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FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 507.G47 
 
 3 1924 022 020 154 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022020154 
 
LlSTKNIXG TO THE New YEy<a LIUME.-. 
 
Golden Treasures 
 
 POETRY, ROMANCE, AND ART 
 
 BY 
 
 EMINENT POETS, NOVELISTS, AND ESSAYISTS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 WILLIAM F. GILL AND COMPANY 
 
 309 Washington Street 
 
 1876 
 
 fi 
 
C OPVRIGHT. 
 
 1875- 
 
 William F. Gilx,. 
 
 BoclttDtll Si (EljutcfiiU, 
 
 39 Arch 3tre^t, Boaton. 
 
PRE FACE 
 
 HE demand for a volume "which should combine 
 
 the rarest products of the pictorial art with literarj' 
 
 attractions of a high order of excellence, has not 
 
 often been met, of late years, in illustrated works 
 
 for mature readers. "Golden Treasures" 
 
 presents what it is hoped will be found a happy 
 
 combination of these sterling features. 
 
 It includes the freshest writings of canteinporaneous authors 
 
 with a leaven of gems by standard writers, and, pictorially, presents 
 
 many artistic reproductions of beautiful works of art, otherwise 
 
 unattainable except in a very costly form. 
 
 Acknowledgments are especiall}' due to the prominent American 
 authors represented in tire volume, for their courtesy in permitting 
 the use of selections from their most recent writings. 
 
New Year's Morning H. H. ii 
 
 Incompleteness Adelaide Procter 15 
 
 Little Streams Mary Howitt 19 
 
 Sonnet . James Russell Lowell 23 
 
 The Clergyman's Confession , . WilUe Collins 27 
 
 Poem John G. Whitticr 61 
 
 Submission Kate Tannatt Woods 65 
 
 Priscilla Edward Eggleston 71 
 
 In Memoriam Oliver Wendell Hobnes 93 
 
 The Water William Motherwell 99 
 
 Old Rudderford Hall Miss M. E. Braddon loi 
 
 The Mountain Child William Wordsworth 137 
 
 The Gleaners at the Stile . . . Tom Taylor, 141 
 
 Recollections of Ole Bull . . . Lydia Maria Child • 145 
 
 Cornfields Mary Howitt 163 
 
 Looking into the Weli Louise Chandler Moulton .... 167 
 
 Treasures of the Deep Felicia Hemans 173 
 
 A Song of the Snow Mary B. Dodge 177 
 
 Going Somewhere C.B. Lewis, the Detroit Huviorist . . 183 
 
 Cows in the Pool Tom Taylor 191 
 
 God's Waiting Jean Ingelow 195 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 Reve du Midi Rose Terry 
 
 PAGE 
 
 How One Man was Saved. . , 
 
 Lady Wentworth 
 
 The Iron Blacksmith 
 
 An Hour at Christ's Hospital . 
 The Elm and the Vine . . . . 
 The Scene Painter's Wife . . 
 My Cousin Emily 
 
 Amanda M. Douglas 203 
 
 Nora Perry 223 
 
 All the Year Round 233 
 
 William Mathews , . 237 
 
 William Cullen Bryant .... 249 
 
 Miss M. R. Braddon ..... 253 
 
 John Francis Waller 269 
 
 Starlight Celia Thaxttr 275 
 
 Sights and Humors 7- M. Bailey, the Vanbmy Man . . 279 
 
 The End of a Month A. C. Swinburne 299 
 
 A Common Story Miss Muloch 305 
 
 One-Horse Colleges James Parian 311 
 
 The Philosophers George MacDouald 317 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean Sir Walter Scott 331 
 
 The Hidden Treasure B. P. Shillaber 325 
 
 Poor James Wymper Albany Fonblanqtte 331 
 
 Two Lives Eugene Montgomery 353 
 
Engraved by F. Juengllng, John Andrew & Son, Russell and Richardson, and J. S. Conant. 
 
 
 
 
 DRAWN BY 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Listening to the New Year's Chimes 
 
 T. Dahicl . . Frontispiece. 
 
 Golden Treasures . 
 
 
 
 E. Ji/. Wimperis . First Title. 
 
 Poetry, Romance and Art 
 
 
 
 E. M. Wimperis . Second Title. 
 
 Incompleteness 
 
 
 
 A. B. Hoitghto^t 
 
 17 
 
 Little Streams 
 
 
 
 J. H. Dell 
 
 21 
 
 The Vision 
 
 
 
 Sol. Eytinge, Jr. 
 
 57 
 
 Submission .... 
 
 
 
 R. Ansddl, R. A. . 
 
 67 
 
 The Lake .... 
 
 
 
 J. H. Dell 
 
 99 
 
 The Mountain Child , 
 
 
 
 F. A. Eraser . 
 
 139 
 
 The Gleaners at the Stile 
 
 
 
 Birkct Foster . 
 
 143 
 
 Cornfields 
 
 
 
 J. H. Dell 
 
 165 
 
 Treasures of the Deep . 
 
 
 
 E. M. Wimperis 
 
 175 
 
 Cows in the Pool . 
 
 
 
 Birket Foster . 
 
 191 
 
 Reve du Midi . 
 
 
 
 y. H. Dell 
 
 201 
 
 The Iron Blacksmith . 
 
 
 
 J. H. Dell 
 
 237 
 
 The Scene Painter's Wife 
 
 
 
 W. Small 
 
 267 
 
 My Cousin Emily . 
 
 
 
 A. W. Bayes . 
 
 275 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean 
 
 
 
 A. W. Cooper . 
 
 319 
 
 Poor James Wymper 
 
 
 
 W. Small 
 
 353 
 
 Printed by the Art Printing Co., No. 30 Bond Street, New York. 
 
NEW YEAR'S MORNING. 
 
New Year's Morning. 
 
 BY H. HI 
 
 NLY a night from Old to New ! 
 Only a night — and so much wrought! 
 The Old Year's heart all weary grew, 
 But said, '"The New Year rest has brought.' 
 The Old Year's heart its hopes laid down. 
 As in a grave; but, trusting, said, 
 "The blossoms of the New Year's crown 
 Bloom from the ashes of the dead." 
 The old Year's heart was full of greed ; 
 With selfishness it longed and ached, 
 And cried, "I have not half I need, 
 My thirst is bitter and unslaked. 
 But to the New Year's generous hand 
 All gifts in plenty shall return; 
 True loving, it shall understand, 
 By all my failures it shall, learn. 
 I have been reckless : it shall be 
 Quiet and calm and pure of life. 
 I was a slave : it shall go free, 
 And find sweet peace where I leave strife." 
 
 Only a night from Old to New ! 
 Never a night such changes brought. 
 The Old Year had its woijk to do; 
 No New Year miracles are wrought. 
 
 Always a night from old to new! 
 
 Night and the healing balm of sleep! 
 
 Each morn is New Year's morn come true. 
 
 Morn of a festival to keep. 
 
 All nights are sacred nights to make 
 
 Confession and resolve arid prayer; 
 
 13 
 
NEW YEARS MORNING. 
 
 All days are sacred days to wake 
 New gladness in the sunny air. 
 Only a night from old to new; 
 Only a sleep from night to morn. 
 The new is but the old come true; 
 Each sunrise sees a new year born 1 
 
 H 
 
INCOMPLETENESS. 
 
Incompleteness. 
 
 BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 
 
 OTHING resting in its own completeness 
 Can have "worth or beauty ; but alone 
 Because it leads and tends to further sweetness, 
 Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. 
 
 Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, 
 Gracious though it be, of hei! blue hours ; 
 
 But is hidden in her tender leaning 
 
 To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers. 
 
 17 
 
INCOMPLETENESS. 
 
 Dawn is fair because the mists fade slowly 
 Into day, which floods the world with light : 
 
 Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy, 
 Just because it ends in starry night. 
 
 Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow 
 From strife that in a far-off future lies ; 
 
 And angel glances (veiled now by life's sorrow) 
 Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes. 
 
 Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
 
 Towards a truer, deeper life above ; 
 Human love is sweetest when it leadcth 
 
 To a more divine and perfect love. 
 
 Learn the mystery of progression duly, 
 Do not call each glorious change decay ; 
 
 But know we only hold our treasures truly 
 When it seems as if they had passed away; 
 
 Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness : 
 In that want their beauty lies ; they roll 
 
 Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, 
 Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. 
 
LITTLE STREAMS, 
 
 ' ' £ ,1 
 
 . i K3 *->' ^ ^ J^ >■■■ r^^v-V 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^?t! 
 
 — HI ^ 
 
LITTLE STREAMS. 
 
 BY MARY H O W I'T T, 
 
 ITTLE streams are light and shadow ; 
 Flowing through the pasture meadow, 
 Flowing by the green way-side, 
 Through the forest dim and wide, 
 Through the hamlet still and small — 
 By the cottage, by the hall, 
 By the ruin'd abbey still ; 
 Turning here and there a mill, 
 Bearing tribute to the river — 
 Little streams, I love you ever. 
 
 Summer music is there flowing — 
 Flowering plants in them are growing ; 
 Happy life is in them all, 
 Creatures innocent and small ; 
 Little birds come down to drink-; 
 Fearless of their leafy brink ; 
 Noble trees beside them grow. 
 Glooming them with branches low ; 
 And between, the sunshine, glaneing 
 In their little waves, is dancing. 
 
 Down in valleys green and lowly, 
 Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; 
 Up in mountain-hollows wild, 
 Fretting like a peevish child : 
 Through the hamlet, where all day 
 In their waves the children play ; 
 Running west or running east. 
 Doing good to man and beast — ; 
 Always giving, weary never. 
 Little streams, I love you ever. 
 
 21 
 
SONNET. 
 
Sonnet. 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 With the deluge of summer it receives; 
 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
 
 In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best? 
 
 2S 
 
THE 
 CLERGYMAN'S CONFESSION. 
 
The Clergyman's Confession. 
 
 BY WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Y BROTHER, the clergypian, looked over my 
 shoulder before I was aware of him, and discov- 
 ered that the volume which completely absorbed 
 my attention was a collection of famous trials, 
 published in a new edition and in a popular form. 
 He laid his finger on the trial which I hap- 
 pened to be reading at the moment. I -looked up at him ; his 
 face startled me. He had turned pale. His eyes were fixed 
 on the open page of the book with an expression which puz- 
 zled and alarmed me. 
 
 "My dear fellow," I said, "what in the world is the matter 
 with you ? " 
 
 He answered in an odd, absent manner, still keeping his 
 finger on the open page. 
 
 "I had almost forgotten," he said, "and this reminds me." 
 "Reminds you of what?" I asked. "You don't mean to 
 say you know anything about the trial?-'' 
 
 " I know this," he said : "the prisoner was guilty." 
 "Guilty?"! repeated. "Why, the riian was acquitted by 
 the jury, with the full approval of the judge ! What can you 
 possibly mean ? " 
 
 "There are circumstances connected with that trial," my 
 
 29 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 brother answered, " which were never communicated to the 
 judge or the jury — which were never so much as hinted or 
 whispered in court. / know them of my own knowledge — 
 by my own personal experience. They are very sad, very 
 strange, very terrible. I have mentioned them to no mortal 
 creature. I have done my best to forget them. You, quite 
 innocently, have brought them back to m}' mind. They op- 
 press, they distress me. I wish I had found you reading any 
 book in your library, except that book ! " 
 
 My curiosity was now strongly excited. I spoke out plainly. 
 
 "Might it not relieve your mind," I suggested, "if you ad- 
 mitted some one into your confidence ? You might surely tell 
 your brother what you are unwilling to mention to persons less 
 nearly related to }'ou. We have followed different professions, 
 and have lived in different countries, since we were boys at 
 school. But \ ou know you can trust me." 
 
 He considered a little with himself. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I know I can trust you." He waited a 
 moment, and then he surprised me by a strange question. 
 
 "Do you believe," he asked, "that the spirits of the dead 
 can return to earth, and show themselves to the living?" 
 
 I answered cautiously, adopting as my own the words of a 
 great English writer, touching the subject of ghosts. 
 
 "You ask me a question," I said, "vi'hich, after five thou- 
 sand years, is yet undecided. On that account alone it is a 
 question not to be trifled with." 
 
 My reply seemed to satisfy him. 
 
 "You suggested just now," he resumed, "that it might re- 
 lieve my mind if I took you into my confidence. You may 
 be right ; and, as my nearest living relative, yon are certainly 
 the fittest person whom I can trust. Promise me that you will 
 keep what I tell you a secret as long as I live. After my 
 death I care little what happens. Let the story of my strange 
 
 30 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 experience be added to the published experience of those 
 other men who have seen what I have seen, and who believe 
 what I believe. The world will not be the worse, and may- 
 be the better, for knowing one day what I am now about to 
 confide to your ear alone." 
 
 He began his narrative, as nearly as I can remember, in 
 these words : — 
 
 II. 
 
 On a fine summer evening, many years since, I left my 
 chambers in the Temple, to meet a fellow-student who had 
 proposed to me a night's amusement in the public gardens at 
 Cremorne. 
 
 You had then gone out to India, and I had just taken mj' 
 degree at Oxford. I had sadly disappointed my father by 
 choosing the law as my profession, in preference to the Church. 
 At that time, to own the truth, I had no serious intention of 
 following any special vocation. I simply wanted an excuse 
 for enjoying the pleasures of a London life. The study of 
 the law supplied me with that excuse, and I chose the law as 
 my profession accordingly. 
 
 On reaching the place at which we had arranged to meet, I 
 found that my friend had not kept his appointment. After 
 waiting vainly for ten minutes, my patience gave way, and I 
 went into the gardens by myself. 
 
 I took two or three turns round the platform devoted to the 
 dancers, without discovering my fellow-student, and without 
 seeing any other person with whom I happened to be acquaint- 
 ed at that time. 
 
 For some reason, which I cannot now remember, I was not 
 in my usual good spirits that evening. The noisy music jarred 
 on my nerves ; the sight of the gaping crowd round the plat- 
 form irritated me ; the blandishments of the painted ladies of 
 
 3' 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 the profession of pleasure saddened and disgusted me. I 
 opened my cigar case, and turned aside linto one of the quiet 
 by-walks of the gardens. 
 
 A man who is habitually careful in choosing his cigar lias 
 this advantage over a man who is habitually careless : he can 
 always count on smoking the best cigar in his case, down to 
 the last. I was still absorbed in choosing my cigar, when I 
 heard these words behind me, spoken in a foreign accent, and 
 in a woman's voice : — 
 
 "Leave me directly, sir! I wish to have nothing to say to 
 you." 
 
 I turned round, and discovered a little lady, very simply and 
 tastefully dressed, who looked both angry and alarmed as she 
 rapidly passed me on her way to the more frequented part of 
 the gardens. A man (evidently the worse for the wine he had 
 drunk in the course of the evening) was following her, and 
 was pressing liis tipsy attentions on her with the coarsest inso- 
 lence of speech and manner. She was young and pretty, and 
 she cast one entreating look at me as she jwent by, which it was 
 not in manhood — perhaps I ought to say in young manhood 
 
 — to resist. 
 
 I instantly stepped forward to protect sher, careless whether 
 I involved myself in a discreditable quarrel with a blackguard 
 or not. As a matter of course, the fellow resented my inter- 
 ference, and my temper gave way. Fortunately for me, just 
 as I lifted my hand to knock him down, a policeman appeared, 
 who had noticed that he was drunk, and who settled the dis- 
 pute, ofKcially, by turning him out of the gardens. 
 
 I led her away from the crowd that had collected. She 
 was evident^ frightened — I felt her hand trembling on my arm 
 
 — but she had one great merit : she made no fuss about it. 
 
 " If I can sit down for a few minutes," she said, in her pretty 
 foreign accent, "I shall soon be myself again, and I shall not 
 
 32 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 trespass any further on your kindness. I thank you very 
 much, sir, for taking care of me." 
 
 We sat down on a bench in a retired part of the gardens, 
 near a little fountain. A row of lighted lamps ran around the 
 Outer rim of the basin. I could see her plainly. 
 
 I have spoken of her as " a little ladj." I could not have 
 described her more correctly in three words. 
 
 Her figure was slight and small. She was a well-made 
 miniature of a woman from head to foot. Her hair and her 
 eyes were both dark. The hair curled naturally ; the expres- 
 sion of the eyes was quiet and rather sad ; the complexion, as 
 I then saw it, very pale ; the little mouth perfectly charming. 
 I was especially attracted, I remember, by the carriage of her 
 head. It was strikingly graceful and spirited. It distin- 
 guished her, little as she was, and quiet as she was, among 
 the thousands of other women in the gardens, as a creature 
 apart. Even the one marked defect in her — a slight "cast" 
 in the left eye — seemed to add, in some strange way, to the 
 qiiaint attractiveness of her face. I have already spoken of 
 the tasteful simplicity of her dress. I ought now to add that 
 it was not made of any costly material, and that she wore no 
 jewels or ornaments of any sort. My little lady was not rich. 
 Even a man's eye could see that. 
 
 She was perfectly unembarrassed and unaffected. We fell 
 as easily into talk as if we had been friendis instead of strangers. 
 
 I asked how it was that she had no companion to take care 
 of her. "You are too young and too -pretty," I said in my 
 blunt English way, "to trust yourself alone in such a place as 
 this." 
 
 She took no notice of the compliment. She calmly put it 
 away from her as if it had not reached her ears. 
 
 " I have no friend to take care of me," she said, simply. " I 
 was sad and sorry this evening, all by myself, and I thought I 
 
 33 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 would go to the gardens and hear the music, just to amuse me. 
 It is not much to pay at the gate. Only a shilling." 
 
 "No friend to take care of you?" I repeated. "Surely 
 there must be one happy man who might have been here with 
 you to-night." 
 
 "What man do you mean?" she asked* 
 
 "The man," I answered, thoughtlessly, "whom we call in 
 England a sweetheart." 
 
 I would have given worlds to have recalled those foolish 
 words the moment they passed my lips. I felt that I had 
 taken a vulgar liberty with her. Her face saddened; her 
 eyes dropped to the ground. I begged her pardon. 
 
 "There is no need to beg my pardon," she said. "If you 
 wish to know, sir — -yes, I had once a sweetheart, as you call 
 it in England. He has gone away and left me. No more of 
 him, if jfou please. I am rested now. I will thank you again, 
 and go home." 
 
 She rose to leave me. 
 
 I was determined not to part with her in that way. I 
 begged to be allowed to see her safely back to her own door. 
 She hesitated. I took a man's unfair advantage of her : I ap- 
 pealed to her fears. I said, "Suppose the blackguard who an- 
 noyed you should be waiting outside the gates? " That decided 
 her. She took my arm. We went away together by the 
 bank of the Thames in the balmy summer night. 
 
 A walk of half, an hour brought us to the house in which 
 she lodged — a shabby little house in a by-street, inhabited 
 evidently by very poor people. 
 
 She held out her hand at the door, and wished me good- 
 night. I was too much interested in her to consent to leave 
 my little French lady without the hope of seeing her again. I 
 asked permission to call on her the next day. We were stand- 
 
 34 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 ing under the light of the street lamp. She studied my face 
 with a grave and steady attention before she made any reply. 
 
 "Yes," she said at last. "I think I do know a gentleman 
 when I see him. You may come, sir, if you please, and call 
 upon me to-morrow." 
 
 So we parted. So I entered — doubting nothing, foreboding 
 nothing — on a scene in my life which I now look back on 
 with unfeigned repentance and regret. 
 
 III. 
 
 I am speaking, at this later time, in thfe position of a clergy- 
 man, and in the character of a man of mature age. Remem- 
 ber that, and 3fou will understand why I pass as rapidly as 
 possible over the events of the next year of my life ; why I 
 say as little as I can of the errors and the delusions of my 
 youth. 
 
 I called on her the next day. I repeated my visits during 
 the days and weeks that followed, until the shabby little house 
 in the by-street had become a second and (I say it with shame 
 and self-reproach) a dearer home to me. 
 
 All of herself and her story which she thought fit to con- 
 fide to me under the circumstances, may be repeated to you in 
 a few words. 
 
 The name by which letters were addressed to her was 
 "Mademoiselle Jeromette." Among the ignorant people of 
 the house and the small tradesmen of the neighborhood, who 
 found her name not easy of pronunciation by the average 
 English tongue, she was known by the friendly nickname of 
 "the French miss." When I knew her she was resigned to 
 her lonely life among strangers. Some years had elapsed 
 since she had lost her parents and had left France. Possess- 
 ing a small, a very small, income of her=own, she added to it 
 
 35 
 
THE clergyman's CONFESSION. 
 
 by coloring miniatures for the photographers. She had rela- 
 tives still living in France, but she had long since ceased to 
 correspond with them. " Ask me nothing more about my 
 family," she used to say. " I am as good as dead in my own 
 country and among my own people." 
 
 This was all — literally all — that she told me of herself, I 
 have never discovered more of her sad story from that day to 
 this. 
 
 She never mentioned her family name^ — never even told me 
 ■what part of France she came from, or how long she had lived 
 in England. That she was by birth and breeding a lady, I 
 could entertain no doubt ; her manners, 'her accomplishments, 
 her waj's of thinking and speaking, all proved it. Looking 
 below the surface, her character showed itself in aspects not 
 common among young women in these days. In her quiet 
 way she was an incurable fatalist, and a firm believer in the 
 ghostly reality of apparitions from the dead. Then, again, in 
 the matter of money she had strange views of her own. 
 Whenever my purse was in my hand, she held me resolutely 
 at a distance from first to last. She refused to move into 
 better apartments. The shabby little house was clean inside, 
 and the poor people who lived in it were kind to her, and 
 that was enough. The most expensive present that she ever 
 permitted me to offer her was a little enamelled ring, the 
 plainest and cheapest thing of the kind in the jeweller's 
 shop. In all her relations with me she was sincerity itself. 
 On all occasions, and under all circumstances, she spoke her 
 mind (as the phrase is) with the same uncompromising plain- 
 ness. 
 
 "I like you," she said to me ; "I respect you ; I shall always 
 be faithful to you while you are faithful to me. But my love 
 has gone from me. There is another man who has taken it 
 away with him, I know not where." 
 
 36 
 
THE clergyman's CONFESSION. 
 
 Who was the other man? 
 
 She refused to tell me. She kept his rank and his name 
 strict secrets from me. I never discovered how he had met 
 with her, or why he had left her, or whether the guilt was his 
 of making her an exile from her country and her friends. 
 She despised herself for still loving him ; but the passion was 
 too strong for her — she owned it and lamented it with the 
 frankness which was so preeminently a part of her character. 
 More than this, she plainly told me, in the early days of oui 
 acquaintance, that she believed he would return to her. It 
 might be to-morrow, or it might be years hence. Even if he 
 failed to repent of his own cruel conduct, the man would still 
 miss her as something lost out of his life, and sooner or later 
 he would come back. 
 
 " And will you receive him if he does come back?" I asked. 
 
 "I shall receive him," she replied, " against my own better 
 judgment — -in spite of my own firm persuasion that the day of 
 his return to me will bring with it the darkest days of my life." 
 
 I tried to remonstrate with her. 
 
 "'You have a will of your own," I said. "Exert it if he 
 attempts to return to you." 
 
 "I have no will of my own," she answered, quietly, "where 
 he is concerned. It is my misfortune to love him." Her eyes 
 rested for a moment on mine with the utter self-abandonment 
 of despair. "We have said enough about this," she added, 
 abruptly ; "let us say no more." 
 
 From that time we never spoke again =of the unknown man. 
 During the year that followed our first meeting, she heard 
 nothing of him, directly or indirectly. He might be living, or 
 he might be dead. There came no word of him or from him. 
 I was fond enough of her to be satisfied with this — he never 
 disturbed us. 
 
 37 
 
THK CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The year passed, and the end came. Not the end as you may 
 have anticipated it, or as I might have foreboded it. 
 
 You remember the time when youjr letters from home 
 informed 3-ou of the fatal termination of* our mother's illness ? 
 It is the time of which I am now speaking. A few hours only 
 before she breathed her last she called me to her bedside, and 
 desired that we might be left together alone. Reminding me 
 that her death was near, she spoke of my prospects in life ; 
 she noticed my want of interest in the studies which were then 
 supposed to be engaging my attention, and she ended by 
 entreating me to reconsider my refusal tq enter the Church. 
 
 "Your father's heart is set upon it," she said. " Do what I 
 ..ask of you, my dear, and you will help to comfort him when 
 I am gone." 
 
 Her strength faiiled her ; she could say no more. Coidd I 
 refuse the last reqiiest she would ever make to me ? I knelt 
 at the bedside and took her wasted hand in mine, and solemnly 
 promised her the respect which a son ow_es to his mother's last 
 wishes. 
 
 Having bound myself by this sacred engagement, I had no 
 choice but to accept the sacriiice which it imperatively exacted 
 from me. The time had come when I must tear myself free 
 from all unworthy associations. No matter what the effort 
 cost me, I must separate myself at once and forever from the 
 unhappy woman who was not, who never could be, my wife. 
 
 At the close of a dull, foggy day I set forth, with a heavy 
 heart, to say the words which were to part us forever. 
 
 Her lodging was not far from the banks of the Thames. 
 As I drew near the place the darkness was gathering, and the 
 broad surface of the river was hidden from me in a chill, white 
 
 3S 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 mist. I stood for a while witli my eyes fixed on tlie vapoi^ous 
 shroud tliat brooded over tlie flowing water, — I stood and 
 asked myself, in despair, the one dreaiy question : "What am 
 I to say to her ? " 
 
 The mist chilled me to the bones. I turned from the river 
 bank, and made my way to her lodgings hard by. " It must 
 be done," I said to myself, as I took out my key and opened 
 the house door. 
 
 She was not at her work as usual, when I entered her little 
 sitting-room. She was standing by the fire, with her head 
 down, and "with an open letter in her hand. 
 
 The instatt she turned to meet me I saw in her face that 
 something was wrong. Her ordinary manner was the manner 
 of an unusually placid and self-restrained person. Her tem- 
 perament had little of the liveliness which we associate in 
 England with the French nature. She was not ready with 
 her laugh, and i.i all my previous experience I had never yet 
 known her to cry^ Now, for the first time, I saw the quiet 
 face disturbed ; I saw tears in the pretty brown eyes. She 
 ran to meet me, and laid her head on my breast, and burst 
 into a passionate ft of weeping that shook her from head to 
 foot. 
 
 Could she, by any human possibility, have heard of the 
 coming change in my life? Was she aware, before I had 
 opened my lips, of the hard necessity which had brought me 
 to the house ? 
 
 It was simply impossible ; the thing could not be. 
 
 I waited until her first burst of emotion had worn itself out. 
 Then I asked, with an uneasy conscience, with a sinking 
 hesrt, what had happened to distress her. 
 
 She drew herself away from me, sighing heavily, and gave 
 me the open letter which I had seen in her hand. 
 
 39 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 " Read that," she said, " and remember I told you what 
 might happen when we first met." 
 
 I read the letter. 
 
 It was signed in initials only ; but the writer plainly re 
 vealed himself as the man who had deserted her. He haci 
 repented ; he had returned to her. In proof of his penitence 
 he was willing to do her the justice which he had hitherto 
 refused ; he was willing to marry her, on the condition 
 that she would engage to keep the marriage a secret so long 
 as his parents lived. Submitting this proposal, he waited to 
 know whether she would consent, on her side, to forgive and 
 forget. 
 
 I gave her back the letter in silence. This unknown rival 
 had done me the service of paving the wky for our separation. 
 In offering her the atonement of marriage, he tad made it, on 
 niy part, a matter of duty to hc7- as well as to myself to say the 
 parting words. I felt this instantly; and yet I hated him for 
 helping me. ; 
 
 She took my hand and led me to the sofl. We sat down 
 side by side. Her face was composed tp a sad tranquillity. 
 She was quiet ; she was herself again. 
 
 "I have refused to see him," she said, "until I had first 
 spoken to you. You have read his letter. What do you say?" 
 
 I could make but one answer. It was my duty to tell her 
 what my own position was in the plainest terms. I did my 
 duty, leaving her free to decide on the future for herself. 
 Those sad words said, it was useless to prolong the wretched- 
 ness of our separation. I rose, and took her hand for the last 
 time. 
 
 I see her again now, at that final moment, as plainly ai if 
 it had happened yesterday. She had been suffering from un 
 affection of the thi'oat, and she had a white silk handkerchief 
 tied loosely round her neck. She wore a simple dress of 
 
 40 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 purple merino, with a black silk apron over it. Her face was 
 deadly pale ; her fingers felt icily cold as they closed round 
 my hand. 
 
 "Promise me one thing," I said, "before I go. Wliile I live 
 I am j'our friend, if I am nothing more. If you are ever in 
 trouble, promise that you will let me know it." 
 
 She started, and drew back from me as if I had struck her 
 with a sudden terror. 
 
 "Strange!" she said, speaking to herself. "He feels as I 
 feel. He is afraid of what inaj- happen to me in my life to 
 come." 
 
 I attempted to re-assure her. I tried to tell her — what was 
 indeed the truth — that I had only been thinking of the ordi- 
 nary chances and changes of life when I spoke. 
 
 She paid no heed to me ; she came back and put her hands 
 on my shoulders, and thoughtfully and sadly looked up in my 
 face. 
 
 " My mind is not your mind in this matter," she said. " I 
 once owned to you that I had my forebodings when we first 
 spoke of this man's return. I may tell you now more than I 
 told you then. I believe I shall die young, and die miserably. 
 If I am right, have you interest enough still left in me to wish 
 to hear of it? " 
 
 She paused, shuddering, and added these startling words : 
 
 " You shall hear of it ! " 
 
 The tone of steady conviction in whicli she spoke alarmed 
 and distressed me. My face showed her how deeply and how 
 painfully I was affected. 
 
 "There, there !" she said, returning to her natural manner, 
 " don't take what I say too seriously ! A poor girl who has 
 led a lonely life like mine thinks strangely and talks strangely 
 sometimes. Yes, I give you my promise. If I am ever in 
 
 41 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 trouble I will let you know it. God bless you — you have 
 been very kind to me. Good-bye ! '" 
 
 A tear dropped on my face as she kissed me. The door 
 closed between us. The dark street received me. 
 
 It was raining heavily. I looked up at her window through 
 the drifting shower. The curtains were parted ; she was 
 standing in the gap, dimly lit by the lamp on the table behind 
 her, waiting for our last look at each other. Slowly lifting 
 her hand, she waved her farewell at the window with the 
 unsought native grace which had charmed me on the night 
 when we first met. The curtains fell again ; she disappeared 
 — nothing v/as before me, nothing was round me, but the 
 darkness and the night. 
 
 V. 
 
 In two years from that time I had redeemed the promise 
 given to my mother on her death-bed. I had entered the 
 Church. 
 
 My father's interest made my first step in my new profes- 
 sion an easy one. After serving my preliminary apprentice- 
 ship as a curate, I was appointed, before I was thirty years of 
 age, to a living in the west of England. 
 
 My new benefice offered me every advantage that I could 
 possibly desire, with the one exception of a sufficient income. 
 Although my wants were few, and although I was still an 
 unmarried man, I found it desirable, on many accounts, to add 
 to my resources. Following the example of other young 
 clergymen in my position, I determined to receive pupils who 
 might stand in need of preparation for a career at the Univer- 
 sities. My relatives exerted themselves, and my good fortune 
 still befriended me. I obtained two pupils to start with. A 
 third would complete the number which I was at present pre- 
 
 4- 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 pared to receive. In course of time this third pupil made his 
 appearance, under circumstances sufficiently remarkable to 
 merit being mentioned in detail. 
 
 It was the summer vacation, and my tvi^o pupils had gone 
 home. Thanks to a neighboring clergyman, who kindly un- 
 dertook to perform my duties for me, I too obtained a foi-t- 
 night's holiday, which I spent at my father's house in London. 
 
 During my sojourn in the metropolis, I was offered an 
 opportunity of preaching in a church made famous by the 
 eloquence of one of the popular pulpit orators of our time. 
 In accepting the proposal I felt naturally anxious to do my 
 best before the unusually large and unusually intelligent con- 
 gregation which would be assembled to hear me. 
 
 At the period of which I am now speaking, all England 
 had been startled by the discovery of a terrible crime, perpe- 
 trated under circumstances of extreme provocation. I chose 
 this crime as the main subject of my sermon. Admitting that 
 the best among us were frail mortal creatures, subject to evil 
 promptings and provocations like the worst among us, my 
 object was to show how a Christian man may find his certain 
 refuge from temptation in the safeguards of his religion. I 
 dwelt minutely on the hardship of the Christian's first strug- 
 gle to resist the evil influence — on the Iielp which his Chris- 
 tianity inexhaustibly held out to him in the worst relapses of the 
 weaker and viler part of his nature — on the steady and certain 
 gain which was the ultimate reward of his faith and his firmness 
 — and on the blessed sense of peace and happiness which 
 accompanied the final triumph. Preaching to this effect, with 
 the fervent conviction which I really felt, I may say for myself, 
 at least, that I did no discredit to the choice which had placed 
 me in the pulpit. I held the attentiori of my congregation 
 from the first word to the last. 
 
 While I was resting in the vestry, on. the conclusion of the 
 
 43 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 service, a note was brought to me written in pencil. A 
 member of my congregation — a gentleman — wished to see 
 me on a matter of considerable importance to himself. He 
 would call on me at any place, and at an}^ hour, which ^ 
 might choose to appoint. If I wished to be satisfied of his 
 respectability, he would beg leave to refer me to his father, 
 with whose name I might possibly be acquainted. 
 
 The name given in the reference was undoubtedly familiar 
 to me as the name of a man of some celebrity tmd influence 
 in the world of London. I sent back my card appointing an 
 hour for the visit of my correspondent on the afternoon of 
 the next day. 
 
 44 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 VI. 
 HE stranger made his appearance punctually. I 
 guessed him to be some two or three years younger 
 than myself. He was undeniably handsome ; his 
 manners were the manners of a gentleman ; and 
 yet, without knowing why, I felt a strong dislike to him the 
 moment he entered the room. 
 
 After the first preliminary words of politeness had been 
 exchanged between us, my visitor informed me as follows of 
 the object which he had in view : — 
 
 "I believe you live in the country, sir?" he began. 
 
 "I live in the west of England," I answered. 
 
 " Do you make a long stay in London? " 
 
 " No. I go back to my rectory to-morrow." 
 
 " May I ask if you take pupils ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Have you any vacancy? " 
 
 " I have one vacancy." 
 
 "Would you object to let me go back with you to-morrow 
 as your pupil ? " 
 
 The abruptness of the proposal took me by surprise. I 
 hesitated. 
 
 In the first place (as I have already said), I disliked him. 
 In the second place, he was too old to be a fit companion for 
 my other two pupils — both lads in their teens. In the third 
 place, he had asked me to receive him at least three weeks 
 before the vacation came to an end. I had my own pursuits 
 and amusements in prospect during that interval, and saw no 
 reason why I should inconvenience myself by setting them 
 aside. 
 
 t5 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 He noticed my hesitation, and did not conceal from me that 
 I had disappointed him. 
 
 "I liave it very much at heart," he said, "to repair without 
 delay the time that I have lost. My age is against me, I 
 know. The truth is, I have wasted my opportunities since I 
 left school, and I am anxious, honestl}^ anxious, to mend my 
 ways before it is too late. I wish to prepare myself for one 
 of the Universities ; I wish to show, if I can, that I am not 
 quite unworthy to inherit my father's famous name. You are 
 the man to help me, if I can only persuade you to do it. I 
 was struck by your sermon yesterday, and, if I may ven- 
 ture to make the confession in your presence, I took a strong 
 liking to you. Will you see my father before you decide to 
 say no? He will be able to explain whatever may seem 
 strange in my present application, and he will be happy to 
 see you this afternoon, if you can spare- the time. As to the 
 question of terms, I am quite sure it can be settled to your 
 entire satisfaction." 
 
 He was evidently in earnest — gravely, vehemently in ear- 
 nest. I unwillingly consented to see his father. 
 
 The interview was a long one. All my questions were 
 answered fully and frankly. 
 
 The young man had led an idle and desultory life. He 
 was weary of it, and ashamed of it. His disposition was a 
 peculiar one. He stood sorely in need of a guide, a teacher 
 and a friend in whom he was disposed to confide. If I dis- 
 appointed the hopes which he had centred in me he would be 
 discouraged, and he would relapse into the aimless and indo- 
 lent existence of which he was now ashamed. Any terms for 
 which I might stipulate were at my disposal, if I would con- 
 sent to receive him for three months, to begin with, on trial. 
 
 I still hesitated. I consulted my father and my friends. 
 
 They were all of opinion (and justly of opinion so far) that 
 
 46 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 the new connection would be an excellent one for me. They 
 all reproached me for taking a purely capricious dislike to a 
 well-born and well-bred young man, and for permitting it to 
 influence me at the outset of my career against my own inter- 
 ests. Pressed by these considerations, I allowed myself to be 
 persuaded to give the new pupil a fair trial. He accompanied 
 me the next day on my way back to the rectory. 
 
 VII. 
 
 My senior pupil (j^ou will find out his name for yourself 
 before I have done) began well in one respect, at least — he 
 produced a decidedly favorable impression on the persons 
 attached to my little household. 
 
 The women especially admired his beautiful light hair, his 
 crisply curling beard, his delicate complexion, his clear blue 
 eyes, and his finely shaped hands and feet. Even the invete- 
 rate reserve in his manner, and the downcast, almost sullen, 
 look which had prejudiced me against him, aroused a com- 
 mon feeling of romantic enthusiasm in my servants' hall. It 
 was decided on the high authority of the housekeeper herself 
 that "the new gentleman" was in love, and, more interesting 
 still, that he was the victim of an unhappy attachment which 
 had driven him away from his friends and his home. 
 
 For myself, I tried hard, and tried vainly, to get over my 
 first dislike to the senior pupil. 
 
 I could find no fault with him. All his habits were quiet 
 and regular, and he devoted himself conscientiously to his 
 reading. But, little by little, I became satisfied that his heart 
 was not in his studies. More than this, I had my reasons for 
 suspecting that he was concealing something from me, and 
 that he felt painfully the reserve on his own part, which he 
 could not, or dared not, break through. There were moments 
 
 47 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 when I almost doubted whether he had not chosen my remote 
 country reftory as a safe place of refuge from some person or 
 persons of whom he stood in dread. 
 
 For example, his ordinary course of proceeding in the mat- 
 ter of his correspondence was, to say the least of it, strange. 
 
 He received no letters at my house. They waited for him 
 at the village post-office. Fie invariably called for them him- 
 self, and invariably forbore to trust any of my servants with 
 his own letters for the post. Again, when we were out walk- 
 ing together, I more than once caught him looking furtively 
 over his shoulder, as if he suspected some person of following 
 him for some evil purpose. Being constitutionally a hater of 
 mysteries, I determined at an early stage of our intercourse 
 on making an effort to clear matters up. There might be just 
 a chance of my winning the senior pupil's confidence, if I 
 spoke to him while the last days of the summer vacation still 
 left us alone together in the house. 
 
 "Excuse me for noticing it," I said to him one morning, 
 while we were engaged over our books, " I cannot help ob- 
 serving that you appear to have some trouble on your mind. 
 Is it indiscreet on my part to ask if I can be of any use to 
 you?" 
 
 He changed color, looked up at me quickly, looked down 
 again at his book, struggled hard with some secret fear or 
 secret reluctance that was in him, and suddenly burst out with 
 this extraordinary question : — 
 
 "I suppose you were in earnest when you preached that 
 ^^ermon in London ? " 
 
 " I am astonished that you should doubt it," I replied. 
 
 He paused again, struggled with himself again, and startled 
 me by a second outbreak, even stranger than the first. 
 
 " I am one of the people you preached at in your sermon," 
 he said. "That's the true reason why I asked you to take me 
 
 48 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 for your pupil. Don't turn me out ! When you talked to 
 your congregation of tortured and tempted people, you talked 
 of me." 
 
 I was so astonished by the confession that I lost my presence 
 of mind. For the moment I was unable to answer him. 
 
 " Don't turn me out ! " he repeated. 'VHelp me against my- 
 self. I am telling you the truth. As God is my witness, I 
 am telling you the truth ! " 
 
 "Tell me the whole truth," I said, " and rely on my consol- 
 ing and helping you — rely on my being your friend." 
 
 In the fervor of the moment I took his hand. It lay cold 
 and still in mine ; it mutely warned me that I had a sullen and 
 secret nature to deal with. 
 
 "There must be no concealment between us," I resumed. 
 "You have entered my house, by your own confession, under 
 false pretences. It is your duty to me, arid your duty to your- 
 self, to speak out." 
 
 The man's inveterate reserve, cast off for the moment only, 
 renewed its hold on him. He considered, carefully consid- 
 ered, his next words before he permitted them to pass his 
 lips. 
 
 "A person is in the way of my prospects in life," he began, 
 slowly, with his eyes cast down on his book. "A person pro- 
 vokes me horribly. I feel dreadful temptations (like the man 
 you spoke of in your sermon) when I am in the person's 
 company. Teach me to resist temptation ! I am afraid of 
 myself if I see the person again. You are the only man who 
 can help me. Do it while you can." 
 
 He stopped, and passed his handkerchief over his forehead. 
 
 "Will that do?" he asked, still with his eyes on his book. 
 
 "It will not do," I answered. "You are so far from really 
 opening your heart to me that you won't even let me know 
 whether it is a man or a woman who stands in the way of 
 
 49 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 your prospects in life. You use the wofd 'person' over and 
 over again, rather than say ' he ' or ' she,' when you speak of 
 the provocation which is trying you. How can I help a man 
 who has so little confidence in me as that? " 
 
 He twisted and untwisted his handkerchief in his hands. 
 He tried, tried desperately, to say more Jhan he had said yet. 
 No ! The words seemed to stick in his throat. Not one of 
 them would pass his lips. 
 
 "Give me time," he pleaded, piteously. "I can't bring my- 
 self to it all at once. I mean well. Upon my soul, I mean 
 well. But I am slow at this sort of thing. Wait till to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 To-morrow came, and again he put it'off. 
 
 "One more day," he said. "You don't know how hard it 
 is to speak plainly. I am half afraid ; I am half ashamed. 
 Give me one more day." 
 
 I had hitherto only disliked him. Try as I might, and did, 
 to make merciful allowance for his reserve, I began to despise 
 him now. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The day of the deferred confession came, and brought an 
 event with it for which both he and I were alike unprepared. 
 Would he really have confided in me but for that event? He 
 must either have done it, or have abandoned the purpose 
 which had led him into my house. 
 
 We met as usual at the breakfast table. My housekeeper 
 brought in my letters of the morning. To my surprise, in- 
 stead of leaving the room again as usual, she walked around 
 to the other side of the table, and laid a 'letter before my sen- 
 ior pupil — the first letter since his residence with me which 
 had been delivered to him under my roof. 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 He Started, and took up the letter. He looked at the ad- 
 dress. A spasm of suppressed fury passed across his face ; 
 his breath came quickly ; his hand trembled as it held the 
 letter. So far I said nothing. I waited to see whether he 
 would open the envelope in niy presence or not. 
 
 He was afraid to open it in my presence. He got on his 
 feet ; he said, m tones so low that I could barely hear him, 
 "Please excuse me for a minute," and left tlie room. 
 
 I waited for half an hour — for a quarter of an hour after 
 that — and then I sent to ask if he had forgotten his breakfast. 
 
 In a minute more I heard his footstep in the hall. He 
 opened the breakfast-room door, and stood on the threshold, 
 with a small travelling-bag in his hand. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, still standing at the door. 
 "I must ask for leave of absence for a day or two. Business 
 in London." 
 
 " Can I be of any use? " I asked. " I am afraid your letter 
 has brought you bad news." 
 
 "Yes," he said, shortly; "bad nevv^s, I have no time for 
 breakfast." 
 
 "Wait a few minutes," I urged. "^Vait long enough to 
 treat me like your friend, to tell me what your trouble is, 
 before you go." 
 
 He made no reply. He stepped into the hall and closed 
 the door ; then opened it again a little 'way without showing 
 himself. 
 
 "Business in London," he repeated, as if he thought it 
 highly important to inform me of the nature of his errand. 
 The door closed for the second time. He was gone. 
 
 I went into my study and carefully considered v^hat had 
 happened. 
 
 The result of my reflections is easily described. I deter- 
 mined on discontinuing my relations with my senior pupil. 
 
 51 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 In writing to his fatlier (which I did, with all due courtesy 
 and respect, by that da}'"s post) , I mentioned as my reason for 
 arriving at this decision, first, that I had found it impossible 
 to win the confidence of his son. Secondly, that his son had 
 that morning suddenly and mysteriously left my house for 
 London, and that I must decline accepting any further re- 
 sponsibility toward him, as the necessary consequence. 
 
 I had put my letter in the post-bag, and I was beginning to 
 feel a little easier after having written it, when my house- 
 keeper appeared in the study, with a very grave face, and 
 with something hidden, apparently, in her closed hand. 
 
 "Would you please look, sir, at what we have found in the 
 gentleman's bedroom since he went away this morning?" 
 
 I knew the housekeeper to possess a woman's full share of 
 that amiable weakness of the sex which goes by the name of 
 "curiosity." I had also, in various indirect ways, become 
 aware that my senior pupil's strange departure had largely in- 
 creased the disposition among the women of my household to 
 regard him as the victim of an unhappy attachment. The 
 time was ripe, as it seemed to me, for checking any further 
 gossip about him, and any renewed attempts at prying into 
 his affairs in his absence. 
 
 " Yovir only business in my pupil's bedroom," I said to the 
 housekeeper, "is to see that it is kept clean, and that it is pro- 
 perly aired. There must be no interference, if you please, 
 with his letters or his papers, or with anything else that he 
 has left behind him. Put back directly whatever you may 
 have found in his room." 
 
 The housekeeper had her full share of a woman's temper, 
 as well ^^s of a woman's curiosity. She listened to me with a 
 rising color, and a just perceptible toss of the head. 
 
 " Must I put it back, sir, on the floor, between the bed and 
 the wall ? " she inquired, with an ironicdl assumption of the 
 
 52 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 humblest deference to my wishes. " That's where the girl 
 found it when she was sweeping the room. Anybody can 
 see for themselves," pursued the housekeeper, indignantly, 
 " that the poor gentleman has gone away broken-hearted- 
 And there, in my opinion, is the hussy who is the cause of 
 it ! " 
 
 With those words she made me a low courtesy, and laid a 
 small photographic portrait on the desk at which I was sitting. 
 
 I looked at the photograph. 
 
 In an instant my heart was beating wildly — -my head 
 turned giddy — the housekeeper, the furniture, the walls of 
 the room, all swayed and whirled round me. 
 
 The portrait that had been found in my senior pupil's bed- 
 room was the portrait of Jeromette ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 I had sent the housekeeper out of my study. I was alone, 
 with the photograph of the Frenchwoman on my desk. 
 
 There could surely be little doubt about the discovery that 
 had burst upon me. The man who had stolen his way into 
 my house, driven by the terror of a temptation that he dared 
 not reveal, and the man who had been my unknown rival in 
 the by-gone time, were one and the same. 
 
