TilE GALAXY. SflPTBM2BEfl. 1, 1886.. THE OLAVERINGS. B~ ANTHONY TROLLOPE. CHAPTER XIX. LET HER KNOW THAT YOU RE THERE. THE job before him, in his attempt to win Lady Ongar, was a peculiar job, and that Archie well knew. In some inexplicable manner he put him- self into the scales and weighed himself, and discovered his own weight with fair accuracy. And he put her into the scales, and he found that she was much the heavier of the two. How he did thishow such men as Archie Clavering do do itI cannot say; but they do weigh themselves, and know their own weight, and shove themselves aside as being too light for any real service in the world. This they do, though they may fluster with their voices, and walk about with their noses in the air, and swing their canes, and try to look as large as they may. They do not look large, and they know it; and, conse- quently, they ring the bells, and look after the horses, and shove themselves on one side, so that the heavier weights may come forth and do the work. Archie Clavering, who had duly weighed himself, could hardly bring himself to believe that Lady Ongar would be fool enough to marry him! Seven thousand a year, with a park and farm in Surrey, and give it all to himhim, Archie Clavering, who had, so to say, no weight at all! Archie Clavering, for one, could not bring himself to believe it. But yet Hermy, her sister, thought it possible; and though Hermy was, as Archie had found out by his invisible scales, lighter than Julia, still she must know something of her sisters nature. And Hugh, who was by no means lightwho was a man of weight, with money and position, and firm ground beneath his feethe also thought that it might be so. Faint heart never won a fair lady, said Archie to himself a dozen times, as he walked down to the Rag. The Rag was his club, and there was a friend there whom he could consult confidentially. No; faint heart never won a fair lady; but they who repeat to themselves that adage, trying thereby to get courage, always have faint hearts for such work. Harry Clavering never thought of the proverb when lie went a-wooing. But Captain Boodle of the Ragfor Captain Boodle always lived at the 1 6 THE CLAYERINGS. Rag when he was not at INewmarket, or at other race-courses, or in~ the neighborhood of Market HarboroughCaptain Boodle knew a thing or two, and Captain Boodle was his fast friend. He would go to Boodle and arrange the campaign with him. Boodle had none of that hectoring, domineering way which Hugh never quite threw off in his intercourse with his brother. And Archie, as he went along, resolved that when Lady Ongars money was his, and when he had a countess for his wife, he would give his elder brother a cold shoulder. Boodle was playing pool at the Rag, and Archie joined him; but pool is a game which hardly admits of confidential intercourse as to proposed wives, and Archie was obliged to remain quiet on that subject all the afternoon. He cunningly, however, lost a little money to Boodle, for Boodle liked to win, and engaged himself to dine at the same table with his friend. Their dinner they ate almost in silenceunless whcn they abused the cook, or made to each other some pithy suggestion as to the expediency of this or that deli- cacybearing always steadily in view the cost as well as desirability of the viands. Boodle had no shame in not having this or that because it was dear. To dine with the utmost luxury at the smallest expense was a proficiency belonging to him, and of which he was very proud. But after a while the cloth was gone, and the heads of the two men were brought near together over the small table. Boodle did not speak a word till his brother captain had told his story, had pointed out all the advantages to be gained, explained in what peculiar way the course lay open to himself, and made the whole thing clear to his friends eye. They say shes been a little queer, dont they?~ said the friendly coun- ,sellor. Of course people talk, you know. Talk, yes; theyre talking a doosed sight, I should say. Theres no mis- take about the money, I suppose? Oh, none, said Archi.e, shaking his head vigorously. Hugh managed all that for her, so I know it. She dont lose any of it because she enters herself for running again, does she? Not a shilling. Thats the beauty of it. Was you ever sweet on her before? What! before Ongar took her? 0 laws, no. She hadnt a rap, you know; and knew how to spend money as well as any girl in London. Its all to begin then, Clavvy; all the up-hill work to be done? Well, yes; I dont know about up-hill, Doodles. What do you mean by up-hill? I mean that seven thousand a year aint usually to be picked up merely by trotting easy along the fiat. And this sort of work is very up-hill, generally, I take itunless, you know, a fellow has a fancy for it. If a fellow is really sweet on a girl, he likes it, I suppose. Shes a doosed handsome woman, you know, Doodles. I dont know anything about it, except that I suppose Ongar wouldnt have taken her if she hadut stood well on her pasterns, and had some breed- ing about her. I never thought much of her sisteryour brothers wife, you knowthat is, in the way of looks. No doubt she runs straight, and thats a great thing. She wont go the wrong side of the post. As for running straight, let me alone for that. THE CLAYERINGS. 7 Well, now, Clavvy, Ill tell you what my ideas are. When a mans try- ing a young filly, his hands cant be too light. A touch too much will bring her on her haunches, or throw her out of her step. She should hardly feel the iron in her mouth. Thats the sort of work which requires a man to know well what hes about. But when Ive got to do with a trained mare, 1 always choose that she shall know that Im there! Do you understand me? Yes; I understand you, Doodles. I always choose that she shall know that Im there. And Captain Boo- dle, as he repeated these manly words with a firm voice, put out his hands as though he were handling the horses rein. Their mouths are never so fine then, and they generally want to be broughf up to the bit, dye see ?up to the bit. When a mare has been trained to her work, and knows what shes at in her running, shes all the better for feeling a fellows hands as shes going. She likes it rather. It gives her confidence, and makes her know where she is. And look here, Clavvy, when she comes to her fences, give her her head; but steady her first, and make her know that youre there. Dam- me, whatever you do, let her know that youre there. Theres nothing like it. Shell think all the more of the fellow thats piloting her. And look here, Clavvy; ride her with spurs. Always ride a trained mare with spurs. Let her know that theyre on; and if she tries to get her head, give em her. Yes, by George, give em her. And Captain Boodle, in his energy, twisted himself in his chair, and brought his heel round, so that it could be seen by Archie. Then he produced a sharp click with his tongue, and made the pe- culiar jerk with the muscle of his legs, whereby he was accustomed to evoke the agility of his horses. After that, he looked triumphantly at his friend. Give em her, Clavvy, and shell like you the better for it. Shell know, then, that you mean it. It was thus that Captain Boodle instructed his friend Archie Clavering how to woo Lady Ongar; and Archie, as he listened to his friends words of wis~ dom, felt that he had learned a great deal. Thats the way Ill do it, Doo- dles, he said, and upon my word Im very much obliged to you. Thats the way, you may depend on it. Let her know that youre there let her know that youre there. Shes done the filly work before, you see; and its no good trying that again. Captain Clavering really believed that he had learned a good deal, and that he now knew the way to set about the work before him. What sort of spurs he was to use, and how he was to put them on, I dont think he did know; hut that was a detail as to which he did not think it necessary to consult his adviser. He sat the whole evening in the smoking-room, very silent, drinking slowly iced gin-and-water; and the more he drank, the more assured he felt that he flow understood the way in which he was to attempt the work before him. Let her know Im there, he said to himself, shaking his head gently, so that no one should observe him; yes, let her know Im there. At this time Cap- tain Boodleor Doodles, as he was familiarly calledhad again ascended to the billiard-room, and was hard at work. Let her know that Im there, repeated Archie, mentally. Everything was contained in, that precept. And he, with his hands before him on his knees, went through the process of steadying a horse with the snaffle-rein, just touching the curb, as he did so, for security. It was but a motion of his fin~ers, and no one could see it; but it made him confident that he had learned his lesson. Up to the hit, he repeated; by George, yes, up to the bit. Theres nothing like it for a S THE CLAYERINGS. trained mare. Give her head, hut steady her. And Archie, as the words passed across his memory, and were almost pronounced, seemed to be flying successfully over some prodigious fence. He leaned himself back a little in the saddle, and seemed to hold firm with his legs. That was the way ko do it. And then the spurs I He would not forget the spurs. She should know that he wore a spur, and that, if necessary, he would use it. Then he, too, gave a little click with his tongue, and an acute observer might have seen the motion of his heel. Two hours after that he was still sitting in the smoking-room, chewing the end of a cigar, when Doodles came down victorious from the billiard-room. Archie was half asleep, and did not notice the entrance of his friend. Let her know that youre there, said Doodles, close into Archie Claverings ear; damme, let her know that youre there. Archie started, and did not like the surprise, or the warm breath in his ear; but he forgave the offence for the wisdom of the words that had been spoken. Then he walked home by himself, repeating again and again the invaluable teachings of his friend. During breakfast on the following d~ywhich means from the hour of one till two, for the glasses of iced gin-an~~een manyArchie Claver- ing was making up his mind that l~ould_begin at once. He would go to Bolton Street on that day, and mak~att~Ppt to be admitted. If not ad- snitted to-day, he would make another attempt -morrow; and, if still un- successful, he would write a letternot a letter con ining an offer, which, according to Archies ideas, would not be letting her know that he was there in a manner sufficiently potential; but a letter in which he would explain that he h~4 very grave reasons for wishing to see his near and dear connec- tion, Lady Ongar. Soon after two he sallied out, and he also went to a hair- dressers. He was aware that in doing so he was hardly obeying his friend to the letter, as this sort of operation would come rather under the head of handling a Wily with alight touch; but he thought that he could in this way, at any rate, do no harm, if he would only remember the instructions he had received when in the presence of the trained mare. CHAPTER XX. CAPTAW CLAVERING MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. IT was nearly three when Archie Clavering found himself in Bolton Street, having calculated that Lady Ongar might be more probably found at home then than at a later hour. But when he came to the door, instead of knock- ing, he passed byit. He began to remember that he had not yet made up his mind by what means he would bring it about that she should certainly know that he was there. So he took a little turn up the street, away from Picca- dilly, through a narrow passage that there is in those parts, and by some sta- bles, and down into Piccadilly, and again to Bolton Street, during which lit- tle tour he had made up his mind that it could hardly become his duty to teach her that great lesson on this occasion. She must undoubtedly be taught to know that he was there, but not so taught on this, his first visit. That lesson should quickly precede his offer; and, although he had almost hoped, in the interval between two of his beakers of gin-and-water on the preceding evening, that he might ride the race and win it altogether during this very morning visit he was about to make, in his cooler moments he had CAPTAIN CLAVERING MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. THE CLAYERINGS. 9 begun to reflect that that would hardly be practicable. The mare must get a gallop before she would be in a condition to be brought out. So Archie knocked at the door, intending merely to give the mare a gallop if he should find her in to-day. He gave his name, and was shown at once up into Lady Ongars drawing- room. Lady Ongar was not there, but she soon came down, and entered the room with a ~mile on her face and with an outstretched hand. Between the man-servant who took the captains name, and the maid-servant who carried it up to her mistress, but who did not see the gentleman before she did so, there had arisen some mistake; and Lady Ongar, as she came down from her chamber above, expected that she was to meet another man. Harry Claver- ing, she thought, had come to her at last. Ill be down at once, Lady Ongar had said, dismissing the girl, and then standing for a moment before her mirror as she smoothed her hair, obliterated, as far as it might be possi- ble, the ugliness of her cap, and shook out the folds of her dress. A countess, a widow, a woman of the world who had seen enough to make her composed under all circumstances, one would saya trained mare, as Doodles had called hershe stood before her glass, doubting and trembling like a girl, when she heard that Harry Claveriug was waiting for her below. We may surmise that she would have spared herself some of this trouble had she known the real name of her visitor. Then, as she came slowly down the stairs, she re- flected how she would receive him. He had stayed away from her, and she would be cold to himcold and formal as she had been on the railway plat- form. She knew well how t~ play that part. Yes, it was his turn now to show some eagerness of friendship, if there was ever to be anything more than friendship between them. But she changed all this as she put her hand upon the look of the door. She would be honest to himhonest and true. She was, in truth, glad to see him, and he should know it. What cared she now for the common ways of women and the usual coyness of feminine co- quetry? She told herself also, in language somewhat differing from that which Doodles had used, that her filly days were gone by, and that she was now a trained mare. All this passed through her mind as her hand was on the door, and then she opened it, with a smiling face and ready hand, to find herself in the presence ofCaptain Archie Clavering. The captain was sharp-sighted enough to observe the change in her man- ner. The change, indeed, was visible enough, and was such that it at once knocked out of Archies breast some portion of the courage with which his friends lessons had inspired him. The outsretched hand fell slowly to her side, the smile gave place to a look of composed dignity, which made Archie at once feel that the fate which called upon him to woo a countess was in itself hard. And she walked slowly into the room before she spoke to him, or he to her. Captain Clavering! she said at last, and there was much more of sur- prise than of welcome in her words as she uttered them. Yes, Lady On, Julia, that is; I thought I might as well come and call, as I found we werent to see you at Clavering when we were all there at Easter. When she had been living in his brothers house as one of the fam- ily, he had called her Julia as Hugh bad done. The connection between them had been close, and it had come naturally to him to do so. He had thought much of this since his present project had been initiated, and had strongly re- solved not to lose the advantage of his former familiarity. He had very 10 THE CLAYERINGS. nearly broken down at the onset, but, as the reader will have observed, had recovered himself. You are very good, shesaid; and then, as he had been some time stand- ing with his right hand presented to her, she just touched it with her own. - Theres nothing I hate so much as stuff and nonsense, said Archie. To this remark she simply bowed, remaining awfully quiet. Captain Clavering felt that her silence was in truth awful. She had always been good at talk- ing, and he had paused for her to say something; but when she bowed to him in that stiff manner doosed stiff she was; doosed stiff, and impudent, too, he told Doodles afterwardhe knew that he must go on himself. Stuff and nonsense is the mischief, you know. Then she bowed again. Theres been something the matter with them all down at Clavering since you came home, Julia; but hang me if I can find out What it is 1 Still she was silent. It aint Hermy; that I must say. Hermy always speaks of you as though there had never been anything wrong. This assurance, we may say, must have been flattering to the lady whom he was about to court. Hermy was always too good to me, said Lady Ongar, smiling. By George, she always does. If theres anything wrong its been with Hugh; and, by George, I dont know what it is he was up to when you first came home. It wasnt my doingof course you know that. I never thought that anything was your doing, Captain Clavering. I think Hugh had been losing money; I do indeed. He was like a bear with a sore head just at that time. There was no living in the house with him. I daresay Hermy may have told you all about that. Hermione is not by nature so communicative as you are, Captain Clavering. Isnt she? I should have thought between sisters; but of course thats no business of mine. Again she was silent, awfully silent, and he became aware that he must either get up and go away or carry on the conversation himself. To do either seemed to be equally difficult, and for a while he sat there almost gasping in his misery. He was quite aware that as yet he had not made her know that he was there. He was not there, as he well knew, in his friend Doodles sense of the word. At any rate there isnt any good in quarrelling, is there, Julia? he said at last. Now that he had asked a question, surely she must speak. There is great good sometimes, II think, said she, in people remaining apart and not seeing each other. Sir Hugh Clavering has not quarrelled with me, that I am aware. Indeed, since my marriage there have been no means of quarrelling between us. But I think it quite as well that he and I should not come together. But he particularly wants you to go to Clavering. Has he sent you here as his messenger? Sent me! oh dear no; nothing of that sort. I have come altogether on my own hook. If Hugh wants a messenger he must find some one else. But you and I were always friends you know at this assertion she opened her large eyes widely, and simply smiled and I thought that perhaps you might be glad to see me if I called. That was all. You are very good, Captain Clavering. I couldnt bear to think that you should be here in London, and that one shouldnt see anything of you or know anything about you. Tell me now; is there anything I can do for you? Do you want anybody to settle anything for you in the city? THE CLAYERIINGS. 11 I think not, Captain Clavering; thank you very much. Because I should be so happy; I should indeed. Theres nothing I should like so much as to make myself useful in some way. Isnt there anything now? There must be so much to be looked afterabout money and all that. My lawyer does all that, Captain Clavering. Those fellows are such harpies. There is no end to their charges; and all for doing things that would on!y be a pleasure to me. Im afraid I cant employ you in any matter that would suit your tastes. Cant you indeed, now? Then again there was a silence, and Captain Clavering was beginning to think that he must go. He was willing to work hard at talking or anything else; but he could not work if no ground for starting were allowed to him. He thought he must go, though he was aware that hh had not made even the slightest preparation for future obedience to his friends precepts. He began to feel that he had commenced wrongly. He should have made her know that he was there fromthe first moment of her entrance into the room. He must retreat now in order that he might advance with more force on the next occasion. He had just made up his mind to this and was doubting how he might best get himself out of his chair with the purpose of going, when sudden relief caine in the shape of another visitor. The door was thrown open and Madam Gordeloup was announced. Well, my angel, said. the little woman, running up to her friend and kissing her on eifher side of her face. Then she turned round as though she had only just seen the strange gentleman, and curtseyed to him. Captain Clavering, holding his hat in both his hands, bowed to the little woman. My sisters brother-in-law, Captain Clavering, said Lady Ongar. Madam Gordeloup. Captain Clavering bowed again. Ah, Sir Qos brother, said Madam Gordeloup. I am very glad to see Captain Claverh~ig; and is your sister come? No; my sister is not come. Lady Clavering is not in town this Spring, said the captain. Ah, not in town I Then I do pity her. There is only de,one place to live in, and that is London, for April, May, and June. Lady Clavering is not coming to London? Her little boy isnt quite the thing, said the captain. Not quite de ting? said the Franco-Pole in an inquiring voice, not exactly understanding the gentlemans language. My little nephew is ill, and my sister does not think it wise to bring him to London. Ah; that is a pity. And Sir Oo? Sir Qo is in London ? Yes, said the captain; my brother has been up some time. And his lady left alone in the country? Poor lady! But your English ladies like the country. They are fond of the fields and the daisies. So they say; but I think often they lie. Me; I like the houses, ahd the people, and the pav6. The fields are damp, and I love not rheumatism at all. Then the little woman shrugged her shoulders and shook herself. Tell us the truth, Julie; which do you like best, the town or the country? Whichever Im not in, I think. Ah, just so. Whichever you are not in at present. That is because you are still idle You have not settled yourself! At this reference to the pos 12 THE CLAYERINGS. sibility of Lady Ongar settling herself, Captain Clavering pricked up his ears, and listened eagerly for what might come next. He only knew of one way in which a young woman without a husband could settle herself. You must wait, my dear, a little longer, just a little longer, till the time of your trouble has passed by. Dont talk such nonsense, Sophie, said the countess. Ah, my dear, it is no nonsense. I am always telling her, Captain Claver-. ing, that she must go through this black, troublesome time as quick as she can; and then nobody will enjoy the town so much as de rich and beautiful Lady Ongar. Is it not so, Captain Clavering? Archie thought that the time had now come for him to say something pretty, so that his love might begin to know that he was there. By George, yes, therell be nobody so much admired when she comes out again. There never was anybody so much admired beforebeforethat is, when you were Julia Brabazon, you know; and I shouldnt wonder if you didnt cume out quite as strong as ever.~~ As strong!~ said the Franco-Pole. A woman that has been married is always more admired than a meess. Sophie, might I ask you and Captain Clavering to be a little less personal? There is noting I hate so much as your mees~es, continued Madam Gordeloup; noting! Your English meesses give themselves such airs. Now in Paris, or in dear Vienna, or in St. Petersburg, they are not like that at all. There they are nobodiesthey are nobodies; but then they will be something very soon, which is to be better. Your English meess is so much and so grand; sbe never can be greater. and grander. So when she is a mamma, she lives down in the country by herself, and looks after de pills and de powders. I dont like that. I dont like that at all. No; if my husband had put me into the country to look after de pills and de powders, he should have had them all, allhimself, when he came to see me. As she said this with great energy, she opened her eyes wide, and looked full into Archies face. Captain Clavering, who was sitting with his hat in his two hands between his knees, stared at the little foreigner. He had heard before of women poisoning their husbands, but never had heard a woman advocate the system as expedient. Nor had he often heard a woman advocate any system with the vehemence which Madam Gordeloup now displayed on this matter, and with an allusion which was so very pointed to the special position of his own sister-in-law. Did Lady Ongar agree with her? He felt as though he should like to know his Julias opinion on that matter. Sophie, Captain Clavering will think that you are in earnest, said the countess, laughing. So I aimin earnest. It is all wrong. You boil all the water out of de pot before you put the gigot into it. So the gigot is no good, is tough and dry, and you shut it up in an old house in the country. Then, to make mat- ters pretty, you talk about de fields and de daisies. I know. Thauk you, .E should say. Dc fields and de daisies are so nice and so good! Suppose you go down, my love, and walk in de fields, and pick de daisies, and send them up to me by de railway! Yes, that is what I would say. Captain Clavering was now quite in the dark, and began to regard the little woman as a luuatic. When she spoke of the pot and the gigot he vainly endeavored to follow her; and now that she had got among the daisies he was more at a loss than ever. Fruit, vegetables, and cu.t flowers came up, he THE CLAVERINGS. 13 knew, to London regularly from Clavering, when the family was in town but no daisies. In France it must, he supposed, be different. He was aware, however, of his ignorance, and said nothing. No one ever did try to shut you up, Sophie I No, indeed; M. Gordeloup knew better. What would he do if I were shut up? And no one will ever shut you up, my dear. If I were you, I would give no one a chance. Dont say that, said the captain, almost passionately; dont say that. Ha, ha! but I do say it. Why should a woman who has got everything ~narry again? If she wants de fields and de daisies she has got them of her ownyes, of her own. If she wants de town, she has got that, to). Jewels she can go and buy them. Coachesthere they are. Partiesone, two, three, every night, as many as she please. Gentlemen, who will be her hum- ble slaves; such a plentyall London. Or, if she want to be alone, no one can come near her. Why should she marry? No. But ~he might be in love with somebody, said the captain, in a surprised but humble tone. Love! Bah! Be in love, so that she may be shut up in an old barrack with de powders! The way in which that word barrack was pronounced, and the middle letters sounded, almost lifted the captain off his seat. Love is very pretty at seventeen, when the imagination is telling a parcel of lies, and when life is one dream. To like peopleoh, yes; to he very fond of your friend ;oh, yes; to be most attachedas I am to my Julie here she got hold of Lady Ongars hand it is the salt of life! But what you call love, booing and cooing, with rhymes and verses about de moon, it is to go back to pap and panade, and what you call bibs. No; if a woman wants a house, and de something to live on, let her marry a husband; or if a man want to have children, lethini marry a wife. But to be shut up in a country house, when everything you havegot of your ownI say it is bad Captain Clavering was heartily sorry that he had mentioned the fact ~f his sister-in-law being left at home at Clavering Park. It was most unfortunate. How could he ~make it understood that if he Were married he would not think of shutting his wife up at Ongar Park ? Lady Clavering, you know, does come to London generally, he said. Bah I exclaimed the little Franco-Pole. And a~ forme, I never should be happy, if I were married, unless I had my wife with me everywhere, said Captain Clavering. Bah-ah-ah! ejaculated the lady. Captain Clavering could not endure this any longer. He felt that the manner of the lady was, to say the least of it, unpleasant, and he perceived that he was doing no good to his own cause. So he rose from his ~hair and muttered some words with the intention of showing his purpose of departure. Good-by, Captain Clavering, said Lady Ongar. My love to my sister when you see her. Archie shook hands with her and then made his bow to Madam Gordeloup. Au revoir, my friend, she said, and you remember all I say. It is not good for de wife to be alone in the country, while de husband walk about in the town and make an ~ye to every lady he see. Archie would not trust himself to renew the argument, but bowing again, made his way off. He was come for one admirer, said Sophie, as soon as the door was closed. 14 THE CLAYERINGS. An admirer of whom? Not of me; oh, no; I was not in danger at all. Of me? Captain Clavering! Sophie, you get your head full of the strangest nonsense. Ah; very well. You see. What will you give me if I am right? Will you bet? Why had he got on his new gloves, and had his head all smelling with stuff from de hair-dresser? Does he come always perfumed like that? Does he wear shiny little boots to walk about in de morning, and make an eye always? Perhaps yes. I never saw his boots or his eyes. But I see them. I see many things. He come to have Ongere Park for his own. I tell you, yes. Ten thousand will come to have Ongere Park. Why not? To have Ongere Park and all de money a man will make himself smell a great deal. You think much more about all that than is necessary. Do I, my dear? Very well. There are three already. There is Edouard, and there is this Clavering, who you say is a captain; and there is the other Clavering who goes with his nose in the air, and who thinks himself a clever fellow because he learned his lesson at school and did not get himself whipped. He will be whipped yet some dayperhaps. Sophie, hold your tongue. Captain Clavering is my sisters brother-in- law, and Harry Clavering is my friend. Ah, friend! I know what sort of friend he wants to be. How much bet- ter to have a park and plenty of money than to work in a ditch and make a railway! But he do not know the way with a woman. Perhaps he may be more at home, aa you say, in the ditch. I should say to him, My friend, you will do well in de ditch if you work hard; suppose you stay there. You dont seem to like my cousin, and, if you please, we will talk no more about him. Why should I not like him? He dont want to get any money from me. That will do, Sophie. Very well; it shall do for me. But this other man that come here to- day. He is a fool. Very likely. He did not learn his lesson without whipping. Nor with whipping either. No; he have learned nothing. He does not know what to do with his hat. He is a fool. Come, Julie, will you take me out for a drive. It is mel- ancholy for you to go alone; I came to ask you for a drive. Shall we go? And they did go, Lady Ongar and Sophie Gordeloup together. Lady Ongar, as she submitted, despised herself for her submission; but what was she to do ? It is sometimes very difficult to escape from the meshes of friendship. Captmin Clavering, when he left Bolton Street, went down to his club, hav- ing first got rid of his shining boots and new gloves. He sauntered up into the billiard-room knowing that his friend would be there, and there he found Doodles with his coat off, the sleeves of his shirt turned back, and arnied with his cue. His brother captain, the moment that he saw him, presented the cue at his breast. Does she know youre there, old fellow; I say, does she know youre there? The room was full of men, and the whole thing was done so publicly that Captain Clavering was almost offended. Come, Doodles, you go on with your game, said he; its you to play. THE CLAVERINGS. 15 Doodles turned to the t ble, and scientifically pocketed the ball on which he played; then laid his own ball close under the cushion, picked up a shilling and put it into his waistcoat pocket, holding a lighted cigar in his mouth the while, and then he came back to his friend. Well, Clavvy, how has it been? Oh, nothing as yet, you know. Havent you seen her? Yes, Ive seen her, of course. Im not the fellow to let the grass grow under my feet. Ive only just come from her house. Well, well? Thats nothing much to tell the first day, you know. Did you let her know you were there? Thats the chat. Damme, did you let her know you were there? In answer to this Archie attempted to explain that he was not as yet quite sure that he had been successful in that particular; but in the middle of his story Captain Doodles was called off to exercise his skill again, and on this occasion to pick up two shillings. Im sorry for you, Griggs, he said, as a very young lieutenant, whose last life he had taken, put up his cue with a look of ineffable disgust, and whose shilling Doodles had pocketed; Im sorry for you, very; but a fellow must play the game, you know. Whereupon Griggs walked out of the room with a gait that seemed to show that he had his own ideas upon that matter, though he did not choose to divulge them. Doodles instantly returned to his friend. With cattle of that kind its no use trying thewaiting dodge, said he. You should make your running at once, and trust to bottom to carry you through. But there was a horrid little Frenchwoman came in? What; a servant? No; a friend. Such a creature! You should have heard her talk. A kind of confidential friend she seemed, who called her Julie. I had to go away and leave her there, of course. Ah! youll have to tip that woman. What, with money? I shouldnt wonder. It would come very expensive. A tenner now and then, you know. She would do your business for you. Give her a brooch first, and then offer to lend her the money. Youd find shell rise fast enough, if youre any hand for throwing a fly. Oh! I could do it, you know. Do it then, and let em both know that youre there. Yes, Parkyns, Ill divide. And, Clavvy, you can come in now in Griggs place. Then Captain Clavering stripped himself for the battle. REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLANDI THE public mind has been so much occupied by the German and Italian troubles, during the past six or eight weeks, that less attention has been centred on English affairs than would have been the case in a period of general tranquillity. A very brief survey of the situation in England, as it has been and as it is, however, will convince the least excitable reader that it is not a little serious. It is a remarkable feature in the Germano-Italian contest, that, in the danger threatening each nationality, the internal revolutionary feeling of each seems to have been quite dormant. I mean, that in Italy we have heard nothing of Mazzini crying out against the monarchical system, or Garibaldi insisting on marching to Rome; in Austria, nothing of the wrongs done to Hungary by the Empire; in Prussia, nothing of the presumptuous contempt of Bismark for the people. On the contrary, we have seen Gari- baldi answering with alacrity the summons of the warrior-king of Italy to the field; Hungary hastening, with wonderful unanimity, to crowd volunteers into the Imperial army, and to vote moneys for their sustenance; and the great Liberal party of Prussia insisting that Bismark, with all his faults, was now the representative of German unity, and that as such he was entitled to the good will of every Prussian heart. Within their own limits, therefore, each of these powers has been a unitthe government has received the universal, or almost universal, popular support. The position of affairs in England is exactly the converse of this. She is at peace with all the outside world; within, she is disordered to the very vitals. I had occasion some time ago, in an article on English parties, in THE GALAXY, to point out the fact that party lines in that country were fast becoming the frontiers between the classes. I assumed that the seceding Liberals, who so nearly caused the defeat of the Russell Ministry in the first vote taken on the Franchise bill, were actuated by feelings repugnant to th~ transfer of political power from the aristocratic to the numerous popular class. Events are daily proving that the conjecture was a correct one. Finally, enough who had been classed as Liberals, who had pretended to be reformersfor what reason each one of them best knowswere mustered together to overbear the ministers, and to fill the vote of the opposition to eleven majority. Chancellor Gladstone, whether rashly or not the events of the coming year must show, had pledged the cabinet to stand or fall by the bill, in its general features, and its necessary details. The question upon which the adverse majority was gained being considered by him and his colleagues as a necessary detail, the seals of office were thrown up, and Mr. Gladstone has taken his seat on the other side of the House of Commons. Both the state of things on the continent, and the feeling of the English people at home, made this action, if a necessary one, ~t least a very unfortunate one. The aristocratic class, represented by the reactionary Tory party, headed by the able and eloquent Earl of Derby, was, of course, the only resort for the reins of power. That nobleman, after an REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLAND. 17 attempt to seduce the recreant Liberals to a complete disseverance of their old party ties, has been finally forced to seek his sole support from the regular Tory ranks. Nothing is clearer to the mind which has watched the progress of late events, than that the cabinet thus newly constructed is unanimously inimical to any further extension of the suffrage. It may be that, to gain time, Lord Derby may announce his intention to bring in a Reform bill, and, if his administration lasts long enough, it would not he surprising to see a bill pretending to be such a measure actually laid before Parliament. But it will not be done unless by a sore necessity, and if done, the bill will be reformatory in name alone. The division line betwecn those who would sustain the power of the aristocracyits unjust influence in the si~ateand those who are really in earnest to secure to the English people the predominance in the government, is very rapidly becoming more distinct. The events of the coming year must make the question a direct issue. There are Various considerations which lead us to the opinion that England at this moment is in a state of revolution. It was asserted when the late Reform bill was laid before Parliament that there was no public demand for such a measurethat there was apathy everywherethat the people were quite indifferent in the matter. It was urged that there was no necessity for a reform in which those whom it proposed to benefit took no interest what- ever. And there did, at that time, seem to be considerable ground for this assertion. There was no popular enthusiasmpopular meetings were cold and forced; it was the hardest thing in the world to get up anything like a successful endorsement of the measure in the provinces. The sequel has proved, however, that, notwithstanding the difficulty there was in eliciting it, there is a very general feeling in England in favor of reform; nay, recent events show that the English people are at last awake to the question, and that a very large majority of them demand, in no mincing terms, that there should be an extension of the suffrage. A great shout of indignation has gone up all over the land, protesting against the accession of the Tories to power, calling for a dissolution of 4his renegade Parliament, and apostro- phizing Mr. Gladstone as the champion of English rights and justice. The meetings, especially, which have taken place in the metropolis, may well alarm the reactionists who now, in a moment of such excitement, have assumed the control of the English internal and foreign policy. Tens of thousanJs have met together there to proclaim their demand for reform; and they have not been, according to those who are entirely competent to judge, composed only of the ucum and rabble, but the larger part have consisted of hard-working, honest, determined operatives, now deprived of what they have come to consider their proper rights in the commonwealth. Similar meetings have been held, and continue to be held, throughout England; and it is no longer uncertain what the popular will is on the subject of reform. Mr. Gladstone, who has proved himself a far-seeing as well as a quick-witted statesman, has declared that he saw no cause for despondency in the defeat of the Government of which he was lately the leading member. The cause of reform, according to him, is not likely to suffer from this reverse. In an ad- mirable letter declining an invitation to address svpopular meeting, he said: I look upon the recent resignation by Lord Russells government of their offices as one more onward step toward the accomplishment of their object; and in the hour of defeat I have the presentiment of victory. A heroic thought truly, and quite worthy of its author. Even had the Reform bill, 18 REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLAND. lately thrown out, been carried, it would only have been by a bare majority; the triumph would have been a hard one; its fruits would have been far from complete. The measure was a moderate one, and was purposely made so, that all who were truly favorable to reform could honestly support it. The issue has proved that even, a moderate measure could not receive the votes of a, majority of the present Parliamentthat a number of the aristocratic class and their partizans having been finally unmasked of necessity, were, although pro- fessing it, no reformers at all. A beneficial result has been to dearly distin- guish the true from the false reformers, to make secret enemies proclaim their hostility in open day, and to show the nation who may and who may not be intrusted with the work of renovating the constitution. A moderate reform~ contrary to the public will, has been rejected; a reactionary government, in defiance of the popular will, has ~ssumed the power; what is to be the sequel? Who does not believe that this is incipient revolution? Read history; see a country gradually approaching constitutionalism by peaceable modifications; see the forced entrance of a reactionary element upon the scene, one which refuses to bend to the steady current, which rears itself to oppose it; has not it always been the case that the current has be- come a torrent, and that the unbending barrier has broken at its foundation and been swept away? The barrier may be strong enough to hold its own for a time, but the waters above increase ten-fold in velocity and pressure every moment, and a crash must finally ensue. Now, is the power of the aristocracy in England strong enough at the present day to match itself against the strong, set will of the working classes, and to defy them? Can the Earl of Derby with his half a dozen majority in the House of Commons, deliberately, and without a shock recoiling on himself, set aside this vital question of reform? Can he afford todally with itto p!ay with the indig- nation, the imperative demand of a whole people? It requires very little study of English political historyyou can compre- hend the whole situation by reading up the political events between 1832 and 1866to see that since the Grey reform, commerce and manufacture have be- come the stout sirrew of English strength, and that the influence of the aristocracy has been dwindling wittr ee~e~ returning year. And, if in 1832 the aristocracy had to suee~imb to pepular opinionif a body as proud and intractable as the House of Peers was then, with the Duke of Wellington at their head, was fain to sit silently and permit a measure to pass over their heads which curtailed vastly their political influenceis it probable that they will succeed in keeping down the spirit of reform in 1866? It has happened that, just as Lord Derby was in the act of assuming the head of the government, a remarkable example was set him in a very strange quarter. The seals of office were just about to pass into his hands at Lon- don, when it was announced that the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria had ceded Venetia to the Emperor Napoleonand by this act Venetia will join the sisterhood of Italian nationalities. The question with the Austrian was whether to bend or break; and, most wisely, with the full light of history failing upon him, he chose to bend. The act has saved his crown, his Em- pire, the nationality of the Austrian bond. Absolutism has, in his person, yielded in season to the demand of a fast-growing civilization. Many instances occur in history of monarchs saving their dynasties, if not their heads, by a timely and graceful concession. But that there should be a notable instance of this policy just at the moment when a reactionary cabinet was in the act REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLAND. 19 of taking possession of English affairs, seems almost a Providential warning to them to do likewise. There is all the more reason why Lord Derby should read clearly the signs of the times, in that he was one of the principal actors in the revolution of 1832. Then he was for reform; in the candor, generosity and ardor of his youth, he never doubted the principle, nor hesitated to advo- cate the practicability of reform. He saw the revolutionhow it rosehow it swept over the House of Lordshow it became a fact accomplished. Since then he has lived in the midst of events which were moulding history; he has seen the rise of new classes; the growing power of the intelligent poor, the waning of that obstinate veneration for antiquity and precedent which has too long kept living principles in the background. He is a man of unques- tionable ability, eloquence and high personal character; a ripe scholar; a lucid logician; profound in political science. Is it possible that such a man, with such an experience, will fail to read the signs of this modem time? Is it not strang~e that such a man should accept the direction of the government avowedly as the leader of a coterie in whom the aristocratic, prescriptionary class alone put any atom of trust? In ordinary times, Lord Derby might hope, by specious promises, by the influence which necessarily accompanies the pos- session of power, and by an energetic administration, to lure the popular mind for a while from the ideas of suffrage extension which now prevail. But these are not ordinary times. Lord Palmerston, the only statesman who could have lulled the fast-,rising storm, the only anti-reformer in. whom the English peo- ple could have put the least trust, has passed away. He was succeeded by two statesmen who avowed themselves ready and willing to extend the politi- cal power of the people. They proposed a bill to that endit was rejected by the treachery of men on whom they had been assured they could rely. The cause of the treachery is well understood in England throughout all classes; John Stuart Mill and Thomas Hughes, and John Bright and William E. Gladstone have taken good care that the cause of it should not be hid beneath the clouds of Mr. Lowes rhetoric, or behind the barriers of Lord Stanleys logic. And now, in the face of that treachery, the Tories assume the government. What situation has everj existed more provocative of revblution? The cup of reform was put to the lips of the people; they almost tasted it; and just as they were about to quaff the welcome draught, some of those who were holding the cup to their lips dashed it to the earth, and it was scattered in the dust. Beside the consideration that there is certainly a very intense popular feeling manifesting itself in England at the present time, demanding a re- form, there are other circumstances which would lead us to believe that the whole groundwork of public opinion is changing. One of the most powerful elements of protection to the monarchy and the aristocracy has always been the traditional and heartily felt loyalty to the royal family. Especially was this the case during the first twenty years of Queen Victorias reign. There was something in the idea of being governed by a young, simple-hearted, and accomplished maiden which was very attractive to English sentiment. Her domestic virtues, her purity, the grace with which she held the royal power, appealed most strongly to the affection of her subjects. She bore many children, and herself saw to it that they were well trained; and the English- man, always keenly appreciating the blessings and virtues of a home, saw With delight a model household instituted in the palace. The Prince whoni she had herself chosen to be her partner in the cares and luxuries of soy- 20 REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLAND. ereignty was, happily, a man of exalted character, who at once interested himself in his adopted country, and engaged with enthusiasm in the encour- agement of art and institutions of charity. During his life all went smooth- ly enough; he was the constant mentor of the Queen, and the devoted and ever watchful father of the heirs of the royal dignity. A very few yearsso few that we might almost count the time by monthshave witnessed a marked change of sentiment in England in regard to the reigning house. As the Queen has grown older, she has, unhappily, not increased the popular affec- tion for her. At first, faint murmurs only were heard, here and there; some hinted, ever so distantly, that there was something of affectation in her long- extended public manifestations of grief at the death of Prince Albert; others said that there was too much favoritism at the palace; others thought that she had grown proud and morose, and that she no longer exhibited that motherly affection for her people which had formerly drawn toward her so unanimous a loyalty. Such feelings have increased very much of late. It has been said that the Queen has become a spiritualist, and that on every occasion of importance she finds it necessary to consult the shade of her Albert. There has been observed a growing dislike of state affairs, and a growing reluctance to perform even those insignificant functions which at the present .day belong to the English sovereign. The last instance of this course was of so public a nature as to elicit a very wide expression of displeasure from the public. The programme of the Queens movements f~r the Summer had been made early in the Spring; but subsequently, this question of reform had become of so vital a nature, a ministerial crisis had become so imminent, and the consequences of such a crisis would certainly be so serious, that it became necessary for the ministers to suggest to Her Majesty that she had best so far modify her plans as to permit her remaining during the parlia- mentary session near the metropolis. The Queen, whose obstinacy is now matter of history, would not accept the advice of the ministers, but insisted on carrying out the original programme. A week or so before the ministerial defeat n the House of Commons, therefore, she posted ofi as had been ar- ranged, to the distant hills of Scotland, separated by a two days journey from London, and having nec4sarily but tardy Iacilities for communication therewith. The crisis came; the ministers were outvoted; they decided it necessary that they should lay their resignations at the Queens feet at once, before any further public business should be transacted; but the Queen was far off at Balmoral! It is one of her not very irksome duties to accept the resignatio.ns of cabinets, and to go through the form of transferring the seals of office to their already designated successors. Even when it became appar- ent, however, how urgent the need of her pre~ence near London was, she did not show the least disposition to hasten public business, but very leisurely designated a day a week off for her return. So that the whole public business of her three realms, in a very pressing time, when every hour was of im- portance, at the close of the Parliamentary session, and when all was suspense as to who the next cabinet was to consist ofeverything, had to await the deliberate pleasure of Her Majesty the Queen! This course called out what had never been s~en beforea public expression, on the part of some of the press, of the popular disapproval. It is well enough, some Englishmen said, to have a titularsovereign who has no power, if she will only do passably well the little she is required to do; but it is another thing to grant heavy subsidies to a sovereign for retarding the public business of the Kingdom. This oc REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLAND. 21 currence was certainly very unfortunate, coming, as it did, in a time of popu- lar ferment, just at the very time when people were thinking most seriously of their rights, and when treachery had just committed a fraud upon them. It was easy to see that the popular dislike of the aristocracy extended itself to royalty also. It is perhaps not too much to say that the Queen is unpop- ular in England; and that, whatever regard the loWer classes might have had for her in ordinary times, or if she had continued so to bear herself as to retain their heartfelt loyalty, as it is, regard for her will not seriously retard a revolutionary movement. Indeed, the whole aspect of royalty, as viewed from the present English standpoint, is not such as to strengthen the cause of aristocratic monarchy. The Prince of Wales, from a rather promising lad, has grown to be a boisterous, extravagant, fast young man; he takes fre- quent occasionand not seldom in publicto become intoxicated; he is rude to his superiors in age, coarse in his pleasures, and does not exhibit any apti- tude for books or for administration. Almost his only salient virtue is his conjugal devotion, and that in one born to kingship is certainly admirable. But it is just to assume that the Prince of Wales, as heir to the crown, has no hold upon either the sympathy, confidence or affection of the popular mass. One circumstance in regard to royalty has for years been a subject of private complaint among Englishmen, especially tax-payers. Nothingor rather but littlehas been said on the subject in the public prints, and noth- ing at all, I believe, in the Legislature. It is the great expense to which the country has been put to provide dowries and outfits for the children of the reigning house. Inasmuch as the Queen has been blessed with more than the average number of sons and daughters, it may easily be imagined that it is no small item to have to maintain and marry them in true princely style. What has been particularly annoying to the English has been that England has had to furnish the dowry in each case, whether a daughter was married or a son. It has become a saying, that England is the refuge for all the petty poverty-stricken German princes who could find no other means of support than to charge themselves with one of Victorias daughters. There was but little said when the two elder princesses were married and their dowry granted out of the English treasury; for it was thought that it was quite proper that dowry should accompany the lady. But when the Prince of Wales was married, and instead of his princess bringing a dower, a supply in the nature of a dower was voted her by her husbands government, much dissatisfaction thereat was expressed in private. The expense of a useless royal family, therefore, is a considerable burden on the people; it falls most heavily on the poorer classes, who provide the means; it increases year by year; and it may be taken as certain, though but little is heard about it in America, or, unless you go freely among the people, in England, that the fact is felt as a griev- ance, and a sore one; and has become all the more so since the decline of the Queens popularity. Added to the causes of dissatisfaction and of a desire for a progressive re- form as a remedy, we may, without self-glorification, attribute something of the craving for a more popular system to the success with which the empire of the United States has been maintained intact. People in England read vastly more now than they used to do, and they never knew a tithe as much of America as they know now. The complete success of the republican sys- tem has opened their eyes very wide; you would be surprised to see with what interest everything about America is read, and how rapidly the idea is 2 22 REFORM AND REVOLUTION IN ENGLAND. gaining ground that she has proved her government alike the most durable and the most free on the face of the earth. Americans may read with an honest exultation the tribute which Mr. Gladstone paid to American institu- tiohs in the House of Commons during the late memorable debate on reform; they may regard as not less significant the sneers of the aristocratic party in reply; and they may find food for congratulation to the people of England in the enthusiasm with which Mr. Gladstones words were caught up and echoed throughout the land. And, while speaking of the influence of America on English politics, it may be remarked that it is a significant fact, that Mr. Gladstone, once the favorite of the Tory chiefs, the pet of Wellington and Newcastle, has joined hand in hand with John Bright to achieve a reform in England. Not many years ago Mr. Gladstone would have scouted the idea of acting with John Bright; but Mr. Gladstone is a man who moves with his generation; his generation is fast coming up with John Bright; and Mr. Gladstone, once champion of Church and State, finds himself sailing side by side with the champion of complete political liberty. To these two great men are added such names as John Stuart Mill and Thomas Hughesand let it not be forgotten that Mill represents the aristocratic quarter of Westminster a wonderful thing to think of. That Mr. Gladstone and Earl Russell and the Duke of Argyll should be found in the same boat, to use an expressive vulgarism, with the front leaders of popular rights, shows clearly enough how rapidly the line is being drawn, and who of the aristocracy are willing, by bending, to save themselves. In the revolution which is taking place, the crisis of which Mr. Gladstone. anticipates in the remark quoted, no liberal mind sees anything to fear for England. That empire has passed through two bloodless revolul;ionsthat of 1688 and that of 1832-~-and she will be none the worse in any respect for the consummation of a third. The acces- sion of Toryism for the moment will, as Mr. Gladstone intimates, hasten rather than retard the end; for by repulsion it will give an impetus to the sentiment for reform which must quickly become irresistible. The blind and halting aristocracy, with their devotees behind them, will be perhaps peace- ably, certainly firmly, forced back to a proper position; the true life of free government, the great, energetic, working classes, will advance to the political ascendency. Whether monarchy wilt be retained, whether a hereditary chamber will continue to exercise legislative functions, whether a political church will be suffered to live out its waning life, events only can decideall may depend upon whether these elements bend or wait to be broken in the final crisis. We have not instanced the unpopularity and expensiveness of royalty to prove that it will be abolished, but only to show that it will not be a strong retarding force in the popular thought, by which the popular will will be postponed. It is not certain that England is prepared to unfasten her ancient mooringsit i8 doubtful whether she is prepared for a republican form. But she approaches it nearer every day; each reform prepares the way for another and a broader onestrengthens the hands of the people to stretch out and reach for more. As republicans, rather as the exemplars of the safety and the righteousness of popular liberty, and without jealousy, we must rejoice in the approach of the mother country to the end we have already reached. GEORGH M. TOWLE. HEARTS OF OAK AND STONEU CRAY rock on the rough New England shore By the wild Southeaster bruised and beaten,. Forever dinned by the sullen roar, By Times fierce tooth defaced and eaten,--.. Thick set on thy scarred and mangled brow The scourging marks of a thousand Winters, And bearing the track of the spoilers plough In thy yawning seams and jagged spiinters I Theres a secret in thy stony heart A secret hidden away for ages That I would wring, with a cruel art, To be written and read on human pages: Is there not, beneath that icy chill, Some struggling pulse that the mind may measure ?. Some spark from Gods own mind and will, That may writhe in pain and thrill in pleasure? Art thou never a-cold, thou gray old stone, In the Arctic blasts of the bleak December, When the cold creeps into the blood and bone, And penury sobs oer its dying ember? Art thou never lonely, and sad, and dread All night in the desolate darkness lying, With a starless sky, as if heaven were dead, And the storm-clouds black like spectres flying? Dost thou never shrink, when the fiend unlock~ The gates of the east wind wild and fran~tic, And the terrible gales of the equinox Gome sweeping in oer Lhe vexed Atlantic? When the angry surge breaks wild and high, A fury of foam over beaches and ledges, And the maddened waves, as they hurry by, Strike cruel and fierce as the Titan sledges? Dost thou never warm in the sun of May, When heaven is aglow and earth is laughing,- Till the tingling thrills through thy dull veins play, As ours when the lips pld wine are quaffing? 