jane interrupts herself thus. Almost within ear-shot, does not the Duke of Malta stand watching her? Youll want all that kind ot sugary ma- terial, you know. child, for the grand re- conciliation scene in which you and Miss MarslanJ ure coming on. It wont be a 96 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? [JAN. rery hard scene to act, take my word for it. People seldom fail in pleading when they really want to be pardoned. The question is, how am I, outside in the cold, to know that the pardon is spoken? She pauses for a minute, then selects a white moss rosebud from the flowers she holds in her hand, and gives it to him. Here, take this, RawdonJ have ex- cellent eyes, II shall see it wherever I may be in the roomand wear it until the iuo- ment when your sweetheart says Yes. Then I, outside in the cold, must haye my sign, and the sign shall be that you pull out my flower, my last gift, alas! from your buttonhole, and in the agitation of your feelings let it drop, accidentally of course, at your sweethearts feet. You promise? Before Rawdon has time to answer, the Duke of Malta advances to claim her with such an expression of assured suc- cess, such a flush of triumph upon his vacuous Beaudesert face! Jane rises, takes his arm with a curious, half.sullen air of submission, then turns once more to Rawdon Crosbie. You promise me? she repeats in a whisper. I shall feelwell, the onlyplea- sure anything could give me to-night when I receive my sign. And he promises. They are the last words ever spoken between them. Upon the Duke of Maltas arm Jane passes away among the crowd of dancers; and in another minute Rawdon Crosbie has taken the vacant chair by Emma Marslands side. In a poem or a play, men, at all stirring moments of the plot, express their feel- ings, I remark, in language artistically adequate to the occasion. In every-day commonplace reality, they talk every-day commonplace still; plead for their mis- tresss lost favor much in the same strain and tone as they would ask her to pass them the toast at breakfast; only that in asking for the toast their utterance might be more natural, and therefore more ex- pressive. What! not dancing, Emmy? This is the observation with which Rawdon, his heart really torn by conflicting emo- tions, begins~ the scene that he knows must, one way or another, govern the course of his whole future life. No, Im not dancing this time, says Emma. Ive danced as much as I wish to dance this eveaino~ Its getting awfully hot; dont you think so? Yes; but if the wii~dows are open ~n both sides there is such a draught, its better to be too hot than to sit in a draught. Well, perhaps it is. You wont give me another dance to-night, I suppose, Emmy? Yes, Rawdon, I will, if you wish for me. I did not like to ask you sooner. I thought Adonis was sure to have filled all the vacant places in your programme. Poor dear Adonis! What woman can speak of the man she has refused with- out some slight inflection of voice betray- ing his secret? Adonis does not dance round dances, you know. And you will dance this galop with me, then? I shall be very happy. But neither of them rises, and both keep their eyes fixed rigidly straight before them, as people do who are conscious that they are not saying what they would like to say if they dared, and knew how. Mrs. Theobald is looking very well to-night, remarks Emma, breaking the ice at last. I mean well as far as look* go. IIm sorry for her, Rawdon. Timidly poor Emmy volunteers this, her first concession. People are saying that Mr. Theobald has gono away and left her, and theres such a wretched look on her face all the time she is laughing and talk.. ing with the Duke. You could hardly expect a woman in her position, alone in a room full of people who have shunned and blackballed her, to look very jolly, answers Rawdon. If I had to act the last few weeks over again, I know that 1, for one, would behave very differently toward Mrs. Theo- bald; but its no use looking back now. The past is past, and done with! And Emma gives a melancholy sigh as she thinks of the lovely wedding-dresses from Miss Fletchers, the orange blossoms, the Iloniton veil (tried on in strictest confi- dence before ones eight bridesmaids), all locked away painfully spotless, drearily intact, in the bran-new portmanteau and travelling cases that were to have accom- panied Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon Crosbie upon their wedding tour. Is the past done with? exclaims Rawdon. Emma, and his voice trem 1872.] bles, is the past, the time when we loved and trusted each other so well, gone by forever between you and me? Oh, Rawdon2oh, dontoh, what would mamma think ?oh, I know the Pippins are looking ! cries Emma, her heart swelling with a sudden rapturous hope. I have been to blame in every waya fool! I deserved to lose you, I dont de- serve your forgiveness, butI ask it! Emma, thinking of yourself and of your own happiness alone, not of any suffering your answer might cost me, is it possible you can say you pardon me? is it possible there is room for me in your affection yet? And now comes to Rawdon Crosbie the most strangely-blent moment conceivable of pleasure and of pain. For Emma, such honest love, such tender womanly forgive- ness upon her face as makes her more than pretty, falters Yes, and Jane standing outside in the coldjust opposite the lov- ers, that is to say, flushed and radiant, on the Duke of Maltas armmust have her sign! He takes the flcwer, as she bade him, from his buttonhole and holds it irreso- lutely. Ilow. odious I used to be about your bits of flowers, your withered weeds, cries Emma presently; poor Emma, who feels in her immense new-born happiness that she can never blame herself enough for the jealousy through which that hap- piness was so nearly wrecked! Im wiser now, Rawdon; I ask no impertinent questions about your white rosebud, al- though I can form a pretty shrewd guess who gave it you. Your buttonhole was without adornment, sir, when we danced that miserable dance together at the be- ginning of the evening.~~ I have danced with Lydia Pippin, Augusta Brownwith I dont know how many charming creatures since, says Rawdon. And Emma seems contented. Just at this moment up comes Sir John Laurie to ask her for the following quadrille, the last square dance of the evening. Even in the first rose flush of enraptured love, Emma cannot resist the honor of dancing with the county member; and us the goed old gentleman, spectacles on nose, stands writing his name down on her programme, Rawdon gets an oppor OUGHT WE TO VISIT HERP @7 tunity, unobserved, for giving Jane her sign. In a crowded ballroom, everybody Argus- eyed, watching everybody else s affairs, tis wonderful how little is known, real- ly, of what goes on among the different actors. Rawdon Crosbie is evidently try- ing to patch things up, wise young man, with the heiress, in Major Herveys ab- sence. That all the world has been ob- serving during the past five minutes. Who should notice such a trivial action as his raising a morsel of half-dead flower to his lips, holding it to them with a great tenderness for a second or two, thenhis sunburnt, unsentimental face becoming livid the whilelaying it gently down on the floor just beside the hem of Miss Mars- lands ball dress, and letting it rest there! Who, I say, should notice such unimpor- tant nonsense as all this? Im sure I didnt want any other part- ner than you to-night, says Emma, tarn- ing to her lover. But one couldnt re- fuse Sir Johnsay, Rawdon, could one? Perfectly impossible, my dear Emma. Now the right thing, I suppose, for me is to solicit the honor of fat old Lady Lau- ries hand and be your vis-h-vis? I hope you are not beginning to laugh at me already, Rawdon? Do I look in such a very laughing mood then, Emma? And Emma after glancing at his face is forced to confess a little bitterly that he does not. Rawdon Crosbie, as I have be- fore remarked, is no expert in the art of feigning emotion. When the waltz is over, Mrs. Theobald begins to walk about on the Dukes arm; after a time, accidentally or otherwise, passes close to the lovers as they stand talking to Mrs. Crosbie at the upper end of the room. She gives Rawdon a furtive smile of congratulation that with all its kindliness cuts him to the heart. Then, Emma chancing at the moment to raise her head, the eyes of the two young wo- men meetmeet, Emma Marsland may one day be glad to remember, with a look of forgiveness and reconciliation at last. It is considered etiquette at the Lid- lington public balls for evcryl)odyto leave together: Lady Laurie orders her carriage at two; Mrs. Coventry Brown, and all minor luminaries, order theirs at the same hour. After her quadrille with Sir John, Emma has one blissful round 98 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? [JAN. dance with her lover, then quits the ball- room on his arm, some bald-headed gen- tleman of Chalkshire repute, you may be sure, escorting Mrs. Crosbiepoor Mrs. Crosbie, ready to weep with maternal joy at the happy turn events have taken, but dignified and well-bred in her demeanor towardci Providence to the last. In the vestibule occurs the usual crash of cloaked and hooded ladies, and of gen- tlemen tripping themselves up over the ladies trains. Charming ball, was it not? Oh, charming! Never saw your daughters look so well. Good night, dear Lady Laurie. Hope you will not suffer from the beat! Hope you will not suffer from the cold! So the Chalk- shire notables, treading on each others satin toes, and murmuring platitudes in each others weary faces, fight their way to the front, and vanish from the stage of this little drama. Mrs. Coventry Browns carriage! Forth steps the majestic woman, liker to a purring white cat than ever, with a swan s-down cloak drawn up around her throat; the three youthful white cats, also in swan s-down, following. Mrs. Pippins carriage! The watchful barn-door mamma, and her brood of elderly chickens, pass away out of our sight. Mrs. Crosbies carriage ! No; the name, this time, has been shouted wrong. Mrs. Crosbies carria~,e nt~xt but one. Mrs. Francis Theobalds carriage stops the way. She flutters down the steps in her white dress and flowers at the Duke of Maltas side, the light from the lamps outside shining on her; flushed, successfulas women count successyet with that same hunted look of which I have spoken upon her face stilla vision several persons among this Chalkshire assemblage are not likely to forget. The Duke stands, bareheaded, eagerly whispering to her for a minute or more after she is seated, heedless, it would seem, of the string of county carriages whose progress Mrs. Francis Theobalds hack vehicle impedes. He whispers more and more eagerly; Jane never answers. At last, If you expect me to remember anything about it, you had better write the name down, she remarks, in a cold, hard sort of tone. Rawdon Crosbie is near enough to hear her words. I never remembered a pro- mise or an address in my life. She hands the Duke her ball pro- gramme; he scribbles a word or two on the back and gives it to her again, with another last whisper. And then the door of the carriage is shut, and Jane drives away, the Duke of Malta watching her progress into the darkx~ess of the night. CHAPTER XLI. ALONG TUE RAILROAD TO RUIN. AWAY into the darkness; back through the hush and sweetness of the August night, home. Hannah, the nursemaid, the only watch- er in the grim old househannah, with nerves already shaken by rats and creak- ing boards, stares open-mouthed at the apparition of Mrs. Theobalds face, ghast- ly now that it has cooled from the flush and excitement of the ball; the blue eye~ weary, yet with an unnatural glow of fire in their weariness; the hair pushed back from the temples; the lips dry and scarlet; the whole expression of her face changed. Will Mrs. Theobald please to take anything? Yes, Mrs. Theobald will take some brandy and water when she gets up stairs, the proportion of brandy not small, Hannah. And then she submits to having pins taken out and flowers unfastened; submits to Hannahs talk, andand wants nothing more. Wants nothing but to be left alone, within locked doors, the reflec- tion of her own face in the looking-glass, the sigh~t of Blossy asleep and rosy in her cot, for company. In the fine old days when rack and thumbscrew were called in to the aid of orthodox social opinions, the accused, we read, did, after the first great wrench of nerve and muscle, feel little more; mans physical capacity for suffering being, thank Heaven, less boundless than mans capacity for inflicting it. Jane should have gone through the worst by now, if the same law hold good in the moral as in the material world, which unfortunately it does not. In the infinite spirit is room For the pulse of an infia~te pain. She has been in torture throughout the evening; was in torture while she danced. 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? 