 Recovering self-possession enough to realize this plain 
 truth, the inferences that followed forced their way into my 
 mind as a matter of course. The unnamed person who was 
 the obstacle to my pupil's prospects in life, the unnamed per- 
 son in whose company he was assailed by temptations which 
 made him tremble for himself, stood revealed to me now as 
 being, in all human probability, no other than Jeromette. Had 
 she bound him in the fetters of the marriage which he had 
 himself proposed? Had she discovered his place of refuge in 
 
 S3 
 
THE clergyman's CONFESSION. 
 
 my house? And was the letter that had been delivered to him 
 of her writing? Assuming those questions to be answered in 
 the affirmative, what, in that case, was his "business in Lon- 
 don"? I remembered what he had said" to mc about his temp- 
 tations, I recalled the expression that had crossed his face 
 when he recognized the handwriting on the letter — and the 
 conclusion that followed literally shook mc to the soul. Order- 
 ing my horse to be saddled, I rode instantly to the railway 
 station. 
 
 The train by which he had travelled to London had reached 
 the terminus nearly an hour since. The one useful course 
 that I could take, by way of quieting the dreadful misgivings 
 crowding one after another on mj^ mind, was to telegraph to 
 j6romette at the address at which I had last seen her. I sent 
 the subjoined message, prepaying the reply : — 
 
 " If 3fou are in any trouble, telegraph to mc. I will be with 
 you by the first train. Answer, in any case." 
 
 There was nothing in the way of the immediate dispatch of 
 my message. And yet the hours passed, and no ansv/er was 
 received. By the advice of the clerk, :I sent a second tele- 
 gram to the London office, requesting .an explanation. The 
 reply came back in these terms : — 
 
 " Improvements in street. Houses pulled down. No trace 
 of person named in telegram." 
 
 I mounted my horse and rode back slOwly to the rectory. 
 
 "The dajr of jijs return to me will bring with it the darkest 
 days of my life. "^" I shall die young, and die miserably. — 
 " Have you interest enough still left in me to wish to liear of 
 it?" — "You shall hear of it ! " Those words were in my 
 memory Vvhile I rode home in the cloudless moonlight night. 
 They were so vividly present to me that I could hear again 
 her pretty foreign accent, her quiet, clear tones, as she spoke 
 them. For the rest, the emotions of that memorable day had 
 
 54 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 worn me out. The answer from the telegraph ofBce had 
 struck me with a strange and stony despair. My mind was a 
 blank. I had no thouglits. I had no tears. 
 
 I was about half-way on my road home, and I had just 
 heard the clock of a village church strike ten, when I became 
 conscious, little by little, of a chilly sensation slowly creeping 
 through and through me to the bones. The warm balmy air 
 of a summer night was abroad. It was the month of July. 
 In the month of July was it possible that any living creature, 
 in good health, could feel cold? It was not possible — and 
 yet the chilly sensation still crept through and through me to 
 the bones. 
 
 I looked up. I looked all around me. 
 
 My horse was walking along an open high-road. Neither 
 trees nor waters were near me. On either side the flat fields 
 stretched away bright and broad in the moonlight. 
 
 I stopped my horse, and looked around uie again. 
 
 Yes, I saw it. With my own eyes I saw it. A pillar of 
 white mist — between five and six feet high, as well as I .could 
 judge— was moving beside me at the edge of the road, on my 
 left hand. When I stopped, the white mist stopped. When 
 I went on, the white mist went on. I j^ushed my horse to a 
 trot, the pillar of mist was with me. I urged him to a gallop, 
 the pillar of mist was with me. I stopped him again, the 
 pillar of mist stood still. 
 
 The white color of it was the white color of the mist which 
 I had seen over the river on the night when I had gone to 
 bid her farewell. And the chill which had then crept 
 through me to the bones was the chill that was creeping 
 through me now. 
 
 I went on again slowly. The white mist went on again 
 slowly, with the clear bright night all round it. 
 
 55 
 
THE CLERGYMANS CONFESSION. 
 
 I was awed rather than frightened. There was one mo- 
 raent, and one only, when the fear came to me that my rea- 
 son might be slialien. I caught myself keeping time to the 
 slow tramp of the horse's feet with the slow utterance of these 
 words, repeated over and over again: "Jeromette is dead. 
 Jeromctte is dead." But my will was still my own ; I was 
 able to control myself, to impose silence on my own mutter- 
 ing lips. And I rode on quietly. And the pillar of mist 
 went quietly with me. 
 
 My groom was waiting for my return at the rectory gate. 
 I pointed to the mist, passing through the gate with me. 
 
 " Do you see anything there? " I said. 
 
 The man looked at me in astonishment. 
 
 I entered the rectory. The housekeeper met me in the 
 hall. I pointed to the mist entering with me. 
 
 " Do you see anything at my side ? " I asked. 
 
 The housekeeper looked at me as the groom had looked at 
 me. "I am afraid you are not well, sir," she said. ''Your 
 color is all gone ; you are shivering. Let me get you a 
 glass of wine." 
 
 I went into my study, on the ground-floor, and took the 
 chair at my desk. The photograph still lay where I had left 
 it. The pillar of mist floated round the table, and stopped 
 opposite to me, behind the photograph. 
 
 The housekeeper brought in the wine. I put the glass to 
 my lips, and set it clown again. The chill of the mist was in 
 the wine. There was no taste, no reviving spirit in it. The 
 presence of the housekeeper oppressed me. My dog had fol- 
 lowed her into the room. The presence of the animal op- 
 pressed me. I said to the woman, "Leave me by myself 
 and take the dog with you." 
 
 They went out, and left me alone in the room. 
 
 56 
 

THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 I sat looking at the pillar of mist hovfiring opposite to me. 
 
 It lengthened slowly until it reached to the ceiling. As it 
 lengthened it grew bright and luminous. A time passed, and 
 a shadowy appearance showed itself in-the centre of the light. 
 Little by little the shadowy appearance took the outline of a 
 human form. Soft brown eyes, tender and melancholy, 
 looked at me through the unearthly light in the mist. The 
 head and the rest of the face broke next slowly on my view. 
 Then the figure gradually revealed itself, moment by mo- 
 ment, downward and downward to the feet. She stood before 
 .me as I had last seen her, in her purple merino dress, with 
 the black silk apron, with the white handkerchief tied loosely 
 round her neck. She stood before me in the gentle beauty 
 that I remembered so well, and looked at me as she had 
 looked when she gave me her last kiss, when her tears had 
 dropped on my cheek. 
 
 I fell on my knees at the table. I stretched out my hands 
 to her imploringly. I said, "Speak to me, oh, once again 
 speak to me, Jeromette ! " 
 
 Her eyes rested on me with a divine compassion in them. 
 She lifted her hand, and pointed to the photograph on my 
 desk with a gesture which bade me turn the card. I turned 
 it. The name of the man who had left my house that morn- 
 ing was inscribed on it in her own handwriting. 
 
 I looked up at her again when I had read it. She lifted 
 her hand once more, and pointed to the handkerchief round 
 her neck. As I looked at it the fair white silk changed hor- 
 ribly in color; the fair white silk became darkened and 
 drenched in blood. 
 
 A moment more, and the vision of her began to grow dim. 
 By slow degrees the figure, then the face, faded back into the 
 shadowy appearance that I had first seen. The luminous 
 
 57 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 inner light died out in tlie wliite niist. The mist itself 
 dropped slowly downward, floated a moment in airy circles 
 on the floor, vanished. Nothing was before me but the 
 familiar wall of the room, and the photograph lying face 
 downward on my desk. 
 
 X. 
 
 The next day the newspapers reported the discovery of a 
 murder in London. A Frenchwoman was the victim. She 
 had been killed by a wound in the throat. The crime had 
 been discovered between ten and eleven o'clock on the previ- 
 ous night. 
 
 I leave you to draw your conclusion from what I have 
 related. My own faith in the reality of the apparition is im- 
 movable. I say and believe that Jeromette kept her word 
 with me. She died young, and died miserably. And I 
 heard of it from herself. 
 
 Take up the trial again, and look at the circumstances 
 that were revealed during the investigation in court. His 
 motive for murdering her is there. 
 
 You will see that she did indeed marry him privately ; that 
 they lived together contentedly until the fatal day when she 
 discovered that his fancy had been caught by another woman ; 
 that violent quarrels took place between them from that time 
 to the time when my sermon showed him his own deadly 
 hatred toward her, reflected in the case of another man ; that 
 she discovered his place of retreat in my house, and threat- 
 ened him by letter with the public assertion of her conjugal 
 rights; lastly, that a man, variously described by difl"erent 
 witnesses, was seen leaving the door of her lodgings on the 
 night of the murder. The law, advancing no further than 
 
 S8 
 
THE CLERGYMAN S CONFESSION. 
 
 this, may have discovered circumstances of suspicion, but no 
 certainty. The law, in default of direct evidence to convict 
 the prisoner, may have rightly decided an letting him go free. 
 But / persist in believing that the man was guilty, /de- 
 clare that he, and he alone, was the murderer of Joromette. 
 And now you know why. 
 
 59 
 
POEM 
 
Poem. 
 
 SUNG AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HAVERHILL (MASS,) LIBRARY, NOV. II, 1S75. 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 / ET there be light ! " God spake of old, 
 And over Chaos dark and cold, 
 And through the dead and formless frame 
 Of Nature, life and order came. 
 
 Faint was the light at first that shone 
 On giant fern and mastodon, 
 On half-formed plant and beast of prej, 
 And man as rude and wild as they. 
 
 Age after age, like waves, o'erran 
 The earth, uplifting brute and man ; 
 And mind, at length, in symbols dark, 
 Its meanings traced on stone and bark. 
 
 On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll. 
 On plastic clay and leatliern scroll, 
 Man wrote his thought: the' ages passed. 
 And lo ! the Press was found at last. 
 
 Then dead souls woke ; the thoughts of men 
 Whose bones were dust, revived again : 
 The cloister's silence found a tongue, 
 Old prophets spake, old poets sung. 
 
 And here, to-day, the dead look down, 
 And kings of mind again we crown ; 
 We hear the sage's word ; we trace 
 The footprints of our human race. 
 
 Here Greek and Roman find themselves 
 Alive along these crowded shelves ; 
 And Shakspeare treads again his stage, 
 And Chaucer paints anew his age. 
 
 63 
 
POEM. 
 
 As if some Pantheon's marbles broke 
 Their stony trance, and lived and spoke, 
 TJfe thrills around the alcoved h,a'll, 
 The lords of thought awake curtail ! 
 
 64 
 
SUBMISSION. 
 
Submission. 
 
 BY KATE TANNATT WOODS. 
 
 HEN through the fields I wend my way, 
 In the firight hours of growing day, 
 My hand fast holding one wlio Itnows 
 With me no fear of harm or foes, — 
 W_ Nature, kind mother! brings to me 
 A sense of rest, and I am free. 
 
 Each budding tlower then bids me wait. 
 
 My richest gifts may reach me late, 
 
 And still be rich ; each bud, though small, 
 
 Sends fragrance on the air for all. 
 
 And if my heart be sad and sore, 
 
 I wait and hope, nor ask for more. 
 
 Above my head the swallows fly. 
 Far higher in God's world than I; 
 Yet one stray shot may break a wing. 
 And cast to earth, a helpless thing: 
 Just as some lieart receives a blow, 
 Which leaves it numb and full of woe. 
 
 Beneath my feet the cooling grass 
 Bends meekly where I choose to pass ; 
 And at my side the violets grow, 
 Forgetting they were nursed by snow : 
 In patience they have learned to wait, 
 Trusting their Maker with their fate. 
 
 My little child, with eager feet, 
 Urges me on, his pets to greet; 
 And in their eyes I still can see 
 The lesson of the day for me : 
 XVkate'er God zvills, come soon, come late, 
 'Tis only mine to work and wait. 
 67 
 
SUBMISSION. 
 
 « 
 
 This lesson learned, the humblest iJower 
 
 Shows some new beauty every hour ; 
 
 This learned, throughout the darkest night, 
 
 I wait in silence for the light, 
 
 Endure all toil, griefs, small and great: 
 
 Heaven's door stands vjide for those who wait. 
 
 .£%£. r ''^^ 
 
 '^segefisa^gg- jew^^^jOTjp^iiEF^ 
 
 6S 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
PRISCILLA 
 
 BY EDMUND EGGLESTON. 
 
 HE trained novel readers, those who have made 
 a business of it (if any such should honor this 
 ,v^r. poor little story with their attention), will 
 "•^ glance down the opening paragraphs for a 
 description of the heroine's tresses. The 
 opening sentences of Miss Braddon are enough 
 to show how important a thing a head of hair is in the getting 
 up of a heroine for the popular market. But as my heroine 
 is not gotten up for the market, and as J cannot possibly re- 
 member even the color of her hair or her eyes as I recall her 
 now, I fear I shall disappoint the "professionals," who never 
 feel that they have a complete heroine =till the " long waving 
 tresses of raven darkness, reaching nearly to the ground, en- 
 veloping her as with a cloud,"' have been artistically stuck on 
 by the author. But be it known that I take Priscilla from 
 memory, and not from imagination. And the memory of 
 Priscilla, the best girl in the school, the most gifted, the 
 most modest, the most gentle and true, is a memory too 
 sacred to be trifled with. I would not make one hair licrht or 
 dark ; I would not change the shading of the eye-brows. 
 Priscilla is Priscilla forever, to all who knew her. And as I 
 cannot tell the precise color of her hair and e\es, I shall not 
 invent a shade for them. I remember that she was on the 
 blonde side of the grand division line. But she was not 
 blonde. She was — Priscilla. I mean to say that since you 
 
 71 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 never lived in that dear old-fogy Ohio River village of New 
 Geneva, and since, consequently, you never knew our Pris- 
 cilla, no words of mine can make you exactly understand 
 her. Was she handsome? No — yes. She was "jimber- 
 jawed ;" that is, her lower teeth shut a little outside her upper. 
 Her complexion was not faultless. Her face would not bear 
 criticism. And yet there is not one of her old schoolmates 
 that will not vow that she was beautiful. And indeed she 
 was. For she was Priscilla. And I never can make you un- 
 derstand it. 
 
 As Priscilla was always willing to oblige any one, it was 
 only natural enough that Mrs. Leston should send for her to 
 help entertain the Marquis. It was a curious chance that 
 threw the young Marquis d'Entremont for a whole summer 
 into the society of our little village. His uncle, who was his 
 guardian, a pious abbe, wishing to remove him from Paris to 
 get him out of socialistic influences, had sent him to New Or- 
 leans, consigned to the care of the great banking-house of 
 Challeau, Lafort et Compagnie. Not liking to take the 
 chances of yellow fever in the summer, he had resolved to 
 journey to the north, and as Challeau, Lafort et Cie. had a 
 correspondent in Henry Leston, the young lawyer, and as 
 French was abundantly spoken in our Swiss village of New 
 Geneva, what more natural than that they should despatch the 
 Marquis to our pleasant town of vineyards, giving him a 
 letter of introduction to their attorney, vvho fortunately spoke 
 some book French? He had presented the letter, had been 
 invited to dinner, and Priscilla Haines, who had learned 
 French in childhood, though she was not Swiss, was sent for 
 to help entertain the guest. 
 
 I cannot but fancy that d'Entremont was surprised at meet- 
 ing just such a girl as Priscilla in a rustic village. She was 
 not abashed at finding herself vis-a-vis with a nobleman, nor 
 
 72 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 did she seem at all anxious to attract his notice. The vanity 
 of the Marquis must have been a little hurt at finding a lady 
 that did not court his attention. But wounded vanity soon 
 gave place to another surprise. Even Mrs. Leston, who un- 
 derstood not one word of the conversation between her hus- 
 band, the Marquis and Priscilla, was watching for this second 
 surprise, and did not fail to read it in d'Entremont's eyes. 
 Here was a young woman who had read. She could admire 
 Corinne, she could oppose Saint Simon. The Marquis 
 d'Entremont had resigned himself to the eniuii of talking to 
 Swiss farmers about their vineyards, of listening to Swiss grand- 
 mothers telling stories of their childhood in Neufchatel and 
 Berne. But to find in this young village school teacher one 
 who could speak, and listen while he spoke, of his favorite 
 writers, was to him very strange. Not that Priscilla had 
 read many French books, for there were not many within her 
 reach. But she had read some, and she had read Ste. Beuve 
 and Grimm's Correspondence, and he who reads these two 
 has heard the echo of all the great voices in French literature. 
 And while David Haines had lived, his daughter had wanted 
 nothing to help her to the highest culture. 
 
 But I think what amazed the Marquis most was that Pris- 
 cilla showed no consciousness of the unusual character of her 
 attainments. She spoke easily and naturally of what she 
 knew, as if it were a matter of course that the teacher of a 
 primary school should have read Corneille, and should be 
 able to combat Saint-Simonism. As the dinner drew to a 
 close, Leston lifted his chair round where his wife sat, and 
 interpreted the brilliant conversation at the other side of the 
 table. 
 
 I suspect that Saint Simon had lost some of his hold upon 
 the Marquis since his arrival in a country where life is more 
 beautiful and the manner of thought more practical. At any 
 
 73 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 rate, he dated the decline of his sociahstic opinions from his 
 discussion with Priscilla Haines. 
 
 The next Sunday morning he strolled out of the Le Vert 
 house, breathing the sweet air perfumed with the blossoms of 
 a thousand apple-trees. For what yard is there in New 
 Geneva that has not apple trees and grape-vines? And 
 every family in the village keeps a cow, and every cow 
 wears a bell, and every bell is on a different key ; so that 
 the three things that penetrated the senses of the Marquis on 
 this Sunday morning were the high hills that stood sentinels 
 on every hand about the valley in which New Geneva stood, 
 the smell of the apple blossoms, and theMnkle and tankic and 
 ionkle of hundreds of bells on the cows grazing on the " com- 
 mons," as the open lots were called. On this almost pain- 
 fully quiet morning, d'Eutremont noticed the people going one 
 way and another to the Sunday schools in the three churches. 
 Just as he came to the pump that stood in front of the " public 
 square," he met Priscilla. At her heels were ten ragged little 
 ruffians, whom she was accustomed to have come to her house 
 every Sunday morning and walk with her to Sunday school. 
 
 "You are then a Sister of Charity also? " he said in French, 
 "bowing low with sincere admiration as= he passed her. And 
 then to himself the young Marquis reflected: "We Saint- 
 Simonists theorize and build castles in Spain for poor people, 
 but we do not take hold of them." He walked clear round 
 the square, and then followed the steps of Priscilla into the 
 little brick Methodist church, which in that day had neither 
 steeple nor bell, which had nothing church-like about it ex- 
 cept the two arched front windows. There was not even a 
 fence to enclose it, nor an evergreen nor an ivy about it ; 
 only a few black locusts. For the Congregational puritanism 
 of New England was never so hard a puritanism as the 
 Methodist puritanism of a generation ago in the West — a 
 
 74 
 
PRISCIT.LA. 
 
 Puritanism that forbade jewelry, that stripped the artificial 
 flowers out of the bonnets of country girls, that expelled and 
 even yet expels a country boy for looking with wonder at a 
 man hanging head downward from a trapeze in a circus tent. 
 No other church, not even the Qiiaker, ever laid its hand 
 more entirely upon the whole life of its members. The dead 
 hand of Wesley has been stronger than the living hand of 
 any pope. 
 
 Upon the hard, open-backed, unpainted and unvarnished 
 oak benches, which seemed devised to; produce discomfort, 
 sat the Sunday-school classes, and upon one of these, near 
 the door, d'Entremont sat down. He looked at the bare 
 walls, at the white pulpit, at the carpetless floors, at the 
 general ugliness of things, the box-stove, which stood in the 
 only aisle, the tin chandeliers with their half-burned candles, 
 the eight-by-ten lights of glass in the windows, and he was 
 favorably impressed. With a quick conscience he had often 
 felt the frivolous emptiness of a worldly life, and had turned 
 toward the religion of his uncle the ahbe only to turn away 
 again disgusted with the frivolity of the religious pomp that 
 he saw. But here was a religion not only without the attrac- 
 tions of sensuous surrounding, but a religion that maintained 
 its vitality despite a repelling plainness, not to say a repulsive 
 ugliness, in its external forms. For could he doubt the force 
 of a religious principle that had divested every woman in the 
 little church of every ornament? Doubtless he felt the nar- 
 rowness that could read the Scriptural injunction so literally, 
 but none could doubt the strength of a religious principle that 
 submitted to such self-denial. And then there was Priscilla, 
 with all her gifts, sitting in the midst qf her boys, gathered 
 from that part of the village known as "Slabtown." Yes, 
 there must be something genuine in this religious life, and its 
 
 75 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 entire contrast to all that the Marquis had known and grown 
 weary of, attracted him. 
 
 As eleven o'clock drew on, the little church filled with peo- 
 ple. The iTien sat on one side the aisle and the women on 
 the other. The old brethren and sisters, and generally those 
 who prayed in prayer meeting and spoke in love-feast, sat 
 near the front, many of them on the cross-seats near the 
 pulpit, which were thence said by scoffers to be the "Amen 
 corners." Any one other than a leader of the hosts of Israel 
 would as soon have thought of taking a seat in the pulpit as 
 "on one of these chief seats in the synagogue. The Marquis 
 sat still and watched the audience gather, while one of the 
 good brethren led the congregation in singing, 
 
 "When I can read my title clear," 
 
 which hymn was the usual voluntary at the opening of 
 service. Then the old minister said, "Let us continue the 
 worship of God by singing hymn on page 554." He "lined" 
 the hymn, that is, he read each couplet before it was sung. 
 With the coming in of hymn-books and other new-fangled 
 things the good old custom of "lining the hymn" has disap- 
 peared. But on that Sunday morning the Marquis d'Entre- 
 mont thought he had never heard anything more delightful 
 than these simple melodies sung thus lustily by earnest voices. 
 The reading of each couplet by the minister before it was 
 sung, seemed to him a sort of recitative. He knew enough of 
 English to find that the singing was hopeful and triumphant. 
 Wearied with philosophy and blase with the pomp of the 
 world, he wished that he had been a villager In New Geneva, 
 and that he might have had the faith to sing of the 
 
 " — land of pure delight 
 Where saints immortal reign," 
 
 76 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 » 
 
 with as much earnestness as his friend Priscilla on the other 
 side of the aisle. In the prayer that followed, d'Entremont 
 noticed that all the church members knelt, and that the hearty 
 aniens were not intoned, but were as spontaneous as the rest 
 of the service. After reverently reading a chapter the old 
 minister said, " Please sing, without lining, 
 
 " ' A charge to keep I have ; ' " 
 
 and then the old tune of "Kentucky" was sung with anima- 
 tion, after which came the sermon, of which the Marquis un- 
 derstood but few words, though he understood the pantomine 
 by which the venerable minister represented the return of the 
 prodigal and the welcome he received. When he saw the 
 tears in the eyes of the hearers, and heard the half-repressed 
 "Bless the Lord" of an old brother or sister, and saw them 
 glance joyfully at each others' faces as the sermon went on, 
 he was strangely impressed with the genuineness of the feel- 
 ing. 
 
 But the class meeting that followed, to which he remained, 
 impressed him still more. The venerable Scotchman who 
 led it had a face that beamed with sweetness and intelligence. 
 It was fortunate that the Marquis saw so good a specimen. 
 In fact, Priscilla trembled lest Mr. Boreas, the stern, hard- 
 featured " exhorter," should have been invited to lead. But 
 as the sweet-faced old leader called upon one and another to 
 speak, and as many spoke with streaming eyes, d'Entremont 
 quivered with sympathy. He was not so blind that he could 
 not see the sham and cant of some of the speeches, but in 
 general there was much earnestness and truth. When Pris- 
 cilla rose in her turn and spoke, with downcast eyes, he felt 
 the beauty and simplicity of her religious life. And he 
 rightly judged that from the soil of a culte so severe, there 
 must grow some noble and heroic lives. 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 Last of all the class leader reached the Marquis, whom he 
 did not know. 
 
 "Will our strange brother tell us how it is with him to- 
 day?" he asked. 
 
 Priscilla trembled. What awful thing might happen when 
 a class-leader invited a marquis, who could speak no English, 
 and who was a disciple of Saint Simon, to tell his religious 
 experience, was more than she could divine. If the world 
 had come to an end in consequence of such a concatenation, 
 I think she would not have been surprised. But nothing of 
 the sort occurred. To her astonishment the Marquis rose 
 and said : — 
 
 "Is it that any one can speak French?" 
 
 A brother who was a member of one of the old Swiss fami- 
 lies volunteered his services as interpreter, and d'Entremont 
 proceeded to tell them how much he had been interested in 
 the exercises ; that it was the tirst time he had ever been in 
 such a meeting, and that he wished he had the simple faith 
 which they showed. 
 
 Then the old leader said, "Let us engage in prayer for our 
 strange brother." 
 
 And the Marquis bowed his knees upon the hard floor. 
 
 He could not understand much that was said, but he knew 
 that they were praying for him ; that this white-haired class- 
 leader, and the old ladies in the corner, and Priscilla, were 
 interceding with the Father of all for him. He felt more con- 
 fidence in the efficacy of their prayers than he had ever had 
 in all the intercessions of the saints of which he was told 
 when a boy. For surely God would hear such as Priscilla ! 
 
 It happened not long after this that d'Entremont was drawn 
 even more nearly to this simple Methodist life, which had al- 
 ready made such an impression on his iniagination, by an inci- 
 dent which would make a chapter if this story were intended 
 
 78 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 for the "New York Weekly Dexter." Indeed, the story of his 
 peril in a storm and freshet on Indian Creek, and of his 
 deliverance by the courage of Henry Stevens, is so well 
 suited to that periodical and others of its class, that I am 
 almost sorry that Mrs. Eden, or Cobb, Jr., or Optic, was not 
 the author of this story. Either of them could make a 
 chapter which would bear the title of "A Thrilling Incident." 
 But with an unconquerable aversion to anything and every- 
 thing "thrilling," this present writer can only say in plainest 
 prose and without a single startling epithet, that this incident 
 made the young Marquis the everlasting friend of his deliv- 
 erer, Henry Stevens, who happened to be a zealous Metho- 
 dist, and about his own age. 
 
 The effort of the two friends to hold intercourse was a curi- 
 ous spectacle. Not only did they speak different languages, 
 but they lived in different worlds. Not only did d'Entremont 
 speak a very limited English while Stevens spoke no French, 
 but d'Entremont's life and thought had nothing in common 
 with the life of Stevens, except the one thing that made a 
 friendship possible. They were both generous, manly men, 
 and each felt a strong drawing to th6 other. So it came 
 about that when they tired of the Marquis' English, and of 
 the gulf between their ideas, they used to call on Priscilla at 
 her home with her mother in the outskirts of the village. 
 She was an interpreter indeed ! For with the keenest sympa- 
 thy she entered into the world in which the Marquis lived, 
 which had always been a sort of intellectual paradise to her. 
 It seemed strange, indeed, to meet a living denizen of a world 
 that seemed to her impossible except in books. And as for 
 the sphere in which Stevens moved, it was her own. He and 
 she had been schoolmates from childhood, had looked on the 
 same green hills, known the same people, been moulded of 
 the same strong religious feeling. Nothing was more delight- 
 
 79 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 ful to d'Entremont than to be able to talk to Stevens, unless it 
 was to have so good an excuse for conversation with Priscilla'; 
 and nothing was so pleasant to Henry Stevens as to be able 
 to understand the Marquis, unless it was to talk with Priscilla ; 
 while to Priscilla those were golden moments, in which she 
 passed like a quick-winged messenger between her own na- 
 tive world and the world that she knew only in books, be- 
 tween the soul of one friend and that of another. And thus 
 grew up a triple friendship, a friendship afterward sorely 
 tried. For how strange it is that what brings together at one 
 time may be a wall of division at another. 
 
 I am not writing an essay on Christian experience. I can- 
 not pretend to explain just how it came about. Doubtless 
 Henry Stevens' influence had something to do with it, though 
 I feel sure Priscilla's had more. Doubtless the Marquis was 
 naturally susceptible to religious influences, and I cannot but 
 feel that after all he was led by the gentle drawings of the 
 Divine Oracle in his own breast. But the erratic opinions, 
 never very deeply rooted, and at most but a reaction from a 
 religion of "postures and impostures," disappeared, and there 
 came a sense of unworthiness and a sense of trust. They 
 came simultaneously, I think ; certainly d'Entremont could 
 never give any chronological order to the two experiences. 
 At any rate, he was drawn to the little class meeting, which 
 seemed to him so simple a confessional that all his former 
 notions of "liberty, fraternity and equality" were satisfied by 
 it. I believe he became a " probationer," but his creed was 
 never quite settled enough for him to accept of " full member- 
 ship." 
 
 Some of the old folks could not refrain from expressions of 
 triumph that " the Lord had got a-hold of that French infi- 
 del ; " and old Sister Goodenough seized his hand, and, with 
 many sighs and much upturning of the eyes, exhorted him : 
 
 80 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 "Brother Markus ! Give up everything ! Give up everything, 
 and come out from the world and be sejsarated ! " Which led 
 d'Entremont to remark to Stevens as they walked away, that 
 " Madame Goodenough was vare curus indeed ! " And Brother 
 Boreas, the exhorter, who had the misfortune not to have a 
 business reputation without blemish, but who made up for it 
 by rigid scruples in regard to a melodeon in the church, and 
 by a vicarious conscience which was kindly kept at every- 
 body's service but his own, old Brother Boreas always re- 
 marked in regard to the Marquis, that " as for his part he liked 
 a deeper repentance and a sounder conversion." But the 
 gray-haired old Scotch class leader, whose piety was at a pre- 
 mium everywhere, would take d'Entremont's hand and talk of 
 indifferent subjects while he beamed on him his affection and 
 Christian fellowship. 
 
 To the Marquis, Priscilla was a perpetual marvel. More 
 brilliant women he had known in Paris, more devout women 
 he had seen there ; but a woman so gifted and so devout, and 
 above all, a woman so true, so modest, and of such perfect 
 delicacy of feeling, he had never known. And how poorly 
 these words describe her ! For she was Priscilla ; and all who 
 knew her will understand how much more that means than 
 any adjectives of mine. Certainly Heriry Stevens did, for he 
 had known her always, and would have loved her always had 
 he dared. It was only now, as she interpreted him to the 
 Marquis and the Marquis to him, idealizing and elevating the 
 thoughts of both, that he surrendered himself to hope. And 
 so, toward the close of the summer, affairs came to this awk- 
 ward posture, that these two sworn friends loved the same 
 woman. 
 
 D'Entremont discovered this first. More a man of the 
 world than Henry Stevens, he read the other's face and voice. 
 He was perturbed. Had it occurred two years before, he 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 might have settled the matter easily, by a duel for instance. 
 And even now his passion got the better for a while of all his 
 good feelings and Christian resolutions. When he got back 
 to the Le Vert house with his unpleasant discovery, he was 
 burning like a furnace. In spite of a rain-storm just begin- 
 ning and a dark night, he strode out and walked he knew not 
 whither. He found himself, he knew not how, on the bank of 
 the river. Seizing an old board for a paddle, he unloosed a 
 skiff and pushed out into the river. How to advance himself 
 over his rival was his first thought. But this darkness and 
 this beating rain and this fierce loneliness, reminded him of 
 that night when he had clung desperately to the abutment of 
 the bridge that spanned Indian Creek, and when the courage 
 and self-possession of Henry Stevens had rescued him. Could 
 he be the rival of a man who liad gone down into that flood 
 that he might save the exhausted Marquis ? 
 
 Then he hated himself. Why had he not drowned that 
 night on Indian Creek? And with this feeling of self-disgust 
 added to his general mental misery, and the physical misery 
 that the rain brought to him, there came the great temptation 
 to write ^^ Fin " in French fashion, by jumping into the water. 
 But something in the influence of Priscilla and that class 
 meeting caused him to take a better resolution, and he re- 
 turned to the hotel. 
 
 The next day he sent for Henry Stevens to come to his 
 room. 
 
 " Henry, I am going to leave to-night on the mail boat. I 
 am going back to New Orleans, and thence to France. You 
 love Priscilla. You are a noble man ; you will make her 
 happy. I have read your love in your face. Meet me at the 
 river to-night. When you are ready to be married, let me know, 
 that I may send some token of my love for both. Do not tell 
 
 82 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 mademoiselle that I am going ; but tell her good-bye for me 
 afterwards. Go now, I must pack." 
 
 Henrj^ went out stupefied. What did it mean ? And why 
 was he half-glad that d'Entremont was going? By degrees he 
 got the better of his selfishness. In fact, he had the habit of 
 keeping his selfishness under in little things, so that the vic- 
 tory in a great thing was not so difficult. 
 
 "Marquis d'Entremont," he said, breaking into his room, 
 "you must not go away. You love Priscilla. You have 
 everything — learning, money, travel. J have nothing." 
 
 " Nothing but a good heart, which I have not," said d'En- 
 tremont. 
 
 "I will never marry Priscilla," said Henry, "unless she de- 
 liberateljr chooses to have me in preference to you." 
 
 My readers will say that this incidentj of two men unselfish 
 in an aftair of this sort, is impossible. I should never have 
 written it but that this incident is fact. 
 
 To this arrangement, so equitable, the Marquis consented, 
 and the matter was submitted to Priscilla by letter. Could 
 she love either, and if either, which? She asked a week for 
 deliberation. 
 
 It was not easy to decide. By all her habits of thought 
 and feeling, by all her prejudices, by all her religious life, she 
 was drawn toward the peaceful and perhaps prosperous life 
 that opened before her as the wife of Henry Stevens, living in 
 her native village, near to her mother, surrounded by her old 
 friends, and with the best of Christian men for a husband. 
 But by all the clamor of her intellectual nature for something 
 better than her narrow life — by all her joy in the conversation 
 of d'Entremont, the only man her equal iri culture she had ever 
 known, she felt drawn to be the wife of the Marquis. But if 
 there were roses, there were thorns in such a path. The vil- 
 lage girl knew that Madame la Marqmse must lead a life very 
 
 83 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 different from any she had known. She must bear with a 
 husband whose mind was ever in a state of unrest and scep- 
 ticism, and she must meet the great world. 
 
 In truth there were two Priscillas. There was the Priscilla 
 that her neighbors knew, the Priscilla that went to church, the 
 Priscilla that taught Primary School No. 3. There was the 
 other Priscilla that read Chaucer and Shakspeare, Moliere 
 and De Stael. With this Priscilla, New Geneva had nothing 
 to do. And it was the doubleness of her nature that aggravat- 
 ed her indecision.. 
 
 Then her conscience came in. Because there might be 
 worldly attractions on the one side, she leaned to the other. 
 To reject a poor suitor and accept a rich and titled one, had 
 something of treason in it. 
 
 At the end of a week she sent for them both. Henry Ste- 
 vens' flat-boat had been ready to start for New Orleans for 
 two days. And Challeau, Lafort & Cie. were expecting the 
 Marquis, who was in some sort a ward of theirs. Henry Ste- 
 vens and the Marquis Antoine d'Entremont walked side by 
 side, in an awkward silence, to the little vine-covered cottage. 
 Of that interview I do not know enough to write fully. But I 
 know that Priscilla said such words as these : — 
 
 " This is an awful responsibility. I suppose a judge trem- 
 bles when he must pass sentence of death. But I must make 
 a decision that involves the happiness of both my friends and 
 myself. I cannot do it now. God does not give me to see 
 my duty clearly, and nothing but duty should speak in mak- 
 ing such a decision. Will you wait until you both return in 
 the spring? I have a reason that I cannot explain for wishing 
 this matter postponed. God will decide for me, perhaps." 
 
 I do not know that she said just these words ; and I know 
 she did not say them at all once. But so they parted. And 
 Miss Nancy More, who retailed ribbons and scandal, and 
 
 84 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 whose only effort at mental improvement had been the pluck- 
 ing out of the hairs contiguous to her forehead, that she might 
 look intellectual, — Miss Nancy More from her look-out at the 
 window descried the two friends walking away from Mrs. 
 Haines' cottage, and remarked, as she had often remarked 
 before, that it was " absolutely scandalous for a young woman 
 who was a professor to have two beaux at once, and such 
 good friends, too ! " 
 
 I have noticed that gifted girls like Priscilla have a back- 
 ground in some friend, intelligent, quiet, restful. Anna Poin- 
 dexter, a dark, thoughtful, and altogether excellent girl, was 
 sometimes spoken of as " Priscilla's double ; " but she was 
 rather Priscilla's opposite : all her gifts were complementary 
 to those of her friend. The two were all but inseparable ; and 
 so, when Priscilla found herself the next evening on the bank 
 of the river, she naturally found Anna with her. Slowly the 
 flat-boat, of which Henry Stevens was owner and captain, 
 drifted by, while the three or four men at each long oar strode 
 back and forward on the deck as they urged the boat on. 
 Henry was standing on the elevated bench made for the pilot, 
 holding the long "steering-oar" and guiding the craft. As his 
 manly form in the western sunlight attracted their attention, 
 both the girls were struck with admiration for the noble fellow. 
 Both waved their handkerchiefs, and Henry returned the adieu 
 by swinging his hat. So intent was he on watching them that 
 he forgot his duty, and one of the men was obliged to call out, 
 "Swing her round, captain, or the mail-boat '11 sink us." 
 
 Hardly was the boat swung out of the way when the tall- 
 chimneyed mail-boat swept b}'. 
 
 "See the Marquis," cried Anna, and again adieux were 
 waved ; and the Marquis stepped to the guard and called out 
 to Henry, "I'll see you in New Orleans ;" and the swift steamer 
 immediately bore him out of speaking distance. And Henry 
 
 85 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 watched him disappear, with a choking feeling that thus the 
 nobleman was to outstrip him in life. 
 
 "See ! " said Anna, "you are a lucky girl. You have your 
 choice : you can go through life on the steamboat or on the 
 flat-boat. Of course you'll go by steam." 
 
 "There are exj^losions on steamboats sometimes," said Pris- 
 cilla. Then turning, she noticed a singular expression on 
 Anna's face. Her insight was quick, and she said, "Confess 
 that yoti would choose the flat-boat." And Anna turned away. 
 
 "Two strings to her bow, or two beaux to her string, I should 
 say," and she did say it ; for this was Miss Mora's comment on 
 the fact which she had just learned, that Miss Haines had 
 received letters from " the lower country," the handwriting on 
 the directions of which indicated that she had advices from 
 both her friends. But poor Miss More, with never a string 
 to her bow, and never a beau to her string, might be forgiven 
 for shooting arrows that did no harm. 
 
 There was a time when Priscilla had letters from only one. 
 Henry was very sick, and d'Entremont wrote bulletins of his 
 condition to Priscilla and to his family. In one of these it 
 was announced that he was beyond recovery, and Priscilla 
 and Anna mingled their tears together. Then there came a 
 letter that he was better. Then he was worse again ; and 
 then better. 
 
 In those days the mail was brought wholly by steamboats, 
 and it took many days for intelligence to come. But the next 
 letter that Priscilla had was from Henry Stevens himself. It 
 was filled from first to last with praises of the Marquis : how 
 he had taken Henry out of his boarding place, put him in his 
 own large room in the St. Charles ; how he had nursed him 
 with more than a brother's tenderness, scarcely sleeping at all ; 
 how he had sold his cargo, relieved his mind of care, em- 
 
 86 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 ployed the most eminent physicians, and anticipated his every 
 want — all this, and more, the letter told. 
 
 And the next steamboat brought Henry, wellnigh restored, 
 and his noble nurse. Both were impatient to learn the deci- 
 sion of Priscilla ; each was sure the other was to carry off the 
 prize. 
 
 And so they walked together, the day after their arrival, to 
 the little cottage. The conversation was begun by each of the 
 gentlemen expressing his conviction that her decision was 
 against him, and offering to retire. 
 
 Priscilla leaned her head on her hand a minute. Then she 
 began: "I told you, my friends, that I thought God would 
 decide for me. He has. I can marry neither of you." 
 
 The two friends looked at one another in doubt and amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Three sisters, four brothers, and my father died of pul- 
 monary disease. Of eight children, I only am left, and in 
 three months my mother will be childless. God has decided 
 for me. Why should I give either of you pain by making a 
 decision?" 
 
 For the first time, in the imperfect light, they noticed the 
 flushed cheeks, and for the first time they detected the quick 
 breathing. It was a sad hour ; and when they walked away, 
 the two friends were nearer than ever, for nothing brings souls 
 together so much as a common sorrow. 
 
 And as day after day the two friends visited her in com- 
 pany, the public, and particularly that patt of the public which 
 peeped out of Miss Nancy More's windows, was not a little 
 mystified. Miss More thought a girl who was drawing near 
 to the solemn and awful realities of eternal bliss should let 
 such worldly vanities as Markusses alone ! 
 
 A singular change came over Priscilla in one regard. As 
 the prospect of life faded out, she was no longer in danger of 
 
 87 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 being tempted by the title and wealth of the Marquis. She 
 could be sure that her heart was not bribed. And when this 
 restraint of a conscience abnormally sensitive was removed, it 
 became every day more and more clear to her that she loved 
 d'Entremont. Of all whom she had ever known, he was a 
 companion. And as he brought her choice passages from 
 favorite writers every day, and as her mind grew with un- 
 wonted rapidity under the influence of that strange disease 
 which shakes the body down while it ripens the soul, she felt 
 more and more that she was growing out of sympathy with 
 all that was narrow and provincial in her former life, and into 
 sympathy with God's great world, and with Antoine d'Entre- 
 mont, who was the representative of the world to her. 
 
 This rapidly growing gulf between his own intellectual life 
 and that of Priscilla, Henry Stevens felt keenly. But there is 
 one great compensation for a soul like Henry's. Men and 
 women of greater gifts might outstrip him in intellectual 
 growth. He could not add one cell to his brain, or make the 
 slightest change in his temperament. But neither the Marquis 
 nor Priscilla could excel him in that gift of noble generosity 
 which does not always go with genius, and which is not de- 
 nied to the man of the plainest gifts. He wrote to the Mar- 
 quis : — 
 
 "My Dear Friend : — You are a good and generous friend. I have read 
 in her voice and her eyes what the decision ot Priscilla must have been. If I 
 had not been blind, I ought to have seen it before in the difference between 
 us. Now I know that it will be a comfort to you to have that noble woman 
 die your wife. I doubt not it will be a comfort to her. Do you think it will 
 be any consolation to me to have been an obstacle in the way.' I hope you do 
 not think so meanly of me, and that you and Priscilla will give me the only 
 consolation I can have in our common sorrow — the feeling that I have been 
 able to make her last days more comfortable and your sorrow more bearable. 
 If 3'ou refuse, I shall always reproach myself. Henry." 
 
 I need not tell of the discussions that ensued. But it was 
 
PRISCTLLA. 
 
 concluded that it was best for all three that Priscilla and the 
 Marquis should be married, much to the disgust of Miss 
 Nancy More, who thought that " she'd better be sayin' her 
 prayers. What good would it do to be„a Marchoness, and all 
 that, when she was in her coffin?" 
 
 A wedding in prospect of deatli is more affecting than a 
 funeral. Only Henry Stevens and Anna Poindexter were to 
 be present. Priscilla's mother had completed the arrange- 
 ments, blinded by tears. I think she could have dressed Pris- 
 cilla for her coffin with less suffering. The white dress looked 
 so like a shroud, under those sunken cheeks as white as the 
 dress I Once or twice Priscilla had drawn her mother's head 
 to her bosom and wept. 
 
 "Poor mother!" she would say, "so soon to be alone. But 
 Antoine will be your son." 
 
 There was one more at the wedding than was intended. 
 The family physician was there ; for, just as the dressing of 
 the pale bride was completed, there came one of those sudden 
 breakdowns to which a consumptive is so liable. The doctor 
 said that there was internal hemorrhage, and gave but a few 
 hours of life. When the Marquis came he was heart-broken 
 to see her lying there, so still, so white — d3dng. She took his 
 hand. She beckoned to Anna and Henry Stevens to stand by 
 her, and then, with tear-blinded eyes, the old minister married 
 them for eternity ! Then the door opened, and the ten little 
 Sunday-school boys from Slabtown marched in. Each of 
 them had a bouquet provided by Henry Stevens for the wed- 
 ding. When the leader of the file saw her so sick he began 
 to cry. She took his bouquet and kissed him. Then the little 
 fellow rushed out, weeping piteously. Each of the others 
 followed his example. 
 
 Feehng life ebbing, she took the hand of the Marquis. 
 Then, holding to the hand of d'Entremont, she beckoned 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 Henry to come near. As he bent over her she said, looking 
 significantly at the Marquis, "Henry, God bless you, my noble- 
 hearted friend I " and as Henry turned away, the Marquis put 
 his arm about him and said gratefully, "Henry, God luill bless 
 you." 
 
 Priscilla's nature abhorred anything dramatic in dying, or 
 rather she did not think of effect at all ; so she made no fine 
 speeches. But when she had ceased to breathe, the old 
 preacher said, "The bridegroom has come." And he was 
 more eloquent than he knew. 
 
 She left an envelope for Henry. What it had in it no one 
 but Henry ever knew. I have heard him say that it was one 
 word, which became the key to all the happiness of his after 
 life. Judging from the happiness he has in his home with 
 Anna, his wife, it would not be hard to tell what the word was. 
 The last time I was at his house I noticed that their eldest 
 child was named Priscilla, and that the boy who came next 
 was Antoine. Henry told me that Priscilla lelt a sort of 
 "will" for the Marquis, in which she asked him to do the 
 Christian work that she would have liked to do. Nothing 
 could have been wiser if she had only sought his own happi- 
 ness, for in activity for others is the only safety for a restless 
 and sceptical mind. He had made himself the special pro- 
 tector of the ten little Slabtown urchins. 
 
 Henry told me in how many ways, through Challeau, La- 
 fort & Cie. , the Marquis had contrived to contribute to his pros- 
 perity without offending his delicacy. He found himself 
 possessed of practically unlimited credit through the guar- 
 antee which the great New Orleans banking-house was always 
 ready to give. 
 
 "What is that fine building?" I said, pointing to a picture 
 on the wall. 
 
 90 
 
PRISCILLA. 
 
 "Oh, that is the 'Hospice de Sainte Priscille,' which Antoine 
 has erected in Paris. People there call it 'La Marquise.' " 
 
 " By the way," said Priscilla's mother j who sat by, "Antoine 
 is coming to see us next month, and is to look after his Slab- 
 town friends when he comes. They used to call him at first 
 ' Priscilla's Frenchman.' " 
 
 And to this day Miss More declares that Markusses is a 
 thing she can't noways understand. 
 
 91 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
In Memoriam. 
 
 JOHN A. ANDREW. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE STATUE OF GOV. ANDREW, 
 AT HINGHAM, MASS., OCT. 9, 1875. 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 EHOLD the shape our eyes have known ! 
 It lives once more in changeless stone ; 
 So looked in mortal face and form 
 Our guide through peril's deadly storm. 
 
 But hushed the beating heart we knew, 
 That heart so tender, brave and true. 
 Firm as the rooted mountain rock, 
 Pure as the quarry's whitest block ! 
 
 Not his beneath the Wood-red- star 
 To win the soldier's envied scar : 
 Unarmed he battled for the right. 
 In Duty's never-ending fight. 
 
 Unconquered will, unslumbering eye, 
 Faith such as bids the martj^r die, 
 The prophet's glance, the master's hand 
 To mould the work his foresight planned. 
 
