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 1934 
 
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 PS 1797.L2 
 
 A land of love 
 
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 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
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A 
 
 Land of Love. 
 
 BY 
 
 SIDNEY LUSKA, 
 
 AUTHOR or "THE YOKB OF THE THORAH," "AS IT WAS WRITTEN' 
 "MRS. PBIXADA," ETC. 
 
 '"Tis thus that an ardent youngster makes 
 The Latin Quarter a land of love." 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman's translation 
 of Jean Prouvaire'a Song. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
Copyright, 1887, by J. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
LIPPINCOTT'S 
 ]y[ONTHLY ]y[AGAZINE. 
 
 AUGUST, 188 7. 
 
 A LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 'Tis thus that an ardent youngster makes 
 The Latin Quarter a land of love." 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman'e translation 
 of Jean Prouvaire* a Song* 
 
 AFTER Stephen Ormizon had put the finishing touches to the last 
 page of his novel, A Voice from the WUde7-ness, — which he did 
 in Paris, early in August, 1885, — he was anxious, for precautionary 
 reasons that we need not enter into here, to have a copy made of the 
 manuscript ; and to this end he advertised for a copyist in the Morning 
 News. The post brought him thirteen replies : ominous number. Of 
 these, six were hopelessly bad in the prerequisite of penmanship. Six 
 ■were edifying specimens of English as she can be wrote, when venture- 
 some and intrepid Frenchmen seriously bend their minds to it. The 
 thirteenth, also, appeared to be of native authorship ; but it was feasi- 
 ble. Written in a delicate feminine hand, upon paper that was haunted 
 by the mere ghost of a sweet smell, it ran thus : 
 
 " No. — , EuE SouFFLOT, August 8, 1885. 
 " SiH, — In response to the enclosed advertisement, cut from the 
 Morning News of yesterday, I beg leave to say that I should very much 
 like to make the copy which you desire, if you infer from this example 
 that my handwriting will be suitable, 
 
 " Very respectfully yours, 
 
 ' " D. Peesonettb. 
 " To Monsieur S. O., Office of the Morning News." 
 
 171 
 
172 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " I guess," said Ormizon to himself, — " I guess D. Personette is my 
 man ; though, on second thoughts, D. Personette is probably a woman. 
 I wonder whether she is an old woman or a young woman, a pretty 
 woman or an ugly woman, a married woman, or a single woman, or a 
 widow. This," sniffing at the pap.er, — " this perfume suggests some- 
 thing rather nice. So does the chirography. It's elegant and graceful, 
 and at the same time free from those nonsensical hair-lines and flourishes. 
 Yes, I suspect . . . Still, you can't be sure ; and quite possibly she's 
 not a woman, after all. These Frenchmen often write lady-like hands, 
 and scent their letters as they do their gloves and handkerchiefs. Well, 
 at any rate, I shall soon find out ; for Pll go at once and pay D. Per- 
 sonette a visit." 
 
 He had his boots blacked, and put on his best frock-coat. There 
 was no telling what sort of person this Personette might be ; and he 
 surmised that he should perhaps want to create a favorable impression. 
 If she were by chance a young and pretty woman, now, you under- 
 stand — ! Then he left his house, and after a walk of five or fewer 
 minutes — for he himself dwelt in Rue Gay-Lussac — was catechising 
 the concierge of No. — , Rue Soufflot. 
 
 " Monsieur Personette ?" he demanded, in an off-hand way. 
 
 As the conclusion of some debate with himself, he had resolved to 
 assume, for the purposes of a working hypothesis, the masculinity of 
 his correspondent ; impelled to do so, in part, it may be, because, se- 
 cretly hoping that the trutli was otherwise, he thus avoided from the 
 outset the risk of a disappointment. 
 
 " Monsieur Personette ?" the concierge rejoined, with a dubious 
 shrug and gesture. " Mademoiselle Personette, you wish to say, is it 
 not, monsieur ?" 
 
 " Ah, yes ; precisely ; Mademoiselle Personette. A quel 6tage ?" 
 
 And so a woman she was, in point of fact. Yet — mademoiselle? 
 Dire potentialities resided in that title mademoiselle. Mademoiselle 
 Personette? A vision of ancient spinsterhood, gray, tall, angular, 
 ascetic, with thin lips and a perpetual frown, clad in neat though 
 rusty alpaca, flitted rapidly before our hero's mental eye. Mademoi- 
 selle Personette. . . . Ah, well, it didn't much matter one way or the 
 other ; and, anyhow, time would show. 
 
 "Cinqui&me S, gauche," the concierge had meanwhile announced, 
 and retired within his den. 
 
 Ormizon tugged up five slippery flights of stairs, redolent of 
 beeswax, turpentine, and bygone cookery, and pulled the tasselled bell- 
 cord that dangled outside the door at the left of the topmost landing. 
 The door at the right was decorated with a tin sign, proclaiming, " Dr. 
 Maccarin, Dentiste Am6ricain." It didn't look like a very American 
 name; but it gave Ormizon for an instant a glow of compatriotic 
 feeling. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Personette, is she at home ?" he asked of the woman 
 who presently opened to him, doubtful whether this might not be 
 Mademoiselle Personette herself. 
 
 " Ah, oui, monsieur," she answered, with that peculiar Parisian 
 inflection which no combination of letters can be made to render, and 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 173 
 
 which seems to give to "Ah, oui" the force of "Why, of course. 
 You ought to have known it." " Take the pain, monsieur, to enter 
 into the salon, and to seat yourself." 
 
 Obviously, this was not Mademoiselle Personette. He handed her 
 his visiting-card, and added, " Say that it is the gentleman who adver- 
 tised in the Morning News." 
 
 " Hein, oui, monsieur ; le Mawnee Noose," she repeated, with a toss 
 of the head, to show that she understood ; and, dropping a courtesy, 
 vanished. 
 
 After she was gone, he sat down, and began to look around him. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was rather a pretty, though a very modest, little room, this salon ; 
 a bright, cheerful little room ; triangle-shaped, or nearly so, as such a 
 number of rooms in Paris are. The walls were panelled in white and 
 gold; though the white had begun to turn yellow, and the gold to 
 tarnish, — in some places, indeed, to scale off. An immense looking- 
 glass, in a gilt frame sculptured with flowers and leaves and grotesque 
 grinning faces, surmounted the mantel, by the aid of which Ormizon 
 gave a touch or two to his cravat and subdued a refractory lock of hair. 
 By chains, from the centre of the ceiling, swung a large old-fashioned 
 lamp, of bronze and porcelain, with a shade big enough for an um- 
 brella. A flood of sunshine pouring in through the open windows 
 did a great deal to atone for a certain scantiness of furniture, and sup- 
 plied the place of a carpet upon the highly-polished floor. An upright 
 piano, with a lot of music piled on top of it, an engraving of Titian's 
 Flora, two little landscapes in oil, a photograph of the Cathedral at 
 Rouen, and a plaster bust of Victor Hugo, spoke for the fine arts ; 
 while a well-filled book-case represented letters. The air bore a faint, 
 elusive, aromatic odor, something like sandal-wood, something like 
 dried rose-leaves, the source of which Ormizon could not determine, 
 but which, as he afterward found out, issued from a pot-pourri of old 
 red Kaga, on the centre-table, under the hanging lamp. He was try- 
 ing, not very successfully, to deduce from these surroundings some 
 more definite idea of their proprietress than he had got already from 
 the sound of her name, when the door opened, and 
 
 " Why, Mr. Ormizon !" cried an agreeable womanly voice, in 
 which surprise and pleasure were evenly blended. 
 
 In a twinkling Ormizon was on his feet and half-way across the 
 room. He saw before him a decidedly pretty, plump little lady, per- 
 haps thirty years of age, whose face was wreathed in smiles, and whose 
 hands were extended toward him in a manner that betokened great 
 and genuine cordiality, mingled with considerable bewilderment and 
 wonder. 
 
 " Why, Miss — why, Dr, — Gluck !" he stammered. " Why — well 
 — well, I declare !" 
 
 Then he took possession of the proffered hands ; and they stood 
 together, speechless, waiting each apparently for the other to commence 
 an explanation. 
 
174 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 ," Well — there — sit down — do," finally ejaculated the vivacious Dr. 
 Gluck, pushing him toward a chair, " And, for mercy's sake, tell me 
 what this means." 
 
 "I'm sure it surpasses my powers of elucidation," he confessed, 
 nodding his puzzled head. " You're the last person I expected to find 
 here. I called to see a certain Mademoiselle Personette — D. Personette, 
 she subscribes herself. Unless that's one of your noms de guerre " 
 
 " Oh, no. That's Denise. You see, Z61ie — ZSlie's the maid who 
 let you in — she thought Denise was at home ; and when she discovered 
 her mistake she came to me and gave me your card, — see, here it is, — 
 and when I read your name, — Mr. Stephen Ormizon, — well, you may 
 just imagine ! But I couldn't believe that it was really you until I 
 actually beheld you seated here. And even now — oh, it's too good to 
 be true. I'm not sure even now but you may be a ghost, an hallu- 
 cination." 
 
 " I'm a pretty substantial one, I give you my word. But you — 
 how — what — why, I didn't dream you were in Paris. I had an idea 
 you were in Vienna, or Berlin, or somewhere. Wasn't it Vienna you 
 were going to when you bade us all good-by ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but, then, you needn't have expected me to take root in 
 Vienna. I left there ages ago. I've been here — let me see — ever 
 since — why, it must be two years, almost. But you — have you dropped 
 straight out of the clouds ? Or where do you come from ? And when 
 did you arrive ? And how long are you going to stay ? And every- 
 thing? It — ^it's certainly the most extraordinary coincidence I ever 
 heard of in my life, upon my honor !" 
 
 " If you want to be correct, and complete the situation, you should 
 observe, with the air of having made a discovery, that it shows how 
 small the world is. That's the reflection cut and dried for just such 
 emergencies. But it is odd, joking aside. I arrived clear back in May 
 — the first week in May. I came from Italy — from Rome — where I 
 had been spending the winter, and basking under the Italian skies, 
 which shed rain-water upon us almost every day. . . . But to think ! 
 I never knew of anything more exasperating. It makes me want to 
 beat my breast and rend my garments. Well, it's just my luck." 
 
 " Why, what ? What's the matter ?" the doctor inquired, in evi- 
 dent alarm. 
 
 " Matter ! Why, to think of all this precious time that I have lost 
 
 — of all these weeks that I might have been enjoying in your society 
 
 if I had only had an inkling that you were here." 
 
 " Oh, well, never mind. No use crying over spilt milk. Besides, 
 we'll make up for it. Just fancy the jollifications we shall have now !" 
 
 " Yes — except that I've got to go home next month." 
 
 " Oh, is that so ?" — with falling voice. 
 
 " Yes ; I've engaged my passage for the 26th." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! that is too bad. But — but you can postpone it can't 
 you?" 
 
 " Alas, I'm afraid not. I've been away nearly a year already ; and 
 besides, I've got business to attend to in New York." ' ' 
 
 " Oh, well, we'll simply have to make the most of the meanwhile 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 175 
 
 then ; that's all. And we'll do it, never fear. To-day — to-day is the 
 8th, isn't it? And between now and the 26th of September — why, 
 there's a lifetime ! But tell me, how — oh, yes, I remember. You 
 came to see Denise. But what — ^what in the world can you want to 
 see Denise about ?" 
 
 " Why, yesterday, don't you know, I advertised in the Morning 
 News for a person to do some copying, and " 
 
 " Oh ! Then you — you are S. O. — the mysterious S. O. Well, I 
 never I" And the doctor broke into a merry peal of laughter. 
 
 " I can't say that I see the joke," Ormizon complained. 
 
 Repressing her mirth, " Well, it isn't exactly a joke," the doctor 
 admitted. " But Denise and I, we've speculated so much about who 
 S. O. might be, and what he was like, and everything — and then to 
 have it turn out to be you — you — well, it is too funny." 
 
 And she went off in a new peal of laughter. 
 
 " I'm glad it affords you so much amusement, I'm sure," he said, 
 nettled a little. 
 
 "Oh, there; you needn't get on your dignity; for it's entirely 
 charming, too. Do you know, we conceived of you — -just fancy ! — as 
 a wretched old Englishman, who took snuff, and had a red nose, and 
 great bushy gray whiskers. And we thought your name was Solomon 
 Oglesby, or something like that. And — oh, if Denise were only here ! 
 She— she'll be delighted." 
 
 " Will she, really ? Well, that's good. . . . And now, by the bye, 
 don't you think the proper moment has arrived for you to inform me 
 who Denise is ?" 
 
 " Why, Denise — why, she's Mademoiselle Personette, of course." 
 
 " That much I had already conjectured. I mean, who is Made- 
 moiselle Personette ? And how is she related to you ?" 
 
 " Oh, she's not related. She — she's my chum, and my dearest Mend, 
 and my prot6g6e, and — oh, it's a long story, all about Denise." 
 
 " Well, go on. Tell it to me. Do." 
 
 "Well, it begins away back at the time of my arrival here in 
 Paris. I went to a horrid little pension in the Rue Vanneau, kept 
 by a regular old cat whose name was Madame Minoir ; and there I 
 met Denise. She was boarding there, and we had seats next to each 
 other at table. She had recently lost her mother, who was an Ameri- 
 can lady ; and the poor little thing was completely broken down in 
 health and spirits. She did look so pathetic and interesting, in her 
 mourning, with her pale face and great dark eyes, that I was drawn to 
 her from the very first. So — well, I began to take French lessons 
 of her ; and I made her submit to my treatment ; and we fell desper- 
 ately in love with each other, and vowed never to separate, and all 
 that ; and finally, about a year ago, more or less, we rented this apart- 
 ment, and set up housekeeping together. It's awfully jolly, and free, 
 and independent ; perhaps a trifle unconventional ; but I'm old enough 
 to chaperon us both." 
 
 " I should think it would be delightful. And you — I suppose you 
 are carrying on your studies, of course, and getting wiser and wiser 
 every day?" 
 
176 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " Well, I'm working pretty hard — ^yes. I have a clinic of my own 
 in diseases of the ear; and then I'm going into animal magnetism, 
 mesmerism, hypnotism, and that sort of thing, a good deal. Some 
 time I'll tell you all about it. I dare say you've heard of Charcot's 
 experiments, — haven't you ? — and all the extraordinary results he has 
 obtained? Well, I'm immensely interested in following them. I 
 believe they will lead to a revolution in the theory and practice of 
 medicine, and elevate it from the plane of mere empiricism to that of 
 an authentic science. Ahem ! You smile. Well, I remember, you 
 never could take my profession seriously. . . . Denise, she teaches. 
 English and French, you know. English to the natives, and French 
 to the English and Americans. But just now she isn't very busy. 
 Toward the end of summer the town is nearly empty ; and so it's 
 Denise's dull season. She was very glad when she saw your adver- 
 tisement ; though she was afraid she wouldn't stand much chance of 
 getting the work. We supposed you'd have so many applications." 
 
 " Yes, I had thirteen ; and very amusing some of them were. Hers 
 was the only one I paid the least attention to." 
 
 " And isn't it fortunate that you did so ? Otherwise — ! Dear, 
 dear ! I can hardly believe my eyes even now. I shouldn't be a bit 
 surprised if you were to vanish into thin air this very instant," said the 
 doctor, laughing. 
 
 " You take the notion very cheerfully. To me, it wouldn't be a 
 laughing matter." 
 
 " Oh, no ; nor to me, either. I was only laughing at the idea. 
 If it really happened I should be broken-hearted, inconsolable. And 
 Denise — it wiM please her so. I do wish she'd hurry up and get here." 
 
 " No, no ; let her take her time. It's so long since I've enjoyed a 
 real comfortable t6te-&,-t6te with you " 
 
 " There ! You base flatterer ! Have done. You wouldn't say 
 such a thing as that to an old maid like me, if you had ever seen 
 Denise. You'll be perfectly fascinated by her. I know you will. 
 . . . But now tell me, how's your mother ? She — she's not here in 
 Paris with you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed. She's at home, in New York ; or just now, I 
 suppose, she's up at our country-place in Oldbridge. You couldn't 
 tempt her to cross the ocean for any consideration. She dreads the 
 sea-sickness so." 
 
 " But she's well, I hope?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, thank you. About as usual, at last accounts." 
 
 " And your cousin. Miss Clark ?" 
 
 " Oh, Fanny — oh, she's the same as ever." 
 
 " Not married yet ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Nor engaged ?" 
 
 " Well — no, I guess not." 
 
 ", You only guess ! Aren't you certain? Is there a young man?'- 
 
 " I — I really don't know," he answered, with an imperceptiblesquirm. 
 . . , He deemed it unnecessary to confess the truth, — a truth exceed- 
 ingly distasteful to him, and which he tried to keep in perpetual banish- 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 177 
 
 ment from his mind, — that he and his cousin were tacitly betrothed. 
 That is to say, he had promised his mother to make Fanny his wife ; 
 and Fanny had promised her aunt to accept Stephen as her husband ; 
 but the two principals had never exchanged a word upon the subject 
 with each other. 
 
 " Well," went on Dr. Gluck, " of course, when I saw her, she was 
 scarcely more than a child. But she bade fair to become quite pretty ; 
 and I should suppose the young men would be flocking around her by 
 this time. How old is she?" 
 
 " About twenty, I think. Yes, she's pretty enough, if you like 
 that type. Blue eyes, fair skin, light brown hair. She's a tremendously 
 pious girl, you know. Teaches in Sunday-school, and carries tracts 
 around to the hospitals, and prays for the unconverted heathen, and all 
 that. Devoted to my mother ; and my mother loves her like a child 
 of her own." 
 
 " And the Merriwethers — do you see as much of them as you used 
 to?" 
 
 " Oh, no. They moved to Newark very shortly after you sailed ; 
 and for social purposes they might as well have moved to South 
 America. I've scarcely seen them since. Last time I met Mr. Merri- 
 wether — it was on Broadway, one afternoon — he told me you were in 
 Vienna. So you may calculate how long ago that was." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Dear me, what happy days those were ! I often think 
 of them and wish them back. What good times we did use to have, 
 didn't we? But . . . Hark! Isn't that — I think that's Denise, just 
 come in." 
 
 The doctor listened for an instant. Then, stepping to the door, 
 "C'est toi, Denise?" she called. 
 
 " Oui, Isabel." 
 
 " Come here, dear, please." 
 
 Next moment Denise entered the room. . . . 
 
 III. 
 
 Now, the psychology of it I cannot undertake to explain, but this 
 is the fact : that at the sound of Denise's voice answering, " Oui, 
 Isabel," Stephen Ormizon felt his heart all at once break from its 
 customary easy pace into a quite obstreperous gallop, and the blood 
 rush warm and tingling to his cheeks. Was it due to some peculiar 
 electric or magnetic property resident in the voice itself? Possibly. It 
 was at any rate a sweet fresh girlish voice, and forcibly suggested a sweet 
 fresh girlish owner. Or was it that, all the while, in Ormizon's sub- 
 consciousness, Denise had formed the subject-matter of his conjectures, 
 and that now, at the prospect of an immediate encounter with her in 
 the flesh, his smouldering curiosity, so ,to speak, leapt into flame ? Or 
 may it indeed have been — as Dr. Gluck, in debate with me, has strenu- 
 ously maintained — a subtile and occult prescience that his destiny was 
 at hand ? . . . I simply record the phenomenon, and leave the reader to 
 frame a theory that will satisfactorily account for it. 
 
 Denise entered the room, quite unaware of the presence of a strange 
 
178 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 man, with a question in her eyes, aimed at her companion, as much as 
 to ask, " What is it, Isabel ? What did you wish ?" She had pro- 
 gressed a yard or two beyond the threshold before she perceived 
 Ormizon. Then she halted ; and gave a little start of surprise ; and 
 suspended the operation of pulling off her gloves, which she had been 
 engaged in ; and waited, an interrogation-point. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Personette, permettez-moi de vous. presenter Mon- 
 sieur Ormizon," said Dr. Gluck, with a flourish of the hand. 
 
 Monsieur Ormizon performed the courtliest obeisance in his reper- 
 tory. Mademoiselle Personette courtesied, and suffered two starry eyes 
 to shine for a second full upon Monsieur Ormizon's face. 
 
 " Denise," Miss Gluck resumed, " it was Mr. Ormizon who adver- 
 tised iu the Morning News." 
 
 " Oh !" Denise responded ; and instantly a change, whigh it would 
 be hard to picture, came over her entire little person. It was like the 
 sudden precipitation of a frost. It seemed to say, " Oh, I thought you 
 were a friend. But I see — it is only business." 
 
 "Yes," pursued the doctor, "you behold before you, in proper 
 person, the redoubtable, the problematical S. O. Where, then, you 
 wonder, are his bushy whiskers, his lurid nose ? I answer, give him 
 time. His name is not Solomon, but Stephen. Neither does he take 
 snuff; but, I blush to own, he smokes and drinks. Neither is he an 
 inf^me Anglais, but a true and loyal son of the stars and stripes. . . . 
 There, S. O., now you may sit down." 
 
 Denise looked thoroughly mystified, somewhat amused, and a little 
 embarrassed, as though she could not at all account for the airs of 
 familiarity that Isabel was taking on, but assumed that there must be 
 some sufficient justification for them. 
 
 " Enfin," Miss Gluck concluded, " you never heard of so strange a 
 coincidence. Mr. Ormizon called this afternoon to see you about his 
 advertisement ; and as you weren't at home, as she had thought when 
 she let him in, Z6lie brought me his card. And — and what do you 
 suppose ? I read upon it the name of one of my old and particular 
 friends in New York — Mr. Stephen Ormizon ! But, ' Oh,' I said to 
 myself, * it can't really be he.' However, I thought I'd just take a 
 peep into the parlor, to make sure ; and I did so ; and there, beyond a 
 peradventure, he sat, as large as life ! Now, what do you say to that ?" 
 
 Instantly the frost melted, evaporated. Denise smiled, and, with a 
 little graceful inclination of the head toward Ormizon, said, " Why, 
 how very strange and — and pleasant !" She spoke with the least trace 
 of a foreign accent, chiefly remarkable in a certain weakness of her r's, 
 and in a peculiarly distinct enunciation of the minor syllables that 
 we are apt to blur. Her auditor thought it was notably quaint and 
 pretty. 
 
 "You've heard me speak of my friends the Merriwethers — the 
 people I lived with when I was studying in New York ?" the doctor 
 queried. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; many times," Denise assented. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Ormizon was as intimate with the Merriwethers as I 
 was, nearly. We used to meet each other at their house regularly two 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 179 
 
 or three times a week. He used to take tea with us every Sunday 
 evening, almost. Don't you remember ?" — turning to Stephen. " And 
 the theatre-parties we used to have ? And everything ?" 
 
 " Indeed I do," was his rejoinder. " Those were famous days. I 
 shall always think of them with kindness." 
 
 "And so shall I," said the doctor, with a touch of melancholy. 
 " Ah me ! But to — to meet you again — ^this way — it's almost — it's 
 the next best thing to getting back to them. It's like renewing my 
 youth." 
 
 She put out her hand and gave Ormizon's a gentle pressure. He 
 returned it with interest. 
 
 Denise, possessing herself of the doctor's other hand, patted it softly, 
 stroked it, then kissed it, and murmured, " Ch6re p'tite Isabel. . . . 
 But," she added, " you must not" think of those times. That was 
 before you knew me. That makes me jealous." 
 
 " Oh, you sweet thing !" exclaimed the doctor, putting her arm 
 around Denise's waist. " You have no reason to be jealous. I never 
 knew what real happiness meant till I met you. But there ! A truce 
 to sentiment. Let's sit down and be comfortable, and have a good 
 long talk." 
 
 She and Denise seated themselves on the sofa, linking their arms 
 together. Ormizon took a low easy-chair, fronting them. The doctor 
 herself supplied most of the good long talk ; calling up reminiscences 
 and anecdotes of the old days in New York, and humming tunes from 
 Pinafore, which had then been at the acme of its vogue. She beguiled 
 in this wise pretty much the entire twilight. Ormizon fixed his eyes 
 upon Denise's face, where they remained, until, fading by slow degrees, 
 it at last vanished in the darkness. 
 
 It was a pale, tired little face that Stephen Ormizon saw before him 
 there in the thickening dusk, but a very interesting face, a very pretty 
 and winning face, he thought even a very beautiful face, nevertheless. 
 I own I incline to his opinion ; for, as the author remarks, with great 
 penetration, upon page 49 of A Voice from the Wilderness, "after all, 
 the beauty of a woman's face is ultimately determined by the eyes. 
 If the eyes be truly beautiful, they impart beauty to the whole face ; 
 if the eyes be other than beautiful, then, no matter how fine, how reg- 
 ular, the other features, the whole face is spoiled." Therefore, ap- 
 plying this rule to the case of Denise : if the warm red of her full 
 and daintily-chiselled lips ; if the delicate modelling of her nose and 
 chin ; if her low and shapely forehead, snow-white beneath a wealth of 
 waving dark-brown hair : if these did not suffice to make her beauti- 
 ful, her eyes, in my judgment, unquestionably did. Overarched by eye- 
 brows as firm, yet as exquisite, as if pencilled in India-ink, they were 
 large and luminously dark ; though whether black or brown it would 
 be impossible to tell. In certain lights, in certain moods, they were 
 indisputably black : a soft, liquid, yet impenetrable black. But quite 
 as often they were two or three shades off color, — a radiant, trans- 
 parent brown, into which your gaze could plunge fathoms deep and 
 never reach the ethereal fitful fire that burned at the bottom. Yes, they 
 were a lovely pair of eyes ; and they illumined and beautified the entire 
 
180 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 countenance that they pertained to, giving it life and spirit. They 
 were what you would call ardent passionate eyes. Ormizon says 
 " soulful" ; but I can't find the word in the dictionary. When you 
 looked into them, you would think, " How that girl could love !" 
 Yet they were wistful pathetic eyes, aglow with a mysterious appealing 
 sadness ; so that you would add, " And how she could suffer, too !" 
 They were dangerous eyes for a susceptible young man to let his own 
 associate with, at any rate; and as Stephen Ormizon beheld them 
 shining in the twilight, upturned upon the doctor's face, he felt strange 
 and powerful forces loosening in his heart and going out toward their 
 possessor. He felt a strange strong tenderness and compassion for her, 
 a vague longing to be something more than a mere acquaintance to her, 
 to make himself in some way of importance, of service, of comfort, to 
 her. And when now and then, wandering a little, her eyes encountered 
 his, — lo ! he felt the keenest, the most violent, yet withal the most de- 
 licious thrill go darting, quivering, wildly through the length and 
 breadth of his body; and he had to catch for his breath. ... In 
 straightforward English, though he never so much as suspected it at 
 the time, he was getting his first taste of the intoxicating bitter-sweet 
 of love. 
 
 All at once Miss Gluck started up, and cried, " Why, mercy on me ! 
 It's gone and got dark ; and I never thought of it. I've been so ab- 
 sorbed in hearing myself talk, I never thought to light the candles. 
 Denise, why didn't you remind me ?" 
 
 " Why, I never thought of it, either," said Denise. " You were so 
 interesting." 
 
 Ormizon extracted a box of matches from his pocket, scratched one 
 of them, and asked, " Shall I light these on the mantel-piece ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you please," Denise replied ; and he obeyed, while she 
 busied herself with drawing the window-curtains. 
 
 At this juncture the servant, who some two or three hours earlier 
 had admitted him (and whom, as he remembered with much wonder, 
 he had taken to be perhaps Mademoiselle Personette), appeared in the 
 door-way, and announced, " Ces dames sont servies." 
 
 " Pshaw !" was his reflection, " I have stayed too long. What will 
 they think of me ? Now I must clear out at once." And offering his 
 hand to the doctor, " Well, good-by," he began. " You know how 
 delighted I am to have discovered you, and I hope " 
 
 " Goodness !" she interrupted. " You don't mean that you are 
 going to run away from us like this !" Her air of dismay was un- 
 mistakably genuine. " Why, that would be absurd. Can't you — 
 won't you — do stay and take pot-luck with us." 
 
 Involuntarily his eyes sought those of Mademoiselle Denise. In 
 them he read an earnest appeal to him to do as the doctor wished. For 
 an instant — his heart beat so — he could not speak. In the end he said 
 " Thank you. You are very kind. I should like nothing better." 
 
 They went into the cosiest of little dining-rooms, and arranged 
 themselves around the snowiest of little tables. Denise with her own 
 hands laid a cover for him. Then the servant brought in an inspirit- 
 ing pot-au-feu, which they immediately proceeded to discuss. 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 181 
 
 " Well," declared Ormizon, " I think that this is by all odds the 
 most novel, the most deliciously Bohemian, sort of thing I ever knew 
 of — the way you two young ladies keep house here together. It's so 
 thoroughly independent, such a vast improvement on a hotel or a 
 boarding-house." 
 
 " Yes," concurred the doctor, " it's very good fun." 
 
 " It is charming," added Denise. " It was an inspiration of Isa- 
 bel's. Ah, if you could compare it with that pension of Madame 
 Minoir's, in the ,E,ue Vanneau !" A little shrug, a little grimace, 
 which Ormizon thought adorable ; so piquant, you know, so inimitably 
 Parisian. " N'est-ce pas, Isabel ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't mention that old dragon of a Madame Minoir," cried 
 the doctor. " She used to steal into our rooms and read our letters ; 
 I'm sure she did. But here — why, we're just like husband and wife ; 
 aren't we, Denise ?" 
 
 " Perfectly," Denise responded. 
 
 " Which is which?" Ormizon inquired. 
 
 " Now, what a question !" cried the doctor. 
 
 And thereupon the quasi-conjugal pair went off in a regular gale 
 of laughter, as though it were the funniest joke in the world. It's a 
 wonder, how little it takes to excite the risibility of light-hearted young 
 women. 
 
 " Well, I suppose you have your interesting little family jars, and 
 curtain lectures, and the whole programme, don't you ?" he pursued. 
 
 " Nonsense, you cynic. We have never had a single cross word ; 
 have we, Denise?" 
 
 " Nevair ! It has all been honeymoon from the first." 
 
 " Why, it's hardly credible," he vowed, " both of you being women. 
 I thought women always quarrelled." 
 
 " Well, they are a quarrelsome lot as a rule, it must be confessed. 
 But you see Denise and I differ from ordinary specimens of our sex. 
 I'm a doctor, and Denise is an angel. Nobody could quarrel with 
 Denise." 
 
 " Oh, tais-toi," cried Denise, coloring. " Mr. Ormizon will think 
 we are a society of mutual admiration." Then, to change the subject, 
 " Where do you live, Mr. Ormizon ? In what part of Paris ?" 
 
 " I live not a stone's throw from you, — around the corner, in Rue 
 Gay-Lussac." 
 
 " Is it possible!" put in the doctor. " Rue Gay-Lussac ? A howl- 
 ing swell like you ? Why, how did you come to choose such an 
 unfashionable neighborhood ?" 
 
 " Now don't call me a howling swell. I object. You'll convey an 
 altogether false impression of me to Mademoiselle Personette. This 
 coat that I have on — it's absolutely the best in my wardrobe, I give 
 you my word." 
 
 " Well, then, question, question !" cried the doctor. 
 
 " Let's see ; what was the question ?" he demanded. 
 
 "Why you live in Rue Gay-Lussac?" Denise informed him. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, because it's the Latin Quarter — the quarter of 
 Murger, of de Musset, of Rodolphe, of Fr6d6ric. I wanted to live in 
 
182 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 the Latin Quarter for the sake of its traditions, its atmosphere, its as- 
 sociations." 
 
 " How funny ! Why, it's on that very account that most people 
 prefer to live elsewhere. It isn't considered the thing, you know, 
 except for students. We live here because it's cheap. Low rent, you 
 understand. It would be cheaper still, and pleasanter, in Passy, or 
 Auteuil, or somewhere ; but then Denise would lose so much time and 
 get so tired, going and coming to and from her lessons." 
 
 " Yes ; but here it's so interesting ; there's so much color, life, 
 picturesqueness. You feel as though you were right in the midst of 
 the mise-en-sc6ne of a romance. Passy, Auteuil, and such places are 
 so frightfully provincial, so dead, and dreary, and out of the world. I 
 should hate to live in Passy. I'd as soon live in Brooklyn." 
 
 " You are a man," observed Denise. " You would prefer Passy — 
 you would prefer anything almost — to the quartier latin, if you were a 
 young girl ; is it not so, Isabel ?" 
 
 " Why is that?" he asked. 
 
 " Because in Passy it is possible for a young girl to venture alone 
 out in the street without always being insulted. Here in the Latin 
 Quarter — no ; it is not allowed. Each day the young girl is rendered 
 miserable — stared at, addressed, humiliated. Ask Isabel. In other 
 parts of Paris it is not so bad. Here — oh-h-h !" She gave the most 
 charming little shudder. '•' Every day I must run the gauntlet of these 
 students, who are without heart, without feeling. I would — I would 
 razair die." 
 
 "Ra-th-er," corrected Dr. Gluck. "Don't forget your t-h's, 
 Denise." 
 
 "By — by — by Jove!" thundered Ormizon, eyes flashing, cheeks 
 flushing, fingers clutching dangerously at the handle of his knife. His 
 boiling blood had nearly got the better of him. He remembered him- 
 self just in time to steer clear of a stronger adjuration. "By Jove! 
 Do you mean to say that — they dare — to be rude — to you ? By G — I 
 — I'd like to catch one of them at it. I'd like to be around when one 
 of them offered to speak to you. I'd wring his neck. I'd break every 
 bone in his body. Oh, wouldn't I lilce — I — I beg your pardon. I 
 forgot. But — but, good Lord! I never heard of anything so out- 
 rageous." 
 
 "Vive I'Amgrique!" cried Dr. Gluck, waving her napkin, as 
 though it were a flag. " You're a thorough Yankee, S. O. Do you 
 know what a Frenchman would suppose, to see you flare up like that ?" 
 
 "No. What?" 
 
 "He'd put you down for a lunatic. Respect for an unprotected 
 woman, provided she's young and pretty, would be proof positive of 
 lunacy to the way of thinking of an average Frenchman. Wouldn't 
 it, Denise?" 
 
 "Yes; that is so," acquiesced Denise. "Women are fair prey; 
 especially on the left bank of the Seine." 
 
 " Every day she comes home perfectly exhausted, — sick with mor- 
 tification and anger," said the doctor. " I tell her she ought to follow 
 the example of the eels, and get used to it ; but she doesn't. They 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 183 
 
 don't bother me much, though. So there are some compensations for 
 being old and ugly." 
 
 " Old and ugly !" echoed Denise, with withering scorn. " You 
 old ! You ugly ! Why, you are as beautiful — as beautiful as " 
 
 In default of a simile, she kissed her hand, and tossed the kiss 
 across the table to the doctor. 
 
 "As one of your kisses, do you mean to say?" queried the doctor, 
 maliciously. 
 
 " Oh — ^you — oh !" stammered Denise, all blushes and confusion. 
 
 Ormizon took a sip of wine. No sooner had he done so, than a 
 smile of pleasure lighted up his face. Miss Gluck noted it. 
 
 " You like it ?" she questioned. 
 
 " Perfectly delicious. I never tasted anything approaching it. Such 
 a peculiar, spicy flavor. What is it?" 
 
 " A cousin of mine sent it to me from Bulgaria, where he was 
 travelling. It has rather a dark and sinister name. It's called Turk's 
 Blood." 
 
 " Why, that's very romantic and picturesque, I should say," he 
 remarked, emptying his glass. 
 
 Denise refilled it for him. 
 
 " And," Miss Gluck went on, " my cousin wrote, the natives have 
 a curious little ceremony that tliey practise whenever a bottle is un- 
 corked. , . . Let's see. How does it go, Denise ?" 
 
 " Why, you remember. ' What is this ?' asks one. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Well ? And then ?" 
 
 " Why, how funny that you should forget ! Another replies, ' It 
 is Turk's Blood.' " This, Mademoiselle Denise rendered in a chilling 
 stage-whisper. " ' Then let it flow freely,' they all shout in chorus." 
 
 " It strikes me the Bulgarians are a very sensible people," said 
 Ormizon, and carried his glass to his lips. 
 
 " Now, then, a toast, a toast !" called the doctor. " All good things 
 are three, the Germans say. Let us then baptize our triple alliance." 
 
 They clinked their glasses, and drank the toast with enthusiasm. 
 
 Presently, "You have never been in America, Mademoiselle Per- 
 sonette?" Ormizon inquired. 
 
 " H6las, no. And I suppose I shall never go." 
 
 " Why h6las ? Do you mean that you would like to ?" 
 
 " Oh, I should love it. I should be delighted." 
 
 " Indeed ? Is that so ? Why, that's rather odd." 
 
 "Odd? How?" 
 
 "Why, most French people, especially Parisians, find their own 
 country sufficient unto itself. They have no desire to travel." 
 
 " Ah, yes. But you forget. I am not all French. I am one-half 
 American, Anglo-Saxon." 
 
 " True. Still, you have grown up in France, amid French influ- 
 ences ; and I should suppose that in your feelings, your sympathies, 
 you would be essentially French, despite your American blood." 
 
 " Ah, well ; that depends. In some things, yes, you are right. In 
 others, no. In patriotism, yes ; I am French to the core. In war, I 
 would fight for my country to the death. When we have our revenge 
 
184 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 with Germany, I will wish I was a man, to be a soldier, to kill those 
 barbarians, those tyrants — oh ! But in many ideas I am thoroughly 
 American; or, as you say, Anglo-Saxon. In my heart there comes, 
 when I speak the word AmeriGa, a warm glow of love. It was the 
 country of my mother. Though she lived in France twenty, twenty- 
 five years, she was always American, never French." 
 
 "Down deep," averred Dr. Gluck, "Denise is an out-and-out 
 Yankee. She has the American character, which is the important 
 thing. But it's colored and warmed up by the French temperament, 
 which is undeniably an addition. Now, you take the matter of read- 
 ing. If anything has an influence in shaping a person's character, 
 reading has ; and she reads English pretty much all the time." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! Are you really fond of our literature ?" he asked. 
 " In general the French are so indifferent to it." 
 
 " Oh, to me, it is by far the best. It is that which I mean when 
 I say that in many ideas I am Anglo-Saxon. It is the English liter- 
 ature which moves me most deeply, which has most to do with forming 
 my opinions." 
 
 " So that, in a certain sense, you have adopted the Anglo-Saxon 
 point of view ?" 
 
 " Yes ; what you call the Anglo-Saxon feeling about life. French 
 literature — it is the spirit of it which I do not like. If it is not cyni- 
 cal, pessimistic, then it is sentimental, goody-good. If it is not ex- 
 travagant, bombastic, then it is insipid, siekish-sweet. If it is not 
 Daudet, it is Malot; if not Hugo, Lamartine. We have in French 
 no Howells, no Emerson, no Browning — nothing so healthy, so tonic, 
 you know." 
 
 " Well, I don't know whether I could subscribe to your condemna- 
 tion of French literature. Daudet, it seems to me, is a great artist ; 
 and, then, you have left out HaMvy. What could be healthier or 
 more charming than his Mariage d' Amour f But I'm very glad to 
 find that you like ours. And the tliree you mention — Howells, 
 Browning, Emerson — are they your favorites ?" 
 
 " How can any self-respecting woman forgive Howells, after he let 
 Dr. Breen go back on her profession ?" cried Dr. Gluck. 
 
 "Yes, especially Browning," said Denise, in answer to Ormizon, 
 " They are yours also — no ?" 
 
 " Well, I had an Emerson phase — yes. I don't read him much 
 nowadays, though. Browning I have never tackled." 
 
 "Oh ! You have never read Browning !" 
 
 " Not more than ten lines. It took me so long to understand them, 
 I got discouraged. I'm not sure I really did understand them, even 
 now." 
 
 " Oh, I wish I were in your place !" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " You have such a world to conquer, such a feast awaiting you. 
 Why, do you know, there is in life no other pleasure equivalent to 
 that which one enjoys in reading Browning ?" 
 
 " No. I didn't know it," he replied, amused, yet also charmed, by 
 her fervor. " Is it so ? It's a pretty sweeping statement." 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 185 
 
 "Yes; but it is true, — literally, absolutely true. He lifts you 
 into a new atmosphere ; he vivifies you. Oh, when you read him, 
 you feel so exhilarated, so exalted ! He makes you thrill and tingle 
 through and through. He is — really — without exaggeration — he is 
 the greatest poet that has ever written, — greater than Dante, greater 
 than Shakespeare, even. You look incredulous. You don't believe 
 it. Wait till you have read him. You will say so too." 
 
 " In what does his greatness especially consist ?" 
 
 " Oh, in many things. But especially — I believe especially in his 
 wisdom. Wisdom, I mean, in the scriptural sense. His insight, his 
 deep knowledge, his unfearing love, of the truth, — the fundamental, the 
 essential, the permanent, truth of human nature and life. He pierces 
 down to the very marrow, the quick, the core, of human nature. There 
 is not, apparently, a single human experience which he has not — how 
 you say ? — plomb6 ? — fathomed : not a single doubt, fear, hope, tempta- 
 tion, aspiration, — in fine, emotion. By the force of his imagination, 
 he has tasted all the joys, endured all the agonies, achieved all the 
 heroism, committed even all the sin, of which human nature is capa- 
 ble. He knows, he comprehends it all." 
 
 She paused. Ormizon impulsively exclaimed, " Go on, go on." 
 
 " Well, that is what I mean. Maybe I do not make it very clear. 
 But — well, this is the point : you will find somewhere in Browning a 
 voice, an expression, for every feeling, for every mood, that you can 
 have. All your own vague, nebulous thoughts, you will find them pre- 
 cisely, eloquently stated. All your own unutterable feelings, you will 
 find them uttered for you. And in such a virile, vigorous style ; so 
 nobly, so beautifully, so melodiously. Oh, you — you must read him 
 right away. You will wonder, after you have read him, you will 
 wonder how you have ever lived without him. He is so satisfying, so 
 consoling, so inspiring. Why, for me — why, if I have to choose 
 between giving up Browning and giving up all the rest of literature 
 and art, — music, painting, everything, — I shall not hesitate for an 
 instant. He is like a prophet, like Isaiah, — only greater, — much, im- 
 measurably, greater." 
 
 Color had mounted to her pale cheeks. Her brown eyes burned 
 with eagerness, earnestness. Her voice vibrated with feeling. Or- 
 mizon thought that he had never beheld anything half so beautiful, 
 never heard anything half so eloquent, as Mademoiselle Denise in this 
 moment of enthusiasm. 
 
 " I shall certainly apply myself to Browning forthwith," he said. 
 " I had always imagined that he was affected, pedantic, obscure, tedious, 
 — I don't know what all." 
 
 Denise sprang up, as though she had been stung. 
 
 " Just wait an instant. I will show you," she cried, and ran out 
 of the room. 
 
 " You see, you've got her started," said Dr. Gluck, smiling. 
 
 " She — she — she is " He stopped himself. " Adorable" was 
 
 the word at the tip of his tongue. He suppressed it, and left his judg- 
 ment of her forever unrecorded. 
 
 " Yes," assented the doctor, " she's a great enthusiast." 
 Vol. XL.— 13 
 
186 -A LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " And you — are you too a Browning-phile ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. I don't go in for poetry. Landolt on the eye and 
 ear is poetic enough for me." 
 
 Denise came back, carrying a book in her hand. 
 
 " Now," she explained, " of course his best things are long, — too 
 long to read aloud. But I will just read you one or two of his little 
 songs, — -just to give you a taste, you know, to whet your appetite." 
 
 Then she read Misconceptions, In a Year, and Mesmerism. When 
 she had done, Ormizon confessed that it was without exception the most 
 beautiful poetry that he had ever heard ; though I suspect his admi- 
 ration was occasioned rather by the reader and the reader's way of read- 
 ing than by the intrinsic merit of what she read. Indeed, I suspect 
 that if she had read as many of Edward Lear's nonsense verses, or 
 of Martin Tupper's philosophical proverbs, Ormizon would have ac- 
 counted them triumphs of the poetic art. 
 
 " Well," said Denise, " you will take this book home with you, when 
 you go, will you not ? And then you can read it by yourself, and study 
 it ; and then, I am sure, you will be as much of an enthusiast as I 
 am." 
 
 After dinner they went back to the salon. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Ormizon," said the doctor, " I know that you are dying 
 to smoke. Therefore, please light your cigarette." 
 
 He obeyed with thanks. 
 
 " 'Sabel, will you not play a little ?" asked Denise. 
 
 The doctor sat down at the piano, and played with a good deal of 
 dash and spirit Weber's Invitation to the WaMz. After which, " Now, 
 Denise," said she, " it's your turn." 
 
 Very delicately and intelligently, in a sweet, fresh, nicely-trained 
 mezzo-soprano voice, to the doctor's accompaniment, Denise sang 
 Gounod's charming barcarolle, Dites lajeune belle. 
 
 Pretty soon after she had finished, Ormizon bade her and the doctor 
 good-by. 
 
 The melody of the barcarolle rang in his memory all night long. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. 
 
 Ormizon, usually an early riser, did not wake up till nearly t«n 
 o'clock. That, however, was natural enough; for he had not fallen 
 asleep till very late the night before. He had tossed from side to side, 
 in an unwonted state of excitement, for two or three hours after he went 
 to bed. His insomnia he attributed to the coffee he had drunl?: afl«r 
 dinner. 
 
 Even now, advanced as the forenoon was, he did not at once for- 
 sake his pillow. He reached out of bed, and procured a cigarette from 
 the table near at hand. Then he lay still, smoking, gazing at the ceil- 
 ing, absently noting how the cracks thereof seemed to shape themselves 
 in queer uncanny physiognomies, and thinking over his visit in the 
 Kue Soufflot. 
 
 The sensations that accompanied this effort of memory were exceed- 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 187 
 
 ingly agreeable. On the whole, he told himself, it had been as 
 pleasant an evening as he had ever passed in his life. How strangely, 
 how surprisingly, the whole thing had befallen ! And how delight- 
 fully ! How far he had been from anticipating anything like it, when 
 he had started out to respond in person to the note from T>. Per- 
 sonette ! Are these happenings which we call accidents, — are they 
 really accidental ? Or, as one would like to be able to believe, is the 
 hand of Providence in them, after all? "What — what a dear good 
 creature Dr. Gluck was ! So genuine, so simple-minded, so cordial, so 
 warm-hearted ! A veritable child of nature ; yet always a lady, always 
 a gentlewoman, despite her excess of animal spirits, despite her pro- 
 fession, despite her tendency toward the Boh^mienne. And Denise — 
 ah! 
 
 At the thought of Denise, a host of unspeakable emotions, very 
 delicious, yet provocative of great unrest, — of a strong keen longing for 
 — for what? — for something that he could neither name nor describe, 
 — began to stir turbulently in his bosom. 
 
 " Denise !" 
 
 He pronounced her name. Then he drew a deep long breath, every 
 inch of which thrilled him through and through. Then he took a puff 
 at his cigarette, and pronounced it again : 
 
 "Denise!" 
 
 How frail, how dainty, how exquisite, how — how — how adorable 
 and fascinating she was ! And how — what — what a shame it was that 
 she should have to slave her life away, and put up with all manner of 
 hardships and humiliations, in order to earn her meagre livelihood ! 
 And how pitiable, how pathetic, her position, alone in the great world, 
 without father or mother, kith or kin, — with no one but her friend 
 the doctor to depend upon for sympathy, for counsel, for protection ! 
 Oh that there were some way in which he might do something to 
 render her lot easier and happier! . . . Those little shapely white 
 hands of hers, — what wouldn't he give for the privilege of holding 
 one of them a little while in his ! And that mysterious passionate 
 appealing fire that palpitated deep in her eyes ! And her voice, and 
 that delicate touch of a foreign accent! And those poems, — how 
 charmingly she had read them ! And that barcarolle, — how bewitch- 
 ingly she had sung it ! . . . 
 
 "Di-tes la jeu-ne belle^ oii voulez-vous aller?" He hummed the 
 tune of it softly to himself. 
 
 But suddenly he started to a sitting position ; and his face took on 
 an expression of perplexity. 
 
 " Well, I declare !" he muttered, half aloud. " Well, I never heard 
 of anything quite so idiotic !" 
 
 He had just recalled a ridiculous little circumstance : namely, that 
 he had totally omitted and forgotten to discuss with D. Personette the 
 business that had brought about their meeting. He had not so mxich 
 as broached the subject of the copying of his manuscript. 
 
 But now his mind misgave him. It was in scorn of himself that 
 he cried, " What ! Shall I — great, strapping fellow that I am — shall 
 I — because I dread the labor, the fatigue, the drudgery, of it — shall I 
 
188 A LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 let that delicate Httle girl wear herself out over it ? Shall I shirk my 
 task, and let her perform it? — throw down my burden, and let her 
 take it up ? Isn't she heavily laden enough already ? How pale and 
 tired she looked, — ^poor little thing, dear little thing ! And do I — do 
 I want to see her grow paler and still more tired, slaving for me ? Oh, 
 shame !" 
 
 He had wrought himself into quite a fine frenzy of indignation, 
 before it occurred to him to remember that she no doubt very much 
 needed the money. But even this consideration did not altogether allay 
 his pangs of self-reproach. If there were only some means by which 
 he could make the money hers without allowing her to do the work ! 
 Alas ! he cudgelled his wits in vain. He could conceive of none. 
 
 " No," he concluded, " I suppose I shall have to let her do it. It 
 goes horribly against the grain. I never shall be easy in my conscience, 
 so long as I think of her breaking her back in my service. But there's 
 no way out of it — no escape from it. So . . . Yet — yet — ah ! I 
 know what I'll do ! I — I'll pay her — I'll make her take — twice — 
 three times — what I should have to pay another. . . . Yes, I will. 
 I'll say that the regular price for such work is — let's see . . . well, a 
 franc the hundred words. She's never done any copying before, and 
 won't know the difference. Yes, sir ; that's what I'll do. That's a 
 great idea. Di-tes la jeu-ne belle, oii voulez-vous aller ?" — his relief 
 at having solved the problem finding vent in a jubilant burst of song. 
 
 He got up and dressed ; drank his coffee, which had grown stone- 
 cold, waiting for admittance on the floor outeide his threshold, where 
 D6sir6, the garpon, had left it some hours earlier ; dashed off a per- 
 functory letter to his mother, recounting, among other things, in a 
 casual fashion, the events of yesterday ; went around to an Etablisse- 
 ment Duval in the vicinity for his breakfast; and finally, at about 
 two o'clock, presented himself at Mademoiselle Personette's door. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur/' the servant said, with an accent of commisera- 
 tion, " the ladies are not at home — are gone out to walk." 
 
 "Oh, is that so?" he faltered. 
 
 Here was a contingency for which he had made no allowance. His 
 spirits dropped many fathoms. The bitterness of his disappointment 
 was significant, though its significance he did not yet understand. 
 
 " You don't know where they have gone ?" he asked, inspired by 
 a forlorn hope. 
 
 " Ah, no, monsieur. They did not say." 
 
 " Well, please tell them that I was here," was his last request, in a 
 sinking voice ; and, turning about, he set his dejected face toward home. 
 
 But when he reached the corner of the Boulevard St.-Michel, and 
 saw the greenery and whiffed the freshness of the Luxembourg Gardens 
 across the way, he changed his course. No ; why should he cro home ? 
 he asked himself. Why not enter and stroll for a little, over there 
 under the trees ? 
 
 It was a mellow summer afternoon, — bright siinshine, soft sweet 
 air. The gardens were alive with people, — with many sorts and con- 
 ditions of men and women, all industriously amusing themselves ac- 
 cording to their several tastes : tidy old ladies seated in the shade, gos- 
 
A LAND OF LOVJE. 189 
 
 siping and doing needle-work; white-mustachioed gentlemen, puffing 
 their cigarettes, reading their newspapers (if a French journal can be 
 called a newspaper), exchanging their vociferous opinions anent public 
 aifairs ; rosy-cheeked children, in bright-hued dresses, with frantic war- 
 whoops and wild explosions of laughter, dashing hither and thither at 
 their games, like flashes of colored lightning ; sturdy peasant nurse- 
 maids with their charges ; soldiers in their regimentals, priests in their 
 cassocks, students with their serviettes, tourists with their guide-books ; 
 but principally, it seemed to Ormizon, lovers with their sweethearts. 
 Yes, every other young fellow had his pretty girl clinging to his arm, 
 smiling into his eyes : the contemplation of which spectacle made our 
 hero feel acutely his own singleness, and brought him a realizing sense 
 that it is not good for man to be alone, — roused, that is to say, a hunger 
 for like companionship in his own bosom, just as the spectacle of one's 
 neighbor enjoying a toothsome dainty will whet one's own appetite for 
 food. ... A state of consciousnesss that was perhaps intensiiied by 
 the warmth and the fragrance of the weather. 
 
 " Ah me, if they had only been at home !" he was sighing sadly 
 to himself. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Ormizon !" suddenly a familiar voice called out. 
 
 His heart gave a great suifocating leap. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Ormizon !" the doctor repeated. " How perfectly 
 delightful !" 
 
 Denise did not speak ; but she raised her eyes to his, and smiled. 
 
 Neither did Ormizon speak. His voice and his vocabulary, to- 
 gether with his presence of mind, had deserted him. He doffed his 
 hat, and bowed his lowest. At last he contrived to stammer forth, " I 
 — I have just left your house. I — I just called upon you." 
 
 "Oh ! And found us out ! That was too bad. But — but how 
 did you know that we had come here ?" the doctor wondered. " Did 
 Zelie tell you ? No : she couldn't have. She didn't know. Though, 
 of course, if we had dreamed that you were going to call, we should 
 have left word." 
 
 He sought to disguise his perturbation under excessive volubility : 
 
 " It was my lucky star which guided me. I was going home to 
 chew the cud of my disappointment in solitude, when an impulse, an 
 inspiration, prompted me to turn in here. It's a striking instance of 
 telepathy. I shall make a record of it, and transmit it to the Society 
 for Psychical Research." 
 
 " Really ?" questioned the doctor, literally. " Do you really think 
 so?" 
 
 "Oh, you must not make fun of the Society for Psychical Re- 
 search," cried Denise, laughing. " Isabel is a member." 
 
 "Oh, then you were only joking !" said the doctor, reproachfully. 
 " You ought to be ashamed." 
 
 " We have come for the music," Denise went on to explain, " and 
 to see the people, and everything. It ought to begin very soon now, 
 ought it not ?" 
 
 It began next instant. The band struck up the familiar strains of 
 the Turkish Reveille. 
 
190 -4 LAND OF L0V:E. 
 
 " Shan't we sit down ?" Ormizon suggested. 
 
 They were standing directly in front of the little open-air caf6 in 
 the middle of the garden. They established themselves at one of the 
 small iron tables, and called for sirop de groseille and crisp hot gauf- 
 fres. The band played lustily. The people moved about, laughing 
 and chattering. The doctor gave him permission to light a cigarette. 
 Denise kept smiling upon him in the most amicable fashion. Take 
 it for all in all, Stephen Ormizon's felicity was probably as complete 
 as that of any man abroad that day. 
 
 All at once Denise exclaimed, " Oh, this gauffre of mine ! It is 
 the best I have ever tasted. It is done juste a point. You must each 
 take a bite." 
 
 She broke it into three morsels, and with her own fingers deposited 
 one of them upon the doctor's plate, and another upon Ormizon's. 
 
 He felt as though it would somehow be a desecration to eat that bit 
 of gauffre. He would have liked to preserve it forever. But gauffre, 
 by its very nature, is perishable to the last degree. Besides, to put it 
 into his pocket would attract attention, and very possibly make the 
 ladies think he was a madman. So, with the courage of despair, 
 he gulped it down. 
 
 "Yes, it is certainly the most delicious gauffre I ever tasted," he 
 declared, with unquestionable sincerity. Had not her fingers touched 
 it, gloved though they were ? 
 
 By and by, " Allons," said the doctor. " Let us walk a little." 
 
 As he sauntered at Denise's side through the soft summer weather, 
 a glow of well-being sufiused his senses. The very smell of the leaves, 
 brought out by the heat of the sun, regaled his nostrils like the rarest 
 incense. His blood went leaping, tingling, through his veins. With- 
 out knowing it, he began to sing softly to himself, — 
 
 " Di-tes la jeu-ne belle, ot. voulez-vous aller ?" 
 
 " Why, how lovely !" suddenly cried Dr. Gluck. " There's Lan- 
 celot. Isn't it jolly?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," chimed in Denise, with an air that betokened much 
 pleasure, and that sent a pang of jealousy shooting through Ormizon's 
 breast ; " so it is. Quel bonheur !" 
 
 " Lancelot ! Lancelot !" called the doctor, flourishing her parasol to 
 attract Lancelot's notice. 
 
 " Hi ! Hello !" Lancelot responded, and elbowed his way to where 
 they waited for him. 
 
 After greetings and hand-shakes had been exchanged between the 
 new-comer and the ladies, " Mr. Ormizon," said the doctor, " allow me 
 to present our friend Mr. Palmer." 
 
 Mr. Palmer was a tall thin young fellow, of five- or six-and-twenty, 
 with clean-cut aquiline features, deep-set intelligent gray eyes, and a 
 thick shock of brown hair that fell below the collar of his coat at the 
 back. The coat in question was a Prince Albert, faded, threadbare, 
 white at the seams, frayed at the binding, and conspicuous for its ex- 
 ceedingly long skirts, which descended as low as the wearer's knees. 
 On the top of his head he wore a small soft wide-awake hat, that 
 produced a somewhat incongruous effect of boyishness. At the'other 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 191 
 
 extremity he was distinguished by a pair of wonderfully large feet, en- 
 cased in shoes that needed blacking. . . . He was what you would call 
 an odd-looking chap, yet pleasant-looking, prepossessing. You would 
 not have been in the least surprised, either, when Dr. Gluck, after her 
 introduction, added, " Mr. Palmer is an artist." 
 
 The two young men shook hands, eying each other rather askance, 
 as young men under such auspices sometimes will. 
 
 " How are you ?" inquired Palmer. 
 
 " Glad to meet you," announced Ormizon ; thinking in his soul, 
 " I wonder whether this fellow is a — I wonder whether by any chance 
 there's anything between him and Mademoiselle Denise." 
 
 This suspicion of a possible rival robbed the sky of half its color, 
 the breeze of half its balm. 
 
 "Well, doctor," Lancelot declared, " this is real nice. What do you 
 suppose ? I was just around to your place, to ask if you and Mam- 
 selle, here, didn't want to go down to Suresne for dinner. Well, sir, 
 Z61ie, she said you weren't at home, and didn't know where you'd gone; 
 and I felt quite broke up, until, thinks I, just as like as not they've 
 gone to the Luxembourg to hear the music. So here I came, hunting 
 for you. But it was about as hopeless as hunting for a needle in a 
 hay-stack ; and I was beginning to get discouraged, and to give you 
 up ; when, first thing I knew, I heard you hollering out, ' Hey ! 
 Lancelot ! Lancelot !' And I looked ; and there, by gum, you were, 
 as sure as pop. . . . Well, now, will you go?" 
 
 " Oh, Suresne ! By all means," agreed the doctor. " It's a splendid 
 idea." 
 
 " Oh, Suresne ! Suresne is the loveliest place in the world," cried 
 Denise. " An open-air dinner at Suresne ! Hurrah ! And then after- 
 ward we can walk in the Bois." 
 
 "You'll come along too, won't you?" Lancelot demanded of 
 Ormizon. " Dutch treat, vous savez." 
 
 " Oh, yes, thanks j I'm with you," Ormizon replied. 
 
 " And now," concluded Lancelot, " so's to have plenty of time, let's 
 start right off— hey?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; in order to have plenty of daylight. It gets dark so 
 early now," assented the doctor. 
 
 " Oh, what fun !" murmured Denise, clapping her hands. " Lance- 
 lot, you were inspired." 
 
 " No ; there can't be anything between them," Ormizon was reason- 
 ing. " She's altogether too frank and cordial with him for that." 
 
 He drew a deep breath of relief. 
 
 They left the Luxembourg, and were jolted in an omnibus over the 
 cobble-stones from the Od6on to the Place de la Concorde, whence they 
 embarked for Suresne aboard a bateau-mouche. 
 
 Under friendly skies, the sail down the river to Suresne is always 
 pleasant. In company with Denise, how could Ormizon help finding 
 it trebly so ? They sat forward in the bow of the boat, delightfully 
 close together, where they could get the full benefit of what breeze there 
 was, and enjoy without obstruction the prospect ahead and to either 
 side. His sense of propinquity to her kept his heart in a constant 
 
192 A LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 blissful tremor. Before long they had left behind them the quays of 
 Passy and Auteuil, with their band-organs and their dancing-parties ; 
 had cleared the frowning fortifications ; and were gliding onward 
 through the still cool waters, between sleek grassy banks, in the shade 
 of great overhanging trees ; while far and wide the surrounding country 
 lay smiling Danae-like in its sun-bath of gold. It was past four o'clock 
 when they reached Suresne. 
 
