Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 15, No. 86, February, 1875

by Various

THREE FEATHERS.

BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE."

CHAPTER XXIII. SOME OLD SONGS.

"Are you dreaming again, child?" said Mrs. Rosewarne to her daughter. "You are not a fit companion for a sick woman, who is herself dull enough. Why do you always look so sad when you look at the sea, Wenna?"

The wan-faced, beautiful-eyed woman lay on a sofa, a book beside her. She had been chatting in a bright, rapid, desultory fashion about the book and a dozen other things—amusing herself really by a continual stream of playful talk—until she perceived that the girl's fancies were far away. Then she stopped suddenly, with this expression of petulant but good-natured disappointment.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, mother," said Wenna, who was seated at an open window fronting the bay. "What did you say? Why does the sea make one sad? I don't know. One feels less at home here than out on the rocks at Eglosilyan: perhaps that is it. Or the place is so beautiful that it almost makes you cry. I don't know."

And indeed Penzance Bay on this still, clear morning was beautiful enough to attract wistful eyes and call up vague and distant fancies. The cloudless sky was intensely dark in its blue: one had a notion that the unseen sun was overhead and shining vertically down. The still plain of water—so clear that the shingle could be seen through it a long way out—had no decisive color, but the fishing smacks lying out there were jet-black points in the bewildering glare. The sunlight did not seem to be in the sky, in the air or on the sea; but when you turned to the southern arm of the bay, where the low line of green hills ran out into the water, there you could see the strong clear light shining—shining on the green fields and on the sharp black lines of hedges, on that bit of gray old town with its cottage-gardens and its sea-wall, and on the line of dark rock that formed the point of the promontory. On the other side of the bay the eye followed the curve of the level shores until it caught sight of St. Michael's Mount rising palely from the water, its sunlit grays and purple shadows softened by the cool distance. Then beyond that again, on the verge of the far horizon, lay the long and narrow line of the Lizard, half lost in a silver haze. For the rest, a cool wind went this way and that through Mrs. Rosewarne's room, stirring the curtains. There was an odor of the sea in the air. It was a day for dreaming perhaps, but not for the gloom begotten of languor and an indolent pulse.

"Oh, mother! oh, mother!" Wenna cried suddenly, with a quick flush of color to her cheeks, "do you know who is coming along? Can you see? It is Mr. Trelyon, and he is looking at all the houses: I know he is looking for us."

"Child! child!" said the mother. "How should Mr. Trelyon know we are here?"

"Because I told him," Wenna said simply and hurriedly. "Mother, may I wave a handkerchief to him? Won't you come and see him? he seems so much more manly in this strange place; and how brave and handsome he looks!"

"Wenna!" her mother said severely.

The girl did not wave a handkerchief, it is true, but she knelt down at the open bay-window, so that he must needs see her; and sure enough he did. Off went his hat in a minute, a bright look of recognition leapt to his eyes, and he crossed the street.

Then Wenna turned, all in a flutter of delight, and quite unconscious of the color in her face: "Are you vexed, mother? Mayn't I be glad to see him? Why, when I know that he will brighten up your spirits better than a dozen doctors? One feels quite happy and hopeful whenever he comes into the room. Mother, you won't have to complain of dullness if Mr. Trelyon comes to see you. And why doesn't the girl send him up at once?"

Wenna was standing at the open door to receive him when he came up stairs: she had wholly forgotten the embarrassment of their last parting.

"I thought I should find you out," he said when he came into the room, and it was clear that there was little embarrassment about him; "and I know how your mother likes to be teased and worried. You've got a nice place here, Mrs. Rosewarne; and what splendid weather you've brought with you!"

"Yes," said Wenna, her whole face lit up with a shy gladness, "haven't we? And did you ever see the bay looking more beautiful? It is enough to make you laugh and clap your hands out of mere delight to see everything so lovely and fresh."

"A few minutes ago I thought you were nearly crying over it," said the mother with a smile, but Miss Wenna took no heed of the reproof. She would have Mr. Trelyon help himself to a tumbler of claret and water. She fetched out from some mysterious lodging-house recess an ornamented tin can of biscuits. She accused herself of being the dullest companion in the world, and indirectly hinted that he might have pity on her mamma and stay to luncheon with them.

"Well, it's very odd," he said, telling a lie with great simplicity of purpose, "but I had arranged to drive to the Land's End for luncheon—to the inn there, you know. I suppose it wouldn't—Do you think, Mrs. Rosewarne—would it be convenient for you to come for a drive so far?"

"Oh, it would be the very best thing in the world for her—nothing could be better," said Wenna; and then she added meekly, "if it is not giving you too much trouble, Mr. Trelyon."

He laughed: "Trouble! I'm glad to be of use to anybody; and in this case I shall have all the pleasure on my side. Well, I'm off now to see about the horses. If I come for you in half an hour, will that do?"

As soon as he had left Mrs. Rosewarne turned to her daughter and said to her, gravely enough, "Wenna, one has seldom to talk to you about the proprieties, but really this seems just a little doubtful. Mr. Trelyon may make a friend of you—that is all very well, for you are going to marry a friend of his—but you ought not to expect him to associate with me."

"Mother," said Wenna with hot cheeks, "I wonder how you can suspect him of thinking of such foolish and wicked things. Why, he is the very last man in all the world to do anything that is mean and unkind, or to think about it."

"My dear child, I suspect him of nothing," Mrs. Rosewarne said; "but look at the simple facts of the case. Mr. Trelyon is a very rich gentleman; his family is an old one, greatly honored about here; and if he is so recklessly kind as to offer his acquaintanceship to persons who are altogether in a different sphere of life, we should take care not to abuse his kindness or to let people have occasion to wonder at him. Looking at your marriage and future station, it is perhaps more permissible with you; but as regards myself, I don't very much care, Wenna, to have Mr. Trelyon coming about the house."

"Why, mother, I—I am surprised at you!" Wenna said warmly. "You judge of him by the contemptible things that other people might say of him. Do you think he would care for that? Mr. Trelyon is a man, and like a man he has the courage to choose such friends as he likes; and it is no more to him what money they have or what their position is than the—than the shape of their pocket-handkerchiefs is. Perhaps that is his folly, recklessness—the recklessness of a young man. Perhaps it is. I am not old enough to know how people alter, but I hope I shall never see Mr. Trelyon alter in this respect—never, if he were to live for a hundred years. And—and I am surprised to hear you, of all people, mother, suggest such things of him. What has he done that you should think so meanly of him?"

Wenna was very indignant and hurt. She would have continued further, but that a tremulous movement of her under lip caused her to turn away her head.

"Well, Wenna, you needn't cry about it," her mother said gently. "It is of no great consequence. Of course every one must please himself in choosing his friends; and I quite admit that Mr. Trelyon is not likely to be hindered by anything that any person may say. Don't take it so much to heart, child: go and get on your things, and get back some of the cheerfulness you had while he was here. I will say this for the young man, that he has an extraordinary power of raising your spirits."

"You are a good mother, after all," said Wenna penitently; "and if you come and let me dress you prettily, I shall promise not to scold you again—not till the next time you deserve it."

By the time they drove away from Penzance the forenoon had softened into more beautiful colors. There was a paler blue in the sky and on the sea, and millions of yellow stars twinkled on the ripples. A faint haze had fallen over the bright green hills lying on the south of the bay.

"Life looks worth having on such a day as this," Trelyon said: "doesn't it, Miss Wenna?"

She certainly seemed pleased enough. She drank in the sweet fresh air; she called attention to the pure rare colors of the sea and the green uplands, the coolness of the woods through which they drove, the profuse abundance of wild flowers along the banks; all things around her seemed to have conspired to yield her delight, and a great happiness shone in her eyes. Mr. Trelyon talked mostly to Mrs. Rosewarne, but his eyes rarely wandered away for long from Wenna's pleased and radiant face; and again and again he said to himself, "And if a simple drive on a spring morning can give this child so great a delight, it is not the last that she and I shall have together."

"Mrs. Rosewarne," said he, "I think your daughter has as much need of a holiday as anybody. I don't believe there's a woman or girl in the county works as hard as she does."

"I don't know whether she needs it," said Miss Wenna of herself, "but I know that she enjoys it."

"I know what you'd enjoy a good deal better than merely getting out of sight of your own door for a week or two," said he. "Wouldn't you like to get clear away from England for six months, and go wandering about in all sorts of fine places? Why, I could take such a trip in that time! I should like to see what you'd say to some of the old Dutch towns and their churches, and all that; then Cologne, you know, and a sail up the Rhine to Mainz; then you'd go on to Bâle and Geneva, and we'd get you a fine big carriage, with the horses decorated with foxes' and pheasants' tails, to drive you to Chamounix. Then, when you had gone tremulously over the Mer de Glace, and kept your wits about you going down the Mauvais Pas, I don't think you could do better than go on to the Italian lakes—you never saw anything like them, I'll be bound—and Naples and Florence. Would you come back by the Tyrol, and have a turn at Zurich and Lucerne, with a long ramble through the Black Forest in a trap resembling a ramshackle landau?"

"Thank you," said Wenna very cheerfully. "The sketch is delightful, but I am pretty comfortable where I am."

"But this can't last," said he.

"And neither can my holidays," she answered.

"Oh, but they ought to," he retorted vehemently. "You have not half enough amusement in your life: that's my opinion. You slave too much for all those folks about Eglosilyan and their dozens of children. Why, you don't get anything out of life as you ought to. What have you to look forward to? Only the same ceaseless round of working for other people. Don't you think you might let some one else have a turn at that useful but monotonous occupation?"

"But Wenna has something else to look forward to now," her mother reminded him gently; and after that he did not speak for some while.

Fair and blue was the sea that shone all around the land when they got out on the rough moorland near the coast. They drove to the solitary little inn perched over the steep cliffs, and here the horses were put up and luncheon ordered. Would Mrs. Rosewarne venture down to the great rocks at the promontory? No, she would rather stay indoors till the young people returned; and so these two went along the grassy path themselves.

They clambered down the slopes, and went out among the huge blocks of weather-worn granite, many of which were brilliant with gray, green and orange lichens. There was a low and thunderous noise in the air: far below them, calm and fine as the day was, the summer sea dashed and roared into gigantic caverns, while the white foam floated out again on the troubled waves. Could anything have been more magical than the colors of the sea—its luminous greens, its rich purples, its brilliant blues, lying in long swaths on the apparently motionless surface? It was only the seething white beneath their feet and the hoarse thunder along the coast that told of the force of this summer-like sea; and for the rest the picture was light and calm and beautiful; but there the black rocks basked in the sunlight, the big skarts standing here and there on their ledges, not moving a feather. A small steamer was slowly making for the island farther out, where a lighthouse stood. And far away beyond these, on the remote horizon, the Scilly Isles lay like a low bank of yellow fog under the pale-blue skies.

They were very much by themselves out here at the end of the world, and yet they did not seem inclined to talk much. Wenna sat down on the warm grass; her companion perched himself on one of the blocks of granite; they watched the great undulations of the blue water come rolling on to the black rocks and then fall backward seething in foam.

"And what are you thinking about?" said Trelyon to her gently, so that she should not be startled.

"Of nothing at all: I am quite happy," Wenna said frankly. Then she added, "I suppose the worst of a day like this is that a long time after you look back upon it, and it seems so beautiful and far away that it makes you miserable. You think how happy you were once. That is the unfortunate side of being happy."

"Well," said he, "I must say you don't look forward to the future with any great hope if you think the recollection of one bright day will make you wretched."

