Title: The World's Greatest Books — Volume 02 — Fiction
Author: Various
Language: English
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THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS

JOINT EDITORS

ARTHUR MEE Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge

J. A. HAMMERTON Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia

VOL. II FICTION

MCMX



_Table of Contents_

BORROW, GEORGE
  Lavengro
  Romany Rye

BRADDON, M.E.
  Lady Audley's Secret

BRADLEY, EDWARD ("COTHBERT BEDE")
  Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green

BRONTË, CHARLOTTE
  Jane Eyre
  Shirley
  Villette

BRONTË, EMILY
  Wuthering Heights

BUCHANAN, ROBERT
  Shadow of the Sword

BUNYAN, JOHN
  Holy War
  Pilgrim's Progress

BURNEY, FANNY
  Evelina

CARLETON, WILLIAM
  The Black Prophet

CARROLL, LEWIS
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

CERVANTES
  Don Quixote

CHAMISSO, ADALBERT VON
  Peter Schlemihl, the Shadowless Man

CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANÇOIS RENÉ DE
  Atala

CHERBULIEZ, CHARLES VICTOR
  Samuel Brohl & Co.

COLLINS, WILKIE
  No Name
  The Woman in White

CONWAY, HUGH
  Called Back

COOPER, FENIMORE
  Last of the Mohicans
  The Spy

CRAIK, MRS.
  John Halifax, Gentleman

CROLY, GEORGE
  Salathiel, or Tarry Thou Till I Come

DANA, RICHARD HENRY
  Two Years before the Mast

A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end
of Volume XX.

       *       *       *       *       *



GEORGE BORROW


Lavengro

      George Henry Borrow was born at East Dereham, Norfolk,
     England, July 5, 1803. His father was an army captain, and
     Borrow's boyhood was spent at military stations in various
     parts of the kingdom. From his earliest youth he had a taste
     for roving and fraternising with gipsies and other vagrants.
     In 1819 he entered a solicitor's office at Norwich. After a
     long spell of drudgery and literary effort, he went to London
     in 1824, but left a year later, and for some time afterwards
     his movements were obscure. For a period of about five years,
     beginning 1835, he acted as the Bible Society's agent, selling
     and distributing Bibles in Spain, and in 1842 he published
     "The Bible in Spain." which appears in another volume of THE
     WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS. (See TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.)
     "Lavengro," written in 1851, enhanced the fame which Borrow
     had already secured by his earlier works. The book teems with
     character sketches drawn from real life in quarters which few
     could penetrate, and although they are often extremely
     eccentric, they are never grotesque, and never strike the mind
     with a sense of merely invented unreality. Here and there
     occur illuminating outbursts of reflection in philosophic
     accent which reveal in startling style the working of Borrow's
     mind. The linguistic lore is phenomenal, as in all his books.
     But though the wild, passionate scenes make the whole
     narrative an indescribable phantasmagoria, the diction is
     always free from turgidity, and from involved periods. Borrow
     died at Oulton, Suffolk, on July 26, 1881. A mighty athlete,
     an inveterate wanderer, a philological enthusiast, and a man
     of large-hearted simplicity mingled with violent prejudices,
     he was one of the most original and engaging personalities of
     nineteenth century English literature.


_I.--The Scholar, the Gipsy, the Priest_


On an evening of July, in the year 18--, at East D------, a beautiful
little town in East Anglia, I first saw the light. My father, a
Cornishman, after serving many years in the Line, at last entered as
captain in a militia regiment. My mother, a strikingly handsome woman,
was of the Huguenot race. I was not the only child of my parents, for I
had a brother three years older than myself. He was a beautiful boy with
much greater mental ability than I possessed, and he, with the greatest
affection, indulged me in every possible way. Alas, his was an early and
a foreign grave!

I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life, being the son of a
soldier, who, unable to afford the support of two homes, was accompanied
by his family wherever he went. A lover of books and of retired corners,
I was as a child in the habit of fleeing from society. The first book
that fascinated me was one of Defoe's. But those early days were
stirring times, for England was then engaged in the struggle with
Napoleon.

I remember strange sights, such as the scenes at Norman Cross, a station
or prison where some six thousand French prisoners were immured. And
vividly impressed on my memory is my intercourse with an extraordinary
old man, a snake-catcher, who thrilled me with the recitals of his
experiences. He declared that the vipers had a king, a terrible
creature, which he had encountered, and from which he had managed to
escape. After telling me that strange story of the king of the vipers,
he gave me a viper which he had tamed, and had rendered harmless by
extracting its fangs. I fed it with milk, and frequently carried it
abroad with me in my walks.

One day on my rambles I entered a green lane I had never seen before.
Seeing an odd-looking low tent or booth, I advanced towards it. Beside
it were two light carts, and near by two or three lean ponies cropped
the grass. Suddenly the two inmates, a man and a woman, both wild and
forbidding figures, rushed out, alarmed at my presence, and commenced
abusing me as an intruder. They threatened to fling me into the pond
over the hedge.

I defied them to touch me, and, as I did so, made a motion well
understood by the viper that lay hid in my bosom. The reptile instantly
lifted its head and stared at my enemies with its glittering eyes. The
woman, in amazed terror, retreated to the tent, and the man stood like
one transfixed. Presently the two commenced talking to each other in
what to me sounded like French, and next, in a conciliating tone, they
offered me a peculiar sweetmeat, which I accepted. A peaceable
conversation ensued, during which they cordially invited me to join
their party and to become one of them.

The interview was rudely interrupted. Hoofs were heard, and the next
moment a man rode up and addressed words to the gipsies which produced a
startling effect. In a few minutes, from different directions, came
swarthy men and women. Hastily they harnessed the ponies and took down
the tent, and packed the carts, and in a remarkably brief space of time
the party rode off with the utmost speed.

Three years passed, during which I increased considerably in stature and
strength, and, let us hope, improved in mind. For at school I had learnt
the whole of Lilly's "Latin Grammar"; but I was very ignorant of
figures. Our regiment was moved to Edinburgh, where the castle was a
garrison for soldiers. In that city I and my brother were sent to the
high school. Here the scholars were constantly fighting, though no great
harm was done. I had seen deaths happen through fights at school in
England.

I became a daring cragsman, a character to which an English lad can
seldom aspire, for in England there are neither crags nor mountains. The
Scots are expert climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things,
particularly the language. The castle in which I dwelt stood on a craggy
rock, to scale which was my favourite diversion.

In the autumn of 1815, when the war with Napoleon was ended, we were
ordered to Ireland, where at school I read Latin and Greek with a nice
old clergyman, and of an evening studied French and Italian with a
banished priest, Italian being my favourite.

It was in a horse fair I came across Jasper Petulengro, a young gipsy of
whom I had caught sight in the gipsy camp I have already alluded to. He
was amazed to see me, and in the most effusively friendly way claimed me
as a "pal," calling me Sapengro, or "snake-master," in allusion, he
said, to the viper incident. He said he was also called Pharaoh, and was
the horse-master of the camp.

From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper. He taught me much
Romany, and introduced me to Tawno Chikno, the biggest man of the gipsy
nation, and to Mrs. Chikno. These stood to him as parents, for his own
were banished. I soon found that in the tents I had become acquainted
with a most interesting people. With their language I was fascinated,
though at first I had taken it for mere gibberish. My rapid progress
astonished and delighted Jasper. "We'll no longer call you Sapengro,
brother," said he, "but Lavengro, which in the language of the gorgios
meaneth word-master." And Jasper's wife actually proposed that I should
marry her sister.

The gipsies departed for England. I was now sixteen, and continued in
the house of my parents, passing my time chiefly in philological
pursuits. But it was high time that I should adopt some profession. My
father would gladly have seen me enter the Church, but feared I was too
erratic. So I was put to the law, but while remaining a novice at that
pursuit, I became a perfect master of the Welsh language. My father soon
began to feel that he had made a mistake in the choice of a profession
for me.

My elder brother, who had cultivated a great taste for painting, told me
one evening that father had given him £150 and his blessing, and that he
was going to London to improve himself in his art.

My father was taken ill with severe attacks of gout, and, in a touching
conversation, assured me that his end was approaching. Before that sad
event happened, my brother, whom he longed to see, arrived home. My
father died with the name of Christ on his lips. The brave old soldier,
during intervals between his attacks, had told me more of his life than
I had ever learned before, and I was amazed to find how much he knew and
had seen. He had talked with King George, and had known Wellington, and
was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British
grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm.


_II.--An Adventure with a Publisher_


One damp, misty March morning, I dismounted from the top of a coach in
the yard of a London inn. Delivering my scanty baggage to a porter, I
followed him to a lodging prepared for me by an acquaintance. It
consisted of a small room in which I was to sit, and a smaller one still
in which I was to sleep.

Having breakfasted comfortably by a good fire, I sallied forth and
easily found my way to the place I was in quest of, for it was scarcely
ten minutes' walk distant. I was cordially received by the big man to
whom some of my productions had been sent by a kind friend, and to whom
he had given me a letter of introduction, which was respectfully read.
But he informed me that he was selling his publishing business, and so
could not make use of my literary help. He gave me counsel, however,
especially advising me to write some evangelical tales, in the style of
the "Dairyman's Daughter." As I told him I had never heard of that work,
he said: "Then, sir, procure it by all means." Much more conversation
ensued, during which the publisher told me that he purposed continuing
to issue once a month his magazine, the "Oxford Review," and to this he
proposed that I should attempt to contribute. As I was going away he
invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday.

On Sunday I was punctual to my appointment with the publisher. I found
that for twenty years he had taken no animal food and no wine. After
some talk he requested me to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and
trials, of a thousand pages each, the remuneration to be £50 at the
completion of the work. I was also to make myself generally useful to
the "Review," and, furthermore, to translate into German a book of
philosophy which he had written. Then he dismissed me, saying that,
though he never went to church, he spent much of every Sunday afternoon
alone, musing on the magnificence of Nature and the moral dignity of
man.

I compiled the "Chronicles of Newgate," reviewed books for the "Review,"
and occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the
publisher's philosophy. But the "Review" did not prove a successful
speculation, and with its decease its corps of writers broke up. I was
paid, not in cash, but in bills, one payable at twelve, the other at
eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these
bills to any account. At last I found a person willing to cash them at a
discount of only thirty per cent.

By the month of October I had accomplished about two-thirds of the
compilation of the Newgate lives, and had also made some progress with
the German translation. But about this time I had begun to see very
clearly that it was impossible that our connection would be of long
duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what had I to
offer another publisher? I returned to my labour, finished the German
translation, got paid in the usual style, and left that employer.


_III.--The Spirit of Stonehenge_


One morning I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to a
single half-crown, and throughout that day I walked about in
considerable distress of mind. By a most singular chance I again came
across my friend Petulengro in a fair into which I happened to wander
when walking by the side of the river beyond London. My gipsy friend was
seated with several men, carousing beside a small cask. He sprang up,
greeting me cordially, and we chatted in Romany as we walked about
together. Questioning me closely, he soon discovered that by that time I
had only eighteen pence in my pocket.

Said Jasper: "I, too, have been in the big city; but I have not been
writing books. I have fought in the ring. I have fifty pounds in my
pocket, and I have much more in the world. Brother, there is
considerable difference between us." But he could not prevail on me to
accept or to borrow money, for I said that if I could not earn, I would
starve. "Come and stay with us," said he. "Our tents and horses are on
the other side of yonder wooded hill. We shall all be glad of your
company, especially myself and my wife, Pakomovna."

I declined the kind invitation and walked on. Returning to the great
city, I suddenly found myself outside the shop of a publisher to whom I
had vainly applied some time before, in the hope of selling some of my
writings. As I looked listlessly at the window, I observed a paper
affixed to the glass, on which was written in a fair round hand, "A
Novel or Tale is much wanted." I at once resolved to go to work to
produce what was thus solicited. But what should the tale be about?
After cogitating at my lodging, with bread and water before me, I
concluded that I would write an entirely fictitious narrative called
"The Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great Traveller." This
Joseph Sell was an imaginary personage who had come into my head.

I seized pen and paper, but soon gave up the task of outlining the
story, for the scenes flitted in bewildering fashion before my
imagination. Yet, before morning, as I lay long awake, I had sketched
the whole work on the tablets of my mind. Next day I partook of bread
and water, and before night had completed pages of Joseph Sell, and
added pages in varying quantity day by day, until my enterprise was
finished.

"To-morrow for the bookseller! Oh, me!" I exclaimed, as I lay down to
rest.

On arriving at the shop, I saw to my delight that the paper was still in
the window. As I entered, a ladylike woman of about thirty came from the
back parlour to ask my business. After my explanation, she requested me,
as her husband was out, to leave the MS. with her, and to call again the
next day at eleven. At that hour I duly appeared, and was greeted with a
cordial reception. "I think your book will do," said the bookseller.
After some negotiation, I was paid £20 on the spot, and departed with a
light heart. Reader, amidst life's difficulties, should you ever be
tempted to despair, call to mind these experiences of Lavengro. There
are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and
perseverance will not liberate you.

I had long determined to leave London, as my health had become much
impaired. My preparations were soon made, and I set out to travel on
foot. In about two hours I had cleared the great city, and was in a
broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. In the evening,
feeling weary, I thought of putting up at an inn, but was induced to
take a seat in a coach, paying sixteen shillings for the fare. At dawn
of day I was roused from a broken slumber and bidden to alight, and
found myself close to a moorland. Walking on and on, I at length reached
a circle of colossal stones.

The spirit of Stonehenge was upon me. As I reclined under the great
transverse stone, in the middle of the gateway of giants, I heard the
tinkling of bells, and presently a large flock of sheep came browsing
along, and several entered the circle. Soon a man also came up. In a
friendly talk, the young shepherd told me that the people of the plain
believed that thousands of men had brought the stones from Ireland, to
make a temple in which to worship God.

"But," said I, "our forefathers slaughtered the men who raised the
stones, and left not one stone on another."

"Yes, they did," said the shepherd, looking aloft at the great
transverse stone.

"And it is well that they did," answered I, "for whenever that stone,
which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe
to the English race. Spare it, English. Hengist spared it."

We parted, and I wandered off to Salisbury, the city of the spire. There
I stayed two days, spending my time as best I could, and then walked
forth for several days, during which nothing happened worthy of notice,
but the weather was brilliant, and my health had greatly improved.

Coming one day to a small countryside cottage, I saw scrawled over the
door, "Good beer sold here." Being overcome with thirst, I went in to
taste the beverage. Along the wall opposite where I sat in the
well-sanded kitchen was the most disconsolate family I had ever seen,
consisting of a tinker, his wife, a pretty-looking woman, who had
evidently been crying, and a ragged boy and girl. I treated them to a
large measure of beer, and in a few minutes the tinker was telling me
his history. That conversation ended very curiously, for I purchased for
five pounds ten shillings the man's whole equipment. It included his
stock-in-trade, and his pony and cart. Of the landlady I purchased
sundry provisions, and also a waggoner's frock, gave the horse a little
feed of corn, and departed.


_IV.--The Flaming Tinman_


At three hours past noon I thus started to travel as a tinker. I was
absolutely indifferent as to the direction of my journey. Coming to no
hostelry, I pitched my little tent after nightfall in a waste land
amongst some bushes, and kindled a fire in a convenient spot with sticks
which I gathered. For a few days I practiced my new craft by trying to
mend two kettles and a frying-pan, remaining in my little camp. Few folk
passed by. But soon some exciting incidents happened. My quarters were
one morning suddenly invaded by a young Romany girl, who advanced
towards me, after closely scanning me, singing a gipsy song:

    The Romany chi
    And the Romany chal
    Shall jaw tasaulor
    To drab the bawlor,
    And dook the gry
    Of the farming rye.

A very pretty song, thought I, falling hard to work again on my kettle;
a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to
their cattle.

"All alone here, brother?" said a voice close to me, in sharp, but not
disagreeable tones.

A talk ensued, in which the girl discovered that I knew how to speak
Romany, and it ended in my presenting her with the kettle.

"Parraco tute--that is, I thank you, brother. The rikkeni kekaubi is now
mine. O, rare, I thank you kindly, brother!"

Presently she came towards me, stared me full in the face, saying to
herself, "Grey, tall, and talks Romany!" In her countenance there was an
expression I had not seen before, which struck me as being composed of
fear, curiosity, and deepest hate. It was only momentary, and was
succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. "Good-bye, tall brother,"
said she, and she departed, singing the same song.

On the evening of the next day, after I had been with my pony and cart
strolling through several villages, and had succeeded in collecting
several kettles which I was to mend, I returned to my little camp, lit
my fire, and ate my frugal meal. Then, after looking for some time at
the stars, I entered my tent, lay down on my pallet, and went to sleep.
Two more days passed without momentous incidents, but on the third
evening the girl reappeared, bringing me two cakes, one of which she
offered to eat herself, if I would eat the other. They were the gift to
me of her grandmother, as a token of friendship. Incautiously I ate a
portion to please the maiden. She eagerly watched as I did so. But I
paid dearly indeed for my simplicity. I was in a short time seized with
the most painful sensations, and was speedily prostrate in helpless
agonies.

While I was in this alarming condition the grandmother appeared, and
began to taunt me with the utmost malignity. She was Mrs. Herne, "the
hairy one," who had conceived inveterate spite against me at the time
when Petulengro had proposed that I should marry his wife's sister. This
poison had been administered to inflict on me the vengeance she had not
ceased to meditate.

My life was in real peril, but I was fortunately delivered by a timely
and providential interposition. The malignant old gipsy woman and her
granddaughter were scared as they watched my sufferings by hearing the
sound of travellers approaching. Two wayfarers came along, one of whom
happened to be a kind and skillful doctor. He saved my life by drastic
remedies.

The next that I heard of Mrs. Herne was, as Petulengro told me when we
again met, that she had hanged herself, the girl finding her suspended
from a tree. That announcement was accompanied by an unexpected
challenge from my friend Jasper to fight him. He declared that as she
was his relative, and I had been the cause of her destruction, there was
no escape from the necessity of fighting. My plea that there was no
inclination on my part for such a combat was of no avail. Accordingly we
fought for half an hour, when suddenly Petulengro exclaimed: "Brother,
there is much blood on your face; I think enough has been done in the
affair of the old woman."

So the struggle ended, and my Romany friend once more pressed me to join
his tribe in their camp and in their life. I declined the offer, for I
had resolved to practice yet another calling, the trade of a blacksmith.
I could do so, for amongst the stock-in-trade I had purchased from the
tinker was a small forge, with an anvil and hammers.

It has always struck me that there is something poetical about a forge.
I believe that the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would
afford material for a highly poetical treatise. But a rude stop was put
to my dream. One morning, a brutal-looking ruffian, whom I had met
before and recognised as a character known as the Flaming Tinman,
appeared on the scene, accusing me with fearful oaths of trespassing on
his ground. After volleys of abuse, he attacked me, and a fearful fight
ensued, in which he was not the victor, for in one of his terrific
lunges he slipped, and a blow which I was aiming happened to strike him
behind the ear. He fell senseless. Two women were with him, one, a
vulgar, coarse creature, his wife; the other a tall, fine young woman,
who travelled with them for company, doing business of her own with a
donkey and cart, selling merchandise.

While I was bringing water from a spring in order to seek to revive the
Flaming Tinman, his wife and the young woman violently quarrelled, for
the latter took my part vehemently. When at length my enemy recovered
sufficiently to look about him, and then to stand up, I found that his
wife had put an open knife in his hand. But his intention could not be
carried out, for his right hand was injured in the fight, and was for
the time useless, as he quickly realised.

The couple presently departed, cursing me and the young woman, who
remained behind in the little camp, and, as I was in an exhausted state,
offered to make tea by the camp fire. While we were taking the repast,
she told me the story of her life. Her name was Isopel Berners, and
though she believed that she had come of a good stock, she was born in a
workhouse. When old enough, she had entered the service of a kind widow,
who travelled with small merchandise. After the death of her mistress,
Isopel carried on the same avocation. Being friendless, and falling in
with the Flaming Tinman and his wife, she had associated with them, yet
acknowledged that she had found them to be bad people.

Time passed on. Isopel and I lived still in the dingle, occupying our
separate tents. She went to and fro on her business, and I went on short
excursions. Her company, when she happened to be in camp, was very
entertaining, for she had wandered in all parts of England and Wales.
For recreation, I taught her a great deal of Armenian, much of which was
like the gipsy tongue. She had a kind heart, and was an upright
character. She often asked me questions about America, for she had an
idea she would like to go there. But as I had never crossed the sea to
that country, I could only tell her what I had heard about it.

       *       *       *        *        *



The Romany Rye

      In this work, published in two volumes in 1857, George Borrow
     continued the "kind of biography in the Robinson Crusoe style"
     which he had begun in the three volumes of "Lavengro," issued
     six years earlier. "Romany Rye" is described as a sequel to
     "Lavengro," and takes up that story with the author and his
     friend Isopel Berners encamped side by side in the Mumpers'
     Dingle, whither the gipsies, Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and their
     relations, shortly afterwards arrive. The book consists of a
     succession of episodes, without plot, the sole connecting
     thread being Borrow's personality as figuring in them. Much of
     the "Romany Rye" was written at Oulton Broad, where, after his
     marriage in 1840, Borrow lived until he removed to Hereford
     Square, Brompton. At Oulton, it is worthy of record, gipsies
     were allowed to pitch their tents, the author of "Romany Rye"
     and "Lavengro" mingling freely with them. As a novel, the
     "Romany Rye" is preferred by many readers to any of Borrow's
     other works.


_I.--The Roving Life_


It was, as usual, a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass
which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which
had probably been about two hours above the horizon. Near the mouth of
the dingle--Mumpers' Dingle, near Wittenhall, Staffordshire--where my
friend Isopel Berners and I, the travelling tinker, were encamped side
by side, a rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies
occupied the ground. About five yards on the right, Mr. Petulengro was
busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar,
sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the
purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire. With the sharp
end of this he was making holes in the earth at about twenty inches
distance from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with
a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted the timbers of
the tent and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro and a female
with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near
him on the ground.

"Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "Here we are, and plenty of
us."

"I am glad to see you all," said I; "and particularly you, madam," said
I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro, "and you also, madam," taking off my
hat to Mrs. Chikno.

"Good-day to you, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro. "You look as usual,
charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners."

"It is not all gold that glitters," said Mrs. Chikno. "However,
good-morrow to you, young rye."

"I am come on an errand," said I. "Isopel Berners, down in the dell
there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro's company at
breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam," said I, addressing
Mrs. Chikno.

"Is that young female your wife, young man?" said Mrs. Chikno.

"My wife?" said I.

"Yes, young man, your wife--your lawful certificated wife?"

"No," said I. "She is not my wife."

"Then I will not visit with her," said Mrs. Chikno. "I countenance
nothing in the roving line."

"What do you mean by the roving line?" I demanded.

"What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is
not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies lives together in dingles, without
being certificated, I call such behaviour being tolerably deep in the
roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to
sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband's
outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest
shadow of countenance."

"It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being
suspected of doing wrong," said I.

"So it is," said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing. "I am suspicious of
nobody, not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have
a right to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a
lord. I always allows him an agreeable latitude to go where he pleases.
But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, and therefore----"

"Meklis," said Mrs. Chikno, "pray drop all that, sister; I believe I
have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect to that offer
with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company with you, I
believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated
line."


_II.--The Parting of the Ways_


Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling.

"Were you waiting for me?" I inquired.

"Yes," said Belle.

"That was very kind," said I.

"Not half so kind," said she, "as it was of you to get everything ready
for me in the dead of last night."

After tea, we resumed our study of Armenian. "First of all, tell me,"
said Belle, "what a verb is?"

"A part of speech," said I, "which, according to the dictionary,
signifies some action or passion. For example: I command you, or I hate
you."

"I have given you no cause to hate me," said Belle, looking me
sorrowfully in the face.

"I was merely giving two examples," said I. "In Armenian, there are four
conjugations of verbs; the first ends in al, the second in yel, the
third in oul, and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?"

"I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill," said Belle.

"Let us have no unprofitable interruptions," said I. "Come, we will
begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which
signifies rejoice. Come along. Hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest.
Why don't you follow, Belle?"

"I'm sure I don't rejoice, whatever you may do," said Belle.

"The chief difficulty, Belle," said I, "that I find in teaching you the
Armenian grammar proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every
example I give."

"I can't bear this much longer," said Belle.

"Keep yourself quiet," said I. "We will skip hntal and proceed to the
second conjugation. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the
prettiest verb in Armenian--the verb siriel. Here is the present tense:
siriem, siries, sirè, siriemk, sirèk, sirien. Come on, Belle, and say
'siriem.'"

Belle hesitated. "You must admit, Belle, it is much softer than hntam."

"It is so," said Belle, "and to oblige you, I will say 'siriem.'"

"Very well indeed, Belle," said I. "And now, to show you how verbs act
upon pronouns, I will say 'siriem zkiez.' Please to repeat 'siriem
zkiez.'"

"'Siriem zkiez!'" said Belle. "That last word is very hard to say."

"Sorry that you think so, Belle," said I. "Now please to say 'siria
zis.'" Belle did so.

"Now say 'yerani thè sirèir zis,'" said I.

"'Yerani thè sirèir zis,'" said Belle.

"Capital!" said I. "You have now said, 'I love you--love me--ah! would
that you would love me!'"

"And I have said all these things?"

"You have said them in Armenian," said I.

"I would have said them in no language that I understood; and it was
very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance and make me say such
things."

"Why so?" said I. "If you said them, I said them, too."

"You did so," said Belle; "but I believe you were merely bantering and
jeering."

"As I told you before, Belle," said I, "the chief difficulty which I
find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying
to yourself and me every example I give."

"Then you meant nothing, after all?" said Belle, raising her voice.

"Let us proceed: sirietsi, I loved."

"You never loved anyone but yourself," said Belle; "and what's more----"

"Sirietsits, I will love," said I; "sirietsies, thou wilt love."

"Never one so thoroughly heartless."

"I tell you what, Belle--you are becoming intolerable. But we will
change the verb. You would hardly believe, Belle," said I, "that the
Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it
is. For example: that word parghatsoutsaniem is evidently derived from
the same root as fear-gaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say, 'I
vex.'"

"You do, indeed," said Belle, sobbing.

"But how do you account for it?"

"Oh, man, man!" cried Belle, bursting into tears, "for what purpose do
you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and
irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise
and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write."

"I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle," said I. "I had no idea
of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; what more can I do? Come,
cheer up, Belle. You were talking of parting; don't let us part, but
depart, and that together."

"Our ways lie different," said Belle.

"I don't see why they should," said I. "Come, let us be off to America
together."

"To America together?" said Belle.

"Yes," said I; "where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate
the verb siriel conjugally."

"Conjugally?" said Belle.

"Yes; as man and wife in America."

"You are jesting, as usual," said Belle.

"Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let us be off to
America."

"I don't think you are jesting," said Belle; "but I can hardly entertain
your offers; however, young man, I thank you. I will say nothing more at
present. I must have time to consider."

Next day, when I got up to go with Mr. Petulengro to the fair, on
leaving my tent I observed Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to
her own little encampment.

"Dear me," said I. "I little expected to find you up so early."

"I merely lay down in my things," said Belle; "I wished to be in
readiness to bid you farewell when you departed."

"Well, God bless you, Belle!" said I. "I shall be home to-night; by
which time I expect you will have made up your mind."

On arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle.
Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun
shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hand towards her.
She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel
Berners again.

The fourth morning afterwards I received from her a letter in which she
sent me a lock of her hair and told me she was just embarking for a
distant country, never expecting to see her own again. She concluded
with this piece of advice: "_Fear God_, and take your own part. Fear
God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, if
it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him
coarse names; but no sooner sees the man taking off his coat and
offering to fight, than it scatters, and is always civil to him
afterwards."


_III.--Horse-Keeping and Horse-Dealing_


After thus losing Isopel, I decided to leave the dingle, and having, by
Mr. Petulengro's kind advice, become the possessor of a fine horse, I
gave my pony and tinker's outfit to the gipsies, and set out on the
road, whereupon I was to meet with strange adventures.

At length, awaiting the time when I could take my horse to Horncastle
Fair and sell him, I settled at a busy inn on the high-road, where, in
return for board and lodging for myself and horse, I had to supervise
the distribution of hay and corn in the stables, and to keep an account
thereof. The old ostler, with whom I was soon on excellent terms, was a
regular character--a Yorkshireman by birth, who had seen a great deal of
life in the vicinity of London. He had served as ostler at a small inn
at Hounslow, much frequented by highway men. Jerry Abershaw and Richard
Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick, were capital customers then,
he told me, and he had frequently drunk with them in the corn-room. No
man could desire jollier companions over a glass of "summut"; but on the
road they were terrible, cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles
of their pistols into people's mouths.

From the old ostler I picked up many valuable hints about horses.

"When you are a gentleman," said he, "should you ever wish to take a
journey on a horse of your own, follow my advice. Before you start,
merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn, and a little
water--somewhat under a quart. Then you may walk and trot for about ten
miles till you come to some nice inn, where you see your horse led into
a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till you come. If the
ostler happens to have a dog, say what a nice one it is; if he hasn't,
ask him how he's getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; when
your back's turned, he'll say what a nice gentleman you are, and how he
thinks he has seen you before.

"Then go and sit down to breakfast, and before you have finished, get up
and go and give your horse a feed of corn; chat with the ostler two or
three minutes till your horse has taken the shine out of his corn, which
will prevent the ostler taking any of it away when your back's turned.
Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have finished your
breakfast, when you have called for the newspaper, go and water your
horse, letting him have about one pailful; then give him another feed of
corn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the
prime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken
the shine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper. Then
pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay without
counting it up--supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waiter
sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for
the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk
him gently for five miles.

"See to your horse at night, and have him well rubbed down. Next day,
you may ride your horse forty miles just as you please, and those will
bring you to your journey's end, unless it's a plaguey long one. If so,
never ride your horse more than five-and-thirty miles a day, always
seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him than yourself, seeing
as how he is the best animal of the two."

The stage-coachmen of that time--low fellows, but masters of driving--
were made so much fuss of by sprigs of nobility and others that their
brutality and rapacious insolence had reached a climax. One, who
frequented our inn, and who was called the "bang-up coachman," was a
swaggering bully, who not only lashed his horses unmercifully, but in
one or two instances had beaten in a barbarous manner individuals who
had quarrelled with him. One day an inoffensive old fellow of sixty, who
refused him a tip for his insolence, was lighting his pipe, when the
coachman struck it out of his mouth.

The elderly individual, without manifesting much surprise, said: "I
thank you; and if you will wait a minute I'll give you a receipt for
that favour." Then, gathering up his pipe, and taking off his coat and
hat, he advanced towards the coachman, holding his hands crossed very
near his face.

The coachman, who expected anything but such a movement, pointed at him
derisively with his finger. The next moment, however, the other had
struck aside the hand with his left fist, and given him a severe blow on
the nose with his right, which he immediately followed by a left-hand
blow in the eye. The coachman endeavoured to close, but his foe was not
to be closed with; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off the
blows of his opponent with the greatest _sangfroid_, always using the
same guard, and putting in short, chopping blows with the quickness of
lightning. In a very few minutes the coachman was literally cut to
pieces. He did not appear on the box again for a week, and never held up
his head afterwards.

Reaching Horncastle at last, I managed to get quarters for myself and
horse, and, by making friends with the ostlers and others, picked up
more hints.

"There a'n't a better horse in the fair," said one companion to me, "and
as you are one of us, and appear to be all right, I'll give you a piece
of advice--don't take less than a hundred and fifty for him."

"Well," said I, "thank you for your advice; and, if successful, I will
give you 'summut' handsome."

"Thank you," said the ostler; "and now let me ask whether you are up to
all the ways of this here place?"

"I've never been here before," said I.

Thereupon he gave me half a dozen cautions, one of which was not to stop
and listen to what any chance customer might have to say; and another,
by no manner of means to permit a Yorkshireman to get up into the
saddle. "For," said he, "if you do, it is three to one that he rides off
with the horse; he can't help it. Trust a cat amongst cream, but never
trust a Yorkshireman on the saddle of a good horse."

"A fine horse! A capital horse!" said several of the connoisseurs. "What
do you ask for him?"

"A hundred and fifty pounds," said I.

"Why, I thought you would have asked double that amount! You do yourself
injustice, young man."

"Perhaps I do," said I; "but that's my affair. I do not choose to take
more."

"I wish you would let me get into the saddle," said the man. "The horse
knows you, and therefore shows to more advantage; but I should like to
see how he would move under me, who am a stranger. Will you let me get
into the saddle, young man?"

"No," said I.

"Why not?" said the man.

"Lest you should be a Yorkshireman," said I, "and should run away with
the horse."

"Yorkshire?" said the man. "I am from Suffolk--silly Suffolk--so you
need not be afraid of my running away with him."

"Oh, if that's the case," said I, "I should be afraid that the horse
would run away with you!"

Threading my way as well as I could through the press, I returned to the
yard of the inn, where, dismounting, I stood still, holding the horse by
the bridle. A jockey, who had already bargained with me, entered,
accompanied by another individual.

"Here is my lord come to look at the horse, young man," said the jockey.
My lord was a tall figure of about five-and-thirty. He had on his head a
hat somewhat rusty, and on his back a surtout of blue rather worse for
wear. His forehead, if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were
brown, with a rat-like glare in them. He had scarcely glanced at the
horse when, drawing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips like a baboon
to a piece of sugar.

"Is this horse yours?" said he.

"It's my horse," said I. "Are you the person who wishes to make an
honest penny by it?" alluding to a phrase of the jockey's.

"How?" said he, drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and
speaking with a very haughty tone. "What do you mean?" We looked at each
other full in the face. "My agent here informs me that you ask one
hundred and fifty pounds, which I cannot think of giving. The horse is a
showy horse. But look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and in his
near foreleg I observe something which looks very much like a splint!
Yes, upon my credit, he has a splint, or something which will end in
one! A hundred and fifty pounds, sir! What could have induced you to ask
anything like that for this animal? I protest--Who are you, sir? I am in
treaty for this horse," said he, turning to a man who had come up whilst
he was talking, and was now looking into the horse's mouth.

"Who am I?" said the man, still looking into the horse's mouth. "Who am
I? his lordship asks me. Ah, I see, close on five," said he, releasing
the horse's jaws.

Close beside him stood a tall youth in a handsome riding dress, and
wearing a singular green hat with a high peak.

"What do you ask for him?" said the man.

"A hundred and fifty," said I.

"I shouldn't mind giving it to you," said he.

"You will do no such thing," said his lordship. "Sir," said he to me, "I
must give you what you ask."

"No," said I; "had you come forward in a manly and gentlemanly manner to
purchase the horse I should have been happy to sell him to you; but
after all the fault you have found with him I would not sell him to you
at any price."

His lordship, after a contemptuous look at me and a scowl at the jockey,
stalked out.

"And now," said the other, "I suppose I may consider myself as the
purchaser of this here animal for this young gentleman?"

"By no means," said I. "I am utterly unacquainted with either of you."

"Oh, I have plenty of vouchers for my respectability!" said he. And,
thrusting his hand into his bosom, he drew out a bundle of notes. "These
are the kind of things which vouch best for a man's respectability."

"Not always," said I; "sometimes these kind of things need vouchers for
themselves." The man looked at me with a peculiar look. "Do you mean to
say that these notes are not sufficient notes?" said he; "because, if
you do, I shall take the liberty of thinking that you are not over
civil; and when I thinks a person is not over and above civil I
sometimes takes off my coat; and when my coat is off----"

"You sometimes knock people down," I added. "Well, whether you knock me
down or not, I beg leave to tell you that I am a stranger in this fair,
and shall part with the horse to nobody who has no better guarantee for
his respectability than a roll of bank-notes, which may be good or not
for what I know, who am not a judge of such things."

"Oh, if you are a stranger here," said the man, "you are quite right to
be cautious, queer things being done in this fair. But I suppose if the
landlord of the house vouches for me and my notes you will have no
objection to part with the horse to me?"

"None whatever," said I.

Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler. The landlord
informed me that my new acquaintance was a respectable horse-dealer and
an intimate friend of his, whereupon the purchase was soon brought to a
satisfactory conclusion.


_IV.--A Recruiting Sergeant_


Leaving Horncastle the next day, I bent my steps eastward, and on the
following day I reached a large town situated on a river. At the end of
the town I was accosted by a fiery-faced individual dressed as a
recruiting sergeant.

"Young man, you are just the kind of person to serve the Honourable East
India Company."

"I had rather the Honourable Company should serve me," said I.

"Of course, young man. Take this shilling; 'tis service money. The
Honourable Company engages to serve you, and you the Honourable
Company."

"And what must I do for the Company?"

"Only go to India--the finest country in the world. Rivers bigger than
the Ouse. Hills higher than anything near Spalding. Trees--you never saw
such trees! Fruits--you never saw such fruits!"

"And the people--what kind are they?"

"Pah! Kauloes--blacks--a set of rascals! And they calls us lolloes,
which, in their beastly gibberish, means reds. Why do you stare so?"

"Why," said I, "this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro."

"I say, young fellow, I don't like your way of speaking; you are mad,
sir. You won't do for the Honourable Company. Good-day to you!"

"I shouldn't wonder," said I, as I proceeded rapidly eastward, "if Mr.
Petulengro came from India. I think I'll go there."

       *       *       *       *       *



M. E. BRADDON


Lady Audley's Secret

      Mary Elizabeth Maxwell, youngest daughter of Henry Braddon,
     solicitor, and widow of John Maxwell, publisher, was born in
     London in 1837. Early in life she had literary aspirations,
     and, as a girl of twenty-three, wrote her first novel, "The
     Trail of the Serpent," which first appeared in serial form.
     "Lady Audley's Secret" was published in 1862, and Miss Braddon
     immediately sprang into fame as an authoress, combining a
     graphic style with keen analysis of character, and exceptional
     ingenuity in the construction of a plot of tantalising
     complexities and DRAMATIC _DÉNOUEMENT_. The book passed
     through many editions, and there was an immediate demand for
     other stories by the gifted authoress. That demand was met
     with an industry and resource rarely equalled. Every year
     since, Miss Braddon, who throughout retained her maiden as her
     pen-name, furnished the reading public with one, and for a
     long period two romances of absorbing interest.


_I.--The Second Lady Audley_


SIR MICHAEL AUDLEY was fifty-six years of age, and had married a second
wife nine months before. For seventeen years he had been a widower with
an only child--Alicia, now eighteen. Lady Audley had come into the
neighbourhood from London, in response to an advertisement in the
"Times," as a governess in the family of Mr. Dawson, the village
surgeon. Her accomplishments were brilliant and numerous. Everyone, high
and low, loved, admired, and praised her, and united in declaring that
Lucy Graham was the sweetest girl that ever lived. Sir Michael Audley
expressed a strong desire to be acquainted with her. A meeting was
arranged at the surgeon's house, and that day Sir Michael's fate was
sealed. One misty June evening Sir Michael, sitting opposite Lucy Graham
at the window of the surgeon's little drawing-room, spoke to her on the
subject nearest his heart.

"I scarcely think," he said, "there is a greater sin, Lucy, than that of
a woman who marries a man she does not love. You are so precious to me
that, deeply as my heart is set on this, and bitter as the mere thought
of disappointment is to me, I would not have you commit such a sin for
any happiness of mine. Nothing but misery can result from a marriage
dictated by any motive but truth and love."

Lucy for some moments was quite silent. Then, turning to him with a
sudden passion in her manner that lighted up her face with a new and
wonderful beauty, she fell on her knees at his feet. Clutching at a
black ribbon about her throat, she exclaimed:

"How good, how noble, how generous you are! But you ask too much of me.
Only remember what my life has been! From babyhood I have never seen
anything but poverty. My father was a gentleman, but poor; my mother--
but don't let me speak of her. You can never guess what is endured by
genteel paupers. I cannot be disinterested; I cannot be blind to the
advantages of such a marriage. I do not dislike you--no, no; and I do
not love anyone in the world," she added, with a laugh, when asked if
there was anyone else.

Sir Michael was silent for a few moments, and then, with a kind of
effort, said: "Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you; but I see no
reason why we should not make a very happy couple."

When Lucy went to her own room she sat down on the edge of the bed, and
murmured: "No more dependence, no more drudgery, no more humiliations!
Every trace of the old life melted away, every clue to identity buried
and forgotten except this"--and she drew from her bosom a black ribbon
and locket, and the object attached to it. It was a ring wrapped in an
oblong piece of crumpled paper, partly written and partly printed.


_II.--The Return of the Gold-Seeker_


A tall, powerfully-built young man of twenty-five, his face bronzed by
exposure, brown eyes, bushy black beard, moustache, and hair, was pacing
impatiently the deck of the Australian liner Argus, bound from Melbourne
to Liverpool. His name was George Talboys. He was joined in his
promenade by a shipboard-friend, who had been attracted by the feverish
ardour and freshness of the young man, and was made the confidant of his
story.

"Do you know, Miss Morley," he said, "that I left my little girl asleep,
with her baby in her arms, and with nothing but a few blotted lines to
tell her why her adoring husband had deserted her."

"Deserted her!" cried Miss Morley.

"Yes. I was a cornet in a cavalry regiment when I first met my darling.
We were quartered in a stupid seaport town, where my pet lived with her
shabby old father--a half-pay naval man. It was a case of love at first
sight on both sides, and my darling and I made a match of it. My father
is a rich man, but no sooner did he hear that I was married to a
penniless girl than he wrote a furious letter telling me that he would
never again hold any communication with me, and that my yearly allowance
was stopped.

"I sold out my commission, thinking that before the money I got for it
was exhausted I should be sure to drop into something. I took my darling
to Italy, lived in splendid style, and then, when there was nothing left
but a couple of hundred pounds, we came back to England and boarded with
my wretched father-in-law, who fleeced us finely. I went to London and
tried in vain to get employment; and on my return, my little girl burst
into a storm of lamentations, blaming me for the cruel wrong of marrying
her if I could give her nothing but poverty and misery. Her tears and
reproaches drove me almost mad. I ran out of the house, rushed down to
the pier, intending, after dark, to drop quietly into the water and end
all.

"While I sat smoking two men came along, and began to talk of the
Australian gold-diggings and the great fortunes that were to be made
there in a short time. I got into conversation with them, and learned
that a ship sailed from Liverpool for Melbourne in three days. The
thought flashed on me that that was better than the water. I returned
home, crept upstairs, and wrote a few hurried lines which told her that
I never loved her better than now when I seemed to desert her; that I
was going to try my fortune in a new world; that if I succeeded I should
come back to bring her plenty and happiness, but if I failed I should
never look upon her face again. I kissed her hand and the baby once, and
slipped out of the room. Three nights after I was out at sea, bound for
Melbourne, a steerage passenger with a digger's tools for my baggage,
and seven shillings in my pocket. After three and a half years of hard
and bitter struggles on the goldfields, at last I struck it rich,
realised twenty thousand pounds, and a fortnight later I took my passage
for England. All this time I had never communicated with my wife, but
the moment fortune came, I wrote, telling her I should be in England
almost as soon as my letter, and giving her an address at a coffee-house
in London."

That same evening Phoebe Marks, maid to Lady Audley, invited her cousin
and sweetheart, Luke Marks, a farm labourer with ambitions to own a
public-house, to survey the wonders of Audley Court, including my lady's
private apartments and her jewel-box. During the inspection, by
accident, a knob in the framework of the jewel-box was pushed, and a
secret drawer sprang out There were neither gold nor gems in it. Only a
baby's little worsted shoe, rolled in a piece of paper, and a tiny lock
of silky yellow hair, evidently taken from a baby's head. Phoebe's eyes
dilated as she examined the little packet.

"So this is what my lady hides in the secret drawer," she said, putting
the little packet in her pocket.

"Why, Phoebe, you're never going to be such a fool as to take that?"
cried Luke.

"I'd rather have this than the diamond bracelet you would have liked to
take," she said, her lips curving into a curious smile. "You shall have
the public-house, Luke."


_III.--Robert Audley Comes on the Scene_


Robert Audley was supposed to be a barrister, and had chambers in Fig
Tree Court, Temple. He was a handsome, lazy, care-for-nothing fellow of
seven-and-twenty, the only son of the younger brother of Sir Michael
Audley, who had left him a moderate competency.

One morning, Robert Audley strolled out of the Temple, Blackfriarswards.
At the corner of a court in St. Paul's Churchyard he was almost knocked
down by a man of his own age dashing headlong into the narrow opening.
Robert remonstrated; the stranger stopped suddenly, looked very hard at
the speaker, and cried, in a tone of intense astonishment:

"Bob! I only touched British ground after dark last night, and to think
I should meet you this morning!"

George Talboys, for the stranger was the late passenger on board the
Argus, had been from boyhood the inseparable chum of Robert Audley. The
tale of Talboys' marriage, his expedition to Australia, and his return
with a fortune, was briefly told. The pair took a hansom to the
Westminster coffee-house where Talboys had written to his wife to
forward letters. There was no letter, and the young man showed very
bitter disappointment. By and by George mechanically picked up a "Times"
newspaper of a day or two before, and stared vacantly at the first page.
He turned a sickly colour, and pointed to a line which ran: "On the 24th
inst., at Ventnor-Isle of Wight, Helen Talboys, aged 22." He knew no
more until he opened his eyes in a room in his friend's chambers in the
Temple.

Next day he and Robert Audley journeyed by express to Ventnor, learned
on inquiry at the principal hotel that a Captain Maldon, whose daughter
was lately dead, was staying at Lansdowne Cottage; and thither they
proceeded. The captain and his little grandson, Georgey, were out.

George Talboys and his friend visited the churchyard where his wife was
buried, commissioned a mason to erect a headstone on the grave, and then
went to the beach to seek Captain Maldon and the little boy.

The captain, when he saw his son-in-law, coloured violently with
something of a frightened look. He told Talboys that only a few months
after his departure he and Helen came to live at Southampton, where she
had obtained a few pupils for the piano; but her health failed, and she
fell into a decline, of which she died. Broken-hearted, Talboys started
for Liverpool to take ship for Australia, but failed to catch the
steamer; returned to London, and accompanied Robert Audley on a long
visit to Russia.

A year passed, and Robert proposed to take his friend to Audley Court,
but had a letter from his cousin Alicia, saying that her stepmother had
taken into her head that she was too ill to entertain, though in reality
there was nothing the matter with her.

"My lady's airs and graces shan't keep us out of Essex, for all that,"
said Robert Audley. "We will go to a comfortable old inn in the village
of Audley."

Thither they went; but Lady Audley, who had casually seen him, although
he was unaware of it, continued on one excuse or another to avoid
meeting George Talboys. The two young men strolled up to the Court in
the absence of Sir Michael and Lady Audley, where they met Alicia
Audley, who showed them the lime walk and the old well.

Robert was anxious to see the portrait of his new aunt; but Lady
Audley's picture was in her private apartments, the door of which was
locked. Alicia remembered there was, unknown to Lady Audley, access to
these by means of a secret passage. In a spirit of fun the young men
explored the passage and reached the portrait. George Talboys sat before
it without uttering a word, only staring blankly.

"We managed it capitally; but I don't like the portrait," said Robert,
when they had crept back. "There is something odd about it."

"There is," answered Alicia. "We never have seen my lady look as she
does in that picture; but I think she could look so."

Next day Talboys and Robert went fishing. George pretended to fish;
Robert slept on the river-bank. The servants were at dinner at the
Court; Alicia had gone riding. Lady Audley sauntered out, book in hand,
to the shady lime walk. George Talboys came up to the hall, rang the
bell, was told that her ladyship was walking in the lime avenue. He
looked disappointed at the intelligence, and walked away. A full hour
and a half later, Lady Audley returned to the house, not coming from the
lime avenue, but from the opposite direction. In her own room she
confronted her maid, Phoebe. The eyes of the two women met.

"Phoebe Marks," said my lady presently, "you are a good girl; and while
I live and am prosperous, you shall not want a firm friend and a
twenty-pound note."


_IV.--The Search and the Counter Check_


Robert Audley awoke from his nap to find George Talboys gone. He
searched in the grounds and in the inn for him in vain. At the
railway-station he heard that a man who, from the description given,
might be Talboys, had gone by the afternoon train to London. In the
evening he went up to the Court to dinner. Lady Audley was gay and
fascinating; but gave a little nervous shudder when Robert, feeling
uneasy about his friend, said so.

Again, when Lady Audley was at the piano he observed a bruise on her
arm. She said that it was caused by tying a piece of ribbon too tightly
round her arm two or three days before. But Robert saw that the bruise
was recent, and that it had been made by the four fingers, one of which
had a ring, of a powerful hand.

Suspicion began to be aroused in the mind of Robert Audley, first as to
the real identity of Lady Audley; and second, as to the fate of his
friend. He brought into play all the keenness of his intellect, and
abandoned his lazy habits. He went to Southampton, saw Captain Maldon,
who told him that George Talboys had arrived the morning before at one
o'clock to have a look at his boy before sailing for Australia. On
inquiry at Liverpool, this proved to be false.

He sought the assistance of George's father, Squire Talboys, at Grange
Heath, Dorsetshire, to discover the murderer; but the squire resolutely
refused to accept that his son was dead. He was only hiding, hoping for
forgiveness, which would never be given.

The beautiful sister of George Talboys followed Robert when he left the
mansion and besought him passionately to avenge her brother's murder, in
which she implicitly believed, and this he promised to do.

Then he learned that Phoebe, Lady Audley's maid, had married her cousin
Luke Marks, who, under veiled threats, had obtained one hundred pounds
from her ladyship to enable him to lease the Castle Inn. And having
visited the place, and held conversation with the half-drunken landlord,
he felt assured that Luke Marks and his wife had by some means obtained
a sinister power over Lady Audley.

Robert thereafter traced the life history of Helen Maldon from her
marriage to George Talboys at Wildernsea, Yorkshire, her secret
departure from there after her husband's desertion, her appearance the
following day as a teacher in a girl's school at Brompton under the name
of Lucy Graham; her arrival as a governess in Essex, and finally her
marriage to Sir Michael Audley.

Once more he returned to the Court, where his uncle was lying ill,
attended by Lady Audley. He demanded a private audience of my lady, at
which he told her he had discovered the whole of the conspiracy
concocted by an artful woman who had speculated upon the chance of her
husband's death, and had secured a splendid position at the risk of
committing a crime.

"My friend, George Talboys," said Robert, "was last seen entering these
gardens, and was never seen to leave them. I will have such a search
made as shall level that house to the earth, and root up every tree
rather than I will fail in finding the grave of my murdered friend."

"You shall never live to do this," she said. "I will kill you first!"

That evening Lady Audley gave to her husband a gloss of what his nephew
had said, and boldly accused him of being mad. "You would," she said,
"never let anyone influence you against me, would you, darling?"

"No, my love; they had better not try it."

Lady Audley laughed aloud, with a gay, triumphant peal as she tripped
out of the room; but as she sat in her own chamber, brooding, she
muttered: "Dare I defy him? Will anything stop him but--death?"

Just then Phoebe Marks arrived to warn Lady Audley that Robert had
appeared at the Castle Inn. She also explained that a bailiff was in the
house, as the rent was due, and she wanted money to pay him out. Lady
Audley, insisted to Phoebe's astonishment, that she herself would bring
the money. She did so; and, unknown to Phoebe, cunningly set fire to the
inn, hoping that Robert Audley would meet his death. She and her maid
then left the inn to make the long tramp back to the Court. Half the
distance had been covered, when Phoebe looked back and saw a red glare
in the sky. She stopped, suddenly fell on her knees, and cried: "Oh, my
God! Say it's not true! It's too horrible!"

"What's too horrible?" said Lady Audley.

"The thought that is in my mind."

"I will tell you nothing except that you are a mad woman; and go home."
Lady Audley walked away in the darkness.


_V.--My Lady Tells the Truth_


Lady Audley next day was under the dominion of a terrible restlessness.
Towards the dinner hour she walked in the quadrangle. In the dusk she
lost all self-control when a figure approached. Her knees sank under her
and she dropped to the ground. It was Robert Audley who helped her to
rise and then led her into the library. In a pitiless voice he called
her the incendiary of the fire at the inn. Fortunately, he had changed
his room, and escaped being burnt to death, saving, at the same time,
Luke Marks. The day was now past, he insisted, for mercy, after last
night's deed of horror; and she should no longer pollute the Court with
her presence.

"Bring Sir Michael," she cried, "and I will confess everything!"

And so the confession was made. Briefly stated, it was that as a little
child, in a Hampshire coast village, when she asked where her mother
was, the answer always was that that was a secret. In a fit of passion
the foster-mother told her that her own mother was a madwoman in an
asylum many miles away. Afterwards, she learned that the madness was a
hereditary disease, and she was instructed to keep the secret because it
might affect her injuriously in after life. Then she detailed the story
of her life until her marriage with Sir Michael Audley, justifying that
on the ground that she had a right to believe her first husband was
dead. In the sunshine of love at Audley Court she felt, for the first
time in her life, the miseries of others, and took pleasure in acts of
kindness.

In an Essex paper she read of the return of her first husband to
England. Knowing his character, she thought that unless he could be
induced to believe she was dead, he would never abandon his search for
her. Again she became mad. In collusion with her father she induced a
Mrs. Plowson in Southampton, who had a daughter in the last stage of
consumption, to pass off that daughter as Mrs. George Talboys, and
removed her to Ventnor, Isle of Wight, with her own little boy schooled
to call her "mamma." There she died in a fortnight, was buried as Mrs.
George Talboys, and the advertisement of the death was inserted in the
"Times" two days before her husband's arrival in England.

Sir Michael could hear no more. He and his daughter Alicia departed that
evening for the Continent. Next day, Dr. Mosgrave, a mental specialist,
arrived from London. He was fully informed of the history of Lady
Audley, examined her, and finally reported to Robert: "The lady is not
mad, but she has a hereditary taint in her blood. She has the cunning of
madness, with the prudence of intelligence. She is dangerous." He gave
Robert a letter addressed to Monsieur Val, Villebrumeuse, Belgium, who,
he said, was the proprietor and medical superintendent of an excellent
_maison de santé_, and would, no doubt, willingly receive Lady Audley
into his establishment, and charge himself with the full responsibility
of her future life.

Robert escorted Lady Audley to Villebrumeuse, where she was presented to
Monsieur Val as Madame Taylor. When Monsieur Val retired from the
reception room, at my lady's request, she turned to Robert, and said:
"You have brought me to a living grave; you have used your power basely
and cruelly."

"I have done that which I thought was just to others, and merciful to
you," replied Robert. "Live here and repent."

"I cannot," cried my lady. "I would defy you and kill myself if I dared.
Do you know what I am thinking of? It is of the day upon which George
Talboys--disappeared! The body of George Talboys lies at the bottom of
the old well in the shrubbery beyond the lime walk. He came to me there,
goaded me beyond endurance, and I called him a madman and a liar. I was
going to leave him when he seized me by the wrist and sought to detain
me by force. You yourself saw the bruises. I became mad, and drew the
loose iron spindle from the shrunken wood of the windlass. My first
husband sank with one horrible cry into the black mouth of the well!"


_VI.--The Mystery Cleared Up_


On arrival in London, Robert Audley received a letter from Clara Talboys
saying that Luke Marks, the man whom he had saved in the fire at the
Castle Inn, was lying at his mother's cottage at Audley, and expressed a
very earnest wish to see him. Robert took train at once to Audley.

The dying man confessed that on the night of George Talboys's
disappearance, when going home to his mother's cottage, he heard groans
come from the laurel bushes in the shrubbery near the old well. On
search, he found Talboys covered with slime, and with a broken arm. He
carried the crippled man to his mother's cottage, washed, fed, and
nursed him.

Next day Talboys gave him a five-pound note to accompany him to the town
of Brentwood, where he called on a surgeon to have his broken arm set
and dressed. That done, Talboys wrote two notes in pencil with his left
hand, and gave them to Luke to deliver--one with a cross to be handed to
Lady Audley, and the other to the nephew of Sir Michael, and then took
train to London in a second-class carriage.

Phoebe, who had seen from her window Lady Audley pushing George Talboys
into the well, said that my lady was in their power, and that she would
do anything for them to keep her secret. So the letters were not
delivered.

He hid them away; not a creature had seen them. The old mother, who had
been present throughout the confession, took the papers from a drawer
and handed them to Robert Audley.

The note to Robert said that something had happened to the writer, he
could not tell what, which drove him from England, a broken-hearted man,
to seek some corner of the earth where he might live and die unknown and
forgotten. He left his son in his friend's hands, knowing that he could
leave him to no truer guardian. The second note was addressed "Helen,"
saying, "May God pity and forgive you for that which you have done
to-day, as truly as I do. Rest in peace. You shall never hear from me
again. I leave England, never to return.--G. T."

Luke Marks died that afternoon. Robert Audley wrote a long letter the
same evening, addressed to Madame Taylor, in which he told the story
related by Marks; and as soon as possible he went down to Dorsetshire to
inform George Talboys's father that his son was alive. He stayed five
weeks at Grange Heath, and the love which had come to him at first sight
of Clara Talboys rapidly ripened.

Consent to the marriage was given, with a blessing by the old
Roman-minded squire, and the pair agreed to go on their honeymoon trip
to Australia to look for the son and brother. Robert returned for the
last time to his bachelor chambers in the Temple. He was told that a
visitor was waiting for him. The visitor was George Talboys, and he
opened his arms to his lost friend with a cry of delight and surprise.
The tale was soon told. When George fell into the well he was stunned
and bruised, and his arm broken. After infinite pains and difficulties
he climbed to the top and hid in a clump of laurel bushes till the
arrival of Luke Marks. He had not been to Australia after all, but had
exchanged his berth on board the Victoria Regia for another in a ship
bound for New York. There he remained for a time till he yearned for the
strong clasp of the hand which guided him through the darkest passage of
his life.

Two years passed. In a fairy cottage on the banks of the Thames, between
Teddington Lock and Hampton Bridge, George Talboys lives with his sister
and brother-in-law, the latter having now obtained success at the Bar.
Georgey pays occasional visits from Eton to play with a pretty baby
cousin. It is a year since a black-edged letter came to Robert Audley,
announcing that Madame Taylor had died after a long illness, which
Monsieur Val described as _maladie de longueur_. Sir Michael Audley
lives in London with Alicia, who is very shortly to become the wife of
Sir Harry Towers, a sporting Herts baronet.

       *       *       *       *       *



EDWARD BRADLEY ("CUTHBERT BEDE")


The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green

      Edward Bradley is one of few English humorists of the
     mid-Victorian era who produced any work that is likely to
     survive the wear of time and change of taste. "The Adventures
     of Mr. Verdant Green," his earliest and best story, is, in its
     way, a masterpiece. Never has the lighter and gayer side of
     Oxford life been depicted with so much humour and fidelity;
     and what makes this achievement still more remarkable is the
     fact that Cuthbert Bede (to give Bradley the name which he
     adopted for literary purposes and made famous) was not an
     Oxford man. He was born at Kidderminster in 1827, and educated
     at Durham University, with the idea of becoming a clergyman.
     But not being old enough to take orders, he stayed for a year
     at Oxford, without, however, matriculating there. At the age
     of twenty he began to write for "Punch," and "The Adventures
     of Verdant Green" was composed in 1853, when he was still on
     the staff of that paper. The book, on its publication, had an
     immense vogue, and though twenty-six other books followed from
     his pen, it is still the most popular. He died on December 11,
     1889.


_I.--A Very Quiet Party_


As Mr. Verdant Green was sitting, sad and lonely, in his rooms
overlooking the picturesque, mediaeval quadrangle of Brazenface College,
Oxford, a German band began to play "Home, Sweet Home," with that truth
and delicacy of expression which the wandering minstrels of Germany seem
to acquire intuitively. The sweet melancholy of the air, as it came
subdued into softer tones by distance, would probably have moved any lad
who had just been torn from the shelter of his family to fight, all
inexperienced, the battle of life. On Mr. Verdant Green it had such an
overwhelming effect that when his scout, Filcher, entered the room he
found his master looking very red about the eyes, and furiously wiping
the large spectacles from which his nick-name, "Gig-lamps," was derived.

The fact was that Mr. Verdant Green was a freshman of the freshest kind.
It was his first day in Oxford. He had been brought up entirely by his
mother and a maiden aunt. Happily, Mr. Larkyns, the rector of Manor
Green, the charming Warwickshire village of which the Greens had been
squires from time immemorial, convinced his mother that Verdant needed
the society of young men of his own age. Mr. Larkyn's own son, a manly
young fellow named Charles, had already been sent up to Brazenface
College, where he was rapidly distinguishing himself; and after many
tears and arguments, Mrs. Green had consented to her boy also going up
to Oxford.

As we have said, Mr. Verdant Green felt very tearful and lonely as his
scout entered his rooms. But the appearance of Filcher reminded him that
he was now an Oxford man, and he resolved to begin his career by calling
upon Mr. Charles Larkyns.

He found Mr. Larkyns lolling on a couch, in dressing-gown and slippers.
Opposite to him was a gentleman whose face was partly hidden by a pewter
pot, out of which he was draining the last draught. Mr. Larkyns turned
his head, and saw dimly through the clouds of tobacco smoke that filled
his room a tall, thin, spectacled figure, with a hat in one hand, and an
envelope in the other.

"It's no use," he said, "stealing a march on me in this way. I don't owe
you anything; and if I did it is not convenient to pay it. Hang you
Oxford tradesmen! You really make a man thoroughly bill-ious. Tell your
master that I can't get any money out of my governor till I've got my
degree. Now make yourself scarce! You know where the door lies!"

Mr. Verdant Green was so confounded at this unusual reception that he
lost the power of motion and speech. But as Mr. Larkyns advanced towards
him in a threatening attitude, he managed to gasp out: "Why, Charles
Larkyns, don't you remember me, Verdant Green?"

"'Pon my word, old fellow," said his friend, "I thought you were a dun.
There are so many wretched tradesmen in this place who labour under the
impression that because a man buys a thing he means to pay for it, that
my life is mostly spent in dodging their messengers. Allow me," he
added, "to introduce you to Mr. Smalls. You will find him very useful in
helping you in your studies. He himself reads so hard that he is called
a fast man."

