The New Year’s debts are paid, the May-day
moving is over and settled, and still
a remnant of money is found sticking to the
bottom of the old marmalade pot. Where
shall we go?

There is nothing like the sea. Shall it be Newport?

But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of its
sangre azul. We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect the
last new villa: we like the beach, and they bid us enjoy the gardens, brought every
spring in lace-paper out of the florist’s shop. We like to stroll on the shore,
[pg 610]
barefooted if we choose, and Newport
is become an affair of toilette and
gold-mounted harness, a bathing-place
where people do everything
but bathe.

UP THE INLET.

Well, Nahant, then, or Long
Branch?

Too slow and too fast. Besides,
we have seen them.

Suppose we try the Isles of
Shoals? Appledore and Duck Island
and White Island, now? Or
Nantucket, or Marblehead?

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

In truth, under that moral and
physical dyspepsia to which we
bring ourselves regularly every
summer, the fine crags of the north
become just the least bit of a bore.
They necessitate an amount of
heroic climbing under the command
of a sort of romantic and do-nothing
Girls of the Period, who
sit about on soft shawls in the lee
of the rocks, and gather their shells
and anemones vicariously at the
expense of your tendon achilles.
We know it, for we have suffered.
We calculate, and are prepared to
prove, that the successful collection
of a single ribbon of ruffled seaweed,
procured in a slimy haystack
of red dulse at the beck of
one inconsiderate girl, who is keeping
her brass heels dry on a safe
and sunny ledge of the Purgatory
at Newport, may require more mental
calculation, involve more anguish
of equilibrium, and encourage
more heartfelt secret profanity
than the making of a steam-engine
or the writing of a proposal.

No, no, we would admire nothing,
dare nothing, do nothing, but
only suck in rosy health at every
pore, pin our souls out on the holly
hedge to sweeten, and forget what
we had for breakfast. Uneasy
daemons that we are all winter,
toiling gnomes of the mine and the
forge—”O spent ones of a workday
age”—can we not for one
[pg 611]
brief month in our year be
Turks?

LANDING-PLACE ON THE INLET.

Our doctors, slowly acquiring a
little sense, are changing their
remedies. Where the cry used to
be “drugs,” it now is “hygiene.”
But hygiene itself might be
changed for the better. We can
imagine a few improvements in
the materia medica of the future.
Where the physician used to order
a tonic for a feeble pulse, he will
simply hold his watch thoughtfully
for sixty seconds and prescribe
“Paris.” Where he was wont to
recommend a strong emetic, he
will in future advise a week’s study
of the works of art at our National
Capital. For lassitude, a donkey-ride
up Vesuvius. For color-blindness,
a course of sunrises from
the Rigi. For deafness, Wachtel
in his song of “Di quella Pira.”
For melancolia, Naples. For fever,
driving an ice-cart. But when
the doctor’s most remunerative
patient comes along, the pursy
manufacturer able to afford the
luxury of a bad liver, let him consult
the knob of his cane a moment
and order “Atlantic City.”

—Because it is lazy, yet stimulating.
Because it is unspoilt, yet
luxurious. Because the air there
is filled with iodine and the sea
with chloride of sodium. Because,
with a whole universe of water,
Atlantic City is dry. Because of
its perfect rest and its infinite
horizons.

But where and what is Atlantic
City? It is a refuge thrown up by
the continent-building sea. Fashion
took a caprice, and shook it
out of a fold of her flounce. A
railroad laid a wager to find the
shortest distance from Penn’s
treaty-elm to the Atlantic Ocean:
it dashed into the water, and a
City emerged from its freight-cars
as a consequence of the manoeuvre.
Almost any kind of a parent-age
will account for Atlantis. It
is beneath shoddy and above
[pg 612]
mediocrity. It is below Long Branch and
higher up than Cape May. It is different
from any watering-place in the world, yet
its strong individuality might have been
planted in any other spot; and a few
years ago it was nowhere. Its success
is due to its having nothing importunate
about it. It promises endless sea, sky,
liberty and privacy, and, having made
you at home, it leaves you to your devices.

CONGRESS HALL.

Two of our best marine painters in
their works offer us a choice of coast-landscape.
Kensett paints the bare stiff
crags, whitened with salt, standing out
of his foregrounds like the clean and
hungry teeth of a wild animal, and looking
hard enough to have worn out the
painter’s brush with their implacable
enamel. From their treeless waste extends
the sea, a bath of deep, pure
color. All seems keen, fresh, beautiful
and severe: it would take a pair of stout
New England lungs to breathe enjoyably
in such an air. That is the northern
coast. Mr. William Richards gives
us the southern—the landscape, in fact,
of Atlantic City. In his scenes we have
the infinitude of soft silver beach, the
rolling tumultuousness of a boundless
sea, and twisted cedars mounted like
toiling ships on the crests of undulating
sand-hills. It is the charm, the dream,
the power and the peace of the Desert.

And here let us be indulged with a few
words about a section of our great continent
which has never been sung in
rhyme, and which it is almost a matter
of course to treat disparagingly. A
cheap and threadbare popular joke assigns
the Delaware River as the eastern
boundary of the United States of America,
and defines the out-landers whose
homes lie between that current and the
Atlantic Ocean as foreigners, Iberians,
and we know not what. Scarcely more
of an exile was Victor Hugo, sitting on
the shores of Old Jersey, than is the
denizen of New Jersey when he brings
his half-sailor costume and his beach-learned
manners into contrast with the
thrift and hardness of the neighboring
commonwealth. The native of the alluvium
is another being from the native
of the great mineral State. But, by the
very reason of this difference, there is a
[pg 613]
strange soft charm that comes over our
thoughts of the younger Jersey when we
have done laughing at it. That broad,
pale peninsula, built of shells and crystal-dust,
which droops toward the south
like some vast tropical leaf, and spreads
its two edges toward the fresh and salt
waters, enervated with drought and sunshine—that
flat leaf of land has characteristics
that are almost Oriental. To
make it the sea heaved up her breast,
and showed the whitened sides against
which her tides were beating. To walk
upon it is in a sense to walk upon the
bottom of the ocean. Here are strange
marls, the relics of infinite animal life,
into which has sunk the lizard or the
dragon of antiquity—the gigantic Hadrosaurus,
who cranes his snaky throat
at us in the museum, swelling with the
tale of immemorial times when he weltered
here in the sunny ooze. The country
is a mighty steppe, but not deprived
of trees: the ilex clothes it with its set,
dark foliage, and the endless woods
of pine, sand-planted, strew over that
boundless beach a murmur like the sea.
The edibles it bears are of the quaintest
and most individual kinds: the cranberry
is its native condiment, full of individuality,
unknown to Europe, beautiful
as a carbuncle, wild as a Tartar
belle, and rife with a subacid irony that
is like the wit of Heine.

MR. RICHARD WRIGHT’S COTTAGE.

Here is the patate douce,
with every kind of sweet-fleshed gourd
that loves to gad along the sand—the
citron in its carved net, and the enormous
melon, carnation-colored within
and dark-green to blackness outside.
The peaches here are golden-pulped, as
if trying to be oranges, and are richly
bitter, with a dark hint of prussic acid,
fascinating the taste like some enchantress
of Venice, the pursuit of whom is
made piquant by a fancy that she may
poison you. The farther you penetrate
this huge idle peninsula, the more its
idiosyncrasy is borne in on your mind.
Infinite horizons, “an everlasting wash
of air,” the wild pure warmth of Arabia,
and heated jungles of dwarf oaks balancing
balmy plantations of pine. Then,
toward the sea, the wiry grasses that
dry into “salt hay” begin to dispute
possession with the forests, and finally
supplant them: the sand is blown into
coast-hills, whose crests send off into
every gale a foam of flying dust, and
which themselves change shape, under
pressure of the same winds, with a slower
imitation of the waves. Finally, by
[pg 614]
the gentlest of transitions, the deserts
and the quicksands become the ocean.

THE SENATE HOUSE.

The shore melts into the sea by a network
of creeks and inlets, edging the
territory (as the flying osprey sees it)
with an inimitable lacework of azure
waters; the pattern is one of looping
channels with oval interstices, and the
dentellated border of the commonwealth
resembles that sort of lace which was
made by arranging on glass the food of
a silk-spinning worm: the creature ate
and wove, having voracity always
before him and Fine Art behind
him. Much of the solider part
of the State is made of the materials
which enter into glass-manufacture: a
mighty enchanter might fuse the greater
portion of it into one gigantic goblet. A
slight approximation to this work of
magic is already being carried on. The
tourist who has crossed the lagoons of
Venice to see the fitful lights flash up
from the glass-furnaces of Murano, will
find more than one locality here where
leaping lights, crowning low banks of
sand, are preparing the crystal for our
infant industries in glass, and will remind
him of his hours by the Adriatic.
Every year bubbles of greater and greater
beauty are being blown in these secluded
places, and soon we hope to enrich
commerce with all the elegances of
latticinio and schmelze, the perfected
glass of an American Venice.

But our business is not with the land,
but the sea. Here it lies, basking at
our feet, the warm amethystine sea of
the South. It does not boom and thunder,
as in the country of the “cold gray
stones.” On the contrary, saturating
itself with sunny ease, thinning its bulk
over the shoal flat beach with a succession
of voluptuous curves, it spreads
thence in distance with strands and belts
of varied color, away and away, until
blind with light it faints on a prodigiously
far horizon. Its falling noises are as
soft as the sighs of Christabel. Its colors
are the pale and milky colors of the
opal. But ah! what an impression of
boundlessness! How the silver ribbon
of beach unrolls for miles and miles!
And landward, what a parallel sea of
marshes, bottoms and dunes! The
[pg 615]
sense of having all the kingdoms of the
world spread out beneath one, together
with most of the kingdoms of the mermen,
has never so come to one’s consciousness
before. And again, what an
artist is Nature, with these faint washes
and tenderest varied hues—varied and
tender as the flames from burning gases—while
her highest lights (a painter will
understand the difficulty of that) are
still diaphanous and profound!

One goes to the seaside not for pomp
and peacock’s tails, but for saltness,
Nature and a bite of fresh fish. To build
a city there that shall not be an insult
to the sentiment of the place is a matter
of difficulty. One’s ideal, after all, is a
canvas encampment. A range of solid
stone villas like those of Newport, so far
as congruity with a watering-place goes,
pains the taste like a false note in music.
Atlantic City pauses halfway between
the stone house and the tent, and erects
herself in woodwork. A quantity of
bright, rather giddy-looking structures,
with much open-work and carved ruffling
about the eaves and balconies, are
poised lightly on the sand, following the
course of the two main avenues which
lead parallel with the shore, and the
series of short, straight, direct streets
which leap across them and run eagerly
for the sea. They have a low, brooding
look, and evidently belong to a class of
sybarites who are not fond of staircases.
Among them, the great rambling hotel,
sprawling in its ungainly length here and
there, looks like one of the ordinary tall
New York houses that had concluded to
lie over on its side and grow, rather than
take the trouble of piling on its stories
standing. In this encampment of wooden
pavilions is lived the peculiar life of
the place.

ON THE SHINING SANDS.

We are sure it is a sincere, natural,
sensible kind of life, as compared with
that of other bathing-shores. Although
there are brass bands at the hotels, and
hops in the evening, and an unequal
struggle of macassar oil with salt and
stubborn locks, yet the artificiality is
kept at a minimum. People really do
bathe, really do take walks on the beach
for the love of the ocean, really do pick
up shells and throw them away again,
really do go yachting and crab-catching;
and if they try city manners in the evening,
they are so tired with their honest
day’s work that it is apt to end in misery.
On the hotel piazzas you see beauties that
surprise you
with exquisite
touches
of the warm
and languid
South. That
dark Baltimore
girl,
her hair a constellation of jessamines, is
beating her lover’s shoulders with her
fan in a state of ferocity that you would
give worlds to encounter. That pair of
proud Philadelphia sisters, statues sculptured
in peach-pulp and wrapped in
gauze, look somehow like twin Muses at
the gates of a temple. Whole rows of
unmatched girls stare at the sea, desolate
but implacable, waiting for partners
equal to them in social position. In such
a dearth a Philadelphia girl will turn to
her old music-teacher and flirt solemnly
with him for a whole evening, sooner
than involve herself with well-looking
young chits from Providence or New
York, who may be jewelers’ clerks when
at home. Yet the unspoiled and fruity
beauty of these Southern belles is very
striking to one who comes fresh from
Saratoga and the sort of upholstered
goddesses who are served to him there.

Some years ago the Surf House was
[pg 616]
the finest place of entertainment, but it
has now many rivals, taller if not finer.
Congress Hall, under the management
of Mr. G.W. Hinkle, is a universal favorite,
while the Senate House, standing
under the shadow of the lighthouse, has
the advantage of being the nearest to the
beach of all the hotels. Both are ample
and hospitable hostelries, where you
are led persuasively through the Eleusinian
mystery of the Philadelphia cuisine.
Schaufler’s is an especial resort of our
German fellow-citizens, who may there be
seen enjoying themselves in the manner
depicted by our artist, while concocting—as
we are warned by M. Henri Kowalski—the
ambitious schemes which they conceal
under their ordinary enveloppe débonnaire.

MR. THOMAS C. HAND’S COTTAGE.

There is another feature of the place.
With its rarely fine atmosphere, so tonic
and bracing, so free from the depressing
fog of the North, it is a great sanitarium.
There are seasons when the Pennsylvania
University seems to have bred
its wealth of doctors for the express purpose
of marshaling a dying world to the
curative shelter of Atlantic
City. The trains
are encumbered with the
halt and the infirm, who
are got out at the doors
like unwieldy luggage in the arms of
nurses and porters. Once arrived, however,
they display considerable mobility
in distributing themselves through the
three or four hundred widely-separated
cottages which await them for hire. As
you wander through the lanes of these
cunning little houses, you catch strange
fragments of conversation. Gentlemen
living vis-à-vis, and standing with one
leg in the grave and the other on their
own piazzas, are heard on sunny mornings
exciting themselves with the maddest
abuse of each other’s doctor. There
are large boarding-houses, fifty or more
of them, each of which has its contingent
of puling valetudinarians. The healthy
inmates have the privilege of listening
to the symptoms, set forth with that full
and conscientious detail not unusual
with invalids describing their own complaints.
Or the sufferers turn their batteries
on each other. On the verandah
of a select boarding-house we have seen
a fat lady of forty lying on a bench like
a dead harlequin, as she rolled herself
in the triangles of a glittering afghan.
On a neighboring seat a gouty subject,
and a tropical sun pouring on both.

“Good-morning! You see I am trying
my sun-bath. I am convinced it
relieves my spine.” The same remark
has introduced seven
morning conversations.

“And my gout has shot
[pg 617]
from the index toe to the ring toe.
I feared my slipper was damp, and
I am roasting it here. But, dear
ma’am, I pity you so with your
spine! Tried acupuncture?”

THE THOROUGHFARE.

The patient probably hears the
word as Acapulco. For she answers,
“No, but I tried St. Augustine
last winter. Not a morsel of
good.”

Among these you encounter
sometimes lovely, frail, transparent
girls, who come down with cheeks
of wax, and go home in two months
with cheeks of apple. Or stout gentlemen
arriving yellow, and going
back in due time purple.

Once a hardened siren of many
watering-places, large and blooming,
arrived at Atlantic City with
her latest capture, a stooping invalid
gentleman of good family in
Rhode Island. They boated, they
had croquet on the beach, they
paced the shining sands. Both of
them people of the world and past
their first youth, they found an
amusement in each other’s knowing
ways and conversation that
kept them mutually faithful in a
kind of mock-courtship. The gentleman,
however, was evidently
only amusing himself with this travesty
of sentiment, though he was
never led away by the charms of
younger women. After a month
of it he succeeded in persuading
her for the first time to enter the
water, and there he assisted her
to take the billows in the gallant
American fashion. Her intention
of staying only in the very edge of
the ocean he overruled by main
force, playfully drawing her out
where a breaker washed partially
over her. As the water touched
her face she screamed, and raised
her arm to hide the cheek that had
been wet. She then ran hastily to
shore, and her friend, fearing some
accident, made haste to rejoin her.
His astonishment was great at finding
one of her cheeks of a ghastly,
unhealthy white. Her color had
[pg 618]
always been very high. That afternoon
she sought him and explained.
She was really an invalid, she said
calmly, and had recently undergone
a shocking operation for tumor.
But she saw no reason for
letting that interfere with her usual
summer life, particularly as she felt
youth and opportunity making away
from her with terrible strides. Having
a chance to enjoy his society
which might never be repeated,
fearing lest his rapid disease should
carry him away from before her
eyes, she had concluded to make
the most of time, dissemble her suffering,
and endeavor to conceal by
art the cold bloodlessness of her
face. This whimsical, worldly heroism
happened to strike the gentleman
strangely. He was affected to
the point of proposing marriage. At
the same time he perceived with
some amazement that his disease
had left him: the, curative spell of
the region had wrought its enchantment
upon his system. They were
wedded, with roles reversed—he as
the protector and she as the invalid—and
were truly happy during the
eighteen months that the lady lived
as his wife.

THE EXCURSION HOUSE.

There are prettier and more innocent
stories. Every freckle-nosed
girl from the Alleghany valleys who
sweeps with her polka-muslin the
floors of these generous hotels has
an idyl of her own, which she is rehearsing
with young Jefferson Jones
or little Madison Addison. In the
golden afternoons they ride together—not
in the fine turn-outs supplied
by the office-clerks, nor yet on horse-back,
but in guiltless country wagons
guided by Jersey Jehus, where
close propinquity is a delightful necessity.
Ten miles of uninterrupted
beach spread before them, which
the ocean, transformed for the purpose
into a temporary Haussmann,
is rolling into a marble boulevard
for their use twice a day. On the
hard level the wheels scarcely leave
a trace. The ride seems like
[pg 11]
eternity, it lapses off so gentle and smooth,
and the landscape is so impressively
similar: everywhere the plunging surf,
the gray sand-hills, the dark cedars with
foliage sliced off sharp and flat by the
keen east wind—their stems twisted like
a dishclout or like the olives around
Florence.

A SCENE IN FRONT OF SCHAUFLER’S HOTEL.

Or she goes with Jefferson and Madison
on a “crabbing” hunt. Out in a
boat at the “Thoroughfare,” near the
railroad bridge, you lean over the side
and see the dark glassy forms moving
on the bottom. It is shallow, and a
short bit of string will reach them. The
bait is a morsel of raw beefsteak from
the butcher’s, and no hook is necessary.
They make for the titbit with strange
monkey-like motions, and nip it with
their hard skeleton ringers, trying to tuck
it into their mouths; and so you bring
them up into blue air, sprawling and
astonished, but tenacious. You can put
them through their paces where they
roost under water, moving the beef
about, and seeing them sidle and back
on their aimless, Cousin Feenix-like
legs: it is a sight to bring a freckle-nosed
cousin almost into hysterics. But
one day a vivacious girl had committed
the offence of boasting too much of her
skill in crab-catching, besides being quite
unnecessarily gracious to Mr. Jefferson
Jones. Then Mr. Madison Addison,
who must have been reading Plutarch,
did a sly thing indeed. The boat having
been drawn unnoted into deeper water,
a cunning negro boy who was aboard
contrived to slide down one side without
remark, and the next trophy of the feminine
chase was a red boiled crab, artificially
attached to a chocolate caramel,
and landed with mingled feelings by the
pretty fisherwoman. Then what a tumult
of laughter, feigned anger and becoming
blushes! It is said that that crimson
shell, carved into a heart-shape of incorrect
proportions, is worn over Mr.
Jones’s diaphragm to this day.

At the Inlet, which penetrates the
beach alongside the lighthouse, is draught
for light vessels, and the various kinds
of society which focus at Atlantic City
may be seen concentrated there on the
wharf any of these bright warm days.
A gay party of beauties and aristocrats,
[pg 620]
with a champagne-basket and hamper
of lunch, are starting thence for a sail
over to Brigantine Beach. Two gentlemen
in flannel, with guns, are urging
a little row-boat up toward the interior
country. They will return at night laden
with rail or reed-birds, with the additional
burden perhaps of a great loon, shot
as a curiosity. Others, provided with
fishing-tackle, are going out for flounder.
Laughing farewells, waving handkerchiefs
and the other telegraphic signs
of departure, are all very gay, but the
tune may be changed when the great
sailing-party comes back, wet and
wretched, and with three of the principal
beauties limp as bolsters on the gentlemen’s
hands with sea-sickness.

Another spirited scene takes place at
five in the morning—an hour when the
city beauties are abed with all that
tenacity of somnolence which characterizes
Kathleen Mavourneen in the song.
The husbands and brothers, who are
due in the city before business hours, are
out for a good, royal, irresponsible tumble
in the surf. There is the great yeasty
bath-tub, full of merry dashing figures,
dipping the sleek shoulder to the combing
wave. On the shore, active humanities
hastily undressing. Then the heavens
are filled with a new glory, and the
dazzling sun leaves his bath at the same
time with all these merry roisterers who
have shared it with him. He takes up
his line of business for the day, and so
do the good husbands and brothers, first
going through a little ceremony of toilet
from which he is exempt.

Thus does the New Atlantis provide
for her republic, holding health to her
children with one hand, and shaking
from the other an infinity of toys and
diversions; while for those of more
thoughtful bent the sea turns without
ceasing its ancient pages, written all over
with inexhaustible romance.

The great architect of the city was the
Power who graded those streets of immaculate
sand, and who laid out that
park of mellow, foam-flowered ocean.
Its human founders have done what
seemed suitable in providing shelter for
a throng of fitful sojourners, not forgetting
to put up six neat and modest
churches, where suitable praise and adoration
may be chanted against the
chanting of the sea. In several respects
the place grows somewhat curiously.
For instance, a lawn of turf is made by
the simple expedient of fencing off the
cattle: the grass then grows, but if the
cows get in they pull up the sod by the
roots, and the wind in a single season
excavates a mighty hollow where the
grassy slope was before. So much for
building our hopes on sand. An avenue
of trees is prepared by the easy plan of
thrusting willow-stems into the ground:
they sprout directly, and alternate with
the fine native cedars and hollies in
clothing the streets with shadow. Several
citizens, as Mr. Richard Wright and
Mr. Thomas C. Hand, whose handsome
cottages are tasteful specimens of our
seaside architecture, have been tempted
by this facility of vegetable life at Atlantic
City to lay out elaborate gardens,
which with suitable culture are successful.
Fine avenues of the best construction
lead off to Shell Beach or to the single
hill boasted by the locality. Finally,
remembering the claims of the great
democracy to a wash-basin, the aediles
invited Tom, Dick and Harry, and set
up the Excursion or Sea-View House,
with its broad piazzas, its numberless
facilities for amusement, and its enormous
dining-hall, which can be changed
on occasion into a Jardin Mabille, with
flowers and fountains.

To a great city all the renovating and
exhilarating qualities of sea-breezes and
sea-bathing are but as the waters of
Tantalus, unless the place which offers
these advantages be easy of access. In
this respect Atlantic City has for Philadelphia
a superiority over all its rivals.
The Camden and Atlantic Railroad, to
whose secretary and treasurer, Mr. D.M.
Zimmermann, we are indebted for much
information, has simply drawn a straight
line to the coast, which may be reached
in an hour and three-quarters from Vine
street wharf. The villages on the route,
like the seaside terminus, owe their existence
to the road, which is now reaping
the reward of a far-sighted enterprise.

[pg 621]

THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

ABD-EL-KADER IN KABYLIA.

A noble life, whose course belongs
to the subject of these pages, is,
while they are preparing, apparently
drawing to a close. The severe illness
now reported of Abd-el-Kader, coming
upon old age, disappointment, war and
the lassitude of a great purpose foiled,
can have but one result. Dimmed to-day,
as our hurrying century so rapidly
dims her brightest renowns, Abd-el-Kader’s
existence has only to cease and
his memory will assume the sacred
splendor of the tomb.

Hapless Washington of a betrayed
revolution! In these latter days of enforced
quiet in Palestine how his early
scenes of African experience must have
flooded his mind!—his birth, sixty-six
years ago, in a family group of Moslem
saints; the teachings of his beautiful
mother Leila and of his marabout father;
his pilgrimage when eight years old to
Mecca, and his education in Italy; his
visions among the tombs, and the crown
of magic light which was seen on his
brows when he began to taste the enchanted
apple; then, with adolescence,
the burning sense of infidel tyranny that
made his home at Mascara seem only a
cage, barred upon him by the unclean
Franks; and soon, while still a youth,
his amazing election as emir of Mascara
and sultan of Oran, at a moment when
the prophet-chief had just four oukias
[pg 622]
(half-dimes) tied into the corner of his
bornouse!

“God will send me others,” said young
Abd-el-Kader.

AN AGHA OF KABYLIA HUNTING WITH THE FALCON.

The tourist remembers the trinity-portrait
of him, by Maxime David, in the
Luxembourg Gallery at Paris, where his
face, framed in its white hood, is seen
in full, in profile and in three-quarters
view. The visage is aquiline, olive-tinted,
refined; but we can describe it
more authentically in the terms of one
of his enemies, Lieutenant de France,
who became his prisoner in 1836, and
[pg 623]
who followed his movements for five
months, taking down his daily talk and
habits like a Boswell, but leaving nothing
in his narrative that is not to the
sultan’s credit. Of Abd-el-Kader at
twenty-eight the lieutenant says: “His
face is long and deadly pale, his large
black eyes are soft and languishing, his
mouth small and delicate, and his nose
rather aquiline: his beard is thin, but
jet-black, and he wears a small moustache,
which gives a martial character
[pg 624]
to his soft, delicate face, and becomes
him vastly. His hands are small and
exquisitely formed, and his feet equally
beautiful.” Every interlocutor leaves a
similar portrait, impressing upon the
mind the image of some warrior-saint
of the Middle Ages, born too late, and
beating out his noble fanaticism against
our century of machines and chicanery.

THE DISCIPLES OF TOFAIL.

Himself, according to some accounts,
a Berber, the young marabout early saw
the importance of inducing the Kabyles
to join with him and his Arabs in expelling
the French. He affiliated himself
with the religious order of Ben-abd-er-Rhaman,
a saint whose tomb is one of
the sacred places of Kabylia; and it is
certain that the college of this order furnished
him succor in men and money.
He visited the Kabyles in their rock-built
villages, casting aside his military
pomp and coming among them as a
simple pilgrim. If the Kabyles had
received him better, he could have
shown a stouter front to the enemy.
But the mountain Berbers, utterly unused
to co-operation and subordination,
met him with surprise and distrust.

A KOUBBA, OR MARABOUT’S TOMB.

At least, such is the account of General
Daumas: in this interesting relation
we are forced to depend on the French.
Daumas, amply provided with documents,
letters and evidence, has arranged
in his work on La Grande Kabylie
the principal evidence we possess
of this epoch of Abd-el-Kader’s life.

The chief appeared in 1836 at Bordj-Boghni
and at Si-Ali-ou-Moussa among
the mountains. The Kabyle tribes visited
him in multitudes. He addressed
them at the door of his tent, and these
rude mountaineers found themselves
face to face with that saintly sallow visage,
those long gazelle eyes and the
prophetic countenance framed in its
apostolic beard. Raising his arms in
the attitude of Raphael’s Paul at Lystra,
he said simply, “I am the thorn which
Allah has placed in the eye of the
Franks. And if you will help me I will
send them weeping into the sea.”

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

“You have come as a pilgrim,” said
their amins, “and we have fed you with
kouskoussu. If you were to come as a
chief, wishing to lay his authority on us,
instead of white kouskoussu we should
treat you to black kouskoussu” (gunpowder).

Abd-el-Kader, without losing the serenity
of the marabout, argued with the
Kabyles, and succeeded in obtaining
their reverence and adhesion; but when
he mounted his horse to go the amins
significantly told him to come among
them always as a simple pilgrim, demanding
hospitality and white kouskoussu.

KABYLE MEN.

At Thizzi-Ouzzou he met the tribe of
Ameraouas, who promised to submit to
his authority as soon as the fractions
surrounding that centre should do so.
The Sons of Aicha received him with
honor and games of horsemanship. At
the camp of Ben Salem the chiefs of
several tribes came to render homage to
the noble marabout, descendant of Berber
ancestry and of the Prophet. From
thence he sought tribes still more wild,
discarding his horse and appearing
among the villagers as a simple foot-pilgrim.
The natives approached him
in throngs, each family bearing a great
dish of rancid kouskoussu. Laying
the platters before his tent and planting
their clubs in them, all vociferated,
“Eat! thou art our guest;” and the
chieftain was constrained to taste of
each. Finally, near Bougie he happened
to receive a courier sent by the
French commandant. The Kabyles immediately
believed him to be in treasonable
communication with the enemy, and
he was forced to retire.

The young chief was in fact at that
time in peaceful communication with the
French, having made himself respected
by them in the west, while they were
[pg 626]
attending to the subjugation of Constantina
and founding of Philippeville in the
east. Protected by the treaty of Taafna
in 1837, Abd-el-Kader was at leisure to
attempt the consolidation of his little
empire and the fusion of the jealous
tribes which composed it. The low
moral condition of his Arabs, who were
for the most part thieves and cowards,
and the rude individuality of his Kabyles,
who would respect his religious but
scoff at his political claims, made the
task of the leader a difficult one. To
the Kabyles he confided the care of his
[pg 627]
saintly reputation, renouncing their
contributions, and asking only for their
prayers as a Berber and as a khouan of
the order of Ben-abd-er-Rhaman. For
a few years his power increased, without
one base measure, without any soilure
on the blazon of increasing prosperity.
In 1840 the sultan of Oran, at the zenith
of his influence, swept the plains beneath
the Atlas with his nomad court, defended
by two hundred and fifty horsemen.
Passing his days in reviewing his troops
and in actions of splendid gallantry, he
resumed the humility of the saint at
evening prayers: his palace of a night
received him, watched by thirty negro
tent-guards; and here he sheltered his
lowly head, whose attitude was perpetually
bowed by the habitual weight of
his cowl. The French soon became
jealous, and encroached upon their
treaty. The duke of Orleans, we are
told, had Abd-el-Kader’s seal counterfeited
by a Jewish coiner at Oran, and
with passports thus stamped sent scouting-parties
toward the sultan’s dominions,
protected by the sultan’s forged safe-conduct.
Open conflict followed, and a
succession of French razzias. In 1845,
Colonels Pelissier and St. Arnaud, under
Marshal Bugeaud, conducted that expedition
of eternal infamy during which
seven hundred of Abd-el-Kader’s Arabs
were suffocated in a cave-sanctuary of
the Dahra. This sickening measure was
put in force at a cul-de-sac, where a few
hours’ blockade would have commanded
a peaceful surrender.

KABYLE WOMEN.

“The fire was kept up throughout the
night, and when the day had fully dawned
the then expiring embers were kicked
aside, and as soon as a sufficient time
had elapsed to render the air of the
silent cave breathable, some soldiers
were directed to ascertain how matters
were within. They were gone but a few
minutes, and then came back, we are
told, pale, trembling, terrified, hardly
daring, it seemed, to confront the light
of day. No wonder they trembled and
looked pale! They had found all the
Arabs dead—men, women, children, all
dead!—had beheld them lying just as
death had found and left them—the old
man grasping his gray beard; the dead
mother clasping her dead child with the
steel gripe of the last struggle, when all
gave way but her strong love.”

Abd-el-Kader’s final defeat in 1848
was due less to the prowess of Lamoricière
and Bugeaud than to the cunning
of his traitorous ally, the sultan of Morocco,
who, after having induced many
of the princely saint’s adherents to desert,
finally drove him by force of numbers
over the French frontier. Confronting
the duke of Aumale on the Morocco
borders, he made a gallant fight, but
lost half his best men in warding off an
attack of the Mencer Kabyles. Fatigued
now with a long effort against overwhelming
pressure, and world-weary,
he met the duke at Nemours, on the sea-coast
close to the Morocco line. Depositing
his sandals, Arab-fashion, outside
the French head-quarters, he awaited the
duke’s signal to sit down.

“I should have wished to do this
sooner,” said the broken chief, “but I
have awaited the hour decreed by Allah.
I ask the aman (pardon) of the
king of the French for my family and
for myself.”

Louis Philippe could not come in contact
with this pure spirit without an
exhibition of Frankish treachery, like
tinder illuminating its foulness at the
striking of steel. The sultan’s surrender
was conditioned on the freedom to retire
to Egypt. The French government no
sooner secured him than it treacherously
sent him to prison, first to the castle of
Pau, then to that of Amboise near Blois,
where he was kept from 1848 to 1852,
when the late emperor made an early
use of his imperial power to set him at
liberty. Since his freedom, at Constantinople,
Broussa and Damascus the ex-sultan
has continued to practice the rigors
and holiness of the Oriental saint,
proving his catholic spirit by protecting
the Christians from Turkish injustice,
and awaiting with the deep fatigue of a
martyr the moment destined to unite his
soul with the souls of Washington, Bozzaris
and L’Ouverture.

This noble life, which impinges a moment
on our course through Kabylia, is
[pg 628]
surely the most epical of our century,
which can never be reproached for the
lack of a hero while Abd-el-Kader’s
name is remembered.

DEFILE OF THIFILKOULT.

The descent from the rock-perched
city of Kalaa having been made in safety,
and the animals being remounted at
the first plateau, our Roumi traveler and
his guides arrive in a few hours at the
modern, fortified, but altogether
[pg 629]
Kabylian stronghold of Akbou. Here a
letter from a French personage of importance
gives us the acquaintance of a
Kabyle family of the highest rank.

The ancestors of Ben-Ali-Cherif, remotely
descended from Mohammed
through one of his sisters, were of Kabylian
race, and one of them, settled in
Chellata, near Akbou, founded there a
prosperous college of the Oriental style.
Ben-Ali-Cherif, born in Chellata and
residing at Akbou, receives the tourist
with a natural icy dignity which only a
czar among the sovereigns of Europe
could hope to equal: those who have
but seen Arabs of inferior class can form
no notion of the distinction and lofty
gravity of the chiefs of a grand house
(or of a grand tent, as they are called):
the Kabyle noble is quite as superb as
the Arab.

Ben-Ali seats us at a rich table covered
with viands half French and half
Oriental: a beautiful youth, his son,
resembling a girl with his blue head-drapery
and slim white hands, places
himself at table, and attracts the conversation
of the guest. The young man
answers in monosyllables and with his
large eyes downcast, and the agha significantly
observes, “You will excuse
him if he does not answer: he is not
used to talk before his father.”

The host, disposing of the time of his
guests, has arranged a series of diversions.
The valley of the river Sahel is
full of boars, and panthers and monkeys
abound in the neighboring spurs of the
Zouaouas. While the Roumi are examining
his orchards of oranges and
pomegranates the agha’s courtyard fills
with guests, magnificent sheikhs on Barbary
horses, armed with inlaid guns.
These are all entertained for the night,
together with the usual throng of parasites,
who choke his doors like the clients
of the rich Roman in Horace.

At sunrise the party is mounted. The
mare of the agha, a graceful creature
whose veins form an embroidery over
her coat of black satin, is caparisoned
with a slender crimson bridle, and a
saddle smaller than the Arab saddles
and furnished with lighter stirrups. The
Christian guests are furnished with veritable
arquebuses of the Middle Ages;
that is to say, with Kabyle guns, the
stock of which, flattened and surmounted
with a hammer of flints, is ignited by
a wheel-shaped lock, easier to be managed
by a Burgundian under Charles
the Bold than by an unpretending modern
Roumi.

The usual features of an Algerian hunt
succeed. A phantom-like silence pervades
the column of galloping horsemen
up to the moment when the boar is beaten
up. Then, with a formidable clamor
of “Haou! haou!” from his pursuers,
the tusked monster bursts through the
tamarinds and dwarf palms: after a long
chase he suddenly stops, and then his
form instantly disappears under the gigantic
African hounds who leap upon
him and hang at his ears. A huntsman
dismounts and stabs his shoulder with
the yataghan. After a rest the chase is
resumed, but this time under the form
of a hawking-party.

Only the djouads and marabouts—that
is to say, the religious or secular nobles—have
the privilege of hunting with the
falcon. The patrician bird, taken by
the agha from the shoulder of his hawk-bearer,
is about as large as a pigeon, the
head small, beak short and strong, the
claws yellow and armed with sharp talons.
The bird rides upon his master’s
leather glove until a hare is started:
then, unhooded and released, his first
proceeding is to dart into the zenith as
if commissioned to make a hole in the
sky. No fear, however, that the poor
panting quarry is lost for an instant from
the vision of that infallible eye, which
follows far aloft in the blue, invisible and
fatal. Soon the cruel bird drops like an
aërolite, and, as the deed is explained to
us, doubles up his yellow hand into a
fist, and deals the animal a sharp blow
on the skull. Directly, as the horsemen
approach, he is found with his obtuse
head bent over his prey, digging out its
eyes by the spoonful.

By noontide the troop is naturally
famished. A luncheon, has, however,
been prepared by the thoughtfulness of
the agha. Riding up to a tent which
[pg 630]
appears as by magic in the wilderness, the
provisions for a sumptuous repast are
discovered. Two fires are burning in
the open air, and are surrounded by a
host of servants or followers. The Roumi
and their host adjourn from the neighborhood
of the preparations, and are
served under a plane tree beautiful as
[pg 631]
that whose limbs were hung by Xerxes
with bracelets. A soup, absolutely set
on fire with red pepper, introduces the
repast: pancakes follow, and various
meats smothered with eggs or onions.
Then two half-naked cooks stagger up
bearing on a wooden dish, under a gold-bordered
napkin, a sheep roasted entire
and still impaled with the spit. The
chief cook takes hold of the skewer and
draws it violently toward himself, applying
a smart stroke with his naked heel
to the tail of the creature—a contact
which would seem almost as trying as
the ancient ordeal of the ploughshares,
or as the red-hot horseshoes which the
fire-eating marabouts are accustomed to
dance upon. The Roumi travelers taste
the succulent viand, taste again, eat till
ashamed, and are ready to declare that
never was mutton properly dressed before.
If possible, they vow to introduce
the undissected roast, the bonfire, the
spit and the cook with imperturbable
heel into the cuisine of less-favored lands
more distant from the sun.

AN ARAB MARKET.

Champagne, which the cunning Mussulmans
do not consider as wine, washes
the meal, and coffee and pale perfumed
tobacco supplement it. But when the
appetite has retired and permitted some
sharpness to the ordinary senses, the
travelers are amazed at the gradual and
silent increase which has taken place in
their numbers. Every group of guests
is augmented by a circle of prone and
creeping forms that, springing apparently
from the earth, are busily breaking
the fragments of the feast under the care
of the servitors, who appear, rather to
encourage than repel them. Ben-Ali-Cherif,
being interrogated, replies calmly,
“They are Tofailians.”

The Tofailian is a parasite on system,
an idler who elevates his belly into a
divinity, or at least a principle. His
prophet or exemplar is a certain Tofail,
whose doctrine is expressed in a few
practical rules, respectfully observed and
numerously followed. “Let him who attends
a wedding-feast,” says one of his
apophthegms, “having no invitation,
avoid glancing here and there dubiously.
Choose the best place. If the guests
are numerous, pass through boldly without
saluting any one, to make the guests
of the bride think you a friend of the
bridegroom, and those of the groom a
friend of the bride.”

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

A Tofailian of marked genius once
learned that a festival was going on at
a grand mansion. He ran thither, but
the door was closed and entrance impossible.
Inquiring here and there, he
learned that a son of the house was
absent on the Mecca pilgrimage. Instantly
he procured a sheet of parchment,
folded it, and sealed it as usual
with clay: he rolled his garments in the
dust and bent his spine painfully over a
long staff. Thus perfect in what an
actor would call his reading, he sent
word to the host that a messenger had
arrived from his son. “You have seen
him?” said the delighted Amphitryon,
“and how did he bear his fatigues?”
“He was in excellent health,” answered
the Tofailian very feebly. “Speak,
speak!” cried the eager father, “and
tell me every detail: how far had he
got?” “I cannot, I am faint with hunger,”
said the simple fellow. Directly
he was seated at the highest place of
the feast, and every guest admired that
splendid appetite—an appetite quite professional,
and cultivated as poulterers
cultivate the assimilative powers of livers.
“Did my son send no letter?” asked the
poor father in a favorable interval caused
by strangulation. “Surely,” replied the
good friend, and, comprehending that
the critical moment had arrived, he
drew to himself a chine of kid with one
hand while he unwound the letter from
his turban with the other. The seal was
still moist, and the pilgrim had not found
time to write anything on the parchment.
“Are you a Tofailian?” asked the host
with the illumination of a sudden idea.
“Yea, in truth, verily,” said the stranger,
struggling with his last mouthful. “Eat,
then, and may Sheytan trouble thy digestion!”
The parasite was shown the
door, but he had dined.

[pg 632]

Men of rank and wealth, like Ben-Ali-Cherif,
turn the Tofailian into a proverb,
and thus laugh at a plague they
cannot cure.

POVERTY AND JEWELS.

The Algerine coast has enriched our
language with at least two words, respectively
warlike and peaceful—razzia
and fantasia. The latter is applied to a
game of horsemanship, used to express
joy or to honor a distinguished friend.
A spirited fantasia is organized by the
guests of the agha on returning to Akbou.
Twenty of the best-mounted horsemen
having gone on before, and being
completely lost to sight in the whirlwind
of dust created by their departure, all
of a sudden reappear. Menacing their
host and his companions like an army,
they gallop up, their bornouses flying
and their weapons flashing, until at a
few paces they discharge their long guns
under the bodies of the horses opposite,
and take flight like a covey of birds.
Loading as they retire and quickly forming,
again they dash to the charge, shouting,
galloping, and shooting among the
legs of their host’s fine horses: this sham
attack is repeated a score or two of times,
up to the door of the agha’s house. The
Bedouins, in their picturesque expression,
are making the powder talk. Finer horsemanship
can nowhere be seen. Their
horses, accustomed to the exercise, enter
into the game with spirit, and the riders,
[pg 633]
secure in their castellated saddles, sit with
ease as they turn, leap or dance on two
feet. Used, too, from infancy to the
society of their mares, they move with
them in a degree of unity, vigor and
boldness which the English horseman
never attains. The Arab’s love for his
horse is not only the pride of the cavalier:
it is an article of faith, and the
Prophet comprehended the close unity
between his nation and their beasts when
he said, “The blessings of this world,
up to the day of judgment, shall be suspended
to the locks which our horses
wear between their eyes.”

GEORGE CHRISTY IN AFRICA.

Truly the Oriental idea of hospitality
has its advantages—on the side of the
obliged party. This haughty ruler, on
the simple stress of a letter from a French
commandant, has made himself our servant
and teased his brain for devices to
amuse us. His chief cook precedes us
to his birthplace at Chellata, to arrange
a sumptuous Arab supper. After a ride
made enervating by the simoom, we descend
at the arcaded and galleried Moorish
house where Ben-Ali-Cherif was born,
and are visited by the sheikh of the college
which the agha maintains. It is a
strange, peaceful, cloistered scene, consecrated
to study and hospitality. Chellata,
white and silent, sleeps in the gigantic
shadow of the rock Tisibert, and
in its graveyard, among the tombs of
sacred marabouts, walk the small bald-headed
students reciting passages of law
or of the Koran. Algeria is dotted over
with institutions (zaouias) similar to this,
which, like monasteries of old, combine
the functions of seminaries and gratuitous
inns. That of Ben-Ali-Cherif, to which
he contributes from his own purse a sum
[pg 634]
equal to sixteen thousand dollars a year,
is enshrined in buildings strewn around
the resting-place of his holy ancestors.
The sacred koubba (or dome) marking
the bones of the marabout is swept by
shadows of oak and tamarind trees:
professors stray in the shadow, and the
pupils con their tasks on the adjoining
tombstones.

Every impression of Chellata is silvered
over, as with a moonlight of beneficence,
by the attentions of Ben-Ali’s
house-steward, who rains upon our appetites
a shower of most delicious kouskoussu,
soothes us with Moorish coffee,
and finishes by the politeness of lighting
and taking the first whiff of our cigarette—a
bit of courtesy that might be spared,
but common here as in parts of Spain.