 " Now," said Lancelot, " I don't want to hurry anybody ; but I 
 move that we get our dinner first thing of all. I'm pretty nigh fam- 
 ished myself. Fact is, I haven't had a square meal in a week. I've 
 been saving up for this spree. All those in favor of sailing right into 
 the eatables, please signify it by saying ay." 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 So they took their places in the garden of one of the river-side 
 restaurants, and for the next hour or two applied themselves to their 
 knives and forks ; not to mention their wineglasses, which flowed with 
 amber-hued Ch^blis — at a franc the bottle. Ah, such Chablis ! fra- 
 grant of the grape, soft as oil upon the palate, looking like liquid sun- 
 shine, tasting like nectar of the gods. And such friture-de-Seine ! A 
 hundred tiny fishes, fried golden brown; each of them, as Lancelot 
 fervently avowed, " melting in the mouth like a trill in the throat of 
 a nightingale." And for the piSce-de-r6sistance, such a fricandeau-3^ 
 I'oseille ! " It's so good," cried Lancelot, " I'll have to have another." 
 Which he proceeded to order, and to eat, while his companions waited 
 in murmurous admiration. And finally, for dessert, such plums, such 
 aj)ricots, such figs ! — figues-S,-goutte-d'or, — bags of purple satin, burst- 
 ing with golden honey. . . . Their conversation all this while was of 
 a most light and frivolous, yet a most entertaining, quality : so, at least, 
 I am informed by Ormizon. But when I have pressed him for a 
 synopsis of it, he has admitted that he can't remember a single word. 
 " It wasn't so much what she said, you know, as — as the fact that she 
 said it, you see," is his lucid statement of the case. " After dinner," he 
 adds, "we crossed the bridge, to spend the sunset and the 'quiet 
 colored end of evening' in the Bois, among the trees. And she sat on 
 a rock, and sang the evening hymn from David's ' Desert ;' and that 
 was the brightest sunset, the tenderest twilight, I ever witnessed in my 
 life." 
 
 They returned to town by the eight-o'clock boat. Dr. Gluck com- 
 plained of feeling a little chilly, and thought she had better seek the 
 seclusion of the cabin. 
 
 " But you children stay right here," she insisted. " I'm not going 
 to deprive you of the pleasure of the sail." 
 
 They unanimously demurred against allowing the doctor to remain 
 in solitude below ; but she settled the question by declaring, " Yery 
 well. Then I'll sit it out up here, and catch my death of cold." 
 
 " Oh, come," put in Lancelot. " Let's arrange it thusly. You," 
 addressing Ormizon, " you and Mamselle stay where you are ; and the 
 doctor and I, we'll retire to the cabin and talk about ghosts. There's 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 193 
 
 nothing I get more solid comfort out of, than I do talking with the 
 doctor about ghosts. She really believes in 'em, you know ; and when 
 she gets started on the subject she's immense." 
 
 He and the doctor disappeared down the companion-way. 
 
 Next instant the boat shot around a curve in the river ; and, " Oh, 
 how lovely !" cried Denise, with an ecstatic little gesture. 
 
 " What ?" Ormizon queried. 
 
 " Why, do you not see ? The moon." 
 
 Surely enough, there was the moon, a great, round, red patch of 
 flame, slowly floating upward from behind the trees, and transmuting 
 the bubbles on the surface of the water to carbuncles and rubies. 
 
 " Oh, how lovely !" Denise repeated. " And what a sweet smell 
 there is on the air, — like new-mown hay ! And the ripple ; do you 
 hear the waves rippling, as we cut through them ?" 
 
 " Yes ; it's very fine," he said. ... To himself he was holding 
 forth as follows : " I suppose I've got to start in about that copying 
 sooner or later. I suppose the present is as good a time as any. We're 
 alone ; and I can talk to her with greater ease and freedom than I could 
 if the doctor were by. Yes, I guess I may as well make the plunge." 
 
 He turned to Denise. She was gazing pensively up at the moon ; 
 and her eyes softly reflected the light of it. He shrank from broach- 
 ing so unromantic a topic. Nevertheless, he was anxious, he was deter- 
 mined, to have it over with. He gritted his teeth, clinched his fists, 
 and began : 
 
 "Er — mademoiselle — you know — that is — I — I hate to lug any- 
 thing so — so inappropriate — upon the carpet at such a moment ; but 
 you know, we have never yet spoken together about that — that copying 
 — that I advertised for ; don't you remember ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," was her response. " That is true. Why, how absurd ! 
 I had forgotten all about it." 
 
 " Well, so had I, almost. But I suppose we may as well arrange 
 about it. I suppose we may as well have the matter settled ; don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; certainly." 
 
 Her tone indicated that she was not perfectly unembarrassed, 
 either. 
 
 " Well, you may think that I'm a frightful lazybones not to do it 
 myself. But I've got several good reasons. Among others, I'm 
 troubled with writer's cramp." 
 
 " Oh," she murmured, sympathetically. 
 
 " Then, besides," he went on, " I'm sure, if I should undertake to 
 copy it, I shouldn't be able to let it alone. I should begin fussing 
 with it, and trying to alter it and improve it ; and I'd end by spoiling 
 it and making a mess of it. Yes, I've been over it times enough 
 already ; and ray only safeguard now lies in leaving it just as it stands, 
 with all its faults." 
 
 " What is it ? Something that you have written ?" 
 
 " Yes, a novel. That is, at least, I mean, it's an attempt at a 
 novel." 
 
 " Oh, how interesting ! Tell me, what is it about ?" 
 
194 A LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " Oh, that's a long story. You'd better not get me wound up on 
 that subject. About love, religion, lots of things." 
 
 "And its title?" 
 
 " Well, I have thought of calling it A Voice frmti the Wilderness. 
 How does that strike you ?" 
 
 " A Voice from the Wilderness ?" she repeated reflectively. " Oh, 
 excellent. I •think it is an excellent title. 1 am sure I should want 
 to read a book with that title. Qa. pique l'app6tit. It excites one's 
 curiosity." 
 
 " Do you really think so ? I'm very glad if you do. I hope, 
 though, that you won't find the title the best thing about it. I re- 
 member one novel that was published a year or so ago, and the critics 
 said the title was the only part of it worth reading." 
 
 " How cruel of them ! How bad it must have made the poor 
 author feel ! When — when is yours coming out ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that it will ever come out at all. Perhaps no 
 publisher will accept it. That's what happens to most novels, you 
 know. But — but to come back to the point. It's pretty long — nearly 
 a hundred thousand words. Do you think you will care to undertake 
 such a labor ?" 
 
 " I do not know how long that means — a hondred souzand words. 
 But I suppose, if you are not in a great hurry, that I could do it. I 
 write pretty rapidly." 
 
 " Oh, no ; I'm not in a hurry. I shan't leave Paris for a month 
 or more. In that time you could get it finished, even if you didn't 
 write more than two or three thousand words a day. But, you know, 
 copying is an awfully fatiguing sort of work. I hate to think of you 
 tiring yourself out on my account." ' 
 
 " Oh, I shall not mind the fatigue. It will not be so bad as teach- 
 ing. That is the hardest work I can imagine, — ^to try to make an Eng- 
 lishwoman pronounce the French as it should be, or a Frenchwoman 
 pronounce the English, ^a — c'est 6pouvantable ! I shall be excessively 
 interested to copy your novel. Is — is it exciting ?" 
 
 " Well, you can decide that question better than I can. I'm afraid 
 it isn't very. I'm afraid in some places it's dull, and drags. I'm 
 afraid it's a little too serious. But when would you like to begin ?" 
 
 "Oh, any time. As soon as you desire. Immediately. To- 
 morrow, if you like." 
 
 " Yes ; I think the sooner the better ; so that you can take it lei- 
 surely. I'll bring the manuscript around to you to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Thank you. Then I will set to work at once." 
 
 " But remember, you have more than a month to do it in. So, 
 don't work more than a little every day. Never tire yourself out over 
 it, will you ? Just as soon as you begin to feel tired, put it by till 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, n'ayezpas peur, monsieur. You do not know what a grand 
 — how you call it ? — paresseuse — idler — I am." 
 
 " Well, I want you to promise. I shouldn't be able to sleep at 
 night, if I thought you were allowing yourself to get tired on my 
 account." 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 195 
 
 " You are very considerate, Mr. Ormizon." 
 
 "Of myself; so I am. You see, I don't covet insomnia. And 
 now — and now — about — terms." 
 
 " Oh, that, of course, I leave entirely to you." 
 
 " Well, the regular price for such work is a franc the hundred words. 
 Do you think that will be enough ? That would make — let's see — ^that 
 would make a thousand francs for the whole book." 
 
 " A thousand francs ! Why — why, I never heard of such a thing. 
 I — oh, I am sure you must be mistaken. I am sure it is too much." 
 
 " Oh, no ; that's the regular price : twenty cents — a franc — for each 
 hundred words. Honestly." 
 
 " Oh, but^ — ! A thousand francs ! Do you know — have you any 
 idea — how long it would take me to earn that, giving lessons ?" 
 
 " No. How long ?" 
 
 " Six months, — half a year. In a whole year I can ea^n perhaps 
 two thousand, — no more." 
 
 " Two thousand ! Is it possible ? Why, that — that's only four 
 hundred dollars." 
 
 " Well, that is the most I can earn. You see, the greater number 
 of my pupils, they are French, of the little bourgeoisie, who keep shops, 
 and like that. They pay me — well, how much you think? One 
 franc the lesson of an hour. The English, the Americans, of course 
 they pay much more — ^three francs even. But I have only a very 
 few of them, and only for a few months of the year. In these months 
 of the summer — August, September — I can earn scarcely anything at 
 all. I must depend on what I have saved. , . . Oh, a thousand 
 francs ! That makes me rich !" 
 
 Ormizon did not speak. He could not trust himself to speak. 
 There was only one thing that he could think of to say ; and the time 
 had not yet come for saying that. 
 
 " Yes," Denise continued, " it makes me rich. And now — now— 
 I can go see Dr. Marsac." 
 
 " Dr. !" faltered Ormizon, aghast. " Why, are — are you in ill 
 
 health?" 
 
 " Oh, no — not I. It was Dr. Marsac who took care of my mother. 
 She was sick so long ; and he came all the time, and was so kind and 
 good ; and I have never been able to pay him. I have needed every 
 
 sou to support myself. But now Oh, Mr. Ormizon, you have 
 
 made me feel so happy !" 
 
 She lifted two beautiful earnest tearful eyes upon Ormizon's face. 
 It was only by the exercise of main force that he kept himself from 
 folding her in his arms and kissing her. 
 
 " I was before," she went on rapidly, " I was the most miserable 
 girl in the whole world. That thing — that debt — it lay upon my con- 
 science day and night, all the time. And I was so hopeless. I could 
 see no prospect to pay it. Ah, mon Dieu ! It made me so uneasy, so 
 ashamed. It is like a great load which you have lifted off my back. 
 I thank you — I thank you from my heart, Mr. Ormizon." 
 
 " Dear — dear Mademoiselle Denise — " he was beginning. Then a 
 lump, or something, got stuck in his throat, and choked his utterance. 
 
196 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 . . . There was a little pause, during which the moon shone senti- 
 mentally. 
 
 All at once she looked up, and asked very gravely, with a naivety 
 that had its due effect, "Is — is it true that you leave Paris next 
 month ?" 
 
 Oh ! How violently his heart leapt ! How madly it began to 
 pound against his side ! 
 
 His voice shook as he answered, " I — I sail on the 26th." 
 
 Suddenly a bell began to ring, and the boatmen sang out, " Place 
 de la Concorde !" 
 
 " Oh, here we are !" exclaimed Denise, starting up. 
 
 Lancelot and the doctor joined them. They took a cab to the Rue 
 Soufflot. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Palmer," began Ormizon, after they had parted from 
 the ladies, " did you and the doctor exhaust the subject of ghosts ?" 
 
 " It's inexhaustible," returned Palmer ; " that is, when the doctor 
 seriously assaults it. You know. Dr. Gluck is what you might call a 
 scientific spiritualist. She accepts all the phenomena alleged by the 
 spiritualists as authentic ; vows she's seen 'em with her own eyes ; and 
 then she undertakes to explain them on a scientific basis. Well, of 
 course I don't agree with her; I think it's all stuff. But I enjoy 
 getting her stirred up on the subject, just the same. She has a large 
 head, and she talks well. But then I always enjoy the doctor, any- 
 how. Take her ail around, she's the best fellow I know. I often 
 think what a pity she ain't a man. She's got so much of what the 
 French call bonhomie." 
 
 " Yes, that's a fact. She's a jolly good fellow," Ormizon assented, 
 " You know, she and I have been acquainted years and years." 
 
 " So I judged, from something she let fall. Well, now, she's not 
 half bad-looking, either, is she ? Her colormg is tip-top ; and though 
 she's short and plump, she's shapely, and she carries herself well. 
 Kind of funny she's never got married. She'll be an old maid before 
 long now, if she don't look sharp. ... I say, by the way, are you the 
 enviable possessor of a watch and chain ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, would you mind telling a less fortunate mortal what o'clock 
 it is?" 
 
 " It's half-past nine." 
 
 "Thanks. I thought it was later. To confess the truth, I feel 
 the need of some slight stimulus. And what do you say to reposing 
 our weary bones for a little at yonder wayside inn ?" 
 
 He pointed to a brilliantly-lighted caf6 on the Boulevard St. -Michel 
 into which thoroughfare they had just turned. ' 
 
 " It's a good idea," Ormizon assented. 
 
 They sat down at one of the caf4 tables. Palmer ordered absintlie. 
 Ormizon contented himself with beer. 
 
 "Smoke?" suggested the latter, proffering a bundle of cigarettes. 
 
 " Thanks. I prefer a pipe," said Palmer, and proceeded to fill a 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 197 
 
 short clay pipe with Caporal tobacco. After he had sucked it well 
 alight, " I was once the proprietor of a timepiece myself," he resumed. 
 " But I've loaned it to my uncle." 
 
 Ormizon smiled. 
 
 " Now, I dare say you've never had occasion to curry favor with 
 your uncle — hey ?" questioned Palmer. Then, without waiting for an 
 answer, " Well, you're almighty lucky. I've been on intimate terms 
 with the old gentleman for many years. Just at present there's a 
 trifling coolness between us, caused by the fact that my stock of mar- 
 ketable chattels, jewels, ornaments, articles of virt-&, etcetera, has run 
 dry ; and he is not possessed of sufficient artistic discrimination to be 
 willing to advance anything upon my own creations. However, I live 
 in the hope that this sad misunderstanding may be set right, and our 
 fond hearts reconciled. He's a convenient, though a stern and exacting, 
 relative, your uncle. Lord bless you, he and I have had dealings ever 
 since I was a lad. Now, when I was a divinity student " 
 
 " Why, have you been a divinity student ?" 
 
 " In the course of a long and somewhat eventful career, I've been 
 various sorts of things. I've been a farmer, a carpenter, a school- 
 teacher. Then, when I was eighteen, I went on to Boston with the 
 idea of becoming a lawyer. But after six months in the law school I 
 got disgusted. I wanted realities, and they gave me formulas. I 
 wanted bread, and they gave me red tape. Then I packed my traps, 
 and moved over to the theological seminary. There too, however, I 
 paled and sickened. The atmosphere of cant, sham, insincerity, didn't 
 agree with me. It was death to my self-respect. I'd look at those 
 sleek, smug-faced, unfledged parsons, and I'd tremble, by George, to 
 think that I might grow to be like them. No, sir ; I've knocked 
 around a good deal, but I never struck a hole yet where there was. 
 more downright meanness, and untruthfulness, and envy, and what you 
 call pure cussedness, and less Christianity, than there was in that whited 
 sepulchre of a divinity school. Why, the art schools here in Paris, 
 why, they're nest^beds of virtue, compared to it ; and you know what 
 their reputation is. Gad, it makes me sick, merely to remember it. . . 
 Well, after that I turned my attention to medicine. I didn't enjoy it ; 
 I didn't especially believe in it ; I thought it was nine-tenths humbug 
 and pretence : still, I was in a fair way to obtain my M.D. — which, 
 I've often thought since, would have been my moral damnation — I 
 was in a fair way to obtain it, and to start out in the practice of my 
 quackery, when, during one summer vacation, I ti'ied my hand at sign- 
 painting. The transition from a sign-painter to a would-be picture- 
 painter was easy and obvious." 
 
 Ormizon laughed. " And next ? What do you mean to be next ?" 
 he asked, with a flippancy which he was very soon sorry for. 
 
 " No, sir. There's no next on my programme. At last I'm firmly 
 anchored. Art is not my mistress ; she's my wife. I'm not coquetting 
 with her ; I'm married to her for better or for worse — especially for worse. 
 Indissolubly wedded we are, and shall remain, till death parts us. 
 We've starved along together for some four years already, and I guess 
 we're not likely to quarrel for a good while to come. She's jealous. 
 
198 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 she's exacting, she knows how to make you feel mighty uncomfortable 
 and unhappy, her favors are hard to win ; but she's honest, she's real, 
 she's worth while ; I'd rather eat a dinner of herbs in her company 
 than a stalled ox in any other ; I love her with all my heart. That's 
 about the size of it, Mr. Ormizon. It took us a long time to find each 
 other out ; but we were meant for each other from the beginning, all the 
 same. Why, look here. I was born and raised 'way down in the little 
 village of Unity, Maine, among the Quakers, where they have no more 
 idea of art than they have of Egyptology, and where they'd hold both 
 to be equally ungodly. My father, and his father before him, and his 
 grandfathers, clear back to the settlement of the colony, had been 
 Quakers and farmers. So it ain't strange that I had to flounder around 
 a good deal, and make considerable many false shots, before I finally 
 hit the mark. . . . No, sir ; my art is dearer to me than my life. Art 
 is truth ; and truth is the only thing worth bothering about in this 
 world." 
 
 Palmer paused, and relighted his pipe, which had taken advantage 
 of his monologue to go out. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for speaking as I did," said Ormizon. " It was 
 very silly and thoughtless of me. . . . You — you are studying here in 
 Paris, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh, don't mention it. That's all right. I understood that you 
 were joking. . . . Yes, I'm at Julien's. Before that I was at the Students' 
 League in New York, and also worked under Sartain in his studio. 
 I've been here going on eighteen months. I arrived in Paris with a 
 capital of four hundred dollars, which I'd saved up teaching drawing 
 in a young ladies' boarding-school out West — in Indiana. Ah me ! 
 where are those dollars now? Gone to join the Hebrew children, I 
 dare say. Well, well ! But my heart yearns toward them, wheresoe'er 
 they be. If I should meet one of them here on the Boulevard to-night, 
 I'd greet it with the rapturous enthusiasm of old friendship. I'd wel- 
 come it with a kiss and a hug. I'd kill the fatted calf, I'd set up the 
 drinks, in its honor. I'd forgive its perfidy, even ; for, between you and 
 me, it was frightful, it was disheartening, the cold-blooded haste those 
 dollars made to desert me, after my advent here. . . . Ah, well, I sup- 
 pose I might as reasonably wish for the snows of yester-year. Here's 
 peace to their ashes." He emptied his glass. 
 
 " You've got something better than money, Palmer ; a light heart." 
 
 " Have I, though ? Perhaps, my dear fellow, it's not so light as it 
 seems. Anyhow, I wish it was as light as my purse — or, for that matter, 
 as light as my stomach is most of the time. That's my great trouble. 
 I can't seem to get enough to eat. I can't afford to spend much on my 
 eating, especially when I haven't got anything to spend ; and, conse- 
 quence is, I go to bed hungry 'most every night. Lately I've adopted 
 the system of saving up all through the week, and then going in for a 
 real square meal on Sunday — such as I had to-day. I tell you, a din- 
 ner like that one we had down to Suresne this afternoon — that's the sort 
 of thing that makes a man of me. On a full stomach, sir, I rise in 
 my own estimation at least fifty per cent. ... Hi ! Gar9on ! Encore 
 une absinthe-&,-la-gomme !" 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. I99 
 
 " Yes ; but your system is a very imprudent one. You'll ruin your 
 digestion." 
 
 " You show me a means of getting rich, and I'll drop the system 
 like a hot potato. If you've got any Philistines to be despoiled, trot 
 'em around to my studio, and I'll feast like an epicure every day as 
 long as they hold out. Otherwise — don't talk to me about digestion." 
 
 " Where is your studio ?" 
 
 "My studio and residence combined are around in the Rue St.- 
 Jacques, on the top floor of the Hdtel du St.-Esprit. 'Sky-parlor 
 reaching heavenward far,' you understand. And I'll tell you what. 
 Don't you want to come over there with me now ? I'll show you some 
 of my work. I possess the largest collection of Palmers in existence." 
 . " I should like to, above all things." 
 
 " Well, come on." 
 
 Ormizon called for the reckoning, and was about to pay it, when 
 Lancelot cut in witli, — 
 
 " Oh, I say. Just compute my share of that, will you ? How 
 much is it ?" 
 
 " Oh, that's all right," returned Ormizon. " This is my treat." 
 
 " Not much it isn't. Not if the court knows itself, and it strongly 
 suspects it does. Just calculate my percentage of our liabilities, and 
 allow me to fork over. You see, I can't afford to let you treat me ; 
 for I shall never be able to return the compliment. No, sir ; we'll 
 have to proceed on the Philadelphian plan from the beginning. Be- 
 sides, it's the mode here in Paris ; and there's nothing like being a la 
 mode." 
 
 So Lancelot, who, like the improvident Bohemian that he was, 
 denied himself bread and meat, and then squandered the price of a 
 dinner upon absinthe-a-la-gomme, — Lancelot contributed his portion 
 of the sum due ; and the two young men set forth, arm in arm, for the 
 Rue St. -Jacques. Their course thither led them back up the Rue 
 Soufflot, and past the door of Denise's house. 
 
 Sweeping the fa9ade of it with his glance, " I suppose our fair 
 friends are wrapped in blissful slumber," Lancelot observed. " May 
 their dreams be as sweet as their dispositions ! What — what a regular 
 daisy that little Mamselle is, ain't she ?" 
 
 " She's very charming," Ormizon admitted. 
 
 " So gentle and helpless and sort of appealing, don't you know ? 
 Yes, sir, she and the doctor make a first-rate team." 
 
 The H6tel du St.-Esprit was a dingy students' lodging-house, with 
 a great sign over the entrance, advertising " Chambres et cabinets 
 meubl6s." 
 
 " Now comes the tug of war," Palmer said. " Breathe through 
 your nose, and take it easy." 
 
 He led the way up five flights of stairs. 
 
 " Well, sir, here we are," he resumed, when they had reached the 
 top. He unlocked a door. " Winded, but still intact, here we are in 
 my castle and my sanctum, my bedroom, my kitchen, my atelier, my 
 boudoir, and my salon. Just stay where you are till I strike a light. 
 Otherwise, you might upset something, or bark your shins." 
 
200 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 He lighted a candle, and then a kerosene lamp. 
 
 It was a small room, not more than ten feet by twelve ; and it 
 seemed smaller still, because it was crowded to its utmost capacity with 
 the furniture necessary to a sleeping-apartment, and with the para- 
 phernalia necessary to a painter's workshop. A bed, a wash-stand, an 
 armoire-&,-glace, a table, two or three chairs, an easel, a lay-figure, and 
 in one corner an old-fashioned hair trunk studded with brass nails, left 
 but little space to move about in, and gave one the feeling of standing 
 in an overstocked lumber-room. The walls were tinted a soft olive 
 gray, and barnacled with a multitude of canvases, of various shapes 
 and sizes, bearing designs which, in the scant light of the lamp and 
 candle, Ormizon could do no more than guess at. There was but a 
 single window ; opposite which an open fireplace served as pantry and 
 kitchen closet, being full to the brim with pots and pans, and with 
 divers brown paper parcels that looked as though they contained food- 
 stuffs. The air was loaded with an assortment of odors, forcible 
 among them that of turpentine, that of stale tobacco-smoke, and that 
 of cold ham. 
 
 " Sit down," said Lancelot, " and make yourself at home. You 
 see, I've been keeping house on my own hook lately, which accounts for 
 the batterie de cuisine you behold yonder in the chimney. I've got an 
 alcohol lamp ; and, if I do say it who shouldn't, some of the repasts I 
 get up here are immense. I mean in quality, — not in quantity. That, 
 as I said before, that's my bugbear, my bSte noire. I sometimes forget 
 what enough signifies. If my appetite weren't built on such a magnifi- 
 cent scale, it's really astonishing, the small income on which I could 
 make out to live. Now, take the matter of rent. What do you sup- 
 pose the rent of this establishment is, monthly ?" 
 
 " Well, let's see. Well, I don't know. Perhaps — perhaps fifty 
 francs. I pay seventy around in the H6tel de I'Univers, Rue Gay- 
 Lussac. But my room is rather larger, and it's only au troisifeme. 
 Yes, I guess your rent is somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty 
 francs." 
 
 " Oh, but the Rue Gay-Lussac is the height of swelldom, compared 
 to the Rue St.-Jacques. It's the Beacon Street, the Fifth Avenue, the 
 West End, of the Latin Quarter. I looked for a room there myself; 
 but the prices scared me away. My rent, sir, is twenty-five francs a 
 month, service included. That is, when I pay it. Just now I'm in 
 arrears for a couple of months. But Madame Pamparagoux, my land- 
 lady, is of a trustful, hopeful nature ; and so she lets it stand. Well, 
 to continue, as I was saying, if I had an ordinary appetite, I could eat 
 for two francs a day. That would bring my living expenses down 
 pretty low. See?" 
 
 " I don't see how you could eat for two francs a day ; no. I should 
 like to hear you explain it. It never costs me less than five, — it gen- 
 erally costs me at least six, — and I usually go to a Duval." 
 
 " Why, bless you, there you are again with your lofty aristocratic 
 notions. A Duval ! . . . Why, man alive, there are lots of fellows I 
 know, who eat for two francs a day, and less even. But they don't 
 approach within gunshot of a Duval. Well, for example : first break- 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 201 
 
 t, one sou of bread, one sou of milk — ten centimes. That's taken 
 at a bake-shop. Second breakfast, at a restaurant, but not a Duval, — 
 second breakfast, one sou of bread, one sou of soup, five sous of meat, 
 three of vegetables — fifty centimes. Then go to a table-d'h6te for 
 your dinner, at one franc twenty-five. So you've had your day's 
 rations for one franc eighty-five. The surplus of three sous you dis- 
 tribute as tips among the waiters." 
 
 " Yes ; but what sort of food is it that they give you at these cheap 
 restaurants ? They may flavor it so as to make it palatable ; but is it 
 nourishing ?" 
 
 " Well, it seems to be. The boys seem to worry through on it, 
 anyhow. Of course there's a strong presumption that the beef is 
 horse ; but, then, horse is all right, if you possess a stout set of teeth, 
 and if you get enough. But for me, there's the rub. You don't get 
 enough. Now, you take that table-d'h6te at one franc twenty-five. It 
 ain't bad, as far as it goes. But I — I'm obliged to eat two of them, in 
 order to get filled up. So, as I said, I've begun to cook for myself. 
 On two francs fifty a day, I can make out fairly well, and then go in 
 for a regular rattling feast on Sunday. . . . But come. I wanted to 
 show you some of my work." 
 
 Palmer took up the lamp, and, holding it aloft, pointed now to one, 
 now to another, of the unframed canvases on the wall, pronouncing a 
 running commentary upon them as he did so. Ormizon said he liked 
 the work immensely. So far as he could judge, it was full of ability, 
 and promised better still. It was certainly very pleasing and interest- 
 ing. " But why do you always sign H. Palmer ?" he wondered. " H. 
 doesn't stand for Lancelot." 
 
 " Good Lord, man," cried Palmer, laughing, " my name ain't 
 Lancelot ! That's only a bit of facetiousness on the part of those 
 women- folks. They must have their joke, you know, and they've 
 dubbed me Lancelot — well, I give it up why. My name is Hiram. 
 Hiram Hutchinson Palmer is what I was baptized. I've dropped the 
 Hutchinson, and simply sign H. Palmer. That answers for all practi- 
 cal purposes, and is shorter and more convenient. But now, I say, sit 
 down again, and let's have a smoke." 
 
 •While they smoked. Palmer told his guest something about the art- 
 school, Julien's, at which he was studying. 
 
 "You pay forty francs a month for whole days," he said, "or 
 twenty-five a month for half days. That entitles you to easel-room, 
 and as much turpentine as you want to use, besides models. That don't 
 sound like much, but they say the old man, Julien, is getting rich on 
 it, all the same. Julien, you know, is a retired model himself, and he 
 opened this school as a speculation. Every now and then they have an 
 exhibition of the work the boys have done, with cash prizes. The 
 prizes ain't exactly independent fortunes ; still, if a fellow collars one, 
 it helps along. I scooped in fifty francs last month, for instance ; and 
 that fed me for quite a while. But, as I was going to tell you, your 
 forty francs a month entitle you to all the privileges of the school. 
 Then the masters, they give their services free-gratis-for-nothing. At 
 Julien's there are Bouguereau, Boulanger, and Lefebvre, the three 
 Vol. XL.— 14 
 
202 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 greatest draughtsmen living. They come to the school three times a 
 week, examine what the boys have done, point out its faults, show you 
 as well as they can how to set it right. They do this, as I say, for 
 nothing, — simply for the love of art ; which, I claim, is glorious. They 
 relieve each other monthly. One month Bouguereau ; next montib 
 Boulanger ; and so on, round and round. This month we have Lefebvre. 
 I tell you, he's grand. He's terribly severe, you know, unsparing in 
 his criticism, mighty sarcastic sometimes, and all that. If he suspects 
 that a fellow ain't in earnest, that he's just fooling, or going in for 
 splurge or show, the Lord help him ! Ain't he savage ! But he's got 
 a heart as big as an elephant's ; and when he sees that a fellow means 
 business, when he sees that a chap is working sincerely, honestly, just 
 as well and just as hard as he knows how, I tell you he's the kindest, 
 he's the gentlest, he's the most encouraging old boy that ever drew the 
 breath of life. It sometimes makes the tears start to my eyes when he 
 comes up in his fatherly way and puts his hand on your shoulder and 
 starts off on his remarks with ' Mon ami, mon cher fils.' Then, as like 
 as not, he goes ahead and gives your work particular fits, and then he 
 winds up, ' But courage, my friend ! courage, patience, and hard work ! 
 At your age I have done worse myself.' It's beautiful. It's a pity we 
 haven't got a few men of that stamp in America. But no ; your Yankee 
 painter, he's on the make. He ain't going to apply his valuable time 
 and dazzling genius to the drudgery of teaching, unless there's money 
 in it." 
 
 " Oh, well, you must make allowances for the American painter," 
 put in Ormizon ; " he has such odds to contend against. Teaching is 
 about the only method at his command by which he can earn his living. 
 If he could get rich on the sale of his pictures, as these Frenchmen can, 
 I have no doubt he'd be glad to give his services as a teacher without 
 pay." 
 
 " Well, maybe there's something in that. Still, you can't dispute 
 this : that, taken as a general thing, the Frenchman loves his art better, 
 and the money he may make out of it less, than the American does. 
 There's a devotion, an enthusiasm, in the French artist, that you don't 
 often find in the Yankee. Now, you take Lefebvre. He reminds me 
 of one of those old zealots you read about in history. His complete 
 surrender of himself to his art is like the zealot's surrender of himself 
 to his religion. But he keeps his head wonderfully clear, all the same. 
 He's got the soundest philosophy of art that I ever heard expounded. 
 His fundamental principle is this : Art means truth. A bad picture is 
 bad just in so far as it is false. A good picture is good just in so far 
 as it is true. He says, ' My boy, when you are painting, never think 
 of the rewards your work may bring you. Never think of the money, 
 the applause, the reputation. Concentrate all your thoughts, all your 
 energies, upon making your picture just as good — that is to say, just as 
 true — as you possibly can. Cherchez le caractfire — seek for the charac- 
 ter, which means the essential truth, of your subject. Let all the rest 
 take care of itself I would rather do true work and remain poor and 
 obscure, than do false work and become the richest, the most renowned 
 painter of my time.' Then he emphasizes all the time the importance 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 203 
 
 of good drawing. ' Learn to draw, learn to draw, learn to draw ; learn 
 also to color,' is a maxim of his. For he says it is good drawing that 
 requires time, patience, sincerity, hard work; whereas many a tyro, 
 many a charlatan, can produce an effective color piece." 
 
 As Ormizon was starting to leave, " I say. Palmer," he began, " I 
 hope you won't mind, but — but as you seem to be a little hard up just 
 at present, and as I happen to be quite flush, won't you — I wish you'd 
 let me — I wish you'd borrow a little something of me. I could spare 
 a hundred francs or so, just as well as not." 
 
 " Thanks, many thanks," returned Palmer. " It's awfully good 
 of you to offer. But no : I can't borrow. I can't afford to. I don't 
 know as Pd ever be able to pay you back, you see. But I'll tell you 
 what you might do. If you feel like buying a picture " 
 
 " Just the thing !" cried Ormizon. " If you have anything within 
 my means." 
 
 " I guess there ain't any of my work but would be that," Palmer 
 answered. " I don't set a very high price on it, yet. But I guess the 
 best things I have are my black-and-whites, which I haven't shown 
 you. Here. Glance through that." 
 
 He handed Ormizon a portfolio. 
 
 Ormizon began to inspect its contents. Pretty soon, " Is this for 
 sale ?" he demanded, holding up a pencil drawing. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I take it. How much?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. What do you think it's worth ?" 
 
 " Well — say a hundred francs ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; I guess it ain't worth more than fifty. It's the subject 
 that makes it worth that. It's not a very good piece of work." 
 
 " It's a mighty good likeness, though," said Ormizon, and counted 
 out fifty francs. 
 
 " Thanks," said Palmer. 
 
 " Thank you. And good-night." 
 
 " Say," Palmer sang out after him, when he was half-way down 
 the stairs ; " you needn't mention it to Mamselle — mind ?" 
 
 " All right," Ormizon called back. 
 
 It was a pencil drawing of an all6e in the Luxembourg Gardens. 
 And walking up the all6e, in the foreground, there was a lady, with a 
 parasol in one hand, and a book in the other. And the lady bore really 
 an astonishing resemblance to — Mademoiselle Personette. 
 
 VI. 
 
 As soon as Ormizon fully and clearly realized the nature of the 
 sentiment that Mademoiselle Denise had inspired in him, two questions 
 addressed themselves to his mind for serious meditation. 
 
 What the first one was, every lover will be able to guess. Had he 
 any reasonable ground for hoping that his passion might some time be 
 returned ? Upon the determination of this, he felt, his own resolution 
 in respect of the second must depend. What had he better do about 
 his quasi-engagement with his cousin Fanny ? 
 
204 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 He knew that his mother had set her heart upon the marriage of 
 Tanuy and himself. He knew that it was with her no light caprice, 
 but a deep and steadfast purpose. Moreover, he had pledged himself 
 to obedience in this regard by a solemn promise. Yet, he argued, if 
 Denise should come to reciprocate his love, he would not merely be 
 justified in recalling his promise and declaring the engagement off; he 
 would be in all right, in all honor, bound to do so. His mother would 
 not like it. At the outset she would take it very hard indeed. She 
 was a high-tempered, imperious woman, fond of having her own way, 
 and accustomed to having it. He did not like to think of the anger 
 and displeasure she would be sure to visit upon him at first. But in 
 the course of time she would grow reconciled — probably. And, any- 
 how, in affairs of this nature the persons to be chiefly considered are 
 the principals — especially the lady. He did not wish to play the un- 
 dutiful son j but he would rather do that than play the disloyal lover. 
 Yes, there were certain proper limitations to the submission which his 
 mother could justly expect of him. If he should have to choose be- 
 tween allegiance to his mother and allegiance to his sweetheart, he 
 would not hesitate; it would be cowardly, dastardly, to hesitate; he 
 would promptly and decisively choose the latter. . . . As for Fanny — 
 fortunately, her heart was not involved. There was no love lost be- 
 tween Fanny and himself. She liked him well enough, perhaps, in a 
 certain pharisaic condescending way, but she had never pretended to 
 any warmer sentiment. Her attitude toward him had always seemed 
 to say, " Now, mind ! I don't approve of you the least bit. You are 
 a bad worldly selfish man; and I am a dear sweet self-sacrificing 
 little angel. You are a miserable sinner ; and I am a saint, all ready 
 for heaven. But you are the son of my beloved auntie ; and for her 
 sake, despite your many and glaring faults, I will be forbearing and 
 Christian-like, and consent to tolerate, even to patronize, you a little. 
 Am I not a perfect miracle of magnanimity ?" She had agreed to be- 
 come his wife, just as she would have agreed to become a nun, or to 
 wear bloomers, or to adopt a vegetarian diet, simply in compliance with 
 the desire of her dunt. In her soul, doubtless, she would welcome a 
 release from the obligation. ... No ; he needn't worry about Fanny. 
 She was a factor easily eliminated from the equation. . . . On the 
 other hand, if Denise should finally and unconditionally reject him — ! 
 The bald statement of the contingency took his breath away. But 
 there was no use shirking it. He might as well look it squarely in the 
 face. Yes, if Denise should finally and unconditionally reject him — 
 well, then he would go home and do his mother's will. In that event 
 he would not care what happened to him, what became of him. He 
 would go home and espouse his cousin. He regarded Fanny as a cant- 
 ing, self-righteous, self-satisfied little prig. But never mind. If he 
 lost his own happiness, with Denise, he would at any rate insure his 
 mother's, by making her niece his wife. 
 
 And now— and now, had he the slightest chance of winning Denise's 
 heart? ^ 
 
 After he took leave of Lancelot on Sunday evening, he went home 
 to walk his floor pretty much all night, balancing this problem in his 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 205 
 
 mind. "With throbbing pulse, with quickened tremulous breath, 
 eagerly, feverishly, now aflame with hope, now sick unto death with 
 fear, he weighed every pro and every con that he could think of; never 
 advancing beyond this one invariable conclusion, which had been his 
 starting-point : " I do not know, I dare not say." His reason forbade 
 confidence. His desire would not allow him to become too despondent. 
 When he repeated to himself that little impulsive question that she had 
 asked him, " Is it true that you leave Paris next month ?" — when he 
 recalled the tone in which it was pronounced, the glance by which it 
 was accompanied, — his prospect for the moment looked dazzlingly, be- 
 wilderingly, bright. But next instant, his common sense reviving, he 
 would groan, " No, no. It is impossible that she could have meant 
 anything by that. Why, man alive, she — she's scarcely acquainted 
 with you as yet. She never saw you till — till yesterday, by Jove; 
 though it seems a lifetime. She isn't going to lose her heart to a 
 stranger. You can't expect her to fall in love with you at first sight, 
 you fool. No, no ; God help me !" . . . So, in an ecstasy of mingled 
 joy and woe, hope and despair, he wore the night out, tramping back 
 and forth, up and down his room. How many times he carried 
 Lancelot's pencil drawing of that all6e in the Luxembourg to his lips, 
 and kissed it, I shall not attempt to reckon. The absurd, infatuated 
 fellow ! Yet which of us, gentlemen, has never been guilty of similar 
 folly ? Which of you, mesdames, but has inspired like wild behavior ? 
 
 At last, toward break of day, he threw himself all dressed upon 
 his bed, and, murmuring her name, qualified by sundry complimentary 
 adjectives, to his pillow, fell into a restless sleep. 
 
 " Ah, the delicious anguish of new-born first love ! How transitory 
 it is ; yet, for its brief duration, how all-important, how all-eclipsing, 
 how all-consuming ! What thrills, what pangs, what burnings and 
 freezings of the heart ! Into what a strange, sweet, bitter, contradictory 
 delirium it converts the happy sufferer's heretofore commonplace ex- 
 istence! . . . Ephemeral as the dew, once passed away, it is passed 
 away utterly and forever. Anguish, indeed, it is truly called ; syno- 
 nyme for endless unrest and pain. But in the retrospect it seems an 
 unalloyed celestial rapture ; and many and many are they, who would 
 renounce all the treasures of the world, to experience its resurrection." 
 — See A Voice from the Wilderness, chapter xxxv., page 326. The 
 passion of which he was now getting his initial taste, Ormizon had 
 already learnedly analyzed, and eloquently portrayed, in his novel. 
 
 Late Monday forenoon he carried his manuscript around to the 
 Rue Soufflot and left it with Denise. She received him alone in the 
 little triangular gilt-and-white salon. She had pinned in her breast a 
 sprig of mignonette, the perfume of which penetrated to the innermost 
 recesses of our hero's heart. 
 
 " Isabel is gone out," she explained, " since nine o'clock — to her 
 clinic." » 
 
 " I was wondering," said he, after he had delivered the manuscript, 
 " I was wondering whether you and she would do me a great favor." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure we will. We will be very glad — ^if it is pos- 
 sible." 
 
206 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " Well, I see that they're giving Mondewr Perrichon at the Gym- 
 nase. I wanted to know whether you and she would go with me to 
 see it to-morrow evening." 
 
 " Oh, and is that what you call a great favor ?" she laughed. " Is 
 that the American style — ^to name things by contraries ? We shall be 
 delighted. Monsieur Perrichon — it is the funniest play that was ever 
 written. It is a classic of wit." 
 
 " Ah, then you have seen it?" 
 
 " Oh, no, never. I have gone but very little to the theatre. I 
 have read it, only. I shall be so glad to see it. It is very kind of 
 you to invite us." 
 
 This last was said seriously, with wide eyes lifted to his face. 
 
 " It is you who are kind to agree to go," he returned, with equal 
 seriousness. 
 
 And then there ensued an embarrassed little silence. 
 
 " Will — will you not sit down ?" asked Denise. 
 
 They had both remained standing, he with his hat in his hand, 
 throughout their dialogue. 
 
 " Oh, thank you ; no. I must be going. Well, then, I'll call for 
 you to-morrow evening — say at about a quarter-past seven. Well, — 
 good-by." 
 
 This speech, and the resolution which it expressed, cost a huge 
 effort of will. He would have liked nothing better than to sit down 
 and enjoy a comfortable little visit with her. But he forced himself to 
 consider that the place was Paris, and that she was alone, and to recog- 
 nize that it wouldn't do. 
 
 She gave him her hand. He held it for a moment, revelling in its 
 warmth and softness. Finally he tore himself away. 
 
 He drove over to the Gymnase, and secured a baignoire for the fol- 
 lowing evening. On his way back, he stopped at a restaurant for 
 breakfast. Toward one o'clock he reached his own room, H6tel de 
 I'Univers, Rue Gay-Lussac. 
 
 He threw himself into an arm-chair, and began to wonder how he 
 should survive the night and day that lay between him and his next 
 meeting with Denise. 
 
 " For moi'e than twenty-four hours I shall not see her. For more 
 than twenty-four hours my life must stand still and wait. Merciful 
 heavens, how shall I kill the time ?" 
 
 The bare thought of the long, blank period that would have to drag 
 away before he could again be with her, — the bare thought of it racked 
 his brain, like the thought of eternity ; made his heart stop beating ; 
 made his breath come in heavy, labored gasps. He must banish the 
 thought from his mind. He must contrive some means of distracting 
 his attention. He must find some occupation, must busy himself with 
 something. Merely to sit, and wait, and count the seconds, would 
 drive him mad ; so intense was his desire, so great tlie stress of his 
 impatience. If— if he could but fall asleep, and not wake until the 
 wished-for moment was arrived ! Life, which many people complain 
 of as too short, was for him too long by some thirty interminable hours. 
 By that amount he would gladly have abridged it. 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 207 
 
 He sprang up from his seat, and started to and fro through his 
 room, striding caged-lion fashion, and counting his steps, " One, two, 
 three, four," — up to sixty, which, he calculated, would make a minute. 
 Every now and then he would halt, and draw a deep, loud sigh, and 
 frantically crush his temples between the palms of his hands. Very 
 silly and irrational conduct, to be sure ; but thus it is that most impet- 
 uous, warm-blooded young fellows carry on, at this interesting tide in 
 their affairs. 
 
 By and by he dropped into a chair again, and lighted a cigarette. 
 He smoked without relish, simply for the sake of passing the time. As 
 quickly as he consumed one cigarette he lighted another from its ex- 
 piring sparks. Presently he counted the stumps. Ten. He guessed 
 that it must now be pretty nearly four o'clock. He secretly thought 
 that it was later ; but his thought might be the offspring of his wish, 
 and he said four, so as to be on the safe side and preclude the possi- 
 bility of disappointment. He looked at his watch — which for a long 
 while he had purposely abstained from doing. He looked at his watch. 
 . . . Must he believe his eyesight ? By all the furies ! It was only 
 half-past two. 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! I can't stand this !" he cried. " I'd better go out 
 for a walk." 
 
 He walked the streets for the rest of the afternoon. He walked 
 directly across the city as far as the Pare Monceau ; thence to the Arc 
 de Triomphe ; thence to the Trocad6ro ; thence, along the quays, to the 
 Place de la Concorde ; thence to the Invalides ; thence, by a tortuous 
 route, through narrow, crooked, picturesque streets, back to the Boule- 
 vard St.-Michel. A long, circuitous walk, as any one may see by 
 glancing at a map of Paris. Also an interesting walk ; but to its in- 
 terest he was impervious. He walked at top-speed, eyes fixed straight 
 ahead, glancing neither to the right nor to the left ; again merely for 
 the sake of killing time. The quantity of time thus disposed of was 
 precisely two hours and forty minutes. It was now ten minutes after 
 five o'clock. 
 
 He seated himself at a caf6 table on the boulevard, and called for 
 beer. 
 
 " Beer," he remarked to himself, " is a sedative. It will calm my 
 nerves." 
 
 As he sipped his soothing-draught, he mused, " If only in this big 
 city I knew somebody whom I might call upon, in whose society I 
 might while away an hour or two ! If only in this crowd, constantly 
 passing and repassing on the sidewalk, I might meet an acquaintance, 
 espy a friendly face ! Yes, there's Palmer, to be sure. But Palmer 
 isn't exciting enough ; and, besides, I have no right to inflict myself 
 upon him. Ah, Denise, Denise ! Where is she now ? What is she 
 doing ? What is she thinking about ? Not about me ; that's certain ; 
 I may make up my mind to that. Oh, Lord ! Still a night and a 
 day before I can see her !" 
 
 He emptied his glass, and ordered another. 
 
 At the table next to his a young lady was seated, alone. She wore 
 a broad-brimmed straw hat ; a very close-fitting gown of some dark 
 
208 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 red stuff diversified by large white dots ; and a pair of high-heeled 
 patent-leather slippers, the tips of which peeped out from beneath her 
 skirt like a couple of bold black eyes. Her face (a sufficiently pretty 
 face; a saucy, roguish face) seemed familiar to Ormizon. By acci- 
 dent, he caught her eye. She smiled, and volunteered, "Bonsoir, 
 monsieur." 
 
 Ah, yes; he remembered. This was the young lady who sold 
 him his cigarettes and his postage-stamps, in the little shop next door 
 to his lodgings. 
 
 " Bonsoir," he returned, curtly, without lifting his hat, and addressed 
 himself to his beer. 
 
 Not to be rebuffed, " Monsieur a I'air triste," she observed, with the 
 intonation of sympathy. 
 
 " Vraiment ?" was his response, more curtly still. 
 
 She subsided. 
 
 But pretty soon an idea occurred to him ; a temptation presented 
 itself. 
 
 " Why not ?" he soliloquized. " It could do no possible harm. It 
 would help me to wear out this everlasting night. It would keep me 
 from thinking about — it would make me forget. It would be a diver- 
 sion, an excitement. Anything, rather than this impatience, this sus- 
 pense. Anything to hurry the time along. I — it — — " 
 
 He got up, left his table, and took the unoccupied chair at that of 
 his neighbor. 
 
 The next few hours passed rapidly enough. They dined together at 
 a Duval, and afterward went to the Hippodrome. At eleven o'clock, 
 before the entrance of the fair tobacconist's domicile. Hue Royer- 
 Collard, Ormizon bade her good-night. 
 
 " Eh, comment ?" she cried. " Oh, bi'n ! Bonsoir, et merci pour 
 une soir6e trfes amusante." 
 
 In his own room he covered his face with his hands, and moaned 
 aloud : 
 
 " Oh, what a low, miserable brute you are ! Oh, how I loathe you ! 
 How weak you are — how base — how contemptible ! If I could but 
 recall this evening — undo it — blot it out ! I — I have been disloyal to 
 her. How shall I ever dare to look her in the face again ? I have con- 
 taminated myself. I am not fit to breathe the same air that she breathes. 
 How can I hope to win her now? I deserve — yes, I deserve to lose 
 her. The idea ! That she should love a low, weak thing like me ! 
 Oh, God ! Oh, God forgive me !" 
 
 What had he done ? He had given Mademoiselle CSlestine a better 
 dinner than she was accustomed to, and had afforded her a couple of 
 hours of harmless entertainment at the Hippodrome. But if he had 
 committed a sneak- theft, he could not have despised himself more bit- 
 terly ; if he had committed a murder, he could not have repented it 
 more passionately. Sickened by his memory of the thing, tortured by 
 his remorse as by a coal of fire burning in his breast, he passed a most 
 miserable night. , 
 
 " Yet, if I had not loved her so," he cried, " I never should have 
 done it. How strange ! how strange !" 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 209 
 
 VII. 
 
 Tuesday morning, along with his coffee, D6sir6, the gargon, brought 
 him a letter. Its superscription was in a handwriting which he had 
 never seen but once before, yet which he recognized at a single glance. 
 The sight of it now did not by any means leave him unmoved ; nay, 
 indeed, it occasioned a very singular aberration in the action of his heart, 
 causing that organ simultaneously to leap and to sink. To leap, for 
 obvious reasons : the letter came from her. To sink, because in con- 
 nection with it a hideous thought flashed upon his mind. Why should 
 she be writing to him, unless something had happened to interfere with 
 the arrangements that they had perfected together at their conference 
 yesterday ? If affairs remained in statu quo, this missive was unneces- 
 sary and inexplicable. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I suppose she has written to inform me that the doctor 
 had a previous engagement, or — or I don't know what — and that they 
 cannot go. Just my confounded luck !" 
 
 For a while he held the envelope intact in his hand, and stared at it 
 with a countenance that was at the same time savage and caressing. 
 At last, muttering, " Well, here goes," he tore it roughly open. He 
 closed his eyes for a moment, and sought to muster his courage. " Well, 
 there's no use playing the ostrich. Here's my fate confronting me. 
 I've got to grin and bear it. It won't mend matters to procrastinate," 
 he said, finally, and, with the composure of despair, proceeded to read : 
 
 " Monday Afternoon. 
 "Dear Me. Oemizon, — Isabel wishes me to ask, will you not 
 come to take dinner with us to-morrow (Tuesday) evening, before the 
 theatre? In order that we may have plenty of time, we shall dine 
 early — at six o'clock. She has set her heart upon having you come, 
 and I hope you are not going to disappoint her. Have you read any 
 Browning yet ? 
 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 "Denisb Pbesonette." 
 
 Of course the reaction was instantaneous and excessive. At first 
 he could scarcely credit his eyesight ; but a second perusal left no room 
 for doubt. He carried the paper to his lips and kissed it rapturously. 
 He danced about his chamber in an ecstasy, humming a merry tune, 
 like a child with a new toy. He apostrophized himself: "Well, you 
 are a lucky dog ! Well, you'd better thank your stars ! Well, by 
 Jupiter !" He took on generally in a very ridiculous, exuberant, 
 boyish manner. By atid by he sat down at his table to indite an 
 acceptance. 
 
 " Dear Mademoiselle Denise " 
 
 No. That wouldn't do. That was too familiar. He tore the sheet 
 up, and began anew : 
 
 " Dear Mademoiselle Personbtte, — Your note has given me 
 
210 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 greater pleasure than I can say; and I shall certainly be on hand 
 promptly at six. Meantime, I shall try to alleviate my impatience by 
 reading Browning, which, I blush to own, I have not yet done. 
 
 "Please express my very best thanks and compliments to the 
 doctor, and believe me, 
 
 " Yours always, 
 
 " Stephen Okmizon." 
 
 But after he had sealed this communication, and addressed it, he 
 hesitated. 
 
 " They ought not to be inviting me to dinner," he reflected, " They 
 can't afford it. And I ought not to accept their invitation. . . . Yet 
 I don't exactly see how I can decline it, without hurting their feelings. 
 And besides — besides, it would be such jolly good ftin. I suppose it 
 would be awfully bad form for me to — so to speak — ^to turn the tables, 
 and ask them to dine with me. Yes, I'm afraid it would. Still, they 
 — they're not sticklers for the ceremonies ; and if I employed tact — if 
 I made the proposition gracefully — it might not do any harm. Well, 
 I guess — I guess I'll risk it. Yes, I absolutely mustn't let them spend 
 their money dining and wining me." 
 
 With which he commenced a third note to Denise : 
 
 " Deak Mademoiselle Peesonettb, — It was quite odd that you 
 should have sent me the very kind note which I have just received, 
 and for which I beg you and the doctor to accept my warmest thanks. 
 It was odd, because at the very moment when it was handed to me, I 
 was getting out my paper to scratch off a line to you. The temptation 
 is now strong upon me to leave what I was about to say unsaid. Still, 
 your judgment is better than mine, and perhaps I may as well submit 
 the matter for your consideration. Of course I shall abide by your 
 decision. Well, then, I was on the point of writing to tell you that if 
 you and the doctor would do me the honor of dining with me this 
 evening at "the Foyot, you would make me very happy. Now, as I 
 say, I leave the question in your hands. To be your guest, or to be 
 your host : it is a choice of felicities which I have not the strength of 
 mind to make. 
 
 " The messenger will bring your answer. 
 
 " Yours always, 
 
 " Stephen Oemizon." 
 
 He leaned out of his window, and hailed the commissionnaire who 
 had his stand on the curb-stone below. By the hands of this functionary 
 he dispatched his questionable message. 
 
 He waited in a state of wretched uncertainty for her reply. He 
 had written very stiffly, very feebly, he felt ; and perhaps she would be 
 offended. In somewhat less than a quarter-hour the commissionnaire 
 returned. But this time the handwriting was not Denise's : 
 
 " Deak Me. Oemizon, — Denise, having to hurry off to a lesson, 
 asked me to answer your note. I know you'll be broken-hearted, but 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 211 
 
 I can't help it. My handwriting is not so pretty as hers, I am well 
 aware ; but it is legible, and will in the present case answer for all 
 practical, if not for all sentimental, purposes, 
 
 " Eh bien ! do you know, sir, that you are most imprudent to 
 trust ' a choice of felicities' (that phrase is immense : where did you 
 strike it ?), so grave as the one you mention, to a young and impetuous 
 damsel like Denise ? This is a text upon which I could develop a long 
 homily ; but, as the facteur is waiting, I forbear. Denise has cast the 
 ' choice' in favor of Foyot. Which goes to indicate that she has the 
 making of a gourmet in her ; upon which indication, my young friend, 
 reflect. 
 
 " Finally, shall we meet you at the restaurant, or will you call for us ? 
 
 " En tout cas, monsieur, agrlez I'assurance de ma plus haute con- 
 sideration. 
 
 " Toujours £l vous, 
 
 " Isabel B. Gluck." 
 
 " Wait an instant," he said to the messenger. 
 Then he scribbled, — 
 
 " Deae DocrroE, — Thanks infinitely. I will call for you at a quarter 
 before six. Meantime, I am 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 "S. O." 
 
 Which finished the business. 
 
 In the course of their dinner, he said to Denise, " That volume of 
 Browning you lent me — I have been reading it all day long." 
 
 "Oh, have you? Well?" 
 
 " It was a revelation to me. I had never known anything like it. 
 I fohnd, when I had once taken the book up, I could not put it down. 
 It was as absorbing — it was more absorbing than a novel." 
 
 " Which of the poems did you read ?" 
 
 " Well, I began with Fra lAppo lAppi." 
 
 " Ah, that is one of the very best." 
 , " It is ? Well, I should have supposed so. At least, I shouldn't 
 suppose it would be easy to surpass it. It's a masterpiece. Goethe him- 
 self might have been proud to have written it. It has so much human 
 nature in it, so much wit, so much humor, in addition to its lofty, 
 noble poetry. Then, aside from its other splendid qualities, it contains 
 the clearest, the most scientific, statement of the true philosophy of 
 aesthetics that I have ever seen. I — I was absolutely carried away 
 by it." 
 
 "Oh, I was sure you would be. Nobody could read Browning 
 understandingly, and not be. He is irresistible. Well, and after Fra 
 Lippo f 
 
 " After Fra Lippo I attacked Bishop Blougram's Apology, which, 
 in its way, I liked quite as much. It's grand, sublime. It's the 
 strongest defence that could be made for faith in revealed religion. It 
 beats Butler's Analogy, Paley's Theology, all hollow, on their own 
 ground." 
 
212 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " I think I must begin to read Browning," said the doctor, " you 
 children rave so about him. That poem about mesmerism, that Denise 
 read the other night — there was a great deal in it." 
 
 "Why," Ormizon continued, "there are a dozen lines or so in 
 Blougram that would have made any ordinary poet. You remember. 
 Mademoiselle Denise, where the bishop says, ' All right. Let us, then, 
 declare ourselves agnostics, free-thinkers, what you will, forthwith,' and 
 then goes on, — 
 
 'Where's 
 The gain ? how can we guard our unbelief, 
 Make it bear fruit to us ? — ^the problem here. 
 Just when we are safest, there's a sunset touch, 
 A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, 
 A chorus-ending from Euripides, 
 And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears, 
 As old and new at once as nature's self, 
 To rap and knock and enter in our soul. 
 Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring. 
 Bound the ancient idol, on his base again — 
 The grand Perhaps !' 
 
 I don't know when I have read anything so beautiful, anything so in- 
 spiring, anything so true. He speaks right out of the depths of human 
 experience." 
 
 " Yes, it's very iine," acquiesced the doctor. 
 
 " Oh, it is glorious !" cried Denise. " It is thrilling. I am so glad 
 you think as I do, Mr. Ormizon." 
 
 " I am thankful to you, mademoiselle, for having put me in the 
 way of thinking as you do. I'm going to study Browning systemati- 
 cally now. This afternoon I ordered his complete works at Gali- 
 gnani's." 
 
 " And yet," exclaimed Denise, with a scorn that might have with- 
 ered the laurels on the laureate's brow, — " and yet people will go on 
 talking about Tennyson, and calling him the greatest living English 
 poet! Ohr 
 
 " Oh, well, they'll get over that in time," Ormizon said, consolingly. 
 
 " On n'est jamais prophSte en son pays, ni en son temps," observed 
 the doctor, sententiously. ..." How delicious these mushrooms are !" 
 
 " Perfectly lovely," agreed Denise. 
 
 " It's true, they're not bad," Ormizon admitted. 
 
 And then, somehow, it seemed to strike each of them that there had 
 been a rather abrupt descent from the sublime to the commonplace ; 
 and spontaneously they broke into a merry laugh at their own expense. 
 
 Presently, " I, too, have been enjoying a literary treat, since I saw 
 you, Mr. Ormizon," Denise announced. 
 
 " Yes ?" he queried. " What was it ?" 
 
 " I have been reading A Voice from the Wilderness" 
 
 " Oh !" he cried, blushing. 
 
 " Perhaps you may think I took too great a liberty," she pursued. 
 " But I will tell you how it was. I began to copy the first chapter, 
 and I got so interested that I could not rest until I had read it through 
 and found out how it ended. I thought you would not mind, seeing 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 213 
 
 that I was going to copy it all. Now, anyway, I have confessed my 
 sin. If you think I was indiscreet, you may scold me." 
 
 " Why, what aa idea ! But of course — you're laughing at me. 
 You know it's a great compliment." 
 
 " No ; honestly, I feared your displeasure. The temptation, as I 
 have said, was so strong, I could not resist it. Yet, without compre- 
 hending precisely why, I did feel as though I had not any right to do 
 anything but copy, without paying attention to the sense. I have been 
 reproaching myself ever since. I was afraid you might be angry. I 
 am so relieved. But, as I was going to say " She paused abruptly. 
 
 " Yes ?" he questioned. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought not to tell you." 
 
 " Oh, on the contrary. It's your bounden duty. Tell me, please." 
 
 " I dare say you will think me awfully silly." 
 
 " Oh, no, I shan't. Go on. I'm dying to hear it." 
 
 "Well, I began it yesterday afternoon, and — and I — sat up all 
 night to finish it." 
 
 " Did you, really ? Why, how could I think that silly ? It in- 
 dicates prodigious wisdom." 
 
 "And — and it made me cry so, I have had a headache all day 
 long." 
 
 " Oh !" with an expression, facial and vocal, of exceeding distress. 
 " I'm so sorry ! I — I never meant to make you cry." 
 
 This was said apparently in all ingenuousness and good faith. But 
 his auditors seemed to regard it as a brilliant witticism, or bit of humor. 
 First, Denise began to laugh ; then the doctor speedily followed her 
 example ; while Ormizon, with a blank face, wondered what the joke 
 was. 
 
 By and by, sobriety being restored, Denise demanded, " But why 
 did you make it end so sadly ?" 
 
 " I tried to make it end as I thought it would actually have ended 
 in real life." 
 
 " Why, do you think things generally end badly in real life ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; I don't mean that. I mean, I tried to observe the laws 
 of cause and effect, and to make the end the natural consequence of 
 what had gone before. I tried to make it end in the manner that the 
 circumstances had rendered inevitable. To my mind, the ending was 
 inevitable from the beginning. Didn't it seem so to you ? Didn't the 
 climax seem natural, logical ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, logical enough, natural enough. But that did not make 
 it any less sad, less disappointing, — any easier to bear. And then, an- 
 other thing : do you yourself really believe what you made Rivington 
 say about the control of matter over mind ? ' Among the many dismal 
 truths which modern science has forced upon us, none is more disheart- 
 ening than this : that the mind, the spiritual part, of man, is not merely 
 intimately related to, but is absolutely dominated by, the material part, 
 his body. A local organic disease may not merely cloud and enfeeble 
 his intellect, but may totally pervert and deprave his moral nature, as 
 numberless instances have proven ; may turn the benevolent man into 
 a misanthrope, the truthful man into a liar ; may supplant love with 
 
214 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 hatred, refinement with grossness, disinterestedness with self-seeking.' 
 Do you yourself really believe that, Mr. Ormizon ?" 
 
 Was it not calculated to set any young author's heart a-palpitating, 
 thus to hear himself quoted verbatim by the loveliest lady of her gen- 
 eration ? So it affected- Ormizon's, at any rate. She punctuated her 
 inquiry by raising her eyes expectantly to his. At the meeting, a new 
 palpitation swept his bosom, and a blush mounted to his forehead. 
 Whereupon, by the strangest of coincidences, Mademoiselle's damask 
 cheek displayed for an instant a similar red ensign ; and simultane- 
 ously the two pairs of eyes were dropped upon the table-cloth. 
 