24 HEARTS OF OAK AND STONE. Dull stone !sad stone !no answer falls, Through those iron lips, to our human wonder; And none will be heard till the trumpet calls, And the rocks and the mountains shiver asunder. Rough oak, with the gnarled and tangled limbs, On the crest of the Delawares mountain ridges, Where the cloud through thy branches heavenward swims And the peaks seem piers of a~rial bridges ; With boughs all twisted, and rent, and torn, Where in Springs of old the song-birds nestled,. With bark all scaled, and shriveled, and worn, By-the gales thy giant arms have wrestled; Hast thou no voice, oh Heart of Oak? No answer the waiting ear to proffer, Of what, since th& clouds thy branches broke, It has been thy lot to joy and to suffer? Of the wind Euroclydon, that came And twisted away thy topmost branches? Of the levin bolt, whose angry flame At thy body the sultry August launches? When falls the pelting and pitiless rain, And high on the ridge thourt swaying and rocking, When the lights are gone from the villagers pane, And the shrieks of the blast seem demons mocking, When thy stoutest branches murmur and creak, Aad their toughest fibres seem failing and rotten, Has thy heart no despair, the thought to speak, That thy Maker the work of his hands has forgotten? Doesthe snow of the Winter neer chill thy root? Does the owl never fright thee with horrible raving? Dost thou envy no treeits golden fruit? Or feel the Spring breath that the world is laying? Is the tale of the Dryads false and vain The brain-sick dream of a weak romancer? Old Oak of the mountains, loose the chain what binds thee in silence, and hear, and answer! All dumball silent! Rock and Tree Keep hidden the secret by Heaven confided! Tis enough, oh dreamer 1enough for thee To be sure of the Hand that formed and guide.d. Let the ear lie close to old Natures breast; Ban the credulous fool, and contemn the despiser; Then wait, with a spirit calm and at rest, For the lore of the Age8 better and wiser! HENRY Monronn, FISA AND ITS UNIVERSITY. Y some strange injustice, the University of Pisa is frequently spoken of as B belonging to the past. It is true that it dates from ancient times. T~here are traces, according to Savigny, of the existence of a University there, even in the twelfth century. In the thirteenth, it was a place of considerable resort for the study of law. In the year 1344, Pope Clement VI. issued a bull formally establishing a University there. The earliest known printed statutes of this University are those of 1478, which include provisions for medical in- struction, and show that there were then two medical scholarships, endowed with twenty forms a year each. The University of Pisa, particularly its medical department, has been much more renowned than at present. It has to some extent declined with the de crease of the relative importance of the city. But the very quiet of Pisa makes it more favorable for study than the brilliant city of Paris, where pleasure and amusement frequently counteDact the great advantages offered to medical students. Pisa has settled into a respectable, quiet town, with a good Uni- versity possessing celebrated professors. There are daily medical lectures, an examination of those of the previous day, taking notes, reading the books recommended by the lecturers, and dissections; constituting a very thor- ough anatomical course. I have heard of surgeons of great eminence ex- pressing the utmost confidence in the University, and have known phy- sicians recommend their students to go there instead of to Paris. Indeed, some years since, one of Louis Napoleons physicians wrote a long letter after a visit to Pisa, which was published in one of the Florentine news- papers, speaking most highly of the instruction there, and attributing to it the superiority in many respects over the French schools. At the present exorbitant rates of living, it is quite impossible for parents of limited means to give their sons the advantages of an education in our large cities. But there is nothing to prevent young men from getting into a merchant vessel and sailing for Leghorn, and going thence by rail to Pisa. Two or three friends could take rooms together and live very economically, pleasantly and profitably. The full medical course is longer than in America, but unless time be particularly scarce, the years will be well filled, not only with professional studies, but with a new language, which will be a welcome addition, and an inevitable process of refinement will take place. The daily lis- tening to lectures, and conversation with the students, are very sure means of becoming familiar with Italian, though intercourse with the foreign students is often rather disagreeable than otherwise. Italy has yet to learn that labor is honorable; the young nobles are lazy and ignorant, and the young men of the middle classes who study the professions are too often coarse and ungen- tlemanly. The life of one who goes there expressly to devote himself to medicine is 26 PISA AND ITS UNIVERSITY. very quiet and simple. An anatomical lecture is given at half past nine, A. it.; notes are taken, authorities consulted, etc.; then follows a lecture on physiology. On alternate days there are lectures on chemistry. The profes- sor of anatomy is a wonderful lecturer, perfectly clear and lucid in his explana- tions. A great advantage of the school is in the abundance and cheapness of subjects for dissection. The Italians are allowed to have a great, if not the first, degree of proficiency in this branch, and the surgeons of Florence are among the first in the world. For $20 annually the free use of the dissecting room is allowed, and a certificate given of having been a regular student. Two nice bed-rooms and a parlor can be hired in Pisa for $10 a month, and an extra dollar will pay for care of rooms and cooking. These figures show that a good medical education can be had here for a tri- fling sum. Another advantage for a poor student is the prevailing cheapness of style in dress. It is generally supposed that all that is worth seeing in Pisa is concentrated in the few great objects of interestthe Cathedral, with its beautiful bronze doors, the Campanile, the Baptistery and the Campo Santo. A friend once remarked to us that these in themselves were enough to educate a young man, and when we consider how much of art, beauty and history are represented and preserved in those works, it is not such a meaningless exaggeration as it at first appears. With the form of the Campanile or Leaning Tower, every one is familiar. The privilege of seeing it often is a great one, and when this beauty and mys- tery rises before you by moonlight, a more vivid consciousness of the past is evoked than by almost any other single object in Europe. The German or Italian who laid the foundations and completed the building about A. D. 1174, little thought that his apparent1y perfected work would be crowned two centuries after by an eighth circular story, but it was well done, and made the proportions of the whole more harmonious. Will this beautiful, distorted cylinder fall? This problem will doubtless not be solved in our age, unless a most improbably violent earthquake should lay it in ruins; but Time is taking advantage of the treacberous soil, and slowly sapping its foundations. A brush of his wing in some future century will be the last f~ather which will break in pieces this shrine at which the world has paid homage so long. Pisa was remarkable in the Middle Ages for the great numbers of its towers. These, originally built by the nobles for purposes of defence, became afterward a fashionable mark of disthiction, and a great deal of ingenuity was displayed in the varieties of their architecture. How numerous these towers must have been, is proved by a curious fact not generally known. When a Pisan mason makes a contract to pull down a house, he always puts in a clause that if he comes across the remains of a tower built in with the house, he shall have a certain much larger rate of compensation. To one who makes Pisa his home, there will be many attractions beside those superb mon- uments of art, to which travellers merely give a hurried attention on their way to Florence and the other larger Italian cities. There is the sunny, cheerful street of the Lung Arno, the ancient palaces, gardens, etc. The climate is very mild and agreeable in the Winter, and in March the air begins to be so balmy that it is a pleasure to breathe. By the end of the college term, which lasts through June, the weather becomes sultry; for those who can consult their fancy there is a great cboice of mountain and sea-shore residences, where the heat is not troublesome. Leghorn, which is very near, PISA AND ITS UNIVERSITY. 27 has every facility for enjoying sea-bathing, but is crowded for a short time, and is rather .expensive. Viareggio is more quiet and affords superb sea- bathing. It is a delightful place for July and August. The baths of Lucca, which are easy of access, are very charming. Milnes has described the effect of this beautiful mountain retreat so skilfully, that it seems useless to write any words but his: What light, what sight, what form can be to us Beautiful as this gloom? We have come down alive and conscious Into a blessed tomb; We have left the world behind us, Her vexations cannot find us, We are too far away. There is something to gainsay In the life of every day; But in this delicious death We let go our mortal breath, Naught to feel, or hear, or see, But our hearts felicity; Naught with which to be at war, Naught to fret our shame and pride, Knowing only that we are, Caring not what ia beside. Siena is not faro~ and possesses a perfect Summer climate. Innumerable valleys and towns nestle in the Apennines, and pedestrians will find endless variety in their excursions. They may count everywhere upon bread, wine, lodginge (such as they are), and cordial civility. The convent at Vallombrosa should be visited by every traveller. The last mentioned, though one of the greatest recommendations of study- ing at Pisa, is that a few hours will suffice to bring the student into the midst of all the art and civilization collected in Florence. In his own department, he will find the anatomical models prepared in waz at the Museum worth visiting; and the well-appointed hospitals, open at all hours of the day, will invite his attention and interest. It is very surprising that, with all these advantages, the University of Pisa should be frequented almost exclusively by continental Europeans. Even the English, who have such large colonies in the Tuscan cities, and whose object is generally economy rather than the gratification of taste, very rarely send their young men there. Perhaps the difficulty they find in learning Italian may be one reason. It is an indispu. table fact that the Americans have much more facility in acquiring foreign languages than the English. Our travelling countrymen, who are not able, after some practice, to express their wants, are the exception; but with the English, it is precisely the reverse. I have known many of the latter, resi- dents in Florence for five, eight, or ten years, or even more, not able to ex- press themselves either grammatically or with an approach to the proper pro- nunciation. For this curious phenomenon there must be some reason. Per- haps they do not think the acquisition worth the trouble. An American is more impressible, more sympathetic, more talkative with the foreign servants (most important aids in learning familiar phrases), more amhitious of the ac- complishment, more mortified at failure. Perhaps the idea of studying in a new tongue may be discouraging to young men, but this is not so great an obstacle as they may anticipate. Let 28 ON CHRISTMAS EYE. them buy a grammar and dictionary, and devote their leisure hours on the voyage in laying a foundation. The mere landing at Leghorn, and journey to Pisa, will give them some vocabulary. They must remember that the Ital- ians are very conversable, and have a great interest in and admiration for strangers. It is certainly very rare for an American to speak the language really well, but a few months industriously employed will enable him to ex- press himself with tolerable ease, and to understand enough for convenience. Very soon he can take up the great poets, and will find himself able to com- prehend more than he anticipated. Of course, a good knowledge of Latin will be a very great advantage to him. He never must expect to rival an Italian in flexibility of vocal organs, in harmony between words and gestures, in play and expressiveness of features, in the use of the fingers, which are a natives ten allies Lo point his wit, in the endless variety of shrugs to enforce the meaning. In fact, the Italian is armed cc~p-d-pie for society, and his body and mind appear to be one. B. G. ON OHRISTMAS EVEU Wrra SHAKESPEARES SONNETS. WHAT can I give him, who so much hath given, VT That princely heart, so over-kind to me, Who, richly guerdoned both of earth and heaven, Holds for his friends his heritage in fee? No costly trinket of the golden ore, No precious jewel of the distant md; Ay me! these are not hoarded in my store, Who have no coffer~ save my grateful mind. What gift thennothing? Stay, this book of sc~g May show my poverty and his desert, Steeped as it is in love and loves sweet wrong, Red with the blood that ran through Shakespeares heart! Read it once more, and, fancy soaring free, Think, if thou canst, that I am singing thee! R. H. STODDARD. VERBAL ANOMALIES. TjMGURES, it is said, never lie. If this were true of words, also, there 1 would be no occasion for the present article. But by comparing the two sciences, Mathematics and Grammar, this marked contrast is observed be- tween them: that while the one is eact to the minutest details, the other i~ full of inaccuracies, ambiguities and inconsistencies. While we may very well doubt the assertion often ascribed to Talleyrand, that language was given us to conceal our thoughts, we must acknowledge that it is very well adapted for that purpose. Clergymen in thousands of churches all over the land expound, week after week, the meanings of little texts of two or three dozen words; our legisla~ tures sit to accumulate new words and cancel old ones, to enact acts entitled acts to alter and amend acts entitled acts to alter and amend, and so forth, and so forth; lawyers and judges argue and decide the meaning of statutes on which depend life and liberty, the meaning of wills and contracts on which depends the disposal of hundreds of thousands of dollars, the mean- ing of alleged libels on which depend the reputations and perhaps the hap- piness of men and women; parties and candidates grow violent over the meaning of constitutions and platforms; diplomats representing great nations assemble to consider the meaning of treaties and international laws, on the interpretation of which depends war & r peace; dignified men in all manner of assemblies, conventions, councils and boards, deliberate on the meanings of all conceivable documents and compositions; wrangling politicians in legisla- tive halls as well as in pot-houses dispute angrily as to whether epithets were meant in the offensive or in the Pickwickian sense; tattlers and gossips set small communities in ferment by circulating misreported sayings. The wonder of it all is that, though this discussion has been going on since the earliest times to which the traditions of man extend, it has never evolved any unanimity of opinion, but, on the contrary, endless ill-feelings, dissensions, controversies, quarrels, enmities and wars. The English language, perhaps because it is so rich in words for all ideas and shades of ideas, is also peculiarly abundant in ambiguities and inconsis- tencies. The number of common and accepted significations to one word is often marvellous. It is related that an ancient missionary to China named Bourgeois found much difficulty with the language. He was told that chou signified a book; and he therefore supposed that whenever the word was pronounced, a book was the subject. But the next time he heard it, it signified a tree; Chou, therefore, was a book or a tree. But he had only touched the confines of the domain of the word. He found that chou was the Aurora, that chou was to relate, that chou expressed great heats, that chou meant the loss of a wager, that chou was to be accustomed; and, in short, that a small dictionary might be written for the word chou 30 VERBAL ANOMALIES. alone. No doubt Mr. Bourgeois felt much commiseration for a people bur- dened with such a language. But though the English language has not an alphabet of fifty thousand characters, and so far from being confined to monosyllables, has an almost illimitable power of elongating its words, yet in the matter of variety of significations I cannot believe that the Chinese will bear a comparison with it. I.notice in the dictionary that one definition for the word fast is firm, im- movable, and another is swift, moving rapidly. Beside these there are tight, close, de~p, sound, etc. Suppose, for the sake of example, that a fast young man was driving a water-cart, and that the water-cart was completely fast. This would merely signify that the young man was dissipated, and that the cask did not leak; in other words, that the cask was tight and that the young man was tight. If the young man were handcuffed, it would be quite proper to call him fastor tight either; but that would not be the common phrase. A fast horse might be attached to the cart, and the word there would either mean that he was moving swiftly, or that he was immovable on account of being tied. Accepting the latter statement, he might be standing; fast by a little stream; the fast young man might be lying fast asleep, hold- ing fast by the seat, and the occasion might be Ihst day. I make no puns, and strain after no unusual senseS. Home Tooke, who says that he suffered civil extinction, and that his life was put in jeopardy, in eonsequencs of the misinterpretation by the higher powers of two prepositions and a conjunc- tion, has analyzed the word right very exhaustively, and speaks of its differ- ent meanings, as when we say, a mans right, a right conduct, a right reckoning, a right line, a right road, to do right, to be in the right, to have the right on ones side, the right hand. The English law of the road nsed to be to take the left hand, which led some rhymester to observe The law of the road is a paradox quite In driving your carriage along, If you keep to the left you are sure to go right; If you keep to the right, you go wrong. But the Quaker Legislature of Pennsylvania made the language more consistent by enacting that the law of the road should be the same as the law of life keep to the right. It may be mentioned that, according to Mr. Tooke the word right is rect-un& (regitum) the past participle of regere, and though used in so many apparently different senses, really means but one thing: what is ordered or dir~cted, so that a right conduct is that which is ordered; the right hand that which custom has ordered or directed to be used in preference to the other, etc. I need not be meagre of illustrations; and I lay aside the incongruous mass of slang words and significations that are in use for every-day purposes. The language is full of paradoxes. Show me a fire, said a traveller to the landlord, for I am very wet. And, he added, bring me a mug of ale, for I am very dry. You walk very slow, said a man to a consumptive. Yes, he replied, but I am going very fast. Breaking both wings of an army is almost certain to make it fly; a general may win the day in a battle fought at night; a lawyer may convey a house and yet be unable to lift a hundred pounds; a room may be full of married men and not have a single man in it; a traveller who is detained an hour or two may recover most of the time by making a minute of it; a man killed in a duel has generally at least one second to live after he is dead; a fire goes out and does not leave VERBAL ANOMALIES. sI the room; a lady may wear a suit out the first day she gets it and yet put it away at night in as good condition as ever; a schoolmaster with no scholars may yet have a pupil in his eye; the bluntest man in business is often the sharpest one; Ananias, it is said, told a lie, and yet he was borne out by the bystanders; caterpillars turn over a new leaf without much moral im- provement; oxen can only eat corn with the mouth, yet you may give it to them in the ear; food bolted down is not the most likely to remain on the stomach; soft water is often caught when it rains hard; high words passing between men are frequently low words; steamboat officers are very pleasant company, and yet we are always glad to have them give us a wide berth; a nervous man is trembling, faint, weak; a man of nerve, and a nervous style, are strong, firm, vigorous. Sydney Smith says, a perfect pun should have two distinct meanings, one common and obvious, the othermore remote. These examples are not puns according to that definition, for both meanings are quite common and usual. Our phrases are not designed to be construed too literally. Punch tells of a man who was arrested for attempting to damage the Rivet Thames. What was the man doing? He was trying to pull up the stream. So Joseph~s brethren have been excused for putting him into the pit because it is sup- posed they thought it was a good opening for the young man. A person who holds fast to the truth so literally that he never lets-it escape him, is not tb be commended any more than the man who takes the part of a friend ~vheti the action refers to a pudding and not to a quarrel. Daphne of old was turned into a tree; now-a-days a horse is frequently turned into a field. There is a liability to misconception when we say, for instance, that a dumb girl has speaking eyes; or that raw soldiers have not been exposed to fire; or that a man went into a brown study; or that a savage girl, discovered in the woods, who had always subsisted on nuts, etc., was found to have filbert nails, hazel eyes, and chestnut hair. Brasen stop-cocks do not crow; (Fact, perhaps, you did not know.) Railroad sleepers do not snore (Ever heard of that before?) Running water has no feet; (Wisdom there that cant be beat!) Standing armies often move; (Statement you must quite approve.) Jollytars are nt always merry; (Very wise reflectionvery!) Commons speakers seldom speak; (Sage remark, but rather weak.) Two or three words are strung together, and, instead of retaining their -combined meaning, acquire a new signification. How differently is the action described in scouring a forest and scouring a floor; in skimming the sea and skimming milk; in breaking a dish, breaking a colt, and breaking a command inent; in catching a train and catching a cold; in falling iii a ditch, falling in love, falling in your own estimation, and falling in with a friend, or fallihg out with a friend, and falling out of a carriage. This peculiarity of our words is what renders you so liable to read, in the funny column of your newspaper, of the person who, in an explosion of -grief, burst into tears, and whose re- mains have not been found; or who carried out a project- and was obliged- to bring it back again; or who kept his word; and so had ~ quarrel with Noah ~32 VERBAL ANOMALIES. Webster, who wanted it for his dictionary; or who courted an investigation and was wedded to his own opinions; or who got off a speech and has since been trying to get on again, having found that his train of remarks was not the right one; or who, at a mass meeting, being fired with indignation, was put out; or who, being hemmed in by a crowd, has since been troubled by a stitch in his side; or who was lost in slumber, and after wandering for a long time in his own mind, finally got out on a nightmare. So you might read of a museum of wonders, illuminated by the light of other days; furnished with music played on the feelings by the man who, having lowered his voice by means of ropes, murdered a tune, but subse- quently tried his voice and acquitted himself with ease; with walls hung with pictures of despair; with a library filled partly with volumes of sound and partly with volumes of smoke; and where might be seen the lady who sat on the lapse of ages; the attorneys clerk who engrossed a mans attention; the mathematician who is so devoted to figures that he frequently casts up his eyes; the girl who was saved in a shipwreck by clinging to a for- loin hope; the man who was wounded by sitting down on the spur of the moment; the acrobat who jumps at conclusions; the cup of sorrow which overflowed; the chains which bound a free-born mind; the ticking of an oyster bed; the receipt given to the man who paid his respects; the sus- penders used for the breeches of guns and also for breaches of trust; the quiver which was observed in the voice of a(n)arrow-minded man; a lock of hair from the head of a discourse, and one from a head of cabbage; a flat- iron to smooth ruffled tempers; a phial of tears from a weeping willow; a button from the coat of the stomach; a sheaf from the shock of an earth- quake, and many other articles equallj rare and interesting. The ambiguities of Our language are palpable and ever recurring. What an infinite amount of repetition is found necessary in all legal documents to render their object certain, and often with the result of greater ambiguity. A simple proposition is expressed in algebra with three or four signs, so that the most stupid or the most subtle intellect finds it impossible to misconstrue it. But what a deluge of words is employed in a deed simply transferring a piece of property from one man to another! The party of the first part, for and in consideration of a certain sum to him in hand paid by the party of the second part, the receipt whereof is hereby acknowledged, and the said party of the second part, his heirs, executors and administrators forever released and discharged from the same by these presents, has granted, bar- gained, sold, aliened, remised, released, conveyed and confirmed, and by these presents does grant, bargain, sell, alien, remise, release, convey and confirm unto the said party of the second part a certain lot, piece, or parcel of land lying and being in a certain place, with all and singular the tenements, hereditaments, and appurtenances thereto belonging or in any wise appertain- ing, and also all the estate, right, title, interest, property, possession, claim, and demand whatsoever as well in law as in equity of the said party of the first part of, in, and to the same, and every part and parcel thereof with the appurtenances. And then he covenants, grants, agrees to and with the party of the second part that he may, peaceably and quietly, have, hold, use, occupy, possess, and enjoy the premises, and he shall and will make, Ao and execute, or cause to be made, done or executed all and every such further acts, etc., as may be required for more effectually vesting and con~ firming the premises hereby granted, or so intended to be. VERBAL ANOMALFE~S. 33 It will be noticed that in the closing quotation we have given there is a hint that though, by all this accumulation of words, in which every idea is expressed in a dozen or more ways, the premises are intended to be granted, that, after all, perhaps he could not say itperhaps they might be otherwise construed. And we have given only an extract here and there, as a complete deed would occupy several pages of this magazine. But experience has proved all this to be necessary. What do we mean by the awkward every-day question, How do you do? What do we mean when we speak of old times, knowing as we do that what we call the old times~~ were really the new and young times, and that the present is the true old age of the world? Has any debating society ever decided whether a house burns up or down? What do we mean when we say, as we often do, that we will do a thing in no time? We have no occasion to laugh at the mistakes of foreigners when we are so continually misunderstanding each other I Said Richard Brinsley Sheridan to his wild son Tom: Take a wife, Tom, and reform. With all my heart, said Tom; whose wife shall I take? The joke reappeared in this city only the other day, in a new suit of clothes. An enterprising young man said he was going to start a news- paper. Which of the papers are you going to start? his friend asked. A wag, with a fine appreciation of the ambiguities of words, once asked a man: How many knaves do you suppose live in this street besides yourself? Besides myself! Do you mean fo insult me? Well, then, replied the wag, how many do you reckon, including yourself? As an instance of the way in which a man may be misled by the forms of languagehow he may desire to say one thing, and really say the oppositethe story may be men- tioned of the gentleman who, speaking, in the company of ladies, of the want of personal attractions of some other ladies of their acquaintance, said: They are the ugliest women I knowpresent company always excepted. A furrier, having facilities for renovating old furs, advertised, in a perfectly grammatical manner: Capes, victorines, etc., made up for ladies out of their own skins. I may also mention the editor who, desiring to compliment a friend, wrote: He is a clear thinker, a ready and vigorous writer, and a first rate fellow to boot ; the convention of Bloomer damsels, who resolved emphatically to wear short dresses or nothing ; the circular of a lady teacher, which spoke of her character and the reputation for teaching she bears ; and the advertisement of a concert director, who announced that a variety of songs might be expected, too tedious to mention. Can we wonder that foreigners occasionally blunder? Was it surpnsing that a Frenchman should say that he loved do cats, de dogs, de sheep, de horses, in fact everything dat is beastly ? or that a lady, who supposed she had thoroughly mastered the English language, should reply to a question as to the number of her children, I have done seven? Was this not a very expressive receipt in full which a German produced after much mental effort: I ish full. I wants no more monish. John Swackhammer? A French- man condemned the English language as having so little connection with the real nature of things: Pain, cest tout simple; celaveut dire painmais Ce bread quest ce que veut dire bread? John Bull is, however, equally dis- satisfied, for a stout old Englishman once said contemptuously: What can you expect of people that call a hat a shappo? Another Englishman was disgusted with the German language because it called a man a herr. Very queer blunders the translators sometimes make. The Independent~ 84 VERBAL ANOMALIES. Whig was rendered La Perruque Ind~pendante; Loves Last Shift (Cibbers play), La Derniere Chemise de lAmour. Prince Gouzaga di Castiglione, desiring to compliment Dr. Johnson on his connection with The Rambler, drank his health one day by addressing him as Mr. Vagabond. The title was translated Le Chevalier Errant, but had been corrected to LErrant. The Fancy are rendered Jkfiessieurs de lImagination. In the Dutch translation of Addisons Cato, the words, Plato, thou rea- sonest well, are rendered Just soyou are very right, Mynheer Plato ; and in a French translation of Shakespeare, the passage, Frailty, thy name is woman I is translated, Mademoiselle Frailly is the name of the lady. A stage-struck Frenchman once gave a very free, extemporaneous rendering of the soliloquy of the Duke of Gloster, cOmmencing Now is the Winter of our discontent. This is how he did it: - Now is ze vintare of our dem oneasiness Made into hot veddare by ze son of York, - (Zat is vat you call ~e littale boy of Mister York,) And ze dark clouds at ze top Ded and buried at ze bottom. I hey za bomp on my back; Bandy legs; and for sat Ze dogs bow-vow-vow at me Yen I valk by him. We are quite as ridiculous, of course, in our attempts to master other tongues. The professors of languages in our colleges have many a curious anecdote to relate of the awkward attempts of pupils to construe difficult passages. Indeed, the words in Horace, Equam memento arduis in rebus servare, were rendered by a student: Remember to keep a pony for a difficult passage. Dr. Gulick, of the Micronesian Mission, when translating selections from the gospel, made car& ful inquiry among the natives, and selected what he supposed to be an appropriate word for Amen. He was surprised to find, some time later, that the word had the equivocal sense of dry up. Eliot, the apostle of the Indians, in making his famous translation of the Bible into the Indian language, found, in like manner, that he had set his In- dians to read what meant to them the following: The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and cried through the eel-pot. Miss Blank, it is known, is accustomed to say Many very queer things in a very queer way; But, of all her mistakes, the absurdest and oddest Occurred when she called French modii,te modest. Were it not for the euphony of sentences, the same word would often occur twice with none intervening, showing its different senses; and it is hard to prevent such recurrence of but, that, it, is, etc. That that is, is, says Master Porson, so I, being Master Porson, am Master Porson; for what is that but that, and is but is? Says Donne: But, but that another divine inspiration moved the beholders to believe that she did therein a noble act, this act of hers might have been calumniated. To illustrate this still more forcibly, it has been shown that an intelligible sentencemay be con- structed from the word that seven times repeated: VERBAL ANOMALIES. 85 Ill prove the word that Ive made my them, Is that that may be doubled without blame; And that that that thus trebled I may use, And that that that that critics may abuse May be correct. Fartherthe dons to bother Five tkats may closely follow one another; For be it known that we may safely write, Or say, that that that that that man writ was right; Nay, een that that that that that that followed Through six repeats the grammars rule has hallowd; And that that that (that that that that began) Repeated seven times is right !Denyt who can. Of the richness of our language in words of nearly the same meaning, or of different shades of the same general idea, the dictionaries of synonyms will afford abundant illustration. A foreigner is quite as much surprised at the number of words to express one meaning as at the different meanings ex- pressed by one word. There is a language of childhood, of common life, of science, of poetry, and they have their different classes of words and their different methods of syntax. It occurs to me, as something not to be found in the dictionaries of synonyms, that the language of every-day life is very copious on the subject of drunkenness. Instead of distinctly asserting that a man is drunk, or the worse for liquor, or under the influence of spirits, or in- ebriated, or intoxicated, it is the custom to say that he is tight, or boozy, or slewed, or tipsy, or corned, or obfuscated, or jolly, or mud- dled, or fuddled, or discomfuddled, or swipsey, or set up, or a lit- tle upset, or a little so-so, or pretty well how-come-you-so, or high, or elevated, or pot-valiant, or half seas over, or slightly mixed, or a little top-heavy, or that he has a brick in his hat, or a drop in his eye, or two sheets in the wind, and the other shivering, or three sheets in the wind, or he has his perceptive faculties somewhat disturbed, or he has had a drop too much, or is on a lark, or on a spree, or on a bum, or on a bat, or over the bay, or tightly slight. The verbal methods of asking a person to take liquor are quite as numer- ous, and have arrived at such peection that it is said that, in good society, a young lady is requested to take wine after the following formula: Smile again, my bonnie lassie. These examples illustrate, too, how much more co- pious than ordinary language is the language of slang on certain subjects. An example of the way in wh~ch every phase of a general idea has its appro- priate word has been often printed, but may be sufficiently pertinent to re- produce here. A foreigner, looking at a picture of a number of vessels, said: See, what a flock of ships. He was told that a flock of ships was called a fleet, but that a fleet of sheep was called a flock. And it was added, for his guidance in mastering the intricacies of our language, that a flock of girls is called a bevy, that a bevy of wolves is called a pack, and a pack of thieves is called a gang, and a gang of angels is called a host, and a host of porpoises is called a shoal, and a shoal of buffaloes is called a herd; and a herd of children is called a troop, and a troop of partridges is called a covey, and a covey of beauties is called a galaxy, and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of oxen is called a drove, and a drove of blackguards is called a mob, and a mob of whales is called a school, and a school of worshippers is called a congregation, and a congregation of engineers is called a corps, and ~ corps of robbers is called a 38 VERBAL ANOMALIES. band, and a band of locusts is called a swarm, and a swarm of people is called a crowd, and a crowd of gentle-folks is called the 6lite, and the elite of the citys thieves and rascals are called the roughs, and the miscellaneous crowd of city folks is called the community or the public, according as they are spoken of by the religious community or secular public. It was a theory of Condillac, as stated by Dugald Stewart, that it might be possible, .by means of precise and definite terms, to reduce reasoning in all the sciences to a sort of mechanical operation, analogous in its nature to those which are practised by the algebraist on the letters of the alphabet. The art of reasoning, he repeats over and over, is nothing but a language well arranged. Though the theory is not tenable on any ground, yet the first objection would be that there does not at present appear to be any likeli- hood that we shall ever be possessed of definite terms. Adjectives are coming to be a very important part of speech. They are the language of description, passion and enthusiasm. Fine writing is now called, in the newspaper offices, slinging your adjectives. But notice how indefinite they are in use. I can scarcely conceive of a noun to which the word glorious, as it is used, will not relatethe glorious sun, a glorious nation, a glorious idea, a glorious principle, a glorious patriot, a glorious book, a glorious river, a glorious ride, a glorious girl, a glorious fellow, a glorious dish of soup, a glorious dinner, a glorious spree. There are a great many adjectives of this kind that become to young ladies mere interjections of admiration, applicable to anything that pleases. Is there anything that a gushing young lady will not call sweetsuch a sweet man, such a sweet place, such a sweet little horse, such a sweet little poodle, such a sweet old lady, such a sweet landscape, such a sweet novel, such a sweet poem, such a sweet pair of ear-rings. I heard of a young lady whose first impressions of Niagara Falls were that they were so sweet. It is common enough to hear such phrases as enormously funny, awful witty, exquisite day, ridiculous (meaning outrageous) proceed- jflg,~~ delicious view,~~ magnificent pickles, monstrous polite, splendid - vinegar, beautiful lemonade, lovely pork, perfectly enchanting ice cream. The three degrees of comparison are useless, because everything is superlative. John Phcenix has spoken in his humorous way upon this subject. He says, If I meet Smith in the street, and ask him, as I am pretty sure to do, How he does? he infallibly repli~s, Tolerable, thank you, which gives me no exact idea of Smiths health, for he has made the same reply to me on a hundred different occasionson every one of which there must have been some slight shade of difference in his physical economy, and, of course, a corresponding change in his feelings. To a man of a mathematical turn of mind, to a student and lover of the exact sciences, these inaccuracies of ex- pression, this inability to understand exactly how things are, must be a con- stant source of annoyance; and to one who, like myself, unites this turn of mind to an ardent love of truth for its own sakethe reflection that the English language does not enable us to speak the truth with exactness, is peculiarly painfuL He suggests a reform which, had it been proposed in Condillacs time, might have inspired him with a hop~ that the era of exact reasoning was to dawn in the not distant futurea reform founded on the phrenological method of using a scale of figures to indicate the relative size of the bumps of character. Let us, he says, represent by the number 100 the maximum, the ne plU8 VERBAL ANOMALIES. 37 ultra of every human qualitygrace, beauty, courage, strength, wisdom, learningeverything. Let perfection, I say, be represented by 100, and an absolute minimum of all qualities by the number 1. Then by applying the numbers between to the adjectives used in conversation, we shall be able to arrive at a very close approximation to the idea we wish to convey; in other words, we shall be enabled to.speak the truth. Glorious, soul-inspiring idea! For instance, the most ordinary question asked of you is, How do you do? To this, instead of replying Pretty well, Very well, Quite well, or the like absurditiesafter running through your mind that perfection of health is 100, no health at all 1you say with a graceful bow, Thank you, Im 52 to- day, or, feeling poorly, Im 13, Im obliged to you, or, Im 68; or, 75, or, 87j as the case may be! Let this system be adopted into our elements of grammar, our conversation, our literature, and we become at once an exact, precise, mathematical, truth-telling people. It will apply to everything but politics; there, truth being of no account, the system is useless. But in litera- ture how admirable! Take an example: As a 19 young and 76 beautiful lady was 52 gayly tripping down the sidewalk of our 84 frequented street, she accidentally came in contactl00 (this shows that she came in close contact) with a 73 fat, but 87 good-humored-looking gentleman who was 93 (i. e., intently) gazing into the window of a toyshop. Gracefully 56 extricating herself, she received the excuses of the 96 embarrassed Falstaff with a 68 bland smile, and continued on her way, etc. It is noticeable in our language how a word, by changing its grammatical character, will also change its sense. This is seen in a stanza, in which a farmer wonders Putting all reports together Relating to barley, wheat, and hops, Whether the crops will weather the weather, Or the weather will crop the crops. So also with the singular and plural of a word, for a man may have much manner and yet have no manners. Changes in grammatical character take place while the sense remains similar. Nouns often do duty as verbs. What part of speech is man? said a teacher to a sailor boy. A verb, sir, he replied. A verb, is it ? said the teacher, with a significant twinkle of the eye; will you please give an example? Man the yards, replied the boy. Mr. Tapleys proof of the same proposition, so far as related to himself is less direct but not less amusing. If ever there was a Werb, he remarks, Im it, for Im always a hem, continooally a doin, and most o the time a sufferin. So you salt your meat, and smoke your beef and bridge a chasm. Verbs become nouns; as, a long pull, a fine swim, a hard freeze. Adjectives iecome nouns, as when a lady calls a man a little dear, a great big silly, or an old disagreeable. Sometimes, indeed, in the mouths of the fair sex a noun is a better descriptive than an adjective, as a duck of a man, a love of a bonnet. Many years ago the Comic Grammar suggested another anomaly: But remember though box In the plural is boxes, The plural of oi $hould be oxen, not oxes. 8 33 VERBAL ANOMALIES. An exchange added: And remember though fleece In the plural is fleeces, That the plural of geese Isnt gooses nor geeses. And remember though house In the plural is houses, That the plural of mouse Should be mice and not mouses. The latter being suggested by the Philadelphia Gazette, the New York Gazette continued: All of which goes to prove That grammar a farce is, For where is the plural Of rum or molasses? To the last question the Brooklyn Daily Advertiser replied by a quibble, which, being impertinent, I would not insert here, except that the reader having now heard it mentioned might desire to see it: The plural, Gazette, Of rum dont us trouble, Take one glass too much, And youre sure to see double. It may further be noticed that though caterers is right, hatterers is wrong; that though a man from Lapland is a Laplander, yet a man from Michigan is not a Michigander, nor a lady from that State a Michigoose; though a nailer is one who makes nails, a tailor is not one who makes tails unless they be coat-tails; and though ~ wavelet is a little wave, and a flowret a little flower, yet a bullet is not a little bull, nor a hamlet a little ham. But these matters have been abundantly discussed by the grammarians. Lapses in grammar, apparently insignificant, sometimes involve very im- portant misapprehensions. A physician once boasted to Sir Henry Halford, I was the first to discover the Asiatic cholera, and communicate it to the public. The man here was not careful as to the antecedent of his pronoun. Occasionally you read such advertisements as these: LosTa leathern ladys portmanteau. FOR SALEa piano by a lady about to visit Europe with carved legs in an oak 8sBe. W& mYEDa horse for a lady of a dark color, a good trotter and of stylish action. Must be young and have a long tail about fifteen hands high. The dictionaries afford us no relief. The Frenchman who, desiring sliced tongue at table, said: Pass me some of that language, and the other who, wishing to express the meaning of heaven preserve you, wrote to a friend, May heaven pickle you to all eternity, both followed the dictionary, as also did the Dutchman who, reading that a meeting dissolved, suppoEed that all the people melted together on account of the intense heat. Besides, a very common system of definition is that used by Walker, who gives not- withstanding as meaning nevertheless, and nevertheless as meaning notwithstanding. Johnson, as quoted by Tooke, defines right as mean- ing not left and not wrotig; defines left as sinistrous, not right, and defines wrong as not right. If you will look into your dictionary you will find this method very common. But that was better perhaps than John- sons definition of net work, which he described as anything reticulated ARPJ~RE PENSftE. 89 or decussated with interstices at equal distances between the intersections.~ It is mentioned that some dictionary defines a boil~~ as a circumscribed subcutaneous inflammation, suppurating, with a central core; a furunculus. It must not be supposed that I am at all grieved at these eccentricities of our language. From these come its cjuaint methds; its queer devices; its pleasant fancies; its freshness and beauty that age cannot wither; its infinite variety that custom cannot stale. It is an instrument of won- derful capacity; its strings are resonant with the histories and poetries of many centuries; and though to the inexperienced touch it gives forth only harsh sounds, yet, when struck by master hands, its melodies are weird and marvellous, and even its discords harmonious.~~ GEORGE WAKEMA1~. ARRI~RE PENS~E. HE wraps me round with his riches, He covers me up with his care, And his love is the love of a manhood Whose life is a living prayer. I have plighted my womans affections, I have given my all in all, And the flowers of a daily contentment Renew their sweet lives ere they fall. And yet, like an instrument precious, That playeth an olden tune, My heart, in the midst of its blessings, Goes back to a day in June To a day when beneath the branohes I stood by a silent stream, And saw in its bosom an image As one seeth a face in a dream. I would not resign his devotion, No, not for a heart that lives, Nor change one jot my condition For the change that condition gives; I should mourn not more for another, Nor more for another rejoice, Than now, when I weep at his absence, Or welcome his step and his voice. And yet, like an instrument precious, That playeth an olden Vune, My heart, in the midst of its blessings, Goes back to a day in June To a day when beneath the branches I stood in the shadowy light, And heard the low words of a whisper As one heareth a voice in the night. T. OUR PATIENT1 1. COIILD not, though I did my best at trying, feel at home when we first went to Tumbledown, the old house in the country, which looked as if it had suffered severely from small-pox, and would always continue to bear the marks. Doctor Jason was getting gray, and he was fifty-nine years of age, but there wasnt the first trace of give out or give up in him; and to see him set- tling down in that old rattle trap, as he called it, made me think unhappy and indignant thoughts, for I could not see a providence in the perfidy which had stranded him there high and dry. He went abroad in 1850 to visit among the continental hospitals, and re- fresh himself after years of some of the hardest work that had ever been done in the country, and he left a friend of his to perform the duties of the place. When he came back, he discovered that the place was his friends, and not his own any longer. His friend was a young manhad been a pro- t6g~ of Doctor Jasons. He had ideas, and he had ambition, tooand, I think, of the meanest kind, for it was to continue to fill a place that didnt belong to him after the rightful holder had signified his presence. Opinion had gone round to the North, and blew cold, like the wind, on Doctor Jason; and after his return, when he had been three months, and no longer, in the hospital, he resigned, and Doctor Young was appointed to fill the vacancy. He has filled it ever since, and is acknowledged to be a very able man. He had great natural abilities, of coursethe doctor would never have advanced him in the way he did, if he had not discovered these in him but as for his moral integrity and character, I think, after having made the statement I have made above, the less said in reference to it, the better. When he had decided that he wotild give up the hospital, Doctor Jasons thoughts turned at once to Tumbledown. He conferred with me about it; I couldnt propose anything better. I was his eldest brothers widow, and had been in the hospital since my husbands death; so we came up to the old place. It took both of us a good while to get used to the quiet of the country, and the lazy life we seemed destined to live there. I worried a great dealmore on his account than on my own. The only business I seemed to have on earth was to look after his interests. It seemed such a dead loss to the world to have a man like him extinguished. When I saw him walking about under the willow trees, or sitting quietly in his li- brary, and remembered the busy life he led in Caswell, I had hard work to control my impatience, and I looked forward with a thousand forebodings. For I could not believe that his cheerfulness was genuine. I couldnt be- lieve that a man could go out of a world of workdriven out of it, as you might say, for that was the amount of itand sit down in a field, with the OUR PATIENT. 41 great sky above him, and listen to the birds singing, an.d watch the clouds and the sunset and the little wrens, and be taken up with such things, until I had seen it well proved before my eyes. I began to have suspicions some- times that if all I saw in him was real, goodness was greater than greatness by so many times that no parallel could be drawn between them. But if I thought that he was through with his work forever, I was mistaken. II was always on the lookout, in spite of what he said and what I saw, for some sign of disquiet, but it never came in any such shape as fairly met my expecta- tion. One evening he came across the yardhe had been walking down the bank to the steps where I was sitting. Jane, said he, this is better than either of us ever hoped. You thought this quiet would be the worst thing in the world for us, perhapsfor me, any way; but you see it is not. With Mrs. Wren and B~b White for neighbors, so sociable and familiar, we shall fare well enough for a while. I dont know, said I; you may trust me for not knowing anything. Never mind; I wont inform the neighbors. And then right on top of the content he had expressed, he added: I have been thinking a good deal about Harris to-day. There isnt a day passes but I think of somebody who would be blessed if he could get into a place like Tumbledown. I was so taken up with a foreboding kind of wonder as to who this partio.. ular Harris might be, that I said nothing. What do you think? he asked. What Harris do you mean? said I. Why, Bartholomew, the doctor. Dr. Harris I I couldnt have been much more surprised; for, in the first place, if there was a man on earth whom I should have supposed he would hateafter a true carnal fashion, I meanto have near him, especially under the same roof, it was Dr. Harris. And then I didnt suppose that any amount of persuasion would persuade Dr. Harris that Tumbledown was the place for him. And what had put him into Doctor Jasons thoughts? That puzzled me. He isnt a happy man, said he, after a long pause. It was clear that he wished to continue the talk. I thought if he was going to turn Tumbledown into a hotel for all the un- comfortable folk we knew of, that we should have a house-full soon enough, and never empty. If he isnt happy, what do you think about his wife? said I. He looked at me for a moment in a way that made me think he was going to say, That is exactly it ; but he did not say it. We could have both of them, of course, said he, and then he got up and walked off to the other end of the yard. It was time I should speak. At some points men seem to be absolute know-nothings. Here was one of them. Doctor, said I, if they find their own big house too small for them, I dont know what they would make of this place. Think of our spare chain- her! I havent anything against it; I consider it very nice and comfortable. But please to remember that at home the doctor and his wife live like kings and queens so far as pomp and circumstance go. He has his valet, and she has her maids. Im told that Hampton Court is a barn to their house in Grantly Court. I cant tell you anything about that, though; you have vis 42 OUR PATIENT. ited there times enough. But I can tell you I am too proud to be investi- gated by the surprise of such people; and I dont want to be patronized, either, by their admiration, and endeavors at making the best of us. She wouldnt come, though; thats a consolation. You havent pride enough, Jane, and thats whats the matter. You are setting up a lot of weavers and carpenters stuff as your rivals. I am looking at our things with their eyes, said I, in desperation, for I knew by experience that when Doctor Jason touched on a tune in that way, hed play it to the end, and I should be obliged to listen. If I was going to get any comfort out of disagreeing with him, I must find it in telling him that I did. That is just it, said he; people often fail to find out what they have, or what they have not, until they are plunged into circumstances which dif- fer, outside and inside, from any they were ever in before They must stand on a new plane before they can see themselves in a new light. I dont be- lieve but that you and I have been surprised by discovering a good many things in ourselves since we came here. It was true, but I did not surrender by saying so. I let him go on, for it was evident that something decisive would follow these remarks. It was perhaps a week after that the doctor received a letter, and told me that Mrs. Harris was coming to stay.a few days with us. Doctor Harris had written to say that his wife and daughter would be hap- py to visit his old friends at Tumbledown, if agreeable to them. He was dis- appointed about getting off as early in the season to the mountains with them as he had anticipated, and it was so uncomfortable in town, if our house was not full; etc. It is curious, said the doctor, his face glowing with satisfaction; a most curious coincidence! A coincidence! I was surprised indeed to hear him say that, for it was my belief that he had written an invitation to these guests, and that this let- ter was the acceptance. Of course I had not written, said he; but I have been thinking of doing it ever since I spoke to you. I am glad they invited themselves, and that he is not coming, said I. I could bear to have Mrs. Harris for a guestrather than her husbsnd with his Jew face, and Doctor Jason vexing his righteous soul trying to prescribe for their casea case which all the world knew to be a hopeless one. She was a beauty, and rich. Doctor Harris had brains, and was poor. He married her, not for beauty or wit, but for riches, it was said, and when a man does a thing like that, it depends, I think, on what there is in him be. sides a love of money, how it will turn out. Things were going on terribly with these two according to common report. The doctoi was getting posses~ion of her money as fast as possible) and spec- ulating with it, and she had about spent the confidence she had in him, prin- cipaland interest~ Soon she would come to the end of itin fact, it was ~said that she had come to an~ end already. Bartholomew Harris was a vain man: One will not see perhaps a v~iiner three times in a life. He was vain of his professional skill, and of his literary taste and cultute. He ~had edited some of- the poets, and was considered a good authority in-criticism. I have heard Doctor Jason say that he would defer to his judgment in a matter of literary taste sooner than to that of any OUR PATIENT. 43 other man in the conntry. He was a patron of the arts besides, and had his admirers and followers, of course. Perhaps his matrimonial affairs seemed, on that account, so important to some folk. Doctor Jason had at different times interested himself very much in Harris, but what kind of miracle he hoped to work for him I couldnt understand. His wife cared no more for poets and authors than she did for the flowers in her gardennot half so much, it was said by those who had best means of knowing. But she tried, it was also said, to get up a little interest in matters of lit- erature on his account. How do you think he met that wish to please him? By making a jest of her attainments before people in a manner that was, to say the least, very embarrassing for others to hear. In that way he managed to insult every lady who visited his wifeparading his own learning, and ex- posing her ignorance. Nobody must suppose that he was not aware that the heiress of Judge Mason was a simpleton. You think~ he was a fool. Of course he was. A man is a fool who seeks to exalt himself in any direction at his wifes expense. Hateful rumors concerning them had gone about Caswell before we left the town. It was said not only that Mrs. Harris was a wretched woman, but that she was in the habit of endeavoring to deaden her sense of wretchedness by resorting to factitious sources for relief. Doctor Jason was not ignorant of this rumor; whether he gave it credit or not I could not say, for he never alluded to any kind of dis~tress except in a sympathizing way, and whenever he did that I knew that he was devising some sort of remedy that would make itself known in time. But I had no- ticed before we left Caswell that he was much oftener at the house in Grantly Court than before he went abroad, and I own that I set this fact down to a weakness. The house was so rich in pictures, and books, and fine furnitnre, that I fanciedheaven knows why these fanci~s of impossible things should come into our heads, inciting us to every kind of unjnst and ungenerous judg- mentthat he had a growing liking for the luxnry and display he f,und there, so little good had his foreign travel done him, corrupting his native, noble simplicity. But we were going to have this lady at Tumbledown! I was thankful, when I thought the business over, that the letter from Doctor Harris had surprised Doctor Jas6n. He was relieved of blame, and to blame him was hateful. If our guest remained only a week, I was at least able to say to myself~ we should get on well enough, at least not disgracefully.~ A few days, the doc- tor said; but a mans few days are not unlikely to prove a womans eternity. She came. I had seen her face here and there a good many times in church~ for she attended quite regularly. I had exchanged civil words with her occa- sionally, but now we met face to face in a way unknown before. I had to show her up my staircase into our spare chamber. She was going to make free, as the most welcome guesJ would, with my domestic arrangements. That was something new; so new that it made me nervous~yhen I sawhe~ standing in tha midst of the plainly furnished little room. She looked so handsome and must feel, I thought, so out of place. Out of place! Not she. Never was creature more in place. To see her walking about under the trees in the morning; hear her talking with. her little girl; see them watch the birdsthe wrens~ orioles,, and warblerswas something that pleased me almost as much as it did the doctor. 