99 smiled, planned, radiant with success, the ruin of all her future years; is in tor- ture now. The room she and Theobald occupy is the same best or purple room to which her sisters-in-law led her on the night when she first tasted respectability. There is the ghostly four-poster in which cousin James died; there are the ghostly watch- pockets; there the two prim dressing ta- bles. Nothing altered outwardly. Only the life that then was in its spring laid low by sudden blight; only an unimport- ant unit about to be added to the sum of shipwrecked and abandoned human waifs with which the worlds highways are over- stocked. Is it to be wondered at? Jane took her brandy and water at a draught as soon as the servant left her alone, and the result of the stimulant is, no merciful stupor, no kindly impairment of reason, but rather a sharpened power of gauging her wretch- edness to its depths. Is this crowning act of her history a thing in any way to won- der at? She remembers a score of chil- dren who learned in the same class with her from Adolphe Dido, and who have most of them ended as she will, only with less noise and glitter. Some innate ten- dency of ballet-girls probably, against which, now that the play of life begins to work close, it were vain to struggle. Ones fateas well accept fate bravely make no whine over it. And yetand yetwhat love resurgent, what yearning toward all things right and honest, were in her heart four hours ago. What loath- ing, what abhorrence for the future to which she tacitly stands committed, are in her heart now! Taking her candle, she goes up to Bbs- sys cot and bends over, looking at her in a sort of blank despair. The child fea- tures Theobald, as the country people say, and the likeness comes out strongest when sleep has shut the blue eyes which are her sole resemblance to her mother. Theobalds fair hair and complexion, his forehead, his print of chin-Theobalds whole face rses before Janes sight with cruel distinctness as she looks at the baby face of his little daughter. And she turns from her abruptly; yes, turns from her with a feeling well-nigh of hatred. How should I write the word if I did not know that love and hatred, under the overmas tering influence of jealousy, are exchange.. able terms? She turns from the child, I say, and for an instant stands motionless, then, through a half.open door, walks into a small ad- joining room, her husbands dressing- room. It is in disorder, Esther the house- maid having taken her days junketing at the races; just as Mr. Theobald left it after dressing this morning. Three or four summer cravats fkilures are strewn about the dressing-table; the gloves in which he drove over from The Folly lie on the floor. She stoops and picks one of these gloves up; in I know not what passion of tenderness clasps it tight, tight to her breast for a moment, then filngs it from her with a gesture of abhorrence. Melodramatic, highly; but coming from Jane, natural. If she were dying, the poor theatre-nurtured girl must be theatrical still. After this, shutting and locking the door, as though she would lock him away from her thoughts with the action, she comes back to her room and finishes undressing. By now a faintest primrose tinge has begun to penetrate through the heavy window curtains. Jane draws one back and sees the world already entered upon a new day; sees the ~mhill light resting on the hoar old elms around Theobalds, and on the faintly-outlined chalk downs that were a thousand years before she was, and will be a thousand years after she has sinned and suffered her little hour and gone to sleep again. What matter her sorrows or her wrongs in this great ~ystem of things wherein she holds so poor a place? Of what account are they or she to any one? And then return to her mind the protestations of life-long devo- tion, the offers of riches, freedom, posi- tion, which have been incessantly whis- pered in her ear throughout the evening. And though she loathes the offers and him who made them alikemore than this, though, with wisdom prematurely learnt in the sharpest of all schools, she ap- praises both protestations and offers at their exact valueit seems to her that there can be no going back now; that what is coming is not only inevitable, but best. All times of revolution, in nations or in a girls ignorant heart, are times of light- ning speed. Four hours ago, reckoning 100 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? fJAN. time by ordinary computation, Ji~ne was swayed by one fierce passion, simply; in an access of jealousy, desired swift and sure and desperate retaliation upon one offender. She has gone through a whole lifetime of moral change since then; will be avenged not only for her bruised and despised loves sake, not on Theobald only, now, but on the world; will throw down the gauntlet not merely to the Chalkshire respectability which has flouted her, but to all respectability. (An old, ever-new story, reader. Society revolting agains.t the class; the individual revolting against, and so justifying, society.) How puerile, childish, seems that scheme she once en- tertained of returning to the stage! What, go through the bitter toil, the heat, the cold of that hardest slavery, to win the applause of a capricious public, the paltry earnings of some forty or fifty shillings a week, while Theobald, by good luck rid, without signal disgrace, of his incumbrance, might return honorably to the world that had found no place for her, the world of Lady Rose Golightly! Work wants a sound heart. If at any time, while he loved and was faithful to her, Francis Theohald had happened to ruin himself utterlyyes, to the wanting of breadnever doubt that Jane would have gone back to the stage, short skirts, bard work, modest pay, and all, and have pirouetted bravely for his support; yes, and have had him wear fine lavender gloves and embroidered linen, and smoke the best attainable cigars, out of her poor superfluities. That isjust thesortofstuflsheis made Qf. Not now, not now! She moves across to her dressing- table, where lie her soiled ball gloves, her faded bouquet, her programme. She takes up this last, and looks down through the list of danceseach Valse dAmour or Galop Infernal marking a station of her journey along the railroad to ruin! then turas over to the other side, and in cold, green daylight, reads the words the Duke wrote there in pencil as he stood bareheaded, the county watching, I will not say envying her success, beside the door of her carriage. Only three or four words: the address of a certain hotel in Brussels, with his Graces initials scrawled in monogram underneath. But Janes face turns sud- denly ashen as she reads them. Pain, like pleasure, has its exaltations; pain hitherto has lifted her in some measure above the level of her guilt. The sight of those few words, in the Dukes hand- writing, and in her possession, makes her realize, with a shiver of actual bodily ter- ror, what all this is that is befalling her. God, can she escape, may she escape! Help her if she be not already past the reach of help! She hides the programme out of sight in her dressing-table drawer as though its secret could be deciphered by any eyes save her ownand going up to her bed, not to the side where Blossy lies asleep, stands, her ashen face growing more ashen, her cold hands clasped together rigidly, then falls down on her knees and tries to pray. She and Mm received what would be counted hut a heathen kind of bringing up from poor, strong-hearted, weak-headed Uncle Dick. When the children were young, however, Uncle Dicks wife did, in her scanty leisure, in her unenlightened way, teach these heaven-forsaken little theatre rats to go on their knees and re- peat a certain form of words at night~ And Jane has clung to the habit since no power of Theobalds, even, being able to shake her from what he has often called the one mild hypocrisy of her character. hypocrisy were to Jane a physical impossibility. Had Theobald used the word superstition, he might have been nearer the mark. For in truth the prayer which has constituted the sole nourishment of her spiritual life is one I should blush to submit to the eyes of ed- ucated renders; a formula scarcely to be ranked higher than the distich of which Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John is the first line. And still it is a prayer; an outcry of weakness to strength; an ac- knowledgment Qf something beyond, above this visible life of ours and its needs. And formula, superstition, parrot like repetition of soulless wordscall it by what name one willJane has never, knowingly, laid her head on her pillow since she was a child without going through it. She goes through it now. Now, for the first time in her existence, probably, learns what prayer means. For she learns that her formula means nothing! She is staring at the sickly daylight on the op. posite wall, nnd kneeling with hands joined, and lips moving, and her heart 1872.] OUGhT WE TO VISIT HER? 101 dumb. Oh, all you who have suffered, do you not know the meaning of that awful impotenceher heart dumb? Well, these things cannot be forced. Prayerless, hopeless, unrepentant, nothing remains for Jane but to get into her bed and watch the green light turn to gold, then white; presently to hear the birds sing, and then the whistle of the gardeners boy as he passes under her window to his work. After a time the servants begin to stir in the house, and Blossy, waking, flings her soft arms round her mothers neck and asks, as she has done every morn- ing since Saturday, Why Dada, him not here! and must have her game of romps as usual. And Blossy has her game; sings negro melodies at the pitch of her shrill voice; dances fantasiason the bed barefooted, with night-gown artistically upraised in the morning sunshine; Jane forced to listen to her, forced to look at her! For what might the servants think, so low has she sunk alreadyJane, who, as long as she ~w~s honest, cared not a straw for the whole world !what might the servants think if she rung earlier than on another morning to have the child taken away to the nursery? By and by comes her own getting up and dressing. Her limbs ache as they never ached after any ball before, her bands tremble, her throat feels parched. And still, thanks to yesterdays scorching on the race course, thanks to the fever of the night, her cheeks retain their color. When she comes down stairs she is able to force her voice as near as may be into its accustomed tone. The servants, if ques- tioned hereafter, will be ready, doubt not, to affirm that Missus never looked better nor in better spirits, and took ker break- fast hearty, and seemed quite cheerful with Miss Blossy. Trustworthy, discrimina- tive souls! Is it not upon evidence like this that the history of half our fireside tragedies is written? And the morning hours drag by to noon. Blossys dinner-time comes, and then, as Jane sits at the table, attending to the child, and making what pretence she can of swallowing food herself, arrives a ser- vant from The Folly with a note, the same that should have been sent aver to her last night, from Mr. Thec~bald: Dear Jane, her lord and master writes: After what you said to-day, I conclude you will not mind going to the ball alone. Lord Barty Beaudesert has asked me to stay with him for a few dAys on hoard his yacht at Cowes. I start to- night. Address to me, On board the Lais, Cowes, if you should have occasion to write. Impossible to say for certain when I shall be back. Your affectionate husband, FRANcIs THEOBALD P. 8.If you want moiey, you will find some in my russian-leather case. Tne key must be in one of my waistcoat pock- ets in the dressing-room. Well, the postscript is important, more important. possibly than Mr. Theobald imagined when he wrote it. Not many human actions, virtuous or criminal, can come to fruition unless they have cash as a basisnone, certainly, involving rail- way fares and steamboat tickets; and Jane was brought by current household expenses to her last sovereign yesterday. Mr. Theobalds thoughtfulness is op- portune. She goes up stairs to his dressing-room, searches for the key, happily, or unhap- pily, finds it, and gets what money she believes will suffice to carry her to Bins- selseight or ten pounds in gold. This done, she divests herself of the few trim. kets she chances to have about her, her chain and watch, a brooch of some slen- der value, her rings (except her wedding- ringshe will wear that a little longer yet); then puts on her hat and shawl, and stands ready to go, richer only by thpse eight or ten sovereigns and by her wedding-ring than on the day when she came to Francis Theobald as a bride. Now there is one last farewell to be ut- tered, farewell between mother and chill, between soul and body! Get that wrench over, with as little thinking about it ns possible, and quickly. The train by which she means to go is expressexact to a second. Not too much time left her, as it is, for walking to the station. Blossy is amusing herself alone in the breakfast room down stairs. This room, as I have said, is the cheerfulest one in the house, the room into which Jane has collected together everything in the shape of mirror or ornament Theobalds can boast. It makes a charming little theatre for Bloss, who indeed wants no other en 102 OUGHT WTE TO VISIT HER? [JAN. tertainment when she has got an abun- dance of looking-glass to reflect her own small figure and represent imaginary au- diences as she sings and dances. Especially contented with the world, and everything in it, is Miss Theobald at this moment. Auntie Mm brought her a gift of gorgeous cherry-colored sash aiid shoulder-knots from London yesterday, requesting, as she gave it, that the finery should