With daybreak we find the town of
Chellata preparing to play its rôle as a
mart or place of industry. The labor
seems at first sight, however, to be confined
to the children and the women:
the former lead the flocks out at sunrise
to pasture in the mountain, the women
make the town ring with their busy work,
whether of grinding at the mill, weaving
stuff or making graceful vases in pottery.
The men are at work in the fields, from
which they return at nightfall, sullen,
hardy and silent, in their tattered haiks.
These are never changed among the
poor working-people, for the scars of a
bornouse are as dignified as those of the
body, and are confided with the garment
by a father to his son. The women, as
we have remarked before, are in a state
of far greater liberty than are the female
Arabs, but it is more than anything else
the liberty to toil. Among these mountaineers
the wife is a chattel from whom
it is permissible to extract all the usefulness
possible, and whom it is allowable
to sell when a bargain can be struck.
The Kabyle woman’s sole recreation is
her errand to the fountain. This is
sometimes situated in the valley, far
from the nodding pillar or precipice on
which the town is built. There the traveler
finds the good wives talking and
laughing together, bending their lively—sometimes
blonde and blue-eyed—faces
together over their jars, and
gossiping as in Naples or as in the streets
around Notre Dame in Paris. The Kabyles—differing
therein from the Arabs—provide
a fountain for either sex; and
a visit by a man to the women’s fountain
is charged, in their singular code of
penal fines, “inspired by Allah,” a sum
equal to five dollars, or half as much as
the theft of an ox.

By the white light of day-dawn we
quit Chellata, with the naked crests of
the Djurjura printing themselves on the
starry vault behind us and the valley
below bathed in clouds. As we descend
we seem to waken the white, red-roofed
villages with our steps. The plateaus
are gradually enlivened with spreading
herds and men going forth to labor.
We skirt the precipice of Azrou-n’hour,
crowned with its marabout’s tomb. The
plains at our feet are green and glorious,
pearled with white, distant villages.
Opposite the precipice the granite rocks
open to let us pass by a narrow portal
where formerly the Kabyles used to
stand and levy a toll on all travelers.
This straitened gorge, where snow
abounds in winter, and which has various
narrow fissures, is named the Defile
of Thifilkoult: it connects the highways
of several tribes, but is impassable from
December to April from the snow and
the storms which rage among the cliffs.
We are still four thousand feet above
the plain, whose depth the swimming
eye tries in vain to fathom, yet the snowy
peaks above us are inaccessible. Descending
chains of rocks mingled with
flint and lime, we attain a more clement
landscape. Kabyle girls crowd around
a well called the Mosquitoes’ Fountain,
a naked boy plays melancholy tunes on
a reed, and the signs of a lower level
are abundant in the fields of corn and
orchards of olive. But the rugged mountains,
in whose grasp we have found so
many wonders, are not left without regret.
The most picturesque part of our
course is now behind us, and as day
dies upon our crossing through Iferaouenen,
we turn back to behold the fine
line of the mountains, half sad and regretful,

While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

[pg 635]

Fourteen expeditions were found necessary
by the French between 1838 and
1857 to subdue the Kabyles, who under
leaders such as Ben-Salem, Ben-Kassim,
the Man-with-the-Mule, the Man-with-the-She-Ass,
and other chiefs less celebrated,
defended their territory step by
step. In the great chastisement of 1857,
Marshal Randon, after subduing this part
of the Djurjura ridge in detail, determined
to preserve the fruits of victory
by two new constructions—a fort and
a military road. France was to reside
among her unwilling colonists, and she
was to possess an avenue of escape.
The building of these two conveniences,
as we may call them, over the smoking
ruins of victory, was a conspicuous example
of the excellent engineering genius
of the nation. An English officer, Lieutenant-colonel
Walmsley, witnessed, and
has left a spirited account of, the great
conquest, and the immediate improvement
of it. The strongholds of the
Djurjura (it being May, 1857) were
taken: the most difficult, Icheriden, was
soon to fall, yielding only to the assault
of the Foreign Legion—that troop of
Arabs and of Kabyles from the Zouaoua
plain wherefrom we derive the word zouave.
Marshal Randon selected for his
fort the key of the whole district: it was
a place known as the Souk-el-Arba
(“Market of Wednesday”). It was in
the heart of the Beni Raten land, and
in a spot where three great mountain-ridges
ran down into the plain of the
Sebaou. These ridges, subdued and
friendly, would be held in respect by
the garrison of the fort, and the other
ridge of Agacha, still rebellious, would
likewise terminate at the fort. The
works were immediately laid out and
quickly built. As the road sprang into
its level flight like magic, the peeping
Kabyles, perfectly unaware that they
were conquered, laughed in derision.
“It is to help the cowards to run away,”
they said. In due time rose the pale
walls of the citadel, with mountains
above and hills below. The Kabyles
call it the White Phantom. Their songs,
the “traditions” of illiterate tribes, recite
the building of the terrible stronghold:
“The Roumi has arrived at the Market:
he is building there. Weep, O my eyes!
tears of blood. The children of Raten
are valiant men: they are known as
masters of the warlike art. They fell
upon the enemy at Icheriden. The
Franks fell like lopped branches. Glory
to those brave men! But the Roumi
has peeled us like seeds. The powder
talks no more. The warlike men are
fainting. Cover thyself with mourning,
O my head!”

As the tourist turns the summit of
Aboudid suddenly appears, like an ornamental
detail in a panorama, this
vast fortress, originally named Fort Napoléon,
and since the collapse of the
empire called Fort National. During
the French troubles of 1871, in the
month of August, General Cérès was
obliged to inspire terror by burning the
village of Thizzi-Ouzzou beneath, and
then went on to relieve the fort. When
the next opportunity will occur for the
Beni Raten to assert their rights it is impossible
to tell. We descend from the
fort, and all becomes commonplace.
The charred ruins of Thizzi-Ouzzou in
its valley-bed are being replaced by
new buildings. All wears a look of
every-day thrift. The Arab, moving his
household goods, drives before him his
poor dingy wife, loaded down with worthless
valuables and also with copper jewels,
in which she clanks like a fettered
slave. A negro musician from the Desert,
a true African minstrel, capers before
us and beats the tom-tom, until,
distracted with his noise, we pay him
and bombard him off the face of the
road with projectiles.

From Thizzi-Ouzzou to Algiers it is
but four hours’ journey, and the four
hours are passed in a diligence. Yes,
our circumstances are subdued to the
conditions of the diligence! Adieu, our
spahi guides, like figures from Lalla
Rookh! Adieu, our dream of an African
Switzerland! The Roumi, outside
of Kabylia, quickly fades into the light
of common day, and becomes plain
Tom or Harry.

[pg 636]

A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867.

“And you traveled alone?”

“There were two of us—Annie
Foster and I.”

“You found no difficulty?”

“Not a bit,” she replied laughing.

“But you had adventures: I see it in
your face.”

“Who would travel without adventures?”
and she made an expressive
gesture.

“Romantic?”

“Hm!—tant soit peu.”

“I am all attention: begin.”

“You promise not to tell?”

“Not for the world: torture could not
induce me to divulge a single word.”

“Well, the way it came about was this:
Annie and I had been sent from England
to a small French town on the
coast, for the benefit of the warm sea-water
baths. It was a quaint little port;
all the houses reminded you of ships in
their fitting up; the beds were set into
the wall like berths; closets were stowed
away in all sorts of impossible places;
the floors were uncarpeted and white as
a main deck; and articles from distant
countries hung about the walls or stood
in the corners—East Indian sugar-cane,
cotton from America, Chinese crockery
and piles of sea-shells. The great sea
by which we lodged was represented
everywhere. Our food was fish, shrimps
and water-fowl—our acquaintance, fishermen,
shrimpers and sailors. The leading
event of the day was the coming in
and going out of the tide, and ducks
and geese were the chief domestic animals.
On one side was a prospect of
wind-tossed waves and the sails of ships,
on the other wind-beaten fields and the
sails of mills: the few cabins that had
rashly ventured beyond the protection
of the village shortly lost courage, and,
with their thatched roofs not a yard from
the earth, seemed crouching low to avoid
the continuous blasts. The church alone
on the high sea-wall raised itself fearlessly
against the tyrant, and though his
baffled voice still howled without, within
the pious prayed securely before a faith-inspiring
altarpiece of Christ stilling the
tempest.

“In a few weeks, after we had exhausted
every amusement that the dull town
afforded, become intimate with all the
old gossips, tired of listening to the
yarns of the pilot-tars off duty, driven
the donkeys over the country until they
instinctively avoided us whenever we appeared,
sailed in the bay and suffered
periodic attacks of sea-sickness therefrom,
finished the circulating library,
and half learned some barbarous sentences
of Norman patois, we sat down
disconsolate one afternoon to devise
some means of employing the remainder
of our time. It was then that the bright
idea struck Annie, and she exclaimed,
‘Let us go to the Paris Exposition!’

“‘Just the thing!’ I answered with
enthusiasm. ‘I wonder when the next
train starts?’

“‘I’ll go and inquire: you begin and
pack the trunks. If we can get off to-day,
by to-morrow morning we can begin
seeing it;’ and she left the room in great
excitement.

“The result was, that by seven o’clock
that evening we had made our hasty
preparations, and were ready to set out.
It was raining terribly when the only
hack of the village (which, by the by,
was an omnibus) called for us at the
door. The dripping fluid oozed and
sparkled over the blinking lamps, the
ribbed sides of the antiquated machine
were varnished with moisture, and the
horses looked as if each hair was a
water-spout to drain the sky. Noah’s
patriarchal mansion might have presented
a similar appearance during the first
days of that celebrated wet season.

“The motherly woman with whom we
had been boarding turned dismally from
the weather to her invalids and tried to
dissuade us from leaving that night, little
understanding that we considered it ‘fun.’
[pg 637]
As a parting advice she told us to call
each other madame: it would procure
us more consideration. ‘For you know,
young ladies,’ she remonstrated mildly,
‘it is not quite proper for you to travel
alone.’ After this prudent counsel and
many warm adieus we sallied forth.

“The omnibus was crowded, and I
had perforce to sit on Annie’s knees.
This, with the jolting, the queer effect
of the half-light in the rickety interior,
together with the expression of the good
people, who evidently could see no fun
in rain, excited my risibility so strongly
that I indulged in a smothered laugh,
tempered to fit the publicity of the occasion.

“‘You must not laugh in France,’
whispered Nan, pulling my dress.

“‘I thought the French admired gayety,’
I answered in the same tone.

“‘Be quiet: it isn’t proper.’

“The rest of the way was accomplished
in silence. We soon arrived at the
station and bought our tickets. Of course
we had half a dozen bundles: in gathering
them up a most gentlemanly person
accosted us and asked, ‘Avez vous perdu
quelque chose, mademoiselle?’

“Annie replied in the negative with
great dignity, and so cut off any chance
of adventure in that quarter.

“On came the train. In France there
is fortunately a provision made for women
traveling without an escort. In
your country they have, I believe,
smoking-cars especially for the gentlemen:
in that blessed land there is a compartment
for ‘ladies alone,’ or Dames
Seules, as it is called. A good American
once read this inscription with much
commiseration, D—— souls, and returning
told his friends that the ‘wicked’
French allowed His Satanic Majesty the
right of running a special car on their
roads for his greater accommodation.

“As we were hastening to this most
desired refuge I noticed two very student-looking
young men walking near us, and
caught a bit of their conversation.

“‘They will.’

“‘They won’t: a bottle of wine on it
we go up in the same car with them.’

“‘I told you so!’

“As we found our car and entered the
students passed on, not daring to ignore
the magic words on the door; so Adventure
No. 2 was nipped in the bud.

“Nan and I were the only lady-passengers,
and we sank back into the soft
cushions with the pleasant sense that no
further effort would be needed during
the journey. We had been told that the
train would arrive in Paris about midnight,
but the lateness of the hour caused
us no uneasiness, as we had been there
before and remembered the city pretty
well; and, besides, we thoroughly believed
in our ability to take care of ourselves.

“In an interval of wakefulness we
discussed our plans, and concluded to
spend the night at some hotel near the
station, the next morning looking up our
friends (several of whom we knew to be
in town) and consulting them about our
future proceedings, feeling that a midnight
visit from us would scarcely be
welcome to any one. Annie recalled a
fine-looking hotel just opposite the terminus,
and, having made our selection
in its favor, we dozed off again very
comfortably.

“I think we had been on the way
some four hours when the welcome
lights began to appear—first in the sky
above the city, as if the earth in this favored
spot threw out rays like the sun;
next through the darkness over the country
below; and then we plunged tunnel-wise
into the earth under the busy streets
and fortifications, to emerge at the end
of our route.

“We gathered up our bundles in haste,
thanking the stars that we had accomplished
our ride so safely, and were
walking off to the hotel when we suddenly
thought of the trunks. Another consultation
was held, and we decided to
leave them in the baggage-room until
morning.

“‘But we must go and see that they
are safe,’ suggested Annie.

“‘Where is the baggage-room?’ I
asked of a porter.

“‘This way, mademoiselle.’

“‘Madame!’ I ventured to correct in
a weak voice.

[pg 638]

“‘Vos clefs, s’il vous plait,’ said a polite
official as we entered the door, and another
laid hands on the satchels we carried,
to examine them.

“We had entirely forgotten the octroi
officers. ‘Oh my! this affair may keep
us another half hour,’ thought I, ‘and I
am so sleepy!’ I have often found (I
confide this to you as an inviolable secret)
that to be unreasonable is a woman’s
strongest weakness: it is a shield
against which man’s sharpest logic is invariably
turned aside. The next thing
to there not being a necessity, is not seeing
a necessity, and this I prepared in
the most innocent manner to do.

“‘Gracious me!’ I exclaimed—or its
French equivalent, which I suppose is
‘Mon Dieu’—’you don’t mean to detain
us here opening those bags, and we so
tired, and they packed so full that we
could scarcely shut them; and if you do
open them, we cannot get all the things
into them again, and shall have no end
of trouble!’ Then I looked as injured
as if they had been thieves or highway-men.

“Had a man made this speech they
would have mistrusted him, but as women
have a reputation for shallowness,
such talk is never thought suspicious in
them.

“‘What do they contain?’ asked the
officer, hesitating.

“‘I don’t know what all: we have
been at the sea-side, and they are full
of trash. There are some shells and an
old hat in mine, and—and things.’

“He tried to conceal a smile, and
looked toward the other, who nodded,
and we saw the welcome ‘O’ put on in
chalk, upon which the bags were given
back to us.

“‘Now the trunks,’ said the first who
had spoken, holding out his hand for
the keys.

“‘Oh, we are going to leave them
here till to-morrow: they are all right—you
can mark them too;’ and without
further ceremony we moved toward the
door. One of the men stepped after us.
I thought it was to make us return, but
it was only to ask if he should get us a
carriage.

“We thanked him and replied that
we were going to the hotel opposite, and
did not need one: he then turned to a
person who seemed to be the porter of
the establishment, and told him to carry
our satchels for us. Now we felt our
journey was well at an end, for the windows
of our welcome asylum were blazing
not more than a hundred feet off.

“We crossed the street, rang at the
ladies’ entrance and asked for rooms.
After a few moments the servant returned,
and, much to our chagrin, said that
there were none to be had, every corner
was full.

“‘Do let us see the clerk. We must
have a room: you can surely find us
one somewhere.’

“The man shook his head.

“‘Please go and try,’ we insisted: ‘we
shall be satisfied with anything for the
night. Won’t you go and ask again?’

“‘It is of no use,’ he answered obstinately,
à cause de l’Exposition;’ and
he opposed a shrug of his shoulders to
every other effort at persuasion that we
made.

“Just then a chambermaid passed.
‘Do come here,’ I called. ‘Can’t you
find us a room? I will pay you;’ and I
put my hand significantly in my pocket.

“‘Very sorry, ladies, but it is impossible,’

“This was a contingency we had not
provided for: we looked at each other
blankly, and, though loath to do so, we
both came to the conclusion that they
were telling the truth.

“‘What shall we do?’ asked Annie,
speaking to me in English.

“‘I suppose we shall have to take a
carriage and go down town, after all,’

“‘They may be full there too,’ she
said in a rueful tone.

“Just then the porter with our satchels
spoke: ‘There is another hotel near,
ladies, and if you will come I will show
you to it,’

“I consulted Annie with a look, and
she assented. Any prospect was better
than a midnight drive of several miles,
with no certainty as to our lot at the end
of it. So we turned from the inhospitable
door and followed our guide.

[pg 639]

“The latter walked quickly for perhaps
a square, stopped before a neat-looking
house and rang. Our courage
rose as the door opened and revealed
a clean-looking court surrounded by
orange trees in boxes, with small coffee-tables
under them for the convenience
of the guests.

“‘Rooms for two ladies!’ demanded
our attendant with the voice of a herald.

“The trim but sleepy servant looked
at us a moment, as if not comprehending
the situation, then slowly pronounced
our sentence in two words, ‘No rooms!’
and as if to emphasize them threw up
the palms of his hands, shook his head
and added ‘Full!’ after which he closed
the door with a hasty click and returned
to his nap.

“Our night-errant was visibly disappointed
with this reception—not more so
than we were—but without allowing us
time to speak he said in his most reassuring
voice, ‘Never mind, ladies: there
are plenty of hotels about here, and we
shall soon find lodgings for you.’ Having
undertaken the task, he seemed to think
it his duty to comfort and provide for us.

“Alas! this was not soon accomplished.
Two other hotels were successively
tried in vain, and still our indefatigable
guide went on. It appeared as if we
had walked a considerable distance, but
the streets cut each other at odd angles,
and we had been turning so often that I
confess I had but little idea where we
were, or how far we had come, when
we entered a quarter where the ways
became narrower, passed into a dingy
alley, thence plunged through a still
darker court, from that to another alley,
and the next moment our porter was
ringing at the door of a tall, sombre
house. I truly hoped that we should not
find rooms here, and was turning to
Annie to advise a cab and an attempt in
a more civilized-looking locality, when
the bell was answered and the old question
repeated.

“To my surprise and dismay the servant
said they could accommodate us.
Should we stay? I knew that in the
older parts of Paris the best of houses
are sometimes found in the poorer streets,
and that in no city is a person less able to
judge of the interior comfort of a building
by its external aspect. We were very
tired, and should we turn away from this
open door where should we find another
open for us? The porter, however good-natured,
could not continue to run about
with us all night, and our faith in ourselves
was considerably diluted since
we left the cars: even a cab might be
difficult to get at this hour of the night.
Annie did not object: indeed, she looked
too worn out to have an opinion in
the matter, and as I could think of nothing
better to do, I began to make the
usual inquiries: ‘Have you two adjoining
rooms?’

“‘Yes, mademoiselle.’

“I remembered the advice that had
been given us on starting: here surely
was a place to use it, so I said to the
servant in a marked tone, ‘Take madame’s
bag and show us to our chambers.’

“‘This way, mesdemoiselles,’ he answered
with the most provoking coolness.

“I dismissed our faithful porter with
regret, and followed the other up stairs.
While ascending I racked my brain to
determine what peculiarity of manner
we could adopt that would give us a
more matronly air while traveling, but I
could think of nothing. I may as well
tell you now that we never for an instant
deceived any one on this subject during
our stay, and we soon ceased trying to
do so.

“Our rooms were much better than I
had expected to find them, but even this
caused in me a feeling of doubt. They
had a hypocritical air, a grasping after
appearances that I believe always accompanies
deceit and imposition—a sleek
shabbiness that I detest. I knew by instinct
that if I examined I should find
the carpets worn out under the mats,
and the chairs faded beneath their smart
chintz covers. There was not a candid-looking
piece of furniture in the apartment:
the table was an impostor with
one short leg; the drawers of the bureau
would not open; the glasses were all
askew, and twisted your face to such a
degree that it frightened you to catch a
[pg 640]
glimpse of yourself in passing. But this
was not the worst: from the moment I
entered the rooms I felt that they had
been waiting for us.

“I did not venture to mention my
suspicions to Annie, and tried to keep
up a cheery sort of conversation while
we undressed, but I could see that she
too began to be uneasy. We carefully
inspected our doors, and found the locks
were good, then looked to see that there
was no one lurking under the beds. It
would be difficult to tell you exactly
what I feared, but somehow everything
impressed me as mysterious—the quiet
of the streets through which we had
come, and the quiet of the house. It
was such a lonely, eerie kind of place:
our feet echoed on the stairways as if
human feet seldom ascended them; the
shadows appeared especially dark; our
candles’ small light made little impression
on the gloom; the very air seemed
harder to breathe than ordinary; and on
recalling the face of the impertinent servant
I thought that it had a sinister look.

“I tried to recall whether we were in
a good or bad faubourg, but could not;
and then I remembered that Paris was
now divided into arrondissements, which
had a much less ill-omened sound. I
went to the window to reconnoitre the
locality, but, though the rain had ceased,
darkness covered all so thickly that I
could see nothing. As I stood there the
clock on the station struck, first the quarters,
and then one, in a doleful, muffled
tone. It told me one thing I was glad
to know—namely, that we could not
have wandered very far during our walk;
but there was little comfort in that, after
all, since the walk had terminated here.

“Stories that I had read of strange
adventures and accidents to midnight
guests now trooped into my head. I
thought of one in particular, in which
the tester of the bed slowly descended
to smother the sleeping inmate for purposes
of robbery; whereupon I minutely
examined mine, and found to my
satisfaction that it was scarcely able to
discharge the single duty of holding up
the curtains, and looked most innocent
of further intentions. Finding myself
again peering into corners I had already
searched, and feeling this general unrest
to be growing upon me, I began to think
I must be nervous from over-exertion,
and determined to get rid of my silly
fancies in sleep. Then, as if to take
myself by surprise, I suddenly blew out
the light, sprang under the covers and
shut my eyes tight, afraid that something
hateful might glare upon me in the dark.

“Just then Annie came to the communicating
doorway, and with an effort
to speak in her natural voice she said,
‘Jane, I am going to sleep here.’ And
as if this endeavor had consumed her
last bit of resistance, she closed and
locked the door quickly, ran to my bed
and threw herself shivering beside me.

“‘What is the matter?’ I whispered,
feeling my presentiment of evil confirmed.

“She put her lips to my ear and answered,
‘I found a door in my room behind
the bed-curtains, and it leads I don’t
know where.”

“‘Did you open it?’

“‘No indeed! I would not open it for
the world. There might be something
horrible in it;’ and she shuddered.

“‘You have left your light burning.’

“‘I don’t care. I won’t go back: no
indeed, I could not.’ There was silence
for a few minutes: neither of us moved,
when Nan again whispered, ‘Do you
think this room quite safe?’

“‘I looked all around before I blew
out the light.’

“‘Did you look behind your curtains?’

“‘No!’ I answered with an uncomfortable
sensation.

“‘You are next the wall: feel along
it,’ in her most persuasive voice.

“The very idea made me creep. Put
my hand behind those curtains and touch—what?
Even the cold wall would be
sufficient to terrify me. For reply I remarked
suggestively, ‘If we had the light
we could see.’

“‘Yes, that would be just the thing.
Go bring it—do!’

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

“‘Did the door move?’ I ventured to
ask.

“‘No, it didn’t do anything—at least I
don’t think it did—but it looked so awful
that it frightened me.’

“‘That light in there may set something
on fire,’ I remarked.

“‘Go fetch it: it will only take you a
minute. Do go!’

“‘You are sure the door didn’t open?’
I asked, far from liking my task.

“‘I will go with you half-way,’ she
volunteered, ‘and stand there while you
run in quick. Come on, and don’t let
us talk any more about it: we shall only
get more and more frightened.’ You
will see that Annie’s gifts lay more in
persuasion than in action.

“Thus adjured, I went with her to the
communicating door, cautiously listened,
then looked through the keyhole. The
silence within was oppressive, but the
flickering bougie warned me that I must
make an effort, and without allowing
myself time to think I hastily turned the
key and opened the door.

“At that moment it seemed to me that
I heard distant footsteps. I rushed for
the light and turned to go back, when I
ran against some one: the candle was
extinguished by being jerked from the
holder to the floor, and a hand which I
vainly tried to shake off clasped my
arm. My blood grew thick and still
with sudden terror. I tried to speak, but
could not. What increased my dread
was that I could not tell whether the
Thing by my side was a reality or a
spectre. I had caught a glimpse of
something white as the light disappeared,
and I believe that a pistol at my head
would have caused me less alarm than
this horrible idea of the supernatural.
I began to feel that I could endure it no
longer, that I should stifle, should die,
when Annie’s voice spoke in the darkness
quite near, and I found it was she
who had grasped my arm.

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

“‘You have half frightened me to
death,’ I murmured trembling: ‘I thought
you were something.’

“‘No, I ain’t anything, but something
is coming. Don’t you hear?’

“It was true enough. Through the
quiet of the house came stealthy footsteps.
Nearer, nearer. They were ascending
the stairs, at times delaying an
instant, as if groping for the way, then
on.

“‘Come into your room,’ said Annie
convulsively: ‘come, and we can lock
ourselves in. Oh, where is your door?
I cannot find it, and they are coming.
What shall we do? what shall we do?’

“We were in total darkness: not a
ray of light came from the window, and
in our confusion we had lost our bearings.
Neither of us had the least idea
in what direction the other room lay.

“‘Let us creep along the floor, perhaps
we may find it. Do try,’ said I.

“‘No, no, I cannot move. I wish we
had never come. I am dying.’ She
was shaking with fright, and would not
leave my arm for an instant.

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

“‘It is a signal for the other,’ gasped
Annie: ‘it is in that door: they are
coming, they are here. Shall I scream
murder? shall I?’ giving my arm an
emphasizing grip.

“‘No, no, wait: it will do no good.’

“She groaned, slipped down on her
knees, with one arm still round me, her
face pressed against my side, holding
her other hand over the unprotected ear,
so that she should hear no more; and
in this position she began to repeat
‘Now I lay me down to sleep’ just as
fast as she could gabble it.

“I was no less frightened, and would
willingly have crouched down also, but
she held me so tight that I could not
without a struggle, and above all things
I did not want to make a noise.

“It was thus we awaited the crisis.
The steps were certainly coming to our
room, but whether by the door we had
[pg 642]
entered or by the one Annie had seen
behind the bed, I could not tell. I was
too bewildered to locate the sound, nor
did I know whether the bed was at my
right or left hand. I had a slight hope
that the steps might pass on.

“It was for that I waited.

“They came—near, nearer. For a
time my heart ceased beating. Annie
slipped lower, until she lay on the floor,
and I could no longer hear her breathe.
My whole being was merged in listening
to that step. I could feel that now it
was on a level with our room—was there
almost beside us. Lightly though distinctly
a hand passed over the door, as
if fumbling for the latch. This was the
intense moment. Had the person paused
or hesitated an instant, I think it would
have killed us both. But no, he did not
falter. Steadily on, the step, guided by
the hand, went as it had come, and as I
stood, not daring to move, I heard it receding
in the distance of the great house.
Then all was silence.

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

“‘Can’t you get a light?’ she begged.
‘I cannot move until you have a light.
I am still afraid.’

“I now remembered that the bureau
must be behind me, for I had merely
turned when I encountered Annie and
dropped the candle. There were probably
matches upon it: yes, there they
were. I struck one and easily found the
candle: then Annie rose with the meekest
air possible, and, without looking
at the obnoxious corner where the bed
stood, we walked into the other room
and locked the door.

“It was not until the gray morning
light crept into the window that we felt
quite safe. Every crack in the floor or
nibbling mouse caused us to start, and
at each quarter the clock of the station
would strike as if to warn us to be on
the alert. But the bed was not bad, and
the house remained quiet; and as soon
as the dawn made our candle useless,
we began to think we had been very
foolish, and the result was a sound sleep.

“When we awoke it was ten o’clock:
the morning was bright and clear, and
the terrors of the night had all departed
during our refreshing rest. The room
certainly looked shabby, but if that were
a crime, half the houses in the world
would be sent to prison. There was
nothing in the least mysterious about it.
Our courage rose with the day, and we
teased and joked each other about our
fright. Then, anticipating the glories of
the Exposition, we congratulated ourselves
that we had come.

“‘We won’t breakfast here,’ said Annie
as she was dressing: ‘we will go
down town to a nice restaurant, and sit
at a window and see the people go by.
Afterward we will look up our friends
and find a good hotel or boarding-house;
and we must go to the Exposition this
very day. We shall have a famous time.
We can make up parties to drive out,
and go monument-hunting and sight-seeing,
and to the theatre. Ain’t you
glad you came?’

“‘The first thing we do must be to go
back to the station and leave these bags
with our trunks until we find lodgings,’
I remarked.

“Nan went into the next room to get
some of the clothing she had left there.
When she returned, lowering her voice
she said, ‘Jane, there is a door behind
my curtains.’

“‘Very well, let it alone: I suppose
it is a closet.’

“‘No such thing: it don’t look like a
closet; and why would they hide a closet,
I should like to know? Come in and
see it.’

“She walked back, and as I followed
drew the curtain aside, and there in fact
it was.

“‘I am going to open it before I leave
the room,’ she said in a determined
tone: ‘there is something not right about
it.’

“‘I wouldn’t,’ I remonstrated: ‘some
one may be in there.’

[pg 643]

“‘I am going to see: I must look into
it. It is daylight, you know, and we
sha’n’t be much frightened. Help me to
push away the bed.’

“‘I won’t do anything so absurd.
This is a hotel, Annie, and there must
be plenty of adjoining rooms in it. Suppose
that room is now occupied by a
boarder?’

“‘If it is occupied they will lock the
door on the other side, and I will try the
latch softly to see; but I know it is not.
Don’t you see that the only entrance
must be from here? There is the entry.
opposite, and here is the court: now,
how could any one get into it but through
this room? It must be a small place,
too, for here is the corner of the house,
and it has been evidently planned to be
kept concealed.”

“‘No matter: we have no right to any
rooms but these we are in. Come away,
and let well enough alone.’

“‘It is not “well enough,” as you call
it. I am going to see into it, and why
they hide it. I declare,’ and she examined
the door critically, ‘it looks like the
entrance to Bluebeard’s chamber. Look
at these queer marks, these dents and
stains, as if there had been a struggle.
It is our duty to investigate;’ and her
voice grew impressive. ‘Perhaps we
have been brought here for that very
purpose, and, Jane, if there is a dead
body in there, I shall inform the police.’
Annie was very brave in daylight.

“‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ I replied to this fine
speech. ‘What you call duty, I call
curiosity. I am ravenously hungry, and
I wish you would finish dressing and let
us get to breakfast.’

“‘I will just tell you this,’ she answered
indignantly, and yet with a quiver in
her voice, ‘I never in my life felt as I
did last night when I saw that door. It
was quite like what people write of a
mysterious influence, or the presence of
some one unseen; and that whistle or
voice or moan, as if a soul was calling,
came from here; and you must help me
to find out what it really was, for I can’t
go away without knowing.’

“I saw it was useless to try longer to
dissuade her. The bed moved easily:
she took my hand and led me behind it;
then warily tried the latch. It rose, but
she was obliged to lean all her weight
against the door before it would give
way, and finally it opened so unexpectedly
that she almost fell forward.

“What did I see? At the first glimpse
a faint light from a cobwebbed window,
a narrow room and a floor—red. Was
it blood? A sickening mouldy smell
came forth, but as I forced myself to
look again I saw that it was only red
tiles that had startled me. There was
an upright brick range in a corner, an
old water-tank, some shelves and a cupboard.
A missing pane of glass left a
space through which the air had entered
and moaned up the broad-mouthed flue
that opened above the range. This was
the ominous ‘signal’ we had heard in
answer to the footsteps. The dust was
thick over everything, and the only signs
of life were the rat-tracks on the floor.
We stood still for a few moments, overwhelmed
at this solution of the occult
‘influence’ that had so subtly acted on
Annie’s nerves, and filled me with no
less terror.

“The house had been built for a hôtel
garni; that is, a house with furnished
rooms or apartments, something like a
tenement-house in your country. This
was the kitchen of the suite, and belonged
to the two rooms we had taken.
Being unused for its proper object, and
too small for a bed-chamber, it had been
closed, and appeared as if it had been
unentered for years. I turned to Annie
to see how she would bear this prosaic
explanation of our alarm, but with the
air of one who had expected nothing
but this from the beginning, she remarked,
‘Now you see how much better it
is to look into such things. This room
would have furnished me with bad
dreams for the remainder of my life,
and here I find it is only a commonplace
kitchen. Think how ludicrous to have
the horrors over a kitchen! Sha’n’t I
tell of your fright when we get home—how
you didn’t want to open the door,
and wanted to ‘let well enough alone’?
The place might be haunted by the
ghost of a chicken or a rabbit, but, my
[pg 644]
dear, you should not allow that to terrify
you.’

“‘Perhaps it was the ghost of a chicken
that you feared last night, and that
caused your presentiments this morning.
I hope you will inform the police of what
you have discovered here,’ I remarked
quietly.

“‘A truce, a truce, good Jane! I will
say no more. We were both boobies.
But wouldn’t it be ‘cute to live here, you
and me, and make our own breakfast?
Look at the hole for charcoal, and the
little cupboard, the nails for the pots
and pans to hang on: everything is
complete. That room could be for
dining, the other a parlor, and—’

“‘The only drawback would be that,
except at the North Pole, the night comes
once in twenty-four hours.’

“‘Don’t be mean, Jane! Do come in
here a minute: it’s a dear little place.’

“‘You will certainly make a housekeeper
if a kitchen gives you such ecstasy.
Come out, I am so hungry. Put
on your bonnet and leave this elysium:
I have had enough of it.’

“‘You come in for a second: it will
shake the terror off and you won’t dream
of it. That is a cure my old nurse once
gave me for laying ghosts.’

“‘It may be a good plan to shake off
the terror, but the dust on you will not
be shaken off so easily.’

“‘Suppose,’ and she stamped her foot—’suppose
that the floor should be hollow,
and that this were only a pretended
kitchen after all, or that there was a
trap-door painted to resemble tiles, or a
sliding panel.’ Here she felt over the
surface of the wall. ‘Why should I feel
so queer last night if this was really nothing
but a kitchen?’

“‘Because you are a goose,’ I answered
impatiently, ‘and if you don’t come
I will leave you. If you like, you can
engage boarding here for a week, and
raise the tiles one by one with a knife
and fork. As for me, I am going to
breakfast.’

“‘But don’t you think it really has an
uncanny look?’ she asked, giving a last
glance over her shoulder as she came
out.

“‘If you call dirt uncanny, there is
plenty of that. Shut the door, and I
will push back the bed.’

“‘Jane,’ she again remarked as she
was trying on her bonnet before the
crooked glass, ‘if ever I tell of this
night, I think I will say that there was
a trap-door in the kitchen: you know
there might be one and we not see it.’

“‘Oh yes,’ I answered as patiently as
I could, ‘I suppose a fib more or less
will make but little difference in your
lifetime. While you are at it, however,
you may as well make a few more additions.’

“‘Now you are unkind.’

“‘A person is not accountable for
temper when famishing. Take up your
satchel.’

“We found the house a most every-day-looking
house, seen by sunlight;
but there had lain the difficulty. The
clerk in the office did not particularly
resemble a cutthroat, or even a cutpurse,
and, strange to say, did not overcharge
us: in fact, he behaved very civilly.
We found we were not far from the
station, and depositing our bags there,
we walked down the beautiful Rue La Fayette.

“‘It is a great deal pleasanter to travel
alone in this way,’ said Nan gayly, her
spirits rising in the delightful air. ‘When
I was here before with all the family, it
was not near so jolly; and I think we
manage well, don’t you? Oh, there is
an omnibus not complet: let us get in.
I am too hungry to walk.’

“After we were seated she continued:
‘I wonder what will happen to us to-night.
Suppose we find every place full,
and have to sleep in a garden or on the
steps of a church, or something? Isn’t it
delightful not to know in the least what is
going to happen next?—just as in fairy-land.
Don’t you hope we may have an
adventure every night?’

“‘I should not call last night an adventure:
it seems to me it was more like a
panic,’ I said drily.

“‘You will never let anything be agreeable,’
in a hurt tone: then recovering
her good temper, she went on: ‘Well,
call it a panic if you like. Now, suppose
[pg 645]
we had one every night, and we stayed
here two weeks, there would be fourteen
panics before we go home. Wouldn’t
that be glorious?’

“‘You did not appear to enjoy it so
much last night.’

“‘At the time I did not,’ she admitted
frankly. ‘Weren’t we frightened? But
then, you know, how nice it will be to
talk of it afterward!’

“We arrived at a restaurant in the
Palais Royal, and found a seat by the
window, and a breakfast. We had already
finished the latter, and were playing
with our fruit, when a party entered
who attracted our attention by speaking
English.

“‘One of them is Miss Rodgers,’ Annie
whispered excitedly. ‘I know her
well: hadn’t we better run away? What
will she think of our being here alone?’

“‘Nonsense! You had better ask her
where she is staying. Remember, we
are houseless as yet.’

“‘I don’t like to ask her.’

“‘Introduce me: I will ask.’ The
idea of spending the night in a garden
or on a church-step did not possess the
same charms for me as for Nan. Thus
prompted, she walked forward and spoke
to her friend, afterward presenting me.
We chatted a few minutes, when Miss
Rodgers asked Annie where she was
staying, and how her mamma was.

“‘Mamma is not with us,’ was Nan’s
embarrassed reply.

“I went to her rescue, and diverted
the questions by asking some myself:
‘Miss Rodgers, where are you staying?
We do not like our hotel and want to
change.’

“‘There is not a room in our house
that is unoccupied, and you won’t find
good accommodation anywhere. You
had better not change if you have a
place to lay your head. Paris is so
crowded that everything has been taken
up long ago. You can ask at a dozen
hotels or boarding-houses and not find
a garret to let. You have no idea of the
difficulty.’

“Yes, we had an idea, and believed
every word she said: in fact, we would
rather have felt less convinced on the
subject. Even Annie seemed to think
that traveling alone might present some
disagreeable features, and looked quite
unhappy, notwithstanding her love of
adventure. But before our mental anguish
had time to become unbearable
a young girl, a niece of Miss Rodgers,
spoke: ‘Auntie, if the young ladies
would like, I know of just the place that
would suit them.’ Then turning to us,
she continued: ‘I am at school a few
miles out of the city, and madame told
me that if I knew of any one, she had
room for a few parlor-boarders. It is a
lovely spot, and no end of trains coming
and going all day; so that it would be
just as convenient as living here, and
you would have excellent accommodation.
Then, too, I could speak English
to you sometimes. I am so tired of
talking for ever without half knowing
what I am saying.’

“I could have embraced the chatterbox
on the spot for this opportune proposal,
but controlled my feelings and
looked at Nan to see if she approved.
She was consenting with every one of
her expressive features, and did not appear
at all anxious to enjoy one of her
fourteen delightful panics this evening
if it could be avoided. Being spokesman,
I said, ‘I would willingly try the
school on your recommendation, Miss
Ada, if you think madame could be
ready for us this evening.’

“‘Of course she could: come out with
me now and see her. I must go at one,
and can show you the way. Will you
meet me at the station? or shall we call
for you at your hotel?’

“‘We will meet at the station,’ I replied,
glad to settle it so quickly, ‘if
you are quite sure that your madame
will like our unceremonious arrival.’

“‘That will be all right, I know. She
has several empty rooms, and will be
happy to have them filled. You can
leave your trunks until to-morrow if you
don’t like to come bag and baggage.’

“We needed no further pressing.
Here was deliverance and safety, and
we bade good-morning to the party with
light hearts.

“We found the school all that Miss
Ada had promised, and thus ended the
nearest approach to an adventure that
we had during the two weeks that we
remained.”

“And now tell me about the Exposition.”

“Well, we saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“Why, everything.”

“Describe it to me.”

“Certainly. In the first place, it was
very big, and everybody was there, so it
was crowded; and you met your friends
and you talked; and—and you got fearfully
tired; and it was wonderful; and
there were ever so many restaurants,
and a soda-water fountain, and queer
things that you never expected to see
there, like the Mexican techcatl and
Russian horses; and everything was
real—real lace and cashmeres and diamonds,
and nothing but what was very
nice. But, after all, I think you had
better get a file of old newspapers and
read about it, for I really have no talent
for description—or, better still, go and
see the one in Vienna this summer.”

ITA ANIOL PROKOP.

[pg 646]

SLAINS CASTLE.

In traveling over the old lands of Europe
one is sometimes apt to think
more of historical and genealogical traditions
than of the natural beauties or
peculiarities of the country. The old
landmarks of a nation, whether monuments
built by the hand of man or archives
carefully preserved by him, tell
us of its growth, just as the strata of the
mountain tell of its progress to the geologist;
and as every successive layer has
some relation both to its predecessor and
its successor, so the traditions of each
generation have a perceptible influence
upon the moral development of the generation
following. Every nation is thus
the growing fruit of its own history, and
every visible step of the grand ladder
of facts that has led up to the present
result must needs have for a student of
human nature an intrinsic interest.

This comes very clearly before my
mind as I think of Slains Castle (Aberdeen),
a massive crown of granite set
on the brow of the rocks of the German
Ocean, and the seat of one of those old
Scottish families whose origin is hidden
away among the suggestive mists of
tradition.

Slains Castle stands alone, a giant
watchman upon giant cliffs, built up
only one story high, on account of the
tremendous winds that prevail there in
spring and autumn, and cased with the
gray Aberdeen granite of the famous
quarries near by. The surrounding
country is as bare and uninviting as one
could imagine; the road from Aberdeen
(twenty miles) is bleak and stony; the
young trees near the castle are stunted,
and in many cases disfigured by the inroads
of hungry cows among their lower
branches, and a damp veil of mist hangs
perpetually over the scene, softening the
landscape, but sometimes depressing the
spirits. As the hours pass the place
grows on you: a weird beauty begins to
loom up from among the mist-wreaths,
the jagged rocks, the restless waves, and
you forget the desolate moor, which in
itself displays attractions you will realize
later, in the grandeur of the desolate sea.

The original building is of the time of
James VI. (of Scotland), and is due to
Francis, earl of Erroll, whose more
ancient castle, bearing the same name,
was destroyed by the king to punish his
vassal for the part he had taken in a rebellion.
In the seventeenth century Earl
Gilbert made great improvements in it,
and early in the eighteenth Earl Charles
added the front. In 1836 it was rebuilt
[pg 647]
by Earl William George, the father of the
present owner, with the exception of the
lower part of the original tower. In this
there used to be in olden times an oubliette
in which unhappy prisoners were
let down. All at first appeared dark
around them, but when they had thankfully
assured themselves that they at
last stood upon solid ground, they would
look about them and presently descry a
line of fitful light coming from a door
ajar in their dungeon. The poor victims
would then go in haste to this door, pull
it open and, blinded by the sudden light,
step out upon the green slope terminating
quickly in a precipice, which went sheer
down to the sea.

The rest of the house is built around
a large covered piazza, intersected by
corridors where pictures, armor and all
kinds of old family relics decorate the
walls. The drawing-room is on the very
edge of the rock, and on stormy days
the flocks of uneasy sea-gulls almost
flap their wings against its window-panes,
while the clouds of spray dash up against
them in miniature waterfalls. The rocks
in the immediate neighborhood of the
castle are rugged in the extreme, here
and there rent by a gigantic fissure
reaching far inland, and up which the
foaming waters gurgle continually as if
in impatience of their narrow bounds,
now jutting far into the sea like a Titanic
staircase and thickly matted with coarse
sea-weed, and again reared up on high,
a sheer glistening wall, with not a cranny
for the steadiest foot, and with Niagaras
of spray for ever veiling its smooth, unchanging
face. In wonderful hollows
you will come upon pools of green water
with sea-anemones, delicate sea-weed of
pink, yellow or purple hue, and gem-like
shells resting on a bottom of clearest
sand; and while the waves are roaring
on every side, and flinging their dampness
into your very face, these fairy
pools will lie at your feet without a
breath or ripple on their surface.