He came down from his perch and stood beside her. "Why, Wenna," said he, "do you know what you really need? Some one to take you in hand thoroughly, and give you such an abundance of cheerful and pleasant days that you would never think of singling out any one of them. Why shouldn't you have weeks and months of happy idling in bright weather, such as lots of people have who don't deserve them a bit? There's something wrong in your position. You want some one to become your master and compel you to make yourself happy. You won't of yourself study your own comfort: some one else ought to make you."

"And who do you think would care to take so much trouble about me?" she said with a smile, for she attached no serious meaning to this random talk.

Her companion's face flushed somewhat—not with embarrassment, but with the courage of what he was going to say. "I would," he said boldly. "You will say it is none of my business, but I tell you I would give twenty thousand pounds to-morrow if I were allowed to—to get you a whole summer of pleasant holidays."

There was something about the plain-spoken honesty of this avowal that touched her keenly. Wild and impossible as the suggestion was, it told her at least what one person in the world thought of her. She said to him, with her eyes cast down, "I like to hear you speak like that—not for my own sake, but I know there is nothing generous and kindly that you wouldn't do at a mere moment's impulse. But I hope you don't think I have been grumbling over my lot on such a day as this? Oh no: I see too much of other people's way of living to complain of my own. I have every reason to be contented and happy."

"Yes, you're a deal too contented and happy," said he with an impatient shrug. "You want somebody to alter all that, and see that you get more to be contented and happy about."

She rose: he gave her his hand to help her up. But he did not surrender her hand then, for the path up the slope was a deep and difficult one, and she could fairly rely on his strength and sureness of foot.

"But you are not content, Mr. Trelyon," she said. "I always notice that whenever you get to a dangerous place you are never satisfied unless you are putting your life in peril. Wouldn't you like to ride your black horse down the face of this precipice? or wouldn't you like to clamber down blindfold? Why does a man generally seem to be anxious to get rid of his life?"

"Perhaps it ain't of much use to him," he said coolly.

"You ought not to say that," she answered in a low voice.

"Well," he said, "I don't mean to break my neck yet a while; but if I did, who would miss me? I suppose my mother would play half a dozen a day more operas or oratorios, or stuff of that sort, and there would be twenty parsons in the house for one there is at present. And some of the brats about the place would miss an occasional sixpence; which would be better for their health. And Dick—I suppose they'd sell him to some fool of a Londoner, who would pound his knees out in the Park—he would miss me too."

"And these are all," she said, "who would miss you? You are kind to your friends."

"Why, would you?" he said with a stare of surprise; and then, seeing she would not speak, he continued with a laugh, "I like the notion of my making an object of general compassion of myself. Did the poor dear tumble off a rock into the sea? And where was its mother's apron-string? I'm not going to break my neck yet a while, Miss Wenna; so don't you think I'm going to let you off your promise to pay me back for those sewing-machines."

"I have told you, Mr. Trelyon," she said with some dignity, "that we shall pay you back every farthing of the price of them."

He began to whistle in an impertinent manner. He clearly placed no great faith in the financial prospects of that sewing club.

They had some light luncheon in the remote little inn, and Mrs. Rosewarne was pleased to see her ordinarily demure and preoccupied daughter in such high and careless spirits. It was not a splendid banquet. The chamber was not a gorgeous one, for the absence of ornament and the enormous thickness of the walls told of the house being shut up in the winter months and abandoned to the fury of the western gales, when the wild sea came hurling up the face of these steep cliffs and blowing over the land. But they paid little attention to any lack of luxury. There was a beautiful blue sea shining in the distance. The sunlight was falling hotly on the green sward of the rocks outside, but all the same a fresh, cool breeze came blowing in at the open window. They let the time pass easily, with pleasant talk and laughter.

Then they drove leisurely back in the afternoon. They passed along the moorland ways, through rude little villages built of stone and by the outskirts of level and cheerless farms, until they got into the beautiful woods and avenues lying around Penzance. When they came in sight of the broad bay they found that the world had changed its colors since the morning. The sea was of a cold purplish gray, but all around it, on the eastern horizon, there was a band of pale pink in the sky. On the west again, behind Penzance, the warm hues of the sunset were shining behind the black stems of the trees. The broad thoroughfare was mostly in shadow, and the sea was so still that one could hear the footsteps and the voices of the people walking up and down the Parade.

"I suppose I must go now," said the young gentleman when he had seen them safely seated in the small parlor overlooking the bay. But he did not seem anxious to go.

"But why?" Wenna said, rather timidly. "You have no engagement, Mr. Trelyon. Would you care to stay and have dinner with us—such a dinner as we can give you?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I should like it very much," he said.

Mrs. Rosewarne, a little surprised, and yet glad to see Wenna enjoying herself, regarded the whole affair with a gentle resignation. Wenna had the gas lit and the blinds let down: then, as the evening was rather cool, she had soon a bright fire burning in the grate. She helped to lay the table. She produced such wines as they had. She made sundry visits to the kitchen, and at length the banquet was ready.

What ailed the young man? He seemed beside himself with careless and audacious mirth, and he made Mrs. Rosewarne laugh as she had not laughed for years. It was in vain that Wenna assumed airs to rebuke his rudeness. Nothing was sacred from his impertinence—not even the offended majesty of her face. And at last she gave in too, and could only revenge herself by saying things of him which, the more severe they were, the more he seemed to enjoy. But after dinner she went to the small piano, while her mother took a big easy-chair near the fire, and he sat by the table, looking over some books. There was no more reckless laughter then.

In ancient times—that is to say, in the half-forgotten days of our youth—a species of song existed which exists no more. It was not as the mournful ballads of these days, which seem to record the gloomy utterances of a strange young woman who has wandered into the magic scene in Der Freischütz, and who mixes up the moanings of her passion with descriptions of the sights, and sounds she there finds around her. It was of quite another stamp. It dealt with a phraseology of sentiment peculiar to itself—a "patter," as it were, which came to be universally recognized in drawing-rooms. It spoke of maidens plighting their troth, of Phyllis enchanting her lover with her varied moods, of marble halls in which true love still remained the same. It apostrophized the shells of ocean; it tenderly described the three great crises of a particular heroine's life by mentioning her head-dress; it told of how the lover of Pretty Jane would have her meet him in the evening. Well, all the world was content to accept this conventional phraseology, and behind the paraphernalia of "enchanted moon-beams" and "fondest glances" and "adoring sighs" perceived and loved the sentiment that could find no simpler utterance. Some of us, hearing the half-forgotten songs again, suddenly forget the odd language, and the old pathos springs up again, as fresh as in the days when our first love had just come home from her boarding-school; while others, who have no old-standing acquaintance with these memorable songs, have somehow got attracted to them by the mere quaintness of their speech and the simplicity of their airs. Master Harry Trelyon was no great critic of music. When Wenna Rosewarne sang that night "She wore a wreath of roses," he fancied he had never listened to anything so pathetic. When she sang "Meet me by moonlight alone," he was delighted with the spirit and half-humorous, half-tender grace of the composition. As she sang "When other lips and other hearts," it seemed to him that there were no songs like the old-fashioned songs, and that the people who wrote those ballads were more frank and simple and touching in their speech than writers now-a-days. Somehow, he began to think of the drawing-rooms of a former generation, and of the pictures of herself his grandmother had drawn for him many a time. Had she a high waist to that white silk dress in which she ran away to Gretna? and did she have ostrich feathers on her head? Anyhow, he entirely believed what she had told him of the men of that generation. They were capable of doing daring things for the sake of a sweetheart. Of course his grandfather had done boldly and well in whirling the girl off to the Scottish borders, for who could tell what might have befallen her among ill-natured relatives and persecuted suitors?

Wenna Rosewarne was singing "We met, 'twas in a crowd, and I thought he would shun me." It is the song of a girl (must one explain so much in these later days?) who is in love with one man, and is induced to marry another: she meets the former, and her heart is filled with shame and anguish and remorse. As Wenna sang the song it seemed to this young man that there was an unusual pathos in her voice; and he was so carried away by the earnestness of her singing that his heart swelled and rose up within him, and he felt himself ready to declare that such should not be her fate. This man who was coming back to marry her—was there no one ready to meet him and challenge his atrocious claim? Then the song ended, and with a sudden disappointment Trelyon recollected that he at least had no business to interfere. What right had he to think of saving her?

He had been idly turning over some volumes on the table. At last he came to a Prayer-book of considerable size and elegance of binding. Carelessly looking at the fly-leaf, he saw that it was a present to Wenna Rosewarne, "with the very dearest love of her sister Mabyn." He passed his hand over the leaves, not noticing what he was doing. Suddenly he saw something which did effectually startle him into attention.

It was a sheet of paper with two slits cut into it at top and bottom. In these a carefully-pressed piece of None-so-pretty had been placed, and just underneath the flower was written in pencil, "From H.T. to W.R., May 2, 18—." He shut the book quickly, as if his fingers had been burned, and then he sat quite silent, with his heart beating fast.

So she had kept the flower he had put in the basket of primroses! It had carried its message, and she still remained his friend!

CHAPTER XXIV. THE CUT DIRECT.

"Well, mother," Miss Wenna said deliberately after he had gone, "I never did see you so thoroughly enjoy a whole day."

"I was thinking the same about you, Wenna," the mother answered with an amused look.

"That is true enough, mother," the girl confessed in her simple way. "He is so good-natured, so full of spirits and careless, that one gets quite as careless and happy as himself. It is a great comfort, mother, to be with anybody who doesn't watch the meaning of every expression you use: don't you think so? And I hope I wasn't rude: do you think I was rude?"

"Why, child, I don't think you could be rude to a fox that was eating your chickens. You would ask him to take a chair and not hurry himself."

"Well, I must write to Mabyn now," Wenna said with a business-like air, "and thank her for posting me this Prayer-book. I suppose she didn't know I had my small one with me."

She took up the book, for she was sitting on the chair that Harry Trelyon had just vacated. She had no sooner done so than she caught sight of the sheet of paper with the dried flower and the inscription in Mabyn's handwriting. She stared, with something of a look of fear on her face. "Mother," she said in quite an altered voice, "did you notice if Mr. Trelyon was looking at this Prayer-book?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Mrs. Rosewarne said. "I should think he went over every book on the table."

The girl said nothing, but she took the book in her hand and carried it up to her own room. She stood for a moment irresolute: then she took the sheet of paper with the flowers on it, and tore it in a hundred pieces and threw them into the empty grate. Then she cried a little, as a girl must; and finally went down again and wrote a letter to Mabyn which rather astonished that young lady.

"MY DEAR MABYN" (so the letter ran): I am exceedingly angry with you. I did not think you were capable of such folly: I might call it by a worse name if I thought you really meant what you seem to mean. I have just torn up the worthless scrap of flower you so carefully preserved for me into a thousand pieces; but you will be glad to know that in all probability Mr. Trelyon saw it on the paper, and the initials too which you put there. I cannot tell you how pained and angry I am. If he did place that flower intentionally among the primroses, it was most impertinent of him; but he is often impertinent in joking. What must he think of me that I should seem to have taken this seriously, and treasured up that miserable and horrid piece of weed, and put his initials below it, and the important date? You put thoughts into my head that cover me with shame. I should not be fit to live if I were what you take me to be. If I thought there was another human being in the world who could imagine or suspect what you apparently desire, I would resolve this moment never to see Mr. Trelyon again; and much harm that would do either him or me! But I am too proud to think that any one could imagine such a thing. Nor did I expect that to come from my own sister, who ought to know what my true relations are with regard to Mr. Trelyon. I like him very much, as I told him to his face two days before we left Eglosilyan; and that will show you what our relations are. I think he is a very frank, generous and good young man, and a clever and cheerful companion; and my mother has to-day to thank him for about the pleasantest little trip she has ever enjoyed. But as for your wishing me to preserve a flower that he sent, or that you think he sent to me, why, I feel my face burning at the thought of what you suggest. And what can I say to him now, supposing he has seen it? Can I tell him that my own sister thought such things of me? Perhaps, after all, the simplest way to set matters right will be for me to break off the acquaintance altogether; and that will show him whether I was likely to have treasured up a scrap of London pride in my Prayer-book.