be enjoyed, not locked away, too fine for use, oat of Blossys jurisdiction. So over her little holland house-frock the child, in the seventh heaven of enraptured vanity, disports her grandeur. Nor is she quite without company. The paper of the room is of quaint old- fashioned designall white and gold arabesque, with impossible palm trees in- termingled, and small green monkeys sit- ting or clinging by impossible tails and hands among the boughs. Well, as Jane enters, in her travelling dress, leaden- eyed, leaden-hearted, Bloss, with infinite grace and variety of gesture, is just ex- hibiting her ribbons to the monkeys; curt- scying to this one, extending a shoulder- knot to that, holding forth the smart fringed end of her sash with disdainful sense of superiority to another. She takes no notice whatsoever of her mothers en- trance, but continues, self-absorbed and grave, to bestow her salutations around. So Jane goes up and lays her gloved hand upon her head. Good-by, Bloss, she says, in a thick, hoarse voice. Then snatches hold of her tight. Kisses neither lips nor brow, but buries her face for a moment among the childs mass of silken curls. Mine zibbonspitty zibbons! cries Bhss, stroking ker ruffled finery with tender fingers, and freeing herself with a little push from the interruption. Me dot pitty zibbons! And then back to her bows and curtseys and attitudinizing before her friends the monkeys. A natural action enough, that push. What matters the universe, with all the love it contains, to a child still untired of its last new plaything! But to Janes ruined heart a death- star). Even the child wants her not; the child is Theobalds; wIll be better off, both as regards this world and the next. with- out her than with her. Sothat wrench is over, the one good- by she had to speak spoken. And now out into the open daylight, into the sight of men, and on with her journey. CHAPTER XLII. FAST ANY) LOOSE WITH DESTINY. JANES destination is Dover; from thence by night mail to Ostend, and then on to Brussels, after which point our story is not further concerned. She has made no plan in detail of the journey, and on reaching Dover learns, to her dismay, that she will have more than three hours to wait. The Belgian steamer, so one of the railway porters in- forms her, does not start till sevenpas- sengers not allowed on board till half- pest six. Where is she to spend these hours? How kill this hideous interval of time, without the narcotic of action or movement to deaden her painstill the remorse that already, the first stage ,of her journey scarce over, buins at her heart? She knows several of the large Dover hotels, having stopped there often in bet- ter, innocent days, with Theobald; but dreading recognition, will show her face at none of thesewill sooner bear her three hours ordeal alone and unnoticed, in the ladies waiting-room at the station. Ilowever, the atmosphere of the waiting- room makes her faint and sick; after a time, too, she begins to think (Jane grown a coward in such matters!) that the austere-looking woman who guards the water-bottle and texts eyes her with suspicion; and so wanders forth into the streets, resolved, if walking be possible, te pass the remainder of the time until she can go on board in the open air. She finds that it is not possible. Walk- ing wants strength, and Jane, after ten or twelve minutes trial, discovers with terror that she has no strength left. At last, seeing a small but decent inn not far from the harbor, she enters it, and in a halting voice asks the tawdrily-dressed landlady, wh~ comes out from the bar to meet her, if she can have a sitting-room to herself for about a couple of hours. She has to wait until the departure of the Ostend boat at seven. The woman gives her a hard lookthe logic of a landladys facts disinclining her 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? 103 doubtless, toward female travellers devoid of her life. Blankly staring at the oppo- of luggage or ostensible masculine protec- site wall, and at the face of simpering tion. A sitting-room? Why, yes, folks mezzotint majesty, Jane bethinks her of can have a parlor to themselves of course, the childish years when she and Mm ran by paying for it; but wild about the precincts of Drury Lane I will pay you what you choose to ask and Covent Garden; of her short-li~ed me, is Janes answer, hurriedly drawing girlish dreams of theatrical success; of out and opening her purse. that first day when Theobald stood, and At which the hard look mollifies. Next fell in love with her, despite her darned to masculine protection, whats so respect- merino and the shabby roses in her hat, able as a well-filled purse! Ah, the from the half-lit slips of the Royal! young lady is going across the water, is She did not care for him so very much, she? Tis to be hoped, for her sake, the she remembers, in the early days of their night will be fine; but the sailors dont courtship; or so, confident of her power, like the look of the sky, and the wind is she used to tell him. She had seen other changing fast. Then, after leading her men she fancied as well before. Mr. Thej- ~~me steps along a stifling, beery passage, bald, if he liked, might go. Present-? mine hostess shows her guest into a sti- Oh, she wouldnt take a present from a fling, beery parlor, dverlooking the har- prince. Give up the stage and become a bor and shipping, and redolent of both, lady? With her agreement signed, and and leaves her alone, her dresses ready, and success certain! The furniture in this parlor consists thanks! The honor of Mr. Theobald~s of a rickety horsehair couch, a table, a preference was great, but she preli3rred couple of chairs, and a shelf holding a few liberty to honor; was too young to know odd volumes of musty leather-bound books. her own mind yet. Mr. Theobald might Its adornments are, Dover castle in shell- go. And he went. For two days, during work, a bunch of grotesquely unnatural which the world turned black to her, feather tulips, and a mezzotint engraving stayed away. Then suddenly, just when of II. M. King William the Fourth: H. she was beginning to think he had taken M. curveting on a lambs-wool charger her at her word and gone forever, made through a lambs-wool forest, with the his appearance at the old corner of Wel- towers of Windsor, royally defying every lington street as she was returning home rule of perspective, in the background. from rehearsal, and said, Jane, my dear, ~Tell, before Jane has been here three I want your answer to a certain question minutes, it seems to her as though this there can be only one answer for you to miserable place and its belongingsaye, ghe, you knowwill you throw up your even to the grouping of the unnatural engagement andmarryme? And there tulips, the simper on the face of majesty was only one answer for her to give. She had been familiar objects for years. With threw up her engagement and married such ease do we attune ourselves, in cer- him. tam overstrung states of mind and body, She remembers the arrangements of to each successive accompaniment or back- their most Bohemian wedding: Theobald ground of our pain! Her first hope when in a morning suit, and smoking his pipe the woman left her alone was that she until he reached the vestry door; herself might sleep. No matter how uninviting in a bonnet made by her own hands and a the couch, she would rest her throbbing print dress; with only just sufficient wit- temples on its pillow in an attitude, at nesses in the gloomy London church to least, of sleep. And sleep will not come render the marriage legal. She remem- near her. The very attempt at rest has bers their honeymoon (the honeymoon but quickened the fever of her brain. No that to Janes heart never quite waned) escape that way. She must face con- on the Continent. science at last; must bear whatever tor- Summer was in its bloom; they went ture her own thick-coming, morbidly- to Ems, Frankfort, Baden-Baden. Oh, vivid thoughts have power to inflict upon the sunshine of those days! Oh, the her. nights, white with stars, when, hands They shape themselves, bit by bit, into furtively clasped, they used to wander, a retrospectmocking her sick heart by listening a little to the music and much its brightnessof all the happiest periods to their own whispers among dim-lit Kur~ 104 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? snal gardens! Oh, the out-of-door dinners and suppers, those two alone, wanting no other guest, save the invisible guest love, who sat between them! She thinks of their winter in Homburg, of her money troubleslight ones, in sooth; was not Theobald her lover still? Then of her childs birth; of Blossys first im- perfect words; of the day at ten months old when, miracle of a baby, Blossy ran from her knee, alone, to Theobalds arms. She remembers. Ah, my God, no! These are not things to think of unless one would go mad outright. Think, instead, of later cruel daysof the neglect, the faithlessness, that are the justification of ones guilt. But thought will not be put in shackles. Thought turns from the liv- ing, miserable present; flies back, swift- winged, to the honeyed years that are dead the years, with all their sins of omis- sion, undarkened by a solitary cloud of coldness or of estrangement! How she has loved life since her mar- riage! Homeless, spendthrift, vagrant, though they have been, how few thorns have grown among their roses! They have lived openly and avowedly for pleas- nre only, and have found it, or Jane has felt pleasure in her dress and balls and vanities, pleasure in her child and hus- band, pleasure in the mere fact of drawing breath, and of being young and fair. And now all is over; not a wreck of the old joy left; and through no fault of hers our souls are kinder to us sometimes than life isthrough no fault of hers. Inch by inch, foot by foot, she has been hurried toward this precipice upon whose last~ pent she stands wanting, striving to regain her footing, but borne down ever by fate stronger than her will. If society, if six, four, twonay, if one kindly human heart had bidden her God- speed when she came to Chalkshire; if the harsh judgments wrongly visited on her had been visited, righteously, on Lady Rose Goligbtly; if. But why make her weary brain wearier with such ifs? Does right, does justice exist in the world at all? Is there not one law for the rich, and one for the poor; one law for men, and one for women; one law for the well- born, and one for those who are not? The words spoken by Charlotte Theobald yesterday return abruptly to her remem- brance, and with them returns the thought [JAN. of Charlotte Theobalds outstretched hand: If you want a friend, and the time may come sooner than you think, youll know where to find one. In that chill offer was there just a last chance of salvation for her? Is it possible heavens, is it possiblethat i~ might be her means of salvation yet? She starts up from the couch, and for a minute or two walks up and down the room; then, her heavy limbs aching after even this exertion, sinks down again into her former place. Salvation possible, and at the hands of Francis Theobalds sisters! What, re- turn, a suppliant for their compassion? Tell the truth (even in such a strait as this no plan involving falsehood crosses Janes imagination; to whatever depth she fall, the one virtue of truth must remain linked to her thousand other crimes), standing in the Miss Theobalds starched drawing- roomwith the curious, self-torturing in- stinct of the miserable, she puts the whole scene before herself in detaillooking into the Miss Theobalds starched faces, make her confession? She bad abandoned home, child, husband, deliberately, and, of her own free will, set out upon the path of dishonor; then, at the first stage of her journey, pluck failing her, had come back repentant, to sue for mercy. What an- swer would a woman receive at the hands of such women, of any women, to such an appeal? Charlotte Theobakl would stand by her, little doubt of that, as Jane has seen a policeman stand by some wretch whom the crowd would roughly handle, but whom it is the policemans duty to protect and keep intact for the official tor- tures of the condemned cell or penitentia- ry. She, Jane Theobald, would be in a kind of select condemned cell, or private family penitentiary, for the rest of her life, were she to give herself over to the law in the person of Charlotte Theobald. A woman not of aristocratic birth who has made one false step, half a false step, and acknowledged it, and retrograded, must, as society at present is framed, be branded with a scarlet or- other letter until her lifes end. Why, to go bravely on, run the whole gauntlet of shame, with shames chances (not a few take them altogether) of final success, were better wisdom, as far as any prospect of social rehabilitation goes 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? 