Mr. Smalls put down his pewter pot, and said that he had much pleasure
in forming the acquaintance of a freshman like Mr. Verdant Green; which
was undoubtedly true. And he then showed his absorbing interest in
literary studies by neglecting the society of Mr. Verdant Green and
immersing himself in the perusal of one of those vivid accounts of "a
rattling set-to between Nobby Buffer and Hammer Sykes" which make
"Bell's Life" the favourite reading of many Oxford scholars.

"I heard from my governor," said Mr. Larkyns, "that you were coming up,
and in the course of the morning I should have come to look you up. Have
a cigar, old chap?"

"Er--er--thank you very much," said Verdant, in a frightened way; "but I
have never smoked."

"Never smoked!" exclaimed Mr. Smalls, holding up "Bell's Life," and
making private signals to Mr. Larkyns. "You'll soon get the better of
that weakness! As you are a freshman, let me give you a little advice.
You know what deep readers the Germans are. That is because they smoke
more than we do. I should advise you to go at once to the
vice-chancellor and ask him for a box of good cigars. He will be
delighted to find you are beginning to set to work so soon."

Mr. Verdant Green thanked Mr. Smalls for his kind advice, and said that
he would go without delay to the vice-chancellor. And Mr. Smalls was so
delighted with the joke, for the vice-chancellor took severe steps to
prevent undergraduates from indulging in the fragrant weed, that he
invited Verdant to wine with him that evening.

"Just a small quiet party of hard-working men," said Mr. Smalls. "I hope
you don't object to a very quiet party."

"Oh, dear, no! I much prefer a quiet party," said Mr. Verdant Green;
"indeed, I have always been used to quiet parties; and I shall be very
glad to come."

In order to while away the time between then and evening, Mr. Charles
Larkyns offered to take Mr. Verdant Green over Oxford, and put him up to
a thing or two, and show him some of the freshman's sights. Naturally,
he got a considerable amount of fun out of his young and very credulous
friend. For some weeks afterwards, Mr. Verdant Green never met any of
the gorgeously robed beadles of the university without taking his hat
off and making them a profound bow. For, according to his information,
one of them was the vice-chancellor, and the rest were various
dignitaries and famous men.

By the time the inventive powers of Mr. Larkyns were exhausted, it was
necessary to dress for the very quiet party. Some hours afterwards, Mr.
Verdant Green was standing in a room filled with smoke and noise,
leaning rather heavily against the table. His friends had first tempted
him with a cigar; then, as his first smoke produced the strange effects
common in these cases, they had induced him to take a little strong
punch as a remedy. He was now leaning against the table in answer to the
call of "Mr. Gig-lamps for a song." Having decided upon one of those
vocal efforts which in the bosom of his family met with great applause,
he began to sing in low and plaintive tones, "'I dre-eamt that I dwelt
in Mar-ar-ble Halls, with'"--and then, alarmed by hearing the sound of
his own voice, he stopped.

"Try back, Verdant," shouted Mr. Larkyns.

Mr. Verdant Green tried back, but with an increased confusion of ideas,
resulting from the mixture of milk-punch and strong cigars. "'I dre-eamt
that I dwe-elt in Mar-arble Halls, with vassals and serfs at my
si-hi-hide; and--'--I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I really forget----oh,
I know--'And I also dre-eamt, which ple-eased me most--' No, that's not
it."

And, smiling very amiably, he sank down on the carpet, and went to sleep
under the table. Some time afterwards, two men were seen carrying an
inert body across the quad; they took it upstairs and put it on a bed.
And late the next morning, Mr. Verdant Green woke up with a splitting
headache, and wished that he had never been born.

As time went on, all the well-known practical jokes were played upon
him; and gradually--and sometimes painfully--he learnt the wisdom that
is not taught in books, nor acquired from maiden aunts.


_II.--Mr. Verdant Green Does as He Has Been Done By_


One morning, Mr. Green and one of his friends, little Mr. Bouncer, were
lounging in the gateway of Brazenface, when a modest-looking young man
came towards them. He seemed so ill at ease in his frock coat and high
collar that he looked as if he were wearing these articles for the first
time.

"I'll bet you a bottle of blacking, Gig-lamps," said Mr. Bouncer, "that
we have here an intending freshman. Let us take a rise out of him."

"Can you direct me to Brazenface College, please, sir?" said the
youthful stranger, flushing like a girl.

"This is Brazenface College," said Mr. Bouncer, looking very important.
"And, pray, what is your business here and your name?"

"If you please," said the stranger, "I am James Pucker. I came to enter,
sir, for my matriculation examination, and I wish to see the gentleman
who will examine me."

"Then you've come to the proper quarter, young man," said Mr. Bouncer.
"Here is Mr. Pluckem," turning to Mr. Verdant Green, "the junior
examiner."

Mr. Verdant Green took his cue with astonishing aptitude and glared
through his glasses at the trembling, blushing Mr. Pucker.

"And here," continued Mr. Bouncer, pointing to Mr. Fosbrooke, who was
coming up the street, "is the gentleman who will assist Mr. Pluckem in
examining you."

"It will be extremely inconvenient to me to examine you now," said Mr.
Fosbrooke; "but, as you probably wish to return home as soon as
possible, I will endeavour to conclude the business at once. Mr.
Bouncer, will you have the goodness to bring this young gentleman to my
rooms?"

Leaving Mr. Pucker to express his thanks for this great kindness to Mr.
Bouncer, who whiled away the time by telling him terrible stories about
the matriculation ordeal, Mr. Verdant Green and Fosbrooke ran upstairs,
and spread a newspaper over a heap of pipes and pewter pots and bottles
of ale, and prepared a table with pen, ink, and scribble-paper. Soon
afterwards, Mr. Bouncer led in the unsuspecting victim.

"Take a seat, sir," said Mr. Fosbrooke, gravely. And Mr. Pucker put his
hat on the ground, and sat down at the table in a state of blushing
nervousness. "Have you been at a public school?"

"Yes, sir," stammered the victim; "a very public one, sir. It was a
boarding school, sir. I was a day boy, sir, and in the first class."

"First class of an uncommon slow train!" muttered Mr. Bouncer.

"Now, sir," continued Mr. Fosbrooke, "let us see what your Latin writing
is like. Have the goodness to turn what I have written into Latin; and
be very careful," added Mr. Fosbrooke sternly, "be very careful that it
is good Latin!" And he handed Mr. Pucker a sheet of paper, on which he
had scribbled the following:

"To be turned into Latin after the Manner of the Animals of Tacitus: She
went into the garden to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie. Just then a
great she-bear, coming down the street, poked its nose into the shop
window. 'What! No soap? Bosh!' So he died, and she (very imprudently)
married the barber. And there were present at the wedding the
Joblillies, and the Piccannies, and the Gobelites, and the great
Panjandrum himself, with the little button on top. So they all set to
playing catch-who-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of
their boots."

It was well for the purposes of the hoaxers that Mr. Pucker's
trepidation prevented him from making a calm perusal of the paper; he
was nervously doing his best to turn the nonsensical English word by
word into equally nonsensical Latin, when his limited powers of Latin
writing were brought to a full stop by the untranslatable word "bosh."
As he could make nothing of this, he gazed appealingly at the benignant
features of Mr. Verdant Green. The appealing gaze was answered by our
hero ordering Mr. Pucker to hand in his paper, and reply to the
questions on history and Euclid. Mr. Pucker took the two papers of
questions, and read as follows:

HISTORY.

"1. Show the strong presumption there is, that Nox was the god of
battles.

"2. In what way were the shades on the banks of the Styx supplied with
spirits?

"3. Give a brief account of the Roman emperors who visited the United
States, and state what they did there.

EUCLID.

"1. Show the fallacy of defining an angle, as a worm at one end and a
fool at the other.

"2. If a freshman _A_ have any mouth _x_ and a bottle of wine _y_, show
how many applications of _x_ to _y_ will place _y_+_y_ before _A_.

"3. Find the value of a 'bob,' a 'tanner,' a 'joey,' a 'tizzy,' a
'poney,' and a 'monkey.'

"4. If seven horses eat twenty-five acres of grass in three days, what
will be their condition on the fourth day? Prove this by practice."

Mr. Pucker did not know what to make of such extraordinary and
unexpected questions. He blushed, tried to write, fingered his curls,
and then gave himself over to despair; whereupon Mr. Bouncer was seized
with an immoderate fit of laughter, which brought the farce almost to an
end.

"I'm afraid, young gentleman," said Mr. Bouncer, "that your learning is
not yet up to the Brazenface standard. But we will give you one more
chance to retrieve yourself. We will try a little _vivâ voce_, Mr.
Pucker. If a coach-wheel 6 inches in diameter and 5 inches in
circumference makes 240 revolutions in a second, how many men will it
take to do the same piece of work in ten days?"

Mr. Pucker grew redder and hotter than before, and gasped like a fish
out of water.

"I see you will not do for us yet awhile," said his tormentor, "and we
are therefore under the painful necessity of rejecting you. I should
advise you to read hard for another twelve months, and try to master
those subjects in which you have now failed."

Disregarding poor Mr. Pucker's entreaties to matriculate him this once
for the sake of his mother, when he would read very hard--indeed he
would--Mr. Fosbrooke turned to Mr. Bouncer and gave him some private
instructions, and Mr. Verdant Green immediately disappeared in search of
his scout, Filcher. Five minutes afterwards, as the dejected Mr. Pucker
was crawling out of the quad, Filcher came and led him back to the rooms
of Mr. Slowcoach, the real examining tutor.

"But I have been examined," Mr. Pucker kept on saying dejectedly. "I
have been examined, and they rejected me."

"I think it was an 'oax, sir," said Filcher.

"A what!" stammered Mr. Pucker.

"A 'oax--a sell," said the scout. "Those two gents has been 'aving a
little game with you, sir. They often does it with fresh parties like
you, sir, that seem fresh and hinnocent like."

Mr. Pucker was immensely relieved at this news, and at once went to Mr.
Slowcoach, who, after an examination of twenty minutes, passed him. But
Filcher was alarmed at the joyful way in which he rushed out of the
tutor's room.

"You didn't tell 'im about the 'oax, sir, did yer?" asked the scout
anxiously.

"Not a word," said the radiant Mr. Pucker.

"Then you're a trump, sir!" said Filcher. "And Mr. Verdant Green's
compliments to yer, sir, and will you come up to his rooms and take a
glass of wine with him, sir?"

It need hardly be said that the blushing Mr. Pucker passed a very
pleasant evening with his new friends, and that Mr. Verdant Green was
very proud of having got so far out of the freshman's stage of existence
as to take part in one of the most successful hoaxes in the history of
Oxford.


_III.--Town and Gown_


Mr. Verdant Green, Mr. Charles Larkyns, and a throng of their
acquaintances were sitting in Mr. Bouncer's rooms, on the evening of
November 5, when a knock at the oak was heard; and as Mr. Bouncer roared
out, "Come in!" the knocker entered. Opening the door, and striking into
an attitude, he exclaimed in a theatrical tone and manner:

"Scene, Mr. Bouncer's rooms in Brazenface; in the centre a table, at
which a party are drinking log-juice, and smoking cabbage leaves. Door,
left, third entrance. Enter the Putney Pet. Slow music; lights half
down."

Even Mr. Verdant Green did not require to be told the profession of the
Putney Pet. His thick-set frame, his hard-featured, battered, hang-dog
face proclaimed him a prize-fighter.

"Now for a toast, gentlemen," said Mr. Bouncer. "May the Gown give the
Town a jolly good hiding!"

This was received with great applause, and the Putney Pet was dressed
out in a gown and mortar-board, and the whole party then sallied out to
battle. From time immemorial it has been the custom at Oxford for the
town-people and the scholars to engage, at least once a year, in a wild
scrimmage, and the pitched battle was now due. No doubt it was not quite
fair for the men of Brazenface to bring the Putney Pet up from London
for the occasion; but for some years Gown had been defeated by Town, and
they were resolved to have their revenge.

When Mr. Bouncer's party turned the corner of Saint Mary's, they found
that the Town, as usual, had taken the initiative, and in a dense body
had swept the High Street and driven all the gownsmen before them. A
small knot of 'varsity men were manfully struggling against superior
numbers by St. Mary's Hall.

"Gown to the rescue!" shouted Mr. Bouncer, as he dashed across the
street. "Come on, Pet! Here we are in the thick of it, just in the nick
of time!"

Poor Mr. Verdant Green had never learnt to box. He was a lover of peace
and quietness, and would have preferred to have watched the battle from
a college window; but he had been drawn in the fray against his will by
Mr. Bouncer. He now rushed into the scrimmage with no idea of fighting,
and a valiant bargee singled him out as an easy prey, and aimed a heavy
blow at him. Instinctively doubling his fists, Mr. Verdant Green found
that necessity was indeed the mother of invention; and, with a passing
thought of what would be his mother's and his maiden aunt's feelings
could they see him fighting with a common bargeman, he managed to guard
off the blow. But he was not so fortunate in the second round, for the
bargee knocked him down, but was happily knocked down in turn by the
Putney Pet. The language of this gentle and refined scholar had become
very peculiar.

"There's a squelcher for you, my kivey," he said to the bargee, as he
sent him sprawling. Then, turning round, he asked a townsman: "What do
you charge for a pint of Dutch pink?" following up the question by
striking him on the nose.

Unused to being questioned in this violent way, the town party at last
turned and fled, and the gownsmen went in search of other foes to
conquer. Even Mr. Verdant Green felt desperately courageous when the
town took to their heels and vanished.

At Exeter College another town-and-gown fight was raging furiously. The
town mob had come across the Senior Proctor, the Rev. Thomas Tozer; and
while Old Towzer, as he was called, was trying to assert his proctorial
authority over them, they had jeered him, and torn his clothes, and
bespattered him with mud. A small group of gownsmen rushed to his
rescue.

"Oh, this is painful," said the Rev. Thomas Tozer, putting the
handkerchief to his bleeding nose. "This is painful! This is exceedingly
painful, gentlemen!"

He was at once surrounded by sympathising undergraduates, who begged him
to allow them to charge the town at once. But the Town far outnumbered
the Gown, and, in spite of the assistance of the reverend proctor, the
fight was going against them. The Rev. Thomas Tozer had just been
knocked down for the first time in his life, and the cry of "Gown to the
rescue!" fell very pleasantly on his ears. Mr. Verdant Green helped him
to rise, while the Putney Pet stepped before him and struck out right
and left. Ten minutes of scientific pugilism, and the fate of the battle
was decided. The Town fled every way, and the Rev. Thomas Tozer was at
last able to look calmly about him. He at once resumed his proctorial
duties.

"Why have you not on your gown, sir?" he said to the Putney Pet.

"I ax yer pardon, guv'nor," said the Pet deferentially. "I couldn't get
on in it, nohow. So I pocketed it; but some cove has gone and prigged
it."

"I am unable to comprehend the nature of your language, sir," said the
Rev. Thomas Tozer angrily, thinking it was an impudent undergraduate. "I
don't understand you, sir; but I desire at once to know your name and
college."

Mr. Bouncer, however, succeeded in explaining matters to the proctor,
who then congratulated the Pet on having displayed pugilistic powers
worthy of the Xystics of the noblest days of Ancient Rome. Both the Pet
and the undergraduates wondered what a Xystic was, but instead of
inquiring further into the matter, they went to the Roebuck, where,
after a supper of grilled bones and welsh-rabbits, Mr. Verdant Green
gave, "by particular request," his now celebrated song, "The Mar-arble
Halls."

The forehead of the singer was decorated with a patch of brown paper,
from which arose a strong smell of vinegar. But he was not ashamed of
it; indeed, he wore it all the next day, and was sorry when he had to
take it off--for was it not, in a way, a badge of courage?

From this time Mr. Verdant Green began to despise mere reading-men who
never went in for sports. He resolved at once to go in for them all. He
took to rowing, and was rescued from a watery grave by Mr. Bouncer.
Then, defeated but undaunted, he took to riding, and was thrown off. But
what did it matter? Before the term ended, he grew more accustomed to
the management of Oxford tubs and Oxford hacks.

It is true that the unfeeling man who reported the Torpid races for
"Bell's Life" had the unkindness to state in cold print; "Worcester
succeeded in making the bump at the Cherwell, in consequence of No. 3 of
the Brazenface boat suffering from fatigue." And on the copy of the
journal sent to Mrs. Green of Manor Green, her son sadly drew a pencil
line under "No. 3," and wrote: "This was me." But both Mrs. Green and
Miss Virginia Green were more than consoled when their beloved boy
returned home about midsummer with a slip of paper on which was written
and printed:

GREEN, VERDANT, È. Coll. AEn. Fac. Quiæstionibus Magistrorum Scholarum
in Parviso pro forma respondit.

        Ita testamur (GULIELMUS SMITH.
                     (ROBERTUS JONES.

In other words, Mr. Verdant Green had got through his Smalls. But, sad
to say, poor Mr. Bouncer had been plucked.

Mr. Verdant Green smiled to himself. It was the sheerest bit of good
luck that he had managed to get through. Still, he had learned more at
Oxford than was taught in books--he had learned to be a manly fellow in
spite of his gig-lamps.


       *       *       *       *       *



CHARLOTTE BRONTË


Jane Eyre

      Charlotte Brontë was born at Thornton, Yorkshire, England, on
     the 21st of April, 1816, of Irish and Cornish stock. By reason
     of her father's manner of living, she was utterly deprived of
     all companions of her own age. She therefore lived in a little
     world of her own, and by the time she was thirteen years of
     age, it had become her constant habit, and one of her few
     pleasures, to weave imaginary tales, idealising her favorite
     historical heroes, and setting forth in narrative form her own
     thoughts and feelings. Both Charlotte and her sisters Emily
     and Anne early found refuge in their habits of composition,
     and about 1845 made their first literary venture--a small
     volume of poems. This was not successful, but the authors were
     encouraged to make a further trial, and each began to prepare
     a prose tale. "Jane Eyre," perhaps the most poignant
     love-story in the English tongue, was published on October 16,
     1847. Its title ran: "Jane Eyre: an Autobiography. Edited by
     Currer Bell." The romantic story of its acceptance by the
     publishers has been told in our condensation of Mrs. Gaskell's
     "Life of Charlotte Brontë." (See LIVES AND LETTERS, Vol. IX.)
     Written secretly under the pressure of incessant domestic
     anxiety, as if with the very life-blood of its author, the
     wonderful intensity of the story kindled the imagination of
     the reading public in an extraordinary degree, and the
     popularity at once attained has never flagged. Though the
     experiences of Jane Eyre were not, except in comparatively
     unimportant episodes, the experiences of the authoress, Jane
     Eyre is Charlotte Brontë. One of the most striking features of
     the book--a feature preserved in the following summary--is the
     haunting suggestion of sympathy between nature and human
     emotion. The publication of "Jane Eyre" removed its authoress
     from almost straitened circumstances and a narrow round of
     life to material comfort and congenial society. In reality it
     endowed at once the most diffident of women with lasting fame.
     After a brief period of married life, Charlotte Brontë died on
     March 31, 1855.


_I.--The Master of Thornfield Hall_


Thornfield, my new home after I left school, was, I found, a fine old
battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had answered my advertisement,
a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr. Rochester, the owner of
the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little pupil.

It was not till three months after my arrival there that my adventures
began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show me over the house, much of
which was unoccupied. The third storey especially had the aspect of a
home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and quaintness.

"If there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt," said
Mrs. Fairfax, as we passed the range of apartments on our way to see the
view from the roof.

I was pacing through the corridor of the third floor on my return, when
the last sound I expected in so still a region struck my ear--a laugh,
distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low, but it passed off
in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.

"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you hear that laugh? Who is it?"

"Some of the servants very likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."

The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.

"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I didn't expect Grace to answer, for the laugh was preternatural.

Nevertheless, the door nearest me opened, and a servant came out--a set,
square-made figure, with a hard, plain face.

"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!"

Grace curtseyed silently, and went in.

Not unfrequently after that I heard Grace Poole's laugh and her
eccentric murmurs, stranger than her laugh.

Late one fine, calm afternoon in January I volunteered to carry to the
post at Hay, two miles distant, a letter Mrs. Fairfax had just written.
The lane to Hay inclined uphill all the way, and having reached the
middle, I sat on a stile till the sun went down, and on the hill-top
above me stood the rising moon. The village was a mile distant, but in
the absolute hush I could hear plainly its murmurs of life.

A rude noise broke on the fine ripplings and whisperings of the evening
calm, a metallic clatter, a horse was coming. The windings of the lane
hid it as it approached. Then I heard a rush under the hedge, and close
by glided a great dog, not staying to look up. The horse followed--a
tall steed, and on its back a rider. He passed; a sliding sound, a
clattering tumble, and man and horse were down. They had slipped on the
sheet of ice which glased the causeway. The dog came bounding back,
sniffed round the prostrate group, and then ran up to me; it was all he
could do. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller struggling
himself free of his steed. I think he was swearing, but am not certain.

"Can I do anything?" I asked.

"You can stand on one side," he answered as he rose. Whereupon began a
heaving, stamping process, accompanied by a barking and baying, and the
horse was re-established and the dog silenced with a "Down, Pilot!"

"If you are hurt and want help, sir," I remarked, "I can fetch someone,
either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay."

"Thank you, I shall do. I have no broken bones, only a sprain." And he
limped to the stile.

He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow. His eyes and
gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted; he was past youth, but had
not reached middle age--perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear
of him and but little shyness. His frown and roughness set me at ease.

He waved me to go, but I said:

"I cannot think of leaving you in this solitary lane till you are fit to
mount your horse."

"You ought to be at home yourself," said he. "Where do you come from?"

"From just below."

"Do you mean that house with the battlements?"

"Yes, sir."

"Whose house is it?"

"Mr. Rochester's."

"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"You are not a servant at the Hall, of course. You are--"

"I am the governess."

"Ah, the governess!" he repeated. "Deuce take me if I had not forgotten!
Excuse me," he continued, "necessity compels me to make you useful."

He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, limped to his horse, caught the
bridle, and, grimacing grimly, sprang into the saddle and, with a "Thank
you," bounded away.

When I returned from Hay, after posting Mrs. Fairfax's letter, I went to
her room. She was not there, but sitting upright on the rug was a great
black-and-white long-haired dog. I went forward and said, "Pilot," and
the thing got up, came to me, sniffed me, and wagged his great tail. I
rang the bell.

"What dog is this?"

"He came with master, who has just arrived. He has had an accident, and
his ankle is sprained."

The next day I was summoned to take tea with Mr. Rochester and my pupil.
When I entered he was looking at Adela, who knelt on the hearth beside
Pilot.

"Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way.

Mr. Rochester bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog
and the child.

I sat down, disembarrassed. Politeness might have confused me; caprice
laid me under no obligation.

Mrs. Fairfax seemed to think someone should be amiable, and she began to
talk.

"Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got.

"Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away. "When
you came on me in Hay lane last night I thought unaccountably of fairy
tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse.
I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?"

"I have none."

"I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on
that stile?"

"For whom, sir?"

"For the men in green. Did I break through one of your rings that you
spread that ice on the causeway?"

I shook my head.

"The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago. I don't think
either summer or harvest or winter moon will ever shine on their revels
more."

Mrs. Fairfax dropped her knitting, wondering what sort of talk this was,
and remarked that Miss Eyre had been a kind and careful teacher.

"Don't trouble yourself to give her a character," returned Mr.
Rochester. "I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse."

"You said Mr. Rochester was not peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax," I remonstrated,
when I rejoined her in her room after putting Adela to bed.

After a time my master's manner towards me changed. It became more
uniform. I never seemed in his way. He did not take fits of chilling
hauteur. When he met me, the encounter seemed welcome; he always had a
word, and sometimes a smile. I felt at times as if he were my relation
rather than my master, and so happy did I become that the blanks of
existence were filled up. He had now been resident eight weeks, though
Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed at the Hall longer than a fortnight.


_II.--The Mystery of the Third Floor_


One night, I hardly know whether I had been sleeping or musing, I
started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious.
It ceased, but my heart beat anxiously; my inward tranquillity was
broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then my
chamber-door was touched as if fingers swept the panels groping a way
along the dark gallery outside. I was chilled with fear. Then I
remembered that it might be Pilot, and the idea calmed me. But it was
fated I should not sleep that night, for at the very keyhole of my
chamber, as it seemed, a demoniac laugh was uttered. My first impulse
was to rise and fasten the bolt, my next to cry: "Who is there?" Ere
long steps retreated up the gallery towards the third floor staircase,
and then all was still.

"Was it Grace Poole?" thought I. I hurried on my frock, and with a
trembling hand opened the door. There, burning outside, left on the
matting of the gallery, was a candle; and the air was filled with smoke,
which rushed in a cloud from Mr. Rochester's room. In an instant I was
within the chamber. Tongues of fire darted round the bed; the curtains
were on fire, and in the midst lay Mr. Rochester, in deep sleep. I shook
him, but he seemed stupefied. Then I rushed to his basin and ewer, and
deluged the bed with water. He woke with the cry: "Is there a flood?
What is it?"

I briefly related what had transpired. He was now in his dressing-gown,
and, warning me to stay where I was and call no one, he added: "I must
pay a visit to the third floor." A long time elapsed ere he returned,
pale and gloomy.

"I have found it all out," said he; "it is as I thought. You are no
talking fool. Say nothing about it."

He held out his hand as we parted. I gave him mine; he took it in both
his own.

"You have saved my life. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a
debt. I feel your benefits no burden, Jane."

Strange energy was in his voice.

Till morning I was tossed on a buoyant, but unquiet sea. In the morning
I heard the servants exclaim how providential that master thought of the
water-jug when he had left the candle alight; and passing the room, I
saw, sewing rings on the new curtains, no other than--Grace Poole.

Company now came to the hall, including the beautiful Miss Ingram, whom
rumour associated with Mr. Rochester, as I heard from Mrs. Fairfax.

One day Mr. Rochester had been called away from home, and on his return,
as I was the first inmate of the house to meet him, I remarked: "Oh, are
you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived since you left
this morning?"

"A stranger! no; I expected no one; did he give his name?"

"His name is Mason, sir, and he comes from the West Indies."

Mr. Rochester was standing near me, and as I spoke he gave my wrist a
convulsive grip, while a spasm caught his breath, and he turned whiter
than ashes.

"Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired.

"Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!" he staggered.

Then he sat down and made me sit beside him.

"My little friend," said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with only
you; and trouble and danger and hideous recollections were removed from
me."

"Can I help you, sir? I'd give my life to serve you."

"Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands."

"Thank you, sir; tell me what to do."

"Go back into the room; step quietly up to Mason, tell him Mr. Rochester
has come and wishes to see him; show him in here, and then leave me."

At a late hour that night I heard the visitors repair to their chambers
and Mr. Rochester saying: "This way, Mason; this is your room."

He spoke cheerfully, and the gay tones set my heart at ease.

Awaking in the dead of night I stretched my hand to draw the curtain,
for the moon was full and bright. Good God! What a cry! The night was
rent in twain by a savage, shrilly sound that ran from end to end of
Thornfield Hall.

The cry died and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that
fearful shriek could not soon repeat it; not the widest-winged condor on
the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the
cloud shrouding his eyrie.

It came out of the third storey. And overhead--yes, in the room just
above my chamber, I heard a deadly struggle, and a half-smothered voice
shout, "Help! help!"

A chamber door opened; someone rushed along the gallery. Another step
stamped on the floor above, and something fell. Then there was silence.

The sleepers were all aroused and gathered in the gallery, which but for
the moonlight would have been in complete darkness. The door at the end
of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. He had
just descended from the upper storey.

"All's right!" he cried. "A servant has had a nightmare, that is all,
and has taken a fit with fright. Now I must see you all back to your
rooms." And so by dint of coaxing and commanding he contrived to get
them back to their dormitories.

I retreated unnoticed and dressed myself carefully to be ready for
emergencies. About an hour passed, and then a cautious hand tapped low
at my door.

"Are you up and dressed?"

"Yes."

"Then come out quietly."

Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

"Bring a sponge and some volatile salts," said he.

I did so, and followed him.

"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

"I think not; I have never been tried yet."

We entered a room with an inner apartment, from whence came a snarling,
snatching sound. Mr. Rochester went forward into this apartment, and a
shout of laughter greeted his entrance. Grace Poole, then, was there.
When he came out he closed the door behind him.

"Here, Jane!" he said.

I walked round to the other side of the large bed in the outer room, and
there, in an easy-chair, his head leaned back, I recognised the pale and
seemingly lifeless face of the stranger, Mason. His linen on one side
and one arm was almost soaked in blood.

Mr. Rochester took the sponge, dipped it in water, moistened the
corpse-like face, and applied my smelling-bottle to the nostrils.

Mr. Mason unclosed his eyes and murmured: "Is there immediate danger?"

"Pooh!--a mere scratch! I'll fetch a surgeon now, and you'll be able to
be removed by the morning."

"Jane," he continued, "you'll sponge the blood when it returns, and put
your salts to his nose; and you'll not speak to him on any pretext--and,
Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her."

Two hours later the surgeon came and removed the injured man.

In the morning I heard Rochester in the yard, saying to some of the
visitors, "Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone
before sunrise. I rose to see him off."


_III.--The Shadowy Walk_


A splendid midsummer shone over England. In the sweetest hour of the
twenty-four, after the sun had gone down in simple state, and dew fell
cool on the panting plain, I had walked into the orchard, to the giant
horse-chestnut, near the sunk fence that separates the Hall grounds from
the lonely fields, when there came to me the warning fragrance of Mr.
Rochester's cigar. I was about to retreat when he intercepted me, and
said: "Turn back, Jane; on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the
house." I did not like to walk alone with my master at this hour in the
shadowy orchard, but could find no reason for leaving him.

"Jane," he recommenced, as we slowly strayed down in the direction of
the horse-chestnut, "Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it
not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you must have become in some degree attached to it?"

"I am attached to it, indeed."

"Pity!" he said, and paused.

"Must I move on, sir?" I asked.

"I believe you must, Jane."

This was a blow, but I did not let it prostrate me.

"Then you are going to be married, sir?"

"In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom. We have been good friends,
Jane, have we not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Here is the chestnut-tree; come, we will sit here in peace to-night."
He seated me and himself.

"Jane, do you hear the nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!"

In listening, I sobbed convulsively, for I could repress what I endured
no longer, and when I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous
wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.

"Because you are sorry to leave it?"

The vehemence of emotion was claiming mastery, and struggling for full
sway--to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes--and to speak.

"I grieve to leave Thornfield. I love Thornfield, because I have lived
in it a full and delightful life. I have not been trampled on; I have
not been petrified. I have talked face to face with what I delight
in--an original, a vigorous and expanded mind. I have known you, Mr.
Rochester. I see the necessity of departure, but it is like looking on
the necessity of death."

"Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly.

"Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?" I retorted, roused
to something like passion. "Do you think, because I am poor, obscure,
plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have
as much soul as you--and full as much heart! I am not talking to you now
through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even mortal flesh.
It is my spirit that addresses your spirit, just as if both had passed
through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal--as we are!"

"As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester, gathering me to his heart and
pressing his lips on my lips. "So, Jane!"

"Yes, so, sir!" I replied. "I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere
now. Let me go!"

"Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird, rending
its own plumage in its desperation."

"I am no bird, and no net ensnares me. I am a free human being, with an
independent will, which I now exert to leave you."

Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

"And your will shall decide your destiny," he said. "I offer you my
hand, my heart, and a share in all my possessions."

A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel walk and trembled through
the boughs of the chestnut; it wandered away--away to an infinite
distance--it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the
hour; in listening to it again, I wept.

Mr. Rochester sat looking at me gently, and at last said, drawing me to
him again: "My bride is here, because my equal is here, and my likeness.
Jane, will you marry me? Give me my name--Edward. Say, 'I will marry
you.'"

"Are you in earnest? Do you love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your
wife?"

"I do. I swear it!"

"Then, sir, I will marry you."

"God pardon me, and man meddle not with me. I have her, and will hold
her!"

But what had befallen the night? And what ailed the chestnut-tree? It
writhed and groaned, while the wind roared in the laurel walk.

"We must go in," said Mr. Rochester; "the weather changes."

He hurried me up the walk, but we were wet before we could pass the
threshold.


_IV.--The Mystery Explained_


There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or
marshal; none but Mr. Rochester and I. I wonder what other bridegroom
looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, so resolutely grim. Our place
was taken at the communion rails. All was still; two shadows only moved
in a remote corner of the church.

As the clergyman's lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for
thy wedded wife?" a distinct and near voice said: "The marriage cannot
go on. I declare the existence of an impediment."

"What is the nature of the impediment?" asked the clergyman.

"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage," said the
speaker. "Mr. Rochester has a wife now living."

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated
to thunder. I looked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me. His face
was colourless rock; his eye both spark and flint; he seemed as if he
would defy all things.

"Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward," said the stranger.

"Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still
living?" inquired the clergyman.

"She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, with white lips. "I
saw her there last April. I am her brother."

I saw a grim smile contract Mr. Rochester's lip.

"Enough," said he. "Wood"--to the clergyman--"close your book; John
Green"--to the clerk--"leave the church; there will be no wedding
to-day."

"Bigamy is an ugly word," he continued, "but I meant to be a bigamist.
This girl thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamt she was going
to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch already
bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner. Follow me. I invite you all
to visit Grace Poole's patient and my wife!"

We passed up to the third storey, and there, in the deep shade of the
inner room beyond the room where I had watched over the wounded Mason,
ran backward and forward, seemingly on all fours, a figure, whether
beast or human one could not at first sight tell. It snatched and
growled like some wild animal. It was covered with clothing; but a
quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.

"That is my wife," said Mr. Rochester, "whom I was cheated into marrying
fifteen years ago--a mad woman and a drunkard, of a family of idiots and
maniacs for three generations. And this is what I wished to
have"--laying his hand on my shoulder--"this young girl who stands so
grave and quiet, at the mouth of hell. Jane," he continued, in an
agonised tone, "I never meant to wound you thus."

Reader! I forgave him at the moment, and on the spot. I forgave him all;
yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart's core.

That night I never thought to sleep, but a slumber fell on me as soon as
I lay down in bed, and in my sleep a vision spoke to my spirit:
"Daughter, flee temptation!" I rose with the dim dawn. One word
comprised my intolerable duty--Depart!

After three days wandering and starvation on the north-midland moors,
for hastily and secretly I had travelled by coach as far from Thornfield
as my money would carry me, I found a temporary home at the vicarage of
Morton, until the clergyman of that moorland parish, Mr. St. John
Rivers, secured for me--under the assumed name of Jane Elliott--the
mistresship of the village school.

At Christmas I left the school. As the spring advanced St. John Rivers,
who, with an icy heroism, was possessed by the idea of becoming a
missionary, urged me strongly to accompany him to India as his wife, on
the grounds that I was docile, diligent, and courageous, and would be
very useful. I felt such veneration for him that I was tempted to cease
struggling with him--to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf
of his existence, and there lose my own.


_V.--Reunion_


The time came when he called on me to decide. I fervently longed to do
what was right, and only that. "Show me the path, show me the path!" I
entreated of Heaven.

My heart beat fast and thick; I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still
to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through. My senses rose
expectant; ear and eye waited, while the flesh quivered on my bones. I
saw nothing; but I heard a voice, somewhere, cry "Jane! Jane! Jane!"--
nothing more.

"Oh, God! What is it?" I gasped. I might have said, "Where is it?" for
it did not seem in the room, nor in the house, nor in the garden, nor
from overhead. And it was the voice of a human being--a loved,
well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in
pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.

"I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me!" I ran out into the garden; it was
void.

"Down, superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the
black yew at the gate.

I mounted to my chamber, locked myself in, fell on my knees, and seemed
to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in
gratitude at His feet.

Then I rose from the thanksgiving, took a resolve, and lay down,
unscared, enlightened, eager but for the daylight.

Thirty-six hours later I was crossing the fields to where I could see
the full front of my master's mansion, and, looking with a timorous joy,
saw--a blackened ruin.

Where, meantime, was the hapless owner?

I returned to the inn, where the host himself, a respectable middle-aged
man, brought my breakfast into the parlour. I scarcely knew how to begin
my questions.

"Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?"

"No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. It was burnt down about
harvest time. The fire broke out at dead of night."

"Was it known how it originated?"

"They guessed, ma'am; they guessed. There was a lady--a--a lunatic kept
in the house. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole, an
able woman but for one fault--she kept a private bottle of gin by her;
and the mad lady would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out
of her chamber, and go roaming about the house doing any wild mischief
that came into her head. Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke
out, and he went up to the attics and got the servants out of their
beds, and then went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And then
they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was waving
her arms and shouting till they could hear her a mile off. She was a big
woman, and had long, black hair; and we could see it streaming against
the flames as she stood. We saw Mr. Rochester approach her and call
'Bertha!' And then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next
minute lay dead, smashed on the pavement."

"Were any other lives lost?"

"No. Perhaps it would have been better if there had. Poor Mr. Edward! He
is stone-blind."

I had dreaded he was mad.

"As he came down the great staircase it fell, and he was taken out of
the ruins with one eye knocked out and one hand so crushed that the
surgeon had to amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed, and he lost
the sight of that also."

"Where does he live now?"

"At Ferndean, a manor house on a farm he has--quite a desolate spot. Old
John and his wife are with him; he would have none else."

To Ferndean I came just ere dusk, walking the last mile. As I
approached, the narrow front door of the grange slowly opened, and a
figure came out into the twilight; a man without a hat. He stretched
forth his hand to feel whether it rained. It was my master, Edward
Fairfax Rochester.

He groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the
door. I now drew near and knocked, and John's wife opened for me.

"Mary," I said, "how are you?"

She started as if she had seen a ghost. I calmed her, and followed her
into the kitchen, where I explained in a few words that I should stay
for the night, and that John must fetch my trunk from the turnpike
house. At this moment the parlour bell rang.

Mary proceeded to fill a glass with water and place it on a tray,
together with candles.

"Give the tray to me; I will carry it in."

The old dog Pilot pricked up his ears as I entered the room; then he
jumped up with a yelp, and bounded towards me, almost knocking the tray
from my hands.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mr. Rochester.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture. "Who is this?" he demanded
imperiously.

"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the
glass," I said.

"What is it? Who speaks?"

"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here," I answered.

He groped, and, arresting his wandering hand, I prisoned it in both
mine.

"Her very fingers! Her small, slight fingers! Is it Jane--Jane Eyre?" he
cried.

"My dear master, I am Jane Eyre. I have found you out; I am come back to
you!"

       *       *       *       *       *



Shirley

      "Shirley," Charlotte Brontë's second novel, was published two
     years after "Jane Eyre"--on October 26, 1849. The writing of
     it was a tragedy. When the book was begun, her brother,
     Branwell, and her two sisters, Emily and Anne Brontë, were
     alive. When it was finished all were dead, and Charlotte was
     left alone with her aged father. In the character of Shirley
     Keeldar the novelist tried to depict her sister Emily as she
     would have been had she been placed in health and prosperity.
     Nearly all the characters were drawn from life, and drawn so
     vividly that they were recognised locally. Caroline Helstone
     was sketched from Ellen Nussey, Charlotte Brontë's dearest
     friend, who furnished later much of the material for the best
     biographies of the novelist. "Shirley" fully sustained at the
     time of its publication, the reputation won through "Jane
     Eyre"; but under the test of time the story--owing, no doubt,
     to the conditions under which it was written--has not taken
     rank with that first-fruit of genius, "Jane Eyre," or that
     consummation of genius, "Villette."


_I.--In the Dark Days of the War_


Released from the business yoke, Robert Moore was, if not lively
himself, a willing spectator of the liveliness of Caroline Helstone, his
cousin, a complacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to her
questions. Sometimes he was better than this--almost animated, quite
gentle and friendly. The drawback was that by the next morning he was
frozen up again.

To-night he stood on the kitchen hearth of Hollow's cottage, after his
return from Whinbury cloth-market, and Caroline, who had come over to
the cottage from the vicarage, stood beside him. Looking down, his
glance rested on an uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with
silky curls, lit with fine eyes. Moore placed his hand a moment on his
young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.

"Are you certain, Robert, you are not fretting about your frames and
your business, and the war?" she asked.

"Not just now."

"Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's cottage too small for you, and
narrow, and dismal?"

"At this moment, no."

"Can you affirm that you are not bitter at heart because rich and great
people forget you?"

"No more questions. I am not anxious to curry favour with rich and great
people. I only want means--a position--a career."

"Which your own talent and goodness shall win for you. You were made to
be great; you shall be great."

"Ah! You judge me with your heart; you should judge me with your head."

It was the dark days of the Napoleonic wars, when the cloth of the West
Riding was shut out from the markets of the world, and ruin threatened
the manufacturers, while the introduction of machinery so reduced the
numbers of the factory hands that desperation was born of misery and
famine.

Robert Moore, of Hollow's Mill, was one of the most unpopular of the
mill-owners, partly because he haughtily declined to conciliate the
working class, and partly because of his foreign demeanour, for he was
the son of a Flemish mother, had been educated abroad, and had only come
home recently to attempt to retrieve, by modern trading methods, the
fallen fortune of the ancient firm of his Yorkshire forefathers.

The last trade outrage of the district had been the destruction on
Stilbro' Moor of the new machines that were being brought by night to
his mill.

Caroline Helstone was eighteen years old, drawing near the confines of
illusive dreams. Elf-land behind her, the shores of Reality in front. To
herself she said that night, after Robert had walked home with her to
the rectory gate: "I love Robert, and I feel sure that he loves me. I
have thought so many a time before; to-day I felt it."

And Robert, leaning later on his own yard gate, with the hushed, dark
mill before him, exclaimed: "This won't do. There's weakness--there's
downright ruin in all this."

For Caroline Helstone was a fatherless and portionless girl, entirely
dependent on her uncle, the vicar of Briarfield.


_II.--The Master of Hollows Mill_


"Come, child, put away your books. Lock them up! Get your bonnet on; I
want you to make a call with me."

"With you, uncle?"

Thus the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, the imperious little vicar of
Briarfield, to his niece, who, obeyed his unusual request, asked where
they were going.

"To Fieldhead," replied the Rev. Matthewson Helstone. "We are going to
see Miss Shirley Keeldar."

"Miss Keeldar! Is she come to Yorkshire?"

"She is; and will reside for a time on her property."

The Keeldars were the lords of the manor, and their property included
the mill rented by Mr. Robert Moore.

The visitors were received at Fieldhead by a middle-aged nervous English
lady, to whom Caroline at once found it natural to talk with a gentle
ease, until Miss Shirley Keeldar, entering the room, introduced them to
Mrs. Pryor, who, she added, "was my governess, and is still my friend."

Shirley Keeldar was no ugly heiress. She was agreeable to the eye,
gracefully made, and her face, pale, intelligent, and of varied
expression, also possessed the charm of grace.

The interview had not proceeded far before Shirley hoped they would
often have the presence of Miss Helstone at Fieldhead; a request
repeated by Mrs. Pryor.

"You are distinguished more than you think," said Shirley, "for Mrs.
Pryor often tantalises me by the extreme caution of her judgments. I
have entreated her to say what she thinks of my gentleman-tenant, Mr.
Moore, but she evades an answer. What are Mr. Moore's politics?"

"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector; "narrow, selfish, and
unpatriotic."

"He looks a gentleman, and it pleases me to think he is such."

"And decidedly he is," joined in Caroline, in distinct tones.

"You are his friend, at any rate," said Shirley, flashing a searching
glance at the speaker.

"I am both his friend and relative."

"I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart--the old mill, and the
white cottage, and the counting-house."

"And the trade?" inquired the rector.

"Half my income comes from the works in that Hollow."

"Don't enter into partnership, that's all."

"You've put it into my head!" she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. "It
will never get out; thank you."

Some days later, the new friends were walking together towards the
rectory when the talk turned on the qualities which prove that a man can
be trusted.

"Do you know what soothsayers I would consult?" asked Caroline.

"Let me hear."

"Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young; the little Irish beggar that
comes barefoot to my door; the mouse that steals out of the cranny in
the wainscot; the bird that, in frost and snow, pecks at the window for
a crumb. I know somebody to whose knee the black cat loves to climb,
against whose shoulder and cheek it loves to purr. The old dog always
comes out of his kennel and wags his tail when somebody passes."

"Is it Robert?"

"It is Robert."

"Handsome fellow!" said Shirley, with enthusiasm. "He is both graceful
and good."

"I was sure that you would see that he was. When I first looked at your
face I knew that you would."

"I was well inclined to him before I saw him; I liked him when I did see
him; I admire him now."

When they kissed each other and parted at the rectory gate, Shirley
said:

"Caroline Helstone, I have never in my whole life been able to talk to a
young lady as I have talked to you this morning."

"This is the worst passage I have come to yet," said Caroline to
herself. "Still, I was prepared for it. I gave Robert up to Shirley the
first day I heard she was come."


_III.--Caroline Finds a Mother_


The Whitsuntide school treats were being held, and it was Shirley
Keeldar who, at the head of the tea-table, kept a place for Robert
Moore, and whose temper became clouded when he was late. When he did
come he was hard and preoccupied, and presently the two girls noticed he
was shaking hands and renewing a broken friendship with a militant
rector in the playing field, and that the more vigorous of their
manufacturing neighbours had gathered in a group to talk.

"There is some mystery afloat," said Shirley. "Some event is expected,
some preparation to be made; and Robert's secrecy vexes me. See, they
are all shaking hands with emphasis, as if ratifying some league."

"We must be on the alert," said Caroline, "and perhaps we shall find a
clue."

Later, the rector came to them to mention that he would not sleep at
home that night, and Shirley had better stay with Caroline--arrangements
which they could not but connect with a glimpse of martial scarlet they
had observed on a distant moor earlier in the day, and the passage, by a
quiet route, of six cavalry soldiers.

So the girls sat up that night and watched, until, close upon midnight,
they heard the tramp of hundreds of marching feet. The mob halted by the
rectory for a muttered consultation, and then moved cautiously along
towards the Hollow's Mill.

In vain did the two watchers try to cross to the mill by fenced fields
and give the alarm. When they reached a point from which they could
overlook the mill, the attack had already begun, and the yard-gates were
being forced. A volley of stones smashed every window, but the mill
remained mute as a mausoleum.

"He cannot be alone," whispered Caroline.

"I would stake all I have that he is as little alone as he is alarmed,"
responded Shirley.

Shots were discharged by the rioters. Had the defenders waited for this
signal? It seemed so. The inert mill woke, and a volley of musketry
pealed sharp through the Hollow. It was difficult in the darkness to
distinguish what was going on now. The mill yard was full of
battle-movement; there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting,
and then the rioters, who had never dreamed of encountering an organised
defence, fell back defeated, but leaving the premises a blot of
desolation on the fresh front of the summer dawn.

Caroline Helstone now fell into a state of depression and physical
weakness which she tried in vain to combat.

"It is scarcely living to measure time as I do at the rectory," she
confessed one day to Mrs. Pryor, who had become her instructress and
friend. "The hours pass, and I get over them somehow, but I do not live
I endure existence, but I barely enjoy it. I want to go away from this
place and forget it."

"You know I am at present residing with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of
companion," Mrs. Pryor replied. "Should she marry, and that she will
marry ere long many circumstances induce me to conclude, I shall cease
to be necessary to her. I possess a small independency, arising partly
from my own savings and partly from a legacy. Whenever I leave Fieldhead
I shall take a house of my own. I have no relations to invite to close
intimacy. To you, my dear, I need not say I am attached. With you I am
happier than I have been with any living thing. You will come to me
then, Caroline?"

"Indeed, I love you," was the reply, "and I should like to live with
you."

"All I have I would leave to you."

"But, my dear madam, I have no claim on this generosity--"

Mrs. Pryor now displayed such agitation that it was Caroline who had to
become comforter.

The sequel to this scene appeared when Caroline sank into so weak a
state that constant nursing was needed, and Mrs. Pryor established
herself at the rectory.

One day, when the watchful nurse could not forbear to weep--her full
heart overflowing--her patient asked:

"Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel very ill--only
weak."

"But your mind, Caroline; your mind is crushed; your heart is broken;
you have been left so desolate."

"I sometimes think if an abundant gush of happiness came on me, I could
revive yet."

"You love me, Caroline?"

"Inexpressibly. I sometimes feel as if I could almost grow to your
heart."

"Then, if you love me so, it will be neither shock nor pain for you to
know that you are my own child."

"Mrs. Pryor! That is--that means--you have adopted me?"

"It means that I am your true mother."

"But Mrs. James Helstone--but my father's wife, whom I do not remember
to have seen, she is my mother?"

"She is your mother," Mrs. Pryor assured her. "James Helstone was my
husband."

"Is what I hear true? Is it no dream? My own mother! And one I can be so
fond of! If you are my mother, the world is all changed to me."

The offspring nestled to the parent, who gathered her to her bosom,
covered her with noiseless kisses, and murmured love over her like a
cushat fostering its young.


_IV.--An Old Acquaintance_


An uncle of Shirley Keeldar, Sympson by name, now came with his family
to stay at Feidhead, and accompanying them, as tutor to a crippled son
Harry, was Louis Moore, Robert's younger brother.

"Shirley," said Caroline one day as they sat in the summer-house, "you
are a singular being. I thought I knew you quite well; I begin to find
myself mistaken. Did you know that my cousin Louis was tutor in your
uncle's family before the Sympsons came down here?"

"Yes, of course; I knew it well."

"How chanced it that you never mentioned it to me?" asked Caroline. "You
knew Mrs. Pryor was my mother, and were silent, and now here again is
another secret."

"I never made it a secret; you never asked me who Henry's tutor was, or
I would have told you."

"I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter. You don't like
poor Louis--why? Do you wish that Robert's brother were more highly
placed?"

"Robert's brother, indeed!" was the exclamation in a tone of scorn, and,
with a movement of proud impatience, Shirley snatched a rose from a
branch peeping through the open lattice. "Robert's brother! Robert's
brother is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it
often; so drop it henceforth and for ever."

She would have understood the meaning of that outburst better if she had
heard a conversation in the schoolroom a few days later between Louis
Moore and Shirley.

"For two years," he was saying, "I had once a pupil who grew very dear
to me. Henry is dear, but she was dearer. Henry never gives me trouble;
she--well--she did. She spilled the draught from my cup; and having
taken from me my peace of mind and ease of life, she took from me
herself, quite coolly--just as if, when she was gone, the world would be
all the same to me. At the end of two years it fell out that we
encountered again. She received me haughtily; but then she was
inconsistent: she tantalised as before. When I thought of her only as a
lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me a glimpse of loving
simplicity, warm me with such a beam of reviving sympathy that I could
no more shut my heart to her image than I could close that door against
her presence. Explain why she distressed me so."

"She could not bear to be quite outcast," was the docile reply.

Caroline would have understood still more could she have read what Louis
Moore wrote in his diary that night: "What a child she is sometimes!
What an unsophisticated, untaught thing! I worship her perfections; but
it is her faults, or at least her foibles, that bring her near to me. If
I were a king and she were a housemaid, my eye would recognise her
qualities."

Robert Moore had long been absent from Briarfield, and no one knew why
he stayed away. It could not be that he was afraid, for he had shown the
utmost fearlessness in bringing to justice and transportation the four
ringleaders in the attack on the mill. He had now returned, and one day
as he rode over Rushedge Moore from Stilbro' market with a bluff
neighbour, he unbosomed himself of the reason why he had remained thus
long from home.

"I certainly believed she loved me," he said. "I have seen her eyes
sparkle when she found me out in a crowd. When my name was uttered she
changed countenance; I knew she did. She was cordial to me; she took an
interest in me; she was anxious about me. I saw power in her; I owed her
gratitude. She aided me substantially and effectively with a loan of
five thousand pounds. Could I believe she loved me? With an admiration
dedicated entirely to myself I smiled at her being the first to love and
to show it. That whip of yours seems to have a good heavy handle. Knock
me out of the saddle with it if you choose, for I never felt as if
nature meant her to be my other and better self. Yet I walked up to
Fieldhead and in a hard, firm fashion offered myself--my fine person--
with all my debts, of course, as a settlement. There was no
misunderstanding her aspect and voice as she indignantly ejaculated:
'God bless me!' Her eyes lightened as she said: 'You have pained me; you
have outraged me; you have deceived me. I did respect, I did admire, I
did like you, and you would immolate me to that mill--your Moloch!' I
was obliged to say, 'Forgive me!' To which she replied, 'I could if
there was not myself to forgive too, but to mislead a sagacious man so
far I must have done wrong.' She added, 'I am sorry for what has
happened.' So was I, God knows."

It was after this talk that Moore was shot down by a concealed assassin.


_V.--Love Scenes_


On the very night that Robert Moore arrived at his cottage in the
Hollow, after being nursed back to life in the house of the neighbour
who was with him when he was shot by a fanatical revolutionist, he
scribbled a note to ask his cousin Caroline to call, as was her wont
before the days of misunderstanding.

"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said Robert.
"What is the source of the sunshine I perceive about you?"

"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her more tenderly every day.
And I am glad you are better, and that we are friends."

"Cary, I mean to tell you some day a thing about myself that is not to
my credit. I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I
deserve."

"But I believe I know all about it. I inferred something, gathered more
from rumour, and made out the rest by instinct."

"I wanted to marry Shirley for the sake of her money, and she refused me
scornfully; you needn't prick your fingers with your needle, that is the
plain truth--and I had not an emotion of tenderness for her."

"Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her."

"And very mean, my little pastor; but, Cary, I had no love to give--no
heart that I could call my own."

It is Louis who is once more speaking to Shirley in the schoolroom.

"For the first time, Shirley, I stand before you--myself. I fling off
the tutor and introduce you to the man. My pupil."

"My master," was the low answer.

"I have to tell you that for five years you have been growing into your
tutor's heart, and that you are rooted there now. I have to declare that
you have bewitched me, in spite of sense and experience, and difference
of station and estate, and that I love you with all my life and
strength."

"Dear Louis, be faithful to me; never leave me. I don't care for life
unless I pass it at your side." She looked up with a sweet, open,
earnest countenance. "Teach me and help me to be good. Show me how to
sustain my part. Your judgment is well-balanced; your heart is kind; I
know you are wise. Be my companion through life, my guide where I am
ignorant, my master where I am faulty."

The Orders in Council are repealed, the blockaded ports are thrown open,
and the ringers in Briarfield belfry crack a bell that remains dissonant
to this day. Caroline Helstone is in the garden listening to this call
to be gay when a hand steals quietly round her waist.

"Caroline," says a manly voice. "I have sought you for an audience. The
repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt,
now I shall be no longer poor, now I can pay my debts; now all the cloth
I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands. This day lays my
fortune on a foundation on which for the first time I can securely
build."

"Your heavy difficulties are lifted?"

"They are lifted; I breathe; I can act. Now I can take more workmen,
give better wages, be less selfish. Now, Caroline, I can have a home
that is truly mine, and seek a wife. Will Caroline forget all I have
made her suffer; forget my poor ambition; my sordid schemes? Will she
let me prove I can love faithfully? Is Caroline mine?"

His hand was in hers still, and a gentle pressure answered him,
"Caroline is yours."

"I love you, Robert," she said simply, and mutely offered a kiss, an
offer of which he took unfair advantage.

       *       *       *       *       *



Villette

      Villette is Brussels, and the experiences of the heroine,
     Lucy Snowe, in travelling thither and teaching there are based
     on the journeys and the life of Charlotte Brontë when she was
     a teacher in the Pensionnat Héger. The principal characters in
     the story have been identified, more or less completely, with
     people whom the writer knew. Paul Emanuel resembles M. Héger
     in many ways, and Madame Beck is a severe portrait of Madame
     Héger. Dr. John Graham Bretton is a reflection of George
     Smith, Charlotte Brontë's friendly publisher; and Mrs. Bretton
     is Mr. Smith's mother. Lucy Snowe is Jane Eyre, otherwise
     Charlotte Brontë, placed amidst different surroundings; and
     Ginevra Fanshawe was sketched from one of the pupils in
     Héger's school. The materials used in "Villette" were taken,
     in part, from an earlier work, "The Professor," which suffered
     rejection nine times at the hands of publishers. Though there
     was similarity of scene, and in some degree of subject, the
     two books are in no way identical. "Villette" was published on
     January 24, 1853, and achieved an immediate success. It was
     felt to have more movement and force than "Shirley," and less
     of the crudeness that accompanied the strength of "Jane Eyre."



_I.--Little Miss Caprice_


My godmother lived in a handsome house in the ancient town of Bretton--
the widow of Bretton--and there I, Lucy Snowe, visited her about twice a
year, and liked the visit well, for time flowed smoothly for me at her
side, like the gliding of a full river through a verdant plain.

During one of my visits I was told that the little daughter of a distant
relation of my godmother was coming to be my companion, and well do I
remember the rainy night when, outside the opened door, we saw the
servant Waren with a shawled bundle in his arms and a nurse-girl by his
side.

"Put me down, please," said a small voice. "Take off the shawl; give it
to Harriet, and she can put it away."

The child who gave these orders was a tiny, neat little figure, delicate
as wax, and like a mere doll, though she was six years of age.

Mrs. Bretton drew the little stranger to her when they had entered the
drawing-room, kissed her, and asked: "What is my little one's name?"

"Polly, papa calls her," was the reply.

"And will Polly be content to live with me?"

"Not always; but till papa comes home." Her eyes filled with tears, and,
drawing away from Mrs. Bretton, she added: "I can sit on a stool."

Her emotion at finding herself among strangers was, however, only
expressed by the tiniest occasional sniff, and presently the managing
little body remarked:

"Harriet, I must be put to bed. Ask if you sleep with me."

"No, missy," said the nurse; "you are to share this young lady's
room"--designating me.

"I wish you, ma'am, good-night," said the little creature to Mrs.
Bretton; but she passed me mute.

"Good-night, Polly," I said.

"No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber," was the
reply.

Paulina Home's father was obliged to travel to recruit his health, and
her mother being dead, Mrs. Bretton had offered to take temporary charge
of the child.

During the two months Paulina stayed with us, the one member of the
household who reconciled her to absence from her father was John Graham
Bretton, Mrs. Bretton's only child, a handsome, whimsical youth of
sixteen. He began by treating her with mock seriousness as a person of
consideration, and before long was more than the Grand Turk in her
estimation; indeed, when a letter came from her father on the Continent,
asking that his little girl might join him there, we wondered how she
would take the news. I found her in the drawing-room engaged with a
picture-book.

"Miss Snowe," said she, "this is a wonderful book. It was given me by
Graham. It tells of distant countries."

"Polly," I interrupted, "should you like to travel?"

"Not just yet," was the prudent answer; "but perhaps when I am grown a
woman I may travel with Graham."

"But would you like to travel now if your papa was with you?"

"What is the good of talking in that silly way?" said she. "What is papa
to you? I was just beginning to be happy."

Then I told her of the letter, and the tidings kept her serious the
whole day. When Graham came home in the evening, she whispered, as she
heard him in the hall: "Tell him by-and-by; tell him I am going."

But Graham, who was preoccupied about some school prize, had to be told
twice before the news took proper hold of his attention. "Polly going?"
he said. "What a pity! Dear little Mouse, I shall be sorry to lose her;
she must come to us again."

On going to bed, I found the child wide awake, and in what she called
"dreadful misery!"

"Paulina," I said, "you should not grieve that Graham does not care for
you so much as you care for him. It must be so."

Her questioning eyes asked why.

"Because he is a boy and you are a girl; he is sixteen and you are only
six; his nature is strong and gay, and yours is otherwise."

"But I love him so much. He should love me a little."

"He does. He is fond of you; you are his favourite."

"Am I Graham's favourite?"

"Yes, more than any little child I know."

The assurance soothed her, and she smiled in her anguish. As I warmed
the shivering, capricious little creature in my arms I wondered how she
would battle with life, and bear its shocks, repulses, and humiliations.


_II.--Madame Beck's School_


The next eight years of my life brought changes. My own household and
that of the Brettons suffered wreck. My friends went abroad and were
lost sight of, and I, after a period of companionship with a woman of
fortune, found myself, at her death, with fifteen pounds in my pocket
looking for a new place. Then it was that I saw mentally within reach
what I had never yet beheld with my bodily eyes--I saw London.

When I awoke there next morning, my spirit shook its always fettered
wings half loose. I had a feeling as if I were at last about to taste
life. In that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah's gourd. I wandered
whither chance might lead in a still ecstasy of freedom and enjoyment.

That evening I formed a project of crossing to a continental port, and
finding a vessel was about to start, I joined her at once in the river.
When the packet sailed at sunrise, I found the only passenger on board
to whom I cared to speak--and who, indeed, insisted on speaking to
me--was a girl of seventeen on her way to school in the city of
Villette. Miss Ginevra Fanshawe carelessly ran on with a full account of
herself, her school at Madame Beck's, her poverty at home, her education
by her godfather, De Bassompièrre, who lived in France, her want of
accomplishments--except that she could talk, play, and dance--and the
need for her to marry a rather elderly gentleman with cash.

It was this irresponsible talk, no doubt, that led me, in the absence of
any other leading, to make Villette my destination. On my arrival there,
an English gentleman, young, distinguished, and handsome, observing my
inability to make myself understood at the bureau where the diligence
stopped, inquired kindly if I had any friends in the city, and on my
replying that I had not, gave me the address of such an inn as I wanted,
and personally directed me part of the way. Even then, however, I failed
in the gloom to find the inn, and was becoming quite exhausted, when
over the door of a house, loftier by a storey than those around it, I
saw a brass plate with the inscription, "Pensionnat de Demoiselles,"
and, beneath, the name, "Madame Beck." Providence said: "Stop here; this
is your inn." I rang the door-bell.

"May I see Madame Beck?" I inquired of the servant who opened the door.
As I spoke in English I was admitted without a moment's hesitation.

I sat, turning hot and cold, in a glittering salon for a quarter of an
hour, and then a voice said: "You ayre Engliss?"

The question came from a motherly, dumpy little woman in a large shawl,
a wrapping gown, a clean, trim nightcap, and shod with the shoes of
silence.

As I told my story, through a mistress who had been summoned to
translate the speech of Albion, I thought the tale won madame's ear,
though never a gleam of sympathy crossed her countenance. A man's step
was heard in the vestibule, hastily proceeding to the outer door.

"Who goes out now?" demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread.