"I am your loving sister,

"WENNA ROSEWARNE."

Meanwhile, Harry Trelyon was walking up and down the almost empty thoroughfare by the side of the sea, the stars overhead shining clearly in the dark night, the dimly-seen waves falling monotonously on the shelving beach. "To keep a flower, that is nothing," he was saying to himself. "All girls do that, no matter who gives it to them. I suppose she has lots more, all with the proper initials and date attached."

It was not an agreeable reflection; he turned to other matters: "If she were to care for me a little bit, would it be mean of me to try to carry her off from that man? Is it possible that he has the same feeling for her that I have? In that case it would be mean. Now, when I think of her, the whole world seems filled with her presence somehow, and everything is changed. When I hear the sea in the morning I think of her, and wonder where she is; when I see a fine day I hope she is enjoying it somewhere; the whole of Penzance has become magical. It is no longer the same town. I used to come to it and never see it in the old days, when one was busy about stables and the pilchard fishing and the reports of the quarries. Now the whole of Penzance has got a sort of charm in it since Wenna Rosewarne has come to it. I look at the houses, and wonder if the people inside know anybody fit to compare with her; and one becomes grateful to the good weather for shining round about her and making her happy. I suppose the weather knows what she deserves."

Then he began to argue the question as to whether it would be fair and honorable to seek to take away from another man the woman who had pledged herself to marry him; and of course an easy and definite decision is sure to be arrived at when counsel on both sides and jury and judges sitting in banco are all one person, who conducts and closes the case as it suits himself. He began by assuming such facts as suited his arguments, and ended by selecting and confirming such arguments as suited himself. Wenna Rosewarne cared nothing for Mr. Roscorla. She would be miserable if she married him: her own sister was continually hinting as much. Mr. Roscorla cared nothing for her except in so far as she might prove a pretty housewife for him. The selfishness that would sacrifice for its own purposes a girl's happiness was of a peculiarly despicable sort which ought to be combated, and deserved no mercy. Therefore, and because of all these things, Harry Trelyon was justified in trying to win Wenna Rosewarne's love.

One by one the people who had been strolling up and down the dark thoroughfare left it: he was almost alone now. He walked along to the house in which the Rosewarnes were. There was no light in any of the windows. But might she not be sitting up there by herself, looking out on the starlit heavens and listening to the waves? He wished to be able to say good-night to her once more.

How soon might she be up and out on the morrow? Early in the morning, when the young day was rising over the gray sea, and the sea-winds coming freshly in as if they were returning from the cold night? If he could but see her at daybreak, with all the world asleep around them, and with only themselves to watch the growing wonders of the dawn, might not he say something to her then that she would not be vexed to hear, and persuade her that a new sort of life lay before her if she would only enter it along with him? That was the notion that he continually dwelt on for self-justification when he happened to take the trouble to justify himself. The crisis of this girl's life was approaching. Other errors might be retrieved—that one, once committed, never. If he could only see her now, this is what he would say: "We can only live but once, Wenna; and this for us two would be life—our only chance of it. Whatever else may happen, that is no matter: let us make sure of this one chance, and face the future together—you full of sweetness and trust, I having plenty of courage for both. We will treat objectors and objections as they may arise—afterward: perhaps they will be prudent and keep out of our way." And indeed he convinced himself that this, and this only, was Wenna Rosewarne's chance of securing happiness for her life, assuming, in a way, that he had love as well as courage sufficient for both.

He was early up next morning and down on the promenade, but the day was not likely to tempt Wenna to come out just then. A gray fog hung over land and sea, the sea itself being a dull, leaden plain. Trelyon walked about, however, talking to everybody, as was his custom; and everybody said the fog would clear and a fine day follow. This, in fact, happened, and still Wenna did not make her appearance. The fog over the sea seemed to separate itself into clouds: there was a dim, yellow light in the breaks. These breaks widened: there was a glimmer of blue. Then on the leaden plain a glare of white light fell, twinkling in innumerable stars on the water. Everything promised a clear, bright day.

As a last resource he thought he would go and get Juliott Penaluna, and persuade that young lady to come and be introduced to the Rosewarnes. At first Miss Penaluna refused point-blank. She asked him how he could expect her to do such a thing. But then her cousin Harry happened to be civil, and indeed kind, in his manner to her, and when he was in one of those moods there was nothing she could refuse him. She went and got ready with an air of resignation on her comely face.

"Mind, Harry, I am not responsible," she said when she came back. "I am afraid I shall get into awful trouble about it."

"And who will interfere?" said the young man, just as if he were looking about for some one anxious to be thrown from the top of the tower on St. Michael's Mount.

"I shall be accused of conniving with you, you know; and I think I am very good-natured to do so much for you, Harry."

"I think you are, Jue: you are a thoroughly good sort of girl when you like to be—that's a fact. And now you will see whether what I have said about Miss Rosewarne is all gammon or not."

"My poor boy, I wouldn't say a word against her for the world. Do I want my head wrenched off? But if any one says anything to me about what I may do to-day, I shall have to tell the truth; and do you know what that is, Harry? I do really believe you are in love with that girl, past all argument; and there never was one of your family who would listen to reason. I know quite well what you will do. If she cares ever so little for you, you will marry her in spite of everybody, and probably against her own wish: if she doesn't care for you, you will revenge yourself on the happy man of her choice, and probably murder him. Well, it isn't my fault. I know what your mother will say."

"Ah, you don't know, Jue, what my mother thinks of her," he said confidently.

"Oh yes, mothers think very well of a girl until they discover that she is going to marry their son."

"Oh, stuff! why the inconsistency—"

"It is the privilege of women to be inconsistent, Harry. Your mother will detest that girl if you try to marry her."

"I don't care."

"Of course not. No man of your family cares for anything that interferes with his own wishes. I suppose there's no use in my trying to show you what a fearful amount of annoyance and trouble you are preparing for yourself?"

"None. I'll take it as it comes: I'm not afraid."

They got down to the promenade; the forenoon was now bright and cheerful; a good many folks had come out to enjoy the sunlight and the cool sea-breeze. Miss Juliott was not at all disinclined to walk there with her handsome cousin, though he had forgotten his gloves and was clearly not paying her very special attention.

"Jue," he said suddenly, "I can see Miss Rosewarne right at the end of this road: can't you?"

"I haven't got the eyes of a hawk, you stupid boy!" his cousin said.

"Oh, but I can recognize her dress a dozen times as far away. These are her pet colors at present—a soft cream-color and black, with bits of dark red. Can you see now?"

"I never saw you pay the least attention before to a lady's dress."

"Because you don't know how she dresses," he said proudly.

She was coming along the Parade all alone.

"Well, it is a pretty dress," Miss Juliott said, "and I like the look of her face, Harry. You can't expect one girl to say any more than that of another girl, can you?"

"This is a very nice way of being able to introduce you," he said. "I suppose you will be able to chaperon each other afterward, when her mother isn't able to go out?"

Wenna was coming quietly along, apparently rather preoccupied. Sometimes she looked out, with her dark, earnest and yet wistful eyes, at the great plain of water quivering in the sunshine: she paid little heed to the people who went by. When at length she did see Harry Trelyon, she was quite near him, and she had just time to glance for a moment at his companion. The next moment—he could not tell how it all happened—she passed him with a slight bow of recognition, courteous enough, but nothing more. There was no especial look of friendliness in her eyes.

He stood there rather bewildered.

"That is about as good as the cut direct, Harry," his cousin said. "Come along—don't stand there."

"Oh, but there's some mistake, Jue," he said.

"A girl never does a thing of that sort by mistake. Either she is vexed with you for walking with me—and that is improbable, for I doubt whether she saw me—or she thinks the ardor of your acquaintance should be moderated; and there I should agree with her. You don't seem so vexed as one might have expected, Harry."

"Vexed!" he said. "Why, can't you tell by that girl's face that she could do nothing capricious or unkind? Of course she has a reason; and I will find it out."

CHAPTER XXV. NOT THE LAST WORD.

As soon as he could decently leave his cousin at home, he did; and then he walked hastily down to the house in which Mrs. Rosewarne had taken rooms. Miss Rosewarne was not at home, the small maid-servant said. Was Mrs. Rosewarne? Yes; so he would see her.

He went up stairs, never thinking how his deep trouble about so insignificant an incident would strike a third person.

"Mrs. Rosewarne," he said right out, "I want you to tell me if Wenna wishes our acquaintance to end. Has she been speaking to you? Just now she passed me in the street as if she did not wish to see me again."

"Probably," said Mrs. Rosewarne, amused as well as surprised by the young man's impetuosity, "she did not see you then. Wenna often passes people so. Most likely she was thinking about other things, for she had another letter from Jamaica just before she went out."

"Oh, she has had another letter from Jamaica this morning?" Trelyon said, with an angry light appearing in his eyes. "That is it, is it?"

"I don't understand you," Mrs. Rosewarne was saying, when both of them heard Wenna enter below.

"Mrs. Rosewarne," he said with a sudden entreaty in his voice, "would you mind letting me see Wenna alone for a couple of minutes? I want to ask her if she is offended with me: you won't mind, will you?"

"Not in the least," she said, good-naturedly; and then she added, at the door, "Mind, Mr. Trelyon, Wenna is easily hurt. You must speak gently to her."

About a minute afterward Wenna, having laid her hat and shawl aside, came into the room. When she found Trelyon there alone, she almost shrank back, and her face paled somewhat: then she forced herself to go forward and shake hands with him, though her face still wore a frightened and constrained look.

"Wenna," he said, "don't go away: I want to speak to you for a minute. You are offended with me about something, and I want you to tell me why. If you wish our friendship to cease, say so, and I will obey you; but you must tell me why first."

"I am not offended with you, Mr. Trelyon," she said in a low and nervous voice. "Do not think that. But—but I think it will be better if you will let our friendship cease, as you say."

"Oh no," he said, "I will not in this fashion. You've got to tell me what is the matter first. Now remember this. Not very long ago you chose to quarrel with me about nothing—absolutely about nothing. You know quite well that I meant no harm to you by lending Mr. Roscorla that money, yet you must needs flare up and give it me as hot as you could, all for nothing. What could I do? Why, only wait until you saw what a mistake you had made."

"It was very wrong of me," she said: "I ask your forgiveness. But now it is quite different: I am not angry with you at all. I should like to remain your friend, and yet I think it better not. I—I cannot explain to you, Mr. Trelyon, and I am sure you won't ask me when I say so."

He looked at her for a moment, and then he said, gently and yet firmly, "Look here, Wenna. You think I am only a boy—that may or may not be—but I am going to talk reasonably to you for once. Come over to this chair by the window and sit down."

She followed him in passive obedience. She took the one chair, he the other.