 " Er — well," he began, in a matter-of-fact key, returning to her 
 question, " as a general thing, you know, I shouldn't like to be held 
 responsible for the opinions of my characters. But here, in this special 
 case, it isn't a matter of opinion ; it's a matter of statistics. I don't 
 see how any one can help believing it. As Rivington says, no end of 
 instances prove it. The physicians' records are full of them. Isn't 
 that so, doctor?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; that's so, undoubtedly. But the force of all that is off- 
 set by the discoveries that are being made by the Society for Psychical 
 Research. Their experiments have conclusively demonstrated that, 
 while ordinarily the mind is unquestionably subject to the body, under 
 certain conditions the mind becomes absolutely independent of the body, 
 transcending all the limitations of matter, and of time and space. Still, 
 it can't be denied that very frequently, as you say, a physical lesion may 
 result in a radical change of the patient's character and disposition." 
 
 " Oh, but that is so horrible !" cried Denise. " It never occurred 
 to me before. But if it is true — oh-h-h ! It makes one shudder. 
 But I think your — what would you call it ? — not plot, exactly — your 
 idea — your theme — I think that was beautiful. To have him long so 
 ardently to believe in God and immortality ; and yet all the time be 
 dragged, forced, further and further, deeper and deeper, into material- 
 ism, pessimism, cynicism, and all that; and then, suddenly, forget 
 everything, escape from all his doubts and fears, and find perfect peace 
 and happiness in love. But why — why did you let her die ?" 
 
 " Well, as I said, I thought under the circumstances her death was 
 inevitable. But then, besides, I wanted him to realize that love isn't 
 enough ; that at best it is only a temporary refuge ; that it can't per- 
 manently fill the place of religion. I wanted him to discover that the 
 same grim, awful, relentless problems were still there, standing where 
 he had left them, outside his lady's chamber, waiting to confront him 
 at his exit. After she died, you know, his old longings, his old doubts 
 and perplexities, hopes and fears, came surging upon him with more 
 tremendous force than ever." 
 
 " Yes, I see. But it is dreadfully hard on the reader. You made 
 her so lovely and beautiful ; and then to have her die, — oh, it — it was 
 like losing one of one's own friends, almost. I thought I should never 
 stop crying. Oh, I really do not think it is fair to your reader to make 
 your book end badly. Do you, Isabel ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that," returned the doctor. " That's a 
 question of first principles, and would admit of a good deal of debate. 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 215 
 
 But there's one thing I do know, surely ; and that is, if we don't start 
 right away, we'll be late for the play." 
 
 Ormizon looked at his watch. 
 
 " By Jove," he ejaculated, " that's a fact, "Well, I declare, how the 
 time has flown !" 
 
 They hurriedly wound up their dinner, and left the restaurant. 
 Outside, they took a cab. Ormizon helped in the ladies, and was then 
 about to establish himself upon the little narrow front seat, facing them, 
 when Dr. Gluck protested : 
 
 " No, no, now. We're not going to let you sit cramped up over 
 there. It isn't at all necessary. There's lots of room here between us. 
 Isn't there, Denise ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; lots," concurred Denise. 
 
 " Oh, I can't think of crowding you ladies," he rejoined. " I shall 
 be perfectly comfortable here, — on the strapentin." 
 
 " But you won't crowd us. Just hole," cried the doctor, edging over 
 toward one side, while Denise drew in toward the other. " Don't you 
 see f There are oceans of room here. And we should feel so uneasy 
 to see you all doubled up over there. Shouldn't we, Denise ? Come ; 
 do be nice, now, and do what we ask." 
 
 So he sandwiched himself in between the ladies, and throughout the 
 drive enjoyed the blissful consciousness of Denise's arm touching his 
 own. 
 
 They reached the theatre just as the curtain was going up. 
 
 Denise and Dr, Gluck sat forward in the baignoire, and concentrated 
 their attention upon the stage. He sat behind them, in the dark, and 
 concentrated his attention upon Denise. It was a keen delight, thus, 
 without let or hinderance, to be permitted to feast his eyes upon her. 
 Far more interesting than the comedy in progress beyond the footliglits 
 he found the play of expression visible in her face and person. Now 
 she would bend eagerly forward, lips parted, breath bated, eyes wide 
 open, intent upon some decisive episode, anxiously watching for its 
 denouement ; then she would lean back in her chair, and draw a deep 
 sigh of relief, or smile at the humor or laugh at the absurdity of it, 
 turning to the doctor for sympathy in her emotion. The bfitises of 
 Monsieur Perrichon afforded her infinite amusement ; but she took the 
 sentimental business very seriously, following the devious course of the 
 love-affair with rapt attention, and now and then allowing to escape her 
 a soft little " Mon dieu !" or " Bon !" When the curtain dropped upon 
 the first act, she clapped her hands with much enthusiasm ; after which 
 she turned around to Ormizon, and gave utterance to all her accumulated 
 enjoyment in an impulsive little monosyllable : " Oh !" 
 
 During the interlude they walked about the foyer ; and for the first 
 time in his life he experienced the delicious sensation of having Denise 
 lean upon his arm. 
 
 When the play was over, and they left the theatre, he, of course, 
 was for taking a cab home. But the doctor would not hear of it. 
 
 " It was all right to take a cab coming," she explained, " because 
 we were in a hurry. But we're not in the slightest hurry now ; and 
 the omnibus is plenty good enough. Isn't it, Denise?" 
 
216 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " Plenty," Denise responded. 
 
 So with the omnibus he had to put up. In the end he was not 
 sorry; for it fell out that he and Denise sat side by side, with the 
 doctor opposite ; and thus, as the roar of the wheels drowned their 
 voices to third persons, he and she were enabled to indulge in the 
 following confidential conversation : 
 
 " I have had swcA a good time, Mr. Ormizon." 
 " Have you, really ? I'm very glad. So have I." 
 Now, this may not seem like very much of a conversation to the 
 reader ; but it set our hero's heart into a wondrous flutter. For Denise 
 employed a low, intimate, earnest tone of voice ; and besides, in speak- 
 ing, she brought her lips pretty close to his ear ; and — oh, joy ! — for an 
 instant he felt her warm, soft breath upon his cheek ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 On the morning after Monsieur Perrichon, Stephen Ormizon wrote 
 a long letter to his mother. Certain paragraphs toward the end of it 
 read as follows : 
 
 " And now, my dearest mother, I have something to tell you, which 
 is of very grave importance. It is something which, I feel, I ought to 
 tell you, yet which, I am afraid, you will not like. Yes, I am afraid it 
 will give you great pain. In fact, I know it will. But I think it would 
 be wrong for me to conceal it from you, nevertheless. I think I owe a 
 frank confession of it both to you and to myself. Much as it will dis- 
 please you, I am sure that in the long run both you and I would suffer 
 more if I lehould fail to make a clean breast of it at once. So now I 
 will try to state the whole business to you as clearly as I can. In ad- 
 vance, I beg of you to give me a fair hearing. Read what I have to 
 say through. Don't get angry, and throw it aside, or tear it up. 
 
 " Well, then, this Mademoiselle Personette whom I have told you 
 so much about — whom I have described to you as so good, so intelli- 
 gent, so beautiful — and who lives with our friend Dr. Gluck in the Rue 
 Soufflot — well, in the few days of our acquaintance I have grown to 
 love her with all my heart and soul. Don't for an instant, mother, 
 don't imagine that my feeling for her is any mere passing caprice or 
 fancy, which I shall get over. You would only be uselessly deceiving 
 yourself. You may as well make up your mind right away to this : 
 my love for Mademoiselle Personette is the serious love of a man for 
 the woman in whom he discerns exactly those qualities which, he 
 knows, his own nature will need in his wife. I love her so much that 
 I would be willing to give up everything else in the world, to the end 
 of winning her ; so much that, if I fail in winning her, life will have 
 lost all its value and charm for me, and I would be glad to die. 
 Whether she cares anything for me, or not ; whether there is the least 
 likelihood that she ever will care anything for me ; of course I do not 
 know. Sometimes I very much fear that she doesn't, and never will. 
 At other times I am more hopeful. Anyhow, it doesn't matter one 
 way or the other for the purposes of this letter. The point I wish to 
 speak with you now about is this. 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 217 
 
 " Before I left New York last October, you' told me — what, of course, 
 I had as good as known for years — ^that it was the one paramount desire 
 of your heart that I should marry Fanny — as soon as I got ready to 
 settle down and marry any one at all. You said that Fanny, on her 
 side, had agreed to have me ; and you asked me to promise to do in 
 this matter as you wished. In my unwisdom — for, if I had been less 
 unwise, I should have answered very differently — in my unwisdom, 
 not in the least realizing the meaning of what I did, not stopping to 
 appreciate the gravity of the obligation which I undertook, I answered 
 that, although I did not love Fanny at all, I did love you, and would 
 therefore, for your sake, promise to make her my wife. I might have 
 gone further, and said that, so far from loving her, I did not even like 
 her ; I did not even believe in her ; that, with her assertive piety and 
 self-righteousness, she was even positively obnoxious to me. But I 
 knew that this would grieve you ; I could not see that it would do 
 any good : so I held my tongue. On the understanding, then, that 
 I would consider myself betrothed to Fanny, I left you and came 
 abroad. 
 
 " "Well, as I say, if I had been wiser — as wise as I am now — I 
 never should have dreamed of making such a promise. In the first 
 place, I should have foreseen this chance .of my some time meeting 
 another woman whom I could really love. In the next place, I should 
 have understood that to marry a woman whom you do not love, is to 
 do not only yourself, but her, a great and irreparable wrong ; is to bind 
 her and yourself in a monstrous form of slavery, from which there is 
 no escape but death. Altogether apart from the fact that I am in love 
 with another woman ; even if I were not in love with anybody ; leav- 
 ing myself out of the equation entirely ; in the light of my more ma- 
 ture intelligence, I honestly think that it would be a violation of every 
 right principle of morality and of religion for any man, under any 
 circumstances, to enter into the peculiarly holy state of matrimony with 
 a woman whom he did not love, in the full sense of the word love. 
 That is my honest conviction, looking at the question from an abso- 
 lutely impersonal point of view. Very well ; how much more immoral 
 and irreligious would it be for a man to marry one woman, when he 
 actually is in love with another ! Then, if the other woman loves him 
 in return, there are her feelings, there is her life-long happiness, to be 
 considered, too. These views which I express this way are common- 
 places, platitudes. But the living truth that resides in them I never 
 realized until I found myself in love with Denise. Commonplaces, 
 platitudes, however, though they be, you certainly cannot have realized 
 their truth, or you would never have exacted that promise from me. 
 Even now, I dare say, you will be disinclined to admit their truth. 
 But I will venture to say that if you should put this question before 
 any intelligent, high-minded, unprejudiced man, he would agree with 
 me. 
 
 " Well, now, to come back to our own case. I shrink from occa- 
 sioning you any pain or disappointment ; I don't want to be selfish or 
 undutiful ; I do want to do that which is really right and just. If I 
 could convince myself that it would be right and just for me to re- 
 VoL. XL.— 15 
 
218 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 nounce Mademoiselle Personette, and come home and marry Fanny, 
 much as the sacrifice would cost me, I believe I would do it. But I 
 cannot so convince myself. On the contrary, I am convinced that it 
 is right and just for me to ask you to release me from my engagement 
 with Fanny. I feel that it is right and just to me, to the lady I love, 
 to Fanny, and to you. For I am sure of this : that if, feeling as I do, 
 I should marry Fanny, you also would inevitably have to bear a share 
 of the misery that such an unnatural union would cause ; you would 
 have to suffer the consequences of it, along with her and me. Look 
 at the facts : I don't love Fanny ; I do love Denise Personette. Fanny 
 does not love me — may very likely in the course of time come to love 
 somebody else. Now, I say, for Fanny and me, under these circum- 
 stances, to marry, would entail untold unhappiness upon her, upon my- 
 self, upon you, upon everybody that was in any way concerned. And 
 therefore, in all tenderness and respect, I beg of you to write to me 
 saying that you liberate me from my promise, aiid giving me your con- 
 sent to woo Denise." 
 
 He wrote the letter that contained these paragraphs, upon the spur 
 of an impulse. He sealed it, and committed it to the post, at once — 
 before he had time to consider, to repent. On second thoughts, he did 
 repent. He was sorry that he had not waited awhile longer about 
 making his avowal; sorry that he had not couched that avowal in 
 softer and more persuasive phrases. But he recognized that his repent- 
 ance was fiitile ; that the thing was done beyond undoing ; and so, like 
 a sensible fellow, he shrugged his shoulders ; said, well, there was no 
 use crying over spilled milk ; and determined to stifle his regret for 
 the past, and his fear of the future, in the delights of the present. 
 
 All that day he kept up a debate with himself touching the pro- 
 priety of his calling upon the ladies of the Rue Soufflot in the evening. 
 He tried hard to convince himself that there was no good reason why 
 he should not yield to his inclination ; but obstinately a still, small 
 voice retorted, " No, my dear boy, you mustn't run this thing into the 
 ground. It won't do. You'll wear out your welcome if you don't 
 take care. Besides, you'd — they'd — they'd get a pretty strong suspi- 
 cion of what the matter is ; and, I take it, you don't want to give 
 yourself away yet awhile." 
 
 " But," he demanded, " if I don't go there, what shall I do with 
 myself? How shall I pass the time? — forget this craving for the 
 sight of her face ? Ah ! I have it ! Pll call on Lancelot." 
 
 So, after his dinner, he made for the H6tel du St.-Esprit. 
 
 The landlady was established in an easy-chair on the sidewalk near 
 the entrance. 
 
 " Bonsoir, madame. Monsieur Palmer, is he at home?" he began. 
 
 " Monsieur Pahmah ?" returned the landlady, looking up, with a 
 blank face. " I do not know him, sir." 
 
 " Why, it is a young American painter." 
 
 " Ah, perfectly ! You wish to say. Monsieur Pal-maire. Ah, mon- 
 sieur, he is gone out, since a half-hour." 
 
 He turned away, disappointed. 
 
 It was a deliciously tender summer evening. The breeze, warm 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 219 
 
 and soft, bore a faint, sweet, summery smell, and murmured amorously 
 in the listener's ear. The stars shone like a multitude of languishing, 
 passionate eyes. There was distant music in the air. As on that balmy 
 afternoon in the gardens of the Luxembourg, every other young fellow 
 had his Dulcinea clinging to his arm. Just the conditions, meteoro- 
 logical and otherwise, to make a fond heart grow fonder still. 
 
 " Oh, hang it," cried Ormizon, " I can't stand this. I'm going to 
 call on her, I don't care what happens." 
 
 And he marched resolutely to her house and up her staircase. 
 
 Dr. Gluck opened the door. 
 
 " Oh, it's you !" she exclaimed. " It's so fortunate you've come. 
 We were just wishing you might." 
 
 " Ah," he responded. " It's very kind of you to say so." 
 
 " Yes," she continued ; " you see, Lancelot is here, with a plan. 
 We want you to join us in it." 
 
 Denise greeted him with a charming little smile, a warm little hand- 
 shake, and a demure little " Good-evening, Mr. Ormizon." 
 
 " How d'ye do ? How are you ?" inquired Lancelot. " How wags 
 the world with you ?" 
 
 " First-rate, thanks. And now, the plan ?" 
 
 " Oh, the plan's a simple one," Lancelot informed him. " I was 
 proposing to these ladies that we make up a party and spend next 
 Sunday in the Bois de Meudon. That's all." 
 
 " That we go out by an early morning train, and come back in the 
 evening," added the doctor. 
 
 " That we get our breakfast and our dinner there, al fresco," Denise 
 concluded. 
 
 "Well, now, what's your opinion of it?" Lancelot demanded. 
 
 " It's a capital idea," Ormizon affirmed. " Only, I would offer 
 this slight amendment. On Sunday there's always a crowd at Meudon 
 — students, shopkeepers, and such like ; which would be rather dis- 
 agreeable. So I suggest that we make it Monday instead of Sunday." 
 
 "By George," cried Lancelot, "right you are. That never oc- 
 curred to me ; but it's pregnant with wisdom. Mr. Ormizon, you are 
 the possessor of a remarkable brain. There's a large preponderance of 
 gray matter, and the convolutions are deep." 
 
 " Thank you for your kind appreciation," said Ormizon. 
 
 " Oh, how droll !" exclaimed Denise. 
 
 And she and the doctor went off in one of their explosions of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Well, then, Monday it shall be— hey ?" asked Lancelot. " We'll 
 meet at the railway station on Monday at nine o'clock ?" 
 
 " Yes," they all assented. 
 
 After which, for an hour or so, there was general and desultory 
 .conversation. 
 
 Finally, " I don't believe you ladies know what a fine night it is," 
 Ormizon observed. " It's a pity to spend it in-doors. Let's go out 
 and have an ice on the boulevard." 
 
 His suggestion was adopted ; and the ladies withdrew to put on 
 their bonnets. 
 
220 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 Lancelot took advantage of their absence to remark, confidentially, 
 " Say, Ormizon, I hope you won't be offended ; but I guess I'll let 
 you and the women-folks go for those ices alone. I guess I'll bid you 
 good-night when we reach the street." 
 
 " Why, what an idea ! "Why should you do that ?" 
 
 " Well, the fact is, I don't believe I've got money enough on me 
 to pay my share." 
 
 " But, man alive, this is my treat. I invite the whole crowd. You 
 can't possibly object to that — -just for once. And we'd all feel dread- 
 fully to have you desert us. You'd break up the party." 
 
 " Well, I hope you won't think me a sponger, a dead beat." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! It would be a pity if you couldn't ever accept an 
 invitation." 
 
 " Well, it's against my principles. But, in the words of Hip Van 
 Winkle, we won't count it this time, hey ?" 
 
 The doctor and Denise came back. 
 
 They walked around to a p&tissier's on the Rue de Vaugirard, oppo- 
 site the Luxembourg. Of course they paired off; Lancelot giving his 
 arm to the doctor, and Ormizon his to Denise. 
 
 On the way, in a low and tender voice, " Isn't it a lovely night, 
 mademoiselle ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, delicious," she replied, " heavenly ! — ' La brise est douce et 
 parfum6e,' " — humming softly the air from " Mireille." 
 
 " I don't know," he went on, with the intonation ,of one making a 
 broad and important generalization, " I don't know that I have ever 
 seen quite so pleasant an evening before." 
 
 " I," she said, reflectively, " I have never seen one that was more 
 pleasant." 
 
 " There is a peculiar softness in the air." 
 
 " Yes ; and, while it is warm enough, it is not a bit too warm." 
 
 " No ; the temperature seems to be about right. I hope this fine 
 weather is going to last." 
 
 " Oh, I hope so. What a pity if it should rain on Monday !" 
 
 " Oh, horrible ! Perish the thought !" 
 
 " Of course one cannot foresee. The weather is so capricious. It 
 may .do so." 
 
 " Certainly. Still, we " 
 
 "What are you young folks conspiring about now?" broke in 
 the voice of the doctor, from behind. " You have the appearance 
 of deep and awful mystery. Come ; Lancelot and I are dying of curi- 
 osity." 
 
 Thereupon, for the first time, it occurred to Ormizon that they had 
 been talking about the weather. After all, when we are conversing 
 with our lady-love, it isn't the moMer of our discourse that counts. 
 
 Arrived at the patissier's, they installed themselves at a table on the 
 sidewalk, where they could get the full benefit of the fresh, racy odors 
 that came from the gardens across the way. Here they sat, consuming 
 ices, and exchanging pleasantries, till about eleven o'clock. When 
 they started for home, they paired off again. But this time there was 
 some grave mismanagement ; for Ormizon discovered that Lancelot and 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 221 
 
 Denise were walking together in front, while he, with the doctor on his 
 arm, brought up the rear. 
 
 " Don't you like Lancelot ?" the doctor asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes ; he's a very nice fellow," he replied, absently. 
 
 "So original ; isn't he?" 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 " Do you think he's in love with her ?" 
 
 " With De — with Mademoiselle Personette ? Oh, no ; I don't 
 think so." 
 
 " They'd mate splendidly, though ; wouldn't they ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know." 
 
 " Yes, I think he'd make an excellent husband for her. But of 
 course, he's so poor, it's out of the question. He couldn't support a 
 wife." 
 
 " No ; I suppose not." 
 
 " Well, I dare say she'll live to be an old maid, like me. She'll 
 never marry a Frenchman, anyhow." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " No. You see, she hasn't any dot." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " Do you know my private opinion ?" 
 
 "No: what is it?" 
 
 " My private opinion is that you are head over ears in love with 
 her." 
 
 " Oh — why — oh, what an idea !" 
 
 " Oh, there's no use denying it. You can't pull the wool over my 
 eyes. It's as plain as the nose on your face. Well, I don't wonder. 
 I should be, too, if I were a man. You've got a level head." 
 
 " I hope, doctor, that you haven't said anything as absurd as this to 
 Mademoiselle Personette." 
 
 " Oh, no ; of course I haven't. It's none of my business. And, 
 besides, why should I ? It would only worry her." 
 
 " Do — do — do you think — I — stand any chance ?" 
 
 "Ah, then you admit it?" 
 
 " No. I don't admit anything. I put the question hypothetically." 
 
 " Well, then, if you don't admit it, if you merely put the question 
 hypothetically, I don't believe you stand the least ghost of a chance — 
 not the shadow of a shade of a chance." 
 
 " Oh, good Lord ! Really ? Is — is there somebody else ? For 
 mercy's sake, don't trifle with me about this. Tell me the whole truth, 
 right out. I — I can stand it." 
 
 " Well, really, I don't see why you should care one way or the other 
 — if you deny the soft impeachment." 
 
 " Doctor, I will confess to you, in confidence, since you seem already 
 to have divined it, I will confess to you that I love her with all my 
 heart. I adore her. Now, tell me, have I any chance ?" 
 
 " In confidence, in absolute secrecy, then, I will tell you " 
 
 "Yes— quick!" 
 
 " You promise to make no improper use of the information ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes. For heaven's sake, go on." 
 
222 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " I will tell you, then, that — I haven't the shadow of an idea." 
 
 " Oh, Lord !" he groaned. " Oh, you are cruel, to torture a fellow 
 like that !" 
 
 " There, there," she said, pressing his arm. " Have patience, have 
 courage. There's nothing absolutely repugnant or hateful about you. 
 I don't see why you shouldn't win her, or any other woman, if you go 
 about it in the right way, and try hard enough. Now, mind you, I 
 don't believe the idea of caring for you has ever entered her head — yet. 
 But I suppose on general principles that her heart is not impregnable. 
 And so I say, be not despondent. I'll tell you one thing, nothing could 
 please me better." 
 
 " Thank you, doctor. Then you are my ally ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that is, you have my best wishes." . 
 
 " Vous voill,, enfln !" cried Denise. " Lancelot and I have waited 
 these five minutes. How slow !" 
 
 They had reached the house in the Rue Soufilot. 
 
 " Well, good-night, messieurs," said the doctor. " And don't 
 forget : Monday at nine o'clock, at the Gare Mont Parnasse." 
 
 "That means," thought Ormizon, "that I am not to call upon 
 them between now and Monday morning." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Somehow the four intervening days dragged their weary length 
 away, and Monday morning came, warm and clear. Denise and the 
 doctor were already there when Ormizon reached the Gare Mont 
 Parnasse. Ah, the delicious heart-thrill, when she gave him her tiny 
 hand, and lifted her bright brown eyes in welcome upon his face ! She 
 wore a jaunty straw hat, that was exceedingly becoming to her ; and 
 she carried a dainty little black silk parasol, with a handle of curiously 
 carved ivory. 
 
 " Ah, here comes Lancelot," cried the doctor. " I was afraid he 
 was going to be late." 
 
 "And do look at his collar," added Denise. "I should think it 
 would guillotine him." 
 
 Lancelot came striding up, his coat-tails flying behind him. In his 
 hand he held a long oblong wooden box, presumably containing sketch- 
 ing-materials. His throat was encircled by a monstrously high stand- 
 ing collar, the points of which met under his chin ; the style of collar 
 that is affected nowadays by young gentlemen of fashion when they put 
 on their evening suits. Its effect was decidedly incongruous with the 
 rest of Lancelot's easy attire, especially on this sultry August morning. 
 
 " Well, young folks, here we are," was his greeting. " And now, 
 then, en avance ! Marchons ! All aboard !" 
 
 They found an empty second-class compartment, into which they 
 clambered. Next instant the doors were slammed, the bell was rung, 
 the locomotive shrieked ; and they were off. Fifteen minutes later, 
 " Meudon, Meudon !" sang out the guards ; and they descended. 
 
 " Now," said Lancelot, " I take it I express the sentiment of the 
 majority, when I remark that the first thing in order is to seek some 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 223 
 
 refreshment for the inner man. I know a restaurant in the forest, 
 about half an hour's walk from here, where one can feast royally. 
 Let's steer for it without delay." 
 
 Trusting themselves to Lancelot's guidance, they began their march 
 — under the solemn old trees, over the soft green moss. Half an hour, 
 three-quarters of an hour, an hour, an hour and a half, elapsed ; and 
 still they had not reached the restaurant. Lancelot kept assuring them, 
 " We're almost there." They kept complaining of extreme hunger, and 
 threatening to die of starvation in their tracks. 
 
 " Aha !" Lancelot suddenly cried, striking a theatrical attitude. 
 " Oh, ye faithless ones ! Ye indefatigable naggers ! Behold ! The 
 haven of our hopes, the goal of our desires !" 
 
 Looking in the direction that he indicated, they beheld, embowered 
 among the trees, some fifty yards to the right of the road-way, a small 
 wooden house, scarcely more than a shed or a shanty, upon the weather- 
 beaten fapade of which, in giant black letters, was emblazoned the 
 following device : 
 
 EESTAUEANT DE LA GAROTTE D'OR. 
 
 ON DONNE 1 BOIKE ET 1 MANGEE. 
 
 BNGLISCH SPOKEN . . MAN SPEIGHT DEUTSCH. 
 
 For the restaurant of the golden carrot they made in frantic haste. 
 Under the trees round about, were scattered a number of rough rustic 
 tables. One of these they speedily surrounded, and began to rap upon 
 it for the waiter. 
 
 "I never was so hungry in all my life before," proclaimed Dr. 
 Gluck. 
 
 " Nor I." 1 
 
 " Nor I." > In chorus froin the others. 
 
 " Nor I." J 
 
 " Well, now, we must go in for a breakfast that shall deserve a place 
 in history, — something at once delicate and substantial, varied and 
 abundant. Mr. Ormizon, you do the ordering. Bring your massive 
 intellect and your fervid imagination to bear upon the task, and effect, 
 if possible, a result that shall satisfy the soul as well as the palate." 
 
 " I'll try," said Ormizon, modestly. " Ah, here comes the waiter." 
 
 An elderly man, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a cigar,. came sham- 
 bling up. 
 
 "Bonjour, messieurs, mesdames," he greeted them, with the usual 
 Parisian sing-song. 
 
 " Bonjour," returned Ormizon. " The bill of fare, if you please." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, we have no bill of fare. Monsieur may command 
 whatever he desires." 
 
 " Well, then, let us see. Voyons un peu. . . . Well, we will begin 
 with a melon ; a fine one, mark you ; ripe to the point. It must be 
 
224 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 as cold as ice, as sweet as honey. It must melt like sugar upon the 
 tongue, and diffuse its exquisite , aroma throughout the senses. You 
 understand ?" 
 
 " Hein, oui, monsieur. Un beau melon, bien vaia. Et puis ?" 
 
 "Et puis — and then — well, and then a fried sole. Now, bestow 
 great care upon that sole. She must be as fresh as dew upon the 
 mountains, as crisp as the air of early morning. You may dress her 
 with a sauce of mushrooms, and perfume her with the most delicate 
 conceivable whiff of garlic. After the sole, a bifteck — thick, juicy, red, 
 and tender; served with fried potatoes and string-beans. Finally, 
 fruit, cheese, and coffee. Let that coffee be divorced from chicory. 
 Make it as black as night, as bitter as sorrow. And now, as to wine. 
 Well, we'll be moderate in the matter of wine. Bring us a couple of 
 bottles of St. Emilion. There ; that's all. But mind : we are ex- 
 cessively difficult, we others, and shall expect great things of you. 
 We want this breakfast to be a unique affair, a chef-d'oeuvre." 
 
 " Ah, oui, monsieur ; have no fear. Our kitchen is known in all 
 the country," replied the old waiter, and shambled off. 
 
 " That's a fact," added Lancelot. " They have a great reputation ; 
 and I think we may trust them for a first-rate meal." 
 
 " It made my mouth water just to hear you name those good 
 things," said the doctor ; " especially the sole." 
 
 " And mine, too," said Denise ; " especially the melon. This is 
 just the sort of morning for a fresh, cool melon." 
 
 " And mine, too," said Lancelot ; " especially the bifteck. I hope 
 it'll be a big one, and I hope they'll hurry up." 
 
 " But why did you omit a salad ?" asked the doctor. " I think a 
 salad would be just the thing." 
 
 "Oh, to be sure. I forgot it. I'll order one at once. Hello ; 
 here's our venerable friend returning now. I say, garpon, I forgot to 
 tell you that we should need a salad, also. A romaine, if you've got 
 one, with a plain dressing and a chapon." 
 
 " H^las, monsieur," the old waiter began, " we are desolated. We 
 offer to messieurs, mesdames, all our excuses. But it appears, mon- 
 sieur " 
 
 "Yes? Well?" 
 
 " It appears that the crowd of yesterday — ah, monsieur, il y avait 
 tant de monde ! — that all our provisions have been consumed. You 
 see, monsieur, Sunday is our day. On Monday, above all, we do not 
 attend of the world, and unhappily we are not prepared. Those of 
 yesterday have left, in fact, but two bottles of wine — a good wine of 
 Bordeaux, it is true — one bread, and sixteen eggs. That is all, messieurs, 
 mesdames." 
 
 It would be diificult to convey an adequate idea of the consterna- 
 tion which this speech produced among our famished friends. 
 
 " Bon dieu !" cried Denise. 
 
 " Gracious me !" cried the do ^tor. 
 
 Lancelot spake not ; but he turned as white — as white as the re- 
 doubtable collar that bound his throat. 
 _ Ormizon was the first to recover a little his presence of mind : 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 225 
 
 " Well, this is really awful, you know ; there's no two ways about 
 it. Still, we must bear up under it. We mustn't allow ourselves to 
 be crushed. Grin and bear it ; never say die ; don't give up the ship, 
 you know ; and all that. Maybe it's not so bad as it looks. Perhaps 
 — wait ; I'll ask him." Addressing the gar9on, " Is there another res- 
 taurant anywhere near here?" he demanded. 
 
 " Oh, yes, monsieur ; a very good one, in the village." 
 
 " In the village I None nearer ? How long would it take us to 
 reach it?" 
 
 " No, monsieur, none nearer. It would require perhaps two hours 
 of walking." 
 
 " Two hours !" exclaimed Denise, aghast. Her emotion overcame 
 her. She pronounced it, as French people will, when they are strongly 
 moved, " Two hhours !" 
 
 " Oh, that's out of the question. It's not to be thought of," cut in 
 the doctor. " We should never survive the journey." 
 
 " Never," concurred Lancelot ; " at least, not the six hundred. I 
 don't believe I could drag myself a dozen yards. No ; the only thing 
 to do is to put up with what they can give us here. Sixteen eggs — 
 well, that makes four apiece ; and they say there's lots of nourishment 
 in eggs. Then the bread and the wine — oh, we shan't actually starve. 
 We'll contrive to keep soul and body together. — Dites done, gargon : 
 tell your cook to make an omelette of those sixteen eggs — an omelette 
 aux fines herbes, if you have any estragon and ciboule. Serve that 
 with your bread and your wine ; and, above all, be quick about it ; 
 make haste ; for we die of hunger." 
 
 They waited in rather a dismal silence till the old man came back 
 with the things ; whereupon, immediately, they fell to, and, still in 
 silence, — fdr they were too seriously hungry to enliven the repast with 
 talk, — consumed omelette and bread, till not a vestige was left of either. 
 Then Lancelot leaned back, and drew a deep breath, and declared, well, 
 he felt somewhat better. 
 
 " Tenez," cried Denise. " What is this that he brings ?" 
 
 The old waiter drew near, bearing an immense bowl of salad. 
 
 " While messieurs, mesdames, were occupied with their omelette, I 
 have entered the fields there below, and gathered this quantity of 
 doucette," he explained ; " of which we have made a salad. We dare 
 to hope that it may compensate a little to messieurs, mesdames, for the 
 frugality of their breakfast." 
 
 Their joy was too deep for utterance. They attacked the doucette 
 vigorously ; nor did they rest till the last leaf had disappeared. It 
 was an excellent salad, moreover, with just the right proportion of oil 
 and the proper suggestion of garlic. What with the wine that they 
 had imbibed, they were by this time quite refreshed and cheerful. 
 Their spirits mounted; their tongues loosened. 
 
 " After all," reflected the doctor, " we might have gone further and 
 fared worse. For my part, I'm perfectly contented." 
 
 " For me," affirmed Denise, " I think it was great fun. It was an 
 experience." 
 
 " It was very jolly and romantic," Ormizon said. 
 
226 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 " Well, you folks are easily satisfied," observed Lancelot. " But I 
 — I own I'm haunted by the thought of that bifteck — thick, juicy, red, 
 tender — which our friend Ormizon here so eloquently described. It 
 was a great, a noble, an heroic conception. Alas that it should have 
 failed of execution !" 
 
 " Why, I declare, here conies the old waiter again !" cried the doctor. 
 
 " Oh, let us trust that he has discovered something more to eat," 
 Lancelot ejaculated, with the fervor of prayer. 
 
 " Why — why, look — don't you see ? — he's got a violin," pursued 
 Dr. Gluck. 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! That's a fact," groaned Lancelot. " We can't eat a 
 fiddle." 
 
 " Perhaps," questioned the old man, " messieurs, mesdames, would 
 like to amuse themselves a little ? I can play the waltz, the polka, the 
 galop — what you will. I put myself at the command of messieurs, 
 mesdames." 
 
 " Oh, a dance, a dance, by all means," was the unanimous response. 
 
 In a twinkling they were whirling in a swift waltz over the mossy 
 earth, while the old man lashed the strings of his instrument till they 
 shrieked for mercy. Ormizon, clasping Denise's waist, and holding her 
 little warm hand in his, blessed from the bottom of his soul the inspira- 
 tion that had possessed the aged waiter, and determined to reward that 
 functionary with a pourboire that should make his eyes open. Lance- 
 lot's coat-tails illustrated the principle of centrifugal force, by standing 
 out horizontally behind him. Round and round the dancers spun until, 
 breathless and exhausted, for sheer fatigue they sank upon the ground. 
 Lancelot panted like a race-horse at the finish ; and the perspiration 
 poured in streams from his forehead, down his cheek, and over his 
 tower-like collar ; which, however, appeared impervious to the moisture, 
 retaining its pristine gloss and consistency. Suddenly he started up, 
 crying, " By George ! As sure as I'm alive, there are poppies growing 
 in that meadow over yonder. Don't you see those points of scarlet? 
 Excuse me for a jiffy." And off he went poppy-hunting. 
 
 During his absence, " Did you notice his collar ?" Denise inquired, 
 in a low, awed tone. . 
 
 " Yes ; it didn't wilt, or anything. It passes my comprehension," 
 said the doctor. 
 
 " Wonderful," admitted Ormizon. 
 
 " There's something weird and uncanny about it," Dr. Gluck went 
 on. " Let's make him explain it." 
 
 " Yes ; it's like sorcery," added Denise. " ^a vous fait peur." 
 
 "Here he comes back. Now, Mr. Ormizon, we appoint you a 
 committee to probe this mystery to its bottom. I shan't be easy till 
 we have discovered the solution of it." 
 
 Lancelot returned, the richer for a good-sized bunch of poppies, 
 which he divided between the ladies. Denise fastened one of the 
 flame-red flowers in her hair, behind her ear, where it produced an 
 effect very Spanish, picturesque, and charming. 
 
 " Lancelot," Ormizon began, solemnly, " I have been commissioned 
 by these gentle but inquisitive friends of ours to request of you certain 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 227 
 
 information. From the moment of your advent among us this morn- 
 ing, we have been tremendously impressed by your collar. Its lustre, 
 its altitude, the grace and the dignity of its architecture, have not, I 
 assure you, been lost upon us ; nor have the consummate ease and thor- 
 oughbred insouciance with which you have supported it. The emotions 
 that it inspired, however, deepened into astonishment, not unmixed 
 with fear, when we beheld how stanchly it withstood the consequences 
 of your waltzing. Now, with all due respect, we are anxious to learn 
 what the secret of it is : its history, its chemistry, all about it." 
 
 "Why, certainly," replied Lancelot. "Happy to accommodate 
 you, I'm sure. This collar is what I call my dude collar. I got it to 
 wear when I went into society. I'm glad you folks have appreciated 
 it. The secret of it? Why, children, you're years behind the times. 
 This collar is made of what the French call linge am6ricain — in simple 
 English, celluloid." 
 
 Whereupon they had a good laugh all around. 
 
 "Well, come; don't let's stay here forever," the doctor said. 
 " Let's go for a ramble now in the forest." 
 
 They rambled about the forest till late that afternoon. Whenever 
 they stopped to rest, Lancelot got out his paints, and improved the 
 opportunity to make a sketch ; while they grouped themselves behind 
 him, and watched the progress of his brush, or gave him the benefit 
 of their intelligent comments and suggestions. " I'd deepen that 
 shadow a little, if I were you, Lancelot" — "A little more yellow in 
 that sunshine" — " Yes, he's caught that cloud-effect very well" — " Not 
 quite enough warmth in his middle distance, though," — etc., etc. For 
 a long time Lancelot stood it like a Spartan. At last, however, the 
 strain became too great for ilesh and blood. He started up, and, with 
 a low bow, oifered his palette and his brushes to Ormizon, saying, " I 
 tell you what. You just go ahead and finish it, will you ? There's a 
 good fellow. And show us how it should be." After that they let 
 the poor painter hammer out his own salvation, unassisted. There 
 was no pairing off to-day, alas ! though Ormizon kept picturing to 
 himself the felicity that would be his, if he and Denise could but 
 wander off alone together, down one of those stately, grass-grown 
 avenues, under the great trees, away, away, into the pearly haze at the 
 horizon. It seemed to him there could be no spot on earth more appro- 
 priate to love-making than this fine old forest of Meudon ; and yet — 
 and yet, there were the doctor and Lancelot so close at their heels that 
 he and Denise couldn't so much as say yes or no to each other without 
 being overheard. Nevertheless, to saunter at her side, to carry her 
 parasol, to listen to her laughter, to gaze into the starry depths of her 
 eyes — that was something ; that was not to be despised. " Oh, how 
 beautiful she looks," he thought, " so poetic and interesting, with that 
 scarlet poppy behind her ear, and the landscape for a background ! If 
 I had only plucked it, and given it to her, instead of Lancelot ! By 
 Jove, if — if I had never cared for her before, I should fall in love 
 with her to-day." It may be asserted generally that in the country, 
 as in the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of a 
 sentimental nature. There is something about the quiet, the solitude, 
 
228 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 the sweet air, the green grass, the shadowy nooks, the sunlit pathways, 
 the birds, the wild flowers, the whispering breezes, the babbling brooks, 
 etc., etc., that exerts a wonderfully stimulating influence upon all the 
 amorous fibres in a young person's bosom. 
 
 They took the five-o'clock train for Paris, — ^having, in consequence 
 of the emptiness of the larder at the Garotte d'Or, to forego the 
 dinner al fresco that they had looked forward to. Arrived in town, 
 they made straight for an Etablissement Duval ; and there, I promise 
 you, they commanded such a banquet as more than satisfied even the 
 insatiable Lancelot. Ormizon has repeated the menu to me : consomm6, 
 filet de sole, ris de veau aux petits pois, rosbif aux champignons, haricots 
 verts, artichauts 3, I'huile, framboises et fromage de cr6me, abricots, 
 caf6, cognac. 'Twas well they had healthy appetites and good digestions. 
 Their conversation, as they sat around the table, turned upon Dr. Gluck's 
 hobbies, psychical research and spiritualism. She told in a graphic and 
 rather blood-curdling style of many of her own experiences ; how she 
 had seen chairs walk unaided about a room, how she had shaken hands 
 and held creepy consultations with materialized visitants from the other 
 world, and so on ; and succeeded in working up the interest of her 
 auditors to a high degree. In the end she proposed that they should 
 all spend the evening in the Rue Soufflot and try their luck at table- 
 turning ; a proposition to which they readily assented. 
 
 Acting under the doctor's generalship, they cleared off the books 
 and things upon the centre-table in the salon ; and then they sat down 
 around it, resting their finger-tips lightly upon the top near the edge. 
 It was an unsubstantial table of wood, perhaps three feet square, and 
 weighing not more than five pounds at the utmost. 
 
 "Now," said the doctor, "we must all touch hands. This way. 
 See ? Stretch out your little fingers, and touch those of your neighbors 
 both to right and left, so as to form a circle." 
 
 Ormizon liked this. It was very pleasant to keep his little finger 
 in constant contact with Denise's. 
 
 The room was lighted by a single candle. The doctor explained 
 that the spirits wouldn't come if there was a bright light. 
 
 " May we talk ?" Lancelot asked. 
 
 "No; I guess we'd better not," replied the doctor. "Music is 
 generally regarded as a favorable condition. But talk would be likely 
 to keep them away." 
 
 Lancelot began to whistle. " We won't go home till morning," 
 was the tune he selected. 
 
 "Oh! Please! You don't call that music, do you?" cried the 
 doctor. 
 
 He cut the melody short ; and they remained in silence for some 
 ten or fifteen minutes. The table had thus far shown no disposition to 
 cast off its inertia. But stay — suddenly — what was this ? 
 
 A distinct vibration was perceptible in it. It trembled. It shook. 
 It swayed energetically from side to side. Then it stopped, and was 
 quiet again. 
 
 " Oh ! Oh-h-h !" murmured Denise, scarcely louder than a whisper. 
 " I am so afraid !" 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 229 
 
 " Sh-sh ! There's nothing to be afraid of/' whispered the doctoir. 
 " This is splendid." 
 
 Neither of the young men made any sign. 
 
 The table now remained motionless for it may have been a minute ; 
 at the end of which period it began, very slowly, to tip upward in the 
 direction of Ormizon, and downward in the direction of Lancelot, who 
 was facing him. It kept its balance in this position for a few seconds, 
 when it slowly returned to its natural place. 
 
 " Gosh !" exclaimed Lancelot. 
 
 " You know," said the doctor, " three raps mean yes ; two raps 
 mean no. Now I'm going to ask . . . Is — there — a — spirit — present ?" 
 she demanded, making each syllable very loud and clear, and pausing 
 after each word. 
 
 Slowly the table tipped upward, and descended with a rap upon the 
 floor, three times : yes ! 
 
 "Oh, do not, do not let us go on," pleaded Denise. "This is 
 horrible." 
 
 "Hush — hush!" the doctor implored her. "They'll go away if 
 you talk like that. Now I'm going to ask its name. You know, I 
 will repeat the alphabet ; and when the right letter is reached the table 
 wiU rap. Then some one must write that letter down ; and I'll begin 
 the alphabet again, and it will rap at the second letter ; and so on to 
 the end. This is a pretty slow process, but it's about the only practical 
 one I know of. — Now, who's got a pencil ? Ah, thank you, Lancelot. 
 All right. There ; now I'll repeat the alphabet ; and you, Mr. Ormizon, 
 you write down the letters. . . . Will — you — spell — out — your — name ?" 
 — addressing the spirit. 
 
 Three raps. 
 
 " Very well. . . . A — b — c — d — e — " She continued as far as T, 
 at which point the table rapped. Ormizon wrote T upon his paper ; 
 and the doctor began anew, "A — b — c — " etc., till O was reached, 
 when again the table rapped, and again she started, " A — b — c — " 
 
 It was a slow process. So much time elapsed between each letter 
 and its successor that nobody remembered those that had gone before. 
 By and by, after having bumped the floor at D, the table rapped thrice 
 — which, the doctor said, meant that the spelling was concluded. 
 
 " Well, what is its name ?" they all queried eagerly of Ormizon. 
 
 He handed the paper to Dr. Gluck. 
 
 " Well," she said, with great solemnity, " the letters are all written 
 out in a line, without being divided. Let me see. T — O — M — M — Y 
 —T—O—D—D— Tom— Tommy— Tommy Todd." 
 
 Lancelot burst into a wild guffaw. Ormizon followed his example. 
 Denise laughed, too; but her laughter was nervous, her amusement 
 evidently being tempered by fear. 
 
 The doctor alone preserved her gravity. " What are you laughing 
 at ?" she inquired. 
 
 " Tommy Todd !" shrieked Lancelot. " Tommy Todd !" And his 
 laughter shook him from head to foot. 
 
 " It is an odd name — for a spirit," the doctor admitted. " They 
 often do have very odd names indeed. But you mustn't laugh that way. 
 
230 -4 LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 He'll take offence, and go off. Come! Be serious. I want to see 
 ■whether we can get a communication." 
 
 Lancelot controlled his mirth. 
 
 The doctor asked, " Have — you — a — communication — for — any — 
 person — ^here ?" 
 
 Three raps. 
 
 " For whom ? . . . Now write, Mr. Ormizon. . . . A — b — c — " 
 
 After the doctor had repeated pretty nearly the entire alphabet 
 three times running, the monosyllable " you" was found written upon 
 Ormizon's paper. 
 
 " Me ?" she queried. 
 
 The table rapped in the affirmative. 
 
 " Oh, isn't this exciting !" she cried, all aglow with expectancy and 
 pleasure. " Isn't this splendid !" 
 
 For the next five or ten minutes she was kept busy saying her 
 a-b-c's. In the end the communication proved to be, — 
 
 " You needn't holler so at me. I ain't deef." 
 
 Lancelot had another convulsion. 
 
 The doctor's physiognomy expressed her sorrow, her disappointment. 
 Making the best of it, however, she demanded, in a subdued voice, " Is 
 —that— all?" 
 
 " No," the table answered, rapping twice. 
 
 "All right. . . . A— b— o— " 
 
 This communication was a lengthy one. But by and by, after an 
 eternity of spelling, it was complete : . 
 
 " Wall, I vum ! You say your letters fuss-rate. Where ju learn 
 um ? I am a weird, clammy, cross-eyed crittur. Ugh ! E pluribus 
 unum. Three cheers for Mary, three for the lamb. I am thy father's 
 ghost. Hooray !" 
 
 The punctuation was the result of a joint effort on the part of the 
 doctor and Ormizon. 
 
 " Oh, pshaw !" sighed the doctor. " How provoking !" 
 
 " Oh, what nonsense !" cried Denise. " Some one is cheating. It 
 is^I am sure it is Mr. Ormizon." 
 
 " No ; on my word of honor," protested Ormizon, " I am as inno- 
 cent as you are yourself." 
 
 " Oh, no ; nobody is cheating," said the doctor. " They often do 
 send these absurd messages. It is supposed to be due to some imper- 
 fection in the conditions. . . . Well — is — ^that — all ?" 
 
 " Tap — tap — tap," replied the table. 
 
 " Have — you — a — communication — for — any — other — person 
 
 here?" ^ 
 
 " Tap— tap— tap." 
 
 "For— whom? A— b— c— " 
 
 The result was : " Denise." 
 
 "Oh, no!" Denise exclaimed, starting up. "I do not wish ta 
 receive any communication. No ; this is too horrible. Please — I beg 
 of you— let us stop it. I know I shall not be able to sleep a wink all 
 
 night, if we go on. Please, Isabel, let us stop at once. It is so 
 
 oh-h !" 
 
A LAND bF LOVE. 231 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear !" sighed the doctor. " What a pity ! Just when 
 we are getting started so splendidly, to have to discontinue! We 
 may never have such a chance again. However, since it frightens 
 Denise, we must not go on. Dear, dear !" 
 
 So they left the table. 
 
 The doctor began to discuss what had happened in a very learned 
 and scientific style. The others listened gravely enough, till all at 
 once, "Tommy Todd!" cried Lancelot, slapping his leg, and had a 
 more frantic attack of laughter than before. Ormizon and Denise 
 joined him. At this, Dr. Gluck became indignant. " Well, really," 
 she declared, with great asperity, " I must say I think you are all very 
 frivolous and absurd." 
 
 When the young men were starting to take their leave, "Well," 
 began Lancelot, " I hate to dissipate your fond illusions, doctor, but I 
 feel that it is only fair for me to confess that I did it." 
 
 " Did it ? Did what ?" questioned the doctor. 
 
 " Why, tipped the table. I, alone and unassisted, with my own 
 right hand, performed those prodigious feats which an ill-advised mod- 
 esty induced me to attribute to Thomas Todd." 
 
 " What ! Oh, you — you — !" cried the doctor, choking with anger. 
 " You ought to be ashamed of yourself I — FU never forgive you — 
 never !" 
 
 " Oh, thank you for owning up, Lancelot. I am so glad, so re- 
 lieved," said Denise. 
 
 "Honestly, it was awfully mean of you," went on the doctor. 
 " Such monkey-shines ! It proves that you have no serious interest in 
 science. Well, good-night." 
 
 X. 
 
 Ormizon, as we know, was to sail for New York on the 26th of 
 September. He had engaged his passage for that date aboard the 
 steamship La Touraine, from Havre. He had done this, it seemed to 
 him, a million years ago, in a dimly-remembered era of obscurity and 
 chaos, when the world was without form and void, and darkness was 
 upon the face of the deep. He had done it before the flood ; under 
 the old regime ; in his grub period ; ere his soul had burst from its 
 chrysalis and spread its wings. He had done it, that is to say, before 
 he had made the acquaintance of Denise Personette. 
 
 But done, nevertheless, it was. The fact remained, like a monu- 
 ment of antiquity that had survived change, conquest, revolution. 
 There in his pocket-book, tangible and legible, lay his ticket, a vestige 
 of his former life, a legacy from his dead self; not by any means a 
 welcome or pleasing one. 
 
 His first blind impulse was to revoke and cancel the whole busi- 
 ness ; not merely to put off his departure, but to abandon the notion 
 of departing altogether, and abide forever where he was — in Paris, 
 with, or at least near, Denise. But of course a very little sober re- 
 flection sufficed to make the wildness and infeasibility of this scheme 
 patent to him. Then he turned back, and began seriously to meditate 
 prolonging his furlough, deferring the day of his farewell. Needless 
 
232 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 that -we should follow the debate he thereupon held within himself. 
 HLs desire cried, " Ay !" His reason argued, " Nay." 
 
 " "What's the use ? As long as I've got to go sooner or later, what 
 good can come of procrastination ? The wrench of parting will be all 
 the harder the longer I delay it. And then — besides — my mother. 
 She expects me home ; is eager for my return. I owe it to her not to 
 disappoint her. I owe her that much consideration. Add to which — 
 add to which, that if I want her to respect my wishes in this little 
 matter concerning Fanny, it would be most impolitic to start by offend- 
 ing her and getting her into a bad humor. Oh, Lord, yes ; I suppose 
 I shall have to stick to the 26th." 
 
 After a good deal of vacillation, — for it was constitutional with 
 him to vacillate, — he went over one day to the office of the ship's com- 
 pany, in Eue Scribe, to inquire tentatively what arrangements he might 
 be able to make for a later sailing, should he find himself so disposed. 
 He learned that no berth was to be had earlier than the second Satur- 
 day in November. 
 
 " Ze rosh of autumn," explained the urbane, English-speaking clerk. 
 "All ze worl' go home. Gran' crowd. No room, unless you take 
 officer's, w'ich cos' you hun'red, hun'red fifty, dollar extra." 
 
 That decided him. He could not think of waiting till the middle 
 of November. His mother would be broken-hearted if he failed her 
 at Thanksgiving. He could not afford to pay a hundred dollars extra. 
 Will he, nill he, now he must " stick to the 26th." 
 
 " All right," he soliloquized, resigning himself to destiny. " So 
 be it. If — if Denise gives me any encouragement — if she accepts me ! 
 — I'll go home, arrange my affairs, pacify my mother, find, if possible, 
 a publisher for my novel, and then — and then come back and marry 
 her ! But if — if she gives me the mitten — if I see that there's no hope 
 for me — if worse comes to worst — why, then I'll go home and stay, 
 and — oh, and support the misery of existence the best way I can. One 
 thing, though, I won't do, whatever happens. I won't marry Fanny." 
 From which time forth he endeavored constantly to exile the dread 
 day from his thoughts ; to prevent his mind from dwelling upon it ; to 
 close his eyes, and, ostrich-like, ignore how steadily, how relentlessly, 
 it was approaching. 
 
 All the while, naturally, he kept asking himself, "Does she care 
 for me ? Is she so much as in a fair way to care for me ? Is there the 
 least likelihood that she ever will care for me ?" — " Care for me," be it 
 observed ; not " love me." Very seldom, even in his own secret ponder- 
 ing of this question, did he use the word love. He dared not. That 
 word was too sacred, too awful. It called up a too vivid and dazzling 
 vision of the thing itself. His feeling about this was not unlike that 
 of the pious Jew, who cannot be induced to write or speak the name 
 of God, Jehovah, but substitutes for it a different set of sounds and 
 letters, Adonai. — " Does she care for me? Will she ever care for me?" 
 — Alas, he never could get hold of anything like a final, permanent 
 conclusion. Now, a trifle light as air, a word, a look, a gesture, a 
 mere inflection of the voice, would set him aflre with hope, and send 
 him home, intoxicated, beside himself for joy, to lie awake all night, 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 233 
 
 nursing the precious memory of the thing in his bosom, and feasting 
 his imagination upon its corollaries. Anon, another word, look, gesture, 
 what not, would plunge him into the darkest pit of despondency and 
 dejection, and afflict his heart with the sickness of hope deferred. A 
 thousand times he resolved to set his spirit at rest by speaking to her. 
 A thousand times he changed his mind, saying, " No, not just yet. 
 Wait a little longer." Again and again, of course, he had rehearsed 
 in fancy the scene that would take place between them : what he would 
 say, and how he would say it; what she would say, and how she 
 would say it ; and all the rest. But he dared not put his fortune to 
 the touch. The chance of rejection was too appalling. " No, no ; not 
 yet. I must give her time to become a little better acquainted with 
 me." Besides, would it be quite the thing for hioa to declare his pas- 
 sion to her, until he had received from his mother an answer to his 
 letter of August 12th? Until his mother's answer should arrive, he 
 must consider himself in a certain sense betrothed to another woman. 
 This consideration, however, was a secondary and incidental one, and 
 had very little real weight with him, as events presently proved. 
 
 The days and the weeks slipped away with breath-taking speed. 
 Suddenly, lo ! it was September 24th, and to-morrow night he must 
 leave Paris for Havre ; and still — ill omen ! — the expected letter from 
 his mother had not come ; and still he was in doubt about his fate. 
 
 " Well, I can't wait any longer," he said. " I've been a fool to 
 wait so long. To-night I'll call upon her, and get the doctor to 
 leave us alone together ; and — and then " 
 
 Ah, how his heart bounded at the prospect ! 
 
 That afternoon he walked in the Luxembourg Gardens. The sun- 
 set had faded, and it had grown almost dark, before he left them. He 
 emerged by a gate that led into Eue de Vaugirard. He had just entered 
 that thoroughfare, and was sauntering slowly in the direction of the 
 Boulevard St. -Michel, when, from behind, a pedestrian, whose gait was 
 faster than his own, overtook and passed him. What was his surprise, 
 his delight, to recognize in this personage — as he did, at once — none 
 other than Denise ! She was hurrying along as rapidly as her tiny 
 footsteps could bear her. 
 
 A few swift strides brought him nearly abreast of her. 
 
 " Mademoiselle — Mademoiselle Denise !" he called. 
 
 Hearing this voice, quite unexpectedly, so close to her ear, and 
 before she had seen the speaker, frightened her thoroughly. She 
 started, shrank away toward the curbstone, gave a little cry, and then 
 stood motionless, as though uncertain whether to fly or to stand her 
 ground. 
 
 He understood in an instant how careless he had been. He could 
 have flogged himself. His emotions overwhelmed him, defied restraiut, 
 rushed to his lips, and were uttered before he knew it : 
 
 " Why — Denise — don't — don't you know me ? Oh, did I frighten 
 you ? Oh, forgive me — forgive me, Denise — my — my little girl." 
 
 She looked up at him, face blanched, eyes big with fear. 
 
 " Oh, it is you !" she cried, with a great sigh of relief; and im- 
 pulsively she put out her hand, and caught his arm. 
 Vol. XL.— 16 
 
234 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 He could feel her tremble. 
 
 " Oh — ^you — startled me so," she said, in a weak voice. 
 
 " I was a brute. I ought to have thought. I might have known 
 that coming up behind you, suddenly, in that way — I might have 
 known that it would frighten you. But I was so surprised, so glad, 
 to see you, I never thought of anything except to overtake you. But 
 there — there," — soothingly, — " don't feel badly any more. Why, you 
 are trembling from head to foot. Oh, and it was I — it was I who 
 made you." 
 
 " I suppose I am very silly. I ought to have known your voice. 
 But it was so sudden," she explained ; and at the recollection a new 
 tremor swept over her, and her grasp upon his arm tightened. 
 
 " But you are still trembling," he protested. " You — you are not 
 afraid of me any more ?" 
 
 She looked up at him again, with great, wondering, reproachful 
 eyes. " Afraid of you !" she cried. And in the intonation of those 
 three words he read all that he longed to know. " Afraid of you !" 
 Such scorn of the idea, such astonishment that he could have enter- 
 tained it, such complete, unquestioning trustfulness, as the tone indi- 
 cated, could have been inspired by no other sentiment than the love he 
 wished for. 
 
 The violent beating of his heart, the whirl of his senses, made it 
 impossible for him to speak. They were standing in the open street : 
 it would not do for him to obey his impulse and fold her in his arms. 
 He covered her hand with his, and pressed it, while he strove to master 
 his agitation. 
 
 " Why," she said, softly, "you — it is you who axe trembling 
 now." 
 
 " Yes. ... I can't help it. ... I love you so, Denise." 
 
 He felt her fingers close upon his arm. 
 
 "Denise " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Do — do you — care anything — for me ?" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " Denise — won't you — tell me ?" 
 
 " Oh, how — oh, why do you make me say it ? You must know I 
 do." 
 
 Presently, after some further speech between them, which, though 
 to themselves of vital interest and importance, would most likely pall 
 upon the reader, — so obvious, so sentimental, so tautological, it was, — 
 presently he vouchsafed the information that he had loved her from the 
 very beginning of their acquaintance ; that he had become enamoured 
 of her at first sight. 
 
 Why, then, she wondered, had he waited so long about telling her 
 so? 
 
 He explained that the fear of rejection had tied his tongue. 
 
 And if — if it hadn't been for this accidental encounter in the street, 
 he would have gone away from Paris, back to New York— he would 
 have left her in that way, without letting her know at all ? Oh ! 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 235 
 
 " No, no, Denise. I was going to call upon you this evening, and 
 ask the doctor to leave us alone together ; and then — and then !" 
 
 More sentiment ; more tautology. 
 
 " Oh, but — oh, to think — to think that you have got to go— so 
 soon — to — ^to-morrow night — and be — be gone all winter !" Her, voice 
 broke into a sob. 
 
 " There, there, my " A perfect flood of sentiment and tau- 
 tology. 
 
 At the door of her house they parted, he promising to return after 
 dinner and spend the evening. 
 
 Climbing up the staircase of the H6tel de I'Univers, toward his 
 own room, he heard the voice of his landlady calling after him : 
 " Monsieur ! Monsieur Ormizon \" 
 
 " Yes ?" he queried, halting. 
 
 " Des lettres — des lettres pour vous, monsieur." 
 
 The landlady ran up to meet him, and put a large batch of Amer- 
 ican letters into his hand. 
 
 One of these letters was addressed to him in the penmanship of 
 his mother ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 At sight of his mother's handwriting, all at once, the great joy in 
 Stephen Ormizon's heart went out; expired in a sudden spasm, like 
 a flame upon which cold water has been poured. It was supplanted 
 by dread and foreboding. His hands became stone-cold, and gave off 
 a scant clammy moisture. He could feel a small spot of fire begin to 
 burn in either cheek. He could count the pulsations of the arteries in 
 his temples. A lump gathered in his throat. In his breast there was 
 a heavy, chilling weight, like a ball of ice. 
 
 He mounted with leaden footsteps the remainder of the staircase, 
 and entered his room, carrying the letter. He had to struggle hard 
 before he could muster the courage to open it. 
 
 " What are you afraid of?" he asked himself. " Can words hurt 
 you ? Likely enough she says exactly what you want her to. And 
 even if she doesn't ? what of it ? Aren't you big enough to stand a 
 scolding ? Come, come !" 
 
 That was all very well, very right and sensible. Nevertheless, it 
 was with a quaking heart that at last he tore off the envelope, and, by 
 the flickering light of his candle, proceeded to read : 
 
 "New York, September 12, 1885. 
 "Dear Stephen, — Rather more than a fortnight ago I received a 
 letter, bearing the Paris postmark, and signed with your name, which, 
 if it had not been written in your unmistakable hand, I could never 
 have brought myself to believe came from a child of mine. That my 
 son, my own flesh and blood, whom I endeavored conscientiously to 
 train up in the way he should go, and to imbue with the same high 
 principles by which I have always guided my own life, — that he can 
 be so steeped in selfishness, so utterly lost to all sense of honor and 
 
236 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 decency, so indifferent to his pledges and to his duty, so false, so cal- 
 lous, so unchristian, as the writer of this letter proves himself to be, 
 is almost incredible to me. I have always recognized with sorrow that 
 you had many faults and weaknesses ; that you were dangerously fond 
 of the pleasures of the world, and sadly lacking in strength and 
 decision of character. But this I attributed to your youth. I had 
 never suspected that you were a monster of ingratitude, a coward, a 
 poltroon. With what a shock the revelation of your baseness comes 
 to me, I leave you to imagine. I shudder when I think of the 
 punishment that must some time overtake you ; for it is not within 
 the bounds of Divine justice that such conduct should go forever 
 unpunished. I trust and pray that you may be led to a timely 
 repentance. 
 
