HARP ERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. DECEMBER, 1894. No. DXXXV. AN ARABIAN DAY AND NIGhT. BY POULTNEY BIGELOW. I. E were jogging along gently through the sand of the Sahara Desert one fine windy day in March. The noses of our horses were pointed towards Timbuc- too, their tails towards tbe main range of the Atlas Mountains. How we happened to be at this point is soon told. Reming- ton was used up with hard work; so was I. Both agreed that a few days under a burning African sun would be of inesti- mable value in curing us of our ailment, so common to the industrious American that it might as well go by the name of Americanitis. Both of us had rather loose notions of African conditions. I say both, for I discovered by accident that Remingtons principal outfit consisted of a huge revolver and a monstrous pair of arctic galoches. We both knew that the Congo and the Niger were in Africa; that Stanley had been there; that all Eu- rope was wrangling over the swampy sections of it; and that France had some highly picturesque Arab troops some- where on the northern edges. I hasten to say all this at the risk of offending Remington: Firstly. In order to establish a reputa- tion for joint veracity. Secondly. To furnish the fullest guar- antee of impartiality in regard to the ob- servations we made. The third of our desert party was a dis- tinguished Franco-African officiallet us call him for convenience Capitaine du Moulin. We had made his acquaintance by a happy accident while travelling to the end of the railway leading from the coast ~o the Atlas. We had apparently surprised him and his wife by asking per- mission to smoke before lighting our ci- gars; we had given them a still greater shock by moving our valises into a neigh- Copyright, 1894, by Harper and Brother,. All rights reserved. boring compartment in order to make Madame du Moulin more comfortable. Had our civilization been dictated by the most mercenary motives it could not have brought us a richer reward. Monsieur is not English ! remarked madame. Remingtons French having been se- lected mostly from the upper Missouri, I was forced to speak for both. No; we are Americans, I answered. Of courseI knew it, said she, look- ing knowingly at her husband. No Englishman would have asked permission to smoke.... And then she and the Capitaine told story after story, each worse than the last, proving conclusively that the Eng- lish are the most ill-mannered, the most offensive people imaginable. The sentiments of Madame du Mouhin would not be worth quoting had I not heard them re-echoed wherever I went, and amongst different classes of Franco- Africans. But the Capitaine was a guar- dian angel to us. He had looked over a letter of introduction I bore to a great official; we had shared lunch together. He said he had to make a visit upon a great Arab chief, who was expecting him in a few days; would we be his guests? And so it came about that we were jog- ging along gently through the sand of the Sahara, bound for the black tents of El Hadj Ahmed Ab del Kader ben el Hadj Mohammed. This is a long name; but then we were a long time getting there, and my memory needed exercise. Far away behind us stretched the ragged ridge of the Atlas; ahead of us nothing but a gray blanket of sand waving away into an infinity of shiny mist. I had seen the same sort of thing in Colorado. Rem- ington said it was Arizona all over again. VOL. XC. 4 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. People grow silent and sensitive when they live on the great plains, and no wonder. To the desert - dweller every star gains in significance, every object that lifts its head above the horizon. The cloud that scuds; the bird; the track of an animal; the shape of a tent; the load of a camel; the track of a man; a bunch of grass; a sign of waterwhatever ar- rests his eye on a days march speaks to him of nature ministering to a variety of his needs. He must have water and grass; he must have shelter from storms; he must avoid dangerous gullies; must watch for signs of wild beasts; must an- ticipate the ambush of an enemyand with it all use heaven as his guide, with its sun by day and stars by night. The traveller of the desert plains is never without occupation; his eyes are sweep- ing the horizon without interruption, and he picks his way by the help of a judg- ment constantly exercisedfor the Arab knows no roads which are not unmade by one puff of sand. It was little that we saw in the shape of humanitya camel train now and then bearing dates and wool from the interior, the camels swinging along with irrita- ting regularity, feeding as they moved, and treading gently, as though on rotten ground. The drivers eyed us malevo- lently, and I felt comfort in reflecting that France supported 50,000 soldiers in Al~eria for the express purpose of making our journey safe. The caravans were escorted by Arab horsemen in white bur- nooses, perched high upon tough and springy mustangs. Each horseman had his gun balancing across his saddle-bow, and looked at us as though repeating im- precations from the Koran. We were getting rather tired of desert- journeying; we had been out since sun- rise, and it was now long past noon. We were straining our eyes for the tents of El Hadj Mohammed, when, lo! in a lift of land appeared the outline of a solitary horseman. Without a movement he stood until we had come so close as to see the whites of his eyes. Remington kept his hand on his six-shooter; the si- lent figure also had a gun. No house, no creature, was in sight. The Arab seemed to have risen from the earth. It is El Hadj Mohiimmed himself, said Capitaine du Mouhin at last. But strange that he should be alone and not move to greet us! We were now close together, and sol- emii formal greetings were exchanged. The chief was seventy years of age, but sat his Arab horse with the ease of y9uth. Over his long white burnoose he wmeKa black one of camels-haira costly garb in the desert, where black camels are scarce. His mouth spoke welcome; he pressed the palm of his hand to ours, then touched his finger to his lips in sign that he accepted us as guests, and would therefore allow no one to cut our throats for the present. His face was modelled in a manner rarely seen excepting amongst soldiers and men exposed to hardship in di-y hot countries. Where are you from ? asked the Arab chief, in very bad French. From England, answered Capitaine du Moulin for us. I protested on behalf of Reming7ton and myself that we were not English, but Yankees. No use telling him that, said Du Mouhin. He has heard of Englandhe does not know that there is such a place as America! This had a depressing effect upon us, and we jogged along for some time in silence. Suddenly from out of an ambush sprang a cloud of Arabs, who spurred their swift horses down upon us at a breakneck gallop. The horsemen charged so suddenly and with such fury that it seemed as though they must ride over us; their big burnooses flew out in the wind and flapped like the wings of a mythical monsterhalf horse, half man. High in the air they waved their guns until quite close, when suddenly they brought them to their shoulders, aimed them steadily towards us, andfired. A great cloud of smoke, a cloud of dust greater still, the sharp noise of musketry and the rattle of cavalry equipmentall these made the confused impression of being caught in the midst of a scene of war. But when the smoke and dust cleared away there stood before us a squadron of Arabs, mo- tionless, prondly erect in their saddles, a look of concentrated joy and defiance in their mysterious eyes, their guns trailing in their right hands, their cream-white horses quivering with excitement. As they threw their animals back upon their haunches, they were saying to themselves, under their breath: By the beard of Mohammed, it is a cursed shame that we must stay our hands from extermi z ~J2 0 C 6 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. a semicircle, and along ~he front of the tents was a thick rope of camels-hair, to which the horses were hobbled. The tent of the chief was, of course, the largest probably twenty feet in diameter. His retainers and servants met us at the door with every demonstration of loyal devotion, but with eyes that belied their hospitable gestures. The chief waved us a signal to enter his desert home, and his family, excepting the wo- men, stood in a row to give solemnity to the act. The floor was soft with many layers of rich Oriental rugs. The interior seemed at first very dark, but when our eyes had become accustomed to itwe noted costly curtains and shawls of the finest texture hung about the sides and across the top. I offered to take off my boots on entering, but the chief insisted that we should waive that customary act much to our relief. In the next tent I heard a baby cry the first note that made me feel that I was amongst people of flesh and blood. I felt like cuddling that baby, that little voice in the desert was so intensely un- man and homelike to me. But I was warned to express no curiosity as to the harem, where El Hadj Mohammed kept NATIVE GENDARME five fat wives, who spent their days eat- ing sweetmeats and lolling over soft cush- ions. I got an indirect acquaintance nating these infidel dogs! But we must with this woman-hutch. The wives were wait for better times. too fat and stupid to be handsome, but Of course we praised the performance, were dressed up in costly fabrics and and exchan~,ed signs of friendship. Three covered with strin~ upon string of coins. of El Ha.dj Mohammeds sons were in this Wesatinacircle. Thechiefdidthehon- band of welcome. Two were grown ors by offering us dish after dish of high- men, athletic, soldierly - looking fellows. ly spiced meat, each dish tasting much like The third was barely nine years old. He the last one, save that the sauce contained was not big enough yet to shoot a gun more or less sand according as the wind from the saddle, hut he rode his little happened to strike it while coming from horse as wildly and securely as the best the kitchen tent to ours. We ate a little of them, and fired a sin~,le-barrelled pistol of each out of compliment to our host, a~ his share of the demonstration, but I for one would have given it all It takes some time for the casual tray- cheerfully in exchan~,e for a glass of fresh eller to be reconciled to a form of wel- milk and a piece of clean bread. come involving the shooting of guns and No mere servant or retainer was per. pistols aimed in his direction. One in- mitted to come near us no one but stinctively thinks that a mistake mi~ht the chief himself. The kitchen menials occurthat a stranger might now and brought the dish to the door of the tent; then get the worst of it. the lowest retainer then took it and hand- We jo~,ged on to the tents of El Hadj, ed it to the next in rank, until it finally surrounded by all that could flatter the passed to El Hadj Mohammed, who alone vanity of honored guests. The encamp- then placed it before us. He himself ate ment consisted of about a dozen round nothing, explaining that it was a period tents made of brown camels-hair cloth, of fasting for the faithful, when between The entrances faced towards the inside of sun and sun no food could pass their lips, AN AIRABIAN DAY AND NIGHT. 7 not even a whiff of tobacco. The little son, howeverlie with the fiery pony and pistolwas exempted by reason of age, and he ate more than the whole party of uribel ievers. Finally came the great event of the feast, the solemn act, like bringing in the plum pudding at Christmas. The flaps of the tent door were parted wide. El Hadj waved his hand, and in stalked two noble sons of the desert, bearing between them ~ the kid that had been roasted whole in our honor. Hoofs and skull were there. He looked horribly naked with the skin off and his sides shiny with dripping. He was spitted from end to end on a pole the size of a canoe mast, and elicited uni- versal admiration, particularly from the fasting faithful. We seized our jack- knives, and peeled off shingles of meat so succulent that we soon forgot all about what we had already consumed. It was a Homeric feast, with Homer waiting upon us. since then Remington and I have made gastronomic discoveries in the houses of Paris, and tasted things which made us feel that our heaven was not good enough for a French cook; still, even there we found ourselves praising a dish in this wise: A5 THEY THREW THEIR ANIMAL5 BACK UPON THEIR HAUNCHES. 8 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Its splendid, but, ah! that Sahara kid! El Hadj gave us delicious coffee, done after the manner of the East, and served not in china, but in silver cups of exqui- site workmanship. He kindly allowed us to smoke, although before doing so he and all the faithful carefully protected, themselves from the forbidden fragrance by drawing their burnooses across their mouths and nostrils. Then we lay back upon our cushions, and chatted, and forgot all about New York, and London, and bills, and publish- ers, and streets, and steamers, and other impediments to philosophic elevation. We had sad reflections as we bade good-by to El Hadj Mohammed, his three sons, and his many retainers. He begged us to spend the night with him, but we had reasons for not further taxing his hospitality. His camp looked very lone- ly as we gazed back upon it from time to time on our homeward march across the waste of sand. Nothing else was in sight for many miles save his twelve black tents, like ant-hills on~ the horizon. An Arab furnished us escort and guidance un- til we caine to the limits of his little gov- ernment. Then he too bade us farewell, and we travelled on, with no landmark save the distant peaks of the Atlas and the setting sun. mine screams, which started from the door and made the circle of the room, like the contagious wail sometimes heard at the Battersea Home for Lost Dogs. We had seen enough. Through the hot mist we finally suc- ceeded in reaching the door, then the court, and then the street, but only to rush into the arms of the excited doorkeepers, who had rushed back to their female aquarium armed with big sticks and fol- lowed by a crowd of Arab loafers. The situation was disagreeable, and of course just when Remingtons huge cow- boy revolver was most needed it was lying in the bottom of his valise. Fortunately for us, however, the crime of which we stood convicted was scarcely greater than that of our accusers, who had forsaken their precious post for a dog-fight. Then, too, we were strong in having been seen hobnobbing with the commander of the garrison in public. I detected my advan- tage in the quality of the bluster made by the chief janitor, and cooled him down somewhat in this diminuendo strain: You are a dog; you are placed here to guard the bath; you desert your post; I shall have you exposed; you will be punished; you lay a trap for innocent Americans; you let them walk into the womens bath; you are a scoundrel; your ancestors are iijferior animals. Thank Allah that I am generous. I forgive you II. this once. A day or so after our visit to the Arab And thus from blustering fury he piped camp we happened to be in a Moorish so softly that it was scarce above a whis- town with a strong garrison of Spahis and per that he begged we would do him the Turcos. We said we wished to try a gen- honor of visiting the bath that very even- uine old-fashioned Moorish bath, such as ing after the ladies had gone home. We the Arabs enjoyed, and without any ad- graciously accepted, dismissed him from mixture of vulgar modernity, our presence, and stalked away with the We were gratified. spring of triumph in our step, and in our But we stumbled into the ladies com- hearts profound gratitude that we escaped partment. The keepers had all gone off without broken heads. to a dog-fight on the next corner, and con- We dined royally to celebrate our good sequently no one was in attendance to luck. We had several bottles of chain- warn us against the shock our feelings pagne at three francs and fifty centimes were about to sustain. Be it said, by-the- the quart bottlea very good wine of way, that Remington and I are fairly native manufacture, by - th~e - way. I do modest, not to say shy. not mention the brand, because it would At first we could see little in the steamy cause the price to go up. space; but as we grew accustomed to Before dinner we had decided to leave the strange light we became painfully the place by the first train before the aware that the living tableaux about us lynching party could organize. After were not of the sex we had anticipated. dinner we thought better of it; that we If any doubt had lingered in our minds might hurt the feelings of the Arab if we on this subject, it would have been satis- slighted his establishment. factorily disnelled by a succession of fem- So we went again. 0 0 10 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. We stared a long time at the dusky denizens of the tepidarium before enter- ing. We had no mind to make a second mistake. A venerable Arab in full dress saluted us gravely, and waved us to a por- tion of the room where we might undress and hang our clothes. Three spry little Arabs, wearing nothing but a suit of brown skin and a rag around the waist, sprang upon me, while three more invaded Rem- ington. We were quickly stripped and escorted like captives past a dozen or more Arabs who were smoking and sipping coffeeresting after their bath. The spry little Arabs held us tightly by the arms; for we went down some slippery marble steps; we turned into a black passage- way; we then rose one step; then we banged at a huge oak door, from around which issued spurts of steam. The great door closed behind us with a report of muffled thunder that went sound- ing about remote caverns like the magi- cal ninepins of Rip Van Winkle. We could see nothing; the steam blinded us. Over the slippery flags we were guided, and then laid upon a square block of hot marble at the centre of the cavern. I felt as thou~h I were mounting an altar rear- ed for human sacrifice. Our Arab imps disappeared, but dusky forms passed close to us now and then, gliding mysteriously on inexplicable errands. The thumping and banging of human flesh was heard; now and then a grunt or groan. From off in another cavern came a funereal dirge, a savage singsong, such as negroes in their primitive state call forth. It is not a melody, yet evidently meant for such. The Chinese also do it. Now and then a chorus of Arabs joined in the sad savagery, and then all would be hushed save the beating of human flesh. Neither of us knew where we were or how we might get out of this dungeon. The sounds betokened a large number of Arabs. We were the only whites. There were evidently subterraneous spaces beyond this one. We had grave- ly outraged the native sense of propriety; what if they chose to take their revenge! We had scant time for speculation. Three Arab sprites seized Remington. Other three imps seized me. We were made to lie flat on our backs on the steamy stone floor, with no pillow but a ARAB METHOD OF PICKETING A HORSE. block of wood~after the fashion of Japan. Not even a piece of matting shielded us from the stones. Then one sprite seized me by the neck and commenced handling my jugular sections with a view to de- ~erinining the one where it pained me most. lie squeezed and wrenched~ and finally twisted my head as though it had been a spigot. Another sprite took my arms and turned the bones in their sock- ets. Then he pulled my arms across my chest so tightly that my breastbone near- ly cracked. Tears came to my eyes, but I dared not show feeling. remington gasped. and quoted fragments of pro- fane Scripture; but he was helplesshis revolver was in his valise. The sprites then tossed us on to our bellies as though we had been half - done slapjackS, and one jumped full upon my back into the hole under the shoulderblades. From this perch he seized one foot and screwed it about as he had before done the arm it gave me a satisfactory notion of the Spanish Inquisition. Then he seized the other foot and hauled it up along my spinal column as a sailor might strain on a lanyard. lie danced upon my back; jumped into the air, and landed on the sides of my barrel as an agile clown treads a ball in the circus. lie did this all not merely with perfect facility, but ob vious pleasure, for the while he ~~changed gurgling utterances with the torment- ors of ~emingtOn. INor were the other sprites idle. They thumped and scraped my several parts as though I had one skin too many. And when my standing sprite had finished dancing in the small of my back, a second one jumped on the rest of my person with all - fours, and brought the full weight of his body to bear upon every squeeze of his very mus- cular hands. Oh, how sorry I was that we bad come! At last we were allowed to rise, were lathered and sprinkled and laid to rest upon the soft cushions of the tepidarium soft flowing burnoose about us, and ~emingtOn with a cigar alight. I began to doze. 5uddenly I heard the sound of angry voices, the clanging of chains, the clash of swords. I started up. The Moorish lamp swinging in the middle of the room burn- ed strange1 y red; the venerable Arabs who had been sitting about with their cof- fee and cigarettes were gone; IReming ton was gone. I tried to escape. But the three sprites again seized me. This time their eyes glared like tigers; their white teeth seemed long and sharp; their skin seemed blacker. The doors opened, and in poured steam and flame and a band of grinning Moors. They were armed with THE TENT5 OF ]Th HADJ 1aoHA1~ii~IEn. 0 z AN ARABIAN DAY AND NIGHT. 13 swords and spears whose tips were glow- ing hot. In their midst stalked the image of El Hadj Mohammed, looking serious. He took his seat on the edge of the foun- tain that played in the middle of the room underneath the Moorish lamp, and waving his hand as sign of silence, ad- dressed me: You are to be put to death, because you are the curse of my people. I attempted to protest my innocence, but my tongue refused to move. I know what you mean, said he; you wish to deny it. You cannot. For fifty years you have kept my people in slavery; you have made war upon us; you have butchered us. You keep your soldiers here to frighten us; you set us an example of drunkenness and moral rottenness; you hedge us about; you make us poor; you take away our flocks; you wish to starve us. But Allah is with us. This night you die, and to-morrow none shall live but the faithful. And with that he ordered me despatch- ed. The three sprites again seized me; the men with the spears and swords held the red-hot points poised above me. I woke on my mattress, and heard Remin~ton grumble that I had grabbed his cigar. There played the pretty foun- tain; there hung the Moorish lamp; there sat the noble Arabs puffing their tobacco, just as they were when I came in. Yet I am equally sure of the words spoken to me that night by El Hadj Mohammed, for I heard the one as distinctly as I saw the other. I was too much wrought up to go home to bed, so we hunted up the crook- edest streets of the Arab town, and stum- bled about in the midst of wonderful architecture until we heard music. We followed the sound into a long low room occupied wholly by Arabs, who sat cross- legged on a raised platform. These Arabs were as dignified as so many Othel- los, and sipped their coffee and smoked just as the others had done in the Moorish bath. The common Arab trash perch- ed about where it could. The corner near the door was occupied by the musi- cians, who beat soft drums and played tunes of the devils composition into in- struments of reed. At the far end of the room a venerable native prepared coffee, which he passed to the guests as they came in. Up and down the room danced a wicked-eyed limb of Satan, making antics with his elbows and playing a dance measure. He was soon joined by an Arab woman, gorgeously decked out in native finery, who swayed her body gently about, keeping time to his music, and acting as though her object was to fascinate him by the suggestion of an easy conquest on his part. The dancing piper acted as treasurer with an agility worthy of a Japanese fire- man. When a guest signified his inten- tion to subscribe towards the entertain- ment fund, the piper danced over towards him, no matter what obstacles might be in his path. Then, keeping up the dance music all the while, he bowed his body like a contortionist until his forehead was presented to the giver, as if it had been the palm of his hand. The subscriber placed sometimes one coin upon the forehead, sometimes two, sometimes he covered the whole space with coins, and then the au- dience watched the piper as he danced away and around tIme room, holding his forehead so well that not a coin fell off. ASSUMING THAT RAGS ARE rICTURESQUE, HOW CAN YOU BEAT IT

EVOLUTION OF THE COUNTRY CLUB. BY CASPAR W. WHITNEY. IT used to be said Americans did not know how to live, but that was before we were discovered by the journalistic missionaries of Great Britain. It used also to be said we did not know how to enjoy ourselves; but again, that was be- fore the dawn of the country club. If we knew neither how to live nor how to enjoy ourselves until comparatively re- cent years, it must be acknowledged we have made excellent use of both time and opportunity since our enlightenment. Even yet our efforts to acquire more inti- mate acquaintance with the leisurely side of life are parodied by those who cannot understand the demands of this great throbbing work-a-day country of ours. It must be admitted unhesitatingly that we are only just learning how to play; we have not been, nor are we yet, a na- tion of pleasure-seekers. We are a prac- tical people; we build our living-house before undertaking landscape-gardening. If we have been long in turning our at- tention to material enjoyments, we have atoned somewhat for early indifference by modernizing the paraphernalia and investing in the pursuit all that earnest- ness which characterizes the American in whatever field he launches. Indeed, we have entered upon our recreation with such vigor, I often question if even yet we have attained wisdom with the rec- reative incentive. I confess to a doubt whether full enjoyment of our joys is an American attribute. We steal away for our holidays (likely as not with a port- manteau filled with work to do at odd moments), determined to rest and take life at its ,easiest; we promise ourselves to forswear all thoughts of business and the outer world; to loll about under the trees, and seek some of the lessons nature is said to have for us. We hold bravely to our resolutions for a day or so, but the third or fourth is certain to find us bar- gaining for city newspapers. Perhaps our grandchildren may see the day they can separate themselves from the office as effectually as though it existed in name only, but the present-day American, at least he who fills any active part in this great progressive movement, has not yet reached that development in the cultiva- tion of holiday amusement. In this particular we may indeed learn from the Englishman, who knows to the fullest how to take his recreation~ no- thing hurries him; little worries him; when he goes on his holidays, only collapse of the Bank of England would recall him to the business world. He has gone from town to enjoy himself, and he does so to the utmost of his capa- bility, which is considerable. Truly it is restful to observe the Britisher at play; there is no doubting he is bent on recrea- tion. Every movement bespeaks leisure. But then his disposition is and his train- ing has been totally different from those of the American, to whom the English- mans comfortable way of conducting his business would of itself be recreation. lven the boys at play reveal the dif- ference in temperament; the American school-boy engages in his games with as much light-hearted enthusiasm as the Eng- lish lad, but the former shortly exhibits the national characteristic when, as uni- versity undergraduate, he gives so serious a turn to his sports, making preparation for contest a matter of considerable ex- pense and elaboration, and giving results the greatest possible importance. We Americans do nothing by halves- l)erl)aps we should enjoy life more if we didand the history of the country club, as much as anything else, bears witness to our tendency to superlative develop- ment. From having not a single coun- try club in the entire United States of America twenty-five years ago, we have in a quarter of a century, in half that pe- riod, evolved the handsomest in the world. But here at least the reaction has been beneficial, for the country club has done appreciable missionary work in bringing us in contact with our fellows, where an- other than the hard business atmosphere envelops us, and in enticing us for the time being to put aside the daily task. Apropos of the desire for relaxation that now and again fastens upon us when we have been driving the mind at the ex- pense of the body, I recall a story once told me by an old army officer, who was well on his allotted years, illustrating my point so fittingly as to be worthy of recital here. It was while he was a cadet at West Point, and during the days when recrea

EVOLUTION OF THE COUNTRY CLUB. BY CASPAR W. WHITNEY. IT used to be said Americans did not know how to live, but that was before we were discovered by the journalistic missionaries of Great Britain. It used also to be said we did not know how to enjoy ourselves; but again, that was be- fore the dawn of the country club. If we knew neither how to live nor how to enjoy ourselves until comparatively re- cent years, it must be acknowledged we have made excellent use of both time and opportunity since our enlightenment. Even yet our efforts to acquire more inti- mate acquaintance with the leisurely side of life are parodied by those who cannot understand the demands of this great throbbing work-a-day country of ours. It must be admitted unhesitatingly that we are only just learning how to play; we have not been, nor are we yet, a na- tion of pleasure-seekers. We are a prac- tical people; we build our living-house before undertaking landscape-gardening. If we have been long in turning our at- tention to material enjoyments, we have atoned somewhat for early indifference by modernizing the paraphernalia and investing in the pursuit all that earnest- ness which characterizes the American in whatever field he launches. Indeed, we have entered upon our recreation with such vigor, I often question if even yet we have attained wisdom with the rec- reative incentive. I confess to a doubt whether full enjoyment of our joys is an American attribute. We steal away for our holidays (likely as not with a port- manteau filled with work to do at odd moments), determined to rest and take life at its ,easiest; we promise ourselves to forswear all thoughts of business and the outer world; to loll about under the trees, and seek some of the lessons nature is said to have for us. We hold bravely to our resolutions for a day or so, but the third or fourth is certain to find us bar- gaining for city newspapers. Perhaps our grandchildren may see the day they can separate themselves from the office as effectually as though it existed in name only, but the present-day American, at least he who fills any active part in this great progressive movement, has not yet reached that development in the cultiva- tion of holiday amusement. In this particular we may indeed learn from the Englishman, who knows to the fullest how to take his recreation~ no- thing hurries him; little worries him; when he goes on his holidays, only collapse of the Bank of England would recall him to the business world. He has gone from town to enjoy himself, and he does so to the utmost of his capa- bility, which is considerable. Truly it is restful to observe the Britisher at play; there is no doubting he is bent on recrea- tion. Every movement bespeaks leisure. But then his disposition is and his train- ing has been totally different from those of the American, to whom the English- mans comfortable way of conducting his business would of itself be recreation. lven the boys at play reveal the dif- ference in temperament; the American school-boy engages in his games with as much light-hearted enthusiasm as the Eng- lish lad, but the former shortly exhibits the national characteristic when, as uni- versity undergraduate, he gives so serious a turn to his sports, making preparation for contest a matter of considerable ex- pense and elaboration, and giving results the greatest possible importance. We Americans do nothing by halves- l)erl)aps we should enjoy life more if we didand the history of the country club, as much as anything else, bears witness to our tendency to superlative develop- ment. From having not a single coun- try club in the entire United States of America twenty-five years ago, we have in a quarter of a century, in half that pe- riod, evolved the handsomest in the world. But here at least the reaction has been beneficial, for the country club has done appreciable missionary work in bringing us in contact with our fellows, where an- other than the hard business atmosphere envelops us, and in enticing us for the time being to put aside the daily task. Apropos of the desire for relaxation that now and again fastens upon us when we have been driving the mind at the ex- pense of the body, I recall a story once told me by an old army officer, who was well on his allotted years, illustrating my point so fittingly as to be worthy of recital here. It was while he was a cadet at West Point, and during the days when recrea I TEA AT A COUNTRY CLUB. VOL. XC.No. 5352 18 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. tion as a tonic to study had not been rec- ognized; whatever there was of muscular activity came as a nolerts volens part of the daily curriculum; no out-door games of any description were tolerated, or at least encouraged. The desire to play be- came a disease that spread throughout the academy, and grew irrepressible, until one day marbles, surreptitiously taken into the barracks and half-ashamedly exhibit- ed, suddenly filled the pockets of every cadet in the corps, as though by a sport- ive Santa Claus, and plebs and first class- men played at marbles with all the aban- don of ten-year-old schoolboys. The West Point management has grown more sensible and liberal since that time, and marbles are no longer a necessity. The country club in America is simply one of the results of a final ebullition of animal spirits too long ignored in a work- a-day world; it is natures appeal for rec- ognition of the body in its co-operation with the mind. Only a careful study of our countrys history and its social traditions will give us a full appreciation of what the country club has done for us. It has, first of all, corrected to a large extent the American (lefect of not being able or at least not willing to stop work and enjoy our- selves; it has brought together groups of congenial, cultivated people, that often as not might be sweltering in the midsum- mer sun in town, or at isolated country houses, or in crowded, ill-kept summer hotels. It has given them a club and country villa combined in one, where, having practically all the comforts and delights of housekeeping. they are called upon to assume none of its cares or re- sponsibilities. For here the steward at- tends to the early morning market, wor- ries with the servants, and may be held to account for the shortcomings of the chef, and at a cost below that on which a sepa- rate establishment of equal appointment could be maintained. It is impossible to overestimate the blessin~s of the country club in adding comforts to country living that before were utterly unattainable, and in making it possible to enjoy a de~,ree of that rural life which is one of Englands greatest attractions. I say degree, for we have not yet attained the full delights of sub- urban residence as they are enjoyed in England, where a large and wealthy ileisure class make welluigh every great hall virtually a country club. In its present development the country club is really an American institution; there is little occasion for it in England, and no- where is it so elaborated in the Old World as in the New. To Boston must be given the credit of first revealing the possibilities and the de- lights of the country club. I never jour- ney to the Hub that I do not envy Bostonians the geographical situation of their city, which is superior, from asports- mans point of view, to that of any other n the United States. What with rural New England within a very few hours railway travel, and the North Shore, that ideal summer resting-spot, at their very gates, there is out-door entertainment for those of every disposition. What nature has done for the Bostoni- an, a visit to the North Shore, or pe- rusal of Mr. Robert Grants charmingly realistic pen-picture of its beauties, alone can show. Really it was not very neigh- borly of Mr. Grant to awaken so abruptly to our rural shortcomings those of us who had pitched our tents on less - favored ground. A quarter of a century ago the resi- dents of the north shore of Massachusetts Bayto which no self - respecting Bos- tonian nowadays ever dreams of alluding otherwise than as the North Shoredif- fered little from those on the remainder of the much-broken New England coast- line. If you seek the pioneer in the mod- ern movement you must go to Mr. Grant for information. I shall tell you only how by degrees the busy American began to appreciate that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, and gradually to stop for a breathing- spell. And thus, one at a time, slowly at first, the value of wholesome air and a bit of relaxation made converts. Slowly the underesti- mated farms passed from rustic to urban ownership, and became at once the most economical and best sanitariums in Amer- ica, while the erstwhile proprietors with- drew farther into the New England fast- nesses. Gradually, too, the entire scene cli an ged from the up- at-sunrise-to-bed at- sunset monotony of the simple-minded country folk to the brisk atmosphere of refined people; Nature herself seemed to welcome the more congenial surround- ings, and the country assumed a bright- ened aspect. Where the leg-weary family hack, silhouetted against the autumn sky, C 0 C C 20 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. had toiled over the hills to the solitary cross-roads store, the village cart now dashed along, drawn by a good-blooded horse, and driven by a fashionably gowned woman. Man and womankind improved in health, horseflesh in quality, and we be- gan to learn how to use to advantage our opportunities for recreation and health. Its contiguity to Boston, and the com- pleteness of ii di vidual establishments, made a country club in its initial sense along the north shore unnecessary in the very first years of its popularity, and not until it had grown beyond the country abode of a few individuals, and taken on the air of a country retreat of the com- paratively many, did the need of a co-op- erative amusement institution become ap- parent. Therefore but five years ago the Casino was established near Nahant, and only in the last couple of years the first country club (Essex) of the immediate north shore has been opened at Man- chester-by- the-Sea. On the southern shore of Massachusetts Bay Nature has not been so lavish in her setting of the country; beautiful it is, in- deed, but wanting in that grandeur of coast - line which is the chief charm of the north. Here there are handsome homes, and many of them, but the settle- ment of this shore differed from that of the other, insomuch as those who went first to the latter did so as individuals, whereas, on the south, the pioneer fresh- air seekers settled in little hands of chosen ones. Thus the need of a rendezvous was early experienced, and realized in the establishment, in 1882, of the Brookline Country Club, the first of the genus in Ameiica, albeit some of the hunting clubs had been and are to this day filling a similar sphere. Probably the country club has ren- dered its greatest service in tempting us out of doors, and cultivating a taste for riding and driving that has so largely benefited both sexes. With the evolu- tion of the country club we have been developing into a nation of sportsmen and sportswomen. Indeed, sport of oue kind or another and the origin of the country club are so closely connected, it is exceedingly difficult to decide which owes its existence to the other. It may be asserted that country clubs, gen- erally speaking, have been created by the common desire of their incorporators to make a home for amateur sport of one kind or another. Some grew di- rectly out of sport, as, for instance, the Country Club of Westchester County, which was originally planned for a ten- nis club, the IRockaway, Meadow Brodk, and the Buffalo clubs, that were called into existence by the polo and hunting men. Others owe their existence to a desire to establish an objective point for drives and rides, and a rendezvous with- in easy access of town like the Brookline and Philadelphia Country clubs. Others have been called into being as the cen- tralizing force of a residential colony, as Tuxedo. And yet others have been cre- ated by fashion for the coast season, as the Kebo Valley, at Bar Harbor. If sport has not been the raison d~tre of every clubs establishment, it is at all events, with extremely few exceptions, the chief means of their subsistence. Prac- tically every country club is the centre of several kinds of sport, pursued more or less vigorously as the seasons come and go. A few of them maintain polo teams, and all supply implements and encouragement for as many kinds of games as its members will admit. After all, the country club is nothing more than a rendezvous for a colony of congenial spirits; at least that, with more or less variation, is its cardinal virtue; but in our restless progressive way we have pursued the revelations of the new life with such tireless en~rgy, I some- times fear we run the risk of neutralizing the good to be otherwise derived. The ultra-fashionable side of the country club we must always deplore. The effort, happily in only isolated cases, to drag all the pomp and vanity and inane parade of town into the country, where it is in touch with neither the surroundings nor ones inclinations, presents quite as in- congruous a situation as that other inan- ity, where much time and money, and not so much brains, combine to enforce the formalities of full dress at a yachting- cruise dinner upon those who have got into their flannels for a weeks relaxa- tion. The intrusion of fashion, so called, into some of our choicest summer resting- places has robbed them of all that charm which superb scenic surroundihgs and relief from societys conventionality f or- merly gave. One goes into the country in summer to rest and be rid of the set scene of the winter functions. Newport has long been given over to societys star performers, and to simple-minded provin- cials who journey thither to gape at the social menagerie. As great an offence, however, is the des- ecration of the country by attempts to citify it. Citifled country is not often a pleasing picture to contemplate, never so when it greets us at the club whither we have flown to escape it. I am inclined to agree with Miss Frenchs sometimes irritable but always philosophical Pro- fessor in his lament at finding neither a lily in the ponds nor a solitary mud- puddle anywhere on the roads in the country-club vicinity; who finds, instead, asphaltum walks, and brooklets which you make sure are turned on in the morning and shut off again at night, and where little bird - cage cottages are all about, with little birds in them all singing the same song. Big club- house, same people, same rocking-chairs, same people rocking in them, same wait- ers, same floor, same band, same dead monotony, until you feel as if you would like to blow up one half of it to give the other half a new and real sensation. But this is a phase of one or two country clubs only, for not many spoil what they have by attempting what they cannot obtain natural results with artificial propagation. Where nature has left off, man has stepped in to completeand not infrec~uently, too, to mar- the picture. What marvellous displays of taste do we see by those privileged to erect country houses! What a heterogeneous array of architectural nightmares is presented for ones tortureparticularly at the sea-side resorts, where the majestic splendors of the coast-line demand the more of the builder! Nowhere does recent architect- ure harmonize more thoroughly with its surroundings than in California, where many of the country houses and sub- urban clubs seem almost to have been modelled as a fitting and crowning com- plement by the same hand that had fash- ioned the ideal setting. Really, country-club life has two sides its domestic, if I may so call it, and its sporting, and not every club has both. Nor do I mean social for domestic. Ev- ery club has a social side, and that of the country club is particularly festive in season. But the domestic side is given only to those that have been the magnet in the founding of a colony of residents. Its domesticity may not be of COUNTRY CLUB OF WE5TCHE5TER COUNTY. ALONG THE TURNPIKE 24 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the nursery order, but it goes so far as apportioning a part of its house for the exclusive use of its women members, and in some instances, at the mountain and sea-side resorts, the house is common to members of both sexes. One or two in the West carry the domestic feature so far as to give it somewhat of a family as- pect, which, it must be confessed, is a hazardous experiment. One roof is not usually counted upon to cover more than one family harmoniously. The one dis- tinguishing feature of the country club, however, is its recognition of the gentle sex, and I know of none where they are not admitted either on individual mem- bership or on that of paterfamilias. Clubs like the Meadow Brook and the Rockaway, which were organized for hunting and polo pure and simple, have no domestic side and make no especial provision for women, though both enter- tain, the latter in its pretty little club, the former more often at the home of one of its members. It is the sporting side of the country club, however, that gives it life and pro- vides entertainment for its members; the club and our sporting history are so close- ly interwoven as to be inseparable. Polo, hunting, and pony-racing owe to it their lives, and to the members we are largely indebted for the marked improvement in carriage horseflesh during the past five years. They founded the horse show, made coaching an accepted institution, and have so filled the year with games that it is hard to say whether the coun- try-club sporting season begins with the hunting in the autumn or with tennis in the spring, for there is hardly any cessa- tion from the opening to the closing of the calendar year. Once upon a time the country was con- sidered endurable only in summer, but the clubs have changed even that notion; all of theni keep open house in winter some retain a fairly large percentage of mem- bers in residence, and one or two make a feature of winter sports. Tuxedo holds a veritable carnival, with tobogganing, snow-shoeing, and skating on the pond, which in season provides the club table with trout. The Essex Country Club of New Jersey owns probably the best- equipped toboggan-slide in America, and on its regular meeting nights electric il- lumination and picturesque costumes com- bine to make a most attractive scene. Spring opens with preparations for polo, lawn-tennis, and yachting. Not all coun- try clubs have polo and yachting, but every one has courts, and several hold an- nual tournaments that are features of the tennis season, and where the leading play- ers are brought together. Of the country clubs proper, only Westchester, Philadel- phia, Essex, Brookline, St. Louis, Buffalo. really support poio teams, besides which there are the Meadow Brook and Rock- away, the two strongest in the country, and Myopia hunt clubs. Two only enjoy yachting facilities, the Country Club of Westchester County and the Larchmont Yacht Club. The latter, although strictly speaking devoted to yachting, is, never- theless, virtually a country club, with one of the handsomest homes of them all, a fleet second in size only to that of the New York Yacht Club, and a harbor that is one of the safest and most picturesque on the coast. Westchester has no espe- cial fleet aside from the steam and sail- ing yachts owned by a few individuals of the club; but its harbor is a good one, and its general location very attractive. All the clubs dabble in live-pigeon trap- shooting, which is regrettable, for it is un- sportsmanlike, to say nothing of the cash prizes, professionalizin g the participants. It is a miserable form of amusement and unworthy the name of sport; but it is not so popular as formerly, and that, at all events, is something in its favor. The polo season be~.ins in the latter part of May, and continues more or less intermittently to the middle of Septem- ber, and sometimes even as late as the first week of October. But usually Oc- tober sees the end of it, for by that time the interest in hunting is quickening, and active preparations are making for the field. Hunting and polo in the early days constituted the sole sport of the country-club members, but the introduc- tion of other games in the last five years has divided the interest that was once given to them entirely. Neither has ret- rograded; but they have not expanded as they should. However, thats another story. Whatever may be lacking in its progression, polo is the game that furnish- es the country club with its most spirited scenes. The rivalry between the teams is always of the keenest, and the spectators, made up largely of the members of the contesting clubs, are quite as susceptible to its enthusiasm as the players. ~j2 0 0 rJ2 z 0 ~J2 0 0 0 Probably the most characteristic coun- try-club scene, however, is created by the pony-race meetings given on the tracks with which several of the clubs are pro- vided. Here there is ample opportunity for the hysterical enthusiasm so dear to the feminine soul, and plenty of time be- tween events for them to chatter away to their hearts content. 4lere, too, there is the certainty of seeing ones friends not only in the carts and on top of the coaches that line the course, and on the tempo- rary little grand stand, erected for the near-by residents of the club colony, but frequently riding the ponies. For- merly more gentlemen rode than is the case now, but one day some one who evidently cared more for the stakes than for the sport, put a professional jockey on his pony, and many others with equally strong pot - hunting tendencies have followed the example. So to-day we go to a meeting expecting, hoping to see our friends, or at least club men in the saddle, and find instead at least eight ont of every ten ponies ridden by second-rate professionals or stable-boys. Only, therefore, when racing is under strictly club auspices and partakes of the nature of a hunt meet, with gymkana and other equestrian sports of more or less acrobatic nature, do we have the Simon Pure sport, with gentlemen np. On such an occasion the social and sporting sides of the club are revealed at their best. Turn your back to the race-course and you well might fancy yourself at a huge garden party; go into the paddock, and you will find the same scene with a different setting; the same well-groomed men and women that out yonder are drinking tea are here, every last one of theni talking horse for dear life, and, what is more to the point, talking it un- derstandingly. Some of the clubs, nota- bly the Genesee Valley Hunt, hold an- nual meetings, where very skilful tent- pegging, lemon-cutting, and rough-riding creditable to a Cossack, show the practical results of this sporting age. Some, again, on their point-to-point runs give us the only really amateur steeple-chasing of a high class in America. The country club has, indeed, as many sides and many charms as a fascinating womanmerci- less in the live-pigeon-shooting, equal to any emergency in the hunting-field, and a veritable coquette in the bewitchery of the hunt ball. There is so much that is entirely de THE COUNTRY CLUB AT BROOKLINE, MASSACHUSETTS. 28 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. lightful in the country club, we wait pa- tiently and in confidence for the correc- tion of the few incongruities that drew forth the Professors pointed criticism. Probably when we have been enjoying ourselves awhile longer we will learn to do so a bit more comfortably to all con- cerned; just now we make of it a little too much business, and lay out the days routine for our guest as though it were a brief to be completed by the evening, whether or no we have the inclination for the undertaking. The English excel us in this small but important particular of entertaining, by knowing that the se- cret of pleasing ones guests is in permit- ting each to follow the bent of his own inclinations. On the other side your host gives you to understand that you can best please him by pleasing yourself. You may join the party that is putting up a luncheon-basket for a days drive, or go for a round of the golf-links; or have a run with the hounds, or stop at home, as one often feels like doing, for a few quiet hours in the library. The average American host is more solicitous for your days pleasureaggressively so, let us say; he is determined you shall en- joy yourselfat least he will keep you on the go. He makes up the parties, and thrusts his guests into them with appar- ently never a thou,,ht of its being quite possible that all may not be of a like turn of mind. He works hard in his en- deavor to keep the interest of his guests constantly aroused; he wants no ennui under his roof. Our big-hearted, ener- getic American host means it all for our pleasure, but has not been at play long enough to have thoroughly mas- tered the art. The club furnishes more independent re- creation than most hosts are able to pro- vide, which is one of the reasons why men who do not care to be raced hither and thither in a perspiring search for plea- sure prefer the club hearth-stone to that of the individual. But country - club benefits remain so abundant as not to be easily computed. While being a family physician whose prescriptions are always agreeable, it has at the same time cultivated a love of out-doors for itself, and stood as the rallying-point for every sport in Amer- ica in which the horse is a factor. Modern organized hunting in America began in 1877 with the Queens County drag hounds (though it must not be for- gotten that fox-hunting has existed in the vicinity of Philadelphia for about one hundred and fifty years, and in parts of the South for the same length of time), and immediately found support from the men who afterwards made country clubs possible; so also with polo, introduced in 76; and pony-racing, first centralized under an association in 90. Probably coaching and driving generally. however, have profited most by the country club, in that it has given an objective point in the days outing where intelligent care for the animals, congenial spirits, and a good dinner were assured. Too much credit cannot be given the Coaching Club, founded in 75 by Messrs. James Gordon Ben nett, Frederick Bron son, William P. Douglas, Leonard W. Jerome, William Jay, De Lancy Kane, S. Nicholas Kane, Thomas Newbold, and A. Thorndike Rice, not only for its encouragement of four-in- hand driving, but for the general impetus, and consequent improvement in horse- flesh, that has shown such satisfactory re- sults in the past ten years. The clubs influence on horsemanship and sports- manship has been considerable, and with the creation of country clubs long drives became a possible and deli,,htful feature of the year. Nor have the Coaching Clubs pleasures and lessons been alto- gether esoteric; it has from the very beginning given the public an almost annual opportunity of enjoying the ex- hilaration of coaching, to say nothing of acting as a gem*~ral educator in coaching ethics. Mr. De Lancy Kane was the first, in April, 1876, to put on a public coach, the Tally-Ho, to Arculariuss Hotel, at Pelham Bridge, which he again ran in 77, and also in 80. On April 25, 1881, the Tantivy was put on the road to Tarrytown by Colonel W. Jay, George Peabody Wet- more, T. A. Havemeyer, Hugo 0. Fritsch, Isaac Bell, Jun., and F. Bronson, and ran six months. In 82 Mr. Kane reappeared with the Tally - Ho, and in May of the same year the Tantivy was put on the road to Yonkers by the same proprietors as the year before. In 84, 87, and 89 public coaches were run by Messrs. J. Roosevelt Roosevelt, C. Oliver Iselin, F. Bronson, R. W. Rives, and the Coaching Club. Since that time coaching has grown ma- terially. Short trips out of New York, Philadelphia, and Boston nolonger suffice. 30 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Mr. F. 0. Beach made the first ambitious at- tempt at a longer route by running a line to Tuxedo Club; but 1894 has been the greatest year in coaching history, there having been three distinct lines running out of New York to country clubs, one of them, a daily between New York and Philadelphia, about 110 miles, the longest route on record, the next being from Lon- don to Brighton, 54 miles. This coach was maintained by the Philadelphia Four-in-hand Club, and horsed and driv- en by its members. It was a huge un- dertaking, requiring 108 horses, and driv- ers serving four days in the weektwice as first whip and twice as secondbut they made a record of maintaining the longest and most perfectly appointed coach line in the world, and with thir- teen changes of horses completed the distance in twelve hours and five min- utes. Tandem-driving has not been so asso- ciated with the country club, and though leading a fairly prosperous existence, with annual meets showing improvement in form and horseflesh, has had nothing like the influence on the amateur sport- ing world of four-in-hand driving. This paper would not be complete with- out a glance at some of the country clubs that have been instrumental in setting in motion and keeping moving this out-door wave that has swept over us in a dozen years. As the eldest and one of the most pic- turesquely located, the Country Club of Brookline deserves precedence. It had its origin in J. Murray Forbess idea of an objective point for rides and drives, and was organized in 1882. No other club possesses a hundred acres of such beautiful land within such easy access, for it is only five and a half miles from the State House, and can be reached from Boston without going off pavement, and, better still, in its immediate neighborhood none of the rural effects have been marred. The club-house, originally a rambling old building, is very picturesque, and has been enlarged from time to time to meet requirements. Its piazza overlooks the race-course, in the centre of which is one of the best of polo fields. Be- fore the organization of the club the Myopia Hunt, then in its infancy, held steeple - chase meetings on its property, and in these races, and those given in the early years of Brookline, gentlemen up was the invariable rule. Of late years, however, professionals have been admit- ted, and with no advantage to the sport. In those days the regular working ponies and hacks of the members were entered; now horses come from New York and Canada, trained to the hour, and in some respects the racing is of a higher order, but the sport is not so enjoyable, and the old-time flavor has departed. There is a shooting - box, where clay pigeons are used, a toboggan-slide, golf- course, and good tennis-courts, both grass and gravel; and it is not improbable that some day will see cottages for members similar to the plan adopted at Tuxedo. In the winter, one evening a week has a table dh6te and an informal dance, to which the members and friends from town are sure to come. In fact, nearly all the seats are booked far in advance, and the informality of these occasions lends the essence of ideal country-club life. Indeed, no country club in America so nearly approaches that ideal as Brook- line. The Country Club of Westchester de- veloped from a suggestion to organize a tennis club into a determination to found a club where all country sports could be enjoyed. The newly organized club leased the house and racing - grounds of Dr. George L. Morris, at Pelbam, and after some alterations, including a large addi- tion, took possession April 4, 1884, fully equipped with tennis-courts, a race-track, polo field, baseball grounds, traps for pi- geon-shooting, a pack of hounds, boats, ar~ d bath-houses. The sale of Dr. Morriss property made it necessary to find other quarters, and in December, 1887, the Country-Club Land Association organized and bought Van Antwerp Farm, of about eighty acres, loca- ted on East Chester Bay, between Peiham Bridge and Fort Schuyler, and in the spring of 88 began to lay out the grounds and build the present club-house and sta- bles, into which they moved the follow- ing year. From its inception the club has kept up all the sports of the day: polo and tennis tournaments, baseball, pigeon-shoot- ing, golf, boating (having two launches for the use of the members), and tobog- ganing and skating in winter. There is also quite a colony of handsome cottages on the grounds, owned by members, and altogether Westchester has probably more 32 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. than any other encouraged sport of all kinds, both by precept and example. Although entirely given over to hunt- ing and polo, the Meadow Brook and Rockaway clubs were the pioneers in the country-club movement, and have been the most active workers in encouraging its growth. Both are strictly devoted to the horse, and the Meadow Brook men more particularly have been most prom- inent in the culture of the American breed. The Meadow Brook Hunt Club was or- ganized in 1879, though it had hunted two years previously with a pack that was taken over to Westchester. Its club- house is a quaint affair, with absolutely no pretensions to architectural beauty, and made up of two wooden buildings, each two stories high, joined together at their second story by a covered bridge, under which the driveway goes to the sta- bles in the rear. Rockaway has a niodern home and more space for entertaining. Tuxedo has a modern and very handsome club, that was opened in 1886 with a colony of hand- some cottages, which, in fact, called it into being. Philadelphias country club was organized in 1892, with polo as a raison d ~tre. It has none of the features of Brookline, Westchester, or Tuxedo, but is a charming objective point for an after- noon drive. As a matter of fact, any other sort of club around Philadelphia is uncalled-for. There is no need of coun- try clubs in Philadelphia suburbs, with its handsome homes, and miles of beau- tiful lawns and orchards and gardens that load the air with rich perfumes, and where fields of daisies grow in such pro- fusion they look like fields of snow which refuse to melt under the rays of the sum- nier sun. Chestnut Hill and Bryn-Mawr and the rest are more English in their method of entertainin~, than any other suburbs in America. The Elkridge Fox - hunting Club is Baltimores country club, and deli~ht- fully situated it is in Multavideo Park, about five miles out on St. Charles Ave- nue. As its name implies, fox -hunting is its sport, for wh ich purpose it was or- ganized in 1878, the country-club feature being added to gratify the wishes of the non-hunting set in 1887. There is no at- tempt at lavish display here, but its ap- pointments are in the best of taste and judgment, and its chef unexcelled. I cannot undertake, ofcourse, to touch upon every country clubit would be stupid reading and take too much space and therefore con fine myself to represent- ative ones only, but I must mention th~ Burlingame Country Club, of California, because, architecturally speaking, it is the most picturesque in America, and alto- gether a unique member of clubdom, and because it has an interesting history. It is situated in an 800-acre park, with splen- did roads and attractive views, surround- ed by a colony of cottages, all of the En- glish half-timber style, and shaded by the magnificent wide - spreading oaks which are at once the charm and peculiarity of this beautiful park. Riding, driving, polo, golf, and tennis are the sporting attractions, and the sta- bles are filled with ponies and horses and traps of all sorts, which are hired out to membersrather a novel departure, but an exceedingly successful one in this case. The club was originally planned by Mr. Burlingame, who will be remembered as minister to China in the early sixties, and author of the treaty which bears his name. He returned to California very wealthy. and interested in the scheme W. C. Rals- ton, the Napoleon of finance on the Pa- cific coast in those days; both lost their money before they perfected the plans, and the property passed to the Sharon estate, to which it now belongs. In the past two years this estate has undertaken to carry out the programme devised by Burlingamne and fostered by Ralston twen- ty years ago. Who shall deny the country club to have been a veritable blessing, what with its sport amid pleasure and health-giving properties that have brushed the cobwebs from weary brains, and given us blue sky, green grass, and restful shade in ex- change for smoke-laden atmosphere, par- boiled pavements, and the never-ceasing glare and racket of the city? And wo- niankind too has partaken of country- club as she should of all blessings, in relaxation from the petty trials of house- keeping, and the parade and deceits of society, while the line of health has deepened in her cheeks. It has been a wholesome growth all round. Beginning life as somewhat of a novelty, the country club has becomne so familiar an institu- tiomi that we wonder, as about the New York elevated railway, how we ever man- aged to get on without it. ~: By VV.D.Howells. :~ 1.SPHINX. E who are nothing but self, and have no manner of being Save in the sense of self, still have no other delight Like the relief that comes with the blessed oblivion freeing Self from self in the deep sleep of some dreamless night. Losing alone is finding; the best of being is ceasing Now and again to be. Then, at the end of this strife That which comes, if we will it or not, for our releasing, Is it eternal death, or is it infinite life? IlTWELVE P. M. To get home from some scene of gayety, Say a long dinner, and the laugh and joke, And funny story, and tobacco smoke, And all the not nnkindly fatuousness Of fellow-beings not better and not worse Than others are, but gorged with course on course, And drenched with wine; and with ones evening dress To take off ones perfunctory smile, and be Wholly and solely ones sheer self again, Is like escaping from some dull, dumb pain; And in the luxury of that relief, It is, in certai r~ sort and measure, as if One had put o~the body, and the whole Illusion of life, and in ones naked soul ~Confronted the eternal Verity. Stops of Various (~vi1Is. I

