SCRJBNERS MONTHLY. VOL. XIII. NOVEMBER, 1876. No. i. THE CHARTER OAK CITY. ~1HE last census of the United States gave But if the number of its citizens cannot give Hartford a population of considerably less it a higher place, still in many other respects than 40,000 inhabitants, ranking it as the it is one of the very foremost. The tradi- thirty-fourth city in size in the country. tions of its history lead back to the first Midway between two enumerations, as is beginnings of New England settlement, and the present date, it is possible only to guess come down to the present time full of patri- as to the increase, and to surmise what now otic recollections. Its people have always is its position numerically in the roll of cities. been active in whatever they have under- VOL. XIII.i. [copyright, 1176, by Scribuer & co.) THE NEW CAPITOLVIEWS ON BUSHNELL PARK. 2 THE GHAR TEN OAK CITY taken, and whether in historical association, in the range and magnitude of its business I undertakings, or in the culture and comfort that the success of these has brought, Hart- ford has come to be known, not only very widely through the country, but by the universal use of certain of its products, almost around the world. Relatively to the number of its inhabitants, it is the richest city in the United States. Its savings banks have deposits of about $12,000,~OO its banks of discount have capital and surplus of nearly $12,000,000, and deposits of more than $9,000,000; the capital of its other joint-stock companies is $ i8,ooo,ooo; the assets of its insurance com- panies are more than $113,000,000, an(l after the taxable portion of what has been mentioned is taken from the city tax list, the assessed value (not more than one-third the real worth probably) of the rest is more than $40,000,000. Of course, besides these evi- dences of wealth, there is a great deal, as in every city, which never finds its way into the tax list, and can only be estimated. Some of the manufacturing companies included in the aggregate are only organized, not oper- ating; but others have surpluses more than doubling their capital, so that the figures given are certainly low enough; and if some of the assets of the insurance companies are not in Hartford, they are still all tributary to it, and pour their income regularly into the city. The total amount of the list is very much more than $200,000,000, and undoubt- edly that estimate of the wealth of Hartford is less than facts would justify. This attitude of Hart- ford as a rich city, though comparatively a new one, and to the historian prob- ably not its most inter- esting, nevertheless is that which, in a merce- nary age, is likely to at- tract for it the first atten- tion. Permanently settled in 1635, it was until some time after the Revolution very far from being the richest town even in poor Connecticut, and the whole colony has not left a barrowful of prerevolutionary plate. Its increase has come chiefly through its rail- r o ad communications, the late successes of its manufacturing com- panies, and the vast de- velopment of its insurance interests. It is as a sort of City of Refuge that it is to-day most generally thought of. There is author- ity to believe that fire will ultimately destroy the world, and death the body; but, mean- while, the Hartford insurance companies are ready to take risks on the realization of either certainty, and, thus far, in spite of some hard blows, they seem well in advance of fate. By the last official report, it appears that 212,467 people have their lives insured in Hartford. If each of these represents a family of five, then more than a million people are looking to the city as their refuge in the time which the insurance agent, him- self a Hartford product, can so pathetically describe as certain to be, for the uninsured, of acute financial as well as domestic distress. These lives are insured for $450,000,000 alto- gether, and the property insured in the fire companies is $645,646,000 more, so that the total risk which Hartford carries is in round numbers $1,100,ooo,ooo. But the business of insurance has reached such a scientific basis that the probable losses admit of close calculation, and the amount of assets neces- sary to a certain payment is definitely fixed. The Hartford companies, having $i 13,000,- ooo, have large surpluses above the amount required. Yet nearly all of this accumulation jr1~ SHIP-YARL) AT L)tJTCH POINT. THE CHAR lEft OAK CITY 3 has come within a short time. The life insurance business began about 1850, and but three fire companies antedate the excep- tional disaster of the Chicago fire. No important life company has ever failed in the city. Although death seems so much more certain than fire, it is also so much more methodical that it is easier to calculate upon its ways. Fire companies, on the other hand, have failed. The Chicago fire put between the writing and the reading of this, some new great fire may have made fresh havoc with them, although the lessons of recent years have taught the managers to scatter their risks, and not to take whole city blocks together as they used. That one affair of Chicago, which marks Hartfords black day, took about ten millions of dollars away from the city, and, eight hundred miles distant from the fire, impoverished men who, out six at once. But the oldest company, I)robably the oldest in America,the Hart- ford, which was insuring in 1794, is still flour- ishing. It, the .~tna, and the Phcenix, have paid in full every loss in every fire since they began business, and they are old, while the rest, revived or created since 1871, though young, are thriving under prudent adminis- tration. At best, however, they all are engaged in a truly risky business, and, the day before were rich. A singulai~ freak of fate made the loss seem even a bit worse than if it had come on any other date. In Hartford, insurance stock is taxed at its market value, and the tax lists are sworn to, October 1st each year. The fire came on the ninth of the month, and so the holders of the worthless or fallen stocks had for that year to pay taxes on the highest valuations the stocks had ever knoxvn. Jf the fire had INSURANCE BUILDINGS. x. ~ Mutual Life Building, containing also Phccnix Mutual Life Ins. co. a. Travelers Ins. Building, with Railway Passengers Ins. co.u Office. ~. Phcenix Fire Ins. Building, containing also coon. Fire Ins. Co. 4. Hartford Fire Ins. Building, with Offices of State Insurance coutmissioner, Atlas Fire and Continental Life. 5. GIna Ins. Building (Life and Fire Co.s). 6. Charter Oak Life Co. Building. containing also Office of Hartford Steans Boilerltis. Co. 4 THE ~HARThI? OAK CITY occurred ten days earlier, the difference in ment took panic-struck New York by sur- favor of the individual Losers would have prise, and everybody who had anything to been very considerable. It was only by save rushed at once to insure in a company securing large amounts of new capital, and so evidently sound. A round rate was sacrificing all the accumulations of years, that the three great companies at that time saved themselves. Under the present official supervision of the business, the companies do not run risks after their early fashion; yet, even then their apparent recklessness often ended in complete success. For an instance: the great New York fire in 1835 which broke every New York company, came upon one of the largest in Hartford just as, after a series of poor years, it was about to pay a liberal dividend. The loss was com- plete; capital, surplus, dividend, all the assets, went to ashes. But instead of despair- ing, the President, Mr. Nathaniel Terry, a well-known citizen, who died years ago, bor- rowed the then considerable sum of $io,ooo on his own personal credit, and instantly sent an agent to the city with the money. As soon as he arrived, he paid one loser, a prominent merchant, the whole of his loss, and, with his card of acknowledgment, printed a notice in the newspapers, promising to pay every loss within the sixty days allowed by the contract. This announce- charged for the privilege, and, before the sixty days had passed, the agent had taken in in New York alone enough money to ful- fill his promise to pay all losers, and he did do it. This sort of venture would not now he either attempted or allowed; hut it sug- gests the enterprise that in the beginning pushed the Hartford companies toward their present high rank. Their losses paid in 1875, when there was no great fire, were $4,913,217. One company has paid $45,- 000,000, and another $20,000,000, in losses since organization. Three of the life companiesthe Con- necticut Mutual, A~tna, and Charter Oak and two of the fire companiesthe Hart- ford and the Phzunixhave put up fine buildings in the city. These, and three or four other comparatively new, or yet unfin- ished, structures, are the most noticeable business blocks in Hartford. A half dozen of them tower over the rest of the city in a way to give the spectator, at first sight, the perplexing doubt as to whether the archi- tecture of the town has had a little too much, * By kind permission we have here made use of several engravings from the beautiful colt Memorial volumeEnITOR. RESIDENCE OF MRS. COLT: (PORTE COCH ~RE.) THE CHARTER OAK CITY. 5 or much too little, leaven in it to produce such startling inequalities of elevation. But, after several seeings, the odd effect is lost, and there are found significance, utility, and no little beauty in things as they are. The successive levels reached mark the steady rise of the city in importance; first, low brick or wood buildings; then, more pretentious of brick, or brick and stone; then, stone generally from the Portland quarries near FOUNTAIN AT ARMSMEAR. by; and now great granite piles, rising six or eight stories high, with, too, a revival of the use of brick in some of the finest works. The upper floors of some of the insurance buildings are occupied as resi- dences on the flat plan, and are light and cool by reason of their height, and command beautiful views of the city and the country about. Hartfords situation, though probably chosen by accident, is admirable for its beauty and for its business advantages. It lies on the west bank of the Connecticut River, about fifty miles from Long Island sound, and has the Little, or Park River, flowing about and through it. This empties into the Connecticut at Dutch Point, the place where the Dutch, the first settlers, built a fort in 1633. The high ground of the city affords at various places a fine sweep of scenery up and down the Connecticut Valley. Outlying manufacturing villages, grown up beside every tributary stream, are here and there visible; the river comes into sight at intervals among its curves; fields and foliage fill the valley, and parallel mountain ranges bound it on the east and west, about twenty miles apart. These, continuing south to tide-water, mark the course of the river as nature first arranged it, 6 TILE CHAR TSP OAK CITY when it flowed into the sound at New district around it, Hartford is the base of Haven, and before the stream was turned supplies, and its local business of all sorts is off toward Saybrook at Middletown, a little extensive. Five railroads center here, and below here, by a recent convulsion, only a few the river bears an important commerce, so hundred decades ago. The soil of the valley that the city is made a point of general dis- is made fertile by annual freshets, and its to- tribution. All about it are manufacturing bacco, of which large crops are raised, is the communities, mainly created by Hartford cap- ital, among which are Collinsville, with its famous axes and other edged tools, and agricultural imple- ments; New Brit- ain, with its hard- ware; Thompson- ville, with its car- pet-works; Rock- ville, with its woolen-mills; Wil- limantic, with its immense spool- cotton factories; and South Man- chester, the model manufacturing vil- lage of America, where the most of most expensive American l)ro(luct of the plant. the Cheney Brothers silk-works are situated. There is an important trade in that and in For a long time the city has been noted other agricultural staples here. For a large for its inventive skill. Before the present CONSERVATORY AT ARMSMEAR. IINERY AT ARMSMEAR. 717/f CHARTER OAK CiTY. 7 century began, Hartford and its vicinity were operating printing-presses, paper-mills, powder-mills, glass-works, tinware factories, from which the first Yankee peddlers set out ,the first Connecticut clock factories, and woolen-mills. Many of these industries have remained until now. The first printing- press, set up in 1764, printed the Courant, and that journal, now i 12 years old, has ever since been regularly issued, save for one brief delay during the Revolution, when the supply of paper failed. To meet this emergency, the proprietors hastily built a paper-mill of their own, and that was the founding of the since important East Hart- ford paper-making interests. The Hartford woolen-mill was in operation in 1788, when General Washington visited it, and his admiration of its xvork was such that he wrote home to say he should use its hest fabrics for himself, and its cheaper stuffs for his slaves, thereafter. The next year, when he was made President, he wore a complete Hartford suit, everything about it, even the huttons, being made in the city, as a present for him, and it was in this Hartford dress that the first President of the United States made the first inaugural speech. There is not space here to enumerate all the manu- factures now carried on in Hartford. Con- necticuts products are more varied than those of any other State in the Union, and nearly all its varieties are represented ahout or in the city. A single factory,perhaps the most famous in the country,that of the Colts Arms Manufacturing Company, will have to suffice; and it is worth a note how much Hartford, a city where a battle never was distinctly heard, has had to do with war. The East Hartford Powder Works, the Colt arms, and the Sharps rifles, of especial Kansas notoriety, are to he considered; and VIEW IN COLTS MEADOWS CHURCH OF THE GOOD SHEPHERD 8 THE CHARTER OAK CITY. also the fact that two secretaries of the navy, and at least five prominent generals, have been, or are of the city. Everybody has heard ofalmost everybody, indeed, has heardthe Colt revolver. No modern in- vention has come into more nearly world- wide use, nor has any other so universally carried with it its inventors name. It is a safe assertion that no modern name is more familiar around the globe to-day than Colo- nel Colts. In choosing Hartford for his manufactory, he made a wise selection of a site for his Then the factories, operatives homes, and other necessary buildings, were put up, which, with their constant increase, have become now almost a city by themselves, and in- clude mills, store-houses, a large public school, the finest church in the city, dwell- ings, and many other establishments, besides the Colt factories. The first set of these was burned during the war, but new and large fire-proof buildings were erected at once in their place. Now, besides the Colt revolvers, there are made in the factories, steam-engines, printing-presses, and various works, and laid out one of the most impor- tant parts of the city. The Connecticut River has its spring freshets with all the regularity of nature. Each year it washes out the lower part of the city, and produces trouble all along the line for the residents in the water-wards, who are each year, as regularly as the freshet comes, freshly sur- prised at its advent. It was a lot of low land, just below Dutch Point, that Colonel Colt selected. He built a solid dike about three hundred acres of land there, and that district has known the spring flood no more. other machines, and the Gatling guns, large revolving weapons that can be used on land, at sea, or on horseback, and that at the turn of a crank pour out bullets at the rate of four hundred a minute, making them one of the most formidable of recently invented arms. The willow basket-works that utilized the osiers with which the dike is planted and strengthened have lately been burned, and are not rebuilt; but the first purpose of the osier-planting is still met in the hold their roots have upon the dike. Armsmear, with the residence which __________ / /1 ~7/G~~~V ~ ~) II 1/ // ~ /i/~ ~ /1 -~-- STATE-HOUSE SQUARE, DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING THE CHARTER OAK cir~ 9 Colonel Colt built on the high ground that through the grounds are set a number of fine slopes back from the meadows, is a works of statuary. Within the diked district beautiful place, nearly two-thirds of a is the Church of the Good Shepherd, built mile deep by one-third in its street front- by Mrs. Colt as a memorial of her husband age on Wethersfield Avenue. The prospect and children. It is a remarkable piece of from the house and grounds is magnificent, church architecture, the work of Mr. E. T. and the premises are laid out with all the Potter of New York. Its design is exqui- beauty that skilled landscape gardening site, and the plans, even to their minutest could add to a naturally graceful situation. detail, have been executed with a scrupulous The place has its lakes, its deer park, its fidelity that makes of it an almost faultless graperies and groves and gardens; and structure, symmetrical in every line, and rich and appropriate in its ornamentation. Its large memorial window, I imported from England, 111 and its singularly grace- the Ren~a;ns ~ // ful baptismal font, are / ~ among its first-noticed I~L~S ~{O~~ C*r ~ J4ookerri~7 ~ e~odi ~ beauties. It is consid- ~ VICT~OOSJ sor~ \~ 14R0 Dtparfeel ~ ~-: 0 ered one of the finest of }InDd~~tAe.tra churches in the coun- 1 try; many say that it A~ino: D~n1L: /76 has no equal in Amer 6 EP~ELYE7-f7iE r ar 0BY oFM4T4A WILjj,q~ LZTETE ica. Ti ALy ESQOLA7E(O LAVtEAOE Ao~ ~ ~ On the same hill-side, WHO 7P4E 0Ayr~. f NP~ Ha but a little north of MAXESTIES O0S5~3E, ZVjy hHI~ - d,.~ ~ft0v ~ ~ ~ESrSEb WOVE?400 ro ~ .: 4 Armsmear, is the site I ~T4F I~ 1711 1017-fE WliM Chr,~0 ~rJ c -J of the Charter Oak, the / T4yEA~~oF $/j -~ venerable tree, whose (//~ ~4A~7% // K ~ ~- familiar tradition has for years reflected glory on Hartford, often called GRAVE STONES IN OLD CEMETEEV. the Charter Oak City. THE CHARTER OAK. I0 JHE CHARTER OAK cir~ It stood on the Wyllys place, and the illustra- tion, specially copied from a painting, made for the late Isaac W. Stuart before the tree fell, shows the oak and the old and now departed Wyllys mansion, the frame of which was brought over from England and set up about 1636. The tree was, so goes the story, spared when the clearing for the house was made, because the Indians had so long used it for a landmark that they had a deep ven- eration for it, and begged for its preservation. However old it then was, it lasted two hun- dred and twenty years longer, and only fell in 1856. The current version of the story of the Charter Oak is as well known as that of William Tell or Pocahontas. On the last day of October, 1687, Sir Edmund Andros came to demand back the liberal charter that Charles II. had granted, and to set up a new rule. There was a meeting of the general court, a charter was produced at his demand, suddenly the lights went out in a general confusion, and on the resumption of order and candles, the document was gone, Colonel Jeremiah Wadsworth having rushed with it off to the oak, and hidden it in the hol- low trunk. This act saved the liberty of the colony then, and made Wadswoith and the oak famous now. That is the gist of the story. That there was a meeting with Andros, and that there was a charter and a tree, are admitted still by all; but the more careful historians in this day of reversing the verdicts of history, are not inclined to go much further in support of the old tradi- tion. Certainly there were two charters, the original and its duplicate. In May, six months before Andros came, the original was put out of the way. One definite account says it was kept in Guilford, Con- necticut; and again there are reasons to think it may have gone into the oak. At best, there is nothing certain about it. Whatever disturbance occurred with Andros was over the duplicate, not the original char- ter; and until some time after the affair, the oak is not heard of in connection with it. A tradition of the Wadsworth family had it that the charter was hidden in the cellar of the Wadsworth house. Years afterward the Connecticut Assembly refused to give Col- onel Wadsworth four pounds as a reward for his services, but voted him twenty shil- lings, suggesting that our fathers did not prize liberty very highly, or else failed to view this deed just as the school-books now record it. Moreover, Mr. C. J. Hoadly, the Connecticut State Librarian, an authority in antiquarian subjects, has, in a recent note to a work he edited, pointed out what seemed to him proof that Andross visit did put an end to the colonial government, so that if the charter went into the oak, it still went out of legal existence. To retain it, annual elections had to be held. But after Andros came, one election was omitted, and this, he says, terminated the government. A sin- gular proof is offered as evidence that later administrations knew the illegality of their tenure of office, in the fact that Connecticut had no witchcraft craze, although so near to crazy Massachusetts. People were aroused enough to try several witches, and a few were sentenced to death, but all were re- prieved by order from Hartford, showing that the administration did not dare to exer- cise the death penalty, being conscious of its own imperfect hold upon the government, and so of its personal accountability for such deaths. On the other hand, even if the government was not legal, it was all there was; and it is one of the proudest facts in Connecticut history that the charter was preserved, whether in the oak or not, and that the colony never was governed by offi- cers appointed by the crown, but has always, from the beginning, chosen its own rulers by popular election. The original charter re- appeared in 1689, and hangs now in the Capitol in the custody of the Secretary of State. The duplicate disappeared, and was found in Hartford in i8i8 by the late Hon. John Boyd in a curious way. He was a student preparing for college, having a fancy for odd papers and an antiquarian taste. THE REV. DR. HORACE BUSHNELL. II THE CHARTER OAK CITY He saw the lady with whom he boarded about to cut up into a bonnet-frame an old piece of parchment. By replacing it with pasteboard, he secured the document, and, on subsequent examination, found he had saved the duplicate charter. It now is held by the Connecticut Historical Society out of the range of all the votaries of fashion All that marks the place to-day where the Charter Oak stood is a white slab set in the. sidewalk. Not even a railing fences in the sacred spot, which is daily trodden under foot. But the name cannot be forgotten; for, from high to low, the title Charter Oak is emblazoned upon sign-boards all over the city. These and the chips of Charter Oak that may be found in the home of every son and daughter of Connecticut are its chief and its steadily increasing inementoes. Not the gloomiest iconoclast expects ever to see the supply of wood from the old tree give out. After the Charter Oak Place, the most historic ground in Hartford is the State- house Square, originally much larger than now, very near the middle of the city, where State street, running back several blocks from the river, meets at right angles Main street, the great north and south thorough fare. The present State-house, about to be vacated for the new Capitol. stands in the Square, and the new post-office is begun there. The two previous State-houses, the first church (which was half church, half State-house, and, later, was made into a barn), the first tavern, first jail, and first burying-ground, were all in the Square. But these have entirely disappeared, the grave- yard being more easily forgotten, because, as is said, an economical generation used the grave-stones for the foundations of new build- ings. It may have been from the Square that Wadsworth took the charter, perhaps to the oak. It was on this ground that Washing- town cemetery, full of queer grave-stones and ton and Rochambeau first met each other, graves of the early settlers. an event of great importance in the Revolu- Churches are abundant in Hartford. The tion. It was there that Lafayette was pub- first English colony of settlers came with licly received. Indeed, the story of the their religious organization all perfected, and events of the spot is almost the history of the pulpit of the city has been always influ- Hartford. A vestige of the old-time market ential. Stone and Hooker, the first minis- day is found now at Thanksgiving Day and ters, were both men of note. It was for Christmas, when the Square is filled with Stone that Hartford was named from Hert- farm-wagons, from which poultry is sold in ford, England, which had heen his home; the open street. Hotels, eight banks, and and Hooker, the master-spirit of the colony, a number of the finest business blocks, stand has left a name and memory that will sur- about the present limits of the Square. Near vive as long as Hartford is. From them by, on Main street, is the Center Congrega- down to the present time there has been a tional Church, that of the oldest society in ___________________ the city; and back of this church is the old * See SCRIBNERS MONTHLY; vol. vi., p. 500. WARDS STATUE OF ISRAEL PUTNAM. 12 IHE CHAR TEl? OAK Cf7JK for its creation. What was one of the worst and most desolate parts of the city has been transformed into a complete garden, a pleas- ure-ground, and a breathing-spot, that is now of inestimable value, and one of Hartfords chief ornaments. The new Connecticut Capitol, a fine marble structure, is approach- ing completion on the high ground of the west side, a site selected by Dr. Bushnell, from which Trinity College is being removed. Mr. J. Q. A. Wards statue of Israel Putnam, erected by the late Hon. Joseph P. Allyn, is on the west park too; and back of it, beyond the river and the railroad are seen, on the left, the High School, on the right, the residence of ex-Lieutenant-Governor Julius Catlin, where Mrs. Sigourney, the poetess, lived for more than twenty years. On the east park, by the fountain, is T. H. Bartletts statue of Dr. Horace Wells, erected by the city to honor the discoverer of ani~esthesia, who was a resi- dent of Hartford, and performed here the experiments by which he made his discov- ery. A bitter dispute, for which there seems to be no anresthesia, prevails as to whose the credit of this really is; but, without arguing the point, it may be said that in Hartford there is, and seems possible, only one opin- ion,that Dr. Wells was the first to introduce to the human race this grateful gift, for which men owe him most, just when they are most unconscious of all their obligations. Returning to the subject of the Hartford pulpit, at least eleven Episcopal bishops succession of strong minds in the ministry Coxe, Doane, Potter, and Wainwright of New here. Of late years was Dr. Joel Hawes, who died in 1867 after a settlement of nearly fifty years, over the Center Church. One of his published works, Lectures to Young Men, reached a circulation of ioo,ooo cop- ies, and he was known and felt very widely. Dr. Horace Bushnell, who died this year, was one of the foremost thinkers in the American pulpit. He was a pastor in Hart- ford for twenty-three years, and a resident for twenty more. His power through his pulpit was felt deeply at home, as well as all through the theological world; but it was as a citizen, as much almost as it was as a minister, that he was known and loved here. He was interested in all the projects for the citys welfare that have matured, and was the source of many of them, and of many others that would have been of great benefit had they been undertaken. The Bushnell Park, recently named in his memory, which is one of the finest of its size in the country, was York; Chase of Illinois, Clarke of Rhode designed by him, and his energy carried Island, Burgess of Maine, Doane of New through against great opposition the scheme Jersey, Niles of New Hampshire, and BARTLETT~ S STATUE OF WELLS, DISCOVEREE OF ANESTHESIA. FOEMEE RESiDENCE OF MRS. SIGOURNEY. THE CHARTER OAK CITY 3 7:2 Brownell and Williams of Connecticut have been residents of the city; while four other Episcopal bishops are graduates of Trinity College, and one Roman Catholic archbishop, Bailey of Baltimore. The Con- gregational Theological Institute, formerly the East Windsor Hill Seminary, is now in Hart- ford, and is in excellent condition. The Hartford churches, the buildings themselves, are of all typ~s and of all materials,wood, brick, and the various sorts of stone. The dark sandstone is perhaps the most frequently chosen. The variety of styles is noticeably agreeable to the eye, and many are very graceful works; several spires, in particular that of the Pearl street Congregational Church, next to the Phienix Fire Insurance building, being really admirable. Yet, church spires are rather a delicate subject to allude to, for perhaps to signify their faith in the future, an unusual number of the societies have built their churches steeple- less, leaving these ornaments to be added in the hereafter; and, meanwhile, the lack of the spires, for which the bases have so long stood waiting in their unfinished rudeness, is the most serious flaw in the appearance of the city. The Hartford school buildings are said to be the finest in the State. There are nine large public schools, including the public High School, with about nine thousand pupils altogether. The High School, under Professor Joseph Hall, in which is practically merged the old Hopkins Grammar School, established in 1657, has about four hundred and fifty scholars, and has a reputation with all the leading colleges as one of the best of all the preparatory schools. Some of its scholars now are Japanese. It is a singular feature of Hartford that it has a really con- siderable Oriental population. A dozen or so of Japanese boysvery bright ones too have been studying in the city for some time. They dress in simple European style, and are distinguished only by their Japanese stamp of countenance, and by being at the head of the classes they enter in the schools. There is also a Chinese settlement, the most impor- tant in the country, and one of the most ~ interesting elements of Hartford life to-day. Under the charge of Mr. Yung Wing, the Imperial Commissioner, who has been lately made LL. D. by Yale College, the Chinese Educational Mission ha~ been established, with head-quarters in the city of Hartford. Chinese boys are brought over, and given by this Mission as liberal and useful educa- tions as can be had; and they are to go back eventually cultivated men, familiar with the world, and able to maintain for China its independence and increase its influence among nations. This educational work, conceived years ago by Mr. Wing, and now at last being put into practice, bids fair to CHINESE PUPIL RECITING. be one of the great facts of our time, and factors of the future. The pupils and at- tach~s of the mission retain their Chinese manners, dress, and speech, though they learn English, and it is no longer a matter YCNG \VING. 4 THE CHARTER OAK CITY. of any remark to see the full Chinese cos- Hartford families, who left $ioo,ooo for the tume on the street, with the queer shoes, purpose in i857, has about 27,000 volumes, bright-colored clothes, white sun umbrellas, selected tinder the excellent judgment of and the round caps with a long pig-tail flowing out from each, and to hear the strange jargon of their almost unutterable language. The work of the mission is being very thoroughly done; it has an ample fund, and a building for its use is now being put up on Collins street. The intelligent and attractive young people are put among care- ful families in various places, but each has to spend a certain time every year at the central establishment, to revive in Hartford the ways and tastes of China, his home. A single incident of their school customs will show how thoroughly the reverse of our ways are theirs of the revers~ side of the globe. In studying, each scholar is required to repeat his lesson constantly to himself out loud, and the teacher detects the shirker by missing his voice in the gen- eral Babel; and again, at recitation, the Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull, its librarian. scholar stands in front of the teacher. but who has made it an exceedingly useful and with his back turned toward him, and re- valuable consulting library, since he took peats his lesson in that attitude. Mr. YVings charge of it in 1862. The Connecticut His- work, and his remarkable personal history, torical Society has al)out 15,000 volumes, were made the subject of a special article in the most of which are rare works; while, ScRIBNLR for May, 1875. Nor is it nec- besides its innumerable and very curious essary to write here of Trinity College relics, it holds in trust all sorts of old cor- among Hartford educational institutions, responden ces of great historic importance, for that was fully described in the number as well as interest. These libraries are in or of this magazine for March, 1876. a(lded to the Wadsworth Athen~um build- Besides the actual schools of the city ing. In this is also the Wadsworth Art Gallery, xvhere, besides works by Trumbull, the early historical painter, and Mr. F. E. - v Church, a native of Hartford, may be seen a full-length l)ortrait of Benjamin West by Sir Joshua Reynolds. In the statuary is a large collection of the pieces by the sculptor Bartholomew, of Hart- ford, who, though an early death cut him off from the greatest fame, left behind him works full not only of l)ron~ise but of merit. The Young Mens Institute, in the same building, has a circulating library of about 25,000 volumes; and in the Capitol is the State Library, with a full collection of English, American and Irish law and also other books and manuscripts. On re- moval to the new Capitol, it is proposed to add to the State Library a copy of every book by a Connecticut author. This list, leaving out the Historical Society, which is private, presents pretty fully the fund of in- there is a powerful educating influence in its formation open to the public. Then there libraries. The Watkinson Library of Ref- are private libraries known by name at least erence, established by will of Mr. Robert to all 1)00k-collectors. Of these the finest, Watkinson, a member of one of the old as it is one of the finest in America, is that JiARFEOHI) PIII3[IC HI(;I( SCHOOL. THE WADSWORTH ATHEN CR). THE CHAR TER OAK CITY IS of the late Mr. George Brinley, who spent many years and a deal of money in getting it together. It contains a perfect Mazarine Bible, really the first important work ever printed in the world with movable type A copy advertised in England this year is priced at $15,000 gold. It has also two or three copies of each of the two editions of the rare old Eliot Indian Bible, and these copies are respectively the finest in existence. There is, too, a Bay State Psalm-hook, and of works of the early American press, between the psalm-book (1640) and the year 1700 there is a collection absolutely unequaled. These are only a part of the many volumes, and are its rarities, not its especial elegancies, but the superla- tives used in description are fully justi- fied by the facts. Few people know the library except by name, because Mr. Brinley guarded it most zealously as long as he lived. Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull also is the owner of .a fine collection of books, manuscripts, and literary valuables, among which are at least two Eliot Bibles, and he is the only person living who can read the book. Publishing began to assume visible pro- portions in Hartford early in the century, and, after the issuing of a series of school books, became, as it still is, a thriving indus- try of the place. The influential volumes in establishing the business were Smiths Geography and Arithmetic, by the late Ros- well C. Smith, of Hartford; Olneys Geog- raphy; Comstocks Philosophy and Chemis- try, and Mrs. Lincolns Botany. School- boys of fifty years ago will remember some of these better than more recent scholars can. The first Connecticut Bible was printed in Hartford in 1809, called the standing Bible, because the types were brought over from abroad all set up, and were kept stand- ing to print from. Between 1809 and i86i there were eighty editions of the Bible printed in the city Of late years the most of the Hartford books have been sold by subscription, and the book agent may, perhaps, be put beside the insurance agent among the products of the city. The prominence of the city in literature dates back to the first of this and last of the previous century, to the period of Joel Bar- bw, John Trumbull, Dr. Cogswell, Theo- dore Dwight, Dr. Hopkins and Richard Alsop, known as the Hartford wits. These brilliant men, who earned their title mainly by their contributions to a number of papers that were occasionally printed, may properly be called the founders of the literature of the place. Trumbull, the author of McFingal (who was admitted to Yale College when seven years old, and who, settling as a lawyer in Hartford in 1781, p lived to be eighty-one), and Theodore Dwight, were probably the best known of these. Dwight was an editor, and was offered, but declined, the editorship of the Nexv York Evening Post, before it was given to Mr. Coleman in i8oi. He was in Congress in i8o6, and shortly afterward established the Connecticut Mirror, a brilliant Federalist sheet, intended to be more pronounced than the Courant that he had edited. Dwight was secretary of the Hartford Convention, and after it left Hartford. Near to these in time was S. G. Goodrich, the familiar Peter Parley, who was a publisher before he began to write, and brought out Trum- bulls poems in 1820 in Hartford, and after- ward, moving to Boston, established there the Token, in which he introduced Haw- thorne and others to the public. His work in American literature was something like Knights in England. He popularized and, either in his own name or as Peter Parley, he was the writer of one hundred and sev- enty books, of which his compends of in- formationhistory, geography, travelare still remembered and used. His Recol- lections, in two volumes, are full of Hart- ford stories. The poets Percival and J. G. C. Brainard, the latter one of Connecticuts favorites, were his friends and contempora- ries. Of Brainard, whose theme was mainly nature, he says that he wrote his Ode to GENERAL JOSEPH S. HAWLEY. THE CHARTER OAK CITY Niagara, admitted to be the finest ever written on the subject, in a hurried half hour, at a call for copy in the office of the Mirror, which he edited, and when he wrote it he had never been within five hun- dred miles of the Falls! A story of the Hartford pulpit, told in the Recollections, illustrates the simple customs of the days gone by. Dr. Strong, after his Revolution- ary chaplaincy, was a pastor for many years in the city, where he was universally loved and respected. On week days, the Doctor was interested in the sale of rum as member of a firm who distilled and sold the liquor. This may seem strange, yet it is worth remark that the liquor business appears to have been better in the time when ministers managed it than now; but that is not all the story. The firm failed, and the sheriff followed up the minister with a writ. The latter retired to his house and shut himself up there to escape, but as writs could not be served on Sundays, he would come out of exile on those days, and, making his xvay to the sanctuary, would in safety lead his flock in their religious duties, nor did anybody then comment on the affair as peculiar. Another version of the tradition has it that the sheriff did arrest the minister but he was released within limits as the custom then was, and the legal limits had to be espe- cially extended for the benefit of this culprit in order that he might be able to reach the church where he preached. Mr. Goodrich tells of a literary club forming in i8i8, and there have been such clubs almost always since then. One of the present time, of limited membership, has in its number General Hawley, Dr. J. Hammond Trum- bull, Charles Dudley Warner, General W. B. Franklin, Mark Twain, the Hon. H. C. Robinson, the present Republican candidate for Governor of Connecticut, U. S. Judge Nathaniel Shipman, Professor C. E. Stowe, and several others of the leading members of the various professions. Dr. Bushnell and the late President Jackson of Trinity College, were also members. George D. Prentice, who, in 1828, took charge of the New England Review here, and John G. Whittier, who succeeded him in 1830, and published his first volume of poems while in Hartford; Lewis Gaylord Clark, who edited the Mirror, and William L. Stone, another of its editors, afterward founder of the New York Commercial Ad- vertiser, and author of numerous volumes, were at some time busy in literary life in the NESII)ENCE MARK IWAIN. THE CHARTER OAK CITY 7 city, and, of later date, are to be named Dr. Trumbull, the late Dr. Bushnell, President Bar- nard, now of Columbia College, Mr. Warner, the late Henry Howard Brownell, the poet, Mr. Clemens (MarkTwain), and the Hon. Henry Barnard, at one time United States Commis- sioner of Education. Noah Webster, compiler of the Dictionary, was born in Hartford. Among women, either now or formerly of the city, who have acquired promi- nence in letters, are Mrs. Sigourney, whose first vol- ume appeared in 1822; Miss Catharine Beecher, Mrs. Stowe, Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke, Gail Hamilton and Miss Louisa Bushnell, each of whom, by the way, has been engaged in teaching in Hart- ford at some time; the two last named having been connected with the High School. It is said of Mrs. Stowes Uncle Toms Cabin, that it has been trans lated into more languages than any other book but the Bible, and that a special alcove is reserved for it in the British Museum, as a study and for reference in philology. Among the authors mentioned, Barlow, Dwight, Stone, Brainard, Prentice, Whittier, Bushnell, Warner, Clark, and Clemens, all were editors at one time or another, and all but Dr. Bush- nell and Mr. Clemens were editors in Hart- ford. The activity of the city in politics has made its press always noticeably strong. To be sure, some of its most talented and brilliant newspapers have died, but there has almost always been the energy necessary to establish a successor, and failure has not produced discouragement. The Courant has kept on its even way among all troubles, and is now owned and edited by General J. R. Hawley, President of the Centennial Commission ,Mr. Charles Dudley Warner and Mr. Stephen A. Hubbard, under the firm of Hawley, Good- rich & Co.,.Mr. Goodrich having charge of the business department. The other daily newspapers are the Times, founded in 1817, and owned and edited now by the Messrs. Burr, and the Post, established in i8g6, and owned by a stock company, in which ex-Postmaster-General Jewell has a VOL. XUJ.2. large share. The Churchman, the very prominent Episcopal weekly journal, is pub- lished in Hartford, as are other denominational weeklies, and several Sunday papers, ad- vertising sheets, insurance journals, and so on. Political activity is a habit inherited from the old Hartford. The colony of Connecticut formed about Hartford, and the first written constitution in the world was drawn up in Hart- ford, and adopted for Connecticut in 1639. The word king does not occur in it, and the liberality of its whole spirit is historic. Under the famous charter, Hartford, that is Connecticut, acquired New Haven colony in 1662, and, after a long opposition, New Haven yielded and consented to be taken in. Hartford was the capital until I 701, then it and New Haven nearly all the time had each the legislature once a year till i8i8; then each had it on alternate years, and now, since 1874, Hartford has been the sole capital of the State, and a long dispute is quieted. In national affairs, the place has been honorably conspicuous. Its recruits have been ready always when needed for service. The capture of Ticonderoga by Ethan Allen was the result of an expedition organized in Hartford. Its Revolutionary record is good. The Hartford Convention of 1814, was certainly an important event. It was held in the Senate Chamber of the present State-house. In the Mexican war, Thomas H. Seymour, afterward Minister to Russia, won his fame, and among high offi- cers of the late war, who are, or were of RESIDENCE OF CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. iS THE CHARTER OAK CITY F---- - ----- -- Hartford, are Generals Alfred H. Terry of the regular army, J. R. Hawley of the Courant; W. B. Franklin of the Colt Arms Company, and the late R. 0. Tyler. In civil life. Hartford has had the second Chief- Justice of the nation, Oliver Ellsworth, a native of Windsor, near by, but often resi- (lent in the city; Joel Barlow, Minister to France; Seymour and Jewell, Ministers to Russia; Oliver Wolcott, Secretary of the Treasury under John Adams; J. M. Niles under Van Buren, and Jewell under Grant, Postmaster-Generals; Isaac Toucey under Buchanan, and Gideon XVelles through both of Lincolns administrations, Secretaries of the Navy; and Toucey, Attorney-General under Polk. Postmaster- General Niles founded tbe Hartford Times, and Mr. Welles was at one time one of its editors. This is only an imperfect review, after all, of some of the characteristic features of the city, its wealth, how earned and used, and its literary and political importance. With regard to the first of these, something should be said of the Hartford banks. The history of these institutions yields in itself material for a long work. To-day, the National Banks here have more than a third of all the deposits in Connecticut; more than a quarter of the capital, and surpluses averaging forty-three percent.; while, through the rest of the State, the average surplus is thirty-two per cent. The wholesale dry goods business of the city, built up by sheer per- severance, began ahout forty years ago in a small way, but developed to great impor- tance; and, a few years ago, every important town in the West had business relations with Hartford through the dry goods trade; yet, there was not in the city a single cotton or woolen mill. The sales of prints, last year, were more than $6,ooo,ooo, and of all dry goods between ~Io,oOo,oOO and $12,000,- ooo. In connection with business, it should be added, that the city pays about one-third of all the taxes of Connecticut. Of the general appearance of the city, it is not imprudent even for a resident to say that it is remarkably attractive. Its reputa- tion is already established in that respect, and is aided by the fact that the railroads pass along the edge of the park, affording a full view of this charming spot, of the imposing Capitol upon it, and of the pretentious build- ingson Main street which are seen beyond. The po- sition of the city is picturesque; it seems to rest nat- urally and easily where it is put; its macadamized streets are many, and are generally clean, and not yet altogether strip- ped of fine trees, although many have been improved out of existence in the past twenty years. Its residences are home-like and tasteful, and it is noticeable bow generally a bit of land is owned with the house Blocks are few. There has LOVE LANE. MAIN STREET TO CEI)AE HILL CEMETERY. JHA CIT/AR TEl? OAK CiTY 9 been a wide spreading out from the center fine chestnut-trees, with his garden sun- in recent years, and where some of the finest ning itself back of the house for summer ex- places now are, not long ago there were ercise and instruction, and in the winter the back-log burns in __ _ a grand open fire place in the draw- ing-room, which is lighted by south,east and north windows. These are in the xvest part of the city. Toward the north, the visitor sees the State Ar- senal and several of the older cemeter- ies, and at the far south, after passing the new Trinity Col- lege site and several conspicuous r e si - dences, there is reached a compara- only outlying groves or pastures. Arms- tively new cemetery at Cedar Hill, well laid mear, Mrs. Colts home, has already been out on high ground, from which the pros- described. Another remarkable place is pect includes all the city and a long range Mark Twains, on Farmington avenue, up and across the valley. A favorite The house is made entirely of brick, with drive is to Cedar Hill; and Hartford wood trimmings. Some very unique but people are, next to base-ball, notoriously excellent effects have been given by setting fond of horses and driving. The Hartfora the bricks at different angles in various base-ball grounds and the Charter Oak colors of mortar, and by using different col- trotting park are regarded as models among ored bricks. The house within is not public works of that sort. Another drive, re- noticeable at all for its peculiarity, as it is nowned for years for its sentimental associa- outside, but is admirably planned. The ciations, which have given it the name of Love fine hall and staircase, and the wOO(l-work of the library, which is antique and a foreign importa- tion, are models of beauty. And yet with all that there is to admire in the house owing to the skill of the architect and the taste of its occupants, it remains a fact that Mr. Clemens does most of his writing in his barn,-a habit which, to avert some wretched punster, ought to be cited as one reason why among humorists of the day, his works are stable while others perish; indeed, his Inno- cents Abroad has still a steady and constant sale, and, especially at the West, is a household word, where it ranks as chief among Old Testament commentaries. All of his books are published in Hartford. Close by his house is Mrs. Stowes, and not far off is Mr. Warners, gracefully set among THE AMERICAN ASYLUM FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB. THE RETREAT FOR THE INSAN 20 rifE CHAR TEl? OAK CITY Lane, is just about disappearing, its rich woods going down to make way for buildings. Wethersfield, with its State prison and its onions, is but a few miles south of the city; and the Tower, about eight miles west of the city, on Talcott Mountain, is a place of con- stant resort all summer long. Its views are unequaled anywhere else in the State. The Farmington and Connecticut Valleys lie under it west and east. North, appear Springfield, Mass., and Mounts Tom and Holyoke; the Catskills show themselves at the west in clear days; and south, the East Rock at New Haven is visible. There is no fitter or pleasanter conclusion to the statements of the citys wealth than the fact that it is a place of many chari- ties. The Hartford Hospital has a very liberal endowment, and is one of the largest buildings in Hartford. Near it is the Retreat for the Insane, a private asylum, founded in 1824, which has treated six thousahd patients, more than three thou- sand of whom have been discharged recov- ered. There is, near the railway station, on Asylum avenue, on Asylum Hill (both named from it), the American Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, established in 1817 by Thomas Gallaudet, assisted by Laurent Clerc, a French deaf-mute gentleman, a pupil of the Abbe Sicard. This was the first institution of its kind in the country. Until it was opened, the deaf and dumb had been held incapable of relief. Now they are not only taught useful industries, but learn to read with perfect ease, and to communicate ideas by signs, often more rapidly than others can by words, and sometimes they actually acquire speech. A bust of Mr. Clerc which was designed by a graduate of the institution, stands in the Asylum grounds. There are also among the charities, the Orphan Asylum, the various institutions of the Roman Catholic Church, which, besides several large churches, THE COFFEE-HOUSE OF THE UNION FOR HOME WORK. ________ _______ A _____ I -~ tb,. 71 Ii; IN THE BOYS READING-ROOM. THE CHARTER OAK CITY 21 has a convent, schools, and asylums in the city; the Womens Home of the Womens Christian Association, the Widows Homes, several especial funds held in trust for the poor, and the Union for Home Work, the latest of the Hartford charities, the fullest realization of well-wishing in well-doing that has yet been developed. It is an association of ladies, the payment of a small fee being the only qualification demanded of members. The lady managers consult with a hoard of gentlemen about important matters of finance; but practically it is all womans work. A visitor employed by the Union is constantly among the sick and needy. There is a coffee- house, on the Holly Tree Inn plan, in Market street, where thoroughly good food is sold without profit, and where,in a soup-kitchen de- partment, meal-tickets, sold to any purchaser for distribution among beggars, are redeem- ed on presentation. The coffee-house has a meat-market attached, where meats are sold to any purchaser at rates to cover in profit what is consumed in the restaurant, the mar- ket being in no sense a charity, but rather a means of sustaining one. Next door to the coffee-house, still a Union department, is the building used for a day nursery, or cr~c/ie, where young children are given good care and food all day while their mothers are away at work; and in the same building are lodging- rooms, and the reading-room for girls, who are taught sewing and music, and are read to and furnished with books. On certain days some of the ladies open a sewing- school for children, and at the coffee-house work is furnished to those who really need it, and food and clothes are provided at cost, much also being given away. The aim is not to help poor people to stay poor, but to show them how to earn, and to help themselves; it is scarcely necessary to say that professional and profitable beggary is the greatest obstacle the society meets. In con- nection with the Union, there is also a news- boys reading-room, open winter evenings, which is a useful thing, and a very lively place. Books, baths, checkers, and other lux- uries are allowed to every boy who wants to come in, the washing being not only allowed, but, if necessary, enforced. This outlines the plan of the Union for Home Work. It is no longer an experiment, but seems to be an established institution, living upon members fees, the income from occasional entertain- ments, and voluntary contributions given whenever they are wanted,for the Union is thoroughly appreciated. Its buildings are utterly plain old houses; there is no show about it; its funds have not gone into a monumental building, and it into debt as a consequence. Its only advertisement is the great work it is quietly doing. Already, kind-hearted people of other cities, who have been looking for some practical scheme to reach just the results the Union reaches, are taking it for their model. The existence and maintenance of all these charities, the presence of societies of every religious creed, the peaceful blending of as many nationalities as any city in the country contains, are all indications of the liberal spirit which prevails in and characterizes Hartford, whose wealth, culture, business enterprise, and philanthropy are each a rea- son for its fame among American cities. As to its future, there is room for speculation. Just now, like every city in the country, it suffers serious depression in business, and prophets are not lacking to say that it has reached its growth, and that, having spread out too much, it must steady itself to remain even of its present size and importance under the confessedly heavy taxes that are levied on its citizens; but against these are the known energy of the people, the evi- dences of how past opportunities have been improved, the traditions of success which attach to the city, and the power of increase that belongs to capital already acquired. ANDIRONS IN HISTORICAL ROOMS. 22 THE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. THE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. IN the ebb and flow of thought so char- acteristic of our modern intellectual life, one idea has many times gained, and as often lost, ground. From the days of Galileo to the present, during the centuries which have elapsed since the gift of its new vision had been bestowed upon the world by the blind Florentine, the doubt has now and again found voice, whether even Divine love and care can be commensurate with Divine power. The infinite reaches of space, revealed or suggested by the telescope, ex- hausts our capacity for belief. We stagger before the thoughts of an Intelligence which can and does fill every portion of this infin- ity of worlds with full, perfect and exquisite life. The subtle skepticism of the human heart, ever ready to seize an occasion, again asserts itself. The attribute of power is magnified at the expense of the no less God-like attribute which is satisfied with nothing less than perfection in detail. The world in its innate unbelief returns to the thought that even a love, a wisdom, a fore- thought which it mocks with the title of Divine, will fail to bestow upon each atom of this infinity, the care and tenderness which the race, in its infancy and ignorance, had fancied to be its own. And so God is pushed back and away from our human lives into a vague and dim abstraction, as the First Great Cause, and nothing more. But Wisdom, now as of old, is justified of her children. Science is always its own antidote, and is ever ready with the solution of the difficulties which it has raised. A little waiting, and the tubes and lenses, the mechanical perfection and delicate adjust- ments which had created the doubt, resolved it. While the telescope was sweeping the fields of space,bringing within the ken of man new worlds, and systems of worlds in the universe of unknown vastness above us, the microscope, in its humbler sphere, was revealing a no less wonderful universe of unknown beauty and perfection beneath us. The line of telescopic discovery sweeping off into infinite space might well bring doubt and despair to the mind which contemplates that alone; but there is another line of dis- covery more beautiful, more wonderful still. As we look, and tremble at the Divine power which holds the heavenly bodies in their orbits, we see it come circling round and be- neath us, holding us safe within the magic bounds of that Divine love which has made man the central fact of creation. This little instrument, then, has wrought a noble work for God and truth in the world. The microscope has, apart from its own peculiar work, a mission. Not only has it revealed to us many secrets which make life easier, which soften, the pangs of disease and diminish the anguish of bereavement, but it has helped to silence the voice which was delivering its message of desolation to the world, in denying the Fatherhood of God. Not only does it show us the marvel- ous precision of inorganic nature, and the delicate adjustments of chemical, physical and vital forces in organic, but it brings us into the very antechamber of that court where life holds its mysterious .sway,-- al- most into the presence of the subtile vital force which baffles analysis, and laughs syn- thesis to scorn. Let us begin at the very foundation of life, at its humblest manifestation, at the single stone, as it were, out of which all the magnificent architecture of organic nature is constructed. From the lowest form of life to the highest, from the most delicate sea-weed driven hither and thither by every passing ripple, up through the myriad forms of vegetable and animal life to man himselg there is no exception to the law which asso- ciates life, and all its functions, with the cell. In Natures infinite variety there is nothing half so wonderful as the unity which und~rlies it all. The ideal type is still ad- hered to, throughout the numberless modifi- cations of cell life. While there are cells of every size and shape, cells for the perform- ance of every function of life, cells which go to make up every kind of tissue, yet, it is true, that every organic structure is in the main an aggregation of mere cells. Vegetable cells, in the earlier stages of their development, generally approximate to the sphere in form. As they grow older, assume different offices in the economy of the plant, or are pressed upon by surround- ing cells, the shape becomes changed. Each vegetable cell is, in its earliest form, a sac of cellulose, filled with a mass of albumi- nous jelly in which is embedded a roundish body,the nucleus,chemically like the surrounding jelly. The wall of cellulose (which is the substance afterward, in many cases, transformed into wood) constitutes