The most magnificent of these rocks
is one called in Gaelic “Dun-Bug”
(“Yellow Rock”), the favorite haunt of
the white sea-gulls. It stands alone, as
if torn from the land and hurled into the
tossing waves by some giant hand. Two
hundred feet in height and a thousand
in circumference, it forms a natural arch,
being pierced from its base upward by
an opening that widens as it ascends.
The waves dash through it with terrific
violence, and the very sight of its grim
splendor conjures up a vision of shipwreck
and danger. Scott has made mention
of it in The Antiquary, and Johnson
in his Journey to the Hebrides, recalling
the grandeur of the rocky coast of Slains,
has said that though he could not wish
for a storm, still as storms, whether wished
for or not, will sometimes happen, he
would prefer to look at them from Slains
Castle. These rocks and the caves that
alternate with them were once famous
as a smuggling rendezvous, and as such
Scott has again immortalized them in his
Guy Mannering. The Crooked Mary,
a noted lugger, had many an adventure
along this coast during the last century.
The skipper’s arrival was eagerly looked
for at certain stated times, the preconcerted
signal was given by him, and the
inhabitants bestirred themselves with
commendable haste. All ordinary business
was immediately suspended: men
might be seen stealing along from house
to house, or a fisher-girl, bareheaded and
barefooted, would hurry to the neighboring
village, and deliver a brief message
which to a bystander would sound very
like nonsense, but which nevertheless
was well understood by the person to
whom it was given. Soon after a plaid
or blanket might be seen spread out, as
if to dry, upon the top of a peat-stack.
Other beacons, not calculated to draw
general notice, but sufficiently understood
by the initiated, soon made their
appearance, telegraphing the news from
place to place. As soon as the evening
began to close in the Crooked Mary
would be observed rapidly approaching
the land, and occasionally giving out
signals indicating the creek into which
she meant to run. Both on sea and
land hairbreadth escapes were the rule
rather than the exception, and it is related
of one of the Crooked Mary’s confederates
on shore, poor Philip Kennedy,
that one night, while clearing the way for
[pg 648]
the cargo just landed from the contraband
trader’s hold, he was simply murdered
by the excise-officers. The heavy
cart laden with the cargo was yet some
distance behind, and Kennedy with
some dastardly companions was slowly
going forward to ascertain if all was
safe, when three officers of the customs
suddenly made their unwelcome appearance.
Brave as a lion, Kennedy attacked
two of them, and actually succeeded
for a time in keeping them down in his
powerful grasp, while he called to his
party to secure the third. They, however,
thinking prudence the better part
of valor, decamped ignominiously, and
the enemy remained master of the brave
man’s life. Anderson, the third officer,
was observed to hold up his sword to the
moon, as if to ascertain if he were using
the edge, and then to bring it down with
accurate aim and tremendous force upon
the smuggler’s skull. Strange to say,
Kennedy, streaming with blood, actually
succeeded in reaching Kirkton of Slains,
nearly a quarter of a mile away, but
expired a few moments after his arrival.
His last words were: “If all had been
true as I was, the goods would have
been safe, and I should not have been
bleeding to death.” The brave fellow
was buried in the churchyard of Slains,
where a plain stone marks his grave,
and bears the simple inscription, “To
the memory of Philip Kennedy, in Ward,
who died the 19th of December, 1798.
Aged 38.”

My own earliest recollections of the
grand, desolate old castle are derived,
not from my first visit to it made in infancy,
but from the descriptions of one
whose home it was during a brief but
intensely observant period of childhood.
There came one day a storm such as
seldom even on that coast lashes up the
gray, livid ocean. The waves, as far out
as sight could reach, were one mass of
foam, and the ghastly lightning flashed
upon the torn sails of a ship as near
destruction as it well could be. Cries
came up from below in the brief pauses
of the storm, and above lanterns were
quickly carried to and fro, while pale
attendants hurriedly and silently obeyed
the signals of a more collected master.
The occupants of the castle hardly knew
to what its chambers might be destined—whether
to receive the dead or to afford
rest to the saved. Beds, fires and cordials
were in readiness, and strong men
bore dread burdens up dizzy paths leading
from beneath. The ship broke in
pieces on the merciless rocks, and many
a drowned sailor went down to meet the
army of his fellow-victims of all times
who no doubt lay sleeping in the submarine
caves of Slains. Those who survived
soon disappeared, full of gratitude for
the timely relief offered them at the castle,
but one old man remained. He was
never known by any other name than
“Monsieur,” and was beloved by every
individual member of the household. A
French émigré of the old school, with
the dainty, gallant ways of the ancien
régime, he still clung to the dress of his
earlier days, and wore a veritable queue,
silk stockings and buckled shoes. For
some time he remained a welcome guest
in the “red chamber,” where the host’s
little children would sometimes join him
and play with his watch and jeweled
baubles. But one day poor little “Monsieur”
sickened, and the tiny feet that
had made such haste to run to him, now
trod the corridor softly and bore a baby-nurse
to the gentle invalid. It was a
high and coveted reward for the little
girls to carry “Monsieur’s” medicine to
his bedside, and everything that kindness
and hospitality could suggest was
equally lavished on him; but his feeble
life, which had no doubt received a
shock from the shipwreck it had barely
escaped, went out peacefully like the
soft flame of a lamp.

Slains Castle had many gentle and
pleasant memories about it, as well as
its traditional horrors, and among these
were many connected with the history
of the old family that owned it. In one
of the corridors hangs the picture of
James, Lord Hay, a fair-haired, sunny-faced
boy, tall and athletic, standing
with a cricket-bat in his hand. He
would have been earl of Erroll had he
lived, but if we follow him in his short
life from classic Eton to the field of
[pg 649]
Quatre-Bras, we shall find him again, on
a bright June day in 1815, lying as if
asleep, as fair and noble-looking as before,
but silent in death. Simple Flemish
peasants stand in a group around
him, awed and admiring, asking each
other if this beautiful youth is an angel
fallen from heaven, or only a mortal
man slain for the Honor of his country.
His was a noble death, and worthy of
the suggestive memento of his early boyhood
before which we stood just now in
the corridor of Slains Castle.

A little farther down this corridor,
which to all intents and purposes is a
family picture-gallery, we shall be forced
to stop before the portrait of a dark
woman, masculine and resolute, not
beautiful nor like the handsome race of
the Hays, of which she was yet the last
direct representative. This is the famous
Countess Mary, one of the central
figures of the family traditions. The
Hays were hereditary lords high constable
of Scotland, and also one of the few
Scottish families in which titles and offices,
as well as lands, are transmitted
through the female line. So this Countess
Mary found herself, at the death of
her brother, countess of Erroll in her
own right and lord high constable of
Scotland. In one of the two pictures of
her at Slains, if I remember right, she
is represented with the bâton of her
office, with which badge she also appeared
at court before her marriage (after
this it was borne by her husband in
the character of her deputy). Her husband
was a commoner, a Mr. Falconer
of Dalgaty, whose reported history in
connection with her is curious and deserves
to be told, though the old tradition
is moulded into so many different
forms that it is very difficult to disentangle
the truth from its manifold embellishments.
Toward the beginning of
the eighteenth century this intrepid and
independent lady fell in love with Mr.
Falconer, who at first did not seem eager
to return or notice her affection. High-strung
and chivalric by nature, she did
not droop and pine under her disappointment,
but vowed to herself that she
would bring him to her feet. Mr. Falconer
coner left the country after some time,
and went to London. The Countess
Mary also traveled south the same year,
and no news of her was heard at Slains
for some time. Meanwhile, she and
Mr. Falconer met, but unknown to the
latter, who about the same time became
acquainted with a very dashing young
cavalier, evidently a man of high birth
and standing, but resolutely bent on
mystifying his friends as to his origin.
The two saw each other frequently, and
were linked by that desultory companionship
of London life which sometimes
indeed ripens into friendship, but as
often ends in a sudden quarrel. Such
was the end of this acquaintance, and
one day some trifling difference having
occurred between the friends, a cartel
reached Mr. Falconer couched in very
haughty though perfectly courteous language.
These things were every-day
matters in such times, and very nonchalantly
the challenged went in the early
morning to the appointed place to meet
the challenger. Here the versions of
the story differ. Some say that Mr. Falconer
and his antagonist fought, but
without witnesses; that the former got
the worst of the encounter, and remained
at the other’s mercy; that then, and
not before, the Countess Mary made herself
known to him and gave him his
choice—a thrust from her sword or a
speedy marriage with herself. Others
say that it was before the duel that she
astonished her lover by this discovery,
and that the choice she gave him was
between marriage and ridicule.¹

[pg 650]

The fact of her marriage, and that it
proved a happy one, is certain. Mr.
Falconer dropped his own name to assume
that of Hay. The countess was a
devoted Jacobite and an earnest churchwoman.
When Presbyterianism had got
the upper hand in Scotland, and was repaying
church persecutions with terrible
interest, a Mr. Keith was appointed to
the Anglican parish of Deer. This was
within the Erroll jurisdiction, and it was
not long before the zealous Countess
Mary came to the rescue of the congregation,
who had assembled for some time
in an old farmhouse. In 1719 or ’20 she
had the upper floor of a large granary
fitted up for their accommodation, and
this afforded them a grateful shelter for
more than a quarter of a century. Of
this same parish of Deer a curious story
is told in the local annals, showing how
conservative and tenacious of traditions
the north of Scotland still was in 1711.
The skirmish to which it relates goes by
the quaint title of the “Rabbling of Deer,”
and is thus reported: “Some people of
Aberdeen, in conjunction with the presbytry of
Deer, to the number of seventy
horse or thereby, assembled on the twenty-third
of March, 1711, to force in a
Presbyterian teacher in opposition to the
parish; but the presbytry and their satellites
were soundly beat off by the people,
not without blood on both sides.”

There was little of the martyr about
the Scot of that warlike day, and most
emphatically and literally did he show
himself a “soldier of the Lord.”

The aisle of the old church of Slains
contains the graves of Countess Mary
and her husband, with an epitaph in
Latin, of which the following is a translation:
“Beneath this tombstone there
are buried neither gold nor silver, nor
treasures of any kind, but the bodies
of the most chaste wedded pair, Mary,
countess of Erroll, and Alexander Hay
of Dalgaty, who lived peaceably and
lovingly in matrimony for twenty-seven
years. They wished to be buried here
beside each other, and pray that this
stone may not be moved nor their remains
disturbed, but that these be allowed
to rest in the Lord until He shall call
them to the happy resurrection of that
life which they expect from the mercy
of God and the merits of the Saviour
and Lord Jesus Christ.”

The central figure, however, in the
history of the Hays of Erroll, and that
which no one who bears the name of
Hay can think of without a thrill of
pride, is the Lord Kilmarnock who fell,
in 1746, a victim to the last unsuccessful
but heroic rising in favor of the Stuarts.
I have heard it whispered as an instance
of “second sight” that some years before
he had any reason to anticipate
such a death he was once startled by the
ghostly opening of a door in the apartment
where he was sitting alone, and by
the apparition, horribly distinct and realistic,
of a bloody head rolling slowly
toward him across the room; till it rested
at his feet. The glassy eyes were upturned
to his, and the bonny locks were
clotted with blood: it was as if it had
just rolled from under the axe of the
executioner; and the features, plainly
discerned, were his own!

His part in the rising of 1745 belongs
to history, but his personal demeanor
concerns my narrative more closely.
All the contemporary accounts are loud
in praise of his beauty and elegance of
person, his refinement of manner, his
variety of accomplishments; and Scott,
in his Tales of a Grandfather, relates a
curious circumstance concerning his fine
presence at the moment of his execution.
A lady of fashion who had never seen
him before, and who was herself, I believe,
the wife of one who had much to
do with Lord Kilmarnock’s death-warrant,
seeing him pass on his way to the
block, formed a most violent attachment
for his person, “which in a less serious
affair would have, been little less than a
ludicrous frenzy.”

[pg 651]

The grace and dignity of his appearance,
together with the resignation and
mildness of his address, melted all the
spectators to tears as they gathered round
the fatal Tower prison to witness his
death: the chaplain who attended him
says his behavior was so humble and resigned
that even the executioner burst
into tears, and was obliged to use strong
cordials to support him in his terrible
duty. Lord Kilmarnock himself was
deeply impressed by the sight of the
block draped in funereal black, the plain
coffin placed just beside it, the sawdust
that was so disposed as speedily to suck
up the bloody traces of the execution,
and the sea of faces surrounding the
open enclosure kept for this his last
earthly ordeal. It was certainly not from
fear that he recoiled, but his proud, sensitive,
melancholy nature was thrilled
through every nerve by this dread publicity,
and we cannot wonder that, leaning
heavily on the arm of a trusty friend,
he should have whispered, almost with
his last breath, the simple words, “Home,
this is dreadful!”

One who was the lineal descendant of
this earl of Kilmarnock, and whose only
brother long bore the same blood-stained
and laurel-wreathed title, has often
told me of the strange link that bridged
the chasm of four generations from 1746
to 1829, and bound her recollections to
those of a living witness of the scene.
She was so young as not to have any
distinct impression of other events that
happened at the same time, but this lived
in her mind because of the importance
and solemnity with which her own parents
had purposely invested it in her
eyes. One day, at Brighton, this little
great-great-grand-daughter of the Lord
Kilmarnock of 1745 was brought down
from the nursery to see an old, more
than octogenarian, soldier who had distinguished
himself in recent wars, and
reached the rank of general. This tottering
old man, more than fourscore
years of age, took the wee maiden of
hardly four upon his knee, and told her
in simple words the story she was never
to forget—how he had been a tiny boy
running to school on the day of the
execution of the “rebel lords,” and how,
seeing a vast, eager crowd all setting
toward the Tower quarter, he was tempted
to play truant, and flinging his satchel
of books over his shoulder, had pushed
his way as far as the great state prison.
Then of his frantic efforts to secure a
point of vantage whence to see the great
death-pageant—of his childish admiration
for the handsome, manly form of
Lord Kilmarnock, of his enthusiasm
when Lord Balmerino, the other victim,
had cried in a loud voice, “Long live
the king!” and of the fascination he
could not resist which led his eyes from
the shining axe and the draped block to
the auburn locks of the prisoner, and
soon after to his bleeding head laid low
in the sawdust around the coffin. All
this the old veteran told thrillingly, the
shadow of a boy’s awed recollection
mingling with his Scottish exultation as
a compatriot of the victim, and even
with a touch of humor as he recalled
the domestic scolding which marked the
truant’s return.

In the charter-room at Slains Castle,
where the records, genealogies, private
journals, official deeds, etc. of the family
are kept, one might find ample material
for curious investigation of our forefathers’
way of living. Among other
papers is a kind of inventory headed,
“My Ladies Petition anent the Plenissing
within Logg and Slanis.” The list
of things wanted for Slains speaks chiefly
of brass pots, pewter pans and oil
barrels, but, the “plenissing” of Logg
(another residence of the Errolls),
“quhilk my Ladie desyris as eftir followis,
quhilk extendis skantlie (scantily)
to the half,” contains an ample list of
curtains of purple velvet, green serge,
green-and-red drugget and other stuffs
hardly translatable to the modern understanding,
and shows that in those days
women were not more backward than
now in plaguing their liege lords about
upholstery and millinery. But the most
amusing and natural touch of all is in
the endorsement, hardly gallant, but
very conjugal, made by the fair petitioner’s
husband: “To my Ladyes gredie
(greedy) and vnressonable (unreasonable)
[pg 652]
desyris it is answerit….” Here
follows a distinct admission that the furniture
of both houses, put together, is
too little to furnish the half of each of
them, and therefore nothing can be
spared from Logie to “pleniss” Slains.

The family coat-of-arms commemorates
to this day the poetical genealogy
of the Hays. Its supporters are two
tall, naked peasants bearing plough-yokes
on their shoulders: the crest is a
falcon, while the motto is also significant—”Serva
jugum.” Scottish tradition
tells us that in 980, when the Danes had
shamefully routed the Scots at Loncarty,
a little village near Perth, and were pursuing
the fugitives, an old man and his
two stalwart sons, who were ploughing
in a field close by, were seized with indignation,
and, shouldering their plough-yokes,
placed themselves resolutely in a
narrow defile through which their countrymen
must pass to evade a second
slaughter by the victors. As the Scots
came on the three patriots opposed their
passage, crying shame upon them for
cowards and no men, and exhorting
them thus: “Why! would ye rather be
certainly killed by the heathen Danes
than die in arms for your own land?”
Ashamed, and yet encouraged, the fugitives
rallied, and with the three dauntless
peasants at their head fell upon their
astonished pursuers, and fought with
such desperation that they turned defeat
into victory. Kenneth III., the Scottish
king, instantly sent for the saviors of his
army, gave them a large share of the
enemy’s spoils, and made them march
in triumph into Perth with their bloody
plough-yokes on their shoulders. More
than that, he ennobled them, and gave
them a fair tract of land, to be measured,
according to the fashion of that day, by
the flight of a falcon. From the name
of this land the Hays came to be called;
lords of Erroll, and it is said that the
Hawk Stone at St. Madoes, Perthshire,
which stands upon what is known to
have been the ancient boundary of the
possessions of the Hays, is the identical
stone from which the lucky falcon started.
It was left standing as a special
memorial of the defeat of the Danes at
Loncarty. Another stone famous in the
Hay annals, and conspicuously placed
in front of the entrance to Slains Castle,
is said to be the same on which the
peasant general rested after his toilsome
leadership in the battle.

Our walks over the bleak moors on
one side, with the heather in bloom and
the blackberries in low—lying purple
clusters fringing the granite rocks, were
sometimes rendered more interesting,
though more dangerous, by the sudden
falling of a thick white mist. Slowly it
would come at first, gathering little filmy
clouds together as it were, and hovering
over the gray sea in curling tufts, and
then, growing strong and dense, would
swoop down irresistibly, till what was
clear five minutes before was impenetrably
walled off, and one seemed to stand
alone in a silent world of ghosts. Or
again, our walks would take us on the
other side, over the Sands of Forvie, a
desolate tract where nothing grows save
the coarse grass called bent by the Scotch,
and where the wearied eye rests on nothing
but mounds of shifting sand, drearily
shaped into the semblance of graves
by the keen winds that blow from over
the German Ocean.

This miniature desert, tradition says,
was an Eden four hundred years ago,
but a wicked guardian robbed the helpless
orphan heiresses of it by fraud and
violence, and the maidens threw a spell
or weird upon it in these terms:

“Yf evyr maydens malysone

Did licht upon drye lande,

Let nocht bee funde in Furvye’s glebys

Bot thystl, bente and sande.”

I must not forget the “Bullers,” a
natural curiosity which is the boast of
the neighborhood of Slains, and is moreover
connected with a feat performed by
a former guest and friend of one of the
lords of Erroll. We drove there in a
large party, and passed through an untidy,
picturesque little fishing-hamlet on
our way, where the women talked to
each other in Gaelic as they stood barefooted
at the doors of their cabins, and
where the children looked so hardy, fearless
and determined that the wildest
dreams of future possible achievement
[pg 653]
seemed hardly unlikely of realization in
connection with any one of them.

“The Pot,” as it is locally called, is a
huge rocky cavern, irregularly circular
and open to the sky, into which the sea
rushes through a natural archway. A
narrow pathway is left quite round the
basin, from which one looks down a
sheer descent of more than a hundred
feet; but this is so dangerous, the earth
and coarse grass that carpet it so deceptive
and loose, and the wind almost always
so high on this spot, that only the
most foolhardy or youngest of visitors
would dare in broad daylight to attempt
to walk round it. Yet it is on record
that the duke of Richmond, some sixty
or seventy years ago, made a bet at Lord
Erroll’s dinner-table that he would ride
round it after dark. He accomplished
the feat in safety. His picture, life-size,
hangs in the dining-room to this day,
and as he is represented standing in all
the pride of a vigorous manhood by the
side of his beautiful charger, he does not
seem to belie the reputation which this
incident created for him in the old district
of Buchan.

The peasants of this wild and primitive
neighborhood, though to some extent
slightly infected by modernization,
are yet very fair specimens of the hardy,
trusty clansmen of Scottish history, and
the present owners of Slains certainly
give them every reason to keep up the
old bonds of affectionate interest with
every one and everything belonging to
“the family.” To my own observation
of the ancient seat of the Hays I owe
one of the most delightful recollections
of my life, that of a Christian home.
Not only the outward observances, but
the inner spiritual vitality of religion,
were there, while unselfish devotion to
all within the range of her influence or
authority marked the character of her
who was at the head of this little family
kingdom. The present head of the
house, a Hay to the backbone, has triumphantly
carried on the martial traditions
of his ancestry, and on the roll of
England’s victorious sons at the battle
of the Alma his name is to be found.
He was there disabled by a wound that
shattered his right arm and cut short his
military career. Domestic happiness,
however, is no bad substitute for a brilliant
public life, and there are duties,
higher yet than a soldier’s, that go far
toward making up that background of
rural prosperity which alone ensures the
grand effect of military successes. After
having done one’s duty in the field, it is
to the full as noble, and perhaps more
patriotic, to turn to the duties of the
glebe, thereby finishing as a landlord
the work begun as a soldier.

It is a touching custom, hardly yet
obliterated in the district over which my
reminiscences have led me, for one peasant,
when coming upon another employed
in his lawful calling, thus to salute
him: “Guid speed the wark!” the rejoinder
being, in the same broad Buchan
dialect, “Thank ye: I wish ye
weel.”

I can end these pages with no more
fitting sentiment. As a tribute of grateful
recollection to those who made my
days at Slains a happiness to me, and
in the first fresh sorrow of a deep bereavement
offered me distractions the
more alluring because the more associated
with Nature’s changeless, silent
grandeur, I pen these lines, crowning
them with the homely Scottish wish that
wherever they are and whatever they do,
“Guid speed the wark!”

LADY BLANCHE MURPHY.

Footnote 1: (return)
There is another version of her courtship, and this
a metrical one. This old ballad was not much known
beyond the district round Slains, and the old servants
and farmers on the estate were the chief depositaries
of the tradition. I have failed to secure more than a
very small fragment of it, which is itself only written
down from memory by one of these old women. The
rhyme and rhythm are both original:
Lady Mary Hay went to a wedding
Near the famous town of Reading:
There a gentleman she saw
That belonged to the law….
Here evidently there occurs a hiatus, during which
some account is probably begun of her unreturned
attachment, for a little later we find in the very primitive
manuscript from which we quote these words of
the countess:
I that have so many slighted,
I am at last—(unrequited?)
The story is now carried on in prose (my informant
having forgotten the text of the ballad), and says that
“Lady Mary wanted or challenged him to meet her
in a masquerade” (probably meaning a duel in disguise),
“and that his father told him to go.” Neither
father nor son seems to have known the fair challenger’s
rank, though the following words point to their being
aware of her sex, for the elder Falconer is represented
as saying,
If she is rich she will raise your fame,
And if poor you are the same.

[pg 654]

OUR HOME IN THE TYROL

CHAPTER III.

We were soon comfortably settled
in the old Hof. The spacious
rooms, always deliciously cool, were fragrant
with rare and delicate blossoms—Alpine
roses from the rocks, white lilies
from Moidel’s special little garden-plot,
grasses and nodding flowers, campanulas,
veronicas, melisot, potentillas and
lady’s bedstraw, which, according to
Anton, no cattle would touch, whilst the
roots of others were good for man or
beast, their various qualities being all
known to him. But soon the waving
flowers bent beneath the scythe. It was
the eve of St. Peter and St. Paul’s Day,
a festival when all work must cease, and
the Hofbauer, whose word was law, had
given orders that the hay in the wood-meadow
must be carried that evening.
Seeing, therefore, that the more hands
there were the better, the two Margarets
seized each a rake and worked as hard
as any woman in the field.

On we labored, the golden evening
sun glinting down upon our picturesque
row of haymakers, nor did we cease
until the angelus sounded from the village
spire. Then Anton, Jakob, Moidel,
their men and maids, fell devoutly upon
their knees and thanked God that Christ
Jesus had been born. These humble
Tyrolese remember thrice daily to praise
the Lord, as David did. With a hushed,
subdued look upon their honest faces,
they arose, and we joining them the
fresh, fragrant hay was carted triumphantly
home. The hay is cut long before
we should consider it ready, and is
housed whilst still green and moist.
The newer the hay the richer the cream,
they say. The Hofbauer has three
crops yearly, but his neighbors, who lie
higher, have only two, and sometimes
but one.

The good old Kathi stood at the door
cooling a gigantic pan of buckwheat
polenta, and when she had set down
this dish, intended for the haymakers’
supper, she brought us each, as our pay,
a couple of krapfen, which are oblong
dough-cakes fried in butter.

Although the haymakers were worn
out and weary with a long day’s work
of twelve hours, still Rosenkranz sounded
in the chapel like the humming of
bees in lime trees. This pious custom
duly impressed us, until on the very next
day, as we walked up our village street
on the evening of the festival, our solemn
feelings received a great check.
We observed that the prayer-leaders,
who knelt at the open windows of each
separate house, followed our every movement
with their eyes, whilst their mouths
mechanically repeated sonorous Ave
Marias and Paternosters. Nay, there
was our own pious Moidel watching us
from the kitchen window, her Hail Marys
mingling with her friendly greetings; but
then Moidel was waiting upon us and
our supper whilst her family were on
their knees in the chapel. Still, we soon
learnt to perceive that Rosenkranz was
considered quite as efficacious if merely
uttered by the tongue, whilst the mind
was far away. This being a festival,
and no one tired with work, the household
trooped into the old pleasaunce
after supper. The elders sat together
in a row, whilst the younger members
congregated on a second long stone
bench and struck up singing, Moidel
and her elder brother beginning with a
duet:

Green, green is the clover

On the hills as I go,

And my maiden as fresh is

As spring water’s flow.

And the chorus joined in—

As spring water’s flow,

winding up with a jodel.

Nanni, the chief maid, next sang in
a clear, flexible voice, which trembled
no little when she perceived that the
Herrschaft now formed part of the audience
in the balcony—

[pg 655]

A WEEK’S SORROW.

On Sunday I cried, for my heart was so sore,

Like a poor little child outside the church door;

On Monday I felt so afeard and alone,

And thought, Were I a swallow, I’d quickly begone:

Woe’s me! were I but a swallow, were I but a swallow!

On Tuesday, and nothing could please me all day,

For him that I love best is far, far away;

On Wednesday whatever I did, I did ill,

For when the heart’s heavy the hand has no skill;

On Thursday I was weary and sleepy all day;

On Friday, and one of the cows went astray;

On Saturday down poured my tears like the rain,

As though I should never be happy again.

Woe’s me! never be happy again; woe’s me! never again.

In order to catch the meaning of
the words, which were sung in strong dialect,
Margaret and I had descended to
the garden. The Hofbauer looked sad
when he saw us approach, and quietly
brushed a tear away with his shirt-sleeve.
We consequently asked Moidel when we
stood alone with her whether anything
were troubling her father.

“It strikes me not,” she said. “I
fancy that it is but the music. Father
and uncle may both seem quiet and
dull now, yet they have been celebrated
singers; only when my mother died
father left off singing, and so did uncle
after Uncle Jakob’s death.”

“Ah yes!” said the aunt, who had
also joined us, “they were the three
handsomest, best—grown men in the
parish, living happily together without
an ill word, until four years ago Jakob
was trampled upon by a yoke of vicious
oxen, and in three days he was dead.
Yes, that was a sorrow almost as cutting
as the death of the Hofbauerin, so
young when she died. Only married
five years, and leaving four little children,
not one of whom ever knew her!
Yes, Moidel is a good girl, and is wearing
her linen now, but she can never
come up in looks to her mother. Ah
ja! and now the trouble is about Jakob.”

“About Jakob?” asked we in a low,
astonished voice.

“Why yes, that he has been drawn
for the Landwehr. Ah, I thought you
knew. It was last autumn that he was
drawn. The Hofbauer would have sold
his best acres to release him, but the recruiting-officer
would have no nay:
Jakobi was a fine, well-behaved young
fellow, and such were needed in the
army. He had to serve two months
this spring, and with his comrades day
by day had to run up the face of mountains
some four thousand feet. It quite
wore Jakob out, though he is so good-tempered.
He declared that he was
used, to be sure, at the Olm to climb up
to the glaciers of the Hoch Gall after
his goats, often bringing the kids in his
arms down the precipices, but to have
his back broken and his feet blistered
in order to know how to shed human
blood was what he hated. Yet he bore
it so well, doing his best, that when the
other recruits could return to their
homes, Jakob, being so clever and well-behaved,
had to stay a fortnight longer
to brush, fold up and put away all the
regimentals. However, the under-officer
did have him to dine with him every
day.”

“Yes, and Jakob will in his turn be
an officer,” we replied, trying to reassure
her.

“Oh, na, na, that can never be: eleven
more long years must he serve, and
always as a private. I thought like you,
until the Hofbauer explained to me that
all the officers were foreigners—Saxons,
Bavarians, Würtembergers, put in by
the Austrian ministry, who are tyrants
to Tyrol. Ah, if the good emperor
would only interfere, for he loves Tyrol!
but he leaves everything to the ministry.
Austria may itself be overthrown in these
unrighteous days before my Jakobi is
free.” Now it was the good soul’s turn
to wipe her eye with the corner of her
ample blue apron.

We were venturing some fresh attempt
at consolation when fortunately an event
occurred which drew her thoughts from
the deep shadow which we had just discovered
hung over the peaceful Hof.
Jodokus, the village schoolmaster in the
winter, when the children had time to
learn, but during the busy summer
months one of the men, had challenged
Jakobi to a wrestling-match. Hardly
had the two antagonists encountered
each other on the grass in a stout set-to,
when the sound of the goatherd’s whip
[pg 656]
was heard on the hilly common above,
sending forth a succession of reports like
those of a pistol, becoming stronger and
louder when the game and the assembled
company were seen. At last the
young “whipper-snapper,” as we called
him, made one long final succession of
cracks and reports, and springing over
the wall, and casting his instrument of
torture on one side, he boldly challenged
Anton.

The young man, whose skill and
strength were well known, smiled, half
amused, half incredulous, on his antagonist.
The younger athlete, a lad of thirteen,
firmly built and agile, mistook the
look for a sneer, and the blood ran fast
and hot into his face. So, Anton accepting
the challenge, they immediately
began to spar. They first fearlessly regarded
each other, then bowing their
heads they rushed forward, butting like
rams. The lad, with his head fixed firm
in Anton’s chest, tried to find his adversary’s
weakest point, and with his arms
round his waist endeavored cunningly
to make him slip; but it was soon the
young champion who was tripped up,
and who in playful, half-serious anger
dealt blows and tugs right and left, almost
managing to bring Anton sprawling
to the ground. The lad, however,
suddenly stopped: he had lost a little
tin ring off his finger and a four-kreuzer
piece from his pocket—too great a loss
for a shepherd-boy. The combat therefore
was speedily closed, both antagonists
and their partisans hunting in the
unmowed grass until the treasures were
again trove.

At the same time an elderly man approached
and opened the gate—a peasant
evidently, although, instead of the
usual long white apron and bib, he wore
one of new green linen, shining as satin—a
man of a strong although delicate
make, the head slightly stooping forward,
and a face that beamed with genuine
pleasure as half a dozen voices
simultaneously burst forth with a “God
greet you, Alois!”

This then was Schuster (or Shoe-maker)
Alois, in preparation of whose
advent the good aunt had scrubbed a
bed-room, and Moidel had beautified
the window with pots of blooming geraniums.
The room was a large chamber,
set apart for the different ambulatory
work-people who came to the Hof
in the course of the year. The weaver,
who arrived in the spring to weave the
flax which the busy womankind had
spun through the winter, had been the
last occupant of the room, and had
woven no less than two hundred and
ninety-three ells of linen, which now in
long symmetrical lines were carefully
pegged down on the turf of the pleasaunce
by Moidel, who walked over them
daily with her bare feet, busily watering
until the gray threads were turning
snowy white.

Later on in the year the sewing-woman
would appear, and then the tailor, to
make the clothing for this large household,
the servants, according to an old
custom long since extinct in most countries,
being chiefly paid in kind. Schuster
Alois had now come to make the
boots for Jakob and the Senner Franz
preparatory to their going with the cattle
to the Alpine pastures.

I greatly doubt whether the tailor or
the weaver was so well waited upon as
the shoemaker: I fancy they were left
more to the maids. Passing the open
door of the family house-place, aunt and
niece might now be seen sitting hour
after hour, the elder lining the soles of
Jakob’s stockings with pieces of strong
woolen to prevent mending on the Alp,
or attending to other needs of his homely
toilet; the younger at her paste-board
or kneading-trough, whilst Schuster Alois
sat between them in the sunny oriel window,
and while he steadily plied his awl
appeared to be either telling them tales
or reciting poetry.

The Alp, or Olm (to use the provincial
word), lay at the distance of about six
hours, and the Hofbauer went up to examine
the state of the pasturage before
his son and the cattle finally started.
In two days he returned. “The going
up of the cattle must be postponed at
least a week,” he said, “for snow had
fallen at the huts the depth of a man;
and the river had swollen to such a
[pg 657]
height that it had carried two houses
away in St. Wolfgang, the highest mountain-village;
and even life had been
lost.”

This delay caused a respite from hard
work. The next morning Alois’s arms
did not move like unwearying machinery,
and, the ten o’clock-dinner being over,
we saw him seated at his ease on the
adjoining hillside. Should we go and
speak to him? He appeared different
from the ordinary run of his class (though
cobblers are often clever men enough),
and moreover of a decidedly friendly
turn of mind. We determined that we
would. We joined Alois on the stony,
waste hillside, crowned by two trees
with a crucifix in the centre, which formed
from the house, with its background
of mountains, ever a melancholy, soul-touching
little poem.

“You have not quite such hard work
to-day, Schuster?”

He smiled and said, “Do your work
betimes, and then rest; and where better
than under the shadow of the cross?”

“Yes, and the crucifix which you have
chosen is more pleasing than the generality
which are sown broadcast over
the fields of the Tyrol. Why are they
made so hideous and revolting?”

We spoke out freely, because the unusually
intelligent face before us evidently
belonged to a thinker. Candor of
speech pleased him. Nevertheless, he
answered as if musing, “They appear
ugly to you: well they may be. Ja, but
the most who look upon them are men
and women acquainted with many sorrows—sudden
deaths by falls from precipices,
destruction of house and home
by lightning, floods, avalanches, failure
of crops, and many another visitation—and
it soothes their perhaps selfish natures
to see these anguished features,
these blood-stained limbs—signs of still
greater suffering—whilst they pray that
only such crosses may be laid on them
as will keep them in obedience to His
will. Just before you came up the hill
I was thinking of a strange history connected
with a crucifix—one that I read
only ten days ago in the house of a
Hochmair himself.”

It merely needed silence for Schuster
Alois to repeat the tale, and he soon began:
“It is the Tyroler Adolph Pichler
who narrates it. He says that once in
his rambles he came to a little chapel,
over which hung a blasted larch—such
a desolate wreck of a tree that he naturally
asked the guide he had with him
why it was not cut down. Now, the
guide was an old man who knew every,
tradition and legend, besides all the
family histories in that part of the Tyrol.
‘That tree,’ said he, ‘is left there purposely,
as the reminder of a great crime,
and nobody would think of touching it.
If you look into the chapel, you’ll see a
Christ on the cross which has been shot
through the breast. That was once a
crucifix under this very tree.’ Then the
guide made a remark which had often
struck myself—that there are some families
in which everything that is strange
and dreadful happens, whilst there are
others that go on for generations and
are no more distinguishable than the
very weeds themselves. In that valley
were the Hochmairs, and they were of
this prominent sort, and odd enough,
as I said before, it was at a Hochmair’s
house that I read this account. Well,
some generations back there was a
Hochmair who was a regular ruffian.
He cared no more for the life of a man
than that of a chamois. The government
kept the game strictly on the mountains,
and he was suspected of having
put more than one of their keepers out
of the way. In short, he had such a
bad character that when he went to confession
the priest would not give him
absolution. This put him in a great
rage, and it is remarkable that from that
day his luck in hunting forsook him.
He could not take aim—a sort of mist
was ever before his eyes, his hand trembled.
People believed that he was perpetually
haunted by the ghost of a young
man whom, after he had shot, he had
beaten to death with his gunstock, and
then flung down a crevasse. Be that as
it may, he would be absent for weeks in
the mountains. He did no good, and
the little he possessed fell into ruin.

“His creditors were about to sell him
[pg 658]
up, stick and stone, when he put, as one
may say, the finishing stroke to everything
himself. It was Corpus Christi
Day: the bells were ringing and the
procession moving through the fields,
the holy banners waving, the choir-boys
singing the sanctus, when just as the
priest lifted the Host in the golden monstrance,
a shot was fired from the bushes
in front of a crucifix. Lightning flashed
from heaven, and the house of the
wicked Hochmair, which was at no great
distance, burst into flames. An awful
cry rang from the bushes: the procession
rushed forward, the priest only remaining
with the Host and a few attendants.
And what did they see? There was the
image of the crucified Saviour pierced
by a bullet, and out in the road stood
the wretched Hochmair, with his hands
clasped on the lock of his gun and his
eyes rolling in frenzy. Everybody perceived
the crime he had committed, and
remained motionless, whilst he beckoned
wildly to the priest, who came up in
gloomy silence. After they had talked
together alone for some time, the priest
went into the church, where he remained
all night in prayer. The wretched man,
whom nobody dared to touch, disappeared
into the thicket, and all trace was
lost of him. In the mean while the injured
image of the Saviour was removed
into the church. So years went on, and
then one Sunday after service the priest
announced from the pulpit that the former
sinner Hochmair was dead, but that
after years of penitence he had received
the forgiveness of the Church and of
God. ‘Therefore,’ said the good man,
‘let all forgive him, and remember only
their own sins, and pray Christ to be
merciful to them.’ After that it was
known that he had become possessed
with the crazy notion that if he fired
into the breast of the Saviour on Corpus
Christi Day, just when the Host was
being elevated and the benediction
spoken, it would make his gun unerring.
He fired therefore, and at the same moment
the Saviour on the cross raised His
head and, fixing on him His eyes full of
tears, gave him a look which pierced him
to the very marrow, and that terrified
him far more than the lightning which,
flashing from his forehead, set fire to his
house, whilst the thorn-crowned countenance
seemed to float before him, and
he knew that this was his punishment.
Such was his confession at the time to
the priest who laid the penance of the
Church upon him. So he went out into
the world like another Cain, and God in
His own time was merciful to him. Still,
the wounded effigy of the Saviour and
the blasted larch tree remain as witnesses
on earth against him.

“And,” continued Schuster Alois, “that
is only one tale amongst the hundreds
which could be related concerning these
crucifixes. Ah, there is many an old,
bleached, weather-beaten crucifix on
crag or highway-side from which the
anguished face of the Saviour has both
smitten and healed the sinner. Crucifixes
cut deeper into most Tyrolese hearts
than shrines, some way.”

“Strange,” we replied, “for these old
shrines are not only quaint, but often
beautiful, as, for instance, the one on
the roadside turning into town.”

“Ah, I am glad you like it,” said
Alois, “for there are those who would
wish it pulled down and a lofty wooden
cross, as a landmark, placed there instead.
The Capuchins in the adjoining
monastery are opposed to it, however,
and no wonder. Have you ever remarked,”
he continued, becoming quite
aglow, “that although it is greatly injured
and many of the figures lost, still
there are others who look at you so
calmly and seriously with their marred,
dilapidated countenances that you feel
a peace steal into your heart? And
whoever the painter was, he must have
loved his work, for Saint Gregory could
never have been more dignified in real
life than he looks in the shrine.”

“Are you a painter?” we asked, almost
without knowing what we were saying,
for it was hardly probable.

“Oh, I only touch colors now and
then, when there’s a purpose in it or I
can serve the Church,” he returned. He
became embarrassed, and explained that
it was time to return to his work.

We afterward learnt from Moidel that
[pg 659]
Alois bore in the neighborhood far and
wide the reputation of an artist, although
he did not consider himself such, seeing
he could not paint saints and angels. It
was, however, a great source of pleasure
to him to paint mottoes and devices and
to arrange floral decorations, especially
when they could serve as a surprise for
some private name-day or church festival.

One afternoon we were told that the
boots were made, that Anton had brought
the flour from the mill, that two hundred
loaves of rye bread were baked, and,
the weather being sufficiently fine and
all the preparations being completed, the
cattle would now start for the Olm. First,
Anton and the Senner Franz set off at
four o’clock in the afternoon, with the
calves in advance, the young things
being unable to keep up with the cattle.
Then a leiterwagen which had been
drawn into the lower corridor and filled
with sacks of flour, meal, salt and the
two hundred loaves, was driven by the
Hofbauer as far as Taufers, whence the
supplies for the Alpine residents would
be borne on men’s backs up to the huts.

In the evening Jakob came into the
grand old sitting-room to bid us good-bye.
He appeared in his shirt-sleeves
and the indispensable white apron, and
with the utmost self-possession and refinement
of manner he presented us
with a little bouquet of edelweiss, promising
to send us down a larger supply by
his brother. We talked with him about
the Olm, and found him enthusiastic on
the subject, his one regret being that, as
he must return for several weeks of drilling
on August 22d, his stay there this
summer would be greatly curtailed. The
Olm was very extensive, lying on a mountain-platform
which was only bare of
snow for about three months in the year.
When, however, the snow was off, the
flowers came up by thousands, the grass
sprang up by magic, all the mountains
were filled with the rushing and roaring
sound of waters, which came down in
foaming cascades, often of wonderful
beauty, amongst the rocks and the pine
woods which clothed the steeper mountain-sides.
Nor was the life at all solitary,
for various farmers were sending
up their cattle to other Olms about the
same time, so that no one was without
neighbors, although they might be at a
considerable distance apart.

Jakob spoke on until we became wild
to go up to the Olm too. “Could we
go thither,” we asked, “and pay him a
visit?”

“That we could,” he replied, “if we
did not mind sleeping in the hay. Only
we had better wait for settled weather in
August.”

There was now no talk of our leaving
the Hof at St. Jakobi. The Hofbauer
had declared that the house was at our
disposal until Martinmas—longer if we
wanted it. He also fell into the scheme
of our visiting his Olm, where he intimated
his desire to be host, saying that
all the dairy produce would be at our
service.

In the night, exactly at one o’clock,
Jakob and Jodokus started: we heard
them go, the cattle-bells ringing and the
“Leben Sie wohl!” “Behüt Euch Gott!”
shouted lovingly after them from the
open door and the lower windows of
the silent old mansion. Six and twenty
head of cattle: the goats, pigs and sheep
were to follow later. It was a calm and
beautiful night, the three-quarters moon
just dropping behind the mountains, and
the stars shining out brightly from the
dark cloudless sky.

CHAPTER IV.

The Alpine caravansary was hardly
settled at the Olm when the air became
intensely hot and oppressive. Day by
day black thunder-clouds gathered on
the horizon. They crested the mountains
in three directions, at times appearing
to repel each other, at others marching
fiercely on to conflict, when, the
zenith becoming pitch-dark, they flung
out long spears of lightning and exploded
in overwhelming thunder. Very
terrible were these perpetual storms.
With the first peal the church-bells
along the valley began solemnly to toll.
It mattered not whether by night or day,
the faithful bellringer was at his post, and
[pg 660]
with rain pouring down outside and fiery,
vivid lightning playing around him, he
still went tolling on, for evil spirits must
be driven away, and people reminded to
make the sign of the cross and pray
God to protect them.

At length, to use an expression of
Alois’s, “Saint Florian had left off playing
at skittles, and Saint Leonhard had
driven his hay over the heavenly bridge.”
The warring elements were still, but the
earth seemed smouldering with heat, and
we panted and gasped after the lofty
mountain-slopes which lay on all sides.
At the same time it came most opportunely
to our knowledge that the Tyrol
was rich in baths—primitive establishments
most of them, but dotted over
mountain and valley, so that each village
had half a dozen to choose from, where
every peasant, be he ever so poor, could
at least dip and soak for an eight-days’
sommerfrisch. Why, then, should not
the two Margarets, they being the most
desirous of a change, have at least a
sommerfrisch?