"M. Paul Emanuel," replied the teacher.

"The very man! Call him."

He entered: a small, dark, and square man, in spectacles.

"_Mon cousin_," began madame, "read that countenance."

The little man fixed on me his spectacles, a gathering of the brows
seeming to say that a veil would be no veil to him.

"Do you need her services?" he asked.

"I could do with them," said Madame Beck.

"Engage her." And with a _ban soir_ this sudden arbiter of my destiny
vanished.

Madame Beck possessed high administrative powers. She ruled a hundred
and twenty pupils, four teachers, eight masters, six servants and three
children, and managed the pupils' parents and friends to perfection,
without apparent effort. "Surveillance," "espionage"--these were the
watchwords of her system. She knew what honesty was, and liked it--when
it did not obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will and
interest. Wise, firm, faithless, secret, crafty, passionless, watchful
and inscrutable--withal perfectly decorous--what more could be desired?

Not a soul in all Madame Beck's house, from the scullion to the
directress herself, but was above being ashamed of a lie; they thought
nothing of it.

Here Miss Ginevra Fanshawe was a thriving pupil. She had a considerable
range of acquaintances outside the school, for Mrs. Cholmondeley, her
chaperon, a gay, fashionable lady, took her to evening parties at the
houses of her acquaintances. Soon I discovered by hints that ardent
admiration, perhaps genuine love, was at the command of this pretty and
charming, but by no means refined, girl. She called her suitor
"Isidore," and bragged about the vehemence of his attachment. I asked
her if she loved him in return.

"He is handsome; he loves me to distraction; and so I am amused," was
the reply.

"But if he loves you, and it comes to nothing in the end, he will be
miserable."

"Of course he will break his heart. I should be disappointed if he
didn't."

"Do try to get a clear idea of the state of your own mind," I said, "for
to me it really seems as chaotic as a rag-bag."

"It is something in this fashion. He thinks far more of me than I find
it convenient to be, while I am more at ease with you, you old cross-
patch, you who know me to be coquettish and ignorant and fickle."

"You love M. Isidore far more than you think or will avow."

"No. I danced with a young officer the other night whom I love a
thousand times more than he. Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far
better. _Vive les joies et les plaisirs_!"

It was as English teacher that I was engaged at Madame Beck's school,
but the annual fête brought me into prominence in another capacity. The
programme included a dramatic performance, with pupils and teachers for
actors, and this was given under the superintendence of M. Paul Emanuel.
I was dressed a couple of hours before anyone else, and reading in my
classroom, the door was flung open, and in came M. Paul with a burst of
execrable jargon: "Mees, play you must; I am planted here."

"What can I do for you?" I inquired.

"Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the prude.
Let us thrust to the wall all reluctance."

What did the little man mean?

"Listen!" he said. "The case shall be stated, and you shall answer me
'Yes' or 'No.' Louise Vanderkelkov has fallen ill--at least, so her
ridiculous mother asserts. She is charged with a rôle; without that rôle
the play stopped. Englishwomen are either the best or the worst of their
sex. I apply to an Englishwoman to save me. What is her answer--'Yes,'
or 'No'?"

Seeing in his vexed, fiery and searching eye an appeal behind its
menace, my lips dropped the word "Oui."

His rigid countenance relaxed with a quiver of content; then he went on:

"Here is the book. Here is your rôle. You must withdraw." He conveyed me
to the attic, locked me in, and took away the key.

What I felt that successful night, and what I did, I no more expected to
feel and do than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. A keen
relish for dramatic expression revealed itself as part of my nature. But
the strength of longing must be put by; and I put it by, and fastened it
in with the lock of a resolution which neither time nor temptation has
since picked.

It was at this school fête that I discovered the identity of Miss
Fanshawe's M. Isidore. She whispered to me, after the play: "Isidore and
Alfred de Hamal are both here!" The latter I found was a straight-nosed,
correct-featured little dandy, nicely dressed, curled, booted, and
gloved; and Isidore was the manly English Dr. John, who attended the
pupils of the school, and was none other than the gentleman whose
directions to an hotel I had failed to follow on the night of my arrival
in Villette. And the puppet, the manikin--a mere lackey for Dr. John,
his valet, his foot-boy, was the favoured admirer of Ginevra Fanshawe!


_III.--Old Friends are Best_


During the long vacation I stayed at the school, and, in the absence of
companionship and the sedative of work, suffered such agonising
depression as led to physical illness, until one evening, after
wandering aimlessly in the city, I fell fainting as I tried to reach the
porch of a great church. When I recovered consciousness, I found myself
in a room that smiled "Auld lang syne" out of every nook.

Where was I? The furniture was that with which I had been so intimate in
the drawing-room of my godmother's house at Bretton. Nay, there, on the
linen of my bed, were my godmothers initials "L.L.B."; and there was the
portrait that used to hang over the mantelpiece in the breakfast-room in
the old house at Bretton. I audibly pronounced the name--"Graham!"

"Graham!" echoed a sudden voice at my bedside. "Do you want Graham?"

She was little changed; something sterner, something more robust, but it
was my godmother, Mrs. Bretton.

"How was I found, madam?"

"My son shall tell you by and by," said she. "I am told you are an
English teacher in a foreign school here."

Before evening I was downstairs, and seated in a corner, when Graham
arrived home, and entered with the question: "How is your patient,
mamma?"

At Mrs. Bretton's invitation, I came forward to speak for myself where
he stood at the hearth, a figure justifying his mother's pride.

"Much better," I said calmly; "much better, I thank you Dr. John."

For this tall young man, this host of mine, was Dr. John, and I had been
aware of his identity for some time.

Ere we had sat ten minutes, I caught the eye of Mrs. Bretton fixed
steadily on me, and at last she asked, "Tell me, Graham, of whom does
this young lady remind you."

"Dr. John has had so much to do and think of," said I, seeing how it
must end, "that it never occurred to me as possible that he should
recognise Lucy Snowe."

"Lucy Snowe! I thought so! I knew it!" cried Mrs. Bretton, as she
stepped across the hearth and kissed me. And I wondered if Mrs. Bretton
knew at whose feet her idolised son had laid his homage.


_IV.--A Cure for First Love_


The Brettons, who had regained some of their fortune, lived in a château
outside Villette, a course further warranted by Dr. John's professional
success. In the months, that followed I heard much of Ginevra. He
thought her so fair, so good, so innocent, and yet, though love is
blind, I saw sometimes a subtle ray sped sideways from his eye that half
led me to think his professed persuasion of Miss Fanshawe's naïveté was
in part assumed.

One morning my godmother decreed that we should go with Graham to a
concert that night, at which the most advanced pupils of the
conservatoire were to perform. There, in the suite of the British
embassy, was Ginevra Fanshawe, seated by the daughter of an English
peer. I noticed that she looked quite steadily at Dr. John, and then
raised a glass to examine his mother, and a minute or two afterwards
laughingly whispered to her neighbour.

"Miss Fanshawe is here," I whispered. "Have you noticed her?"

"Oh yes," was the reply; "and I happen to know her companion, who is a
proud girl, but not in the least insolent; and I doubt whether Ginevra
will have gained ground in her estimation by making a butt of her
neighbours."

"What neighbours?"

"Myself and my mother. As for me, it is very natural; but my mother! I
never saw her ridiculed before. Through me she could not in ten years
have done what in a moment she has done through my mother."

Never before had I seen so much fire and so little sunshine in Dr.
John's blue eyes.

"My mother shall not be ridiculed with my consent, or without my scorn,"
he added. "Mother," said he to her later, "You are better to me than ten
wives." And when we were out in the keen night air, he said to himself:
"Thank you, Miss Fanshawe. I am glad you laughed at my mother. That
sneer did me a world of good."


_V.--Reunion Completed_


One evening in December Dr. Bretton called to take me to the theatre in
place of his mother, who had been prevented by an arrival. In the course
of the performance a cry of "Fire!" rang out, and a panic ensued. Graham
remained quite cool until he saw a young girl struck from her
protector's arms and hurled under the feet of the crowd. Then he rushed
forward, thrust back the throng with the assistance of the gentleman--a
powerful man, though grey-haired--and bore the girl into the fresh
night, I following him closely.

"She is very light," he said; "like a child."

"I am not a child! I am a person of seventeen!" responded his burden,
demurely.

Her father's carriage drove up, and Graham, having introduced himself as
an English doctor, we drove to the hotel where father and daughter were
staying in handsome apartments. The injuries were not dangerous, and the
father, after earnestly expressing his obligations to Graham, asked him
to call the next day.

When next I visited the Bretton's château I found an intruder in the
room I had occupied during my illness.

"Miss de Bassompièrre, I pronounced, recognising the rescued lady, whose
name I had heard on the night of the accident.

"No," was the reply. "Not Miss de Bassompièrre to you." Then, as I
seemed at fault, she added: "You have forgotten, then, that I have sat
on your knee, been lifted in your arms, even shared your pillow. I am
Paulina Mary Home de Bassompièrre."

I often visited Mary de Bassompièrre with pleasure. That young lady had
different moods for different people. With her father she was even now a
child. With me she was serious and womanly. With Mrs. Bretton she was
docile and reliant. With Graham she was shy--very shy. At moments she
tried to be cold, and, on occasion, she endeavoured to shun him. Even
her father noticed this demeanour in her, and asked her what her old
friend had done.

"Nothing," she replied; "but we are grown strange to each other."

I became apprised of the return of M. de Bassompièrre and Paulina, after
a few weeks' absence in Paris, by seeing them riding before me in a
quiet boulevard with Dr. Bretton. How animated was Graham's face! How
true, yet how retiring the joy it expressed! They parted. He passed me
at speed, hardly feeling the earth he skimmed, and seeing nothing on
either hand.

It was after this that she made me her confession of love, and of fear
lest her father should be grieved.

"I wish papa knew! I do wish papa knew!" began now to be her anxious
murmur; but it was M. de Bassompièrre who first broached the subject of
his daughter's affections, and it was to me that he introduced it. She
came into the room while we talked and Graham followed.

"Take her, John Bretton," he said, "and may God deal with you as you
deal with her!"


_VI.--A Professor's Love-Story_


The pupils from the schools of the city were assembled for the yearly
prize distribution--a ceremony followed by an oration from one of the
professors. I think I was glad when M. Paul appeared behind the crimson
desk, fierce and frank, dark and candid, testy and fearless, for then I
knew that neither formalism nor flattery would be the doom of the
audience.

On Monsieur's birthday it was the habit of the scholars to present him
with flowers, and I had worked a beaded watch-chain, and enclosed it in
a sparkling shell-box, with his initials graved on the lid. He entered
that day in a mood that made him as good as a sunbeam, and each pupil
presented her bouquet, till he was hidden at his desk behind a pile of
flowers. I waited. Then he demanded thrice, in tragic tones: "Is that
all?" The effect was ludicrous, and the time for my presentation had
passed. Thereupon he fell, with furious abuse, upon the English, and
particularly English women. But I presented the chain to him later, and
that day closed for us both with a wordless content, so full was he of
friendliness.

The professor's care for me took curious forms. He haunted my desk with
unseen gift-bringing--the newest books, the correction of exercises, the
concealment of bonbons, of which he was fond.

One day he asked me whether, if I were his sister, I should always be
content to stay with a brother such as he. I said I believed I should.
He continued: "If I were to go beyond seas for two or three years,
should you welcome me on my return?"

"Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?" was my reply.

The explanation of that question soon came. He had, it seemed, to sail
to Basseterre, in Guadeloupe, to attend to a friend's business
interests. For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help
feeling?

Of late he had spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye
content, with manner home-like and mild. The mutual understanding was
settling and fixing. And when the time came for him to say good-bye, we
rambled forth into the city. He talked of his voyage. What did I propose
to do in his absence? He did not like leaving me at Madame Beck's--I
should be so desolate.

We were now returning from our walk, when, passing a small but pleasant
and neat abode in a clean _faubourg_, he took a key from his pocket,
opened, and entered. "_Voici!_" he cried, and put a prospectus in my
hand. "Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde. Directrice,
Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe."

"Now," said he, "you shall live here and have a school. You shall employ
yourself while I am away; you shall think of me; you shall mind your
health and happiness for my sake, and when I come back----"

I touched his hand with my lips. Royal to me had been its bounty.

And now three years are past. M. Emanuel's return is fixed. He is to be
with me ere the mists of November come. My school flourishes; my house
is ready.

But the skies hang full and dark--a wrack sails from the west. Peace,
peace, Banshee--"keening" at every window. The storm did not cease till
the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks. Peace, be still! Oh, a thousand
weepers, praying in agony on waiting shores, listened for that voice;
but when the sun returned, his light was night to some!

Here pause. Enough is said. Trouble no kind heart. Leave sunny
imaginations hope. Let them picture union and a happy life.

       *       *       *       *       *



EMILY BRONTË


Wuthering Heights

      "That chainless soul," Emily Jane Brontë, was born at
     Thornton, Yorkshire, England, on August 30, 1818, and died at
     Haworth on December 19, 1848. She will always have a place in
     English literature by reason of her one weird, powerful,
     strained novel, "Wuthering Heights," and a few poems. Emily
     Brontë, like her sister Charlotte, was educated at Cowan
     School and at Brussels. For a time she became a governess, but
     it seemed impossible for her to live away from the fascination
     of the Yorkshire moors, and she went home to keep house at the
     Haworth Parsonage, while her sisters taught. Two months after
     the publication of "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte, that is, in
     December, 1847, "Wuthering Heights," by Emily, and "Agnes
     Grey," by Anne, the third sister in this remarkable trio, were
     issued in one volume. The critics, who did not discover these
     books were by women, suggested persistently that "Wuthering
     Heights" must be an immature work by Currer Bell (Charlotte).
     A year after the publication of her novel Emily died, unaware
     of her success in achieving a lasting, if restricted, fame.
     She was extraordinarily reserved, sensitive, and wayward, and
     lived in an imagined world of her own, morbidly influenced, no
     doubt, by the vagaries of her worthless brother Branwell. That
     she had true genius, allied with fine strength of intellect
     and character, is the unanimous verdict of competent
     criticism, while it grieves over unfulfilled possibilities.


_I.--A Surly Brood_


"Mr. Heathcliff?"

A nod was the answer.

"Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant at Thrushcross Grange, sir."

"Walk in." But the invitation, uttered with closed teeth, expressed the
sentiment "Go to the deuce!" And it was not till my horse's breast
fairly pushed the barrier that he put out his hand to unchain it. I felt
interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself
as he preceded me up the causeway, calling, "Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's
horse; and bring up some wine."

Joseph was an old man, very old, though hale and sinewy. "The Lord help
us!" he soliloquised in an undertone as he relieved me of my horse.

Wuthering Heights, Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling, is a farmhouse on an
exposed and stormy edge, its name being significant of atmospheric
tumult. Its owner is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and
manners a gentleman, with erect and handsome figure, but morose
demeanour. One step from the outside brought us into the family
living-room, the recesses of which were haunted by a huge liver-coloured
bitch pointer, with a swarm of squealing puppies, and other dogs. As the
bitch sneaked wolfishly to the back of my legs I attempted to caress
her, an action that provoked a long, guttural growl.

"You'd better let the dog alone," growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison, as
he checked her with a punch of his foot. "She's not accustomed to be
spoiled."

As Joseph was mumbling indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, and
gave no sign of ascending, his master dived down to him, leaving me
_vis-à-vis_ with the ruffianly bitch and half a dozen four-footed fiends
that suddenly broke into a fury, while I parried off the attack with a
poker and called aloud for assistance.

"What the devil is the matter?" asked Heathcliff, as he returned.

"What the devil, indeed!" I muttered. "You might as well leave a
stranger with a brood of tigers!"

"They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing," he remarked. "The
dogs are right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine."

Before I went home I determined to volunteer another visit to my sulky
landlord, though evidently he wished for no repetition of my intrusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yesterday I again visited Wuthering Heights, my nearest neighbours to
Thrushcross Grange. On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a
black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. As I knocked
for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled, vinegar-
faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn, and
shouted to me.

"What are ye for? T' maister's down i' t' fowld. There's nobbut t'
missis. I'll hae no hend wi't," muttered the head, vanishing.

Then a young man, without coat and shouldering a pitchfork, hailed me to
follow him, and showed me into the apartment where I had been formerly
received with a gruff "Sit down; he'll be in soon."

In the room sat the "missis," motionless and mute. She was slender,
scarcely past girlhood, with the most exquisite little face I have ever
had the pleasure of beholding; and her eyes, had they been agreeable in
expression, would have been irresistible. But the only sentiment they
evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation. As for the
young man who had brought me in, he slung on his person a shabby jacket,
and, erecting himself before the fire, gazed down on me from the corner
of his eyes as if there was some mortal feud unavenged between us. The
entrance of Heathcliff relieved me from an uncomfortable state.

I found in the course of the tea which followed that the lady was the
widow of Heathcliff's son, and that the rustic youth who sat down to the
meal with us was Hareton Earnshaw. Now, before passing the threshold, I
had noticed over the principal door, among a wilderness of crumbling
griffins and shameless little boys, the name "Hareton Earnshaw" and the
date "1500." Evidently the place had a history.

The snow had fallen so deeply since I entered the house that return
across the moor in the dusk was impossible.

Spending that night at Wuthering Heights on an old-fashioned couch that
filled a recess, or closet, in a disused chamber, I found, scratched on
the paint many times, the names "Catherine Earnshaw," "Catherine
Heathcliff," and again "Catherine Linton." There were many books in the
room in a dilapidated state, and, being unable to sleep, I examined
them. Some of them bore the inscription "Catherine Earnshaw, her book";
and on the blank leaves and margins, scrawled in a childish hand, was a
regular diary. I read: "Hindley is detestable. Heathcliff and I are
going to rebel.... How little did I dream Hindley would ever make me cry
so! Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit
or eat with us any more."

When I slept I was harrowed by nightmare, and next morning I gladly left
the house; and, piloted by my landlord across the billowy white ocean of
the moor, I reached the Grange benumbed with cold and as feeble as a
kitten from fatigue.

When my housekeeper, Mrs. Nelly Dean, brought in my supper that night I
asked her why Heathcliff let the Grange and preferred living in a
residence so much inferior.

"He's rich enough to live in a finer house than this," said Mrs. Dean;
"but he's very close-handed. Young Mrs. Heathcliff is my late master's
daughter--Catherine Linton was her maiden name, and I nursed her, poor
thing. Hareton Earnshaw is her cousin, and the last of an old family."

"The master, Heathcliff, must have had some ups and downs to make him
such a churl. Do you know anything of his history?"

"It's a cuckoo's, sir. I know all about it, except where he was born,
and who were his parents, and how he got his money. And Hareton Earnshaw
has been cast out like an unfledged dunnock."

I asked Mrs. Dean to bring her sewing, and continue the story. This she
did, evidently pleased to find me companionable.


_II.--The Story Runs Backward_


Before I came to live here (began Mrs. Dean), I was almost always at
Wuthering Heights, because my mother nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that
was Hareton's father, and I used to run errands and play with the
children. One day, old Mr. Earnshaw, Hareton's grandfather, went to
Liverpool, and promised Hindley and Cathy, his son and daughter, to
bring each of them a present. He was absent three days, and at the end
of that time brought home, bundled up in his arms under his great-coat,
a dirty, ragged, black-haired child, big enough both to walk and talk,
but only able to talk gibberish nobody could understand. He had picked
it up, he said, starving and homeless in the streets of Liverpool. Mrs.
Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors, but Mr. Earnshaw told her
to wash it, give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.
The children's presents were forgotten. This was how Heathcliff, as they
called him, came to Wuthering Heights.

Miss Cathy and he soon became very thick; but Hindley hated him. He was
a patient, sullen child, who would stand blows without winking or
shedding a tear. From the beginning he bred bad feeling in the house.
Old Earnshaw took to him strangely, and Hindley regarded him as having
usurped his father's affections. As for Heathcliff, he was insensible to
kindness. Cathy, a wild slip, with the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile,
and the lightest foot in the parish, was much too fond of Heathcliff.

Old Mr. Earnshaw died quietly in his chair by the fireside one October
evening.

Mr. Hindley, who had been to college, came home to the funeral, and set
the neighbours gossiping right and left, for he brought a wife with him.
What she was and where she was born he never informed us. She evinced a
dislike to Heathcliff, and drove him to the company of the servants, but
Cathy clung to him, and the two promised to grow up together as rude as
savages. Once Hindley shut them out for the night and they came to
Thrushcross Grange, where the Lintons took Cathy in, but would not have
anything to do with Heathcliff, the Spanish castaway, as they called
him. She stayed five weeks with the Lintons, and became very friendly
with the children, Edgar and Isabella, and when she came back was a
dignified little person, and quite a beauty.

Soon after, Hindley's son, Hareton, was born, the mother died, and the
child fell wholly into my hands, for the father grew desperate in his
sorrow, and gave himself up to reckless dissipation. His treatment of
Heathcliff now was enough to make a fiend of a saint, and daily the lad
became more savagely sullen. I could not half-tell what an infernal
house we had, till at last nobody decent came near us, except that Edgar
Linton called to see Cathy, who at fifteen was the queen of the
countryside--a haughty and headstrong creature.

One day after Edgar Linton had been over from the Grange, Cathy came
into the kitchen to me and said, "Nelly, will you keep a secret for me?
To-day Edgar Linton has asked me to marry him, and I've given him an
answer. I accepted him, Nelly. Be quick and say whether I was wrong."

"First and foremost," I said sententiously, "do you love Mr. Edgar?"

"I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and
everything he touches, and every word he says. I love his looks, and all
his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!"

"Then," said I, "all seems smooth and easy. Where is the obstacle?"

"Here, and here!" replied Catherine, striking one hand on her forehead,
and the other on her breast. "In my soul and in my heart I'm convinced
I'm wrong! I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be
in heaven; and if the wicked man in there, my brother, had not brought
Heathcliff so low I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to
marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him, and that
not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I
am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and
Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from
fire. Nelly, I dreamed I was in heaven, but heaven did not seem to be my
home, and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the
angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath
on the top of Wuthering Heights, where I woke sobbing for joy."

Ere this speech was ended, Heathcliff, who had been lying out of sight
on a bench by the kitchen wall, stole out. He had heard Catherine say it
would degrade her to marry him, and he had heard no further.

That night, while a storm rattled over the heights in full fury,
Heathcliff disappeared. Catherine suffered uncontrollable grief, and
became dangerously ill. When she was convalescent she went to
Thrushcross Grange. But Edgar Linton, when he married her, three years
subsequent to his father's death, and brought her here to the Grange,
was the happiest man alive. I accompanied her, leaving little Hareton,
who was now nearly five years old, and had just begun to learn his
letters.

On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a
basket of apples I had been gathering, when, as I approached the kitchen
door, I heard a voice say, "Nelly, is that you?"

Something stirred in the porch, and, moving nearer, I saw a tall man,
dressed in dark clothes, with dark hair and face.

"What," I cried, "you come back?"

"Yes, Nelly. You needn't be so disturbed. I want one word with your
mistress."

I went in, and explained to Mr. Edgar and Catherine who was waiting
below.

"Oh, Edgar darling," she panted, flinging her arms round his neck,
"Heathcliff's come back--he is!"

"Well, well," he said, "don't strangle me for that. There's no need to
be frantic. Try to be glad without being absurd!"

When Heathcliff came in, she seized his hands and laughed like one
beside herself.

It seemed that he was staying at Wuthering Heights, invited by Mr.
Earnshaw! When I heard this I had a presentiment that he had better have
remained away.

Later, we learned from Joseph that Heathcliff had called on Earnshaw,
whom he found sitting at cards, had joined in the play, and, seeming
plentifully supplied with money, had been asked by his ancient
persecutor to come again in the evening. He then offered liberal payment
for permission to lodge at the Heights, which Earnshaw's covetousness
made him accept.

Heathcliff now commenced visiting Thrushcross Grange, and gradually
established his right to be expected. A new source of trouble sprang up
in an unexpected form--Isabella Linton evincing a sudden and
irresistible attraction towards Heathcliff. At that time she was a
charming young lady of eighteen. I tried to persuade her to banish him
from her thoughts.

"He's a bird of bad omen, miss," I said, "and no mate for you. How has
he been living? How has he got rich? Why is he staying at Wuthering
Heights in the house of the man whom he abhors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is
worse and worse since he came. They sit up all night together
continually, and Hindley has been borrowing money on his land, and does
nothing but play and drink."

"You are leagued with the rest," she replied, "and I'll not listen to
your slanders." The antipathy of Mr. Linton towards Heathcliff reached a
point at last at which he called on his servants one day to turn him out
of the Grange, whereupon Heathcliff's revenge took the form of an
elopement with Linton's sister. Six weeks later I received a letter of
bitter regret from Isabella, asking me distractedly whether I thought
her husband was a man or a devil, and how I had preserved the common
sympathies of human nature at Wuthering Heights, where they had
returned.

On receiving this letter, I obtained permission from Mr. Linton to go to
the Heights to see his sister, and Heathcliff, on meeting me, urged me
to secure for him an interview with Catherine.

"Nelly," said he, "you know as well as I do that for every thought she
spends on Linton she spends a thousand on me. If he loved her with all
the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years
as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have. The
sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough as her whole
affection be monopolised by him."

Well, I argued, and refused, but in the long run he forced me to agree
to put a missive into Mrs. Linton's hand.

When he met her, I saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony,
to look into her face, for he was stricken with the conviction that she
was fated to die.

"Oh, Cathy, how can I bear it?" was the first sentence he uttered.

"You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff," was her reply. "You
have killed me and thriven on it, I think."

"Are you possessed with a devil," he asked, "to talk in that manner to
me when you are dying? You know you lie to say I have killed you, and
you know that I could as soon forget my existence as forget you. Is it
not sufficient that while you are at peace, I shall be in the torments
of hell?"

"I shall not be at peace," moaned Catherine.

"Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart? You loved
me. What right had you to leave me?"

"Let me alone!" sobbed Catherine. "I've done wrong, and I'm dying for
it! Forgive me!"

That night was born the Catherine you, Mr. Lockwood, saw at the Heights,
and her mother's spirit was at home with God.

When in the morning I told Heathcliff, who had been watching near all
night, he dashed his head against the knotted trunk of the tree by which
he stood and howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast, as he
besought her ghost to haunt him. "Be with me always--take any form!" he
cried. "Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!"

Life with Heathcliff becoming impossible to Isabella, she left the
neighbourhood, never to revisit it, and lived near London; and there her
son, whom she christened Linton, was born a few months after her escape.
He was an ailing, peevish creature. When Linton was twelve, or a little
more, and Catherine thirteen, Isabella died, and the boy was brought to
Thrushcross Grange. Hindley Earnshaw drank himself to death about the
same time, after mortgaging every yard of his land for cash; and
Heathcliff was the mortgagee. So Hareton Earnshaw, who should have been
the first gentleman in the neighbourhood, was reduced to dependence on
his father's enemy, in whose house he lived, ignorant that he had been
wronged.

The motives of Heathcliff now became clear. Under the influence of a
passionate but calculating revenge, allied with greed, he was planning
the destruction of the Earnshaw family, and the union of the Wuthering
Heights and Thrushcross Grange estates. To this end, having brought his
weakly son home to the Heights and terrorised him into a pitiable
slavery, he schemed a marriage between him and young Catherine Linton,
who was induced to accept the arrangement through sympathy with her
cousin, and the hope of removing him from the paralysing influence of
his father. The marriage was almost immediately followed by the death of
both Catherine's father and her boyish husband, who, it was afterwards
found, had been coaxed or threatened into bequeathing all his property
to his father. Thus ended Mrs. Dean's story of how the strangely
assorted occupants of Wuthering Heights had come together, my landlord
Heathcliff, the disinherited, poor Hareton Earnshaw, and Catherine
Heathcliff, who had been Catherine Linton and the daughter of Catherine
Earnshaw. I propose riding over to Wuthering Heights to inform my
landlord that I shall spend the next six months in London, and that he
may look out for another tenant for the Grange.


_III.--The Story Runs Forward_


Yesterday was bright, calm, and frosty, and I went to the Heights as I
proposed. My housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to
her young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not
conscious of anything odd in her request. Hareton Earnshaw unchained the
gate for me. The fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen, but he
does his best, apparently, to make the least of his advantages.
Catherine, who was preparing vegetables for a meal, looked more sulky
and less spirited than when I had seen her first.

"She does not seem so amiable," I thought, "as Mrs. Dean would persuade
me to believe. She's a beauty, it is true, but not an angel."

I approached her, pretending to desire a view of the garden, and dropped
Mrs. Dean's note on her knee unnoticed by Hareton. But she asked aloud,
"What is that?" and chucked it off.

"A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange," I
answered. She would gladly have gathered it up at this information, but
Hareton beat her. He seized and put it in his waistcoat, saying Mr.
Heathcliff should look at it first; but later he pulled out the letter,
and flung it on the floor as ungraciously as he could. Catherine perused
it eagerly, and then asked, "Does Ellen like you?"

"Yes, very well," I replied hesitatingly.

Whereupon she became more communicative, and told me how dull she was
now Heathcliff had taken her books away.

When Heathcliff came in, looking restless and anxious, he sent her to
the kitchen to get her dinner with Joseph; and with the master of the
house, grim and saturnine, and Hareton absolutely dumb, I made a
cheerless meal, and bade adieu early.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next September, when going north for shooting, a sudden impulse seized
me to visit Thrushcross Grange and pass a night under my own roof, for
the tenancy had not yet expired. When I reached the Grange before sunset
I found a girl knitting under the porch, and an old woman reclining on
the house-steps, smoking a meditative pipe.

"Is Mrs. Dean within?" I demanded.

"Mistress Dean? Nay!" she answered. "She doesn't bide here; shoo's up at
th' Heights."

"Are you housekeeper, then?"

"Eea, aw keep th' house," she replied.

"Well, I'm Mr. Lockwood, the master. Are there any rooms to lodge me in,
I wonder? I wish to stay all night."

"T' maister!" she cried in astonishment. "Yah sud ha' sent word. They's
nowt norther dry nor mensful abaht t' place!"

Leaving her scurrying about making preparations, I climbed the stony
by-road that branches off to Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. On reaching it I
had neither to climb the gate nor to knock--it yielded to my hand. "This
is an improvement," I thought. I noticed, too, a fragrance of flowers
wafted on the air from among the homely fruit-trees.

"Con-_trary_!" said a voice as sweet as a silver bell "That for the
third time, you dunce! I'm not going to tell you again."

"Contrary, then," answered another in deep but softened tones. "And now
kiss me for minding so well."

The male speaker was a young man, respectably dressed and seated at a
table, having a book before him. His handsome features glowed with
pleasure, and his eyes kept impatiently wandering from the page to a
small white hand over his shoulder. So, not to interrupt Hareton
Earnshaw and Catherine Heathcliff, I went round to the kitchen, where my
old friend Nelly Dean sat sewing and singing a song.

Mrs. Dean jumped to her feet as she recognised me. "Why, bless you, Mr.
Lockwood!" she exclaimed. "Pray step in! Have you walked from
Gimmerton?"

"No, from the Grange," I replied; "and while they make me a lodging room
there I want to finish my business with your master."

"What business, sir?" said Nelly.

"About the rent," I answered.

"Oh, then it is Catherine you must settle with, or rather me, as she has
not learned to arrange her affairs yet."

I looked surprised.

"Ah! You have not heard of Heathcliff's death, I see," she continued.

"Heathcliff dead!" I exclaimed. "How long ago?"

"Three months since; but sit down, and I'll tell you all about it."

"I was summoned to Wuthering Heights," she said, "within a fortnight of
your leaving us, and I went gladly for Catherine's sake. Mr. Heathcliff,
who grew more and more disinclined to society, almost banished Earnshaw
from his apartment, and was tired of seeing Catherine--that was the
reason why I was sent for--and the two young people were thrown perforce
much in each other's company in the house, and presently Catherine began
to make it clear to her obstinate cousin that she wished to be friends.
The intimacy ripened rapidly, and, Mr. Lockwood, on their wedding day
there won't be a happier woman in England than myself. Joseph was the
only objector, and he appealed to Heathcliff against 'yon flaysome
graceless quean, that's witched our lad wi' her bold een and her forrad
ways.' But after a burst of passion at the news, Mr. Heathcliff suddenly
calmed down and said to me, 'Nelly, there is a strange change
approaching; I'm in its shadow.'

"Soon after that he took to wandering alone, in a state approaching
distraction. He could not rest; he could not eat; and he would not see
the doctor. One morning as I walked round the house I observed the
master's window swinging open and the rain driving straight in. 'He
cannot be in bed,' I thought, 'those showers would drench him through.'
And so it was, for when I entered the chamber his face and throat were
washed with rain, the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly
still--dead and stark. I called up Joseph. 'Eh, what a wicked 'un he
looks, girning at death,' exclaimed the old man, and then he fell on his
knees and returned thanks that the ancient Earnshaw stock were restored
to their rights.

"I shall be glad when they leave the Heights for the Grange," concluded
Mrs. Dean.

"They are going to the Grange, then?"

"Yes, as soon as they are married; and that will be on New Year's Day."

       *       *       *       *       *



ROBERT BUCHANAN


The Shadow of the Sword

      Robert Buchanan, poet, novelist, and playwright, was born on
     Aug. 18, 1841, at Caverswall, Staffordshire, England, the son
     of a poor journeyman tailor from Ayrshire, in Scotland, who
     wrote poetry, and wandered about the country preaching
     socialism of the Owen type, afterwards editing a Glasgow
     journal. Owing, perhaps, in part to his very unconventional
     training, Robert Buchanan entered on life with a strange
     freshness of vision. Nothing in ordinary human life seemed
     common or mean to him, and this sense of wonder, combined with
     a power of judgment much steadier than his father's, made him
     a poet of considerable genius. "Undertones," published in
     1863, and "Idylls and Legends of Inverburn," which appeared
     two years later, made him famous. The same qualities which he
     displayed in his poetry Buchanan exhibited in his earliest and
     best novels. "The Shadow of the Sword," published in 1876, was
     originally conceived as a poem, and it still remains one of
     the best of modern English prose romances. In his latter years
     Robert Buchanan, tortured by the long and painful illness of
     his beautiful and gentle wife, wrote a considerable amount of
     work with no literary merit; but this does not diminish the
     value of his best and earliest work, which undoubtedly
     entitles him to a place of importance in English literature.
     He died on June 10, 1901.


_I.--The King of the Conscripts_


"Rohan Gwenfern!" cried the sergeant, in a voice that rang like a
trumpet through the length of the town hall.

No one answered. The crowd of young Kromlaix men looked at each other in
consternation. Was the handsomest, the strongest, and the most daring
lad in their village a coward? It was the dark year of 1813, when
Napoleon was draining France of all its manhood. Even the only sons of
poor widowed women, such as Rohan Gwenfern was, were no longer exempted
from conscription. Having lost half a million men amid the snows of
Russia, Napoleon had called for 200,000 more soldiers, and the little
Breton fishing village of Kromlaix had to provide twenty-five recruits.

"Rohan Gwenfern!" cried the sergeant again.

The mayor rose up behind the ballot-box on the large table, about which
the villagers were gathered, and looked around in vain for the splendid
figure of the young fisherman.

"Where is your nephew?" he said to Corporal Derval, in an angry voice.

Derval, one of Napoleon's veterans, who had been pensioned after losing
his leg at Austerlitz, looked at his pretty niece, Marcelle, with a
strange pallor on his furrowed, sunburnt face.

"Rohan was too ill to come," said Marcelle, with a troubled look in her
sweet grey eyes. "I will draw in his name."

"Very well, my pretty lass," said the mayor, his grim face softening
into a smile as he looked at the beautiful girl, "you shall draw for
him, and bring him luck."

Marcelle's hand trembled as she put it into the ballot-box. She let it
stay there so long that some of the soldiers began to laugh. But the
village women, gathered in a dense crowd at the back of the hall, gazed
at her with tears in their eyes. They knew what she was doing. She was
praying that she might draw a lucky number for her lover, Rohan.
Twenty-five conscripts were wanted, and those who drew a paper numbered
twenty-six or upwards were free.

"Come, come, my dear!" said the mayor, stroking his moustache, and
nodding encouragingly at Marcelle.

She slowly drew forth a paper, and handed it to her uncle, who opened
it, read it with a stare, and uttered his usual expletive. "Soul of a
crow!" in an awstricken whisper.

"Read it, corporal!" said the mayor, while Marcelle looked wildly at her
uncle.

"It is incredible!" said Corporal Derval, handing the paper to the
sergeant, with the look of amazement still on his face.

"Rohan Gwenfern--one!" shouted the sergeant, while Marcelle clung to her
uncle, and hid her face upon his arm.

Rohan Gwenfern, who had taken a solemn oath that he would never go forth
to slay his fellow-men at the bidding of Napoleon, whom he regarded as a
horrible, murderous monster, found himself, when he returned to Kromlaix
late that evening, in the sorry position of King of the Conscripts. He
was a young man who had led a very solitary life, but solitude, instead
of making him morbid, had strengthened his natural feelings of pity and
affection. His immense physical strength had never been exerted for any
evil, and even in the roughest wrestling matches he had never fought
brutally or cruelly.

He certainly rejoiced in his splendid powers of body; but he had the
gentleness of soul of a poetic mind, as well as the magnanimity that
often goes with great strength. There was, indeed, something lion-like
about him as he strode up to the door of his cottage, with his mane of
yellow hair floating over his broad brows and falling on his shoulders.
An eager crowd was waiting for him, and when he appeared, they all
shouted.

"Here he is at last!" cried a voice, which he recognised as that of
Mikel Grallon. "Three cheers for the King of the Conscripts!"

Some bag-pipe players struck up a merry tune, but Rohan, with a wild
face and stern eyes, pushed his way through the throng into his cottage.
On a seat by the fire his mother sat weeping, her face covered with her
apron; round her was a band of sympathising friends. The scene explained
itself in one flash, and Rohan Gwenfern knew his fate. Pale as death, he
rushed across the floor to his mother's side, just as a troop of young
girls flocked into the house singing the Marseillaise. At their head was
Marcelle.

A hard struggle had gone on in the heart of Rohan's sweetheart. She had
been overcome with grief when she drew the fatal number. But her dismay
had quickly turned into an heroic pride at the thought of her lover
becoming a soldier of Napoleon. From her childhood she had learnt from
her uncle to admire and worship the great emperor who had led the armies
of France from victory to victory, and she did not think that Rohan
would refuse to follow him. It is true that she had often heard Gwenfern
say that he loathed war; but many other men of Kromlaix had said the
same thing; and yet, when the hour came, and they were called to serve
in the Grand Army, they had obeyed.

"Look, Rohan!" she cried, holding up in her hand a rosette with a long,
coloured streamer. "Look! I have brought this for you."

Each of the conscripts wore a similar badge, and old Corporal Derval had
stuck one on his own breast. All the crowd cheered as Marcelle advanced,
with bright eyes and flaming cheeks, to her sweetheart.

"Keep back! Do not touch me!" cried Rohan, his face blazing with strange
anger.

"The boy's mad!" exclaimed Corporal Derval, in an angry voice.

"Do you not understand, Rohan?" exclaimed Marcelle, terrified by her
lover's look. "As you did not come, someone had to draw in your name. I
did so, and you are now the King of the Conscripts, and this is your
badge. Let me fasten it upon your breast!"

In a moment her soft fingers attached the rosette to his jacket. Rohan
did not stir; his eyes were fixed on the ground, but his features worked
convulsively.

"Forward now, all of you to the inn!" said Corporal Derval, when the
cheering was over. "We will drink the health of Number One!"

As everybody was moving towards the door, Rohan started as if from a
trance.

"Stay!" he shouted.

All stood listening, and his widowed mother crept up and clasped his
hand.

"You are all mad," he said, in a wild voice, "and I seem to be going
mad, too. What is this you tell me about a conscription and an emperor?
I do not understand. I only know you are all mad. Napoleon has no right
to compel me to fight for him; and if every Frenchman had my heart, he
would not reign another day. I refuse to be led like a sheep to the
slaughter. He can kill me if he wills, but he cannot force me to kill my
fellow-men. You can go if you like, and do his bloody work. Had I the
power I would serve him as I serve this badge of his!"

Tearing the rosette from his breast, he cast it into the flaming fire.

"Rohan, for God's sake be silent!" cried Marcelle. "You speak like a
madman. It is all my fault. I thought I should bring you good luck by
drawing for you. Won't you forgive me?"

The young fisherman looked sadly into his sweetheart's face, and when he
saw her wet eyes and quivering lips his heart was stirred. He took her
hand and kissed it, but suddenly an ill-favoured face was thrust forward
between the two lovers.

"Isn't it a pity," sneered Mikel Grallon, "to see a pretty girl wasting
herself on a coward, when----"

He did not complete the sentence, for Rohan stretched out his hand and
smote him down. Grallon fell like a log.

A wild cry arose from all the men, the women screamed, even Marcelle
shrank back; and Rohan strode to the door, pushing his way out.

"Hold him! Kill him!" shouted some.

"Arrest him!" cried Corporal Derval.

Rohan hurled his opponents right and left like so many ninepins. They
fell back and gasped. Then, turning his white face for an instant on
Marcelle, her lover passed unmolested out into the darkness.


_II.--In the Cathedral of the Sea_


Along the wild, rugged shore, a little way from Kromlaix, was an immense
cavern of crimson granite, hung with gleaming moss, and washed by the
roaring tides of the sea. Its towering walls had been carved by wind and
water into thousands of beautiful, fantastical forms, and a dim
religious light fell from above through a long, funnel-shaped hole
running from the roof of the cavern to the top of the great cliff.

It was here that Rohan Gwenfern hid from the band of soldiers sent in
pursuit of him. The air was damp and chill, but he breathed it with the
comfort of a hardy animal. He made a bed of dry seaweed on the top of
the precipice leading to the hole in the cliff, where his mother came
and lowered food to him every evening; and Jannedik, a pet goat that
used to follow him everywhere in the days when he was a free man, was
his only companion. Strange and solitary was the life he led, but he
slept as soundly in his bed of seaweed on the wild precipice as he did
in his bed at home.

But one morning, when he awoke, a confused murmur broke upon his ear.
Peering over the ledge, he saw a crowd of soldiers standing on the
shingle at the mouth of the cavern.

"Come down and surrender, in the name of the emperor!" cried the
sergeant.

"Surrender!" shouted all his men. And the vast, dim place rang with the
echoing sound of their voices.

"You can have my dead body if you care to come up here for it!" cried
Rohan, stepping into the light that fell from the hole in the cliff.

The soldiers stared up in astonishment when Rohan appeared on the ledge
of the precipice. He was now a gaunt, forlorn, hunted man, with a few
rags hanging about his body, and a great shock of yellow hair tumbling
below his shoulders. Under the stress of mental suffering his flesh had
wasted from his bones, but his eyes flashed with a terrible light.

"Come down," said the sergeant, raising his gun, "or I will pick you off
your perch as if you were a crow."

Instead of getting behind a rock, Rohan stood up with a strange smile on
his face, and said, "If you want me, you must come and fetch me."

There was a flash, a roar--the sergeant had fired. But when the smoke
had cleared away, Rohan was still standing on the ledge with the strange
smile on his face. The shot had gone wide.

"You can smile," said the sergeant angrily, "but you cannot escape. If I
cannot bring you down, I will starve you out. My men are watching for
you, above and below. You are surrounded."

"And so are you," said Rohan, with a laugh, pointing to the mouth of the
cavern. "Look behind you!"

The sergeant and his men turned round, and gave a cry of dismay. The
tide had turned, and the sea was surging fiercely into the mouth of the
cavern.

"Give him one volley," shouted the sergeant, "and then swim for your
lives."

But when the men turned to aim at Rohan, he was no longer visible. They
fired at random at the hole in the cliff, and after filling the great
cavern with drifting smoke and echoing thunder, they fled for their
lives, wading, swimming through the high spring tide.

"At any rate," said the sergeant, when they had all got safely back to
land, "we can stop Mother Gwenfern from bringing the mad rebel any more
food."

So a watch was set over the cottage in which Rohan's widowed mother
lived, and she was always searched whenever she left her house, and
bands of armed men kept guard night and day by the hole at the top of
the cliff and by the seaward entrance to the cavern. At the end of two
weeks the sergeant resolved to make another attack. The man, he thought,
must surely have been starved to death, as every avenue of aid had long
since been blocked.

So one moonlight night at ebb tide the crowd of soldiers crept into the
cavern and lashed two long ladders together, and began to climb up the
precipice. But a strong arm seized the ladders from above, and flung
them back on the granite floor of the cave. Standing like a ghost in the
faint, silvery radiance falling through the hole in the cliff, Rohan
hurled down upon the dark mass of the besieging crowd great fragments of
rock which he had placed, ready for use, along the ledge on which he
slept.

"Fire Fire!" shrieked the sergeant, pointing at the white figure of
Rohan.

But before the command could be obeyed, Rohan got under shelter, and the
bullets rained harmlessly round the spot where he had just stood. Then,
under cover of fire, some men advanced and again placed the ladder
against the precipice. As Rohan crouched down on the ledge, he was
startled by the apparition of a human face. With a cry of rage, he
sprang to his feet, and, heedless of the bullets thudding on the rock
around him, he slowly and painfully lifted up a terrible granite
boulder, poised it for a moment over his head, and then hurled it down
at the shapes dimly struggling below him. There was a crash, a shriek.
Under the weight of the boulder the ladders broke, and the men upon them
fell down, amid horrible cries of agony and terror.

What happened after this Rohan never knew; for, overcome by frenzy and
fatigue, he swooned away. When he opened his eyes, he was lying beneath
the hole in the cliff, with the moonlight streaming upon his face. From
below him came the soft sound of lapping water, and, looking down, he
saw that the tide had entered the cave, and forced the besiegers to give
over their attack.

Yes, the battle was over, and he had conquered! His position indeed was
impregnable; had he been well supplied with food, he could have held it
against hundreds of men for a long period. But, as he laid down on his
bed of seaweed, a rough tongue licked his hand. It was his goat,
Jannedik. For the last fortnight, Rohan's mother had sent the goat every
day to her son with a basket of food tied round its neck and hidden in
the long hair of its throat. Rohan groped in the darkness for the
basket, and Jannedik uttered a low cry of pain, rolled over at his feet
into the moonlight, revealing a terrible bullet-wound in its side, and
quivered and died. Some soldier had shot it.

As Rohan stared at the dead body of his four-footed friend, the strength
of mind which had enabled him to withstand all the power that Napoleon,
the conqueror of Europe, could bring against him at last went from him.
Trembling and shivering, he looked around him, overcome by utter
desolation and despair. He had held out bravely, but he could hold out
no longer; slowly and laboriously he climbed down the dark face of the
precipice, and reached the narrow strip of shingle below, just as the
moon got clear from a cloud and lighted up the cavern. Its cold rays
fell on the white face of the sergeant, who laid half on the shingle and
half in the water, crushed by the great boulder with which Rohan had
broken down the ladders.

Rohan gazed for a moment on the features of the man he had killed, and
then, with a cry of agony and despair, he fell upon his knees.

"Not on my head, O God, be the guilt!" he prayed. "Not on my head, but
on his who hunted me down and made me what I am; on his, whose red sword
shadows all the world, and drives on millions of innocent men to murder
each other! Ah, God, God, God! The men that Napoleon has slain! Is it
not high time that some man like me sought him out and killed him, and
brought peace back once more to this blood-covered earth of ours? Yes, I
will do it!"

Rising wildly to his feet, full of the strange strength and the strange
powers of madness, Rohan Gwenfern climbed up the precipice to his bed of
seaweed, and then took a path that no man had taken and lived--the
sheer, precipitous path from the roof of the cavern to the top of the
cliff.


_III.--Rohan Meets Napoleon_


As the Grand Army swept into Belgium for the last great battle against
the united powers of England, Germany, Austria, and Russia, a strange,
savage creature followed it--a gaunt, half-naked man, with long yellow
hair falling almost to his waist, and bloodshot eyes with a look of
madness in them. How he lived it is difficult to tell. He never begged,
but the soldiers threw lumps of bread at him as he prowled round their
camp-fires, asking everyone whom he met: "Where is the emperor? Where is
Napoleon? Do you think he will come this way?"

Twice he had been arrested as a spy, and hastily condemned to be shot.
But each time, on hearing his sentence of death, he gave so strange a
laugh that the officer examined him more closely, and then set him free,
saying with scornful pity, "It is a harmless maniac. Let him go."

He always lagged in the rear of the advancing army, and as each fresh
regiment arrived he mingled with the soldiers, and asked them in a
fierce whisper, "Is the emperor coming now? Isn't he coming?"

At last, one dark rainy evening, the wild outcast saw the man for whom
he was seeking. Wrapped in an old grey overcoat, and wearing a cocked
hat from which the rain dripped heavily, Napoleon stood on a hill, with
his hands clasped behind his back, his head sunk deep between his
shoulders, looking towards Ligny. But he was guarded; a crowd of
officers stood close behind him, waiting for orders.

Suddenly a bareheaded soldier came riding along the road, spurring and
flogging his horse as if for dear life; galloping wildly up the hill he
handed the emperor a dispatch. Napoleon glanced at it, and spoke to his
staff officers. With a wild movement of joy they drew their swords, and
waved them in the air, shouting, "_Vive l'Empereur!"_ Napoleon smiled.
His star was again in the ascendant! The Prussians were retreating from
Ligny; he had struck the first blow, and it was a victory!

Near the hill on which he was standing was a deserted farmhouse; he gave
orders that it should be prepared for his reception. But, as he rode
down the hill at the head of his staff, the man who had been watching
him divined his intention, and reached the house before his attendants.
The soldiers who searched the place before Napoleon entered failed to
see the dark figure crouching up in the corner of a loft among the black
rafters.

"Leave me," said Napoleon to his men, after he had finished the plain
meal of bread and wine set before him.

To-morrow he would meet for the first time, on the rolling fields of
Waterloo, the only captain of a European army whom he had not defeated.
He wanted to think his plans of battle over in silence. Some time he
paced up and down the room, his chin drooping forward on his breast, and
his hands clasped upon his back. Through the wide, clear spaces of his
mind great armies passed in black procession, moving like storm-clouds
over the stricken earth; burning cities rose in the distance, amid the
shrieks of dying men, and the thunder of cannon. His plan was at last
matured. Victory? Yes, that was certain! So his thoughts ran. An
aide-de-camp entered with a dispatch. He tore it open, and ran his eye
over it.

"It is nothing," he said. "Don't disturb me for two hours except on a
matter of great importance. I want to sleep."

Going up to the old armchair of oak that was set before the fire, he
fell on his knees, and covered his eyes and prayed.

"What!" said the man who was watching him up in the rafters. "Does Cain
dare to pray? Surely God will not answer his prayers! He is praying that
he may wipe the English to-morrow from the face of the earth, and again
cement his throne with blood, and forge his sceptre of fire!"

That, no doubt, was what Napoleon prayed for. Yet, when he rose up his
face was wonderfully changed and softened by the religious light which
had shone on it for a few moments. Then, throwing himself into the
armchair, he closed his eyes. And, as the fire burnt low, Rohan Gwenfern
silently descended from the loft, and something gleamed in his hand. He
crept up to the sleeping emperor, and stared at his face, reading it
line by line. Napoleon moved uneasily in his sleep, and murmured to
himself, and his hand opened and shut.

As Rohan raised his knife to strike home to the heart of the tyrant he
saw the hand--white and small, like a woman's or a child's. Again he
looked at the face. Ah, there was no imperial grandeur here! Only a
feeble, sallow, tired, and sickly creature, whom a strong man could
crush down with one blow of his fist. Rohan grew weak as he looked, and
the long knife almost fell from his clutch.

"I must kill him--I must kill him!" he kept saying to himself. "His one
life against the peace and happiness of earth--the life of a Cain! If he
awakens, war will awaken, and fire, famine, and slaughter! Kill him,
Rohan, kill him!"

Perhaps if Napoleon had not prayed before he slept, his enemy would have
carried out his purpose. But he had prayed; his face had become
beautiful for a moment, and he fell asleep as fearlessly as a child. No!
Rohan Gwenfern was not made of the stuff of which savage assassins are
formed; though there was madness in his brain, there was still love in
his heart. He could not kill even Cain, when God had sanctified the
murderer with sleep. God had made Napoleon, and God had sent him; bloody
as he was, he, too, was God's child.

Opening the great casement window of the room in the farmhouse, Gwenfern
gazed for a moment with wild eyes and quivering lips on the pale, worn
face of the great conqueror, and then leaped out into the darkness. When
Napoleon awoke, a long knife was lying at his feet; but he heeded it
not, and little dreamt that a few minutes ago it had been pointed at his
heart.

Ah, Rohan Gwenfern had done well to leave the mighty emperor in the
hands of God, and go back, a wild, tattered, mad beggar to his
sweetheart Marcelle, in the little Breton village of Kromlaix. For as
Napoleon came out of the farmhouse, and looked at the dawning sky, there
rose up, clouding the lurid star of his destiny, the blood-red shadow--
WATERLOO!

       *       *       *       *       *



JOHN BUNYAN


The Holy War

      John Bunyan was born at Elstow, near Bedford, England, in
     1628. After receiving a scanty education at the village
     school, he worked hard at the forge with his father. In his
     sixteenth year he lost his mother, and soon after he joined
     the army, then engaged in the Civil War; but his military
     experience lasted only a few months. Returning to Elstow, he
     again worked at the forge, and married. After various
     alternating religious experiences, in 1655 he became a member
     of the Baptist congregation at Bedford, of which he was ere
     long chosen pastor. His success was extraordinary; but after
     five years his ministry was prohibited, and he was
     incarcerated in Bedford Gaol, his imprisonment lasting for
     twelve years. There he wrote his immortal "Pilgrim's
     Progress." Released under the Act of Indulgence, he resumed
     his ministry, and ultimately his pastoral charge in Bedford.
     He took fever when on a visit to London, and died on August
     31, 1688. The "Holy War" is considered by critics even
     superior to the "Pilgrim," inasmuch as it betrays a finer
     literary workmanship. It was written in 1682, after
     molestation of Bunyan as a preacher had ceased, and when he
     was known widely as the author of the first part of the
     "Pilgrim's Progress," the second part of which was published
     two years later. Macaulay held that if there had been no
     "Pilgrim's Progress," "Holy War" would have been the first of
     religious allegories. No doubt its popularity has been due in
     some degree to its kinship to that work; but the vigour of its
     style overcomes the minute elaboration of an almost impossible
     theme, and the book lives, alike as literature and theology,
     by its own vitality. An elaborate analysis of it may be found
     in Froude's volume on Bunyan. He said of it: "'The Holy War'
     would have entitled Bunyan to a place among the masters of
     English Literature."


_I.--The Founding of Mansoul_


In the gallant country of Universe there is a fair and delicate town, a
corporation called Mansoul, a town for its building so curious, for its
situation so commodious, for its privileges so advantageous, that there
is not its equal under the whole heaven.

As to the situation of the town, it lieth between two worlds, and the
first founder and builder of it was one Shaddai, who built it for his
own delight. And as he made it goodly to behold, so also mighty to have
dominion over all the country round about.

There was reared up in the midst of this town a most famous and stately
place--for strength it may be called a castle; for pleasantness, a
paradise. This place King Shaddai intended for himself alone, and not
another with him; and of it he made a garrison, but committed the
keeping of it only to the men of the town.

This famous town of Mansoul had five gates--Eargate, Eyegate, Mouthgate,
Nosegate, and Feelgate. It had always a sufficiency of provisions within
its walls, and it had the best, most wholesome and excellent law that
was then extant in the world. There was not a rogue, rascal, or
traitorous person within its walls; they were all true men, and fast
joined together.


_II.--The Plot and Capture_


Well, upon a time there was one Diabolus, a mighty giant, made an
assault upon the famous town of Mansoul, to take it, and make it his own
habitation. This Diabolus was first one of the servants of King Shaddai,
by whom he was raised to a most high and mighty place. But he, seeing
himself thus exalted to greatness and honour, and raging in his mind for
higher state and degree, what doth he but begin to think with himself
how he might set up as lord over all, and have the sole power under
Shaddai--but that the king had reserved for his son. Wherefore Diabolus
first consults with himself what had best to be done, and then breaks
his mind to some others of his companions, to which they also agreed. So
they came to the issue that they should make an attempt upon the king's
son to destroy him, that the inheritance might be theirs.

Now, the king and his son, being all and always eye, could not but
discern all passages in his dominions; wherefore, what does he but takes
them in the very nick, and the first trip that they made towards their
design, convicts them of the treason, horrid rebellion, and conspiracy
that they had devised, and casts them altogether out of all place of
trust, benefit, honours, and preferment; and this done, he banishes them
the court, turns them down into horrid pits, never more to expect the
least favour at his hands.

Banished from his court, you may be sure they would now add to their
former pride, malice and rage against Shaddai. Wherefore, roving and
ranging in much fury from place to place, if perhaps they might find
something that was the king's, they happened into this spacious country
of Universe, and steered their course to Mansoul. So when they found the
place, they shouted horribly on it for joy, saying: "Now have we found
the prize, and how to be revenged on King Shaddai!" So they sat down and
called a council of war.

Now, with Diabolus was, among others, the fierce Alecto, and Apollyon,
and the mighty giant Beelzebub, and Lucifer, and Legion. And Legion it
was whose advice was taken that they should assault the town in all
pretended fairness, covering their intentions with lies, flatteries, and
delusive words; feigning things that will never be, and promising that
to them which they shall never find. It was designed also that, by a
stratagem, they should destroy one Mr. Resistance, otherwise called
Captain Resistance--a man that the giant Diabolus and his band more
feared than they feared the whole town of Mansoul besides. And they
appointed one Tisiphone to do it.

Thus, having ended the council of war, they rose up and marched towards
Mansoul; but all in a manner invisible, save only Diabolus, who
approached the town in the shape and body of a dragon. So they drew up
and sat down before Eargate, and laid their ambuscade for Mr. Resistance
within a bow shot of the town. Then Diabolus, being come to the gate,
sounded his trumpet for audience, at which the chiefs of the town, such
as my lord Innocent, my lord Will-be-will, Mr. Recorder, and Captain
Resistance, came down to the wall to see who was there and what was the
matter.

Diabolus then began his oration.

"Gentlemen of the famous town of Mansoul, I have somewhat of concern to
impart unto you. And first I will assure you it is not my own but your
advantage that I seek. I am come to show you how you may obtain ample
deliverance from a bondage that, unawares to yourselves, you are
captivated and enslaved under."

At this the town of Mansoul began to prick up its ears.

"And what is it, pray? What is it?" thought they.

Then Diabolus spoke on.

"Touching your king, I know he is great and potent; but his laws are
unreasonable, intricate, and intolerable. There is a great difference
and disproportion betwixt the life and an apple, yet one must go for the
other by the law of your Shaddai. Why should you be holden in ignorance
and blindness? O ye inhabitants of Mansoul, ye are not a free people!
And is it not grievous to think on, that the very thing you are
forbidden to do, might you but do it would yield you both wisdom and
honour?"

And just now, while Diabolus was speaking these words to Mansoul,
Tisiphone shot at Captain Resistance, where he stood on the gate, and
mortally wounded him in the head, so that he, to the amazement of the
townsmen, fell down quite dead over the wall. Now, when Captain
Resistance was dead--and he was the only man of war in the town--poor
Mansoul was left wholly naked of courage. Then stood forth Mr.
Ill-pause, that Diabolus brought with him as his orator, and persuaded
the townsfolk to take of the tree which King Shaddai had forbidden; and
when they saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant
to the eye, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, they took and did
eat. Now even while this Ill-pause was making his speech, my lord
Innocent--whether by a shot from the camp of the giant, or from some
qualm that suddenly took him, or whether by the stinking breath of that
treacherous villain, old Ill-pause, for so I am most apt to think--sunk
down in the place where he stood still, nor could he be brought to life
again.

Now, these brave men being dead, what do the rest of the townsfolk but
fall down and yield obedience to Diabolus, and having eaten of the
forbidden fruit, they become drunk therewith, and so opened both Eargate
and Eyegate, and let in Diabolus and all his band, quite forgetting
their good Shaddai and his law.

Diabolus now bethinks himself of remodelling the town for his greater
security, setting up one and putting down another at pleasure. Wherefore
he put out of power and place my lord mayor, whose name was my lord
Understanding, and Mr. Recorder, whose name was Mr. Conscience. But my
lord Will-be-will, a man of great strength, resolution, and courage,
resolved to bear office under Diabolus, who, perceiving the willingness
of my lord to serve him forthwith, made him captain of the castle,
governor of the walls, and keeper of the gates of Mansoul. He also had
Mr. Mind for his clerk.

When the giant had thus engarrisoned himself in the town of Mansoul, he
betakes himself to defacing. Now, there was in the market-place, and
also in the gates of the castle, an image of the blessed King Shaddai.
This he commanded to be defaced, and it was basely done by the hand of
Mr. No-truth. Moreover, Diabolus made havoc of the remains of the laws
and statutes of Shaddai, and set up his own vain edicts, such as gave
liberty to the lusts of the flesh, the lusts of the eyes, and the pride
of life.


_III.--The Re-Taking of Mansoul_


Now, as you may well think, long before this time, word was carried to
the good King Shaddai that Mansoul was lost, and it would have amazed
one to have seen what sorrow and compunction of spirit there was among
all sorts at the king's court to think that the place was taken. But the
king and his son foresaw all this before, yea, had sufficiently provided
for the relief of Mansoul, though they told not everybody thereof.
Wherefore, after consultation, the son of Shaddai--a sweet and comely
person, and one that always had great affection for those that were in
affliction--having striven hard with his father, promised that he would
be his servant to recover Mansoul. The purport of this agreement was
that at a certain time, prefixed by both, the king's son should take a
journey into the country of Universe, and there, in a way of justice and
equity, make amends for the follies of Mansoul, and lay the foundation
of her perfect deliverance.

Now King Shaddai thought good at the first not to send his army by the
hand and conduct of brave Emmanuel, his son, but under the hand of some
of his servants, to see first by them the temper of Mansoul, and whether
they would be won to the obedience of their king. So they came up to
Mansoul under the conduct of four stout generals, each man being captain
of ten thousand men, and having his standard-bearer.