22 THE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. THE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. IN the ebb and flow of thought so char- acteristic of our modern intellectual life, one idea has many times gained, and as often lost, ground. From the days of Galileo to the present, during the centuries which have elapsed since the gift of its new vision had been bestowed upon the world by the blind Florentine, the doubt has now and again found voice, whether even Divine love and care can be commensurate with Divine power. The infinite reaches of space, revealed or suggested by the telescope, ex- hausts our capacity for belief. We stagger before the thoughts of an Intelligence which can and does fill every portion of this infin- ity of worlds with full, perfect and exquisite life. The subtle skepticism of the human heart, ever ready to seize an occasion, again asserts itself. The attribute of power is magnified at the expense of the no less God-like attribute which is satisfied with nothing less than perfection in detail. The world in its innate unbelief returns to the thought that even a love, a wisdom, a fore- thought which it mocks with the title of Divine, will fail to bestow upon each atom of this infinity, the care and tenderness which the race, in its infancy and ignorance, had fancied to be its own. And so God is pushed back and away from our human lives into a vague and dim abstraction, as the First Great Cause, and nothing more. But Wisdom, now as of old, is justified of her children. Science is always its own antidote, and is ever ready with the solution of the difficulties which it has raised. A little waiting, and the tubes and lenses, the mechanical perfection and delicate adjust- ments which had created the doubt, resolved it. While the telescope was sweeping the fields of space,bringing within the ken of man new worlds, and systems of worlds in the universe of unknown vastness above us, the microscope, in its humbler sphere, was revealing a no less wonderful universe of unknown beauty and perfection beneath us. The line of telescopic discovery sweeping off into infinite space might well bring doubt and despair to the mind which contemplates that alone; but there is another line of dis- covery more beautiful, more wonderful still. As we look, and tremble at the Divine power which holds the heavenly bodies in their orbits, we see it come circling round and be- neath us, holding us safe within the magic bounds of that Divine love which has made man the central fact of creation. This little instrument, then, has wrought a noble work for God and truth in the world. The microscope has, apart from its own peculiar work, a mission. Not only has it revealed to us many secrets which make life easier, which soften, the pangs of disease and diminish the anguish of bereavement, but it has helped to silence the voice which was delivering its message of desolation to the world, in denying the Fatherhood of God. Not only does it show us the marvel- ous precision of inorganic nature, and the delicate adjustments of chemical, physical and vital forces in organic, but it brings us into the very antechamber of that court where life holds its mysterious .sway,-- al- most into the presence of the subtile vital force which baffles analysis, and laughs syn- thesis to scorn. Let us begin at the very foundation of life, at its humblest manifestation, at the single stone, as it were, out of which all the magnificent architecture of organic nature is constructed. From the lowest form of life to the highest, from the most delicate sea-weed driven hither and thither by every passing ripple, up through the myriad forms of vegetable and animal life to man himselg there is no exception to the law which asso- ciates life, and all its functions, with the cell. In Natures infinite variety there is nothing half so wonderful as the unity which und~rlies it all. The ideal type is still ad- hered to, throughout the numberless modifi- cations of cell life. While there are cells of every size and shape, cells for the perform- ance of every function of life, cells which go to make up every kind of tissue, yet, it is true, that every organic structure is in the main an aggregation of mere cells. Vegetable cells, in the earlier stages of their development, generally approximate to the sphere in form. As they grow older, assume different offices in the economy of the plant, or are pressed upon by surround- ing cells, the shape becomes changed. Each vegetable cell is, in its earliest form, a sac of cellulose, filled with a mass of albumi- nous jelly in which is embedded a roundish body,the nucleus,chemically like the surrounding jelly. The wall of cellulose (which is the substance afterward, in many cases, transformed into wood) constitutes lYlE BEGINNINGS OF LiFE. 23 the main feature by which vegetable are distinguished from animal cells. Nothing could look more innocent than the contents of a vegetable or animal cell, and yet this harmless jelly is responsible for much bitter and rancorous warfare; it is the much berated protoplasm, the physical basis of life. The name protoplasm, meAning first form, or first mold, has been given, because no form of life, vegetable or animal, fully developed or in embryo, has ever been found dissociated from it. The protoplasm at first fills the cellulose sac as the cell wall grows it is seen to give way under the strain, and certain vacancies, called vacuoli, make their appearance, which become filled with cell sap. More and more of these liquid drops appear throughout the mass of protoplasm; they generally coalesce at last, and form a cen- tral cavity, while the jelly is merely a lining membrane to the cellulose, or stretches itself across the cavity in the form of threads oi bands. When this stage has been reached, in cell developement, the protoplasm is called the primordial utricle. [See Fig i.] As internal cells grow older the proto- plasm disappears, the cellulose lignifies, and a mere frame-work of hardened cells is left. The moment the protoplasm disappears all vital action ceases, no new material is formed, no fresh chemical combinations take place, and the cell neither grows nor subdivides. In the soft, albuminous jelly resides the power, so marvelous and inex- plicable, which we call life; within it go on all the processes of vitality and reproduc- tion; from it is formed the cell sap, which is the vital fluid of the plant. It is true that the water of the cell sap is absorbed from out- side, yet it always passes through the pro- toplasmic layer, and in so doing receives cer- tain substances from it which endow it with the power to fulfill its functions. Protoplasm is more or less capable of pouring or flowing like a liquid, in propor- tion as it has absorbed more or less water; but it is never in any true sense a fluid. it is endowed with forces which give it the capacity for both an external and internal variability, present in no other known sub- stance. In consequence of the force inher- ent in living protoplasm, a mass of the structureless jelly (for such it seems to be) may assume~ a definite external form, it may vary that form, and it may secrete matter having different chemical and physical prop- erties according to definite laws. It is the immediate cause of cell formation, and of every process of organic life, wherever vitality is present. The cellulose, cell sap, and nucleus appear to be mere differentiations of matter already present in the protoplasm. In some of the lower alg~, or water-plants, a mass of protoplasm escapes from its old cell wall, clothes itself with a cellulose envelope, develops a nucleus and becomes in all respects like the parent cell. In passing out from its old cell wall, the jelly-like mass assumes a variety of forms; it shows itself to be soft, extensible, and inelastic. As soon, however, as it frees itself from exter- nal modifying conditions, it assumes a defi- nite shape in obedience to some internal controlling power. Certain portions of the protoplasm in most vegetable cells detach themselves and become colored; these are the chlorophyl bodies which give the green color to vege- tation, and which, under the controlling power of light, perform the most important of the vital functions. The protoplasmic masses which are associated with the color- ing matter are found to retain, not only their shape but also their former volume, after the chlorophyl is abstracted. Each chloro- phyl body is therefore composed of two substances, the coloring matter and its pro- toplasmic vehicle. In most cells the chlo- rophyl bodies are irregularly distributed throughout the jelly, but in some of the lowei sea-weed they assume the form of FIG. I. VEGETABLE CELLS AND STAECH GEAINS. Parenchymal cells from root of FrztiUuricu imperialis, longitodinal section of young cells near apex of root; d cellolose tissoe forming cell walls; protoplasmic contests of cells; c spaces holding cell sap; b nucleus; e nucleus swolleo by absorptioo of waler: F an older cell in which lbs pro;oplasm his contracted leaving a large vacuolas filled with cell sop, and i;self forming the lining protoplasmic layer of cell wall snointimes called primordial n/rick. Sf, g, hI, Starch grain in successive stages of growth or accretion. 24 filE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. spiral bands, and in others, of delicate star- ferred to the perennial parts of the plant, a like figures. [See Fig. 2.] . cicatrice forms across the stem, the leaf The mystery of cell life, which is all falls gently away, leaving the stem healed life in epitome, has hardly been touched. over before the severance is effected. Though many cells are so small that 125,- The starch grains, which are at first ooo,ooo may easily be included within a spherical, grow unequally; the layers, which cubic inch of space, yet the work of life at first form concentrically, are developed afterward only on one side; the shape in consequence changes from spheroid to ovoid, as may be seen in Fig. i, h. Por tions of the protoplasm also assume curious crystalline shapes, cubes, tetrahedra, octo- hedra, etc., not very definite in their form.. The crystalloids give the chemical reactions of protoplasm; and they take up coloring matter, coagulate, and imbibe water so freely as to lose their angularity. They are not at all of the nature of those true crystals,. generally of calcium oxalate, or calcium carbonate, which are found in many vegeta- ble cells. The cell wall inclosing each tiny mass of living jelly is very marvelous in the deli- cacy and beauty of its structure. As the contents of the cell grow, the cellulose envelope increases by a process which is universal throughout organic nature; par- ticles of cellulose, held in suspension by the protoplasm, are introduced between the molecules of the cell wall; it is thus enlarged to meet the requirements of its growing con S3 tents. Various considerations, such as the: structure of the cell wall, its action on polar- FIG. 2. SIIROGYRA LONGATA ABOUT TO EFFECT ized light, and other peculiarities, lead to the CONJUGATION. a Spiral bands of chiorophyl colltaining flower-like aggregations of conclusion that the liquid which thus carries. starch grains d~ anti drops of oil t g5 proloplaslo, with onclens, sending each particle of cellulose to its threads across to cell walls; c protoberances of cell wail in prepara- I appointed lion for coningation. [After Baths.] So, Sc, S3, spores of S. Lengahe place is water, holding within it solid mole-- in successive stage after conjugation. [After Henfrey..] cules of definite form, which are held apart goes on no less perfectly in one of these by their watery envelope. A water of cells .than it does in higher organisms. The i orgaiiization is therefore as essential to living jelly in each cell receives crude, inor- growth as the water of crystallization ganic matter, absorhs aiid assimilates it, is known to be in the regular aggregations. bringing into existence, by the alchemy of of the mineral world. its touch, the material without which all Every cell wall large enough to admit of animal life would perish. Besides the cell close microscopic examination is found to. contents already mentioned, which are in- consist of three separate series of lamina tegral parts of the cell itself we find the tions, cutting each other at angles like the products of its vital processes; quantities of three planes of cleavage in certain crystals. assimilated matter are stored up for the future First there are concentric layers of celluloser use of the plant, such as sugar, oil, and, like the layers of an onion, the outer and above all, starch. This latter generally innermost of which are comparatively denser makes its appearance in the chlorophyl while the intermediate layers are alternately bodies, and grows till it fills the space, a more or less watery, the other two systems. fine green coating covering the outside of of lamination are vertical, and cut across. the starch grains. In old, yellow leaves, each other. Sometin]es, under the glass, one~ the coating of green disappears, and the and sometimes another, of these shows most starch grains take the place of the chloro- conspicuously. The introduction of parti- phyl bodies. In the fall of the year all the des of cellulose between the molecules of assimilated material of the leaves is trans- the cell wall, or intussusception as it is called, IHE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. 25 does not take place equally on all sides. The form of the cell, in consequence, becomes greatly altered during its development. The most perfect illustration of free cell development, where the guiding force is 3 1 ~ . ~ social, life is characterized by mutual de- pendence. The earliest forms of the higher organ- isms is almost identical with the permanent forms of the lower. A number of densely crowded cells, exactly alike, forms the rudi- ment of the plant; as these cells multiply there is a tendency to become definitely rounded on the outside; from the uniform cellular mass the surface layer becomes dif- ferentiated, the cell walls of these layers thicken and flatten, and we have an epider- mis [Fig. 5]. Still further changes go on in the epidermal cells; some of the surface layers~ elongate immensely and form trichomes or vegetable hairs [Fig. 6]. The downy appear- ance of many leaves and the velvety softness ofcertain petals are due to the presence in vast numbers, of these trichomes. [See Fig. 7.] The forms of these minute vegetable hairs are sometimes very beautiful. In the plate, the stellate hair of a leaf of Eh~agnus is shown in si/u, the vein of the leaf running across the middle of the plate. The forms are too numerous for description, but a vari- ety may be seen in Fig. 6. The prickles upon leaves are merely trichomes lignified; thorns proper do not belong to the epider- mal system. Throughout the whole plant, between the cells of which its substance is composed, are intercellular air-passages, which com- municate with each other. The root end of all these passages is closed, but the upper end of each ramification opens into a larger air-space just below the epidermis. A sur- face cell above the air-chamber divides itself into two or more cells by running up double FIG. 3. POLLEN GRAINS. g, of Cucurbite Pete [in waler] I d. Passiflera aqai/ege fe/ia; a, Pe/argoniam specissa; A. Mimu/us mesc/oa/us; e, Basel/a a/ba; 5, Hibiscus irwaum; i, Efti/obium mon/anum; f, C/si. corum intybus; 5, Zmtatieas ne/i me iangere; c, Pass(flera cce. ra/ea. [After Henfrey.] wholly internal, may be found in pollen grains [Fig. 3] and elaters [Fig. 4, e i~. The irregularities which show themselves in the pollen grains, as spines, papilke, spiral bands, depressions, and all the infinite variety of ornamentation on the surface of these minute cells, are due to unequal growth in the thickness of the cell wall; the variety in ex- ternal shape is due to lateral growth. In the lower alg~ and fungi (sea-weed and mushrooms), growth is a mere aggregation of similar cells each of which is capable of performing for itself all the functions of life. It is a sort ( of banding together of inde- pendent savages for the pur- pose of mutual protection and benefit. This being the case, each cell is capable of sustain- ing, without serious incon- venience, an independent ex- istence; and in many instan- ces we find them leading just such a life. In higher organ- isms there is a division of FIG. 4. ANTHERAL RECEPTACLE OF MARCHANTIA POLYMORPHA, ETC., ETC. A Antheridialdisk, veeticaisection; a, antheridia Is. openingsintohollow containing antheridia: labor~ each I its f cell ms unc- /, leaves; r r, root hairs; s, stomata; B, archegonia of H. Pe/ymer~/sa; e e, elaters under tion to perform for the whole, differelst powers. and it becomes modified, as it develops, vertical walls. These walls finally separate, with reference to its special work. The and the single epidermal cell is divided into higher physical, as well as the higher two or more guard cells of the stomata, e 26 THE BEGIiVNINGS OF LIFE. as they are called. [See Fig. 5.] These The fibro-vascular bundles become still guard cells are so constructed that in dry further differentiated; the rows of cells lying weather they close, and so prevent the es- lengthwise in the stem thicken externally while the septa which divide them are absorbed; and, as a result the row of cells is transformed into a single slender tube. These vessels, as well as the intercellular air-pas- sages, serve to convey air through- out the tissues of the plant. When the sap is rising they are sometimes found filled with it; but generally they contain only air. The surface of these scalariform, spiral or pitted vessels, as they are severally called, is most exquisitely marked with patterns of an almost infinite variety. [See Fig. 9.] The lactiferous vessels are, like the spiral cape of an undue amount of moisture, while in moist weather they open. The stomata form the million little mouths by which the plant inhales and exhales the atmospheric gases necessary to its life; and they also served as pores for the exhalation of moisture. [Fig. ~.] The only modifications of cells yet men- tioned are those of the epidermal layers. While these are going on, changes quite as great are taking place within the cellular mass. String-like arrangements are formed, constituting strengthening tissue, which are called fibrous, vascular, or fibro-vascular bundles. Even the fundamental tissue be- tween becomes somewhat modified. In this way there arises, by the growth of all but the lower organisms,not simply layers of uniform cells, but systems of tissue, unlike both physically and physiologically. This may be very clearly seen in Fig. 8. A 6 6~ji \~ FIG. 7. STELLATR HAIRS FROM LRAF OF RLIRAGNUS IN SITU. A, Hairs of midrib. [Froln nature.] vessels, long rows of cells whose septa have been absorbed; these vessels convey from one part of the plant to another certain dis- solved material requisite for its growth. The intercellular spaces are also subservient to the same purpose. The cells pour out their juices into an intercellular space, and they are then conveyed away by the open chan- nels lying between the cells. A gland [Fig. 6, B, e, g, h] differs from these latex ves- sels in being a part of no lactiferous system, but mere local formations, which, when they are upon the surface layers, often (lischarge their secretions outwardly. The sap-con- ducting passages are intercellular spaces, usually arising from the separation of four cells; both sap and resin passages lie gene- rally in straight lines, or follow the fibro- vascular bundles. They resemble the lac- tiferous vessels in that they form continuous systems running through the whole plant. 6- FIG. 5. VRRTICAL SECTION OF A PORTION OF THR LRAF OF M. FOLYMORPHA. r5, Farenchymal cells e e, cells of the epidermis (lower and upper) I c, chlorophyl cells growing in an algm-like forln in the superficial intercellular space. [Afterfiacho.] FIG. 6. OLANOS ANO STRLLATR HAIRS. a a a ce, Stellate hairs from Deufzia gracilss; fi, hair frons Dioneu [from IIsture]; c, of .4Uernantiue,-a oxeltartc; d, Seta of rose, e, Sting of (Jr/ira sIrens; f, from Aryeniu a/ba; g, gland of hop; hair of crysanthemuin; 4, from hulhil of AcAzmenes; 1, gland of Diciamnasfraxm.iia. LAfter llenfrey.] THE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. 27 When they occur in the parenchyma, or table. In the tiny cellulose sac, by the fundamental cell tissue, they are generally vegetable protoplasm is wrought the very distributed at nearly equal distances, form- alchemy of life. There alone the inorganic ing a circle in the transverse section of the elements of earth, and air, and water are stem. [See Fig. 8.] transformed into the only material capable The whole epidermal system is covered of sustaining animal existence. and protected by a continuous cuticle which Late investigations into the processes also lines the vertical walls of the stomata. of vegetable life go to show that plants, like This cuticle, in its turn, is further protected by a del icate coating of wax, the bloom so familiar to every one. Sometimes it forms a continuous coating; at others it stands as a multitude of upright or curved rods; again it ap- pears in the form of scales, or of a thick incrustation, giving evidence of lamina- tions like the cell walls, or of layers of granules, or even as erect, doubly re- fractive four-sided prisms. We have glanced briefly at cell morphology and de- velopment, and considered some of its physical pecul- iarities; but we have not even looked into its life- history, or the functions performed by it, for the organism of which it is a part. The entire life of the plant depends upon the Nb action of light upon the FIG. 8. CROSS SECTION OF CACTUS STEM cells, which contain chlor- a, Pibro-vascular bundles; d, epidermal cells; rz, vascular bundles in tise direction from which a ophyl. New organic com- scent is about In be developed l c, inlerceilular spaces, with no separate cell wall. [From nature.] pounds are formed only in these cells, and only under the influence of light. After a certain amount of assimilated mate- rial is stored up under the influence of the sun s rays, vegetative processes may, it is true, go on at their expense independent of the sunlight. This is especially true of seeds and tubers, which possess large stores of assimilated material. But the plant hiber- nates in the darkness, rather than lives in the full sense of the word. The whole animal kingdom may be said to depend upon the vegetable, in two senses. The atmospheric equilibrium is maintained by their mutual action. Animals consuming oxygen and yielding up carbonic acid (car- bonic dioxide) and plants consuming carbon and liberating oxygen; in this sense the two kingdoms are mutually dependent, though not equally so; but in another sense animal life is entirely dependent upon vege animals, inhale and consume oxygen, and exhale carbonic dioxide; but this process, which is continuous and gentle, is masked by a much more vigorous action, which takes place within the chiorophyl particles under the controlling power of light. While the regular breathing of the plant goes on, consuming and liberating the same elements as the respiration of animals con- sumes and liberates, the chlorophyl parti- cles perform a work somewhat akin to assimilation. The carbonic dioxide of the air is seized upon by them, the elements are separated, the carbon is consumed, and the oxygen associated with it is liberated. The quantity of oxygen thus freed, and of car- bonic dioxide thus disappearing, so greatly exceeds any effects which during the day the reverse process of breathing could protluce, that the gentle exhalation has been entirely overlooked. The store of oxygen has been 28 THE BEGINNINGS OF LIFE. found to increase steadily in air removed wrought by the red and ultra-red rays which from all influences but those of vegetation, had been pronounced impotent. By these red. The chlorophyl particles also store up the and heat rays the chlorophyl is itself formed; formed material: the formation of starch, the carbonic dioxide is separated into car- oil, and sugar seems to, be a function of bon and oxygen; the sugar, oil and starch chlorophyl exposed to light, and their absorp- are produced. The mechanical processes tion a function of chlorophyl in the dark. of growth, of protoplasmic circulation in Nothing is more familiarly known than the cells and the direction and movement that sunlight after passing through a three- of swarm spores, are effected under the sided prism is spread out into an almost controlling influence of the violet and ultra- infinite number of rays, whose colors fade violet rays. All the solar vibrations which gradually into one another. These seven go to make up white light, therefore, appear colors, as for convenience they are called, do to possess chemical power, though the not constitute the whole solar spectrum; for matter affected by the several sets of rays beyond the red end there is an invisible is not the same. heat spectrum, and beyond the violet an The chlorophyl bodies [see Fig. 4, A cJ, invisible actinic spectrum. The chemical though the most important members of the decomposition of inorganic matter by light society of cells, are not the only ones, by is effected by these actinic rays. A photo- any means, essential to the welfare of the graph, for instance, may be taken in the body corporate. Certain cells which lie at blackest darkness, if only the ray of light the extremities of roots and branches, or at be shorn of its visible vibrations by being the base of leaves, are entirely devoted to the work of development and growth; these tiny cells seem to have discovered the fountain of perpetual youth, and to have tasted its magic watersfor they never grow old. They are rich in protoplasm, chlor- ophyl bodies, and cell sap, and they constantly repro- duce themselves by various modes. In the first place, the protoplasm becomes re- arranged around a new cen- ter, the material being al- ready present. The new protoplasmic body, which possessed a center or nu- cleus, soon clothes itself with a cell wall. This process is the only one common to all cell formation. The de- veloprnent of the new cell and its separation from the parent may be effected in one of several ways. By ref iveziescence, or the forma- tion of one new cell out of the protoplasm of the old passed through some chemical which is one. By confugation, or the union of the actinically transparent. Experiments upon protoplasm of two cells to form one new this point led physicists, very naturally, to one. By rnultzj1i5lica/ion, or the forma- divide the spectrum into three parts, which tion of two or more cells by a division of they called respectively, heat, light, and the old protoplasmic body. This last mode actinic spectra. Organic action shows this may be effected in a number of ways: eit1~ier distinction to be false, for within our little the protoplasm gives off a new cell, still chlorophyl bodies all chemical changes are maintaining its own existence, or, the nu FIG. 9. SPIRAL VESSELS ~.rar ur IMPATIENS BALSAMINA. Touch-me-not, or Ladys-slipper. [Frolo nature.] POEMS. 29 cleus having previously dissolved, and new nuclei having formed, it divides into a number of new cells. The first of these methods is called free cell formation, and is best illustrated by pollen grains, spores, and elaters; the second is called division, and is the general mode of reproduction in all tissue. The direction in which the cells divide determines the kind of tissue; a stem, for instance, is the result of longitudinal, while a leaf or a petal is the result of lateral, division. Foreign and remote as this life seems to us, yet as we study organic nature more and more closely, the more startling do the re- semblances seem. A casual glance, or even a close study, if it takes cognizance only of external and palpable facts, fails to find the bond which unites the sluggish existence devoid of sensibility which we find in vege- tation, with the hopes and fears, the delights and anguish of our human lives. And yet, upon the physical side, such a bond does exist. Many things are common to all purely animal life, and it is hard to find any- where a deep chasm which separates our race from the myriad forms of life beneath, if we ig- nore mans spiritual nature. Why should we fight about mere matters of anatomy, when we have a Plato, a Shakspere, a Newton to point to? On the physical side, man is un- doubtedly allied to brute nature, as he is on the spiritual side to the Divine. I confess, says Sydney Smith, I feel myself so much at ease about the superiority of mankind; I have such a marked and de- cided contempt for the understanding of every baboon I have ever seen; I feel so sure that the blue ape without a tail will never rival us in poetry, painting and music, that I see no reason whatever, that justice may not be done to the few fragments of soul, and tatters of understanding that they may really possess. This, to be sure, is not logic, but it is that witty common sense which is the most powerful weapon ever raised to demolish false reasoning, and it is often of more value than much logic. POEMS. Then and Now. THE woods were brown and bare Over there, And the melancholy air Sighed its requiem everywhere, And the river As forever, Glided on beneath the hill Des%Aate and gray and chill. Heavily drooped the leaden sky Over the waves,not tenderly, Only as if it scarce could bear All the weight of dumb despair Hidden there, And would fain in the river Bury forever Its useless longing and hopeless woe, Far in the secret depths below, Whence never a ghost could rise To tell of a lost Paradise. I stood on the rock By the shattered oak That the lightning seared with its fiery shock. Not a wandering birdlings note On the icy breeze was brought To my ear; Only clear Was the tinkling, trickling, dripping Of the watei ever slipping Oer the mossy stones below. Everywhere my feet could go Withered leaves, brown and degd, Rustled crisp beneath my tread. Long I lingered there. Ask me not how strange and wild Were the Presences that filled All my thoughts! I had no care, Knew no bitter grief that woke More than memorys faintest sigh; And the dreams that flitted by To my heart no longer spoke. Long ago, So it seemed to my fancy now, Vanished the blossoms of Hopes gay spring; And as I watched them withering, All the hopes and all the fears, All the ardor of early years, All the vivid imagining Died to a dull indifferent pain. I was no more glad, Nor was I sad; All the color and brilliancy, The green in the trees and the blue in the sky Had faded in lifes chill autumn rain. As cold and bare As the landscape there, As dim in hue and as bleak and drear I saw the weary future lie, No light to cheer, No storm to fear, Neither sorrow nor ecstasy,

POEMS. 29 cleus having previously dissolved, and new nuclei having formed, it divides into a number of new cells. The first of these methods is called free cell formation, and is best illustrated by pollen grains, spores, and elaters; the second is called division, and is the general mode of reproduction in all tissue. The direction in which the cells divide determines the kind of tissue; a stem, for instance, is the result of longitudinal, while a leaf or a petal is the result of lateral, division. Foreign and remote as this life seems to us, yet as we study organic nature more and more closely, the more startling do the re- semblances seem. A casual glance, or even a close study, if it takes cognizance only of external and palpable facts, fails to find the bond which unites the sluggish existence devoid of sensibility which we find in vege- tation, with the hopes and fears, the delights and anguish of our human lives. And yet, upon the physical side, such a bond does exist. Many things are common to all purely animal life, and it is hard to find any- where a deep chasm which separates our race from the myriad forms of life beneath, if we ig- nore mans spiritual nature. Why should we fight about mere matters of anatomy, when we have a Plato, a Shakspere, a Newton to point to? On the physical side, man is un- doubtedly allied to brute nature, as he is on the spiritual side to the Divine. I confess, says Sydney Smith, I feel myself so much at ease about the superiority of mankind; I have such a marked and de- cided contempt for the understanding of every baboon I have ever seen; I feel so sure that the blue ape without a tail will never rival us in poetry, painting and music, that I see no reason whatever, that justice may not be done to the few fragments of soul, and tatters of understanding that they may really possess. This, to be sure, is not logic, but it is that witty common sense which is the most powerful weapon ever raised to demolish false reasoning, and it is often of more value than much logic. POEMS. Then and Now. THE woods were brown and bare Over there, And the melancholy air Sighed its requiem everywhere, And the river As forever, Glided on beneath the hill Des%Aate and gray and chill. Heavily drooped the leaden sky Over the waves,not tenderly, Only as if it scarce could bear All the weight of dumb despair Hidden there, And would fain in the river Bury forever Its useless longing and hopeless woe, Far in the secret depths below, Whence never a ghost could rise To tell of a lost Paradise. I stood on the rock By the shattered oak That the lightning seared with its fiery shock. Not a wandering birdlings note On the icy breeze was brought To my ear; Only clear Was the tinkling, trickling, dripping Of the watei ever slipping Oer the mossy stones below. Everywhere my feet could go Withered leaves, brown and degd, Rustled crisp beneath my tread. Long I lingered there. Ask me not how strange and wild Were the Presences that filled All my thoughts! I had no care, Knew no bitter grief that woke More than memorys faintest sigh; And the dreams that flitted by To my heart no longer spoke. Long ago, So it seemed to my fancy now, Vanished the blossoms of Hopes gay spring; And as I watched them withering, All the hopes and all the fears, All the ardor of early years, All the vivid imagining Died to a dull indifferent pain. I was no more glad, Nor was I sad; All the color and brilliancy, The green in the trees and the blue in the sky Had faded in lifes chill autumn rain. As cold and bare As the landscape there, As dim in hue and as bleak and drear I saw the weary future lie, No light to cheer, No storm to fear, Neither sorrow nor ecstasy, 30 I-OEA/LS. My life one echoless monotone, Alone, aloneforever alone. The woods no more are bare Over there! But green with the tender brightening, The first light verdure of the spring; And gently on the rivers breast, The shadows lie in happy rest. Over the sky, So blue, and bright, and high, The clouds flit by, Shaped by fancys wildest freaks, Rising like snowy mountains fair, Like spirits of mist with floating hair, Or anything beautiful and rare. The pines on yonder rocky crest Odors yield at the winds behest, The violets, at their feet Offer up a fragrance sweet, Their lifes rich sacrifice, Then close their soft blue eyes, And sleep in death till another spring Shall bring a new awakening. Birds in the lofty boughs Are to each other calling, Clear-voiced thrushes whose ringing notes Upon the ear are falling. And soft in a murmurous under-tone The rippling waves are gliding on, While the emerald-covered shore Gently slopes as in days of yore Down to the waters brink, Where the sparks of sunlight rise and sink, Sparks that burn not, only glow And glitter and grow Then fade away, And so, they say, Fades and pales lifes May. But now tis in its fairest bloom, All light and color and perfume, The spring of the year, the spring of the heart, And one can never depart. The balmy atmosphere, The amber light so still and clear, The delicate flowers That blossom in these early hours, The larks gay song Endure not long, And the tender green of wood and shore Will soon be oer All these may disappear; But a glory that never shone On hill, or tree or shore, That illumes the heart alone For once, for evermore, A rose-light strange and rare, Tender and fair, Shines over my life so dull and bare. Even as the spring Is brightening The gray old winters mourning-pall, So through my dead and colorless days, Are softly streaming the rainbow rays Of Loves sweet spring more fair than all; And eyes that shine and cheeks that glow In the subtle flow Of an enchanted atmosphere, Pure and clear, Tell tbe tale of a heart that knows The rapture of repose; That in the light of loving eyes Has found its perfect rest, That breathes its faintest sighs Upon a true and tender breast. The soul so long unsatisfied, But now no more alone, Smiles with its deepest wants supplied. Ah, this could well atone For a hopeless Past a~d a Future of pain! For the cup of grief may fill again; But a glory would gleam oer the darkest scene Een if one stood alone where two ~had been. No power of Death could break the tie That binds our souls eternally; For, wandering on this desolate shore, For evermore A voice would whisper, Wait, love, wait! Ill meet thee at the golden gate Of Paradise, Where mortal eyes Forget to weep, and those who love Shall never separate. MARGARET LAWRENCE PRAY. Conceit and Humility. WHITHER away, 0 brawling Stream, Whither away so fast? Fleeing for life and death you seem. Speak, as you hasten past. Answered the Brook, with a pompous roar, Tossing its creamy foam, I go, my flood in the Main to pour Listen, 0 Sea, I come! Whither away, 0 River deep, Gliding so slow and calm? Your gentle current seems half asleep, And chanting a drowsy psalm. Answered the River, with whisper low, Swaying her lilies fair; Down to the measureless Sea I go The Sea will not know I am there. AUGUSTA MOORE. The Miners Story. I MARRIED Barbry outn the city, you see, She was far too nice a lass for the like o me, I did my courtin in brave, fine clothes, my best; I didnt tell her at I was a miner-lad, like the rest. Not that she thought me a gentlemans son, of course, Id never go there, riding, with gig or horse, But I somehow kept under my workin ways and talk, And Id never notice the common lads in my walk. Praps I let on that I had a farm at the least, For I could talk knowin bout any barn-yard beast, And bees, an tiie like, an crops of barley an rye, And of seeds an roots, s if I had come there to buy.

30 I-OEA/LS. My life one echoless monotone, Alone, aloneforever alone. The woods no more are bare Over there! But green with the tender brightening, The first light verdure of the spring; And gently on the rivers breast, The shadows lie in happy rest. Over the sky, So blue, and bright, and high, The clouds flit by, Shaped by fancys wildest freaks, Rising like snowy mountains fair, Like spirits of mist with floating hair, Or anything beautiful and rare. The pines on yonder rocky crest Odors yield at the winds behest, The violets, at their feet Offer up a fragrance sweet, Their lifes rich sacrifice, Then close their soft blue eyes, And sleep in death till another spring Shall bring a new awakening. Birds in the lofty boughs Are to each other calling, Clear-voiced thrushes whose ringing notes Upon the ear are falling. And soft in a murmurous under-tone The rippling waves are gliding on, While the emerald-covered shore Gently slopes as in days of yore Down to the waters brink, Where the sparks of sunlight rise and sink, Sparks that burn not, only glow And glitter and grow Then fade away, And so, they say, Fades and pales lifes May. But now tis in its fairest bloom, All light and color and perfume, The spring of the year, the spring of the heart, And one can never depart. The balmy atmosphere, The amber light so still and clear, The delicate flowers That blossom in these early hours, The larks gay song Endure not long, And the tender green of wood and shore Will soon be oer All these may disappear; But a glory that never shone On hill, or tree or shore, That illumes the heart alone For once, for evermore, A rose-light strange and rare, Tender and fair, Shines over my life so dull and bare. Even as the spring Is brightening The gray old winters mourning-pall, So through my dead and colorless days, Are softly streaming the rainbow rays Of Loves sweet spring more fair than all; And eyes that shine and cheeks that glow In the subtle flow Of an enchanted atmosphere, Pure and clear, Tell tbe tale of a heart that knows The rapture of repose; That in the light of loving eyes Has found its perfect rest, That breathes its faintest sighs Upon a true and tender breast. The soul so long unsatisfied, But now no more alone, Smiles with its deepest wants supplied. Ah, this could well atone For a hopeless Past a~d a Future of pain! For the cup of grief may fill again; But a glory would gleam oer the darkest scene Een if one stood alone where two ~had been. No power of Death could break the tie That binds our souls eternally; For, wandering on this desolate shore, For evermore A voice would whisper, Wait, love, wait! Ill meet thee at the golden gate Of Paradise, Where mortal eyes Forget to weep, and those who love Shall never separate. MARGARET LAWRENCE PRAY. Conceit and Humility. WHITHER away, 0 brawling Stream, Whither away so fast? Fleeing for life and death you seem. Speak, as you hasten past. Answered the Brook, with a pompous roar, Tossing its creamy foam, I go, my flood in the Main to pour Listen, 0 Sea, I come! Whither away, 0 River deep, Gliding so slow and calm? Your gentle current seems half asleep, And chanting a drowsy psalm. Answered the River, with whisper low, Swaying her lilies fair; Down to the measureless Sea I go The Sea will not know I am there. AUGUSTA MOORE. The Miners Story. I MARRIED Barbry outn the city, you see, She was far too nice a lass for the like o me, I did my courtin in brave, fine clothes, my best; I didnt tell her at I was a miner-lad, like the rest. Not that she thought me a gentlemans son, of course, Id never go there, riding, with gig or horse, But I somehow kept under my workin ways and talk, And Id never notice the common lads in my walk. Praps I let on that I had a farm at the least, For I could talk knowin bout any barn-yard beast, And bees, an tiie like, an crops of barley an rye, And of seeds an roots, s if I had come there to buy.

30 I-OEA/LS. My life one echoless monotone, Alone, aloneforever alone. The woods no more are bare Over there! But green with the tender brightening, The first light verdure of the spring; And gently on the rivers breast, The shadows lie in happy rest. Over the sky, So blue, and bright, and high, The clouds flit by, Shaped by fancys wildest freaks, Rising like snowy mountains fair, Like spirits of mist with floating hair, Or anything beautiful and rare. The pines on yonder rocky crest Odors yield at the winds behest, The violets, at their feet Offer up a fragrance sweet, Their lifes rich sacrifice, Then close their soft blue eyes, And sleep in death till another spring Shall bring a new awakening. Birds in the lofty boughs Are to each other calling, Clear-voiced thrushes whose ringing notes Upon the ear are falling. And soft in a murmurous under-tone The rippling waves are gliding on, While the emerald-covered shore Gently slopes as in days of yore Down to the waters brink, Where the sparks of sunlight rise and sink, Sparks that burn not, only glow And glitter and grow Then fade away, And so, they say, Fades and pales lifes May. But now tis in its fairest bloom, All light and color and perfume, The spring of the year, the spring of the heart, And one can never depart. The balmy atmosphere, The amber light so still and clear, The delicate flowers That blossom in these early hours, The larks gay song Endure not long, And the tender green of wood and shore Will soon be oer All these may disappear; But a glory that never shone On hill, or tree or shore, That illumes the heart alone For once, for evermore, A rose-light strange and rare, Tender and fair, Shines over my life so dull and bare. Even as the spring Is brightening The gray old winters mourning-pall, So through my dead and colorless days, Are softly streaming the rainbow rays Of Loves sweet spring more fair than all; And eyes that shine and cheeks that glow In the subtle flow Of an enchanted atmosphere, Pure and clear, Tell tbe tale of a heart that knows The rapture of repose; That in the light of loving eyes Has found its perfect rest, That breathes its faintest sighs Upon a true and tender breast. The soul so long unsatisfied, But now no more alone, Smiles with its deepest wants supplied. Ah, this could well atone For a hopeless Past a~d a Future of pain! For the cup of grief may fill again; But a glory would gleam oer the darkest scene Een if one stood alone where two ~had been. No power of Death could break the tie That binds our souls eternally; For, wandering on this desolate shore, For evermore A voice would whisper, Wait, love, wait! Ill meet thee at the golden gate Of Paradise, Where mortal eyes Forget to weep, and those who love Shall never separate. MARGARET LAWRENCE PRAY. Conceit and Humility. WHITHER away, 0 brawling Stream, Whither away so fast? Fleeing for life and death you seem. Speak, as you hasten past. Answered the Brook, with a pompous roar, Tossing its creamy foam, I go, my flood in the Main to pour Listen, 0 Sea, I come! Whither away, 0 River deep, Gliding so slow and calm? Your gentle current seems half asleep, And chanting a drowsy psalm. Answered the River, with whisper low, Swaying her lilies fair; Down to the measureless Sea I go The Sea will not know I am there. AUGUSTA MOORE. The Miners Story. I MARRIED Barbry outn the city, you see, She was far too nice a lass for the like o me, I did my courtin in brave, fine clothes, my best; I didnt tell her at I was a miner-lad, like the rest. Not that she thought me a gentlemans son, of course, Id never go there, riding, with gig or horse, But I somehow kept under my workin ways and talk, And Id never notice the common lads in my walk. Praps I let on that I had a farm at the least, For I could talk knowin bout any barn-yard beast, And bees, an tiie like, an crops of barley an rye, And of seeds an roots, s if I had come there to buy. POEMS. 3 She was a delicate, purty, lady-like little thing, With a cheek like the blush on a rose; theres a shinin ring Of her yellow hair, in my Bible; I keep it so, Cause it kinder draws me to read tho good Book, you know. So I married Barbaryshe went home wi me the same day; I took her to my old mother, an whatd the good soul say? Shes not fit for you, soa, a rough miner wants strength in a wife; I thought I shd sink in the groundtwas the sin o my life. I didnt dare to look in the poor little quiverin face; Its the deceiving I mind, dear, tisnt the work, or the place; Thems just her words, and I wanted to die in my shame; You got me with lying; h~r look meant exactly that same. So I did; and it made me ugly as time went along; For I fancied that Barbary always remembered the wrong, Sot if she was pale, Id tease her most out of her life, And tell her she ought to be stronger, hem a miners wife. And once when my temper was up, I cursed her hard to her face; She fell at my feet, so white and scared! twas a burnin disgrace; And then came the awfullest hour a man cap ever see, And a little morsel of new-born life, laid on my knee. Well, praps one like mell never see the angels or such, If the Lord kept he~ from me I shouldnt blame Him, much. I wasnt fit settin for a dimoad, precious as that, Youre lookin, I see, at the piece o crape on my hat. Lost both, sir; its all right, Im not the man to complain. Theyre where the glory and beauty is; Im left alone with the pain; But Im fightin my cursed temper, fightin both day and night, And Ill conquer it, if I dieits all right, sir; all right. MARy A. DENIsoN. Submission. WHAT use to struggle, Friend? Your sigh but serves to swell the tempests roar, And does not haste the end. Lie still and wait, for you can do no moi~e. Mans will subdueth much: Gods will subdueth all through time and space, Your power is not a touch When used to turn His rodor force His grace. Would it avail the seed, If it should weary of its darksome bed, And cry aloud its need Of sunshine, and of liberty instead? And where would be the flower If God should heed the seeds impatient cry, And in that bitter hour, Open its prison-hole to light and sky? I tell you, Friend, that we (I say it, though the chain drags hard to-night) Are better bound than free Who wait in shade, that we may live in light. R. W. EASTERBROOKS. Andenken. I THINK of thee when the forest trees Bend to the whispring evening breeze; When the song of the nightingale Wakes music in the wood and vale. When thinkest thou of me? I think of thee by the woodland spring, Where the oaks their shadows fling; When the day and gloomy night Mingle in the dark twilight. Where thinkest thou of me? I think of thee with smiles and tears; With trembling hopes and anxious fears; With longings for thy presence near Thy voice to bless, thy smile to cheer. How thinkest thou of me? 0 think of me until we meet, Beyond the bier and winding-sheet; Until our hearts in the world above, Are one forever in joy and love! Thus only think I of thee! ROSALIE RIvEs, from the German of Matthisson. To a Bird. WHEN maiden daisies deck the ground, And violets in the lanes are found, When warmer suns in henven glow, And milder winds oer meadows blow ; Thou comst, sweet bird! at that blest time To glad with songs our northern clilne. How mellow is each warbled note That gushes from thy mottled throat! Such music sweet is seldom heard As here thou givest, happy bird! For, listening with a pleased surprise, The forest seems a Paradise. Such happy notes tell of a land By gentle zephyrs ever fanned; Where summer reigns throughout the year, And raging tempests come not near. When winter strips these woods again, May thou and I that Eden gajn. JAMES A. BARTLEY.

POEMS. 3 She was a delicate, purty, lady-like little thing, With a cheek like the blush on a rose; theres a shinin ring Of her yellow hair, in my Bible; I keep it so, Cause it kinder draws me to read tho good Book, you know. So I married Barbaryshe went home wi me the same day; I took her to my old mother, an whatd the good soul say? Shes not fit for you, soa, a rough miner wants strength in a wife; I thought I shd sink in the groundtwas the sin o my life. I didnt dare to look in the poor little quiverin face; Its the deceiving I mind, dear, tisnt the work, or the place; Thems just her words, and I wanted to die in my shame; You got me with lying; h~r look meant exactly that same. So I did; and it made me ugly as time went along; For I fancied that Barbary always remembered the wrong, Sot if she was pale, Id tease her most out of her life, And tell her she ought to be stronger, hem a miners wife. And once when my temper was up, I cursed her hard to her face; She fell at my feet, so white and scared! twas a burnin disgrace; And then came the awfullest hour a man cap ever see, And a little morsel of new-born life, laid on my knee. Well, praps one like mell never see the angels or such, If the Lord kept he~ from me I shouldnt blame Him, much. I wasnt fit settin for a dimoad, precious as that, Youre lookin, I see, at the piece o crape on my hat. Lost both, sir; its all right, Im not the man to complain. Theyre where the glory and beauty is; Im left alone with the pain; But Im fightin my cursed temper, fightin both day and night, And Ill conquer it, if I dieits all right, sir; all right. MARy A. DENIsoN. Submission. WHAT use to struggle, Friend? Your sigh but serves to swell the tempests roar, And does not haste the end. Lie still and wait, for you can do no moi~e. Mans will subdueth much: Gods will subdueth all through time and space, Your power is not a touch When used to turn His rodor force His grace. Would it avail the seed, If it should weary of its darksome bed, And cry aloud its need Of sunshine, and of liberty instead? And where would be the flower If God should heed the seeds impatient cry, And in that bitter hour, Open its prison-hole to light and sky? I tell you, Friend, that we (I say it, though the chain drags hard to-night) Are better bound than free Who wait in shade, that we may live in light. R. W. EASTERBROOKS. Andenken. I THINK of thee when the forest trees Bend to the whispring evening breeze; When the song of the nightingale Wakes music in the wood and vale. When thinkest thou of me? I think of thee by the woodland spring, Where the oaks their shadows fling; When the day and gloomy night Mingle in the dark twilight. Where thinkest thou of me? I think of thee with smiles and tears; With trembling hopes and anxious fears; With longings for thy presence near Thy voice to bless, thy smile to cheer. How thinkest thou of me? 0 think of me until we meet, Beyond the bier and winding-sheet; Until our hearts in the world above, Are one forever in joy and love! Thus only think I of thee! ROSALIE RIvEs, from the German of Matthisson. To a Bird. WHEN maiden daisies deck the ground, And violets in the lanes are found, When warmer suns in henven glow, And milder winds oer meadows blow ; Thou comst, sweet bird! at that blest time To glad with songs our northern clilne. How mellow is each warbled note That gushes from thy mottled throat! Such music sweet is seldom heard As here thou givest, happy bird! For, listening with a pleased surprise, The forest seems a Paradise. Such happy notes tell of a land By gentle zephyrs ever fanned; Where summer reigns throughout the year, And raging tempests come not near. When winter strips these woods again, May thou and I that Eden gajn. JAMES A. BARTLEY.

POEMS. 3 She was a delicate, purty, lady-like little thing, With a cheek like the blush on a rose; theres a shinin ring Of her yellow hair, in my Bible; I keep it so, Cause it kinder draws me to read tho good Book, you know. So I married Barbaryshe went home wi me the same day; I took her to my old mother, an whatd the good soul say? Shes not fit for you, soa, a rough miner wants strength in a wife; I thought I shd sink in the groundtwas the sin o my life. I didnt dare to look in the poor little quiverin face; Its the deceiving I mind, dear, tisnt the work, or the place; Thems just her words, and I wanted to die in my shame; You got me with lying; h~r look meant exactly that same. So I did; and it made me ugly as time went along; For I fancied that Barbary always remembered the wrong, Sot if she was pale, Id tease her most out of her life, And tell her she ought to be stronger, hem a miners wife. And once when my temper was up, I cursed her hard to her face; She fell at my feet, so white and scared! twas a burnin disgrace; And then came the awfullest hour a man cap ever see, And a little morsel of new-born life, laid on my knee. Well, praps one like mell never see the angels or such, If the Lord kept he~ from me I shouldnt blame Him, much. I wasnt fit settin for a dimoad, precious as that, Youre lookin, I see, at the piece o crape on my hat. Lost both, sir; its all right, Im not the man to complain. Theyre where the glory and beauty is; Im left alone with the pain; But Im fightin my cursed temper, fightin both day and night, And Ill conquer it, if I dieits all right, sir; all right. MARy A. DENIsoN. Submission. WHAT use to struggle, Friend? Your sigh but serves to swell the tempests roar, And does not haste the end. Lie still and wait, for you can do no moi~e. Mans will subdueth much: Gods will subdueth all through time and space, Your power is not a touch When used to turn His rodor force His grace. Would it avail the seed, If it should weary of its darksome bed, And cry aloud its need Of sunshine, and of liberty instead? And where would be the flower If God should heed the seeds impatient cry, And in that bitter hour, Open its prison-hole to light and sky? I tell you, Friend, that we (I say it, though the chain drags hard to-night) Are better bound than free Who wait in shade, that we may live in light. R. W. EASTERBROOKS. Andenken. I THINK of thee when the forest trees Bend to the whispring evening breeze; When the song of the nightingale Wakes music in the wood and vale. When thinkest thou of me? I think of thee by the woodland spring, Where the oaks their shadows fling; When the day and gloomy night Mingle in the dark twilight. Where thinkest thou of me? I think of thee with smiles and tears; With trembling hopes and anxious fears; With longings for thy presence near Thy voice to bless, thy smile to cheer. How thinkest thou of me? 0 think of me until we meet, Beyond the bier and winding-sheet; Until our hearts in the world above, Are one forever in joy and love! Thus only think I of thee! ROSALIE RIvEs, from the German of Matthisson. To a Bird. WHEN maiden daisies deck the ground, And violets in the lanes are found, When warmer suns in henven glow, And milder winds oer meadows blow ; Thou comst, sweet bird! at that blest time To glad with songs our northern clilne. How mellow is each warbled note That gushes from thy mottled throat! Such music sweet is seldom heard As here thou givest, happy bird! For, listening with a pleased surprise, The forest seems a Paradise. Such happy notes tell of a land By gentle zephyrs ever fanned; Where summer reigns throughout the year, And raging tempests come not near. When winter strips these woods again, May thou and I that Eden gajn. JAMES A. BARTLEY.