But which amongst all these baths
was the one to choose? Good Kathi
recommended her baths at Innichen.
She herself evidently did not derive
much pleasure from her yearly visits
there. Still, we, being ladies, would find
more people to talk to, and the bath-house,
which was always full to overflowing,
stood in a wood, and we liked
trees. Schuster Alois—for the conversation
took place before he left—said
that most gentlefolks went to Maistall.
There was not only luxus, but a great
deal of life and spirit there. His Majesty
Emperor Max as early as 1511 took
up his quarters at Maistall during his
campaign against the Venetians, and
he had heard say that in the last century
the visitors formed a society and made
it a rule that none but the purest German
should be spoken. Every fault of
pronunciation cost a kreuzer to the offender:
the money went to the chapel,
and amounted one season to twenty-one
florins six kreuzers.

But one Margaret decidedly objected
to going to a place where there was
the faintest chance of her loiter wagon
for leiterwagen, her pison for speisen,
her vulgarborn for wohlgeboren, being
fined by a gazel-schaft (gesellschaft).
Besides, these places sounded too grand:
we did not want a Gastein, but a Wildbad,
if one could be found that did not
belie its name. So the peasant-baths
of St. Vigil, Mühlbach and Scharst were
named to us, and the lot fell upon Scharst,
we having heard that all the school-children
in town had just been taken there
for a long day’s holiday, and had returned
to their proud and happy parents,
who waited for them in double ranks below,
radiant with pleasure, waving their
banners and Alpine roses.

It was accordingly arranged that on
the following Sunday Anton should drive
us to Reischach, where there was to
be a great festival, with candles in the
church as big as a man’s arm: so said
a woman from Reischach. Anton was
of a retiring nature, and did not like
crowds, but he would gladly drive the
ladies over. And at Reischach we should
be sure to find some peasant returning
that evening by Scharst, who could carry
our belongings.

Imagine us, therefore, at Reischach,
the church-bell ringing for vespers, which
begin at one o’clock. We wear bouquets
of carnations and rosemary, presented
to us by the family at the Hof, as
correct decorations for a festival. And
Anton!—how to present him to you as
he deserves to be presented? His truthful,
guileless face is his best ornament:
nevertheless, he too wears carnations and
rosemary caught in the silver cord and
vieing with the silver tassels of his broad-brimmed,
low-crowned beaver hat. His
rough jacket, made by the tailor last
autumn, and therefore too new to be
worn on a less special occasion, is short
and loose enough to leave ample space for
the display of his rauge, or broad leather
belt of softest chamois-skin, worked in
scrolls surrounding his name, with split
peacock quills, no little resembling Indian
handicraft. His snow-white knees
appear between his short leather breeches
and his bright blue knitted stockings.
These Nature’s garters, when perfectly
white, are regarded as a mark of great
[pg 661]
distinction amongst the dandies, and
those of our Anton may be considered
the very knee plus ultra.

A parliament of men—a few still in
breeches with Hessian boots, which appeared
a characteristic of Reischach, but
the majority, having succumbed to modern
ideas, wearing trowsers—were seated
in the shadow of a comfortable house,
discussing the different stages of their
rye and flax crops. Their wives and
daughters, following their natural impulse,
were already kneeling in church,
confiding their cares of kitchen and
farmyard to the ever-ready ear of Mutter
Gottes—one dense mass of simple,
believing women, in broad-brimmed
beaver hats, with here and there a conical
woolen beehive as a contrast.

The church in itself, although it lacked
the candles as big as a man’s arm,
must truly have shone like the gate of
heaven to peasant eyes. Many of the
more substantial families had lent their
private saints for the occasion. They
had brought Holy Nothburgs and Saint
Leonhards and Virgins, generally preserved
in wardrobes at home, but now
brought to participate in the festival, besides
adding to its great solemnity. It
was Scapulary Sunday, we were told,
and although the words conveyed no
clear idea to us, we were soon to learn
their significance. A Tyrolese anthem
having been sung by some invisible
voices, in which jodels leapt up and
smothered Gregorians, a middle-aged
Capuchin took his stand in the pulpit,
and having greeted the congregation,
promised to explain to them the mystery
and the advantage of the Holy
Scapulary.

“My beloved,” he began, “there are
some who think too little of the scapulary,
and there are others who lay too
great a stress on this aid to faith. Let
us meditate on both these conditions.
But first, how must we ourselves regard
the scapulary? Now, we are told not to
love the world nor the things of the
world. The scapulary, with its sacred
image of Mary worn next the heart, is
a great shield against this love of the
world. It places you under the especial
protection of the Queen of Heaven: you
are as much her servant as those who
serve king or kaiser, and equally wear
her livery. Some think too little of the
scapulary. Yet what incidents can be
told of its efficacy! Let one suffice. In
the year 1866, when the war raged between
Austria and Prussia, the Catholic
soldiers of the latter country immediately
before the war entered by hundreds
into the Society of the Scapulary. Wearing
this sacred charm upon their hearts,
they went into the battle-field, and the
cannons roared and the bullets whizzed
thick and fast around them, and not one
of them fell, for they wore the scapulary.
Indeed, their miraculous preservation
created so much excitement that Lutherans
marveled over it, and asked the
Catholics how it came that they were no
whit hurt. And they answered, ‘We wear
the scapulary of Mary, and she saves
us.’ Then many Lutherans said, ‘Come,
we will have scapularies,’ and wrote
their names down in the society. And
now hark ye, my brethren. There was
a Catholic soldier, and there was a Lutheran,
and the latter said, ‘Lend me thy
scapulary for this one day only, and see,
here is a thaler for thee.’ Then the foolish
Catholic drew the scapulary off his
neck, handed it to the Lutheran, took
the thaler, went into battle: whiz went
the bullets round him, and he fell.”

We could stand no more. The church,
now crowded with men as well as women,
reeked with perspiration, the sermon
oppressed us, and thus our sense
and senses drove us out into the open
air. Here the fresh breeze came across
from the Ziller snow-fields, health-giving
as a breath from heaven. Peasant-women
who were too late to squeeze into
church were seated amongst the iron
crosses of the graves. The more serious-minded
had managed to cluster together
round a side-door which, being adjacent
to the pulpit, proved an advantageous
spot for hearing. The less particular
sat in the shade, feeling it sufficient to
be in holy ground and to pass their
beads through their fingers whilst they
studied up our novel attire. Approaching
the more attentive members, we
[pg 662]
found that the Capuchin had reached
the second part of his discourse, and was
dilating on those who thought too highly
of the scapulary. We gathered the following
fragment:

“Now, the man was nigh unto death,
and it was neither for confession nor for
the death-sacrament that he craved.
No, it was for a scapulary. ‘A scapulary!’
he cried, ‘a scapulary!’ My
brethren, you know well he should have
asked for the priest and for the blessing
of the Church, but it was merely for a
scapulary.”

Later on we asked permission to see a
scapulary. It consisted of two small
squares of cloth, herring-boned round
the edge, and united by a narrow ribbon
of sufficient length to permit one
square to rest on the breast, whilst the
other hung between the shoulders. That
in front bore the image of the Virgin,
designed by the nuns in the convent,
whilst the simpler work had been given
to some poor old woman, or even man,
who was past harder employment. The
privilege of wearing this charmed badge
entailed the payment of a small yearly
subscription and the repetition of seven
Paternosters daily.

The procession followed the sermon.
Mary, Joseph, Saint Nothburg (once a
good peasant-girl, now a saint) were
paraded round the village by children,
and borne back to church. Peasant-men
staggered under large silk banners,
which swayed and fluttered in the blustery
wind, and, but for the steady grasp
of the strong men who carried them,
threatening at each moment to crush the
pious throng. The four chief peasants
of the district, wearing their robes of
state, the Noah’s ark coats in which they
were married, bore the baldachin over
the head of the Capuchin who elevated
the Host: the village priest, in white
surplice and Hessian boots, swung the
censer at his side. The men were in
front, the women, a long, broad file, divided
in the procession by the priests
from their male relations, followed—a
dense black mass, but relieved in color
by the whiteness of their short linen
sleeves.

Men and women, carefully severed in
their prayers and on the very steps of
the altar by Holy Church, were soon
able to come together again under the
spacious, hospitable roof of Herr Kappler,
the wirth. Innumerable clean
wooden tables, forms, and stiff, high-legged
wooden chairs were ranged up
stairs and down stairs and in the orchard
without, for the accommodation of the
scapularists and their friends.

We sat at a side-table in an upper
room partaking of grilled fowl and salad,
whilst buben and their dirnen, or lads
and their lasses, middle-aged couples,
old men and women, poured into the
house, filling every chair, bench and
table. They came thither from all the
country-side, and endless were the greetings
amongst cousins and cousins’ cousins.
The Tyrolese, like the Scotch, keep
up every link of relationship, claiming
the fiftieth cousin. Relationship, in fact,
never does die out; and though it may
become an abstract during busy seasons
of ploughing and sowing, it becomes a
strong reality at wakes and festivals.
Thus, at Kappler’s, on this scapulary afternoon,
Barthel’s brother-in-law’s cousin
drank with “Cousin Barthel,” and Seppl’s
sister-in-law’s niece was treated by “Onkel
Seppl.” There was one square-built,
good-humored old man who appeared
to be the whole world’s cousin: he passed
from table to table, and had to sip
from fifty offered glasses.

With our delicious coffee and boiled
cream we ordered the host, as a suitable
person, to find us a guide to carry our
valise and shawls to Bad Scharst. Probably
the perpetual and loud demands
for pints of wine left him but little time
to make a wise selection, seeing that
there soon stood before us a small man
with so subtle and malignant a look that
his exorbitant demand made us only
too gladly dismiss him. Our confidence
shaken in the landlord’s powers
of discrimination, we sent word below
that if Anton had returned we should be
glad to speak with him. He had been
in the village to visit his cousins, but
was waiting our orders below. Although
his native shyness made it hard for him
[pg 663]
to step forward and address ladies under
the curious gaze of all the relative Seppls
and Barthels, he did it with manliness,
and turning round and addressing the
popular old man as Hansel, asked him
if his brother Jörgel were below; and
being answered in the affirmative, he
hastened away, and returned with another
compact little peasant, whom he
introduced to us as Senner Franz’s brother,
with an aside, that he was “a friendly
mortal and Count Arlberg’s forester.”

The agreement was soon made, the
sullen-looking man glowering at us from
behind a stack of firewood, whilst Hansel
and Anton packed a kraxe or wooden
frame and fixed it on Jörgel’s back.
As we set off, Anton drove away homeward,
although the skittle-balls were just
beginning to roll, and the sound of “I
bin a lustiger bua” and other Tyrolese
songs came floating from the windows.

MARGARET HOWITT.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SAINT ROMUALDO.

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

Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains

By austere penance and continuous toil,

Now rest in spirit, and possess “the peace

Which passeth understanding.” Th’ end draws nigh,

Though the beginning is as yesterday,

And a broad lifetime spreads ‘twixt this and that—

A favored life, though outwardly the butt

Of ignominy, malice and affront,

Yet lighted from within by the clear star

Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged

To see at last its utmost goal attained.

I speak not of mine Order and my House,

Here founded by my hands and filled with saints—

A white society of snowy souls,

Swayed by my voice, by mine example led;

For this is but the natural harvest reaped

From labors such as mine when blessed by God.

Though I rejoice to think my spirit still

Will work my purposes, through worthy hands,

After my bones are shriveled into dust,

Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit

Of holy satisfaction, sure and real,

Though subtler than the tissue of the air—

The power completely to detach the soul

From her companion through this life, the flesh;

So that in blessed privacy of peace,

Communing with high angels, she can hold,

Serenely rapt, her solitary course.

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

Of discipline and scourge; the twisted lash

[pg 664]

Of knotted rope that striped my shrinking limbs;

Vigils and fasts protracted, till my flesh

Wasted and crumbled from mine aching bones,

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

Thereto like yellow parchment loosely clung;

Exposure to the fever and the frost,

When ‘mongst the hollows of the hills I lurked

From persecution of misguided folk,

Accustoming my spirit to ignore

The burden of the cross, while picturing

The bliss of disembodied souls, the grace

Of holiness, the lives of sainted men,

And entertaining all exalted thoughts,

That nowise touched the trouble of the hour,

Until the grief and pain seemed far less real

Than the creations of my brain inspired.

The vision, the beatitude, were true:

The agony was but an evil dream.

I speak not now as one who hath not learned

The purport of those lightly-bandied words,

Evil and Fate, but rather one who knows

The thunders of the terrors of the world.

No mortal chance or change, no earthly shock,

Can move or reach my soul, securely throned

On heights of contemplation and calm prayer,

Happy, serene, no less with actual joy

Of present peace than faith in joys to come.

This soft, sweet, yellow evening, how the trees

Stand crisp against the clear, bright-colored sky!

How the white mountain-tops distinctly shine,

Taking and giving radiance, and the slopes

Are purpled with rich floods of peach-hued light!

Thank God, my filmy, old dislustred eyes

Find the same sense of exquisite delight,

My heart vibrates to the same touch of joy

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

And youth coursed through my veins! This the one link

That binds the wan old man that now I am

To the wild lad who followed up the hounds

Among Ravenna’s pine-woods by the sea.

For there how oft would I lose all delight

In the pursuit, the triumph or the game,

To stray alone among the shadowy glades,

And gaze, as one who is not satisfied

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

The forest glooms, and shifting gleams between

The fine dark fringes of the fadeless trees,

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

How rich that buoyant air with changing scent

Of pungent pine, fresh flowers and salt cool seas!

And when all echoes of the chase had died,

Of horn and halloo, bells and baying hounds,

How mine ears drank the ripple of the tide

[pg 665]

On that fair shore, the chirp of unseen birds,

The rustling of the tangled undergrowth,

And the deep lyric murmur of the pines,

When through their high tops swept the sudden breeze!

There was my world, there would my heart dilate,

And my aspiring soul dissolve in prayer

Unto that Spirit of Love whose energies

Were active round me, yet whose presence, sphered

In the unsearchable, unbodied air,

Made itself felt, but reigned invisible.

This ere the day that from my past divides

My present, and that made me what I am.

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

illimitably sparkling, as they showed

That morning. Though I deemed I took no note

Of heaven or earth or waters, yet my mind

Retains to-day the vivid portraiture

Of every line and feature of the scene.

Light-hearted ‘midst the dewy lanes I fared

Unto the sea, whose jocund gleam I caught

Between the slim boles, when I heard the clink

Of naked weapons, then a sudden thrust

Sickening to hear, and then a stifled groan;

And pressing forward I beheld the sight

That seared itself for ever on my brain—

My kinsman, Ser Ranieri, on the turf,

Fallen upon his side, his bright young head

Among the pine-spurs, and his cheek pressed close

Unto the moist, chill sod: his fingers clutched

A handful of loose weeds and grass and earth,

Uprooted in his anguish as he fell,

And slowly from his heart the thick stream flowed,

Fouling the green, leaving the fair, sweet face

Ghastly, transparent, with blue, stony eyes

Staring in blankness on that other one

Who triumphed over him. With hot desire

Of instant vengeance I unsheathed my sword

To rush upon the slayer, when he turned

In his first terror of blood-guiltiness.

Within my heart a something snapped and brake.

What was it but the chord of rapturous joy

For ever stilled? I tottered and would fall,

Had I not leaned against the friendly pine;

For all realities of life, unmoored

From their firm anchorage, appeared to float

Like hollow phantoms past my dizzy brain.

The strange delusion wrought upon my soul

That this had been enacted ages since.

This very horror curdled at my heart,

This net of trees spread round, these iron heavens,

Were closing over me when I had stood,

Unnumbered cycles back, and fronted him,

My father; and he felt mine eyes as now,

[pg 666]

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

The one thing real, lay stretched between us both.

The fancy passed, and I stood sane and strong

To grasp the truth. Then I remembered all—

A few fierce words between them yester eve

Concerning some poor plot of pasturage,

Soon silenced into courteous, frigid calm:

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

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

And draw him from the red entanglement

Coiled by his own hands round his ruined life.

God pardon me! My heart that moment held

No drop of pity toward this wretched soul;

And cowering down, as though his guilt were mine,

I fled amidst the savage silences

Of that grim wood, resolved to nurse alone

My boundless desolation, shame and grief.

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

The quiet of the still, suspended air,

Once more my wandering thoughts were calmly ranged,

Shepherded by my will. I wept, I prayed

A solemn prayer, conceived in agony,

Blessed with response instant, miraculous;

For in that hour my spirit was at one

With Him who knows and satisfies her needs.

The supplication and the blessing sprang

From the same source, inspired divinely both.

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

And these like heavenly manna were rained down

To feed my hungered soul. His guilt was mine.

What angel had been sent to stay mine arm

Until the fateful moment passed away

That would have ushered an eternity

Of withering remorse? I found the germs

In mine own heart of every human sin,

That waited but occasion’s tempting breath

To overgrow with poisoned bloom my life.

What God thus far had saved me from myself?

Here was the lofty truth revealed, that each

Must feel himself in all, must know where’er

The great soul acts or suffers or enjoys,

His proper soul in kinship there is bound.

Then my life-purpose dawned upon my mind,

Encouraging as morning. As I lay,

Crushed by the weight of universal love,

Which mine own thoughts had heaped upon myself,

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

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

From the gray convent nigh the wood it pealed,

And called the monks to prayer. Vigil and prayer,

Clean lives, white days of strict austerity:

Such were the offerings of these holy saints.

How far might such not tend to expiate

[pg 6790]

A riotous world’s indulgence? Here my life,

Doubly austere and doubly sanctified,

Might even for that other one atone,

So bound to mine, till both should be forgiven.

They sheltered me, not questioning the need

That led me to their cloistered solitude.

How rich, how freighted with pure influence,

With dear security of perfect peace,

Was the first day I passed within those walls!

The holy habit of perpetual prayer,

The gentle greetings, the rare temperate speech,

The chastening discipline, the atmosphere

Of settled and profound tranquillity,

Were even as living waters unto one

Who perisheth of thirst. Was this the world

That yesterday seemed one huge battle-field

For brutish passions? Could the soul of man

Withdraw so easily, and erect apart

Her own fair temple for her own high ends?

But this serene contentment slowly waned

As I discerned the broad disparity

Betwixt the form and spirit of the laws

That bound the order in strait brotherhood.

Yet when I sought to gain a larger love,

More rigid discipline, severer truth,

And more complete surrender of the soul

Unto her God, this was to my reproach,

And scoffs and gibes beset me on all sides.

In mine own cell I mortified my flesh,

I held aloof from all my brethren’s feasts

To wrestle with my viewless enemies,

Till they should leave their blessing on my head;

For nightly was I haunted by that face,

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

Now staring out of darkness, and it held

Mine eyes from slumber and my brain from rest

And drove me from my straw to weep and pray.

Rebellious thoughts such subtle torture wrought

Upon my spirit that I lay day-long

In dumb despair, until the blessed hope

Of mercy dawned again upon my soul,

As gradual as the slow gold moon that mounts

The airy steps of heaven. My faith arose

With sure perception that disaster, wrong,

And every shadow of man’s destiny

Are merely circumstance, and cannot touch

The soul’s fine essence: they exist or die

Only as she affirms them or denies.

This faith sustains me even to the end:

It floods my heart with peace as surely now

As on that day the friars drove me forth,

Urging that my asceticism, too harsh,

[pg 668]

Endured through pride, would bring into reproach

Their customs and their order. Then began

My exile in the mountains, where I bode

A hunted man. The elements conspired

Against me, and I was the seasons’ sport,

Drenched, parched, and scorched and frozen alternately,

Burned with shrewd frosts, prostrated by fierce heats,

Shivering ‘neath chilling dews and gusty rains,

And buffeted by all the winds of heaven.

Yet was this period my time of joy:

My daily thoughts perpetual converse held

With angels ministrant; mine ears were charmed

With sweet accordance of celestial sounds,

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

And visions were revealed unto mine eyes

By night and day of Heaven’s very courts,

In shadowless, undimmed magnificence.

I gave God thanks, not that He sheltered me,

And fed me as He feeds the fowls of air—

For had I perished, this too had been well—

But for the revelation of His truth,

The glory, the beatitude vouchsafed

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

So that the pinched, lean excommunicate

Was crowned with joy more solid, more secure,

Than all the comfort of the vales could bring.

Then the good Lord touched certain fervid hearts,

Aspiring toward His love, to come to me,

Timid and few at first; but as they heard

From mine own lips the precious oracles,

That soothed the trouble of their souls, appeased

Their spiritual hunger, and disclosed

All of the God within them to themselves,

They flocked about me, and they hailed me saint,

And sware to follow and to serve the good

Which my word published and my life declared.

Thus the lone hermit of the mountain-top

Descended leader of a band of saints,

And midway ‘twixt the summit and the vale

I perched my convent. Yet I bated not

One whit of strict restraint and abstinence.

And they who love me and who serve the truth

Have learned to suffer with me, and have won

The supreme joy that is not of the flesh,

Foretasting the delights of Paradise.

This faith, to them imparted, will endure

After my tongue hath ceased to utter it,

And the great peace hath settled on my soul.

EMMA LAZARUS.

[pg 669]

A PRINCESS OF THULE.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

“O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!”

Consider what a task this unhappy
man Ingram had voluntarily undertaken!
Here were two young people
presumably in love. One of them was
laid under suspicion by several previous
love-affairs, though none of these, doubtless,
had been so serious as the present.
The other scarcely knew her own mind,
or perhaps was afraid to question herself
too closely, lest all the conflict between
duty and inclination, with its fears and
anxieties and troubles, should be too
suddenly revealed. Moreover, this girl
was the only daughter of a solitary and
irascible old gentleman living in a remote
island; and Ingram had not only
undertaken that the love-affairs of the
young folks should come all right—thus
assuming a responsibility which might
have appalled the bravest—but was also
expected to inform the King of Borva
that his daughter was about to be taken
away from him.

Of course, if Sheila had been a properly
brought-up young lady, nothing of
this sort would have been necessary.
We all know what the properly brought-up
young lady does under such circumstances.
She goes straight to her papa
and mamma and says, “My dear papa
and mamma, I have been taught by my
various instructors that I ought to have
no secrets from my dear parents; and I
therefore hasten to lay aside any little
shyness or modesty or doubt of my own
wishes I might feel, for the purpose of
explaining to you the extent to which
I have become a victim to the tender
passion, and of soliciting your advice. I
also place before you these letters I have
received from the gentleman in question:
probably they were sent in confidence
to me, but I must banish any scruples
that do not coincide with my duty to
you. I may say that I respect, and even
admire, Mr. So-and-So; and I should be
unworthy of the care bestowed upon my
education by my dear parents if I were
altogether insensible to the advantages
of his worldly position. But beyond this
point I am at a loss to define my sentiments;
and so I ask you, my dear papa
and mamma, for permission to study the
question for some little time longer, when
I may be able to furnish you with a more
accurate report of my feelings. At the
same time, if the interest I have in this
young man is likely to conflict with the
duty I owe to my dear parents, I ask to
be informed of the fact; and I shall then
teach myself to guard against the approach
of that insidious passion which
might make me indifferent to the higher
calls and interests of life.” Happy the
man who marries such a woman! No
agonizing quarrels and delirious reconciliations,
no piteous entreaties and fits
of remorse and impetuous self-sacrifices
await him, but a beautiful, methodical,
placid life, as calm and accurate and
steadily progressive as the multiplication
table. His household will be a miracle
of perfect arrangement. The relations
between the members of it will be as
strictly defined as the pattern of the
paper on the walls. And how can a
quarrel arise when a dissecter of the
emotions is close at hand to say where
the divergence of opinion or interest began?
and how can a fit of jealousy be
provoked in the case of a person who
will split up her affections into fifteen
parts, give ten-fifteenths to her children,
three-fifteenths to her parents, and the
remainder to her husband? Should
there be any dismal fractions going
about, friends and acquaintances may
come in for them.

But how was Sheila to go to her father
and explain to him what she could not explain
to herself? She had never dreamed
of marriage. She had never thought
of having to leave Borva and her father’s
house. But she had some vague feeling
[pg 670]
that in the future lay many terrible possibilities
that she did not as yet dare to
look at—until, at least, she was more
satisfied as to the present. And how
could she go to her father with such a
chaos of unformed wishes and fears to
place before him? That such a duty
should have devolved upon Ingram was
certainly odd enough, but it was not her
doing. His knowledge of the position
of these young people was not derived
from her. But, having got it, he had
himself asked her to leave the whole
affair in his hands, with that kindness
and generosity which had more than
once filled her heart with an unspeakable
gratitude toward him.

“Well, you are a good fellow!” said
Lavender to him when he heard of this
decision.

“Bah!” said the other with a shrug
of his shoulders. “I mean to amuse myself.
I shall move you about like pieces
on a chess-board, and have a pretty
game with you. How to checkmate the
king with a knight and a princess, in
any number of moves you like—that
is the problem; and my princess has a
strong power over the king where she is
just now.”

“It’s an uncommonly awkward business,
you know, Ingram,” said Lavender
ruefully.

“Well, it is. Old Mackenzie is a tough
old fellow to deal with, and you’ll do no
good by making a fight of it. Wait!
Difficulties don’t look so formidable
when you take them one by one as they
turn up. If you really love the girl, and
mean to take your chance of getting her,
and if she cares enough for you to sacrifice
a good deal for your sake, there is
nothing to fear.”

“I can answer for myself, any way,”
said Lavender in a tone of voice that
Ingram rather liked: the young man
did not always speak with the same
quietness, thoughtfulness and modesty.

And how naturally and easily it came
about, after all! They were back again
at Borva. They had driven round and
about Lewis, and had finished up with
Stornoway; and, now that they had got
back to the island in Loch Roag, the
quaint little drawing-room had even to
Lavender a homely and friendly look.
The big stuffed fishes and the sponge
shells were old acquaintances; and he
went to hunt up Sheila’s music just as
if he had known that dusky corner for
years.

“Yes, yes,” called Mackenzie, “it iss
the English songs we will try now.”

He had a notion that he was himself
rather a good hand at a part song—just
as Sheila had innocently taught him to
believe that he was a brilliant whist-player
when he had mastered the art of
returning his partner’s lead—but fortunately
at this moment he was engaged
with a long pipe and a big tumbler of hot
whisky and water. Ingram was similarly
employed, lying back in a cane-bottomed
easy-chair, and placidly watching
the smoke ascending to the roof. Sometimes
he cast an eye to the young folks
at the other end of the room. They
formed a pretty sight, he thought. Lavender
was a good-looking fellow enough,
and there was something pleasing in the
quiet and assiduous fashion in which he
waited upon Sheila, and in the almost
timid way in which he spoke to her.
Sheila herself sat at the piano, clad all
in slate-gray silk, with a narrow band of
scarlet velvet round her neck; and it
was only by a chance turning of the
head that Ingram caught the tender and
handsome profile, broken only by the
outward sweep of the long eyelashes.

Love in thine eyes for ever plays,

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

He in thy snowy bosom strays,

sang Lavender; and then the two voices
joined together:

He makes thy rosy lips his care,

And walks the mazes of thy hair.

Or were there not three voices? Surely,
from the back part of the room, the
musicians could hear a wandering bass
come in from time to time, especially
at such portions as “Ah, he never—ah,
he never touched thy heart!” which old
Mackenzie considered very touching.
But there was something quaint and
friendly and pleasant in the pathos of
[pg 671]
those English songs, which made them
far more acceptable to him than Sheila’s
wild and melancholy legends of the sea.
He sang “Ah, he never, never touched
thy heart!” with an outward expression
of grief, but with much inward satisfaction.
Was it the quaint phraseology of
the old duets that awoke in him some
faint ambition after histrionic effect? At
all events, Sheila proceeded to another
of his favorites, “All’s Well,” and here,
amid the brisk music, the old man had
an excellent opportunity of striking in
at random—

The careful watch patrols the deck

To guard the ship from foes or wreck.

These two lines he had absolutely mastered,
and always sang them, whatever
might be the key he happened to light
on, with great vigor. He soon went the
length of improvising a part for himself
in the closing passages, and laid down
his pipe altogether as he sang—

What cheer? Brother, quickly tell!

Above! Below! Good-night! All, all’s well!

From that point, however, Sheila and
her companion wandered away into
fields of melody whither the King of
Borva could not follow them; so he was
content to resume his pipe and listen
placidly to the pretty airs. He caught
but bits and fragments of phrases and
sentiments, but they evidently were comfortable,
merry, good-natured songs for
young folks to sing. There was a good
deal of love-making, and rosy morns
appearing, and merry zephyrs, and such
odd things, which, sung briskly and
gladly by two young and fresh voices,
rather drew the hearts of contemplative
listeners to the musicians.

“They sing very well whatever,” said
Mackenzie with a critical air to Ingram
when the young people were so busily
engaged with their own affairs as apparently
to forget the presence of the
others. “Oh yes, they sing very well
whatever; and what should the young
folks sing about but making love and
courting, and all that?”

“Natural enough,” said Ingram, looking
rather wistfully at the two at the other
end of the room. “I suppose Sheila will
have a sweetheart some day?”

“Oh yes, Sheila will hef a sweetheart
some day,” said her father good-humoredly.
“Sheila is a good-looking girl: she
will hef a sweetheart some day.”

“She will be marrying too, I suppose,”
said Ingram cautiously.

“Oh yes, she will marry—Sheila will
marry: what will be the life of a young
girl if she does not marry?”

At this moment, as Ingram afterward
described it, a sort of “flash of inspiration”
darted in upon him, and he resolved
there and then to brave the wrath
of the old king, and place all the conspiracy
before him, if only the music
kept loud enough to prevent his being
overheard.

“It will be hard on you to part with
Sheila when she marries,” said Ingram,
scarcely daring to look up.

“Oh, ay, it will be that,” said Mackenzie
cheerfully enough. “But it iss
every one will hef to do that, and no
great harm comes of it. Oh no, it will
not be much whatever; and Sheila, she
will be very glad in a little while after,
and it will be enough for me to see that
she is ferry contented and happy. The
young folk must marry, you will see;
and what is the use of marrying if it is
not when they are young? But Sheila,
she will think of none of these things.
It was young Mr. MacIntyre of Sutherland—you
hef seen him last year in
Stornoway: he hass three thousand acres
of a deer forest in Sutherland—and he
will be ferry glad to marry my Sheila.
But I will say to him, ‘It is not for me
to say yes or no to you, Mr. MacIntyre:
it is Sheila herself will tell you that.’
But he wass afraid to speak to her; and
Sheila herself will know nothing of why
he came twice to Borva the last year.”

“It is very good of you to leave Sheila
quite unbiased in her choice,” said Ingram:
“many fathers would have been
sorely tempted by that deer forest.”

Old Mackenzie laughed a loud laugh
of derision, that fortunately did not stop
Lavender’s execution of “I would that
my love would silently.”

“What the teffle,” said Mackenzie,
“hef I to want a deer forest for my
Sheila? Sheila is no fisherman’s lass.
[pg 672]
She has plenty for herself, and she will
marry just the young man she wants to
marry, and no other one: that is what
she will do, by Kott!”

All this was most hopeful. If Mackenzie
had himself been advocating
Lavender’s suit, could he have said
more? But notwithstanding all these
frank and generous promises, dealing
with a future which the old man considered
as indefinitely remote, Ingram was
still afraid of the announcement he was
about to make.

“Sheila is fortunately situated,” he
said, “in having a father who thinks only
of her happiness. But I suppose she
has never yet shown a preference for any
one?”

“Not for any one but yourself,” said
her father with a laugh.

And Ingram laughed too, but in an
embarrassed way, and his sallow face
grew darker with a blush. Was there
not something painful in the unintentional
implication that of course Ingram
could not be considered a possible lover
of Sheila’s, and that the girl herself was
so well aware of it that she could openly
testify to her regard for him?

“And it would be a good thing for
Sheila,” continued her father, more
gravely, “if there wass any young man
about the Lewis that she would tek a
liking to; for it will be some day I can
no more look after her, and it would be
bad for her to be left alone all by herself
in the island.”

“And you don’t think you see before
you now some one who might take on
him the charge of Sheila’s future?” said
Ingram, looking toward Lavender.

“The English gentleman?” said Mackenzie
with a smile. “No, that any way
is not possible.”

“I fancy it is more than possible,”
said Ingram, resolved to go straight at
it. “I know for a fact that he would
like to marry your daughter, and I think
that Sheila, without knowing it herself
almost, is well inclined toward him.”

The old man started up from his chair:
“Eh? what! my Sheila?”

“Yes, papa,” said the girl, turning
round at once.

She caught sight of a strange look on
his face, and in an instant was by his
side: “Papa, what is the matter with
you?”

“Nothing, Sheila, nothing,” he said
impatiently. “I am a little tired of the
music, that is all. But go on with the
music. Go back to the piano, Sheila,
and go on with the music, and Mr. Ingram
and me, we will go outside for a
little while.”

Mackenzie walked out of the room,
and said aloud in the hall, “Ay, are you
coming, Mr. Ingram? It iss a fine night
this night, and the wind is in a very
good way for the weather.”

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

Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell!

A friend! The word! Good-night! All’s well!

All’s well! Good-night! All’s well!

Ingram followed the old man outside,
with a somewhat guilty conscience suggesting
odd things to him. Would it
not be possible now to shut one’s ears
for the next half hour? Angry words
were only little perturbations in the air.
If you shut your ears till they were all
over, what harm could be done? All
the big facts of life would remain the
same. The sea, the sky, the hills, the
human beings around you, even your
desire of sleep for the night and your
wholesome longing for breakfast in the
morning, would all remain, and the
angry words would have passed away.
But perhaps it was a proper punishment
that he should now go out and bear all
the wrath of this fierce old gentleman,
whose daughter he had conspired to
carry off. Mackenzie was walking up
and down the path outside in the cool
and silent night. There was not much
moon now, but a clear and lambent twilight
showed all the familiar features of
Loch Roag and the southern hills, and
down there in the bay you could vaguely
make out the Maighdean-mhara rocking
in the tiny waves that washed in on
the white shore. Ingram had never
looked on this pretty picture with a less
feeling of delight.

“Well, you see, Mr. Mackenzie,” he
[pg 673]
was beginning, “you must make this
excuse for him—”

But Mackenzie put aside Lavender at
once. It was all about Sheila that he
wanted to know. There was no anger
in his words; only a great anxiety, and
sometimes an extraordinary and pathetic
effort to take a philosophical view of the
situation. What had Sheila said? Was
Sheila deeply interested in the young
man? Would it please Sheila if he was
to go in-doors and give at once his free
consent to her marrying this Mr. Lavender?

“Oh, you must not think,” said Mackenzie,
with a certain loftiness of air
even amidst his great perturbation and
anxiety—”you must not think I hef not
foreseen all this. It wass some day or
other Sheila will be sure to marry; and
although I did not expect—no, I did not
expect that—that she would marry a
stranger and an Englishman, if it will
please her that is enough. You cannot
tell a young lass the one she should
marry: it iss all a chance the one she
likes, and if she does not marry him it
is better she will not marry at all. Oh
yes, I know that ferry well. And I hef
known there wass a time coming when
I would give away my Sheila to some
young man; and there iss no use complaining
of it. But you hef not told me
much about this young man, or I hef
forgotten: it is the same thing whatever.
He has not much money, you said—he
is waiting for some money. Well, this
is what I will do: I will give him all my
money if he will come and live in the
Lewis.”

All the philosophy he had been mustering
up fell away from that last sentence.
It was like the cry of a drowning
man who sees the last life-boat set
out for shore, leaving him to his fate.
And Ingram had not a word to say in
reply to that piteous entreaty.

“I do not ask him to stop in Borva:
no, it iss a small place for one that hass
lived in a town. But the Lewis, that is
quite different; and there iss ferry good
houses in Stornoway.”

“But surely, sir,” said Ingram, “you
need not consider all this just yet. I
am sure neither of them has thought of
any such thing.”

“No,” said Mackenzie, recovering
himself, “perhaps not. But we hef our
duties to look at the future of young
folks. And you will say that Mr. Lavender
hass only expectations of money?”

“Well, the expectation is almost a certainty.
His aunt, I have told you, is a
very rich old lady, who has no other near
relations, and she is exceedingly fond of
him, and would do anything for him. I
am sure the allowance he has now is
greatly in excess of what she spends on
herself.”

“But they might quarrel, you know—they
might quarrel. You hef always to
look to the future: they might quarrel,
and what will he do then?”

“Why, you don’t suppose he couldn’t
support himself if the worst were to come
to the worst? He is an amazingly clever
fellow—”

“Ay, that is very good,” said Mackenzie
in a cautious sort of way, “but
has he ever made any money?”

“Oh, I fancy not—nothing to speak
of. He has sold some pictures, but I
think he has given more away.”

“Then it iss not easy, tek my word
for it, Mr. Ingram, to begin a new trade
if you are twenty-five years of age; and
the people who will tek your pictures for
nothing, will they pay for them if you
wanted the money?”

It was obviously the old man’s eager
wish to prove to himself that, somehow
or other, Lavender might come to have
no money, and be made dependent on
his father-in-law. So far, indeed, from
sharing the sentiments ordinarily attributed
to that important relative, he would
have welcomed with a heartfelt joy the
information that the man who, as he expected,
was about to marry his daughter
was absolutely penniless. Not even
all the attractions of that deer forest
in Sutherlandshire—particularly fascinating
as they must have been to a man
of his education and surroundings—had
been able to lead the old King of Borva
even into hinting to his daughter that
the owner of that property would like to
marry her. Sheila was to choose for
[pg 674]
herself. She was not like a fisherman’s
lass, bound to consider ways and means.
And now that she had chosen, or at least
indicated the possibility of her doing so,
her father’s chief desire was that his future
son-in-law should come and take
and enjoy his money, so only that Sheila
might not be carried away from him for
ever.

“Well, I will see about it,” said Mackenzie
with an affectation of cheerful
and practical shrewdness. “Oh yes, I
will see about it when Sheila has made
up her mind. He is a very good young
man, whatever—”

“He is the best-hearted fellow I know,”
said Ingram warmly. “I don’t think
Sheila has much to fear if she marries
him. If you had known him as long as
I have, you would know how considerate
he is to everybody about him, how
generous he is, how good-natured and
cheerful, and so forth: in short, he is a
thorough good fellow, that’s what I have
to say about him.”

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

They went in-doors again, Ingram
scarcely knowing how he had got so
easily through the ordeal, but very glad
it was over.

Sheila was still at the piano, and on
their entering she said, “Papa, here is a
song you must learn to sing with me.”

“And what iss it, Sheila?” he said,
going over to her.

“‘Time has not thinned my flowing
hair.'”

He put his hand on her head and
said, “I hope it will be a long time before
he will thin your hair, Sheila.”

The girl looked up surprised. Scotch
folks are, as a rule, somewhat reticent
in their display of affection, and it was
not often that her father talked to her
in that way. What was there in his
face that made her glance instinctively
toward Ingram. Somehow or other her
hand sought her father’s hand, and she
rose and went away from the piano, with
her head bent down and tears beginning
to tell in her eyes.

“Yes, that is a capital song,” said
Ingram loudly. Sing ‘The Arethusa,’
Lavender—’Said the saucy Arethusa.'”

Lavender, knowing what had taken
place, and not daring to follow with his
eyes Sheila and her father, who had
gone to the other end of the room, sang
the song. Never was a gallant and
devil-may-care sea-song sung so hopelessly
without spirit. But the piano made
a noise and the verses took up time.
When he had finished he almost feared
to turn round, and yet there was nothing
dreadful in the picture that presented
itself. Sheila was sitting on her father’s
knee, with her head buried in his bosom,
while he was patting her head and talking
in a low voice to her. The King of
Borva did not look particularly fierce.

“Yes, it iss a teffle of a good song,” he
said suddenly. “Now get up, Sheila,
and go and tell Mairi we will have a bit
of bread and cheese before going to bed.
And there will be a little hot water wanted
in the other room, for this room it iss
too full of the smoke.”

Sheila, as she went out of the room,
had her head cast down and perhaps
an extra tinge of color in her young
and pretty face. But surely, Lavender
thought to himself as he watched her
anxiously, she did not look grieved. As
for her father, what should he do now?
Turn suddenly round and beg Mackenzie’s
pardon, and throw himself on his
generosity? When he did, with much
inward trembling, venture to approach
the old man, he found no such explanation
possible. The King of Borva was
in one of his grandest moods—dignified,
courteous, cautious, and yet inclined to
treat everybody and everything with a
sort of lofty good-humor. He spoke to
Lavender in the most friendly way, but
it was about the singular and startling
fact that modern research had proved
many of the Roman legends to be utterly
untrustworthy. Mr. Mackenzie
observed that the man was wanting in
proper courage who feared to accept the
results of such inquiries. It was better
that we should know the truth, and then
the kings who had really made Rome
great might emerge from the fog of
[pg 675]
tradition in their proper shape. There was
something quite sympathetic in the way
he talked of those ill-treated sovereigns,
whom the vulgar mind had clothed in
mist.

Lavender was sorely beset by the rival
claims of Rome and Borva upon his attention.
He was inwardly inclined to
curse Numa Pompilius—which would
have been ineffectual—when he found
that personage interfering with a wild
effort to discover why Mackenzie should
treat him in this way. And then it occurred
to him that, as he had never said
a word to Mackenzie about this affair, it
was too much to expect that Sheila’s
father should himself open the subject.
On the contrary, Mackenzie was bent
on extending a grave courtesy to his
guest, so that the latter should not feel
ill at ease until it suited himself to make
any explanations he might choose. It
was not Mackenzie’s business to ask this
young man if he wanted to marry Sheila.
No. The king’s daughter, if she were
to be won at all, was to be won by a
suitor, and it was not for her father to
be in a hurry about it. So Lavender got
back into the region of early Roman
history, and tried to recall what he had
learned in Livy, and quite coincided
with everything that Niebuhr had said
or proved, and with everything that
Mackenzie thought Niebuhr had said
or proved. He was only too glad, indeed,
to find himself talking to Sheila’s
father in this friendly fashion.

Then Sheila came in and told them
that supper was laid in the adjoining
room. At that modest meal a great
good-humor prevailed. Sometimes, it
is true, it occurred to Ingram that Sheila
occasionally cast an anxious glance to
her father, as if she were trying to discover
whether he was really satisfied, or
whether he were not merely pretending
satisfaction to please her; but for the
rest the party was a most friendly and
merry one. Lavender, naturally enough,
was in the highest of spirits, and nothing
could exceed the lighthearted endeavors
he made to amuse and interest and cheer
his companions. Sheila, indeed, sat up
later than usual, even although pipes
were lit again, and the slate-gray silk
likely to bear witness to the fact in the
morning. How comfortable and homely
was this sort of life in the remote
stone building overlooking the sea! He
began to think that he could live always
in Borva if only Sheila were with him
as his companion.

Was it an actual fact, then, he asked
himself next morning, that he stood confessed
to the small world of Borva as
Sheila’s accepted lover? Not a word on
the subject had passed between Mackenzie
and himself, and yet he found himself
assuming the position of a younger
relative, and rather expecting advice
from the old man. He began to take a
great interest, too, in the local administration
of the island: he examined the
window-fastenings of Mackenzie’s house
and saw that they would be useful in the
winter, and expressed to Sheila’s father
his confidential opinion that the girl
should not be allowed to go out in the
Maighdean-mhara without Duncan.

“She will know as much about boats
as Duncan himself,” said her father with
a smile. “But Sheila will not go out
when the rough weather begins.”

“Of course you keep her in-doors
then,” said the younger man, already
assuming some little charge over Sheila’s
comfort.

The father laughed aloud at this simplicity
on the part of the Englishman:
“If we wass to keep in-doors in the bad
weather, it would be all the winter we
would be in-doors! There iss no day at
all Sheila will not be out some time or
other; and she is never so well as in
the hard weather, when she will be out
always in the snow and the frost, and
hef plenty of exercise and amusement.”

“She is not often ailing, I suppose?”
said Lavender.

“She is as strong as a young pony,
that is what Sheila is,” said her father
proudly. “And there is no one in the
island will run so fast, or walk so long
without tiring, or carry things from the
shore as she will—not one.”