"Perhaps I am only a boy," he said, "but I have knocked about a good deal, and I have kept my eyes as wide open as most folks. I suppose ill-natured people might say that as I had nothing to do at Eglosilyan, I wanted to have a flirtation with the only girl who was handy. I know better. Year after year I saw more and more of you, bit by bit, and that after I had been abroad or living in other places in England from time to time. I got to believe that I had never seen anywhere any girl or woman who was so honest as you are, and good in a dozen secret ways that needed a deal of discovering. I found out far more about you than you imagined. I heard of you in cottages that you never knew I was in; and everything I heard made me respect you more and more. Mind this, too. I had no sort of personal liking for the sort of thing you were doing. I don't admire beastly little rooms and poverty and sick people as appealing to a fine sentiment. There never was anything of the parson or the benevolent old lady about me. I would rather give half a crown to an impertinent little boy who had just whopped another boy bigger than himself than give a halfpenny tract to a sickly child in its mother's arms: that's original sin in me, I suppose. But all that squalid sort of work you were in only made the jewel shine the more. I used to think I should like to marry a very grand woman, who could be presented at court without a tremor, who would come into a drawing-room as if she was conferring a favor on the world at large; and I certainly never thought I should find the best and finest woman I had ever seen in back kitchens sewing pinafores for children. And then when I found her there, wasn't it natural I should put some store by her friendship? I suppose you didn't know what I thought of you, Wenna, because I kept chaffing you and Mabyn? I have told you something of it now; and now I want you to say whether you have a right to shunt me off like this, without a word of explanation."

She sat still, silent and nervous. The rude and impetuous eloquence of his speech, broken by many a hesitating stammer, had touched her. There was more thoughtfulness and tenderness in this wild lad than she had supposed.

"How can I explain?" she burst out suddenly. "I should cover myself with shame!"

"And what have you to be ashamed of?" he said with a stare. The distress she was obviously suffering was so great that he had almost a mind to take her at her word and leave the house without further ado.

Just at this moment, when he was considering what would be the most generous thing to do, she seemed to nerve herself to speak to him, and in a low and measured voice she said, "Yes, I will tell you. I have had a letter this morning from Mr. Roscorla. He asks me if it is true that you are paying me such attention that people notice it; and he asks me if that is how I keep my promise to him."

Something like a quiver of rage passed through the young man at this moment, but his teeth were kept firmly together. She did not look up to his face.

"That is not all. I must tell you that I was deeply shocked and grieved by this letter; but on looking back over the past six weeks I think a suspicious person might have been justified in complaining to Mr. Roscorla. And—and—and, Mr. Trelyon, did you see that dried flower in my Prayer-book last night?"

Her resolution was fast ebbing away: he could see that her hands were clasped piteously together.

"Yes, I did," he said boldly.

"And oh what could you have thought of me?" she cried in her distress. "Indeed, Mr. Trelyon, it was all a mistake. I did not keep the flower—I did not, indeed. And when I thought you had seen it I could have died for shame."

"And why?" he said in a way that made her lift up her startled eyes to his face. There was a strange look there, as of a man who had suddenly resolved to dare his fate, and yet was imploringly anxious as to the result. "For you have been frank with me, and so will I be with you. Why should you not have kept that flower? Yes, I sent it to you, and with all the purpose that such a thing could carry. Yes, you may be as angry as you please; only listen, Wenna. You don't love that man whom you are engaged to marry; you know in your heart that you do not believe in his love for you; and are you surprised that people should wish to have you break off an engagement that will only bring you misery?"

"Mr. Trelyon!"

"Wenna, one minute: you must hear me. Do with my offer what you like—only here it is: give me the power to break off this engagement, and I will. Give me the right to do that. Don't mind me in the matter. It is true I love you—there, I will say it again: there is nothing I think of from morning till night but my love for you—and if you would say that some time I might ask you to be my wife, you would give me more happiness than you could dream of. But I don't wish that now. I will remain your friend if you like, Wenna; only let me do this thing for you, and when you are free you can then say yes or no."

She rose, not proud and indignant, but weeping bitterly. "I have deserved this," she said, apparently overwhelmed with mortification and self-reproach. "I have earned this shame, and I must bear it. I do not blame you, Mr. Trelyon: it is I who have done this. How many weeks is it since the man left England to whom I promised to be faithful? and already—But this I can do, Mr. Trelyon: I will bid you good-bye now, and I will never see you again."

Her face was quite pale. She held out her hand.

"No," he said firmly. "We don't part like that, Wenna. First, let me say that you have nothing to accuse yourself of. You have done nothing and said nothing of which any man, however mean and suspicious, could complain. Perhaps I was too hasty in speaking of my love for you. In that case I've got to pay for my folly."

"And it is folly, Mr. Trelyon," she said passionately, and yet with nothing but tenderness in her face. "How could you have thought of marrying me? Why, the future that ought to lie before you is far more than you can imagine yet; and you would go and hamper it by marrying an innkeeper's daughter! It is folly indeed, and you will see that very soon. But—but I am very sorry all this has occurred: it is another grief to me that I have troubled you. I think I was born to bring grief to all my friends."

He was anxiously debating what he should do; and he needed all his wits at that moment, for his own feelings were strong within him, and clamoring for expression. Should he insist? Should he bear down all opposition? Happily, quieter counsels prevailed, for there was no mistake as to the absolute truthfulness of what the girl had said.

"Well, Wenna," he said, "I will do anything you like, only to remain your friend. Is that possible? Will you forgive all that I have said if I make you a promise not to repeat it, and never again to mention your engagement to Mr. Roscorla?"

"No, we must part now altogether," she said slowly. Then by haphazard she glanced up at his face for a moment, and there was a great sadness in her eyes. "It is a hard thing to part. Perhaps it will not be necessary that you should never come to see me. But we must not be friends as we have been, for I have my duty to do toward him."

"Then I may come to see you sometimes?"

She hesitated: "You may come to see my mother sometimes. And I will always think of you as a dear friend, whether I see you or not."

He went outside, and drew a long breath. "I had to keep a tight grip on the reins that time," he was thinking to himself—"a precious tight grip; but I did it."

He thought of the look there was in her eyes when she finally bid him goodbye. His face grew the happier as he thought of it. He was clearly not at all down-hearted about his rejection: on the contrary, he went and told his cousin Juliott that the little affair of the morning had been quite satisfactorily arranged, that Miss Wenna and he were very good friends again, and that it was quite a mistake to imagine that she was already married to Mr. Roscorla.

"Harry," said his cousin, "I strictly forbid you to mention that gentleman's name."

"Why, Jue?" he said.

"Because I will not listen to the bad language you invariably use whenever you speak of him; and you ought to remember that you are in a clergyman's house. I wonder Miss Rosewarne is not ashamed to have your acquaintance, but I dare say you amend your ways when you are in her presence. She'll have [Pg_197]plenty to reform if ever she takes you for a husband."

"That's true enough, Jue," the young man said penitently. "I believe I'm a bad lot, but then look at the brilliant contrast which the future will present. You know that my old grandmother is always saying to me, 'Harry, you were born with as many manners as most folks, and you've used none; so you'll have a rare stock to come and go on when you begin.'"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

FEVER.

At present all branches of Science possess an intrinsic interest for every intelligent man, but such elementary knowledge as enables its possessor to understand the explanations of the medical attendant has a double value. Over and over again I have heard the remark when some bold successful treatment was being discussed, "But you would not have dared to do that in private practice." The days of medical mystification are not yet entirely passed, but year by year the profession is assuredly losing that peculiar virtue of office which it formerly possessed in so eminent a degree. The doctor is no longer a dignified personage with gold-headed cane and powdered wig, mounting the mansion steps with stately tread, but a busy man in various garb, hurrying from house to house, studying the multitudinous problems of disease, and applying the fruits of such study to the relief of individual cases. No longer able to awe his patients into obedience, he must rely upon his moral and intellectual powers in controlling them. To enable any one to understand the explanations of physicians, and to protect himself, by discovery, against the impudent assumptions of quacks, some knowledge of medical truths and of the drift of modern medical thought is necessary. Every successful physician, no matter how independent he may be by nature, is necessarily more or less cramped by the prejudices of patients—prejudices which often a little primary instruction would have done away with.

Of all the diseased processes fever is one of the most frequent and one of the most serious in their results. A discussion, therefore, of its nature, the method of its production and of its relief, will, it may be hoped, engage the attention of the general reader.

If the hand be laid upon the skin of a person in a high fever the attention is at once attracted by the great heat, and if the bulb of a thermometer be placed under the tongue or in the armpit of the patient the mercury may indicate a temperature of 107°, 108°, 109°, or even 110° Fahrenheit, instead of 98° to 99° Fahrenheit, the normal temperature of the human body. It is a common belief that the skin in fever is always dry as well as hot, but this is a mistake, as intense fever may coexist with a reeking perspiration. During the fever the pulse is greatly increased in frequency, the head aches and throbs, and if the attack be very severe restlessness, sudden startings, irregular muscular twitchings, or even violent epileptiform convulsions and stupor, delirium or coma, indicate the disturbance of the nervous system.

These various symptoms are simply results of the excess of caloric, which excites universal irritation, and, if prolonged, destroys the tissues. This fact I have verified by three series of experiments, by the first of which it was shown that the general application of external heat so as to raise the bodily temperature produces all the phenomena of fever; by the second, that the local application of heat to the brain and to the heart causes the nervous and circulatory disturbances so universally seen in fever; and by the third that the abstraction of heat in fever is followed by immediate subsidence of the other symptoms.

If a small animal, such as a dog, cat or rabbit, be placed in a chamber heated by means of the sun's rays falling upon a slanting glass roof or by some artificial method to a temperature of considerably over one hundred degrees, a very constant series of phenomena is developed. The breathing becomes hurried and the pulse greatly quickened, whilst the restless movements of the body indicate nervous distress. After a time, if the exposure be continued, the symptoms are intensified, and restlessness passes into the weakness of partial paralysis; then suddenly or gradually, with or without convulsions, stupor sets in, deepening into coma, and death from arrested respiration is the final result. If the temperature of the animal be tested from time to time during the exposure, it will be found to rise steadily, and the severity of the symptoms will be directly, and in any one species constantly, proportional to the intensity of the bodily heat.

The nervous system of man apparently resists the action of heat, but in reality it does not do so. Man, it is true, is the only animal that can thrive almost equally amidst arctic snows and in tropical jungles. This is not, however, because his nervous system lacks sensitiveness, but because he has the power of heating or cooling his body in such a manner that its temperature is comparatively unaffected by that of the surrounding air. Man might be well defined as the naked sweating animal. In the north he strips the bear and the fox of their coat to keep him warm; in the south his own skin acts as a refrigerator. The dog has a few sweat-glands about the mouth—man has two millions densely covering his body. In the horse exposed to heat the hair soon becomes wet and matted, interfering very greatly with evaporation; in man the bare skin offers an excellent surface, from which the perspiration passes off almost as fast as formed. Evaporation, conversion of a liquid into a vapor, means a steady conversion of sensible heat into what was formerly called latent heat, but what we now know to be repulsive force: the heat-energy of the body is lost in driving the particles of sweat asunder in the form of vapor.

It is possible, however, to have a temperature which even a Hindoo cannot resist. When a man is exposed to such a heat his bodily temperature rises, and as it rises the symptoms of fever develop precisely as they do in the lower animals—sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly—with disturbances of the respiration, circulation and innervation precisely similar to those already noticed as occurring in the dog, the cat and the rabbit. Sunstroke, or thermic fever, is generally believed to be instantaneous in its onset, but the wide experience of the English in India has shown that whilst in some cases it is thus sudden in its development, in others it is a slow process, and probably in almost all cases close observation would have revealed the existence of premonitions.