 These were his gifts ; what Heaven had lent 
 For justice, mercy, truth, he spent, 
 First to avenge the traitorous blow, 
 And first to lift the vanquished foe. 
 
 Lo, thus he stood ; in danger's strait 
 The pilot of the Pilgrim State.! 
 Too large his fame for her alope, — 
 A nation claims him as her own ! 
 95 
 
THE WATER! THE WATER! 
 
 '"-'^^^v 
 
THE WATER! THE WATER 
 
 BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 HE Water ! The Water ! 
 
 The joyous brook for me. 
 That tuneth through the quiet night 
 
 Its ever-living glee. 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 That sleepless, merry heart, 
 Which gurgles on unstintedly, 
 
 And loveth to impart, 
 To all around it, some small measure 
 Of its own most perfect pleasure. 
 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 The gentle stream for me, 
 That gushes from the old gray stone 
 
 Beside the alder-tree. 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 That ever-bubbling spring 
 I loved and looked on, while a child, 
 
 In deepest wondering, 
 And asked it whence it came and went, 
 And when its treasures would be spent. 
 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 My heart yet burns to think 
 How cool thy fountain sparkled forth 
 
 For parched lip to drink. 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 Of mine own native glen, — 
 The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, 
 
 But ne'er Aall hear again. 
 Though fancy fills my ear for aye 
 With sounds that live so far away ! 
 
 99 
 
THE WATER ! THE WATER ! 
 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 The mild and glassy wave, 
 Upon whose broomy banks I've longed 
 
 To find my silent grave. 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 Oh, blest to me thou art, 
 Thus sounding in life's solitude 
 
 The music of my heart, 
 And filling it, despite of sadness, 
 With dreamings of departed gladness. 
 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 The mournful, pensive tone 
 That whispered to my heart how soon 
 
 This weary life was done. 
 The Water ! The Water ! 
 
 That rolled so bright and free, 
 And bade me mark how beautiful 
 
 Was its soul's purity. 
 And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 
 As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
Old Rudderford Hall. 
 
 BY MISS M. E. BRADDON, 
 
 Author of " Lady Attdle/s Secrel" "Aurora Floyd" "Birds of Prey" etc., etc. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LD RUDDERFORD HALL lay back from 
 the high road, buried in trees, and all the trav- 
 eller saw of it was a glimpse of mellow, red- 
 brick chimney, or an angle of the steep-tiled 
 roof, above oaks and elms that had been 
 growing ever since the Norman Conquest, 
 when all about the trim little out-of-the-world 
 village of Rudderford was forest land. 
 New Rudderford Hall fronted the turnpike road, resplendent 
 with three rows of shining plate-glass windows, a brilliant stuc- 
 coed front, a conservatory with a glass dome flashing in the 
 summer sun, a prim lawn embellished with geometrical flower- 
 beds, all ablaze with scarlet and yellow, and two pair of bran- 
 new Birmingham iron gates, of florid design, surmounted by two 
 pair of lamps. New Rudderford Hall looked what it was — -the 
 abode of commercial wealth. New Rudderford Hall gave dinner 
 parties, a ball once a year, hunting breakfasts in the late autumn, 
 private theatricals at Christmas. New Rudderford Hall had 
 three rosy daughters and one stalwart, hard-riding son, the apple 
 of its eye. 
 
 Old Rudderford Hall rarely opened its rusty gates or unlocked 
 its creaking doors. There was, indeed, a legend that no stranger 
 
 103 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 had broken bread there for a century ; yet there was a counter- 
 story current to the effect that the master of Old Rudderford 
 Hall could, when he chose, open a bottle of rare old wine for a 
 visitor, — Madeira that had voyaged three times to and fro the 
 East Indies, sirupy Malmsey, golden-tinted Tokay, oily Constan- 
 tia, with a faint bitter twang. Old Rudderford Hall had one 
 only child, a daughter, fair to see, who rode an ancient purblind 
 palfrey about the shady lanes round Rudderford, and was met 
 sometimes in the dwellings of the poor, but never in that ex- 
 alted sphere, which Rudderford called " society." Old Rudder- 
 ford Hall rejoiced in that patrician appendage, — a family 
 ghost. 
 
 The story ivent that a Champion of the days of the Stuarts 
 had slain his wife in some fit of jealous fury, and that the poor 
 lady's restless spirit — the legend hintcd'at her guilt — haunted 
 the long, dark passages and dismal chambers of the old house. 
 It was not very clear that any one had ever seen her, but she was 
 firmly believed in, nevertheless, and plenty of people were able 
 to give a graphic description of her, — a tall, graceful lady, 
 dressed in white, with flowing auburn hair falling over her neck 
 and shoulders. 
 
 The present owner of the Hall was Apthony Champion, and 
 the estate had belonged to the house of Champion ever since the 
 days of Henry VIII., who, in the distribution of church property, 
 had rewarded his liege servant, Thomas Champion, gentleman, 
 for divers services not set down in the title-deeds of the estate, 
 with the copyhold of Rudderford Chase and Rudderford Grange, 
 previously held by a monkish fraternity settled in the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 There were portions of the old Grange still standing, — mas- 
 sive stone walls pierced with narrow, arched windows, a winding 
 staircase, and low, oak door, iron-bound and studded with huge 
 
 nails ; but these stone buildings now served only as offices, and 
 
 :o4 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 the Hall proper had been built by the aforesaid Thomas Cham- 
 pion, with much splendor and lavish expenditure, in an age when 
 architectural extravagance had been made fashionable by the 
 magnificent Wolsey. The house was one of the finest speci- 
 mens of domestic architedlure in England, but had been sorely 
 neglefted for the last century. Wherever decay could arise, it 
 had arisen, and a settled gloom had falleri upon the mansion and 
 its surroundings. Only in the flower-garden was there any 
 glimpse of neatness or brightness, and that was due to the care 
 of Christabel Champion, who loved the old flower-beds, the 
 grassy walks, and ancient roses, and who not only superintended 
 the labors of a great hulking lad of seventeen, sole gardener at 
 the Hall, but worked hard herself into the bargain. 
 
 Within, the gloom was almost oppressive. Anthony Cham- 
 pion was a man who lived amongst his books, and dreamed 
 away his days over mouldy old folios and rare editions collected 
 by his father, when the Champion purse was deeper than it was 
 nowadays. He lived almost wholly in his library, only emerging 
 at seven in the evening to share his daughter's frugal dinner, and 
 to doze or muse for an hour or so afterwards in the long saloon. 
 There was some little show of state and ceremony kept up at 
 the Hall, though there were only three servants in a house where 
 there had once been forty — an ancient butler and housekeeper, 
 man and wife, and a buxom country girl, who did all the scrub- 
 bing and cleaning, attended to a small dairy, and waited upon 
 Christabel. 
 
 The master of Old Rudderford Hall was as poor as Job in his 
 day of affliction ; or at least so ran the common rumor, amply 
 sustained by the mode and manner of his existence. A hundred 
 years ago there had been revelry and splendor at the grand old 
 house, but at that time a great misfortune befel its master, in the 
 untimely death of his eldest son, killed in a duel ; and the be- 
 reaved father shut up the house, and went to France, where he 
 
 105 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 lived a wild life, and squandered a noble fortune at the profligate 
 court of Louis the Well-beloved. He died in Paris a year or so 
 before the revolution, which was to regenerate mankind, arrived 
 at that stage in which it began to improve them off the face of 
 the earth, and probably by his timely decease escaped a ruder 
 exit via the guillotine. His estate, much impoverished, de- 
 scend ?d to a nephew, a studious young man, lame and of feeble 
 health, who married a girl of humble birth, lived the life of a 
 recluse in the neglecfted house, and became the father of An- 
 thony Champion, the present master of the old Hall. 
 
 It is possible that, when young Anthony inherited the estate, 
 shrunk and burdened as it was, he might have made some effort 
 to brighten and improve things, if fortune had favored him ever 
 so little. But again did affliction fall heavily upon the old house. 
 He married a woman he adored, a fair young girl of high family 
 but no fortune, and brought her home to the Hall, full of all man- 
 ner of schemes for the future. For a little more than a year he 
 lived a life of supreme domestic happiness, and then — two 
 months after the birth of a baby-girl — he saw an unusual flush 
 upon his young wife's cheek one day, and the next beheld her 
 stricken with typhus-fever. In a week all was over, and he 
 stood alone by his dreary hearth, like a strong man turned to 
 stone. It was long before the caresses of his child could bring 
 the faintest shadow of a smile to his haggard face. He seemed 
 to grow an old man all at once. Unlike his ancestor, he did not 
 turn his back upon the scene of his suffering ; he only entombed 
 himself there, buried alive among his books. He had inherited 
 his father's studious habits ; and after a weary year, in which he 
 sat alone day after day, helpless, hopeless, blankly staring at 
 the wall before him, and brooding over his misery, he grew to 
 find some cold comfort in recondite studies of so close and se- 
 vere a kind, that the more credulous among his neighbors talked 
 
 darkly as of something not quite canny. 
 
 io6 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 For such a man society could have no charm. Had he pos- 
 sessed the weahh of all the Rothschilds, he would have lived 
 very much as he did live. A retinue of servants might have 
 eaten and drunk at his expense, a vast amoiint of splendid up- 
 holstery might have been created at his cost; but his individual 
 expenditure would have been no greater, his manner of existence 
 no more cheerful. He lived alone by choice ; and so utterly 
 narrowed had his mind become by constant brooding on one 
 vain regret, as to make him half-unconscious that this hermit 
 life was scarcely the best and brightcst"for a girl of eighteen. 
 The motherless baby, whose plaintive cries had rent his heart 
 years ago, had blossomed into a lovely girl, painfully like his 
 lost wife. Long and dreary as his days and nights had seemed 
 to him ever since that loss, he had been scarcely conscious of 
 the a6tual progress of time. The lapse might be five years or 
 fifty. It was a surprise to him to see =his daughter grown to 
 womanhood. He woke up from a long sleep, as it were, and 
 looked at her with vague wonder. Seven or eight years before, 
 he had made a friendly arrangement with the relator's wife, by 
 which Christabel was to share the studies of the four girls at the 
 rectory, under an admirable governess ; and by virtue of this 
 arrangement his daughter's education had cost him very little 
 money and no trouble. 
 
 He loved her fondly, and yet had given her little of his con- 
 fidence. Rarely did he see the fair young face looking up at 
 him without a faint pang, which was like the memory of an acute 
 agony rather than a6lual present pain. She was so like her 
 mother ! He fancied sometimes how fair a pi6ture those two 
 faces would have made side by side — one developed and 
 matronly, the other in all the bloom of girlhood. 
 
 She had her little circle of friends — a very small one. The 
 only house she visited was the recftory, and there she came and 
 went like a daughter of the house. There she had met the New 
 
 107 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 Rudderford Hall people — Frank Greenwood and his three sis- 
 ters, who fell in love with her — the sisters, that is to say — at 
 first sight. Frank said very little about her. She declined all 
 invitations for parties, however — indeed, she had none of the 
 finery required for such occasions — but consented to join them 
 now and then on the croquet-lawn and share their afternoon tea. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 |EW RUDDERFORD HALL was built upon a part 
 of the land which King Henry bestowed upon his 
 liege Thomas Champion, and this fa6l was resented 
 by Anthony as a personal offence against him upon 
 the part of Mr. Greenwood. If he had been a visiting man even, 
 nothing could have induced him to break bread with the master 
 of the new Hall, and he always heard of his daughter's intimacy 
 with " those Greenwood girls " with displeasure. 
 
 " I can't imagine what induces you to cultivate such people, 
 Christabel," he said fretfully, as they were=sitting together in the 
 summer dusk after dinner one evening in the long saloon — a 
 melancholy room which would have accommodated an assembly 
 of fifty, and seemed very dreary in its faded splendor, occupied 
 only by the father and daughter. 
 
 " I never have cultivated them, papa. You know how many 
 invitations they have sent me, and I have declined them all." 
 
 " You have been to their house." 
 
 " Yes, to play croquet, now and then ; ;never to any of their 
 parties." 
 
 " I suppose that is a deprivation," said Mr. Champion, with a 
 sigh. " I daresay there are people who would call me a cruel 
 father, and the life you lead in this old house an unnatural one." 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 " Pray, pray don't say that, my dear father," cried the girl 
 earnestly, coming over to his chair by the open window, and 
 laying her hand caressingly upon his shoulder. " You know 
 that I am quite content to be with you ; there is no higher hap- 
 piness I could desire than that. If our lives are a little dull 
 sometimes, and one is subject to an occasional attack of low 
 spirits, never mind ; there are other times when life seems all 
 sunshine, and the garden and the dear old house enchanted, 
 like the fairy palace in Beauty and the Beast. Why, after all, my 
 life is quite as gay as Beauty's was. As long as you like to live 
 alone, papa, I will be content with our solitude ; though I con- 
 fess it would make me happy to see you go more into the 
 . world." 
 
 The world, in Christabel's ideas, meant Rudderford and half- 
 a-dozen houses within half-a-dozen miles of Rudderford. Per- 
 haps the world of which she was thinking just at this moment 
 meant even something less than that — an occasional dinner- 
 party at Samuel Greenwood's smart stuccoed mansion. 
 
 " That is a sight you will never see, my dear," answered her 
 father drearily. " I shut my door upon the world when I came 
 home from your mother's funeral — home! and she was no 
 longer there ! No, Christabel ; the world and I have parted 
 company too long for any sympathy to be possible between us. 
 A man coming out into the clamor and confusion of Paris after 
 five-and-twenty years in one of the underground cells of the 
 Bastille could not feel himself jnore a stranger than I should, if 
 I were to go into the world now. But I am not going to keep 
 you buried alive forever. You have blossomed into a woman all 
 at once, and taken me by surprise. I want a little time to think 
 about it, and then I shall form some plan for giving you a 
 brighter life." 
 
 " I don't wish for any change, papa; I would not leave you. 
 If you have any plan for sending me away, pray abandon it. 
 
 109 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 Not all the pleasures in the world would make up to me for 
 leaving you. Indeed, indeed, I am quite happy ! I have my 
 poor people to visit, and — and — a few friends " — she hesitated, 
 with a sudden blush, remembering that those obnoxious Green- 
 woods were among the few — " and my dear old horse, Gilpin." 
 
 Mr. Champion smiled at the mention of this last item. 
 
 " Gilpin is scarcely a steed for a young.lady to boast of," said 
 he. " I suppose the world thinks that I 'can give you no better 
 mount than old Gilpin ; that I live the life I do from poverty as 
 much as for any other reason." 
 
 " People may think so, papa; what does it matter? " 
 
 " Nothing, child ; but for once the world is out in its reckon- 
 ing. I am not a poor man. The estate was heavily burdened 
 when I succeeded to it, but money has accumulated rapidly in 
 the life I have led, and I have paid off everything, — have saved 
 money, too. If I could have only bought back the land upon 
 which the new hall stands, and pulled down that vulgar cockney 
 house, I should think my money worth something; but that's 
 out of the question. Samuel Greenwood is one of the richest 
 men in the county, and would dearly like to buy me out of this 
 place. However, don't let's talk of him ; the subjedl always 
 puts me out of temper. When the time" comes for your mar- 
 rying, Christabel, you will not be a penniless bride." 
 
 " I hope, if ever I do marry, papa, it will be some one who 
 won't care whether I have any money or not." 
 
 " Of course ; that's a girl's notion. But people do care. I 
 don't want you to marry a pauper, who, having nothing to 
 bestow, would be content to take you with nothing. The age 
 has grown commercial, my dear ; the more money a man has, 
 the more he experts with his wife. And when you go into 
 society by and by, as I intend you shall do, you shall appear as 
 becomes a gentleman's daughter ; and when you marry, you 
 shall have such jewels as not one woman in a hundred can 
 show." 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 " Jewels, papa ! " cried Christabel, opening her blue eyes to 
 their widest extent, — " jewels." 
 
 Except a white cornelian necklace aftd a gold heart-shaped 
 locket containing her mother's hair, the girl had never pos- 
 sessed a trinket in her life. 
 
 " Yes, child, jewels. Stay here a miriute, and I'll show you 
 something." 
 
 There was a door at one end of the saloon opening into the 
 library, that darksome den in which Anthony Champion spent 
 his days, and which was rarely invaded by the foot of the in- 
 dustrious housemaid. A dingy old room, lined from floor to 
 ceiling with dingy books, — books in piles on the floor, books 
 on the mantelpiece, books heaped up on the three broad, oak 
 window-seats, books everywhere, and between the windows two 
 huge carved-oak muniment chests. 
 
 Anthony left his daughter in the saloon, and went into the 
 library. He unlocked one of these muniment chests, and took 
 out a battered old leather-covered box, which had once been 
 crimson. This he brought to Christabel. There was just light 
 enough for her to see some faded gilt lettering at the top, — the 
 initials " C. C." 
 
 "Was that my mother's?" she asked, scrutinizing those two 
 letters with interest. 
 
 " No. This jewel-case belonged to your great-aunt, Caroline 
 Champion, the mother of that unhappy lad who lost his life 
 in a drunken brawl which ended in bloodshed. When Angus 
 Champion turned his back upon Rudderford, he left this box be- 
 hind him, — forgot its existence, perhaps; who knows? His 
 wife had been dead nine years. At any rate, although he spent 
 almost everything he could lay his hands on, the jewels remained 
 in an iron safe in the steward's room, among old leases and use- 
 less parchments, and there my father found them when he in- 
 herited the property. As they had escaped so long, he did not 
 
 111 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 care to sell them. ' My son's wife shall wear them,' he said. 
 But your mother never lived to wear them, Christabel. We 
 used to talk merrily enough of the day when she should be 
 presented at court, in a blaze of diamonds. Yet she wore no 
 ornaments but the roses we put in her coffin." He stopped for 
 a few moments ; that memory never carrie to him without the 
 familiar pang. " And now I am going to dazzle your eyes," he 
 said, putting aside the bitter thought with an effort. There are 
 loves that do verily last a lifetime, and his was one of those. 
 
 He unlocked the jewel-case, and lifted the lid. Christabel 
 gave a great cry of rapture. There was a tray of diamonds, — 
 necklace, bracelets, brooch, ear-rings, set in silver, in a solid, 
 simple style. The stones were large and brilliant, perfect in 
 color, of a greater value than Anthony Champion imagined, 
 though he deemed them worth a round sum. 
 
 He raised the upper tray, and revealed a lower one, full of 
 sapphires, in a quaint filigree gold setting ; then he showed his 
 daughter another tray, containing a necklace and ear-rings of 
 amethysts and pearls, which Christabel declared were more 
 beautiful than the diamonds ; and then the bottom of the box, 
 in which there were only odds and ends, — antique rings, an 
 apostle's spoon, a smelling-bottle, a couple of thimbles, a fruit- 
 knife, a locket, a brooch or two, and so on. But these interested 
 Christabel almost more than the precious stones, and she sat 
 looking them over entranced, with the three jewel-trays spread 
 out upon the table. 
 
 " Hark ! " said her father suddenly. " What was that? " 
 
 "What, papa?" 
 
 " That noise outside ; it sounded like a step upon the gravel 
 Look out, Christabel, and see if there is any one." 
 
 Miss Champion stepped out of the long window. There was 
 a wide gravel walk before the saloon windows, somewhat weedy 
 and moss-grown, and beyond that a shrubbery, where the young 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 firs and shrubs grew thick and tall, — a shrubbery in which a 
 dozen men might have hidden securely enough. 
 
 There was no one to be seen. The girl glanced up and down 
 the weedy walk, very desolate-looking in the summer twilight, 
 and peered into the shrubbery, parting the thick laurels here 
 and there, but without result. 
 
 " Are you sure you heard a footstep, papa? " she asked, rather 
 incredulously, as she came back to the room.. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Champion, who had been hastily replacing 
 the jewel-trays, while his daughter was looking about, " I am 
 sure. And there was something more than a footstep. I saw 
 a shadow fall across the window." 
 
 " The shadow of a tree, perhaps, papa." 
 
 " There is no tree that can cast a shadow on this window. It 
 was gone in a moment. There has been some one watching us, 
 Christabel." 
 
 " A tramp, perhaps, papa," said Miss Champion, coolly. 
 
 The approaches to old Rudderford Hall were ill guarded, — 
 guarded not at all, in fact. The gates were never locked, and 
 for those intruders who might find the legitimate mode of 
 entrance inconvenient, there were numerous gaps in the fence 
 through which they might roam into the park at will. 
 
 Plenty of tramps, therefore, came to the old hall, and were 
 wont to depart, protesting against the inhospitality of the back 
 door and kitchen department in general. There were no beer- 
 drinking grooms to wheedle out of a friendly pint ; no gossiping 
 scullerymaids to give them bread and cheese or broken 
 victuals, — the bone of a leg of mutton and half a loaf of bread, 
 or the carcasses of a pair of fowls and a dish of cold vegetables. 
 There was nothing to be heard or seen, no hen-roosts to be 
 robbed, — for the poultry-yard was a desert : only close-shut 
 doors, and blank iron-barred windows ; weeds growing between 
 the flagstones in the court, an empty dog-kennel, a locked dairy, 
 
 "3 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 a broken pump, which would not yield the wanderer so much as 
 the refreshment of a draught of spring water. 
 
 " A tramp I " exclaimed Mr. Champion, with displeasure. 
 " I'm afraid you encourage such vermin by your indiscriminate 
 charities, Christabel." 
 
 Christabel looked downward with a faint little sigh. If not a 
 miser in theory, Mr. Champion had been a miser in practice ; 
 and so restricted was her pocket-money, that these indiscrimi- 
 nate charities of which he complained consisted of a stray six- 
 pence now and then bestowed upon some footsore vagrant, 
 whose piteous tale touched the tender young heart. 
 
 " A tramp ! " repeated Mr. Champion ; " a pleasant thing for 
 a tramp to have seen those jewels. I'll put them away this 
 moment, and do you look out again, Christabel, and see if you 
 can discover any one lurking about; dnd you might tell David 
 to keep his eyes open." 
 
 David was the solitary gardener and out-of-door-man, who 
 had the custody of grounds that could have been barely kept in 
 order by six. 
 
 Miss Champion stepped out into the garden again under a 
 darkening sky, and this time looked more closely than before, 
 making a circuit of the shrubbery by a path half choked with 
 the wild growth of neglected shrubs, going round into the old 
 Dutch garden, glancing even into the kitchen garden beyond, 
 where she found David staring pensivelyjnto a broken cucumber 
 frame. 
 
 To him she gave her father's order, which he received almost 
 contemptuously. 
 
 " Tramps, miss ! Lor' a mercy, they don't do no harm 
 There's nothing for 'em to steal." 
 
 Of course the intruder, whoever he might be, must have had 
 ample time to make his escape after Mr. Champion first took 
 alarm. David prowled slowly through the gardens, stared 
 
 114 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 across a massive holly hedge into the park, saw no one, and 
 wended his solitary way to the house to report accordingly. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JHRISTABEL met Rosa Greenwood next morning in 
 one of the green lanes beyond the village when she 
 was returning from a long ramble on Gilpin, and that 
 young lady told her of a croquet party that was to 
 take place at New Rudderford Hall that evening, and to which 
 she must certainly come. 
 
 " It's not the least bit in the world a party, you know, dear," 
 Miss Greenwood pleaded, patting Gilpin's iron-gray shoulder ; 
 " quite an impromptu affair, got up for Miss Perkington, only 
 daughter of the great firm of Perkington and Tanberry, cloth 
 manufacturers, who is staying with us. Such a dear girl! not 
 exactly pretty, but so interesting. We all want Frank to riiarry 
 her, and I really think she likes him. But there's no knowing ; 
 young men are so peculiar." 
 
 Christabel wore a straw hat with a blue veil, and under the 
 blue veil the roses on her cheeks deepened a little at this junc- 
 ture. 
 
 " Now you must, must, must come, Christabel. I won't 
 accept a refusal. The rectory girls are to be with us. We are 
 to dine at five, so as to secure a long evening, and begin croquet 
 at six ; and we can wind up with a waltz or two before supper." 
 
 Christabel's eyes quite sparkled at the idea of a waltz. Danc- 
 ing was a dissipation which seemed to her inexperience the 
 height of earthly felicity. She had waltzed all by herself on the 
 lawn many a summer evening, softly singing some languorous 
 melody of D'Albert's as she danced, 
 
 "5 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 " I should dearly like to come," she said thoughtfully, " but 
 I don't know if papa — " 
 
 " Papa ! bosh ! " exclaimed Miss Greenwood, who was some- 
 what fast and irreverent in her notions of parental authority. 
 " I should like to see the author of my being putting a spoke 
 in the wheel if I wanted to enjoy myself. As if your life wasn't 
 dull enough, mcwcd up in that dreary old Hall ! " And Miss 
 Greenwood made a wry face, which expressed her supreme 
 contempt for the grand old Tudor mansion, as compared with 
 the smart plate-glass-windowed habitation which sheltered her 
 fair self 
 
 " I'll ask papa if I may come at eight," said Christabel. " He 
 dines at seven, you know, and he always likes to have me with 
 him at dinner. I couldn't possibly come till eight; but the 
 evenings are so long now." 
 
 " It's a great deal too late," replied Rosa, picking a fly off 
 Gilpin's nose. " However, if you must stop to see that curious 
 old pa of yours eat his dinner, you must. But remember, we 
 shall expect you at eight sharp. I'll send Frank to meet you at 
 the field gate." 
 
 " Oh, please don't," cried Christabel. 
 
 " But I please shall. He'll meet you at the gate when the 
 clock strikes eight." 
 
 Miss Champion walked her horse to the end of the lane, 
 Rosa Greenwood walking by her side, telling her about that 
 wonderful young person Miss Vicftoria Perkington, who, by 
 virtue of her position as the only daughter of Perkington and 
 Tanberry, had an allowance which made the condition of the 
 rich Miss Greenwoods seem absolute penury. 
 
 " You should see the dresses she has brought with her for a 
 ten days' visit ! " exclaimed Rosa. " A basket as big as a house, 
 and all of them from a Frenchwoman in Bruton street. There's 
 
 ii6 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 a corded black silk trimmed with white lace ^Valenciennes — 
 three inches deep on all the flounces and puffings; worth a for- 
 tune — a perfect duck of a dress ! " 
 
 Christabel thought of her jewels, and wished that she could 
 have melted just a few diamonds, which she could never wear 
 till she was married, into silk dresses. She gave a little sigh, 
 thinking of the scantiness of her wardrobe, and how very poor 
 a figure she must needs seem in the ey;es of Miss Perkington, 
 and rode slowly home, meditative, and not altogether happy. 
 
 " I dare say he will marry her," she said to herself. " It is 
 just as papa said last night. The richer people are, the more 
 eager they are to increase their wealth. He will marry her, no 
 doubt, and buy some great estate in the neighborhood, and 
 build a big, ugly house ; and I shall see them riding by on their 
 thorough-bred horses, and laughing at poor old Gilpin." 
 
 She bent over her horse's neck to pat him at this thought, 
 and one childish tear dropped upon the gray mane. She was 
 not much more than a child, and Frank Greenwood had. been 
 very tender and deferential in his manner to her always. It 
 gave her a sharp pain to think that he would pass quite out of 
 her life, and belong to Miss Perkington. 
 
 " Would you object to my going to play croquet at — at the 
 new Hall this evening, papa? " the girl asked timidly, during 
 dinner. 
 
 "Object? Well, my dear, you know I detest those Green- 
 wood people," — it is doubtful if he had seen them three times 
 in his life, — " but I suppose it would be liard upon you to for- 
 bid your enjoying any little pleasure they may offer you in a 
 quiet way. It is not a party, of course?" 
 
 " Oh, no, papa. I only heard of it from Rosa when I was out 
 this morning." 
 
 " Mind, I set my face absolutely against your appearance at 
 any of their ostentatious parties. I'll not have my daughter 
 
 117 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 paraded at Joshua Greenwood's chariot-wheels. But as far as 
 a game of croquet goes, if it pleases you, I've no objection." 
 
 " Thanks, dear papa." 
 
 " When are you going? " 
 
 " Directly after dinner." 
 
 " That will be at eight o'clock. I shall send David for you 
 at half-past nine." 
 
 Only an hour and a half! Would there be time for those 
 waltzes on the lawn? She had danced several times with Frank 
 at that hospitable rectory, and knew that he was an agreeable 
 partner. 
 
 " There is to be a kind of supper, *I believe, papa," she 
 faltered. 
 
 " A kind of supper? Say ten, then, or'half-past at the latest." 
 
 "Thank you, papa dear." 
 
 " Bless my heart ! one would think these people were the 
 most congenial acquaintance you could desire." 
 
 " The rectory girls are to be there, papa," Christabel said 
 demurely. 
 
 " Well, I don't wonder at your being attached to t]ieni. Run 
 away, child, and dress yourself. I can finish my dinner alone." 
 
 Miss Champion kissed her father, and tripped away to make 
 her brief toilet; pleased, and yet with a vague pain at her heart 
 — a pain that was associated with the image of the unknown 
 Miss Perkington. Rosa Greenwood had called her brother 
 "peculiar" in atone that seemed to imply his indifference to 
 the great heiress ; but she had not said the marriage was at all 
 unlikely; and the family wished it; and Miss Perkington was 
 there; and Frank was a man of the wojld — very bright, and 
 clever, and open-hearted, but a man of the world nevertheless. 
 
 She put on her white muslin dress, — a dress three summers 
 old, which had been lengthened artfully, but not quite imper- 
 ceptibly, to suit her increasing height; =just such a dress as 
 
 ii8 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 must of necessity provoke contempt in the mind of Miss Perk- 
 ington, who of course had never in her hfe worn anything 
 lengthened, or " let out." She tied a broad blue ribbon round 
 her slim white throat, with the gold heart-shaped locket hang- 
 ing to it, and then looked at herself in the glass discontentedly. 
 It was a very beautiful picture which she saw in that old- 
 fashioned cheval glass — a tall, slender, white-robed figure, and 
 a fair young face framed in luxuriant auburn hair; but Chris- 
 tabel only saw the deficiencies of her costume, and turned away 
 from the glass with a sigh. 
 
 Her father was dozing in his deep arm-chair when she peeped 
 into the saloon to bid him good-by ; so she went lightly out of 
 the window, and away through the gardens, into a meadow 
 where a solitary cow was browsing in the still evening atmos- 
 phere, and on to that field gate of which Miss Greenwood had 
 spoken; a gate that divided Samuel Greenwood's territory from 
 the shrunken lands of the Champions. 
 
 Rudderford Church clock chimed the three-quarters after 
 seven as Christabel crossed the meadow. She was just a quar- 
 ter of an hour before the appointed time. She was half glad, 
 half sorry, to think that Frank would not be there. 
 
 He was there, nevertheless — a good-looking young fellow, 
 with long legs, sitting on the gate in a contemplative attitude, 
 thinking so profoundly that he looked up with a start as the 
 light footstep came close to him — a start and something like a 
 blush. 
 
 " How good of you to come so early ! " he said, as they shook 
 hands, and he held the little hand an extra moment or so. (It 
 was just the sort of meeting in which a young man would con 
 sider himself entitled to one gentle pressure before he released 
 a pretty girl's hand.) " I strolled over here ten minutes ago tc 
 have a good think. I don't often think ; it's a bad habit." 
 
 Christabel laughed. She was almost always gay in his pres 
 
 119 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 ence ; he seemed to brighten her Hfe somehow with a genial in- 
 fluence. 
 
 " You must have been obliged to think at Oxford," she said. 
 
 Francis Greenwood had taken honors at Oxford a year or so 
 before. 
 
 " Not the least in the world. One's tutor does that sort of 
 thing for one. I used to read with a man — a duodecimo edi- 
 tion of Porson in his way, drank like a fish, and knew no end of 
 Greek. When I came to a stiffish passage in Aristotle, I used 
 to throw myself back in my chair and light my cigar. " Just help 
 yourself to another s.-and-b., and be good enough to demon- 
 strate that proposition, old fellow; I don't seem to see it," I used 
 to say; and the dear old bloke would prose away for an hour, 
 and, if I didn't understand it after that, I threw my book at his 
 head and gave it up." 
 
 " Was s.-and-b. a dictionary? " Christabel asked naively. 
 
 " No, Miss Champion, but a wonderful enlightener of the 
 human understanding — soda-water and brandy." 
 
 " I'm afraid you led quite a dreadful life at the University." 
 
 " Not at all, it was very nice. I should hardly mind leading 
 it over again, only it was not so nice as — r" 
 
 " As what? " Christabel asked, when he came to a dead stop. 
 
 '■ As the life I hope to lead by and by." 
 
 Her heart sank all at once. That meant his life in the big, 
 ugly house that he was to build for himself, and in which he was 
 to set up as a country squire, enriched with the wealth of Perk- 
 ington and Tanberry. Christabel knew that he was an ardent 
 lover of field-sports, and all pursuits that country gentleman 
 affect, and that he had a vast capacity for spending money. What 
 more natural than that he should be tempted by Miss Perk- 
 ington's half-million or so? 
 
 She was silent. They had one v/ide meadow to cross, a 
 meadow where the newly-cut grass was fragrant in the still June 
 
 120 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 air, and they would be in the grounds of the new Hall — grounds 
 in which there were very few trees, but a great deal of orna- 
 mentation in the way of costly shrubs of divers spikey orders, 
 and winding gravel paths that were kept with rigorous care. 
 They could hear the sharp click of the croquet-balls as they 
 crossed the meadow, and shrill feminine laughter. 
 
 " It was very rude of you to leave your side so long," said 
 Christabel. 
 
 " My side ? Oh, to be sure, those everlasting croquet- players. 
 Do you know, I think croquet the most duffing — I beg your 
 pardon, the most uninteresting game in the world. A man plays 
 it for the sake of loafing with a girl he likes ; I can't see any 
 other attraction in it." 
 
 " I suppose you have been loafing w;ith Miss Perkington," 
 said Christabel, with a forced little laugh. , 
 
 Frank Greenwood looked at her curiously. 
 
 " Yes," he answered coolly, " I have been loafing with Miss 
 Perkington a good deal lately;" and then he looked at her 
 again. 
 
 They were at the iron gate by this time — only a light iron 
 fence divided the grounds from the meadow. Between the lawn 
 and the fence there was that part of the garden called par ex- 
 cellence a shrubbery — a scanty grove of the spikey tribe, and 
 young pink hawthorn-trees, as thick in the trunk as a gandiu's 
 umbrella, and guelder-roses dotted about -at intervals — a shrub- 
 bery in which there was not covert for a rabbit. Christabel felt 
 that the eyes of all the players on the croquet-ground were upon 
 her, as she traversed the meandering gravel walks with Frank 
 by her side. 
 
 The lawn was as smooth and as level as a billiard-table, and 
 there was not so much as a faded leaf among the flower-beds — 
 brilliant pyramids of bloom, rising tier upon tier in rings of 
 contrasting color, or waving in and out in ribbon bordering. 
 
 121 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 The croquet-ground lay on one side of the house, and scattered 
 around it there were iron seats and tables for the accommoda- 
 tion of loungers and lookers-on. Samuel Greenwood was sit- 
 ting here, smoking his after-dinner cigar, and reading the 
 "Times;" — a big, bald-headed man, who might once have 
 been like Frank. 
 
 He did not look particularly pleased "when Christabel came 
 to shake hands with him, smiling shyly, and he gave his son a 
 side-glance that was not altogether agreeable. 
 
 " Oh, how d'ye do, Miss Champion ? " he said. " I didn't know 
 you were to be here this evening." 
 
 " Good gracious me, pa ! " exclaimed the irreverent Rosa, " as 
 if we should take the trouble to tell you who was coming to 
 play croquet. Come, Chris, you're to be on our side, — Harry 
 and I " (short for Harriet), " Julia Lee " (the rector's daughter), 
 " and you ; Miss Perkington, Frank, Clara Lee, and Patty, on the 
 other side. Now then, first red, get on — : Oh, I forgot to intro- 
 duce you two girls. Miss Perkington, Miss Champion ; Miss 
 Champion, Miss Perkington; aristocracy and plutocracy; old 
 Rudderford Hall and the Beeches, Leamington ; and now you 
 know all about each other, and I expect you to be good friends 
 immediately." 
 
 Miss Perkington bowed stiffly. She did not quite relish such 
 a free-and-easy introduction, but her dear Rosa had such eccen- 
 tric ways. She was a tall, thin young woman, of an order that 
 is called stylish, with a good many sharp angles, that were art- 
 fully toned down by the flouncings and puffings of a French 
 dressmaker; a young woman, with a complexion of the kind 
 that is vulgarly called " tallowy," cold gray eyes, a short, nonde- 
 script nose, and a heavy lower jaw. She had good, white teeth, 
 a profusion of black hair, and she held herself well ; but it took 
 a large amount of millinery to make Victoria Perkington 
 attractive. 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 It was hot altogether pleasant to Christabel, that game at cro- 
 quet. In all their previous sport she had had Frank always on 
 her side, achieving wonders by combined dexterity and dishon- 
 esty, now boldly pushing her ball to a point of vantage with the 
 toe of his boot, anon calmly pocketing it to avoid the perils of 
 an adversary's croquet; and they had had such fun, such per- 
 petual giggling, such little secrets, and mutual iniquities. This 
 evening they played a rigorous game. Miss Perkington be- 
 longed to a croquet-club at Leamington, and would stand no 
 nonsense. She played two hours every afternoon throughout 
 the croquet season, just as regularly as she practised Czerny's 
 exercises on the piano two hours every morning. She had a 
 stroke like a sledge-hammer, and never missed a hoop ; so she 
 very soon became a rover, and in that capacity kept a sharp eye 
 upon her ally, Mr. Francis Greenwood. He had not the small- 
 est opportunity for talking to Christabel, even if he liad wished 
 to do so, and poor Christabel fancied that he did not wish. He 
 seemed to be upon quite confidential terms with Miss Perking- 
 ton. He was in fact a young man who could hardly help mak- 
 ing himself agreeable to women, and had that semi-flirting man- 
 ner which some young men cultivate. 
 
 Miss Champion played abominably; suffered herself to be 
 croqueted off the face of the earth, as it were, to the extreme 
 indignation of Rosa Greenwood. The Perkington side won with 
 flying colors. Oh, how poor Christabel hated the eau-de-Nil 
 dress, with its innumerable flounces and frillings, the point-lace 
 collar, the Cluny borderings, and all the Perkington caparisons, 
 as that sole daughter of the house of Perkington and Tanberry 
 kept rustling to and fro, sending adverse balls to the farthest 
 limits of space with a cold-blooded ferocity that set Miss Cham- 
 pion's teeth on edge ! 
 
 When the second game had finished, with dire defeat for 
 Christabel's party, and it was about as dark as ever it is at mid- 
 123 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 summer, with the stars shining out one by one from a deep blue 
 sky, Rosa and one of those useful rectory girls went into the 
 drawingroom, and pdayed the famous " Mabel " waltzes. The 
 piano had been wheeled into the bay, and the music floated out 
 through the three tall windows, open from floor to ceiling. 
 
 Two of the girls waltzed together, and Frank was still Victoria 
 Perkington's partner. He had scarcely asked her to dance, she 
 had appropriated him as a matter of course. 
 
 " If I am to dance, I suppose it is to be with you," she said, 
 with her little, supercilious laugh, " since you are our only 
 danseur." 
 
 She waltzed very well, with all her canvas spread ; waltzed 
 too well, Francis Greenwood thought, for he was waiting for her 
 to get tired out in order that he might get just a turn or so with 
 Christabel. She gave him no opportunity for this, however, as 
 she contrived to hold him in conversation — fade society talk 
 about people they both knew at Leamington ; but, oh, it 
 sounded so confidential, so tender, even, to Christabel's listening 
 ears! — during the pauses in which Miss Perkington conde- 
 scended to rest, and then went off again like a steam-engine 
 refreshed. 
 
 When Frank did at last make his escape, and cross the lawn 
 in quest of Christabel, a shrill voice from the bay-window called 
 out " Supper ! " and he was obliged to abandon all hope of that 
 longed-for waltz. 
 
 He offered Miss Champion one arm, and gave the other to 
 one of the rectory girls. These were visitors for the evening, 
 and Miss Perkington was staying in the house, and was, in a 
 manner, a member of the family. The fair Victoria rewarded 
 him with a very black look, notwithstanding, when they all came 
 crowding into the brilliantly-lighted dining-room, where Samuel 
 Greenwood sat at the head of his table, with an Aberdeen 
 
 124 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 salmon a la mayonnaise before him, a huge, silvery fish lying in a 
 bed of greenery, with a bristling hedge of prawns. 
 
 " Come here, Victoria, my dear," he said, pointing to the chair 
 on his right. "Frank, you'll sit next to Miss Perkington ; Miss 
 Lee, you come on my left." 
 
 He took no notice of Christabel ; but that contumacious 
 Frank put her coolly into the chair next -his own, and so seated 
 himself between Miss Perkington and her rival. 
 
 The heiress of Perkington and Tanberry retired into herself. 
 Frank tried to divide his attentions between the two girls ; but 
 Miss Perkington only answered him with icy monosyllables, and 
 pretended to consider all his attempts at general conversation 
 directed solely to Christabel. She scarcely touched her salmon, 
 declined lobster-salad, would have nothing to say to cold chicken 
 or pine-apple cream, left the Moselle to •^aste its fragrance on 
 the desert air, and sat trifling moodily with half-a-dozen monster 
 strawberries. 
 
 Her ill-temper seemed to communicate itself to Mr. Green- 
 wood, senior, who looked daggers at his son from time to time. 
 The other girls were uneasy. Christabel, who had brightened 
 and sparkled into new life at the beginning of the feast, found 
 out suddenly, in the midst of an animated little discussion, that 
 she and Frank were the only talkers, and grew silent imme- 
 diately. 
 
 The great ormolu and malachite clock upon the chimney- 
 piece struck the half-hour after ten. 
 
 "Oh, if you please," she whispered to Frank, " I ought to go 
 away directly, if Mr. Greenwood would not think me rude. 
 David was to come for me at half-past ten, — the gardener, you 
 know, — and papa might be angry, if I were to stay later." 
 
 " David is a nuisance," said Frank, in his free-and-easy manner ; 
 "-though our society is not so entertaining that you need regret 
 leaving it. I shall see you home, of course." 
 
 125 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 " Oh, no, pray don't think of that; there's really no occasion." 
 
 "There is occasion. You might meet a gang of poachers 
 poaching eggs, or something, and what would David be among 
 so many? There's that fellow they call Black Simeon — the 
 man who got seven years for a burglary at Little Thorpington — 
 has come back to Rudderford. I saw him prowling about the 
 village yesterday, half-seas over. A regular bad lot, that fellow 
 is. Of course I shall come with you. David can walk behind 
 and contemplate the stars. I dare say he knows Orion and the 
 Pleiades as well as that fellow in ' Lockesley Hall," whose knowl- 
 edge of the heavenly bodies doesn't seem to have been stupen- 
 dous." 
 
 The advent of the indoor man from the rectory, to fetch the 
 Miss Lees, was announced at this moment, so the girls all rose 
 together. A maid who had spirited away Christabel's hat 
 brought it back; and, after a very cool good-night from Joshua 
 Greenwood, who sat scowling at the mutilated salmon, and the 
 stiffest possible bow from Miss Perkington, Miss Champion de- 
 parted with Frank for her escort. 
 
 " Miss Champion has a servant, I believe, Frank," Mr. Green- 
 wood said, sternly. 
 
 " I know she has," answered his undutiful son ; " but Pm go- 
 ing to see her safe across the meadows, for all that." 
 
 Oxford was always too much for Birmingham in any en- 
 counter between those two. The commercial magnate had 
 spent three or four thousand pounds upon his son's education, 
 and it seemed to him at odd times that the only tangible prod- 
 uce of that investment was an extensive vocabulary of univer- 
 sity slang, and an agreeable placidity of :manner which set pa- 
 ternal authority at naught. The young man was not altogether 
 an undutiful son, however, and owned occasionally that his 
 father wasn't " half a bad fellow." 
 
 126 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 jlHE moon had risen while they=were losing the calm 
 sweetness of the night in the gas-lit dining-room ; 
 the bright full summer moon had risen, and all the 
 spiky trees in the shrubbery were reflected on the 
 smooth grass as if on water, all the flowers in the garden were 
 breathing perfume. Frank and Christabel went out by the 
 drawing-room window, and forgot all about David, who came run- 
 ning after them by and by from the servants' hall, where he 
 had been regaled with beer, and questioned artfully about the 
 "queer ways " of his master. He had to come round by back 
 ways and obscure paths, the gardens being sacred from such 
 vulgar feet as his, and thus did not overtake those two till they 
 were half way across the first meadow. And yet they had 
 dawdled a good deal in the garden, Frank insisting upon picking 
 an especial yellow rose from a standard of his own planting for 
 Christabel. 
 
 " You must have one ; roses always smell sweeter picked by 
 moonlight," he said. " If you don't find the fact stated in Lin- 
 naeus, it isn't my fault." 
 
 David was a judicious young man. Hefollowed at a respect- 
 ful distance, and, as Frank had suggested, contemplated, or 
 seemed to contemplate, the sidereal heavens, chewing a twig of 
 hawthorn thoughtfully the while. He allowed an ample margin 
 for loitering at gates, gave Frank so much latitude, in fact, that 
 before they came to the thick wood wh'ich made a darkness 
 round Old Rudderford Hall, that undutiful son had asked Chris- 
 tabel to be his wife. Of course, he had set out with no such 
 intention ; but the moonlight, and the dewy meadows, fragrant 
 with new-mown hay, and that judicious David, and a tender 
 
 127 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 sweetness in Clirislabel'sblue eyes, had been too much for him, 
 and the words had come of their own accord somehow, he hardly 
 knew how. 
 
 Was he sorry when she looked up at him with those sweet 
 eyes, brimming over with happy tears, and murmured shyly: — 
 
 " I thought you were going to marry Miss Perkington ! " 
 
 " Not for millions of millions, darling! " he cried, not sorry, 
 but rapturously glad, clasping the slender figure to his breast, 
 and raining down kisses on the fair young face. 
 
 David drew nearer at this juncture, still intent upon astro- 
 nomical study, but with the air of thinking he might be wanted 
 presently. 
 
 Frank took the hint, released the trembling girl, quite con- 
 founded by surprise and joy, and put a little hand through his 
 arm with the calmest air of appropriation. 
 
 "It's all settled, darling," he said; "I shall call upon your 
 father to-morrow." 
 
 " O Mr. Greenwood ! " 
 
 " Mr. Greenwood ! If you say that again, I shall kiss you 
 again, in spite of David." 
 
 " Frank, then." 
 
 How sweet it was to say it ! how sweet it was to hear it ! — 
 sweetness known to youth only, that loves and is beloved for 
 the first time. After six or seven such experiences, that sort of 
 thing is apt to become commonplace. It is like one's first watch, 
 one's first Derby day, one's first whitebait dinner. 
 
 " I'm sure your father will never let you marry me, Frank," 
 said Christabel. 
 
 " I should like to see myself asking my governor's permis- 
 sion," replied the young man. " He ought to be proud of my 
 getting such a chance — marrying a girl of a grand, old family 
 like yours; Brummagem allying itself to the Middle Ages; 
 counting-house getting a leaf in Burke's ' County Families.' " 
 
 12S 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 " But we are so poor," remonstrated Chrlstabel. " At least — " 
 
 "A lift in the social scale is better than money, my dearest. 
 I can take out letters-patent and call mySelf Greenwood-Cham- 
 pion by and by. That would look well upon our pasteboards, 
 wouldn't it, Belle?" 
 