POEMS. 3 She was a delicate, purty, lady-like little thing, With a cheek like the blush on a rose; theres a shinin ring Of her yellow hair, in my Bible; I keep it so, Cause it kinder draws me to read tho good Book, you know. So I married Barbaryshe went home wi me the same day; I took her to my old mother, an whatd the good soul say? Shes not fit for you, soa, a rough miner wants strength in a wife; I thought I shd sink in the groundtwas the sin o my life. I didnt dare to look in the poor little quiverin face; Its the deceiving I mind, dear, tisnt the work, or the place; Thems just her words, and I wanted to die in my shame; You got me with lying; h~r look meant exactly that same. So I did; and it made me ugly as time went along; For I fancied that Barbary always remembered the wrong, Sot if she was pale, Id tease her most out of her life, And tell her she ought to be stronger, hem a miners wife. And once when my temper was up, I cursed her hard to her face; She fell at my feet, so white and scared! twas a burnin disgrace; And then came the awfullest hour a man cap ever see, And a little morsel of new-born life, laid on my knee. Well, praps one like mell never see the angels or such, If the Lord kept he~ from me I shouldnt blame Him, much. I wasnt fit settin for a dimoad, precious as that, Youre lookin, I see, at the piece o crape on my hat. Lost both, sir; its all right, Im not the man to complain. Theyre where the glory and beauty is; Im left alone with the pain; But Im fightin my cursed temper, fightin both day and night, And Ill conquer it, if I dieits all right, sir; all right. MARy A. DENIsoN. Submission. WHAT use to struggle, Friend? Your sigh but serves to swell the tempests roar, And does not haste the end. Lie still and wait, for you can do no moi~e. Mans will subdueth much: Gods will subdueth all through time and space, Your power is not a touch When used to turn His rodor force His grace. Would it avail the seed, If it should weary of its darksome bed, And cry aloud its need Of sunshine, and of liberty instead? And where would be the flower If God should heed the seeds impatient cry, And in that bitter hour, Open its prison-hole to light and sky? I tell you, Friend, that we (I say it, though the chain drags hard to-night) Are better bound than free Who wait in shade, that we may live in light. R. W. EASTERBROOKS. Andenken. I THINK of thee when the forest trees Bend to the whispring evening breeze; When the song of the nightingale Wakes music in the wood and vale. When thinkest thou of me? I think of thee by the woodland spring, Where the oaks their shadows fling; When the day and gloomy night Mingle in the dark twilight. Where thinkest thou of me? I think of thee with smiles and tears; With trembling hopes and anxious fears; With longings for thy presence near Thy voice to bless, thy smile to cheer. How thinkest thou of me? 0 think of me until we meet, Beyond the bier and winding-sheet; Until our hearts in the world above, Are one forever in joy and love! Thus only think I of thee! ROSALIE RIvEs, from the German of Matthisson. To a Bird. WHEN maiden daisies deck the ground, And violets in the lanes are found, When warmer suns in henven glow, And milder winds oer meadows blow ; Thou comst, sweet bird! at that blest time To glad with songs our northern clilne. How mellow is each warbled note That gushes from thy mottled throat! Such music sweet is seldom heard As here thou givest, happy bird! For, listening with a pleased surprise, The forest seems a Paradise. Such happy notes tell of a land By gentle zephyrs ever fanned; Where summer reigns throughout the year, And raging tempests come not near. When winter strips these woods again, May thou and I that Eden gajn. JAMES A. BARTLEY. 32 THAf LASS 0 L0WRIE~ THAT LASS C) LOWRIES. BY FANNY HODGSON BURNETT. CHAPTER IX. BUT if she did not hear of the incident from Grace, Anice heard of it from another quarter. The day following, the village was ringing with the particulars of th feight betwix th Lunnon chap an Dan Lowrie. Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. Barholm returned to luncheon in a state of great excitement. Dear me! he began, almost as soon as he entered the room. Bless my life! what ill-conditioned animals these colliers are! Anice and her mother regarded him ques- tioningly. What do you suppose I have just heard? he went on Mr. Derrick has had a very unpleasant affair with one of the men who work under himno other than that Lowrie the young womans father. They are a bad lot it seems, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and attacked him openly, and in the most brutal manner, as he was go- ing through the village yesterday evening. Are you sure? cried Anice Oh! papa, and she put her hand upon the table I as if she needed support. There is not the slightest doubt, was the answer, everybody is talking about it. It appears that it is one of the strictest rules of the mine that the men shall keep their Davy lamps locked while they are in the pitin(leed they are directed to deliver up their keys before going down, and Derrick having strong suspicions that Lowrie had procured a false key, gave him a rather se- vere rating about it, and threatened to re- port him, and the end of the matter was the trouble of yesterday. The wonder is, that Derrick came off conqueror. They say he gave the fellow a soun(l thrashing. There is a good deal of force in that young man, he said, rubbing his hands. There is a good deal ofof pluck in himas we used to say at Oxford. Anice shrank from her fathers evident en- JOAN HALTED SUDDENLY. /27/b 7

32 THAf LASS 0 L0WRIE~ THAT LASS C) LOWRIES. BY FANNY HODGSON BURNETT. CHAPTER IX. BUT if she did not hear of the incident from Grace, Anice heard of it from another quarter. The day following, the village was ringing with the particulars of th feight betwix th Lunnon chap an Dan Lowrie. Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. Barholm returned to luncheon in a state of great excitement. Dear me! he began, almost as soon as he entered the room. Bless my life! what ill-conditioned animals these colliers are! Anice and her mother regarded him ques- tioningly. What do you suppose I have just heard? he went on Mr. Derrick has had a very unpleasant affair with one of the men who work under himno other than that Lowrie the young womans father. They are a bad lot it seems, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and attacked him openly, and in the most brutal manner, as he was go- ing through the village yesterday evening. Are you sure? cried Anice Oh! papa, and she put her hand upon the table I as if she needed support. There is not the slightest doubt, was the answer, everybody is talking about it. It appears that it is one of the strictest rules of the mine that the men shall keep their Davy lamps locked while they are in the pitin(leed they are directed to deliver up their keys before going down, and Derrick having strong suspicions that Lowrie had procured a false key, gave him a rather se- vere rating about it, and threatened to re- port him, and the end of the matter was the trouble of yesterday. The wonder is, that Derrick came off conqueror. They say he gave the fellow a soun(l thrashing. There is a good deal of force in that young man, he said, rubbing his hands. There is a good deal ofof pluck in himas we used to say at Oxford. Anice shrank from her fathers evident en- JOAN HALTED SUDDENLY. /27/b 7 THAT LASS 0 LOWRIES. 33 joyment, feeling a mixture of discomfort and dread. Suppose the tables had turned the other way. Suppose it had been Lowrie who had conquered. She had heard of hor- rible things being done by such men in their blind rage. Lowrie would not have paused where Derrick did. The newspapers told direful tales of such struggles ending in the conquered being stamped upon, maimed, beaten out of life by a brutal victor. It is very strange, she said, almost im- patiently. Mr. Grace must have known, and yet he said nothing. I wish he would come. As chance had it, the door opened just at that moment, and the Curate was announced. He was obliged to drop in at all sorts of un- ceremonious hours, and to-day some school business had brought him. The Rector turned to greet him with unwonted warmth. The very man we want, he exclaimed. Anice was just wishing for you. We have, been talking of this difficulty between Derrick and Lowrie, and we are anxious to hear what you know about it. Grace glanced at Anice uneasily. We wanted to know if Mr. Derrick was quite uninjured, she said. Papa did not hear that he was hurt at all, but you will be able to tell us. There was an expression in her upraised eyes the Curate had never seen there. He felt the shadow of the night before settle over him again. He met with an injury, he answered, but it was not a severe one. He came to my rooms last night and remained with me. His wrist is fractured. He was not desirous of discussing the subject very freely, it was evident, even to Mr. Barholm, who was making an effort to draw him out. He seemed rather to avoid it, after he had made a brief statement of what he knew. In his secret heart, he shrank from it with a dread far more nervous than Anices. He had doubts of his own con- cerning Lowries action in the future. Thus the Rectors excellent spirits grated on him, and he said but little. Anice was silent too. After luncheon, how- ever, she went into a small conservatory ad- joining the room, and before Grace took his departure, she called him to her. It is very strange that you did not tell us last night, she said; why did you not? It was Derricks forethought for you, he answered. He was afraid that the story would alarm you, and as I agreed with him VOL. XIII.3. that it might, I remained silent. I might a~ well have spoken, it appears. He thought it would frighten me ? she said. Yes. Has his accident made him ill? No, not ill, though the fracture is a very painful and inconvenient one. I am very sorry; please tell him so. And, Mr. Grace, when he feels himself able to come here, I have something to say to him. Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very night with his arm in splints and bandages. It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to him; Mrs. Barholms gentle heart went out to the handsome invalid. She had never had a son of her own, though it must be confessed she had yearned for one, strong and deep as was her affection for her girl. But it was not till Derrick bade Anice good-night, that he heard what she intended to say to him. When he was going, just as he stepped across the threshold of the en- trance door, she stopped him. Wait a minute, if you will be so good, she said, I have something to ask of you. He paused, half smiling. I thought you had forgotten, he returned. Oh! no, I had not forgotten, she an- swered him. But it will only seem a very slight thing to you perhaps. Then she be- gan again, after a pause of a breaths space. If you please, do not think I am a coward, she said earnestly. A coward! he repeated. You were afraid to let Mr. Grace tell me about your accident last night and though it was very kind of you, I did not like it. It made me feel that you might be afraid to rely upon me at some other time when there was real danger to be faced, and I could be of use if I were brave enough to face it. And that would not be fair to me. I should be very sorry if I thought I was not to be relied upon. If you please, do not think that because these things are new and shock me, I am not strong enough to trust in. I am stronger than I look. My dear Miss Barholm, he protested, I am sure of that. I ought to have known better. Forgive me if Oh, she interposed quietly, you must not blame yourself. People so often make mistakes about me, that I am almost used to it. But I wanted to ask you to be so kind as to think better of me than that. I want to be sure that if ever I canbe of use to anybody, 34 THAT LASS 0 LOWRIES. you will not stop to think of the danger or annoyance. Such a time may never con~e, but if it does I shall certainly remember what you have said, Fergus ended for her. CHAPTER X. THE moon was shining brightly when he stepped into the open roadso brightly that he could see every object far before him un- less where the trees cast their black shadows, which seemed all the blacker for the light. What a grave little creature she is! he was saying to himself. But he stopped sud- denly; under one of the trees by the road- side some one was standing motionless; as he approached, the figure stepped boldly out into the moonlight before him. It was a woman. Dunnot be afeard, she said in a low, hurried voice. Its me, Mesterits Joan Lowrie. Joan Lowrie! he said with surprise. What has brought you out at this hour, and whom are you waiting for? Im waiten for yorsen, she answered. For me? Aye; I ha summat to say to you. She looked about her hurriedly. Yod better come into th shade o them trees, she said, I dunnot want to gi any one a chance to see me, nor yo either. It was impossible that he should not hesi- tate a moment. If she had been forced into entrapping him! She made a sharp gesture. I am na goin to do no harm, she said. Yo may trust me. Its th other way about. I ask pardon, he said, feeling heartily ashamed of himself the next instant, but you know Aye, impatiently, as they passed into the shadow. I know, or I should na be here now. A moonbeam, finding its way through a rift in the boughs and falling on her face, showed him that she was very pale. Yo wonder as Im here at aw, she said, not meeting his eyes as she spoke, but yo did me a good turn onct, an I ha na had so many done me i my loife as I can forget one on em. Im come herefur I may as well mak as few words ont as I conI come here to tell yo to tak heed o Dan Lowrie. What? said Fergus. He bears me a grudge, does he? She answered him brusquely: Aye, he bears thee grudge enow, she said. He bears thee that much grudge that if he could lay his hond on thee, while th heats on him, hed kill thee or dee. He will na be so bitter after a while, happen, but hed do it now, and thats why I warn thee. Tha has no reet to be goin out bike this, glanc- ing at his bandaged arm. How could tha help thysen if he were to set on thee. Tha had better tak heed, I tell thee. I am very much indebted to you, be- gan Fergus. She stopped him. Tha did me a good turn, she said. And then her voice changed. Dan Lowries my feyther, an Ive stuck to him, I dunnot know whyhappen cause I never had nowt else to hold to and do for; but feyther or no feyther I know hes a bad un when th fits on an he has a spite agen a mon. So tak care, I tell thee agen. Theer now, Ive done. Will tha walk on first an let me follow thee? Something in her mode of making this suggestion impressed him singularly. I do not quite understand he said. She turned and looked at him then, her face white and resolute. I dunnot want harm done, she an- swered. I will na ha harm done if I con help it, an if I mun speak th truth I know theers harm afoot to-neet. If Im behind thee, theeris na a mon i Riggan as dare lay hond on thee to my face, if I am nowt but a lass. Thats why I ax thee to let me keep i soight. You are a brave woman, he said, and I will do as you tell me, but I feel like a coward. Theer is no need as you should, she answered in a softened voice. Yo dun- not seem bike one to me. Derrick bent suddenly, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. At this involun- tary act of homagefor it was nothing less Joan Lowrie looked up at him with startled eyes. I am na a lady she said, and drew her hand away. They went out into the road together, he first, she following at a short distance so that nobody seeing the one could avoid seeing the other. It was an awkward and trying position for a man of Derricks temperament, and under some circumstances he would have rebelled against it; as it was, he could not feel humiliated. At a certain dark bend in the road not THAT LASS 0 LOWRIES. 35 far from Lowries cottage, Joan halted suddenly and spoke. Feyther, she said, in a clear steady voice, is na that yo standin theer? I thowt yod happen to be comm whoam this way. Wheer has tha been? And as he passed on, Derrick caught the sound of a muttered oath, and gained a side glimpse of a heavy, slouching figure coming stealthily out of the shadow. CHAPTER XL Hoos a queer little wench, commented one of the roughest Rigganite matrons, after Anices first visit. I wur i th mid- dle o my weshin when she coom,up to th neck i th suds,and I wur vexed enow when I seed her standin i th door, look- in at me wi them big eyes o hers most bike a babbys wonderin at summat. We dunnot want none, I says, soart o sharp bike, th minute I clapped my eyes on her. Theers no one here as can read, an none on us has no toime to spare if we could, so we dunnot want none. Dunnot want no what? she says. No tracks, says I. And what do yo think she does, lasses? Why, she begins to soart o dim- ple up about th corners o her mouth as if Id said summat reight down queer, an she gies a little bit o a laff. Well, she says, Im glad o that. Its a good thing, fur I havnt got none. An then it turns out that she just stopped fur nowt but to leave some owd linen an salve for to dress that sore hond Jack crushed i th pit. Hed towd her about it as he went to his work, and she promised to bring him some. An whats more, she wouldna coom in, but just gi it me, an went her ways, as if she had na been th Parsons lass at aw, but just one o th common koind, as knowd how to moind her own business an leave other folkses a-be. The Rigganites became quite accustomed to the sight of Anices small low phaeton, and its comfortable fat gray pony of respectable jog-trot habits. She was a pleasant sight herself as she sat in it, her little whip in her small gloved hand, and no one was ever sorry to see her check the gray pony before the door. Anice! commented Mr. Barholm to his curate, well! you see Anice understands these people, and they understand her. She has the faculty of understanding them. There is nothing, you may be assured, Grace, like understanding the lower orders, and ehtering into their feelings. There was one member of Riggan society who had ranged himself among Miss Bar- holms disciples from the date of his first ac- quaintance with her, who was her stanch friend and adviser from that time forward the young master of th best tarrier i Riggan. Neither Jud Bates nor Nib fal- tered in their joint devotions from the hour of their first introduction to th Parsens daughter. When they presented them- selves at the Rectory together, the cordiality of Nibs reception had lessened his masters awkwardness. Nib was neither awkward nor one whit abashed upon his entr6e into a sphere so entirely new to him as a well-order- ed, handsomely furnished house. Once inside the parlor, Jud had lost courage and stood fumbling his ragged cap, but Nib had bounced forward, in the best of unceremo- nious good spirits, barking in friendly rec- ognition of Miss Barholms greeting caress, and licking her hand. Through Nib, Anice contrived to inveigle Jud into conversation and make him forget his overwhelming confusion. Catching her first glimpse of the lad as he stood upon the threshold with his dubious garments and his abashed air, she was not quite decided what she was to do with him. But Nib came to her assistance. He forced himself upon her attention and gave her something to say, and her manner of receiving him was such, that in a few minutes she found Jud sidling toward her, as she half knelt on the hearth patting his favorites rough back. Jud looked down at her as she knelt, and she looked up at Jud. Have you taught him to do anything? she asked. Does he know any tricks? That broke the ice. Jud forgot his con- fusion. Hell kill more rats i ten minutes than ony dog i Riggan. Hes th best tarrier fur rats as tha ivver seed. Hes the best tarrier for owt as tha ivver seed. Theer is nowt as he canna d~. He can feight ony dog as theer is fro heer to Marfort. And he glowed in all the pride of possession, and stooped down to pat Nib himself. He was quite communicative after this, and really Anice gained a great deal of in- formation from him. He was a shrewd little fellow and had not spent his ten years in the mining districts for nothing. He was thoroughly conversant with the ways of the people his young hostess wished to hear about. He had worked in the pits a little, and he had tramped about the coun 36 THAT LASS 0 LOWRZES. try with Nib at his heels a great deal. He was supposed to live with his father and grandmother, but he was left entirely to himself; unless when he was put to a chance job. He knew Joan Lowrie and pro- nounced her a brave un; he knew Owd Sammy Craddock and reverenced him as a potentate of wondrous capacity; he knew Joans father and evidently regarded him with distrust; in fact, there was not a man, woman or child in the place of whom he did not know something. Mr. Barholm happening to enterthe room by accident during the interview, found his daughter seated on a low seat with Nibs head on her knee, and Jud a few feet from her. She was so intent on the task of entertaining her guest that she did not hear her fathers entrance, and the Reverend Harold left the three together, himself in rather a bewil- dered frame of mind. Do you know? he asked of his wife when he found her, do you know who it is Anice is amusing in the parlor? What singular fancies the girl has with all her good sense! CHAPTER XII. THOUGH they saw comparatively little of each other, the friendly feeling estab- lished between Anice and Joan, in their first interview, gained strength gradually as time went on. Coming home from her work at noon or at night, Joan would see traces of Anices presence, and listen to Lizs praises of her. Liz was fond of her and found comfort in her. The days when the respectable gray pony stopped in his respect- able jog-trot on the road-side before the gate had a kind of pleasurable excitement in them. They were the sole spice of her life. She understood Anice as little as she understood Joan, but she liked her. She had a vague fancy that in some way Anice was like Joan; that there was the same strength in her,a strength upon which she herself might depend. And then she found even a stronger attraction in her visitors personal adornments, in her graceful dress, in any elegant trifle she wore. She liked to look at her clothes and ask questions about them, and wonder how she would look if she were the possessor of such beautiful things. She wur bike a pictur, she would say mournfully to Joan. She had a blue gown on, an a hat wi blue-bells in it, an summat white an soft filled up round her neck. Eh! it wur pretty. I wish I wur a lady. I dunnot see why ivverybody canna be a lady an have such bike. Later, Joan got up and went to the child, who lay upon the bed in a corner of the room. There were thoughts at work within her of which Liz knew nothing. Liz only looked at her wondering as she took the sleeping baby in her arms, and began to pace the floor, walking to and fro with a slow step. Have I said owt to vex yo? said Liz. No, lass, was the answer, it is na thee as worrits me. I con scarce tell what it is mysen, but it is na thee, nivver fear. But there was a shadow upon her all the rest of the night. She did not lay the child down again, but carried it in her arms un- til they went to bed, and even there it lay upon her breast. Its queer to me as yo should be so fond o that choild, Joan, said Liz, standing by the side of the bed. Joan raised her head from the pillow and looked down at the small face resting upon her bosom, and she touched the babys cheek lightly with her finger, flushing curi- ously. Jts queer to me too, she answered. Get thee into bed, Liz. Many a passionate battle was fought up- on that hard homely couch when Liz was slumbering quietly, and the childs soft regu- lar breathing was the only sound to be heard in the darkened room. Night after night, Joan Lowrie lay with wide-opened eyes, silent, full of stubborn pangs of misery and shame. Amid the sordid cares and humili- ations of her rough life, there had arisen new ones. She had secret strugglings of her own,secret yeamings,and added to these, a secret terror. When she lay awake think- ing, she was listening for her fathers step. There was not a night in which she did not long for, and dread to hear it. If he staid out all night, she went down to her work under a load of foreboding. She feared to look into the faces of her work-fellows, lest they should have some evil story to tell; she feared the road over which she had to pass, lest at some point, its very dust should cry out to her in a dark stain. She knew her father better than the oldest of his compan- ions, and she watched him closely. Hes what yo wenches ud ca a handsum chap, that theer, said Lowrie to her, the night of his encounter with Derrick. Hes a tall chap an a strappin chap an hes getten THAT LASS 0 LOWRIES. 37 a good-lookin mug o his own, but, clenching his fist slowly and speaking, Ive not done wi him yetI has not quite done wi him. Wait till I ha, an then see what~ yoll say about his beauty. Look yo here, lass,more slowly and heavily still, hell noan be so tall then nor yet so straight an strappin. Ill smash his good-lookin mug if Im domd to hell fur it. Heed tha that? Having beaten his enemy with his own weapons, Derrick determined to face him down even should the worst come to the worst. So instead of taking lodgings nearer town or avoiding the Knoll Road, as Grace advised him to do when he heard of Joans warning, he provided himself with a heavy stick, stuck a pistol into his belt every night when he left his office, and walked home as usual, keeping a sharp look-out, however. If I avoid the fellow, he said to Grace, he will suspect at once that I feel I have cause to fear him; and, if I give him grounds for such a belief as that I might as well have given way at first. He will respect brute courage and brute force, though he has re- spect for nothing else. Strange to say, he was not molested. The excitement seemed to die a natural death in the course of a few days. Lowrie came back to his work looking sullen and hard, but he made no open threats, and he even seemed easier to manage. Cer- tainly Derrick found his companions more respectful and submissive. There was less grumbling among them and more passive obedience. The rules were not broken openly, at least, and he himself was not de- fied. It was not pleasant to feel that what reason and civility could not do, a tussel had accomplished, but this really seemed to be the truth of the matter, and the result was one which made his responsibilities easier to bear. But during his lonely walks homeward on these summer nights, Derrick made a curious discovery. On one or two occa- sions he became conscious that he had a companion who seemed to act as his escort. It was usually upon dark or unpleasant nights that he observed this, and the first time he caught sight of the figure which always walked on the opposite side of the road, either some distance before or behind him, he put his hand to his belt, not perceiving for some moments that it was not a man but a woman. It was a womans figure, and the knowledge sent the blood to his heart with a rush that quickened its beatings. It might have been chance, he argued, that took her home that night at this particular time; but when time after time, the same thing occurred, he saw that his argument had lost its plausibility. It was no accident, there was purpose in it; and though they never spoke to each other or in any manner ac- knowledged each others presence, and though often he fancied that she convinced herself that he was not aware of her motive, he knew that Joans desire to protect him had brought her there. He did not speak of this even to Grace. One afternoon in making her visit at the cottage, Anice left a message for Joan. She had brought a little plant-pot holding a tiny rose-bush in full bloom, and when she went away she left her message with Liz. I never see your friend when Jam here,~~ she said, will you ask her to come and see me some night when she is not too tired ? When Joan came home from her work, the first thing that caught her eye was a lovely bit of color,the little rose-bush blooming on the window-sill where Anice herself had placed it. She went and stood before it, and when Liz, who had been temporarily absent, came into the room, she was standing before it stilL She browt it, explained Liz, she wur here this afternoon. Aye, she answered, wur she? Aye, said Liz. An Joan, what do yo think she towd me to tell yo? Joan shook her head. Why, she said I wur to tell yo to go an see her some neet when yo wur na tired, just th same as if yo wur a lady. Shanna yo go? I dunnot know, said Joan awakening, I canna tell. What does she want o me? She wants to see thee an talk to thee, thats what,answered Liz,just th same as if tha was a lady, I tell thee~. Thats her way o doin things. She is na a bit bike the rest o gentlefolk. Why, shell sit theer on that three-legged stool wi th choild on her knee an laff an talk to me an it, as if she wur nowt but a common lass an noan a lady at aw. Shes taen a great fancy to thee, Joan. Shes allus axin me about thee. If I wur thee Id go. Hap- pen shed gi thee some o her owd cboas, as shes taen to thee so. I dunnot want no owd cloas, said Joan, brusquely, an shes noan so daft as to offer em to me. 38 THAT LASS 0 LOWRIES. Well, I nivver did! exclaimed Liz. Would na tha tak em? Tha nivver means to say, tha would na tak em Joan? Eh! tha art a queer wench! Why! Id be set up for th rest o my days, if shed offer em to me. Thy ways an mine is na bike, said Joan. I want no gentlefolks finery. An I tell yo she would na offer em to me. Liz regarded her almost impatiently. I nivver con mak thee out, she said, in a fret. Thart as grand as if tha wur a lady thysen. Thalt tak nowt fro no- body. Wheers th choild? asked Joan. Shes laid on th bed, said Liz. She wur so heavy she tired me an I giv her a rose-bud to play wi an left her. She has na cried sin. Eh! but these is a noice color, bending her pretty, large-eyed face over the flowers, and inhaling their perfume; I wish I had a bit o ribbon bike em. CHAPTER XIII. NOTWITHSTANDING Anices interference in his behalf, Paul did not find his labors be- come very much lighter. It seemed that one task disposed of, another presented itself. Often he found that he had barely breathing time left between one difficulty and another. And then after all his labor, the prospect be- fore him was not promising. Instead of appearing easier to cope with as he learned more of it and its inhabitants, Riggan seemed still more baffling. His district lay in the lower end of the town among ugly back streets, and alleys, among dirt and ig- norance and obstinacy. He spent his days in laboring among people upon whom he sometimes fancied he had obtained no hold. It really seemed that they did not want him these people; and occasionally a more distressing view of the case presented itself to his troubled mind ,namely, that to those who might chance to want him he had little to offer. He had his temporal thorn too. He found it difficult to read, hard to fix his mind on, his modest sermons; occasionally he even accused himself of forgetting his duty. All this grew out of the night when he stood at the door and listened to his friends warning concerning the Rectors daughter. Derricks words were simple enough in themselves, but they had fallen upon the young Curates ears with startling significance. He had given this significance to them himself,in spite of himself,and then all at once he had fallen to wondering why it was that he had never thought of such a possible denouement before. It was so very possible, so very probable; nay, when he came to think of it seriously, it was only impossible that it should not be. He had often told himself, that some day a lover would come who would be worthy of the woman he had not even hoped to win. And who was more worthy than Fergus Derrickwho was more like the hero to whom such women surrendered their hearts and lives. If he himself had been such a man, he thought with the simplicity of affection, he would not have felt that there was need for fear. And the two had been thrown so much together and would be thrown together so frequently again. He remembered how Fergus had been adopted into the family circle, and calling to mind a hundred trifling incidents, smiled at his own blindness. When the next day he re- ceived Anice s message, he received it as an almost positive confirmation. It was not like her to bestow favors from an idle impulse. It was not so easy now to meet the girl in his visits to the Rectory; it was not easy to listen to Mr. Barholm while Anice and Fergus Derrick sat apart and talked. Some- times he wondered if the time could ever come, when his friend would be less his friend because he had rivaled him. The idea of such a possibility cnly brought him fresh pain. He could not bear to confront it. His gentle chivalric nature shrank with- in itself at the thought of the bereavemert that double loss would be. There was littic room in his mind for the envies of stronger men. Certainly Fergus had no suspicion of the existence of his secret pain. He found no alteration in him. Among the Reverend Pauls private vent- ures was a small night school which he had managed to establish by slow degrees. He had picked up a reluctant scholar here, and one there ,two or thee pit lads, two or three girls, and two or three men for whose awkward patronage he had worked so hard and waited so long that he was quite sur- prised at his success in the end. He scarcely knew how he had managed it, but the pu- pils were there in the dingy room of the National School, waiting for him on two nights in the week, upon which nights he gave them instruction on a plan of his own. He had thought the matter so little likely to succeed at first, that he had engaged in it ZEHAZI LASS 0 LOWRIES. 39 as a private work, and did not even mention it until his friends discovered it by chance. Said Jud Bates to Miss Barhoim, during one of their confidential interviews: Did tha ivver go to a neet skoo? No, said Anice. Jud fondled Nibs ears patronizingly. I ha, an Im goin agin. So is Nib. Hes getten one. Who? for Jud had signified by a gesture that he was not the dog, but some indefinite person in the village. Th little Parson. Say, Mr. Grace, suggested Anice. It sounds better. AyeMester Gracebut ivverybody ca s him th little Parson. Hes getten a neet skoo i th town, an he axed me to go, an I went. I took Nib an we lamed our letters; leastways I lamed mine, an Nib he listened wi his ears up, an th ParMester Grace laffed. He wur na vext at Nib comm. He said let him coom as he wur so owd-fashioned. So Mr. Grace found himself informed up- on, and was rather abashed at being con- fronted with his enterprise a few days after by Miss Barhoim. I like it, said Anice. Joan Lowrie learned to read and write in a night school. Mr. Derrick told me so. A new idea seemed to have been sug- gested to her. Mr. Grace, she said, why could not 1 help you? Might I? His delight revealed itselt in his face. His first thought was a selfish, unclerical one, and sudden consciousness sent the color to his forehead as he answered her, though he spoke quite calmly. There is no reason why you should not ~if you choose, he said, unless Mr. Barholm should object. I need not tell you how grateful I should be. Papa will not object, she said, quietly. The next time the pupils met, she pre- sented herself in the school-room. Ten minutes after Grace had given her work to her, she was as much at home with it as if she had been there from the first. Hoos a little un, said one of the boys, but hoo does not seem to be easy feart. Hoo does not look a bit tuk back. She had never been so near to Paul Grace during their friendship as when she walked home with him. A stronger respect for him was growing in her,a new reverence for his faithfulness. She had always liked and trusted him, but of late she had learned to do more. She recognized more fully the purity and singleness of his life. She accused herself of having underrated him. Please let me help you when I can, Mr. Grace, she said; there may be times when I can use my influencepromise that you will ask me to use it when it is possible. I am not blaming anybodythere is no real blame, even if I had the right to attach it to any one; but there are mistakes now and then, and you must promise me that I may use my influence to prevent them. She had stopped at the gate to say this, and she held out her hand. It was a strange thing that she could be so utterly oblivious of the pain she inflicted. But even Derrick would have taken her hand with less self-control. He was so fearful of wounding or disturbing her, that he was continually on his guard in her presence, and especially when she was thus warm and unguarded herself. He had fancied before, sometimes, that she had seen his difficulties, and sympa- thized with him in them, but he had never hoped that she would be thus unreserved. His thanks came from the depths of his heart; he felt that she had lightened his burden. After this, Miss Barholm was rarely absent from her place at the school. The two evenings always found her at work among her young women, and she made very steady progress among them, By degrees the enterprise was patronized more freely. New pupils dropped in, and were usually so well satisfied that they did not drop out again. Grace gave all the credit to Anice, but Anice knew better than to accept it. She had been his novelty she said; time only would prove whether her usefulness was equal to her power of attraction. She had been teaching in the school about three weeks, when a servant came to her one night as she sat reading, with the information that a young woman wished to see her. A fine-looking young woman, Miss, added the girl. I put her into your own room, as you give orders. The room was a quiet place away from the sounds of the house, which had gradually come to be regarded as Miss Barholms. It was not a large room but it was a pretty one, with wide windows and a good view, and as Anice liked it, her possessions drifted into it until they filled it,her books, her pictures, her little luxuries,and as she spent 40 THAT LASS 0 LOWRIES. a good deal of her time there, it was invari- ably spoken of as her room, and she had given orders to the servants that her village visitors should be taken to it when they came. Carrying her book in her hand, she went upstairs. She had been very much inter- ested in what she was reading, and had hardly time to change the channel of her thought. But when she opened the door, she was brought back to earth at once. Against the end wall was suspended a picture of Christ in the last agony, and beneath it was written, It is finished. Before it, as Anice opened the door, stood Joan Lowrie, with Lizs sleeping child on her bosom. She had come upon the pict- ure suddenly, and it had seized on some deep, reluctant emotion. She had heard some vague history of the Man; but it was different to find herself in this silent room, confronting the upturned face, the crown, the cross, the anguish and the mystery. She turned toward Anice, forgetting all else but her emotion. She even looked at her for a few seconds in questioning silence, as if waiting for an answer to words she had not spoken. When she found her voice, it was of the picture she spoke, not of the real object of her visit. Tha knows, she said, I dunnot, though Ive heerd on it afore. What is it as is finished? I dunnot quite see. What is it? It means, said Anice that Gods Son has finished his work. Joan did not speak. I have no words of my own, to explain, continued Anice. I can tell you better in the words of the men who loved him and saw him die. Joan turned to her thenher ear caught by the last words. Saw him dee! she repeated. There were men who saw him when he died, you know, said Anice. The New Testament tells us how. It is as real as the picture, I think. Did you never read it ? The girls face took an expression of distrust and sullenness. Th Bible has na been i my line, she answered; Ive left that to th parsons an th bike; but th pictur tuk my eye. It seemt different. Let us sit down, said Anice, yoa will be tired of standing. When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the child, who was asleep, lowering her voice for fear of disturbing it. Joan re- garded the little thing with a look of half- subdued pride. I browt it because I knowed it ud be easier wi me than wi Liz, she said. It worrits Liz an it neer worrits me. Im so strong, yo see, I can carry it, an scarce feel its weight, but it wears Liz out, an it seems to me as it knows it too, fur th min- ute she begins to fret it frets too. There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, when at last she began to ex- plain the object of her errand. Anice could not help fancying that she was impelled on her course by some motive whose influence she was reluctant to submit to; as if whatever it might be, it forced her onward against her will. She had come to speak about the night school. Theer wur a neet skoo here once afore as I went to, she said; I larnt to read theer an write a bit, butbut theers other things Id bike to know. Tha canst understand, she added a little abruptly, I need na tell yo. Little Jud Bates said as yo had a class o yore own, an it comn into my moind as I would ax yo about it. If I go to th skoo IId bike to be wi yo. You can come to me, said Anice. And do you know, I think you can help me. This thought had occurred to her suddenly. I am sure you can help me, she repeated. When Joan at last started to go away, she paused before the picture, hesitating for a moment, and then she turned to Anice again. Yo say as th book makes it seem real as th pictur, she said. It seems so to me, Anice answered. Will yo lend me th book? she asked abruptly. Anices own book lay upon a side-table. She took it up and handed it to the girl, say- ing simply, I will give you this one if you will take it. It was mine. And Joan carried it away with her. (To be continued.) PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS. 4 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS; OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE. CHAPTER XXXIII. ALONE. Much was in little writ, and all conveyed With cautious care, for fear to be betrayed By some false confidant, or favorite maid. DRYDEN. AH, well ! wrote Inez, in the queer little journal which she tried to keep in those days, so I am to learn what life is. They take their turns, but, one after another of these I love most, leaves me, till I am now almost alone. I will try not to be un- grateful, but I am very lonely. And here the poor girl stopped, and such was the eventfulness of her life for weeks after, that she does not come to the diary again. As it is apt to happen in our some- what limited human life, the people who have most to do have little chance, or little spirit, to sit down, night by night, to tell on paper how they did it. Her aunts absence must of necessity be three or four weeks in length. They parted with tears, you may be sure. It was the first time they had been parted, for so long a separation, since Inez could remember. She was now indeed put to the test to show how well she could carry on the duties of the head of the household. And Chloe and Antoine, and even old Ransom, would come to her for orders, in the most respectful way, from day to day. As if I did not know, Inez said to Ma-ry, in one of their convent interviews, that they were all going to do just whYit they thought best, and as if they did not know that I knew it. Once a fortnight, under the rules for girls schools, which Saint Ursula had arranged before the barbarians had cut off her head at Cologne, Inez was permitted to visit Ma-ry for an hour in the convent parlor. Once a month, under some such dispensa- tion from the holy father at Rome, as has been spoken of, Ma-ry was able to return the visit, for the better part of a day. For the rest, their intercourse went on in corre- spondence, with the restriction, not pleasing to two such young ladies, that the letters on both sides were to be examined before they reached their destination, by Sister Barbara. Inez took such comfort as she could, by going to Mass on Sunday at the chapel of St. Ursula, where she could see Ma-ry, and Ma-ry could see her. But, excepting these comforts, the two girls had to live on in hope that Whit-Sunday would come at last, and then Ma-ry was to be liberated from the study and the imprisonment to which she had so bravely submitted. Poor Inezs anxieties were not to be the questions of good or bad coffee, or tender steaks or tough. Everything seemed to conspire against the peace of that little com- munity, and in that little community the bolts seemed to fall hottest and fastest on the household of Silas Perry. The community itself was in the most feverish condition. Monsieur Laussat had arrived, with a commission from the First Consul to govern the colony, as soon as it was transferred by Spain; for all mystery about the transfer from Spain to France was now over. Besides old Salcedo, mon- bund, and young Salcedo, impudent and interfering, and the Intendant Morales, idiotic and pig-headed, here was thi& pre- tentious popinjay, Laussat. You would have said that the French people would have been pleased. Now they could dance French contra-dances when they chose. Not so much pleased. The Spanish rule had been very mild. Hardly a tax, hardly any interference before this fool came in. Oh, for the old days of Miro, and then we would not ask for any French ruler! And M. Laussat, or Citizen Laussat, with- out a soldier to walk behind him or before him, with nothing but a uniform and a few clerks, is swelling and puffing and talking of what our army is going to do. But where is our army ? It does not come. Governor Salcedo invites him to dinner and is civil. Young Salcedo makes faces behind his back, and is rude. Meanwhile the Bishop is cross with the Free-Masons, and says the Jacobins are coming, and all the timid people are watching the negroes, and say Christophe or Dessalines are com- ing. Men who never sat up all night, except at a revel, are watching their own kitchens for fear of secret meetings.

PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS. 4 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS; OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE. CHAPTER XXXIII. ALONE. Much was in little writ, and all conveyed With cautious care, for fear to be betrayed By some false confidant, or favorite maid. DRYDEN. AH, well ! wrote Inez, in the queer little journal which she tried to keep in those days, so I am to learn what life is. They take their turns, but, one after another of these I love most, leaves me, till I am now almost alone. I will try not to be un- grateful, but I am very lonely. And here the poor girl stopped, and such was the eventfulness of her life for weeks after, that she does not come to the diary again. As it is apt to happen in our some- what limited human life, the people who have most to do have little chance, or little spirit, to sit down, night by night, to tell on paper how they did it. Her aunts absence must of necessity be three or four weeks in length. They parted with tears, you may be sure. It was the first time they had been parted, for so long a separation, since Inez could remember. She was now indeed put to the test to show how well she could carry on the duties of the head of the household. And Chloe and Antoine, and even old Ransom, would come to her for orders, in the most respectful way, from day to day. As if I did not know, Inez said to Ma-ry, in one of their convent interviews, that they were all going to do just whYit they thought best, and as if they did not know that I knew it. Once a fortnight, under the rules for girls schools, which Saint Ursula had arranged before the barbarians had cut off her head at Cologne, Inez was permitted to visit Ma-ry for an hour in the convent parlor. Once a month, under some such dispensa- tion from the holy father at Rome, as has been spoken of, Ma-ry was able to return the visit, for the better part of a day. For the rest, their intercourse went on in corre- spondence, with the restriction, not pleasing to two such young ladies, that the letters on both sides were to be examined before they reached their destination, by Sister Barbara. Inez took such comfort as she could, by going to Mass on Sunday at the chapel of St. Ursula, where she could see Ma-ry, and Ma-ry could see her. But, excepting these comforts, the two girls had to live on in hope that Whit-Sunday would come at last, and then Ma-ry was to be liberated from the study and the imprisonment to which she had so bravely submitted. Poor Inezs anxieties were not to be the questions of good or bad coffee, or tender steaks or tough. Everything seemed to conspire against the peace of that little com- munity, and in that little community the bolts seemed to fall hottest and fastest on the household of Silas Perry. The community itself was in the most feverish condition. Monsieur Laussat had arrived, with a commission from the First Consul to govern the colony, as soon as it was transferred by Spain; for all mystery about the transfer from Spain to France was now over. Besides old Salcedo, mon- bund, and young Salcedo, impudent and interfering, and the Intendant Morales, idiotic and pig-headed, here was thi& pre- tentious popinjay, Laussat. You would have said that the French people would have been pleased. Now they could dance French contra-dances when they chose. Not so much pleased. The Spanish rule had been very mild. Hardly a tax, hardly any interference before this fool came in. Oh, for the old days of Miro, and then we would not ask for any French ruler! And M. Laussat, or Citizen Laussat, with- out a soldier to walk behind him or before him, with nothing but a uniform and a few clerks, is swelling and puffing and talking of what our army is going to do. But where is our army ? It does not come. Governor Salcedo invites him to dinner and is civil. Young Salcedo makes faces behind his back, and is rude. Meanwhile the Bishop is cross with the Free-Masons, and says the Jacobins are coming, and all the timid people are watching the negroes, and say Christophe or Dessalines are com- ing. Men who never sat up all night, except at a revel, are watching their own kitchens for fear of secret meetings. 42 PHILIP NOLANS ERZENDS,~ Ah me! poor Inez says, were there ever such hateful times? When will Ro- land come? When will Aunt Eunice come? When can I go back to the plantation ? One afternoon, Mr. Perry came home later than usual, and looked even more troubled than usual. He changed l~is coat, and made ready for dinner; apologized to Inez for making her dinner late, and then bade the servant call Ransom. I do not think he is in, papa. He has not come home since I sent him down to you. Why, that, said her father, was but little after noon. He came, and I gave him his papers for th~ Hannah. The Hannah cast loose and was gone in twenty minutes. Tarbottle stood on the quarter, and waved his hat to me, as they drifted by the office. Where can the old fellow have gone? These were the first words, remembered for days afterward, about a mysterious dis- appearance of the good old man. One more of Inezs stand-bys out of the way! For that afternoon, Mr. Perry gave him- self no care. So often was Ransom out of the way that there was an open jest in the family, which pretended that he was major- domo in another household, and spent half of his time in it. Mr. Perry needed him this evening, but he often needed him when he had to do without him. He merely directed that word should be brought to him of Ransoms return, and made no inquiry. But when it appeared, the next morning, that Ransom had not slept at home, matters looked more serious. A theory was started that he had gone down the river with the Hannah, to return with the river pilot; but an express to the vessel, which was making but slow progress, settled that idea. A message up to the plantation showed that he was not there. A note from Captain Tarbottle made sure that the old fellow had landed safely from the brig, but, from that moment, not a word could be heard of poor Ransom. Mr. Perrys anxiety was much greater than he could describe to Jnez. The girl was so much attached to her old protector that his death would be to her a terrible calamity. To Inez, therefore, Mr. Perry affected much more confidence than he felt. The truth was, that if the old man had not carried much such a charmed life as crazy men carry in Islam, he would have been put out of the way long before. In this mixed chaotic population of French, Span- ish, Portuguese, Italians, Sicilians, English, Irish, negroes, and Indians, Ransom was going and coming, announcing from mo- ment to moment, to mens faces, that they were all thieves and liars, and worse. How he had escaped, without a thousand hand- to-hand battles, was and had been a mys- tery to Silas Perry. Now that Ransom was gone, his own conviction was simply that the hour had come, which had been post- poned as by a miracle. After three days of inquiry, he was certain that he should never see Ramsom again. The blow of a dirk and a plash into the river would make little echo; and the Mississippi tells no tales! No one said this to poor Inez. But poor Inez was not such a fool but she suspected it. She did not like to tell her father how much she suspected, and how much she feared. She did write to her aunt, and she poured out her fears, without hesitation, to Ma-ry. If Sister Barbara or Sister Horrida wanted to read this, they were welcome. Weary with such anxieties, the poor girl sat waiting for her father one evening, even later than on the day when Ransom disap- peared. At last she called Antoine to know if his master had spoken of a late dinner. No, monsieur had said nothing. Then Antoine might make ready to walk with her to the counting-room; and Antoine might take a bottle of claret with him, perhaps her father was not well. The sun had fairly set. The twilight is very short, and even at that hour, the street, never much frequented, was still. The girl almost flew over the ground in her eager- ness. But the counting-room was wholly locked up; no one was there. Indeed, no one was in the neighborhood. Papa must have stopped at Mr. Hulings. They would walk round that way; and they did so. With as clear a voice as she could command, and, with well-acted indifference, she called across the yard to Mr. Huling, who was smoking in his gallery, and who ran to her as soon as he recognized her voice. No. As it happened, he had not seen Mr. Perry all day. He expected him, but Mr. Perry had not come round. He had thought he might have gone up the river. Had Miss Perry any news of old Ransom? Mr. Huling was the American Vice-Con- sul, and Inez was half tempted to open her whole budget of terrors to him. But she knew this would displease her father. In- deed he was probably at home by this time, waiting for her. She said as much to her friend, left a message for the ladies, and OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! 43 withdrew. So soon as she had passed the garden she fairly ran home. No father there! A message to the book-keeper brought him round to wonder, but to suggest noth- ing. Mr. Perry had left the counting-room rather earlier than usual; had walked down the river-bankthat was all any one had observed. The old man was not a person of resource, and could only express sympathy. And so poor Inez was left indeed alone. What a night that was to her! How it recalled the horrible night on the little Brassos! Only then it was she who had drifted away from the rest of them; now she was the fixture, and everybodyevery- body she lovedhad drifted away from her. One by one, they had all gone. No- body to talk to; nobody to consult; nobody even to cry with. Ma-ry gone; Roland gone; her aunt gone; poor old Ransom gone, and now papa gone! Vainly she tried to persuade herself that she was a fool. That papa was at Daniel Clarks card party; or had stopped for a cup of tea with the Joneses. But really she knew that papa did not do such things withQut dress- ing, and without sending word home. Papa would never frighten her so. She tried to imagine sudden exigencies on ship-board which might have called him down the river for the night. This was a little more hopeful. But she did not in her heart believe this, and she knew she did not. The girl was too much her fathers confi- dante; he talked with her quite too freely and wisely about his affairs for her to pretend to take this comfort solidly. She went through the form of ordering in the dinner, and ordering it out again. She wrapped her shawl around her, and sat on the gallery, to catch the first footstep. Footstep! No footsteps in that street after nine at night! She watched the stars, and saw them pass down behind the magnolias. When Fomalhaut was fairly out of sight, she would give it up and go to bed. As if she could sleep to-night! And yet, poor tired child, she did sleep; she slept then and there. And she dreamed. What did she dream of? Ah me! What did poor Inez dream of most often? She was sitting in the gallery. Her shawl was round her head, as she dreamed; and there was a quick footstep in the street. Then some one stopped, and knocked hard at the street gate. And then, as she sat, she could see a head above the gatea head without a hat on. And the head spoke in the dark- ness; it cried loud: Ransom, Ransom! C~sar, C~sar! Miss Eunice, Miss Eunice! Miss Inez, Miss Inez! It was the head of William Harrod, and it was William Harrods voice which called. Jnez was well waked now. With one hand she seized the hall-bell and rang it loud to call Antoine. She dashed down the steps, not waiting an instant, nor seeing the winding garden path. She rushed across the circular grass-plot and through the shrubbery to the gate. She unbolted the gate, flung it back, and threw it open. But there was no one there! Inez thought she heard receding steps in the darkness. But if so it was but an instant. By the time Antoine was by her side all was mid- night silence! The girl compelled the frightened Antoine to run with her to the corner of the street. But all was still as death in the cross-street to which she led him. And she was obliged to return to the house, wondering had she been asleep, and had she dreamed? Could dreams be as life-like as this was? Inez confessed to herself that she had dreamed of William Harrod before. But never had she seen his face or heard his voice in a dream which had such reality as this. It will not do to say that she passed a sleepless night. There are few sleepless nights to girls of her age and health. But the sleep was broken by dreams, and they were always dreams of horror. All alone she ~vas indeed, and such was their life in Orleans, that there were strangely few people to whom the girl could turn for counsel. So soon as she thought it would answer in the morning, she went out herself to see Mr. Huling, resolved to intrust all her agonies to him, as she should have done at the first, she now thought. Alas! at sun- rise, Mr. Huling had gone down the river, on an errand at the Balize, which would detain him many days. There was only a consuls clerk, a stranger, clearly inefficient, though willing enough, with whom Inez could confide. She did intrust him with her story, but she did not make him feel its importance. He promised her, however, to call on Mr. Daniel Clark, or Mr. Jones, and on young Mr. Bingaman, and to be governed by their advice. He undertook to persuade her that she was unduly alarm- ed. Her father was visiting some friend. He would be back before the day was over. For such is the way in which 44 PHILIP NOLANS ERIENDS, women. Jnez had more success in rousing the interest and sympathy of Mr. Pollock, one of her fathers companions and friends. But even he, interested as he was, did not want to alarm the city vainly. Nor did Inez want to. He sent an express to the plantation, and lost half a day so, in justi- fying Inez in her certainty that her fathir was not there. And in such useless fritter, which she knew was useless, the day was wasted, before he br6ught the consuls clerk to an understanding of who Silas Perry was, and that some inquiry as to his welfare was incumbent on the Americans in Orleans, and on those who represented them. A horrible day to Jnez. She was becom- ing a woman very fast now! Just before dark, when her loneliness seemed the most bitter; when she had done everything she could think of doing; had turned every stone, and felt that she had utterly failed; that she had as little resource as poor old M. Desbigny, the book-keeper, ignorant and inefficient men usually treat ing that it was not Skip after all, but Trip. Now Trip was Ma-rys dog, and not hers. Trip had escaped from convent fare to the more luxurious home he was first used to. Inez was so angry that she took him in both hands to push him from her lap,when her hand closed on a little bit of paper wound tightly round his back leg, so colored with charcoal as to match the hairless skin precisely. In an instant Jnez had clipped the thread which bound it, and took the scrap to the light. As it unrolled, it was a strip of paper several inches long, very narrow. Not one word of writing on it! Ma-ry had not meant to risk any secrets. But, in dingy red char- acters,Jnez knew only too well where that red came from,in the Indian hiero- glyphic, with which she and Ma-ry had whiled away so many rainy days, was a legend which answered, oh! so many ques- tions! There was the sign of Ransom, an eye strangely cocked up to heaven; the sign or had, she heard an unexpected sound, and one of the little Chihuahua dogs, which the girls had brought with them from An- tonio,the token of M. Lonsdales atten- tion,jumped upon her lap. One being that has not left me, that tries to find me. This was Inezs first thought, as she fondled the little creature. And there was a sort of guilty thought mingled with it, that she had never been specially attentive to her pet. He was a pretty creature, but he was Mr. Lonsdales present. Ma-ry had been much more atten- tive to hers; but Inez had willingly enough left her dog to a little black boy at the plantation. And now this little forsaken wretch, grateful for such scant favors as Inez had bestowed, had followed her down the river. How did he get here to be her companion when she had no other? Are you sure of that, Inez? As she bent over the little wretch to fondle him, she felt a real sinking of heart, at find- token of Mr. Perry, two feathers, cut in the shape to which the old-fashioned penmen always trimmed their goose-quills. Around these signs was a twisted rope, doubly wreathed. And Inez knew that this meant that both Mr. Perry and Ransom were in prison. But this was not all, but only the beginning. In long series, there was the rising sun; there was the roof of a house; there was a hawk, a tree; strange devices defying all perspective and all rules of de- sign. But Inez knew their meaning, and wrought out the sequence from the begin- ning. The legend directed her to take, with her brothers field-glass, a little before the sun rose the next morning, some station from which she could see the top of the Ursuline convent. Ma-ry could tell her by the pantomime of her race, what she dared not commit to paper, for fear some adept in the Indian hieroglyphic might catch poor Trip as he worked his way from the convent garden. OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! 45 Of all the wonders which Roland had brought home from Paris, nothing had de- lighted Ma-ry so much as this field glass, which he had selected from the workshop of the Lerebours of the day. Often had she expatiated to him and to Jnez together, on the advantages of this instrument to people who were surrounded with enemies. More than once had Inez, and once in par- ticular, as she now remembered, had her aunt, tried to explain to Ma-ry, that as most people lived they were not surrounded with enemies, and that the uses of the field-glass were, in fact, pacific. But this girl had grown up with the habit of questioning every rustling leaf. She had not been per- suaded out of her theory. All this talk Inez remembered to-night, as she wiped the lenses of the field-glass, and as she recon- noitered the garden to make sure which magnolia tree best commanded the roof of the Ursulines convent. CHAPTER XXXIV. BEFORE it was light,long before the time Ma-ry had indicated in her blood-red letter,Inez was working her way up the tall magnolia which stood south of the house. She had taken a garden-ladder to the lower branches, and now scrambled up without much more difficulty than the lizards which she startled as she did so. How often in little girl days had she climbed this very tree, Ransom approving and directing! And how well she remembered the last vic- torious ascent for a white bud that seemed to defy all assault; and then, alas, the pro- hibition which had crowned victory and robbed it of all its laurels, as her aunt and even her father had joined against her and bidden her never climb the tree again! Ah me! if only either of them were here, she would not disobey them now! How wretched to be her own mistress! The field-glass was swung around her neck by its strap, and the girl brought in her hand the end of a long narrow pennon of white cotton cloth. When she had attained a sta- tion which wholly commanded the roof of St. Ursulas shrine, Inez pulled up by the pennon a fishing-rod which she had attached to it,one of the long canes from the brake which are the joy of the Louisiana anglers, and thrust the rod high above her head into the air, so that the pennon waved bravely in the morning breeze. With this signal, Inez knew she could say, I understand, or by rapid negatives could order anything re- peated. And then she had to wait and wait again, her eye almost glued to the eye-piece. She could, at last, count the tiles on the roof-tree of the convent. She could see a lazy lizard walk over them and jump when he caught flies. The Ursulines is not far away from Silas Perrys garden, and, but for the more minute signals of the pantomime, she would not have needed the field-glass at all. Ready as she was, she did not lose one moment of poor Ma-rys stolen time. Jnez at last saw the girl appear upon the corridor of the school-room,--what in older countries would have been called a cloister, and, per- haps was, in St. Ursulas fore-ordination. She passed rapidly along to the corner where a China-tree shaded the end of the gallery. Without looking behind her, she sprung upon the railing, she was in the tree in a moment, and in a moment more had left it, to stand unencumbered on the roof of this wing of the spacious buildings. When people in a house are looking for a person out of a house, there is no point so difficult for them to observe as the top of that house, and there is no point which they so little think of searching. Ma-ry had had less to do with houses than any person in Orleans, if one excepts a few old Caddo hags who crouched around the market. But she had made the observation just now put on paper, before she had been in Nacogdoches an hour. If eleven thousand virgins of St. Ursula searched for her in eleven thousand niches, or under eleven thousand beds, they would not find her, and while they were searching, she would be telling the truth,a business at which she was good, and which St. Ursula herself probably would not disapprove. The girl turned to Silas Perrys garden, saw the pennon, and clapped her hands gladly. The pennon waved gracefully in sym- pathy. Then the pantomime began. Griefbit- ter grief; certaintyutter certainty, and then the sign for yesterday. She was very sorry for the news, she was certain it was true, and she had only known it yesterday. The pennon waved gently its sympathy, and its steady, I understand. The girl walked freely from place to place, and made her gestures as boldly as a mis- tress of ballet would do, in presence of three thousand people. Ransom was taken nine days ago. He is 46 PHILIP NOLANS PRJENDSJ now in the soldiers room, under the court- house, next the cathedral. Ever since, they have been trying to find Mr. Perry alone. Day before yesterday they found him and took him. He is in the governor s own house. After early mass, yesterday, one of the fathers came to the convent, as was his custom. After he had confessed three nov- ices, he had a talk with Sister Barbara. He told her what Ma-ry told Inez. Sister Bar- bara told Sister Helena, in presence of a Mexican girl, whom Ma-ry had been kind to. The Mexican girl told Ma-ry. Ma-ry thought that Ransom and Mr. Perry were both to be sent to Cuba. Cuba was intimated by an island which would be reached by a voyage of ten days, an island in which there were a thousand Spanish soldiers. Lest any news should be sent after this vessel, an embargo on all vessels would be ordered for a fortnight. The embargo was denoted by rowers, who were suddenly stop- ped in their paddling. Ma-ry had to repeat this signal, because the pennon waved uncer- tainty. When she was sure all was under- stood, she kissed her hand, and then, point- ing to the rising sun, bade Inez keep tryst the next day but one. The glad pennon nodded its assent cheer- fully, and Ma-ry disappeared. News indeed! Inez wrote this note to Mr. Bingaman. INEE PERRY to MIcAH BINGAMAN. Thursday Morning. Mv DEAR MR. BINGAMAN: I have just learned, and am certain, that my father is in confinement in the government house. Old Ransom, our servant, who disappeared ten days ago, is shut up closely in the guard-house. Both of them are to be sent to Cuba. And for fear the news shall be sent down the river, an em- bargo will be proclaimed to-day. I beg you to press up the consuls clerk to some prompt action. Cannot Mr. Clarke be sent for? Respectfully yours, INEE PERRY. Well written, Jnez! You are becoming a woman, indeed! Sister Barbara does not teach one to write such letters, and I am not sure that even St. Ursula fore-ordained them, or looked down to them through the prophetic vista of many years! Antoine was sent with this note to Mr. Bingaman; and really glad, for the first time, that there was anything she could do, Inez ordered her breakfast and sat down, deter- mining very fast what she would do next. And this time the girl ate her breakfast with a will. As she finished it, she heard a question at the back steps of the corridor, on the brick- walk which led to the kitchen, and then a sort of altercation with the smart Antoine. Ask Miss Perry, said a stranger, in very bad French, which Antoine knew was no Creoles, if she does not want to buy some fil~? Antoine did not reflect tha1 his young mistress overheard every word; and with accent more precise than the strangers, but with expression far less civil, told him to go to hell with his sassafras, that the sassafras of Little Vernon was worth all other sassa- fras, and that he was to leave the garden as soon as might be. Jnez needed no nerving for her first con- test with Antoine. She rang sharply. Antoine, you are never to speak to any person so, in my house. Go, b~g the mans pardon, and bid him come ~ Antoine went out, mumbled some apol- ogy, and returned much crest-fallen with the huckster. Jnez had never said my house before. Jnez rose. She scarcely looked at the man, who was, indeed, the wildest creature that even the Sunday market could have shown her. Bare feet, red with mud, which must have clung to them for days; trowsers of skin, patched with cottonade, or cotton- ade, patched with skin; hair bushy and curling, covering and concealing the face, and the face itself browned so that it would be hard to say whether it were Indian, mu- latto, or Spanish, by the color. A miserable Indian blanket, torn in twenty holes, of which the largest let through the wearers head, gave the only intimation as to his nationality. Inez lifted the dried leaves in her hand, tasted some of the fibers, and said: Your file is very good; I wish you had brought us more. Take the basket into the herb-room. Then, to the obsequious An- toine, who led the way: No, Antoine, wait at the gate for Mr. Bingamans message; or no, Antoine; go, ask him if he has no answer for me. I will show the man up- stairs. The savage shouldered his basket and fol- lowed Inez. She threw open the door of a corner room in the attic story. He brought the basket in, and kicked the door to behind him; and then, and not till then, did Inez rush to him, seized both his hands in hers, looked upon him with such joy, as an hour before she would have said was impossible, and then said: OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORT/S/ 47 Am I awake. Can it be true! Where did you come from? Dear Miss Inez, said Will Harrod, it is true; you are wi~1e awake, and your wel- come, he added boldly, pays for the suf- ferings of years. Welcome! You knew you were welcome, Will ! She had never called him Will before; and they both knew it. Her cheeks flushed fire, and they were bothoh! so glad and and so happy! There never was a time when I needed you so much, said she eagerly, as she made him sit down. There never is a time when I do not need you, said he, bravely. But why are you in all this rig? I thought I must not let Antoine know. I am afraid you are right. You are cer- tainly prudent and wise. Heavens! How careful I have been for the last forty-eight hours! Are they all crazy here? I believe the Governor is crazy. The Intendant is surely. But, do you know what they have don& ? My father is in prison, and Ransom, dear old Ransom, too. In prison ? In prison, and are to go to Cuba. You know what that means. But, I feel now as if something could be done, now you are here. How are you here? Oh, Mr. Harrod; they all told me you were dead! And here the poor girl fairly cried; and, for a moment, lost her self-command. Did you think I was dead? said he, eagerly. Think so? I knew so till Tuesday night; then I dreamed I saw your head over the garden gate, and it called me,twice it called me. Yes, said Harrod, laughing; and it called very loud, and it called Caesar and Ransom, too. But, before anybody could come, the men with sticks were after the head, and the poor head had to run, and to hide again till this morning. I gave them the slip this time. It was you? It was you? Then, I am not a fool! But, Mr. Harrod, you called Cresar; do you not know? Know, my dearest Miss Jnez, I know nothing. I only know, that after escaping from those rascally Comanches, after starv- ing to sleep, and waking so crazy with hun- ger that I thought I was in purgatory, after such a story of struggle and misery as would touch a Turks heart, I came out at Nachi- toches for help, to be clapped into their guard-house. Then I knocked two idiots heads together; blew out what brains one had with his own gun, trusted to my friendly river again, and worked my way down on a log to Pointe Coup6e to be arrested again by a gardci costa. I bided my time, till they were all blind drunk one night, stole their boat and floated down here, to be arrested, this time, for stealing the boat. But I am used to breaking bounds. Tuesday, I took refuge with some friendly Caddoes, and, by Jove, the savage protects what the white man hunts to death. My own costume was not so select as this. I owe this to their munificence. I thought you were dressed like a prince, said Inez, frankly. Now you have come, all will be well. Then came a little consultation. Inez explained to him the reign of terror in which they lived, so far as it could be explained. But she found first of all, that she must break his heart, by telling of Phil Nolans fate, and Fanny Lintots. All through his perils, he had heard no word of that mas- sacre. His calling for Caesar had given her the first suspicion of his ignorance. How much there was to tell him, and how much for him to tell her! Inez bravely told the horrid story of Phil Nolans death. She told him, as frankly as she could, why she did not at first believe that he was in the party; and then, how Caesar had confirmed her. But all hope for his life was over, she said, when Mr. Perry had found the news of Richardss treason, and the others, as Mr. Perry had found it, and as the reader has heard it. Two years had gone by since the gay young man had bidden them good-bye, in sight of the San Antonio crosses. But now you have come, she said again, bravely, all will be well, and now we must look forward and not back. Do you re- member that? It has saved my life a hundred times, said he. God only knows where I should be, he added, reverently, if I had not re- membered to look up and not down. These people have lost the track of you, as the knocker of heads together. You have now only to drass, pardon me, said she, really merry now,to think that she should ever be merry again and to shave, and then you may walk unrecognized through our valiant army. Go into my brothers room, she said. She led him in and un- locked the wardrobes. See what you can find; there must be some razors somewhere. 48 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS; If my right hand has not lost its cun- ning, said Harrod, entering into her mood. Take what you find, said she. I wish only dear Roland were here to help you. He is not as stout as you are, but, perhaps, you can manage.~~ And so she hurried down-stairs, happy enough, to forget, for a minute or two, her weight of anxiety. CHAPTER XXXV. SAVAGE LIFE. And as his bones were big and sinews strong, Refused no toil that could to slaves belong; But used his noble hands the wood to hew. PALAMON AND ARCITE. WILLIAM HARROD had indeed lived through a life-time of horrors in the period since he had parted from these ladies above San Antonio Bexar. It is of such adventures that the personal history of the pioneers, who gave to us the valley of the Mississippi, is full. But it is very seldom that personal history crowds together so much of danger, and so much of trial, in so short a tlme. So soon as he knew that he was a prisoner, Harrod frankly accepted the situation of a prisoner, with that readiness to adapt him- self to his surroundings, which gave at once the charm and the strength to his character. He was to be a slave. ~The business of a slave was to obey. That business he would learn and fulfill; not, indeed, with the slight- est purpose of remaining in that position; but, because a man ought to make the best of any position, however odious. With the same cheerful good-temper, therefore, with which he would have complied with a whim of Inez, whom he loved, or a wish of Eunice, whom he respected, he now complied with a whim of the Long Horn, whom, at the bottom of his heart he hated, and whom he would abandon at the first instant. Nor was here any treachery to the Long Horn. If Harrod or the Long Horn could have analyzed the sentiment, it was based on pride,the pride of a man who knew so thoroughly that he was the Long Horns superior that he need not make any parade about it. He submitted to his exactions, as a sensible person may submit to the exactions of a child, whom for an hour he has in charge; but, for whose education he has no other opportunities, and is not re- sponsible. Day after day, therefore, the Long Horn had more and more reason to congratulate himself on the slave he had in hand. He did not congratulate himself. A process so intricate and so much approaching to reflec- tion, did not belong to the man or to his race. But he did leave to Harrod, more and more, those cares for which the women of his lodges were too weak, and for which he was too lazy; and, of such cares, in the life of a clan of shirks and cowards, there are not a few. Harrod himself was able to learn some things, and to teach many, without his pu- pils knowing that they were taught. This does not mean, as a missionary board may suppose, that he built a log-cabin, sent to Chihuahua for primers and writing-books, and set the Long Horn and the False Heart to learning their letters and their pot-hooks. He taught them how to take care of their horses; and many a poor brute, galled and wincing, had to thank him for relief. He simplified their systems of corraling and of tethering. And, on his own part, thorough- bred woodman as he was, his eyes were open every moment to leai~n something in that art which is so peculiarly the accom- plishment of a gentleman, that no man with- out some skill in it can fairly be called a Chevalier. It was to such arts that he soon owed a dignity in the tribe, which materially tended to his own comfort, and ultimately effected his escape. The great wealth of the Indians of the plains of the Colorado of the West, and even of the mountains, was in their horses. They treated them horribly, partly from ignorance, partly from carelessness; but, not because they did not value them. It is a mistake of the political economists, to suppose that selfishness will compel us to be tender when our passions are aroused. Of course, the easiest way to obtain a good horse was to steal him, as these fellows had stolen Har- rods. In periods, either of unusual need or of unusual courage, they pounced on a Span- ish outpost, and so provided themselves. Per- haps they won horses in fight, as the result of a contest in which large numbers over- powered small; the only occasion in which they ever fought willingly. Failing such opportunities, they were fain to catch the wild horses, and, after their fashion, to break them to their uses. They were passionately fond of horse-racing, which is not to be counted as only an accomplishment of civil- ized men. So great is the power of the man over the OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS/ 49 brute, that one man alone, and he on foot, can, in the end, walk down and take captive, even the mustang* of the prairies. It would be only in an extreme case, of course, that that experiment would be tried. But two men alone can catch their horses from a herd even of wild ones, almost as well as if they had more companions. If they be mounted, so much the easier for them. In the sublime indolence of the Comanche chiefs, therefore, horses beginning to fail, The Long Horn and The Sheeps Tail each of them detached a slave to the hard job of taking three or four horses each for them, which they would next have to break to the saddle. The method of capture is based on the habit of the wild horse, to keep at or near his home. He knows that home as well as the queen bee knows hers, and his range is probably not much wider than that through which her subjects wander. Each herd has its captain or director, and this director does not lead it more than fifteen, or, at the ut- most, twenty miles in one direction. When he has passed that limit, he returns and leads his herd with him to the region which is familiar to them. The hunter observes this limit for any particular herd of horses, and then knows what his duty is. He builds a corral ready for his captives. Then one of the two pur- suers, if the party be as small as in Harrods case, follows the herd, even leisurely. They only follow close enough to have their presence observed. The stallion who leads, leads at such pace as he chooses, avoiding the pursuer by such route as he chooses. If the herd turned against the pursuer, they could trample him into the ground. But they do not turn; they avoid him. The pursuer keeps steadily behind. At a time agreed upon, one of the two men stops with his horse for rest and sleep; the other, takes up the wondrous tale, and, for twelve hours, keeps close enough to the wandering herd to keep them moving; in turn, he stops and sleeps; but his com- panion is awake by this time, has found the trail, and keeps the poor hunted creatures in motion. There is no stop to sleep for them; and so jaded and worn down are they by a few days and nights of this mo- tion,almost constant and without sleep, that at last no thong nor lasso is needed for their capture. You may at last walk up to the tired beast, who has lost his nights rest so long, twist your hand into his mane and lead him unresisting into the corral you have pro- vided for him. Poor brute! Only let him rest, and you may do what else you will. On such an enterprise, Will Harrod was sent with the Crooked Finger, a young brave who was young enough to have some enter- prise, and proud enough to be pleased at being trnsted with so good a woodman as Harrod. Each of them was respectably mounted,not very well mounted, for the Long Horn and the Sheeps Tail had but few horses, or they would not be hunt- ing more,and they wanted the best horses for themselves. Nor, for this line of horse-taking, was speed so essential. The young fellows found the herd, and made a good guess as to its more frequent haunts; then they built their little corral; then they took a long nights sleep; then they started for the trail, soon found it, and soon overtook the animals they sought. Harrod was magnanimous as always; he bade the Crooked Finger take the first rest; he would follow the herd through the twelve hours of that moonlight night, and at dawn of the sun, the Crooked Finger must strike in. When Harrod had reason to suppose that he was well on the trail, he also would stop, and he and his horse would sleep. For two days and two nights this amuse- ment continued. An occasional pull at some dried meat kept soul and body to- gether, and the horses and the men followed their uneventful round, which was, in fact, a very irregular oval. As Crooked Finger finished his second tour of service, he saw Harrod just mount- ing for his third. They simply nodded to each other; but Harrod dismounted and busied himself with his horses mouth and rein. Crooked Finger approached and gave some brief report of the days pursuit; to which Harrod replied by the proper ughs; and then, as Crooked Finger dismounted, he seized the savage in his iron arms, much as he remembered to have been seized him- self by the Long Horn, fastened his elbows tight behind him with a leather thong, and kicked his horse so resolutely that the horse disappeared. Harrods horse was tethered too tightly to follow him. Good-bye, Crooked Finger, said Har- rod, good-naturedly; here is meat enough, if you are careful, to take you to the lodges. I am going home. The vanquished savage made not a strug *The derivation is said to be from the Spanish. Mestafia, that which is common property, or be- longs to the State mesta. VOL. XLJI4. 50 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS; gle, and uttered not a sound. In Harrods place, he would have scalped the other, and he knew it. He supposed that Harrod did not scalp him, only because he had no scalping-knife. Harrod was free, and so far did he have the advantage of the tribe, that they made no attempt to follow him. And he never feared their pursuit for one moment. But he did fear other captors, and he feared want of food. This meat, provided for the hunt, would not last forever. This some- what sorry beast he rode, must have time to feed. The hunting of a man who has neither knife, gun, nor arrows, is but poor huntingfor food, not very nutritious. And poor Harrod knew that the time might come when he should be glad of the sorriest meal he had ever eaten in a Comanche lodge. But Harrod was free, and freedom means ah! a great deal! This chapter cannot tell, and must not try to tell, the adventures of days and weeks, even of months, at last lengthening out into the second year of his exile, as by one device and another, the poor fellow worked east- ward and still eastward. He came out upon the lodges of the Upper Red River, where Phil Nolan had smoked the pipe of peace only the year before. He found the memory of his great commander held in high esteem there, and he had wit to repr.esent himself as a scout from his party, only accidentally separated from them for a few days. Nico- roco remembered the calumet of peace, and tidings had come to him of Nolans disci- pline of One Eye, a memory which served Will Harrod well; and, after a sojourn of a few days with Nicoroco, Harrod proceeded, refreshed, upon his way. It was after this oasis in the desert of that years life, that the most serious of his ad- ventures came. He had been hunted by a troop of savages, of which nation he knew not, but whom he dared not trust. He was satisfied that the time had come when he must do, what he had all along intended to do, abandon his poor brute, who was more and more worthless every day, and trust him- self to the swollen current of the magnificent Red River. Such raft as he could make for himself, must bear him down till he could communicate with the pioneer French set- tlements, and be safe. He knew very well, in this crisis, that it was the last step which would cost. But Harrod was beyond counting risks now. He risked everything ev.ery day. It is not so easy to make a raft, when one has not even a jack-knife. Trees do not accidentally rot into the shapes one wants, or the lengths one can handle. But Har- rods ambition for his raft was not aspiring. Two logs, so braced and tied, that they should not roll under him; only this, and nothing more, was the raft which he needed. In a long, anxious day the logs were found. With grape-vines mostly, and with the in- valuable leather thongs which had been his reins so long, the obdurate twisted sticks were compelled to cling together. Their power of floating was not much; but they were well apart from each other in one place, and there, Harrod wedged in a shorter log, which was to be his wet throne. And so, with a full supply of poles and misshapen paddles, he pushed off upon his voyage. The boil- ing and whirling stream bore him swiftly down, and there was at least the comfort of knowing that the last act of this tedious drama had come. How the play would turn out, he would know before long. Day after day of this wild riding of the waters! And for foodthe poorest pick- ing! Grapeswell-nigh raisins for dryness astringent enough at the bestsassafras bark was a flavor, but not nourishingsnails sometimes, and once or twice a foolish fish, caught by the rudest of machinery. But very little at the very best. How many hired servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, said poor Will Har- rod. For he was very hungry. Where he was, he did not know; only he was on the Red River above the Raft. His hope was to come to the Raft then he should only be two or three days from the highest French farms. Only two or three days,Will Harrod, with nothing to eat! Armies have perished, because for twenty-four hours the regular ration did not come! Even the Red River could not last for- ever! At last he came to a Raft, so thick and impassable that he hoped it was the Great Raft. Any reader who has seen the tangled mass of timber above a saw-mill can imagine what the Great Raft was, if he will remember that it was made up, not of felled logs, but of trees with their branches, as for centuries they had been whirled down the stream. First formed at a narrow gorge of the Red River, it extended upward, at this time, one hundred and thirty miles. The river flowed beneath. Soil gathered above. Trees took root and grew upon it to be large and strong. In high water the river found other courses round it. On parts OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! 5 of the Raft a man could travel. Through parts of it, a canoe could sail. It was this wreck of matter,this tohu va bohu, the utter confusion of water which was not land, and land Which was not water, which marked for Will Harrod the end of his nav- igation. With the precious thongs, a bit of sharp flint, and the tail of an imprudent cat-fish, as his only baggage, he landed on the bank, not far above the water line, and boldly pushed down on the southern shore. He thought Nachitoches could not be a hun- dred miles away; and that night he slept well. The next day, he made good time. Little to eat, for no cat-fish rose to his bait; still that night he slept well. The next day came the worst repulse of all! A bayou back from the streamall gorged with bark and trees and wreck like the main rivercut off his eastward course. Nothing for it but to return Never! That way was sure death. Will ventured on the Raft itself. To cross the bayou proved impossible. One could not swim thereone could not walk there, more than one could fly. But the river itself was here more practicable,not for swimming, but for walking. So old was the Raft that the logs had rotted on the surface, and weeds and bushes had grown there. It was more like a bit of prairie than of river. One must watch every step. Still one could walk here; and though the channel was very broad here, Will Harrod held his course, slowly and not confidently. No food that day not a snailnot a grapenot a lizardfar less red-fish or cat- fish. And that nights sleep was not so sound. Water is but little refreshment, when one breakfasts on a few handfuls of it, after such a day. But with such breakfast Will Harrod must keep on. Keep on he did; but he knew his legs dragged, that he missed his foothold when he ought not, and that his head spun weirdly,that he did not see things well. This is one way to die, said poor Will aloud. And then, sitting on a moss-grown cypress stick, he looked wistfully round him, and then, when a belated grasshopper lighted by his side, with a clutch of frenzy he snatched the creature, and held him helpless in his hand. Victory! The grasshopper, yet living, was tied tight to the end of the little thong, which had served for a line all along. A stout acacia thorn, one of a dozen at Harrods girdle, was tied in a knot just above. And, with cheer- fulness he had thought impossible, he went to the nearest open hole, to bob and bob again, for his life. But how soon the dizziness returned! How many hours did he sit there in the sun? Will Harrod never knew. Only at last, a gulp, a pull at the cord, and a noble fishfood for three or four days, as Will Harrod had been using foodwas in the air,was flapping on the so-called ground at his side! Victory! With the bit of sharpened stone which had served him all along, he killed the fish, opened him, and cleaned him. Little thought or care for fire! He returned carefully to his lair, to put by the sacred implements of the chase, which had served him so well. Weak as he was, he tripped, his foot was tangled in a grape-vine, and he fell. As he disentangled himself he could see an alligator risenot very rapidly eitherfrom the stream, make directly to the prize, and, before poor Will was free, the brute had plunged with the fish into the river. Miss Inez, said he, as in the evening they sat in the gallery, and he told this story. I never despaired till then. But my head was swimming. The beast looked like the very devil himself. I lay back on the ground and I said, Then I will die. And, will you believe me, I fell asleep. I woke upI do not know how soon. But as I woke, my one thought was of sit- ting and bobbing there. What had I seen when I was bobbing? Had not I seen a log cut with an axe? Why did I not think of that before? Because I could only think of my bait and my line. Was it cut by an axe? I went back to the stream. It was cut by an axe. It was an old dug-out,a Frenchman~s pirogue, bottom up. How quick I turned it over! Where it came into that bayou, it could go out. I laid into it my precious line and cutting stone. I broke me off sticks for fending-poles. I was strong as a lion now. I bushwhacked hereI poled thereI paddled there. In an hour I was free,and then the sun was so hot above me, that I fainted away in the bottom of the canoe! You poor, poor child! sobbed the sympathizing Inez. And the next I knew, it was evening, and an old Frenchman held me in his arms at the shore, and was pouring milk down my throat in spoonfuls. Weak as I was, I 52 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS, clutched his pail, and he thought I should have drunk myself to death. He did not clap me in irons, though I did come from above CHAPTER xxxvi. IN PRISON AND YE VISITED ME. Curse on the unpardoning prince, whom tears can draw To no remorse; who rules by lions law; And deaf to prayers, by no submission bowed, Rends all alike, the penitent and proud. PALAMON AND ARCITE. BUT Miss Inez and Master William did not spend that morning in telling or in hear- ing this tale. It is from long narratives, told in more quiet times, that we have con- densed it for the reader. No. They had other affairs in hand. Inez had been diligently at work prepar- ing her costume for the day, before Antoine had summoned her to breakfast. Chloe had been as diligently at work in the laun- dry, while breakfast went on. While Harrod made his toilet,a matter of no little difflculty,Inez made hers. At last he came down-stairsshaven and shorn, washed and brushed, elegantly dress- ed with a ruffled shirt, am embroidered waist- coat and a blue coat; dressed, in short, in the costume of civilized Europe or America, as he had not been dressed for two years. He went through the hall and from room to room of the large parlors down-stairs, but saw Inez nowhere. In the front parlor was a little sister of charity, who seemed ab- sorbed in a book of devotions. Harrod touched his hat and asked if he could see Miss Perry, to which the sister, without so much as raising her modest eyes to the handsome Kentuckian, only replied Pas encore. Harrod struck the bell which stood in the hall and summoned Antoine. The respect- ful servant wondered if he had left the gar- den gate open, but did not distress himself. Harrod bade him call his mistress. Antoine thought she was in the parlor, but, as he looked in, saw no one but the sister of charity. She asked him also if he would summon his mistress. Antoine said he did not know where she was, but he would try. The minute he was well out of the hail, the sister of charity hopped up, and exe- cuted a pirouette, to Harrods amazement, clapped her hands and ran across the room to him. So, sir, I knew you after two years parting, and you did not know me after an hours! That shows who under- stands masquerading best. Who would know you, with that ridicu- lous handkerchief tied round your mouth and nose, and those devout eyes cast down on your prayer-book. At the least, you can- not say my disguise covered me. Indeed, said Inez, laughing, that was its weakest side. And she proceeded to explain her plans for the day. She was going to the prison to see old Ransom. Her father was out of the question. But an interview with Ransom could be gained, she thought; for she be- lieved, as it proved rightly, that no such calendar of sisters was kept at the prison gate, that the warders would know of a certain new-coiner. whether she were or were not en r?g/e. Of her own costume Inez had no doubt whatever. And so they parted,Inez for this duty, Harrod to see the American consul, Mr. Pollock, Mr. Bingaman, and the other Americans, and to determine what should be done in this rudest violation yet, of the rights of the American residents in Orleans. At the Palace of Justiceif it may be so calledInez had even less difficulty than she had apprehended. The place was not Strictly a prison. That is, the upper stories were used for the various purposes of busi- ness of the fussy administration of the little colony; and below, a dozen large cells and a certain central hall had been, by long usage, set apart as places of confinement barred and boltedfor prisoners awaiting trial, and for anybody else indeed, who, for whatever reason, was not to be sent to the prison proper. To the sentinel on duty at the door, Inez simply said You have a sick man here. Two, my lady. Will my lady tell me the name of the sinner she seeks? If there be two, said Inez, speaking in Spanish, with which the French sentinel was not so familiar, I will see them both, and, acknowledging his courtesy as he passed, she entered into the general prison, where nine or ten poor dogs sat, lay, or paced un- easily. Among them she instantly saw Ransom sitting handcuffed on a chest. He did not recognize her, and she af- fected not to see him, but she passed close to him and said quite aloud in English, Ransom, take care that you are very sick when I come to-morrow. Then she passed on into the side cell, which had been opened at her direction. The OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! 53 particular Juan or Manuel who was lying there had not expected her. But he was none the worse for the guava jelly she left him, nor that she sponged his hands and face from the contents of the generous can- teen she bore. She read to him a few sim- ple prayers,visited the other invalid in the same fashion,and was gone. The next day, however, Inez had three patients. She had soon disposed of those xvhom she saw the day before, and then found herself, as she had intended, alone with Ransom, who lay on the shelf in his cell with a few leaves and stems of the sugar- cane under him. Ransom explained, that on the day he was missed, having been lured away, just as he left the brig, into a narrow street, where none but them greasers lived, as he was talking with the man who had summoned him, he was caught from behind, his arms pinioned behind him, he tripped up, steel cuffs locked upon his feet, and in this guise was carried by four men into a neigh- boring baraca. As soon as night fell, his captors brought him to the Government House. They had since had him under ex- amination there three times. They had questioned him about Nolan and Harrod, about Mr. Perry and Roland,about Lons- dale and the Fire-fly, and about General Bowles. They had asked about the mes- sage sent up the river by Mr. Perry the previous spring. But, specially, they had questioned him about the Lodge of Free- Masons, to find whether Mr. Perry, Mr. Roland, or Mr. Lonsdale belonged to it ;. and about what Ransom knew, and what he did not know, of the movements of one Sopper, an American, whom the authorities suspected of raising a plot among the slaves. Now the truth was that Ransom knew Sopper very well. He probably knew Ran- som better than he did any other person in Orleans, where the man was, indeed, a stranger. Theyd seen me with him, Miss Jnez. Hes a poor critter; haint got no friends, any way, n I wanted to keep him out o mischief. Hes one of them Ipswich Sop- pers,no, he aint; he came from Sacarap, they was a poor set; but they did zwel as they knew how. Theyd seen me with him, so I knew they was no use of lyin about it, n I told em I knew him, cos I did. Ransom, there is never any use of lying, said poor Inez, doing something to keep up her character. Ransom smiled benignantly. I told em he was a poor critter; want of much account any way,they wrote that down in they books, n made four copies, to send to the King to read. But it was clear that Ransoms examnina- tion had been of that sort which did nobody any good, and him least good of all. Inez could see, as he detailed it, that he had made the authorities suspect him more than ever; and, from the tenor of the last ex- amination, she saw that the authorities thought that he was an accomplice in the Negro Plot, regarding which they were most sensitive. Taint no account, mum, any way, now Mr. Perry knows Im here; hell go to the guvner, and the guvner 11 have to let me out. Didnt have no way to send ye word, or Id a sent before. Then Inez told him that her father had been seized also. The poor old man started from his bed, and could hardly be kept from rushing to the rescue. In one instant he saw the position. And in the same instant his whole countenance changed, and his easy courage fell. Often as he had thwarted Silas Perry, and often as he had disobeyed him, in his heart he was a faithful vassal, and nothing else. He would have died with rapture if he saved his King, but when that King was check-mated his truncheon fell at once. Inez went further, and said her fear was that they would both be sent to Cuba for trial. No, Miss Inez, ef your fathers in prison, they aint no more trial for me. Tried me three times aready, and I give em a bit o my mind each time. No. Theys done with me. And he sank into silence. Inez broke it, with a consolation she did not feel. Keep up good spirits, dear Ransom, she said. We are all at work for you. Mr. Harrod has come home, and he is at work; and Mr. Bingaman and the consuL Aunt Eunice got home last night and she will work for you. Mr. Lonsdale will work. We shall never let you come to harm. The old man sat silent for a moment more. Then he said calmly, No, mum, theys done with me. Bingamans no ac- count, never was, unless he had Mr. Perry to tell him what to do. Aint none on em knows what to do, ef Mr. Perry dont tell em. Capt. Harrod, hes a gentleman. But they dont, none on em, know him here. 54 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS; No, mum, theys done with me. And he made another long pause. Theyll send ye father to Cuby, and theyll hang me. Theyll hang me down by the Arsenal, jest where they hanged them Frenchmen. Its just like em, n I told em so, I did. Ses I, you hanged them Frenchmen, and you know youve been all wrong, ever since ye did it, ses I. But they didnt hang em they- selves, they didnt dare to. Darned ef they could get a white man in all Orleans to hang em. Cum to the Hingham Gal,she was lyin here then, n there was a poor foolish critter in here, named Prime, n they offered him twenty doubloons to hang em, n he says, says he, Im a fool, says he, and he was a fool, but I aint so big a fool, says he, as you think I be, says he; n they had to git a nigger to hang em, cos no white man would stand by em. Thats what theyll do with me, said poor old Ransom. In speaking thus, Ransom was alluding to OReillys horrible vengeance upon the Creole gentlemen, who had engaged in a plot to throw off the Spanish rule more than twenty years before. Ransom, said the girl, sobbing her heart out, if they hang you they will hang me too. Then she promised him that she would return on Sunday; bade him be sure he was sick in bed at noon, and with a faint heart found her way home. She would have attempted more definite words of consolation if she had had them to offer. But Harrods report of yesterday had not been encouraging. The consular clerk had been roused to some interest, but to no resource. The embargo had been proclaim- ed. That had confirmed Inezs news, and had awakened all the merchants. Harrod had made him, the clerk, promise to call on the governor with him at one oclock. By way of preparing for that interview, he made one or two visits among English and American merchants,when, suddenly, to his disgust, he found himself evidently watched by a tall man of military aspect, though not in uniform. Harrod was close by the Govern- ment House. He determined, at least, to strike high and to die game. He would not be jugged without one interview with the governor in l)erson. He entered the house ,went by as many sentinels as he could, by what is always a good rule, pretending to be quite at home, giving a simple hasty salute to the sentries, and so came to the governors door, as he had been directed. Here he had to send in his card,but he was immediately admitted. He explained that he had expected to be joined by the American consul. His mes- sage, however, was important, and he would not wait. And what is your honors business? said the courtly governor. It is to ask on what ground Mr. Silas Perry is held in confinement, and to claim his release as an American citizen. Don Silas Perry in confinement! said the governor, with a start of surprise, which was not at all acted. He was surprised that this Mr. Harrod should have come at his secret. Where is he in confinement? No one knows better than your excel- lency, said Harrod, who noted his advan- tage; he is imprisoned under this roof. Your excellency can show me to his apart- ments, unless your excellency wishes me to take your excellency there. This was a word too much, and probably did not help Master William. It gave his excellency time to rally, and to ask himself who this brown, well dressed man of action and of affairs might be. You have sent me your card, said he; you have not explained to me who has honored me by introducing you,nor do I understand that you represent the American consul. I think indeed that the American consul is not in the city, that he is at the Balize. Your excellency does not wish to stand upon punctilio, said Harrod. The con- suls clerk will be herein five minutes. The American consul will be here to-night. It is in the name of the Americans of the city that I speak. The governor looked his contempt. His Majesty the King of Spain has given these gentlemen permission to reside here to attend to an unfortunate commerce, all but contraband, which will end in a few months at latest. But his Majesty has never been informed, till this moment, that these gentlemen expected him to consult them in the administration of justice. Then, as if he were weary of the interview, he turned to a servant, who gave him a card, and, as if to dismiss Harrod, said, Show this gen- tleman in. To Harrods dismay, the military man entered, who had tracked him in the street. He thought his game was up, and that he was to be put into the room next to Mr. Perrys. But he had no disposition to sur- render a moment before his time came. Without noticing hint or stranger, he said: If your excellency despises the Amen- OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! 55 cans here, you may have more regard for the Americans at home. Your excellency has the name of a friend of peace. Your Minister at home is called the Prince of Peace. Your excellency has simply to consider, that if Mr. Silas Perry and Mr. Seth Ransom are not free to-morrow night, a courier will carry that news to the Tennes- see river in ten days, to Kentucky in five more. Let it once be known that two American citizens have been sent to Cuba; and ten thousand riflemen from Kentucky and Tennessee will muster at their ports to avenge them. The boats are there, as your excellency knows,the river is rising, as your excellency knows. Whether the Prince of Peace will thank you for what your excellency brings down hither upon the river, your excellency knows also. And William Harrod rose. I see your excel- lency is engaged. I will find the vice- consul, and will return with him. I Stay a moment, said the military gen- tleman, stay a moment, sir. Do I under- stand that Mr. Perry is in confinement? He is under lock and bar in this house, sir, said Harrod fiercely. And for what crime? said the stranger. For no crime under the heavens of God, said Harrod, now very angry, for no crime, as you would say if you knew him. You must ask his excellency on what accu- sation. I will take the liberty to ask his excel- lency that question, said the other. Mr. Perry is my near friend, he added, turning to the governor; he is the near friend of the King of England, to whom he has ren- dered distinguished services. I know your excellency too well to think that, at this critical juncture, your excellency would wil- lingly thwart the government I represent, by the arrest of a person whose services, I had almost said, we require. The picture was a striking one, as these two fine young men stood, the one on each side of the governor, who was himself to the last degree annoyed, that by his own blun- der he had lost the one great advantage in Spanish statecraft,the advantage of deal- ing with each alone. My dear Mr. Lonsdale, he said, giving to the English diplomatist his hand ,if you will do me the favor to dine with me, I can explain, perhaps, what you do not un- derstand. If our young friend here, the embassador from Kentucky, will, meanwhile, study the constitution of the United States, he will understand perhaps that I cannot treat with envoys from separate States. Good morning, sir,this sharply to Har- rod. If you will take an early lunch with us,it is waiting now. This courteously to Lonsdale. I am greatly obliged, said Lonsdale coolly. I have business with this gentle- man. I will do myself the honor of calling again. And with hauteur quite equal to what might be expected from the Duke of Clarence, he withdrew. CHAPTER xxxvii. FACE TO FACE. A brave heart bids the midnight shine like day, Friendship dares all things, when love shows the way! ANDROMAQUE. As they left the Government House, Har- rod hastily explained to Lonsdale who he was, and told what he himself knew of the passages of these dark days, and why he knew so little. Lonsdale explained who he was, that he had but just landed from his own galliot, in which he had brought Miss Perry, and the old lady whom Miss Perry had gone to Natchez to find. But they had left Natchez before any bad news, even of Ransoms disappearance, had arrived there; and the first intelligence Mr. Lonsdale had had of either calamity, was in the words he had heard William Harrod use at the gov- ernor s. He had parted from Miss Perry only at the landing, having promised to join her again at her own house, within an hour. He was therefore sure, that, up till her arrival at home, she had had no intimation of the wretched news. Harrod was quick enough to observe that in his language there was a certain air of authority, as if he had a right to protect Miss Perry, and to be consulted intimatdy in her affairs. For this, Harrod had not been prepared by Inezs hurried narrative. Inez had spoken of Mr. Lonsdale as the English gentleman whose escort they had received in coming from Texas; but she had scarcely alluded to him again. The two went hastily to Mr. Perrys house, filling up, as each best could, the immense gaps in the information which each had, as to these matters in which each had personal reasons for intense interest. Let them do their best, however, there were large chasms unfilled. For what reason was Mr. Perry arrested? For what, poor Ransom? What new motive could they now bring to bear? And should William Harrod not make good PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS,. his threat of sending a courier through General Bowless country into Tennessee and Kentucky? Inez was away on her first visit to the prison when the young men arrived. They found Eunice in all the agony of surprise, anger and doubt, having received from the very incompetent lips of Antoine and Chloe, such broken account as they could give, of the little which Miss Jnez had chosen to intrust to them. Eunice was writing to the consul as they entered. By her side was the lovely white-haired Mother Ann, who had come so gladly with Eunice, certain that she should find her lost grandchild, and who now found herself in the midst of another tragedy so strange. The beautiful old lady had not learned the lessons of sixty years in vain. Her face had the lovely saint- like expression of the true saint, who had never shirked life in a convent, but who had taken it in its rough-and-tumble, and had come off conqueror and more than conqueror. Never mind me, dear Eunice, she said, in her half Quaker way, let us do what we may for thy brother first, and for this brave old fellow, who loves my dear girl so. What is a few hours to me, now I am so safe, so sure, and so happy? Upon their rapid consultations Inez came in, still in the sisters costume. She flung herself into Eunices arms, and sobbed out her grief. A common cause gave frankness and cordiality to her welcome of Lonsdale, such as she had never honored him with before. Then came rapid conferences, and eager mutual information. Inez could tell, and Harrod could tell to this group, what had not been revealed to Antoine and to Chloe of Ma-rys information. Harrod and Lonsdale had to tell of the governors cold- ness, and the dead-lock they were at there. But both of them agreed that they must go at once to the American consulate to report, and Lonsdale said, very simply, that he could and would bring in all the intercession of Mr. Hutchings, the English consul. Such an outrage made a common cause. And we and this dear, dear, dear lady, will go,we can go on foot, dear aunt, and liberate my darling from the convent. This was Inezs exclamation, and then she stop- ped. But what a blessing that she was not liberated before! Where should we be now, but for the White Hawk ? Then they all turned to Harrod and to Lonsdale, to make sure that they should not want her at the convent still. But it was agreed, that they now had, in all probability, all the information that Ma-ry could give. The chances were vastly against their gain. ing more. I must have the dear child here, said Eunice, promptly. Thank God you say that, said Inez. And, so soon as she could transform her- self into Miss Inez Perry, they were all three on their way. It was not the regulation day for seeing ~visitors; there had been no chance to con- sult the Pope or the Vicar-General, and Saint Ursula had not provided in her last will for any such exigency. But Eunice was so forceful in her quietness, and dear Mother Ann was so eager in her quiet- ness, for she did not say one word, that even Sister Barbara gave way, and Inez was obliged to own to herself, that even she could not have improved on the method of the negotiation. Sister Barbara disappeared. She was not gone long. She came back with the White Hawk, to whom she had said nothing of her visitors. The moment the pretty creature entered the room, the quiet, lovely grandmother sprang across like a girl, and flung her arms around her, and kissed her again and again. My dear, dear, dear child! This was all she could say. The girls likeness to her murdered mother was enough for the other mother who had brooded over her loss so long. And Ma-ry, dear child, kissed her, and soothed her, and stroked her beautiful white hair, and said little loving words to her, now, as a child might do, just learning to speak, now, as a woman of long experience might do. How much these two would have to tell each other, and to learn from each other! And the first meeting was all that the eager heart of either could demand. Dear, dear, dear grandmamma, for the child had been teaching herself this word in anticipation. Was she not very lovely? My darling, she was very lovely. You are her image, my child. I knew you were named Mary. My sister was named Mary, and you are named for her. I have here, and she pointed to her heart, your dear, dear mothers last letter. She says she had named you Mary, and she says you were the only baby in the settlement, and the pet of them all! And I was to come and help take care of you when you were a baby. And now, at last, I have come. Sister Barbara was as much affected as the others. She agreed with Miss Eunice, that it was not probable that Ma-rys studies OR, SHOW YOUR PASSPORTS! 57 would flourish much under the stimulus of this new element in her life. And it was also so improbable, that any similar case had transpired in the eleven thousand experi- ences of the eleven thousand virgins, that their memoirs were not even consulted for a precedent; and, failing the Vicar-General and the Pope, as above, Sister Barbara con- sented that the White Hawk should go home with the visitors and stay till next week. Alas, for Sister Barbara, to-morrow never comes, and next week never came for this return to study. Ma-ry, meanwhile, signaled to Jnez, to ask whether she might not be needed on the house-top the next morning. Things might be mentioned in the house which needed to be published there. But Inez re-assured the loyal girl, and, in five min- utes more, her little packet was ready and she kissed Sister Barbara good-bye, for- ever, as it proved. But the little dog, Mamsellethe little dog. He will be wretched without you, and you will be wretched without him. With the gravity of a bishop, and with a penitents conscience smiting her, Ma-ry explained that she had not seen the little dog since yesterday. And Inez hastened to add that he was safe at home. And so, with some jest on the dogs preferring the fare at one house, to that of the other, they parted. And thus, to use the common phrase which Miss Edgeworth so properly condemns, Miss Ma-rys education was finished! They met the gentlemen at dinner. An- toine and Felix were tolerated as long as might be, and, for so long time, the talk was of Harrods experience, of Lonsdales trials, of Mrs. Willsons wanderings, and of Ma-rys recollections. But as soon as these two worthies could be dismissed, serious con- sultations began again. The two consuls had had as little success as the unofficial gentlemen had had. In- deed, they had anticipated no success. Ar- bitrary as the Spanish rule always was, it had, till lately, been sensible and mild until Salcedo, to whom, rightly or not, Harrod ascribed the change of policy which had swept even De Nava away, and whom Har- rod made responsible for Nolans murder. Under Salcedo, the rule had been abrupt, tyrannical, and inexplicable. You would think, said Lonsdale, that the approaching cession to the French pre- fect would make the Spaniards more tolerant and gentle. But, on the other hand, they seem to want to cling to power to the last, and to show that Laussat is nobody. Laussat is a fool, so our consul thinks, a fussy, pre- tentious fool. He came here as prefect, with great notions, with great talk of the army behind him, and he has not yet so much as a corporals guard for his ceremo- nies. The Spaniards make fun of him, and even the Frenchmen cannot make much else of him. Yes, if he were not here, we should fare better. From this double-headed govern- ment, it is hard to know what we may look for. One thing is fortunate, he added, drily, we have three or four frigates and their tenders, within a day of the Balize. I have bidden Hutchings send down word that they are to be off the Pass till they have other orders. Eunice only looked her gratitude; but she certainly blushed crimson. Inez was forced to say, How good you are. But this time she was frightened. Even she did not dare to say, Who are you? But, who was he? Who was this man who said to the English fleet, Sail here, or sail there, and it obeyed him? And why did Aunt Eunice blush? What had they been doing and saying at Natchez, and in this six days voyage down the river? Was Aunt Eunice to be Duchess of Clarence, after all? The truth was that Mr. Lonsdale and Aunt Eunice had come at each other very thoroughly. First, their correspondence had helped to this, for nothing teaches two people who have been much together, how much they rest on each other, as an occasiona] separation, with its eager yearning for mes- sages or letters. Horace Lonsdale needed no teaching on this matter. Eunice was perhaps surprised when she found how lonely a summer was, in which she did not see him as often as once a week. After this parting, had come the renewed intimacy at Natchez, and, from the first, they found themselves on a personal footing different from that of the spring. She had found him the loyal and chivalrous English gentleman, which, indeed, he had shown himself from the first moment that she had known him. He had found her always the same unselfish woman she was then and there. It had been hard for him to come at her, to give to her the whole certainty of his enthusiastic admiration; because, Eunice Perry was quite out of the fashion of asking herself what people thought of her; or, indeed, of believing that they thought of her at all. If the truth were told, Horace Lonsdale 58 PHILIP NOLANS FRIENDS; had not been used, in other circles, to meet women as entirely indifferent to his social position, as was Eunice Perry. He might, indeed, have traveled far, before he found a woman so indifferent to her own accomplish- ments, so unconscious of remarkable beauty, and so willing to use each and every gift in the service of other people, as she. To pay court to this unconscious vestal, was no easy matter. So Horace Lonsdale thought. Words or attentions, which many a pretty countrywoman of his would have welcomed with de~light, in the false and unbalanced social habits of London in those days, passed by Eunice Perry as if he did not exist, had never spoken the word or offered the attention. He found very soon, that if he meant to render her service, it must be by serving those she loved; and he counted himself fortunate,and fortunate he was,that the chaotic condition of the times in which they moved, gave him, once and again, the opportunity to do so. The absurd stories as to who and what he was, had, of course, their share of founda- tion. He was a younger son of the distin- guished family whose name he bore, and had been placed in the English Foreign Office, when yet young, for education and for promotion. Choosing to use the oppor- tunities of his position, in a time when every day furnished the material for a romance, instead of flirting at Almacks or riding in Hyde Park, he had been intrusted with one and another confidential duty, in which he had distinguished himself. As the new century opened, the plots of Miranda, in Cuba and on the Spanish Main, the insur- Tection in St. Domingo, and the certainty ofa change in Louisiana, made it necessary for his chiefs to seek more accurate infor- mation than they had, as to the condition ~of the Spanish colonies. Such a man as Lonsdale would not shrink from an appoint- ment, which gave him almost carte blanche in traveling in those regions, then almost unknown to Europe. His social standing, his rank in the diplomatic service, and the commission he was intrusted with, gave him the best introductions everywhere. And, when the ladies of our party met him at Antonio, he was, in good faith, pursuing the inquiries regarding the power of Spain, which had been confided to him. The absurd story that he was the Duke of Clarence had grown up in some joke in .a London club. But, it had found its way to one and another English ship on the West India station; and from these vessels had diffused itself, as poor jokes will, in the soci- ety of almost every place where Lonsdale made any stay. In truth, it was very absurd. He was five years younger than the Duke, was taller and handsomer. But he had light hair, worn without powder,a fresh, healthy complexion, so that, as Jnez afterward told him when she conde- scended to take him into favor, he looked so handsome and so much as one wanted a kings son to look, that everybody took it for granted that he was one. However that might be, the rumor was sometimes a very great convenience to Horace Lonsdale, and sometimes such a bore and nuisance as to arouse all his rage. He said himself, that whatever else it did, it always doubled the charges on his tavern bills. Lonsdale had not let the favorable oppor- tunity pass, which his visit to Natchez, and the escort he gave Eunice Perry to New Orleans, afforded him. He told her, like a gentleman, that her love and life were ines- timably precious to him; that the parting for a summer had taught him that they never could be parted again. And Eunice, who for fifteen years had let the admiration of a hundred men drift by her unobserved and unrequited; who had quietly put fifty men on their guard that they should come no closer, and had sent fifty away sadly, who would not take her hint and pressed too near, Eunice told him the truth. She told him that once and again, in the anxieties of that summer, she had caught herself wish- ing for his sympathy and counsel,nay, if the truth must be told, for a cheery tone of his, or a cheery look of his, before she had wished even for her brothers help, or for Inezs love; and when she said this to Horace Lonsdale, Horace Lonsdale was made perfectly happy. But, all this narrative, so uninteresting to the young reader of seventeen, who seeks in these pages only the history of her coun- try, does but interrupt the story of the fate of Silas Perry and Seth Ransom. The formal interview with the Spanish governor, and with Laussat, the French prefect, took place the next morning after Lonsdale and Miss Perry came down the river. Only these two officers with their secretaries, and the fussy young Salcedo, in a very brilliant uniform, were present to rep- resent the French and Spanish governments; to represent the insulted merchants, only the English and American consuls with Mr. Lonsdale and William Harrod, were admitted. OR, S/LOW YOUR PASSPORTS/ 59 And, oh, the horrors of the red-tape of a Spanish inquiry! Ransom had not exag- gerated, when he said they copied what he said four times for the King to read. And, what with soothing Laussats ruffled dignity by interpreting into French, and meeting Castilian punctilio by talking Spanish, while every person present spoke English and un- derstood it, the ordinary fuss was made more fussy, and the ordinary misery more miserable. But no promise, either of a trial or of a release, could be extorted. Laussat, the Frenchman, talked endlessly. But he had, and knew he had, no power,strictly speak- ing, he had no business there. The same might be said of young Salcedo, who talked, however, more than any one but his father, and to no purpose. He had come, as was his wont, without being asked. The gov- ernor had summoned Laussat only as a later man in power used to invoke Mr. Jaw- kins, when he wanted to avoid responsibility. The governor himself said little and ex- plained nothing. The consuls made their protests,made their threats,which were written down for the King to read; but, the governor declared he was under orders. Count Cornel, Minister of the Colonies at Madrid, had written thus and so; and who was a poor local governor to stand one in- stant before Count Cornel? After this had been said six times, and the protest had been five times renewed, Lonsdale rose and said gravely: Then we must leave your excellency. The transaction appears to me much more serious than your excellency thinks it. Your excellency claims the right to send British subjects secretly to Cuba for trial. We resist that right; I say resist, where my colleague said protest. I ought to inform your excel- lency that I sent directions this morning to his Britannic Majestys naval officer in com- mand below the Pass. That officer will search every vessel coming down the river, and will rescue any British subject he finds on board, though that subject be on a ship of war of the King of Spain.~~ There was a moments silence. Gov- ernor Salcedo, himself, did not maintain the haughty look of indifference which he had pretended. He looked Lonsdale steadily and anxiously in the eye. Laussat pretended not to hear what was said. The secretaries prepared four copies for the King. And will the American squadron look for American citizens? said the governor, at last, with a sneer. I think there are no American vessels of war there, replied Lonsdale quietly. If they were, Mr. Clarke would communicate with them, I suppose. And how does your order, Mr. Lonsdale, affect the persons whom you say are our prisoners; for whom, observe, I disclaim all responsibility? Your excellency cannot mistake me. Silas Perry and Seth Ransom are both sub- jects of George the Third. The American consul has claimed them as American citizens, said the governor in excitement. And you must pardon me, Mr. Lonsdale; your ignorance is that of a stranger; their nationality is perfectly known here. No person so important in the Amer- ican interest, always excepting the honorable consul, as Mr. Silas Perry; unless, indeed, Sefior Ransoms claim is superior to his, as he certainly supposes it to be. I speak of facts, replied Lonsdale, facts everywhere known. These men were born British subjects. It is true, that the State of Massachusetts, in which they were born, is no longer a part of the British Em- pire. But these men, born under the flag of England, were not residents of Massa- chusetts when that change took place. They have never forfeited their allegiance to the King of England nor his protection. They are under the English flag to-day! Everybody was amazed at this bold posi- tion so suddenly assumed by this calm man. For a moment there was silence. Then the governor said: It is too late to-day; but, if the men can be found in this jurisdiction, we will learn from them to what nation they belong.~~ And when shall we have this privilege, asked Mr. Lonsdale boldly, of seeing the prisoners, who, as I had understood, were not known by your excellency to be im- prisoned? To-morrow is Sunday, said the gov- ernor with equal coolness. I understand that it will be disagreeable to Englishmen and Americans to attend to business then. Shall we say Tuesday? No day better than Sunday for an act of the simplest justice, said Lonsdale. The governor had committed himself, and it was agreed that after Mass the same party should meet again. And then the English and American gen- tlemen were bowed out of the room, and the four clerks completed their four memoirs for the King. (To be continued.) 6o A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTOkY A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTORY. AMONG civilized peoples, the English and their descendants occupy the first place in all matters connected with industry. The peoples of Great Britain, the Americans, and the English-speaking colonists in all parts of the world, are the leaders in com- merce and manufactures. From England have come the greatest captains of in- dustry. The English-speaking workman has made the modern railway, elevator, steamship, the sewing and mowing machines, and the telegraph, and his language is the language of trade. To England, the mother of workmen, we may therefore naturally look if we wish to observe the latest phases of industry, to study the currents that affect the movement of trade, or to forecast the future of those two partners in business,master and man. In England grew up and flour- ished, and is now beginning to fade, that epidemic of mingled justice and unreason, charity and selfishness, known as trade unionism, and in England we may best study those later movements that may be included under the general name of co-operation. Co-operation first meant the union of the laboring man and his employer for a com- mon end,profit. Their relations had not been wholly pleasant, and it was thought that if they could go into a co-partnership that their differences might be extinguished and their profits increased. Latterly, the term co-operation has come to mean a great variety of things, and it is now made, with more or less justice, to include almost every commercial and industrial combination, from life assurance to shoe-making. At the pres- ent stage of the co-operative movement, it is useless to define the term exactly. For the purposes of the writer, it may be said to include all those experiments in trade and manufactures where men and women have combined t?ieir labor and money for their mutual benefit and advancement. The co-operative shop, the buildingsociety, industrial partnerships, the life assurance, and the mutual medical society, and some kinds of friendly societies, may be here called co- operative in a broad sense. Allied to these may be noticed a number of efforts made by employers and others for the benefit of work- ing-people, and for the purposes of this and other articles, these may be also called co-operative in aim. Briefly, co-operation means in England any and all combinations of working-people and others for their mutual benefit in a purely financial sense. Its advocates also claim higher and nobler aims social advancement and education. It is true, co-operation has really elevated, re- fined, and educated many of its members; but its chief aim is material gain; its objective point is the shilling. Some peo- ple have affected to see in co-operation only a financial dream, a kind of fanciful specu- lation that would ultimately run its disastrous course, and end in a return to the usual methods of trade. It is not the intention here to discuss this or any other point or theory for or against co-operation. The writers aim is simply to report the present status and methods of co-operation in England and Scotland as it appears to the disinterested observer, and to point out as clearly as may be its influence upon com- merce and manufactures. Co-operation has grown up naturally and quietly from insignificant and almost pitiful beginnings to gigantic proportions. It has a following of tens of thousands; its capital is counted by millions. Already it has made a marked impression upon trade, and its system of dealing has become a model for an entire nation of shop-keepers. It grows even month by month; its stores spring up in every direction; its coal-cars roll on every English railway; and it has already planted an office on Broadway. Its demands are felt in the cheese markets of Utica, and the provision centers of Cincin- nati and Chicago. THE AIMS OF co-OPERATION. Co-operation, in its more particular sense, refers to the combination or union of a num- ber of people, either to supply themselves with certain staple articles of consumption, or to manufacture some article that may be sold for their mutual benefit. When it has to do with selling coals, provisions, and other goods, it is called distributive co- operation. The other kind of co-operation, the union for work, is called productive co-operation. The aim of both distributive and productive co-operation is primarily to benefit the co-operators in a financial sense; but it must be noticed that the original aim of distributive co-operation was not so much to buy and sell teas and sugars at a profit as to get good teas and pure sugars. If the British shopman resents the advent and progress of the co-operative movement; if