Having travelled for many days, at the king's cost, not hurting or
abusing any, they came within sight of Mansoul, the which, when they
saw, the captains could for their hearts do no less than bewail the
condition of the town, for they quickly perceived it was prostrate to
the will of Diabolus.

Well, before the king's forces had set before Mansoul three days,
Captain Boanerges commanded his trumpeter to go down to Eargate to
summon Mansoul to give audience to the message he was commanded to
deliver, but there was none that appeared to give answer or regard.

Again and again was the summons sounded, till at last the townsmen came
up--having first made Eargate as sure as they could. So my lord
Incredulity, came up and showed himself over the wall. But when the
captain had set eyes on him he cried out aloud, "This is not he; where
is my lord Understanding, the ancient mayor of the town of Mansoul?"
Then stood forth the four captains, and, taking no notice of the giant
Diabolus, each addressed himself to the town of Mansoul; but their brave
speeches the town refused to hear, yet the sound thereof beat against
Eargate, though the force thereof could not break it open.

Then Diabolus commanded the lord mayor Incredulity to give answer, and
his oration was seconded by desperate Will-be-will, while the recorder,
whose name was Forget-good, followed with threats. Then did the town of
Mansoul shout for joy, as if by Diabolus and his crew some great
advantage had been obtained over the captains. They also rang the bells,
and sang and made merry, and danced for joy upon the walls. Now, when
the captains heard the answer of the great ones, and they could not get
a hearing from the old natives of the town, they resolved to try it out
by the power of the arm; so with their slings they battered the houses,
and with rams they sought to break Eargate open, but Mansoul stood it
out so lustily that after several skirmishes and brisk encounters they
made a fair retreat and entrenched themselves in their winter quarters.

But now could not Mansoul sleep securely as before, nor could they go to
their debaucheries with quietness, as in times past, for they had from
the camp of Shaddai such frequent warm alarms, yea, alarms upon alarms,
first at one gate and then at another, and again at all the gates at
once, that they were broken as to former peace; yea, so distressed were
they that I daresay Diabolus, their king, had in these days his rest
much broken. And by degrees new thoughts possessed the minds of the men
of the town. Some would say, "There is no living thus." Others would
then reply, "This will be over shortly." Then a third would answer, "Let
us turn to King Shaddai, and so put an end to all these troubles." The
old gentlemen, too, Mr. Conscience, the recorder that was so before
Diabolus took Mansoul, began to talk aloud, and his words were now like
great claps of thunder. Yea, so far as I could gather, the town had been
surrendered before now had it not been for the opposition of old
Incredulity and the fickleness of my lord Will-be-will.

They of the king's army this winter sent three times to Mansoul to
submit herself, and these summonses, especially the two last, so
distressed the town that presently they called a consultation for a
parley, and offered to come to an agreement on certain terms, but they
were such that the captains, jointly and with the highest disdain,
rejected, and returned to their trenches.

The captains then gathered themselves together for a conference, and
agreed that a petition should forthwith be drawn up and forwarded by a
fit man to Shaddai, with speed, that more forces be sent to Mansoul.
Now, the king at sight of the petition was glad; but how much more,
think you, when it was seconded by his son. Wherefore, the king called
to him Emmanuel, his son, and said, "Come now, therefore, my son, and
prepare thyself for war, for thou shalt go to my camp at Mansoul; thou
shalt also there prosper and prevail."

The time for the setting forth being expired, the king's son addresses
himself for the march and taketh with him five noble captains and their
forces. So they sat down before the town, not now against the gates
only, but environed it round on every side. But first, for two days
together, they hung out the white flag to give the townsfolk time to
consider; but they, as if they were unconcerned, made no reply to this
favourable signal, so they then set the red flag upon the mount called
Mount Justice.

When Emmanuel had put all things in readiness to bid Diabolus battle, he
sent again to know of the town of Mansoul if in peaceable manner they
would yield themselves. They then, together with Diabolus, their king,
called a council of war, and resolved on certain propositions that
should be offered to Emmanuel.

Now, there was in the town of Mansoul an old man, a Diabolonian, and his
name was Mr. Loath-to-Stoop, a stiff man in his way, and a great doer
for Diabolus; him, therefore, they sent, and put into his mouth what he
should say. But none of his proposals would Emmanuel grant--all his
ensnaring propositions were rejected, and Mr. Loath-to-Stoop departed.

Then was an alarm sounded, and the battering-rams were played, and the
slings whirled stones into the town amain, and thus the battle began.
And the word was at that time "Emmanuel." First Captain Boanerges made
three assaults, most fierce, one after another, upon Eargate, to the
shaking of the posts thereof. Captain Conviction also made up fast with
Boanerges, and both discovering that the gate began to yield, they
commanded that the rams should still be played against it. But Captain
Conviction, going up very near to the gate, was with great force driven
back, and received three wounds in the mouth. Nor did Captain Good-hope
nor Captain Charity come behind in this most desperate fight, for they
too so behaved at Eyegate that they had almost broken it quite open. And
this took away the hearts of many of the Diabolonians. As for Will-be-
will, I never saw him so daunted in my life, and some say he got a wound
in the leg.

When the battle was over Diabolus again attempted to make terms by
proposing a surrender on the condition that he should remain in the town
as Emmanuel's deputy, and press upon the people a reformation according
to law; but Emmanuel replied that nothing would be regarded that he
could propose, for he had neither conscience to God nor love to the town
of Mansoul. Diabolus therefore withdrew himself from the walls to the
fort in the heart of the town, and, filled with despair of retaining the
town in his hands, resolved to do it what mischief he could; for, said
he, "Better demolish the place and leave it a heap of ruins than that it
should be a habitation for Emmanuel."

Knowing the next battle would issue in his being master of the place,
Emmanuel gave out a royal commandment to all his men of war to show
themselves men of war against Diabolus and all Diabolonians, but
favourable and meek to the old inhabitants of Mansoul. Then, after three
or four notable charges, Eargate was burst open, and the bolts and bars
broken into a thousand pieces. Then did the prince's trumpets sound, the
captains shout, the town shake, and Diabolus retreat to his hold. And
there was a great slaughter till the Diabolonians lay dead in every
corner--though too many were yet alive in Mansoul. Now, the old recorder
and my lord Understanding, with some others of the chief of the town,
came together, and jointly agreed to draw up a petition, and send it to
Emmanuel while he sat in the gate of Mansoul. The contents of the
petition were these: "That they--the old inhabitants of the deplorable
town of Mansoul--confessed their sin, and were sorry that they had
offended his princely majesty, and prayed that he would spare their
lives." Unto this petition he gave no answer. After some time and
travail the gate of the castle was beaten open, and so a way was made to
go into the hold where Diabolus had hid himself.

Now, when he was come to the castle gates he commanded Diabolus to
surrender himself into his hands. But, oh, how loath was the beast to
appear! How he stuck at it! How he shrunk! How he cringed! Then Emmanuel
commanded, and they took Diabolus, and bound him first in chains, and
led him to the market-place, and stripped him of his armour. Thus having
made Diabolus naked in the eyes of Mansoul, the prince commands that he
shall be bound with chains to his chariot-wheels, and he rode in triumph
over him quite through the town. And, having finished this part of his
triumph over Diabolus, he turned him up in the midst of his contempt and
shame. Then went he from Emmanuel, and out of his camp to inherit
parched places in a salt land, seeking rest but finding none.

Now, the prince, having by special orders put my lord Understanding, Mr.
Conscience, and my lord Will-be-will in ward, they again drew up a
petition and sent it to Emmanuel by the hand of Mr. Would-Live, and this
being unanswered, they used as their messenger Mr. Desires-Awake, and
with him went Mr. Wet-Eyes, a near neighbour. Then the prisoners were
ordered to go down to the camp and appear before the prince. This they
did with drooping spirits and ropes round their necks. But the prince
gave them their pardon, embraced them, took away their ropes, and put
chains of gold round their necks. He also sent by the recorder a pardon
for all the people of Mansoul.

Then the prince commanded that the image of Diabolus should be taken
down from the place where it was set up, and that they should utterly
destroy it without the town wall; and that the image of Shaddai, his
father, should be set up again with his own. Moreover, he renewed the
charter of the city, and brought forth out of his treasury white
glittering robes and granted to the people that they should put them on,
so that they were put into fine linen, white and clean. Then said the
prince unto them, "This, O Mansoul, is my livery, and the badge by which
mine are known from the servants of others. Wear them if you would be
known by the world to be mine."


_IV.--The Downfall_


But there was a man in the town named Mr. Carnal-Security, and he
brought this corporation into great, grievous bondage. When Emmanuel
perceived that through the policy of Mr. Carnal-Security the hearts of
men were chilled and abated in their practical love for him, he in
private manner withdrew himself first from his palace, then to the gate
of the town, and so away from Mansoul till they should more earnestly
seek his face.

Then the Diabolonians who yet dwelt in Mansoul sent letters to Diabolus,
who promised to come to their assistance for the ruin of the town with
twenty thousand Doubters. Diabolus suddenly making an assault on
Feelgate, the gate was forced and the prince's men were compelled to
betake themselves to the castle as the stronghold of the town, leaving
the townsmen open to the ravages of the Doubters. Still the castle held
out, and more urgent petitions to Emmanuel, carried by Captain Credence,
brought at last the assurance that he would come presently to the relief
of the town.

Indeed, before that time Diabolus had thought it wise to withdraw his
men from the town to the plain; but here the Doubters, being caught
between the defenders of the city and the rescuing army of Emmanuel,
were slain to the last man, and buried in the plains.

Even yet Diabolus was not satisfied with his defeat, but determined on a
last attempt upon the town, his army being made up of ten thousand
Doubters and fifteen thousand Blood-men, all rugged villains. But Mr.
Prywell discovered their coming, and they were put to route by the
prince's captains, the Blood-men being surrounded and captured.

And so Mansoul arrived at some degree of peace and quiet, and her prince
also abode within her borders. Then the prince appointed a day when he
should meet the whole of the townsmen in the market-place, and they
being come together, he said, "Now, my Mansoul, I have returned to thee
in peace, and thy transgressions against me are as if they had not been.
Nor shall it be with thee as in former days, but I will do better, for
thee than at the beginning.

"Yet a little while, and I will take down this famous town of Mansoul,
street and stone, to the ground, and will set it up in such strength and
glory in mine own country as it never did see in the kingdom where now
it is placed. There, O my Mansoul, thou shalt be afraid of murderers no
more, of Diabolonians no more. There shall be no more plots, nor
contrivances, nor designs against thee. But first I charge thee that
thou dost hereafter keep more white and clean the liveries which I gave
thee. When thy garments are white, the world will count thee mine. And
now that thou mayest keep them white I have provided for thee an open
fountain to wash thy garments in. I have oft-times delivered thee, and
for all this I ask thee nothing but that thou bear in mind my love.
Nothing can hurt thee but sin, nothing can grieve me but sin, nothing
make thee pause before thy foes but sin. Watch! Behold, I lay none other
burden upon thee--hold fast till I come!"

       *       *       *       *       *



The Pilgrim's Progress

      The "Pilgrim's Progress" was begun during Bunyan's second and
     briefer term of imprisonment in Bedford gaol. As originally
     conceived, the work was something entirely different from the
     masterpiece that was finally produced. Engaged upon a
     religious treatise, Bunyan had occasion to compare Christian
     progress to a pilgrimage--a simile by no means uncommon even
     in those days. Soon he discovered a number of points which had
     escaped his predecessors, and countless images began to crowd
     quickly upon his imaginative brain. Released at last from
     gaol, he still continued his work, acquainting no one with his
     labours, and receiving the help of none. The "Pilgrim," on its
     appearance in 1678, was but a moderate success; but it was not
     long before its charm made itself felt, and John Bunyan
     counted his readers by the thousand in Scotland, in the
     Colonies, in Holland, and among the Huguenots of France.
     Within ten years 100,000 copies were sold. With the exception
     of the Bible, it is, perhaps, the most widely-read book in the
     English language, and has been translated into seventy foreign
     tongues.


_I.--The Battle with Apollyon_


As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain
place where there was a den, and laid me down in that place to sleep;
and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed I saw a man, clothed with
rags, standing with his face from his own house, a book in his hand, and
a great burden upon his back.

"O my dear wife and children!" he said, "I am informed that our city
will be burnt with fire from heaven. We shall all come to ruin unless we
can find a way of escape!"

His relations and friends thought that some distemper had got into his
head; but he kept crying, in spite of all that they said to quieten him,
"What shall I do to be saved?" He looked this way and that way, but
could not tell which road to take. And a man named Evangelist came to
him, and he said to Evangelist, "Whither must I fly?"

"Do you see yonder wicket gate?" said Evangelist, pointing with his
finger over a very wide field. "Go there, and knock, and you will be
told what to do."

I saw in my dream that the man began to run, and his wife and children
cried after him to return, but the man ran on, crying, "Life! life!
eternal life!"

Two of his neighbours pursued him and overtook him. Their names were
Obstinate and Pliable.

"Come, come, friend Christian," said Obstinate. "Why are you hurrying
away in this manner from the City of Destruction, in which you were
born?"

"Because I have read in my book," replied Christian, "that it will be
consumed with fire from heaven. I pray you, good neighbours, come with
me, and seek for some way of escape."

After listening to all that Christian said, Pliable resolved to go with
him, but Obstinate returned to the City of Destruction in scorn.

"What! Leave my friends and comforts for such a brain-sick fellow as
you? No, I will go back to my own home."

Christian and Pliable walked on together, without looking whither they
were going, and in the midst of the plain they fell into a very miry
slough, which was called the Slough of Despond. Here they wallowed for a
time, and Christian, because of the burden that was on his back, began
to sink in the mire.

"Is this the happiness you told me of?" said Pliable. "If I get out
again with my life, you shall make your journey alone."

With a desperate effort he got out of the mire, and went back, leaving
Christian alone in the Slough of Despond. As Christian struggled under
his burden towards the wicket gate, I saw in my dream that a man came to
him, whose name was Help, and drew him out, and set him upon sound
ground. But before Christian could get to the wicket gate, Mr. Worldly
Wiseman came and spoke to him.

"How now, good fellow!" said Mr. Worldly Wiseman. "Where are you going
with that heavy burden on your back?"

"To yonder wicket gate," said Christian. "For there, Evangelist told me,
I shall be put into a way to be rid of my heavy burden."

"Evangelist is a dangerous and troublesome fellow," said Mr. Worldly
Wiseman. "Do not follow his counsel. Hear me: I am older than you. I can
tell you an easy way to get rid of your burden. You see the village on
yonder high hill?"

"Yes," said Christian. "I remember the village is called Morality."

"It is," said Mr. Worldly Wiseman. "There you will find a very judicious
gentleman whose name is Mr. Legality. If he is not in, inquire for his
son, Mr. Civility. Both of them have great skill in helping men to get
burdens off their shoulders."

Christian resolved to follow Mr. Worldly Wiseman's advice. But, as he
was painfully climbing up the high hill, Evangelist came up to him, and
said, "Are you not the man that I found crying in the City of
Destruction, and directed to the little wicket gate? How is it that you
have gone so far out of the way?"

Christian blushed for shame, and said that he had been led astray by Mr.
Worldly Wiseman.

"Mr. Worldly Wiseman," said Evangelist, "is a wicked man. Mr. Legality
is a cheat, and his son, Mr. Civility, is a hypocrite. If you listen to
them they will beguile you of your salvation, and turn you from the
right way."

Evangelist then set Christian in the true path which led to the wicket
gate, over which was written, "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."
And Christian knocked, and a grave person, named Goodwill, opened the
gate and let him in. I saw in my dream that Christian asked him to help
him off with the burden that was upon his back, and Goodwill pointed to
a narrow way running from the wicket gate, and said, "Do you see that
narrow way? That is the way you must go. Keep to it, and do not turn
down any of the wide and crooked roads, and you will soon come to the
place of deliverance, where your burden will fall from your back of
itself."

Christian then took his leave of Goodwill, and climbed up the narrow way
till he came to a place upon which stood a cross. And I saw in my dream
that as Christian came to the cross, his burden fell from off his back,
and he became glad and lightsome. He gave three leaps for joy, and went
on his way singing, and at nightfall he came to a very stately palace,
the name of which was Beautiful. Four grave and lovely damsels, named
Charity, Discretion, Prudence, and Piety, met him at the threshold,
saying, "Come in, thou blessed of the Lord! This palace was built on
purpose to entertain such pilgrims as thou."

Christian sat talking with the lovely damsels until supper was ready,
and then they led him to a table that was furnished with fat things, and
excellently fine wines. And after Christian had refreshed himself, the
damsels showed him into a large chamber, whose window opened towards the
sun-rising. The name of the chamber was Peace, and there Christian slept
till break of day. Then he awoke, singing for joy, and the damsels took
him into the armoury, and dressed him for battle. They harnessed him in
armour of proof, and gave him a stout shield and a good sword; for, they
said, he would have to fight many a battle before he got to the
Celestial City.

And I saw in my dream that Christian went down the hill on which the
House Beautiful stood, and came to a valley, that was called the Valley
of Humiliation, where he was met by a foul fiend, Apollyon.

"Prepare to die!" said Apollyon, straddling over the whole breadth of
the narrow way. "I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no
further. Here will I spill thy soul."

With that, he threw a flaming dart at his breast, but Christian caught
it on his shield. Then Apollyon rushed upon him, throwing darts as thick
as hail, and, notwithstanding all that Christian could do, Apollyon
wounded him, and made him draw back. The sore combat lasted for half a
day, and though Christian resisted as manfully as he could, he grew
weaker and weaker by reason of his wounds. At last, Apollyon, espying
his opportunity, closed in on Christian, and wrestling with him, gave
him a dreadful fall, and Christian's sword flew out of his hand.

"Ah!" cried Apollyon, "I am sure of thee now!"

He pressed him almost to death, and Christian began to despair of life.
But, as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching his last blow, to
make an end of this good man, Christian nimbly reached out his hand for
his sword, and caught it, and gave him a deadly thrust. With that,
Apollyon spread forth his wings, and sped him away, and Christian saw
him no more.

Then, with some leaves from the tree of life, Christian healed his
wounds, and with his sword drawn in his hand, he marched through the
Valley of Humiliation, without meeting any more enemies.

But at the end of the valley was another, called the Valley of the
Shadow of Death. On the right hand of this valley was a very deep ditch;
it was the ditch into which the blind have led the blind in all ages,
and have there miserably perished. And on the left hand was a dangerous
quagmire, into which, if even a good man falls, he finds no bottom for
his foot to stand on. The pathway here was exceeding narrow and very
dark, and Christian was hard put to it to get through safely. And right
by the wayside, in the midst of the valley, was the mouth of hell, and
out of it came flame and smoke in great abundance, with sparks and
hideous noises. But when the hosts of hell came at him, as he travelled
on through the smoke and flame and dreadful noise, he cried out, "I will
walk in the strength of the Lord God!"

Thereupon, the fiends gave over, and came no further; and suddenly the
day broke, and Christian turned and saw all the hobgoblins, satyrs, and
dragons of the pit far behind him, and though he was now got into the
most dangerous part of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, he was no
longer afraid. The place was so set, here with snares, traps, gins and
nets, and there with pits and holes, and shelvings, that, had it been
dark, he would surely have perished. But it was now clear day, and by
walking warily Christian got safely to the end of the valley. And at the
end of the valley, he saw another pilgrim marching on at some distance
before him.

"Ho, ho!" shouted Christian. "Stay, and I will be your companion."

"No, I cannot stay," said the other pilgrim, whose name was Faithful. "I
am upon my life, and the avenger of blood is behind me."

Putting out all his strength, Christian quickly got up with Faithful.
Then I saw in my dream they went very lovingly on together, and had
sweet discourse of all things that had happened to them in their
pilgrimage; for they had been neighbours in the City of Destruction, and
both of them were bound for the Delectable Mountains, and the Celestial
City beyond. They were now in a great wilderness, and they walked on
together till they came to the town of Vanity, at which a fair is kept
all the year long, called Vanity Fair.


_II.--Vanity Fair_


I saw in my dream that Christian and Faithful tried to avoid seeing
Vanity Fair; but this they could not do, because the way to the
Celestial City lies through the town where this lusty fair is kept.
About 5,000 years ago, Beelzebub, Apollyon, and the rest of the fiends
saw by the path which the pilgrims made, that their way lay through the
town of Vanity. So they set up a fair there, in which all sorts of
vanity should be sold every day in the year. Among the merchandise sold
at this fair are lands, honours, titles, lusts, pleasures, and
preferments; delights of all kinds, as servants, gold, silver, and
precious stones; murders and thefts; blood and bodies, yea, and lives
and souls. Moreover, at this fair, there are at all times to be seen
jugglings, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and
that of every sort.

When Christian and Faithful came through Vanity Fair everybody began to
stare and mock at them, for they were clothed in a raiment different
from the raiment of the multitude that traded in the fair, and their
speech also was different, and few could understand what they said. But
what amused the townspeople most of all was that the pilgrims set light
by all their wares.

"What will ye buy? What will ye buy?" said one merchant to them
mockingly.

"We buy the truth," said Christian and Faithful, looking gravely upon
him.

At this some men began to taunt the pilgrims, and some tried to strike
them; and things at last came to a hubbub and great stir, and all the
fair was thrown into disorder. Thereupon, Christian and Faithful were
arrested as disturbers of the peace. After being beaten and rolled in
the dirt, they were put into a cage, and made a spectacle to all the men
of the fair. The next day they were again beaten, and led up and down
the fair in heavy chains for an example and terror to others.

But some of the better sort were moved to take their part; and this so
angered the chief men in the town that they resolved to put the pilgrims
to death. They were therefore indicted before the Lord Chief Justice
Hategood with having disturbed the trade of Vanity Fair, and won a party
over to their own pernicious way of thinking, in contempt of the law of
Prince Beelzebub. Mr. Envy, Mr. Superstition, and Mr. Pickthank bore
witness against them; and the jurymen, on hearing Faithful affirm that
the customs of their town of Vanity were opposed to the spirit of
Christianity, brought him in guilty of high treason to Beelzebub. No
doubt, they would have condemned Christian also; but, by the mercy of
God, he escaped from prison, being assisted by one of the men of the
town, named Hopeful, who had come over to his way of thinking.

Faithful was tied to a stake, and scourged, and stoned, and burnt to
death. But I saw in my dream that the Shining Ones came with a chariot
and horses, and made their way through the multitude to the flames in
which Faithful was burning, and put him in the chariot, and, with the
sound of trumpets, carried him up through the clouds, and on to the gate
of the Celestial City.

So Christian was left alone to continue his journey; but I saw in my
dream that, as he was going out of the town of Vanity, Hopeful came up
to him and said that he would be his companion. And thus it ever is.
Whenever a man dies to bear testimony to the truth, another rises out of
his ashes to carry on his work.

Christian was in no wise cast down by the death of Faithful, but went on
his way, singing,

    Hail, Faithful, hail! Thy goodly works survive;
    And though they killed thee, thou art still alive.

And he was especially comforted by Hopeful telling him that there were a
great many men of the better sort in Vanity Fair who were now resolved
to undertake the pilgrimage to the Celestial City. Some way beyond
Vanity Fair was a delicate plain, called Ease, where Christian and
Hopeful went with much content. But at the farther side of that plain
was a little hill, which was named Lucre. In this hill was a silver-mine
which was very dangerous to enter, for many men who had gone to dig
silver there had been smothered in the bottom by damps and noisome airs.
Four men from Vanity Fair--Mr. Money-love, Mr. Hold-the-World, Mr.
By-Ends, and Mr. Save-All--were going into the silver-mine as Christian
and Hopeful passed by.

"Tarry for us," said Mr. Money-love; "and when we have got a little
riches to take us on our journey, we will come with you."

Hopeful was willing to wait for his fellow-townsmen, but Christian told
him that, having entered the mine, they would never come out; and,
besides, that treasure is a snare to them that seek it, for it hindereth
their pilgrimage. And he spoke truly; for I saw in my dream that some
were killed by falling into the mine as they gazed from the brink, and
the rest who went down to dig were poisoned by the vapours in the pit.

In the meantime, Christian and Hopeful came to the river of life, and
walked along the bank with great delight. They drank of the water of the
river, which was pleasant and enlivening to their weary spirits, and
they ate of the fruit of the green trees that grew by the river side.
Then, finding a fair meadow covered with lilies, they laid down and
slept; and in the morning they rose up, wondrously refreshed, and
continued their journey along the bank of the river. But the way soon
grew rough and stony, and seeing on their left hand a stile across the
meadow called By-Path Meadow, Christian leaped over it, and said to
Hopeful, "Come, good Hopeful, let us go this way. It is much easier."

"I am afraid," said Hopeful, "that it will take us out of the right
road."

But Christian persuaded him to jump over the stile, and there they got
into a path which was very easy for their feet. But they had not gone
very far when it began to rain and thunder and lighten in a most
dreadful manner, and night came on apace, and stumbling along in the
darkness, they reached Doubting Castle, and the lord thereof, Giant
Despair, took them and threw them into a dark and dismal dungeon. Here
they lay for three days without one bit of bread or drop of drink. On
the third day Giant Despair came and flogged them with a great crabtree
cudgel, and so disabled them that they were not even able to rise up
from the mire of their dungeon floor. And indeed, they could scarcely
keep their heads above the mud in which they lay.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence; and when she
found that, in spite of their flogging, Christian and Hopeful were still
alive, she advised her husband to kill them outright. It happened,
however, to be sunshiny weather, and sunshiny weather always made Giant
Despair fall into a helpless fit, in which he lost for the time the use
of his hands. So all he could do was to try and persuade his prisoners
to kill themselves with knife or halter.

"Why," said he to Christian and Hopeful, "should you choose to live? You
know you can never get out of Doubting Castle. What! Will you slowly
starve to death like rats in a hole, instead of putting a sudden end to
your misery, like men. I tell you again, you will never get out."

But when he was gone, Christian and Hopeful went down on their knees in
their dungeon and prayed long and earnestly. Then Christian suddenly
bethought himself, and after fumbling in his bosom, he drew out a key,
saying, "What a fool am I to lie in a dismal dungeon when I can walk at
liberty! Here is the key that I have been carrying in my bosom, called
Promise, that will open every lock in Doubting Castle."

He at once tried it at the dungeon door, and turned the bolt with ease.
He then led Hopeful to the iron gate of the castle, and though the lock
went desperately hard, yet the key opened it. But as the gate moved, it
made such a creaking that Giant Despair was aroused.

Hastily rising up, the giant set out to pursue the prisoners; but seeing
that all the land was now flooded with sunshine, he fell into one of his
helpless fits, and could not even get as far as the castle gate.


_III.--The Celestial City_


Having thus got safely out of Doubting Castle, Christian and Hopeful
made their way back to the banks of the river of life, and, following
the rough and stony way, they came at last to the Delectable Mountains.
And going up the mountains they beheld the gardens and orchards, the
vineyards, the fountains of water; and here they drank and washed
themselves, and freely ate of the pleasant grapes of the vineyards. Now,
on top of the mountains there were four shepherds feeding their flocks,
and the pilgrims went to them, and, leaning upon their staffs, they
asked them the way to the Celestial City. And the shepherds took them by
the hand and led them to the top of Clear, the highest of all the
Delectable Mountains, and the pilgrims looked and saw, faintly and very
far off, the gate and the glory of the Celestial City.

And I saw in my dream that the two pilgrims went down the Delectable
Mountains along the narrow way, and after walking some distance they
came to a place where the path branched. Here they stood still for a
while, considering which way to take, for both ways seemed right. And as
they were considering, behold, a man black of flesh and covered with a
white robe, came up to them, and offered to lead them down the true way.
But when they had followed him for some time they found that he had led
them into a crooked road, and there they were entangled in a net.

Here they lay bewailing themselves, and at last they espied a Shining
One coming toward them, with a whip in his hand.

"We are poor pilgrims going to the Celestial City," said Christian and
Hopeful. "A black man clothed in white offered to lead us there, but
entangled us instead in this net."

"It was Flatterer that did this," said the Shining One. "He is a false
apostle that hath transformed himself into an angel."

I saw in my dream that he then rent the net and let the pilgrims out.
Then he commanded them to lie down, and when they did so, he chastised
them with his whip of cords, to teach them to walk in the good way, and
refrain from following the advice of evil flatterers. And they thanked
him for his kindness, and went softly along the right path, singing for
very joy; and after passing through the Enchanted Land, which was full
of vapours that made them dull and sleepy, they came to the sweet and
pleasant country of Beulah. In this country the sun shone night and day,
and the air was so bright and clear that they could see the Celestial
City to which they were going. Yea, they met there some of the
inhabitants, for the Shining Ones often walked in the Land of Beulah,
because it was on the borders of Heaven.

As Christian and Hopeful drew near to the city their strength began to
fail. It was builded of pearls and precious stones, and the streets were
paved with gold; and what with the natural glory of the city, and the
dazzling radiance of the sunbeams that fell upon it, Christian grew sick
with desire as he beheld it; and Hopeful, too, was stricken with the
same malady. And, walking on very slowly, full of the pain of longing,
they came at last to the gate of the city. But between them and the gate
there was a river, and the river was very deep, and no bridge went over
it. And when Christian asked the Shining Ones how he could get to the
gate of the city, they said to him, "You must go through the river, or
you cannot come to the gate."

"Is the river very deep?" said Christian.

"You will find it deeper or shallower," said the Shining Ones,
"according to the depth or shallowness of your belief in the King of our
city."

The two pilgrims then entered the river. Christian at once began to
sink, and, crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, "I sink in
deep waters! The billows go over my head! All the waves go over me."

"Be of good cheer, my brother," said Hopeful, "I feel the bottom, and it
is good!"

With that a great darkness and horror fell upon Christian; he could no
longer see before him, and he was in much fear that he would perish in
the river, and never enter in at the gate. When he recovered, he found
he had got to the other side, and Hopeful was already there waiting for
him.

And I saw in my dream that the city stood upon a mighty hill; but the
pilgrims went up with ease, because they had left their mortal garments
behind them in the river.

While they were thus drawing to the gate, behold, a company of the
heavenly host came out to meet them. With them were several of the
King's trumpeters, clothed in white and shining raiment, who made even
the heavens to echo with their shouting and the sound of their trumpets.

Then all the bells in the city began to ring welcome, and the gate was
opened wide, and the two pilgrims entered. And lo! as they entered they
were transfigured; and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. And
Shining Ones gave them harps to praise their King with, and crowns in
token of honour.

And as the gates were opened, I looked in, and behold, the streets were
paved with gold; and in them walked many men, with crowns on their
heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises withal.
There were also of them that had wings and they answered one another
saying, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord!" And after that they shut up the
gates, which, when I had seen, I wished myself among them. Then I awoke,
and behold! it was a dream.

       *       *       *       *       *



FANNY BURNEY


Evelina

      "Evelina" was the first tale written by a woman, and
     purporting to be a picture of life and manners, that lived or
     deserved to live. It took away reproach from the novel. The
     opinion is Macaulay's. In many respects the publication of
     "Evelina" resembled that of "Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Brontë,
     a century later. It was issued anonymously, by a firm that did
     not know the name of the writer. Only the children of the
     household from which the book came knew its origin. It
     attained an immediate and immense success, which gave the
     author, a shrinking and modest little body, a foremost place
     in the literary world of her day. Fanny Burney, the second
     daughter of Dr. Burney, was born in 1752, and published
     "Evelina, or a Young Lady's Entrance into the World," in 1778.
     She had picked up an education at home, without any tuition
     whatever, but had the advantage of browsing in her father's
     large miscellaneous library, and observing his brilliant
     circle of friends. She knew something of the Johnson set
     before she wrote "Evelina," and became the doctor's pet.
     Later, Fanny Burney wrote "Cecilia," for which she received
     two thousand guineas, and "Camilla," for which she received
     three thousand guineas.


_I.--Deserted_


LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS

Can anything be more painful to the friendly mind than a necessity of
communicating disagreeable intelligence? I have just had a letter from
Madame Duval, who has lately used her utmost endeavours to obtain a
faithful account of whatever related to her ill-advised daughter; and
having some reason to apprehend that upon her death-bed her daughter
bequeathed an infant orphan to the world, she says that if you, with
whom she understands the child is placed, will procure authentic proofs
of its relationship to her, you may send it to Paris, where she will
properly provide for it.

Her letter has excited in my daughter, Mrs. Mirvan, a strong desire to
be informed of the motives which induced Madame Duval to abandon the
unfortunate Lady Belmont at a time when a mother's protection was
peculiarly necessary for her peace and reputation, and I cannot satisfy
Mrs. Mirvan otherwise than by applying to you.

MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD

Your ladyship did but too well foresee the perplexity and uneasiness of
which Madame Duval's letter has been productive. In regard to my answer
I most humbly request your ladyship to write to this effect: "That I
would not upon any account intentionally offend Madame Duval, but that I
have unanswerable reasons for detaining her granddaughter at present in
England."

Complying with the request of Mrs. Mirvan, I would say that I had the
honour to accompany Mr. Evelyn, the grandfather of my young charge, when
upon his travels, in the capacity of a tutor. His unhappy marriage,
immediately upon his return to England, with Madame Duval, then a
waiting-girl at a tavern, contrary to the entreaties of his friends,
induced him to fix his abode in France. He survived the ill-judged
marriage but two years.

Mr. Evelyn left me the sole guardianship of his daughter's person till
her eighteenth year, but in regard to fortune he left her wholly
dependent on her mother. Miss Evelyn was brought up under my care, and,
except when at school, under my roof. In her eighteenth year, her
mother, then married to Monsieur Duval, sent for her to Paris, and at
the instigation of her husband tyrannically endeavoured to effect a
union between Miss Evelyn and one of his nephews. Miss Evelyn soon grew
weary of such usage, and rashly, and without a witness, consented to a
private marriage with Sir John Belmont, a very profligate young man, who
had but too successfully found means to insinuate himself into her
favour. He promised to conduct her to England--he did. O madam, you know
the rest! Disappointed of the fortune he expected by the inexcusable
rancour of the Duvals, he infamously burnt the certificate of their
marriage and denied that they had ever been united!

She flew to my protection, and the moment that gave birth to her infant
put an end at once to the sorrows and the life of its mother. That
child, madam, shall never know the loss she has sustained. Not only my
affection, but my humanity recoils at the barbarous idea of deserting
the sacred trust reposed in me.


_II.--A Visit to Town_


LADY HOWARD TO MR. VILLARS

Your last letter gave me infinite pleasure. Do you think you could bear
to part with your young companion for two or three months? Mrs. Mirvan
proposes to spend the ensuing spring in London, whither for the first
time my grandchild will accompany her, and it is their earnest wish that
your amiable ward may share equally with her own daughter the care and
attention of Mrs. Mirvan. What do you say to our scheme?

MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD

I am grieved, madam, to appear obstinate, and I blush to incur the
imputation of selfishness. My young ward is of an age that happiness is
eager to attend--let her then enjoy it! I commit her to the protection
of your ladyship. Restore her but to me all innocence as you receive
her, and the fondest hope of my heart will be amply gratified.

EVELINA ANVILLE TO MR. VILLARS

We are to go on Monday to a private ball given by Mrs. Stanley, a very
fashionable lady of Mrs. Mirvan's acquaintance. I am afraid of this
ball; for, as you know, I have never danced but at school. However, Miss
Mirvan says there is nothing in it. Yet I wish it was over.

       *       *       *       *       *

We passed a most extraordinary evening. A _private_ ball this was
called; but, my dear sir, I believe I saw half the world!

The gentlemen, as they passed and repassed, looked as if they thought we
were quite at their disposal, and only waited for the honour of their
commands; and they sauntered about in an indolent manner, as if with a
view to keep us in suspense.

Presently a gentleman, who seemed about six-and-twenty years old, gaily,
but not foppishly dressed, and indeed extremely handsome, with an air of
mixed politeness and gallantry, desired to know if I would honour him
with my hand. Well, I bowed, and I am sure I coloured; for indeed I was
frightened at the thought of dancing before so many strangers _with_ a
stranger. And so he led me to join in the dance.

He seemed desirous of entering into conversation with me; but I was
seized with such panic that I could hardly speak a word. He appeared
surprised at my terror, and, I fear, thought it very strange.

His own conversation was sensible and spirited; his air and address open
and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging; his
person is all elegance, and his countenance the most animated and
expressive I have ever seen. The rank of Lord Orville was his least
recommendation. When he discovered I was totally ignorant of public
places and public performers, he ingeniously turned the discourse to the
amusements and occupations of the country; but I was unable to go
further than a monosyllable in reply, and not even so far as that when I
could possibly avoid it.

Tired, ashamed, and mortified, I begged at last to sit down till we
returned home. Lord Orville did me the honour to hand me to the coach,
talking all the way of the honour I had done _him_! Oh, these
fashionable people!

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no end to the troubles of last night. I have gathered from
Maria Mirvan the most curious dialogue that ever I heard. Maria was
taking some refreshment, and saw Lord Orville advancing for the same
purpose himself, when a gay-looking man, Sir Clement Willoughby, I am
told, stepped up and cried, "Why, my lord, what have you done with your
lovely partner?"

"Nothing!" answered Lord Orville, with a smile and a shrug.

"By Jove!" said the man, "she is the most beautiful creature I ever saw
in my life!"

Lord Orville laughed, but answered, "Yes, a pretty, modest-looking
girl!"

"Oh, my lord," cried the other, "she is an angel!"

"A silent one," returned he.

"Why, my lord, she looks all intelligence and expression!"

"A poor, weak girl," answered Lord Orville, shaking his head. "Whether
ignorant or mischievous, I will not pretend to determine; but she
attended to all I said to her with the most immovable gravity."

Here Maria was called to dance, and so heard no more.

Now, tell me, sir, did you ever know anything more provoking? "A poor,
weak girl! Ignorant and mischievous!" What mortifying words! I would not
live here for the world. I care not how soon I leave.


_III.--An Unlucky Meeting_


EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

How much will you be surprised, my dearest sir, at receiving so soon
another letter from London in your Evelina's writing. An accident,
equally unexpected and disagreeable, has postponed our journey to Lady
Howard at Howard Grove.

We went last night to see the "Fantocini," a little comedy in French and
Italian, by puppets, and when it was over, and we waited for our coach,
a tall, elderly, foreign-looking woman brushed quickly past us, calling
out, "My God! What shall I do? I have lost my company, and in this place
I don't know anybody."

"We shall but follow the golden rule," said Mrs. Mirvan, "if we carry
her to her lodgings."

We therefore admitted her to her coach, to carry her to Oxford Road. Let
me draw a veil over a scene too cruel for a heart so compassionate as
yours, and suffice it to know that, in the course of our ride, this
foreigner proved to be Madame Duval--the grandmother of your Evelina!

When we stopped at her lodgings she desired me to accompany her into the
house, and said she could easily procure a room for me to sleep in.

I promised to wait upon her at what time she pleased the next day.

What an unfortunate adventure! I could not close my eyes the whole
night.

Mrs. Mirvan was so kind as to accompany me to Madame Duval's house this
morning. She frowned most terribly on Mrs. Mirvan, but received me with
as much tenderness as I believe she was capable of feeling. She avowed
that her intention in visiting England was to make me return with her to
France. As it would have been indecent for me to have quitted town the
very instant I discovered that Madame Duval was in it, we have
determined to remain in London for some days. But I, my dear and most
honoured sir, shall have no happiness till I am again with you.

MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA

Secure of my protection, let no apprehensions of Madame Duval disturb
your peace. Conduct yourself towards her with all respect and deference
due to so near a relation, remembering always that the failure of duty
on her part can by no means justify any neglect on yours. Make known to
her the independence I assure you of, and when she fixes the time for
her leaving England, trust to me the task of refusing your attending
her.

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

I have spent the day in a manner the most uncomfortable imaginable.
Madame Duval, on my visiting her, insisted upon my staying with her all
day, as she intended to introduce me to some of my own relations. These
consisted of a Mr. Brangton, who is her nephew, and three of his
children--a son and two daughters--and I am not ambitious of being known
to more of my relations if they have any resemblance to those whose
acquaintance I have already made.

I had finished my letter to you when a violent rapping at the door made
me run downstairs, and who should I see in the drawing-room but Lord
Orville!

He inquired of our health with a degree of concern that rather surprised
me, and when I told him our time for London is almost expired, he asked,
"And does Miss Anville feel no concern at the idea of the many mourners
her absence will occasion?"

"Oh, my lord, I'm sure you don't think"--I stopped there, for I hardly
knew what I was going to say. My foolish embarrassment, I suppose, was
the cause of what followed; for he came and took my hand, saying, "I do
think that whoever has once seen Miss Anville must receive an impression
never to be forgotten."

This compliment--from Lord Orville--so surprised me that I could not
speak, but stood silent and looking down, till recollecting my situation
I withdrew my hand, and told him I would see if Mrs. Mirvan was in.

I have since been extremely angry with myself for neglecting so
excellent an opportunity of apologising for my behaviour at the ball.

Was it not very odd that he should make me such a compliment?

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Mirvan secured places last night for the play at Drury Lane Theatre
in the front row of a side box. Sir Clement Willoughby, whose
conversation with Lord Orville respecting me on the night of the ball
Miss Mirvan overheard, was at the door of the theatre, and handed us
from the carriage. We had not been seated five minutes before Lord
Orville, whom we saw in the stage-box, came to us; and he honoured us
with his company all the evening. To-night we go to the opera, where I
expect very great pleasure. We shall have the same party as at the play,
for Lord Orville said he should be there, and would look for us.


_IV.--A Compromising Situation_


EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

I could write a volume of the adventures of yesterday.

While Miss Mirvan and I were dressing for the opera, what was our
surprise to see our chamber-door flung open and the two Miss Brangtons
enter the room! They advanced to me with great familiarity, saying, "How
do you do, cousin? So we've caught you at the glass! Well, we're
determined to tell our brother of that!" Miss Mirvan, who had never
before seen them, could not at first imagine who they were, till the
elder said: "We've come to take you to the opera, miss. Papa and my
brother are below, and we are to call for your grandmother as we go
along."

I told them I was pre-engaged, and endeavoured to apologise. But they
hastened away, saying, "Well, her grandmamma will be in a fine passion,
that's one good thing!"

And indeed, shortly afterwards, Madame Duval arrived, her face the
colour of scarlet, and her eyes sparkling with fury, and behaved so
violently that to appease her I consented, by Mrs. Mirvan's advice, to
go with madame's party.

At the opera I was able, from the upper gallery, to distinguish the
happy party I had left, with Lord Orville seated next to Mrs. Mirvan.
During the last scene I perceived, standing near the gallery door, Sir
Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and would have given the
world to have avoided being seen by him in company with a family so low
bred and vulgar.

As soon as he was within two seats of us he spoke to me. "I am very
happy, Miss Anville, to have found you, for the ladies below have each a
humble attendant, and therefore I am come to offer my services here."

"Why, then," cried I, "I will join them." So I turned to Madame Duval,
and said, "As our party is so large, madame, if you give me leave I will
go down to Mrs. Mirvan that I may not crowd you in the coach."

And then, without waiting for an answer, I suffered Sir Clement to hand
me out of the gallery.

We could not, however, find Mrs. Mirvan in the confusion, and Sir
Clement said, "You can have no objection to permitting me to see you
safe home?"

While he was speaking, I saw Lord Orville, who advanced instantly
towards me, and with an air and voice of surprise, said, "Do I see Miss
Anville?"

I was inexpressibly distressed to suffer Lord Orville to think me
satisfied with the single protection of Sir Clement Willoughby, and
could not help exclaiming, "Good heaven, what can I do?"

"Why, my dear madam!" cried Sir Clement, "should you be thus uneasy? You
will reach Queen Ann Street almost as soon as Mrs. Mirvan, and I am sure
you cannot doubt being as safe."

Just then the servant came and told him the carriage was ready, and he
handed me into it, while Lord Orville, with a bow and a half-smile,
wished me good-night.

When I reached home Miss Mirvan ran out to meet me, and who should I see
behind her but--Lord Orville, who, with great politeness, congratulated
me that the troubles of the evening had so happily ended, and said he
had found it impossible to return home before he inquired after my
safety.

I am under cruel apprehensions lest Lord Orville should suppose my being
on the stairs with Sir Clement was a concerted scheme.


_V.--A Growing Acquaintance_


EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN

Berry Hill, Dorset.--When we arrived here, how did my heart throb with
joy! And when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most
venerable of men with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks
for my safe arrival, I thought it would have burst my bosom! When I flew
into the parlour he could scarce articulate the blessings with which his
kind and benevolent heart overflowed.

Everybody I see takes notice of my looking pale and ill, and all my good
friends tease me about my gravity, and, indeed, dejection. Mrs. Selwyn,
a lady of large fortune, who lives near, is going in a short time to
Bristol, and has proposed to take me with her for the recovery of my
health.

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

Bristol Hotwells.--Lord Orville is coming to Bristol with his sister,
Lady Louisa Larpent. They are to be at the Honourable Mrs. Beaumont's,
and it will be impossible to avoid seeing him, as Mrs. Selwyn is very
well acquainted with Mrs. Beaumont.

This morning I accompanied Mrs. Selwyn to Clifton Hill, where,
beautifully situated, is the house of Mrs. Beaumont. As we entered the
house I summoned all my resolution to my aid, determined rather to die
than to give Lord Orville reason to attribute my weakness to a wrong
cause. On his seeing me, he suddenly exclaimed, "Miss Anville!" and then
he advanced and made his compliments to me with a countenance open,
manly, and charming, a smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that
sparkled with delight. The very tone of his voice seemed flattering as
he congratulated himself upon his good fortune in meeting with me.

During our ride home Mrs. Selwyn asked me if my health would now permit
me to give up my morning walks to the pump-room for the purpose of
spending a week at Clifton; and as my health is now very well
established, to-morrow, my dear sir, we are to be actually the guests of
Mrs. Beaumont. I am not much delighted at this scheme, for greatly as I
am flattered by the attention of Lord Orville, I cannot expect him to
support it as long as a week.

       *       *       *       *       *

We were received by Mrs. Beaumont with great civility, and by Lord
Orville with something more.

The attention with which he honours me seems to result from a
benevolence of heart that proves him as much a stranger to caprice as to
pride. I am now not merely easy, but even gay in his presence; such is
the effect of true politeness that it banishes all restraint and
embarrassment.


_VI.--A Happy Ending_


EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

And now, my dearest sir, if the perturbation of my spirits will allow
me, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill.

This morning, when I went downstairs, Lord Orville was the only person
in the parlour. I felt no small confusion at seeing him alone after
having recently avoided him.

As soon as the usual compliments were over, I would have left the room,
but he stopped me.

"I have for some time past most ardently desired an opportunity of
speaking to you."

I said nothing, so he went on.

"I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit your friendship; your eye
shuns mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation."

I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, but too just accusation, but
I made no answer.

"Tell me, I beseech you, what I have done, and how to deserve your
pardon."

"Oh, my lord!" I cried, "I have never dreamt of offence; if there is any
pardon to be asked it is rather for me than for you to ask it."

"You are all sweetness and condescension!" cried he; "but will you
pardon a question essentially important to me? Had, or had not, Sir
Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?"

"No, my lord!" answered I, with firmness, "none in the world. He is the
last man who would have any influence over my conduct."

Just then Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and in a few minutes we went in
to breakfast. When she spoke of my journey a cloud overspread the
countenance of Lord Orville, and on Mrs. Selwyn asking me to seek some
books for her in the parlour, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut
the door, and approached me with a look of great anxiety.

"You are going, then," he cried, taking my hand, "and you give me not
the smallest hope of your return?"

"Oh, my lord!" I said, "surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock
me!"

"Mock you!" repeated he earnestly. "No, I revere you! You are dearer to
me than language has the power of telling!"

I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraved on
my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering
for repetition; nor would he suffer me to escape until he had drawn from
me the most sacred secret of my heart!

To be loved by Lord Orville, to be the honoured choice of his noble
heart--my happiness seems too infinite to be borne.

       *       *       *       *       *

I could not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind,
but I will not now lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend
an account of the transactions of the day.

Mrs. Selwyn and I went early in Mrs. Beaumont's chariot to see my
father, Sir John Belmont What a moment for your Evelina when, taking my
hand, she led me forward into his presence. An involuntary scream
escaped me; covering my face with my hands, I sank on the floor.

He had, however, seen me first, for in a voice scarce articulate he
exclaimed, "My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live? Lift up thy head,
if my sight has not blasted thee, thou image of my long-lost Caroline!"

Affected beyond measure, I half arose and embraced his knees.

"Yes, yes," cried he, looking earnestly in my face, "I see thou art her
child! She lives, she is present to my view!"

"Yes, sir," cried I, "it is your child if you will own her!"

He knelt by my side, and folded me in his arms. "Own thee!" he repeated,
"yes, my poor girl, and heaven knows with what bitter contrition!"

       *       *       *       *       *

All is over, my dearest sir, and the fate of your Evelina is decided!
This morning, with tearful joy, and trembling gratitude, she united
herself for ever with the object of her dearest, eternal affection.

I have time for no more; the chaise now waits which is to conduct me to
dear Berry Hill and the arms of the best of men.

       *       *       *       *       *



WILLIAM CARLETON


The Black Prophet

      William Carleton, the Irish novelist, was born in Co. Tyrone
     on February 20, 1794. His father was a small farmer, the
     father of fourteen children, of whom William was the youngest.
     After getting some education, first from a hedge schoolmaster,
     and then from Dr. Keenan of Glasslough, Carleton set out for
     Dublin and obtained a tutorship. In 1830 he collected a number
     of sketches, and these were published under the title of
     "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," and at once
     enjoyed considerable popularity. In 1834 came "Tales of
     Ireland," and from that time forward till his death Carleton
     produced with great industry numerous short stories and
     novels, though none of his work after 1848 is worthy of his
     reputation. "The Black Prophet" was published in 1847, and
     Carleton believed rightly that it was his best work. It was
     written in a season of unparalleled scarcity and destitution,
     and the pictures and scenes represented were those which he
     himself witnessed in 1817 and 1822. Many of Carleton's novels
     have been translated into French, German, and Italian, and
     they will always stand for faithful and powerful pictures of
     Irish life and character. Carleton died in Dublin on January
     30, 1869.


_I.--The Murders in the Glen_


The cabin of Donnel M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, stood at the foot of a
hill, near the mouth of a gloomy and desolate glen.

In this glen, not far from the cabin, two murders had been committed
twenty years before. The one was that of a carman, and the other a man
named Sullivan; and it was supposed they had been robbed. Neither of the
bodies had ever been found. Sullivan's hat and part of his coat had been
found on the following day in a field near the cabin, and there was a
pool of blood where his foot-marks were deeply imprinted. A man named
Dalton had been taken up under circumstances of great suspicion for this
latter murder, for Dalton was the last person seen in Sullivan's
company, and both men had been drinking together in the market. A
quarrel had ensued, blows had been exchanged, and Dalton had threatened
him in very strong language.

No conviction was possible because of the disappearance of the body, but
Dalton had remained under suspicion, and the glen, with its dark and
gloomy aspect, was said to be haunted by Sullivan's spirit, and to be
accursed as the scene of crime and supernatural appearances.

Within M'Gowan's cabin, which bore every mark of poverty and
destitution, a young girl about twenty-one, of tall and slender figure,
with hair black as the raven's wing, and eyes dark and brilliant,
wrangled fiercely with an older woman, her stepmother. From words they
passed to a fearful struggle of murderous passion.

Presently, Sarah, the younger of the two, started to her feet, and fled
out of the house to wash her hands and face at the river that flowed
past. Then she returned, and spoke with frankness and good nature.

"I'm sorry for what I did. Forgive me, mother! You know I'm a hasty
divil--for a divil's limb I am, no doubt of it. Forgive me, I say! Do
now; here, I'll get something to stop the blood!"

She sprang at the moment, with the agility of a wild cat upon an old
chest that stood in the corner of the hut. By stretching herself up to
her full length, she succeeded in pulling down several old cobwebs that
had been undisturbed for years, and while doing so, knocked down some
metallic substance which fell on the floor.

"Murdher alive, mother!" she exclaimed. "What is this? Hallo, a
tobaccy-box! An' what's this on it? Let me see. Two letters--a 'P' and
an 'M.' 'P.M.'--arrah, what can that be for? Well, divil may care. Let
it lie on the shelf there. Here now, none of your cross looks. I say,
put these cobwebs to your face, and they'll stop the bleedin'. And now
good-night to you, an' let that be a warnin' to you not to raise your
hand to me again."

The girl went off to spend the night at a dance and a wake, and the
stepmother having dressed her wound as well as she could, sat down by
the fire and began to ruminate.

Presently she took up the tobacco-box, and looking at it carefully,
clasped her hands.

"It's the same!" she exclaimed. "Oh, merciful God, it's thrue--it's
thrue! I know it by the broken hinge an' the two letters! Saviour of
life, how will this end, and what will I do? But, anyway, I must hide
this, and put it out of his reach."

She accordingly went out and thrust the box up under the thatch of the
roof so that it was impossible to suspect that the roof had been
disturbed.


_II.--The Prophet Schemes_


That same evening Donnel was overtaken on the road from Ballynafail, the
market-town, by Jerry Sullivan, a struggling farmer, and they proceeded
together to the latter's house.

"This woful saison, along wid the low prices and the high rents, houlds
out a black and terrible look for the counthry, God help us!" said
Sullivan.

"Ay," returned the Black Prophet, "if you only knew it. Isn't the
Almighty, in His wrath, this moment proclaimin' it through the heavens
and the airth? Look about you, and say what is it you see that doesn't
foretell famine. Doesn't the dark, wet day, an' the rain, rain, rain
foretell it? Doesn't the rottin' crops, the unhealthy air, an' the green
damp foretell it? Doesn't the sky without a sun, the heavy clouds, an'
the angry fire of the west foretell it? Isn't the airth a page of
prophecy, an' the sky a page of prophecy, where every man may read of
famine, pestilence, an' death?"

"The time was," said Sullivan, "an' it's not long since, when I could
give you a comfortable welcome as well as a willin' one; but now 'tis
but poor and humble tratement I can give you. But if it was betther, you
should just be as welcome to it, an' what more can you say?"

"Well," replied the other, "what more can you say, indeed? I'm thankful
to you, Jerry, an' I'll accept your kind offer."

The night had set in when they reached the house, where the traces of
poverty were as visible upon the inmates as upon the furniture.

Sullivan was strangely excited--he had discovered a stolen interview
outside between his eldest daughter and young Condy Dalton.

Mave Sullivan--a young creature of nineteen, of rare natural beauty and
angelic purity--turned deadly pale when her father spoke.

"Bridget," Sullivan said, turning to his wife, "I tell you that I came
upon that undutiful daughter of ours coortin' wid the son of the man
that murdhered her uncle, my only brother--coortin' wid a fellow that
Dan M'Gowan here knows will be hanged yet, for he's jist afther tellin'
him so."

"You're ravin', Jerry," exclaimed his wife. "You don't mean to tell me
that she'd spake to, or make any freedoms whatsomever wid young Condy
Dalton? Hut, no, Jerry; don't say that, at all events!"

But Sullivan's indignation passed quickly to alarm and distress, for his
daughter tottered, and would have fallen to the ground if Donnel had not
caught her.

"Save me from that man!" she shrieked at Donnel, clinging to her mother.
"Don't let him near me! I can't tell why, but I am deadly afraid of
him!"

Her parents, already sorry for their harsh words, tried their utmost to
console her.

"Don't be alarmed, my purty creature," said the Black Prophet softly. "I
see a great good fortune before you. I see a grand and handsome husband,
and a fine house to live in. Grandeur and wealth is before her, for her
beauty an' her goodness will bring it all about."

When the family, after the father had offered up a few simple prayers,
retired to rest, Sullivan took down his brother's old great coat, and
placed it over M'Gowan, who was already in bed. But the latter
immediately sat up and implored him to take it away.

Next morning before departing, Donnel repeated to Mave Sullivan his
prophecy of the happy and prosperous marriage.

But Mave, who knew where her affection rested, found no comfort in these
predictions, for the Daltons were pressed as hard by poverty as their
neighbours.

As for Donnel M'Gowan, cunning and unscrupulous, his plan was to secure
Mave for young Dick o' the Grange, a small landowner, and a profligate.
To do this he relied on the help of his daughter Sarah and was
disappointed. For Sarah was to find Mave Sullivan her friend, and she
renounced her father's scheme, so that no harm happened to the girl.


_III.--The Shadow of Crime_


With famine came typhus fever, and the state of the country was
frightful beyond belief. Thousands were reduced to mendicancy, numbers
perished on the very highways, and the road was literally black with
funerals. Temporary sheds were erected near the roadsides, containing
fever-stricken patients who had no other home.

Under the ravening madness of famine, legal restraints and moral
principles were forgotten, and famine riots broke out. For, studded over
the country were a number of farmers with bursting granaries, who could
afford to keep their provisions in large quantities until a year of
scarcity and high prices arrived; and the people, exasperated beyond
endurance, saw long lines of provision carts on their way to the
neighbouring harbours for exportation.

Such was the extraordinary fact!

Day after day, vessels laden with Irish provisions, drawn from a
population perishing with actual hunger, and with pestilence which it
occasioned, were passing out of our ports, whilst other vessels came in
freighted with our provisions sent back, through the charity of England,
to our relief.

Goaded by suffering, hordes of people turned out to intercept meal-carts
and provision vehicles, and carts and cars were stopped on the highways,
and the food which they carried openly taken away.

Sarah M'Gowan herself went to the Daltons, where typhus and starvation
were doing their worst, to render what service she could, and Mave
Sullivan would have done the same but for the entreaties of her parents,
who feared the terrible fever.

The Black Prophet alone went on his way unmoved, scheming to accomplish
his vile ends. It was not enough for him that Mave was to be abducted;
he had also planned a robbery for the same night, and was further
resolved to procure the conviction of old Condy Dalton for the almost
forgotten murder of Sullivan in the glen.

M'Gowan was driven to this last step by his own disturbed mind. The
disappearance of the tobacco-box troubled him, for on seeking it under
the thatch it was no longer there, and the discovery by his wife of a
skeleton buried near their cabin caused him still greater uneasiness.
Then Sarah had followed him one night, when he was walking in his sleep,
to the secret grave of the murdered man, and though the Prophet did not
say anything on that occasion to incriminate himself, he was vexed by
the occurrence.

So, on the information of Donnel M'Gowan, and a man called Roddy Duncan,
who was deep in the Prophet's subtle villainies, the skeleton was dug
up, and old Condy Dalton arrested.

"It's the will of God!" replied the old man, when the police-officers
entered his unhappy dwelling, and charged him with the murder of
Bartholomew Sullivan. "It's God's will, an' I won't consale it any
longer. Take me away. I'm guilty--I'm guilty!"

Sarah was ministering to the Daltons at the very time when her father
was informing against old Condy, and was present when the police took
him away in custody. Shortly afterwards, when she had left the house,
she was struck down by typhus.

In a shed that simply consisted of a few sticks laid up against the side
of a ditch, with the remnant of some loose straw for bedding, Mave
Sullivan found the suffering girl, with no other pillow than a sod of
earth.

"Father of mercy!" thought Mave, "how will she live--how can she live
here? An' is she to die in this miserable way in a Christian land?"

Sarah lay groaning with pain, and then raving in delirium.

"I won't break my promise, father, but I'll break my heart; an' I can't
even give her warning. Ah, but it's treachery, an' I hate that. No, no;
I'll have no hand in it--manage it your own way!"

"Dear Sarah, don't you know me?" said Mave tenderly. "Look at me--I am
Mave Sullivan, your friend that loves you."

"Who is that?" Sarah asked, starting a little. "I never had anyone to
take care o' me--nor a mother; many a time--often--often--the whole
world--some one to love me. Oh, a dhrink! Is there no one to give me a
dhrink? I'm burning, I'm burning! Mave Sullivan, have pity on me--I
heard some one name her--I'll die without you give me a dhrink!"

Mave hastily fetched some water, and in the course of two or three days
Sarah's situation, thanks to the attention of Mave and her neighbours,
was changed for the better, and she was conveyed home to the Prophet's
cabin on a litter--only to die in a few days.

It was the knowledge of what she owed Mave that forced Sarah to
frustrate her father's plot for Mave's ruin.

The robbery was no more successful than the abduction, for Roddy Duncan
withdrew from it, and Donnel M'Gowan learnt that the house to be
plundered was well guarded.


_IV.--An Amazing Witness_


The court was crowded when Cornelius Dalton was put to the bar charged
with the wilful murder of Bartholomew Sullivan, by striking him on the
head with a walking stick, and when the old man stood up all eyes were
turned on him. It was clear that there was an admission of guilt in his
face, for instead of appearing erect and independent, he looked around
with an expression of remorse and sorrow, and it was with difficulty
that he was prevailed upon to plead "not guilty."

The first witness called was Jeremiah Sullivan, who deposed that at one
of the Christmas markets in 1798 he was present when an altercation took
place between his late brother Bartle and the prisoner. They were both
drinking, and their friends separated them. He never saw his brother
alive afterwards. He then deposed to the finding of his brother's coat
and hat, crushed and torn.

The next witness was Roddy Duncan, who deposed that on the night in
question he was passing on a car and saw a man drag something heavy,
like a sack. He then called out was that Condy Dalton? And the reply
was, "It is, unfortunately!" upon which he wished him good-night.

Next came the Prophet. He said he was on his way through Glendhu, when
he came to a lonely spot where he found the body of Bartholomew
Sullivan, and beside it a grave dug two feet deep. He then caught a
glimpse of the prisoner, Condy Dalton, among the bushes, with a spade in
his hand. He shouted out and, getting no answer, was glad to get off
safe.

On the cross-examination, he said "the reason why he let the matter rest
until now was that he did not wish to be the means of bringin' a
fellow-creature to an untimely death. His conscience, however, always
kept him uneasy, and many a time of late the murdhered man appeared to
him, and threatened him for not disclosing what he knew."

"You say the murdered man appeared to you. Which of them?"

"Peter Magennis--what am I sayin'? I mean Bartle Sullivan."

The counsel for the defence requested the judge and jury to make a note
of Peter Magennis, and then asked the Prophet what kind of a man Bartle
Sullivan was.