44 OUR PATIENT. I said she was a handsome woman. She was not tall, but she had the appearance of height, such was the dignity with which she carried herself. I have never seen more grace of manner or of person than I saw in her. Her face was perfectly fair, but there was a line or two in it, and an expression, not constant, but flitting and perpetually flitting, of unrest and anxiety in her brown eyes, which made one desire to look into her history and have the discrepancies explained. Everybody in Caswell would, as I have hinted, have felt qualified to explain them, but the nearer view I now obtained made me doubt whether they would have explained them rightly. Her hair was a golden brown, and she usually wore it brushed back smoothly from her forehead, without braid or curl. The face was a puzzle. it might be that of a very intellectual woman; it might be that of a gay, thoughtless lady of society. Intellect was certainly not that thing for which she was noted in Oaswellfashion was. She came to us without her maid. Charlotte and Anne were to come with the great trunks, when the doctor was ready for his journey. She came attended only by her daughter Florence, a slender, fair-faced, thoughtful look- ing girl, and by the doctors valet, who returned by the next stage. The week they had expected to stay with us expired,, and at the beginning of the second came a letter. Doctor Harris was suddenly celled away to attend to his interests in the mines, and the business could not be postponed longer than it would take him to perform the journey thither. He was greatly disappointedso he wrote. What would his wife do? He hardly could advise her. If any of their friends were going to the mountains, would she like to join them? Of course it was out of the question that she should go with him. The circumstances and fatigues of the journey forbade; he would have five days and nights of uninterrupted staging. The letter contained many words, but few sugg~stions. The amount of it was, Doctor Harris was going off on a trip he had long contemplated, and his wife might amuse herself meantime as she choseth.e responsibility of her choice remain- ing with his old friend, Doctor Jason. Doctor Jason ~inderstood the business thoroughly, and was equal to the occasion. The little girl is gaining so fast here, said he, when he read the letter which she gave him as soon as she herself had read it, if you could find it to your mind to stay with us for a while it might be to her profit. But I fear you will find it too dull. I have had such a happy week! she answered. Florence has gained very fast, even in this short time. What an appetite she has! I have not allowed myself to think of the mountains much, it seemed so unlikely that we would get there. But I cannot think of imposing on your kindness. Who talks of imposing? said I. If you can be comfortable here, we are happy, and will try to make you not less so than you are now. I said this on my own account. It had only taken me a week to discover that she was as easy to entertain as the old apple tree had found the wren that built in a knot of one of her old ~branches, putting up with what she found there, and singing over it as if she were the richest wren, and had secured the finest establishment, in the neighborhood. I(~Ers. Harris and the doctor both looked pleased. Thus, without much ado, we were all settled in our own minds. Our guest was going to remain, it now seemed, until she chose to go. OUR .PATIENT. 45 But what would she do with herself? ~ That was the question the doctor asked, and I asked, and I asked much more seriously than he did. For we both believedwe had seen it proved so often that we could not help be- lievingthat Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. It had been proved over and over again to our satisfaction, that hard work was the best work that could befall mankindand womankind as well. I understood, therefore, what the doctor meant, when he began to talk to her about this book and that book, inciting her to read one and another, and getting her to talk about them when she had read them, and so exciting her interest in kindred works, until she was busy enough among the volumes. At first she found a great charm of novelty in all thisshe showed the timidity of a child in advancing into the field where the doctor stoodthen her curiosity was excited, and, under these varying symptoms was the strong, unvarying, proud satisfaction, that such a man as Dr. Jason should have sup- posed that she could take interest in these themes and studies which occupied his life. She seemed gradually settling down into the quiet student ; but just here, where one would have supposed the doctor must feel most easy and assured about her, he became, as I could not help observing, most watchful and anx- ious. One afternoon tea was on the table, and the bell had been rung twice, but Mrs. Harris did not come down. I hope she isnt studying herself blind over your great books, I said to the doctor. Hadnt you better go up and see, Jane? he asked, with more gravity than there was occasion for, I thought. I went up and knocked at her door. There was no answer. After Ii had called two or three times I took hold of the latch, but found that the door was locked. Then I called, but had no answer. Just after I had called I heard the doctors voice in the lower hall. Jane, said he. There was something so peculiar in the sound of it that instead of answering I went below. Florence says that her mother has a headache, and told her when she came down that she wouldnt take any tea. The child had come in from her play since I went up stairs. It was two hours ago when Florence came down, said I. You should have told me, Florenc& No matter, no matter, Jane. Florence didnt like to disturb us. He walked back to the dining-room and took his seat at the tablewe fol- lowed. That was his quiet, irresistible way of managing people, and dis- posing of things. But he looked very serious, though he tried hard to appear amused at the little girls talk. After tea he went into the library, and I saw no more of him till quite on in~ the evening, when he came, and said: I think you had better see if Mrs. Harris is awake, Jane. She may want something before you go to bed. Wont Florence sleep somewhere elsewith you, perhaps? Florence has been in bed an hour, Dr. Jason, said I. I suppose he heard something strange in my voice this time, and he wasnt afraid of pushing on to the meaning. 46 OI~R PATI~INT. With her mother? asked he, quickly. Yes, but it wasnt right, said I. ~ What wasnt right? He sat down opposite me, and I can see yet how he looked when he asked, so determined, so afraid. To put her into the same bed. Why? IL had a pint bottle full of cologne on her dressing table, and theres hardly a drop of it left, thats all. Well, said he, what do you mean? I looked at himf couldnt believe that he really did not understand .-..he was examining an impaled insect through a magnifying glass. I was obliged to answer without having come to a conclusion about him. She has been drinking it, or something worse. She dont know what shes about. You migh4 go into her room and carry off everything you found, Florence beside, she would never know it. Oh, Jane, that is cruel. Cruel as truth, said I. But the truth is cruel. Yes, it is. Dr. Jason what are you going to do? Cure her. Do you think you can do it when she hasnt any more pride than that? Pride has nothing to do with it. IL wish it had, then. We were carrying on a by no means rapid conversation. Our comments f~li Qne after the other at intervals, when, after having plunged into a gulf of reflection, we tried to recover ourselves. She has been driven to it, said he, at last. She has lost incentive to everything that ought now to allure her. Theres a great black forest she cannot find her way through. She is lost in it. She must have a guide. She is true, Jane, isnt she? I suppose as true as any one can be of her kind, said I, like a Pharisee. I think she is true. I think she loves little Florence as a fond mother should. I dont know, said I, again. If she does, what can she mean? Doesnt she know what comes of such habits generally? That is perhaps what she has never thought of. Harris considers himself shamelessly wronged, I suppose. Eve~i you take part against her; but, Jane, 1 can tell you what is the mattershe is at heart disappointed, and mortified nearly to death. She began by worshipping Harrishe has talentshe has seen that he despised her, she thinks, on account of her inferiority: It is not for that reason that he has come near to killing her. He married her for her money, and despises himself for that. He was bound to marry somebody else as poor as he was, and byno means intellectually the equal of the woman he made his wife. He has avenged his own outraged sense of moral right, not on himselg but on the innocent victim of it. That comprehends the whole matter. He has come as near to murdering this woman as any high.. way robber ever did who left his victim for dead on the roadside. IL wish he sat there where you are sitting for only one half hour, he should hear what he has never heard. But theres a more excellent way. Yes, Paul, you un. derstood ittheres a more excellent way. His head bent, and he began to walk up and down the roam. Q1JR,~ PATIEN~ 47 I left him walking at midnight. It was a new thing in our family to look forward with dread to meeting any member of it. I was not alone in this feeling I knew, but when I heard Dr. Jason talking with Mrs. Harris in the entry, I could not detect in either of their voices anything like admission of it. When my eyes met hers I saw a strange light in them, like a questioning, as if she would like to know my thoughts or suspicions, but there was nothing like embarrassment, I thought I did not understand her, though, so well as afterward. She spoke at once of her headache, apologizing for any anxiety it may have given usit was a nervous attack, she saidshe was subject to such attacks, but much less frequently than formerly. They made her sodesperate that she usually took whatever remedy she could find at hand, and she had used the cologne water in her room as freely as if it had been her own. I hoped it had been with some good result, but she said rarely anything but sleep helped her. So that passed. Dr. Jason was not a man to trifle with time when an idea had once taken possession of him. He treated the idea as if it were an inspiration. I heard him talking with Mrs. Harris about the last book he had given her to read, after breakfast. It was a treatise on education, I gathered from the way he dwelt upon it,, and was a good preface to his own theory of education which he next touched uponand from this he turned to speak of little Floreneewhat course did she mean to pursue with the child? She said that she was thinking it was time to secure a governessand it must be done in the Autumnby and by a boarding-school must be thought of; and, of course they would go abroad with Florence in a few years. All very well, I heard him sayI was not eaves-dropping, hut was at work in my sewing room, and the door stood open between us.Mrs. Harris sat fronting me. She did not, instantly answer. I looked up and saw that hereyes were fived on the table between her and the doctor, but she lifted those eyes and looked at him when she answered, For one great reason, Dr. Jason, Im unfit. I do not see how that can be. A mother unfit to teach and train her child! Ought she not be the most fit person in the world? Yes; but she isnt always. I can see of course that she is notand find extenuation for the fact, too. But the advanced stages of society ought to afford no illustration or evidence,t if there is health and reason. I should be sorry indeed, to see any one beside yourself acquiring the influence somebody will acquire over Florence, by being her teacher. I should need to be taught myself first, she said; her voice tremisled, and she blushed. What teacher does not? Some of the most successful I have ever heard of were, at the beginning, only one lesson in advance of their seholars. If I had some one to encourage me always, said she, in a low voice, which faltered still. But I know I shotild only make a failure ~f it. Begin bravely and end basely. You will have the child to encourage you always. Besides, you will have yourself; heart and soul, in the business before long. The interest you will OUR PATIENT. feel in that work will never lessen. A mother hardly knows what she does when she puts into the hands of another, and out of her own hands, a work like this. You will never know your child as you might learn her, except by some such intimacy as teaching will establish. Neither, and here I felt the strength of his argument, neither will she ever know you in any other way so well. Out came her secret thought when he had touched on that point. Dr. Jason, perhaps it would be better that she never should know me. All you say convinces me that I must not lose any time in looking for a governess.~~ You have the Summer before you, at least, said he, and this quiet old place to make an experiment in, if you can only bring yourself to think it would be worth while to make the experiment. You dont know how ignorant I am, and how lazy. We are all ignorant and lazy, he answered as if he heard what she in- tended for confession merely as an excuse. But we can all cure ourselves. I should hate to think that you were worse off in those particulars than any of us. Then I must stay here and prove one thing or the other, said she. I never saw her look more beautiful, never so happy, as when she met me on the stairs an hour or two after, and said: Do you know I am going to stay here and learn of Dr. Jason how to teach my Florence? I was so glad to hear it, for my thoughts concerning her had undergone a great change since morning, that I was obliged to say so. You are so kind to me, you make me ambitious to rival Madame de Stahl herself. But how I shall have to work! Do you think I will do anything? I shall trust you for that and I went my way down the stairs in my humiliation that I had ever thought a harsh thought, or said a harsh word, about that noble child. When we have an inebriate asylum crowded to overflowing with patients who have gone there to be delivered from themselves, in spite of themselves, it is probable that no one will imagine that the cure Dr. Jason had under- taken was perfected by a single prescription, or by the refilling of that cologne bottle, which he at once attended to, letting her know that it was himself who was so thoughtful. I will tell you what I found one day. That bottle dashed in a thousand iiieces out in a corn-field adjoining Tumbledown. I looked at it as I would have looked at an exploded shell on a held at Gettysburg. I could not doubt what hand had thrown it therein what extremity. I thought the perfume of that act must have risen to heaven for a witness in the poor girls behalf. I But in spite of that, more than once in the Summer there were moods in our guest which I could account for only in one way. Dr. Jason said to me one day, She is growing like a cedar-tree. You can hardly see it, but by and by this Summers work will telL He was not mistaken. I confess I was surprised to hear her talk sometimes. I should have sup- posed that the very course she was now taking, the development her minA was havingit was rapid and beautifulwould have had an influence exactly tc~ the contrary hoped for by any one who wished to cure her matrimonial OUR PATIENT. 49 trouble. But she had a humility such as even Dr. Jason had not, combined with an affectionate gentleness of spirit that explainednothing else could explain it to methe ardor with which she returned to the work prescribed, again and again, after many a battle fought and lost. She very seldom spoke of her husband, even while pursuing those studies which must constantly have reminded her of him, but the way she worked, the efforts she made to keep alive her interest in some tasks which of them- selves were not interesting, and the will with which she carried Florence over difficulties, proved that she worked with a fixed purpose. Jane,~~ said she to me one day, I wish I might stay here until Florence was well on in her education. I mean till she had reached the point where young girls generally finish. You might as well be in a convent, said I. I dont think so. Well, what hindersI dont. Everything hinders, said she so seriously I felt ashamed of my light.. ness. I see more and more, she went on, that there is everything to be learned. We shall be years and years in just getting at things. Only, said I, you must not be so ambitious. That will ruin everything. You will be off and beyond calling, like some of those hard-working writers, as soon as they had drawn all their material together for building the beau- tiful temple. I feel so sorry when I think of them! You will be gone, just when theres greatest reason you should stay. No, not till my work is donebut thenfor outside, in the world where I live, it isnt as it is here. I dread to think of next Winter. But should you suppose after such a Summer it could be like other Winters I have passed through? Dont you see a change in mefor the better? She tried to speak lightly, and as if she did not expect or desire a grave reply; but I answered her honestlyout of my heart, as I knew wellenough she was speaking out of hers. You are rested, I think, and, of course, t~ great deal more quiet. But not dull? You do not mean I am getting dull, like the cows down there in the pasture! No, not in the least. More like what the doctor has been ever since I knew him. He isnt dull, but steadied by some great purposebalanced right. Balanced right / Those words seemed to occupy her for a long time. Not a great while after, I think it was the next day, she asked, Do you think Florence like her mother, Jane? In many ways she is. But you see how fond of study she is. She gets that from her father. I should have mentioned the fact among the points of resemblance to her mother. If she is like us both in that, and I really believe it, strange though it sounds, she will not be a dunce then. The next time I came in her way her mind was still running on the same subject. I think Dr. Jason is very fond of Florence, said she. Do you knowthat makes me feel more satisfied with her than I should feel if she were a woman, and about to make the best match in the country? You dont like to hear me 50 OUR PATIENT. say that, do you? But it is natural for a mother to wish to secure the happi- ness of her child, and we cannot do it after all. Nobody can But when such a man as Dr. Jason likes my little girl, I know it must be on account of her character. He isnt a man to care for playthings, and he doesnt treat her as if j:ie thought she were one. He told me that he would dare trust her any- where, that her integrity was perfect. So is his! He has a god-like character. Character is everything. You do not know what a thrill goes through my heart every time I think of the word. But I feel afraid. If I take Florence away from here, I am all the time afraid I shall do her some injury. When he said she could be trusted anywhere, I wanted to ask him if he meant even with her own mother? Isnt it a strange thing that a mother should he afraid to he trusted with her own child, Jane? I could not hinder the tears from coming into my eyes, hearing that beautiful voice speaking in that awed, strange way. Neither could I hinder myself from saying, Since we are not born angels, I think it would be a great deal to the advantage of children if parents had more of this fear. I, for one, wouldnt advise you to get rid of it, but to inquire of it, and learn your duty that way. You may counsel with Dr. Jason as much as you please; hes a wise man, but hes only a man, after all; and I am not much better. I have had no children to learn of. Your Florence is your best teacher. Im worse off than most, she said, for I need you all. But Im better off than most, too, for I have you all. Qne day, it was after this conversation, I called at a drug shop in the village. She was with me and made some purchases. I did not like her manner of doing this. She adroitly managed to get me out of the shop and covered the feat by making me a present of a bottle of perfume when she came to the carriage. She was so successful as to disturb herself; not at first. She was elated enough at firstbut for hours after our return I wondered where it would end; and if ever I prayed in my life I prayed that night for her. It was about eleven oclock in the evening. I had gone to my chamber, when I heard her at the door of the doctors study. She was but a moment going down stairs and returning, and she had found him there, for I heard her voice. When she went down, her step was heavy, but it was light when she came back. I was awake for many an hour after. What was I to expect? Our patient was getting to be as dear to me as she was to the doctor, and we both stood watching her, and calling to her, in our way; but would she~ everever re- turn from the bleak mountains, and stay in the safe fold? The next morning I saw that the doctor was braced up in a way not dom- mon even with him, who always seemed to me born with fresh life and vigor into each new day. He had manifestly armed himself at all points, and meant never to take the armor off till the wiliest adversary that ever beset mortals was foiled, and defeated, and dead. You ought to know, said he. Mrs. Harris bought a bottle of some devilish stuff or other in the village yesterday. She brought it down to me last night. The seal was not broken. Perhaps you heard her. I heard her come and go back. You did not hear what she said. You understand what will make me fail if I do fail. Do not allow me to fail. My life is in your hands, and in Janes. OUR PATIENT. Did she say in mine? Yes, in yours. Theres one thing that will make her fail, and only one. Thats the cause that brought all this about in the first place. Her salvation will be his, said the doctor. I think if Harris should see his wife now he would be astonished, and I assure you I shall not fail to acquaint him with all that it will be good for him to hear when he gets back. The doctors eyes gleamed as he spoke. Jane, he continued, youre not sorry that this poor girl came here. You dont grudge her this quiet and safety, you that never felt a temptation to evil in your life. I felt that I blushed mahogany color when he said that to me. I wondered what 1 had been doing all my days; if I had not been fighting the old Adam, who was not yet dead. She wishes she might stay till the child is grown. She may, and with welcome, far as Im concerned. The doctor turned about and walked away. In the Autumn we read in the papers that Bartholomew Harris and his party were murdered by Indians, while on their way across the Plains. The world said that it had met with a great loss; and, for a time, his widow felt that she had. She stayed with us till the child became a woman. How Harris would have gloried over her! It was only the other day that her mother sailed for Europe with Florence and the doctor; the doctors wife, of course. They have been married eight years. She said to me in the second year of her widowhood, as she was preparing for a journey to Caswell, Jane, I would like to be your patient all my life. I answered, You are nobodys patient now, except as we all are Gods; that is evident enourh. But I said to the doctor, One thing is clear; it is your duty to keep this patient and perfect the oure. He asked me what I meant, and-said she was cured already. Marry her, said I, intelligibly enough. Marry her! he exclaimed, with amazement. I honestly believe the thought had never entered his head before. She is thirty-five years younger than, I am. No matter, said I; she considers you her savior. Marriage will teach her better. Make a Christian of her. At present shes a heathen. He finally followed my counsel, and she is a happy woman. So am I. CAROLINE CHESEBBO. AERONAUTICS. Veni nec puppe per undas, Nec pede per terras; patiat mihi pervins iether. IN his letters from Switzerland, Goethe says, I think that man feels con~ scious of corporeal qualities, of whose mature expansion he can have no hope in this life. This most assuredly is the case with flying. How strongly at times used the clouds as they drove along the sky to tempt to travel with them to foreign lands. . . . With what a longing do I draw deeper and deeper breath, when in the dark Ulue below, the eagle soars over rocks and forests, or, in company and in sweet concord with his mate, wheels in wide circles round the eyrie to which he has entrusted his young. Must I, then, never do more than creep up to the summits? Goethe seems to think, like Isaac Taylor, that corporeity accompanies spirit forever, in the hereafter as well as in this present life, and that in some other state of existence we shall be winged or capable of flight, or rather, of motion independent of gravitation. To discuss the probability and possibility of air-travel in a not remote future may seem to be trespassing on the limits of good sense; but let it be remembered, that he who should have seriously maintained a few years ago, that it would some time be possible for a man at New York or on the Pacific coast, to communicate in a few seconds with one living in Europe or Asia, would have appeared to be prating mere nonsense. We can already command a bird-like buoyancy in the atmosphere, our apparatus having no visible means of support; but we are at the mercy of the winds; we drift helplessly on the atmospheric currents. What we need is to utilize one of the subtile, physical forces in a very portable manner, so that we can be masters of the situation in the air as well as on land or in the water. It is true, in attempting to travel in the atmosphere we are wholly in its power, being completely detached from the earth. So are the birds. What we want is a machine buoyant to the last degree, and driven by a force which will enable us to distance the eagle or the pigeon, if we please, so that we can reduce Space itself to a mere trifle, as it were, as we have already done with Time, by means of the electric telc~raph. Space and Time, the two straight conditions and limitations of mortal life, in which we think and live, and by which we find ourselves both bodily and mentally on all sides bounded, will thus be made to sit more lightly upon us. Future generations, our near successors, the children of an ameliorated time will not be such slaves and born thralls of these two conditions as we and our forefathers have been. Oceans, and mountain ranges, and vast deserts, which interposed make enemies of nations, and which are now such formidable barriers to intercourse, will be over-passed by the air-traveller of the future in a mere point of time. The tempests and storms at sea, which Snap the three-deckers oaken pine, AERONAUTICS. 53 will be easily overflown. An elevation of seventeen thousand feet in the air is not an uncommon altitude for the eagle and heron. The frigate bird and tropic bird seek the most giddy altitudes. The air-traveller can escape the perturbations in the lower strata of the atmosphere, by ascending to the circle of perpetual frost, that is, if he chances to have his overcoat and furs with him. First, men journeyed painfully over the earths rugged surface on horses, camels and asses, exposed to all manner of discomforts on long jour- neys. At length some one more daring than his fellows launched the nautical pine and lifted the bellying canvas to the wind. Huge burdens were thus blown easily, in the hulls of ships, over seas from port to port. In favorable weather, and with propitious winds, travel by water was pleasant. Much of the friction attendant upon land journeys was got rid of in the more yielding water. It is true, the wheel revolving upon the axle sodn suggested itself to the much-contriving brain of man, so that the easy land carriage, with cush- ioned seat, rolling smoothly over costly highways, with their valley-spanning viaducts and tunnelled mountain passages, were at an early epoch substituted for the hard, spinal ridge of horse, ox, ass, dromedary and elephant. At length the railroad and steam-car have done away with nearly all the friction of land travel. The people of civilized countries, by this device of Watt and Stephenson, are pretty much all travellers. A journey is now comfortable, rapid and cheap. But still distance, space, is not conquered as it ought to he. It still is tedious and tyrannical. Shall man allow the eagle and wild pigeon to trifle with this same tyrant space, and make it ridiculous by fleetness of pinion, and himself submit his inventive, spiritual power to be cabined, cribbed and confined by it? Why should he spend more than twenty-four hours in crossing the Atlantic Ocean, when the birds can make the transit in that time? The air is the true medium of travel. It is the region of buoyancy and swiftness. Ornithologists say that an eagle flies one hundred and forty miles an hour; that he can go round the world in nine days. Swallows, when pur- suing insects, fly ninety miles an hour. ~Carrier pigeons beat the eagle in speed. The swallow, migrating from England, reaches Sierra Leone, in Africa, three thousand miles off, in three days. The eagle soaring above the clouds, says Nuttall, can at will escape the scene of the storm, and in the lofty region of calm, far within the aerial boundary of eternal frost, enjoy a serene sky and a bright sun, while the terrestrial animals remain involved in darkness and exposed to the fury of the tempest. The atmosphere is the most spirit-like of material things. It is the quintessence of matter. It is the special home of light and electricity. In its summery expanses are built The lofts of piled thunder. Man has been hitherto, in effect, excluded from it, because he has not been fit to be made free of its glorious privacies of light. Only to the most civil- ized and advanced nations is it given to utilize the tremendous agencies of nature. With the spread of genuine Christianity, the religion of humanity, of love and fraternal kindness, keeps pace the march of scientific discovery and mechanical invention. The poet laureate of Great Britain has given a. magnificent glimps~ of future air-navigation in his Looksley Hall: For I dipped into the future f~r as human eye oould see, Saw the vision of the world and all the wonder that should be; Saw the heavens fill with commeroe, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight drepping down with oostly h8les; 4 54 AM~ONAUTICS. ileard the heavens ftll with shouting till there rained a ghastly dew From the nations airy nayies grappling in the central blue, Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-storm, Till the war drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flag was furled In the parliament of Man, the Federation of the World! There is no limit to the control over the natural forces which man will finally wield through knowledge, as he becomes fit for such dominion. The powers of nature are hidden, because, if made fully subservient to the human will, the earth would scarcely contain the wild uproar which would ensue. Hostile nations, like the Miltonic fiends, would ride the air in whirlwind. As man grows wiser and better, as the colossal man Humanity attains to self- consciousness, he will be enabled to arm himself more and more with the ele- ments, and to make the forces that act in, by and through matter, his servants. These are speculations warranted by the sober realities of advancing science. We are only just beginning to become acquainted scientifically with the physical forces, light, heat, electricity, gravitation, etc. We have but just found out that force is as indestruotible as matter, and that the quantity of force in the material universe admits neither of increment nor of diminution,~ and that one force is convertible into another. What is creation hut the con~ stant interaction of the physical forces, which are the modes of manifestation in time and space of the Divine Power? There is no such thing as inertness, or dull, dead matter anywhere in the phenomenal universe. All is life, power, effort, change. The very clods we tread upon are full of forces, which once let loose would prove as irresistible as the genii of Arahian fable released from their imprisonment. That which furnishes us with our firm, hard footing un- derneath, becomes above volatile, free and respirable. In one form it moves with the ponderous motion of the earthquake; in others, it whispers softly in the zephyr or sweeps irresistibly in the tornado; it shakes the solid earth in the thunderbolt, or fills the universe with the glory of the joyful light. Bacon saw with prophetic eye long ago from the sublime elevation to which his genius lifted him, that many of the fancies and imaginations of poetry and romance would yet become sober realities. The supernatural agents not only of ethnic religions, hut of Judaism and Christianity also, are always represented as winged, when they make their appearance under the conditions of time and space. There is preserved in the Escurial in Spain, a crimson plume, said to have dropped from the wing of the archangel Gabriel. There is no theophany or angelophany without wings. What are these winged celestials, but foreshadowings of the ultimate capabilities of man? Astolpho upon his hippogriff will yet become a reality. The air has its currents like the ocean, its aerial gulf-streams flowing far up at dizzy heights through azure sunny spaces. In the celestial tropical rivers shall the tropic-bird, the fairy of ocean, as it is called, alone poise itself, a speck in the infinite blue, and swim with delight, watching The sea wrinkled beneath it crawl? The atmosphere is only a more attenuated ocean. It is our breath of life, We are rooted in it by our lungs, whose valves are the mouth and nose. We are buoyant as well as the birds. Our arms are the homologues of wings, as well as of the fins of fishes. Our lungs have been called balloons tethered in our chests. The air is the condition of life, the walkers on the earths sur- face are, as it were, at the bottom of a vast ocean, gazing up at the sun, AERONAUTICS. moon and Titanian stars. The air is then our peculiar element. It is a pro- duct elaborated from all the kingdoms; the seasons are its education; Spring begins and sows it; Summer puts in the airy flowers, and Autumn the airy fruits, which close-fisted Winter shuts up ripe in wind-granaries for the use of lungs and their dependent organs. . . . The air is a cellarage of aerial wines, the heaven of the spirits of the plants and flowers. here is a science to be undertaken; the study of the atmosphere of the earth which it repeats; of the mosaic pillars of the landscape and climate in the crystal sky; of the map of the scented and tinted winds. The atmosphere in fact makes of the earth and its inhabitants one community, binding them together for weal or woe, and making the remotest nations share in each others calami- ties, when it becomes the path of the pestilence, or in each others felicities, when in Maytime at the nuptials of the plants it becomes, in temperate cli- mates at least, a vast receptacle and dispensary of fragrance, laden with floating fertilizing dust and showers of orchard blooms, so that all the winds blow odors That in the heart inspire vernal delight Able to drive all sadness, but despair. The air is the region of reverie and of castle-building. As one gazes into its depths of a Summer afternoon, watching the great piles of white, sunny vapor, or contemplates an Autumnal sunset, blazing like some apocalyptic vision with armies of light and banners of flame, he cannot help envyi~ag the birds, and the day-dreamers, and German metaphysicians their exclusive possession of cloudland, gorgeous land. Ye clouds, sailers of the air, exclaimed Queen Mary, from her prison at Fotheringay, as she saw them drifting toward her beloved France. How must she have longed for wings to flee away from the tyranny of the pitiless Tudor! Through the pure marble air he winds his oblique way, says Milton, describing the journey of Lucifer. The air must yet afford a pathway along its blue and trackless coasts for the migrations and journeyings of men, as well as of wild-geese, cranes and storks. The balloon, said Shelley, has not yet received the perfection of which it is surely capable; the art of navigating the air is in its first and most help- less infancy. The aerial mariner still swims on bladders, and has not mounted even the rude raft. If we weigh this invention, curious as it is, with some of the subjects I have mentioned, it will seem trifling, no doubt, a mere toy, a feather in comparison with the splendid anticipations of the philosophical chemist. Yet it is not altogether to be contemned. It promises prodigious facilities for locomotion, and will enable us to traverse vast tracts with ease and rapidity, and to explore unknown countries without difficulty. Why are we still so ignorant of the interior of Africa? Why do we not despatch intrepid aeronauts to cross it in every direction, and to survey the whole peninsula in a few weeks? The shadow of the first balloon; which a vertical sun would project precisely underneath it, as it glided silently over that unhappy country, would virtually emancipate every slave and would annihi- late slavery forever 1 Poe, in his account of the journey of Hans Pfaall to the moon, has, aided by the experience of a multitude of aeronauts, and by the suggestions of modern science, furnished a not altogether improbable narrative of extra at- mospheric adventure. At any rate Hans escaped the importunities of his Amsterdam creditors and the broom of his shrewish wife. It is a curi,ns 58 AERONAUTICS. fact that in sleep we often find ourselves traversing the air without the aid of wings at all, with the utmost speed and confidence. In fact, the dreamer often finds himself literally taking to the air as if native, and induced unto that element to escape some imaginary foe. As Isaac Taylor has shown, a slight alteration in our organs would adapt them to material circumstances quite different to those in which we now exist. Where there is no alternation of day and night, as possibly in the sun, the sentient beings or organized in- telligences dwelling there must feel no need of sleep or rest in their nightless world. A knowledge of the strength which is lodged in the nerves of the frailest human organism is afforded by delirium. Our corporeity, like the spirit whose organ and sensible symbol it is, con- tains latent energies and capabilities, which would fit it to be a companion of the spirit in quite altered circumstances. The will and strong desire of the dreamer, prompted by fear, actually carries him into the air, as he supposes. His frame responds to his wish and soars aloft swiftly and buoyantly. A friend who ascended in a balloon on the 5th of July, 1858, from Lowell, on the banks of the Merrimack River, described his sensations, which the writer jotted down at the time. He reached an altitude of six thousand feet, in a clear Summer atmosphere, over a populous and highly cultivated region. One feels no giddiness at this height in a balloon. Familiar objects and sc~nes assume a novel aspect, looked at fror~i on high. Ones real estate grows small and beautifully less as the green earth recedes. The jaunt in question seemed as if its scene was some fabled fairy land. None but a great descriptive poet, like Byron or Wordsworth, could do justice to it. The heavy foliage of the orchai~ds ~nd woods, and the deep green of the fields, were particularly beau- tiful w)~en seen from the air, and had a velvety look. The railroads appeared to have but one track, and a train of cars which passed under the balloon seemed to be very narrow and twice its real length. The numerous ponds and small lakes with which the suburban towns about the city of Lowell are so thickly dotted were particularly attractive objects, catching the eye of the aeronaut seoner than any other features of the landscape. They all seemed exactly circular in shape. As you ascend higher and higher, you feel through your whole frame an indescribable airiness and buoyancy. You begin to adjust yourself to your novel circumstances, and grow confident and secure. When the balloon in question was floating over Fort Hill, its occupant enjoyed a vast sweep of horizon. On the north, the White Mountains were distinctly visible, looming up grandly afar off in the dim distance. As the ball on drifted eastward, toward Andover, its occupants could see Boston and the ocean outside, while the singing of birds and the voices of men ascended as through a tube. Sounds heard in such circumstances have a pe uliar effect upon the aerial hearer. Some very hospitable person or persons underneath shouted to the aeronauts an invitation to tea. If a person would see a mid- summer sunset in all its glory, let him ascend into the azure deep of air in a balloon. The balloon hung almost suspended over Wilmington meeting- house at sunset, and the sound of the bell came up loud and clear to the ears of the airy voyagers. As a pendant to these somewhat general considerations, a reference may be made to some of the latest aeronautic researches and experiments. We shall scarcely more than name M. Nadar, of Paris, and his gigantic balloon Le G6ant. This distinguished artist has recently published an enthusiastic AERONAUTICS. 57 treatise in favor of aeronautics, under the argumentative title of The Right to Fly as if there were any other right than might in the matter. M. Nadar has also some definite theories about ballooning by steam, which we shall not stop to discuss here. He is practically a pretty good aeronaut, whatever he may be as a theorizer. There is an Aeronautical Society in England, of which the Duke of Argyll is chairman, and which held a meeting on the 27th of the past June. At this meeting there were two occurrences of some interesta declaration of specu- lative principles by the society through its secretary, and an account of a new theory in aeronautics and of the machine constructed according to it. The declaration or code was a sort of apology for or explanation of the ex- istence of the Society, and it alleged in substance as follows: 1. Men have always, or at least extensively, denied the power of moving about in the air. 2. A long series of attempts and inventions at length resulted in the bal- loon. 3. After a further long time, the balloon was made useful for purposes of discovery, but to a very small extent compared with what is probable in fu- ture. 4. A series of attempts to propel and guide balloons is in progress, which requires organized aid and direction. 5. Money is necessary to promote aeronautics, and the Society will help raise it. But a paper on Aerial Locomotion, by Mr. F. H. Wenham, was even more to the point, and it laid down some novel statements. We epitomize portions of this paper. Mr. Wenhani argued and stated thus: 1. Birds, in flying, use, on an average, about a square foot of wing for each pound carried through the air. On this proportion, it would take twelve horse-power to carry three hundred pounds straight up in still air. 2. Endurance in flight and sustaining power in birds, when moving raRid- ly, depend, not on great surface of wing, but upon great length of wing. Thus the albatross has wings stretching fourteen feet from tip to tip, and no- where over ten inches wide. 3. Experiments will show corresponding results with machinery, both in air and water. In either medium, moreover, it willbe found that if a thin blade, as a lath, be placed across the end of a shaft, and opposed flat-ways to the current of water or air, a surprisingly great resistance will be felt. Fur- ther, if, while thus opposed, the lath be twirled rapidly round by this handle, the resistance to it is not that of one side of the lath, but that of the whole area of the circle of which the lath is the diameter or whirling spoke; and the more rapid the revolution the narrower the lath may be, and yet receive the whole resistance. 4. This and similar experiments show that the supporting effect of long and narrow planes moved edgeways through elastic media depends upon the width of stratum, and consequently the weight of material, passed over with- in a given time. That is, the albatross flies easily, because its wings pass over a broad paththat is, a great weightthat is, a strong supportof air. 5. Wings for a man would need to be sixty feet from end to end, and four feet broad. (N. B.Here is a hint on proporiion for people who paint an- gels.) But the supports for such a wing would have to be too heavy for practice. 58 AERONAUTICS. 6, But it is found that the air will allow of wings placed in sections above each other, so that a mans wings, instead of two, each thirty feet long, may be six, each ten feet long, workingto use a saw-mill technicin two gangs of three each, one gang on a sidejust the number, it will be remembered, of some of Ezekiels cherubs. Lastly, after Mr. Wenhams account of what may be done, comes his ac- count of what he says he has done. A model was constructed of sufficient size to raise a man. It was of thin holland stretched in a frame, the web being eighteen inches broad, and ninety feet long in all, but arranged in five parallel sections, one above the other. The whole weighed forty-five pounds. This contrivance, says Mr. Wenham, when held against a breeze estima- ted at about twenty miles an hour, easily raised the experimenter; but, not being provided with any propelling arrangement, it quickly descended again, with no worse accident than the fracture of the apparatus. Upon this we note that, as long as the twenty-mile breeze held, Mr. Wen- ham must necessarily have kept going up, unless there is some mistake in this statement; also that the apparatus included the motive powerthe deus, or rather homo ex machina. But we take his word for it that he came down, whether it was he or the other part of the apparatus that was frac- tured, and with equal credulity we receive his statement that for the last six years other pursuits have prevented the author from continuing these in- vestigations. He was probably in the pursuit of mending~ his boneswe beg pardon, his apparatus. Experiments, he adds, however, are now in progress for the purpose of ascertaining the force required to propel a series of superposed aeroplanes how can a thing called superposed aeroplanes help going up? the very words puff through the atmosphere at speeds ex- ceeding twenty miles per hour. Should this prove to be within the compass of manual power, there is some probability that an active man might be en- abled to perform extended flights, etc. Any one who has seen the funny tout ensemble of an organist in a compli- cated passage, where he is playing presto with runs on the manuals and many notes in the pedal bass, may imagine the grotesque picture of Mr. Wenhams aeroplant, or aeroplanet; at any rate, of his active man up in the air, scrabbling away with arms and legs to work his superposed aeroplanes, and save a fracture of.the apparatus unless, indeed, he have to kick and strike so fast that his legs and arms disappear into a kind of whirling halo about him, like the spokes of the wheel of a trotting wagon at 2.40. And at that rate, on Mr. Wenhams own principle of the lath, why may the act7 ive man~~ not whirl himself up in the air without any aeroplanes at all? But we feel ourselves approaching gradually toward that simple myth of him who lifted himself over a fence by the straps of his boots. Perhaps the circle of the sciences will return upon itself, and bring about that very deed, by the interposition of the society of his Grace of Argyll and of Mr. F. H. Wen- ham. The latest invention on this side the Atlantic in aeronautics is one which is much more sensible in appearance than the aeroplaneticose machine of Mr. Wenham. The Englishman thinks a mans musAes can operate wings that will carry a mans weight; and the plan, like all the rest which are based on the same idea, altogether omits the main fact in the case. That fact is, that the nerve and muscle power for wings must be as great, compared with total weight of body, in a flying man as in a flying bird. Until Mr. Wenham can AERONAUTICS. 59 adjust this part of his plan, he can no more enable men to fly in the air than to live under water. Dr. Solomon Andrews Aereon, which has recently made one or two trial trips in New York, has far more the appearance of a practical affair. It may be explained thus: A flat, thin thing, as a sheet of paper, if dropped slanting, slides forward while it falls, in consequence of the resistance of the air. If~ however, you make the sheet lighter than the air, it will slide upward and forward. Now, let a balloon be made thin and flat, so as to float as a horizontal plane in the air; not as a ball. Then you have floating power as in a round balloon. You will also get travelling power if you can slant this floating plane up- ward and downward at will, provided, at the same time, you can make it heavy when you point it down; and light when you point it up. The changes in direction Dr. Andrews accomplishes by hanging a long car under his bal- loon, and stepping to either end of it. The corresponding change in specific gravity he makes by throwing out ballast to make the balloon ascend, and discharging gas to make it descend. In practice, the question will be this: Can enough extra gas be stored in the balloon at starting to afford a sufficient number of successive discharges to make the balloon sink as often and as rapidly as is necessary? If yes, the problem of travelling through the air in balloons at will is solved as to possi- bility, and it only remains to make it usefully practicable. The trial trips which Dr. Andrews has already made have shown that some ascent and de- scent, and some progress forward, are practicable. The mathematical conditions of Dr. Andrews problem are of too dry and algebraic and formulistic a nature to be set forth at much length in THE GAL- xxv, which, although it may be said to have zy for one of its chief ends, is not yet reduced to ring the changes on those letters to entertain its readers. But the calculations about Dr. Andrews plan are so simple, that any one a little acquainted with naim.ral philosophy can solve them. A very easy computation on the principles of pneumatics will show exactly how much gas he must have to start with, in order to carry a fiat or raft- shaped balloon, of a given form, and lifting a given weight, and slanting at a given angle, and at a given speed, one hundred miles. The lifting power of hydrogen, the resistance of the atmosphere, the composition of forces involved, the speed attainable, in short, the whole story, can he demonstrated mathe- matically and easily. In fact, the leastsatisfactory feature of Dr. Andrews invention thus far has been that he has not published a strict and full mathe- matical demonstration of what he can do. We close with a single summary sentence: Aeronautics, as a science, is to- day in a state more promising than ever before, and there is much reason for believing that some practical means for propelling and guiding balloons will be discovered. B. W. BALL. AROHIE LOVELIJI By Mns. EDWARDS, AUTHOR OF Miss FORRESTEE, ETC. CHAPTER XIX. OLD LOVE AND NEW! A HEM! She is not a little girl now, Major Seton, remarked Bettina, ~who had followed in time to watch the meeting, and who, even in the ~rst blissful intoxication of being a rectors wife, could remember the pro- prieties. Archie is seventeen, a grown-up girl, and has been introduced into society already. An hour ago Bettina would have said introduced at a Morteville ball, but with returning position had awakened the old instinc- tive euphemisms of the world. Seventeenis it possible? said the stranger. Why, it seems only yesterday since she was a little girla little girl II could carry very conven- iently in my arm about the garden at Genoa. But I am not a little girl now, cried Miss Lovell, hot and scarlet still after Major Setons greeting of her. I was seventeen the twelfth of last October. But very unlike a qualified, grown-up young lady still, Mr. Lovell re- marked, drawing the girl to his side, and giving her a look which plainly told how much better than any qualified young lady he thought her. Archie has had strange companionship at times, and Im afraid will not be very much like a rectors daughter for awhile. Imagine, Ralph, the child has never been in England yet. Indeed! Major Seton stroked down his moustache thoughtfully at this information, and gave a side-long inquiring look at Archies face. The blue eyes met his unflinchingly; the girlish figure stood up bravely, though every Rerve was trembling with excitement; at Mr. Lovells side. He says nothing! she thought at last, drawing a freer breath as Major Seton, to her intense surprise and relief remained silent. Is he shy, or stupid, or is it possible that he doesnt remember me? Perhaps he is as foolish about me as everpoor dear old Ralph! and if he i~, I can soon make him believe anything I choose. And then she turned away, and artfully quitting the subject of her own foreign bringing-up, began to heap pretty congratulations upon her father: wondering what England would be like, and what his duties would be, and how many sermons he would have to write a weekholding her soft cheek against his forehead, and caressing the hair back from his temples just as, years ago, she used to caress Ralph himself when she was a child playing among the roses in the ruined garden at Genoa with Major Seton, her adorer, her vassal, her slave, at her feet. Her slave: ay, he was that, she recollected well. Her slave, physically, AROHIE LOVEIJL. 61 carrying her in his arms, under the broiling sun, or crushing his great shoulders under impossible places at hide-and-seek; her inexorable masier, the only one she had ever really owned, in matters of conscience: Once, when she was about eleven years old, she had told a deliberate story, though not a very black one, about the breaking of a china cup on which Bettina set great store; and Ralph, cognizant of the sin and of the falsehood alike, had given her his mute support throughout; had even allowed Mrs. Lovell to throw the blame upon a certain little Tino, Archies Italian sweetheart for the time being. If you dont like to tell the truth, dont tell it, he said to her in secret. I shall not betray you to Bettina, and I will play with you just as usual: onlydont kiss me; I will never let you kiss me until you are brave enough to take the blame off Tino. And with this awful pressure brought to bear upon her, Archie had confessed, and been punished, had given her white goat to Tino, and then loved Ralph Seton a hundred times better than ever for his severity. The whole story came back upon her recollection at this moment; and even while she felt assured as to poor old Ralphs outward allegiance, the won- der crossed her whether in a matter of morals he would be as implacably severe as ever. If he is, I can bear it, she thought; throwing a glance at him from beneath her long lashes. If he did recognize me in London, and is only pretending before papa, I am not afraid. The punishment I thought so dreadful iii Genoa, eight years ago, would not be much of a punishment in Morteville now. And Miss Lovell gave a little impertinent shudder at the thought of poor old Ralphs ugly face, and how his rough moustache had rasped her cheeks when he kissed her a minute ago. Major Seton was certainly not a man to charm the fancy of any very young girl who had just parted from the handsome face and refined, courtly presence of Gerald Durant. He was tallwell over six feetdeep-chested, and thin- flanked: a very model of manly strength, but built too much after the square, solid fashion due to his Scottish descent to have a vestige of grace about him. His head, of the type that a friend would call good honest Saxonan enemy, cocoa-nut shapedwas set somewhat stiffly on his broad, soldier-like shoul- ders. His feet were large; his hands were large, and excessively brown; and in his face there was not a handsome feature! Ordinary dark-gray eyes; a short, but by no means Grecian nose; a huge reddish-blonde moustache, en- tirely covering his mouth, and the true Scottish height of cheek-bone. His chin, prominent and firmly cut, was the solitary point that could be called good in all that rugged exterior; for the effect of a row of white, even teeth was marred by one of the front ones being broken short in two, a defect that it had never entered into Major Setons brain to have remedied by art. His complexion, which had been fair as a boy, was tanned by exposure of all kinds, by Indian sun last of all, to a brown several shades darker than his hair; and its darkness was rendered still more conspicuous by a white jagged cicatrice, the mark of a sabre-cut he had received in his youth, which cleft just above the left eyebrow, and showed again, deep and irregularly traced, upon the bronzed cheek beneath. This ancient wound, perhaps; joined to the weather-beaten skin and the broken front tooth, gave Major Seton that inde- scribable look which can be justly conveyed by no other word than battered. Jeanneton, when she let him in, summed him up briefly in her mind as a vieux moustache. To Archie, in five minutes, he was poor old Ralph. Not perhaps quite so advanced in years as her father or B~ttina, but oki, 62 ARCHIE LOVELL. very old; thoroughly out of the world of Gerald and herself; an antediluvian creature with big hands and feet, a weatherbeaten face, and a huge, rough moustache that grated when he kissed you! And. yet this vieux moustache, this antediluvian creature, was a man younger in heart and spirit than Gerald Durant, and under thirty yet in actual age. Major Seton had lived muchthough not in the sense which makes a guardsman old at five-and-twenty! Poverty, self-denial, the sacri- fice of every small and paltry pleasure to one great principle, had been ne- cessities early thrust upon him in his boyhood; and what he had accepted perforce then, had simply become an ingrained part of his nature now. Scotch, as their name implies, by descent, the Setons for two generations had been settled on a small estate in Staffordshire, which had entered the family by the marriage of Ralphs grandfather with an English heiressor a lady whose fortune, compared with that of the Setons, entitled her to be so called. The only son of this marriage, James Seton, lived long enough to spend every shilling he could touch of his inheritance; to involve his estate in debt; to marry a girl without a farthing, and leave an orphan heir to his debts in the person of Ralph. The boy was sixteen years of age, and at Eton still, when his father died. He had always been brought up, by tutors and servants, to look upon him- self as possessing considerably better prospects than most boys. There was money forthcoming, he knew, whenever he liked to ask for it. There were gen- erally a couple of hunters ready for his use, and all kinds of conviviality and dissipation going on at home during the vacation. His father had avowedly sent him to Eton to play cricket, and keep up the habits and opinions of an English gentlemanand this the boy had done. His ideas of duty and of life in general were, to play cricket twenty-seven hours a week and read a little, but very little, for the classics at school; and to ride, shoot, play billiards, dine and drink with his elders, during the holidays. And so, while Gerald IDurant was receiving all good and motherly advice from Lady Durant in the pious shelter of the Court, Ralph Seton at Ludbrooke Hall, five miles away from them, was with his ruined father and his fathers associates, lead- ing a life during each vacation that already made the boy talked of as a baby- prodigal, a hopeful chip of the old block, throughout the country. But at sixteen, the age when Geralds emancipation from virtue was here- after to begin, cam.e young Setons emancipation from vicesuch skin-deep, schoolboy vice, of drinking and betting and billiard playing as it was! His father died: and on the day of the funeral, the trustees told the boy the exact amount of debts to which he was heir. So many thousands of pounds from which the estate must legally clear itself; so many other thousands which, being personal debts, or debts of honor, a son might lawfully disclaim on coming of age. Ralph had loved his father with the kind of passionate affection which open-handed, jovial, devil-may-care men like James Seton not unfrequently inspire in the children they are ruining; and not one bitter thought rose in his heart as the prospect of his own beggared life was laid before him. My father never denied me anythingmy father never said a harsh word to me in my life. These were the only words he could stammer out; these were the recollections which made the tears run, like a girls, down his face, when relations and lawyer spoke to him, with solemn looks and big words, of his fathers extravagance, and the awful warnings that all these s~juandered ARCHIE LOYELIj. 