But here he suddenly checked himself.
“That is,” he said with some little expression
of annoyance, “I wass saying
[pg 676]
Sheila could do that if it wass any use;
but she will not do such things, like a
fisherman’s lass that hass to keep in the
work.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Lavender
hastily. “But still, you know, it is
pleasant to know she is so strong and
well.”

And at this moment Sheila herself appeared,
accompanied by her great deerhound,
and testifying by the bright color
in her face to the assurances of her health
her father had been giving. She had
just come up and over the hill from Borvabost,
while as yet breakfast had not
been served. Somehow or other, Lavender
fancied she never looked so bright
and bold and handsome as in the early
morning, with the fresh sea-air tingling
the color in her cheeks, and the sunlight
shining in the clear eyes or giving from
time to time a glimpse of her perfect
teeth. But this morning she did not
seem quite so frankly merry as usual.
She patted the deerhound’s head, and
rather kept her eyes away from her
father and his companion. And then
she took Bras away to give him his
breakfast, just as Ingram appeared to
bid her good-morning and ask her what
she meant by being about so early.

How anxiously Lavender now began
to calculate on the remaining days of
their stay in Borva! They seemed so
few. He got up at preposterously early
hours to make each day as long as possible,
but it slipped away with a fatal
speed; and already he began to think
of Stornoway and the Clansman and
his bidding good-bye to Sheila. He had
said no more to her of any pledge as
regarded the future. He was content to
see that she was pleased to be with him;
and happy indeed were their rambles
about the island, their excursions in
Sheila’s boat, their visits to the White
Water in search of salmon. Nor had
he yet spoken to Sheila’s father. He
knew that Mackenzie knew, and both
seemed to take it for granted that no
good could come of a formal explanation
until Sheila herself should make her
wishes known. That, indeed, was the
only aspect of the case that apparently
presented itself to the old King of Borva.
He forgot altogether those precautions
and investigations which are supposed
to occupy the mind of a future father-in-law,
and only sought to see how Sheila
was affected toward the young man who
was soon about to leave the island.
When he saw her pleased to be walking
with Lavender and talking with him of
an evening, he was pleased, and would
rather have a cold dinner than break in
upon them to hurry them home. When
he saw her disappointed because Lavender
had been unfortunate in his salmon-fishing,
he was ready to swear at Duncan
for not having had the fish in a better
temper. And the most of his conversation
with Ingram consisted of an
endeavor to convince himself that, after
all, what had happened was for the best,
and that Sheila seemed to be happy.

But somehow or other, when the time
for their departure was drawing near,
Mackenzie showed a strange desire that
his guests should spend the last two days
in Stornoway. When Lavender first
heard this proposal he glanced toward
Sheila, and his face showed clearly his
disappointment.

“But Sheila will go with us too,” said
her father, replying to that unuttered
protest in the most innocent fashion;
and then Lavender’s face brightened
again, and he said that nothing would
give him greater pleasure than to spend
two days in Stornoway.

“And you must not think,” said Mackenzie
anxiously, “that it is one day or
two days or a great many days will show
you all the fine things about Stornoway.
And if you were to live in Stornoway
you would find very good acquaintances
and friends there; and in the autumn,
when the shooting begins, there are
many English who will come up, and
there will be ferry great doings at the
castle. And there is some gentlemen
now at Grimersta whom you hef not
seen, and they are ferry fine gentlemen;
and at Garra-na-hina there iss two more
gentlemen for the salmon-fishing. Oh,
there iss a great many fine people in
the Lewis, and it iss not all as lonely as
Borva.”

[pg 677]

“If it is half as pleasant a place to
live in as Borva, it will do,” said Lavender,
with a flush of enthusiasm in his
face as he looked toward Sheila and
saw her pleased and downcast eyes.

“But it iss not to be compared,” said
Mackenzie eagerly. “Borva, that is
nothing at all; but the Lewis, it is a
ferry different thing to live in the Lewis;
and many English gentlemen hef told
me they would like to live always in the
Lewis.”

“I think I should too,” said Lavender
lightly and carelessly, little thinking what
importance the old man immediately and
gladly put upon the admission.

From that moment, Lavender, although
unconscious of what had happened, had
nothing to fear in the way of opposition
from Sheila’s father. If he had there
and then boldly asked Mackenzie for
his daughter, the old man would have
given his consent freely, and bade Lavender
go to Sheila herself.

And so they set sail, one pleasant
forenoon, from Borvabost, and the light
wind that ruffled the blue of Loch Roag
gently filled the mainsail of the Maigh-dean-mhara
as she lightly ran down the
tortuous channel.

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

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

At Garra-na-hina Mackenzie pointed
out with a great interest to Lavender a
tall man who was going down through
some meadows to the Amhuinn Dhubh,
“the Black River.” He had a long rod
over his shoulder, and behind him, at
some distance, followed a shorter man,
who carried a gaff and landing-net.
Mackenzie anxiously explained to Lavender
that the tall figure was that of an
Englishman. Lavender accepted the
statement. But would he not go down
to the river and make his acquaintance?
Lavender could not understand why he
should be expected to take so great an
interest in an ordinary English sportsman.

“Ferry well,” said Mackenzie, a trifle
disappointed, “but you would find several
of the English in the Lewis if you
wass living here.”

These last two days in Stornoway were
very pleasant. On their previous visit
to the town Mackenzie had given up
much of his time to business affairs, and
was a good deal away from his guests,
but now he devoted himself to making
them particularly comfortable in the
place and amusing them in every possible
way. He introduced Lavender,
in especial, to all his friends there, and
was most anxious to impress on the
young man that life in Stornoway was,
on the whole, rather a brilliant affair.
Then was there a finer point from which
you could start at will for Inverness,
Oban and such great centres of civilization?
Very soon there would even be
a telegraphic cable laid to the mainland.
Was Mr. Lavender aware that frequently
you could see the Sutherlandshire hills
from this very town of Stornoway?

There Sheila laughed, and Lavender,
who kept watching her face always to
read all her fancies and sentiments and
wishes in the shifting lights of it, immediately
demanded an explanation.

“It is no good thing,” said Sheila, “to
see the Sutherland hills often, for when
you see them it means to rain.”

But Lavender had not been taught to
fear the rain of the Western Isles. The
very weather seemed to have conspired
with Mackenzie to charm the young man
with the island. At this moment, for example,
they were driving away from Stornoway
along the side of the great bay
that stretches northward until it finds its
furthest promontory in Tiumpan Head.
What magnificence of color shone all
around them in the hot sunlight! Where
the ruffled blue sea came near the long
sweep of yellow sand it grew to be a
bright, transparent green. The splendid
curve of the bay showed a gleaming line
of white where the waves broke in masses
of hissing foam; and beyond that curve
again long promontories of dark red
[pg 678]
conglomerate ran out into the darker waters
of the sea, with their summits shining
with the bright sea-grass. Here, close at
hand, were warm meadows, with calves
and lambs cropping the sweet-scented
Dutch clover. A few huts, shaped like
beehives, stood by the roadside, close by
some deep peat cuttings. There was a
cutting in the yellow sand of the bay for
the pulling up of captured whales. Now
and again you could see a solan dart
down from the blue heavens into the
blue of the sea, sending up a spurt of
water twenty feet high as he disappeared;
and far out there, between the red
precipices and the ruffled waters beneath,
white sea-fowl flew from crag to crag or
dropped down upon the sea to rise and
fall with the waves.

At the small hamlet of Gress they got
a large rowing-boat manned by sturdy
fishermen, and set out to explore the
great caves formed in the mighty wall
of conglomerate that here fronts the sea.
The wild-fowl flew about them, screaming
and yelling at being disturbed. The
long swell of the sea lifted the boat, passed
from under it, and went on with majestic
force to crash on the glowing red
crags and send jets of foam flying up
the face of them. They captured one
of the sea-birds—a young thing about
as big as a hen, with staring eyes, scant
feathers, and a long beak with which it
instinctively tried to bite its enemies—and
the parents of it kept swooping
down over the boat, uttering shrill cries,
until their offspring was restored to the
surface of the water. They went into
the great loud-sounding caverns, getting
a new impression of the extraordinary
clearness of the sea-water by the depth at
which the bottom was visible; and here
their shouts occasionally called up from
some dim twilight recess, far in among
the perilous rocks, the head of a young
seal, which would instantly dive again
and be seen no more. They watched
the salmon splash in the shallower creeks
where the sea had scooped out a tiny
bay of ruddy sand, and then a slowly
rolling porpoise would show his black
back above the water and silently disappear
again. All this was pleasant
enough on a pleasant morning, in fresh
sea-air and sunlight, in holiday-time;
and was there any reason, Mackenzie
may fairly have thought, why this young
man, if he did marry Sheila, should not
come and live in a place where so much
healthy amusement was to be found?

And in the evening, too, when they
had climbed to the top of the hills on the
south of Stornoway harbor, did not the
little town look sufficiently picturesque,
with its white houses, its shipping, its
great castle and plantations lying in
shadow under the green of the eastern
sky? Then away to the west what a
strange picture presented itself! Thick
bands of gray cloud lay across the sky,
and the sunlight from behind them sent
down great rays of misty yellow on the
endless miles of moor. But how was it
that, as these shafts of sunlight struck on
the far and successive ridges of the moorland,
each long undulation seemed to
become transparent, and all the island
appeared to consist of great golden-brown
shells heaped up behind each
other, with the sunlight shining through?

“I have tried a good many new effects
since coming up here,” said Lavender,
“but I shall not try that.”

“Oh, it iss nothing—it is nothing at
all,” said Mackenzie with a studied air
of unconcern. “There iss much more
beautiful things than that in the island,
but you will hef need of a ferry long
time before you will find it all out. That—that
iss nothing at all.”

“You will perhaps make a picture of
it some other time,” said Sheila with her
eyes cast down, and as he was standing
by her at the time, he took her hand
and pressed it, and said, “I hope so.”

Then, that night! Did not every hour
produce some new and wonderful scene,
or was it only that each minute grew to
be so precious, and that the enchantment
of Sheila’s presence filled the air
around him? There was no moon, but
the stars shone over the bay and the
harbor and the dusky hills beyond the
castle. Every few seconds the lighthouse
at Arnish Point sent out its wild
glare of orange fire into the heart, of
the clear darkness, and then as suddenly
[pg 679]
faded out and left the eyes too bewildered
to make out the configuration of
the rocks. All over the north-west there
still remained the pale glow of the twilight,
and somehow Lavender seemed to
think that that strange glow belonged to
Sheila’s home in the west, and that the
people in Stornoway knew nothing of
the wonders of Loch Roag and of the
strange nights there. Was he likely
ever to forget?

“Good-bye, Sheila,” he said next
morning, when the last signal had been
given and the Clansman was about to
move from her moorings.

She had bidden good-bye to Ingram
already, but somehow she could not
speak to his companion just at this last
moment. She pressed his hand and
turned away, and went ashore with her
father. Then the big steamer throbbed
its way out of the harbor, and by and by
the island of Lewis lay but as a thin
blue cloud along the horizon; and who
could tell that human beings, with
strange hopes and fancies and griefs,
were hidden away in that pale line of
vapor?

CHAPTER IX.

“FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!”

A night journey from Greenock to
London is a sufficiently prosaic affair in
ordinary circumstances, but it need not
be always so. What if a young man,
apparently occupied in making himself
comfortable and in talking nonsense to
his friend and companion, should be secretly
calculating how the journey could
be made most pleasant to a bride, and
that bride his bride? Lavender made
experiments with regard to the ways
and tempers of guards; he borrowed
planks of wood with which to make
sleeping-couches of an ordinary first-class
carriage; he bribed a certain official
to have the compartment secured;
he took note of the time when, and the
place where, refreshments could be procured:
all these things he did, thinking
of Sheila. And when Ingram, sometimes
surprised by his good-nature, and
occasionally remonstrating against his
extravagance, at last fell asleep on the
more or less comfortable cushions stretched
across the planks, Lavender would
have him wake up again, that he might
be induced to talk once more about
Sheila. Ingram would make use of
some wicked words, rub his eyes, ask
what was the last station they had passed,
and then begin to preach to Lavender
about the great obligations he was
under to Sheila, and what would be expected
of him in after times.

“You are coming away just now,” he
would say, while Lavender, who could
not sleep at all, was only anxious that
Sheila’s name should be mentioned, “enriched
with a greater treasure than falls
to the lot of most men. If you know
how to value that treasure, there is not
a king or emperor in Europe who should
not envy you.”

“But don’t you think I value it?” the
other would say anxiously.

“We’ll see about that afterward, by
what you do. But in the mean time you
don’t know what you have won. You
don’t know the magnificent single-heartedness
of that girl, her keen sense of
honor, nor the strength of character, of
judgment and decision that lies beneath
her apparent simplicity. Why, I have
known Sheila, now—But what’s the
use of talking?”

“I wish you would talk, though, Ingram,”
said his companion quite submissively.
“You have known her longer
than I. I am willing to believe all you
say of her, and anxious, indeed, to know
as much about her as possible. You
don’t suppose I fancy she is anything
less than you say?”

“Well,” said Ingram doubtfully, “perhaps
not. The worst of it is, that you
take such odd readings of people. However,
when you marry her, as I now
hope you may, you will soon find out;
and then, if you are not grateful, if you
don’t understand and appreciate then
the fine qualities of this girl, the sooner
you put a millstone round your neck and
drop over Chelsea Bridge the better.”

“She will always have in you a good
friend to look after her when she comes
to London.”

[pg 680]

“Oh, don’t imagine I mean to thrust
myself in at your breakfast-table to give
you advice. If a husband and wife cannot
manage their own affairs satisfactorily,
no third person can; and I am
getting to be an elderly man, who likes
peace and comfort and his own quiet.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense!”
said Lavender impetuously.
“You know you are bound to marry;
and the woman you ask to marry you
will be a precious fool if she refuses. I
don’t know, indeed, how you and Sheila
ever escaped—”

“Look here, Lavender,” said his companion,
speaking in a somewhat more
earnest fashion, “if you marry Sheila
Mackenzie I suppose I may see something
of both of you from time to time.
But you are naturally jealous and exacting,
as is the way with many good fellows
who have had too much of their
own will in the world; and if you start
off with the notion now that Sheila and
I might ever have married, or that such
a thing was ever thought of by either of
us, the certain consequence will be that
you will become jealous of me, and that
in time I shall have to stop seeing either
of you if you happen to be living in
London.”

“And if ever the time comes,” said
Lavender lightly, “when I prove myself
such a fool, I hope I shall remember that
a millstone can be bought in Victoria
road and that Chelsea Bridge is handy.”

“All right: I’m going to sleep.”

For some time after Ingram was permitted
to rest in peace, and it was not
until they had reached some big station
or other toward morning that he woke.
Lavender had never closed his eyes.

“Haven’t you been asleep?”

“No.”

“What’s the matter now?”

“My aunt.”

“You seem to have acquired a trick
recently of looking at all the difficulties
of your position at once. Why don’t you
take them singly? You’ve just got rid
of Mackenzie’s opposition: that might
have contented you for a while.”

“I think the best plan will be to say
nothing of this to my aunt at present. I
think we ought to get married first, and
when I take Sheila to see her as my wife,
what can she say then?”

“But what is Sheila likely to say before
then? And Sheila’s father? You must
be out of your mind!”

“There will be a pretty scene, then,
when I tell her.”

“Scenes don’t hurt anybody, unless
when they end in brickbats or decanters.
Your aunt must know you would marry
some day.”

“Yes, but you know whom she wished
me to marry.”

“That is nothing. Every old lady
has a fancy for imagining possible marriages;
but your aunt is a reasonable
woman, and could not possibly object
to your marrying a girl like Sheila?”

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

“And a very good coat-of-arms, too.
You might add the motto Ultimus regum.
Or Atavis editus regibus. Or Tyrrhena
regum progenies. To think that your
aunt would forbid your wedding a king’s
daughter!”

“I should wed the king’s daughter,
aunt or no aunt, in any case; but, you
see, it would be uncommonly awkward,
just as old Mackenzie would want to
know something more particular about
my circumstances; and he might ask
for references to the old lady herself,
just as if I were a tenant about to take
a house.”

“I have given him enough references.
Go to sleep, and don’t bother yourself.”

But now Ingram felt himself just as
unable as his companion to escape into
unconsciousness, and so he roused himself
thoroughly, and began to talk about
Lewis and Borva and the Mackenzies,
and the duties and responsibilities
[pg 681]
Lavender would undertake in marrying
Sheila.

“Mackenzie,” he said, “will expect
you to live in Stornoway at least half
the year, and it will be very hard on
him if you don’t.”

“Oh, as to that,” said the other, “I
should have no objection; but, you see,
if I am to get married I really think I
ought to try to get into some position of
earning my own living or helping toward
it, you know. I begin to see how
galling this sort of dependence on my
aunt might be if I wished to act for myself.
Now, if I were to begin to do anything,
I could not go and bury myself
in Lewis for half the year—just at first:
by and by, you know, it might be different.
But don’t you think I ought to
begin and do something?”

“Most certainly. I have often wished
you had been born a carpenter or painter
or glazier.”

“People are not born carpenters or
glaziers, but sometimes they are born
painters. I think I have been born
nothing; but I am willing to try, more
especially as I think Sheila would like
it.”

“I know she would.”

“I will write and tell her the moment
I get to London.”

“I would fix first what your occupation
was to be, if I were you. There is
no hurry about telling Sheila, although
she will be very glad to get as much
news of you as possible, and I hope you
will spare no time or trouble in pleasing
her in that line. By the way, what
an infamous shame it was of you to go
and gammon old Mackenzie into the
belief that he can read poetry! Why,
he will make that girl’s life a burden to
her. I heard him propose to read Paradise
Lost to her as soon as the rain set
in.”

“I didn’t gammon him,” said Lavender
with a laugh. “Every man thinks
he can read poetry better than every
other man, even as every man fancies
that no one gets cigars as good and as
cheap as he does, and that no one can
drive a horse safely but himself. My
talking about his reading was not as bad
as Sheila’s persuading him that he can
play whist. Did you ever know a man
who did not believe that everybody else’s
reading of poetry was affected, stilted
and unbearable? I know Mackenzie
must have been reading poetry to Sheila
long before I mentioned it to him.”

“But that suggestion about his resonant
voice and the Crystal Palace?”

“That was a joke.”

“He did not take it as a joke, and
neither did Sheila.”

“Well, Sheila would believe that her
father could command the Channel fleet,
or turn out the present ministry, or build
a bridge to America, if only anybody
hinted it to her. Touching that Crystal
Palace: did you observe how little notion
of size she could have got from pictures
when she asked me if the Crystal Palace
was much bigger than the hot-houses at
Lewis Castle?”

“What a world of wonder the girl is
coming into!” said the other meditatively.
“But it will be all lit up by one sun
if only you take care of her and justify
her belief in you.”

“I have not much doubt,” said Lavender
with a certain modest confidence
in his manner which had repeatedly of
late pleased his friend.

Even Sheila herself could scarcely
have found London more strange than
did the two men who had just returned
from a month’s sojourn in the northern
Hebrides. The dingy trees in Euston
Square, the pale sunlight that shone
down on the gray pavements, the noise
of the omnibuses and carts, the multitude
of strangers, the blue and mist-like
smoke that hung about Tottenham Court
road,—all were as strange to them as the
sensation of sitting in a hansom and being
driven along by an unseen driver. Lavender
confessed afterward that he was
pervaded by an odd sort of desire to
know whether there was anybody in
London at all like Sheila. Now and
again a smartly-dressed girl passed along
the pavement: what was it that made
the difference between her and that other
girl whom he had just left? Yet he wished
to have the difference as decided as
possible. When some bright, fresh-colored,
[pg 682]
pleasant-looking girl passed, he was
anxious to prove to himself that she was
not to be compared with Sheila. Where
in all London could you find eyes that
told so much? He forgot to place the
specialty of Sheila’s eyes in the fact of
their being a dark gray-blue under black
eyelashes. What he did remember was
that no eyes could possibly say the same
things to him as they had said. And
where in all London was the same sweet
aspect to be found, or the same unconsciously
proud and gentle demeanor, or
the same tender friendliness expressed
in a beautiful face? He would not say
anything against London women, for all
that. It was no fault of theirs that they
could not be sea-kings’ daughters, with
the courage and frankness and sweetness
of the sea gone into their blood. He
was only too pleased to have proved to
himself, by looking at some half dozen
pretty shop-girls, that not in London was
there any one to compare with Princess
Sheila.

For many a day thereafter Ingram
had to suffer a good deal of this sort of
lover’s logic, and bore it with great fortitude.
Indeed, nothing pleased him
more than to observe that Lavender’s
affection, so far from waning, engrossed
more and more of his thought and his
time; and he listened with unfailing
good-nature and patience to the perpetual
talk of his friend about Sheila and her
home, and the future that might be in
store for both of them. If he had accepted
half the invitations to dinner sent
down to him at the Board of Trade by
his friend, he would scarcely ever have
been out of Lavender’s club. Many a
long evening they passed in this way—either
in Lavender’s rooms in King street
or in Ingram’s lodgings in Sloane street.
Ingram quite consented to lie in a chair
and smoke, sometimes putting in a word
of caution to bring Lavender back from
the romantic Sheila to the real Sheila,
sometimes smiling at some wild proposal
or statement on the part of his friend,
but always glad to see that the pretty
idealisms planted during their stay in
the far North were in no danger of dying
out down here in the South. Those were
great days, too, when a letter arrived
from Sheila. Nothing had been said
about their corresponding, but Lavender
had written shortly after his arrival in
London, and Sheila had answered for
her father and herself. It wanted but
a very little amount of ingenuity to continue
the interchange of letters thus begun;
and when the well-known envelope
arrived high holiday was immediately
proclaimed by the recipient of it. He
did not show Ingram these letters, of
course, but the contents of them were
soon bit by bit revealed. He was also
permitted to see the envelope, as if
Sheila’s handwriting had some magical
charm about it. Sometimes, indeed, Ingram
had himself a letter from Sheila,
and that was immediately shown to Lavender.
Was he pleased to find that these
communications were excessively business-like—describing
how the fishing was going on, what was doing in the
schools, and how John the Piper was
conducting himself, with talk about the
projected telegraphic cable, the shooting
in Harris, the health of Bras, and other
esoteric matters?

Lavender’s communications with the
King of Borva were of a different nature.
Wonderful volumes on building, agriculture
and what not, tobacco hailing
from certain royal sources in the neighborhood
of the Pyramids, and now and
again a new sort of rifle or some fresh
invention in fishing-tackle,—these were
the sort of things that found their way to
Lewis. And then in reply came haunches
of venison, and kegs of rare whisky, and
skins of wild animals, which, all very
admirable in their way, were a trifle
cumbersome in a couple of moderate
rooms in King street, St. James’s. But
here Lavender hit upon a happy device.
He had long ago talked to his aunt of
the mysterious potentate in the far North,
who was the ruler of man, beast and fish,
and who had an only daughter. When
these presents arrived, Mrs. Lavender
was informed that they were meant for
her, and was given to understand that
they were the propitiatory gifts of a half-savage
monarch who wished to seek her
friendship. In vain did Ingram warn
[pg 683]
Lavender of the possible danger of this
foolish joke. The young man laughed,
and would come down to Sloane street
with another story of his success as an
envoy of the distant king.

And so the months went slowly by, and
Lavender raved about Sheila, and dreamed
about Sheila, and was always going
to begin some splendid achievement for
Sheila’s sake, but never just managed to
begin. After all, the future did not look
very terrible, and the present was satisfactory
enough. Mrs. Lavender had no
objection whatever to listening to his
praises of Sheila, and had even gone
the length of approving of the girl’s photograph
when it was shown her. But at
the end of six months Lavender suddenly
went down to Sloane street, found
Ingram in his lodgings, and said, “Ingram,
I start for Lewis to-morrow.”

“The more fool you!” was the complacent
reply.

“I can’t bear this any longer: I must
go and see her.”

“You’ll have to bear worse if you go.
You don’t know what getting to Lewis
is in the winter. You’ll be killed with
cold before you see the Minch.”

“I can stand a good bit of cold when
there’s a reason for it,” said the young
man; “and I have written to Sheila to
say I should start to-morrow.”

“In that case I had better make use
of you. I suppose you won’t mind
taking up to Sheila a sealskin jacket
that I have bought for her.”

“That you have bought for her!” said
the other.

How could he have spared fifteen
pounds out of his narrow income for
such a present? And yet he laughed at
the idea of his ever having been in love
with Sheila.

Lavender took the sealskin jacket with
him, and started on his journey to the
North. It was certainly all that Ingram
had prophesied in the way of discomfort,
hardship and delay. But one forenoon,
Lavender, coming up from the cabin of
the steamer into which he had descended
to escape from the bitter wind and
the sleet, saw before him a strange thing.
In the middle of the black sea and under
a dark gray sky lay a long wonder-land
of gleaming snow. Far as the eye could
see the successive headlands of pale white
jutted out into the dark ocean, until in
the south they faded into a gray mist and
became invisible. And when they got
into Stornoway harbor, how black seemed
the waters of the little bay and the
hulls of the boats and the windows of
the houses against the blinding white of
the encircling hills!

“Yes,” said Lavender to the captain,
“it will be a cold drive across to Loch
Roag. I shall give Mackenzie’s man a
good dram before we start.”

But it was not Mackenzie’s notion of
hospitality to send Duncan to meet an
honored guest, and ere the vessel was
fast moored Lavender had caught sight
of the well-known pair of horses and the
brown wagonette, and Mackenzie stamping
up and down in the trampled snow.
And this figure close down to the edge
of the quay? Surely, there was something
about the thick gray shawl, the
white feather, the set of the head, that
he knew!

“Why, Sheila!” he cried, jumping
ashore before the gangway was shoved
across, “whatever made you come to
Stornoway on such a day?”

“And it is not much my coming to
Stornoway if you will come all the way
from England to the Lewis,” said Sheila,
looking up with her bright and glad
eyes.

For six months he had been trying to
recall the tones of her voice in looking
at her picture, and had failed: now he
fancied that she spoke more sweetly and
musically than ever.

“Ay, ay,” said Mackenzie when he
had shaken hands with the young man,
“it wass a piece of foolishness, her coming
over to meet you in Styornoway;
but the girl will be neither to hold nor
to bind when she teks a foolishness into
her head.”

“Is this the character I hear of you,
Sheila?” he said; and Mackenzie laughed
at his daughter’s embarrassment, and
said she was a good lass for all that, and
bundled both the young folks into the
inn, where luncheon had been provided,
[pg 684]
with a blazing fire in the room, and a
kettle of hot water steaming beside it.

When they got to Borva, Lavender
began to see that Mackenzie had laid
the most subtle plans for reconciling
him to the hard weather of these northern
winters; and the young man, nothing
loath, fell into his ways, and was
astonished at the amusement and interest
that could be got out of a residence
in this bleak island at such a season.
Mackenzie discarded at once the feeble
protections against cold and wet which
his guest had brought with him. He
gave him a pair of his own knickerbockers
and enormous boots; he made him
wear a frieze coat borrowed from Duncan;
he insisted on his turning down
the flap of a sealskin cap and tying the
ends under his chin; and thus equipped
they started on many a rare expedition
round the coast. But on their first going
out, Mackenzie, looking at him, said
with some chagrin, “Will they wear
gloves when they go shooting in your
country?”

“Oh,” said Lavender, “these are only
a pair of old dogskins I use chiefly to
keep my hands clean. You see I have
cut out the trigger-finger. And they
keep your hands from being numbed,
you know, with the cold or the rain.”

“There will be not much need of that
after a little while,” said Mackenzie;
and indeed, after half an hour’s tramping
over snow and climbing over rocks,
Lavender was well inclined to please
the old man by tossing the gloves into
the sea, for his hands were burning with
heat.

Then the pleasant evenings after all
the fatigues of the day were over, clothes
changed, dinner despatched, and Sheila
at the open piano in that warm little
drawing-room, with its strange shells
and fish and birds!

Love in thine eyes for ever plays;

He in thy snowy bosom strays,

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

He makes thy rosy lips his care,

And walks the mazes of thy hair.

There was no winter at all in the snug
little room, with its crimson fire and
closed shutters and songs of happier
times. “When the rosy morn appearing”
had nothing inappropriate in it;
and if they particularly studied the words
of “Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,” it
was only that Sheila might teach her
companion the Scotch pronunciation, as
far as she knew it. And once, half in
joke, Lavender said he could believe it
was summer again if Sheila had only on
her slate-gray silk dress, with the red
ribbon round her neck; and sure enough,
after dinner she came down in that dress,
and Lavender took her hand and kissed
it in gratitude. Just at that moment, too,
Mackenzie began to swear at Duncan for
not having brought him his pipe, and
not only went out of the room to look
for it, but was a full half hour in finding
it. When he came in again he was
singing carelessly,

Love in thine eyes for ever plays,

just as if he had got his pipe round the
corner.

For it had been all explained by this
time, you know, and Sheila had in a
couple of trembling words pledged away
her life, and her father had given his
consent. More than that he would have
done for the girl, if need were; and when
he saw the perfect happiness shining in
her eyes—when he saw that, through
some vague feelings of compunction or
gratitude, or even exuberant joy, she was
more than usually affectionate toward
himself—he grew reconciled to the ways
of Providence, and was ready to believe
that Ingram had done them all a good
turn in bringing his friend from the South
with him. If there was any haunting
fear at all, it was about the possibility of
Sheila’s husband refusing to live in Stornoway,
even for half the year or a portion
of the year; but did not the young man
express himself as delighted beyond
measure with Lewis and the Lewis people,
and the sports and scenery and
climate of the island? If Mackenzie
could have bought fine weather at twenty
pounds a day, Lavender would have
gone back to London with the conviction
[pg 685]
that there was only one thing better than
Lewis in summer-time, and that was
Lewis in time of snow and frost.

The blow fell. One evening a distinct
thaw set in, during the night the wind
went round to the south-west, and in the
morning, lo! the very desolation of desolation.
Suainabhal, Mealasabhal, Cracabhal
were all hidden away behind
dreary folds of mist; a slow and steady
rain poured down from the lowering
skies on the wet rocks, the marshy pasture-land
and the leafless bushes; the
Atlantic lay dark under a gray fog,
and you could scarcely see across the
loch in front of the house. Sometimes
the wind freshened a bit, and howled
about the house or dashed showers
against the streaming panes; but ordinarily
there was no sound but the ceaseless
hissing of the rain on the wet gravel
at the door and the rush of the waves
along the black rocks. All signs of life
seemed to have fled from the earth and
the sky. Bird and beast had alike taken
shelter, and not even a gull or a sea-pye
crossed the melancholy lines of moorland,
which were half obscured by the
mist of the rain.

“Well, it can’t be fine weather always,”
said Lavender cheerfully when Mackenzie
was affecting to be greatly surprised
to find such a thing as rain in the island
of Lewis.

“No, that iss quite true,” said the old
man. “It wass ferry good weather we
were having since you hef come here.
And what iss a little rain?—oh, nothing
at all. You will see it will go away
whenever the wind goes round.”

With that Mackenzie would again go
out to the front of the house, take a turn
up and down the wet gravel, and pretend
to be scanning the horizon for signs of a
change. Sheila, a good deal more honest,
went about her household duties,
saying merely to Lavender, “I am very
sorry the weather has broken, but it may
clear before you go away from Borva.”

“Before I go? Do you expect it to
rain for a week?”

“Perhaps it will not, but it is looking
very bad to-day,” said Sheila.

“Well, I don’t care,” said the young
man, “though it should rain the skies
down, if only you would keep in-doors,
Sheila. But you do go out in such a
reckless fashion. You don’t seem to reflect
that it is raining.”

“I do not get wet,” she said.

“Why, when you came up from the
shore half an hour ago your hair was as
wet as possible, and your face all red
and gleaming with the rain.”

“But I am none the worse. And I
am not wet now. It is impossible that
you will always keep in a room if you
have things to do; and a little rain does
not hurt any one.”

“It occurs to me, Sheila,” he observed
slowly, “that you are an exceedingly
obstinate and self-willed young person,
and that no one has ever exercised any
proper control over you.”

She looked up for a moment with a
sudden glance of surprise and pain:
then she saw in his eyes that he meant
nothing, and she went forward to him,
putting her hand in his hand, and saying
with a smile, “I am very willing to
be controlled.”

“Are you really?”

“Yes.”

“Then hear my commands. You
shall not go out in time of rain without
putting something over your head or
taking an umbrella. You shall not go
out in the Maighdean-mhara without
taking some one with you besides Mairi.
You shall never, if you are away from
home, go within fifty yards of the sea, so
long as there is snow on the rocks.”

“But that is so very many things
already: is it not enough?” said Sheila.

“You will faithfully remember and
observe these rules?”

“I will.”

“Then you are a more obedient girl
than I imagined or expected; and you
may now, if you are good, have the satisfaction
of offering me a glass of sherry
and a biscuit, for, rain or no rain, Lewis
is a dreadful place for making people
hungry.”

Mackenzie need not have been afraid.
Strange as it may appear, Lavender was
well content with the wet weather. No
depression or impatience or remonstrance
[pg 686]
was visible on his face when he went to
the blurred windows, day after day, to
see only the same desolate picture—the
dark sea, the wet rocks, the gray mists
over the moorland and the shining of
the red gravel before the house. He
would stand with his hands in his pocket
and whistle “Love in thine eyes for ever
plays,” just as if he were looking out on
a cheerful summer sunrise. When he
and Sheila went to the door, and were
received by a cold blast of wet wind and
a driving shower of rain, he would slam
the door to again with a laugh, and pull
the girl back into the house. Sometimes
she would not be controlled; and
then he would accompany her about the
garden as she attended to her duties, or
would go down to the shore with her to
give Bras a run. From these excursions
he returned in the best of spirits, with a
fine color in his face; until, having got
accustomed to heavy boots, impervious
frieze and the discomfort of wet hands,
he grew to be about as indifferent to the
rain as Sheila herself, and went fishing
or shooting or boating with much content,
whether it was wet or dry.

“It has been the happiest month of
my life—I know that,” he said to Mackenzie
as they stood together on the
quay at Stornoway.

“And I hope you will hef many like
it in the Lewis,” said the old man cheerfully.

“I think I should soon learn to become
a Highlander up here,” said Lavender,
“if Sheila would only teach me
the Gaelic.”

“The Gaelic!” cried Mackenzie impatiently.
“The Gaelic! It is none of
the gentlemen who will come here in the
autumn will want the Gaelic; and what
for would you want the Gaelic—ay, if
you was staying here the whole year
round?”

“But Sheila will teach me all the
same—won’t you, Sheila?” he said,
turning to his companion, who was
gazing somewhat blankly at the rough
steamer and at the rough gray sea beyond
the harbor.

“Yes,” said the girl: she seemed in
no mood for joking.

Lavender returned to town more in
love than ever; and soon the news of
his engagement was spread abroad, he
nothing loath. Most of his club-friends
laughed, and prophesied it would come
to nothing. How could a man in Lavender’s
position marry anybody but an
heiress? He could not afford to go and
marry a fisherman’s daughter. Others
came to the conclusion that artists and
writers and all that sort of people were
incomprehensible, and said “Poor beggar!”
when they thought of the fashion
in which Lavender had ruined his
chances in life. His lady friends, however,
were much more sympathetic.
There was a dash of romance in the
story; and would not the Highland girl
be a curiosity for a little while after she
came to town? Was she like any of
the pictures Mr. Lavender had hanging
up in his rooms? Had he not even a
sketch of her? An artist, and yet not
have a portrait of the girl he had chosen
to marry? Lavender had no portrait of
Sheila to show. Some little photographs
he had he kept for his own pocket-book,
while in vain had he tried to get some
sketch or picture that would convey to
the little world of his friends and
acquaintances some notion of his future
bride. They were left to draw on their
imagination for some presentiment of
the coming princess.

He told Mrs. Lavender, of course.
She said little, but sent for Edward
Ingram. Him she questioned in a cautious,
close and yet apparently indifferent way,
and then merely said that Frank was
very impetuous, that it was a pity he had
resolved on marrying out of his own
sphere of life, but that she hoped the
young lady from the Highlands would
prove a good wife to him.

“I hope he will prove a good husband
to her,” said Ingram with unusual sharpness.

“Frank is very impetuous.” That
was all Mrs. Lavender would say.

By and by, as the spring drew on and
the time of the marriage was coming
nearer, the important business of taking
and furnishing a house for Sheila’s reception
occupied the attention of the
[pg 687]
young man from morning till night. He
had been somewhat disappointed at the
cold fashion in which his aunt looked
upon his choice, admitting everything he
had to say in praise of Sheila, but never
expressing any approval of his conduct
or hope about the future; but now she
showed herself most amiably and generously
disposed. She supplied the young
man with abundant funds wherewith to
furnish the house according to his own
fancy. It was a small place, fronting a
somewhat commonplace square in Notting
Hill, but it was to be a miracle of
artistic adornment inside. He tortured
himself for days over rival shades and
hues; he drew designs for the chairs;
he himself painted a good deal of paneling;,
and, in short, gave up his whole
time to making Sheila’s future home
beautiful. His aunt regarded these
preparations with little interest, but she
certainly gave her nephew ample means
to indulge the eccentricities of his fancy.

“Isn’t she a dear old lady?” said Lavender
one night to Ingram. “Look here!
A cheque, received this morning, for two
hundred pounds, for plate and glass.”

Ingram looked at the bit of pale green
paper: “I wish you had earned the
money yourself, or done without the
plate until you could buy it with your
own money.”

“Oh, confound it, Ingram! you carry
your puritanical theories too far. Doubtless
I shall earn my own living by and
by. Give me time.”

“It is now nearly a year since you
thought of marrying Sheila Mackenzie,
and you have not done a stroke of work
yet.”

“I beg your pardon. I have worked
a good deal of late, as you will see when
you come up to my rooms.”

“Have you sold a single picture since
last summer?”

“I cannot make people buy my pictures
if they don’t choose to do so.”

“Have you made any effort to get
them sold, or to come to any arrangement
with any of the dealers?”

“I have been too busy of late—looking
after this house, you know,” said
Lavender with an air of apology.

“You were not too busy to paint a fan
for Mrs. Lorraine, that people say must
have occupied you for months.”

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

“No, thank you.”

“Are you afraid of your Puritan principles
giving way?”

“I am afraid that you are a very foolish
boy,” said the other with a good-humored
shrug of resignation, “but I
hope to see you mend when you marry.”

“Ah, then you will see a difference!”
said Lavender seriously; and so the dispute
ended.

It had been arranged that Ingram
should go up to Lewis to the marriage,
and after the ceremony in Stornoway
return to Borva with Mr. Mackenzie, to
remain with him a few days. But at
the last moment Ingram was summoned
down to Devonshire on account of the
serious illness of some near relative, and
accordingly Frank Lavender started by
himself to bring back with him his
Highland bride. His stay in Borva was
short enough on this occasion. At the
end of it there came a certain wet and
boisterous day, the occurrences in which
he afterward remembered as if they had
taken place in a dream. There were
many faces about, a confusion of tongues,
a good deal of dram-drinking, a skirl of
pipes, and a hurry through the rain;
but all these things gave place to the
occasional glance that he got from a
pair of timid and trusting and beautiful
eyes. Yet Sheila was not Sheila in that
dress of white, with her face a trifle pale.
She was more his own Sheila when she
had donned her rough garments of blue,
and when she stood on the wet deck
of the vessel, with a great gray shawl
around her, talking to her father with a
brave effort at cheerfulness, although
her lip would occasionally quiver as one
or other, of her friends from Borva—many
of them barefooted children—came
up to bid her good-bye. Her father
talked rapidly, with a grand affectation
of indifference. He swore at the
weather. He bade her see that Bras
[pg 688]
was properly fed, and if the sea broke
over his box in the night, he was to be
rubbed dry, and let out in the morning
for a run up and down the deck. She
was not to forget the parcel directed to
an innkeeper at Oban. They would
find Oban a very nice place at which
to break the journey to London, but as
for Greenock, Mackenzie could find no
words with which to describe Greenock.

And then, in the midst of all this,
Sheila suddenly said, “Papa, when does
the steamer leave?”

“In a few minutes. They have got
nearly all the cargo on board.”

“Will you do me a great favor, papa?”

“Ay, but what is it, Sheila?”

“I want you not to stay here till the
boat sails, and then you will have all
the people on the quay vexing you when
you are going away. I want you to bid
good-bye to us now, and drive away
round to the point, and we shall see you
the last of all when the steamer has got
out of the harbor.”

“Ferry well, Sheila, I will do that,” he
said, knowing well why the girl wished it.

So father and daughter bade good-bye
to each other; and Mackenzie went on
shore with his face down, and said not
a word to any of his friends on the quay,
but got into the wagonette, and, lashing
the horses, drove rapidly away. As he
had shaken hands with Lavender, Lavender
had said to him, “Well, we shall
soon be back in Borva again to see you;”
and the old man had merely tightened
the grip of his hand as he left.

The roar of the steam-pipes ceased,
the throb of the engines struck the water,
and the great steamer steamed away
from the quay and out of the plain of
the harbor into a wide world of gray
waves and wind and rain. There stood
Mackenzie as they passed, the dark figure
clearly seen against the pallid colors
of the dismal day; and Sheila waved
a handkerchief to him until Stornoway
and its lighthouse and all the promontories
and bays of the great island had
faded into the white mists that lay along
the horizon. And then her arm fell to
her side, and for a moment she stood
bewildered, with a strange look in her
eyes of grief, and almost of despair.

“Sheila, my darling, you must go below
now,” said her companion: “you
are almost dead with cold.”

She looked at him for a moment, as
though she had scarcely heard what he
said. But his eyes were full of pity for
her: he drew her closer to him, and put
his arms round her, and then she hid
her head in his bosom and sobbed there
like a child.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE EMERALD.

Dutens and several others who
have written upon gems and precious
stones during the last two centuries
have asserted that the ancients were
unacquainted with the true emerald, and
that Heliodorus, when speaking nearly
two thousand years ago of “gems green
as a meadow in the spring,” or Pliny,
when describing stone of a “soft green
lustre,” referred to the peridot, the plasma,
the malachite, or the far rarer gem,
the green sapphire. But the antiquary
has come to the rescue with the treasures
of the despoiled mounds of Tuscany, the
exposed ashes of Herculaneum and Pompeii,
and now exhibits emeralds which
were mounted in gold two thousand years
before Columbus dreamed of the New
World, or Pizarro and his remorseless
band gathered the precious stones by
the hundred-weight from the spoils of
Peru. Although these specimens of antique
jewelry set with emeralds may be
numbered by the score or more in the
[pg 689]
museums and “reliquaries” of Europe,
but very few engraved emeralds have
descended to us from ancient times:
This rarity is not due to the hardness of
the stone, for the ancient lapidaries cut
the difficult and still harder sapphire:
therefore we must believe the statement
of the early gem-writers that the emerald
was exempted from the glyptic art by
common consent on account of its beauty
and costliness.

The emerald is now one of the rarest
of gems, and its scarcity gives rise to
the inquiry as to what has become of the
abundant shower of emeralds which fairly
rained upon Spain during the early
days of the conquest of Mexico and
Peru, bringing down the value of fine
stones to a trifling price. As with all
commercial articles, there is a waste and
loss to be accounted for during the wear
of three centuries, but this alone will not
explain their present rarity in civilized
countries. Even in the times of Charles
II., when the destitution of the country
was extreme, the dukes of Infantado and
Albuquerque had millions in diamonds,
rubies and precious stones, yet hardly
possessed a single sou. So impoverished
was the land, and so slender were the
purses of all, that the duke of
Albuquerque dined on an egg and a pigeon,
yet it required six weeks to make an inventory
of his plate. At this period,
when the nobles gave fêtes the lamps
were often decorated with emeralds and
the ceilings garlanded with precious
stones. The women fairly blazed with
sparkling gems of fabulous value, while
the country was starving. Most, if not
all, of this missing treasure was transferred
to Asia, and with the silver current
which flowed steadily from the
Spanish coffers into India went many of
the emeralds also; for in those regions
this gem is regarded as foreign stone,
and the natives, investing it with the
possession of certain talismanic properties,
prize it above all earthly treasures.