"He was a very remarkable man in appearance; stout, with a long face,
and a scar on his chin."

"And you saw that man murdered?"

"I seen him dead after havin' been murdhered."

"Do you think, now, if he were to rise again from the grave that you
would know him?"

Then the counsel turned round, spoke to some person behind, and a
stranger advanced and mounted a table confronting the Black Prophet.

"Whether you seen me dead or buried is best known to yourself," said the
stranger. "All I can say is that here I am, Bartle Sullivan, alive an'
well."

Hearing the name, crowds pressed forward, recognising Bartle Sullivan,
and testifying their recognition by a general cheer.

There were two persons present, however, Condy Dalton and the Prophet,
on whom Sullivan's appearance produced very opposite effects.

Old Dalton at first imagined himself in a dream, and it was only when
Sullivan, promising to explain all, came over and shook hands with him,
and asked his pardon, that the old man understood he was innocent.

The Prophet looked with mortification rather than wonder at Sullivan;
then a shadow settled on his countenance, and he muttered to himself, "I
am doomed! Something drove me to this."

The trial was quickly ended. Sullivan's brother and several jurors
established his identity, and Condy Dalton was discharged.

The judge then ordered the Prophet and Roddy Duncan to be taken into
custody, and an indictment of perjury to be prepared at once. The graver
charge of murder was, however, brought against M'Gowan, the murder of a
carman named Peter Magennis, and the following day he found himself in
the very dock where Dalton had stood.


_V.--Fate: the Discoverer_


The trial of Donnel M'Gowan brought several strange things to light. It
was proved that the Prophet's real name was McIvor, that he had a wife
living, and that this wife was a sister to the murdered carman, Peter
Magennis. After the murder, McIvor fled to America with his daughter,
and his wife lost sight of him. She had only returned to these parts
recently, and she identified the skeleton of her brother because of a
certain malformation of the foot.

Then a pedlar, known in the neighbourhood as Toddy Mack, deposed that he
had given Magennis a steel tobacco-box with the letters "P. M." punched
on it.

It was Roddy Duncan who had seen this tobacco-box put under the thatch,
and he, knowing nothing of its history, had given it to Sarah M'Gowan,
who equally ignorant, had given it to a young man who called himself
Hanlon, but was in fact the son of Magennis.

On the night of the murder the unhappy woman, whom Sarah called
stepmother, and who lived with the Black Prophet, saw the tobacco-box in
M'Gowan's hands, and it contained a roll of bank-notes. When she asked
how he came by it, he gave her a note, and said, "There's all the
explanation you can want."

The chain of circumstantial evidence was sufficient to establish the
Prophet's guilt, and the judge passed the capital sentence.

The Prophet heard his doom without flinching, and only turned to the
gaoler to say, "Now that everything is over, the sooner I get to my cell
the betther. I have despised the world too long to care a single curse
what it says or thinks about me."

Sarah, who heard of her father's fate while she lay dying, tended by
Mave Sullivan and her newly-discovered mother, sent the condemned man a
last message. "Say that his daughter, if she was able, would be with him
through shame, an' disgrace, an' death; that she'd scorn the world for
him; an' that because he said once in his life that he loved her, she'd
forgive him all a thousand times, an' would lay down her life for him."

The acquittal of old Condy Dalton, who for years had tortured himself
with remorse, believing he had killed Sullivan, and never understanding
the disappearance of the body, and the resurrection of honest Bartle
Sullivan, filled all the countryside with delight.

Thanks to the money of his friend, Toddy Mack, Dalton was once more
re-established in a farm that he had been compelled to relinquish, and
when sickness and the severity of winter passed away Mave and young
Condy Dalton were happily married.

Roddy Duncan was transported for perjury. Bartle Sullivan, on the first
social evening that the two families, the Sullivans and the Daltons,
spent together after the trial, cleared up the mystery of his
disappearance.

"I remimber fightin'," he said, "wid Condy on that night, and the
devil's own battle it was. We went into a corner of the field near the
Grey Stone to decide it. All at wanst I forgot what happened, till I
found myself lyin' upon a car wid the McMahons that lived ten or twelve
miles beyond the mountains. Well, I felt disgraced at bein' beaten by
Con Dalton, and as I was fond of McMahon's sister, what 'ud you have us
but off we went together to America, for, you see, she promised to marry
me if I'd go. Well, she an' I married when we got to Boston, and Toddy
here, who took to the life of a pedlar, came back with a good purse and
lived wid us. At last I began to long for home, and so we all came
together. An', thank God, we were all in time to clear the innocent, and
punish the guilty; ay, an' reward the good, too, eh, Toddy?"

       *       *       *       *       *



LEWIS CARROLL


Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

      The proper name of Lewis Carroll was Charles Lutwidge
     Dodgson, and he was born at Daresbury, England, on January 27,
     1832. Educated at Rugby and at Christchurch, Oxford, he
     specialised in mathematical subjects. Elected a student of his
     college, he became a mathematical lecturer in 1855, continuing
     in that occupation until 1881. His fame rests on the
     children's classic, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," issued
     in 1865, which has been translated into many languages. No
     modern fairy-tale has approached it in popularity. The charms
     of the book are its unstrained humour and its childlike fancy,
     held in check by the discretion of a particularly clear and
     analytical mind. Though it seems strange that an authority on
     Euclid and logic should have been the inventor of so diverting
     and irresponsible a tale, if we examine his story critically
     we shall see that only a logical mind could have derived so
     much genuine humour from a deliberate attack on reason, in
     which a considerable element of fun arises from efforts to
     reconcile the irreconcilable. The book has probably been read
     as much by grown-ups as by young people, and no work of humour
     is more heartily to be commended as a banisher of care. The
     original illustrations by Sir John Tenniel are almost as
     famous as the book itself.


_I.--What Happened Down the Rabbit-Hole_


Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the
bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the
book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in
it, "and what is the use of a book," thought Alice, "without pictures or
conversations?"

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the
hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid) whether the pleasure of
making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and
picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran
close by her.

There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it
so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to himself: "Oh,
dear! Oh, dear! I shall be too late!" But when the Rabbit actually _took
a watch out of his waistcoat pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried
on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she
had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat pocket or a watch
to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field
after him, and was just in time to see him pop down a large rabbit-hole
under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after him, never once considering how
in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then
dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think
about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed
to be a very deep well.

Either the well was very deep or she fell very slowly, for she had
plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what
was going to happen next.

"Well," thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall
think nothing of tumbling downstairs."

Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder if I
shall fall right _through_ the earth? How funny it'll seem to come out
among the people that walk with their heads downwards! The Antipathies,
I think" (she was rather glad there was no one listening this time, as
it didn't sound at all the right word).

Down, down, down. Then suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap
of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment.
She looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long
passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it.
There was not a moment to be lost. Away went Alice like the wind, and
was just in time to hear him say, as he turned a corner, "Oh, my ears
and whiskers, how late it is getting!" She was close behind him when she
turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen. She found
herself in a long narrow hall, which was lit up by lamps hanging from
the roof.

In the hall she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid
glass. There was nothing on it but a tiny golden key, and Alice's first
idea was that this might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but,
alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, for, at
any rate, it would not open any of them. However, on the second time
round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and
behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high. She tried the
little golden key in the lock, and, to her great delight, it fitted.

Alice opened the door, and found that it led into a small passage, not
much larger than a rat-hole. She knelt down and looked along the passage
into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of
that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and
those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the
doorway.

There seemed to be no use in waiting near the little door, so she went
back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at
any rate, a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes. This
time she found a little bottle on it ("which certainly was not here
before," said Alice), and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper
label, with the words DRINK ME beautifully printed on it in large
letters. Alice tasted it, and very soon finished it off.

"What a curious feeling!" said Alice. "I must be shutting up like a
telescope."

And so it was, indeed; she was now only ten inches high, and her face
brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going
through the little door into that lovely garden.... But, alas for poor
Alice, when she got to the door she found she had forgotten the little
golden key, and when she went back to the table for it she found she
could not possibly reach it.

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table.
She opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words EAT
ME were beautifully marked in currants.

She very soon finished off the cake.

"Curiouser and curiouser!" cried Alice (she was so much surprised that
for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English). "Now I'm
opening out like the largest telescope that ever was. Good-by feet!"
(for when she looked down at her feet they seemed to be almost out of
sight, they were getting so far off). "Oh, my poor little feet! I wonder
who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears?"

Just at this moment her head struck against the roof of the hall; in
fact, she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the
little golden key, and hurried off to the garden door.

Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to
look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more
hopeless than ever. She sat down and began to cry again, shedding
gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four
inches deep, and reaching half down the hall.

After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and
she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White
Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in
one hand and a large fan in the other. He came trotting along in a great
hurry, muttering to himself as he came, "Oh, the Duchess! the Duchess!
Or, won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!"

Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of anyone; so,
when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a timid voice: "If you
please, sir----"

The Rabbit started violently, dropped the gloves and the fan, and
scurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she
kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking.

"Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! How puzzling it all is!
I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times
five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven
is--oh, dear, I shall never get to twenty at that rate!" But presently
on looking down at her hands, she was surprised to see that she had put
on one of the rabbit's little white kid gloves while she was talking.

"How _can_ I have done that?" she thought. "I must be growing small
again."

She got up and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found
that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high, and
was going on shrinking rapidly. She soon found out that the cause of
this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped it hastily, just in
time to save herself from shrinking away altogether. Now she hastened to
the little door, but alas, it was shut again. "I declare it's too bad,
that it is!" she said aloud, and just as she spoke her foot slipped, and
in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. It was
the pool of tears she had wept when she was nine feet high!


_II.--The Pool of Tears and the Animals' Party_


Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way
off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was. At first she thought
it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small
she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had
slipped in like herself.

"Would it be of any use, now," thought Alice, "to speak to this mouse?
Everything is so out-of-the-way down here that I should think very
likely it can talk; at any rate, there's no harm in trying." So she
began, "O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired
of swimming about here. O Mouse." The Mouse looked at her rather
inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes,
but it said nothing.

"Perhaps it doesn't understand English," thought Alice; "I daresay it's
a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror." So she began
again, "_ou est ma chatte?_" which was the first sentence in her French
lesson book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed
to quiver all over with fright. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice
hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feeling. "I quite
forgot you don't like cats."

"Not like cats!" cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. "Would
_you_ like cats if you were me?" The Mouse was swimming away from her as
hard as it could go. So she called softly after it.

"Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats, or dogs
either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned
round and swam slowly back to her; its face was quite pale (with
passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low, trembling voice, "Let us
get to the shore, and I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand
why it is I hate cats and dogs."

It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the
birds and animals that had fallen into it; there were a duck and a dodo,
a lory and an eaglet, and other curious creatures. Alice led the way,
and the whole party swam to the shore.

A very queer-looking party of dripping birds and animals now gathered on
the bank of the Pool of Tears; but they were not so queer as their talk.
First the Mouse, who was quite a person of authority among them, tried
to dry them by telling them frightfully dry stories from history. But
Alice confessed she was as wet as ever after she had listened to the
bits of English history; so the Dodo proposed a Caucus race. They all
started off when they liked, and stopped when they liked. The Dodo said
everybody had won, and Alice had to give the prizes. Luckily she had
some sweets, which were not wet, and there was just one for each of
them, but none for herself. The party were anxious she, too, should have
a prize, and as she happened to have a thimble, the Dodo commanded her
to hand it to him, and then, with great ceremony, the Dodo presented it
to her, saying, "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble," and
they all cheered.

Of course, Alice thought this all very absurd; but they were dry now,
and began eating their sweets. Then the Mouse began to tell Alice its
history, and to explain why it hated C and D--for it was afraid to say
cats and dogs. But she soon offended the Mouse, first by mistaking its
"long and sad tale" for a "long tail," and next by thinking it meant
"knot" when it said "not," so that it went off in a huff. Then when she
mentioned Dinah to the others, and told them that was the name of her
cat, the birds got uneasy, and one by one the whole party gradually went
off and left her all alone. Just when she was beginning to cry, she
heard a pattering of little feet, and half thought it might be the Mouse
coming back to finish its story.

It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking
anxiously about as he went, as if he had lost something and she heard
him muttering to himself, "The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh, my dear paws!
Oh, my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are
ferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?"

Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, and called out to her in an angry
tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this
moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan. Quick, now!"

"He took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as she ran. "How
surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him
his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them." As she said this, she
came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass
plate with the name W. RABBIT engraved upon it. Inside the house she had
a strange adventure, for she tried what the result of drinking from a
bottle she found in the room would be, and grew so large that the house
could hardly hold her. The White Rabbit and some of his friends,
including Bill, the Lizard, threw a lot of little pebbles through the
window, and these turned into tiny cakes. So Alice ate some and was
delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was
small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and
found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside. The
poor Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs,
who were giving it something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at
Alice the moment she appeared but she ran off as hard as she could, and
soon found herself safe in a thick wood.


_III.--The Adventures in the Wood_


Once in the wood, she was anxious to get back to her right size again,
and then to get into that lovely garden. But how? Peeping over a
mushroom, she beheld a large blue caterpillar sitting on the top with
its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the
smallest notice of her or of anything else. At length, in a sleepy sort
of way, it began talking to her, and she told it what she wanted so
much--to grow to her right size again.

"I should like to be a _little_ longer," she said. "Three inches is such
a wretched height to be."

"It is a very good height indeed," said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing
itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).

"But I'm not used to it," pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she
thought to herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily
offended."

"You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the
hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.

This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a
minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and
yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the
mushroom, and crawled away into the grass, merely remarking as it went,
"One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you
grow shorter."

"One side of _what_? The other side of what?" thought Alice to herself.

"Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it
aloud and in another moment it was out of sight.

Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying
to make out which were the two sides of it and as it was perfectly
round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she
stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit
of the edge with each hand.

"And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of
the right-hand bit to try the effect. The next moment she felt a violent
blow underneath her chin; it had struck her foot!

She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt
that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly, so she
set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed
so closely against her foot that there was hardly room to open her
mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the
left-hand bit.

The next minute she had grown so tall that her neck rose like a stalk
out of a sea of green leaves, and these green leaves were the trees of
the wood. But, by nibbling bits of mushroom, she at last succeeded in
bringing herself down to her usual height. But, oh dear, in order to get
into the first house she saw, she had to eat some more of the mushroom
from her right hand and bring herself down to nine inches. Outside the
house she saw the Fish-footmen and the Frog-footmen with invitations
from the Queen to the Duchess, asking her to play croquet. The Duchess
lived in the house, and a terrible noise was going on inside, and when
the door was opened a plate came crashing out. But Alice got in at last,
and found a strange state of things. The Duchess and her cook were
quarrelling because there was too much pepper in the soup. The cook
threw everything she could lay hands on at the Duchess, and nearly
knocked the baby's nose off with a saucepan.

The Duchess had the baby in her lap, and tossed it about ridiculously,
finally throwing it in the most heartless way to Alice. She took it out
of doors, and behold, it turned into a little pig, jumped out of her
arms, and ran away into the wood.

"If it had grown up," she said, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly
child; but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think."

She was a little startled now by seeing the Cheshire Cat--which she had
first seen in the house of the Duchess--sitting on a bough of a tree.
The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she
thought; still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she
felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

"Cheshire Puss," she said, "what sort of people live about here?"

"In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives
a Hatter; and in _that_ direction"--waving the other paw--"lives a March
Hare. Visit either you like; they're both mad."

She had not gone very far before she came in sight of the house of the
March Hare. She thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys
were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so
large a house that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled
some more of the left-hand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about
two feet high; even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying
to herself, "Suppose it should be raving mad after all. I almost wish
I'd gone to see the Hatter instead."


_IV.--Alice at the Mad Tea Party_


There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the
March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it; a Dormouse was sitting
between them fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion,
resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head.

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at
one corner.

"No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming.

"There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly. And she sat down in
a large armchair at one end of the table.

"What day of the month is it?" asked the Hatter, turning to Alice.

He had taken his watch out of his pocket and was looking at it uneasily,
shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear.

Alice considered a little, and said, "The fourth."

"Two days wrong," sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit
the works," he added, looking angrily at the March Hare.

"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied.

"But some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled. "You
shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife."

The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily, then he dipped
it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again, but he could think of
nothing better to say than "It was the _best_ butter, you know."

"It's always tea-time with us here," explained the Hatter, "and we've no
time to wash the things between whiles."

"Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice.

"Exactly so," said the Hatter; "as the things get used up."

"But when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask.

"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I
vote the young lady tells us a story."

"I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the
proposal.

"Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up the Dormouse!" And
they pinched it on both sides at once.

The Dormouse slowly opened its eyes. "I wasn't asleep," it said, in a
hoarse, feeble voice. "I heard every word you fellows were saying."

"Tell us a story," said the March Hare.

"Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice.

"And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again
before it's done."

"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began
in a great hurry, "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie and
they lived at the bottom of a well----"

"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in
questions of eating and drinking.

"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or
two.

"They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked, "they'd
have been ill."

"So they were _very_ ill."

Alice helped herself to some tea and bread and butter, and then turned
to the Dormouse and repeated her question, "Why did they live at the
bottom of the well?"

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then
said, "It was a treacle-well."

"There's no such thing," Alice was beginning very angrily, but the
Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!"

"I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter. "Let's all move one place
on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him; the March
Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took
the place of the March Hare.

"They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing
its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy, "and they drew all manner of
things--everything that begins with an M----"

"Why with an M?" said Alice.

"Why not?" said the March Hare.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a
doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a
little shriek, and went on, "----that begins with an M, such as
mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say
things are 'much of a muchness'--did you ever see such a thing as a
drawing of a muchness?"

"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, confused, "I don't think----"

"Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear; she got up in
disgust, and walked off. The Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither
of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back
once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her.

The last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into
the teapot.


_V.--The Mock Turtle's Story and the Lobster Quadrille_


Alice got into the beautiful garden at last, but she had to nibble a bit
of the mushroom again to bring herself down to twelve inches after she
had got the golden key, so as to get through the little door. It was a
lovely garden, and in it was the Queen's croquet-ground. The Queen of
Hearts was very fond of ordering heads to be cut off. "Off with his
head!" was her favourite phrase whenever anybody displeased her. She
asked Alice to play croquet with her, but they had no rules; they had
live flamingoes for mallets, and the soldiers had to stand on their
hands and feet to form the hoops. It was extremely awkward, especially
as the balls were hedgehogs, who sometimes rolled away without being
hit. The Queen had a great quarrel with the Duchess, and wanted to have
her head off.

Alice found the state of affairs in the lovely garden not at all so
beautiful as she had expected. But after the game of croquet, the Queen
said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?"

"No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a mock turtle is."

"It's the thing mock turtle soup is made from," said the Queen.

"I never saw one or heard of one."

"Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history."

They very soon came upon a gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun.

"Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen; "and take this young lady to see the
Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some
executions I have ordered." And she walked off, leaving Alice alone with
the Gryphon.

Alice and the Gryphon had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle
in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and,
as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would
break.

So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes
full of tears.

"This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your
history."

"Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real
turtle. When we were little, we went to school in the sea. The master
was an old turtle. We had the best of educations. Reeling and Writhing,
of course, to begin with, and then the different branches of
Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision."

"I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?"

The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise.

"Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is,
I suppose?"

"Yes," said Alice doubtfully, "it means to--make--anything--prettier."

"Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is,
you _are_ a simpleton."

Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she
turned to the Mock Turtle, and said, "What else had you to learn?"

"Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting out the
subjects on his flappers--"Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography;
then Drawling--the Drawing-master was an old conger-eel, that used to
come once a week; _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in
Coils. The Classical master taught Laughing and Grief, they used to
say."

"And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to
change the subject.

"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle; "nine the next, and so
on."

"What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice.

"That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked;
"because they lessen from day to day."

This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little
before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a
holiday?"

"Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle.

"And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly.

"That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted, in a very
decided tone. "Tell her something about the games."

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across
his eyes.

"Would you like to see a little of a Lobster Quadrille?" said he to
Alice.

"Very much indeed," said Alice.

"Let's try the first figure," said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We
can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?"

"Oh, _you_ sing!" said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words."

So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then
treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their
fore-paws to mark the time while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly
and sadly.

    "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
    "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
    See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
    They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance?
    Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
    Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

"Now, come, let's hear some of _your_ adventures," said the Gryphon to
Alice, after the dance.

"I could tell you my adventures, beginning from this morning," said
Alice, a little timidly, "but it's no use going back to yesterday,
because I was a different person then."

"Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle.

"No, no; the adventure first!" said the Gryphon impatiently.
"Explanations take such a dreadful time."

So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first
saw the White Rabbit. After a while a cry of "The Trial's beginning!"
was heard in the distance.

"Come on!" cried the Gryphon. And, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried
off.

"What trial is it?" Alice panted, as she ran, but the Gryphon only
answered, "Come on!" and ran the faster.


_VI.--The Trial of the Knave of Hearts_


The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they
arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little
birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards. The Knave was
standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard
him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand,
and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court
was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it. They looked so good
that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them. "I wish they'd get the
trial done," she thought, "and hand round the refreshments." But there
seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about
her to pass away the time.

"Silence in the court!" cried the Rabbit.

"Herald, read the accusation!" said the King.

On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then
unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows.

    The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
      All on a summer's day;
    The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
      And took them quite away.

"Consider your verdict," the King said to the jury.

"Not yet, not yet!" the Rabbit hastily interrupted. "There's a great
deal to come before that!"

"Call the first witness," said the King and the White Rabbit blew three
blasts on the trumpet, and called out, "First witness!"

The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand
and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your
Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in; but I hadn't quite finished
my tea when I was sent for."

"Take off your hat," the King said to the Hatter.

"It isn't mine," said the Hatter.

"_Stolen!_" the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made
a memorandum of the fact.

"I keep them to sell," the Hatter added as an explanation; "I've none of
my own. I'm a hatter."

Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring hard at the
Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted.

"Give your evidence," said the King, "and don't be nervous, or I'll have
you executed on the spot."

This did not seem to encourage the witness at all; he kept shifting from
one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his
confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the
bread-and-butter.

Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled
her a good deal until she made out what it was. She was beginning to
grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave
the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as
long as there was room for her.

"I'm a poor man, your Majesty," the Hatter began in a trembling voice,
"and I hadn't but just begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what
with the bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the
tea----"

"The twinkling of _what_?" said the King.

"It _began_ with the tea," said the Hatter.

"Of course, twinkling begins with a T!" said the King sharply. "Do you
take me for a dunce? Go on!"

"I'm a poor man," the Hatter went on, "and most things twinkled after
that--only the March Hare said----"

"I didn't!" the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.

"You did!" said the Hatter.

"I deny it!" said the March Hare.

"He denies it," said the King; "leave out that part. And if that's all
you know about it, you may go," said the King; and the Hatter hurriedly
left the court, without even waiting to put on his shoes. "--and just
take his head off outside," the Queen added to one of the officers; but
the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get to the door.

"Call the next witness!" said the King.

Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very
curious to see what the next witness would be like, "for they haven't
got much evidence _yet_," she said to herself. Imagine her surprise when
the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the
name "Alice!"

"Here!" cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how
large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a
hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt,
upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there
they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of
gold-fish she had accidentally upset the week before.

"Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!" she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and
began picking them up again as quickly as she could.

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being
upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to
them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the
accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do
anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof.

"What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice.

"Nothing," said Alice.

"Nothing _whatever_?" persisted the King.

"Nothing whatever," said Alice.

"That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were
just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit
interrupted.

"_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said, in a very
respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him.

"_Un_nimportant, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on
to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--
important----" as if he were trying which word sounded best.

Presently the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his
notebook, called out "Silence!" and he read out from his book, "Rule
Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_."

Everybody looked at Alice.

"_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice.

"You are," said the King.

"Nearly two miles high," added the Queen.

"Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice. "Besides, that's not a
regular rule; you invented it just now."

"It's the oldest rule in the book," said the King.

"Then it ought to be Number One," said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his notebook hastily. "Consider your
verdict," he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

"No, no!" said the Queen. "Sentence first--verdict afterwards."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Alice loudly. "The idea of having the
sentence first!"

"Hold your tongue!" said the Queen.

"I won't!" said Alice.

"Off with her head!" the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody
moved.

"Who cares for you?" said Alice (she had grown to her full size by this
time). "You're nothing but a pack of cards!"

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon
her; she gave a little scream, and tried to beat them off, and found
herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who
was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from
the trees on her face.

"Wake up, Alice dear!" said her sister. "Why, what a long sleep you've
had!"

"Oh, I've had such a curious dream!" said Alice; and she told her
sister, as well as she could remember them, all her strange adventures;
and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, "It _was_ a
curious dream, dear, certainly. But now run in to your tea; it's getting
late."

So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might,
what a wonderful dream it had been.

       *       *       *       *       *



MIGUEL CERVANTES


Life and Adventures of Don Quixote

      Miguel Cervantes, the son of poor but gentle parents, was
     born nobody quite knows where in Spain, in the year 1547. His
     favourite amusement when a boy was the performance of
     strolling players. He learned grammar and the humanities under
     Lopez de Hoyos at Madrid, but did not, it seems, proceed to
     the university. He was an early writer of sonnets, and tried
     his hand on a pastoral poem before he had grown moustaches.
     His first acquaintance with the world was acting as
     chamberlain in the house of a cardinal, but this life he
     presently abandoned for the more stirring career of a soldier.
     After incredible sufferings and adventures, the poor private
     soldier returned wounded to his family and began his career as
     author. He soon established a reputation, and was able to
     marry a quite adorable good lady with dowry sufficient for his
     needs. However, it was not until late in life that he wrote
     his immortal work "Don Quixote," which saw the light in 1604
     or 1605. During the remainder of his life he was bitterly
     assailed by the envious and malignant, was seldom out of
     monetary difficulties, and very often in great pain from the
     disease which finally ended his career at Madrid on April 23,
     1616--the same day which saw the close of Shakespeare's.


_I.--The Knight-Errant of La Mancha_


In a certain village of La Mancha, there lived one of those
old-fashioned gentlemen who keep a lance in the rack, an ancient target,
a lean horse, and a greyhound for coursing. His family consisted of a
housekeeper turned forty, a niece not twenty, and a man who could saddle
a horse, handle the pruning-hook, and also serve in the house. The
master himself was nigh fifty years of age, lean-bodied and thin-faced,
an early riser, and a great lover of hunting. His surname was Quixada,
or Quesada.

You must know now that when our gentleman had nothing to do--which was
almost all the year round--he read books on knight-errantry, and with
such delight that he almost left off his sports, and even sold acres of
land to buy these books. He would dispute with the curate of the parish,
and with the barber, as to the best knight in the world. At nights he
read these romances until it was day; a-day he would read until it was
night. Thus, by reading much and sleeping little, he lost the use of his
reason. His brain was full of nothing but enchantments, quarrels,
battles, challenges, wounds, amorous plaints, torments, and abundance of
impossible follies.

Having lost his wits, he stumbled on the oddest fancy that ever entered
madman's brain--to turn knight-errant, mount his steed, and, armed
_cap-à-pie_, ride through the world, redressing all manner of
grievances, and exposing himself to every danger, that he might purchase
everlasting honour and renown.

The first thing he did was to secure a suit of armour that had belonged
to his great-grandfather. Then he made himself a helmet, which his sword
demolished at the first stroke. After repairing this mischief, he went
to visit his horse, whose bones stuck out, but who appeared to his
master a finer beast than Alexander's Bucephalus. After four days of
thought, he decided to call his horse Rozinante, and when the title was
decided upon, he spent eight days more before he arrived at Don Quixote
as a name for himself.

And now he perceived that nothing was wanting save only a lady, on whom
he might bestow the empire of his heart. There lived close at hand a
hard-working country lass, Aldonza Lorenzo, on whom sometimes he had
cast an eye, but who was quite unmindful of the gentleman. Her he
selected for his peerless lady, and dubbed her with the sweet-sounding
name of Dulcinea del Toboso.


_II.--An Adventure in a Courtyard_


One morning, in the hottest part of July, with great secrecy, he armed
himself, mounted Rozinante, and rode out of his backyard into the open
fields. He was disturbed to think that the honour of knighthood had not
yet been conferred upon him, but determined to rectify this matter at an
early opportunity, and rode on soliloquising, after the manner of
knight-errants, as happy as a man might be.

Towards evening he arrived at a common inn, before whose door sat two
wenches, the companions of some carriers bound for Seville. Don Quixote
instantly imagined the inn to be a castle, and the wenches to be fair
ladies taking the air; and as a swine-herd, getting his hogs together in
a stubble-field near at hand, chanced at that moment to wind his horn,
our gentleman imagined that this was a signal of his approach, and rode
forward in the highest spirits.

The extravagant language in which he addressed them astonished the
wenches as much as his amazing appearance, and they first would have run
from him, but finally stayed to laugh. Don Quixote rebuked them, whereat
they laughed the more, and only the innkeeper's appearance prevented the
knight's indignation from carrying him to extremities. This man was for
peace, and welcomed the strange apparition to his inn with all civility,
marvelling much to find himself addressed as Sir Castellan. So the
knight sat down to supper with strange company, and discoursed of
chivalry to the bewilderment of all present, treating the inn as a
castle, the host as a noble gentleman, and the wenches as great ladies.

He presently sought the innkeeper alone in the stable, and, kneeling,
requested to be dubbed a knight, vowing that he would not move from that
place till 'twas done. The host guessed the distraction of his visitor
and complied, counselling Don Quixote--who had never read of such things
in books of chivalry--to provide himself henceforth with money and clean
shirts, and no longer to ride penniless. That night Don Quixote watched
his arms by moonlight, laying them upon the horse-trough in the yard of
the inn, while from a distance the innkeeper and his guests watched the
gaunt man, now leaning on his lance, and now walking to and fro, with
his target on his arm.

It chanced that a carrier came to water his mules, and was about to
remove the armour, when Don Quixote in a loud voice called him to
desist. The man took no notice, and Don Quixote, calling upon his
Dulcinea to assist him, lifted his lance and brought it down on the
carrier's pate, laying him flat. A second carrier came, and was treated
in like manner; but now all the company of them came, and with showers
of stones made a terrible assault upon the knight. It was only the
interference of the innkeeper that put an end to this battle, and by
careful words he was able to appease Don Quixote's wrath and get him out
of the inn.

On his way the now happy knight found a farmer beating a boy, and
bidding him desist, inquired the reason of this chastisement. The man,
afraid of the strange armoured figure, told how this boy did his work
badly in the field, and deserved his flogging; but the boy declared that
the farmer owed him wages, and that whenever he asked for them his
master flogged him. Sternly did the Don command the man to pay the lad's
wages, and when the fellow promised to do so directly he got home, and
the boy protested that he would surely never keep that promise, Don
Quixote threatened the farmer, saying, "I am the valorous Don Quixote of
La Mancha, righter of wrongs, revenger and redresser of grievances;
remember what you have promised and sworn, as you will answer the
contrary at your peril." Convinced that the man dare not disobey, he
rode forward, and the farmer very soon continued his flogging of the
boy.

A company of merchants approaching caused Don Quixote to halt in the
middle of the road, calling upon them to stand until they acknowledged
Dulcinea del Toboso to be the peerless beauty of the world. This
challenge was met with prevarication, which enraged Don Quixote, and
clapping spurs to Rozinante he bore down upon the company with his lance
couched.

A stumble of the horse threw him, and as he lay on the ground, unable to
move, one of the servants of the company came up and broke the lance
across Don Quixote's ribs. It was not until a countryman came by that
the Don was extricated, and then he had to ride back to his own village
on the ass of the poor labourer, being so stiff and sore as quite
incapable to mount Rozinante.

The curate and the barber, seeing now what havoc romances of chivalry
were making in the wits of this good gentleman, ran through his library
while he lay wounded in bed, burned all his noxious works, and, securely
locking the door, prepared the tale that enchantment had carried away
the books and the very chamber itself.

None of the entreaties of his niece, nor the remonstrances of his
housekeeper, could stay Don Quixote at home, and he soon prepared for a
second sally. He persuaded a good, honest country labourer, Sancho Panza
by name, to enter his service as squire, promising him for reward the
first island or empire which his lance should happen to conquer. Thus
did things happen in books of chivalry, and he did not doubt that thus
it would happen with him.


_III.--The Immortal Partnership_


So it came to pass that one night Don Quixote stole away from his home,
and Sancho Panza from his wife and children, and with the master on
Rozinante, the servant on his ass, Dapple, hastened away under cover of
darkness in search of adventures. As they travelled, "I beseech your
worship," quoth Sancho, "be sure you forget not your promise of the
island; for, I dare swear, I shall make shift to govern it, let it be
never so big." The knight, in a rhapsody, foreshadowed the day when
Sancho might be made even a king, for in romances of chivalry there is
no limit to the gifts made by valorous knights to their faithful
squires. But Sancho shook his head. "Though it rain kingdoms on the face
of the earth, not one of them would fit well upon the head of my wife;
for, I must needs tell you, she is not worth two brass-jacks to make a
queen of."

As they were thus discoursing they espied some thirty windmills in the
plain, which Don Quixote instantly took for giants. Nothing that Sancho
said could dissuade him, and he must needs clap spurs to his horse and
ride a-tilt at these great windmills, recommending himself to his lady
Dulcinea. As he ran his lance into the sail of the first mill, the wind
whirled about with such swiftness that the motion broke the lance into
shivers, and hurled away both knight and horse along with it. When
Sancho came upon his master the Don explained that some cursed
necromancer had converted those giants into windmills to deprive him of
the honour of victory.

When the knight was recovered they continued their way, and their next
adventure was to meet two monks on mules riding before a coach, with
four or five men on horseback, wherein sat a lady going to Seville to
meet her husband. Don Quixote rode forward, addressed the monks as
"cursed implements of hell," and bade them instantly release the lovely
princess in the coach. The monks flew for their lives as Don Quixote
charged down upon them, but Sancho was thrown down by the servants, who
tore his beard, trampled his stomach, beat and mauled him in every part
of his body, and then left him sprawling without breath or motion.

As for Don Quixote, he came off victor in this conflict, and only
desisted from slaying his assailant on the plea of the lady in the
coach, and on her promise that the conquered man should present himself
before the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso. The recovered Sancho was
surprised to find that his master had no island to bestow upon him after
this incredible victory, wherein he himself had suffered so
disastrously.

In a fierce encounter with some Yanguesian carriers, Don Quixote was
wounded almost to death, and he explained to Sancho that his defeat he
owed to fighting with common people, bidding Sancho in future to fight
himself against such common fellows.

"Sir," said Sancho, "I am a peaceful man, a quiet fellow, do you see; I
can make shift to forgive injuries as well as any man, as having a wife
to maintain, and children to bring up. I freely forgive all mankind,
high and low, lords and beggars, whatsoever wrongs they ever did or may
do me, without the least exception."

At the next inn they came upon Don Quixote, who was lying prone on
Sancho's ass, groaning in pain, vowed that here was a worthy castle.
Sancho swore 'twas an inn. Their dispute lasted till they reached the
door, where Sancho marched straight in, without troubling himself any
further in the matter. It was here that surprising adventures took
place. The knight, Sancho, and a carrier were obliged to share one
chamber. The maid of the inn, entering this apartment, was mistaken by
Don Quixote for the princess of the castle, and taking her in his arms,
he poured out a rhapsody to the virtues of Dulcinea del Toboso. The
carrier resented this, and in a moment the place was in an uproar. Such
a fight never took place before, and when it was over both the knight
and the squire were as near dead as men can be. To right himself, Don
Quixote concocted a balsam of which he had read, and drinking it off,
presently was so grievously ill that he was like to cast up his heart and
liver.

Being got to bed again, he felt sure that he was now invulnerable, and
he woke early next day, eager to sally forth. When the host asked for
his reckoning, "How! Is this an inn?" quoth the Don. "Yes, and one of
the best on the road." "How strangely have I been mistaken then! Upon my
honour, I took it for a castle, and a considerable one, too." Saying
which, he added that knights never yet paid for the honour they
conferred in lying at any man's house, and so rode away. But poor Sancho
Panza did not get off scot free, for they tossed him in a blanket in the
backyard, where the Don could see the torture over the wall, but could
by no means get to the rescue of his squire.

When they were together again, the gallant Don comforted poor Sancho
Panza with hopes of an island, and explained away all their sufferings
on the grounds of necromancy. All that had gone awry with them was the
work of some cursed enchanters.

Their next adventure was begun by a cloud of dust on the horizon, which
instantly made Don Quixote exclaim that a great battle was in progress.
A nearer view revealed that the dust rose from a huge flock of sheep;
but the knight's blood was up, and he rode forward as fast as poor
Rozinante could carry him, and did frightful slaughter among the sheep,
till the stones of the shepherd brought him to the earth. "Lord save
us!" cried Sancho, as he assisted the Don to his feet. "Your worship has
left on his lower side only two grinders, and on the upper not one."

Later, they came upon a company of priests, with lighted tapers,
carrying a corpse through the night. Don Quixote charged them, brought
one of the company to the ground, and scattered the rest. Sancho Panza,
whose stomach cried cupboard, filled his wallet with the rich provisions
of the priests, boasting to the wounded man that his master was the
redoubtable Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance. When the adventure was over, Don Quixote questioned
his squire on this name, and Sancho replied, "I have been staring upon
you this pretty while by the light of that unlucky priest's torch, and
may I never stir if ever I set eyes on a more dismal countenance in my
born days."

The next enterprise was with a barber, who carried his new brass basin
on his head, so that it suggested to Don Quixote the famous helmet of
Mambrino. Accordingly, he bore down upon the barber, put him to flight,
and possessed himself of the basin, which he wore as a helmet. More
serious was the following adventure, when Don Quixote released from the
king's officers a gang of galley slaves, because they assured him that
they travelled chained much against their will. So gallantly did the
knight behave, that he conquered the officers and left them all but
dead. Nevertheless, coming to an argument with the released convicts,
whom he would have sent to his lady Dulcinea, he himself, and Sancho,
too, were as mauled by the convicts as even those self-same officers.

It now came to Don Quixote that he must perform a penance in the
mountains, and sending Sancho with a letter to Dulcinea, he divested
himself of much of his armour and underwear, and performed the maddest
gambols and self-tortures ever witnessed under a blue sky.

However, it chanced that Sancho Panza soon fell in with the curate and
the barber of Don Quixote's village, and these good friends, by a
cunning subterfuge, in which a beautiful young lady played a part, got
Don Quixote safely home and into his own bed. The lady, affecting great
distress, made Don Quixote vow to enter upon no adventure until he had
righted a wrong done against herself; and one night, as they journeyed
on this mission, a great cage was made and placed over Don Quixote as he
slept, and thus, persuaded that necromancy was at work against, him, the
valiant knight was borne back a prisoner to his home.


_IV.--Sancho Governs His Island_


Nothing short of a prison cell could keep Don Quixote from his sallies,
and soon he was on the road again, accompanied by his faithful squire.
To Sancho, who believed his master mad, and whose chief aim in life was
filling his own stomach, these adventures of the Don had but one end,
the governorship of the promised island. While he thought the knight
mad, he believed in him; and while he was selfish, he loved his master,
as the tale tells.

It chanced that one day they came upon a frolicsome duke and duchess who
had heard of their adventures, and who instantly set themselves to enjoy
so rare a sport as that offered by the entertainment of the knight and
his squire. The Don was invited to the duke's castle as a mighty hero,
and there treated with all possible honour; but some tricks were played
upon him which were certainly unworthy of the duke's courtesy.
Nevertheless, this visit had the happiest culmination, since it was from
the hands of the duke that Sancho at last received his governorship.
Making pretence that a certain town on his estate, named Barataria, was
an island, the duke dispatched Sancho to govern it; and after an
affecting farewell with his master, who gave him the wisest possible
advice on the subject of statecraft, Sancho set out in a glittering
cavalcade to take up his governorship, with his beloved Dapple led
behind.

After a magnificent entry into the city, Sancho Panza was called upon to
give judgment in certain teasing disputes, and this he did with such wit
and such wholesome commonsense that he delighted all who heard him.
Well-pleased with himself, he sat down in a grand hall to a solitary
banquet, with a physician standing by his side. No sooner had Sancho
tasted a dish than the physician touched it with a wand, and a page bore
it swiftly away. At first Sancho was confounded by this interference
with his appetite, but presently he grew bold and expostulated;
whereupon the physician said that his mission was to overlook the
governor's health, and to see that he ate nothing which was prejudicial
to his physical well-being, since the happiness of the state depended
upon the health of its governor. Sancho bore it for some time, but at
length, starting up, he bade the physician avaunt, saying, "By the sun's
light, I'll get me a good cudgel, and beginning with your carcase, will
so belabour all the physic-mongers in the island, that I will not leave
one of the tribe. Let me eat, or let them take their government again;
for an office that will not afford a man his victuals is not worth two
horse beans."

At that moment there came a messenger from the duke, sweating, and with
concern in his looks, who pulled a packet from his bosom and presented
it to the governor. This message from the duke was to warn Sancho that a
furious enemy intended to attack his island, and that he must be on his
guard. "I have also the intelligence," wrote the duke, "from faithful
spies, that there are four men got into the town in disguise to murder
you, your abilities being regarded as a great obstacle to the enemy's
design. Take heed how you admit strangers to speak with you, and eat
nothing that is laid before you."

Sancho set out to inspect his defences; but with every step he took he
was confronted by some problem of government on which he was called upon
to adjudicate. Harassed by these appeals, and half famished, our
governor began to think that governorship was the sorriest trade on
earth, and before a week was over he addressed to Don Quixote a letter,
concluding, "Heaven preserve you from ill-minded enchanters, and send me
safe and sound out of this government." One night he was awakened by the
clanging of a great bell, and in came servants crying in affright that
the enemy was approaching. Sancho rose, and was adjured by his subjects
to lead them forth against their terrible foes. He asked for food, and
declared that he knew nothing of arms. They rebuked him, and bringing
him shields and a lance, proceeded to tie him up so tightly with shields
behind and shields before that he could scarcely move. Then they bade
him march, and lead on the army. "March!" quoth he. "These bonds stick
so plaguey close that I cannot so much as bend my knees!" "For shame!"
they answered. "It is fear and not armour that stiffens your legs." Thus
rebuked, Sancho endeavoured to move, but fell flat on the earth like a
great tortoise; while in the darkness the others made a clash with their
swords and shields, and trampled upon the prone governor, who quite gave
himself up for dead. But at break of day they raised a cry of "Victory!"
and, lifting Sancho up, told him that their enemies were driven off.

To this he said nothing save to ask for his old clothes. And when he was
dressed he went down to Dapple's stall, and embraced his faithful ass
with tears in his eyes. "Come hither, my friend and true companion,"
quoth he; "happy were my days, my months, and years, when with thee I
journeyed, and all my concern was to mend thy harness and find food for
thy little stomach! But now that I have climbed to the towers of
ambition, a thousand woes, a thousand torments, and four thousand
tribulations have haunted my soul!" While he spoke he fitted on the
pack-saddle, mounted his ass, bade farewell to the people, and departed
in peace and great humility.


_V.--The Death of Don Quixote_


Meanwhile, Don Quixote had been fooled to the top of his bent in the
duke's castle, and had endured tribulations from maids and men
sufficient to deject the finest fortitude. He was now in the mood to
forsake that great castle, and to embrace once more the life of the open
road, and so with Sancho Panza he started out to take up the threads of
his old life. After adventures so miraculous as to seem incredible, Don
Quixote was laid low in an encounter with a friend of his disguised as a
knight, and by this defeat was so broken and humiliated that he thought
to turn shepherd and to spend the remainder of his days in a pastoral
life. Sancho cheered him, and kept his heart as high as it would reach
in his misery, and together they turned their faces towards home,
leaving the future to the disposition of Providence.

As they entered the village, two boys fighting in a field attracted the
knight's attention, and he heard one of them cry, "Never fret yourself,
you shall never see her while you have breath in your body!" The knight
immediately applied these words to himself and Dulcinea, and nothing
that Sancho could say had power to cheer his spirits. Moreover, the boys
of the village, having seen them, raised a shout, and came laughing
about them, saying, "Oh, law! here is Gaffer Sancho Panza's donkey as
fine as a lady, and Don Quixote's beast thinner than ever!" The barber
and the curate then came upon the scene and saw their old friend, and
went with him to his house.

Here Don Quixote faithfully described his discomfiture in the encounter
with another knight, and declared his intention honourably to observe
the conditions laid upon him of being confined to his village for a
year.

Melancholy increased with the poor knight, and he was seized with a
violent fever. The physician and his friends conjectured that his
sickness arose from regret for his defeat and disappointment of
Dulcinea's disenchantment; they did all they could do to divert him, but
in vain. One day he desired them to leave him, and for six hours he
slept so profoundly that his niece thought he was dead. At the end of
this time he wakened, and cried with a loud voice, "Blessed be Almighty
God for this great benefit He has vouchsafed to me! His mercies are
infinite; greater are they than the sins of men."

These rational words surprised his niece, and she asked what he meant by
them. He answered that by God's mercy his judgment had returned, free
and clear. "The cloud of ignorance," said he, "is now removed, which
continuous reading of those noxious books of knight-errantry had laid
upon me." He said that his great grief now was the lateness with which
enlightenment had come, leaving him so little time to prepare his soul
for death.

The others coming in, Don Quixote made his confession, and one went to
fetch Sancho Panza. With tears in his eyes the squire sought his poor
master's side, and when in the first clause of his will Don Quixote made
mention of Sancho, saying afterwards, "Pardon me, my friend, that I
brought upon you the shame of my madness," Sancho cried out, "Woe's me,
your worship, do not die this bout; take my counsel, and live many a
good year. For it is the maddest trick a man can play in his whole life
to go out like the snuff of a candle, and die merely of the mulligrubs!"

The others admonished him in like spirit, but Don Quixote answered and
said, "Gently, sirs! do not look in last year's nests for the birds of
this year. I was mad, but now I have my reason. I was Don Quixote of La
Mancha; but to-day I am Alonso Quixano the Good. I hope that my
repentance and my sincerity will restore me to the esteem that once you
had for me. And now let Master Notary proceed." So he finished writing
his will, and then fell into a swooning fit, and lay full length in his
bed. But he lingered some days, and when he did give up the ghost, or to
speak more plainly, when he died, it was amidst the tears and
lamentations of his family, and after he had received the last
sacrament, and had expressed, in pathetic way, his horror at the books
of chivalry.

       *       *       *       *       *



ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO


Peter Schlemihl, the Shadowless Man

      Adalbert von Chamisso, a German lyric poet and scientist, was
     born on January 30, 1781, at the Castle of Boncourt, in the
     Champagne district of France. His parents emigrated in 1790,
     and in 1796 he became page to the Queen of Prussia. Two years
     afterwards he entered the army, which he left in 1806 to go to
     France, returning to Berlin in the following year. In 1810 he
     proceeded to France once more, and thence to Geneva, where he
     began his study of natural history. In 1815 he went with Otto
     von Kotzehue on a tour round the world, and on his return he
     settled in Berlin, having obtained a post in the Botanical
     Gardens. He wrote several important books on botany,
     topography, and ethnology, but became even more famous through
     his poems, ballads and romances. "Peter Schlemihl," which was
     written in 1813 was published in the following year by
     Chamisso's friend Fouqué, and achieved so great a success that
     it was translated into most languages. Chamisso died in Berlin
     on August 21, 1838.


_I.--The Grey Man_


Having safely landed after a fatiguing journey, I took my modest
belongings to the nearest cheap inn, engaged a garret room, washed, put
on my newly-turned black coat, and proceeded to find Mr. Thomas John's
mansion. After a severe cross-examination on the part of the
hall-porter, I had the honour of being shown into the park where Mr.
John was entertaining a party. He graciously took my letter of
introduction, continuing the while to talk to his guests. Then he broke
the seal, still joining in the conversation, which turned upon wealth.
"Anyone," he remarked, "who has not at least a million is, pardon the
word, a rogue." "How true," I exclaimed; which pleased him, for he asked
me to stay. Then, offering his arm to a fair lady, he led the party to
the rose-clad hill. Everybody was very jolly; and I followed behind, so
as not to make myself a nuisance.

The beautiful Fanny, who seemed to be the queen of the day, in trying to
pick a rose, had scratched her finger, which caused much commotion. She
asked for some plaster, and a quiet, lean, tall, elderly man, dressed in
grey, who walked by my side, put his hand in his coat pocket, pulled out
a pocket-book, and, with a deep bow, handed the lady what she wanted.
She took it without thanks, and we all continued to ascend the hill.

Arrived at the top, Mr. John, espying a light spot on the horizon,
called for a telescope. Before the servants had time to move, the grey
man, bowing modestly, had put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a
beautiful telescope, which passed from hand to hand without being
returned to its owner. Nobody seemed surprised at the huge instrument
issuing from a tiny pocket, and nobody took any more notice of the grey
man than of myself.

The ground was damp, and somebody suggested how fine it would be to
spread some Turkey carpets. Scarcely had the wish been expressed, when
the grey man again put his hand into his pocket, and, with a modest,
humble gesture, pulled out a rich Turkey carpet, some twenty yards by
ten, which was spread out by the servants, without anybody appearing to
be surprised. I asked a young gentleman who the obliging man might be.
He did not know.

The sun began to get troublesome, and Fanny casually asked the grey man
if he might happen to have a tent by him. He bowed deeply, and began to
pull out of his pocket canvas, and bars, and ropes, and everything
needed for the tent, which was promptly put up. Again nobody seemed
surprised. I felt uncanny; especially when, at the next expressed
desire, I saw him pull out of his pocket three fine large horses with
saddles and trappings! You would not believe it if I did not tell you
that I saw it with my own eyes.

It was gruesome. I sneaked away, and had already reached the foot of the
hill, when, to my horror, I noticed the grey man approaching. He took
off his hat, bowed humbly, and addressed me.

"Forgive my impertinence, sir, but during the short time I have had the
happiness to be near you I have been able to look with indescribable
admiration upon that beautiful shadow of yours, which you throw from you
contemptuously, as it were. Pardon me, but would you feel inclined to
sell it?"

I thought he was mad. "Is your own shadow not enough for you? What a
strange bargain!"

"No price is too high for this invaluable shadow. I have many a precious
thing in my pocket, which you may choose--a mandrake, the dish-cloth of
Roland's page, Fortunati's purse----"

"What! Fortunati's purse?"

"Will you condescend to try it?" he said, handing me a money-bag of
moderate size, from which I drew ten gold pieces, and another ten, and
yet another ten.

I extended my hand, and exclaimed, "A bargain! For this purse you can
have my shadow." He seized my hand, knelt down, cleverly detached my
shadow from the lawn, rolled it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
Then he bowed and retired behind the rose-hedge, chuckling gently.

I hurried back to my inn, after having tied the bag around my neck,
under my waistcoat. As I went along the sunny street, I heard an old
woman's voice, "Heigh, young man, you have lost your shadow!"

"Thank you," I said, threw her a gold piece, and sought the shade of the
trees. But I had to cross a broad street again, just as a group of boys
were leaving school. They shouted at me, jeered, and threw mud at me. To
keep them away I threw a handful of gold among them, and jumped into a
carriage. Now I began to feel what I had sacrificed. What was to become
of me?

At the inn I sent for my things, and then made the driver take me to the
best hotel, where I engaged the state rooms and locked myself up. And
what, my dear Chamisso, do you think I did then? I pulled masses of gold
out of the bag, covered the floor of the room with ducats, threw myself
upon them, made them tinkle, rolled over them, buried my hands in them,
until I was exhausted and fell to sleep. Next morning I had to cart all
these coins into a cupboard, leaving only just a few handfuls. Then,
with the help of the host, I engaged some servants, a certain Bendel, a
good, faithful soul, being specially recommended to me as a valet. I
spent the whole day with tailors, bootmakers, jewellers, merchants, and
bought a heap of precious things, just to get rid of the heaps of gold.

I never ventured out in daytime; and even at night when I happened to
step out into the moonlight, I had to suffer untold anguish from the
contemptuous sneers of men, the deep pity of women, the shuddering fear
of fair maidens. Then I sent Bendel to search for the grey man, giving
him every possible indication. He came back late, and told me that none
of Mr. John's servants or guests remembered the stranger, and that he
could find no trace of him. "By the way," he concluded, "a gentleman
whom I met just as I went out, bid me tell you that he was on the point
of leaving the country, and that in a year and a day he would call on
you to propose new business. He said you would know who he was."

"How did he look?" Bendel described the man in the grey coat! He was in
despair when I told him that this was the very person I wanted. But it
was too late; he had gone without leaving a trace.

A famous artist for whom I sent to ask him whether he could paint me a
shadow, told me that he might, but I should be bound to lose it again at
the slightest movement.

"How did you manage to lose yours?" he asked. I had to lie. "When I was
travelling in Russia it froze so firmly to the ground that I could not
get it off again."

"The best thing you can do is not to walk in the sun," the artist
retorted with a piercing look, and walked out.

I confessed my misfortune to Bendel, and the sympathetic lad, after a
terrible struggle with his conscience, decided to remain in my service.
From that day he was always with me, ever trying to throw his broad
shadow over me to conceal my affliction from the world. Nevertheless,
the fair Fanny, whom I often met in the hours of dusk and evening, and
who had begun to show me marked favour, discovered my terrible secret
one night, as the moon suddenly rose from behind a cloud, and fainted
with terror.

There was nothing left for me but to leave the town. I sent for horses,
took only Bendel and another servant, a rogue named Gauner, with me, and
covered thirty miles during the night. Then we continued our journey
across the mountains to a little-frequented watering-place, where I was
anxious to seek rest from my troubles.


_II.--A Soul for a Shadow_


Bendel preceded me to prepare a house for my reception, and spent money
so lavishly that the rumour spread the King of Prussia was coming
incognito. A grand reception was prepared by the townsfolk, with music
and flowers and a chorus of maidens in white, led by a girl of wonderful
beauty. And all this in broad sunlight! I did not move in my carriage,
and Bendel tried to explain that there must be a mistake, which made the
good folk believe that I wanted to remain incognito. Bendel handed a
diamond tiara to the beautiful maiden, and we drove on amid cheering and
firing of guns.

I became known as Count Peter, and when it was found out that the King
of Prussia was elsewhere, they all thought I must be some other king. I
gave a grand fete, Bendel taking good care to have such lavish
illuminations all round that no one should notice the absence of my
shadow. I had masses of gold coins thrown among the people in the
street, and gave Mina, the beautiful girl who headed the chorus at my
arrival, all the jewels I had brought with me, for distribution among
her friends. She was the daughter of the verdurer, and I lost no time in
making friends with her parents, and succeeded in gaining Mina's
affection.

Continuing to spend money with regal lavishness, I myself led a simple
and retired life, never leaving my rooms in daylight. Bendel warned me
of Gauner's extensive thefts; but I did not mind. Why should I grudge
him the money, of which I had an inexhaustible store? In the evenings I
used to meet Mina in her garden, and always found her loving, though
awed by my wealth and supposed rank. Yet, conscious of my dreadful
secret, I dared not ask for her hand. But the year was nearly up since I
had made the fateful bargain, and I looked forward to the promised visit
of the grey man, whom I hoped to persuade to take back his bag for my
shadow. In fact, I told the verdurer that on the first of the next month
I should ask him for his daughter's hand.

The anniversary arrived--midday, evening, midnight. I waited through the
long hours, heard the clock strike twelve; but the grey man did not
come! Towards morning I fell into a fitful slumber. I was awakened by
angry voices. Gauner forced his way into my room, which was defended by
the faithful Bendel.

"What do you want, you rogue?"

"Only to see your shadow, with your lordship's permission."

"How dare you----"

"I am not going to serve a man without a shadow. Either you show it to
me, or I go."

I wanted to offer him money; but he, who had stolen millions, refused to
accept money from a man without a shadow. He put on his hat, and left
the room whistling.

When at dark I went, with a heavy heart, to Mina's bower, I found her,
pale and beautiful, and her father with a letter in his hand. He looked
at the letter, then scrutinised me, and said, "Do you happen to know, my
lord, a certain Peter Schlemihl, who lost his shadow?"

"Oh, my foreboding!" cried Mina. "I knew it; he has no shadow!"

"And you dared," continued the verdurer, "to deceive us? See how she
sobs! Confess now how you lost your shadow."

Again I was forced to lie. "Some time ago a man stepped so clumsily into
my shadow that he made a big hole. I sent it to be mended, and was
promised to have it back yesterday."

"Very well. Either you present yourself within three days with a
well-fitting shadow, or, on the next day, my daughter will be another
man's wife."

I rushed away, half conscious, groaning and raving. I do not know how
long and how far I ran, but I found myself on a sunny heath, when
somebody suddenly pulled my sleeve. I turned round. It was the man in
the grey coat!

"I announced my visit for to-day. You made a mistake in your impatience.
All is well. You buy your shadow back and you will be welcomed by your
bride. As for Gauner, who has betrayed you and has asked for Mina's
hand--he is ripe for me."

I groped for the bag but the stranger stopped me.

"No, my lord, you keep this; I only want a little souvenir. Be good
enough and sign this scrap." On the parchment was written: "I herewith
assign to bearer my soul after its natural separation from my body."

I sternly refused. "I am not inclined to stake my soul for my shadow."

He continued to urge, giving the most plausible reasons why I should
sign. But I was firm. He even tried to tempt me by unrolling my shadow
on the heath. "A line of your pen, and you save your Mina from that
rogue's clutches."

At that moment Bendel arrived on the scene, saw me in tears, my shadow
on the ground apparently in the stranger's power, and set upon the man
with his stick. The grey man walked away, and Bendel followed him,
raining blows upon his shoulders, till they disappeared from sight.

I was left with my despair, and spent the day and night on the heath. I
was resolved not to return among men, and wandered about for three days,
feeding on wild fruit and spring-water. On the morning of the fourth day
I suddenly heard a sound, but could see nobody--only a shadow, not
unlike my own, but without body. I determined to seize it, and rushed
after it. Gradually I gained on it; with a final rush I made for it--and
met unexpectedly bodily resistance. We fell on the ground, and a man
became visible under me. I understood at once. The man must have had the
invisible bird's nest, which he dropped in the struggle, thus becoming
visible himself.

The nest being invisible, I looked for its shadow, found it, seized it
quickly, and, of course, disappeared from the man's sight. I left him
tearing his hair in despair; and I rejoiced at being able to go again
among men. Quickly I proceeded to Mina's garden, which was still empty,
although I imagined I heard steps following me. I sat down on a bench,
and watched the verdurer leaving the house. Then a fog seemed to pass
over my head. I looked around, and--oh, horror!--beheld the grey man
sitting by my side. He had pulled his magic cap over my head, at his
feet was his shadow and my own, and his hand played with the parchment.

"So we are both under the same cap," he began; "now please give me back
my bird's nest. Thanks! You see, sometimes we are forced to do what we
refuse when asked kindly. I think you had better buy that shadow back.
I'll throw in the magic cap."

Meanwhile, Mina's mother had joined the verdurer, and they began to
discuss Mina's approaching marriage and Gauner's wealth, which amounted
to ten millions. Then Mina joined them. She was urged to consent, and
finally said, sobbingly, "I have no further wish on earth. Do with me as
you please." At this moment Gauner approached, and Mina fainted.

"Can you endure this?" asked my companion. "Have you no blood in your
veins?" He rapidly scratched a slight wound in my hand, and dipped a pen
in the blood. "To be sure, red blood! Then sign." And I took the pen and
parchment.

I had scarcely touched food for days, and the excitement of this last
hour had completely exhausted my strength. Before I had time to sign I
swooned away. When I awoke it was dark. My hateful companion was in a
towering rage. The sound of festive music came from the brightly
illuminated house; groups of people strolled through the garden, talking
of Mina's marriage with the wealthy Mr. Gauner, which had taken place
this morning.

Disengaging myself from the magic cap, which act made my companion
disappear from my view, I made for the garden gate. But the invisible
wretch followed me with his taunts. He only left me at the door of my
house, with a mocking "_au revoir_." The place had been wrecked by the
mob and was deserted. Only the faithful Bendel was there to receive me
with tears of mingled grief and joy. I pressed him to my heart, and bid
him leave me to my misery. I told him to keep a few boxes filled with
gold, that were still in the house, made him saddle my horse, and
departed, leaving the choice of the road to the animal, for I had
neither aim, nor wish, nor hope.

A pedestrian joined me on the sad journey. After tramping along for a
while, he asked permission to put his cloak on my horse. I consented; he
thanked me, and then, in a kind of soliloquy, began to praise the power
of wealth, and to speak cleverly of metaphysics. Meanwhile, day was
dawning; the sun was about to rise, the shadows to spread their
splendour--and I was not alone! I looked at my companion--it was the man
with the grey coat!

He smiled at my surprise, and continued to converse amiably. In fact, he
not only offered to replace for the time being my former servant Bendel,
but actually lent me my shadow for the journey. The temptation was
great. I suddenly gave my horse the spurs and galloped off at full
speed; but, alas! my shadow remained behind and I had to turn back
shamefacedly.

"You can't escape me," said my companion, "I hold you by your shadow."
And all the time, hour by hour, day by day, he continued his urging. At
last we quarrelled seriously, and he decided to leave me. "If ever you
want me, you have only to shake your bag. You hold me by my gold. You
know I can be useful, especially to the wealthy; you have seen it."

I thought of the past and asked him quickly, "Did you get Mr. John's
signature?" He smiled. "With so good a friend, the formality was not
necessary."

"Where is he? I want to know."

He hesitated, then put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Mr.
John's livid body; the blue lips of the corpse moved, and uttered
painfully the words: "_Justo judico Dei judicatus sum; justo judicio Dei
condemnatus sum."_

Seized with horror, I threw the inexhaustible money-bag into the abyss,
and then spoke the final words. "You fiend, I exorcise you in the name
of God! Be off, and never show yourself before mine eyes again!"

He glared at me furiously and disappeared instantly.


_III.--The Wanderer_


Left now without shadow and without money, save for the few gold pieces
still in my pocket, I could almost have been happy, had it not been for
the loss of my love. My horse was down below at the inn; I decided to
leave it there and to wander on on foot. In the forest I encountered a
peasant, from whom I obtained information about the district and its
inhabitants. He was an intelligent man, and I quite enjoyed the talk.
When we approached the wide bed of a mountain stream, I made him walk in
front, but he turned round to speak to me. Suddenly he broke off--"But
how is that? You have no shadow!"