6o A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTOkY A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTORY. AMONG civilized peoples, the English and their descendants occupy the first place in all matters connected with industry. The peoples of Great Britain, the Americans, and the English-speaking colonists in all parts of the world, are the leaders in com- merce and manufactures. From England have come the greatest captains of in- dustry. The English-speaking workman has made the modern railway, elevator, steamship, the sewing and mowing machines, and the telegraph, and his language is the language of trade. To England, the mother of workmen, we may therefore naturally look if we wish to observe the latest phases of industry, to study the currents that affect the movement of trade, or to forecast the future of those two partners in business,master and man. In England grew up and flour- ished, and is now beginning to fade, that epidemic of mingled justice and unreason, charity and selfishness, known as trade unionism, and in England we may best study those later movements that may be included under the general name of co-operation. Co-operation first meant the union of the laboring man and his employer for a com- mon end,profit. Their relations had not been wholly pleasant, and it was thought that if they could go into a co-partnership that their differences might be extinguished and their profits increased. Latterly, the term co-operation has come to mean a great variety of things, and it is now made, with more or less justice, to include almost every commercial and industrial combination, from life assurance to shoe-making. At the pres- ent stage of the co-operative movement, it is useless to define the term exactly. For the purposes of the writer, it may be said to include all those experiments in trade and manufactures where men and women have combined t?ieir labor and money for their mutual benefit and advancement. The co-operative shop, the buildingsociety, industrial partnerships, the life assurance, and the mutual medical society, and some kinds of friendly societies, may be here called co- operative in a broad sense. Allied to these may be noticed a number of efforts made by employers and others for the benefit of work- ing-people, and for the purposes of this and other articles, these may be also called co-operative in aim. Briefly, co-operation means in England any and all combinations of working-people and others for their mutual benefit in a purely financial sense. Its advocates also claim higher and nobler aims social advancement and education. It is true, co-operation has really elevated, re- fined, and educated many of its members; but its chief aim is material gain; its objective point is the shilling. Some peo- ple have affected to see in co-operation only a financial dream, a kind of fanciful specu- lation that would ultimately run its disastrous course, and end in a return to the usual methods of trade. It is not the intention here to discuss this or any other point or theory for or against co-operation. The writers aim is simply to report the present status and methods of co-operation in England and Scotland as it appears to the disinterested observer, and to point out as clearly as may be its influence upon com- merce and manufactures. Co-operation has grown up naturally and quietly from insignificant and almost pitiful beginnings to gigantic proportions. It has a following of tens of thousands; its capital is counted by millions. Already it has made a marked impression upon trade, and its system of dealing has become a model for an entire nation of shop-keepers. It grows even month by month; its stores spring up in every direction; its coal-cars roll on every English railway; and it has already planted an office on Broadway. Its demands are felt in the cheese markets of Utica, and the provision centers of Cincin- nati and Chicago. THE AIMS OF co-OPERATION. Co-operation, in its more particular sense, refers to the combination or union of a num- ber of people, either to supply themselves with certain staple articles of consumption, or to manufacture some article that may be sold for their mutual benefit. When it has to do with selling coals, provisions, and other goods, it is called distributive co- operation. The other kind of co-operation, the union for work, is called productive co-operation. The aim of both distributive and productive co-operation is primarily to benefit the co-operators in a financial sense; but it must be noticed that the original aim of distributive co-operation was not so much to buy and sell teas and sugars at a profit as to get good teas and pure sugars. If the British shopman resents the advent and progress of the co-operative movement; if A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTORY 6i he complains that it is stealing his trade, and bringing ruin to his door, he has himself much to blame. Distributive co-operation began as a natural protest against his sanded sugars and painted teas, his demoralizing gratuities, and his ruinous system of credits. He had sought to win two profits; and the poor buyers, the flannel-weaver of Rochdale, and London Post-office clerk, rose in rebellion, and bought their own teas. The city man tucked his single chest under the hack stairs of the General Post-office and doled out the tea after hours. The poor weavers of Toad Lane made the place famous with their wheelbarrow load of gro- ceries. To-day, the carriage of my lord of the army or navy drives up to a palace, and his lordship actually buys his own xvines and cigars at the army and navy or civil service stores; and every mechanic, miner, and laborer in the kingdom knows the way to the nearest co-operative store in his town or village. The British shopman declaims loudly and bitterly against the co-operative store, and, at the same time, he adopts its healthy cash payments and sensible methods of doing business. Distributive co-operation began that the house-mother might have pure tea, that the father might wear good shoes, and that the children might have sweet milk and bread. To-day, it accQm- plishes this and more. It seeks to elevate and educate; it opens reading-rooms and libraries, gives lectures in the arts and sci- ences; it organizes excursions for children; it has its social conferences and its con- gresses, and, withal, it makes money. Of the two kinds of co-operation, distrib- utive is by far the more successful, and may first command our attention. Productive co-operation, and co-operation in its larger sense, including building associations, will next be presented, together with some ex- amination of the points of difference in the practice of English and American building associations. A VERY 5MALL SHOP. Kinning Park, Glasgow, is not wholly lovely. Plain, straight streets, closely built up with lofty stone tenement-houses, and vast mills and foundries. On one side, the railway; to the north, the foul sink of the Clyde; to the west, Govan,noisy with iron ship-yards; and, to the east, the city. Along its streets, under the tenements, are rows of small shops,the green-grocer, the flesher, the haberdasher, and, more numer- ous than all, the spirit merchant. Above the shops lives a dense population of working- people, mainly mechanics in the Clyde ship- yards. These shops are all very small, hardly large enough to hold more thin a few brown sides of American bacon, a barrel of flour, or a heap of cabbages, and only designed to supply the needs of a poor and underpaid working population. West Scotland street, Kinning Park, in nowise differs from the usual Glasgow street, and the two shops numbered 88 and 90 are just like all the rest,one small counter, a few shelves, and a window wherein the goods may be displayed. Unlike its neighbors, there is no display in the windows. The door of one shop is closed, and the two windows seem to be mere store-rooms. Over the door is a large wooden sign: Kinning Park Co-operative Society, Lim- ited. A very small shop, indeed, but it is a type of a great multitude of its fellows scattered over Great Britain, and, in examin- ing its system of doing business, we can obtain quite as good an idea of the subject as we might if we visited some of the grander and more prosperous stores in Yorkshire or Lancashire. Besides, it is better to see the smallest first, as it may show how humble some of these experiments in co-operation have been. The immense establishments at Halifax, Leeds, Oldham, Leicester, and else- where, sprang from quite as small beginnings, and could boast of perhaps less than this Kinning Park society. Viewed from the street, the place seems closed up, as if trade was too dull to warrant the shopman in tak- ing down the shutters. Entering the only door that is open, we find trade active enough. A small child, seated on the counter, is being fitted to a pair of shoes. The shopman is busy dealing out potatoes, and the childs mother is waiting upon herself. The shop- mans assistant is attending some girls mak- ing purchases, and a number of people are waiting their turn with commendable pa- tience. The little io X 12 place is crowded from floor to ceiling with every variety of goods,bread, salt fish, bacon, hosiery, shoes, groceries, provisions, and vegetables,as if the society attempted everything. The sales- man, a plain workaday Scotchman, deals out his potatoes, and then, with apologies for the crowded state of the shop, offers to show the establishment. It is a short story, only the little retail shop, where the custom- ers are received; the adjoining shop where the more bulky goods are stored, and a small and dingy room in the rear, empty, unless four nail-kegs, and four boards laid 62 A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTORY upon them for seats, and a wooden table, can be called furniture. This is all,two shops and a committee-room. In this back room th~ honorable board of man- agement holds its meetings. The officers sit on these planks and deliberate on the amount of teas and sugars, bacon and cheese, they can handle, and, in fact, govern the society. The salesman presents the last balance-sheet and report of the society, a plain, matter-of-fact document, cheaply printed on cheap paper, but worthy careful attention, as we shall see. Then we return to the shop, and stop a moment to observe the trade. A girl is buying some tea and sugar, and she lays three shillings on the counter and takes her bundles. The shop- man makes the change, and with it presents an oval piece of sheet-tin stamped on one side thus: Kinnizg Park Co-op. Soc. 2/6. She takes the sixpence and the tin token, and, putting both in her purse, goes away with her goods in hand. A woman wants a loaf of bread, and, having paid for it and received a tin token, she takes from her pocket a handful of the tins and spreads them on the counter. The salesman counts them all, and then sweeps them into a drawer and presents her with a brass token marked /J.r. So each proceeds, pays cash on the spot, and receives a metallic token express- ing the amount of the purchase. If they have too many tins of small denominations, shillings, half-crowns, etc.,they can have them changed for pound tokens, just as we observed the woman do. ALLOCATION OF PROFITS. Nothing is so small that it cannot teach. A petty variety shop in an outlying district of Glasgow, a society of riveters and black- smiths, may have lessons worth learning. In the first place, notice that of the two shops only one is open, while both win- dows, so valuable in ordinary trade, are mere store-places for the least perishable of the goods. Notice also the apparent indif- ference to the customer. The two salesmen seem to have quite enough to do to supply their customers without troubling themselves to solicit the casual purchaser. Moreover, every one pays cash before taking the goods away. Contrast this with the usual tactics of the British shopman. See his windows skillfully arranged to tempt the passer-by. He knows the average shopper does not put away all his childishness when he becomes a man, and that he will usually buy what he sees in preference to what he wants. Enter the shop, and the beaming graciousness of your reception is so persuasive, you feel that in some manner you commit a grievous fault if you do not make a purchase. You do not find the thing wanted, and you buy something you do not really wish, just be- cause it seems mean not to do so after so much smiling attention. You havent the money. What consequence? Have it charged. So you are bowed out with some useless article and a debt. These united riveters and blacksmiths know better than that. They do not seek to trap the idle passer; they never tease the visitor into a purchase, and they insist on the money. The riveters wife climbs the stone stairs; of her tenement and lays her loaf on th~ table. A sensible loaf, big, a cheerful brown on top, white at the sides, a goodly and seductive loaf, a trifle over weight, to appease the law, and the price exactly the same as at all the shops, the ruling Glasgow price for the day. It is an honest loaf, of goodly savor, and with a history, as we shall presently see. She has been well served~ and without teasing, solicitation, or debt. Moreover, in a safe corner she has a folded certificate for a paid-up share in the society, and earning five per cent. interest each year. With it is a heap of brass tokens representing a dozen pounds sterling. Next quarter-day every pound wil earn one shilling and three- pence in good money, being her share in the allocation of profits declared by the society for the quarter, and all this over and above the interest on the money invested in the share. Surely this little Glasgow variety shop has something to teach. The nineteenth quarterly report and bal- ance-sheet for the quarter ending April 5,. 1876, issued by this Kinning Park society is instructive. The cash receipts are set down at f 1030 13s. 22d. The store or trade expenses were only ,~54 is. 3d., and divi- ded in this peculiar manner :wages, f~ 4S. 3d.; rent, 215 shillings; hail rent, 4s.;. gas, 42s. 2d.; stationery, is. 8d.; printing, 24s. 6d.; postage, 4S. 9d.; secretary, 4S.; treasurer, 20S. ; committee, ros,; auditors, i2s.; delegates, is.; sundries, 95. 4d.; 1ega~ exl)enses, ios.; bonus on wages, 19s. i od. A strange shop that pays eight shillings for delegates~ and hall rent. Delegates to what? The last conference or congress held in the neighborhood, where perhaps a hundred men, each representing a shop like this, met to discuss the progress of the movement over a cheerful cup of tea pro- vided by the society located nearest to the A SCOTTISh LOAF FACTORY 63 place of meeting. The hail rent means the rent of the room where the last quarterly report and balance-sheet was read by the president before the assembled riveters and boiler-makers-members of the society. The secretary, treasurer, committee and auditors are paid for their services; but the amounts are merely nominal. Ten shillings divided among the eight directors, and six shillings each for the two auditors whose names are signed to the report. A desire to see the soci- ety prosper must be their chief reward. The bonus on wages means that nineteen shillings and tenpence was divided between the sales- men, at the rate of one and threepence in every pound of wages they earned the previ- ous quarter, as an extra payment. The rest of the expense account explains itself; and we may turn to the report again to see what is done with the profits, if there be any. The sales over the counter and the new shares taken up are not the only sources of profit. The society has been prosperous, and it owns shares in other societies, and its profits in these are set down at 13 i6s. 6d. from the Baking ~ciety, and ~ os. 6d. from the Scottish holesale. So we find under the head of Allocation of profits, that the members purchased the previous quar- ter, goods to the value of 1055, and the report says the members were paid 67 19 shillings as profits, being at the rate of one shilling and threepence in every pound. Each member brought in his or her tokens, and received the one and threepence the tokens represented, either in cash or had the sum added to their share account. The balance-sheet, moreover, shows that on the 414 held as shares by the members, .44 us. 4d. was paid as interest. The liabilities of the society at date may be summed up as follows :Members claims (some shares withdrawn since last- report), 395 us.; reserve balance, 31 145. 3 ~ d.; due merchants, 89 u8s. 22 d.; profit, ~7 ITS. 8d. The assets consist of shares in Wholesale Society, 112 8s. 9d.; shares in United Baking Society, 119 u8s. 2d.; goods in stock, 254 55. 7d.; fixed stock, 49 los.; cash balance, 48 2S. 8d.; or in all, 584 5S. 2d. This Kinning Park society has been pur- posely selected as one of the smallest of these stores. It has not been wholly suc- cessful, as its report shows that it has suffer- ed in the past some losses through ill-chosen salesmen, and yet the society has prosper- ed. it has supplied its hundred members with the best the market afforded, and at the regular rates. It has paid interest on the investment, and every member has re- ceived back fifteen pence of every two hun- dred and forty he expended at the shop. The society has prospered in the past, for it has enough to spare to purchase shares in two other societies to the value of 232 6s. iid. A large part of this must have been courageously withheld from the allo- cation of profits, and the rest was earned in the two societies. If this society stood alone in the world, its balance-sheet would be a remarkable docu- ment. But within a dozen miles are thirty or more just like it; two or three blocks away, is the Baking Society, and down the Paisley Road, toward the Clyde, stands the huge stone warehouse of the Scottish Wholesale Society, doing a business of over one hundred and seven thousand pounds every three months; while, if we look fur- ther south, into England, we see the Man- chester Society doing a business of over a million every twelve weeks. Kinning Park is only one in a company of more than a thousand. Each is conducted on the same general principles as this humble association of machinists. Some are smaller still; others have twenty times its income, and their balance-sheets show expense lists that include such diverse items as schools, science classes, scientific instruments, reading-rooms and that famous two and a half per cent. for education. w~vs AND MEANS. The distributive societies of England and Scotland, differing only in minor details, and being conducted on the same general principles, we need not examine the work- ing constitution of any one in particular to understand their management. We can turn to the printed model rules published by the Central Co-operative Board, Man- chester, and find the main facts briefly sta- ted. The Central Board is maintained by a federation of a very large number of so- cieties, and is intended to collect and dis- tribute information concerning co-operation for the uses of the members of the federation and all others who may wish it. These model rules cover every branch of co-operative work, and new societies gener- ally copy them in greater or less degree, and thus secure a uniform system of manage- ment. We may, therefore, refer to them in explaining the plan upon which such work is conducted. The first chapter gives the name, objects, and location of the society, 64 A SCOTTISH LOAF EACTOJI?Y and states where and how the books, securi- ties, and accounts are to be kept, all of which has to be registered according to the law concerning provident and industrial societies. The second chapter gives the rules defining the members, their liabilities and claims on the society~ From this, it appears there are three classes of MEMBERS. First, special members; secondly, such other members as the society may admit; thirdly, other societies or companies. Each member, whether an individual or a com- pany, must hold one or more shares in the society. Any person or company may apply for admission to the society on the payment of one shilling for a copy of the rules. If the application is accepted by the govern- ment of the society, the applicant takes one or more shares, as may be directed, and makes the first payment (generally a shilling) on each share. Married women may be admitted on the written consent of their husbands, except on special application in writing, and according to the married wom- ens property Act. Minors may be admit- ted on fully paid-up shares, but cannot hold office in the society. No~ member can vote at any meeting of the society if in arrears in his subscription, or if he holds less than a prescribed number of shares. The members are recognized as such only from a list of their names, residence, etc., kept by the society, and each society limits the number of shares a single member may hold. SHARE CAPITAL. The capital of such a society is generally held in shares valued at one pound, payable at once, or in installments, with a fine for neglect of payments. These installments may be as low as threepence a week, and may be anticipated to any extent. The fines may be omitted in cases of distress, and all dividends due on a share must be added to the installments till the share is paid up. In case of default of payment, the society may recover all money due by process of law. These shares may be transferable or not, may be withdrawable after sufficient notice, or may be recovered by purchase by the society at its option, as each society may elect. The usual plan is to make the shares non- transferable and subject to purchase by the society. The number of shares to entitle a society or an individual to membership, and the maximum number they or he may hold, may also be settled by the society at their convenience. Withdrawable shares may be issued foI capitalizing the profits, and may be withdrawn according to certain rules design- ed to equalize the payments among all hold- ers of such shares. Every member may nominate, in a book kept for the purpose, one or more persons to whom his shares may be transferred in case of death. In default of such nomination, the legal representative of the deceased member, on production of the proofs required by law, may receive the shares of the said member, or their value in money, in which case the shares are consid- ered as extinguished. This payment is at the will of the society, and in case of a transfer of shares, the person receiving them cannot have a vote in the society unless he then becomes a member. The legatee of a deceased member may also receive the divi- dends on his shares, but can have no vote unless he joins the society. The society may also receive deposits and loans from its members subject to certain conditions, and such loans are to be considered as transfer- able loan stock in the society. The society may also hold shares in, or may ake loans to, other societies. THE GOVERNMENT. All co-operative societies are governed by a committee, consisting of a president, sec- retary, treasurer, and a fixed number of directors, all of whom must be elected by the members, and serve in rotation. The president must preside at all meetings of the committee, and must sign all the reports of the society. The secretary and treasurer perform all the duties incident to such offi- ces, and the treasurer must be under bonds. Each and all of these officers may be paid such sums for their services as the society may from time to time appoint. The duties of the committee in~lude the general con- duct of the societys business, the appoint- ment and payment of all servants, the pur- chase of goods, land, buildings, and other property, and the adjustment of all losses and profits, loans, investments, and other financial matters concerning the society. The committee may also appoint local com- mittees for the government of special branches of the business, or branch stores and work- shops. Besides these officers, there are always two or more auditors whose duty it is to examine all reports, books, and accounts of the society as it may from time to time direct. DIVISION OF PROFITS. The profits resulting from the business of a co-operative society are usually divided as A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTORY follows: First, the payment of the agreed interest on the loans or deposits; secondly, the reduction of the fixed stock or plant of the society; thirdly, the reduction of the preliminary expense of starting the society if unpaid; fourthly, the payment of a divi- dend on the ordinary share capital of the society; fifthly, in the creation of a reserve or contingent fund; sixthly, in promoting culture and instruction among the members by forming an educational fund; seventhly, contributing to the general cause of the co- operative movement, or to the social, provi- dent, or other benefit of the members. Lastly, the surplus, if any, may be divided, first, among all the members, according to their purchases; secondly, a less sum among non-members who may have made purchases at the store; thirdly, a bonus on the wages paid to the servants of the society. THE LOAF FACTORY. St. James street, Paisley Road, Glasgow, is only a few blocks from West Scotland street, Kinning Park, and is very like it, except that a deep railway cutting occupies the wide space in the middle of the street. Here, on the corner of a cross street, is a large bake-house, or, as it is sometimes called, a loaf factory, and known by its sign as the Works and Registered Office of the United Co-operative Baking Society, limited. The plant includes a two-story stone bake-house, store-houses, offices, and a stable, and occu- pies a part of a large lot of land fronting on two streets. On entering the street door, one is shown up a steep wooden stair to a box of a room called the office, on the second floor, where the manager of the Works may be found. He readily and gladly offers to show the establishment in all its details, which are simple enough. Upstairs is a large store-room crowded with bags of flour from France and Canada. Below is the bake-house, just like many another bake-house, except that there is no machinery of any kind. Here we find fifteen men, stirring and mixing the great masses of dough with their hands and arms alone. Machinery may do it better elsewhere, but nowhere could one find more thoroughness and cleanliness. A long range of ovens fills one side of the bake-room, and from one of these a man is skillfully drawing huge blocks of loaves. A boy with a brush dipped in cold water paints the top of each loaf as it comes out, giving it a glistening brown color that makes the bread very attractive. Other men are breaking up the VOL. XIII.5. blocks of bread into single loaves and pack- ing them into wooden trays. The trays, when filled with their fragrant loads, are taker~ away to a large paved room opening by wide doors upon St. James street. Here we see them packed into the societys wag- ons ready for delivery on the morrow. The wagons are closed tight against the rain, and provided with doors at the end and blinds at the front. The manager remarks that they want more room. The business is growing rapidly, and they will soon be obliged to extend their buildings over the rest of their lot of land. At the man- agers request, before leaving, we visit the stables, and see the fourteen horses that are needed to deliver this daily bread. After all, this is only a rather large loaf factory; it does not. present any special feat- ures of mechanical interest, but as a comm~r- cial experiment it is well worth our attention. Every morning the five wagons start out with sixteen thousand loaves of good bread, and supply thirty-eight retail co-operative stores, located within fifteen miles of Glas- gow, with enough for the regular demands of their members. There is also a bread- room or shop attached to the works, where the bread is sold at retail to the general public. The sixteen thousand loaves sent out by the teams are consigned to the stores at a fixed price per pound, and are wholly consumed by the people dealing at these stores. Each store takes all it can conven- iently sell, and pays cash for the bread every week; and to allow a profit, there is a discount of ten per cent. on all purchases. Besides this, there is a strict account kept of all the purchases made by each society, precisely as the individual member keeps an account of his purchases at the store by means of the tin tokens. The chief point of interest in this matter is in the fact that these works are maintained by a federation of co-operative societies. Thirty societies have shares in the United Co-operative Baking Society,in other words, own it. The remaining eight societies that are sup- plied with the bread are not members of the federation, and do not hold shares, though they have more oi less money loan- ed to the Baking Society. All, from An- derston to Whiteinch, supply their members with good wholesome bread, fresh every day, and at the regular market rate. Each society gets the trade discount of ten per cent. and a bonus or extra profit on its pur- chases, and each receives interest on its loans and shares as capital in the factory. 66 A SCOTTISH LOAF FACTORY BREAD AND PROFITS. The Twenty-ninth Quarterly Report and Balance-sheet of the United Co-opera- tive Baking Society, limited, is a large and handsome sheet, crowded with figures, and exhibiting a pleasing balance on the right side. After giving the name and registered office of the Society St. James st., Paisley Road, Glasgow, it says : Societies require to take one share for each member, increasin~g their shares as their members increase. The tayment of is. ter share is all that is requir- ed: the discount and interest making u~ the remainder of the sha re. This is in large type, as if an important statement. Then follow the names of the members of the Board of Management, with the names of the various societies they represent. The report is for the quarter ending April 29, 1876, and is as follows To THE MEMI3ERs.It is again our pleasing duty to submit for your approval another Quarterly Statement and Balance-sheet of the Federation. The turn-over for the Twenty-ninth Quarter is /6775 i6s., being an increase of /224 4s. 9d. over the preceding Quarter. There is a gross balance for the Quarter (after allowing the stores 10 per cent. for selling the bread) of /1780 9S. 9d., from which we deduct interest on capital and all trade expenses, leaving a balance to divide of /8oi 3S. id. This we purpose (with your sanction) dividing as underIs. 4d. per on members purchases and wages earned; 8d. per / on non-members purchases; /200 to reserve fund for reduction pur- poses, which we allot as follows :/ioo to the reduction of fixed and live stock; /~o to the reduc- tion of buildings; /5o to the permanent reserve; and the balance, /112 4s. 7d. we carry forward. The number of sacks baked during the quarter was 262534, given an average of 202 per week; an increase of 13 sacks per week over last quarter. The above facts must be highly satisfactory to the members, as it is to us, showing that the society is still progressing in all its points ; the sales of bread having been steadily increasing, we consider a strong argument in favor cf the federation. Our success is a proof also to outsiders that working men can conduct even a productive concern success- fully, when there is honesty of purpose, blended with watchful trust and mutual confidence. We leave the sheet with you and hope you will see, in the disposal of the balance, that the best interests of the society, and therefore of the members, have been guarded. Yours, etc., (Signed) THE COMMITTEE. Then follow the detailed statements of accounts, filling three large pages, and in- cluding the cash, profit and expense ac- counts, shares and purchase accounts, and the always interesting allocation of profits. Each of the federated societies has all its accounts printed in full, and each can see just how all the others, stand. From the Capital Account, it appears that the United Societys liabilities are (briefly summed up) as follows :4289 shares at 1962; loans, 172847 os. 5d.; cash over- paid by societies (on account of purchases), 122 55. iod.; bonds on property, 830; merchants bills and trade expenses, 7s~i. 125. o2d.; reserve balance, 876 i6s. i 2d.; rent reserved, ~ i5s.; bonus on wages, 43 14S. 5 ~ d. The assets balance this as follows :Shares and loans in the Scottish Wholesale Society, 304 4S. 2d.; goods in stock, hay, buildings, fixed and live stock, etc., 3901 6s. io2d.; loan to Oak Mill, 200; interest on over- due accounts, 2 19S. 7d.; cash balance, 2190 135. 42d.making a total of 7274 45. iid. The society owns its buildings, or is paying for them rapidly; it has more land on which it can erect new ovens; it pays cash for everything it needs; its trade expenseswages, repairs, allow- ance to the officers, traveling expenses for the committee, and even the dog and cat keep (26 shillings)only amount to a trifle over a thousand pounds; its credit is firmly established, and its business is stead- ily growing. It can afford to send its dele- gates to conferences; its expense list in- cludes forty shillings each paid to the Renfrewshire Conference and the Glas- gow Conference. The constitution of this society resembles in its general features that described for a single co-operative society, except that the individual members are replaced by societies. Each of the thirty co-operative shops, includ- ing little Kinning Park, contributes to the capital of the United Society, and each has a vote in its management. Each society adjusts its share-list every quarter by its list of members, and holds as many shares as it has members. If it takes in a dozen new members, it. pays a dozen shillings to the United Society, and takes out the twelve new shares valued at ten shillings each. The profits and discounts soon raise it to par, and then it has interest on. all the new shares. Besides this, the societies may lend their spare cash to the United Society, and it, on its part, may lend its money to the Scottish Wholesale as shares or loans. These shares it need not pay for in full, for its profits in the Wholesale will also help to pay for the share, and in every transaction interest will be paid from one society to the other. The riveters wife buys her daily bread at the Kinning Park Society. Hundreds of other mens wives at Avonbank, at Maryhill, DA YS AND VOICES. 67 at Tolicross, up the Clyde beyond Glasgow; at Pollockshaws, to the south; at Paisley, at Bridge of Weir, and many another busy village scattered round about, buy their loaVes according to their needs. Each pays hard cash, and receives the bread and a tin token as voucher for her purchase. Now, why all this complication, this federa- tion of societies, these elaborate statements of business, these allocations of profits printed on thirty-eight balance-sheets and scattered through city tenement and country cot- tage? Why not buy the loaves at the same price, on credit, at the nearest loaf factory in the good old way? Because there is little to earn and many to keep. It is this allocation of profits that has taught the five thousand people interested in this loaf factory to create and manage such a curious and complicated experiment in co- operation. Five large wagon-loads each day are sent to join the enormous traffic that swarms over the Broomielaw Bridge, past the black coal-pits, the resounding ship-yards, and over the breezy hills, that the weaver, the miner, and the laborers little may the more happily keep his clamorous many.~~ The riveters wife paid the full price for her loaf of bread, but the numerous rebates and discounts that must be taken out before its real cost can be found are almost past belief. In the first place, she bought, for perhaps a shillin~, or two, a one-pound share in the little shop. She could not pay its full value, and many months passed before she received any money return on the invested shillings. In place of cash, the profits earned by the shop were added to her share till its full par value was reached. Perhaps this is now accomplished, and she is receiv- ing five per cent. interest on the share. Here is one profit on the loaf returned to her in part. The ~in token is more obvious. At the end of the quarter she will take it, with any others she may have, to the shop, and will receive back fifteen pennies for every two hundred and forty she paid for bread or otner goods. She can lift these pennies, or let them remain in the hands of the society as a loan, or as part payment for a new share. Then, the shop, acting as her agent, may buy with its surplus funds shares in the United Baking Society. On these shares it will receive interest which will help pay the interest on her shares. The society buys its bread of the Baking Society, and gets a discount of ten per cent. on all its purchases as a selling profit. Moreover, there is a bonus of one shilling and four- pence in every pound sterling spent for the bread. If the society has money to spare, the Baking Society will accept it as a loan at interest. Tracing this still farther, we find that the Baking Society owns shares in the Scottish Wholesale Society and receives inter- est thereon. The flour and salt employed in making the loaf were bought of the Whole- sale Society, and on this purchase there is a bonus of fourpence in the pound. Beyond this, the Wholesale will accept any loans the United may have to spare, and will pay interest thereon. Surely, the riveters shilling runs a nimble race. With tens of thousands of other mens shillings it started the scat- tered retail shops; their profits opened the Baking Society, and its profits, together with the profits of a hundred other societies, built the great warehouse of the Scottish Whole- sale. The loaf apparently cost seven and a half pence (or thereabouts) in money. Its real cost must be found after these interests on interests, this procession of bonuses, have been subtracted from it. The actual figures may be unimportant, but the lesson of the loaf is both obvious and profound. DAYS AND VOICES. SWIFT the elm-trees leaves are falling; Plaintively the pee-wee calling Mingles with the leaves his notes; And the ghost of summer floats Through the air. Like the leaves, the days long vanished, Mixed with voices dead or banished, Come to me with those sweet notes. But the ghost of gladness floats Through despair.

DA YS AND VOICES. 67 at Tolicross, up the Clyde beyond Glasgow; at Pollockshaws, to the south; at Paisley, at Bridge of Weir, and many another busy village scattered round about, buy their loaVes according to their needs. Each pays hard cash, and receives the bread and a tin token as voucher for her purchase. Now, why all this complication, this federa- tion of societies, these elaborate statements of business, these allocations of profits printed on thirty-eight balance-sheets and scattered through city tenement and country cot- tage? Why not buy the loaves at the same price, on credit, at the nearest loaf factory in the good old way? Because there is little to earn and many to keep. It is this allocation of profits that has taught the five thousand people interested in this loaf factory to create and manage such a curious and complicated experiment in co- operation. Five large wagon-loads each day are sent to join the enormous traffic that swarms over the Broomielaw Bridge, past the black coal-pits, the resounding ship-yards, and over the breezy hills, that the weaver, the miner, and the laborers little may the more happily keep his clamorous many.~~ The riveters wife paid the full price for her loaf of bread, but the numerous rebates and discounts that must be taken out before its real cost can be found are almost past belief. In the first place, she bought, for perhaps a shillin~, or two, a one-pound share in the little shop. She could not pay its full value, and many months passed before she received any money return on the invested shillings. In place of cash, the profits earned by the shop were added to her share till its full par value was reached. Perhaps this is now accomplished, and she is receiv- ing five per cent. interest on the share. Here is one profit on the loaf returned to her in part. The ~in token is more obvious. At the end of the quarter she will take it, with any others she may have, to the shop, and will receive back fifteen pennies for every two hundred and forty she paid for bread or otner goods. She can lift these pennies, or let them remain in the hands of the society as a loan, or as part payment for a new share. Then, the shop, acting as her agent, may buy with its surplus funds shares in the United Baking Society. On these shares it will receive interest which will help pay the interest on her shares. The society buys its bread of the Baking Society, and gets a discount of ten per cent. on all its purchases as a selling profit. Moreover, there is a bonus of one shilling and four- pence in every pound sterling spent for the bread. If the society has money to spare, the Baking Society will accept it as a loan at interest. Tracing this still farther, we find that the Baking Society owns shares in the Scottish Wholesale Society and receives inter- est thereon. The flour and salt employed in making the loaf were bought of the Whole- sale Society, and on this purchase there is a bonus of fourpence in the pound. Beyond this, the Wholesale will accept any loans the United may have to spare, and will pay interest thereon. Surely, the riveters shilling runs a nimble race. With tens of thousands of other mens shillings it started the scat- tered retail shops; their profits opened the Baking Society, and its profits, together with the profits of a hundred other societies, built the great warehouse of the Scottish Whole- sale. The loaf apparently cost seven and a half pence (or thereabouts) in money. Its real cost must be found after these interests on interests, this procession of bonuses, have been subtracted from it. The actual figures may be unimportant, but the lesson of the loaf is both obvious and profound. DAYS AND VOICES. SWIFT the elm-trees leaves are falling; Plaintively the pee-wee calling Mingles with the leaves his notes; And the ghost of summer floats Through the air. Like the leaves, the days long vanished, Mixed with voices dead or banished, Come to me with those sweet notes. But the ghost of gladness floats Through despair. 68 PICTURES FROM ROME. PICTURES FROM ROME. FRANK was sitting in a low balcony of Corning up to Rome in those days the Corso, and it was an afternoon of the meant more than it does now, an dagreat Carnival, deal more than it ever will again. You were He had come to Rome only the day before. not ticketed and boxed up with two hun- K