~: By VV.D.Howells. :~ 1.SPHINX. E who are nothing but self, and have no manner of being Save in the sense of self, still have no other delight Like the relief that comes with the blessed oblivion freeing Self from self in the deep sleep of some dreamless night. Losing alone is finding; the best of being is ceasing Now and again to be. Then, at the end of this strife That which comes, if we will it or not, for our releasing, Is it eternal death, or is it infinite life? IlTWELVE P. M. To get home from some scene of gayety, Say a long dinner, and the laugh and joke, And funny story, and tobacco smoke, And all the not nnkindly fatuousness Of fellow-beings not better and not worse Than others are, but gorged with course on course, And drenched with wine; and with ones evening dress To take off ones perfunctory smile, and be Wholly and solely ones sheer self again, Is like escaping from some dull, dumb pain; And in the luxury of that relief, It is, in certai r~ sort and measure, as if One had put o~the body, and the whole Illusion of life, and in ones naked soul ~Confronted the eternal Verity. Stops of Various (~vi1Is. I IlLTIME. 0 you wish me, then, away? You should rather bid me stay: Though I seem so dull and slow, Think before you let me go! Whether you entreat or spurn I can nevermore return: Times shall come, and times shall be, But no other time like me. Though I move with leaden feet, Light itself is not so fleet; And before you know me gone Eternity and I are one. IV.SOCJETY. ES, I suppose it is well to make some sort of exclusion, Well to put up the bars, under whatever pretence; Only be careful, be very careful, lest in the confusion You should shut yourself on the wrong side of the fence. HAT swollen paunch you are doomed to bear, Your gluttonous grandsire used to wear; That tongue, at once so light and dull, Wagged in your grandams empty skull; That leering of the sensual eye Your father, when he came to die, Left yours alone; and that cheap flirt, Your mother, gave you from the dirt The simper which she used upon So many men ere he was won. Your vanity and greed and lust Are each your portion from the dust Of those that died, and from the tomb Made you what you must needs become. I do not hold you aught to blame For sin at second hand, and shame: Evil could but from evil spring; And yet, away, you charnel thing! VIIN THE DARK. How often, when I wake from sleep at night, I search my consciousness to find the ill That has lurked formlessly within it, still Haunting me with a shadowy aifright; And try to seize it and to know aright Its vague proportions, and my frantic will Runs this way and runs that way, with a thrill Of horror, to all things that ban or blight! Then, when I find all well, it is as though The moment were some reef where I had crept From the wide waste of danger and of death, And for a little I might draw my breath Before the flood came up again, and swept Over it, and gulfed me in its deeps below. VHEREDITY. VIJSOLITUDE. H, you cannot befriend me, with all yonr loves tender persistence! In your arms pitying clasp sole and remote I remain, Rapt as far from help as the last stars measureless distance, Under the spell of our lifes innermost mystery, Pain. OMETIMES, when after spirited debate Of letters or affairs, in thought I go Smiling unto myself, and all aglow With some immediate purpose, and elate As if my little, trivial scheme were ~reat, And what I would so were already so: Suddenly I think of her that died, and know, Whatever friendly or unfriendly fate Befall me in my hope or in my pride, It is all nothing but a mockery, And nothing can be what it used to be, When I could bid my happy life abide, And build on earth for perpetuity, Then, in the deathless days before she died. 2c~ VIJICHANGE. IXMIDWAY. I And blithe the birds sang in the trees, The trees sang in the wind winged me with the morning breeze, left Care far behind. But now both birds and trees are mute In the hot hush of noon; And I must up and on afoot, Or Care will catch me soon. X.CONSCIENCE. JUDGE me not as I judge myself, 0 Lord! Show me some mercy, or I may not live: Let the good in me go without reward; Forgive the evil I cannot forgive! XI.CALVARY. F He could doubt on His triumphant cross How much more I, in the defeat and loss Of seeing all my selfish dreams fulfilled, Of having lived the very life I willed, Of being all that I desired to be? My God, my God! Why hast thou forsaken me! 0 z C, C, 0

0 z C, C, 0 PAGLA IN ITALY. BY GERTRUDE HALL. ON his way down stairs Prospero came upon the padrorta di casa. She stood at the door of the first floor, which he had supposed untenanted, the windows on the street being always dark. She looked pleased, anxious, and full of business. Just step in for a moment, signori- no, she said, and tell me what it seems to you. The young man followed her. The windows of the apartment were wide openmost likely to let in the heat, for as you leaned forth beyond the chill boundary of the stone walls it was like dipping into a warm bath. The long, old, neatly darned lace curtains waved gently in the April air. The stone floors had been sprinkled; a pleasant freshness arose from them. Everything had an air of having just been gone over with a damp dust-cloth; everything that could be furbished shone to the utmost of its capacity. The little woman led Prospero into the large sala, from which, through several open doors, one got glimpses of other airy chambers. The great height of the ceilingincreased to illusion by the cun- nine, of the fresco, which professed to open into the sky itself, and show a flight of rosy cupids tumbling among the clouds had the effect of dwarfing the furni- ture, even the gigantic vases under their shining bells. The seats were placed about ia social groups; in the embra- sure of the balcony window stood a small table supporting a coral-colored coffee service, lately placed between two low chairs, with a view to spreading about suggestions of coziness, the joys of inti- mate life. I see that you are expecting a ten- ant, said Prospero. So it is indeed. A great ladya for- eigner, replied the padrorta, under her breath. Just see, signorino, what you make of this name. While she felt in her pocket she went on: It is Dottor Segati sends her to me. Oh, he has sent me families before when there was a pa- -- .~ tient among them; and this apartment has always given satisfaction; that I can say with my hand upon my conscience. Therecan you read it? I can tell the VOL. XC.No. 5354 letters, but I cant make the sound. One ought to have another tongue on pur- pose for these foreign names. Prospero studied a second, then pro- nounced, clearly, Griifin Paola von Schattenort. Grdfin means Countess, said the landlady. The doctor told me that she is a Countess; but whether Danish or Swedish or Hollandish I dont remember. For me all those countries are the same. Schattenort, you call it? What would that be in Italian? Prospero laughed. It stays as it is, dear lady. Is this Countess young, do you know ? he went on, looking again at the name on the paper he still held. Is she coming here for her health? I dont know anything beyond the fact that the doctor engages the rooms for her, and I can rely upon him. Oh, he has sent me families before, you know, who have always been perfectly satisfied with me, and I with them. You can see yourself that the quarters are such that even a Countess might find herself well in them Yes, truly, replied Prospero, agreea- bly. She would be hard to please if she were not content. Well, if you allow me now, I go. Have you perhaps a com- mission of any sort for me? I shall do myself a pleasure in serving you. Too good, much too good. If you would just say the name over Von Schattenort. What it is to have a memory! What a thing is education! Not but that also I can make myself understood in the French tongue. Schattenort. Schatte- nort. I shouldnt like to scomnparire, you will understand, at the very first meeting. But if I forget, I will simply say Signora Contessa. Only one likes to be able to tell a friend whom one has got in the house. Prospero, late already, was hurrying down the stairs, his music under his arm; at the foot he was forced to stop. He took off his hat, and leaned against the wall to let the ladies pass. The gray-haired gentleman talking un- practised French he knew to be Dottor Segati. He fixed upon Paola von Schat- tenort without a seconds hesitation; of 42 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the two ladies, only the one in the hat and feather could in his conception of possibility be she. He was half conscious as she passed him on her upward way of a faint pang of disappointment. The name had suggested to his imagination some- thing tall and frail, delicate yet impos- ing, exceedingly, luminously blond, with eyes of a corn-flower blue. The magic of the name was defeated. He bethought him how late he would be, and without turning his head for a second look, or ~iving another thought to the arrivals, slipped past the two maids, who stood in the doorway talking in a language unknown to him, while the Countesss man handed them bundles from the carriages drawn up to the door. Paola, on entering the apartment, let her little gloved hands drop at her sides, and looking around with wide, quick eyes, gave a long sigh of pleasure. Here I can breathehere I can breathe indeed ! she said to her companion, in their Northern tongue; then turning to the doctor, she assured him in French that she found it charming, as she had found everything in Italy that she thanked him for his goodness. The doc- tor and the landlady both watched her with half a smile and slightly raised eye- brows as she walked quickly through the rooms, exclaiming at every window with delight at sight of the fawn - colored, warm - lookin, river flowing below and flashing back the sunshine, and the low hills clothed in their early green. Her companion followed her with an unusual solemn dignity of manner, in- tended to counterbalance Paolas unac- customed vivacity, and give the people of the house, if possible, an adequate impres- sion of the two as a whole. - Oh, looklook, Cousin Veronika ! exclaimed the younger woman from the balcony, over the parapet of which she had been leaning venturously far; look at that dear old bridgeit is the Jewel- lers Bridge; I recognize it. Nest -cc pas, cher docteur? Oh, what a sky! But have you any patients at all in this city, doctor? Is it possible to be ill here? Do persons die? Of what? I will never believe it My dear lady, said the gray doctor, his kindly face lighting as if with the re- flection of her childish excitement, will you be advised by me? Will you sit down on this commodious divan and rest a lit- tle, while you take what the signora has brought for youthis little glass of our white yin santo? It will do you good. You must be tired, very tired. Oh no! no, doctor. It is like magic. I do not understand it. I feel like an- other. I shall not be tired here, ever. You must come and see me every day in- deed, but not as a doctoras my good, good friend. Tell me, is it still standing, the house where Dante lived? Have you a bookI mean, could you advise me a bookin which there is everything of the story about him and Beatrice? It must be sweet to think of when one is in their city. I will do myself the pleasure of send- ing you the Vita Nuova, h~e said; then, solicitously, but accommodate yourself, my dearest lady, and drink this Vita Nuova? Does that mean new life? New life ! she said, as if to her- self, suddenly half stretching her arms up in the air and smiling in indeterminate happiness at the ceiling, whereon the shining river cast a restless, quivering brightness. Yes, send it me; I want to read it. I will drink this to please you, signor, but not that I am tired. here is to New Life! She touched her glass to the doctors and Veronikas, and emptied it at an eager draught. Veroni ka watched her in sur- prised displeasure, sipping her own wine staidly and decorously. It warmed her very heart to see Paola merry, only she thought it unbecoming to behave in the presence of strangers as if one were a person of no importance. Her good-humor returned as soon as the doctor and the padrona had excused themselves. When they were alone she seized Paola unceremoniously by the wrists and forced her back into an arm- chair; then lifted her feet, and with much decision placed them upon a footstool. Now you dont stir, she said, shaking her finger in Paolas face. But, cousin, it is so different, plead- ed Paola. I feel no more as I do at home, than this mild, heavenly air is like our joyless atmosphere. Are your eyes open, Cousin Veronika? Do you per- ceive the thin~s about youor is it all a dream of my own? It seemed to me as we drove from the station that we had arrived in an enchanted place Its just a city, murmured Veronika. Those sombre palaces we passed, how PAOLA IN ITALY. 43 they make the spring-time in the sky above them more lightsome, more warm! And those flowers banked up for sale against that black stone wall, could you see what they were? They seemed to me all new sorts marvellous. Have you noticed ~ how happy every one looks in Italy, even the beggars sitting in the sun? And what beautiful faces one sees She stopped and mused, gazing ahead in silence for a few moments; then went on aloud: Yes beautiful faces, like pictures. Did you see the young man whom we met on the stairs? Not? Ye- ronika, for what have you eyes? The light just there was a little dim, but I saw him perfectly. I passed him slowly on purposehe leaned against the wall to let us go by him. He had wavy hair, longer than is usual, falling over his forehead, and soft brown eyes like an an- imals. I am sure one sees such eyes only in Italy, half asleep, yet deeply intelli- gent, that when you look in them you think a thousand things You certainly took in a great deal at a glance, said Veronika. Oh, I could tell you much else, laughed Paola, beside that he wore a pink in his button-hole and carried a roll of music. Veronika, she said, after a pause, jumping up from her chair and walking about excitedly as befbre, we must be very happy here. We must begin at once. Think how much time we have lostall our years up to this day. Now we must really enjoy ourselves, live- love ! she added, recklessly, with light in her eyes. Veronika, kneeling over an open satch- el, paused in her task to look over her spectacles with a vaguely shocked air, as if something immoral had been said. This seems like the opening chapter in a lovely story-book that becomes more interesting with every page, said Paola, dropping on her knees and crushing her cheek to Veronikas gray hair, with an expansiveness that took this lady aback. I have the happiest presentiments! Ah, Veronika, there was once a woman who said that happiness is to be young, be- loved, and in Italy! Unless you keep quiet and rest, said Veronika, you will be ill, and that is as far as you will get Paola stared a second in wonder at Veronikas impatience; then she reflected that her cousin was old and could not un- derstand. Poor Veronika ! she thought, with a sympathetic shake of the head, she can never have but Italy ! She went back to her chair like a good child, but before settling down in it she pushed it to the balcony window; then she sat with her eyes fixed upon San Mi- niato. Dr. Segati came the next day, early. He found Paola pale and infinitely tired, but wearing a contented face. She sat in the balcony window, closed to-day, with a cushion behind her shoulders; flowers stood in the water near hera delight to the eyes, wonderful wind-flow- ers, white and pink, purple, scarlet, pale violet. She rose to meet the doctor, and gave him the childish smile that had won his heart to her the day before. She pointed to the book she held. It came last night. I thank you. I am trying to read it, you see. But I do not know enough. I can make only just a little sense here and there, where it re- sembles French. Oh, I like it all the samevery much. The title is beautiful Vita Nuovct ! Tell her she must not read, doctor, said Veronika. It is bad for her. She has been tiring herself over the book. The doctor listened politely, fixed an intelligent eye on Veronikas, and made no objection to what she said. She had always after that half an idea that he un- derstood her. I had the cook sent in, said Paola, with a brightening face. The native cook whom the padrorta was so good as to enga~,e for me. I asked her about some passages. She could read them easily-liow I envied her !but she could not make theni clear to me, though she seemed to do her best.? The doctor laughed amusedly, and took a seat beside her. What an eager little lady! Certainly that is the way to learn. But why this hurry? The great object first is to become robust. Oh, this air will do it. I have no fear. And how did you sleep ? Paola blushed as if caught in fault. I dont know why it should be I lay awake so much. My old doctor at home (I bless him for his inspiration of sending me here!) has written you about me, I suppose. I dare say you know I cough sometimes in the night. Doctor, she asked, abruptly, who lives above us ? 44 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. He looked interrogatively at the ceil- ing, and shook his head. Oh, I am so sorry you do not happen to know. It is a great musician, and I feel such gratitude toward him! I was becoming nervous with lying awakeI was on the point of calling my poor ill- used cousin-when sonie one began play- ing on the piano in the room above me. Sweetly, very sweetly. I could hear it just distinctly enough. It was a joy. I lay awake, but it soothed me more than sleep. I seem to remember that there is a music-master living in the house, said the doctor. I will beg the padrona to speak to him. He should not play in the night. Not at all, exclaimed Paola, with a warmth lie could not expect. Please, I want him to play. I shall be grieved if you say anything to prevent him. It does not keep me awake. If I were sleepy I could not hear it. The doctor prolonged his visit far into the forenoon. At the first movement he made to go, Paola said, pleadingly: Oh, not yet. I entertain myself so willingly with you I And he staid. He was interested, in the woman as well as in the case. She was different from his other aristocratic patients. She was of a type new to him; without appearing to, he studied her face as she spoke, and from it, and from frequent allusions she dropped, lie built up a theory of her past. He divined that she was older than she looked. It was, he resolved, the child- like glance and smile, the voice as of shy- ness overcome, her artlessness, her con- tinually outcropping ignorance of the world, her immature mind perhaps, that gave the impression of youthfulness one at first received from her. If one looked well, she had even already a sad little be- ginning of faded appearance. Her face was a trifle broad, and the high cheek-bones were commenciub slightly to accuse them- selves, as they say in French. The charm of her countenance, to such as felt it, lay in her eyes: they were unsophisticated, hopeful, interested, idealizing eyes. Van- ity, it must be pityingly related, had taught her nothing. Her blond hair, dull and fine and soft, a large treasure that would have made the boast of many another woman, was drawn away rigor- ously from her forehead, braided, and wound compactly against the back of her head, like a school-girls. He noticed with amused wonder how unpretendingnay, provincial, homely, for persons of rank and fortunewas the mise of the two women. Fashion by them was misconstrued, or else despised. He did not incline to the latter interpre- tation of their plainness; he rather laid to a touching innocence of the modes dictates Mamsell Veronikas pelerine and the black lace tabs on the sides of her head; the antiquated cut of Paolas deep violet gown, the little black silk mitts that covered her pale pretty hands to the point where her rings began. These were nu- merous rather than rich, and gave the impression of being heirlooms-things worn for a memory: brilhiants mounted in darkening silver, enamels, carnehians; one showed a pale gleam of human hair. Paola had never spoken so much about herself to any one as she did to the doc- tor. Her loquacity was an effect of her unreasoning instinct that in this new place everything was good to her, every influence favorable. She let herself go in a way that would have seemed out of her nature at home. All she had ever read in the long, mel- ancholy winter evenings at Schattenort, of poetry or romance, came back to her mind in essence, drawn to the surface by an inexplicable magic. Her conversation in this mental excitement teemed with al- lusions and modest flowers of speech that almost surprised herself, and gave her a strange delight. She felt as she were some one she had some time read of. Oh, we will make you well, quite well, soon, said the doctor, chieerily,on taking his leave. But you must prom- ise to be very good, very prudent. He gave his directions with a light air, but as he turned from the door a shadow settled upon his kindly old face. In his breast pocket lay folded the letter his colleague, Paolas former doc- tor, had written him. The conscious- ness of what was said in it somehow gave rise in his heart to a tender, grateful thought of his own childrengrown-up daughters, fair and healthy, happily es- tablished in life. Paola had thought to go out for a drive that day, but a light rain fell, and she could only watch the turbid stream out- side through the glistening window-pane. She sat with her forehead leaning against PAOLA IN ITALY. 45 it, her book in her lap. Now and then she opened this and let her eyes wander over the lines, without trying to under- stand, just for a pleasure she found in its being Italian too. She had prevailed upon Veronika to go out for a walk, so that sbe might amuse her with an account of what there was to see. Toward evening the clouds broke. She saw the red reflection of the sunset on the river. Tempted, she opened the balcony door; a smell of damp stone came grate- fully to her nostrils. She slipped out and leaned over the cool balusters, and looked up and down the empty gleaming street. The hills were rosy as wine; the air was sparkling. She heard a footstep; she hoped it might be Veronikas. She looked. But it was not a woman. She recog- nized the young man who had been on the stairs when she arrived. He did not look up. She leaned over to see him dis- appear in the portone below. Then, swiftly, she came in-doors and stopped in the middle of the floor. She listened intently. In a few moments she thought to hear, faintly, faintly, footsteps in the room above. She clasped her hands si- lently, saying to herself with unaccount- able excitement: I knew it already. I knew it well. Late in the night again she heard mu- sic. She had been listening for it a long time. Night to her was often tediously long. Often she spent many hours star- ing at the square of paler darkness, star- bestrewn, the window made. At a cer- tain pitch of nervousness, soon reached when the city had become quiet and the stillness was full of mysterious sounds, she always thought of a dear sister she had lost, rehearsing old sad scenes vivid in her brain as if they had been lived through but yesterday. Her own phys- ical discomfort increased as she thought of that other girls lone-drawn-out suffer- ing. It seemed to her that already she could not breathe; her body was damp with sweat of fear. It is all useless ! she groaned, tossing wretchedly. I too J too am going that way ! Then she prayed diligently, and looked out up at the stars with a return of tranquillity, hoping steadfastly in a beautiful world beyond them. But on the night in question she lay patiently and happily watchful. And late in the night again she heard music. No very definite melody was played; it was as if skilful hands were dreamily straying over the keys, unravelling a little tangled skein of musical impres- sion, thinking aloud. The tune wan- dered and flitted like a butterfly over a summer garden. Paolas thought climb- ed upward and entered the musician s chamber. She saw him clearly, leaning back, looking upward, swaying lightly. She took joy in the symmetry of his dark Italian face. She pictured him intensely, and held her breath gazing. Then she tried to build up his surroundings; she adorned his room poetically. Satisfied at last, her imagination folded its wings and dropped back into its nest. She merely listened, and let herself be comforted; accepted passively what dreams the music imposed. It was as if she and another were walking in a moon- less starry night along a quiet village road; and the dewy flowers in the stilly little gardens skirting the way were giv- ing forth perfume in the warm dark. Then it was as if another and she were in a boat with drooping sail, becalmed, drifting slowly. The moon was behind a great cloud wonderfully silvered on the ravelled edges; the sea at the horizon was a streak of pure light. The other had laid her on velvet cushions and cov- ered her with a cloak, was playing and singing softly to her. They hoped the wind would not rise. Driftingdrifting. And she slept. In the gayest mood next day she show- ed the doctor a little package of letters to different persons in the city, but averred that she was not ready yet to let these distinguished ones know of her arrival; she must first attend to various important things. He derived from her words that she wished to make her establishment more elegant; and he became gruff and severe when she asked him to procure for her the address of the most fashionable mantua-maker. She almost cried when he forbade the expense of any precious energy on worldly vanities, but was half consoled by his promise soon to make her well enough to employ a master in the art of playing the guitar. He prescribed a daily drive in the sun- niest hour. Paola came back from her first excursion with flushed cheeks. Ye- ron ika grumbled: I will tell the doctor, and he will forbid your going out at all. It is not to kneel in damp churches will 46 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. help you. You might as well take up your abode in the cellar. Dont scold me, said Paola, gently. I had to thank God. Toward sunset she seated herself on the balcony wrapped in fleecy white, and looked down the street toward the Jew- ellers Bridge. She saw Prospero come. But he did not look up. That night again she heard him play. Many times she sat on the balcony and saw Prospero coming. Sometimes lie looked up, but oftener he passed into the house unaware of a Countess gazing after him from above. Some nights he did not play; those were restless, disappointed nights for her. Once or twice she met him on the stairs as she was going to her carriage; he glanced at her with an unimpressed eye, then looked elsewhere, standing against the wall, hat in hand. Occasionally she saw him in the street, but he seemed never to see her. A vague heartache grew out of those occasions. The Italian spring deepened iii warmth and color; the air had a fragrance some days as of lilacs; other days more pene- trating, as of hyacinths. The little hills in the midst of which Florence nestles took on dewy morning hues of the opal, changing evening tints of the dark doves neck. The pure noon light made the statues in the Kings Garden, where Paola walked sometimes, look dazzlingly white against the sombre walls of clipped lau- rel. The open country now was full of blossoming fruit trees; Paola often begged Veronika to alight from the carriage and gather for her the flowers she saw shin- ing in the grassprimroses and violets, tulips, narcissuses, fleurs - de - lis. She brought home immense nosegays, which she spent long minutes breathing; this perfume of Italy went to her brain. At sunset once a red flower lay. by chance on the ledge of the balcony, just where a movement of her arm would brush it off; it would drop in the street. A bold thought crossed her mind. But that evening Prospero did not come at the usual hour. She sat outside, trem- bling slightly as the dusk closed around her and the dew fell; then Veronika, with shrill cries of surprise and blame, came to fetch her in. She felt guilty and ashamed, and did not protest. She spent the evening on the divan, with her face to the wall, crying softly with a vast invincible melancholy, a sense of forlornness and failure, giving no expla- nation of her humor. She was kept in-doors for many days after that. Only she insisted upon being folded in a fur and seated on the balcony at a certain hour every afternoon. The beggar-woman stationed at the street cor- ner with a basket on her knees got used to seeing the sick forestiera appear, who always threw her a bit of silver, and gave her a faint little smile. Veronika suffered from Paolas silence and depression. She went about with two deep lines constantly between her updrawn brows. Her heart misgave her; her inability to communicate with the doctor and those around her became a gnawing despair. She formed a habit, which never left her after, of talking au- dibly to herself. She gave up the effort to hold cheerful conversation with Paola, and simply tried to preserve in her pres- ence an unconcerned attitude. She se- cretly yearned to be at home. She felt an unappeasable animosity toward this Italy, that had seemed to do her Paola so much good, only to make her worse. She began to hate everything Italian. Paola herself sat by the window watch- ing the hills opposite with an absent face. Now and then she rose to take a few des- ultory steps about the large room, touch- ing the things, passing her hand over the flowers, making the guitar-strings give forth a murmur as she brushed them; she went back to her chair and closed her eyes, tired out. Once a friend was walking at Prospe- ros side. They were talking. As they approached, the friend looked up, and ev- idently asked a question of Prospero, who looked up too, and she thought his lips framed her name. Her heart leaped; she drew back, faint, and felt foolish at feel- ing such pleasure. She waited more eagerly than usual that night to hear him; it seemed the music must have a special message for her. Silenceutter, atrocious. The night seemed unending. The doctor wondered next day what spring had broken within her. She showed so little interest in anything; she was fretful as he had never seen her be- fore. He scarcely knew how to conduct himself to avoid irritating her. At a loss, he picked up the little tome of Vita Nuova, that always lay on the table at her side, and inquired of her progress in it. PAOLA IN ITALY. 47 Oh, put it away ! she said, tears springing to her eyes. Put it away! I cant suffer it. That title exasperates me; it works upon my nerves. Doctor, doc- tor, I shall never be well again ! and she poured forth a long complaint. He feigned to make light of her fears; he comforted her. Casting about in his mind for things to say that should divert, interest her in her gray mood, lie found this, which brought the sudden color to her face: Did you not once ask me who lived in the apartment above? I know now, I will not take the credit of having ap- plied myself to discover just on that hint of curiosity I confess hearing it by chance. Your neighbor is the young maestro Prospero C- , celebrated in his way. He has written an opera, to be produced for the first time precisely to- night. Those who know promise great things for it She had leaned forward, listening thirstily. The doctor could congratu- late himself. When Veronika went to the door with him, he turned upon her suddenly, and asked, almost violently: Why did you wait so long? Why did you not bring her to this climate before ? She looked at him in a puzzled way, and in her turn said something he could not understand. He appeared for a moment as if he meant to shake her, but shrugged his shoulders and brusquely left. Some who were present at the first night of Parisina remember well how when the curtain dropped on the first act and they looked about to discover whom they should salute, their attention was arrested by the strange apparition in one of the second-tier boxes. There, in a crimson velvet chair, sat very upright an unknown lady in a gown such as no one nowadays wearsa gown of cloth of gold, that might have figured at a court ball perhaps a century earlier. An ermine- lined mantle half covered her arms and neck, dainty thin and white as wax, and half extinguished the gleam of her heavy jewels. A wreath of roses was twined in her pale hair, that might have made one laugh in its d~inod~ pretentiousness but that one divined the lady to be a forei~,ner from some Northern country, where per- haps it is still customary to adorn the hair with flowers. She held her fan like a sceptre, her fingers stiffly closed on the pearl sticks. A mass of roses lay in her lap. She turned a colorless face upon the stage; her eyes were wide and glassy, and fixed as a somnambulists. On the opposite side of the box, less clearly defined against the darkness, sat an elderly, soberly clad lady, whose face expressed a degree of uneasiness, misery, and fear almost pitifulif not comical to behold. She made no pretence of in- terest in the stage or the gleaming galle- ries, but watched her golden-haired com- panion with an unswerving, frightened eye. No one knew who these were, though many took pains to discover. Through the second act the lady in gold listened breathlessly, as if life itself were suspended. It seemed to her that the soul left her body, and went floating up, up, on the strains of the music. She was praying,praying with all her strength, for the success of this work, that the peo- ple might feel just as she felt how it was beautiful! When a crash of applause came and a call for the composer, it seemed but an answer to her prayer. She rose to her feet, radiant. Prospero C came to the foot-lights below, looking a slight thing, the ac- claimed great man, in his close black evening dress, and bowed his thanks. Then, as the applause continued, he lin- gered a moment, and let his eye pass along the friendly faces in the boxes, a grateful emotion expressed in his smile. The lady in gold leaned over the velvet parapet, breathing short, tremulously smiling, her flowers in her hands. His eye passed her unrecognizing. She want- ed to shout: It is I, Paola! Nothin could keep me away ! The clamor sub- sided. Panting, she leaned back in the shade. The third act ended in triumph. Again the composer was called. Paola laughed and cried at the same time, clapping her little hands like mad, forgetting herself. Then, when it was all over and she sat in the dark carriage rolling homewards, she felt a chill seizing upon her very heart; she began to shiver. A sense of the sad things of life weighed heavily upon her: the vanity of earthly hopes, the ev- anescence of happy things, the inequality in the measure of pain and pleasure to Gods children, the fugitiveness of illu 48 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. sions, the foolishness of dreams. She thought of the beggar sitting at the cor- ner in sun and rain through years; she felt disgust for a world where such things could be. She said: It is a good thing to have done with it. It is a deliver- ance. I will not give it one regret; no, not one. She felt suddenly that she did not love Italy; it had betrayed her. It is you, you who are to blame, she said, full of helpless resentment, shaking a pale small hand vaguely from the win- dow out at the balmy moonlit world; you, soft air! you, flower smell! you, velvety firmament with the many-colored stars! I was a simple soul; my common life was enough for me; you sowed in my unguarded heart all the seeds of vain dreams, and fostered them. And they bear no fruit; they wither on their shal- low rootsthey are weeds! But I will not curse you, for God made you lovely. She closed her eyes; her thoughts turned to remote Schattenort; she wished she were there again, in the dull, quiet, bi~,, cold, familiar country house where she had been born and bred. A mist of bitter longing rose in her eyes. The moon was shining clamorously, obtru- sively; it cast a green light, a light almost warm, on the pale pavement. She hated its fervent beauty. Would God I were home ! she sighed. Veronika, mistaking her meaning, said, You are almost there. Paola suffered Veronika and her maid to put her to bed. She seemed not to notice them. She was thinking far away. Out of habit she listened a moment for the piano above. But all was silent. He is happy, she said to herself; he has gone with his friends. Or perhaps he is up there living it all over again. And her imagination, touched anew with the old obstinate insanity, took the road up to his never-seen chamber, bent over him, and rejoiced with him. Oh, if I could she said; if I could! But he will never know how a dying noble lady used to listen to his playing in the dead of night, and loved him, and left him her blessing Veronika had no sleep that night. Be- fore day the doctor was summoned. He remained several hours. At going he drew Veronika aside, and by signs suc- ceeded at last in procuring from her the package of letters the Countess had once shown him. He looked at the super- scriptions, and took from among them one To the Abbd 5., That evening lie brought with him a white-haired old man in priestly garb, whom Veronika was relieved to hear ad- dress her in her native tongue. Presently, with muffled footsteps and a frightened, solemn mien, she led him into the Countesss bedroom, dimly lighted by shaded candles, and left them long alone together. Prospero, returning home that night, opened the window wide and stood a moment looking out at the stars, at peace with life, every desire for the moment hushed, satisfied. Then he lighted the candles on the piano, and the faint yel- low illumination brought out a hint of color in the objects around. It showed an ordinary, rather bare room; he lived in it very little. The littering music and the piano formed its chief adornment. He sat down, but for a moment did not touch the keys. He removed the flower from his coat and smelt it, think- ing of Rosina, who had given it him at the theatre doorRosina with the broad velvet-faced hat, the tight silk dress, the diamonds in her ears, and the small bas- ket of flowers on her arm. She was prettyoh, pretty! Having thought how pretty she was, he wisely tossed away her faded favor, determining to remain cold and prudent. He shook back his hair, as if thereby to free his mind of her, spread his hands over the ivory keys, and began, as he loved to do before sleeping, to let his fancies and emotions make themselves sound. He played long, losing himself, finding a melodious vesture for his half-formed dream. The night was very quiet; it came to be very-late without his percei v- ing it. Suddenly he felt a cool air on his foreheadhe looked up, and paused in his playing, his hands motionless above the keys, his lips open. He- felt that lie ought to speak, but his voice failed to an- swer his will. He was asking himself in the dim background of his conscious- ness how the Countess Paola von Schatte- nort had entered his dwelling so noise- lessly, and what she might be seeking there. More clearly lie was wondering at her face, so strangely still and white, vaguely woe-begone, astonished, pathet ic. He recognized her, yet she seemed to him altered from her he sometimes saw on the balcony and met on the stairsthat object without interest a wo- man not pretty. Perhaps it was the wonderful hair that, shining along her cheeks like a pale gilded mist, transfig- ured her. The firm tine hraids that here- tofore he had seen always wound in aus- tere simplicity about her head were un- done; the narrowly waved hair floated to her knees; her fac peered wistfully between two shimmering hands of it. VOL. xc.No. 5355 7 She was clothed in a white ~,arment gar- nished with dark fur; a heavy rosary hung about her neck. She looked at him a long moment with fixed eyes, an expression of plaintive dis- illusion, and said nothing. He tried to ask in what manner he might serve her, but his tongue was numb. She turned and looked all ahout the room, very slowly, as a person seeking SHE LOOKED AT HIM A LONG MOMENT WITH FIXED EYES. 50 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. something. Then she looked again at him, silently, with that same face of dis- appointment; and her hands, that had heen tightly shut on the golden crucifix appended to her rosary, opened and slipped softly to her sides. She turned to the door. He rose from his seat, and without taking his eyes from her, fum- bled to lift the candle from its socket, to light her way; he was awkward in his amazement. He saw her pass the thresh- old. In a second he followed her. She was not in the next room. He passed through the two rooms that separated him from the door leading to the common stairway. He came to the door; it was as he had left it, secured for the night. Seized with dismay, in spite of the thought flint she must have lingered behind in the shmamly embrasure of a window, he undid the chain and bolt and came out on th~ landing and looked, thinking incongru- ously to see a white figure vanish down the steps. He saw nothing but a faint light cast upon the wall at the turn of the stairs. He stood hesitating. In a moment he heard below a sound of weeping; he went down with a trem- bling of the knees. On the landing of the piano nobile was the landlady. Sh& had set her little brass lamp on the last step, and was crying. The door to th& Countesss apartment was wide open, and the draught from there made the tiny flame flicker and smoke. What is it? said Prospero, in ahnsky whisper. She is dead, the poor lady ! sobbed the padrona. He felt his hair softly rising. THE CORONAL. BY ANNIE FIELDS. The only prize given to time conqueror was a garland of wild-olive.History of Greece. I~W INE the wild-olive, twine! lAnd hasten fingers while the dayspring calls, For when the sun is high The leaflet droops and falls. Now the dark hollow seek, And hide the finished wreath in green recess; And droop not, olive leaves, Nor lose your e~omeliness. Hear ye a peoples feet Come trampling up the steep of Athens hill? They bear a sacred gift; At last the air is still. Behold the white-robed band! Holding the mightiest tribute Greece can give! A little fading wreath! The deed with Zeus shall live. What needs he other gift, The hero, with his living torch aflame, Held high until the hour The godhead gild his name? No dusty sign for him! No flaunting pile to quicken fortunes wheel! Only Demeters leaf, And tears that tlo~ nward ~steal. Haste! haste! bring olive! A peoples tribute for the peoples hour I The gods themselves decree To give the immortal dower.

50 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. something. Then she looked again at him, silently, with that same face of dis- appointment; and her hands, that had heen tightly shut on the golden crucifix appended to her rosary, opened and slipped softly to her sides. She turned to the door. He rose from his seat, and without taking his eyes from her, fum- bled to lift the candle from its socket, to light her way; he was awkward in his amazement. He saw her pass the thresh- old. In a second he followed her. She was not in the next room. He passed through the two rooms that separated him from the door leading to the common stairway. He came to the door; it was as he had left it, secured for the night. Seized with dismay, in spite of the thought flint she must have lingered behind in the shmamly embrasure of a window, he undid the chain and bolt and came out on th~ landing and looked, thinking incongru- ously to see a white figure vanish down the steps. He saw nothing but a faint light cast upon the wall at the turn of the stairs. He stood hesitating. In a moment he heard below a sound of weeping; he went down with a trem- bling of the knees. On the landing of the piano nobile was the landlady. Sh& had set her little brass lamp on the last step, and was crying. The door to th& Countesss apartment was wide open, and the draught from there made the tiny flame flicker and smoke. What is it? said Prospero, in ahnsky whisper. She is dead, the poor lady ! sobbed the padrona. He felt his hair softly rising. THE CORONAL. BY ANNIE FIELDS. The only prize given to time conqueror was a garland of wild-olive.History of Greece. I~W INE the wild-olive, twine! lAnd hasten fingers while the dayspring calls, For when the sun is high The leaflet droops and falls. Now the dark hollow seek, And hide the finished wreath in green recess; And droop not, olive leaves, Nor lose your e~omeliness. Hear ye a peoples feet Come trampling up the steep of Athens hill? They bear a sacred gift; At last the air is still. Behold the white-robed band! Holding the mightiest tribute Greece can give! A little fading wreath! The deed with Zeus shall live. What needs he other gift, The hero, with his living torch aflame, Held high until the hour The godhead gild his name? No dusty sign for him! No flaunting pile to quicken fortunes wheel! Only Demeters leaf, And tears that tlo~ nward ~steal. Haste! haste! bring olive! A peoples tribute for the peoples hour I The gods themselves decree To give the immortal dower. THE TIME OF THE LOTUS. BY ALFRED PARSONS. HE damp heat of the fields the most vivid green I know. Japanese summer, There is more variety of color in those which is so trying districts which are not irrigated, such as to human beings, en- that round IKamakura, where the light courages all vegetation sandy soil grows a great ma.ny kinds of to grow with surprising vegetables, sweet-potatoes, melons, toma- luxuriance and rapidi- toes, beans, and bi~ patches of auratum ty; the buds of yesterday and longiflorum lilies, the bulbs of which are flowers to-day, and are exported. The lily is not one of the to - morrow nothiiig is flowers which the Japanese themselves left but the ruin of a particularly admire, nor do they often past beauty, making the use it for decoration. In this, as in most painters struggle most other matters, there are recognized rules arduous just when he of taste, and the man is considered an has least energy to con- ignoramus who does not know the right tend with nature. The young bamboo thing to like. I was walking one day at shoots come up like giant asparagus, Yoshida with a Japanese artist, a remark- growing so fast that one can almost see able man who was engaged in making a them move~ some of them are cut and series of steel-engravings, half landscnpe eaten while young and tender, and those and half map, of the country round Fuji, which are allowed to glow to large poles and called his attention to a splendid aie used for every imaginable purpose. clump of pink belladonna lilies growing They are made into water- pipes and flower-vases, bar- rel-hoops and umbrellas, bas- kets and hats, scaffolding- poles and pipe - stems, fans ~~nd delicate whisks for stir- ring the powdered teamore things, in fact, than I could enumerate in a page. The bamboo is surely the dause of much of the clever construc- tive work of the Japanese; for though it will do most things with proper treatment, it will not stand being han- dled like ordinary timber; its peculiar qualities have to be considered, and every way in which they use it is artistic and good. This is the large species which grows to twenty or thirty feet high; there are many dwarf kinds, which clothe the hills with green, and are used only for making fences and such like. The general aspect of Japan during the summer months is a harmony in greens, the dark pines and cryptomerias striking the lowest note of a scale which culminates in AURATUM LILIES AND BOCCONIA ON THE HILLS the brilliancy of the rice- NEAR NIKKO.