External heat, by producing an internal rise of temperature, may thus cause all the phenomena of fever. Of these phenomena the most prominent is disturbance of the nervous system and of the circulation. In order to determine whether the heat itself directly causes the nervous disturbance, or whether it produces it indirectly by causing changes in the blood, I applied caloric directly to the brains of animals. This was done by fitting a hog's bladder like a bonnet over the head and allowing hot water to run through it. It was found that stupor, coma, convulsions, and finally death from arrest of the respiration, were produced, sometimes gradually, sometimes suddenly, precisely as in the case of exposure of the animal in a hot chamber. Moreover, on opening the skull and plunging a thermometer into the cerebrum immediately after death or the supervention of unconsciousness, it was found that these phenomena were developed at the same brain-temperature when the heat was locally applied as when the animal was exposed in the hot box. Thus, if any given species in the hot box became unconscious when the temperature reached 110° Fahrenheit, this species also became unconscious when the locally-heated brain attained a temperature of 110°; or if death occurred by arrest of the respiration in the hot box at 114°, so did it when the locally-heated brain reached that point.

Dr. Lauder Brunton of England has performed a series of experiments upon the circulation parallel to those just narrated. Anæsthetizing animals and exposing the heart, he has found that the action of that organ is accelerated and weakened by the local application of heat, precisely as occurs in fever.

In order to test the effect of the withdrawal of heat, I have taken a rabbit out of the hot chamber, in which it lay upon its side totally unconscious, and plunged it into a bucket of cold water. The temperature of the water rose rapidly, whilst that of the rabbit fell even more rapidly. As soon as the bodily heat approached its normal intensity consciousness returned, and in a few moments the animal, which had just before been at the point of death, was running about the grass.

Some months since I had an opportunity of repeating this experiment upon a human being.

In acute inflammatory rheumatism it sometimes happens that the swelling and pain of the joints suddenly disappear, and the patient becomes comatose or wildly delirious. It has been customary to explain these symptoms as the result of the rheumatism leaving the joints and attacking the brain. Evidently, this being the case, the proper thing to do was to irritate the joints so as to draw the rheumatism back to them. This method was formerly practiced, and the almost invariable result was death in a few hours.

In most if not all of these frightful cases of sudden accession of severe nervous symptoms in rheumatism the temperature will be found, on testing it, to be exceedingly high—108°, 109° or even 110° Fahrenheit. If the views advocated in this paper be correct, it is not the rheumatism, but the intense bodily heat, which causes the severe symptoms, and finally death. The joints lose their sensitiveness, not because the disease has left them, but because the heat so overpowers the brain that it has lost its power of perception: the patient's leg might be cut off without his feeling it. In such a case the proper treatment is to take away the heat by plunging the patient into a cold bath. But can there be anything more shocking to the universal belief and prejudices than to put a patient dying of acute rheumatism into an almost ice-cold bath?

Last spring there was in my ward in the Philadelphia Hospital a stout young Irishman who had passed through an acute attack of inflammatory rheumatism, and was suffering from a sharp relapse. Entering the ward one day, I saw at once that the man was unconscious, and turning to the resident physician asked, "What is the matter with James?" "Nothing," was the reply: "I saw him an hour and a half ago, and he was doing very well, except that the fever was very high." "He is dying now, at any rate," was my rejoinder. On going to the bedside the patient was found perfectly unconscious, the skin dry and intensely hot, the affected joints pale and devoid of sensibility, the breathing irregular and jerking, the pulse 170 and scarcely perceptible, every muscle relaxed as in death, every power of perception abolished. A thermometer placed in the armpit registered 108-4/5° Fahrenheit.

Believing that the symptoms were due simply to this excessive temperature, I ordered the man to be at once stripped and put in a full bath drawn from the cold-water spigot. The temperature of this bath was found to be 60° Fahrenheit. In one minute and a half after the patient had been placed in the tub he recovered consciousness sufficiently to put out his tongue when told to do so in a loud, commanding tone. In three minutes he began to struggle to get out and to complain of the cold. In six minutes and a half he had become quite rational. He was now taken out, only partially wiped, laid upon an India-rubber blanket and covered with a single sheet, the temperature of the room being between 65° and 70°. Three minutes after this the temperature in the armpit was 94°, in the mouth 105-3/5°; five minutes later the mouth-thermometer marked 103°, and the pain and tenderness had reappeared in the affected joints. It would be out of place here to give further details as to his treatment. It is enough to state that, although owing to a misunderstanding of my orders, the man was left in a cool room for twelve hours upon the gum blanket, wet and covered only with a sheet—or possibly because he was so left—he recovered without a relapse or any bad symptoms.

The first case in which the cold-water treatment was practiced in the Philadelphia Hospital was that of a woman suffering from a desperate relapse of typhoid fever. She was semi-comatose, with a pulse of 150 and a temperature of 107° Fahrenheit: death was seemingly inevitable and imminent. As the bath-tubs were not convenient, the order was given that the woman be laid upon an India-rubber cloth, and be wrapped simply in a sheet constantly wet with water at a temperature as near 32° as practicable. The nurses, aghast, refused at first to carry out the order, but the physician's power being despotic, obedience was enforced. About three pints of whisky were given in the twenty-four hours, besides drugs, the whole treatment being successful.

It has been shown that excessive bodily heat is capable of producing the various symptoms of fever, and that its withdrawal is followed by the immediate relief of these symptoms; and since excessive heat is always present in fever, it is a logical deduction that it is the cause of fever symptoms; or, in other words, that it is the essential part of fever.

It must be borne in mind, however, that the term fever is here used in an abstract sense, to express a general diseased process, a bodily condition. A fever is a very different thing from fever. We may have a fever, such as typhoid, without the existence of fever. In a fever, the fever—i.e., the elevation of temperature—is only part of the disease, and great judgment and experience are often required to decide how much of the general symptoms is caused by the fever, and how much by the disease which is the cause of the fever.

The importance of high temperature having been recognized, it becomes a matter of the gravest scientific and practical interest to determine the method in which it is produced.

There are only two systems which bind the body together—namely, the circulation and the nervous system. As fever is usually a universal phenomenon, occurring simultaneously in every part of the body, it must be produced either through the nervous system or by a poison in the blood acting simultaneously on every tissue. Every physician knows, however, that there are cases of fever in which there has been no introduction of a poison into the blood: hence it follows that at least sometimes fever must be produced by the nervous system.

This being so, the study of the influence of the nervous system upon animal heat is naturally the next step in our investigation. Before making this step it may be well to call to mind the fact that chemical processes are usually accompanied either by the giving out or the withdrawal of heat. Thus, the chemical actions which result when ice and salt are mixed cause a withdrawal of heat, and a "freezing mixture" is formed. When a candle is burnt, the oxidation of its constituents, a chemical process, evolves heat. Oxidation is the great source of artificial heat, and animal heat is chiefly generated by the same process; in other words, animal heat is always the product of the chemical movements of the body, and these movements are almost exclusively of the character of oxidation. In the animal tissues a lessened oxidation is equivalent to a lessened heat-production, and vise versâ.

If a large nerve be exposed in one of the lower animals, and a galvanic current be sent through it for half a minute or more, the temperature of the animal falls very decidedly; and if the irritation be repeated several times at intervals, the diminution of the animal heat may amount to several degrees. Galvanization of a nerve affects very powerfully the circulation, and it has been believed that this derangement was the cause of the lessened chemical movements. But the alteration of the circulation is immediate, and ceases almost at once when the current is broken, whereas the fall of temperature comes on only after several minutes, then progressively increases, and persists for many minutes—it may be hours. The two phenomena being thus differently developed, it is impossible that they should have the relation of cause and effect, and the fall of temperature must be traced to a direct influence of the nervous system upon the chemical processes of the body.

This lowering of temperature under the influence of a powerful irritation of a nerve-trunk or of its minute branches, which everywhere pervade the tissues and spread out in the skin, is common to all species of mammals. If a rabbit be merely tied down tightly upon a table, the fall is perceptible, and if it be severely wounded, the temperature diminishes very greatly. It has long been known that severe burns are followed by a very great depression of the animal heat. Redard, a French physician, made during the late siege of Paris a most interesting series of observations upon the influence of severe gunshot wounds. He found that, entirely independent of any hæmorrhage which might have occurred, the temperature fell enormously, and in direct proportion to the gravity of the wound; so that by the aid of the thermometer he was able to predict whether a fatal issue would or would not occur in the course of a few hours.

We have found that both in man and the lower animals the nervous system is able to check the chemical movements of the body, but before we can decide how it does so facts not yet noticed must be looked at.

If the spinal cord of an animal be cut just below the origin of the nerves of respiration, an immediate fall of temperature occurs, and, if the animal be left in a cool room, persists until death ensues. If, however, the victim be put in a warm place, after a time the temperature begins to rise, and finally a most intense fever is developed. Parallel phenomena follow division of the spinal cord in man. Indeed, Sir Benjamin Brodie was first led to experiment upon animals by observing in 1837 an excessive fever follow in a patient a wound of the spinal cord.

I have already explained, in a former number of this Magazine,[2] the nature of the so-called vaso-motor nerves, which preside over the little circular muscles that run round and round in the coats of the blood-vessels. When they are excited, these muscles contract and the size of the arteries is diminished: when they are paralyzed, the arterial inner muscles relax and the vessels dilate. The vaso-motor nerves have their governing centre in that upper portion of the spinal cord which is within the skull, the so-called medulla oblongata. When the spinal cord is divided, the vessels are cut off from the influence of this vaso-motor centre, and at once dilate, profoundly affecting the blood-current by doing so.

The first fall of temperature which follows division of the cord is believed by most physiologists to be due to this dilatation of the vessels. Very probably the blood-stream, flowing sluggishly, does not give the normal amount of stimulus to the tissues, so that at first their chemical actions are lessened, and consequently less caloric than usual is generated in the body. Further, the blood moving slowly through the dilated vessels of the lungs and of the surface of the body, is cooled more completely than it should be; hence, unless the body is protected by being surrounded with warm air, no excessive accumulation of heat in it can occur, and therefore no fever can appear.

Assuming that this explanation of the primary lowering of the temperature after division of the cord be correct—and no better one has as yet been offered—what is the cause of the fever which afterward develops itself? As it occurs only when the animal is exposed to a somewhat elevated temperature, it has been thought by some to be due to the absorption of this external heat. This, however, is certainly not true, as is shown, to omit less decisive proofs, by the experiments of Naunyn and Quincke, who exposed animals for two days to a temperature of 90°, and at the end of that time, their bodily temperature not having risen, cut their spinal cords, after which intense fever was developed in a few hours without any change of atmosphere.

Section of the cord must therefore give rise to an increased chemical movement and heat-production in the body. As already stated, this section affects very greatly the circulation, but the fever is independent of such action. The upper end of the medulla oblongata is continuous with a nervous mass which joins the two brain hemispheres together, and hence is known as the pons or bridge. If, instead of cutting the spinal cord, we separate the medulla oblongata from the pons, an immediate rise of temperature occurs, and continues until death, whether the operation be performed in a cold or heated room.[3]

Cutting the medulla at its junction with the pons causes, then, an immediate and direct elevation of temperature, without disturbance of the circulation. What can this mean? Evidently, only one thing—namely, that by the division of the medulla there has been separated from the general tissues of the body a repressive force—a something which normally controls their chemical activity and the production in them of animal heat.