63 thousands ought to prove to him. And the relations and lawyer exchanged opinions during their journey back to London after the funeral, as to whether the boy was a milksop or stupid, or only reckless like poor James. He was not ~ milk~op or stupid, neither was he at sixteen a hero or a philosopher. In intellect Ralph was then, as now, a very ordinary fellow in- deed; but something better than intellecta large, loving he~art, and strength of will, derived possibly from remote Scottish ancestors, not certainly from the training of his early yearsmade him take up and hold to a noble purpose in life. Not a shilling of his dead fathers debts but should eventually be paid: not a stain should rest upon his dead fathers name if the work of his own right arm, the sacrifice of his whole life if need be, could cleanse it away. If Ludbrooke were let at once the estate would clear itself in five years, the trustees had told him. In another five or six years, he calculated for himself, the debts of honors of James Seton might also be paid. What was to become of the heir of Ludbrooke during this timefor the foregoing little exercise in arithmetic included no payments whatever save those to creditors? The poor boy on the evening of the funeral went round to the stables, the least desolate place it seemed to him, and standing there alone, looking wistfully at his favorite horse, a hunter James Seton had given two hundred guineas for some months before, asked himself this question: What was to become, during the next ten or twelve years, of the heir of Ludbrooke? Most men in whom lies the germ of solid success, can early test their own capacities pretty accurately. Standing alone with tear-stained cheek on this miserable day, when he stepped abruptly from childhood to mans estate, Ralph Seton examined, one by one, his abilities, such as they were, and de- cided that as far as books and study went he could donothing. He did not for a moment doubt his own strength in aught save books. An Eton boy of sixteen knows tolerably well the sort of place he has held, and is likely to hold, among his peers. Young Seton was bold of spirit, strong in body; and possessed no small portion of that robust common sense and tact combined for which the Scotch word canny has not an English cquivalent. In the world of boys he had held his ground, and he had no doubt of holding it in the world of men. Only, in what capacity? On this forlorn evening he thought over every employment by which money, traditionally, can be made the bar, or East India service, or literature, for none of which he had capa- city; commerce, for which he had neither capacity nor capitalthen decided that, as he could choose no profession by which to make money, he must accept one by which at least he could avoid spending it. I have brains enough to wear a red coat and be shot at, he thought at last; and, if I am not killed at once, I can exchange to India, and live upon my pay there. Upon which such visions of brave deeds and glory, elephant- hunting and pig-sticking, rose before the lads imagination, as made him after a while go back to the house with a somewhat brightened face. And that night he wrote a letter to his guardian and next of kin setting forth his de- termination, and begging that the family interest might be used to get him a commission in some regiment on, or bound for, active scrvice without delay. Now the words active service, or wearing a red coat to be shot at, bore a very different significance at a time when the battle of the Alma had been newly fought to what they bear now; and~ Ralphs guardian, a good, practical man of business, at once decided to grant the boy his wish. The army was about the best provision that could be made for poor James Setons 64 ARCHIE LOVELL. son; and without unnecessary delay the family interest set itself to work, to get young Ralph his commission. Not very much interest at that time was wanted; no need of studying for examination; no difficulties raised even as to age. On the evening of his fathers funeral, Ralph first thought of the red coatsix weeks later he wore one, and was on his way to the Crimea; Lad- brooke was let to a pottery-manufacturer, and the furniture, hunters, pictures, all the holy things of Ralphs childhood, were in the hands of the Jews. He went through all the Crimean campaign, and, to the comfort of his relatives, was not killed; only at Inkerman he got that sabre-cut that marked him for life from a Cossack cuirassier, and his share of ague, rheumatism and fever, in the trenches. He had no opportunity of performing extraordinary deeds of valor, nor was the circumstance of Ensign Setons face being cut open to the bone mentioned in any of the dispatches sent home to a grateful nation save as a scratch. By virtue of other mens deaths he got tolerably rapid promotion; his good constitution carried him through his ague and fever; his wound would certainly disfigure him frightfully for years to come, the surgeons laid, but it healed as it ought. And at the end of the war he was in possession of his medals, a captains pay, and the knowledge, so well did fate obey his wishes, that his regiment was spoken of by those high in authority as safe for India. At the attack of the Redan.-the inglorious ninety minutes, during which as many heroes fell as at InkermanRaiph Seton, and every other officer on the field, had behaved to the full as bravely, poor fellows, as though it had been another charge of the Six Hundred. But the men of his regiment had wavered, or were thought to have wavered; they were young boys, raw recruits, arrived from England a week before, and had many of them never fired a rifle in their lives; at all events a - court of inquiry was held in consequence of their alleged misconduct, and although no official stigma was actually affixed to its name, it was perfectly well known in the army that the th, or such of the th as should remain, would, after the peace, be safe for India. To India they went, and had continued there ever since; the regimental plate and the colors, that is to say; the colonel, Major Seton, the quarter- master, and a few of the menthe mutiny, and two or three of the un- healthiest stations in Bengal, not having left much more of what originally sailed from England under the name of the th. During these years Ralph Seton had returned once, for healths sal~e, to Europe, during which time he made the acquaintance of Mr. Lovell in Italy. With the exception of those mlitary eighteen months, his life from the day he joined until now, more than thirteen years, had been, plainly and literally, a life spent on duty. He liked his profession as most men alter five-and-twenty do like the army; tolerated it as an evil, one degree better than the poverty and idleness combined which would have awaited him had he left it. Until every farthing of his fathers debts were clear, he had sworn to himself not to touch a shilling of his income, and to this oath he keptliving on his pay from first to last, and holding, with stubborn fidelity, by his old regiment into whatever station it was ordered, and when all his brother officers in turn went home invalided, or exchanged, or sold. For amusement he shot tigers and stuck pigs, yearly feeling rather less excitement, perhaps, in the pursuit of these animals; and for society, cenfined himself exclusively to men, among whom, from the tough colonel down to the rawest gruff in the regiment, old Seton was popular. ARGuE LOVELL. 65 To womento the ladies, that is to say, of Indian stationsMajor Seton was an enigma. In spite of his scarred and sunburnt face, he might, had he chosen, have been a favorite with them, for he possessed that nameless charm of thorough, simple manliness, which even the most frivolous women in their hearts find more irresistible than all Adonis forms and Grecian profiles. But he did not choose it. If, accidentally, he was thrown with the wives or sisters of his brother officers, he was deferential, almost tenderly courteous, in his manner toward them, but there it ended. When he met them at the band or at their drives next day, he returned their smiles with his usual grave salute horrible old moustache as he wasand neither saw, nor attempted to see, more of them until some new accident forced him into their society. Was he afraid of them, or of himself, or was he only a commonplace woman- hater? How should they tell? What should these gay Indian ladies know of the purpose of that lonely life, of the fair, unsullied ideal, which, after long years of a soldiers life, Major Seton yet held to in his heart of women and. of love? Round the bungalows of other men hung pictures of fair faces by the scoreoperatic celebrities, women of the east and of the west, beauties of all nations and all climates; round Major Setons hung a series of Landseers proofs, a dozen or so of mens photographs, and, of late years, one oil-painting of a girla girl of about eleven, with blue eyes and a mignonne dark face,. standing bareheaded under an Italian sky, and with a panorama of the bay of Genoa outstretched at her feet. Before his visit to Europe there had, it was remembered, been two or three womens portraits on his wall; but upon his return to India he cleared these scrupulously away before hanging up his new possession. I just prefer seeing the child alone, he remarked, quietly, when one of his friends attempted to joke with him on the dethronement of old favorites; and after this no one asked him any further questions on the subject. There were few men who chose to question Major Seton on any subject respecting which he had once shown a disposition to be reticent. And you find her a great deal changed, Ralph? said Mr. Lovell, while Ralph still continued to stroke down his moustache, and look silently at Archie. You would not have recognized the little Italian girl you used to play with in this tall, stately, full-grown young person? I should have recognized her anywhere, answered Ralph, or at least I believe I should, he added, promptly. Knowing that you lived at Morte-. vile, and suspecting this to be your house, I certainly remembered Archies face the first moment that I had a glim~5se of it at the window. And if any other young woman with red hair i~nd a brown face had been looking out you would have recognized her just the same, cried Archie, carelessly. One finds what one expects to find! Now that I am tuld you are Major Seton, I remember Major Seton. If I had met you anywhere else she hesitated, and her eyes sank under his. If you had met Major Seton anywhere else, put in Bettina, opportunely,.. I should have been with you, of course, Archie, and should have helped you to recollect your papas friend. The poor little woman was quite brist ing with her new sense of wanting everybody belonging to her to be decorous. Archie needs the society of a few young girls of her own age, Major Seton, she added, apologetically. Travelling about in the wild way we have done, I have thought it best never to let her mix with any other young people, but living settled in an English county, of course it will be very different. And then BettinaMr. Lovell having gone away to store his cabinets safe ARCHIE LOVELL. out of reach of Jeannetons handsput Major Seton through a long course of questions as to the social capabilities of Hatton. Plenty of rich manu- facturing people? ah, yes, very well in their way, but not what she had been accustomed to in her youth, and the neighboring clergy, of course, and Major Seton himself. But what immediate neighbors ?nice people ?people they would be likely to get on with? and with any girl of Archies age in the family? Well, said Major Seton, the people to whom you will be nearest are the Purauts. Durants Court is about two miles from the reetory, and Lucia is, I should think, about the same age as Archie. iDurantDurant! chirped Bettina. Dear me, how familiar it sounds! Archie, where can I have heard the name of Durant lately? But Archie had bent her head over a French railway-guide that lay upon the table, and was intently studying the advertisement of a company for re- claiming waste landa near Bordeaux. II beg your pardon, Bettina! What did you say? Davenant? Douro? oh, Durantwhy, Durant was the name of that young Englishman I danced with at the ball the other nightdont von remember ? Of course it was. A nice little man, Major Seton, with yellow whiskers and a neat figure. Could it have been one of the Staffordshire family, should you think? A nice little man, with yellow whiskers and a neat figure! At any other time Archie would have fired up indignantly at such a hideous caricature of Geralds handsome person, but she remained mute and still now, reading on without noting a wordthough months afterward she could remember it accuratelyof that prospectus for reclaiming the waste lands near Bordeaux, while she waited breathlessly for Major Setons reply. A small man with yellow whiskersthat sounds like Gerald. You dont know his Christian name, I suppose? But he addressed the question point- edly to Bettina, not Archie. Mrs. Lovell answered, no; she had, indeed, not been introduced herself to Mr. Durant; could Archie remember if the name of the little man she danced with was Gerald? It was, answered Miss Lovell, laconically. I know it, because he wrote his name down on my card, Gerald Sidney Durant. After which she went on diligently with her study of the waste lands. Liability of shareholders to be limited in accordance with the international treaty of 1862; capital already subscribed, 300,000 francs; and then on through a list of directors, bankers, brokers, auditors; and secretaries, down to the solicitors and temporary offices of the company. Well. Gerald Sidney Durant will before very long be one of your closest neighbors, went on Major Seton, in his quiet voice. He is engaged to be married to his cou-in Lucia, the heiress of Durants Court. Archie Lovells heart turned to ice; Bettina, always fired into intense excitement by the barest mention of a marriage, began immediately to ply Major Seton with questions. When would it take place? Where would the young people live? How much a year would they have to start with? Had he not interrupted her, she would before long have got, no doubt, to the materials of the brides dress, aad what Archie would wear if she should be invited to be bridesmaid. It has been a very long engagement, indeed, Mrs. Lovell ; and something ARCHIE LOVELL. 67 in the distinct tone of his voice, in the scrupulous way in which he continued to address himself to Bettina, made Archie feel that every word he uttered was designedly, and of malice aforethought, addressed to herself. An engagement commencing when Miss Durant was about two years of age and Gerald nine. There have been rumors of late, I hear, of a misunderstanding hetween them, he added; but the idea of the engagement being really broken off is ridiculous. Sir John and Lady Purant are just as much in love with Gerald as Lucia is And Gerald himself? cried Archie, as Major Seton hesitated, forgetting the waste lands and the part she was acting and everything else in her in- tense eagerness to hear what Gerald felt. Gerald himself must marry Lucia Durant, replied Major Seton, looking round, for the first time, at the girls flushing face. He has no choice at all in the matter. Oh, I thought a man always had some choice as to the woman he marries. Not when he is tied hand and foot, like poor Gerald. The lad is over head and ears in debt; his cousin Lucia on her marriage will have a clear fifteen hundred a year, and eventually every shilling her father has to leave. I should say, with what his wife brought him, added the major, in his accu- rate Scotch way, very close upon fifty thousand pounds. Fifty thousand pounds! A.rchie felt the same sort of profound crushing conviction as to her own worthlessness as she had done when Gerald first showed her the photograph of Lucias faultless features. Fifty thousand pounds! and she, a pauper, had dared to think it possible that he liked her! I see, she murmured, half to herself~ and dropping her face down over the book again; I suppose there is no choice left when a man once decides to sell himself for money. Sell, my dear Archie! cried Bettina. Do leave off those silly, indeed indelicate expressions. This Mr. Gerald Durant is a very lucky man indeed, and it will be a great privilege to you having a nice young married woman living so near us. The young people will continue to live at the Court, I sup- pose, Major Seton? And straightway visions of wedding-parties, dinner- parties, morning-calls, and the dresses that she, the rectors wife, would wear on all these occasions, presented themselves with delicious breadth and fulness of detail before Bettinas mind. When you condemn a man for marrying f~r money, you should remember what the man is, remarked Ralph, who had already fallen into the habit common to all human creatures who knew her, of answering about one in fifteen of Bettinas questions. If you knew Gerald as I do, Archie, ydu would feel it impossible to apply any harsh terms to him, whatever he does. Should I? ~Yes, I am quite sure you would. My own practical experience. of Geralds character has been confined to the years when we were boys together or rather when I was an old boy, he a child; for there are a good many years between usand to the few weeks I spent with him when I was home on leave seven years ago; but yet I believe I know him as well as if I had never lost sight of him. in all the intervening time. What Gerald was at twelve I found him as a guardsman of nineteen, and shall find him again now at twenty-six. Characters like his develop, of course, but they dont change. 68 ARGuE LOVELL. Just at this juncture Bettinaeven in her new dreams of greatness not unmindful of the present honor~ of the houseremembered that there was only the remains of the cold fillet and a salad for supper, and jumping up, with a string of apologies to Major Seton, prepared to leave the room. I shant be away from you five minutes, Major Seton, but Frederick will be impatient unless I help him with his cabinets. Mr. Lovell would not have let her touch one of them for the universe. Archie, my love, amuse Major Seton by showing him your photographs while I am gone. And then she rushed off to the kitchen to send Jeanneton to the Couronne dArgent (the back way, on account of Mrs. Maloney) for a roti and sweets; and Archie and Major Seton were left alone. For the first time in her life Miss Lovell experienced the sensation of shy- ness. Her hands trembled; the color rose and fell in her face. When Bet- tina left the room it was as much as she could do not to get up and follow her. But. Major Seton saw, or pretended that he saw, no symptom of her em- barrassment. You have heard of your fathers new prospects, of course, Archie? he remarked, but without having the air of seeking to change their conversation. I need scarcely ask you if you are glad at his good fortune. i[ suppose England is a sort of El Dorado to your mind at present ? Then Archie raised her eyes, and looked at Ralph Seton full. He was scrutinizing her face, she felt, line by line, and she fancied there was an anx- ious, half-pained look upon his own, as though he would fain have bid her speak the truth, and trust in him, and take him to be her friend. Should she do so? Her heart said yes; and she stammered out his name Ralph! He was at her side in a moment; stooping over her low, and holding both her little cold hands in one of his own large ones. Archies heart beat horri- bly thickthicker far than when she stood alone on London Bridge by night with Gerald Durant. Gerald was young and handsome, and boyish; so much nearer her own size in every way than this great soldier, with his staid man- ner and his enormous height, and his rough, old, scarred, and weatherbeaten facemore scarred and weatherbeaten than she had known, now that she saw it close! A mortal terror overcame her that he might be going to kiss her again, and she jumped up nervously, and snatched her hands away from him. II think I must go after Bettina, Major Seton, that is, stammering and looking i~ore and more frightened, I mean papa may want me.~ Directly; when you have answered my question. Are you glad of this prospect of seeing England for the first time ? Why do you ask me? she cried, the first instinctive impulse toward con- fession growing weaker every moment. Of course I am glad. Of course it will be better to live respectably in a parsonage than to knock about the world as we have done. And she drew herself up to her full height, and tossing her hair back over her shoulders, looked steadily, almost defiantly, into Major Setons face. And it really is the first time that you will see England! he repeated, slowly and distinctly. I understood your father right. You have never been in England since you were born ? Never! cried Archie, with a sort of gasp. Or, at least, papa and Bettina say so, and of course they ought to know. After which she felt better; her dread of Ralph, her shyness, her hesitation AROHIE LOVELL. 69 gone. She was in a new world; and yet it seemed to her as though she had been accustomed to it all her life; as though falsehoods were very easy to tell when the time came; nay, more, as though, after the first cold shock was over, there was a kind of pleasant pungency or zest in telling them! Major Seton walked away to the window, plunged his hands into his coat- pockets, and put his lips into the set, compressed position which for him meant whistling. He knows nothing, thought Archie, as she sat watching him. He is not sure, or he would have asked me more questions, and I was right to put him off. Am I to go about telling wild stories of myself to everybody, now that poor papa is a rector? Awl forgetting that she wanted to follow Bettina, she sat down and re- turned to the study of the waste lands, while Ralph Seton stood for five min- utes or more in the same attitude, his lips going through the same pantomime of whistling as he gazed out steadily into the street. He sufferedstrong man as he wasan intense, a fearful loss during these five minutes: he lost the one pure belief of the last six years of his life. The women he had taken down from his walls when he first hung Archie there, might be put back again he felt; the picture of the fresh, unsullied child, for whose sake he had dethroned them, was the picture of something that had no existence now. Archie Lovell was a woman, just as well worth loving and marrying as other women perhaps, but his ideal of truth and in- nocence and unstained loyalty no longer. He came back, and looked at her very long and kindly. Miss Lovell, ~e said at last, for the first time not calling her Archie, you are a grown-up young lady as your father reminded me now, and Iwell, there is more dif- ference between us by far than there was in Genoa, when you were a little child and I was your playfellowyour tame bear rather, as you used to call me. I cant expect you will give me your confidence now as you used, but his voice shook slightly I hope we shall be very good neighbors indeed when you come to England, and that if ever you should by possibility need me you will look upon me as your friend. But though he was quite close to where she sat, he made no attempt to ap- proach any nearer to her now; and with a quick contraction of the heart, the girl felt that she need not be afraid of the pressure of the huge hands, of the contact of the rough moustache again. Half child, half woman as ~he was, Archie Lovells real liking for Major Seton dated from that moment. For in that moment she acknowledged him to be, not her slave, not her equal, but her master! If you dont like to tell the truth, dont tell it. I shall not betray you, and I will play with you just as usual. Onlydont kiss me. I will never let you kiss me. until you are brave enough to take the blame off Tino. She recalled again that threat of years ago ; recalled the night she had cried so bitterly because he had held so staunchly to his word; and how at length he had kissed her again; kissed and loved, and trusted her more than ever! What would he think if he knew the truth now? Would he ever take her back to his regard if he discovered the falsehood she had this moment told him? As she bent her face low down over her book, Major Seton stood and watched her still. He watched the outline of the graceful head; the bend of the girlish throat, the delicately-modelled arm that lay upon the table, the dark lashes resting on the soft, flushed cheekevery outward charm deveb 5 70 ARCHIE LOVELL. oped into sweet perfection of this child he had made an idol of! And as he stood, he put her resolutely away out of his heart. The thought of coming back and finding her thus; the childs face changed into a womansbut the childs loyal heart matured into a womans integritythe hope of one day winning her for his wife, had been, during more than six years, the poetry, the brightness of Ralph Setons lonely life. And now with the material part of his destiny accomplished, his fathers debts paid, Ludbrooke his own again, and Archie before himfairer than he had seen her in his dreamshe stood, even in the first hour of their meeting, and put her resolutely away out of his heart. He was no enthusiast, with romantic visions of women being angels; be was a very plain and cautious man, fresh enough, certainly, to desire to pos- sess a beautiful face by his own fireside, but who had seen sufficient of the world, and of the worst part of the world, to know when prudence bade him subordinate inclination to reason. For common conventionalities, for what are termed the opinions of society, he cared nothing. If Archie had boldly confessed that she had gone to London with Gerald, nay, had she confessed that she went of set purpose, not by accident, he might have liked her rather the better for the pluck such an escapade sh& wedexperience having told him that, in extreme youth the best women are sometimes those who incur the maddest risks. But a girl who, at seventeen, could raise her blue eyes inno- cently, and toss her curls back like a child, and, looking full into a mans face, tell a deliberate falsehood, as she had done a minute ago, was no wife for him. lie loved her; would love her with passion if he married her; would put hi~ life, and what was dearer than his life, into her hands, and thensome day wake to findthat the blue eyes were traitors, the red lips forsworn! He had seen not a few such endings to mens happiness in India, and was too great a coward (this was his own thought) to run the risk himself. A girl who could deceive without a blush at seventeen, might make a good wife still for some young fellow who should so command her heart as to put all temptation to deceit out of her way. An old soldier like him must marry a truer or a plainer woman if he married at allbut never this one! And so, with tender pity for the little girl, with chivalrous resolve to be her friend all the more because from henceforth he would never be her lover, Major Seton put Archie away out his heart as he stood and looked at her. CHAPTER XX. CAPTAIN WATERS SENSE OF JYCTY. MAJOR SETON returned to England again that evening, He had not been able, he said, to deny himself the pleasure of bearing good news to his old friends, but it was impossible for him to do more than pay them a flying visit now. His papers must be sent in to the Horse Guards at once; he had a visit to pay in Scotland; hosts of lawyers business to get through in Lon- don. And when Archie and Mr. Lovell went down to the pier to see him off by the last steamer, they never knew that among the luggage from the Con- ronne dArgent was a portmanteau bearing the name of Major Seton, th Regiment; never knew that, in spite of his business, he had made prepara- tions for staying with them a week, and had remained five hours. ARGuE LOVELL. 71 Before leaving home Miss Lovell stole out into the courtyard of the house, and gathered a branch of myrtle in full flower that grew against its southern wall. She wore it in her belt till the minute came for saying good-by; then took it out and began to trifle with its leaves irresolutely. If Major Seton would only ask her for it, she thought! If she could only see her flower in his button-hole when he went away, she should feel as if there was a sort of friendly compact between them stilL She remembered the jealous care with which she used to pin a flower into his coat every morning at Genoa, and how, withered or not withered, he always left it there through the remainder of the day. But Major Seton held his hand out and said, Good-by, Miss Lovell, very much in the same tone as he said good-by to her father; then went quietly away down the steps to the boat that was waiting to take him to the steamer. A choking feeling came in Archies throat as she leant across the bulwark of the pier and watched him. How different Geralds handsome, animated face had looked when he bade her good-by horrible grim old soldier that Major Seton was! And partly through temper, tartly by accident, partly on purposewho shall divine the motives of a gfrl of seventeen ?she flung away her myrtle-branch, and it fell into the boat, almost between Major Setons hands. Well aimed, child, said her father, putting hi~ arm round her shoulder. You and Ralph are just as fierce lovers as ever I see, Archie. Lovers! cried Archie, with a quick toss of the head. You forget, I think, papa, that Im not eleven years old now. Poor old Ralph, a lover for me, indeed! But she watched very narrowly to see what poor old Ralph would do, and she kissed her hand to him with one of her brightest smiles, as soon as she saw with what tender care he picked her myrtle up; and how religiously he stored it away within the breast of his gray great-coat. And this war the picture of her that Ralph took away with him; her face flushing in the setting sun; her blue eyes smiling; her lips pdrted as she kissed her little hand to him: her fathers arm around her shoulder. Major Seton betook himself to one of the paddle-boxes, from whence he watched the two figures on the pier, and afterward Morteville, till all were out of sight. Then he got out his pocket-book, and, turning still in the direction of France, looked long and closely at a photograph that Mr. Lovell had given him be- fore he left; a photograph of a girl, with long, fair hair unbound, dressed in a loose blouse, with a palette and brushes in her hand; and finally, he took from his breast the piece of myrtle that Archie had thrown to him, and held it (no one fortunately being near to witne~s the utterly ridiculous action) to his lips. These were the first steps by which the old moustache carried out his re- solve of putting Miss Lovell away out of his heart! Meanwhile, Mr. Lovell and his daughter strolled slowly homeward in the pleasant, evening sunlight. The last twenty-four hours seemed to have alienated Archie strangely from all her former happy, childish life; and she clung now with a welcome sense of peace to the dear arm which had been her stay always; looked up with a remorseful yearning of love to the dear face which she knew no folly, no guilt of hers, could ever cause to look upon her coldly. What was Gerald Durant, what was Major Seton, compared to him? A pang emote her heart as she felt how quickly she had been able to forget him for these strangers; the consciousness that she had forgotten him made her manner to him tenderer, her smile more loving than usual, as they walked along. 72 ARGuE LOVELL. That cabinet you have bought is a beauty, papa. I shall hardly like it to ever go away again. You never picked up such a bonheur du jour be- fore. Archie, answered Mr. Lovell, in the calm voice of a man announcing some excellence too patent to need enlarging upon, it is a Reisener, the design by Boucher, and executed in marqueterie with an art, a delicacy, that makes it a perfect cabinet picture in wood. If it is worth a sou it is worth four thousand francs. Perhaps now that I am a rich man, added the poor fellow, looking as radiant as a child, a rich country parson, Archie, with four hun- dred pounds a year, I may feel myself justified in keeping that cabinet for my own enjoyment. I wish you could, papa, and the clock, toothat beautiful Boule clock. Ah, if we had only more money! Money enough to pay off all our debts, and start in England clear. Oh, as to money, I have arranged that very easily, said Mr. Lovell, lightly. But dont mistake about the clock, Archie. As a speculation, I did well to buy it; but I would not care to possess it as a gift. Boule, as you know, had two styles. In his first and glorious one, he worked in plain, honest brass and ebony. In his secondin his decadence, his shame Ihe sacrificed art to the miserable fashion of the day, of which this tawdry toy, I bought at Amiens is a specimen. Lowered himself and his splendid talent to, mother-of-pearl. Dont forget this again, child; tis a most important dis- tinction. And the money, papa? The money to pay off all our creditors and start us afresh in England? Oh, yes, the money! A mere triflesix or eight hundred pounds at most. And how shall we raise it? Would the bishop advance your salary, do you think, if you were to explain everything to him? Miss Lovells knowl- edge of church matters was sketchy in the extreme. The bishop advance my salary! said Mr. Lovell, laughing. No, you little goose. Some one much better than a bishop has advanced me what I want already. Archies cheeks fired in a moment. She knew too well her fathers fatal habit of borrowing from whomsoever he came across to doubt the meaning of his words. This explained the long conversation which her father and Major Seton had had together in the studio; this explained the cause of his joyous light-heartedness as they walked down to see Ralph off by the steamer. Oh, papa, I hope poor Major Seton has not Archie, my love, interrupted Mr. Lovell quickly, poor Major Seton is a man with a clear tWelve or fifteen hundred a year, andthanks to his own honorable exertions and economya very handsome balance at his bankers. I explained to him the exact position in which I stand, and how my new poem, or Troy, or both, must he sacrificed to pay my debts, and he saw in- stantly, as a matter of businessa matter of business, my dear, that you cant, understandhow much wiser it would be to bide a fitting time instead of trying to forc~ works of art or literature upon the market. In six weeks Troy will be finished. I shall exhibit it at the Royal Academy next Spring, and if it only brings me five or six hundred pounds (the half of its real value), it will go a great ways toward setting us straight. And mean~while Major Seton has helped us? Tell me, papa, I would rather know. Af~OHIE LOVELL. 73 Certainly, Archie, you shall know. I like you to hear everything that is in our good old friends favor. In the meanwhile, Seton advances me one thousand pounds, to be repaid him with the interest of fifty pounds this day year. We shall thus be enabled to pay off every farthing of our foreign debts, to sacrifice neither Troy nor my book, and to surround ourselves in our poor little parsonage with Qbjects of art and grace instead of the mere bodily necessities, the bare walls and chairs and tables; with which most country parsons are, I fancy, content! Ralph is a shrewd fellow, he added; no doubt of that. The Scotch blood shows in his aptness for business, if in nothing else. Five per cent. without risk is an investment one does not meet with every day. He told me so himself. Archie was silent. To argue with her father on money matters was, she well knew, fruitless. He believed simply that he was acting with the nicest honor in paying his foreign debts out of another mans money; believed implicitly that Troy would sell for five hundred guineas. Her quick im- agination pictured him already, dreaming and poetizing, and living beyond his means (that was inevitable) in the new rectory; the house filled with pic- tures and cabinets. Troy unsold, and the interest even of that thousand pounds of Ralphs never paid. You know best, papa, -with a quiet little reproach in her voice; and when it is a question of selling your pictures or poems, I dont like to speak a word. But I do wish we could have started in England without being under obligation to any one. You make me feel my want of success, Archie, when you say that, was his answer. Whenever money affairs were talked of; Mr. Lovell had a trick of falling back plaintively upon his hard work and his evil luck, as though to turn aside his listener from the unwelcome subject. I have notGod knows I have notfailed, as far as labor goes, one year since you were born. Only the reward has been tardy of coming! If I had had the luck of other men, writers and painters, inferior to me in ability, you would not have to reproach me now, child, with my want of independence. A flush passed over his pale face, and in a moment Archie repented of wha~t she had said, and fell to comforting himthe wise head of seventeen comfort- ing the baby of forty-fiveas she had done all her life whenever the word failure passed his lips. They will not go on misunderstanding you for- ever, dear. When we live in England, youll be able to know the Royal Academy people personally, and when they know you, they will be sure to like you, and to accept your pictures. I dare say its a great deal more favor than merit, if we really knew, that gets pictures and poems accepted in Lon- don; and your new poem must be liked, I am sure of it. There is only a quarter of a canto to finish still, is there, papa ? And having now started her father upon the subject, which to him em- braced all other interests of life, Archie felt, with intense relief; that this at least would be no time for her own confession. She had meant faithftilly to tell him everything during their walk home. Every word she had spoken had been, in reality, a prelude to the confession she was seeking to make. Yet now that chance seemed to have turned the opportunity for confession aside, she was thankful exceedingly for the reprieve. Let him be at peace to- day at all events, poor fellow! Let him be happy in the discussion of his new and brightened prospects, and to-morrow, when she bad had a night to think over it all, and frame her story into the words that should pain him least, she would tell him and Bettina together what she had done. 74 ARGuE IJOYELL. Just as they reached their house in the Rue dArtois, they were met by Captain Waters, dressed in the height of French watering-place fashion, and smoking his twelfth or final cigarette before dinner. As Archie and her fath- er approached, he put himself so resolutely, hat in hand, in their path, that Mr. Lovell, who ordinarily shunned all the English world of Morteville, felt himself constrained to stop. A fine evening, Miss Wilson. You have been taking your usual stroll on the sands, I suppose? No, Captain Waters; we have been on the pier seeing a friend of ours away by the steamer. It ~was new for the Lovell family to possess a friend in Morteville, and Archie fe!t a little proud of announcing the fact. Your friend will have a fine passage, then. It was very calm at sea last night, was it not? II believe so, she answered, her face flushing scarlet at the suddenness of the question. But I was told you went over to the Calais fttes yester- day, Captain Waters. You ought to know. My wife and myself spent yesterday in Amiens, remarked Mr. Lovell, innocently. We were at the sale of the Chateau Floriac, and only returned this morning. It was one of the most extraordinary sales of old and valua- ble wood-carvings that I remember to have seen in France, Captain Waters. I purchased myself a bonheur du jour that is known, historically, to have been carved for Madame de Pompadour, and a clockbut I dont know whether you are a connoisseur in the artifice of that particular period, sir? I believe I am a connoisseur in the artifices of all periods and all na- tions, answared Waters, with an imperceptible smile, and a glance at Archie, whose mingled finesse and insolence it would be hard to describe. But my knowledge, he added, addressing himself deferentially to Mr. Lovell, or what passes to myself for knowledge in such matters, would be contemptible compared to yours. I have long heard that in all matters of antiquarian art your judgment is simply unrivalled. WellyesI believe it is the one subject I know something about, re- plied Mr. Lovell, for whose easily-pleased vanity no flattery was too palpable. In such rare intervals of leisure as I have been able to snatch from my own work, I have dabbled for years in bric-bracquerie all over Europe, and with tolerable success.,~ And by this time must have quite a collection of art treasures? said Waters, who seemed determined to prolong the conversation. You have not got them with y& u here in Morteville, of course? No, no, answered Mr. Lov~ll. My poor art treasures, as you are pleased to call them, are in Paris, and will remain there till I take them with me to EnglandI hope, in two or three weeks from the present time. Captain Waters was politely interested at once in Mr. Wilsons departure; had no idea that Morteville was so soon to lose them; and poor Mr. Lovell, in his simplicity, began forthwith to expatiate on his plans, while Archie, her heart swelling with indignant disgust,. stood silently by and listened. She knew her fathers peculiarity on this point of old. Shy to the most painful degree, shy to such an extent that he would walk any number of miles soon- er than have to stop and speak to an acquaintance in the street, Mr. Lovell, in the hands of a man like Waters, could, with one or two welt-timed compli- ments, be drawn into the foolish confidence of a child. ARCHIE LOVELL. 75 We have been living very quietly indeed here in Morteville, Captain Wa- ters, he said at last, which must explain the want of hospitality I have shown to my friends, yourself among others he had spoken to Waters about twice in his life before friends whom, under different circumstances,. it would have given me real pleasure to entertain; but if you ever come to our part of the country, I should be happy, very happy indeed, to see you. He was meditating a sidelong escape to the house as he said this, and thought that a hazy offer of distant hospitality might be the easiest way of covering his retreat. Captain Waters vaised his hat in his courteous, foreign fashion, and ex- pressed the pleasure it would give him to renew Mr. Wilsons acquaintance. Inin Leicestershire, I think you said? he added, carelessly. ! A county I know remarkably well; and often visit. No, in StaffordshireHatton, in Staffordshire, said Mr. Lovell; stay, I will give you the address. And he took out a card, and wrote upon it in pencil his address, The Honorable and Rev. Frederick Lovell, Hatton, Staf- fordshire ; then shaking his friends hand with warmth, prompted by his in- tense nervous desire to get quit of him, ran away into the house. Captain Waters examined the card curiously for a minute. The Honor- able and Rev. Frederick Lovell, Miss Wilson? he remarked, raising his eyes to Archies face. I must really ask you to decipher this mystery for me. Who is the Honorable and Reverend Frederick Lovell? and why has Mr. Wilson been kind enough to give me his address? - The Reverend Frederick Lovell is my father, answered Archie, stiffly; I am sure I cannot tell why he gave you his address. She moved, as though to follow her father into the house, but Captain Wa~ ters had placed himself in such a position that she could not pass without ac- tually requesting him to move. Andmy question may seem indiscreet, he continued; but why have we here in Morteville not known The honorable and reverend character of the gentleman who was living among us? Because, living in such a place, and among such people, my father found it convenient to pass under an assumed name, cried Archie, with a superb toss of her head. Are you satisfied, Captain Waters? Oh, entirely, answered Waters, with a half smile. Living in such a place, and among such people, the Honorable Frederick Lovell has shown great wisdom, I think, in concealing his name. How long has your papa been rector of Hatton, Miss Wilson ?Miss Lovell, I really beg your pardon for falling bac~k into old bad habits. There is no need to apologizeindeed, I hardly see why you should talk of old habits. Did we ever speak to each other in our lives before, Captain Waters? My father has been rector of Hatton about four days. The old rector died a week or so ago, and Lord Lovell, my grandfather, has given the living to papa. I must really ask you to let me pass, please. She swept past him with the manner of a little queen, and turning slightly as soon as she found herself within the shelter of their own door, gave him a freezing inclination of her head, as much as to say: Go! I have dismissed you! Captain Waters admired Archie Lovell warmly at this minute. That she suspected his possession of her secret he was certain; that she dared to brave him, answer his impertinent questions with impertinent answers, and stand looking at him now with this air of regal dismissal, pleased him infinitely. 76 ARCHIE LOVELL. - To have possessed the secret of any ordinary English school-girl of her age would have offered poor chance either of profit or amusement to himself. An ordinary school-girl, who would have blushed and cried, and supplicated to him to spare her, and then probably have gone straightway and betrayed her- self to her mamma! T~ possess the secret of a girl like thisa girl who, at her age, had a womans courage as well as a womans duplicitymight, well worked, be really a little mineof diversion and of profit to him. For a se- cret that escapade evidently was: Mr. Lovells innocent account of his jour- ney to Amiens had betrayed so much to him, and however foolhardy the girl had been when she was Miss Wilson, it was almost mathematically clear to Captain Waters perception that Miss Lovell, the daughter of the Honorable and Reverend rector of Hatton, would be sage I It was the habit of this mans lifea necessity forced upon him by his pro- fession, perhapsto assign to every human creature .with whom he was thrown the worst, the most selfish motives possible. My lot has been cast among bad specimens of humanity, he would say, candidly, in speaking of his own cynicism. For more years than I can count, the worst people in the worst continental towns have been my study, and when, by accident, I have to deal with the really good and virtuous, I mechanically apply the same low standard to them as to the rest. And it is really curious to re- mark, he would add, putting up his eye-glass, and looking languidly in hie listeners face, curious, very, to remark how nicely the same measure seems to fit everybody after all I And you will leave Morteville soon, then, I fear, Miss Lovell, from what yoar papa said. Very soon, I hope, Captain Waters. I am heartily glad to get away from the place, and from everything connected with it. Everything, Miss Lovell? Can you really say so? Will you have no one pleasant recollection of poor little Morteville? No walk, no ball, at which you have enjoyed yourself? No; there is not one circumstance, and certainly not one person here, that I want to remember. But still she did not go away. Something in the expression of Waters face seemed to constrain her, in spite of her repug- nance for the man, to hear all that he had to say. I understand. The past and all belongng to it, pleasant or the reverse, is to be buried. Miss Lovell abruptly is Hatton, in Staffordshire, any- where in the neighborhood of Durant~ Court, do you know? Her heart beat so violently, that for a moment she could not trust herself to speak; then, with a supreme effort of self-command, she answered, as in- differently as she could, yes. The rectory at Hatton was, she had heard, about two miles distant from Durants Court. AhI that will be charming for all parties, said Waters, pleasantly. No wonder, Miss Lovell, that you are glad to leave Morteville. I should like very much myself to meet Gerald Durant again, he added. He was an uncommonly pleasant fellow in his way, capital companion, and all that, but not ~quite the stamp of man, perhaps, one could make a friend of. Shifty, rather; a new caprice every five minutes; no sooner winning a thing than he was sure to tire of it. You agree with me, Miss Lovell? I dont know, Im sure, cried Archie, desperately. What should I know of Mr. Durant? Why do you ask me? Waters advanced a step within the open doorway, and uut his head quite ARGuE LOVELL. 77 close to Archies. Miss Lovell, he whispered, I am sorry that you treat me with so little confidence. You are wrong, 11 think; for I wishupon my soul I wishto stand your friend; and can do so. Do you believe me? A look of frightened disgust was all her answer; but Captain Waters did not appear in the slightest degree discountenanced. This is not the time to tell you what I mean, he went on, still in a half-whisper, and in the same odious closeness of position. What I have got to say will take time, and should be said in a place and as he spoke he glanced at Madame Bruns open window where there is no possibility of eaves-droppers. Now, if 1 might meet you on the Grove of a morning? To-morrow, for example? I dont know, Im sure. What can you have to tell me? she stammered. If you want to say anything, say it now. When I walk on the Grove it is with papa. Just at this moment Jeannetonhot and indignant still, from her recent encounters with Bettina-.--came forth; laden with straw, bass dust, and deposit of all kinds from the cases of bric-a-brac, on her way to the court. Waters was not slow at turning her opportune appearance to account. You see this is not a place to talk in, Miss Lovell, he urged, but in a coldly deferential manner, now that the servants eyes were upon them. Teli me, please, if I can see you on the Grove to-morrow, or not? There is a very un-. pleasant story going the round of the place to-day, which makes it my duty to communicate with some member of your family. Can you meet me, or, he added this with marked emphasis, shall my communication be made in writing to Mr. Lovell himself? He had found out the way to subjugate her at last. At the mention of her father, at the thought of what this story must be that Waters threatened to write to him about, every tinge of color forsook Archies face. She clasped her hands together as if a sharp bodily pain had smitten her. No, no, Captain Waters! write nothing, say nothing to papa, and I will ~meet you whenever you choose. On the Grave, if you will, to-morrow morning. Only, if he is with me, say nothing, please, till I can manage to see you alone! We always like to spare poor papa any trouble that we can, she added, half apologetically, and lifting her eyes with an expression of mute entreaty to Captain Waters impassive face. Dont be afraid, Miss Lovell; I shall behave with the most perfect dis- cretion in every way, you may rest assured. To-morrow morning on the Grave, then; between ten and eleven will not be too early? And in the meantime, mademoiselle, au plaisir de vous r~voir. He took his hat off to the ground, and then sauntered jauntily away down the Rue dArtois, twirling his diminutive cane in one little well-gloved hand, with the other alternately caressing his pointed, flaxen moustache, and putting up his eye-glass, but with dilettante curiosity rather than impertinence, at every woman who chanced to pass him on the trottoir. And this is respectability, thought Archie, bitterly. This is Philistin- ism, and the kind of price one has to pay for it! Oh! that the rector of Hatton hadnt died, and that I might have dared tell Ralph the truth, and bade this man and every one else in Morteville do their worst I And with a hard, sullen look, such as in all her happy Bohemian life her face had never worn before, her teeth set, her eyes fixed and dilated till all their blue seemed gone, she stood and watched Captain Waters retreating figure till it was out of sight. 4 LITERARY FRONDEURS. YTHEN David, the heroic and beautiful youth of the Hebrew story, took Vthe smooth stones from the brook and his sling in his hand, and went forth to destroy Goliath, he was a type of the frondeur. The ancients maintained frondeurs in their armies; they were men trained to use the sling. To us they serve as the physical type of th~ frondeur. The literary frondeur is one who slings truthsunwelcome and often destructive truthsat some giant sham or honored Mumbo-Jumbo of society. The moral and political and social meaning of frondeur grew out of th~ wars of the Fronde, and the term in France means one who assails, criti- cises, or mocks established facts or appearances. When you say a man is a frondeur, you mean that he affronts, outrages, defies, or rails at something which time or custom has made respectable. To write the history of frondeurs would be to write the biography of all the men who have broken up the stupid tranquillity of society; who have pre- vented the stagnation of great or little communities; who have destroyed, that others might build. That delightful old babbler, Montaigne the essayist, might have been a consummate frondeur; but he kept so quiet and expressed himself with so much seeming indifference that he was allowed to pass undisturbed in the midst of the animosity and lawlessness of civil war. His imperturbable calm and good temper marked the depth of his distrust of venerable facts. Mon- taigne had a prudent mind in a sickly body. With a powerful physique he would have affronted more and questioned less. Montaigne was a literary Trondeur dormant. Rabelais a literary frondeur jovial and active. Mira- beau was probably the most irresistible frondeur that ever lived. But in France, the cradle and home of frondeurs, the distinction of the character is not much remarked, because all share it more or less. The r6le of the frondeur is enacted for a brief period by all men of decided genius and adequate physique. With most men of positive force it is con- ~ned to early manhood; the great and venerable and splendid facts of our civilization soon overawe, force allegiance, and finally evoke complacent eulo- gies. Shelley was a frondeur, consummate, noble, uncalcutating; and he bruised himself in his attacks on the great, gross facts of English society. If you wish to know what a literary frondeur is not like, read The Spec- tator of Addison, Proverbial Philosophy by Tupper, and Graver Thoughts of a Country Parson, by A. H. K. Boyd. Logic, understanding, the strength of majorities, patronagethese are on the side of the Philistinesthe Goliathsof our civilization, and Dr. John- son, overbearing, sturdy, impatient of opposition, and accustomed to great deference, was the best modern Goliath, the best leader of the Philistines of LITERARY FRONDEURS. 79 English letters. Macaulay was his successor, and he wielded a more pointed weapon; he was better equipped, but he did not have the attacking instinct, the fighting weight and energy of old Dr. Johnson. Genius, reason, vitality these are on the side of the frondeurs, and Heine in Germany, George Sand in France, (arlyle in England, and Thoreau in this country, are the most per- fect modern types. Now and then a Philistine, reacting against the tranquillity and the absence of sensation of the great and swarming party to which he belongs, acts the part of a frondeur. When Gail Hamilton wrote her plea for a nobler life, and a purer and more equal relation between man and wife, called A New Atmos- phere, she became a frondeur, for she assailed the orthodox idea of the mar- ried state, and she appalled and outraged the pious censors of the most bigoted section of the great army of American Philistines. By Philistines I mean all those who look at life and letters and art, without sympathy for their most unconstrained forms, and who are without liberality; who are rigid and in- flexible in their moral sense, pedantic in their literary and. artistic sense; who are without expansiveness of nature; who are insensible to the finest issues of life; who accumulate but do not distribute; who are stupid materialists .or sickly spiritualists, and either do not know or dare not use this world as one vast source of delicious sensation. A pure example of a literary Philistine is hard to find, for quickness of sympathy at least is a very common accompaniment of the talent of the writer, and although he may be the exponent of the Philistines, he is never utterly without light himself; for some light is the condition of the exercise of his talent. The two most perfect types of the literary frondeur in this country were Edgar A. Poe and Henry D. Thoreauthe first a man of letters with the ar- tistic or literary spirit, the second a man of letters without the artistic spirit, but so thoroughly emancipated and so sincere that his writings have th& beauty of truth if not the truth of beauty. Poe disturbed the tranquil self-satisfac- tion of a great many excellent men and meritorious writers; Thoreau affronted every literary man in the country by the practical teaching of his life, and the straightforward expression of his aversion to clergymen, towns, cities, newspapers, and, in a word, civilization. His voluntary isolation cost him grace and sweetness; Poes selfish worship of the beautiful, and his moral in- difference, or torpor, destroyed his life. S9oner or later most of the frondeurs destroy themselves, or waste themselves, or they become Philistines, and are skilful, and over their dessert and wine (for they are bought with a price and become rich) talk like Brownings Bishop Blougram with Gigadibs the literary man. It is then that sophistry and erudition take the place of sincerity and force, and thus the leaders are lost, and literature becomes corrupted, that is, rhetorical and verbose, full of noise and signifying nothing. Whenever the spirit of the frondeur is active we have an insurrection against routine and vulgarity. Among artists it resists the advancement of the mechanical spirit; among men of letters it resists the authority of con- ventionality. It may seem strange that in literature Americans have not offered many rare types of the frondeur; but whoever reflects on, the truth of De Tocquevilles remarks apropos of literature in this country will cease to be surprised at aur timidity and our deference to authority. Our cultivated classes do not understand the literature of a people as the next thing to the peoples life; they understand literature as an amplifica 80 LITERARY FRONDEURS. tion, an extension, or a duplication of something that attained its growth centuries ago; something the form of which is fixed, and which we are to repeat after the original pattern. Our average writers outside of journalism have been more studious to watch the masterpieces of English literature, or the ancient classics, than to report contemporary life. They seem to desire to advertise their readers of the great and honorable company they have met, and to show how well they have caught the tone and spirit of the aristocrats of letters. The literary frondeur has no place among these well-plumed mocking-birds. We have but few literary frondeurs. The equality of conditions in this country forms a powerful and all-pervading sentiment, and almost dictates the thoughts with which we shall regard the leading facts of our individual and social life. So few of us are addicted to reverie, and what De Tocqueville calls the solitary meditations which commonly precede the great emotions of the heart and prepare us for the reception of exceptional and personal pas~ sions,- that we live without violent and capricious sources of excitement, or, like a nation of stock-jobbers, seek it outside of the domain of sentiment, in the fluctuations and crises of the gold market. Our men of letters write merely to amuse or instruct-the American people; scarcely a man, outside of politics, exposes our social limitatiohs or mocks or assails our prejudices, or slings, like a true frondeur, a destructive truth at the gods we worship. Our most aggressive men are not literary men; they are in public life, they are men of action, and chiefest among them is Lieutenant-General Sherman. What a rare frondeur to win the gratitude of his contemporaries I The best period of literary activity among American thinkers began with Emerson; and Emerson and his peers have outlived the force which impelled their vigorons protest against dominant Insincerities in Church and State. The most vigorous native contemporary we now have is Henry James; and Henry James is not active enough, or seems not to have sufficient energy, to exercise a direct influence commensurate with his intellectual vigor and daring. How deeply he feels, how comprehensive is his thought, how bold, frank, naked is his utterance, you will discover when you read Substance and Shadow; and also, more especially, because obvious in its bearing upon our common living and thinking, the appendix of that difficult and sturdy book. When we think of literary frondeurs, we think of a company that cannot claim Hawthorne (he was too much, of an artist to be a frondeur), cannot claim Lowell, cannot claim Longfellow, cannot claim Bryant, cannot claim Whittier, cannot claim Hillard; and these are honored names, expressive of delightful works. Our literary frondeurs are very different. Emerson, Theodore Parker, Thoreau, Edgar Poe and Henry James. To-day, among the rising men we know of none; all are under the rule of conformity, express the average sentiment and thought of our reading public. Our rising men have placed their feet on very old, very firm ladders, and they climb to repu- tation on common steps. Mrs. - Stoddard might be a frondeur; she has the instincts of a frondeur, but she has not the abandon of a frondeur, and she hesitates on the dangerous edge of things. Lowell is too close to Harvard, and too much involved in the gratifying social life of Boston, and is beyond the aggressive period of life, We cannot expect that he will exercise his literary faculty save in the service of the most time-honored institutions. I loved Lowell up to the time of his criticism on Thoreauafter his paper LITERARY FRONDEURS. 