68 PICTURES FROM ROME. PICTURES FROM ROME. FRANK was sitting in a low balcony of Corning up to Rome in those days the Corso, and it was an afternoon of the meant more than it does now, an dagreat Carnival, deal more than it ever will again. You were He had come to Rome only the day before. not ticketed and boxed up with two hun- K PICTURES FROM ROME. 69 dred and fifty like ar- ticles of transporta- ~tion, and slid along under watch of an official with air as stiff as his coat-collar, stopping or not stopping (especially not), according to his orders tantalized with a glance from a little window at the last end of something you would give a scudo to see, and at length suddenly Un- boxed, dropped on the platform of a stupid station, and told that it is Rome. No, indeed! The style in which Frank and I rolled up to the Eternal City is one of its eternal memories to ourselves. The two little Sardinian nags pattered along before our fluffy, old vettura, like Cinder- ellas rats with the pumpkin. The vettu- ra was yellow, black, and blue; it made its own music like a superannuated band of bell-ringers, with accompaniment on the bones,creak- ing and snapping, jingling and jangling, from bells on the belly-bands, cracking whip, rickety bolts and wobbling wheels. Bright blue feathers bobbed up and down at the ponies ears. Gorgeous was Gregorio, in his red-brown breeches, yellow vest, and cockade of rooster-feathers in his hat; and glorious were we, perched on the high seat behind him, with th~ free sky above, the wide Campagna in front, and beyond, though unseen, Rome Rome, felt already like a magnetism which almost tingled through the fingers,Rome and all that life means to the marvelous imagination of the twentieth year, within our embrace. We could ask Gregorio about everything we sawof which, to be sure, he knew nothing, but that is all the antiquarians know about much of it. We kneW we could stop when we chose and so we did not choose to stop. The slow motion gav~ us good, long looks at the half-hidden ruin, the browsing xvhite and-purple cattle, a wild-eyed buffalo, the shaggy peasant pausing at the road-sid~ to let us pass and to enjoy what sensation his dull, black-ringed eyes could take in from our appearance. We had soon done joking Gregorio and ourselves upon our wonderful equipage; its rattle, clatter and patter hardly reached our ears any longer, and the brood- ing spirit of the Campagna at last settled on our imagination and made us silent. By and by, on the line of the horizon, a regular form began to rise. Four eyes, looking often in one direction, had caught it, and two tongues at once were starting to ask, when Gregorio nodded quietly over there and said, San Pietro; as if he meant, Theres the gentleman you want to see; and he gave the reins a pull and laid the whip across the ponies withers. The road runs on till it strikes plump against the dead wall of the city, and then follows the wall for some time before finding the gate of the Cavaleggieri. This seems very odd and disconcerts you a little. Then you 70 PICTURES FROM ROME. want to lay your hand against its gray old undone the policy and international senti- side and make sure that all this is a reality ment of centuries. In Rome, in those other a reality for your own very self. Then days, the awful goverrfmental eye rolled and the vettura drives under the gate, rumbles glai~ed in all directions; the Middle Ages through a narrow street of Trastevere, turns ended last we~k. right, and goes grazing with its hubs a row of The man of the custom-house demand- tall, tawny columns, whose spaces show ed our passports and then demanded us. through them two shimmering fountains and We dropped down from our perch and an obelisk and a like colonnade beyond. were motioned toward an inner room. We went in, one at a time. Behind an immense black mustache which stood out horizontally to right and left, sat a little, thin, straight man, with the air of a generalissimo in opera houff6. He had already flattened out the passport upon his desk. He mumbles out your barbarian patronymic as if it were a mouthful of cherry-pits, and you respond. Then he reads your, heightwritten in numerals5 feet i iand runs his eye QUATT-R-RO! You know it for the Piazza of St. Peters. Really, you feel a little embarrassed at this disrespectful rush into the august presence. Of course, your imagination is disappointed. You say to yourself, This is where I will come to-morrow. You do not exclaim, Saint Peters! Wonderful ! And getting into Rome at all, in those days was a different thing from what it is now. These last twenty-five years have PICTURES FROM ROME. 71[ along you deliberately, to take an altitude. Then he makes believe he knows enough of English to understand the description of your hair, complexion, mouth, chin and nose, and examines every one of them consecutively. You see his pompous silliness, dog in office,but know he can annoy you very much; and so you stand wondering whether to play servitore umilissimo or to lift him by the mustache and drop him gently out the window. Then he pores over every pass on the paper, from twenty different govern- ments, eying them sidewise and upside down. Now he has found a flaw, five passes back. He consults his register. No. But he asks you mysteriously about it. You know nothing. He shakes his head. Diligent, indefatigable, incorruptible official! You think so? No, he is scaring you into a bribeif he can. But he cant. In the outer room, meanwhile, they are waiting for your key, to pounce down and eviscerate your trunk. You stand by and see the operation, with what equanimity a youth of Christian nurture and admonition may have vouchsafed you. Every book is opened, some scanned wrong side up. That map of Rotterdam may be a plan of the Roman fortifications; that old hotel bill, a list of conspirators to assassinate the Pope. In one corner is a little odd-looking box. Ecco / poison! bullets! Please open this, signore, the official says firmly. Certainly. There! Bulletsof quinine. Take them! Scusi, and a grin. Frank, as I began, was sitting in a bal- cony on the Corso. Some new voices in the room behind drew him to turn around. A blonde, bearded face struck him for a second, as a memory; but in the shadow, it suggested the beery-faced Milanese who had lodged opposite him in the Casa Toni at Florence and was tippling his way boozily through Italy. So Frank turned again to enjoy the opening fun of the street. In a moment a card was thrust over his shoulder and held before his eyes. He read, Fred- erick Bannard. He threw back his head and found his Milanese looking down on him in the person of an old schoolmate of six years gone, never once seen nor heard of since, who had been a year in the country, and no more dreamed of Franks presence than did Frank of his. Frank jumped up, they clapped hands together with a laughing How do you do, old boy? and they sat down together in the balcony and chatted fast about what had become of the other boys, and about all the nice girls they had known together. Then Fred laid out ex- cursions for to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrowall of them in the old, old Rome of the Palatine and the Forum; for both of the young fellows had taken honors in the classics. Fred took Frank for dinner over to the classic Lepres, into the room where the artists used to gather, and do so to this day. Then Frank took Fred to his lodgings, a few blocks below, in the Way of LifeVia della Vita. Way of Life! exclaimed Fred. So is the grave! But why shouldnt the Way of Life have just a little bit of life in it? It stood in a respectable quarter of the town, and was like some other cross streets, dull as a convent corridor; a long, high, time- stained wall on one side, with a little barred window or two near the top; then a few dwellings of the same bruised, mottled gray; no salient bit, hardly a window-sill or lintel, to catch a little more of light. A passer-by made a sensation. It seemed like a barracks, a convent and a row of haunted houses. If you met anybody, you asked him mentally, What are you doing here? and he was asking the same of you. There was an espe- cial chill in the air. The pavement in the shadowwithout sidewalks thenbore a green mold, in spots. The masked and cowled funeral processions seemed to make their favorite route through it. Still it was only a sta~ongish type of most Roman streets of the daysolitary, silent, always wearing penitential sackcloth and keeping Lent. I spent a week there, and the only sign of life that I recall was one game of morra, played by two tipsy stragglers who happen- ed to be crossing the town just there. It was moonlight; after eleven; still as a stone. I sat at the open window under Franks. Suddenly Mor-r-ra I rattled like a tattoo on the air. I leaned out, and in the clear moonshine, by a passage, the play- ers were beginning their game. Quallr-r-ro I cries graybeard. At the same instant, Nove! rumbles the bass of the baker; and as quickly, out jump some fingers from their right hands. Sum total being neither four nor nine, nobody wins. Un-n-ndici / exclaims the baker. Do-o-o-dici I cries the other. Undid wins; baker cries Ta/to / sticks out a finger of his left hand for a counter, and holds it there till his saint gives him 72 PICTURES FROM ROME. another game to send it company. They go down the street slowly, still playing, and disappear around the cornerTre / iTht/i / Sdte.! sounding fainter and fainter, till all is quiet again. And our house within was stiller and chillier than this Way of Life withoutstill as a convent of the Buried-alive. Frank was on the second floor, with a family whose father had no visible means of support, and whose only child stuffed birds for the living of the household. The old man was as invisible as his means of support. We only heard him and heard of him. The daughter had a shock of red hair that flared every way like fire-works, a fierce eye, and a hooked nose, and was particularly great in posing hawksin fact, an artist in hawks. The pope had patronized her hawks. A hawk tearing up a rabbit, two hawks fighting, be- came a drama, a tragedy, in her hands. Surely she had her blood from some of those old Goth-kings who swooped down upon the Rome of the Au- gustuluses. I shall never forget her hungry swoop down the staircase upon us both, one day, with her last hawk in hand; nor her look of triumphant satisfaction, as she pointed out the beauties of attitude, and stroked the feathers, and played with the wicked beak. She could not coax nor shame us into buying it. We only laughed, when in the street, over the odd ad- venture. Recalling it now, I wonder if the family had not gone breadless that morn- ing, and were not perhaps huddling at the balustrade above to see the prospect for a dinner. God forgive us! XVe were too young to guess such possibilities then. The rooms had no fire- places that would work a fire; the floors were tile and without a rug to catch your feet from the morning bed. There was a clock on the mantel, but, like those you meet so often in the taverns of South France, it hadnt spring, chain or wheelall pawned, perhaps a year ago. There was not an easy chair or settee, for self or friend. So we took Freds suggestion, and THE LANDLADYS BOY. PICTURES FROM ROME. 73 after a few days migrated to his casa on had two children. The boy was about the sunny Pincian, in the Gregorian Way. thirteen, and was sent to the Seminario It stood near the edge of the bluff which every day when the innumerable festas per- is ascended by the Stairs of the Piazza mitted it. The Seminario was one of the two di Spagna. In Freds room, two or three great public schools of Rome. Only Roman bright calico settees invited the company, children could enter its classes, but they after a days tramp, to pleasant horizontal musings, as the sun went down behind the Cathedral dome, the dark ovals of the pines and the purple hills. Our landlady was an Italian widow, who went on very rudimentary preparation. It had, at that time, about seven hundred l)upilsall boys, of course. The edu- cation of girls, at Rome, was in a semi- oriental barbarism of neglect. Our little CHILDREN OF ISRAEL. 74 PICTURES FROM ROME. Seminarist, in his three-cornered, cocked-up the lines of social position. Most of her broad-brim, his priests frock and big shoe- features were Roman enoughhair, brow, buckles, sprawling at hop-scotchwhich we eye and chin; but the contour and nose taught him as an improvement on his game showed forestiere bloodNeapolitan, for of Campanamade lively amusement for instance, rather than Roman. us, for a while. Fred thought so too. But the brow re- Frank began to think himself in paradise, minds me, he said, of a girl I met, late as the Frenchmen say. The rest of us soon one afternoon, the other time I was in began to think that his paradise had an Rome, as I was walking in from the Cam- angel. Not that he was actually in love, pagna. I was just on the square of the but he had a vivid feeling of the beautiful, Minervadown there below the Pantheon, and the imagination, if not the skill, of an you knowwhen she crossed slowly to the artist. He could admire a lady and talk opposite side. By Father Pan! from that rapturously about her and never especially moment on, I have believed in hamadryads, care to visit her. It was enough for him to centaurs, satyrs. know that so much beauty and brightness Ha! ha! ha! burst out the company. and sweetness were there, if he only saw What are you laughing at? Yes, and them from time to time. Perhaps he enjoyed he struck an attitude, with out-playing arm, some ladies charms better when absent than when present. He could idealize all Id rather be the more. And it was not the landladys A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, daughter that had captured Franks enthu- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, siasm. The child was only a step-daughter, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; and hardly, one would think, of the same Have sight of Proteus range of life as the landlady herself; espe- cially in a country whefe marriages follow and so forth, waving the rest off grandly into the air, as if it had not slipped his memory. Ha! ha! Well, tell us about her. Well, she was short, rather thickset; face more square than round; eyelashes, brows and hair, heavy, coal-black and slightly coarse; her motion had a massive- nessa certain wideness in itwhich Homer would have likened to the movement of an ox. Without one hint of the sensual, still you thought only of the animal. You wondered if the square corners of her forehead might not be like the sacred Jos budding with the horns of the heifer. You must have had a sitting for that por- trait, said our Belgian companion. How long did you take at it ? How long? A demi - semiquaver the time it takes for a da- guerreotype. -/ N\ K I, REBEccA. ) ( PICTURES FROM ROzJIE. 75 I had the luck of seeing Freds phenomenon soon after, by the Appian gate. It was certainly unforgetta- ble. It seems to me now to bring Hawthornes Donatello within the psychologic, and almost within the physical, realities. Who knows but that this girl, or one of her blood, started his strange conception? Franks angel was the landlady herselfold enough for his mother, and showing motherly thoughtfulness over him; but she was beautiful enough to touch any fancy with a sweet dignity of face and attitude, slightly tinged with melancholy in the dark, large eyes; the voice soft, Gentle and lowan excellent thing in woman,~~ and a rare thing in Italians. She was one of the four handsomest women I ever saw. If I had been an artist, she should have been my only model for a heroic statue of italia in her Woe. We had been indulging, at Lepres, in the epicurean dis- sipation of a three-franc din- ner, when the young French- man who had joined our party a few days before, told us of a flagellation which was appointed for that evening in one of the smaller churches near the forum of Trajan. Clique was our worthy friends name. He was a quiet felloxv, a dutiful Catho- lic, and doubtless half hoped some good for our heretic souls in witnessing, if not sharing, the action of peni- tence. We had traml)ed the Campagna all day long, but rose ready for this rare spec- tacle wherewith to close the evening. We myrrh of the sanctuary, notified our ap- straggled down the Corsofive of us, all told proach upon Sant Angelo. In the crooked and at last reached the church of Sant alleys of the quarter, we had struck against Angelo in Pescheria,a church which covers the Jews Gatethe Claustro Israelitico the ruins of a temple of Juno, and witnessed and in half a minute passed from the quiet Rienzis inauguration of his Roman republic, of a narrow square to a buzzing, humming, But odors, not the frankincense and chattering, fluttering, five-story hive of hu BROCCOLI! BROCCOLI! 76 PICTURES FROM ROME. man creatures; faces quite different from those around the corner; words of an un- known dialect; with another five-story or eight-story hive beyond, and beyond, and beyond; the walls bulging or collapsing as from the dead weight of human numbers; the innumerable windows overhanging with heads and making you think they must be taking turns with the crowd inside, in escap- ing suffocation. In the street, the women sat against the wall or in the dark doors, patching old clothes or sewing together bright-colored pieces of silk and embroidery of every shape and age, as though the row had an order to fit out a first-class circus or a fancy-ball before to-morrow night. Some of these faces were, to me, very interesting. The true Hebrew type sur- passes in more than one point that of most European races. It contains quick impress- ibility, delicacy and versatility of apprehen- sion, sentiment. And why not? Are not these poor, abused children of exile, these slaves and jests of Christian generations, are they not the children also of the sacred seer Isaiah, of the sublime, the sweet poet David; a people whose music, first h,eard of old; in the worlds dim morning, beneath the tents of Jubal, has held the listening heart of men with the noblest strains of modern genius? I have known them in practical and in educational relations, and wish to add my testimony against the Chris- tian stupidity and hate that have victimized them for so longagainst the prejudice which survives among the cultivated, to their own social loss. And the Roman Jew has often retained in his physiognomy, in its contour, its profile, rather more of the original, on- ental cast, than most other of his European brethren. A face you can see here some- times, whose like might have looked out upon the jeering crowd, from chains and dust, behind the triumphal car of Titus, and been sculptured on his Arch. And the disagree- able specimens that strike you only too frequently, it is true, you xvill find to be exag- gerations on the genuine oriental model, rather than mongrel departures from it. But we must proceed to our flagellation, especially as by this time it is growing a little dark. lift LAftIJINAL S WALK IN THE 13(JRHHESE. PICTURES FROM ROME. 77 We find a black-frocked sacristan or deacon beside the main door, standing with both hands in his pockets; but the main door is closed. \Vill you tell us, sir, where we enter for the flagellation? With pleasure !co;z pia- ceresignori , and he march- ed us around to a small side door, with an air of satisfac- tion. Here we found a group of the humbler classesmen aloneone or two from the Campagna, all the rest from the neighborhood. They were waiting patiently for the door to open, silent or barely whis- pering to one another; and soon we all filed in. Just inside the door sat another black-frocked official, with a number of scourges lying across his lapeach made of three thick cords, knotted at the ends, and about two feet long. Everybody took one and went in search of a seatin search, for ob- jects in the building were but dimly visi- ble. What little light struggled in through the dull, high windows, soon ceased, and nothing remained to us but one small candle at a corner of the altar steps. One row of benches lined the wall on either side, and on them, about forty persons, all told, had scattered themselves. The middle of the floor was piled up with chairs, prayer-desks and stools. We all sat silent in the cavernous gloom; every eye, no doubt, fixed by the fascination of that candle. Soon another black-frocked figure, like an animated exclamation point, came forward and took position right behind the candleits shadows all thrown upward and flickering every way. He began in a lamentable voice, like Daniels in the den, to recount the story of the Mother on Cal- vary, and of the painful Stations of our Savior in his journey to the Cross. He reminded us of the sins and transgros~ions of our own hearts, which had procured those sufferings; of the punishment justly due to every soul; and exhorted us to repent, to castigate now this sinful flesh and to spare not. He took the candle and disappeared with it behind the altar and left us to the blackness of dark- ness; or, rather the darkness of blackness. Soon a second priest stole from behind SN.. n. A SABINE SHEPHER~. the altar with the candle in his hand, and placed it on the platform at his foot. He repeated the exhortation of his brother.. His face lighted unnaturally from below, with big blots of shadow where the eyes should be, looked at moments as weird as a skull,as if the bones of some old catacomb saint had slid down from their shrine, to thrill us with a cry of Purgatory. His voice rose higher and took tone and rhythm like a chant, and then suddenly ceased. Some- body took away the candle. The priest remained. Then, after the blankest pause in the blackest of darkness, a sound, like the plash of a heavy rain-drop came from the direction of the altar; then another, rather like a whack; then a whack near you; then two or three opposite; until the whacks waxed into a general shower. Then voices began a wail of penitence and prayer Gesu mia I Afzdonna del/a misericordia I Miserere mci, dominus / half cry, half chant, rising, subsiding. The candle re-entered. The priest stood where he bad disappeared and gave us a. dismissal, and we proceeded to the door. There, outside, stood a row of women, who passed in after the last of our company had come out. We left the square to the pos 78 PICTURES FROM ROME. session of the broccoli-dealer, who had open- ed her stand with its pile of cabbages and flaring torch during our penitential service in the church, and to one little beggar-girl looking up wistfully, in half hope of a chari- table morsel to give a relish to her loaf. OF SPOLETO. One pleasant afternoon, of a day of festa, we foimd ourselves in the grounds of the Villa Borghese. We were resting from a walk over the whole of them, sitting on a marble bench beside the favorite drive, or lying off with elbow on the grass. Well! said Frank, I havent seen them all set, but, I think we can beat old Europe or young Europe in the article of parks. This comes the nearest to my ideas of all upon the Continent; but, for the true purposes of a park, it goes only half way, as it seems to me. Yes, answered Fred; but it will seem otherwise to you, when you add a little re- flection to your observation. This Yankee- ism provokes me. Perhaps you havent made the profound reflection, yet, that Italian gardens are in Italy, have you? Ha! Well, as I come to think of it, I cant say that I have. Ha! Well, they are, you see. And then? What of it? Go on. Well, take even an extreme case,the gardens of the Quirinal, for instance. You were withering those up with ridicule, root and branch, the other day, after your visit. Now, in the first place, persons need here a very dense shade in these walks, to make the out-door heat endurable. You will think so, if you get caught here even so late as June. They need a shade. that seems to the eye as solid as a stone wall. You forget that summer, not xvinter, makes the Italian year. And then again, in winter, when they want the sun- shine and air, the tall, close hedges that make the summer cool, stop the winds and make winter com- fortable. ~ Now, I take issue with you on that. In the summer accommo- dations, you count out the breezes which would circulate but for the thick, high hedges; and the still, damp chill that you feel among them in winter is ten times worse for healthand, I should think, for any but an Italians comfort than a free, sweeping norther. One chief reason for them, I be- lieve, must be the Italians sur- prising indifference to nature. As- tonishing! isnt it, amid their Apennines and by their sea! I dont know why it is strange, with so much of human art to keep them from nat- ure. Books dont make men original, and why should pictures? I agree with you, there. The people dont want nature; but, still their peculiar ideas about gardens have a sort of reason below. The other day, at Genoa, a little com- pany of Genoese ladies and gentlemen tried to keep me from taking vettura across the mountains of the Riviera di Levante, be- cause the way by sea was so much shorter! Those were persons of fair culture. They lived within fifty miles of the mountains and had never crossed them. The Italians cant let nature have her own way anywhere, ex- cept, I must confess, in this Borghese garden here. See how they play the fancy barber in the Quirinal, the Boboli, and so on. Wait a minute. They must have trees in the garden for summer shade. Good! Now, in winter, they also want to enjoy the outlook from their windows, if it is only PICTURES FROM ROME. 79 toward the villa of a neighbor. Now, the thickness of the foliage, if the trees were left to their own growth, would make a hermit- age of every villa. So, you see, they simply employ a tree intelligently, as an American does a creek, to do such and such work, so and so. Every man to his taste. Yes; but that is no taste at all, no more than the designs of all their fountains, when- ever they leave the simplicity of basins less- ening as they ascend. See these absurd dolphins standing on their chins like circus- tumblers, twisting their tails together and holding up a tower of little marble pools. See the nightmare contrivances in city squares as well as villa gardens, of lions muzzles shooting columns of watera miracle that beats the smitten rock of Moses.~~ Well, what would you have? The good designs for a fountain are few and have been exhausted. amount of wholesome pleasure is to be got from the contemplation of a tumbling ruin, a broken statue, a sarcophagus? It reminds you of the first thought of the young fellows in our country towns at home, to take their sweethearts for a pleasure drive to the cemetery. Exhilarating, hilarious, that! And then here, when they havent ruins enough to go round, they build some. Some in this Borghese garden, you know, are arti- ficial. But this is what they have to show you in Italy. All right, only dont admit their claim to finer public resorts than we have at home thats all. In Paris, theres the Bois de Boulogne. What an utter stupidity! A dead, monotonous level of woods, one tree as like another as if furnished on contract under sworn inspectors. That description fits the Thiergarten in Berlin as well; and what is Unter den Linden after youve heard the music of the name? Half a dozen par- allel alleys of shade, between brown houses and the rattle of two carriageways. Oh, no! They never began on them, as .1 have discovered. It seems so easy, if they would only consent to be natural. I declare, I know just one fountain in all Italy, so far, that satisfies me. That was in Pisa, I believe, or somewhere up north there. It was a boy frolicking in the basin, pouring the water from a graceful fan-like shell, and watching it with face half upturned sidewise, as it fell. Why not design two laughing water- nymphs showering each other? And while the idea of the river-god with the stream gliding from his urn is admirable in the classic way, the urn is never rightly managed. It should be something half art and half nature, a happy accident in the rock or ground, such as nature often shows, TITAS BROTHER. making you think that herself had turned artist just there, as she So we went on discussing, with frequent becomes a geometer in the crystal and the interruptions to look at some gorgeous equm- egg. page that lolled by; or at the splendid head But then, aside from all these details, and beard of an Armenian bishop, in his Frank continued, a popular park should black frock, attended by two noble-looking be a resort of popular pleasure. Now, what young men, all of them bearing in their ex 8o PICTURES ER Oil if ROME. pression something of the calm, deep mys- tery of the sacred East; or at a tall, lithe Greek, in swelling trousers, silver-embroi- dered jacket of blue with glittering skull- capa man so mis- featured that, posi- tively, for a few sec- onds, you were not sure whether he was man or ape. Some of the coun- try people bad come in to enjoy the festa. There was a family procession, slow, look- ing gravely around, but with an air of iso- lation from all the rest, of half-timidity, of wonderment at the meaning of the scene. They were peasants, in poor (but evidently their best) costume; and Fred recognized them as people from the neighborhood of Spoleto, in the Sabine Hills. The face of the man had less to inter- est one than that of the Campagna peas- ant. It gave no signs of physical suffering, but was simply stolid, without experiences of any kind, comfortable enough because not knowing enough to be otherwise. They had made a purchase of a new red cotton family umbrellaa sort of household tentand the daughter was car- rying it in both arms against her breast, like a baby in long clothes. On reaching home, we found our Belgian and Frenchman in Franks room, extend- ed on parallel settees, with elbows up and hands clasped under jim HOLY STALKS. PICTURES FROM ROME. 8i their heads,the ideal of bachelor comfort discussing their tramp around the rim of the town. They had wound up with the Scala Santa and the Carthusian Convent. Clique, our Lyonnais, was a good Chris- tian fellow, and seemed to have been truly edified and penetrated, as his country- men say, by the spectacle of the faithful climbing on their knees the very staircase which bore our Saviors feet; by the identi- cal portrait of Jesus, drawn by Saint Luke VOL. XIIJ.6. and finished by an angel; and by the drops of blood which ran from his scourged flesh as he passed down those steps. But it was too much for the Frenchman in him, to join the kneeling procession, and he and his companion had availed themselves of the stairs at the side, where the profane may approach the relics on foot. The Belgian had more to tell of Michael Angelos cloister in the convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Well might he, per- MICHAEL ANGELO S WELL. 82 UNDER THE ROSE. haps. A hundred columns of unfluted Doric, of almost Tuscan severity, surround the clois- ter; a hundred simple Roman arches repeat their peaceful swell from capital to capital. In the slant sun, the travertine of which they are made takes sometimes a delicate flush of gold, like the pillars in a picture by Claude. Their perspectives, with the pure geometric lines of shadow on the pavement of the portico, are among the most impress- ive architectural effects in Rome. This cloister was the last work of Angelo. As if in unconscious prophecy, his own hand planted four cypresses around the fountain in the center; three of which those columns have watched and guarded now for full three hundred years. The fountain also is hisever giving life and freshness to the greenthe emblem of his perennial fame. But these pleasures were after all but the episodes of the young fellows stay in Rome. Both Frank and Fred preferred the Lenten weeks for a visit there, because that season sinks the ecclesiastical, in one sense, from sight, and seems a more becoming recogni- tion of the departed grandeur of the ancient city. They advised every one to seek Rome only in Lent. Before Holy Week, they had left for Naples; neither of them to return till years had gone,never, indeed, to find again the Rome which their young hearts and fancies had left. The illustrations of this article are taken from a volume entitled Italy; From the Alps to Mount 2Etna. Edited by T. Adolphus Trollope. Containing about 70 full-page and 300 smaller illustrations. New York: Scribner, Welford & Armstrong. ENGLAND. WHILE men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of Englandnot to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur, filled, contracts at length, They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness! UNDER THE ROSE. I AM cold and I am light As the fleecy, floating snows? if a thorn ran through my heart You would only see the rose. Fickle, shallow, thoughtless, gay? And you truly think me so? You may view the oceans foam But its deeps lie far below. Come and stand by me awhile Where no other friend has been; I will open wide my heart, I will show you all within. What !you start and turn away, And the tears begin to fall ? Ah! my heart !~you thought it gay? It is brokenthat is all.

82 UNDER THE ROSE. haps. A hundred columns of unfluted Doric, of almost Tuscan severity, surround the clois- ter; a hundred simple Roman arches repeat their peaceful swell from capital to capital. In the slant sun, the travertine of which they are made takes sometimes a delicate flush of gold, like the pillars in a picture by Claude. Their perspectives, with the pure geometric lines of shadow on the pavement of the portico, are among the most impress- ive architectural effects in Rome. This cloister was the last work of Angelo. As if in unconscious prophecy, his own hand planted four cypresses around the fountain in the center; three of which those columns have watched and guarded now for full three hundred years. The fountain also is hisever giving life and freshness to the greenthe emblem of his perennial fame. But these pleasures were after all but the episodes of the young fellows stay in Rome. Both Frank and Fred preferred the Lenten weeks for a visit there, because that season sinks the ecclesiastical, in one sense, from sight, and seems a more becoming recogni- tion of the departed grandeur of the ancient city. They advised every one to seek Rome only in Lent. Before Holy Week, they had left for Naples; neither of them to return till years had gone,never, indeed, to find again the Rome which their young hearts and fancies had left. The illustrations of this article are taken from a volume entitled Italy; From the Alps to Mount 2Etna. Edited by T. Adolphus Trollope. Containing about 70 full-page and 300 smaller illustrations. New York: Scribner, Welford & Armstrong. ENGLAND. WHILE men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of Englandnot to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur, filled, contracts at length, They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness! UNDER THE ROSE. I AM cold and I am light As the fleecy, floating snows? if a thorn ran through my heart You would only see the rose. Fickle, shallow, thoughtless, gay? And you truly think me so? You may view the oceans foam But its deeps lie far below. Come and stand by me awhile Where no other friend has been; I will open wide my heart, I will show you all within. What !you start and turn away, And the tears begin to fall ? Ah! my heart !~you thought it gay? It is brokenthat is all.

82 UNDER THE ROSE. haps. A hundred columns of unfluted Doric, of almost Tuscan severity, surround the clois- ter; a hundred simple Roman arches repeat their peaceful swell from capital to capital. In the slant sun, the travertine of which they are made takes sometimes a delicate flush of gold, like the pillars in a picture by Claude. Their perspectives, with the pure geometric lines of shadow on the pavement of the portico, are among the most impress- ive architectural effects in Rome. This cloister was the last work of Angelo. As if in unconscious prophecy, his own hand planted four cypresses around the fountain in the center; three of which those columns have watched and guarded now for full three hundred years. The fountain also is hisever giving life and freshness to the greenthe emblem of his perennial fame. But these pleasures were after all but the episodes of the young fellows stay in Rome. Both Frank and Fred preferred the Lenten weeks for a visit there, because that season sinks the ecclesiastical, in one sense, from sight, and seems a more becoming recogni- tion of the departed grandeur of the ancient city. They advised every one to seek Rome only in Lent. Before Holy Week, they had left for Naples; neither of them to return till years had gone,never, indeed, to find again the Rome which their young hearts and fancies had left. The illustrations of this article are taken from a volume entitled Italy; From the Alps to Mount 2Etna. Edited by T. Adolphus Trollope. Containing about 70 full-page and 300 smaller illustrations. New York: Scribner, Welford & Armstrong. ENGLAND. WHILE men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of Englandnot to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur, filled, contracts at length, They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness! UNDER THE ROSE. I AM cold and I am light As the fleecy, floating snows? if a thorn ran through my heart You would only see the rose. Fickle, shallow, thoughtless, gay? And you truly think me so? You may view the oceans foam But its deeps lie far below. Come and stand by me awhile Where no other friend has been; I will open wide my heart, I will show you all within. What !you start and turn away, And the tears begin to fall ? Ah! my heart !~you thought it gay? It is brokenthat is all. COLLEGE EXPENSES. 83 COLLEGE EXPENSES. THE division of colleges into city colleges and country is more marked in regard to the expenses of their students than in regard to the character of the instruction they give. The instruction of a Harvard professor of Greek may not differ essentially from that given by an Amherst professor; but the expenses of a Harvard student are double or triple those of an Amherst student. The extremes of the total annual expenses of students at Harvard, which may be con- sidered the representative of city colleges, like Yale, and the colleges in the city of New York,are about $450 and $4,000. But the poor, economical student, who stints himself to $450, lives in res angus/a domi and eats the cheapest food; and the rich student, spending $4,000, lives as luxuriously as the wealthiest New York or Boston fam- ilies. But these amounts are extremes; more poor students spend $550 or $6oo than $450; the expenses of the majority of wealthy students do not exceed $2,500, and there are only half a dozen among the whole eight hundred who succeed in con- suming $4,000. The poor student pays for tuition $i~o, as does the rich; for room- rent, with chum, $22; for board at the Memorial Hall Club, in which are many of the rich, as well as all of the poor students, $190 ($~ for 38 weeks). The cost of his coal and gas is about $30, and of his text- books, not less than $20. These five items amount to $412, without including either clothes, washing, or traveling expenses. He provides furniture for his room, which (a chum bearing half the expense) costs about $~o; but a room furnished at the beginning of the Freshman year requires no special refurnish- ing afterward. The total annual expenses, therefore, of a Harvard student, of the most rigorous economy, cannot be less than $450, and probably will amount to $~oo. The expenses of a wealthy Harvard stu- dent may be thus estimated: For tuition, $i~o; for room-rent, which is $i6o higher than at any other college, $300,but a room renting for this sum is one of the best of college rooms in America; for board, at $8 a week, $304; for attending theaters, con- certs, suppers, $~oo,the largest item in the expenses of many a Harvard man; for society fees and subscriptions, $400 (the initiation fee to one club, the Porcellian, is $ 5oo); for private servant,a luxury which about half the students enjoy,$~o; for horses, $i~o; for coal and gas, $75; and for books, $~oo. This total amount of $2,000 includes, however, the cost of neither clothes, washing, traveling expenses, nor fur- niture. The cost of furnishing a college room elegantly is not less than $~oo, and may amount to $i,ooo. The annual ex- penses, therefore, of the average wealthy student at Harvard amount to $2,500. A few wealthy students spend more, many less; the limit on the one side being $3,500 or $4,000, and on the other $x,ooo or $i,~oo. What is true of expenses at Harvard applies mu/a/is mutandis, and without the mu/anda being considerable, to Yale and other large city colleges. Most necessary expenses, however, are less at Yale than at Harvard. The extremes of room-rent are $25 and $140, and tuition is $140. The poor student can, therefore, pass a year at Yale for from $~o to $ioo less than at Harvard. To the wealthy student, more- over, New Haven does not present as favor- able opportunities for spending money in attending places of amusement as Boston; but the societies at Yale are more expensive than the Harvard societies. To the wealthy student, therefore, and the student of aver- age means, the expenses of four years at Yale do not differ essentially from the ex- penses of four years at Harvard. But if these large colleges have been charged, as they have been, with being the colleges of rich mens sons, their aid given to indigent students is very generous. Yale has twenty-eight scholarships, yielding annu- ally sums varying from $46 to $120, with an average of $6o. The basis of their bestowal isfirst, the poverty, and, secondly, the scholarship of the recipient. She also dis- tributes, as do many colleges, a considerable amount among her students who intend to be ministers. She annually devotes not less than $8,ooo to the aid of this class. Harvard has one hundred and four scholar- ships, whose annual incomes vary from $40 to $300; their total annual income is $24,250, and, therefore, the average income of each scholarship is about $230. The basis of their assignment isfirst, scholar- ship, and, secondly, character and poverty. A rich student, whose rank is high, does not care to receive one; and a poor student, whose rank is low, cannot. Twenty-five

COLLEGE EXPENSES. 83 COLLEGE EXPENSES. THE division of colleges into city colleges and country is more marked in regard to the expenses of their students than in regard to the character of the instruction they give. The instruction of a Harvard professor of Greek may not differ essentially from that given by an Amherst professor; but the expenses of a Harvard student are double or triple those of an Amherst student. The extremes of the total annual expenses of students at Harvard, which may be con- sidered the representative of city colleges, like Yale, and the colleges in the city of New York,are about $450 and $4,000. But the poor, economical student, who stints himself to $450, lives in res angus/a domi and eats the cheapest food; and the rich student, spending $4,000, lives as luxuriously as the wealthiest New York or Boston fam- ilies. But these amounts are extremes; more poor students spend $550 or $6oo than $450; the expenses of the majority of wealthy students do not exceed $2,500, and there are only half a dozen among the whole eight hundred who succeed in con- suming $4,000. The poor student pays for tuition $i~o, as does the rich; for room- rent, with chum, $22; for board at the Memorial Hall Club, in which are many of the rich, as well as all of the poor students, $190 ($~ for 38 weeks). The cost of his coal and gas is about $30, and of his text- books, not less than $20. These five items amount to $412, without including either clothes, washing, or traveling expenses. He provides furniture for his room, which (a chum bearing half the expense) costs about $~o; but a room furnished at the beginning of the Freshman year requires no special refurnish- ing afterward. The total annual expenses, therefore, of a Harvard student, of the most rigorous economy, cannot be less than $450, and probably will amount to $~oo. The expenses of a wealthy Harvard stu- dent may be thus estimated: For tuition, $i~o; for room-rent, which is $i6o higher than at any other college, $300,but a room renting for this sum is one of the best of college rooms in America; for board, at $8 a week, $304; for attending theaters, con- certs, suppers, $~oo,the largest item in the expenses of many a Harvard man; for society fees and subscriptions, $400 (the initiation fee to one club, the Porcellian, is $ 5oo); for private servant,a luxury which about half the students enjoy,$~o; for horses, $i~o; for coal and gas, $75; and for books, $~oo. This total amount of $2,000 includes, however, the cost of neither clothes, washing, traveling expenses, nor fur- niture. The cost of furnishing a college room elegantly is not less than $~oo, and may amount to $i,ooo. The annual ex- penses, therefore, of the average wealthy student at Harvard amount to $2,500. A few wealthy students spend more, many less; the limit on the one side being $3,500 or $4,000, and on the other $x,ooo or $i,~oo. What is true of expenses at Harvard applies mu/a/is mutandis, and without the mu/anda being considerable, to Yale and other large city colleges. Most necessary expenses, however, are less at Yale than at Harvard. The extremes of room-rent are $25 and $140, and tuition is $140. The poor student can, therefore, pass a year at Yale for from $~o to $ioo less than at Harvard. To the wealthy student, more- over, New Haven does not present as favor- able opportunities for spending money in attending places of amusement as Boston; but the societies at Yale are more expensive than the Harvard societies. To the wealthy student, therefore, and the student of aver- age means, the expenses of four years at Yale do not differ essentially from the ex- penses of four years at Harvard. But if these large colleges have been charged, as they have been, with being the colleges of rich mens sons, their aid given to indigent students is very generous. Yale has twenty-eight scholarships, yielding annu- ally sums varying from $46 to $120, with an average of $6o. The basis of their bestowal isfirst, the poverty, and, secondly, the scholarship of the recipient. She also dis- tributes, as do many colleges, a considerable amount among her students who intend to be ministers. She annually devotes not less than $8,ooo to the aid of this class. Harvard has one hundred and four scholar- ships, whose annual incomes vary from $40 to $300; their total annual income is $24,250, and, therefore, the average income of each scholarship is about $230. The basis of their assignment isfirst, scholar- ship, and, secondly, character and poverty. A rich student, whose rank is high, does not care to receive one; and a poor student, whose rank is low, cannot. Twenty-five 84 COLLEGE EXPENSES. scholarships are thus annually distributed among the high-ranking, indigent students of each class. The highest scholars receive the largest scholarships, and the smallest scholarship is usually received by one who holds the fortieth place in a class of a hun- dred and fifty. Besides scholarships, she annually either gives or lends to indigent students $3,000. She is also so strongly buttressed by her Thayers, Lowells, and other wealthy friends, that she ventures to say in her annual catalogue that good scholars of high character, but slender means, are seldom or never obliged to leave college for want of money. It is a well-known fact that the expenses of students at country colleges are lighter than at city colleges. The reasons for it are the familiar reasons that indicate that a fam- ily can live more cheaply in the country than in the city. Not only are the necessaries of board, rent, clothing, fuel, and tuition cheaper, but also the temptations to spend money in concerts, theaters, suppers, and in every species of pleasant extravagance, are fewer. These et ce/eras, which form so large an item in the annual budget of a Har- vard or Yale man, are trifles in the cash- account of an Amherst or Dartmouth stu- dent. A poor student at Amherstwhich may be regarded as the type of large country, as Harvard is of large city, collegesspends annually about $350, and the rich student about $1,300. Tuition is the same for both, $ioo; but the poor student probably has a room whose rent, with a chum, is only $ i8; and the rich student, one whose rent, without a chum, is $125. The poor student boards in a club at $~ a week; and the rich, in a family at $6. The former limits his expenses for books to the cost of his neces- sary text-books,$x ~ the latter, if he be a man of taste, expends in this way $~oo. $i8 buys the coal and lights of the one, $30 those of the other. The one expends in society taxes and subscriptions $15; the other, ten times the sum. The poor student probably spends nothing for either horses, concerts, theaters, or suppers; the rich, $200. The annual expenses, therefore, of a student of the most rigorous economy at Amherst, or at colleges of the same char- acter, are about $350, being from $~o to $xoo less than at Yale, and from $~oo to $i~o less than at Harvard; and the ex- penses of a rich Amherst student, varying from $900 to $1,300, are from $5oo to $2,500 less than those of a wealthy Yale or Harvard man. The man of average means the most frequent type of the college stu- dentspends $700 at Amherst, and at Yale or Harvard, $~,ooo. If the expenses of their students are less, so also the pecuniary aid given by Amherst and like colleges is, in all cases, less than that given by Harvard, and, in many cases, less than that given by Yale. Amherst and Dart- mouth are exceptionally generous. The former has forty scholarships, with an aver- age annual income of $8i; and the latter, one hundred and twenty-four of $70 each. Amherst, like Yale, distributes the income of $70,000 among students who are candi- dates for the ministry. In all colleges, besides the aid derived from scholarships and beneficiary funds, stu- dents can assist themselves by manual labor, teaching, and tutoring. Manual labor offers the inducement of exercise as well as of money, and at Cornell and Western col- leges, considerable of it is done. Teaching was more in vogue seventy-five years ago than at present. A few Bowdoin and Dart- mouth students still spend their winters in those ruby founts of knowledge,country school-houses,but the practice is discour- aged by all college faculties. In Yale, and especially in Harvard, a good deal of tutoring, or coaching, is done; and, at $2 an hour, it is the most remunerative kind of work. A recent graduate of Harvard carried himself and his brother through college with money earned in this way. Many interesting and striking compari- sons between the character of an education obtained at our different colleges, and its cost, are suggested by the annexed tables. It is as true in regard to education as in regard to commodities, that what costs most is best. Expenses at Yale and Harvard, which are by many considered the best, as they are the largest of our colleges, are by far the highest. The large country colleges in the east, as Princeton, Dartmouth, Am- herst, follow Harvard and Yale in respect to expenses; and are, in turn, followed by small country colleges, as Hamilton. Ex- penses at large Western colleges, as Michi- gan and North-western Universities, are about the same as at small country colleges in the east. Small Western colleges, rep- resented by Beloit and Illinois, graduate their students at the least expense. The Yale or Harvard student of average means, spends twice what the economical student of the college spends, and one-half or one- fourth of what the wealthy student spends. The expenses of the average Amherst ox COLLEGE EXPENSES. Dartmouth man are double those of his poor, and one-half those of his rich, brother; and the same proportional expenditure ob- tains at Michigan and North-western Uni- versities. The same ratio holds good at small Western colleges also. The econom- ical student is graduated at Beloit, for $8oo; at Dartmouth, for $1,200; at Harvard, for $ i,8oo; the student of average means for, respectively, $1,200, $2,200, and $4,000; the wealthy student for $2,000, $3,600, and any amount from $6,ooo to $i6,ooo. The expenses of the poor student at Harvard are almost equal to those of the rich student at Beloit, or to those of the average student at Dartmouth; and the expenses of the aver- age Harvard student are as high as those of the rich Dartmouth student. What one wealthy man at Yale or Harvard spends would educate either ten or twenty poor men at Beloit or Illinois, or from six to twelve poor men at Dartmouth. The pecuniary aid given by colleges varies in amount as much as the expenses. As a rule, subject, however, to variations, those colleges whose students spend the most, offer the most aid, as Harvard; and those whose students spend the least, offer the least aid, as most Western colleges. The basis of the bestowal of aid is generally threefold, scholarship, need, and character. Many col- leges, however, offer special pecuniary priv- ileges to students who intend to be ministers. Expenses at Vassar, the only college ex- clusively for women given in the table, are about the same as expenses at large country colleges in the east. The economical Vas- sar woman spends, however, more than her economical brother at Cornell or Union; but, if she is wealthy or of average means, her expenses are probably less than those of her brother of the same pecuniary ability. The distinctions of wealth are not so marked at Vassar as at most colleges for men, and there are fewer temptations for spending money. The students at XVellesley and at Mount Holyoke are, as a class, less wealthy than the Vassar students, and their expenses are correspondingly lighter; at each insti- tution the annual charge for room, board, and tuition is only $250. It may be added that expenses at Oxford and Cambridge do not essentially differ from expenses at Harvard and Yale. An Oxford student who spends $750 is called econom- ical, and one who spends double this sum is not charged with extravagance. But all reading (hard-working) men at these English Universities can obtain more aid than students at American colleges. Schol- arships average from $200 to $~oo, and fellowships from $~,ooo to $2,000. In the German Universities, every item of ex- pense is cheaper than in either American Colleges or English Universities. The aid given to indigent students is also less; the principal part of which is the privilege to attend the lectures on credit, payment being postponed till the beneficiary has entered either the public service, or one of the learned professions. The first set of columns in the following table gives the extreme and the average price of the annual rent of rooms in twenty- five American colleges; the second, the extreme and the average price of board; the third, the tuition; and the fourth gives the extreme and average amount of the total annual expenses. REt Board, ~ Total Ex- college. ~ Weekly. i penSeS, CC Annual. 10.4 Amherst *2822545 $3.oo6.oo4.oo $ioo $390I,300 700 Beloit 05 4030 2.503.502.50 36 200 500 300 Boston University.. 6ooao8o 3.008.004.00 6o 3000,000 500 Bowdoin 5025 2.754.003.00 75 3000,000- 500 Brown 20 4030 3.255.004.00 75 3500,000 500 Un. of california.. 3000050 4.009.005.00 00 2502,200- 500 columbia . 300450 200 6003,0000, cornell, about 45 2.506.0o4.00 6o 3001,100 500 Dartmouth 20- 4030 2.50-4.00 70 300- 900 550 Hamilton 6 3620 3.005.004.00 6o 350- 800 450 Harvard 22300-225 5.008.006.00 050 450-4,0000,000 Haverford(Friends) 425 Illinois 04 5028 2.504.003.50 36 200 500 300 Michigan Un 30- 8040 0.505.003.00 00 075 700 350 North.western Un. 10- 50-20 0.806.002.50 45 250 6oo 350 Oberlin 7.50-30 2.254.003.00 22 250 750- 350 Princeton 27 8650 3.257.005.00 75 350-0,200 600 Trinity 54 3.006.00-4.00 90 300-0,000- 500 Tufts 05 7540 3.50 75 350-1,000 550 Union osot 3.005.00 300- 800 500 Un. of virginia.... 05 30 2.254.50-3.00 75 300 900 550 Weolcyan Un 13 3624 2.755.003.50 75 3000,000 500 Williams 05 50-30 3.006.004.00 75 3000,000 500 Yale 25240-50 4.008.006.00 240 4004,0001,000 vassar Room and Board, $8 a week 200 5000,200 600 * Board and room. t Room.rent and tuition. AMOUNT OF AID FOR INDIGENT STUDENTS. Amherst.4o scholarships of $8i; income of $70,ooo to candidates for ministry. BeloitTuition free to candidates for ministry, aod to a few others. Bos5on UniversityTuition free to a few needy students. Bowdoin.27 scholarships average *80; also, a beneficiaryfund of $55o. Brown.o00 scholarships average $80; also, income of $8,000. University of CaliforniaNo aid, but tuition is free to State students. columbiaTuition free to needy students. cornellTuition for State students may be remitted, amounting to $40,ooo. Dartmouth.oo4 scholarships average $70. Hamilton.ooscholarships average $80; also, $3,000. Harvard.004 scholarships average $230; also, $3,000. Haverford (Friends). Several scholarships of $225. Illinois.7 scholambips of $36. Michigan University has neither scholamhips nor beneficiary funds. North.western.Small amounts loaned to candidatesfor ministry. Oberlin.Offers no direct aid, only facilities for self.support. Princeton. Limited no. scholarships of $75; to candidates for Pres. byterian ministry, $~o. TrinityScholarships from $30 to $3,000, amounting to $4,000. Tufts.27 scholarships average $~5; tuition free to ten students; also, gratuities. UnionNumerous scholarships averaging $100. University of virginiaTuition free to candidates for ministry and to very needy students. Wesiryan University.A limited number of scholarships of $~5. Williams.$6,oeo is divided among needystudents. Yale.28 scholarships of $ ; $8,ooo for candidates for ministry. vassarIncome of $50,000 distributed in scholarships uf $100 and $oss. 86 PEDS AND TABLES STOOLS AND CANDLESTicKS. BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. VII. FIRE-PLACES, BOOK-CASES, ETC. IT was not only the Eastern people who had the hospitable Custom of offering a guest water for washing, when he entered the house. The Custom passed over into Europe, with others as hospitable, and de- sCended down to a time quite near our own. Of Course, the offer to show a guest to a room where he Can repair any damages that may have occurred on the road between his own house and that of his host, and can put on the last touches of preparation for dinner, is a regular part of our own cere- inonial, and is perhaps our translation of the Eastern rite. But our ancestors were in this, as in many things, more direct than we, and this very directness made many of their ways more comfortable. If they did not keep up the actual servant, with ewer, basin, and towel, they put these utensils where the visitor could get them without trouble, and they made them so attractive to look at that even if there were no servant to offer them, they were a standing off~r themselves. The vignette at the head of this articlea corner from Albert Diirers wood-cut, The Birth of the Virgin, drawn from the original by Mr. Lathrop, and engraved by Mr. King, will hint to the reader, in a rude way, how the old people used to contrive to do their hospitalityone point of it, at leastby proxy. In a niche, sometimes, as here, but as often against the plain wall, they sus pended a hollow ball of brass or copper from a chain, and provided it with a cock. Below this globe there was fastened against the wall a basin or trough, which, in some cases, as in this of Diirer, was provided with a pipe by which the water that had been used could be got rid of. In old Dutch pictures these vessels are to be seen of dif- ferent shapes and sizes, and, as their use has lately been revived, we find modern artists also painting them. There was a pretty water-color at Goupils lately, in which one of these vessels, large and handsome, and made of falence, was the hero. When pot- tery began to be employed in the place of metal, these cisterns, as they were called, were made of earthenware and even of por- celain, and with their bold forms and pict- uresque ornamentation, they were certainly handsome pieces of furniture, and useful as handsome. In Jacquemarts pretty little book, Les Merveilles de la C6ramique, there is a good example engraved, and they are produced to-day as a regular article of manufacture by the French houses that make a specialty of reviving old styles in earthernware and porcelain. For myself, I have such a dislike to almost the whole of what are called in housekeeping, mod- ern improvements (being a disbeliever in the benefits of gas, plumbing, and heating apparatus, except, where, as in hotels and factories, they are necessary on a grand scale), that I naturally prefer a contrivance like this cistern convenient, pretty to look at, and in no danger of becoming a diphtheria-trapto one of our fixed basins. However, I am well aware that there is a sufficient reason for our American wholesale adoption of mechanical contrivances in the miserably inefficient character of our serv- ants. In nine cases out of ten, we use gas, furnaces, and plumbing, instead of lamps or candles, open fires, and movable washing apparatus, because it saves immensely in the labor and expense necessary to carry on a household. But, nowadays, when better servants are to be had, and service is get- ting to be more and more a profession, we may reasonably plead for a more domestic, and less hotel and steam-boaty, way of living, knowing that in doing so we are pleading also for healthier ways of living, and not No. I. A CORNER ~N ST. ANNAS HOUSE.