 " For a while I hesitated about showing your letter to Fanny. I 
 was ashamed to let her, or indeed any one else, see to what depths my 
 own son could stoop ; and I hated also to destroy her illusions concerning 
 you, and her respect and affection for you. But eventually I concluded 
 that I really ought to do so, that she was entitled to know everything 
 that related to her betrothed husband. So, having tried to prepare her 
 for its contents, I gave her your letter to read. She took it and read 
 it ; and then, much to my surprise, she did not manifest any surprise 
 at all. She confessed to me that she had always been afraid you were 
 very worldly and depraved, and capable, if not guilty, of almost any 
 wickedness; and that this letter simply confirmed her fears. Just 
 think of that! She said she had concealed her opinion from me, 
 through consideration for my feelings, and reluctance to occasion me 
 such anguish as she knew I must suffer now. Those were her exact 
 words. Imagine my mortification at hearing my child spoken of in 
 such terms by that angel, and being unable to defend him ! She went 
 on to say that, so far as she personally was concerned, she freely for- 
 gave both your behavior toward her and the insulting expressions you 
 made use of about her, but that she never would or could forgive 
 your outrageous conduct toward your mother. It would be her earnest 
 prayer that your proud heart might be humbled and chastened, and 
 your eyes opened to the folly and the sinfulness of your ways. She 
 pointed out that the saddest aspect of your letter was its hypocrisy — 
 your endeavor to disguise your selfishness and faithlessness under the 
 cloak of virtue. You actually have the presumption to preach a 
 sermon to your mother. All your talk about right and duty and re- 
 ligion would make me smile, if it were less impious and blasphemous. 
 
 " I have waited till now to answer your letter, so that my grief and 
 my indignation might abate sufficiently for me to write calmly and 
 without heat. Now, after much thought, and after having taken the 
 advice of Fanny, and of the Eev. Mr. Wilcox (who, though a young 
 man, is as wise as he is good), our new pastor, this is what I have to 
 say: 
 
 " Of course, being over the age of twenty-one years, you are a free 
 agent, and are at liberty to do in every respect whatever pleases you, with- 
 out consulting your_ mother. You are at liberty to commit the worst 
 crimes, and to practise the lowest vices ; and I have no power to restrain 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 237 
 
 you. So, of course, you are at liberty to break the solemn promises you 
 made to me, and to ignore your duty toward Fanny, and to marry this 
 Frenchwoman with whom you seem to have become so infatuated ; and 
 I can do nothing to prevent you. But if you see fit to take this course, 
 I may teU you frankly, once for all, — and you know that, unlike my son, 
 I am not a person to break my word, — I may tell you once for all that 
 so long as I live I will never consent to see you, or to speak to you, or 
 to have anything to do with you, again. If you can stoop to such 
 disgraceful conduct, I shall never more acknowledge you as a child of 
 mine. You had better understand this clearly. To employ your own 
 language, you would only be uselessly deceiving yourself to doubt it 
 Unless, immediately upon the receipt of this letter, you come home, 
 and crave Fanny's and my forgiveness upon your bended knees, and at 
 once make her your wife, you need never hope to be recognized as my 
 son again. Therefore it is for you to choose between your French- 
 woman and your mother. I will not tolerate any dilly-dallying, any 
 discussion. I have spoken my last word; and you know me well 
 enough to be aware that I always mean exactly what I say. 
 
 "Now, furthermore. You will remember that in his will your 
 father left me all his property absolutely, in fee simple. Of course it 
 was his intention, and until now it has been mine as well, that upon 
 my death that property should pass on to you. But your father made 
 no such condition in his will, and I am informed by my lawyer that I 
 have full power to dispose of every penny precisely as I desire. Well, 
 then, if you decide to marry your Frenchwoman, I will, besides imme- 
 diately cutting off your allowance, cause my will to be altered in such 
 a way that upon my death you will not receive a single dollar, but 
 every cent will go to my beloved niece, Fanny Clark. I am sure, if 
 your father were alive, he would approve of this course. You may 
 calculate from this how much money you and your French wife will 
 have to live on. Foolishly, little foreseeing the sort of treatment I 
 was to receive at your hands, I made you a present, when you came of 
 age, of the sum of ten thousand dollars in government bonds. My 
 lawyer informs me that I cannot compel you to return that sum. If 
 you were a man of honor, you would return it without being compelled. 
 But by marrying your Mademoiselle you will prove that you are in no 
 sense a man of honor ; and so I shall not expect that restitution from 
 you. Well, ten thousand dollars in government bonds will yield you 
 an annual income of about four hundred dollars. I should like to 
 know how you and your wife will manage to get along on that ; you, 
 who are accustomed to every luxury, and who for the past five years 
 have never spent less than twenty-five hundred dollars a year. How 
 much do you suppose you would be able to earn ? Not much by your 
 literature, I suspect. You have no profession. And with neither a pro- 
 fession nor a large capital, what could you do ? Well, you might obtain a 
 clerkship at ten dollars a week, or you might get a position as conductor 
 on a horse-car, or something like that. Imagine the pride and the 
 pleasure your mother would take in seeing her son engaged in such a 
 dignified and distinguished occupation ! 
 
 '^ Now, that is all I have to say. If you come home, and confess 
 
238 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 your repentance, and agree to marry Fanny right away, we will forgive 
 you everything. We will ascribe your past conduct to the fascination 
 which that Frenchwoman exerted over you. We will forgive and forget 
 it. But if you persist in your own vicious desires, you know from the 
 above what to expect. 
 
 " Your mother, 
 
 " Eunice C. Oemizon," 
 
 " P.S. — Oh, Stephen, Stephen, don't break your old mother's heart. 
 Come home to me, my dearest son, and make me happy by marrying 
 Fanny. Remember, you promised me you would. Don't you consider 
 a promise sacred ? Come home ; and we will never refer to this un- 
 fortunate affair again. Fanny is such a lovely, angelic girl — how 
 can you think of anybody else? She will welcome you with open 
 arms, and give you full pardon. Telegraph me that you will do as I 
 wish. I am so unhappy, thinking that this one deepest wish of my 
 heart, which I have cherished for so many years, is to be disappointed. 
 Telegraph me, and then sail, as you intended, on the 26th. You should 
 arrive not later than the 5th or 6th of October. Then we_ can have 
 the wedding at once — say, on the 17th, which is Fanny's birthday. — 
 Recollect, if you disobey me in this matter, I shall stick to every word 
 that I have written above. — E. C. O." 
 
 Abuse, threats, entreaties ! 
 
 Stephen Ormizon read this letter through, standing up. Then he 
 allowed it to drop from his grasp and flutter to the floor. " Just what 
 I might have expected !" he groaned, through clinched teeth, and, 
 sinking upon a chair, covered his face with his hands, sore, angry, sick 
 at -heart. How insulting it was ! How unjust, how unreasonable ! 
 How hard and — yes, and vulgar ! Just what he might have expected, 
 he had said ; and yet he had not expected anything of the kind. The 
 coarse vituperation of it surprised as much as it hurt him. He was 
 a coward, a poltroon, a monster of ingratitude, etc., etc. True, it had 
 always been this way. In every difference that he had ever had with 
 his mother, she had exhibited a masterly aptitude for calling names ; 
 and he had heard a good many times before that he was this, that, and 
 the other dreadful thing. Yet now, notwithstanding, he was completely 
 staggered and taken aback, as by a blow in the face. If he had been 
 lashed with a whip, he could not have suffered a keener or more fiirious 
 sense of outrage. His set jaws, his scowling brows, his rigid limbs, 
 his quivering nostrils, his swift breathing, told more plainly than his 
 tongue could have done, of how that letter had made him smart. 
 
 He sat still for a while, grinding his teeth together with such force 
 it was a wonder he did not break them; drumming with the sole 
 of his boot upon the floor ; overwhelmed by his pain and his indig- 
 nation. Now and then his feelings would seek to vent themselves, 
 and find relief, in a good strong Saxon oath, muttered half aloud. At 
 length he jumped up and began pacing back and forth through his 
 room. 
 
 What should he do about it ? What action had he best take ? 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 239 
 
 His first thought was the simplest, the most obvious one. Do 
 about it? Why, marry Denise. Marry her just as soon as circum- 
 stances would allow — immediately — ^to-morrow, if that were possible. 
 Marry her ; and then let his mother do her worst. Let her disown 
 him, cut off his allowance, bequeath every shilling of his property to 
 Fanny — what she would. He could stand it, if she could, he guessed. 
 He would have Denise ! And so long as he had her, he could snap 
 his fingers at the universe. About the wherewithal, he need not be 
 disturbed. He had enough. Ten thousand dollars in government 
 bonds — ^that certainly would keep him until he had established himself 
 as an author and was earning a regular and ample income with his 
 pen, — which he did not doubt his ultimate ability to do. Eeturn the 
 money? Return the ten thousand dollars in government bonds? 
 Faugh ! Wasn't his mother virtually robbing him of his own already, 
 by taking advantage of an oversight in the wording of his father's 
 will, a mere lawyer's quibble, and giving the fortune which his father 
 had earned, and which had been intended for his enjoyment, to her 
 niece Fanny — whom, by the by, his father had always cordially dis- 
 liked ? Why, it — ^it was enough to make his father turn in his grave. 
 In the white heat of his anger, he even looked so far ahead as his 
 mother's demise, and determined to contest her will, and to defeat the 
 sanctimonious young legatee, in spite of all. Such injustice ! Such 
 downright thievery ! It wasn't the money that he cared about. It was 
 the principle of the thing. How he would enjoy seeing Fanny baffled 
 and defeated ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! He laughed wildly at the idea. Yes, he 
 would throw up the passage he had engaged aboard La Touraine, stay 
 where he was, and marry Denise at the earliest feasible date. He 
 would go and see the United States Consul to-morrow morning, to 
 arrange about it. 
 
 That there remained, in spite of all, a question of respect and duty 
 toward his mother, did not once enter his head. He had no doubt 
 that his mother would keep her word and make good every threat that 
 she had uttered. But, in his great passion and exasperation, this seemed 
 a very trifling and unimportant matter. 
 
 By and by, however, one aspect of the problem occurred to him, 
 which he had not thought of before, and which, he could not deny, 
 certainly did merit some consideration. Denise — what would Denise 
 say, what would she do, if she were aware of his mother's opposition ? 
 Would she be willing to become his wife, in the face of it ? 
 
 This query struck terror to his soul ; for, in spite of his desire to 
 the contrary, he could not but feel confident that the right answer was 
 No. Denise would never consent wittingly to step between a mother 
 and her son. She would say, "1 love you, yes. But we must not 
 marry. We have no right to purchase our happiness at the price of 
 your mother's sorrow. There is nothing for us to do but to wait until 
 she will give us her permission." Such an attitude, in his opinion, 
 would be entirely unreasonable and indefensible ; a quixotism of the 
 worst kind. But he could not override the conviction that it was ex- 
 actly the attitude which Denise — which, for that matter, almost any 
 fine-grained, sensitive woman — would, under the circumstances, assume. 
 
240 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 Women, in affairs of this nature, are so unthinking, so hopelessly the 
 creatures of their impulses and sentiments. 
 
 " Yes ! If I let her know, it will be all up with me. She'll send 
 me about my business." 
 
 Out of the slough of despond into which this conclusion cast him, 
 he could discern but one means of egress : to keep the fact of his 
 mother's opposition a secret from his sweetheart until after their wed- 
 ding ceremony had been performed. 
 
 But instantly, of course, against the practice of any such deceit, his 
 manlier instincts rose in revolt. 
 
 To induce Denise to become his wife, without first apprising her of 
 a state of things which, if she suspected it, would determine her to 
 give him up, would be to obtain her under false pretences, by the em- 
 ployment of trick and device. It would be unfair and dishonorable 
 in the extremest sense. Besides, inevitably, a day of reckoning would 
 come. He could not expect to conceal it from her forever. After they 
 were married, she would be sure, by its very nature, to find it out. 
 And then — would she not hold him guilty of irreparable and unpardon- 
 able wrong toward her, and visit him with her scorn and her dis- 
 pleasure ? Anyhow, it was her right to know it. It was her right to 
 possess full knowledge of every circumstance that bore in any degree 
 upon this question of their marriage. He must not let the woman he 
 loved undertake blindfold so grave an obligation. No ; there was but 
 a single line of conduct open to him. He must lay a complete state- 
 ment of the case before her ; and then he must bow to her decision. 
 
 " And that means that my doom is as good as sealed. Of course 
 her decision will be against me." 
 
 And now — "Heaven help me! How shall I break it to her? 
 How shall I let her know ? She — she'll be expecting me before a great 
 while now. And have I — have I got to go around there and tell her 
 this ? It will break her heart. She loves me. She said she loved 
 me. And she is so happy. And now — oh, God, no, no ! Go around 
 there, and turn all her happiness into pain ? No, I can't do it. I can't 
 do it. Why, it would be the same as if I were to go around there, and 
 — and knock her down. You can't expect me to do that. If this 
 letter had only come a few hours earlier — before I spoke to her ! 
 Then I should not have spoken. But now — after I have told her 
 how I love her — after I have wrung from her a confession of her love 
 for me, and asked her to be my wife, and made her say yes — now — 
 to have to go and tell her this — ! Oh, it's too much ! Oh, Denise, my 
 little girl ! How can I do it ? How " 
 
 He was interrupted by a loud rapping at his door. 
 
 For an instant — ^to such a pitch of nervous excitement had he 
 wrought himself— this commonplace and not unusual noise startled and 
 almost terrified him. He came to an abrupt stand-still, and caught his 
 breath. Then, recovering his presence of mind, " Entrez," he called 
 out. 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 " Hello, Ormizon. It's me— Palmer. Thought I'd come around 
 to bid you good-by. You leave to-morrow, don't you ?" 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 241 
 
 " Oh, how do you do ? I'm glad to see you. Come in. Sit down." 
 
 "Why — why, what's the matter with you? You look sort of 
 flustered. Anything gone askew ? Maybe my visit is ill-timed. If 
 I'm de trop, speak right up, and I'll take myself off." 
 
 " Oh, no, not at all ; on the contrary. You're very welcome. It 
 was very kind of you to come. I should have been sorry to go away 
 without shaking hands with you. Here ; take this chair ; do." 
 
 " Thanks. Since you urge me, I will. But I say, old boy, you 
 can't fool me. Something's up. That's as clear as daylight. You 
 look — ^you look as though you'd got a challenge to fight a duel. If 
 you need a second, I'm your man. Come ; unburden your sorrowing 
 soul. Tell me the story of your woes. Perhaps I can be of assistance 
 to you. Pour thy griefs into my sympathetic ear." Palmer put his 
 hand up to his ear, after the manner of deaf people. 
 
 Ormizon laughed. Then, gravely, "By Jove, Palmer, I don't 
 know but I will," he said. " You're a mab of good common sense. 
 You may be able to advise me. I'm in the very devil of a fix. I — 
 I'm the most miserable fellow on the surface of the earth." 
 
 " Advise you ? Why, you've hit upon my very forte. In point of 
 worldly wealth I'm as poor as Job's turkey ; but in point of good 
 advice I'm as rich as Croesus and as generous as Peter Cooper. Come ; 
 out with it. What's the row ?" 
 
 " Well, Palmer, it's this. You know Mademoiselle Denise — Made- 
 moiselle Personette?" 
 
 " I am honored with her acquaintance — yes. Well ?" 
 
 " Well, I — I'm — as you'd say, I suppose — I'm head over ears in 
 love with her." 
 
 " Ah ? So ? The frank confession does you proud. But is that 
 all ? For, to tell you the truth, that's no news to me." 
 
 " It isn't ? You'd guessed it ? Well, I suppose it was pretty evi- 
 dent. But — no, that isn't all. This afternoon I — I proposed to her — 
 asked her to be my wife." 
 
 " Ah, I see. Popped the question, and got the mitten. Oh, well, 
 you mustn't let that discourage you. If at first you don't succeed, try, 
 try again." 
 
 '^ xi O SxiG £lCCGl!)tl€(i TTI P 
 
 "What! She did! You lucky dog! Well, I swan! Well, 
 really, I don't see why that should make you feel so bad." 
 
 " No ; but just hold on. After I left her, and came home, I found 
 here, waiting for me, a letter from my mother, which said — which said 
 that in case I married Mademoiselle Personette she — she'd stop my 
 allowance, cut me out of her will, and — and never recognize me or 
 have anything to do with me again." 
 
 " Oh ! So that's the racket. . . . Still— well— but— but if you're 
 really very much in love with her, I shouldn't think you'd let that stop 
 you." 
 
 " I should say not. I'm not such a — such a sneak as that. No, 
 indeed. So far as I'm concerned, that would have no more influence 
 over me than the blowing of the breeze. But the point is — ^the ques- 
 tion is — what will she — what will Denise say, when she finds it out ^ 
 
242 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 When she finds out that my mother is opposed to our marrying, she 
 — she won't look at me — she'll give me the right-about-face in no time. 
 Don't you see ?" 
 
 " Whew ! By George I there's something in that. I guess you're 
 right. Yes, I guess you are. She — she's got such a — ^such a fine 
 sense of what's proper and correct. Yes, sir, I guess you're about 
 right. But — but you speak of her finding it out. How is she going to 
 find it out ? I don't see." 
 
 " Why, from me, of course. Of course I shall tell her." 
 
 "You will? You'll tell her? Why, what in thunder— what 
 under the sun — do you want to tell her for ?" 
 
 " Why, how can I help it ? It wouldn't be honest or honorable for 
 me to keep it from her. For me to go and get her to marry me, with- 
 out telling her, — why, it would be the same as deceiving her and cheat- 
 ing her — ^the same as lying to her." 
 
 " Ah, yes. I see. I see your point. Hum ; you have got yourself 
 into a box, and no mistake. It's too bad ; it really is. But look 
 here, Ormizon ; do you want to know my candid opinion ?" 
 
 "Yes. What is it?" 
 
 " Well, it's this. If she cares about you enough to agree to be 
 your wife — if she's as much in love with you as that — by George, you 
 might as well take her and kill her outright, as go around there and 
 tell her things that will make her have to give you up. It will break 
 the little thing's heart. It will, as sure as my name's Hiram." 
 
 " Good Lord, Palmer, don't sit there and tell me that ! Don't you 
 suppose I know that well enough ? That — that's just the — ^the horri- 
 ble part of it. I'm between two fires." 
 
 " Exactly. So you are — between the devil and the deep sea. You've 
 got to make a choice of evils. You've got to choose between deceiving 
 her and breaking her heart. And if you want my advice, as you said 
 you did, I tell you what. If I were in your place, I wouldn't hesitate. 
 I'd deceive her. It would be what you call a pious fraud. The end 
 would justify the means." 
 
 "No, I can't — I can't agree with you about that. Palmer. I 
 couldn't-— I actually couldn't — lie to her." 
 
 "Who said anything about lying to her? There's no need that 
 you should lie to her. I'm the last man in the world to advise any- 
 body to lie." 
 
 " Well, but I don't see the difference. You said, deceive her. 
 Well, that's as bad as lying. That's only another name for the same 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, I don't know that I should even deceive her — exactly. 
 This is what I'd do. I'd tell her frankly that I was on bad terms 
 with my mother— that my mother and I had had a row — but I'd be 
 blamed before I'd tell her w%— before I'd let her know that she was 
 the cause of it. Then I'd marry her — just as soon as I could scare 
 up a parson." 
 
 " Yes ; and then, after you were married, she'd find it out — she'd 
 discover the trick you'd played her — and she'd — she'd despise you 
 for it." 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 243 
 
 " She'd be a little angry at first, I dare say. But she'd come round. 
 You see, she's a woman, and she loves you. Well, grant, then, that 
 when she first found it out she'd be a little worked up : she'd recognize 
 that you'd done it because you wanted to spare her unhappiness, and 
 because you loved her so ; and, though she'd pout and scold for a while, 
 in her heart she'd be glad all the time, and she'd forgive you. Whereas 
 if you go around there and tell her, — good-by Mrs. Ormizon. It'll 
 be all up with you ; and she'll swim down to her grave in a flood of 
 tears. Come, my young friend ; brace up. Take my advice, and keep 
 your own counsel." 
 
 "By Jove, Palmer, I don't know but you're right. You — ^you 
 really think she'd forgive me ?" 
 
 "I don't think it. I know it. Forgive you? Why, in the long 
 run she'd love you all the better for it." 
 
 "By — by the Lord, Palmer, you — you're a By Jove, old 
 
 boy, give me your hand. By — my — well, there, I can't — f can't express 
 it— but — oh ! you've lifted such a weight off my mind." 
 
 " Ouch ! Look out !" cried Palmer. " You'll break my wrist, if 
 you keep on wagging my flipper that way. There, there. Calmez- 
 vous. And Hello ; there's some one knocking on your door." 
 
 " Come in ! Entrez !" called Ormizon. 
 
 "Ah, bonsoir, monsieur. Here is a letter for you from Made- 
 moiselle Gluck." 
 
 The new-comer was Z6lie, the servant of the ladies of the Rue 
 Soufflot. 
 
 Ormizon took the letter which she held out to him, broke the seal, 
 and read : 
 
 " Dbae Me. Oemizon, — Come over here the instant you receive 
 this — without a second's delay. Yours, I. B. G." 
 
 "What — what's the matter? Is there anything the matter?" he 
 demanded of Z4lie, in a scared, anxious voice. 
 
 " Je n'en sais rien, monsieur ; mais je crois que Mademoiselle Per- 
 sonette est malade." 
 
 That was all the satisfaction he could get from Z6lie. She knew 
 nothing, but she believed that Mademoiselle Personette was ill. Par- 
 ticulars of any kind, though he plied her with questions, she protested 
 her inability to give. Dr. Gluck had called her from the kitchen, 
 where she was busy preparing dinner, and had dispatched her with this 
 note, bidding her make haste. " Voil^ tout ce que je peux vous dire, 
 monsieur." 
 
 Panic-stricken, leaving Lancelot in possession of his quarters, and 
 without a word to him, he hurried to respond to the doctor's summons. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He gave the bell-cord a tremendous tug. The bell clanged violently 
 within. 
 
 After what seemed to him an eon, though, in point of fact, it was 
 not half a minute. Dr. Gluck opened the door. 
 
244 ^ LAND OP LOVE. 
 
 " For God's sake, what has happened ?" he cried. " Has — \b — ^is 
 Denise " 
 
 " Hush. Come in," interrupted the doctor. " Come with me." 
 
 She led the way to the salon. 
 
 "Sit down, now, and be calm," she said. "You needn't alarm 
 yourself. But I thought I had better send for you. I thought I had 
 better tell you all about it, and learn from you the exact state of the 
 case." 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course. I'm very glad you did. But — ^but go on. 
 What is it ? Tell me, quick. Don't keep me in suspense." 
 
 " Sh-sh ! Now, you mustn't get excited. She's in her room now, 
 lying on the sofa, very weak and exhausted, but not seriously ill. You 
 see, she fainted. And I got terribly frightened, she took so long about 
 coming to. But she's perfectly herself again now; only, as I say, 
 weak and undone. She's wild to — well, never mind about that tUl 
 I've told you the rest." 
 
 " But how — what — what made her faint ? She " 
 
 " Yes, I'm going to tell you the whole story, if you'll give me 
 time, and control yourself, and not go off in a passion. . . . Well, to 
 begin at the beginning, you see, when Denise came home this evening 
 I saw right away that something had happened, — from her excitement 
 and nervousness and the way she acted, you know, and everything. 
 And of course I was as curious as could be to find out what it was. 
 And I asked her lots of questions ; and at last — well, at last she told 
 me all about it — how you had met her in the Rue de Vaugirard, and how 
 you had frightened her, and then declared yourself to her — and all the 
 rest. Really, I don't think I ever saw anybody so happy and elated as 
 she was. She was just in a perfect tremor of delight. Well — well, 
 of course, then we talked and talked about it for ever so long ; and it 
 was so interesting and so exciting, you understand, that I — I totally 
 forgot to give her the letter. . . . There ! I guess I haven't told you, 
 have I ? But while she was out, a letter had been delivered for her — 
 a letter from America — which was quite strange, for I didn't know 
 that she had any correspondents over there. . . . Well, as I say, in the 
 excitement of our talk, I entirely forgot it; but all of a sudden I 
 remembered it, and went and got it, and gave it to her. We were 
 standing right here in the parlor, just about where you and I are now. 
 Well, she took it ; and she wondered whom in the world it could be 
 from, and she couldn't possibly imagine, because, she said, she didn't 
 know a single soul in America who would be likely to write to her ; 
 and at last she opened it, and began to read it. Well, she couldn't 
 have read more than two or three lines at the utmost, when, the first 
 thing I knew, she gave a scream, and she turned as white as a sheet, 
 and fell — and fell right down in a dead faint on the floor. And 
 then " 
 
 " Good Lord ! I — I'm sure I know whom the letter was from," 
 he gasped. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say you do. I dare say you can guess. Well, of 
 course, when she fainted, she let it drop from her hand. And afl«r I 
 had attended to her, and done everything I could, I picked it up, and 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 245 
 
 read it — which I felt at liberty to do. Well, it was enough to make 
 her faint. It was indeed. And if it's true — But I can't believe it is. 
 I can't believe that you are such a villain. Here ; read it ; here it is." 
 
 In his mother's handwriting, the envelope bore this superscription : 
 " M'lle Personette, care of Miss Isabel B. Gluck, Rue Soufflot, Paris, 
 France." 
 
 " Oh, what a fool I was !" he groaned. " I suppose I must have 
 mentioned your address when I wrote to her. My God ! I never 
 thought she'd — I never dreamed she'd Oh, this — this is awful !" 
 
 ''I was wondering how she found it out," said the doctor. "I 
 thought maybe she got it from the Merriwethers. . , . But you'd 
 better go on now and read it, don't you think ?" 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I had." 
 
 The letter ran as follows : 
 
 " New Yoek, September 12, 1885. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Pbksonette, — I beg leave to inform you by 
 this that my son, Stephen Ormizon, whom, I have reason to believe, 
 you have endeavored to infatuate, is already engaged to be married to 
 his cousin, my niece. Miss Fanny Clark. Now, as I have no doubt 
 that the chief attractions which you find in my son are his wealth and 
 his social position, I shall be doing you a kindness when I take this 
 opportunity to warn you that if he should see fit to break his engage- 
 ment with Miss Clark, and to contract a marriage with you, I shall 
 at once disown and disinherit him, which will deprive him immediately 
 both of bis social standing and of all means of support, present and 
 future ; also, that I shall never recognize or acknowledge you as his 
 wife, nor him as my son, but shall regard you both as entire strangers 
 to me, to the day of my death. By the same mail I post a letter to 
 my son, forbidding him to marry you, and commanding him to come 
 home instantly and fulfil his obligations to Miss Clark. I write you 
 this as a favor to you, in order that you may understand exactly what 
 to expect in case you persist in your attempts to lead my son into a 
 m&alliance. 
 
 " Respectfully, 
 
 " Eunice C. Oemizon." 
 
 With a cry of rage, Ormizon sprang 'to his feet, and began storm- 
 ing about the room. 
 
 " By God ! I — I'll never forgive my mother this. How brutal ! 
 How outrageous ! As long as I live I'll never forgive her for writing 
 to Denise like this. No — not if she got down on her knees to her, and 
 begged her pardon, I'd never forgive her for having insulted and out- 
 raged her like this. Oh, it — it's incredible. I can't believe it. I 
 never would have believed her capable of anything as bad as this. 
 
 It's — oh — I What — what did Denise say ? What — oh. Lord ! I 
 
 — I could kill my mother for writing this. Oh, I suppose Denise — I 
 suppose she'll never look at me again, after this. Oh, what a — what 
 a fool, what a wretch, what a miserable, miserable dog, I am !" 
 
 " Hush — ^hush — hush," the doctor had been imploring him, fol- 
 lowing him around the room, and waving her hands deprecatingly. 
 
246 -^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 "You'll disturb her. She'll hear you, and be frightened. Do calm 
 yourself. Sit down. Be still. I want to talk to you." 
 
 But to no purpose. He had not heeded her. Now, however, of 
 his own accord, he came to a stand-still, and was silent. 
 
 "There! Do sit down," she pleaded. "Now, don't fly off; but 
 sit down, and be quiet, and tell me now, — ^you may as well tell me 
 honestly, — is it true ?" 
 
 He dropped upon a chair. 
 
 "True?" he repeated, with a dazed look. "True? "What? Is 
 what true?" 
 
 " Why, what your mother says. Is it true that you are engaged 
 to be married to your cousin — to Fanny Clark ?" 
 
 " Oh ! That ! No ; it's a lie — it's a damn — I beg your pardon, 
 doctor. It's a — well, that is, at least, it's this way. You see, I was 
 — yes, I suppose I was — engaged to her — after a fashion. That is, 
 before I left New York, my mother, she — she made me promise — she 
 extorted a promise from me — that I — that I would marry Fanny. 
 And I promised — like a — like the — like the miserable fool I was. 
 But the very instant I first saw Denise — as soon as I realized how I 
 loved her — two or three days after I first met her, by Jove ! — why, it 
 was on the morning after we had been to hear Monsieur Perriehon — I 
 — I wrote a letter to my mother, and confessed that I was in love with 
 Denise, and told her that I couldn't and wouldn't marry Fanny. I 
 thought that — you see — I thought that was the fair and square thing 
 to do. Well, that was as good as breaking whatever engagement there 
 was — ^wasn't it ? That was the beginning of all this trouble. If I'd 
 
 kept my mouth shut — if I'd kept my own counsel Oh, well, it's 
 
 too late now. The mischief is done. . . . Oh, God, I never expected 
 this — such treachery as this — from — from my own mother !" 
 
 " And you really are in love with Denise ? You don't — ^you never 
 cared anything for your cousin ?" 
 
 " Care for her ? Care for Fanny ? Care for that Oh, you 
 
 make me laugh. Why, I tell you, I — I hate her. I've always hated 
 her — ever^ since I was a child — ever since she came to live with us. 
 
 Hasn't she always been Oh, I despise her. I'd like — I'd be 
 
 glad — to see her " 
 
 " There, there ; never mind about that. And Fanny — your cousin 
 — does she care for you ?" 
 
 " Does Fanny care for me ! That's good ! That's capital, doctor ! 
 The idea of Fanny caring for me ! The sanctimonious hypocrite ! The ■ 
 
 — ^the Why, she thinks I'm the worst reprobate unhung. She 
 
 thinks I'm not good enough to tie her shoe-strings. All she's afl«r 
 is my mother's money. She'll get it now. I wish her joy of it." 
 
 " Then, as a matter of fact, you are free ? You have broken the 
 engagement you had to your cousin, and are at liberty to marry any- 
 body you choose?" 
 
 " What's the use of your askmg me that ? Anybody I choose ! 
 Do you imagine Denise would have me, after that letter? You don't 
 suppose she'd marry the son of the woman who wrote that letter ? 
 Oh, how she must despise me ! Shell never look at me again — after 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 247 
 
 that letter from — from my own mother ! Oh, it's too hard ! I could 
 
 — I could " He shook his fist at the empty air, and sprang to his 
 
 feet again. 
 
 " Hush ! She'll hear you. Sit down. Come, sit down here 
 beside me, where you were before. There ; now you must be quiet 
 and rational. I'm going to tell you something now that will — that 
 will surprise you, and — and make you very happy." 
 
 " Well, go on. Tell it to me. Tell me anything you want to. 
 But there's nothing that can surprise me, nothing that can make me 
 very happy, after this — after I've lost the only thing I care for in the 
 world. Well, go on." 
 
 " Well, if it doesn't make you happy, it will be a wonder, and 
 you'll be an ungrateful thing. It seems like a special providence ; it 
 does indeed. Well, it's this : Denise — Denise doesn't know a thing 
 about it." 
 
 " Doesn't know a — doesn't know a thing about what ? What are 
 you driving at ? I don't understand." 
 
 " Doesn't know a thing about your engagement to Miss Clark — 
 about what your mother wrote in this letter." 
 
 " What ! . . . Why — ^you — ^you said — didn't you say — she read it 
 — and that — and that was what— made her faint away ? I — I give it 
 up. I don't see your point. What — what in . . ." 
 
 " Sh — sh ! Now, behave yourself Now, I'm going to explain. 
 Now, sit right there, and don't you move or interrupt, or I shan't say 
 a word. Now, listen. . . . Well, this is all there is to it. When 
 Denise came to — when she finally opened her eyes, and recovered her 
 senses — she was all dazed and bewildered, and she didn't remember a 
 single thing of what had happened — not a thing about the letter. You 
 see, she couldn't remember, because it had all been so quick and sudden. 
 As I should say, speaking technically, the last impressions received by 
 her brain before she fainted had simply been obliterated, wiped out, by 
 the shock. Do you understand ? . . . Well, of course, when she came 
 to, she was awfully curious to know what had happened to make her 
 faint, and she must have asked a hundred questions. But I wasn't 
 going to tell her the real truth, until I had seen you, and spoken to 
 you, and found out whether it was so — what your mother wrote. So 
 I just said that she had been very tired and weak, and, then, the ex- 
 citement and the happiness and everything had been too much for her, 
 and the strain had caused a fainting-fit. Well, of course that was a 
 fib. But I thought, under the circumstances, that it was all right. 
 And she — she believed it, and was perfectly satisfied. There !" 
 
 " Oh, doctor, you — you're Oh, what can I say to tell you how 
 
 good you are, how grateful you have made me ? Oh, this — this — it's — 
 it's too good to be true ! Oh, my God !" he cried ; and in a twinkling 
 he had torn his mother's letter into a hundred pieces. 
 
 " Well, now," went on the doctor, " as I was going to tell you, she's 
 wild, perfectly wild, to see you ; and now I'll go and tell her that you 
 are here. But first I want to warn you. You must be guarded. You 
 must look out for your tongue, and not let her suspect a thing about 
 all this. Otherwise " 
 
248 ^ LAND OF LOVE. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid, doctor. I guess you may trust me for 
 that." 
 
 The doctor left the room. 
 
 Oh, with what a trembling, throbbing, thrilling heart, a minute 
 later, he beheld Denise crossing the threshold, coming toward him, 
 nearer, near . . . ! 
 
 There ! She was in his arms, her head nestling upon his breast. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come," she said, in a weak, fluttering 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, I have come, Denise, to tell you — ^to tell you that I am not 
 going away, as I expected. I am not going to sail on Saturday. I 
 have decided to postpone it. But when I do sail, you — you will come 
 with me — will you, Denise ?" 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " Why — why, Denise — my love ! You — why, you are crying. 
 What is 'it, Denise?" 
 
 " Oh, I — I am — crying — for — for happiness," she sobbed. 
 
 Knock — knock — knock — upon the door. 
 
 " Entrez !" called Denise. 
 
 Z6lie entered, bearing a large pasteboard box. 
 
 " Quelque chose pour vous, mademoiselle," she said. 
 
 The box was full of great beautiful red roses ; and on top of them 
 lay a card ; and on the card was written, " May our dear Mamselle 
 be as happy as she is good and beautiful ! — Lancelot." 
 
 Ormizon's novel, A Voice from the Wilderness, — but for which, as 
 he often thinks with something like terror, he and Denise might never 
 have found each other out, — was published in February, 1886. 
 
 The critics treated it very kindly, remarking in it the crudity and 
 the extravagance of youth, to be sure, but commending its freshness, 
 its interest, and its simplicity. So the book had quite a run — was read 
 and talked about ; and though it did not " place its author at a bound 
 in the front rank of living American writers of fiction," as we hear of 
 so many first books doing nowadays, it did raise him from the position 
 of a nobody to that of a small somebody, — a somebody of the ninth 
 or tenth magnitude, but still a somebody. 
 
 And, then, one fine morning, he received a letter — a letter from his 
 mother — seeking a reconciliation ! 
 
 Well, his mother and Fanny very magnanimously forgave him, 
 and invited him and Denise to dinner, where they served up the fatted 
 calf, and condescended to patronize his wife, and to make her feel ex- 
 ceedingly self-conscious and ill at ease. After the coffee, while he was 
 smoking his cigarette, his mother took him aside and offered to renew 
 his allowance. I am sorry to say, it was not without a certain wicked 
 sense of triumph that he thanked her, and assured her that he stood in 
 need of no such kindness, his actual income being amply sufficient to 
 his wants. Happily, this was true. He and Denise were living very 
 modestly in a small apartment up in Harlem, the rent of which did 
 not quite consume the interest on his government bonds. For the rest, 
 
A LAND OF LOVE. 249 
 
 the little reputation that his book had brought him made an opening 
 for him in the literary market, where he was generally able to sell his 
 wares at remunerative prices, always provided that they were up to the 
 required standard of excellence. . . . Oh, I had nearly forgotten. In 
 addition to their other sources of revenue, they took a boarder.. The 
 boarder was a very pretty, plump little lady, not much older than 
 thirty years. And though Ormizon was extremely attentive to her, 
 and apparently very fond of her, Denise never manifested the least 
 symptom of jealousy. The boarder's name was Gluck — Isabel B. 
 Gluck, M.D. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Vol. XL.— 17 
 
250 2'i?£ HOMESICKNESS OF GANYMEDE. 
 
 THE HOMESICKNESS OF GANYMEDE. 
 
 EAGLE pinions, swift as thought, 
 Ganymede to heaven brought. 
 Stolen from the plains of Troy, 
 Loved of gods, immortal boy ! 
 Still a stranger in the skies, 
 Ganymede in heaven sighs. 
 
 In Jove's palace full of light 
 He doth serve the nectar bright ; 
 Smile on him the Ever-Blest, 
 As he moves to do their hest : 
 Downward still he bends his eyes, — 
 Still a stranger in the skies ! 
 
 When each godhead, drinking deep. 
 Sinks beneath the tide of sleep, 
 Ganymede on wing6d feet 
 Hastes where sky and mountain meet : 
 Soft the mist around him lies, 
 Ganymede in heaven sighs. 
 
 River, field, and wooded height 
 Swim together in his sight ; 
 He can only guess how fair. 
 In the moonlit, midnight air, 
 Ilion's walls and turrets rise, — 
 Still a stranger in the skies ! 
 
 He can only dream how sweet 
 
 Are the ways where mortals meet, — 
 
 Chariot-race, or hunter's spear. 
 
 Temple service, vintage cheer. 
 
 Young maid's laughter, youth's fond eyes : 
 
 Ganymede in heaven sighs ! 
 
 Haply men have seen him gaze 
 Through the summer evening haze, 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 Leaning past the piny crest 
 Of the mountain in the west, 
 "Wavering there in star-bright guise, 
 Still a stranger in the skies ! 
 
 Careless gods, take back your gift, 
 Or his human heart uplift : 
 Deathless youth ye gave in sport. 
 Deathless sorrow haunts your court : 
 Still a stranger in the skies, 
 Granymede in heaven sighs. 
 
 251 
 
 Edith M. Thomas. 
 
 THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 READERS of current literature may have recently observed that 
 two writers of reputation, Miss Harriet W. Preston and Mr. 
 Julian Hawthorne, have been expressing rather pronounced opinions 
 regarding the works of Ouida. Mr. Hawthorne's judgment was brief, 
 and I need only add that it was extremely severe, — far more seyere, 
 indeed, than any critical statement which I ever remember to have 
 seen expressed by this writer. Miss Preston's decision took a much 
 ampler form, and occupied nearly twelve pages of the Ailantio Monthly, 
 Whatever may have been Miss Preston's intention, she certainly does 
 not appeal to us as one whom the merits of Ouida have more than 
 lukewarmly affected. And yet, at the beginning of her essay, she as- 
 siunes the attitude of an appreciator rather than a detractor, taking 
 pains to declare that her inquiry regarding the true causes of Ouida's 
 immense popularity shall be " primarily and chiefly a search for merits 
 rather than a citation of defects." With this excellent resolution fully 
 formed, she at once proceeds to draw comparisons between Ouida and 
 such great writers as Scott, George Sand, and even Victor Hugo. This 
 has an encouraging sound enough.; we have the sensation that a refresh- 
 ingly new note is to be struck in the general tone of fierce vituperation* 
 by which Ouida has been so persistently assailed for twenty years. 
 The truSi about Ouida would be a pleasant thing to hear ; we have 
 heard so much facile falsehood. But Miss Preston proceeds to invest 
 her theme with a curiously languid and tepid atmosphere. She finally 
 astonishes all the sincere admirers of Ouida — and their number is to- 
 day, among intelligent people, thousands and thousands — by saying 
 
252 THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 
 
 that her " imagination, vigorous though it be, and prolific, seldom rises 
 to really poetic heights." This is certainly depressing for any one who 
 has taken delight in such exceptional prose-poems as " Ariadne" and 
 " Signa." Still, a proper avoidance of enthusiasm must always form 
 part of the modern critic's equipment ; the fashion is to look at every- 
 thing imperturbably, from the Sphinx to the Brooklyn Bridge ; we 
 somehow only tolerate the exorbitant and the florid when it takes the 
 shape of disgusted invective. For a long period Ouida has endured 
 the latter (not always quite patiently, if some of her retaliatory news- 
 paper letters are recalled), and I confess that we owe Miss Preston a 
 debt of gratitude for breaking the ice at last. None the less, however, 
 do we own to a feeling that the ice might have been assailed by a little 
 heavier and more efficient cleaver. The Atlantic reviewer appears, 
 indeed, to be a trifle afraid, not to say ashamed, of her own pioneer- 
 ship. Tradition would seem to be furtively reminding her that she is 
 heading a revolt against it. And there certainly might well seem a 
 kind of literary defiance in any defence of Ouida. She has stood so 
 long as a pariah that to give her boldly a few credentials of respecta- 
 bility, as it were, might in a temperament by no means timid still re- 
 quire some courage. I would not even appear to suggest that Miss 
 Preston has doubted her own assertions concerning this great romancist, 
 whenever they have been of a favorable turn. But it has struck me 
 that she has almost doubted the advisability of her own position as so 
 distiaet a non-conformist. One smiles to remember the ridiculous 
 abuse poured upon Ouida in England ever since somewhere about the 
 year 1863. She has probably afforded more opportunity for the callow 
 undergraduate satirist than any author of the present century. I do 
 not maintain that she was at first the recipient of an undeserved ridi- 
 cule. But afterward this ridicule, because of the radical change in her 
 work, became pitiably tell-tale ; it revealed that aggravating conserva- 
 tism in those who arraigned her which had its root in either a very 
 unjust, hasty, and perfiinctory skimming of her later books, or an entire 
 ignorance of their contents. She undoubtedly began all wrong. There 
 are some liberal and high-minded people with whom the follies and 
 faults of such stories as " Granville de Vigne" and " Idalia" have 
 wrought so disastrously that all their future impressions have been 
 colored by these unconquerable associations. It seems to me that Mr. 
 Hawthorne is one of these, and I am certain that the late Bayard Tay- 
 lor was one. When " Ariadne" appeared, only a year or two before 
 Taylor's lamentably ill-timed death, he wrote concerning that enchant- 
 ing tale in the New York Tribune with a sternness of condemnation 
 most regrettable, as I thought, in so alert and vigorous an intellect. 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 253 
 
 When I expressed to Taylor my surprise that he should have seen 
 nothing beautiful or poetic in " Ariadne," he frankly declared to me 
 that he saw nothing commendable in any line that Ouida had written. 
 But many of her lovely sketches had already appeared, and that ex- 
 quisite idyl, " B6b§e, or The Two Little Wooden Shoes," with its tearful 
 tenderness and its fiery, gloomy, piercing finale of passion, had given 
 proof of its author's wakening force and discipline. 
 
 Miss Preston's chief error, I should aifirm, has been her some- 
 what careless huddling together of all Ouida's works and passing criti- 
 cism upon them en. bloc, without more than vague indication of the 
 diiferent periods in which they were produced, or the various stages of 
 development which they exhibit. This talented lady, however she is 
 to be praised for taking Ouida seriously (and that is a fine thing 
 to have done at all, when it meant the flinging down of a gauntlet 
 before disparagement no less insensate than cruel), has still failed in 
 taking Ouida half seriously enough. I read with astonishment in 
 the Atlantic review, for example, an extended notice of " Idalia," while 
 such vastly better work as " Folle-Farine" or " In Maremma" was 
 quietly ignored. Candidly, I hold that Miss Preston's entire con- 
 sideration of Ouida has been as limited, unsatisfactory, and insufficient 
 as it has been, when all circumstantial points are duly recognized, kindly, 
 generous, and honorable. 
 
 I have already expressed it as my conviction that Ouida began very 
 badly. She indeed began as badly as any genius did whose early and 
 subsequent accomplishments in English letters are now known to us 
 and may be read side by side with hers. Byron certainly showed far 
 less power at the commencement of his career than she did at the com- 
 mencement of her own ; and those who possess my own deep veneration 
 for the grandeur of Tennyson's poetry at its highest heights may have 
 read some of the deplorable stanzas, modelled on a sort of hideous 
 German-English plan, which have thus far, I believe, escaped the savage 
 exposures of even his most merciless American publishers. I find my- 
 self involuntarily tracing a parallel between the young Ouida and the 
 young poets who preceded her by a few decades more or less. But this 
 tendency easily explains itself, since she is pre-eminently a poet, not- 
 withstanding her great gifts for romantic narration. The rhythmic" 
 faculty has been denied her, and for this reason she probably has written 
 so much of that "poetical prose" which the average Englishman has been 
 taught to hold in such phlegmatic contempt. If " Granville de Yigne" 
 had appeared in rhymes as clever and as prolix as Owen Meredith's 
 " Lucile," it would doubtless have won a place far above that bright, 
 hybrid, pseudo-poetic popular favorite. But " Granville de Vigne" 
 
254 THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 has •won no place, nor has " Strathmore," nor has " Idalia," nor has 
 " Puck," nor even " Chandos," pronounced as was the dawning change 
 it exhibited. These works all mean a palaeozoic age for Ouida : her 
 extraordinary powers were yet struggling for worthier expression. They 
 are valuable alike in their absurdities and their better revelations, 
 though the latter shone fitful, indeterminate, and often distressingly 
 transient. The superabundance of "color," the weight of adjective 
 piled on adjective, the lavish display of an erudition as voluminous as 
 it was sometimes erratic, the meretricious defects of style, the collet 
 monti superfluity of rhetoric, the impossible and ludicrous descriptions 
 of luxury, — all this has become with many of us in a manner comically 
 classic. Ouida's early heroes, with their fleet Arabian steeds, their lordly 
 lineage, their fabulous wealth or sentimentally picturesque poverty, their 
 fatal fascinations for women and their deadly muscular developments for 
 men, — Ouida's early heroes, I say, have grown as representative of the 
 overwrought in fiction as those of Byron have grown representative of 
 like indiscretion in poetry. Nor are these faults of her youth entirely out- 
 lived by Ouida. " Fine writing" is still occasionally her bane, though 
 it becomes less and less so with each new book she now produces. Her 
 vocabulary has always been as copious as the sunlight itself, and her 
 siyle is at present a direct, flexible, and notably elegant one. She has 
 been accused of "cramming," and of making a little knowledge do 
 service for much. But only very illiterate people could believe such a 
 masquerade possible with her. She is indisputably a woman of spacious 
 and most diversified learning, though she has not always known either 
 the art of modestly concealing this fact, or that of letting it speak spon- 
 taneously and judiciously for itself. Still, pedantry is not seldom the 
 attribute of a greatly cultivated mind. We have seen this in the case 
 of George Eliot, whose admirers will perhaps feel like mobbing me 
 when they read that I think her genius in many ways inferior to that 
 of Ouida. And yet I grant that to a very large extent she possesses 
 what Ouida was for a long time almost totally without, — ^taste, artistic 
 patience, and that surest of preservatives, a firm and chiselled style. 
 
 "Under Two Flags" may be said to have recorded a turning- 
 point in this unique writer's career. It was full of the same tin- 
 selled and lurid hyperboles which had made so many readers of 
 the extraordinary series hold up horrified hands in the past. But 
 its gaudiness and opulence of language were suited to its Algerian 
 locale, and the drowsy palms and deep-blue African skies of which it 
 spoke to us accorded with the tropic tendencies of its phrases. It 
 displayed a wondrous acquaintance, also, with military life in Algeria, 
 and for this reason amazed certain observers of an altered mise en sokne 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 255 
 
 in a novelist whom they had believed only able to misrepresent the 
 patrician circles of England. But "Under Two Flags" amazed by 
 its perusal from still another cause. It contained one of the most 
 thrillingly dramatic episodes ever introduced into any novel of the 
 school to which such episodes belong, namely, the wild desert-journey 
 of Cigarette, the vivandiire, bearing a pardon for the condemned soldier 
 whom she loves. Cigarette reaches the place of execution just in time 
 to fling herself upon her lover's breast and save him from the bullets 
 of his foes by dying under them. We are apt nowadays to look 
 askance at such heroic incidents, and the word " unnatural" easily rises 
 to our lips as we do so. Perhaps it rises there too easily. Self-sacrifice 
 of the supreme kind has gone out of fashion in modern story-telling, 
 and by a tacit surrender we have given scenes like this, with all their 
 warm-blooded kinships, to the domain of the theatre. That fiction 
 will ever care to resume her slighted prerogative, the thriving influence 
 of Zola and his more moderate American imitators would lead us to 
 believe improbable. Still, the caprices of popular demand lend them- 
 selves unwillingly to prophecy. One fact, however, cannot plausibly 
 be contradicted : the theatre has not invested' her gift at any very profit- 
 able rate of interest, nor justified her present monopoly of all that is 
 stirring in romanticism. 
 
 " Tricotrin," if I mistake not, was the first important successor of 
 " Under Two Flags," and here Ouida gave us the noteworthy proof 
 tiiat she had turned her attention toward ideal and poetic models. I 
 fear it must be chronicled that the chaif in " Tricotrin" predominates 
 over the wheat. The whole story is not seldom on stilts, and we oiten 
 lose patience with the hero as more of a poseur than of the demigod he 
 is described. The entire donn^e is too high-strung for its nineteenth- 
 century concomitance. We feel as if everybody should wear what the 
 managers of theatres would call "shape-dresses." Ouida still tempts 
 the parodist; the machinery of her plot, so to speak, almost creaks 
 with age, now and then ; her personages attitudinize and are often tire- 
 somely sententious. Tricotrin does so much with the aid of red 
 fire and a calcium that his glaringly melodramatic death becomes al- 
 most a relief in the end. And yet the book scintillates with brilliant 
 things, and if it had been written with an equal power in French in- 
 stead of English, might have passed for the work of Victor Hugo. 
 There is a great deal about it that the passionate and democratic soul 
 of the French poet would have cordially delighted in. It belongs to 
 the same quality of inspiration that produced " Notre Dame de Paris," 
 " L'Homme Qui Eit," and " Fantine." But there have always been 
 English people who have laughed at Hugo's tales, and in much the 
 
256 THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 same spirit Ouida's countrymen laughed at the itinerant, communistic 
 Tricotrin, with his superb beauty, his pastoral abstemiousness and 
 purity, his altruistic philanthropy, his forsworn birthright of an Eng- 
 lish earl, his wide dientkle of grimy and outcast worshippers, and his 
 astounding range of opportunity to appear just in the nick of time and 
 succor the oppressed. Far more daring license with the manipula- 
 tion of fact, however, has been taken by the elder Dumas and others. 
 Ouida's book came about thirty or forty years too late for sober critical 
 acceptance in her own country, and it was of a kind that her own 
 country has never permanently accepted. Still, it revealed her perhaps 
 for the first time as an original power in letters. She had struck in it 
 the one note which has always been most positively her own ; she had 
 told the world that she was a prose-poet of dauntless imagination and 
 solitary excellence. As an idealist in prose fiction no English writer 
 has thus far approached her. " Tricotrin" would not alone have made 
 her what she is. It remained for her to improve upon this remarkable 
 effort, and to fling up, like some tract of land under convulsive dis- 
 turbance, peaks that for height and splendor far outrivalled it. The 
 valleys in her literary landscape are sometimes low indeed ; a few even 
 have noxious growths in them, and are haunted by foolish wills-o'-the- 
 wisp. , Such, I should say, are her first few sustained works, like 
 " Granville de Vigne" and " Strathmore." Nor has she always clung 
 to the talisman by which she afterward learned to invoke her best 
 creations. At times she has seemed to cast this temporarily away, as in 
 " Friendship" and " A Winter City." I have now reached, as it were, 
 my one sole conclusion regarding her abilities at their finest and se- 
 curest outlook. She is an idealist, and that she should have deter- 
 minedly remained. The foibles of modern society are no subjects for 
 either her dissection or her satire. She has never been any more able 
 to become a Thackeray or a Dickens than they, under any conceivable 
 circumstances, could have become Ouidas. It is an immense thing for 
 a writer to recognize just what he is capable of doing best, and to 
 leave all the rest alone. But Ouida, with a burning uneasiness, has 
 continually misunderstood her own noble gifts. With an eye that 
 could look undimmed at the sun, she has too often grown weary of his 
 beams. Once sure of her wings, white and strong as they proved, she 
 had nothing to seek except the soft welcome of the air for which they 
 were so buoyantly fitted. But no : she has repeatedly folded them and 
 walked instead of flying. Birds that fly with grace do not often walk 
 so. She is a poet, and she has forgotten this truth with a pertinacity 
 which has been a deprivation to the literature of her time. And yet 
 for several years after the publication of " Tricotrin" the idealist was 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 257 
 
 most hopefully paramount in all that she did. If " Folle-Farine" had 
 been her first book instead of her sixth or seventh, it would have made 
 even the English blood that she has more than once declared so slug- 
 gish, tingle with glad appreciation of its loveliness. The change in 
 her was for a time absolute and thorough. " Folle-Farine" was the 
 story of a despised outcast girl, ignorant and unlettered, yet with a 
 soul quick to estimate and treasure the worth and meaning of beauty 
 wherever found. It is all something which the realists would pull long 
 faces or giggle at as hopelessly " highfalutin." But then the realists, 
 when they ride their hobby with a particularly martial air, are inclined 
 quite to trample all poetry below its hooves. I don't know how well 
 the story of " Folle-Farine" would please some of Balzac's successors, 
 but I am sure that he himself would have delighted in it. The girl's 
 infancy among the gypsies and subsequent fierce persecution at the 
 hands of her grandfather, Claudis Flamma, as one devil-begotten and 
 loathsome, are treated with an intensity bordering on the painful. But 
 through all the youthful anguish and martyrdom of " Folle-Farine" 
 there flows a charming current of idyllic feeling. Such passages as 
 these, stamped with the individuality of Ouida, meet us on every page : 
 " In one of the most fertile and fair districts of Northern France there 
 was a little Norman town, very, very old, and beautiful exceedingly by 
 reason of its ancient streets, its high peaked roofs, its marvellous gal- 
 leries and carvings, its exquisite grays and browns, its silence and its 
 color, and its rich still life. Its centre was a great cathedral, noble as 
 York or Chartres; a cathedral whose spire shot to the clouds, and 
 whose innumerable towers and pinnacles were all pierced to the day, so 
 that the blue sky shone and the birds of the air flew all through them. 
 A slow brown river, broad enough for market-boats and for corn-barges, 
 stole through the place to the sea, lapping as it went the wooden piles 
 of the houses, and reflecting the quaint shapes of the carvings, the 
 hues of the signs and the draperies, the dark spaces of the dormer 
 windows, the bright heads of some casement-cluster of carnations, the 
 laughing face of a girl leaning out to smile on her lover." 
 
 This certainly is not what we call compact writing ; there is none of 
 that neatness and trimness about it which bespeak the deliberative pen 
 or the compunctious eraser. But what a sensuous and winsome poetic 
 efiect does it produce ! Few writers can afford the loose clauses, the 
 random laissez-aller, of Ouida. She sometimes abuses her assumed 
 privilege, even in her most authentic moments, — those, I mean, of pure 
 imagination. But it is then that the superabundance of her diction and 
 its careless yet shining fluency hardly ever lose their attractiveness. It 
 is then that the prolixity to which I have before referred is an attribute 
 
258 THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 we are glad to pardon, and love while we are doing so. The argument 
 of " Folle-Farine" soon ceases to deal with the sufferings of a child. 
 The poor creature's hopeless love for the cold and unconsciously heed- 
 less Arslsln, bitter at the world's indifference to those magnificent gods 
 and goddesses that he still goes on painting in his old granary among 
 water-docks and rushes there by the river-side, is portrayed with un- 
 numbered masterly strokes. And afterward, when Folle-Farine tends 
 him as he lies stricken with fever in a Parisian attic, the evil temptings 
 of the unprincipled Sartorian, as they offer life and fame to Arslto at 
 a price whose infamy cannot be questioned by her who hears them, cloud 
 this whole narrative with a truly terrible gloom. FoUe-Farine's immo- 
 lation of self to save him whom she worships, and her final self-inflicted 
 death amid the peace of the river-reeds, far away from the loud and 
 gilded Paris that she detests, are the very darkest essence of the most 
 absorbing and desolating tragedy. But the poetry of this whole fervid 
 conception is never once lost sight of. We close the book with a shudder, 
 as if we had been passing through the twilight of some magic forest 
 where the dews are death. But we realize how matchless is the sorcery 
 that can so sombrely enchain us, and long after its woful spell has van- 
 ished memory vibrates with the pity and sorrow it roused. 
 
 " Ariadne" is another masterpiece, and not unlike the foregoing in 
 the main sources of its excessive melancholy. It is the story of a fem- 
 inine spirit swayed by an unreciprocated love, as waywardly given as 
 lightly undervalued. The characters are without subtlety, as in all 
 Ouida's prose-poems. They are fascinating or repelling shadows, whom 
 we can name adoration, egotism, fidelity, as we please, but whose eerie 
 juxtapositions, whose pictorial and half-illusory surroundings, may 
 summon sensations not unlike those caused in us by some admirable yet 
 faded fresco. Never was Rome in all her grandeur and desuetude made 
 the more majestic background of a heart's forlorn history. We read 
 of " the silver lines of the snow new-fallen on the mountains against 
 the deep rose of dawn ;" of how " shadows of the night steal softly 
 from off the city, releasing, one by one, dome and spire and cupola and 
 roof, till all the wide white wonder of the place ennobles itself under the 
 broad brightness of full day ;" of how one can " go down into the dark 
 cool streets, with the pigeons fluttering in the fountains, and the sounds 
 of the morning chants coming from many a church door and convent 
 window, and little scholars and singing-children going by with white 
 clothes on, or scarlet robes, as though walking forth from the canvas of 
 Botticelli or Garofalo." Sculpture forms what one might call the per- 
 vading stimulus of this most impassioned story, its young heroine being 
 a sculptor of inspired powers. In the same way music supplies an in- 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 259 
 
 eessant accompaoiment for the glowing words of " Signa." The youth 
 who gives his name to the book is a musician who possesses something 
 more glorious than mere aptitude. Psychologically it is the reverse of 
 " Ariadne," delineating the torment of a man who puts faith in the 
 most shallow and vacant female nature. It is just as plaintive, just as 
 haunting, as its predecessor, but it is simpler, less penetrative and less 
 wide-circling, less Dantesque in its mournful dignity and less astonish- 
 ing through its scholarship. These three prose-poems — " Folle-Farine," 
 "Ariadne," and "Signa" — are the three high alps of Ouida's accom- 
 plishment thus far. It is not easy to praise them with full justice, be- 
 cause unrestrained panegyric is never that, and yet the lyrical spontaneity 
 of the works themselves — their evidence of having won their splendid 
 vitality by having been poured from the writer's inmost heart, as warm 
 as that heart's blood — would tempt one who had fully felt their strength, 
 originality, and greatness, to dip his pen in exceedingly rosy ink and 
 then shape with it very ardent encomiums. I am far from calling these 
 memorable undertakings " idyls," as Miss Preston terms them, or in 
 any manner agreeing that " Friendship" " marks a distinct intellectual 
 advance." 
 
 Here was a woman who had shown us as no one else, living or dead, 
 ever had shown in precisely the same way, that she could make the 
 sweetest and most impressive poetry do service as the medium for telling 
 the sweetest and most impressive of tales. Mixed with their Gothic 
 fantasy there was something Homeric in these three volumes which I 
 have before named. There were no touches that reminded us at all of 
 the modern novel. Each had its separate aesthetic haze clinging about 
 it, and a golden haze this was, in every case. With only a few changes 
 here and there, the atmosphere of each story might have been made 
 Greek, or even Egyptian. The delights or horrors of life were put 
 most strikingly under our vision ; but the details of life, the routine of 
 things au jour le jour, the trifling modes and customs of mortality, as 
 it pursues its whims, its vices, its flirtations, its amours, its divorce- 
 suits, all remained' remote and unconsidered. The glamour of dream 
 clung to every character and event. The joys and miseries outroUed 
 before us were as abstract and aloof, when viewed with relation to our 
 morning mail or our menaced butcher's-bill, as the loves of Paris and 
 Helen in the Iliad, or of Ulysses and Calypso in the Odyssey. These 
 three enticing stories no more concerned our bread-and-butter-getting 
 existences of prosaic actuality than they concerned the wash of tides at 
 either pole. We turned their glowing leaves to escape from our own 
 silent quarrel with realities rather than to meet the monotonous recur- 
 rence of them either photographed painstakingly or sketched felici- 
 
2(J0 THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 
 
 tously. In other words, we gave ourselves up to the alternately gentle 
 or stormy wizardries of a poet, contented in the oblivion thus begotten 
 for decorated statistics of the annalist or placid vivisections of the 
 surgeon. I am aware that all such departure from his cherished modern 
 standards must at once be tyrannously cried down as a bore by that 
 self-satisfied arbiter, the average reader of to-day. Perhaps Ouida felt 
 some necessity of propitiating this multiform custodian of profit and 
 loss. It may have been that her publishers told her, with that sincere 
 sadness born of financial depression, how much handsomer had been the 
 " returns" from " Strathmore" and " Chandos" than from " Ariadne" or 
 " Signa." Be this as it may, Ouida forsook her new gods, and, except 
 in the composition of some exquisite short pieces which recalled the 
 purity, the human breadth, and the past star-like radiance of " A Prov- 
 ence Rose," "A Dog of Flanders," and "The Niirnberg Stove," I 
 do not know of her having ever again hewn her statues from the same 
 flawless Pentelic marble. 
 