"Unfortunately!" I said, with a sigh. "During an illness I lost my hair,
nails, and shadow. The hair and nails have grown again, but the shadow
won't."

"That must have been a bad illness," said the peasant, and walked on in
silence till we reached the nearest side-road, when he turned off
without saying another word. I wept bitter tears, and my good spirits
had vanished. And so I wandered on sadly, avoiding all villages till
nightfall, and often waiting for hours to pass a sunny patch unobserved.
I wanted to find work in a mine to save me from my thoughts.

My boots began to be worn out. My slender means made me decide to buy a
strong pair that had already been used; new ones were too dear. I put
them on at once, and walked out of the village, scarcely noticing the
way, since I was thinking deeply of the mine I hoped to reach the same
night, and of the manner in which I was to obtain employment. I had
scarcely walked two hundred steps, when I noticed that I had lost the
road. I was in a wild virginal forest. Another few steps and I was on an
endless ice-field. The cold was unbearable, and I had to hasten my
steps. I ran for a few minutes, and found myself in rice-fields where
Chinese labourers were working. There could be no doubt; I had seven-
league boots on my feet!

I fell on my knees, shedding tears of gratitude. Now my future was
clear. Excluded from society, study and science were to be my future
strength and hope. I wandered through the whole world from east to west,
from north to south, comparing the fauna and flora of the different
regions. To reduce the speed of my progress, I found I had only to pull
a pair of slippers over my boots. When I wanted money, I just took an
ivory tusk to sell in London. And finally I made a home in the ancient
caves of the desert near Thebes.

Once in the far north I encountered a polar bear. Throwing off my
slippers, I wanted to step upon an island facing me. I firmly placed my
foot on it, but on the other side I fell into the sea, as the slipper
had not come off my boot. I saved my life and hurried to the Libyan
desert to cure my cold in the sun; but the heat made me ill. I lost
consciousness, and when I awoke again I was in a comfortable bed among
other beds, and on the wall facing me I saw inscribed in golden letters
my own name.

To cut things short--the institution which had received me had been
founded by Bendel and the widowed Mina with my money, and in my honour
had been called the Schlemihlium. As soon as I felt strong enough, I
returned to my desert cave, and thus I live to this day.

You, my dear Chamisso, are to be the keeper of my strange history, which
may contain useful advice for many. You, if you will live among men,
honour first the shadow, then the money. But, if you live only for your
better self, you will need no advice.

       *       *       *       *       *



CHATEAUBRIAND


Atala

      Francois René, Vicomte de Chateaubriand, born on September 4,
     1768, at St. Malo, Brittany, was as distinguished for his
     extraordinary and romantic career as for the versatility of
     his genius. At the height of the Revolution (1791) he left for
     America with the intention of discovering the North-West
     passage, but in two years returned to fight on the royalist
     side, and was wounded at the siege of Thionville. Emigrating
     to England, he remained in London for eight years, supporting
     himself with difficulty by translating and teaching and
     writing. Returning to France, Chateaubriand was appointed by
     Napoleon secretary to the embassy in Rome, but the execution
     of the Duke d'Enghien so repelled him that he resigned and set
     out on a long Oriental journey. Living in privacy till the
     fall of Napoleon, he then returned to his native land, and
     from 1822 to 1824 was ambassador to the British Court. His
     whole political career was eccentric and uncertain, and he
     himself declared that he was by heredity and honour a
     Bourbonist, by conviction a Monarchist, but by temperament a
     Republican. He died on July 4, 1848. "Atala," which appeared
     in 1801, formed the first part of a prose epic, "The Natchez,"
     on the wild and picturesque life of the Red Indians, the idea
     for which Chateaubriand had conceived while wandering about
     America. It at once raised its author to the highest position
     in the French literary world of the age of Napoleon. In 1802,
     Chateaubriand published a work of still greater importance--at
     least, from a social point of view--"The Genius of
     Christianity"--which magnificent and gorgeous piece of
     rhetoric produced a profound change in the general attitude of
     Frenchmen in regard to religion, undid to some extent the
     destructive work of Voltaire, and was instrumental in inducing
     Napoleon to come to terms with the Pope. But it is on "Atala"
     that Chateaubriand's title to be one of the greatest masters
     of French prose literature depends.


_I.--The Song of Death_


"It is surely a singular fate," said the old, blind Red Indian chief to
the young Frenchman, "which has brought us together from the ends of the
earth. I see in you a civilised man, who, for some strange reason,
wishes to become a savage. You see in me a savage, who, also for some
strange reason, has tried to become a civilised man. Though we have
entered on life from two opposite points, here we are, sitting side by
side. And I, a childless man, have sworn to be a father to you, and you,
a fatherless boy, have sworn to be a son to me."

Chactas, the chief of the Natchez, and René, the Frenchman, whom he had
adopted into his tribe, were sitting at the prow of a pirogue, which,
with its sail of sewn skins outstretched to the night wind, was gliding
down the moonlit waters of the Ohio, amid the magnificent desert of
Kentucky. Behind them was a fleet of pirogues, which René was piloting
on a hunting foray. Seeing that all the Indians were sleeping, Chactas
went on talking to his adopted son.

"How little, even now, we know of each other, René. You never told me
what it was that made you leave France in 1725, and come to Louisiana,
and ask to be admitted to our tribe. I have never told you why I have
not married and got children to succeed me, and help me in my old age to
govern my people.

"It is now seventy-three years since my mother brought me into the world
on the banks of the Mississippi. In 1652 there were a few Spaniards
settled in the bay of Pensacola, but no white man was then seen in
Louisiana. I was scarcely seventeen years old when I fought with my
father, the famous warrior Outalissi, against the Creeks of Florida. We
were then allied with the Spaniards, but, in spite of the help they gave
us, we were defeated. My father was killed, and I was grievously
wounded. Oh, why did I then not descend into the land of the dead? Happy
indeed should I have been had I thus escaped from the fate which was
waiting for me on earth!

"But one of our allies, an old Castilian, named Lopez, moved by my youth
and simplicity, rescued me in the battle and led me to the town of St.
Augustin, which his countrymen had recently built. My benefactor took me
to his home, and he and his sister adopted me as their son, and tried to
teach me their knowledge and religion. But after passing thirteen months
at St. Augustin I was seized with a disgust for town life. The city
seemed to me a prison, and I longed to get back to the wild life of my
fathers. At last I resolved to return to my tribe, and one morning I
came to Lopez, clad in the dress of the Natchez, with bow and arrows in
one hand, and a tomahawk in the other.

"'Oh, my father,' I said to him, my face streaming with tears, 'I shall
die if I stay in this city. I am an Indian, and I must live like an
Indian.'

"Lopez tried to detain me by pointing out the peril I was running. But I
already knew that in order to join the Natchez I should have to pass
through the country of the Creeks, and might fall into the hands of our
old enemies; and this did not deter me. At last, Lopez, seeing how
resolute I was, said, 'Go, my boy, and God be with you! Were I only
younger, I, too, would return with you to the wilderness, where the
happiest part of my life was spent. But when you get back to the forest,
think sometimes of the old Spaniard of St. Augustin, and if ever a white
man falls into your hands, treat him, my son, as I have treated you.'

"It was not long, René, before I was punished for my ingratitude in
running away from my protector. I had forgotten in the city my knowledge
of wood-craft, and I lost my way in the great forest, and was captured
by a band of Creeks. My costume and the feathers in my hair proclaimed
me one of the Natchez, and when Simaghan, the chief of the band, bound
me, and demanded who I was, I proudly answered. 'I am Chactas, the son
of the Outalissi who took more than a hundred scalps from the warriors
of the Creeks.'

"'Chactas, son of Outalissi,' said Simaghan, 'rejoice! We will burn you
before our wig-wams.'

"'That is good news,' I said, and thereupon I sang my song of death.

"Although the Creeks were my enemies, I could not help admiring them.
They were fine, handsome men of a merry and open nature, and their women
were beautiful, and full of pity towards me. One night, while I was
lying sleepless beside their camp fire, one of their maidens came and
sat by my side. Her face was strangely lovely; her eyes shone with
tears; and a little golden crucifix on her bosom glittered as the
firelight played upon it.

"'Maiden,' I said, 'your beauty is too great to be wasted on a dying
man. Let me die without tasting the delights of love. They would only
make death more bitter to me. You are worthy to be the squaw of a great
chief. Wait till you can find a lover with whom you can live in joy and
happiness all your life.'

"'Are you a Christian?' asked the maiden.

"'No,' I replied. 'I have not betrayed the faith of my forefathers.'

"'Oh, you are only a wicked heathen,' she exclaimed, covering her face
with her hands and weeping. 'I have been baptised by my mother. I am
Atala, daughter of Simaghan of the golden bracelets, and the chief of
this band. We are going to Cuscowilla, where you will be burnt.'

"And with a look of anger, Atala rose up and went away."

Here Chactas for a moment became silent. Tears rolled from his blind
eyes down his withered cheeks.

"Oh René, my son," he said, "you see that Chactas is very foolish in
spite of his reputation for wisdom! Why do men still weep, even when age
has blinded their eyes? Every night Atala came to see me, and a strange
love for her was born in my heart. After marching for seventeen days, my
captors brought me to the great savannah of Alachua, and camped in a
valley not far from Cuscowilla, the capital of the Creeks. I was bound
to the foot of a tree outside the town, and a warrior was set to watch
over me.

"But in the evening Atala came, and said to him, 'If you would like to
go hunting, I will look after the prisoner.'

"The young warrior leaped up, full of joy at being relieved by the
daughter of his chief, and when he had gone, Atala released me.

"'Now, Chactas,' she murmured, turning her face away from me, 'you can
escape.'

"'I do not want to escape,' I cried, 'unless I can escape with you!'

"'But they will burn you,' she said. 'They will burn you to-morrow!'

"'What does it matter,' I exclaimed, 'if you do not love me?'

"'But I do love you,' said Atala, and she bent over and kissed me.

"Then with a wild look of terror, she pushed me away from her, and
staggering up to the tree, she covered her face with her hands, and
sobbed, rocking herself to and fro in her grief.

"'Oh, my mother, my mother!' she sobbed. 'I have forgotten my vow. I
cannot follow you,' she said, turning to me. 'You are not a Christian.'

"'But I will be a Christian,' I cried. 'Only come with me, Atala, and I
will be baptised by the first priest that we meet. There are several
missionaries among the Natchez.'

"To my utter astonishment, instead of this comforting Atala, it only
made her weep more passionately. Her body shook with sobs as I took her
up in my arms and carried her away from the town into the great forest.
At last she grew calmer, and asked me to set her down, and, striking a
narrow track between the dark trees, we marched along silently and
quickly, stopping now and then to listen if we were being followed. We
heard nothing but the crackling tread of some nocturnal beast of prey,
or the cry of some animal in the agony of death. On coming to an opening
in the forest I made a shelter for the night. Atala then threw herself
at my feet, and clasped my knees, and again begged me to leave her. But
I swore that, if she returned to the camp, I would follow her, and give
myself up. As we were talking, the cry of death rang through the forest,
and four warriors fell upon me and bound me. Our flight had been
discovered, and Simaghan had set out in pursuit with all his band.

"In vain did Atala plead for me; I was condemned to be burnt. Happily,
the Feast of Souls was being held, and no tribe dares to kill a captive
during the days consecrated to this solemn ceremony. But after the feast
I was bound down on the ground before the sacred totem pillars, and all
the maidens and warriors of the Creek nation danced around me, chanting
songs of triumph. Again I sang my song of death.

"'I do not fear your torments! For I am brave! I defy you, for you are
all weaker than women. My father, Outalissi, has drunk from the skulls
of your bravest warriors. Burn me! Torture me! But you will not make me
groan; you will not make me sigh.'

"Angered by my song, a Creek warrior stabbed me in the arm. 'Thank you,'
I said.

"To make sure that I should not again escape, they bound cords around my
neck and feet and arms; the ends of these cords were fastened in the
earth by means of pegs, and a band of warriors set to watch over me laid
down on the cords, so that I could not make a single movement of which
they were not aware. The songs and dances gradually ceased as night came
on, and the camp fires burnt low and red, and, in spite of my pain, I,
too, fell asleep. I dreamt that someone was setting me free, and I
seemed to feel that sharp anguish which shoots along the nerves when
ropes, which are bound so tightly as to stop the flow of blood, are
suddenly cut from the numbed limbs. The pain became so keen that it made
me open my eyes. A tall, white figure was bending over me, silently
cutting my cords. It was Atala. I rose up and followed her through the
sleeping camp.

"When we were out of ear-shot she told me that she had bribed the
medicine man of her tribe, and brought some barrels of fire-water into
the camp and made all the warriors drunk with it. Drunkenness, no doubt,
prevented the Creeks from following us for a day or two. And if
afterwards they pursued us, they probably turned to the west, thinking
that we had set out in the direction of the country of Natchez. But we
had gone north, tracking our way by the moss growing on the trunks of
the trees."

_II.--The Magic of the Forest_


"The Creeks had stripped me almost naked, but Atala made me a dress out
of the inner bark of the ash-tree and sewed some rat-skins into
moccasins. I, in turn, wove garlands of flowers for her head as we
tramped along through the great forests of Florida. Oh, how wildly
beautiful the scenes were through which we passed. Nearly all the trees
in Florida are covered with a white moss which hangs from their branches
to the ground. At night-time, when the moonlight falls, pearly grey, on
the indeterminate crest of the forests, the trees look like an army of
phantoms in long, trailing veils. In the daytime a crowd of large,
beautiful butterflies, brilliant humming birds, and blue-winged jays and
parroquets come and cling to the moss, which then resembles a white
tapestry embroidered with splendid and varied hues.

"Every evening we made a great fire and built a shelter out of a large
hollow piece of bark, fixed on four stakes. The forests were full of
game, which I easily brought down with the bow and arrows I took when we
fled from the camp, and as it was now autumn, the forests were hung with
fruit. Every day I became more and more joyful, but Atala was strangely
quiet. Sometimes, as I suddenly turned my head to see why she was so
silent, I would find her gazing at me, her eyes burning with passion.
Sometimes she would kneel down, and clasp her hands in prayer and weep
like a woman with a broken heart. What frightened me above all was the
secret thought that she tried to conceal in the depths of her soul, but,
now and then, half revealed in her wild, sorrowful, and lovely eyes. Oh,
how many times did she tell me:

"'Yes, I love you, Chactas, I love you! But I can never be your wife!'

"I could not understand her. One minute she would cling round my neck
and kiss me; another, when I wished in turn to caress her, she would
repulse me.

"'But as I intend, Atala, to become a Christian, what is there to
prevent us marrying?' I said, again and again.

"And every time I asked this question she burst into tears and would not
answer. But the wild loneliness, the continual presence of my beloved,
yes, even the hardships of our wandering life, increased the force of my
longing. A hundred times I was ready to fold Atala to my breast. A
hundred times I proposed to build her a hut in the wide, uninhabited
wilderness, and live my life out there by her side.

"Oh, René, my son, if your heart is ever deeply troubled by love, beware
of loneliness. Great passions are wild and solitary things; by
transporting them into the wilderness you give them full power over your
soul. But in spite of this, Atala and I lived together in the great
forests like brother and sister. On and on we marched, through vaults of
flowery smilax, where lianas with strange and gorgeous blossoms snared
our feet in their twining ropy stems. Enormous bats fluttered in our
faces, rattlesnakes rattled around us, and bears and carcajous--those
little tigers that crouch on the branches of trees, and leap without
warning on their prey--made the latter part of our journey full of
strange perils and difficulties. For after travelling for twenty-seven
days, we crossed the Alleghany mountains, and got into a tract of
swampy, wooded ground.

"At sunset a tempest arose and darkened all the heavens. Then the sky
opened, and the noise of the tempestuous forest was drowned in long,
rolling detonations of thunder, and the wild lightning flamed down upon
us, and set the forest on fire. Crouching down under the bent trunk of a
birch-tree, with my beloved on my lap, I sheltered her from the
streaming rain, and warmed her naked feet in my hands. What cared I,
though the very heavens broke above me, and the earth rocked to its
foundations? The soft, warm arms of Atala were around my neck, her
breast lay against my breast, and I felt her heart beating as wildly as
my own.

"'O my beloved,' I said, 'open your heart to me, and tell me the secret
that makes you so sorrowful. Do you weep at leaving your native land?'

"'No,' she said. 'I do not regret leaving the land of palm trees, for my
mother is dead, and Simaghan was only my foster father.'

"'Then who was your father, my beloved?' I cried in astonishment.

"'My father was a Spaniard,' said Atala, 'but my grandmother threw water
in his face, and made him go away, and she then forced my mother to give
herself in marriage to Simaghan, who desired her. But she died from
grief at being parted from my father, and Simaghan adopted me as his own
daughter. I have never seen my father, though my mother, before she
died, baptised me, so that his God should be my God. Oh, Chactas, I wish
I could see my father before I die!'

"'What is his name?' I said. 'Where does he live?'

"'He lives at St. Augustin,' she replied. 'His name is Philip Lopez.'

"'O, my beloved,' I cried, pressing Atala wildly to may breast. 'Oh,
what happiness, what joy! You are the daughter of Lopez, the daughter of
my foster father!'

"Atala was frightened at my outburst of passion, but when she knew that
it was her father who had rescued me from the Creeks, and brought me up
as his own son, she became as wildly joyful as I was. Rising up from my
arms, with a strange, fierce, and yet tender light in her eyes, she took
something out of her bosom and put in her mouth, and then fell on my
breast in an ecstasy of self-surrender. Just as I was about to embrace
her, the lightning fell, the sword of God, upon the surging, stormy
forest, and made a wild and terrible radiance around us, and shattered a
great tree at our feet. We rose up, overcome by a sacred horror, and
fled. And then an even more miraculous thing happened. As the rolling
thunder died away we heard in the silence and the darkness the sound of
a bell. A dog barked, and came running joyfully up to us. Behind him was
an old, white-haired priest, carrying a lantern in his hand.

"'Dear God!' said the priest. 'How young they are! Poor children! My dog
found you in the forest just before the storm broke, and ran back to my
cave to fetch me. I have brought some wine in my calabash. Drink it, it
will revive you. Did you not hear the mission bell, which we ring every
night so that strangers may find their way?'

"'Save me, father, save me!' cried Atala, falling to the ground. 'I am a
Christian, and I do not want to die in mortal sin.'

"What was the matter with her? She was as pale as death, and unable to
rise. I bent over her, and so did the missionary.

"'Oh, Chactas,' she murmured, 'I am dying. Just before the lightning
struck the tree at our feet, I took some poison. For I felt that I could
no longer resist you, my beloved, and I was resolved to save myself in
death.'

"'But here is a priest,' I said. 'I will be baptised at once, and we can
be married immediately afterwards.'

"'I could not marry you, even then,' she said. 'I was sixteen years old
when my mother died, and in order to preserve me from marrying any of
the heathen savages among whom my lot was cast, she made me vow, on the
image of Mary the Mother of my God, that I would remain all my life a
pure, Christian virgin.'

"Oh, René, how I hated the God of the Christians at that moment! I drew
my tomahawk, resolved to kill the missionary on the spot. But
disregarding me, he bent over Atala, and raised her head upon his knees.

"'My dear child, your vow does not prevent you from marrying your lover,
especially as he is willing to become a Christian. I will write at once
to the Bishop of Quebec, who has the power to relieve you of any vow
that you have made, and then there will be nothing to prevent your
marriage.'

"As he spoke, Atala was seized with a convulsion which shook all her
body. In wild agony, she cried: 'Oh, it is too late, it is too late! I
thought my mother's spirit would come and drag me down to hell if I
broke my vow. I took poison with me, Chactas, when I fled with you. I
have just swallowed it. There is no remedy. Oh, God! Oh, God!'

"She was dead in my arms. I buried her where she died, and had it not
been for the missionary, René, I would have laid down in the grave, by
her side, and let the blood well out of all my veins. But I became a
Christian, as you know, and then, finding some work in the world to do,
I went back to my own tribe, and converted them. I have been to France.
I have seen your great king Louis XIV. I have talked with Bishop
Bossuet, and it was he who convinced me that I could best serve God by
returning to my own people, the Natchez, and trying to form them into a
great Christian nation under the guidance of the King of France."

       *       *       *       *       *



CHARLES VICTOR CHERBULIEZ


Samuel Brohl & Co.

      Charles Victor Cherbuliez was born in Geneva, Switzerland, in
     1829, studied history and philosophy in Paris, Bonn and Berlin
     and travelled widely, gathering material that he used in
     social and political essays and also in fiction. He won fame
     with his first novel, "Count Kostia," published in 1863. After
     that date his romances followed in quick succession. Embodying
     extravagant adventures, they must be classed nevertheless in
     the category of the sentimental novel to which the writings of
     Sand and Feuillet belong. Cherbuliez is always an interesting
     story-teller and an ingenious artificer of plot, but his
     psychology is conventional and his descriptive passages
     superficial though clever. "Samuel Brohl & Co.," published in
     1877, illustrates his power of drawing cosmopolitan types,
     Russians, Poles, English, Germans and Jews, which he portrays
     in all his novels. He was admitted to the French Academy in
     1881, and died in 1899.


_I.--A Mountain Romance_


"Yes! she is certainly very beautiful as well as very rich," said Count
Abel Larinski, as he watched, through his hotel window, the graceful
figure of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz. "A marriage between Count Abel
Larinski, the sole descendant of one of the most ancient and noble
families of Poland, and Mlle. Moriaz, the daughter of the President of
the French Institute, is a thing which might be arranged. But alas!
Count Abel Larinski, you are a very poor man. Let me see how long you
will be able to stay in Saint Moritz? These hotels in the Upper Engadine
are frightfully dear!"

The handsome young Polish nobleman opened his purse and looked at the
contents rather sadly. It was almost empty. He would certainly have to
sell some of his family jewels, if he wanted to stay at Saint Moritz.
Unhappily, he now had only the fine diamond ring, which he wore on his
finger, and a Persian bracelet composed of three golden plates connected
by a band of filigree work.

"Now, which shall I sell," said the Count; "the Larinski ring, or the
bracelet which belonged to Samuel Brohl? The ring, I think. It will
bring in much more money, and besides, the bracelet might be useful as a
present."

After strolling some time about the garden, Mlle. Moriaz saw her father
waiting for her at the door.

"What do you think, Antoinette, of an excursion to Silvaplana Lake?"
said M. Moriaz. "I'm feeling so much better already, and I absolutely
long, my dear, for a good walk."

"I should be delighted," said his daughter, "if you think it will not
tire you."

M. Moriaz was sure an excursion would not tire him. So they set out for
a long walk, through the wild mountain scenery. Antoinette was delighted
to find that her father was recovering his strength, but he was
alarmingly quiet and thoughtful. Was she in for one of those serious
lectures on the subject of marriage which he used to read to her at
Paris? Yes! Camille must have written to him. For as she was standing on
a mountain bridge, listening to the liquid gurgling of the torrent at
the bottom of the gorge, she said to him:

"Isn't the music of this wild stream delightful?"

"Yes!" he replied. "But I think this bridge that spans the gorge is a
more wonderful thing than all the wild works of nature around us. I
admire men, like our friend Camille Langis, who know how to build these
bridges. What a fine fellow he is! Most men, with his wealth, lead idle,
useless lives. But there he is now, building bridges across mountains
just as wild as these, in Hungary. Why don't you marry him, my dear? He
is madly in love with you, and you have known him all your life."

"That's just it," said his daughter, with a movement of impatience, "I
have known him all my life. How can I now fall wildly and suddenly in
love with him? No! If ever I lose my heart, I am sure it will be to some
stranger, to someone quite different from all the men we meet in Paris."

"You are incorrigibly romantic, Antoinette," said her father, with just
a touch of ill-humour. "You want a fairy prince, eh?--one of those
strange, picturesque, impossible creatures that only exist in the
imagination of poets and school girls. You are now twenty-four years
old, Antoinette, and if you don't soon become more reasonable, you will
die an old maid."

"Would that be a very great misfortune, father darling?" said Antoinette
with a roguish smile. "If ever I marry, you know, I shall have to leave
you. And what would you do then? You would be driven to marry your
cook!"

This sally put the old scientist in a good humour. His daughter was the
charm and solace of his life, and though he would have liked to see her
happily married, he did not know what he should do when she left him. On
the way back to the hotel, Antoinette tried to find some edelweiss, but
she was not able to clamber up to the high rocks on which this rare
flower grows. Great therefore were her joy and surprise, on returning to
the hotel, to find on the table of her room a wicker basket, full of
edelweiss, and rarer Alpine flowers. Was it for her? Yes! For in the
basket was a note addressed, "Mlle. Moriaz." Fluttering with excitement
she opened it, and read:

      "I arrived in this valley, disgusted with life, sad, and
     weary to death. But I saw you pass by my window, and some
     strange, new power entered my soul. Now I know that I shall
     live, and accomplish my work in the world. 'What does this
     matter to me?' you will say when you read these lines--and you
     will be right. My only excuse for writing to you in this way
     is that I shall depart in a few days, and that you will never
     see me, and never know who I am."

After getting over her first impression of profound astonishment,
Antoinette laughed, and then gave way to curiosity. Who had brought the
flowers? "A little peasant boy," said the hotel porter, "but I did not
know him. He must have come from another village."

For some days, Mlle. Moriaz glanced at everybody she met, but she never
found a single romantic figure in the crowd of invalids that sauntered
about St. Moritz. If, however, she had always accompanied her father,
who, growing stronger every day, began to go out on long geological
excursions, she might have met a very picturesque and striking young
man. For Count Abel Larinski now always followed M. Moriaz, and watched
over him like a guardian angel. "Oh, if he would only fall down one of
the rocks he is always hammering at, and break a leg, or even sprain an
ankle!" said the gallant Polish nobleman. "Wouldn't that be a lucky
accident for me!"

All things, it is said, come to those who know how to wait. One
afternoon M. Moriaz climbed up a very steep slope of crumbling rock, and
came to a narrow gorge over which he was afraid to leap. He could not
descend by the way he had come up, for the slope was really dangerous.
It looked as though he should have to wait hours, and perhaps, days,
until some herdsman passed by; and he began to shout wildly in the hopes
of attracting attention. To his great joy, his shout was answered, and
Count Larinski climbed up the other side of the gorge, carrying a plank,
torn from a fence he passed on his way. By means of this, he bridged the
gorge, and rescued the father of Antoinette, and naturally, he had to
accompany him to the hotel, and stay to dinner. As we have said, Count
Larinski was a very handsome man; tall, broad-shouldered, with strange
green eyes touched with soft golden tints. When he began to talk, simply
and modestly of the part he had played in the last Polish Revolution
against the despotic power of Russia, Antoinette felt at last that she
was in the presence of a hero. And what a cultivated man he was! He
played the piano divinely, and they passed many pleasant evenings
together. One night, the Count left behind him a piece of music,
inscribed "Abel Larinski." "Surely," Mlle. Moriaz thought, "I have seen
that writing somewhere!" Her breath came quickly, as with a trembling
hand she took out of her bosom the letter which had been sent with the
flowers, and compared the handwritings. They were identical.


_II.--A Conversation with a Dead Man_


Just a week afterwards, Count Larinski had a very serious conversation
with his partner, Samuel Brohl. The strange thing about the conversation
was that there was only one man in the room, and he talked all the time
to himself. Sometimes he spoke in German with lapses into Yiddish, and
any one would then have said that he was Samuel Brohl, a notorious
Jewish adventurer. Then, recovering himself, he talked in Polish, and he
might have been mistaken for a Polish gentleman. He seemed to be a man
who was trying to study a difficult matter from two different points of
view, and he undoubtedly had an actor's talent for throwing himself into
the character of the nobleman he was impersonating.

"Do you see," said Samuel Brohl, "fortune at last smiles upon us. The
charming girl is ours. I have won her for you, dear Larinski, by the
means Othello used to charm the imagination and capture the heart of
Desdemona. Do you not remember, my dear Count, the tales you used to
tell us, when we were living together in a garret in Bucharest? How you
fought in the streets of Warsaw against the Cossacks? How they tracked
you through the snow-covered forest by the trail of blood you left
behind you? Oh, I recollected it all, and I flatter myself that I
related it with just that proud, sombre, subdued melancholy with which
you used to speak of your sufferings."

"Do you think that she has really fallen in love with me?" asked Count
Larinski. "I am afraid of her father. In spite of all that I have done
for that famous man of science, he does not seem to fancy me as a
son-in-law. Do you imagine it is merely because of my poverty? Or does
he find anything wrong with me?"

This last question profoundly disturbed the soul of Samuel Brohl. What!
were all the skilful intrigues which he had spent four years in weaving,
to come to nothing? For it was now four years since Samuel Brohl had
entered into his strange partnership with the Polish nobleman. Brohl
himself was the son of a Jewish tavern-keeper in Gallicia. A great
Russian lady, Princess Gulof, attracted by his handsome presence, and
strange green eyes, had engaged him as her secretary and educated him.
He had repaid her by robbing her of her jewels and running off with them
to Bucharest. There he had met Count Larinski, who, for more honourable
motives, was also hiding from the Russian secret police. By representing
himself as a persecuted anarchist, Brohl completely won the confidence
of large-hearted, chivalrous Polish patriot.

"Ah, it was a lucky chance that brought us together!" said Samuel Brohl.
"If you had not met me, you would have been dead, four years ago, and
clean forgotten. Do you remember your last instructions? After giving me
every bit of money you had--a little over two thousand florins, wasn't
it?--you showed me a box containing your family jewels, your letters,
your diary, your papers, and you said to me: 'Destroy everything it
contains. Poland is dead. Let my name die too!'

"But, my dear Count," continued Samuel Brohl, "how could I let a man of
your heroic worth and romantic character be forgotten by the world? No,
it was Samuel Brohl who died and was buried in an unknown grave. I have
the certificate of his death. Count Abel Larinski still lives. It is
true that he is so changed by all his sufferings that his oldest friends
would never recognise him. His hair used to be black, it is now brown;
his blue eyes have become golden green; moreover he has grown
considerably taller. But what does it matter? He is still a handsome
man, with a noble air and charming manner."

"Very well," said Count Larinski. "I must take the risk of meeting in
Paris anyone who used to know me before my transformation. I will pack
up and depart."

It was indeed a terrible ordeal which he had to face. By a strange irony
of fate, all his skilfully conceived plans were imperilled at the very
moment when his success seemed absolutely certain. As he had foreseen,
M. Moriaz was not at first inclined to consent to the marriage; but
Antoinette soon won her father over, and when Count Larinski called at
their charming villa at Cormeilles, on the outskirts of Paris, he had as
warm a welcome as the most ardent of suitors could desire.

"We must introduce you, my dear Count, to all our friends," said M.
Moriaz. "We are giving a party to-morrow evening for the purpose. Of
course you will be able to attend?"

"Naturally," said Larinski, "I am looking forward with the greatest
eagerness to making the acquaintance of all Antoinette's friends. The
only thing I regret is that none of my old comrades in the great
struggle against Russia can be at my side at the happiest moment of my
life. Alas! many are working in fetters in the mines of Siberia, and the
rest are scattered over the face of the globe."


_III.--Samuel Brohl Comes to Life_


But, though none of Count Larinski's friends was able to appear at
Cormeilles, one of Samuel Brohl's old acquaintances came to the party.

On entering the drawing-room, he saw an old, ugly, sharp-faced woman,
talking in a corner with Camille Langis. It was Princess Gulof. It
seemed to him as if the four walls of the room were rocking to and fro,
and that the floor was slipping from under his feet like the deck of a
ship in a wild storm. By a great effort of will, he recovered himself.

"Never mind, Samuel Brohl," he said to himself. "Let us see the game
through. After all she is very shortsighted, and you may have changed in
the last four years."

Antoinette presented him to the Princess, who examined him with her
little, blinking eyes, and smiled on him kindly and calmly.

"What luck! What amazing luck!" he thought. "She is now as blind as an
owl. If only I can escape from talking to her, I'm safe."

Unfortunately, Antoinette asked him to take the Princess in to dinner.
He offered her his arm, and led her to the table, in absolute silence.
She, too, did not speak; but when they sat down, she began to talk gaily
to the priest of the parish, who was sitting on her right. Her sight was
so bad that she had to bend over her wineglasses to find the one she
wanted. Seeing this, Samuel Brohl recovered his self-confidence.

"She can't have recognised me," he thought; "my voice, my accent, my
bearing, everything has changed. Poland has entered into my blood. I am
no longer Samuel, I am Larinski."

Boldly entering into the general conversation, he related with a
melancholy grace a story of the Polish insurrection, shaking his
lion-like mane of hair, and speaking with tears in his voice. It was
impossible to be more of a Larinski than he was at that moment. When he
finished, a murmur of admiration ran round the table.

"Although we are mortal enemies, Count," said the Princess Gulof, "allow
me to congratulate you. I hear you have won the hand of Mlle. Moriaz."

"Mortal enemies?" he said, in a low, troubled voice. "Why are we mortal
enemies; my dear Princess?"

"Because I am a Russian and you are a Pole," she replied. "But we shall
not have time to quarrel. I am leaving for London at seven o'clock
to-morrow morning. What is the date of your wedding?"

"If I dared hope that you would do me the honour to attend it," he said,
skilfully evading answering her question, "I might put it off until your
return from England."

"You are too kind," said the Princess. "I would not think of delaying
the happy event to which Mile. Moriaz so eagerly looks forward. What a
beautiful girl she is! I dare not ask you what is her fortune. You are,
I can see, an idealist. You do not trouble yourself with matters of
money. But oh, you poor idealists," she whispered, leaning over him with
a friendly air, "you always come to grief in the end!"

"How is that?" he said with a smile.

"You dream with your eyes open, my dear Count Larinski, and your
awakening is sometimes sudden and unpleasant."

Then, advancing her head towards her companion, her little eyes flaming
like a viper's, she whispered: "Samuel Brohl, I knew you all along. Your
dream has come to an end."

A cold sweat broke out on the forehead of the adventurer. Leaning over
the Princess, his face convulsed with hatred, he murmured:

"Samuel Brohl is not the sort of man to put up with an injury. Some
years ago, he received two letters from you. If ever he is attacked, he
will publish them."

Rising up, he made her a low bow, and took leave of Mlle. Moriaz and her
father, and left the house. At first, he was utterly downcast, and
inclined to give up the game; but as he tramped back to Paris in the
moonlight, his courage returned. He had two letters which the Princess
had written to him when she was engaged in Paris on a political mission
of great importance, and they contained some amazing indiscretions in
regard to the private lives of several august personages.

"No," he said to himself, "she will think twice before she interferes in
my affairs. I can ruin her as easily as she can ruin me."

As a matter of fact, Princess Gulof was unable to sleep all that night.
She was torn between the desire for vengeance and the fear of reprisals.


_IV.--The Partnership is Dissolved_


The next morning, after breakfast, Mlle. Moriaz was surprised to receive
a visit from Princess Gulof.

"I have come to see you about your marriage," said the Princess.

"You are very kind," replied Mlle. Moriaz, "but I do not understand...."

"You will understand in a minute," said the Princess. "There's a story I
want to tell you, and I think you will find it interesting. Fourteen
years ago I was passing through a village in Gallicia, and the bad
weather forced me to put up at a dirty inn kept by a Jew called Brohl.
This Jew had a son, Samuel, a youngster with strange green eyes and a
handsome figure. Finding that he was an intelligent lad, I paid for him
to study at the University, and later on, I kept him as my private
secretary. But about four years ago Samuel Brohl ran off with all my
jewellery."

"You were indeed badly rewarded for your kindness, Madame." interrupted
Antoinette; "but I do not see what Samuel Brohl has to do with my
marriage."

"I was going to tell you," said the Princess. "I had the pleasure of
meeting him here last night. He has got on since I lost sight of him. He
is not content with changing from a Jew into a Pole; he is now a great
nobleman. He calls himself Count Abel Larinski, and he is engaged to be
married to Mlle. Moriaz. She is now wearing a Persian bracelet he stole
from me."

"Madame," cried Antoinette, her cheeks flushing with anger, "will you
dare to tell Count Larinski, in my presence, that he is this Samuel
Brohl you speak of?"

"I have no desire to do so," said the Princess. "Indeed, I want you to
promise me never to tell him that it was I who showed him up. Wait! I
have thought of something. The middle plate of my Persian bracelet used
to open with a secret spring. Open yours and if you find my name there,
well, you will know where it came from."

"Unless you are willing to repeat in the presence of myself and Count
Larinski all that you have just said," exclaimed Antoinette haughtily,
"there is only one thing I can promise you. I shall certainly never
relate to the man to whom I have the honour to be betrothed, a single
word of the silly, wicked slanders that you have uttered."

Princess Gulof rose up brusquely, and stood for a while looking at
Antoinette in silence.

"So, you do not believe me," she said in an ironic tone, blinking her
little eyes. "You are right. Old women, you know, seldom talk sense.
Samuel Brohl never existed, and I had the pleasure of dining last night
with the most authentic of all the Larinskis. Pardon me, and accept my
best wishes for the life-long happiness of the Count and Countess."

Thereupon she made a mocking curtsey, and turned on her heels and
disappeared.

"The woman is absolutely mad," said Antoinette. "Abel will be here in a
few minutes, and he will tell me what is the matter with her. I supposed
they quarrelled last night about Poland. Oh dear, what funny old women
there are in the world!"

As she was waiting for her lover to appear, Camille Langis came to the
house. Naturally, she was not desirous of talking with her rejected
suitor at that moment, and she gave him a rather frigid welcome.

"I see you don't want me," said Camille sadly, turning away.

"Of course I want you," she said, touched by the feeling he showed. "You
are my oldest and dearest friend."

For a few minutes, they sat talking together, and Camille noticed the
strange bracelet on her wrist, and praised its curious design.
Antoinette, struck by a sudden idea, took off the Persian ornament, and
gave it to Camille, saying:

"One of these plates, I believe, opens by a secret spring. You are an
engineer, can you find this spring for me?"

"The middle plate is hollow," said Langis, tapping it with a pen-knife,
"the other two are solid gold. Oh, what a clumsy fool I am! I have
broken it open."

"Is there any writing?" said Antoinette. "Let me look."

Yes, there was a long list of dates, and at the end of the dates were
written: "Nothing, nothing, nothing, that is all. Anna Gulof."

Antoinette became deathly pale; something seemed to break in her head;
she felt that if she did not speak, her mind would give way. Yes, she
could trust Camille, but how should she begin? She felt that she was
stifling, and could not draw in enough air to keep breathing.

"What is the matter with you, dear Antoinette?" said Camille, alarmed by
her pallor and her staring eyes.

She began to speak in a low, confused and broken voice, and Camille at
first could not understand what she was saying. But at last he did so,
and his soul was then divided between an immense pity for the grief that
overwhelmed her, and a ferocious joy at the thought of the utter rout of
his successful rival. Suddenly a step was heard on the garden path.

"Here he is," said Antoinette. "No, stay in here. I will call you if I
want you. In spite of all I have said I shall never believe that he has
deceived me unless I read the lie in his very eyes."

Instead of waiting for the visitor to be shown into her room, she ran
out, and met him in the garden. He came up to her smiling, thinking that
with the departure of Princess Gulof, all danger had vanished. But when
he saw the white face and burning eyes of Antoinette, he guessed that
she knew everything. He determined, however, to try and carry it off by
sheer audacity.

"I am sorry I left so early last evening," he said, "but that mad
Russian woman, whom I took into dinner, made me almost as crazy as she
was herself. She ought to be in an asylum. But the night repaid me for
all the worries of the evening. I dreamt of the Engadine, its emerald
lakes, its pine-trees, and its edelweiss."

"I, too, had a dream last night," said Antoinette slowly. "I dreamt that
this bracelet which you gave me belonged to the mad Russian woman, and
that she had engraved her name inside it." She threw the bracelet at
him. He picked it up, and turned it round and round in his trembling
fingers, looking at the plate which had been forced open.

"Can you tell me what I ought to think of Samuel Brohl?" she asked.

The name fell on him like a mass of lead; he reeled under the blow;
then, striking his head with his two fists, he answered:

"Samuel Brohl is a man worthy of your pity. If you only knew all that he
has suffered, all he has dared to do, you could not help pitying him,
yes, and admiring him. Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate ..."

"Scoundrel," she said in a terrible voice. "Madame Brohl!"--she began to
laugh hysterically--"Madame Brohl! No, I can't become Madame Brohl. Ah!
that poor Countess Larinski."

"You did not love the man," he said bitterly; "only the Count."

"The man I loved did not tell lies," she replied.

"Yes, I lied to you," he said, panting like a hunted animal, "and I take
all the shame of it gladly. I lied because I loved you to madness; and I
lied because you are dearer to me than honour; I lied because I
despaired of touching your heart, and I did not care by what means I won
you. Why did I ever meet you? Why couldn't I have passed you by, without
you becoming the dream of my whole life? I have lied. Who would not lie
to be loved by you?"

Never had Samuel Brohl appeared so beautiful. Despair and passion
lighted up his strange green eyes with a sombre flame. He had the
sinister charm of a fallen archangel, and he fixed on Antoinette a wild,
fascinating glance, that said:

"What do my name, my deceptions and the rest, matter to you? My face at
least is not a mask, and the man who moved you, the man who won you, was
I."

Mlle. Moriaz, however, divined the thought in the eyes of Samuel Brohl.

"You are a good actor," she said between her teeth. "But it is time that
this comedy came to an end."

He threw himself on the grass at her feet, and then sprang up, and tried
to clasp her in his arms.

"Camille! Camille!" she cried, "save me from this man."

Langis darted out after Brohl, and the Jew took to his heels. Langis
would have followed him as gladly as a hound follows a fox, but he saw
Antoinette's strength had given way, and running up to her, he caught
her in his arms as she reeled, and tenderly carried her into the house.
That evening, Count Abel Larinski disappeared from the world. Samuel
Brohl rose up from his grave at Bucharest, and took the name of Kicks,
and emigrated to America some time before the marriage of Mlle. Moriaz
to M. Camille Langis was announced in the "Figaro."

       *       *       *       *       *



WILKIE COLLINS


No Name

      William Wilkie Collins was born in London on January 8, 1824.
     From the age of eight to fifteen he resided with his parents
     in Italy, and on their return to England young Collins was
     apprenticed to a firm of tea-merchants, abandoning that
     business four years later for the law. This profession also
     failed to appeal to him, although what he learned in it proved
     extremely useful to him in his literary career. His first
     published book was a "Life" of his father, William Collins,
     R.A., in 1847. The success of the work gave him an incentive
     towards writing, and three years later he published an
     historical romance, "Antonina, or The Fall of Rome." About
     this time he made the acquaintance of Charles Dickens, who was
     then editor of "Household Words," to which periodical he
     contributed some of his most successful fiction. "No Name,"
     published in 1862, depended less upon dramatic situations and
     more upon analysis of character and the solution of a problem.
     That he was successful in his purpose is chiefly evidenced by
     the wide popularity the story received on its appearance. "The
     main object of the story," he wrote in the introduction to the
     first edition, "is to appeal to the reader's interest in a
     subject which has been the theme of some of the greatest
     writers, living and dead, but which has never been, and can
     never be, exhausted, because it is a subject eternally
     interesting to all mankind. A book that depicts the struggle
     of a human creature under those opposing influences of Good
     and Evil which we have all felt, which we have all known."
     Like others of Collins' stories, "No Name" was successfully
     presented on the stage. Wilkie Collins died on September 23,
     1889.


_I.--Nobody's Children_


A letter from America, bearing a New Orleans stamp, had an extraordinary
effect on the spirits of the Vanstone family as they sat round the
breakfast table at Coome-Raven, in West Somersetshire.

"An American letter, papa!" exclaimed Magdalen, the youngest daughter,
looking over her father's shoulder. "Who do you know at New Orleans?"

Mrs. Vanstone, sitting propped up with cushions at the other end of the
table, started and looked eagerly at her husband. Mr. Vanstone said
nothing, but his air of preoccupation and his unusual seriousness, which
not even Magdalen's playfulness affected, proved clearly that something
was wrong. The mystery of the letter puzzled both Magdalen and her elder
sister Norah, and in particular aroused a feeling of uneasiness,
impossible to explain, in the mind of the old family friend and
governess, Miss Garth.

Though neither Mr. nor Mrs. Vanstone offered any explanation, Miss Garth
felt more than ever certain that something unusual had occurred, when,
on the following day, they announced their intention of going to London
on private business. For nearly a month they stayed away, and at the end
of that period returned without offering any account of what they had
done on their mysterious visit.

Life at Coome-Raven went on as usual in a round of pleasant
distractions. Concerts, dances, and private theatricals, in which
Magdalen cut a great figure, winning even the praise of the professional
manager, who begged her to call on him if ever she should require a real
engagement, passed the weeks rapidly by.

To Magdalen also, the return of Frank Clare, the son of a very old
friend of Mr. Vanstone's, provided an interesting interlude. As his
father put it, "Frank had turned up at home again like a bad penny, and
was now lurking after the manner of louts." Though Mr. Clare's estimate
of his son was frankly truthful, Magdalen loved him with all the
passionate warmth of her nature, and when Frank, in order to escape
being sent to a business appointment in China, proposed marriage to her,
she accepted him joyfully. She urged her father to consent to their
immediate union.

"I must consult Frank's father, of course," he said, in conclusion. "We
must not forget that Mr. Clare's consent is still wanting to settle this
matter. And as we don't know what difficulties he may raise, the sooner
I see him the better."

In a state of obvious dejection, he walked over to the house which Mr.
Clare occupied. When, after some hours, he returned once more to
Coome-Raven, he informed his daughter that Frank was to have another
year's trial in London. If he proved himself capable, he should be
rewarded at the end of that time with Magdalen's hand.

Both the girl and Frank were delighted, but Mr. Vanstone did not reflect
their good spirits. He wired to his lawyer, Mr. Pendril, to come down
from town at once to Coome-Raven. So anxious was he to see his lawyer
that he drove over to the local station and took the train to the
neighbouring junction where Mr. Pendril would have to change.

Hours went by, and he did not return. As the evening closed down a
message was brought to Miss Garth that a man wished to speak to her. She
hurried out, and found herself face to face with a porter from the
junction, who explained that there had been an accident to the down
train at 1.50.

"God help us!" exclaimed the governess. "The train Mr. Vanstone
travelled by?"

"The same. There are seven passengers badly hurt, and two------"

The next word failed on his lips; he raised his hand in the dead
silence. With eyes that opened wide in horror he pointed over Miss
Garth's shoulder. She turned to see her mistress standing on the
threshold with staring, vacant eyes. With a dreadful stillness in her
voice, she repeated the man's last words, "Seven passengers badly hurt,
and two------"

Then she sank swooning into Miss Garth's arms.

From the shock of her husband's death, Mrs. Vanstone never recovered.

Heartbroken by the death of their parents, Norah and Magdalen had yet to
learn the full extent of the tragedy. That was first made clear to Miss
Garth by the lawyer.

Mr. Andrew Vanstone in his youth had joined the army and gone to Canada.
There he had been entrapped by a woman, whom he had married--a woman so
utterly vile and unprincipled that he was forced to leave her and return
to England. Shortly afterwards his father died, and, having been
estranged from his elder son, Michael Vanstone, bequeathed all his
property to Andrew.

Andrew Vanstone passed his life in a round of vicious pleasures, but as
his better nature had almost been destroyed by a woman, so now it was
retrieved by a woman. He fell in love, told the girl of his heart the
truth about himself, and she, out of the love she bore him, determined
to pass the rest of her life by his side, and Norah and Magdalen were
the children of their union.

"Tell me," said Miss Garth, in a voice faint with emotion, as the lawyer
laid bare the sad story, "why did they go to London?"

"They went to London to be married," cried Mr. Pendril.

In the letter from New Orleans, Mr. Vanstone had heard of the death of
his wife, and he had at once taken the necessary steps to make the woman
who had so long been his wife in the eyes of God his wife in the eyes of
the law. The story would never have been known had it not been for
Frank's engagement to Magdalen. The soul of honour, Mr. Vanstone thought
it his duty to inform Mr. Clare fully regarding his relations with Mrs.
Vanstone. His old friend proved himself deeply sympathetic, and then,
being a cautious man of business, inquired what steps Mr. Vanstone had
taken to provide for his daughters. The master of Coombe-Raven replied
that he had long ago made a will leaving them all he possessed. When Mr.
Clare pointed out that his recent marriage automatically destroyed the
effect of this testament, he was greatly distressed, and, hastening
home, had at once telegraphed to Mr. Pendril to come to Coome-Raven to
draw up another will without any loss of time. His tragic death had
prevented the execution of this plan, and the inability of Mrs. Vanstone
to sign any document before she died had resulted in Norah and Magdalen
being left absolutely penniless, and the estates passing to Michael
Vanstone.

"How am I to tell them?" exclaimed Miss Garth.

"There is no need to tell them," said a voice behind her. "They know it
already. Mr. Vanstone's daughters are 'nobody's children,' and the law
leaves them helpless at their uncle's mercy!"

It was Magdalen who spoke--Magdalen, with a changeless stillness on her
white face, and an icy resignation in her steady, grey eyes. From under
the open window of the room in which Mr. Pendril had told his story this
girl of eighteen had heard every word, and never once betrayed herself.

"I understand that my late brother"--so ran Michael Vanstone's letter of
instruction to his solicitor--"has left two illegitimate children, both
of them young women who are of an age to earn their own livelihood. Be
so good as to tell them that neither you nor I have anything to do with
questions of mere sentiment. Let them understand that Providence has
restored to me the inheritance that ought always to have been mine, and
I will not invite retribution on my own head by assisting those children
to continue the imposition which their parents practised, and by helping
them to take a place in the world to which they are not entitled."

"Norah," said Magdalen, turning to her sister, "if we both live to grow
old, and if ever you forget all we owe to Michael Vanstone--come to me,
and I will remind you."


_II.--Tricked into Marriage_


By fair means or foul, Magdalen, who, with Norah, had now made her home
with Miss Garth in London, had sworn to herself that she would win back
the property of which she had been robbed by Michael Vanstone. Selling
all her jewellery and dresses, she managed to secure two hundred pounds,
and with this sum in her pocket she secretly left home. The theatrical
manager, who had offered her an engagement should she ever require it,
had moved to York, and it was to that city that Magdalen hastened.

Her absence was at once discovered, and Miss Garth resorted to every
possible means of tracing her to her destination. A reward of fifty
pounds was offered, and her mode of procedure being suspected, handbills
setting forth her appearance were posted in York. It was one of these
bills that attracted the attention of a certain Captain Wragge.

Captain Wragge was the stepson of Mrs. Vanstone's mother, and had
persisted in regarding himself as a member of her family, and, having
known of the real relationship that existed between his half-sister and
Mr. Andrew Vanstone, had obtained from the latter a small annual subsidy
as the price of his silence. A confessed rogue, the captain imagined he
saw in this handbill an opportunity of re-stocking his exhausted
exchequer.

As he wandered on the walls of York, pondering how he should act, he met
Magdalen herself, and at once greeted her as a relative. The girl would
have avoided him, but on his pointing out that unless she placed herself
under his protection she was bound to be discovered and taken back to
her friends, she consented to accompany him to his lodgings. There he
introduced her to his wife, a tall, gaunt woman with a large,
good-natured, vacant face, who lived in a state of bemused terror of her
husband, who bullied and dragooned her according to his mood.

After listening to the frank exposition of his character and his method
of living, Magdalen decided to accept Captain Wragge's assistance. On
certain terms, Wragge agreed to train her for the stage and secure her
engagements, taking a half share of any money she might earn. In return
for these profits, he agreed to carry out certain inquiries whenever she
might think it necessary. As to the nature of these inquiries, she, for
the time being, preserved silence.

Magdalen's talent for acting proved highly successful, and under the
direction of the captain she began rapidly to make a reputation for
herself, and at the end of six months she had saved between six and
seven hundred pounds. She now decided that it was time to put her plan
of retribution into execution.

At her instructions, Captain Wragge had discovered that Michael Vanstone
was dead and that his son, Noel Vanstone, had succeeded to the property,
and was now living with his father's old housekeeper, a certain Swiss
lady, the widow of a professor of science, by name Mrs. Lecount, in
Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth. The remaining information that Wragge obtained
regarding the Vanstones was to the effect that the deceased Michael had
a great friend in Admiral Bartram, whose nephew George was the son of
Mr. Andrew Vanstone's sister, and therefore the cousin of Noel Vanstone.
Having this information, Magdalen calmly informed Wragge that their
alliance, for the moment, was at an end, and taking Mrs. Wragge with
her, journeyed to London. There she obtained rooms directly opposite the
house occupied by Noel Vanstone. Disguising herself as Miss Garth and
assuming her old governess's voice and manner, she boldly visited the
house. She found Noel Vanstone a weak, avaricious coward, who was
already terrified by the letters she had written him demanding the
restitution of her fortune. He was completely at the mercy of Mrs.
Lecount.

Something about the supposed Miss Garth excited the suspicion of Mrs.
Lecount, and she deliberately set about to try and make her visitor
betray what she was convinced she was concealing.

"I would suggest," said Mrs. Lecount, "that you give a hundred pounds to
each of these unfortunate sisters."

"He will repent the insult to the last hour of his life," said Magdalen.

The instant that answer passed her lips, she would have given worlds to
recall it. Her passionate words had been uttered in her own voice. Mrs.
Lecount detected the change, and, with a view to establishing some proof
of the identity of her visitor, she secured, by a subterfuge, a thin
strip of the old-fashioned skirt which Magdalen was wearing in the
character of Miss Garth.

Foiled in her appeal to Noel Vanstone, Magdalen determined to put in
train the plot she had long proposed to herself. She set out
deliberately to win the property of which she and her sister had been
despoiled, by winning the hand of Noel Vanstone. A letter from Frank
Clare had released her from her engagement, and with a bitter heart she
went down to Aldborough, in Suffolk, whither Noel Vanstone had removed
for his health.

In the character of the niece of Mr. Bygrave, which role Captain Wragge
adopted, she laid siege to the selfish affections of Noel Vanstone. Her
task proved ridiculously easy. Noel fell hopelessly in love with her,
and before many days were out proposed marriage. So far, everything had
worked smoothly, but at this point Mrs. Lecount's fears were aroused.
She determined to prevent the marriage at all costs, and used every
possible means to dissuade her master from having anything more to do
with the Bygraves, and the whole plot must have fallen to the ground had
it not been for the persistence and skilful diplomacy displayed by
Captain Wragge.

He arranged that Noel should visit Admiral Bartram, leaving Mrs. Lecount
behind to pack up. From Admiral Bartram's he was to proceed to London,
where he would be duly united to Magdalen. In order to secure the
non-interference of Mrs. Lecount, the captain sent her a forged letter,
summoning her at once to the death-bed of her brother at Zurich. But
Mrs. Lecount was not so easily disposed of as Captain Wragge had
imagined.

As soon as her master departed for Admiral Bartram's she took the
opportunity, when both Magdalen and the captain were out, to visit their
house. Readily persuading the simple-minded Mrs. Wragge, who had a
passion for clothes, to show her Magdalen's wardrobe, she discovered
there the skirt from which she had cut a piece on the occasion of the
girl's visit in the character of Miss Garth.

She was detected by Captain Wragge leaving the house, but, careless of
what the latter might think, she returned home in triumph. There she
found the letter summoning her to Zurich. There was no time to be lost;
she had to go. But before she set out she wrote a letter to Noel
Vanstone, disclosing the whole facts of the conspiracy.

Captain Wragge, positive in his own mind that Mrs. Lecount had
discovered everything, would have consulted Magdalen, but the girl was
in a condition which prevented her from taking any active part in the
affair. She wandered about Aldborough with a settled despair written
clearly on the beautiful features of her face. Her woe-begone appearance
attracted the attention of a certain Captain Kirke, and he carried away
with him on his ship the indelible memory of her beauty.

Captain Wragge had to depend solely on his own exertions. Waiting till
the housekeeper had left Aldborough, he discovered, by inquiries at the
post-office, that Mrs. Lecount had written to Noel Vanstone. That letter
must be stopped at all costs, and the captain acted boldly. The day was
Saturday. Obtaining a special licence, he hurried off to Admiral
Bartram's, before Mrs. Lecount's letter was delivered, and induced Noel
Vanstone to accompany him to London. At the same time he left behind him
several envelopes, addressed to "Captain Wragge," under cover of which
Admiral Bartram was to forward all correspondence which might arrive
after his departure. By this means, Mrs. Lecount's letter was prevented
from coming into the hands of her master, and two days later Magdalen
duly became the wife of Noel Vanstone.

Twelve weeks later, Noel Vanstone walked moodily about the garden of a
cottage he had taken in the Highlands. That morning Magdalen, without
even asking his permission, had set out for London to see her sister,
and her husband, his health greatly enfeebled, was left alone, weak and
miserable. He had a habit of mourning over himself, and as he rested,
looking over a fence, he sighed bitterly.

"You were happier with me," said a voice at his side.

He turned with a scream to see Mrs. Lecount. She told him how his wife
was Magdalen Vanstone, how she had married him simply from a desire to
recover the fortune of which she had been robbed by Michael Vanstone,
also suggesting that Magdalen intended to attempt his life.

Shivering with terror, Noel Vanstone became like wax in Mrs. Lecount's
hands. He at once agreed to draw up a new will at her dictation,
completely cutting off his wife. He bequeathed Mrs. Lecount £5,000, and
declared that he wished to leave the remainder to his cousin, George
Bartram. Such an arrangement, however, Mrs. Lecount foresaw, might be
fraught with those very dangers which she wished to avoid. George
Bartram was young and susceptible. It was conceivable that Magdalen,
robbed of the stake for which she had so boldly played, might, on her
husband's death, attempt to secure the prize by luring George Bartram
into a marriage. At the instigation of his housekeeper, Noel Vanstone
therefore bequeathed the residue of his estate absolutely to Admiral
Bartram. But this will was coupled with a letter addressed to the
admiral, secretly entrusting him to make the estate over to George under
certain circumstances. He was to be married to, or to marry within six
months, a woman who was not a widow. In the event of his not complying
with these conditions, which would prevent his marriage with Magdalen,
the money was to go to his married sister.

Having outwitted Magdalen, Mrs. Lecount's next object was to remove Noel
Vanstone down to London. In order that he might be strong enough to
travel, Mrs. Lecount prepared a favourite posset for him. Returning with
the fragrant mixture, she noticed him sitting at a table, his head
resting on his hand, apparently asleep.

"Your drink, Mr. Noel," she said, touching him. He took no notice. She
looked at him closer Noel Vanstone was dead.


_III.--The Darkest Hour_


In pursuance of her determination to discover the secret trust, Magdalen
secured a position as parlourmaid in Admiral Bartram's house. For days
she waited for an opportunity of examining the admiral's papers. At
night the admiral, who was addicted to sleep-walking, was guarded by a
drunken old sea-dog, called Mazey, and in the daytime she could do
nothing without being detected.

The secret trust lay heavily on the admiral's mind, and it became the
more unbearable when George Bartram came down and announced his
intention of marrying Norah Vanstone. George's married sister was dead,
and thus one of the two objects contemplated by the secret trust had
failed, and only a fortnight remained before the expiry of six months in
which George Bartram had to marry in order to inherit the fortune. The
admiral objected to the marriage with Norah Vanstone, but was at a loss
how to dissuade George from the match.

While this problem was occupying the admiral's attention, Magdalen at
last found the chance of examining her master's private apartments.
Mazey, under the influence of drink, had deserted his post, and, with a
basket of keys in her hands, Magdalen crept into the room where the
admiral kept his papers. Drawer after drawer she opened, but nowhere
could she find the secret trust.

Suddenly she heard a footstep, and turning round quickly, she saw coming
towards her, in the moonlight, the figure of Admiral Bartram. Transfixed
with terror, she watched him coming nearer and nearer. He did not seem
to see her, and as he almost brushed past her she heard him exclaim:
"Noel, I don't know where it's safe. I don't know where to put it. Take
it back, Noel."

Magdalen, realising that the admiral was walking in his sleep, followed
him closely. He went to a drawer in a cabinet and took out a folded
letter, and putting it down before him on the table, repeated
mechanically, "Take it back, Noel--take it back!"

Looking over his shoulder, Magdalen saw that the paper was the secret
trust. She watched the admiral replace it in another cabinet, and then
walk back silently to his bed. In another moment she had taken
possession of the letter, when a hand was suddenly laid on her wrist,
and the voice of old Mazey exclaimed, "Drop it, Jezebel--drop it!"

Dragging her away, old Mazey locked her in her room for the night; but
early the following morning relented, and allowed her to leave the
house.

Three weeks later Admiral Bartram died, and though Magdalen instructed
her solicitors to set up the secret trust, and though the house was
searched from top to bottom, the letter could not be found. In
consequence, the property passed to George Bartram, who, two months
later, married Norah Vanstone.

Magdalen gave up the struggle in despair, and not daring to return to
her people, sunk lower and lower until she reached the depths of
poverty. At last, in a wretched quarter in the East End, she came to the
end of her resources. Ill and almost dying, the people from whom she
rented her one miserable room determined to send her to the workhouse. A
crowd collected to watch her departure. She was just about to be carried
to a cab, when a man pushed his way through the crowd and saw her face.

That man was Captain Kirke, who had seen her at Aldborough. He at once
gave instructions for her to be taken back into the house, paid a sum
down for her proper treatment, and secured the services of a doctor and
a nurse. Every day he came to inquire after her, and when at last, after
weeks of suffering, her strength returned, it was he who brought Norah
and Miss Garth to her.

After the long separation the two sisters had much to tell one another.
Norah, who had bowed patiently under her misfortunes, had achieved the
very object for which Magdalen had schemed in vain. She had obtained,
through her marriage with George Bartram, the fortune which her father
had intended for her. Among other things which she related to Magdalen
was the account of how she had discovered the secret trust simply by
chance. By the discovery of this document, Magdalen became entitled to
half her late husband's fortune; for, the secret trust having failed,
the law had distributed the estate between the deceased's next of
kin--half to Magdalen and half to George Bartram. Taking the paper from
her sister's hands, Magdalen tore it into pieces.