THE TIME OF THE LOTUS. BY ALFRED PARSONS. HE damp heat of the fields the most vivid green I know. Japanese summer, There is more variety of color in those which is so trying districts which are not irrigated, such as to human beings, en- that round IKamakura, where the light courages all vegetation sandy soil grows a great ma.ny kinds of to grow with surprising vegetables, sweet-potatoes, melons, toma- luxuriance and rapidi- toes, beans, and bi~ patches of auratum ty; the buds of yesterday and longiflorum lilies, the bulbs of which are flowers to-day, and are exported. The lily is not one of the to - morrow nothiiig is flowers which the Japanese themselves left but the ruin of a particularly admire, nor do they often past beauty, making the use it for decoration. In this, as in most painters struggle most other matters, there are recognized rules arduous just when he of taste, and the man is considered an has least energy to con- ignoramus who does not know the right tend with nature. The young bamboo thing to like. I was walking one day at shoots come up like giant asparagus, Yoshida with a Japanese artist, a remark- growing so fast that one can almost see able man who was engaged in making a them move~ some of them are cut and series of steel-engravings, half landscnpe eaten while young and tender, and those and half map, of the country round Fuji, which are allowed to glow to large poles and called his attention to a splendid aie used for every imaginable purpose. clump of pink belladonna lilies growing They are made into water- pipes and flower-vases, bar- rel-hoops and umbrellas, bas- kets and hats, scaffolding- poles and pipe - stems, fans ~~nd delicate whisks for stir- ring the powdered teamore things, in fact, than I could enumerate in a page. The bamboo is surely the dause of much of the clever construc- tive work of the Japanese; for though it will do most things with proper treatment, it will not stand being han- dled like ordinary timber; its peculiar qualities have to be considered, and every way in which they use it is artistic and good. This is the large species which grows to twenty or thirty feet high; there are many dwarf kinds, which clothe the hills with green, and are used only for making fences and such like. The general aspect of Japan during the summer months is a harmony in greens, the dark pines and cryptomerias striking the lowest note of a scale which culminates in AURATUM LILIES AND BOCCONIA ON THE HILLS the brilliancy of the rice- NEAR NIKKO. near an old gray tomb; but he would not have them at all, said they were foolish flowers, and the only reason he gave me for not liking them was because they came up without any leaves. When we got back to our tea-house he took my pen and paper, and showed me what were the 1. Susuki. 2. Kikio. 3. Asago. 4, Shion. 5, Omina-Meshi. 6, Kiku. 1, Hagi. Drawing by Totosho Hario. seven beautiful flowers of late summer the convolvulus, the name of which in Japanese is asago, meaning the same as our morning-glory; wild chrysan- themum; yellow valerian; the lespedeza, a kind of bush clover; Platycodon grandi- forum, a purple-blue campanula; Eula- ha japonica, the tall grass which covers so many of the hills; and shion, a rather insignificant - flowered aster. I noticed that some versions of the seven flowers differed from his; a large-flowered mal- low is often substituted for the last he named. There are doubtless different schools which hold strong views on the subject, but on the morning- glory and some others they are evidently agreed. The auratum lily is a common wild flower in the hilly districts, and boiled lily bulbs are a favorite vegetable, hut I could not find out which was considered ~ tl)e best variety for the table. 0 Shige San told me that it was a red lily; I looked in vain for any of that color in their gardens. The cottages in the country round Ka- makura are thickly thatched, and on the top of the thatch is laid a mass of earth, z~. held together by iris plants, which form a roof-crest of spiky green; near them in July there often were large hydrangea bushes covered with balls of blossom, the young flowers a pale yellow-green, chan- ging as they grew older through bright blue to purple. On the 9th of July the heat drove me from Europeanized Yokohama to the bills. I left the train at Utso-no-miya, a little town which has been financially ruined by the railwayfor every one formerly staid a night there instead of travelling straight throughand was de- lighted to find myself once more in thoroughly Japanese quarters. It was a CRYPTOMERIAS AT NIKKO. THE TIME OF THE LOTUS. 53 wonderful moonlight night, and I wan- dered round the town in kimono and clogs, watched the people, and was stared at by them, climbed the steps to the big Shinto temple, and gazed over the plains flooded with pale light, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. There is a railway now to Nikko, and most people rush up there without seein~ the glorious avenue of cryptomeriasde- scribed so well in Lotis Japorteries dAu- tomnewhich line the old road for miles and miles. I sent only my boy and my baggage by rail, and went myself in a kuruma with two good runners. The road is sadly out of repair in some places, but the splendid old trees remain, and young ones have been planted where winds and age have thinned their ranks. [t is not like an ordinary avenue with the trees planted some yards apart; these are so close togetl)er that the trunks have often joined at the base, and I noticed one lot of seven big trees all grown to- gether at the bottom into a mass that must have been eight or ten yards long. The road is sunk between the high banks on which the trees grow, and it must be gloomy enough on such a night as Loti experienced. Here and there it opens out into a village street, with abundance of ref ieshment booths for the pilgrims who still make the journey on foot. Nikko itself is a long steep street, lead- ing up to a rushing mountain torrent in a rocky ravine, which is crossed by two bridges side by side. One is an ordinary wooden structure, used by all the world; the other is of red lacquer, with black supports and brass ornaments, which is only opened for the Emperor and his fam- ily to pass over. Be- yond them the hills rise covered with cryptoinerias, amon~ which are concealed ~il the great mortuary temples of Ieyasu and PLATYCODON GRANnI- Iemitsu, founders of FLORUR, KIKYO. the great Tokugawa Shogunate that last- ed for two centuries. Marvellous as these mnausolea are, they make no effect in the distance; it is only when you get close to them, wander about in their suc- cessive court-yards, and examine the love- ly details of wood-carving, lacquer, and gilding, that the wonder of them strikes you. The tombs themselves are plain bronze pillars, and are reached by long flights of granite steps, green and gray with mosses and lichens, which lead up under the dark masses of foliage behind the temples. After passing through all A LITTLE TEMPLE AT NIKKO. 54 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the glories of color and elaborate work- streams of clear water, and the favorite manship, their peacefulness and simplicity walks mostly lead to waterfalls. I spent are very strikin ~. Nikko in the summer a soaking day making a sketch of one of is full of foreign ladies and children; the themKirifuri; the path to it crossed a Emperor, too, has a country honse there, wide stony river, and went over grassy where some of his large family spend hills where there were abundant wild flowers, purple iris, white and mauve funkias, yellow orchids, clusters of white roses, pink spirmeas,hydrangeas, St. -Johns-wort, meadow-rue, and bocconia appearing here and there half hidden among the rank herb- age. The big buds of auratum lilies showed how fine they would be in a few days time. Just in front of the waterfall a little tea-house gave me shelter enough to work in; but the path, up which I had walked dry- shod, by the time I got back had been turned by the rain to a raging tor- rent, and I only just crossed the stony river in time, for the light bamboo bridge was washed down during the night. Chuzenji is a little hamlet, some hours walk from Nikko up a moun- tain road, consisting of a group of tea-houses which overlook a charm- ing lake, a very sacred temple with a large bronze toni, and long rows of sheds to accommodate the pilgrims who come in early August to make the ascent of Nantai-zan, the moun- tain which rises close behind the vil- lage. During five long days there of incessant rain I painted every KIRIFURI, N EAR NIKKO. thing that was visible from my room, the water of the lake rising each day so much higher that the hot months. I saw the arrival of on the last two I was able to take a two little princesses, with a crowd of morning header from my balcony, and nurses, tutors, and officials. They were I hardly got a chance to explore the funny little things, about three or four country round. At last a bright morn- years old, not as pretty as most Japanese ing tempted me to walk on to Yumoto, children, but dressed in the most gor- and see the sulphur springs and the wide geous colors. The red lacquer bridge moorland, Senj6-ga-hara, which lies sur- was opened for them, decorated with rounded by mountain-peaks at a height goheithe strips of white paper which of nearly five thousand feet above the are used so largely in the Shinto reli- sea. On the moor the grasses do not gion and in the middle of the brid~e grow high enough to conceal the flowers, there was a little table with offerings of and I found it gay with purple iris and food on it, where the children stopped white meadow-rue. The baths in Yu- and made their obeisances to the manes moto are open to the public; they are of their ancestors as they passed over, large wooden tanks under sheds by the All the priests of Nikko turned out in road-side, and as you walk along the gauze vestments of many colors, Buddh- street you see men, women, and children ist and Shinto equally anxious to do all sitting t6gether, in a state of nature honor to the descendants of the gods. up to their necks in the steamin~ malo- The hills are alive with little tinkling dorous soup. The clouds were gather- ing rouiid the mountain-tops as I started to walk back to Chuzenji, and before I had finished a rapid sketch on the moor the rain began again in torrents; the road was a series of small ponds, and my coolie insisted on carrying me, as well as my sketching materials, tlirou~h them; but be unfortunately stumbled under my weight, and dropped me in the deepest of hem, and what with the wet above and below I was well soaked by the time I reached my tea-house. The hibachi seems a very inadequate means of warmth on such occasions; a hot bath and whiskey and dry clothes are more effective, and after dinner a bottle of tamago sake, a hot compound of whipped e~g and sake, soon produces a pleasing drowsiness. Since leavin~ Chu- zenji I have recog- uized the place iii many drawings on creens and fans; the artist always ,ives its main features the lake,, the cryptom& rias, the huge bronze toni, and the steep wooded slope of Nantai-zan but he combines them in one view as you nev er can see them in reality. The rain had played havoc with the road back to Nikko; several bridges were down, but temporary ones built of fagots made it possible to cross the streams. All the higher woods near the lake are hun~r with gray moss, and the flowering shriils which grow among them are endless azaleas, climbing and bushy hydrangens. weigehia, seringa, and wild vine; on the ground Ji found orange Turks-cap lilies, columbines, the hig Lilium cordifolium. and ferns of many kind Notwithstanding the advantage of cool cc nights, I was glad to leave the giecit THE MOOR NEAR YUMOTO THE FOOT OF NANTAi-EAN. HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 56 mountains, with their constant rain and mists, and the shut - in valleys, where it was impos- sible to see more than a few hundred yards away, and get down again to the broader hori- zons and bigger skies of the plains. On the journey to Tokyo I saw my first lotus flowers THE HEART-LEAVED LILY. in a lake near the railway, and I hur- ried off at once to the pond which surrounds the little tern- pie of Benten at Shiba, where I found them in full glory. The lotus is one of the most difficult plants which it hns ever been my lot to try and paint; the flowers are at their best only in the early morning, and each blossom after it has opened closes again before noon the first day, and on the sec- ond day its petals drop. The leaves are so large and so full of modelling that it is impossible to generalize them as a muss; each one has to be carefully studied, and every breath of wind disturbs their deli- cate balance, and completely alters their forms. Besides this their glaucous sur- face, like that of a cabbage leaf, reflects every passing phase of the sky, and is constantly changing in color as clouds pass over. Japanese drawings of flowersand they nsually draw them beautifullyare often influenced in some way by a tradition. The man who invented the method was a true impressionist; he seized what appear- ed to him characteristic of the plant, and insisted on that to the exclusion of othem~ truths, thus founding a mannerism which all following artists imitated. In time what he saw as characteristic became ex- ag~erated by his disciples, who looked at nature only throu~,h his eyes and not~ with their own, and I have observed that the flowers which are most frequently drawn are not so like the originals a those less popular ones depicted in books of botany and such like, for drawing which there is no reco~, nized method, and where the draughtsman relied entirely on his own observation for his facts. Take, for example, the spots on the lotus stems;: if you look very closely you can see that there are spots, but certainly they could not strike every artist as a marked fea- ture of the plant, for they are not visible three yards away. But some master noticed them many years ago and spotted his stems, and now they all spot them, and the spots getbigger and bigger; and so it will be until some ori~ in al genius arises. who will not be content with other peo- ples eyes, but will dare to look for him THE MOAT or BENTEN-SHIBA. THE TIME OF THE LOTUS. 57 self, and he may per- haps, without aban- donin~ Japanese methods, get nearer to nature, and start a renaissahee in Japan- ese art. The Japan- ese treatment of land- scape is not more con- ventional than that of Claude or David Cox, or than the short-band of our pencil sketches, but it records its facts in a different way. The everlasting question in art is the imitation of nature; it has never been car- ried farther in certain directions than by Millais and his pre- Raphaelite brethren, or i n others than by Man et, Monet, and the modern French,but no one can put in every- thing; look at a sim- ple bunch of leaves iii sunlight against a wall, and think how long it would take to really imitate all their complexities of form, color, and light and shade; some facts can only be given by i~- noring others, and the (luestion what is the important tIling which must be insisted on is the personal affair of each individual ar- tist in every country where art is unfetter- ed and alive. But in Japanese, as in Byz- antine and other East- ern arts, this ques- tion is still decided by the practice of past generations, and it will take all the vitality of a strong man to infuse new life into it without destroying its many exquisite qualities. Perhaps when Japamiese artists absorb its spirit instead of merely trying to imitate its methods, Western art may help in the hirection of freedom; at present I fear that its influence has done more harm than good. The people are so quick to recognize the meaning of a few lines, and to understand the poetic idea which they suggest, that it is a wonder the artists ever learned to draw at all; they might have been content with symbols, for a few b A WET DAY AT cHUZENJI. lines like those below are enough to They were mostly children; and a crowd convey all the, poetry that is associa- of Japanese children is twice as many as ted in their minds with any of the well- any other crowd of its size, for every known art mo- child has another smaller one tied to its tives. back. I suppose they are not born in The little isl- pairs this way, but they contract the K and of Beaten is habit of carrying a little one at a very -~ afrequente& spot, early age, and often tie on a doll when a ~ and my easel was sufficiently small human being cannot be surrounded from found. The spectators are almost always morning till night with a crowd of polite, and take care not to put themselves spectators; they dispersed at the com- between you and your subject; bnt they mand of the policeman on his hourly squeeze up very close to your elbow, and round, but after he had gazed his fill and trample on your nerves, if not on your left me, a new lot instantly assembled. materials. They usually remarked that HYDRANGEA BUSH, TOT5UKA, NEAR YOKOHAMA. THE TIME OF THE LOTUS. 59 my work was a photo- graph; some more ed- ucated ones said that it was an oil-painting, that being the medium which is associated with foreign art; and one man said that it was enamel, which I took as a compliment to the brilliancy of my color. The keeper of a little tea-shed hard by, where I took my lunch, noticed that I was worried by the people standing so close to me, and when I arrived next morn- ing I found that he had put up a fence round the place where I worked; it was only a few slender bamboo sticks, with a thin string twisted from one to another,but not a soul attempted to SPECTATORS. come inside it. They are such an obedient and docile race that a little string stretched the pages of the early history of Japan. across a road is quite enough to close the It may be that two centuries of Tokugawa thoroughfare. It is difficult to reconcile rule, fatherly but autocratic, developed the character of this peaceable and plea- qualities of unreasoning obedience, and sure-loving race which the modern travel- perhaps all the struggles of the past were ler sees with that which is ascribed to their merely dynastic, or affairs between the forefathersthose heroes of the desperate warriors of different clans; perhaps the wars and bloody revolutions which 1111 people themselves have always been as A FIELD OF LILIE5, OFUNA, N EAR KAMAKURA. 60 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. gentle as they are now, cultivating their land and pursuing their ingenious trades, little affected by these turmoils, except that, like the producers of all times and countries, they~ were called ott to supply the sinews of war. The lotus is intimately connected with Buddhism; most personifications of the Buddha are represented as seated or stand- ingon its flower,or holding an unexpand- ed bud in their hands; it is largely used in temple decorations, and vases with imi- tations in metal of the flowers, leaves, buds, and seed-pods, often very exquisite in workmanship, stand on alt the altars. It is typical to the Buddhist mind of the qualities of the ideal man: as it grows in the mud, yet produces a lovely flower, it is a symbol of purity in a naughty world; as its odor sweetens the air around, so his good deeds influence those about him; it opens in the morning sunshine, and his mind is, expanded by the light of know- ledge; its bran cliless stalks, rising without a break to the leaf or flower, are a type of his single-mindedness and directness of purpose; and its edible root shows tbat the basis of his life must be usefulness to others. It is lovely enough in itself with- out all this halo of virtue. Hardy says of Tess, Beauty to her, as to all who have felt, lay not in the thin~, but in what the thing symbolized; this is un- avoidable with most of us, and the sugges- tion of feelings and memories of our own does not necessarily obscure our visual sense; but a fixed and recognized sugges- tion is the result of mental laziness, and may lead to the ignoring of intrinsic beauty; as our lovely primrose is to some eyes a political badge, admired only be- cause of its association with a name and a faction, or rejected for the same cause. To quote Mr. Punch, A primrose by the rivers brim A party emblem was to him, And it was nothing iriore. But the lotus has not sunk so low as this; though it has been adopted by the Buddh- ists, it excites no animosity in Shinto breasts; and where temples under tAte present r~gime have been handed over from the one religion to the other, though the pagoda and other distinctively Buddh- ist structures are pulled down, the lotus- THE LAST TEA LEAVESCOTTAGE NEAR YOKOHAMA. ponds are left in their beauty. The larg- est I saw were those connected with the great Hachiman temple at Karnakura, which has been turned over to the state religion; they cover several acres, and the flowers in them are of three colors either white, bright rose, or a delicate shell-like pink. All three varieties seem. to grow equally freely, and one is as love- ly as the other. The white one has been specially adopted by the followers of Nicliiren, a noisy sect which beats a drum during the lon~ hours of prayer, and it is this variety, too, which is usually grown in patches here and there among the rice- fields for the sake of its roots. They have not much flavor, except that of the sugar with which they are boiled, but they are crisp in texture and pleasant to munch. The children are very fond of the nutlike seeds which are embedded in the fleshy seed-pod; it looks very like the rose of a watering-pot. In the tea-booths round the temple of Benten they use a dried slice of this pod for a mat on which to stand the cup or bowl. Kamakura was for a long time the capital of Japan; in the twelfth century it was selected for his headquarters by Yoritomo, the great warrior whose vic- tories enabled him to take the reins into his own hands, and to establish that system of military government which only ended with the deposition of the last Shogun in 1868. But when a ri- val family defeated his successors they removed the seat of government, and Karnakura rapidly declined from a great city of more than a million inhabitants to the insi~,niflcant fishing-village which it now is, with nothing to show of its for- mer greatness hut this temple of Hachi- man, and the Daibutsu, an enormous bronze Buddha, not only remarkable for its size, but also for being the finest and most dignified production which the art of Japan can show. The temple build- in s which once sheltered it were de- stroyed ages a~,o, and the image is now in the open air, in one of the little val- leys which branch out from the plain and run back among the pine-clad hills. Cen- turies of exposure to rain and sun have given varied colors to the great bronze god. He is seated cross-legged on a lotus flower, his hands folded in his lap; the head is bent slightly forward, and his face gazes do ~n with an expression of calm superiority which can only come from perfected wisdom and subjugated passions. A new shrine to Yoritomos memory, all of black and gold, stands near one of the lotus-ponds; in front of it are some splendid old willow-trees, LOTUS ro~ns AT KAMAKURA. 62 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. which he is said to have planted, and un- der which he sat and composed poetry when he was not engaged more actively in fighting. It is hardly possible that these willo s can have lived to such a great age; they are probably descend- ants of the original trees. Behind the shrine is a large modern barrack, and I saw bands of white-clad recruits, with side - arms and repeating-rifles, trousers, tunics, and forage-caps, quite European in everything but face and stature, con- stantly passing to and fro over the ground where the old warrior must have seen his quaint soldiers in lacquered armor and bronze helmets carrying their long-bows and queer-shaped halberds. One day when I was painting the willows my boy Matsuba, who had plenty of spare time for investigating the neighborhood while waiting to carry home my umbrella and things, came and told me that there was a wrestling-match at a small temple ahout a mile away. I packed up at once and we walked over there, for I was very anx- ious to see what kind of a sport it was. This was a tournament, and all the pro- fessional wrestlers of the neighborhood, and many youths anxious to distinguish themselves, had collected to take part in it. They were divided into three classes. The masters of the art were all past their first youth; not enormously stout, as they are often represented in drawings and carvings, but fine athletic men, taller than the average of Japanese. They wore their hair in the ancient style, shaved away from the centre of the head, and that from the back and side made into a queue, turned up and knotted with string on the top of the poll; they had no clothes ex- cept a loin - cloth and an embroidered apron. In the second class were men who had won hut few prizes; they were not all in the professional get-up, and some of them were evidently laboring- men with a taste for sport. The third class was composed of youths, none of them more than nineteen or twenty years old. The contests took place in the temple court-yard oa a circular bed of sand, un- der a roof supported by wooden pillars, but not enclosed at the sides; round the edge of this raised circle there was laid a straw rope, and the man won who could either fairly throw his opponent or force him across the rope without being dragged over himself. The proceedings were con- A TEA-HOUSE AT KAMAKURA. THE TIME OF THE LOTUS. ducted by a Shinto priest in full dress wide trousers, arid a coat sticking out from the shoulders like that of a modern young lady, who with a peculiar-shaped fan gave the signal to begin and to stop. For the highest class this urnpii~e was a - - venerable old gentleman; for the others the place was taken byyourig priests who needed to learn this part of their business. The wrestlers came on in pairs as their names were called, and after a great deal of marching round, stamping, rubbing their limbs, making gestures of defiance, and so on, they squatted opposite each other. When the signal was given to begin they rested their fingers on the ground between their knees, and leaned towards each other till their foreheads touched, sometimes waiting several min- utes before attempting to make any grip. If the grip seemed unfair or unsatisfac- tory to one of the opponents, he immedi- ately put down his hands, the priest stopped the bout, and all the preliminary business had to b~ gone through again, but if it seemed all right the struggle be- gan, and sometimes lasted for five min- utes, each man straining every muscle in a splendid way, and ushig all the science and cunning lie knew. If it lasted too long without either man gainin~ any ad- vantage, the priest si,,nalled to them to stop, and they had to wait till their turn 63 came round again. This rough sketch, made while jammed in the crowd of spec- tators, will give some idea of the attitude of the men waiting for the fan to be low- ered. Everything was conducted in the most ceremonious and orderly manner, and there was no drunkenness or rowdy- ism, although the multitude who had as- sembled were entirely of the poorest class. The most fashionable wrestling-matches are held in Tokyo in spring and autumn and the champion is as much a popular favorite as a famous torero in Spain, oi~ a well-known prize-fighter in England and America. Those who read these notes will have gathered that the heat and the rain make summer life in Japan not wholly enjoy- LOTU5-PATCH AMONG THE RIcE-FTELns, KAWAsAKI, TOKYO. able; let me also say some words of warn- ing to the thin-skinned against tbe mos- quitoes, and even more against a horrible little insect which lives iii the grass or sand and bites your le,,s and feet. It is so small that I never succeeded in finding it, but its bite brings up a blister which breaks and leaves troublesome sores. There were few nights from June till October when I was not obliged to get up once or twice and bathe them in cold wa- ter to allay the intolerable itching. The sea, too, has its terrors. I went down to the shore near Kamakura one hot night, hoping that a swim would soothe my tron bled skin, but no sooner had I plunged into the approaching wave than my neck and arms were embraced by jelly-fish, and I scrambled out feeling and looking as if I had taken my bath in a bed of net- tles. The Japanese, although they grum- ble and fan themselves a good deal, do not really mind the heat; their draughty houses are admirably adapted for fine summer weather,~ and their clothing is sensible and scanty. But the foreigners suffer, and as September comes, and the lotus flowers fade, they hail with relief tl].e approach of the cooler and dryer weather of autumn. LESPEDEZA HAGI vORITOHOS WILLOWS AND HIS SHRINE. THE SIMPLETONS. BY THOMAS HARDY. CHAPTER I. HE schoolmaster was leaving the vii- Ilage, and everybody seemed sorry. The miller at Cresseombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse to carry his goods to the city of his destination about twenty miles off, such a vehicle proving of quite sufficient size for the de- parting teachers effects. For the school- house had been partly furnished by the school - managers, and the only cumber- some article possessed by the master, in addition to the packing-case of books, was a cottage piano that he had bought at an auction during the year in which he thought of learning instrumental mu- sic. But the enthusiasm having waned, he had never acquired any skill in play- ing, and the purchased article had been a perpetual trouble to him in his changes ever since. The rector had gone away for the day, being a man who disliked the sight of vi- cissitudes. He did not mean to return till the evening, when the new school-teacher would have arrived and settled in, and everything would be smooth again. The blacksmith, the farm bailiff, and the schoolmaster himself were standing in perplexed attitudes in the parlor before the instrument. The master had remarked that even if he got it into the cart he should not know what to do with it on his arrival at Christminster, the city aforesaid, for he was only going into temporary lodgings just at first. A little boy of eleven, who had been thoughtfully assisting in the packing, joined the group of men, and as they rubbed their chins he spoke up, blushing at the sound of his own voice: Aunt hey got a grt fuel-house, and it could be put there, perhaps, till youve found a place to settle in, sir. A proper good notion, said the black- smith. It was decided that a deputation should wait on the boys aunt-an old maiden res- identand ask her if she would house the piano till Mr. Phillotson should send for - it. The smith and the bailiff started to see the practicability of the suggested shelter, and the boy and the schoolmaster were left standing alone. VOL. XO.No. 5356 Sorry I am going, Jude? asked the latter, kindly. Tears rose into the boys eyes, for he was not among the regular day scholars, who came unromantically close to the schoolmasters life, but one who had at- tended the night school only during the present teachers term of office. The reg- ular scholars, if the truth must be told, stood at the present moment afar off, like certain historic disciples, indisposed to enthusiastic volunteering of aid. The boy awkwardly opened the book he held in his hand, which Mr. Phillot- son had bestowed on him as a parting gift, and admitted that he was sorry. So am I, said Mr. Phillotson. Why do you go, sir ? asked the boy. Mi that would be a long story. You wouldnt understand my reasons, Jude. You will, perhaps, when you are older. I think I should now, sir. Welldont speak of this everywhere you know what a university is, and a university degree? It is the necessary hall-mark of a man who wants to do any- thing in theology. My scheme, or dream, is to be a university graduate, and then to be ordained. By going to live at Christ- minster, or near it, I shall be at head- quarters, so to speak, and, if my scheme is practicable at all, I consider that being on the spot will afford me a better chance of carrying it out than I can obtain else- where. The smith and his compi~nion returned. Old Miss Fawleys fuel-house was dry, and eminently practicable; and she seemed willing to give the instrument standing- room there. It was accordingly left in the school-house till the evening, when more hands would be available for remov- ing it, and the schoolmaster gave a final glance round. The boy Jude assisted in loading some small articles, and at nine oclock Mr. Phillotson mounted beside his box of books and general impedimenta, and bade his friends good-by. I shant forget you, Jude, he said, smiling, as the cart moved off. Be a good boy, remember; and be kind to ani- mals and birds, and read all you can. And if ever you come to Christminster