81 on Carlyle, the best piece of literary criticism ever written on this side of the Atlantic; but it was written for Boston, and Lowell loaned his wit, his humor, the prestige of his literary reputation, to arraign and pronounce judgment against the most blameless and sincere man of letters who ever in this country resisted the majoritythe man who has been most independ~ ent of foreign and local models; who- has, with Emerson, done most to destroy the prestige of dilettanteism. I do not reproach Lowell that- he criticised Thoreau, for when Lowell criticises he instructs and entertains us; I reproach him that he stood among the self-righteous crowd of Thoreaus detractors, that is, among tradesmen, presiding officers, lecturers, mill-owners, and spoke their thought about Tho.. reau; interpolated their Poor-Richard philosophy of life with the purer text of his own literary appreciation of Thoreau. As Lowell is more of an artist than Thoreau, and was disturbed by Thoreaus want of sweetness, and grace, and suavity, I can understand and welcome his criticism; but as he is a man of letters, quick to resent the tyranny of American Philistines,- and a lover of - the most indigenous growth we have yet to show in our native literature, I mourn that he allowed himself to act as proseciator for the Boston public and I can only -acknowladge that, as literary Attorney-General for the State, his arraignment and prosecution of Thoreau before the North Americau tribunal was an ingenious- and brilliant effort; and after it, I have no doubt: but that the kid gidve literary and clerical mob of the country were ready to cry out, Release Barabbas but crucify Thoreau, for he has mocked our gods and he has been indifferent to our high priests. The only man now living whose mind has made its mark in American letters, and who may be said to be entirely free from all trammels, is Emerson; and if Emerson had the dramatic genius of Carlyle, he would be the mostl consummate frondeur that ever lived. But Emerson has very little power of action. He is now old and passive, and his most daring utterance fails to impart movement to those who think differently or are sluggish in their rela.. tion to vital truths. Superadd to Emersons mental perceptienso mar- vellously clear and direct and searchingthe physical organization of a Mira- beau, and we should have a literary force so active to-day - that De Tocque- villes reproach would no longer apply to this country, and we should verify his prediction, when he said: If the minds of Americans were free from all trammels, they would very shortly become, the most daring innovators and the most implacable disputants in the world; but, he continues, the imagina-. tion of the Americans, even in its greatest flights, is circumspect and unde- cided; its impulses are checked and its works unfinished. In that- truly - dispassionate and accurate examination of the tendencies of modern civilization, and more especially of English civilization, I mean John ~3tuart Mills book on Liberty, we have, a very philosophic statement of the dangers of conformity, and a protest against the uniform level exacted, by modern society; we have also a plea for eccentricity, - and the most well- balanced thinker in England announces his apprehensions of a fatal sup- pression of the individuality of the modern man. Mills book on Liberty is not the sling of a young and reckless - frondeur; it is the deliberate utterance of a thinker, who says, come, let us reason together; and- his most patient - reasoning justifies - the action of the frondetw aad impresses - us with the necessity of a most active resistance to the tendencie.s of the organization of~ modern society, and, as a consequence, of modern letters. 82 LITERARY FRONDEURS. One of the chief causes of the absence of picturesque and novel thought, and picturesque and novel expression, is the wide-spread influence of the newspaper, that great centre of opinion. The newspaper appropriates the most active and vital literary men of the country, and does not allow those men time to feel deeply or think profoundly. It exacts immediate utterance on the dominant questions of each day, and it makes the man of letters and the thinker careful only to express the sense of the public, and it disciplines him to suppress his peculiar viewsin a word, his individuality. The truth is, that the freshest and strongest literary man employed by the daily press is very soon forced into routine, ceases tothink as a frondeur, and soon expresses himself like an automatic repeating instrument. The literary frondeurs em- ploy.ed by the daily press may be counted on our fingers. They aim to say the thing that is pleasant; and the press of our country is threatened with the same mechanical life which sometimes overtakes the clergymen of the land. The thoughts hastily elaborated by the press are the floating thoughts of the public. Now and then a literary frondeur breaks the uniform level; i~ow and then, in a chance editorial, or in a stray magazine article, he sur- prises a public with thoughts they have not worn threadbare, or soiled, or handled until they have become defaced, and he breaks the average tranquil- lity. But he scarcely repeats his sling, for Mrs. Grundy writes letters of re- monstrance, and complains that her windows have been broken. It is dan- gerous to let loose a thinker. If he is young, he will sling truths; he will assault the leader of the Philistines. If he is beyond the ardor of his blood, and is slow in his nature, he will mine the great fortresses of privilege and prejudice, and wait to see the destruction which he has calculated and ontici- pated. But this country. belongs to young men; we do not wait for the slow innovations of time. Let us therefore hav~e frondeurs; let us have literary frondeurs; let us assault the great, gross. body of our time. We want literary frondeurs to destroy our self-satisfaction. We must be made restlessplaced beyond the flattering sounds of our material prosperi- ty; we must live better; we must be more artistic, less mechanical. We are taking great trouble, with mills and stock-boards, to heap up money to en- rich our children; to be called rich ourselves; and in the meantime we live meanlywe live meanly to die rich. Do you know what About says? Children inherit not only the capital which we have heaped, but also the habits which we have taken. He who has lived like a pig to leave his son the fortune of a prince, risks, more or less, leaving his fortune to another pig. A few literary frondeurs in the army of American progress would break a great many vulgar mirrors in our industrial palaceswould shock a great many families; but the next generation would have more artistic homes, would lead freer lives, and the manhood of the nation would be much more frank in expression and in action. We need frondeurs. They prevent stagnation; they frighten the sheep, but they save them from the wolf. The rank and file of society have always been as sheep, and they have followed the bell-wether. How well we understand the mingled indignation and contempt of one of their best friends! The people, in the hands of statesmen, are like sheep in the hands of their shearers, and, like them, they stand wondering at being so smartly shorn. What fine men! and how well shorn we are! Oh, animals! Your very hogs squeal, and do not amuse themselves with or admire the shears that disfigure them 1 LITERARY FRONDEURS. 83 The frondeurs of to-day are the dogs that rouse us from our after-dinner nap, and which we curse until we have heeded their warnings; and then we think of them with tardy gratitude, and call them the guardians of the sheep fold. Every assault, every revolt, every sally of man, is based on a vital and ur- gent truth, for nothing less can give man, who is a social being, and loves the approbation of his fellows, the impulsion necessary to act the part of the frondeur. But to accept the routine, to fill the place which you find, to con- form, requires only a sluggish or a selfish nature; and to honor custom, it is simply necessary to be something of a slave and something of a hypocrite. The great word of to-day is the instructed sense of majorities, or the force of public opinion. That word does very well in mechanical matters, but in all that relates to the finest issues of life, it does very wrong. If riot, then the average sense of the public is better than that of the noblest teachers and guides of the racewhich is absurd to believe. It is the individual man who is penetrating, noble, learned, tender, and the author of great works. And in matters of art, of literature, of science, of morals, of politics, we are indebted to a few individuals who were the frondeurs of their time. I will not go back to the most sacred and loved names of antiquity; I will not bring forth the impressive and tender masters of the Hebrew, of the Christian, or of the Greek. Pass by those great and sacred shades; they have lost the color of their local and original life; in the understanding of the people to-day they are mighty ideals, but scarcely related to their age as human beings. To-day dreams when it looks on the past, and it eliminates everything local, every- thing familiar, from the action of the heroes and martyrs of yesterday, although a frondeur here and there strives to correct the peoples vague and lofty conception. They seek to show that the men who have bequeathed great and vital and sacred names to us were the frondeurs of their time, just as Luther was a frondeur, just as Shelley was a frondeur, just as in art, ten years ago, Ruskin was a frondeur, just as in literature Oa#lyle remains a frondeur, just as in ethics Emerson is a frondeur. But to-day, in this country, have we a literary frondeur? EUGENE BEI~rsoN. RAOHEL AND RISTORTS THERE is certainly no audience in the world more critical, more tasteful, more discriminating than a collection of Parisian notabilities, critics, artists and gems du monde, when assembled to decide upon the merits of any actor or singer who presumes to challenge their verdict, and to claim a posi- tion as a leader in either profession. But, though exacting, quick to de- tect pretension, and unmerciful in their condemnation of inferiority or pre- sumption, the Parisians greet true merit with the most prompt recognition, and accord to those who deserve it enthusiastic praise. Having once ac- knowledged the claim of an artist, Parisians treat the fortunate individual with undeviating favor,and expect the world to recognize their verdict. I make this short preamble merely to call attention to the fact that the subjects of this brief sketch, Rachel and Ristori, both obtained remarkable histrionic triumphs in Paris, and that hence there can be no doubt as to their great talent. This is not to be called in question here, my object being simply to relate the different impressions made upon me by these actresses and to endeavor to describe the peculiarities in their physique and their acting. Rachel came to this country at a time when she had been sufferiiuig phys- ically, and hence appeared to less advantage than when, in the zenith of her power, she created such a marked sensation in Paris. At that period, also, public taste here was less cultivated than at present, and but comparatively few persons understood the French language. Laboring under these disad- vantages, Rachel did not make the impression her admirers expected; she felt chagrined, and consequently played with less spirit, less purpose. But still those capable of judging of her talent, saw in her the most wonderful of artists. She was tall, graceful, finely formed; her face was more intellectual than handsome; but, lighted up with passion, or drooping in sorrow, her eyes, large, liquid dark orbs, seemed more than beautiful. There was a magic, a witchery, in her glances. I have seen her in Paris stalk silently upon the stage, approach the front, and remain gazing at the audience. Not a word did she speak, her hands hung by her side, she stood motionless. But her eyes were ablaze, her gaze intent, fierce, savage. She was meditating murder! A bush would come over the immense audience, women involuntarily turned away from that glance, men breathed more heavily, and wished that she would break the painful silence. At last, subdued by the power of that fierce look, the awful reality of vengeful anger which it expressed, the audience per- ceptibly shivered and grew uncomfortable. Then, when the silence seemed wholly intolerable, the pent-up rage, the anger of the wronged woman burst forth with the irresistible force of a torrent. The tall figure drawn to its ut- most height, the heaving breast, the swaying arms, the pale face, the firmly compressed mouth, were all so indicative of the fierce mood to be represented that one forgot the actress and deemed it all truetoo true. When, seizing RACHEL AND RISTORI. 85 her dagger, Rachel rushed from the stage, the wonderfully impressed specta- tors then seemed in their frantic applause to find some relief for their 6ver- wrought feelings. The power to thus impress her audience Rachel undoubt- edly derived from the natural force, the imperiousness, of her character. There was a magnetism about the woman, and a depth of feeling, truly remarkable. I have seen her lying on the floor of her dressing-room in the theatre, pros- trated and weeping, after going through some principal portrayal, into wbich she had entered with so much intensity as to affect even herself. On the stage, her tears, her sobs, were real, unfeigned; hence, in her moments of sor- row, she deeply moved her audiences. They could not but be sx~ayed by such real, such life-like representations. Rachel was certainly the very personification of dramatic genius. She was, in herself, through the force of a powerful will and strong passions, capable of controlling weaker minds; and exerted over an audience something akin to fascination. Those who gazed at her instinctively understood and appre- ciated this womans force, and admired her with an intensity they scarcely comprehended. To have stated to these people that there could exist the rival of Rachel, would have been to subject ones self to indignant if not in- sulting denial. Her sway was complete. She was The Tragic Muse. Rachel, as I said above, was graceful. She possessed a natural ease, and had acquired a refinement of manner which lent her additional attrac- tions. Setting aside the fact that she was immensely popular, owing to her Lalent and pre~minence as an artist, Rachel would have been remarked in any society. Her appearance was attractive, her manner charming; she was witty in conversation, fond of company, was, in fact, a bon-vivant, and not a little given to the encouragement of the many passionate attachments she created. This inconstancy was the chief fault ascribed to her, but she paid no heed to the cancctns about her, or to the little epigrams which the saLirical Parisians indulged in at her expense, on this subject. She was aware af her great power, and did not notice such attacks. While Rachel lived, no one could hope to rival her in the estimation of the Parisians, and she was well aware of this. Doubtless the conviction, while it added to the natural imperious- ness of her will, gave the more strength and sway to her talent. She was not one to grow supine from excess of popularity. Instinctively a tragic actress, she loved her art, and ever respected it. When ill health forced her to leave the stage, she pined. In fact there can be no doubt that she grew discouraged, and died broken-hearted, from the deprivation of those triumphs which had become to her the great object of life. Ristori is altogether dissimilar in appearance and character to Rachel. The latter was naturally a dramatic genius; the former has become a great actress by dint of careful and constant study; What was impulse in Rachel, is the result of experience and imitation in Ristori; but the art is so great, so like nature, that the most critical alone discover the distinction. It must have cost Ristori a world of anxious toil to thus become so great. We scarcely know which most to admire, the natural impulsive genius of the French actress, or the studied finish and wonderful art of the Italian. Ristori i~ not so pleasing in her appearance, was never so personally attractive, ~ Rachel. I do not say this without a due sense of the fact that such comparisons are to be av6ided if possible, but I scarcely see how I can in this instance refrain from noting the distinction. The Italian artists features are not so regular, she is not so fair, her figure is less remarkably elegant, and, above all, she has 6 86 RACHEL AND RIS~rORI. not such wondrously beautiful eyes. In society she is not so fascinating, but she has an immeasurable superiority in the purity of her character and tjie goodness of her heart. She is a faithful wife, a tender mother. Her reputa- tion is unstained, her charitable instincts unbounded. She is ever playing for the benefit of the sick or of the poor, and is individually beloved, where her great rival was only admired for her talent. I witnessed the first appearance of Ristori in Paris in 1859, aiid I well remember how great was the sensation produced by this event. The fame of the Italian trag~dienne had already reached the city. She now came there to lay claim to the first eminence in her art. All the renowned authors, critics, artists and leaders of fashion in Paris were assembled to witness the d~but of Ristori. Jules Janin, Th6ophiie Gautier, Alexandre Dumas, Henri de P~ne, Edmond About, Fiorentino, Mocquard, Auber, and others of like eminence were present. The members of the Court, the Italian Ministes, in short, all the world of Paris, were there, and the actress must have been a stoic indeed, had she not trembled at the ordeal. She braved it, however, and as she entered fully into the spirit of her impersonation, she grew more and more confident, and drew from her audience murmurs of applause. Ere the close of the performance, she had aroused a feeling of genuine admiration for her talent, and as the curtain fell, she was recalled with enthusiastic plaudits. A good instance of Ristoris moral courage and steady judgment was her production of the Medea of M. Ernest Legouve. This tragedy had been submitted to Mlle Rachel, who declin~ed to appear as its heroine, because, in her opinion, the Parisian public would not tolerate a personation in which a mother destroys her own children rather than to have them know the worthlessness of a criminal father. RL~tori created the character, and tri- umphantly depicted it even in the presence of Rachel herself, who saw, when her fau1t~ in judgment could not be remedied, that she had made a mistake that had inured to the glory of her rival. It was an especial triumph for Ristori that she succeeded admirably in Paris, even when she attempted to play in French, because she does not speak the language well. She has the peculiar accent which Italians never seem to lose in speaking French; and were she not so forcible, so dramatic, so true to life, the Parisians, ever ready to seize upon the slightest approach to the ridiculous, would have laughed at her. In coming to this country now, Ristori is fortunate. The taste of the pub- lic has been cultivated. Travel to Europe has become so general, that a vast number of people here have had opportunities of witnessing the most artistic performances in the Old World, and will be all the better able to appreciate her rare talent. She will be surrounded by the adequate accessories. Culti- vated to the highest degree, her talent has become so near an approach to genius as to be irresistible in its effect. She will not fascinate the public as Rachel in the zenith of her power would have done, but she will charm them by her artistic representations. I shall add to this brief parallel between the two great tragic actresses of the century, a few specimens of the dramatic compositions which Ristori in- tends to interpret, for which I am indebted to the manuscript translations of Mr. Isaac C. Pray of New York. The story of Legouves CC Medea needs no explanation. It is the familiar and savage old Greek legend. In the following passage, Medea, deserted by Jason, and wandering with her two children, tells her story to Cr~usa, at RACHEIJ AND RISTORI. Corinth. She does not yet know that Jason is at Corinth, still less that he is t~ marry Creusa: Th a far distant land fate made my home A regal one, where I to womanhood Grew at the side of wealth and power, though born Amid the wildness of a savage clime. My parents loved me and the gods were kind; My royal home was blest.. A stranger chief One day upon that distant shore arrived, To seek, through danger, glory and a name. My father welcomed him, and I beheld His noble form not only to admire, But moved with all the silent ecstasy Of instant love. He spake. His voice was music. He spake to mehis voice was love. Then fate Decreed that I should breathe, exist, for him Alone. , I made his wishes quickly mine His glory mine! All that the world possessed Seemed due to him. To give him power I needs Must rob my father~ This I did. For him I should betray my native land. That crime Was mine! Nay, more! I too, must reckless hurl Defiance to the gods. That sacrilege Was mine! lie was my. only god! Ay, home A thronereligionallI left for him, And joyed in all the loss I counted gain To see him fall a victor at my feet And breathe between his kisses as he knelt, Love, all my victoriesare inspired by thee! Medea then refers to the terror inspired by her story, and describes the presentiment she had on entering Corinth: Thou tremblest! Ah, Ive not told all. Ive not revealed the visions forced upon me- The tortures which the Furies on me hurl To crush my reeling senses. Yet hear me! As I approached yon gates, a shadow stood And sternly whispered in my shrinking ear 0 shudder, guilty one! Within these walls The implacable Eumenides in anger Await thee! Then, the air seemed thick with vengeance, Clouded with blood! In her interview with Jason, Medea thus refers to the guilty intercourse between the lovers and to the subsequent crimes: Thy tender wish is not obscurely veiled. Thy plan is clear. But where-where is the land Wherein tis possible a wretch like me Can dwell in happiness? My native land? For thee I have despoiled it of its glory For thee its priestess now is wildly named The Colehian Sorceress! Or shall I go To Thrace? Its sea is crimsoned with the blood Of my own brothershed for thee! Nono! Before we think of exile, let us find Some spot that has not yet been cursed for thee! 87 88 RACHEL AND RISTORI. Again I should be free? Thou hast forgot How strongly bound are we two now, as one Ay, not alone by lovebut clasped by crime! Who slew my brother, and for what? Because he would avenge a sisters wrongs! Hast thou forgotten how, when he was dying, He caught his own lifes blood in both his hands And dashed it in our faces, as he cried Be cursed, ye fratricides! 0, canst thou think The power exists to snap asunder bonds Like oursa union solemnized with blood, Or that such guilty hearts as ours can hope For blissful love beyond ourselves? Yet thou Hast rashly sought to make another union Calling upon the gods to bless the rites! This is thy love! And thou art Jasonyes! And I Medea, standing now to hear Thy cold decree Gogo, abandoned one, I can forget thee, for I love another! We give a single extract from Dr. Mosenthals Deborah, in which Ristori will appear during the first two weeks of her engagement. This work, as originally written, is not known in this country, but the popular play of Leah, the Forsaken, is an enfeebled translation of it. The following pas- sage is the imprecation of the Jewess upon her lover after he has betrayed and deserted her: May the old man who weakened that I loved thee, The widow who did hunger that I sought thee, The babe who thirsted when I followed thee, Hang like dark spectres oer thy cruel soul! Unrest be thine, as we must restless wander Bear thou reproaches as we bear reproach! Accursed be the spot where stands thy home- Others keep faith with thee, as thou with me- Cursed be thy offspring, ere it come to life- Perish its struggling life, as thy false love; Or, if it eer should be a living thing, Be on its forehead stamped the mark of Cain! And may it languish on its mothers breast, As on the Hebrew mothers pined her child! And as our blind old man in darkness groped, So may thy father, witness of thy crime, In blindness wander to his grave! Accursed, Three times accursed be thou and thine forever! And as our people on mount Ebal cried So do I cry aloud, three times, to thee: False one, to thee, Amen, Amen, Amen! Giuditta is a dramatized version of the Scripture story of Judith and Holofernes. It was written by Paolo Giacometti, a modern Italian dramatist, who has also composed for his countrywoman two other plays, Bianca Vis- conti, and Elizabetta ; the last founded upon scenes in the life of Queen Elizabeth. The space available for this article will not, however, admit further specimens. U. A. DELILLE. ATLANTIC TELEGRAPHY. ~ CYRUS W. FIELD has crossed the Atlantic thirty-eight times on tel- AU egraphic errands. The cable laid during July last is the third cable laid, after four voyages for the purpose, and ten years of incessant labor, large loss, and steady failure. The companies of which Mr. Field has been the most efficient member have, up to this date, invested in the Atlantic Ocean a permanently pickled total of about ten million dollars. When the first message on the present telegraph came across the ocean on the 28th of July last, the Western Continent went eight days ahead in its news with one soundless jump, and now is to have a long week more of Europe than hereto- fore. In telegraphing westward, with the sun, we beat him; and the message which leaves London at ten oclock (delays excepted) reaches New-York near- ly five hours earlier than it was sent. He who should hope by any such means to make the wheels of time roll backward, or to grow young by trav- elling rapidly westward, would waste his hoping. Yet the fact has a very curious interest as showing plainly how our notion of Time is not absolute, hilt only an idea which we get from comparing one length of it or another length of it with one whirl or one swing of the earth. Deprive man of the planetary motions, and (as he is now made) the category of Tim pear out of his thinking apparatus. But this is aside. e will disap- A successful Atlantic telegraph will not, in itself:, be so monstrous an ad- vance in the art of far-writing. Its significance is in the importance of the two parties who talk through it. It is 1,660 knots, or about 1,922 miles long. But a wire 1,535 miles long, between Malta and Alexandria, has al- ready been successfully worked for five years together. It is very obvious that the public whatever that meanshas become wonderfully wise since its first ludicrous demonstration over the cable of 1858. We do not intend to invest any gratuitous emotions now. We are not to be fooled into a second celebration. We shall set forth no marriage service in a hurry with the funeral baked meats of the former ceremony. In fact, we propose to be rather incredulous this time as to the actual doing of the thing at all; and when we hear that the Company are receiving thirteen hundred dollars a day in gold at the New York end of the line alone (namely, on the 2d of August), we thrust each his tongue in his cheek, and hop& satir- ically that those confiding patrons may get what they pay for. For our own part, we hope, first of all, that Doctor Holmes will write as funny a poem this time as he did before about the Ceruleo-Nasal myth, All Right, De Sauty. Next, however, we will agree to wish success to the ca- ble. There has been some objection to the proposed tariff of rates; but the Company might argue, as a matter of business, that rates must be so high that customers will not be too numerousthat is, that the operator must clear the docket daily. It would never do to have messages waiting on file for to- morrow or next week. As a matter of business, also, the Company are boun.d 90 ATLANTIC TELEGRAPHY. to charge as much as they can get. We are not aware of any private indi- vidual who would not, nor do we believe that any such private individual can be shown. But to the arithmetic. The Company charges 1 a word, and can send, they say, twelve and a half words a minute. Say ten words a minute, however, and you have an income (including nights, Sundays, and holidays) of ten pounds a minute, or five millions two hundred and fifty-six thousand pounds sterling a year; or, roughly, at five dollars to a pound, twenty-six million two hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year in gold. The multiplication table must be applied once more, however, before the fig- ure is brought entirely home to the business and bosoms of the greenbacked generality of Americans. With gold at 150 (as it is at this writing), the yearly revenue of the Company will be, in greenbacks, thirty-nine million four hundred and twenty thousand dollars. This is the annual income, re- member, on a total original investment of ten million dollars, or about four hundred per cent. a year, returning the original capital once in every three months. This is a monstrous revenue; and probably those who would most like it for themselves will be loudest in objecting to its belonging to others. But if it is too large, the trouble will quickly cure itself~ for it will cause another line. As a matter of fact, except one man, the only actual complaint hi,therto has been from one or two newspaper publishers, and the London business men urged that the price should be made two guineas a word. The first public suggestion of an Atlantic Telegraph by way of Newfound- land, according to Dr. Field, from whose entertaining history* of the enter- prise of his brother, Cyrus W. Field, many particulars have been drawn for this paper, was made at St. Johns, N. F., November 8, 1850, by Bishop Mul- lock, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Newfoundland, in a letter to the St. Johns Courier.~~ Mr. F. N. Gisborne had, during the previous Winter, conceived the idea of a telegraph from the mainland to St. Johns, but he proposed to use carrier- pigeons and boats in crossing over from Newfoundland to Cape Breton. This line he had partly built, when his backers failed him, and he came to New York after help, and was introduced to Mr. Cyrus W. Field. This was in the beginning of 1854. Mr. Field, quickly taking up the idea, not in Gisbornes shape of a land telegraph to St. Johns, with pigeon connections to the conti- nent, but in the form of the Atlantic Telegraph, wrote at once to Maury, then of the United States National Observatory, and to Professor Morse. Of Maury he asked whether a telegraph could be laid across the sea? And in return he received an account of the telegraphic plateau discovered the year before, just in season, which lies between Ireland and Newfoundland, as exactly in the right track as if it had been built for the Company. Of Pro- fessor Morse he asked whether telegraphing could be done across such a line after it was laid? And the great telegrapher answered not only yes, with all his heart, but showed how, on August 10, 1843, he had written to Mr. Spen- cer, Secretary of the United States Treasury, a definite expression of his full conviction that exactly this proposed thing would be done. Thus encouraged, Mr. Field, by urgent argument, formed the New York, Newfoundland and London Telegraph Company, whose five original members were, Peter Cooper (President), Moses Taylor, Marshall 0. Roberts, Chandler White, and himselfi This Company was chartered in Newfoundland in the Spring of 1854, and * History of the Atlantic Telegraph. By Henry M. Field, D. D. l2mo., pp. 367. New York: 1866. C. Soribner ~ Co. ATLANTIC TELEGRAPHY. 91 finally organized May 8, 1854, at six oclock in the morning. They were early birds, these pioneer ocean telegraphers; but as the figures just above may show, they were hunting a very long, large and valuable worm, and apparently they have caught him. That Summer the land telegraph along the southern shore of Newfound- land was begun, and pushed vigorously through a most savage and inhospi- table wilderness. In the end of tbe year Mr. Field went to England and ordered a submarine cable for crossing the Gulf of St. Lawrence. This came over during the next Summer, but in trying to lay it, in August, 1855, from a sailing vessel towed by a steamer, it broke and forty miles of it were lost. Mr. Field went to England and ordered another. The next year it was suc- cessfully laid, and by the end of 1856 the Company had a hundred and forty miles of- telegraph in Cape Breton Island, four hundred miles in Newfound- land, and seventy miles under the St. Lawrence, all well at work. But in this enterprise the proverb was reversedit was the last step that cost. To this the Company had now come. During 1856, at Mr. Fields application, Lieutenant Berryman, U. S. N., had for a second time surveyed and sounded the, telegraphic plateau. In 1857, also at Mr. Fields request, the British Lieutenant-Commander Dayman made a third independent cor- roborative survey, and it was demonstrated that there was a level, shallow path across the ocean, as if on purpose to lay the telegraph in. Shallow, however, is here a relative term only; and by no means indicates that a flu- viatile little boy with his trowsers rolled up, could get across with dry clothes. It means only from a mile and a quart~r to two miles deep, as compared with six miles, which is positively deep, even for the Atlantic. Mr. Field now went to England, as there were no manufacturing concerns in this country that could do the requisite work. There he set on foot and vigorously pursued a laborious series of experiments, receiving much sympa- thy, encouragement and aid from eminent English engineers and scientists, such as Messrs. Brett, Faraday, Brunel, Whitehouse, Bright, etc., as well as from Professor Morse, then at London. It was ascertained by actual experi- ment that telegraphing could be done through one length of two thousand miles of wire. It was found that gutta-percha, introduced into the useful arts only a few years before, was exactly the insulator required for a sub- marine line. And hundreds of specimen cables were made up, to test all manner of combinations of copper wire, iron wire, tar, hemp, gutta-percha and patent compositions. A curious prophecy made by the late Mr. Brunel during this visit by Mr. Field to England has never been printed, we believe, in America. After Mr. Fields first meeting for consultation with some of the English electricians and engineers, Mr. Brunel took him aside, and advised substantially thus: Now, Mr. Field, dont spend any more of your time in convincing all these scientific men that this telegraph can be laid. Its too soon. Its all a matter of experiment. You must go to work and lose one or two cables, and by that time youll know all about it. This is just what has been done. When the mechanical problems were satisfactorily solved, the financial one came up; and in ready response to Mr. Fields application, the English Gov- ~rnment agreed to supply all the aid they could in ships and soundings, and to guarantee four per cent. a year on the capital needed (~35O,OOO). Next, a British company was organized The Atlantic Telegraph (1cm- pany to cover the proper British proportion of the intended expense; as 92 ATLANTIC TELEGRAPHY. the American Company had thus far paid out of their own pockets all the cost of the enterprise. This was accomplished in December, 1856, three hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling paid up, Mr. George Peabodys firm subscribing and paying 10,000, and Mr. Field himself 88,000; and a contract was made with Glass, Elliot & Co., of London, for half the cable, and with R. S. Newall and Co., of Liverpool, for the rest. This done, Mr. Field came back to America and set about the most thank- less and disgusting and difficult part of his whole enterprise. This was to secure for it a fair measure of aid from the Government of the United States. It might have been imagined that the Government of the great Republic, the home of freedom, the leader of human progress, and so forth, would equitably judge and justly deal upon a matter of this kind. But, in fact, Mr. Fields problem was substantially not that of informing and convincing a company of gentlemen, but that of escaping through a gang of vigilant and greedy pickpockets. We refer to the Congressional Lobby, and we hasten to add that the only blame which this lobby brings upon Congress is, the blame of its existence. Whether or not Mr. Field found himself obliged to bribe any of these lobby thieves, we do not know. But so vigorous were they and their allies inside of the Capitol, that a bill for aiding the telegraph enterprise as much as the British Government did was only carried through the Senate by persistent and intense exertion and argument, by the help of many of its best and ablest members, and by a majority of one. Then it went through the House, after another severe fight, and was signed by Mr. Pierce the day before he left office. This point carried, the aid of the Navy Department was heartily given, and the Niagara and Susquehanna, two of the best of our ships of war, were de- tailed for the expedition. It is not necessary to describe in frill the successive efforts to lay an Atlantic Telegraph cable. The first voyage was commenced August 6, 1857, and the cable broke after 335 miles were laid, in consequence of the too vigorous application of the brakes. The second experiment was made in June, 1858, the Niagara and Agamemnon meeting in mid-ocean and laying the cable both ways at once. This time about 200 miles were laid, when the cable broke, from some cause unknown. The third experiment was made that same season, as soon as the squadron could refit and return, the mid-sea splice dating July 29th, and the connection being completed August 5th. Upon this occasion the citizens of the United States went into a tremen- dous dance of delight, procession, festivity, voting aiAd resolution, the Presi- dent and the Queen exchanged congratulations, Mr. Field became wonderfully popular, and Mr. De Sauty said repeatedly All Right! until he gradually faded away in the singular manner described by Dr. Holmes poetical epitaph on him. There was a delay in the receiving of messages, however, which made many persons disbelieve that any transatlantic telegram whatever was received. Many still disbelieve it. But four hundred messages were certainly sent through that cable, during the four weeks of its operative existence. It ceased to work because it was not made well enQugh, and had been injured in storing and transferring. For absolute proof, however, Mr. Field gives an instance which is on record in the newspapers of the day. On August 14, 1858, the Arabia and Europa, Gunarders, ran into each other, and the former, ATLANTIC TELEGRAPHY. 93 bound to Liverpool, had to put into St. Johns for repairs. This was known in New York on the 17th, telegraphed to London on the 20th, and printed in the London papers next day, days before the Europa arrived. Other record proofs could be given; Mr. Field prints pages of them. Mr. Cyrus W. Field, flung down quite to the bottom of the hill by these successive failures, kept at work just as usual. He secured further help from the British Government ; kept in communication with the experimental committee of scientific men which that Government appointed, and which in July, 1863, reported that an ocean cable could be laid and used; and worked on every chance that he could discover in England, the United States and the Provinces. The American Government was well disposed, but the rebellion now broke out, and demanded all its time and money. Will and work, and scientific progress and testimony, all together, however, overbalanced the dis- couragements, and in Augudt, 1863, the Board, not even having raised the capital for a new cable, advertised for proposals for another, and received seventeen answers. A third company, the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, was organized, of which Glass, Elliot & Co., who received the contract for the cable, were members. This Company now under- took to lay the cable. The Great Eastern was purchased to do it with; the money raised; the cable manufactured and stowedit was similar to that laid a few days ago except that its outer threads were tarredand, on July 23, 1865, the third telegraph voyage was begun, from Foilhommerum Bay, in the west of Ireland. The caNe broke, however, on Wednesday, August 1st, during an attempt to haul it in to cut out a fault, a~d another failure was added to the list. Upon this voyage the paying-out machinery worked for the first time in an entirely satisfactory manner, and the conducting power of the cable was found astonishingly perfect. So delicate and complete was its sensitiveness that the motion given to the wire by that of the ship was felt and indicated, and every roll of the Great Eastern, fourteen hundred miles away, was thus timed to the observers on the galvanometer in Ireland. The imperfection which caused this fatal delay was undoubtedly a small wire thrust into the cable so as to destroy the insulation. Such a wire had been twice before found, and ten miles of the cable had once been hauled aboard again, and the piece cut out. Whether this was an accident or the work of one of the men handling the cable, is not known. But it is known that exactly such a thing was purposely done to a submarine cable a year or two before, and the perpetrators discovered. And, moreover, the three wires found in the cable on the present voyage were all discovered while the same gang of hands was at work. If the hauling-in machinery had worked as well as that for paying-out, the delay and drifting which chafed and weakened the cable would not have occurred, and it is almost certain that the line would have been laid last year instead of this. A number of efforts were made to grapple and raise the lost cable, which could then have been spliced and the voyage completed; but though it was thrice apparently caught, the grappling ropes broke, and it could not be raised. The voyage of 1866 was begun July 13th, from Valentia, in Ireland, and completed July 28th, when telegraphic communication between Europe and America was opened for the second time. How long it will continue is, of course, as uncertain as anything in the future; but the ten years labor which has been expended in the work has substantially provedunless scientific judgments are worthlessthat the Atlantic Telegraph is possible, is prac ticable, is practical, is certain. FRED. B. Pm~KzNs. NEB1JL~E. FELIX HOLT is not a book that wilVadd much to the reputation of the author of Adam Bede and of ]5tomola. It is not without traces of the same hand that wrought those admirable works; it brings up memo- ries of Romola particularly; but it is as much inferior to that book in its insight and exhibition of hidden motives, as it is to Adam Bede in clear imagination of character, and the strong interest of the story. It is like Romola chiefly in a kind of perpetual protest, or sad, continuous murmur, felt by the reader, even when not expressed in words by the author, against men for lack of sympathy and for selfishness in their relations with women relations not only of lover and mistress, husband and wife, but son and mother, father and daughter, friend. Mrs. Lewes (fol~ that is the real name of George Eliot; she is the wife of George Lewes, author of the Biographi- cal History of Philosophy, and editor of the London Fortnightly Review,) contrives to make every man feel, as he lays down Romola and Felix Holt, that he is a stony-hearted, mean-spirited, contemptible wretch, who has all his life been receiving favors from women which he has requited with ingratitude, and whose only excellence is in that strength in which the dullest jackass or the most vicious wild beast is his superior. We do not mean to say that this, which may be called the modern feminine view of manhood, is not the correct one; but still, venturing a word of retort in behalf of our much put-upon and down-trodden sex, we suggest that instances have come to the knowledge of members of that sex, in which creatures of the worthier, the superior, to wit, the female sex, have been selfish, hard-hearted, ungrate- ful and unsympathizing man-ward, looking upon the he animal of their spe- cies as a creature estimable just in so far as he was able to minister to their wants, to decorate them, and make themfor something that they had, not for what they were, that being beyond the reach of external influencethe object of envy to other women; which envy has appeared to some of the in- ferior sex in question, to be regarded as the sweetest drop in the cup of female happiness. Mrs. Lewes appears to be of the opinion of the Scotch boy who horrified his elders by stoutly declaring that he did not wish to be regenerated, because regeneration~meafl5 hem born agen; and wha kens but I might na be a lassie?~ But surely if we men are such gross-natured, selfish creatures as she makes us out to be in her later novels, is she not lucky that she is not one of us, unless, indeed., she believes it better to have a low nature with the power of gratifying selfish desires, than a higher nature which must needs suffer ingratitude and practise self-denial? Mrs. Lewes occasionally leads us to surmise that she does so believe. In this very book, Esther, the heroine, who is making a long visit to a Mrs. Transome, elicits the following commen- dation from both her hostess and Mrs. Lewes: She must have behaved charmingly; for one day when she had tripped across the room, to put the NEBULE. 95 screen just in the right place, Mrs. Transome said, taking her by the hand, My dear, you make me wish I had a daughter? Holy, maternal aspira- tion, to be drawn out by having the screen put just in the right place I In very deed Esther must have behaved charmingly. Does woman prize her very children because they minister to her? and are the ministrations of strangers the liveliest stimulants to her maternal instincts? We utterly refuse assent to these implied propositions. Felix Holt should have been called Transome Court for two reasons. Felix Holt, the man, is by no means the most prominent or the most interesting character in it; and the affairs of the Transome family and the possession of their estate do give the chief interest to the story, the most important scenes of which pass at Transome Court itself. Felix Holt is an honest visionary who, rebelling equally against oppression and pretence, longs and strives, as so many before him have longed and striven, to lift up the weak and the down-trodden, and chooses to remain in the lowest class of British artisans, even in external matters, as1a protest on his part against smug, money-getting respectability. His father in:vented a quack medicine and throve upon it. The son, knowing the medicine to be worthless, refuses, after his fathers death, to allow the sale to continue; and works to support his mother and himself in their little home in a back street of a small town in a remote rural district. Esther, the heroine, is supposed to be the daugh- ter of a queer little dissenting minister (whose theological cast of mind and phraseology are, by the way, a little affected and overdone); but she is really Miss Bvcliffe and the heiress of Transome Court. She is a charming woman, one of the loveliest and most truly feminine creations of modern fiction; one of those women whose pure, true hearts, bright intelligence, passionful na- tures, and winning ways, make them the delight of any man worthy of them who can win one of them to love him. So perfect is Esther in her womans nature, so free from all unloveliness, with all her decision of character and her piquant manner, reaching even to sauciness, that almost every young reader of her own sex will wish that she might be like her; and some, the sweetest and the best among them, will see that they are like her only not in personal appearance. For Esther is exquisitely beautiful; and it is very remarkable how much more willing we are to confess a certain pride in our moral or intellectual nature, for which we are in acme sort responsible, than in our persons, with the acceptableness of which we have nothing to do whatever. Esther is not only this pearl of womanhood; but she is the daintiest creature that could live outside a fresh blown rose. Any thing coarse, in fabric, in taste, in odor, annoys her. She cannot use any other than the finest handkerchiefs or the freshest gloves without disgust. Her perceptions being acute, she cannot but see the exquisiteness of her own person, and seeing, cannot but rejoice in it. She glories in her very dainti- ness. This is her weak sidea weakness of which no man who can appre- ciate her would wish her free. Yet this dainty, high-strung woman, this rose of beauty, this lily of personal purity, is made to love Felix Holt, to love him so that she gives up for him, unasked, her inheritance, and with it, what is more than mere wealth, the opportunity of living among people of tastes and breeding like her own. The author has laid out all her great skill in the endeavor to make this love seem consistent with the conditions under which it is bestowed; but in our judgment her labor, admirable as it is, is all in vain. Esther might be brought to adrhire Felix Holts nobility of soul, to sympathize with his aspirations, to be his devotee, his humble follower, 98 NEBULA. although so sharp a wit as hers must surely, it would seem, have pierced some of his air-blown fancies; but there goes something more than this to the love of a woman for a man. All this a woman might give to a man who in his person was repulsive to her; and all that we see of Felix Holt shows him to be a man whose personal habits could not but have been repulsive to a woman like Esther. That such a woman might be led to sacrifice herself to such a man for a great purpose or for what he could give her, is among the sad possibilities of life as we find it; but a love for such a man on the part of such a woman as Esther which leads her to sacrifice to him all that her soul before had most desired, seems little less than monstrous. There is a great deal in the book that is superfluous and somewhat wearisome; the details of an election, which have been made use of as machinery ad nau- seam, and which here only serve to send Felix to prison from which he is immediately released; a defeated attempt at a theological discussion between two clergymen, which serves no purpose whatever. But it is only in comparison with herself, or with novelists of the first class, or with those of the second class in their very best efforts Maxwell Drewitt for instancethat Mrs. Lewes loses ground in her last book. Felix Holt is no common novel. It has personages very clearly imagined, if not very new, whose thoughts and actions always interest usmuch more, indeed, than their fate: Mrs. Holt, mother of Felix, who reminds us of Dickenss women of the Mrs. Nickleby type, and who yet has a character of her own; the Reverend John Lingon, commonly ealled Jack, a hearty, out-. spoken, hunting, tory Rector; Harold Transome, his nephew, an energetic voluptuary, whose English traits have been modified by a long residence in the East. His views about women will ca~sse him to be loathed by the female intelligences of our day. I hate English wives, he says; they want to give their opinion about everything; they interfere with a mans life. And the author says for him on another occasion, that Western women were not to his taste. They showed a transition from the feebly animal, to the think- ing being, which was simply troublesome. Harold preferred a slow-witted, large-eyed woman, silent and affectionate, with a load of black hair weighing much more heavily than her brains. Must a man go to the East to learn to like large-eyed women, silent and affectionate, and with a load of hair? we wont insist upon the color, only upon the preponderance. But the personage whose character is most originally coxiceived and delicately elaborated, Esther herself hardly excepted, is Mrs. Transome, Harolds mothera woman who has erred, and suffered, and hoped, as strong natures err, and suffer, and hope; and who finds the joy she longed and waited for turn to ashes upon her lips. She is not an altogether pleasant person, and was not meant to be so; but it is impossible to read tIle story of her sad experience without profoundest sympathy, or without admiration, in this case unqualified, of the art with which the author has developed her character and revealed her inner life. THE sentiment of family antiquity seems to be spontaneous and in- eradicable. It exists among savage, as well as among civilized people; it is cherished as warmly by some of the sincerest advocates of political democracy as by the most bigoted aristocrat in Spain or Austria. Power, wealth, conse- quence of any kind continuing in a family for two or three generations, awaken this sentiment; but it exists, perhaps in its strongest, although not its most pretentious form, in men who can look back upon a family distin- guished only for worth, intelligence and good-breedingmen who can only NEBUL~. 97 share the boast about St. Patrick in the song, that he was a gintlentan, and come of daycent payple. It is a common mistake to suppose that noble families have longer pedigrees, and, of necessity, a more illustrious descent than those who, in countries where rank obtains, merely rank as gentry. Many noble families have such a descent, but many have not. The pedigrees of not a few noble families in Europe which are sound for four hundred years, beyond that become quite mythical; a very few can trace their lineage cer- tainly for eight or nine hundred years; but the majority at the present day would be puzzled to tell sur& y the name of their ancestor before A. D. 1450. The number of noble families in England who held their titles before the Wars of the Roses, which came to an end A. D. 1485, is very few, hardly more than a dozen; but the number of families, noble and commoner, whose pedigrees stretch in a well authenticated line far beyond that period is very large, and is much larger in proportion among the commoners than among the nobility. There are many persons outside the royal family in Great Britain, and a few on the Continent of Europe, who are entitled to quarter the royal arms by virtue of direct and well ascertained descent from Planta- genet or Tudor kings; and the number of these among the gentry is very much larger than among the nobility. There are, or in 1851 there were, one hundred and sixty-nine persons thus entitled to quarter the royal arms of Englandnot of Great Britain, and of those one hundred and twenty-one were commoners. Among these is a Mr. Henry Green, who is seventeenth in direct descent from Edward III., King of England, A. D. 1327 to 1377. A Mr. Edward Adams is nineteenth in direct descent from the same monarch; and ibis gentleman includes among his ancestors Charlemagne himself. He is a simple gentleman, as his forefathers have been for generations; but in the stained-glass window of an old church in Tidenham are the arms and the name of one of his ancestors who was in Parliament A. D. 1296. There are Cusacks here in plenty among our day laborers; but there is a Mr. James W. Cusack in Dublin, who is entitled to quarter the royal arms of England in virtue of direct descent from Edward I., A. D. 12741307. The number of il- lustrious personages who are found in one line or the other among the ances- tors of comparatively obscure, though well-born people, is so great that per- sons unaccustomed to trace genealogies can, with difficulty, be induced to be- lieve in the correctness of such pedigrees. But that many of them are per- fectly sound, is as true as that some of them are doubtful, or even fabricated. The most remarkable person in this respect, mentioned by John Bernard Burke, in his history of the Royal Family of Great Britain, is the Reverend Mr. John Hamilton Gray, who, in 1851, was living at Cartyne, Scotland, and who has the right to quarter the three lions passant upon his shield. In this gentlemans pedigree, which Mr. Burke gives in full, we find, in one line, Charlemagne, Henry II. of England, and Waldemar, Fourth King of Den- mark; in another, Constantine Porphyrogenitus, Emperor of the East, A. D. 908959, Hugh Capet, King of France, A. D. 940966, Rodolph of I~Iaps- burg, founder of the now apparently declining imperial house of Austria, Isaac Angelus, Emperor of the East, A. D. 11551204, and Frederic Barba- rossa, Emperor of Germany; in another, Alfred the Great King of England, Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, William the Conqueror, Henry of Navarre, and kings of England and France by the dozen. This gentlemans pedigree is as unbroken and as easily traced as that of Queen Victoria her- self. There are not a few people in this country whose pedigrees are as long 98 NEBULA3~. and as well authenticated as that of any nobleman in England, though very few indeed who number such illustrious personages as those above named among their forefathers. But we know of one family whose descent from Algar, Earl of Mercia, through Godiva, the Lady Godiva, is clearly shown. A fact with regard to another family is remarkable. It happened one day in London, some years ago, that as a gentleman received a seal ring from a jeweller, another, a bystander, getting a glimpse of it, asked to be allowed to examine it. Permission was given, when he said, I beg pardon, sir, here are the arms of Sir William Wallace; now the only family that has the right to quarter those arms is in America. To his surprise, the owner of the ring replied, Quite right, sir; and I am Mr. , of , in America. All this has its interest to those whom it directly concerns, but merely as a matter of family history. The day has fortunately passed, in this country, at least, when parentage secured privilege. But none the less, however, are those per- sons both foolish and fraudulent, who assume armorial distinctions to which they have not a right by lineal descent. We heard not long ago of a case in which a pursuivant stepped up to an Americans carriage in London and erased the arms from the panel. They were those of a ducal house, the family name of which was also that of the American. But he had, therefore, no more right to their arms than he had to the Dukes balance in the bank. THERE are some facts in regard to the cholera which are not generally known, and which, in addition to their intrinsic interest, have value both for the warning and the encouragement they give. We all know how it first appeared in 1817 at Jessore, a town in Hindostan about one hundred miles north-east of Calcutta, and thence marched steadily westward, so that in fifteen years it reached this country. It marched also eastward through China, destroying the inhabitants by the hundred thousand; but on each shore of the Pacific it stopped. It has crossed the Atlantic Ocean three times, but it has never crossed the Pacific. It is not generally known how this fearful scourge was bred into an epidemic plague in Jessore; for it had existed as a mild and purely local disease in India for a long time. Jessore is a thickly populated town, and is situated upon a fiat, reedy bank of tJ~e Ganges, but slightly above the sea level. In the rainy season, it becomes a fetid swamp, filled with rank tropical vegetation. Surrounded by this water, stand the bazaars and the houses. From the habits of the Eastern people this water became impregnated with filth. So also did the river which, in addition, received the remains of partly burned corpses thrown into it in accordance with religious superstition. The water thus defiled was often used for drinking. When we say that a town is very dirty, we understand the phrase as meaning something very had; but those of us who have not seen a Turkish or an Eastern town, have not formed to ourselves an idea of the degree of dirtiness to which they attain. In these townsin all of them offal and filth of every kind is simply deposited in the street. No other re- ceptacle is provided for it. There it is placed originally or by speedy transfer; and what is not consumed by dogs and. fouler and more hideous creatures of earth or air, remains under a burning sun, alternating with copious rainsa heap of decomposing animal and vegetable matter. If in an unusually rich town, as in Constantinople, there is an attempt at drainage, the only drain is an open ditch in the middle of the narrow street through which the foul wash flows sluggishly to an almost tideless harbor. All these conditions existed in the most aggravated form at Jessore, and in 1817 it happened that the rice har NEBULAIL 99 vest turned out badly, and that in addition to this cause of imperfect nutri- tion, the season proved unfavorable for curing fish, so that that year much spoiled fish was eaten by the poor natives, who are rich with three pence ster- ling a day. Under these conditions malignant Asiatic cholera first appeared; a specific poison was developed which, although its virulence has abated during the lapse of years, has not yet been destroyed, i~nd which will probably exist until the conditions under which it was developed are entirely removed. There is a peculiarity about cholera among epidemic plagues in regard to its propagation. The dispute as to whether it is infectious or contagious is yet unsettled. The London Spectator, in a recent article, written, as we hap- pen to know, by a man of great intelligence who has lived for years in India, scouts the notion that cholera is contagious, and says, besides, that it can no more be carried by a ship than gout. The person afflicted can be carried, but not the disease. On the other hand, Dr. John C. Peters, from whose most in- teresting and valuable monograph upon cholera, which is yet unpublished, we derive some of the information for this article, appears to be decidedly of the opinion that cholera i~ contagious. By infection, in its distinctive sense, we understand communication without personal contact or agency, which is usu- ally a comparatively slow as well as a subtle process; by contagion, commu- nication by contact, direct or indirect, with a diseased individual, the process being simple and almost instantaneous. It may be properly said that miasma and miasmatic diseases are infectious, but not that they are coni agious. Mi- asmatic air is infected with, and infects with, disease which is not contagious. The air of a whole region may be infected with these diseases, against which personal isolation is no defence. Such a disease is intermittent fever. Conta- gious diseases affect individuals, not regions, although the individuals are mul- titudinous; and against these individual isolation is defence. Such are small- pox, scarlet fever, measles. The history of the progress of cholera distinguishes it from these two kinds of epidemic disease. Contrary to the assertion of the writer in the Spectator, it may be, and has on each outbreak of the plague always been, carried by ships and also by caravans. The religious festivals of the East and the pilgrimages to them have been the principal means of dif- fusing cholera throughout the East. Madras is chiefly English, and is well built and comparatively clean and healthy. About forty-five miles from it is a native town called Conjeiveram, which is distinguished among native towns for its salubrious conditions, and for its actual health. But there is an annual native feast held in this town; and at this cholera always broke out, and was almost always brought back to Madras by returning pilgrims, until the year 1864, when hygienic measures, as thorough as possible, chiefly in regard to cleanliness, were adopted by the Madras presidency, in Conjeiveram during the festival; and no case of cholera occurred either in Conjeiveram or after- ward in Madras. Of the immensity of the human swarms called together by these Eastern festivals and pilgrimages, both Mohammedan and Ilindoo, and of the accumulation of wretchedness and filth which they cause, we have no adequate idea. At the yearly festival in Mecca in May of last year more than seven hundred thousand pilgrims arrived, accompanied by more than one mil- lion of beasts. These people, eating that at which our stomachs would revolt, and getting very little even of such food, drinking water defiled by all con- ceivable abominations, marching under a burning sun, never washing them selves, never changing their underclothes till they are worn out, and giving themselves up without reserve to debauchery of all kinds, leaving their dead 100 NEBULIE. unburied, and the offal of their numerous sacrifices also exposed, not only die by thousands of cholera, but leave every camping ground occupied by them impregnated with the cholera poison. Healthy caravans, or regiments of European troops, occupying these camping grounds, or even crossing the trail of these wretcbed pilgrims, are smitten with the plague, which subsides as soon as they are marched a few miles away. At Mecca last year more than forty thousand of the pilgrims died of cholera. From that place the course of the plague to Europe is easily traced. Nearly twenty thousand pilgrims from Mecca passed the Isthmus of Suez, early in 1865, to embark at Alexan- dria for Europe and Algeria. Suez and Alexandria were free from cholera until the return of these pilgrims. Then the plague broke out. It was taken to Cairo, to Constantinople, to Algeria by ships; carried by them just as manifestly as the bales of goods or the persons that were on shipboard. It is found, too, that its advance, from the eastern extremity of the Mediter- ranean to Western Europe, and thence to America, has been rapid jdst in proportion to the fleetness and the number of the vessels employed in com - merce. When. it first appeared, fifteen years were occupied in its passage from Jessore to America. Now, with fleets of steamers to carry it, the journey from Mecca hither is performed in little mcrre than two years. For a long time it was supposed that the seeds of cholera were borne upon the gir. But if upon the air, then of course with the air; and there is no record of a wind that blew steadily, or with moderate intermission, for thirteen years from Calcutta to Moscow; and that was the time taken by the plague to go from the Indian to the Muscovite capital. On the contrary, it is known that cholera advanced in India from east to west in the face of the monsoons which blew steadily night and day in the opposite direction; and it marched down the coast of Bengal against a wind blowing steadily northward. But it always follows the course of fravellers. The seed of cholera then is a poison which can be carried about by men and left behind them (as we have seen in regard to the camping grounds) just like any other poison. It is not infe~- tious, like the malarious fevers, nor contagious, like smallpox; but may it not properly be characterized as convectious ?a word (from veho, veotum,) which we propose, not knowing whether or no it has been suggested or ever used before. This brief examination of the origin and spread of cholera is encouraging in that it shows clearly that the plague can be restrained and trampled out by means in possession of civilized nations. A disease which can be carried can be stopped in its course. Thorough quarantine is an effect- ual barrier against it. A disease the conditions of which are filth, unwhole- some insufficient food and impure water, overcrowding and debauchery, can be deprived of the means of its existence by cleanliness, wholesome food, pure water, fresh air, and an orderly decent life. Let every man feel it to be his duty to secure these for himself and for his ~aeighbors to the extent of his ability, and we may escape comparatively unscourged. It may safely be predicted that there will be no cholera among the Shakers.