 They were in the deep shadow of the trees by this time. 
 Not a glimmer of light was visible in the old house. All the 
 lower windows were closely guarded by heavy oak shutters. 
 They went to a little door — not the principal entrance, but a 
 low, arched door in a side tower — and David rang a bell, which 
 made a tremendous clanging half a mile away, as it seemed. 
 They had to wait a considerable time before any one answered 
 this summons, very much to Frank's satisfaction. He was whis- 
 pering schemes about their future life into Christabel's ear, just 
 as if they had been engaged a twelvemonth ; while David 
 looked up at the dark ivy-covered walls, as if calculating the 
 sparrows' nests. 
 
 Some one came at last — much too soon for Francis Green- 
 wood. Slipshod feet shuffled along a stone passage, uncertain 
 hands fumbled with locks and bolts, and the door being opened 
 cautiously, revealed the ancient butler in a semi-somnambulistic 
 condition. 
 
 "Lard, but you be late, Miss Chrissy," he said; he had 
 helped to nurse her in her motherless babyhood. " Your pa's 
 gone to bed ever so long." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," Christabel whispered to her lover. 
 
 "Why, sweetest?" 
 
 " Because I never could have told hirn ; and if he had seen 
 my face, he might have found out — " 
 
 " He shall hear all about it to-morrow, darling. I shall call 
 at one o'clock." 
 
 " And I shall ride Gilpin away to the other end of the world. 
 I couldn't bear to be in the house while — while — " 
 
 1:9 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 "While I am in the dock," said the young man, laughing. 
 " I think the verdict will be a favorable one, Chrissy." 
 
 " Oh, you don't know," cried Christabel, dolefully. 
 
 " I don't know what, dear? " 
 
 " How prejudiced papa is against your family, because of the 
 new Hall being built upon land that once belonged to this, and 
 the estate having been cut up and spoiled so, to make your 
 grounds. Those meadows of yours were a part of our park 
 once." 
 
 "That isn't our fault, darling, but that improvident old Cham- 
 pion's. Who knows but what the two estates might be joined 
 somehow one of these days? My father could buy himself 
 another place ; and we'd cut off the new Hall with the smallest 
 possible allowance of garden, and restore this dear old barn " — 
 so lightly did young Oxford speak of a perfect specimen of 
 Tudor architecture — " to its original splendor." 
 
 The sleepy butler coughed faintly, as if to remind them of his 
 infirmities and the lateness of the hour;- It was nearly mid- 
 night by this time — that walk across the fields had lasted so 
 long. The lovers clasped hands, and said good-night; and 
 Frank would fain have made this last good-night a long business, 
 only there was the butler, with his guttering tallow candle and 
 his piteous, expostulating look, and David in the rear yawning 
 audibly. So with one warm pressure of the little hand he let 
 her go, and the stout old door closed upon her, like the jaws of 
 a monster that had just swallowed her up. 
 
 Francis Greenwood turned away with a sigh, putting his hand 
 in his waistcoat-pocket mechanically to give 'David baksheesh. 
 But David had vanished, and the court-yard was empty. He 
 looked about him meditatively, in no humor to go back to the 
 common world just yet. The wind was sighing faintly among 
 the ivy-leaves, with a sound scarce louder than the breathing of 
 
 130 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 a quiet sleeper ; the black wall of the old house rose high 
 above him, the shadow of it fell upon him like a pall. 
 
 " What a dismal place for my pet to live in ! " he said to him- 
 self, and then began to wonder which was her room, and to 
 watch for the glimmer of a light from one of those upper case- 
 ments. 
 
 It came presently; a feeble twinkle, which flitted along a cor- 
 ridor, shining faintly from a row of narrow windows, and then 
 stopped and grew steady in a window at the end of the house. 
 This was his darling's chamber, the young man thought raptu- 
 rously. It might have been the butler's, but fortunately was 
 not; that functionary — who might have ;had his pick of twenty 
 vacant rooms — preferring to inhabit a darksome den in the 
 steep, sloping roof, where he burrowed like a rabbit. It really 
 was Christabel's room. 
 
 Rudderford church clock struck twelve while the lover still 
 stood gazing, and at that very moment, as if conjured inio being 
 by the last stroke of the mystic hour, the figure of a man came 
 suddenly from behind an angle of the wall. 
 
 "Who the deuce are you? " cried Frank, darting forward. 
 
 But the figure had vanished. There was a labyrinth of out- 
 buildings on that side of the house. Frank followed, and prowled 
 round about them, peering into every corner, but could find no 
 trace of that midnight intruder. There is always a nook into 
 which that sort of gentry can screw itself. His search was so 
 close and thorough, that he began at last to fancy his own senses 
 must have deceived him, and that the figure had been only a 
 creature of the imagination. He was not easily satisfied, how- 
 ever. The jewel in that old Tudor casket was to his mind so 
 rare a gem, that no care or watchfulness could be too much for 
 him, whose privilege it was to guard it. "-He made a complete 
 circuit of the house, trying windows and shutters. On the lower 
 story all was secure as the casements of a beleaguered fortress, 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 close guarded from the foe. If Anthony Champion had been 
 the owner of hoarded milhons, he could scarcely have protected 
 himself better from possible burglars. 
 
 One o'clock struck before Frank Greenwood left the precincts 
 of the old Hall, and walked slowly away towards the meadows. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 |HRISTABEL was almost too happy after that mid- 
 night parting. There was no depressing influence to- 
 night in the gloom and silence of her ancient home. 
 All the burden of her loneliness, which she had borne 
 so meekly, was lifted away in a moment, and her future life lay 
 radiant before her, like a garden in fairy-land. She was a little 
 anxious about her father, and his strong prejudices against the 
 race of Greenwood ; but her lover appeared to her altogether 
 so fascinating and irresistible, that she could not imagine any- 
 body proof against his influence. Her father would like and 
 admire him, of course, just as she did, and would abandon all 
 his prejudices, and accept him as her lover. And Miss Perk- 
 ington I Christabel laughed aloud — a little, happy laugh that 
 startled the silence of the old room — at the thought of that 
 young lady's ignominious defeat : all the silk flounces and lace 
 Trillings counting for nothing in the eyes of true love. 
 
 She was much too happy to think of sleep for ever so long, 
 although it was past midnight, but paced the room, with her 
 hands clasped in a joyous reverie, thinking of the wondrous for- 
 tune that had befallen her. Only a retired manufacturer's son, 
 it is true ; but then sh£ loved him, and he seemed to her the 
 one most perfect creature in all the world — so bright, so gener- 
 ous, so brave, so true, She had known so few people, had lived 
 
 132 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 a life so utterly lonely, that it .is scarcely strange she should be- 
 lieve in the one sunny-natured young fellow who had praised 
 and loved her. 
 
 Here she stopped before the tall narrow old glass, and looked 
 at herself half wonderingly. 
 
 Was she really pretty? was she worthy oOf such a lover? She 
 shook out her long loose hair. Yes ; she was like a picture of 
 Patient Grisel she remembered seeing years ago in a famous 
 collection. 
 
 The clock struck one before she lay down ; and then, over- 
 come suddenly by sleep in the midst of her happy thoughts, 
 she threw herself down, dressed as she was, upon a sofa, to rest 
 a little before going seriously to bed ; and thereupon fell into a 
 deep slumber, which seemed likely to last all night. 
 
 She had one bad habit, engendered perhaps of lonely days, 
 with much time for thoughtfuluess and waking dreams — the 
 habit of walking in her sleep. It was not a thing that happened 
 to her often, but once in a way ; two or three times in a year 
 perhaps, when her mind had been in any way disturbed during 
 the day, she had been wont to wonder. The servants had met 
 her at daybreak, sometimes in the corridor, or out on the broad 
 square landing beyond, or on the stairs even, descending ghost- 
 like, with open, unseeing eyes. One luckless country lass, taking 
 her for a ghost of that slaughtered lady whose spirit was re- 
 ported to haunt the Hall, had fled shrieking to the kitchen, 
 where she fell into violent hysterics, clutching the air, and well- 
 nigh strangling herself with her sobs and screams. 
 
 And so it happened to-night. Towards three o'clock, just as 
 the moon was waning, the girl rose from her sofa, pushed open 
 the door, whi.ch she had left ajar, and went out into the corridor 
 — a tall white figure faintly visible in the dim light. 
 
 She went straight on to an angle of the corridor where there 
 was a narrow window cut in a part of the wall where the ivy 
 
 ^33 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 grew thickest. As she came slowly forward, this window was 
 opened by a stealthy hand, and a man thrust his head and 
 shoulders through the window. 
 
 He was on the point of leaping through, when his eyes — 
 evil eyes they were, too — -fell upon that rnysterious figure, with 
 the white dress and loose flowing hair, the figure he had heard 
 of many a time, when folks talked of the ghost that haunted Old 
 Rudderford Hall. 
 
 He dropped his stick with an ejaculation. The fall of the 
 jagged stake, cut from a hedge, and trimmed with a rough, hasty 
 hand, upon the uncarpcted oak floor awakened Christabel. She 
 gave a loud shriek, and stared at the intruder transfixed. That 
 shriek was alarming enough ; but it reassured him. He sprang 
 into the corridor, and clapped his great horny hand upon her 
 mouth. 
 
 "What, it's you, is it?" he exclaimed, in a cautious voice. 
 " Hold your row ; or I shall have to quiet you with my clasp- 
 knife. What brings you prowling about at this time of night, I 
 wonder? After that chap that was prowling outside an hour 
 ago, I suppose. Come, young lady, you just walk into your 
 own room, and keep yourself to yourself; I've got business to 
 do here." 
 
 He had tied a big bird's-eye handkerchief across the girl's 
 mouth — she was not fully awake yet, and had only a confused 
 sense of peril and horror — and had just produced another, with 
 a view to tying it round her wrists, when a great crash of glass 
 sounded close behind him, and Frank Greenwood sprang 
 through the open window, smashing the casement as he came 
 through. 
 
 Love is so foolish, so full of morbid doubts and apprehen- 
 sions. He had come back to the old Hall, after crossing the 
 meadows on his way home, not able to feel comfortable about 
 that lurking figure which he had seen at midnight, and had 
 
 134 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 come back just in time to rescue his betrothed from the clutch 
 of a ruffian, and to save the Champion diamonds, — a very val- 
 uable portion of his future wife's dowry. 
 
 The man was Black Simeon the poacher. He had been lurk- 
 ing about the night before, when Mr. Champion showed his 
 daughter the family jewels, had seen the gems and where they 
 were kept, and had hidden himself in the shrubbery when 
 Christabel came out to reconnoitre. To-night he had tried all 
 the lower doors and windows, and finding entrance below im- 
 possible, had clambered up the ivy to this casement at the end 
 of the corridor, trusting to his good luck to grope his way 
 downstairs to the library. 
 
 The intent but not the deed confounded him. He was pin- 
 ioned and locked in an empty wine-cellar that night, and handed 
 over to the local authorities at breakfast-time, to appear by and 
 by, charged with a burglarious attempt, and to return to that 
 state of bondage from which he had so lately emerged. 
 
 Anthony Champion could hardly be uncivil to the man who 
 had saved his daughter and the family diamonds ; and Frank 
 Greenwood really was a nice young fellow, with free-and-easy, 
 irresistible ways. He brought brightness and life into the 
 gloomy old house, and in an incredibly short time persuaded 
 the master of Old Rudderford Hall to .waive his prejudices 
 against the inmates of New Rudderford Hall. 
 
 When he had smoothed the way by his artful management, he 
 coolly ordered his father to call upon Mr. Champion, to entreat 
 that gentleman's consent to the union of the two houses. The 
 manufacturer was furious, and there was a scene ; but a very 
 brief one. Frank's supreme coolness made light of everything. 
 Miss Perkington had departed before this in silent disgust, with 
 all her baggage. Samuel Greenwood was fain to give way ; it 
 evidently mattered so very little to his son whether he did or 
 not. 
 
 135 
 
OLD RUDDERFORD HALL. 
 
 " I can always make a living at the bar," said young Oxford 
 in his careless way, " and there's the five hundred a year my 
 poor mother left me. I should like to have made an amicable 
 arrangement, and secured your co-operation for restoring the old 
 Hall ; but if it isn't to be, why it isn't ; you know best ; and we 
 shan't starve." 
 
 Samuel fretted and fumed, swore an oath or two, and suc- 
 cumbed. He went to call upon Mr. Champion with lamb-like 
 meekness, and returned crestfallen. 
 
 Mr. Champion was prepared to waive all consideration of the 
 wide difference between the status of the two families, and to 
 consent to the marriage. He could give his daughter fifty 
 thousand pounds, and jewels worth at least twenty-five thousand 
 more. Mr. Greenwood had supposed him to be a pauper. 
 
 " It has been my fancy to live like this," he said, " and allow 
 the surplus of my income to accumulate for my only child." 
 
 And so they were married, and were just the sort of couple to 
 live happily ever afterwards. 
 
 136 
 
THE MOUNTAIN CHILD. 
 
The Mountain Child. 
 
 BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ^MONG the hills of Athol hewas born, 
 Where, on a small hereditary farm, 
 An unproductive slip of rugged ground. 
 His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt, 
 A virtuous household, though exceeding poor! 
 Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
 
 And fearing God ; the very children taught 
 
 Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's Word, 
 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 
 With strictness scarcely known on English ground. 
 
 From his sixth year, the boy of whom I speak. 
 
 In Summer tended cattle on the hills ; 
 
 But, through the inclement and the perilous days 
 
 Of long-continuing Winter he repaired, 
 
 Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood 
 
 Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge. 
 
 Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
 
 Of minster clock. From that bleak tenement, 
 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 
 In solitude returning, saw the hills 
 
 Grow larger in the darkness, all alone 
 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head. 
 
 And travelled through the wood with no one near 
 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw. 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 
 In such communion, not from terror free, 
 
 While yet a child, and long before his time, 
 
 He had perceived the presence and the power 
 
 Of greatness; and deep feelings had impressed 
 
 Great objects on his mind, with portraiture 
 
 And color so distinct, that on his mind 
 
 139 
 
THE MOUNTAIN CHILD. 
 
 They lay like substances, and almost seemed 
 
 To haunt the bodily sense. He had received 
 
 A precious gift; for, as he grew in'3'ears, 
 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 
 All his renieinbrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 
 
 And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
 
 An active power to fasten images 
 
 Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines 
 
 Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. 
 
 While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
 
 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 
 
 On all things which the moving seasons brought 
 
 To feed such appetite : nor this alone 
 
 Appeased his 3'earning : — in the after-day 
 
 Of boj'hood, many an hour in caves forlorn 
 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags. 
 
 He sate, and even in their fi.xed lineaments, 
 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 
 
 Or by creative feeling overborne, 
 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
 
 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 
 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
 
 Expressions ever varying. 
 
 140 
 
THE 
 GLEANERS AT THE STILE. 
 
The Gleaners at the Stil^. 
 
 BY TOM TAYLOR. 
 
 Y paths that ran through spikfed sheaves, 
 Or stubbles russet green, 
 Girt with their belt of living leaves, 
 I strolled to sketch the scene. 
 
 Gold framed in emerald ! hedge-row bound, 
 
 New-reaped or wheat-clad square. 
 And purple fallow, to the round 
 
 Of woodland-distance fair. 
 
 Foot-ways that wound through corn-flowers blue, 
 
 Red poppies, nodding wheat. 
 To brakes, where, light in shadow, grew 
 
 The stately meadow-sweet. 
 
 A group of gleaners came in sight, 
 
 Resting about a stile ; 
 Unseen, I marked their dark and light. 
 
 They talking free the while. 
 
 Their talk ran on their harvest-spoil, 
 
 The bushels gleaned and shelled ; 
 Each boasting how her childish toil 
 
 The household store had swelled. 
 
 The meadow-sweet breathed fragrantly, 
 
 The elms swung overhead, 
 But what of beauty spoke to me, 
 
 To them spoke, first, of bread. 
 
 Thenceforth the sweetness of the scene, 
 
 Methought, more solemn grewj 
 With threads of human toil and tssji 
 
 Enwoven through and through. 
 
 143 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 OLE BULL. 
 
Recollections of Ole Bull. 
 
 BY L. MARIA CHILD. 
 
 .UL, in the language of Norway, means the trunk 
 of a tree, and doubtless has the same origin as the 
 Saxon word Bole, so often used by Dryden, and 
 the older English poets. The musical Christian 
 name is extremely common in Norway. Two 
 friends seeing a boat full of fishermen about to 
 land, one of them laid a wager that more than 
 half of them were named Ole. Upon inquiry, it was found 
 they all bore that name, except one, and he was called Ole 
 Olesson, or Ole the son of Ole. At home, the popular title 
 of the beloved and honored musician is " Ole Olesson Fiole," 
 or Ole the Violin. 
 
 This allusion to the violin calls to mind one among many 
 envious remarks which have been excited by his extraordi- 
 nary popularity. It has been said that he does not, like- a 
 true artist, rely on his own genius for success, but resorts to 
 tricks to excite and interest the pubHc, such as romantic 
 fictions about his violin, &c. Those who know his unpre- 
 tending simplicity and manly independence of character are 
 well aware that the charge is most unjust. The romantic his- 
 tory of his violin is no fiction, and few men could possess 
 such a unique gem and say so little about it as he does. He 
 sometimes tells its history to friends, iti answer to inquiries 
 
 147 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 which the singularity of its appearance naturally excites ; and 
 if they impart the information to the public, it is merely what 
 they would very naturally do concerning anything so curious 
 in the history of art. 
 
 This remarkable instrument was manufactured by Caspar 
 da Salo, in Brescia, one of the three oldest violin makers on 
 record ; and it was considered the best one he ever made. It 
 was sculptured at Rome by the famous Benvenuto Cellini, 
 celebrated as a goldsmith in his early life, and afterward as 
 a sculptor. Pope Clement VII. employed him to ma-ke a 
 variety of medals, golden chalices, and other rich ornaments 
 for churches and palaces. One of them, a present from the 
 Pope to Charles V., was a beautifully illuminated prayer- 
 book, which cost the Cardinal de Medici above two thousand 
 crowns. The golden covers were wrought by Cellini with 
 figures in basso-relievo, and enamelled arabesques, studded 
 with rich jewels. The Emperor was exceedingly struck with 
 the beauty of the design and workmanship, in which he at 
 once recognized the hand of an extraordinary artist. Indeed, 
 so decidedly did everything he touched bear the impress of 
 genius, that stamps which he made for coins in the Roman 
 mint are still preserved as rare specimens of art. Michael 
 Angelo and Titian were his friends, and thought very highly 
 of his productions. He was a great favorite with Francis 
 I., for whom he executed many admirable works in gold, 
 silver and bronze. Though accustomed for years to make 
 small figures with exquisite delicacy of finish, he produced, 
 later in life, several noble works on a grander scale. The 
 most celebrated of these is a statue of Perseus in bronze, exe- 
 cuted for Duke Cosmo, of Florence. 
 
 The violin now in possession of Ole Bull was made to the 
 order of Cardinal Aldobrandini, one of a noble family at 
 Rome, memorable for their patronage of the fine arts. He 
 
 148 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 gave for it 3000 Neapolitan ducats, and presented it to the 
 treasury of Innspruck, where it became a celebrated curiosity, 
 under the name of "The Treasury Chamber Violin," When 
 that city was taken by the French in 1809, it was carried to 
 Vienna and sold to Rjheazhek, a wealthy Bohemian, whose 
 splendid collection of rare and ancient stringed instruments 
 had attracted universal attention in the musical world. The 
 gem of his museum was the violin manufactured by Da Salo 
 and sculptured by Cellini. He Avas ofi'ered immense sums for 
 it by English, Russian and Polish noblemen ; but to all such 
 offers he answered by demanding the price of half Vienna. 
 
 A few years ago Ole Bull gave fifteen concerts in Vienna, 
 with the brilliant success which usually attends him. The 
 Bohemian, who went with the crowd to hear him, was an en- 
 thusiastic admirer of his genius, and soon became personally 
 acquainted with him. Until then he had considered himself 
 the most learned man in Europe in the history of violins, the 
 peculiar merits of all the most approved manufacturers, and 
 the best methods of repairing deficiencies, or improving the 
 tones. But with Ole Bull, love of the violin had been an ab- 
 sorbing passion from his earliest childhood. He never saw 
 one of a novel shape, or heard one with a new tone, without 
 studying into the causes of the tone and the effects produced 
 by the shape. Through every nook and corner of Italy he 
 sought for new varieties of his favorite instrument as eagerly 
 as an Oriental merchant seeks for rare pearls. He had tried all 
 mani^er of experiments ; he knew at sight the tuneful quali- 
 ties of every species of wood, and precisely how the slightest 
 angle or curve in the fashion of an instrument would affect 
 the sound. He imparted to the Bohemian amateur much 
 information that was new and valuable ; and this sympathy of 
 tastes and pursuits produced a warm friendship between them. 
 Of course, Ole looked with a longing eye on the oldest and 
 
 149 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 best of his violins ; but the musical antiquarian loved it like 
 an only child. He could not bring himself to sell it at that 
 time, but he promised that if he ever did part with it, the 
 Minstrel of Norway should have the preference over every 
 other man in the world. He died two years afterward, and a 
 letter from his son informed Ole Bull that his dying father 
 remembered the promise he had given. He purchased it 
 forthwith, and it was sent to him at Leipsic. 
 
 On the head of this curious violin is carved and colored an 
 angel's face, surrounded by flowing curls of hair. Behind 
 this figure, leaning against the shoulders, is a very beautiful 
 little mermaid, the human form of which terminates in scales 
 of green and gold. The neck of the instrument is orna- 
 mented with arabesques in blue, red and gold. Below the 
 bridge is a mermaid in bronze. Thorwaldsen took great 
 delight in examining these figures, and bestowed enthusiastic 
 praise on the gracefulness of the design and the excellence 
 of the workmanship. Ole Bull was born in February, and 
 by an odd coincidence the bridge of his darling violin is deli- 
 cately carved with two intertwined fishes, like the zodiacal 
 sign of February. * Two little tritons, cut in ivory, are in one 
 corner of the bow. Altogether, it is a very original and sin- 
 gularly beautiful instrument. It has the rich look of the mid- 
 dle ages, and would have been a right royal gift for some 
 princely troubadour. Amateurs praise its fine proportions, 
 and say that its form combines many of the characteristics of 
 Amati, Stradivarius and Guarnerius. Indeed, it is univer- 
 sally admitted to be the most valuable violin in the World. 
 The wood is extremely soft and very thick. The upper 
 covering is of an exceedingly rare species of Swiss pine, cele- 
 brated in the manufacture of violins. It grows on the Italian 
 side of the Alps, for sunshine and song seem inseparably con- 
 nected, and the balmy atmosphere which makes Italy so rich 
 
 ISO 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 in music, and imparts to her language such liquid melody, 
 seems breathed into her trees. 
 
 Those acquainted with music arc well aware that the value 
 of an instrument is prodigiously increased by the age of the 
 wood, and that the purity of its tone depends very much on 
 the skilfulness of the hand which has played upon it. As 
 the best and brightest human soul can never free itself en- 
 tirely from the influence of base and vulgar associations in 
 youth, so a violin never quite recovers from the effect of dis- 
 cordant vibrations. So perceptible is this to a delicate ear, 
 that when Ole Bull first performed in Philadelphia he at once 
 perceived that the double bass viol in the orchestra was a very 
 old instrument, and had been well played on. Some time 
 after, the horse and rider that represented General Putnam's 
 leap down the precipice, plunged into the orchestra of the 
 theatre, and crushed the old bass viol. As soon as Ole Bull 
 became aware of the accident, he hastened to buy the frag- 
 ments. The wood of his violin was so old, and so thoroughly 
 vibrated, that he had never been able to obtain a sounding 
 post adapted to it. This post is an extremely small piece of 
 wood in the interior of the instrument, but the inharmonious 
 vibration between the old and the new .disturbed his sensitive 
 ear until he was enabled to remedy the slight defect by a 
 fragment of the double bass. 
 
 One of the most curious facts in connection with this mem- 
 orable violin is, that it was probably never played upon by 
 any other hand than Ole Bull's, though it is three hundred 
 years old. It had always been preserved as a curiosity, and 
 when it came into his possession it had no bar inside, nor any 
 indication that such a necessary appendage had ever been put 
 into it. The inward spiritual carving has been entirely done 
 by this " Amphion of the North," as he is styled by Andersen, 
 the celebrated Danish novehst. The interior is completely 
 
 151 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 covered with indentations in ovals and circles, produced by 
 the vibration of his magic tones. Doubtless the angels could 
 sing from them fragmentary melodies of the universe ; but to 
 us they reveal no more than wave-marks on the shores of the 
 ever-rolling sea. 
 
 Whatever importance may be attached to one or other of 
 the circumstances connected with the histor}' of this violin, all 
 America can testify to the peculiar sweetness and purity of 
 its tone; nor can the combined musical criticism of the world 
 ever convince Americans that it was not the genuine power of 
 genius which carried this heavenly voice so deep into the uni- 
 versal heart of the nation. They can never be reasoned out 
 of the feeling that the most skilful artistic performances, com- 
 pared with those simple but richly tinted melodies, are like 
 the cold beauty of a statue in contrast with the bright, warm 
 coloring of Titian. 
 
 The story that Paganini bequeathed one of his violins to 
 Ole Bull is a fiction. He never owned an instrument that had 
 belonged to the renowned Italian. The other violin, which 
 he brought to the United States with him, is a Cremona, made 
 in 1742 by the famous manufacturer, Joseph Guarnerius. 
 The diamonds in the bow, forty-five in number, were pre- 
 sented to Ole Bull by the Queen of Norway and Sweden. 
 
 One day, when he returned to his lodgings in Paris, he 
 found his two little boys dragging these two precious violins 
 about the floor. Thej^ had tied strings to them, and thought 
 they made extremely pretty carts. The eldest, being a very 
 sensitive child, turned pale when his father entered with an ex- 
 clamation of surprise and distress. His terrified look touched 
 the tender-hearted parent, and he began to caress the children 
 instead of scolding them, for he reflected that the poor little 
 souls could not know the profanation of which they had been 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 guilty in dragging about a Da Salo and -a Guarncrius for play- 
 things. 
 
 Ole Bull owns several violins. One of them is a Cremona, 
 made in 1687, for the king of Spain, by Antonius Stradi- 
 varius. The wood is very flexible, and it is elaborately fin- 
 ished, being inlaid with garlands of ebony and ivory, inter- 
 twisted with serpents and little birds. He never speaks of it 
 without dwelling with delighted enthusiasm on its " sweet, in- 
 sinuating voice." To hear him talk of his violins, one would 
 suppose he was describing a band of beloved human beings, 
 or a collection of rare singing birds at the least. No other 
 instrument has ever inspired musicians with such enthusiastic 
 and absorbing affection, for no other gives such full utterance 
 to the yearnings of the heart. 
 
 His passion for violins manifested itself at a very early age. 
 A maternal uncle, who was passionately fond of music, fre- 
 (i^uently had quartette clubs at his house. He played well on 
 the violoncello, and had a curious collection of rare instru- 
 ments. He loved to amuse himself with little Ole's extreme 
 susceptibility to music. When he was three years old he 
 often put him in the violoncello case, and hired him with 
 sweetmeats to stay there while he plaj^ed. But the candy 
 could not keep him quiet long. The eyes gradually kindled, 
 and the little feet began to beat time. At last his nervous ex- 
 citement would become too great to adpiit of his staying in 
 the violoncello case. The music was dancing all through him, 
 and he must give it utterance. When he retui-ned home he 
 would seize the yard measure, and, with a small stick for a 
 bow, endeavor to imitate what his uncle had played. He 
 heard it with the inward ear all the time ; but for fear his 
 parents were not so pervaded with the tune as he was, he 
 would explain as he went along, telling how beautifully the 
 bass came in at such and such a place. At five years old his 
 
 153 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 uncle bought him a very small violin, as yellow as a lemon. 
 He says he never felt carried up into the third heaven as he 
 did when his own little hand first brought out a tune from that 
 j'ellow violin. He loved it and kissed it ; it seemed to him so 
 beautiful, that little yellow violin ! To the surprise of the 
 family, he immediately played well upon it, though he had 
 received no mstruction. He had always been present at the 
 family concerts, and he observed everything and remembered 
 everything. On his little yellow violin he played a quartette 
 of Pleyel's to the assembled club, and they inquired with 
 astonishment who had taught the child, for they knew not 
 that God had taught him by a process as simple as that of 
 the mockingf-bird. 
 
 When he was eight years old, a Frenchman arrived in Ber- 
 gen with violins for sale. One of them, bright red in its 
 color, gained the boy's heart at first sight, and he pleaded 
 with his father till he consented to buy it. It was purchased 
 late in the afternoon and put away in its case. Ole slept in a 
 small bed in the same apartment v^rith his parents, and the 
 much-coveted instrument was in the adjoining room. " I 
 could not sleep," said he, " for thinking of my new violin. 
 When I heard father and mother breathing deep, I rose softly 
 and lighted a candle, and in my night-clothes did go on tip- 
 toe to open the case and take one little peep. The violin was 
 so red, and the pretty pearl screws did smile at me so ! I 
 pinched the strings just a little with my fingers. It smiled at 
 me ever more and more. I took up the bow and looked at it. 
 It said to me that it would be pleasant to try it across the 
 strings. So I did try it, just a very, very little ; and it did 
 sing to me so sweetly ! Then I did creep further away from 
 the bedroom. At first I did play very soft. I make very, 
 very little noise. But presently I did begin a capriccio, which 
 I like very much ; and it did go ever louder and louder ; and 
 
 154 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 I forgot that it was midnight, and that everybody was asleep. 
 Presently I hear sometliing go crack ! and the next minute I 
 feel my father's whip across my shoulders. My little red 
 violin dropped on tlie floor and was broken. I weep much 
 for it, but it did no good. They did ha-ve a doctor to it next 
 da3^ but it never recovered its health." 
 
 Olc Bull never learned to read music by the usual method. 
 From infancy he had been accustomed to liear music fre- 
 quently, and he knew the sound of each written note long 
 before he could call it by name. At ten years old, a foreign 
 music master urged upon his father the necessity of having 
 him taught scientifically. The attempt was accordingly 
 made. He was instructed how to hold his violin and handle 
 his bow according to rule, and was told that he must leave 
 olf improvising, and practise by note. He could at tliat time 
 play a capriccio of Paganini's, considered impracticable by 
 older and skilful performers ; but nothing would come to him 
 by the mechanical process. His genius positively refused to 
 go into the strait-jacket ; and when father and teacher coaxed 
 and scolded, the nervous child at last screamed with agony. 
 This untamable freedom was his earliest characteristic, and 
 will probably remain strongest to the last. At school, the 
 confinement of four walls would sometimes press upon him 
 so that he would suddenly spring out of the window into 
 God's sunshine and free air. He would leap fences, swim 
 rivers, scale precipices, turn somersets on horses, and climb 
 to the tops of high trees to rock himself in the wind. The 
 manner in wiiich he dived and rushed about caused the 
 family to bestow on him the name of "The Bat." 
 
 It is this abhorrence of fetters which now imparts to his 
 genius that freshness and overleaping Jife which constitutes 
 its greatest charm. Critics constantly complain tliat he pays 
 no attention to the rules ; but the public everywhere agree 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE „EULL. 
 
 that they do not care for this, so long as the glow of his music 
 warms and electrifies their souls. 
 
 The Concerto in E Minor, played at his farewell concert 
 in this city, is a favorite composition with him, but he seldom 
 brings it out, on accoimt of the difficulty of the instrumenta- 
 tion. It was composed at Prague, for the benefit of tlie 
 widows and orphans of musicians. Tie imagined a daughter 
 lingering by the bed-side of her departed lather, with 
 whom she had watched durinir the ni<jht. The intensilv cf 
 grief gradually becomes calmer, and is mingled with pleasant 
 recollections of childhood, as the faint gleams of morning dis- 
 pel the darkness of night. To express this flickering twi- 
 light, the different parts of the orchestra play in different 
 rhytlim. One is in four-time, and the other in six-eight, 
 while his violin alternates between the two. -Light triumphs, 
 the uncertainty vanishes, and with the bright aurora all comes 
 into the same rhj^thm. "This contrariety of rhythm in the 
 different parts is one of the things in vvhich they accuse me 
 of violating the rules," said he ; "but what do I care? It pro- 
 duces the efiect I wish to produce ; and I have always re- 
 garded many of the rules of music as perfectly arbitrary and 
 useless." This Concerto in E Minor is extremely beautiful 
 and poetic. In the part which expresses deep grief, the 
 music sobs audibly, and the adagio movement of twilight is 
 indescribably sweet and dreamy. 
 
 " The Mother's Prayer, " which has been such a universal 
 favorite in this country, was composed at Florence, at the re- 
 quest of the Dominicans, who wanted some new music for 
 their church. He promised to do it, but neglected it from 
 day to day. At last, they waited upon him early in the 
 morning, and told him it must be ready -for rehearsal the next 
 day. "I was in bed when they came," said he; "I had 
 been up all night with the moon, sympathizing with her. I 
 
 156 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 had thought of Norway, of home, and of many sad things. 
 I said to the Dominicans that they should have their music 
 ■the next morning. So I took my vioHn, and it did sing to 
 me so sweetly the thoughts of the night ! It spoke to me so 
 kindly ! I wrote down its voice, and the Dominicans com- 
 plained it was too plaintive. They said they already had 
 so much sad, solemn music, that they wanted something 
 cheerful. So I did compose something in a more lively 
 strain for them ; and because this brought before me the 
 image of a mother kneeling at the altar, entreating for her 
 child, I called it ' The Mother's Prayer.' " These friars be- 
 came very warmly attached to him, and tried hard to per- 
 suade him to join their fraternity. A tame finale this would 
 have been, to the life-opera, which began with swinging to 
 the winds in the tops of Norwegian pines. 
 
 The " Polacca Guerriera " was first conceived at Naples, 
 alone at midnight, gazing on Mt. Vesuvius, flaming through the 
 darkness. He went to Rome soon after, and carried the 
 vague conception in his mind, intending to arrange it there, 
 and brine it out at his first concert. At Rome he shared the 
 apartment of a talented young artist, who became warmly 
 attached to him. The intimate relation between music and 
 painting was a favorite theme with this young man, and to 
 the musician the sounds of an orchestra had always sug- 
 gested colors. When he slept late in the morning, the artist 
 would often rouse him, by saying, "Come, Ole, get up and 
 play to me ! I can't paint unless you play to me." Being 
 urged and urged, he would at last shake off his drowsiness, 
 and, half-dressed, begin to play. The violin would soon 
 absorb him, till an exclamation from the painter broke in 
 upon his reverie. "Ah, dear Ole, give me that once more. 
 It is such a briUiant red ! " or, "Play that again, dear Ole, it 
 is such a heavenly blue." 
 
 157 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 Thorwaldsen, who was then at Rome, loved Ole Bull with 
 most devoted aftection, and delighted in his genius. These 
 friends, of course, felt a deep interest in his success. From 
 day to day they would ask whether he had done anything 
 toward completing the Polacca. His answer always was, 
 "No, but I shall do it." As the time for the concert drew 
 nigh, they remonstrated against such dangerous delay. "How 
 can you be so careless of your fame, Ole?" said Thorwaldsen. 
 "Do try to have this new piece done in season ; if not for your 
 own sake, at least for mine ; for, independent of my affection 
 for you, you know I claim you as a countryman, and my 
 pride of country is at stake." * The concert was advertised, 
 and the Polacca was in the programme ; still, it had no exist- 
 ence, except in the musician's soul. ^^ Have you written that 
 music?" said Thorwaldsen. "^re you crazy?" inquired the 
 painter. But he would throw his arms around them, and 
 laugh and jest, as if his musical reputation concerned every- 
 body more than it did himself. The day before the concert 
 his friends were in despair when they saw him prepare to go 
 out after breakfast. "Have you written any of that music?" 
 said they, entreatingly. "No, my dear friends, but I have it 
 all here," replied he, playfully touching his forehead. They 
 urged that the concert was to be the next day, and that the 
 piece must be rehearsed. " I will do it this evening," said he. 
 "You are an imprudent man," they replied; "the public of 
 Rome will not bear such treatment. You will make a com- 
 plete failure." He laughed, and coaxed them caressingly not 
 to be troubled on his account. The evening was far spent 
 when he returned. The artist, in anxious tones, asked, 
 "Dear Ole, have you done anything about that music?" "No, 
 I have not had time." "Well, do set about it this moment." 
 
 * Nonvay and Denmark are included under the same government. 
 
 iS8 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot ; I am so tired that I must go directly to bed." 
 In vain the artist remonstrated and entreated. A spirit of 
 mischief had taken possession of the wayward minstrel. He 
 plunged into bed, and soon pretended to be sound asleep. 
 The young man had the habit of talking to himself, and as 
 he listened to the bass solo of the counterfeit sleeper, he mut- 
 tered, "How can he go to sleep with nothing done about that 
 music? It is more than I can comprehend. I wish I could 
 feel as easy about it as he does." He retired to rest early, 
 and as soon as he was fairly asleep Ole sprang out of bed, 
 lighted a candle, and stepped softly into an adjoining room, 
 where he began to write down his music with prestissimo 
 speed. The outline had long been in his mind, and new 
 thoughts f(ir the filling up came with a rush of inspiration. 
 He wrote as fast as the pen could fly. At four o'clock the 
 score for all the orchestral parts was written out. For his 
 violin part he trusted entirely to his own wonderful memory. 
 Having arranged all, he crept quietly back into his bed. The 
 artist, who was an early riser, soon began to stir. Ole breathed 
 sonorously, as if he were in a deep sleep. "Still asleep," 
 murmured his friend, "as quietly as if the music were all 
 ready for the orchestra. I wish we were safely through this 
 evening." It was not long before his anxiety took a more 
 active form. He began to shake the sleeper, saying, "Ole, 
 do wake up, and try to do something about the music." But 
 he obtained only the drowsy answer, "Oh, I cannot, I am so 
 very sleepy." Vexed and discouraged, the painter went to 
 his easel and said no more. At breakfast Ole was full of fun 
 and frolic ; but Thorwaldsen and the artist were somewhat 
 impatient with what they deemed such thoughtless trifling 
 with public expectation. "You will come to my concert to- 
 night, will you not?" said the mischievous musician. In dis- 
 mal tones they replied : "No, Ole; we love you too well to 
 
 '59 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 witness your disgrace. Take it as lightly as you please ; but 
 you may be assured the public of Rome will not bear such 
 treatment." "Oh, do come," pleaded the musician, coax- 
 ingly. Just a little, little within the door; and then, when I 
 am disgraced, you can easily slip away." They would not 
 promise, however, and he hurried off to keep his appointment 
 with the orchestra. He had an excellent band of musicians 
 who could play the most difficult music with the slightest pre- 
 paration. The rehearsal went off to his complete satisfaction, 
 and he returned to his friends as gay as a lark. His apparent 
 recklessness made them still more sad. The dreaded evening 
 came. The house was crowded. Ole was full of that joyful 
 confidence which genius is so apt to feel in effusions that have 
 just burst freshly from its overflowing fountain. The orches- 
 tra delighted in the composition, and played it with their 
 hearts. The brilliancy of the theme and the uncommon 
 beauty of the cantabile took the audience by surprise. The 
 novelty and marvellous difficulty of the finale, in which the 
 violin alone performs four distinct parts, and keeps up a con- 
 tinuous shake through fifteen bars, completely electrified them. 
 There was a perfect tempest of applause. In the midst of his 
 triumph, the composer, looking as quiet and demure as possi- 
 ble, glanced toward the door. There stood Thorwaldsen and 
 the artist. The latter had a trick of moving tobacco from one 
 side of his mouth to the other when he was excited and 
 pleased. It was now flying from cheek to cheek almost as 
 rapidly as the violin bow through the continuous shake of 
 fifteen bars. 
 
 The moment he left the stage his friends rushed into his 
 arms, exclaiming, "When on earth did you do it? Only tell 
 us tliat. Oh, it was too beautiful!" "Don't be so gay, my 
 dear friends," replied he, with mock gravity ; "you know the 
 
 i6o 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLE BULL. 
 
 public of Rome won't bear such trifling. Whj' did you come 
 to witness my disgrace?" 
 
 The next day all Rome was ringing with praises of the 
 Norwegian violinist. They knew not which to applaud most, 
 his genius or his superhuman strengtla in performing the four 
 distinct parts on the violin at once, and keeping up the motion 
 of his bow with such lightning swiftness for so long a time. 
 No person who has not tried it can conceive of the extreme 
 difficulty of playing at once distinct parts on each of the 
 strings. It requires muscles strong as iron, and elastic as In- 
 dia rubber. Paganini had sufficient elasticity, but not suffi- 
 cient strength. Ole Bull is the- only man in the world that 
 ever did it. When the Parisians first heard him produce this 
 wonderful effect of four violins, it seemed so incredible that a 
 story was circulated in the papers that it was all a deception ; 
 that some other musician was playing two of the parts behind 
 the scenes. Thus originated the charge of "charlatanry," so 
 often and so unjustly repeated. 
 
 The Polacca brought its composer a brilliant reputation at 
 once, and musical critics were obliged to content themselves 
 with saying that it was not written in the right measure for a 
 Polacca. 
 
 i6i 
 
CORNFIELDS. 
 
CORNFIELDS, 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT. 
 
 HEN on the breath of autumn breeze, 
 
 Froni pastures dry and brown, 
 
 Goes floating Hke an idle thought 
 
 The fair white thistle-down. 
 Oh, then what joy to walk at will 
 Upon the golden harvest hill ! 
 
 What joy in dreamy ease to lie 
 
 Amid a field new shorn, 
 And see all round on sunlit slopes 
 
 The piled-up stacks of corn ; 
 And send the fancy wandering o'er 
 All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 
 
 1 feel the day — I see the field, 
 The quivering of the leaves, 
 
 And good old Jacob and his house 
 Binding the yellow sheaves ; 
 
 And at this very hour I seem 
 
 To be with Joseph in his dream. 
 
 I see the fields of Bethlehem, 
 
 And reapers many a one, 
 Bending under their sickles' stroke — 
 
 And Boaz looking on ; 
 And Ruth, the Moabite so fair. 
 Among the gleaners stooping there. 
 i6s 
 
CORNFIELDS. 
 
 Again I see a little child, 
 
 His mother's sole delight, — 
 
 God's living gift of love unto 
 The kind, good Shunanitte ; 
 
 To mortal pangs I see him yield, 
 
 And the lad bear him from the field. 
 
 The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, 
 
 The fields of Galilee, 
 That eighteen hundred years ago 
 
 Were full of corn, 1 see ; 
 And the dear Saviour takes his way 
 Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 
 
 Oh, golden fields of bending corn. 
 
 How beautiful they seem ! 
 The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, 
 
 To me are like a dream. 
 The sunshine and the very air 
 Seem of old time, and take me there. 
 
LOOKING INTO THE WELL 
 
Looking into the Well. 
 
 BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 I. 
 
 P in the maples the robins sung, 
 
 The winds blew over the locusts high, 
 And along the path bj their boughs o'erhung 
 
 We wandered gaily — Lulu and I — 
 Wandered along in pleasant talk, 
 
 Pausing our nursery tales to tell. 
 Till we came to the end of the shaded walk, 
 
 And sat, at last, by the moss-grown well. 
 She was a child, and so was I : 
 
 What matter, then, that we told our love — - 
 Whispered it there, with no one nigh. 
 
 Save birds that sang in the trees above. 
 I looked down into her shy blue eyes, 
 
 She at my face in the shaded well ; 
 I saw the glow to her fair cheek rise, 
 
 Like red in the heart of an ocear^ shell. 
 
 IL 
 
 Again in the trees the robins sung — 
 
 The gold had deepened upon her hair — 
 The locusts over the pathway hung, 
 
 To look at her face so still and fair. 
 I said no word — I sat by her side. 
 
 Contented to hold her hand in mine. 
 Dreaming of love and a fair young bride — 
 
 Visions that truth had made divine. 
 The robin's song took a clearer tone, 
 
 The sky was a tenderer, deeper blue ; 
 Her face in the limpid waters shone, 
 
 I thought her eyes were holy and true. 
 169 
 
LOOKING INTO THE WELL. 
 
 III. 
 
 I walked alone to the shaded well, 
 
 When locusts bloomed in the next j-ear's June — 
 The shadows along my pathway fell, 
 
 The wild birds sang a sorrowful tune. 
 She had given her shining hair's young gold, 
 
 Her holy brow and her eyes of blue, 
 The form I had scarcely dared to fold. 
 
 To a wealthy suitor who came to woo — ■ 
 Sold, for jewels and land and name, 
 
 Youth and beauty, and love and grace. 
 Alone I cursed the sin and shame, 
 
 And started to see my own dark face 
 Mirrored there in the well below, 
 
 With its haggard cheek and its lines of care, 
 Where I once had seen a girlish brow. 
 
 And shy blue eyes and golden hair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Years have passed since that summer day 
 
 Went over the hills with its silent tread : 
 I walk alone where its glory lay — 
 
 I am lonely, and Lulu is dead. 
 Dust is thick on her shining hair, 
 
 A shroud is folded across her breast. 
 The winds blow over the locusts where 
 
 She lies at last, alone and at rest. 
 Youth and beauty, and love and grace. 
 
 Wealth and station, joy and pain; 
 If she dream at all in that lonely place. 
 
 She will know, at length, that her life was vain. 
 
 V. 
 
 I do not think of her heart's disgrace. 
 
 Looking into the waters there. 
 For I seem to see once more a face 
 
 With shy blue eyes and golden hair. 
 Out among men she walks by my side — ■ 
 
 For me she lives whom the world calls dead — 
 I talk at night to ray shadow bride. 
 
 And pillow in dreams her golden head. 
 
LOOKING INTO THE WELL. 
 
 They broke her heart — -so the gossips tell — 
 Who sold her hand for wealth and a name; 
 
 But I see her face in the cool, deep well, 
 And its virginal beauty is still the same, 
 
 £71 
 
TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 
 
Treasures of the Deep. 
 
 BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 HAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, 
 Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? 
 Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells. 
 
 Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain : 
 Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
 We ask not such from thee. 
 
 Yet more, the depths have more I What wealth untold, 
 Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! 
 
 Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
 Won from ten thousand royal argosies. — 
 
 Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
 Earth claims not these again. 
 
 Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled 
 
 Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
 Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 
 
 Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry, -i- 
 Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play; 
 Man yields them to decay. 
 
 Yet more I the billows and the depths have more ! 
 
 High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 
 They hear not now the booming waters roar. 
 
 The battle-thunder will not break their rest. — 
 Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave, — 
 Give back the true and brave ! 
 
 Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom 
 The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 
 
 The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom. 
 And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song I 
 
 Hold fast thy buried isles, thy bowers o'erthrown — 
 But all is not thine own. 
 
 I7S 
 
TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 
 
 To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
 Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 
 
 O'er youtli's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown ; 
 Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead! 
 
 Earth shall reclaim her precious things from tliee ! — 
 Restore the dead, thou sea ! 
 