105 She ridses her eyes, and majesty seems to give a smile of benign approval at the sentiment. After a time reiinters the hostess; sus- picious, no doubt, that the solitary female traveller may be making away with the chairs and tables. The solitary female traveller rests wearily on the same place on the couch, her headlying back against the wall, her face fever-red and haggard. Will she take dinner? tea? Will she take refreshmenttartly thisof no kind? Soda and brandy? To be sure. Excellent thing a soda and brandy before a sea voy- age, and a captains biscuit with it. The last not ordered by Jane, but suggested as costing an extra threepence by the host- ess. In another minute some nauseous compound in a tumbler, with a plate of villanous-looking fossil sea biscuits, are set before her. Jane has scarcely tasted food since her luncheon on the race-course yesterday. Excitement has been her meat; no very healthy nutriment, as we know, but all-. satisfying while it lasts. It satisfies her still. She swallows the contents of the tumbler; in spite of its nauseous taste, feels strengthened by it. Then, with a sense that consumption of food in some shape is required of her, puts one of the fossil biscuits into her pocket, and rings the bell, desiring to pay quickly that which she owes for her entertainment, and start. Use of sitting-room, a shilling; bran- dy and soda, a shilling; biscuits, three- pence; attendance, ditto. Total, two and sixpence. Jane draws forth her purse to requite this last hospitality her native land shall offer her. It contains only gold-yellow tempting sovereigns-won, did she but know it, at The Folly over night. And again the hostesss hard eyes soften hu- manly. Attendance is charged three- pence, may be made sixpence if a guest has a mind to behave handsome, and will the lady be kind enough to wait fora min- ute or so? She must just step inside her own sitting-room behind the bar to get change. The lady waits, standing beside the shelf of leather-bound volumes I have mentioned. And now occurs to Jane The- obald one of those curious chance revela- tions which at seasons, in places most un expected, through agencies the most out- wardly trivial, do shine in on our souls in their hour of direst necessity. Size stands, I say, waiting, inert, half stupefied. Her body is weak, the brandy of its kind was strong. And as she stands thus, sees a little marker of red ribbon appearing above the edges of one of the dingy books. If the ribbon had been black, Jane had probably never noticed it. The red strikes her attention mechanically. Mechanical- ly she takes the bookan 6dd volume of sermons by Bishop Porteous-from the shelf; opens it listlessly at the place marked, and reads, in the big pale type, on the yellow ribbed paper of a century ago, this passage: And as it sometimes happens that they who have the weakest and most dis- tempered frames, by means of an exact regimen and unshaken perseverance in rule and method, outlive those of a robust- er make and more luxuriant health; so there are abundant instances where men of the most perverse dispositions and most unruly turn of mind, by keeping a stcady guard upon their weak points and gradu- ally but continually correcting their de- fects, going on from strength to strehgth and from one degree of perfection to an- other, have at length arrived at ~ higher pitch of virtue than those for whom na- ture had done much, and who would therefore do but little for themselves. Let us then never despair. Common enough words, it may be sxid. Sunday utterances of a place-seeking chaplain who, in the hope of lawn slecvi~ under George the Third, wrote on the oc- casion of George the Seconds funeral that earth was not pure enough for th.~ de- ceased Kings abode; his only place was heaven. No matter. They have done good work for once, have delivered to one lost soul the highest message a mans words can ever convey to his fellows: re- demption for the fallen, strength for the weak, hope for all. Let us then never despair. ~ Jane walks forth from the inn with limbs that know not their heaviness mine hostess watching her depart with sagely- prophetic shakes of the head. A wed- ding-ring was on the girls finger trudy, but people may come to no good even w~th that. She walks down to the quay through rain, now beginning to fall in heavy showers, and heeds i~ not. Her 106 OUGHT WE TO VISIT JER? [JAN. brain is on fire, her whole moral nature in a state of exaltation. Material conditions of fatigue or wet affect her not. Arrived with a string of other foot pas- sengers by the side of the Belgian steam- er, she stands for a space, because those about her stand. When her turn comes, files across the gangway like the rest. From strength to strength, from per- fection to perfection. Let us then never despair. The words lift her to a kind of ecstasy. She repeats them in her heart again and again, as though to repeat them were of itself an act of salvation. And all the time the vessel is getting up its steam fast, the vessel that is to bear her an- other stage on her journey to Brussels, and she makes no effortit does not sug- gest itself to her fevered, half-delirious thoughts, to make an effort to leave it. From strength to strength, from perfec- tion to perfection Better go down below, mum, hadnt you? says a sailors rough, friendly voice. Youre a-getting wet through up here on deck. Getting! Why, her chest and shoul- ders are wet to the skin already; the sen- sation, as far as she feels it at all, pleasur- able. However, she obeys instantly; di- rected by the same friendly voice, goes be- low, then makes her way, guided by the flicker of a lamp, through a half.open door, into the ladies cabin. Ladies are ranged around in berths prepared for sea- sickness; the stewardess sits chatting to a rosy-faced young woman, evidently in her own rank of life, who holds a child in her arms. Jane sinks down on a sofa just within the door and listenshears rather: to listen denotes an act of voluntary at-~ tentionhears what the two women talk about. They talk dramatically, after the manner of uneducated people, about what he said and she said; they enter, unreservedly and aloud, into the details of their private affairs. At the end of two or three minutes Jane knows that the younger woman is returning home to her husband, who owns some sort of hotel or lodging-house in Ostend, and that her name is Smith. And she is sensible of a certain remote feeling of comfort from the knowledge. The woman s voice and face are kindly; some faintest clue to human kinship seems given in the fact of know- ing her name. Ifif this queer sensation of weakness should get worse, ones head more unsteady, it might be well tirat there were some one near, some pitying Chris- tian woman (not of the upper or visitable classes), to hold out a hand of succor in ones need. Creak, creak, go the boards, resound- ing under many feet, overhead; the rising wind whistles; the bi0 drops beat against the skylight. Wv shall have .a roughish night of it, Im afraid, maam, observes the younger woman, clasping the child she holds tight- er to her breast as she addresses the stew- ardess. Yes, and the tide against us, too, answers the latter, with the equanimity of a human being to whom an extra-rough sea only means extra sea-sick ladies and extra fees to oneself. But your little maids a good sailor, Mrs. S. Well, yes, bless her! She dont often ail by sea or by land. And putting back her shawl with ten- der hand, the woman reveals to Janes ach- ing sightBlossy. Not the veritable liv- ing Blossy (at this moment, doubtless, asleep and rosy in her cot) ,but Blossy not- withstanding. To a mother every little child is in some measure hers, and brings her, even more vividly than memory can, into the presence of the one she has left. A big girl, Mrs. Smith, remarks the stewardess, looking down critically at the small sleeper. I doubt but shes too stout for health. Not she, cries the mother quickly. You should see her shoulders when she standsas upright! and such a pair of legs! and only three years old next Mich- aelmas. Smith was all for keeping her home with him. I was called away to poor father, sudden, maam, as you know, and Smith wanted to keep the child home along of him. But, bless you, I couldnt be happy and her out of my sight. A young child like that, as I say, theyre well to-day and sick to-morrow. The stewardess shakes her head with the habitual melancholy of her profession. You may say that, my dear. Well to- day and gone to-morrow! And this sum- mer, especial. I never knew so much sickness as there is among the young chil- dren this summer. Jane starts to her feet she turns ab- ruptly from the sight of the sleeping child, and gropes her way out of the cabin. The words of the sermon spoke to her con- 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT HERP 107 science, as we have seen, but from without artificially. She kept upon the road to Brussels still. Every fibre of her nature, bodily and mental, is smitten by the wo- mens careless talk, smitten through the instinct which lies at the very root and foundation of all conscience. One blind mighty hunger, to get back to the child she has abandoned, fills her heart. Bbs- sys kisses, Bbossys songs and dances, the sweets, the quintessence of her womans life; what mattered the slights of the world, the censure of narrow brains and dull malicenay, what mattered Theo- balds infidelity, while she had these? And she has forsaken these; has put a barrier betweeu herself and all that to her is life forevermore.~ 0 fool! into what black night of hopeless, loveless despair was she not about to drift? Wasaye, for she will turn back yet. What to her is society, or the reception that awaits her from society? She will have Blossy. Has done nothing, God be thanked for thatto forfeit the pressure of Blossys arms, the touch of Blossys lip~! Her strength seems to have come back by miracle. She reaches the deck with- out an effort. All that remains now is, to walk back on shore and to the station, and take the first train that will bear her no matter how short a stageupon her journey home. Home? No, Jane; not so. Not thus may we play fast and loose with destiny. She reaches the deck, is conscious of a cer- tain tremulous movement of the vessel, and looking quickly around through the driving rain sees a gleam of lights, the outline of dark moving objects on either side. A second longer look conveys to her the whole truth. The steamer at this very moment is passing outward through the narrow mouth of Dover harbor. Re- turn is impossible. CHAPTER XLIII. LORD BARTY AND HIS FRIENDS. THE club gardens at Cowes. Pictur- esque groups of yachting people in after- dinner dress. Mingled exhalations of Havana cigars. August flowers and Cowes mud. Conversation a trifle more animated, perhaps, than the after-dinner conversation of the same people would be in London, but abounding in much the same scintillations of wit and intellect A foreground group with whom we have concernLord Barty Beaudesert, and the guests who, during the last forty-eight hours, have been enjoying his hospitality and the charms of each others society on board the Lais. it is said pleasantly, by those who should know them besttheir greatest enemies and their greatest friendsthat the race of Beaudesert has always con- sisted in pretty equal divisions of knaves and fools. Of the pair of noble brothers who are the races living representatives, Lord Barty Beaudesert isnot the fool. You need not look into his face to see that. Though, for my part, I hold that knaves and fools are convertible terms. No man would be a knave unless he were in some degree a fool. No fool have you ever met who had not in him the potential elements, at least, of knavery. Lord Barty has the typical classic~ fools profile of all the Beaudeserts, with the prominent, lack-lustre, Beaudesert eye. And still something which scarcely rises to intellect, the sharp wide-awake look, rather, th~t you will find in a wiry little fox terrier, redeems his smooth r~d face from the absolute Beaudesert vacu- ity. Very wide-awake, indeed, is Lord Barty Beaudesert. Very well known, and with no snow-white reputation, in bettin~,-rings, billiard-rooms, and all other resorts where the winning and losing of mens money is legitimate business! And still Lord Barty is a poor man, for the son and brother of a duke; a very poor man indeed. He keeps a yachthires it, rather, cap- tain, crew, and all; nothing in the world is absolutely Lord Bartys ownon prin- ciples of economy. The cheapest thing going, a yacht, Lord Barty says. No house rent, no taxes, no servants. And then you know your outgoing expenses to a shilling. Lord Barty adds nothing about your in- coming revenues; and these, to a hospita- ble yachtsman, fond of loo and chicken- hazard, and blessed with friends of the pigeon-like nature of little Lord Verreker and it may be hoped, of this Dundreary fellow Rose is soft aboutare not incon- siderable. The Dundreary fellow Rose is soft about has not, as thin~s at present stand, proved 108 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? [JAN. a very lucrative speculation to Lord Barty ability, said everything. Lady Rose Beaudesert. Not a man at any time has by no means reached this fatal climax whom I would classify as belonging to the in a tender friendship. But Thcobald genus pigeon is Francis Theobald, al- reached it long ago. He is not, as I have though his extreme guilelessness of manner often repeated, a ladies man. With his has more than once led even professional wife he is never bored; but then Jane is hrnciers of those birds astray in theirjudg- not a lady! Jane, in her ignorance, her ment upon him. And during the past originality, her chameleon-like moods of tbw days, ever since he