86 PEDS AND TABLES STOOLS AND CANDLESTicKS. BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. VII. FIRE-PLACES, BOOK-CASES, ETC. IT was not only the Eastern people who had the hospitable Custom of offering a guest water for washing, when he entered the house. The Custom passed over into Europe, with others as hospitable, and de- sCended down to a time quite near our own. Of Course, the offer to show a guest to a room where he Can repair any damages that may have occurred on the road between his own house and that of his host, and can put on the last touches of preparation for dinner, is a regular part of our own cere- inonial, and is perhaps our translation of the Eastern rite. But our ancestors were in this, as in many things, more direct than we, and this very directness made many of their ways more comfortable. If they did not keep up the actual servant, with ewer, basin, and towel, they put these utensils where the visitor could get them without trouble, and they made them so attractive to look at that even if there were no servant to offer them, they were a standing off~r themselves. The vignette at the head of this articlea corner from Albert Diirers wood-cut, The Birth of the Virgin, drawn from the original by Mr. Lathrop, and engraved by Mr. King, will hint to the reader, in a rude way, how the old people used to contrive to do their hospitalityone point of it, at leastby proxy. In a niche, sometimes, as here, but as often against the plain wall, they sus pended a hollow ball of brass or copper from a chain, and provided it with a cock. Below this globe there was fastened against the wall a basin or trough, which, in some cases, as in this of Diirer, was provided with a pipe by which the water that had been used could be got rid of. In old Dutch pictures these vessels are to be seen of dif- ferent shapes and sizes, and, as their use has lately been revived, we find modern artists also painting them. There was a pretty water-color at Goupils lately, in which one of these vessels, large and handsome, and made of falence, was the hero. When pot- tery began to be employed in the place of metal, these cisterns, as they were called, were made of earthenware and even of por- celain, and with their bold forms and pict- uresque ornamentation, they were certainly handsome pieces of furniture, and useful as handsome. In Jacquemarts pretty little book, Les Merveilles de la C6ramique, there is a good example engraved, and they are produced to-day as a regular article of manufacture by the French houses that make a specialty of reviving old styles in earthernware and porcelain. For myself, I have such a dislike to almost the whole of what are called in housekeeping, mod- ern improvements (being a disbeliever in the benefits of gas, plumbing, and heating apparatus, except, where, as in hotels and factories, they are necessary on a grand scale), that I naturally prefer a contrivance like this cistern convenient, pretty to look at, and in no danger of becoming a diphtheria-trapto one of our fixed basins. However, I am well aware that there is a sufficient reason for our American wholesale adoption of mechanical contrivances in the miserably inefficient character of our serv- ants. In nine cases out of ten, we use gas, furnaces, and plumbing, instead of lamps or candles, open fires, and movable washing apparatus, because it saves immensely in the labor and expense necessary to carry on a household. But, nowadays, when better servants are to be had, and service is get- ting to be more and more a profession, we may reasonably plead for a more domestic, and less hotel and steam-boaty, way of living, knowing that in doing so we are pleading also for healthier ways of living, and not No. I. A CORNER ~N ST. ANNAS HOUSE. BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. 87 merely for picturesqueness. Besides, it may cheer up the weaker brethren who are made uncomfortable by doing differently from their n~ighbors, to know that a great many peo- ple are on the side of reform in this matter, and that it may almost be said to be the fashion (magical word!) nowadays, to work by a student-lamp, or a moderator the per- fection of light-givers with an open fire of soft coal in the grate, and no pestilent, life-destroy- ing furnace within the four walls; while, up- stairs, the plumbing is confined to the bath- room, themovable wash- stand with its china and glass and comforts generally, being restored to its old supremacy, taken out of its closet prison, and set in light and air. We will waste no words with people who go through England with its absolute perfection in the art of domestic living, and whose good inns everywhere, in town or country, make our bare, dreary barracks more desolate in the re- inembering and sigh for what they call the modern improvements they have left behind them. To some people, a great ingredient in the charm of Europe is, that they are rid of the very things that others are all the time sighing for. A friend writes: I shall never forget, when remembering the minor pleasures of my visit to England, my first experience of an inn. We went directly to Chester, and, to the disgust of the porters, declined to go where, being evidently gentry, we should have gone by instinctto the elegant spic- and-span, bran-new Grosvenor, but insisted on being carried to one of the old-fashioned inns. We found a large house with its tra- ditional landlady in the bar, and were shown into a waiting-room while our parlor was made ready. This proved to be a large apartment furnished in a comfortable, home- like way, with the same sort of furniture that would have been found in an ordinary En- glish houseI mean, there was nothing in the room that suggested it had been fur- nished on contract. When dinner-time came, we found the table laid in our own parlor, the waiter and his boy in black coats, white neckcloths, and white cotton gloves, and the table set like ones own and differ- ing in no respect, not even in the quality of the furniture, from what one often saw after- ward in England at the tables of very good people. We had ordered our dinner before- hand, the landlady having come up and asked us what we would like, very civilly, and kindly helping us to choose, so that when we sat down, the tiresome waiter we had left three thousand miles away, with his 88 BEDS AND TABLES, 510 QIS AND cANDLESTJOKS. skipping alternations from freezing neglect Whoeer has traveled lifes dull round, to pushing obsequiousness, and his bill-er- Whereer his stages may have been, fare with its chaos come again, and its May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn! damnable iteration, were a forgotten night- mare, and the dinner was a foretaste of Para- Among my reminiscences of travel, I do dise. I remember that after dinner when not know of any sharper contrast than be- the dessert was set,the cloth being actually removed and the old mahogany revealed, the waiter, in putting on the table some hand- some old Worcester plates (made in the days when there was a Worcester that had something better to do than making bad copies of Japanese perfections), whispered that Mrs. ,thinking we might like, as Americans, to see some old china, had sent these up, and how was it possible after that to feel that we were in a hotel? The sur- prise was reserved, however, for bed-time, when, on going to our chamber, we found a small fire flickering cheerfully in the grate, the candles lighted, the curtains of the four- post bedstead drawn and the clothes turned down, while at one side of the room, placed upon a cloth of its own and with its own towel-stand supplied with bath-towels, was the welcome hat-bath, an English gift to the world worth all the sewing-machines and steam-engines that were ever invented. Here was a comfortable lap of fortune to have fallen into, and we hummed with Dr. Johnson those lines of Shenstone that no home-staying American (at least, since the good old days of Bunkers!) can ever understand the sense of: tween this comfortable inn at Chester and the hotel we went to on arriving in New Yorkone of the three or four first-class hotels; for, whereas in Europe no one who is merely after comfort, and not after a showy way of spending money, ever goes in a city to the first-class hotels, here at home it is never safe to go to any other. At this hotel we were shown into a big bare room, containing just what was necessary for decent livinga carpet, a bed, a bureau, a looking-glass, a table and four chairs, with the inevitable furnace-hole in the wall, the gas-burner, where no one could use it in dressing, and the wash-basin in the narrow closeta scientific desolation (your room being exactly like every other in the cara- vansary) which we Americans have carried to perfection. At dinner, we sat in the well- lighted, handsomely proportioned dining- hall, and fed * with the multitude the With what instinct in the choice of a word Shakspere makes Lady Macbeth betray her scorn for the people who flocked to her solemn supper. Feed, she said, Feed, and regard him not! If she had been thinking of them as human beings, she would have said Eat! but she thought of them as swine, and her word fitted her thought. INO. 3. ThINGS NEW AND OLD. BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. 89 gentleman in front of us enjoying his ice- cream, water-melons, peaches and coffee all at oncehe at the tail of the carte while we were at the head. Yet for all this bare and bleak discomfort, we paid far more than for the English hospitality. To return for a moment before leaving it, to our cistern. It would find its most natural place in the hall of a country house, or on the back veranda, where the means and appliances for hand-washing were al- ways to be found in the time of our Dutch ancestors in Manhattan and up the river.~, But, even in our city houses, it might often be a convenience; for the cases are rare in which there is any place for washing our hands short of mounting to a bedroom. Cuts Nos. 2 and 3 are pictures of fire- places, both which have been drawn from real life. The corner fire-place is from the same house in which was found the book-shelf shown in ScRIBNER for June, 1876, p. 175. This house is one of those whose picturesqueness and home-likeness are the result of additions and improvements, made from time to time to a house in which, from an early period in the owners occu- pancy, they found themselves cabined, cribbed, confined, and which they made to suit themselves, by slow degrees, in as natu- ral and easy a way as possible. This fire- place seems to me to be a successful treat- ment of the corner fire-place problem which sometimes confronts us in dealing No. 4. MISS ANGEL PAINTED IT. 90 BEDS AND TABLES, SIVOLS AND CANDLESTICKS with old houses, and which would be a convenient device applied to the plan for a New York City house given in our last arti- cle. In this way our chimney could be made to serve for two houses, and a corner cup- board would balance it at the opposite sides of the room. Cut No. 3 is a restoration effected in an old house at Newport, by Mr. McKim, one of the foremost of our young architects, who has shown an uncommon sort of skill No. 5. OLD-TIME ELEGANCE. in finding out what there is left in an old house to build upon for modern comfort and elegance. Here was the old kitchen of a sea-side house, with its big fire-place and its wainscoted wall, and the architect has, by a simple enough treatment, turned it into a handsome parlor. The whole house has been conserved with the same judgment, the old kept wherever it was sound enough, and suited to ~a new lease of life, and what- ever new was added kept true to the spirit of the old time, though without any anti- quarian slavishness. A change is coming over the spirit of our time which has its origin partly, no doubt, in the memorial epoch through which we are passing, but which is also a proof that our taste is getting a root in a healthier and more native soil. All this resuscitation of old furni- ture and revival of old simplicity (more marked perhaps in the East than here in New York) is in reality much more sensible than it seems to be to those who look upon it as only another phase of the Centen- nial mania. It is a fashion, so far as it is a fashion, that has been for twenty years working its way down from a circle of rich, cultivated peo- ple, to a wider circle of people who are educated, who have natural good taste, but who have not so much money as they could wish. We go to the rich peoples houses, and see in their parlors, bedrooms, and dining- rooms,beautiful pieces of furniture of the old time, made when there was a class of men who looked with pride upon their trade of cabinet- making, and wrote books about it, in which they talked with as much gravity and affectation of learning, about perspective and proportion, as if their theme had been the solution of the sphere, or the elixir of life. In one house we find a corner cup- board like No. 4, an exquisite piece of inlaid work, with its ormolu mountings (not mere rough castings left as they came from the mold and not meant to be examined closely, but finished with as much artistic care by the ciseleur as if they had been mountings for plate), and with its door-panel gracefully painted by the hand of Angelica Kauffmann her- self. Or, they find this other piece, No. 5, a ladies wardrobe of a little later date, with its mock columns at the cor- ners mounted with brass, and finished with the hand of a jeweler. We see hundreds of pieces,for we are getting to be rich in this country in these beautiful, handsome, curi BEDS AND T4BLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. 9 Gus pieces,and we come away with a new notion, that the furniture of a particular period can reflect the delicacy of feeling, refinement of manners, and all that goes to that subtile quality in the mind which we call taste, as well as some of the productions of mans skill which we are fond of thinking of more importance. And we find, on look- ing about us, that the furniture of the Revo- lutionary period is evidently the outcome of a refined and cultured time. It would not require to strain a point, nor to deal in paradoxes, to prove that the people who designed, bought, used and enjoyed such furniture as we see to-day displacing the French and German miracles of ugliness that have been our only wear of late years, must have been a delicate-minded, cult- ured, and sensible race, with a very lively sense of the limitations of decoration as applied to things in daily use. We are all of us growing to like these qualities, to enjoy them, to try to make them our own, and to communicate them, if we can, to our chil- dren and those about us. There is beside, I suppose, the pleasant knowledge that this furniture, if not all of it made in America, was all of it made for Americans, or bought by them; and there is a feeling that in going back to its use, in collecting it, and saving it from dishonor, and putting it in safe-keeping, we are bringing ourselves a little nearer in spirit to the old time. Of course, this is but superficial,no need to No. 6. A SCREEN OF BOOKS. 92 BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. say it,but we live in a world where even superficial influences have weight. There is one comfort in the Revolutionary furnitureit is seldom that we come across a piece to which the words ugly or awkward will apply. Certainly they will never apply to the pieces that belonged to well-to-do people. There was a style in those days, and in colonial days, and the rich people had the best pieces, of course, and the not- so-rich and the well-off followed the style as closely as they could; but even in pieces that belonged to poor people, we see the excellence of the model. I have seen a great many fine specimens of this old fur- niture, hut I never saw a piece that I would not willingly own, if I needed it and had room for it. There is always merit of some kind. It is well-shaped, it is useful, it is made of handsome wood, it has exceltent moldings, and rich turnings, or picturesque carvingand its individuality is not the least of its recommendations; there are never two pieces exactly alike. There was no one in those days apparently who made things for the trade. The design for a book-case, which was engraved in the February ScRIENER, p. 489, has had so brilliant a success, the original having been visited, measured and copied, until the plain, straightforward pine shelves would have blushed if wood once shellacked could ever turn color, that I fear the one I now bring forward, in Cut No. 6, may suffer in the comparison. But it is so different and so excellent in its own way, I think it can hardly fail to make friends. Such a design, besides, may be used where the other one could not at all be made room for. These book-shelves were designed for his own use by a gentleman of this city, and the drawing was made from the original by Miss Maria R. Gakey, and engraved by Mr. Marsh. The room in which the shelves are set up is rather a small one, narrow in proportion to its length, and having a fire- place in the middle of one side, a door-way opposite, a window at one end, and a door- way in the other. Accordingly, space has been saved, and the shape of the room bet- tered by the present device of building a book-case against the end opposite the win- dow, and leaving the door-way, but sub- stituting a y5orti6~re for the door. The top of the case is designed to accommodate the casts of Michael Angelos Night and Morning; and over the middle of this pediment was found to be a good place to hang and to rest a large circular dish of ftiehce. The lower portions of the book- case, on either side the door, are ingen- iously contrived for holding prints, photo- graphs, architectural drawings, and the like; they are closed by a flap like the flap of a portfolio; this opens down, and the contents of the case are kept in their places, as in the portfolios of a print-seller, by pieces of thick card-board. A contrivance like this needs no particular description,it explains itself, and recommends itself. It answers its own- ers needs perfectly, and adds greatly to the appearance of the room, giving the distinc- tion that always comes from means well employed and made to serve the utilities and the graces at the same time. Cut No. 7 is a drawing of a settee, which belongs by right next to those which appeared in the first of these articles in No 7. A FRENCH SETTEE. BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. 93 ScRIBNER for June, 1875, p. 169. Those two drawings were not taken from the real object, but were made for me by Mr. Inglis, in accordance with a notion of mine. The present drawing is made by Mr. Lathrop from the life, and if the reader agrees with me in finding the settee pretty as it is in black-and-white, he would think it far prettier in the original, with its gay decora- tion. The wood-work is painted with a black ground, relieved with gold, and with medallions in which are brightly painted flowers. The back, the seat and the ends, are filled with bamboo woven-work, and this is gildeda very elegant way of treat- ing bamboo, and not more expensive than painting done as painting should be. This particular settee is furnished with cushions made of a rose-scarlet satin; but of course, something less costly, and less liable to injury, may easily be found that will please the eye as well. The stuffs called Alg6rienne made of silk and cotton, in gay but well-harmon- ized stripes, are serviceable, and look well to the last; there are serges, too, but prob- ably the best coverings for cushions are made of the stamped plushes which are now made in England, with patterns and colors that leave nothing to be desired. It will be observed that the cushions of this French settee, like those of the one published earlier in this series, are movable, and it will also be noted that they are thin. Being the same on both sides, they can be turned frequently, and can be more easily dusted, beaten and aired. Cut No. 8 is a drawing of a chairone of the inlaid Italian chairswhich I recoin- mended for the entry or hall. This example is perhaps too costly for the purses of most of us; but it was the only one within reach, it belongs to the Messrs. Cottier,and serves to show the model I had in my mind. Some of these chairs are made of a lighter wood, and inlaid all over with mother-of-pearl, arranged in geometric patterns. These are manufactured to this day in Italy, and can be bought there at reasonable prices; but such things are not regular importations, and if they are found in our shops,in Syphers or Hawkinss, for instance ,they have been bought by those dealers at some family break-up, or from some traveler parting with his old trophies, and now off for fresh fields and pastures new. Some pretty stools of wood, thickly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, were in the Egyptian and Morocco Depart- ments at the Exhibition; but they had hardly time to alight from their journey before they were picked up by diligent seekers after things out of the common. Another variety of this chair comes from Italy, and, keeping the same general shape, varies the flat sur- face with much bold carving. These chairs are often met with; but of course they vary in quality of design. Still, I have several times seen chairs with old Italian carving at Syphers that I, for one, should be glad to own. Such pieces will, in most cases, prove to have descended from New York families, who, thirty or forty years ago, came home from Europe, where they had been living, keeping house, and educating their children, and who found it not unprofitable to bring back much of their household gear with them. I was much in a family years ago, who, though good Americans, seemed to be almost as good Frenchmen. A branch of the fathers business was in Paris, and all the sons and daughters had been finished, No i. EBONY AND IVORY. as the old-fashioned phrase ran, in Paris, and they kept up their French by using the lan- guage constantly in their conversation among themselves. Their house was furnished from top to bottom with furniture brought from 94 BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. their rooms in Paris, for it used to be much easier to do this then; the Custom-house had not at that time learned to classify things with such scientific accuracy as it does to- day, nor to exact its tithes of mint and cummin with such cold-blooded indifference to sentimental memories. Thanks to this penchant for Europe in the minds of our New Yorkers, and to the genial leniency of Uncle Sam, we have a stock of furniture here gathered from all parts of the Continent, and which, by turns of the wheel-of-fortune, finds its way to the antiquaries shops, and so, to-morrow, to French flats, and parlors new. Cut No.9 is a group of pieces of furniture, all of it belonging to Old Colony times, drawn by Mr. Lathrop for Bryant & Gays His- tory of the United States. The cupboard at the left belongs to the same class, and I think to the same time, as the one which was fig- ured in SCRJBNER for October, p. 804. These pieces were made of oak, and are fastened together by wooden pins. The carving, though rude, is effective. There is not much of it, but it is put where it does the most good. A desire to get something of the effect of carving in relieving plain surfaces, without at the same time incurring much expense, explains the device of pieces of turned work, cut in halves, and fastened by the fiat side to certain parts of the piece, as at the ends of the division between the upper and lower baluster columns, and between the lower baluster and the foot on which the l)iece rests. These are best seen at the left-hand side. Similar pieces of turned- work, cut in two, are made to serve as pilas- ters, one at each side of the door, with a round-arched panel in the upper of the two stories into which the cupboard is divided. There is no waste room in this cupboard. Beside the six cupboards* proper, there are drawers in the three other divisions, in that which answers to the frieze, in the How the word cupboard has changed its mean- ing! From standing for a set of shelves (boards) on which plate could he displayed, it has come to he applied to a closet in which things can he shut up. Some of the old cupboards, like the side-hoards in vogue to-day, had closets below them, and these have gradually usurped the name of what was once the superior portion. N0. 9. OLD COLONY DAYS. BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS. 95 base, and in the part between the upper and lower range of closets. The height of the whole is such that the top can easily be reached with the hand, and it is thus equiv- alent to a shelf. In this old piece, as in all of the same style that I have seen, color has been employed as a further ornament. The baluster columns were painted black, or red picked out with black, and the other turned ornaments as well, while the panels were occasionally decorated with ciphers in a flourish of heraldic foliage, or with birds and flowers in a half-conventional, half-natural style. But these painted decorations have been in almost all cases effaced, whether intentionally, or merely by hard usage, can- not be told. I wish they had been left, for I should like some examples of homely, but effective, color decoration to survive, and point the way to something better in the art of decorating furniture than prevails at pres- ent. I have already touched on this subject, but at that time I did not know that there was any one here who was likely to help us in getting the sort of decoration needed. The house-painters cannot help us, though there are men among them who could if they were made to see the profit of it; and our artists (being so superior, as they are, to Giotto, Delli, Gentile da Fabriano, Paolo Uccello, and the rest of the early Italians, who all painted furniture, door-panels, bridal chests, trays, shields,* whenever they could get a chance)our artists are, for the most part, above any such degradation of their profession, and it is only in England that we see a return to the charming old fashion. There it is nowadays getting to be common to call upon artists to do this work, and some interesting results have been produced. In ScRIBNER for October I called atten- tion to such a piece in the Exhibition fur- nished by Messrs. Collinson & Lock. The ~ We have several specimens of this work in our country: panels taken from these chests in the Jarves collection in Yale College, and a fine example of a chest with its panels still in place in the possession of Mr. Roswell Smith of New York, with three or four trays in the Jarves collection, and in the little- known and neglected Bryan gallery in our own city in the possession of the Historical Society. reason why we do not see more of these pieces painted by the old Italians is, that the panels have been cut out and framed as pictures, in the greed of amateurs and own- ers in the last hundred years. Some day, no doubt, the same fate will overtake this fine cabinet decorated by Mr. Murray. In ScRIBNER for April there was shown a cabinet, made by Cottier & Co., for which Mr. Lathrop painted two most beautiful panels; and now comes Mr. H. M. Law- rence of Albany, who, besides decorating china in a very interesting way, has also painted a number of panels with flower-deco- ration that seem to me to show much promise. I wish somebody had venture- someness enough to design a cupboard, or wardrobe, or book-closet for Mr. Lawrence or Mr. Lathrop to decorate; but in these matters, there seems nowadays not only to be no venturesomeness, but no desire to get out of the comfortable ruts we are all jogging along in. Yet, all the time people are doing things to please themselves, and striking out in the experiment some good ideas. Thus a gen- tleman told me the other day that, wishing to fit up his kitchen in a substantial way, he seized the opportunity offered by the sale at a bargain of a considerable number of pan- eled outside shutters taken from an old house, and still, from having been made of hard wood, and in a time when carpenters knew what a panel meant, in good condi- tion, and with these he wainscoted his kitchen, paneling the walls at small expense, and making a stylish room of it. If people really loved their houses,loved them as we can love material things from their asso- ciation with what is nearest and dearest to us,and if they did love them, they wouldnt be so willing to give them up and change for new ones, as they are with us,they would find many devices to improve them, not in the mere dumb-waiter, permanent wash-tub sense of the word, but in the sense that makes them homes for home- loving, cultured families; devices that, while they would add much to their attractiveness, would make small demands upon the purse. 96 RODNEY MA VERICK RODNEY MAVERICK. You have seen men shuffle, hobble, slouch, swing, stride, pound; here was a man who could walk. He was straight without stiffness; his head turned easily as he moved, and his eyes took in all that went on. All his motions were easy, uncon- scious, without halt or haste. He did not tramp, but his arms and his feet went straight forward in perfect time and tune and seemed to consume the distance; though he walked quite leisurely, you had to quicken your pace not to fall behind him. The street seemed to roll back under his feet, and as he went before you, the roar of the city turned to martial music and the tramp of marching hosts. Coming among quieter streets, open, sunny and pleasant with trees, he took a note-book out of his breast and looked for something in it, observed the names of the streets at the corners, then the numbers of the houses, and stopped at one in a high, airy suburb. He asked for Miss Marble, and stood looking at the flowers in the par- lor windows, till he heard her firm tread and the rustle of her dress from stair to stair. He turned as she entered, one hand still caressing the pink he had been smelling, and looked at her with a smile. Id have had it in another minute, Nina, he said, and then advanced and offered his hand. Her first sharp look of questioning interest broke up with a flash and she laughed quick and freely, and said: Well, Rodney Maverick! His amused expression merged into a glow of deep pleasure, as he held her hand a moment and looked straight into the fine, bright, innocent, friendly face, and clear, frank, questioning eyes that met his nearly upon a level. So youve come back, she said; I had quite given you up. Do you know how long it is? How many years? No, he answered, I havent any idea, a century, I should say, at a venture. It seems so, now that I think of it. She laughed again,a quick, brief bubble of merriment habitual to her, restrained with a bend of the chin upon the insubordi- nate throat,.and continued: Well, youve grown complimentary. So you havent even thought of me! Oh, logical sex! he retorted, turning the amused look upon her again. Or is it artifice rather than logic? Do you want me to tell you how Ive dreamed about you whenever I could sleep for thinking of you? But no, you dont deserve it. What is this I hear? What said the little bird to me? Did it sing true? She blushed to the white forehead and turned from him an instant, catching her lips in her teeth, but faced him again with a look half serious, half comical. How should I know? she demanded. What did it say? Artless creature! he returned; you know the song very well; how does it go? He whistled a triple bird-like call. MayneMayneMayne. It tried its hand at Westlake, but that was too many for it. No one but you and I would have recognized it. She laughed an unrestrained peal this time, turning away, but coming back swiftly with defiant eyes and her color still flying in shreds and patches like a flag whipped and furled by the wind. Yes, she cried, tossing her head at him with radiant effrontery, the little bird sang true. What have you got to say about it ? It was shabby of you, Nina. Why didnt you wait for me? She dropped her head, still keeping her eyes upon him but changing to a mockery of his own mock sincerity. I got tired of waiting, she answered, and took Mayne in despair. Why didnt you speak in time? He was looking at the flowers or out of the window, but he turned and looked in her face and said with seeming perfect frankness: I wish I had. Her eyebrows lifted, and she eyed him curiously between a pout and a smile. He dropped the bantering tone then, and spoke of her little sister who had died in their long separation. And while she talked to him, in full confidence and sim- plicity, of the poor little creatures suffering and patience, he needed no telling of the deft hands and tongue and tireless sisterly affection that had smoothed the hard path to the little feet. He listened in silence, his head slightly bowed and not facing her, but he saw the earnest play of her nimble lips and features, her hands lying one upon the other in her lap, and her unconscious

96 RODNEY MA VERICK RODNEY MAVERICK. You have seen men shuffle, hobble, slouch, swing, stride, pound; here was a man who could walk. He was straight without stiffness; his head turned easily as he moved, and his eyes took in all that went on. All his motions were easy, uncon- scious, without halt or haste. He did not tramp, but his arms and his feet went straight forward in perfect time and tune and seemed to consume the distance; though he walked quite leisurely, you had to quicken your pace not to fall behind him. The street seemed to roll back under his feet, and as he went before you, the roar of the city turned to martial music and the tramp of marching hosts. Coming among quieter streets, open, sunny and pleasant with trees, he took a note-book out of his breast and looked for something in it, observed the names of the streets at the corners, then the numbers of the houses, and stopped at one in a high, airy suburb. He asked for Miss Marble, and stood looking at the flowers in the par- lor windows, till he heard her firm tread and the rustle of her dress from stair to stair. He turned as she entered, one hand still caressing the pink he had been smelling, and looked at her with a smile. Id have had it in another minute, Nina, he said, and then advanced and offered his hand. Her first sharp look of questioning interest broke up with a flash and she laughed quick and freely, and said: Well, Rodney Maverick! His amused expression merged into a glow of deep pleasure, as he held her hand a moment and looked straight into the fine, bright, innocent, friendly face, and clear, frank, questioning eyes that met his nearly upon a level. So youve come back, she said; I had quite given you up. Do you know how long it is? How many years? No, he answered, I havent any idea, a century, I should say, at a venture. It seems so, now that I think of it. She laughed again,a quick, brief bubble of merriment habitual to her, restrained with a bend of the chin upon the insubordi- nate throat,.and continued: Well, youve grown complimentary. So you havent even thought of me! Oh, logical sex! he retorted, turning the amused look upon her again. Or is it artifice rather than logic? Do you want me to tell you how Ive dreamed about you whenever I could sleep for thinking of you? But no, you dont deserve it. What is this I hear? What said the little bird to me? Did it sing true? She blushed to the white forehead and turned from him an instant, catching her lips in her teeth, but faced him again with a look half serious, half comical. How should I know? she demanded. What did it say? Artless creature! he returned; you know the song very well; how does it go? He whistled a triple bird-like call. MayneMayneMayne. It tried its hand at Westlake, but that was too many for it. No one but you and I would have recognized it. She laughed an unrestrained peal this time, turning away, but coming back swiftly with defiant eyes and her color still flying in shreds and patches like a flag whipped and furled by the wind. Yes, she cried, tossing her head at him with radiant effrontery, the little bird sang true. What have you got to say about it ? It was shabby of you, Nina. Why didnt you wait for me? She dropped her head, still keeping her eyes upon him but changing to a mockery of his own mock sincerity. I got tired of waiting, she answered, and took Mayne in despair. Why didnt you speak in time? He was looking at the flowers or out of the window, but he turned and looked in her face and said with seeming perfect frankness: I wish I had. Her eyebrows lifted, and she eyed him curiously between a pout and a smile. He dropped the bantering tone then, and spoke of her little sister who had died in their long separation. And while she talked to him, in full confidence and sim- plicity, of the poor little creatures suffering and patience, he needed no telling of the deft hands and tongue and tireless sisterly affection that had smoothed the hard path to the little feet. He listened in silence, his head slightly bowed and not facing her, but he saw the earnest play of her nimble lips and features, her hands lying one upon the other in her lap, and her unconscious RODNEY MA VERICK 97 eyes bent upon him; and he felt that their boy-and-girl acquaintance had somehow and strangely grown, in absence and forget- fulness, and a deep glow of thankfulness crept through him, as for an unsuspected treasure. Suddenly her brave voice stopped in the pitiful narration with a catch in her breath. Her eyes fell; she rose up quickly and went and plucked the pink he had held and made a little bouquet with her back toward him; then she turned back. So youre going into partnership with Mayne, Rodney? she said. We went into partnership a long while ago, he answered, with a smile. Yes, I know wlaat a Damon and Pythias you are. I believe Mayne thinks more of you now than of me. (The red flag flew out in her cheek again.) But what queer things your mens friendships are! You praise to the skies behind each others backs, and are hardly civil when you meet; you go away for a year or two and forget to say good-bye, think of it six months after, and write a postal card. Maverick laughed. You and I havent written even postal cards, Nina; and yet we dont hate each other very much, I hope? She stood before him, with one foot ad- vanced, smelling the flowers, and looking down at him. Thats true, she said, thoughtfully. We ought to be good friends, Nina, he said. Were both going into partnership with Mayne, arent we? she answered his smile blushingly. Chaffing aside, Nina, hes a good fellow; I havent seen much of him these last years; I dont need to, dont you see? As long as hes in the world I know where he is and what he is. Ive held on to him many a day when he knew nothing about it, and when there didnt seem much else to hold by. And if I want him, Ive only to speak. He spoke in a way that made her turn serious. Sit down, Nina, I want to tell you about him. Has he ever told you how we became friends? No? Well, Ill tell you. It was at school, you know, out in Ojibway County. Mayne was the leader in all the games and as high in his classes as he cared to be, and every one liked and admired him, even the teachers whom he exasperated. I remem- ber the first time I saw him, the high-step- ping, strong-built fellow with the downcast trick of the eyes and rosy, roguish face, one VOL. XIII.7. shoulder cocked up comically to hold the satchel slung across it. Do you know, Nina, I was thinking that over last night and try- ing to recollect what it was that drew us together, and I couldnt make it out. I can understand well enough why I liked him, but what he saw in me I cant think. I was a little weakly fellow, shy and not much liked. I remember being hurt at a sort of instinctive resentment that some of the boys showed toward me when they took any notice of me, and wondering xvhat was the reason of it. Every one became more friendly after Mayne took me up. But I cant un- derstand why he took to me. A neighboring church-clock chimed four, and Rodney sprang up. By the way! he cried, I must be moving. 1 was to meet Mayne. Well, good-bye, Nina said, pinning the nosegay to his coat as she let him out. I suppose youll cultivate my friendship now as you do Maynes, and call again in a year or two. He laughed and held out his hand. Dont flatter yourself youll get off so easily. Good-bye. He walked quickly and lightly street after street. When a block or two from the office, he saw West- lake coming,a strong, active, business-like fellow. Rodney waited for him. He march- ed straight up to him, grasped him by the shoulder, wheeled him round, drew his arm under his own, and tramped on. Youre late, boy, he said; give an account of yourself. Youd make allowance for me if you knew what kept me, Rodney answered, smiling. Yes, Westlake answered. I know where youve been. Ive smelt that pink be- fore, I think. Youre as reckless as ever, I seerunning your head into the jaws of de- struction the first thing. Beware, young man! Rodney laughed again. Oh Im tough eating now; I ought to be. Then more seriously, Im a good deal stiffer on my legs than I used to be, Mayne. I dont weaken to things nor try to change the shape of the world, and get doubled up myself over the sharp edges as much. I laugh more than I used to. And get more flesh on your bones, said Mayne. Well, that is a good use to put adversity to, isnt it ? laughed Rodney. A good use to put bones to, growled Mayne. 98 RODNEY MA VERICK They went to dinner together and talked about business. Rodney Mavericks sister Lucy was married to Nina Marbles brother, Ralph. Rodney had just come to the city to live with his sister and join his friend, Mayne Westlake, in business. Rodney had known Nina years before she came to live in the city with her aunt, and it was through that acquaintance and the subsequent con- nection of their families by Lucys marriage, that his friend Westlake had become ac- quainted and afterward betrothed to Nina, before Rodney knew what was going on. The two young men had talked a couple of hours in Westlakes room, when he began suddenly to strip off and replace his clothes, while Maverick was having his say. Well, Mayne, he broke out presently, what mean these swift and funereal habili- ments? Art summoned to the house of mourning? House of evening, he replied automati- cally, tumbling up a drawer, then turning round sharply: Say, Rodney, Im going over to Ninas. Will you come? No, I guess youll get on without my help. Im going in to talk with Lucy and the children. They parted on the street. Rodney watched Mayne catch a car at the corner, lighted a cigar and strolled along toward his sisters. Arriving there, who should he find chattering baby-talk over laughing little Willy, but Nina Marble, who had come over to see her brother on a business matter. They four and the little ones sat a while, chatting very pleasantly, and then Rodney told Nina who had gone to call upon her. She turned toward him quickly with a flush and a bright glance of in- quiry. Well, youre a pretty fellow sitting here so coolly all this time, making fun of me and not telling me. She caught up curly-headed little Alice, tossed and coddled her and crowed over her a little while, then set her down, sprang up and turned upon her brother. Well, Ralph Marble, are you ever going to start to go home with me? she cried. Marble stretched out his legs and leaned back. Im very comfortable, Nina, he answered. You ought to be glad youre in such good company. Theres Maverick now; take him. Im tired. And Marble gaped a brotherly yawn. Nina turned swiftly toward Rodney with an expression between frank appeal and mock despair. Only too happy, replied Rodney, smil- ing. She poured out her voluble wrath upon her brothers devoted but resigned head, ended with a musical laugh, and led the way out, stopping just an instant to kiss Lucy aflectionately. She took Rodneys arm and they walked along. Hes a good good-for-nothing, that brother of mine, she began, and rambled on, now sober, now merry, and bubbling over with sweet and innocent laughter. He went beside her, amused and admiring. Such spirit, such grace, such humor and quickness of sympathy and appreciation, such steadiness and directness of carriage, moral and physical! Underneath his light talk and laughter, he found himself saying, A brave girl! A brave girl ! Nearly at her door, they met Westlake coming away. He stopped close to them and laughed. Well, Rod, he exclaimed, youve made a good beginning of poach- ing on my preserves. I believe its a con- spiracy between you two. Rodney left them at the door, and saun- tered on alone. His mind went back to his former acquaintance with Nina; she was the same girl, only steadied and sharpened by four or five years experience. Yet it seemed as if he had not seen or thought of her before. He needed the evidence of her frank friendliness now to convince him of their previous friendship. How was it he had hardly thought or heard of her these years? To-night she took the light and color and flavor out of dear, gentle, happy Lucy, whom he had that very day found such pleasant company,and out of certain other faces in his mind. The phrase of his pleasant reverie broke off suddenly with a dash of regret and pain. That had been always his way: some one face and voice so burning themselves into his consciousness, that all others turned pale and flat beside them. He was sick of it; was there no end to it? It so beggared the world, and wore on a man, this focusing of all his being. Must he always carry his heart on his sleeve? Brooding thus, the bearing of these sorry thoughts flashed upon him, and he stopped with a sudden feeling of fear. He turned about in the street, and his feeling was that he stood at bay, with all the world facing him. And his thought retorted resentfully, I have got to be somewhere! Nina and Westlake naturally fell into talk RODNEY MA VERICJ. 99 about Rodney. She told him in a general way how Rodney had spoken of him that afternoon. Her words seemed to call up ainpleasant recollections. He sat quiet, and after a while began prodding the arm of the chair with his penknife, continuing the ope- ration as he queried in reply. Did he tell you any more? Did he tell you what happened after we left school ? She took his closed hand in both hers while he was speaking, knelt and cautiously extracted the dangerous weapon and carried it off. Oh, he laughed, I thought it was my old office chair. Ill bring you a little shellac. Hush! No! she said, pointing the knife at him, and shaking her head rapidly. Tell me. Go on. She threw herself down on a stool at his feet and rested her chin on her hand. It was nineten years ago this May, I hadnt seen Maverick in some months, when he came in one morning in a hurry. He told me that he was on his way to invest his little fortune of something less than ten thousand, which he had acquired that win- ter from his fathers estate. I suppose he saw a black look in my face, and he asked me what was the matter, and I told him. Ive never told any one else. She thought she saw the black look now that Rodney had. I dont care, she answered, looking at him steadily. Dont tell me unless you 1~ad rather. Oh, yes, he persisted. I must tell you now. But he stumbled over the be- ginning, and then blurted out defiantly, Its nothing to be ashamed of Mid- shipman Easy didnt ask his fathers per- mission to marry, because his father hadnt asked his. He laughed unpleasantly, then came to the scratch doggedly. My father had trust funds in his charge, and thought he could use them to better advantage than the parties with whom they had been in- vested. Weil,he made a mistake, thats all. When Rodney came in that morning we were on the brink of exposure and ruin. There was a thickness in his voice, very unusual with him; but he cheered up immediately. Thats the whole story, ex- cept that father found the next day at his bank, a deposit of nine thousand and odd to the credit of his wards, and that tided us over the bar. Nina stood up, her eyes dilated and her face glowing. That was magnificent, she said. And Rodney did that! I declare it makes one believe in the old chival- rous time. Do you know, Mayne, he never told a soul. She stood beside and above him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. Lucy told me that he had money, and they could never find out what became of it. He took down her hand, touched it with his lips, smiled evanescently, and held and fondled it absently as he talked with an un- conscious undertone of harshness that sug- gested some obscure and long-pent resent- ment. No, he wouldnt tell. They say Byron had an introverted vanity to be thought worse than he was, which was bad enough; Rod- ney has an introverted shame of being thought better than anybody else. Hes been so sen- sitive about this that we can hardly keep from quarreling about it. Id rather owe it to the Jews. I took it light at first; I was going to pay it off directly,it seems as if I expect- ed to find gold and greenbacks for picking up in the streets, but I found they didnt lie around very thick. At the end of a year I sent him a statement of what I had done, and a check for what I could spare. He was away out West then, at a place called New New York,Ninas eyebrows drew up, and her lips broke apart, but Mayne didnt see her, editing a paper. You know hes a restless genius. He returned the check, indorsed, and the accounts inclosed, with a sheet of his editorial paper with a printed heading, New New York Pioneer, etc., and written on it, Your MSS. are respect- fully declined. It was more Maynes lugubrious manner than the inverted and pirated joke that made Nina turn away and scream with laughter, in which he joined with an involuntary guffaw, and then looked at her ruefully. She came back repentantly, trying to compose her face, putting out her hands to him. Go on,dont mind me. Only I shall begin to be afraid that your love is much like your hate. I sometimes think so myself, he replied. I dont believe I should chafe so under an obligation to any one else; and I believe Rodney was more sincere than he knew when he said once, upon my speaking of it, that he wished I and the money were at the devil. Dont you see it puts a mercenary taint into all our relations. Hes all the time afraid Ill mention it, and I have to go rough-shod with him to keep from seem- ing sordid. Ive come to hate money; yet I scrape and hoard it like a miser, to try to 100 RODNEY MA VERICK get out of its power. Father died and left things mixed, and mother and the young ones on my hands, and Im only just getting out of the woods. One reason why Ive got Rodney to go in with me is to let him help me out. I want to get my head above wa- ter before _____ He looked at her in lieu of finishing the sentence. The firm of Westlake and Maverick, suc- cessors to Mayne Y. Westlake, began bus- iness forthwith. They were very successful. Westlake was in high spirits; Rodney had very pleasant quiet hours with Lucy, high- jinks with the children, and bouts of banter and merriment with Nina when they met at Marbles, or when Mayne took him to Ninas, as he often would; and he had to go home with her from her brothers on more than one evening. Not that he thought that a hardship; he found those walks with her and her soberer conversation anything but distasteful. He had never been so happy; he was conscious of doing satis- factory work, and that by it he was helping Mayne equally with himself He had learn- ed the folly of borrowing trouble or repining for the past; sufficient to the day was the duty and the happiness. Early in June Nina went to the country. When Rodney heard of it first, it gave him an unwelcome twinge. But that was noth- ing new; it brought back to him a weak- ness of his youth which he had thought out- grown. Since his earliest recollection he had found few things harder to bear than to have people go away. A kind of phan- tasmal fear, a terror that walked at noon- day, would take hold of him at such times and make him afraid to be alone, and yet lonesome with people around him. But he did not get rid of the feeling all day now, and instead of sleeping it off he awoke, feeling sore and disinclined to the day. When she was gone, he went about his affairs as usual, but with a want and hankering that he did not dare to analyze yet could not shake off. Day after day it haunted him till he was tired, and then in its place came a strong anger that tingled through him, rising up and lying down, that he knew was unreason- able yet was no matter of reason. He took it to bed with him and nursed it till it was hot. Then he fell asleep and dreamed. He was standing in a remembered room, look- ing down upon a girls face, not Ninas, for he looked down upon it, and it was gentler, shyer, more unworldly. His heart was full, but there was no bitterness in it, only ten- derness and pity and high determination. She was in deep trouble, and he was going away to fight in her behalf. He did not think it strange that nothing was said, but stooped and touched her forehead with his lips and went away quickly; and he awoke with that feeling warm upon them. Coming up into consciousness out of that bath of purity and inspiration, with the tremor and brave purpose still upon him, the tumult and I)assionate resentment were gone out of his heart, and their places filled with afl tender and pitiful yearnings. He was the child again in the old country house; he had fallen asleep tired out with the great south storm that came up straight off the ocean, made the house shudder, and shook him in his bed with its vehement rushes. and bursts, clamored demoniacally at his window, and appalled him with its roar; and when he awoke the sun was shining and the pathetic birds were singing over the new earth, washed and at peace,the only other sound, felt rather than heard, the ponderous throbbing monotone of the surf on the beach twenty miles away. Westlake and Maverick were very busy through the hot weather. Mayne ran away Saturday night or Sunday morning, but could not get Rodney to stir. One week he went about it with a set purpose, arrang- ed things and worked nights, but waited till Friday before speaking. Then he said: Rodney, I want you to take a week or two to breathe. Theres nothing to keey~ you now. Youve worked like a horse all summer, and I want you to be fresh for Northgate and Saulsbury. Run down and keep Nina company; she misses seeing you, awfully, she said. He laughed,, but Rodneys eyes turned away from his face and rested on the wall a minute or two, and then went back to his work. Westlake regarded him curiously a while, and then asked rather roughly: Well, Maverick, will you go? Rodney looked up sharply and said: Westlake turned round and went out. They talked only about business matters through the day. At its end Westlake was going off without speaking, when Rodney called him back, I think Ill go to-mor- row, he said, writing out his sentence care- fully. I was an ass this morning. Thats. what youve been about lately,doing three mens work. Mayne came round and took the pen out of his hand. I can do that, he said RODNEY MA VERICK. I0I Youll need your time to sling some things together. He wrote to Nina that Rodney was going, and to make it pleasant for him. Five or six days later he got a letter from her, ask- ing when Rodney was coming, and he was smitten with a sudden contrition. Rod- ney was at his desk again, when Westlake came in the next morning hut one. He called out, Mayne, wheres the original a~davitin Saulsbury? Westlake brought the paper and laid it down. You didnt go to Southbrook? No, I went down the coast. Rodney, Mayne said, determinedly, I was the long-eared animal the other day. I didnt know you were tender still about thatabout Louise. I didnt think of it. Its a good while for any other fellow, you know. Rodney stood up; his face turned dark, and his eyes dropped. He answered hoarsely. Let it go, cant you ? Then its all right? Did you have a good time? was all Westlake commented aloud. Prime, was Rodneys answer, and the end of the conversation. One evening, later in the season, Rodney went down to dinner, and found Nina with Lucy and Ralph; the little ones were climb- ing over her uproariously, and all were glad to have the sprightly, warm-hearted creature back. Afterward Ralph got out the cigars; Rodney took one and went across the room for a match. There were several in the box, he scratched one and put the rest in his pocket. Ralph went and fumbled in the box. Youve scooped the last match, he said; youll have to give me a light. They stood close together, kindling one cigar at the other. When Marble would have turned away, Rodney held him a mo- ment with his eye, and said in his usual tone, clear and slow, only timing his words by the sound of Ninas chatter. Dont leave your sister to me, to go home with. They puffed steadily and gravely, looking at each other, then Marble dropped his head and wheeled away. He smoked in silence awhile, then he said to his sister: Nina, when you and Luce come to a comma or semicolon, Ive got an errand your way, and Ill see whats left of that unruly member safe home. She flashed round at him a look of half serious, brilliant astonishment. Why, what a dutiful brother its grown! she cried, and proceeded to rail at him. Nina found Ralph a dutiful brother more times than one. One day Westlake spoke to Rodney again. You are not having a firstclass time, are you, Rod? You dont relax at all heav- ily. You keep up too much steam in your thinking-machine. You ought to unbend or bend, as I should say; you read too many hooks and too little human nature. Youre getting regular poky. You never go any- where with me now, and Nina says you hardly speak to her. I want you to come with me to-night. He did not ask for fear of a refusal, but took it for granted and kept watch of him. He invited himself to dinner at Mrs. Lucys and told her so when they got there. He brought Rodney away with him directly afterward, and into Ninas parlor. He did not sit down himself. Nina, he said, you know that I cant stay here to-night, but Rodney doesnt. You are to bolt and bar him in when I go, and see if theres any juice left in him. Hes getting as musty as an antediluvian; try your powers on him. He laughed and vanished: Before Rod- ney fairly comprehended, Nina was back with the outer door key in her hand. She dangled it at him, laughing gleefully, and slid it into her pocket. He could not help being amused at the situation; that, or her pres- ence, or both, broke down all his defenses and infected him with a reckless abandon- ment to the influence of the hour. You and Mayne have made me a pris- oner, he declared, and you must take the consequences. I wont go now till you put me out. And whether or not she exerted herself to amuse and interest him, she succeeded thoroughly. It was late when he came away. He did not linger on the streets, but went straight home and to bed. In the week or two that followed, no one could find fault with him for a recluse,certainly not Westlake nor Nina. He saw her every day, wherever he could find her, in Westlakes company or out of it. If he could be said to think at all, Th was that it was their own doing, and they must take what came of it. He did not care what came; he was drpnk as with opium. His voice was clear and bold, his laughter free and high. Never before was there such rhyme in his walking; his nerves were strong and his brain sang to music all day long. 102 RODNEY MA VERICK The only other justification he stopped or cared to make to himself was that by thus openly flinging himself into the current they must be forced to see whither it was run- ning; but the very boldness of the exhibition deceived them, and they saw in his reckless drifting only brave swimming. There was one person who thought he saw more. Ralph Marble put his head in at Rodneys door, one evening. Rodney bade him come in. Marble had his cigar in his right hand, the left in his pocket. He sauntered over and leaned against the bed. He drew a whiff or two. Dressing, eh? he said. I was going to ask you to go to the theater with me, but I suppose you are going somewhere else. Rodney looked up sharply. Im going over to Ninas, he answered; his stooping posture had sent the blood to his head, and perhaps it was the same cause that made his voice grate a little. Marble nodded, and smoked imperturba- bly, and got up and lounged over to the window. Rodney brushed his coat very hard, and put it on. He turned toward Marble abruptly. Do you want me to go with you? Yes. Marble turned and looked at him. Come on, then. On the street they walked two or three feet apart. They did not look or talk to each other. Marble was excessively cool; Rodney was sharp-set and inclined to harsh laughter. A dog got in his way at a corner and he kicked it into the gutter. Marble laughed without turning his head. After a while he asked Rodney where they should go. Go? I thought you weregoing.~~ Oh, I dont care; it is the same to me. There is high art, low art and no art; theres the spectacular, the burlesque, comedy and tragedy, the melodramatic which is low and stupid, and the minstrels, low and amusing; the vulgar, the fashionable and the highly respectable. You takes your choice and pays your money.~~ Rodney made a brief and emphatic con- signment of the highly respectable. Lets go to the minstrels, he said. Rodney was out early the next morning. He found Westlake still in bed. Mayne, he said, I cant stay here. Im going away. He looked as if he hadnt slept, but West- lake did not notice that. He lay still. Why dont you go then? he asked. I dont want to leave you in the lurch, but Westlake rose up with the bed-clothes round him. No, of course you dont, he roared.. What do you want? the devil knows. what you want. You want to get from un- der just as Im getting on my legs and let the house come down about my ears. You want to keep me under your thumb, and play the benefactor to me all my life. You want to go puling back to throw your head under foot again, thats what you want. You dont. care for me, or Nina, or anybody but that puritanical He saw then that Rodneys face was. white and shaken, and he stopped. Rod- ney put his hand up to steady himself; the floor heaved under his feet. That will do, Mayne, he dragged the words out. Dont say any more. Yott dont know what youre saying. He groped his way out by the wall, thought it was broad day, and went stumbling down the stairs. He did not come to the office;. in the afternoon Mayne went to look for him. He had not been home since morning. Mayne went back after dinner. Rodney had been in and gone out again. Lucy drew Mayne into the hall and the gas-light showed each an anxious face. Is heis theredo you know what is wrong with him? she asked timidly. Yes, I ought to. Nothing on his side, except that hes too good for common clay. Dont worry; its only my cursed folly. He went to Ninas. She had seen Rodney pass but he had not come in. Mayne would not stay; he took a car and came back. Near Marbles he got off again. When half a block away, he heard a car stop and looke& back. It was going the way he had been; the lamp-light showed him one man getting out and another getting in. He started back on a run, turned the corner and took to the middle of the track in pursuit. He over- took it and climbed in; there was no one but Rodney inside, in the far corner.. He did not look up till Mayne hedged him in with his arms. He looked now as if he had not slept for a week. Mayne was out of breath; that accounted for the bend of his head and the rise in his throat. He did not attempt to speak for a while; he seemed to be satisfied just to look at him and have him fast and close. Im deuced glad Ive got you, old boy, he said finally; I thought I never should. I dont know what to say about this morning. Ji?OD1VE Y MA VERICK. 103 Theres nothing I oughtnt to say and do, but it isnt in my line, you know. Id have eaten my head the next minute. You dont mind now, Rod? Shall I say any more? I said an elder soldier, not a better; did I say better ? There was a warmth of re- gret and affection in his tone and eyes that no words could convey. Rodney turned his head, as though it were stiff. He raised and expanded himself, and worked his neck and jaws as if moistening his throat, but he said nothing. A softened expression thawed through the mask of his face under Maynes steady regard, like rough ice under the sun. Where were you going? Can I come with you? Mayne continued. NowhereI dont know. He turned away and back again instantly. Yes; I believe I was going to Ninas. Thought you would find me there, eh? I never saw anybody like you for not bear- ing malice, Rod. Shall we go there now? Oh, no! The words welled out. Lets get out and walk; its smothering in here. They got off. Rodney took hold weakly of Maynes arm. Mayne grasped the hand, held it a moment with a strong, quivering grip, then drew the arm under his, almost to the shoulder, and held it close and hard. They walked a little way in silence. You havent answered me, Rod, Mayne complained. I know I dont deserve an answer. I ought to go down on my knees to you if that sort of thing wasnt out of date, but I know you dont want any gnm- acing. Only I think you ought to say if you dont mind now. Not the kings crown, nor the deputed sword, you know, Rod. Shall I say any more? No, no! Rodney answered. Dont speak of it. You hurt me to death, but you didnt mean it. You didnt understand. I can t stand anything from you. But its all right. Only dont let anything set you against me, Mayne; I ~.can bear anything but that; set this down to my credit against anything that may happen on the other side of the account. And put this with it, Mayne: whatever may come between us, I want you to believe that I try not to do you any wrong,before God I do ! They had been standing still without knowing it. They strolled on. A feeling of awe crept over them and neither spoke for a while. Around them the city hushed its feverish pulsation; over them wheeled the stars through the inconceivable firmament. They stood before the presence of the in- finite and unchangeable that have awed questioning human eyes from the beginning; and beside that sublimity all petty cares ~and fears and hopes shrank into in~ignificance~ and only love and faith stood up pure ancL unabashed. They fell into tender and reverent converse Qf the things that are unseen and eternal;, the old, old pathetic yearnings and aspira- tions; the ideal and intangible things that alone are real and abiding. By and by they came to Rodneys door, although he had not known or cared which way they went. Lucy answered the bell hastily, and with an anxious face. Mayne took her hand and pressed it, smiling happily. We just stopped to tell you that Rod- neys going to stay with me to-night. She reached out her hand for Rodney, and looked up at him thankfully. He took it and stooped and kissed her, a thing he seldom did. Good-night, dear, he said, and they went away. They did not go in till they were tired, and then they lay down and slept side by side, as they used to like to do after a day among the hills and woods, or on the bay. Rodney dreamed they were out together again, back in those long, long, old summer days, and woke with Mayne smiling over him. Come, boy, he called, its time you were up. Plow deep while sluggards sleep, and so forth. He whistled an air while they dressed. Then he came suddenly and put his strong hand on Rodneys shoulder. Im not going to let you go, he said, Ive got you down in black and white, you know, and I hold you to the bond. He looked at Rodney steadily and added, in a different tone, I dont want you to go back there; youve suffered enough, Rod, and I cant do without you; 1 should miss you fearfully. Ill try, Rodney answered, and turned away. He did try for a week. It came Sunday evening; Ralph went to church and Rod- ney sat in Lucys sitting-room. The little ones climbed over him and he fondled them, but there was sdmething about him that made them quieter than usual; they bent their heads backward and looked up in his face. When they were gone to bed, something happened to little Phil, and he came mourn- ing in his night-gear, to be comforted. Rodney watched Lucy soothe him and carry him off consoled; and when she sat down before him he said: 104 RODNEY MA VERICK If I were to get hurt, Luce, would you cure me as you do Phil ? She looked up at him swiftly, and for an- swer put out her arms to him with a pitiful smile. Do you know, then? he asked. Yes; I think so. His head went down before her till sh~ could not see his face. She took it in her arms and drew it to her breast and laid her face upon it. Poor boy! she said. Poor boy! She stroked his hair and caressed him like a little child. When he sat up again she took up the smooth-worn book that lay beside her, chose a place (she hardly knew how), and read with fervor: The earth is the Lords, and the fullness thereof; the world,and they that dwell there in. For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods. XVho shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation. * * * Lift up your heads, 0 ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle. Lift up your heads, 0 ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory. The sublime strain thrilled, swayed, in- spired him. When the sweet, fervent voice was still, the impassioned cadences continued to vibrate through him like the after-rhyme of a great bell. They sat silent, absorbed in such purified and uplifted meditation until Ralph came in. The next day Rodney tried to speak to Mayne but could not. In the afternoon he left his desk abruptly and went out. He went straight to Nina. He had not seen her for some time alone. When he came into her presence he was ~eized with a vio- lent trembling and had to turn away before speaking. Nina, he said, I want you to do me a very great favor. Will you do it? She looked at him with keen inquiry but answered directly: I will do anything I can for you, Rod- ney. Will you? thank you, he said fervidly. J want to give you my wedding-present now, to-day. You will take it? She sat down and crossed her hands. But Rodney, this is extraordinary; why, I dont know when Im going to be married. I know, I know, he persisted. I cant explain, but its very necessary. It is of the greatest importance. Will you not take my word for it? Certainly, she answered, I xvould take your word for anything. I will do as you wish. He turned and looked round the room. Please get me a bit of paper, and pen and ink. She brought them, and he sat down and wrote. He held it in the sun to dry, and brought it to her. He did not speak. Is this it? Is this the present? she asked. Yes, I beg you to accept it. She took the paper then and read it. It was an order upon Mayne Y. Westlake, for nine thousand dollars and over, with inter- est, payable. to Nina L. Marble on demand, and in full discharge of all debts and obliga- tions to Rodney Maverick. Nina did not raise her head when she had read it although she let it fall in her lap. Do you understand ? Rodney asked. She lifted her face slowly and looked at him. No, I dont understand.Oh, I know what this means well enough,but I dont understand, and I cant understand, why two young men who would lay down their lives for each other should for that rather poor reason be forever itching to fight. It is rather strange, he said. But you dont know the whole of this, Nina. He dropped his eyes. And this doesnt seem an ungenerous use to make of my power over him, as he called it, does it? I thought it would free us both. Oh, no! she cried out, standing up and laughing restrainedly. Ungenerous? I never heard of anything so magnanimous in my life. To think of my finding fault with you fpr giving me ten thousand dollars (I know he has a good part of it already), and you have really made it seem as if I were the benefactor. I really begin to think I could understand mens friendships after a while. You have put it in such a way that I cant refuse it; I do think you generous, Rodney, and I thank you very much. Youre the best fellow in the world. She laid her hand on his arm and looked with frank admiration in his face. RODNEY MA VERICK. 105 He turned away his head a minute. Then youll do what you can, to make Mayne consent. I dont think he ought to object. I should think not. It is none of his affairs. Ill make him behave. Ive got him under my thumb now. She laughed and showed in tragic pantomime how she would hold the order over him in terror and threaten him with an awful forefinger. Rodney could not help smiling. He sat down and looked at her, and grew sober again. Nina, he said, Ive got to go away from here soon. I shall have to say good- bye. But he sat still, lounging back in his chair. A petulant expression of pain caine over her. She answered without looking at him. Youre a strange contradictory fellow. If you were in a story, if I didnt know that you dont really care for anybody but Mayne, I should say you were in love. I wish you were. She rested her chin in her hand and went on reflectively: Yes, I wish you were. A good shaking up would do you good. Youd have something else to think about, and if you took Maynes friend- ship less seriously, you would get on much better together. I wonder you havent, Rod- neysuch a soft-hearted person as you are. Nina, he said, Ive been in love since I was ten years old. Her hand dropped from her chin. Dear me! she sighed. Her eyes and her feat- nres fell together. A vague premonition of danger aifrighted her at last. She went on for the sake of saying something, with- out clearly knowing what she said. Since you were ten? That was begin- ning early. It could not be one person all that time? No, not one person, nor two. Fickle man! she retorted, with an attempt at her natural banter. And pray, why did you desert all the luckless maidens? Forvarious reasons, he answered. One -was too good; one was not good enough; and one,he faltered, but there was no stemming the tide that swept him now, and he plunged on fatuously, and one is promised to another man. She rose up and turned her head, as he had often seen her turn to cry out with laughter,but when the cry came now it was a great sob. Oh, dear, dear, dear! she sat down and sobbed spasmodically, her teeth shut together and gleaming between her vibrat ing lips, the crown of her coiled brown hair bowing over her, her chin bending in upon the swelling throat and breast that would not be restrained of their importunate gneving. Crouched down in his chair, his face and whole person seemingly shrunken to half their natural size, Rodney sat and watched h~r helplessly, noting, with a kind of wooden feeling, how fine she was in this new part and how like her sobbing was to her habitual laughter. Oh, Rodney! she began, when she could control her voice, what a blind, silly creature Ive been. But I did not think of it, indeed I never did. How could I? You were so much cleverer than 1,I used to think you were laughing at me. I dont see what you could see in me; its very good of you, Im sure. I wont say Im sorry, except that you should be troubled about such a foolish creature. And you must not go away. Why should you? I should miss you terribly, and now that we understand each other there will be nothing to hide, and you will soon learn that Im not the girl youre thinking of. There is nothing to be ashamed or afraid og and I cant let you go. I do like you, Rodney; 1 like you very much. There was no strength in him to resist such an appeal from that tear-stained, inno- cent face and husky voice. Youre very good to me, he said. God knows I dont want to go. There was no more to be said. He turned away, downcast, and came out slowly. She followed him closely and took his hand at the door. Youll come back soon? she said. Thank you, he answered, and went away. Nina sat alone awhile in her parlor, then got up and went to Lucy and was closeted with her an hour. Mayne called for Rodney late in the even- ing and asked him to come out and walk. The manner of both was subdued, Mayne preoccupied, Rodney expectant and hard. Im not in a gushing humor to-night, Mayne said, when they had walked a little way. Youll have to let me postpone my undying gratitude. It may seen strange to youit does to me, but that magnificent thing you did by Nina hasnt put me in a thankful humor. I know it was magnificent, and the best part of me feels as I ought about it; but I havent got that part on to- night. So if I growl, its the other part of io6 RODNEY MA VERICK methe cat and dog partthat snarls, and not at you but at fate. I believe I grudge you having all the splendid openings for investments of that kind. Id like to have just one try. Thats a meek and gracious spirit, isnt it? And to tell the truth, I be- lieve Im a little jealous of you. A man likes to do the magnificent thing by his Juliet himself. No one has any business tQ be bigger or stronger before her. Im glad you didnt come round before I had made things secure. Did your ears burn to-night? Mine did, to hear her talk about you. He did not notice Rodney much, but seemed to talk more to himself. His ill- humor worked itself off as he rambled on, and he took Rodneys arm and wandered into gentle and gentler talk of Nina, her un- selfishness, her address, and her faculty of infusing harmony and enjoyment, and much more. He took no notice of Rodneys rest- lessness, that he walked with quick, short steps, and zigzagged between him and the curbstone. Rodney took his arm and held it with all his might, and Mayne maundered on about her gifts and graces. Rodney began to stagger in his gait; he put up his mouth once, as if to shout into Maynes ear, but he made no sound; Mayne only turned his head and turned back, and kept on in his blind rhapsody. They came upon a bridge above a sunken street. In the middle, Rodney flung round and cried out: Stop! The word seemed to be caught up and tossed about in the empty streets above and below, Stop, stop, stop! He held Mayne by the arms and backed him against the par- apet. And Mayne demanded: Whats this about? why should I stop? Because Ill throw you down there if you dont. Youre enough to drive a man crazy. Youre as blind and deaf as the dead. Nina, Nina, Nina! My head is bursting with Nina! Mayne shut his eyes. A flash of lightning showed him the path he had been walking. He turned out of Rodneys grasp and leaned far over the bridge. Oh, my God! he groaned. When he stood up, Rodney faced him. Will you let me go now? he asked mock- ingly. Do you hold me to the bond? Mayne held him with one hand, and the grasp shook him to his feet and seemed as if it would crush his shoulder. And has she known this and let it go on without letting me know ? Go and ask her, Rodney answered sav- agely. The hand on his shoulder shook power- fully. The voice that spoke to him was not loud but came from the depths. Youve deceived me. Youve made a fool of me. You can go where traitors be- long! He turned and went away hotly. With some difficulty at that hour, he got speech. with Nina. He held her hands in no gen- tle way. You had a good deal to say about Rod- ney to-night; I understand it now. I know why you wanted me to promise never t& quarrel with him. You had good reason for threatening to consider our engagement broken in that case; you might have said it seriously instead of in jest. She tore away her hands. Her face was~ like blood. She turned aside a moment and panted. When she faced him her eyes blazed. I had good reason, she cried. I sai& it in jest and now I say it in earnest. Well, youre free then, he said. Weve quarreled already. I wish you joy.. Good-night. Two or three days later, some one came~ to the office from Maynes boarding-house to ask what had become of him. Rodney did not know. After office hours he walked toward Ninas, debating whether he should go there. Before he had decided, he met her, walking queenly in brave attire; she stopped before him. Do you know where Mayne is? No, do you? A shake of the head and blanching of the cheek, and no more was said about him. Neither showed any further concern. Weeks~ passed and grew to a month, and they neither heard nor spoke of him. Then Rodney made private inquiries in every probable direction to no purpose;. Maynes relatives lived in the West but he was not there. Nina asked no more ques- tions, and no one dared speak to her about him. Whatever she thought or felt, her carriage was straight and steady and her face unperturbed. She saw a good deal of Rodney. A grave kindness took the place of their old laughing badinage. They met upon a firm footing of confidence and friend- ship, and Rodney felt that they were as far apart as if all the seas weltered between. them. One day he found a letter at the office,. addressed To the Friends of M. Y. West- RODNEY MA VERICK. 107 lake. It was a mere scrawl, dated at a lumbering camp in the north. It said there was a man there, sick, of that name; and the address was found in his hat. Rodney took the letter to Nina. She sat down and turned white when she saw him. She felt faint when she read it, but shook it off. Can I go there? she asked weakly. Im going. Ill send you word. She held him. If I can do any good, youll be sure to let me know? Promise. And tell him,she bowed her head a moment, tell him he was mistaken. He nodded and ran away. He never stopped till he found him. By a river in the forest, on the floor of a loft in a log shanty, he found him lying in a red shirt, gaunt, with ragged beard and sunken eyes. The host said the water hadnt seemed to agree with him at first, and he wasnt up to the chopping business, though he had never seen a green hand take hold sharper. He was ambitious and made a dead set to keep his end up and climate himself at the same time, and kept on his legs till they went from under him. He hadnt had any doctor; there wasnt one short of Scotts. Scotts was the terminus of the new rail- road, thirty miles off. Rodney went there, found a doctor and told him the case. He asked a few questions in a keen, quiet way. Ill go and see him, he said, but youd better send for the young lady. Mayne was in the outlying country between waking and sleeping in those days. Rodney met Nina at the train and drove her out across the broad, white-clover meadows, and resplendent autumn wood- lands. He told her briefly about Mayne and then they said little more. Mayne came slowly and laboriously out of nebulous, labyrinthine places, and opened his eyes. They met Rodneys, smiled and then were darkened. Rodney bent and spoke eagerly: Yes, Im here. Look up, old fellow. Youve been sick, you know, but youll soon be well again. Its all right; you have had a bad dream, thats all. See,heres Nina. Yes, yes, Mayne! Nina cried; she put her face very close to tell him, and had not lifted it when Rodney turned and came out. They moved him in to Scotts as soon as he was able. He was worse after that but soon rallied. He and Rodney were sitting together one day, looking down the river and not speaking. Mayne, said Rodney, I didnt deserve all you said that night. Isnt there some- thing you want to say about it? I was thinking of that, Mayne replied. I hardly know what to say; theres nothing worth saying. But you didnt quite under- stand. I had been grouty about taking favors from you and bragging about what I should do if I ever had the chance. And then it seemed as if fate took me up short and said, Heres the chance you want. You had the start of him with her; now stand back and let him have his innings. And I found the dose harder to swallow than I had when it was your throat instead of mine. I didnt like the taste of it and it made me furious. I suppose I didnt say that exactly, but that was about what it meant, only Im very sure if things had been reversed I should never forgive you while I had breath. Then I wont, Rodne)i answered drily. Lets leave forgiveness and fiummery to the women, if its the same to you. I thought you seemed to have something carrying that didnt improve your appetite. If its. off now, let it go. Mayne did eat better after that. He grew stronger rapidly. All three were very gentle and friendly in a subdued way. Finally they thought Mayne well enough t& go home. One crisp morning they got upon the train. Rodney was still and absent. When the warning sounded he took a hand of each and said, Good-bye. They sprang up and held him fast. Youre coming? youre not going t& leave us? Yes, Ive promised to stay here. They want a lawyer. Its a rising place. I have some clients already, and they promise t& make me county judge in five years. He rattled and laughed but his eyes were full. Oh, Rodney! and Oh, dear! The train was moving. Good-bye Good-bye! They saw him from the window, but hi~ back was turned. And the eyes that strained back toward him were blurred and dim. io8 MARE GIRA (IDS LITTLE DA LIGHTER. MERE GIRAUDS LITTLE DAUGHTER. PRUT! said Annot, her sabots clatter- ing loudly on the brick floor as she moved more rapidly in her wrath. Prut! Madame Giraud, indeed! There was a time, and it was but two years ago, that she was but plain Mare Giraud, and no better than the rest of us; and it seems to me, neighbors, that it is not well to show pride because one has the luck to be favored by fortune. Where, forsooth, would our Madame Giraud stand if luck had not given her a daughter pretty enough to win a rich hus- band ? True, indeed! echoed two of the gos- sips who were her admiring listeners. True, beyond doubt. Where, indeed? But the third, a comely, fresh-skinned matron, who leaned against the door, and knitted a stout gray stocking with fast- clashing needles, did not acquiesce so read- ily. Well, well, rteighbors, she said, for my part, I do not see so much to complain of. Mare Giraudshe is still Mare Giraud to meis as honest and kindly a soul as ever. It is not she who has called herself Madame Giraud; it is others who are foolish enough to fancy that good luck must change ones old ways. If she had had the wish to be a grand personage, would she not have left our village before this and have joined Mad- ame Legrand in Paris. On the contrary, however, she remains in her cottage, and is as good a neighbor as ever, even though she is fond of talking of the carriages and jewels of Madame Legrand and her estab- lishment on the Boulevard Malesherbes. In fact, I ask you, who of us would not rejoice also to be the mother of a daughter whose fortune had been so good ? That also is true, commented the ami- able couple, nodding their white-capped heads with a sagacious air. True, without doubt. But Annot replied, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders: Wait until Madame Giraud is invited to visit the Boulevard Malesherhes, she said. We have not heard that this has happened yet. She would not go if she were, at least not to remain. Her heart has grown to the old place she bore her children in, and she has herself said to me most sensibly: Laure is young, and will learn easily the ways of the great world; I am old, and cannot; I am better at home among my neighbors. Doubtless, however, in course of time she will pay Madame Legrand a visit at her home in Paris, or at the Chateau which Mon- sieur Legrand of course possesses, as the rich and aristocratic always do. Doubtless! said Annot, grimly; doubt- less Honest Jeanne Tallot passed the sneer by, and went on with stout gravity of demeanor: There is only one thing for which I somewhat blamed Mare Giraud, and that is that I think she has scarcely done her duty. toward Valentin. He disappointed her by being an ugly lad instead of a pretty girl, and she had not patience with him. Laure was the favorite. Whatever Laure did was right, and it was not so with the other, though I myself know that Valentin was a good lad, and tender-hearted. Once, put in a white cap, I saxv her beat him severely because he fell with the little girl in his arms and scratched her cheek, and it was not his fault. His foot slipped upon a stone. He was carrying the child carefully and tenderly enough. You are right in calling him a good lad, neighbor Tallot. He was a good lad,Valentin Giraud,and fond of his mother, notwith- standing that she was not fond of him. Yes, added her companion; but it is a truth that he was a great contrast to the girl. Mon dieu / his long limbs and awk- ward body, his great sad eyes and ugly face! While Laure,was she not tall and slender and white, like a lily in a garden? And her voice was like the ringing of silver, and her eyes so soft and large. As an infant, she reminded one of the little J~su as one sees him in the churches. No wonder that Mare Giraud fretted at the difference between the two. And Valentin was her first, and what mother does not look for great things in her first? We cannot help feeling that some- thing must come of ones own charms if one has any, and Mare Giraud was a handsome bride. An ugly bantling seems to offer one a sort of insult, particularly at first, when one is young and vain.~~ There was no more beautiful young girl than Laure Giraud at sixteen, said Jeanne Tallot. And none more useless, said Annot