When the Spaniards commenced their
march toward the capital of Mexico, they
were astonished at the magnificence of
the costumes of the chiefs who came to
meet them as envoys or join them as
allies, and among the splendid gems
which adorned their persons they recognized
emeralds and turquoises of such
rare perfection and beauty that their
cupidity was excited to the highest degree.
During the after years of conquest
and occupation the avaricious spoilers
sought in vain for the parent ledge where
these precious stones were found. Recent
times have, however, revealed the
home of the Mexican turquoise, which
has proved to be in the northern part of
Mexico, as the Totonacs informed the
inquiring Spaniards. The first of these
mines, which is of great antiquity, is
situated in the Cerrillos Mountains,
eighteen miles from Santa Fé. The
deposit occurs in soft trachyte, and
an immense cavity of several hundred
feet in extent has been excavated by the
Indians while searching for this gem in
past times. Probably some of the fine
turquoises worn by the Aztec nobles at
the time of the Spanish Conquest came
from this mine. Another mine is located
in the Sierra Blanca Mountains in New
Mexico, but the Navajos will not allow
strangers to visit it. Stones of transcendent
beauty have been taken from
it, and handed down in the tribe from
generation to generation as heirlooms.
Nothing tempts the cupidity of the Indians
to dispose of these gems, and
gratitude alone causes them to part with
any of these treasures, which, like the
mountaineers of Thibet, they regard with
mystical reverence. The Navajos wear
them as ear-drops, by boring them and
attaching them to the ear by means of
a deer sinew. Lesser stones are pierced,
then strung on sinews and worn as neck-laces.
Even the nobler Ute Indians,
when stripping the ornaments of turquoise
from the ears of the conquered
Navajos, value them as sacred treasures,
and refuse to part with them even for
gold or silver.

All the Spanish accounts of the invasion
of Mexico agree in the great abundance
of emeralds, both in the adornment
of the chiefs and nobles and also in the
decoration of the gods, the thrones and
the paraphernalia. The Mexican historian
Ixtlilxochitl says the throne of gold
[pg 690]
in the palace of Tezcuco was inlaid with
turquoises and other precious stones—that
a human skull in front of it was
crowned with an immense emerald of a
pyramidal form.

The great standard of the republic
of Tlascala was richly ornamented with
emeralds and silver-work. The fantastic
helmets of the chiefs glittered with gold
and precious stones, and their plumes
were set with emeralds. The mantle of
Montezuma was held together by a clasp
of the green chalchivitl (jade), and the
same precious gem, with emeralds of
uncommon size, ornamented other parts
of his dress.

The Mexicans carved the obdurate
jade and emerald with wonderful skill,
using, like the Peruvians, nothing but
silicious powder and copper instruments
alloyed with tin. They also worked with
exquisite taste in gold and silver, and
they represented Nature so faithfully and
so beautifully that the great naturalist
Hernandez took many of these objects
thus portrayed for his models when
describing the natural history of the
country.

When Cortés returned home he displayed
five emeralds of extraordinary
size and beauty, and presented them to
his bride, the niece of the duke de Bejar.
On his famous expedition along the Pacific
coast and up the Gulf of California
he was reduced to such want as to be
obliged to pawn these jewels for a time.
One of them was as precious as Shylock’s
turquoise, and Gomara states that
some Genoese merchants who examined
it in Seville offered forty thousand golden
ducats for it. One of the emeralds was
in the form of a rose; the second in that
of a horn; the third like a fish with eyes
of gold; the fourth was like a little bell,
with a fine pearl for a tongue, and it
bore on its rim the following inscription
in Spanish: “Blessed is he who created
thee!” The fifth, which was the most
valuable of all, was in the form of a
small cup with a foot of gold, and with
four little chains of the same metal attached
to a large pearl as a button: the
edge of the cup was of gold, on which
was engraved in Latin words, “Inter
natos mulierum non surrexit major.”
These splendid gems are now buried
deep in the sand on the coast of Barbary,
where they were lost in 1529, when
Cortés was shipwrecked with the admiral
of Castile whilst on their way to assist
Charles V. at the siege of Algiers.

The quantity of emeralds obtained by
the Spaniards in their pillage of Mexico
was large, but it was trifling when compared
with that collected by Pizarro and
his remorseless followers in the sack
of Peru. Many large and magnificent
stones were obtained by the Spaniards,
but the transcendent gem of all, called
by the Peruvians the Great Mother, and
nearly as large as an ostrich egg, was
concealed by the natives, and all the
efforts of Pizarro and his successors to
discover it proved unavailing.

The immense uncut Peruvian emerald
given by Rudolph II. to the elector of
Saxony is still preserved in the Green
Vaults at Dresden. This collection is
the finest in the world, and is of the
value of many millions of dollars. The
treasures are arranged in eight apartments,
each surpassing the previous one
in the splendor and richness of its contents.
This museum dates from the
early period when the Freyburg silver-mines
yielded vast revenues, and made
the Saxon princes among the richest
sovereigns in Europe. With lavish hand
these potentates purchased jewels and
works of art, and the treasures they have
thus accumulated are of immense value,
and remind the traveler of the gorgeous
descriptions of Oriental magnificence.

The finest emerald in Europe is said
to belong to the emperor of Russia. It
weighs but thirty carats, but it is of the
most perfect transparency and of the
most beautiful color. There are many
other fine emeralds among the imperial
jewels of the czar, some of which are
of great size and rare beauty. The
ancient crown of Vladimir glitters with
four great stones of unusual brilliancy.
The grand state sceptre is surmounted
by another emerald of great size. The
sceptre of Poland, which is now treasured
in the Kremlin, has a long green
stone, fractured in the middle. It is not
[pg 691]
described, and may be one of the Siberian
tourmalines, some of which closely
approach the emerald in hue. The imperial
orb of Russia, which is of Byzantine
workmanship of the tenth century,
has fifty emeralds. This fact alone would
seem to prove that emeralds were known
in Europe or Asia Minor long before the
discovery of America; but, on the other
hand, the ancient crown which was taken
when Kasan was subjugated in 1553 is
destitute of emeralds. And hence we
are inclined to believe the imperial orb
to be of modern workmanship, especially
as some of the ancient state chairs do
not exhibit emeralds among their decorations
of gems and precious stones.

Nowhere in North America do the
true emeralds occur. Professor Cleaveland,
who was one of the best authorities
of his day, maintained nearly half
a century ago that emeralds which exhibited
a lively and beautiful green hue
were found in blasting a canal through
a ledge of graphic granite in the town
of Topsham in Maine. Several of the
crystals presented so pure, uniform and
rich a green that he ventured to pronounce
them precious emeralds. But
to-day we are unable to verify the assertion,
or point to a single specimen similar
in hue to the emerald from the
above-mentioned locality.

The nearest approach to the emerald
in color, with the exception of the incomparable
green tourmalines from
Maine, are the beryls of North and
South Royalston in the State of Massachusetts.
These beautiful stones exhibit
the physical, characteristics of emeralds
with the exception of the color, in which
they differ very perceptibly. But to appreciate
fully the difference in hue we
must compare the two gems. Then the
lively green of the beryl fades away before
the overpowering hue of the emerald,
whose rich prismatic green may be
taken as the purest type of that color
known to the chemist or the painter.

Two summers ago we visited the localities
in Massachusetts which were
famous in the days of Hitchcock and
Webster. We found that the beryls occurred
in a very coarse granite, where
the quartz appeared in masses and the
felspar in huge crystals. These also
occur in finer granite, and exhibit no
indications of veins or connection with
each other. They are few in number,
and are soon exhausted by blasting,
being generally very superficial. After
removing several tons of the rock at the
locality at North Royalston, where the
beryls appear on the summit of the loftiest
hill, our labors were at length rewarded
with two beautiful crystals. One
of them was a fine prism an inch in
diameter, of perfect transparency and
of a deep sea-green color, which, however
is far from being similar to the
transcendent hue of the Granada emeralds,
which exhibit an excess of neither
blue nor yellow. The other was yellowish-green,
resembling the chrysoberyls
of Brazil.

Other but imperfect crystals were
brought to light, some fragments of
which exhibited the deepest golden tints
of the topaz, and others the tints of the
sherry-wine colored topazes of Siberia.
Magnificent crystals have been found in
these localities in times long past, and
from the fragments and sections of crystals
found in the débris of early explorations
we observed the wide range of color
and the deep longitudinal striae which
characterize the renowned beryls from
the Altai Mountains, in Siberia. Lively
sea- and grass-green, light and deep yellow,
also blue crystals of various shades,
have been found here.

At the quarries on Rollestone Mountain
in Fitchburg beryls of a rich golden
color have been blasted out. Some of
these approach the chrysoberyl and topaz
in hardness and hue. Others so
closely resemble the yellow diamond
that they may readily be taken for that
superior gem. The refractive power of
these yellow stones is remarkable, and
the goniometer will probably reveal a
higher index than is accorded to all the
varieties of beryl by the learned Abbé
Haüy.

Beautiful transparent beryls have been
found among the granite hills of Oxford
county in Maine, and the late Governor
Lincoln nearly half a century ago
[pg 692]
possessed a splendid crystal which would
have rivaled the superb prism found at
Mouzzinskaia, and which the Russians
value so highly. The extended and unexplored
ledges of granite which rise from
the shores of the ocean at Harpswell in
Maine, and stretch north-westward for
nearly a hundred miles, quite to the base
of the White Mountain group, are not
only rich in beryls, but they contain
many of the rarest minerals known to
the mineralogist. And perhaps there is
no other field of equal extent in the
country which offers to the mineralogist
such a harvest of the rare and curious
productions of the mineral kingdom.

At Haddam in Connecticut beautiful
crystals of beryl have been discovered,
and one of these, of fine green color, an
inch in diameter and several inches in
length, was preserved in the cabinet of
Colonel Gibbs. Professor Silliman possessed
another fine one, seven inches in
length.

The mountains in Colorado have yielded
some fine specimens. But the finest
of the beryl species come from Russia.
In the Ural Mountains the crystals are
small, but of fine color; in the Altai
Mountains they are very large and of a
greenish blue; but in the granitic ledges
of Odon Tchelon in Daouria, on the frontier
of China, they are found in the greatest
perfection. They occur on the summit
of the mountain in irregular veins of
micaceous and white indurated clay, and
are greenish-yellow, pure pale green,
greenish-blue and sky-blue. The chief
matrix of the beryl all over the world
is graphic granite, but it may occur in
other rocks. The light green stones of
Limoges in France appear in a vein of
quartz traversing granite. At Royalston
we observed them to spring seemingly
from the felspar and project into smoky
quartz, becoming more transparent as
they advanced into the harder stone.

The beryl possesses the same crystalline
form and specific gravity as the emerald,
but its hardness (especially in the
yellow varieties) is sometimes greater.
The only perceptible difference in the
two stones is in the color. Cleaveland
thought that as the emerald and beryl
had the same essential characters, they
might gradually pass into each other;
and Klaproth, finding the oxides of both
chrome and iron in one specimen, was
led to take the same view. The crystals
of true emerald are almost always small
(with the exception of those found in the
Wald district in Siberia), whilst those of
the beryl vary from a few grains to
more than a ton in weight. The crystals
of both are almost invariably regular
hexahedral prisms, sometimes slightly
modified. Those of the beryl we sometimes
find quite flat, as though they had
been compressed by force: then again
they are acicular and of extraordinary
length, considering their slender diameter.
Sometimes their lateral faces are
longitudinally striated, and as deeply as
the tourmaline, so that the edges of the
prism are rendered indistinct. Other
crystals are curved, and some perforated
in the axis like the tourmaline, so as to
contain other minerals. Sometimes they
are articulated like the pillars of basalt,
and separated at some distance by the
intervening quartz. These modified
forms give rise to curious speculations
as to their formation and origin. If we
admit the action of fire (which is improbable),
then the separation may be
easily explained; but if we insist that
they were deposited in the wet way and
by slow process, how can we account
for the dislocation? “By electricity,”
whispers a friend—”by telluric magnetism,
that wonderful unexplained and
mysterious force which has caused the
grand geological changes of the globe,
and is still at work.”

No other gem has been counterfeited
with such perfection as the emerald; and
in fact it is utterly impossible to distinguish
the artificial from the real gems by
the aid of the eye alone: even the little
flaws which lull the suspicions of the
inexperienced are easily produced by a
dexterous blow from the mallet of the
skilled artisan. Not only emeralds, but
most of the gems and precious stones,
are now imitated with such consummate
skill as to deceive the eye, and
none but experts are aware of the extent
to which these fictitious gems are worn
[pg 693]
in fashionable society, for oftentimes the
wearers themselves imagine that they
possess the real stones. There is not one
in a hundred jewelers who is acquainted
with the physical properties of the gems,
and very few can distinguish the diamond
from the white zircon or the white
topaz, the emerald from the tourmaline
of similar hue, the sapphire from iolite,
or the topaz from the Bohemian yellow
quartz. Jewelers are governed generally
by sight, which they believe to be infallible,
whilst hardness and specific gravity
are the only sure tests.

Artificial gems rivaling in beauty of
color the most brilliant and delicately
tinted of the productions of Nature are
now made at Paris and in other European
cities. The establishments at
Septmoncel in the Jura alone employ a
thousand persons, and fabulous quantities
of the glittering pastes are made
there and sent to all parts of the world.

A fine specimen of prase when cut
affords a fair imitation of the emerald.
The green fluor-spar which Haüy called
“emeraude de Carthagène” may also be
substituted, but the application of the
file detects the trick with ease. Some of
the green tourmalines approach the emeralds
in hue very closely, and by artificial
light it is impossible to distinguish
them from each other. Fragments of
quartz may be stained by being steeped
in green-colored tinctures. The Greeks
stained quartz so like the real gem that
Pliny exclaimed against the fraud while
declining to tell how it was done. The
Ancona rubies at the present day are
made by plunging quartz into a hot
tincture of cochineal, which penetrates
the minute fissures of the rock.

But notwithstanding the high art reached
by modern glass-makers, they are yet
far behind the ancients in imitating the
emerald in point of hardness and lustre.
Many emerald pastes of Roman times
still extant are with difficulty distinguished
from the real gem, so much
harder and lustrous are they than modern
glass. The ancient Phoenician remains
found in the island of Sardinia
by Cavalier Cara in 1856 show fine color
in their enamels and glass-works. The
green pigment brought home from the
ruins of Thebes by Mr. Wilkinson was
shown by Dr. Ure to consist of blue
glass in powder, with yellow ochre and
colorless glass. From Greek inscriptions
dating from the period of the Peloponnesian
war we learn that there
were signets of colored glass among the
gems in the treasury of the Parthenon.

Of all the emerald imitations that have
descended to us from antiquity, none are
more remarkable, none more interesting
to the antiquary and historian, than the
famous Sacro Catino of the cathedral of
Genoa. This celebrated relic is a glass
dish or patera fourteen inches in width,
five inches in depth and of the richest
transparent green color, though disfigured
by several flaws. It was bestowed upon
the republic of Genoa by the Crusaders
after the capture of Caesarea in 1101,
and was regarded as an equivalent for
a large sum of money due from the
Christian army. It was traditionally believed
to have been presented to King
Solomon by the queen of Sheba, and
afterward preserved in the Temple, and
some accounts relate that it was used by
Christ at the institution of the Lord’s
Supper. The Genoese received it with
so much veneration and faith that twelve
nobles were appointed to guard it, and
it was exhibited but once a year, when
a priest held it up in his hand to the
view of the passing throng. The state
in 1319, in a time of pressing need,
pawned the holy relic for twelve hundred
marks of gold (two hundred thousand
dollars), and redeemed it with a
promptness which proved its belief in
the reality of the material as well as in
its sanctity. And it is also related that
the Jews, during a period of fifty years,
lent the republic four million francs,
holding the sacred relic as a pledge of
security. Seven hundred years passed
away, when Napoleon came, and as he
swept down over Italy, gathering her
art-treasures, he ordered the “Holy
Grail” to be conveyed to Paris. It was
deposited in the Cabinet of Antiquities
in the Imperial Library, and the mineralogists
quickly discovered it to be
glass. It is due to the memory of
[pg 694]
Condamine to state that he was the first to
doubt the material of the Sacro Catino,
for, when examining it by lamplight in
1757, in the presence of the princes Corsini,
he observed none of the cracks,
clouds and specks common to emeralds,
but detected little bubbles of air. In
1815 the Allies ordered its return to the
cathedral of Genoa. During this journey
the beautiful relic was broken, but
its fragments were restored by a skillful
artisan, and it is now supported upon a
tripod, the fragments being held together
by a band of gold filigree. This remarkable
object of antiquity, which is
of extraordinary beauty of material and
workmanship, furnishes a theme over
which the antiquaries love to muse and
wrangle.

Another of the antique monster emeralds,
weighing twenty-nine pounds, was
presented to the abbey of Reichenau
near Constance by Charlemagne. Beckman
has also detected this precious relic
to be glass. And probably the great
emerald of two pounds weight brought
home from the Holy Land by one of the
dukes of Austria, and now deposited in
the collection at Vienna, is of the same
material. The hardness of our glass is
yet far inferior to that of the ancients,
and even the ruby lustre of the potters
of Umbria, which was so precious to the
dilettanti of the Cinque Cento period, has
not been recovered.

The emerald has been a subject of
controversy among the chemists and
mineralogists, and its character, especially
the cause of its beautiful color, is not
clearly defined even at the present day.
But that distinguished chemist, Professor
Lewy of Paris, seems to offer, thus far,
the most correct and plausible theory.
Ten years ago he boldly asserted that
the hue is not due to the oxide of chromium,
and with this opinion he confronted
such eminent men as Vauquelin,
Klaproth and others of high rank in the
scientific world. Not content with his
researches in his laboratory in Paris, he
resolutely crossed the ocean and sought
the emerald in its parent ledges in the
lofty table-lands of New Granada. Here
he obtained new information of a
geological character which goes far to
strengthen his position. The experiments
of M. Lewy indicate, if they do
not prove, that the coloring matter of
the emerald is organic, and readily destroyed
by heat, which would not be the
case if it was due to the oxide of chromium.
All my own fire-tests with the
Granada emerald corroborate the views
of M. Lewy, for in every instance the
gem lost its hue when submitted to a
red heat.

Nevertheless, the recent researches of
Wöhler and Rose give negative results.
These experienced chemists kept
an emerald at the temperature of melted
copper for an hour, and found that, although
the stone had become opaque,
the color was not affected. They therefore
considered the oxide of chromium
to be the coloring agent, without, however,
denying the presence of organic
matter. The amount of the oxide of
chromium found by many chemists varies
from one to two per cent., while
Lewy and others found it in a quantity
so small as to be inappreciable, and too
minute to be weighed.

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

M. Lewy visited the mines at Muzo
in Granada, and from the results of his
analyses, together with the fact of finding
emeralds in conjunction with the
presence of fossil shells in the limestone
in which they occur, he arrived at the
conclusion that they have been formed
in the wet way—deposited from a chemical
solution. He also found that when
extracted they are so soft and fragile
that the largest and finest fragments can
[pg 695]
be reduced to powder by merely rubbing
them between the fingers, and the crystals
often crack and fall to pieces after
being removed from the mine, apparently
from loss of water. Consequently,
when the emeralds are first extracted
they are laid aside carefully for a few
days until the water is evaporated.

This statement relative to the softness
of the gem and its subsequent hardening
has been met with a shout of derision
from some of the gem-seekers—none
louder than that of Barbot, the retired
jeweler. Barbot seems to forget that the
rock of which his own house in Paris is
constructed undergoes the same change
after being removed from the deep quarries
in the catacombs under the city.
This phenomenon is observed with many
rocks. Flints acquire additional toughness
by the evaporation of water contained
in them. The steatite of St. Anthony’s
Falls grows harder on exposure,
and other minerals when quarried from
considerable depths become firmer on
exposure to the action of the air. Observations
of this kind led Kuhlman to
investigate the cause, and he believes that
the hardening of rocks is not owing solely
to the evaporation of quarry-water,
but that it depends upon the tendency
which all earthy matters possess to undergo
a spontaneous crystallization by
slow dessication, which commences the
moment the rock is exposed to the air.

The coloring matter of the emerald
seems to be derived from the decomposition
of the remains of animals who
have lived in a bygone age, and whose
remains are now found fossilized in the
rock which forms the matrix of the gem.
This rock in Granada is a black limestone,
with white veins containing ammonites.
Specimens of these rocks exhibiting
fragments of emeralds in situ,
and also ammonites, are to be seen in
the mineralogical gallery of the Jardin
des Plantes in Paris. Lewy believes that
the beautiful tint of these gems is produced
by an organic substance, which
he considers to be a carburet of hydrogen,
similar to that called chlorophyll,
which constitutes the coloring matter of
the leaves of plants; and he has shown
that the emeralds of the darkest hue,
which contain the greatest amount of organic
matter, lose their color completely
at a low red heat, and become opaque
and white; while minerals and pastes
which are well known to be colored by
chromium, like the green garnets (the
lime-chrome garnets) of Siberia, are unchanged
in hue by the action of heat.

Since the time of the Spanish Conquest,
New Granada has furnished the
world with the most of its emeralds.
The most famous mines are at Muzo, in
the valley of Tunca, between the mountains
of New Granada and Popayan,
about seventy-five miles from Santa Fé
de Bogota, where every rock, it is said,
contains an emerald. At present the
supply of emeralds is very limited, owing
to restrictions on trade and want of
capital and energy in mining operations.

Blue as well as green emeralds are
found in the Cordillera of the Cubillari.
The Esmeraldas mines in Equador are
said to have been worked successfully
at one period by the Jesuits. The Peruvians
obtained many emeralds from
the barren district of Atacama, and in
the times of the Conquest there were
quarries on the River of Emeralds near
Barbacoas.

Emeralds are found in Siberia, and
some of the localities may have furnished
to the ancients the Scythian gems
which Pliny and others mention. In
the Wald district magnificent crystals
have been found embedded in mica-slate.
One of these—a twin-crystal, now
in the Imperial Cabinet at St. Petersburg—is
seven inches long, four inches broad,
and weighs four and a half pounds.
There is another mass in the same collection
which measures fourteen inches
long by twelve broad and five thick,
weighing sixteen and three-quarter
pounds troy. This group shows twenty
crystals from a half inch to five inches
long, and from one to two inches broad.
They were discovered by a peasant cutting
wood near the summit of the mountain.
His eye was attracted by the lustrous
sparkling amongst the decomposed
mica and where the ground had been
exposed by the uprooting of a tree by
[pg 696]
the violence of the wind. He collected
a number of the crystals, and brought
them to Katharineburg and showed them
to M. Kokawin, who recognized them
and sent them to St. Petersburg, where
they were critically examined by Van
Worth and pronounced to be emeralds.
One of these crystals was presented by
the emperor to Humboldt when he visited
St. Petersburg, and it is now deposited
in the Berlin collection. Quite a
number of emeralds are now brought
from the Siberian localities, and it is believed
that enterprise and capital would
produce a large supply of the gem.³

The supply of emeralds from South
America is very limited, and may be
ascribed to want of skillful mining, as
well as to climate, the political condition
of the country and the indolence of its
inhabitants. The localities cannot be
exhausted, for they are too numerous
and extensive. The elevated regions in
Granada admit of scientific exploration
by Europeans, and at the present day
the only emerald-mining operations conducted
in South America have been
prosecuted near Santa Fé de Bogota by
a French company, which has paid the
government fourteen thousand dollars
yearly for the right of mining, all the
emeralds obtained being sent to Paris
to be cut by the lapidaries of that city.

In the Atacama districts, and along
the banks of the River of Emeralds, the
physical obstructions are difficult to
overcome, and pestilential diseases of
malignant character forbid the long sojourn
of the European. Yet the introduction
of Chinese labor may prove
successful and highly remunerative,
since the coolie reared among the jungles
and rice-swamps of Southern China is
quite as exempt from malarial fevers as
the negro.

The price of the emerald has no fixed
and extended scale, like that of the diamond,
and the fluctuations of its value
during the past three centuries form an
interesting chapter in the history of gems.

[pg 146]

In the time of Dutens (1777) the price
of small stones of the first quality was
one louis the carat; one and a half carats,
five louis; two carats, ten louis; and
beyond this weight no rule of value could
be established. In De Boot’s day (1600)
emeralds were so plenty as to be worth
only a quarter as much as the diamond.
The markets were glutted with the frequent
importations from Peru, and thirteen
years before the above-mentioned
period one vessel brought from South
America two hundred and three pounds
of fine emeralds, worth at the present
valuation more than seven millions of
dollars. At the beginning of this century,
according to Caire, they were worth
no more than twenty-four francs (or
about five dollars) the carat, and for a
long time antecedent to 1850 they were
valued at only fifteen dollars the carat.
Since this period they have become very
rare, and their valuation has advanced
enormously. In fact, the value of the emerald
now exceeds that of the diamond,
and is rapidly approaching the ratio
fixed by Benevenuto Cellini in the middle
of the sixteenth century, which rated
the emerald at four times, and the ruby
at eight times, the value of the diamond.
Perfect stones (the emerald is exceedingly
liable to flaw, the beryl is more free,
and the green sapphire is rarely impaired
by fissures or cracks) of one carat in
weight are worth at the present day two
hundred dollars in gold. Perfect gems
of two carats weight will command five
hundred dollars in gold, while larger
stones are sold at extravagant prices.

Most of our aqua-marinas come from
Brazil and Siberia, and small stones are
sold at trifling prices. Some of them,
however, when perfect and of fine color,
command fabulous sums. The superb
little beryl found at Mouzzinskaia is valued
by the Russians at the enormous
sum of one hundred and twenty thousand
dollars, although the crystal weighs
but little more than one ounce. Another
rough prism preserved in the Museum
at Paris, and weighing less than one
hundred grains, has received the tempting
offer of fifteen thousand francs.

A.C. HAMLIN, M.D.

Footnote 2: (return)
A curious result happened to the elder Silliman
when experimenting with a Peruvian emerald before
the compound blowpipe. The reducing flame instantly
melted it into a transparent green globule. Perhaps
the intense heat of this all-powerful flame, which
reduces even the diamond, recalled the colors which
disappear at a lower temperature. But this could
not be done if the color was due to organic matter,
which is annihilated or modified beyond recall by
combustion.

Footnote 3: (return)
Several of the natural crystals of the Siberian
emeralds of large size and beautiful color are now
to be seen in the valuable and choice collections of
Messrs. Clay and William S. Vaux of Philadelphia.

[pg 697]

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER VIII.

It rained during the night. The wind
blew feebly in the morning, and
the sunlight glimmered dully from behind
the flying gray clouds. Catharine
looked out of her window, anxiously
pushing aside the boughs full of wet
white roses. The sense of desolation
was not strong enough upon her to make
her forget that Peter had not yet cut the
clover in the lower meadow, and that
such a rain was bad for the tomatoes.
Doctor McCall was at the gate, propping
up an old Bourbon rose, an especial
favorite of her father’s. Somebody
tapped at her door, and Miss Muller
rustled in in a flounced white muslin
and rose-colored ribbons. She too hurried
to the window and looked down.

“I asked him to meet me here, Kitty.
I can’t make you understand, probably,
but the Water-cure House is so bald
and bare! There is something in the
shade here, and the old books, and this
wilderness of roses, that forms a fitting
background for a friendship like ours,
aesthetically considered.”

“I’m very glad. It’s lucky I told
Jane to have waffles—”

“I’ll go down,” interrupted Miss Muller,
“and direct her about the table.
Coarse tablecloths and oily butter would
jar against the finest emotions. What
very pretty shoulders you have, child!
Such women as you, like potatoes, are
best au naturel. Now, with those corsets,
and this red shawl over the back
of your chair, you would make a very
good Madonna of the Rubens school.
Men’s ideal of womanhood then was to
be plump, insipid and a mother.”

“But about the oily butter?” said
Kitty, glancing back over the aforesaid
shoulders as she stooped to lace her
shoes, while Maria hurried off to the
kitchen. “Jane will jar against her finer
emotions, I fancy, when she begins to
order her about.”

But Kitty lost all relish for fun before
she sat down to the breakfast-table. Mr.
Muller came in. The poor little man
hurried to her side: “I passed a sleepless
night, Catharine. I feared that I
had been rough with you. I forget so
often how gentle and tender you are, my
darling.”

Catharine was puzzled: “Upon my
word, I’ve forgotten what happened.
And I really never feel especially gentle
or tender. You are mistaken about
that.”

When she took her place behind the
urn, Maria motioned her brother to the
foot of the table, and then nodded significantly.
“Now you two can imagine
a month or two has passed,” she said.

Even Doctor McCall smiled meaningly.
Mr. Muller blushed, and glanced
shyly at Catharine. But she looked at
him unmoved. “Our table will not be
like this,” gravely. “You forget the
three hundred blue-coats between.” Maria
laughed, but Doctor McCall for the
first time looked steadily at the girl.

First of all, perhaps, Kitty was just
then a housekeeper. She waited anxiously
to see if the steak was properly
rare and the omelette light, nodded
brightly to Jane, who stood watchful behind
her, and then looked over at her
betrothed, thinking how soon they would
sit down tête-à-tête for the rest of their
lives, perhaps for eternity, for, according
to her orthodoxy, there could be no new
loves in heaven. How fat he was, and
bald! The mild blue eyes behind their
glasses took possession of her and held
her.

She listened to the talk between Doctor
McCall and Miss Muller in a language
she had never learned. Maria’s
share of it was largely made up of headlong
dives into Spencer and Darwin,
with reminiscences of The Dial, while
Doctor McCall’s was anchored fast down
to facts; but it was all alive, suggestive,
brilliant. They were young. They were
drinking life and love with full cups.
[pg 698]
She (looking over at the bald head and
spectacled eyes) had gone straight out
of childhood into middle age and respectability.

The breakfast was over at last. Miss
Muller followed Doctor McCall into the
shop, where he fell to turning over the
old books, and then to the garden.
What was the use of a stage properly
set if the drama would not begin?

“Pray do not worry any longer with
that old bush,” as he went back to
Peter’s rose. “It is not a trait of yours
to be persistent about trifles. Or stay:
give me a bud for my hair.”

“Not these!” sharply, holding her
hand. “I could not see one of these roses
on any woman’s head.”

She smiled, very well pleased: “You
perceive some subtle connection between
me and the flower?”

“Nothing of the sort. There are some,
planted, I suppose, by that little girl,
which will be more becoming to your
face.”

“You are repelled by ‘the little girl,’
I see, John. I always told you your instincts
were magnetic. That type of
woman is antipathetic to you.”

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

“And the rose?”

“The rose? Why, we have no time
to waste in such talk as this. You have
not yet told me how you managed to get
your profession. When I last saw you
you had set all the old professors in the
university at defiance. Did you carry
lectures and cliniques by strategy or assault?
You have good fighting qualities,
Maria.”

She would rather not have gone over
her battle with the doctors just then:
she would rather he had talked of her
“magnetic instincts,” her hair, her eyes—anything
else than her fighting qualities.
But she told him. There was an
inexplicable delight to her in telling him
anything—even the time of day. Was
he not a pioneer, a captain among men,
a seer in the realms of thought, keeping
step with her in all her high imaginings?
Ordinary people, it is true, set McCall
down as an ordinary fellow, genial and
hearty—not a very skillful physician,
perhaps, but a shrewd farmer, and the
best judge of mules or peaches in Kent
county. Maria, however, saw him with
the soul’s eye.

Kitty meanwhile sat by the window
mending the clothes that had come out
of the wash. Mr. Muller was reading
some letters relative to the school to her.
This was the day of the week on which
she always mended the clothes, and Mr.
Muller had fallen into the habit of reading
to her while she did so. But to-day
the Reformatory rose before her a prison,
the gates of which were about to close
on her. The heap of stockings, the
touch of the darning cotton, the sound
of Mr. Muller’s droning voice, were
maddening to her: every moment she
made a tangle in her thread, looking
down at Maria under the Bourbon rose,
and the attentive face bent over her.
Where should she go? What should
she do? Had the world nothing in it
for her but this? Yesterday she had
made up her mind to go to Delaware to
find Hugh Guinness, alive or dead, and
bring him to his father. That would be
work worth doing. This morning she
remembered that Delaware was a wide
hunting-ground—that she had never
been ten miles from home in her life.
If there were anybody to give her advice!
This Doctor McCall had seemed to her
to-day as, in fact, he did to most people,
practical, honest, full of information.
He would too, she somehow felt, understand
her wild fancy. But—

“Why should Doctor McCall dislike
me?” she broke in at the close of one
of Mr. Muller’s expositions.

“What an absurd fancy, child!” looking
up in amazement. “The man was
civil enough to you for so slight an acquaintance.”

“It was more than dislike,” vehemently.
“He watched me all through breakfast
as though he owed me a grudge. I
could see it in his eyes.”

[pg 699]

“You oughtn’t to see any eyes but
mine, Cathie dear,” with anxious playfulness.
“Why should you care for the
opinion of any man?”

“Because he is different from any man
I ever knew. He belongs to the world
outside. I always did wonder if people
would like me out there,” said Kitty, too
doggedly in earnest to see how her words
hurt her listener. “If one could be like
those two people yonder! They seem
to know everything—they can do everything!”

“Maria is well enough—for a woman,”
dryly. “But I never heard McCall credited
with exceptional ability of any sort.”

Kitty glanced at him: “Of course
you’re right,” quickly. “Men only can
judge of character: we women are apt
to be silly about such things.” Her
kind heart felt a wrench at having hurt
this good soul. She put her fingers on
his fat hand with a touch that was almost
a caress. He turned red with surprise
and pleasure. “But it is pleasant,” she
said, glancing down again to the Bourbon
rose, “to see such love as that.
They will be married soon, I suppose?”

“Very likely. I never knew of any
love in the case before. But Maria is
such a manager! And you think of
love, then, sometimes?” timidly putting
his arm about her.

“Oh to be sure! How can you doubt
that? But it grows chilly. I must bring
a sacque,” hurrying away; and in fact
she looked cold, and shivered.

CHAPTER IX.

“Doctor McCall recognizes the
Book-house, just as I did, as the right
background for communion like ours,”
Miss Muller said complacently to Kitty
a week later. “He meets me here every
day.”

“Yes,” said Catharine with a perplexed
look. She had no special instincts
or intuitions, but her eyes were as keen
and observant as a lynx’s. He came,
she saw, to the Book-house every day.
But had he no other purpose than to
meet Maria?

“I did not know that McCall affected
scholarship,” said Mr. Muller tartly the
next day. “He tells me that he has a
peach-farm to manage. August is no
time to loiter away, poring over old
books. Just the peach season.”

“No,” Kitty replied demurely. But
her face wore again the puzzled look.
She began to watch Doctor McCall.
He really knew but little, she saw, of
rare books: his reading of them was a
mere pretence. He was neither a lazy
nor a morbid man: what pleasure could
he have in neglecting his work day after
day, sitting alone in the dusky old shop
as if held there by some enchantment?
Kitty knew that she herself had nothing
to do with it: she appeared to be no
more in his way than a tame dog would
be, and, after the first annoyance which
she gave him, was really little more noticed.
But there is a certain sense of
home-snugness and comfort in the presence
of tame dogs and of women like
Kitty: one cannot be long in the room
with either without throwing them a kind
word or petting them in some way.
Doctor McCall was just the man to fall
into such a habit. Down on the farm,
his cattle, his hands, even the neighbors
with whom he argued on politics, could
all have testified to his easy, large good-humor.

“Oh, we are the best of friends,” he
said indifferently when Maria found
Kitty chattering to him once, very much
as she did to old Peter. But when Miss
Muller, who had no petty jealousies,
enlarged on the singular beauty of her
eyes and some good points in her shape,
he did not respond. “I never could talk
of a woman as if she were a horse,” he
said. “And this little girl seems to me
unusually human.”

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

“Yes, it is,” said Doctor McCall
gravely.

After that he neglected the old books
sometimes to talk to Kitty. He thought
she was such an immature, thoughtless
creature that she would not notice that
the subject he chose was always the
[pg 700]
same—her daily life, with old Peter for
her chum and confidant.

“Mr. Guinness, then, has had no companion
but you?” he said one day, after
a searching inspection of her face.

“No, nobody but me,” quite forgetful,
as she and Peter were too apt to be, that
her mother was alive.

“And has had none for years?”

“Not since his son died. Hugh Guinness
is dead, you know.”

Doctor McCall was looking thoughtfully
at the floor. He rose presently and
took up his hat: “The old man cannot
have been unhappy with such love as
you could give him. No man could.”

Kitty was sitting, as usual, on a low
stool pasting labels on some dog-eared
books: as long as McCall stood looking
at her round cheeks and double chin she
pasted on, apparently unconscious that
he was there, but when he turned away
she watched him shrewdly as he went
uneasily up and down the shop, and
finally, with a curt good-bye, turned out
of the door. As the stout figure passed
through the low branches of the walnuts
her gray eyes began to shine. Her
Mystery was nearly solved.

Dropping paste and books in a heap,
she ran after him, taking a short cut
through the currant bushes, so that when
he passed on the outer side of the garden
fence there she was quietly waiting,
her head and face darkly framed by a
thick creeper.

“Well?” smiling down, amused, as
he might to a playful kitten.

“Doctor McCall,” in the queer formal
fashion that was Kitty’s own, “I should
be glad if you would come back this
evening. Without Maria. I have some
business—that is, a plan of mine. Well,
it is a certain thing that—”

“That you wish to consult me about?”
after waiting for her to finish.

“Yes, that’s it,” nodding energetically.

“Very well.” He stood looking at
her arm on the fence, and the face resting
with its chin upon it. McCall, of all
men, hated a scene, and he had an uneasy
consciousness that he had just betrayed
unexplained feeling in the house,
and was therefore glad to slip back to
commonplaces. Besides, Kitty was exactly
the kind of woman whom all men
feel an insane desire to help at first sight.
“You have a plan, eh? and you want
advice, not knowing much about business?”

There was not the least necessity for
him to say this, having asked it before.
But he did it, and waited to hear Kitty
say yes again, and waited still, before
he lifted his hat and said good-bye, to
see the shadow of a waving branch
creep over her white chin and lose itself
in her neck. Most men would have
done the same, just as they would stop
to whistle a laugh from a fat, pretty
baby on the street, and then go on,
leaving it behind. The last thing in the
world to consult on their business, or to
ask for help or comfort when trouble
met them, or death.

Miss Muller spent the whole day at
the Book-house, but Doctor McCall did
not come, as she expected. As evening
approached she began to shiver, and
had premonitory symptoms of clairvoyance,
and went home at last, to Kitty’s
relief. A slow drizzling rain set in: the
damp fogs that belong to that river-bottom
walled in the house and hung
flat over the walnuts like a roof. Catharine
had made her own corner of the
Book-shop snug and cheerful. The
space was wide, the light soft and bright.
She placed her own chair by the table,
Peter’s not far from it. She meant to
produce a great effect on this man to-night,
to change the whole current of
his life, without having the help of either
love or even friendship. Unconsciously
she planned to bring him close to her,
though very likely she had never heard
of personal magnetism, or any of the
curious secrets political speakers or actors
or revivalists could have told her
of the deadening effects of distance and
empty benches.

Then Kitty, in her room overhead,
looked at herself in the glass, arrayed
in a soft cashmere, in color blue, still
farther toned down, by certain softer
fringes and loops, into the very ideal
garb for a man’s type of “yielding, lovely
[pg 701]
woman.” It was one of the sacred
wedding-dresses.

“Maria could never look like this,”
tying a lace handkerchief about her
neck, pulling the soft rings of hair looser
about her ears, setting her head on one
side, and half shutting her eyes to see
the thick and curly lashes.

There was no danger of interruption.
Maria was safely lodged in the Water-cure
House, and the very idea of Mr.
Muller’s glossy black shoes and dainty
brown umbrella venturing out in the
rain made Kitty laugh.

“The dear, good soul is finical as a
cat,” with the good-natured indulgence
of a mother for a child. Suddenly she
stopped, stared at herself in the glass.
“Why, he is my husband!” she said,
speaking to the blushing, blue-robed
figure as to another person. Then she
hastily unbuttoned, unlooped the pretty
dress, threw it off, putting on her usual
gray wrapper and knotting her hair more
tightly back than ever in a comb. “He
has been very good to me—very good
to me,” her chin trembling a good deal.

Then she went down to meet Doctor
McCall, who that moment came into the
Book-shop, stopping at the door to take
off and shake his oilskin coat.

“It is a wet night,” she said, just as
though he were a stranger. She did not
know what else to say or what he answered
as she went about, trimming the
lamp, dragging out a chair for him,
closing the window curtains. Both McCall
and Catharine were ordinary people,
accustomed to keep up a good flow
of talk on ordinary subjects, the weather
or any joke or gossip that was nearest to
them. There had been no passages of
love or hate between them to account
for her forced formality, her trembling
and flushing, and urgent almost angry
wish to remind him that she was Mr.
Muller’s affianced wife. She felt this
with a new contempt for herself.

As for Doctor McCall, he leaned comfortably
back in his arm-chair and dried
his legs at the grate filled with red-hot
coals, while he listened to the soft rustle
of her skirts as she moved noiselessly
about him. It is the peculiarity of
women like Kitty, to whom Nature has
denied the governing power of ideas or
great personal beauty or magnetism,
such as she gave to Miss Muller, that
there is a certain impalpable force and
attraction in their most petty actions and
words, to which men yield. Miss Muller
could have watched Kitty all day
dragging chairs and trimming lamps,
unmoved farther than to pronounce her
little better than an idiot. But Peter,
Muller or John McCall could not look
at her for five minutes without classing
her with Cordelia and Desdemona and
all the other sweet fools for whom men
have died, and whom the world yet
keeps sacred in pathetic memory. Some
day too, when Catharine should be a
mother—though giving to her older children,
little more than to the baby on her
breast, soft touches and gentle words—she
would bind them to her as no other
kind, of mother could do—by such bonds
that until they were gray-haired no power
should be like hers. Miss Muller
neither saw nor foresaw such things.
But Doctor McCall did. “If I had had
such a mother I should not have been
what I am,” he thought. It was a curious
fancy to have about a young girl.
But she seemed to embody all the womanliness
that had been lacking in his
life. Of course she was nothing to him.
She was to be that prig Muller’s wife,
and he was quite satisfied that she should
be. If he married, Maria Muller would
be his wife. Yet, oddly enough, he felt
to-night, for the first time, the necessity
that Maria should know how marriage
was barred out from him, and felt, for
the first time, too, a maddening anger
that it was so barred. However, Doctor
McCall was never meant by Nature
for a solitary man housed alone with
morbid thoughts: he was the stuff out
of which useful citizens are made—John
Andersons of husbands, doting, gullible
fathers.

Remembering the bar in his life, his
skeleton, ghost or whatever it was, he
was only moved to get up and stretch
himself, saying, “I’ve stayed in Berrytown
too long. When you have told me
your plan, I’ll say good-bye to you, Miss
[pg 702]
Vogdes, and this old house. I shall be
off to-morrow.”

Kitty had just caught a moth in the
flame of the candle. She carried it to
the window. “You will come back soon,
of course?” her back still toward him.

“No, I think not. I am neglecting
my business. And I, of all men in the
world, have least right to loiter about
this old house, to look in on its home-life
or on you.”

Kitty gave him a sharp glance, as
though some sudden emergency was
clear before her which her tact failed to
meet. She was folding the bits of muslin
at which she had been sewing in a
basket: she finished slowly, put the basket
away, and sat down at the table,
with her elbow on it and her chin on her
hand, her gray eyes suggesting a deeper
and unspoken meaning to her words:
“But for my plan?”

“Ah! to be sure! You want advice?”
seating himself comfortably. Her confusion
was a pretty thing to watch, the
red creeping up her neck into her face,
blotting out its delicate tints, the uncertain
glances, the full bitten lip. Doctor
McCall quite forgot his own trouble in
the keen pleasure of the sight.

“Perhaps—You do not quite understand
my position here? Mr. Guinness
is not my own father.”

“No, I knew that.”

“But you cannot know what he has
been to me: I never knew until the last
few days.”