 176 
 
A SONG OF THE SNOW. 
 
A Sqng of the Snow. 
 
 BY MARY B. DODGE. 
 
 H, the falling of the flakes 
 
 In these mute, \veird dajs — 
 Oh, the flakes the north-wind shakes 
 
 In its whirling, swirling ways — 
 Ye are but a preparation 
 
 For the keenest life we know; 
 Hearts break out in jubilation 
 
 At the coming of the snow! 
 And the sleds from out the cellar. 
 
 And the cutter from the loft, . 
 O'er which summer wae a jailer, 
 
 Now are jewelling the soft 
 Fleecy whiteness; and the laughter 
 
 Of the children, and the bells 
 Shaken loose athwart the rafter. 
 
 Each with merry promise swells. 
 Oh, the falling of the flakes, 
 
 Falling, falling, softly falling — 
 
 Oh, the earth in dreams a-calling 
 For more covering ere she wakes ; 
 Oh, the pearls the snow is twining 
 
 Round the trees' minutest stems, 
 Waiting, waiting for the shining 
 
 Of the sun to fire the gems ; 
 Oh, the music of the bells. 
 
 Stirred to fitful palpitation, 
 And the hope that upward wells 
 
 Through the snow's sweet liberation; 
 Oh, the falling of the flakes, 
 
 Falling, falling, softly falling, 
 And the white, still joy it makes 
 World-enthralling I 
 179 
 
A SONG OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Seel the passive joy, yet pregnant 
 Of the J03' that shall be regnant 
 
 When the sun calls out the bells; 
 Wakes the jingling, jocund jingling, 
 Wakes the free roulade of jingling 
 
 Of the sleigh's impatient bells 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, the sun upon the snow 
 
 In these clear, bright days — 
 And the glitter of the glow 
 
 Wrought of gold and crystal rays — 
 Ye are yielding in fruition 
 
 Rare, ripe clusters of the joy 
 That was but an intuition 
 
 Yesterday, to girl and boy! 
 Now the sleds are coasting gailj' 
 
 Down the whitel3' mantled hill, 
 And no single shadow, graylj', 
 
 In the crisp noon bodeth ill. 
 Scarlet capes and woollen mufflers 
 
 Half the dainty darlings hide. 
 Whom the ruddy, roistering shufflers 
 
 Promise soon to give a ride. 
 Oh, the chubby, wrapped-up Graces! 
 
 Mark them, as at carnival. 
 Roguish life within their faces, 
 
 Throwing balls about pell-mell ! 
 And the skaters pirouetting 
 
 On their skates of burnished steel! 
 And the fun when, sleds upsetting, 
 
 Riders tumble " head o'er heel "! 
 Oh, the ringing of the voices, 
 
 Shouting, screaming, res'nant ringing, 
 While the answering air rejoices 
 
 Sharply stinging! 
 Hark ! the noisy mirth 3'et pregrrant 
 Of the joy that shall be regnant. 
 
 When the moon calls out the bells ; 
 Wakes the jingling, dulcet jingling, 
 Wakes the full roulade of jingling 
 
 Of the sleigh's resilient bells! 
 180 
 
A SONG OF THE SNOW. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, the moon's resplendent light 
 
 In these pure, white days — 
 When above, below, the night 
 
 Is with sheen of snow ablaze:; 
 When the milky-way of angels 
 
 To fresh stars has given births 
 And Love's luminous evangels 
 
 Lie unfolded on the earth ! 
 Oh, not strange such lucubration, 
 
 Tempting love to read it right. 
 Proves a peerless invitation 
 
 To the maiden and her knight! 
 And not strange that coursers airy, 
 
 Shod with softly feathered shoon. 
 Bear the two to realms of faery. 
 
 Where ring bells in wedding-tune; 
 Where the dreamland bells are chiming 
 
 With the strings of bells so sweet — 
 Liquid bells that go a-rhyming 
 
 To the coursers' dancing feet! 
 Oh, these all are nigh forgotten 
 
 In the tingle and the flush 
 Of bewildering bliss begotten 
 
 Of the first kiss and its blush! 
 Yet with fresher inspiration 
 
 Fall the dancing, prancing feet, 
 While the bells in new libation 
 
 Seem mors sweet ! 
 List! in chorus ever pregnant 
 Of a future joy more regnant, 
 
 How the moon calls out the bells ! 
 Wakes the jingling, tenderest jingling, 
 Wakes the soft roulade of jingling 
 
 Of the sleigh's mellifluous bells ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, the magic of the snow 
 
 In these blithe, cold days 
 When both young and old o'erflow 
 
 With a half-unconscious praise ! 
 
 i8i 
 
A SONG OF THE SNOW. 
 
 When the young heart's ready keys 
 
 Stir unbidden with sweet numbers, 
 And the old heart's memories 
 
 Break in rliythm from their slumbers I 
 Oh, the precious dews of heaven, 
 
 Making fair the summer flowers, 
 Are not naore divinely given 
 
 Than the frost of winter hours. 
 Hither falls a stainless vision 
 
 Till, above the billowy snow, 
 Bells ring out in blent allision 
 
 To and fro ; 
 Swelling drifts o'ertop the fences, 
 
 Burying boundaries out of sight; 
 Infinite whiteness thrills the senses 
 
 With delight ! 
 Oh, the falling flakes are pregnant 
 Of a joy forever regnant 
 
 When their charm inspires the bells : 
 Wakes the wild and mellow jingling, 
 Wakes the rich roulade of jingling 
 
 Of the snow's entrancing bells ! 
 
 182 
 
GOING SOMEWHERE. 
 
Going Somewhere. 
 
 A GENRE SKETCH BY THE DETROIT HUMORIST. 
 
 E had been to town-meeting, had once voy- 
 aged a hundred miles on a steamboat, and had 
 a brother who had made the overland trip to 
 California. She had been to quiltings, fu- 
 nerals, and a circus or two, and she knew a 
 woman whose sister thought nothing of setting 
 out on a railroad journey where she had to 
 wait fifteen minutes at a junction and change 
 cars at a depot. 
 So I found them — a cosy-looking old couple, sitting up very 
 straight in their seats, and trying to act like old railroad trav- 
 ellers. A shadow of anxiety suddenly crossed her face ; she 
 became uneasy, and directly she asked : — 
 
 " Philetus, I act'Uy b'leeve we've went and taken the wrong 
 train ! " 
 
 " It can't be, nohow," he replied, seeming a little startled. 
 "Didn't I ask the conductor, and didn't he say we was right?" 
 " Yaas, he did, but look out of the window and make sure. 
 He might have been a-lyin' to us ! " 
 
 The old man looked out of the window, at the flitting fences, 
 the galloping telegraph poles, and the unfamiliar fields, as if 
 
 185 
 
GOING SOMEWHERE. 
 
 expecting to catch sight of some old landmark, and forgetting 
 for a moment that he was a thousand miles from home. 
 
 " I guess we're all right, Mary," he said, as he drew in his 
 head. 
 
 " Ask somebody — ask that man there ! " she whispered. 
 
 "This is the train for Chicago, haint it?" inquired the old 
 man of the passenger in the next seat behind. 
 
 " This is the train," replied the man. 
 
 " There ! didn't I say so? " chuckled the old gent. 
 
 " It may be — it may be ! " she replied, dubiously; " but if 
 we are carried wrong it won't be my fault. / say that we are 
 wrong, and when we've been led to some pirate's cave and 
 butchered for our money ye'U wish you had heeded my words." 
 
 He looked out of the window again, opened his mouth as if 
 to make some inquiry of a boy sitting on the fence, and then 
 leaned back in his seat and sighed heavily. She shut her teeth 
 together as if saying that she could stand it if he could, and the 
 train sped along for several miles. He finally said : — 
 
 " Looks like rain over thar in the west. I hope the boys hev 
 got them oats in." 
 
 " That makes me think of that umbreller ! " she exclaimed, 
 diving her hands among the parcels at their feet. 
 
 She hunted around for two or three minutes, growing red in 
 the face, and then straigthened up and hoarsely whispered : — 
 
 "It's gone!" 
 
 "W — what?" he gasped. 
 
 " That umbreller ! " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 "Gone, hide and hair!" she went on; "that sky-blue um- 
 breller which I have had ever since Marth died ! " 
 
 He searched around, but it was not to be found. 
 
 " Waal, that's queer," he mused, as he straightened up. 
 
 " Queer ! Not a bit. I've talked to ye and talked to ye, but 
 
 i86 
 
GOING SOMEWHERE. 
 
 it does no good. Ye came from a heedless fam'ly, and ye'd for- 
 get to put on yer boots 'f I didn't tell ye to." 
 
 " None o' the Harrisons were ever in the poor-house ! " he 
 replied, in a cutting tone. 
 
 " Philetus — Philetus H. Harrison ! " she continued, laying 
 her hand on his arm, " don't ye dare twit me of that again ! I've 
 lived with ye nigh on to forty years, and waited on ye when ye 
 had biles and the toothache and the colic, and when ye fell and 
 broke yer leg; but don't push me to the wall ! " 
 
 He looked out of the window, feeling that she had the advan- 
 tage of him, and as she wiped her eyes, settled her glasses on 
 her nose, and used up the next fifteen minutes in thinking of 
 the past. Feeling thirsty, she reached down among the bundles, 
 searched around, and her face was as pale as death as she 
 straightened back and whispered : — 
 
 " And that' s gone , too!" 
 
 "What now?" he asked. 
 
 " That bottle with the cold tea in it ! " 
 
 " It's been stole ! " he exclaimed, looking around the car as 
 if expecting to see some one with the bottle to their lips. 
 
 "First the umbreller — then the bottle! " she gasped. 
 
 " I couldn't have left it, could I? " 
 
 " Don't ask me ! That bottle has beeii in our family twenty 
 years — ever since mother died, and now it's gone ! Land only 
 knows what I'll do for a camfire bottle when we git home — if 
 we ever do." 
 
 " I'll buy one." 
 
 " Yes, I know ye are always ready to buy, and if it wasn't for 
 me to restrain ye the money'd fly like feathers in the wind." 
 
 " Waal, I didn't have to mortgage my farm," he replied, 
 giving her a knowing look. 
 
 " Twitting agin ! ' It isn't enough that ye've lost a good um- 
 
 187 
 
GOING SOMEWHERE. 
 
 breller and a camfire bottle, but ye must twit me o' this and 
 that." 
 
 Iler nose grew red, and tears came to her eyes, but as he was 
 looking out of the window she said nothing further. Ten or 
 fifteen minutes passed, and, growing restless, he called out to a 
 man across the aisle : — 
 
 "What's the sile around here?" 
 
 " Philetus — Philetus H. Harrison! stop yer noise!" she 
 whispered, poking him with her elbow. 
 
 " I just asked a question," he replied, resuming his old posi- 
 tion, 
 
 " What'd yer brother Joab tell ye the last thing afore we left 
 him?" she asked. "Didn't he say somebody'd swindle ye on 
 the string game, the confidence game, or some other game? 
 Didn't he warn ye agin rascals? " 
 
 " I haint seen no rascals." 
 
 " Of course ye hevn't, 'cause yer blind ! / know that that 
 man is a villun, and if they don't arrest him for murder afore we 
 leave this train I'll miss my guess ! / can read human natur' 
 like a book." 
 
 There was another period of silence, broken by her saying : — 
 
 " I wish I knew that this was the train for Chicago." 
 
 " Course it is." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 " 'Cause it is." 
 
 " Wall, / know it aint, but if you are contented to rush along 
 to destruction I shan't say a word. Only when yer throat 
 is being cut don't call out that I didn't warn ye." 
 
 The peanut-boy came along, and the old man reached down 
 for his wallet. 
 
 " Philetus, ye shan't squander that money after peanuts ! " she 
 exclaimed, using one hand to catch his arm and the other to 
 wave the boy on. 
 
GOING SOMEWHERE; 
 
 "Didn't I earn it?" 
 
 " Yaas, you sold two cows to git money to go on this visit ; , 
 but it's half gone now, and the land only knows how we'll get 
 home 1 " 
 
 The boy passed on, and the flag of truce was hung out for 
 another brief time. She recommenced hostilities by remark- 
 ing:— 
 
 " I wish I hadn't cum." 
 
 He looked up, and then out of the window. 
 
 " I know what ye want to say ! " she hissed ; " but it's a 
 blessed good thing for ye that I did come ! If ye'd come alone 
 ye'd have been robbed and murdered and gasped and scalped 
 and sunk in the river afore now 1 " 
 
 "Pooh!" 
 
 " Yes, pooh 'f ye want to, but / know ! " 
 
 He leaned back, she settled herself anew, and by and by — 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 And in sleep their gray heads touched, and his arm found its 
 way along the back of the seat, and his hand rested on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 It was only their way. 
 
 M. QUAD. 
 
 189 
 
cows IN THE POOL 
 
Cows IN THE Pool. 
 
 BY TOM TAYLOR. 
 
 IGHT I choose, with ^aop's bent, 
 Aptcst type of self-content, 
 It should be a herd of cows, 
 Who when heat forbids to browse, 
 And when midges sting and tease. 
 In dry shadow of the trees. 
 Seek a still and sheltered pool, 
 Rush-begirt, and dark and cool, 
 And in knce-decp bath sedate. 
 Flick off flies and ruminate 
 On the fever and the fret 
 Of silly sheep whose hearts are set 
 On pasture in the sun's hot glare, 
 Or on the foolish flights in^ air 
 Of the swallows flashing by, 
 Now to stream and now to sky. 
 Do-nothing philosophers, 
 Whom nor midge stings, nor gad-fly stirs; 
 Who in serene contempt look down 
 On toilers in the world's fierte day. 
 Or on the flighty spirits frown. 
 That spend in fancy's flash and play 
 The hours you ruminate away 
 In tepid water and soft clay. 
 
 '93 
 
GOD'S WAITING. 
 
God's Waiting. 
 
 BY JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 RAND is the leisure of the earth ; 
 She gives her happy myriads birth, 
 And after harvest fears not dearth, 
 
 But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim : 
 Dread is the leisure up above, 
 The while He sits whose name is Love, 
 And waits, as Noah did the dove, 
 
 To see if jhe would fly to him. 
 He waits for us while, houseless things. 
 We beat about with bruised wings 
 On the dark floods and water-springs. 
 
 The ruined world, the desolated sea; 
 With open windows froin the prime. 
 All night, all day. He waits sublime. 
 Until the fulness of the time 
 
 Decreed from his eternity. 
 
 197 
 
REVE DU MIDI 
 
■7j/^m 
 
 
 
 S^ 'J 
 
REVE DU MIDI 
 
 BY ROSE TERRY. 
 
 •^HEN o'er the mountain steeps, 
 The hazy noontide creeps, 
 And the shrill cricket sleeps 
 Under the grass ; 
 When soft the shadows lie, 
 And clouds sail o'er the sl-:y, 
 And the idle winds go by, 
 With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass, 
 
 Then, when the silent stream 
 Lapses as in a dream. 
 And the water-lilies gleam 
 Up to the sun ; 
 
 When tlie hot and burdened day 
 Rests on its downward way ; 
 When the moth forgets to play. 
 And the plodding ant may dream her work is done, - 
 
 Then, from the noise of war, 
 And the din of earth afar. 
 Like some forgotten star 
 Dropt from the sky, — 
 The sounds of love and fear, 
 All voices sad and clear, 
 Banished to silence drear, — 
 The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. 
 
 201 
 
REVE DU MIDI. 
 
 Some melancholy gale 
 Breathes its mysterious tale. 
 Till the rose's lips grow pale 
 With her sighs ; 
 And o'er my thoughts are cast 
 Tints of the vanished past, 
 Glories that faded fast, 
 Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. 
 
 As poised on vibrant wings, 
 Where its sweet treasure swing's, 
 The honey-lover clings 
 To the red flowers — 
 So, lost in vivid light. 
 So, rapt from day and night, 
 I linger in delight. 
 Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours. 
 
 M^ 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
How One Man Was Saved. 
 
 BY AMANDA M. DOUGLASS. 
 
 But love is indestructible. — Southey. 
 
 ^E WALKED slowly along that dusty high- 
 way, Mark Bradley, revolving many thoughts 
 in his busy brain. A summer afternoon melt- 
 ing gradually into evening, a sun sinking be- 
 hind the hill-tops, burnishing the spires with 
 moultcn gold. In the still atmosphere those 
 trees were outlined against the crimson dappled sky with 
 wonderful distinctness. Not a leaf stirred. Down the slop- 
 ing sides wide stubble-fields took on' a new glory. Here 
 acres of grass, early mown, nodding a serene satisfaction 
 over the comforting idea of a second crop. Cornfields turned 
 yellow, the browned and faded tassels hanging listlessly on 
 ripening stalks. A sort of lazy, over-ripe August picture. 
 
 Had it been never so beautiful he would not have paused 
 to study it. He had other matters on hand. What was the 
 paltry landscape to him? He could not make money out of 
 it, and that was his whole thought by day and night. How 
 many times he had walked over this road, dreaming of what 
 awaited him at the end, hurried on with a buoyant step and 
 hopeful heart. Now he lagged unconsciously, and when he 
 
 205 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 came in sight of tlie gray cottages down yonder among the 
 trees, he almost paused. 
 
 "She must know sometime," he said, and this thought 
 iirtred him on. 
 
 The road began to wind downward. It grew shadier, 
 and fragrant with spice of fir and pine. Here and there 
 some wild asters starred it, or a spray of golden-rod. Com- 
 mon things, all. Dusty and dull. They fretted him strange- 
 ly. How many times he had found this road lovely to look 
 upon — the end delightful. He seemed to have outgrown it 
 all at a bound. 
 
 Before he reached the cottage there was a little flutter at 
 the door. A white dress, and the flash of a scarlet ribbon at 
 the throat. A gleam of soft brown hair, just as the last re- 
 flection of sunset through the trees took it, and played about 
 like an aureole. 
 
 She came to meet him, this little Janet Raeburn. An 
 hour ago her face was worn and gray ; ev2ry limb tired and 
 overstrained, working at her machine. She had sighed 
 wearily over the last long seam, shut down the cover with an 
 impatient snap, hurried around with the supper things, and 
 found at last a few brief moments in which to wash her face, 
 comb out her brown hair, and change her dress. It had 
 transformed her, or else the hope that brightened her cheeks ; 
 for now, conn'ng out to meet her lover, she looked really 
 pretty. 
 
 He scanned her face earnestly. A broad, low forehead, 
 small but irregular features, a mouth compressed by emo- 
 tions or trials to a firmness and reticence rarely seen in two- 
 and-twenty. He fancied, and perhaps rightly enough, that 
 she was growing old and worn. He was in a mood to note 
 these things, so she had put on her smiles and brightness in 
 vain. 
 
 206 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 He took the little hands in his and kissed her. Then he 
 held her quiet for a moment and sighed. 
 
 "What is it, Mark?" 
 
 She had a low, smooth, cool voice. One pleasant to hear in 
 a sick-room, or at any time of great trial. As if one would 
 like to hear her pronounce a benediction over this dying sum- 
 mer day. 
 
 "Let us walk out here. I am stifled all day with that hot, 
 smothering air in the shop ! It almost makes me hate to 
 enter a house." 
 
 She was a trifle surprised at his vehement tone. 
 
 They took the edge of the soft, short grass, as it was too 
 early yet for dew, down as far as the great sycamore tree, 
 back again, and all in silence. 
 
 Janet studied his face furtively. It was gloomy and im- 
 penetrable. Of late he had been unlike himself. She tried 
 to make him talk ; but at first he responded only in mono- 
 syllables. And then she returned to the old query, — 
 
 "What is the matter, Mark?" 
 
 " Sit down here," and he paused at a great stone by the 
 road-side, "for I have much to tell you, Janet." 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly. 
 
 "I am going away." 
 
 A woman would have skirmished about this fact, and 
 broken it by degrees, to make the suffering less for the 
 listener. He, being a man, went straight to the point at once. 
 
 She studied him with her brown eyes. There was some- 
 thing in the fearless scrutiny that made him wince. 
 
 "Why?" She could not trust herself to any longer sen- 
 ence, for the blow seemed to have struck some vital part. 
 
 "I'll tell you why. I've been a fool for weeks and weeks. 
 I've beat about the bush and staved off" the truth, when I 
 ought to have spoken. I am tired and sick of this dragging 
 
 2o7 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 life. The same, month in and month out. If a man was a 
 stick or stone he might be satisfied to go on the treadmill 
 round. But I am not. Life isn't endurable on such terms ! 
 
 His enunciation was rapid, his voice hoarse with dull pas- 
 sion. 
 
 "I thought you had a good situation, Mark?" 
 
 "Good enough, I suppose, as the matter goes; but I'm 
 tired of drudgery. A man just keeps soul and body together. 
 If one saves up a few dollars, the machinery's out of gear, 
 and all hands off for a week or two. Or orders don't come 
 in. Something continually to drain a Juan of his last cent. 
 So there's nothing ahead, nothing between one and starvation, 
 if an unlucky stroke should befall him. It frets me to 
 death ! " 
 
 " What can you do ? " 
 
 "I'll show you what I can do, some day- I mean to be a 
 rich man, Janet ;" and he brought his clenched fist down on 
 the rock with a force that numbed his fingers. 
 
 "O Mark," she said, with a htde cry, "wealth doesn't al- 
 ways bring happiness." 
 
 " Don't take up that cant ; I'm sick and tired of it. I'd risk 
 wealth bringing me happiness. All I want in this world is 
 money. With that will come everything else. And why 
 have not I as good right to it as any other person ? When I 
 see these men riding around in their carriages, dressed in 
 broadcloth and fine linen, giving sumptuous dinners, their 
 houses perfect palaces of elegance, I am filled with envy. 
 Why, their very servants have an easier life than mine !" 
 
 "I believe God gives us what is best." She spoke slowly, 
 but in a steady tone. 
 
 " No, you cant think it, Janet. The clergymen preach 
 about it on Sundays, and some weak, deluded people hug a 
 sort of martyr belief to their hearts and glory in it. As if for 
 
 208 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 every evil here, every misfortune, every loss, some great gain 
 was to be met with in that other and fabulous country." 
 
 A bitter, bitter fear smote Janet Raeburn's lieart. How 
 many times she had trembled at the half-knowledge that this 
 man affected to sneer at a Supreme Ruler. 
 
 "You can't think it," he went on with more vehemence. "Is 
 it right that you, a weak and frail woman, should have the 
 care of a bedridden mother and a feeble old father who is as 
 much charge as a child? There is your brother and his wife 
 taking their pick of everything, making money, scrimping and 
 squeezing until the very stones cry out. See how they are 
 prospered while you are working yourself to death ! Is there 
 any justice in that? Is God pleased to see you tried and worn, 
 and worried, here in j^our 5''outh, when everything should be 
 bright and restful? No, I don't believe it. Here's the world 
 and here's the struggle. Strong souls win, and I mean to dare 
 it." 
 
 In the earlier days of their acquaintance she used to argue. 
 More than once it seemed as if she had almost persuaded him. 
 But he had always gone back to his old scepticism ; so she had 
 trusted to the future day of love. Would it ever come? For 
 now she felt tired and faint-hearted. She, with her woman's 
 eyes, saw how he could have lightened her burdens ; but she 
 would sooner die than thrust them upon. him. 
 
 " So I am going away. I've had it planned for several weeks, 
 and been putting off the announcement in a cowardly fashion. 
 I knew how the separation would hurt you. If it could be, I'd 
 take you with me. God knows I shall miss you sorely. But 
 I'm bound to get above this stagnant level. I'll have enough to 
 satisfy my wants without grovelling like a dog from Monday 
 morn until Saturday night. 
 
 "What will you do? " How curiously calm her voice was. 
 
 "I've some brains and a tolerable education. There's a 
 
 209 .. 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 friend of mine in New York wlio has made a good deal of 
 money one way and another. He was in town a month ago, 
 and wanted me to join him in some ventures. It's just the Hfe 
 I should like — hurry, excitement, something for your pains. 
 I've saved up a little, and I mean to double it, quadruple it, — 
 make a fortune, in short." 
 
 "And, then — ?" 
 
 " I'll come back for you." 
 
 She stood up straight and firm before him. The twilight was 
 falling now, and making purple shadows at the edges of the 
 trees. Her white dress looked almost ghostly, but her eyes 
 were unnaturally bright. 
 
 "No, Mark," she said, "you will not come back for me 
 then. You think so now, — I'll do you that justice ; but in the 
 new life, when wealth and station and refinement are yours, I 
 should be an unsightly blot, — mar the picture with my plain- 
 ness, ray worn face, my tired heart. You will need youth 
 and grace and beauty." 
 
 " Do you doubt me, — my truth, m}'^ honor?" 
 
 He rose, too, then, and folded his ai-ms across his broad 
 chest. How proud she had been of him ! How many times 
 she had nestled to that bosom, been folded in those arms ! 
 Forgive her if she had longed for the tinae when it would be 
 her home, her shelter. She felt so utterly lost and forlorn 
 without him, and yet he seemed to be jdrifting rapidly away 
 from her. She could make no answer. 
 
 " The old, stale romance," he said with a little sneer. "You 
 don't give me much credit in fancying it." 
 
 "I shall not be fit for you then." Her voice was low and 
 sad. 
 
 He walked up and down past her. He hated to have her 
 doubt him, for he was so confident of his own strength. 
 
 " No," he went on, " I want you to believe, whatever comes, 
 
 2IO 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 that no woman can ever fill your place to me. I shall not be 
 so weak after my struggle as to long for the youth and beauty 
 that can be purchased with gold. And for your sake I want 
 to be rich. To marry as men do, on precarious wages, and 
 rear a family that may be doomed to beggary by another's 
 whim, is what I could never do. And to go on waiting year 
 after year in this fashion — " 
 
 Something roused her strangely. A fire flashed into the 
 eyes and the pale cheeks. 
 
 "And I want yoxi to believe," she said in a strong, clear 
 tone, "that poverty has no terrors for me, — that work is no 
 hardship : it was my birthright. I feel as if I should distrust 
 any life that was easy and luxurious." 
 
 He laughed a trifle scornfully. 
 
 "Well," he said, "when I come back a rich man, reject me 
 if you will, but now do not refuse me your love. Some of 
 your true believers pretend to look upon woman's love as a 
 sort of safeguard in an evil hour. So don't deprive me of 
 this strength. " 
 
 His words cut deeply into her heart ; but for all that, she 
 came to him, leaned her throbbing head against his shoulder. 
 He could not see the tears that overflowed her eyes. 
 
 They both paced the rapidly darkening path in silence. 
 Once, as they neared the cottage, she said, — 
 
 " You will come in ? " 
 
 " Not to-night, Janet. I must go back immediately." 
 
 " When shall you leave ? " 
 
 "Next week. Monday is pay-night. It will be a relief 
 not to drudge at the old toil any more." 
 
 "And what you mean to do, Mark, is perfectly honest and 
 honorable ? " 
 
 He laughed scornfully. 
 
 "Janet," he said presently, "the world isn't as you think it. 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 These overstrained virtues do not pay in a great city, or any- 
 where, if a man means to get along. This high, theoretical 
 honesty sounds well enough in a book or a sermon, — people 
 are paid for writing and preaching it ; but it never made the 
 listeners rich, that I heard. How much of it do your chufch 
 members carry into business? They're sharp enough, Heaven 
 knows ! " 
 
 He had taunted her more than once, lately, in this manner. 
 She turned now. 
 
 "I do not know that the treachery of Judas was ever con- 
 sidered a better deed because he was one of the disciples," she 
 said in a strong, sad tone, almost coming to tears. 
 
 " We will not quarrel when there is a prospect of a long 
 separation before us. I shall be out on Sunday evening. 
 Good-night ! " and he kissed her tenderly. 
 
 She stood in the dusk for many minutes after he had left 
 her, but not following out her first impulse — which was to 
 weep. For it seemed as if she must gird herself anew now. 
 Down the long future, somewhere, there would be plenty of 
 time for weeping. 
 
 II. 
 
 
 ,^ANET RAEBURN entered the cottage at length. 
 " t/ Hastily lighting a candle, she ran up to her room 
 50ll and pulled off the white dress she had put on with 
 so much pride an hour or two ago. Then she ar- 
 ranged her mother comfortably for the night, roused her 
 father from his nap on the rude settle, and sent him to bed as 
 if he had been a child. After being sure that everything 
 was safe, she retired once more to the room where she had 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 dreamed many a sweet young dream. Her life had always 
 been hard, but being glorified these two years by Mark Brad- 
 ley's love, had made it seem at times positively delightful. 
 She had thought if Mark would marry her, and come there 
 to live, share the profits of the farm with her brotlier Jolm ! — 
 for it would easily afford them both eihployment. She had 
 ventured to hint this to him. 
 
 "It wouldn't do, Janet," Ire said, ''John would look upon 
 me as an inteidoper. We don't like each other any too well 
 now. He's 3-our brother ; but I must say he and his wife are 
 close-fisted, grasping people, and he's bound to get all he can 
 out of the farm. It would be more sensible for you to marry 
 me and go away. The old folks are as much his parents as 
 they are }'ours, and it is as much his place to do for them. I 
 haven't much of a start, to be sure, but you are welcome to 
 it. We would get along somehow." 
 
 Leave her parents to the care of Martha Raeburn, who re- 
 garded every moment wasted that was not devoted to money- 
 getting ! No, she could never do this. They were young 
 and would wait. 
 
 And yet the waiting appeared to stretch itself out indefi- 
 nitely. 
 
 When John Raeburn married, he had built a cottage quite 
 at the upper end of the farm, being surged to the step by 
 Martha, who had said, and wisely, they would be better 
 friends apart. They worked the farm, and took the profits, 
 supplying the old people so scantily that Janet, a handy little 
 seamstress, bought a machine in order to render herself more 
 independent of them. John was a loud and dogmatic talker, 
 and whenever Janet tried to appeal to brotherly kindness, he 
 invariably fell back upon the fact that he and Martha slaved 
 from morning till night — and what did they have but a liv- 
 ing? "I should be a good deal the gainer if I hired a farm 
 
 313 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 for myself," he said ; but, in her heart of hearts, Janet be- 
 lieved if he really thought so he would do it. Her very soul 
 revolted at his meanness and selfishness. 
 
 It had come to be an accepted fact between the lovers that 
 Janet's duty was here for the present. And since Mark 
 Bradley had been smitten with this fever for wealth he had 
 cared less for marriage. Poor Janet's heart died within her. 
 Was the whole world going mad in a thirst for wealth? 
 
 Janet Raeburn prayed fervently that night. She had a 
 sort of blind faith, if you will, that in the darkest hour God 
 would not let his storms overwhelm her. Some way it would 
 come out right in the end. But the waidng was so long, so 
 hard ! She had been trying to solve Mark's doubts, to lead 
 him to the same belief that stayed her Soul in hours of trial. 
 But even here she had failed. And now he was going 
 away ! 
 
 There seemed to be a great deal of unfinished work in the 
 world. Toil left off before fruition w^s reached, thwarted 
 plans, people getting into wrong paths for want of some 
 friendly hand to guide them aright. How perplexing it all 
 was ! 
 
 If she could have married Mark six months ago ! John 
 was counting on his father's death, impatient for a division of 
 the property. She could see how this would simplify matters, 
 and Mark would not object to having one invalid with them. 
 There would be money enough to start -him in some business, 
 and then the restlessness, the sort of kicking against fate that 
 embitters him so, would be over. Now and then this thought 
 crept into her heart, but she strove to banish it. It tempted 
 her cruelly this night. For, if Mark went away, who would 
 guide him in a new home ? 
 
 A weak man, you say ! Well, the most of us are weak. 
 Now and then a temptation touches us like a galvanic shock, 
 
 214 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 revealing the vulnerable spot. Wl- thrust it out of sight, but 
 there in the darkness and loneliness it does not heal to sound, 
 solid flesh, although we tell ourselves it will. Blind always. 
 until we turn into the narrow path where God's light makes 
 it a new day. 
 
 In some intuitive wa)^ Janet understood this weakness of her 
 lover's. He was not a mean man — he would have cut off 
 his right hand sooner than stoop to the petty deeds whereby 
 John Raeburn managed to screw another dollar out of the 
 estate. He would not have defrauded his employer out often 
 minutes. Honesty in all little matters was ingrained in him. 
 But he had a restless, dissatisfied nature ; he hated to be one 
 of the plodders ; he smarted under the airs men with money 
 gave themselves, and wanted to be on the higher social plane 
 where he would not have them to endure. 
 
 Janet was helpless, and could only pray. Somehow, God 
 would not fail to bring it all out right. Though he had 
 listened for over eighteen hundred years, he was not weary. 
 And believing this, she fell asleep. 
 
 Friday, Saturday, and then Sunday. What long, long 
 days they were ! Janet performed all her duties with a silent 
 air and grave face. Her poor old mother noticed this. But 
 not until Monday did Janet announce the separation that was 
 in store for her. 
 
 Mrs. Raeburn, too, had accepted the fact that Janet could 
 not marry. Perhaps the most bitter trial of all was the know- 
 ledge that no one considered it specially hard for her. 
 
 " He's a smart young fellow, Janet, and I think it's a sensi- 
 ble move. Now, while he has no incumbrance, he can live 
 cheaply and go anywhere he likes, and if he means to make 
 anything, it is best for him to attempt it while he's young and 
 strong. Two or three years won't seem much to you now." 
 
 That was her mother's comfort. Indeed, she wished he? 
 
 215 
 
now ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 husband had been more energetic and ambitious in his young 
 days ; but he had always taken Hfe too easy. 
 
 John commended the plan also, and proposed he and 
 Martha should come over to tea at Mark's last visit. And so 
 when Mark found he had suited thern all he began to take 
 heart, though he had told himself before, that it was a mean 
 shame to go off and leave Janet to struggle alone. 
 
 " Tm right glad," Martha said, walking' home with her hus- 
 band. "Janet will stay contented now. If she'd married, I 
 don't know what we should have done, for I couldn't have 
 taken care of your mother and father, and hiring a nurse is 
 so expensive. It would have eaten up the whole estate." 
 
 Somehow John and Martha Raeburh seemed to have an 
 impression that these old people, in living on, wxonged them. 
 Not that either would have put it in so many words, but 
 Martha always said to her neighbors: "It's so hard to have 
 the old folks sick and helpless," as if it increased her labors 
 and cares. 
 
 Janet Raeburn took up her burden, making no moan. 
 These evenings with Mark had been such an indescribable 
 comfort to her — the only bright spots .in her life. Heaven 
 only knew how hard and weary it was for the girl. The 
 whirr of the machine sounded pleasantly to her at last, be- 
 cause in its noise she could not think. So, between sewing, 
 nursing and housework, her days went on slowly, and it was 
 a pleasure to know they were past. Then, Mark's letters 
 were a solace ; though they were often brief. 
 
 He came to visit her the next summei". He had been suc- 
 cessful beyond his anticipations. He had improved so much 
 in his bearing and manner; for instead of the slow, thoughtful 
 look, his eyes were bright and keen, his air brisk, his clothes 
 jaunty and stylish, and the whole man seemed to have under- 
 gone some potent change. 
 
 2l6 I 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 He felt how hardly the twelve months had used Janet. He 
 knew now that he could win fairer and fresher women, with 
 hundreds where she would have but a penny. And in a dis- 
 couraged mood, one day, she offered him his freedom. 
 
 I think it would have been a temptation to any man situated 
 as he was, — as they both were. And I am glad I can tell 
 you, in spite of the little struggle, his love for her had the true 
 ring. 
 
 "Janet," his voice was husky with emotion, " never say such 
 a thing to me again. Do you take me for a villain, child? To 
 leave you in this loneliness, in this toilsome round, with no 
 hope to count on, — no, I am not so bitterly cruel." 
 
 She came to his arms and wept some happy tears. Thank 
 God that she had something to remember at a later day. 
 
 "If I could take you away from it all, and see you growing 
 bright again." 
 
 " Not now," she said softly, willing to wait. 
 
 That winter her mother died, and her father was stricken 
 with paralysis. John and Martha moaned over the hard fate, 
 but offered little assistance. Old Mr. Raeburn was really less 
 trouble than his wife, for he was neither querulous nor im- 
 patient, so Janet's burden did not seem any heavier. At last 
 the end came, and it was summer again; but one of those 
 seasons that fill men's hearts with dread, for a pestilence was 
 stalking forth through the land. 
 
 In this quiet country place they scarcely dreaded the 
 cholera. Even in the town, two miles beyond, there had been 
 but few sporadic cases, not sufficient to drive the inhabitants 
 wild with apprehension. 
 
 "Of course," Martha Raeburn said, walking home from the 
 funeral, "the property'll have to be divicfed. You'll buy out 
 Janet's part. " 
 
 "The old house isn't worth anything/' John mused. "I've 
 
 217 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 worked the ground up pretty well. The days and days I've 
 spent over it ! And now, I suppose, Janet will want the in- 
 creased value. It's hard when a man's worked so ! If it 
 hadn't been for me, the farm would not be worth half what it 
 is. Father always was a poor manager." 
 
 " Let's take Janet home with us. If s best to talk the matter 
 over with her before that Bradley puts her up to anything. 
 He's mighty fond of a good bargain." 
 
 "Yes," John said. So Janet, utterly worn out, was glad of 
 the kindly invitation. 
 
 After she ate her supper she begged them to excuse her. 
 
 " Don't go to bed yet, Janet ; I want to have a little talk. 
 There are some things we may as well settle between our- 
 selves." 
 
 " Not to-night, John," and her pale lips quivered. 
 
 " I am sure you can sit up in this easy-chair," interposed 
 Martha. " I often drop down into it, and it rests me as much 
 as going to bed." 
 
 " You are very kind, but I can't talk to-night ; I'm so tired. 
 To-morrow must do." 
 
 Martha ungraciously attended her to the spare room, to take 
 off the best pillows and remove the counterpane. " I've such 
 lots of work to do that I have to be careful," she said, in a 
 complaining tone ; and as she went downstairs she grumbled 
 to John, "If Mark had been here, she could have walked up 
 and down the road half the night with him." 
 
 " I'll take her first thing in the morning. I want the busi- 
 ness settled before Bradley can come on." 
 
 Janet cried herself to sleep in five minutes. But it hardly 
 seemed as many more before some one burst into the room 
 with a shriek. 
 
 "Janet, for Heaven's sake, come down. I believe John's 
 been taken with the cholera." 
 
 218 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 Janet Raeburn groped her way along the stairs as if she 
 were half blind. The old clock in the sitting-room struck 
 three. The candle was flaring on the table, and in the cham- 
 ber beyond, John, the strong man, was groaning in mortal 
 agony. Janet did all she could in a wild, dazed way, and then 
 went for the doctor. What if it was night? — she was not 
 afraid. 
 
 At noon the next day John Raeburn died. Martha was in a 
 panic of the wildest terror. She blamed Janet ; she declared 
 if old Mr. Raeburn had not died just as he did all would have 
 gone well with John. It was his grief and his overwork. And 
 now she was to be left destitute and alone ; for she knew she 
 could only hold a paltry third of what was coming to her hus- 
 band. But she need not have worried. Two days from the 
 burial of John Raeburn, they " carried her out also." 
 
 For many weeks after that Janet lay as if in a dream. Not 
 conscious of pain or anxiety, too weak even to have a wish, 
 and with not mind enough to express it even if she had. A 
 peaceful rest for both body and soul was that low fever. But 
 she came out of it at length, and began to think about herself 
 and one other. Good Dr. Miles had taken her home in the 
 beginning of her illness, and his wife cai-ed for her in a man- 
 ner quite new to the forlorn girl. Yet she wondered why they 
 watched her so, and why they gave each other such sorrow- 
 ful looks. Surely she was getting well. If Mark would only 
 write. It was three months since she had heard from him. 
 She had written him the second letter in answer to his, detail- 
 ing her father's death and that of John. That was nearly two 
 months ago. And so she told Dr. Miles every day to look for 
 a letter, but he always came back empty-handed. What did 
 it mean? 
 
 "I know Mark too well to think he would be false to me," 
 she said, proudly, one day. 
 
 219 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 The doctor winced. 
 
 "What is it?" she began. "You know something. He is 
 not dead? I couldn't bear that, after all the rest." 
 
 " Better a hundred times if he was, God knows ! " Dr. Miles 
 said hoarseljr. 
 
 " What can be worse ? " She came and looked into his face 
 with curious calmness. 
 
 "There are, worse things, child, and he's done one of 'em. 
 He's a villain, and it's good you found it out so soon." 
 
 Janet could think of but one thing. "I want you to know," 
 she said, proudly, " that more than a year ago I offered him 
 back his freedom. He was so bright and handsome, and life 
 looked so fair before him, while I was always in a black 
 shadow. He wouldn't take it, but I've hardly considered it an 
 engagement since." 
 
 "I'm glad you're a little weaned otf. For, Janet, child, 
 he's a felon in state prison. 
 
 The soft eyes dilated with incredulous horror, at first. The 
 lip quivered, the ver}^ limbs shook, as she moaned, — 
 
 "Oh, no, no, j'ou are mistaken !" 
 
 He took a paper out of his desk, and showed her the para- 
 graph. Five years in state prison ! The room whirled 
 round, and it seemed as if she were dying. Then she roused 
 herself, and asked what he did. 
 
 "Embezzled funds — no, that wasn't it, either. He took 
 some money that didn't belong to him, to speculate with, and 
 the thing went to smash. His partner ran away, but then he 
 pleaded guilty, so the matter was clear enough. You're 
 young, Janet, and you're coming into a good property ; so 
 forget the scamp." 
 
 She went out of the room without another word. Dr. 
 Miles did not like the stony calm into which she settled, but 
 he never had the heart to discuss the matter again. 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 The Raeburn farm was sold in two parcels. Little did 
 John or Martha imagine tlie end, while they were toiling so 
 relentlessly. And Janet Raeburn found herself mistress of 
 seven thousand dollars. The interest would support her in 
 the simple fashion in which she chose to live. 
 
 She went on with Dr. Miles for a year, but all the while 
 she was slowly working out a plan that haunted her, day and 
 night. And then she left them for some cousins, who lived 
 in the State of Delaware, and who urged her to make them a 
 visit. She had another motive in view. She went to New 
 York, and sought out the man Mark Bradley had defrauded. 
 And after hearing all the particulars, she offered him her for- 
 tune, and promised to assume the remainder, three thousand 
 dollars, if he would interest himself in procuring a pardon for 
 Mark. 
 
 "I declare, I never was so touched in my life," Mr. Cum- 
 mings said to his lawyer. " I don't know but she might have 
 convinced me that he was a positive hero, if she had tried. 
 And, Thorpe, she absolutely means to marry him. She is 
 sure she can save him. I don't know but we were pretty 
 hard on him. I meant it to teach others a lesson as well. 
 There's too much of this speculating, and making haste to be 
 rich. If you can do anything for him — " 
 
 "Do you mean to take the money?" the lawyer asked, 
 with a curious expression. 
 
 "Do you think me a Jew usurer, Thorpe? The money? 
 Why, I'd as soon take a pound of her flesh ! No, if she can 
 make a. good man of him, she'll be a missionary, the like of 
 which you won't see more than once in your lifetime. She's 
 nearer an angel than many of them will be in heaven." 
 
 One day Mark Bradley cast off his prison clothes, and 
 walked tremblingly through the long corridor to the recep- 
 tion-room. Why Mr, Cummings should interest himself in his 
 
HOW ONE MAN WAS SAVED. 
 
 behalf was a great mystery. He was tb meet him now, and 
 his lip twitched nervously, his face flushed with shame, that 
 he could have wronged so noble a man. 
 
 The figure that turned upon him was not Mr. Cummings's. 
 With the first glance he staggered back to the door-post, his 
 whole frame weak at the very sight. She came nearer — 
 Janet Raeburn. 
 
 " Don't," he exclaimed, brokenly ; " go away, Janet. The 
 one thing I prayed most fervently for was that you should for- 
 get me." 
 
 "Mark," she answered, "in your prosperity you didn't de- 
 sert me." 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
Lady Wentworth 
 
 BY NORA PERRY. 
 
 HE shall marry me yet! " he smiling said — 
 Smiling, and under his breatli — but red 
 As flame his dark cheek glowed, and bale-fire burned 
 In his passionate eyes, as he swiftly turned 
 
 Out of the sunshine into the shade — 
 
 Out of the sunshine she had made 
 But a moment before — this girl with a face 
 Whose very frown had a winsome grace, 
 
 They used to swear, in that old, old time. 
 When her beauty was in its wonderful prime,. 
 When her laughing eyes of golden brown 
 Were the toast and rage of Portsmouth town, 
 
 Of Hampshire's Portsmouth, there by the sea, 
 Where the Wentworths ruled and held in fee 
 Half the country-side of rock and shore. 
 For a hundred and fifty years or more. 
 
 " She shall marry me yet ! " ' Twas the Wentworth blood 
 That rose up then in that turbulent flood ^ 
 The Wentworth purpose that under his breath 
 Would hold to its passionate will till death. 
 
 ' ' She shall marry me yet V And down he strode 
 Across the pathway, across the road. 
 With a firm quick step and a firm quick heart. 
 To work his will and to play his part. 
 
 And a difficult part it was to play, 
 For the tVentworth blood ran either way — 
 His mother's blood that held him tied 
 By kinsman bonds on either side. 
 
 225 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 But as mother's blood leaves stronger trace 
 Than father's blood in a turbulent race, 
 It may have been that his wilful way 
 Had the stronger current to move and sway. 
 
 At all events, as the months wore on 
 And no tidings came from her cousin John 
 To the beautiful toast of Portsmouth town, 
 The Wentworth temper rose up to drown 
 
 The passionate Wentworth love in her breast, 
 And the Wentworth pride helped on the rest: 
 And six months after her laughing scorn 
 Of her dark-eyed suitor, suing forlorn, 
 
 She stood by his side one autumn day 
 A beautiful bride : he had won his way; 
 But the gossips said that a bride never wore 
 In Portsmouth town such a look before. 
 
 Seven years after, John Wentworth came 
 Back to his home with a foreign fame : 
 Back he came to rule and to reign. 
 As the Wentworths had ruled and ruled again, 
 
 From father to son, in Hampshire State. 
 Seven years after — whj' he tarried §o late — 
 So late and so long in a foreign land; 
 Was a riddle not easy to understand. 
 
 Yet late as he came, a welcome burned 
 In a hundred hearth-fires. Wherever he turned 
 A hand stretched out and a smile awaited 
 This kinsman of theirs so long belated. 
 
 But amid this lavish neighborly cheer 
 
 He missed a face he had once held dear. 
 
 " My Cousin Frances : where doth she hide?" 
 
 He questioned at last. " She watches beside 
 
 A sick man's bed — a good nurse, I should say. 
 To keep the blue-devil baliffs away." 
 That night John Wentworth knocked at the door 
 Of his cousin's house. A foot on the floor, 
 
 226 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 A whisper of silk, and there she stood. 
 
 Ib that moment John Wentworth's cousinly mood 
 
 Melted awny like frost at the fire. 
 
 He thought he had killed the old desire; 
 
 He thought that love and hate both lay 
 Slain by the past at that long late day; 
 He thought — but what matters it now 
 The thought that had been, when on cheek and brow 
 
 Flames the signal-torch from his wakened heart.' 
 What matters it now the cousinly part 
 He had fancied was his, when on his pulses beat, 
 With that swift, wild throb, as their glances meet? 
 