THE SIMPLETONS. BY THOMAS HARDY. CHAPTER I. HE schoolmaster was leaving the vii- Ilage, and everybody seemed sorry. The miller at Cresseombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse to carry his goods to the city of his destination about twenty miles off, such a vehicle proving of quite sufficient size for the de- parting teachers effects. For the school- house had been partly furnished by the school - managers, and the only cumber- some article possessed by the master, in addition to the packing-case of books, was a cottage piano that he had bought at an auction during the year in which he thought of learning instrumental mu- sic. But the enthusiasm having waned, he had never acquired any skill in play- ing, and the purchased article had been a perpetual trouble to him in his changes ever since. The rector had gone away for the day, being a man who disliked the sight of vi- cissitudes. He did not mean to return till the evening, when the new school-teacher would have arrived and settled in, and everything would be smooth again. The blacksmith, the farm bailiff, and the schoolmaster himself were standing in perplexed attitudes in the parlor before the instrument. The master had remarked that even if he got it into the cart he should not know what to do with it on his arrival at Christminster, the city aforesaid, for he was only going into temporary lodgings just at first. A little boy of eleven, who had been thoughtfully assisting in the packing, joined the group of men, and as they rubbed their chins he spoke up, blushing at the sound of his own voice: Aunt hey got a grt fuel-house, and it could be put there, perhaps, till youve found a place to settle in, sir. A proper good notion, said the black- smith. It was decided that a deputation should wait on the boys aunt-an old maiden res- identand ask her if she would house the piano till Mr. Phillotson should send for - it. The smith and the bailiff started to see the practicability of the suggested shelter, and the boy and the schoolmaster were left standing alone. VOL. XO.No. 5356 Sorry I am going, Jude? asked the latter, kindly. Tears rose into the boys eyes, for he was not among the regular day scholars, who came unromantically close to the schoolmasters life, but one who had at- tended the night school only during the present teachers term of office. The reg- ular scholars, if the truth must be told, stood at the present moment afar off, like certain historic disciples, indisposed to enthusiastic volunteering of aid. The boy awkwardly opened the book he held in his hand, which Mr. Phillot- son had bestowed on him as a parting gift, and admitted that he was sorry. So am I, said Mr. Phillotson. Why do you go, sir ? asked the boy. Mi that would be a long story. You wouldnt understand my reasons, Jude. You will, perhaps, when you are older. I think I should now, sir. Welldont speak of this everywhere you know what a university is, and a university degree? It is the necessary hall-mark of a man who wants to do any- thing in theology. My scheme, or dream, is to be a university graduate, and then to be ordained. By going to live at Christ- minster, or near it, I shall be at head- quarters, so to speak, and, if my scheme is practicable at all, I consider that being on the spot will afford me a better chance of carrying it out than I can obtain else- where. The smith and his compi~nion returned. Old Miss Fawleys fuel-house was dry, and eminently practicable; and she seemed willing to give the instrument standing- room there. It was accordingly left in the school-house till the evening, when more hands would be available for remov- ing it, and the schoolmaster gave a final glance round. The boy Jude assisted in loading some small articles, and at nine oclock Mr. Phillotson mounted beside his box of books and general impedimenta, and bade his friends good-by. I shant forget you, Jude, he said, smiling, as the cart moved off. Be a good boy, remember; and be kind to ani- mals and birds, and read all you can. And if ever you come to Christminster 66 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. remember you hunt me out for old ac- quaintance sake. The cart creaked across the green, and disappeared round the corner by the rec- tory-house. The boy returned to the draw- well at the edge of the greensward, where he had left his buckets when he went to help his patron and teacher in the load- ing. There was a quiver in his lip now, and after opening the well cover to be- gin lowering the bucket, he paused and leant with his forehead ~nd arms against the frame-work, his face wearing the fix- ity of a thoughtful childs who has, felt the pricks of life somewhat before his time. The well into which he was look- ing was as ancient as the village itself, and from his present position appeared as a long circular perspective ending in a shining disk of quivering water at a dis- tance of a hundred feet. There was a lining of green moss near the top, and nearer still the harts-tongue fern. He said to himself, in the melodramatic tones of a whimsical boy, that the school- master had drawn at that well scores of times on a morning like this, and would never draw there any more. Ive seen him look down into it, when he was tired with his drawing, just as I do now, and when he rested a bit before carrying the buckets home. But he was too clever to bide here any longera small sleepy place like this! A tear rolled from his eye into the depths of the well. The morning was a little foggy, and the boys breathing un- furled itself as a thicker fog upon the still and heavy air. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden outcry: Bring on that water, will ye, you idle young harlican ! It came from an old woman who had emerged from her door towards the gar- den gate of a green-thatched cottage not far off. The boy quickly waved a signal of assent, drew the water with what was a great effort for one of his stature, land- ed and emptied the big bucket into his own pair of smaller ones, and pausing a moment for breath, started with them across the patch of clammy green sward whereon the well stoodnearly in the centre of the little village, or rather hamlet. It was as old-fashioned as it was small, and it rested in the ]ap of an undula- ting upland adjoining the North Wessex downs. Old as it was, however, the well shaft was probably the only relic of the local history that remained absolutely unchanged. Many of the thatched and dormered dwelling-houses had been pulled down of late years, and many trees felled on the green. Above all, the original church, humpbacked, wood-turreted, and hipped, had been taken down, and either cracked up into heaps of road-metal in the lane, or utilized as pigsty walls, gar- den seats, guard-stones to fences, and rockeries in the flower-beds of the neigh- borhood. In place of it a tall new building of German-Gothic design, unfamiliar to English eyes, had been erected on a new piece of ground by a certain obliterator of historic records who had run down from London and back in a day. The site whereon so long had stood the an- cient temple to the Christian divinities was not even recorded on the green and level grass-plot that had immemorially been the church - yard, the obliterated graves of the hamlet being commemora- ted by ninepenny cast-iron crosses war- ranted to last five years. CHAPTER II. SLENDER as was Jude Fawleys frame he bore the two brimming house-buckets of water to the cottage without resting. Over the door was a little rectangular piece of blue board, on which was painted, in yellow letters, Drusilla Fawley, Ba- ker. Within the little lead panes of the windowthis being one of the few old houses left-were five bottles of sweets, and three bunns on a plate of the willow pattern. While emptying the buckets at the back of the house he could hear an ani- mated conversation in progress within- doors between his great-aunt, the Drusilla of the sign-board, and some other villa- gers. Having seen the schoolmaster de- part, they were summing up particulars of the event, and indulging in predictions of his future in its possible bearings on matrimony. Whos he ? asked one, a comparative stranger, when the boy entered. Miwell ye med ask it, Mrs. Wil- liams. Hes my great - nephew come since you was last this way. The old inhabitant who answered was a tall, gaunt woman, who spoke tragically on the most trivial subject, and g~ave a phrase of her conversation to each auditor by name in turn. He come from Mell K THE SIMPLETONS. 67 stock, down in South Wessex, about a year ago-worse luck for n, Belinda (turning to the right) where his father was living, and was took wi the shakings for death, and died in two days, as you know, Caroline (turning to the left). It would ha been a blessing if Goddy- mighty had took thee too, wi thy mother and father, poor useless boy! But Ive got him here to stay with me till I can see whats to be done with un, though, es I shell soon have to pay the bill for the pigs in sty, I be obliged to let un earn any penny he can. Just now hes a-scar- ing of birds for Farmer Troutham for a week or two. It keeps un out of mischty. Why do ye turn away, Jude ? she con- tinued, as the boy, feeling the impact of their glances like slaps upon his face, moved aside. The local washer-woman replied that it was perhaps a very good plan of Miss or Mrs. Fawleys (as they called her indif- ferently) to have him with her to kip ee company in your loneliness, fetch water, shet the winder-shetters o nights, and help in the bit o baking. Med be. Though I doubt it.... Why didnt ye get the schoolmaster to take ee to Christminster wi un, and make a scholar of ee, his aunt continued, in frowning pleasantry. Im sure he couldnt ha took a better one. The boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather. His cousin Sue is just the sameso Ive heard; but I have not seen the chile for years, though she was born in this place, within these four walls, as it happened. My niece and her hus- band, after they were married, didn get a house of their own for some year or more; and then they only moved across the green there,till Well,I wont go into that. Jude, my chile, dont you ever marry. Tisnt for the Fawleys to take that step any more. She, their only one, was like a chile o my own, Belinda, till the split come! Ah, that a little maid should know such changes ! Jude, finding the general attention again centring on himself, went out to the bake-house, where he ate the cake provided for his breakfast. The end of his spare time had now arrived, and emerging from the garden by getting over the hedge at the back, he pursued a path northward, till he came to a wide and lonely depression in the general level of the upland, which was sown as a corn- field. This vast concave was the scene of his labors for Mr. Troutham, the farm- er and he descended into the midst of it. The brown surface of the field he trod went right up towards the sky all round, where it was lost by degrees in the mist that shut out the actual verge and accent- uated the solitude. The only marks on the uniformity of the scene were a rick of last years produce standing in the midst of the amble, the rooks which rose at his approach, and the path athwart the fallow by which he had come, trodden now by he hardly knew whom, though once by many of his own dead family. How ugly it is here! he murmured. The fresh harrow - lines seemed to stretch like the channellings in a piece of new corduroy, lending a meanly utilita- rian air to the expanse, taking away its gradations, and depriving it of all history beyond that of the few recent months. Yet, though he did not think of it, in ev- ery clod and stone there really lingered associations enough and to spareechoes of songs from ancient harvest-days, of spoken words, and of deeds. Every inch of ground had been the site, first or last, of energy, gayety, horse-play, bickerings, brow-sweat, weariness. Groups of glean- ers had squatted in the sun on every square yard. Love - matches that had populated the adjoining hamlet had been made up there between reaping and car- rying. By the hedge which divided the field from a distant plantation girls had given themselves unresei~vedl y to lovers who would not turn their heads to look at them by the next harvest; and many a man had made love-promises to a woman at whose voice he had trembled by the next seed-time after fulfilling them in the church adjoining. But this neither Jude nor the rooks around him considered. For them it was a lonely place, possess- ing in the one case only the quality of a work-ground, and in the other that of a granary good to feed in. The boy stoc~t1 under the rick before mentioned, and every few seconds used his clacker or rattle briskly. At each clacking the rooks left off pecking, and rose and went away on their leisurely wings, burnished like tassets of mail, af- - terwards wheeling back and regarding him warily, and descending to feed at a more respectful distance. He sounded the clacker till his arm ached, and at length his heart grew sym 68 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. pathetic with the birds. thwarted desires. They seemed, like himself, to be living in a world which did not want them. Why should he frighten them away? They took upon them more and more the as- pect of gentle friends and pensioners the only friends he could claim as being in the least degree interested in him, for his aunt had often told him that she was not. He ceased his rattling, and they alighted anew. Poor little dears ! said Jude, aloud. You shall have some dinneryou shall! There is enough for us all. Farmer Troutham can afford to let you have some. Eat, then, my dear little black birdies, and make a good meal ! They staid and ate, inky spots on the nut-brown soil, and Jude enjoyed their appetite. A magic thread of fellow-feel- ing united his own with their lives. Puny and sorry as those lives were, they much resembled his own. His clacker he had by this time thrown away from him, as being a mean and sordid instrument, offensive both to the birds and to himself as their friend. All at once he became conscious of a smart blow upon his buttocks, followed by a loud clack, which announced to his sur- prised senses that the clacker had been the instrument of offence used. The birds and Jude started up simultaneously, and the dazed eyes of the latter beheld the farmer in person, the great Troutham himself, his red face glaring down upon Judes cowering frame, the clacker swing- ing in his hand. So its Eat, my dear birdies, is it, young man? Eat, dear birdies, indeed! Ill tickle your breeches, and see if you say Eat, dear birdies, again in a hurry! And youve been idling at the schoolmas- ters too, instead of coming here, hant ye, hey? Thats how you earn your six- pence a day for keeping th& rooks off my corn Whilst saluting Judes ears with this impassioned rhetoric, Trouthain had seized his left hand with his own left, and swing- ing his slim frame round him at arms- length, again struck Jude on the hind parts with the flat side of Judes own rat- tle, till the field echoed with the blows, which were delivered once or twice at each revolution. Dont ee, sirplease dont ee ! cried the whirling child, as helpless under the centrifugal tendency of his person as a hooked flsh.swinging to land, and behold- ing the hill, the rick, the plantation, the path, and the rooks going round and round him in an amazing circular race. II sironly meant thatthere was a go9d crop in the groundI saw em sow it and the rooks could have a little bit for dinnerand you wouldnt miss it, sir and Mr. Phillotson said I was to be kind to emoh, oh, oh ! This truthful explanation seemed to exasperate the farmer even more than if Jude had stoutly denied saying anything at all; and he still smacked the whirling urchin, the clacks of the instrument con- tinuing to resound all across the field, and as far as the ears of distant workers who gathered thereupon that Jude was pursuing his business of clacking with great assiduityand echoing from the brand-new church tower just behind the mist, towards the building of which struc- ture the farmer had largely subscribed, to testify his love for God and man. Presently Troutham grew tired of his punitive task, and depositing the quiver- ing boy on his legs, took a sixpence from his pocket and gave it him in payment for his days work, telling him to go home and never let him see him in one of those fields again. Jude leaped out of arms reach, and walked along the trackway weepingnot from the pain, though that was keen enough; not from the perception of the flaw in the terrestrial scheme, by which what was good for Gods birds was bad for Gocfs gardener; but with the awful sense that he had wholly disgraced him- self before lie had been a year in the par- ish, and hence might be a burden to his great-aunt for life. With this shadow on his mind he did not care to show himself in the village, and went homeward by a roundabout track behind a high hedge and across a pasture. Here he beheld scores of coupled earthworms lying half their length on the surface of the damp ground, as they always did in such weather at that time of the year. It was impossible to ad- vance in regular steps without crushing some of them at each tread. Though Farmer Troutham had just hurt him, he was a boy who could not himself bear to hurt anything. He had never brought home a nest of young birds without lying awake in misery half the night after, and often reinstating THE SIMPLETONS. them and the nest in their original place the next morning. He could scarcely bear to see trees cut down or lopped, from a fancy that it hurt them; and late prun- ing, when the sap was up and the tree bled profusely, had been a positive grief ~-.---- to him in his infancy. This weakness of character, as it may perhaps be called, suggested that he was the coming sort of man who was born to ache a good deal before the fall of the curtain upon his unnecessary life and all was well with him again. He carefully picked his way on tiptoe among the earthworms, without killing a single one. On entering the cottage he found his aunt selling a penny loaf to a little girl, and when the customer was gone she said, Well, how do you come to be back here in the middle of the morning like this ? Im turned away. What! Mr. Troutham have turned me away because I let the rooks have a few peck- ings of corn. And theres my wages the last I shall ever hae! He threw the sixpence tragically on the table. Ah ! said his aunt, suspending her breath. And she opened upon him a lecture on how she would now have him all the spring upon her hands doing no- thing. If you cant skeer birds, what can ye do? There! dont ye look so deedy! Farmer Troutham is not so much better than myself, come to that. But tis as Job said, Now they that are younger than I have me in derision, whose fathers I would have disdained to have set with the dogs of my flock. His father was my fathers journeyman, anyhow, and I must have been a fool to let ee go to work for n, which I shouldnt ha done but to keep ee out of mischty. More angry with Jude for demeaning her by coming there than for dereliction of duty, she rated him primarily from that point of view, and only secondarily from a moral one. Not that you should have let the birds eat what Farmer Troutbam plant- ed. Of course you was wrong in that. Jude, Jude, why didstnt go off with that schoolmaster of thine to Christminster or somewhere? But, oh nopoor ornary childthere never was any sprawl on thy side of the family, and never will be ! Where is this beautiful city, aunt this place where Mr. Phillotson is gone to ? asked the boy, after meditating in si- lence. Lord! you ought to know where the city of Christminster is. Near a score of. miles from here. It is a place much too good for you ever to have much to do with, poor boy, Im a-thinking. And will Mr. Phillotson always be there ? How can I tell ? Couldnt I go to see him ? Lord, no! You didnt grow up here- about, or you wouldnt ask such as that. Weve never had anything to do with folk in Christminster, nor folk in Christ- minster with we. Jude went out, and feeling his exist- ence to be an undemanded one by reason of his dismissal from the farm, he lay down upon his back on a heap of litter near the pigsty. The fog had by this time become more translucent, and the position of the sun could be seen through it. He pulled his straw hat over his face, and peered through the interstices of the plaiting at the white brightness, vaguely reflecting. Growing up brought respon- sibilities, he found. Events did not rhyme quite as he had thought. Natures logic was too stupid for him to care for. That mercy towards one set of creatures was cruelty towards another sickened his sense of harmony. As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the centre of your time, and not at a point in its cir- cumference, as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of shuddering, he perceived. All around you there seemed to he something glar- ing, garish, rattling, and the noises and glares hit upon the little cell called your life, and shook it, and scorched it. If he could only prevent himself grow- ing up! He did not want to be a man. Then, like the natural boy, he forgot his despondency, and sprang up. During the remainder of the morning he helped his aunt, and in the afternoon, when there was nothing more to be done, he went into the village. Here he asked a man whereabouts Christm inster lay. Christminster? Oh,well, out by there yonder; though Ive never bin there not I. Ive never had any business at such a place. The man pointed northeastward, in the very direction where lay that field in which Jude had so disgraced himself. 70 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. There was something unpleasant about the coincidence for the moment, but the fearsomeness of this fact rather increased his curiosity about the city. The farmer had said he was never to be seen in that field again; yet Christminster lay across it, and the path was a public one. So, stealing out of the hamlet, he descended into the same hollow which had witnessed his punishment in the morning, never swerving an inch from the path, and climbing up the long and tedious ascent on the other side, till the track joined the highway by a little clump of trees. Here the ploughed land ended, and all before him was bleak open down. CHAPTER III. NOT a soul was visible on the hedgeless highway, or on either side of it, and the white road seemed to ascend and ascend till it joined the sky. At the very top it was crossed at right angles by a green ridgeway the Icknield Street and original Roman road through the district. This ancient track ran east and west for many miles, and down almost to within living memory had been used for driving flocks and herds to fairs and markets. But it was now neglected and overgrown. The boy had never before strayed so far north as this from the nestling hamlet in which he had been deposited by the car- rier from a railway station southward one dark evening some few months earlier, and till now he had had no suspicion that such a wide, fiat, low-lying country lay so near at hand, screened off by the verge of his upland world. The whole northern semicircle between east and west, to a distance of forty or fifty miles, spread itself before him; a bluer, moister atmos- phere, evidently, than that he breathed up here. Not far from the road stood a weather- beaten old barn of reddish-gray brick and tile. It was known as the Brown House by the people of the locality. He was about to pass it, when he perceived a lad- der against the eaves; and the reflection that the higher lie got, the further he could see, led Jude to stand and regard it. On the slope of the roof above, two men were repairing the tiling. He turned into the ridgeway and drew towards the barn. When he had wistfully watched the workmen for some time, he took courage, and ascended the ladder till he stood be- side them. Well, my lad, and what may you want up here ? I wanted to know where the city of Christminster is, if you please. Christmiaster is out across there, by that clump. You can see it-at least you can on a clear day. Ah, no, you cant now. The other tiler, glad of any kind of di- version from the monotony of his labor, had also turned to look towards the quar- ter designated. You cant often see it in weather like this, he said. The time Ive noticed it is when the sun is going down in a blaze of flame, and it looks like I dont know what. The heavenly Jerusalem, suggested the serious urchin. Ay though I should never ha thought of it myself.... But I cant see no Christminster to-day. The boy strained his eyes also; yet nei- ther could he see the far-off city. He de- scended from the barn, and abandoning Christminster with the versatility of his age, he walked along the ridge - track, looking for any natural objects of inter- est that might lie in the banks thereabout. When he repassed the barn to go back to Marygreen he observed that the ladder was still in its place, but that the men had finished their days work and gone away. It was waning towards evening; there was still a faint mist, but it had cleared a little except in the damper tracts of sub- jacent country and along the river-courses. He thought again of Christminster, and wished, since he had come two or three miles from his aunts house on purpose, that lie could have seen for once this at- tractive city of which lie had been told. But even if he waited here it was hardly likely that the air would clear before night. Yet he was loath to leave the spot, for the northern expanse became lost to view on retreating towards the village only a few hundred yards. He ascended the ladder to have one more look at the point the men had des- ignated, and perched himself on the high- est rung, overlying the tiles. He might not be able to come so far as this for many days. Perhaps if he prayed, the wish to see Christminster might be for- warded. People said that if you prayed, things sometimes came to you, even though they sometimes did not. He had read in a tract that a man who had begun to build a church, and had no money to THE SIMPLETONS. 71 finish it, knelt down and prayed, and the money came in by the next post. Another man tried the same experiment, and the money did not come; but he found after- wards that the breeches he knelt in were made by a wicked Jew. This was not -~-~x. discouraging, and turning on the ladder, Jude knelt on the third rung, where, rest- ing against those above it, he prayed that the mist might rise. He then seated himself again, and wait- ed. In the course of ten or fifteen min- utes the thinning mist dissolved altogeth- er from the eastern horizon, as it had already done elsewhere, and about a quar- ter of an hour before the time of sunset he found, on turning to the westward,that the clouds had parted, the suns position being partially uncovered, the beams streaming out in visible lines between two bars of slaty cloud. The boy imme- diately looked back in the old direction. Some little way within the limits of the stretch of landscape certain points of light like the topaz gleamed. The air increased in transparency with the lapse of minutes, as it will at such times, till the topaz points showed themselves to be the vanes, win- dows, wet roof slates, and other shining spots upon the spires, domes, freestone- work, and varied outlines that were faint- ly revealed. It was Christminster un- questionably. The spectator gazed on and on till the windows and vanes lost their shine, going out almost suddenly, like extinguished candles, and the city became veiled in mist. Turning to the west, he saw that the sun had disappeared. The foreground of the scene he sat in had grown funereal- ly dark, and near objects put on the hues and shapes of chimeras. He anxiously descended the ladder, and started homeward at a run, trying not to think of giants, Herne the Hunter, or that tale from Hauff in the penny pa- per, of the captain with the bleeding hole in his forehead, and the corpses roun~l him that rernutinied every night on board the bewitched ship. He knew that he had grown out of belief in these horrors, yet he was glad when he saw the chtirch tower and the lights in the cottage win- dows, even though this was not the home of his birth, and his great-aunt did not care much about him. Inside and roundabout that old wo- mans shop~ window, with its twenty- four little panes set in lead-work, the glass of some of them oxidized with age, so that you could hardly see the poor pen- ny articles exhibited within, and forming part of a stock which a strong man could have carried, Jude had his outer being for some long tideless time. But his dreams were as gigantic as his surround- ings were small. Through the solid harrier of cold cre- taceous upland to the northward he was always beholding a gorgeous citythe fancy place he had likened to the new Je- rusalem, though there was perhaps more of the painters imagination and less of the diamond merchants in his dreams thereof than in those of the Apocalyptic writer. And the city acquired a tangibil- ity, a permanence, a hold on his life. mainly from the one nucleus of fact that the man for whose knowledge and pur- poses he had so much reverence was act- ually living there; not only so, but living among the more thoughtful and mentally shining ones therein. In sad wet seasons, though he knew it must rain at Christminster too, lie could hardly believe that it rained so drearily there. Whenever he could get away from the confines of the hamlet for an hour or two, which was not often, he would steal off to the Brown House on the hill and strain his eyes persistently; sometimes to be rewarded by the sight of a dome or spire, at other times by a little smoke, which in his estimate had some of the mysticism of incense. Then the day came when it suddenly occurred to him that if lie ascended to the point of view after dark, or possibly went a mile or two further, he would see the night lights of the city. It would be ne- cessary to come back alone, but even that consideration did not deter him, for he could throw a little manliness into his mood, no doubt. The project was duly executed. It was not late when he arrived at the place of outlook, only just after dusk; but a black northeast sky, accompanied by a wind from the same quarter, made the oc- casion dark enough. He was rewarded; but what he saw was not the lamps in rows, as he had half expected. No indi- vidual light was visible, only a halo or glow-fog overarching the place against the black heavens behind it, making the light and the city seem distant but a mile or so. / 72 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. He set himself to wonder on the exact point in the glow where the schoolmaster might behe who never communicated with anybody at Marygreen now; who was as if dead to them here. In the glow he seemed to see Phillotson promenading at ease, like one of the forms in Nebuchad- nezzar s furnace. He had heard that breezes travelled at the rate of ten miles an hour, and the fact now came into his mind. He parted his lips as he faced the northeast, and drew in the wind as if it were a sweet liquor. You, he said, addressing the breeze caressingly, were in Christminster city between one and two hours ago, floating along the streets, pulling round the wea- ther-cocks, touching Mr. Phillotsons face, being breathed by him, and now you be here, breathed by me you, the very same. Suddenly there came along this wind something towards hima message from the placefrom some soul residing there, it seemed. Surely it was the sound of bells, the voice of the city, faint and mu- sical, calling to him, We are happy here ! He had become entirely lost to his bod- ily situation during this mental leap, and only got back to it by a rough recalling. A few yards below the brow of the hill on which he paused a team of horses made its appearance, having reached the place by dint of half an hours serpentine progress from the bottom of the immense declivity. They had a load of coals be- hind thema fuel that could only be got into the upland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter, a second man, and a boy, who now kicked a large stone behind one of the wheels, and allowed the panting animals to have a long rest, while those in charge took a flagon off the load and indulged in a drink round. They were elderly men, and had genial voices. Jude addressed them, inquiring if they had come from Christminster. Heaven forbid, with this load ! said they. The place I mean is that one yonder. He was getting so romantically attached to Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his mistress, he felt bashful at mentioning its name again. He point- ed to the light in the skyhardly percep- tible to their older eyes. Yes. There do seem a spot a bit brighter in the noreast than elsewhere, though I shouldnt ha noticed it myself, and no doubt it med be Christminster. Here a little book of tales which Jude had tucked up under his arm, having brought them to read on his way hither before it grew dark, slipped and fell into the road. The carter eyed him while lie picked it up and straightened the leaves. Ah, young man, he observed, youd have to get your head screwed on tother way before you could read what they read there. Why? asked the boy. Oh, they never look at anything that folks like we can understand, the carter continued, by way of passing the time. Ony foreign tongues used before the Flood, when no two families spoke alike. They read that sort of thing as fast as a night-hawk will whir. Tis all learning therenothing but learning, except reli- gion. And thats learning too,for I never could understand it. Yes, tis a serious- minded place. Not but theres idle women in the streets onights.... You know, I sup- pose, that they raise pasons there like rad- ishes in a bed? And though it do take how many years, Bob ?flve years to turn a hirruping hobbledehoy chap into a decent preaching man with no corrupt passions, theyll do it, if it can be done, and polish un off like the workmen they be, and turn un out wi a long face, and a long black coat and waistcoat, and a religions collar and hat, same as they used to wear in the Scriptures, so that his own mother wouldnt know un sometimes.... There, tis their business, like anybody else~s. But how should you know- Now dont you interrupt, my boy. Never interrupt, your senyers. Move the fore hoss aside, Bobby; heres somat com- ing.. . . You must mind that I be a-talk- ing of the college life. Em lives on a lofty level ; theres no gainsaying it, though I myself med not think much of em. As we be here in our bodies on this high ground, so be they in their minds noble-minded men enough, no doubt-- some on em-able to earn hundreds by thii~& ing out loud. And some on em be strong young fellows that can earn amost as much in silver cups. As for music, theres beautiful music everywhere in Christminster. You med he religious, or you med not, but you cant help striking in your homely note with the rest. Amid theres a street in the placethe main THE SIMPLETONS. 73 streetthat. hant another like it in the world. I should think I did know a little about Christininster ! By this time the horses had recovered breath and bent to their collars again. Jude, throwing a last adoring look at the ~ distant halo, turned and walked beside his remarkably well informed friend, who had no objection to tell him as they moved on more yet of the cityits towers and halls and churches. Presently the wagon turned into a cross-road, where- upon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his information, and said he only wished he could talk half as well about Christ- minster as he. Well, tis oonly what has come in my way, said the carter,unboastfully. Ive never been there, no more than you; but Ive picked up the knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it. A-get- ting about the world as I do, and mixing with all classes of society, one cant help hearing of things. A friend o mine, that used to dane the boots at the Crozier Ho- tel in Christminster when he was in his prime, why, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later years. Jude continued his walk homeward alone, pondering so deeply that he forgot to feel timid. He suddenly grew older. It had been the yearning of his heart to find something to anchor on, to cling to for some place which he could call admi- rable. Should he find that place in this city if he could get there? Would it be a spot in which, without fear of farmers or hinderance, or ridicule, he could watch and wait, and set himself to some mighty undertaking like the men of old of whom he had heard? As the halo had been to his eyes when gazing at it a quarter of an hour earlier, so was the spot mentally to him as he pursued his dark way. It is a city of light, he said to him- self. The tree of knowledge grows there, lie added a few steps further on. It is a place that teachers of men spring from and go to. It is what you may call a castle, manned by scholarship and religion. After this sublime figure he was silent a long while, till he added, It would just suit me. CHAPTER IV. WALKING somewhat slowly, by reason ~f his concentration, the boyan ancient \oi~. XC.No. 535.7 man in some phases of thought, much younger than his years in otherswas overtaken by a light - footed pedestrian, whom, notwithstanding the gloom, he could perceive to be wearing an extraor- dinarily tall hat, a swallow-tailed coat, and a watch - chain that danced madly and threw around scintillations of sky- light as its owner swung along upon a pair of thin legs and noiseless boots. Jude, beginning to feel lonely, endea- vored to keep up with him. Well, my man! Im in a hurry, so youll have to walk pretty fast if you keep alongside of me. Do you know who I am Yes, I think. Physician Vilbert. AhIm known everywhere, I see! That comes of being a public benefactor. Vilbert was an itinerant quack-doctor, well known to the rustic population, and absolutely unknown to anybody else, as he, indeed, took care to be, to avoid incon- venient investigations. Cottagers formed his only patients, and his Wessex-wide re- pute was among them alone. His posi- tion was humbler and his field more ob- scure than those of the quacks with capital and an organized system of advertising. He was, in fact, a survival. The distances he traversed on foot were enormous, and extended nearly the whole length and breadth of Wessex. Jude had one day seen him selling a pot of colored lard to an old woman as a certain cure for a bad leg~ the woman arranging to pay a guinea, in instalments of a shilling a fortnight, for the precious salve, which, according to the physician, could only be obtained from a particular animal which grazed on Mount Sinai, and was to be captured only at great risk to life and limb. Jude, though he already had his doubts about this gentlemans medicines, felt him to be unquestionably a travelled personage, and one who might be a trustworthy source of information on matters not strictly professional. I spose youve been to Christmin- ster, Physician ? I havemany times, replied the long thin man. Thats one of my cen- tres. Its a wonderful city for scholarship and religion? Youd say so, my boy, if youd seen it. Why, the very sons of the old wo- men who do the washing of the college can talk in Latinnot good Latin, that I 74 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. admit, as a critic: dog-Latincat-Latin, as we used to call it in my undergraduate days. And Greek ? Wellthats more for the men who are in training for bishops, that they may be able to read the New Testament in the original. I want to learn Latin and Greek my- self. A lofty desire. You must get a grammar of each tongue.~~ I mean to go to Christminster some day. Whenever you do, you say that Phy- sician Vilbert is the only proprietor of those celebrated pills that infallibly cure all disorders of the alimentary system, as well as asthma and shortness of breath. Two and threepence a boxspecially ]i- censed by the government stamp. Can you get me the grammars if I promise to say it hereabout? Ill sell you mine with pleasure those I used as a student. Oh, thank you, sir I said Jude, grate- fully, but in gasps, for the amazing speed of the physicians walk kept him in a dog-trot which was giving him a stitch in the side. I think youd better drop behind, my young man. Now Ill tell you what Ill do. Ill get you the grammars, and give you a first lesson, if youll remember, at every house in the village, to recommend Physician Vilberts golden ointment, life- drops, and female pills. Where will you be with the gram- mars I shall be passing here this day fort- night at precisely this hour of five-and- twenty minutes past seven. My move- inents are as truly timed as those of the planets in their courses. Here Ill be to meet you, said Jude. With orders for my medicines ? Yes, Physician. Jude then dropped behind, waited a few minutes to recover breath, and went home with a consciousness of having struck a blow for Christminster. Through the intervening fortnight he ran about and smiled outwardly at his inward thoughts, as if they were people meeting and nodding to him smiled with that singularly beautiful irradiation which is seen to spread on young faces at the inception of some glorious idea, as if a supernatural lamp were held inside their transparent natures, giving rise, naturally enough, to the flattering fancy that heaven lies about us then. He honestly performed his promise to the man of many cures, in whom he now sincerely believed, walking miles hither and thither among the surrounding ham- lets as the physicians agent in advance. On the evening appointed he stood mo- tionless on the plateau, at the place where lie had parted from Vilbert, and there awaited his approach. The road physi- cian was fairly up to time; but, to the surprise of Jude, on striking into his pace, which the pedestrian did not diminish by a single unit of force, the latter seemed hardly to recognize his young companion, though with the lapse of the fortnight the evenings had grown light. Jude thought it might perhaps be owing to his wearing another hat, and he saluted the physician with dignity. Well, my boy? said the latter, ab- stractedly. Ive come, said Jude. You? who are you? Oh yesto be sure! Got any orders, lad? Yes. And Jude told him the names and addresses of the cottagers who were willing to test the virtues of the world- renowned pills and salve. The quack mentally registered these with great care. And the Latin and Greek gram- mars ? Judes voice trembled with anx- iety. What about them ? You were to bring me yours, that you used before you took your degree. Ah, yes, yes! Forgot all about it all! So many lives depending on my at- tention, you see, my man, that I cant give so much thought as I would like to other things. Jude controlled himself sufficiently long to make sure of the truth; and he repeated, in a voice of dry misery, You havent brought em ! No. But you must get me some more orders from sick people, and Ill bring the grammars next time. Jude dropped behind. He was an un- sophisticated boy, but the gift of sudden insight which is sometimes vouchsafed to children showed him all at once what shoddy humanity the quack was made of. There was to be no intellectual light from this source. The leaves dropped from his imaginary crown of laurel; he turn~ed THE SIMPLETONS. 75 to a gate, leant against it, and cried bit- terly. The disappointment was followed by an interval of blankness. He might, perhaps, have obtained grammars from Alfreds- ton, but to do that required money, and a knowledge of what books to order; and though physically comfortable, he was in such absolute dependence as to be with- out a farthing of his own. At this date Mr. Phillotson sent for his piano-forte, and it gave Jude a lead. Why should lie not write to the schoolmaster, and ask him to be so kind as to get him the grammars in Christminster l He might slip a letter inside the case of the instrument, and it would be sure to reach the desired eyes. Why not ask him to send any old second-hand copies, which would have the charm of being mellowed by the university atmosphere? To tell his aunt of his intention would be to defeat it. It was necessary to act alone. After a further consideration of a few days he did act, and on the day of the pianos departure, which happened to be his eleventh birthday, clandestinely placed the letter inside the packing-case, directed to his much-admired friend, being afraid to reveal the operation to his aunt Din- silla, lest she~ should discover his motive, and compel him to abandon his scheme. The piano was despatched, and Jude waited days and weeks, calling every morning at the cottage post-office before his great-aunt was stirring. At last a packet did indeed arrive at the village, and he saw from the ends of it that it contained two thin books. He took it away into a lonely place, and sat down on a felled elm to open it. Ever since his first ecstasy or vision of Christminster and its possibilities, Jude had meditated much and curiously on the probable sort of process that was involved in turning the expressions of one lan- ~uage into those of another. He con- cluded that a grammar of the required ton~,ue would contain, primarily, a rule, prescription, or clew of the nature of a secret cipher, which, once known, would enable him, by merely applying it, to change at will all words of his own speech into those of the foreign one. His child- ish idea was, in fact, a pushing to the ex- tremity of mathematical precision what is everywhere known as Grimms Law an aggrandizement of rough rules to ideal completeness. Thus he assumed that the words of the required language were al- ways to be found somewhere latent in the words of the given language by those who had the art to uncover them, such art be- ing furnished by the books aforesaid. When, therefore, having noted that the packet bore the post-mark of Christmin- ster, he cut the string, opened the vol- umes, and turned to the Latin grammar, which chanced to come uppermost, he could scarcely believe his eyes. The book was an old onethirty years old, soiled, scribbled wantonly over with a strange name in every variety of enmity to the letter-press, and marked at random with dates twenty years earlier than his own day. But this was not the cause of Judes amazement. He learnt for the first time that there was no law of transmu- tation, as in his innocence he had supposed (there was, in some degree, but the gram- marian did not recognize it), but that ev- ery word in both Latin and Greek was to be individually committed to memory at the cost of years of plodding. Jude flung down the books, lay back- ward along the broad trunk of the elm, and was an utterly miserable boy for the space of a quarter of an hour. As he had often done before, he pulled his hat over his face and watched the sun peering in- sidiously at him through the interstices of the straw. This was Latin and Greek, then, was it, this grand delusion! The charm he had supposed in store for him was really a labor like that of Israel in Egypt. What brains they must have in Christ- minster and the great schools, lie present- ly thought, to learn words one by one up to tens of thousands! There were no brains in his head equal to this business~ and as the little sun-rays continued to stream in through his hat athim,he wished he had never seen a book, that he might never see another, that he had never been born, that he might never grow up. Somebody might have come along that way who would have asked him his trou- ble, and on his revealing it would have said, Cheer up, little boy; your notions are further advanced than those of your grammarian; you have the making of a scholar in you I But nobody did come, because nobody does; and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error Jude continued to wish himself out of the world. 76 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. CHAPTER Y. THE present drawing of human life has been taken near the small end thus far, and it is desirable to shift the point of view a stage or two onwards. During the three or four succeeding years we discover a quaint and singular vehicle to be moving along the lanes and by-roads near Marygreen, driven in a quaint and singular way. In the course of a month or two after the receipt of the books, Jude had grown callous to the shabby trick played him by the dead languages. In fact, his disap- pointment at the nature of those tongues had, after a while, been the means of still further glorifying the scholarship of Christminster. To acquire languages, de- parted or living, in spite of such obstina- cies as he now knew them inherently to possess, was a herculean performance which gradually led him on to a greater interest in it than in the presupposed patent process. The mountain-weight of material under which the ideas lay in those dusty volumes called the classics piqued him into a dogged, mouselike sub- tlety of attempt to move it piecemeal. He had honestly endeavored to make his presence tolerable to his crusty maid- en aunt by assisting her to the best of his ability, and the business of the little cot- tage bakery had grown in consequence. An aged horse with a hanging head had been purchased for eight pounds at a sale, a creaking cart with a whity-brown tilt obtained for a few pounds more, and in this turnout it became Judes business thrice a week to carry loaves of bread to the villagers and solitary cotters immedi- ately around Marygreen. The singularity aforesaid lay, after all, less in the conveyance itself than in Judes manner of conducting it along its route. Its interior was the scene of most of Judes education by private study. As soon as the horse had learnt the road and the houses at which he was to pause awhile, the boy, seated in front, would slip the reins over his arm, ingeniously fix open, by means of a strap attached to the tilt, the volume he was reading, spread the dictionary on his knees, and plunge into the simpler passages from Cmsar, Virgil, or Horace, as the case might be, in his poor purblind stumbling way, and with an expenditure of labor that would have made a tender - hearted pedagogue shed tears, yet somehow getting at the mean- ing of what he read, and divining rather than beholding the spirit of the original, which often to his mind lay in some other feature than that in which he was taught to look for it. The only copies he had been able to lay hands on were old Delphine editions, be- cause they were superseded, an~l therefore cheap. But, bad for idle school-boys, it did so happen that they were passably good for him, or at least better than none. The hampered and lonely itinerant con- scientiously covered up the marginal read- ings, and used them merely on points of construction, as he would have used a comrade or tutor who should have hap- pened to be passing by. And though Jude may have had little chance of be- coming a scholar by these rough and ready means, he was in the way of get- ting into the groove he wished to follow. While he was busied with these ancient pages, which had already been thumbed by hands possibly in the grave, digging out the thoughts of these minds, so remote, yet so near, the bony old horse pursued his rounds, and Jude would be aroused from the woes of Dido by the stoppage of his cart and the voice of some old woman crying, Two to-day, baker, and I return this stale one. He was frequently met in the lanes by pedestrians and others without his seeing them, and by degrees the people of the neighborhood began to talk about his method of combining work and play (such they considered his reading to be), which,thoughprobablyconvenientenough to himself, was not altogether a safe pro- ceeding for other travellers along the same roads. There were murmurs. Then a private resident of an adjoining place informed the local policeman that the bakers boy should not be allowed to read while driving, and insisted that it was the constables duty to catch him in the act, and take him to the police court at Al- fredston, and get him fined for dangerous practices on the highway. The police- man thereupon lay in wait for Jude, and one day accosted him and cautioned him. As Jude had to get up at three oclock in the morning to heat the oven, and mix and set in the bread that he distributed later in the day, he was obliged to go to bed at night immediately after laying the sponge; so that if he could not read his~ classics on the highways, he could hardly THE SIMPLETONS. 77 study at all. The only thing to be done was, therefore, to keep a sharp eye ahead and around him as well as he could in the circumstances, and slip away his books as soon as anybody loomed in the distance, the policeman in particular. To do that official justice, he did not put himself much in the way of Judes bread-cart, considering that in such a lonely district the chief danger was to Jude himself, and often on seeing the white tilt over the hedges he would move in another direc- tion. On a day when he was getting quite advanced being now about sixteen, and had been stumbling through the Carmen Sa~culare, on his way home he found himself to be passing over the high edge of the plateau by the Brown House. The light had changed, and it was the sense of this which had caused him to look up. The sun was going down, and the full moon was rising simultaneously behind the woods in the opposite quarter. His mind had become so impregnated with the poem that, in a moment of the same im- pulsive emotion which years before had caused him to kneel on the ladder, he stopped the horse, alighted, and glancing round to see that nobody was in sight, knelt down on the road-side bank with open book. He turned first to the shiny goddess, who seenled to look so softly and critically at his doings, then to the disappearing luminary on the other hand, as he began: Phnbe, silvaruinque potens Diana. The horse stood still till he had finished the hymn, which Jude repeated under the sway of a polytheistic fancy that he would never have thought of humoring in broad daylight. Reaching home, he mused over his cu- rious superstition, innate or acquired, in doing this, and the strange forgetfulness which had led to such a lapse from com- mon-sense and custom in one who wished, next to being a scholar, to be a Christian divine. It had all come of reading hea- then works exclusively. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he was of his inconsi~tency. He began to won- ~der whether lie could be reading quite the right books for his object in life. Cer- tainly there seemed little harmony be- tween this pagan literature and the med- heval colleges at Christminster, that ecAesiastical romance in stone. Ultimately he decided that in his sheer love of reading he had taken up a wrong emotion for a Christian young man. He had dabbled in Homer, but had never yet worked much at the New Testament in the Greek, though he possessed a copy, obtained by post from a second-hand bookseller. He abandoned the now fa- iniliar Ionic for a new dialect, and for a long time onward limited his reading al- most entirely to the Gospels and Epistles in Griesbachs text. Moreover, on going into Alfredston one day, he was intro- duced to patristic literature by finding at the booksellers some volumes of the Fa- thers which had been left behind by a de- parted clergyman of the neighborhood. As another outcome of this change of groove, he visited on Sundays alt the churches within a walk, and deciphered the Latin inscriptions on fifteenth - cen- tury brasses and tombs. On one of these pilgrimages he met with a hunchbacked old woman of great intelligence, who read everything she could lay her hands on, and she told him more yet of the ro- mantic charms of the city of light and lore. Thither he resolved as firmly as ever to go. But how live in that city? At present he had no income at all. He had no trade or calling of any dignity or stabil- ity whatever on which he could subsist while carrying out an intellectual labor which might spread over many years. What was most required by citizens? Food, clothing, and shelter. An income from any work in preparing the first would be too meagre; for making the second he felt a distaste; the preparation of the third requisite he inclined to. They built in a city; therefore he would learn to build. He thought of his unknown uncle, a carver, and somehow it was a trade for which he had rather a fancy. He could not go far wrong in following his uncles footsteps, and engaging him- self awhile with the carcasses that con- tained the scholar souls. As a preliminary he obtained some small blocks of freestone, and suspending his studies awhile, occupied his spare half-hours in copying the heads and cap- itals in his parish church. There was a stone-cutter of a humble kind in Alfredston, and as soon as he had found a substitute for himself in his aunts little business, he offered his services to this man for a trifling wage. Here Jude 78 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. had the opportunity of learning at least the rudiments of freestone - working. Some time later he went to a church- builder in the same place, and under the architects direction became handy at re- storing the dilapidated masonries of sev- eral village churches roundabout. Not forgetting that he was only follow- ing up this handicraft as a prop to lean on while he prepared those greater en- gines which he flattered himself would be better fitted for him, he yet was inter- ested in his pursuit on its own account. He now had lodgings during the week in the little town, whence he returned to Marygreen village every Saturday even- ing. And thus he reached and passed his nineteenth year. CHAPTER vi. AT this memorable date of his life he was, one Saturday, returning from Aifreds- ton to Marygreen about three oclock in the afternoon. It was fine, warm, and soft summer weather, and he walked with his tools at his back, his little chisels clinking faintly against the larger ones in his bas- ket. It being the end of the week, he had left work early, and had come out of the town by a roundabout route which he did not usually frequent, having promised to call at a flour-mill in that direction to ex- ecute a commission for his aunt. He was in an enthusiastic mood. He seemed to see his way to living comforta- bly in Christminster in the course of a year or two, and knocking at the doors of one of those strongholds of learning of which he had dreamed so much. He might, of course, have gone there now, in some capacity or other, but he preferred to enter the city with a little more assur- ance as to means than he could be said to feel at present. A warm self-content suf- fused him when he considered what he had already done. Now and then as he went along he turned to face the peeps of country on either side of him. But he hardly saw them; the act was an auto- matic repetition of what he had been ac- customned to do when less occupied; and the one matter which really en~aged him was the mental estimate of his progress thus far. I have acquired quite an average stu- dents power to read the common ancient classics, Latin in particular. This was true, Jude possessing a facility in that language which enabled him with great ease to himself to beguile his lonely walks by imaginary con versations therein. I have read two books of Homer, be- sides being pretty familiar with passages such as the speech of Phoenix in the ninth book, the fight of Hector and Ajax in the fourteenth, the appearance of Achilles unarmed and his heavenly armor in the eighteenth, and the funeral games in the twenty - third. I have also done some Hesiod, a little scrap of Thucydides, and a lot of the Greek Testament.. . . I wish there was only one dialect, all the same. I have done some mathematics, in- cluding the first six and the eleventh and twelfth books of Euclid; and algebra as far as simple equations. I know something of the Fathers, and something of Roman and English history. These things are only a beginning. But I shall not make much further ad- vance here, from the difficulty of getting books. Hence I must next concentrate all my energies on settling in Christmin- ster. Once there I shall so advance, with the assistance I shall there get, that my present knowledge will appear to me but as childish ignorance. I must save mon- ey, and I will; and one of those colleges shall open its doors to meshall welcome whom now it would spurn, if I wait twen- ty years for the welcome. Ill be D.D. before I have done ! And then he continued to dream, and thought lie might become even a bishop by leading a pure, energetic, wise, Chris- tian life. And what an example he would set! If his income were 5000 a year, he would give away 4500 in one form and another, and live sumptuously (for him) on the remainder. Well, on second thoughts, a bishop was absurd. He would draw the line at an archdeacon. Perhaps a man could be as good and as learned and as useful in the capacity of archdea- con as in that of bishop. Yet he thought of the bishop again. Meanwhile I will read, as soon as I am settled in Christmiiister, the books I have not been able to get hold of here: Livy, Tacitus, Herodotus, A~schylus,Soph- odes, Aristophanes Ha, ha, ha! Hoity - toity ! The sounds were expressed in light voices on the other side of the hedge, but lie did not notice them. His thoughts went on: Euripides, Plato, Aristotle, Lucre- tins, Epictetus, Seneca, Antoninus. Then THE SIMPLETONS. 79 I must master other things: the Fathers thoroughly; Bede and ecclesiastical his- tory generally; a smattering of Hebrew J only know the letters as yet Hoity-toity ! but I can work hard. I have stay- ing power in abundance, thank God! and it is that which tells.... Yes, Christmin- ster shall be my Alma Mater; and Ill be her beloved son in whom she shall be well pleased. In his deep concentration on these transactions of the future, Judes walk had slackened, and he was now standing quite still, looking at the ground as though the future were thrown thereon by a magic lantern. On a sudden some- thing smacked him sharply in the ear, and he became aware that a soft cold sub- stance had been flung at him, and had fallen at his feet. A glance told him what it wasa piece of flesh, portion of a recently killed pig, which the countrymen used for greasing their boots, as it was useless for any other purpose. Pigs were rather plentiful here- about, being bred and fattened in large numbers in certain parts of North Wes- sex. On the other side of the hedge was a stream, whence, as he now for the first time realized, had come the slight sounds of voices and laughter that had mingled with his dreams. He mounted the bank and looked over the fence. On the fur- ther side of the stream stood a small homestead, having a garden and pigsties attached; in front of it, beside the brook, three young women were kneeling, with buckets and platters beside them contain- ing heaps of pigs chitterlings, which they were washing in the running water. One or two pairs Qf eyes slyly glanced up, and perceiving that his attention had at last been attracted, and that he was watching them, they braced themselves for inspec- tion by putting their mouths demurely into shape and recommencing their rins- ing operations with assiduity. Thank you ! said Jude, severely. I didnt throw it, I tell you ! assert- ed one girl to her neighbor, as if uncon- scious of the young mans presence. Nor I, the second answered. Oh, Anny, how can you! said the third. If I had thrown anything at all, it shouldnt have been such a vulgar thing as that ! Pooh! I dont care for him ! And they laughed and continued their work, without looking up, still ostentatiously accusing each other. Jude grew sarcastic as he wiped the spot where the clammy flesh had struck him. You didnt do it? Oh no ! he said to the upstream one of the three. She whom he addressed was a fine dark- eyed girl, not exactly handsome, but ca- pable of passing as such at a little dis- tance, despite some coarseness of skin and fibre. She had a round and prominent bosom, full lips, perfect teeth, and the rich complexion of a Cochin hens egg. She was a complete and substantial fe- male humanno more, no less; and Jude was almost certain that to her was at- tributable the enterprise of throwing the lump of offal at him. That youll never be told, said she, decidedly. Whoever did it was wasteful of other peoples property. Oh, thats nothing. The pig is my fathers. But you want it back, I suppose? Oh yes; if you like to give it me. Shall I throw it across, or will you come to the plank above here for me to hand it to you? Perhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for somehow or other the eyes of the brown girl rested in his own when he had said the words, and there was a mo- mentary flash of intelligence, a dumb an- nouncement of affinity in posse, between herself and him, which, so far as Jude Fawley was concerned, had no sort of premeditation in it. She saw that he had singled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in such cases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaint- ance, but in commonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters, unconsciously received by unfortunate men when the last intention of their lives is to be occupied with the feminine. Springing to her feet, she said: Dont throw it! Give it to me. Jude was now aware that the intrinsic value of the missile had nothing to do with her request. He set down his bas- ket of tools, raked out with his stick the scrap of flesh from the ditch, and got over the hedge. They walked in parallel lines, one on each bank of the stream, towards the small plank bridge. As the 80 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. girl drew nearer to it, she gave, without Jude perceiving it, an adroit little suck to the interior of each of her cheeks in succession, by which curious and original maneuvre she brought as by magic upon its smooth and rotund surface a perfect dimple, which she was able to retain thei~e as long as she continued to smile. This production of dimples at will was a not unknown operation, which many attempted, but only a few succeeded in accomplishing. They met ia the middle of the plank, and Jude held out his stick with the f rag- ment of pig dangling therefrom, looking elsewhere the while. She, too, looked in another direction, and took the piece as though ignorant of what her hand was doing. She hung it temporarily on the rail of the bridge, and then, by a species of mutual curiosity, they both turned. You dont think I threw it? Oh no. It belongs to father, and he med have been in a taking if he had wanted it. He makes it into dubbin. What made either of the others throw it, I wonder? Jude asked, politely accept- ing her assertion, though he had very large doubts as to its truth. Impudence. Dont tell folk it was I, mind ! How can I? I dont know your name. Ah, no. Shall I tell it to you? Do! Arabella Doun. Im living here. I must have known it if I had often come this way. But I mostly go straight along the highroad. My father is a pig-breeder, and these girls are helping me wash the innerds for black-puddings and chitterlings. They talked a little more and a little more, as they stood~ regarding the slip of flesh dangling from the hand-rail of the bridge. The unvoiced call of woman to man, which was uttered very distinctly by Arabellas personality, held Jude to the spot against his intention almost against his will, and in a way new to his experience. It is scarcely an exaggera- tion to say that till this moment Jude had never looked at a woman to consid- er her as such, but had vaguely regarded the sex as beings outside his life and purposes. He gazed from her eyes to her mouth, thence to her shoulders, and to her full round naked arms, wet, mot tled with the chill of the water, and firm as marble. What a nice-looking girl you are he murmured, though the words had not been necessary to express his sense of her magnetism. Ah, you should see me Sundays! she said, piquantly. I dont suppose I could? he answered. Thats for you to think on. Theres nobody after me just now, though thei-e med be in a week or two. She had spoken this without a smile, and the dim- ples disappeared. Jude felt himself drifting strangely, but could not help it. Will you let me? I dont mind. By this time she had managed to get back one dimple by turning her face aside for a moment and repeating the odd little sucking operation before mentioned, Jude being still unconscious of more than a general impression of her appearance. Next Sunday ? he hazarded. To-mor- row, that is? Yes. Shall I call? Yes. She brightened with a little glow of triumph, swept him almost tenderly with her eyes in turning, and throwing the offal out of the way upon the grass, re- joined her companions. Jude Fawley shouldered his tool-basket and resumed his lonely way, filled with an ardor at which he mentally stood at gaze. He had just inhaled a single breath from a new atmosphere, which had evi- dently been hanging round him every- where he went, for he knew not how long, but had somehow been divided from his actual breathing as by a sheet of glass. The intentions as to reading, working, and learning, which he had so precisely foi-- mulated only a few minutes earlier, were suffering a curious collapse into a corner, he knew not how. Well, its only a bit of fun, lie said to himself, faintly conscious that to corn- monsense there was something lackin~, and still more obviously something re- dundant, in the nature of this girl who had drawn him to her, which made it necessary that lie should assert mere sportiveness on his part as his reason in seeking hersomething in her quite an- tipathetic to that side of him which had been occupied with literary study and the magnificent Christminster dream. He THE DIVIDING-FENCE. 81 saw this with his intellectual eye, just for a short fleeting while, as by the light of a falling lamp one might momentarily see an inscription on a wall before being enshrouded in darkness. And then this passing discriminative power was with- drawn, and Jude was lost to all condi- tions of things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of having fou~nd a new channel for emotional interest hith- erto unsuspected, though it had lain close beside him. He was to meet this enkin- dling one of the other sex on the follow- ing Sunday. Meanwhile the girl had joined her com- panions, and she silently resumed her flicking and sousing of the chitterlings in the pellucid stream. Catched un, my dear? laconically asked the girl called Anny. Lord! hes nobody, though you med think so. He used to drive old Drusilla Fawleys bread- cart out at Marygreen, till he prenticed himself at Alfredston. Since then hes been very stuck np, and always reading. He wants to be a scholar, they say. Oh, I dont care what lie is, or any- thing about n. Dont you think it, my chile! Oh, dont ye! You neednt try to de- ceive us! What did you stay talking to him for, if you didnt want un? Whether you do or whether you dont, hes as sim- ple as a child. I could see that as you courted on the bridge, wi the piece o pig hanging between yehau-hau~h! What a proper thing to court over in these parts! Well, hes to be had by any wo- man who can get him to care for her a bit, if she likes to set herself to catch him the right way. [TO BE CONTINUED.] TIlE DIVIDING-FENCE. A SJMPKJNSYILLE EPISODE. BY RUTH McENERY STUART. THE widow Carroll and widower Brad- field were next neighbors. Indeed, they were the nearest next neighbors in Simpkinsville, their houses, contrary to the village fashion, standing scarce thir- ty feet apart. The cordial friendly relations long ex- isting between the two families were still indicated by the well-worn stoop set in the dividing - fence between the two gardens, its three steps on either side a perpetual invitation to social intercourse. Here, in the old days, the two wives were wont to meet for neighborly converse, each generally sitting on her own side, while the landing at the stoops sum- mit answered for table set conveniently between them. Here it had been a com- mon thing to see two thimbles standing off duty beside spools of thread and bits of sewing -little sleeves or patch - work squareswhile their mistresses bent over flower beds or pots; for many an in- dustrious intention was thwarted by the witchery of growing things on both sides the fence. Indeed, every one of the fine flowering geraniums that bloomed on either porch had at one time or another passed over this stoop as a cutting, or been taxed in some of its members for the fi4endly transit. Here, too, had passed cake receipts and pantalet patterns, bits of yeast-cake and preserving-kettles. Here were exchanged comments upon last Sundays sermons, and lengthy opinions upon such questions as frequently disturb the maternal mind; as, for instance, whether it were wiser for parents to put their children through the contagious diseases of childhood as opportunity offered, or to shun them hoping for life-long immunity. In such arguments as this Mrs. Carroll had usu- ally the advantage of a positive opinion. On this identical question, for example, she had frankly declared her sentiments in this wise: Well, theys some ketchin diseases thet Id send my childen after in a min- ute, ef they was handy; an then, agin, theys others thet I wouldnt dare to, though, ef they was to come, Id be glad when they was over. Any disease thets got any principle to it, I aint afeerd to tackle, sech ez measles, which theyve been measles, behavin cordin to rule, comm an goin ef they was kep bet an sweated correct, ever sence the first measle. But scarlet fever, now, finstance, thats another thing. My blief is thet God sends some diseases, an the devil, he sends others. VOL. xc.No. 535.S