"This paper alone gives me the fortune which I obtained by marrying Noel
Vanstone," she said. "I will owe nothing to my past life. I part with it
as I part with these torn morsels of paper."

       *       *       *       *       *

To Captain Kirke, Magdalen wrote the complete story of all she had done.
She felt it was due to him that he should know all. She awaited the
inevitable result--the inevitable separation from the man she had grown
to love. When he had read it he came to her.

Near to tears, she waited to hear her fate.

"Tell me what you think of me! Tell me the truth!" she said.

"With my own lips?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Say what you think of me with your own lips."

She looked up at him for the first time, and then, he stooped and kissed
her.

       *       *       *       *       *



The Woman in White

      Wilkie Collins' greatest success was achieved on the
     appearance of "The Woman in White" in 1860, a story described
     by Thackeray as "thrilling." The book attracted immediate
     attention, Collins' method of unravelling an intricate plot by
     a succession of narratives being distinctly novel, and
     appealing immensely to the reading public.


_I.--The Woman Appears_


_The story here presented will be told by several pens. Let Walter
Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty-eight, be heard first_.

I had once saved Professor Pesca from drowning, and in his desire to do
"a good something for Walter," the warm-hearted little Italian secured
me the position of art-master at Limmeridge House, Cumberland.

It was the night before my departure to take up my duties as teacher to
Miss Laura Fairlie and her half-sister, Miss Marian Halcombe, and
general assistant to Frederick Fairlie, uncle and guardian to Miss
Fairlie. Having bidden good-bye to my mother and sister at their cottage
in Hampstead, I decided to walk home to my chambers the longest possible
way round. In the after-warmth of the hot July day I made my way across
the darkened Heath. Suddenly I was startled by a hand laid lightly on my
shoulder. I turned to see the figure of a solitary woman, with a
colourless youthful face, dressed from head to foot in white garments.

"Is that the road to London?" she said.

Her sudden appearance, her extraordinary dress, and the strained tones
of her voice so surprised me that I hesitated some moments before
replying. Her agitation at my silence was distressing, and calming her
as well as I could, and promising to help her to get a cab, I asked her
a few questions. Her answers showed that she was suffering from some
terrible nervous excitement. She asked me if I knew any baronet--any
from Hampshire--and seemed almost absurdly relieved when I assured her I
did not. In the course of our conversation, as we walked towards St.
John's Wood, I discovered a curious circumstance. She knew Limmeridge
House and the Fairlies!

Having found her a cab, I bade her good-bye. As we parted she suddenly
seized my hand and kissed it with overwhelming gratitude. Her conveyance
was hardly out of sight when two men drove past in an open chaise, and
drawing up in front of a policeman, asked him if he had seen a woman in
white, promising a reward if he caught her.

"What has she done?" queried the policeman.

"Done!" exclaimed one of the men. "She has escaped from our asylum."

The day following this strange adventure I arrived at Limmeridge House,
and the next morning made the acquaintance of the household. Marian
Halcombe and Laura Fairlie, her half-sister, were, in point of
appearance, the exact reverse of each other. The former was a tall,
masculine-looking woman, with a masculine capacity for deep friendship.
The latter was made in a slighter mould, with charming, delicate
features, set off by a mass of pale-brown hair. Mr. Frederick Fairlie I
found to be a neurotic, utterly selfish gentleman, who passed his life
in his own apartments, amusing himself with bullying his valet,
examining his works of art, and talking of his nerves.

With the other members of the household I soon became on a friendly
footing. Miss Halcombe, when I told her of my strange adventure on
Hampstead Heath, turned up her mother's correspondence with her second
husband, and discovered there a reference to the woman in white, who
bore a striking resemblance to Miss Fairlie. Her name was Anne
Catherick. She had stayed for a short time in the neighbourhood with her
mother, and had been befriended by Mrs. Fairlie.

As the months went by I fell passionately and hopelessly in love with
Laura Fairlie. No word of love, however, passed between us, but Miss
Halcombe, realising the situation, broke to me gently the fact that my
love was hopeless. Almost from childhood Laura had been engaged to Sir
Percival Clyde, a Hampshire baronet, and her marriage was due to take
place shortly. I accepted the inevitable and decided to resign my
position. But before I set out from Limmeridge House, many strange
things happened.

Shortly before the arrival of Sir Percival Clyde to settle the details
of his marriage, Laura had an anonymous letter, warning her against the
union, and concluding with the words, "your mother's daughter has a
tender place in my heart, for your mother was my first, my best, my only
friend." Two days after the receipt of this letter I came upon Anne
Catherick, busily tending the grave of Mrs. Fairlie. With difficulty I
persuaded her to tell me something of her story. That she had been
locked up in an asylum--unjustly, it was clear--I already knew. She
confessed to having written the letter to Laura, but when I mentioned
the name of Sir Percival Glyde, she shrieked aloud with terror. It was
obvious that it was the baronet who had placed her under restraint.

The Fairlies' family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore, arriving next day, the
whole matter was placed before him. He decided to send the anonymous
letter to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitors and to ask for an explanation.
Before any reply was received, I had left Limmeridge House, bidding
farewell to the place where I had spent so many happy hours, and to the
girl I loved.


_II.--The Story Continued by Vincent Gilmore, of Chancery Lane,
Solicitor to the Fairlies_


I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright,
to describe the events which took place after his departure from
Limmeridge House.

My letter to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitors regarding Anne Catherick's
anonymous communication was answered by the baronet in person on his
arrival at Limmeridge House. He was the first to offer an explanation.
Anne Catherick was the daughter of one of his old family servants, and
in consideration of her mother's past services he had sent her to a
private asylum instead of allowing her to go to one of the public
establishments where her mental condition would otherwise have compelled
her to remain. Her animus against Sir Percival was due to the fact that
she had discovered that he was the cause of her incarceration. The
anonymous letter was evidence of this insane antipathy.

My next concern with this history deals with the drawing up of Miss
Fairlie's marriage settlement. Besides being heiress to the Limmeridge
property, Miss Fairlie had personal estate to the value of £20,000,
derived under the will of her father, Philip Fairlie. To this she became
entitled on completing her twenty-first year. She had a life interest,
moreover, in £10,000, which on her death passed to her father's sister
Eleanor, the wife of Count Fosco, an Italian nobleman. In all human
probability the Countess Fosco would never enjoy this money, for she was
well advanced in age, while Laura was not yet twenty-one.

Regarding the £20,000, the proper and fair course was that the whole
amount should be settled so as to give the income to the lady for her
life, afterwards to Sir Percival for his life, and the principal to the
children of the marriage. In default of issue, the principal was to be
disposed of as the lady might by her will direct, thus enabling her to
make provision for her half-sister, Marian Halcombe. This was the fair
and proper settlement, but Sir Percival's solicitors insisted that the
principal should go to Sir Percival Glyde in the event of his surviving
Lady Glyde and there being no issue. I protested in vain, and this
iniquitous settlement, which placed every farthing of the £20,000 in Sir
Percival's pocket, and prevented Miss Fairlie providing for Miss
Halcombe, was duly signed.


_III.--The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe in a Series of Extracts
from Her Diary_


_Limmeridge House, November 9_. I have secured for poor Walter Hartright
a position as draughtsman on an expedition which is to start immediately
for central South America. Change of scene may really be the salvation
of him at this crisis in his life. To-day poor Laura asked Sir Percival
to release her from the engagement.

"If you still persist in maintaining our engagement," she said, looking
irresistibly beautiful, "I may be your true and faithful wife, Sir
Percival--your loving wife, if I know my own heart, never!"

"I gratefully accept your grace and truth," he said. "The least that
_you_ can offer is more to me than the utmost that I can hope for from
any other woman in the world."

_December_ 19. I received Sir Percival's consent to live with him as
companion to his wife in their new home in Hampshire. I was interested
to discover that Count Fosco, the husband of Laura's Aunt Eleanor, is a
great friend of Sir Percival's.

_December 22_, 11 _o'clock._ It is all over. They are married.

_Black-water Park, Hampshire, June_ 11. Six long months have elapsed
since Laura and I last saw each other. I have just arrived at her new
home. My latest news of Walter Hartright is derived from an American
paper. It describes how the expedition was last seen entering a wild
primeval forest.

_June_ 15. Laura has returned, and I have found her changed. The
old-time freshness and softness have gone. She is, if anything, more
beautiful. She refused to go into details on the subject of her married
life, and the fact that we have this forbidden topic seems to make a
difference to our old relations. Sir Percival made no pretence to be
glad to see me. They brought two guests with them, Count Fosco and his
wife, Laura's aunt. He is immensely fat, with a face like that of the
great Napoleon, and eyes which have an extraordinary power. In spite of
his size, he treads as softly as a cat. His manners are perfect. He
never says a hard word to his wife; but, none the less, he rules her
with a rod of iron. She is absolutely his slave, obedient to the
slightest expression of his eyes. He manages Sir Percival as he manages
his wife; and, indeed, all of us. He inquired to-day whether there were
any Italian gentlemen in the neighbourhood.

_June 16_. Merriman, Sir Percival's solicitor, came down to-day, and I
accidentally overheard a conversation which seems to indicate a
determination on Sir Percival's part to raise money on Laura's security,
to pay off some of his heavy debts.

_June 17_. Sir Percival tried to make Laura sign the document which had
been brought down by Merriman. On my advice, she refused to do so
without reading it. A terrible scene resulted, which was only stopped by
the intervention of Count Fosco. Sir Percival swore that Laura shall
sign it to-morrow. To-night, Laura and I fancied we saw a white figure
in the wood.

_June 18_. Laura has met Anne Catherick. It was she we saw in the wood
last night. She came upon Laura in the boat-house, and declared she had
something to tell her. "What is it you have to tell me?" asked Laura.
"The secret that your cruel husband is afraid of," she answered. "I once
threatened him with the secret and frightened him. You shall threaten
him with the secret and frighten him, too." When Laura pressed her, she
declared somebody was watching them and, pushing Laura back into the
boat-house, disappeared.

_June 19_. The worst has come. Sir Percival has discovered a message
from Anne Catherick to Laura, promising to reveal the secret, and
stating that yesterday she was followed by a "tall, fat man," clearly
the count. Sir Percival was furious, and locked Laura up in her bedroom.
Again the count has had to intervene on her behalf.

_Later_.--By climbing out on the roof of the verandah, I have overheard
a conversation between the count and Sir Percival. They spoke with
complete frankness--with fiendish frankness--to one another. Fosco
pointed out that his friend was desperately in need of money, and that,
as Laura had refused to sign the document, he could not secure it by
ordinary means. If Laura died, Sir Percival would inherit £20,000, and
Fosco himself obtain through his wife £10,000. Sir Percival confessed
that Anne Catherick had a secret which endangered his position. This
secret, he surmised, she had told to Laura; and Laura, being in love
with Walter Hartright--he had discovered this--would use it. The count
inquired what Anne Catherick was like.

"Fancy my wife after a bad illness with a touch of something wrong in
her head, and there is Anne Catherick for you," answered Sir Percival.
"What are you laughing about?"

"Make your mind easy, Percival," he said. "I have my projects here in my
big head. Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just."

I crept back to my room soaked through with the rain. Oh, my God, am I
going to be ill? I have heard the clock strike every hour. It is so
cold, so cold; and the strokes of the clock--the strokes I can't
count--keep striking in my head....

[At this point the diary ceases to be legible.]


_IV.--The Story Completed by Walter Hartright on His Return, from
Several Manuscripts_


The events that happened after Marian Halcombe fell ill while I was
still absent in South America I will relate briefly.

Count Fosco discovered Anne Catherick, and immediately took steps to put
into execution the plot he had hinted at. Wearing the clothes of Lady
Glyde, the unfortunate girl was taken to a house in St. John's Wood
where the real Lady Glyde was expected to stay when passing through town
on her way to Cumberland. Lady Glyde, on pretence that her half-sister
had been removed to town, was induced to visit London, where she was met
by Count Fosco, and at once placed in a private asylum in the name of
Anne Catherick. Her statement that she was Lady Glyde was held to be
proof of the unsoundness of her mind. Unfortunately for the count's
plans, the real Anne Catherick died the day before the incarceration of
Lady Glyde, but, as there was no one to prove the dates of these events,
both Fosco and Sir Percival regarded themselves as secure. With great
pomp the body of Anne Catherick was taken to Limmeridge and buried in
the name of Lady Glyde.

As soon as Marian Halcombe recovered, the supposed death of her
half-sister was broken to her. Recollecting the conversation she had
overheard just before she was taken ill, she had grave suspicions as to
the cause of Laura's death, and immediately instituted inquiries. In the
pursuit of these inquiries she visited Anne Catherick in the asylum, and
her joy in discovering Laura there instead of the supposed Anne
Catherick was almost overwhelming. By bribing one of the nurses, she
secured Laura's freedom, and travelled with her to Limmeridge to
establish her identity. To her disgust and amazement Frederick Fairlie
refused to accept her statement, or to believe that Laura was other than
Anne Catherick. Count Fosco had visited and prepared him.

At this juncture I returned from South America, and, hearing of the
death of the girl I loved, at once set off to Limmeridge on a sad
pilgrimage to her grave. While I was reading the tragic narrative on the
tombstone, two women approached. Even as the words, "Sacred to the
memory of Laura, Lady Glyde," swam before my eyes, one of them lifted
her veil. It was Laura.

In a poor quarter of London I took up my abode with Laura and Miss
Halcombe, and while my poor Laura slowly recovered her health and
spirits I devoted myself to the support of the little household, and to
unravelling the mystery which surrounded the events I have here
recorded. From Mrs. Clements, who had befriended poor Anne Catherick, I
learnt that Mrs. Catherick had had secret meetings years before with Sir
Percival Glyde in the vestry of the church at Welmingham.

To establish the exact relations between Mrs. Catherick and Sir
Percival, I visited Welmingham, pursued by the baronet's agents. My
interview with Mrs. Catherick satisfied me that Sir Percival was not the
father of Anne, and that their secret meeting in the vestry had
reference to some object other than romance. The contemptuous way in
which Mrs. Catherick spoke of Sir Percival's mother set me thinking. I
visited the vestry where the meetings had taken place, and examining the
register, discovered at the bottom of one of the pages, compressed into
a very small space, the entry of Sir Felix Glyde's marriage with the
mother of Sir Percival. Hearing from the sexton that an old lawyer in
the neighbouring town had a copy of this register, I visited him, and
found that his copy did not contain the entry of this marriage.

Here was the secret at last! Sir Percival was the illegitimate son of
his father, and had forged this entry of his father's marriage in order
to secure the title and estates. Mrs. Catherick was the only person who
knew of the plot. In a fit of ill-temper she had told her daughter Anne
that she possessed a secret that could ruin the baronet. Anne herself
never knew the secret, but foolishly repeated her mother's words to Sir
Percival, and the price of her temerity was incarceration in a private
asylum.

I returned post-haste to Welmingham to secure a copy of the forged
entry. It was night. As I approached the church, a man stopped me,
mistaking me for Sir Percival Glyde. A light in the vestry showed to me
that Sir Percival had anticipated my discovery and had secretly visited
the church for the purpose of destroying the evidences of his crime. But
a terrible fate awaited him. Even as I approached the church, a huge
tongue of flame shot up into the night sky. As I rushed forward I could
hear the baronet vainly seeking to escape from the vestry. The lock was
hampered, and he could not get out. I tried to force an entry, but by
the time the flames were under control the end had come. We found the
charred remains of the man who had walked through life as Sir Percival
Clyde lying by the door.

The mystery was now unravelled, and I was free to marry my darling. The
only other point that seemed to need clearing up was the parentage of
the unfortunate Anne Catherick. That was elucidated by Mrs. Catherick
herself. The father of Anne was Philip Fairlie, the father of Laura--a
fact that accounted for the extraordinary likeness between the two
girls. But though our tribulations seemed to be at an end, we had yet to
establish the identity of Laura, and to deal with Count Fosco.

To Miss Halcombe the count had written a letter expressive of his
admiration, and begging her, for her own sake, to let matters be. I knew
the count was a dangerous enemy, who would not hesitate to employ murder
if necessary to gain his ends, but I was determined to re-establish the
identity of Laura. Miss Halcombe's journal afforded me a clue. I found
there a statement that on the occasion of his first visit to Black-water
Park the count had been very concerned to know whether there were any
Italians in the neighbourhood. Without hoping that anything would result
from the manoeuvre, I followed the count one night, in the company of my
friend, Professor Pesca, to the theatre. The professor did not recognise
Fosco, but when the count, staring round the theatre, focussed his
glasses on Pesca, I saw a look of unmistakable terror come over his
countenance. He at once rose from his seat and left the place. We
followed.

The professor was very grave, and it was quite a different man to the
light-hearted little Italian that I knew who related to me a strange
chapter in his life. As a young man, Pesca had belonged to, a secret
society for the removal of tyrants. He was still a member of the
society, and could be called upon to act at any time. The count had also
been a member of the society, and had betrayed its secret. Hence his
terror of seeing Pesca.

I immediately made use of the weapon that had been placed in my hand. I
went boldly to Fosco's house, and offered to effect his escape from
England in return for a full confession of his share in the abduction of
Lady Glyde. He threatened to kill me, but realising that I had him at my
mercy, consented to my terms.

This confession completely established the identity of Laura and she was
publicly acknowledged by Mr. Frederick Fairlie. Laura and I had been
married some time before and we were now able to set off on our
honeymoon. We visited Paris. While there, I chanced to be attracted by a
large crowd that surged round the doors of the Morgue. Forcing my way
through, I saw, lying within, the body of Count Fosco. There was a wound
exactly over his heart, and on his arm were two deep cuts in the shape
of the letter "T"--the symbol of his treason to the secret brotherhood.

When we returned to England, we lived comfortably on the income I was
able to earn by my profession. A son was born to us, and when Frederick
Fairlie died, it was Marion Halcombe, who had been the good angel of our
lives, who announced the important change that had taken place in our
prospects.

"Let me make two eminent personages known to one another," she
exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old times, holding out my son to
me: "Mr. Walter Hartright--the heir of Limmeridge House."

       *       *       *       *       *



HUGH CONWAY


Called Back

      Hugh Conway, the English novelist, whose real name was
     Frederick John Fargus, was born December 26, 1847, the son of
     a Bristol auctioneer. His early ambition was to lead a
     seafaring life, and with this object he entered the school
     frigate Conway--from which he took his pseudonym--then
     stationed on the Mersey. His father was against the project,
     with the result that Conway abandoned the idea and entered his
     parent's office, where he found ample leisure to employ
     himself in writing occasional newspaper articles and tales.
     His first published work was a volume of poems, which appeared
     in 1879, and achieved a moderate success. But Hugh Conway is
     chiefly known to the reading public for his famous story
     "Called Black." The work was submitted to a number of
     publishers before it was finally accepted and published, in
     1884. Attracting little notice at first, it eventually made a
     hit, and within five years 350,000 copies were sold. Several
     other works appeared from Conway's pen in rapid succession,
     but none of them attained the popularity of "Called Back."
     Hugh Conway died at Monte Carlo on May 15, 1885.


_I.--A Blind Witness_


I was young, rich, and possessed of unusual vigour and strength. Life,
you would think, should have been very pleasant to me. I was beyond the
reach of care; I was as free as the wind to follow my own devices. But
in spite of all these advantages, I was as helpless and miserable as the
poorest toiler in the country.

For I was blind, stone blind!

The dread disease that robbed me of my sight had crept on me slowly
through the years, and now I lay in my bedroom in Walpole Street, with
my old nurse, Priscilla Drew, sleeping on an extemporised bed outside my
door to tend and care for me.

It was a stifling night in August. I could not sleep. Despair filled my
heart. I was blind, blind, blind! I should be blind for ever! So
entirely had I lost heart that I began to think I would not have
performed at all the operation which the doctors said might give me back
the use of my eyes.

Presently a sudden, fierce longing to be out of doors came over me. It
was night, very few people would be about. Old Priscilla slept soundly.
I rose from my bed, and, dressing myself with difficulty, crept,
cautious as a thief, to the street door. The street, a quiet one, was
deserted. For a time I walked backwards and forwards up the street. The
exercise filled me with a peculiar elation. By carefully counting my
footsteps, I gauged accurately the position of my house. At last, I
decided to return, and opening the door, I entered and climbed the
stairs. The atmosphere of the place struck me as strange and unfamiliar.
I felt for a bracket which should have been upon the wall, that I had
often been warned to avoid knocking with my head. It was not there. I
had entered the wrong house.

As I turned to grope my way back, I heard the murmur of voices. I made
my way in the direction of these sounds to seek for assistance.
Suddenly, there fell upon my ears the notes of a piano and a woman's
voice singing.

Music with me was an absorbing passion. I listened enthralled, placing
my ear close to the door from behind which the sound proceeded. It was a
song that few amateurs would dare to attempt, and I waited eagerly to
hear how the beautiful voice would render the finale. But I never heard
that last movement.

Instead of the soft, sweet, liquid notes of passionate love, there was a
spasmodic, fearful gasp succeeded by a long, deep groan. The music
stopped abruptly, and the piercing cry of a woman rang out. I threw open
the door and rushed headlong into the room. I heard an oath, an
exclamation of surprise, and the muffled cry of the woman. I turned in
the direction of that faint cry. My foot caught in something, and I fell
prostrate on the body of a man. Before I could rise a strong hand
gripped my throat and I heard the sharp click of a pistol lock.

"Spare me!" I cried. "I am blind, blind, blind!"

I lay perfectly still, crying out these words again and again.

A strong light was turned on my eyes. There was no sound in the room
save the muffled cry of the woman. The hands at my throat were released,
and I was ordered to stand up. Some elementary tests of my blindness
were tried, and I was told to give an account of my presence in the
house. My story seemed to satisfy the man who questioned me. I was
bidden to sit in a chair. I could hear the sound of men carrying a heavy
burden out of the room. Then the woman's moans ceased. A voice at my
side bade me drink something out of a glass, enforcing the demand with a
pistol at my temple. A heavy drowsiness came over me, and I sank into
unconsciousness.

When I came to myself I was in my own bed in my own room, having been
found, apparently in a state of helpless intoxication, lying in a street
some distance from where I lived.


_II.--Not for Love or Marriage_


Two years elapsed. The operation had given me back the use of my eyes. I
was in the city of Turin with a friend. The sight of a beautiful face
lured my companion and myself into the cathedral of San Giovanni. It was
the face of a young girl of about twenty-two; a face of entrancing
beauty. Seated with my friend, I watched her until she rose and left
with her companion, an old Italian woman. For a moment I caught a look
of her dark, glorious eyes as she mechanically crossed herself with holy
water. There was a dreamy, far-away look in them, a look that seemed to
pass over one and see what was behind the object gazed at.

We followed her out of the cathedral and saw the old woman speak to a
middle-aged, round-shouldered, bespectacled man of gentlemanly
appearance.

"Do English gentlemen stare at their own countrywomen in public places
like this?" said a voice at our elbows.

I turned to see a tall man of about thirty standing just behind us. His
face, with its heavy moustache, sneering mouth, and darkened, sullen
eyes, was not a pleasant one, and his impudent question annoyed me. My
friend, with a few sharp retorts, delivered to him a crushing snub, and
the man turned away, scowling. We saw him cross the road to the
middle-aged man who had been speaking to the old Italian woman and her
charge. And then we, too, went our way.

The girl's face haunted me, but we never saw her again in the city of
Turin.

Some weeks later, when I was wandering through London, I suddenly came
upon her in the company of her old nurse. I tracked her to her lodgings
and there engaged rooms myself. An accident to the nurse, whose name I
discovered was Theresa, gave me an opportunity of introducing myself.
The girl spoke to me, but her voice and her manner was strangely
apathetic. She seemed never to know me unless I spoke to her, and then,
unless I asked questions, our conversation died a natural death. To make
love to her seemed impossible, and yet I loved her passionately.

At last, by aid of bribes, I managed to secure the qualified assistance
of Theresa. She promised to place my proposals before the girl's
guardian. Of Pauline herself--such was the girl's name--Theresa would
say nothing. When I asked her if she thought the girl cared for me, she
replied mysteriously and enigmatically.

"Who knows? I do not know--but I tell you the _signorina_ is not for
love or marriage."

Theresa fulfilled her part of the bargain, and I received a visit from
the middle-aged man I had seen in Turin. His name was Manuel Ceneri. His
sister had married Pauline's father, an Englishman, March by name. He
consented readily to my marriage with Pauline on one condition. I was to
ask no questions, seek to know nothing of her birth and family, nothing
of her early days.

Pauline was called into the room. I took her hand. I asked her to be my
wife.

"Yes, if you wish it," she replied softly, without even changing colour.

She did not repulse me, but she did not respond to my affection. She
remained as calm and undemonstrative as ever.

At Dr. Ceneri's strange urgency, Pauline and I were married two days
later.


_III.--Calling Back the Past_


"Not for love or marriage!"

I learned all too soon the meaning of Theresa's words. Pauline, my wife,
my love, had no past. Slowly at first, then with swift steps, the truth
came home to me. The face of the woman I had married was fair as the
morn; her figure as perfect as that of a Grecian statue; her voice low
and sweet; but the one thing which animates every charm--the mind--was
missing. Memory, except for the events of the moment before, she had
none. Of all emotion she was incapable. She was sweet and docile, but
her whole existence was a negative one. Such was Pauline, my wife.

When I was convinced of the truth, I placed her in charge of Priscilla
and hastened to Geneva to seek an explanation from Ceneri. I should
never have found the doctor had not chance thrown me in the way of the
very Italian we had met outside the cathedral of San Giovanni. Knowing
that he knew Ceneri, I spoke to him. At first he refused to have
anything to do with me, but when I mentioned Pauline's name, he asked me
what concern I had with her.

"She is my wife," I replied.

"Your wife!" he shouted. "You lie!"

I rose furiously, and bade him choose his words more carefully. After a
few moments he apologised, asking me whether Ceneri knew of our
marriage. "Traditore," I heard him whisper fiercely to himself when I
replied in the affirmative.

After some further remarks, he consented to take me to Dr. Ceneri,
telling me that his name was Macari. My interview with the doctor was
somewhat unsatisfactory. Pauline had had a shock, but the nature of that
shock he refused to disclose. Macari, before her illness, had imagined
himself in love with her, and was furious at my marriage. One thing,
however, the doctor told me, just as I left, which partially explained
his consent to our union. He had been her guardian, and the fortune of
£50,000 to which she was entitled he had spent in the cause of Italian
freedom. Though he had betrayed his trust, he considered the cause
justified the act; but he had been glad, none the less, to make her some
compensation by marrying her to a wealthy Englishman.

When I left Dr. Ceneri, I met Macari lurking outside. He declared that
in a few weeks he would come to England and explain much that Ceneri had
left unsaid.

Several months later he kept his promise. Ceneri, he told me, had been
arrested in St. Petersburg for participation in some anarchist plot, and
was on his way to Siberia. Of his own personal history he discoursed at
length. His name, it appeared, was really March, and he was Pauline's
brother. In common with his sister, he had been robbed by Ceneri of his
fortune.

He asked to see his sister, but when they met, Pauline showed no
recollection of him. He called often, and she watched him, I noticed,
with an eager, troubled look. One night, after dinner, as he described
how, in a battle, he had killed a white-coated Austrian, he seized a
knife from the table, and illustrated the downward blow with which he
had saved his own life. I heard a deep sigh behind me, and turning, I
saw Pauline in a dead faint. I carried her to her room. When she came to
herself again, or rather when she rose in her bed and turned her face to
mine, I saw in her eyes, what, by the mercy of God, I shall never again
see there.

With eyes fixed and immovable, and dilated to their utmost extent, she
rose and passed out of the room. I followed her. Swiftly she passed out
of the house into the street, and without the slightest hesitation,
turning at right angles, moved swiftly up a long, straight road. After
turning once more she stopped at a three-storeyed house. Going up to the
door, she laid her hand upon it. I tried to lead her gently away, but
she resisted. What was I to do? The house was an empty one. I paused.
Once before my latch-key had opened a strange door. Would it open this
one? I tried it. It fitted exactly.

Without waiting for me, Pauline ran in ahead. I shut the door. All was
darkness. I could hear Pauline moving about on the first floor. I
followed her, and, striking a match, found myself in a room with
folding-doors. It was furnished, but the dust lay deep everywhere.
Pauline stood in the middle of the room, holding her head in her hands,
striving, it seemed, to remember something. I entered the back room with
the candle I had found. There was a piano there. Something induced me to
sit down at it and to play the first few notes of the song I had heard
that terrible night.

A nervous trembling seemed to seize Pauline. She crossed the floor
towards me, and I made room for her at the piano. With a master hand she
played brilliantly the prelude of the song of which I had struck a few
vagrant notes. I waited breathlessly, expecting her to sing. Suddenly
she started wildly to her feet and, uttering a wild cry of horror, sank
into my arms. I laid her on a sofa close by. As I held her there, a
strange thing happened.

The room beyond the folding-doors was lit with a brilliant light.
Grouped round a table were four men. One of them was Ceneri, the other
Macari. The third man was a stranger to me. These three men were looking
at a fourth man--a young man who appeared to be falling out of his
chair, clutching convulsively the hilt of a dagger, the blade of which
had been buried in his heart, clearly by Macari, who stood over him.

I cannot explain this vision. I only saw it when I held Pauline's hand.
When I let her hand drop the scene vanished. You may call it cataleptic,
clairvoyant, anything you will; it was as I relate.


_IV.--Seeking the Truth in Siberia_


Macari called on me the day after this strange scene to ask me about the
memorial to Victor Emanuel.

"Before I consent to help you," I said, "I must know why you murdered a
man three years ago in a house in Horace Street."

He sprang to his feet and grasping my arm, looked intently into my eyes.
I saw that he recognised me in spite of the great change that blindness
makes in a face.

"Why should I deny the affair to an eye-witness? To others I would deny
it fast enough. Now, my fine fellow, my gay bridegroom, my dear
brother-in-law, I will tell you why I killed that man. He had insulted
my family. That man was Pauline's lover!"

He saw what was in my face as I rose and walked towards him.

"Not here," he said hastily, "what good can it do here--a vulgar scuffle
between two gentlemen?"

"Go," I cried, "murderer and coward. Every word you have spoken to me
has been a lie, and because you hate me you have to-day told me the
greatest lie of all."

He left me with a look of malicious triumph in his face. I knew he lied,
but how could I prove that he lied? Only Ceneri could tell me the truth.
He was in Siberia, and, mad as the scheme seemed, thither I determined
to go to get the whole truth from his lips.

I exerted all the influence I possessed. I spent money freely, and with
a special passport signed by the Czar himself, which placed all the
resources of the Russian police at my disposal, I passed across Russia
into Siberia. At last, after travelling thousands of miles, I came up
with the gang of wretched prisoners in which the doctor was. Showing my
papers to the officer in command, I was taken at once to the awful
prison-house. I had him brought to me in a private room, and placed
before him food and drink.

"I want to ask you some questions," I said, "questions which you alone
can answer."

"Ask them. You have given me an hour's release from misery. I am
grateful."

"The first question I have to ask is--who and what is that man Macari?"

Ceneri sprang to his feet. "A traitor! a traitor!" he cried.

It was Macari who had betrayed him. Macari was no more Anthony March,
the brother of Pauline, than I was, and Pauline had never had a lover in
the sense in which Macari had used the word.

Pauline was an innocent as an angel. The lie I had come so far to
destroy had dissolved. There was one other question I had to ask. Who
was the man Macari had killed, and what had he to do with Pauline?
Ceneri's face turned ashen as I asked him the question. It was some
moments before he understood that I was the man who had stumbled into
the room. Then he told me all.

The murdered man was Anthony March, the brother of Pauline. As he had
already confessed, Ceneri had spent all the trust-money of which he was
guardian for Pauline and her brother, in the cause of Italian freedom.
When the young man grew up, the time drew near when Ceneri must explain
all and take the consequences. The evil day was delayed by providing him
with money. That money ran out. Ceneri and the two other men, fearful of
the consequences to all of them, decided upon a plan to silence Anthony.
He was to be lured to the house in Horace Street, and to leave it as a
lunatic in charge of a doctor and keepers. But Macari ruined the plot.
He was in love with Pauline, and Anthony had spoken contemptuously of
such a match for his sister. A few insolent words at the house in Horace
Street, and the passionate Italian's knife had found its way into the
young man's heart. It was Ceneri who had saved my life when I stumbled
upon the scene. The third sharer in the tragedy, who had drowned
Pauline's shrieks in a sofa cushion, had since died raving mad in a
cell. That was the story.

I hastened back to England, leaving money behind me to provide a few
comforts for the unfortunate prisoner. I went direct to the little
village where Pauline was staying with Priscilla. I could see that she
remembered me but as a person in a dream. I had to woo her now. Of our
marriage she seemed to have forgotten everything. Though all the old
apathy had disappeared, and her mind had once more awakened in her
beautiful body, she did not remember that. I despaired at last of
winning her, and I determined to bid her good-bye forever. As I sat in
the woods with her for the last time, gloom in my heart, I fell into a
doze. I was awakened by kisses on my cheeks. I sprang to my feet. In
front of me stood Pauline, and looking into her eyes, I saw that she
loved me.

She had realised on my first return that I was her husband, but had
determined to find out if I loved her. As I said nothing, so she too had
remained silent.

"Gilbert," she said, "I have wept, but now I smile. The past is passed.
Let the love I bore my brother be buried in the greater love I give my
husband. Let us turn our backs on the dark shadows and begin our lives."

Have I more to tell--one thing only. We went to Paris for our real
honeymoon. The great war was over, and the Commune had just ended. In
the company of a friend I saw some Communists led out to be shot, and
among their faces I recognised Macari.

       *       *       *       *       *



FENIMORE COOPER


The Last of the Mohicans

      James Fenimore Cooper, born in New Jersey on September 15,
     1789, was a hot-headed controversialist of Quaker descent,
     who, after a restless youth, partly spent at sea, became the
     earliest conspicuous American novelist. Apart from fiction,
     Cooper's principal subject was American naval history. Though
     he made many enemies and lived in turmoil, the novelist had a
     strain of nobility in his character that is reflected
     throughout his formal but manly narratives. Love interest
     rarely rises in his stories beyond a mechanical
     sentimentality; it is the descriptions of adventure that
     attract. Nowhere are Fenimore Cooper's vivid powers of
     description more apparent than in "The Last of the Mohicans,"
     the second in order of the Leatherstocking tales. In the first
     of the series, "The Pioneers," the Leatherstocking is
     represented as already past the prime of life, and is
     gradually being driven out of his beloved forests by the axe
     and the smoke of the white settler. "The Last of the Mohicans"
     takes the reader back before this period, to a time when the
     red man was in his vigour, and was a power to be reckoned with
     in the east of America. The third of the famous tales is "The
     Prairie," in which Cooper's picturesque hero is laid in his
     grave. Despite this, the author resuscitates him in the two
     remaining volumes--"The Pathfinder" and "The Deerslayer." Of
     these five novels, and, as a matter of fact, of all Cooper's
     works, "The Last of the Mohicans" is regarded as the
     masterpiece. In it are to be found all the author's virtues,
     and few of his faults. It is certainly the most popular,
     having been translated into several languages. It was first
     published in 1826. Cooper died at Cooperstown, the family
     locality, on September 14. 1851.


_I.--Betrayed by the Redskin_


It was the third year of the war between France and England in North
America. At Fort Edward, where General Webb lay with five thousand men,
the startling news had just been received that the French general,
Montcalm, was moving up the Champlain Lake with an army "numerous as the
leaves on the trees," with the forest fastness of Fort William Henry as
his object.

Fort William Henry was held by the veteran Scotchman, Munro, at the head
of a regiment of regulars and a few provincials. As this force was
utterly inadequate to stem Montcalm's advance, General Webb at once sent
fifteen hundred men to strengthen the position. While the camp was in a
state of bustle consequent on the departure of this relieving force,
Captain Duncan Hayward detached himself from the throng, and conducting
two ladies, the daughters of Munro, Alice and Cora, to their horses,
mounted another steed himself. It was his welcome duty to see that the
ladies reached Fort William Henry in safety. In order that they might
make the journey the more expeditiously, they had obtained the services
of a famous Indian runner, known by the name of Le Renard Subtil, whose
native appellation was Magua.

The party had but five leagues to traverse, and Magua had undertaken to
lead them a short way through the forest. The girls hesitated as they
reached the point where they left the military road and had to take to a
narrow and blind path amidst the dense trees and undergrowth. The
terrifying aspect of the guide and the loneliness of the route filled
them with alarm.

"Here, then, lies our way," said Duncan in a low voice. "Manifest no
distrust, or you may invite the danger you appear to apprehend."

Taking this hint, the girls whipped up their horses and followed the
runner along the dark and tangled pathway. They had not gone far when
they heard the sounds of a horse's hoofs behind them, and presently
there dashed up to their side a singular-looking person, with
extraordinary long thin legs, an emaciated body, and an enormous head.
The grotesqueness of his figure was enhanced by a sky-blue coat and a
soiled vest of embossed silk embroidered with tarnished silver lace.
Coming up with the party, he declared his intention of accompanying them
to Fort William Henry. Refusing to listen to any objection, he took from
his vest a curious musical instrument, and, placing it to his mouth,
drew from it a high, shrill sound. This done, he began singing in full
and melodious tones one of the New England versions of the Psalms.

Magua whispered something to Heyward, and the latter turned impatiently
to David Gamut--such was the singer's name--and requested him in the
name of common prudence to postpone his chant until a safer opportunity.
The Indian allies of Montcalm, it was known, swarmed in the forest, and
the object of the party was to move forward as quietly as possible.

As the cavalcade pressed deeper into the wild thicket, a savage face
peered out at them from between the bushes. A gleam of exultation shot
across his darkly painted lineaments as he watched his victims walking
unconsciously into the trap which Magua had prepared.


_II.--In the Nick of Time_


Within an hour's journey of Fort Edward two men were lingering on the
banks of a small stream. One of them was a magnificent specimen of an
Indian--almost naked, with a terrific emblem of death painted upon his
chest. The other was a European, with the quick, roving eye, sun-tanned
cheeks, and rough dress of a hunter.

"Listen, Hawk-eye," said the Indian, addressing his companion, "and I
will tell you what my fathers have said, and what the Mohicans have
done. We came and made this land ours, and drove the Maquas who followed
us, into the woods with the bears. Then came the Dutch, and gave my
people the fire-water. They drank until the heavens and the earth seemed
to meet. Then they parted with their land, and now I, that am a chief
and a Sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and
have never visited the graves of my fathers. When Uncas, my son, dies,
there will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores. My boy is the
last of the Mohicans."

"Uncas is here," said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones.
"Who speaks to Uncas?" At the next instant a youthful warrior passed
between them with a noiseless tread, and seated himself by the side of
his father, Chingachgook. "I have been on the trail of the Maquas, who
lie hid like cowards," continued Uncas.

Further talk regarding their hated enemies, the Maquas, who acted as the
spies of Montcalm, was cut short by the sound of horses' feet. The three
men rose to their feet, their eyes watchful and attentive, and their
rifles ready for any emergency.

Presently, the cavalcade from Fort Edward appeared, and Heyward,
addressing Hawk-eye, asked for information as to their whereabouts,
explaining that they had trusted to an Indian, who had lost his way.

"An Indian lost in the woods?" exclaimed the scout. "I should like to
look at the creature."

Saying this, he crept stealthily into the thicket. In a few moments he
returned, his suspicions fully confirmed. Magua had clearly led the
party into a trap for purposes of his own, and Hawk-eye at once took
steps to secure his capture. While Heyward held the runner in
conversation, the scout and the two Mohicans crept silently through the
undergrowth to surround him, but the slight crackle of a breaking stick
aroused Magua's suspicion, and, even as the ambush closed on him, he
dodged under Heyward's arms and vanished into the opposite thicket.

Hawk-eye was too well acquainted with Indian ways to think of pursuing,
and, restraining the eagerness of Heyward, who would have followed
Magua, and would have been undoubtedly led to the place where the
scalping-knives of Magua's companions awaited him, the scout called a
council of war.

The position was serious in the extreme, how serious was disclosed that
night as they lay hid in a cave.

Suddenly, with blood-curdling yells, the Maquas surrounded them. They
were surrounded completely, and, to add to the terrors of their
situation, they discovered that their ammunition was exhausted. There
seemed nothing to be done but die fighting. It was Cora who suggested an
alternative: that Hawk-eye and the two Mohicans should make for Fort
William Henry and procure from their father, Munro, enough men to take
them back in safety. It was the one desperate chance, and the Mohicans
took it. Dropping silently down the river, they disappeared. Duncan,
David, and the two girls were left alone; but not for long. As the night
drew out, a body of the Maquas, swimming across the river, entered the
cave, and made the whole party prisoners.

It was Magua who directed all these operations, and it was Magua who
announced their fate to his prisoners. Alice should go back to her
father, but Cora was to become his squaw in an Indian wigwam.

"Monster!" cried Cora, when this proposal was laid before her. "None but
a fiend could meditate such a vengeance!"

Magua answered with a ghastly smile, and, at his command, the Indians,
seizing their white victims, bound them to four trees. Stakes of glowing
wood were prepared for their torture. Once more Magua offered the
alternative of dishonour or death. Cora wavered, but Alice strengthened
her resolution.

"No, no!" she cried. "Better that we die as we have lived, together."

"Then die!" shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk at the girl's head. It
missed her by an inch. Another savage rushed to complete the terrible
deed. Maddened at the sight, Duncan broke his bonds, and flung himself
on the savage. He was at once overpowered. He saw a knife glistening
above his head; it was just about to descend. Suddenly there was a sharp
crack of a rifle, and his assailant fell dead at his feet. At the same
moment Hawk-eye and the two Mohicans dashed into the encampment. In a
few moments the six Indians, taken by surprise, were killed; only Magua
lived. He seemed to be at the mercy of Chingachgook. Already he lay
apparently lifeless. The Mohican rose with a yell of triumph, and raised
his knife to give the final blow. Even as he did so Magua rolled himself
over the edge of the precipice near which he lay, and, alighting on his
feet, leapt into the centre of a thicket of low bushes and disappeared.


_III.--"The Jubilee of Devils_"


The party had reached William Henry only to leave it again. Montcalm
asked for an interview with Munro, and through Duncan, who acted as the
latter's representative, explained that it was hopeless to think of
holding the fort. General Webb had withdrawn the relieving force, and
the English were outnumbered by about twenty to one. With chivalrous
courtesy, the French general proposed that his brave enemies should
march out with their arms and ammunition and all the honours of war.
These conditions Munro sadly accepted. Compelled to be with his men,
Munro entrusted his daughters to the care of David.

According to the conditions of the surrender, the troops marched out.
Behind them came the women and stragglers, the French and their native
allies watching them in silence. At the other side of the plain was a
defile. The troops slowly entered this, and disappeared. The rear-guard
of civilians was now left alone on the plain. Cora, as she pressed
slowly onwards with her sister and David, saw Magua addressing the
natives, speaking with his fatal and artful eloquence. The effect of his
words was soon seen.

One of the savages, attracted by the shawl in which a mother had wrapped
her baby, seized the child, and dashed its brains out on the ground. As
the mother sprang forward, he buried his tomahawk in her brain. It was
the signal for a massacre. Magua raised the fatal and appalling
war-whoop. At its sound two thousand savages broke from the wood and
fell upon the unresisting victims. Death was everywhere, and in his most
terrific and disgusting aspect.

"It is the jubilee of devils," said David, who, in spite of his
uselessness, never dreamed of deserting his trust. "If David tamed the
evil spirit of Saul, it may not be amiss to try the potency of music
here."

He poured out a strain of song that echoed even over the din of that
bloody field. Magua heard it and, through the throng of savages, rushed
to their side.

"Come," he cried, seizing Alice in his blood-stained arms; "the wigwam
of the Huron is still open!"

In vain Cora begged him to release her sister. Across the plain he bore
her swiftly, followed by Cora and David. As soon as he reached the
woods, he placed the two girls on horses that were waiting there, and,
never heeding David, who mounted the remaining steed, dashed forward
into the wilds.


_IV.--Captives of the Hurons_


Three days after the surrender of the fort, Hawk-eye and his two Mohican
companions, accompanied by Munroe and Duncan, stood upon the fatal
plain. Everywhere they had searched for the bodies of the two girls, and
nowhere could they be found. It was clear to Hawk-eye that they still
lived, and had been carried off by Magua. With untiring energy he at
once set off to try and discover the trail. It was Uncas, who, finding a
portion of Cora's skirt caught on a bush, first opened up the line of
pursuit. He it was, too, who read the track of Magua's feet on the
ground--the unmistakable straddling toe of the drinking savage. An
ornament dropped by Alice, and the large footprints of the
singing-master, laid bare to the trained intelligence of the Indian
scout everything that had happened.

As they reached the outskirts of a clearing, they perceived a
melancholy-looking savage in war-paint and moccasins seated by the side
of a stream watching a colony of beavers busily engaged in making a dam.
Duncan was about to fire, but Hawk-eye, roaring with laughter, stayed
his arm. The savage was none other than David.

Alice and Cora were near at hand, and Duncan was all eager to make his
way to their side. Hawk-eye so far humoured his whim as to consent to
his visiting the encampment disguised as a medicine man.

As soon as he entered the camp he declared that he had been sent by the
Grand Monarque to heal the ills of the Hurons. The chief to whom he
spoke listened to him for some time, and then asked him to show his
skill by frightening away the evil spirit that lived in the wife of one
of his young men. Duncan could not refuse, though he felt certain that
the trial of his skill would result in the detection of his disguise.
Just as the chief was about to lead the way to the woman's side, Magua
joined the group, to be followed shortly afterwards by a number of young
men bringing with them a prisoner. A cry went up, "Le Cerf Agile!" and
every warrior sprang to his feet. To his dismay, Duncan saw that it was
Uncas. Magua gazed at his captive gravely for some time; then, raising
his arm, shook it at him, exclaiming, "Mohican, you die!"

Duncan's conductor led him to a cave which went some distance into the
rocky side of the mountain. As he entered, Duncan saw a dark;
mysterious-looking object that rose unexpectedly in his path. It was a
bear, and though the young soldier knew that the Indians often kept such
animals as pets, its deep growls, and the manner in which it clutched at
him as he passed up the long, narrow passage of the cave, caused him not
a little uneasiness.

Having shown him the sick woman, who, it was clear, was dying, the
Indians left the supposed medicine man to fight the devils by himself.
To his horror, Duncan saw that the bear remained behind, growling
savagely. Watching it uneasily, he noticed its head suddenly fall on one
side, and in its place appeared the sturdy countenance of the scout. As
quickly as he could Hawk-eye explained how he had come across a wizard
preparing for a _séance_, how he had knocked him on the head and taken
the bear's skin in which the charlatan had proposed to make his magic.

While the scout rearranged his disguise, Duncan, searching the cave, in
another compartment discovered Alice. But even as the girl was in the
first throes of delight at this unexpected meeting, the guttural laugh
of Magua was heard, and she saw the dark form and malignant visage of
the savage.

"Huron, do your worst!" exclaimed the excited Heyward, as he saw that
all his plans were brought to nought.

"Will the white man speak these words at the stake?" asked Magua,
turning to leave the cave. As he did so the bear growled loudly and
threateningly; believing it to be one of the wizards, Magua attempted to
pass it contemptuously. Suddenly the animal rushed at him, and, seizing
him in its arms, completely overpowered him. Duncan at once ran to the
scout's assistance, and secured the savage.

At Hawk-eye's suggestion, Alice was wrapped up in the dying woman's
clothes, and, completely hidden from view, was carried out of the cave.

"The disease has gone out of her," explained Duncan to the father and
husband who waited without. "I go to take the woman to a distance, where
I will strengthen her against any further attack. Let my children wait
without, and if the evil spirit appears beat him down with clubs."

Leaving the Indians with a certainty that they would not enter the
cavern and discover Magua, Duncan and the scout made their way to the
hut where Uncas lay bound. Entering with David, they released the
Mohican, and immediately hastened to take the next step suggested by the
resourceful Hawk-eye. David was secure from all harm; so the scout,
stepping out of his bear-skin, dressed himself in the singing-master's
clothes, while Uncas donned the wizard's disguise. Thus arrayed they
ventured out among the natives, leaving David within. Without being
suspected, they passed through the encampment; but they had not got far
before a yell announced that their subterfuge had been discovered. Uncas
cast his skin, and having used their rifles with deadly effect, he and
the scout made their escape into the woods, taking Alice with them.


_V.--Hawk-eye's Revenge_


Magua, for motives of policy, had, while keeping Alice in his own hands,
entrusted Cora to the neighbouring tribe of Tortoise Delawares. Thither
went Magua, to find that the scout and his companions were before him.
Nothing daunted, Magua almost persuaded the Tortoises to surrender the
girl. As the chief of the tribe hesitated how to act, Uncas stepped
forward and bared his breast. A cry rose from all present, for there,
delicately tatooed on the young Mohican's skin, was the emblem of a
Tortoise. In him the tribe recognised the long-lost scion of the purest
race of the Delawares, who, tradition said, still wandered far and
unknown on the hills and through the forests.

But in spite of Uncas's authority, the Indian law could not be set
aside. Cora was Magua's captive of war. He had sought her in peace, and
she must follow him. By all the laws of Indian hospitality his person
was sacred till the setting of the sun.

As soon as the Maquas had disappeared, the Tortoises made ready for war,
with all the grim and terrifying ceremonies of their race. As hour after
hour slipped by, the savage spirit of the tribe increased in fury. Uncas
alone remained unmoved. Standing in the midst of the now maddened
savages, he kept his eyes fixed upon the declining sun. It dipped
beneath the horizon; at once the whole encampment was broken up, and the
warriors rushed down the trail which Magua had followed.

As soon as they came in touch with the enemy, a desperate and bloody
battle was fought. Under the leadership of the two Mohicans and
Hawk-eye, victory swayed to the side of the Tortoises. Huron after Huron
fell, until only Magua and two companions were left. Then, with a yell,
Le Renard Subtil rushed from the field of battle, and, seizing Cora, ran
up a steep defile towards the mountains. On the side of the precipice
Cora refused to move any farther.

"Woman!" cried Magua, raising his knife, "choose--the wigwam or the
knife of Le Subtil?"

Cora neither heard nor heeded his demands. Magua trembled in every
fibre. He raised his arm on high. Just then a piercing cry was heard
from above, and Uncas leapt frantically from a fearful height upon the
ledge on which they stood. He fell prostrate for a moment. As he lay
there, Magua plunged his knife into his back, and at the same moment one
of the other Indians stretched Cora lifeless. With the last effort of
his strength Uncas rose to his feet, and hurled Cora's murderer into the
abyss below. Then, with a stern and steady look, he turned to Le Subtil
and indicated with the expression of his eye all that he would do had
not the power deserted him, Magua seized his nerveless arm and stretched
him dead by passing his dagger several times through his body.

"Mercy!" cried Heyward from above. "Give mercy, and thou shalt receive
it!"

For answer, Magua raised a shout of triumph, and, leaping a wide
fissure, made for the summit of the mountain. A single bound would carry
him to the brow of the precipice and assure his safety. Before taking
the leap he shook his hand defiantly at Hawk-eye, who waited with his
rifle raised.

"The pale faces are dogs! The Delawares women! Magua leaves them on the
rocks for the crows!"

Making a desperate leap, and falling short of his mark, Magua saved
himself by grasping some shrub on the verge of the height. With an
effort he pulled himself up. Hawk-eye, whose rifle shook with suppressed
excitement, watched him closely. As his body was thus collected
together, he drew the weapon to his shoulder and fired.

The arms of the Huron relaxed and his body fell back a little, but his
knees still kept their position. Turning a relentless look on his enemy,
he shook his hand at him in grim defiance. But his hold loosened, and
his dark person was seen cutting the air, with its head downwards, for a
fleeting instant, until it glided past the fringe of shrubbery in its
rapid flight to destruction.

       *       *       *       *       *



The Spy

      Cooper's first success, "The Spy," appeared when he was
     thirty-two, and his novel-writing period extended over a
     quarter of a century. The best tales--the famous
     Leatherstocking series--were begun two years after "The Spy."
     Susceptible patriotism has discovered in his writings an
     anti-English bias, but "The Spy" is rather a proof of balanced
     judgment in the midst of sharp national antagonisms.


_I.--Uncomfortable Visitors_


Near the close of the year 1780 a solitary traveller was pursuing his
way through one of the numerous little valleys of New York State which
were then common ground for the British and Revolutionary forces.
Anxious to obtain a speedy shelter from the increasing violence of the
storm, the traveller knocked at the door of a house which had an air
altogether superior to the common farmhouses of the country. In answer
to his knocking, an aged black appeared, and, without seeming to think
it necessary to consult his superiors, acceded to the request for
accommodation.

The stranger was shown into a neat parlour, where, after politely
repeating his request to an old gentleman who arose to receive him, and
paying his compliments to three ladies who were seated at work with
their needles, he commenced laying aside his outer garments, and
exhibited to the scrutiny of the observant family party a tall and
graceful person, apparently fifty years of age. His countenance evinced
a settled composure and dignity; his eye was quiet, thoughtful, and
rather melancholy; the mouth expressive of decision and much character.
His whole appearance was so decidedly that of a gentleman that the
ladies arose and, together with the master of the house, received anew
and returned the complimentary greetings suitable for the occasion.

After handing a glass of excellent Madeira to his guest, Mr. Wharton,
for so was the owner of this retired estate called, threw an inquiring
glance on the stranger and asked, "To whose health am I to have the
honour of drinking?"

The traveller replied, while a faint tinge gathered on his features--
"Mr. Harper."

"Mr. Harper," resumed the other, with the formal precision of the day,
"I have the honour to drink your health, and to hope you will sustain no
injury from the rain to which you have been exposed."

Mr. Harper bowed in silence to the compliment, and seated himself by the
fire with an air of reserve that baffled further inquiry.

The storm now began to rage without with great violence, and on the way
being led to the supper-table a loud summons again called the black to
the portal. In a minute he returned and informed his master that another
traveller desired shelter for the night.

Mr. Wharton, who had risen from his seat in evident uneasiness, scarcely
had time to bid the black show the second man in before the door was
thrown hastily open and the stranger himself entered the apartment. He
paused a moment as the person of Harper met his view, and then repeated
the request he had made through the servant.

Throwing aside a rough great-coat, the intruder very composedly
proceeded to allay the cravings of an appetite which appeared by no
means delicate. But at every mouthful he turned an unquiet eye on
Harper, who studied his appearance with a closeness that was very
embarrassing. At length, pouring out a glass of wine and nodding to his
examiner, the newcomer said, "I drink to our better acquaintance, sir; I
believe this is the first time we have met, though your attention would
seem to say otherwise."

"I think we have never met before, sir," replied Harper, with a slight
smile, and then, appearing satisfied with his scrutiny, he rose and
desired to be shown to his place of rest.

The knife and fork fell from the hands of the unwelcome intruder as the
door closed on the retiring figure of Harper; listening attentively he
approached the door, opened it--amid the panic and astonishment of his
companions--closed it again, and in an instant the red wig which
concealed his black locks, the large patch which hid half his face, the
stoop that made him appear fifty years of age, disappeared.

"My father! my dear father!" cried the handsome young man.

"Heaven bless you, my Henry, my son," exclaimed the astonished and
delighted parent, while his sisters sank on his shoulders dissolved in
tears.

A twelvemonth had passed since Captain Wharton had seen his family, and
now, having impatiently adopted the disguise mentioned, he had
unfortunately arrived on the evening that an unknown and rather
suspicious guest was an inmate of the house.

"Do you think he suspects me?" asked the captain.

"How should he?" cried Sarah, his elder sister, "when your sisters and
father could not penetrate your disguise."

"There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying
for an indifferent observer," continued young Wharton thoughtfully, "and
his face seems familiar to me. The recent fate of André has created much
irritation on both sides. The rebels would think me a fit subject for
their plans should I be so unlucky as to fall into their hands. My visit
to you would seem to them a cloak to other designs."


_II.--The Disguise That Failed_


The morning still forbade the idea of exposing either man or beast to
the tempest. Harper was the last to appear, and Henry Wharton had
resumed his disguise with a reluctance amounting to disgust, but in
obedience to the commands of his parent.

While the company were yet seated at breakfast, Caesar, the black,
entered and laid a small parcel in silence by his master.

"What is this, Caesar?" inquired Mr. Wharton, eyeing the bundle
suspiciously.

"The baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little
good baccy."

To Sarah Wharton this intelligence gave unexpected pleasure, and, rising
from her seat, she bade the black show Birch into the apartment, adding
suddenly, with an apologising look, "If Mr. Harper will excuse the
presence of a pedlar."

The stranger bowed a silent acquiescence, while Captain Wharton placed
himself in a window recess, and drew the curtain before him in such a
manner as to conceal most of his person from observation.

Harvey Birch had been a pedlar from his youth, and was in no way
distinguished from men of his class but by his acuteness and the mystery
which enveloped his movements. Those movements were so suspicious that
his imprisonments had been frequent.

The pedlar soon disposed of a considerable part of the contents of his
pack to the ladies, telling the news while he displayed his goods.

"Have you any other news, friend?" asked Captain Wharton, in a pause,
venturing to thrust his head without the curtains.

"Have you heard that Major André has been hanged?" was the reply.

"Is there any probability of movements below that will make travelling
dangerous?" asked Harper.

Birch answered slowly, "I saw some of De Lancey's men cleaning their
arms as I passed their quarters, for the Virginia Horse are now in the
county."

"You must be known by this time, Harvey, to the officers of the British
Army," cried Sarah, smiling at the pedlar.

"I know some of them by sight," said Birch, glancing his eyes round the
apartment, taking in their course Captain Wharton, and resting for an
instant on the countenance of Harper.

The party sat in silence for many minutes after the pedlar had
withdrawn, until at last Mr. Harper suddenly said, "If any apprehensions
of me induce Captain Wharton to maintain his disguise, I wish him to be
undeceived; had I motives for betraying him they could not operate under
present circumstances."

The sisters sat in speechless surprise, while Mr. Wharton was stupefied;
but the captain sprang into the middle of the room, and exclaimed, as he
tore off his disguise, "I believe you from my soul, and this tiresome
imposition shall continue no longer. You must be a close observer, sir."

"Necessity has made me one," said Harper, rising from his seat.

Frances, the younger sister, met him as he was about to withdraw, and,
taking his hand between both her own, said with earnestness, "You
cannot, you will not betray my brother!"

For an instant Harper paused, and then, folding her hands on his breast,
replied solemnly, "I cannot, and I will not!" and added, "If the
blessing of a stranger can profit you, receive it." And he retired, with
a delicacy that all felt, to his own apartment.

In the afternoon the sky cleared, and as the party assembled on the lawn
to admire the view which was now disclosed, the pedlar suddenly
appeared.

"The rig'lars must be out from below," he remarked, with great emphasis;
"horse are on the road; there will soon be fighting near us." And he
glanced his eye towards Harper with evident uneasiness.

As Birch concluded, Harper, who had been contemplating the view, turned
to his host and mentioned that his business would not admit of
unnecessary delay; he would therefore avail himself of the fine evening
to ride a few miles on his journey.

There was a mutual exchange of polite courtesy between the host and his
parting guest, and as Harper frankly offered his hand to Captain
Wharton, he remarked, "The step you have undertaken is one of much
danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself may result from it. In
such a case I may have it in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your
family for its kindness."

"Surely, sir," cried the father, "you will keep secret the discovery
which your being in my house has enabled you to make?"

Harper turned to the speaker, and answered mildly, "I have learned
nothing in your family, sir, of which I was ignorant; but your son is
safer from my knowledge of his visit than he would be without it."

And, bowing to the whole party, he rode gracefully through the little
gate, and was soon lost to view.

"Captain Wharton, do you go in to-night?" asked the pedlar abruptly,
when this scene had closed.

"No!" said the captain laconically.

"I rather guess you had better shorten your visit," continued the
pedlar, coolly.

"No, no, Mr. Birch; here I stay till morning! I brought myself out, and
can take myself in. Our bargain went no further than to procure my
disguise and to let me know when the coast was clear, and in the latter
particular you were mistaken."

"I was," said the pedlar, "and the greater the reason why you should go
back to-night. The pass I gave you will serve but once."

"Here I stay this night, come what will."

"Captain Wharton," said the pedlar, with great deliberation, "beware a
tall Virginian with huge whiskers; he is below you; the devil can't
deceive him; I never could but once."


_III.--A Dangerous Situation_


The family were assembled round the breakfast-table in the morning when
Caesar, who was looking out of the window, exclaimed, "Run, Massa Harry,
run; here come the rebel horse."

Captain Wharton's sisters, with trembling hands, had hastily replaced
the original disguise, when the house was surrounded by dragoons, and
the heavy tread of a trooper was heard outside the parlour door. The man
who now entered the room was of colossal stature, with dark hair around
his brows in profusion, and his face nearly hid in the whiskers by which
it was disfigured. Frances saw in him at once the man from whose
scrutiny Harvey Birch had warned them there was much to be apprehended.

"Has there been a strange gentleman staying with you during the storm?"
asked the dragoon.

"This gentleman here favoured us with his company during the rain,"
stammered Mr. Wharton.

"This gentleman!" repeated the other, as he contemplated Captain Wharton
with a lurking smile, and then, with a low bow, continued, "I am sorry
for the severe cold you have in your head, sir, causing you to cover
your handsome locks with that ugly old wig."

Then, turning to the father, he proceeded, "Then, sir, I am to
understand a Mr. Harper has not been here?"

"Mr. Harper?" echoed the other; "yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone,
and if there is anything wrong in his character we are in entire
ignorance of it."

"He is gone--how, when, and whither?"

"He departed as he arrived," said Mr. Wharton, gathering confidence, "on
horseback, last evening; he took the northern road."

The officer turned on his heel, left the apartment, and gave orders
which sent some of the horsemen out of the valley, by its various roads,
at full speed.

Then, re-entering the room, he walked up to Wharton, and said, with some
gravity, "Now, sir, may I beg to examine the quality of that wig? And if
I could persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue
coat, I think you never could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis."

Young Wharton made the necessary changes, and stood an extremely
handsome, well-dressed young man.