 But he curbed the Wentworth temper awhile, 
 As he bent in greeting, and hoped, with a smile, 
 That he found her well. Hearing the state 
 Of her good man's health, he could not wait 
 
 His cousinly sympathy to convey. 
 A tedious illness he had heard them say: 
 But the town was eloquent of her care. 
 Which had certainly left her no less fair 
 
 Than he remembered her seven years "since — 
 He turned a moment as he saw her wince — 
 Turned, and with a purpose fell, 
 In a sneering, passionate tone, " Ah, well, 
 
 Women, we know, have a potent charm 
 To ward themselves from trouble and harm — " 
 She caught the sneer, and stayed him there. 
 With a passionate cry : how did he dare. 
 
 Who had played so falsely these seven long years, 
 To fling at her feet his idle sneers i" 
 " / false ! " He laughed. " Madam, where went 
 Those fine love letters I foolishly sent 
 
 Across the seas in those old, old days? 
 
 I waited long — 'tis a pretty amaze 
 
 You feign, my cousin — I waited long 
 
 For a word or a sign, for my faith was strong 
 
 227 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 In that old, sweet time; but the months went by, 
 And never a line came back, and I 
 Still clung to my faith, till a morning in May 
 There came to me news of a wedding day 
 
 Here in Portsmouth town, and the bride 
 Was the girl who had stood at my side 
 And sworn to be mine, six months before — 
 You shiver, my cousin : the wind from the shore 
 
 Blows harshly to-night." A gesture here 
 Checked his bitter reproach, his menacing sneer, 
 And a hoarse voice cried, "John Wentworth, wait 
 Kre you dower me with the dower of hate. 
 
 No letter of yours from over the sea ,. 
 In that old, old time came e\er to me : 
 D.ay after day the months went by — 
 Day after day, and what was I 
 
 But a maiden scorned.' Day after day 
 
 The months went by; when I heard them say 
 
 That John Wentworth staid 
 
 To woo and to win an English maid. 
 
 My spirit rose like our swift shore tide' — 
 ' Twas the Wentworth temper, the Wentworth pride - 
 And-^ — your cousin and mine had wooed me long : 
 His love was sure, and my hate was strong — 
 
 Quick, passionate hate for the suitor fine, 
 The false, false gallant who over his wine 
 Could pledge new loves while the old love waited. 
 Faithful and fond, this lover belated." 
 
 " Sweetheart! " Back she started in swift affright 
 At this fond, bold cry, and the red turned white 
 In her oval cheek. A moment more, 
 And swiftly striding across the floor, 
 
 This lover belated, who missed his bride 
 Seven years ago, is at her side; 
 And the fond, bold voice on her listening ear, 
 On her listening heart, over every fear, 
 
 228 
 
liADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 Like a rising river, gains and gains, 
 While unreckoned, unheeded, the swift night wanes, 
 Till the clock strikes twelve on the landing stair; 
 Then John Wentworth turns with a gallant air, 
 
 And embraces his cousin as a kinsman may, 
 Though all the gossips be looking that way. 
 Yet his parting words, whispered low in her ear, 
 Were never meant for a gossip to hear. 
 
 But long before the spring had come 
 To Portsmouth shores, in many a home 
 The gossips' tongues were making bold 
 With the Wentworth name ; and the story told, 
 
 Which ran through the town like a breath of flame, 
 Was this — that John Wentworth never came 
 To his cousin's house but by signal or sign, 
 A silken scarf or a kerchief fine 
 
 Flung out of the casement, or at night 
 
 In the western window a candle's light. 
 
 And the gossips, observant, would smile, and say, 
 
 " So! the sick man sleeps at this hour of the day! " 
 
 Or at evening, when the candle flares 
 
 In the western window, " Dame Frances' cares 
 
 Are over early, it seems, to-night." 
 
 If Dame Frances caught this bale and blight 
 
 Of the gossips' tongues, little she recked : 
 
 No Wentworth yet was ever checked 
 
 By a gossip's tongue, however bold. 
 
 But there comes a day when the kerchiefs fold 
 
 Is missed at the casement, and that night 
 No candle flares its signal-light. 
 When another morning dawns again 
 The tolling Portsmouth bells explain 
 
 The missing candle, the kerchief fine. 
 Dame Frances now of signal or sign 
 Has little need; in the chamber there. 
 Where a sick man yesterday claimed her c^re, 
 229 
 
LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 A dead man lies in solemn state; 
 And peering at the linen and plate 
 Downstairs, the neignbors, under their breath, 
 Talk of the sick man, and his death; 
 
 Of the widow's prospects ; and one more bold 
 Hints that ere the year's grown old 
 The Wentworth mansion across the way 
 Will have a mistress fine and gay. 
 
 But ere a month had passed of the year, 
 All the seamstresses far and near, 
 In and out of Portsmoutii town, 
 Were sewing fast at a wedding-gown 
 
 Of brocaded satin, foreign and rare. 
 For Uame Frances Atkinson to wear. 
 ^' Shame! " cried the gossips, far and wide, 
 And " Shame ! " cried the Wentworths in their pride- 
 All the Wentworth kin in Hampshire State. 
 This haste was unseemly; she'd only to wait 
 In her widow's weeds a year and a day, 
 And not a gossip could say her nay. 
 
 Then up she spoke, this wilful dame — 
 Scornfully spoke, with a tongue of flame: 
 " Seven years I have served the Wentworth pride; 
 Seven years virith a Wentw-orth couragelied 
 
 To the world with my smiling face. 
 To find at the end — no sovereign grace 
 To save my soul, but a curse alone, 
 The curse of a lie that shamed my own ! 
 
 Cheated and tricked seven weary years, 
 
 Won by a lie — no lying tears 
 
 Have 1 to waste, no time to wait 
 
 On the man who dies seven years too late ! " 
 
 Scared and shocked, the Wentworths stared 
 At this reckless dame, whose passion dared 
 To cast at the dead man, scarcely cold 
 In his fresh-turned grave, these accusals bold. 
 
 230 
 
LAPY WENTWORTH. 
 
 Sacred and shocked, but never a word 
 Of ban or blame was ever heard 
 From their lips again, and come the day 
 When my lady Wentworth, fine and gay, 
 
 Reigned in the Wentworth mansion there, 
 Not a gossip in Portsmouth but spoke her fair. 
 But under their breaths, when twilight fell. 
 Under their breaths, they would sometimes tell 
 
 The old, old story of signal and sign, 
 The candle tlame, and the kerchief fine; 
 And under their breaths would croak a fear 
 That my lady had lent but too willing an ear 
 
 To the evil whispered against the dead, 
 The doubtful tale so suddenly sped 
 From mouth to mouth, while for yea or nay, 
 Helpless and dumb the dead man lay. 
 
 But never upon my lady's face, 
 Never a doubt showed sign or trace. 
 As she looked the curious gossips down 
 In the little world of Portsmouth town — 
 
 Never a doubt from year to year, 
 
 Never a doubt, and never a fear; 
 
 For whatever the truth of the troubled past. 
 
 My lady had come to her own at last ! 
 
 231 
 
THE IRON BLACKSMITH. 
 
THE IRON BLACKSMITH 
 
 FROM "ALL THE YEAR ROUND." 
 
 LD England she has great warriors, 
 
 Great princes and poets great ; 
 But the blacksmith is not to be quite forgot 
 
 In the hist'ry of the State. 
 He is rich in the best of all metals, 
 
 Yet silver he lacks and gold ; 
 And he payeth his due, and his heart is true, 
 
 Though he bloweth both hot and cold. 
 Then hurrah for the iron blacksmith ! 
 
 And hurrah for his iron crew ! 
 And whenever we go where his forges glow. 
 
 We'll sing what a man can do. 
 
 The boldest is he of incendiaries 
 
 That ever the wide world saw, 
 And a forger as rank as e'er robb'd the bank. 
 
 Though he never doth break the law. 
 He hath shoes that are worn by strangers, 
 
 Yet he laugheth and maketh more; 
 And a share concealed in the poor man's field, 
 
 Yet it adds to the poor man's store. 
 Then hurrah for the iron blacksmith ! 
 
 And hurrah for his iron crew1 
 And whenever we go where his forges glow, 
 
 We'll sing what a man can do. 
 
 235 
 
AN HOUR 
 AT CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 
 
 y«» 
 
An Hour at Christ's Hospital, 
 
 BY WM. MATHEWS. 
 Author of *' Getting on in the iVorid.^* 
 
 MONG the strange and unique sights which 
 attract the eye of the stranger in London, 
 one of the oddest is the apparition, in the 
 neighborhood of Newgate street, of a boy 
 dressed in a monastic garb of the sixteenth 
 century. It is raining, yet lie is bareheaded, and he wears a 
 long, flowing, dark-blue coat, like a monk's tunic, confined 
 at the waist by a leather belt, which, with yellow breeches, 
 shoes, and yellow stockings, complete his quaint costume. 
 Who is he? Is he the ghost of some boy of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury, or is he a living, flcsh-and-blood urchin of the nine- 
 teenth, arrayed in the garb of a b3''gone time? We need not 
 be ashamed to confess our inability to solve this problem, for 
 it is one which puzzled even so acute and ingenious a thinker 
 as Sydney Smith. The witty canon of St. Paul's brooded 
 long over the origin of the Blue-Coat boy, — for it is by this 
 name he is yclept, — and finally hazarded the theory that 
 he was a Quaker in the chrysalis state. 
 
 " Look at the circumstances," he urged in a discussion with 
 the Countess of Morley ; " at a very earl)' age, young Quakers 
 disappear, — at a very early age the Coat-Boys are seen ; at 
 the age of seventeen or eighteen young Quakers are again 
 seen, — at the same age the Coat-Boys „disappear. Who has 
 
 239 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 ever heard of a Coat-Man? The thing is utterly unknown in 
 natural history. That such a fact should have escaped our 
 naturalists is truly astonishing. . . . Dissection would 
 
 throw great light" on the question ; and, if our friend 
 
 would receive two boys into his house about the time of their 
 changing their coats, great service would be rendered to the 
 cause. I have ascertained that the Blue-Coat infants are fed 
 with Drab-Colored pap, wliich looks Very suspicious." To 
 these daring speculations Lady Morley replied with reason- 
 ings equally shrewd and hard to answer. The possible cor- 
 rectness of Sydney's theory she admitted ; but there was a 
 grave difficulty : "The Blue-Coat is an indigenous animal, — 
 not so the Quaker. ... I have seen and talked much 
 with Sir R. Ker Porter on this interesting subject. He has 
 travelled over the whole habitable globe, and has penetrated 
 with a scientific and scrutinizing eye into regions unexplored 
 by civilized man, and yet he has never seen a Quaker baby ! 
 He has lived for years in Philadelphia (the national nest of 
 Quakers) ; he has roamed up and down, broadways and 
 lengthways, in every nook and corner of Pennsylvania, and 
 yet he never saw a Qiiaker baby ; and what is new and most 
 striking, — never did he see a Quaker lady in a situation 
 which gave hope that a Quaker baby might be seen hereafter. 
 This is a stunning fact, and involves the question in such im- 
 penetrable mystery as will, I fear, defy even your sagacity, 
 acuteness, and industry to elucidate." 
 
 How the question was settled — whether Sydney continued 
 to maintain that there never was such :a thing as a Quaker 
 baby, that " they are always born broad-brimmed and in full 
 quake" — we know not; and therefore, in lieu of other 
 authority, we will accept Traditionary History of the Blue- 
 Coats. According to this, Christ's Hospital, or the Blue-Coat 
 School, was founded in 1553 by Edward VI., just before 
 
 240 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 his death. "I do know," said the dying king, then but six- 
 teen years old, " that there be those who love to learn, even 
 as I their King, and 3^et who cannot, for they be poor. There- 
 fore will I do that this day which shall keep my memory 
 green." The buildings were provided on the site of the mon- 
 astery of the Gray-Friars, of which a few arches, a part of a 
 cloister, are all that remains ; and the queer costume of the 
 boys, which they intensely dislike, was adopted at the time. 
 The flat caps supplied to them are so small that the boys 
 rarely wear them, and go bareheaded. In 1672, Charles II. 
 founded the Mathematical School for forty boys, called 
 "King's Boys," to which twelve more have been added, and 
 they are distinguished by a badge on the shoulder. The 
 school now has an income of £40,000 a year, and it feeds, 
 clothes and educates twelve hundred children, of whom five 
 hundred, including the younger children and girls, are kept 
 in a branch school at Hertford for the sake of pure air. Four 
 boys annually are sent from it to the Universities. On New 
 Year's Day the " King's Boys " are presented at Court ; on 
 Easter-Monday all the boys walk in procession to the Royal 
 Exchange ; on Easter-Tuesday they visit the Lord Mayor ; 
 and on St. Matthew's Day they deliver orations in their hall 
 before the Mayor, Corporation and Governors. Like many 
 other noble charities in England, this has been wrested from 
 its original purpose, and many pupils gain admission upon 
 other pleas than poverty. 
 
 It was through the kindness of Messrs. Triibuer & Co., the 
 celebrated publishers and booksellers, whose shop on Ludgate 
 Hill, London, is within a stone's throw of Christ's Hospital, 
 that we found an " Open Sesame " to the famous school. While 
 indulging our bibliomaniac propensities there one day, we 
 were so lucky as to be introduced to Dr. Brette, Professor of 
 Modern Languages in the school, who kindly invited us to 
 
 241 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 visit it the next day. Christ's Hospital ! Where is the 
 scliolar or literary man whose pulse does not quicken at the 
 mention of these words ? What a crowd of pleasant memo- 
 ries they conjure up ! Who that has skimmed but the surface 
 of modern English literature, has not read Charles Lamb's 
 charming " Recollections" of that shool? Christ's Hospital! 
 where not only the loving Carlagnulus, as he was afterwards 
 called, but Coleridge, " the inspired cHarity-boy," and Cam- 
 den, and Leigh Hunt, and scores of other worthies, were in- 
 ducted into the mysteries of the three R's, "Reading, 'Riting, 
 and 'Rithmetic," — how did our heart leap up at the prospect 
 of seeing the very benches which they hacked, the very spots 
 where they quailed under the eagle glance and thunder tones 
 of Boyer ! 
 
 Accepting Dr. B.'s invitation, we next day proceeded to 
 Newgate street, and passing the gloomy prison, turned into a 
 cross street, where, about noon, we entered the boy-King's 
 school. Entering a corridor, we notice on the wall numerous 
 tablets, placed there in honor of the graduates of the school 
 who have become its benefactors. Not a few of England's 
 "solid men" of business, who were educated here, have left 
 handsome legacies to the institution. The buildings consist 
 of several large structures of brick, fronting paved courts, 
 which serve as playgrounds for tiie boys in sunny weather, 
 while the corridors shield them from the rain in wet weather. 
 Following the lead of Dr. Brctte, we visit a school-room, 
 where the hard seats and benches, with deep gashes testifying 
 to the excellence of English cutlery, remind us of the pine 
 planks upon which we tried our Rogers in the old red school- 
 house of our boyhood. Was there ever a schoolboy who 
 did not make his mark with his jack-knife, whatever his 
 failures in recitation? 
 
 The eulogists of " modern improvements " will find but little 
 
 242 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOfiPTTAL. 
 
 to admire in these venerable piles, except the swimming- 
 room — the water of which is tempered at pleasure — the 
 admirable bathing-rooms, of which the boys are required to 
 make use at prescribed limes — and the clean and airy liospi- 
 tal, where boys who are unwell, or have met with an injury 
 in their sports, are cared for by skilful surgeons and tender 
 nurses. Visiting these apartments, we next glance at the 
 dormitories, with their multitude of iron bedsteads, and the 
 monitor's room in the corner ; and then return to the play- 
 ground, whose memory is busy calling up the history of the 
 Blue-Coats whose names have been blazoned high on the 
 scroll of fame. Can it be, we musingly ask ourselves, 
 that the spider-legged, spectral-looking " Elia " once trod 
 these courts, and trembled in yon room under the master's 
 frown ? Did Home Tooke here begin the " Diversions of 
 Purley," and Wesley shout in his boyish games as he never 
 did afterwards in the Methodist class-room ? Did the thought- 
 ful Addison and the careless, impulsive Dicky Steele here 
 kick the football, and little Barrow begin the pugilistic feats 
 which he afterwards repeated with such effect in his struggle 
 with an Algerine corsair? Was it here that the youthful 
 Blackstone tested in boyish games the strength of the British 
 Constitution, and was it from this school that Mitchell, the 
 translator of Aristophanes, was translated to Cambridge? 
 All these names are on the muster-rolls of the Blue-Coat 
 School, and many others hardly less brilliant. 
 
 We think of these, and of the Bedlam cells to which 
 naughty boys in Elia's time were consigned : little fellows of 
 seven years shut up all night in these dungeons, where they 
 could just lie at length upon straw and„a blanket ; with only 
 a peep of light by day, let in from a prison-orifice at the top ; 
 and permitted to come forth only twice a week, and then to be 
 
 243 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 flogged by the beadle. We think of the fierce master, Boyer, 
 and his two wigs, — the one serene, smiling, fresh-powdered, 
 and betokening a mild day ; the other, an old, discolored, un- 
 kempt, angry caxon, denoting frequent and bloody execution. 
 We see him shaking his knotty fist at a poor trembling child, 
 and crying," Sirrah, do you -presume to set your wits at ;«??"' 
 — then flino'ino' back into his lair, and after a few moments 
 bounding forth again, and singling out ^ lad with the excla- 
 mation, "Od's my life, sirrah, I have a great mind to whip 
 you ;" wlrich imperfect sense he speedily "pieces out," as if it 
 has been some Devil's Litany, with the expletory yell, " and 
 / WILL, too." We see the "gentle Elia" in another room, 
 where the thunders rolled innocuous, listening to the Ululan- 
 tcs, and catching glimpses of Tartarus > we hear Coleridge, 
 hardly 3'et in his teens, unfolding the mysteries of Plotinus, 
 or reciting Homer or Pindar in his Greek, to the wonderment 
 of the visitors. We think, too, of Coleridge's pious ejacula- 
 tion when told that his old master was on his death-bed, 
 "Poor J. B. ! may all his faults be forgotten, and may he be 
 wafted to bliss by little cherub boys all head and wings, with 
 no bottoms to reproach his sublunary infirmities ! " We think 
 of the poor scholar who conveyed to his room his fragments 
 of coarse meat, which he was supposed to sell to beggars, for 
 which he was excommunicated by the other boys as a gag- 
 cater, until the kind steward found that he carried home the 
 scraps, which he denied himself, to his starving parents. We 
 think of the silver medal which the noble lad received for this 
 from the governor of the school ; and then, perhaps, our 
 thoughts revert to another boy, the petty Nero, afterwards 
 seen a culprit in the hulks, who actually branded a boy who 
 had offended him, with a red-hot iron, and who nearly starved 
 forty younger lads, by exacting from them, daily, one-half of 
 
 244 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 their bread to pamper a young ass which he had contrived to 
 smuggle in and keep upon the leads of the ward, as the dor- 
 mitories were called, till the foolish beast, waxing fat, and 
 kicking in the fulness of bread, betrayed him by braying. 
 All these and many other recollections, comic or touching, are 
 related by Lamb and Coleridge in their own inimitable style, 
 but hardly seemed to us, when we were 4000 miles away, as 
 they do now, realities. 
 
 It was here, too, that the following ludricrous scene occurred, 
 narrated by some graduate, to omit which, in an account of 
 this famous school, would be like blotting Moses' experience 
 from the Vicar of Wakefield : — 
 
 Among the scholars when Lamb and Coleridge attended 
 was a poor clergyman's son by the name of Simon Jennings. 
 On account of his dismal and gloomy nature, his playmates 
 had nicknamed him "Pontius Pilate." One morning he went 
 up to the master. Dr. Boyer, and said, in his usual whimper- 
 ing manner, "Please, Dr. Boyer, the boys all call me Pontius 
 Pilate." If there was one thing which old Boyer hated more 
 than a false quantity in Greek and Latin, it was the practice 
 of nicknaming. Rushing down among the scholars from his 
 pedestal of state, with cane in hand, he cried in his usual 
 voice of thunder, " Listen, boys ! the next time I hear any of 
 you say ' Pontius Pilate ' I '11 cane you as long as this cane 
 will last. You are to say 'Simon Jennings,' not 'Pontius 
 Pilate.' Remember that, if you value your hides." Having 
 said this, Jupiter Tonans remounted Olympus, the clouds still 
 hanging on his brow. Next day, when the same class were 
 reciting the catechism, a boy of remarkably dull and literal 
 turn of mind had to repeat the creed. He had got as far as 
 "suffered under," and was about popping out the next word, 
 when Boyer's prohibition unluckily flashed upon his obtuse 
 
 245 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 mind. After a moment's hesitation he blurted out, " Suffered 
 under Simon Jennings, was cruci " — The rest of the word 
 was never uttered ; for Boyer had ah-eady sprung Hke a tiger 
 upon Iiim, and the cane was descending upon his unfortunate 
 shoulders like a Norwegian hail-storm or an Alpine avalanche. 
 When the irate Doctor had discharged his cane-storm upon 
 him, he cried, "What do you mean, you booby, by such blas- 
 phemy?" "I only did as you told me-," replied the simple- 
 minded Christ-Churchian. " Did as I told you," roared old 
 Boyer, now wound up to something above the boiling point. 
 ''What do you mean?" As he said this, he again instinctively 
 grasped his cane more furiously. " Yes, Doctor ; you said we 
 were always to call ' Pontius Pilate "Simon Jennings.' Didn't 
 he, Sam?" appealed the unfortunate cidprit to Coleridge, who 
 was next to him. Sam said nought ; but old Boyer, who saw 
 what a dunce he had to deal with, cried, " Boy, you are a fool. 
 Where are your brains?" Poor Dr. Boyer for a second time 
 was floored, for the scholar said, with an earnestness which 
 proved its truth, but to the intense horror of the learned poten- 
 tate, "In my stomach, sir." The Doctor always respected that 
 boy's stupidity ever after, as though half afraid that a stray 
 blow might be unpleasant. 
 
 But whoop ! Our musings are interrupted by shouts, and 
 away bounds a football, followed by an avalanche of boys, 
 screaming, pushing, kicking, jostling, and tumbling headlong, 
 very much like boys in America ; and showing by their ear- 
 nestness, impetuosity, and energy, that they belong to the 
 nineteenth century and not to the sixteenth. But what a 
 plague their long coats are, and how strange that the govern- 
 ors do not see the grotesqueness and inconvenience of these 
 old monkish costumes ! To play their games the boys tuck 
 up their coat tails ; and so, we suppose, will have to do for 
 
 246 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 years to come, till John Bull can see that modern garments 
 may be substituted without impairing the stability of the 
 British Constitution. 
 
 But, hark ! a burst of martial music is heard ; the boys have 
 dropped the footballs, and, under the directions of a drill- 
 master, are marshalled in platoons, each displaying its num- 
 ber on a flag. After a series of evolutions, they march, 
 seven hundred strong, with a boy -band of thirty performers 
 at their head, up the grand staircase to the Gothic .Hall, to 
 dinner. 
 
 This magnificent hall, which was completed in 1829, is 
 one hundred and eighty-seven feet long, is lighted by large 
 stained-glass windows, has an organ-gallery at one end, and 
 the walls are hung with prortraits of the founder and benefac- 
 tors of the institution. We take seats on a platform on the 
 west side of the hall ; a bell is touched, and a boy at the or- 
 gan plays an anthem, while seven hundred children's voices 
 mingle in the chant of thanksgiving. Another bell, and 
 down sit the boys, off come the covers, and Blue-Coats wait 
 on Blue-Coats, until all have quieted their barking stomachs 
 with a plentiful supply of meat, potatoes and bread, and, 
 above all, beer. In Elia's day, the provision made for the 
 "inner man," or rather "inner boy," was very step-motherly. 
 The dinner, on several days, consisted only of milk " por- 
 ritch," blue and tasteless, with rice milk and pease-soup that 
 was decidedly coarse and choking. The attenuated small- 
 beer was poured from leathern jacks, and tasted of the vessel 
 it had been kept in. 
 
 After their plain repast, the boys, themselves, clear the 
 tables ; and after a few minutes' chat with them, we leave the 
 hall, with many thanks to Dr. Brette for his courtesies, and 
 a feeling that henceforth the writings of Carlagnulus and the 
 " Highgate Sage " will have for us an added charm, — if it is 
 
 247 
 
AN HOUR AT CHRIST S HOSPITAL. 
 
 possible for us to hang with profounder interest over their 
 bewitching pages. Meanwhile, if any of our readers care to 
 see the famous old school as it has been for three centuries, 
 they must cross the ocean soon, for these venerable piles 
 are speedily to be swept away, to make room for the ruth- 
 less locomotives of the Mid-London Railway. 
 
 248 
 
THE ELM AND THE VINE. 
 
The Elm and the Vine. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF JOSE ROSAS, OF MEXICO. 
 
 BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 
 
 PHOLD my feeble branches 
 
 With thj strong arms, I pray:" 
 Thus to the Elm, her neighbor — 
 
 The Vine — was heard to say; 
 " Else, lying low and helpless, 
 
 A weary lot is mine ; 
 Crawled o'er by every reptile,. 
 
 And browsed by hungry kine." 
 The Elm was moved to pity ; 
 
 Then spoke the generous tree : 
 '• My hapless friend, come hither, 
 
 And find support in me." 
 The kindly Elm, receiving 
 
 The graceful Vine's embrace, 
 Became, with that adornment, 
 
 The garden's pride and grace ; 
 Became the chosen covert 
 
 In which the wild birds sing; 
 Became the love of shepherds, 
 
 And glory of the Spring. 
 
 Oh, beautiful example 
 
 For youthful minds to heed! 
 The good we do to others 
 
 Shall never miss its meed; 
 The love of those whose sorrows 
 
 We lighten shall be ours, 
 And o'er the path we walk in 
 
 That love shall scatter flowers. 
 
 251 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. 
 
 BY M. E. BRADDON, 
 Author of ^^ Lady Audley's SecrH^^ etc. 
 
 OU wouldn't think it, to look at her now, sir," 
 said the old clown, as he shook the ashes out 
 of his blackened clay, '' but madam was once 
 as handsome a woman as you'd see for many 
 a long day. It was an accident that spoilt 
 her beauty." 
 
 The speaker was attached to a little eques- 
 trian company with which I had fallen in dur- 
 ing a summer day's pedestrianism in Warwickshire. The troupe 
 had halted at a roadside inn, where I was dawdling over my simple 
 mid-day meal, and by the time I had smoked my cigar in his 
 companionship, the clown and I were upon a footing of perfect 
 friendliness. 
 
 I had been not a little struck by the woman of whom he 
 spoke. She was tall and slim, and had something of a foreign 
 look, as I had thought. Her face was chiefly remarkable for 
 the painful impression which it gave to a stranger. It was the 
 face of a woman who had undergone some great terror. The 
 sickly pallor of the skin was made conspicuous by the hectic 
 brightness of the large black eyes, and on one cheek there was 
 a scar — the mark of some deadly hurt inflicted long ago. 
 
 My new friend and' I had strolled a little way from the inn, 
 where the rest of the company were still occupied with their 
 
 255 
 
THE scene-painter's WIFE. 
 
 frugal dinner. A stretch of sunny common lay before us, and 
 seemed to invite a ramble. The clown filled his pipe, and 
 walked on meditatively. I took out another cigar. 
 
 "Was it a fall from horseback that gave her that scar?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " A fall from horseback ! Madame Delavanti ! No, sir, that 
 seam on her cheek was made by the claws of a tiger. It's 
 rather a curious sort of story, and I don't mind telling it, if 
 you'd like to hear it; but for the Lord's sake don't let her know 
 I've been talking of her, if you should happen to scrape 
 acquaintance with her when you go back to the inn." 
 
 " Has she such a dislike to being talked about?" 
 
 " I rather think she has. You see she's not quite right in 
 the upper story, poor soul ; but she rides beautifully, and 
 doesn't know what fear means. You'd scarcely believe how 
 handsome she looks at night when she's dressed for the ring. 
 Her face lights up almost as well as it used to do ten years 
 ago, before she had the accident. Ah, she was handsome in 
 those days, and used to be run after by all the gentlemen like 
 mad ! But she never was a bad lot, never^^ wild and self-willed, 
 but never a wicked woman, as I'll stake my life. I've been her 
 friend through thick and thin, when she needed a friend, and 
 I've understood her better than others. 
 
 She was only twelve years old when first she came to us with 
 her father, a noted lion-tamer. He was a man that drank hard 
 now and then, and was very severe with her at such times ; but 
 she always had a brave spirit, and I never knew her to quail 
 before him or before the beasts. She used to take her share in 
 all the old man's performances, and when he died, and the lions 
 were sold off, our proprietor kept a tiger for her to perform 
 with. He was the cleverest of all the animals, but a queer 
 temper, and it needed a spirit like Caroline Delavanti's to face 
 him. She rode in the circus as well as performing with the 
 
 256 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. 
 
 tiger, and she was altogether the most valuable member of the 
 company, and was very well paid for her work. She was eigh- 
 teen when her father died, and within a year of his death she 
 married Joseph Waylie, our scene-painter. 
 
 I was rather surprised at this marriage, for I fancied Caroline 
 might have done better. Joe was thirty-five if he was a day — 
 a pale, sandy-haired fellow, not much to looiv at, and by no means 
 a genius. But he was awfully fond of Caroline. He had fol- 
 lowed her about like a dog ever since she came among us, and 
 I thought she married him more out of pity than love. I told 
 her so one day; but she only laughed, and said: — 
 
 " He's too good for me, Mr, Waters, and that's the truth. I 
 don't deserve to be loved as he loves me." 
 
 The newly-married couple did indeed seem to be very happy 
 together. It was a treat to see Joe stand at the wing and watch 
 his wife through her performances, ready to put a shawl over 
 her pretty white shoulders when she had done, or to throw him- 
 self between her and the tiger in case of mischief She treated 
 him in a pretty, patronizing sort of way, as if he had been ever 
 so much younger than her instead of twelve years her senior. 
 She used to stand on tiptoe and kiss him before all the com- 
 pany sometimes at rehearsal, much to his delight. He worked 
 like a slave in the hope of improving his position as he improved 
 in his art, and he thought nothing too good for his beautiful 
 young wife. They had very comfortable lodgings about half a 
 mile from the manufacturing town where we were stationed for 
 the winter months, and lived as well as simple folks need live. 
 
 Our manager was proprieter of a second theatre, at a seaport 
 town fifty miles away from the place where we were stationed ; 
 and when pantomime time was coming on, poor Joseph Waylie 
 was ordered off to paint the scenery for this other theatre, 
 much to his grief, as his work was likely to keep him a month 
 or six weeks away from his wife. It was their first parting, and 
 
 257 
 
THE scene-painter's WIFE. 
 
 the husband felt it deeply. He left Caroline to the care of an 
 old woman, who took the money, and who professed a very 
 warm attachment for Mrs. Waylie, or Madame Delavanti, as she 
 was called in the bills. 
 
 Joseph had not been gone much more than a week when I 
 began to take notice of a young officer who was in front every 
 evening, and who watched Caroline's performance with evident 
 admiration. I saw him one night in very close conversation 
 with Mrs. Muggleton, the money-taker, and was not over- 
 pleased to hear Madame Delavanti's name mentioned in the 
 course of their conversation. On the next night I found him 
 loitering about at the stage-door. He was a very handsome 
 man, and I could not avoid taking notice of him. On inquiry I 
 found that his name was Jocelyn, and that he was a captain in 
 the regiment then stationed in the town. He was the only son 
 of a wealthy manufacturer, I was told, anjd had plenty of money 
 to throw about. . 
 
 I had finished my performance earlier than usual one night 
 soon after this, and was waiting for a friend at the stage-door, 
 when Captain Jocelyn came up the dark by-street, smoking his 
 cigar, and evidently waiting for some one. I fell back into the 
 shadow of the door, and waited, feeling pretty sure that he was 
 on the watch for Caroline. I was right. She came out pres- 
 ently and joined him, putting her hand under his arm, as if it 
 were quite a usual thing for him to be "her escort. I followed 
 them at a little distance as they walked off, and waited till I 
 saw Joe's wife safe within her own door. The captain detained 
 her on the doorstep talking for a few minutes, and would fain 
 have kept her there longer, but she dismissed him with that 
 pretty, imperious way she had with all of us at times. 
 
 Now, as a very old friend of Caroline's, I wasn't going to 
 stand this sort of thing ; so I taxed her with it plainly next day, 
 
 258 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. 
 
 and told her no good could come of any= acquaintance between 
 her and Captain Jocelyn. 
 
 " And no harm need come of it either, you silly old fellow," 
 she said. " I've been used to that sort o"f attention all my life. 
 There's nothing but the most innocent flirtation between us." 
 
 " What would Joe think of such an innocent flirtation, Caro- 
 line? " I asked. 
 
 " Joe must learn to put up with such things," she answered, 
 " as long as I do my duty to him. I can't live without excite- 
 ment, and admiration, and that sort of thing. Joe ought to 
 know that as well as I do." 
 
 " I should have thought the tiger and the horses would have 
 given you enough excitement, Caroline," I said, " without run- 
 ning into worse dangers than the risk of your life." 
 
 " But they don't give me half enough excitement," she an- 
 swered ; and then she took out a little watch in a jewelled case, 
 and looked at it, and then at me, in a half-boastful, half-anxious 
 way. 
 
 " Why, what a pretty watch, Carry ! " said I. " Is that a 
 present from Joe? " 
 
 " As if you didn't know better than that ! " she said. " Coun- 
 try scene-painters can't afford to buy diamond watches for their 
 wives, Mr. Waters." 
 
 I tried to lecture her, but she laughed off my reproaches ; 
 and I saw her that night with a bracelet on her arm, which I 
 knew must be another gift from the captain. He was in a 
 stage-box, and threw her a bouquet of choice flowers after her 
 scene with the tiger. It was the prettiest sight in the world to 
 see her pick up the flowers and offer them to the grim-looking 
 animal to smell, and then snatch them away with a laugh, and 
 retire, courtesying to the audience, and glancing coquetLishly 
 towards the box where her admirer sat applauding her. 
 
 Three weeks went by like this, the captain in front every 
 
 259 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTERS WIFE. 
 
 night. I kept a close watch upon the pair, for I thought that, 
 however she might carry on her flirtation, Joe's wife was true at 
 heart, and would not do him any deliberate wrong. She was 
 very young and very wilful, but I fancied my influence would 
 go a long way with her in any desperate emergency. So I kept 
 an eye upon her and her admirer, and there was rarely a night 
 that I did not see the captain's back turned upon the door 
 of Mrs. Waylie's lodgings before I went home to my own 
 supper. 
 
 Joe was not expected home for another week, and the reg- 
 iment was to leave the town in a couple of days. Caroline told 
 me this one morning with evident pleasure, and I was overjoyed 
 to find she did not really care for Captain Jocelyn. 
 
 "Not a bit, you silly old man," she said; " I like his admi- 
 ration, and I like his presents, but I know there's no one in the 
 world worth Joe. I'm very glad the regiment will be gone when 
 Joe comes back. I shall have had my bit of fun, you know, and 
 I shall tell Joe all about it; and as Captain Jocelyn will have 
 gone to the other end of the world, he can't object to the pres- 
 ents — tributes offered to my genius, as the captain says in his 
 notes." 
 
 I felt by no means sure that Joseph Waylie would consent to 
 his wife's retaining these tributes, and I told her as much. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense," she said ; " I can do what I like with Joe. 
 He'll be quite satisfied when he sees Captain Jocelyn's respect- 
 ful letters. I couldn't part with my darling little watch for the 
 world." 
 
 When I went to the theatre next night, I found the captain 
 standing talking to Caroline just inside the stage-door. He 
 seemed very earnest, and was begging her to do something 
 which she said was impossible. It was his last night in the 
 town, you see, and I have very little doubt that he was asking 
 her to run away with him — for I believe the man was over head 
 
 260 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE,, 
 
 and ears in love with her — and that she was putting him ofif 
 in her laughing, coquettish way. 
 
 " I won't take your answer now," he said very seriously. 
 " I shall wait for you at the door to-night. You can't mean to 
 break my heart, Caroline ; the answer must be yes." 
 
 She broke away from him hurriedly. " Hark," she said, 
 " there's the overture ; and in half an hour I must be upon the 
 stage." 
 
 I passed the captain in the dark passage, and a few paces 
 farther on passed some one else whose face I could not see, but 
 whose short, hurried breathing sounded like that of a person 
 who had been running. We brushed against one another as we 
 passed, but the man took no notice of me. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards I was lounging in a corner of the 
 ring while Caroline went through her performances with the 
 tiger. Captain Jocelyn was in his usual place, with a bouquet 
 in his hand. It was New- Year's night, and the house was very 
 full. I had been looking all round for some time, when I was 
 startled by the sight of a face in the pit. It was Joseph Way- 
 lie's face, ashy pale and fixed as death — a face that meant 
 mischief. 
 
 " He has heard something against his wife," I thought. " I'll 
 run round to him directly I can get out Of the ring, and make 
 matters square. Some confounded scandal-monger has got 
 hold of him, and has been poisoning his mind about Caroline 
 and the captain." I knew there had been a good deal of talk 
 in the theatre about the two — talk which I had done my best 
 to put down. 
 
 Captain Jocelyn threw his bouquet, which was received with 
 a coquettish smile, and a bright upward glance that seemed to 
 express profound delight. I knew that this was mere stage- 
 play ; but how must it have looked to the jealous man, glaring 
 with fixed eyes from his place at the back of the pit ! I turned to 
 
 261 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. 
 
 look at him as the curtain fell upon the stage, but he was gone. 
 He was going round to speak to his wife, no doubt. I left the 
 ring immediately, and went to prepare her for the interview, 
 and, if needful, to stand between her and her husband's anger. 
 
 I found her at the wing, trifling with her bouquet in an absent 
 way. 
 
 " Have you seen Joe? " I asked. 
 
 "No," she answered. "He hasn't come back, has he? I 
 didn't expect him for a week." 
 
 " I know, my dear ; but he was in front just now, looking as 
 pale as a ghost. I'm afraid some one has been talking to him 
 about you." 
 
 She looked rather frightened when I said this. 
 
 " They can't say any harm of me, if they speak the truth," 
 she said. " I wonder Joe didn't come straight to me, though, 
 instead of going to the front of the house," 
 
 We were both wanted in the ring. I helped Caroline through 
 her equestrian performance, and saw that she was a little ner- 
 vous and an.xious about Joe's return. She did not favor the 
 captain with many more smiles that evening, and she told me 
 to be ready for her at the stage-door ten minutes before the 
 performance was over. 
 
 " I want to give Captain Jocelyn the slip," she said ; " but I 
 dare say Joe will come to me before I'm ready." 
 
 Joe did not appear, however, and she went home with me. I 
 met the captain on my way back, and he asked me if I had been 
 seeing Mrs. Waylie home. I told him yes, and that her hus- 
 band had come home. Joe had not arrived at the lodgings, 
 however, when Caroline went in, and I returned to the theatre 
 to look for him. The stage-door was shut when I went back; 
 so I supposed that Joe had gone home by another way, or was 
 out drinking. I went to bed that night very uneasy in my mind 
 about Caroline and her husband. 
 
 262 
 
THE scene-painter's WIFE. 
 
 There was an early rehearsal of a new "interlude next morn- 
 ing, and Caroline came into the theatre five minutes after I got 
 there. She looked pale and ill. Her husband had not been 
 home. 
 
 " I think it must have been a mistake of yours about Joe," 
 she said to me. " I don't think it could have been him you 
 saw in the pit last night." 
 
 " I saw him as surely as I see you at this moment, my dear," 
 I answered. "There's no possibility of a mistake, Joe came 
 back last night, and Joe was in the pit while you were on with 
 the tiger." 
 
 This time she looked really frightened. She put her hand to 
 her heart suddenly, and began to tremble. 
 
 "Why didn't he come home to me? " she cried, " and where 
 did he hide himself last night?" 
 
 " I'm afraid he must have gone out upon the drink, my dear " 
 
 " Joe never drinks," she answered. 
 
 While she stood looking at me with that pale, scared face, one 
 of our young men came running towards us. 
 
 " You're wanted, Waters," he said shortly, 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Upstairs in the painting-room." 
 
 "Joe's room?" cried Caroline. "Then he has comeback. 
 I'll go with you." 
 
 She was following me as I crossed the stage, but the young 
 man tried to stop her. 
 
 " You'd better not come just yet, Mrs. Waylie," he said in a 
 hurried way, that was strange to him. " It's only Waters that's 
 wanted, on a matter of business." And then, as Caroline fol- 
 lowed close upon us, he took hold of my arm and whispered, 
 " Don't let her come." 
 
 I tried to keep her back, but it was no use. 
 
 " I know it's my husband who wants you," she said. "They've 
 
 263 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER S WIFE. 
 
 been making mischief about me. You shan't keep me away 
 from him." 
 
 We were on the narrow stairs leading to the painting-room 
 by this time. I couldn't keep Caroline off. She pushed past 
 both of us, and ran into the room before we could stop her. 
 
 " Serve her right," muttered my companion. " It's all her 
 doing." 
 
 I heard her scream as I came to the door. There was a little 
 crowd in the painting-room round a quiet figure lying on a 
 bench, and there was a ghastly pool of blood upon the floor. 
 Joseph Waylie had cut his throat. 
 
 " He must have done it last night," said the manager. 
 " There's a letter for his wife on the table yonder. Is that you, 
 Mrs. Waylie? A bad business, isn't it? Poor Joseph ! " 
 
 Caroline knelt down by the side of the bench, and stopped 
 there on her knees, as still as death, till the room was clear of 
 all but me. 
 
 " They think I deserve this, Waters," she said, lifting her 
 white face from the dead man's shoulder, where she had hidden 
 it; " but I meant no harm. Give me the letter." 
 
 " You'd better wait a bit, my dear," I said. 
 
 " No, no ; give it to me at once, please." 
 
 I gave her the letter. It was very short. The scene-painter 
 had come back to the theatre in time to hear some portion of 
 that interview between Captain Jocelyn and his wife. He ev- 
 idently had believed her much more guilty than she was. 
 
 " I think you must know how I loved you, Caroline," he 
 wrote ; " I can't face life with the knowledge that you've been 
 false to me." 
 
 Of course there was an inquest. We worked it so that the 
 jury gave a verdict of temporary insanity, and poor Joe was 
 buried decently in the cemetery outside the town. Caroline 
 sold the watch and the bracelet that Captain Jocelyn had given 
 
 264 
 
THE scene-painter's WIFE. 
 
 her, in order to pay for her husband's funeral. She was very 
 quiet, and went on with the performances as usual a week after 
 Joe's death, but I could see a great change in her. The rest of 
 the company were very hard upon her, as I thought, blaming 
 her for her husband's death, and she was under a cloud, as it 
 were ; but she looked as handsome as ever, and went through 
 all her performances in her old, daring wiy. I'm sure, though, 
 that she grieved sincerely for Joe's death, and that she had never 
 meant to do him wrong. 
 
 VVc travelled all through the next summer, and late in No- 
 vember went back to Ilomersleigh. Caroline had seemed hap- 
 pier while we were away, I thought, and when we were going 
 back, she confessed as much to me. 
 
 " I've got a kind of dread of seeing that place again," she 
 said; "I'm always dreaming of the painting-room as it looked 
 that January morning with the cold light streaming in upon that 
 dreadful figure on the bench. The room's scarcely been out of 
 my dreams one night since I've been away from Homersleigh ; 
 and now I dread going back as if — as if /le was shut up there." 
 
 The room was not a particularly convenient one, and had 
 been used for lumber after Joe's death. The man who came 
 after him didn't care to paint there by himself all day long. On 
 the first morning of our return, Caroline went up and looked in 
 at the dusty heap of disused stage furniture and broken prop- 
 erties. I met her coming away from the room. 
 
 " O Mr. Waters," she said to me with real feeling, " if he 
 had only waited to hear me speak for myself! They all think 
 I deserved what happened, and perhaps I did, as far as it was a 
 punishment for my frivolity; but Joe didn't deserve such a fate. 
 I know it was their malicious talk that did the mischief." 
 
 I fancied after this that her looks changed for the worse, and 
 that she had a kind of nervous way in going through her eques- 
 trian performances, as if there was a fever upon her. I couldn't 
 
 265 
 
THE scene-painter's WIFE. 
 
 judge so well how she went through the tiger act, as I was never 
 on the stage with her, but the brute seemed as submissive as 
 ever. On the last day of the year she asked our manager to 
 let her off for the next night. " It's the anniversary of my 
 husband's death," she said. 
 
 " I didn't know you were so precious fond of him," he an- 
 swered, with a sneer. " No, Mrs. Waylie, we can't afford to 
 dispense with your services to-morrow night. The tiger act is 
 one of our strong features with the gallery, and I expect a full 
 house for New Year's night." 
 
 She begged him very hard to let her off, but it was no use. 
 There was no rehearsal on New Year's morning, and she went 
 to the little cemetery where Joe was buried, a three miles' walk, 
 in the cold and rain. In the evening, when she came to the 
 wing her eyes were brighter than usual, and she shivered a good 
 deal more than I liked to see. 
 
 " I think I must have caught cold in tlie cemetery to-day," 
 she said to me when I noticed this. "I wish I could have kept 
 this night sacred — -this one night' — -to my husband's memory. 
 He has been in my mind so much to-day;" 
 
 She went on, and I stood at the wing watching her. The 
 audience applauded vociferously, but she did not make her ac- 
 customed courtesy; and she went about her work in a listless 
 way that was very different from her usual, spirited manner. 
 The animal seemed to know this, and when she had got about 
 half-way through her tricks with him, he began to respond to 
 her word of command in a sulky, unwilling manner, that I 
 didn't like. This made her angry, and she used her light whip 
 more freely than usual. 
 
 One of the tiger's concluding tricks was a leap through a 
 garland of flowers which Caroline held for him. She was 
 kneeling in the centre of the stage with this garland in her 
 hands, ready for the animal's spring, when her eyes wandered to 
 
 266 
 
THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. 
 
 the front of the house, and she rose suddenly with a shrill scream, 
 and her arms outstretched wildly. Whether the sulky brute 
 thought that she was going to strike him or not, I don't know ; 
 but he sprang savagely at her as she rose, and in the next mo- 
 ment she was lying on the ground helpless, and the audience 
 screaming with terror. I rushed upon the stage, with half-a- 
 dozen others, and we had the brute muzzled and roped in a few 
 breathless moments, but not before he had torn Caroline's cheek 
 and shoulder with his claws. She was insensible when we car- 
 ried her off the stage, and she was confined to her bed three 
 months after the accident with brain-fever. When she came 
 among us again, she had lost every vestige of color, and her 
 face had that set look which you must have observed just now. 
 