THE DIVIDING-FENCE. 81 saw this with his intellectual eye, just for a short fleeting while, as by the light of a falling lamp one might momentarily see an inscription on a wall before being enshrouded in darkness. And then this passing discriminative power was with- drawn, and Jude was lost to all condi- tions of things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of having fou~nd a new channel for emotional interest hith- erto unsuspected, though it had lain close beside him. He was to meet this enkin- dling one of the other sex on the follow- ing Sunday. Meanwhile the girl had joined her com- panions, and she silently resumed her flicking and sousing of the chitterlings in the pellucid stream. Catched un, my dear? laconically asked the girl called Anny. Lord! hes nobody, though you med think so. He used to drive old Drusilla Fawleys bread- cart out at Marygreen, till he prenticed himself at Alfredston. Since then hes been very stuck np, and always reading. He wants to be a scholar, they say. Oh, I dont care what lie is, or any- thing about n. Dont you think it, my chile! Oh, dont ye! You neednt try to de- ceive us! What did you stay talking to him for, if you didnt want un? Whether you do or whether you dont, hes as sim- ple as a child. I could see that as you courted on the bridge, wi the piece o pig hanging between yehau-hau~h! What a proper thing to court over in these parts! Well, hes to be had by any wo- man who can get him to care for her a bit, if she likes to set herself to catch him the right way. [TO BE CONTINUED.] TIlE DIVIDING-FENCE. A SJMPKJNSYILLE EPISODE. BY RUTH McENERY STUART. THE widow Carroll and widower Brad- field were next neighbors. Indeed, they were the nearest next neighbors in Simpkinsville, their houses, contrary to the village fashion, standing scarce thir- ty feet apart. The cordial friendly relations long ex- isting between the two families were still indicated by the well-worn stoop set in the dividing - fence between the two gardens, its three steps on either side a perpetual invitation to social intercourse. Here, in the old days, the two wives were wont to meet for neighborly converse, each generally sitting on her own side, while the landing at the stoops sum- mit answered for table set conveniently between them. Here it had been a com- mon thing to see two thimbles standing off duty beside spools of thread and bits of sewing -little sleeves or patch - work squareswhile their mistresses bent over flower beds or pots; for many an in- dustrious intention was thwarted by the witchery of growing things on both sides the fence. Indeed, every one of the fine flowering geraniums that bloomed on either porch had at one time or another passed over this stoop as a cutting, or been taxed in some of its members for the fi4endly transit. Here, too, had passed cake receipts and pantalet patterns, bits of yeast-cake and preserving-kettles. Here were exchanged comments upon last Sundays sermons, and lengthy opinions upon such questions as frequently disturb the maternal mind; as, for instance, whether it were wiser for parents to put their children through the contagious diseases of childhood as opportunity offered, or to shun them hoping for life-long immunity. In such arguments as this Mrs. Carroll had usu- ally the advantage of a positive opinion. On this identical question, for example, she had frankly declared her sentiments in this wise: Well, theys some ketchin diseases thet Id send my childen after in a min- ute, ef they was handy; an then, agin, theys others thet I wouldnt dare to, though, ef they was to come, Id be glad when they was over. Any disease thets got any principle to it, I aint afeerd to tackle, sech ez measles, which theyve been measles, behavin cordin to rule, comm an goin ef they was kep bet an sweated correct, ever sence the first measle. But scarlet fever, now, finstance, thats another thing. My blief is thet God sends some diseases, an the devil, he sends others. VOL. xc.No. 535.S 82 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Mrs. Bradfield had agreed that perhaps it was a mothers duty to carry her chil- dren through as many ailments as pos- sible while she was here to see to it, and yetfor her part-well, she didnt know. She had known even measles to But, of co se, they was black measles, or else they wasnt properly drawed out o the circulation, she had finally allowed. And, of cose, ez you say, Mis Carroll, maybe they wasnt mea- sles. You cant, to say, rightly prove a measle thet aint broke out. Tell the truth, Id be fearful to sen for any disease lessn it had ready come an gone thout kuhn nobody, which would seem to prove thet it wasnt of a fatle nature. An then, of cose, it d be too late to get it. But ez to ascribin diseases either up or down, Mis Carroll, she had concluded, I wouldnt dare do it, lessn I might be unconscious- ly honorin the Evil One or dishonoria God. An, of cose, Mrs. Carroll had smil- ingly replied of cose I dont want to give Satan no mo n his due, neither. But they do say, God sends the babies their teeth, an lets the devil set em in, an~ thats why the pore little things have sech trouble cuttin em. Seem like the wrastle with Satan begins pretty early. Cordin to that, he was, ez you might say, the first dentist, an all the endurin den- tists sence aint been able to cast him out o the profession. No an never will, I reckon, till he is required to hand in his pattern for jaw-teeth roots, an to go by it. But, bein Satan, an of cose unprincipled, I reckon he wouldnt keep to it, even then. Of course in this, as in all next-neigh- bor friendships, there had been points of contact that could easily have induced friction, but they were never openly con- fessed, and are certainly now unworthy of more than such casual notice as an un- folding retrospect may reveal. It was nearly two years now since the fwo thimbles had rested on the stoop land- ing. In the interval sorrow had entered both gates. The crepe band upon Brad- fields Sunday hat was gradually loosen- ing of its own accord, until now every passing breeze seemed to threaten his good wifes memory. But the figure was play- ing him false, so far as any open mani- festation of forgetfulness went. His neighbor had never worn crepe, but her mourning was still in evidence in all its pristine moderation on every im- portan t occasion. Simpki n sville conven- tions were lax as regards this tribute paid her dead, and gauged the loyalty of their surviving relations by other than color standards. A good black alpaca dress in hand needed not even to surrender its bands of velvet, not to mention its lustre, to serve as widows weeds, a first evidence of her beginning to take notice being perhaps not so much the Valenceens ruche which was expected to appear at her neck in due season as that which it ushered in. The new order meant reap- pearance at church sociables after lamp- light, taking part at fairs and the like, and a final emergence in full feather of forgetfulness at the spring barbecue or camp-meeting. The widow Carroll, always a woman of her own mind, had begun with the Valen- ciennes ruche, nor had she ever forsaken her post as server of meats at church func- tions. But during the two years of her mourning she had not changed. There had been no second stage. She had not meant, from the beginning, that there should be. If she should ever marry again, the good ez new blue ribbon bow, ripped off her black dress for the fu- neral, would naively reappear in its old place, pinned in the centre with the now discarded coral pin. But this is unprofit- able surmise. Of course Dame Gossip had married her off-hand to her neighbor before his wife was decently buried. And of course a woman of Mary Carrolls strength of mind had ignoi-ed all such predictions, and had done all the things a less self- reliant woman would not have dared. She had done for Susans children jest exactly ez cC theyd been her own sisters, from the start. This tribute even the busy tongues of the village had finally been constrained to accord her. The situation, like the ruche, though startling at first, had remained as unal- tered. The stoop was still, in a different way, as conducive to friendly intercourse as of yore. Though the maternal neigh- bor had never crossed it, excepting twice, - - in cases of sickness, she had not hesitated to utilize it as a dispensing-station for sundry neighborly ministrations, as wheni on raw mornings 1n-the-spring-o-the- year, after similarly fortifying her own brood, she had armed herself with qui- nine capsules and a gourd dipper of wa THE DIVIDINGFENCE. 83 ter, and administered the bitter refresh- ment to the entire Bradfield lot, even on one occasion including the pater. Nor had she stopped at this; for, after the passage of the friendly swallow, she was heard to observe, in all seriousness, Mr. Bradfield, I see theys a film done come out o one o yore back teeth, an Id ad- vise you to look after it. And then, her errand fully accomplished, she had turned back to her own house. It was not her habit to linger about the stoop for idle parley. Needless to say, Bradfleld rode out to consult the dentist that day. The situation thus briefly sketched seemed, indeed, to have reached a state of entire safety, as far as any possible ro- mance was concerned. But how often are apparent safety - lines found to be charged with strong and dangerous cur- rents! Strange to say, it was just when gossip had declared against its early pre- dictions, and was beginning to cast about among its maturer marriageable maidens for the needed mother for Susan Brad- fields childen, that Bradfield himself had first reflected, with perfect certitude: The hole in my heart is there yetjest ez big an ez holler ez the day pore Susan was buried an the only livin woman thet can ever fill it to overfiowin is Mis Carroll. She knowed Susan an Susans ways an Susans childen. An she knows me. So the reflection proceeded. Yas, an she knows me, maybe she knows me too well. Ef theys any trouble, it 11 be that. The years of intimate friendship had not passed, indeed, without Bradflelds re- alizing that certain qualities in himself had fallen under the ban of Mrs. Carrolls disapproval. True, he and she had been as different persons then, and yet, after all, they were the same. The widow Car- roll, albeit she was thirty-seven years old, and the mother o five, was a pretty wo- man. She was one of those pretty wo- men who, though never threatened with great beauty, being made on too chubby a pattern, seem to possess in healthy ful- ness all the womanly charms incident to every passing stage in life. She was a flower always in process of bloom. A woman of dimples, but whose dimples went to grace a smile or dissipate a frown rather than to count as dimples, mere physical incidents. Her crisp hair, a cop- p~ery auburn in hue, commonly called red. was full of fine lights and color such hair as is at once the glory and the despair of the village poet, who recklessly uses up shimmer and glimmer in a first couplet, only to be confronted with gleam and sheen, that, with fair promise of affil- iation, stubbornly refuse to lend them- selves to his poetic scheme. There is the red hair that smiles, and the red hair that scolds and is capable of profanity. One kind reflects light and heat, the other burns. Mary Carrolls was of the smil- ing sort. Although Bradfield had felt the radiant glory of the widows head as he often viewed it in the morning sun from his side the fence, and had more than once compared it to her shining copper kettle inverted on the shed, to the disadvantage of the gleaming metal, he had summarily denounced such thoughts not only as un- becoming his crepe, but as being of a na- ture to nachelly disgust sech a sensible mother o childen ez Mis Carroll, ef shed even spicioned sech a thing. Just how or when Bradfield had finally declared his mind not even the writer of these annals professes to know. But there is evidence that the arguments which elicited the following somewhat lengthy response from the widow were not his first words on the subject. Bradfield was standing on his side the fence down in the rear garden; Mrs. Carroll on her side. Yas, she spoke with hesitation yas, I know its jest ez you say, Mr. Bradfield. The best pickets in this divid- in~ -fence d be aplenty to patch up the out- side fences of both our yards with; an one o the two front gates could be took out an~ put in where the back gate on my side is rotted out; an, ez you say, one kitchen an one cook d do where it takes two now, an an of cose our houses do set so close-t together thet we could easy, ez you say, jest roof over the space between em an make it into a good wide hall, anan of cose our childen do, ez you say, ez good ez live together ez it is, anbut She knit her brow and hesitated. And is a heap purtier word n what but is, Mis Carroll. Brad field chuckled nervously as he leaned forward toward her, his elbows resting upon the ledge of the dividing- fence between them as he spoke. The widow laughed. Yas, I know it is, but She colored. I declare, I didnt lay out to say but so soon again, but Well, I do declare ! 84 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. And now both laughed. Did it ever strike you, Mis Carroll, Bradfleld resumed, presently did it ever strike you ez funny thet whoever planted them trees down yo front walk an down mine should o been so opposite an~ simlar minded ez to set a row o silver- poplars down the lef side o my walk an down the right side o yoze, sos ef we was ever minded to cut out the middle rows o arbor-vit~s and cedars (which are too much alike an too different to agree side by side anyway), we could have a broad av niie o silver-poplars clean down fom the house to the front gate? See? He pointed first to the space between the two houses, and then to the fence. Of cose, the new poch, now, it d pro- jec out in the middle-centre o the avnue, too. An I was thinkin it d be purty, maybe, to have a high corn ish round it, like that n on the new school-house, ony higher an mo notched, ef you say so. An the drive up the avnue, it could be laid either in shell or brick, jest ez you sayor maybe gravel. Why, it looks to me ez ef, ef we was to thow the two houses into one that-a-way, wed have what Id call a re-si-deneethats what we would. An the money wed save in a year jinin the two households d pay for the improvements, too. Yas, I reckon twould, Mr. Bradfleld, ef twas handled economical. I reckon twouldbut Aint that a yaller to- mater down there in yo tomater-patch? I didnt know you planted yallers. No, I havent. That theres a squash flower, I vow, with two bees in it this minute. Them simlins re nachel gad- ders. The root o that n is clair crost the walk. They dont no mo hesitate to go where they aint invited an to lay their young ones in the laps of anything thet 11 hold em than__ Than some folks do, I reckon. Bradflelds eyes searched her face sus- piciously. Ma-am? The word was long drawn out. No insinuation intended, Mr. Brad- field, of cose. I was only thinkin o the way Sally Ann Brooks sends her young ones roun town to spen the day to get shet of em, stid of- Oh, I see! Reckon Ill plant bush- squash myself after this. I dont want nothin meanderin roun my garden thet makes sech a pore figger o speech ez a simlin do. Th aint nothin too low down an common for em to mix with ef they git a half a chance, fom a punkin even down to a dipper - gourd. An I wouldnt trust em too near a wash-rag vine an leave off watchin em, theyre that pomiscuyus-minded. I spose, Mr. Bradfield, the bush- squash does live, ez Elder Billins says, a mo virtuous life, stayin home an jest havin a lapful o reglar young bush- squashes, every one saucer - shaped an scalloped roun the edges, same ez all re- spectable Christian families should do. Im not insinuatin in anything I say this mornin, Mr. Bradfleld, an of cose in sech ez this I couldnt be. But talkin o squashes, Id say thet maybe Elder Billins was right when he remarked thet bush- squashes was mo feminine - minded n what runners was. Well, Bradfield chuckled, Ill prom- ise you, ef youll say the word to take down this useless fence, they shant be a runnin - squash allowed inside our garden. Th aint no hurry about that~, I reck- on, Mr. Bradfield, she answered, playful- ly. An I mus be goin up to the house now. I jest stepped down to see ef my yallers was colorin. Im goin to start preservin to - morrer. Better send yore Tom over an let me look at his throat again to-day. You see, he cant gargle, an its jest ez well to ward off soe throat for sech childen. Good - mornin, Mr. Bradfield. Instead of answering, Bradfleld follow- ed beside her on his side the fence. An I come down here, Mis Carroll, he resumed, presently I come down see- in you here, and hopin maybe to discuss things a little. This dividin-fence, now; its made out o good-heart lumber, every picket an post, an our outside pickets i~e worm-et turbleboth yoze an mine. Ef we could jest to say thow these two gar- den patches into one Ive got a good sparrer-grass bed on my side, ez you see, an youre jest a-projeckin to start anoth- er one, which you neednt do; an yore butter-bean arbor is ez stiddy ez the day it was put up, an mine is about ez ram- shackled ez they get; an both the sparrer- grass bed an the arbor re big enough for the two familiesor for one, I mean twice-t ez big ez either, which ours would pre-cize-ly be. Since its took possession of my mind, Mis Carroll, its astonishin how the surpluses on one side o the fence do seem to match the lacks on the other. THE DIVIDING-FENCE. 85 An the fence itself, for it to be so well wuth takin down, why it looks to me like flyin in the face o Prov-i-dence to hold out against so many hints to do a special thing. Well, maybe it is, Mr. Bradfleld, but I havent been given the clair sight to see it that-a-wayyet. The way I look at it, that fence is strong enough to do good service where it is for some time to come. You see, it d take a mighty wide oil-cloth to cover that middle hail youre a-projeckin to let in twixt the two housesan a front hall thout oil-cloth I wouldnt haveno way. But maybe Im worldly-minded. Certny not. Oil-cloth pays for it- self over an~ over agin ef its kep rubbed up an varnished occasional. We might get some o the drummers to fetch us some samples, jest to look over. The widow laughed. Yas, I can see either you or me lookin over any house- furnishin samples, now! Why,Simpkins- ville wouldnt hold the talk. I do declare ef there aint Elder Billins a-comm this way cross my yard now, ez I live! How did he manage to tie up thout me seem im, I wonderl Did you see im stopl Yas, I didan befo I saw im, I felt im. I knowed somebody was comm to pester my sight, an I wondered who it was befo lie come into the road. I dont know how it is, but theys somethin in the way a ol bachelor carries isself thet tantalizes me, special when I see im try to wait on a woman thet cant see im ez rediclous ez I see im. A ol, dried-up, singular number, masculine gender, dont know no mo what 11 tickle a woman s fancy n one o them sca ~crows in my pea- patch out yonder. An yet they aint got the settled mind thet a scacrow has-to stay peaceable in that station of life unto which it has pleased God to call em. The widow laughed merrily. You bet- ter hursh, Mr. Bradfleld. Elder Billins may be slow, some ways, but his ears dont set out the way they do for nothin. Whats that hes a-fetchinl Dont know ez I know exacly. I see he is loaded up. I wonder, for goodness sakes, what hes a - fetchinl Howdy, Elder I she called out cheerily now. Come right along! I wont go to meet you, cause I know you an Mr. Bradfield 11 want to shake hands over the fence. She cast a mischievous glance at Bradfield as she advanced a single step toward Bilhins. Excuse my hands, please, Elder. Ty- in up them soggy tomater bushes has greened em so th aint fit to offer you but howdy! Ef he aint gone an done it, spite of me! Made me another per- fec-ly lovely hangin-basket ! Her eyes beamed as a childs over a new toy, as Billins set a tall rustic structure down be- fore her. Jest look, Mr. Bradfield, she con- tinued, raising it for inspection. I do declare, Elder, how you manage to twis these roots in an out I dont know. Taint made on the same plan ez the chair, either. That chair you set in, Mr. Bradfield, the other day when you come up on my poch to fetch time onion sets, Elder Bilhins made me that ; an for a chair to ease a tired back, or jest to set in an study braidin patterns, its the most accommodatin chair a person ever did set in. Mr. Brad field said isself, Elder, thet he never had set in a chair thet yielded to his needs like it did. But I was figgerin on a mans idee of a easy-settin chair, Bradfield retorted. Id o thought youd a made a lady a cushioned chair, Billins, with side rockers to it, an maybe a movable foot-rest, or even a tune-playin seat in it. So I would ef shed a-said the word, but when a lady says rustics, its rustics to me, ef I have to dig up all the crooked roots in the county. The discussion of the rustic basket had so engaged their attention that the men seemed to have forgotten a formal greet- ing, but now, when the widow presented her own hand a second time to Billins, thanking him for his gift, by the faintest movement of the wrist and an inclination of the head toward the fence, she virtual- ly passed him over to Brad field. Howdy, Eben! Hope I see you well. Bihhins heartily extended his hand quite over the fence. Bradfield had never heard of the fashkn- able lofty salutation in mid-air, but it was with precisely this inane shoulder-high denial of cordiality that lie changed the friendly impulse of the proffered hand from a hearty downward shake to a quick lateral movement quite even with the top of the pickets. Im tolerble peart, thanky, Elder, he drawled. Hows yoreself? You seem to be renewin yo youth like the eagle. 86 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Well, Eben, ef you count yoself a eagle, I aint perpared to dispute that, was the elders humorous reply. And then he added, more seriously, Hows the lambs, Eben? The kids? Oh, theyre purty tolerble frisky, thanky. Reckon to sech ez you theyd seem mo like roain lions n lambs. They do say thet folks thet roam single all their lives forgits they ever was kids theirselves. Well, Eben, sence you mention it, I reckon sech of us ez are strivin to stand with the sheep at the jedgment d ruther take their chances startin ez a lamb. Ef a person starts out ez a kid, seem to me the best he can hope to do d be to grow into a goat, which is classed ez purty pore cattle both here an hereafter. Yore dear childen re lambs, Ebenlambs o the Lords fold, an I hate to hear you mis-designate em that-a-way. Elder Billins spoke with the religious voicethe same that was wont to say on frequent occasion, Brother Bradfield, wont you lead in prayer? Bradfield had often led in prayer by its mild invi- tation, and he recognized it as a force commanding respect. For a moment, under its benign influence, he was some- what mollified, and was opening his lips for such conciliatory speech as he could command, when Billins remarked, with an insinuating smile: I spose you an Mis Carroll ye been swappin con fidences about garden-truck this heavenly mornin. You seem to have the first flower on yo side, Eben. I see some sort o blossom down behind you there. Yas~ th aint much interestin in the gardens yet. That one flower with a couple o bees a-buzzin round it is about the only, to say, interestin thing in sight that is to say, for beauty. Billins chuckled. We]1, I declare, Eben Bradfield, seem to me you described moren you set out to describe that time. Efimy eyes dont deceive me, I see a-noth- er flower with two more bees a-buzzin round it. He glanced at the widow, and then at Bradfleld. Dont know ez I see that, Elder eggsaclythat is, ez to the bees. You dont, dont you? Spell Bradfield, an then spell Billins. Oho! You see it now, dont you? Ef we aint two Bs, what d you say we was? Bradfleld cleared his throat. Seem to me, Elder, Id be purty hard pushed for com-pli-ments fore Id compare a lady to a squash flower. Well, Eben, that aint exacly my fault, the way I look at it. I supplied the com-pli-ment, an you supplied the flower. I jest took the best you had, which, it seems to me, is the brightest thing on the face o the lanscapeex- ceptin, of cose He lifted his hat and bowed to the widow. Bradfleld colored up to the roots of his hair as he said, smiling defiantly: Them wasnt stingin-bees around that simli n flower, Elder. They was jest these in- nercent white-faced buzzers. Look out thet you dont spile yo figger o speech by strikin too hard. Thats the second stroke o el-o-quence tliets been struck otT from that one flower to-day, an Ive had to dodge both times, seem like. Reckon Ill dodge now, shore enough, an bid you both good-mornin. Elder didnt come to pay me a visit, noways, an I think I know when threes a crowd. And Bradfield, as fretful as a spoiled boy, turned across his own garden and left them. Well, I must say, Im dis-gust-ed ! he said, audibly, as soon as he dared. More n dis-gust-ed! Its enough to make a person sick to his stummick! The idee of a ol white-haired exhorter like Elder Billins whisperin that hed wove her name into a rustic basket with a motter throwed in! Seem like shed o laughed right out in his face. Lordy, but its that sickenin! I do thank the Lord Im a perfessin Christian or Id sweardog-gone ef I wouldnt ! When he had reached his own porch, Bradfleld drew a chair to its remote end and sat down. The idee ! he exclaimed as he balanced his body back against the wall, extending his feet over the banis- ters. The idee & him havin mo cheek n what Ive got! Here I aint dared to more n broach things in a business way, an, shores Im alive, that ol bone s a-courtin er outspoken. And now, in a fashion entirely at va- riance with his late expressions, Brad- fields secret thoughts took shape. Won- der ef any other woman ever did have sech a head, anyhow? The way them curls snug up to her neckLordy, but it all but takes my breath away. An as for taean clevernesswell, they never THE DIVIDING-FENCE. 87 was sech another woman, I know. Ef she spicioned what a blame ejiot I am about her, she wouldnt have no mo re- spec for me n nothin. But I know how to tackle er, that I do! Shes a reglar business thorough-goer, she is, an the man thet gets her, hes got to prove the common-sense o the thingthats what hes got to do. The idee o hangin-bas- kets an motters to a person o her sense an she the mother o five! Dont blieve I ever seen er yetat home-thout a bunch o keys hangin to er belt, or a thimble on; an ez to aprons To me a apron is a thing thet sets off a purty wo- man, an jest nachelly dis-figgers a ugly onenot to mention her dis-figgerin it. He chuckled, drew down his feet, and began walking up and down his porch. The idee o me caculatin to a cent what we could save by jiuin interests, an, come down to the truth, Id spen the last cent Ive got to get er. But she mustnt know it. Oh no, she mustnt know it. Pausing here at the end of the porch, he cast his eyes down toward the rear lot, taking in in his survey a view of both gardens. Wonder where those childen o mine have went to ? he continued, men- tally. Over in her barn, Ill venture, the last one of em, playin with hers, cept- in her Joe, an Ill lay hes with my Tom, sailin shingle boats down in my goose- pond. Tis funny, come to think of it, for me to have a goose-pond an for her to have the geese. We aint to say dupli- cated on nothin, less n tis childen, an were so pre-cize-ly matched in them thet-well, its comical, thats what it is. Reckon, after we was married awhile, they d come so nachel thet, takin em hit an miss, we wouldnt know no diffrence hardly. One thing shore, the day she gives her solemn consent to mother mine, Ill start a-fatherin hers jest ez conscien- tious ez I know how. He resumed his promenade, his irreg- ular step keeping pace with his musings. I never have gone over to set of a even- ing yet. I would a went seval nights, but Im feerd she might thow out hints ~about motherless childen lef to their de- vious ways, or some other Scriptual in- sinuation. Spose Id haf to say at home where I was goin. Ef I didnt, hers would tell mine first thing nex mornin. I would a went in to set awhile Sunday night when we walked home fom church, ef shed a well, maybe it would o seemed too pointed to ask me. Its true I did have my little Mamie asleep crost my shoulder, but I could a laid her on the parlor sofy till Id got ready to go home. Strange how that baby o mine has took sech a notion to go to church an drops off to sleep duin the first prayer every time. Ef it was anywhere else I mightnt humor her. Somehow, a baby sleepin on a persons shoulder is a hin- drance to a personin some things. But of cose any signs of early piety should be encouraged, though I doubt how much othe gospel she gets-at thi-eespecial when shes snoin. There goes ol Bil- lins nowat lastpore ol ejiot thet he is! Ef he didnt disgust me so Id laugh right out. If the widow bore about with her any consciousness of the strictly businesslike romance that was throwing its tendrils over the dividing-fence between her home and her neighborsa romance as devoid of visible leaf or blossom as the vermicelli- like love-vine that spread its yellow tan- gle over certain vine-clad sections of it she gave no sign of such consciousness by the slightest deviation from her ordi- nary routine. Nothing was forgotten in her well- ordered household, though a close observ- er might have suspected a sort of fierce thoroughness in all she did. It was only after the children were all snugly put to bed that night that she took one from the row of daguerreotypes which stood open upon her high parlor mantel, and, bringing it to her bedroom lamp, scanned it closely. Funny to think how a man can change so, she said, audibly, as if ad- dressing the picture, which she turned from side to side, viewing it at one angle and another. When Eben Bradfield an~ Susan had this picture took they wasnt a more generous-handed husband in the State n what he was. Susan paid five dollars to have her hair braided that- a-way while she was down in New Leans, a hundi-ed and fifty plat. An Eben was tickled to have her pay it, too. She had this limpy fiat hair thet all runs to length an aint fittin for nothin else but to braid. An that black polonay shes got on, it was fo dollars a yard; n he bought her that gold tasselled watch-chain that trip too, an them fingered mits. 88 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. An they sat in whole plush curtained-off sections at the theatre, too, an boaded at the St. Charles Hotel at fo dollars a day apiece. So they bragged when they come home. I never did see sech a waste o money, an I didnt hesitate to say so, neither. It used to do me good them days to give her an Eben a casional rap over the knuckles for their extravagance. Pore Susan was beginnin to look mighty peaked an consumpted, even in this pic- ture. Death was on er then, I reckon. Hesitating here, she wiped the face of the picture and studied it in silence, but her thoughts fairly flew, as she thus men- tally reviewed the situation: But to think of Eben Bradfleld spend- in money like water the way he done for Susan, an I knowin itan he knowin I knowin itan then layin off to stint me the way he does! I dont doubt lie spoke the word to save paper an ink. Eben is a handsome - man, even here, with his hen-pecked face an chin whiskers on, an I used to think he was a good one, an I wont say he aint; but he is shorely changedsadly changed. Duin the month thet lies showed signs o keepin compny with me which he has acchilly asked me to marry himhe aint said the first word sech ez youd expect of a cotin widow- er, exceptin one. The day he remarked thet he felt ez young ez he ever did, thinks I to myself, Now youre comm to! An I fully expected the nex word to be ac- cordin to that beginnin. But stid o that, what does he say bu t Yore Rosies out- growed dresses d come in handy for my Emma, dont you reckon? Shes jest about a hem or a couple o tucks, taller n what Emma is. I do declare, Eben Bradfleld, lookin at you here in this picture standin behind Susans chair, an rememberin how you squandered money on her, I feel that disgusted! Ef it was anybody thet I had less respec for, I wouldnt care. Well, th aint no use losin sleep over a mans meanness, an its ten oclock now, she continued, audibly, as she closed the picture with a snap and began taking down her hair, and as she deftly manipulated the shimmering braids, her thoughts turned inward upon herself. Looks like ez ef a woman oughtnt to be lonesome with a houseful o childen sech ez Ive got, so the introspection be- gan, an I wasnt lonesome tell Eben Bradfield set me to thinkin. Ef lonely people could only keep clair o thinkin, theyd do very well. But I do think a man with a whole lot o growin chil- den on his hands is a pitiful sight. Twasnt never intended. I reckon its a funny thing for me to say, even to my- self, but ef I had all the childen under one roof theyd be less care to me n what they are nownot thet Id marry that close-fisted Eben Bradfieldto save his life! But th aint a night thet I put mine to bed but I wonder how his are gettin on. Maybe po little Mamie an Sudie get- tin their nigh-gownds hind part befo or mixedMamie treadin on hers, an Su- dies up to her kneesan like ez not hang- in open- at the neck. Susan always did work her button-holes too big for her but- tons. Some women re constitutionally that-a-way by nature. Of cose I couldnt never fall in love again. It d be childish. But ef Eben Bradfleld was half like he used to be, an ef he cared a quarter ez much for me ez Elder Billins does, Id let him take down that dividin-fence in a minute, an do my best for Susans childen. The first thing Id do d be to short- en their dress waists. Pore little Sudie! Ive seen her set down sudden an set clctir over the belt, an not be able to rise. An she left em so many, an lowed for so much growth! They never will wear out. Sometimes I think thats one reason her childen dont grow faster n they do. Jest one sight o them big cloes is enough to discourage a child out of its growth. Its funn y---the spite Eben seems to have against Elder Billins. Maybe he reelizes thet Elder is mo gifted in speech n what he is. Ef I ever should make up my mind to marry Elder Billins it d be a edjucation to my childen, jest a-liv- in with im an hearin im strike off figgers o speech off - hand. Ef he jest wouldnt slit his boots over his bunions! Its a little thing, but An then, somehow, I dont know ez I care for a prayer-meetin voice for all purposes. But, of cose, hearin it all the time might encourage my childen to lead religious lives. I reckon the truth is it d be mo to my childens interests to think about marryin Elder Billins, an mo for pore Susans childens good ef I was to take Eben; an yet And then she added aloud, with a yawn, as she turned out the lamp, Well, its good I dont haf to decido to-night. PETRUCHIO.ACt I., Scene II. THE COMEDIES OF SHAKESPEARE. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. A. ABBEY, AND COMMENT BY ANDREW LANG. XIJJ.TAMING OF THE SHREW. SOME years ago a piece by two authors, Mr. A. and Mr. B., was given in Lon- don. Mr. A. was a very popular writer; Mr. B. was, at that time, by no means well known. At the fall of the curtain a lady was heard to say, Oh, I do hope Mr. B. wrote most of it ! If the Taming of the Shrew be only partially by Shakespeare, I do hope that the other author wrote most of it. The plot is confusing; the central idea, the taming, is an incredible old popu- VOL. xc.No. 5359 lar joke; and in wit, poetry, and desirable characters the comedy is sadly to seek. It may be made lively on the stage, but any one who prefers Shakespeare in the study begins the Taming of the Shrew with reluctance, and rejoices when he has finished its perusal. The authorship of the play has been disputed. Farmer supposed it not on- ginally the work of Shakespeare, but re- stored by him to the stage, with the In- duiction of the Tinker, and some other (I

PETRUCHIO.ACt I., Scene II. THE COMEDIES OF SHAKESPEARE. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. A. ABBEY, AND COMMENT BY ANDREW LANG. XIJJ.TAMING OF THE SHREW. SOME years ago a piece by two authors, Mr. A. and Mr. B., was given in Lon- don. Mr. A. was a very popular writer; Mr. B. was, at that time, by no means well known. At the fall of the curtain a lady was heard to say, Oh, I do hope Mr. B. wrote most of it ! If the Taming of the Shrew be only partially by Shakespeare, I do hope that the other author wrote most of it. The plot is confusing; the central idea, the taming, is an incredible old popu- VOL. xc.No. 5359 lar joke; and in wit, poetry, and desirable characters the comedy is sadly to seek. It may be made lively on the stage, but any one who prefers Shakespeare in the study begins the Taming of the Shrew with reluctance, and rejoices when he has finished its perusal. The authorship of the play has been disputed. Farmer supposed it not on- ginally the work of Shakespeare, but re- stored by him to the stage, with the In- duiction of the Tinker, and some other (I (8 1; 4 CHRISTOPHER SLYInduction. occasional improvements, especially in the character of Petruchio. It is very ob- servable that the Induction and the Play were either the works of different hands, or written at a great interval of time. The former is in our authors best man- ner, and a great part of the latter in his worst, or even below it. So far I am entirely, as far as my taste is concerned, with Dr. Farmer. Christo- pher Sly is a delightful personage, worthy of the hand that drew the fat knight. Much of the play itself is extremely bad and dull. But taste is almost worth- less as a criterion of authorship. Not only do tastes differ, but poets differ in their good and bad moments. Much of Wordsworth is bad, much of Byron, plenty of Scott, a good deal of Milton. Quantities of Burnss work might have been written by any one who aban- doned his mind to it. Almost every poet has hours in which, as far as our taste can direct our judgment, he seems not himself, but a bad imitation of him- self. Yet critics, especially critics of the classics, keep asserting that this or that poem, or portion of a poem, is not by Homer, Horace, Theocritus, because it is unworthy of him. Exact and unim peachable evidence proves that all poets~ almost, have verily written what is un- worthy of them, so why not Shakespearel The criterion is utterly valueless. Infa- mously bad, out of all whooping, as are the scenes with La Pucelle in Henry VI., their execrable taste and nefarious false- hood do not prove that Shakespeare did not write them. Misled by a spurious and ignorant patriotism, he might have been guilty of these deplorable libels on the noblest of Gods creatures, Jeanne dArc. If he is to be absolved, it must be on other evidence than that of their literary, moral, and historical atrocious- ness. And so it is with the Shrew. Of course it has not the unexampled demerits of the scenes where the Maid is travestied and maligned. But, on the whole, the play is unworthy of a much worse writer than the great and unexampled master of the stage. Shakespeare is mixed up in it, at all events. Farmer quotes a piece of Sir John Har- ringtons (1596) in which mention is made of The Booke of Taming a Shrew, which hath made a number of us so per- fect that now every one can rule a shrew in our countrey, save he that bath her. Farmer points out that Sir Aston Cockaym KATHARINA.Aet I., Scene I. 92 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. (in Poems, 1659) only attributes to Shake- speare the undeniable Christopher Sly. There certainly exists an earlier piece, A Taming of a Shrew which was pub- lished in 1594 as it was acted by Lord Pembrokes servants. On this can vas did Shakespeare workShakespeare, and per- haps a collaborator. Steevens thought that Shakespeares hand is visible in al- most every scene, especially in those be- tween Katharina and Petruchio. Here, too, ones taste leads one, as far as these characters are concerned, to side with Steevens. Kate and Petruchio are a more violent Beatrix and Benedick. Shake- speare may bave written, and probably did write, or recast, these passages. That is the pity of it. The topic is beneath him. Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so, says Lucentio, and this might be Shakespeares own criticism on the piece. His share in it is based, if not on an old play, certainly on an old and rather silly popular tale. Not much was to be made of it, for, in effect, who can tame a shrew, and by what means? The topic much exercised our ancestors; we have become resi~,ned; we give up this problem. Our fathers ducked shrews and scolds; our fathers beat them. In vulgar cases force may have proved a remedy; but we cannot possibly use force. Probably many ladies are angered by the philosophy of the taming. It is an insult to their sex, which, as an American lady has learnedly shown, is the mother of all the finer virtues. Let ladies be consoled. Shakespeare in his heart no more ap- proved of or believed in the method of Petruchio than they do. It is a wonder she will be tamed so. A man has no chance with a shrewish wife, and the more a man is in the moral sense a gentle- man, the less chance with a shrew has he. He must endure her or leave her; he must console himself with the memory of Socrates, whose bay mare (Xanthippe) was the better horse. Some of you take her home, he said, before he drank the hemlock, and he was not sorry at not go- ing home with her. The great historical treatment of a shrew was that adopted by Erskine of Grange. Lady Grange was a shrew beyond bearing, almost beyond belief. Moreover, she possessed, and threatened to use, Jacobitical correspondence of her lords. So lie, a Scottish judge, had her seized and gagged by Highlanders, and carried off to the remote and lonely isle of St. Kilda. There she could outchide the storm-winds when they chid, and no- body marked her. Lord Grange was not a very wise man. He spoke and voted against the abolition of the witchcraft laws (1734). He did not tame his shrew, but he got rid of her; and never regretted his action. A historian of Lady Grange has suggested that now we might im- mure her in a mad-house. But she was perfectly sane; she was only a shrew. Lord Granges short way was the only way, and his way is no longer possible. Nor is the way of Petrucbio possible. A newly married man once complained to a friend that he and his bride led a cat and dog life. His friend advised con- cessions. The bridegroom became a hap- pier man. It is all cat now, he re- marked. That is the only way. Let it be all cat. Some of these animals are endurable, but a terrible cat was Kate. My private opinion is that Petruchio really tamed her not by his outrecui- dance, but by his love - making. Kate, born with a bad temper, was clearly turned into a complete shrew by jealousy of her gentle sister Bianca. She was not used to being called the prettiest Kate in Christendom. She is clearly softened; this shows in her Beatrix-like flirtation. It may be argued that this was the real taming, and that Kate yielded to Love, who is a great master. All Petru- chios ugly madcap ferocities were super- fluons. Kate was already subdued. She trembled and shook at the wild wed- ding. If you love me, stay, she says, after the wedding ceremony; though af- terwards she tries to pluck up a spirit: 1 see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. Was this mastership of a temper mad- dened by jealousy, was this conquest through love, Shakespeares philosophy of the old canvas, the rude farce, on which he was working? Perhaps this was really his philosophy of the question; the farcical elements were kept to please the groundhings. No shrew, tamed by mere fantastic ferocity, could imagine the divinely Shakespearian words: A ~vomaa movd is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;.... Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance; commits his body BAPTISTA PROTESTSAct I., Scene 1. 94 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. To painful labor, both by sea and land; To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks, and true obedience. This is the old wisdom of happy mar- riage; this is what is, and has been, and shall be. For a while it may be out of the mode. We have the doctrine of the equality or the superiority of Woman abundant among us. True obedience is despised as servile. Women seek for rule, supremacy, and sway. Alas, their lances are but straw; their bodies Soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world. Love and fair looks are what they owe to men, and pay, and have paid, and will pay with true obedience. But the true obedience is not servile, not slavish, and with the fair lool~sis the free gift of love; not the tribute to tyran- ny. From love only can it spring, and love only can solve this weary women~s problem, so much written and prated about by ladies to whose fair breasts love is probably a stranger. Now, ex hy- pothesi, Katharinas beautiful speech can only spring from love; it is not hypocrit- ical, not a lesson learned by rote, not ex- tracted from her by, but in spite of, taunts and cruelties and thwarting and starva- tion. The old, tale and the old original play needed these cruelties of farce; nor could Shakespeare dispense with them when he handled the given topic. But he as good as explicitly announces that lie has no belief in them. Katharinas speech proves that she is tamed only by the old, the ever-young, the irresistible master, Love, who makes his couch in the soft cheeks of maidens,~ says Sopho- cles. He can only have come to Katha- rina in the moments of the fantastic woo- ing, when she first hears words of praise, even if it be praise mixed with irony. Always hitherto Kate has been a terror. Every one was adoring Bianca. She learned to hate Bianca, even to beat her. Jealousy made Kate a fiend; pride made her vain of and resolute in her ferocity. Then some one actually addressed her, more or less, in the way of a man with a maid. On this theory the way pre- vailed. The shrew became but little more shrewish than the lively Beatrix or Nora, who, despite her vows, married the Earlies son. The vixen was con- quered, in spite of some semblances of resistance, and not even the mad absurd- ities of Petruchio could drive her to the Italian stiletto. The ancients did not write nonsense,~~ said a schoolmaster to a boy who had rendered into nonsense a passage from one of the ancients. Shakespeare, like these poets, did not write nonsense, however rude his given matter may have been. Now it is nonsense to maintain that Kates speech on the wife and her place is due to an exhibition of physical force. Therefore she must have fallen in love with Petruchio, and therefore love tamed the shrew. Certainly she can be tamed by no other means, and not always, nor perhaps often, by love. The Induction, as it stands, is as un- impeachably Shakespeares as the speech of Katharina. Wincot, where Marian Hacket sold ale, is a hamlet near Strat- ford-on-Avon. There were Slys in that town, notably one Stephen 51y. Tradi- tion says that the poet frequented the ale- house where Christopher snored in the sun, nay, that he fell asleep, like Christo- pher, under a crab-tree. The tale of the noblemans trick on Christopher is of un- known age, and is attributed by Pontanus Heuterus to the good Duke of Bur- gundy, who gave up Jeanne dArc to the English. The fable has a very Oriental air, as some caprice of Haroun al Rasch- ids, and Mr. Jacobs may probably trace it to India. In essence it is the same as the Swahili form of Puss in Boots without the moral, for we do not hear of Slys fall from a momentary grandeur. It would be very easy nowadays to moral- ize on the themeon the degradation of the working classes, the social neglect which left Christopher innocent of soap and greatly guilty of ale, the oppressive and tyrannical mirth of the lord, and so on. We can guess how Dr. Ibsen or Mr. Thomas Hardy would manage matters. The Slys are no rogues. Look in the chronicles: we came in with Richard Con- queror. Such are, indeed, the preten- sions of the elder Mr. DUrberville. Ap- parently Christopher has himself been in the wars and served abroad, or whence (unless from the players) did he pick up paucas pallabris? Yet Christopher tells us no such matter in his autobiographical fragment. By education he is a card- maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and by present profession a tinker, like John ~oZ HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Bunyan. How did he pick up such words as transmutation? Apparently people were more educated before the ravages of modern education. Christopher at least has seen the world. Perhaps he wander- ed with the bear he warded and old John Naps of Greece. One turns with some regret from jolly Wincot and the ale-house to Padna, a public place. There is no local color about Padua, and a public place is conveniently vague. There is no vague- ness about Lucentio, who prologizes like a goddess in Euripides, telling his ser- vant all that he knows already in a man- ner most artless, and, to the audience, most instructive. Lucentio has not come, like the father of the Lady of Branx- holme, To learn the art that none may name In Padna, far beyond the sea, nor to lose his shadow at that magical university, but to study the ethics of happiness by virtue specially to be achieved. The place being public, Baptista naturally chooses it as fitting for his declaration that somebody must marry Katharina before Bianca, his younger daughter, can be allowed to leave him. Katharina, no less, displays her temper frankly in a public place, and lets slip hints about three-legged stools much in the humor of Jenny Geddes. Meanwhile Lucentio, looking on, falls straight in love with Maids mild behavior and sobriety in Bianca, who speaks like Minerva of her studies. Baptista happens, very op- portunely, to need teachers cunning in music and poetry, as resident tutors; and Biancas adorers, Gremio and Hor- tensio, determine to find the preliminary husband for the fiery Katharina. On their withdrawal, Lucentio at once con- fides his desperate love to the useful Tranio, the old confidential servant of the Roman stage, and Tranio suggests that Lucentio shall play the resident tutor. Lucentio, jumping at this, makes Tranio affect to be himself-Lucentio. They exchange habits, and the farce is provided at a stroke with farcical compli- cations. Alas, may we not say, with that admi- rable critic, Christopher Sly, Tis a very excellent piece, madam lady. Would twere done ! It is, perhaps, a good matter, but comes there any more of it? Nearly five acts more of it are to come. If Shakespeare, using Sly as cho- rus, made that hero express his own crit- icism of the Shrew, then we have the pleasure of agreeing with Shakespeare. Petruchio appears with his comic valet, Grumio, and we have comic business. Grumio is wrung by the ears, a spec- tacle in itself delightful, and an index to the fiery and truculent character of Pe- truchio. Hortensio, greeting Petruchi o, finds him ready to improve his fortunes by marriage. The wind will blow a man until her! says the Scotch song of a lass with siller. Katharina has siller, and such wind as scatters young mcii through the world has brought Petruchio to her. Hortensio and Gremio leap at such a chance, and Hortensio repeats Lucentios ideashe will disguise himself as a music-master for Bianca. To confound confusion, Gremio bribes the disguised Lucentio to be his go- between with Bianca, and when Tranio, disguised, comes up as Lucentio, the rea- son of the student reels. A spectator of a new French play, according to M. Jules Lemaitre, once leaped to his feet, clasp- ing his fevered brow, and exclaiming, I do not understand one word of it. It is a positive relief to find Bianca and Kath- anna alone after these complexities, even if Katharina does box poor Biancas ears. She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance barefoot on her wedding-day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. So Katharinas secret is out, and now we know why she is a shrew. Jealousy has soured her. The farcical confusions recur when the travestied persons reap- pear, and we heartily forgive Katharina for breaking his lute over the head of Hortensio: And through the instrument my pate made way. I love her ten times more than eer I did cries Petrnchio, and we sympathize. The scene that follows, of Katharinas woo- ing, may certainly be Shakespeares. A coarser Benedick makes love to a fiercer Beatrix. She strikes him, but probably not severely. His compliments to Kate, straight and slender, and as brown in hue as hazel-nuts, win the unwooed wild girl, as we have already argued, and all the horse-play that follows is mere farcical superfluity. Tranio and Gremio 0 I PETRUCHIO BEARS OFF HIS BRIDEAct Hf., Scene IL 7i~ compete in offers for Biancas hand, and Lucentio and Hortensio, both disguised as pedagogues, quarrel before the lady herself. Shakespearian or Moli~resque is the pretty scene of the construing, Loves Latin is the tongue, and Ovid the master. The frantic behavior of Pe- truchio at the wedding is not very ex- hilarating comedy. We are now in the full tide of the taming, and Katharina has to endure more than patient Grizel. She goes out weeping. Would Kath- anna had never seen him, though 1, she says, when he insults her hy delay, as later by tomfooleries at the ceremony, and by a hasty leave-taking. He asserts the fine old theory of marriage: I will be master of what is mine own: She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything. The following scenes merely continne and amplify this. They have little of Shakespeares touch of the humor we love. Starvation, sleeplessness, violence, are to tame the kestrel that is tamed al- ready. The scenes in the secondary piece are as dull as those in the primary. A pedant is introduced as Lucentios father; the real Vincentio, of course, makes his appearance; the tangled skein gets into inextricable knots and coils, and we real- ly do not care one farthing about the minor characters in their inconceivable medley of cross-purposes. Bianca is never made worthy of figuring among Shake- speares ladies; Hortensio, Lucentio, and the rest are to us as Trojan and Tyrian to Dido. The comedy of errors is disen- tangled somehow, anyhow; Katharina has her reconciliatory speech, itself a gem; and ~ for Gods sake, a pot of small ale. Christopher Sly, we thank thee for that word. What was Mr. Sly doing while the Taming of the Shrew entwined and dis- entwined the contorted convolutions of Elizabethan farce before his wearied eyes? Ones own theory is that Christopher fell sound asleep, and was spirited back, be- fore an ale-house on a heath, to the do- main of Marian ilacket. Here he wak- ened, and to a sympathetic audience of old John Naps of Greece, Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell he narrated the cir- cumstances of his awful vision, how he had been a lord, and how he had been FARDON FOR LUCENTIO AND BIANcA.Aet V., Scene L N -~- 0 N N N N 102 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. extravagantly bored by the scenic plea- have been in a greater, simpler, kindlier, sures of the aristocracy. No doubt they braver England. But the Taming of the rewarded his tale with more beermore Shrew is not one whit too good to act. than the original score of fourteen pence No doubt it is an excellent rattling farce could defray. Excellent English Chris- for the stage. And so much the less ia topher! The fancy clings fondly to him, this piece worthy of Shakespeare. An old and benevolently reposes, as it were, on canvas a rather dull and roaring ancient his ale-house bench in the sun, after this farce, was the poets material, and only preposterous exhibition of Italian hu- here and there could he rouse it into im- mors. mortality. In these essays the writer has contem- It is one of his failures; it is to him plated Shakespeares comedies with the what The Monastery is to Scott. And, if eyes of a reader, not of a play-goer, and any one said so to Shakespeare, he might has frequently insisted, with Charles answer, like the other master, and with Lamb to back him, that Shakespeare is his smiling unconcern, too good to act now, whatever he niay If it be na weel bobbit, well bob it a,, am. THE MOTHER SONG. NO one in Forsyth Street knew much less about the people we pass than young Mrs. Ericson. Though she lived in the Big Barracks tenement, she had little in common with the others there except poverty. The people are not all alike in the districts where they swarm. Some are titled folk down at the heel, and some are intellectual and refined, out of gear as well as out of pocket. Young Mrs. Ericsons father, Dr. Whitfield, in- herited a fine medical practice, which he detested, and scattered as a dog shakes off water after a bath. Born English, and eldest son of a physician, he had no more chance to choose his calling than his na- tionality. He spent his adult years paint- ing the flowers, whose names and family connections and habits he knew in sev- eral languages. He gladly prescribed for ailing flowers, and practised progressive surgery upon pet dogs and cats with lov- ing skilfulness; but the human patients who came he drove from his door. They~ spread it abroad that he was a crank. To make up for their loss, his wife had taken boarders in a nice part of town, until she became convinced that thia would not make both ends meet, when she died. At last the doctor rented on& room for an office in a brownstone dwell- ing, and lived with his daughter in the Big Barracks. A few old friends invented illnesses in order to give him the money he would not get for himself. And he painted flowers and filled his windowa with them, and rounded out a Micawber- ish existence. Now that he is laid under the roots of his pets, the world has dis- covered that few men who ever lived could paint flowers as he did. To find a man who should have been a Japanese artist forced to prescribe pills in New York is to discover one of the proofs that this stage of life is experimental, and that only in the hereafter will all of us get justice. Dr. Whitfield was a gentleman in every - PEOPLE WE PASS. xJULIAI~J h~ALL~h

102 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. extravagantly bored by the scenic plea- have been in a greater, simpler, kindlier, sures of the aristocracy. No doubt they braver England. But the Taming of the rewarded his tale with more beermore Shrew is not one whit too good to act. than the original score of fourteen pence No doubt it is an excellent rattling farce could defray. Excellent English Chris- for the stage. And so much the less ia topher! The fancy clings fondly to him, this piece worthy of Shakespeare. An old and benevolently reposes, as it were, on canvas a rather dull and roaring ancient his ale-house bench in the sun, after this farce, was the poets material, and only preposterous exhibition of Italian hu- here and there could he rouse it into im- mors. mortality. In these essays the writer has contem- It is one of his failures; it is to him plated Shakespeares comedies with the what The Monastery is to Scott. And, if eyes of a reader, not of a play-goer, and any one said so to Shakespeare, he might has frequently insisted, with Charles answer, like the other master, and with Lamb to back him, that Shakespeare is his smiling unconcern, too good to act now, whatever he niay If it be na weel bobbit, well bob it a,, am. THE MOTHER SONG. NO one in Forsyth Street knew much less about the people we pass than young Mrs. Ericson. Though she lived in the Big Barracks tenement, she had little in common with the others there except poverty. The people are not all alike in the districts where they swarm. Some are titled folk down at the heel, and some are intellectual and refined, out of gear as well as out of pocket. Young Mrs. Ericsons father, Dr. Whitfield, in- herited a fine medical practice, which he detested, and scattered as a dog shakes off water after a bath. Born English, and eldest son of a physician, he had no more chance to choose his calling than his na- tionality. He spent his adult years paint- ing the flowers, whose names and family connections and habits he knew in sev- eral languages. He gladly prescribed for ailing flowers, and practised progressive surgery upon pet dogs and cats with lov- ing skilfulness; but the human patients who came he drove from his door. They~ spread it abroad that he was a crank. To make up for their loss, his wife had taken boarders in a nice part of town, until she became convinced that thia would not make both ends meet, when she died. At last the doctor rented on& room for an office in a brownstone dwell- ing, and lived with his daughter in the Big Barracks. A few old friends invented illnesses in order to give him the money he would not get for himself. And he painted flowers and filled his windowa with them, and rounded out a Micawber- ish existence. Now that he is laid under the roots of his pets, the world has dis- covered that few men who ever lived could paint flowers as he did. To find a man who should have been a Japanese artist forced to prescribe pills in New York is to discover one of the proofs that this stage of life is experimental, and that only in the hereafter will all of us get justice. Dr. Whitfield was a gentleman in every - PEOPLE WE PASS. xJULIAI~J h~ALL~h THE MOTHER SONG. 103 fibre, and yet his daugti- ter, Alice Ericson, was his superior at all points. She had married unhap- pily, and come back to her father with a crip- pled child, for whom she slaved. The con- trast between her and the mass of people around her was start- ling and cruel. Splen- did in beauty, proud in bearing, gentle, refined, and just a trifle stylish in her plain attire, she moved among her neigh- bors like a goddess. Ap- propriately, they wor- shipped her; and not always at a distance. for many knew her as a ministering angel. At the door of the Big Barracks sat Aunty, the apple - woman, al- ways knitting gray stockings. She knitted so continually that one would think she sup- plied the army. In re- ality she only finished stockings for her own needs; but she wore two pair at a time six months in each year. Besides a brimming store of fruit, her bas- ket held some dusty sticks of candy, and a few bolivars mammoth ginger snaps for which the children went freshly bankrupt every day. Her face was a caricature of an orangeround, red, mottled, and bumpy. She was a power in the neighborhooda gossip, a philosopher, and reputedly rich. She had such a royal brogue that if she had boasted descent from Brian Born no one would have doubted her. She loved to gossip admiringly about the Whitfields, but her favorite topic was Eugene Kelly, brother of Barney Kelly of the Daily Camera. Eugene lived in the neighbor- hood, and often stopped to take an apple, drop a coin, and chat for a moment with the sunny old womanen throned like an Irish Pomona on a stool, with the low stoop of the Barracks for a dais. Kelly was a prosperous, buoyant youth, half scene-painter and half stage-manager in a Bowery theatre. And whichever the- atre it was, his noisy clothes and his pert way of carrying them were quite as Bow- ery as it could have been. He cut short what he was saying to the old apple-wo- man when others approached, and she as surely launched into praises of him when he had gone. Such a jintleman, she would say; so jinerous wid his pinnies. Sure he never pashed me by av a mornin or aye- nin widout dhropping a pinny an a koind wurrud since he wint to worktin years ago it is, come New-Years, God be praised! Sure I have knowed Mishter Killy since he was a baby-an a moighty foine-look- in wan he wasth image av his fadther. Twas over in the Firsht Ward I was that toime, but God is good to me that he came near by here to live and found me out. HE SPENT HIs ADULT YEARS PAINTING FLOWERS. 104 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Hell be a foine man, wid a power av money; mark that, mishter. Tis a pow- er av money that Killy 11 have soom day, good luck to all the bikes av him ! On one evening Kelly appeared to the Whitfield household in an unconvention- al manner and upon a queer errand. The doctor was in a reverie, and his daugh- ter was sewing, with her work things on the table beside which both were sitting. There came a rap at the door. Mrs. Eric- son opened it, and Kelly walked in. He was in his Sunday best. His lilac-col- ored trousers, his coat rolled and pressed back half a foot on either side of his low- cut waistcoat, and his singular little wrin- kled face, years and years older than it ought to have looked (as is the way with tenement faces), would have seemed fan- tastic in a comic paper. His manners matched his looks. He was acquainted with the doctor, but he ignored him. He did not know Mrs. Ericson, yet to her he addressed himself. What he said was couched in language which is, in greater or less degree, that of nearly half the English-speaking peo- ple of the American metropolis. We call it slang, but they speak of it as United States. When one among them ex- presses himself in good English, particu- larly if it takes the form of uncommon words, he is rebuked with the phrase, Oh, talk United States ! This slang of America is expressive, descriptive, and in- variably springs from humorous concep- tions and ideals. It is not coarse, like the British slang, or a mere juggling with funny sounds, like the German. As we report Mr. Kelly, who endeavored to use less of the freemasonry of the streets than if lie had been among his fellows, we shall see that United States in nearly every case translates itself. His earnestness, honesty, and good - humor carried him further than his speech. Miss Ericson, I bleeve, said he, with a scrape and a bow. Yes, sir; my father is here, if you called to see him. He did not heed the suggestion. Miss Ericson, said he, you are a mother. I know you are a mother, be- cause its a matter of common what I mean is, everybody knows itand the baby isI mean to say-ranks high in the Barracks on account of its being sick, and you being so anxious Papa, said the puzzled young wo man, I think this gentleman does wish to see you.~~ The doctor, highly amused, turned his chair so as to face the visitor, but said not a word. No, mm, said Kelly; I can see your erpapa any time. Its you Id like to talk to. Ive got a chance to make a big boodle, mm, but in order to do so Ive got to get a mother; what I mean is, a real way-up-in-G oneI mean to say, a mother thats out of sight, mm. I know a stack of mothers around, but not the kind Im a-lookin fer. Papa, the young woman exclaimed, I wish you would see what this gentle- man wants. Wont you explain to my father, sir? I do not understand you at all. Sit down, Kelly, said the doctor, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Alice, dear, this is one of our neighbors Mr. Kelly. Now, my dear sir, what on earth do you mean by what you have been say- ing to my daughter? Christmas, doctor! I hope I havent made no break, said this singular drop of the essence of the Bowery. I laid my pipe all right, but I missed a connec- tionsee? I tell you how I done. I fig- gered out that you would open the door, an Id ask to be introduced to your daughter, an then Id kinder edge round on the weather an thingswhat I mean is, sciety talkan then Id plump the hull business out about what I come for. But then, you see, she opened the door stead of you, an that knocked the day- lightsscuse, pleasewhat I mean is, it done me upthat is, it upset, you know, the whole shooting match-see? Thats how I come to give up to her. Well, now, explain your errand, Kelly, said the doctor; and do so as nearly in English as you can. I confess I no more understand you to-day than I have on any other day that I ever met you.~~ Thats all right, doctor. Ill tell you the whole kit and boodle of it. Kelly felt the contest between his awkwardness and his assurance, but of sensitiveness, or a true appreciation of the figure he cut, there was no more trace in his manner than if he had been a marionette. The biggest money a feller like me can make,~~ said lie, is in writing a ballad. But when you write one its got to be a daisy, or your name is mud. Its got to be a hum- SHE LAUNCHED INTO PRAISES OF HIM WHEN HE WAS GONE. VOL. XC.No. 53510 106 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. mer from Humtown, doctor, that 11 be sung and banged and fifed and scraped and whistled by every one from the Bat- tery to Westchester. God save us I the doctor exclaimed. Must you do it? Well, that sal? right. If I could get up one that youd whistle, Jay Gould d gimme a railroad out of his private col- leckshin. You see, Im no farmer, trying to write a song for you. No; but on the level, doctor, what I wants a mother, an Ive got one to get. I aint got no mo- tlier, an fI had she would not size up to this racket. Sh& s got to be a corker, way upwhat I mean is, tony, you know a fine-as-silk, genu-wine, thoroughbred see? For the sake of reason, man, what has procuring a mother to do with writin~ a song? And what will you do with a mo- ther, as you say, when you get one? Shell understand, your daughter will, said Kelly, assuming an air of fa- tigue over the doctors obtuseness. Ive given it to you s straights I can. Now, if youll listen to me, Miss Ericson, Ill be all hunk. You see, a half a dozen young fellers has made big fortunes aready with ballads an ditties, an they aint got any more ~ducation than me. Look at Peltz, mm. Peltz used to shake the clogswhat I mean is, he done the clogs in a song-and-dance team-an be- fore that he was a supe, an he wrote A Rose from her dear Grave, an made money enough to buy a whole block of bar-rooms. An theres Arkwright. We used to call him Nosey what I mean is, he didnt amount to as much as a police- man with the buttons cut off of his coat. He ups an he writes The Secret in the Letter Molly mailed away, and, hully gee! (scuse, please) there aint nobody a-calling him Nosey nowdays. He just rides around all day in cabs. Hes got a diamond like an incontestant light, an you have to shade your eyes when you talk to him. He snubs the theatre man- agers cold, an goes up to Delmonico s an~ finds fault with the food. Well, theres my fortune, m m. Ive got the tune. I whistled it an our leader wrote it out, an now all I want is a mothercause its got to be about a mother. Nothing else comes up to a mother, mm, for working the tender and soft snapwhat I mean is, the sentimental racketsee? Now, doc- tor, your dau~hters a motherthe ony thoroughbred in the ward. An I come as genteel as I know how (an I know my name would be Dennis if I should slip a cog in my behavior), an I ask if shell give a poor feller a lift. If shed let me come round once in a while an let me see her a-rocking the kid, you know, an if shed talk to me about her cares an hopes an thingswhat Im getting at is, if shed give up how she feels deep down in her lonesome, yunderstand why, then, hully gee! (scuse, please) Id ask n~ odds of nobody alive. Id be able to write a Jim Dandy song, an I could buy a horse- car every time Iwanted to goround town. An say, doctor, she wouldnt lose any- thing by it, nor you, neitheran thats oa the level. My dear fellow, said the doctor, you dont know what nonsense you ar& ask No, papa, said Mrs. Ericson, extend- ing to Kelly a hand that was accompa- nied by a kindly smile. Ill do what Mr. Kelly asks, so far as I understand it, and so far as I can. It wont be possible- for me to tell you a mothers thoughts, sir, and you will be disappointed in me, I am sure; but if you care to call now and then when my father is here, I will be glad to do what I can to assist you. Now be seated, and let me hear more of your plan. I must tell you very frankly that- you speak a language which is almost foreign to me, but Ill try to understand you. Have you no mother, did you say, Mr. Kelly? Well, I might swell say I never hadi no mother, said he. If I had one, though, she wouldnt be up-and-up, like you, you know. After that first interview, Kelly called at the doctors once a fortnight at first, and then once a week. The simplicity of his nature, as well as its geniality, smooth- ed the way for him there as elsewhere in his narrow world. The ballad, it was- evident, was to be a work of time, like the Cologne Cathedral and many another chef-dccuvre. He bought poetical works at Mrs. Ericsons suggestion, and, at first, she read to him out of them. But she was obliged to acknowledge that this plan of stimulating his genius was a failure. That stuff, said he, referring to the- works of the master-poets, wouldnt go~ with the people for a cent; but, say, I like the swing of it; its great. He did not tire of his visits. To talk with suck THE MOTHER SONG. 107 On one afternoon Kelly rushed up the Barracks stairs to the doctors flat. He almost flew, so great was his haste. In an excess of impatience he banged at the door. Luckily (for the door, at any rate) he was instantly admitted. He did not notice the doctor. He shouted to Mrs. Erieson to open the window. Quick, please, he called. There! Do you hear that the tune that lad in the street is whistling? Its my song, Maggie Croly. Sure, sure! I wrote it, anits goin to go. Do you hear it now? Tiddy-tum, tiddy-tum-te-tum. Do you hear it? Amid the uproar of cart wheels and horses hoofs and venders cries the boys whistling sounded very faint and indis- tinct. I just did it for a flyer, said Kelly. Foley and Fogarty, the double clogs, have been singing it up to Tonys for a week, and already the kids are on to it. Im as proud as old Vanderbilt, I am. Heres how the chorus goes: Twas the swing, of her dress That made me bless The day I met Maggie 0i-oiy. To and fro, like musics flow, Light as a faitys wing twould go; Nobody else can do it so, Like sweet little Margie Croly. a woman, and to hear her converse, was a man an his name was Yoojane Killy constant delighta joy greater than any cud ye, now? God knows you cudnt, he had ever known. darlint. Mothers are the dandiest things in songs, he explained one day. You know how fellers always sings about mo- thers when theyre with the women, an when theyre in hard luck, an when theyre half shot; sure, every time. Half shot, Mr. Kelly? Mrs. Erieson inquired. I mean when they are a little slewed. You take any lot of men, and let them __ get their skates on, an theyll start in on a mother song every time; if they dont, Im a lamp-post. But why when they are skating, in particular? Scuse, please, said Kelly, stifling a smile. Im a sure loser every time I try to give up to a lady like you. I get way off my base. Im a farmer at any- thing cept plain U. S. What I mean by men getting on their skates isI mean to say when theyrenot tightsee ?but just happy. Now, he continued, its just the same in a thcayter. Nothings in it with mother songs. If the crowd kiiows that a performer can sing mother songs, no- thing else goes. Theyll win in a romp every time, when your love songs and your flower songs and your comics wont get a handwhat I mean by a hand is an ongcoresee? Peltz and them other fel- lers thats made fortunes out of mother songs has all had homes, you know, m in. Theyve had mothers, and been brought up dead-to-rights. Theres where they call the turn on me. Below-stairs one kindly heart rejoiced at Kellys acquaintanceship with the Whitfields. Tis his name that 11 carry him into anny society, said the old apple-woman. Doant you think Yoojane is a jintale name? And Killy, toopraise be to God, tis the same name as the boss himself the boss of Tammany Hall. But if he had a name like GilhiganGilligan is the name I got meself from me fadther and mudther-God kape the both av em !av he had a name like that twould be an- odther matther. Wid Pat Gilligan for a name, hed be working wid a broom along wid the Dagoes claning the streets. Sorra bit betther cud ye expect av a man wid the name av Gilligan. But ye cudnt make a mishtake av a man bein a foine He sang not unmusically, accompany- ing the performamice with some of the stereotyped mannerisms of a concert-hall singer. He spread his hands, palms down, and swayed to and fro in time with the simple air. His little audience caught his enthusiasm, and bade him sing a verse and then the chorus again. Car- ned away by excitement, he roared his song as if he were on a theatrical stage endeavoring to interest the gallery. It aint great, said lie, but its got the ginger in it; and it shows Im on to the curves. Wait till I write the mother song. That 11 be out of sightthanks to you friends for the loan of a mother. As he spoke an uproar rose from the street below. There were quick, short cries, followed by the frantic clatter of the hoofs of a horse upon the sidewalk, a crash, and themi a piercing, interrupted scream, as of a woman alarmed and in- stantly silenced. Dr. Whittleld was the first to reach the window. He leaned DR. WHITFIELD WAS THE FIRST TO REACH THE WINDOW. out. Twice he drew back to announce be needed time to find out. Would some what he saw, returning each time to the of the men pick her up and carry her to outer view, his fiat? Two truckmen in hickory shirts A runaway, he said. Looking again, lifted the body lightly, and it was quickly he added, The old apple-woman at the stretbhed upon the sofa in the doctors door front room. While the doctor passed his My God! What about her? Kelly sensitive fingers all over the womans shouted, dashing at the other window, skull, Kelly, who had flung himself be- Trampled downbadly hurt, appar- side the sofa, seized one of the limp hands ently, said the doctor. and kissed it between spoken sentences Then dont stand therelooking at that voiced his alarm. her, Kelly screamed. Come with me. Oh, doctor, dont let her die! Cant Shes my mother. you save her? She has money; you shall He darted out of the room, with the be well paid. Shes my mother, I tell doctor close behind him. A crowd had you-my poor old mother ! formed a circle around the prostrate body The doctor pushed him aside as lie of the old woman, face down upon the would have shoved a chair that stood in broad stoop, with her fruit scattered all his way. Mrs. Ericson took the young about, and trampled, as she had been. mans hand and led him to the farther She was not dead, the doctor said, while side of the room. the crowd watched and listened hungrily; She wont have it that shes my mo- but she was stunned. Whether any bones ther, if she ever comes back to me, said were broken, or her skull was fractured, Kelly. She thought twould queer me THE COLONELS CHRISTMAS. 109 if any one knew I was her son. It wasnt my doing. I aint built that way; as God is my judge I aint. I aint never been ashamed of her, no more than now; but she was dead gone on having me be a gentleman. When I got rich or famous, she would say, was time enough The doctor had loosened the old wo- mans clothing at the neck and waist, and had put a damp cloth on her forehead. Kelly again flung himself beside the sofa. Shes breathing, doctor, said he; I take my oath she is. I see her breathe. Her pulse! I feel her pulse. She aint a-goin to die, doc, is she? Oh, Miss Eric- son, if you ony knew-if you ony knew. Every day or two, on the dead quiet, when no one was on to us, up in her room, is where shed sit an listen to me an kiss me, an give me as straight talk as any fellers old woman ever gave up in the world. It was the Long Branch boats that give her a twist in the head, mm. She used to sell fruit on the Ply- mouth Rock and the Jesse Hoyt to them dude folks like General Grant an Jim Fisk, that rode on them boats. Some of the richest of em told her they started in life with nothing to spare but their hair and finger - nails. They jollied her up with the notion that her boys could be as rich as themselves. Then she begun to think she wasnt good enoughand even her name wouldnt dofor me an Bar- ney. Her naTnes Gilligan, and she thinks its a hoodoo. So she boarded us round the ward under the name of Kelly. She wouldnt even live with us, but shed see us every day. and tell us to be up-and-up I mean dead honestsee? Shed save and saveall for me and Barneyand shes got thousands laid by. She didnt think the earth with a silver rim around it was good enough for me an Barney; an now shes laying there-- Only stunned, said the doctor, his examir)ation ended. Not a bone broken. Ah, I thought so; she is coming around nicely. Kelly put an arm tenderly about the old woman s waist, and kissed her and fondled her hair. She opened her eyes slowly, by many efforts. Oh, mother! mother I Kelly cried; are you coming back to me, mother? Its Geney, your boy. Mother, do you hear me? The old woman looked all about her and took in her snrroundings fully be- fore she spoke. Then she gripped her sons arm. Whist, there; whist, said she, husk- ily. Theyll hear ye, Janey. Not an- other sound of motheringdye hear? Dye want to dishgrace yerself. Whist, boy; have your sinses lift ye that yed shpoil everything? Now, spake loud, like me. Oh, is that you, Mishter Kihly? Tis alive I am, an not kilt at all, at all. Twas good of all of you frinds to look ~fther an ould hurted woman. Gods praise be to ye, doctor darlintand Mishter Kill5 THE COLONEL S CHRISTMAS. BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFTORD. ~I ORE or less primitive the large old village was, with its purple cloak of encircling hills. It was no wonder that to most of the people the great Judge Alexanders place seemed to compass all that they had ever dreamed of kings pal- aces. It did so to Charles Monck, at any rate, as now and then his errand brought him into the charmed precincts of Greylock and its gardens, where the spicy box hedges grew tall as in only one or two other spots in that part of the country, where there were roses of every tint that roses blow, where the lilies kept their ranks of gold and snow, and the great hollyhocks stood up on their stems like Era Angelicos angels in their red gowns, their purple and their yellow robes pictures he came to know later within the house, the house whose wings and bays were veiled with woodbine that made it seem in summer almost a part of the forest behind and above it, and in the fall reddened it with deeper and richer tints than belonged to its dull old bricks, althongh some of those bricks had been brought across seas by the Judges people more than two hundred years ago. The Judge had no people now; his race had dwindled to a solitary representative, and his little daughter had not a relative in the world except himself. And within the house, the boy sometimes saw it was a place