 But the resumption of her old more materialistic task — that of 
 writing novels which should reflect the doings and misdoings of her 
 own century — she was now prepared to undertake with a much firmer 
 hand and with an unquestionably chastened sense of old delinquencies. 
 The tale " Friendship" may be said to commemorate this unfortunate 
 transition. It marks the third distinct change in Ouida's mental posture 
 toward her public. It is to me a descent and not an elevation, and yet 
 I freely concede that the novelist rediviva was in every way superior to 
 the novelist who lived and rhapsodized before. In " Friendship" we 
 see much of the flare and glare once thrown upon every-day occurrences 
 tempered to a far more tolerable light. Deformity often takes the lines 
 of just proportion, and not seldom of amiable symmetry as well. Miss 
 Preston praises " Friendship" as pre-eminently readable in every part, 
 and here I should again differ with her, since in my judgment the book 
 contains a great deal of insufferable tedium. Ouida's worst fault as a 
 stylist is here laid tormentingly bare. She harps with such stress of 
 repetition upon the guilty bondage of Prince loris to Lady Joan 
 Challoner that the perpetual circumlocution makes a kind of maelstrom 
 in which interest becomes at last remorselessly swallowed. It has been 
 stated that incidents and characters in " Friendship" were taken from 
 Ouida's own life, and that Lady Joan Challoner's name conceals one 
 belonging to a foe of the author. Whether this report be true or false, 
 we resent the almost maliciously periphrastic style in which we are told 
 again and again that Lady Joan was the jailer of loris and watched 
 him struggle i^n vain with the gyves of his own sin. To have a nature 
 of the most detestable selfishness described over and over till we are 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 261 
 
 familiar with its meanest impulse, its narrowest spite, resembles being 
 seated by a person of repulsive physiognomy in a chamber lined with 
 mirrors. The reduplications become unbearable to us, till we take the 
 only feasible course for avoiding them : we go into another apartment. 
 Still, in the present case, I did not go into another apartment; I fin- 
 ished " Friendship" and received from it an impression as vivid as 
 disagreeable. G'est le ton qui fait la musique, and this story, notwith- 
 standing its eternity of repetitions, appeared to me told in a querulous, 
 railing voice which robbed it of charm. But it evinces a most undeni- 
 able improvement in method. The sentences are terser and crisper than 
 in those other adolescent novels, and the syntax is no longer straggling 
 and hazardous. Of a certain redundancy Ouida has never wholly rid 
 herself. The effort to do so is manifest in her later books, but it still 
 remains a weakness with her to tell us the same thing a number of times 
 and with only a comparative alteration of phraseology. Still, no one 
 — not even Balzac himself — has a more succinct, dry, poignant way of 
 putting epigram. It seems to me that she is without humor ; her fun 
 inevitably stings as wit alone can do ; that soft phosphorescent play of 
 geniality which would try to set its reflex gleam in the stony gaze of a 
 gorgon, appears quite unknown to her. She has been wise, too, in not 
 cultivating humor, for it is something which must fall upon a writer 
 from heaven : he might as well try and train himself into having blue 
 eyes instead of black. But Ouida has trained many of her qualities, 
 and the self-search with which she has done so has betokened the most 
 scourge-like rigors. The novelist in her is to me all a matter of talent 
 vigilantly guarded and nurtured ; the poetic part of her — the part to 
 which we are indebted for three supreme achievements — could not have 
 helped delivering its beautiful message. Afterward Ouida remembered 
 that she was somebody quite outside of what one would call a genius, — 
 that she was a woman of enormously versatile information, and that 
 the possibility of her writing novels which would excite a great deal 
 of public attention could scarcely be overestimated. Beyond doubt 
 she had now reached a state of dexterity as regarded mere craftsman- 
 ship which thoroughly eclipsed the crudity of former times. But just 
 as she had been raw and experimental in a way quite her own, so was 
 she now adroit, self-restrained, and professional with a similar freshness. 
 " Moths" came next, and was a book sought and commented upon, 
 admired and execrated, from St. Petersburg to San Francisco. Of all 
 her novels, this is perhaps the one which has brought her the greatest 
 number of readers in what may be set down as the third period of her 
 singular celebrity. It is filled with the most drastic interest for even 
 the most jaded and ennuy6 examiner. The story is the perfection of 
 
262 THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 
 
 entertainment, of diversion. Its sarcastic scorn of fashionable frailties 
 and^ippancies even surpasses that which made "Friendship" notorious. 
 Social life among the most aristocratic people of Europe is drawn so 
 sumptuously and prismatically that without ever having enjoyed the 
 honor of dining or supping with princes and duchesses, we still own to 
 a secret revolt against the verisimilitude of their recorded pastimes and 
 dissipations. In "Moths," as in all her purely fictional. and unpoetic 
 work, Ouida gives us the belief that she is flying her kite entirely too 
 high, that she is too greatly enamoured of the rank and titles of her 
 dukes and earls, that the European beau monde, as an idea, has too 
 bewilderingly intoxicated her fancy. As Balzac delighted in letting us 
 know the exact number of francs per annum possessed by almost every 
 member of his ComMie Humaine, so Ouida loves to tell us of her 
 grandees' castles and palaces, of their f&tes and musicales, of their steam 
 yachts and their four-in-hands, of their "private physicians" (it is 
 rarely one simple physician with her), of their multitudinous retainers 
 and servants. Her heroines go to their apartments to dress, and in so 
 doing give themselves up to their " women :" it is seldom that any one 
 of them ^is humbly enough placed to have merely a single femme de 
 chambre. All the horses are blooded animals, all the jewels priceless, 
 all the repasts miracles of gastronomy, all the ladies' toilets royally 
 costly. Saloons and boudoirs and bedchambers are adorned with won- 
 ders of modern art, on canvas or in marble, in tapestry or bric-^-brac, 
 in panellings or frescos. Nearly every new book that she writes is a 
 sort of idition de luxe of itself. I am by no means sure that she does 
 not smile at the dazzling glories which she evokes, while continuing to 
 spread them before us with a secret conviction that they will allure 
 hundreds and even thousands, though they repel tens and twenties, of 
 those whom they confront. What to many refined observers may have 
 seemed a streak of trivial childishness in her may be, after all, a 
 shrewder cleverness than these accredit her with. For Ouida is super- 
 latively clever ; indeed, it may be added by those whom none of her 
 sham glitterings have blinded to the genuineness of her actual gold, 
 that she is lamentably clever. Had she thought less of a certain tran- 
 sient applause which writers incomparably beneath her may win, she 
 might much sooner have attained that firm fame during her lifetime 
 which her death alone will now create. In " Moths" the cleverness to 
 which I have alluded is everywhere apparent. She has made it a story 
 that the shop-girl or the dry-goods clerk may read with thrills and 
 tears. Vera's horrible misfortune in having been sold by her mother 
 to the brutish Russian prince admits of no misinterpretation. The 
 vast command of wealth and the lofty station which now follow for 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT OUWA. 263 
 
 the dreamy and statuesque heroine are skilfully blended with her love 
 for the brilliant marquis-tenor Corrfeze and the distressing captivity 
 of her jewelled chains. There is a strong suggestion of the " penny 
 dreadfuls" in the whole entourage of the tale, with Vera's anguished 
 heart beating under robes of velvet and her tortured brain throbbing 
 under coronets of gems. But it is immeasurably above the vulgarity 
 of those gaudy and often mawkish serials. Its pathos is intense, and 
 its continuous intervals of pure poetry undeniable. It is dramatic, too, 
 in the very strictest sense, and its adaptation for the English stage was 
 naturally to be expected. As for what the moralists would call its 
 " lesson," I should affirm that to be exempt from the least chance of 
 misconstruction. Like all these later stories of Ouida's, " Moths" has 
 been denounced as grossly unwholesome for young minds. I do not 
 know about young minds gaining benefit from its perusal ; I should 
 imagine that, like many things which minors do not understand, its 
 effect upon them might be harmful, and even noxious. So is the effect 
 of rich dishes and indigestible fruit upon young stomachs, while 
 stronger gastric juices sustain no hurt from their consumption. It is 
 time that this outcry against what is evil in literature for young minds 
 should be silenced by a sensible consideration of how potent or impo- 
 tent are the defences reared by educators and guardians. It would 
 surely be unwise to cut down all the apple-orchards because in those 
 days which precede autumn's due ripeness multitudes of foraging 
 children have brought on themselves avoidable colics. If the colics 
 sleep in the undeveloped apples, and mischievous little Adams and 
 Eves wUl taste thereof, a stout wall and an ill-tempered dog behind it 
 are the only trustworthy preventives against their temerity. To claim 
 that Ouida's works are not healthful reading for those whose youth 
 makes the mere mention of evil and vice deleterious because in all their 
 bad meanings unexplainable, is to claim, I think, that any author may 
 be misunderstood provided the mentality of his public is sufficiently 
 meagre for his miscomprehension. The decried " immorality" of 
 Ouida I have never at all been able to perceive. I ignore the question 
 of her immoral purport in the prose-poems heretofore treated. There 
 such a discussion wears colors of absurdity ; it is almost as if some one 
 should assure me that Milton's Satan was a matter of shame to his 
 portrayer. But with regard to all Ouida's novels of what I have 
 called her third period, the accusation (and it is a very wide accusation) 
 becomes at least worthy of attention. Ouida has no hesitation in re- 
 ferring to rela,tions between the sexes which common conventionality 
 has reprobated and condemned. A great deal of her more modern 
 work deals frankly with this theme. Sometimes it is dealt with in 
 
264 TBE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 tones and terms of a most scathing irony ; again it is handled with 
 mixed disdain and ridicule ; and still again it is openly grieved over 
 and deplored. But I fail to find a single instance of the vileness of 
 adultery being either condoned or alleviated. To choose an uncanny 
 subject is very different from handling that subject with the grosser 
 motive of extenuating what is base in it. I should assert that Ouida 
 never — absolutely never — does the latter. There are one or two scenes 
 in " Moths" which have a shocking nudity of candor. But they are 
 never dwelt upon for the purpose of pandering to any despicable taste 
 in the reader. They form a link in the dolorous chain-work of the 
 heroine's ills, and they are introduced for the purpose of rendering her 
 final step of rebellion against the world's legally imposed pressure more 
 pardonably consistent with the whole scheme of her unsolicited mis- 
 haps. While revealing what she believes to be low and contemptible 
 in society of to-day, Ouida employs merely the weapons which Juvenal 
 himself made use of. She is never sympathetic with wrong-doing, any 
 more than the Latin poet was in fulminating against Roman decadence. 
 Witness, as an example of this impersonal sincerity, her unsparing 
 denunciations hurled at such characters as Lady Joan in " Friendship" 
 and Lady Dolly in "Moths." How cordially she seems to detest 
 the artificiality of every mauvais sujet she describes ! She lays bare 
 alike the sordid and the sensual aim ; she pierces with her shafts of wit 
 and hate the adventurer, the hypocrite, the scandal-monger, the titled 
 voluptuary, the mendacious and guileful male flirt, the modest-visaged 
 and still more deceptive intrigante. But there is no revelation through 
 all her danse maaabre of ill-behaved people which may even faintly 
 indicate that she is in any way sympathetic with their indiscreet or 
 reckless caperings. For those who shout Ouida down as abominable 
 because she chooses to touch the abominable, I have no answer. 
 All that point of view merely involves the question of whether the 
 abominable can be touched or not in literature, provided it is so ap- 
 proached and so grasped that the author makes its mirk and stain seem 
 nothing but the soilure and grossness which they really are. I am 
 acquainted with several American men of letters who have told me 
 that they deeply regret the broad public distaste against so-called " in- 
 decency" in novel-writing. These men have already written novels 
 of merit and force, but they greatly desire to write novels which may 
 express the ftill scope and depth of life as they see and feel it. They 
 declare themselves, however, debarred from such performance by the 
 stringent edicts of their publishers and editors. It seems to me that 
 Ouida has quietly contemned the inclinations of her publishers and 
 editors. She has chosen to tell the whole truth, — not as Zola tells it, 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 265 
 
 but as George Sand (whom she resembles in one way as much as she 
 resembles Victor Hugo in another) always chose uncompromisingly to 
 tell it. Her gorgeousness of surrounding has made her perfectly pure 
 and reformatory motive dim to those who cannot eliminate from the 
 scum and reek of a stagnant pool the iridescence filmed there. Ouida 
 has seen the rainbow colors close-clinging to such malodorous torpor in 
 human society, and she has striven to report of them as faithfully as 
 of the brackish waters below. But she has intensified their baleful 
 tints. She has made the ermine that wraps her sinful potentates too 
 white and the black spots which indent this ermine too inky. She is 
 and has always been incapable of saying to her muse what Mr. Lowell 
 says in his profound and strangely unappreciated poem, " The Cathe- 
 dral :" 
 
 " Oh, more than half-way turn that Grecian front 
 
 Upon me, while with half-rebuke I spell. 
 
 On the plain fillet that confines thy hair 
 
 In conscious bounds of seeming unconstraint, 
 
 The Naught in overplus, thy race's badge !" 
 
 No ; Ouida determinedly delights in overplus, and when one thinks 
 of her muse at all it is of a harried and overtaxed muse, with feverish 
 imprecations against the wear and tear to which divinity has been 
 heartlessly subjected. When I turn toward the novels which have 
 succeeded " Moths," I am constrained to declare Ouida a writer more 
 fertile in expedients for disillusioning her most loyal adherents than 
 any other known through the past centuries as one deserving the name 
 of a genius. She is so incontestably a genius, however, that she can go 
 on committing her excesses without alienating her leal devotees. She 
 is like some monarch confident of his subjects' worship while he crowns 
 himself with roses and quaiFs wine from gold beakers to the detriment 
 and discontent of throngs waiting at his gates. There are no throngs 
 waiting at Ouida's gates, however ; or rather the throngs are her en- 
 tranced readers, and not by any means those fastidious about the re- 
 quirements of true royalty. But a few, knowing her grand mind, regret 
 the self-forgetfulness to which it has stooped. 
 
 " In Maremma" startled these few, as if it were a pledge of permanent 
 return among the classic idealisms which have made this author's best 
 right to assert herself one of the gi'eatest figures in contemporary lit- 
 erature. And " In Maremma" is a tale of matchless grace and sweet- 
 ness. We marvel as we read of the Italian girl who went and dwelt 
 in the Etruscan tomb, loving the dead whom she found buried there, 
 and finally meeting in it, by a most terrible satire of circumstances, 
 him who dealt her a death-wound of passion, — we marvel, I say, as we 
 Vol. XL.— 18 
 
266 THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 read of tMs delicious, free-souled, innocent kinswoman to FoUe-Farine 
 and Ariadne, how any human brain could be so multiplex and many- 
 shaded as that of Ouida. "What gulfs of difference separate this new 
 heroine of hers from the world-encompassed and society-beset beings 
 whom she has so recently pictured ! And yet for a time the novelist 
 has dropped her microscope (often so foolishly misemployed) and the 
 poet has resumed her neglected lyre. The old notes are still struck 
 with dulcet harmony. " In Maremma" is Ouida again at her loftiest 
 and most authentic. She shows in it her old impetuous desire to feel 
 with and for the persecuted and maltreated of the earth. I cannot 
 explain why it should not be ranked with the three great masterpieces 
 to which I have already made such enthusiastic reference. Perhaps it 
 should be so ranked. If there is any excuse for depriving it of a place 
 on this exquisite list, that excuse must be found in its more earthy 
 raison d'itre when compared with the almost ethereal spirituality of 
 the other books. 
 
 "Wanda," " Princess Napraxine," and " Othmar," coming afterward 
 with a speed of succession that showed the most earnest industry, have 
 given proof of their author's second return to at least relative realism. 
 But " Wanda" is a romance of inexpressible grace and force. It is the 
 purest romance : to speak of it as highly colored is like calling a par- 
 ticularly rich sunset overfraught with glows and tints. Judging it by 
 the modern methods of the " naturalistic" school is to pronounce it a 
 monstrosity of art. But a great many of the elder Dumas' works 
 would suffer in a like way if so considered, and nearly every prose line 
 of Hugo's would fall under the same ban of disfavor. " Wanda" is a 
 great romantic story. Its mode of telling is one protracted intensity. 
 Its fires burn with a raging and heavy-odored flame. But they sprang 
 forth, for all that, with no ungoverned madness. They are kindled by 
 a hand desirous of their heat and curl, but avoidant of their reckless 
 outflow. It is very easy to denounce such a tale as vulgar. In these 
 final years of our dying century all literary fierceness and eagerness of 
 this kind are so denounced. If romanticism is to fade away forever, this 
 volcanic bit of sensationalism is undoubtedly doomed. But its sen- 
 sationalism is of the sort we think of when we remind ourselves of 
 "Monte Cristo" and " Le Juif Errant." The haughty Austrian 
 countess, with her prestige of stainless pedigree and her imperial 
 self-esteem, — the Eussian serf who has concealed his disgraceful birth 
 under a stolen title, — the Hungarian nobleman of almost kingly rank 
 and unblemished honor, who contemptuously lays bare the shameful 
 brand of impostiu-e in his rival, — the ancestral castle in the Tyrol, 
 with its obeisant swarms of vassals and its regal household admin- 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 267 
 
 istration, — all tiiese are the old materials and raanceuvres of "Strath- 
 more" and " Idalia," but presented with tenfold more adroitness and 
 savoir-faire. The secret of reading "Wanda" with the keenest relish 
 for its exuberant ardors must lie in complete forgetfulness of life as 
 it is and pious acceptance of life as it might be. But this is the test 
 by which nearly all romance is tried. I have no space to treat at length 
 of " Princess Napraxine" and its sequel " Othmar ;" but if space were 
 broadly allowed me I could state of them no more and no less than I 
 have already stated of " Wanda." Princess Napraxine herself is a 
 silly and patience-taxing person. Ouida's enemies must have exulted 
 in her as " immoral," which she indeed truly would be were she not so 
 transparently Ughe. The chief pity is that so fine a fellow as Othmar 
 should have done anything except disdain her. But both these two last 
 novels teem with pages of description, reflection, tenderness, sweetness, 
 and pathos which make the fact doubly sad that Princess Napraxine (a 
 pedant, a prig, and a strutting combination of silliness and bad manners) 
 should ever have been summoned to blot and mar them by her paltry 
 charlatanisms. 
 
 The isolated position held by Ouida in an age when principles and 
 theories essentially opposite to her own have seemingly captured the 
 world of letters, would of itself point to endowments both rare and 
 sturdy. That she has pushed her way into renown against obstacles 
 which were often all the more stubborn because they were of her own 
 rearing, is a matter for serious inquiry and reflection ; but that she 
 should havB forced from certain able contemporaries who originally 
 satirized and flouted her, the respect and homage which we pay to 
 transcendent competency, is a still more significant truth. It means 
 that Ouida must mount to her place of deserved state in spite of faults 
 which would shape for many another writer stairways with a wholly 
 different direction. But there has seldom been a writer whose virtues 
 and vices were so inextricably blended. For example, the very people 
 in her stories of fashionable society who conduct themselves with the 
 least lucid common sense perpetually spice their repartees and railleries 
 with a most engaging wit. We may not sympathize with what they 
 say, but we are keenly amused by their modes of saying it. Disraeli, 
 whom I believe Ouida sincerely admires as a novelist, possesses all her 
 love for palatial filigree and porphyry; yet he has nothing of her 
 sprightliness, crispness, and verve when telling us of the bores, the 
 simpletons, and the few passably bright people who make up " society." 
 
 In more than a single way Ouida is behind her time, — a time over 
 whose rather barren-looking levels of analysis and formulation she 
 flings the one large light of romance now visible. In this latter respect 
 
268 ^^^ TRUTH ABOUT OUIDA. 
 
 she is, indeed, a kind of glorious anachronism, but from another stand- 
 point her grooves of thought appear painfully narrow. Occasionally 
 she airs a contempt for her own sex which makes us wish that with all 
 her learning she knew a little more of the dispassionate repose taught 
 by science and of its hardy feuds against a priori assumptions. Ouida 
 has made declarations about womankind which cause us to wonder how 
 she can possibly have been so unfortunate in her feminine friends, with 
 the thousands of chaste and lovable women now to be met inside the 
 limits of civilization. The mauvaise langue, when turned against 
 womanhood, is nowadays classed among effete frivolities. What we 
 forgave at the beginning of the century on this head we now simply 
 dismiss as beneath anything like grave heed. The day has passed 
 when such Byronics of misogyny, however gilt with flashing sarcasms, 
 will either delude or solace. We leave " sneers at the sex" to the idle- 
 ness of otherwise unemployed club-loungers, whose growls are in- 
 nocuous. Still, in justice to Ouida, I should deny that her hatred of 
 women ever reached anything like an offensive boiling-point except in 
 the early novel " Puck," which has probably done as much to feed the 
 spleen of her enemies as any work to which she has given her name. 
 In subsequent novels she has created many women of great sweetness and 
 high-mindedness, as fitoile in " Friendship," Vera in " Moths," Wanda 
 in the story of that title, Yseult in "Princess Napraxine," and Damaris 
 in "Othmar." Perhaps a depraved and sinful woman is more execrable 
 than a man of the same perverted traits. This is a question open to 
 debate, though Ouida somehow suggests an opposite judgment. It is 
 true that the majority of her very bad people are not men, though she 
 is capable, at a pinch, of some darkly Mephistophelian types. 
 
 On the other hand, her love for the helpless and the unfriended, 
 her profound charity toward the down-trodden and destitute and neg- 
 lected among humanity, is one of the several bonds between her own 
 genius and that of Hugo, — a poet whom she resembles more than I 
 have availed myself of opportunity to indicate. 
 
 But I do not claim that these words about Ouida — though I have 
 called them " the truth," and though, as regards my own most sincere 
 faith and equally sincere unfaith, I so insist upon calling them — are in 
 any degree a satisfactory criticism. How this woman's littleness dies 
 into a shadow beside her imaginative greatness, a real critic will here- 
 after tell. I have already stated in the pages of this magaidne my 
 fixed belief concerning the scientific method which every critic who at 
 all merits the place of one should infallibly use. For myself, I wish 
 to be thought no more than that purveyor of opinions whom I have 
 previously sentenced with some emphasis. I simply print what I think 
 
THE TRUTH ABOUT QUID A. 269 
 
 and believe about Ouida, and I have declared it to be " the truth" only 
 as I see and realize truth. If it be falsehood I shall welcome with 
 gladness any actual critic who so proves it. But to satisfy me of my 
 own errors he must not by any means deport himself in the same arbi- 
 trary and downright fashion as I have done. He must bear in mind 
 that if he desires to convince me of my one-sidedness he must not op- 
 pose it with dicta as unfoundedly hypothetical as my own. He must 
 not be a man who profusely deals, as I do, in unverified declarations. 
 He must logically elucidate to me where I am wrong and why I am 
 right. It occurs to me, with that vanity of all essayists who tempo- 
 rarily have the field quite to themselves, that I am more often right 
 than wrong. But if I am conclusively proved more often wrong than 
 right by that system of acute investigation which only the science-bred 
 critic understands, then I shall still feel that I have been of marked 
 service to the writer thus empirically reviewed; for I shall at least 
 have made myself a means of rousing careful and faithful consideration 
 toward a series of imaginative works thus far either unreasonably con- 
 temned or irresponsibly lauded. The scientific tone and poise is so 
 prevailing and favorite a one at the present time in works which a few 
 years ago it rarely invaded, that I cannot help asking myself why the 
 critics, who of all living persons are most easily accredited with the 
 scientific tone and poise, should not more fondly and unhesitatingly 
 employ it. They almost universally fail to employ it, however; 
 and on this account the wandering verbiage of their estimates may be 
 said to be as valueless as the announcements which I now pluck up 
 boldness enough to print. But my boldness has a weak fibre or two 
 of cowardice in it, I fear, after all. I should never have presumed to 
 write of Ouida as I have written, had I not prized her compositions, 
 frankly and de bon coeur, far more than I blame them. For this reason 
 I have given my favorable views publicity. Ouida is so internationally 
 popular that I am confident of friendly endorsements which will miti- 
 gate for me the necessary agony of being anathematized as her defender. 
 There my cowardice stops — in a certainty of helpers and supporters. 
 For the rest, if I am called names because I pay to a reigning genius 
 what I hold as her rightful tribute, my stolid resignation will be equal 
 to any martyr's. I shall endure the odium, certain of its ultimate 
 destruction. Times change, and I think the day is not far distant when 
 Ouida will be amazed at the sovereign fame which she herself has 
 builded through all these years of failure and triumph, of weakness 
 and power. But perhaps she will not be astonished at all, being dead. 
 Or perhaps . . . But I leave that point for the religionists and the 
 agnostics to fight out between themselves. One gets immortality of a 
 
270 LATENT. 
 
 certain kind, now and then, whether pallida mors bring to us posthu- 
 mous beatitude, brimstone or annihilation. And Ouida, I should insist 
 (with deference to the coming scientific critic), has secured this terrene 
 kind of immortality. I don't know whether or not she would rank it 
 as a very precious boon. To judge from a good many passages in her 
 abundant writing, I should be inclined to decide negatively. 
 
 Edgar Fawcett. 
 
 LATENT. 
 
 WITHOUT the garden wall it grows, 
 A flowerless tree. 
 Wrung by the restless blast that blows 
 
 Across the sea : 
 Forgotten of the fickle Spring, 
 The scanty leaves droop, withering : 
 Scarce would it seem — poor, sapless thing ! — 
 A rose to be ! 
 
 Yet must the frail and faded spray 
 
 A rose remain, 
 Though bitter, blowing winds to-day 
 
 Its growth restrain. 
 Somewhere, however these deny, 
 The color and the fragrance lie ; 
 Somewhere the perfect flower its dry 
 
 Dull stalks contain ! 
 
 If in a kindlier soil perchance 
 
 The root should grow, 
 Where dews would fall, and sunbeams glance. 
 
 And soft airs flow. 
 Fair as the flower the garden shows 
 The leaf might spring, the bud imclose : — 
 From out the calyx of a rose 
 
 A rose will blow I 
 
 Kate Putnam Osgood, 
 
BED. 
 
 BED. 
 
 271 
 
 BED means one thing to a river and another to a gun-carriage ; a 
 hen has her own unshared notion of it, as a garden has ; it is 
 farailiar to copper ore, and to shell-fish, as well as to weary human 
 bones. To the limited and prosaic apprehension of those bones, it 
 suggests a piece of furniture set in a room of a house ; nothing newer, 
 wilder, or more inspiring. The average citizen is not critical as to its 
 possibilities ; his plain nest is as fine and legendary to him as the ground 
 on Parnassus in Phocis, where a man should wake a poet ; or the shep- 
 herd-boy's station on Latmos, with Dian every night coming down to 
 kiss his eyelids ; or the cradle of Saint Hilary at Poitiers, where mad 
 folk are laid to sleep, and are said to get up with the sun, sane and 
 respectable as himself, eased of their gorgeous imaginings. 
 
 Bed, nevertheless, kind and flawless in behavior though it be, has 
 at some time or other set wicked tongues wagging. A superstition 
 hangs over it, which we must endeavor to disperse, — a saucy, irrelevant 
 vulgarism, which his accomplished uncle once flung in tropes at our 
 friend Mr. Arthur Pendennis : that " as a man makes his bed, so must 
 he He in it." Now, the actual gist of this knock-down impertinence 
 is explained more clearly, and in a more elegant manner, by the kindred 
 proverb, " As one sows, so will he reap," or by any of a dozen phrases 
 put together by some old wiseacre to express the inscrutable law of 
 retribution and the recoil of one's doings upon himself. How this 
 analogy between a man's making his bed and his lying in it came to 
 signify, in English, the personal lex talionis, is past finding out. It is 
 all tinkle and tinsel, and no true allegory. Lear's Fool, for one, never 
 could have fathered it. There is a certain trade sense in which a man, 
 if his gifts run that way, is not unlikely to make a bed ; and another, 
 in which the re-arrangement of the rumpled article in question, the 
 supplementary but vital act, becomes the privilege of a chambermaid. 
 For observe that the creative verb of the adage seems to indicate, not 
 the constructive carpenter-work, but merely the repetitionary smoothen- 
 ing and shaking, to be accomplished, meanwhile, not by the chambermaid 
 aforesaid, but — diverting fatality ! — by the man. Bed-making, under 
 such conditions, is scarcely a pastime native to the masculine mind. 
 Custom hath whimsically set her back against it. Grace and order 
 would be coy to follow on a 'prentice hand. 'Tis ten to one that the 
 strata of coverings shall coincide with no precedent established among 
 
272 BED. 
 
 housekeepers, and that the feathery hills where a head should repose 
 sou'-by-west are to be found upheaved at opposite ends of the compass. 
 Still, as Hercules spun, and Achilles played among girls, so their 
 moda^ brother may attain the art of bed-making, by dint of patience 
 and insuperable attention. But until he be thoroughly broken in, to 
 the third and fourth generation, the odds are yet against his performing 
 that task wUfdlly, whenever he can possibly avoid it. And if he go 
 not to his work with eager and pertinacious consciousness, whither flies 
 the significance of the valuable saying which celebrates his industry? 
 For that we shall abide by the consequences of our own voluntary acts, 
 is the sagacious lesson intended to be enforced in this insufferable jargon 
 about a man and a bed. 
 
 Even supposing that the condemned take pleasure in his new and 
 delicate vocation, that his hand be agreeably dedicated to 4he eliminating 
 of creases from the mattress, and the chastising of pillows, "non- 
 conductors to the day," that their spirits may rise proportionately, we 
 cannot conceive of any known law by which he is to be forced to recline 
 on the predse scene of his labors ; or, if such a law exist, we cannot aver 
 that it will be any sort of punishment to lay his cheek on the clean and 
 comfortable throne which, in his waking hours, he had prepared for it. 
 
 Why should he not pass his nights elsewhere, and never once in the 
 bed, which, because he hath dressed it, the wretched saw calleth " his" ? 
 Can he not hospitably extend it to a guest or a beggar ? Might he not 
 doze in an easy-chair, or knot himself into a sitting posture, like an 
 Indian brave, sleeping warily on the floor of his demesne ? or stretch, 
 cat-wise, on a rug, or betake himself to a hammock beneath oaks, or to 
 a piny couch, and " lie sub dio, under the canopy of heaven" ? How 
 should the man, with so noble a choice, have to do with any bed unless 
 he choose it ? Familiarity breedeth contempt. If the man made the 
 bed, and vexed his brain with its blankety rubric, so much the more 
 reason that he should tire of it, and follow his fancy in eschewing it for 
 some unaccursed substitute. The popular fallacy is that he made it, 
 and that he is in it, world without end, for his pains : whereas sober 
 reason affirmeth that not only could he never have made it, under given 
 average circumstances, but that were he confined to it (as an ingenious 
 and vindicatory Occidental set-off to the Chinese prisoner who is kept 
 nocturnally on his tottering feet, and forever denied the solace of his 
 couch, till his body die of wakefulness), nothing, not fragrance of Thes- 
 salian bays, nor fruit dripping with dews of September, could be so 
 truly benedictory and loving to our man under sentence as the sleep that, 
 be he but a healthy mortal, would surely close upon him, with incalcu- 
 lable gentleness, before he had been a half-hour in his calumniated bed. 
 
BED. 
 
 273 
 
 A lullaby is potent over us from first to last through our " long 
 infancy." As all nature conspires, from the day of our birth, to kill 
 us, so that it has been no small cause of wonder to philosophers that 
 despite innumerable risks and hazards, thread-hanging swords, burning 
 ploughshares, brinks of precipices, danger on every side, from a break- 
 fast to a battle, we make out to live until we die ; so all that may reach 
 the eye and ear without variegation tends to send us to sleep. A mono- 
 tone of sound or color, the motion of wheels, the fixedness of a column, 
 " sweet musick, floud-gates, arches, falls of water like London bridge, 
 or some continuate noise to benum the senses," can at times cajole the 
 most uneasy into oblivion. There are those, indeed, who need but the 
 knowledge that the sun is at high noon, or that on the spring mid-day 
 grasses it is a pleasant thing to wear the pilfered jewel of the night, to 
 give themselves, docile and drowsy, to the swayings of Mercury's 
 wand. 
 
 A school-boy terror wards off a passer-by from the hoariest and 
 comeliest graveyard while stars are marshalled above him ; but no such 
 goblin beliefs brush him by sunlight, when the least importunate of men 
 may fain see what an odd, humorsome, gentle-mannered experiment it is 
 to lie between old graves, and to be sealed with the simile and sugges- 
 tion of that other sleep which hath endured for centuries without fray- 
 ing. If a survivor may perk himself into security anywhere, it is 
 among these invisible bedfellows. Nowhere else is it such serene 
 gentility to be alive, — such a ticket of authority, such a feather in 
 one's cap. You are of more moment, in the bleared popular eye, than 
 a promiscuous dozen of sages and heroes under, simply inasmuch as 
 
 Ah. ! Maecenas is ywrapt in clay, 
 And great Augustus long ago is dead. 
 
 Or, in a calmer mood, here shall be found temples on whose lintel you 
 may lie in air, and proffer censer-smoke, and make songs of honor and 
 good-will. Choose some very shrine, and make of it the bed on Par- 
 nassus, or good Hilary's cradle, and be not loath to rest abjectly and 
 without distrust amid noble ashes. There are beguilements of sleep 
 urged from the cool, willow-shaded acre of ghosts to the wayfarer hot 
 with life : so Theocritus understood it. " Here lies Hipponax the poet," 
 he said, in one of his sweet epitaphs : " if thou art worthless, draw not 
 nigh his tomb ; but if thou art honorable and of fair descent, come ! sit 
 here boldly, and, if thou wilt, slumber." 
 
 Light sleep is but fairy-like torment, beautiful oppression, when one 
 still can hear the little smith hammering rhythmically in his breast and 
 day- worries pacing to and fro in their cells overhead. Rest that is sound 
 
274 -B-BX>. 
 
 is kinder ; but what words can set forth the fastness of a going-to-sleep 
 after hardy exercise, which is like the descent of a diving-bell, slow, 
 weird, darkening, " deeper than did ever plummet sound" ? when the 
 journey inconceivable, conscious only for a half-second at its outset, 
 permeates one's being with a sense of absolute delight? when the 
 emergent mind, after long hours, comes, as with a baptismal freshness, 
 to put its naked foot upon the threshold of an unfamiliar world, its re- 
 venges outworn, its vexations washed away? and when no philter nor 
 laurel-leaves of pagan credence laid under the pillows shall spare it 
 enough of energy to dream, or, dreaming, shall bid it remember so far 
 as the garish dawn again ? Somnus and his servant Morpheus throw 
 open the gates of ivory and of translucent horn, through which wander 
 visions false and true ; and Artemidorus, and such as he, may chronicle 
 those confidences of the immortals, — not we : we do but sleep, and take 
 the glory and awe of the sequence, not to prate of them nor cry to out- 
 siders of the feast which our host spreads for us in the central hall of 
 his palace. 
 
 We have started suddenly at times into half-wakefulness from the 
 thraldom of sleep, utterly numb to the sensual universe, but alert with- 
 in, and luxuriating on the singularity of that change. And it is borne 
 into our cloudy brain how the silver keel of our little lonely boat has 
 just grazed the sands of the shallows, blown thither from the channels 
 solemn and vast, and how, ere we recognize it, we shall be sailing, 
 under pilotage, fathoms deep and ever deepening, into the outer seas 
 again. So must it seem to be born, if a child might carry that dim 
 consciousness of the bygone voyage, and of the return, speedy as the 
 swallow's wing or the decay of a rose, to the eternal waters. 
 
 Gratuitous persons, moralists and physicians, or gentlemen like 
 Samuel Johnson, who lay abed all his days until noon, and yet preached 
 that no creature could accomplish anything who was not an early riser, 
 have fixed the public prejudice that sleep should be curtailed — that 
 whole, wise, radiant gift of the gods ! — ^to a matter of six or eight hours 
 at most. Tradition sets up San Vito to be invoked against somno- 
 lency, with his impudent cock a-crowing as soon as the crazy day 
 breaks, — ay, and often before the sun bestirs himself. Far more vir- 
 tuous is it to take the report on faith that at some blinking hour or 
 other the fiery celestial annoys the comfortable continent with his im- 
 portunate rays ; for ourselves, we are not at home to him. We know 
 that the later we cling to bed the less mischief we shall wreak on the 
 twelve accusatory hours, and the younger we shall be when our time 
 comes to reckoning fourscore. We would always roll in empery and 
 felicity a little longer, and compose our godly eyelids once again to the 
 
BED. 276 
 
 consideration of the charms of sleep, who untangles our problems and 
 does so much of our melancholizing for us, and carves unhid on a 
 sonnet, so that it is popped, cunningly wrought, under our astonished 
 thumb next morning ; to think over all these agreeable things, wish 
 that they may not Jje denied to our neighbor, and take time to work 
 ourself into a fitting and ripe gratitude for such ample favor ; to syllable 
 piously lines which Sidney writ and our childhood learned : 
 
 Sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe 1 
 
 and to breathe, for that also is down in the ritual, a rueful sigh of greet- 
 ing to the patronal band, Marcian, Malchus, Maximin, Dionysius, John, 
 Serapion, Constantine, who lay in the Coelian 'cave one hundred and 
 ninety-six years of sleep, to leave us now but the pittance of one gin- 
 gerly night, and drank so ungenerously of the divine draught that we 
 must needs wake at every m.atin-chiaie of sheer expectancy and with 
 lips athirst, like a cheated guest who watches the brimming loving- 
 cup down the great table and finds it at last hollow as last year's 
 nest. 
 
 One is sensitively himself on the border-land of repose. The pick 
 of a lifetime is in these moments of semi-resurrection, when as yet we 
 are under no conviction that to get up is dignified or humane, and when 
 thoughts many and potent, bathed in the near rainbow-hue of dreams, 
 as no afternoon-fancies can be, entertain the languid intelligence. Su- 
 perb alchemy ! Then unsuspecting capabilities burgeon ; heroics are 
 child's play. We have moved the world in sublime generalship, detail 
 by detail, riddled the stars, caught the leviathan, winnowed a lordly 
 library out of the wastes of printerdom, shut all Pandora's evils fast in 
 their box again, — in bed. It happened once, in winter, that we rose to 
 the surface of activity with the victorious, brotherly memory of Nelson 
 upbearing us, how, whence, or why no man may guess, and so on to 
 that day's warfare, in perfect integrity of heart. 
 
 Often is it our fortune that some compelling, stinging splendor lays 
 hold all too early of our befogged body and shakes it in a flash out of 
 profoundest apathy ; something so fine that it seems, were it not for 
 that, we should sleep unchallenged for an arctic season ; something that 
 posts us on our feet excitedly, as if the whole weal of this world de- 
 pended on our special nerve and invention. No delicious speculation 
 and philosophizing afi«r that. The royalty which is ourself may turn 
 on its side and doze if the usual hodden valet knock at the portal 
 and go, believing us acquiescent; but when a king from far away 
 blusters, booted and spurred, into the chamber, and slaps his gauntlet 
 
276 -M"^ UNKNOWN FRIEND. 
 
 down on the counterpane in defiance of iis, and plucks us rashly by the 
 beard, why, there is no choice but to be up in our very night-gear and 
 have at him. 
 
 Is it not due to the good bed which shelters us that we should ven- 
 ture on a little biquotidianal canticle of its friendship, and service, salute 
 it with deference as the ever-probable theatre of birth and death, of last 
 confidences, loves renewed, pardons accorded ; as the actual theatre, in- 
 deed, of our own tremendous boldness in nightly committing ourselves 
 under God to a mystery, a treachery, a who-knows-what of resignation 
 and helpless enchainment ? To its four posts we pay homage as to the 
 gates of the exquisite under-world. Every sleep there is an Arabian 
 transportation, where the soul, mute, veiled, and unrevealing, finds its 
 way to the eldest Eden, and keeps so well the secret of the path that its 
 own oblivious feet must be taught anew each eventide ; and so ranges, 
 always happily guided, always forgetful, untU the ties are snapped be- 
 tween it and the flesh, and the flesh itself grows vacant of beauty, and 
 the truant owner, 
 
 Leaving door and windows wide, 
 
 comes home not any more from his land of wonder. 
 
 Louise Imogen Chdney. 
 
 MY UNKNOWN FRIEND. 
 
 T CANNOT tell the country where thou art, 
 
 -L Or where, on height, or vale, or ocean's brink, 
 
 Thy home doth stand : content with this frail link 
 I dwell, until I know thee, noble heart, — 
 That the same golden sun that strikes athwart 
 
 My threshold doth from your bright casement sink ; 
 
 Night's crescent and pale star of morn, I think, 
 Are warders where we dream, though leagues apart ! 
 
 To show thee wild wood-road and tangled slope. 
 The plumed elms, the hill-top's dazzling reach. 
 The lingering stream and lane where lovers stray, 
 To hear thee match dear thoughts and rival hope 
 Of mine, and thine own plans and phrases teach, 
 Will please me — on some long, unoalendared day. 
 
 F. D. Stickney. 
 
LIFE FOR LIFE. 277 
 
 LIFE FOR LIFE. 
 
 rpHE town of Vardoe in Norway is situated on an island within the 
 J- Polar Circle, where there is winter during nine months of the 
 year and chilly weather during the remaining three. Still, Jetmund 
 Tangen had no quarrel with Fate for having deposited him in such a 
 fierce and barren corner of the earth. He had received the cold gust 
 &om the Pole full in the face, the moment he was born ; and he went 
 through life, as it were, facing it iu the same uncompromising manner. 
 He had braced himself for the fight ; and he stood like a rock. Nature 
 had meant him for a kindly man, no doubt ; but the cold, somehow, 
 shut him up, and made him stern and silent. Only toward his son 
 Paul did he exhibit his gentler side. For Paul was a miserable little 
 weakling, whose feeble life flickered like a flame that was about to go 
 out. He sat in his bed, propped up in pillows, sometimes reading, 
 sometimes dreamily gazing at pictures cut from cigar-boxes or adver- 
 tisements of groceries. The sovereigns of Europe, drinking with ec- 
 static expressions a certain brand of chocolate, or the black-eyed Cuban 
 sefloritas with their arch smiles and beau-catchers, kindled his imagina- 
 tion with visions of beauty and splendor. He wandered through palm- 
 groves in sweet converse with these fascinating damsels, and reposed 
 Vith them upon green hills overlooking the dimpling summer seas. 
 Now it was the dancing La Tarantella who rejoiced in his favor (for 
 Paul did not doubt that the names were authentic) ; then came, the 
 next week. Donna Casilda and cut her out ; and a week later it might 
 be Flor de Hahana to whom he awarded the palm of loveliness. She 
 had, as her sweet serious eyes showed, a nobler character than the 
 coquettish Donna Casilda; and as for La Tarantella, Paul felt quite 
 ashamed to think that he had allowed himself to be taken in by her 
 coarse and superficial charms. 
 
 Thus passed the days and nights of the invalid's life. For he 
 waked and slept as Nature prompted, and kept no account of time. 
 The dim lamp burned always on the table before his bed ; and outside 
 the storm and the darkness reigned. The house creaked in all its joints, 
 like a ship in a gale ; or, on still days, the walls cracked and snapped 
 from the cold ; but Paul and his lovely sefloritas revelled in glorious 
 sunshine and played ball with golden oranges, while the groves re- 
 sounded with their laughter. Only when his father or his brother 
 Narve came from the store to trim the lamp for him and to give him a 
 little pat on the head was he reminded of the grim reality. For Jet- 
 
278 ^IPE FOR LIFE. 
 
 mund always left behind him an atmosphere of tarred ropes, plug to- 
 bacco, and salted cod, which put the seBoritas to flight. Narve's visits 
 were less unwelcome ; because he smelled merely of fish, and he brought, 
 at least once or twice a week, a new picture. Sometimes it was a stout 
 gentleman who had gone mad with delight over a piece of soap (though 
 he seemed to have no special need of it), or a middle-aged lady who 
 had discovered that the secret of happiness consisted in the possession 
 of a bottle of quack medicine. These were welcome, by way of variety, 
 when the supply of sefioritas ran short, for they suggested all manner 
 of speculations as to the character and previous history of people who 
 could go into rapture at so singular a provocation. 
 
 When the brief summer blazed up on the horizon and the whole 
 island was covered with innumerable wild flowers, there came a change 
 in Paul's life. He was then every Sunday wrapped up carefully and 
 carried in his brother's mighty arms down to the beach, where a boat 
 lay ready to receive them. And all day long and far into the golden 
 night they would float idly about on the shining mirror of the sea, 
 under the cloudless sky, among the screaming hosts of sea-birds. The 
 enormous icebergs, glittering like fairy palaces in the red rays of the 
 midnight sun, drifted past them, carrying their freight of seal and wal- 
 rus and occasionally a polar bear, all unconscious of their destination 
 and even of the fact that they were travelling. Paul, lying with half- 
 closed eyes in the stern of the boat, took little note of these things : the 
 clouds that sailed above him, changing in the glow of the sun into all 
 sorts of fantastic shapes, interested him far more ; for he saw in them 
 faces and forms of wondrous beauty pursued by threatening monsters 
 of appalling ugliness. The pure air did him good, and the gentle 
 motion soothed him. He broke out in querulous protest when, long 
 after midnight, Narve put up his oars and sprang forward to ward off 
 the bump against the pier. He would have liked to drift on thus 
 forever. 
 
 The older brother, on such occasions, was received with harsh re- 
 bukes on their arrival home. He had been accustomed to harsh words 
 from his father as long as he could remember. Though he was a 
 kind-hearted and capable lad, Jetmund seemed to cherish a deep-seated 
 grudge against hun. By some obscure process of reasoning he seemed 
 to hold the older brother responsible for the younger's feebleness. He, 
 coming first, had appropriated more than his share of strength, leaving 
 nothing for the poor little fellow who came after him. Jetmund never 
 uttered these sentiments in words, but, absurd as they were, they never- 
 theless colored his whole relation to Narve ; and the boy, who had 
 stoically accepted this relation as something inevitable, expended, like 
 
LIFE FOR LIFE. 279 
 
 the father himself, whatever love there was in his heart upon the in- 
 valid brother. He never smelt Jetmund's composite odor from afar 
 without making haste to vanish. As he grew to manhood, however, 
 he began to feel ashamed of his dislike of his father's society, and com- 
 pelled himself to stand when he would have liked to run. He even 
 consented to take his place behind the counter in the store in order to 
 save the hire of a clerk, which Jetmund could ill afford to pay. But 
 it seemed to him a miserable life ; he chafed under it like a polar bear 
 shut up in a cage ; for Narve was essentially an out-of-door character. 
 He was of large frame, powerfully built, and weather-beaten like a 
 whaler. From his earliest years he had known no restraint upon his 
 liberty, but had ranged freely over land and sea as his fancy prompted. 
 He felt at home in the icy blast ; amid the screaming host of sea-birds 
 that swept in the wake of the fishing-fleet ; among seal and walrus 
 upon the drifting ice-floes. He was a polar type. Generations of life 
 within the Arctic zone had made him what he was, — every phase of 
 his mental and physical being adapted to grapple with the hard con- 
 ditions of Arctic existence. Imagine, then, what a martyrdom the 
 daily confinement in a little low-ceiled and malodorous store must 
 have been to such a nature. And yet it was fortunate that he accepted 
 the yoke, heavy though it was. For one day, without a moment's 
 warning, his father was stricken down by apoplexy, in the sea-booth, 
 and fell in a heap of fish, dying. 
 
 " Take care — of the little one, Narve," he gasped, with his expiring 
 breath ; " take care — of the — little one." 
 
 Paul, strange to say, took his father's death quite calmly, — perhaps 
 because he had not vitality enough to feel anything keenly, — while 
 Narve wept as if his heart would break. The fact that his relations 
 with his father had not been of the best seemed to make his loss only 
 the harder to bear. In the half-stunned condition in which the calam- 
 ity had left him, the discovery which he soon made, that his father 
 had died bankrupt, had scarcely the power to impress him at all. His 
 first thought was that he might now escape from the irksome routine of 
 the store. The wide world stretched out before him, and he might now 
 at last follow his inclinations and roam to his heart's content. He 
 knew the haunts of the whale better than any man in Yardoe ; and 
 he had also made an invention — a gun for firing harpoons at long 
 range — from which he expected in time to realize a fortune. The only 
 thing needed to perfect the details was practical experiment. This a 
 voyage in a whaler would easily afford him ; and then the road to 
 prosperity and happiness was plain sailing. There was but one draw- 
 back to this beautiful plan. He could not take Paul with him on a 
 
280 LIFE FOR LIFE. 
 
 whaling-expedition; nor had he the heart to leave him behind. He 
 thought and he thought, until his brow was a net-work of wrinkles ; but 
 all expedients that suggested themselves seemed cruel. And so the end 
 of it was that, with a heavy heart, he resumed his place behind the 
 counter, as clerk to his father's successor, Mr. A. Grundt, and the 
 beautiful dream vanished in smoke. 
 
 Paul was far from suspecting the sacrifice which his brother had 
 made for him. He lived in a world of his own imagining ; and as 
 long as he was free from pain and new seQoritas with new and 
 fascinating names kept him company, he allowed no other earthly con- 
 cern to disturb him. Only when winter came and his poor emaciated 
 body was wrenched with pain did he lose his patience and become 
 fretful and exacting. Narve saw him fade away, day by day and week 
 by week ; and, strive as he might, he could not chase away the thought 
 that when these two weary eyes should be closed forever, then he would 
 be free to live his own life and start La quest of his own happiness. 
 But in the next moment he would remember his promise to his father 
 to care for him ; his love for his brother would awake with renewed 
 warmth, and he would suffer an agony of remorse, because he had for 
 one moment harbored the wicked thought. One night, as he was 
 sitting at Paul's bedside, doing penance for his yearning for liberty, 
 his eyes fell upon the picture of the lady who was exulting in the vir- 
 tues of Brown's Panacea. A pang nestled at his heart, as he thought 
 that neither he nor his father, with all their love for Paul, had con- 
 sulted a physician in regard to his ailment. They had looked upon it 
 rather as a heaven-sent calamity, — something that was meant to be, 
 and, as such, beyond the reach of earthly aid. 
 
 An overwhelming sense of tenderness for the invalid took possession 
 of Narve. 
 
 " You have no one in the world but me, you poor boy," he said, as 
 he let his large, cool hand glide over Paul's hot forehead and cheeks. 
 " I will be faithful, faithfiil, faithful," he added, in a whisper, to himself, 
 " faithful unto the end." 
 
 The next day, rather to pacify his conscience than because he hoped 
 for any result, he called upon the resident physician and begged him 
 to visit his brother. Paul submitted fretfully to being tapped on the 
 back and having the various ftmctions of his body tested by scientific 
 appliances. When the examination was at an end, Narve stood waiting 
 outside with an anxious face. 
 
 "He needs the one thing which you cannot give him," said the 
 doctor, — " a temperate climate. He has no constitution to grapple with 
 the perpetual winter of the North Pole." 
 
LIFE FOR LIFE. 281 
 
 " And will he then die ?" cried Narve, in an agony of conflicting 
 emotions. 
 
 " He may survive another winter. He will not survive two." 
 
 II. 
 
 The great blue burnished shield of the Polar Sea, the flaming sheen 
 of the midnight sun, the shrieking storm of sea-birds whirling about 
 the lonely crags, the huge whales blowing and spouting against the sky, 
 the great fishing-fleet, with expanded sails, flying northward, and re- 
 turning laden to the rim, — this is the North, the beloved North ! So 
 it presented itself, at least, to Narve's mind, as he regretfully thought 
 of the possibility of leaving it. It was to him the most favored, the 
 most beautiful land under the sun. But it had not a temperate climate. 
 At least he inferred from the doctor's words that it had not. He 
 wrestled mightily with the Lord in prayer, begging for light and gui- 
 dance, and hoping that some escape might be found from the cruel duty. 
 But each time the duty seemed plainer, more inexorable. His brother's 
 life was in his hand. Should he refuse to save it ? Had he not prom- 
 ised his father to shield and protect it ? Could he ever hope for peace 
 upon the earth, if he had to step over Paul's dead body to reach his 
 liberty ? Could he buy happiness by his brother's death ? These im- 
 portunate questions haunted Narve by day and by night. He could no 
 longer, as of old, shirk the answer by saying that if it was the Lord's will 
 that Paul should live, He would save him wherever he was. He had a 
 tender conscience, this great blue-eyed giant, and its wakeful voice kept 
 whispering in the dark, through the long vigils of the night. When 
 at last the fateful resolution was taken, Narve braced himself to lift 
 his burden, and wavered no longer. He would bend all his energies 
 now to gathering money enough to take Paul to a temperate climate. 
 The eight dollars a month, which he received for his services in the store, 
 were all expended to provide the invalid with the necessaries of life ; and 
 some extra source of income had, therefore, to be provided. Happily, 
 Narve had some knowledge of taxidermy, and, as English tourists paid 
 good prices for stuffed specimens of Arctic birds and beasts, he hoped 
 within a year to save the hundred dollars which would be needed for 
 the journey. Long before the break of dawn, he was seen roaming, 
 with his gun on his shoulder, over the lonely cliffs or visiting the 
 islands where the birds were wont to brood ; and every time he re- 
 turned laden with booty. It did not occur to Paul, who watched with 
 languid interest his brother's midnight toil, flaying eider-ducks and 
 auks and cormorants, that it was his own life which was at stake in 
 these operations. But from Narve's mind this reflection was never 
 Vol. XL.— 19 
 
282 LIFE FOR LIFE. 
 
 absent. It sustained him when he was discouraged, gave him strength 
 ■when he was weary, kept his drooping eyes open when they were heavy 
 with sleep. Dollar was added to dollar, and slowly the little hoard 
 grew, until, by the end of a year, it counted fifty-six. But that was 
 forty-four less than was required. And, in the mean while, the second 
 winter would be coming on, which the doctor had said Paul could not 
 survive. For the first time, he gained no strength during the summer ; 
 and with the first cold days in September he failed so rapidly that it 
 seemed sometimes a question of hours, when he would breathe his last. 
 
 Narve, to whom his task had become dearer, the nearer it seemed to 
 success, was in despair. He tried to borrow the sum he needed from 
 his employer, but met with a gruff refusal. He invented a dozen 
 ingenious plans, but they all required time, and had therefore to be 
 abandoned. Every time he could find a pretext for leaving the store, 
 he rushed over to his brother's room, and stood wringing his hands in 
 helpless grief, while gazing at the sallow and withered features, in 
 which a spark of life seemed scarcely to be lingering. He walked 
 about as in a trance, attending mechanically to his duties, but hardly 
 knowing what he did, always pursued by the dread that, when he re- 
 turned, he might find his brother dead. 
 
 It so happened that, after a day spent in a torture of apprehension, 
 Narve was sent, by his employer on board an English schooner which 
 was buying fresh salmon to be taken to London in refrigerators. There 
 was much commotion on board because one of the sailors had just 
 been killed by a fall from the rigging. The captain was anxious to 
 sail, but did not dare to put to sea with less than the legal number of 
 men. Observing Narve's sailor-like appearance, he offered him on 
 the spur of the moment two pounds and free passage home again, 
 if he would go with him. 
 
 " I sha'n'twant the passage back," said Narve ; " but if you'll allow 
 me, instead, to take my brother along, who is ill, I am your man." 
 
 " All right," said the captain. 
 
 And so it was settled. Narve felt as if his body were an impondera- 
 ble quantity, as he tumbled down into the boat, rowed ashore, and with 
 feverish anxiety hastened to Paul's room. Ah, there he lay, his mouth 
 pinched, as if in death, his cheeks hollow, his eyes listlessly closed. 
 Narve stood for a moment paralyzed with dread. He bounded across 
 the floor and grasped his brother's hand. God be praised, there was 
 yet life in it. 
 
 " Brother," he cried, exultingly, " we are going." 
 
 There came a spark of consciousness into the invalid's half-quenched 
 eyes, as he murmured, " Yes— I am going — brother— to God." 
 
LIFE FOR LIFE. 283 
 
 " No, child, no ! Not to God, but to America." 
 
 Three days later a blond giant, carrying in his arms a limp and ap- 
 parently lifeless form, made a sensation in the streets of London, and 
 three weeks later he repeated the sensation in the streets of New York. 
 
 III. 
 
 After a month of futile inquiry, Narve Tangen got a position as 
 clerk with Mr. Tulstrup, a Norwegian merchant who dealt in fish- 
 products which he imported from Norway. Long experience had made 
 Narve a connoisseur in cod-liver and whale oils, and enabled him to 
 detect the slightest adulteration. He thus made himself valuable to 
 his employer and gained a comfortable livelihood. But for all that 
 he was not happy. He felt limp and depressed, and all his former 
 energy seemed to have deserted him. It was only by a violent effort, 
 and by the thought of Paul's dependence upon him, that he could arouse 
 himself to attend to his duties. The terrible uproar of Broadway be- 
 wildered and oppressed him, and he yearned with a passionate regret 
 for the silence of the great Arctic solitudes. The dear familiar sights 
 amid which he had grown up haunted his thoughts and made him pine 
 like a child to return to them. But his homeward way seemed forever 
 to be cut off, and he would be obliged to spend his whole life in this 
 strange and bewildering land, amid these alien sights and sounds. 
 
 There was but one consolation in these sorrows : Paul was gaining 
 strength. With every day his pleasure in life revived : he began in a 
 cautious way to study English, and Mr. Tulstrup's daughter, Miss Ida, 
 who had become interested in the strange career of the brothers, came 
 every morning and talked with him for a couple of hours. Paul, who 
 in spite of his eighteen years was yet a child in mind, identified her 
 immediately with the noble and lovely Flor de Habana, his favorite 
 among his cigar-box heroines. The jewelled rings on her fingers, the 
 laces and bright ribbons on her dress, the ostrich-feathers on her hat, 
 filled him with wonder and delight. She appeared to him (though she 
 was in no wise extravagantly apparelled) like a figure out of the 
 " Arabian Nights," — like a heaven-sent realization of the dreams he 
 had dreamed during his long solitude and misery. In Vardoe he had 
 only seen women dressed in wadmal and coarse homespun ; and this 
 exquisite creature, with her sweet smile, her silken hair, and her soft 
 hands, seemed scarcely to belong to the same species. If he could only 
 have walked with her through the palm-groves with which his fancy 
 surrounded the city, his cup of happiness would have been full. The 
 gorgeous roses she brought him grew, for aught he knew, on palm- 
 
284 LIFE FOR LIFE. 
 
 trees ; and he pictured to himself the magnificence of these enchanted 
 groves, redolent with perfume and ablaze with color. 
 
 The summer following their arrival in New York became fateful 
 in the lives of the two brothers. "While the heat, which was often 
 intense, brought a daily increase of strength to Paul, it tortured Narve 
 like purgatorial flames. While Paul, assisted by Ida, was taking ten- 
 tative steps across the floor (for the two had entered into a friendly 
 conspiracy to surprise Narve), the elder brother sat at his desk, mop- 
 ping the perspiration which dripped in a steady shower from his brow, 
 and feeling dizzy and undone, as if he were wilted and withered in his 
 innermost being. Several times he was on the point of fainting, and 
 only saved himself by grabbing a piece of ice from the water-cooler 
 and pressing it against his temples. It appeared to him that the tor- 
 ture was less un^idurable when he moved than when he sat still ; and 
 on a Sunday afternoon in July he found himself strolling through 
 Central Park and pausing idly before the open-air cages of the 
 menagerie. His glance fell upon a polar bear who was swaying from 
 one side to another in a demented fashion, and pawing incessantly the 
 floor of his cage, in which his claws had worn deep grooves. The tears 
 blinded Narve's eyes, as he saw his forlorn compatriot, his comrade in 
 misery. 
 
 " You and I are in the same box, old chap," he said, stretching his 
 hand toward the caged beast. " You have gone mad, and, unless God 
 sends help, I shall soon follow suit." 
 
 This fancy took sudden root in his mind and rose up like a 
 threatening spectre. 
 
 " I shall go mad, I shall go mad," he murmured, as he walked ; 
 and he saw himself struggling in insane fury with a dozen men who 
 were trying to bind him. He doubled his speed, as if to outrun the 
 frightful thought. But the goblin had come to stay : it sat down on 
 his shoulder and whispered shuddering things in his ear. Breathlessly 
 Narve hurried along, heedless of the blazing sun ; people stopped and 
 stared at him, some imagining that he was running from the police, 
 others that he had gone mad. Dizzy, exhausted, and drenched with 
 perspiration, he reached the door of his boarding-house. The horror 
 was yet in his mind ; his blood was surging in his ears and beating 
 with hammer-blows in his temples. And yet the thought of Paul — 
 the dread lest his condition might shock his brother— enabled him to 
 gain control of his whirling fancies : he smoothed his hair awkwardly, 
 and strove to put his features into their accustomed folds. Then with 
 unsteady steps he stalked up the stairs, and opened the door. Mer- 
 ciful God ! He was mad indeed ! There stood Paul in the middle 
 
LIFE FOR LIFE. 285 
 
 of the room, beaming with happiness, and stretched out his arms to 
 him. Narve tottered forward; terror again seized him. 
 