TilE G~ALAXY. SEPTB~BE~.. 15, 1866.. AROHIE LOVELL. B~ Mns. EDWAIiDS, AUTHOR OF Miss FORBESTER, ETC. CHAPTER XXL ARCHIB~8 CONFESSION. I N all the great and solemn crises of her earthly pilgrimagecreditors pressing them more sorely than their wont; old Lord Lovell returning inhuman answers to appeals for money; poor Fredericks pictures making their periodical journeys home, unsold, from Londonthe instant devastation, or, as she termed it herself, setting to rights, of the entire clothing of the household, had been, for years past, an unfailing source of comfort to Bettinas troubled spirit. This devastation, a kind of sacrifice laid upon the altar of the Dii penates and having ita origin, doubtless, in that mysterious instinct which has made man from the earliest ages believe in some occult power of propitiatory 6ffer- ings to avert impending griefhad, indeed, by force of habit become incorpo. rated at length as a vital, or integral, part of Bettinas religion. And so to- day, although the news of coming into four hundred a year, beside the glebe, was an occasion rather for thanksgiving than humiliation, her heart, staunch to its traditions, had flown (after due preliminary torture of the acolyte, Teanneton) to the formal celebration of the rites or services of her creed for relief. Now the first feature in these rites was to take out everybodys clothes from their different drawers and cupboards, and to pile them in heaps on beds, chairs, and all other available pieces of furniture round the rooms; the second, to sort them over, or subdivide them indefinitely over the floors until there was no place left on which to plant the sole of the foot; the third, to sit down and cry over every ones extravagance, Archies growth, and the ravages of moth; and the last, to make long lists, never looked at again by human eye, of every article of clothing the family possessed, and then return them, meekly, and with no discernible result whatever of her labors, to their place. The moment that Archie and her father left the house with Major Seton, Bettina prepared herself for action; and rushing away to Mr. Lovells room, threw herself with true fanatical ardor upon the first initiatory task of turn- I 102 ARCHIE LOVELL. ing every piece of furniture it possessed inside out. This done, she had de- voted half an hour or so to the dismemberment of her own bureaus; then returned, meted out and subdivided her husbands wardrobe until tall pyra- mids of cloth (looking each of them not very unlike Mr. Lovell himself) were dotted at random all qver his floor; and finally, faithful to her principle of making every part of the habitation untenable at the same moment, had be- taken herself~ after a discursive but thorough routing of two presses of house linen on her road, to Archiesroom. The usual shortcomings with regard to hooks and buttons; the usual chaos of gloves that wouldnt match; unmended stockings; boots spoilt with salt water, and frocks grown too short in the skirt; and every one of her white dresses in the wash at once, thought Bettina, shaking her head despondently, as with paper and pencil in her hand she sought in vain for any coherent arti- cle wherewith to head her list. Id better begin with the ball-dress after all. That at least must be in a condition to describe. And with honorable pride she unpinned the white linen wrapper in which she had encased all the paraphernalia of Archies one night of dissipation, and prepared herself to take a leisurely inventory of its contents. Upper skirt of white grenadine; item, puffed and underskirt of ditto; item, white silk body and trimming; item, clear Swiss muslin skirt. The upper skirt, the puffed skirt, the white silk body and trimmings, all there to cry adsum. But where was the clear Swiss muslin skirt? With the tightening of the beart that is said to prelude the on-coming of any dread discovery, Bettina made a convulsive dash at the tower of half- clean skirts resting on poor Archies little bed, and found it. It! The skirt for which she had paid two francs fifty centimes the m~tre, which her own hands had folded and left fair and unsullied with the rest, now a blackened, tumbled rag (I record what Bettina thought) trodden out in the hem; torn away from the gathers; and with a good half yard of mingled dust and mud as a trimming round the bottom of the skirt Mrs. Lovell staggered back against the wash-standthe only thing unten- anted by clothes in the roomand one solitary word rose to her lipsJeanne- ton! As a clever detective, by a single, seemingly unimportant factthe impress of a foot, the wadding out of a pistolfirst gets hold of a clue that shall enable him to follow the tortuous windings of crime, and ultimately dis- cover its guilty author, so did Bettina, on the spot, evolve a whole labyrinth of mystery and of crime from the condition of those nine yards of torn and blackened muslin. And the key note to that crime, the solution to that mys- tery wasJeanneton. Mrs. Lovell had long held opinions from which no argument could move her, as to the fatal result~ of. allowing foreign servant-girls their liberty with regard to processions, f~tes, balls, and the like diversions. We know what such things would lead to in England, she used to say, when Mr. Lovell would try to put in a word about the allowance to be made for varying cus- tom, temperament, religion, in different countries; the depraved inclina- tions of the lower classes must be the same everywhere. Here was blackest confirmation of her opinions! Here was refutation direct of all fine senti- mental theories about the necessity of giving these light-hearted peasants their innocent amusements! Here was proof incontestable of what such amusement and such theories led to! In the absence of her master and mis- tressdoubtless when Archie, poor child, was asleepthis creature had AECHIE LOVELL. 103 dressed herself up in all the finery she could collect; gone off to some gum- gette, some godless place of unhallowed out-of-door revelry, and waltzed there (in muslin that cost two francs fifty centir~es the m~tre) till morning. Well for me if my trinkets are right, thought Bettina. Well for me if the light-hearted peasant did not make herself up a cap out of my best point- lace! And actually bristling with rage, so vividly did this revolting image rise before her imagination, she stalked off, bearing on her arm the muslin skirt, the direct and positive proof of the corpus delicti, into her own apart- ment. A moments glance told her that her point dAlenqon was intact, and her jewel-box also. The woman would not risk a felony, she thought, with crushing bitterness. Point-lace and trinkets would have set the secret po- lice upon her track at once. The secret police was one of Bettinas strongest beliefs; was, indeed, the only portion of the French nation for which she had the faintest respect. Pocket-handkerchiefs, silk stockings, the nice etoeteras of the toilet, would be nearer her mark. However, not a handkerchief not a stocking, not an etcetera of any kind was missing; and Bettina was about to give up further search, half-satisfied, half in disappointmentso inscrutable is womans naturewhen her eyes fell upon a minute portion of silver-paper, sticking out from one corner of the lid of her best parasol case; the gray silk that dear Madame Bonnechose of Amiens had presented to her on New Years day. To open the case, to unfold the paper wrappings, and put up the parasol, was the work of a second; and nownow a sight did meet Mrs. Lovells gaze which made the blood turn to fire within her veins. The parasol which she had last worn on Easter Sun- day, had last gazed at in pristine, immaculate purity, was ridged, engrained, covered with marks of black; a certain wavy appearance round the edge of these defilements showed that a guilty hand had tried in vain to rub them out, and a faint smell of benzine, extracted doubtless from her own bottle on the chimney-piece, told how the commission of the whole crime must have been of recent date. She could not have worn a parasol at night; this was Mrs. Lovells first thought. Then Archie must have given her leave to go out in the day- time, her second. And, resolved to bring the offender to instant and condign punishment, she went forth that moment into the corridor and called aloud, and in no sweet or conciliatory tone, to herstepdaughter to come to her. Archie had been in the house about five minutes and was sitting alone in the salon in her walking dress, thinking still of the blessings of Philistinism, when she heard the sharp, metallic ring of Mrs. Lovells voice. Oh, now for the old story, thought the girl; so many buttons wanting, so many boots spoilt, so many dresses at the wash. What a pleasant preface to all that I have got to say! And she sauntered slowly off to Bettinas room, stopping to look out of every window she passed on the way, i~nd sing- ing aloud little Italian snatches about republicanism and liberty, as it was her habit to do whenever she felt that one of her stepmothers sermons was in store for her. Well, Bettina, child, what is it? she cried, as she entered the room, throwing up her sailors hat in the air and catching it as she walked. Four- teen hooks and eyes, twenty-two buttons, a dozen And then Miss Lovell stopped shortstopped short; and as long as she lived, I fancy, never played at ball with her hat again! Ostentatiously out- 104 ARCHIE LOVELL. spread upon two chairs before her was the white muslin skirt; the gray par- asol open on the floor; the whole air of the room faintly redolent of benzine; and Bettina, like an angry spirit, standing, pointing, with. heated face and vengeful eyes, to these mute evidences of her guilt. Youyou want me, Bettina? she stammered. Mrs. Lovell for answer walked straight up to the door, shut and locked it, and then returned to her stepdaughters side. A~chie, she said, I dont say to you to tell me the truth. That, I believe, you always do. I ask you a plain question, and know that you will answer it on your honor. Why did you let Jeanneton go out after all I said to you? Because she wanted to go, said Archie, her eyes sinking on the floor. CC She wanted a holiday, and I thought it hard she should keep in, with only me to wait on, and I let her go. At what time? At about two or threeI really did not look at the clock. And when did she return? When did she return? faltered the girl, her heart beating so loud that she thought Bettina must have heard its throbs. Yes; when did she return? Speak out, child. I am not going to be angry with you. She came backoh, Bettina, dont send her awaydont do anything to prevent other people taking her when were gone. She came back this morn- ing about eight. You know her village is a good two leagues away. I know she wanted to go ~nd see her grandfather Her grandfathsr! cried Bettina, in the tone which among women of her stamp so admirably takes the place of the strong words current among wicked men; her grandfather, indeed. Yes, I suppose so. Light-hearted foreign peasants must have their amusements, your papa says, and their family affec- tions tootheir gra~dfathers! and must visit them in their mistresss clothes; clear muslin slips at ~wo fifty the m~tre, and French-gray parasol. Oh, cer- tainly! Mrs. Lovell seated herself in a position of acrid discomfort upon about three inches of a heavy-piled chair; and tapped one of her feet viciously upon the floor for a minute or so. I dont know that I was ever so insulted by a servant in my life before, she burst forth at last. And its not for the worth of the things alonenot for the worth of the things she has destroyedbut for her insolence in wearing them, and her cruelty in leaving you. Away all night, and you, child as you are, here alone! You might have been mur- dered! we might have lost every ounce of plate we are worth! but she shall go this day. Dont speak a word, Archie, dont speak a word. Bettinas eyes were in a blaze. Im not angry with you now, but I shall be if you speak a word. She shall go this day. A parasol that would have lasted me for years, and worked in to the very grain of the silk with this filthy benzine. Let no one ever tell me French servants are not depraved againdepraved to the very core? Then Archie raised her eyes to her stepmothers face.: Bettina, she cried, with desperate courage, you are wrong. It was not Jeanneton who took the parasol, but I. I wanted to look nice, and I put on my new slip for a dress, and took your parasol, and I tried to clean it this morning, so that you shouldnt know, andsomehow the stuff made it run, and Ill save all my money and buy you another when we go to England! sh~ added, piteously. Indeed, indeed I will, Bettina. ARCHIE LOVELL. 105 Mrs. Lovell rose; and without saying a word reexamined the muslin skirt, breadth by breadth; the torn hem, the disorganized gathers, the half-yard of black mud for trimming. Archie, she said, when her examination was over, you are not telling me the truth. You are trying to screen Jeanne~ ton, but it will not do. Where do you mean to tell me that you wore these things? On the pier first, began Archie, with thickening breath. But on the pier there is no black mud at all, interrupted Bettina; and on the pier you would not have had your clothes torn off your back; and on the pier the parasol would not have got grimed in dirt. Dirt! dirt is no word for it. Tis simply blackLondon black! and what beats my comprehension is to understand how the woman, vicious as she is, could have contrived to get it into such a state. And now Archie, with hands tight clasped over her beating heart, felt that the time had c me when she must speak. London black. You are quite right. Thats w~atit is, Bettina, and I tell you I did it, and Jeanneton is no more to blame than you. Bettina stared at her in blank stupefaction. I dont know what you mean, child, she cried, feeling frightened, she knew not why. I dont know what nonsense this is that you are trying to tell me. You! you have never been in London since you were born. And if I was to tell you that I have! exclaimed Archie, with sudden energy; that I walked down to the pier to see Mr. Durant off, and then the sea looked so nice that I went out with him in a boat, and thenonly to see it,you knowI went on board the steamer, and it started before I knew what I was about, and I went on to London, and stayed there two hours or more, and came back in the middle of the night by myselfif I was to tell you all this, and declare it to be true, what should you say to me, Bettina? The parasol, the skirt, dropped out of Mrs. Lovells hands; a sickly green~ ish hue overspread her face. Does anybody know? she gasped. The strongest instinct of her nature holding her true, even in an exigence like this, to the sacred cause of conven- tionality rather than of abstract right. No one, answered Archie boldly; or to the best of my belief no one. Jeanneton had left before I started, and there was no one on the pier when I came back this morningexcept Captain Waters, and I dont believe it pos- sible that he could have seen me. And youwere in Londonalonewith Mr. Durant? but no words, no punctuation, can express the series of little spasms with which Bettina jerked out these questions. Alone, you say, and they live close to your fathers rectory. Archie, miserable child, do you know what this is that you have done? Certainly, I know, cried Miss Lovell, not without a half-smile at the lu- dicrous, stony terror of Bettinas face. I went on board the steamer, fool- ishly, Ill allow, and off it started, and And you have ruined us! Just that. Ruined your father and me and yourself! Now laugh if you like! Mrs. Lovell wept. After the relig- ious way Ive brought you up, she sobbed, and to choose the very time when your papa is made a dignitary of the church to disgrace yourself And she rocked herself in a manner highly suggestive of hysterics from side to side as she sat. 106 AROHIE LOVELL. Archie watched her stepmother with a curious set look about her handsome lips, a curious hard expression in her blue eyes. You are thoroughly unjust to me, Bettina, she said at last. I am as sorry about the parasol as you can be, and about the expense too, for we shall have to send Mr. Durant forty-two shillings and a sixpence that he lent me on the journey, and I know now that I was foolish to go on board the steamer, or even to see him off at all, if you like. But when you use such words as disgrace and Thin, I say you are unjust. I have done nothing wrong. I have disgraced nobody. And she walked across the room and seated herself sullenly by the win- dowthe window from whence she had watched Ralph Seton arrive that morning. If I had told papa first, as I ought to have done, I shouldnt have been judged so harshly! she cried, after a silence, broken only by oc- casional rising sobs on the part of Bettina. Papa will never call me dis- graced as long as I do nothing that is really wrong. No, your papa would not see disgrace when all other people would see it! answered Bettina. His simplicity, his trust, should have kept you straight. Ah, how well do women know where to pierce through the weak- est part of each others armor! Your papa lives in his clocks and his cabi- nets, and knows about as much of the world of men and women as a baby. He would think nothing of it, poor fellow; but when all the world, when his parishioners, when the family at the Court, know of it, its not very difficult to foretell what they will say of him! And what, pray?~ exclaimed Archie, afiush with indignation at the bare mention of her father being lightly spoken of. Supposing everything known supposing people should call me foolish or wicked, or anything they choose, what has that got to do with papa? Everything, answered Mrs. Lovell, curtly. It has got everything to do with him, and his good name, and his reputation, and his prospects in life. If you were a boy, Archieand if it wasnt like disputing with Providence, I wish from my heart you were oneyou might be as wild as wild can be. You might commit any crimeforgery evenfor I remember there was the Earl of Somebodys eldest son, only Im too agitated to remember names and still pull round, and everything be forgotten. But a girl! No false step a girl makes can be got over, unless, perhaps, in the very highest circles, which we are not. Oh, its very well to say there is no real difference! This, as Archie, with quivering lips, was about to speak. And I know the Scripture makes none; and, indeed, I always myself have, thought it hard. However and Bettina rescued herself with a start from the dread- ful depths of heresy to which she was falling what weve got to think of is, what the world says. You have done one of the things no woman can ever recover from if it becomes known. You have been awaythat I should sit here and say it calmlyfor hours and hours in the company of a young man, and your good name is as much gonebut Im too agitated, too miserable, to go into details. No honest young girl knowing this would associate with you. No man knowing it would marry you. And as to the county families noticing us Mrs. Lovell covered up her face in her pocket-handkerchief, and for a min- ute or two there was dead silence between them. Then Archie left her place by the window, crossed the room, and stood erect and tearless, but white to her very lips, by her stepmothers side. Bettina, she said, in a voice from which all the old fresh childish ring seemed to have suddenly died, Is this ARGuE LOVELL. 107 true that you are telling me? Would papa be so badly spoken of if this thing that I have done got known? He would be blibliblighted, sobbed Bettina, fiercely. For another man it would be bad enough, but for a clergyman such disgrace That will do, interrupted Archie. You need not repeat that word so often, JI think. And no one would marry me! with a little hard attempt at a laugh at this; and the families in the county wouldnt know us! Would they continue to be on terms with Mr. Gerald Durant, do you suppose? Archie, dont drive me wild by asking such absurd questions! You, a girl of seventeen, to talk like a child of seven! Mr. Gerald Durant! Why, of course, people would look upon the affair as something rather in his favor than otherwise. Who ever thinks worse of a young man for such an esca- pade as this? But Mr. Durant is eight years older than me, Bettina. If going to Lon- don with him was a thing to disgrace me so fearfully, he must have known it, and I would have landed at Calais, when the steamer stopped, if he had only spoken a word of all this. I went on, as I told him, because a number of the Morteville people were there, and I thought papa would be hurt if they got up a story about my landing so far away from home alone. Why didnt Mr. Duraut save me when he might have done it? Because no one ever saves anybody, said Bettina, bringing out this clinching truth with stinging emphasis. Any one on earth hearing the story would say that you were to blame throughout, and that Mr. Durant just acted, as any other young man would have done under the circumstances. Save you If you had attended more to your religious exercises, Archie, to the books, the evening readings you have made so light of; you wouldnt have looked to anything but yourself, and your own self-respect, to save you when the time of temptation came. Ah, unfortunately I was not remembering myself at all just thenonly papa. And then she turned away, and pacing hurriedly up and down the room, began to thinknot of her own folly; of her own threatened shame; of the share Gerald had really had in her guilt; of Bettinas, of the worlds injustice: these thoughts were for the futurebut of her father. Her father on the threshold of a new life, and with all the honor and peace that would have made that life sweet to him, darkened by her. Bettina, she exclaimed, stopping s,t last in her walk, I dont see the ab- solute necessity of this story of mine ever being known; d9 you? That entirely depends, said Mrs. Loveil, drearily, her mind at once tak- ing hold of the practical, not the moral, difficulty of the case. In the first place, this Mr. Gerald Durant will be quite sure some day to talk about it all himself No, interrupted Archie, I am sure he w9ntweak and vain though he may be! she added, with a suppressed bitterness very new to hear in her voice. Well, perhaps not, answered Bettina, though I would never trust any man long with a secret that was flattering to his own vanity. The next thing is, did any one see you when you landed here? You may think not, but, de- pend upon it, some one did. Ive remarked all my life that if you have got on a new dress, or are walking with a good acquaintance, or successful in any way, people seem to keep indoors on purpose rather than see you; but the moment youre looking shabby or poor, or walking with somebody you are 108 ARCHIE LOVELL. ashamed of; you seem to meet everybody you know in the world in flocks. Of aourse some one saw you. Why, you said just now that Captain Waters met you on the pier when you landed. But ifif I could be sure no one else saw me, or of not being betrayed by him, would you think it right, for papas sake I mean, that we should try to hush the story of all this up? I think, said Bettina, with solemn energy, that we should be wicked and ungrateful to Providence if we did not do everything in our power to hush it up I I think that if; by extraordinary good fortune, you did go and return unseen (which I cannot believe), we ought never, even among our- selves, to let this thing be spoken of again. You are young, child and for the first time Bettinas face began to soften at the sight of the girls rigid, tight-clasped hands, and wide-open, tearless eyes and Im not harsh on you in my heart, only I know it is just one of the things there is no getting over, and Mr. Durant engaged to his cousin, toowhich of course would make all the family harder upon youand after the way I have brought y~u up! and just when your papa has been made a dignitary of the church and every- thing . . . however, well talk over what can be done, and in the right frame, Archie, the right and humble frame upon which alone, poor worms of an hour as we are! we can expect a blessing. After which curious confusion of entomological and other metaphors, Mrs. Lovell, with the peculiar tottering gait which women of her way of thinl~ing invariably assume under trouble, went off to her own apartment for her smelling-salts, a clean pocket-handkerchief; and a pile of good books, with which armory of affliction she presently returned, evidently determined to make a night of it in her stepdaughters room. But her stepdaughter had no such intention for her. Her first horror over at hearing the position in which she stood put into words, Archie Lovells courage, determination, stout, rebellious spirit, all returned to her. Bettina, she said, catching hold of her stepmothers arm with a suddenness that in her presunt weak state flattened her up, smelling-salts, good books, and all, against the door, and wearing, to Mrs. Lovells horror, something of the old devil-may-care expression on her face, its a settled thing, is it? I must do my best first to get Captain Waters to be silent, and for ourselves we are going, if we can, to tell a falsehood, any number of falsehoods, you and I, about this journey of mine to London? Telloh, Archie! I hope we shall never have to speak of it even while we live. Very well, Bettina, well put it as prettily as we can. Not tell, but act falsehoods. First to papa, of course, for if he kn6w a thingpoor papa! her voice faltering, every one else in the world would know it too; next to the whole of the parishioners, churchwardens, whatever the people are called that belong to rectors, when I stand by and hear how I have never been in England before, etcetera; to the family at the Court, above all; and to Major Seton; and to, or rather with, Mr. Durant when I see him; and some day, with the little, hard laugh again, to any happy man whom we can deceive into wanting to marry me? This we have decided upon doinghavent we? Oh, Archie-, dont look so hardened! dont laugb, child, when you ought to be on your bended knees, praying that your heart of stone might be changed into a heart of flesh! Its very wicked of you to use such a word as 4 ARCHIE LOVELIJ. 109 falsehood at all. There are circumstances in which even on the highest authority we know that concealment is permitted. At chapter ten Bettina, interrupted Archie, with the blood mounting crimson to her forehead, and stamping one little foot angrily on the floor, for mercys sake let us have none of this, please! I have done a foolish thing that lasted one day, and now I am going to do a mean one that will last all the days of my life! And of my own free will, mind, and not for papas sake alone. I dont want to be disgraced. I dont want not to be noticed. I dont want to think that no one would marry mebut I wont have any goody talk about it! I wont hear of texts that bear us out in our meannessas if you couldnt dis- tort some text for everything wicked that was ever done! and above all I wont have tears and lamentations and smelling-bottles. If we can hush it all up there is no great harm done; and if we cannot, we cannot. In either case there is no use crying and bemoaning and pretending to pray to heaven when we are only hoping we shant be found out on earth. Youve been piling up all papas clothes into pyramids as usual, I see, Bettina, and now the best thing you can do is to go and write your list out and put them in their places again. And Miss Lovell burst into a fit of laughter that if not thoroughly real was loud enough to reach Mr. Lovell in his painting-room at the other side of the house, and make him think, and rejoice to think, how happy his little girl was at the good fortune that had befallen them! Archie laughed on as she watched Bettina obediently bear back the books and smelling-bottle to her own room; and she sang aloudthe same kind of songs she sang to the two old English ladies in the trainas long as she knew her stepmothers door was open, and that she could be heard. Only when Mrs. Lovell had shut herself in, and when all the house was silent, and the girl felt that she was alone at last, did the songs die on her lips and the laughter too. And then she walked up to her glass, and looking hard into her own face for companionship, asked herself, blankly, what manner of shame this was that she had incurred. Disgrace! Ruin! No young girl, if this story was known, would associate with her; no man would seek to marry her. Bettina said this; and Bettina understood the world; and higher authority than Bettina had she none. Never in her life before, she thought, had she looked so pretty as at this min- ute. The bright blood was burning clear through her dark cheeks. A light such as she never knew that they could wear was in her eyes. Her hair, with the evening light upon its changing hues, shone, like an aureole of pure gold, around her face. An intense pity for herself, an intense regret for all that she had newly thrown away, came into her childish heart. I will not be disgraced, I will not! she thought, passionately. I am too good for disgrace a~d ruin Major Seton thought I was prettydidnt his face change when I threw him my myrtle? and Gerald Durant thought so, and liked me better than Lucia, with all her classic lines! I am pretty; too pretty not to be liked and admired and loved. If I was old, four or five and twenty, and plain, it would be different. I think I could be honorable and tell the trtth then, but not now. Im only seventeen, and I want people to fall in love with me, and pay me attention, and think me handsome (piquante, mignonne, belle aux yeux bleusthose were Geralds words for me !). I want all the county people to make much of papa and to have me at their parties. . . If I look then as 110 AROHIE LOVELL. I do now, Gerald will be sure to ask me to dance oftener than Miss Durant, the heiress. . . And Major Setonah, how Ralph would despise me if he knew to what I have sunk! what a falsehood I have told himwhat a false- hood all my future life is going to be! And at the thought of Ralph the mobile nature softened in a moment; the heart of stone, as Bettina would have said, was changed into a heart of flesh. Archies head sank upon her breast for a minute or two; her lips quivered piteously; and then a flood of the hottest tears that she had ever shed was the unheroic termination of all her fortitude and all her courage. Quite late in the evening, as Mr. Lovell was standing before Troy, his pipe in his mouth, and dreaming dreams of greatness, as was his wont, his daughter came in, neither singing nor chattering, but pale, subdued and silent, and crept up to his side. The daylight had well nigh faded; but Mr. Lovell could see that her face was pinched and white; and that all the glorious, tawny hair was pinned up tightly, giving her a strange, altered look of womanhood, around her head. Archie, my little girl, you are pale, holding her face up between his hands, and scrutinizing it closely, and all your hair pinned and twisted up like an old womans! Is this some whim of Bettinas, or what?~ Its my own fancy, papa, she answered, and you must let me keep it so, please. Now that we are going to England, you know, it wouldnt do for me, at my age, to wear my hair hanging about like a childs. Why not? said Mr. Lovell, and what are you hut a child? If I like to see you so, why should you care for fashion, Archie? She had to turn her face away before she could answer; it caused her such new, such poignant pain to say or look otherWise than as she felt to him; then, after a minute, I care for what you think of me more than for all the fashion in the world, she said. You believe that? But I know that there are a great many things I must alter about myself now. Running about here in Morteville, as Archie Wilson, and with you, only a poor artist, you know, dear, I may have been very well ( Very well, indeed, Mr. Lovell interpolates) but living among English people, and the daughter of a rec- tor, I should be thought wild and unlike other people, and so Im going to reform myself at once by braiding up my red hair round my head, and leaving off my sailors hat, and trying, if I can, to look like a lady, not a boy. You will not be as good-looking) child. But, of course, you and Bettina will do as you choose! And you will like me just the same, papa? a wistful tremor in her voice. Whatever I was, plain, or pretty, or wicked, or good, you would like me just the same? My little one. This was all Mr. Lovell answered; but with what a world of tenderness! every note in the diapason of love softly swept by those three words: My little one ! She took one of his hands into hers, and so they stood together, as their way was at this hour, saying little, and- both gazing at the indistinct glories of Troy, less unlike nature now than at any other hour in the twenty-four, until the canvas insensibly melted into the gray walls of the painting-room, and Jeannetons voice was heard generally announcing from the kitchen door, after the manner of a gong or dinner bell, that supper was on the table. So ends our last look at Troy, remarked Mr. Lovell, as they turned to go away; or our last look at it in Morteville-sur-mer. Seton tells me 1 am ARCHIE LOVELL. 111 wanted in the parish at once, and to-morrow morning I shall set about pack- ing up my pictures the first thing. So ends the last evening of the poor old life, added Archie, lingering at the threshold of the room where so many peaceful hours of her childs exist- ence had been passed. Shall we ever be as happy, now that we are Philis- tines, as we have been here, I wonder? We shall have four hundred a year, instead of being beggars! cried Bettina, who had been reading good books and pondering over the chances of discovery, until her temper was anything but sweet. And I think it quite time for you, for yau, Archie, to have done with that profane talk about Philistines. Pour vous Jeanneton, and she turned round with sudden animosity upon the servant; je vous dismisse. Ce jour aemaine vous allez; and sang charactere, vous souvenez, sang charactere. If their own reputation was to be damaged, it was something, Bettina felt, to be able to send forth this worthless creature also, sang charactere, to the world. Something. Not a satisfaction, of course. She was too Christian a woman to take any delight in the misfortunes of others. But a duty which, at this season of trial, she had an excessively righteous relish in performing. CHAPTER XXII~ A VAMPIRE AT HOME IT was getting on for ten oclock that night, when Captain Waters, in a full suit of black, and with every nice adjunct of dandy evening-dressprimrose gloves, bouquet for the button-hole, liliputian tie, embroidered shirtfaultlessly complete, sauntered away from the door of the Couronne dArgent. During the last few days, invitations for a high tea to be held by Miss Marks on this third evening of August had been current among the English society of Morteville, and to Miss Marks house Captain Waters, sorely against the convictions of his life with regard to tea in general, was now going. Miss Gussy inhabited with her papa a modest lodging in one of the least airy parts of Morteville. Of Mr. Marks it is needless to say more than that he was a frightened-looking, dilapidated old person, consuming a good deal of snuff and very little soap (one of the poor, broken-down old men, redolent in France of absinthe, and in England of gin and water, who do posses,s daugh- ters like Gussy, and live in shady suburbs of shady watering-places); to whom on all festive occasions Miss Gussy said briefly, Go to bed, pa, and he went. Of the lodging, that it was entre cour et jardin, surrounded, that is, by high, damp walls, take it on whichever side you liked, and pervaded by a nameless flavor of bygone meals, mould and snuff; the ghosts perhaps of generations of old lodgers all of the stamp of Mr. Marks; the walls covered with dis- located chalk-drawingscarved frames and all the work of Miss Marks own fair handand the furniture generally belonging to that type of squalid tawdriness, threadbare finery, gilding, decay and dirt combined, which ordina- rily characterizes the third or fourth class French lodging-houses of towns like Morteville. A type which the pen that drew the boarding-house Vauquer in the P~re Goriot alone could reproduce in its integrity. Miss Marks you have already seen; and I have only to record that on this especial evening she wore, in her capacity of hostess, a white muslin frock, with a sash carelessly knotted behind, sleeves tied up on the shoulders, like 112 ARCHIE LOVELL. an infant going to be christened, and a simple bit of blue ribbon in her hair. As if she was fifteen, not five and thirty, whispered Mrs. Maloney to one of her friends the minute she entered. A waist a yard and a quarter round, and a sash. Dear Gussy, how well you are looking I and they kiss. The madonna style of braiding hack the hair suits your face so exactly. Mrs. Maloney herself was in a green silk: in the green silk, ratherthe Maloney silk was a case in speaking of which the definite article is admissible. Fearfully and wonderfully full-dressedto use the favorite irony of the fashion-hooksthough this ancient beauty loved to be in a ball-room, she held it correct taste to appear in what she termed demmy toilets at small parties. Hence the green silk, chastely trimmed with imitation Cluny lace, was cut high upon the shoulders, but beautifully less, as on~ sees in Sir Peter Lelys portraits, beneath the throat: a style admirably suited to the plump Dolly Yarden figure which Mrs. Maloney in her heart believed herself to possess. Rows of inexpensive pearl beads were twisted, repeatedly but in vain, around the yellow, shrivelled neck; and under one poor withered ear, playfully nestling amidst hair which Batchelors World-famed Fluid had converted into lustrous purple, shot in side-lights with rainbow hues of pink and green, was a single moss rosebud: emblem of love, and youth, and inno- cent freshness like its wearer. As Waters entered the room, his opera-hat under his arm, his eyes fell upon these two young creatures, who both looked up at him with a coy little start as he approached; and intent upon getting over the work before him as quickly as possible, he at once walked across the room in his quiet, well-bred way, and after saluting Miss Marks and receiving her playful reproaches for being so late, seated himself on a pile of music-booksthe safest resting-place in the room Captain Waters thoughtat Mrs. Maloneys side. Not playing whist, Mrs. Maloney? he remarked, glancing toward a pair of quivering shoulders, and one mammoth elbow, on his right, and form- ing inductive guessesas a comparative anatomist from the shin-bone of a megatherium might infer the history of an epochas to the probable exist- ence of Mrs. OIRourkes partner, adversaries, and a whist-table. How is it that you and Miss Marks are both sitting out to-night? Me? cried the girl Gussy, giddily, if not with the grammar one would haVe expected from an author of her repute. Me play whist? Why, you have to remember all the horrid cards, and sit ever so long without opening your lips! Fancy me being silent and remembering anything for two min- utes together. Archly this, and with a toss of her head and a little scream such as children do unconsciously break forfh with in the bib-and-tucker stage of existence. We have been playing Beggar-my-neighbor for bonbons, Captain Waters, she added with pretty simplicity, and Mr. Montacute, dreadful creature! has already beaten me out of two games. At the mention of Mr. Montacute, Waters looked more closely behind the screen of Miss Gussys voluminous muslin draperies, and at last perceived, very blushing and frightened, little Willie Montacute, well secured in a cor- ner, and helplessly grasping a time-honored and adhesive pack of cards in his hand. Miss Marks, when she did run a victim to earth, bad a plan of stop- ping him by thus outstretching herself, bodily as it were, before the path to freedom; and with very young boys, or very feeble old men, generally found the feint, for one evening, a successful one. Ah, Willie, my boy, how are you? said Waters. On your feet again, ARGuE LOVELL. 113 then, after your seasickness? Would you believe it, Mrs. Maloney, though the sea was as smooth as glass, that fellow managed to be ill last night on our way from Calais here? There was a deuced heavy swell, said Master Montacute, and it wasnt really the sea at all, but the poisonous dinner we got at Calais Of course, interrupted Waters, good humoredly; he is in high good humor with every one this evening. It is never the sea that makes people ill. You ought to have come with us, he added, turning carelessly to Mrs. Maloney. We had a very pleasant day, barring the heat, and saw a good deal, really, that was worth seeing. Ahem, so I hear! answered the Maloney, drawing down her thin upper lip with unction; a great deal that, in one deplorable sense, was very well worth seeing, Captain Waters. Waters raised his eyes for half a second to her face, and knew that his sus- picions were correct: that he had done right in coming to this atrocious tea- party after all. The peasants? he suggested innocently. Well, in masses they did look picturesque, didnt they, Miss Marks? Just when Monseigneur was blessing them, and with flags waving and incense swinging but when you see them close, the ugliness of the women in this part of France is something, really Oh, peasants! interrupted Mrs. Maloney, tapping Waters upon the arm with her fan with shrivelled playfulness. Sure you know as well as I do, Captain Waters, that its not peasants Im thinking of. What then? asked Waters, putting up his eyeglass and looking about him with the dazed look that his white, inanimate face was so well fitted to express. Miss Marks, you were there. What was this interesting sight that I had the stupidity to miss at Calais? . Are you sure you did miss it? said Gussy, lowering her voice, and bringing her great bird-like eyes to bear upon Waters in a way that, it is only just to state, he never would have allowed save in the execution of busi- ness. You certainly were in the best position on the pier for seeing every- thing when it occurred. Waters was silent : then a faint smile just parted his lips, and for a minute or two he examined curiously the bunch of charms which hung from his watch-chain. Ladies are terribly sharp observers, he remarked, at length; but I positively do not know what you mean on this particular occasion. My friend Durant was on board an excursion steamer bound for London, and I spoke to him. Had this anything to do with the circumstances you are speaking of? Oh, Captain Waters, how ridiculous you are to pretend such innocence! cried Gussy, warming. When you must have seen just as plain as I did. Se~n what? I give you my honor I am as utterly in the dark as ever. But even this valuable offer did not change Miss Marks in her opinions. I can tell by your face that you know everything, Captain Waters. Mr. Durant had a companion with him, and that companion wasArchie Wilson! Captain Waters literally started two inches from the music books; his eye- glass fell down with a crash against the admirable counterfeits of diamonds that he wore as- shirt studs. Miss Wilson? Oh! with a change of coun- tenance that, as a bit of finished drawing-room comedy, would not have dis- credited Charles Mathews himself. That is excellent! Durant run away 114 ARCHIE LOVELL. with Miss Wilson! I must tell him about this the first letter I write. Why, Archie Wilson is in Morteville at this minute, he added, keenly noting all the time the effect that his abilities were producing on his audience. I was talking to her and her father not three hours ago at the door of their own house. Oh, so we hear! cried the Maloney, bridling; so we hear. Miss Wil- son is back in Morteville already, and in my humble opinion this shows pretty clearly what kind of person she is. After an esclandre of this kind to dare to face us all again! Only thatreally, casting down her eyes timidly, I dont know the subject is one fit for us to discuss, I should say that Archie Wilson would have shown herself to be a shadea shade less hardened if she had stopped away from Morteville altogether ! Whereupon Captain Waters laughedsmiled, I mean. The man had not laughed for years. I never heard a better thing than this in my life! he exclaimed; never. What in the name of everything that is ridiculous, Mrs. Maloney, makes you fix upon Archie Wilson as iDurants companion? Oh, my authority is Miss Marks! answered Maloney, promptly. Let Miss Marks speak for herself. I know nothing whatever about it, except what Miss Marks has told me. Well, then, Miss Marks, will you tell me, please? I should not like to lose a word of this new and horrible scandal about Archie Wilson. And thus adjured, Gussy spoke. She was not as near as Captain Waters, of course, but she saw Archie Wilson distinctly at Mr. Durants side. iRecog- nized the sailors hat and blue vail; the white dress; recognized the whole figure of the girl herself. Not her face, certainly, for her vail was down; and the Miss Montacutes and Mr. Montacutehere Willie, with vehement blushes, begged that he might not be brought forward in any wayrecognized her, too. By what steamer Miss Wilson might have returned she knew not. That Miss Wilson was Mr. Durants companion on board the steamer that stopped at the Calais pier she would declare on oath. And I, said Waters, rising quietly from his place, and speaking in an intentionally clear and distinct voice, I will declare, on oath, that the whole story is impossible! I went down this morning to see the first steamer ar- rive from Folkestone, and Archie Wilson was on the pier before me. I stood not twenty paces from her as I waited to see the steamer come in. A general hush: even the whist-players interestedfor every one in the room, every English person in Morteville, had already heard Miss Marks whispered story of Archies flight. I happen, continued Waters, luckily for my friends daughter; to he able to swear to her being on the pier before the arrival of the steamer this morning, and if you like it, Miss Marks, I can do more. I can tell you who the young person you saw on board the Lord of the Isles really was. Oh, Im sure I want to hear no more about it! cried Gussy, growing scarlet as every pair of eyes in the room turned upon her. If it was not Archie Wilson, and of course you have proved to us it was not, Captain Waters, I will say no more about it-and will never trust the evidence of my eyes again while I live! she added, under her breath. Well, said Waters, deliberately, and stroking his fioss-silkmoustache into infinitesimal points while he looked at Gussys face, as for saying no more about it, Miss Marks, I dont know. When an accusation as serious as this has been openly brought against a lady, I conceive it to be the duty of the ARCHIE LOVELL. 115 accusers to contradict what they have stated as soon as they are themselves convinced of their mistake. The voice of Mrs. ORourke, with the sound it ever assumed after dinner a hollow rumbling sound, as of a volcano deadened by the weight of much accumulated stratahere remarked, There were some persons whom no scandal could damage. An accusation more or less against Archie Wilson would really matter little. The remark is just, said Waters, with cold impertinence; he knew him- self to be on the eve of leaving Morteville, and able therefore to be indiffer- ent about Mrs. ORourkes dinners the application faulty. There are persons, Mrs. ORourkewhose authority, but yours, should one accept on such a point?whom no scandal could damage, but Archie Wilson is not one of them. Archie Wilson! he interrupted himself~ suddenly, and as if he had not been gradually working up to this climax from the first moment he entered the room, no, I will speak of her so no longer. The necessity for the incognito is over. Archie Lovell is the daughter of a man of position and birth. Her father is the rector of Hatton in Staffordshire, her grand- father is Lord Lovell, and it is unfit that the ribald talk of Morteville tongues should even go near her. Ladies, of course, have their own preroga- tive! added Waters, looking with a sneer at Mrs. Maloney and Miss Marks. They may talk as they choose without peril. If any man still thinks that Miss Lovell accompanied Durant away from Morteville, I should be very happy to talk over the matter withhim in any spirit or at any time that he chooses. And Waters glanced round him with the warlike aspect he had learnt in Italian ca%s, and twirled up his well-waxed moustaches till little Willie Montacute thanked his stars he, for one, had not been fool enough to give an opinion in the matter. Reckless bravery, never terminating in bloodshed, was one of Waters leading characteristics; and the present moment, with a room full of women, one little boy, and three trembling old gentlemen, all rather deaf; and mildly playing at threepenny whist, was, he felt, just an oc- casion to display it. Rector of HattonLord Lovell ! gasped Gussy; no one showing any eagerness in the picking up of Captain Waters gauntlet. Well, its very strange, but I always did think Mr.Mr. Lovell had a look of birth about him, and Archie, if you recollect, Mrs. Maloney? Maloney looks stonily forgetful of everything. Ive often said to you, I thought there was some- thing distingu6 about her face. Poor little girl, Im sure Im very glad this last story has all turned out to be a mistake! And will do your best, I am convinced, said Waters, with emphasis, to see that the story is contracucted. Ladies, I have the honor of wishing you good-night. After whichregardless of conviviality in the form of vin-ordinctire negus, four brioches on one plate, and three pates on another, that a hired old waiter, mouldy, like everything else about the house, was bearing in upon a tea-tray Captain Waters bowed himself out of the presence; and the ladies were left alone. Alone, to digest the news as best they might; to affect to doubt; to trust Captain Waters was not deceived; and to form immediate plans, each one of them in her heart, for letting the Lovells know that it was never her, oh, never! who said any of the unkind things that certainly had been said in Morteville about dear little Archie. 116 ARCHIE LOVELL. Can worse be recorded of all these women? When all they knew of Archie Lovell was that she was fresh, fair and young, they reviled her. When they were assured of her social superiority to themselves (her father an honor- able, thought Gussy, her grandfather a lord! oh, if I can only get her to write to me! ) they were ready in an instant to grovel at her feet. Can human meanness go further? As Waters was walking back to his hotel, he thought with a feeling of positive sickness over that last hours work he had gone through. In men like himmen from whose hearts the very last traditions of honor have fled the hereditary finer instincts of gentlemen do occasionally linger still. Of all this Morteville vampire brood Waters was, in fact, perhaps the most morally worthless; ten minutes ago had declared himself ready to take his oath to a falsehood; was organizing a scheme to make the secret of a child of seventeen a property; had defended her to-night only to get the whole speculation more securely into his own handsnot actually with any idea of immediate gain, but as a lien, a possible hold, upon her through every year of her future life. And still to himself he seemed a prince among them all He might, for money, have to do queer things, to put up with queer acquain.. tance now and then; but to the lowest dregs of all, to the standard of the ORourke and Maloney, he felt that he could nev~ sink. He might be a scoundrel; a good many well-horn men have been that; one of a canaille like this, never! Noblesse oblige. As a ladwith keen vividness old memories throng upon him as he walks slowly home to his hotel now, as a ladone false step about money had cast him down, certainly, from the level of his peers. But no false step, no number of false steps, can ever thoroughly drain out the blue blood from a mans veins. Was he, in truth, so very dishonorable then, he wonders? He doesnt know now; he knows only that he was very foolish, and that he got found out; and was banished from his fathers house, and from his club, and from society generally. Banished from every respectable employment that he was fitted for; and he was too well-born and nurtured to work, forced in some measure to take mp a profession that he was fitted for, but which was not respectable. The profession of living about in places like Homburg, Florence, Morteville-sur-mer, and making money out of every man, woman, or child he comes across. Standing in the pure Summer nighthe feels he wants a great deal of fresh air to renew the oxygen that Miss Marks rooms have exhausted from his delicate lungsWaters looks back upon the bygone years and thinks sorrow- fully (a man is never so callous but that, at times, he can be tender over him- self) upon the hard lines on which his life has fallen! the ill-luck that now, in his middle age, makes him a waif among such people as these in Morteville, instead of a country gentleman like his elder brother; or a guardsman, like his younger one, the fool Dolly; or a man deep in red tape like his cousin whose sums lie used to do at school; or a foreign diplomatist, high in honor and repute, like the other cousinwho used to steal his marbles when he was asleep. He was a cleverer and a better boy than any of them, he remembers; and they arewhere they are! and he is herea card-sharper, a lonely wretch, whose solace is in brandy and tobacco, and whose associates are such p~ple as these he has just left. And everythings a fluke! falting to work resignedly at cigarette-making; and its a great thing for a man to feel, however unfor LE RENARD PRECHE AtJX POULES. K. K f ~ K\ N -/ ....- t 9 j N ARCHIE LOVELL. 117 nate he is, that he i~ a gentleman by birth; that there are depths of mean and paltry degradation to which he can never sink! And then he chalks out with greater precision to himself the exact words in which he shall conduct his interview to-morrow with Miss Lovell. CHAPTER XXIII. LB BENABD PRECHE AUX POULES! HE kept to his appointment at eleven, punctually; and found Archie already waiting for him on the plateau. The plateau, as every one knows, is the name given to the portion of the sea walk immediately in front of the Morteville ~tablissement; and as eleven oclock is here, as in other French watering-places, the hour when the promenades and beach are most crowded, the meeting of Captain Waters and Miss Lovell was not likely, even among the English residents of the place, to attract observation. As for the French, never much prone to scandal, they were at the present time engaged to a man. One section dancing about in the sea in the fantastic serge suits that a paternal imperial government imposes upon its children; another ranged on tiers of chairs upon the beach, watching them, with the intense interest an English mind can never thoroughly understand; a third, still by the aid of opera-glasses well within view of their friends in the sea, drinking consomm6s, smoking, reading the papers, and playing dominoes beneath the canvas awn- ing outside the ~itablissement. Waters cam.e up, his hat in his hand, to Archie, who was walking slowly up and down the plateau in one of the least crowded parts, evidently and without concealment waiting for him. She was paler than usual, and her hair plainly braided back, in the new fashion she had adopted, gave an aged and worn look to her face that Waters was not slow to notice. What a different scene all this is to the kind of thing one meets with in our English watering-places, he remarked: as a matter of course turning round and walking by her side; I am not quite sure after all, though, that the advantage is on our side. I dont know, said Archie, coldly, IL have never been in England, I mean never at an English watering-place. - Then you have been spared witnessing as much human dullness as can be collected together at one time and in one place, Captain Waters answered, without noticing her abrupt, almost sullen manner. We go to the sea ex- pressly to bore ourselves, the French to escape from being bored; and I must say I think they are right, although I cant join in the raptures Frenchmen go into about some of their seaside fashions, the marine costume of the Paris- iennes, for example, with regard to beauty. Do you read French novels, Miss Lovell ? I do not. A very good thing for you the shorter her answers the pleasanter grew the tone of Waters voice a very good thing indeed. English people in general taboo French novels, because they are supposed to be wrong, but the fact is they are~ only horribly stupid, as stupid very nearly as English ones. Howeverwhat was I going to say ?oh, the other day I read in a French novel, and a very excellent one, a description of how a lovely Parisienne 8 118 ARGuE LOVELL. looks in her black serge dress in the water. Une divinitk des eaux.P Wa.. ters speaksFrench like a Frenchman. Vous auriez dit hne statue de marbre noir ~i tote blanche. Depuis la pointe de ses jolis pieds jusqu ~ ses grands cheveux elle defiait Ia critique la plus malveillante. Ii ny avait qu ~ tombre a genoux devant cet admirable corps! Now, Miss Lovell, without being the most spiteful critic in the world, I must confess that French women in the water look to me very much more like half-drowned brown rats than like marble statues or divinities. . You agree with me? She made him no answer whatever; only walked along by his side, her head turned away from him, without the ghost of a smile or of response from her lips; and Waters began to see that whatever he wanted to say he must say, without preamble, without assistance of any kind from his companion. It is the same in everything, he remarked presently; five hundred people in France sit on the burning sand to watch five hundred other people, ridicn- lously dressed, but whom they think marble divinities, jump up and down in the water, and the English call the whole scene by very hard names indeed. We, on the other hand, do many things, or rather our young ladies do, which French conventions look upon with absolute horror. You dont mind a cigar- ette ?thanks. And he made and lit one, while Miss Lovell still walked on silent, and with averted, scornful face, by his side. And then Captain Waters spoke out. I am very glad, Miss Lovell, that I happened to be on the pier when the steamer arrived from England yester- day morningglad for every reason. Do you knowbut I need not ask; how should you ?that a most absurd, a most malicious story is being circu- lated in Morteville at the present moment Aboutabout me? ~he interrupted, with quivering lips, and still keep- ing her face turned aside from him. Well, yes; I am sorry to say, about you. I dont know that I should say it is being circulated at this present moment, for I have done my best to stop it; but up to a very late hour yesterday it was the talk of all the Eng- lish here thatforgive me even for repeating itthat you had gone away to London in the same steamer with Durant. Miss LovelI acted no surprise; made no attempt at deniaL Go on, if you please, she said, abruptly. This is not all, I suppose. Tell me everything you have got to say. Well, Miss Lovell, judging from a word that fell from your fathers lips when I was speaking to him yesterday, I felt sure thatthat this Morteville story ought to be looked upon as an invention. Mr. Lovell hinted, I think, that you were at home alone yesterday, and (as it is physically impossible for any person to be in two places at once) I have taken upon myself to contra- dict the story as a pure and malignant invention. And they believed you? she cried, quickly, and looking round at his face for the first time. Captain Waters, I hope you will be good enough to tell me plainly. Have you made these people believe that what was stated wasfalse? But her voice shook with the effort it cost her to bring out these words. - Yes, he answered, with slow, intentional deliberation, that tortured her to the utmost. I believe I may say now that the story is crushedtrodden under foot. It was no easy matter to do, I can assure you, he i~dded. There were several people beside myself on the Calais pier, and it became simply and literally a matter & f hard swearing as to whether Mr. Durants compan.. ion was or was not yourself. AROHIE LOYELI~. 