THE COLONELS CHRISTMAS. 109 if any one knew I was her son. It wasnt my doing. I aint built that way; as God is my judge I aint. I aint never been ashamed of her, no more than now; but she was dead gone on having me be a gentleman. When I got rich or famous, she would say, was time enough The doctor had loosened the old wo- mans clothing at the neck and waist, and had put a damp cloth on her forehead. Kelly again flung himself beside the sofa. Shes breathing, doctor, said he; I take my oath she is. I see her breathe. Her pulse! I feel her pulse. She aint a-goin to die, doc, is she? Oh, Miss Eric- son, if you ony knew-if you ony knew. Every day or two, on the dead quiet, when no one was on to us, up in her room, is where shed sit an listen to me an kiss me, an give me as straight talk as any fellers old woman ever gave up in the world. It was the Long Branch boats that give her a twist in the head, mm. She used to sell fruit on the Ply- mouth Rock and the Jesse Hoyt to them dude folks like General Grant an Jim Fisk, that rode on them boats. Some of the richest of em told her they started in life with nothing to spare but their hair and finger - nails. They jollied her up with the notion that her boys could be as rich as themselves. Then she begun to think she wasnt good enoughand even her name wouldnt dofor me an Bar- ney. Her naTnes Gilligan, and she thinks its a hoodoo. So she boarded us round the ward under the name of Kelly. She wouldnt even live with us, but shed see us every day. and tell us to be up-and-up I mean dead honestsee? Shed save and saveall for me and Barneyand shes got thousands laid by. She didnt think the earth with a silver rim around it was good enough for me an Barney; an now shes laying there-- Only stunned, said the doctor, his examir)ation ended. Not a bone broken. Ah, I thought so; she is coming around nicely. Kelly put an arm tenderly about the old woman s waist, and kissed her and fondled her hair. She opened her eyes slowly, by many efforts. Oh, mother! mother I Kelly cried; are you coming back to me, mother? Its Geney, your boy. Mother, do you hear me? The old woman looked all about her and took in her snrroundings fully be- fore she spoke. Then she gripped her sons arm. Whist, there; whist, said she, husk- ily. Theyll hear ye, Janey. Not an- other sound of motheringdye hear? Dye want to dishgrace yerself. Whist, boy; have your sinses lift ye that yed shpoil everything? Now, spake loud, like me. Oh, is that you, Mishter Kihly? Tis alive I am, an not kilt at all, at all. Twas good of all of you frinds to look ~fther an ould hurted woman. Gods praise be to ye, doctor darlintand Mishter Kill5 THE COLONEL S CHRISTMAS. BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFTORD. ~I ORE or less primitive the large old village was, with its purple cloak of encircling hills. It was no wonder that to most of the people the great Judge Alexanders place seemed to compass all that they had ever dreamed of kings pal- aces. It did so to Charles Monck, at any rate, as now and then his errand brought him into the charmed precincts of Greylock and its gardens, where the spicy box hedges grew tall as in only one or two other spots in that part of the country, where there were roses of every tint that roses blow, where the lilies kept their ranks of gold and snow, and the great hollyhocks stood up on their stems like Era Angelicos angels in their red gowns, their purple and their yellow robes pictures he came to know later within the house, the house whose wings and bays were veiled with woodbine that made it seem in summer almost a part of the forest behind and above it, and in the fall reddened it with deeper and richer tints than belonged to its dull old bricks, althongh some of those bricks had been brought across seas by the Judges people more than two hundred years ago. The Judge had no people now; his race had dwindled to a solitary representative, and his little daughter had not a relative in the world except himself. And within the house, the boy sometimes saw it was a place 110 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. of softpiled carpet and marble stair, of long portraits lining the wall, of bronzes and books and rare china and old silver, none of which at the time he knew by name, but all of which spoke to the love of beauty in his inmost soul, and made him long to have, at some day, such a house of his own, and such a fairy crea- ture in it as Annis, the Judges daughter, whom he sometimes saw dancing down the long hall, with her burnished hair streaming about her, who lingered look- ing at him as he went away. Now and then, too, he saw her at church, so demure and still that he could only think her like one of the young girls in Foxs Book of Martyrs, with which volume he had be- guiled many a dreadful hour. At such times she never glanced at him-or if she did it was when the sermon had sent him sound asleep. For what eyes should An- nis Alexander have for the boy who drove the farmers cows? Once he met her in a lane where she was trying to pull the last rose from the top of a tall wild brier, and he paused and reached and broke it off for her, his cheeks tingling, his dark eyes flaming, and going then his way without waiting to see that the little ladys face was the color of her rose. And then an opening had come for the lad into the outer world; and he had left the village and its great house and its gardens and lilies and hollyhocks and a thousand dreams behind him, and had entered into the business of life. Once in a while he had news of the old hamlet his own kindred were all dead and gone; he heard of the coming of the rail- way a mile or two away, still leaving the place delightfully remote from noise and bustle; he heard of the marriage and de- parture of Annis, of the death of the Judges farmer, and that little Ellie, his child, was managing a farm of her own, and he sent her once the money to pay off its mortgage, although she never knew from whence it came. He used to dream of the old place when he had lei- sure to think of anything but cent. per cent.; the red hollyhocks stood out in his memory at such times like living per- sonages. He heard incidentally of the death of the Judge. When, finally, he heard that Greylock had been sold to strangers, all his interest in the town seemed to have vanished. But when, by- and-by, he also heard that the strangers wished to sell, lie went up to the place and drove a bargain for Greylock on the spot. The old Alexander place was his at last. The traces of the strangers he had removed as far as possible, and made the place as much like what it used to be as modern wealth allowed; he laid rich rugs on the stone and oaken floors, he hung silken hangings at the deep casements, but he kept the colors and ideas that the house used to have. He hunted up a number of the old portraits that had drifted off here and there from sale to sale, and if he added to them some mar- vellous French landscapes and Spanish figure-pieces, he did it with the taste and knowledge he had made his own in his city life and in his foreign travel. And there were books, and portfolios of prints, and fine trifles on which art had expend- ed beauty and money too; and the house was still wreathed with its woodbine and honeysuckles in summer, and in fall great logs blazed in the chimneys. And the new owner closed his various branch- es of businessa rich man now, well past forty, and came up to Greylock, and made his home there, and found that no home was good for anything without a wife, and bemoaned himself that he had been so busy making money and informing himself how to spend it that he had had time to make the acquaintance of no one who could supply the element without which his house was so lonely and his life so barren. He wished lie had made friends with the ministers daughter while there was yet time, and before she had gone elsewhere. He even thought wheth- er or not Ellie, the farm-manager, would fill the deep arm-chair within the Flem- ish screen on the other side of the library fire; but one glimpse of a face like old ivory answered him. As for Annis Al- exander, she was only a remembrance; something of the nimbus of the Judges superior glory surrounded her still in his thought; he would never have regretted her, for it would never have crossed his mind that she could have been within his reach. He did wonder more than once what had become of the ministers daugh- terhe remembered how she sang on sum- mer nights; but he doubted if the girl had even known his name. He was a humble-minded man, for all his success and his money; these called him Squire, and those called him Colonelhe had had command of a fancy regiment once for a short time; but to himself, in his inmost con- sciousness, he was always the plain farmers boy going after the cows, and possessed of an intimate diffidence. Not that he did not know all the advantage and strength of wealth; what it was to be a power on Wall Street, what it was even in the village, that had growa into a region of costly summer places, to be the master of Greylock-indeed, there were many fair members of the summer throng that were not slow to teach it to him. But he knew that something much more qui- et and simple than follow- ed in their train was what he needed; their life was foreign to his pleasure. His heart warmed to none of them; they were too fine, too splendid and pic- torial, with their plumes and ribbons, the sweep of their gowns, their airs of fashion, far too fine for the taste of the farn~ hand. For even after his long years of business, after his travels about the world, his days passed in galleries and his nights at operas, he called himself a farm hand still, happier looking over his cattle, and plan- ning his crops, and setting out hedges, and developing new seedlings, than in do- ing anything else. Yet when he sat down at his lonely dinner table, finer than the Judges ever was, with a butler standing be- hind him as pompous as the Judge himself, I am as solitary, he said, as the pelican in the wilder- ness. He felt it in the summer twilights, as the mountain stood out black before the paling sunset, as the dew fell, the perfumes 112 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. wandered faintly from rose and carna- tion, and the whippoorwills in the wood below began calling to one another, far off and sweet; he felt it beside the fire that wallowed up the chimney in the late autumn or the early winter nights. What would I give, he said to him- self, if there were a wife and children here, and there were to be anything like the Christmas cheer that belongs to a place in which a man without wife and children has no right to live I And he had his bag packed, and made off now to this city, and now to that, as regularly as the snows whitened Greylock and gave him new longing for the Christmas joy- ances that should belong to home. He envied then the men he saw buying gifts, the crowds bearing parcels; he felt de- frauded that he had no one whom he could make glad with anything but char- ity. He made to himself some feint of business to hinder the ennui that some- times fell upon him to such an extent that it seemed better to risk and lose all lie had than to go on in this humdrum fashion of success, without a stir in his life. Some interest in departmental affairs took him in one of these late falls to Washington. It was wearisome. He might have found pleasure in the debates, but Congress had not yet assembled. He spent a little time in the departments, a little time in the clubs, and won and lost a little money, a little time in the library, a good deal of time in the hotel lobbies; it was all rather a bore; the only thing he enjoyed at all was driving about the streets, that gave him some half a hundred miles of velvet to drive over with a high-stepping horse he had. And thus it happened that, a sudden tempest of rain coming up, and making the con- crete slippery as glass, the horse fell and threw Colonel Monck out, his head strik- ing against an edge of sharp granite, and when lie was picked up and carried into Mrs. McQueens boarding- house, near at hand, and the doctor summoned, it was discovered that his ankle was badly in- jured, and it was thought best, on ac- count of the wound on his head, to leave him where lie was rather than take him to his hotel, the letters in his pocket show- ing that lie was Colonel Monck, and that he was staying at the Arlington. The poor soul! the poor soul ! he heard a voice murmuringfar away out- side, it seemed. To think it was our carriage step! Oh, I am so glad he is here to be taken care of! No, no, no, doctor, dont speak of ita hospital! Do you think any one of those nurses will take the care of him that I shall l I doubt if you have not enough to do without this, Mrs. McQueen, said the doctor. I can manage, sang the cheery voice. I shall think all the time, what if it were my Archie l Your Archie is a boy of fifteen, and this is a man of fiftyor thereabouts. Archie will be fifty some day if he lives, said the little mother. And he may need a good turn. Ill pass it on. And Milly can wait on me, and Florry can do the marketingshe has gone with me once in a while, and its time she took some responsibility. Oh, we can manage it! and she tied her worn black bonnet- strings with determination. Very well, said the doctor. I will be in again this afternoon, and then pos- sibly we can decide more intelligently what is best. And when he came in the evening Col- onel Monck was quite himself, and able to express a preference for staying where he was. Not that it made much matter; he was tolerably disgusted with fate and things in general; but the hands were tender here, the voice was kind, the way was gentle, and for all he could see he was as well off in this third-rate boarding- house as he would be anywhere else, and could have as much of a Christmas here as at the Arlington. In fact, in a very few days the Colonel was as well as ever, except for the injured ankle, which, however, was doing nicely; and he had begun to find the situation a trifle more interesting than life in the lobbies. There was the little woman herself, whom nearly every one in the house, with condescending patronage or kindly familiarity, called Queenie, a new character in his experience shabby, a black veil always wrapped about her head, when she was not wearing the old black bonnet; forever at the call of all the va- rious household, and unchangeably gen- tle and smiling and silver-tongued; no sort of a mans ger, and making up for her lack in that (hirection, and the poverty which obliged her to do with poor service, by the unceasing effort and industry of her tireless hsnds and feet. T%iere were WHEN IIH SAT DOWN AT HIS LONHLY DINNHR TABLH. 114 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the boarders, too, going up and down by the open doorsome clerks, men and wo- men; the private secretary of a cabinet officer; a yellow-haired lady with a claim upon the government, and a Congressman who came to see her about pressing it; a politician staying temporarily while ur- ging his right to an office, but bidding fair to make a winter of it; and a widow of narrow means and wide ambitions, and her companion, who spent the cold wea- ther there. And there were Milly, the dark - haired step - daughter of the land- lady, who sat at the head of the table, and wore a good deal of tarnished splen- dor; and Florry, the fair-haired one, quite as splendid as her sister; and Archie, the boy, who was studying might and main, and was the only real help his mother had, besides the slatternly colored girls, with their hair braided all the week in little pigtails, which gave their heads a strange resemblance to the porcupine jars in which hyacinth bulbs are just sprout- ing. Archie came in and read him the evening papers; one and another of the boarders called, and some he asked to call againnot the yellow-haired lady, nor the gentleman who tumbled up stairs after midnight. He saw Miss Milly now and then whisking by the door in a dressing- gown and crimps, and later in the day she dropped in, with her war-paint and feathers on, to tell him stories of the fine people whom she did not know by sight, and give him accounts of the dinners and receptions for which her soul longed, and for which he did not care a farthing, and to talk of the theatrical heroes and hero- ines, and express her delight in the thea- tre, where on fortunate nights she could see and become a part of the world she admired. And Miss Florry set the doors open, and played to him from the draw- ing-room such music as was hersand she had not a little talent at the piano and eame up afterward for her re- ward in the admiration that a man of the world should not but feel for a young woman who managed marvellous- ly the train of ~her gown, and had no other particular recommendation. In fact, the whole family understood that they had among them a man to be made the most of, a millionaire sort of man, whose like they had not fallen in with be- fore, and might not meet again; and the widow of narrow means confided to him her woes; her companion had woes of quite as much weight; one of the clerks told him the virtues and uses of a small capital in lending money at usurious in- terest in the departments; and the other clerk told him of the family at home de- pendent on his salary, and of his daily suffering through fear of the sight of the heart-breaking yellow envelope. And one of the office-seekers came in and fought over the battles of the Wilderness, in which he had borne part, and explained to him the mistakes of Grant and. Lee; and even the airy private secretary, who was by no means on the pinnacle he had enjoyed before the Colonel came, conde- scended occasionally to hint to him the real facts about the situation of various public affairs. The Colonel thought he might be able to put the clerk who lived with that yellow sword of Damocles over his head in a more permanent situation. He even promised to exert what influence lie had for the man who had had no chance to direct the great battles as they should have been directed. He pitied the widow; and he surreptitiously offered the com- pan ion a railroad ticket home if she felt her bonds unendurable. And he sent Ar- chie to buy a frequent box at the theatre, which such of the family as pleased should occupy, of which Miss Milly and Miss Florry forthwith made themselves propri- etors, sailing forth in great style, and holding the fort of the two front seats, chaperoned by the widow, and asking whom they pleased to join them. Havent you gone to the theatre l inquired the Colonel, when this had hap- pened a second time, am1d the house was still, and little Mrs. McQueen came in with a bowl of something appetizing. Oh no, she answered him; of course not. Why of course not? he asked, sur- prised. Oh, itis so long since I have been to to such a place. That is no reason. What else? And I dont care about it. Why not? Why, she said, laughing out of a pair of eyes that he noted, not for the first time, were of the softest wine tints, how can I say? I am so accustomed to staying at home.~~ And letting those two girls go in- stead I You know, she said, one can be young but once. THE COLONELS CHRISTMAS. 115 Young! And how old are you, may I ask? Oh, I dont think it is proper for you to ask at all, she said. You see, I cant be very young, ~Tith Archie and those two great girls calling me mother, and my own little Louie over in the convent. I had just as. lief youd know, though. It doesnt really make any odds when one is as old as I am. I amI shall beforty-my next birth- day. And a pretty color streamed up the soft oval of her cheek as she made the mortifying statement. I shall be forty-five, said the Colonel. And I lont regard it as such a vast age. In fact, I feel as if life were all ahead of me. That is different. I supposeperhaps I have lived more in forty years. At any rate, I have had more trouble. And I dont know anything that ages one like trouble. Have you had trou- ble? asked the Colonel, wincing a little just then with pain. Have I had anything else? she answered, with a smile that was like the watery gleam of sunshine on a dull day. No, I shouldnt say so, when I have Archie and Louie! Ohlet me loosen that bandage. Therethat feels better? Now Archie will come aud read to you. I have to boil over the crab-apple jam; and it is a good time to do it when I shant be in- terrupted. Poor little woman, as the Colonel saw, her interruptions were ceaseless. There was a perpetual jangle of some ones bell, which half the time she answeredthe boy who came in the middle of the day and officiated as butler and man-of-all- work for his dinner either not being there, or taking too long to find his clean apron; and she always hurried for the postman; and she had to follow Mirandy round with a second duster, or go over the glasses with another towel; or she was coming up heated from supplying the slips in the kitchen; or she was patch- ing Archies clothes, while Archie sat be- side her, with his book, his arm over her shoulder, she once in a while turning her head to kiss his hand. And then Miss Milly was asking her to bind a skirt for her; or Miss Florry wanted something downtown, unable to go for it herself, and she trudged out to get it, and walked because she must spare the car fare; and this boarder sent for her to see about nothing; and that boarder hunted her up to complain about another nothing; and there was the look of a hunted hare in HE SAw M155 MILLY Now AND THEN. 116 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. her eyes, for it was Mrs. McQueen here, and Ma there, and Queenie in the other place, as if she belonged to any one but herself; and almost the only real plea- sure she had in life was when she could get over to the convent with Archie and see her little Louie, who was not so very little, after all. And Colonel Monck, thinking it a good accident that brought him here, where he might see a side of life he had not known before, learned that all the saints are not on the calendar, but that one of them, at least, was to be found in the drudge of a Washington boarding-house. You know, said Miss Florry once, when the Colonel intimated something of the sort, it isnt quite as if mamma were really our mother Really your mother ! cried the Col- onel. Do you mean to say she isnt your mother? My gracious! Queenie! No, indeed! I guess not, says Miss Florry. Why, papa married her when she was a widow with two children! It was very good of papa. Our own motherwhy, she was one of the Virginia Fitzroys! Then he was ill and died, and she took care of him; and of course we are sensible of it; we are very fond of Queenie. Papa, you know, lost everything in the war, and that is the reason mamma takes boarders now. It seems hard to have papas name used so; but she had the furniture, you know, said Miss Florry, taking the head of her hat-pin out of her mouth. And she either had to do that or we had to to starve, I reckon. And there it is, you see. I see said the Colonel. It was on returning from the theatre one night, where they had enjoyed Col- onel Moncks box as box was never en- joyed before, that Miss Milly and Miss Florry, in the privacy of their hall cham- ber, were combing out their pretty locks. I dont know, Florry, said her sister, pausing, comb in air. It looks like it. I never saw more pointed attentionsso many flowers and bonbons and novels, and this box at the National, and his horses down to drive when we please. The only thingthe only thing The only thing is that we dont know which one of us it is ! said Milly, as she stood with her head bent, and the hair drooping over her face in a veil, while she flourished her brush vigorously. Its absurd, isnt it? I hope its you, Florry. Im sure I had as lief it were you, said Milly, after a few moments of silence, as she gave a screw to the slip of lead in which she folded her crimp. Youre very good, Milly. I dont know. You are prettier than I; but then theres my music. But weve al- ways had each others things, so that it really wouldnt matter. Still, therell be diamonds in this case; but perhaps mine would be enough for two. And they say that country-seat of his is an earthly par- adise. I dont care; whichever one of us it is, we shall be together; and, oh my! to have a home of our own, with no rent hanging over us, no bills to pay, no hate- ful, hateful, insolent boarders oh, that would be a heavenly paradise! Its true theres the Colonel; but then he is really a nice old gentleman. I could love him very much if he were my father. My gracious! why cant he just adopt us? Well, he can come back a member whenever he pleases; perhapsjust think a Senator! And to be a Senators wife! To be here after the holidays, anyway, Senator or not, and give a cold stare to those people who have given us their airs! Oh, one could marry a much worse- looking man than Colonel Monck. Hes not so very old, after all. And really hes not bad-looking at all. You would never think he was just sprung from the people. And papas family- Oh, Im sick of papas family, dab- bling in the cold cream. What has it ever done for us? Not half so much as little Queenie here. And Ive made up my mind! If he asks me I shall take the goods the gods provide. Oh, the ex- quisite relief of daring to look the grocer in the face ! The delight of silk stockings ! How extravagant you are! I only ask for enough lisle-thread ones never to have to darn any. And to be able to wear all the white skirts I want What day-dreams! Im afraid none of them can come to pass. But if they did, Queenie should never do another days work. She does too much already. Im ashamed of itIm always meaning to reform. She has all the wrong side, and we have all the rightif there is any right. If we were going to stay here I think I should make a fresh deal, and THE COLONELS CHRISTMAS. 117 take a little more on my shoulders, at any rate. Oh, its too good to be true. There! You ready? And out went the gas, and left them to their slumbers, and the dreams of Worth and Pingat and Ed- lix, with stray flashes of diamonds and prancing of horses, and cold eyes of hos- tile women, and Queenie in a towering hat and feathers, and girls who were themselves and not themselves, and Col- onel Monck in sackcloth and ashes. The poor Colonel, unconscious of all this way in which the Fates carried them- selves concerning him, was meanwhile turning over quite different thoughts in his mind, now burning with indignation as he saw the way in which the little woman was at the beck and call of any one in the house People not fit to lace her shoes ! said the Colonel; and now his heart, warm with pity as he saw her willingness, her patience, her untir- ing way of taking things for granted that amounted to sweetness, her perpetual an- swer to the perpetual demands early in the morning or late at night, having her bite and sup when she could get it and at any hour, humble as if from long habit she never thought of being anything but glad and grateful that she was just al- lowed to live, ready to do more and have less were it necessary for Archies and Louies sake. His eyes followed her, and his ears listened for her, and he found himself wondering and fuming, and then asking angrily what business it was of his, and wondering and watching again. What did you marry Mr. McQueen for ? he asked the little woman, abrupt- ly, as she bandaged his ankle one night, the girls and various others having gone to make the most of the theatre box, and he and Mrs. McQueen being quite alone. She started so that the black bonnet fell on one side and caught in a pin, and out tumbled a cataract of rich dark red hair, full of golden lights and waves; and the more she tried to restrain it, the more it would come, till she had to fling the bon- net off altogether and attend to gathering the great masses into their coil again. Why in the world do you always cov- er up such hair as that ? he exclaimed. Oh, she answered, with IMlilly and Florry roundyoung ladies, you know and I their papas widowit-it wouldnt do, you know. It wouldnt do ? said he. And so you efface yourself that they may be seen! If you gave any one a chance to look at you-if you dressed like some of the wo- men I have seen, youd be younger than the whole kit of them ! I? Oh, you forget! I told you I was almost fortyandand twice a widow,~ she added, with a pathetic sort of sigh. You didnt tell me why you married Mr. McQueen, he insisted then. I dont know why, she said, after a moment, looking down and intent upon her work. He was so poor, and he had these young girls, and no one to see to them or to do for themor for him either. And I had, at any rate, a kind of a home. And the girls were running wild. He was quite the gentleman-a gentleman of the old school, they call it, you know. But he was a man. And a man is so helpless, said the forlorn little woman. And is that the reason you married him? I dont know. I cant exactly tell- he said I had betterhe said I mustand I did. I thought it would be good for Archie to have a father. And he was very fond of me, I think. He only lived a lit- tle while. And were you fond of him? asked the remorseless Colonel. IIpitied him. Do I hurt you? You? With those fingers? They are like the touch of rose leaves. Could they hurt any one? However yes, thats easier-has a man only to say you must marry him for you to obey? Tell me an- other thing now: did you love your first husband? I thought I did, she said. Now I wouldnt ask any more questions. Yes; I want to know all about you. When did you find out you didnt ? Oh, too soon! too soon ! she cried, in a sudden gust of tears, letting the band- age fall, standing up, and dashing the drops off with both hands. Tell me all about it, said the Col- onel, reaching up and taking one of the hands, and pulling her to a seat on the lounge beside himself. I was very young-I was not what you see meI was as well born asas any one, she said, between her sobs. He brought me herewe were on the top of the waveoh, it is hard, hard, hard to re- call it Dont, thendont, my dear, said the Colonel. It was all right while my dear father 118 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. lived. And then he ran through with the money; he had horses, yachts, wine parties oh, it was tine till it was dreadful He gambled. He drank. I dont know what lie didnt do. I know he beat me! Oh, what am I saying to you? Archies fa- ther! But it is true. When IIhesita- ted about giving him the last of the money, lie would threaten me with killing him- self. I gave it to him. He did kill him- self one daypoor soul! oh, poor soul! And I had nothing left but the house; they took the house for his debts, but they gave me the furniture. We lived on the sale of the pictures and books and marbles awhile. And there were Archie and Louie, and the disgracethe disgrace of it ! she cried, burying her face in the bonnet that she groped for and found. I hid my- self as the Colonel took away the bon- net I hid myself! I tied up my haii~ I kept under my veil. People forgot me. I pass them nowthey used to dine at my table-they never know me. I know they dont! But at last we had to do some- -thing and the boarders were different persons from those we had knownand we had been so poor, so half famished, I felt as if they were guardian angels when they came. And then Mr. McQueen asked to come, with his girlsand nothing was any consequenceand that is all. I suppose you never thought of mar- rying a third time? A third time ! she cried, so indignant- ly that her tears were like sparks of fire as she faced him. What do you take me for? Very good men, and women too, have married a third time, even when the other times were not a mistake. Oh, I dare say ! cried Mrs. McQueen, tossing her head. Very good. But I should not like to tell them my opinion of them ! Let us see, said the Colonel, calmly. Your first husband abused you and ru- ined you. Your next one was merely a matter of charity with you. Why should you not have a husband now who will be what the word signifies, who could give you a home, a rich and beautiful home, indeed, and peace and security and com- fort in it, who could give Archie the ed- ucation he ought to have, Lonie the place in society she ought to have, provide prop- erly for these young womenand they might really be very decent girls under different circumstanceswho would pro- tect you, confide in you, honor you, love you! Queenie, said the Colonel, I have more money than I know what to do with. I have a home, he said, untroubled by any remembrance of Claude, with lawns and gardens about it, valley and river below it, hills, great hills, behind it. But what sort of a home is it? It is so lonesome it is like a tomb, and I have to come away from it. If I had a wife there, if there were young people moving about the place, with their interests, theii~ com- panions, their pets, their work, their plea- sures, caring for me a little, growing to care for me more, keeping me youngoh, it is very selfishbut now that Christmas is coming, and Christmas fires might be rolling up the big chimneysah, who could ask for more? I am not youngI have none of the graces wooers ought to have. But I could promise a wife care gentleness, faithfulness, admiration oh yes, even love, if it wereif it were you, Q ueenie! Yes, you ! I never thought of such a thing! Think of it now, then. She had turned, looking in his face in her amazement, her dark eyes glowing, the color flushing up and down the soft oval of her thin cheeks, her lips trembling- they were delicate, finely curved lips. In a moment the Colonel had bent over and kissed them. And then he gathered her in his arms and kissed her again. Just try to love me, Queenie, he mur- mured. Oh, I shouldnt have to try! sobbed the little woman on his breast. And that night the Colonel could not sleep for seeing a fairy form flitting in pale muslins between the snowy lilies and the red hollyhocks of Greylock, lovelier in his sight than any flower, in spite of her forty years. Doctor, said Colonel Monck, the next morning, I think this bandage can come off now. I am quite sure I can stand alone without it. Nothing rash, nothing precipitate, sir, said the doctor. We dont want to have you lamed for life, you know. It is not much matter if I am. I hav& a shoulder to lean on now. I am going to be married. It is late, but better late than never. If you have nothing to hin- der, will you leave this note at Worm- leys as you go by? It will bring me a friend who will attend to some little formalities about licenses and clergyman and all that. And will you send your bill? Here, this is my address, sir; it will be attended to as soon as I reach home. I shall leave for New York this afternoon, thanks to your skill. It is rare skill, my dear sir; money, I am aware, does not pay for such things. Some time when you need a seasons rest, you come to Greylock, and my wife will do for you a part of what she has done for me. And let me tell you, there will be some pretty girls theremy step-daughters. Youre a young man, and its a strange thing, but young people find young people pleasant company. Yes, nice girls, and with good marriage portions, each of them, said the nnblushino Colonel, his happiness devel- oping in him new and singular powers for match - making. But Im in no hurry to think of their leaving the place. And the Colonel carried things with. 6 I TOLD YOU I WAS ALMOST FORTY, AND 120 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. this high hand over every one. When Q ueenie protested that she must wait to get a dress, he also protested that dresses, velvets, cashmeres, laces, diamonds, furs, were to be had in New York, and there they should be found, and they would leave Milly and Florry to dismiss the enemy, sell the furniture, and give the landlord the key of the house, and follow with Archie and Louie in season for a Christmasing that should make the old house thrill in all its timbers. And leave that afternoon he did, his friend attending to everything, and he himself not looking at license or certifi- cate, nor seeing the amazement, the con- sternation, the self-conscious glance, the look of shame, that passed between the two young ladies when he announced that he had been married to their mother a half-hour beforeseeing only the soft rose-color on his wifes cheek, the sweet droop to the pensive mouth, the white eye- lids with their long dark fringes. And later, as he looked at the great lance of light with which the Monument pierced the winter blue of the vast sky, and the mighty dome floating like a snowy cloud above the sunset and just faintly blush- ing in it while receding from him, he breathed a benediction on the town for giving what was to him its chiefest treasure. And w?ien he brought his wife to Grey- lock, after a sufficient stay at the Waldorf for all purposes of apparel and finery, she sitting now very still in the covered sleigh, and trembling so that he feared it was with the cold, despite her royal sables, and pull- ed the robes about her, and bade John hurry the horses, and lifted her into the great house, and seated her by the fire in a chair that received her as if its deep close arms gave her welcome, This, he said, is home at last. My little darling, what makes you tremble still? Is it so strange to have love and a home of your own once more? Oh ! she cried, looking up at the por- trait of the old Judge that hung upon the wall before her. It always was my home. You never asked meyou do not seem to know that I was Annis Alexan- der. The Colonel was on one knee beside her. If she had been a kings daughter it would have been something less in his eyes. And you are my wife ! he said. To think of it! And II drove your fathers cows. But a prince could not love you more. You are more than a prince to ~ she cried. You are the greatest, the best, the most beautiful of men. We have lost twenty years of life we should have had. I knew it was you. II always loved youat least I think I did. I know I love you now with all my soul. And when, late in the next week, as the twilight of Christmas eve was falling over Greylock, and the fires were flashing rud- dily through the deep windows, Colonel Monck came in, his arms and pockets full of parcels, and had a glimpse of Lonie and Archie with their arms over each others shoulders, half buried in a lounge beside the hall chimney, and reading from the same book, while the ~low and flicker of the burning logs played over them, and heard, tinkling under Florrys fingers in the room beyond, the tune to which in a mirror he saw Milly dancing and holding up her pretty dinner dress, while at the sound of his feet stamping off the snow they all sprang with joyous greeting, and the gladdest greeting of all was in the two tender brown eyes of a little creature who looked in her silks and laces, with her shining uncovered hair, almost as much like a flower as a womana happy little woman who had bloomed into beauty under the sunshine of his loveit seemed to him then as if for the first time in his life he knew what home was. He looked about him at the rich and lovely scene, at the yellow Persian cat rising from the rug and arching its back and sweeping its feather of a tail in suspicion of the great Dane who stalked at his heels, and he noted the spicy perfume of the burning logs, the fragrance of the flowers, and felt that it was all his own, with a sort of fierce joy at its being shut in by the wall of storm without. This is happiness, he said to Queenie. This is something worth coming to. Now we shall have Christmases, and birth- days, and anniversaries, and by - and - by wedding - days, and children going and children coming. And life has just be- gun to be worth living ! THE PEDDLERS PERIL. BY L. B. MILLER. IF I dont run on to a house purty I soon, Ill have to sleep out in the woods, or else tramp all night, an I caint say as I kyer about doin neither. The speaker was a tall, rawboned young man of twenty-three or twenty-four. He wore a slouched wool hat, a long gray overcoat that had evidently seen much service, and brown jeans trousers, the legs of which were stuffed into the tops of his mud-covered boots. Across his right shoulder rested a stick, from each end of which was suspended a black oil-cloth travelling-bag of unusual size. He was a peddler, and the two bags contained his stock in trade. As he trudged along the sandy, stumpy road he looked ahead at every turn in the hope of seeing a house. But none was in sight. He shifted his stick from one shoulder to the other several times, for he had been walking since early morn- ing, and was feeling very tired. The barking of a dog in the distance reached his ear. His face brightened in- stantly. Leaving the road, he struck out through the woods, and a few minutes walk brought him to an opening. Not far from the ed~,,e he saw a light shining through the door of a log cabin. Having had some experience with sav- age dogs since he had been peddling, he stopped when about fifty yards from the house and called out, Hello! Instantly a chorus of growls and barks began, and a pack of dogs, of all sizes, came swarming over the low rail fence and rushed toward him. He put down his burden, and grasping the stick by one end, stood ready to defend himself. A man came out of the door, climbed over the fence, and picking up some pieces of wood from the wood-pile, began to scold the dogs and throw the wood at them. You, Tige! Biggawn there, you good-f ur-nothin rascal! Youd better git back to that house, an that mighty quick! Watch, Ill beat the life out uv ye if ye dont shet up yer big mouth an clear out! Biggawn there, Ring! Big- gawn, ever last one nv ye! The scolding and blows soon had their effect, the dogs being driven away, though VOL. xc.No. 535.li not silenced, for they still continued to growl and bark at a distance. The peddler advanced, and explained that he wanted to stay all night. Ye can stay if yere willin to put up with sech as weve got, which is mighty little, was the reply. We haint fixed to keep nobody, but maybe it 11 be a leetle bit bettern sleepin out. I aint used to nothin svery fine my- sef, said the peddler. Im willin enough to put up with jest whatever yeve got, an 11 be mighty glad o the chance besides. All right; come in. The two climbed over the fence and entered the cabin, both of them stooping as they passed through the door. There was but a single room, and that was by no means large. At one end was a wide fireplace, in which burned a cheer- ful wood fire. In one of the back cor- ners was a bed, in the other a table. Near the fireplace, on the side that was farther from the door, stood a small rus- ty-looking stove, on which a woman was cooking supper. Take a cheer an make yersef at home, said the man of the house. What dye call yor name ? Alford. Alford? Air ye any akin to them Alfords that used to live down on Pos- sum Branch, right clost to the Arkansaw line? The of mans name wuz Bill an he had a boy named Joe. Les see; wuz it Joe? Yesno, I guess it wuznt, nei- ther. Im a-gittin powrfuil furgitful as I git older. Ma, what wuz the name o that oldest Alford boy? You know who I mean. The one that married Mag Rob- inson an moved to Kansas. It was Joe, papJoe Alford, said the woman. Air ye shore it wuz Joe? Dont seem like that uz his name. Yes, it wuz, pap. I caint be mistaken about that. He come up hyer oncet or twicet to see our Sally bfore she got mar- ned. I reckon it wuz Joe, said the man, reflectively. Yes, I remember now. Joe wuz his name. I didnt know but what ye might be some akin to them Al- fords.