"I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginian Horse," said the dragoon.

"And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of His Majesty's 60th Regiment of
Foot," returned Henry, bowing.

The countenance of Lawton changed from quaintness to great earnestness,
as he exclaimed, "Then, Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!"

Captain Lawton now inquired if a pedlar named Birch did not live in the
valley.

"At times only, I believe, sir," replied Mr. Wharton cautiously. "He is
seldom here; I may say I never see him."

"What is the offence of poor Birch?" asked the aunt.

"Poor!" cried the captain; "if he is poor, King George is a bad
paymaster."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Wharton, "that any neighbour of mine should incur
displeasure."

"If I catch him," cried the dragoon, "he will dangle from the limbs of
one of his namesakes."

In the course of the morning Major Dunwoodie, who was an old friend of
the family, and the lover of Frances, the younger daughter, arrived,
took over the command of the troop, and inquired into the case of his
friend the prisoner.

"How did you pass the pickets in the plains?" he asked.

"In disguise," replied Captain Wharton; "and by the use of this pass,
for which I paid, and which, as it bears the name of Washington, is, I
presume, forged."

Dunwoodie caught the paper eagerly, and after gazing at the signature
for some time, said, "This name is no counterfeit. The confidence of
Washington has been abused. Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer me
to grant you a parole--you must accompany me to the Highlands."


_IV.--Justice by Evasion_


The Wharton family, by order of Washington, now removed to the
Highlands, out of the region of warlike operations, and Captain Wharton
was brought to trial. The court condemned him to execution as a spy
before nine o'clock on the morning following the trial, the president,
however, expressing his intention of riding to Washington's headquarters
and urging a remission of the punishment. But the sentence of the court
was returned--_approved_. All seemed lost.

"Why not apply to Mr. Harper?" said Frances, recollecting for the first
time the parting words of their guest.

"Harper!" echoed Dunwoodie, who had joined the family consultation.
"What of him? Do you know him?"

"He stayed with us two days. He seemed to take an interest in Henry, and
promised him his friendship."

"What!" exclaimed the youth, in astonishment, "did he know your
brother?"

"Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise."

"But," said Dunwoodie, "he knew him not as an officer of the royal
army?"

"Indeed he did, and cautioned him against this very danger, bidding him
apply to him when in danger and promising to requite the son for the
hospitality of the father."

"Then," cried the youth, "will I save him. Harper will never forget his
word."

"But has he power," said Frances, "to move Washington's stubborn
purpose?"

"If he cannot," shouted Dunwoodie, "who can? Rest easy, for Henry is
safe."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was while these consultations were proceeding that a divine of
fanatical aspect, preceded by Cæsar, sought admission to the prisoner to
offer him the last consolations of religion, and so persistent were his
demands that at last he was allowed a private interview. Then he
instantly revealed himself as Harvey Birch, and proceeded to disguise
Captain Wharton as Cæsar, the black servant, who had entered the room
with him. So complete was the make-up that the minister and Wharton
passed unsuspected through the guard, and it was only when the officer
on duty entered the room to cheer up the prisoner after his interview
with the "psalm-singer" that the real Cæsar was discovered, and in
fright hurriedly revealed that the consoling visitor had been the pedlar
spy.

The pursuit was headlong and close, but when once the rocky fastnesses
were reached the heavy-booted dragoons were, for the moment, out of the
chase, and Harvey Birch conducted Captain Wharton at leisure towards one
of his hiding-places, while the mountain was encircled by the watchful
troopers.


_V.--Unexpected Meetings_


When passing into the Highlands from her now desolated home, Frances
Wharton had noticed under the summit of one of the rockiest heights, as
a stream of sunlight poured upon it, what seemed to be a stone hut,
though hardly distinguishable from the rocks. Watching this place, for
it was visible from her new home, she had fancied more than once that
she saw near the hut a form like that of Harvey Birch. Could it be one
of the places from which he kept watch on the plains below? On hearing
of her brother's escape, she felt convinced that it was to this hut that
the pedlar would conduct him, and there, at night, she repaired alone--a
toilsome and dangerous ascent.

The hut was reached at last, and the visitor, applying her eye to a
crevice, found it lighted by a blazing fire of dry wood. Against the
walls were suspended garments fitted for all ages and conditions, and
either sex. British and American uniforms hung side by side. Sitting on
a stool, with his head leaning on his hand, was a man more athletic than
either Harvey or her brother. He raised his face and Frances instantly
recognised the composed features of Harper. She threw open the door of
the hut and fell at his feet, crying, "Save him, save my brother;
remember your promise!"

"Miss Wharton!" exclaimed Harper. "But you cannot be alone!"

"There is none here but my God and you, and I conjure you by His sacred
Name to remember your promise!"

Harper gently raised her, and placed her on the stool, saying, "Miss
Wharton, that I bear no mean part in the unhappy struggle between
England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe your
brother's escape this night to my knowledge of his innocence and the
remembrance of my word. I could not openly have procured his pardon, but
now I can control his fate, and prevent his recapture. But this
interview, and all that has passed between us, must remain a secret
confined to your own bosom."

Frances gave the desired assurance.

"The pedlar and your brother will soon be here; but I must not be seen
by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeit. Did Sir
Henry Clinton know the pedlar had communion with me, the miserable man
would be sacrificed at once. Therefore be prudent; be silent. Urge them
to instant departure. It shall be my care that there shall be none to
intercept them."

While he was speaking, the voice of the pedlar was heard outside in loud
tones. "Stand a little farther this way, Captain Wharton, and you can
see the tents in the moonshine."

Harper pressed his finger to his lip to remind Frances of her promise,
and, entering a recess in the rock behind several articles of dress, was
hid from view.

The surprise of Henry and the pedlar on finding Frances in possession of
the hut may be imagined.

"Are you alone, Miss Fanny?" asked the pedlar, in a quick voice.

"As you see me, Mr. Birch," said Frances, with an expressive glance
towards the secret cavern, a glance which the pedlar instantly
understood.

"But why are you here?" exclaimed her astonished brother.

Frances related her conjecture that this would be the shelter of the
fugitives for the night, but implored her brother to continue his flight
at once. Birch added his persuasions, and soon the girl heard them
plunging down the mountain-side at a rapid rate.

Immediately the noise of their departure ceased Harper reappeared, and
leading Frances from the hut, conducted her down the hill to where a
sheep-path led to the plain. There, pressing a kiss on her forehead, he
said, "Here we must part. I have much to do and far to ride. Forget me
in all but your prayers."

She reached her home undiscovered, as her brother reached the British
lines, and on meeting her lover, Major Dunwoodie, in the morning learned
that the American troops had been ordered suddenly by Washington to
withdraw from the immediate neighbourhood.


_VI.--Last Scenes_


The war was drawing to its close when the American general, sitting in
an apartment at his headquarters, asked of the aide-de-camp in
attendance, "Has the man I wished to see arrived, sir?"

"He waits the pleasure of your excellency."

"I will receive him here, and alone."

In a few minutes a figure glided in, and by a courteous gesture was
motioned to a chair. Washington opened a desk, and took from it a small
but apparently heavy bag.

"Harvey Birch," said he, turning to the visitor, "the time has arrived
when our connection must cease. Henceforth and forever we must be
strangers."

"If it be your excellency's pleasure," replied the pedlar meekly.

"It is necessary. You have I trusted most of all. You alone know my
secret agents in the city. On your fidelity depend not only their
fortunes, but their lives. I believe you are one of the very few who
have acted faithfully to our cause, and, while you have passed as a spy
of the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted
to divulge. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I fearlessly
entrust you with this certificate. Remember, in me you will always have
a secret friend, though openly I cannot know you. It is now my duty to
pay you your postponed reward."

"Does your excellency think I have exposed my life and blasted my
character for money? No, not a dollar of your gold will I touch! Poor
America has need of it all!"

"But remember, the veil that conceals your true character cannot be
raised. The prime of your days is already past. What have you to subsist
on?"

"These," exclaimed Harvey Birch, stretching forth his hands.

"The characters of men much esteemed depend on your secrecy. What pledge
can I give them of your fidelity?"

"Tell them," said Birch, "that I would not take the gold."

The officer grasped the hand of the pedlar as he exclaimed, "Now,
indeed, I know you!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was thirty-three years after the interview just related that an
American army was once more arrayed against the troops of England; but
the scene was transferred from the banks of the Hudson to those of the
Niagara.

The body of Washington had long lain mouldering in the tomb, but his
name was hourly receiving new lustre as his worth and integrity became
more visible.

The sound of cannon and musketry was heard above the roar of the
cataract. On both sides repeated and bloody charges had been made. While
the action was raging an old man wandering near was seen to throw down
suddenly a bundle he was carrying and to seize a musket from a fallen
soldier. He plunged headlong into the thick of the fight, and bore
himself as valiantly as the best of the American soldiers. When, in the
evening, the order was given to the shattered troops to return to camp,
Captain Wharton Dunwoodie found that his lieutenant was missing, and
taking a lighted fusee, he went himself in quest of the body. The
lieutenant was found on the side of the hill seated with great
composure, but unable to walk from a fractured leg.

"Ah, dear Tom," exclaimed Dunwoodie, "I knew I should find you the
nearest man to the enemy!"

"No," said the lieutenant. "There is a brave fellow nearer than myself.
He rushed out of our smoke to make a prisoner, and he never came back.
He lies just over the hillock."

Dunwoodie went to the spot and found an aged stranger. He lay on his
back, his eyes closed as if in slumber, and his hands pressed on his
breast contained something that glittered like silver.

The subject of his care was a tin box, through which the bullet had
pierced to find a way to his heart, and the dying moments of the old man
must have been passed in drawing it from his bosom.

Dunwoodie opened it, and found a paper on which he read:

"Circumstances of political importance, which involve the lives and
fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper reveals.
Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited servant of his
country. Though man does not, may God reward him for his conduct! GEO.
WASHINGTON."

It was the spy of the neutral ground, who died as he had lived, devoted
to his country.

       *       *       *       *       *



MRS. CRAIK


John Halifax, Gentleman

      Dinah Maria Mulock, whose fame as a novelist rests entirely
     on "John Halifax, Gentleman," was born at Stoke-upon-Trent,
     England, on April 20, 1826. She was thirty-one when "John
     Halifax" came out, and immediately found herself one of the
     most popular novelists, her story having a great vogue
     throughout the English-speaking world, and being translated
     into half a dozen languages, including Greek and Russian. In
     1864 Miss Mulock married George Lillie Craik, and until her
     death, on October 12, 1887, she actively engaged herself in
     literary work. In all, forty-six works stand to her credit,
     but none show unusual literary power. Even "John Halifax"
     leaves much to be desired, and its great popularity arises,
     perhaps, from its sentimental interest. The character of the
     hero, conceived on the most conventional lines, has at least
     the charm that comes from the contemplation of a strong and
     upright man, and although many better stories have not enjoyed
     one tithe of its popularity, "John Halifax, Gentleman" still
     deserves to be read as a wholesome and profitable story.


_I.--The Tanner's Apprentice_


"Get out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, you idle, lounging, little----"

"Vagabond" was no doubt what Sally Watkins, the old nurse of Phineas
Fletcher, was going to say, but she had changed her mind in looking
again at the lad, who, ragged and miserable as he was, was anything but
a "vagabond."

On their way home a downpour of rain had drawn Mr. Fletcher and his son
Phineas to shelter in the covered alley that led to Sally's house. Mr.
Fletcher pushed the little hand-carriage in which his weak and ailing
son was seated into the alley. The ragged boy, who had also been
sheltering there, lent a hand in bringing Phineas out of the rain, Mr.
Fletcher saying to him kindly, after Sally's outburst, "Thee need not go
into the wet. Keep close to the wall, and there will be shelter enough
both for us and thee."

Mr. Fletcher was a wealthy tanner in Norton Bury. Years ago his wife had
died, leaving him with their only child, Phineas, now a sickly boy of
sixteen.

The ragged lad, who had seemed very grateful for the Quaker's kind words
to him, stood leaning idly against the wall, looking at the rain that
splashed on the pavement of the High Street. He was a boy perhaps of
fourteen years; but, despite his serious and haggard face, he was tall
and strongly built, with muscular limbs and square, broad shoulders, so
that he looked seventeen or more. The puny boy in the hand-carriage was
filled with admiration for the manly bearing of the poor lad.

The rain at length gave promise of ceasing, and Mr. Fletcher, pulling
out his great silver watch, never known to be wrong, said, "Twenty-three
minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, my son, how am I to get thee home?
Unless thee wilt go with me to the tanyard--"

Phineas shook his head, and his father then called to Sally Watkins if
she knew of anyone who would wheel him home. But at the moment Sally did
not hear, and the ragged boy mustered courage to speak for the first
time?"

"Sir, I want work; may I earn a penny?" he said, taking off his tattered
old cap and looking straight into Mr. Fletcher's face. The old man
scanned the honest face of the lad very closely.

"What is thy name, lad?"

"John Halifax."

"Where dost thee come from?"

"Cornwall."

"Hast thee any parents living?"

The lad answered that he had not, and to many other questions with which
the tanner plied him he returned straightforward answers. He was
promised a groat if he would see Phineas safely home when the rain had
ceased, and was asked if he would care to take the piece of silver now.

"Not till I've earned it, sir," said the Cornish lad. So Mr. Fletcher
slipped the money into his boy's hand and left them. Only a few words
were spoken between the two lads for a little while after he had gone,
and John Halifax stood idly looking across the narrow street at the
mayor's house, with its steps and porticoes, and its fourteen windows,
one of which was open, showing a cluster of little heads within. The
mayor's children seemed to be amused, watching the shivering shelterers
in the alley; but presently a somewhat older child appeared among them,
and then went away from the window quickly. Soon afterwards a front door
was partly opened by someone whom another was endeavoring to restrain,
for the boys on the other side of the street could hear loud words from
behind the door.

"I will! I say I will----"

"You sha'n't, Miss Ursula!"

"But I will!" And there stood the young girl, with a loaf in one hand
and a carving-knife in the other. She hastily cut off a slice of bread.

"Take it, poor boy! You look so hungry," she said. "Do take it!" But the
door was shut again upon a sharp cry of pain; the headstrong little girl
had cut her wrist with the knife.

In a little, John Halifax went across and picked up the slice of bread
which had fallen on the doorstep. At the best of times, wheaten bread
was then a dainty to the poor, and perhaps the Cornish lad had not
tasted a morsel of it for months.

Phineas, from the moment he had set eyes on John, liked the lad, and
living a very lonely life, with no playfellows and no friends of his own
age, he longed to be friends with this strong-looking, honest youth who
had come so suddenly into his life, while John had been so tender in
helping Phineas home that the Quaker boy felt sure he would make a
worthy friend.

It later appeared that John had heard of his own father as a sad, solemn
sort of man, much given to reading. He had been described to him as "a
scholar and a gentleman," and John had determined that he, too, would be
a scholar and a gentleman. He was only an infant when his father died,
and his mother, left very poor, had a sore struggle until her own death,
when the boy was only eleven years old. Since then the lonely lad had
been wandering about the country getting odd jobs at farms; at other
times almost starving.

Thus had he wandered to Norton Bury; and now, thanks to Phineas, Mr.
Fletcher gave him a job at the tannery, although at first the worthy
Quaker was not altogether sure of John's character.

Soon, however, the two lads were fast friends, and spent much of their
time together. John Halifax could read, but he had not yet learnt to
write; so Phineas became his friendly tutor, and repaid his devotion by
teaching him all he knew.

The years wore away, John Halifax labouring faithfully, if not always
contentedly, in the tannery; and in time, old Mr. Fletcher finding him
worthy of the highest trust, John came to be manager of the business,
and to live in the house of his master. In knowledge, too, he had grown,
for Phineas had proved a good tutor, and John so apt a pupil that before
long Phineas confessed that John knew more than himself.


_II.--Ursula March_


It happened that John and Phineas were spending the summer days at the
rural village of Enderley, where they lived at Rose Cottage. Enderley
was not far from Norton Bury, and every day John rode there to look
after the tannery and the flour-mill which had recently been added to
Mr. Fletcher's now flourishing business.

This Rose Cottage was really two houses, in one of which the young men
lived while an invalid gentleman and his daughter occupied the other.
John Halifax had noted this young lady in his walks across the breezy
downs, and thought her the sweetest creature he had seen. Later, when he
got to know that her name was Ursula, he was thrilled with happy
memories of the little girl who had thrown him the slice of bread, for
he had heard her called by that same name. He wondered if this might be
she grown into a young woman.

Ere long he came to know his pretty neighbour, to companion her in rural
walks. No artist ever painted a more attractive picture than these two
made stepping briskly across the wind-swept uplands; she with her
sparkling dark eyes, her great mass of brown curls escaping from her
hood, and John with his frank, ruddy face, and his fine, swinging, manly
figure.

Ursula's father, who had come here ailing, died at the cottage, and was
buried in Enderley churchyard. He had been the same Henry March whose
life John had saved years before when the Avon was in flood. He was
cousin to Squire Brithwood, who also owed his life to John on the same
occasion. Unhappily, Ursula's fortune was left in the keeping of that
highly undesirable person.

John was very sad at the thought of Ursula leaving the cottage for the
squire's home at Mythe House, for he knew that she had been happier
there in the sweet country retreat than she would ever be in the
ill-conducted household of her guardian. She, too, had regrets at the
thought of going, as John and she had become fast friends. He told her
that Mr. Brithwood would probably deny his right to be considered a
friend of hers, and would not allow his claim to be thought a gentleman,
though a poor one.

"It is right," he pursued, on her expression of surprise, "that you
should know who and what I am to whom you are giving the honour of your
kindness. Perhaps you ought to have known before; but here at Enderley
we seem to be equals--friends."

"I have indeed felt it so."

"Then you will the sooner pardon my not telling you--what you never
asked, and I was only too ready to forget--that we are _not_ equals--
that is, society would not regard us as such, and I doubt if even you
yourself would wish us to be friends."

"Why not?"

"Because you are a gentlewoman, and I am a tradesman."

She sat--the eyelashes drooping over her flushed cheeks--perfectly
silent. John's voice grew firmer, prouder; there was no hesitation now.

"My calling is, as you will hear at Norton Bury, that of a tanner. I am
apprentice to Abel Fletcher, Phineas's father."

"Mr. Fletcher!" She looked up at him, with a mingled look of kindliness
and pain.

"Ay, Phineas is a little less beneath your notice than I am. He is rich,
and has been well educated; I have had to educate myself. I came to
Norton Bury six years ago--a beggar-boy. No, not quite so bad as that,
for I never begged. I either worked or starved."

The earnestness, the passion of his tone made Miss March lift her eyes,
but they fell again.

"Yes, Phineas found me starving in an alley. We stood in the rain
opposite the mayor's house. A little girl--you know her, Miss March--
came to the door and threw out to me a bit of bread."

Now indeed she started. "You! Was that you?"

John paused, and his whole manner changed into softness as he resumed.

"I never forgot that little girl. Many a time when I was inclined to do
wrong, she kept me right--the remembrance of her sweet face and her
kindness."

That face was pressed against the sofa where she sat. Miss March was all
but weeping.

"I am glad to have met her again," he went on, "and glad to have been
able to do her some small good in return for the infinite good she once
did me. I shall bid her farewell now, at once, and altogether."

A quick, involuntary turn of the hidden face seemed to ask him "Why?"

"Because," John said, "the world says we are not equals; and it would be
neither for Miss March's honour nor mine did I try to force upon it the
truth--which I may prove openly one day--that we _are_ equals."

Miss March looked up at him--it were hard to say with what expression,
of pleasure, of pride, or simple astonishment; perhaps a mingling of
all; then her eyelids fell. Her left arm was hanging over the sofa, the
scar being visible enough. John took the hand, and pressed his lips to
the place where the wound had been.

"Poor little hand--blessed little hand!" he murmured. "May God bless it
evermore!"


_III.--The Rise of John Halifax_


After John Halifax had returned to Norton Bury he was seized with fever,
and for a time his recovery seemed doubtful. In his delirium he called
aloud for Ursula, and dreamed that she had come to sit with him, asking
him to live for her sake. Phineas, in his anxiety for his friend,
brought Ursula to him, and the dream came true, for she did ask him to
live for her sake.

Not long after his recovery John Halifax became Mr. Fletcher's partner.
Going to London on behalf of the business, he met there the great
statesman, Mr. Pitt, who was impressed with the natural abilities of the
young man. John's reputation for honesty and sound commonsense had now
grown so great at Norton Bury that when he returned there he found
himself one of the most respected men in the town.

Although still far from being rich, he was no longer a poor worker, and
as Ursula was willing to share his life, they boldly determined to be
married, in spite of her guardian, who asserted that John would never
touch a penny of Ursula's fortune. They contrived, however, to be happy
without it, for he refused to go to law to recover his wife's money, and
was determined he would work honestly to support her.

With the death of old Mr. Fletcher, however, came misfortune, for it was
found that the tannery was no longer a paying property, and there were
only the mills to go on with. At this time Ursula's relative, Lord
Luxmore, who was anxious to see the Catholic Emancipation Bill passed,
thought he could use John Halifax for his purpose by offering to get him
returned to parliament for the "rotten borough" of Kingswell, the member
for which was then elected by only fifteen voters. Twelve of these were
tenants of Lord Luxmore, and the other three of Phineas. But although
John would have supported the Bill, he was too honest to let himself be
elected for a "rotten borough." So he declined, and Luxmore next tried
to win him over by offering the lease of some important cloth-mills he
owned; but these he would not take on credit, and he had no money to pay
for them.

At this juncture, Ursula told Luxmore about the behaviour of his kinsman
Brithwood, with the result that his lordship went to Brithwood and made
him turn over the money to her. When John now purchased the lease of the
mills, his lordship thought that he had secured him firmly, and that
Halifax would use his great and growing influence with the people of the
district to further Luxmore's political schemes.

While all this was going on, young Lord Ravenel, the son and heir of
Luxmore, had been a constant visitor at the Halifax home, and delighted
in the company of John's daughter. Halifax had now three children: two
boys, named Guy and Edmund, and Muriel, who, alas! had been born blind.
Perhaps on account of her infirmity she had been the pet of her parents;
but she was of a gentle nature, and was beautiful to look upon, even
with her sightless eyes.

The time for the election of the member for Kingswell had come round,
and as Luxmore had failed to induce John Halifax to stand, he put up a
pliable nominee. But he was greatly mistaken in supposing that John
would use his influence to make the handful of voters, most of whom were
employed in his mills, vote for Luxmore's man. Instead of that, Halifax
advised them to be honest, and vote as they thought right; with the
result that Luxmore promptly evicted them from their homes. But John
found new homes for them.

As his riches increased, he bought a stately country mansion, named
Beechwood, not far from Rose Cottage, ever dear in memory to him.
Another son, Walter, was born there, and everything seemed to smile on
him in his beautiful country home. Luxmore now sought to injure him by
diverting the water from his cloth-mills, and leaving his great wheels
idle. Halifax could have taken him to law; but, instead of that, he set
up a strange, new-fangled thing, called a steam-engine; and his mills
did better than ever.

Finding it useless to fight against the resourceful Halifax, Luxmore
went abroad, and left his son, Lord Ravenel, alone at Luxmore Hall. The
young man, despite his father's unfriendly conduct, was still a frequent
visitor at Beechwood, and when poor Muriel died, his grief at her loss
was only less than that of her parents.

The years passed by, and happiness still reigned at Beechwood; but
Ravenel had deserted them, until one day John Halifax met him, greatly
changed from the gentle youth of the past, at Norton Bury. John invited
him to ride over with him to Enderley.

"Enderly? How strange the word sounds! Yet I should like to see the
place again," said Ravenel, who decided to accompany John Halifax and
Phineas Fletcher in their drive back to Beechwood. He inquired kindly
for all the family, and was told that Guy and Walter were as tall as
himself, while the daughter----

"Your daughter?" said his lordship, with a start. "Oh, yes; I
recollect--Baby Maud! Is she at all like--like----"

"No," said John Halifax. Neither said more than this; but it seemed as
if their hearts warmed to one another, knitted by the same tender
remembrance.


_IV.--The Journey's End_


Lord Ravenel had returned to reside again at Luxmore Hall, and his
visits to Beechwood became as regular as they had been in the old days
at the Halifax home, when Muriel was alive. It was the society of Maud
in which his lordship now delighted, though he never forgot the serene
and happy days he had spent with her blind sister.

Before long, Lord Ravenel sought to be regarded as suitor for the hand
of Maud, who would thus have become the future Countess of Luxmore. He
said that he would wait two years for her, if her father wished it; but
John Halifax would make him no promise, and urged him rather to
endeavour first to become a more worthy man, so that he might redeem the
evil reputation which the conduct of his own father had brought upon the
name of Luxmore.

"Do you recognise what you were born to be?" said Halifax to him. "Not
only a nobleman, but a gentleman; not only a gentleman, but a man--man
made in the image of God. Would to heaven that any poor word of mine
could make you feel all that you are--and all that you might be!"

"You mean, Mr. Halifax, what I might have been--now it is too late."

"There is no such word as 'too late' in the wide world--nay, not in the
universe."

Lord Ravenel for a time sat silent; then he rose to go, and thanked Mrs.
Halifax for all her kindness in a voice choked with emotion.

"For your husband, I owe him more than kindness, as perhaps I may prove
some day; if not, try to believe the best of me you can. Good-bye!"

It was not many weeks after this that the old Earl of Luxmore died in
France, and it then became known that his son, who now succeeded to the
title, had voluntarily given up his claims on the estate in order to pay
the heavy debts of his worthless father.

The home at Beechwood had lost another inmate--for Edmund was now
married--when Guy, first going to Paris, had later sailed for America.
Years passed by, and he became a successful merchant in Boston, and then
one day he wrote home to say he was coming back to the Old Country, and
was bringing with him his partner.

The ship in which Guy and his friend sailed from America was wrecked,
and Ursula, in her grief at the supposed loss of her eldest son, seemed
to be wearing away, when one day a strange gentleman stood in the
doorway--tall, brown, and bearded--and asked to see Miss Halifax. Maud
just glanced at him, then rose, and said somewhat coldly, "Will you be
seated?"

"Maud, don't you know me? Where is my mother?"

The return of the son whom she had given up for dead brought joy again
to the heart of Ursula, and her health seemed to revive, but it was
clear that her days were now uncertain. Scarcely less than the delight
in Guy's return was the discovery that his partner was none other than
the new Earl of Luxmore, who, as plain Mr. William Ravenel, had by his
life in America proved John Halifax was right when he said it was not
too late for him to model his life on lines of true manliness. He had,
indeed, become all that John had desired of him--a man and a
gentleman--so that Maud was, after all, to be the Countess of Luxmore.

But the days of John Halifax himself were now drawing to a close, and he
was not without premonitions of his end; for in his talks with Phineas
Fletcher, who had remained his faithful companion all these years, he
spoke as one would speak of a new abode, an impending journey. Death
came to him very gently one day at sunset, just after he had smiled to
Phineas, when his old friend, looking towards Lord Luxmore and his
future bride, who were with a group of the young people, had said, "I
think sometimes, John, that William and Maud will be the happiest of all
the children."

He smiled at this, and a little later seemed to be asleep; but when Maud
came up and spoke to him, he was dead. While he was sleeping thus, the
Master had called him. His sudden end was so great a shock to the frail
life of Ursula, that when they buried John Halifax in the pretty
Enderley churchyard they laid to rest with him his wife of three-and-
thirty years, who had been a widow but for a few hours.

       *       *       *       *       *



GEORGE CROLY


Salathiel, or Tarry Thou Till I Come!

      George Croly, the author of "Salathiel," was born at Dublin
     on August 17, 1780, and became a clergyman of the Church of
     England. After a short time as curate in the north of Ireland
     he came to London and devoted himself chiefly to literary
     pursuits. In 1835 he was presented to the valuable living of
     St. Stephen's, Walbrook, London, by Lord Brougham, where his
     eloquent preaching attracted large congregations. It was a
     saying among Americans of the period, "Be sure and hear
     Croly!" Croly was a scholar, an orator, and a man of
     incredible energy. Poems, biographies, dramas, sermons,
     novels, satires, magazine articles, newspaper leaders, and
     theological works were dashed off by his facile pen; and,
     according to Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, he was great in
     conversation. Croly's _chef d'oeuvre_ is "Salathiel," which,
     published in 1829, created a prodigious sensation, Salathiel
     being the character better known as the Wandering Jew. The
     description of the fall of Jerusalem is a wonderful piece of
     sustained eloquence, hardly to be squalled in romantic
     writings. Croly died on November 24, 1860.


_I.--Immortality on Earth_


"_Tarry thou till I come_!" The words shot through me. I felt them like
an arrow in my heart. The troops, the priests, the populace, the world,
passed from before my senses like phantoms.

Every fibre of my frame quivers as I still hear the echo of the anathema
that sprang first from my furious lips, the self-pronounced ruin, the
words of desolation, "His blood be upon us, and our children!"

But in the moment of my exultation I was stricken. He who had refused an
hour of life to the victim was, in terrible retribution, condemned to
know the misery of life interminable. I heard through all the voices of
Jerusalem--I should have heard through all the thunders of heaven, the
calm, low voice, "Tarry thou till I come!"

I felt at once my fate. I sprang away through the shouting hosts as if
the avenging angel waved his sword above my head. I was never to know
the shelter of the grave! Immortality on earth! The perpetual compulsion
of existence in a world made for change! I was to survive my country.
Wife, child, friend, even to the last being with whom my heart could
imagine a human bond, were to perish in my sight. I was to know no limit
to the weight already crushing me. The guilt of life upon life, the
surges of an unfathomable ocean of crime were to roll in eternal
progress over my head. Immortality on earth!

Overwhelmed with despair, I rushed through Jerusalem, crowded with
millions come to the Passover, and made my way through the Gate of Zion
to the open country and the mountains that were before me, like a
barrier shutting out the living world. There, as I lay in an agony of
fear, my soul seemed to be whirled on the wind into the bosom of a
thundercloud. I felt the weight of the rolling vapours. I saw a blaze. I
was stunned by a roar that shook the firmament.

When I recovered it was to hear the trumpet which proclaims that the
first daily sacrifice is to be offered. I was a priest; this day's
service fell to me; I dared not shrink from the duty which appalled me!
Humanity drove me first to my home, where to my unspeakable relief I
found my wife and child happy and unharmed; then I went to the Temple,
and began my solemn duties. I was at the altar, the Levite at my side
holding the lamb, when suddenly in rushed the high priest, his face
buried in the folds of his cloak, and, grasping the head of the lamb, he
snatched the knife from the Levite, plunged it into the animal's throat,
and ran with bloody hands and echoing groans to the porch of the Holy
House. I hastened up the steps after him, and entered the sanctuary.
But--what I saw there I have no power to tell. Words were not made to
utter it. Before me moved things mightier than of mortal vision,
thronging shapes of terror, mysterious grandeur, essential power,
embodied prophecy. On the pavement lay the high priest, his lips
strained wide, his whole frame rigid and cold as a corpse. And the Veil
was rent in twain!

Fleeing from the Temple, I came into a world of black men. The sun,
which I had seen like a fiery buckler hanging over the city, was utterly
gone. As I looked into this unnatural night, the thought smote me that I
had brought this judgment on the Holy City, and I formed the
determination to fly from my priesthood, my kindred, and my country, and
to bear my doom in some barren wilderness.

I ran from the Temple, where priests clung together in pale terror,
found my wife and child, and bore them away through the panic-stricken
city. As we journeyed a yell of universal terror made me turn my eyes to
Jerusalem. A large sphere of fire shot through the heavens, casting a
pallid illumination on the myriads below. It stopped above the city, and
exploded in thunder, flashing over the whole horizon, but covering the
Temple with a blaze which gave it the aspect of metal glowing in a
furnace. Every pillar and pinnacle was seen with a lurid and terrible
distinctness. The light vanished. I heard the roar of earthquake; the
ground rose and heaved under my feet. I heard the crash of buildings,
the fall of fragments of the hills and, louder than both, the groans of
the multitude. The next moment the earth gave way, and I was caught up
in a whirlwind of dust and ashes.


_II.--The Son of Misfortune_


It was in Samaria I woke. Miriam, my wife, was at my side. A troop of
our kinsmen, returning from the city, where terror suffered few to
remain, had discovered us, and brought us with them on their journey.

On this pilgrimage to Naphtali, my native home, my absence from prayer
and my sadness struck all our kinsmen; and Eleazer, brother of Miriam,
questioned me thereon. In my bitterness I said to him that I had
renounced my career among the rulers of Israel. Instead of anger or
surprise, his face expressed joy. He pointed out to me the tomb of
Isaiah, to which we were approaching. "There lies," said he, "the heart
which neither the desert nor the dungeon, nor the teeth of the lion, nor
the saw of Manasseh could tame--the denouncer of our crimes, the scourge
of our apostasy, the prophet of that desolation which was to bow the
grandeur of Judah to the grave."

He drew a copy of the Scriptures from his bosom, and read the famous
Haphtorah. "Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the
Lord revealed? For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as
a root out of a dry ground; he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we
shall see him, there is no beauty, that we should desire him. He is
despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows!" He stopped, laid his
hand upon my arm, and asked, "Of whom hath the prophet spoken? Him that
_is to come_, still _to come?_" Then he left me.

Some years passed away; the burden remained upon my soul. One day, as I
dwelt among my kinsmen in Naphtali, I was watching a great storm, when
suddenly there stood before me a spirit, accursed and evil, Epiphanes,
one of those spirits of the evil dead who are allowed from time to time
to reappear on earth.

"Power you shall have, and hate it," he announced; "wealth and life, and
hate them. You shall be the worm among a nation of worms--you shall be
steeped in poverty to the lips--you shall undergo the bitterness of
death, until----Come," he cried suddenly, "son of misfortune, emblem
of the nation, that living shall die, and dying shall live; that,
trampled by all, shall trample on all; that, bleeding from a thousand
wounds, shall be unhurt; that, beggared, shall wield the wealth of
nations; that, without a name, shall sway the council of kings; that,
without a city, shall inhabit in all the kingdoms; that, scattered like
the dust, shall be bound together like the rock; that, perishing by the
sword, chain, famine, and fire, shall be imperishable, unnumbered,
glorious as the stars of heaven."

I was caught up and swept towards Jerusalem. It was the twilight of a
summer evening. Town and wall lay bathed in a sea of purple; the Temple
rose from its centre like an island of light; the host of Heaven came
riding up the blue fields alone; all was the sweetness, calm, and
splendour of a painted vision. As the night deepened, a murmur from the
city caught my ear; it grew loud, various, wild; it was soon mixed with
the clash of arms; trumpets rang, torches blazed along battlements and
turrets; the roar of battle rose, deepened into cries of agony, swelled
into furious exultation. "Behold," said the possessed, "these are but
the beginnings of evil!" I looked up; the spirit was gone. In another
minute I was plunging into the valley, and rushing forward to the
battle.

From that moment I became a chieftain of Israel, and as Prince of
Naphtali led my people against the legions of Rome. I came to be a
priest, I became a captain. I was ever in the midst of battle; I was
cast into dungeons; brought to the cross; cast among lions; shipwrecked,
driven out to sea on a blazing trireme; accused before Nero and Titus;
exposed a thousand times to death; and yet ever at the extreme moment
some mysterious hand interfered between my life and its destruction. I
could not die.


_III.--The Abomination of Desolation_


And through all these awful years of incessant warfare I was now lifted
up on a wave of victory to heights of dazzling glory, and now plunged
down into the abysm of defeat. I saw my wife and children torn from me;
restored, only to be dragged away again. I saw Rome driven from the Holy
City, only to see her return in triumph. And all through these maddening
vicissitudes, suspected by my own people, and knowing my own infamy, I
heard the voice, "Tarry thou till I come!"

The fall of our illustrious and unhappy city was supernatural. During
the latter days of the siege, a hostility, to which that of man was as
the grain of sand to the tempest that drives it on, overpowered our
strength and senses. Fearful shapes and voices in the air; visions
startling us from our short and troubled sleep; lunacy in its most
hideous forms; sudden death in the midst of vigour; the fury of the
elements let loose upon our unsheltered heads; we had every evil and
terror that could beset human nature, but pestilence, the most probable
of all in a city crowded with the famishing, the diseased, the wounded,
and the dead. Yet, though the streets were covered with the unburied;
though every wall and trench was teeming; though six hundred thousand
corpses lay flung over the ramparts, and naked to the sun--pestilence
came not. But the abomination of desolation, the pagan standard, was
fixed; where it was to remain until the plough passed over the ruins of
Jerusalem.

On this fatal night no man laid his head upon his pillow. Heaven and
earth were in conflict. Meteors burned above us; the ground shook under
our feet; the volcano blazed; the wind burst forth in irresistible
blasts, and swept the living and the dead in whirlwinds far off into the
desert. Thunder pealed from every quarter of the heavens. Lightning, in
immense sheets, withering eye and soul, burned from the zenith to the
ground, and marked its track by forests on flame, and the shattered
summits of hills.

Defence was unthought of; for the mortal enemy had passed from the mind.
Our hearts quaked from fear, but it was to see the powers of heaven
shaken. All cast away the shield and the spear, and crouched before the
descending judgment. Our cries of remorse, anguish, and horror were
heard through the uproar of the storm. We howled to the caverns to hide
us; we plunged into the sepulchres, to escape the wrath that consumed
the living.

I knew the cause, the unspeakable cause; knew that the last hour of
crime was at hand. A few fugitives, astonished to see one man not sunk
into the lowest feebleness of fear, besought me to lead them into
safety. I said they were to die, and pointed them to the hallowed ground
of the Temple. More, I led them towards it myself. But advance was
checked. Piles of cloud, whose darkness was palpable even in the
midnight, covered the holy hill. I attempted to pass through it, and was
swept downward by a gust that tore the rocks in a flinty shower around
me.

While I lay helpless, I heard the whirlwind roar through the cloudy
hill; and the vapours began to revolve. A pale light, like that of the
rising moon, quivered on their edges; and the clouds rose, and rapidly
shaped themselves into the forms of battlements and towers. Voices were
heard within, low and distant, yet strangely sweet. Still the lustre
brightened, and the airy building rose, tower on tower, and battlement
on battlement. In awe we knelt and gazed upon this more than mortal
architecture. It stood full to earth and heaven, the colossal image of
the first Temple. All Jerusalem saw the image; and the shout that, in
the midst of their despair, ascended from its thousands and tens of
thousands told what proud remembrances were there. But a hymn was heard,
that might have hushed the world. Never fell on mortal ear sound so
majestic and subduing, so full of melancholy and grandeur and command.
The vast portal opened, and from it marched a host such as man had never
seen before, such as man shall never see but once again; the guardian
angels of the city of David! They came forth glorious, but with woe in
their steps, tears flowing down their celestial beauty. "Let us go
hence," was their song of sorrow. "Let us go hence," was announced by
the echoes of the mountains.

The procession lingered on the summit. The thunder pealed, and they rose
at the command, diffusing waves of light over the expanse of heaven.
Then the thunder roared again; the cloudy temple was scattered on the
winds; and darkness, the omen of her grave, settled upon Jerusalem.


_IV.--The Hour of Doom_


I was roused by the voice of a man. "What!" said he, "poring over the
faces of dead men, when you should be foremost among the living? All
Jerusalem in arms, and yet you scorn your time to gain laurels?" I
sprang up, and drew my scimitar, for the man was--Roman.

"You should know me," he said calmly; "it is some years since we met,
but we have not been often asunder."

"Are you not a Roman?" I exclaimed. He denied that nationality, and
offered me his Roman trappings, cuirass and falchion, saying they would
help me to money, riot, violence, and vice in the doomed city; "and,"
said he, "what else do nine-tenths of mankind ask for in their souls?"

He tore his helmet from his forehead, and, with a start of inward pain,
flung it to a measureless distance in the air. I beheld--Epiphanes! "I
told you," he said, "that this day would come. One grand hope was given
to your countrymen; they cast it from them! Ages on ages shall pass
before they learn the loftiness of that hope, or fulfill the punishment
of that rejection. Yet, in the fullness of time, light shall break upon
their darkness. They shall ask: Why are barbarians and civilised alike
our oppressors? Why do contending faiths join in crushing us alone? Why
do realms, distant as the ends of the earth, unite in scorn of us?"

"Man of terrible knowledge," I demanded, "tell me for what crime this
judgment comes?"

"There is no name for it," he said, with solemn fear.

"Is there no hope?" said I, trembling.

"Look to that mountain," was the answer, as he pointed to Moriah. "It is
now covered with war and slaughter. But upon that mountain shall yet be
enthroned a Sovereign, before whom the sun shall hide his head. From
that mountain shall light flow to the ends of the universe, and the
government shall be of the everlasting."

In a few minutes he had carried me to the city, placed me on a
battlement, and had disappeared.

Below me war raged in its boundless fury. The Romans had forced their
way; the Jews were fighting like wild beasts. When the lance was broke,
the knife was the weapon; when the knife failed, they tore with their
hands and teeth. But the Romans advanced against all. They advanced till
they were near the inner temple. A scream of wrath and agony at the
possible profanation of the Holy of Holies rose from the multitude. I
leaped from the battlement, called upon Israel to follow me, and drove
the Romans back.

But Jerusalem was marked for ruin. A madman, prophesying the succour of
heaven, prevented Israel from surrendering, and thus saving the Temple.
Infuriated by his words, the populace kept up the strife, and the Temple
burst into flames. The fire sprang through the roof, and the whole of
its defenders, to the number of thousands, sank into the conflagration.
In another minute the inner temple was on fire. I rushed forward, and
took my post before the veil of the portico, to guard the entrance with
my blood.

But the legions rushed onward, crying that "they were led by the Fates,"
and that "the God of the Jews had given his people and city into their
hands." The torrent was irresistible. Titus rushed in at its head,
exclaiming that "the Divinity alone could have given the stronghold into
his power, for it was beyond the hope and strength of man." My
companions were torn down. I was forced back to the veil of the Holy of
Holies. I longed to die! I fought, I taunted, covered from head to foot
in gore. I remained without a wound.

Then came a new enemy--fire. I heard its roar round the sanctuary. The
Romans fled to the portal. A wall of fire stood before them. They rushed
back, tore down the veil, and the Holy of Holies stood open.

The blaze melted the plates of the roof in a golden shower above me. It
calcined the marble floor; it dissipated in vapour the inestimable gems
that studded the walls. All who entered lay turned to ashes. But on the
sacred Ark the flame had no power. It whirled and swept in a red orb
round the untouched symbol of the throne of thrones. Still I lived; but
I felt my strength giving way--the heat withered my sinews, the flame
extinguished my sight. I sank upon the threshold, rejoicing that death
was inevitable. Then, once again, I heard the words of terror. "Tarry
thou till I come!" The world disappeared before me.


_V.--The Pilgrim of Time_


Here I pause. I had undergone that portion of my career which was to be
passed among my people. My life as father, husband, citizen, was at an
end. Thenceforth I was to be a solitary man. I was to make my couch with
the savage, the outcast, and the slave. I was to see the ruin of the
mighty and the overthrow of empires. Yet, in the tumult that changed the
face of the world, I was still to live and be unchanged.

In revenge for the fall of Jerusalem, I traversed the globe to seek out
an enemy of Rome. I found in the northern snows a man of blood; I
stirred up the soul of Alaric, and led him to the sack of Rome. In
revenge for the insults heaped upon the Jew by the dotards and dastards
of the city of Constantine, I sought out an instrument of compendious
ruin. I found him in the Arabian sands, and poured ambition into the
soul of Mecca. In revenge for the pollution of the ruins of the Temple,
I roused the iron tribes of the West, and at the head of the Crusaders
expelled the Saracens. I fed full on revenge, and fed the misery of
revenge.

A passion for human fame seized me. I drew my sword for Italy;
triumphed, was a king, and learned to curse the hour when I first
dreamed of fame. A passion for gold seized me. Wealth came to my wish,
and to my torment. Days and nights of misery were the gift of avarice.
In my passion I longed for regions where the hand of man had never
rifled the mine. I found a bold Genoese, and led him to the discovering
of a new world. With its metals I inundated the old; and to my misery
added the misery of two hemispheres.

Yet the circle of passion was not to surround my fated steps for ever.
Noble aspirations rose in my melancholy heart. I had seen the birth of
true science, true liberty, and true wisdom. I had lived with Petrarch,
stood enraptured beside the easel of Angelo and Raphael. I had stood at
Maintz, beside the wonder-working machine that makes knowledge
imperishable, and sends it with winged speed through the earth. At the
pulpit of the mighty man of Wittenberg I had knelt; Israelite as I was,
and am, I did involuntary homage to the mind of Luther.

At this hour I see the dawn of things to whose glory the glory of the
past is but a dream. But I must close these thoughts, wandering as the
steps of my pilgrimage. I have more to tell--strange, magnificent, and
sad. But I must await the impulse of my heart.

       *       *       *       *       *



RICHARD HENRY DANA


Two Years Before the Mast

      Richard Henry Dana was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on
     August 1, 1815. He was the son of the American poet who, with
     W.C. Bryant, founded "The North American Review," and grandson
     of Francis Dana, for some time United States Minister to
     Russia, and afterwards Chief Justice of Massachusetts. Young
     Dana entered Harvard in 1832, but being troubled with an
     affection of the eyes, shipped as a common sailor on board an
     American merchant vessel, and made a voyage round Cape Horn to
     California and back. His experiences are embodied in his "Two
     Years Before the Mast," which was published in 1840, about
     three years after his return, when he had graduated at
     Harvard, and in the year in which he was admitted to the
     Massachusetts Bar. His best known work gives a vivid account
     of life at sea in the days of the old sailing ships, touches
     sympathetically on the hardships of the seafaring life, which
     its publication helped to ameliorate, and affords also an
     intimate glimpse of California when it was still a province of
     Mexico. "If," he writes, "California ever becomes a prosperous
     country, this--San Francisco--bay will be the centre of its
     prosperity." He died at Rome on January 7, 1882.


_I.--Life on a Merchantman_


On August 14 the brig Pilgrim left Boston for a voyage round Cape Horn
to the western coast of America. I made my appearance on board at twelve
o'clock with an outfit for a two or three years' voyage, which I had
undertaken from a determination to cure, if possible, by an entire
change of life, and by a long absence from books and study, a weakness
of the eyes.

The vessel got under way early in the afternoon. I joined the crew, and
we hauled out into the stream, and came to anchor for the night. The
next day we were employed in preparations for sea. On the following
night I stood my first watch. During the first few days we had bad
weather, and I began to feel the discomforts of a sailor's life. But I
knew that if I showed any sign of want of spirit or of backwardness, I
should be ruined at once. So I performed my duties to the best of my
ability, and after a time I felt somewhat of a man. I cannot describe
the change which half a pound of cold salt beef and a biscuit or two
produced in me after having taken no sustenance for three days. I was a
new being.

As we had now a long "spell" of fine weather, without any incident to
break the monotony of our lives, there can be no better place to
describe the duties, regulations, and customs of an American
merchantman, of which ours was a fair specimen.

The captain is lord paramount. He stands no watch, comes and goes when
he pleases, is accountable to no one, and must be obeyed in everything.

The prime minister, the official organ, and the active and
superintending officer is the chief mate. The mate also keeps the
log-book, and has charge of the stowage, safe keeping, and delivery of
the cargo.

The second mate's is a dog's berth. The men do not respect him as an
officer, and he is obliged to go aloft to put his hands into the tar and
slush with the rest. The crew call him the "sailors' waiter," and he has
to furnish them with all the stuffs they need in their work. His wages
are usually double those of a common sailor, and he eats and sleeps in
the cabin; but he is obliged to be on deck nearly all his time, and eats
at the second table--that is, makes a meal out of what the captain and
the chief mate leave.

The steward is the captain's servant, and has charge of the pantry, from
which everyone, including the mate, is excluded. The cook is the patron
of the crew, and those who are in his favour can get their wet mittens
and stockings dried, or light their pipes at the galley in the night
watch. These two worthies, together with the carpenter and the
sailmaker, if there be one, stand no watch, but, being employed all day,
are allowed to "sleep in" at night, unless "all hands" are called.

The crew are divided into two watches. Of these the chief mate commands
the larboard, and the second mate the starboard, being on and off duty,
or on deck and below, every other four hours. The watch from 4 p.m. to 8
p.m. is divided into two half, or dog, watches. By this means they
divide the twenty-four hours into seven instead of six, and thus shift
the hours every night.

The morning commences with the watch on deck turning-to at daybreak, and
washing-down, scrubbing, and swabbing the decks. This, with filling the
"scuttle butt" with fresh water, and coiling up the rigging, usually
occupies the time until seven bells (half after seven), when all hands
get breakfast. At eight the day's work begins, and lasts until sundown,
with the exception of an hour for dinner. The discipline of the ship
requires every man to be at work upon something when he is up on deck,
except at night and on Sundays. No conversation is allowed among the
crew at their duty.

When I first left port, and found that we were kept regularly employed
for a week or two, I supposed that we were getting the vessel into
sea-trim, and that it would soon be over, and we should have nothing to
do but to sail the ship; but I found that it continued so for two years,
and at the end of two years there was as much to be done as ever. If,
after all the labour on sails, rigging, tarring, greasing, oiling,
varnishing, painting, scraping, scrubbing, watching, steering, reefing,
furling, bracing, making and setting sail, and pulling, hauling, and
climbing in every direction, the merchants and captains think the
sailors have not earned their twelve dollars a month, their salt beef
and hard bread, they keep them picking oakum--_ad infinitum_. The
Philadelphia catechism is

    Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thou art able,
    And on the seventh, holystone the decks and scrape the cable.

We crossed the Equator on October 1 and rounded Cape Horn early in
November. Monday, November 17, was a black day in our calendar. At seven
in the morning we were aroused from sleep by the cry of "All hands,
ahoy! A man overboard!" This unwonted cry sent a thrill through the
heart of everyone, and hurrying on deck we found the vessel hove flat
aback, with all her studding sails set; for the boy who was at the helm
left it to throw something overboard, and the carpenter, who was an old
sailor, knowing that the wind was light, put the helm down and hove her
aback. The watch on deck were lowering away the quarter-boat, and I got
on deck just in time to heave myself into her as she was leaving the
side. But it was not until out on the wide Pacific in our little boat
that I knew we had lost George Ballmer, a young English sailor, who was
prized by the officers as an active and willing seaman, and by the crew
as a lively, hearty fellow and a good shipmate.

He was going aloft to fit a strap round the main-topmast head for
ringtail halyards, and had the strap and block, a coil of halyards, and
a marlin spike about his neck. He fell, and not knowing how to swim, and
being heavily dressed, with all those things around his neck, he
probably sank immediately. We pulled astern in the direction in which he
fell, and though we knew that there was no hope of saving him, yet no
one wished to speak of returning, and we rowed about for nearly an hour,
unwilling to acknowledge to ourselves that we must give him up.

Death is at all times solemn, but never so much so as at sea; and the
effect of it remains upon the crew for some time. There is more kindness
shown by the officers, and by the crew to one another. The lost man is
seldom mentioned, or is dismissed with a sailor's rude eulogy, "Well,
poor George is gone! His cruise is up soon. He knew his work, and did
his duty, and was a good shipmate." We had hardly returned on board with
our sad report before an auction was held of the POOR man's clothes.


_II.--At the Ends of the Earth_


On Tuesday, November 25, we reached the Island of Juan Fernandez. We
were then probably seventy miles from it; and so high did it appear that
I took it for a cloud, until it gradually turned to a greener and deader
colour. By the afternoon the island lay fairly before us, and we
directed our course to the only harbour. Never shall I forget the
sensation which I experienced on finding myself once more surrounded by
land as I stood my watch at about three the following morning, feeling
the breeze coming off shore and hearing the frogs and crickets. To my
joy I was among the number ordered ashore to fill the water-casks. By
the morning of the 27th we were again upon the wide Pacific, and we saw
neither land nor sail again until, on January 13, 1835, we reached Point
Conception, on the coast of California. We had sailed well to the
westward, to have the full advantage of the north-east trades, and so
had now to sail southward to reach the port of Santa Barbara, where we
arrived on the 14th, after a voyage of 150 days from Boston.

At Santa Barbara we came into touch with other vessels engaged in
loading hides and tallow, and as this was the work in which we were soon
to be engaged, we looked on with some curiosity, especially at the
labours of the crew of the Ayacucho, who were dusky Sandwich Islanders.
And besides practice in landing on this difficult coast, we experienced
the difficulties involved in having suddenly to slip our cables and
then, when the weather allowed of it, coming to at our former moorings.
From this time until May 8, 1836, I was engaged in trading and loading,
drying and storing hides, between Santa Barbara, Monterey, San Pedro,
San Diego, San Juan, and San Francisco.

The ship California, belonging to the same firm, had been nearly two
years on the coast before she collected her full cargo of 40,000 hides.
Another vessel, the Lagoda, carrying 31,000 or 32,000, had been nearly
two years getting her cargo; and when it appeared that we were to
collect some 40,000 hides besides our own, which would be 12,000 or
15,000, the men became discontented. It was bad for others, but worse
for me, who did not mean to be a sailor for life. Three or four years
would make me a sailor in every respect, mind and habits as well as
body, and would put all my companions so far ahead of me that college
and a profession would be in vain to think of.

We were at the ends of the earth, in a country where there is neither
law nor gospel, and where sailors are at their captain's mercy. We lost
all interest in the voyage, cared nothing about the cargo, while we were
only collecting for others, began to patch our clothes, and felt as
though we were fixed beyond hope of change.


_III.--A Tyrannical Captain_


Apart from the incessant labour on board ship, at San Pedro we had to
roll heavy casks and barrels of goods up a steep hill, to unload the
hides from the carts at the summit, reload these carts with our goods,
cast the hides over the side of the hill, collect them, and take them on
board. After we had been employed in this manner for several days, the
captain quarrelled with the cook, had a dispute with the mate, and
turned his displeasure particularly against a large, heavy-moulded
fellow called Sam.

The man hesitated in his speech, and was rather slow in his motions, but
was a pretty good sailor, and always seemed to do his best. But the
captain found fault with everything he did. One morning, when the gig
had been ordered by the captain, Mr. Russell, an officer taken on at
Santa Barbara, John the Swede, and I heard his voice raised in violent
dispute with somebody. Then came blows and scuffling. Then we heard the
captain's voice down the hatchway.

"You see your condition! Will you ever give me any more of your jaw?"

No answer; and then came wrestling and heaving, as though the man was
trying to turn him.

"You may as well keep still, for I have got you!" said the captain, who
repeated his question.

"I never gave you any," said Sam, for it was his voice that we heard.

"That's not what I ask you. Will you ever be impudent to me again?"

"I never have been, sir," said Sam.

"Answer my question, or I'll make a spread-eagle of you!"

"I'm no negro slave!" said Sam.

"Then I'll make you one!" said the captain; and he came, to the
hatchway, sprang on deck, threw off his coat, and, rolling up his
sleeves, called out to the mate, "Seize that man up, Mr. A--! Seize him
up! Make a spread-eagle of him! I'll teach you all who is master
aboard!"

The crew and officers followed the captain up the hatchway, and after
repeated orders, the mate laid hold of Sam, who made no resistance, and
carried him to the gangway.

"What are you going to flog that man for, sir?" said John the Swede to
the captain.

Upon hearing this, the captain turned upon him, but knowing him to be
quick and resolute, he ordered the steward to bring the irons, and
calling upon Russell to help him, went up to John.

"Let me alone!" said John. "You need not use any force!" And putting out
his hands, the captain slipped the irons on, and sent him aft to the
quarter-deck.

Sam by this time was placed against the shrouds, his jacket off, and his
back exposed. The captain stood at the break of the deck, a few feet
from him, and a little raised, so as to have a swing at him, and held in
his hand the bight of a thick, strong rope. The officers stood round,
the crew grouped together in the waist. Swinging the rope over his head,
and bending his body so as to give it full force, the captain brought it
down upon the poor fellow's back. Once, twice, six times.

"Will you ever give me any more of your jaw?"

The man writhed with pain, but said not a word. Three times more. This
was too much, and he muttered something which I could not hear. This
brought as many more as the man could stand, when the captain ordered
him to be cut down and to go forward.

Then John the Swede was made fast. He asked the captain what he was to
be flogged for.

"Have I ever refused my duty, sir? Have you ever known me to hang back,
or to be insolent, or not to know my work?"

"No," said the captain. "I flog you for your interference--for asking
questions."

"Can't a man ask a question here without being flogged?"

"No!" shouted the captain. "Nobody shall open his mouth aboard this
vessel but myself!" And he began laying the blows upon the man's back.
As he went on his passion increased, and the man writhed under the pain.
My blood ran cold. When John had been cut down, Mr. Russell was ordered
to take the two men and two others in the boat, and pull the captain
ashore.

After the day's work was done we went down into the forecastle and ate
our supper, but not a word was spoken. The two men lay in their berths
groaning with pain, and a gloom was over everything. I vowed that if
ever I should have the means I would do something to redress the
grievances and relieve the sufferings of that poor class of beings of
whom I was then one.


_IV.--I Become a Hide-Curer_


The comfort of the voyage was evidently at an end, though I certainly
had some pleasant days on shore; and as we were continually engaged in
transporting passengers with their goods to and fro, in addition to
trading our assorted cargo of spirits, teas, coffee, sugars, spices,
raisins, molasses, hardware, crockery-ware, tinware, cutlery, clothing,
jewelry, and, in fact, everything that can be imagined from Chinese
fireworks to English cartwheels, we gained considerable knowledge of the
character, dress, and language of the people of California.

In the early part of May I was called upon to take up my quarters for a
few months at our hide-house at San Diego. In the twinkling of an eye I
was transformed into a beach-comber and hide-curer, but the novelty and
the comparative independence of the life were not unpleasant. My
companions were a Frenchman named Nicholas, and a boy who acted as cook;
Four Sandwich Islanders worked and ate with us, but generally slept at a
large oven which had been built by the men of a Russian discovery ship,
and was big enough to hold six or eight men. Mr. Russell, who was in
charge, had a small room to himself. On July 18 the Pilgrim returned
with news. Captain T------ had taken command of a larger vessel, the
Alert, and the owners, at the request of my friends, had written to
Captain T------ to take me on board should the Alert return to the
States before the Pilgrim.

On September 8, I found myself on board the new vessel, and with her
visited San Francisco, as well as other ports already named. Our crew
were somewhat diminished; we were short-handed for a voyage round Cape
Horn in the depth of winter, and so cramped and deadened was the Alert
by her unusually large cargo, and the weight of our five months stores,
that her channels were down in the water; while, to make matters even
more uncomfortable, the forecastle leaked, and in bad weather more than
half the berths were rendered tenantless. But "Never mind, we're
homeward bound!" was the answer to everything.

The crew included four boys, regarding two of whom an incident may here
be chronicled. There was a little boxing-match on board while we were at
Monterey in December. A broad-backed, big-headed Cape Cod boy, about
sixteen, had been playing the bully over a slender, delicate-looking boy
from one of the Boston schools. One day George (the Boston boy) said he
would fight Nat if he could have fair play. The chief mate heard the
noise, and attempted to make peace; but, finding it useless, called all
hands up, ranged the crew in the waist, marked a line on the deck,
brought the two boys up to it, and made them "toe the mark."

Nat put in his double-fisters, starting the blood, and bringing the
black-and-blue spots all over the face and arms of the other, whom we
expected to see give in every moment. But the more he was hurt the
better he fought. Time after time he was knocked nearly down, but up he
came again and faced the mark, as bold as a lion, again to take the
heavy blows, which sounded so as to make one's heart turn with pity for
him. At length he came up to the mark the last time, his shirt torn from
his body, his face covered with blood and bruises, and his eyes flashing
with fire, and swore he would stand there until one or the other was
killed.

And he set to like a young fury. "Hurrah in the bow!" said the men,
cheering him on. Nat tried to close with him, but the mate stopped that.
Nat then came up to the mark, but looked white about the mouth, and his
blows were not given with half the spirit of his first. He was evidently
cowed. He had always been master, and had nothing to gain and everything
to lose; whilst the other fought for honour and freedom, and under a
sense of wrong. It would not do. It was soon over. Nat gave in, not so
much beaten as cowed and mortified, and never afterwards tried to act
the bully on board.


_V.--An Adventurous Voyage Home_


By Sunday, June 19, we were in lat. 34° 15' S. and long. 116° 38' W.,
and bad weather prospects began to loom ahead. The days became shorter,
the sun gave less heat, the nights were so cold as to prevent our
sleeping on deck, the Magellan clouds were in sight of a clear night,
the skies looked cold and angry, and at times a long, heavy, ugly sea
set in from the southward. Being so deep and heavy, the ship dropped
into the seas, the water washing over the decks. Not yet within a
thousand miles of Cape Horn, our decks were swept by a sea not half so
high as we must expect to find there. Then came rain, sleet, snow, and
wind enough to take our breath from us. We were always getting wet
through, and our hands stiffened and numbed, so that the work aloft was
exceptionally difficult. By July 1 we were nearly up to the latitude of
Cape Horn, and the toothache with which I had been troubled for several
days had increased the size of my face, so that I found it impossible to
eat. There was no relief to be had from the impoverished medicine-chest,
and the captain refused to allow the steward to boil some rice for me.

"Tell him to eat salt junk and hard bread like the rest of them," he
said. But the mate, who was a man as well as a sailor, smuggled a pan of
rice into the galley, and told the cook to boil it for me, and not to
let the "old man" see it. Afterwards, I was ordered by the mate to stay
in my berth for two or three days.

It was not until Friday, July 22, that, having failed to make the
passage of the Straits of Magellan, we rounded the Cape, and, sighting
the island of Staten Land, stood to the northward, and ran for the
inside of the Falkland Islands. With a fine breeze we crowded on all the
canvas the ship would bear, and our "Cheerily, men," was given with a
chorus that might have been heard halfway to Staten Land. Once we were
to the northward of the Falklands, the sun rose higher in the horizon
each day, the nights grew shorter, and on coming on deck each morning
there was a sensible change in the temperature.

On the 20th of the month I stood my last helm, making between 900 and
1,000 hours at this work, and 135 days after leaving San Diego our
anchor was upon the bottom in Boston Harbour, and I had the pleasure of
being congratulated upon my return and my appearance of health and
strength.





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