determined, in- thought and temper, is always more or deed, to follow up his luck at The less amusing. Lady Rose Golightly is Folly, Theobald has been enjoying fortune not amusing in the least, when one has unprecedentedthe fortune of a man had six or seven days of Lady Rose Go- whom all the gods have conspired to lightly. And Theobald dimly suspects ruin! in the inmost recesses of his soul a horn- Last nighttwas a roughish night at ble suspicion is beginning to gain ground sea, as we know, but weather that might that Lady Rose Golightly, at thirty cruelly toss a small mail steamer in the years of age, is capable of far more con- channel is comparatively unfelt in the stant feelings than was Lady Rose Beau- smooth land-locked roads off Coweslast desert at twenty-two. Capable, it may night, after the boat-race, there was a din- be, of that last resource of worn-out ner, with a little loo, when the ladies left, women of the world, a sei4ous passion. on board the Lais. And Theobald won But if he were convinced of this, and con- everything. Young Lord Verreker fell a vinced that he were to be the object of victim, naturally. For what end do Lord the passion, Mr. Theobald, you may be Verrokers of one-and-twenty exist at all very sure, would get on board the next (on board the Lais, especially), unless it steamer that leaves Cowes fo~ the main be to fall victims? But the same fate be- land, and bid Lady Rose Golightly, and fell the veterans; the same fate befell every person and thing belonging to her, Harry Desmond and Lord Barty. No an eternal good-by! science, no combination of science, could The murmurs become more and more hold its own against the aces and kings languid, an~d Lady Roses cunning wastes of Mr. Theobald. itself in vain efforts to instil into them I repeat it, a most unfavorable specula- some kind of galvanic life. Sprightliness, tion hitherto has this Dundreary fellow sentiment, veiled half-reproachestdl fall Rose is soft about proved to Lord Barty blankly to the ground. At last, happily, Beaudesert. How unfavorable a one is occurs a diversion. A boy in red and blue being discussed between Colonel Desmond uniform enters the garden, not twenty nud Lord Barty at this momentLoo steps away from where Theobald and his Childers chatting with the innocent frank- companion are sitting, one of the ominous ness that proved Mr. Smylies undoing to orange-colored envelopes we all of us know young Lord Verreker; Lady Rose and too well in his hand. NIr. Theobald talking in low murmurs on Those terrible little telegraph boys! a rustic seat a little apart from the rest. says Lady Rose. I have never been able When men and women, in real life, not to see one of them without a shudder since romance, talk together in this murmuring I lost my Coco. Coco was my Maltese, fashion, I have ascertained after much Mr. Theobald. The most beautiful dog close practical observation that, in ninety- in London, and affectionate 1the only nine cases out of a hundred, the exhaus- creature, I believe, that ever loved me on tion of tone is accompanied by a corre- earth. sponding exhaustion of ideas. You watch Case of a dear gazelle, responds Mr. some whispered colloquy, every word of Theobald, sensible that some kind of mur- which, judging from outward manner, inured imbecility is expected of him. should be fraught with perilous dramatic Case of a dear gazelle, as you say. interest; you listen and hear wire-drawn The poor old love was sickening when I monosyllables about the last change in had to leave town, so I gave strict orders the weather or the approaching change to Burton to let me know if he got worse. in bonnets. The interesting murmuring On the second day after I left I got a pair have long ago, to the best of their telegram. Servants are so cruelly incon 1872.] OUGhT WE TO VISIT HER? 109 Really and truly I believe the tele- gram is for us, observes Lady Rose, look- ing over her shoulder with languid inter- est. No, for Barty. Barty gets mys- terious messages from his horrid jockeys and horse-racing people from morning till night. But no; the orange envelope is not for Lord Barty Beaudesert. Finger to cap, the boy addresses his lordship, and, by a little nod of his lordships head, has the rightful object of his search pointed out to him. Another three secondsanother three seconds, the last, of rose-watered boredom) and tender friendships, and.Lady Rose Golightlyand the orange envelope is iu Francis Theobalds hands. MARTHA SMITH, 4 rue de to Cloche, Ostend, to FRANcIS THEOBALD, on board the Lois, Cowes. Sia: A lady named Jane Theobald lies here in my house dangerously ill. A letter she has about her bears your ad- dress. Please telegraph instructions, or come without delay. siderate! It would have been just as well, as I had gone, to spare me the last sad scene. Two of the first dog doctors had seen Coco, and there was no hope. I rushed up to town that night, just in time to see him alive. He died in my arms. Happy Coco! observed Theobald,~ knocking the ashes from the tip of his cigar. And, from that day to this, the sight of a telegraph boy makes me get cold. I received another most distressing shock, 1 remember, when my poor mother had her last fatal illness. We were in the Highlands, just in the middle of one of the pleasantest shooting-parties. Really, I think there should be a law that some other hired person should be sent on first to prepare one for the telegraph boys. Or, better still, have some hired per- son to bear ones distressing shocks for one, observes Theobald, like the depu- ty mourners at an Irish funeral. Ah,if civilization could only arrive at that! Theobald starts up to his feet, his face Lady Rose sighs and k~oks pensive. Mr. turning to the ghastly, corpse-like hue Theobald leans back on the rustic seat, very blonde-complexioned people do turn speculating, perhaps, as to whether civil- when the current of the blood is set sud- ization will ever allow of tender friend- denly away. ships being done by deputy, too. The No bad news from home, I hope? messenger comes nearer. One of the club asks Lady Rose in her quiet voice, as she waiters to whom he has addressed himself watches him. With the selfishness of a seems to point among the group we are thoroughly ignoble passion, it seems to watching for the person of whom he is in Lady Rose Golightly that any bad news search. from home for Mr. Theobald must be good How glad I am we did not giv~e a news to her. definite Yes to Mrs. Dulcimer, says He does not reply, does not see, hear Lady Rose. Mrs. Dulcimer, a lady of her. The thought of Jane, of her love nautical and other reputation, has asked for him, of the first fond days of their all Cowes to dance on board her yacht to- marriageall that there is yet of good in night; but Lady Rose, mindful of Mr. the mans nature gains mastery over him Theobalds prejudices, has left the ques- in this moments sharpest agony, and tion of going open. If her strength al- holds him dumb. lowed, and dear Mrs. Dulcimer would take so undecided an answer, she would be charmed. But in this hot weather Lady Rose is such a terribly poor creature; no knowing, till the eleventh hour, what Lady Roses strength will allow her to do! We should be quite sure of being bored if we went. Quite sure, Mr. Theobald acqui- esces, mentally deciding that they would be tolerably certain of that anywhere, and under any circumstances. And the messenger, with the orange envelope in his hand, approache~ nearer. I am reallyafraid you have had bad news, Mr. Theobald? cries Lady Rose. And as she speaks she rises, gracefully agitated, and stands beside him. He puts the telegram, without a word of answer or of comment, into her hand. Most distressingand so sudden! Thus sympathizes Lady Rose, not lifting her eyes from the paper. We must hope, indeed we must hope, that there may be some mistake or exaggeration. So often exaggeration in cases~ of illness! Would it not be well to telegraph for de- tails? 110 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? [JAN. But, even as she says this, Theobald, whole party. But so exactly what one unheeding her, questions the boy about might expect. People like Mrs. Theobald the Portsmouth steamers. Quietly he cannot even he ill without doing a little speaks, death itself could not make Fran- theatre. Martha Smith to Francis The- cis Theobald o~itwardly flurried, but in an obald. Oh, thanks, to Lord Verreker, odd hoarse voiceLady Rose can scarcely who restores to her the dust-stained lace recognize it as Theobaldsand with no and cambric. A lady named Jane The- faintest return of color to his blanched ~obald and so on throughout the tel- face. The steamerthe last steamer to Portsmouthhas not left yet,but the gen- tleman wont have a moment to lose if he wants to catch it. The boats start sharp in these flood-tides. Trains from Portsmouth? Well, he doesnt know for certainbelieves the last steamer from the island runs to catch the mail up. Something dreadful is certainly going on, remarks Loo Childers, pausing in her flirtation with Lord Verreker. Dont you think it might be as human for us to inquire what? Just look at the color of Mr. Theobalds face. Lord Verreker, lifting his hand to his foolish lip, where one day there may be a moustache, lisps, Ya-asto be sure. Inquire, shall we? And the pair rise. But by the time they reach Lady Rose (boo prepared with charming platitudes adapted to any shade of condolence), Theobald is in the act of leaving. No human being, not even the faithful friend Loo Childers, will ever know what were the last words spoken between Lady Rose Golightly and the man who was her lover once. But one trifling circumstance Miss Childers notes and remembers; per- haps may too accurately remember when the faithful friendship shall have gone the way of all mortal alliances. Lady Roses handkerchief, a dainty perfumed morsel of lace and cambric, has fallen to the groundfell there, doubtless, in the mo- ment of her first graceful agitationand Theobalds heel grinds it into the dust as he leaves her. A trifling circumstance, of which Theobald, I am quite sure, is unconscious. But poor Lady Rosehas not Lady Rose eyes to see and a heart to remember, as well as her friend Loo Childers? She has more color in her cheek than usual, more animation in her expression. Quite a sensational d6nouernent. Lord Barty and QAonel Desmond have by this time sauntered up, and Lady Rose finds herself in the position of narrator to the egram. Silence all round; then a low kind of whistle, accompanied by a singularly ill- pleased expression of face, on the part of Lord Barty Beaudesert. The question that naturally presents itself to an inquiring mind is, what was Mrs. Theobald doing at Ostend? Loo Childers volunteers the observation. The question that presents itself to my mind is~ was she there at all? re- marks Lord Barty Beaudesert. And to mine too, growls Harry Desmond with aferoejoas pull at his thick moustache. Andand to mine, says the little lordling, thinking it savors of worldly wis dom to copy the cynicism of his elders. Whether sht is or is not at Ostend, Mr. Theobald has flown to join her, says Lady Rose carelessly. Poor man! The breathless haste in which he rushed off to catch the boat was really exemplary. Mostexemplary, Iveno doubt, sneers Lord Barty, looking sulkier and sulkier. And you and I may as well be turn- ing our thoughts toward Mrs. Dulcimer, Loo. As the evening is tolerably cool, I suppose we may as well go? Loo assents, with a little look of com- mand at Lord Verreker, and the two la- dies prepare to start. Ill just tell you what I think, Rose, says Barty, unable to smother his ill-hu- mor any longer. Mr. Theobald is an old friend of yours, and I renewed my a~- quaintance with him to please you, so I dont want to be unnecessarily severe. But when a man wins the pot of money Theobald won last night, and gets a tele- gram enabling him to bolt with it, all I can say is, its a convenient sort of telegram, and a shuffling, dirty trick for a man to play. Thus Lord Barty Beaudesert, his finest feelings ruffled by even an apparent want of delicacy or honor on the part of an as- sociate. Oh, come, Barty, it never does to look too closely into other peopl& s domestic 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT hER? ill ~oncerns, answers Lady Rose lightly. I suppose, in all cases of really happy wedlock, husbands and wives understand each other pretty well. I should like to know how much of my money the fellow has got in his pocket at this moment, growls Lord Barty. I should like, says Loo Childers, to know what Mrs. Theobald was doing at Ostend. And I, says Lady Rose with a little well-dissembled yawn, should like, if possible, to forget the whole subject. We have troubled ourselves about Mr. and Mrs. Theobalds domestic concerns for at least five consecutive minutes. Come, Loo, putting her hand within her friends arm, if we really mean to go to Mrs. Dulcimers, it is time for us to talk toilets. And so the ladies depart. Good-by, Lady Rose. May you enjoy your ball. May you enjoy the watches of the night the watches of many another dead un- happy future night that shall succeed. CHAPTER XLIV THE CLOSING SCENE. IN the room of a foreign hotel my story opened; in the room of a foreign lodging- house it comes to an end. A cleanly fur- nished little bedroom, with nasturtiums twining round