THE PEDDLERS PERIL. BY L. B. MILLER. IF I dont run on to a house purty I soon, Ill have to sleep out in the woods, or else tramp all night, an I caint say as I kyer about doin neither. The speaker was a tall, rawboned young man of twenty-three or twenty-four. He wore a slouched wool hat, a long gray overcoat that had evidently seen much service, and brown jeans trousers, the legs of which were stuffed into the tops of his mud-covered boots. Across his right shoulder rested a stick, from each end of which was suspended a black oil-cloth travelling-bag of unusual size. He was a peddler, and the two bags contained his stock in trade. As he trudged along the sandy, stumpy road he looked ahead at every turn in the hope of seeing a house. But none was in sight. He shifted his stick from one shoulder to the other several times, for he had been walking since early morn- ing, and was feeling very tired. The barking of a dog in the distance reached his ear. His face brightened in- stantly. Leaving the road, he struck out through the woods, and a few minutes walk brought him to an opening. Not far from the ed~,,e he saw a light shining through the door of a log cabin. Having had some experience with sav- age dogs since he had been peddling, he stopped when about fifty yards from the house and called out, Hello! Instantly a chorus of growls and barks began, and a pack of dogs, of all sizes, came swarming over the low rail fence and rushed toward him. He put down his burden, and grasping the stick by one end, stood ready to defend himself. A man came out of the door, climbed over the fence, and picking up some pieces of wood from the wood-pile, began to scold the dogs and throw the wood at them. You, Tige! Biggawn there, you good-f ur-nothin rascal! Youd better git back to that house, an that mighty quick! Watch, Ill beat the life out uv ye if ye dont shet up yer big mouth an clear out! Biggawn there, Ring! Big- gawn, ever last one nv ye! The scolding and blows soon had their effect, the dogs being driven away, though VOL. xc.No. 535.li not silenced, for they still continued to growl and bark at a distance. The peddler advanced, and explained that he wanted to stay all night. Ye can stay if yere willin to put up with sech as weve got, which is mighty little, was the reply. We haint fixed to keep nobody, but maybe it 11 be a leetle bit bettern sleepin out. I aint used to nothin svery fine my- sef, said the peddler. Im willin enough to put up with jest whatever yeve got, an 11 be mighty glad o the chance besides. All right; come in. The two climbed over the fence and entered the cabin, both of them stooping as they passed through the door. There was but a single room, and that was by no means large. At one end was a wide fireplace, in which burned a cheer- ful wood fire. In one of the back cor- ners was a bed, in the other a table. Near the fireplace, on the side that was farther from the door, stood a small rus- ty-looking stove, on which a woman was cooking supper. Take a cheer an make yersef at home, said the man of the house. What dye call yor name ? Alford. Alford? Air ye any akin to them Alfords that used to live down on Pos- sum Branch, right clost to the Arkansaw line? The of mans name wuz Bill an he had a boy named Joe. Les see; wuz it Joe? Yesno, I guess it wuznt, nei- ther. Im a-gittin powrfuil furgitful as I git older. Ma, what wuz the name o that oldest Alford boy? You know who I mean. The one that married Mag Rob- inson an moved to Kansas. It was Joe, papJoe Alford, said the woman. Air ye shore it wuz Joe? Dont seem like that uz his name. Yes, it wuz, pap. I caint be mistaken about that. He come up hyer oncet or twicet to see our Sally bfore she got mar- ned. I reckon it wuz Joe, said the man, reflectively. Yes, I remember now. Joe wuz his name. I didnt know but what ye might be some akin to them Al- fords. 12~ HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. No not as I know uv, answered the peddler. My folks all moved to Mis- souri frum Indiany about ten years ago. If Ive got any kinfoiks out hyer uv that name, xcept them Im a-livin clost to, I haint never heerd uv em The man of the house was named Bar- nett. He sat near his guest, with his chair tilted back, and talked first on one topic and then on another, his wife stop- ping occasionally to put in a word as she busied herself about the supper. She was of small stature, contrasting in this respect with her husband, who was over six feet high, broad-shouldered, and muscular. They appeared to be between fifty and sixty years of age. Supper was soon ready. Come, said the woman, speaking to Alford, set up an have a bite o suthin to eat, sech as it is. The three sat down at the tableMrs. Barnett at one end, and her husband and the peddler at the sides. The table was covered with a clean white cloth, and the fare consisted of corn bread, fried bacon, and coffee. Im powerful sorry we haint got no- thin fittin fur ye to eat, apologized the woman as she poured out the coffee. What yeve got is plenty good, mum plenty good fur anybody, the peddler hastened to answer her. Its jest what I want. If it wuznt, I could eat it. Af- ter walkin all day ithout a bite, a feller gits hungry enough to swaller anything. Then he began, and proved his words. At last he put down his knife and fork, and pushed back his chair. Wont ye have suthin more to make out yer supper? asked the old man, po- litely. Yes; do try to eat if ye can, urged the woman. Ye haint et nothin at all to speak uv. Ive et hearty, mum-hearty. I dont know when Ive had sech a appetite as I did to-night. The two ~nen arose from the table, tak- ing their chairs, and seated themselves by the fire. The woman gathered up the fragments of the meal and threw them out at the door. The dogs instantly be- gan to fight over them, and did not stop till Barnett went out with the poker and put an end to the disturbance. Then he and Alford got out their pipes and smoked, while the woman washed the dishes. When the dishes had been put away in the cupboarda dry-goods box supported against the wall by two pegsshe too joined theni with her pipe, and the three sat talking and smoking for an hour or so. Ma, said Barnett at len~,th, hadnt ye better go an fix the upstairs bed sos this young feller can lay down? Hes been a-walking all day, an I guess he feels a right smart more like sleepin than talkin. I alays do. Yes, pap, Ill git it ready right off. A ladder stood by the wall at the rear end of the room. Up this she climbed, disappearing through a small square open- ing, and the peddler heard her walking about in the loft. She soon caine down, and said to him: Yer beds ready whenever ye feel like layin down. Jest go right up. I left the candle a-burnin sos ye can see how to git around up there. The young man was very glad of the invitation. Leaving his packs and over- coat lying against the wail, he made his way up the ladder. The floor of the loft, like that of the room below, was of oak planks. They had been put down without being nailed, and were badly warped, making not a little noise as he walked over them. The middle of the roof was nearly high enough for him to stand erect. Prom nails in the sides of the rafters were hun,, strings of pop-corn, onions, red pepper, vegetable seeds tied up in rags, and various similar articles. The bedstead was only about a foot high, havin,, been intended for a trundle- bed, to go under a higher one. Alford removed his clothes, blew out the candle, and was soon buried in a mass of feathers. There he lay, looking up at the rafters, across which ian strips of fire- light shining up through the cracks in the loft floor. Barnett and his wife had not yet gone to bed, and Alford could hear them talk- ing in low tones directly under him. He was not listening to their conversation, having no interest in it; but one expres- sion caught his ear: I guess he makes lots o money, said the man, just loud enough to be overheard. Yes, Ill be bound he does, answered the woman. I wouldnt be the least hit suprised if them two bundles there is wuth all uv a thousan dollars, remarked Barnett. THE PEDDLERS PERIL. 123 Dye think so, pap? inquired his wife in awe - struck tones. My, hes rich, aint he? Dont ye wish we had en:i ? Soon his attention was arrested again. I dont like to kill im said the old man. Then followed some words that Alford could not catch. Me neither, answered the woman; but I guess its the best thing to do. Were so bad off fur suthin to live on. Then the conversation again became an unintelligible murmur. The cold sweat broke out on the ped- dlers face. Nobody but a nacherl - born fool would a had little enough gumption to go traipsin around ithout some sort uv a weepon to pertect imsef with, he thought. He had not so much as a pocket-knife, except those he kept for sale, and they were below in one of his packs. He put his head over the edge of the bed and listened intently. Youd better use the rifle. It was the woman who made this suggestion. Im a leetle afeard I caint hit im in the dark, said her husband. Oh yes, I reckon ye can, she urged. If ye dont fetch im the first pop, load up an try agin. He caint git away. If he gits down an goes to run, sick the dawgs on im. Theyll soon ketch im fur ye. Yes, an like as not theyd tear im all to pieces an eat im, said the man, with a low laugh. The peddler lay stupefied with horror. That mild, innocent-looking old couple were discussing their plans as coolly as if murder was an every-day matter with them. Is yer ,,un loaded? the peddhw heard the woman ask. Yes, was the reply; but I expect Id better put on a fresh cap. That n thats on might miss fire. Alford heard him take the gun down from the deer horns on which it rested against one of the npper logs. Peeping through the floor, he saw him holding it in the firelight as he removed the old cap and put on a new one. The clicking of the lock had an ominous sound to the terrified listener in the loft. He caught a glimpse of the old mans face as the flickering light played over it, and fan- cied it resembled a demons gloating over the deed of horror that was abont to be committed. What was best to do the peddler did not know, but he felt that something must be done at once. He realized that, as the woman had declared, he was fully in their power. But he had no intention of surrendering without making an effort to save himself. Slipping noiselessly out of bed, he felt along the floor till he found a loose piece of plank which he remembered having seen there when the candle was burning. It was heavy oak, about a yard long, and in the hands of a desperate man would make a very effective weapon. Stealing along with the utmost caution till he came to the top of the ladder, he grasped the plank firmly and awaited the old mans coming. The instant his head appeared above the floor, Alford proposed to strike it such a blow as would knock the murderous designs out of it, at least for a time. Soon he hieard Barnett shovelling ashes on the fire, and the house grew dark. There was some moving about on the floor below, and then everything became still. The peddler grasped the plank more firmly, and listened and waited, for he believed the expected attack was about to be made. The silence continued. Alford stood shivering with fear and cold. I jest wish Id never a-seen nor heerd tell uv this oh shanty an them robbers an cutthroats, he said to himself. Id a been a sight better off if Id a-camped out in the woods an slep on the ground. Thats what I would. Still he waited and listened, but no sound of a suspicious nature reached his ear. At last he heard the regular breath- ing of two persons asleep, an occasional snore coming from one of them. This was a surprise. It must mean that his hosts had either abandoned their purpose of murdering him, or had put it off till later in the night. It occurred to the peddler that he might steal down the ladder, open the door, and escape into the darkness, returning for his packs when he was better prepared to deal with the people he had fallen among. But for the risk he would have attempt- ed this. He knew there was danger that the old man would wake up and send a bullet through him before he could get 124 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. out of the house. And even if he suc- ceeded in getting outside, it would be al- most impossible to escape without being discovered by the dogs. He felt that he would rather take his chances with Bar- nett, big as the man was, than to try to fight those savage, hungry brutes. After waiting awhile to make sure that no immediate attack was to be made upon him, he crept back to his bed and lay down again. The piece of board was placed in easy reach, so that he could put his hand on it the instant it was needed. It was his intention to remain awake, and he did so for an hour or two. But at last, overcome by weariness, he fell asleep. He awoke without knowing why, but on listening heard some one walking about on the floor of the room below. The movements were almost noiseless. The person had no shoes on. The steps went back and forth across the room several times, then approached the foot of the ladder. The loft, as well as the room below, was in inky darkness. The peddler sprang out of bed, shiver- ing with fright, and seizing the board, again stood ready to defend himself. He heard Barnett feeling around the ladder, and expected to hear him coming up; but the steps moved away toward the fireplace. Then followed some scraping and shov- elling, and a faint light, as from glowing coals, shone up through the cracks of the floor. Then wood was put on, and the fire soon began to burn. Barn ett again moved about the room, now liavin~ his shoes on. Finally he opened the door and went out. Alford stood perplexed, not knowing what to make of the situation. While he was waiting and wondering what would take place next, lie was startled by hearing the sharp report of a rifle outside near the house, followed by a furious barking from the dogs. Soon the door opened, and Barnett came in. Did ye kill im, paph Alford heard the woman inquire. Yes; brung im down easy the first crack, was the reply. Didnt like to do it, though. We wont know when to git up now, an jest like as not well be a-layin in bed till daylight evry morn- ,, in. Never mind, pap. Mis Higgins prom- ised me a rooster any time Id come over an I reckon Ill go about the last o this week or the first o next. Well soon have suthin to crow fur us agin. Make a fire in the stove, an put on a kittle o water right off. Then Ill git up an scald im an pick im. Im anxious to git im on to cook ns soon as ever I can, cause I jest know lies powrful tough. After breakfast, when the peddler was ready to start on his way, he asked the couple what they charged for his nights lodging. Nothin at all, nothin at all, replied the old man. Yere plumb welcome to sech as ye got. Im sorry we didnt have nothin better to give ye. Yes, som I, spoke up the woman. Maybe when ye come along agin we will have. If I knowed when yes a-comm Id stir the ol man out to kill a deer. Venisons mighty good long bout this time o the year. Well, Im a thousan times obleeged to both uv ye, said Alford. If I jest knowed Id never have to put up with worse n you set before me, Id be awful well satisfied never to git better. Then he opened his packs, and laid out table- cloths, towels, pillow-cases, knives, forks, spoons, and several other small articles. Take em, he said to Mrs. Barnett; theyre yorn. ~We caint think o takin none o them things fur pay, declared the old man. It wouldnt be right. Theyre mighty nice an purty an all that, an we need em. If we wnznt so hard run wed be jest too glad to take em all an pay ye fur em. But we haint got the nioney. Maybe some time when ye happen along Never mind about payin fur em, interrupted Alford. Thats already at- tended to. Take em along. Theyre yorn an welcome. Ive got moren I want to tote, anyhow. And he proceeded to buckle the straps around his packs again. Walking back through the woods tow- ard the road with the packs on his shoul- der, the peddler grinned broadly as lie said to himself: It wuznt a goose they wuz a-goin to kill; it wuz a chicken. And then he added: The whole trouble come uv histenin to what I didnt have no busi- ness o hearin. The next house I stay at Ill stuff rags or suthiin or other in my. years. THE SHOW-PLACES OF PARIS. NIGHT. BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 1) ARIS is the only city in the world I which the visitor from the outside positively refuses to take seriously. He may have come to Paris with an earnest purpose to study art or to investigate the intricacies of French law, or the histor- ical changes of the city; or, if it be a woman, she may have come to choose a trousseau; but no matter how serious his purpose may be, there is always some one part of each day when the visitor rests from his labors and smiles indulgently and does as the Parisians do. Whether the city or the visitor is responsible for this, whether Paris adopts the visitor, or the visitor adapts himself to his surround- ings, it is impossible to say. But there is certainly no other capital of the world in which the stranger so soon takes on the local color, in which he becomes so soon acclimated, and which brings to light in him so many new and unsuspected capa- cities for enjoyment and adventure. Americans go to London for social tri- umph or to float railroad shares, to Rome for arts sake, and to Berlin to study music and economize; but they go to Par- is to enjoy themselves. And there are no young men of any nation who enter into the accomplishment of this so heart- ily and so completely as does the young American. It is hardly possible for the English youth to appreciate Paris per- fectly, because he has been brought up to believe that one Englishman can thrash three Frenchmen, and because he holds a nation that talks such an absurd lan- guage in some contempt; hence he is fre- quently while there irritable and rude, and jostles men at the public dances, and in other ways asserts his dignity. But the American goes to Paris as though returning to his inheritance and to his own people. He approaches it with the friendly confidence of a child. Its language holds no terrors for him; and he feels himself fully equipped if he can ask for his edition, and say, Co- cher, allez Henrys tout sweet. There is nothing so joyous and confiding as the American during his first visit to the French metropolis. He has been told by older men of the gay, glad days of the Second Empire, and by his college chum of the summer of the last exposition, and he enters Paris determined to see all that any one else has ever seen, and to outdo all that any one else has ever done, and to stir that city to its suburbs. He saves his time, his money, and his superfluous energy for this visit, and the most amusing part of it is that he al- ways leaves Paris fully assured that he has enjoyed himself while there more thoroughly than any one else has ever done, and that the city will require two or three months rest before it can readjust itself after the shock and wonder due to his meteoric flight through its limits. London he dismisses in a week as a place in which you can get good clothes at mod- erate prices, and which supports some very entertaining music - halls; but Paris, he tells you, ecstatically, when he meets you on the boulevards or at the bankers, where he is drawing grandly on his letter of credit, is the greatest place on earth, and he adds, as evidence of the truth of tl~is, that he has not slept in three weeks. He is unsurpassed in his omnivorous ca- pacity for sight-seeing, and in his ability to make himself immediately and con- tentedly at home. There is a story which illustrates this that is told by a young American banker who has been living in Paris for the last six years. He met one day on the boulevards an old college friend of his, and welcomed him with pleasure.. You must let me be your guide, the banker said. I have been here so long now that I know just what you oii~lit to see, and II shall enjoy seeing it with you as much as though it were for the first time. When did you comel The new arrival had reached Paris only three days before, and said that he was ready to see all that it had to show. You have no- thing to do to-night, then l asked the banker. Well, we will drop in at the gardens and the cafds chantants. There is nothing like them anywhere. His friend said he had made the tour of the gai-dens on the night of his arrival, but that he would be glad to revisit them. But that being the case, the banker would rather take him to the caf~sThe Black Cat, and Bruants, and The Dead Rat. These

THE SHOW-PLACES OF PARIS. NIGHT. BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 1) ARIS is the only city in the world I which the visitor from the outside positively refuses to take seriously. He may have come to Paris with an earnest purpose to study art or to investigate the intricacies of French law, or the histor- ical changes of the city; or, if it be a woman, she may have come to choose a trousseau; but no matter how serious his purpose may be, there is always some one part of each day when the visitor rests from his labors and smiles indulgently and does as the Parisians do. Whether the city or the visitor is responsible for this, whether Paris adopts the visitor, or the visitor adapts himself to his surround- ings, it is impossible to say. But there is certainly no other capital of the world in which the stranger so soon takes on the local color, in which he becomes so soon acclimated, and which brings to light in him so many new and unsuspected capa- cities for enjoyment and adventure. Americans go to London for social tri- umph or to float railroad shares, to Rome for arts sake, and to Berlin to study music and economize; but they go to Par- is to enjoy themselves. And there are no young men of any nation who enter into the accomplishment of this so heart- ily and so completely as does the young American. It is hardly possible for the English youth to appreciate Paris per- fectly, because he has been brought up to believe that one Englishman can thrash three Frenchmen, and because he holds a nation that talks such an absurd lan- guage in some contempt; hence he is fre- quently while there irritable and rude, and jostles men at the public dances, and in other ways asserts his dignity. But the American goes to Paris as though returning to his inheritance and to his own people. He approaches it with the friendly confidence of a child. Its language holds no terrors for him; and he feels himself fully equipped if he can ask for his edition, and say, Co- cher, allez Henrys tout sweet. There is nothing so joyous and confiding as the American during his first visit to the French metropolis. He has been told by older men of the gay, glad days of the Second Empire, and by his college chum of the summer of the last exposition, and he enters Paris determined to see all that any one else has ever seen, and to outdo all that any one else has ever done, and to stir that city to its suburbs. He saves his time, his money, and his superfluous energy for this visit, and the most amusing part of it is that he al- ways leaves Paris fully assured that he has enjoyed himself while there more thoroughly than any one else has ever done, and that the city will require two or three months rest before it can readjust itself after the shock and wonder due to his meteoric flight through its limits. London he dismisses in a week as a place in which you can get good clothes at mod- erate prices, and which supports some very entertaining music - halls; but Paris, he tells you, ecstatically, when he meets you on the boulevards or at the bankers, where he is drawing grandly on his letter of credit, is the greatest place on earth, and he adds, as evidence of the truth of tl~is, that he has not slept in three weeks. He is unsurpassed in his omnivorous ca- pacity for sight-seeing, and in his ability to make himself immediately and con- tentedly at home. There is a story which illustrates this that is told by a young American banker who has been living in Paris for the last six years. He met one day on the boulevards an old college friend of his, and welcomed him with pleasure.. You must let me be your guide, the banker said. I have been here so long now that I know just what you oii~lit to see, and II shall enjoy seeing it with you as much as though it were for the first time. When did you comel The new arrival had reached Paris only three days before, and said that he was ready to see all that it had to show. You have no- thing to do to-night, then l asked the banker. Well, we will drop in at the gardens and the cafds chantants. There is nothing like them anywhere. His friend said he had made the tour of the gai-dens on the night of his arrival, but that he would be glad to revisit them. But that being the case, the banker would rather take him to the caf~sThe Black Cat, and Bruants, and The Dead Rat. These 126 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. his friend had visited on his second even- ing. Oh,well, we can cross the river, then, and I will show you some slumming, said the banker. You should see the places where the thieves gothe Chateau Rouge and Pare Lunette. I went there last night,said the new- comer. The man who had lived six years in Paris took the stranger by the arm and asked him if he was sure he was not en- gaged for that evening. For if you are not, he said, you might take me with you and show me some of the sights ! The American visitor is not only un- daunted by the strange language, but un- impressed by the signs of years of vivid his- tory about him. He sandwiches a glimpse at the tomb of Napoleon, and a trip on a penny steamer up the Seine, and back again to the Morgue, with a rush through the Cathedral of Notre Dame, between the hours of his breakfast and the race-meet- ing at Longchamps the same afternoon. Nothing of present interest escapes him, and nothing bores him. He assimilates and grasps the method of Parisian exist- ence with a rapidity that leaves you won- dering in the rear, and at the end ofe a week can tell you that you should go to one side of the Grand H6tel for cigars, and to the other to have your hat blocked. He knows at what hour Yvette Guilbert comes on at the Ambassadeurs, and on which mornings of the week the flower- market is held around the Madeleine. While you are still hunting for apart- ments he has visited the sewers under the earth, and the Eiffel Tower over the earth, and eaten his dinner in a tree at Robin- sons, and driven a coach to Versailles over the same road upon which the mob tramped to bring Marie Antoinette back to Paris, without being the least impressed by the contrast which this offers to his own progress. He develops also a daring and reckless spirit of adventure, which would never have found vent in his na- tive city or town, or in any other foreign city or town. It is in the air, and he enters into the childish good-nature of the place and of the people after the same manner that the head of a family grows young again at his class reunmon. One Harvard graduate arrived in Paris summer before last during those riots, which originated with the students, and were carried on by the working-people, and which were cynically spoken of on the boulevards as the Revolution of Sara Brown. In any other city he would have watched these ebullitions from the outskirts of the mob, or remained a pas- sive spectator of what did not concern him, but being in Paris, and for the first time, lie mounted a barricade, and made a stirring address to the students behind it in his best Harvard French, and was promptly cut over the head by a gendarme and conveyed to a hospital, where lie re- rnained during his stay in the gay metrop- olis. But lie ~till holds that Paris is the finest place that he has ever seen. There was another American youth who stood up suddenly in the first row of seats at the Nouveau Ciuque and wagered the men with him that he would jumpinto the water with which the circus ring is flooded night- ly, and swim, accoutred as lie was, to the other side. They promptly took him at his word, and the audience of French bourgeois were charmed by the spectacle of a young gentleman in evening dress swimming calmly across the tank, and clambering leisurely out on the other side. He was loudly applauded for this, and the management sent the American origi- nal home in a fiacre. In any other city he would have been hustled by the ushers and handed over to the police. Those show-places of Paris which are seen only at night, and of which one hears the most frequently, are curiously few in number. It is their quality and not their quantity which has made them talked about. It is quite as possible t& tell off on the fingers of two haiids the names and the places to which the vis- itor to Paris will be taken as it is quite impossible to count the number of tinies he will revisit them. In London there are so many licensed places of amusement that a man might visit one every night for a year and never enter the same place twice, and the places of unofficial entertainment are so numerous that men spend years in London and never hear of nooks and corners in it as odd and strange as Stevensons Suicide Club or Fagans School for Thievespublic-houses where blind beggars regain their sight and the halt and lanie walk and dance, music- halls where the line is strictly drawn be- tween the gentleman who smokes a clay pipe and the one who smokes a brier, and arenas like the Lambeth School of Arms, THE SHOW-PLACES OF PARIS. 127 from which boy pugilists and coal-heav- ers graduate to the prize-ring, and such thoroughfares as Ships Alley, where in the space of fifty yards twenty murders have occurred in three years. In Paris there are virtually no slums at all. The dangerous classes are there, and there is an army of beggars and wretches as poor and brutal as are to be found at large in any part of the world, but the Parisian criminal has no envi- ronment, no setting. He plays the part quite as effectively as does the London or New York criminal, but he has no ap- propriate scenery or mechanical effects. If he wishes to commit murder, he is forced to make the best of the well paved, well-lighted, and cleanly swept avenue. He cannot choose a labyrinth of alley- ways and covered passages, as he could were lie in Whitechapel, or a net-work of tenements and narrow side streets, as he could were he in the city of New York. Young men who have spent a couple of weeks in Paris, and who have been taken slumming by paid guides, may pos- sibly question the accuracy of this. They saw some very awful places indeedone place they remember in particular, called the Chateau Rouge, and another called Pare Lunette. The reason they so par- ticularly remember these two places is that these are the only two places any one ever sees, and they do not recall the fact that the neighboring houses were of hopeless respectability, and that they were able to pick up a cab within a hundred yards of these houses. Young Frenchmen who know all the worlds of Paris tell you mysteriously of these places, and of how they visited them dis- guised in blue smocks, and guarded by detectives; detectives themselves speak to you of them as a fisherman speaks to you of a favorite rock or a deep hole where you can always count on finding fish, and every newspaper correspondent who visits Paris for the first time writes home of them as typical of Parisian low life. They are as typical of Parisian low life as the animals in the Zoo in Central Park are typical of the other animals we see drawing stages and horse-cars and brough- ams on the city streets, and we require the guardianship of a detective when we visit them as much as we would need a policeman in Mulberry Bend or at an organ recital in Carnegie Hall. They are show - places, or at least they have become so, and though they would no doubt exist without the aid of the tourist or the man about town of intrepid spirit, they count upon him, and are prepared for him with set speeches, and are as ready to show him all that there is to see as are the guides around the Capitol at Washington. I should not wish to be misunder- stood as saying that these are the only abodes of poverty and the only meeting- places for criminals in Paris, which would of course be absurd, but they are the only places of such interest that the visitor sees. There are other places, chiefly wine- shops in cellars in the districts of Glaci~re, Montrouge, or Villette, but unless an in- spector of police leads you to them, and points out such and such men as thieves, you would not be able to distinguish any difference between them and the wine- shops and their habitu~s north of the bridges and within sound of the boule- vards. The paternal municipality of Paris, and the thought it has spent in lay- ing out the streets, and the generous man- ner in which it has lighted them, are re- ponsible for the lack of slums. Houses of white stucco, and broad, cleanly swept boulevards with double lines of gas lamps and shade trees, extend,without considera- tion for the criminal, to the fortifications and beyond, and the thief and bully whose interests are so little regarded is forced in consequence to hide himself underground in cellars or in the dark shadows of the Bois de Boulogne at night. This used to appeal to me as one of the most peculiar characteristics of Paristhat the most des- perate poverty and the most heartless of crimes continued in neighborhoods no- torious chiefly for their wickedness, and yet which were in appearance as well or- dered and commonplace-looking as the new model tenements in Harlem or the trim working-mens homes in the factory districts of Philadelphia. The Chateau Rouge was originally the house of some stately family in the time of Louis XIV. They will tell you there that it was one of the mistresses of this monarch who occupied it, and will point to the frescoes of one room to show how magnificent her abode then was. This tradition may or may not be true, but it adds an interest to the house, and fur- nishes the dramatic contrast to its present wretchedness. It is a tall building paint- 128 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ed red, and set back from the street in a court. There are four rooms filled with deal tables on the first floor, and a long counter with the usual leaden top. Who- ever buys a glass of wine here may sleep with his or her head on the table, or lie at length upstairs on the floor of that room where one still sees the stucco cupids of the fine ladys boudoir. It is now a lodging-house for beggars and for those who collect the ends of castaway cigars and cigarettes on the boulevards and pos- sibly for those who thieve in a small way. By ten oclock each night the place is fill- ed with men and women sleeping heavily at the tables, with their heads on their arms, or gathered together for miserable company, whispering and gossiping, each sippin~ jealously of his glass of red wine. There is a little room at the rear, the walls of which are painted with scenes of celebrated murders, and the portraits of the murderers, of anarchists, and of their foes the police. A sharp-faced boy points to these with his cap, and recites his les- son in a high singsong, and in an argot which makes all he says quite unintel- ligible. He is interesting chiefly because the men of whom he speaks are heroes to him, and he roars forth the name of Antoine, who murdered the policeman Jervois, as though he were saying Gain- betta, the founder of the republic, and with the innocent confidence that you will share with him in his enthusiasm. The pictures are ghastly things, in which the artist has chiefly done himself honor in the generous use of scarlet paint for blood, and in the way he has shown how by rapid gradations the criminal descends from well - dressed innocence to ragged viciousness, until he reaches the steps of the guillotine at Roquette. It is a mis- erable chamber of horrors, in which the heavy-eyed absinthe - drinkers raise their heads to stare mistily at the visitor, and to listen for the hundredth time to the boys glib explanation of each daub in the gal- lery around them, from the picture of the vermilion - cheeked young woman who caused the trouble, to an imaginative pic- ture of Montfaucon covered with skulls, where, many years in the past, criminals swung in chains. The cafd of Pare Lunette is just around several sharp corners from the Chateau Rouge. It was originally presided over by an old gentleman who wore spectacles, which gave his shop its name. It is a resort of the lowest class of women and men, and its walls are painted through- out with faces and scenes a little better in execution than those in the Chateau Rouge, and a little worse in subject. It is a very small place to enjoy so wide- spread a reputation, and its front room is uninteresting, save for a row of casks resting on their sides, on the head of each of which is painted the portrait of some noted Parisian, like Zola, Eiffel, or Boulanger. The young proprietor fell upon us as his natural prey the night we visited the place, and drove us before him frito a room in the rear of the wine-shop. He was followed as a matter of course by a dozen men in blouses, and as many bareheaded women, who placed them- selves expectantly at the deal tables, and signified what it was they wished to drink before going through the form of asking us if we meant to pay for it. They were as ready to do their part of the enter- tainment as the actors of the theatre are ready to go on when the curtain ris es,and there was nothing about any of them to suggest that he or she was there for any other reason than the hope of a windfall in the person of a stranger who would supply him or her with money or liquor. A long-haired boy with a three days growth of hair upon his chin, of whom the proprietor spoke proudly as a poet, recited in verse a long descrip- tive story of what the pictures on the wall were intended to represent, and an- other youth, with a Vandyck beard and slouched hat, and curls hanging to his shoulder, sang Aristide Bruants song of Saint Lazare. All of the women of the place belonged to the class which spends many nionthis oC each year in that prison. The music of the song is in a minor key, and is strangely sad and eerie. It is the plaint of a young girl writing to her lover from within the walls of the prison, beg- ging him to be faithful to her while she is gone, and Bruant cynically makes her designate three or four of her feminine friends as those whose society she partic- ularly desires him to avoid. The women, all of whom sang with sodden serious- ness, may not have appreciated how well the words of the song applied to them- selves, but you could imagine that they did, and this gave to the moment and the scene a certain touch of interest. Apart from this the place was dreary and the pictures indecent and stupid. / -.#~x - 7 / ( / / / C There is much more of interest i n the Cafd of Aristide Bruant, on the Boulevard Rochechouart. Bruant is the modern Fran9ois Villon. He is the poet of tli~e people, and more especially of the criminal classes. He sings the virtues or the lack of virtue of the several districts of Paris, with the life of which he claims an intimate familiarity. He is the bard of the bully, and of the thief, and of the men who live on the earnings of women. He is un- questionably one of the most picturesque figures in Paris, but his picturesqueness is spoiled in some degree by the evident fact that he is conscious of it. He is a poet, but he is very much more of a poseur. Bruant began by singing his own songs in the cafd chantant in the Champs Ely- sdes, and celebrating in them the life of Montmartre, and the Place de Ia R6pub- lique, and of the Bastille. He has done for the Parisian bully what Albert Chev- allier has done for the coster of White- chapel, and Edward Harrigan for the East Side of New York, but with the im- portant difference that the Frenchman claims to be one of the class of whom he VOL. xc.No. 53512 writes, and the audacity with which he robs stray visitors to his cafd would seem to justify his claims. There is no ques- tion as to the strength in his poems, nor that he gives you the spirit of the places which he describes, and that he sees whatever is dramatic and characteristic in them. But the utter heartlessness with which he writes of the wickedness of his friends the Maquereaux rings false, and sounds like an affectation. One of the best specimens of his verse is the one in which he tells of the Bois do Bonlogne at night, when the woods, he says, cloak all manner of evil things, and when, instead of the rustling of the leaves, you hear the groans of the homeless tossing in their sleep under the sky, and calls for help suddenly hushed, and the angry cries of thieves who have fallen out over their spoils and fight among themselves; or the hurried footsteps of a belated old gen- tleman hastening home, and followed si- lently in the shadow of the trees by men who fall upon and rob him after the fashion in vented and perfected by P~re Fran9ois. Others of his poems are like THE CHATEAU ROUGE. 130 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the most realistic paragraphs of LAssom- moir and Nana put into verse. Bruant himself is a young man, and an extremely handsome one. He wears his yellow hair separated in the middle and combed smoothly back over his ears, and dresses at all times in brown velvet, with trousers tucked in high boots, and a red shirt and broad sombrero. He has had the compliment paid him of the most sincere imitation, for a young man made up to 109k exactly like him now sings his songs in the cafds, even the characteristically modest one in which Bruant slaps his chest and exclaims at the end of each verse~ And I? I am Bruant. The real Bruant sings every night in his own cafd, but as his under-study at the Amhassadeurs is frequently mistaken for him, he may be said to have accomplished the rather dim- cult task of being in two places at once. Bruants cafd is a little shop barred and black without, and guarded by a com- missionnaire dressed to represent a police- man. If you desire to enter, this man raps on the door, and Bruant, when he is quite ready, pushes back a little panel, and scrutinizes the visitor through the grated opening. If he approves of you he unbars the door, with much jangling of chains and rasping of locks, and you enter a tiny shop, filled with three long tables, and hung with all that is absurd and fantastic in decoration, from Cherets bill-posters to unframed oil-paintings, and from beer-mugs to plaster death-masks. There is a different salutation for every one who enters this cafd, in which all those already in the place join in chorus. A woman is greeted by a certain burst of melody, and a man by another, and a sol- dier with easy satire, as representing the government, by an imitation of the fan- fare which is blown by the trumpeters whenever the President appears in pub- lic. There did not seem to be any greet- ing which exactly fitted our case, so Bin- ant waved us to a bench, and explained to his guests, with a shrug: These are two gentlemen from the boulevards who have come to see the thieves of Montmar- tre. If they are quiet and well-behaved we will not rob them. After this some- what discouraging reception we, in our innocence, sat perfectly still, and tried to think we were enjoying ourselves, while we allowed ourselves to be robbed by waiters and venders of songs and books without daring to murmur or protest. Bruant is assisted in the entertainment of his guests by two or three young men who sing his songs, the others in the room joining with them. Every third number is sung by the great man himself, swag- gering up and down the narrow limits of the place, with his hands sunk deep in the pockets of his coat, and his head rolling on his shoulders. At the end of each verse he withdraws his hands, and brushes his hair back over his ears, and shakes it out like a mane. One of his perquisites as host is the privilege of sa- luting all of the women as they leave, of which privilege he avails himself when they are pretty, or resigns it and bows gravely when they are not. It is amus- ing to notice how the different women approach the door when it is time to go, and how the escort of each smiles proud- ly when the young man deigns to bend his head over the lips of the girl and kiss her good-night. The cafd of the Black Cat is much finer and much more pretentious than Em- ants shop, and is of wider fame. It is, indeed, of an entirely different class, but it comes in here under the head of the show-places of Paris at night. It was originally a sort of club where journalists and artists and poets met round the tables of a restaurant-keeper who happened to be a patron of art as well, and who fitted out his caf6 with the canvases of his cus- tomers, and adopted their suggestions in the arrangement of its decoration. The outside world of Paris heard of these gath- erings at the Black Cat, as the caf6 and club were called, and of the wit and spirit of its habitu~s, and sought admittance to its meetings, which was at first granted as a great privilege. But at the present day the cafd has been turned over into other hands, and is a show-place pure and simple, and a most interesting one. The caPi proper is fitted throughout with heavy black oak, or something in imita- tion of it. There are heavy broad tables and high wainscoting and an immense fireplace and massive rafters. To set off the sombreness of this, the walls are covered with panels in the richest of cob ors, by Steinlen, the most imaginative and original of the Parisian illustrators, in all of which the black cat appears as a subject, but in a different r6le and with separate treatment. Upon one pan- el hundreds of black cats race over the ocean, in another they are waltzing with K z nainds in the woods, and in another are whirling through space over red - tiled roofs, folio wed by beautiful young women, gendarmes, and boulevardiers in hot pur- suit. And in every other part of the cafe the black cat appears as frequently as did the head of Charles I. in the writings of Mr. Dick. It stalks stuffed in its natu- ral skin, or carved in wood, with round glass eyes and long red tongue, or it perches upon the chimney - piece with back arched and tail erect, peering down from among the pewter pots and salvers. The gas -jet shoots from the mouths of wrought-iron cats, and the dismembered beads of others gnu out into the night from the stained - glass windows. The room shows the struggle for what is odd and bizarre, but the drawings in black and white and the water-colors and oil-paint- ings on the walls are signed by some of the cleverest artists in Paris. The in- scriptions and rules and regulations are as odd as the decorations. As, for ex- ample, the one placed half- way up the narrow flight of stairs, which leads to the tiny theatre, and which commemorates the fact that the caf6 was on such a night visited by President Carnot, whoso the inscription adds, lest the visitor should suppose the Black Cat was at all im- pressed by the honor is the successor of Charlemagne arid Napoleon I An- other fancy of the Black Cat was at one time to dress all the waiters in the green coat and gold olive leaves of the members of the Institute, to show how little the poets and artists of the cafe thought of the other artists and poets who belonged to that ancient institution across the bridges. But this has now been given up, either because the uniforms proved too expensive, or because some one of the Black Cats habitu6s had left his friends for a ribbon to wear in his coat, and so spoiled the satire. Three times a week there is a perform- ance in the theatre upstairs, at which poets of the neighborhood recite their own verses, and some clever individual tells a story, with a stereopticon and a caste of pasteboard actors for accessories. These AT THE BLACK cAT. THE SHOW-PLACES OF PARIS. 133 latter little plays are very clever and well arranged, and as nearlyproper as a French- man with such a temptation to be other- wise could be expected to make them. It is a most informal gathering, more like a performance in a private house than a theatre, and the most curious thing about it is the character of the audience, which, instead of being bohemian and ar It would be impossible to write of the entertainment Paris affords at night with- out cataloguing the open-air concerts and the public gardens and dance-halls. The best of the cafds chantants in Paris is the Ambassadeurs. There are many others, but the Ambassadeurs is the best known, is nearest to the boulevards, and has the best restaurant. It is like all the rest in tistic, is composed chiefly of worthy born- geoisie, and young men and young wo- men properly chaperoned by the parents of each. They sit on very stiff wooden chairs, while a young man stands on the floor in front of them with his arms com- fortably folded and recites a poem or a monologue, or plays a composition of his own. And then the lights are all put out, and a tiny curtain is rung up, showing a square hole in the proscenium, covered with a curtain of white linen. On this are thrown the shadows of the pasteboard figures, who do the most re- markable things with a naturalness which might well shame some living actors. its general arrangement, or all the others copy it, so that what is true of the Am- bassadeurs may be considered as descrip- tive of them all. The Ambassadeurs is a roof-garden on the ground, except that there are comfort- able benches instead of tables with chairs about them, and that there is gravel under- foot in place of wooden flooring. Lining the block of benches oii either side are rows of boxes, and at the extreme rear is the restaurant, with a wide balcony, where people sit and dine, and listen to the mu- sic of the songs without running any risk of hearing the words. The stage is shut in with mirrors and set with artificial 7 A CAF]~ CLIANTANT. 134 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. flowers, which make a bad background for the artists, and which at matindes, iii the broad sunlight, look very ghastly in- deed. But at night, when all the gas-jets are lit and the place is crowded, it is very gay, joyous, and pretty. The Parisian may economize in house- hold matters, in the question of another egg for his breakfast, and in the turning of an uneaten entrde into a soup, but in public he is most generous: and he is in nothing so generous as in his reckless use of gas. He raises ten lamp-posts to every one that is put up in London or New York, and he does not plant them only to light some thing or some person, but because they are pleasing to look at in themselves. It is difficult to feel gloomy in a city which is so genuinely illuminated that one can sit in the third-story window of a hotel and read a newspaper by the glare of the gas-lamps in the street below. This is a very wise generosity, for it helps to attract people to Paris, who spend money there, so that in the end the light- ing of the city may be said to pay for it- self. If we had as good government in New York as there is in Paris, Madison Square would not depend for its brilliancy at ni~,ht on the illuminated advertising of two business firms. Individuals follow the municipality of Paris in this extravagance, and the Am- bassadeurs is in consequence as brilliant as many rows of gas - jets can make it, and these globes of white light among the green branches of the trees are one of the prettiest effects on the Champs Elys~es at night. They do not turn night into day, but they make the darkness itself more at- tractive by contrast. The performers at the Ambassadeurs are the best in their line of work, and the audiences are com- posed of what in London would be called the middle class, mixed with cocottes and boulevardiers. You will also often see American men and women who are well known at home dining there on the bal- cony, but they do not bring young girls with them. It is interesting to note what pleases French people of the class who gather at these open-air concerts. What is artistic they seem to appreciate much more fully AT THE MOULIN ROUGE. (1 - THE SHOW-PLACES OF PAIRIS. 135 Lhan would an American or an English audience; at least they are more demon- strative in their applause; but the contra- dictory feature of their appreciation lies in their delight and boisterous enthusi- asm, not only over what is very good, but also over what is most childish horse-play. They enjoy with equal zest the quiet in- imitable character studies of Nicolle and the efforts of two trained dogs to play upon a fiddle, while a hideous gaunt crea- ture, six foot tall, in a womans ballet costume, throws them off their chairs in convulsions of delight. They are like children with a mature sense of the ar- tistic, and still with an infantile delight in what is merely noisy and absurd. It is also interesting to note how much these audiences will permit from the stage in the direction of suggestiveness, and what would be called elsewhere outraged propriety. This is furnished them to the highest degree by Yvette Guilbert. It seems that as this artist be-. came less of a novelty, she recognized that it would be necessary for her to increase the audacity of her songs if she meant to hold her original place in the interest of her audiences, and she has now reached a point in daring which seems hardly possible for her or any one else to pass. No one can help delighting in her and in her line of work, in her subtlety, her grace, and the absolute knowledge she possesses of what she wants to do and how to do it. But her songs are beyond anything that one finds in the most impossible of French novels or among the legends of the Vien- nese illustrated papers. These latter may treat of certain subjects in a too realistic or in a scoffing but amusing manner, but Guilbert talks of things which are limited generally to the clinique of a hos- pital and the blague of medical students; things which are neither funny, witty, nor quaint,but simply nasty and offensive. The French audiences of the open-air con- certs, however, enjoy these, and encore her six times nightly. At Pastors The- atre last year a French girl sang a song which probably not one out of three hundred in the audience understood, but which she delivered with such appropriate- ness of gesture as to make her meaning plain. When she left the stage there was absolute silence in the house, and in the wings the horrified manager seized her by the arms, and in spite of her protests re- fused to allow her to reappear. So her performance in this country was limited to that one song. It was a very long trip to take for such a disappointment, and the management were, of course, to blame for not knowing what they wanted and what their audiences did not want, but the incident is interesting as showing how widely an American and a French audi- ence differ in matters of this sort. There was another French woman who appeared in New York last winter, named Duclerc. She is a very beautiful woman, and very popular in Paris, and I used to think her very amusing at the Ambassa- deurs, where she appealed to a sympathetic audience; but in a New York theatre she gave you a sense of personal responsibil- ity that sent cold shivers down your back, and you lacked the courage to applaud, 5OME YOUNG PEOPLE OF MONTMARTRE. g z 0 z 0 F ( THE SHOW-PLACES OF PARIS. 137 when even the gallery looked on with sullen disapproval. And when the Irish comedian who followed her said that he did not understand her song, but that she was quite right to sing it under an um- brella, there was a roar of relief from the audience which showed it wanted some one to express its sentiments, which it had been too polite to do except in silence. This tolerance impressed me very much, especially because I had seen the same woman suffer at the hands of her own people, whom she had chanced to offend. The incident is interesting, perhaps, as showin,, that the French have at times not only the childs quick delight, but also the cruelty of a child, than which there is nothing more unreasoning and nothing more savage. One night at the Ambassadeurs, when Duclerc had finished the first verse of her song, a man rose suddenly in the front row of seats and insulted her. Had he used the same words in any American or English theatre, he would have been hit over the head by the member of the or- chestra nearest him, and then thrown out of the theatre into the street. It appeared from this mans remarks that the actress had formerly cared for him, but that she had ceased to do so, and that he had come there that night to show her how well he could stand such treatment. He did this by bringing another woman with him, and by placing a dozen bullies from Mont- martre among the audience to hiss the actress when she appeared. This they did with a rare good-will, while the re- jected suitor in the front row continued to insult her, assisted at the same time by his feminine companion. No one in the audience seemed to heed this, or to look upon it as unfair to himself or to the ac- tress, who was becoming visibly hysteri- cal. There was a piece of wood lying on the stage that had been used in a previous act, and Duclcrc, in a frenzy at a word which the man finally called to her, sud- denly stooped, and picking this up, hurled it at him. In an instant the entire audience was on its feet. This last was an insult to itself. As long as it was Duclerc who was being attacked, it did not feel nor show any responsibility, but when she dared to hurl sticks of wood at the face of a Pa- risian audience, it rose in its might and shouted its indignation. Under the cover of this confusion the hired bullies stooped, and scooping up handfuls of the gravel XOL. xc.No. 53513 with which the place is strewn, hurled them at Duclerc, until the stones rattled around her on the stage like a fall of hail. She showed herself a very plucky woman, and continued her song, even though you could see her face growing white beneath the rouge, and her lees twisting and sinking under her when she tried to dance. It was an awful scene, breaking so suddenly into the easy programme of the evening, and one of the most cowardly and unmanly exhibi- tions that I have ever witnessed. There did not seem to be a man in the place who was not standing up and yelling A bas IDuclerc ! and the groans and hisses and abuse were like the worst ef- forts of a mob. Of course the stones did not hurt the woman, but the insult of be- ing stoned did. They put an end to her misery at last by ringing down the cur- tain, and they said at the stage door af- terwards that she had been taken home in a fit. When I saw her a few months later at Pastors, I was thankful that, as a peo- ple, our self-respect is not so easily hurt as to make us revenge a slight upon it by throwing stones at a woman. Of course a Frenchman might say that it is not fair to judge the Parisians by the au- dience of a music-hall, but there were several ladies of title and gentlemen of both worlds in the audience, who a few months later assailed Jane Hading when she appeared as Phryne in the Op6ra Comique with exactly the same violence and for as little cause. These outbursts are only temporary aberrations, however; as one of the attendants of the Ambassa- deurs said, To-morrow they will applaud her the more to make up for it, which they probably did. It is in the same spirit that they change the names of streets, and pull down columns only to rebuild them again, until it would seem a wise plan for them, as one Englishman suggested, to put the Column of Vend6me on a hinge, so that it could be raised and lowered with less trouble. Of the public gardens and dance-halls there are a great number, and the men who have visited Paris do not have to be told much concerning them, and the wo- men obtain a sufficiently correct idea of what they are like from the photographs along the Rue de Rivoli to prevent their wishing to learn more. What these gar- dens were in the days of the Second Em- 138 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. pire, when the Jardin Mabille and the Bal Bonille were celebrated through books and illustrations, and by word of mouth by every English and American traveller who had visited them, it is now difficult to say. It may be that they were the scenes of mad abandon and fascinating frenzy, of which the last generation wrote with mock horror and with suggestive smiles, and of which its members now speak with a sigh of regret. But we are al- ways ready to doubt whether that which has passed away, and which in conse- quence we cannot see, was as remarkable as it is made to appear. We depreciate it in order to console ourselves. And if the Mabille and the Bouille were no more wickedly attractive in those days than is the Moulin Rouge which has taken their place under the Republic, we cannot but feel that the men of the last generation visited Paris when they were very young. Perhaps it is true that Paris was more careless and happy then. It can easily be argued so, for there was more money spent under the Empire, and more money given away in fetes and in spectacles and in pub- lic pleasures, and the Parisian in those days had no responsibility. Now that he has a voice and a vote, and is the equal of his President, he devotes himself to those things which did not concern him at all in the earlier times. Then the Emperor and his ministers felt the responsibility, and asked of him only that he should en- joy himself. But whatever may have been true of the spirit of Paris then, the man who visits it to-day expecting to see Leechs illustrations and Mark Twains descrip- tion of the Mabille reproduced in the Jardin de Paris and the Moulin Rouge will be disappointed. He will, on the contrary, find a great deal of light and some very good music, and a mi& ed crowd composed chiefly of young women and Frenchmen well advanced in years and English and American tourists. The young women have all the charm that only a French woman possesses, and pa- rade quietly below the boxes, and before the rows of seats that stretch around the hall or the garden, as it happens to be, and are much better behaved and infinite- ly more self-respecting and attractive in appearance than the women of their class in London or New York. But there are no students nor grisettes to kick off high hats and to dance in an ecstasy of abandon. There are in their places from four to a dozen ugly women and shamefaced-look- ing men, who are hired to dance, and who go sadly through the figures of the qua- drille, while one of the women after an- other shows how high she can kick, and from what a height she can fall on the asphalt, and do what in the language of acrobats is called a split; there is no other name for it. It is not an edifying nor thrilling spectacle. The most notorious of these dance- halls is the Moulin Rouge. You must have noticed when journeying through France the great windmills that stand against the sky-line on so many hill- tops. They are a picturesque and typ- ical feature of the landscape, and seem to signify the honest industry and prim- itiveness of the French people of the provinces. And as the great arms turn in the wind you can imagine you can hear the sound of the mill-wheel clacking while the wheels inside grind out the flour that is to give life and health. And so when you see the great Red Mill turn high up where four streets meet on the side of Montmartre, and know its pur- pose, you are impressed with the grim contrast of its past uses and its present notoriety. An imaginative person could not fail to be impressed by the sight of the Mouhin Rouge at night. It glows like a furnace, and the glare from its lamps red- dens the sky and lights up the surround- ing streets and cafds and the faces of the people passing like a conflagration. The mill is red, the thatched roof is red, the arms are picked out in electric lights in red globes, and arches of red lamp shades rise on every side against the blackness of the night. Young men and women are fed into the blazing doors of the mill nightly, and the great arms, as they turn unceasingly and noisily in a fiery circle through the air, seem to tell of the wheels within that are grinding out the life and the health and souls of these young peo- ple of Montmartre. If you have visited many of the places touched upon in this article in the same night, you will find yourself caught in the act by the early sunlight, and as it will then be too late to go to bed, you can do nothing better than turn your steps towards the Madeleine. There you may find the market people taking the flowers out of the black canvas wagons and putting up the temporary booths, RICHARD AND ROBIN. 13t~ while the sidewalk is hidden with a mass of roses in their white paper corn ucopi~ and the dark damp green of palms and ferns. It will be well worth your while to go on through the silent streets from this market of flowers to the market of food in the Central Halles, where there are strawberry patches stretching for a block, and bounded by acres of radishes or acres of mushrooms, and by queer fruits from as far south as Algiers and Tunis, just arrived from Marseilles on the train, and green pease and carrots from just beyond the fortifications. It is the only spot in the city where many people are awake. Everybody is awake here, bustling and laughing and scoldingporters with brass badges on their sleeves carrying great piles of vegetables, and plump market- women in white sleeves and caps, and drivers in blue blouses smacking their lips over their hot coffee after their long ride through the night. It is like a great exposition building of food ex- hibits, with the difference that all of these exhibits are to be scattered and are to disappear on the breakfast tables of Paris that same morning. Loud-voiced gentlemen are auctioneering off whole crops of potatoes, a sidewalk at a time, or a small riverful of fish with a single clap of the hands; live lobsters and great tur- tles crawl and squirm on marble slabs, and vistas of red meat stretch on iron hooks from one street corner to the next. You are, and feel that you are, a drone in this busy place, and salute with a sense of guilty companionship the groups of men and girls in dinner dress who have been up all the night and who come singing and chaffing in their open car- riages in search of coffee and a box of strawberries, or a bunch of cold crisp radishes with the dew still on them, which they buy from a virtuous matron of grim and disapproving countenance at a price which throws a lurid light on the profits of Bignons and Laurents. And then you become conscious of your evening dress and generally disso- lute and out-of-place air, and hurry home through the bright sunlight to put out your sputtering candle and to creep shamefacedly to bed. RICHARD AND ROBIN. BY ROBERT GRANT. MY name is DoddridgeGeorge Har - per Doddridgethough it is scarcely important for you to know it, seeing that I am to be merely a chronicler. I am addressed familiarly among my friends and acquaintances as Dodd; but some of the married ones, whose children are en- couraged to ride horseback on my either leg as a sort of indemnity for the dinners I consume, call me Uncle Georgea psen- donyme which has been adopted also by the younger set at the club. I am the oldest bachelor in the house, and yet I am not so very old. Excepting a grizzly patch on either side, my hair is still dark and abundant as a lads; save for a bald spot on the crown; and I can see straight as the crow flies, which all married men of fifty are not able to do. I mention these details merely to demonstrate that I am neither lame, halt, nor blind. And yet they call me Uncle George. I sup- pose the reason is because I have been catalogued as a confirmed old bachelor, and consequently am regarded as a safe repository for all sorts of confidences and a convenient object of social charity. It is generally understood that I shall never marry. My story? Pardon me, I intend to keep that one to myself. Yet I will tell you that I am pointed out to young girls in their first season as a constant man, and I have detected in the eyes of more than one of them a look of sympa- thetic pity, suggestive of a desire to ask me all al~out it, if they only dared. I am the oldest bachelor in the house, both in point of years and occupancy. My rooms are the pleasantest of their kind. From one of my parlor windows I command a glimpse of the harbor over the chimney-tops, and from the other see hills green with foliage or white with snow, according to the season. I came here twenty years ago to a small low house where there was accommodation for only four other lodgers. Eight years back this was pulled down, and on the ground formerly covered by it and two adjoining buildings the present towering