 "Paul," he cried, despairingly, "Paul — my brother!" and fell 
 prostrate at his feet. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Narve's illness was long and dangerous. For a week he alternated 
 between a heavy stupor and the wildest delirium. He talked incessantly 
 about the polar bear in the Park, and imagined himself now walking 
 arm in arm with him on the Fifth Avenue, now travelling with him 
 back to his beloved North, now sharing his cage with him in the Park, 
 swaying from side to side and pawing his bed in the same frantic fashion. 
 When Ida Tulstrup came to offer her services, and brought a gorgeous 
 bouquet, Narve hurled her Jacqueminot roses against the wall. 
 
 " Take them away — the leprous things !" he shouted : " they smell 
 like a corpse ! But kelp — kelp — oh for a bouquet of sea-weed and kelp, 
 with the briny smell of the sea ! Give me big black-backs, — ^black backs 
 rising out of the water, — walrus and whale gambolling among the ice- 
 bergs ! See how they spout ! Hurrah ! We have got 'em ! My 
 harpoon-gun — where is it ? There is a fortune in it, old Thore Hering- 
 Luck said, — ten fortunes I Halloo ! That's a bouncer ! Give it to him ! 
 Fire ! Turn the swivel ! Fire, I say ! Good ! He got it that time ! 
 Next time he comes up we'll give him another ' how do ye do' that'll 
 be the end of him." 
 
 In this strain he would rave by the hour. All the suppressed 
 hopes and longings which, out of loyalty to his brother, he had im- 
 prisoned in his bosom, now that the bars had been removed, broke 
 loose and rioted. If Paul, as he sat at the bedside, had been less self- 
 absorbed and more lovingly observant, he might have read a heart- 
 rending story in these wild fancies and exclamations. But the heaviest 
 penalty of Paul's life-long invalidism was, perhaps, a certain inability 
 to return love for love and care for care, — a certain obtuseness in regard 
 to the feelings of others. He had never in his life had a single respon- 
 sibility of his own, — never known or recognized any onerous duty, — 
 never been conscious of an energetic impulse or a generous desire. It 
 is easy to blame him for this ; but a low vitality, perpetual helplessness, 
 and the habit of accepting, but never giving, — all induced by his 
 disease, — had formed Paul's character as it was, and he was now too 
 old to make a radical change in it. Thus it came to pass that Narve's 
 illness made no deep impression upon him. He regarded it as a mis- 
 fortune, but never dreamed of attributing to himself any responsibility 
 for it. It seemed to him, at times, almost a blessing in disguise, as it 
 
286 -^^^^ FOR LIFE. 
 
 brought him into more frequent contact with Ida. During his brother's 
 convalescence he was often invited to ride on the Avenue and through 
 the Park in the Tulstrup carriage, and, although he looked in vain for 
 the palm-groves, he found wonders enough to compensate him for their 
 loss. He soon began cautiously to explore the city on foot, and took a 
 child-like pleasure in everything he saw. Particularly the ladies and 
 the shop- windows were a never-failing source of delight to him. Before 
 long a certain pretence of fashion became visible in his attire; and 
 in an astonishingly short time he acquired the gait and manner of the 
 native dandy. Narve watched this metamorphosis with the melancholy 
 amusement with which a father watches the harmless follies of his child. 
 The question of Paul's future weighed heavily upon him, now that he 
 had discovered that Jiis own strength had its limit. He offered to give 
 him lessons in writing, arithmetic, and book-keeping (reading had so far 
 been Paul's only accomplishment), but was always met with the cheerful 
 rejoinder that there was no particular hurry. 
 
 The winter was half gone before Narve was able to resume his 
 position in the office. But even then he was so weak that he had to 
 limit himself, at first, to a few hours' work. By his accurate knowledge 
 of the conditions in the extreme North, and by his unerring interpreta- 
 tion of every commercial symptom, he had been of incalculable service 
 to Mr. Tulstrup and enabled him largely to increase his fortune. The 
 merchant was therefore disposed to be very liberal in his dealings with 
 him ; but Narve's uncompromising self-respect scented beforehand 
 every plan for making him a beneficiary, and Mr. Tulstrup's benevo- 
 lence met with many discouraging rebuffs. Paul, who was informed 
 by Ida of his brother's " ungracious behavior," was quite at a loss to 
 understand him. But he understood him still less after having en- 
 deavored to call him to account. 
 
 The winter was unusually cold, with two months of alternating 
 snow and frost, and Narve, revelling in the sharp northeasters, felt 
 his health and spirits reviving. The goblin which dwelt in the secret 
 chamber of his soul held its peace, and but rarely showed its hideous 
 countenance. But with the first warm days of spring the ferment of 
 his blood returned. He began again to be haunted by the thought of 
 the polar bear, and, much as he dreaded it, felt irresistibly driven to 
 pay it a visit. It was a warm Sunday in May that he summoned 
 courage for this resolution. He purposely kept his glance averted 
 until he was right before the cage. Then with a jerk he turned his 
 head. The cage was empty. Narve started back with a half-sup- 
 pressed exclamation. He felt like a man who, calling upon his friend, 
 finds crape on the bell-handle. A mysterious tie seemed to have bound 
 
LIFE FOR LIFE. 287 
 
 him to this animal, and a half-superstitious feeling that the same fate 
 would overtake both. He scarcely needed to ask the keeper, who came 
 along presently with a trough full of meat, what had become of the 
 bear. He knew that he was dead. 
 
 On his homeward way the Norseman felt as if Death had locked 
 his arm in his and were walking at his side. He shuddered again and 
 again at the blood-curdling fancies which rose from the depth of his 
 soul and with pale and grinning faces pursued him. His goblin was 
 again awake and had summoned a host of relatives to keep it company. 
 Narve knew that these wild phantoms were but symptoms of disease j 
 and he knew, too, that the disorder of his brain was due to his unfitness 
 to cope with the climate. If he could but leave his brother, the remedy 
 would be simple enough. But Paul was, even with his health regained, 
 ignorant and helpless, and utterly unequipped to grapple with the 
 perplexities of life. There was but one way out of the dilemma ; and 
 that was to accept a proposition, previously made by Mr. Tulstrup, to 
 become his agent and the head of a branch of his business which he 
 intended to establish in London. The moist and even climate of the 
 British Isles, with no extremes of heat and cold, would preserve the 
 lives of both brothers, and absolve the one from the necessity of sacri- 
 ficing himself for the other. With this resolution fixed in his mind, 
 Narve returned home, and found his brother stretched out upon the 
 sofa, reading a novel. 
 
 " Paul," he said, with a quiver in his voice, " this climate is death 
 to me." 
 
 Paul looked up from his book and knocked the ashes from his 
 cigarette with his little finger. " It is life to me," he replied, and went 
 on reading. 
 
 ISTarve began to pace the floor with long strides. Beads of perspira- 
 tion trickled down over his large, pale face and hung in his tawny 
 beard. After a few minutes he stopped before the sofa where Paul lay. 
 " "What would you do, Paul," he asked, solemnly, " if I were dead ?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear brother," rejoined Paul, impatiently (for his novel was 
 absorbingly interesting), " what is the good of talking of such absurd 
 things ? "When you are dead, it will be time enough to discuss that." 
 
 " I am not joking, Paul. I am in deadly earnest." 
 
 " "Well, that is just your failing, brother. You are always torment- 
 ing yourself with some such unpleasant topic." 
 
 " I beg of you, do not joke. I feel death in my heart ; and I am 
 much troubled to think what is to become of you. I do not like to 
 remind you that once I saved your life. Now it is your turn to save 
 
288 LIFE FOR LIFE. 
 
 Paul dropped his novel and rose into a kalf-sittiag posture. A 
 sudden pallor overspread his countenance : his lips trembled. 
 
 " You — ^7ou — want to take me back — to the North Pole !" he cried, 
 with sudden terror. 
 
 " No, not to the Pole, child," answered Narve, soothingly. " Mr. 
 Tulstrup has offered me a place in England, where both you and I can 
 live without danger to health. I want you to come with me." 
 
 Paul listened intently, with fear and suspicion depicted in his 
 features. 
 
 " Ah, that is a foxy plan of yours," he exclaimed, jumping up and 
 darting across the floor : " don't you suppose I know how you are 
 pining for your delightful whale-hunts and eider-ducks and fish-smell? 
 If you get me so far, you will soon get me back into the very grip of 
 Death, from which, as you say, you saved me. But I am not such a 
 child as you think. I have friends here, and 1 have found health and 
 life here, and I am not going away to accommodate anybody." 
 
 He had worked himself up into such a passion that he could not 
 keep the tears back ; and, being ashamed of his weakness, he sauntered 
 into the sleeping-room, flung himself on his bed, and buried his face 
 in the pillows. Narve, cut to the quick by his suspicion, stood long 
 listening to his half-choked sobs. All the tenderness which he had felt 
 for him from his earliest years welled up from the depth of his heart ; 
 and, full of repentance for the grief he had caused him, he sat down 
 on the bed, and patiently endured the pettish rebuffs with which his 
 caresses and overtures for peace were received. He reproached himself 
 for having so bluntly stated his proposition, instead of gradually pre- 
 paring his brother for it ; and he resolved in future to use more dis- 
 cretion. But his recollection of his brother's tears and terror made 
 him reluctant to return to the subject again. It seemed a cowardly 
 thing for him as the stronger (he could never quite realize the thought 
 that he was now the weaker) to inflict pain upon one who, in his father's 
 dying hour, had been commended to his care. And so the days went 
 by, summer advanced, and the opportune moment for reopening the 
 subject never came. The Tulstrups went to the country earlier than 
 usual, and left Paul in desolation. And it required no great acuteness, 
 on Narve's part, to discover that Miss Ida constituted to him the most 
 salubrious element in the American climate. This observation made 
 it seem doubly cruel to insist upon the sacrifice. 
 
 It was about the middle of June. The heat had come with a rush 
 and scattered fashionable New York toward all the points of the com- 
 pass. That part which remained on Manhattan Island was decidedly 
 uncomfortable. Only a few tropical characters luxuriated in the burn- 
 
THE SORROW OP THE SEA. 289 
 
 ing sun. Paul Tangen, airily and daintily clad, was sauntering down 
 Broadway, smoking a cigarette. He was in good spirits, because he had 
 recently discovered a new novelist who pleased him and a new brand of 
 cigarettes which did not give him a headache. In that concentrated bit 
 of New York between Union and Madison Squares there were crowds 
 of people and traffic, as usual, in spite of the heat. Paul felt exhil- 
 arated at the sight of it, and allowed himself to be carried along by 
 the current. He found himself presently standing in a dense throng 
 of people before a druggist's window, and he obeyed the general im- 
 pulse in craning his neck to see what was going on inside. 
 
 " What is it ?" he asked his neighbor in the crowd. 
 
 " Nothing but a sunstroke," was the reply. 
 
 " A sunstroke !" 
 
 Paul began to feel vaguely uneasy, and elbowed his way to the 
 front. Then, as some one moved aside, he caught a glimpse of a large 
 blonde head, with closed eyes, upon the marble floor. With a cry he 
 sprang forward and flung himself upon his brother's breast. 
 
 " Narve, my brother ! — oh, my brother !" he wailed, piteously. 
 
 Narve half opened his eyes. There was a strange, remote look in 
 them, then a fleeting gleam as of joy. 
 
 "I took care of — ^the little one — father," he murmured, in Nor- 
 wegian, — " took — care — of — the little one." 
 
 A convulsive shiver shook his great frame. The doctor who had 
 come with the ambulance stooped and listened to his heart-beat. 
 
 " Nothing to be done," he said : " he is dead." 
 
 Hjaknar H. Boyeaen. 
 
 THE SORROW OF THE SEA. 
 
 I WALK by the sea and muse 
 On the words I have often read : 
 " The former things shall have passed away 
 When the sea gives up her dead." 
 
 And I think since Time was young 
 
 That the voice of the sea in woe 
 Has said to the earth, " You claim my dead, 
 
 But I cannot let them go." 
 
 William H. Hayne. 
 
290 SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 
 
 PRIZE ESSAY No. 8. 
 SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 
 
 THE gray dawn of a winter morning is stealing over the Yale 
 Campus. The great piles of buildings that comprise the college 
 dormitories loom up in the indistinct light like monsters of olden time. 
 The giant elms wave their branches as if seeking to beckon back the 
 summer that is past and gone. The ground is white with the first snow 
 of the season, and paths are being shovelled in every direction over the 
 Campus by the janitors and their assistants. Suddenly from the door- 
 way of one of the dormitories a young man emerges. He is heavily 
 booted, and is clad in a fashionable cape coat and English hunting-cap, 
 with huge fur gloves. He pauses a moment, and then walks rapidly 
 away across the Campus. He is followed soon after by another student, 
 then a third, and in an incredibly short space of time several hundred 
 young men, some of whom are completing their half-finished toilets, are 
 hurrying through the snow in a dozen different directions. 
 
 The boys are going to their eating-clubs to get breakfast. As there 
 is no " Memorial Hall" or college dining-room at Yale, the " club 
 system" is maintained by most of the students, rather from necessity 
 than from choice. In each club are some ten or a dozen boon com- 
 panions, who dwell together in more or less peace and harmony. They 
 are almost literally members of one family. They eat together thrice 
 every day. They very often room in the same entry in college. They 
 spend much of the time in one another's rooms during the day, and 
 frequent the same places of amusement. Few men form closer friend- 
 ships than those which exist between the members of the average eating- 
 club. 
 
 The student, upon reaching his "joint," as the club is called, hur- 
 riedly bolts a few mouthfuls of breakfast and swallows a cup of coffee, 
 in the mean time talking over with his table-companions the latest 
 scandal, the prospects of the nine or crew, or the current society gossip. 
 Thus the moments speed by ; and finally, with half-appeased appetite 
 (for the Yale man never spends over ten minutes at breakfast), he starts 
 for chapel. In this praiseworthy undertaking he is joined by several 
 hundred other men, some of whom are running in order to reach 
 chapel before the beginning of the services, a failure to accomplish this 
 purpose being attended by "two niarks," which the ever-watchftil 
 " monitor" inscribes against the name of the delinquent. 
 
SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 291 
 
 The daily services are conducted by the President, who reads a 
 selection from the Scriptures, followed by prayer. There is also sing- 
 ing by the college choir, which is made up of from twenty to thirty 
 voices, and, as a rule, embraces some fine musical talent. 
 
 On Sundays the chapel is always crowded. The students occupy 
 the body of the house, and the galleries are filled by the members 
 of the faculty and their families. Here and there may be seen the 
 gayly-attired form of some fashionable beauty, who numbers among 
 her admirers a score or more of the boys below. 
 
 At the close of the daily morning service, which is held at. ten 
 minutes past eight o'clock, the students gather in the recitation-rooms, 
 where they "rush" or "flunk," according as they have studied the 
 night before or been " out on a lark." 
 
 The various methods of study pursued by the students are amusing 
 enough. Some men pore over their books far into the night and idle 
 away the major portion of the day. Others spend their evenings at the 
 theatre, at their society hall, or in calling on their young lady acquaint- 
 ances, rising at six o'clock in the morning to study an hour before 
 breakfast. This, the doctors say, produces dyspepsia and other bad 
 results ; but the habit once contracted is hard to break. 
 
 There are men in every college, of whom Yale has its full number, 
 denominated in student slang as "birds." The "birds" are firm be- 
 lievers in the old Epicurean theory that everything in life is subservient 
 to pleasure. Most of them are the sons of wealthy men, and are "jolly 
 good fellows" as the world goes. They rarely look into a text-book if 
 by any possibility they can shirk that duty, but by " tutoring" and 
 various other devices they manage to maintain a rank sufiiciently high 
 to prevent being dropped into a lower class. They occupy the front 
 seats at theatrical performances, and smile sweetly upon such short- 
 skirted damsels of the stage as they can persuade to flirt with them. 
 They are conspicuous at all places of amusement, and are much given 
 to spending an hour or two of an evening at Traeger's, or Moriarty's, 
 two famous resorts where Yale men are wont to congregate to discuss a 
 glass of beer and while away the long winter evenings with song and 
 mirth. After an evening out, the " bird" is apt to reach his room in 
 an hilarious condition. Yet, with all his faults, — and he has many, — 
 he is everybody's friend. He knows and is on good terms with every 
 man in college ; his creditors are willing to trust him from one year's 
 end to another ; and it is said that even the members of the faculty 
 reserve a tiny nook in a warm corner of their hearts for the erring but 
 good-natured member of their flock. 
 
 The dormitory life of a student at Yale plays an important part in 
 
292 SOCIAL LIFE AT TALE. 
 
 his college course, and the habits he there contracts from association 
 "with his companions often directly affect his future life. Until last 
 year the number of dormitories was entirely inadequate to supply the 
 demands made by the constantly increasing body of students. A large 
 proportion of the Freshmen were obliged to room outside the Campus, 
 and many Sophomores failed to obtain rooms in the university build- 
 ings. Most of the members of the present Senior class, however, have 
 enjoyed three years of dormitory life. 
 
 A student's room is his home, and in it he leads the life of a Bohe- 
 mian. It is there that he prepares his lessons, attends to his corre- 
 spondence, gives his little "spreads," and last, but not least, sleeps. 
 The majority of these apartments are furnished comfortably, and many 
 of them elegantly. The average student has a decided penchant for 
 pictures, and no room is considered complete in its appointments unless 
 a dozen or more paintings and engravings, supplemented by innumer- 
 able photographs of athletes and actresses, grace its walls. The man- 
 tels are crowded with articles of bric-^-brac, while dance-programmes 
 and German favors hang from the chandeliers. Many of the boys 
 have pianos in their rooms, and the banjo and vioKn are favorite instru- 
 ments. 
 
 Let us pay a short visit to one of these " bachelors' halls." The 
 hour is midnight. The lessons for the following day have been learned. 
 A game of cards has been in progress, and the participants are sitting 
 about the room in nigligi attire. The host brings out several bottles 
 of wine from the mysterious recesses of a dark closet, glasses are filled, 
 and the boys give a reproduction of the ancient Greek symposium, 
 during the course of which toasts are drunk to the healths of the 
 President, members of the faculty, and all the friends, male and female, 
 of those present. A song is sung, and the " merry laugh goes round" 
 as some particularly witty anecdote is related. The second verse of 
 
 Landlord, fill the flowing bowl 
 Till it doth run over, 
 
 has just been reached, when a loud knock at the door, followed by the 
 abrupt entrance of a tutor, terminates the evening's festivities and re- 
 sults in the immediate retirement of the host and his guests to their 
 bed-chambers, although but a few moments before the company had 
 been unanimous in its expression of the sentiment 
 
 We won't go home till morning. 
 
 Class-feeling at Yale is very strong, — much stronger than at Har- 
 
SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 293 
 
 vard or other seats of learning. From the time a Freshman enters 
 college to the day of his graduation, he never tires of inscribing his 
 class numerals on recitation-benches, the doors of his apartments, or 
 other places where they would be conspicuous. Loyalty to one's class 
 is most extravagantly displayed among the Sophomores and Freshmen, 
 and becomes less noticeable, although perhaps just as strong, toward 
 the end of the four years' course. In any matter in which the in- 
 terests, athletic or otherwise, of the whole university are involved, all 
 class-feeling disappears, and the entire student-community becomes a 
 unit in the support of its Alma Mater. A Yale man is a Yale man 
 the country over, and, be he rich or poor, he is welcomed by any Yale 
 alumnus whom he may meet, with a cordiality that admits of no re- 
 straint, and a heartiness that quickly sweeps away all barriers. 
 
 The man who assists in hazing you in Freshman year, and who 
 compels you to stand on a street-corner and scan Greek verse for the edi- 
 fication of the by-standers, is no less your friend because he enjoys your 
 discomfiture while passing through the ordeal which he himself was 
 obliged to undergo the year before. Although hazing, in its offensive 
 signification, is practically dead and buried at Yale, a few of the old- 
 time customs are still tenderly cherished by the Sophomores. Despite 
 the assertions of the daily press, there are no such outrages perpetrated 
 as were of frequent occurrence in the college days of our fathers and 
 grandfathers. The " freshest" Freshmen are not treated to any greater 
 indignity than being compelled to drink hot beer through a straw or 
 to sip milk from a nursing-bottle. College sentiment no longer sanc- 
 tions the barbarous treatment formerly inflicted on new-comers to Yale, 
 and all objectionable forms of hazing are frowned upon by the students 
 and the faculty alike. 
 
 A true democratic spirit prevails among the undergraduates. No 
 man is looked down upon because he is poor or of humble birth. Many 
 a student who has " worked his way through" has attained greater pop- 
 ularity than his wealthier classmates. The universally popular men at 
 Yale are those who do not affiliate too closely with any one set of 
 fellows, and who have a knack of making their influence felt without 
 exhibiting a domineering spirit. 
 
 Ko men in college are more esteemed and respected than the Yale 
 athletes. And this is only just. To acquire prominence in any branch 
 of athletics requires an amount of hard work and stern self-denial 
 which can hardly be appreciated by one who has not " been through 
 the mill." The training is long and rigorous, and involves an almost 
 complete abandonment of that personal comfort so dear to every col- 
 legian. Yale is celebrated for the uniform excellence of her crew, her 
 
294 SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 
 
 ball nine, and her foofr-ball eleven, but her pre-eminence has been 
 gained only by unflagging perseverance and honest endeavor. It is 
 proper to say that skill in any athletic sport is rarely attained at the 
 expense of intellectual acquirements, despite the popular idea to the 
 contrary. In confirmation of this statement it may be remarked that 
 last season, when Yale won the " triple crown," the captains of the 
 crew, nine, and eleven were competitors for the De Forest prize, the 
 highest literary honor that can be secured in the university course. 
 
 It is the opinion of most of the members of the faculty that the 
 training undergone by an athlete incites him to greater intellectual 
 efforts than he would otherwise put forth. 
 
 Much has been said for and against the secret society system at 
 Yale, and it is doubtful if anything new can be advanced at this time. 
 At all the smaller colleges a man rushes headlong into a society almost 
 as soon as he enters his Alma Mater. He is eagerly sought for on all 
 sides, and, if at all prominent, practically has his pick of the Greek- 
 letter fraternities. He also maintains his connection with his society 
 tihiroughout his whole college course. Not so at Yale. Each class has 
 its separate societies, and the upper-classmen have no active connection 
 with the fraternities to which they belonged in Freshman or Sophomore 
 years. In a social way the societies are of great advantage to a man 
 while in college, and are often a means of assisting him materially after 
 he has graduated. The Senior societies are productive of much rivalry 
 among the members of lower classes in athletic contests and in a friendly 
 strife for literary honors. That they have been the means of causing 
 many a heart-ache and considerable hard feeling is true, but that the 
 good they have accomplished more than counterbalances the evils that 
 have arisen from their existence is also true. 
 
 Yale's most celebrated Senior societies are "Skull and Bones," 
 " Scroll and Key," and " Wolf's Head." To be elected a member of 
 " Skull and Bones" is considered one of the greatest honors that can 
 fall to a Yale man. To secure such an election a man must achieve 
 celebrity in one direction or another. Wealth or popularity is of minor 
 importance. The society is limited to fifteen members. Among them 
 are generally to be found the captains of the university crew, the base- 
 ball and foot-ball teams, and also prominent track athletes. Among 
 others generally chosen are the valedictorian of the Senior class, one 
 or more members of the board of editors of the Yah IMerary Magazine, 
 and one or more officers of the various athletic organizations. The 
 society has been in existence fifty-five years, and numbers among its 
 past members some of the most noted men who have graduated from 
 Yale. Its meetings are held in a moss-covered sandstone building 
 
SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 295 
 
 situated not far from the Campus, and are conducted with the most 
 profound secrecy. No " Bones" man has ever been induced to disclose 
 any of the doings of the society, and genuine offence is taken if it be 
 referred to in his presence. 
 
 Next in importance comes the "Scroll and Key" society. Its 
 members are all men prominent' in some direction, but, as a rule, they 
 are less celebrated than the " Bones" men. Popularity and wealth are 
 important considerations in the choice of many of the " Keys" men, 
 and the honor of membership is almost as eagerly sought as in "Bones." 
 
 The society yclept " "Wolf's Head" has sprung into existence within 
 a few years, and has grown to a good deal of importance and popularity. 
 It has, like its sister organizations, a beautiful building, the interior of 
 which is said to be handsomely furnished. 
 
 The Junior societies, " Delta Kappa Epsilon" and " Psi Upsilon," 
 are ancient and honorable organizations which have been celebrated in 
 story and in song. Prominence and popularity are the important 
 factors in the choice of members. Up to the year 1877, both societies 
 were accustomed to give Thanksgiving plays in Alumni Hall. These 
 performances were very attractive to old graduates and town-people, 
 but the college boys fell into the habit of doing and saying such objec- 
 tionable things on these occasions that the faculty finally prohibited 
 further public performances ; and so it has come to pass that the yearly 
 exhibitions are now witnessed only by the members of the society under 
 whose auspices they are held. The exhibitions take the form of min- 
 strel shows and burlesques on the plays of Shakespeare or some more 
 modern author. The minstrel shows frequently include imitations of 
 the eccentricities of the various professors, and are invariably received 
 with great gusto. Costumers from New York are employed, and 
 much time is spent in rehearsing for the presentations. Similar plays 
 are given in May on the occasion of the initiation of the Sophomore 
 members. 
 
 In addition to the fraternities mentioned above, there are several 
 Sophomore and Freshman societies and a large number of Sheffield. 
 Scientific School societies ; but they are less important than those that 
 have been named. 
 
 The University Club is a purely social organization, and was estab- 
 lished some years since for the purpose of affording a freer intercourse 
 than the Seniors and Juniors had hitherto enjoyed. Its membership is 
 confined to the two upper classes in the Academic department, to Shef- 
 field Seniors, and to graduates. It is a sort of head-quarters for Yale 
 men in and out of New Haven, and is among the first of the places 
 visited by alumni when they come to town. 
 
296 SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 
 
 Just across the street from the University Chib house is the " fence," 
 the most popular and widely known institution that ever existed at 
 Yale. Dear alike to the alumnus and to the undergraduate, it occupies 
 a place in the heart of every Yale man second only to that of the uni- 
 versity itself. The " fence" proper extends along Chapel Street, the 
 priQcipal thoroughfare of the city, to College Street, bordering on the 
 latter as far as Lawrence Hall. The " fence" is merely a three-railed 
 wooden structure, the rails being round and about four inches in diam- 
 eter. The top rail affords a convenient seat for the student, and the 
 middle rail offers a support for his feet. Here on pleasant evenings 
 several hundred collegians are wont to assemble, the members of each 
 class occupying a certain portion of the fence reserved for it by one of 
 the unwritten laws of the university. Freshmen are not allowed to 
 " sit on the fence" until their ball nine has defeated the Harvard Fresh- 
 men. So eagerly is this privilege coveted that but twice in eighteen 
 years have the Yale Freshmen failed to defeat their opponents. Dur- 
 ing the spring term the glee-club sings several evenings each week at 
 the fence, and the students turn out en masse to hear the music. Col- 
 lege songs are also sung there almost every evening by coteries of the 
 musically inclined. Almost every event of importance is first discussed 
 at the fence, and many a scheme has had its birth in this sacred quarter 
 of the Campus. The establishment of the Yah IMerary Magazine, 
 the oldest college periodical in America, was decided upon by a few 
 Yale men while sitting on the fence a half-century ago. 
 
 The fence is the scene of the celebration of all great athletic vic- 
 tories. Yale has perhaps defeated Harvard or Princeton in base-ball 
 or has won the boat-race at New London. As a consequence, pande- 
 monium reigns supreme at the fence. Bonfires are kindled, camion 
 crackers are exploded, and tin horns blown. Amid all the confiision, 
 the sharp " 'rah — 'rah — 'rah !" of the students rises and floats far 
 away on the night air. 
 
 The fence is the point toward which the graduate first turns his 
 steps when he revisits his Alma Mater. Years of toil in the busy 
 world, amid the care and strife of business life, have failed to obliter- 
 ate from his mind the tender memories that cling about the time- 
 honored, hallowed spot known simply as " the fence." 
 
 New Haven society, properly speaking, is exclusive. This will be 
 found to be the case in almost every college town where there is any 
 " society" at all. If a man enters Yale provided with proper letters 
 of introduction, he finds little difficulty in obtaining an mtr6e into the 
 best of the many old families residing in New Haven. Introductions 
 at parties, church fairs, and other social entertainments are rather rarely 
 
SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 297 
 
 followed by invitations to call, unless a fiirther acquaintance with the 
 student seems to justify this extension of hospitality. The average 
 student is thought of as a sort of happy-go-lucky fellow, bent on 
 having a good time and on spending the allowance vouchsafed him by 
 his "governor," but caring not overmuch during his stay in New 
 Haven for the refining influences of the home circle. This idea, it is 
 hardly necessary to say, is an incorrect one. By far the greater portion 
 of the students are thoughtfiil, earnest young men, and they respect 
 the confidence reposed in them by the families whose friendship they 
 have sought. It may be remarked here that a large number of col- 
 legians do avail themselves of social privileges oifered, and become 
 well known in New Haven society before they graduate. 
 
 Many men widen their circle of acquaintances through their con- 
 nection with the various churches in the city ; others, by their brilliant 
 personality and evident intrinsic worth ; still others, through the kindly 
 offices of post-graduate relatives or friends. A sprinkling of Yale men 
 is generally observable at almost any private entertainment, and the 
 quota of collegians at a social affair conducted on a large scale is always 
 conspicuous. A few men in each class enjoy pleasant social relations 
 with the families of the members of the faculty. Among the most 
 delightful occasions of the whole college year are the receptions given 
 by the President to the Freshman and Senior classes. The former 
 occurs in the fall, and the latter in the spring, a short time previous to 
 graduation. Although the majority of the professors may not invite 
 the students to their homes, they take a genuine interest in their wel- 
 fare, and are slow to curtail their liberties in any manner. The lack 
 of constraint between pupils and instructors is a prominent feature of 
 Yale life. 
 
 The meetings of the Young Men's Christian Association and the 
 class prayer-meetings are the means of bringing many men together 
 in one common pursuit, and warm friendships are often formed through 
 these mediums. The glee-clubs and other musical organizations, as 
 well as the various literary and debating societies, accomplish the same 
 result. 
 
 It is a rather curious fact that marriages between New Haven girls 
 and college men are of rare occurrence. Why this is so is hard to 
 explain. It cannot be that the young ladies of the Elm City are not 
 pretty, for they have a wide reputation for good looks, and their 
 beauty is by no means skin deep. Many of them are unusually ac- 
 complished, are entertaining conversationalists, and cut a brilliant 
 figure in society. On the other hand, the Yale men are as handsome, 
 wear as good clothes, and possess as much intellectual ability as do 
 Vol. XL.— 20 
 
298 SOCIAL LIFE AT YALE. 
 
 other mortals outside the pale of college life. Numerous congenial 
 friendships exist between college men and the girls of this city, but few 
 engagements result. 
 
 That class of young ladies known among the students as " college 
 widows," and commonly supposed to have the acquaintance of several 
 generations of collegians, is not larger in New Haven than elsewhere. 
 Let a girl once get such a reputation, however, whether justly or un- 
 justly acquired, she can bid good-by to all hopes of wedding a college 
 man. A fellow may enjoy her company ; he may call on her ; he may 
 pay her sufficient attention to ordinarily justify a popular suspicion of 
 an engagement ; but he rarely or never marries her. 
 
 The most important society event of the year is the Junior Prom- 
 enade, which occurs in the middle of the winter term. No other uni- 
 versity or college has anything approaching it in a social way. It is held 
 under the auspices of the Juniors, but is attended by the members of 
 every class and by many of the alumni. All portions of the country 
 are represented at this great mid- winter celebration, many of the ladies 
 coming over a thousand miles to participate in the festivities of the 
 occasion. The Promenade of late years has been held in Carll's Opera- 
 House, just opposite the college Campus. The decorations are invariably 
 magnificent. Silk and satin banners, the trophies won by Yale's athletic 
 organizations in many a hard-fought battle, adorn the walLs and balconies. 
 Pendent from the proscenium arch hangs the university shell, decked 
 with a profusion of floral emblems. Gazing upon the long, narrow 
 boat that has carried his crew to victory, the Yale man may be pardoned 
 for the feeling of pride that rises in his breast as he thinks of the con- 
 quests achieved by his university on the blue waters of the Thames at 
 New London. The athletes are much sought after at the Promenade, 
 and it is for them that the ladies reserve their brightest smiles and best 
 dances. 
 
 During " Promenade week" the three upper classes hold germans, 
 which are attended by the visitors from abroad. The favors distributed 
 on these occasions are frequently of considerable value, and are carefully 
 preserved as cherished mementos. On the evening before the Prome- 
 nade, the 'Varsity Glee-Club gives its annual concert. The audience 
 is generally limited only by the capacity of the house. The ladies 
 are attired in their most beautiful toilets, and all the gentlemen wear 
 evening dress. 
 
 It is then that the Freshmen attempt to display their class numerals 
 in such a manner that " he who runs may read." Sometimes this dis- 
 play takes the form of a balloon, from which hang the mystic figures. 
 "On other occasions a large banner is, in some mysterious manner, 
 
RECONCILED. 299 
 
 let down from the flies into the full view of the spectators. The 
 Sophomores are always on the alert for these manifestations, and will 
 sacrifice clothing and even expose themselves to considerable personal 
 danger to secure the hated emblem defiantly flung in their faces by the 
 " Freshies." 
 
 The Senior Promenade is held every year during Commencement 
 week by the members of the graduating class. It is generally given in 
 Alumni Hall, an historic old building situated in one corner of the 
 Campus. Amid the music and the flowers, the winning smiles and the 
 beautifiil faces, a feeling of sadness creeps upon the Senior as he looks 
 about upon the old, familiar walls and realizes that he must soon leave 
 behind him the scenes that long association has rendered dear, and go 
 forth into the world to fight life's battles single-handed and alone. 
 
 He has won his sheep-skin; he has, perchance, gained signal honors 
 in his university course ; and now he stands on the threshold of the 
 door toward which he has long directed his steps, yet which, reached, 
 be hesitates to cross. Life for him has only just begun. Upon the 
 advantage he has taken of the opportunities afforded him depends in a 
 large measure the success or failure of his future career. 
 
 Arthur Edmands Jenks {Class of '89). 
 
 RECONCILED. 
 
 IN no more fitting place could we have met, 
 At no more fitting time, — a wailing night, — 
 We who for years have shunned each other's sight. 
 Who strove to bury Love beyond Eegret, 
 Who begged of God the power to forget 
 
 Each other's eyes, voice, lips ; who did so blight 
 And bruise the flower of Love with all Pride's might. 
 
 Just the dead body of our friend — warm yet — 
 Divides us. . . . We could feel each other's breath 
 
 Should one lean low to scan the patient face 
 Of her who prayed so hard before her death 
 
 For us to be at peace. . . . See, Love ! I place 
 
 My hand near yours. . . . You clasp and hold mine fast ; 
 
 Such tears as wet her dead face drown our past. 
 
 Kate Vannah. 
 
300 THE KEELT MOTOR SECRET. 
 
 THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 
 EX VrVO OMNIA. 
 
 (Compiled.) 
 
 We stand before the dawning of a new day in science and humanity, — a new 
 discovery, surpassing any that has been hitherto made; which promises to afford us a 
 hey to some of the most recondite secrets of nature, and to open vp to our view a new 
 world. — De. Hufeiand. 
 
 THE error of our century in questions of research seems to have been 
 in the persistent investigation of the phenomena of matter (or 
 material organization) as the sole province of physics, regarding psy- 
 chical research as lying outside. The term physics is derived from a 
 Greek word signifying "nature." Nature does not limit herself to 
 matter and mechanism. The phenomena of spirit are as much a part 
 of Nature as are those of matter. The psychological theories of our 
 physicists display a decided leaning toward materialism, disregardiag 
 the manifestations of the vital principle, — the vis matrix, — and refiising 
 to investigate beyond the limits which they have imposed upon them- 
 selves, and which, if accepted by all, would take us back to the belief 
 of the pagans, as echoed by Voltaire : 
 
 Est-ce-lS. ce raion de I'Essence Suprfime 
 Que I'on nous peint si lumineux ? 
 Est-ce-l& cet Esprit surnvant ^ nous-mSme? 
 II naiit avec nos sens, crott, s'affoiblit comme eux : 
 H61as 1 il p6rira de mSme. 
 
 The Keely Motor secret teaches that the various phenomena of the 
 human constitution cannot be properly comprehended and explained 
 without observing the distinction between the physical and material 
 and the moral and spiritual nature of man. It demonstrates incon- 
 trovertibly the separate existence and independent activity of the soul 
 of man, and that the spirit governs the body instead of being governed 
 by the body. As Spenser has said, — 
 
 For of the soul the body form doth, take ; 
 For soul is form, and doth the body make. 
 
 Huxley tells us that science prospers exactly in proportion as it is 
 religious, and that religion flourishes in exact proportion to the scientific 
 depth and firmness of its basis. " Civilization, society, and morals," 
 says Figuier, "are like a string of beads, whose fastening is the belief 
 
THE EEELY MOTOR SECRET. 301 
 
 in the immortality of the soul. Break the fastening, and the beads are 
 scattered." 
 
 Now, as Nature nowhere exhibits to our visual perceptions a soul 
 acting without a body, and as we do not know in what manner the 
 spiritual faculties are united to the organization, psychology is com- 
 pelled to investigate the operations of the intellect as if they were per- 
 formed altogether independently of the body; whereas they are only 
 manifested, in the ordinary state of existence, through the intermediate 
 agency of the corporeal organs. 
 
 The accumulation of psychological facts and speculations which 
 characterize this age appears to have made Kttle or no permanent im- 
 pression upon the minds of our scientists and our philosophers. In 
 truth, all their psychological theories have in general displayed a de- 
 cided leaning toward materialism. Bishop Berkeley asks, "Have not 
 Fatalism and Sadducism gained ground during the general passion for 
 the corpuscularian and mechanical philosophy which hath prevailed ?" 
 Buffon, in writing of the sympathy, or relation, which exists through- 
 out the whole animal economy, said, " Let us, with the ancients, call 
 this singular correspondence of the different parts of the body a sym- 
 pathy, or, with the moderns, consider it as an unknown relation in the 
 action of the nervous system, we cannot too carefully observe its effects, 
 if we wish to perfect the theory of medicine." Colquhoun, comment- 
 ing upon Buffon's statement, says that far too little attention has been 
 paid to the spiritual nature of man, — to the effects of those immaterial 
 and invisible influences which, analogous to the chemical and electrical 
 agents, are the true springs of our organization, continually producing 
 changes internally which are externally perceived as the marked effects 
 of unseen causes, and which cannot be explained upon the principles 
 of any law of mechanism. 
 
 These unseen causes are now made clear to us by the truths which 
 Etheric Physics and Etheric Philosophy demonstrate and sustain. The 
 prophecy of Dr. Hufeland (made in connection with an account of 
 certain phenomena arising from the unchangeable laws of sympathetic 
 association) is soon to be fulfilled, and the door thrown open to " a new 
 world" of research. Professor Eiicker in his papers on " Molecular 
 Forces," Mr. Crookes in his lecture on " The Genesis of Elements," 
 Norman Lockyer in his book on " The Chemistry of the Sun," — all these 
 scientists have approached so near to this hitherto bolted, double-barred 
 and locked portal that the wonder is not so much that they have ap- 
 proached as that, drawing so near, they have not passed within. 
 
 Mr. Keely gives an explanation of the failure of scientists, inves- 
 tigating in the same field with himself, to attain like results, as follows* 
 
302 THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 
 
 "The system of arranging introductory etheric impulses by com- 
 pound chords, set by differential harmonies, is one that the world of 
 science has never recognized, simply because the struggles of physicists 
 combating with the solution of the conditions governing the fourth 
 order of matter have been in a direction thoroughly antagonistic to the 
 right one. It is true that luminosity has been induced by chemical 
 antagonism ; and, to my mind, this ought to have been a stepping-stone 
 toward a more perfect condition than was accepted by them ; but, in- 
 dependent of what might, or what might not, be an aid toward its 
 analysis, the bare truth remains that the conditions were isolated, 
 robbed of their most vital essentials, by not having the medium of 
 etheric vibration associated with them." . . . 
 
 Professor Eiicker, in his papers (read before the Royal Institution 
 of Great Britain this winter) explaining the attractive and repulsive 
 action of molecules, found himself obliged to apologize to scientists for 
 suggesting the possibility of an intelligence by which alone he could 
 explain certain phenomena unaccounted for by science. The "com- 
 pound secret" associated with Mr. Keely's discovery shows that no 
 apology is needed, — ^that the molecule is a perfect organism, which, like 
 the perfect, vibratory engine of Mr. Keely, may be worked backward 
 as well as forward. All the light that is needed for the full compre- 
 hension of its intelligent action will be found in Mr. Keely's work on 
 " Etheric Philosophy," — some thousands of pages of which are nearly 
 ready for the printer's hands. Without referring to these pages, we 
 find proof in ourselves that the action of molecules is an intelligent 
 action ; for we must admit the individuality of the molecules in our 
 organisms, in order to understand how it is that nourishment maintains 
 life. Try as we may to account for the action of aliment upon the sys- 
 tem, all is resolved into the fact that there must be some intelligent 
 force at work. Do we ourselves disunite and intermingle, by myriad 
 channels, in order to join and replace a molecule which awaits this aid ? 
 "We must either af&rm that it is so, that we place them where we think 
 they are needed, or that it is the molecules that find a place of them- 
 selves. We know that we are occupied in other ways which demand 
 all our thoughts. It must, therefore, be that these molecules find their 
 own place. Admit this, and we accord life and intelligence to them. 
 If we reason that it is our nerves which appropriate substances that they 
 need for the maintenance of their energy and their harmonious action, 
 we then concede to the nerves what we deny to the molecules. Or, if 
 we think it more natural to attribute this power to the viscera, — the 
 stomach, for example, — we only change the thesis. 
 
 It will be said that it is pantheism to assert that matter, under all the 
 
THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 3O3 
 
 forms which it presents, is only groups of aggregates of sympathetic 
 molecules, of a substance unalterable in its individualities ; a thinking, 
 acting substance. Let us not deny what we are unable to explain. 
 God is all that is, without everything that is being individually God. 
 Etheric force has been compared to the trunk of a tree, the roots of 
 Afhich rest in Infinity. The branches of the tree correspond to the 
 various modifications of this one force, — ^heat, light, electricity, and its 
 antagonistic force, magnetism. It is held in suspension in our atmos- 
 phere. It exists throughout the universe. Actual science not ad- 
 mitting a void, then all things must touch one another. To touch is to 
 be but one by contiguity, or there would be between one thing and 
 another something which might be termed space, or nothing. Now, as 
 nothing cannot exist, there must be something between "the atomic 
 triplets" which are, according to the Keely theory, found in each mole- 
 cule. This something in the molecule he affirms to be " the universal 
 fluid," or molecular ether. One thing touching another, all must there- 
 fore be all in all, and through all, by the sensitive combination of all 
 the molecules in the universe, as is demonstrated by electricity, gal- 
 vanism, the loadstone, etc. If we account for the intelligent action of 
 molecules by attributing it to what has been variously called " the uni- 
 versal fluid," "the electric fluid," "the galvanic fluid," "the nervous 
 fluid," " the magnetic fluid," it will only be substituting one name for 
 another ; it is still some part or other of the organization which discerns 
 and joins to itself a portion of one of the fluids referred to, or one of 
 these fluids which discerns and mingles with the material molecules ; it 
 is still the life of the part, the life of the molecule, life individualized in 
 all and through all. 
 
 Admitting, then, that there is a universal fluid, it must exist in and 
 through all things. If void does not exist, everything is full ; if all is 
 full, everything is in contact ; if everything is in contact, the whole 
 influences and is influenced, because all is life ; and life is movement, 
 because movement is a continual disunion and union of all the mole- 
 cules which compose the whole. The ancient philosophers admitted 
 all this. Under the different names of " macrocosm," " microcosm," 
 " corpuscules," "emanations," "attraction," "repulsion," "sympathy," 
 and " antipathy," — all names which are only one, — their various propo- 
 sitions were merely the product of inductions influenced by their modes 
 of observing, as the deductions of scientists are influenced in our day. 
 
 Balzac tells us that everything here below is the product of an 
 ethereal substance, the common basis of various phenomena, known 
 under the inappropriate names of electricity, heat, light, galvanic and 
 magnetic fluid, etc., and that the universality of its transmutations con- 
 
304 THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 
 
 stitutes what is vulgarly called matter. We cannot take up a book on 
 physics (written with true scientific knowledge) in which we do not find 
 evidence that its author acknowledges that there is, correctly speaking, 
 but one force in nature. Radcliffe tells us that what is called electricity 
 is only a one-sided aspect of a law which, when fully revealed, will be 
 found to rule over organic as well as inorganic nature, — a law to which 
 the discoveries of science and the teachings of philosophy alike bear testi- 
 mony, — & law which does not entomb life in matter, but which trans- 
 figures matter with a life which, when traced to its source, will prove 
 only to be the effluence of the Divine life. 
 
 Macvicar teaches that the nearer we ascend to the fountaia-head of 
 being and of action, the more magical must everything inevitably be- 
 come ; for that fountaia-head is pure volition. And pure voKtion, as 
 a cause, is precisely what is meant by magic ; for by magic is meant a 
 mode of producing a phenomenon without mechanical apphances, — ^that 
 is, without that seeming continuity of resisting parts and that leverage 
 which satisfy our muscular sense and our imagination and bring the 
 phenomenon into the category of what we call " the natural ;" that is, 
 the sphere of the elastic, the gravitating, — the sphere into which the 
 vis inerfice is alone admitted. 
 
 There is in Professor Crookes's " Genesis of the Elements" an hypoth- 
 esis of great interest, — a projectment of philosophical truth which brings 
 him nearer than any known living scientist to the ground held by Mr. 
 Keely. Davy defines hypothesis as the scaffolding of science, useful to 
 build up true knowledge, but capable of being put up or taken down 
 at pleasure, without injuring the edifice of philosophy. Lockyer, as 
 well as Crookes and Riicker, is also "quite warm," as the children 
 would say of the one who approaches the hidden object in the game of 
 " hide-and-seek." When we find men in different parts of the world 
 constructing the same kind of scaffolding, we may feel fairly sure that 
 they have an edifice to build. The scaffolding may prove to be in- 
 secure, but it can be flung away and another constructed. It is the 
 edifice that is all-important, — the philosophy, not the hypotheses. The 
 science of learning, says Lesley, and the science of Isnowledge are 
 not quite identical; and learning has too often, in the ease of in- 
 dividuals, overwhelmed and smothered to death knowledge. It is a 
 familiar fact that great discoveries come at long intervals, brought by 
 specially-commissioned and highly-endowed messengers ; while a per- 
 petual procession of humble servants of nature arrive with gifts of 
 lesser moment, but equally genuine, curious, and interesting novelties. 
 From what unknown land does all this wealth of information come? 
 who are these bearers of it? and who intrusted each with his particular 
 
THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 305 
 
 burden, which he carries aloft as if it deserved exclusive admiration ? 
 Why do those who bring the best things walk so seriously and modestly 
 along, as if they were in the performance of a sacred duty, for which 
 they scarcely esteem themselves worthy ? 
 
 The Bishop of Carlisle, in his paper on " The Uniformity of Na- 
 ture," suggests the answer to all who are prepared to approach the 
 abyss which has hitherto divided physical science from spiritual science, 
 — an abyss which is soon to be illumined by the sunlight of demon- 
 stration and spanned by the bridge of knowledge. To quote from the 
 paper of the Bishop of Carlisle, " There are matters of the highest 
 moment which manifestly do lie outside the domain of physical science. 
 The possibility of the continuance of human existence in a spiritual 
 form after the termination of physical life is, beyond contradiction, one 
 of the grandest and most momentous of possibilities, but in the nature 
 of things it lies outside physics. Yet there is nothing absolutely 
 absurd, nothing which contradicts any human instinct, in the suppo- 
 sition of such possibility ; consequently, the student of physical science, 
 even if he cannot find time or inclination to look into such matters 
 himself, may well have patience with those who can. And he may 
 easily afford to be generous : the field of physical science is grand 
 enough for any ambition, and there is room enough in the wide world 
 both for physical and for psychical research." 
 
 But does psychical research lie outside the domain of physical 
 science ? What is the supernatural but the higher workings of laws 
 which we call natural, as far as we have been able to investigate them ? 
 Is not the supernatural, then, just as legitimate a subject of considera- 
 tion, for the truly scientific mind, as is the natural ? If it explain, 
 satisfactorily, phenomena which cannot be otherwise explained, there 
 is no good reason why its aid should not be invoked by the men of 
 science. The truth is, that the ordinary course of nature is one con- 
 tinued miracle, one continued manifestation of the Divine mind. 
 " Everything which is, is thought," says Amiel, " but not conscious and 
 individual thought. Everything is a symbol of a symbol ; and a symbol 
 of what ? — of mind. We are hemmed round with mystery, and the 
 greatest mysteries are contained in what we see, and do, every day." 
 
 Mr. Keely affirms, with other philosophers, that there is only one 
 unique substance, and that this substance is the Divine spirit, the spirit 
 of life, and that this spirit of life is God, who fills everything with his 
 thoughts, disjoining and grouping together these multitudes of thoughts 
 in dififerent bodies called atmospheres, fluids, matters, animal, vege- 
 table, and mineral forms. 
 
 Herbert Spencer says that amid the mysteries that become the more 
 
306 THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 
 
 mysterious the more they are thought about, there will remain the one 
 absolute certainty, that we are ever in the presence of an infinite and 
 an eternal energy, from which all things proceed. Macvicar fore- 
 shadowed the teachings of this new philosophy when he wrote, " All 
 motion in the universe is rhythmical. This is seen in the forward and 
 backward movement of the pendulum, the ebb and the flow of the 
 tides, the succession of day and night, the systolic and diastolic action 
 of the heiart, and in the inspiration and expiration of the lungs. Our 
 breathing is a double motion of the universal aether, an active and a 
 reactive movement. This androgyne principle, with its dual motion, 
 is the breath of God in man." The writings of the ancients teem with 
 these ideas, which have been handed down to us from generation to 
 generation, and are now flashing their light, like torches in the dark- 
 ness, upon mysteries too long regarded as "lying outside the domains 
 of physical science." 
 
 Twenty years ago Macvicar wrote his " Sketch of a Philosophy," 
 in which he advanced the above views, with other views now main- 
 tained and demonstrated by Mr. Keely, who during these twenty years, 
 without knowing Macvicar's views, or of his existence even, has been 
 engaged in that " dead-work which cannot be delegated," the result 
 of which is not learning, but knowledge ; for learning, says Lessing, 
 is only our knowledge of the experience of others ; knowledge is our 
 own. This burden of dead-work, writes Lesley, every great discoverer 
 has had to carry for years and years, unknown to the world at large, 
 before the world was electrified by his appearance as its genius. With- 
 out it, there can be no discovery of what is rightly called a scientific 
 truth. Every advancement in science comes from this " dead- work," 
 and creates, of its own nature, an improvement in the condition of the 
 race ; putting, as it does, the multitudes of human society on a fairer 
 and friendlier footing with one another. And during these twenty years 
 of " dead-work" the discoverer of etheric force has piursued the even 
 tenor of his way, under circumstances which show him to be a giant 
 in intellectual greatness, insensible to paltry, hostile criticism, patient 
 under opposition, dead to all temptations of self-interest, calmly su- 
 perior to the misjudgments of the short-sighted and the ignoble ; noble 
 means as indispensable to him as noble ends ; fame and riches less im- 
 portant than his honor ; his joys arising from the accomplishment of 
 his work and the love and the sympathy of the few who have compre- 
 hended him! "Only the noble-hearted can understand the noble- 
 hearted." Mr. Keely's chief ambition has been to utilize the force he 
 discovered, not for his own aggrandizement, but to bless the lives of 
 his fellow-men. He has scaled the rocks which barricade earth from 
 
THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 397 
 
 heaven, and he knows that the fire which he has brought down with 
 him is divine. 
 
 This so-called secret is an open secret, which, after it is known, may 
 be read everywhere, — in the revolution of the planets as well as in the 
 crystallization of minerals and in the growth of a flower, 
 
 " But why does not Mr. Keely share his knowledge with others ?" 
 " Why does he not proclaim his secret to the world?" are questions that 
 are often asked. 
 
 He is not yet ready to do so. He has made out his programme of 
 unfinished work, ranging from its present operations to the concluding 
 tests with dynamometer and by rail ; but no one can say when the latter 
 tests will be made. All depends upon the degree and measure of his 
 success in the line of research that he is now following. Every man 
 who has passed the mere threshold of science ought to be aware that it 
 is quite possible to be in possession of a series of facts long before he is 
 capable of giving a rational and satisfactory explanation of them, — in 
 short, before he is enabled to discover their causes even. This " dead- 
 work" has occupied many years of Mr. Keely's life ; and only within 
 the last five years has he reached that degree of perfection which 
 warranted the erection of a scaifolding for the construction of the true 
 edifice of philosophy. 
 
 We have only to recall the wonderful discoveries which have been 
 made in modern times, relative to the properties of heat, of electricity, 
 of galvanism, etc., in order to acknowledge that had any man ventured 
 to anticipate the powers and uses of the steam-engine, the voltaic pile, 
 the electrical battery, or of any other of those mighty instruments by 
 means of which the mind of man has acquired so vast a dominion over 
 the world of matter, he would probably have been considered a vision- 
 ary ; and had he been able to exhibit the effects of any of these instru- 
 ments, before the principles which regulate their action had become 
 generally known to philosophers, they would in all likelihood have been 
 attributed to fraud or to juggling. Herein lies the secret of Mr. Keely's 
 delay. His work is not yet completed to that point where he can cease 
 experimenting and publish the results of his " dead-work" to the world. 
 
 " When will he be ready ?" is a question often asked ; but it is one 
 that God only can answer, as to the year and day. Now that continuity 
 of action in his engine has been attained, and every impediment and 
 obstacle to eventual triumphant success has been overcome, it would 
 seem that the time is near at hand, — within this very year ; but not 
 even Mr. Keely himself can fix the date, until he has finished his 
 present course of experiment, his necessary " dead-work." 
 
 "But what are his hypotheses? and what the tenets of his new 
 
308 THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET. 
 
 philosophy?" His hypotheses are as antithetic to existing hypoth- 
 eses in chemistry as the Newtonian system, at its first publication, 
 was antithetic to the vortices of Descjrrtes, The philosophy is not 
 of his creation ; nor is it a new philosophy. It is as old as the 
 universe. Its tenets are unpopular, heterodox tenets, but their gran- 
 deur, when compared with prevailing theories, will cause the latter to 
 appear like the soap-bubbles that Sir William Drummond said the 
 grown-up children of science amuse themselves with, whilst the honest 
 vulgar stand gazing in stupid admiration, dignifying these learned 
 vagaries with the name of science. It is the sole edifice of true 
 philosophy, the corner-stone of which was laid at Creation, when God 
 said, " Let there be light ; and there was light." The scaffolding 
 which our modern Prometheus has built is not the airy fabric of 
 delusion, nor the baser fabric of a fraud, as has been so often asserted. 
 It has been built, plank by plank, upon firm ground, and every plank 
 is of pure gold, as will be seen in due time. 
 
 Another question is often asked : " What is vibratory ether ?" 
 
 The answer echoes down the ages, faintly heard as yet, it is true ; 
 but, call it what you will, " the universal ether," " hypothetical ether," 
 " the universal life-principle," " the ambient fluid," " the electro-mag- 
 netico-inteUectual-divine fluid," it is all the same, — one sole and unique 
 substance, of which Mr. Keely has written, " The true study of the 
 Deity by man being in the observation of his marvellous works, the 
 discovery of a fundamental creative law, of as wide and comprehensive 
 grasp as would make this etheric vapor a tangible link between God 
 and man, would enable us to realize, in a measure, the actual existing 
 working qualities of God himself (speaking most reverentially), as we 
 would those of a fellow-man." As this philosopher interprets the phys- 
 ical forces, they are the fingers of God, — not all that there is for God. 
 
 It has been justly said that we have no ground for assuming that 
 we have approached a limit in the field of discovery, or for claiming 
 finality in our interpretations of Nature ; that we have, as yet, only 
 lifted one corner of the curtain, enabling us to peep at some of the 
 machinery by which her operations are effected, while much more 
 remains concealed ; and that we know little of the marvels which in 
 course of time ma^ be made clear to us. 
 
 Earnest minds in all ages and in all countries have arrived at the 
 same inferences which Mr. Keely has reached in his researches, — ^viz., 
 that the one intelligent force in nature is not a mere mathematical 
 dynamism in space and time, but a true Power existing in its type 
 and ftdness,— in one word, God. You may say that such an inference 
 belongs to religion, not to science; but you caimot divorce the two. 
 
THE KEELY MOTOR SECRET 309 
 
 No systematic distinction between philosophical, religious, and scientific 
 ideas can be maintained. All the three run into one another with the 
 most perfect legitimacy. Their dissociation can be effected only by art, 
 their divorce only by violence. Great as is the revolution in mechanics 
 which is to take place through this discovery, it has an equally important 
 bearing on all questions connected with psychical research. Once demon- 
 strated, we shall hear no more of the brain secreting thought, as the 
 liver secretes bile. The laws of " rhythmical harmony," of " assimi- 
 lation," of " sympathetic association," will be found governing all things, 
 in the glorious heavens above us, down to the least atom upon our earth. 
 Leibnitz's assertion, that " perceptivity and its correlative perceptibility 
 are coextensive with the whole sphere of individualized being," will 
 be accounted for without depriving us of a Creator. " The music of 
 the spheres" will be proved a reality, instead of a figure of speech. 
 St. Paul's words, " In him we live, and move, and have our being," 
 will be better understood. The power of mind over matter will be 
 incontrovertibly demonstrated. 
 
 The requirement of every demonstration is that it shall give suffi- 
 cient proof of the truth it asserts. This Mr. Keely is prepared to 
 give, — mechanical demonstration ; and should he really have discovered 
 the fundamental creative law, which he long since divined must exist, 
 proving that the universal ether which permeates all molecules is the 
 tangible link between God and man, connecting the infinite with the 
 finite, — that it is the true protoplasm, or mother-element of everything, 
 — we may look for a philosophy which will explain all unexplained 
 phenomena and reconcile the conflicting opinions of scientists. 
 
 The great law of sympathetic association, once understood, will be- 
 come known as it is, — viz., as the governing medium of the world. 
 Herein lies one secret of " the compound secret," the full revelation of 
 which will usher in the spiritual age foretold by the Prophets of the 
 Old Testament and the Apostles of the New Testament. Inspiration 
 is not confined to prophets and apostles and poets : the man of science, 
 the writer, all who reach out after the Infinite, receive their measure of 
 inspiration according to their capacity. We need a new revelation to 
 turn back " the tidal wave of materialism" which has rolled in upon 
 the scientific world, as much as Moses needed one when he sought to 
 penetrate the mysteries of the Creation ; and our revelation is near at 
 hand, — a revelation which will change the statical "I am" into the 
 dynamical " I will," — a revelation which, while teaching us to look 
 from Nature up to Nature's God, will reveal to us our own powers as 
 "children of God," as "heirs of immortality." 
 
 C. J. Bloomfleld Moore. 
 
310 ^S THE BASE-BALL PLAYER A CHATTEL i 
 
 IS THE BASE-BALL FLAYER A CHATTEL? 
 
 I SHOULD like to describe fully the relations which exist between 
 base-ball club and player ; but, as this is not possible in a limited 
 article, I will confine myself to a consideration of these relations as 
 they have been induced by the action of the reserve- rule. I will first 
 describe briefly the origin, intent, and effect of the rule ; I will then 
 trace more in detail its subsequent development; I will show that 
 there has been a complete departure from its original intent, and in 
 consequence a total change in its effect ; that abuse after abuse has been 
 fastened upon it, until, instead of being used to the ends for which it 
 was formed, it has become a mere pretence for the practice of wrong. 
 Incidentally, I will touch upon some of the methods employed by 
 clubs in their dealings with players. 
 
 The first reserve agreement was entered into by the club members 
 of the National League September 30, 1879. By that compact each 
 club was conceded the privilege of reserving for the season of 1880 
 five of its players of the season of 1879, and each of the eight clubs 
 pledged itself not to employ any player so reserved by any of the 
 others. The five men so chosen by each club were thus forced either 
 to sign with the club reserving them at its own terms or withdraw to 
 some club not a member of the League ; and, as there were no such 
 clubs then in existence, the reservation was practically without alter- 
 native. The club thus appropriated to itself an absolute control over 
 the labor of five of its men, and this number has since been enlarged 
 to eleven, so that now the club controls practically its entire team. 
 
 The contracts of the players for 1879 contained no reference to 
 any right of reservation by the clubs, nor was any such in contempla- 
 tion at the time the contracts were signed : so that it was an ex post 
 facto rule, and therefore a positive wrong in its inception. 
 