 " The fright of her encounter with the tiger gave her that 
 look," I said. " I don't much wonder at it." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," answered the clown. " That's the curious 
 part of the story. She didn't think anything of her skirmish 
 with the tiger, though it quite spoilt her beauty. What fright- 
 ened her was the sight of her husband sitting in the pit, as he 
 had sat there a year before, on the night of his death. Of 
 course you'll say it was a delusion, and so say I. But she de- 
 clares she saw him sitting amongst the crowd — amongst them, 
 and yet not one of them, somehow, with a sort of ghastly light 
 upon his face that marked him out from the rest. It was the 
 sight of him that made her drop her "garland and give that 
 scream and rush that frightened the tiger. You see she had 
 been brooding upon his death for a longtime, and no doubt she 
 conjured up his image out of her own brain, as it were. She's 
 never been quite the same since that fever ; but she has plenty 
 of pluck, and there's scarcely anything she can't do now with 
 Baber, the tiger, and I think she is fonder of him than of any 
 human creature, in spite of the scar on her cheek." 
 
 267 
 
MY COUSIN EMILY. 
 
My Cousin Emily. 
 
 BY J. F. WALLER, 
 Author of " Magdalena^ The Spanish I^uel.** 
 
 I. 
 
 'N the greenwood tangles 
 Of a lordly park, 
 Where bright flowers, like spangles, 
 
 Deck the verdure dark ; 
 Where, from out the branches, 
 Many a sweet bird launches. 
 Blithest inusic, filling 
 A.11 the air with trilling — 
 Finch and thrush and lark — 
 
 II. 
 There's a beech-walk shady, 
 
 Gravelled trim and neat, 
 Where a little lady 
 
 Trips with tiny feet. 
 Onward still advancing. 
 Like a fairy dancing, 
 And her blue eyes beaming 
 With a childlike gleaming 
 
 Marvellously sweet. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ivy-leaves entwining 
 
 Auburn hair enfold — 
 Just like emeralds shining 
 
 In a shrine of gold. 
 And her loose robe flowing 
 As she sways in going, 
 Like the waves of ocean. 
 With the merry motion, 
 
 To and fro 'tis rolled. 
 271 
 
MY COUSIN EMILY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 On she trips, as lightly 
 As the gleesome kid ; 
 And her eyes shine brightly 
 
 From each long-fringed lid, 
 As she stops a minute, 
 Listening to the linnet, 
 Or to watch the shining 
 Of the lizard, twining 
 In the grass half-hid. 
 
 V. 
 Till at length she reaches 
 
 Where the greenwood maze 
 Breaks from out the beeches 
 
 To the morning rays ; 
 And the autumn lustre 
 Plays upon a cluster 
 Of bright leaves and flowers, 
 Falling down in showers 
 
 From an antique vase. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There, amid the splendor 
 Of rich flowers and rare, 
 
 Stands that maiden tender — 
 Herself a flower most fair. 
 
 O'er the vase she's stooping, 
 
 With her large ej'es drooping, 
 
 Till her cheek reposes 
 
 'Mid the flushing roses 
 
 Gathering round her there. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But, 'mid all this blooming — 
 
 Rose and eglantine, 
 And the rich perfuming 
 
 Of sweet Jessamine — 
 'Mid bells of purple fuchsias — 
 'Mid honeysuckle luscious — 
 One flower still is wanting, 
 Greatest of Nature's granting ; 
 
 No passion-fiovjer is seen.. 
 
 272 
 
MY COUSIN EMILY. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah ! that little maiden 
 
 Still is fancy-free, 
 With no love yet laden — 
 
 Light and bright is she. 
 Lips that ne'er knew sobbing, 
 Heart ne'er wildly throbbing. 
 Eyes ne'er swol'n with weeping, 
 Sleepless vigils keeping — 
 
 My cousin Emily. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yet, sure as morning brightens 
 
 Into noonday hour. 
 And sure as May-bloom whitens, 
 
 And fruit succeeds the fiovf'r, 
 So sure will Love yet find thee — 
 So sure his fetters bind thee. 
 Ah 1 may'st thou then step lightly, 
 And look as fair and brightly 
 
 As now in yonder bower 1 
 
 273 
 
STARLIGHT. 
 
Starlight. 
 
 BY CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 HE chill, sad evening wind of winter blows 
 Across the headland, bleak and bare and high, 
 
 Rustling the thin, dry grass that sparsely grows, 
 And shivering whispers like a human sigh. 
 
 The sky is thick with stars that sparkle keen. 
 And great Capella in the clear northeast 
 
 Rolls slowly up the cloudless heaven serene. 
 And the stern uproar of the sea has ceased. 
 
 A fleeting moment, and the earth seems dead — 
 So still, so sad, so lonely, and so cold ! 
 
 Snow-dust beneath me, and above my head 
 
 Star-dust in blackness, like thick-sprinkled gold. 
 
 The stars of fire, the tiny stars of ice. 
 
 The awful whirling worlds ia space that wheel. 
 
 The dainty crystal's delicate device — 
 
 One hand has fashioned both — and I, who kneel 
 
 Here on this winter night, 'twixt stars and snow, 
 As transient as a snowflake and as weak, 
 
 Yearning like all my fellow-men to know 
 
 His hidden purpose that no voice may speak, — 
 
 In silent awe I watch his worlds : I see 
 Mighty Capella's signal, and I know 
 
 The steady beam of light that reaches me 
 Left the great orb full seventy years ago. 
 
 A human lifetime! Reason strives In vain 
 To grasp at time and space, and evermore 
 
 Thought, weary grown and baffled, must again 
 Retrace its slow steps to the humble door 
 
 277 
 
STARLIGHT. 
 
 Of wistful patience, there to watch and wait 
 Devoutly, till at last Death's certain hand, 
 
 Imperious, opens wide the mystic gate 
 
 Between us and the future He has planned. 
 
 Yea, Death alone. But shall Death conquer all? 
 
 Love lights and pleads in anguish of despair. 
 Sooner shall great Capella wavering fall, 
 
 Than any voice respond to his wild prayer. 
 
 And yet, what fire divine makes hope to glow 
 Through the pale ashes of our earthly fate? 
 
 Immortal hope, above all joy, below 
 All depths of pain wherein we strive and wait I 
 
 Dull is our sense ! hearing we do not hear. 
 
 And seeing, see not; yet we vaguely fetl 
 Somewhere is comfort in the darkness drear. 
 
 And, hushing doubts and fears, we learn to kneel. 
 
 Starlight and silence! Dumb are sky and sea. 
 
 Silent as death the awful spaces lie; 
 Speechless the bitter wind blows over me, 
 
 Sad as the breathing of a human sigh. 
 
 278 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS. 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF THE WALLED CITY 
 AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 BY JAMES M. BAILEY, 
 (The Danbury News Man.) 
 
 I. 
 
 LONDONDERRY — AN IRISH POLICEMAN. 
 
 ^ROM Port Rush I went to Enniskillen, by way of 
 Londonderry. I stopped at Londonderry two 
 or three hours, to see the old city wall. If I 
 am not disastrously mistaken, Londonderry is 
 the only city in the United Kingdom boasting a 
 complete wall about it. It is something to see 
 a walled city. Aside from the wall, I do not 
 know as there is anything of particular interest 
 in Londonderry. It is a port for several Ameri- 
 can steamers, and is surrounded by bold scenery. It rained all 
 the while I was there, which gave me an opportunity of seeing 
 more of the people than I could have done on a pleasant day. 
 
 I will tell you how I saw the wall. I left the station and 
 passed into a street of warehouses and dingy stores, with here 
 and there an eating saloon. I stopped at a tobacco store for 
 some cigars, and asked the proprietor for the address of the 
 wall. He told me to keep on until I -reached a broad, open 
 thoroughfare. I would find the wall there. I kept on. When 
 I got on the broad, open thoroughfare I saw opposite the blank 
 side of a wall of masonry. Two arches pierced it, showing 
 
 281 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 through each a vista of street. I knew that wasn't the wall, 
 because it disappeared at each end in among buildings, and 
 buildings towered above it on the other side. So I asked a 
 policeman who stood under one of the 'arches to show me the 
 wall, and he said that was the wall. And then the following 
 conversation occurred between us : — 
 
 " Is there any way of getting up on it?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes. Are you a stranger? " 
 
 " I am. Is anybody allowed up on the wall?" 
 
 " You are not Irish, are you ? " 
 
 "No," said I. 
 
 " English? " 
 
 " No. How do you get up on the wall? " 
 
 " Do you come from America? " 
 
 " Yes. How do you get up on the wall? " 
 
 " There is a stairway beyond. What part of America do you 
 come from ? " 
 
 " The Rocky Mountains. Is anybody allowed to go on the 
 wall?" 
 • " Of course. How long have you been over? " 
 
 " Seven years. And now will you permit me to ask you a 
 question?" I inquired, in some desperation. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "Thank you. Good day." 
 
 " Goo — good day," he stammered, in Some surprise. 
 
 And thus we parted. Will we ever meet again? How sol- 
 emn the thought. 
 
 I mounted a stairway which I found in a narrow street run- 
 ning from the arch and emptying into a public house, and was 
 on the wall. 
 
 I do not know the exact date of the building of this work, but 
 it had attained a fair age in 1688, when the famous siege oc- 
 curred. It was built by the city of London, at an expense of 
 
 282 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 ;£^ii,ooo. The wall is of varying width, and consists of two ex- 
 teriors of stone filled in with earth and cobbles. In some places 
 two or three teams could drive abreast on it. However, they 
 don't. But it is used as a promenade for the citizens. On the 
 outer side is a battlemented guard of stone for the protection of 
 troops operating on the wall. Houses and streets are built up 
 against it, and the former so hide it that it is impossible to see 
 any considerable portion of it, even when on it, at one glance. 
 
 There are guard-houses and bastions still remaining on it (the 
 latter planted with flowers), which were once occupied by des- 
 perate and starving men, sacrificing for a principle, suffering for 
 their religion. 
 
 What dreadfully bitter animosities are those which one Chris- 
 tian will entertain for another. What an awful thing it is to be 
 a politician for Christ, rather than a lover of Him. 
 
 It is well known, perhaps, to my readers that the north of 
 Ireland was the scene, some two hundred years ago, of great 
 contention between the Catholics and Prolestants. It was about 
 this time that the Duke of York, who was James II., abdicated 
 his throne, owing to the threatening aspect of his people, in fa- 
 vor of his daughter Mary, the wife of William, Prince of Orange, 
 who was of the same nationality as the Eleventh. Corps in the 
 Army of the Potomac. In 1688, William and Mary landed in 
 England, and were proclaimed King and Queen. Catholic Ire- 
 land favored James, and united with France to either restore 
 liim to the English throne, or to wrest Ireland from England 
 and annex it to France. That little affair made the Battle of 
 Boyne, the struggle at Enniskillen, and the heroic defence of 
 Londonderry. The city was built and walled for the protection 
 of the Protestants in the neighborhood. To give a history of 
 Derry would require more time and patience than I can afford 
 to devote to it. To simply give its events in chronological 
 order would fill this entire volume. 
 
 283 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 At the close of 1688, the Protestant residents in the north of 
 Ireland, favoring William and Mary, of course, became alarmed 
 at the attitude of their Catholic neighbors, who were laying in 
 pikes and cutlasses, or, to use a figure of speech, were rolling up 
 their sleeves. They who were not already in the protection of 
 the walls of Londonderry hastened there, and in 1689, in April, 
 began the seige of the city by the combined Irish and French 
 troops. It lasted 105 days, and so severe was it upon the city 
 that nine thousand of its people perished from starvation, while 
 scarcely a hundred were killed by the enemy's guns. An equal 
 number of the foe perished from disease, and the effective firing 
 of the men of Derry. It was finally broken by the arrival of 
 provisions and troop-ships sent by the government. A clergy- 
 man named Walker made himself conspicuous in this defence, 
 for bravery, eloquence and common sense. 
 
 Macaulay says : " Five generations have since passed away, 
 and still the wall of Londonderry is to the Protestants of Ulster 
 what the trophy of Marathon was to the Athenians. A lofty 
 pillar, rising from a bastion which bore for many weeks the 
 heaviest fire of the enemy, is seen far up and down the Foyle. 
 On the summit is the statue of Walker, such as when, in the last 
 and most terrible emergency, his eloquence raised the fainting 
 courage of his brethren. In one hand he grasps a Bible. The 
 other, pointing down the river, seems to direct the eyes of his 
 famished audience to the English topmasts in the distant bay. 
 Such a monument was well deserved ; yet it was scarcely needed ; 
 for in truth the whole city is to this day a monument of the 
 great deliverance. The wall is carefully preserved ; nor would 
 any plea of health or convenience be held by the inhabitants 
 sufficient to justify the demolition of that sacred enclosure 
 which, in the evil time, gave shelter to their race and their 
 religion." 
 
 Londonderry is near the head of a magnificent arm of the sea, 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 called Lough Foyle. Why the Scotch and Irish do not say 
 "Lake " rather than " Loch " and " Lough," is one of the mys- 
 teries that no man seems able to find out. Its houses rise, one 
 above the other to the summit, which is crowned by the cathe- 
 dral, A splendid Protestant college and model school adorns 
 Londonderry. It is called the Magee College, in honor of the 
 endower, Mrs. Magee, of Dublin. 
 
 II. 
 
 ENNISKILLEN — HOW THE IRISH PLAY BILLIARDS. 
 
 ATE in the afternoon I took th'e train for Enniskillen. 
 However much may be said in praise of the green 
 fields, beautiful lakes, and magnificent mountain 
 scenery of Ireland, precious little can be written in 
 compliment of the railway management. I remember waiting 
 once two whole hours to give a team time to return several 
 miles after an inspector whom the driver had neglected to bring 
 with him. One hundred people lost that two hours to accom- 
 modate one man too careless to attend to his own business. 
 When the inspector had arrived, and was Seeing to some parcels,, 
 I managed to stumble on a box and fall against him with suffi- 
 cient force to knock him over a trunk. Several bystanders 
 remarked upon the singularity of the accident. It was singular. 
 The trains run in five hours about as far as corresponding 
 English trains do in three hours. 
 
 The ride to Enniskillen, sixty miles, was devoid of interest. 
 I reached Enniskillen shortly after dark, and took the 'bus to 
 the hotel. It was not an imposing building. An Irish writet 
 says the hotels of his country have improved seriously in the 
 past ten years. Before that time, he goes on to remark, there 
 were not two good hotels in the. whole country. And so they 
 
 28s 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 have improved in the last decade? I hope I feel sufficiently 
 grateful for not having had to submit to the hospitality of an 
 Irish hostelry previous to that time. 
 
 The Enniskillen hotel sat a good table, that is, the food was 
 cooked well, as the extent of the table depends almost entirely 
 on the taste and pocket of the guest. Its hallway was a narrow 
 passage with a small opening in the right wall for a bar and 
 office, a door opposite leading into a cramped and not particu- 
 larly neat kitchen, througJi tvhich the billiard room was ap- 
 proached, a stairway beyond the kitchen door, and a little 
 smoking-room at the end of the passage. The bedrooms were 
 in good condition and clean. 
 
 After supper I went into the billiard room. The evening was 
 wet and chilly, and a fire was smouldering in the kitchen fire- 
 place, before which sat two old women smoking pipes. Oppo- 
 site the door I entered was a narrow, buttoned door which 
 opened into the billiard room. This saloon was about fifteen 
 by twenty feet, with a rather agitated floor, a low ceiling fres- 
 coed under the immediate auspices of a swarm of flies, and bare 
 and dingy walls. 
 
 The billiard table was manned by two strapping young fellows, 
 and the stable-boy was marking for them. He had just the 
 position to please a boy — plenty to see and little to do. 
 
 The Irish play billiards with a vim that would be useful at a 
 ruction. They are an impetuous people at any time, and do not 
 seem to possess the faculty of restraint on needful occasion. 
 These two fellows, and fine looking fellows they were, smashed 
 the balls about with a velocity that was astonishing, and then 
 swore every three minutes at their luck. I watched them for an 
 hour, but seeing no abatement to their speed, I returned to the 
 smoking room. 
 
 Enniskillen is on Lough Erne, the Killarney of Northern Ire- 
 land. The lake is about twenty miles in length and of varying 
 
 286 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 width. At the widest part it is, I should judge, full six miles. 
 It has a steamer, but it was not running when I was there, owing 
 to a lack of patronage, although I offered to take j^assage if the 
 owner would fire up. Half-way down the lake is a fine hotel, 
 but its shutters were up, owing to a lack of patronage. I don't 
 know when Lough Erne will pay in a commercial view, but it 
 must first become popular before tourists will visit it. My little 
 experience has taught me that people do not come to Europe 
 to see the novel and beautiful, but the fashionable. 
 
 Thousands go to Killarney who never hear of Lough Erne, 
 and yet, while Killarney is majestic, this is most beautiful. 
 
 Picture to yourself a lake of its size with three hundred and 
 sixty-five islands dotting its surface, and nearly every one of 
 them covered with foliage to the watesis edge. Its shores are 
 not high and rugged, and it lacks towering mountains to give it 
 ^majesty, but it winds and twists about with romantic irregularity, 
 and again widens out into a broad expanse as smooth as a mir- 
 ror, while the distant isle appears like a castellated city of the 
 olden time. 
 
 It is only by a row-boat that the trip is now made, and I took 
 it in company with a gentleman from Pennsylvania, who was 
 visiting Enniskillen at the time. 
 
 The propeller of the boat was a short and square-built man 
 with a stout, peculiar white face, which denoted the presence of 
 the strength of his people — consumption. No people live out- 
 doors so much as the Irish, and no people suffer so much from 
 this dreadful disease. And yet fresh air is its enemy. I doubt- 
 ed as I looked at him, that he would pull us through, but the 
 doubt gave way to wonder before the trip was over, We pulled 
 around the village — Enniskillen is on an island — and then 
 through a tongue of water to the open lake. As we came out 
 we passed, on the point of land to our right, a modern mansion 
 with fine grounds, and, on that to the left, the broken walls of a 
 
 287 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 eastle. It is called Portova Castle, from the fact that it stands at 
 the point where those taking dead friends to Devenish island 
 embarked inlJoatS' — Portova signifying "port of tears." We 
 passed close to the castle, but there was no particular interest 
 about it. Nothing but the four walls with massive turrets at 
 at each angle now remain. Of all the gay and scheming, and 
 good and bad, and hopeful and despairing, who have occupied 
 it, none can boast as much balance as tJie old building, which 
 could see nothing and hears nothing, can show. 
 
 III. 
 
 SPECULATIONS ON RUINS A PAIR OF PENNSYLVANIA BOOTS. 
 
 |HEN you have got to this stage in your journey 
 through Europe, you will have come to look upon 
 ruins with about the same intensity of interest that 
 you would contemplate pine-trees after a month's 
 sojourn in Maine. 
 
 But it interesting to speculate on the origin of ruins. What 
 puzzled me, when I heard of ruins afar off, was to understand 
 how they became so — in what year, and what day, at what 
 hour of the day, did they throw off the respectable yoke of use- 
 fulness, and sink into architectural loaferism? For two hundred 
 years this castle has been a loafer — a corner-loafer at that. 
 And why? Well, in the first place, it was built when protection 
 against foes was as essential as protection against weather. It 
 was not ornamented, it had no bay-windows, it was French- 
 roofless. When civilzation so far advanced that every man was 
 made safe in his possessions, and law usurped violence, the oc- 
 cupation of the building, its specialty, was done away with. It 
 became a loafer, In some instances, as in that of Warwick 
 Castle particularly, they were moderniaed and improved upon 
 
 288 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 and arc to-day in business and doing well. But in most cases 
 they were deserted for more comfortable dwellings, and being 
 too strongly built to be taken apart with economy, their walls 
 were left. As for the wood-work, it was wrenched out for fuel ; 
 and as for the window-glass, where one could boast such a lux- 
 ury, it was undoubtedly stoned out by the neighboring boys on 
 Saturday afternoons. As to why the wood-work was not care- 
 fully removed and used in parts of the new structure, I would 
 mention that it was mostly of oak, and most respectfully refer 
 you for full information to some carpenter who has taken down 
 an old oaken building, and undertaken to re-use the material. 
 Anybody who has attempted to drive a cast-iron nail into a 
 venerable oak board will be pleased to give you any information 
 you may desire — if he is alive. 
 
 Sometimes the occupants were forced to skedaddle from the 
 country, leaving the house tenantless, and the carpets of the 
 victor not fitting the rooms of the deserted place, his wife would 
 not consent to moving in ; so the place was left to the tender 
 mercies of poor and predatory neighbors. 
 
 It is easy enough to account for things when you sit right 
 down and give your whole attention to them as I do. 
 
 As we moved up the lake, it grew wider, and in a few minutes 
 we got breeze enough to warrant the boatman putting up the 
 sail. 
 
 It was a nice breeze, and under its impulse we glided com- 
 fortably along. I took charge of the helm, and the Pennsyl- 
 vanian wrapt himself up in his own reflections, which is a habit 
 with Pennsylvanians, he told me. 
 
 Our main objective point was Devenish island, i place of 
 ruins. Just before we reached it the boatman pointed to a 
 clump of rushes growing up through the water near Devenish, 
 and said that it was an^island, although now submerged, and 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 that once on a time a friar, being sore pressed by a horseman, 
 jumped from Devenish to it, and saved himself. 
 
 This statement aroused the Pennsylvanian at once. He 
 stood up in the boat and looked at the two points. 
 
 " Why," said he, " that is a distance of nearly one hundred 
 feet; and do you mean to say, my man, that anybody ever 
 jumped that? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the boatman, quietly. 
 
 " Did — did it strain him? " asked my companion, anxiously. 
 
 " I don't know, sir," answered the man ; " but he did it, sir, 
 an' I've offen heard it told." 
 
 " Well, I don't believe any man could jump that distance," 
 stoutly asserted my friend — "unless," he shortly added, as a 
 new light seemed to strike him, "unless he — he spit on his 
 hands." 
 
 We ran the boat upon the beach, and landed. Devenish is 
 an island of some twenty-five acres. It has not a tree or bush 
 upon it, but it is covered with rank grass, a fact that is beautified 
 by distance, two hours after a rain. 
 
 Devenish is the most important bit of land, viewed in con- 
 nection with ruins, to be found in Ireland. 
 
 Its ruins consist of remains of a monastery, said to have been 
 founded by St. Molaisse, thirteen hundred years ago ; a round 
 tower ; a Great Church ; a priory, and remains of earthen 
 forts. 
 
 The item which made the greatest impression upon the 
 Pennsylvanian was the height and liquidity of the grass. He 
 had on a' pair of Philadelphia fine boots, and by the time he 
 reached the top of the ridge, every pore of those boots was 
 drawing water ; and, despite my expostulations, he swore he 
 would return to the boat, and return he did. He said that he 
 didn't care to die in a strange land, of inflammatory 
 rheumatism. 
 
 290 
 
THE WAT. LED CITY AND ENf^ISKILLEN. 
 
 But I pressed on, although I could feel the water souse In my 
 boots at every step. 
 
 Of the ruins, I came first upon a church-tower, with its sus- 
 taining arch. This is the church. I picked my way over the 
 fallen stones to beneath the arch, and found in one wing of it a 
 stairway of stone, but was unable to ascend. A portion of a 
 wall was standing, but there was nothing more left of the 
 church. St. iVIolaisse's house is even l.ess satisfactory to the 
 tourist. But a small fragment of one of its walls remains. Not 
 long ago it was in a complete state, and was then a low, stone- 
 roofed, oblong building, with a door at one end. Having been 
 built thirteen hundred years ago, it hardly seems possible that it 
 could have been in good condition within the present century; 
 but a glance at this fragment of wall, enormous in thiclaiess, 
 weakens skepticism. Some one must have demolished it, but 
 who he could have been no one knows. He is safe, so far as I 
 am concerned. A man who can tear down a building like that 
 was will never be hunted by any of our family. 
 
 Near by his house, in a mound of earth, is the broken stone 
 cofhn of St. Molaisse, but of S. M. himself there is not a pinch. 
 He is as if he never was. The lid to his coffin now forms a 
 monument to some individual who is trying to snatch a few 
 winks of sleep beneath his stolen property. He lies in the 
 graveyard of the church, for the burial-place is still here, and is 
 still in use. These British people can make a graveyard go 
 further than we can. Cemeteries four and five hundred years 
 old are common enough here. But in America, as soon as a 
 graveyard gets a little old, we dig it up, and put down a new 
 street in its place. Ten years after, some one comes along and 
 wants his wife's uncle who had been laid there. No one knows 
 what has become of the old gentleman, but every one tries to 
 pacify the grief-stricken nephew. But he won't be consoled. 
 
 291 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 He dances around, and demands his uncle, and finally drags the 
 town into a lawsuit. 
 
 The British are more reverential than we, and reap the benefit 
 thereof. 
 
 The place is still used as a burial-ground, — this wild, lone- 
 some spot, which nobody can reach without a boat, which has 
 no fence about it to keep the cattle who pasture here from 
 trampling over and befouling the graves.. Saints and monks and 
 holy men of all degrees have slept here, and as we are all our 
 life trying to get into good company, it is but natural that the 
 weakness should follow us to the grave. 
 
 As you can imagine, many of these graves are but simple 
 clumps of earth, with no form to designate their nature. They 
 arc thick together, and I dare say they are frequently in layers, 
 one above the other, and most of them are marked by a simple 
 rough stone from the fields, without any mark upon them. 
 
 The round tower interested me more than any other object 
 on the island. Round towers are peculiar to Ireland alone. I 
 don't know how many there are of them here, but they are com- 
 mon. They are the best preserved of any stone-work left by the 
 ancients. The gate posts in Ulster are sort of copies of the 
 round towers. A round tower is from sixty to a hundred feet 
 high, with a sharp conical roof, also of stone. You take a post 
 and point one end of it, and you have the exact pattern of a 
 round tower. It is built of dressed stone, laid so neatly together 
 as to be symmetrical, and need no mortar. This one has an 
 ornamented cornice around its eaves. But few do. It has a 
 small opening for a door some eight or nine feet from the ground, 
 and several openings above, which wer^ probably used for win- 
 dows. This tower, from the ground to the roof, is sixty-seven 
 feet high, and the roof is sixteen feet in height. There were 
 probably six floors to this tower, but how each was reached I 
 am not able to explain, as the internal diameter of the tower is 
 
 292 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 only eight feet at the base, and but six and a half at the cornice. 
 Its base has a circumference of forty-nine feet, and its top forty- 
 two feet. The wall, which is four feet one inch at the bottom, 
 tapers down to about eight inche.s at the top. These figures 
 will give some idea of its size and enormous strength. It would 
 be much more interesting if anybody, I am not particular who, 
 knew when this and the other towers were built, and what they 
 were built for. There is, of course, a vast amount of specula- 
 tion in regard to their origin and use. One opinion is that 
 they were built by worshippers of the sun ; another that they 
 were watch-towers (but the people of those times never put 
 watch-towers at the base of ridges unless they possessed a kind 
 of idiocy superior to anything this age knows of) ; still another, 
 that they were constructed as bcll-towcrs. That they were for 
 protection is evident by the doors being so far from the ground 
 and there being no remnant of steps or stoops. A man who 
 had his door from ten to fifteen feet from the ground would 
 hardly be careless or indifferent in the building of a stoop. 
 There is as much divergence of opinion as to their age as to 
 their purpose. A claim has been put in to the effect that they 
 were built before the beginning of the Christian era, but I give no 
 encouragement to those people, I think they ought to be ar- 
 rested. I have tried to crowd in a theory that they are ancient 
 wells thrown up to the surface by some volcanic movement, and 
 roofed in the sharp conical form by an affrighted people, with a 
 view to turning them over and driving them into the earth again. 
 This is the most sensible idea on the subject that I have yet 
 heard. All that I need to make a sure thing of it is, to find 
 somebody who will explain, why they didn't do it. As that is 
 the easiest end of the argument, there ought to be no trouble in 
 finding him. 
 
 The owner of this land is a proud man. A round tower, 
 church, priory, stone coffin, oratory, graveyard, and pasturage 
 
 293 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 for forty cows, in one lump. A boy with red tops to his boots 
 is in the slough of despond alongside of this chap. 
 
 When I got back to the boat I found the crew smoking a pipe, 
 and the Pennsylvanian on the beach trying to get on a pair of 
 •tight boots over a pair of wet stockings. He had got one boot 
 on, and had nearly conquered the other, but he had ruined that 
 beach. In getting on the boots he had gone over a strip of 
 ground about eighty feet in length and thirty feet in width, and 
 had torn up the earth over every inch of it. When I came up 
 he was as red in the face as a beet, and was yelling and stamp- 
 ing his foot in a perfect ecstacy of rage. 
 
 However, we soon fixed it, and put off for a continuation of 
 the trip. The wind still held fair, and I took the helm, while 
 the Pennsylvanian took a seat in the bow, and became im- 
 mediately wrapt up in reflection. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A FAMOUS ISLAND. 
 
 |E passed several islands of no moment, and went by 
 three or four farm-houses. The scenery was quiet 
 and impressive. No life was seen on shore, and no 
 sound came to us but the ripplijig of the water against 
 the boat. There was a heavy bank of black clouds coming up 
 above the horizon, but one could look upon it calmly, as this 
 was an inland sheet of water, well protected by high ground. 
 
 We passed a high ridge and came out into an open and ex- 
 posed part. Half-way across this the wind struck us with some 
 considerable force, and the rain came down in torrents. The 
 sail filled so rapidly as to cause the boat to careen half-way over. 
 It seemed as if a gale was tearing over the lake. The vessel 
 rode on its edge, and I expected every moment we would upset 
 
 294 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN. 
 
 and wet ourselves. I still hung to the helm and an umbrella, 
 and kept to the upper side of the sloop. The crew hung to the 
 sail with all his might, and the Pennsylvanian buried a face 
 which had assumed the color of unbolted flour beneath the 
 friendly cover of his umbrella. 
 
 All the while the storm increased in violence, and the boat 
 was now riding in such a position that it was only by lapping 
 my elbow over the taffrail that I kept myself from being spilled 
 out. The crew wanted me to keep out at sea, but I concluded 
 if I was to be wrecked, I would prefer being wrecked on land, 
 and, which was of more importance, the umbrella was borrowed, 
 and I did not want to lose it. So I run the barque for the first 
 land, and wc came upon the shore with a precision that was 
 gratifying to me as a pilot, but with a force that very nearly 
 dislocated the spine of the crew. 
 
 We got out of the boat as soon as possible, but it was not a 
 hospitable shore. There were no trees but a small thorn grow- 
 ing out of the bank, and no shelter of any kind from the keen 
 wind and driving rain. There we stood for three-quarters of an 
 hour, keeping the tops of our heads perfectly dry with the um- 
 brellas. If anybody could have observed us, he would have 
 undoubtedly wondered where all the water came from which 
 was running down our legs. 
 
 It was a pleasure party, and we were tourists, who had noth- 
 ing to do but to travel around and enjoy ourselves, and live at 
 hotels. 
 
 Several times I spoke to the Pennsylvanian about it, but he 
 didn't seem to enter into the spirit of the remark. 
 
 He said if he could only get safely back to the Cumberland 
 Mountains, he would never leave them for such an outlandish 
 and cussed country as this. 
 
 I like to see a man show spirit. 
 
 The rain stopped, and we once more tried the boat. But we 
 
 295 
 
SIGHTS AND HUMORS OF 
 
 • 
 
 didn't put up the sail. The Pennsylvanian said he would pull 
 his arms out of their sockets first. 
 
 Our next point of interest was the island of Innismacsaint. 
 There is a church ruin upon it; but it was a peculiar cross that 
 I wanted to see. We reached there in about an hour. The 
 cross was hardly worth the coming to sec. It was rude in ex- 
 ecution, and peculiar in construction, being of one piece, as if 
 cut out of a rough slab. The boatman viewed the stone with 
 considerable reverence. 
 
 " Is there anything remarkable about that?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Every Easter morn, at the crowing of the cock, 
 the cross jumps out oov the airth, and turns aroond thrice ! " 
 
 " Will you be good enough to repeat that remarkable state- 
 ment?" asked the Pennsylvanian, with breathless interest. 
 
 The crew complied. 
 
 " Did you ever see it perform that little exercise? " 
 
 The crew said he had not. 
 
 " Or anybody who has seen it? " 
 
 The crew shook his head. 
 
 " I wouldn't stand so close to it if I were you," said the Penn- 
 sylvanian, kindly; " it may jump out of the ground and kick 
 you into the lake." 
 
 " Oh, it don't come out only at Easter," said the man, inno- 
 cently. 
 
 "You can't always tell," said Penn. "'This is just like Eas- 
 ter weather, and the cross may have mislaid its almanac." 
 
 The crew shook his head. The gentleman's excessive faith 
 rather staggered him. 
 
 We got back to Enniskillen at dark, well tired, thoroughly 
 wet, and two-thirds starved. 
 
 The next day was butter-market, and scores of country peo- 
 ple were in town. Their counterparts can be seen in Castle 
 Garden on the arrival of an emigrant ship. There was a large 
 
 296 
 
THE WALLED CITY AND ENNISKILLEN, 
 
 number of Connaught men, the pure Irish, so pure as not to 
 have mastered the Enghsh language, who brought interpreters 
 with them to enable them to make bargains with the village 
 people. They wore corduroy pants, and long frieze coats, and 
 decayed stovepipe hats. They are dying out, are the old Irish, 
 and a new people are crowding them out. And the day will 
 come when the pure Irish will have passed into history and 
 legend. 
 
 Go up and down the principal streets of Belfast, Dublin, Cork, 
 or any other Irish city, and four-fifths of the names on the 
 places of business are not familiar as Irish names to us Ameri- 
 cans. 
 
 And why not? Ireland is a fine country, has excellent sea- 
 ports, good soil, and is most healthfully located. The Irish 
 themselves are deserting it, and enterprising men of other coun- 
 tries are pushing in there. The result is as certain as the kick 
 of a mule. 
 
 297 
 
THE END OF A MONTH. 
 
THE END OF A MONTH. 
 
 BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 HE night last night was strange and shaken ; 
 More strange the change of you and me. 
 Once more, the old lov-e's love forsaken, 
 We went out once more toward the sea. 
 
 For the old love's love-sake dead and buried, 
 One last time, one more and no more, 
 
 We watched the waves -set in, the serried 
 Spears of the tide storming the shore. 
 
 Hardly we saw the high moon hanging, 
 Heard hardly through the windy night 
 
 Far waters ringing, low reefs clanging, 
 Under wan skies and waste'White light. 
 
 With chafe and change of surges chiming. 
 The clashing channels rocked and rang 
 
 Large music, wave to wild wave timing, 
 And all the choral water sang. 
 
 Faint lights fell this way, that-way floated. 
 Quick sparks of sea-fire keen like eyes 
 
 From the rolled surf that flashed and noted 
 Shores and faint cliffs and bays and skies. 
 
 The ghost of sea that shrank up sighing 
 At the sand's edge, a short sad breath 
 
 Trembling to touch the goal, and dying 
 With weak heart heaved up once in death - 
 301 
 
THE END OF A MONTH. 
 
 The rustling sand and shingle shaken 
 
 With light sweet touches and small sound — 
 
 These could not move us, could not waken 
 Hearts to look forth, eyes to look:round. 
 
 Silent we went an hour together, 
 
 Under gray skies by waters white; 
 Our hearts were full of windy weather, 
 
 Clouds and blown stars and broken light. 
 
 Full of cold clouds and moonbeams drifted 
 And streaming storms and straying fires, 
 
 Our souls in us were stirred and shifted 
 By doubts and dreams and foiled desires. 
 
 Across, aslant, a scudding sea-mew 
 
 Swam, dipped and dropped, and grazed the sea ; 
 And one with me I could not dream-you ; 
 
 And one with you I could not be. 
 
 As the white wing the white wave's fringes 
 Touched and slid over and tlashed past — 
 
 As a pale cloud a pale flame tinges 
 
 From the moon's lowest light and last — 
 
 As a star feels the sun and falters. 
 Touched to death by diviner eyes- — 
 
 As on the old gods' untended altars 
 The old fire of witliered worship dies — 
 
 (Once only, once the shine relighted 
 
 Sees the last fiery shadow shine. 
 Last shadow of flame and faith benighted. 
 
 Sees falter and flutter and fail the shrine). 
 
 So once with fiery breath and flying 
 
 Your winged heart touched mine and went, 
 
 And the swift spirits kissed, and sighing. 
 Sundered and smiled and were content. 
 
 That only touch, that feeling only, 
 Enough we found, we found too much ; 
 
 For the unlit shrine is hardly lonely 
 As one the old fire forgets to touch. 
 
 302 
 
THE END OF A MONTH. 
 
 Slight as the sea's sight of the sea-mew, 
 Slight as the sun's sight of the star : 
 
 Enough to show one must not deem you 
 For love's sake Other than you are. 
 
 Who snares and tames with fear and danger 
 
 A bright beast of a fiery kin, 
 Only to mar, only to change her 
 
 Sleek supple soul and splendid sliin ? 
 
 Easy with blows to mar and maim her, 
 Easy with bonds to bind and bruise ; 
 
 What profit, if she yield her tamer 
 The limbs to mar, the soul to lose ? 
 
 Best leave or take the perfect creature, 
 Take all she is or leave complete ; 
 
 Transmute you will not form or feature, 
 Change feet for wings or wings for feet. 
 
 Strange eyes, new limbs, can no man give her ; 
 
 Sweet is the sweet thing as it is. 
 No soul she hath, we see, to outlive her ; 
 
 Hath she for that no lips to kiss ? 
 
 So may one read his weird, and reason. 
 And with vain drugs assuage no pain ; 
 
 For each man in his loving season 
 Fools and is fooled of these in vain. 
 
 Charms that allay not any longing, 
 
 Spells that appease not any grief, 
 Time brings us all by handfuls, wronging 
 
 All hurts with nothing of relief. 
 
 Ah, too soon shot, the fool's bolt misses ! 
 
 What help ? the world is full of loves ; 
 Night after night of running kisses, 
 
 Chirp after chirp of changing doves 
 
 Should Love disown or disesteem you 
 For loving one man more or less ? 
 
 You could not tame your light white sea-mew, 
 Nor I my sleek black pantheress. 
 
 303 
 
THE END OF A MONTH. 
 
 For a new soul let whoso please pray. 
 We are what life made us, and shall be. 
 
 For you the jungle and me the sea-spray, 
 And south for you and north for me. 
 
 But this one broken foam-white feather 
 
 I throw you off the hither wing, 
 Splashed stiff with sea-scurf and salt weather, 
 
 This song for sleep to learn and sing — 
 
 Sing in your ear when, daytime over. 
 
 You, couched at long length on hot sand 
 
 With some sleek sun-discolored lover. 
 Wince from his breath as from a brand : 
 
 Till dreams of sharp graj' north-sea weather 
 
 Fall faint upon your fiery sleep; 
 As on strange sands a strayed bird's feather 
 
 The wind may choose to lose or keep. 
 
 But I, who leave my queen of panthers, 
 
 As a tired honey-heavy bee 
 Gilt with sweet dust from gold-grained anthers 
 
 Leaves the rose-chalice, what for me ? 
 
 From the ardors of the chaliced centre. 
 From the amorous anther's golden grime. 
 
 That scorch and smutch all wings that enter, 
 I fly forth hot from honey-time. 
 
 But as to a bee's gilt thighs and winglets 
 The flower-dust and the flower-smell clings ; 
 
 As a snake's mobile rampant ringlets 
 
 Leave the sand marked with pririt of rings ; 
 
 So to my soul in surer fashion 
 Your savage stamp and savor hangs ; 
 
 The print and perfume of old passion, 
 The wild-beast mark of panther's fangs. 
 
 304 
 
A COMMON STORY. 
 
A Common Story. 
 
 BY MISS MULOCH. 
 
 " She loves with love that cannot tire; 
 
 And if, ah woe ! she loves alone, 
 Through passionate duty love flames higher, 
 
 As grass groves taller round a stone." 
 
 — Coventry Patmore. 
 
 O, the truth's out. I'll grasp "it like a snake — 
 It will not slay me. My heart shall not break 
 Awhile, if only for the children's sake. 
 
 For his too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed ; 
 None say, he gave me less than honor claimed, 
 Except — one trifle scarcely worth being named — 
 
 The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be 
 As easily raised up, breathing — fair to see. 
 As he could bring his whole heart back to me. 
 
 I never sought him in coquettish sports, 
 
 Or courted him as silly maidens court. 
 
 And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. 
 
 I only loved him — any woman would; 
 But shut my love up till he came and; sued, 
 Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. 
 
 I was so happy I could make him blest! 
 
 So happ3' that I was his first and best, 
 
 As he mine — when he took me to his breast. 
 
 Ah me ! if only then he had been true ! 
 
 If for one little year, a month or two. 
 
 He had given me love for love, as was my due ! 
 
 For he had told me, ere the deed was done, 
 He only raised me to his heart's dear' throne — - 
 Poor substitute! — because the queen was gone I 
 
 307 
 
A COMMON STORY. 
 
 Oh, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss 
 Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss, 
 He had kissed another woman like to this, — 
 
 It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep 
 To be so cheated, like a child asleep^ 
 Were not the anguish far too dry and deep. 
 
 So I built my house upon another's ground ; 
 Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound — ■ 
 A cankering thing that looked so tirm and sound. 
 
 And when that heart grew colder — calder still, 
 I, ignorant, tried all duties to-fulfil. 
 Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, 
 
 All — anything but him. It was to be : 
 The full draught others drink up carelessly 
 Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. 
 
 I say again — he gives me all I claimed, 
 I and my children never shall be shamed : 
 He is a just man — he will live unblamed. 
 
 Only — O God, O God 1 to cry for brpad, 
 And get a stone ! Daily to lay my head 
 Upon a bosom where the old love's dead 1 
 
 Dead ? — Fool I It never lived ! It oiily stirred 
 Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. Kone heard : 
 So let me bury it without a word. 
 
 He'll keep that other woman from my sight. 
 I know not if her face be foul or bright ; 
 I only know that it was his delight — ; 
 
 As his was mine : I only know he stands 
 Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands. 
 Then to a flickering smile his lips commands, 
 
 Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. 
 
 He need not. When the ship's gone down, I trow. 
 
 We little reck whatever wind may blow. 
 
 308 
 
A COMMON STORY. 
 
 And so my silent moan begins and ends, 
 
 No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pitj of friends. 
 
 Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. 
 
 None knows — none heeds. I have a little pride; 
 Enough to stand up, wife-like, by his side. 
 With the same smile as when I was a bride. 
 
 And I shall take his children to my arms ; 
 
 They will not miss these fading, worthless charms ; 
 
 Their kiss — ah ! unlike his — all pain disarms. 
 
 And haply, as the solemn years go by. 
 
 He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh, 
 
 The other woman was less true than I. 
 
 309 
 
ONE-HORSE COLLEGES. 
 
One-Horse Colleges. 
 
 BY JAMES PARTON*. 
 
 NOTHER college is announced. What a 
 mania there is among rich men to found 
 colleges ! Wc have too many colleges al- 
 ready. In the. single State of New York 
 there are between thirty and forty institutions 
 that call themselves colleges. In Ohio there are thirty or 
 more, and the other States are plentifully provided. But in 
 all the length and breadth of this land there is not one in- 
 stitution of learning which is thoroughl}' furnished for the 
 work that fairly devolves upon a college in these times. 
 This is so manifest that it has been seriously proposed to 
 form a national society for the suppression of weak colleges, 
 and adding the little strength they possess to institutions of 
 some standing and efficiency. 
 
 In New England, for example, there are at least thirty col- 
 leges, among which there are three or four that are much su- 
 perior to the rest in wealth, antiquity and reputation. What a 
 prodigious gain it would be if the entire college force of the 
 New England States could be concentrated upon the three or 
 four strongest colleges ! At once we could have true univer- 
 sities, equipped for the increase of knowledge, as well as for 
 its diffusion. 
 
 At present our colleges do not and cannot do much for 
 the advancement of knowledge, because nearly the whole 
 strength of the professors is exhausted in mere teaching. In 
 
 313 
 
ONE-HORSE COLLEGES. 
 
 a properly organized university the c-hief professor of each 
 department would not have more than one hour's public duty 
 to perform each day. His main strength would be spent in 
 original investigation and experiment. One university in 
 each of the States were far better than the hundreds of weak 
 and struggling institutions that now pass round the hat. 
 
 We have not only too many colleges, but too many stu- 
 dents in them. There arc only two classes of young men 
 that ouglit to go to college. One is the sons of men who are 
 rich enough to maintain them in college, and for five years 
 after graduation, while they are preparing for a learned pro- 
 fession. The other is young men of uncommonly gifted 
 minds that passionately love knowledge, and cannot be con- 
 tent without pursuing it. For my part, I wish all the col- 
 leges would double or treble their rates of tuition, so as to 
 keep out that great multitude of young men who have no 
 right to be exempt from the ordinary labors of life. There is 
 many a stout young fellow now being spoiled in college who 
 ought to be at home helping "the old man" on the farm, or 
 giving a lift to a laborious doctor or clergyman who is pinch- 
 ing all the family to provide his son with a college diploma. 
 
 It is a great delight and privilege to spend four years in 
 acquiring knowledge. A villa at Newport is also a nice thing 
 to have, and so is a two-hundred ton yuclit. It may be a 
 great pity that we cannot all have these pleasant things, but 
 we cannot, and there is an end of it. Nearly every youth on 
 earth, by the time he is eighteen years of age, ought to enter 
 the college of life, and begin to acquire the art or business by 
 which he means to live. 
 
 A youth that really and truly loves knowledge will get it, 
 college or no college. I left school at eighteen or nineteen, 
 just prepared to enter college, and began work at once, in a 
 peculiarly absorbing and laborious vocation. By getting up 
 
 7>H 
 
ONE-HORSE COLLEGES. 
 
 very early in the morning I managed to study about an hour 
 and a half a day, and on Sundays three hours. I kept up 
 the practice for seven years, until I had read twice as much 
 Latin and Greek, and near]}' as much Mathematics, as I should 
 have read in college. 
 
 You w^ant knowledge, my boy? Get it. There it lies, 
 ready for you. Don't sponge upon the old folks at home. 
 One hour a day spent in judicious study, and kept up for fifty 
 years, will put an intelligent person in possession of the sub- 
 stance of all the knowledge that exists. 
 
 Let us have no more "one-horse" colleges. If any rich 
 man wants to do something useful in the college way, let him 
 buy out a feeble college, settle pensions upon the aged pro- 
 fessors, pull down the buildings, sell off the land, and thus 
 peacefully extinguish the institution. 
 
 What we want in this country, above all things, is better 
 and smaller primary schools, where the ceaseless tide of foreign 
 ignorance .that sets toward us, as well as the ignorance per- 
 petuated at home, may be penetrated and enlightened. In 
 this city of New York more than half of the children leave 
 school forever before they are fourteen. The primary school 
 is their only chance. The primary school is our only chance. 
 And yet we are putting out the strength of the system in 
 maintaining high schools and colleges. 
 
 We want colleges and universities, few in number, rich in 
 the learning of their professors and in the character of their 
 students. But as to the rudiments of knowledge, they should 
 be as common, as free, and as inviting as air and water. A 
 university can hardly be too large ; a primary school can 
 hardly be too small. 
 
 315 
 
THE PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
The Philosophers. 
 
 FROM 5CHILL£R. 
 