io8 MARE GIRA (IDS LITTLE DA LIGHTER. MERE GIRAUDS LITTLE DAUGHTER. PRUT! said Annot, her sabots clatter- ing loudly on the brick floor as she moved more rapidly in her wrath. Prut! Madame Giraud, indeed! There was a time, and it was but two years ago, that she was but plain Mare Giraud, and no better than the rest of us; and it seems to me, neighbors, that it is not well to show pride because one has the luck to be favored by fortune. Where, forsooth, would our Madame Giraud stand if luck had not given her a daughter pretty enough to win a rich hus- band ? True, indeed! echoed two of the gos- sips who were her admiring listeners. True, beyond doubt. Where, indeed? But the third, a comely, fresh-skinned matron, who leaned against the door, and knitted a stout gray stocking with fast- clashing needles, did not acquiesce so read- ily. Well, well, rteighbors, she said, for my part, I do not see so much to complain of. Mare Giraudshe is still Mare Giraud to meis as honest and kindly a soul as ever. It is not she who has called herself Madame Giraud; it is others who are foolish enough to fancy that good luck must change ones old ways. If she had had the wish to be a grand personage, would she not have left our village before this and have joined Mad- ame Legrand in Paris. On the contrary, however, she remains in her cottage, and is as good a neighbor as ever, even though she is fond of talking of the carriages and jewels of Madame Legrand and her estab- lishment on the Boulevard Malesherbes. In fact, I ask you, who of us would not rejoice also to be the mother of a daughter whose fortune had been so good ? That also is true, commented the ami- able couple, nodding their white-capped heads with a sagacious air. True, without doubt. But Annot replied, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders: Wait until Madame Giraud is invited to visit the Boulevard Malesherhes, she said. We have not heard that this has happened yet. She would not go if she were, at least not to remain. Her heart has grown to the old place she bore her children in, and she has herself said to me most sensibly: Laure is young, and will learn easily the ways of the great world; I am old, and cannot; I am better at home among my neighbors. Doubtless, however, in course of time she will pay Madame Legrand a visit at her home in Paris, or at the Chateau which Mon- sieur Legrand of course possesses, as the rich and aristocratic always do. Doubtless! said Annot, grimly; doubt- less Honest Jeanne Tallot passed the sneer by, and went on with stout gravity of demeanor: There is only one thing for which I somewhat blamed Mare Giraud, and that is that I think she has scarcely done her duty. toward Valentin. He disappointed her by being an ugly lad instead of a pretty girl, and she had not patience with him. Laure was the favorite. Whatever Laure did was right, and it was not so with the other, though I myself know that Valentin was a good lad, and tender-hearted. Once, put in a white cap, I saxv her beat him severely because he fell with the little girl in his arms and scratched her cheek, and it was not his fault. His foot slipped upon a stone. He was carrying the child carefully and tenderly enough. You are right in calling him a good lad, neighbor Tallot. He was a good lad,Valentin Giraud,and fond of his mother, notwith- standing that she was not fond of him. Yes, added her companion; but it is a truth that he was a great contrast to the girl. Mon dieu / his long limbs and awk- ward body, his great sad eyes and ugly face! While Laure,was she not tall and slender and white, like a lily in a garden? And her voice was like the ringing of silver, and her eyes so soft and large. As an infant, she reminded one of the little J~su as one sees him in the churches. No wonder that Mare Giraud fretted at the difference between the two. And Valentin was her first, and what mother does not look for great things in her first? We cannot help feeling that some- thing must come of ones own charms if one has any, and Mare Giraud was a handsome bride. An ugly bantling seems to offer one a sort of insult, particularly at first, when one is young and vain.~~ There was no more beautiful young girl than Laure Giraud at sixteen, said Jeanne Tallot. And none more useless, said Annot MARE GIRA UD S LITTLE DA UGHTER. 109 loudly. Give me a young girl who is industrious and honest. My Margot is bet- ter provided for than Laure Giraud was before her marriage; but her hands are not white, nor is her waist but a span around. She has too much work to do. She is not a tall, white, swaying creature who is too good to churn and tend the creatures who give her food. I have heard it said that Laure would have worked if her mother had permitted it, but I dont believe it. She had not a working look. Mademoiselle Laure was too good for the labor of humble people; she must go to Paris and learn a fine, deli- cate trade. But good came of it, put in Jeanne Tallot. It proved all the better for her. Let her mother thank the Virgin, then, cried Annot, contemptuously. It might not have proved the better; it might have proved the worse; evil might have come of it instead of good. Who among us has not heard of such things? Did not Marie Gautier go to Paris too ? Ah, poor little one, indeed! sighed the white caps. And in two years, added Annot, her mother died of a broken heart. But, said cheerful Jeanne, somewhat dryly, Laures mother is not dead yet, so let us congratulate ourselves that to go to Paris has brought luck to one of our number at least, and let us deal charitably with M~ire Giraud, who certainly means well, and is only naturally proud of her daughters grand- eur. For my part, I can afford to rejoice with her. She rolled up her stout stocking into a ball, and stuck her needles through it, nodding at the three women. I promised i[ would drop in and spend a few minutes with her this morning, she said; so I will bid you good-day, and she stepped across the threshold and trudged off in the sunshine, her wooden shoes sounding bravely, upon the path. It was only a little place,St. Croix, as we will call it for want of a better name,a little village of one street, and of many vines, and roses, and orchards, and of much gos- sip. Simple people inhabited it,simple, ignorant folk, who knew one another, and discussed one anothers faults and grape- crops with equal frankness, worked hard, lived frugally, confessed regularly and slept well. Devout people, and ignorant, who believed that the little shrines they erected in their vineyards brought blessings upon their grapes, and who knew nothing of the great world beyond, and spoke of Paris with awe, and even a shade of doubt. Living the same lives generation after gen- eration, tilling the same crops, and praying before the same stone altar in the small, quaint church, it is not to be wondered at that when a change occurred to any one of their number, it was regarded as a sort of social era. There were those in St. Croix who had known M~re Girauds grandfather, a slow-spoken, kindly old peasant, who had drunk his yin ordinaire, and smoked his pipe with the poorest; and there was not one who did not well know Mare Giraud herself~ and who had not watched the growth of the little Laure, who had bloomed into a beauty not unlike the beauty of the white Provence roses which climbed over and around her mothers cottage door. Mare Girauds little daughter, she had been called, even after she grew into the wonderfully tall and won- derfully fair creature she became before she left the village, accompanying her brother Valentin to Paris. M~ifoi I said the men, but she is truly a beauty, Mare Girauds little daughter! She should be well looked to, said the wiseacres, Mare Girauds little daughter. There is one we must always give way before, said the best-natured among the girls, and that one is Mare Girauds little daughter. The old Cure of the parish took interest in her, and gave her lessons, and, as Mare Giraud would have held her strictly to them, even if she had not been tractable and studi- ous by nature, she was better educated and more gently trained than her companions. The fact was, however, that she had not many companions. Some element in her grace and beauty seemed to separate her from the rest of her class. Village sports and festivities had little attraction for her, and, upon the whole, she seemed out of place among them. Her stature, her fair, still face, and her slow, quiet movements, suggested rather embarrassingly to the humble feasters the presence of some young princess far above them. Pouf! said a sbarp-tongued belle one day, I have no patience with her. She is so tall, this Laure, that one must be forever looking up to her, and I, for one, do not care to be forever looking up. The hint of refined pride in her demeanor was M~ire Girauds greatest glory. She is not like the rest, my Laure, she would say to her son. One can see it in the way in which she holds her head. She hO MARE GIRA UD S LITTLE DA UGHTER. has the quiet, grave air of a great per- sonage. There were many who wondered that Yalentin showed no jealousy or distaste at hearing his sisters praises sounded so fre- quently to his own detriment. There was no praise for him. The poor fond mothers heart was too full of Laure. Her son had been a hitter disappointment to her, and,to her mind; was fitted for nothing but to make himself an adoring slave to his sisters beauty; and this the gentle, generous fellow certainly was. He was always ready to serve her; always affectionate; always faithful; and Mare Giraud, who was blind to, or careless og all his loving, constant labor for her own comfort, deigned to see that he did his duty toward Laure. He has at least the sense to appreciate her as far as he is able, she said. So when Valentin, who had a curious tal- ent for engraving, was discovered by some one who understood his genius, and could make use of it, and was offered a place in the great, gay city, Mare Giraud formed an ambitious plan. He should take Laure and find her a position also; she had the fingers of a fair magician, and could embroider marvelously. So she trusted Laure to him, and the two bade farewell to St. Croix and departed together. A month passed, and then there came a letter containing good news. Valentin was doing well, and Laure also. She had found a place in a great fam- ily where she was to embroider and wait upon a young lady. They were rich peo- ple, and were kind, and paid her well, and she was happy. When they first saw her, they were astonished, wrote the simple, tender Valen- tin. I went with her to present herself. My employer had recommended her. There is a son who is past his youth, and who has evidently seen the world. He is aristocratic and fair, and slightly bald, but extremely hand- some still. He sat holding a newspaper in his long, white fingers, and when we entered, he raised his eyes above it and looked at Laure, and I heard him exclaim under his breath, Mon Dieu I as if her beauty fairly startled him. When the Curer, to whom the proud mother showed the letter, read this part, he did not seem as rejoiced as Mare Giraud had expected. On the contrary, he looked a little grave, and rubbed his forehead. Ah! ah! hesaid; there liesthedanger. Danger! exclaimed Mare Giraud, start- ing. He turned, and regarded her with a rather hesitant air, as if he were at once puzzled and fearful,puzzled by her simplicity, and fear- ful of grieving her unnecessarily. Valentin is a good lad, he said. Val- entin will be watchful,though perhaps he is too good to suspect evil. Mire Giraud put her hand to her heart. You are not afraid? she said, quite proudly, beginning at last to comprehend. You are not afraid of evil to Laure ? No, no, no, he answered; surely not. He said no more then, but he always asked to see the letters, and read them with great care, sometimes over and over again. They came very regularly for six or seven months, and then there was a gap of a few weeks, and then came a strange, almost in- comprehensible, letter from Valentin, contain- ing news which almost caused M~re Girauds heart to burst with joy and gratitude. Laure was married, and had made such a marriage as could scarcely have been dreamed of. A rich aristocrat, xvho had visited her employ- ers, had fallen in love with her, and married her. He had no family to restrain him, and her beauty had won him completely from the first hour. He had carried her away with him to make a prolonged tour. The family with whom she had lived had been lavish in their gifts and kindness, but they had left Paris also and were voyaging. The name of Laures bridegroom was Legrand, and there came messages from Laure, and inclosed was a handsome present of money. Mare Giraud was overwhelmed with joy. Before three hours had passed, all St. Croix knew the marvelous news. She went from house to house showing the letter and the money, and it was not until night that she cooled down sufficiently to labor through a long epistle to Valentin. It was a year before Laure returned to Paris, and during that time she wrote but seldom; but Valentin wrote often, and answered all his mothers questions, though not as fluently, nor with so many words as she often wished. Laure was rich, and beau- tiful as ever; her husband adored her, and showered gifts and luxuries upon her; she had equipages and jewels; she wore velvet and satin and lace every day; she was a great lady, and had a house like a palace. Laure herself did not say so much. In her secret heart, Mare Giraud often longed for more, but she was a discreet and far-seeing woman. What would you ? she said. She MARE GIRA UD S LITTLE DA UGHTER. III must drive out in her equipage, and she must dress and receive great people, and I am not so blind a mother as not to see that she will have many things to learn. She has not time to write long letters,and see how she cares for me,money, see you, by every letter, and a. silk dress and lace cap she herself has chosen in the Boulevard Capucines. And I must care for myself; and furnish the cottage prettily, and keep a servant. Her wealth and great fortune have not rendered her undutiful,my Laure. So she talked of Madame Legrand, and so all St. Croix talked of Madame Legrand, and some, of course, were envious and pro- phesied that the end had not come yet, and Mare Giraud would find herself forgotten some fine day; and others rejoiced with her, and congratulated themselves that they knew so aristocratic a person as Madame Legrand. Jeanne Tallot was of those who sympa- thized with her in all warm-heartedness and candor. With her knitting in her hand ready for action, and with friendly uncere- moniousness, she presented herself at the cottage door one morning, nodding and speaking before she had crossed the thresh- old. Good-day, neighbor Giraud. Any let- ters from Laure this mining? Mare Giraud, who sat before the window under the swinging cage of her bird, looked up with an air a little more serious than usual. Ah! she said, I am glad it is you, Jeanne. I have been wishing to see you. Jeanne seated herself; smiling. Then, said she, it is well I came. But immediately she noticed the absent look of her friend, and commented upon it. You do not look at your best this morn- ing, she said. How does it occur? I am thinking, said Mare Giraud with some importance of manner; I am thinking of going to Paris. To Paris ! I am anxious, shaking her head seri- ously. I had last night a bad dream. I wish to see Laure. Then she turned and looked at Jeanne almost wistfully. It is a long time since I have seen her, she said. Yes, answered Jeanne in a little doubt; but Paris is a long way off. Yes, said Mare Giraud; but it appears that all at once I realize how long it is since I have seen my child. I am getting old, you see. I was not very young when she was born, and, as one grows older, one becomes more uneasy and obstinate in ones fancies. This morning I feel that I must see my Laure. My heart yearns for her, and hastily she will undoubtedly be rejoiced to see me. She has often said that she wished she might lay her head upon my breast again. It seemed that she was resolved tipon the journey. She was in a singular, uneasy mood, and restless beyond measure. She who had never been twenty miles from St. Croix had made up her mind to leave it at once and confront all the terrors of a jour- ney to Paris,for there were terrors in such a journey to the mind of a simple peasant who had so far traveled but in one groove. She would not even wait to consult Monsieur le Cur!, who was unfortunately absent. Jeanne discovered to her astonishment that she had already made her small preparations, had packed her best garments in a little wooden box, laying the silk gown and lace cap at the top that they might be in readiness. I will not interfere at all, and I shall not remain long, she said. Only long enough to see my Laure, and spend a few days with her quietly. It is not Paris I care for, or the great sights; it is that I must see my child. St. Croix was fairly bewildered at the news it heard the next day. Mare Giraud had gone to Paris to visit Madame Legrand had actually gone, sending her little ser- vant home, and shutting up her small trim cottage. Let us hope that Madame Legrand will receive her as she expects to be received, said Annot. For my part I should have preferred to remain in St. Croix. Only yes- terday Jeanne Tallot told us that she had no intention of going. She will see wonderful things, said the more simple and amiable. It is possible that she may be invited to the Tuileries, and without doubt she will drive to the Bois de Boulogne in Madame Legrands carriage, with servants in livery to attend her. My uncles sisters son, who is a va/el depiace in a great family, tells us that the aristocracy drive up and down the Champs Elys6es every afternoon, and the sight is magnificent. But Mare Giraud did not look forward to such splendors as these. I shall see my Laure as ,a great lady, she said to herself. I shall hold her white hands and kiss her cheeks. 112 MPRE GIRA UD S LITTLE DA UGHTER. The roar of vehicles, and the rush and crowd and bustle bewildered her; the bright- ness and the rolling wheels dazzled her old eyes, but she held herself bravely. People to whom she spoke smiled at her ~afois and her innocent questions, but she did not care. She found a fiacre which took her to her destination; and when, after she had paid the driver, he left her, she entered the wide doors with a beating heart, the blood rising on her cheek, and glowing through the withered skin. Madame Legrand, she said a little proudly to the concierge, and the woman stared at her as she led her up the staircase. She was so eager that she scarcely saw the beauty around her,the thick soft carpets, the carved balustrades, the superb lamps. But when they stopped before a door she touched the concierge upon the arm. Do not say my name, she said. I am her mother. The woman stared at her more than ever. It is not my place to announce you, she said. I only came up because I thought you would not find the way.~~ She could not have told why it was or how it happened, but when at last she was ushered into the salon a strange sense of op- pression fell upon her. The room was long and lofty, and so shadowed by the heavy curtains falling across the windows that it was almost dark. For a few seconds she saw nobody, and then all at once some one rose from a re- clining chair at the farther end of the apart- ment and advanced a few steps toward her a tall and stately figure, moving slowly. Who ? she heard a cold soft voice say, and then came a sharp cry, and Laures white hands were thrown out in a strange, desperate gesture, and she stopped and stood like a statue of stone. Mother mothermother! she repeated again and again, as if some indescribable pain shook her. If she had been beautiful before, now she was more beautiful still. She was even taller than ever,she was like a queen. Her long robe was of delicate gray velvet, and her hair and throat and wrists were bound with pearls and gold. She was so lovely and so stately that for a moment Mare Giraud was half awed, but the next it was as if her strong mother heart broke loose. My Laure! she cried out. Yes,it is I, my childit is I, Laure; and she almost fell upon her knees as she embraced her, trembling for very ecstasy. But Laure scarcely spoke. She was white and cold, and at last she gasped forth three words. XVhere is Valentin? But Mare Giraud did. not know. It was not Valentin she cared to see. Valentin could wait, since she had her Laure. She sat down beside her in one of the velvet chairs, and she held the fair hand in her own. It was covered with jewels, but she did not notice them; her affection only told her that it was cold and tremulous. You are not well, Laure? she said. It was well that my dream warned me to come. Something is wrong. I am quite well, said Laure. I do not suffer at all. She was so silent that if M~r~ Giraud had not had so much to say she would have been troubled; as it was, however, she was content to pour forth her affectionate speeches one after another without waiting to be answered. Where is Monsieur Legrand? she ventured at last. He is, said Laure, in a strange hesitant voice, he is in Normandy. Shall I not seehim? asked Mare Giraud. I am afraid not, unless your visit is a long one. He will be absent for some months. She did not speak with any warmth. It was as if she did not ~zare to speak of him at all,as if the mention of him even em- barrassed her a little. Mare Giraud felt a secret misgiving. I shall not stay long, she said; but I could not remain away. I wished so eagerly to see you, and know that yon were happy. You are happy, my Laure? Laure turned toward her and gave her a long looka look which seemed uncon- sciously to ask her a question. Happy! she answered slowly and de- liberately, I suppose so.Yes. M~re Giraud caressed her hand again and again. Yes, she said, it must be so. The good are always happy; and you, my Laure, have always been dutiful and virtuous, and consequently you are reward- ed. You have never caused me a grief, and now, thank the good God! you are pros- perous. She looked at her almost ador- ingly, and at last touched the soft thick gray velvet of her drapery with reverence. Do you wear such things as this every day? she asked. MERE GIRA UDS LITTLE DA UGHTER. I 13 Yes, Laure answered, every day. Ah! sighed the happy mother, How Monsieur Legrand must adore you! At length she found time to ask a few questions concerning Valentin. I know that he is well and as prosper- ous as one could expect him to.be; but I hope bridling a little with great serious- ness I hope he conducts himself in such a manner as to cause you no embarrass- ment, though naturally you do not see him often. No, was the answer,they did not see him often. Well, well, began Mare Giraud, be- coming lenient in her great happiness, he is not a bad ladValentin. He means well But here she stopped,Laure checked her with a swift, impassioned movement. He is what we cannot understand, she said in a hushed strained voice. He is a saint. He has no thought for himself. His whole life is a sacrifice. It is not I you should adoreit is Valentin. Valentin! echoed M~re Giraud. It quite bewildered her, the mere thought of adoring Valentin. My child, she said when she recovered herself, it is your good heart which says this. The same night Valentin came. Laure went out into the antechamber to meet him, and each stood and looked at the other with pale face and anguished eyes. Valentins eyes were hollow and sunken as if with some great sorrow, and his large awkward frame seemed wasted. But there was no reproach mingled with the indescribable sadness ot his gaze. Your note came to me, he said. Our mother She is in there, said Laure in a low, hurried, shaken voice, and she pointed to the salon. She has come to embrace me, to make sure that I am happy. Ah, my God! and she covered her deathly face with her hands. Valentin did not approach her. He could only stand still and look on. One thought filled his mind. We have no time to weep, Laure, he said gently. We must go on as we have begun. Give me your hand. This was all, and then the two went in together, Laures hand upon her brothers arm. It was a marvelous life Mere Giraud lived during the next few days. Certainly she VOL. XIII.8. could not complain that she was not treated with deference and affection. She wore the silk dress every day; she sat at the wonder- ful table, and a livened servant stood behind her chair; she drove here and there in a luxburious carriage; she herself, in fact, lived the life of an aristocrat and a great lady. Better than all the rest, she found her Laure as gracious and dutiful as her fond heart could have wished. She spent every hour with her; she showed her all her grandeurs of jewelry and toilet/c; she was not ashamed of her mother, untutored and simple as she might be. Only she is very pale and quiet, she remarked to Valentin once; even paler and more quiet than I should have expected. But then we know that the rich and aristocratic are always somewhat reserved. It is only the peasantry and provincials who are talk- ative and florid. It is natural that Laure should have gained the manner of the great world. But her happiness, poor soul, did not last long, and yet the blow God sent was a kindly one. One morning as they went out to their carriage, Laure stopped to speak to a woman who crouched upon the edge of the pave- ment with a child in her arms. She bent down and touched the little one with her hand, and Mere Giraud, looking on, thought of pictures she had seen of the Blessed Virgin, and of lovely saints healing the sick. What is the matter ? asked Laure. The woman looked down at the child and shivered. I do not know, she answered hoarsely. Only we are ill, and God has forsaken us. XVe have not tasted food for two days. Laure took something from her purse and laid it silently in the childs small, fevered hand. The woman burst into tears. Madame, she said, it is a twenty-franc piece. Yes, said Laure gently. When it is spent come to me again, and she went to her carriage. My child, said M~re Giraud, it is you who are a saint. The good God did wisely in showering blessings upon you. A few days longer she was happy, and then she awakened from her sleep one night and found Laure standing at her bedside looking down at her and shuddering. She started up with an exclamation of terror. lilon Dieu I she said. What is it ? She was answered in a voice she had never heard before,Laures, but hoarse and 4 AJERE GIRA LIDS LITTLE DA LIGHTER. shaken. Laure had fallen upon her knees, and grasped the bedclothes, hiding her face in the folds. I am ill, she answered in this strange, changed tone. I amI am cold and burn- ingI amdying. In an instant M~re Giraud stood upon the floor holding her already insensible form in her arms. She was obliged to lay her upon the floor while she rang the bell to alarm the servants. She sent for Valentin and a doctor. The doctor, arriving, regarded the beautiful face with manifest surprise and alarm. it was no longer pale, but darkly flushed, and the stamp of terrible pain was upon it. She has been exposed to infection, he said. This is surely the case. It is a malignant fever. Then M~re Giraud thought of the poor mother and child. 0 my God! she prayed, do not let her die a martyr. But the next day there was not a servant left in the house; but Valentin was there, and there had come a Sister of Mercy. When she came, Valentin met her, and led her into the salon. They remained together for half an hour, and then came out and went to the sick-room, and there were traces of tears upon the Sisters face. She was a patient, tender creature, who did her work well, and she listened with untiring gentleness to Mare Girauds passionate plaints. So beautiful, so young, so beloved, cried the poor mother; and Monsieur absent in Normandy, though it is impossible to say where! And if death should come before his return, who could confront him with the truth? So beautiful, so happy, so adored ! And Laure lay upon the bed, sometimes wildly delirious, sometimes a dreadful statue of stone,unhearing, unseeing, unmoving, death without deaths rest,life in deaths bonds of iron. But while M~re Giraud wept, Valentin had no tears. He was faithful, untiring, but silent even at the worst. One would think he had no heart, said Mare Giraud; but men are often so, ready to work, but cold and dumb. Ah! it is only a mother who bears the deepest grief. She fought passionately enough for a hope at first, but it was forced from her grasp in the end. Death had entered the house and spoken to her in the changed voice which had summoned her from her sleep. Madame, said the doctor one evening as they stood over the bed while the sun went down, I have done all that is possible. She will not see the sun set again. She may not see it rise. M~re Giraud fell upon her knees beside the bed, crossing herself and weeping. She will die, she said, a blessed mar- tyr. She will die the death of a saint. That very nightonly a few hours later there came to them a friend,one they had not for one moment even hoped to see, a gentle, grave old man, in a thin, well-worn black robe,the Cure of St. Croix. Him Valentin met also, and when the two saw each other, there were barriers that fell away in their first interchange of looks. My son, said the old man, holding out his hands, tell me the truth. Then Valentin fell into a chair and hid his face. She is dying, he said, and I cannot ask that she should live. What was my life he cried passion- ately, speaking again What was my life to me that I should not have given it to save her,to save her to her beauty and honor, and her mothers love! I would have given it cheerfully,a thousand times,a thou- sand times again and again. But it was not to be; and, in spite of my prayers, I lost her Oh, my God! with a sob of agony, if to-night she were in St. Croix and I could hear the neighbors call her again as they used, M~re Girauds little daughter! The eyes of the Cun! had tears in them also. Yesterday I returned to St. Croix and found your mother absent, he said. I have had terrible fears for months, and when 1 found her house closed, they caused me to set out upon my journey at once. He did not ask any questions. He re- membered too well the man of whom Valentin had written; the son who was past his youth, and had evidently seen the world ; the pale aristocrat, who had ex- claimed Mon Dieu / at the sight of Laures wondrous beauty. When the worst came to the worst, said Valentin, I vowed myself to the labor of sparing our mother. I have worked early and late to sustain myself in the part I played. It was not from Laure the money came. My God! Do you think I would have permitted my mothers hand to have touched a gift of hers? She wrote the let- ters, but the money I had earned honestly. IN AND ABOUT THE FAIR. I 15 Heaven will justify me for my falsehood since I have suffered so much. Yes, responded the Curi~, looking at his bent form with gentle, pitying eyes; Heaven will justify you, my son. They watched by Laure until the morning, but she did not see them; she saw nothing; to-night it was the statue of marble which lay before them. But in the early morning, when the sky was dappled with pink and gold, and the air was fresh and cool, and a silence, even more complete than that of the night, seemed to reign, there came a change. The eyes they had seen closed for so many hours were opened, and the soft voice broke in upon the perfect stillness of the room: The lilies in the garden are in bloom to-day. The were never so tall, and white, and fair before. I will gather themfor the altarto give to the Virginat my confes- sion. Mea cutjpaMea and all was over, and M~re Giraud fell upon her knees again, crying, as she had cried before, amid a passion of sobs and tears: She has died, my child, the death of a blessed martyr. It was rather strange, the villagers said, that Madame Legrand should have been buried in the little grave-yard at St. Croix instead of in some fine tomb at Pe~re la Chaise; butit was terribly sad !her husband was away, they knew not where, and it was Valentins wish, and M~re Girauds heart yearned so over her beloved one. So she was laid there, and a marble cross was placed at her heada tall, beautiful cross by Monsieur Legrand, of course. Only it was singular that he never came, though perhaps that is the way of the greatnot to mourn long or deeply even for those who have been most lovely, and whomthey have most tenderly loved. IN ANT) ABOUT THE FAIR. DINNERS, PLANTS AND PICTURES. AMONG the arts, that of cooking a good dinner, and of serving it well, is not the least; and in this the French are easily first. The Trois Fr~res is certainly not to be counted on the same plane with its namesake in the French capital; but one may find an excellent dinner there; and with a friend or two to share it, and a little dearly earned knowledge of the size and cost of dishes, there need be no undue ex- travagance. Popular opinion has indeed taken a strong set to the opposite belief; and this has been kept alive very much by the unwise and anti-American system of making a considerable charge for service, an item which finds explanation, but not a satisf~ving one, when the visitor observes the array of carefully dressed women who hold position upon the dais in the recesses of the restaurant, who keep as many books of entry as are requisite in a first-class counting-room. The American instinct is fretted by this superfluous machinery; in- deed, throughout our commercial life, we ignore those fine arrangements of checks and counterchecksso peculiar to French business habitswhich make fraud almost impossible. We incline to the attitude of trusting more, and of punishing the knavery invitedin the papers. Again, the purveyors of this French estab- lishment have not conciliated American feel- ing by their treatment of ground and build- ings. Upon one of the most beautiful sites within the inclosure, they have put a disor- derly array of structures stretching along the bordc~rs of the lake,making far less of their opportunities than any restaurateurs upon the ground. It would have been an easy thing to arrange umbrage and awnings in such fashion, that one might have indulged in the dainty dishes of the Parisian host, in full view of the pretty sheet of water and its grassy shores, and so given to the whole the air of af6te charnp~tre. We question, indeed, whether the utter indifference of the French proprietor to such structural disposition of his buildings as would mate best with the sur- roundings, has not in some measure inten- sified the resentment with which we con his scale of prices. No foreign nationality (if we except possibly the German) has shown so low an estimate of the American capac- ity for judgment in matters of taste, as the French. None has given so prevailing evi- dence of a disposition to regard our ~esthetic

IN AND ABOUT THE FAIR. I 15 Heaven will justify me for my falsehood since I have suffered so much. Yes, responded the Curi~, looking at his bent form with gentle, pitying eyes; Heaven will justify you, my son. They watched by Laure until the morning, but she did not see them; she saw nothing; to-night it was the statue of marble which lay before them. But in the early morning, when the sky was dappled with pink and gold, and the air was fresh and cool, and a silence, even more complete than that of the night, seemed to reign, there came a change. The eyes they had seen closed for so many hours were opened, and the soft voice broke in upon the perfect stillness of the room: The lilies in the garden are in bloom to-day. The were never so tall, and white, and fair before. I will gather themfor the altarto give to the Virginat my confes- sion. Mea cutjpaMea and all was over, and M~re Giraud fell upon her knees again, crying, as she had cried before, amid a passion of sobs and tears: She has died, my child, the death of a blessed martyr. It was rather strange, the villagers said, that Madame Legrand should have been buried in the little grave-yard at St. Croix instead of in some fine tomb at Pe~re la Chaise; butit was terribly sad !her husband was away, they knew not where, and it was Valentins wish, and M~re Girauds heart yearned so over her beloved one. So she was laid there, and a marble cross was placed at her heada tall, beautiful cross by Monsieur Legrand, of course. Only it was singular that he never came, though perhaps that is the way of the greatnot to mourn long or deeply even for those who have been most lovely, and whomthey have most tenderly loved. IN ANT) ABOUT THE FAIR. DINNERS, PLANTS AND PICTURES. AMONG the arts, that of cooking a good dinner, and of serving it well, is not the least; and in this the French are easily first. The Trois Fr~res is certainly not to be counted on the same plane with its namesake in the French capital; but one may find an excellent dinner there; and with a friend or two to share it, and a little dearly earned knowledge of the size and cost of dishes, there need be no undue ex- travagance. Popular opinion has indeed taken a strong set to the opposite belief; and this has been kept alive very much by the unwise and anti-American system of making a considerable charge for service, an item which finds explanation, but not a satisf~ving one, when the visitor observes the array of carefully dressed women who hold position upon the dais in the recesses of the restaurant, who keep as many books of entry as are requisite in a first-class counting-room. The American instinct is fretted by this superfluous machinery; in- deed, throughout our commercial life, we ignore those fine arrangements of checks and counterchecksso peculiar to French business habitswhich make fraud almost impossible. We incline to the attitude of trusting more, and of punishing the knavery invitedin the papers. Again, the purveyors of this French estab- lishment have not conciliated American feel- ing by their treatment of ground and build- ings. Upon one of the most beautiful sites within the inclosure, they have put a disor- derly array of structures stretching along the bordc~rs of the lake,making far less of their opportunities than any restaurateurs upon the ground. It would have been an easy thing to arrange umbrage and awnings in such fashion, that one might have indulged in the dainty dishes of the Parisian host, in full view of the pretty sheet of water and its grassy shores, and so given to the whole the air of af6te charnp~tre. We question, indeed, whether the utter indifference of the French proprietor to such structural disposition of his buildings as would mate best with the sur- roundings, has not in some measure inten- sified the resentment with which we con his scale of prices. No foreign nationality (if we except possibly the German) has shown so low an estimate of the American capac- ity for judgment in matters of taste, as the French. None has given so prevailing evi- dence of a disposition to regard our ~esthetic i i6 IN AND ABOUT THE FAIR. aims and criticism as tentative only, and crude and barbarian; nor has the dis- position, we think, been unkindly in any sense,only assured, and serene, and patron- izing. It is natural, if exasperating; and the Eastern States, if called upon to contribute to an exhibit of art industries and art tri- umphs in the far-away West, or on the Pacific Coast, would, very likely, by virtue of their superior age and longer schooling, show an easy, indifferent, patronizing regard, doubtless as galling, and very probably, as misplaced. The truth is, that in this day of swift traffic and intercommunication, the capacity to apprehend and comprehend good work of the highest kind, is in dispro- portionate excess to the capacity for actu- ally accomplishing the work. The educa- tion that provokes good critical estimate of art-work outmarches the slower culture out of which the ripest results of art-work are evolved. To go back now to our dinner at the Trois Fr?res: it is certainly the best place at the exhibitionif not the best in the coun- tryto find what the trickery of good cook- ing can do with indifferent meats. Not to say the meats are generally indifferent; but you shall find there the mere fragments from a breast of veal, or the segments of a calfs head, so bedecked and so dressed with piqu- ant sauces, and so beflanked with sav~ry vegetables, that you shall come to a new knowledge