 In order to justify this extraordinary measure and distract public 
 attrition from the real causes making it necessary, the clubs tried to 
 shift the blame to the players. They declared that players were de- 
 manding extortionate salaries, and that the rule was needed as a pro- 
 tection against these. They attempted to conceal entirely that the real 
 trouble lay in the extravagant and unbusiness-like methods of certain 
 managers and in the lack of good faith between the clubs themselves. 
 According to them, the player who accepted a proffered increase of 
 salary was a disorganizer and a dangerQus character, from whom pro- 
 tection was necessary, while the club official who offered it was but a 
 
IS THE BASE-HALL PLAYER A CHATTEL? ^\\ 
 
 poor weak instrument in his hands. Was it really wrong for the 
 player to accept a larger salary when offered ? or was not the dangerous 
 factor here the club, which in violation of faith with its associates 
 enticed the player by offering the increase ? And was it really against 
 the players or against themselves that the clubs were obliged to com- 
 bine for protection ? The history of base-ball deals between different 
 clubs is fiiU of instances of broken faith, and in most such cases where 
 a player was involved the favorite procedure has been to whitewash 
 the clubs and black-list the player. Yet I do not hesitate to say that 
 I believe base-ball has more to fear from the reckless and improvident 
 methods of some of its managers than from all the faults of all the 
 players. 
 
 In the enactment of the reserve-rule the clubs were probably in- 
 fluenced by three considerations : they wished to make the business 
 of base-ball more permanent, they meant to reduce salaries, and they 
 sought to secure a monopoly of the game. 
 
 At the close of each season there was always a scramble for players 
 for the following year : the well-balanced and successful team was es- 
 pecially subject to inroads, so that the particularly strong nine of one 
 season was not unlikely to be a particularly weak one the next. The 
 business of base-ball thus lacked stability. There was no assurance to 
 the stockholders of a continuing fixed value to their stock, for the de- 
 fection of a few important players might render it almost worthless. 
 But with the right of retaining the pick of its players the club was as- 
 sured of a good team, and the stock held its value. 
 
 Again, in this annual competition for players, clubs often paid ex- 
 travagant salaries to certain very desirable men, and the effect was to 
 enlarge the average scale so that it was assuming undue proportions. 
 But with the privilege of retaining its best men at its own figur^, the 
 average salary would be forced down. 
 
 The third consideration, which doubtless had some weight, was the 
 desire to create a monopoly. It was just beginning to be seen that 
 base-ball properly managed might be made a lucrative business, though 
 its real fertility was yet scarcely dreamed of. With all the picked 
 players reserved to it and the prestige thus given, it was thought that 
 the League might easily retain the control of the business. 
 
 But with the growth of the game in popular favor, and the conse- 
 quent development of its money-making features, the maintenance of 
 this monopoly became more and more difficult. A rival organization 
 did spring up, and the reserve-rule then lost much of its force, for 
 many of the players were willing to accept the alternative of with- 
 drawing from the League and joining fortunes with the new Associa- 
 
312 IS THE BASE-BALL PLATER A CHATTEL 1 
 
 tion. The young aspirant developed such strength that it was found 
 impossible to put it down, and the result threatened was a disastrous 
 war in the competition for players and the favor of the public. With 
 great good judgment and the remarkable instinct for self-preservation 
 which has always characterized it, the League agreed with the Ameri- 
 can Association on the terms of an armistice. This was in "the spring 
 of 1883, and in the fall of the same year this armistice was made per- 
 manent in the great offensive and defensive alliance known as " The 
 National Agreement." The parties to this were the four base-ball 
 leagues then in existence. Each pledged itself, among other things, 
 that its club members should respect the reservation of players by the 
 club members of every other party, in the same manner as though they 
 were aU of the same league. 
 
 The effect of this was that a player reserved was forced to sign 
 with the club reserving him, or quit playing ball altogether. These 
 four leagues included all the clubs in the country, and the alternative 
 of withdrawing to another club was thus practically cut off. As new 
 leagues have sprung up, they have been either frozen out or forced into 
 this agreement for their own protection, and the all-embracing nature 
 of the reserve-rule has been maintained. There is now no escape for 
 the player. If he attempts to elude the operation of the rule, he be- 
 comes at once a professional outlaw, and the hand of every club is 
 against him. He may be willing to play elsewhere for less salary, he may 
 be unable to play, or, for other reasons, may retire for a season or more, 
 but if ever he reappears as a professional baU-player it must be at the 
 disposition of his former club. Like a fugitive-slave law, the reserve- 
 rule denies him a harbor or a livelihood, and carries him back, bound 
 and shackled, to the club from which he attempted to escape. We 
 have, then, the curious result of a contract which on its face is for 
 seven months being binding for life, and when the player's name is 
 once attached thereto his professional liberty is gone forever. 
 
 On the other hand, what reciprocal claim has the player? Abso- 
 lutely none! For services rendered he draws his salary; but for a 
 continuance of that service he has no claim whatever. The twentieth 
 paragraph of the regular League contract declares that the club reserves 
 the right to release the player at any time, " at its option," by ten days' 
 notice, and that its liabilities under the contract shall thereupon cease 
 and determine. That is to say, the club may hold the player as long 
 as it pleases, and may release him at any time, with or without cause, 
 by a simple ten days' notice ; while the player is bound for life, and, 
 no matter what his interests or wishes may be, cannot terminate the 
 contract, even by ten years' notice. 
 
IS THE BASE-BALL PLAYER A CHATTEL? 313 
 
 The uninitiated in " base-ball law" may say, " If players are foolish 
 enough to sign such contracts they must expect to abide the conse- 
 quences." But, as a matter of fact, the player has no volition in the 
 case. A provision of the League prescribes a certain form of contract, 
 no other is " legal" according to this " base-ball law," and no club dares 
 offer him any other to sign : that printed form is presented to him with 
 the alternative of signing it or none at all, and under such duress he 
 has nothing to do but submit. At some other time I may write more 
 fully of this contract, the most unique unilateral document extant; 
 but for the present I quote it only to show its connection with the 
 reserve-rule. One of its clauses declares the players bound " by the 
 Constitution of the National League and the Articles and Covenants 
 of the National Agreement :" among these latter is included the reserve- 
 rule, and in this way it is worked into the contract which the player is 
 forced to sign, and which is thereby given a semblance of legality. 
 
 This, then, is the inception, intent, and meaning of the reserve-rule 
 in its simplicity : its complicity I will presently describe. It inaugu- 
 rated a species of serfdom which gave one set of men a life-estate in 
 the labor of another, and withheld from the latter any corresponding 
 claim. No attempt has ever been made to defend it on the grounds of 
 abstract right. Its justification, if any, lay only in its expediency. It 
 was a protective measure which gave stability to the game by pre- 
 serving the playing strength of the teams, and it acted as a check on 
 the increase of salaries. Its immediate results were clearly beneficial, 
 opposition to it died away, and, notwithstanding the peculiar, not to say 
 servile, position in which it placed the players, they accepted it as for 
 the general good. 
 
 But, however satisfactory in its original application, I scarcely be- 
 lieve there will be any one found to justify it in the purposes to which 
 it has been recently applied. 
 
 Instead of an institution for good, it has become one for evil ; in- 
 stead of a measure of protection, it has been used as a handle for the 
 manipulation of a traffic in players, a sort of speculation in live stock, 
 by which they are bought, sold, and transferred like so many sheep. 
 
 Ideal wrong will always work itself out in practical wrong, and 
 this has been no exception. The rule itself was an inherent wrong, for 
 by it one set of men seized absolute control over the labor of another, 
 and in its development it has gone on from one usurpation to another 
 until it has grown so intolerable as to threaten the present organization 
 of the game. Clubs have seemed to think that players had no rights, 
 and the black list was waiting for the man who dared assert the con- 
 trary. Players were cowed into submission, and were afraid even to 
 Vol. XL.— 21 
 
314 IS THE BASE-BALL PLAYER A CHATTEL f 
 
 resort to the courts for a remedy. But all this time there was a strong 
 undercurrent of discontent, and for the past year it has required all 
 the influence of the conservative element of the profession to hold this 
 in check and maintain a sentiment in favor of peaceful and legal reform. 
 
 The first mistake was made at the initial attempt to apply the rule. 
 As was to be expected, the players chafed at first under the unac- 
 customed yoke. Hines, of Providence, declared that rather than submit 
 to that club's reservation he would stay idle for a year. The con- 
 struction was then evolved that even this would not free the player from 
 the reservation, — that, though the term of his contract had expired, and 
 though the reservation was so distasteful that he would prefer the loss 
 of a year's salary, yet he would still be held by it. That is to say, the 
 life-estate was indefeasible : the brand of the club once upon the man, 
 it might never be removed by any act of his own. A practical illustra- 
 tion of the working of this construction was given in the case of 
 Charlie Foley. During the season of 1883 he contracted a malady 
 which incapacitated him for play. He was laid off without pay, though 
 still held subject to the direction of his club. In the fall he was placed 
 among the players reserved by the club, though he had not been on the 
 club's pay-roll for months. The following spring he was still unable to 
 play, and the Buffalo Club refused either to sign or release him. He 
 recovered somewhat, and offered his services to the club, but it still re- 
 fused to sign him. Having been put to great expense in securing 
 treatmait, his funds were exhausted, and it became absolutely necessary 
 for him to do something. He had offers from several minor clubs, to 
 whom he would still have been a valuable player, but on asking for his 
 release from Buffalo it was again refused. He was compelled to re- 
 main idle all that summer, without funds to pay for medical treatment; 
 and then, to crown all, the Buffalo Club again reserved him in the fall 
 of 1884. 
 
 The second abuse was a clear violation of the spirit of the rule, and 
 a direct breach of contract on the part of several clubs. A clause in 
 the old form of contract gave the club the right to release any player 
 at any time, with or without cause, by giving him twenty days' notice. 
 Of course this was meant to apply to individual cases and total releases. 
 But several clubs, seeing in this a convenient means of escaping the 
 payment of the last month's salary, gave all their players the twenty 
 days' notice on September 10, and on October 1 dismissed them, instead 
 of on November 1 as the contracts stipulated. One club did not even 
 go to the trouble of giving the notice, but, in open disregard of its 
 contract obligations, dismissed its players October 1. Two of the 
 men had courage enough to bring suit, and they recovered judgment, 
 
IS THE BASE-BALL PLAYER A CHATTEL? 315 
 
 and finally got their full pay ; but the others lost the month's wages. 
 But now, the most extraordinary part of all, after formally rdwismg 
 the men, the same clubs claimed and were conceded the right of re- 
 serving them for the following year. 
 
 The third step was of a more serious nature ; for, though no violation 
 of contract, it was the beginning of the present odious system of buying 
 and selling players. As the pecuniary returns of the game increased, 
 the value of the individual player was enhanced : the strength or weak- 
 ness of one position made a difference of thousands in receipts, and this 
 set the astute managerial mind at work. Some scheme must be de- 
 vised by which these gaps might be filled. It finally dawned upon 
 him that this continuing claim upon the player's services was much 
 akin to a right of property. Why, then, might this not be bought 
 and sold, as are other rights of a similar nature ? 
 
 Having found a purchaser, it would be only necessary to obtain the 
 player's consent and the sale might be made. The result was a series 
 of deals by which players were disposed of in this manner. Since the 
 player's consent was obtained, it may be said that he was in no wise in- 
 jured ; but there were really two serious dangers. The first was that 
 the club would be tempted to force the player's consent in one of the 
 many ways at its disposal, — which, in fact, was frequently the case ; and 
 the second was in the part which the reserve-rule played in the trans- 
 action. If the buying club received a claim for the remaining term of 
 the player's contract only, the price would be regulated accordingly and 
 the deal perfectly legitimate. But a fictitious value was always given, 
 because the buying club bought not only the player's services for the 
 unexpired term of his contract, but the right to reserve or sell him 
 agaiu. It is not, then, the ordinary assignment of a legal contract- 
 claim for future service which makes the price, but the anticipated 
 operation of the reserve-rule. The rule is, therefore, being used not as 
 a means of retaining the services of a player, but for increasing his 
 value for the purpose of sale. This is a clear perversion of the original 
 intent of the rule. The assertion of any such claim at the time of its 
 adoption would have killed it then and there. The clubs claimed that 
 the right to retain the services of a valuable player was necessary for 
 the conservation of the game, and with that understanding the players 
 tacitly acquiesced in the seizure. They never received any considera- 
 tion for the concession ; and when the Chicago Club sells Kelly for ten 
 thousand dollars it simply makes that sum out of Kelly, for which it 
 has never given him the slightest consideration. Kelly received his 
 salary from Chicago (or such part as was not taken out in fines), and 
 earned every dollar of it several times over, and yet the Chicago Club 
 
316 ^^r THE BASE-BALL PLAYER A CHATTEL? 
 
 takes ten thousand dollars for releasing Kelly fi-om a claim for which 
 it never paid him a dollar, but which it acquired by seizure some years 
 ago. 
 
 Abuse number four is another step in the development of this 
 traffic, in that it ignores entirely the player's consent, and the deal is 
 completed without the slightest consultation of his wishes or interests. 
 The selling dub first secures the promise of the six clubs not imme- 
 diately interested to keep hands off the player. The price being then 
 paid by the buying club, the player is notified of his release to that 
 club. By the pledge secured from the other clubs,, none of them will 
 employ him, and therefore, no matter how distasteful the change, or 
 how many the reasons for wishing to go elsewhere, he is forced to go 
 to his purchaser or nowhere. 
 
 Number five is a further extension of the scope of the reserve-rule, 
 and cuts off entirely the player's only hope of escape. One would 
 naturally suppose that the disbandment of the club with which he was 
 under contract would release the player from all restrictions ; and such 
 was indeed the case until within the last year. But with the erpected 
 retirement of the St. Louis and Kansas City Clubs a number of first- 
 class players would be thrown upon the market who would command 
 good salaries if left to contract freely for themselves. The avarice of 
 the clubs was equal to the occasion, and the League itself (whatever 
 that may mean) reserved these men and peddled them out at so much per 
 head. Without any regard to the fact that family ties and other con- 
 siderations bound them to particular localities, the players were dis- 
 posed of at the will of the League here, there, or anywhere it saw fit, 
 and through the same organized conspiracy were obliged to go as 
 assigned or quit playing ball altogether. The player read in his 
 morning paper that he had been sold to such a club, aEnd in a short 
 time, though the question of terms had not yet been mentioned, he 
 received a notification to report on a cei-tain date. This was all he 
 knew or had to say about the matter. The price demanded by the 
 League for several of these players was more than any club was willing 
 to pay. For instance, in the case of McQuery the amount asked was 
 one thousand dollars, afterwards reduced to seven hundred and fifty 
 dollars. No club being found willing to pay so much, he was held 
 until the 19th of April before being allowed to sign with any club. 
 Though a good player, he was kept out of an engagement, received 
 no salary, lost his opportunities for signing with some League or 
 Association club, and finally was very fortunate to contract with a 
 club of the International League. 
 
 The crowning outrage of all came in the shape of a resoluiion 
 
IS THE BASE-BALL PLAYER A CHATTEL? 317 
 
 adopted by the American Association at its Cleveland meeting last 
 spring. Though not a League measure, I mention it as showing the 
 spirit of the clubs and the possibilities of the reserve-rule. Not satisfied 
 with the passive conspiracy not to hire a reserved player if he refused 
 to sign with the reserving club, the Association actually declared its 
 intention of black-listing him. For the mere refusal to sign upon the 
 terms offered by the club, the player was to be debarred entirely, and 
 his name placed among those disqualified because of dissipation and 
 dishonesty ! Has any body of sane men ever before publicly committed 
 itself to so outrageous a proposition? Fortunately for the dignity 
 of the Association and the interests of the game, no attempt has ever 
 been made to enforce this penalty : if it had, it is just possible that 
 the great reserve-rule might now exist only in the game's history and 
 in the records of the courts. 
 
 The last step, which may scarcely be called a development, — being 
 rather a natural consequence of the system, — is the practice of " loan- 
 ing" players. A man is loaned by one club to another on condition that 
 the latter pays his salary and returns him on demand, much the same 
 as a horse is put out to work for his feed. 
 
 These are, in part, the relations which exist between base-ball 
 players and the associations by which they are employed. Is there a 
 base-ball official who will claim them to be governed by any semblance 
 of equity? Is it surprising that players begin to protest, and think it 
 necessary to combine for mutual protection ? 
 
 Encouraged by the apparent inactivity of the players, the clubs 
 have gone on from one usurpation to another until in the eye of the 
 base-ball " magnate" the player has become a mere chattel. He goes 
 where he is sent, takes what is given him, and thanks the Lord for 
 life. The demand exceeding the supply, the growth and cultivation 
 of young players has become an important branch of the business. 
 They are signed in large numbers, and, if they turn out well, are 
 disposed of as a valuable commodity to the highest bidder. If they 
 fail, they are simply released, and the cultivator has been at little 
 expense. Indeed, the whole thing is becoming systematized, and is 
 carried on with the utmost openness ; so that it is not unusual to find 
 a news paragraph announcing that such and such players are for sale. 
 
 In order to learn the sentiment of some League officials on this 
 point, I approached Mr. John I. Kogers, of the Philadelphia Club. Mr. 
 Eogers is a gentleman of superior intelligence and legal ability, and I 
 was therefore not surprised to find him a rather weak supporter of the 
 system. He freely admitted the injustice of selling a player without 
 the latter's consent, and did not think the League had any right to 
 
318 IS THE BASE-BALL PL AVER A CHATTEL? 
 
 reserve and sell the players of a disbanding club. He did claim, how- 
 ever, that a club had a right, with the player's consent, to sell its claim 
 upon his future services, for in so doing he declared that the club was 
 simply " compounding the value of those future services." 
 
 I have pondered a great deal over our short talk, and I think I 
 know what Mr. Rogers meant by that specious phrase. He meant 
 that a club which has a legal claim by contract upon the future service 
 of a player may accept a cash consideration for the release of that 
 claim at any time before the expiration of the term of contract ; and 
 in that I agree with him perfectly. I am sure he did not mean that a 
 club may sell its claim on the future service of a player when that 
 claim rests not on a legal contract, but simply on the reserve-rule. For 
 such a purpose that rule never gave a claim. It invested the club with 
 a questionable right of reservation for one purpose only, — namely, to 
 retain the services of the player ; not at all to sell him. The true con- 
 sideration in such a sale is not the release of the claim, but the future 
 service of the player. It proceeds, therefore, not from the selling club, 
 but from the player ; yet the former takes the cash. Every dollar re- 
 ceived by the club in such a transaction is taken from the pocket of the 
 player ; for if the buying club could afford to pay that sum as a bonus, 
 it could just as well have paid it to the player in the form of increased 
 salary. The whole thing is a conspiracy, pure and simple, on the part 
 of the clubs, by which they are making money rightfully belonging to 
 the players. Even were we to admit, for the sake of argument, that 
 the reserve-rule does give a right to sell, we naturally ask, What con- 
 sideration did the club ever advance to the player for this right ? What 
 did the Chicago Club ever give Kelly in return for the right to control 
 his future services ? Absolutely nothing ; and yet that club sells that 
 right, so cheaply acquired, for ten thousand dollars ! But, I repeat, it 
 never gave such a right, and any such claim by one set of men of a 
 right of property in another is as unnatural to-day as it was a quarter 
 of a century ago. The rule is a special statute of " base-ball law," 
 made for a special purpose : it is of doubtful right when confined to 
 that purpose, and it is of certain and unqualified wrong when applied 
 to any other. 
 
 In the case of a sale with the player's consent at a time when he is 
 under contract, the case is complicated. The club may properly sell its 
 contract-claim, but in every such case the same wrongful element will 
 be found to enter. The buying club pays a much larger price than the 
 contract-claim is worth, because it expects to acquire also the rio-ht to 
 reserve or sell. The case, analyzed, is this : the amount actually paid 
 for the contract-claim is rightfully given, while every dollar in excess is 
 
IS THE BASE-BALL PLATER A CHATTEL? ^19 
 
 taken from the player through the wrongful operation of the reserve- 
 rule. 
 
 The remedy for these abuses may be difficult to find ; the system 
 has become so rooted that heroic treatment may be necessary to remove 
 it ; but go it must, like every other, founded upon so great injustice and 
 misuse of power. The only question is, Whence shall the remedy pro- 
 ceed ? Shall it come from the clubs, or from the players, or from both 
 conjointly ? The interests of the national game are too great to be longer 
 trifled with in such a manner, and if the clubs cannot find a way out 
 of these difficulties the players will try to do it for them. The tangled 
 web of legislation which now hampers the game must be cut away, 
 and the business of base-ball made to rest on the ordinary business 
 basis. There will be little need, then, of extra-judicial rules to regulate 
 salaries, for these will regulate themselves, like those of the dramatic 
 and other professions, by the law of supply and demand ; " base-ball 
 law," that wonderful creation which no one individual seems ever yet to 
 have mastered, will be laid away as a curious relic among the archives 
 of the game, and the time-honored and time-proven common law 
 will once more regulate base-ball affairs ; " deals" will be confined to 
 legal limits; " phenomenons" and "wonders" will no longer receive 
 advertising salaries, for the careful business manager will keep within 
 justified figures ; contracts may be made for periods of more than one 
 season, the leagues will be composed of cities of nearly equal drawing 
 strength, and the percentage system will be re-enacted, thus reducing to 
 a minimum the temptation to compete for players; the players will 
 catch the spirit of the new order ; base-ball, to them, will be more of a 
 business and less of a pastime ; contract-breaking will be impossible, 
 and dissipation will disappear ; the profession of ball-;^laying will be 
 looked upon as a perfectly honorable calling, and the national game be 
 more than ever the greatest of out-door sports. All of these changes 
 may never come ; many of them certainly will. But it will be when 
 the game is governed by the law of the land, when its financial con- 
 duct is placed in the hands of thorough business-men, when the 
 " greats" and the " onlys," the " rustlers" and the " hustlers," have gone 
 
 " down the back entry of time." , 
 
 John Montgomery Ward. 
 
320 OUJR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 
 
 OUE MONTHLY GOSSIP. 
 
 One of the Bab Ballads has for its subject the story of a young man pos- 
 sessed by a curiosity, which finally amounted to frenzy, to discover who wrote 
 the mottoes on the bonbon papers, and relates the results of his ixantic quest. 
 
 Apropos of this, who compiles the calendars now so much in vogue? Let 
 us make an example of two, the Shakespeare and the George Eliot Calendars 
 for 1887, both elaborately and handsomely gotten up, and apparently very 
 popular. 
 
 The object, as we conceive it, of these calendars is to bring before our minds 
 each day some axiom or epigram which may give us food for thought, or even 
 serve the higher purpose of uplifting us morally, as, for instance, this : 
 
 He that made us with such large discourse. 
 Looking before and after, gave us not 
 That capability and godlike reason 
 To fast in us unused. 
 
 Or this : 
 
 Sometimes we are devils to ourselves 
 
 When we will tempt the frailty of our powers. 
 
 And yet, in spite of the abounding richness of Shakespeare, for every two quota- 
 tions like these there are twenty in this calendar which, taken apart ftom their 
 context, are as meaningless as these : 
 
 The sands are numbered that make up my life ; 
 Here must I stay, and here my life must end. 
 
 To business that we love we rise betimes. 
 And go to it with delight. 
 
 Go thou forth, 
 ' And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm. 
 
 These extracts are taken from the first twenty pages of the Shakespeare 
 Calendar, and it is probable that the remaining months would furnish examples 
 stronger still. 
 
 Now to turn to the other calendar. The first twenty quotations there 
 are much better, but among them are several which have absolutely no fitness 
 for this purpose. ' The extract for January 1 is a broken fi-agment of one of 
 George Eliot's most beautiful thoughts. The calendar has it, " No story is the 
 same to us after a lapse of time, or rather we, who read it, are no longer the 
 same interpreters ;" but this is merely introductory, and the gist of the matter is 
 in the unquoted part. A little later we find an extract so striking that it must be 
 quoted in fall : " Perhaps the most delightfal firiendships are those in which there 
 is much agreement, much disputation, and more personal liking ;" soon after 
 which follows this : " A real fine lady does not wear clothes that fiare in people's 
 eyes, or use importunate scents, or make a noise when she moves," and just next, 
 this fine utterance : " No man can begin to mould himself on a faith or an idea 
 
BOOK-TALK. 321 
 
 without rising to a higher order of experience ; a principle of self-mastery has 
 been introduced into his nature ;" to be followed soon by this : " If Old Harry 
 wants any work done, you may be sure he'll find the means." 
 
 In addition to these defects, which are to be laid to the compiler, there are 
 various misprints in the George Eliot Calendar which deface it greatly. For in- 
 stance, Silas Marner is printed throughout Silas Warner. And in the quotation, 
 " It is difficult /or a woman to try to be anything good, when she is not believed 
 in," /or is replaced by in; and in another quotation, " We can set a watch over 
 our affections and our constancy as we can over our other treasures," the omission 
 of the word other takes half the beauty from the idea. 
 
 Whether the last citations be mistakes of the compiler's or of the printer's, 
 they are equally inexcusable. j. m. 
 
 BOOK-TALK. 
 
 ACOEEESPONDENT who describes himself as an old reader hitherto con- 
 tent to act the passive part, accepting thankfully the good things set before 
 him, has been moved by certain passages in a recent Book-Talk, as well as by the 
 general tendency of modem critical and biographical writers, to avail himself of 
 the privilege sometimes accorded to the laity of having a voice in the matter. 
 He begins by reminding us of the old Scotch proverb that it is an ill bird which 
 fouls its own nest, and he continues, "The inodorous truth of this saying is 
 often called to my mind by the persistent efforts of certain writers to present 
 literary men, especially those who have passed away, in their worst light, — ^to 
 bring out phases of their nature showing them mean and silly, weak and wicked. 
 These writers appear to have discovered that they have a high moral duty to per- 
 form : they become very tender in conscience about the estimate the world has 
 been putting on obscure individuals connected with men of genius ; chivalrous 
 in bringing them before the public for tardy justice. All of which, by the way, 
 is asked for by no one, and would be the last thing desired by these unfortunates 
 could they speak for themselves. Has the author's life been so much of a suc- 
 cess that he need be made to know his place and taught humility ? Which has 
 done mankind most harm in the past, hero-worship qr the opposite tendency ? 
 How are the youthful and enthusiastic to be helped by seeing those in whose 
 excellence they found exalted standards lowered in their eyes and by having 
 their enthusiasm cooled ? Youth cannot separate the artist from his art, and 
 it is well it cannot. Has the world at large, or rather has the lower walk of 
 the newspaper press, from which it gets so much of its information, been slow to 
 find out the sins of writers and make the most of them ? These singers of songs 
 and tellers of stories have done more than all others to lessen the sadness of 
 the soul in these days when science and philosophy appear only to widen and 
 deepen the problems of life, without offering for them solutions or increasing our 
 hope of ultimate enlightenment. Pessimism is not popular, but I will venture 
 to submit whether this is not an age of high moral standards and small perform- 
 ance. In view of this, let us leave the men of the past to the measure that was 
 meted out to them by their contemporaries." 
 
322 BOOK-TALK. 
 
 When those redoubtable disputants, Tom Touchy and Will Wimble, appealed 
 to Sir Roger de Coverley to settle a dispute between them, the good knight 
 listened with patience, " and, having paused some time, told them, with the air 
 of a man who would not give his judgment rashly, that much might be said on 
 both sides." The Reviewer confesses that this temper of mind is one which he 
 finds very congenial. It is pleasant to dally with both sides of a question, — to 
 keep your mental eyes open to the magnificent vista of arguments that Alp-like 
 rise one above the other on either side, until on either side they melt away into 
 the immeasurable distance, far, far beyond the range of human vision. " To 
 speak," says Goethe, " is to begin to err." For we can hardly speak, we can 
 hardly even think, without limiting ourselves, without becoming partisans, 
 without ranging ourselves on one side or the other of a mooted question, with- 
 out closing our ears to the music which to our opponent's sense gives harmony to 
 his arguments. And, dear God ! it is so easy for us to go wrong. Even in the 
 cases where we are right, we probably reach the right by wrong reasoning. The 
 watch that has stopped is right twice in the twenty-four hours. Only very 
 young people are infallible. To be sure, there is the Pope ; but even he claims to 
 be infallible within the narrowest limitations, and only a small fraction of the 
 world is willing to yield him credence. For the rest, what test of right thinking 
 is there ? Our reason ? The chief use of our reason is to teach us on the mor- 
 row how false were our conclusions of the day before. The consensus of man- 
 kind? On no one subject has mankind reached a consensus. The judgment of 
 the best minds, of Matthew Arnold's remnant? How shall we know which are 
 the best minds, or, having found them, shall we find them in agreement? The 
 wisest man errs almost as often and as grievously as the fool. We have authority 
 for calling Solomon a wise inan, yet he made at least six hundred and ninety- 
 nine mistakes. If we wish to refrain from error, we must cease from thinking 
 and cease from speaking, or at least we must cease from coming to any decision 
 on any question that has the normal number of sides. 
 
 Still, if the Reviewer were p^'essed for a yea or a nay, he would side against 
 his correspondent. He would acknowledge the force of that gentleman's argu- 
 ments, he would be humbly alive to his own fallibility, but he would suggest, 
 not insist, that the truth is usually better than a lie. If the idols which " the 
 youthful and the enthusiastic" have set up are clay, it is best to point out the 
 truth, though it might then be in order to prove that the clay was at least of 
 a superior character. " Paint me with all my wrinkles," said Cromwell to the 
 artist who was inclined to flatter him, knowing well that the harshness of that 
 countenance, amid all its imperfections, was nobler than the sleek beauty of the 
 curled darling. Illusion may be helpful to the youthful and the enthusiastic ; 
 but disillusion is fatal, and there is no disillusion so terrible as that which springs 
 from the recognition that much of history and biography and fiction is a lie, — 
 as unfortunately it is. To quote again from the ever-quotable Goethe, the difier- 
 ence between men and women is that women deceive each other but do not de- 
 ceive men, while men do not deceive each other but do deceive women. And 
 women are glad to be deceived wherever truth would be painful to them. Tell 
 any woman exactly what you believe and what you know about her husband, 
 excellent but imperfect man as he may be, she would turn you out of her house 
 in angry scorn. The whole atmosphere of modern literature, and especially of 
 modern fiction, is womanly ; the conventions are womanly, — ^they are part of the 
 
BOOK-TALK. 323 
 
 general deception of women which is practised by men. But perhaps if the 
 novelist were more truthful, if he painted life as it is, if he gave us flesh-and- 
 blood heroes, with all the weakness and the error to which flesh and blood is 
 liable and the self-conquest of which it is capable, more men might be willing 
 to read the modem novel and might find strength and comfort and guidance in 
 it. History and biography are, of course, less conventionalized than fiction, for 
 they deal with real men, whose sins and struggles and sufferings have left an in- 
 effaceable record ; but it is precisely here, where real men are concerned, and not 
 imaginary puppets to whom all sorts of impossible qualities may freely be attrib- 
 uted, — it is precisely here that the lie does most harm, in the reaction which the 
 young and the enthusiastic are sure to experience when they at length discover 
 the inevitable truth. 
 
 There is another value in truthfulness where the biography of any artistic 
 worker is concerned, that it aids us in the establishment of truer and juster canons 
 of criticism. A work of art, in the last analysis, is' the expression of just so 
 much heart and brain as the artist was possessed of If the man is genuine and 
 sincere his work will be genuine and sincere ; if he is a sham his work will be 
 a sham. It is a good thing to have some means of positively identifying the 
 true from the false. Take the case of Thackeray, Dickens, and Bulwer. In 
 their own day each had his respective circle of worshippers, which insisted on 
 the manifest superiority of its own idol. De gusiibus non est disputandum is a 
 truism which acquires a certain dignity when clothed in a dead language. Never- 
 theless even matters of taste can be justified or discredited by biographical facts. 
 Every new light that has been thrown on Thackeray's character has increased 
 his reputation. We have learned to know the man as he was. We have learned 
 to read the man in his works. The criticism which described him as a soured, 
 disappointed, and vulgar cynic has had its day. The a priori judgment of 
 those who looked upon him as earnest, noble, loving, and lovable, as a Great- 
 heart fighting against error with infinite charity for the wrong-doer, with 
 humble consciousness of his own weakness, has been ratified by facts. On the 
 other hand, Dickens and, in a far greater degree, Bulwer have been sinking in 
 popular estimation. The criticism which, while recognizing the splendid genius 
 of Dickens, deplored his tendency to clap-trap and melodrama, his ofiences against 
 good taste, his egotism, and his womanish unreasonableness, has been confirmed 
 by the revelation that all these weaknesses were integral parts of his personal 
 character. Bulwer is the most striking example of the three. To many of us 
 who are unable to throw ourselves back into a former generation, to look at the 
 world through the eyes of our fathers or grandfathers, it is simply incredible that 
 an author whose books are full of so much sham philosophy, sham poetry, sham 
 emotion, sham humor, sham eloquence, should have been accepted seriously by 
 any sane man. " Bulwer nauseates me," says Hawthorne, who was himself too 
 genuine to tolerate sham : " he is the very pimple of the age's humbug. There 
 is no hope of the public so long as he finds a reader, an admirer, or a publisher." 
 A few years ago Bulwer's biography was written by his son : the darker shades 
 of his character were omitted, and he was presented to the world with the 
 conventional simper which adorns heroes of the average biography. But the 
 executor and fi-iend of the novelist's wife was determined that the true story* of 
 that lady's life should be given to the public. She published the actual corre- 
 spondence that had passed between Sir Edward and Lady Bulwer. Sir Edward, 
 
•324 BOOK-TALK. 
 
 by his own showing, was made to appear in so unworthy a light that his son 
 promptly appealed to the law to suppress the book. Now, however, the same 
 friend, Louisa Devey, has prepared a " Life of Eosina, Lady Bulwer" (Swann, 
 Sonnenschein, Lowrey & Co., London), which is based upon this correspondence, 
 upon the writings of Lady Bulwer, and upon the accounts which she herself 
 gave to the biographer. 
 
 It is not necessary to accept everything in Louisa Devey's book as the truth. 
 Lady Bulwer was no angel. She was violent in temper, narrow in mind, bitter 
 in her prejudices. The novels which she published, in which she attacked not 
 only her husband but all his circle of friends, — Dickens, Disraeli, Thackeray, 
 Palmerston, etc., — simply overshot the mark by their violence. They are vulgar, 
 foolish, execrable iu taste, weak in grammar, weak in syntax, strong only in 
 vituperation. The public read the books, laughed at them, and speedily forgot 
 them. They were excusable in looking upon them as the merest vagaries of 
 insanity. But this only made the pathos of the poor lady's position more 
 poignant. After all possible allowances, there is no doubt that she was cruelly, 
 even barbarously, wronged by her husband. He was unfaithful to her, lied to 
 her, deceived her ; he made her life wretched by his arrogant and overbearing 
 temper ; once at least he kicked her, and once he bit her savagely in the cheek. 
 After the separation he dogged her footsteps with spies, in the hope of convicting 
 her of some divorceable offence. In Paris a disgraceful public scandal was oc- 
 casioned by the arrest and trial of some of his emissaries caught in the act of 
 purloining her private papers. It may be that the young and the enthusiastic, 
 if in these days any such still worship Bulwer, will be disillusioned by this bare 
 statement of facts ; but isn't it just as well that the truth should be known, that 
 the sham should be unveiled ? 
 
 The most interesting of recent literary " finds," next to that of the two lost 
 parts of " The Journey from Parnassus," is a satire entitled " The Poets and 
 Poetry of America" (Benjamin & Bell, New York), the editor of which, " Geof- 
 frey Quarles," in an introductory argument which is written understandingly and 
 ably reasoijed, seeks to prove that its author was Edgar Allan Poe. He makes 
 out an excellent case, the strong points of which are as follows. The satire was 
 published in 1847, under the pseudonyme of " Lavante." The year 1847 has been 
 looked upon as the most unproductive in Poe's literary career. In March of that 
 year he had announced as soon to appear "The Authors of America, in Prose 
 and Verse ;" but the only known product of his pen duriug that year was the 
 short poem " Ulalume," which appeared anonymously. May not this satire have 
 been the final form of his proposed " Authors of America" ? He had written on 
 the subject of poetical satire, once in a review of Lowell's "Fable for Critics," 
 and again in one of Wihner's " Quacks of Helicon," suggesting in each case that 
 the heroic couplet of Pope and Dryden was the best form for satiric verse. This 
 satire is in heroic couplets. The unfamiliarity of the metre makes it difficult to 
 recognize in it any of the peculiar characteristics of Poe's poetical style. Indeed, 
 it may be owned at once that the satire has no poetical merit ; but, then, did not 
 Poe himself assert that " a satire, of course, is no po&n" ? In all other respects it 
 tallies perfectly with what we know about Poe. It praises the Southern authors 
 and attacks the Northern, just as Poe did in his critical essays. Yet Poe himself 
 is never mentioned in it. The judgments on Longfellow, Bryant, Lowell, Dana, 
 
BOOK-TALK. 325 
 
 Halleck, Willis, Holmes, Pike, Simms, Whittier, Orancli, are to a great extent 
 echoes of the opinions Poe had already expressed in his " Literati" and in his 
 lectures on " The Poets and Poetry of America." The satire has all Poe's arro- 
 gance, egotism, and intensity ; it shows the same mental limitations, the same 
 poverty of wit and humor, the same disregard for truth, the same petty spite 
 and malice. As the editor remarks, " Either Poe wrote this satire, or somebody 
 else, still unknown, wrote it with Poe's experience, Poe's doctrines, Poe's animus, 
 and in Poe's language.'' In the " Supplementary" note the editor overreaches 
 himself by too much subtilty. He rightly argues that, as Poe was fond of 
 ingenious mystifications, he might sign his own name in some cryptographic 
 fashion in his anonymous poems. The last couplet rims as follows : 
 
 Should public hate upon my pen react, 
 No matter this : I will not aught retract. 
 
 This couplet contains all the letters in the name of Edgar Allan Poe. It 
 also contains all the letters of these words, "American Poets and Poetry, a 
 Satire ;" or these, " A True and Honest Satire by Edgar Allan Poe." This is 
 not so bad. However, " Quarles" then goes on to find that " Edgar Poe (La- 
 vante)" yields this anagram : " A Real Poet Aveng'd," — which is ingenious. But 
 why, if Poe chose the pseudonyme with a view to this anagram, did he not 
 perfect the latter by calling himself " Levante" (a name actually used in one of 
 his poems) ? Then " Edgar A. Poe (Levante)" would have yielded " A Heal 
 Poet Avenged," without the awkwardness of the elision, and with his flill name 
 exactly as he signed it. 
 
 " Miss Bayle's Romance, a Story of To-Day'' (Henry Holt & Co.), is another 
 attempt to paint the American girl abroad, this time from the point of view of 
 an Englishman, possibly Grant Allen. Miss Bayle is the daughter of a Chicago 
 millionaire who has made his money in shady railroad transactions. Her great 
 beauty, and her father's millions, gain admission for her into the highest English 
 circles, even those of royalty ; she is toasted at banquets and celebrated in the 
 newspapers, and ends by marrying a British lord. Evidently the author likes 
 her and intends us to like her. But in this he fails. She has nothing to recom- 
 mend her but fi-ankness and good nature (we are told, indeed, that she is clever, 
 but are given none of her clever sayings), and these good qualities are over- 
 shadowed by her essential vulgarity. A great deal of pains has been expended 
 to throw an air of lifelikeness over the book. Real persons— -the Prince of 
 Wales, Gladstone, Labouchere, Lord and Lady Randolph Churchill— are intro- 
 duced under their own names, and other well-known persons under very thin 
 disguises. Long extracts are given from the letters of Mrs. and Miss Bayle, 
 which are painfully lifelike,— just the sort of letters that the every-day man 
 gets from his wife, his sister, and his sweetheart. The author's evidently very 
 accurate knowledge of Europe and of America has been laid under contribution. 
 The names of Chicago, New York, Boston, and London papers, of the steamers that 
 ply on various rivers, of leading hotels and restaurants in the New World and the 
 Old, the characteristics of numerous out-of-the-way localities,— all these give the 
 book that appearance of accuracy and reliability and that exhilarating interest 
 which we look for only in a guide-book. Indeed (to drop airy persiflage), the book 
 is dull in spite of the author's evident cleverness. The best thing in it is the 
 sketch of Ezra P. Bayle, a typical American financier. The various tricks by 
 
326 BOOK-TALK. 
 
 whicli he " made his pile," and the manner in which he was received in Eng- 
 land when he joined his family there, are excellent bits of satiric comedy. 
 
 " WaUingford" (J. B. Lippincott Company) is another book which aims at 
 securing the factitious interest of local color and personality. WaUingford is a 
 suburb of Philadelphia, the author is understood to be an official of the Balti- 
 more and Ohio Railroad, various railroad magnates are introduced under their 
 real names, and accurate pictures of Philadelphia and New York streets form a 
 romantic background. The book is not without interest, but it has that air of 
 being written by a clever young man which is somehow (perhaps unreasonably) 
 exasperating to the maturer mind. However, the author will improve. He will 
 not always be young. Let us trust that he will always retain his cleverness. 
 
 "Until you understand a writer's ignorance," says Coleridge, "presume 
 yourself ignorant of his understanding." This excellent saying is called to the 
 Reviewer's mind by John Darby's " Nineteenth Century Sense : the Paradox of 
 Spiritualism" (J. B. Lippincott Company). There are portions which he is not 
 sure that he has comprehended, but he is willing to own that the muddle may 
 be in his own mind, especially as the larger portion which he finds intelligible is 
 a sufficiently vigorous revivification of mediaeval metaphysics in terms of the 
 nineteenth century. But a Reviewer who has grown to doubt all metaphysics, 
 who is willing, in John Darby's terminology, to grant comprehension but not 
 apprehension to the human mind, who looks on all ontological speculations as 
 " words thrown at" the unknowable with only the result of further obscuring 
 it, to such a Reviewer it can make little difference whether he understands the 
 author's ignorance or is ignorant of his understanding. 
 
 The Seybert commission, which, according to the terms of the will of Henry 
 Seybert, was appointed by the University of Pennsylvania to investigate modern 
 Spiritualism, has just made its " Preliminary Report" (J. B. Lippincott Com- 
 pany). The commission is composed of Dr. William Pepper, Dr. Joseph 
 Leidy, Dr. George A. Koenig, Prof. Robert Ellis Thompson, Prof. George S. 
 FuUerton, Dr. Horace Howard Furness, Mr. Coleman Sellers, Dr. James W. 
 White, Dr. Calvin B. Knerr, and Dr. S. Weir Mitchell. It had sittings with a 
 number of well-known mediums, whose names are given in the report, and it 
 examined into the questions of independent slate-writing, spirit-rapping, ma- 
 terializations, and other special lines of mediumship. The committee went to 
 work in an impartial and scientific spirit, and they unanimously deny the 
 honesty of the mediums or the genuineness of the manifestations. They hold 
 themselves open to conviction, however, and express a willingness to continue 
 their researches in the hope of meeting with some variation in the monotony 
 of imposture. Aside firom their scientific value, the papers are amusing and 
 entertaining reading. 
 
CURRENT NOTES. 327 
 
 OUEEEI^T liTOTES. 
 
 The Conclusion of the Matter. — Seventeen years of steady and faith- 
 ful trial upon sixty thousand different people has given ample opportunity 
 to establish for Compound Oxygen these several positions as true. It is the 
 vital part of the atmosphere made very potent, being made magnetic during the 
 process of manufacture. 
 
 Compound Oxygen has three distinct modes of action upon the human or- 
 ganism : 1. Its mechanical action, in that it increases very much the respiratory 
 fiinction over that of ordinary breathing. This increased action is felt all over 
 the body at once, because the lungs are just as universally present in the whole 
 body by their rhythmical vibration as the heart is by the ramification of its blood- 
 vessels. 2. Its chemical action, in that the solvent character of the atmosphere 
 is greatly increased by the magnetic property of the Compound Oxygen ; hence 
 the blood is more efficiently purified by the more rapid solution and ejection of 
 carbon, — ^the worn-out tissues of the body ever present ; hence it dissolves and 
 eliminates from the system many deleterious substances which otherwise are 
 very difficult of ejection. In this way it relieves the body of its poisonous 
 foreign tenants, — malaria, quinine, mercury, uric acid, excess of bile, — and 
 is the deadly enemy of the now-dreaded bacilli. 3. Its vital action. This latter 
 is vastly more important than the two former, and without it the Compound 
 Oxygen would not work any such results as we have produced. Pure Oxygen 
 possesses the first two properties, but not this third one. 
 
 This vital action is directly upon the brain, spinal marrow, and the ganglia 
 of the sympathetic system of nerves. These great nervous centres seize upon 
 this wonderful compound, appropriate it, and thereby become larger, more 
 robust, and more active. 
 
 As these centres generate all the vitality there is in the whole man (and 
 normal vitaKty is health), is it strange that nearly all the maladies (these depend 
 upon deficient, disordered vitality) — so multitudinous in their manifestations — 
 should be made to give way before the steady march of our newly-generated 
 vital forces ? And, when the victory is won, the peace of sound health should 
 be permanent. 
 
 (2 F. 34.) "LuDlNQTON, MiOHiOAN, April 4, 1887. 
 
 " I will drop you a few lines to let you know how I have held out since 
 using your Compound Oxygen. I am enjoying very good health. As yet have 
 not taken a bit of drugs since using Compound Oxygen, except once last spring 
 I had an attack of malarial fever ; sent for a homoeopathic doctor and he brokg it 
 up. I was quite weak for six weeks, and told the doctor that I wanted some 
 Compound Oxygen. He said he didn't believe in it, but it did not make any 
 difference with me, for I have just as much faith in it as ever. Would have had 
 some more if we had not had such a drought last summer. I have a little yet 
 for an emergency. . , .. . , , 
 
 " I have been acting as secretary for you ever since my testimonial appeared 
 in print. I did not know that you had a world-wide circulation of Health and 
 Life but I have received letters from Maine to California and all over the United 
 States and Canada, and am looking for one from across the ocean every day. 
 
328 CURRENT NOTES. 
 
 There has not been more than three that has sent stamp for return mail, but I 
 have answered every letter but one, and have always been sorry that I did not 
 answer that. It came last spring when I had fever, and I could not find it when 
 I was able to write. Mr. P., of Ludington, saw my testimonial, and asked me if 
 it was true. I acknowledged it to him, and he sent for some. I believe it must 
 have cured him, for he is around again apd looks better than before. I have not 
 had any difficulty with my lungs this winter ; have had a severe winter. Have 
 only had two hard colds dixring the entire winter, and that from undue exposure. 
 Have not had a touch of the rheumatism since using Compound Oxygen, and 
 before, I was laid up every damp day that we had, so I am positive that it does 
 not act as a stimulant only and wear off as soon as we stop using it, as neighbors 
 told me it would do. I have not had but two light touches of toothache since I 
 used Compound Oxygen, about two years ago. 
 
 " I thought, perhaps, some one would like to know how I held out, as I have 
 recommended it to so many all over the country. 
 
 " Mes. M. J. Feench." 
 
 Any one desiring to know more of this remarkable remedy can send to Drs. 
 Starkey and Palen, 1529 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for their new 
 Brochure, called " Compound Oxygen ; its Mode of Action and Results," which 
 will be sent free by return mail. 
 
 The most remarkable short story of the month, if not of the year, is " The 
 Farrier Lass o' Piping Pebworth," by AmSlie Eivps, in the July Lippineott. It 
 has the characteristics of a rare old etching with a sympathetic touch that gives 
 the figures life and realism. The whole story is a series of warm and vivid word- 
 paintings, each line pulsing with life. It would be easily susceptible of elabora- 
 tion into a powerful, full-fledged novel. — New Yorh World. 
 
 HoEsroED's Acid Phosphate in Bilious Diseases. — Dr. D. Schaub, 
 Muncie, Indiana, says, "I have used it in cases of bilious disease, and the 
 results were all that could be desired. It is valuable." 
 
 The approaching centenary of the Constitution, to be celebrated in Phila- 
 delphia on September 17, 18, and 19, gives timeliness to an admirable article by 
 Moncuie D. Conway, entitled " A Suppressed Statesman of our Early Kepublic," 
 that will appear in the September number of Lippincott's Magazine. It portrays 
 the career of Edmund Randolph, of Virginia, to whom Mr. Conway insists that 
 the initiation and ratification of the Constitution were especially due. The pub- 
 lic will be surprised to learn what an important figure Randolph was in his own 
 day, both as a man of action and a man of thought. 
 
 HoESFOEp's Acid Phosphate in Obstinate Indigestion. — Dr. F. G. 
 McGavock, McGavock, Arkansas, says, " It gives me pleasure to bear testimony 
 to its beneficial action in obstinate indigestion.'' 
 
 Hoeseoed's Acid Phospate foe Indigestion. — Dr. George W. Hall, 
 St. Louis, says, " I took it for indigestion and found it of decided advantage." 
 
 Complete novels for early numbers of Lippincott's Magazine are promised by 
 Louise Stockton, Mrs. A. L. Wister, John Habberton, and Capt. Charles King. 
 
 Hoeseoed's Acid Phosphate in Digestive Disoedees. — Dr. E. V. 
 "Wright, Saratoga Springs, New York, says, "I have used it for years, and 'my 
 experience has proved beyond question that the peculiar combination of phos- 
 phates renders it most valuable in the treatment of digestive disorders." 
 
AGAZINE ADVERTISER. 
 
 PARK PLACE INSTITUTE. 
 
 No. 1416 Park Ave., Baltimore, Md. 
 
 {formbrly ohdar hill sbmimart.) 
 English, French, and German Boarding and Day 
 School for Young Ladies and Little Girls. Opens Sep- 
 tembcr 15th, with a full and efficient corps of Professors 
 and Teachers. Send for Circular. 
 
 Miss Melina R. Heckart, Principal. 
 
 MASSACHUSETTS, BOSTON. 69 Chester Square. 
 Gannett Institute for Youus; toadies. 
 
 Family and Day Pupils. Full corps of teachers and 
 lecturers. The thirty-fourth year will begin Wednesday, 
 Sept. 28, 1887, For catalogue and circular apply to 
 Rev. Geo. Gannett, A.M., Principal. 
 
 FRENCH and English Home School, under charge of 
 Mme. Clerc and Miss M. L. Pecke. Frenchspoken 
 fluently in 2 years. Terms, $^00 per year. Address 
 Mme. H. Clerc, 4313 and 4315 Walnut St., Phila., Pa. 
 
 THE NATIONAL SCHOOL ^^ 
 
 ELOCUTION AND ORATORY. 
 
 (J. W. SHOEMAKER, A. M., Founder.) 
 LaTge and experienced staff of Teachers. Diplomas 
 and Degrees. FIFTEENTH YEAR begins September 
 26th. Send for catalogue containing report of last 
 Annual Commencement. John H. Bechtel, Sec- 
 retary, 1124 Arch Street, Philadelphia. 
 
 Ohio, Cinolnuati, Mt. Auburn. 
 JBCt. JLtihtim Tnstitttte. Established 1856. 
 
 Family School for Young Ladies. History and Literature 
 a apeuialty. Careful Home Training and Social Culture. 
 Musio and Art. Advantages of Cincinnati made available to 
 pupils. European vacation parties. Address H. Tuane 
 Miller. 
 
 chart containing Full Set Self- Teaching Lessons in either 
 Art, J.0 Cents ; both arts, '^O Cents. No stamps accepted. 
 HAVEK'8 COLLEGE, Pliila. Pn. 
 
 DUUIil Iliilll/ mailed to any address, lo cents. 
 Ling-Ig's Collegtt 1431 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 6[xtension Jjamp 
 
 No. 34. 
 
 Diameter orBase.lS inches. 
 
 Height Extended, 6 feet. 
 
 Closed, 3 feet. 
 
 This Lamp is con- 
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 WITH JAPANESE 
 UMBRELLA SHADE, 
 
 Price of Lamp, . . . $16.00 
 Price of Umbrella & Holder, 3.76 
 
 Fitted with Duplex Burner. 
 
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 Boston. 
 
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 Send id-cent stamp for Circnlar. 
 
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 I 
 
 AM now offering an unusually well-selected line of Solid 
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 JENS F. PEDERSEN, 
 
 J Importer of Swiss and Dealer in American 'Watches, 
 la MAIIIIIN X.ANE, NE'W YORK. 
 
 Send 4 cents in postage for New " Red Line" illustrated Cata- 
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 Shopping by Mail. 
 
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 Cliestnut Street, I'tUlad.eJphin. 
 
 4^.^^.i^.znummm, 
 
 A.WlTTHMANN, 
 
 Eb Park Piace, D.T 
 
 Iiawn Tennis Score Book and Rules, Price, 15 cts. 
 Wedding Cards, Monograms, Crests and address Dies. 
 Plate and 50 cards in a neat case, J1.25. 
 CHAS. R. BOURNE, Engraver, 271 Broadway, N.Y. 
 
 €30 Chestnut Si PHiLADELPHifl 
 
THE reputation of Messrs. Bailey, Banks & Biddle's 
 department of design for work of exceptionally fine 
 character will be fully sustained by the present designs 
 of Gem Jewelry, which range from simple round brooches and 
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 enriched with precious stones of various colors and with en- 
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 A few rubies and emeralds of exceptional character may 
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 Strangers passing through the city are specially invited to 
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 The arrangements for submitting goods on approval to 
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 when definite instructions are given in ordering, or the choice 
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 Bailey, 
 
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 2 
 
WM. D. ROGERS, SON & CO., 
 
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 2°'' 250 VARIETIES °' *;, 
 
 than finest 
 
 Foreign and American papers, 
 with full information as to sizes, 
 number of sheets to the pound, 
 cost of envelopes to match, etc. 
 Our papers range in price iirom 
 IS cents per pound upwards. 
 SPECIAL INDUCEMENTS 
 to parties getting up a club or 
 ordering large quantities. 
 Postage on Paper is only 16 cents per pound, 
 
 Samuel Ward Company 
 
 (OID STAND WAIID & GAT), 
 
 STATIONERS, ENGRAVERS, 
 
 AND 
 
 BLANK BOOK MANUFACTURERS. 
 
 178 to 184 Devonshire St., Boston, Mass. 
 
 O-Weddlng Announcements, Visiting Cards, Monograms, 
 
 Dance Orders, etc., a Specialty. 
 
 Correspondence Solicited. 
 
 Refmnces : Mercantile Agencies, or any Bank in Boston. 
 
 
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 600 Handsomely-Furnished Rooms at 
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 FIRST-CLASS RESTAURANTS AT MODERATE PRICES. 
 
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 Travellers can live well at the Grand Union for 
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 Send 6e. in Stamps for tUe best Ghuide 
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 XISTABTjISHED 1870. 
 
 GOLD BOUGHT. 
 
 Silverware, Jewelry, Watohes, Plates, Mutilated 
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 Gold, Silver Eefiner, Sweep-Smelter, 
 823 Filbert St., Pbiladelptaia, Pa. 
 
LIPPINCO TT'i> MONTHL Y MA GAZINE AD VER TISER. 
 
 Marvin's Jexirel Cabinets. 
 
 Our new style Jewelry Safe is a handsome cabinet 
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 MARVIN'S 
 
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 FOR SILVER-WARE. 
 
 These safes are made in several styles and hand- 
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 Combination Lock of 1,000,000 changes. 
 
 Marvin Safe Company, 
 
 727 CHESTNUT ST., PMla., Pju 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. I 
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 LONDON. J 
 
 W^abUmheA Mat/ Cenfttrtf. 
 
 Bonus = = 
 
 Accident Insurance is Good ; 
 
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 Life and Accident Insurance is Better. 
 
 Optittias = ^ 
 
 ENDOWMENT BOND that 
 
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 combines PROTECTION in case of death 
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 INSTALMENTS PAID FOR ITS PUR- 
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 Send address and age to The Penn Mutual 
 Life Insurance Company, 927 Chestnut St., 
 Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
o fj-B^iPi?iiiCTPcooPAiiys 
 
 PIII1,AI>EI,PHIA, 1887. 
 
 This BTTLLETIN contains a Ijist of onr N'E'W iPTJBHiICA.- 
 TION"S, -with, torief notioes of their contents, etc., together -with 
 announcements of -worfes now in Press to he issned shortly. 
 
 Our Pnhlications are for Sale hy Booksellers generally, or \\rill 
 be sent hy mail, post-paid, npon receipt of price. 
 
 The Reign of Queen Victoria: 
 
 A Survey of Fifty Years of Progress. Edited by T. Humphry Ward. 2 vols. 
 8vo. 1250 pages. Extra cloth. $8.00. 
 
 The pi'incipal chapters in the work have been contributed as follows : 
 The Army, Lord Wolsblby ; The Navy, Lord Bkasset ; The Administration of the 
 Law, Lord Justice Bowbn ; The Civil Service, Sir E. Wblby ; The Development of the 
 Constitution, Sir "Will'iam Anson ; National Finance, Mb. Leonard Courtney ; India, 
 Sir H. S. Maine ; Ireland, Sir R. Blennerhassbtt ; The Growth and Distribution of 
 Wealth, Mb. Giffen ; Industrial Organization, Mr. Mundblla ; Agriculture, Sir J. 
 Caied ; The Iron Trade, Sir I. Lothian Bell ; The Cotton Trade, Mr. J. Slagg ; Schools, 
 Mr. Matthew Arnold ; Science, Professor Huxley ; Literature, Dr. E. G-arnett ; 
 Medicine and Surgery, Mb. Brudenbll Carter ; The Theatre, Mr. "W. Archer. 
 
 Elements of Metallurgy. 
 
 A Practical Treatise on the Art of Extracting Metals from their Ores. By J. 
 Arthur Phillips, F.KS., M. Inst. C.E., F.C.S., P.G.S., etc. Ancien :B16ve 
 de I'Eeole des Mines, Paris. New Edition. Revised and Enlarged by the 
 Author and H. Bauerman, F.G.S. With 232 Illustratioos, drawn to Scale 
 and reduced in many instances from Working Drawings. One volume. Royal 
 8vo. 848 pages. Extra cloth. |9:00. 
 
 The progress of invention in all branches of metallurgical industry during the last 
 ten years has led to the enlargement of the volume, both in the niimbej of pages and' il- 
 lustrations. Large additions have been made in the section devoted to Iron, and many 
 notable additions will be found under the heads of Copper, Lead, Silver, and Gold, dealing 
 with the newer developments in pro&esses for the smelting and extraction of these metals 
 from their ores. 
 
 Philadelphia and its Environs. 
 
 New Edition of 1887. Entirely Rewritten and Handsomely Illustrated with over 
 one hundred and fifty Engravings. 8vo. Paper cover. 50 cents. 
 
 The Seyhert Commission on Spiritualism. 
 
 Report of the Commission appointed by the University of Pennsylvania to investi- 
 gate Modern Spiritualism, in accordance with the request of the late Henry 
 Seybert. 8vo. Extra cloth. fl.OO. 
 
 Coming from such a source, and from a Commission composed of honorable professional 
 gentlemen, impressed with the seriousness of their undertaking, the Eeport cannot fail to 
 prove highly interesting and valuable to all who wish to have their doubts removed (and 
 who does not ?) about this absorbing question. 
 
 S 
 
NEW PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. UPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 Nineteenth Century Sense: 
 
 The Paradox op Spiritualism. By John Darby, author of " Odd Hours 
 of a Physician," " Thinkers and Thinking," " Two Thousand Years After," 
 " Brushland," » Hours with John Darby." 16mo. Extra cloth. $1.00. 
 It is a very thorough and comprehenBiye discussion of the subject which will awaken 
 considerable interest among thoughtful persons. The author's method is quite ingenious 
 and original, and, aiming as he does to reconcile the apparently unreooncilable, his con- 
 clusions will prove worthy of the careful consideration of both friends and opponents of 
 the doctrines of Spiritualism. 
 
 The Old Mam^ sellers Secret. 
 
 By E. Marlitt. Translated by Mrs. A. L. Wister. 12mo. Cheap Edition. 
 Paper cover. 25 cents. 
 
 Thekla. 
 
 A Story of Viennese Musical Life. By William Armstrong. 12mo. Extra 
 cloth. $1.00. 
 
 A Summer in Old/port Harbor. 
 
 A Novel. By W. H. Metoalf. 12mo. Cloth. Ornamented binding. $1.25. 
 
 Mistaken Paths. 
 
 A Novel. By Herbert Gr. Diok. Extra cloth. Ink and Gold Ornaments. 
 $1.25. 
 
 "The story is well developed and the moral sound. The characters are in no way 
 overdrawn, and the interest often intense." — American Bookseller. 
 
 Behind the Blue Ridge. 
 
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 "This is a graphic, dramatic, and pathetic 'homely narrative,' as it calls itself, of 
 Virginia life before, during, and after the war. It is racy of the soil, and abounds in 
 strong touches of local character as well as picturesque and eloquent description. It is 
 one of the best of the fast multiplying novels of Southern life, and gives abundant material 
 for the study of Southern human nature, which now seems likely to form the staple of 
 more romance in our literature than the Northern, even as the scenery of the South is 
 more romantic, if not by nature, yet by the baptism of war and the glamour of adventure." 
 — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 " A story of life and manners in "the mountains of Virginia, in which description, 
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 "A charming hook, and full of interest from beginning to end; it shows the pen 
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 Bellona^s Husband. A Romance. 
 
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 This volume has for its object to illustrate, by means of romance and satire, the under- 
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LIPPINGOTT COMPANY. 
 
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 7 
 
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 Quentin Durward. 
 
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 Bleak House. {2 vols.) 
 
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 PEOPLE TAKE 
 
 Two very serious risks, who allow themselves to become Constipated, and then 
 attempt to remedy the trouble with some violent purgative. They take the risk, 
 in the first place, of inflammation of the Bowels ; and, in the second place, of 
 weakening the muscular power of the intestines. Ayer's Pills 
 
 As a Regulator, 
 
 relieve and prevent Constipation. They are prompt in their action, and, being 
 purely vegetable, may be safely administered to young children as well as to adults. 
 
 Capt. J. H. Blake, of the steamer 
 Raphael, New York City, says : " I can- 
 not find any remedy for Constipation, 
 to take the place of Ayer's Pills, and 
 should not consider my medicine chest 
 complete without them." 
 