the window-sill, an en- graving or two from Rubenss pictures on the walls; a narrow bed with a girls face resting, awfully white and still and shrunken, upon the pillow.. The window is open, and from her bed Jane can see a square of blue sky framed round by the glowing orange petals and emerald leaves of the nasturtium. The angelus is sounding from some neighbor- ing church. or convent. A bunch of flow- ers upon the mantel-shelf fill all the sick- room with their faint, sweet autumn odor. Jane lies white, still, shrunken; but painlessno longer racked by fierce tor- tures in limbs or chest, no longer pursued by delirious horrors of the brain. What has been her disease? ~What in three cruel weeks has brought all that brilliant health and youth and bloom of hers to this? The little Flemish doctor here in Ostend calls it by one long Latin name; the grand English physician summoned to consultation from Brussels by another. It must have originated in great mental excitement. It must have originated in exposure to wet and cold. For, having facts laid before them, it is surprising how your really clever doctors will find theo- ries to account for them. The truth would seem to be that Jane Theobald has had nearly twenty years of life, and is to have no more. And, when it comes to this, any technical difference in Latin names really matters slightly to the person most concerned. Nearly twenty years of life! She is aloneTheobald, to humor her, having gone or promised to go into the fresh air and looking up at the sky and listening to the angelus, thinks for awhile over Those bygone twenty years. Then, with the prescience that comes to us with exceed- ing bodily weakness, comes to us oftenest when prescience is no longer of much practical use, she looks onward to the fu- ture. Distinctly she can see it. Theobald given back to his own class in life, Blossy brought up as a lady, herself forgot- ten. No, a thousand times no! Never that. Herself remembered by Theobald as one who loved much, sinned much, died well, we may say opportunelyand whom he forgave, tended, cherished with tenderness all beyond her deserts, to the last. But upon this her hands go to her face, the hot tears start, and with a pang of bitterness unutterable Jane realizes how dear life ishow closely, eagerly she clings to the hope of life yet. Blossy is well, in London, with Uncle Dick; perfectly happy and at home,~~ Mms last letter said, and learning al- ready to play the trombone. It is not because of the child that she yearns for life. She yearns for it passionately, de- spite this deathly weakness that assails her, because of Theobald. The child can have no second mother; but Theobald the tears course each other down her cheeks, her wasted frame quivers! Even death itself the jealousy of this poor ignorant soul can transcend! A hushed step sounds; the door opens, shuts, and Theobald comes up to her bed. Theobald, pale, haggard, unshorn; with eyes hollow from much watching; all his dandyism, all his Dundre~iryism gone. What, Jenny, tears? In an instant his arms are around her; with all the small strength she possesses she has lifted 112 OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? herself to his embrace. So this is the use you make of your liberty, the first time you have been left alone! I know, Theobald, Im a fool. The bells set me thinking. I was justjust wondering how Blossy is getting on. By Mms account Bloss was never hap- pier in her life; but if yoa would like to have her here Oh, no. We are better as we are, alone. Im glad after a little tired pause, this; Jane speaks but few words at a time, and these few faintly Im glad you sent the child to Uncle Dick poor old fellow! I thought it was what you would have wish& l, Jenny. Charlotte was very good. Theobalds glass goes to his eye instinc- tively, at the mention of his sister Char- lotte. When they first heard of your illness Charlotte telegraphed to propose that she should come and nuise you Jane gives a little shudder and that the child should go to Anne. But I set- tled it differently. Indeed, I had already written to Uncle Dick to take her. Is all that long ago, my dear? Have I been long here? You have been here three weeks, Jane; but we neednt talk about any- thing that is past now. The past is done with. Very nearly, isnt it? The past ended for me, 1 think, when I saw the lights fade in Dover harbor. They took me to the cabin, I remember, and I got faint and Mrs. Smith held my hand, and then everythings blank till I woke up here with you. How good it was of you to come over to me so quick, Theobald! Oh, Jane, child, dont let us speak about my goodness, is Theobalds an- swer. And then there is silence. Since she ralliedsince the fever left her, rather; there has been no rallying of strengthJane will often lie for an hour together supported by Theobalds arm, neither of them speaking. But to-night she seems more restless. Her cheeks during the last minute have got the color in them again that Theobald dreads. A sort of excitement is in her eyes. Raise me a little, she says to him after a time. Raise me and hold me up, sitting. I want to see how I look in that glass opposite. He obeys her, with difficulty; how firm- [JAg. ly, tenderlyto raise a thing so wasted is not an easy task; and she looks at her own image long and wistfully. Shrunken though she be from all her fine proportions, her hair cut short to her head, the skin turned to waxen paleness, a stranger seeing Jane for the first time at this moment would sny, there was a pretty woman, or the wreck of one. Something sweet and original and pictur. esque makes her Jane Theobald still, in spite of all that she has lost. She looks at herself, then round into Theobalds face, and laughs. A poor lit- tle ghost of a laugh, yet it does him good to hear itonce more to hear a laugh of any kind from Janes lips. What a hideous scarecrow! Theo- bald, I am not human. He answers, as he answers nine out of ten of her remarks, by a kiss. You wouldnt find it easy to pin roses among my beauteous locks now. I should have to take, like Mrs. Coventry Brown, to tin tacks or glue. Should have. Oh, the agony of hear- ing that conditional tense from lips we love! Theobalds heart sinks down again to zero. You dont pay me any compliments. You are not like my poor little good Sa- maritan, Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith did her best to cheer me this morning. I had a cousin Mm though she were dying Jane must be an actress still; the voice that speaks is Mrs. Smiths a cousin Mm who had the rheumatic fever as bad as you, and lived years after, and never got the u~se of her limbs, and weak- like in her intelleck. Theobald, if I re- cover, I hope I shant be weak-like in my intelleck. Dont jest, Jane, dont jest! I cant bear to hear it. lie lays her tenderly down upon her pillow, rests his face by hers, and soon Jane feels tears that are not her own upon her cheek. L have never depicted Francis Theo- bald in any fiworable light. I have shown him to be weak, selfish, indolent; a gam- bler; not too exemplary a husband; not up to the mark, it may be, ifjudged only by the worlds code of honor. Yet even in this man there must be good. Even Francis Theobald cannot surely be all scum, all froth, inasmuch as he can love and suffer yet. 1872.] OUGHT WE TO VISIT hER? 113 And make no mistake as to his position. What are you talking of, my poor Do not think that jheobald holds Jane to child? says Theobald as Jane falters, his heart, sorrows over her as a man with- but holds his hand tighter and tighter in out hope, not knowing. Theobald her own. If ever she gets free! knows all. Knows the whole story of Whom do you mean by she? Janes meditated sin against him, painted I mean Lady Rose, cries Jane with in colors black as night by Jane herself. a gasp. Now that Ive had courage to During the wild days and nights of her say it, I shall be better. Theobald, some fever, her delirious ramblings (scarce a day whenwhen all this is over, and sentence of which but contained his name when Mr. Golightly is got rid of, you will and Lady Roses) told him much. With marry her. her first return to reason, with the first if Mr. Golightly were got rid of, coherent words she uttered, he knows all, says Theobald, speaking more in his natu- Truth is strong in her as love; looking ral voice than he has spoken for days, with her wan eyes into his eyes, both and if Lady Rose had a hundred thou- were poured forth to him together. And sand pounds, and I might marry her next his answer wasto take her closer than moment, I would not marry her. I would before to his breast, and forgive her! rather break stones on the road than spend Not altogether what a man of stoic prin- my life with Lady Rose. ciples would have done, thus placed. But And yet Francis Theobald, we have long known, Jenny, let us have no more and has no principles worth speaking of. At yets. Havent we agreed that the past all events, he forgave her. And with this is done with? We are to go back to the crowning weakness of his weak unbal- old vagabond days, Jane, you and I. I lasted life I, for one, am not disposed to mean to sell TheobaldsI mean that quarrel. Chalkshire and everything belonging to Theobald, says she softly, after an- Chalkshire shall be as though they had other silence, theres just one thing I never been. want to say to you. I should like to have For a minute she is silent. Then a it out to-ni~,ht. light that makes her look almost like the Not to-night, Jenny. To-morrow you Jane Theobald she once was trembles over will he stronger. You know what the all her worn, white face. doetors say about your being excited to- The old vagabond days-you and me ward evening. alone again? Theobald, never mind the I know. Madame is apt to get ex- doctors. I cant die. I dont think Im cited toward evening, say you solemnly. a coward. As long as I could hold your Then take the greatest care madame does hand Id go anywhere in this world or the not get excited toward evening, answer next. That wouldnt be death. But not the doctors, solemner still. however, aloi~e. Oh, my dear, put your arms what Im going to say now wont excite round meclose. Love me, and I shall me a bit. Theobald holding his hand live. Love me, Theobald, me alone in the between both her own and looking at him whole world, and I shall cheat the doctors fixedly 1 dont want to die. yet. Francis Theobalds glass goes to his eye. Theres deuced little in this world for And she kept her word, reader; she any one to want to live for, he remarks lives. The men of science found another drearily. many-syllabled Latin word for the cause If I was surecertainthat my death of her miraculous recovery. I think my- wouldnt be for the best But of self the tour letters L 0 V E spell it in course it would set you free; and then if simple English. Houseless, vagabond, ever she gets free, as I dare say people unvisited, Jane lives, and is a supreme. like that can, and ly happy woman at this hour. THE END. FIRE FROM HEAVEN. TT is Sunday eveninga still, hot even- advancing up the steep and stony road, and .J-ing in the very height of the sum- the shadow deepens on the clouded face. mer. The sun will not set for an hour The new-corner, observing him, advances yet, though he is just dropping out of directly to where he stands. He is a man sight over the side of Mount Hungerso a few years younger than Stephen Evans, the people of that region call the one huge, with a mild and pleasant eye, and a flexi- rock-ribbed summit that rises, brown and ble, sensitive mouth. His countenance at bare, above the lesser, greener hills on this moment is full of some strong emo- which their farms lie scattered. Already tion. the shadows creep along the valleys, not I was going to the house to see you, deep and sombre as in the autumn even- he said, but perhaps we can talk as well ings, but soft gray, pensive shades. The here. day has been unusually hot for New Eng- If it is business, brother Joseph, land; and still the air feels close as if said Stephen uneasily, hadnt we better overcharged with electricity. The sky put it off till to-morrow? I dont like, on is not wholly clear, but veiled in thin the Sabbath day, to haze; and occasionally a gleam of lam- The other interrupted him. It is bent lightning plays over it from a cloud business, but not the business of this below the horizon, world. I want to talk to you about Mi- Deacon Stephen Evans has finished the riam. feeding of l~is cattle, and now stands lean- Is Miriamworse to-night? asked his ing over his farmyard gate, looking brother, in a hushed voice. thoughtfully down the road. The ex- No better. 0 Stephen! Stephen! pression of his face is anxious and tron- my wife is going from me! bled. A stalk of dried clover has adhered The tone in which he spoke was one of to his sleeve; he picks it off and stands more than sorrow: it had a kind of dull nervously biting the stem, his bent brows despair which moved powerfully the heart and brooding eye telling of a mind ill at of the stern elder brother. He was silent ease. Yet the scene before his eyes should for an instant, and then he said gently: be a pleasant one to him. Far as his IL did not think it had been so bad as glance can reach, the slopes of the hills that, though L saw you were not at meet- are green with summer; noble forests ing to-day. I hoped this trial might pass and growing crops wave everywhere; ana by you. But at least you have the corn- the best of all is his. The rich farm that fort of knowing that it is well with her. lies on this sunny southern slope is the She is a child of graceone of Gods very fruit of his own labor. The wealthiest elect. farmer in all that region round, he is re- With a deep groan Joseph Evans bu- garded as the very type of energy, integ- ned his face in his hands, and leaned his rity, and thrift. Such a character is writ- head upon the bar of the gate. I know ten in his strong-featured face, which is it! he cried in broken tones; oh! I marked with lines of stern resolve and an know she is a saint on earth, and will indomitable will. Yet it is a face that soon be a saint in heaven; and it is that can soften, too; and you would say its which is killing me. I am losing her for- owner was a man whom wife and child, everforever. She will know me as I and all dependent on him, would love as am there, and shrink from one like me! well as honor. A deeply religious man Brother Joseph! exclaimed Stephen also, though of a somewhat stern and rigid excitedly, why do you speak in that faith; inflexible in his judgments, severe way? Have not you, too, had a Christian in his exactions of others; yet showing to experience? Have not you found hope all the world a noble example of the high and safety in the fold of Christ? qualities hedem~nds. Aadwhat right had I to be there? I, The figure of a man comes into sight, who have deceived her so longliving a