119 And you swore it was -not I? I did. I declared also that I saw you on the pier this morning before the arrival of the first steamer from England. As Waters said this, Miss Lovell, the daughter of the rector of H~tton, drew a long breath of relief. Archie Wilson, the unfearing, uncompromising little Bohemian of old days, felt that never in all her seventeen years of life had she had such cause to blush for herself before. A degradation for which she knew no name, a shame from which her childs heart shrank, even while reason bid her play her part out, dyed her face scarlet as she walked by Cap- tam Waters side, and heard him recount the falsehoods he had told to save her. I am much obliged to you; after a pause she said this, and in a stiff, - measured tone, as if she was repeating something that she had painfully learnt by rote, and felt herself forced to say: I dont know why you took my part at all. I dont aak why; but I thank you for papa and giyself. And you will feel assured of my silence, Miss Lovell? You will feel as- sured that anything that I may accidentally happen to have witnessed will be a secret that I shall keep sacred while I live? You are very good, was all poor Archies answer, and I am -much obliged to you. For, indeed, she could see no reason either why he had be~ friended her now, or why her secret, or anything belonging to tier, should be a sacred possession to Captain Waters for the future, And if, Miss ibovell, at any future time we meet again, you will let me regard myself in some measure as your friend? The girl only looked a very faint assent. I am going to leave Morteville, probably within the next twenty-four hours, he went on, talking in a quick, restless way, as he always did when he was forced to speak of his own affairs; andperhaps~-indeed, I think it most likelymy business will detain me for the Summer in England. Well, Miss Lovell, you must know that I amI dont hesit~tte in saying it..~ a man with whom life has gone somewhat hard, -and at times (horribly fre~ quently such times - succeed each other) I dont know where --to put my hand on a shilling. It is so at this minute, I swear to you; and~---.- - She turned round.: she -looked at him so full, that Captain Waters eyes shifted, in spite of- all his assurance, from her gaze. Do you mean, sir, very distinct and clear her question fell upon his ear that you want me to pay you? that this wretched secret of mine has a price? - He smiled, and put up his eye-glass at a group of Parisian divini~s des caux, who happened to pass before them at this moment. Well, no,- Miss Lovell, I must confess that no such idea crossed my mind. No such idea, at all events, as that which your very melodramatic and picturesque language has placed before me! The facts, as we have come to such charmingly plain speaking, are -brie#y these: A young lady, granddaughter of a peer, daughter of a rector, everything of the highest respectability, leaves her -home in the company of a stranger, and, sixteen or - eighteen hours later, returnsher father and mother, who happen to be away from home, continuing ignorant of the escapade she has indulged in during their absen~e. Well, this escapade iswe wont use harsh wordsa strong measure for a young lady to take, and this one of whom I speak has quite sense enough to keep her own coun- sel. Unfurtunately the secret is not altogether hers, .4. third person, -to.. ward whom the heroine of the story feels rather unreaso~iably indignant, happens to see the two young people when thq are already on their journey 12 ARGuE LOVELL. to London; also, as luck will have it, watches the young lady when next day. she returns alone -to -France, and And asks a price for keeping what he saw a secret! interrupted Archie, undauntedly. I quite understand you; sir, and all I have to say to you is you must do your worst! Go, if you choose, and swear to the people here that what you swore to yesterday was false! I would do anything to screen papa, but its no use, the tears rising in her eyes as she made the confession. I have noi a ten-franc piece in the world that I can call my own! - Her mixture of courage and chiklishness so overcame Captain Waters sense of humor that, as nearly as he could ever be said to laugh, he laughed. I am not quite so poor as you think me, Miss Lovell. You neednt tell me you have no sous in your pocket exactly in the tone you would use to a too- persistent beggar in the street! When I asked you to meet me here to-day, I wished simply to put you on your guard with respect to Miss Marks and some other of the Morteville gossips. When I defended you last night, I did what I, or any man, cried Waters, chivalrously, must feel compelled by in- stinct to do when one young, pretty, and helpless woman is attacked by half a dozen others, who are neither young nor pretty, nor helpless for the matter of that. You have no particular cause, I think, to be angry with me. I really could not help recognizing you with Durant on board the Lord of the Isles at Calaisnow, could I? She answered nothing, but stood still waiting for him to finish, and lookii~g at him with flushed face, and with tears still standing in the beautifully-in- dignant eyes. When I spoke of ever meeting you again, I thought it right and honor- able to explain to you my positionmy want of position would be nearer the mark! Pride made me do so, Miss LovelL When I thought of accepting your fathers kind invitation, pride made me explain to you the sort of visitor you would have in me, and then, you know, you interrupted me with a little burst of melodrama about payment and five-franc pieces. A somewhat cruel taunt, perhaps, to a poor threadbare fellow like me! Waters looks senti- mentally at his coat-sleeve, which is not in the least threadbare. But you are too young to know the bitterness of your own words. Miss Lovell, and he took his hat off with mock deference to the ground, good-by, and set your mind at rest. I am not at all likely to turn traitor; only, when w~ meet next in the pleasant retirement-of Staffordshire, speak to me with a lit- tle more kindnessshall I say gratitude ?than you have done this morn- ing! And he turned from her, and with his accustomed air of dandy indif- ference, strolled away in an opposite direction across the sands. Her secret, so far, was safe, then. And yet, with a sinking heart Archie felt that it had been better every other tongue in Morteville had spoken o~ her at once than that Captain Waters should track her out in her new English~ life; that Captain Waters alone should have it in his power to betray her! A JUNE DAY AT PORT EUDSON~ TN the month of May, 1863, the entire interest in the conduct of military I affairs in the Department of the Gulf was centred at Port Hudsonthe name of an obscure landing for the shipment of the products of the country, some thirty miles above Baton Rouge, on the left bank of the Mississippi. Hardly any mention had been made of it by the maps, prior to the war; but, like hundreds of kindred places, it was destined to be brought into historical notoriety by the stirring events of the Great Rebellion. The advantages of this situation, as a defensive position, could not escape the attention of the skilful engineers of the trans-Mississippi Rebel armies; and as early as the Summer of 1862, both General Butler and Admiral Porter had warned the departments at Washington that serious trouble must come from Port Hud- son if forces were not seutto them with which to occupy it. In December of that year the Army of the Gulf was heavily re~nforced, and Banks sent to command it; but the delay had given the Rebels ample time for their work. An army of ten thousand veterans from Mississippi, Arkansas and Louisiana, under Major-General Gardner, a graduate of West Point, garrisoned the place, and the stars and bars floated defiantly from the bluffs. Nature and military art had joined to make the defences well-nigh impreg- nable. On a river-front of more than a mile, a cliff springs perpendicularly from the water to the height of eighty feet, resembling somewhat the Pali- sades of the Hudson, and forming a frowning wall against attack from the river; running in an irregular semicircle from the upper to the lower verge of this cliff, is a chain of hills, intersected with deep and tangled ravines, em- bracing the few buildings to which the name of Port Hudson was givena church, a schoolhouse, a. raihoad station, and half a dozen shedswhich were used as hospitals during the siege. The appliances of military engineer- ing had done their best to strengthen the place. Earthworks of formidable height crowned the hills, making a continuous line of defence from the river above to the river below; ditches, wide and deep, protected these works from s~sault, and a bristling abattis of felled timber filled the ravines in front. Guns of heavy calibre, the spoils of the Southwestern forts, commanded the river, and every practicable point of assault by land. They were the grim guardians which sealed the lower Mississippi to all commerce and communi- cation with the country above; and Port Hudson itself was the key of the Rebellion south of Vicksburg. It was the one indispensable conquest to be achieved; it was the barrier which the Union arms in the Department of the Gulf were exerted to overthrow, in order that the great river might pass unvexed to the sea. The Nineteenth army corps, under Major-General Banks, its first com- mander, closed around the Rebel lines about the 25th of May. It numbered, including a few colored regiments, nearly twenty thousand men, organized in 122 A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. three divisions; the first two, under command of Grover and Emory, had swept through Western Louisiana, from Brashear to Alexandria, and thence descended to Port Hudson, crossing the Atchafalaya at Simmesport; the third, under Augur, had moved up from Baton Rouge, skirmishing with Rebel vedettes every step of the way, and effected a junction with the Commanding General at Port Hudson Plains. On the twenty-seventh the whole force ad- vanced upon the outworks; and a battle ensued, bloody, desperate, and pro- tracted through the day. The Rebels had chosen a strong position upon the Plains, and obstinately resisted the efforts of our army to drive them within their main fortifications. The loss of our troops was heavy, embracing such officers as Colonels Cowles and Chapin of Emorys division, and the gallant Captain Hubbard and Lieutenant Wrotnowski, of the staff; and upon this field General T. W. Sherman, of Port Royal fame, left a limb. Toward night the enemy yielded their position, and fell back to their principal defences. At several points of the line they were vigorously pressed, but no general assault of the works then occurred; and winding itself like a great serpent closely about the Rebel lines, our army at once entered upon the labors of the siege. There was trouble threatened at New Orleans just at this time. it was thought that a revolt might be attempted by the more turbulent Secessionists, in the absence of the army, and General Emory was sent down to bring them under the iron hand of military rule. Weitzel assumed command of the division, and held the right centre, under Grover. Of the precise shape and conformation of our lines at Port Hudson, it would be impossible to convey a correct idea, except in a description given by one whose duties rendered a thorough knowledge of them necessary. We knew very well that our army entirely encircled the place byland, cutting off all its communications with the world without, and that Farraguts fleet on the river was jealously guarding the approaches above and below. We understood that wecomposed a fraction of the force which was laboring for the reduction of the place, and in the prosecution of our share of the great work had but little time or disposition to visit other points of the situation. And nobody was deceived in regard to the perils and labors of the work in hand. History had rarely told us of the capitulation of a fortified post except through the bloody sweat of~ a painful siege; and Weitzel had said that Port Hudson must fall, but only through heavy sacrifices. Between the spot where the One Hundred and Fourteenth New Yoi~k lay and the Rebel works was a great ravine, or gulfthe latter word best de- scribes it. In some places upon either side the hills projected out promi- nently into this pit; at others, the descent was gradual and easy. The crests of the hills bounding the gulf upon both sides were fortified and held by the opposing armies, lying within easy rifle-shot of each other; between lay the debatable ground, over which halls, shells, and bullets were hurled back and forth. The slopes of the hills; and the narrow intervening level at their bases, were thickly grown with brambles and thorny briers, tangled with felled timber, and abounding in precipitous and difficult descents, They were all that lay between us and the prize, but they were for many days neutral ground. By daylight no man set foot in it; hundreds of eyes Were watching it for a mark, and no one transgressed the limits of his own works Without instantly becoming a target. The two sides of the ridge which our sharp- shooters occupied were strikingly contrasted. That which lay beneath the A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. - 123 Rebel guns was as bare of life and motion as though a pestilence had swept it; the other, although quite as rough in its character, teemed with animation. The nature of the ground was such that the companies were somewhat de- tached from each other, a felled tree serving as a means of communication. The men lay well down from the top of the ridge to avoid the flying balls, when not on duty in the rifle-pits. Many, for greater security, burrowed for shelter in the side of the bank. At the bottom of this bank ran a stream of water, much too small for the wants of the numbers that crowded it. The heat was well-nigh insufferable, though shade was abundant. The flies came in swarms to annoy us. All the cooking was done a mile to the rear, as the smoke would have betrayed our exact position. And here in this wide wil- derness we lay, stifled by the sultry atmosphere, and sometimes drenched by rains. Back of us, at eligible points, were brigade and division headquarters, and field hospitals, enclosed in a paling of leafy branches, and protected at ex- posed points by cotton bales. Stillfurther back were the supply depots, from which the army was fed, and the reserve artillery; and to and fro between Springfield Landing arid the front, six-mule teams were constantly passing, laden or empty as they came or went. From right to left of our line siege guns and mortars were in position at easy intervals. The guns were artfully concealed with branches, so that their position could be seen only at each discharge. The gunners were protected within an outwork of cotton bales, seven feet high, which effectually shel- tered them from bullets. Our rifle-pits were mere excaVations of earth near the crest of the ridge, hollowed out square, so as to entirely conceal a man standing upright. An open way of the same depth led down to the middle part of the hill, so that we could pass to and fro without exposure. They were dug large enough to contain half-a-dozen men, with elbow-room sufficient to admit of-the ordinary motions of loading and firing. Each company furnished a detail for one or more of these pits, the details being generally relieved every twelve hours. Their business was to stand, rifle in hand, scrutinizing sharply ~the Rebel position; to give warning of anything suspicious or unusual, and to bend a bullet after any Rebel who might be incautious enough to show his head: The rifle-pits were completed by heavy loop-holed logs laid flat upon the top of the ridge. Through this narrow opening, three inches square, the rifleman surveyed the situation, giving emphasis to his vigilance by the occasional bark of his Springfield. What could be actually seen of Port Hudson from these loop-holes (and there was no other safe point of observation) was very little. Heaps of earth surmounting the ridge upon the Rebel frontin~ dicated where their defences lay, but the trees in the background stood so thick that it was often impossible to define the shape of the works. There was a forest with a Rebel flag waving from the summit of the tallest tree; there were two or three dilapidated old buildings; and there was a desperate and stubborn enemy, invisible to our eyes. Between him and us was a great gulf fixed, with boundaries of fire and lead, which, for the present, were re- spected. Sometimes, after orders to cease firing, a silence like that of the tombs would brood over both the lines, and anon the crash of musketry from every rifle-pit, quickly and furiously answered by the enemy, and the thunderous roar of heavy ordnance, flinging death and destruction, pealed up in a wild tumult of discord. The sharpshooters were sometimes instructed to keep up 124 A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. an uninterrupted fire, and again to wait for a mark. Deserters occasionally. found their way into our lines at night, and, to distinguish them from enemies, particular orders were sent to th9 rifle-pits to allow single men to come in who appeared outside without arms. At times the batteries fired in regular alternation from right to left, with an impressive effect upon the listener. At night, when the darkness was a sufficient shelter from the Rebel riflemen, it was interesting to mount above the rifle-pits and watch the flashes from the heavy guns, and the flaming shells from the mortars, hissing and gyrating in a wide sweep far overhead, and sinking out of sight behind the trees. There was always, at night, a rumbling noise from the old buildings opposite, which was suspected to be occasioned by the grinding of corn. They were swept from the ground by our shells before the siege had terminated. Many artifices were used in the rifle-pits to delude the enemy, and draw his fire. A favorite ruse was the exposure of a cap above the loop-holes, on a stick. Small puffs of smoke would instantly break out from the Rebel works, and bullets whistle overhead and sink into the embankment; and, at the same in- stant, a dozen rifles would ring out from our pits, and as many balls speed over toward the little smoke-puffs. A shovel was observed one morning to rise and fall regularly over the edge of the works directly opposite us, as if throwing earth upon an unfinished part. Several marksmen upon our side immediately engaged in the work of stopping that shcvel. The dirt flew in clouds from the embankment as their balls perforated it, several striking near the top, where the earth was supposed to lie thinner, and where a ball might find a head. Some Rebel may or may not have fallen beneath the persistent hail of lead that was poured upon this spot for half an hour; but the audacious shovel continued to rise and fall, depositing the earth as nonchalantly as if there were sense in it to appreciate the hazard. Suspicious noises, such as the barking of dogs and rumbling of wagons, would quickly draw a heavy fire. Clumps of bushes, half-way down the opposite bank, which looked like inviting spots for the concealment of a lookout, were subjected to the same searching in- quiry. The casualties upon our side during this desultory warfare were not numer- ous, although they occurred daily at different points along the lines. Stray bull~ts sometimes entered the loop-holes, killing or wounding the men on duty behind them. There were places where our paths ran over ground so high as tobe in range of the Rebel rifles, and at these places men were frequent~ hit. The stream of bullets passing overhead was enormous; i~is no exaggeration to say that tons of lead were thrown away for every life taken. Leaves, twigs and bark dropped from the trees, severed by passing. balls, and the men often exhibited their clothing torn by the flying missiles. One instance occurs to me of a round hole perforated in the middle of a newspaper, in the hands of its reader. The Rebels readily admitted, upon the termination of the siege, that our sharpshooters had done remarkable execution. Many of their large guns were dismounted by our artillerists; my attention was afterward called to one from which the trunnion had been shaved as cleanly a~ if with a chiseL Thus the siege dragged its slow length. No nearer approaches had been made by engineering; Banks had thus far trusted to the weight of his metal, and the hope of starving out the enemy, for final success. One day there came an order to suspend all firing, and a party of officers with a white flag went over into the debatable ground, where they were ~met byanother party A JUNK DAY AT PORT HUDSON. 125 from the opposite lines. The rifle-pits were speedily relinquished, arms laid aside, and the combatants crowded the parapets, eyeing the proceedings with the curiosity of deep interest. Something unusual was evidently going fir- ward. Presently the grotesque side of the soldiers nature came uppermost, and colloquies like the following were exchanged all along the line: BluesHalloa, there, you Rebels! Wouldnt you like a trip to Mississippi, for your health? GraysWere very well off here. Hows Banks? And when are you coming over here? BluesSooner than youll want to see us. Wouldnt you like some coffee? an article unknown in their Commissary Department.) GraysCoffee be ! Hows Joe Hooker since Chancellorsville? BluesMuch better than Dick Taylor was after Bisland and Irish Bend. Do you get your mail regular? The truce lasted two hours; and then the rifle-pits were repopulated, and the work of war resumed. But there was a meaning in that flag, which some of us conjectured before night. It was discussed in the pits, between the strokes of the ramrod, and officers lying beneath shady trees in the blistering heat of that afternoon speculated upon it. By and by somebody came to tell us of whispers that had been overheard at Division Headquarters, or what had been confided to somebody by the clerks that copied the orders. The night camethe still, solemn night, with its blazonry of stars, shining as they only do in the low latitudes; and with it the Sergeant-Major, to inform the officers that the Colonel desired to see them all, immediately. We gathered before his tent-fly, stretched under the trees, and listened breathlessly to the intelligence which he gave us, emphasized now and then by the sullen roar of one of the Indiana thirty-twos from the hill above. We learned that the flag that morning had covered a demand from Banks to Gardner, for the im- mediate surrender of Port Hudson, and that the latter had responded that he considered it his duty to hold the place to the last extremity. An assault had been determined upon for the next day, Sunday, June 14th, before daylight. The blow was to be struck near the northeastern angle, w)~ere our artillerists had dismounted every Rebel gun. Weitzels division was to lead, with the old brigade, the Generals first command, in advance. Our Colonel had been over to reconnoitre the gro~ind, and he described it minutely. A sheltered road had been cut around the base of the hill upon which the angle we were to assault was built, and we should be able to rush from shelter directly upon the works. The Seventy-fifth New York were to advance as skirmishers; the Ninety-first New York were to close in rapidly with hand-grenades, and drive the Rebels back from the angle; the Twenty-fourth Connecticut were next to rush forward and fill up the ditch with cotton bags; and then the balance of Weitzels old brigadethe Eighth Vermont, the One Hundred and Four- teenth and One Hundred and Sixtieth New York, must scale the works, attack with the bayonet, and fight vigorously till the whole division could be poured in. A foothold inside was all that was required; there was to be a simulta- neous attack at another point close by, and the weight of the attack was to be concentrated ~t whichever should be found most vulnerable; while Dwight and Augur were to distract the attention of the enemy from the real attack, by continuous feinting on the right. Such, in brief, was the plan; and the General was confident of success. He had told our Colonel that he should attend church in Port Hudson the next day. 128 A JUNE DAY AT PORT HULSON. The breathless interest of the school-boy hangs with an imaginative rap- ture over the night before a battle. Make a soldier of your school-boy, with a soldiers training, and he will find that the reality is a stern, simple one, di- vested of all romance. In the silence of the next hour II called my company together, and told them that on the morrow we were to be called upon for the soldiers gravest duty; that I knew they. would perform it well, at whatever cost, and that they must endeavor to sleep in the few hours which would in- tervene. They heard me very quietly, and went back to their rest upon breaking ranks. They were all young, some quite boyish, and most of them bad left pleasant homes among the hills of Central New York to fight for the flag. God only knows the emotions that thronged upon the hearts of the thousands within our lines that night who knew what their part must be in the bloody work of the morrow; the Omniscient alone can tell what tender faces flitted across their slumbers, or what memories of a happy past flooded them. I noticed that many left pictures and letters with those whose duty was to detain them in the rifle-pits; and here and there was a small group whispering in subdued tones. ~et soldiers are more than any other men creatures of habit, and even the shadow of a coming battle cannot deprive them of sleep. We slept that night peacefully and sweetly; but we are told that fravellers have lain down by the crater of an uneasy volcano, and slep1~ while the earth beneath them was heaving and shaking with the throes of the coming eruption. * * * * * * The sleepers were quietly aroused at one oclock; there was neither reveille nor any unnecessary noise to break the stillness of that early Sabbath morn- ing. Coffee had been prepared, and was taken; belts were buckled, cartridge- boxes settled into place, canteens slung, and the companies formed at shoul- dered arms. The stars were still in the sky, but there were also clouds, and the faces of the men were distinguishable from each other only upon close inspection. The roll-call was not loud, but under the breath, and what little conversation was necessary was spoken in a low tone. Heavy details had been made to man the rifle-pits, and they had already moved into them. The companies filed into a ravine near regimental headquarters, one by one; the battalion was formed, the field officers joined it, dismounted, and the column moved out. The brigade was in motion by two oclock, as a unit, the regi.~ ments promptly falling into column. Then there was a halt of half an hour or more near division headquarters, and there the whole attacking column was organized. A few lights shone faintly through the leafy screen, and I fancied that final words were being spoken, and cautious advice was repeated. The word Forward! was spoken from mouth to mouth, and the column took the route-step, marching by fours. The step was not hurried; there was ample time to reach the scene of operations before daylight, and there were occasional halts to be made, to allow troops collected ahead of us to clear the road. Most of the way was through thick woods, with gullies and ravines now and then to be crossed. There was not light enough to reveal the depth of the column; but muffled footfalls could be heard far back to the rear, and we could distinguish a mass of dimly-defined figures filling the road in front, all moving on with a steady tramp toward the scene of the approach- ing conflict. In many places arms were stacked among the trees, and the soldiers who bore them, probably the reserves, lined the road, and peered curiously into the, faces of the passing column. They well knew whither we A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. 127 were bound; and sometimes the sympathetic question greeted us, what regiment, boyswhat regiment? A slight wind stirred as the morning advanced, just enough to move the branches overhead, and the air was cool and pleasant. There was little noise to break the stillness of those most silent hours; the joke and laugh of the long march had no place here; we moved on steadily, silently, almost funereally; and a curious observer might have fancied that he beheld a phantom host sweeping through the forest. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rung, Still were the fife and drum. The distance marched that morning was several miles, by a sinuous path which skirted our position toward the left, and then opened into the Bayou Sara road, leading directly into Port Hudson. The column filed to the right upon reaching this road, and advanced a short distance directly to the front. A thick growth of timber bordered it upon the right, and more reserves were crowded by it. It had grown less dark within half an hour, although there was some little time yet before the first light of morning, and two hours intervened before sunrise. A thin, almost transparent mist from the river filled the air, as if to keep back still longer the light that must look upon human bloodshed. By the side of the road some of us distinguished Generals Grover and Weitzel talking earnestly together, with frequent gestures toward the front. A little further on, a wide ravine intersected the road, which had been hastily bridged over for the more expeditious passage of the troops; and very few eyes failed to observe that the planking had been thickly lined with cotton, which entirely deadened the noise of our feet. It was a significant sign of the immediate vicinity of the enemy; and from this point the excite- ment of the morning fairly begun. Filing sharp to the right after crossing the bridge, the column plunged into a thick woodtraversed itand emerged upon the other side in view of the Rebel position. Daylight was hardly with us yet; but there was a translucent gray in the atmosphere which was the prelude of dawn, and which obscured objects without concealing them. A musket-shot, a single report from far up the road, sent a thrill through the ranks, and the whispered comment, The Seventy-fifth are in! passed from lip to lip. I consulted my watch: the hour was just five oclock. A series of low, irregular hills was before us, almost above us, covered with earth~ works, within which still slumbered the unsuspicious enemy, not yet aware of our presence. Far over to the right the hills were higher, and were par- tially vailed in the exhalations of the morning; our own position which we had left three hours before. As we looked, another musket-shot sounded above us, apparently from the other side of the nearest hill, and immediatelj followed the sharp, irregular crack and clatter of the skirmishers rifles. They seemed to be the preconcerted signal for the unleashing of all the furies of battle. The hills on our right, far as we could see, suddenly glowed with flame, and the uproar of fifty guns burst upon us, while shells and grape flew over the Rebel works with a combination of such devilish noises as are only heard in the infernal regions, or in a battle. Every discharge rent the misty cloak which shrouded the hills, and long, bright tongues of flame devoured the obscurity with an effect that instantly suggested that remarkable line of Campbells Hohenlinden: Far flashed the red artillery. The echoes of the cannonade rolled in endless reverberations through the ravines, ~and the unremitting crashing of musketry from the rifle-pits filled up every pause in this fearful chorus. -128 A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. The sunken road referred to. in a previous paragraph was cut closely around the hill whose base we had reached, and wound in a semicircle up toward the summit. It must have been two hundred yards in length, and was ex- cavated to a depth of seven feet. There had been a brief halt at the edge of the wood for some purpose; but the column now moved rapidly forward, and as my regiment entered the shelter of the road, I heard the clear voice of the General shouting the order, Fix bayonets! There was no halt made for this purpose; the order had hardly been exe.. outed before another came. Forwarddouble-quickmarch! The murmur which precedes a cheer was running through the column, when it was suddenly brought to a stand-still, and at the same instant a clamor of shouts and cries burst forth from the hill overhead, mingled with an incessant rattle of small-arms. And now commenced one of those sicken- ing, disheartening delays, which are, if possible, more painful to bear than the horrors of the fight itself. The road was quite narrow; a group of fours filled it from side to side. Struggling to urge forward the men in front of us, we tried in vain to press on. Shouts came from the rear, For Gods sake, dont stop now; go on, and let us get through with it! and the invariable an- swer was returned: We cant; the fighting up in front has choked up the road. In a few moments an impulse was given, and the column slowly moved on again. A few rods more brought us to the deepest part of the road, so that all view of the scene of the conflict was shut out from us. As we progressed with fettered feet and swelling hearts, we could still see the flash of the guns along our lines, and their shells went low over our heads, in several cases inflicting wounds in the assaulting column. Every gun, great and small, around Port Hudson, united in this tumult ofdestruction, and the blended sounds of the strife were indescribable. Whoever attempts to portray a scene like this will be painfully reminded of the utter inadequacy of mere words and phrases to do it justice. Of all discords that ever violated the repose of nature, that of a battle is the worst. It is simply a hell on earth. And what Victor Hugo calls the quid obscururn of battles, seems to me to be the whole of a battle. It is all doubtfulall rush, and roar, and tumult, until the decisive point is turned by one side or the other; except perhaps that it may be clear enough to the Napoleonic genius that can ride the whirlwind and direct the storm. Step by step, little by little, the column struggled upward. The crash of musketry overhead ~vas redoubled, and the bullets now and then buried them- selves deep in the face of the cutting, or whistled sharply overhead. Shells from our batteries were bursting painfully near us, and flying fragments passed through the ranks. The wounded began to stream down from the front; the faces of friends whom we knew in other regiments flitted by like phantom visions in a dreamall white and contorted with the agony of wounds, and some covered with blood. Heavy work for you, boys, up yonder! I heard a familiar voice say. The speaker was Captain 5, of the Seventy-fifth. He recognized us as he went by, and tried hard to smile; but his right hand was grasping his left arm, which & bullet had shattered, and pain was written in every lineament of his face. There was no way for the wounded to leave the field other than by this same road, and they hurried past us with dripping wounds, some able A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. 129 to walk, and others supported by their friends, with many of whom, no doubt, anxiety for their own p~rsonal safety was quite as strong a motive as humanity. No artist has ever yet placed.upon canvas a battle-picture so suggestive, so absolutely startling, as that narrow cut just then presented. It was the ebb and flow of battle compressed into a space of six feet in width; two human currents were setting past each otherone strong and vigorous, making all haste to reach the scene of action, the other feeble and halting, limping back to the rear in a ghastly procession, which warned us of the reception which we were to meet. And still the column pressed upward, while every eye was bent anxiously forward to catch the first view of the position. It was no time for the exhi- bition of enthusiasm; nobody failed to understand that the assault was being furiously pressed, without an inch of advantage to us thus far. I looked at the faces of those about me, and saw that they perfectly understood it. There were some boyish faces there that were quite pale, and the bearded ones wore a look which was almost one of suffering; but one and all were silently nerving their hearts for the torment, and they kept right on. Filing to the left, we passed under the prostrate trunk of a tree, lying across the cut, the way narrowing here so that the files were undoubled, and the men were obliged to stoop half way to the earth to pass the obstacle. General Weitzels Aides were endeavoring to make their way on foot through the dense mass, now up toward the front, and again back to the rear. And during all this time the crash of small-arms in advance grew sharper, and the yells of the combatants were louder and more startling. It must have been more than half an hour from the time that my regiment entered the sunken road until it emerged from the other extremity under fire. The sound of the strife rolled down from above in an increasing tumult; the bullets fell thicker into, the road; the air was mingled with noises of battle. The sides of the cut began to slope toward the level of our feet; two rods more, and we were out of the covered way. There was an abrupt ascent, then a small area of rough, uneven ground, then a ditch, seven feet deep, and quite as wide, while beyond all rose a perpendicular earthwork, not less than twelve feet above the ditch, built in the form of a retreating angle. Here was the point chosen for the assault,. and before it was being enacted a scene of slaughter replete with all the horrors of a close and des- perate fight. There was not sufficient ground to allow a regiment to deploy to advantage; as fast as they were unmasked from the cut, the companies rushed with a shout up the ascent, across the intervening ground, and into thee ditch. From the parapet of the Rebel work came a continual flash of riflesnot in volleys, but in an irregular burst which never ceased while the attack lasted. The Rebels were entirely sheltered behind their defences; hardly a head was to be seen above the parapet. The open space before the work was strewn with soldiers in blue, dead, dying, and severely wounded; they lay among the bushes, on the hillside, and covered the bottom of that awful ditch, yawning like a grave, at the foot of the work. For a whole hour there was a continued repetition of this scene; a yell, a rush, shouts, musket shots, cries and groans. The ditch was at last filled with the living and the dead; the former striving, within six yards of the muzzles of the Rebel rifles, to climb the face of the ~arthwork, and 6ontinually dropping back, with bullet-holes perforated clear through their bodies The cotton bags, which were intended to fill up the ditch, were scattered over the ~ground beforeit, 180 A JUNE ~AY AT PORT HUDSON. with their bearers, in some cases, crouching for shelter behind them, The hand-grenades, upon which much reliance had been placed, exploded harm- lessly against the face of the work. Wounded men were killed while trying to crawl beyond the range of the fire, or lay helpless under it, unable to haz- ard the attempt. The contracted space before the ditch was swept with rifle balls and buckshot; every repetition of the assault was met by the same murderous discharge, covering the ground thickly with its victims, and adding to the horrors of the scene. The air rang with shouts, groans and impreca- tions; there was a Babel of noise, an Aceldama of destruction. The close of the first hour, when the east was reddening with sunrise, found the regiments scattered and broken up in hopeless confusion. All that des- perate courage could do had been essayed to no purpose, except to show that the assault could not succeed. Charge after charge had been made and re.~ pulsed; the ditch was an obstacle which could not be overcome, and most of those who reached it unhurt were shot down in the attempt to return. Of my own regiment, one-third was placed hors du combat; three officers, includ- ing the Colonel, were mortally, and four others severely hurt; and other regiments suffered proportionately. The day was virtually decided against us by sunrise, although the troops were not withdrawn for some hours after- ward, but lay prone to the earth, behind logs, stumps and ridges, discharging their rifles over the top of the work, and occasionally picking off an exposed head. Even dead bodies were made shelters for the living, and soldiers fired from behind their slain comrades. As the troops crowded up from the rear, they were sent forward to join in this bush-fighting; but there was no serious demonstration made after the sun was an hour high. The battle was lost and the blood shed before sunrise; but while it lasted there were deeds of con- spicuous bravery exhibited which the annals of the war can hardly surpass. Upon the first charge of my own regiment, ~the color-guard was almost destroyed; the color-bearer was killed, and but two or three of the nine escaped with slight wounds. As the regiment fell back to reform, the flag was left, in the confusion of the moment, on the top of a ridge, exposed to the enemys fire. It was saved by the gallantry of Private George Collins, of Company D, who crept to the spot and brought it away under a shower of balls. One year later, the same brave fellow fell at Winchester, faithful to his duty to the last. There was no lack of daring, and the long columns of the dead list showed how lavishly some o~ the best blood of the North was ex- pended in that fruitless attack. There was no bravery more conspicuous, nor were any sufferings more fearful, or any endurance stouter, during, and after, this assault, than those of Brigadier-General Halbert E. Paine,* who led his brigade in a charge across a field at another point of attack. Struck down by a Mini6 ball which shattered his leg, he lay on the field after his command was compelled to fall back, for fourteen hours, in the blistering sun, exposed to a continual fire from the works, and enduring such torments from thirst, heat, and swarms of insects, as can scarcely be comprehended. A full dozen of the brave fellows of this brigade were killed and wounded while trying to bring him water; and, finally, after nightfall, he was carried from the field more dead than alive. His leg was afterward amputated. It would be hard to conceive of more acute tortures than the wounded in this assault endured, who were compelled to lie where they fell until darkness shielded the succoring parties sent from *Representative in the present Congress from the Milwaukee District of Wisconsin, A JUNE DAY AT PORT HUDSON. 131 our lines. Death on the battle-field in such a situation is sternly stripped of all its romantic glories, and tenfold horrors superadded. All the morning, while there was work to do, stretchers and ambulances were busy bearing back the wounded to the field-hospital, a mile to the rear. The sights and sounds of that place will scarcely bear description. A large enclosure of bare ground, surrounded with branches, was crowded in every part with the victims of the fight, the number constantly increasing. The surgeons were busy at their sickening work, and a chaplain was also there, striving to soothe the sufferers. Some were quiet, as if unconscious of the approach of death; some were writhing with pain, but laboring hard to sup- press any audible tokens of it; others, entirely unnerved with pain and appre- hension, shouted, blasphemed, or prayed in frantic tones. Some expired under the knife; some died before the surgeon could reach them, and others were carried from the table, groaning with their agony, to make room for new arriv- als from the front. It was a scene too painful in its details to be dwelt upon. The assault failed at all points; there was the same story throughout of desperate, reckless daring, and unavailing slaughter. Our losses in killed and wounded were not less than twelve hundred; those of the Rebels were slight, owing to their protected situation, and it is supposed that less than one hun- dred fell inside their works. On the second day after the fight, a truce was agreed upon for the purpose of burying the dead. Several hundreds were buried where they fell, many of them so blackened by exposure as to be past recognition. The end came at lastbut not then. It came twenty-five days later, after patient endurance, and saps, and mines, and starvation had accomplished the work that mere bravery could notafter Vicksburg had gone down before the genius of Grant, and Port Hudson was driven to sullen capitulation. It came on the 9th of July, when, with drums beating and banners flying, our victo- rious soldiers marched unchallenged into the enemys works, and the long line of Rebel muskets were grounded before them. It came to us who did not wit- ness the glory of that closing sceneto us who wrestled with death in the crowded wards of the Baton~ Rouge and New Orleans hospitals, steeling our hearts to the ~gony of terrible wounds as we lay on beds of suffering. There were dying eyes which grew brighter, and cheeks, white with the pallor of dissolution, into which the blood leaped once more as the cry ran through the ward, Port Hudson has fallen 1 And we who finally rose from the hospi- tal pallets, whole of our hurts and preserved for still graver fortunes of the warwe, too, rejoiced to know that our toils, our perils, and our sufferings had not been in vain. JAMES FRANKLIN FITTs. MIGNONNEI A LI NGERING touch on mouth of mine, A red, red draught of fiery wine o sweetest lips! A dear caress of hand on brow, A touch that stayeth with me now o kindest hand! A glance from out the brownest eyes, To which my tempted mouth replies o dear, sweet eyes! A voice that keeps through girlhoods years Its childhoods smiles, without its tears O darling voice! That lingers with me as I write, In murmurs of that hours delight O happy time! That hour when eyes and lips of thine Bestowed the gift beseeched by mine That lingering gift! Such rare Greek wine! Such winsome busses! Once tasted, I must have thy kisses O sweetest lips! MAILIA ~UISA POOL. PAMELA OLARKE. CHAPTER I. SHE is an American woman of the present, this Pamela Clarke; not by any means of the Perfect woman nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, to command, and all the rest of it, schooL She may be nobly plannedindeed, she feels sure that she is; but she has not yet been able to find out the plan, and therefore cannot make it work properly. There is always a loose screw some- where, and although her friends tell her she has cranks, they can never be made to turn anything. She and her brother Ichabod were born at the Beech Bend farm-house, and there they lived and loved and quarrelled together until he was sent to a clas- sical school, where he was taught Greek, Latin, and mathematics, with all of the bogies and none of the isms of the day; and she to a seminary, where she learned music, and drawing, and half a dozen languages, and the names of all the sciences under heaven. IL speak advisedly, for she learned all she was taught, while he was taught a great deal more than he ever learned. After passing through this training, Ichabod went to the great metropolis to seek his fortune, and Pamela staid at the old farm-house to wait for hers; and as the Bend was in the heart of the wild woods, and the little village of Media, near by, was unknown to fame and tourists, there being no railroad within ten miles, there seemed to be a strong likelihood of her having to wait for it a very long time indeed. When Ichabod rode away in the little brown wagon, Pamela stood on the front stoop and watched .him until he was lost in the flaming red of early dawn. And her thoughts flew before him, and she saw the desk and stool waiting for him in the counting-house where other young men were bending over great ledgers; and she saw the warehouses filled with bales and boxes, and heard the creaking of the pulleys as the great weights were lifted up and up into the topmost stories; and she heard the shouts of men loading and unloading the ships at the wharf; and she saw the white sails glimmering over the seas, and the tall masts erect in many a harbor. And she thought: All this is under the control of one will; all this wealth and power has been achieved by one man, who walked barefooted out of Media thirty years ago. It is possible for Ichabod to grasp all this; at all events, it is his priv- ilege to strive, for it. Oh, how I wish I were a man 1 said Pamela Clarke. Pamela, I wish you would sweep and dust the parlor. Jane has a sore finger, and I have not time to do it. It was Pamelas mother who spoke, and the daughter obeyed. She hated 9 134 PAMELA CLARKE. housework; she abhorred sewing. And when she caught a view of herself in the parlor looking-glass, with an old green vail pinned round her head, her face red, and eyebrows full of dust, she gave a contemptuous sniff, which brought on a fit of sneezing. Oh. how I wish I were a man! said Pamela Clarke. She brushed away at the furniture with such a vengeance that she broke the handle off the feather duster. And when her mother came in with a bas- ket of stockings to be darned, Pamela upset it in the middle of the parlor floor, threw the basket out of the window, and, seizing her hat, she rushed out of the house to the river, where she sat in the boat, and rocked herself all day in the shadow of the beeches. This was the commencement of a long sickness for Pamelaan illness of many months. She had no physical pain, no apparent fever; but she wan- dered about pallid and ghost-like. The family physician was called in. He was a man of long experience, but Pamelas case baffled his skill. H~ had never met with anything like it among the simple country folk. Her malady is caused by mental inquietude, he said. Let her be much out of doors, and give her society and exercise. She has a good deal of company, said Mrs. Clarke; and I cannot think she suffers from want of exercise, for she is always on the go. I can scarcely ever keep her in the house.~~ If you meet with another case like mine, doctor, said Pamela and you are sure to meet with them, for it is an epidemic breaking out here and there among the women of AmericaI will give you a prescription for it. The doctor was so astonished at the girls assurance, that he took off his glasses. Let us hear this new prescription for the new disease, he said. Oh, the prescription is as old as Adam. Occupation. If that is all, said the doctor, much relieved, follow your own pxescrip- tion. I warrant your mother can find plenty for you to do. But housework and sewing only make me worse. Then nurse the sick, or teach a public school. They need a teacher at The Corners. But all that dont lead to anything. It is drudgery without end or aim. Eh? said the doctor. I am willing to toil; to drudge, if necessary, said Pamela, if it will only end in something beside rusty black and the cold corner of my brothers wifes fireside, or the greater happiness of a room in some great, dreary Old Ladies Home. I know people call me lazy, because I wander about the woods with only Grim for company, and rock myself in the boat under the beeches. But give me something to do that has will and force in it, so that I can look forward with hope of an accomplished purpose at last, and you will see how hard I can work. Fol-de-rol! said the doctor. Good women have contentedly lived and died without a thought of all this nonsense.~~ And good men contentedly break stones and weed turnip-beds; but if all men, therefore, broke stones and weeded turnip-beds, Media would never have had a doctor. It is temper, said the doctor, as he got into his rockaway. That is what is the matter with the girl. And he gave the reins an angry jerk, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. But Pamela grew worse, and good Mrs. Clarke thought she must be troub PAMELA CLARKE. 135 led about her spiritual condition; and she asked the minister to take a speedy opportunity of conversing with her daughter. Without any reserve, Pamela told him of her great trouble, and the good man was sorely puzzled. My dear young lady, he began, if you were in any concern about your soul But I am not, said Pamela. Then I could serve you, I humbly hope; but the trouble that weighs upon your mind seems to relate entirely to the perishable things of earth, and there- fore I can be of no service. My vocation is to point to erring sinners the road to beaven. That is my case exactly, said Pamela. I am certainly an erring sin- ner, and I do earnestly desire, like everybody else, to be happy when I leave this world for another. But I have forty-seven years upon this earth yet be- fore I reach three-score and ten; and although, as you say, that is but a speck compared with eternity, I am a mortal, and cannot comprehend the in- finite, and to me forty-seven years is a very long time. Now, what am I to do during all those years? If I find the right thing to do, and do it in the right way, I have no concern but that my soul will be altlight. It does no good to talk to me of the abstract truths of religionI believe them all; but my nature is such that it cannot live in abstractions. I could never be a Mrs. Rowe. My life must be practical. Can you help me? My dear child, you are in danger from the pride of life. Pray for a more contented disposition, and wait at your own home, modestly and hum- bly, for Gods will to be shown to you. That road will never take me to heaven, said Pamela Clarke. When the Spring came, and the trees began to shake out their leaves to the soft winds, and the birds built their nests in the branches and sang sweet love- songs to each other, Pamela was not made one whit the better for all the beauty and gladness around her. It had all happened over and over again ever since she was born, and for long before, and would continue when she was nothing. Her life had no influence upon it, her individQality no concern wLth it. But it chanced that just at this time there came to Media one whom Pa- mela reverenced. He wrote for the few, but his words were virgin gold. They wove a charm into the monotony of Pamelas thought; they fired her heart; but her life was in no respect the richer for them, for she c~ould not turn them into minted, current coin. Unbidden, she sought him out in his woodland haunts, and told him of the struggle she was passing through. He listened to her with painful interest. It is the same cry that is coming up from every quarter of the land. I see no present help. Have you no talents? Can you not work this energy into a poem, a picture, a romance, or make your ideal a reality on the stage? No, said Pamela, I have not a touch of genius. I do not expect cr de- sire great renown. I cannot emulate a Cushman, a Browning, a Bonheur. If I had a talent for any art, I should have no further trouble. My life must be one of deeds, not ideas. I want the same opportunity of working out an honorable, satisfying career as my brother Ichabod has, and Ned Sto- rey, and others that have gone from this village. Heaven knows some of them have small brains enough. I know what you want, but I cannot help. you solve such a problem( as 186 PAMELA CLARKE. that. You must work it out for yourself; and if you ever arrive at the true solution, you will have done more for your age and country than all its states- men, warriors, and poets. But I dont know, he said, after some moments thought; our energies to work out our own plans may be of little worth after allperhaps worse than useless. We put one foot before another in the path that lies before us, and all reach the same goal at last. We write out the thoughts that come to us, perchance with no purpose and but little mean- ing; but the generations hereafter look back upon these thoughts in the ag- gregate, and are made wiser and better by them. And so it may be that mankind moves with a steady progress through the ages, whether we will it so or not. And as the solar system can never occupy the precise point of space it does now, so our generations, too, slowly, very slowly, are borne into wider and deeper spaces of thought, and we think we have done it all with our feeble energies. I do not know what you may be to others, said Pamela, but to me you are like the tanager, which rushes through the forest like a stream of fiery light; but when he is out of sight, the woods are just as dark and sombre as they were before. Be it so; and learn a lesson therefrom. The dusky swallows, who live their homely lives under our eaves, chirp happily there from year to year, and we know them and love them. Pamela went home, and gathering the few volumes of the written words of him she had just left in the woods, she put them upon the kitchen fire. The Summer passed quietly at Beech Bend, and the early Autumn came; and, for the first time in a year, Pamela began to take an interest in life. Ichabod was coming home. If she must remain at the farm-house until she died of old age, like Grim, the house-dog, she could at least interest herself in her brothers success. She would live her life in his, as other women were living their lives in the muscles and brains of their husbands and brothers. She would achieve everything through Ichabod. She looked forward with pleasure to the long talks they would have together about his future career, and the wonders he was to perform, while she counselled him and sustained him in all troubles. And how much there was to learn of his present life1of the paintings and statues, the great actors, and the wonderful operas of which she dreamed, but might never hear. Her mother was pleased to see the old sparkle come back into her daughter,s eyes, and a healthier glow into her cheeks. It was just at the close of a delicious, purple-hued Autumn afternoon that she welcomed Ichabod home. When the family gathered around the supper- table she observed him critically. It was evident that he had got himself up with great care to make a proper impression on his country relatives. His hair was cut short, and rolled up in front, about an inch long in the back, and carefully brushed away from the part that ran down the middle of it. His moustache was black and long, and he was forever twirli4ng the ends of it with his white fingers. It was surprising how soft and white his hands had grown in one year. On the little finger of his right hand was a seal ring of vast dimensions, of which he made a great display in handling his tea-cup. His trousers were of a light purple-gray, his vest a shaggy plaid, and his blue cravat was embroidered with yellow silk. His mother looked at him with pride, but Pamela curled her lip, and crushed the biscuit she held so tightly between her fingers that it lay a little PAMELA CLARKE. 