The existence of nerves whose function is to repress action is no new discovery in physiology. Readers of Lippincott's Magazine may remember my description of the pneumogastrics or brake-nerves of the heart, whose duty it is to control the action of that viscus. Nerves which repress or inhibit action are spoken of in modern physiology as inhibitory. The experiments which have been adduced prove that there are nerves whose function it is to control the general vital chemical actions, and that the governing centre of these nerves is situated above the medulla oblongata. To this centre, whose exact location is unknown, the name of the inhibitory heat-centre has been given.

The way in which galvanization of a nerve, violent injuries and excessive pain depress the temperature, independently of any action upon the circulation, is now evident. An impulse simply passes up the irritated or wounded nerve, and excites this inhibitory heat-centre to increased action, and the temperature falls because the chemical movements of the body are repressed.

The method in which fever is produced also becomes very evident when once the existence of an inhibitory heat-centre has been established. Any poison having the power to depress, and finally paralyze, this centre must, if it find entrance to the blood, produce fever. If the poison, from its inherent properties, or from its being in very small quantity, only diminishes the activity of the inhibitory heat-centre, the controlling influence is not entirely removed from the chemical movements of the body, and only slight fever results; but if the poison actually paralyzes the inhibitory nerves, a very great rise of temperature must rapidly follow the complete removal of the brake-power.

As an illustration we may consider the intense rheumatic fever, or the so-called "cerebral rheumatism," such as affected the young Irishman whose case has been narrated in the present article. Without any apparent reason the poison of rheumatism habitually attacks one joint on one day, and another joint on another day, and with as little apparent reason it occasionally falls of a sudden upon the inhibitory heat-centre, and actually paralyzes it. In a few minutes intense fever is developed, and the bodily temperature rapidly approaches nearer and nearer that line on the other side of which is death.

In many cases of fever, however, there is no poison in the blood; thus, the local irritation of a boil or other inflammation may cause what is well termed "irritative fever." The way in which this is produced is by an indirect, and not a direct, action upon the inhibitory heat-centre.

The casualties of the late war proved but too abundantly that a man may be wounded in one part of the body and suffer from paralysis of voluntary motion in another part. Thus, a soldier struck in the neck fell unconscious, and on awaking was astonished to find his right arm powerless at his side. This is the so-called "reflex paralysis." Very commonly the irritation of a nerve will give rise to an impulse which will travel up the nerve to a motor-centre, and so excite it that it shall send in turn an impulse down a second nerve to a distant muscle, and a spasm result. Sometimes, however, the impulse which travels to the nerve-centre is of such a character that, instead of exciting it to action, it deprives it of the power of action. In the former instance reflex motion, in the latter reflex paralysis, results.

We have seen that galvanization of a nerve may excite the inhibitory centre to activity, and the peculiar persistent irritation of a local inflammation may deprive the same centre of its power of action: in the one instance a reflex inhibitory heat-centre spasm—i.e., lowering of temperature—is produced, and in the other a reflex inhibitory heat-centre paralysis—i.e., fever—results.

It would be going too far at present to assert that all fever is produced in the way spoken of. There are certain drugs which lower the temperature in the fever that follows division of the cord and consequent paralysis of the heat-centre, and which must therefore act either upon the blood, or universally upon the tissues so as to diminish their-chemical movements. It is most probable, although not yet absolutely proved, that there are other substances which act directly upon the blood and tissues in such a way as to increase their chemical activities, and thereby cause fever.

The practical considerations in regard to the treatment of disease which naturally flow from the recent investigations of fever are very important and very obvious. This is especially true since it has been shown in Germany that under the influence of a continuous high bodily temperature, not intense enough at any time to compromise life, all the muscular tissues of the body undergo a peculiar granular degeneration. Many a typhoid-fever patient has undoubtedly died from the heart-muscle having undergone this change, when, if by artificial cooling the temperature of the body had been kept down, the alteration of the heart-structure would have been prevented, and death averted. It is obvious, also, that the old plan of thwarting the intentions of Nature, and depriving the fever-patient of the free use of cooling drinks, was practically a baneful cruelty. As the body is burning up in fever, it is also evident that to deprive it of sustenance is to aid in the production of fatal exhaustion. The burning will go on, whether food is given or not, so long as the tissues can serve as fuel. Of course no more food should be taken than the patient can digest, but every grain of digested food is so much added to the resources of the system, which is engaged, it may be, in a close and doubtful conflict with disease.

If it were possible, of course the best treatment for fever would be that which lessened the production of heat. Fortunately, we have some drugs—notably, quinine and alcohol—which do exert a decided influence upon the vital chemical movements, but, unfortunately, their power is limited. As we are therefore often unable to control heat-production, the best we can do is to abstract the caloric from the body whenever it becomes so excessive as to threaten serious results. To do this, all that is necessary is to put the patient in a cold bath, or wrap him in a sheet wet with ice-cold water, or lay him upon an ice-mattress, or surround him with coils of tubing through which cold water runs, or use some similar efficacious device. I do not wish to be misunderstood. External cold is not to be lightly employed: it is a powerful two-edged weapon, capable of cutting both ways—a weapon as injurious and destructive in the hands of the ignorant and inexperienced as it is efficient in the hands of those to whom study and experience have taught its skillful use.

To illustrate what cold water may effect when employed by intelligent and skillful physicians, I may be permitted to cite a few hospital statistics from Germany and Switzerland, the only countries where the so-called antipyretic treatment of continued fever has been efficiently carried out on a large scale. From 1850 to 1861 there were treated without cold water, at the hospital at Kiel, 330 cases of typhoid fever, with 51 deaths—a mortality of about 15-1/2 per cent.; from 1863 to 1866, 160 cases were treated with cold baths, with 5 deaths—a mortality of only 3-1/10 per cent. In the hospital of Bâle, from 1843 to 1864, there were 1718 cases without antipyretic treatment, with 469 deaths—a mortality of about 27-1/2 per cent; from September, 1866, to 1873, 1121 cases were treated antipyretically, with 92 deaths—a mortality of a little over 8 per cent. Assuredly, we may claim that this water-treatment in typhoid fever is one of the greatest gains of modern medicine since the discovery of anæsthesia.

Some of my readers may here say to themselves, "Why, this is hydropathy!" Not so. It is the legitimate, not the illegitimate, use of cold water. It is the use of it as a single weapon, not as the only weapon of the armory. It is the employment of it in a single affection, not as a cure for all diseases.

Perhaps, in concluding this essay, I may be pardoned one word of counsel to my lay audience. Any physician who proclaims himself a follower of any special doctrine, be he a hydropath, an electropath, an allopath, a homoeopath, or any other path, should be viewed with suspicion. Water, cold, heat, electricity, drugs, are all agents capable of being used advantageously in the treatment of disease. Above all men, the physician ought to have that teachable spirit which is the offspring of true humility. Knowing the grave responsibilities which he assumes, living almost beneath the shadow of that past whose life-imperiling mistakes are so plainly visible in the light of the present, he, of all men, should be ever seeking for new knowledge, gathering with equal zest the seeds of healing in the waste as well as in the cultivated places, amongst the lowest and most ignorant of the populace, as well as in far-famed schools of medicine.

H.C. WOOD, JR., M.D.

SONNET.

Young bride, that findest not a single star

Shining to-night with longed for prophecy,

Though snowy drifts are swelling near and far,

They need not chill thy happy hope and thee.

If blue had overarched the earth all day,

And heaven were brilliant with its stars to-night,

"A happy omen!" many a guest would say,

And think that Fortune blessed the sacred rite.

Be superstition far from thee, sweet soul:

This snowy robe, in unison with thine,

Nature will doff to-morrow, and the whole

Of this white waste in spring-like freshness shine.

If love be strong, then all adversity

Will melt like snow, and life the greener be.

CHARLOTTE F. BATES.

SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF HIRAM POWERS.

There are—or were—many at Florence whose recollections of Hiram Powers stretch over the best part of a quarter of a century; and there are few men of whom it could with equal truth and accuracy be said that such recollections are wholly pleasant in their character to the survivors and honorable to the subject of them. He was in truth universally respected by people of all classes, and by Americans and English, as well as Italians, in the city of his adoption, and personally liked and esteemed by all who had the good fortune to be among his friends. Recollections such as these are, I say, the property of very many at Florence. But there is no one in that city—there was during his life no one in that city, not even she who during a long life was a companion, friend, partner and helpmeet in every sense admirable for him—whose recollections went back to so early a period as mine did.

When I came to Florence with my mother in 1841, intending to make a home there for a few years, we found, with some surprise and much pleasure, Hiram Powers, with a wife and children, settled there as a sculptor. It was long since, in the course of the changes and chances of life, we had lost sight of him, but the meeting was none the less pleasurable to, I think I may say, both parties. It was at Cincinnati in 1829 that my mother and myself first knew him. My mother, who had long been an acquaintance of General La Fayette, became thus the intimate friend of his ward, Frances Wright. Fascinated by the talent, the brilliancy and the singular eloquence of that remarkable and highly-gifted woman, and at the same time anxious to find a career for one of her sons (not the well-known author of the present day, but another brother, long since dead), whose wishes and proclivities adapted him for a life of more activity and adventure than that of one of our home-abiding professions, my mother was persuaded by her to join her in a scheme which at that time was engaging all her singularly large powers of energy and enthusiasm, the object of which was to found at New Harmony—I think, though I am not sure whether Frances Wright's colony was not another, separate from that of New Harmony—an establishment which was in some way or other to contribute to the emancipation of the slaves, mainly, I imagine, by showing that under proper management they were not unfitted for freedom. The fate of that philanthropic scheme is too well known to make it necessary for me to rehearse the story of it here, imperfectly known to me as it is. The upshot was, that my mother and brother were induced to go to Cincinnati and attempt other plans, the final result of which was also a failure. I had had no share in these Transatlantic projects, being at the time a scholar at Winchester in the college of William of Wykeham. But between quitting Winchester, at the age of eighteen, and going to Oxford, I had a period of liberty of nearly a twelvemonth, the greater part of which I devoted to accompanying my father on a visit to Cincinnati. And there I became acquainted with Powers, a very few years only my senior, whom I found already the valued friend of my mother and brother.

He was at that time—I well remember the look of him—a tall, lanky, but remarkably handsome lad, somewhat awkward in person, but with a calm but at the same time intellectually expressive beauty of feature which marked him as one of Nature's noblemen. His eyes were the most noticeable point about him. They were magnificent—large, clear, well-opened, and expressive of calm thought and the working of the intellect rather than of shrewdness or passion. His manner, I remember, was marked by an exceeding simpleness, and a sort of innocent and dignified straightforwardness which much impressed me. Altogether, my acquaintance with him was a contribution of a new sort to the education of my mind. I had passed eight years in the acquisition of those things which an English "gentleman's education" is supposed to offer. These things (in the year 1829) consisted in a very fair knowledge of Latin and Greek. Unquestionably, the eight years which I had spent in learning those languages had brought with them other advantages and other teachings of an altogether priceless sort. But what they professedly had taught me, what I then considered as the net result of my eight years at school, was a competent knowledge of Latin and Greek, and nothing else. Now, here was a young man of my own age, or little more, about whose idiosyncrasy there was something especially simpatico to me, as the Italians say—who knew nothing whatever of the only things which I knew, but knew a whole world of things of which I was profoundly ignorant. I was (of course) full of prejudices also—ecclesiastical prejudices, class prejudices, political prejudices, caste prejudices—all of which were as unintelligible to my new friend as they would have been to a red Indian. He was singularly free from prejudice of any kind—a sort of original, blank-paper mind, on which nothing had been written save what he had consciously written there himself as the result of his own observations of life. I knew other young Americans, and perceived and could have pointed out characteristics which distinguished them. But Powers was not like them. He seemed to me a sort of Adam, a fresh, new and original man, unclassable and unjudgable by any of the formulas or prejudices which served me as means of appreciating men. Despite all this—perhaps because of all this—we soon became great friends. I very shortly discovered that he was wholly and entirely truthful. His "yes" was yes, his "no" was no; and not only that, but what is much rarer still, his "five" or "six" was not five and a quarter or six and a half, but five or six. I remember in him then what I recognized after many, many years in later life, and what is often so amusing a characteristic in simple, upright and truthful minds—the notion that on occasion he could be deep enough to outwit the cunning of the unscrupulous, whereas his loyal unsuspiciousness of evil was such that he might have been cheated by the first shallow rogue who chose to exercise his vulpine craft against him.