RICHARD AND ROBIN. 13t~ while the sidewalk is hidden with a mass of roses in their white paper corn ucopi~ and the dark damp green of palms and ferns. It will be well worth your while to go on through the silent streets from this market of flowers to the market of food in the Central Halles, where there are strawberry patches stretching for a block, and bounded by acres of radishes or acres of mushrooms, and by queer fruits from as far south as Algiers and Tunis, just arrived from Marseilles on the train, and green pease and carrots from just beyond the fortifications. It is the only spot in the city where many people are awake. Everybody is awake here, bustling and laughing and scoldingporters with brass badges on their sleeves carrying great piles of vegetables, and plump market- women in white sleeves and caps, and drivers in blue blouses smacking their lips over their hot coffee after their long ride through the night. It is like a great exposition building of food ex- hibits, with the difference that all of these exhibits are to be scattered and are to disappear on the breakfast tables of Paris that same morning. Loud-voiced gentlemen are auctioneering off whole crops of potatoes, a sidewalk at a time, or a small riverful of fish with a single clap of the hands; live lobsters and great tur- tles crawl and squirm on marble slabs, and vistas of red meat stretch on iron hooks from one street corner to the next. You are, and feel that you are, a drone in this busy place, and salute with a sense of guilty companionship the groups of men and girls in dinner dress who have been up all the night and who come singing and chaffing in their open car- riages in search of coffee and a box of strawberries, or a bunch of cold crisp radishes with the dew still on them, which they buy from a virtuous matron of grim and disapproving countenance at a price which throws a lurid light on the profits of Bignons and Laurents. And then you become conscious of your evening dress and generally disso- lute and out-of-place air, and hurry home through the bright sunlight to put out your sputtering candle and to creep shamefacedly to bed. RICHARD AND ROBIN. BY ROBERT GRANT. MY name is DoddridgeGeorge Har - per Doddridgethough it is scarcely important for you to know it, seeing that I am to be merely a chronicler. I am addressed familiarly among my friends and acquaintances as Dodd; but some of the married ones, whose children are en- couraged to ride horseback on my either leg as a sort of indemnity for the dinners I consume, call me Uncle Georgea psen- donyme which has been adopted also by the younger set at the club. I am the oldest bachelor in the house, and yet I am not so very old. Excepting a grizzly patch on either side, my hair is still dark and abundant as a lads; save for a bald spot on the crown; and I can see straight as the crow flies, which all married men of fifty are not able to do. I mention these details merely to demonstrate that I am neither lame, halt, nor blind. And yet they call me Uncle George. I sup- pose the reason is because I have been catalogued as a confirmed old bachelor, and consequently am regarded as a safe repository for all sorts of confidences and a convenient object of social charity. It is generally understood that I shall never marry. My story? Pardon me, I intend to keep that one to myself. Yet I will tell you that I am pointed out to young girls in their first season as a constant man, and I have detected in the eyes of more than one of them a look of sympa- thetic pity, suggestive of a desire to ask me all al~out it, if they only dared. I am the oldest bachelor in the house, both in point of years and occupancy. My rooms are the pleasantest of their kind. From one of my parlor windows I command a glimpse of the harbor over the chimney-tops, and from the other see hills green with foliage or white with snow, according to the season. I came here twenty years ago to a small low house where there was accommodation for only four other lodgers. Eight years back this was pulled down, and on the ground formerly covered by it and two adjoining buildings the present towering 140 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. apartment - house was erected. I went around the world while the work was be- ing done, and on my return installed myself in my present quarters, where I intend to die. The homelike feeling which I knew beneath the roof with a landlady has departed, but I have all the modern conveniences under the sway of a janitor; notably plumbing and electri- city. There is a fire-escape at my bed- chamber window; but if the house burns, I shall burn with it rather than risk the descent. It is well enough for the family man to go down a stepladder in his night- gown at dead of night; but I have only a nephew, who will not be inconsolable, to mourn me. This vicinity is a favorite one for bach- elors, and deservedly so, for it is central, and many things which single men who have to shift for themselves require are close at hand; though, come to think of it, the bachelors were here before the creature comforts, and the neighborhood has grown up to cater to our necessities. The three houses which stood where our apartment-house, the Rexford, now stands were all occupied by single men, and there were other warrens across the way and on the same street, out of which or into which at almost any hour of the day or night single mcii were liable to pop. Now the Rexford shelters all; and shelters not merely bachelors, for in the fiat immediately under mine a girl artist lives a blameless life, and across the en- try from hers is the home of a woman who writes for the society newspapers, and has literary aspirations. Our little world has become more complex now that the sphere of woman has widened, and there is a milliner as well as a florist and an apothecary in close proximity to the Rexford. Two doctors have their signs directly opposite, and there is an- other~-a bachelorin the house. There is a cabman at the corner, and altogether I am very well off for a single man. Twenty years! They tell me I am growing set~ as all old bachelors do; and I will admit that I am more particular than I used to be about my food, and like to have it at certain times and piping hot. Still, I can assume as cheerful a counte- nance as any man of my age, or younger, if the dinner hour of my host be eight oclock, or some heedless girl fresh from the nursery makes a mistake of thirty minutes and is a quarter tardy into the bargain. A man who, like myself, is constantly climbing up and down an- others stairs cannot afford to run amuck too fiercely with the world if he does not wish to comprehend how much more bit- ter in the long-run the club salt is than any other. Twenty years! In that time what an army of bachelors I have seen stepping into life with the down on their upper lips, and stepping from day to day, briskly or sadly as the case might be, un- til they walked up the aisle with a lovers pride, or gave up the fight and subsided into middle-aged single men with bald heads! How many stories I could tell of their doingsstories sometimes of wed- ding-cake and forget-me-nots, and now of broken hearts and ruined lives! Here is one: I used to think blood a delusion, and quite at odds with democratic doctrine, but the older I grow the more am I led to believe that an honorable lineage is the best of heritages. To one who is not a pessimist or a cynic, traditions as to his fathers fathers wisdom and his great- grandmothers engaging charms act as spurs or incentives to noble effort, even though the lustre of his house has been dimmed by adversity and its usefulness foreshortened by death. I have seen more than one man in a tight place squeal like a calf, and have remembered that his father was a miser, or a coward, or a boor. -~ Robert Temple came to live in the old house in the autumn of 71. The some- what fantastic nickname Robin, which his mother gave him when a little boy, had clung to him. It seemed to suit him. He was a slim, rather delicate- looking youth, with what was almost an old-fashioned cast of countenance, and a figure of the dainty type one associates with the era of miniati4res, flowered waist- coats, and tight-fitting coats with brass buttons. His hair was wavy, his expres- sion thoughtful, and his eyesdark, elo- quent pleaders-were now wistful, now scintillant with enthusiasm. I had met him casually before, but with the indifference a young man is apt to ac- cord to another several years his junior, and my real acquaintance dates from th evening when I, the senior of the house went up to pay my respects to the ne~ lodger. His rooms were over mine, ai the top of the house, and he had been ir possession only forty-eight hours. I car RICHARD AND ROBIN. 141 see him now as he looked when I entered. He was engaged in hanging up the sword of his father, who fell at Gettysburg. As we shook hands the tear which he had brushed off, doubtless,when he heard my knock, moistened my wrist. We talked at first of commonplace thingsthe mer- its and demerits of our landlady, and pre- cautions against the too rapid disappear- ance of coal; but presently the conversa- tion drifted back to that with which his soul was full. You were in the war? he asked. No; I enlisted, but typhoid fever laid me low before I was able even to learn the tactics or wear a knapsack. I beg your pardon. What a pity I he said, softly, as though I had told him of some vital grief which he had molested. How I envy my father ! he said, pres- ently. All puzzling problems were ab- sorbed for him in the opportunity to stand at his post and be shot down for the sake of a great right. I understood him well. Often had I upbraided Providence for leaving me in the lurch when it gave my contempora- ries the chance to satisfy conscience at one fell swoop. And here was another, who had been born too late to claim his part, looking back longingly. I answered Robin sufficiently in this vein to show him that I sympathized with him, yet I said, too: They are not the only heroes. The world is full of opportunities today. He looked up at me brightly. I know it, he said. I ought to be ashamed of myself for repining. I have come here to work hard, Mr. Doddridge. Glancing around the room, I saw evi- dences of taste and of an artistic tempera- ment on every side. A variety of prints and etchings, each one of which caught the eye by its merit, were on the walls or ready to hang. Books, knickknacks, a few pieces of choice pottery, which he had picked up in his two years abroad, were in process of arrangement. Close beside me was a large portfolio. Will you let me look at some of your work, I asked, while you continue your - - house-furnishing? He seemed pleased, and cleared a space on the table for the portfolio. While I examined his sketches he stood at my el- bow, putting in a word of explanation now and again, with a fantastic red and white Veather_duster over his shoulder. When I had come to the end he began nervous- ly to dust a Japanese tea-tray. Temple, I said, presently, delaying a little perhaps to choose my words, loath to praise too much, and yet wishing to express my conviction that he had excep- tional talent, I dont think you need envy any one. Some of these are delight- ful. You have a delicacy of fancy of your own which is captivating, and quite unusual. I plume myself on knowing a little something about painting, and so I make bold to give you my opinion. It is a limited range, however, he answered, though lie flushed with gratifi- cation. Yes, it is limited, and a little too delicate, perhaps, for popular apprecia- tion; but it is true. And truth is really what we are all striving after, isnt it? Indeed it is. Thank you very much, Mr. Doddridge. You have no idea how encouraging your praise is to me. I was becoming a little downcast. My family does not approve of my art. They let me go abroad, hoping to cure me, and they are disappointed that I have come back with no more taste for business than before. I remembered that he had two older brothers John Temple, a coffee mer- chant, and Samuel Temple, a gentleman farmer, who had married a rich wife. Have your brothers seen these sketch- es? I inquired. Yes. They say they are very pretty. But my brother John seems to think they wont sell. He says I can be a partner in his firm in five years if I only buckle down. And are you tempted? If it were not for Dick Beriton I should have yielded before this: Dont you know Richard Benton ? he ac~ed. While the question was still On his lips ther. was a sharp knock at 1~he door, and by an odd coincidence the young man to whom he referred entered. I knew his people, and had seen him as a lad on the streets, as in the case~ of Rdbin, but he was practically a new acqui~.intaiice. Two men were never ~nore unlike in personal appearance than these two. Richard-or Dick Benton, as the world~~ called him- was a typical square~should?~red, compact, sturdy specimen of h~PTmanity, with the bearing already at twei~ty-five of an alert, shrewd man of affairs. As I learned the next day, he had just started in business for himself downtown. He looked the 142 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. kind of man who would never tire, has no nerves, and not much imagination, yet of whom one predicates, after the first five minutes, that he has a large fund of horse-sense. There was some- thing refreshingly cheery and wholesome in his demeanor which suggested a steady west wind. We scarcely knew each other in col- lege, explained Robin, presently. We became intimate at one fell swoop, curi- ously enough, on the Gorner Grat. We went up independenLly to see the sun rise, and became friends. What a morning that was ! said Ben- ton. Wasnt it? Not a cloud in the sky, and the mountains gorgeously white with the first snow of the season, which had fallen the afternoon before. Peaks and peaks on every side, and in front of us the Matterhorn towering like a grand, cold goddess. It was sublime. You have never done anything better than the sketch you made then while I looked over your shoulder. I expect to be offered ten thousand dollars for that some day, and to refuse it. Perhaps, said Robin, with a laugh. Mr. Doddridge has been looking at my things, Dick, and he has been kind enough to say that they are pretty good. Of course they are good, Benton said, as he cut some tobacco for a pipe. But Mr. Doddridge is a connoisseur in art. And I know nothing about it? Grant- ed. But I know what I like, Robin, he added, defiantly, as he rammed the caven- dish in, and I like your pictures. And I believe if you stick to your paint-brush you will make your reputation. And how about starving in the mean while? You will not starve, said Benton, quietly. I have one thousand dollars a year, he said, addressing me. On one thou- sand a year can a man dress like a gen- tleman, go into society, and keep a yacht or a saddle-horse? Pshaw ! said Benton. Why should a man who can paint like you think of those things? Leave them to the com- mon clay. Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble minds) To scorn delights, ad live laborious days, I quoted. Robin looked up at me with a gleam of pleasure. When you hear me abused, then, as an unpractical visionary fellow who cant earn his salt, you must stand up for me. I think I understood very well what was working in Robins mind. He was a sensitive soul, and he wished to have public opinion on his side that is, the opinion of his general acquaintance, his contemporaries, then chiefly bachelors. He would have winced, for instance, at the patronizing effrontery of David Finn which was addressed to me two or three days later as we walked up the street to- gether. Finn was another of the four lodgers in our house, and a successful stock - broker, though only just thirty, and an exquisite in his appearance and surroundings. He was reputed to have made two hundred thousand dollars by selling stocks which he did not own, or buying stocks which he had not the mon- ey to pay forI forget which; and he car- ried himself haughtily, as though his fa- ther had been a Montague, whereas the story is that he was a sea-captain who re- tired on the insurance-money which he recovered from a company whose defence was that he had set fire to his own vessel. That was the story, but it may never have been true. Besides, the jury gave him a verdict. Holloa, Uncle George, old chappie! What sort is the new inmate? One of those literary fellows, isnt he? Hes an artist. Oh yes! More money nowadays in painting signs than pictures, isnt there? David Finn hind a prosperous air, which was rather contagious. Society news- paper scavengers habitually described him as well groomed, and he certainly looked as though he had enough to eat and more than enough to drink, and took fully three hundred and sixty-five baths in the course of the year. He was a clever whip too, and could be seen al- most any afternoon on the box of a styl- ish cart behind a neat - looking cob, as sleek and well groomed as his master. In social matters also he was prominent. He had a way of tavisting his mustache which took the place of conversation, and there was no denying his physical come- liness. The mothers of the marriageable girls were wondering whom he would marry. Robins die was castthat is to say, RICHARD AND ROBIN. 143 had definitely decided not to go into the coffee businessand he was hard at work in his studio at the top of our house, which had been adapted to the purpose by cutting a hole in the roof and provid- ing a skylight. I was downtown during the day, but I made a habit of dropping in on him in the evening from time to time to keep track of what lie was doing, and every now and then he would turn his canvases which stood against the wall, or draw the covering from his easel to let me see his work. He could not hope, he said, to do enough for an exhi- bition by the spring, but he expected by the autumn to be ready for the public. Sometimes I met there Richard Benton, who had taken the remaining suite in our house, which had unexpectedly be- come vacant; frequently, too, David Finn, who was directly opposite Robin, and who when he was at home liked an audience. When Finn was present, as may be sur- mised, the conversation did not concern art, but dealt with the operations of syn- dicates, the condition of the stock market, speculations as to how rich A was, and whether B had made or lost money, the relative speed of yachts, and the ailments and fine points of horses. Robin chiefly listened to these recitals in a sort of fasci- nated silence. There was one topic, how- ever, which they discussed in common woman. I have reference to Robins state of mind about Easter-time. It was not un- til then that he began to take notice, so to speak, and to delight to lead the con- versation to their social doings and let it linger there. David Finn had in his ev- ery-day speech a cynical style where the other sex was concerned. He knew of at least ten women in societynot to men- tion nanies. One of the men in ques- tion told me himself, and boasted about it, he would add, to clinch the credibil- ity of the matter. But though his atti- tude in the abstract was one of suspicion, he was not without his enthusiasms re- garding the young women of his ac- quaintance, and though critical, he could be eloquent concerning individual cases of eyes and hair and shoulders. He and Robinand, for the matter of that, Rich- ardwere in the same general social set, and went to much the same entertain- ments, and many a night David would stroll into Robins room at one oclock in \the morning after a ball, with a cigar, to talk it over. Occasionally I would make number three. David was prone to des- cant upon the fine points of the girls he admired in much the same way as he de- scribed with enthusiasm the fine points of a horse. Robin would listen to him and aid and abet him, never hinting at the lateness of the hour, in the hope that sooner or later the name of Gertrude Delamire would be mentioned. It rarely was, unless Robin introduced it himself, which he sometimes did at the fag-end of the evening, in a shy yet off- hand fashion, as though she were to him mere- ly one of fifty, instead of the bright par- ticular angel of his thoughts and dreams. He was sympathetic, too, in the way in which he acquiesced in Davids encomi- ums, in the hope of wringing a favorable opinion from him in regard to her. But David was obdurate, if he understood, or more probably simply indifferent. When once he was brought to bay by a direct question from Robin, he answered: Oh yes, she is well enough. A pretty little thing, but too thin for my style. Com- pare her with Edith Harris, for instance. Theres a neck and pair of shoulders for you! I like women with go, who speak up., Yes, said Robin. The very fact of having breathed her name aloud had brought the color to his cheeks. He was grateful for being able to talk about her, even though the outcome was so meagre. Miss Delamire looks better at some times than others, he added, almost apol- ogetically, and he blushed again. I dare say. Oh, shes well enough, responded Finn, carelessly. Gertrude Delamire was just the sort of girl whom a sensitive, discerning man would fall in love with. She was as del- icate as a S~vres china cup, alike in phy- sique and thought; but she possessed the delicacy of strength, not of decay. It was natural enough that David Finn should accuse her of not speaking up, for she was dainty in her speech and bear- ing, and never did the wooing. I re- meniber well how sweet she looked on the afternoon when our bachelor house was opened for a tea that springone of Rob- ins happy suggestions, of which even old Dodd approved. The refreshments were served in Finns room, but she lingered below to examine a second time the sketch from the Gorner Grat which hung on Richard Bentons wall. Robin was on 144 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the way up stairs, and I heard Miss Edith Harris exclaim to him, Your rooms are too lovely for anything, Mr. Temple, and this is such fun, which was the same re- mark she had made a moment before to me. Isnt that delightful? I said, address- ing Miss Delamire from the doorway. She seemed to start at my questiou, for she had apparently supposed herself alone. So full of poetry and feeling, I added. Oh yes, she said,fervently; only that, and our eyes met; but hers fell, and I had guessed her secret. Robin Temple had won her gentle heart. During that spring David Fiiin and Robin were much together, and were often to be seen side by side on the formers -cart. I said to Finn once, by way of ex- pressing mildly my surprise, though I had to conceal my disapprobation, What, if youll excuse an impudent question, is it that you and Robin Temple find in com- mon? Do you know,Uncle George, was the jaunty answer, as though he were an- nouncing a discovery, Robins not half a bad lot. I thought at first there was a good deal of the sissy about him, but thats only because hes a little different from the rest of us. They call it the artistic temperament, dont they? Well, all I can say is, Id give ducats if I could tie a necktie as he does. On my word, clothes which he has worn a year, and bought ready-made to begin with, fit him better than my things from Poole fit me. If hed only get rid of the idea that he can make his living by painting pictures, and settle down to something practical, I be- lieve hed go ahead fast. Ive told him so half a dozen times. He was a fool to let that partnership slip. Why dont you say a word to him, Dodd, on the same lay? Somehow I think hed take it better from you. Well, ta-ta. We had reached the corner where our ways separated, but I reached out my hand and detained him. See here, Finn, said I, if youre really a friend of Robin Temples, youll stop saying anything of the kind to him. What do you mean? His art is his salvation. Art with a capital A? he asked, with an amused grin. I dont understand you, I answered, coldly. He has very unusual talent. It may be some time before it is appre- ciated so that he is able to sell his pictures to advantage, but if he perseveres he is not unlikely, in my judgment, to become one of the foremost artists of the world. I spoke gravely. Finn looked at me for a moment with a half-quizzical, half-scornful air. I could see that he was not convinced. The best thing for him to do, then, is to marry a rich wife, isnt it? he asked, with an effort to treat the matter lightly. Jam sure, I said, that Robin Temple will never marry any woman for her money, even if it were suggested to him. Finr~ was not an easy man to offend, and my rudeness seemed merely to iniply to him a lack of humor on my part. He put out his hand, and patting me pat- ronizingly on the shoulder, said, with a knowing laugh: It isnt out of the bounds of possibility, is it, Uncle George, that a man might be in love with two wo- men at the same time, and be influenced in his final choice by the fact that one had money and the other was poor as a church mouse? If he were to marry the rich one, could any one say that he was marrying her for her money? Now think that over, Uncle George, when youve no- thing to do, and let me know, he added, with a buoyant chuckle, and strode away. Robins first exhibition was in the fol- lowing October. He displayed twelve pic- tures in the gallery of a prominent dealer. It was on the second day that Richard burst into my room bubbling over with the announcement that two had already been sold, in addition to the one which he himself had picked out to own. The critics are with us, too, he added. There was a first-rate notice in this mornings Despatch; and Brummel, who usually tries to crush the life out of beginners, happen- ed in while I was there, and volunteered to tell me that he should give them a send- off in the Mercury. I was not able to pay my respects to the exhibition until the following day. I had seen most of the pictures in process of composition, so that I had a general idea of their excellence, but as I viewed theni completed and as a whole, I was even more pleased than I had expected to be. I chose a bright landscapea bit of woodland and river which seemed to me thoroughly spirited. On leaving the exhibition gallery one had to pass into the main store, and as I dallied for a mo- ment to examine the dealers treasures, Miss Gertrude Delamire came in from th7 street, without noticing me, I think. She hesitated an instant, then made some in- quiries about a frame in what seemed to me a timid, abashed manner. I pretend- ed to be very busy admiring the lines of one of Baryes lions, and slipped out pres- ently into the street without obtruding my personality on her maiden fancy. The exhibition lasted ten days, and of the twelve pictures six were sold; three of them to people unknown to Robin. Eight hundred dollars, less the dealers commission, was the net return, which seemed to our young artist a prosperous beginning. He informed Finn of his good fortune on the evening after the ex- hibition closed, as they sat smoking in my room. I think Robin was a little nettled that David had not taken the trouble to look in during the ten days, for though he said nothing definite, there was a slight tremor of reproach in the tone in which he remarked, I took in eight hundred dollars clean money, and sold half my pictures. VOL. Xc.No. 535.i 4 The idea that he had been remiss was evidently in Finns mind too, for he said, presently: The market has been fever- ish this week, and Ive been busy. I meant to have a squint at them, Robin, but somehow the time passed, and I didnt get round to it. Thats all right, replied Robin. Youve seen most of them first or last lying about my room. David said nothing for a moment. An idea had occurred to him, and presently he gave us the benefit of it. I suppose, Robin, youd be ready to sell the other six for the same amount of money? Well, now, I tell you what: Ill match you heads or tails to see whether they belong to me. or I pay you another eight hundred dollars. Pictures are not much in my line, barring the great masters, but Uncle George here says you may be a big bug one of these days, and if so, I shall be getting in on the grdund-fioor. Is it a gamble? I could have shaken Finn, though I SHE LINGERED BELOW TO EXAMINE THE SKETCH. 146 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. dare say he imagined that he was making a generous proposal. Robin flushed at first at the careless words and bantering tone, but I could see that on second thought he was fascinated. He glanced at me as though for my ap- proval. This isnt the Stock Exchange, Finn, I exclaimed. No; but Ive made a square offer, which Im ready to stand by. Ill do it, said Robin, suddenly. Very well. Uncle George, will you manipulate the coin? You may name it, Robin. I drew reluctantly from my pocket the necessary half-dollar, and spun it into the air. Robin won. Finn instantly took out his pocket- book. Ill draw you a check now, he said, and he was proceeding to do so, when he suddenly laid down the pen. What do you say, Robin, to my buying you a hundred shares of Atchison with this? Its going up. Id almost be willing to guarantee you against loss. Robins eyes gleamed furtively. I dont know anything about such things. How much would I make? If I put it up as a margin you ought to make another thousand beside the eight hundred. Or lose the eight hundred, I inter- jected. This must have piqued Finn, for he re- torted, boldly: Come, now, Id like to see you make some money. I will guar- antee you against loss. And you too, Uncle George, if youd like to take a flier. Thanksno; I never speculate, I an- s wered. Robin looked at us both. Id be glad to make some money, if you can make it for me, he replied, eagerly. Enough said, said Finn. When another autumn came round Robin had a new lot of pictures to ex- hibit. Again the critics were highly com- plimentary, though not so unreservedly so as on the first occasion. They asserted the critics prerogative to point out what they thought the strong and weak points in his art. They evidently regarded him no longer as a beginner, but an artist of recognized standing. Seven pictures out of sixteen were so?d, at a slight advance in price. Both to Richard Benton and to me this result seemed very satisfactory; and we felt that Robin had made progress that his fancy was bolder and his tech- nique more perfect. During this time his attentions to Miss Delamire had become conspicuous, and I knew from various enigmatic speeches which he let fall from month to x~nonth that he was anx- ious to marry her. He was, comparative- ly speaking, in funds at this time, for Finn had sent him a check for eighteen hundred dollars in less than six weeks .from the time of their conversation. I fancy that Robin made use of much of this for flowers for Miss Delamire, and in try- ing to keep pace with her other admirers in the gay world. I could see that he was restless, and he became more so after David Finns engagement to Miss Edith Harris was announced, and that prosper- ous couple were to be seen daily on a brand-new black and yellow cart behind the well-groomed cob. Confound it all, Dodd, said he to me one evening, how is an artist to marry? On nothing, I answered, promptly. I felt sure that though he had heard me rail at times against improvident mar- riages, and the cruelty of bringing chil- dren into the world to struggle with well- bred poverty, he would not misunderstand me. I knew that the vision of Miss Edith Harris in perpetually superb attire, with a mass of roses at her waist, and mistress of a magnificent establishment, haunted his minds eye, and would not down at the bidding. He turned the conversation, and studied the fire almost in silence for an hour after; but when he rose at last to leave me he pressed my hand and said: Im going to make a new departure. Im going to paint a facean ideal, not a portrait. It will be the best thing I have done. The old masters did Madonnas of the skies, but the world of to-day is in- spired by noble earthly women. Finn was married in the spring, and our house knew him no more. He had built himself an elaborate house in town, another at the sea-side, and was appar- ently on the top of the wave. I was se- cretly delighted at his exodus, for I felt convinced that Robin would be able to work less interruptedly. My astonish- ment and consternation, therefore, were great when, the following autumn, about the time another exhibition by Robin was due, Richard Benton came into my room one evening and said: Temple is going into business. The RICHARD AND ROBIN. 147 coffee business, he added, in response to my ejaculations of disniay. His bro- ther has given him another chance, as he calls it, and he has accepted it. I have been talking with him for two hours, but he is adamant. He says he wishes to be married, and that he must make money. I reasoned with him, but it was of no use. He says he will be able to paint in his lei- sure moments and vacations. You know what that means. He has fallen down and worshipped the golden calf. The devil take that fellow Finn and all his tribe ! Amen! I muttered. He is throwing himself away. There is not one man in a million with his tal- ent, and he is going into the coffee busi- ness. Pshaw! Robin, Robin, you have played us false! High as my opinion was of Richard Benton, the fervor of his disappointment was a surprise to me. I did not insult his manly intelligence by pretending to pal- hate the matter. We turned it over in every light, and I promised to see Robin on the morrow and add my remonstrances to those of his best friend, though I felt con- vinced that they would be made in vain. Robin evidently expected me. He was standing on the hearth - rug, and when he saw who his visitor was, his expres- sion indicated a harassed soul at bay. He did not suggest my sitting down, and when I had established myself noncha- lantly in an arm-chair and lighted a pipe, he said, with nervous decisiveness: I know why you have come, Uncle George. But its of no use. Ive made up my mind, and nothing any one can say will change it. Accordingly I talked of other things, and presently, with the familiarity of one accustomed to take liberties there, I strolled over to his easel and lifted the covering. A face looked back at mea face only half completed, and yet already so excellent, so original in conception and treatment, that I stepped back eager- ly to scan it. A womans face. Where had I seen it? Yet the costume and sur- roundings indicated that it was a study in fancy rather than a portrait. Then I recalled our conversation of six months before, and understood. But the like- ness? There was no likeness, after all; but I understood, too, whose face had served as an inspiration to the artist. Robin, I exclaimed, earnestly, this is superb. It far surpasses anything you have done before. He smiled coldly. Thanks. I am glad you like it. I shall try to finish it sqme day. Then he walked up to the easel and replaced the covering. I appreciated the definiteness of the hint, but I could not restrain myself. Robin, I said, how will the woman whose soul looks from those eyes like what you are doing? He started as though I had struck him and, indeed, it was an impertinence; but are not the wounds of friendship faith- ful?and the blood surged to his face. He stared at me haughtily. I do not understand what you mean, lie said. What right have you to pry into my affairs? Only because I love you, Robin, I said, gently, and left him. There was from this time a coolness, almost a breach, between us, though we still paid occasional visits to each others rooms, and preserved the outward show of amity. Robin went into business, and a year and a half slipped away without any apparent change in his or my cir- cumstances. He came and went like any young man who is occupied downtown, and as our intimacy had been interrupt- ed, he was mute in my presence as to his private affairs. I understood, however, that he was early and late at the office. It was at the end of the second spring after Robin abandoned art that I went abroad, in consequence of the demolition of our lodging-house, preparatory to the erection of the imposing Rexford. Like the very rats, forced after a long and fond occupation to seek shelter elsewhere, we fled right and left, according to our moods and necessities. ~ and Rob- in sought a haven in one of the other bachelor warrens in the same neighbor- hood, and I stored my penates, packed my portmanteau, and took the first steam- er to Europe. There I remained two yearsa little longer, in fact, for I did not return until the snow was on the ground, and the plaster of the Rexford was thoroughly dry, and its modern im- provements in complete working order. I had arranged to have my penates re- established in my new quarters, so that I might walk in on a furnished apartment almost as though I had not been away. I arrived late in the evening, to find a fire on the hearth, a bit of supper on the table, and the evening Mercury at my el- local news. I turned first to the finan- bow. Being fresh from the steamer, I was cial page to ascertain the standing of my in arrears regarding events, and after my few securities. Somehow it comforts or appetite was satisfied I was soon deep in depresses a man, as the case may be, to A FACE LOOKED BACK AT ME. RICHARD AND ROBIN. 149 know that the stock he owns is five points higher or lower, though he has not the least idea of selling it in either event. Speculation was running riot, it seemed to me, and the rumors of the day proph- esied that the advance had only just be- gun. Having ascertained that I was con- siderably richer on paper, I turned to the marriages and deaths, and as I read, I stopped to rea(l again, struck with horror: In this city, on December the 6th, Robert Temple, in the thirtieth year of his age. Funeral at St. Marks Chui~ch, on Tuesday, December 10th, at one oclock. Robin Temple dead, and his funeral to- morrow! I pressed the electric button, and the new janitor, who had served my supper, appeared. I see the announce- ment of Mr. Robert Temples death ? I said, interrogatively. Yes, sir. He died day before yester- day, of pneumonia, and hes to be buried to-morrow. He had rooms here, sir. I had not known, thou~h I had sup- posed it might be so. Here? In this apartment-house ? Yes, sir. I thought of speaking about it, but I wasnt sure you knew him, and I wouldnt mention it until youd had your supper. Thank you, Perkins, I said, to ac- knowledge consideration so unusual. Yes, I knew him well. Of pneumonia? He was taken ill a week ago Sunday, sir; and there were three doctors at the last, and Mr. Benton, besides the nurse, was with him night and day, added Per- kins, with the fluency of one who feels that he is free at last to tell all he knows. Mr. Richard Bentoal Yes, sir. He came in just before you rang. Hes grieving sadly, sir. Please go and tell Mr. Benton that I am coming down to see him. Five minutes later I stood with Rich- ard beside the open coffin and looked at our friend as he lay in the sleep of deaths. The fell disease had left few traces, and even the unconquerable enemy had laid only the seal of marblelike pallor upon the likeness of our Robin. The poetlike eyes were closed, but the dainty features, the delicate contour of brow and lip and chin, were still the same. He was there, yet he was gone gone to the land of mystery, from which none return to tell of the mercies of Gods judgment-seat. As I looked around me presently, when ~had turned away from the coffin, I no- voL. XC.No. 53515 ticed that the new rooms, into which he had moved only two months before, were exquisitely furnished; but there was only a single suggestion of the ar- tists craft~an easel in one corner, over which an Eastern cloth had been thrown. Somehow I divined what was beneath, and, impelled by the desire to ascertain, I crossed the room and raised the covering. The same face, fixed by a masters hand, yet unfinished and unaltered, looked out at me from the canvas. Apparently he had never touched it with his brush since our interview two years before. I heard from Richards lips that night all that he knew. He worked like a slave, Dodd; down early and up late. About a year ago his brother died, and the other partner was called to California by the illness of his wife, and Robins op- portunity, as he thought, had come. The coffee market was depressed, unduly so, and he bought, and bought again, bor- rowing heavily. He was right. In ninety days the tide had turned, and lie had made over two hundred thousand dollars. He told me this four months ago, and lie has died rich, for so young a man. He seemed exultantly happy, and his manner of living changed at once. He bought a stylish turnout, and he fit- ted up these rooms; though he said to me, poor fellow, with a knowing smile, the day he moved into them, I may not need them very long. Ten days ago I was sitting in my room late. It was a brutal nightcold, with a piercing wind, and the streets a glare of frozen sleet. I had been beguiled into sitting up lateit was nearly twoby a new book, which I had just finished, when there came a knock at the door, and Robin staggered in; it was just thatsta~,gered. He was pale and distracted - looking. His over- coatnot a heavy onewas unbuttoned and his evening dress awry, as though blown by the wind. He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. My God, Robin, what is the matter? I asked. He looked up at me with an expression of agony I shall never forget, and answered, in a piteous voice, She has refused me, Richard, and my heart is broken. It seems he had been walking the streets in that guise for hours. I watched over him that night. He was ill already, and the next morning he was in a high fever. We did all we could, but he died day before yesterday. 150 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. The following afternoon we laid Robins body in the grave. It was a brilliant win- ters day. The landscape revealed, even to the corn mon eye, the subtle hues which artists love. Richard and I drove back from the cemetery together. He had been silent for a time, but as we were near- ing home he suddenly said: How little money can avail, after all! I am worth to-day half a million dollars, Dodd. How gladly would I give Robin the half of it which is what he will leave behind him if one could wipe out the last five years, and put him back at his easel just as he once was! But that is all over and past forever. It was not quite so. As I have stated, those were days of rampant speculation. But, as is apt to be the case, the crash came suddenly and without apparent warning. Many went to the wall, and rumor, which had whispered a month ago that the advance had only just begun, now prophesied that there would be worse failures after the first of the year. It was on Christmas eve, I remember, that I went down to Richard Bentons room and found David Finn there. My visit was purely a casual one. Perhaps the cockles of my heart were oppressed with the sense of loneliness which an old bachelor is apt to experience at this season. As I entered I perceived from their faces that I had in- terrupted the discussion of some serious matter, and was closing the door, when I was restrained by Richards voice saying, Come back, Dodd; you shall be the judge. I turned back in response to this sum- mons, wondering, and Richard waved me to a seat. Finn was standing, with his back to the fireplace. I noticed, in the few moments of silence which followed, that he looked worried, though his old air of confidence had not forsaken him. Dodd, said Richard again, you shall be the judge between us. Then lie addressed Finn: You have come to me to - night and told me that you are in trouble. You have asked me, as a director of the bank where your largest loans are placed, to consent to their renewal, and I have told you that I cannot. My duty as an officer forbids that; we cannot take the risk. I told you this, and you have just asked me to help you as an individ- ual. I might do so if I chose. I have some means, and I could tide you over; and coming as you do at this Christmas- time, I would tide you over but for one thing, and Uncle George here shall decide if I am not right. If lie says that I am un- just, my credit shall be at your disposal. For an instant he paused, and I could see that Finn was groping for the reason. He had no inkling of it, though I felt sure that I knew. But for you, and men like you, my friend Robin Temple would not be in his grave. You and your example fascinated him until he prostituted the noble gift which God had given him. Day in, day out, he heard you sneer at everything which did not stand for money and the coarse or showy gratifications which mere money can purchase. He learned from you to sacrifice everything for that, arid awoke at last to know the agony and bit- terness of his delusion. It killed him. He was my dearest friend. You have asked me to help you. My answer is, I refuse you in the name of Robin Temple. Let Dodd, who knows the truth, judge between us. In spite of the death-blow which these words gave to Finns hopes, and though he winced a little, a smile curved his lip, recalling vividly his look on the day when he had queried, in answer to my declaration that Robins art was his sal- vation, Art with a capital A? The same flippant, cruel smile, as though the speech had amused him by its somewhat dramatic intensity. Then, as I looked at him, there came into my mind tIme words of the Psalmist TIme fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. Finn,I said, my judgment is that Richard is right. Ohm, very well. This is absurd said Finn. I am no more responsible for the death of Robin Teniphe than either one of you. There was a brief silence during which he made his preparations for de- parture. It strikes me, he added, bit- terly, as he buttoned his overcoat, that you have scarcely looked at this matter in a businesslike manner. No, said Richard, quietly. It is~ purely a matter of sentiment. Ten days later just after tIme 1st of__ Januarythe suspension of David Finn and Company, bankers and brokers, wam announced in the newspapers in start hug head-lines, and before another eigh teen months had passed I acted as besi man to Richard Benton on the occasior of his marriage to Gertrude Delam ire. ~ LOVE AND DEATH. BY LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA. The Man. Awake! The Maid. Who knocks? Mother, ist thou? Tis I. The Man. The Maid. Who knocks? The Man. Tis I. Open! The Maid. His voice? I dream! Dream-time; tis night, nor star nor moon, all dark. Why tremble cold in my warm bed? Tis joy That in my dreams I still may hear that voice. The Man. Open! Tis I! The Maid. Again? No dicam. Wait, wait. I come, who should not; what thou wilt, I will. How the latch creaks! Tis dark; I have no light To guide thee. Stumble not; theres one step down. What wouldst thou of me, thou that lovst me notY Still, my heart told me in thine hour of need Thou dst turn to inc. The Man. I love thee. The Maid. Oh my tiod! The Man. I might have held thee folded in mine arms Last night, last week, last year. How warm thou art That tremblest here upon my bosom! Speak! Art silent as my heart? The Maid. Tongue-words are vain When heart on heart may heat. The Man. Dost love me, then? The Maid. I told it thee when it was sin to speak; For sin it is when maidens eye betrays Such love as minea love enkindled here Not by the mans prayer, but by God above. We maids must hear I love thee ere we say I love. The Man. And I disdained thee! I who heard Thy hearts voice speaking through the silenceI Who never looked into thine eyes but met Thy soul at the window! Now too latetoo late. The Maid. I understand thee not. The Man. Thou God unseen, To whom in darkness I must grope my way, Give inc again the wasted yearsone year To bask upon Thy sunny earth and hold This woman to my breast! The Maid. Thy words, 0 love, Fall strangely on mine ear. I know not, I, ~\Tl1at words to offer thee, nor knows my tongue How it should say I love. And yet, meseems, Tis not so strange to lie within thine arms; For I could never see thee but my hands Must ache to hold theenever watch thee speak, But my poor heart must cling in kisses there. Core of my soul, my king of joy! Thy tears Fall on me fast in burning drops. Bend low Bend lower; let me dry them with my hair. The Man. Vain, vain, my girl. These tears are tears of blood. The Maid. Oh, horrible! Whose deed is this? The Man. No matter Whence Death comes. The Maid. Death? The Man. Ay, warm one I am dead. Fearst thou me not? The Maid. I cannot fear thee. The Man. Nay.

LOVE AND DEATH. BY LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA. The Man. Awake! The Maid. Who knocks? Mother, ist thou? Tis I. The Man. The Maid. Who knocks? The Man. Tis I. Open! The Maid. His voice? I dream! Dream-time; tis night, nor star nor moon, all dark. Why tremble cold in my warm bed? Tis joy That in my dreams I still may hear that voice. The Man. Open! Tis I! The Maid. Again? No dicam. Wait, wait. I come, who should not; what thou wilt, I will. How the latch creaks! Tis dark; I have no light To guide thee. Stumble not; theres one step down. What wouldst thou of me, thou that lovst me notY Still, my heart told me in thine hour of need Thou dst turn to inc. The Man. I love thee. The Maid. Oh my tiod! The Man. I might have held thee folded in mine arms Last night, last week, last year. How warm thou art That tremblest here upon my bosom! Speak! Art silent as my heart? The Maid. Tongue-words are vain When heart on heart may heat. The Man. Dost love me, then? The Maid. I told it thee when it was sin to speak; For sin it is when maidens eye betrays Such love as minea love enkindled here Not by the mans prayer, but by God above. We maids must hear I love thee ere we say I love. The Man. And I disdained thee! I who heard Thy hearts voice speaking through the silenceI Who never looked into thine eyes but met Thy soul at the window! Now too latetoo late. The Maid. I understand thee not. The Man. Thou God unseen, To whom in darkness I must grope my way, Give inc again the wasted yearsone year To bask upon Thy sunny earth and hold This woman to my breast! The Maid. Thy words, 0 love, Fall strangely on mine ear. I know not, I, ~\Tl1at words to offer thee, nor knows my tongue How it should say I love. And yet, meseems, Tis not so strange to lie within thine arms; For I could never see thee but my hands Must ache to hold theenever watch thee speak, But my poor heart must cling in kisses there. Core of my soul, my king of joy! Thy tears Fall on me fast in burning drops. Bend low Bend lower; let me dry them with my hair. The Man. Vain, vain, my girl. These tears are tears of blood. The Maid. Oh, horrible! Whose deed is this? The Man. No matter Whence Death comes. The Maid. Death? The Man. Ay, warm one I am dead. Fearst thou me not? The Maid. I cannot fear thee. The Man. Nay. 152 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Nor shouldst thou. The Miaid. Am I deadI too? The Man. Not thou. But when my soul was driven from its house, And I upon the shores of infinite space Stood wonderingly, there came a voice that cried, This night is thinefaint spirit, hack to earth, Back to thy home! Where may that be? said I. Thy home, the voice made answer, is that heart Which lies most empty for the lack of thee. There was a woman on whose faith I leaned; To her I hastened, but her breastmy pillow Heaved in its dreams beneath anothers brow. In grief I hied me to my mothers house, And through the fastness of her hosom gazed. Five cells were in her heart, where, side by side, Cradled in equal love, her children lay. Then swifter than the cold night wind I sped To where my youngest brother slept at sea He that had loved me best. A womans face Betwixt mine image and his inmost eye Had risen as a veil. To those who most Had tongued my praise I fled; but, lo! their hearts Were empty of my name. I have no home, Cried I. 0 lead me. Whither shall I go? And all at once I saw in memory Thy soft dark eye, and felt thy fingers warm That ever lingered as they touched my own. Can t be, thought I, that heres my home of homes? And, lo! through wall and shutter, as I peered, I saw into thy heart, and knew that thou, Of all the world, wert empty for my love. O woman, who wert meant to he mine own, Mine, whom I spurned, I give thee all the past In grief and rue. The lJfaid. Deaddeadand I live on? The lVfan. Farewell. Unwreath thy tendrils, 0 sweet flower That binds me still to earth! The ~IIaid. With thee! With thee! The 2Jfan. Upon the billows of Infinity My ship sets sail. I hear the waters beat On earths dark shore. Farewell. The 2Jliaid. Goest thou to God? The iJian. I know notbut to seek Him. The Maid. I with thee! Heart of my soul, with thee to the Unknown! Oh, hold me fast! The Man. Farewell. The ~Jfaid. One momentwait Wait for me there upon the purple shore, Thou that art fading from mine arms, whose voice Floats from me on the wings of dawn! I too Will spread my sails upon the seas that lead To Paradise. Ere the last star has shed Its last soft beam upon the morn I come! The grass beneath my feet is wet with dew, The promise of a day I shall not see. The young lambs bleat around me, and the birds Give twitter. Little stream, that purls so fast Here in the wood, so dark and cold and clear, In thee Ill make my bed. Ah me! good-night, Good day, good world, that wert so sweet and bitter! The little ship is readythe white sails Have spread their wings and soar to God He waits I come.... ________________________________ ~ ~ LD1~IOkb~7~~5 I. HE capacity of this country for pro- Iducing very old people has never re- ceived sufficient attention. In holiday seasons like Christmas our solicitude for many years has been bestowed upon chil- dren. The old folks have merely been used as a picturesque background in the picture. The ancient grandfather and the antique grandmother, in their rock- ing-chairs in the chimney-corner or by the register or the steam - heater, have been scarcely accessories in the games and revels of childhood; the ceremonies have had hardly a tinge of ancestor-wor- ship. The idea has seemed to be that the children were the only important ele- ment. They were the only ones to be encouraged. The country needed popu- lation, and this end seemed to be attained by the production of children, with little thought of their long continuance in this life. The encouragement has been given to