137 heap of crumbs on the table-cloth. But she controlled herself, and quietly listened to the conversation; nay, after a time took part in it, and endeavored to draw from him so~ae ennobling sentiment, some show of a worthy ambition. He informed his audience that it was nothing for a fellow to smoke a half dozen cigars in an evening; that lager beer was not a bad drink, but that Rhine wine was better; that none of his sort of fellows ever went to the reading rooms. The Opera, he assured them, was slow. He had thrice honored the house with his presence, and there was not a pretty woman in the troupe. The theatres were better. There was the Comedy of Polly Pot- luck, which had a run of three weeks. Nothing could be better, and Joe Sparkle was a tip-top actor, and M. a duck of an actress, and N. had the prettiest foot in the world. He feelingly requested that no allusions should be made to his business while at home. It was an awful bore to have a business. But he intended to stick to it. The tin was what he wanted, and it made a man feel pleasant to go about with a pocket full of rocks. By what process tin was transmuted into rocks, he did not stop to ex- plain, because he was in a hurry to get to the grand climax of his oration, which was to announce with pride that he had won five games of billiards of Tom Aulick, who was the crack player of his set. If I had spent a year in New York I could have done better than that, said Pamela Clarke. She walked out into the forest to brood over her bitter disappointment. It was clear that Jobabods life was too narrow to enfold hers. It scarcely sufficed for himself. She sat down on a fallen tree and watched the squirrels carrying nuts to their holes; the crows winging their steady flight to their nests on the tall trees; and the birds tucking their children snugly up for, the night. The Lord made the round world, and all that dwell therein, but what whatwhat did he make me for? said Pamela Clarke. CHAPTER II. IcHABOD returned to New York. The forest l~aves grew dull in hue. The wind that swept up the river grew keen and sharp. Old Grim curled himself up by the kitchen fire, and Pamela formed a resolution. Fortune favored her in carrying it out, for, soon after, her father and mother left home for a weeks visit, and Jane and the man who helped on the farm had too much to do to watch Pamela. So she put her little trunk inside of the brown wagon, and packed it there, and harnessed the horse with her own hands. She told Jane she was going to drive into Media to visit among her friends until her parents came home. She would send the horse to the tavern, and John could go for it in the evening. Jane was not surprised, for this arrangemetit had often been made~efore, and she was glad to be rid of so useless an individual as Pamela. But at the very time that John was driving the brown wagon from Media to the farm, Pamela was eating her supper at a New York hotel. She felt very independent and proud qf herself, and she would not send word to Ichabod that she was in the city. She would let him learn it from home, and she had a whole week before it would be necessary to write to her mother. The next morning she searched the papers for a boarding-house advertise- 138 PAMELA CLARKE. ment that suited her purse; and was so successful that that afternoon she had herself and trunk conveyed to Miss Kinneys, where she had a pleasant room ten feet square in the tbird story. Miss Kinney, of course; demanded the best of references. Pamela was compelled reluctantly to give the name of the merchant in whose employ her brother was, as he was the only person in New York who knew anything of the Clarkes of Media. But she might have spared herself any uneasiness on this score, for Miss Kinney was entirely satisfied with so well-known a name, and never found the time to go to inquire of him about Pamela. She was too anxious to keep her large house full of boarders to be over-scrupulous in regard to those she received into it. And so it was nearly two weeks before Ichabod heard of his sisters flight from the farm. It was a great change to Pamela from the stillness and homely refinement of the Beech Bend farm house to this great, noisy caravansary, with over a hundred men, women and children in it; and the country girl felt more alone among them than in the depths of the Beech Bend forest, for there was very little of the spirit of adaptation in Pamela. However, she soon found that Miss Kinneys boarders were by no means shy of making acquaintances, and she could have had half-a-dozen intimate friends in a weeks time, had she been so minded. But she was of a very contrary mind, and held herself quite aloof from them all. The only one by whom she was attracted was a pretty, young widow, modest and gentle in her manners, and as reserved toward the rest of Miss Kinneys boarders as Pamela herself. This bond of sympathy drew them together, and our heroine confided to her new friend what had induced her to come to New York. Mrs. Corrie was charmed. I knew you were one of our kind the first time I saw you, she said. I understand your position thoroughly. I have been through it all myself, and I belong to a society of women with the same unsatisfied longings and great aspirations as ourselves. Attend some of our meetings, and, if you like us, join us. With all my heart, said Pamela. But first we must get you some employment, as you say that y~u have~ but a hundred dollars, and that will soon melt away here. Of course your first letter from home will urge you to return, but I imagine that you will not consent. Never! said Pamela, heartily. Then I can put you in the way of doing something that will pay very well. I know some gentlemen who wish a great deal of copying done. They offered it to me, but I am Secretary of our Association, and have not time for anything else. You can form no idea of the amount of letters and petitions that we send forth every year.~ And it must be a great task to read the letters sent in, said Pamela, who disliked manuscript reading. Well, I cant say that it is, said Mrs. Corrie, because ~we dont get many. You see people take no notice of our letters and petitions. We dont expect it. We are sowing the seed now, and we must wait for the harvest. Oh! this weary waiting! said Pamela. Yes, my dear, but we are ~ll kept so busy that we doiat have time to think much about that. Pamela was grateful to Mrs. Corrie for her timely influence. She did not like copying, but it was easy work, and paid sufficiently well, and she regarded it as only a stepping stone to something higher. PAMELA CLARKE. 139 Now I am not going to describe the Association to which it was Pamelas high privilege to be admitted. The reliable gentlemen who report such matters for the daily papers have sc often told us all about similar Associa- tions, that we have become familiar with them. Among its members were teadiers, Bohemians, writers of a high grade, a few heads of families, many who aspired to be lawyers, doctors and ministers, and some who had become the two latter. Of course all the doctors were tall, and raw-boned, with great crooked noses, and loud voices; and the ministers were fat, coarse, squabby hypocrites; the would-be lawyers all wore glasses, and calf-skin boots; and all the women affected short, black dresses, and gloves too large by two sizes, and with the finger-ends sticking out in a very menacing and claw-like manner. It admits of no dispute that they knew nothing whatever of busi- ness; that they turned the reports bottom upward to read them, and wrote their petitions from right to left of the lines, which may account for their being always laid on the table in Congress. Certainly they all talked together, and never to the p1~pose, and could never be made to define their position ; and altogether conducted themselves in a manner to be expected from the weakness of the feminine mind when it wanders out of a pudding bag or of the toe of a stocking. All this, and much more of the same kind, being familiar to the American public, will not be recorded here. But, as it unfortunately so happens that Mrs. Corrie has been already mentioned in these pages as pretty, modest, gentle and reserved, I hasten to relieve the mind of the American public by assuring it that, as she had a moderate fortune, she had embraced no profession, and as yet had no mission, unless she so considered her position as Secretary. But what did Pamela Clarke find there? She asked herself that question after every meeting, and was compelled each time to answer, Nothing. It is all my own fault, thought Pamela. I am not prepared for the bold measures they advocate. My slow-paced life at the Bend has unfitted me for such eagle flights. I am timid, after all, and among the squirrels and blue-jays II was so very strong! Everything seems to fail me, but I know this time it is my own fault. And so, from a sense of.duty, she allowed her name to be enrolled among the members. It was about this time that Ichabod came to see her. You must go home, he said. These women are not proper associates for you. They may be good enough in their way, but they live by their wits. Some of them write books, and I have heard that one of them is a doctor! Ugh! They ought to stay at home with their fathers, or get husbands to take care of them, and not go gadding about, and holding meetings, and making themselves ridiculous. Everybody laughs at them, and I dont want my sister to be laughed at, and it will spoil all your chances of getting married. And I do wish you would not make such a guy of yourself, with your hair stretched back 4om your face, and twisted into a little knot like a turnip. And your dress looks as if it had been fitted by Mrs. Noah. Ichabod, said Pamela, your ways are not my ways. Follow your own noble instincts; lounge in lager beer saloons; putstrong-scented lard on your hair; wear llow vests and seal rings, and leave me in peace to my lower grade of intellect and humbler destiny. I shall not go home. You always were an obstinate, cranky girl, said Ichabod, and now you can go to destruction in your own way. I lb 140 PAMELA CLARKE. And he left her, his yellow vest heaving with his high displeasure. The next day, as if purposely to refute Ichabods assertion, Pamela had an invitation to become Mrs. Towers. She respectfully declined, but Mr. Towers being a widower, and having arrived at an age not sensitive to rebuffs, he continued his attentions to Pamela until they became absolute persecutions. Th vain did she treat him coldly, rudely; she could not get rid of him. She at last applied to Miss Kinney to interfere, and save her from such annoy- ances; but that lady was a skilful diplomatist, and, promising to perform wonders, did nothing whatever. Must I humiliate myself~ and appeal to that creature with the horrid yellow vest and seal ring? thought Pamela. Heaven preserve us when society places us in such positions, and heaven forgive me for thinking thus of my brother. She wrote to Ichabod, and he came, in the identical yellow vest and seal ring which had so excited her disgust. I have settled matters with that old Towers, he sai4.~ He is harmless enoughonly a conceited old fool, that fancies he was made on purpose for girls to fall in love with. He will trouble you no more. And now, will you go home? No, said Pamela. Then I wash my hands of you. But three days after came a note from him. It informed her that he was about to go West on business, though much against his will; that by way of doing his whole duty by her, he had engaged a room for her at Mrs. Wares, No. 83 Street; that it was very select there, and that this had been done by the advice of Calvin Giles, a boarder there, whom Mrs. Ware thought a nonesuch. Also, Ichabod intimated that it might be well for Pamela to set her cap for Calvin Giles; also, that in case of any trouble, Calvin, having a large salary, and being a good fellow, thot~gh stiffish, was the proper person for her to apply to; and that to this end, moreover, he had told Mr. Giles all about her. Pamelas first impulse was to decline this scheme of her brothers, but she was anxious to leave Miss Kinneys, and she knew of no other place. She was not at all pleased that the history of her pilgrimage should have been told to a stranger, and told too by one who did not in the least comprehend her, or her motives. But then she need have no intercourse with this stranger. A friend of Ichabods was, not likely to be one who would interest her, or be interested in her. And so she packed her trunk for Mrs. Wares, consoling herself with thinking that she could pay the board bills herself~ and that she would have nothing whatever to do with Calvin Giles. She kept her word in regard to the bills, but it was by no means an easy matter to ignore Calvin Giles. He was the most important member of Mrs. Wares small but select circle of boarders, and he was disposed to pay Pamela many polite attentions, as the sister of his friend. But Pamela at last successfully frowned him down, and congratulated herself thereupon, for he was not the kind of young man that she liked. This was usually her mis- fortune. In fact, she had never yet met any man who bore even, the faintest resemblance to her ideal, and had begun to doubt the existence of ~he reality of any such person. Not that she was on the lookout f~r~hin,i. She was too absorbed in her grand ideas for any thought of marriage. Calvin Giles was the opposite of Ichabod, being quieti~ his dress, and PAMELA CLARKE. 141 with a refinement and gentleness of manner almost womanly. He is weak, thought Pamela, and I like ruggedness and strength. And so the short Winter days flew by, and Pamela was busy with her copy- ing, and attending the Association meetings, and collecting facts and statistics for a series of pamphlets to be published by the Association; and still unsatis- fied through it alL She never thought of Calvin Giles except when she met him in the parlor occasionally in the evenings, and then, without being aware of it perhaps, she invariably snubbed him. CHAPTER III. Ir was the last day of January, and, late in the afternoon a steady, pene- trating rain set in without any warning. Five blocks, and a new bonnet, and no umbrella, thought Pamela, as she got out of the street-car. She started, for there at the street-corner stood Calvin Giles offering her an umbrella. She accepted it rather ungraciously, for Pamela, although she told downright fibs sometimes, like the rest of human kind, was not deceitful. Calvin opened another umbrella for himself. ill will walk on the other side of the street, Miss Clarke, if you prefer it, he said gravely, but really, there is almost a river of melted snow there. Pamela repressed a smile. If Calvin wished to ingratiate himself with her he could not have chosen a better way. It will be sufficient if you walk in front of me, or behind me, as you choose, but in either case keep half .a block between us, she said, as gravely as he had spoken. Calvin bowed, and waited there until she had gone half a block, when he walked slowly on. On the next block Pamela looked behind her. He will think himself of a vast deal of importance if I treat him in this way, she thought. And she waited for him. You must think me very rude, she said. I did not thank you for your umbrella, or express my gratitude for your thoughtful regard for my new bonnet, which induced you to venture out in such weather as this. You give me credit for greater philanthropy than I possess. I did not know that you had a new bonnet. But you are standing too long in the rain, and I will fall back to my old position. No, said Pamela, moving on, I wish to ask you about my brother. And so Calvin walked by her side, and they talked about the absent Icha- hod, who was still kept in the West sorely against his will, until they ar- rived at Mrs. Wares door. The next morning the small and select gathered in the parlor after breakfast, to look over some engravings, and choose subjects for tableaux. As Pamela turned them over she chanced upon a graceful female head, with dark hair waving over brow and cheeks, and gathered at the back into a floating mass of curls. IDo you know, said Calvin Giles, that I have always thought that pic- ture like you? Like me! exclaimed Pamela, her cheeks reddening with anger. That is impossible, Mr. Giles. It is like you, persisted he; and if you would allow ycur hair to fall 142 PAMELA CLARKE. into its natural curl, and arrange it like this, it would be a vast improvement to you. Upon my word! said Pamela, half angry and half pleased, you pre- sume very much upon the obligations you have put my bonnet under. Pray, how do you know my hair has a natural curl? Because it will wave and twist a little in spite of the tightness with which you screw it into that vicious little knot at the back Pamela walked majestically out of the room. Perhaps he is not weak, she thought, but he is arrogant and impertinent. If he thinks I am to be flattered into wasting twenty minutes curling my hair, when I can arrange it this way in three, he is much mistaken. I did not come to New York to dre.~s myself in broidered hair and costly array, nor yet to please such as Cal- vin Giles. But when she was dressing herself for the tableau party, she thought she would arrange her hair like the picture just to satisfy herself whether Calvin was right. It was a kind of trouble that Pamela disliked, but she went through with it perseveringly and successfully. And when it was done, she did not know herself. Pamela Clarke had gone, and it was another face that looked out from the glass at her. She was just upon the point of combing the curls all out again, when her door was burst open, and in rushed two young girls. Oh, what beautiful hair! How lovely you look, Miss Clarke! said one. I never saw such a change! said the other. You look now like that beautiful head in the old green book down-stairs. Pamelas woman nature triumphed. She could not withstand such flattery it was novel and pleasant. And besides, it was now time to go down stairs. But when she entered the parlor, and saw Calvin Giles quiet smile, she felt a great contempt for her own folly and vanity. However, as she had once yielded to her vanity, and had committed herself to curls and flattery, she continued to dress her hair in that fashion without much thought of the precious time consumed. Having made a moss-rose of herself some instinct forbade her to return to a turnip-blossom. And the same instinct soon told her that Calvin Giles intended some day to ask her to be his wife. He had said nothing like this yet, but she knew it. Sometimes she treated him v ry, well, and sometimes very ill; but her moods seemed to make no difference in his manner, and Pamela did not know wheth- er to be pleased or otherwise. If Calvin had conducted his courtship like, or- dinary men, Pamela would soon have become disgusted with him, and settled the matter at once by having nothing whatever to do with him. But he was not like ordinary men. He was always saying and doing unexpected things, and behaved himself in a very peremptory way; and though Pamela was al- ways armed, and invariably opposed him at the time, she was nevertheless in a chronic state of anger against herself at finding that she followed his sug~ gestions at last. On the whole, she rather liked the, affair. It gave a piquan- cy and excitement to her monotonous life; for it was monotonous, and some- times dreary. She had failed to secure for herself a business that contained the faintest promise to a woman, of what Pamela called a career; nor could she see any opening for such a thing. If she were married nowtrue, the married women she knew were craven-hearted beings, doing nothing for the elevation of their sex; but society allowed a freedom of action to married women that was denied to single. Now, with a husband who sympathized PAMELA CLARKE. 143 with the progress and development pf women (and Calvin Giles did so sympa- thize, for he had often discoursed very eloquently on the subject while all the boarders listened respectfully), with such a husband to aid her and protect her, a woman might hope to accomplish something beyond an ordinary wo~ mans life. And so, after many conflicts, she had an answer prepared for the question that she knew would be asked. But she was not at all prepared for the manner of asking. Such sweet love words, such a passionate appeal from a man like Calvin Giles, she certainly did not expect; and, for a few moments, she was amazed and overwhelmed. It was as if the sea waves had rolled hack, and given her an instants gleam of priceless pearls. Could it be pos- sible that there was something in life richer than the jewels she was striving for? No; it was clearly impossible. And she rallied her energies, and the waves swept up again. Mr. Giles, she said, if I was like other women I would pretend to be surprised, and cry a little, I suppose, and refer you to my father. But I am not like other women, for I frankly confess I expected this, and had made up my mind to consent to be your wife on certain conditions.~~ Here she paused for some word from Calvin, for her courage was getting weak, but he had left her, and was leaning against the window, and the room was so dark she could get but an imperfect view of his face. He spoke no word, and she continued: You are perfectly familiar with the reasons that induced me to leave my fathers house and come to New York. Of course, you would not wish, knowing me as you do, that I should give up the ambition that has been the main spring of all my actions. You are an earnest advocate of woman being the equal of man in all respects, and it is this that has won my heart. Are you willing to enter into a union founded on reason, and common justice, and equal rights? Are you willing that your wife should enter into business inde- pendently of you, or embrace a profession, as the way might open? No, said Calvin Giles. But you say that there is no reason why women should not be doctors, lawyers and ministers. Some women, but not my wife. ~ Then Pamela Clarke will never he your wife. Very well, said Calvin Giles, and he lighted his cigar with a coal from the grate, and walked out of the front door. CHAPTER IV. AFTER this, things were somewhat changed at Mrs. W,~res, at least, to Pamela. Calvin was not so often there as formerly, and had much less to say, and it was with great dismay that Pamela discovered that she owed a great part of her happiness at Mrs. Wares to his society. His manner towarcl\ her was still kind and friendly, but she missed his constant, quiet attentions, and, more than all, she missed the pleasant, spicy t~te-d-t~tes. He evidently avoided these. I have lost him for a friend, now, sighed Pamela, because I could not accept him as a lover. He is the only man I ever could talk to for any length of time. 144 PAMELA CLARKE. However, she was not sorry for what she had done. Marriage, she reasoned, was not for her. She was not at all susceptible. If it were pos- sible that all the young men she knew should be in love with her, and prostrate themselves before her, there was but one that she could have made up her mind to have, and him only conditionally. You have behaved very properly, my dear, said Mrs. Corrie, to whom Pamela, very imprudently, confided this little episode of her life. These men are all alike. Some of them pretend to think with us, and spin out many fine words on the subject, but when they are brought face to face with the matter in their own households, they behave just like this Calvin Giles. I have long known we shall never get earnest help froAi them. Mrs. Corrie was a good woman, as the world goes, but she had her foibles, and one of them was the habit of whispering little things that had better be left untold. So she whispered Pamelas secret to Miss Stevens, with injunc- tions of the strictest secresy, and Miss Stevens in a gush of confidence one day whispered it to Mrs. Nance, who felt it to be her duty to whisper it to somebody else, and by the time it had made the circuit of the Association, it had become a settled conviction in the minds of most of the members that Calvin and Pamela had done something very dreadful, though why they thought so, not one of them could have told. It is surely no very wicked or uncommon thing for a man to propose to a young woman and be rejected by her. If this fact had been proclaimed aloud at a full meeting, it would not have been remembered three days. It was the mysterious whispering that did the mischief. Pamela, of course, knew nothing of it, but some rumor of it travelled outside of the Association, and reached the ears of Calvin, Ho was not at all pleased that these women should be talking and tittering over what should have been sacred between Pamela and himself. But he did not for a moment believe that she had made it a subject of jest, or that she knew how it was talked about. And when he received the following note, he was sure he was right: MR. GILEs :I suppose, after what has passed between us, it is very unwomanly in me to write to you. But then you know I am not at all womanly. You have told me many times, with more truth than politeness, that I do not know how to dress myself, and there can, I suppose, be no stronger proof of unwomanliness than that. In fact, I am net ambitious of being considered womanly, as it seems to mean generally something weak and silly. Therefore I write. And the occasion of my writing is perhaps still more improper. lam afraid it is--I want money. Our Association is going to establish an Industrial School for young women, and we have no funds at present. As you once mentioned to me that you had a thou- sand dollars set aside for some such object, I feel justified in asking for that sum, as these yonng women are not to blame for what has happened, and the money is for them not me. I shall not even have coatrol of it, as the Committee on this business was appointed before I entered the society. PAMELA CLARKE. Calvin laughed aloud when he react tais. She is a strange girl, he said, but I have never doubted that I shall win her yet. And he immediately wrote his answer: Miss CLARKE :If the Industrial School were your own affair, or if you had control of it, I should have no hesitation in giving the amount you named; I would gladly do it. But, I am not rich enough to throw my money away, and I have no confidence. in the ladies of your Association. I think you are very womanly indeed. CALvIN GILEs. PAMELA CLARKE. 145 Is that last sentence a sneer? said Pamela, as she pondered over this note in her own room. No, he often laughs at me, but he never sneers. He simply means I am weak, but that is better than being false to all the prin- ciples you profess. And she tossed the note into the fire. But I do believe, she thought, that he will cheerfully give me money to commence any benevo- lent enterprise of my own, and I have half a mind to do it if I can raise more money anywhere else. I would rather have a business of my own that I could build up, but, of course, I cannot take his money for that. And, per- haps, I could satisfy myself with this benevolent enterprise. While she was revolving this subject in her mind, Miss Stevens was ushered into her room. Pamela never desired the society of Miss Stevens, and was not very gracious. But Miss Stevens did not choose to see that she was un- welcome. Although a member of a Womans Rights Association, she was vain and frivolous, and Pamela nearly fell asleep in the effort to entertain her. But at length her visitor said something that roused her attention. It was evident she knew all about Calvin Giles and Pamela. Who told you that? said Pamela, sharply. Wellreally said Miss Stevens, confused, I cant exactly say. It has been talked over in our Society, and I can assure you no one blames you in the least. There is nothing either to praise or to blame, said Pamela. And if there were, I dont see how it concerns the Association. La, now, Miss Clarke, people will talk, and have their little gossips that there is not one bit of harm in. But theres not a word said against you, and its only the truth when they. say Calvin Giles ought to have asked you in your fathers house, and not taken advantage of your position. And what is my position? A very good and honorable one, I always say, and so does Mrs. Corrie. Shes stood by you through thick and thin. But Mrs. Craig and some others say that your family have thrown you over, and that you have joined the Society to get something that will pay out of it, and the Knowles set say that you are after Jim Lake, but nobody pays any attention to the sayings of that clique. That is the way they talk about me, is it? said Pamela. A pretty set of friends I have found! Oh, you know it is all talk, because people must say something, but they like you just as well as if they didnt s~y it. And you must confess, my dear, that you have been very reserved about yourself; and if folks wont tell their affairs as they are, other folks will tell them as they are not. I have never been reserved as to my reasons for joining the Society, said Pamela. I have stated my views often and explicitly. And they knew I was respectable, and admitted it as a fact, or they would not have received me. My private affairs were no business of theirs. Oh, dear me! said Miss Stevens, playfully, if we only attended to our own business, how heavy time would hang upon our hands! I was not altogether pleased with the Society, said Pamela, but I never expected this of them. They to talk about their great reforms, and elevating the sex! a set of lying, gossiping hypocrites! Come, come! said Miss Stevens, a little frightened at the storm she had raised, they are not saints, but then they are not imps. I have found peo- ple pretty much of a muchness wherever I have been. I am sorry I have vexed you so much. 146 PAMELA CLARKE. You have conferred a great obligation on me, said Pamela, how great, you can never know. She was grateful that her eyes were opened, but she was sorely wounded. That they, of all people, should have so misjudged her! That all her great aspirations had been attributed to having been thrown over by her family, and a desire to catch Jim Lake. This last stab was the hardest to bear. She was utterly indifferent to Jim Lakehad never exchanged half-a-dozen sen- tences with him. He was a young man, handsome, rich, and an honorary member of the Society, and he frequently honored it with his presence, and made little rapid speeches, which he intended should advocate Womans Rights, but which, by altering names, would have done equally well to ad- vertise patent blacking or anything else. And, from some things Miss Ste- vens had said, she was sure that Calvin Giles had heard it all. What must he think of her? She was covered with shame and confusion. Most girls would have felt a delicacy in mentioning this to him, but not so Pamela. Anything was better than that he should think she laughed at him. The next morning she wrote him a note: Mn. Gruis :I did very wrongly. I confided to a friend what I should have held sacred, and I yesterday heard that she had betrayed her trust, and the whole affair was kept buzzing through a circle of gossiping women. I know that you know this. I hope you do not think I have had anything to do with this shameful affair, except the one confidence I gave my friend, for which I can never forgive myself. PAMELA CLARKE. She soon received this answer: Miss CLARKE :Let the flies buzzthey can do us no harm. You had a right to repose a confidence in one you thought your friend, and never, for one instant since I have known you, have I believed that you have done anything contrary to your firm convictions of right; nor have I seen in you anything unladylike. CALvIN GILEs. Why does he always say something of that kind? said Pamela. He knows I am unladylike. And she pondered over this little note a long time. Soon after this she was out of employment, and she knew not where to look for any. She wanted to sfit herself up in business, but where was she to oh- tam the capital? Her father had probably a little money put by, but she would not ask him for any of this, and she would not get it if she did. It would have been given freely to Ichabod under similar circumstances; but what could a woman want with mon~y and a business? She could get a situ- ation as saleswoman, but that would lead to nothing; or as assistant teacher in a school, but that, to her, was worse than nothing. It is all weary, weary work, she said, aimless and hopeless. There is nothing in the civilized world for an active, energetic business woman to do. And she packed her trunk. Is it true that you are going to leave us? said Calvin Giles to her the next morning, as he found her alone in the parlor. It is true, she said, sadly. And may I presume upon our friendship so far as to ask where you are going? You know I feel responsible to your brother for your safety. I am going home, she said in a low voice. Home! repeated Calvin, with a bright smile; and he was little aware how glad his tone was. Oh, of course you are glad, said Pamela, and no doubt you knew it would end thus. Enjoy your manly triumph! A woman makes an effort to work PAMELA CLARKE. 147 out the nature God has given her, and to turn such capabilities as she pos- sesses to the best account. She strives with an honest purpose to do some- thing in the world that shall bring her credit and honor. And you all stand aloof, and jeer at hernot a hand is stretched out to help hernot an eligible place is open to her. And then because she fails, and is at last compelled to choose between a cat and a husband, you laugh at her and triumph over her. Pamela, said Calvin, you greatly wrong me if you think I triumph over you. I have sympathized with you in all your trials and disappoint- ments. But I will not tell a falsehood, even to win the prize I covet most on earth, and therefore I must say that I am glad you have failed, and am glad you are going home. If I might only hope that you would come from that home to mine Stop! said Pamela, I will hear no more on that subject. Dont, I beg of you, ask me to choose now between a cat and a husband! But good-by, she said more gently, giving him her hand; you are no worse than the rest of your kind, and I will not part from you in anger. You have been thought- ful for me in all things, and I thank you. And then she ran quickly up the stairs. CHAPTER V. THE last rays of a Summer s-unset were streaming over the river at Beech Bend. Pamela Clarke was sitting under the beechcs, and Grim was curled up at her feet, asleep. Pamela had been intent upon her sewing, and she had not seen Calvin Giles leaning against a tree at a little distance. And yet he had been there some time. He had come up from the city that day, and reached the farm house late in the afternoon. There he heard that Pamela was down under the beeches, and he followed her. He had not intended to stand apart and watch her; but when he found she did not hear his footsteps, he could not resist the temptation, for he had not seen her since she left New York, in th~ Spring. As the western clouds grew luminous with their brilliant colors, Pamela laid her sewing aside, and, walking to the river bank, looked down the river and up to the sky, and Calvin could see her well. How sweet her face was, just tinged with the radiance o~ those gorgeous clouds! It was as serene now as if care, and disappointment, and thought had not written so many lines there in the Winter. Calvin knew as he looked at her, that she had put aside that dream of her life forever, and accepted her womans lot. He knew it by the manner she had done her sewing; he knew it hy the way she had gath- ered her soft ringlets into a loose gold-sprinkled net; he knew it by the clear, bright muslin that swept so gracefully around her; he knew it by all the little feminine graces, so charming, yet so nameless. Pamela! he said, going up to her softly, and laying his hand on her shoulder. She turned and looked at him. There was no need of further words from him just then. His blue eyes shone eloquent. I knew you would come, she said gently, as she laid her hand in his. But she sighed when she said it. He took her in his arms. Can I have you now? Will you be mistress of my heart and home? Do you love me, Pamela? Yes, she said, looking into his face with an arch smile, I love you more 148 PAMELA CLARKE. than I do Grim; more than Ichabod; better than my father and mother; better than any one. But oh, Calvin, I cannot give you such love as you give me. But. my ambitious dreams are gone, and I will hereafter think of noth- ing greater than being your wife, and I know I shall be very happy in your home, my love. There was an undertone of sadness, almost of regret, running through all this, that did not pass unnoticed by Calvin. You will never regret your choice, my darling. I am perfectly satisfied to take you as you are.~~ And now what remains? Let us look in at Pamela for a few moments, some years later, when she is seated in her library. She is envied by many womenshe possesses so much. She is mistress of a large house, wife of a man who loves her tenderly, and one whom all men hold in honor. Beautiful children call her mother, and wealth ministers to her wants. Now she has thrown aside the book she has been reading, and, looking up, finds a pair of dark gray eyes fixed upon her. They belong to a young womana bright, fair-haired creaturesuch a one as Pa- mela herself was a few years earlier. Cousin Pamela, said the young woman, I have been thinking of the episode in your life when you first came to New York. I never knew of it until yesterday. Cousin Ichabod told me. He says you are no doubt heartily ashamed of it all by this time. Is it so? INo, said Pamela, earnestly, I am not in the least ashamed of it. Shall I try it, cousin? It will be of no use. There is no more help for you now than there was for me then. I would very much like to ask you one question, cousin, though it may seem like a strange one. With all your experienceand I know that your present life is a happy onesuppose you were just where you were before you married Calvin, with the knowledge of this life you have, and the choice was given you between this life and the one you failed to secure for yourself, which would you choose? I do not know, said Pamela Giles. M. A. EDWARDS. FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. ~~HE recent change which has taken place in the Administration of the 1. British Government lends an interest to Mr. Huttons book upon the leading politicians of Great Britain in addition to that which its ii~sight and its impressive and picturesque style would give it at any time.* It is highly probable that Earl Russell and Mr. Gladstone did not go out and the Earl of Derby and Mr. Disraeli come in in order to enhance the value of Mr. Huttons labors; but, nevertheless, this they did, and they are not the only men who have unknowingly done a good deed while they were engaged upon some other of less certain merit. Mr. Hutton passes in review seventeen British statesmen, and he says, with reason, that his book does not pretend to exhaust, or half exhaust, the number of statesmen fairly entitled to be called leading politicians of the day. Yet it is worthy of note that of the seventeen whose personal and political traits he sketches with such firm, delicate, knowing touches of his pen-pencil, almost all, certainly fourteen, are well known by reputation in this country. Could fourteen of our leading politicians, Sena- tors or Members of the House, be named who have European reputations? Could seven? That there could not may be attributed by some persons to the stolid indifference of all but a few unusually intelligent and impressible minds in Europe to everything in this country which does not affect trade and com- merce. There is no doubt that this most ungracious and pettypetty because, plainly enough, partly affected indifference is at the bottom of not a little of the ignorance constantly exhibited in regard to the United States by Euro- peans who are well informed enough on all other subjects. But could we our- selves point out seventeen politicians of such commanding influence in Congress that their names would be recognized by our own public at once as those of leaders of political opinion? It would be very difficult to do so. Because this is the case it does not follow that in the grade of civilization, in the sci- ence of government, or in the diffusion of culture, we are behind any people of Europe. Our lack in this respect may be more than made up by advan- tages higher in quality, more enduring and more general than any to be conferred by the ability of conspicuous statesmen. Still, the fact in question is significant. Earl Russell, according to Mr. Hutton, has lost the position which he held so firmly many years ago, because the middle classes have seen that he failed conspicuously, first in finance, next and worst in party loyalty, and last as a diplomatist. The ideal of the middle class itself has changed since a quarter of a century ago, as Mr. Hutton tells us in the following passage, which, like John Leechs best drawings, has an exquisite savor of caricature without the least perceptible touch of exaggeration: * Studies in Parliament: A series of Sketches of Leading Politicians. By R. H. Hut- ton. London: Lougmans. 10 150 FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. Then his unquestionable earnestness, which was not the less a popular quality to the former generation that it combined a Whig noblemans imperiousness with just a flavor of the favorite dissenting minister of the district, his strength of conviction, which excited their confidence, and the touch of priggishness in its expression, which made it a familiar feature without annoying their tastethese were qualities which were much more in popular request during the era of Lord John Russells ascendency than they have been since Lord Palmerston passed him in the race. The middle-class British mind is not now in earnest, and returning to its old love for cakes and ale, it took up with jaunty, jeery Palmerston, who united bonhommie and arrogance, the nicest political tact with the utter lack of any political principle, and who administered the government on the vague general plan of making the best of everything; keeping all the while a sharp lookout for every opportunity to maintain British interest and honor, espe- cially the former. In Mr. Huttons judgment, of all British statesmen of his generation, Lord Russell has shown the most deep and ingrained sympathy with popular freedom. He draws a nice distinction between the Earl and Mr. Gladstone in this particular. The latter is more tender and humane, has a far deeper horror of popular suffering, and therefore of war, than Lord Russell; to which distinction Mr. Hutton adds the subtle remark, character- istic of his mind, and of a kind which often appears in the columns of the London Spectator, of which he is editor Lord Russells sympathy with freedom, like all true sympathy, has something a little sharp and stern about ita little of the old Puritan carelessness whether it be happy or unhappy freedom. This is a mood of mind which the present age is almost learning to ignore. But Lord Russell deserts his allies, as he did when he refused to stand up and take his share of the punishment about the blunders in the Crimea; and he betrays their secrets, as he did when he exposed to the House of Commons a personal quarrel, in 1851, between the Queen and Lord Pal- merston, about the internal affairs of the palace. Palmerston himself is praised for his loyalty in this respect. A British Administration appa- rentIy~has much more so1idarit~ than ours. It seems to be for the time a sort of sworn brotherhood. With us a man is of course expected to keep faith, unless he wishes to be marked as a black sheep, and to bear all the responsi- bility of his own acts; but we dont expect him to stand up and take punish- ment with A., B. and C., merely because he was in their company, for faults which he earnestly urged them not to. commit. Yet, in spite of Earl Russells deficiencies, our author regards him as having unquestionably earned more from this generation than any living statesman. He has done this by his supreme devotion to the principle of religious toleration, by his steady resist- ance to sacerdotal tyranny, and by his keeping Great Britain true to the cause of freedom on both sides of the Atlantic, even in a futile, helpless way in Denmark and Polandand, might we not add, in America ?which it seeme has required no little courage. But his chief claim to gratitude is that he has carried the Constitution triumphantly through its greatest crisis, and ren- dered it as dear to, as it was once hateful to, the English middle class. This sounds very well, but what does it mean? In other words, Earl Russell was chiefly instrumental in completely changing certain of those usages which are called the British Constitution, and in substituting some that are acceptable to, for some that were hateful to, the British middle class. After all that has been written, from Delolme to Mr. Bagehot, upon the subject, it is undeniable that the British Constitution is the will of the House of Commons for the FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. 151 time being. When a body has the power of enlarging the franchise, of redis- tributing seats in Parliament, and even of changing the succession to the crown by a simple vote, it is difficult to discover what is the invisible entity by which that body is supposed to be controlled, and which is called a con- stitution. And when all these questions, and any others, may be decided, and placed beyond the remedial power of the highest court, by the vote of a majority of a body which represents a small minority of the citizens and tax- payers, the horror continually expressed among a people so governed of the brutal rule of the majority in the United Stateswhere even unanimity in the legislative body cannot make that law either in national or local affairs which is not especially permitted by two Constitutionsseems to us a droll exhibition of British ignorance and prejudice. Mr. Gladstone is manifestly a far more complex and delicate machine than his late colleague and co-leader, and indeed it was his sensitiveness, and the many points on which he is sensitive, that enabled his assailants to worry him so sorely in the recent struggle which ended in his resigning office. Mr. Hutton compares his nature in its complexity to a Chinese puzzle, and says in effect that his sympathies lie alike with aristocratic cynicism and demo- cratic progress, with the ultra-commercial and the ultra-ecclesiastical element in the state, with the sggressive men who are for a spirited foreign policy and with the peace party. He unites, Mr. Hutton says, cotton with cul- ture; Manchester with Oxford; the deep, classical joy over the Italian resur- rection and Greek independence, with the deep English interest in the amoi4nt of duty on Zante raisins and Italian rags. Those who have read the speeches of the late Chancellor of the Exchequer carefully must have observed how constantly he brings up moral questions when treating of finance, and mate- rial interests when his theme is religion or education. He treats money mat- ters like a conscientious but prudent clergyman, and morals like an evangeli- cal man of business. This, tempered of course, in the style of doing it, by the taste of a highly cultivated man. Still, there is always flavor enough of the parson in his speeches to justify Disraelis sarcastic allusion to the some- what sanctimonious eloquence of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Mr. Hutton finds the secret of Mr. Gladstones peculiarities of mind and of posi- tion in the fact that his sympathies are, as a man with Lancashire, as a thinker with Oxford, and as a politician with Peel. He describes thus, truly there can hardly be a doubt, the great Chancellor of the Exchequer on his calculating, ways-and-means-providing side: The Lancashire feeling for capital is strong in Mr. Gladstone. He muses on the money market; he loves to ponder on the resources which a low rate of interest might open to the Government, in the night-watches. He does his work at the Treasury, not as a matter of business, but as a matter of love. As a novelists mind swarms expedi - dients for bringing out the points of his favorite characters, Mr. Gladstones mini swarms financial ideas small and great. He thinks of the revenue and the productive power of the country as a manufacturer thinks of his manufactory, and the chance of striking a new vein of profit. And his inventive power is .greater than his judgment, though this is, however, to some extent steadied by the instinct of the orator, which tells him which of his ideas it will be easy, and which impossible, to present in a telling and popular form to the country. It is in great measure these oratorical instincts which oblige him to dwell on the moral aspects of material wealththe only aspects in which economy bec~mes a really popular topic. It is for us a particularly interesting fact that this man, who is the ablest financial manager Great Britain has had for half a century, and who is rep- 152 FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. resented as lying awake at night to ponder on the resources which a low rate of interest might open to the Government, is one of the most thorough and elegant scholars in England, and perhaps the most eloquent mancertainly excepting Mr. Bright, the most eloquent man in Parliament. We have no men of this sort in public life; but in Great Britain they have them not a few. It may be that if politics in this country could be made to seem to cul- tivated men either a pleasant field of labor, or one in which they could be of material service to the country, we should produce such men; for it cannot be that freedom from restraint and a more diffused culture have dwarfed or deteriorated the English mind in this country. But the fact that we now have no such men remains none the less to be gravely considered. From Mr. Gladstone, who has, as it was epigrammatically said of him, a second-rate intellect in a first-rate state of effervescence, we pass to the head of the new- ly installed British Cabinet. The Earl of Derby is to us in this country the representative English noble- man of the time. He has what may be called the distinctive English title earl; he is the thirteenth of his family who has borne it. His name, although common enough among us, and that of one of our own generals of division in the late war, always brings up Shakespeare, Richard III. and Bosworth Field ;* and his manner in private and in the House of Lords, as we hear of it, has just that mingling of real, offensive arrogance with surface courtesy which, in the popular judgment, is characteristic of the whole British aristoc- racy, but which, in fact, pertains only to a minority of it in the present gene- ration. The insolent British manner, which British critics themselves have at last been compelled to recognize, is found oftener in a merchant than in a marquis. Beside his other well-known traits, Lord Derby is great upon the turf; and he bas made what is really the most readable and faithful transla- tion of Homers great poem tbat exists in our language; and so, as he is also a leading politician, he stands before us quite the model of the all-accom- plisbed English nobleman. But according to Mr. Hutton, who seems to be very sound in his judgments, the Earl has, from the very beginning of his political life, with all his brilliant success, shown a profound incapacity for large and statesmanlike views of political principles; which incapacity the author, with a cbaracteristic subtlety and penetration wbich seems less like the use of faculties common to all men than the manifestation of an extreme- ly delicate mental sensitiveness and iri~pressibility peculiar to himself~ attrib- utes to a disposition almost feminineill as that word assorts with his gen- eral characterto follow the tastes and impulses of the moment instead of forming a clear and comprehensive judgment on the principle involved. Punchs excellent cartoon, Derbye hys straite fytte, glances at the new Pre- miers inclination to find his guide in the impulses of the moment rathpr than in principle. The Earl is arming as his ancestor might have armed for Bos- worth field. His squire is of course Dizzy. But alas! the Earl has out- grown his old panoply. Greaves and cuisses are too short; breast-plate, back-piece, and gorget are too small. His face becomes apoplectic with the strain, his fingers curl up in the agony of suffocation. He says to his squire, as the latter knots a scarf inscribed Tory Measures about him: Me- thinks, good Benjamin, we have in some sort outgrown our ancient harness. * There are twenty-six Stanleys in the New York Directory alone. They are clerks, machinists, milliners, blacksmiths, tailors, waiters, masons, liquor-dealers, lawyers, and sawyers. FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. 153 To which Dizzy answers: Nay, good my lord, sith we can find none other, you cannot choose but wear it. Lord Derby is probably more annoyed than pleased at finding himself again in power at the head of the British Govern- ment. His inclination to and fitness for what Mr. Hutton calls the ornamen- tal side of politics, his facility of. thought, readiness in illustration, aptness in reply, elegance in style, and a certain imperious force of manner, in which his strength lies, fit him well to lead the Tory opposition in the aristocratic House of Parliament; but to be made responsible for the carrying on of Her Majestys Government. responsible to his party as well as responsible to the country, to endure the ceaseless questioning and bothering and badgering of what our British cousins so oddly call Her Majestys opposition this may well make a man of Lord Derbys age, tastes, rank, and fortune, wish to for- swear politics. The honor of being Premier? He has had that once, when both he and his party were better able to use power than they are now, when they seem likely to come in for all the worry and the responsibility, and few or none of the advantages of office, which they must be conscious all the while they are holding on sufferance. And what is the mere honor of being first minister that a man should give up for it days and nights to hard and unre- quiting labor? Lord Derbys political influence is attributed by our author chiefly to his sharing strongly the tastes a.nd prejudices of a class, while pos- sessing a literary feeling too refined to admit of his expressing these preju- dices in any gross and revolting way. His intellect is commonplace, but his will is imperious, and his perceptions are more sensitive and his tastes more cultivated than those of his order generally. Hence his views seem to have more weight and value than they really have. Lord Derbys oratory, the style of which Bulwer Lytton happily characterized in his well known per- sonal metaphor, The Rupert of Debate, and which, until the appearance of his Homer, was his chief claim to more than mere domestic distinction, owes its success, in the opinion of his critic, to the patrician and imperious mould in which it is cast, and to its simplicity of form. Here again Mr. Hutton attributes to the Earl feminine traits of mind. He says that his style not unfrequently suggests that of an able, imperious woman. To his exceeding diffuseness is attributed in a great measure the popularity of his oratory, because it gives his hearers a double or treble opportunity of catching almost all the principal points in every sentence, the same idea being repeated two or three times in different phrase. Whatever distinction Lord Derby~ administration may achieve it will probably owe in no small measure to the ability of his sort, Lord Stanley. To have the father Prime Minister and the son Foreign Secretary, is a great and most unusual share of power for one family; but there is not a family in England that can claim it with a better grace, or to whom Englishmen would with more confidence and pleasure see it awarded, than the Stanleys. Lord Stanley and his father are singularly unlike. The father is a wealthy and highly cultivated country gentleman, a county magnate, an accomplished scholar and a keen sportsman, who goes into party politics because it becomes the representative of his family to make a figure in Parliament, and to pre- serve if not add to the Derby influence, and who goes in on the Tory side because that is the most becoming side for him to take under the circum- stances. But Lord Stanley lives in and for the higher politics. He believes in appealing to the reason of men, in taking care for their best interests and in showing them that you do so; he deals little with sentiment, has little 154 FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. regard for prejudices; he seeks first facts, and then to deal with them in the light of cool reason. No fear of the appearance of the feminine element in any of his doings. He is greedy of statistics, and with his enormous appetite for them has an equal power of digestion. Two stories are told, vero o ben trovato, of him and Earl Derby, which distinguish the two men well. Lord Stanley is said to have observed My father would be a very able manif he only knew anything; and Lord Derby to have said that when his trans- lation of the Iliad was printed in prose and published in the form of a blue- book, he shouldsend a copy to his son. These stories show the difference of the two men, and also a certain unsympathizing scornfulness for what does not interest them, which they have in common. Lord Stanley takes office a~ a prominent member of a Tory cabinet. But he is not a Tory, nor, although liberal in his views, is he a Liberal. He cannot properly be said to belong to any party; his mind being of that cast which refuses to accept a course of action prescribed by others. Mr. Hutton, whose sympathies are very wide, so wide; in fact, that they seem quite boundless, has yet, it is clear, no fellow feeling for Lord Stanley; whose plain common sense and cool reason seem to repel his critic, who, like his own Lord Derby, has a good deal of the femi- nine element in his political constitution, though quite of another kind from that in Lord Derbys. He plainly believes in governing people, as women govern children and sometimes men: by humoring whim and yielding to prejudice, by assuming an attitude of sympathy and respect, in short, by carrying the social tact by which some people choose to get on in society into t~e wider field of politics. But Lord Stanley would say to people, Look! if you do thus you will commit such a wrong, or you will lose so much money, or you will sacrifice such an advantage; if on the other hand, you do thus, you will do what is right, or you will gain so much, or you acquire so much addi- tional power. Mr. Hutton says of Lord Stanley, evidently in a tone of re- proach, that he is as incapable of refusing a common-sense reform from any fear of the abstract danger of change, as of joining in a demand for reform from any anticipation of Utopian benefits or any chivalric devotion to abstract justice. But this, although hardly the temper in which one would like to be met by ones wife or friend about a matter of personal feeling, seems emi- nently suited to statesmanship under a constitutional government in a coun- try advanced in civilization, and among a people of Anglo-Saxon blood and high intelligence. One value of Mr. Huttons mind as a political test, is its wide sympathy and its extreme sensitiveness to any chill. He shrinks from that which is merely cool and clear. A plunge bath of pure reason would be the death of him. Hence, he detects at once what will offend the prejudices or repel the sympathies of any class or any people. But on the other hand, this trait makes him too impressible by the exhibition of imaginative and creative traits of ~tatesmanship. He wrote much upon our war and our politics during the war, and very ably, iii a friendly and an eminently candid spirit; but he is now evidently captivated by the policy of the extreme radicals, and fails to see why, if we fought such a war to preserve the repub- lic and extinguish slavery, we should not remodel our Constitution so as to make Congress an imperial body like Parliament, and our society so as to admit the negro to the ballot box, the parlor, and the marriage bed. When Mr. Hutton wrote his appreciation of Lord Stanley, there was no apparent probability that the latter would soon be called upon to take office; but in that appre- ciation he said that if Lord Stanley were Prime Minister the British public FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. 155 would distrust his foreign policy; they had no feeling that he represents the true British character; there is no confidence that he would keep up the legitimate influence of England abroad. If he should not, so much the bet- ter for the British people. For legitimate influence means, of course (not with Mr. Hutton, but with the majority of his countrymen who have votes), the influence of the British Government as a first-rate power in the regulation of the affairs of Europe, and its predominance in China, the Indies, and in island savagedom generally. Not until the British people ceasetheir craving for this kind of influence will they be able to do away with their army and navy, which Mr. Bright, with such cutting satire, stigmatized as a gigantic system of out-door relief for the British aristocracy. Not until they can bring themselves to regard the growing prosperity and strength of other nations without fear or envy will they he able to devote the whole of their own great energy and their own great wealth to the moral and material well- being of the whole of their own people. In our dealings with the British Government we shall probably find Lord Stanley ready to meet us just in the spirit we likethat of common sense, fairness, and mutual respect. He will not be the man on the one hand to yield anything to whic