FIRE FROM HEAVEN. TT is Sunday eveninga still, hot even- advancing up the steep and stony road, and .J-ing in the very height of the sum- the shadow deepens on the clouded face. mer. The sun will not set for an hour The new-corner, observing him, advances yet, though he is just dropping out of directly to where he stands. He is a man sight over the side of Mount Hungerso a few years younger than Stephen Evans, the people of that region call the one huge, with a mild and pleasant eye, and a flexi- rock-ribbed summit that rises, brown and ble, sensitive mouth. His countenance at bare, above the lesser, greener hills on this moment is full of some strong emo- which their farms lie scattered. Already tion. the shadows creep along the valleys, not I was going to the house to see you, deep and sombre as in the autumn even- he said, but perhaps we can talk as well ings, but soft gray, pensive shades. The here. day has been unusually hot for New Eng- If it is business, brother Joseph, land; and still the air feels close as if said Stephen uneasily, hadnt we better overcharged with electricity. The sky put it off till to-morrow? I dont like, on is not wholly clear, but veiled in thin the Sabbath day, to haze; and occasionally a gleam of lam- The other interrupted him. It is bent lightning plays over it from a cloud business, but not the business of this below the horizon, world. I want to talk to you about Mi- Deacon Stephen Evans has finished the riam. feeding of l~is cattle, and now stands lean- Is Miriamworse to-night? asked his ing over his farmyard gate, looking brother, in a hushed voice. thoughtfully down the road. The ex- No better. 0 Stephen! Stephen! pression of his face is anxious and tron- my wife is going from me! bled. A stalk of dried clover has adhered The tone in which he spoke was one of to his sleeve; he picks it off and stands more than sorrow: it had a kind of dull nervously biting the stem, his bent brows despair which moved powerfully the heart and brooding eye telling of a mind ill at of the stern elder brother. He was silent ease. Yet the scene before his eyes should for an instant, and then he said gently: be a pleasant one to him. Far as his IL did not think it had been so bad as glance can reach, the slopes of the hills that, though L saw you were not at meet- are green with summer; noble forests ing to-day. I hoped this trial might pass and growing crops wave everywhere; ana by you. But at least you have the corn- the best of all is his. The rich farm that fort of knowing that it is well with her. lies on this sunny southern slope is the She is a child of graceone of Gods very fruit of his own labor. The wealthiest elect. farmer in all that region round, he is re- With a deep groan Joseph Evans bu- garded as the very type of energy, integ- ned his face in his hands, and leaned his rity, and thrift. Such a character is writ- head upon the bar of the gate. I know ten in his strong-featured face, which is it! he cried in broken tones; oh! I marked with lines of stern resolve and an know she is a saint on earth, and will indomitable will. Yet it is a face that soon be a saint in heaven; and it is that can soften, too; and you would say its which is killing me. I am losing her for- owner was a man whom wife and child, everforever. She will know me as I and all dependent on him, would love as am there, and shrink from one like me! well as honor. A deeply religious man Brother Joseph! exclaimed Stephen also, though of a somewhat stern and rigid excitedly, why do you speak in that faith; inflexible in his judgments, severe way? Have not you, too, had a Christian in his exactions of others; yet showing to experience? Have not you found hope all the world a noble example of the high and safety in the fold of Christ? qualities hedem~nds. Aadwhat right had I to be there? I, The figure of a man comes into sight, who have deceived her so longliving a 1872.] FIRE FROM HEAVEN. l1~ lie before her for years. 0 Stephen, Ste- phen! let me tell her the truth. Re- lease me from my promise and let me tell her before it is too late. And to what end? The questioners tone was cold and stern, but Joseph did not heed. He an- swered, That at least I may be honest with her once before she diesthat I may hear her say she forgives me here on earth; then, perhaps, I can bear to meet her in another world. 0 brother, as you hope for pardon and salvation yourself, as you would have peace when your own last hour comes, dont force me to wear this burden on my soul. Dont take from me the only hope that lights the gloom of deaththe hope to meet my wife again. As his brother spoke Stephen Evans had turned very pale, and it was some seconds before he found words to reply. When he did speak, it was in a cold, constrained voice, which must have grated painfully on the overstrained nerves of the other. I thought we had settled the right and wrong of that loRg ago. You took what was your own because God put it into your hand; and it is a thing with which nobody but ourselves has any busi- ness. 0 brother! I cannot cheat my con- science with that plea. The farm was not ours; and we did a wrong to Reuben~s son in taking it. . I tell you that it was ours. We were our brothers heirs injustice and in law; and should we yield up our rights to a har- lot? We have been most generous to her, and nobody will say so sooner than she; but should we suffer her to make a profit of her shame? And for the rest, had we not a right to save from disgrace the name of our fathers son? Not by such means as we employed. I tell you we have made an idol of the Evans good name, and to it we have sac- rificed the truth and the rights of the fa- therless. God, who sent down fire from heaven to consume the false gods of the heathen, will find a way to punish our idolatry. His curse is on us, and may burn and blast us yet. Joseph! I mean what I say. I feel it in my soul that we shall suffer yet from the curse that follows ill-gotten gains. You talk like a man out of his senses. Have you not used your wealth as a faith- ful stewardto do goodto help on the cause of Christto feed the poor and hun- gry, even the sinful woman who had no claim to anything but scorn? A curse! Has not God prospered you in all things since then? Is there a man anywhere more honored, more trusted than you have been? and is that nothing? I know, brother, we have been out- wardly prospered and honored; but how would the world have looked on us if the truth were known? The dread I have lived in all these years lest Miriam should learn it and despise me, has been almost more than I could bear. And because you dread discovery you propose to make discovery certain by tell- ing your secret yourself, answered Ste- phen scornfully. I will not hear of it. You gave me your promise, and I hold you to it. But Miriamat least I may tell the truth to her. She is dying; and our se- cret will be safe with the dead. Stephen Evanss face was white to the very lips, but he answered, No. I tell you no. I will not have my own and your good name, to say nothing of Reu- bens, blasted for a superstitious whim. There was an angry flash in the usually mild eyes of the younger brother, and he lifted his head with a sudden firmness. His voice as he answered had lost its tone of almost passionate pleading, and its ac- cent was clear and stern. Then, brother Stephen, hear what I have to say. Since my solemn appeal will not prevail with you, since you will not release me from my word, I break it to your face. I will no longer be bound by a promise that leads my soul to death. From this day forth I take my own course. You will not break your word! I will. Then he added gloomily, the excitement fading from his face, though the look of resolve remained: As well be false to my word with you as false to everything with her. It has come to be a question between you and her, and my choice is made. He turned as he spoke, and was moving slowly away, but his brother made a step %rward and laid a hand upon his arm. It was he who entreated now. Wait, Joseph, wait. Dont let us quarrel about this, brother Joseph. Do I deserve that you should speak to me so? Have I been 116 FIRE FROM HEAVEN. [JAN unfair to you, or had any selfish, personal above everything. It was almost a~ motive in this matter? Has my interest Joseph had said; they made an idol ot been consulted at the expense of yours? their good name, partly for their own There seemed a special power in this sake, but partly, too, from genuine rever- a~ppeal, for Joseph Evans gazed in his ence for the father who had transmitted it brothers face for a moment, his anger to them unspotted. Of any deviation vanishing, the tears rnshed to his eyes, from the path of rectitude they were be- and he faltered out, Stephenbrother lie~ed as incapable as the sun. forgive me. I did not mean to blame you, They had once had a younger brother, but I am so full of trouble as scarcely to Reuben, wiTh had been a source of some know what 1 am saying. anxiety from showing a slight disposition Let us say nothing more to-night, to be wild. He was not profligatenot then. I will not hold you to your. word, really wild~ in the ordinary sense, but only so far as your wife is concerned, if it is according to the severe standard of their really for your souls peace to speak. But family. What he would have become as do not act rashly. Think upon it for a he grew older cannot be told, for at the day or two. Your feelings may chance age of twenty-four he took a fever nnd when it is too late. died. As he was unmarried, his brothers, Joseph shook his head. heirs-at-law, succeeded to his property, WellwellI said we would not which included a rich and productive farm, talk. But yield to me in just thisdont inherited by Reuben from his grandfather, speak till you have seen me again. You and bank stock to the amount of eight can grant me that. hundred dollars. The farm passed undi- Yes; I promise so much vided into the hands of Joseph, for Ste- it is enough. Are you going over to phen persisted in declaring that he was the West Village to-morrow? already rich enough. People said such Yes; I have been getting out the generosity was in keeping with his noble foundation stones for Brookss new house, life and character. Of the money, the and I promised he should have a part of greater part was expended in gifts to the them on Monday. I shall start early, so church, and in benefits, to the poor. as to be back before night, for I cannot Among the recipients of this charity, there leave Miriam for long. was one whom to care for was thought To-morrow evening, then, I will see in the stern morality of that primitive you. Let us postpone this whole matter communitya special deed of mercy for until then. people of such spotless repute. Mary So be it, Joseph Evans replied; and Parsons had been the prettiest girl in all with a brief good-night he turned that region, and deemed as modest as she away. was pretty until three years before, when The elder brother stood looking after she had fallen under a great cloud. Ru- him, the gloomy expression deepenin~ on mor~ had begun to get about which soon his face. Strange! he said. It was grew into a certainty of dis,,race and not like Joseph to show so much spirit. I shame. The poor girl, not waiting to be thought for a moment I had lost my sway shunned by her old companions, withdrew over him. But he will come all right from all intercourse with them, and bore now. By to-morrow night this flash will the hard fate she had brought upon her- have died out, and I can hold him quiet self, not only without, complaint, but with again. He must hear reason and be a kind of dignity even in her humiliation. silent. To no human being did she reveal the name of her betrayer. Disowned by her It is a trite saying that we have little family, she asked aid from none, but idea of the tragedies passing in the lives labored constantly at the humblest kinds of those around us; but oft-repeated as it of toil, to support herself and her child. is, few people really believe in its truth. The pale woman, and her shy, beautiful Certainly none of those who knew Stephen boy, were known to all, and not unkindly and Joseph Evans had any idea of the se- esteemed. She was often employed in the, cret current of their lives. Sons of a family of Deacon Evans, and it was father honored for his integrity and jus- thought a noteworthy thing that that tice of character, they prized those traits good man did not pass her by when Provi 18724 FIRE FROM HEAVEN. 