“Why within these few days, Miss
Vogdes?”

“Because I saw you and Maria: I saw
what love was. I began to think about
it. I never have loved anybody but
him,” she went on headlong, utterly
blind to all inferences. “There’s a thing
I can do for him, Doctor McCall, before
I marry Mr. Muller, and I must do it.
It will make his old age happier than
any other part of his life has been.”

McCall nodded, leaning forward. It
was nothing but an imprudent girl dragging
out her secrets before a stranger;
nothing but a heated face, wet eyes, a
sweet milky breath; but no tragedy he
had ever seen on the stage had moved
him so uncontrollably—no, not any crisis
in his own life—with such delicious,
inexplicable emotion.

“Well, what is it you can do?” after
waiting for her to go on.

There was a moment’s silence.

“My father,” said Kitty, “had once a
great trouble. It has made an old man
of him before his time. I find that I
can take it from him.” She looked up
at him with this. Now, there was a certain
shrewd penetration under the softness
of Kitty’s eyes. Noting it, McCall
instantly lost sight of her beauty and
tears. He returned her look coolly.

“What was his trouble?”

“Mr. Guinness had a son. He has
believed him to be dead for years: I
know that he is not dead.”

Doctor McCall waited, with her eyes
still upon him. “Well?” he said, attentive.

“And then,” pushing back the table
and rising, “when I heard that, I meant
to go and find Hugh Guinness, and bring
him back to his father.”

Whatever this matter might be to her
hearer, it was the most real thing in life
to Catharine, and putting it into words
gave it a sudden new force. She felt
that she ought to hold her tongue, but
she could not. She only knew that the
lighted room, the beating of the rain
without, the watchful guarded face on
the other side of the table, shook and
frightened and angered her unaccountably.

“You should not laugh at me,” she
said. “This is the first work I ever set
myself to do. It is better than nursing
three hundred children.”

“I am not laughing at you, God
knows! But this Guinness, if he be
alive, remains away voluntarily. There
must be a reason for that. You do not
consider.”

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

Now, Doctor McCall did not touch
gun nor cap nor hair, but he bent over
the table, looking at them as if he were
looking at the dead. He seemed to
have forgotten that Kitty was there.

At last he stood upright: “Poor little
chap!” with a laugh. “There seemed
to be no reason, when he went gunning
and fishing like other boys, why he
should not stand here to-day with as
fair a chance for happiness as any other
man. Did there? Just a trifling block
laid in his way, a push down hill, and
no force could ever drag him up again.”

Kitty, her eyes on his, stood silent.
Do what he would, he could not shake
off her eyes: they wrenched the truth
from him, “I knew this man Guinness
once,” he said.

She nodded: “Yes, I know you did.”

“Sit down beside me here, and I will
tell you what kind of man he was.”

But she did not sit down. An unaccountable
terror or timidity seemed to
have paralyzed her. She looked aside—everywhere
but in his face: “I wanted
you to tell me how to reach him, how to
touch him: I know what manner of man
he is.”

“You have heard from your mother?
A mixed Border Pike and Mephistopheles,
eh? The devil and his victim rolled
into one?” He shifted his heavy
body uneasily, glancing toward the door.
Chief among the graver secret emotions
which she had roused in him was the
momentary annoyance of not knowing
how to deal with this chicken-hearted
little girl before him, scared, but on fire
from head to foot.

Kitty was quite confident. If it had
been Maria Muller who had thus set
herself to tamper with a man’s life, she
would have done it trembling, with fear
and self-distrust. She had brains which
could feel and react against the passions
she evoked, and were competent to warn
her of the peril of her work. But as for
Kitty—

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

But she was shy, tender, womanly
withal. Doctor McCall laughed as he
looked down at her, and spoke deliberately,
as though giving his opinion of a
patient to another physician. “I’ll tell
you honestly my opinion of Hugh Guinness.
He was, first of all, a thoroughly
ordinary, commonplace man, with neither
great virtues nor great vices, nor force
of any kind. If he had had that, he
could have recovered himself when he
began to fall. But he did not recover
himself.”

“What drove him down in the first
place?”

He hesitated: “I suppose that his
home and religion became hateful to
him. Boys have unreasonable prejudices
at times.”

“And then, in despair—”

“Despair? Nonsense! Now don’t
figure to yourself a romantic Hotspur of
a fellow rushing into hell because heaven’s
gate was shut on him. At nineteen
Hugh Guinness drank and fought and
gambled, as other ill-managed boys do
to work off the rank fever of blood.
Unfortunately—” he stopped, and then
added in a lower voice, quickly, “he
made a mistake while the fever was on
him which was irretrievable.”

“A mistake?” Kitty was always of
an inquiring turn of mind, but now she
felt as if her curiosity was more than she
could bear, while she stood, her eyes
passing over the burly figure in summer
clothes and the high-featured, pleasant
face with its close-cut moustache. What
dreadful secret was hid behind this good-humored,
every-day propriety of linen
duck, friendly eyes and reddish moustache
over a mouth that often smiled?
You might meet their like any day upon
the streets. Was it a murder? At best
some crime, perhaps, which had sent him
to the penitentiary. Or—and church
[pg 704]
taught Kitty shuddered as a vague remembrance
of the “unpardonable sin”
rose before her like an actual horror.
Whatever it was, it stood between herself
and him, keeping them apart for
ever.

“Irretrievable?” she said. It was only
curiosity, she knew, but her voice sounded
oddly far off to herself, the room was
hazy, her whole body seemed to shrink
together.

“What can it matter to you? You
belong to another man, Miss Vogdes.”
She lifted herself erect. Doctor McCall
was speaking more loudly than usual
and looking keenly into her face.

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

“Yes, that’s true. He is, as you say,
in some sort a brother of yours.” He
took her hand for the first time, looking
down at her face with some meaning in
his own, inexplicable, very likely, to himself,
though the thoughts in Kitty’s shallow
brain were clear enough to him.
“You are tired of standing,” seating her
gently in Peter’s chair. A thick lock
of hair had fallen over her face: he put
out his hand to remove it, but drew
back quickly. “We have talked too long,
Miss Vogdes,” in a brisk, cheerful tone.
“Some other time, perhaps, we can return
to this question of Hugh Guinness. That
is,” with a certain significance of manner,
“if it be one in which Mr. Muller
wishes you to take an interest.” Nodding
good-humoredly to her, he buttoned
on his oilskin cape and went out into
the rain without another word. He
pulled off his cap outside to let the rain
and wind reach his head, drawing a
long breath as if to get rid of some foul
air and heat.

CHAPTER X.

Of all that wet August the next morning
was the freshest and cheerfulest.
Doctor McCall had packed his valise,
carried it to the station, and was now
walking up the street, his hands clasped
behind him and his head down, after the
leisurely fashion of Delaware and Jersey
farmers. People nodded an approving
good-morning to him. Busy Berrytown
had passed verdict on him as a man
who was idle for a purpose, who permitted
his brain to lie fallow, and who
“loafed and invited his soul” during
these two weeks for the best spiritual
hygienic reasons.

“Too much brain-work, my friend
Doctor Maria Muller tells me,” said the
lawyer, De Camp, to a group of men at
the station as McCall passed them. “Is
here for repose.”

“Advanced?” said little Herr Bluhm,
the phrenologist.

“Well, no. But Doctor Maria thinks
his mind is open to conviction, and that
he would prove a strong worker should
he remain here. She has already begun
to enlighten him on our newest theories
as to a Spontaneous Creation and a Consolidated
Republic.”

“Should think his properer study
would be potatoes. Smells of the barn-yard
in his talk,” rejoined one of the
party.

“Doctor Maria’s a fool!” snapped
Bluhm. “She has read the index to
Bastian’s book, and denies her Creator,
and gabbles of Bacteria, boiled and unboiled,
ever since.”

Doctor McCall meanwhile went down
the cinder-path, to all passers-by a clean-shaven,
healthy gentleman out in search
of an appetite for breakfast. But in
reality he was deciding his whole life in
that brief walk. Why, he asked himself
once or twice, should he be unlike
the other clean-shaven, healthy men
that he met? God knows he had no
relish for mystery. He was, as he had
told Kitty, a commonplace man, a thrifty
Delaware farmer, in hearty good-fellowship
with his neighbors, his cattle, the
ground he tilled, and, he thought reverently,
with the God who had made him
and them. He had made a mistake in
his early youth, but it was a mistake
which every tenth man makes—which
had no doubt driven half these men and
women about him into their visionary
[pg 705]
creeds and hard work—that of an unhappy
marriage. It was many years
since he had heard of his wife: she had
grown tired of warning him of the new
paths of shame and crime she had found
for herself. In fact, the year in which
they had lived together was now so long
past as to seem like a miserable half-forgotten
dream.

Irretrievable? Yes, it was irretrievable.
There was, first of all, the stupid,
boyish error of a change of name. If
he came back as this child wished, all
the annoyance which that entailed would
follow him, and the humiliating circumstances
which had led to it would be
brought to life from their unclean graves.
His father believed him dead. Better
the quiet, softened grief which that had
left than the disgrace which would follow
his return. “I should have to tell
him my wife’s story,” muttered McCall.
But he did not turn pale nor break into
a cold sweat at the remembrance, as
Miss Muller’s hero should have done.
This was an old sore—serious enough,
but one which he meant to make the
best of, according to his habit. He had
been a fool, he thought, to come back
and hang about the old place for the
pleasure of hearing his father talked of,
and of touching the things he had handled
a day or two before. Growing into
middle age, Hugh Guinness’s likeness
to his father had increased year by year.
The two men were simple as boys in
some respects, and would have been
satisfied alone together. The younger
man halted now on the foot-bridge which
crossed the creek, looking out the different
hollows where his father had taken
him to fish when he was a boy, and
thinking of their life then. “But his
wife and mine would have to be put
into the scales now,” with an attempt at
whistling which died out discordantly.

There was one person to whom the
shameful confession of his marriage
must be made—Miss Muller. That was
the result, he thought, of his absurd
whim of loitering about Berry town.
When he had met Maria Muller before,
he had no reason to think she cared a
doit whether he was married or single.
Now—McCall’s color changed, alone
as he was, with shame and annoyance.
With all his experience of life and of
women, he had as little self-confidence
as an awkward girl. But Maria had
left him no room for doubt.

“It would be the right thing to do. I
ought to tell her. But it will be a slight
matter to her, no doubt.”

If he had been a single man, in all
probability he would have asked Maria
Muller to marry him that day. He was
a susceptible fellow, with a man’s ordinary
vanity and passions; and Maria’s
bright sweet face, their loiterings along
shady lanes and under Bourbon roses,
the perpetual deference she paid to
his stupendous intellect, had had due
effect. He was not the man to see a
strong, beautiful woman turn pale and
tremble at his touch, and preserve his
phlegm.

He threw away his cigar, and jumped
the fence into the Water-cure grounds.
“I’ll tell her now, and then be off from
old Berry town for ever.”

Miss Muller was standing in the porch.
She leaned over the railing, looking at
the ragged rain-clouds driven swiftly
over the blue distance, and at the wet
cornfields and clumps of bay bushes
gray with berries which filled the damp
air with their pungent smell. Her dog,
a little black-and-tan terrier, bit at her
skirt. She had just been lecturing to
her three students on the vertebrae, and
when she took him up could not help
fumbling over his bones, even while she
perceived the color and scent of the
morning. They gave her so keen a
pleasure that the tears rushed to her
eyes, and she stopped punching Hero’s
back.

“‘The rain is over and gone,'” she recited
softly to herself, “‘the vines with
the tender grape give a good smell, and
the time of the singing of birds has
come.’ There is no poetry like that old
Hebrew love-song. If only it had not
been hackneyed by being turned into a
theological allegory! Ha, doggy, doggy!
There comes a friend of ours!”
suddenly laughing and hugging him as
she caught sight of a large man coming
[pg 706]
up the road with a swinging gait and
loose white overcoat. She broke off a
rose and put it in her breast, tied on her
hat and hurried down to meet him, the
Song of Solomon still keeping time with
her thoughts in a lofty cadence: “‘Who
is this that cometh up from the wilderness
leaning upon his beloved? Set me
as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal
upon thine arm. For love is strong as
death.'”

“What’s that, Maria? I heard you
intoning as I came up the hill?” Her
eyes were soft and luminous and her
voice unsteady. I am afraid Doctor
McCall’s eyes were warmer in their admiration
than they should have been
under the circumstances. Why should
she not tell him? She repeated it. She
had been chattering for two hours on
cervical, dorsal and lumbar vertebrae,
without stopping to take breath. But
she grew red now and broke down miserably.

“‘Love is strong as death,’ eh?” said
McCall, awkwardly holding the gate
open for her. “Friendship ought to be
tough enough to bear a pretty stout strain,
then. Such friendship as ours, I mean.
For I think a man and woman can be
friends without—without—Well, what
do you think, Maria?” feeling a sudden
imbecility in all his big body.

The little woman beside him looked
up scared and ready to cry: “I don’t
know, John, I’m sure. Do be quiet,
Hero!” Then like a flash she saw that
he meant to ask her to marry him: he
meant to place love upon the higher
basis of friendship. Maria was used to
people who found new names for old
things. Why! why! what folly was
this, as she grew cold and hot by turns?
So often she had pictured his coming to
claim her, and how she would go out as
one calm controlling soul should to meet
another, to be dual yet united through
all eternity; and here she was shivering
and tongue-tied, like any silly school-girl!
Love-making and marriage were
at a discount with the Advanced Club
of which she was a member, and classed
with dancing, fashionable dressing
and other such paltry feminine frivolities.
But Maria had meant to show them that
a woman could really love and marry,
and preserve her own dignity. She tried
to find her footing now.

“Come into the summer-house, John.
I should think our friendship would bear
any strain, for it does not depend on external
ties.”

“No, that’s true. Now, as to your
phalansteries and women’s clubs and
sitz-baths, why that’s all flummery to
me. But young women must have their
whims until they have husbands to occupy
their minds, I suppose. There’s
that little girl at the Book-shop: how
many leagues of tatting do you suppose
she makes in a year?”

“I really cannot say,” sharply.

“But as to our friendship, Maria—”

“Yes. There may be a lack of external
bonds” (speaking deliberately,
for she wanted to remember this crisis
of her life as accurate in all its minutiae);
“but there is a primal unity, a mysterious
sympathy, in power and emotion.
At least, so it seems to me,” suddenly
stammering and picking up Hero to
avoid looking at McCall, who stood in
front of her.

“I don’t know. Primal unities are
rather hazy to me. I can tell by a woman’s
eye and hand-shake if she is pure-minded
and sweet-tempered, and pretty
well, too, what she thinks of me. That’s
about as far as I go.”

“It pleases you to wear this mask of
dullness, I know,” with an indulgent
smile, with which Titania might have
fondled the ass’s head.

“But as to our friendship,” gravely,
“I feel I’ve hardly been fair to you.
Friendship demands candor, and there
is one matter on which I have not dealt
plainly with you. You have been an
honest, firm friend to me, Maria. I had
no right to withhold my confidence from
you.”

If Miss Muller had not been known
as an advanced philosopher, basing her
life upon the Central Truths, she would
have gained some credit as a shrewd
woman of business. “What do you
mean, John?” she said, turning a cool
I steady countenance toward him.

[pg 707]

“Sit down and I will tell you what I
mean.”

The patients, taking soon after their
two hours’ exercise, made their jokes on
the battle between the two systems, seeing
the allopathist McCall and Doctor
Maria Haynes Muller in the summer-house
engaged in such long and earnest
converse. Homoeopathy, they guessed,
had the worst of it, for the lady was
visibly agitated and McCall apparently
unmoved. Indeed, when he left her
and crossed the garden, nodding to such
of them as he knew, he had a satisfied,
relieved face.

Maria went immediately in to visit her
ward as usual. The patients observed
that she was milder than was her wont,
and deadly pale. One of them, addressing
her as “Miss Muller,” however, was
sharply rebuked: “I earned my right to
the title of physician too hardly to give
it up for that which belongs to every
simpering school-girl,” she said. “Besides,”
with a queer pitiful smile, “the
sooner we doctors sink the fact that we
are women the better for the cause—and
for us.”

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

“William,” she said, fumbling with
the buttons of his coat, “he is going: he
is going to take the afternoon train.”

“Who? That fellow McCall?”

“Why do you speak so of him, William?
He has just told me his story.
He is so wretched! he has been used so
hardly!” She could scarcely keep back
the tears. In her new weakness and
weariness it was such comfort to talk
to and hang upon this fat, stupid little
brother, whom usually she despised.

“Wretched, eh? He don’t look it,
then. As stout and easy-going a fellow
as I know. Come, come, Maria! The
man has been imposing some story on
you to work on your sensibilities. I
never fancied him, as you know. He
doesn’t want to borrow money, eh?”
with sudden alarm.

“Money? No.”

“What is it, then? Don’t look at me
in that dazed way. You, are going to
have one of your attacks. I do wish
you had Kitty’s constitution and some
sense.”

“William,” rousing herself, “he is going.
He will never come back to Berrytown
or to me. Our whole lives depend
on my seeing him once more. Ask him
to wait for a day—an hour.”

“If he doesn’t take the noon express,
he can’t go in an hour. You certainly
know that, Maria. Well, if I have to
find him, I’d better go at once,” buttoning
his coat irritably. “I never did like
the fellow.”

“Beg him to stay. Tell him that I
have thought of a way of escape,” following
him, catching him by his sleeve,
her small face absolutely without color
and her eyes glittering.

“Yes, I’m going. But I must find my
overshoes first. It begins to look like
rain.”

Miss Muller watched him to the door,
and then crossed the hall to her own
room, locking the door behind her.
The square table was piled with medical
books. She sat down and dropped her
head on her arms. Over went a bound
volume of the Lancet and a folio on
diseases of the kidneys to the floor. She
looked down at them. “And I was willing
to give him up for that—that trash!”
sobbing and rubbing her arms like a
beaten child. But she had so strong a
habit of talking that even in this pain
the words would come: “I loved him
so. He would have married me! And
I must be kept from him by a law of society!
It is—it is,” rising and wrenching
her hands together, “a damnable
law!”

For Miss Muller had taught herself to
think and talk like a man.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[pg 708]

BOWERY ENGLAND.

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

“Just the time for ‘bowery England,
as Bulwer phrases it,” says Amy. “Let
us go to Romsey and see the Boyces.”

Carried unanimously. We take the
train from the Waterloo Station two
hours later. When we get down at
Romsey, “Fly, sir?” asks the attentive
porter—carries our luggage, calls the fly
and touches his hat thankfully for three-pence.
The Romsey fly is a lumbering,
two-seated carriage, rather more pretentious
than a London cab, but far behind
the glossy gorgeousness of a New York
hackney-coach.

A short drive brings us to the White
Horse Inn, under whose covered arch
we roll, and are met at the door by a
maid. She conducts us to a stuffy coffee-room
up a flight of crumbling old
stairs, and meekly desires to know our
will.

“Send the landlord, please.”

The landlord comes, bowing low, and
we make inquiries concerning the distance
to Paultons, the estate where the
Boyces have been spending the summer,
and where we venture to hope they still
are. He says it is a matter of four miles,
and that we can have a fly over for six
shillings. We order the fly to be got
ready at once, and inquire if we can
have dinner now, it being late in the
afternoon.

“Yes, sir,” he replies. “Would you
like some chicken and sparrowgrass?”

“How long will they be in cooking?”

“Matter of arf an hour, sir.”

As this means a matter of an hour, I
ask if he can’t get us up something in a
shorter time. He suggests that chops
can be cooked sooner.

“Chops be it, then. In the words of
the immortal Pickwick, chops and tomato
sauce.”

“No tomarter sauce, sir,” with profound
gravity.

“Sparrowgrass, then—chops and sparrowgrass.”

He retires, and we all rush to the windows
and look out upon the quaint old
village—a curious, old-fashioned scene.
We feel as if we had somehow become
transmogrified, and instead of being flesh-and-blood
men and women from practical
New York, were playing our parts
in some old English novel. Odd
little tumble-down houses, with peaked
roofs and mullioned windows, ranged
about a triangular common, look sleepily
out upon a statue of Palmerston in
the middle of the open place, the gray
walls of Romsey Abbey, a thousand
years old, against the blue sky behind
them.

About six o’clock our fly is at the door,
and we are off, rattling through the ancient
streets into the smooth open country.
Oh the quaint, delightful old hedge-lined
road, deep down below the level
of the fields on either side—a green lane
shut in with fragrance and delicious
quiet! The hedges, perched upon the
bank, tower high above our heads, and
there is no break in them save at rustic
gates. We meet characters on the road
who have just stepped out of Trollope’s
novels. A young man and girl stand
on a bridge across which we trundle,
leaning companionably on the old stone
parapet, and looking up the little river
through a long avenue of trees to the
pillared mansion of “Broadlands.” A
laborer, with a gay flower stuck in the
buttonhole of his smock-frock, goes
whistling along the brown road under
the hedgerows. A country gentleman,
driving alone in a basket phaeton, looks
inquisitively at our half-closed windows
as if expecting the sight of an acquaintance.
Crumbling milestones stand by
the wayside, with deep-cut letters so
[pg 709]
smoothed by the hand of time that we
cannot read them as we pass. Flowers
grow thick in the hedgerows. A boy is
lolling on the green grass in front of
a cottage door—an uncombed English
hind, with a face of rustic simplicity and
stolid ignorance.

At last we come to a gate which bars
the road. The driver gets down and
opens it, and when we have passed
through in the fly he tells us we are now
on Mr. Stanley’s broad estate of Paultons.
The driver wears corduroy trousers,
and touches his hat every time we
speak to him and every time he answers.
He does not merely touch it when he is
first addressed, but he touches it continually
throughout the conversation.
Bunker considers his conduct extremely
touching.

We are presently driving through a
bosky wood, and the driver touches his
hat to remark that we are nearly there
now, he thinks.

“But where is the bad road the landlord
spoke of?”

“Bad road, sir?” touching hat.

“Yes: the landlord said we could not
drive fast because the road was bad.
Where is it bad?”

“All along back of ‘ere, sir,” touching
hat. “We have pahst the worst of it
naow, sir: the rest is not so ‘illy, sir,”
touching hat.

“Hilly? We haven’t passed over anything
bigger than a knoll. If this is
what the landlord meant by a hilly road,
it is a rich joke. Why, it’s as smooth as
a floor, almost.”

“He should go to California,” says
Amy, who has feeling reminiscences.
“He should go to the Yosemite Valley,
over the road which runs through Chinese
Camp and Hodgden’s. Probably
the man never saw a rough road in his
life. I doubt if there is such a thing in
England.”

After half an hour’s trundling along
the unfenced roads of this fine old estate,
crossing ancient stone bridges, rolling
through leafy groves, startling fat cattle
from their browsing, getting a hat-touch
from a shepherd who is leading his flocks
across the fields in true pastoral style, we
reach the manor-house, standing stately
amid dells and dingles, pollards of fantastic
growth and patches of fern and
gorse. The Boyces have returned to
Paris, but nurse and the children are
still at the gardener’s house, and thither
we drive along the banks of a sylvan
lake, beyond which the rooks are cawing
about the chimneys.

The old gardener is nurse’s father,
and though he is now so old that he no
longer does any work, he is maintained
in comfort by the family in whose service
he has spent a lifetime. Forty
years of honest service in one family!
No wonder he feels that his destiny is
for ever linked with that of the people
who have been his masters, man and
boy, for forty years. He has a delightful
little cottage with thatched roof and
mullioned windows, and pretty vines
rioting all over it, and in front of it a
flower-garden full of early bloom. The
lilacs which grow about so profusely are
not of the color of our lilacs in America,
being of a rich purple; we should
not know they were lilacs but for the
familiar odor.

A delicious ride back to Romsey in
the twilight, carrying two of the Boyce
children with us. In the evening I stroll
out alone, to look at the village in the
moonlight. The streets are like narrow
lanes. The houses are very old, and
for the most part dilapidated, but streets
and houses are all as clean and neat as
wax. Presently I come upon the old
abbey, its rugged walls and towers looming
solemnly in the moonlight, and pass
the parson’s house near by, all overrun
with vines, thinking of Trollope again
and Framley parsonage.

Before going back to the White Horse
Inn I wander round the village until I
find that I am lost. The discovery is
not very alarming in a place so small
as this, even at night. I resolve to turn
every corner to the left, and see what
will come of it. I presently find that
getting out into the country comes of it;
and having crossed a bridge and come
upon a silent brickyard, and seen the
long road winding away into the open
country, I am reminded of Oliver Twist—or
[pg 710]
was it Pip?—running away from
home and trudging off under the stars
to London. Somehow, it seems this road
must lead to London.

Turning about, but still walking at
random and turning left-hand corners,
I presently see the abbey tower again,
and make for it. The street through
which I pass is apparently the home of
the British working man. A light burning
in any house is most rare. Occasionally
a man can be seen through the
odd little windows, smoking a pipe by
the blaze of the fire on the hearth. Here
are the abbey windows, and now I know
where I am. Down this narrow, winding
street, across the open place where
Lord Palmerston stands stonily in the
moonlight, and I am at the White Horse
Inn again.

At nine o’clock next morning there is
a rap at the door of my room. The
door being opened a man-servant is discovered,
who touches his forehead (having
no hat to touch) and says, “The
ladies would like to ‘ave you breakfast
with them, sir.”

He is so very respectful in his manner
of saying this that he is inaudible, and
being asked what he said, repeats the
touching his forehead and then repeats
his words.

There are no muffins at breakfast—a
fact which I record merely because this
is the first time since we have been in
England that this peculiarly English
dish has been omitted at breakfast. It
appears on inquiry that muffins are a
luxury of large towns. In villages they
are rarely obtainable at less than about a
week’s notice. In fact, you can’t get anything
to eat, of any sort, without pretty
liberal notice.

After breakfast we go to see the old
abbey. It is an imposing and well-preserved
pile. It was founded by Ethelwold,
a thane—one of those righting,
praying, thieving old rascals who lived
in the tenth century, and made things
lively for any one who went past their
houses with money on his person. When
Ethelwold had stolen an unusually large
sum one day, he founded the monastery
and stocked it with nuns. It was but a
wooden shanty at first, but after having
served till it was worm-eaten and rotting
with age, it was torn down and a fine
stone convent was built.

We walk about in that part of the abbey
which is free from pews—by far the
larger part—and stare at the monumental
stones let into the floor and walls.
If we did not know that Romsey had
been the home of Palmerston, we should
learn it now, for these stones are thickly
covered with the legends of virtue in his
family—wives, sisters, sons and so forth,
whose remains lie “in the vault beneath.”
After perusing these numerous
testimonials to the truly wonderful virtues
of an aristocracy whom we are permitted
to survive, and after dropping
some shillings in the charity-box, which
rather startle us by the noise they make,
we pass out of the cool abbey into the
hot churchyard, and read on a lonely
stone which stands in a corner by the
gate that here lies the dust of Mary Ann
Brown, “for thirty-five years faithful servant
to Mr. Appleford.” Mary Ann no
doubt had other virtues, but they are not
recorded: this is sufficient for a servant.

An hour’s ride on the velvet cushions
of a railway carriage brings us, with our
Paultons friends, the Boyce boys, to
Southampton, which was an old town
when King Canute was young. We
take rooms at a pretentious marble hotel
with a mansard roof, attached to the
station—a railroad hotel, in fact, but
strikingly unlike that institution as we
know it in America. Wide halls, solid
stone staircases, gorgeous coffee-room,
black-coated waiters, and the inevitable
buxom landlady with a regiment of
blooming daughters for assistants—one
presiding over the accounts, another
officiating at the beer-pumps, a third to
answer questions, and all very much
under the influence of their back hair
and other charms of person. One of
them alleviates the monotony of the
office duties by working at embroidery
in bright worsteds.

Strolling out, Bunker and I consult
certain shabby worthies who are yawning
on the boxes of a long line of wretched
hacks drawn up by the sidewalk
[pg 711]
across the street, and find that we can
charter a vehicle for two shillings an
hour. These cabbies have more nearly
the air of our own noble hackmen than
any we have seen in England. Americans
are no novelty to them, for ship-loads
of American tourists are put off
here at frequent intervals, and the cabbies
have a thin imitation of the voting
hackman’s independence. They stop
short, however, of his impudence. They
are lazy, but they touch their hats occasionally.

We choose two of the tumble-down
vehicles and go after the ladies. My
driver is an elderly man with a hat
which has seen better days, and I have
chosen his hack, not because it is less
likely to drop off its wheels than the
others, but because he himself looks
like a seedy Bohemian. He proves to
be a very intelligent fellow, with a ready
turn for description which serves him in
good stead whenever his horse gets tired
of walking and stops short. At such
times our Bohemian pretends that he
has stopped the horse himself in order
to point out and comment upon some
curious thing in the immediate vicinity.

It is pleasant driving. The hack is
open, and we hoist sun-umbrellas and
look about comfortably. Presently the
weary horse stops in the middle of the
street.

“‘Ere you are, sir,” says Cabby briskly,
turning half round on his box and
pointing to an old stone structure which
stretches quite across the High street.
“This ‘ere is the old Bar Gate, sir, one
of the hancient gates of the town. Part
of the horiginal town wall. Was a large
ditch ‘ere, sir, and another there, and a
stone bridge betwixt the two, and the
young bucks in them days did use to
practice harchery right ‘ere where you
see the lamp-post. The Guild’all is hin
the gate, sir, right hinside it, with a passage
hup. I’ll drive through the harch,
sir, and you’ll see the hother side.
Cluck!” (to the horse).

On the other side, the horse not taking
a notion to stop again, the driver is not
forced to resume his remarks. Turning
about as we pass on, we look up at the
old Norman gate-tower, with its handsome
archway and projecting buttresses,
and Amy says she fancies she sees a
knight in armor looking out through the
narrow crevice which may have been a
window in olden times. This, being an
altogether proper fancy for the place, is
received with applause.

The next time the horse concludes to
stop we are in the midst of what is here
called the Common—in fact, a magnificent
old forest park, with a smooth road
running through it, and numberless winding
paths in among the bosky depths.
I fancy Central Park might come to look
like this if allowed to go untrimmed and
unfussed-over for two or three hundred
years.

“The Common, sir,” says Cabby,
turning about, “where King Chawles did
use to ‘unt wild boars. Fav’rite walk of
Halexander Pope, sir, the poet, and Doctor
Watts, which wrote the ‘ymn-book.
Cluck!”

From the top of a high hill a splendid
wide landscape is seen, with Romsey in
the distance, and (the horse having
stopped again) Cabby points out Queen
Elizabeth’s shooting-box across the fields.
In a lot close by cricketers are at play,
and a little farther on, where there is a
vine-covered beerhouse, a crowd of clod-hoppers
are gathered in a green field,
looking at two of their number engaged
in a rough-and-tumble fight in their
shirt-sleeves.

The road after this running down hill,
the horse continues to jog along for a
considerable distance, stopping at last
under a towering old wall looking out
on the sea.

“Wind Whistle Tower, sir,” says Cabby,
pointing up at a square tower projecting
from the old wall overhead, and
above it the remains of an old round
tower thickly overrun with ivy. And,
using his fingers industriously, Cabby
proceeds to call off the names of various
castles and towers here visible—notably,
Prince Edward’s Tower, bold and round,
from whose summit three men were looking
down.

“What are those?” asks Bunker in
the carriage behind us, pointing to the
[pg 712]
old brass guns which sit on the wall like
Humpty Dumpty.

“Them, sir,” says Cabby, “was put
there by ‘Enry the Heighth, and this
‘ere wall was the purtection of the town
when the Frenchmen hassaulted it.”

“Ho!” says Bunker, contemptuously.
“Just fancy one of our ironclads paying
any attention to the barking of those
popguns!”

Whereupon the horse starts again, and
we go lazily on, Cabby dropping in a
word of enlightenment here and there
to the effect that this old tumble-down
part of the ancient wall is the celebrated
Arcade, which formed part of the wall
of the King’s Palace; and this queer
old lane running up through the walls
like a sewer is Cuckoo lane; and that
is Bugle street, where in olden times the
warden blew; and here are the remains
of Canute’s palace, with its elliptical and
circular arches and curious mouldings.

Discharging the cab in the High street,
we walk about. In a shop where we
pause for a moment there is a quartette
of half-naked barbarians, such as, with
all our boasted varieties of humanity,
were never yet seen in New York. We
have abundant Chinese and Japanese
there, and occasionally an Arab or a
Turk, and the word African means with
us a man and a brother behind our chair
at dinner or wielding a razor in a barber-shop.
These men here are pure barbarians,
just landed from a vessel direct
from Africa. Hideously tattooed, and
their heads shaved in regular ridges of
black wool, with narrow patches of black
scalp between, they are here in a small
tradesman’s shop in bowery England
buying shirts. They know not a word of
English, but chatter among themselves
the most horrible lingo known to the
Hamitic group of tongues. They grimace
in a frightful manner, and skip and
dance, and writhe their half-naked bodies
into the most exaggerated contortions
known to the language of signs.
The dignified English salesmen are at
their wits’ end how to treat them. The
instinct of the British shopkeeper fights
desperately with his disposition to be
shocked. From the Ashantee gentlemen’s
gestures it can only be concluded
that white shirts are wanted, but when
white shirts are shown the negroes make
furious objection to the plaited bosoms.
They want shirts such as are fashionable
at home. It is easy to be seen that
they are Dandy Jims in Africa. They
are all young, and, in a sense, spruce.
One of them carries a little switch cane,
evidently just bought: while he examines
the shirts, testing the strength of the stuff
by pulling it with his two hands, he holds
his cane between his bare legs for safe-keeping.

Sitting in the billiard-room of the hotel
in the evening smoking our cigars, Bunker
and I are accosted by a brisk little
man, who asks us if we play billiards.
Bunker doesn’t. I do sometimes at
home, but not the English game.

“Oh, we play the ‘Merican game too.
‘Appy to play the ‘Merican game with
you, sir.”

“Try him a game,” says Bunker. “It
won’t hurt you.”

Not liking to refuse an invitation from
a polite Englishman, who appears to be
a stranger here, I consent. This is billiard-room
etiquette the world over.

The cue is like a whip-stock. It positively
runs down to a point not bigger
than a shirt-button, and it bends like a
switch. The balls are not much larger
than marbles. To make up for this, the
table is big enough for a back yard,
broad, high, dull of cushion, and with
six huge pockets. I am ignominiously
beaten. My ball jumps like a living
thing. It hops off the table upon the
floor at almost every shot, and when it
does not go on the floor it goes into one
of the six yawning pockets. The pockets
bear the same relative proportion to
the balls that a tea-cup bears to a French
pea. At the end of the game my ball
has been everywhere except where I intended
it to go, and I have “scratched”
thirty.

“A hundred’s the game,” says the
Englishman, putting up his cue. “One
shilling.”

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

“Going on the Continent?” the Englishman
asks.

“Not at present. We return to London
first, and go from there.”

“‘Ave you got a guide?”

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

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

At present he has charge of this billiard-room,
but he is ready to follow me
to the ends of the earth for a period of
not less than three months. I tell him
I can get on without a guide.

“But I would go on the most reasonable
terms. I would go for as low as
ten pounds a month and my expenses.”

“Would you go for nothing?” Bunker
wakes up and pops this out at him
so suddenly as to quite take his breath
away.

He expands his hands at his trousers
pockets, shrugs his shoulders and looks
volumes of reproach.

“Because,” Bunker adds, in a soothing
tone, “I shouldn’t like to have you
along, even at that price.”

He immediately goes to putting the
room to rights.

“Horrible breath that man had,” says
Bunker when we come out: “did you
notice it?”

“Yes.”

“Take that breath around with us on
the Continent! Why, if he was in Cologne
itself, his breath would be in the
majority.”

I had my umbrella in the billiard-room,
and next morning I can’t find it
anywhere. At breakfast I ask the pompous
head-waiter if he knows of my
umbrella. He states that he does not.
After breakfast I look in the billiard-room.
It is not there. I go down to
the office, and interrupt the worsted
work there in progress by requesting
that a search be made for my missing
umbrella. The young lady whose ear I
have gained kindly condescends to call
the porter, and turning me over to that
functionary returns to her worsted. The
porter is respectful, but doubtful. The
moment he learns that the lost article
is an umbrella his manner is pervaded
with a gentle hopelessness. He, however,
listens forbearingly to my story.

“And aboot what time was it, sir, when
ye went ty bed?”

“About half-past eleven.”

“Oh, then the night porter ull know
of it, sir. He’s abed now. I’ll ask him
when he gets oop.”

And so, when we go to Netley Abbey,
I take a covered cab, because of my lost
umbrella. It was a beautiful umbrella
to keep off the sun. Nobody can make
an umbrella like an Englishman. I
should be sorry to lose it. I bought it
in Regent street only a few days ago,
but I already love it with a passionate
affection.

Through the hot paved streets, over a
floating bridge, past the cliff at the river’s
mouth, through a shady grove of
noble yews and sycamores, past a picturesque
hamlet full of vine-curtained
and straw-thatched cottages, through a
forest of oaks and past a willow copse,
and there is the grand old ruin of Netley
Abbey lifting its picturesque and solemn
fingers of ivy-hung stone above the tops
of the trees which surround and shelter
it in its hoary age.

It is really curious how dramatically
effective a grand old ruin is. The weird
sense of being in the presence of olden
time comes over us immediately. We
look about us to see the spirit of some
cloistered monk come stealing by with
hood and girdle. Here—actually here,
in these nooks all crumbling under
Time’s gnawing tooth—did old Cistercian
monks kneel with shaved heads
and confess their sins, and their bones
have been powdered into dust three
hundred years! Romsey Abbey—within
whose well-kept walls we rather yawned
over Palmerstonian eulogiums—is a
[pg 714]
thousand years old. This abbey is only
six hundred and thirty-two years old.
Romsey has been restored, and modern
men go to church there on Sunday decorously.
Netley has been left to go to
utter ruin. Grass grows in its long-drawn
aisles. Owls hoot in its moss-clothed
chimneys. It is dramatically
effective.

We wander through cloistered courts
into the main body of the church. Yonder
stood the pulpit, here gathered the
worshipers. The carpet is green grass.
Trees grow within the walls. Ivy clambers
from side to side of the tall windows,
in place of the stained glass once there.
Most of the windows have tumbled to
decay, walls and all. The roof is the
sky—naught else.

We climb up the stone staircase in the
turret. All the stone steps are worn
with deep hollows where human feet have
trodden up and down for centuries, and
storms have sent rivulets of water pouring
through many a wild night. Some
of the steps are worn quite in two and
broken away, which makes the ascent
frightening to the ladies.

Up here (“on the second floor,” as
Bunker says) the carpet is again grass,
and Bunker and I clamber through a
little archway into the cloister gallery,
where the monks used to look down on
the service below when they felt inclined.
The ladies look after us, brave adventurers
that we are (only two or three
million men have been here before us,
perhaps, since the ruin became a popular
success), and refuse to follow in our
rash footsteps. The crumbling wall is
full of owls’ nests. Rooks and swallows
fly continually in and out of their holes.
We could kick a loose stone down into
the chancel if there were any stones to
kick.

The ladies declare themselves dizzy
and afraid, and we help them down the
dark winding turret staircase again, and
go into the enclosed parts of the ruin.
Here is where the monks lived. The
walls still stand, and parts of the roof.
The windows are thickly ivy-hung and
moss-grown. Here is the room where
the monks did whilom dine. For three
hundred years this dining-room was in
daily use, and in the spot where erst the
dining-table stood now grows a stalwart
tree, whose branches tower and spread
beyond the crumbling walls. Passing
strange!

More strange is the sight in the next
room, the chapter-house, where the abbot
held his gravest councils, and where
the most honored of the monks were
buried beneath the floor when they died.
And since the roof fell in, after long
battling with storms, perhaps a hundred
years after the last monk was buried,
one day a seed fell. A tree grew up in
the room. It spread its tall branches
high above the piled-up stones, and
shook its brown leaves down, autumn
after autumn, for years and years. It
grew slowly old, and at last it died. It
fell down in its death in the room where
it had grown, and its once sturdy trunk
struck against the old ruined walls and
broke. Its roots were torn out of the
ground by the fall, and stuck up their
gnarled fingers in the empty room. And
the grass grew over the roots, weaving
a green cloak to hide their nakedness.
The old trunk stretches now across the
space in the room, and leans its old
head against the abbey wall. I didn’t
read this story in a guide-book. It was
told to me by the principal actor, the tree.

In the abbot’s kitchen we get into the
huge hooded fireplace—seven of us—and
there is room for more. We look
up the chimney and see the glossy green
ivy leaves overhead, and the blue sky
shining beyond them. We toss a pebble
down into the subterranean passage
where, they say, the monks were wont
to pass out after provisions during a time
of siege; which must have been somewhat
demoralizing to the besiegers, whoever
they were. I stoop to pick up something
in the grass of the kitchen floor,
which has a glitter of gold upon it, and
my face flushes with eager anticipation
as I seize it.

“What have you found?” asks Amy.

“A relic of the monks?” asks Bunker.

“It’s a champagne cork,” I am forced
to reply. “The truth is, Netley Abbey
is a show, like Niagara Falls and Bunker
[pg 715]
Hill Monument. Of course crowds
of tourists come here, and of course
they pop champagne and ginger beer,
and cut their confounded initials in the
venerable stones.”

“Yes,” says Bunker, “I saw ‘W.S.’
cut in the wall at the top of the turret
stairs. Saves you the trouble, you
know.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing, thank
you.”

Nevertheless, it was curious to see
some nobody’s name cut at full length
in the stone, with the date underneath—1770.

When we return to the hotel the night
porter reports that he has not found my
umbrella. So I must go off without it.
Our train leaves at ten minutes past five
this afternoon, and we shall be in London
early in the evening. It is now four
o’clock: we have ordered dinner for this
hour, and so we sit down to our soup.

“Please give us our dinner without any
delay now,” I say to the pompous head-waiter,
“for we must take the train at
ten minutes past five.”

The man bows stiffly and retires. We
finish the soup, and wait. When we get
tired of waiting we call the head-waiter
to us: “Are you hastening our dinner?”

“Fish directly, sir,” he answers, and
walks solemnly away. We begin to
grow fidgety. Fifteen minutes since the
soup, and no fish yet. Bunker swears
he’ll blow the head-waiter up in another
minute. Just as he is quite ready for
this explosion the fish arrives. All hail!
I lay it open.

“Why, it’s not done!” I cry in consternation.
“There, there! Take it
away, and bring the meat.”

With an air of grave offence the man
bears it solemnly out. Then we wait
again. And wait. And wait.

“Good gracious!” cries Bunker,
“here’s half an hour gone, and we’ve
had nothing but soup! I really must
blow this fellow up.”

“Stop! there it comes.”

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

He has had it recooked. We attack
it hurriedly, and bid the waiter for Goodness’
sake bring the rest of the dinner
instantly, or we must leave it.

“And I’m about half starved,” growls
Bunker.

More waiting. Five minutes pass.
Ten.

“Oh come, I can’t stand this!” cries
Bunker, jumping up with his napkin
round his neck, and striding over to the
head-waiter, where he stands in a Turveydroppy
attitude, leaning against a
sideboard with his arms folded. “Look
here!” Bunker ejaculates: “can you be
made to understand that we are in a
hurry? Would half a dollar be any inducement
to you to wake up and look
around lively? Because we have got to
take those cars in exactly twelve minutes,”
showing his watch, “and as the
dinner is already paid for, I want to get
it before I go.”

“Certainly, sir,” says the pompous ass
with slow indifference, “dinner directly.
John!” to our waiter, who is now placing
the meat on the table, “serve the genl’m’n’s
dinner directly.”

Bunker stares at the fellow as Clown
stares at Harlequin after having cut him
in two, in dumb amazement at the fact
that Harlequin is not in the least disturbed
by being cut in two.

“I wonder,” he mutters as he returns
to the table, “if that unmitigated wooden
image of a dunderhead would pay any
attention if I were to kick him?”

“No—not if you were to tie a pack
of fire-crackers to his coat-tail and light
them. He knows his business too well.
The first duty of an English head-waiter
is to be dignified, as it is that of a French
head-waiter to be vigilant and polite.”