When I reached Cincinnati I found him intimate with my brother, and a favorite with my mother, who had formed a high opinion both of his character and of his talents. The latter had already very markedly manifested themselves in that direction which finally decided his career in life. Yet there was little of that dreamy and enthusiastic worship for the abstract beautiful which is generally supposed to be the marking characteristic of the artistic temperament. But he had a wonderful faculty of executing with his hands whatever his mind had conceived, and a mind singularly active in invention and in devising means for the execution of a mechanical end. Had circumstances not made him a sculptor, he might have been—probably would have been—a successful inventor, mechanician or engineer. Throughout life he was an eminently and specially practical man—a man whose tendency was not to dream, but to do. That artistic temperament, as it is generally called, which so often manifests itself in exactly the opposite direction—in a tendency to dream rather than to do, and to allow the pleasures of the ideal to incapacitate those who indulge in them for real work—was so little his that I have never known a more industrious and conscientious worker with his hands. And there was nothing to which he could not turn them, and that with a degree of skill that would often put to shame the attempts of members of the craft which he might be essaying for the first time.

At that time Hiram Powers was, as the saying is, living upon his wits; and they, being such as I have described them, were not likely to fail in producing the wherewithal to do so. There was at that period a little Frenchman named Dorfeuille at Cincinnati—not a bad sort of little man, I believe, and with some amount of literary and other talent. But he also being engaged in the operation of living on his wits, or mainly so, and not finding them so abundantly sufficient for the purpose as those of my young friend, thought that he too might in part live on the wits of the latter; and during the time of my stay at Cincinnati he did so to the satisfaction of both parties. This Dorfeuille was the proprietor of a museum, the main and most attractive portion of which was a number of wax figures. But the Cincinnati public was not large enough in those days to supply a constant stream of fresh spectators, and, though there was little in the way of public amusement to compete with M. Dorfeuille's museum, the Cincinnati people soon got tired of looking at the same show; and but for the happy chance which brought him into contact with Hiram Powers, M. Dorfeuille must have packed up his museum and sought "fresh woods and pastures new." But with the advent of young Powers, and the contents of the museum given over to his creating brain and clever fingers, a period of halcyon days and new prosperity commenced for the little Frenchman and his show. With the materials at his disposition all things were possible to the young artist, to whom such a chance gave the first clear consciousness of his own powers. New combinations, new names, new costuming, alterations of figures, etc. etc. were adopted to produce fine effects and amuse the public with constant novelties. For the invention of these Powers often used to consult my mother, whose suggestions he never failed to carry into effect, to the great amusement of both parties. On one occasion an idea struck her, which, when she communicated it to him, fired the imagination of Powers and turned out a great success. This was nothing less than to give a representation of some of the more striking scenes of Dante's Divina Commedia. The idea was a sufficiently audacious one. But "audaces Fortuna juvat." Powers scouted the notion of difficulty. My mother was to draw up the programme, and he undertook, with the materials furnished him by the museum, and with the help of some of his own handiwork, to give scenic reality to her suggestions. The result, as I have said, was a brilliant success. I have a copy of the "bill" that was issued to the public inviting them to the exhibition in question, which is a curiosity in its way, and which I must give the reader. It is drawn up in high sensational style, with lines of different lengths and boldness, and printed in all the different sorts of capitals which the printer's case afforded. I cannot occupy space with any imitation of these typographical magnificences, but will simply copy the language of the bill. It must have been my mother's composition, and Powers had to work up to it, which he did to the letter:

"The World to come, as described by Dante, and comprising, Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, will be exhibited in a room adjoining the Western Museum on the 4th of July, and days following. Admittance, twenty-five cents. In the centre is seen a grand colossal figure of Minos, the Judge of Hell. He is seated at the entrance of the INFERNAL REGIONS [enormous capitals]. His right hand is raised as in the act to pronounce sentence, his left holding a two-pronged sceptre. Above his head is a scroll on which are written the concluding words of Dante's celebrated inscription, 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!' To the right of this figure the foreground presents a frozen lake, on the surface of which are seen the heads of those who have been doomed to this species of punishment. Among these is the head of Ugolino, whom Dante describes as eternally gnawing the head of his enemy, who, after placing him and his three sons in the upper chamber of a strong tower near Florence, threw the key of it into the moat and left them to perish with hunger. Grinning in mockery of these ice-bound sufferers, A BLACK IMP [biggest extra black capitals] is seated on a rock, dandling a young monster. On the edge of the opposite side of the frozen lake stands a spirit, who is just about to endure the frozen torment; and his attitude and countenance express the agony of extreme cold. Behind him opens the fiery gulf, the reflection of whose lurid glare is seen on his half-frozen body. At his feet a female head, fixed in the ice, looks up to the flames, as longing for their warmth; while a little way within the lake of fire another head is seen gazing with longing eyes upon the ice. A brilliant fountain of flame is in the midst of the lake, and around it crowds of condemned spirits in all varieties of suffering. In one corner a fiend is proclaiming their infamy by the aid of a trumpet through all the depths of Hell. Birds and animals of hideous form and evil omen are fluttering over the heads and tormenting the sufferers. Large icicles hang from the rocks that form the Gate of Hell, and reflect on their bright surface the red glare of the fires within. On the left of Minos is seen a Skeleton ascending a column of Icicles and holding a standard bearing these lines:

"'To this grim form our cherished limbs have come,

And thus lie mouldering in their earthly home.

In turf-bound hillock or in sculptured shrine

The worms alike their cold caresses twine.

So far we all are equal; but once left

Our mortal weeds, of vital spark bereft,

Asunder farther than the poles we're driven—

Some sunk to deepest Hell, some raised to highest Heaven.'

"Still farther on the left of Minos, and melting into distance behind him, is seen the shadowy region of Purgatory. Four bright stars—the Cardinal Virtues—give a delicate and cheering light amid the gloom. A group of figures loaded with the burthen of their sins are about to plunge into the lake of purgatorial waters, in the hope of depositing them there. A boat wafted by the wings of an Angel is bearing departed, souls toward Heaven; and near it is a column of pale light to direct its course. In the distance is the mountain that divides Purgatory from Heaven; and Beatrice, the departed mistress of Dante, is standing on its summit, encouraging him to proceed with her to Heaven, where his former guide, Virgil, cannot be admitted (being a Pagan). Groups of Pilgrims who have passed through Purgatory are ascending the mountain. Still farther to the left, and opening in unbroken splendor above the head of Beatrice, is seen the Heaven of Heavens. The golden light pours down on the heads of the Pilgrims, and angels are seen floating in the air and encouraging their efforts. The foreground of this part of the scene presents various objects to cheer the spirit of the Pilgrims in their passage through Purgatory. The entrance indeed is rocky, but shrubs and flowers adorn it, and the Dove, the bird of Hope, is bearing the olive-branch before them."

If all that was packed into "a room adjoining the Western Museum," the sight of it must, I think, be admitted to have been a cheap twenty-five cents' worth. The Cincinnati world of hard upon half a century ago judged it to be so, and flocked to the exhibition in crowds. But very soon the versatile and indefatigable artist devised new means of still further stimulating the curiosity and excitement of his public. A bar ran across the exhibition-room, dividing the space allotted to the spectators from that occupied by the scenery and objects provided for their amusement. But since the available space was, as may easily be imagined, somewhat limited, it came to pass that the foremost spectators, being often of that class of persons who see with the ends of their fingers, would stretch out their arms and audaciously touch "the Black Imp," or "the Skeleton," or Minos himself, or any other of the dramatis personæ they could reach, to the damage of those somewhat perishable properties. A notice was therefore placarded in the room, written in flame-colored letters and couched in the choicest bugaboo phraseology, warning all such indiscreet persons that the denizens of the Infernal Regions could not be touched by mortal hands with impunity, and that immediate punishment would visit transgressors. Of course it was foreseen that such threats would not avail to restrain, but would rather stimulate the curiosity of the disciples of Saint Thomas. But, sure enough, the threatened punishment, by no means "pede claudo" followed in every case—very accurately with the speed of lightning—on the transgression; for Powers had cunningly contrived, preparing it all with his own hand, that a sharp electric shock should be communicated to each audacious hand that braved the prohibition. The astonishment, the terror, and subsequently the fun, produced by this ingenious device may easily be imagined. The sufferers, like the fox who had lost his tail, brought their friends, and enjoyed the fun of leading them into the same scrape. The "room adjoining the Western Museum" was more thronged than ever, and little Dorfeuille reaped a golden harvest. How large a share of it found its way into the pockets of the ingenious artist I know not—probably a much smaller one than fair play would have assigned him.

In the long after years at Florence, Powers and I had many a laugh together over his reminiscences of the scenes that occurred in that exhibition-room, all of which he remembered as well as if the incidents had happened but a year before, and would chuckle over with as much enjoyment as he did at the time of their occurrence. My copy of the hand-bill which I have given above—doubtless the only one now in existence—was matter of much amusement to us, and served to recall every portion and every figure of the early work of his hands.

From the time I left America to go to Oxford, in the spring of 1829, till our meeting at Florence in 1841, I saw no more of Powers. But, as may be easily imagined, we lost no time in renewing our old friendship. He was then, and for many years afterward, living in the Via Romana, not far from the city gate of that name. The house stood back from the street, and was approached only by a passage through another tenement, from which it was divided by a little garden; a situation which, though not in all respects convenient, had at least the advantage of securing quietude. The young sculptor, with his already numerous and rapidly increasing family, occupied the first and second floors, while the ground floor was exclusively devoted to workshops and show-rooms. The premises were large and the accommodations ample. Already few Americans came to Florence without paying a visit to the "Studio Powers," but they were in those days but few in comparison to the number which, partly as residents and partly as merely passing tourists, throng every winter the fair "City of Flowers." Up to the revolution of 1848 the English at Florence were very far more numerous than the citizens of the other English-speaking nation. That unsuccessful movement drove many English, very unnecessarily, from their moorings. The English colony was very much reduced even after those who returned on the return of the grand duke had resumed their old places. And from that time forward I think that America has been more numerously represented on the banks of the Arno than England. Powers had at that time produced various successful busts, but had not as yet made himself known as an imaginative sculptor. Nevertheless, the former works had sufficed to give him an amount of reputation in the United States that ensured constant visits of his countrymen to the studio in the Via Romana.