 BY GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 
 HE principle whence everything 
 
 To life and shape ascended — 
 Tlie pulley whereon Zeus the ring 
 Of Earth, which else in sherds would spring, 
 
 Has carefully suspended — 
 To genius I yield hitn a claim 
 Who fathoms for me what its name, 
 
 Save I withdraw its curtairf : 
 
 It is — ten is not thirteen. 
 
 That snow makes cold, that fire burns. 
 That man on two feet goeth,e 
 
 That in the heavens the sun sojourns — 
 
 This much the man who logic spurns 
 Through his own senses knoweth ; 
 
 But metaphysics who has got 
 
 Knows that which scorches, freezes not ; 
 Knows 'tis the moist that wetteth, 
 And 'tis the rough that fretteth. 
 
 Great Homer sings his epic high; 
 
 The hero fronts his dangers ; 
 The brave his duty still doth ply — 
 And did it while, I won't deny, 
 
 Philosophers were strangers ; 
 If heart and brain have that achieved 
 Des Cartes and Locke had ne'er conceived - 
 
 By these, as yet behooved, 
 
 It possible was proved. 
 
 319 
 
THE PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 The strong man's right abideth still ; 
 
 The bold langhs like hyena ; 
 Who rule not, servants' parts must fill ; 
 It goes quite tolerably ill 
 
 Upon this world's arena; 
 But how it would be if the plan 
 Of the universe now first began 
 
 Is in their moral system, 
 
 For all to read who list 'era. 
 
 "Man needs with man must linkfed he 
 To reach the goal of growing;; 
 
 In the whole only worketh he ; 
 
 Many drops go to make the sea; 
 Much water sets inills going. 
 
 Then with the wild wolves do not stand. 
 
 But knit the state's enduring band." 
 From doctor's chair thus, tranquil 
 Ilerr Pufendorf and swan-quill. 
 
 But since to all what doctors say 
 
 Flies not as soon as spoken, 
 Nature will use her mother-way^ ■ — 
 See that her chain fly not in tway, 
 
 The circle be not broken : 
 Meantime, until the world's great round 
 Philosophy in one hath bound, 
 
 She keeps it on the move, sir, 
 
 By hunger and by love^ sir. 
 
 320 
 
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN, 
 
 m:- 
 
 J^Xj 
 
Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 ' HY weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride, 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 "Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale ; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen "^ 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 " A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
 And you, the foremost o' them a', 
 
 Shall ride our forest queen" — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was decked at morning-tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmered fair; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 And dame and knight are there. 
 They sought her baith by bower and lea, — 
 
 The ladie was not seen, 
 She's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 323 
 
THE HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
The Hidden Treasure. 
 
 BY B. P. SHILLABER. 
 
 OHN WENTWORTH, Royal Governor, the last 
 That in New Hampshire bore vice-regal sway, 
 Held court at Wolfeboro', by a lake, remote 
 From care of office, then made onerous 
 By the fierce restlessness of those he ruled. 
 Who caught the living spirit of the hour. 
 And threatened in the mood of discontent. 
 Portsmouth was turbulent, although respect 
 Checked violence 'gainst harm to genial John, 
 For all owned kindly fealty to him. 
 Although detesting his authority. 
 He was of Boston lineage and Harvard brand, 
 A generous, courtly, cultivated man. 
 Of tastes refined, with every wish awake 
 The people of his care to benefit. 
 Broad roads he builded and new ways devised 
 To give New Hampshire her predestined rank; 
 And Dartmouth felt the kindness oT his heart 
 In many offices of generous care. 
 But "Royal Governor!" his title chafed 
 The temper of his people, and he flew 
 To this, his sylvan realm, for peace and rest. 
 He haply found it, did his buxom dame, 
 Widow of Atkinson, in ten days wed, 
 Po5t nubtia at Atkinson's demise, 
 (What time, in going from the nuptial rites, 
 Did Arthur Brown, the rector, fall .down stairs, 
 And, tributary to the season, break an arm), 
 Admit of peace domestic, breach of which 
 Were worse than din of direst politics. 
 His stately manse stood smiling by the shore, 
 A pile of goodly station, since destroyed 
 By fire which licked it to its cellar walls. 
 
 327 
 
THE HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 Broad avenues connected with the road, 
 
 O'erarched by sturdy trees, while, back of all. 
 
 And far on every side, stretched hill o'er hill, 
 
 Giving incentive to the lively chase, 
 
 Wliere game abounded and adventure becked 
 
 The daring huntsman to hia best essay. 
 
 A hospitable, cheerful home it was. 
 
 Amenities of old-time neighborhood 
 
 Existed thereabout without a check. 
 
 And one could scarcely dream the cloud siispent 
 
 So soon to merge the land in hostile flood ! 
 
 'Twas spring-time, and the glory of the year 
 
 Was seen on verdant upland, vale, and mead; 
 
 The trees were rife with blossom, and the spray 
 
 Mellifluous with birds, while the green sod 
 
 Sparkled and glowed in jewelling of flowers. 
 
 Gay pleasure-boats went gliding o'er the lake, 
 
 Their white sails gleaming in the ruddy sun. 
 
 While from the teeming bosom of the wave 
 
 Were struggling drawn bright finny denizens, 
 
 To stir the taste with gustatory tlirills — 
 
 When murmurs came, at first, of Lexington, 
 
 And the bold stand the yeomanry had made 
 
 'Gainst that prerogative which Wentworth held ; 
 
 And then the full-toned clarion's fearful breath 
 
 Proclaiming that the hour of strife had come ! 
 
 The land was rising, kingly rule was broke. 
 
 And gloomy e3'es were bent on courtly John, 
 
 Though well content that he should e'er remain. 
 
 Could he of his commission be divest. 
 
 Then came the secret order to depart. 
 
 The Governor, too far from Barclay's ships. 
 
 Packed bag and baggage for a speedy flight. 
 
 The coach of state, rolled to the mansion door, 
 
 Hid by the night, received a weighty load : 
 
 Gay Lady Wentworth and the precious plate, 
 
 With its armorial bearings, and such cash 
 
 As then in argent sheen the cofi'ers lined. 
 
 The Governor the last, who backed himself, 
 
 In stately silence, by my lady's side. 
 
 Mount quickly, coachman ! footman, take your place ! 
 
 On rolls the coach in cumbrous tardiness, 
 
 328 
 
THE HIDDEN TREASURE. 
 
 And from the window Wentworth looks his last 
 
 On his broad acres, with a painful sigh, 
 
 While Lady Wentworth dreams of ball and rout 
 
 'Neath better auspices and loyal skies. 
 
 But heavy grew the way ; the horses strove 
 
 And foamed with wearying effort to advance, 
 
 Until, quite failing, they no effort made. 
 
 The treasure must be left, or else the dame, 
 
 Its half-equivalent — forbid the thought!- — 
 
 And there, beneath the solemn midnight stars, 
 
 The earth received in trust the precious store. 
 
 No more delay. The harborage was gained. 
 
 In Portsmoutli, safe beneath the royal guns, 
 
 Did Wentworth tarry till rebellion took 
 
 Such sturdy presence that it was not safe 
 
 For royal governor to linger there ; 
 
 And so he passed forever from the scene : 
 
 lie ne'er regained the treasure hid in earth, 
 
 And no man knoweth whereabouts 'twas hid. 
 
 The path he went, traditional alone. 
 
 Affords no clue to its dark resting-place, 
 
 Though many seekers have essayed the task — 
 
 Running down through the century of years — 
 
 Of finding the so-much-desired prize. 
 
 And even now, at times, cKm lights are seen 
 
 At night, when honest folks should be in bed, 
 
 Dancing about the meadow and the wood. 
 
 In hands of seekers for the buried pelf. 
 
 Led on by those who claim that they can see 
 
 Through all the mysteries of heaven and earth. 
 
 The earth is honeycombed with punctures made 
 
 By prodding iron bars ; but over all 
 
 A monumental disappointment reigns. 
 
 Perhaps John Wentworth guards the spot himself. 
 
 Not yet selected his adopted heir. 
 
 329 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER, 
 
POOR lAMES WYMPER. 
 
 BY ALBANY FCJNBLANQUE, 
 Author of ^^ The Tanghd Shein^^ etc. 
 
 HEN he was a'child they called him " poor little 
 James." lie wasn't little, and he wasn't poor, so 
 far as worldly goods went ; nor did those who 
 called him " poor " use the word in kindness 
 toward the motherless, neglected boy. He had 
 red eyelids. No power could brush his hair 
 smooth, or keep the knees of his trousers clean. 
 He had a wonderful faculty for cutting his 
 fingers, and wrapping them up in unpleasant-looking rags. 
 He always had a cold in his head. At the age of twelve he 
 could barely read two syllables. His only use in the world ap- 
 peared to be to serve as an awful exaniple to naughty boys, 
 who would play with knives and disliked' soap and water ; and 
 for this purpose he was used pretty freely. They sent him to a 
 big school, where he did nothing but get bullied ; and when his 
 father died, and left him very poor in a new sense of the word, 
 the distant relative who took him in charge out of charity could 
 find no better employment for him than to sweep out the office 
 and run of errands. By this time he had ceased to be " poor 
 little James," and became PoOR jAMES Wymper. 
 
 He could do nothing good of himself, and by some curious 
 perversity set himself to undo the good -that others had done. 
 He had a craze for taking things to pieces by no means equalled 
 by his capacity to put them together again. He complained 
 
 333 
 
POOR JAMES WVMPER. 
 
 that they did not give him time, and declared that this granted, 
 the condition of the victims of his handiwork would be improved. 
 Be this as it might be, every piece of mechanism that fell in his 
 way, from his cousin's sewing-machine to the great hydraulic 
 press at his protector's works, was made to suffer. 
 
 He had a fatal aptitude for being always in the way. He 
 seemed to be all elbows. He could not move ten steps to save 
 his life without treading upon some one's toes, or upsetting 
 something. When you spoke to him, he was always in a fog. 
 " The boy is half an idiot," groaned the worthy cotton-spinner, 
 whose bread he ate. 
 
 At the age of eighteen he had made but two friends in the 
 world, a blacksmith and a cat — an evil-minded black Tom, 
 who swore at every one else, and bit them savagely when they 
 attempted to put him through the tricks which poor James 
 Wymper had taught him. Amateur hammering at the forge 
 did not improve untidy Jim's appearance, and his cat — not 
 being in a show — did not increase his income. He ran errands 
 for his cousin like a boy when he had attained man's estate, 
 until one day when he ran one for himself — and did not come 
 back again. 
 
 Fears were entertained that he had come to a bad end. The 
 police were put in motion and rewards offered ; but his friend 
 the blacksmith, upon being pressed, said that he had gone to 
 " Mereker" — cat and all. 
 
 I do not think that his relations were broken-hearted. I 
 fancy that good Mr. Bryce, the cotton-spinner, was rather glad 
 to be rid of his wife's cousin, the errand-boy. His wife, who 
 was not unkind to the forlorn lad in a way of her own, — a very 
 cold way it was,— sighed several times apropos of nothing, and 
 murmured, " Poor James Wymper ! " 
 
 Five years passed, and Mrs. Bryce was left a widow, by no 
 
 334 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 means so well provided for as she. expected to be. Moreover 
 there was a lawsuit about the will, and a squabble in the wind- 
 ing-up of the partnership. She was glad to " get shut " — as 
 her defunct lord would have said — of Manchester; and seeing 
 an advertisement to the effect that a widow lady, having a house 
 too large for her, pleasantly situated on the Thames near 
 Maidenhead, was prepared to share it with just such a person 
 as herself, transported herself thither, after a due exchange of 
 references and such-like formalities, and found no reason to re- 
 gret what she had done. 
 
 The other widow does not figure much in this story, and 
 therefore it will be enough to say that she was a quiet, lady-like 
 woman, rather afraid of her partner in house-keeping, with a 
 -daughter, aged eighteen, who ruled the pair, and made the place 
 very pleasant. 
 
 Bessy Jervoice was not pretty. Besides her eyes she had not 
 a good feature in her face; but it was a good face — earnest 
 and loving, with a sub-current of fun running under it (as the 
 stream runs under the water-lilies), and rippling out constantly. 
 Her figure and her hair were simply perfection. Her little 
 thoroughbred hands were ever busy, a.nd the patter of her 
 dainty feet was pleasant music in many a poor cottage. 
 
 Things went on very smoothly at the river-side villa until one 
 rainy day, when, without a "with your leave," or " by your 
 leave," or letter, or telegram, or message, or any other sort of 
 preparation, in marches poor James Wymper, dripping with 
 rain and splashed with mud up to his hat ! 
 
 " If you please, cousin Margaret, I've come back," he said, 
 subsiding in his old, low-spirited way into an amber-satin draw- 
 ing-room chair, which in two minutes he soaked through and 
 through. 
 
 That was all. No excuse, no petition ; a simple announce- 
 ment that he had come back, conveyed in a manner which 
 
 335 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 made it sufficiently clear that he intended to remain. "If you 
 please, cousin Margaret, I've come back." Not another word 
 did he say, and relapsed into thinking of something else, as 
 iisual. 
 
 Interrogated respecting his luggage, he replied that it was on 
 the hall-table, and there, sure enough, was found a sodden 
 bundle, containing a soiled flannel-shirt, a pair of slippers, t\vo 
 pipes, a cloth cap without a peak, and a sailor's knife. In an- 
 swer to further inquiries he stated that his means were eight- 
 pence, that he had been living in America, that he had walked 
 from Liverpool, and that he wanted soniething to eat. When 
 dried and fed, and asked what he was going to do, he said, 
 " Whatever you please ; " and appearing to consider that all 
 difficulty was thus disposed of, he went to sleep. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Bryce was at her wits' end. Ordinary hints were 
 thrown away upon such a man. When she said she supposed 
 he was going on to London, he replied. Oh, dear no, he had come 
 from London. When she told him she was only a lodger in the 
 house, he observed that it was a very nice house to lodge in. I 
 have said that she was kind to him in her way when he was an 
 errand-boy, and somehow she could not be hard upon him now. 
 There was something half ludicrous, half melancholy, in his 
 helplessness that disarmed them all. Bessy declared him to be 
 the largest baby she had ever seen, persisted in speaking of him 
 as ity and scandalized the matrons by inquiring gravely after tea 
 which of them was going to put it to bed. 
 
 " It's rather unkind for you to jest so, Bessy," said poor Mrs. 
 Bryce, " when you see how distressed I am. What on earth 
 am I to do? " 
 
 " I suppose it's too old for the Foundling? " mused Bessy. 
 
 " Bessy, be quiet ! " said her mother. 
 
 "You dear old darling," said the pert one afterwards, "don't 
 you see that we cannot treat this thing seriously without making 
 
 336 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 it doubly painful for dear Mrs. Bryce ? It will all come right 
 in the end." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, but when is the end to begin? " 
 
 It was to begin by special arrangement the next day, after 
 breakfast; when the following conversation took place: — 
 
 "Now, James," said his cousin, "we shall not be interrupted 
 for some time, and you must really give me your serious 
 attention." 
 
 " Yes, cousin Margaret." 
 
 " You see, James, you are a man now, and must act and be 
 treated — do you understand? — treated, like other people." 
 
 " That's just what I want to be." 
 
 " Well, then, I must tell you frankly that I am much annoyed 
 by your coming here as you did." 
 
 " It wasn't my fault that it rained, cousin Margaret. I wish 
 it hadn't," he replied piteously. 
 
 " I'm not speaking of your coming in wet and spoiling the 
 chairs, sir; I am much annoyed at your coming here at all." 
 
 The good widow thought that she would get on best by being 
 angry, but it was no use. 
 
 " Where else was I to go to? " he asked. 
 
 " How you found me out, I cannot think," sighed the victim. 
 The observation was an unlucky one. 
 
 "Ah, ha! " he chuckled, "you thought I was a stupid, did 
 you?" 
 
 And then followed a long, weary story of how, passing through 
 Manchester, he had seen this person and spoken to that, and 
 obtained the clue by which he had hunted his listener down. 
 What made it more provoking was the credit he took for this 
 cleverness. He warmed to his subject as he went on, and fin 
 ished with the air of a man who had rendered an important 
 service, and expected to have it promptly recognized. 
 
 This threw his victim's cut-and-dried speeches off the line. 
 
 337 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 " Oh, d^ar, oh, dear ! " she cried, " It doesn't matter how 
 you found me out ; you liave done so. The question is, what 
 am I to do with you, now you're here? What am I to do 
 with you?" 
 
 " I don't know, cousin Margaret." 
 . "You don't know! A pretty answer for a man of five-or- 
 six-and-twenty. Now look here, James Wymper. I should 
 like to do something for you for your poor mother's sake, but I 
 cannot; and — and you have no right to thrust yourself upon 
 me like this, and — and — are you attending to me, James 
 Wymper? " 
 
 " Yes, cousin Margaret," he replied with a jerk, coming sud- 
 denly out of his fog. 
 
 " What was I saying? " 
 
 " That you would like to do something for me for my poor 
 mother's sake." 
 
 " That was only half what I said, sir. How dare you pick 
 out my words like that ! I went on to say that I couldn't do 
 anything for you, and I can't. I've not the means. I'm very 
 poor ; I can hardly manage for myself. My husband left me 
 very badly off." 
 
 " Did he leave me anything? " 
 
 "You! after your conduct — running away, and frightening 
 us as you did ! Is it likely? " 
 
 " I know it was wrong to run away, cousin Margaret, but you 
 See I've come back again," he said with the utmost gravity. 
 
 This was conclusive. For the last half-hour she had been 
 trying to din into his head that he had no business to come 
 back, and here he was, taking credit for having returned, as an 
 act which was to cancel all the offences of his youth ! Perceiv- 
 ing that his reply had troubled her, he proceeded to promise 
 upon his word of honor that he would never, 7tever run away 
 again What was to be done with such a man? Talking was 
 
 338 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 clearly useless. One of two courses only remained — to endure 
 him, or call a policeman and turn him out neck and crop. 
 
 Mrs. Bryce did not call a policeman. 
 
 The conduct of poor James Wymper 'during the next two or 
 three days was what, in another man, would have roused the 
 indignation of all concerned by its almost sublime audacity. 
 The proceedings of Mr. Charles Mathews in Cool as a Cucumber 
 are timid and retiring in comparison with those of Mrs. Jer- 
 voice's unwelcome guest. If the house and all it contained had 
 belonged to him, and its inhabitants were dependents upon his 
 bounty, he could not have behaved more freely ; and all this 
 with an air of innocence which utterly disarmed opposition. 
 
 " Oh, never mind me," was his refrain ; " I don't want to 
 trouble anybody. I'll do it all for myself. I'm all right. You 
 let me alone and see." 
 
 His first great exploit was to precipitate himself upon a 
 washing and wringing machine which he found, out of order 
 and disused, in a cellar; and whether he had improved in dex- 
 terity, or sufficient time was granted him for the realization of 
 his ideas, need not be discussed here. The result was satisfac- 
 tory. Not only did he put the thing into working order, but he 
 worked it himself, to the intense delight of Bessy and consterna- 
 tion of the cook. 
 
 Many other useful things he did. He made a wind-mill 
 which pumped water up to the top of the house, and saved the 
 sixpence a day which had been paid to a boy for this labor. 
 He mended an old boat that there was, and took Bessy out for 
 rows on the river. He became that young lady's right-hand 
 man in her garden. Before a month was over, not only had 
 cousin Margaret become quite resigned to have him on her 
 hands, but Mrs. Jervoice refused to accept any remuneration for 
 his board and lodging, declaring that he was well worth his keep. 
 It was something, you see, for these lone women to have a man 
 
 339 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 about the house who could and would put his hand to this and 
 that. He did not cut his fingers now. 
 
 Before this satisfactory condition of affairs had been arrived 
 at, tailor and hosier had been set to work, and really poor 
 James Wymper brightened up wonderfully^ in appearance under 
 their hands. If his head had not been so big, and his elbows 
 and knees so uncomfortably conspicuous, he would not have 
 been a bad-looking man. He was evidently a good-hearted 
 one. He would do anything in his power, poor fellow, for any 
 one ; was in fact rather too active sometimes when he had been 
 longer than usual in one of his fogs, on which occasions he 
 would labor like an amiable bull in a china shop, and cause 
 some consternation. Of course he made friends with the 
 nearest blacksmith. 
 
 In the early days, when he had not ceased to be considered a 
 nuisance and an intruder, Bessy had stood his friend. One 
 always takes an interest in those one befriends, and Bessy took 
 a great interest in poor James Wymper — drawing him out, en- 
 couraging him, and defending him against practical jokes ; but 
 as time passed, this young person's feelings towards him ap- 
 peared to undergo a change. Instead of praising what he did, 
 and encouraging him to farther exertion, she found fault and 
 snubbed him. She ceased to make fun of him as " it," and had 
 a store of little bitter, disparaging remarks — about his depend- 
 ence, his want of self-respect, and so on — ready to shoot at 
 him. " I think you are too severe on poor James Wymper," 
 Mrs. Jervoice would say ; " he is really very willing, and one 
 must not expect too much of him, poor fellow ! " If another 
 man had done what he did, he would not have been damned 
 with such faint praise, but he was only " poor James Wymper;" 
 and, like the proverbial prophet, had little credit in his own 
 country. 
 
 One morning was marked with an unusual event — poor 
 
 340 
 
POOR JAMES WYMFER. 
 
 James VVymper received a letter with ^American stamps upon 
 it. 
 
 Amongst the visitors at Willow Bank — the Thames-side 
 villa of Mrs. Jervoice — was a certain Mr. Augustus Bailey, a 
 young gentleman of pleasing and varied accomplishments. He 
 could sing you music-hall songs nearly as well as the " great 
 comiques " his masters. He could imitate most celebrated 
 actors, and was a mighty punster. For the better exhibition of 
 such talents a butt was indispensable, and he found one ready 
 made in poor James VVymper. It is needless to observe that 
 poor James Wymper did not love Mr. Augustus Bailey; but it 
 was curious that a usually amiable girl like Bessy Jervoice should 
 encourage the latter in sallies which were often as ungenerous 
 as they were insolent. 
 
 " I want you to put my sewing-machine in good order, Mr. 
 Wymper," said Bessy one day, " and mind it works smoothly, for 
 I've got to make a dress in a hurry." 
 
 " What for? " asked he. 
 
 " A picnic." 
 
 "What's a picnic?" 
 
 " Don't tease." 
 
 " Very well ; " and he set to work on the sewing-machine. 
 
 Bessy took a seat beside him, and, mollified by his obedience, 
 condescended to explain the rites and mysteries of a picnic. 
 This one was got up by Mr. Augustus Bailey, and — as she nar- 
 rated — it was " Mr. Bailey will provide " this, and " Mr. Bailey 
 thinks" that; until the workman threw down his screw-driver in 
 a passion, and exclaimed, " Confound Mr. Bailey ! " Bessy was 
 astonished. She got as far as, "Why, you're not jeal — " when 
 she became very red, and checked herself. 
 
 " I'm not what? " asked poor James Wymper. 
 
 " You're not so stupid as you try to make out, sir." 
 
 " That's not what you were going to say." 
 
 341 
 
FOOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 "You said, 'you are not jel' — something." 
 
 " Not jelly then, or salt or sugar, that you should melt in a 
 shower," she replied. The last-quoted opinion of the great 
 Augustus had been that it was sure to rain, and so this observa- 
 tion of Miss Bessy was not as inappropriate as it may at first 
 appear. But why should she have blushed so? And if she 
 had really intended to tell him he was not jelly, why did she 
 not go on and say so? Besides, he had not confounded Mr. 
 Bailey, because that authority had predicted rain, and Miss Bessy 
 knew it. She flattered herself that she had got very cleverly 
 out of a difficulty, and the blush changed to a smile ; but she 
 had only made bad worse. To tell a man that he will not 
 suffer under the rain on a stated occasion naturally implies that 
 he may be subjected to a wetting on such occasion ; and — 
 
 " Oh, then I'm to go ! " said poor James. 
 
 This was a poser. He had not been invited, and there was a 
 reason why he could not be. He looked up from his work with 
 such a happy smile on his great, broad face that Bessy's heart 
 smote her. 
 
 " Well, you see, the gentlemen are mostly friends of Mr. 
 Bailey. We invite them, you know, but — you won't be hurt 
 if I tell you the truth, James Wymper?" 
 
 " Does truth hurt? " 
 
 " Sometimes. The fact is, that it is customary at water pic- 
 nics for the gentlemen to provide the boats and music and wine, 
 and that costs money, you know." 
 
 " Oh, so I cannot go because I have not got money to pay my 
 share, eh? " 
 
 " You would not like to place yourself under an obligation to 
 Mr. Bailey and his friends, I suppose? " she said with a sneer. 
 
 " I wish you would not curl your lip so when you speak, Miss 
 
 342 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 Jervoice. That does hurt," lie said, with a low voice and bended 
 head. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ! " 
 
 " Oh, never mind. But suppose," he continued gaily, as 
 though a bright thought had struck him, " I were to help to 
 row one of the boats, and arrange the dinrter and that, wouldn't 
 they let me come? " 
 
 " I never saw such a man ! " Bessy exclaimed, losing all 
 patience. " Have you no single spark of self-respect — no dig- 
 nity? Oh, how can you be so mean-spirited ! " 
 
 "Work is as good as money any day," he replied, looking 
 her full in the face. 
 
 " Yes, if you go as a servant." 
 
 " You said just now that every one had to make himself 
 useful at a picnic." 
 
 " It's no use arguing with you ; you will not or cannot 
 understand." 
 
 " You don't want me to go ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, I should like you to join us, if — " 
 
 " If I had the money?" 
 
 " If you could go on an equality with the rest." 
 
 " Well, I've got five pounds. Is that enough? " 
 
 " Five times enough. But where on earth did you get it? " 
 
 " Sam sent it in that letter." 
 
 " And who is ' Sam,' pray? " 
 
 " My chum in Chicago." 
 
 " Don't you think it would be more proper to give the money 
 to your cousin, who has been so liberal to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'll pay her some day. This runs first-rate now," he 
 said, collecting his tools. " Do let me go to the picnic. Come, 
 now, you help me to get an invitation, and I'll make your skirt." 
 
 And, if you'll believe me, this man set to work with the ma- 
 chine he had just set in order, and ran seven breadths of the 
 
 343 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 blue silk together as tight as wax and as straight as a rule, 
 without missing a stitch. 
 
 As Bessy made a point of his being ihvited, and Mr. Augus- 
 tus Bailey was her humble servant, and hoped to be something 
 more, no difficulty arose on this point; but on another there 
 was trouble. Some Cockneys had misbehaved themselves on 
 the meadows where it was fixed that our party should dine, and 
 the proprietor, hardening his heart against all picknickers, had 
 refused his permission. The outing was nearly given up, when 
 it was discovered that a mile or two farther on there was an 
 estate to let bordering on the river, and the great Augustus 
 made it all right with the agent. 
 
 The next day poor James Wymper disappeared before break- 
 fast, and did not return till night. 
 
 Where had he been? To London. What for? Why, to 
 buy some new clothes, to be sure ! Did they think he was 
 going to let that skunk (by which term, I am sorry to say, he 
 permitted himself to designate the elegant and highly-scented 
 Augustus Bailey) — did they think he was going to let that 
 skunk insult him again about his coat? 
 
 " I hope you did not think I had run away again, cousin 
 Margaret," he added with some anxiety. 
 
 There was nothing to find fault with in his personal appear- 
 ance on the morning of the picnic — dark green and black 
 heather mixture suit, tie to match, black felt wideawake, with a 
 little mallard's feather stuck in the band. 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jervoice ; " he looks quite 
 handsome ! " 
 
 "Who is that talking to Mrs. Bryce?=" asked the inevitable 
 curate. " What a magnificent head he has ! " 
 
 " WA — at / " shouted the great Augustus. 
 
 " Magnificent to a phrenologist, I mean," the curate ex- 
 plained. 
 
 344 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " roared the " skunk." " Look here, you fel- 
 low; here's a joke! Mr, Day says he is a phrenologist, and 
 finds Wymper's head magnificent ! Ha, ha, ha ! Why, don't 
 you know," he added in a whisper, " that the fellow's half an 
 idiot?" 
 
 During the embarcation and the row up the river poor James 
 Wymper's conduct was peculiar. Instea,d of doing everything 
 for everybody, as usual, he stood apart, and ordered people 
 about royally. 
 
 " I'm quite pleased with you to-day," whispered Bessy, as he 
 handed her out of the boat on the banks of the estate that was 
 to let. 
 
 " Now, I say, you — cr — what's your name ? — you, Wymper, 
 come and help take the hampers out ! " said the great Augustus. 
 
 " Take them out yourself, you — er, Bailey ! " he shouted back. 
 " You haven't been rowing ; I have ; " and he strutted on to join 
 a party of ladies, including Bessy. Bessy turned on hearing 
 the loud talking, and somehow got detached from her friends. 
 
 "Why are you pleased with me to-day, Miss Jervoice?" he 
 asked as they sauntered on together side by side through the 
 shrubbery. 
 
 " Would you very much like to know?" 
 
 " I shouldn't have asked unless." 
 
 " Guess then." 
 
 "Because I've been making myself disagreeable?" 
 
 " I don't think you have been making yourself disagreeable." 
 
 "Well, then, because I haven't been making myself useful?" 
 
 " That is not the way to put it; but you are burning." 
 
 " Because I've got new clothes?" 
 
 " Nonsense ! you know what I mean, or you wouldn't have 
 answered as you did at first. Good gracious ! I hope it is not 
 going to rain." 
 
 " Tell me why," he persisted. 
 
 34S 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPEJR. 
 
 " Oh, don't tease." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 As soon as he did not want to know, she, woman-like, wanted 
 to tell him. So in a minute or two she began again. 
 
 " It is a great mistake to make one's self too cheap. There are 
 some people who gain respect by being good-natured, and some 
 people who lose it." 
 
 " Ah, I see ! " he replied ; " I won't be good-natured any more." 
 
 " Oh, you are so silly ! Don't you know there is a medium in 
 everything? But really it is going to rain; I felt a big drop. 
 My new blue costume will be ruined." 
 
 " Well, we can go into the house. Here it is." 
 
 The shrubbery walk was so thickly hedged that they had not 
 seen where they were going, and at a sudden turn there, sure 
 enough, was the villa close at hand. 
 
 " I suppose we might stand under the veranda?" suggested 
 Bessy; and, doubling up her skirts, she ran for it; for the rain 
 came down with a dash — came down with a slant, too, driven 
 by the wind, so that the veranda gave them little shelter. 
 
 " I wonder if any of the windows " (they were French windows, 
 opening to the ground) " are open?" said her companion, try- 
 ing them. 
 
 "Oh, we mustn't go in," said Bessy. 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 "But the splashing is spoiling my dress; don't you see? and 
 my boots will be wet through," pleaded the inconsistent one. 
 
 " Then go in," said poor James Wymper, opening a window, 
 " and I will run round and make it all right with the people in 
 charge." 
 
 In ten minutes he rejoined her, saying that it was all right. 
 
 "What a pretty room! " she said, looking at herself in the 
 pier-glass. (Did you over know a girl to enter a strange room 
 without going straight up to the glass?) 
 
 346 
 
POOR JAMES WYMFER. 
 
 " Hum — m, yes," he replied ; " but the fellow who built it was 
 an ass. Why, you have to twist your neck to get a view of the 
 river from these things " — with a contemptuous kick towards 
 the French windows. " If I had it, I'd knock that veranda 
 into a cocked hat, break out a big bow in the middle, and then 
 it would be something like." 
 
 " Oh, you'd work wonders, I dare say," she said, rather crossly ; 
 " only it would be as well to do something towards getting a 
 house of your own before you think about improving other peo- 
 ple's." 
 
 " It would be nice to have a house of one's own," he said, 
 " particularly — " 
 
 " Well, go on." 
 
 " Particularly if it had a bow window.'' 
 
 " James Wymper ! " 
 
 " And a pretty meadow for picnics ; but I suppose it would 
 not do to give people leave to picnic on one's grounds? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Would that not be being good-natured ? " 
 
 " I did not mean that sort of good nature." 
 
 " If I had a fine house and grounds like this, I might be good- 
 natured then? " 
 
 " It's no use arguing with you," she replied sharply. " Is it 
 ever going to leave off? Our picnic will be quite spoiled." 
 
 " Never mind ; we'll have another, soon. I dare say Sam will 
 send me some more money." 
 
 " Are you not ashamed of yourself, James Wymper, to take 
 money like a beggar? " she said, with flasliing eyes. 
 
 '' Oh, I don't take it like a beggar." 
 
 " Yes, you do." 
 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 " A man who takes money that he doe;!s not earn, takes it like 
 a beggar — there ! " 
 
 347 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 " Who told you I take money I do not earn?" 
 
 " Of course you cannot earn it." 
 
 "Why, of course? " 
 
 " What a plague you are ! What do you do to earn it? " 
 
 " Nothing now." 
 
 "What have you ever done? " 
 
 " Lots of things." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that this person you call ' Sam ' really 
 owes you money? " She came quickly to his side as she spoke, 
 and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Yes, he does." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " For my share of what we did at Chicago." 
 
 " That could not have been much." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Your share." 
 
 " Sam says it was half: Sam's generally right." 
 
 "Where is Chicago?" 
 
 " Well, now, that is good ! You don't know where Chicago 
 is, and you're clever. / know." 
 
 " Of course, when you've been there." 
 
 " That's true," he replied, after reflection. 
 
 " Did you really get your living there? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 "Then go back. O James, do — do go back. I can't bear 
 to see you as you are — dependent and looked down on. Oh, 
 do go back, and work like a man. I suppose it is because we 
 women are so dependent that we prize and honor independence. 
 For me there is nothing so contemptible as a strong man who 
 is idle and contented. Go back to Chicago. I shall be sorry 
 to lose you, because — because I like you very much, and you 
 have been very kind to me ; but, don't you know, cannot you 
 imagine, how happy, how glorious it must be to strive and con- 
 
 348 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 quer ; to stand erect before the world, owing nothing but to God 
 and your own honest labor?" 
 
 " I can, I do ! " he cried, starting up. " It is glorious. Do 
 yo2i know, can you imagine, what it is to have people despising 
 you as a fool — an incapable — and yet to feel here (he struck 
 his massive forehead as he spoke) that you are wronged, that 
 you had not fair play? To feel knowledge, invention, power, 
 coming, growing, burning in your brain ; — to see the ideas thus 
 born forming themselves under your hands, and to KNOW that 
 they were right and sound ; — to make those who came to scoff, 
 stay to praise ? For this," he added, in a lower voice, " I humbly 
 thank Almighty God, and good Sam Thacker ! " 
 
 Now, when Bessy Jervoice had had her say, as above recorded, 
 and, piqued by surprise and excitement, and perhaps by some- 
 thing else, had said more than a well-regulated young lady ought 
 to say, she naturally sat down and cried ; but wonderstruck by 
 the response she had evoked — a response which grew more as- 
 tonishing, more fervid as it proceeded — "she slowly raised her 
 eyes ; and there, before her, stood a James Wymper she had 
 never seen before. Not a poor James Wymper in any sense of 
 the term. The curate was right; and the magnificent head, its 
 features lit up with pride and — well, it njust out — love, was a 
 sight to see. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, taking her trembling hand, " for 
 having played a part. It was Sam Thacker's doing. Said Sam, 
 'You go back a rich man amongst those cusses' (Sam is a 
 regular Yankee, you know), ' and they'll just crawl over you, 
 and suck your vitals ; you sham poor and stupid, and you'll 
 soon see who's who.' Ah, Bessy, how kind you were to me at 
 first ! Am I wrong in thinking, in hoping, that what was not so 
 kind lately was meant for my good? " 
 
 '* Oh, but how unfair — how — " 
 
 " Scold me presently, but hear my story. I ran away from 
 
 349 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 Manchester, because I felt dimly that I could improve and in- 
 vent things if I had a chance ; but I was awkward with my 
 hands. I could not draw, I could not plan. I was not ready 
 with my tongue ; I could not explain ; I got impatient when 
 people did not understand me, and all went badly until I fell 
 in with Sam. Sam is the handiest fellow in the world ; and 
 as for talking, he could coax a 'possum out of his hole ; but, 
 at first, he hadn't one idea of his own. Well, we worked to- 
 gether, and as we went on, I got handy and Sam inventive ; 
 and to make a long story short, we sold t^vo patents for fifty 
 thousand dollars each, and we have four more, which bring in 
 about two thousand a year in English money as royalties. I'm 
 going to pay my share in this picnic out of that money; and 
 it is quite true that Sam sent me the cash, because all my remit- 
 tances come through him." 
 
 "I — I think," stammered astonished Bessy, " that we must 
 not stop here any longer." 
 
 " Just a few minutes." 
 
 " They will think it so odd." 
 
 "As you please. Will you have these flowers ? " And he 
 took a bouquet from a vase on the table. 
 
 " Put them back directly. How can you ! Taking what does 
 not belong to you ! O James ! " 
 
 " I bought the estate last week," replied poor James Wymper 
 quietly, " and I suppose the flowers go with it." 
 
 " Mr. Wymper, are you mad, or am I dreaming?" gasped 
 Bessy. 
 
 " I bought the place as soon as I heard you were coming 
 here. That's why I went to London — and to get some clothes." 
 
 " Please take me back to mamma; " and Bessy began to cry 
 again. 
 
 " When you have answered me one question. I hardly dar , 
 ask it; but yet — " 
 
 350 
 
POOR JAMES WYMPER. 
 
 But yet ! The stupid fellow ! it was evident that he had not 
 yet patented a machine for divining a girl's thoughts. He 
 hem'd and stammered and beat about the bush, as he did in his 
 pre-Sam-Thacker days, and at last got it out. What was it? 
 
 Bessy left that room, as Sam would say, " inside an elbow," 
 with an accepted lover's kiss tingling her lips, and glorifying 
 her heart. 
 
 Never mind what has become of the picknickers ; never mind 
 the astonishment of Mr. Augustus Bailey and the rest when, in- 
 vited by the master of the house to have their dance in his 
 dining-room (on account of the wet), they learned who that 
 master was; nevermind the explanation with cousin Margaret. 
 The only thing which I regret not having space to do justice to 
 is the conduct of Sam at the wedding, and the burning wrath 
 and indignation of the honest fellow when he heard that his 
 partner had been known as POOR James Wymper. 
 
 " Foor / " he almost howled ; " why, there aint a machint 
 running on this old hemisphere, or in the f/nited States, that he 
 can't z;«prove and beat. Foor ! and he with the heart of a 
 child and the brain of a Newton ! Poor indeed ! Let me catch 
 any one calling him poor, and I'll get mad*; and when I get mad, 
 there's sliootin' round. Yes, sir!' 
 
 351 
 
TWO LIVES. 
 
Two Lives. 
 
 BY EUGENE MONTGOMMERY. 
 
 I. 
 
 HEY watched the sun droop sadlj through tlie west, 
 As droop the souls of men to dreamy rest ; 
 
 Blood-red and golden, as it sank away 
 Life seemed to grow more faint, then softly die ; 
 Gray shadows lay across the trembling sky, 
 
 And night sat weeping for the day. 
 
 I II. 
 
 But as they looked, a long, thin streak of light 
 Stretched far beyond the portals of the night, 
 
 Like some red phantom of unearthly dream, 
 Darting its tongues of flame on worlds around. 
 How wonderful ! Is there no power to bound 
 
 The things that are, the things that seem ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Who hath not felt the mystery to come, 
 
 The thought eternal, once so vague and dumb, 
 
 Whilst gazing mute upon the rage of Hell, 
 Mingled with Heaven's sweet love and purity? 
 And is the sky not Heaven's infinity 
 
 Where reigns the God whom men repel .' 
 
 IV. 
 
 A boy and girl, two breathing souls of chance, 
 Two marks of life, two creatures of a trarfce ! 
 
 They watched the sky — who knoweth what they saw.' 
 Perchance 'twere better they had never been, 
 They seem too pure for man's proud world of sin, 
 
 So full of innocence and awe ! 
 
 355 
 
TWO LIVES. 
 
 V. 
 
 The boy lay silent on the shadowy grass, 
 Watching the light, as- all bright visions, pass ; 
 
 Watching it steal across the girl's sweet face. 
 Into her eyes, where burned a strange wild fire, 
 Into her flowing hair, — then higher, higher, 
 
 Till gloom enshrouded every grace. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He sighed ; and, as he sighed, the rustling breeze 
 Wearily chanted through the forest trees ; 
 
 The whole dark earth seem rocking to and fro; 
 The distant river broke with gasps of pain 
 Upon the heavy shore, where long had lain 
 
 The memories of unbroken woe. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But what was darkness to his eager eyes ? 
 
 Her face he knew more wondrous than the skies. 
 
 He knew each quiver of the strong, full mouth, 
 Each queenly movement of the slender head, 
 Her sweet, odd smile, which seemed in secret wed 
 
 To some weird fancy of the South. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And what was woe to them, and what was thought? 
 Ah ! ye may ask, but there are natures "wrought 
 
 In all the fulness of reality : 
 Young hearts whose yearnings are the worlds they feel, 
 Young hearts from which the years wiH never steal 
 
 The sense sublime of what they see. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oft did they wander in the twilight's haze, 
 Drinkiijg the sweetness of the passing days ; 
 
 Living together, mingling smiles and tears, 
 Telling of hopes that men so rarely tell. 
 Dreaming the dreams that lives so soon dispel, 
 
 Dreaming beyond the silent years. 
 
 356 
 
TWO LIVES. 
 
 To-night with thoughtful mien they softly sit, 
 Whilst weird, gray shadows round them dimly flit ; 
 
 Two babes of nature wrapped in one great soul, 
 They seem the relics of a world gone by, 
 A world whose meaning men in vain deny, 
 
 A world of hearts', life's, broken goal. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The boy arises suddenly and cries : 
 
 "Behold the moon, sweet Pearl, — behold the skies 
 
 Bathing their features in her golden light. 
 Oh, would that we could sit forever thus. 
 Free, free as are the birds that sing for us ! 
 
 Ah, bright, bright days, why seek ye flight? 
 
 XII. 
 
 "To-night, sweet Pearl, the moon seems fair to me, 
 Fairer, I deem, than aught of land or sea; 
 
 I seem to watch my eyes in her great face. 
 So pale and sad, as is the face of death. 
 Why do we live, sweet Pearl.? Is life a breath 
 
 Of something that we love to chase.' 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "I know not wh.it the world is, but I fear 
 'Tis full of sadness. Do not men appear 
 
 To look with sorrow on our fair green land ? 
 I know not what it is, but I have thought, 
 And I have found perhaps what God has taught, 
 
 What even a child can understand. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " I know not what the world is. Shall I know.' 
 Why should I, Pearl, if all is strife and woe.? 
 
 Are we not happy thus, alone and free. 
 Alone and happy, living as the flowers? 
 Will God destroy the beauty that is ours 
 
 If we remain as we should be ? 
 
 357 
 
TWO LIVES. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "Do I not feel, and doth the moon not'feel? 
 Do we not live for those sweet loves that steal 
 
 To our dear hearts as angels to the sky? 
 What mean the loud, wild curses of the town? 
 What means the wearing of a golden crown ? 
 
 What are the gems that men would buy? " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The girl looks up : she is no infant now; 
 Rather some spirit round whose pallid brow 
 
 Are weaved the tresses of eternity. 
 Her great black eyes, aglow with brimming tears, 
 Flash out the thoughts that dwell more deep than years, 
 
 Within the soul's infinity. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Alas I " she murmured, " I have felt before, 
 As thou, dear Harold, what will be no more. 
 
 Yet I was happy, — I, a fair, young child ; 
 I asked not why, since God had made me so ; 
 I loved all things, for all seemed born to show 
 
 The heart can never be defiled. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 " How bright the days have been for thee and me ! 
 Could we two live apart? No, no ! for see. 
 
 There is no hope once mine that is not thine. 
 Yet we must part — alas ! forever part, 
 The world cares naught for us, and life's poor heart 
 
 With ours and Death will intertwine. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "Didst thou not watch the sky whilst flames of fire 
 Reddened the wide, low west? 'Twas fate's desire 
 
 Thus to reveal what life doth ne'er reveal. 
 How sad, sad, sad seemed all the weeping trees ! 
 How sad, sad, sad life's hopes and sympathies 1 
 
 How deep the pain that naught can heal ! 
 
 358 
 
TWO LIVES. 
 
 XX. 
 
 '■ For lo ! I saw a womun, tall and fair, 
 Brushing tlie diamonds from her golden hajr, 
 
 Bathing within the sun's soft, mellowing rays. 
 She smiled at me, and I smiled back at her; 
 I would have bowed me as her worshipper. 
 
 But she forbade me with a gaze. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Ah me! she smiled not long, for when the sun 
 Lay trembling like a heart whose work is done, 
 
 I saw her turn and fall upon her knees, 
 Beating her breast, from which the warm blood flowed, 
 Tearing her soft, bright hair, as though endowed 
 
 With rage more awful than the seas. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "AH soon was dark; yet through the wide still gloom, 
 I heard a voice, the cold, low voice of doom': 
 
 Sadly it echoed through the ghostly air, 
 Sadly it came and trembled overhead, 
 Moaning of love, but of a love long dead, 
 
 Moaning of all the soul's despair. 
 
 XXUl. 
 
 " Ah ! Harold, I shall die, — for this was Death ; 
 I felt upon my cheeks his icy breath ; 
 
 I f;lt his hands upon my heart, whilst low 
 He murmured words that make me tremble still. 
 Ah ! Harold, I shall die ; for lives fulfil 
 
 What souls to souls so plainly show. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "Yes, I shall die; and will the sweet birds sing, 
 And will the flowers smile at their blossoming. 
 
 And will the breezes warble to the stream. 
 When I am laid where hearts so long to sleep .' 
 Ah ! I could quit them all, and never weep, 
 
 If thou couldst share my last long dream." 
 
 359 
 
TWO LIVES. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Sweet Pearl ! " he answers sadly, " thou shalt live : 
 The long bright hours to thee will gladly give 
 
 What Death can trouble not, nor sorrov^ share ; 
 Thy love is mine, and thou must live for me, 
 And thou must laugh again, for, darling, see 
 
 Tlie moon smiles gaily through the air. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Chase from thy heart the load that night hath brought. 
 Ah ! wouldst thou die ? No, Death is never sought : 
 
 Thou hast but dreamed. What can the sky foretell? 
 The wide, wide world hath many a song for thee, 
 And many a work, and many a hope for me ; 
 
 Our loves will doubt forever quell." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The girl looked up, and lightly tossed her head; 
 Then, like a sunbeam, towards the village sped, 
 
 Flinging her tresses in the moon's pale smile : 
 Was this the child whose soul had vaguely told 
 Of life unspoken, fate that years unfold, 
 
 And death, whose teachings men revalef 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The sun once more lay golden in his shrouds ; 
 
 The long red light streamed ghost-like through the clouds, 
 
 Falling like drops of blood upon two graves, 
 Two small, sad graves, that stretched like autumn leaves 
 Upon the face of Earth. Ah ! Pearl, who grieves 
 
 That hearts are swallowed in the waves ? 
 
 XXIX. 
 Two graves, two lives ; two lives that beat as one, 
 Two perfect hopes that glowed, two spirits won; 
 
 The world and they were made in sympathy. 
 Yet they were born to die, unknown to sin ; 
 Two pure expressions of what might have been, 
 
 They lived and died, but not as we. 
 
 360 
 
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