“Besides,” remarks Amy quietly, “I
don’t suppose the man had an idea of
what you meant by ‘those cars,’ if he
even knew what a half dollar signified.”

“Well, we must be off. Time’s up.
We shall miss the train. Good-bye,
boys. You can sit still and finish your
dinner in peace.”

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

[pg 716]

English trains go on time—English
dinners don’t.

We finally get off at seven o’clock.
Just before we leave a waiter comes up
to me and says in a casual manner,
“Found your humbreller yet, sir?”

“No.”

“Wat kind of er humbreller was it,
sir?”

“Neat little brown silk umbrella, with
an ivory handle.”

“W’y, I wouldn’t wonder if that was
your humbreller in the corner now in the
reading-room, sir.”

I make haste to look. Yes, there it
is, my beloved, long-lost umbrella, quietly
leaning against the wall in a dark
corner, behind a pillar, behind a big
arm-chair, where nobody ever placed it,
I’ll take my oath, but this rascally waiter,
who expects to get a shilling for
showing where he hid it.

“Is that your humbreller, sir?” the
waiter says, rubbing his hands and getting
in my way as I walk briskly out, at
peril of being stumbled over by my hurrying
feet. I scorn to reply, but I give
him a glance of such withering contempt
that I trust it pierced to his wicked heart,
and will remain there, a punishment and
a warning, to the last day of his base
life. An English waiter’s hide is very
thick, however. He has probably hidden
many a gentleman’s umbrella since.

At eleven o’clock we are back in our
cozy London lodgings, and at twelve
we are sleeping the sleep of profound
fatigue, and dreaming of ghostly monks
wandering among the weird old ruins of
Netley.

WIRT SIKES.

DAY-DREAM.

Here, in the heart of the hills, I lie,

Nothing but me ‘twixt earth and sky—

An amethyst and an emerald stone

Hung and hollowed for me alone!

Is it a dream, or can it be

That there is life apart from me?—

A larger world than the circling bound

Of light and color that lap me round?

Drowsily, dully, through my brain,

Like some recurrent, vague refrain,

A world of fancy comes and goes—

Shadowy pleasures, shadowy woes.

Spectral toils and troubles seem

Fashioned out of this foolish dream:

Round my charmèd quiet creep

Phantom creatures that laugh and weep.

Nay, I know they are meaningless,

Visions of utter idleness:

Nothing was, nor ever will be,

Save the hills and the heavens and me.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

[pg 717]

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

There is no doubt that had Mr.
Gladstone followed his personal
inclinations when his Irish education
scheme broke down last March, he
would have retired from office. He is
now sixty-four, and it may be fairly
questioned whether there exists a man
who for forty-six years has worked his
brain harder. It is no light labor to
read for the highest honors in even one
school at Oxford, and Mr. Gladstone
read for them in two. He gained “a
double first,” which meant at that time
a first class both in classics and mathematics.
Forthwith he plunged into political
essay-writing, until in 1834 he
further added to his labors by entering
the House of Commons as M.P. for
Newark.

Mr. Gladstone’s father was, as most
people are aware, a Liverpool merchant
of Scotch descent. This gentleman was
the architect of his own fortunes, which
arose in no slight degree out of his connection
with the United States. Having
been sent to this country by a firm largely
interested in the corn trade, he discharged
their business to their entire
satisfaction, whilst at the same time he
made very valuable business connections
on his own account, which materially
served him when at a later period he
himself embarked in business. He
made a large fortune, but it did not appear
at his death to be so great as it was,
because he gave his younger sons the
bulk of their portions during his lifetime—to
avoid legacy duty, people said. To
his eldest son he left considerable estates
in Scotland—to the younger sons, about
one hundred thousand pounds apiece.
The eldest, Sir Thomas Gladstone, is
a very worthy man, but nowise remarkable
for ability. He has one son, and
has had six daughters. Four survive,
and all are unmarried.

The next brother, Robertson, an eccentric
person whose indiscreet speeches
must often have made his statesman
brother feel very hot, continues the paternal
business at Liverpool. The third,
John Neilson, was, socially speaking,
the flower of the flock. He was a captain
in the navy, from which he had retired
many years prior to his death in
1863, and a member of Parliament.
By his wife, a singularly excellent and
charming woman, he had several children,
who may be said to pretty nearly
monopolize the feminine charms of the
Gladstone family. One of these married
the earl of Belmore, an Irish nobleman,
who lately returned from a not very
successful gubernatorial career in New
South Wales. Both Sir Thomas and
Captain Gladstone were decided Conservatives.

William Ewart is the fourth brother.
“That young brother of mine will make
a noise in the world some of these days,”
said Captain Gladstone to a fellow-middy
as his brother turned away from bidding
him good-bye just before he was
about to start on a cruise; and the words
were certainly prophetic. Mr. Gladstone
married when he was thirty. His wife
was one of the two sisters of Sir Stephen
Glynne. The English aristocracy
contains a great many sets, and the
Glynnes were in the intellectual set,
comprising such men as the dukes of
Argyll and Devonshire, and Lords Derby,
Stanhope and Lyttelton. Mrs. Gladstone
and her sister were married on the
same day to two of the finest intellects
of their time. The younger, whose mental
gifts were far superior to those of her
sister, married Lord Lyttelton.

Mr. Gladstone has a large family.
The eldest son has for some time been
in Parliament, but has established no
reputation for notable capacity, and it is
said that, with the exception of one of
his younger brothers, none of the family
are remarkable in this respect. Mrs.
Gladstone is a person of great kindness
of heart and untiring benevolence. She
[pg 718]
is full of schemes for doing good: hospitals,
convalescent institutions, etc. find
in her an ever-ready friend, to the neglect,
it is whispered, of her domestic
duties. There is an amusing story told
of how some time ago a few guests arrived
at her house in response to an invitation
to dinner. They waited in vain
for the rest of the party, for whose delay
their hostess was at a loss to account.
At length she turned aside and opened
her blotting-book, which quickly revealed
the cause of the guests’ non-appearance—the
invitations were lying there.
They had been written, but never sent.

In London the prime minister—who
has an indifferent official residence,
which he and his family have occasionally
occupied, in Downing street—lives in
Carlton-House Terrace. It is a beautiful
house, but not by any means well
adapted for party-giving, for it is so
constructed that circulation is almost
impossible. If you once get into a
room, you must stay there; whereas
half the charm of Lady Palmerston’s
famous parties at Cambridge House was
the free circulation the rooms afforded,
enabling you to pass right round a quadrangle,
and thus easily find an acquaintance
or get away from a bore. Mr.
Gladstone’s house has a fine double
staircase, and it will derive interest in
after days from the circumstance that,
standing at the head, Lord Russell took
leave of the party he had led, and pointed
to his then host as his successor.

Carlton-House Terrace is in many
respects the most delightful situation in
London, for, whilst extremely central, it
is very quiet. It stands between Pall Mall
and St. James’s Park. One side faces a
strip of beautifully kept garden, which
lies between the terrace and the row of
palaces formed by the Senior United
Service, Athenaeum, Travelers’ and Carlton
Clubs. The other side has a charming
prospect over St. James’s Park. In
summer this is really lovely, for all ugly
objects are obscured by the foliage, amid
which glimpses are obtained of the pinnacles
and fretted towers of the palace
of Parliament on the one hand, and
those of its venerable neighbor, the
majestic abbey, on the other. It was here
that Bunsen passed his London days,
and the reader of his memoirs will
remember frequent references to the
charms of his house. It may well be
imagined how great a boon it is to the
toil-worn minister to find himself, as it
were, in a garden, with only the distant
roar, like that of the sea, to remind him
as he sits in his study that five minutes
walk across that pleasant park will bring
him to Downing street, and three more
to the Treasury bench in the House of
Commons.

In the country most of his time is
spent at Hawarden Castle in Flintshire,
about six hours from London. This is
the ancestral seat of Mrs. Gladstone’s
brother, Sir Stephen Glynne, lord lieutenant
of the county, whose family have
held this property for centuries. Sir
Stephen is a very shy man of retired
habits. By a family arrangement his
house is the country abode of his sister
and brother-in-law.

In earlier life, Sir Stephen and his two
brothers-in-law, Mr. Gladstone and Lord
Lyttelton, formed an unfortunately favorable
estimate of certain mines, into
which much of the fortune of Sir Stephen
and his sisters went, and from which it
never came out again. There was one
other brother, the late rector of Hawarden.
He died about a year ago, and
Mr. Gladstone’s second son, Stephen,
was appointed his successor. The living,
in the gift of Sir Stephen, is very valuable.
Mr. Glynne, the clergyman, died
without a son, and the title will therefore
on Sir Stephen’s death be extinct. As
matters now stand, it may be presumed
that Mr. W.H. Gladstone, the prime
minister’s eldest son, will succeed to the
Hawarden estates.

Mr. Gladstone has himself recently increased
the family interest around Hawarden
by purchase. About five years
ago the state of his finances were the
talk of the town, and a number of people,
especially of the Conservative party,
avowed themselves in a position to assert
from personal knowledge that he was
ruined. There was no just ground for
such a statement, and like so many other
[pg 719]
absurd rumors it died out. None of Mr.
Gladstone’s daughters are married, nor
is his eldest son.

WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS.

Certain great festivals of the Christian
Church which were ignored by the
Puritans and Quakers have always continued
in high repute among the Pennsylvania
Germans. Christmas, Easter,
Whitsuntide and Ascension Day are celebrated
not only in the Lutheran, the
Reformed or Calvinistic and the Moravian
churches, but among the descendants
of those Swiss Anabaptists who,
being driven from their homes by religious
persecution, finally took shelter in
that part of the land of Penn now called
Lancaster county, these quiet sectarians
being known among us by the names
of Mennists and Amish (pronounced
Menneests and Ommish).

The movable feast of Whitsunday or
Pentecost, which occurs on the seventh
Sunday after Easter, is a solemn occasion
in the Mennonite meetings, for at
this time is held one of the great semi-annual
observances of bread-breaking
and feet-washing. The ensuing day,
Whitmonday, is a great secular festival.
All the spring bonnets are then in readiness
for the “Dutch” girls. The young
farmer of eighteen or more, whose father
has granted his heart’s desire in the form
of a buggy, or who has otherwise attained
to that summit of rural felicity, harnesses
and attaches to it one of the horses
with which the farm is so well supplied,
and takes his girl into the county-town.
Here they walk the streets, partake of
simple refreshments, meet their acquaintances
or talk with them in the tavern
parlor. Sometimes they visit a circus or
menagerie whose managers have made
a timely visit to our inland city.

On the ensuing day, Tuesday, while
the Dutch boys are working the corn,
you may perchance hear their father’s
voice raised to a higher pitch than usual,
which circumstance he explains when
he comes in sight, thus: “The boys is
sleepy to-day. Yesterday was Whissuntide,
you know. They got home late.”
For custom forbids their leaving the girl
of their choice before the small hours,
and allows them, nevertheless, no remission
from labor on the succeeding
day.

The people, however, whose religious
services I am about to describe impose
upon their members a stricter rule of
earlier hours, etc. They are called New
(or Reformed) Mennists.

It was on Whitsunday, May 31, 1868,
that I paid a visit to one of our New
Mennist meeting-houses, and found before
nine o’clock in the morning that the
services had already begun. The first
apartment we entered was a sort of tiring-room,
where along the walls hung the
shawls and black sun-bonnets of the
sisters. Here were also traveling-bags,
and a cradle stood ready to receive one
or more of the babies that were in attendance.
In the adjoining room were heard
the familiar notes of “Old Hundred,”
and “Du bist der Weg” was sung pleasantly
without any instrumental accompaniment.

When we entered the whitewashed
apartment in which the meeting had assembled
I saw upon a small platform at
the farther end five men, who were apparently
preachers or elders. At the
same end of the room were seated the
soberly clad members of the sect—the
men on one side of the apartment, with
their broad-brimmed hats removed; on
the other side the sisters, with their extremely
plain book-muslin caps and
otherwise sober attire.

A portion of the services was in English.
Dr. ——, a practitioner of medicine
and a bishop in this Church, spoke
extemporaneously in our language. He
gave a long account of the ordinances
of the Jewish Church, and then of those
which the “Lord Jesus instituted in the
place of these—the baptism that was
celebrated a week ago, and this Lord’s
Supper, this feet-washing, this kiss of
peace, this manner of visiting offenders;”
the last phrase being an allusion
to the severe rule which forbids the New
or Reformed Mennists to eat, etc. with
those excommunicated by the society.

The Mennists, as I understand, hold
in general those doctrines that are
[pg 720]
considered evangelical. The services were
much prolonged, and the congregation
became restless. But at length, while
a younger brother was speaking in
“Dutch” or German, there came in another
bearing a parcel wrapped in a white
cloth. He was followed by one
carrying something tied in a blue-and-white
cloth, which being opened disclosed
a demijohn. The white parcel
was received by the preacher upon the
desk, and when opened showed a great
loaf of our beautiful Lancaster county
bread divided into slices. After prayer
several preachers took slices, and passing
around among the congregation
broke off bits which they gave to the
communicants. The wine in the demijohn
was then poured into small, bright
tin cups, like milkmen’s measures, and
was distributed among the members. A
hymn in the German language was
sung, two lines at a time, while the wine
was handed round.

After these services were concluded
feet-washing began by reading the passage
from the 13th chapter of John on
the subject, and this was followed by
many remarks. I observed that one
elderly brother, speaking in a mournful
tone and in our Dutch manner, quoted,
“Nimmermehr soll du mein Fees
wasche” (“Thou shalt never wash my
feet”). These discourses were followed
by the announcement, “Next Sunday
there will be bread-breaking at
Landisville.”

Now arose a confusion from carrying
out benches, from arranging others in two
long rows facing each other, etc. The
two principal preachers were seen disencumbered
of their coats, much animated
conversation began, and feet-washing
did not seem to be observed
with so much seriousness as the Supper.
I took a seat near the end of two long
benches which were arranged to face
each other, and on which sat some of
the brethren whose feet were to be washed
by one of the preachers. Common
unpainted tubs containing water were
brought in by two men. Dr. ——, the
bishop already mentioned, had a great
piece of white linen tied around his
waist. He passed along between the
two rows of men as they sat facing
each other, bearing his tub alternately
from a brother in one row to one in the
other, so that both rows were finished at
about the same time. Quietly the men
took off their shoes and stockings. They
did not put their feet forward much. As
Dr. —— came to each participant he
set his tub down before him, washed his
feet a little, wiped them on the long
white apron or towel, then shook hands
with him and kissed him. He thus
ministered to thirty persons, a somewhat
laborious undertaking, but his powerful
frame was suited to the exertion. The
same water and the same towel served
for all.

Meantime, the sisters, in another part
of the room, were arranged in smaller
companies on benches placed in a similar
manner. I said to a sister, “Do the
preachers wash the sisters’ feet?”

“Oh no,” she answered: “the sisters
does it.”

Some of the sisters were very friendly,
and not unwilling to converse. One
said, “One sister washes as many as she
is pretty well able: it’s hard on the
back.”

“And does she have a towel?” said I.

“She girds a towel, and then she
washes and wipes them, and gives them
a kiss.”

“Do you all have your feet washed?”
I inquired further.

“No, not those that have any weakness
that prevents.”

“And will all these brothers have their
feet washed?”

“All that communes.”

“And do not all commune?”

“Yes, without they feel that they have
something against another. Now if I
feel that I have something against her—placing
her hand upon a sister.

“I understand,” interrupted I. “‘If
thou bring thy gift to the altar—’ And
how many,” I continued, “will there
be in such a meeting as this that will
not commune? Will there be half a
dozen?”

“Oh yes; but by another year all will
likely be right, and then they will
[pg 721]
commune. Now, I did not commune nor
have my feet washed.”

“Why not?” said I.

“Why, I felt at this time such confusion
of mind, as if the Enemy was
against me—”

“Well, it was not anything against a
brother or sister?”

“No, I count them all ahead of me:
I count myself the poorest member.”

At the conclusion of the feet-washing
a hymn was sung. Among those who
had their feet washed was a young man
apparently about twenty-two, and who
looked full of fun. It seems that even
such may be in membership with so
strict a sect. It was about one o’clock
when the meeting ended, having been
in session four hours and a half.

The great simplicity of the surroundings
on this occasion may lead the reader
to suppose that the congregation was
poor. It was, however, composed in a
great measure of some of the thriftiest
farmers in one of the richest upland sections
of the United States.

Some time after attending this meeting
I called upon an aged Amish man to
converse with him upon their religious
society, etc. The Amish are another
branch of the Mennonites, and those
among us are likewise descendants of
Swiss refugees. They are the most
primitive of the three divisions of the
sect, preserving the use of the Dutch or
German language not only in their religious
meetings, but almost entirely in
their own families.

I mentioned to this aged man the feet-washing
that I had attended, and told
how Dr. ——, the bishop, had washed
the feet of the other brethren.

“Did he wash them all?” said my
Amish acquaintance.

“Yes, all that were assigned to him.
How is it among you?”

“They wash each other’s, every two
and two. If he washes them all, he
puts himself in Christ’s place. He says,
‘Wash each other’s feet.'”

This, I am also informed, is the rule
among the third division, the Old Mennists,
the most numerous branch of these
remarkable people.

P.E.G.

THE RAW AMERICAN.

London at present abounds in Americans
on their way to the Vienna Exposition.
Many of them are commissioners
from various States. Some have
lands to sell or other financial axes to
grind. Of such the Langham Hotel is
full. The Langham is the nearest approach
to an American hotel in London.
There, though not a guest, you may pass
in and out without explaining to the
hall-porter who you are, what you are,
where you come from or what you want:
you may there enter and retire without
giving your pedigree, naturalization papers
or a certificate of good character.
At other English hotels something analogous
to this is commonly required.

We, who have been in England a full
year, look down with an air of superiority
on the raw, the newly-arrived American.
We are quite English. We have
worn out our American clothes. We
have on English hats with tightly-curled
rims and English stub-toed boots. We
know the intricacies of London street
navigation, and Islington, Blackfriars,
Camden Town, Hackney, the “Surrey
Side,” Piccadilly, Regent and Oxford
streets, the Strand and Fleet street, are
all mapped out distinctly in our mind’s
eye. We are skilled in English money,
and no longer pass off half crowns for
two-shilling pieces. We are real Anglo-Americans.

But the raw American, only arrived a
week, is in a maze, a confusion, a hurry.
He is excited and mystified. He tries
to appear cool and unconcerned, and is
simply ridiculous. His cards, bearing
his name, title and official status, he distributes
as freely as doth the winter wind
the snow-flakes. Inquire at the Langham
office for Mr. Smith, and you find
he has blossomed into General Smith.

He is always partaking or about to
partake of official dinners. He feels
that the eyes of all England are upon
him. He is dressed à la bandbox—hat
immaculate in its pristine gloss, white
cravat, umbrella of the slimmest encased
in silken wrapper. A speck of mud on
his boots would tarnish the national
honor. Commonly, he is taken for a
[pg 722]
head-butler. He drinks much stout.
He eats a whitebait dinner before being
forty-eight hours in London, and tells of
it. All this makes him feel English.

You meet him. He is overjoyed. He
would talk of everything—your mutual
experience in America, his sensations
and impressions since arriving in England.
He talks intelligibly of nothing.
His brain is a mere rag-bag, shreddy,
confused, parti-colored. Thus he empties
it: “Passage over rough;” “London
wonderful;” “Dined with the earl of —— yesterday;”
“Dine with Sir ——
to-day;” “To the Tower;” “Westminster;”
“New York growing;” “Saint
Paul’s”—going, going, gone! and he
shakes hands with you, and is off at a
Broadway gait straight toward the East
End of London for his hotel, which lies
at the West End.

In reality, the man is not in his right
mind. He is undergoing the mental acclimatization
fever. Should he stay in
London for three months, he might recover
and begin to find out where he is.
But six months hence he will have returned
to America, fancying he has seen
London, Paris, Rome, Geneva, Vienna,
and whatever other places his body has
been hurried through, not his mind; for
that, in the excitement and rapidity of
his flight, has streamed behind him like
the tail of a comet, light, attenuated,
vapory, catching nothing, absorbing
nothing.

Occasionally this fever takes an abusive
phase. He finds in England nothing
to like, nothing to admire. Sometimes
he wishes immediately to revolutionize
the government. He is incensed
at the cost of royalty. He sees on every
side indications of political upheaval.
Or he becomes culinarily disgusted.
Because there are no buckwheat cakes,
no codfish cakes, no hot bread, no pork
and beans, no mammoth oysters, stewed,
fried and roasted, he can find nothing
fit to eat. The English cannot cook.
Because he can find no noisy, clattering,
dish-smashing restaurant, full of acrobatic
waiters racing and balancing under
immense piles of plates, and shouting
jargon untranslatable, unintelligible and
unpronounceable down into the lower
kitchen, he cannot, cannot eat.

PRENTICE MULFORD.

FAREWELL.

The occasion commemorated in the
following verses—one of those festive
meetings with which tender-hearted
Philadelphians are wont to brace themselves
up for sorrowful partings—called
forth expressions of deep regret and cordial
good wishes, in which many of our
readers, we doubt not, will readily join:

If from my quivering lips in vain

The faltering accents strove to flow,

It was because my heart’s deep pain

Bade tears be swift and utterance slow;

For in that moment rose the ghosts

Of pleasant hours in bygone years;

And your kind faces, O my hosts!

Showed blurred and dimly through my tears.

I could not tell you of the pride

That thrilled me in that parting hour:

Grief held command all undenied,

And only o’er my speech had power.

I found no words to tell the thoughts

That strove for utterance in my brain:

With gratitude my soul was fraught,

And yet I only spoke of pain.

O friends! ’tis you, and such as you,

That make this parting hard to bear!

Pass all things else my past life knew:

I scarcely heed—I do not care.

I lose in you the dearest part

Of pleasant time that here now ends:

Hand parts from hand, not heart from heart,

And I must leave you, O my friends!

What can the future’s fairest hours

Bring me to recompense for these?

Acquaintances spring like the flowers—

Friends are slow growth, like forest trees.

Come hope or gladness, what there will—

Days bright as sunshine after rain—

The past gave life’s best blessings still:

We’ll find no friends like these again.

I leave you in the dear old home

That once was mine—now mine no more:

Henceforth a stranger I must come

To haunts so well beloved of yore;

Yet if your faces turn to mine

The kindly smile I’m wont to see,

Not all, not all I must resign—

My lost home’s light still shines for me!

Whatever chance or change be mine

In other climes, ‘neath foreign skies,

Your love, your kindness, I shall hold

Dearest amid dear memories.

O eyes grown dim with falling tears!

O lips where Sorrow lays her spell!

The saddest task of all life’s years

Is yours—to look and say farewell!

LUCY H. HOOPER.

AUGUSTIN’S, April 7, 1873.

[pg 723]

NOTES.

Between the careers of Cavour and
Thiers no sound parallel can easily be
traced, but in their characters—or rather
in their diplomatic methods and arts—there
would seem to be some curious
and almost ludicrous points of resemblance,
if we may accept as true a sketch
of the great Italian statesman made
by M. Plattel, the author of “Causeries
Franco-Italiennes,” fifteen years ago.
M. Plattel, who wrote from close personal
observation, at that time described
Count Cavour as being physically “M.
Thiers magnified;” or, if you prefer, M.
Thiers is the count viewed through the
big end of an opera-glass. The count,
says M. Plattel, “has the spectacles, and
even a similar expression of finesse.
When things take a serious turn, the
count puts both hands in his pockets;
and if you see him do that, expect to
hear this threat: ‘If you do not pass
this bill, signori deputati, I consider you
incapable of longer managing the affairs
of the country: I have the honor of bidding
you good-evening.’ For (and this
is a strange peculiarity) this first minister
is never steadier than when in danger
of falling; and his grand oratorical, or
rather ministerial, figure of speech is to
seize his hat and his cane, whereupon
the chamber rises and begs M. de Cavour
to sit down. M. de Cavour lets
them plead a while, and then—he sits
down again! Reading his speeches now
in Paris, I can fancy the count with his
hat by his side and his hand on the
door-knob. Heaven knows how many
times that comedy-proverb of Musset
called ‘A door must either be open or
shut,’ has been gravely played by the
Sardinian Parliament and the prime minister!”
It is with a very droll effect that
a French paper has revived this curious
description, à propos of the perpetual
repetition of the drama played by the
French Assembly and the French president,
in which the constant threats of
resignation on the one hand are invariably
followed by passionate and despairing
entreaties to “stay” on the other.
It is the old story of Cavour and the
door-knob over again; and even the
great Bismarck, by the way, does not
disdain a resort occasionally to the same
terrible pantomime. “The only coup
d’état to be feared from M. Thiers,” said
M. Dufaure in the Assembly, “is his
withdrawal.” It is, the quarreling and
reconciliation of Horace and Lydia:
“What if the door of the repudiated
Lydia again open to me?” “Though
you are stormier than blustering Adriatic,
I should love to live with you,” etc. Such
is the billing and cooing, after quarrel,
between the president and the Assembly.
Still, it is clear that the puissant
hat-and-cane argument must date back
to Cavour.

The recent proposition of some English
writers to elevate a certain class
of suicides to the rank of a legalized
“institution,” under the pleasant name of
“euthanasia,” suggests the inquiry
whether, without any scientific vindication
of the practice, there will not always
be suicides enough in ordinary society.
At any rate, however it may be in England,
just across the Channel, in France,
thousands of people every year break
the “canon ‘gainst self-slaughter,” leaving
the ills they have to “fly to others
that they know not of.” The official
figures show that in a period of twenty-two
years no less than 71,207 persons
committed suicide in France. The causes
were various—business embarrassments,
domestic chagrins, the brutishness produced
by liquor, poverty, insanity, the
desire to put an end to physical suffering
by “euthanasia,” and so on; but
they are pretty nearly all included in the
“fardels” which Hamlet mentions, from
the physical troubles of the “heartache
and the thousand natural shocks that
flesh is heir to,” up to the mental distress
wrought by the “whips and scorns of
time, the oppressor’s wrong, the proud
man’s contumely, the pangs of despised
love,” and so on in the well-remembered
catalogue. Perhaps the most interesting
point in these statistics concerns the
means employed for suicide. These are
thus tabulated: Hanging, 24,536; drowning,
23,221; shooting, 10,197; asphyxia
by charcoal fumes (a true Paris appliance),
[pg 724]
5587; various cutting instruments,
2871; plunging or jumping from an
elevated place (an astonishing number),
2841; poison, 1500; sundry other methods,
454. Hanging and drowning are
thus accountable for more than half the
French suicides. The little stove of
charcoal suggests itself as a remedy at
hand to many a wretch without the
means to buy a pistol or the nerve to
use a knife. The cases of voluntary
resort to poison are astonishingly few,
but it must be remembered that the foregoing
figures only embrace successful
suicides, and antidotes to poison often
come in season where the rope or the
river would have made quick and fatal
work. La France notes, regarding these
statistics, that their details show that men
oftenest use pistols, and women oftenest
try poison, in their attempts at suicide.
What is more curious, each man is likely
to employ an instrument familiar to
him: thus, hunters and soldiers resort
to the pistol, barbers trust the razor,
shoemakers use the knife, engravers the
graving-tool, washerwomen poison themselves
with potash or Prussian blue;
though, of course, these are only general
rules, with a great many exceptions.
And in Paris it is said that among all
ranks and professions, and in both sexes,
at least half of the suicides are by
asphyxiation with charcoal. Surely in
France one hardly needs to preach any
doctrine of not patiently suffering the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
A healthier and more inspiring morality
would be that of the story of the baron
of Grogzwig and his adventure with the
“Genius of Despair and Suicide,” as
narrated in an episode of Nicholas
Nickleby; for the stout baron, after
thinking over his purpose of making a
voluntary departure from this world,
and finding he had no security of being
any the better for going out of it, abandoned
the plan, and adopted as a rule
in all cases of melancholy to look at
both sides of the question, and to apply
a magnifying-glass to the better one.

In Philadelphia, at least, where there
is still a respect for age, the tidings will
be received with respectful regret of the
death of Nono, a noted pensionary of
the Jardin des Plantes in Paris, at the
ripe age of more than a hundred years.
To have achieved the celebrity of being
the oldest inmate of that institution
was no despicable distinction, but
the venerable centenarian had other
claims to honor. A native of the Marquesas
Islands, he was brought by Bougainville
in 1776 to the Royal Museum,
afterward known as the Jardin des
Plantes. It has frequently been alleged
that parrots may live a hundred years:
Nono has established the fact by living
still longer. As he thus contributes an
illustration to science, so surely he might
point a general moral and adorn a historic
tale. If Thackeray could discourse
so wisely on “Some Carp at Sans Souci,”
the vicissitudes which this veteran Parisian
witnessed in the French capital
from 1776 to 1873, under two empires,
two royal dynasties and three republics,
might be worth a rhapsody. Nono seems
to have been a well-preserved old parrot.
Magnificent in youth, he attained
literally a green old age, for his plumage
was still fresh and thick. Very naturally,
he had lost his houppe, and was
almost totally bald. However, his eye
was clear and bright enough to have
read the finest print or followed the
finest needlework; and it had the narquois,
lightly skeptical look of those who
have seen a great deal of life. In short,
Nono was a stylish and eminently respectable
old bird. That worthy person,
Monsieur Chavreul, who treats the
animals of the Jardin like a father,
has stuffed and mounted the illustrious
Nono as a testimonial of affection and
respect.

The connection between war and
botany is, at first, not specially obvious,
and yet a very clear bit of testimony to
their relation was disclosed by the siege
of Paris. Two naturalists have published
a Florula Obsidionalis, which, as its
name partly indicates, is a catalogue of
the accidental flora of the late investment
of Paris. They reckon in their
list not less than one hundred and ninety
[pg 725]
species before unknown to the neighborhood
of the French capital, whereof
fifty-eight are leguminous (such as peas,
beans, etc.), thirty-four are composite,
thirty-two are plantes grasses, and sixty-six
belong to other families. Almost all
are to be found chiefly on the left bank
of the Seine, though also discoverable
at Neuilly and in the Bois de Boulogne.
Of course, these new-comers are all
accounted for as the produce of seeds
brought by the German army. They
will gradually die out; and yet some few
may remain as permanent conquerors
of the soil, since among the flora of
Paris is still reckoned one plant whose
seed was brought into France by some
Russian forage-train in 1815.

As the impudence, dishonesty, laziness
and rapacity of servants at watering-places
have long been familiar subjects
of satire, it is just to say a word on
the other side in favor of some extreme
Northern resorts. At the White Mountains,
for example, the waiters and waitresses
are of a better class than is generally
met. Some of the young girls are
farmers’ daughters, who go to the hotels
to see the fashions and earn a little
pocket-money. The colored cook at
one of the great houses teaches dancing
during the winters. Not a few are
school-teachers, others students at country
academies, who pass their vacation
in this way in order to earn enough
to buy text-books or pay the winter’s
tuition. Many of them are more intelligent
and well educated than some of
the shoddies they wait upon. They are
usually quicker in movement and of
more retentive memory than the average
American waiter; and though each has
a great deal to do at times, yet even
during the tremendous moment of dinner
they contrive to find a few little intervals
for harmless flirtations in the
dining-room. They are for the most
part well-mannered too, and if they talk
to you of each other as “this lady” or
“that gentleman,” what is it more than
some waiters do with far less reason?
The New Hampshire villages become
versed every summer in the latest imported
fashions, thanks to the quick eyes
of the hotel waitresses.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Lars: A Pastoral of Norway. By Bayard
Taylor. Boston: Osgood & Co.

Mr. Taylor’s muse has of late become very
still-faced, decorous and mindful of the art-proprieties.
Cautious is she, and there is
perhaps nothing in this pastoral that will
cause the grammarian to wince, or make the
censorious rhetorician writhe in his judgment-seat
with the sense that she is committing
herself. Not such were the early attributes
of the great itinerant’s poetry. When he
used to unsling his minstrel harp in the wilds
of California or on the sunrise mountains of
the Orient, there were plenty of false notes,
plenty of youthful vivacities that overbore
the strings and were heard as a sudden
crack, and, withal, a good deal of young
frank fire. Now there is much finish and
the least possible suspicion of ennui. But
the life-history of Lars is worth reading. It
is a calm procession of pictures, without pretence,
except the slight pretence of classical
correctness. The first part, which reflects
Norwegian manners in a way reminding us
more or less of the exquisite stories of Bjornsen,
tells how two swains of Ulvik, Lars the
hunter and Per the fisher, quarrel for love
of Brita, and at a public wrestling decide the
question by a combat, fighting with knives,
in Norse fashion, while hooked to each other
at the belt. They strip, à la Heenan and
Sayers. Mr. Taylor, who does not often
come behind the occasion when he can get
a human figure to describe statue-wise or
[pg 726]
under a studio light, is perhaps a trifle too
Phidian in bringing out the good looks of
his fish-eating gladiators:

The low daylight clad

Their forms with awful fairness, beauty now

Of life, so warm and ripe and glorious, yet

So near the beauty terrible of Death.

Lars, the victor, has all the ill-luck. His
foe falls lifeless, his sweetheart calls him a
murderer, and he flies from the law. Another
scene quickly shows him crossing the
broad ocean, as so many Norwegians and
Swedes had crossed before him, and seeking
the protection of Swedish forts on Delaware
banks. Long, sad days pass on the ocean,

Till shining fisher-sails

Came, stars of land that rose before the land;

and soon he leaps to shore in New Sweden,
only to find that the civilization he seeks has
set like a sinking planet into the abiding
enlightenment of another race and creed.
Governor Printz’s fortress on Tinicum isle is
a ruin of yellow bricks: the wanderer strays
up the broad stream

To where, upon her hill, fair Wilmington

Looks to the river over marshy weeds.

He saw the low brick church with stunted tower,

The portal-arches, ivied now and old,

And passed the gate: lo! there the ancient stones

Bore Norland names and dear familiar words!

It seemed the dead a comfort spake.

The governor is a myth, the Swedes are
dead, the Scandinavian tongues have been
changed to English, and an English exactly
conformed to King James’s translation of the
Scriptures. The first girl he speaks to checks
him for addressing her with a civility:

“Nay,” she said, “not lady! call me Ruth.”

With the father of this primitive Nausicaa,
on Hockessin Farm, the wanderer abides as
herdsman. Soon, under the propaganda of
Ruth’s soft eyes and the drowsy spell of the
Delawarean society, he joins the peaceful
sect amongst which he labors. It is easier,
though, to change his plural pronouns to the
scriptural thou and thee of King James’s
translators than to tame his heroic Viking
blood, swift to boil into wrath at the show
of oppression. Such an outburst leads to a
quaint scene of acknowledgment and repentance,
where lies

Up beyond the woods, at crossing-roads,

The heart of all, the ancient meeting-house.

Lars, prayed over by the brethren, bursts
forth in tears and supplications among the
worshipers, and is received into full harmony
with them:

So into joy revolved the doubtful year,

And, ere it closed, the gentle fold of Friends

Sheltered another member, even Lars….

And all the country-side assembled there

One winter Sabbath, when in snow and sky

The colors of transfiguration shone,

Within the meeting-house. There Ruth and Lars

Together sat upon the women’s side;

And when the peace was perfect, they arose:

He took her by the hand, and spake these words,

As ordered: “In the presence of the Lord

And this assembly, by the hand I take

Ruth Mendenhall, and promise unto her,

Divine assistance blessing me, to be

A loving and a faithful husband, even

Till death shall separate us.” Then spake Ruth

The like sweet words; and so the twain were one.

It is not often that a liturgy has been translated
into metre with less change of its form
and substance.

The imbedding of a raw Northern native
in this lap of repose and in this transfiguring
matrimonial alliance is the grand problem
of the poem. What will Lars do, now that
he is a man of peace and a Child of Light,
with the burden of conscience? In America
he is a saint and an apostle. In Europe he
is known but as a proscribed murderer. The
later scenes, where Lars, accompanied by his
true and tender wife, meets his old love,
his neighbors, and his rival restored to life,
are of a more ambitious character than any
that have preceded. The holy principles
imbibed on the shores of Delaware are made
to triumph, and Lars, dropping the sharp
blade from his hand in the thronged arena
whither he is forced once more, stands first
as a laughing-stock, and then as an apostle,
among his old neighbors. It is a position
full of moral force, and we find ourselves—suddenly
recovering in a degree from the
calm view we had taken of the poem as a
work of art—asking how we should be so
sensible of the grandeur of the situation if
the poet by his skill had not brought out its
peculiarity.

A Lady of the Last Century. By Dr. Doran.
London: Bentley.

This is the life of a lady remarkable in
herself and in her surroundings. Of every
day in her life she could say, in the words
of Horace, “I have lived.” “She never
had a fool for an acquaintance,” says her
biographer, “nor an idle hour in the sense of
idleness.” Her father, Mr. Robinson, who
belonged to an eminent family which had
[pg 727]
been settled about a century at Rokeby, subsequently
the seat of Scott’s friend Morritt,
in Yorkshire, married when a boy of eighteen
a rich young lady of very superior quality in
every respect, and by her had a large family.
His wife’s mother married secondly Middleton,
the biographer of Cicero, who took a
great fancy to her grand-daughter, Elizabeth
Robinson, and paid much attention to her
intellectual development. In fact, from the
cradle to the grave she was thrown amongst
the erudite and cultivated in a very uncultivated
age. During her girlhood Elizabeth
Robinson had every advantage and pleasure
which wealthy and devoted parents could
give her, and when twenty-two she married
Mr. Edward Montagu, a grandson of the first
earl of Sandwich, and first cousin of the
celebrated Lady Mary’s husband.

Mrs. Montagu was far more fortunate in
her choice than the brilliant daughter of
the duke of Kingston. Her husband was in
every way estimable and amiable, and her
letters afford ample evidence how thoroughly
she appreciated his character. They had
only one child, who died in infancy, and
when Mr. Montagu died he bequeathed to
his widow the whole of his property, which
she in turn left to her nephew, who took the
name of Montagu and became Lord Rokeby.

A few years after their marriage Mr. Montagu,
already affluent, received a great accession
of fortune in the shape of colliery
property in the north of England. This enabled
his wife to entertain very liberally,
and, in conjunction with her talents and
high connections, gave her a commanding
place in society. They took a large house
in Hill street, then the extremity of the West
End, which became the resort of that class
who, being anxious to put an end to eternal
card-playing and introduce rather more of the
intellectual into social intercourse, received
from a chance circumstance the name of
“blue-stockings.” There were to be seen
Burke, Fox, Hannah More, Johnson, Lord
Lyttelton, etc. Subsequently, Mrs. Montagu
fitted up a room whose walls were hung with
feathers, and thence came Cowper’s well-known
lines and Macaulay’s passage: “There
were the members of that brilliant society
which quoted, criticised and exchanged
repartees under the rich peacock hangings
of Mrs. Montagu.” After her husband’s
death a great deal of business devolved on
her in the management of his estates, and
here she showed those qualities which are
singularly conspicuous in Englishwomen of
rank. She went down to Northumberland,
inspected her farms, visited her colliers, and
made acquaintance with her tenants. She
seems particularly to have appreciated the
people in Yorkshire, and her descriptions of
them recall in no slight degree some of those
of the sisters Bronté. Her principal seat
was at Sandleford in Berkshire, where she
spent large sums in improvements under the
celebrated landscape-gardener “Capability
Brown.”

She survived her husband twenty-five
years, and about twenty years before her
death removed to a fine house which she
had erected in a then new part of London,
Portman Square, and which is still known
as Montagu House. But the entertainments
there given were, though more splendid, less
notable than in the humbler mansion in Hill
street, for Mrs. Montagu herself was getting
into years, and many of those who had been
the brightest ornaments of the Hill street
parties were passing away. Mrs. Montagu
died in 1800, at the age of seventy. She
was of an affectionate disposition, but had
somewhat less sensibility perhaps than most
men would like to see in a woman; yet, on
the whole, she played her part in life extremely
well, being wise, generous and true.

The book is particularly interesting for the
rich aroma of association around it, and
would have been far more so had Dr. Doran
taken the trouble to give a few notes, of
which there is not a single one in the whole
book—a serious drawback, more especially
to American readers.

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

Mr. Cushing has given another proof of
the great capacity of some men to do very
clever work, but to fail utterly in giving an
adequate account of the work itself or of the
way in which it was done. Trained by long
experience in public business, and intimately
acquainted by long residence in Washington
with the methods of diplomatic negotiation
and interpretation, he was eminently fitted
to be the colleague of Mr. Evarts as counsel
for the government before the Geneva arbitration.
Here he undertakes to give an account
of the task there brought to a result so
[pg 728]
favorable to the United States. Unluckily,
he shows that he is always and only an advocate.
Much that may have been useful
for his duties in that office is prominent in a
disagreeable way in his recital of the Geneva
award. His language is loose and offensive,
often without meaning to be so, but oftener
in a way that shows how much he must have
been galled by the lord chief-justice of England.
Whatever Sir Alexander Cockburn
may have done there, and however much he
may have fallen from his high estate as one
of the arbitrators to the less dignified position
of an advocate for English claims, he will
have a sweet revenge in seeing the anger
that he has excited in one of the American
representatives, now become their spokesman.
Mr. Cushing falls into the blunder
that was once so common in our American
state papers as to give good cause for that
happy phrase of Nicholas Biddle—”Western
Orientalisms.” The tone of the book, which
ought to be a simple story, is stilted and
rhetorical. The result of all the long discussions
is the best praise of our American
statesmen who were its authors, but it is
dwarfed and lessened by the fulsome praise
given to the foreign representatives who
brought it about. Of “bad language,” in
keeping with the bad spirit of the book, the
following may serve as specimens: “Pretensiveness,”
“frequentation,” “annexion,”
“capitulations” instead of “treaties,” “monogram”
for “monograph,” “it needs to,”
“howmuchsoever,” “law-books invested
with the reflection of fine scenery,” “imposed
itself,” “I demand of myself,” and
other such phrases without number.

Once done with Sir Alexander Cockburn
and the work at Geneva, Mr. Cushing shows
himself and his country to much better advantage
in discussing the “Mixed Commission”
now sitting at Washington, the Northwest
Boundary, the Fisheries, and the general
provisions of the Washington treaty.
He has, however, simply forestalled the
ground for some better writer on the important
history which belongs to that negotiation,
and will give the reading and reflecting public,
both abroad and at home, a very unfavorable
impression of the great task in which
he played so important a part, and of the
qualities of mind and temper he must have
brought to it, since at this late day he finds
no better impetus to the work of writing its
history than unexplained anger at one of the
members of the board before which Mr.
Cushing argued the cause of his country,
and helped to win it.

Books Received.

The Drawing-Room Stage: A Series of
Original Dramas, Comedies, Farces, and
Entertainments for Amateur Theatricals
and School Exhibitions. By George M.
Baker. Illustrated. Boston: Lee &
Shepard.

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

Memoirs of Madame Desbordes-Valmore.
By the late C.A. Sainte-Beuve. With a
Selection from her Poems. Translated
by Harriet W. Preston. Boston: Roberts
Brothers.

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

The Mother’s Register: Current Notes of
the Health of Children. From the French
of Professor J.B. Fonssagrines. New
York: G.P. Putnam & Sons.

Thorvaldsen: His Life and Works. By Eugene
Plon. Translated from the French
by J. M. Luyster. Illustrated. Boston:
Roberts Brothers.

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

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

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

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

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

Myths and Myth-Makers. By John Fiske,
M.A., LL.B. Boston: James R. Osgood
& Co.

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

LIPPINCOTT’S MAGAZINE

OF

POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

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

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

A NEW ATLANTIS.

THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867.

SLAINS CASTLE.

OUR HOME IN THE TYROL

CHAPTER III.

A WEEK’S SORROW.

CHAPTER IV.

SAINT ROMUALDO.

A PRINCESS OF THULE.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

“O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!”

CHAPTER IX.

“FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!”

THE EMERALD.

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

BOWERY ENGLAND.

DAY-DREAM.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS.

THE RAW AMERICAN.

FAREWELL.

NOTES.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Books Received.

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