117 dence had put in his hands the means; of had been stricken with mortal illness be- charity. Such accurate judgments do fore he could secure another, it was im- people form of their neighbors. possible now to tell. But two points were When, after the death of Reuben Evans, tolerably obvious to the brothers: First, his two brothers were looking over the that~ the existence of the will was un- papers he had left behind him, they came knowato any one unless the witness had, upon an astounding discovery. It was a before he was taken ill, revealed the fact will, drawn up in regular form,. in the of his attestation. This seemed unlikely, handwriting of the deceased, dated only a partly because the time had been so brief, few days before he was attacked~ by his and partly because Reuben would be sure Inst illness, and when, perhaps, he had to requestsilence on such a subject. Sac- already begun to feel some premonition of ond, it was clear that in the existing cir- his approaching fate. Its provisions were cumstances the will could not be proved, few and simple. The devisor left to each and therefore had no binding force in law. of his two brothers the sum of one hen- But what was the force of the moral obli.~ dred dollars, as a token of affectionate re~ gation it laid upon them? Their dead membrance, after which came a clause to brother appealed to them to carry out his this effect: All my other property, real last wishes, to do what he had failed to and personal, wherever situated or invest-~ do, make a partial atonement for his ed, ii give and bequeath, equally and wrong. He had not thought it possible jointly, to Mary Amelia Parsons, my that they could betray so sacred a trust. promised wife, and to her son, Richard Yet they did betray it. They destroyed Parsons, whom I acknowledge to be my the will, and divided the property as if no son also. And for the wrong which such paper had been found. It was I have done to them, I humbly crave their Stephens work. lie said it was right pardon and forgiveness, trusting in the and proper to do so. The will gave the mercy of God through His Son for for- woman no legal claim; and her moral giveness of my heavy sin. And I charge claim was voided by her character as a my brothers, Stephen Evans and Joseph sinner. As for the boy, it was far better Evans, with the execution of this my last for him that he should work for his bread.. will and testament. And more than all, it was their duty to Is it any wonder that the discovery of a screen their brothers namethe Evans document like this caine upon the brothers namefrom obloquy. It was not with- like a thunderbolt? It is a mistake to out a struggle that he carried his point, suppose that the sentiment of family pride, for Josephs conscience was never fully of intense devotion to a name, is peculiar satisfied with this putting of reputatior~ to a society of aristocratic distinctions, or before honesty; but his objections were to racesrecognized as noble. The Evanses overruled, and the habit of acquiescence had been plain farmers always; but no in the decrees of that stronger will pre- English earl whose coronet has come down vailed. Not that Stephen derived any di- to him from the time of the Conqueror, no rect benefit from the property himself, but German baron of three hundred quarter- he was resolute that Joseph shouldJo ings, could hold more as a part of his seph, whom he loved with a tender, pro religion the preservation of the family tecting affection, such as men oftener feel honor The idea that the old farmtheir for a woman~ than for one of their own grandfathers farm, associated with gene- sex. It was largely for his brothers rations of honored Evansesshould become sake that he steadily put down not only the inheritance of a bastard, the home of all protestations on the part of the latter, a woman whom the poorest inightscorn! but-every qualm of his own conscience. It was unbearable. Yet there was one haunting fear which The will, as I have said, was drawn up never quite left himthe dread lest that and signed by Reuben Evans, but it bore one witness might have told, and that the signature of only one witness, and some time inquiry would be made. that one a young man who had died two Twelve years had passed by since then. days before Reuben himself, and of the Mary Parsons had struggled on and same fever. Whether the testator had brought up her child decently, keeping supposed a single witness sufficient-to give her own secret, and winning a kind of re~~ validity to the document, or whether he spect in spite of all. Of the two brothers S 118 FIRE FROM hEAVEN. [JAN. people said that neither had ever quite got of the still, sweet summer morning. It over the loss of Reuben. In Josephs cise, lacked yet an hour or more to sunrise, but the gayety of temper which, despite the already the air was very warm. Here gloomy nature of his religious faith, had and there, from the road as it wound once characterized him, had given place to around the hillside, he could catch glimp- an habitual sadness. He married soon ses of the distant river, veiled in soft, sib after a woman to whom he was passion- very mist. A few miles further on, the ately attached, and his domestic life road approached the river, which it crossed showed no cloud; but this melancholy re- by an ancient wooden bridge. At this mained. To Stephen a certain gravity point the current of the stream was had always been natural, which after abruptly broken. A ledge of rock, some Reubens death increased to almost stern- twenty feet or more in height, shot diag- ness. A devout Christian, a kind hus- onally across its course, and over this bar- band, father, and neighbor, there was yet rier th& tumbling water plunged in a something about him which repelled fa- wild, foamy fall, to rise again, boiling and miliarity even from his own family. surging, in deep, cruel eddies below. The long high-arched span of the old-fashioned bridge was directly over the ihil, where the angry water foamed and chafed around huge fragments of the ledge, torn oil in the lapse of centuries by the action of th~ torrent. The whole structure was a good deal out of repair, but it was deemed per- fectly safe for ordinary travel. Neverthe- less, when the toll-keeper, aroused by the sound of Josephs wheels, came out of his cottage by the gate, he lo )ked askance a~ the load, and drew back the hand he had reached up to take the toll. Four hosses and them big stones is a mighty heavy load for the old bridge, Mr. Evans. Oh! the bridge is strong enough, Jones. It was repaired in the spring, you remember, and new braces put under the stringers. Well, sir, you can do as you think best. I dare say youll get over all right. But I dont think Ill take your toll. Id rather not be responsibleAor any risks. Just as you please, Jones, answered Joseph abstriictedly, as if he only half heard; and taking up the reins again, he drove slowly forward. The toll-keeper stood watching him with a shade, but only a shade, of anxiety as he moved upon the bridge. He noticed how the whole structure rocked and swayed with the jar of the ponderous load, and his heart felt a sudden thrill of fear. He started for- ward with a cry of warning, but drew back again in terror. The wagon had reached the middle of the span, the planks and timbers of the bridge trembling un- der it at every step, the driver apparently sunk in thought and unconscious of dan- ger. Suddenly there was a quick vibra- tion of the bridge, and then a crash; the But little sleep visited that night the eyes of Deacon Evans. Dreadful as was the thought that the dark secret compro- mising his own and his brothers honor was likely to be shared with any living being, almost worse still was the reflec- tion that Joseph, whom he loved so deeply, whom he had believed so wholly his own, might throw off his influence, and assert a will in opposition to his. His anxious mind revolved every conceivable plan, not only for preventing the rash purpose of his brother, but for regaining the sway which seemed slipping from his hands. The slow hours of the night had worn away, and the early summer dawn was already breaking, when he fell into his first feverish sleep. He was aroused from it by a heavy sound like thun- der, a rumbling jar, that shook not only the house but the bed on which he lay. He started in alarm, but in an in- stant knew that it was only the h& avy wheels of his brothers team, loaded with the huge foundation stones wrought from a quarry upon the near mountain side. Surely, there was nothing startling or un- common in the sound; yet somehow it was an awful one to him. It smote his heart like a thunder of warninglike the trumpet of doom. The perspirationstarted in great drops upon his forehead; he shivered like one in an ague fit. Helis- tened as the sound receded, dying away at length among the windings of the hills, and tried to reason himself out of the childish terror it had awakened, but not successfully. Meanwhile Joseph Evans went sorrow- fully on his way, too deeply absorbed in his cwn dark thoughts to heed the charm 1872.] FIRE FROM HEAVEN. 119 doomed man sprang to his feet as if to leap from the load, but he was too late. The flooring of the bridge gave way, and the wagon, with its enormous load, horses, and driver, plunged downward into the boiling gulf below. Stephen Evans was busy that morning with his haymakers in the field, when he saw two of his neighbors get over a fence and come slowly toward him. Something a sort of hesitation in the manner of the mensent apang of fear through his heart. The secretit must be thatwas a secret no longer. But thestory their falteringlips had to tell was far different. He listened to it in silence, his face growing white and set, and then, without speaking, walked away to his house, into his own room, and locked himself in. No human eye, not even his wifes, was suffered to look in upon his agony. But when, to- ward the evening of the next day, he came forth, they saw with awe and pity that the thick dark hair, which yesterday had shown only here and there a silver thread, was white as winters snow. Only God knew what he had endured in that wild struggle of~ the soul, which was like a death grapple with the evil powers. His first feeling had indeed been natural grief and horror at his brothers end; but following this there had crept over him a guilty thrill of satisfaction that now the secret was safe. He was dead, and had not told it! The reaction came soon in bitter remorsefirst, for this un- fraternal joy; second, for the wrong he had done his brother in sending him to the other world with a burden on his conscience. Had he damned his brothers soul to hell? Was there on the dim further shore a wretched spirit that saw in him the author of its misery? He felt that his own punishment had begun. As days and weeks passed by, and the body of the drowned man was not found, there began to grow in his mind another dreadnot a definite fear, but a feeling that came creeping on him sometimes at night, that somehow while the dead re- mained unburied the secret which he had carried out of the world with him might still be in danger. Of course, reason had nothing to do with such n feeling; but the morbid condition into which he was fast sinking took from him the power of reason. He had seouted at what he called superstition in his brother; but the unac- knowledged vein of gloomy superstition which ran through his own nature devel- oped itself in a hundred modes of self. torture. When, not long after, the brief widowhood of Miriam Evans came to a close, and she went to rejoin the husband who had so loved her, he could not banish the conviction that those two would find themselves in the other world divided by a barrier which he had raised. He be- lieved that they would hate him, they must hate him, as the cause of their eter- nal separation. Such constant mental suffering could not be without its effect upon his physical frame; and as the summer slowly burned away, his strength wasted with it. The August and September of that year were ~unusually hot and dry. The air, even among those breezy hills, seemed scorched and close. The fields were burnt brown and bare; the brooks were dry. The shrunken river murmured complainingly along its channel, here crawling over stony shallows, there stealing, still and glassy, under the shadow of lofty banks, with lit. tle resemblance to its usually full and rushing stream. The v~ry springs through all the hills were dry, and the wells failed. So the days wore round to the equinox; then nature began to gather h~r forces for a revolution. For a week the ~vind blew steadily from the south, swe