 Dr. J. O. R. Stetson, of Pittsburgh, 
 Pa., writes: " I believe Ayer's Pills to be 
 the safest and best medicine known for 
 that large variety of disorders where a 
 cathartic is required." 
 
 E. P. Robertson, Druggist, Mount 
 Cross, Va., has sold Ayer's Pills for the 
 last sixteen years. He says: "They 
 give satisfaction in every instance. 
 Most of my customers refuse to have 
 any others." 
 
 Mrs. M. D. Coder, P. M., Glenwood, 
 Idaho Territory, writes ; " I have great 
 faith in your medicines, and frequently 
 remark to my husband that if he wishes 
 to keep me alive, he must keep me in 
 Ayer's Pills." 
 
 Jules Hauel, the celebrated perfumer, 
 of Philadelphia, says : " I have found 
 Ayer's Cathartic Pills to be » better 
 family medicine for common use than 
 any other within my knowledge. They 
 are not only efficient but safe and pleas- 
 ant to be taken — qualities which must 
 make them valued by the public." 
 
 "Ayer's Pills," writes Morris Gates, 
 of Downsville, N. Y., " cured me of 
 Stomach and Liver troubles." 
 
 or's 
 
 XllSy 
 
 Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass. Sold by all Druggiits and Dealers in Medicine, 
 
LIPHNCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 
 
 THE PROPHYLACTIC TOOTH BRUSH. 
 
 (Adults' and Children's Sizes.) A prophylactic, as itTvill thoroughly clean bet'wecn 
 
 the teetll. Recommended by the most eminent dentists. For 
 
 ksale by all dealers in Toilet Goods, Send for our circulars and direc- 
 
 lionsforuse. FLORENCE MFC3-. CO.. «» piopence 
 
 HoMCEOPATHY. — SJx International Awards, the only 
 ones ever given an American Homceopathic Pharmacy, 
 attest the excellence of oUr preparations. Our Standard 
 Homoeopathic Medicines have a world-wide reputation. 
 Many druggists keep them. Orders by mail filled. 
 Price-Lists, etc. , free. Address : BOERICKE & 
 TAFEL, loii Arch' Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 Business established in 1835. 
 
 Sole lnvet^^°'^ _^^_ ^"c/ Patentees 
 TRANSFERRING PAPER, 
 
 FOR STAMPINO FOR EMBROIDERY. 
 
 Importers ot Fine Embroidery Sill<s, Foloselle, and 
 etching Sillit. Send Z cent stamp for circulars. 
 
 104 FRANKLIN ST., NEW YORK. 
 
 The Dana Bickford 
 
 FAMIUY KNITTER 
 
 Knits everything required by the 
 household, of any quality, texture, and 
 weight desired. 
 
 DANA BIGEFORB, Fres't, 
 
 795 broadway, n. t. 
 Agents Wanted. 
 
 R. M. LAMBIE, 
 
 ALL KINDS OF 
 
 BOOK 
 
 HOLDERS 
 
 The Most Perfect 
 
 Dictionary Holder. 
 
 Send for niustrated 
 
 Catalogue. 
 136E.13thSt.,N.Y. 
 
 KIMBALL'S SATIN 
 
 STRAIGHT CUT CIGARETTES 
 
 People of refined taste who 
 desire exceptionally fine cigar- 
 ettes should use only onr 
 Straight Cut, put up in satin 
 packets and boxes of 10s, 20s, 
 50s, and 100s. 
 
 14 Prize Medals. 
 
 WM. S. KIMBALL & CO. 
 
 YOU IVEEO ONE." 
 
 Your Monogram Rubber Stamp, with 
 pads and indelible ink, 3 letter designs, 
 Ji.oo; z letter designs, 50 cents. Three- 
 Blade Knife, a novelty combined with 
 your name, for marking linen, |i. 00 by 
 mail. Agents send 10 cents for 80-page 
 catalogue. 
 
 F. P. HAMMOND & CO.. Aurora. 111. 
 
 ii 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO.'S 
 
 MATCHLESS" PENS. 
 
 These Pens combine the elasticity and freedom of a 
 gold pen with the quickness of action and other qualities 
 which are desired by those who prefer steel pens. 
 
 They are the best Pens made for all work where a 
 smooth point and perfect elasticity are required ; and one 
 of them will last as long as two or three ordinary steel 
 pens. 
 
 They are now sold in every State and Territory in the 
 Union. 
 
 Send six cents in stamps for samples and price-list, 
 and mention the name of this magazine. 
 
 A. C. MoCIilTRG & CO., 
 
 tVnhttslt .-Lve.. ana yjTntli&odt Stt'CBt, Chieago, 
 
 Now rioyes' New No. 19 Is self-shut- 
 ting:. Strong: springs securely shut, 
 safely support and. closely clasp 
 the bulky book. Book-aellers, be- 
 ware I This bodes brisk business by[ 
 and by. More wire hoiders sold 
 in past 2 years tLan all other 
 makes combined, and not \ 
 complaint. Ask any dealer 
 for tbem or send to Ii.W.NOYES, 
 00 & 101 W. Uonroe St. , Chicago. 
 
 Eor Reducing Family Expses. &rto7T/x°:l'Ss''^1S 
 
 publishers. New School-Books lower than publishers' 
 wholesale list prices. Second-hand School-Bobks in pro- 
 portion. Over 4000 different titles (representing all publish- 
 ers), with classified index, showing quickly Uie different 
 authors in the various branches of study. Mailed free on 
 application. We also issue *' Catalogue T>" of prices we 
 pay for Second-hand and New School-Books. 
 
 Arthur Hinds, No, 4 Cooper Institute, N.Y. City. 
 
 ESTABLISHED 1846. 
 
 FRANKLIN 
 
 PRINTIHG INK WORKS, 
 
 JOHN WOODRUFFS SONS, 
 
 ISIT and. 1S19 Cherry Street, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
 
 18 
 
 This Magazin e is printed with J ohn WoodruflTs Sons' Ink. 
 
 A POPULAR Work on 
 
 its DISEASES AND 
 
 TREATMENT 
 
 by C. Hbkbi 
 Leonard, M. 
 D. Cloth, 820 pp., 
 116 cuts, post- 
 ■paid,$2 00;paper 
 $1.00. Circular free. Gives treatment for ALL Hair and 
 Beard Disea-ses ; how to bleach, remove, dye it. 200 prescrip- 
 tions. Illu6t*d Modlcul Jour. Co. Pub'ru, Detroit, Mich 
 "*Thb Hair: its Growth, Cabe, Diseases, and 
 Treatment/ is a work full in its information in regard 
 to the hair. The author has given the subject very pro- 
 found consideration, and the information presented is 
 very great, and will prove very valuable." — Cleveland 
 {Ohio) P/ain Dealer. 
 
 ** It is undoubtedly the most complete work of its kind 
 ever published, and will well repay perusal, as it is written in 
 a style both entertaining and instructive." — Daily Globe. 
 
The Flynt Waist or Ttoe Corset, f uxedo Summer Suit 
 
 Pat. Jan. 6, 1874; Pat. Feb. 15, 1876. 
 
 No. I represents u. high-necked garment. No. 2, a low- 
 necked onCj which admits of being high in the back, and 
 low front. No. 3 is to illustrate our mode of adjusting 
 the " Flynt Hose Support*' each side of the hip, ako, the 
 most correct way to apply the waist-bands for the drawers, 
 under and outside petticoats and dress skirt. No. 4 shows 
 the Flynt Extension and Nursing Waist, appreciated by 
 mothers. No, 5, the Misses' Waist, with Hose Supports 
 attached. No. 6, how we dress very little peojple. No. 7 
 illustrates how the warfi threads of ike fabric cross at 
 right angles in the back, insuring in every waist thb 
 
 UOST SUCCESSFUI. SHOULDEB-BRACB EVBR COHSTRUCTBD. 
 
 4S-Our *' Manual," containing 4^6 pages of reading 
 matter, relating to the subject of Hygienic Modes of 
 Under-dressing, mailed free to any physician or lady. 
 Mrs. O. p. FLYNT, 319 Columbus Ave., Boston, Mass. 
 
 OUR LATEST 
 
 Children's Stamping Outfits 
 
 Containing 63 useful and pretty pat- 
 terns, with materials and instructions 
 for use. Price, only 35 cents each. 
 Very instructive and amusing to the 
 little folks. Every Fancy Goods dealer, 
 who does Stamping, could well make 
 use of one. Send 5 one-cent stamps 
 for sample-copy of our 
 
 Perfection Quarterly. 
 It contains about 300 New Patterns at 
 each issue. Iiiberal discount to the 
 trade. 
 
 Haniugton & Cowles, 
 
 90 Walker St., NewVork. 
 
 jHEAMERTCMCrCLES 
 Descriptive Catalogue 
 ON Application. 
 
 UORMULlYaJEFEERY 
 
 =i<-MFG.CO.-^ 
 Chicago, III. 
 
 !sT Manufacturers IN AMERICA 
 
 PrTnT YOUR OWN CARDS! 
 
 Press $3.00. Circular Press 88.00, N ews- 
 aper Size, $44.00. ' Type-setting easy. 
 I'rinted directions. Send 2 stamps for our 
 list of Presses, Type, etc., to factory. 
 
 EELSET & CO., Ueriden, Conn. 
 
 Plbase Mention this Magazine. 
 
 /S:r: 
 
 Ie a "Knitted Costume." 
 Consists of Bloase,SkiTt, 
 and Sash of the finest 
 worsted materials. Is 
 Full fashion (no seams), 
 11 a variety of colors. 
 I a. fact, no Lady or Miss 
 ntioipating a visit to 
 Sea-shore, the moun- 
 tains, or who 
 may indulge 
 in Tachting, 
 E wi n g , 
 Lawn Tennis, 
 or other out- 
 door sports, 
 can afford to 
 be without, 
 at least, one 
 of these bean- 
 tiful cos- 
 tumes. Cir- 
 culars with 
 full descrip- 
 tion sent upon 
 applioation. 
 
 Copyrighted, 1867, by James McCreery & Co. 
 
 For sale only by 
 
 JAMES McCREERV & CO., 
 
 Broadway and Eleventh St., He^ York, 
 
 THE B EST CAL ICOES. 
 
 WM. SIMPSON & SONS, 
 
 SILVER GRAYS AND BLACK AND WHITES 
 
 MOURNING PRINTS. 
 
 NOVELTIES IN 
 
 EDDT8T0ITE 
 
 FANCY PRINTS. 
 
 F-A.ST O O Xj O IE?. S. 
 
 EPlNiyO'S 
 
 37 Boulevard, de Strasbourg, 
 
 PARIS, FBANCE. 
 
 Fleur de Lys Face Powder. 
 
 Imparting to the Skin a soft and deli- 
 cate whiteness. 
 
 Absolutely free from all injurious sub- 
 stances. Sold everywhere. 
 
 HENRY DREYFUS, 
 10 Courtlandt Street, New Turk. 
 
 SOLE AGENT FOB THE U. 8. 
 
 19 
 
LIPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 
 
 Protect your magazines or pamphlets 
 by using a 
 
 "COMMON SENSE BINDER," 
 
 Size for LIPPINOOTT'S, SORIBNER'S, CENTUET, 
 
 HARPER'S MONTHLY, ATLANTIC, 
 
 and ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 75 cents each, by mall, post-paid. 
 
 Twenty-six sizes kept in stock. Send for a list and 
 mention this publication, 
 
 ASA I,. SHIPMAN'S SONS, 
 
 lO Murray St., New York. 
 
 ^VaF 
 
 54 FULL 'DcscF^/ prior/ OF 
 — MANY THOUSANDS IN USE— 
 
 EXETERMACHINEWORKS 
 
 SALESROOM 
 
 rACTORY-EXETER,NM.- boston, mass. 
 
 CATALOGUE No. i. - STEAM-WAR1VII NC- 
 RESIOENCES-PUBLIC BUILDINGS. 
 
 CATALOGUE No. 2.-CREENHOUSE-HEAT- 
 ING-STEAM-HOT WATER. 
 
 CATALOGUE No. 3. - BLOWERS -HOT- 
 BLAST HEATING. 
 
 CATALOGUE No. 4.- THE EXETER STEAM 
 E N CI N ES 
 
 SEND TO EXETER FOR NUMBER WANTED. 
 
 OTTia 
 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents Wanted 
 Agents .Wanted 
 
 We wish to obtain an agent in 
 every county in the United States 
 and Canada to sell articles of 
 great merit. Onr agents not 
 only make quick sales, but large 
 profits, and have exclusive terri- 
 tory assicned them. One agent 
 made.$25 clear in 7 hours, another 
 1^30 clear in one dayi If any of 
 our agents fail to clear^ioo after 
 working 3o,days, they can return 
 goods unsold anjd rnoney paid for 
 them will be refunded. Send at 
 once for our Illustrated Circulars; 
 they are free. Address, Na- 
 tional Novelty Co. ,514 Smith- 
 field Street, Pittsburgh, Pa, 
 
 BLACK STOCKINGS 
 
 WILL NOT CROCK. 
 
 MONEY REFUNDEn IF THEY DO. 
 
 SOLD (IN BOSTON) ONLY AT OUR STORE. 
 
 CLEANFAST HOSIERY CO. 
 
 927 BT0adwa7, New York, and 
 
 49 West St., Boston, Mass. 
 
 We Guarantee these goods, after being dyed by us, not 
 to soil the feet or underclothing, that they are equally as 
 clean as white hose, and the color and gloss will improve 
 by washing. Try a few pairs and you will be convinced. 
 " Silk finish" on all goods. Terms strictly cash. Goods 
 by mail must be accompanied by postal note or money 
 
 "'^"' OTJR STOCKINGS ARE SOLD BY 
 
 CLEANFAST HOSIERY CO., 927 Broadway, New 
 
 York, and 49 West Street, Boston, Mass. 
 A. C. RISHEL & CO., 1123 Chestnut St;, Philadelphia. 
 W. B. WHEELER, 357)4 Broadway, Troy, N. Y. 
 S. B. MORSS & CO., 483 Fulton St.. Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 Mrs. W. F. LAZELL, Caiion City, Colorado. 
 
 HJS^otCun 
 
 IS ^^ 
 
 t*iii 
 
 Revolvers, 
 Jlifles, 
 
 avBWorks.FlttftburghJ 
 
 Breuch-loftding Dnuble Shotgun at $LU.50; SiiiRle-ba,rrel 
 Breeoh-londers at S4.0U to $12.0U ; Breech-loading Rifles frOm 
 $3.50 to $13.<K); Donble-barrel Muzzle-loading ShotguiS at 
 £5.50 to $20.00; Repeating Rifles, 16-shooter, $15.00 to $30.00; 
 Revolvers fruin $100 to $20.00. Send 2 cents for Miunm6t> 
 Illustrated Catalogue. Address ■" '^ 
 
 &J£EA.T TFJESTERX CfBJJF WORKS, 
 (Mention this Magazine.) Pittahifrff, IPe-nna, 
 
 ITSi 
 
 iSTOPPED FREE 
 
 Marvelous success, 
 
 . Insane Persons Kestored 
 ^Dr.KLINE'S GREAT 
 
 NerveRestorer 
 
 i/o^-tf// Brain &NHRVH Diseases. Only sure 
 
 cure for Nerve Affections . Fits, F.pilfpsy, etc. 
 J INFALT-IBLB if taken as directed. Ni> Fils after 
 mfirst day^s use. Treatise anrl ja trial bottle free to 
 T Fit patients, they paying- express charges on box when 
 I received. S;nd names, P. O. and express address of 
 I afflicted to Dr. KLlNli.Qii Arch St.,Philadelphia.Pa. 
 SeeDruggists. SEIVARE OF IMITATING FRAUDS. 
 
 Frink's Rupture Hemedy 
 
 will quickly cure any case of hernia or rupture. Ex- 
 planations and testimonials free. Address 
 
 O. FRINK, 234 Broadway, New York. 
 
 OP 
 
 MORPHINE HABIT 
 
 CURED AT HONE. -ND PABlU 
 
 Nerrougnesa, Lost sleep or Interfcnmee witb 
 
 buBincsa. Directions Bimplc. Tenna low. Tmt- 
 
 mcnt snnt on trial and NO PAY asked until you «• 
 
 benefited. €nn refer in hundreds of CURESg 
 
 Particular. FREE. TUB HTJ-^vCAJSTB 
 
 R:B:m1B]D~^ CO.,LAFAYETTE.Ind- 
 
Gate City stone Filter Co. 
 
 MANUFACTORY AND DEPOT AT 
 
 Union Forcelain Works, Greenpoint, M> 
 
 SALESROOMS AT 
 
 43 MURRAY ST., NEW YORK CITY. 
 
 DON'T DRINK IMPURE WATER. 
 THE BEST FILTER EVER INVENTED. 
 
 Cheap ones for the Kitchen. 
 
 Fine Porcelain, with I c e- 
 Chambers, for Dining- Rooms 
 —■' Offices. 
 
 I ists a lifetime without change. 
 
 NO METAL USED. 
 
 A 1 Common Uetala Generate 
 POISON when in contact with 
 "W n er. 
 
 ««-N0 CHARCOAL, Sand, 
 
 o other Compound used. They 
 
 a Absorb, Retain, and become 
 
 F \ with Living- 0rg:anism8. 
 
 *^ C^ARCOAL HAS NO 
 
 EUICAL EFFECT ON 
 
 TER. 
 
 it ice-chamber does not allow 
 
 ^y g-gt the melted ice to mingle 
 
 * fiT " with the filtered water. 
 
 *i-TpA The filtering medium is a 
 
 I NATURAL STONE, and 
 
 is as easily cleaned as a 
 
 water-pail. 
 
 The Union Porcelain Works mann- 
 factnre China Tableware for Families 
 and Hotels. Fine Porcelain Dinner 
 SetR in stock and made to order. 
 
 EPPS'S 
 
 GRATEFUL-COMFORTING. 
 
 COCOA 
 
 ESTERBROOK'S 
 
 L STEEL PENS. U 
 
 Leading Nos. 14, 048, 128, 130, 135, 333, 161 
 For Sale by all Stationers. 
 
 THE ESTERBROOK STEEL PEN CO., 
 
 ■Works, Camden. N.J. 26 John St.. NewTorfc 
 
 YSPEPTICS, incurable preferred, WANTED. Ad- 
 dress J. J. F. Popp, Phila., Pa. Hention this magaano. 
 
 MODERN COTTAGES. 
 
 iTiint Published. 
 
 A practical work. Over 120 illus- 
 trations. Cottag^es from Siooo up- 
 ward, etc. Valuable hints on dwell- 
 in£f-house construction. Size, 9 X 19 
 inches. Sent, post-paid, on receipt 
 of price. Bound in cloth. S2.00 ; in 
 paper, %t.oo. Setad for circular. 
 
 Address 
 
 J. H. KIRBY, 
 18 Lamed Bvildisz, Syraonso.N.T. 
 
 CinnC ■ -^'^ Fits stopped free by Dr. Kline's Great 
 f J I J , Nerve Restorer. No Fits after first day's 
 use. Marvellous cures. Treatise and $a.oo trial bottle free 
 to Fit cases. Send to Dr. Kline, 931 Arch St., Phila., Pa. 
 
 We are children who cheerfully join m the chorus 
 When PACKER'S TAR SOAP is the subject \^6m us, 
 
 A\ama tried all the rest, 
 
 Sosheknowsit'sthebest. 
 /kndwelau^witti delight wlieiishelatlKrsitianJS. 
 
 Dr. D. G. BRINTON {Medical and Surgical 
 Reporter, Philadelphia) says, "When we say 
 that for years we have used Packer's Tar Soap 
 in our family, and recommended it to numerous 
 patients and friends as the most agreeable soap 
 known to us for toilet purposes, and the most 
 remedial in diseased conditions of the. skin, we 
 do nothing more than pay a just tribute to its 
 merits. It is composed of pure materials asso- 
 ciated with pine-tar, and, both for its cleansing 
 and hygienic properties, deserves an extensive 
 patronage from the profession and the public." 
 
 Packer's Tar Soap is sold in large cakes at 25 cents, 
 by Druggists, or The Packer Mfg. Co., 100 Fulton 
 St., New York. Samfiif , 4 stamps . 
 
LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY A 
 
 yi.n \JF.^£,JI\JZ, .n. J^ VH^IS. J. yox^.fi.. 
 
 The Sargent Manufacturing Company's 
 
 SPECIALTIES. 
 
 NECESSITIES, COMFORTS, LUXURIES 
 
 Fig. 
 
 Fig. 
 
 Fig. 
 
 Fig. 7. 
 
 Figs. I and 2. — Sargent' i Monarch Re- 
 clining Chair, As an ordinary easy-chair 
 or for invalids' use it is the finest Reclining 
 Chair in the world. Over 300 positions. 
 Prices, J50 to J125. We have also a great 
 variety of other styles of Reclining Chairs 
 from ^10 up. 
 
 Fig. 3. — Sargent* t Cmrryine Chairs. 
 The occupant can be comfortably carried 
 up and down stairs. Prices, %\o to $25. 
 
 Fig. 4. — Sargent's Rolling Chairs. We 
 represent but two of the largest assortment 
 and the best make in the world. Prices, 
 ji6 to ^loo. 
 
 Fig. 5. — Sargent's Invalids' Beds. To 
 form a correct idea of its completeness, you 
 should send for our Catalogue. 
 
 Fig. 6. — Sargent's Salid Cotn/ort Back 
 Rest and Folding Bed Tray. These are, 
 indeed, of inestimable value in the sick- 
 room. Prices: Back Rests, No. 1, plain, 
 $4; No. 2, with arms,fs; No. 3, with head 
 rests, $5 ; No. 4, with both arms and head 
 rests, $6. Trays, No. i, 15x25 inches, $3 ; 
 No. 2, 17x28 inches, ^4 — in black walnut or 
 ash. Mahogany ^i extra. 
 
 Fig. 7. — Earth Closets. Made under the 
 MouTe patents, which are unquestionably 
 the best. Price, #35. 
 
 Fig. 8, — Sargent's Sanitary Commode. 
 The only Commodes made which are abso- 
 lutely odorless. We make all kinds as well. Prices, $5 to Ja 5. 
 Fig. 9. — Sargent's Table Universelle. A marvel of utility 
 and beauty for the library or sick-room. 
 
 Fig, JO.— W Place /or the Dictionary, Adjustable as well to 
 any book, any height or any angle. Price, ^5. 
 Fig. ri. — Dictionary Holder with Refer- 
 ence-Book Revolving Case. One of the 
 most useful and practical things for any- 
 body's use. Price, $9. 
 
 Fig. 13. — The Perfection Adjustable 
 Reading and Writing Desk. Can be at- 
 tached to any chair. The only real good 
 one in the market. Price, $3.50 to J5. 
 
 Fig. 14. — The Cabinet Revolving Book- 
 Case. Three sizes. Prices, J16, $19, and J22. 
 _ . . . j^j . .. 
 
 Fig. 4. 
 
 Fig. 6. 
 
 Fig. 8. 
 
 Note. — These cuts can ^ve but a faint idea of 
 our extensive stock. We have the most complete 
 stock of Efoods In the world for the comfoTt and 
 luxury otboth sick and well people. Our Cata- 
 logue of 80 paees illustrates and explains every- 
 thinff in detail, with prices, etc. Sent free by ad- 
 dressing 
 
 THE SAEQEHT MAlTUFACTUBXlTa CO., 
 
 8H and 816 Broadway, ITewTork. 
 
 Fig. 9. 
 
 Fig. 10. 
 
 Fig. II. 
 
 Fig. 12. 
 
 THE original 
 
 UTILITY 
 Adjustable-Folding Table. 
 
 PRICE, %6 UP. 
 
 22 
 
 Fig. 13. 
 
 Fig. 14. 
 
1 1 II C for 11 1 ■ C'' ^''"'" ^"- 1"'""'™* 
 
 W I ■ k XaB W k m Whiiperi henrd dlitinotly. 
 Comfortable, iHTlelble. IlluGtmted book A proofi, FREE. Address 
 •r call on F. HISOOX, 8«3 Broadway, N. Y. Name thla paper. 
 
 TRUST AMD SAFE DEPOSIT COMPAWY. 
 
 THE PENNSYLVANIA COMPANY 
 
 FOR INSURANCES ON LIVES AND 
 GRANTING ANNUITIES, 
 
 No. -431 Chestnut Street. 
 
 INCORPORATED MARCH 10, 1812. 
 CHARTER PERPETUAL. 
 
 CAPITAL ... $2,000,000 
 SURPLUS ... 1,500,000 
 
 Chartered to act as EXEOUTOBS.ADMINISTEATOKS, 
 TRUSTBES,QUAIiDIANS,ASSIGNEES,COMMITTEES, 
 KECBIVERS, AGENTS, etc.; and for the faithful perform- 
 ance of all such dutiep all its Capital and Surplus are liable. 
 
 ALL TRUST INVESTMENTS ARE KEPT SEPA- 
 RATE AND APART FROU THE ASSETS OF THE 
 
 COMPANY. 
 
 INCOME COLLECTED AND REMITTED. 
 
 INTEREST ALLOWED ON MONEY DEPOSITS. 
 
 SAFES IN THEIR BURGLAR-PROOF VAULTS 
 FOR RENT. 
 
 The protection of their Vaults for the preserration of 
 WILLS offered gratuitously. 
 
 Gold and SiWer-Plate, Deeds, Mortgages, etc., received 
 for safe-keeping under guarantee. 
 
 LINDLEY SMYTH, PRESIDENT. 
 
 HENRY N. PAUL, Vice-President. 
 
 JARVIS IVIASON, Trust Officer. 
 WM P. HENRY, Secy AND Treas. 
 WM. L. BROWN, Jr., Ass'T Secy and Treas. 
 
 LiNDLEY Smyth, 
 Henry N. Paul, 
 Alexander Biddle, 
 Charles H. Hutchinson, 
 Anthony J, Antelo, 
 Charles S. Lewis, 
 
 Georqe W. Childs. 
 
 Charles W. Wharton, 
 Edward H. Coates, 
 Peter C. Hollis, 
 John R. Fell, 
 William W. Justice, 
 Craige Lippincott, 
 
 riELDS to EVEHnOVSM'T of the WSARSR 
 
 Owing to the diagonal elastic- 
 ity of the oloth (Ti'hich our pat- 
 ents cover exclusively) 
 
 the Corset requires no 
 brenkiiiRin. 
 
 FITS PERFECTLY 
 
 The First Time Worn. 
 
 Money returned by seller af- 
 ter 10 days' wear, if not found 
 the moat perfect-fittlnff, 
 healthful and comfort- 
 able Corset ever worn. See 
 that Yatisi stamp is on inside of 
 Corset. Sold by dealers, or by 
 mail, postage prepaid, ^1.35 
 and upwards. Mention this paper. 
 
 CROTTY BEOS., CHICAGO, ILL. 
 
 mCiss Baylof's Sfetc Story. 
 
 Behind the Bine Ridge. 
 
 By FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR, 
 
 etc. 12mo. Extra 
 
 Author of "On Both Sides 
 Cloth. S1.26. 
 
 *j,*For Bale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail 
 postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, by 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 
 
 715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 BUSINESS AND PROFESSIONAL MEN 
 AND THEIR WIVES, 
 
 WHO VALUE 
 
 Health, Exercise, and Pleasure 
 
 ■will do well to send for the New- 
 Spring Catalogue of 
 
 COLUMBIA 
 
 Bicycles and Tricycles. 
 
 POPE MFG. CO., 
 
 Boston, New York, Chicago, Hartford. 
 
 SEND STAMP FOR OUR 
 
 DISCOUITT SHEET 
 
 ON liA-WN TENNIS, 
 
 Bicycles, Tricycles, Velocipedes, &c., &c. 
 
 Don't Buy these goods until you have seen our List 
 and DISGOmiT SHEET. No need of Faying Hish Prices. 
 
 J. WILKINSON CO., } "ch?ct.^o^i?i" 
 
 HAVE YOU HAD TROUBLE 
 
 IN SECURING PERFECT-FITTING 
 
 COESETS? 
 
 I make them exactly to your 
 measure. Corsets for the 
 stout, the slender, or the de- 
 formed. A perfect fit guar- 
 anteed or money refunded. 
 Fine Corsets a specialty. 
 Send for description and rules 
 of measurement. 
 
 FRANK W. GRACIE, 
 
 Cleveland, Ohio. 
 
 Use after eating, for indiges- 
 tion. A perfect substitute for 
 tobacco. Ask your druggist or 
 
 ] ^^V VV confectioner for Colgan's gen- 
 ^_LUrJUjl^ uine and original " Taffy Tolu," 
 manufactured by Colgan & McAfee, Louisville, Ky. 
 I Sample Bundle by mail on receipt of 6c. 
 
 23 
 
L/PPJNCOTT-S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISKK. 
 
 W 5 =5 
 
 Dr. T. FSLIZ aOTTBAITD'S 
 ORIENTAL. CREAM, 
 or niaslcai Beautlfler, 
 
 remoTeiTaD, Fimples, Freckles, 
 " Moth-Fatchea.lUsh, 
 ^ ind Skin dUeasea, 
 and every blemiah 
 OQ beauty, and defies 
 detection. It has 
 stood the test of 3i^ 
 years,Bnd is so harm 
 less we taste it to be 
 sure the preparation 
 is properLymule 
 Accept no counter- 
 feit of similar name. 
 'i'lie distinguished 
 Ur. L. A. Sayer said 
 
 _. to i\ lady of the Aaut- 
 
 ton (a pttkieiti/. ii.» ^utk iujic« lei// «*« (/(«*», / rtcuwintwi 
 'Oouravd'a Cream' as the least harv^ul uf alt the Skin prata- 
 ratuitui" One bottle will last six months, using it every My. 
 AlsoPoudre Subtile removes supBrtJuous hair without injury 
 totheskin. FERD.T. HOPKINS. MannEer,48Bond St., N.Y, 
 For sale by all DrugKJsta and Fancy Goods Dealers throughout 
 the U.S., Csnadas, and Europe. JB9- Beware of base imitations 
 $1000 Reward for arrest and proof of any one selling the same. 
 
 STAINED GLASS 
 
 Cover your Windows with Patent 
 Glacier Window Decoration. Every 
 
 disagreeable window rendered beautiful. 
 
 Suitable for Houses, Churches, Libraries, I J fJ J A"^ 
 etc. Inquire rrom general dealers, or HHilB 
 write to head office in Philadelphia, Jas. ' _, -., ,_ 
 M. Mason, P. O. Box 107. Book, 300 ISMIM^ 
 Illustrations and Sample, post-free, 50 1 
 cents. 
 
 FACE, HANDS, FEET, 
 
 and all their imperfectioBS, including^ Facial 
 Development, Hair and Scalp. SupeiHuoua 
 Hair, Birth Marks, Moles, Warfa, Moth. 
 Freckles, Red Nose, Acne, B'lk Heads, Scars, 
 Pitting and their treatment. Send 10c. for 
 
 book ot' .'lU mges, iVn ed;tion. l>r. John II, Woodbury. 
 
 G7 Aorlhl'curl St., Albany, N. Y., EstablUhed 1870. 
 
 Mark your 
 Clothing! 
 Clear T 
 ord of 
 half a 
 Cen- 
 tury. 
 
 "Most Sellable and Sim- 
 plest tor Tilain or deco- 
 rative 
 mark- 
 ing." 
 ,Use a 
 com- 
 mon 
 pen. 
 
 Sold by all DiuggiBts, Stationeis, 
 'News and Fancy Goods dealers, 
 
 UBEAFEST MASIC LAimSKS TO BEET 3TSKE0FTIC0SB. I 
 
 M AUlU. AND VIEWS 
 
 |OPTIOAL,HUSIOAL,ELECTKIC,MECHANICALWOKDERS| 
 t9^~ (Maqir. Ijn.vt'^mH Want>-d.) Cotalog-ue FREE.I 
 IHARBACH organ CO. 800 nlbert St. PhliaiU^ Pa.1 
 
 lftnLBUR''S 
 
 The finest Powdered Chocolate for family use. 
 Requires no boiling. Invaluable (or Dyspeptics 
 
 and children. ftrBm/ of your dealer^ or fend iOetamps 
 far triiOam. H. O. WILBCB A SODS, Philadelphia. 
 
 SHIRTS BY MAIL 
 
 Perfect Fitting IVhite Dress Shirt for 
 60 cts., nnlanndrled, or 7S cts. laundiled, 
 postpaid. Bend size of collar worn (13 to 17 
 Inches.) T!atalogue free, THE DEN SHIR1 
 FACTORY. 117—119 N. 8thSt.,FlilUd'a, Fft 
 
 IFOI?. 
 
 CHOLERA INFANTUM 
 
 ME 
 
 FDDD 
 
 PER CENT. 
 
 Water 5.50 
 
 Ash (containing 1.39 per cent. Bone Phosphate of 
 
 Lime) 
 
 Total Albumbnoids (from Egg Albumen) . 
 
 Fat . 
 
 Sugar . . 
 
 Starch (Gelatinized) .... 
 
 S.32 
 19.25 
 
 5.49 
 41.67 
 
 25-77 
 
 100.00 
 
 It is well established that the best diet 
 in cases of Cholera Infantum is egg al- 
 bumen and sugar combined with a light 
 This Food will be found more efficacious 
 
 cereal, in the proportion above given, 
 than any preparation of its kind. 
 
 It is guaranteed to be absolutely free from drugs or medicines. 
 
 It is NOT treated with Pepsin, Pancreatine, or any digestive ferment. 
 
 It is the most economical Food on the market, on account of its concen- 
 trated nutrition. 
 
 SOLS BY 
 
 DRUGOISTS 
 
 AND 
 
 GROCERS. 
 
 PREPARED BY THE 
 
 Emerson Manufacturing Company, 
 
 NEW YORIC. 
 
 24 
 
 SAHFLEB FREE 
 
 TO 
 
 PHYSICIAirS 
 
STORY AND CLARK 
 
 ORGANS. 
 
 CHRISTIE & CO.'S 
 
 PIAIffOS. 
 
 A. G. CLEMMER'S 
 
 PIANO AND ORGAN ROOMS, 
 
 1423 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
 
 We make a specialty of fancy wood cases in Mahogany, Cocobola, 
 Rosewood, French Walnut, etc. 
 
 Our prices are reasonable, and terms easy if so desired. 
 
 We don't think you are acting wisely to deprive yourself and family the 
 pleasures and advantages of music, when $10 monthly will purchase a first- 
 class piano, and $5 monthly an elegant organ. 
 
 We shall be glad to have you call and examine our fine stock, or will send 
 you descriptive catalogues, if you will kindly write for such. 
 
 SUMMER BOOKS 
 
 Thekla. 
 
 A STORY OF VIENNESE MUSICAL LIFE. 
 By IVilliam A-rmatvong, 
 
 12nio. Extra cloth. $1.00 
 
 Saint Michael. 
 
 A KoMANCB, From the German of E. Werner, trans- 
 lated by Mrs. A. L. Wister. 12mo. Extra cloth. 
 81.26. 
 
 Taken by Siege. 
 
 A Novel. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.26. 
 
 'Wallingford. 
 
 A story of American Life. Extra cloth. $1.25. 
 
 A Summer in Oldport 
 Harbor. 
 
 A Novel. By W. H. Metoalf. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 Mistaken Paths. 
 
 A Novel. By Herbert G. Diok. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25. 
 
 Bellona's Husband. 
 
 A Romance. By HudorGenose. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. 
 Paper cover. 26 cents. 
 
 The Old Mam'selle's Secret. 
 
 By E. Mabutt. Translated by Mrs. A. L. Wisteu 
 Paper cover. 25 cents. 
 
 One of the Duanes. 
 
 A Novel. By Alice Kino Hamilton. Paper cover. 
 
 25 cents. 
 
 For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 
 716 and 717 Uarket St., Philadelphia. 
 
 25 
 
 pgRFECTTOlLE^ 
 
 •ELKINTON'' 
 
 PALM 
 
 For PURITY of MATERIAL 
 
 and PERFECTION of FINISH, 
 
 our Toilet Soap takes the PALM. 
 
 Pure PALM is entirelj^ a vegetable Soap, 
 more suitable for the skin than Soap made 
 from animal fat. 
 
 Test for Toilet Soap— Place the tongue 
 on the Soap for one or two minutes, if a 
 stinging sensation is felt, such a Soap is not 
 proper to use on the skin. 
 
 $1.25 PER D OZEN 
 
 LINDLEY M. ELKINTON, 
 
 532 St. John St., Philadelphia, Penna. 
 
LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 
 
 A Potent Remedy for 
 
 Indigestion, Acnte and Atonic Dyspepsia, Chronic and Gastro-Intestinal 
 Catarrh, Yomiting in Pregnancy, Cholera Infantum, and in convales- 
 cence from Acnte Diseases. 
 
 Over 5,000 Physicians have sent to ns the most 
 FLATTERING OPINIONS npon DIGESTT- 
 LIN, as a BEHEDT for all diseases arising 
 from Improper digestion. 
 
 For 20 years we have manufactured 
 the DIGESTIVE FERMENTS ex- 
 pressly for Physicians' nse, and 
 for the past year DIGKS' 
 TYLIK has been hy 
 them extensively pre- 
 scribed, and to-day 
 it stands without 
 a rival as a di- 
 gestive 
 agent. 
 
 It is not a secret 
 remedy, \vX a sci- 
 entific preparation, the 
 formula of which is 
 plainly printed on each bot- 
 tle. Its great DIGESTIVB 
 POWER is created by a careful 
 and proper treatment of the ferments 
 In manufacture. It Is very agreeable to 
 the taste, and acceptable to the most delicate 
 stomach. For the reliability of our statements, 
 we would respectfully refer to the WHOLESALE 
 and RETAIL DRUGGISTS of the country, and 
 PHYSICIANS generally. Sold by Druggists, or 
 WM. V. KIDDER & CO., 
 Price 91.00. 83 Jobn St., W. T. 
 
 " Our American Homes, 
 
 Atiel Hotv to Furnish Tlietn." 
 
 FURNITURE 
 
 R. J. HORN£R & CO., 
 
 Furniture Makers and Importers, 
 
 61, 63, and 65 "W. 23d Street, New York. 
 
 Largest Display of First-class Furniture in America. 
 Best Values. Prices in plain figures. Ten Show-rooms, 
 and Suite of Furnished Specimen Rooms. Illustrated 
 Hand-book — *' How to Furnish our American Homes" 
 —sent on application. 
 
 ESTABLISHED 1801. 
 
 Barry's 
 Tricopherous 
 
 FOR 
 THE HAIR. 
 
 When the hair has become thin, or 
 dry and harsh, from sickness or other 
 causes, use Barry's Tricopherous. 
 
 Where baldness has already taken 
 place, rub Barry'sTricopherous bribkly 
 into the bald places, and also around 
 the roots of the remaining hairs, and if 
 the roots are not entirely extinct, the hair will revive and 
 grow again, and nature, with the assistance of art and 
 labor, will restore the hair, and add lustre and beauty to 
 its appearance. 
 
 
 3Jai2flHViQ 
 
 FOR MEN ll 
 
 Bubens. Angelo, Baphael, MuriUo AND.B.QY& W I 
 
 EVERY HOUSEWIFE 
 
 who wishes to avoid the annoyances of laundering 
 should have husband and sons provided with the 
 
 Linene Collars and Cuffs, 
 
 Reversible, and Finished on Both sides alike. 
 
 Always elegant, comfortable, and easily adjusted. 
 
 Unrivalled for cheapness, as the reversible principle 
 makes one collar equal to two. ^ 
 
 Both standing and turn-down in all desirable sizes and 
 styles. 
 
 No fretting, no worry, but clean linen always ready. 
 
 Sample collar and pair of cuffs sent on receipt of six 
 cents. Name size. Illustrated catalogue free. 
 
 Ten Collars, or five Pairs of Cvffs^ sold at stores 
 for 2j cents. 
 
 REVERSIBLE COLLAR CO., 
 
 27 KIlby Street, Boston, Mass, 
 
 ADVERTISE 
 
 IN 
 
 Jiippincott's JVIagazine. 
 
GAZINE ADVERTISER. 
 
 REMARKABLE SUCCESS!! 
 
 DR. SCOTT'S GENUINE ELECTRIC BELTS 
 
 PRICE $3.00 ON TRIAL. 
 
 PRICE 
 $3.00 
 
 Probably never, since the inyon- 
 
 tion of Belts and Sapportera. haa 
 
 80 large a demand been oreated an 
 
 aow exiets for Dr. ScottN 
 
 Electric Belt. Over seven- 
 teen thousand peopl« in the oiby of 
 
 N«w York alone are now wearing 
 . themdaily. Theyarereoommendeu 
 
 bv the most learned phvaioians in 
 , the treatment of all Male and 
 
 Female Weakness, Nnrv- 
 
 ons and General Debility, 
 
 Kbeiiinatisin, Faralysiiii, 
 
 Neuralgia, Sciatica,A!itli- 
 
 mn, Dyspepsia, Consump- 
 tion, Erysipelas, Catarrh, 
 
 Piles, Epilepsy, Pains in 
 
 the Head, Hips, Back or 
 
 Limbs; Disease!* of Spine* 
 
 Kidney, liiverand Heart, 
 
 Falling:, Inflammation or 
 
 Ulceration. 
 There is no waiting a long time 
 
 for results ; electro-magnetism acts 
 
 quickly! generally the first week, 
 
 more frequently the first day, and 
 
 often even during the first hour 
 ■they are worn their wonderful 
 
 enrative powers are felt. 
 The mmd becomes active, the 
 
 nerves and sluggish circulation are 
 
 stimulated, and all the old-time 
 
 health and good feeling come back 
 
 They are constructed on scientific 
 '■ principles, imparting an exhilarat- 
 ing, health-giving current to the 
 
 whole system. 
 
 The celebrated Dr. W. A. HAM- 
 MOND, of New York, formerly \ 
 
 Snrgeon-Genoral of the U. S. 
 
 *A'rmy, lately lectured upon this 
 
 subject, and advised all medioal 
 
 men to make trial of these agen- 
 cies, describing at the same time 
 
 most remarkable cures he had 
 
 made, even in oases which would 
 
 seem hopeless. ' ^ " " ■■■■i^^— — WILLIAM HICKOK. 
 
 Send for Pamphlet of other Appliances for all Parts of the Body. 
 
 Your goods are thor- 
 
 Thcse Belts are for sale 
 nt drucT «torp8* bnt if not 
 in your immedinte vicin- 
 ity, ^e-aA dirct lo Dr. 
 S<;<)TT, 84ii Broadway, 
 Kew York. 
 
 Ench is stamped ^vith the 
 nnnie Pall I>lnll Electric 
 Abs'u of i^ondou* 
 
 "We will send either Gent's or 
 Lady's Belt on trial, post-paid, on 
 receipt of S3.00, guaranteeing safe 
 delivery. State size of waist when 
 ordering Lady's Belt. Remit by 
 money order or draft at our risk, 
 or currency in registered letter. 
 Address, GEO. A. SCOTT, 843 
 Broad wny, corner lilth 
 St., New York. For sale at 
 all drug stores. Take none but 
 Dr. Scott's Genuine. See name is 
 on the box and belt. Meniion 
 JAppineott'e Ma^axiur.. 
 
 Call and examine our goods, cor- 
 ner Broadway and 13th St., over 
 Star Theatre. 
 
 The following are representative 
 Testimonials of the thousands 
 we are receiving: 
 
 2121 Henrietta St., Phila., Pa. 
 
 Dr. Scott, — Your Belt has cured 
 
 me of rheumatism of and around 
 
 the kidneys, which medicine had 
 
 failed to help. 
 
 W. H. UPJOHN. 
 
 Robinson Bank« Robinson, HI. 
 
 The sixth Belt received, and is 
 satisfactory. Their quick cures of 
 rheumatism, liver and kidney 
 troubles, and debility are wonder- 
 ful. It gives me pleasure to recom- 
 mend them to suffering friends. 
 
 A, P. WOODWORTH, Cashier. 
 
 26 W. 22d St., N. Y. City. 
 I suffered acutely for some time 
 with pains in my back. I wore 
 Dr. Scott's Belt and was relieved 
 in a week. I am now entirely 
 cured. 
 
 Baltimore, Md. 
 Intense nervous debility has been my 
 trouble for years. Physicians and their 
 medicines did not herp me. I finally 
 derived great relief from Dr. Scott's 
 Electric Belt. 
 
 L. H. MILLER. 
 
 East Berlin, Pa. 
 
 Your Belt has cared me of insomnia 
 
 and nervousness, and has also had 
 
 'wonderful effect on nenralgic affection 
 
 of the chest. 
 
 B. SELL. 
 
 Cedar Falls. la. 
 This Belt has done me more good in 
 a short time than all the medicine I 
 ever took. 
 
 E. W. MEADE. 
 
 Houston, Mich. 
 Dr. Scott's Electric Belt has cured 
 my brother of severe backache from 
 whioh he has sufi'ercd eight years. My 
 father, seventy years old, could not walk 
 one hundred yards; after wearing the 
 Belt one month, he walked nine miles 
 Dr. SCOTT'S ELECTRIC CHEST PROTECTOR, $3. Dr. SCOTT'S 
 
 Dr. SCOTT'S ELECTRIC HAIR BRUSHES, $1, S1.50, $2, and $3. Dr. SCOTT'S 
 
 without resting, 
 oughly reliable. 
 
 ALBERT KRUG. 
 
 Peoria, 111. 
 I suffered from kidney, liver, and 
 nervous troubles for twelve years. Dr. 
 Scott's Electric Belt entirely cured me 
 after all other remedies had failed. His 
 Electric Hair Brush has cured my 
 neuralgia. 
 
 C. W. HORNISH. 
 
 ELECTRIC FLESH BRUSHES, «3. 
 ELECTRIC INSOLES, 50 cents. 
 
 DR. SCOTT'S ELECTRIC CORSETS 
 
 possess rBmarhnhle <potvers in tite treatment anU cttre of tlisenae. JEveii/ lady, rcell ov illf 
 
 sHouia tvear tHent. THey almost invariahly Help oi* ctwe, ancl never havtn. They 
 
 are heaT€tiJ't€l goofts, eleqant in sHaj>e, antl are for sale a,t all J>ry CfooOs Stores 
 
 at 91.00, J^l.SO, $2.00, and. $S.OO. fVe will mall them^ i>ost-x»ai€l, on 
 
 reeeijft of price^ if yott cannot yet them in yonr torvn. 
 
 Chambersburg, Pa. 
 I found Dr. Scott's Electric Corsets 
 possessed miraculous power in stimu- 
 lating and invigorating my enfeebled 
 body, and the Hair Brush had a magical 
 effect on my scalp. 
 
 Mks. T. E. SNYDER. 
 
 Do Witt, N. Y. 
 I have an invalid sister who had not 
 
 been dressed for a year. She has worn 
 Dr. Scott's Electric Corsets two weeks, 
 and is now able to be dressed and sit up 
 most of the time. ' 
 
 MELVA J. DOE. 
 
 Streator, Ills. 
 Dr. Scott, — Your Electric Corsets are 
 
 beautiful in appearance, wonderful in 
 effect, and elegnnt in fit and finish. 
 Mrs. M. J. BRIGG8. 
 
 Hoi lis Centre, Me. 
 I suffered severely from back trouble 
 for years, and found no relief till I 
 wore Dr. Scott's Electric Corsets. They 
 cured me and I would not be without 
 them. jjj^g jj jj^ BENSON. 
 
 Se.nA for illtr^tratea pantphletf free hy mail. For sale af.DM. SCOTT'S offices, 842 
 Broaa%vay, oo^'ner Ttvirteenth Street. 
 
 27 
 
® Si 
 
 
 you will feed your Baby 
 ;upon====:= — 
 
 ^NRICK'S 
 
 Soluble pooD 
 
 and nothing else, during the Summer 
 season, there will be no danger of 
 
 STOMACH AND BOWEL AILMENTS 
 
 OK 
 
 CHOLERA INFANTUM. 
 
 These affections are caused principally 
 from the use of cow's milk, and pre- 
 pared foods containing raw starch and 
 malt sugars. 
 
 §) §) 
 
 INFANTS and CHILDREN 
 
 For IVIotbers, Invalids, Dyspep- 
 tics, and Aged People. 
 
 THE ONLY FOOD that di«reata as easily as 
 human milk, and agrees witb all infants and 
 children. 
 
 THE ONLY FOOD that thorousrhly nourishes 
 ttie child, without the addition of cow's milk, 
 
 THE ONLY FOOD that remorsR from In- 
 fancy all necessity^ danger, and annoyance of 
 a wet nurse. 
 
 IF TAKEN BY MOTHERS onceortwIcaA 
 day, the quantity of nailk will be lnci«ased 
 and quality at once Improved. 
 
 IF THE CHILD IS RESTLESS change 
 partially from nursing to SOhUBhE FOOD. 
 
 DR. STUTZER, Food Analyst for 
 Rhenish Frussia, says : " CARIVRICK'S 
 SOLUBLE FOOD is the best of all 
 the foods I liaTe ever examined." 
 
 *'OXJR BABY'S FIRST AlVD SECGIVD 
 YEARS," by Maeion Uarland. book of 64 
 pages. giTlDg careful Instrutiiuus for bringing 
 up the little ones, sent free by 
 
 REED die CARIVKI^K, 1¥. V. 
 
 GOOD NEWS 
 Ifl L ADIES. 
 
 Greatest induceanents everof- 
 f ered, Now*B your time to get np 
 orders for our celebrated Teas 
 and CofTeea.and ^ecare a beantU 
 fal Go) d Band orlloss Rose Obina 
 ^^;, -D J ■■, —^ T®* Set, orflandsome Decorated 
 ^old Band Moss Rose Dmner Set, or Gold BandMosg 
 decorated Toil_et_S6t. For f ull particnJare address 
 
 . THE GREAT AMER/CAN TEA CO.; 
 
 " ^"-'^ 31 and 33 Vcew St.. New York. 
 
 P. O. Box 289. 
 
 pUACt 
 
 I^HEN 
 
 Lasting 
 
 jioYT'S (Herman GoLOGNk 
 
 5_ MN.P.-^/.STAMP.FpR 4- "j 
 
 lOZZONI'S 
 
 28 
 
 ■ ■ MEDICATED 
 
 U COMPLEXION 
 
 ^^^^ Imparts a brilliant transparency to the skin. Re- 
 
 ■ moves all pimples, freckles and discolorations. For 
 
 ■ sale by all first-class druggists, or mailed for 60 cts. 
 
 lOWDER^ES 
 
 %Z/ MORTGAGE COMPANY. 
 
 Capital Subscribed . . . S2,000,000 
 Paid In (Cash) 1,000,000 
 
 „ . DEBENTURES 
 
 Bearing 6 per cent., running ten years, and based exclu- 
 sively upon Western Farm Mongages, held in trust by 
 the American Loan and Trust Company of New York 
 for the benefit of the bondholders. Their safety, time to 
 run, and rate of Interest make them the most desirable 
 investment now offered. Also 
 
 Guaranteed Farm Mortgagfes. 
 
 OFFICF.S. 
 NEW YORK, 2o8 B'way. 1 PHILADA , 112 S. 4th St. 
 BOSTON, 23 Court Street. | KANSAS CITY, 7th&Del. 
 SEND FOR PAMPHLET. 
 
CHOLERA INFANTUM. 
 
 This most fatal disease of Infancy 
 
 PREVENTED, 
 
 CONTROLLED, 
 
 and CURED by 
 
 Uctated JSoi 
 
 It has been successful in hundreds of cases where 
 other prepared foods failed. 
 
 FOR INFANTS 
 
 of any age it may be used wiih confidence, as a safe 
 and complete substitute for mother's milk. 
 
 FOR INVALIDS 
 
 it is a Perfect Nutrient in either chronic or acute cases. 
 Weak stomachs always retain and r.elish it. Physicians 
 and mothers concede its superiority. The most palata- 
 ble, nourishing, and economical of Foods. 
 
 150 MEALS for an INFANT for $1.00. 
 
 EASILY PREPARED. At Druggists, 250., 50c., fi.oo. 
 Valuable circulars and pamphlets sent free. 
 
 Wblls, Richardson & Co., Burlington, Vt. 
 
 X887-BABIES-1887 
 
 *; To;the mother .of , any baby born this year we will 
 'Send, on application, a Cabinet Photo, of the " sweetest, 
 fittest, healthiest baby in the country." It is a beauii- 
 iful picture, and will do any mother's heart good. It 
 shows the good effects of using IjOctatfii tooii as a 
 substitute for mothers' milk. Much valuable informa- 
 tion for the mother given. Give date of binh. 
 
 Welltif JSioliardson & Co., Burlinytoti, Vt. 
 
 The Tiffany 
 Glass Company 
 
 MEMORIAL WINDOWS 
 GLASS WORK DECORATIONS 
 
 Designs with Estimates Submitted, 
 
 Louis C. Tiffany 
 
 president 
 
 John Dufais 
 
 secretary 
 
 Pkingle Mitchell 
 
 MANAGER 
 
 John Cheney Platt 
 
 treasurer 
 
 333-335 Fourth Avenue, New York 
 Patented Improved Lotta Sustle, 
 
 For style, comfort, health, and durability, has no equal. 
 
 Gives the latest Parisian fashion. 
 Warranted to always regain its 
 shape after pressure, no matter 
 in what position the wearer may 
 sit or recline. Avoid inferior 
 imitations. See that each bustle 
 is stamped '* Improved Lotta." 
 Send for Pnce-tiat. COLUMBIA 
 RUBBER CO., Sole Manufact- 
 urers, Boston, Mass. 
 
 For sale by all the leading dry goods houses. 
 
 PHONOGRAPHY^ 
 
 r HONETIC SHORT HAND 
 
 Self-taugfat, Send for Catalog. Address 
 The Fhonosraphic Institute, Cincinnati. 
 
 JAMES PYLE'S 
 
 PEARLINR 
 
 E 
 
 A 
 R 
 L 
 I 
 
 N 
 E 
 
 very woman's friend, 
 quals it has none. 
 
 n honest article, 
 
 nd worthy of its success. 
 
 equires no schemes to sell it ; 
 elies entirely on its merits. 
 
 abor is saved by its use ; 
 
 oss incurred by use of imitations. 
 
 t is sold by all grocers. 
 
 t is the very essence of economy. 
 
 ever peddled — gives no prizes ; 
 o use for such desperate methods. 
 
 very home should have Pearline. 
 very woman who tries it says so. 
 
 Is Good Health 
 
 A desirable possession for wives and mothers ? 
 Then remember that Willcox & Gibbs Auto- 
 matic Sewing Machine is the only one that 
 can be used without serious risk to health. 
 
 Willcos Sc Giblis S. U. Co., 658 Broadway, "S. 7. 
 
 Philadelphia, cor. Chestnut and Fifteenth St3. 
 
 SIGLAR'S PREPARATORY SCHOOL, 
 
 NEWBURGH, NEW YORK, 
 
 Gives the best preparation for the best colleges, and for 
 business. Sanitary condition and physical training equal 
 to the best; there has been no illness of any kind in the 
 school during the past year. For circulars, etc., address 
 
 MJEXn V TV. SiefLjA. R, A.. M. , YffTe, J^*incij[>al, 
 
 itnations procured for piipilB when competent, 
 end lor circiflar. W. tl. CHAJPFEEs OeweKo. N. Y 
 
 B%B m »Jf^ DialogTiea. Tableaux, Speakers, for 
 i"! Jl W^ School. Club & Parlor. Best out. Cata^ 
 r BhH I V loguefree. T. S. Dbnison, Chicago, 111. 
 
 I THESE I and gg olher latest popular songs. Words 
 ii and Music, only 10c. I 
 
 St. Louis Cakd Co., St. Louis, Mo. 
 
 OPIUM 
 
 8-moUing Easily Oici'ecl. 
 
 Dr. J. C. Hoffman, Jefferson, Wis. 
 
 $5 
 
 to $S a Day. Samples worth $i 50 Fkhe. 
 Lines nol under the Horse's feet. Write BSBW- 
 STEB SAFEI7 SEIH EOLDES CO., E0II7. ffich. 
 
 29 
 
LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 
 
 w 
 
 HAT 
 AILS 
 YOU? 
 
 Do you feel dull, laneuid, low-spirited, lifeless, and 
 Indescribably miserable, both pnyslcally and men- 
 tally; experience a sense of fullness or bloating 
 after eating, or of ''goneness," or emptiness of 
 stomach in the morning, tongue coated, bitter or 
 bad taste in mouth. Irregular appetite, dizziness, 
 frequent headaches, blvured eyesight, "floating 
 specks" before the eyes, nervous prostration or 
 exhaustion, irritability of temper, hot flushes, al- 
 ternating with chilly sensations, sharp, biting, tran- 
 sient pains here and there, cold feet, drowsiness 
 after meals, wakefulness, or disturbed and unre- 
 freshing sleep, constant, indescribable feeling of 
 iread, or of impending calamity ? 
 
 If you have all, or any considerable number of 
 these symptoms, you are suffering from that most 
 common of American maladies— Bilious Dyspepsia, 
 or Torpid Liver, associated with Dyspepsia, or In- 
 digestion. The more complicated your disease has 
 become, the greater the number and diversity of 
 symptoms. No matter what stage it has reached. 
 Dr. Plerce'8 Golden medical Discovery will 
 subdue it, if taken according to directions for a 
 reasonable length of time. If not cured complica- 
 tions multiply, and Consumption of the Lungs, 
 Skin Diseases, Heart Disease, Kheumatism, Kidney 
 Disease, or other grave maladies are quite liable to 
 set in, and, sooner or later, induce a fatal termi- 
 nation. 
 
 Dr. Pierce's Golden ITIedical Discovery 
 acts powerfully upon the Liver, and through that 
 great blood purifying organ, cleanses the system of 
 all blood-taints and impurities, from whatever cause 
 arising. It is equally efficacious in acting upon the 
 Kidneys, and other excretory organs, cleansing, 
 strengthening, and healing their diseases. As an 
 appetizing, restorative tonic, it promotes digestion, 
 and nutrition, thereby building up both flesh and 
 
 strength. In malarial districts, this wonderful 
 medicine has gained great celebpty in curing 
 Fever and Ague, Chills and Fever, Dumb Ague, 
 and kindred diseases. 
 Dr. Flerce'M Golden medical Discovery 
 
 CURES ALL HUMORS, 
 
 from a common Blotch, or Eruption, to the worst 
 Scrofula. Salt-rheum, " Fever-sores," Scaly or 
 Bough Skin, in short, all diseases caused by bad 
 blood, are conquered by this powerful, purifying, 
 and invigorating medicine. Great Eating Ulcers 
 rapidly heal under its benign influence. Especially 
 has it mahifestied its potency in curing Tetter, Ec- 
 zema, Erj'sipelas, Boils, Carbuncles, Sore Eyes, 
 Scrofulous Sores and Swellings, Hip Joint Disease, 
 " White Swellings," Goitre, or Thick Neck, and En- 
 larged Glands. Send ten cents in stamps for a large 
 Treatise, with colored plates, on Skin Diseases, or 
 the same amount for a Treatise on Scrofulous Af- 
 fections. 
 
 CONSUMPTION, 
 
 which is Scrofula of the Ijnngs, is arrested and 
 cured by this remedy, if taken in the earlier stages 
 of the disease. From its marvelous power over this 
 terribly fatal disease, when first offering this now 
 world-famed remedytothepublicDr.Pierce thought 
 seriously of calling it his "Consumption Cprb," 
 but abandoned that name as too restrictive for a 
 medicine which, from its wonderful combination of 
 tonic, or strengthening, alterative, or blood-cleans- 
 ing anti-bilious, pectoral, and nutritive properties, 
 is unoqualed, not only as a remedy for Consump- 
 tion, but for all Chronic Diseases of the 
 
 LIVER, BLOOD, AND LUNGS. 
 
 For Weak Lungs, Spitting of Blood, Shortness of 
 Breath, Chronic Nasal Catarrh, Bronchitis, Asthma, 
 Severe Coughs, and kindred affections, it is an effi- 
 cient remedy. Sold by Druggists, at $1.00, or Six 
 Bottles for $5.00. 
 
 ^^Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. Pierce's book 
 on Consumption. Address, 
 
 World's Dispensary Medical Association, 
 
 No. 663 main Street, 
 
 BUFFALO, N. T. 
 
 is offered by 
 
 ij' the manufacturers of Dr. Sage's 
 
 a;.*' Catarrh Remedy, for a case of 
 
 W Chronic Nasal Catarrh, which they 
 
 cannot cure. 
 
 SYmPTOmS OF catarrh.— Dull, heavy 
 headache, obstruction of the nasal passages, dis- 
 charges falling from the head into the throat, some- 
 times profuse, watery, and acrid, at others, thick, 
 tenacious, mucous, purulent, bloody and putrid; 
 the eyes are weak, watery and inflamed ; there is 
 ringing in the ears, deafness, hacking or coughing 
 to clear the throat, expectoration of offensive 
 matter, together with scabs from ulcers ; the voice 
 is changed and has a nasal twang ; the breath is 
 offensive ; smell and taste are impaired ; there is a 
 sensation of dizziness, with mental depression, a 
 hacking cough, and general debility. Only a few 
 of the above-named symptoms are likely to be 
 present in any one case. Thousands of cases an- 
 nually, without manifesting half of the above 
 symptoms, result in consumption, and end in the 
 grave. No disease is so common, more deceptive 
 and dangerous, less understood, or more unsuc- 
 cessfully treated by physicians. 
 
 By its mild, soothing, and healing properties. Dr. 
 Sage's Catarrh Kemedy cures the worst cases of 
 Catarrh, " cold in the head," Coryza, and 
 Catarrhal Headache. 
 
 Sold by druggists everywhere ; 50 cents. 
 
 xGYces 
 
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 THE ORIGINAL 
 
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 Being entirely vegetable, they operate 
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 Sick Headache, 
 
 bilious headache, dizzi- 
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