Some twelve years had elapsed when I first saw Powers in Florence since the old days in Cincinnati. In such a space of time, especially at that period of life which turns a lad into a man, most men change much. But the change in Powers's face was but small: I should have known him if I had met him in the street anywhere. But in person he was much changed: he had become stout and what is called personable, not fat—he never was that to the end of his life—but neither was he lanky, as he had been as a youth. He had filled out, as the phrase is, and might be considered in all respects a decidedly handsome man. There was something specially, and more than commonly, upright in the carriage of his person and of his head, which seemed the expression of the uprightness of the man's moral and intellectual nature and character. He always looked straight at you with those large, placid and generally grave eyes of his under their large and bushy brows. They seemed to continue grave, or at least thoughtful, those eyes, even when there was a pleasant genial smile on the mouth. And there was this specialty about his smile—a specialty which may be often observed in subjective natures habituated to original thought and to live in the inner life: it seemed generally to be produced more by the movement of his own inward feelings and thoughts than by what was said by others. Like most dark-haired men, he began to become gray early in life, and for some few years before his death his appearance was venerable in no ordinary degree. He then wore his hair, which had become perfectly white, very long, and a shallow, very broad-brimmed white hat on the top of it. The latter, indeed, was, I think, at all times his universal wear. I do not think that I ever saw him in Florence in that detestable article of apparel called "a chimney-pot hat." But this is anticipating.

Very shortly after our arrival in Florence and the renewal of our friendship with Powers—I think not more than a year—there arrived in Florence, bringing a letter of introduction to my mother, an English gentleman of fortune, Mr. Grant. He was a noted lover and patron of art, and my mother proposed to him a visit to the Studio Powers. The sculptor had then just completed his first imaginative work, the "Greek Slave," which numerous replicas have since made so well known on both sides of the Atlantic. This work had greatly excited my mother's admiration, and it was that he might have an opportunity of seeing the "Greek Slave" that my mother was desirous of taking Mr. Grant to the sculptor's studio. But it was not altogether easy to induce Mr. Grant to accept the proposal. "If there is anything very good, that is the very reason why I must not go there. Lead me not into temptation! I have been spending all my money, and more than I meant to spend, on sculpture in Rome. Don't show me any more statues, for I cannot buy any more." But this confession of fearing temptation was calculated to produce a stronger determination to expose him to it. Mr. Grant was persuaded to visit the studio in the Via Romana: he was as much charmed with the beauty of the conception of the statue as with the conscientious perfection of its execution, and he became the purchaser of it. And it speedily acquired a reputation which led to the execution of as many, I think, as four or five replicas at the request of other lovers of art; and the sculptor's reputation was made.

The practice of the greatest sculptors as regards the degree in which it has seemed desirable to them to take part in that mechanical portion of the business of producing a statue which consists in the manipulation of the marble, has always been very different. Some have subjected the marble to the touching of their own hands more, some less. The work of reproducing a copy of the clay model in marble is a purely mechanical one, and may or may not be in the artist's judgment best brought to perfection by the labor of his own hands. It will readily be believed, however, from what has been already said of the tendencies of Powers's talent and idiosyncrasy, that he was among those who have contributed most of their personal labor to the perfecting of their works. Powers was one of those men whose hands have faculty in them. He was a master in the use of them, and accordingly he loved to use them. It was his practice to go over with his own hand the surface of the marble of every work which left his studio. But he was not contented to do this in the manner and with the tools which had been used by so many generations of sculptors before him. That decided bent of his genius to mechanical invention which has been mentioned at the beginning of this paper led him to perceive that an improvement might be made in this respect. For giving the last finish to the marble, for removing from the surface a quantity so small that no chisel could be trusted to do the work, it is obvious enough to suggest the use of a file. And no doubt files are used for the purpose, but they are liable to a special and very troublesome source of inefficiency. They become clogged with the excessively fine dust of the marble in a very few minutes to such an extent as to be rendered useless, especially as the file must be of an exceedingly fine description. Powers therefore set his mind to the problem of inventing some means or some instrument by which this source of trouble could be avoided; and after considerable vexation, not so much in perfecting his own conception of the thing needed as in getting careless and not very competent workmen to execute his orders, he perfected a file of the necessary fineness upon the principle of a nutmeg-grater. His studio was at all times full of little ingenious contrivances of all sorts—contrivances for readily and conveniently modifying the light in the exact degree desirable; contrivances for the due collocation and distribution of artificial light; contrivances for the more ready moving of marbles, etc. etc.

It is the fashion in Florence and in Rome for artists to open their studios to all visitors. It is a custom which adds much to the amusement of visitors who are really lovers of art; but it must bring with it, one would think, consequences which must sometimes be not a little trying to the painter's or sculptor's temper and patience. Criticism from those who have some little pretension to the right to criticise is not always pleasant when volunteered, but criticism from such Philistines of the Philistines as often haunt the studios must be hard indeed to bear with common courtesy. Powers invariably received such with the most perfect suavity and good-temper, but I have sometimes seen him, to my great amusement, inflict a punishment on the talkers of nonsense which made them wish they had held their tongues. This consisted simply of defending his own practice by entering on a lecture upon the principles which ought to regulate the matter in question. He was, I fancy, rather fond of lecturing, and would rather have liked the work of a professor of the fine arts. I have seen people writhe under his patient and lengthy expositions, which they were as capable of understanding as so many bullocks, and which they had brought down on themselves by some absolutely absurd remark on the work before them. I have seen such delinquents use every sort of effort to put a stop to or escape from the punishment they had brought upon themselves. In vain: the lecture would continue with a placid uninterruptibility which it was amusing to witness.

It was in 1854, I think, or thereabouts (for I have not at hand the means of verifying the date with accuracy, and it is of no consequence), that Mr. Hume, the since well-known medium, came to Florence. He came to my house on the pressing invitation of my mother, my then wife and myself. We had seen accounts of extraordinary things said to have taken place some months previously at the house of a Mr. Rymer, a solicitor living at Ealing near London, and our curiosity and interest had been so much excited that the hope of being able to witness some of these marvels was not the least among the motives of a journey that summer to England. We obtained an introduction to Mr. Rymer, were present at sundry séances at his house at Ealing, made acquaintance with Mr. Hume, and invited him to stay for a while in my house in Florence. He came accompanied by his friend, a son of Mr. Rymer; and both the young men were resident under my roof for about a month, leaving it to accept an invitation from Mr. Powers to make his house their home for a while. The manifestations of phenomena produced, or supposed to be produced, by what has become known to the world as "Spiritualism," were then only beginning to attract in Europe the very general attention which they have since that time attracted. The thing was then new to most people. During the month that Mr. Hume and his friend were in my house we had séances almost every evening, with the "assistance," as the French say, of a rather numerous and very varied circle. For, as may easily be supposed, all our friends were anxious to witness the new marvels, and we, desirous only of as many eyes and as many minds as might be for the better watching and discussion of the phenomena, welcomed all comers to the extent of the capacity of our room and table. I have no intention of troubling my present readers with any detailed rehearsal of the phenomena which presented themselves. The testimony which my observations during this period enabled me to offer has already more than once been given to the world in print, and the catalogue of similar and yet more extraordinary experiences has become too long, and the witnesses to them too numerous and too well known to the public, for such details to have any further interest at the present day. I feel bound, however, to state that no amount of suspicious watching which I was able to exercise in my house, and which Powers was able to exercise in his, enabled us to discover any smallest degree of imposture, or fair grounds for suspecting imposture, as regards the physical or material phenomena which were witnessed. Such is my testimony, and such was that of Powers, who, by his aptitude for inventing and understanding mechanical contrivances of all kinds, was a man specially well fitted for the task of watching the performance of such wonders. I have spoken here, it will be observed, altogether of the material and physical phenomena witnessed. As to what are called the spiritual manifestations, Powers was perhaps not an entirely unbiased estimator of these. He was an eminently sincere, earnest and zealous Swedenborgian, and several of the leading tenets and dogmas of the Swedenborgian faith are calculated to make such communications with the world of spirits as Spiritualists claim to experience much less startling, less strange to the mind and more acceptable, than they usually appear to other people. To a Swedenborgian who is perfectly convinced that the spirits of the departed are ever around him and interested in his welfare, it does not seem a very strange or extraordinary thing that these visitors should under certain circumstances be able to express the interest which they always feel. Powers regarded all the professed manifestations of spiritual communications from that stand-point, and was enabled to accept them therefore somewhat more easily than another person might have done. Yet, despite such predisposing proclivities, and though he was disposed to think a great variety of professed communications from the world of spirits to have been genuinely what they purported to be, the habitual uprightness and truthfulness of Powers's mind led him, as I believe I am justified in saying, to the conclusion that in the case which I am about to mention, at least, there was ground for very strong suspicion of the honesty of the medium. The circumstances of the case were as follows:

I had many years previously lost a brother—the same whom I have already had occasion to mention in the earlier part of this letter. Now, at an early stage of the series of sittings that took place at my house it was intimated that the spirit of this brother was present and wishful or willing to communicate with me. He did, as was proposed, communicate very freely upon subjects of all sorts by means of raps under the table and the letters of the alphabet spread upon it—on all subjects save one. To the often-repeated question, where we had last met in life, I could get no reply. It was constantly promised to me that I should be answered this question at the next sitting. Now, it so happened that my wife had conceived, reasonably or unreasonably, doubts as to the medium's honesty in the matter, and she determined to try him in the matter of this unanswered question. Talking one day with him in tête-à-tête, she turned the subject of maladies of the chest, of which they had been speaking, to the special case of her late brother-in-law, discussing the powerful influence of climate, and remarking that she feared Ostend had been a very bad place for him. And there she left the matter without any further remark, and without eliciting any answer from him. This occurred very shortly before the time when Mr. Hume left my house to accept the hospitality of Mr. Powers. The sittings continued with great frequency in the house of the latter, and my mother and myself were very frequently present at them. As before, the soi-disant spirit of my brother Henry announced his presence, and, as before, I repeated my often-asked question as to the place on earth where he and I had last met. On this occasion the answer rapped out consisted of the word "Ostend." I smilingly replied, "Spirit, you know nothing about what you are talking of: you are wrong." Mr. Hume became immediately very angry, and reproached me vehemently for "interrupting the spirit"—for not waiting for what he was probably going to say. It was likely enough, he added, that the spirit was about to say that Ostend was not the place. I said "Pshaw! In that way he might go through the whole Gazetteer." Thereupon Mr. Hume declared that I was evidently not in a fit frame of mind to be a sitter at such meetings; that my presence would be likely to mar any results to be expected from them; and, in short, if only for the sake of those who wished to continue their experiences, it was necessary that I should withdraw from them. That was the last occasion on which I took part in a séance under Mr. Hume's mediumship. My mother continued her sittings at the house of Mr. Powers, and it is fair to record that she there witnessed material phenomena—some of them closely allied to phenomena only explainable on Spiritualistic theories—of even a more extraordinary nature than any which had occurred at my house; in which neither she, nor Mr. Powers or any of his family, nor any of the others of the party, were able to detect any imposture. And I believe I may add that Mr. Powers fully believed in the genuineness of the phenomena witnessed. It is also perhaps fair to state that had the answer to my question been "On board the steamboat going from London to Ostend," the reply would have been correct. How far it is possible to suppose that the word "Ostend" may have been the first word of an answer about to be completed in that sense if it had not been interrupted, I leave to the judgment of the reader.

For some time after this Powers used to recount to me the marvels which were witnessed at his house. He was not pleased with the medium as an inmate in other respects: he did not form a favorable opinion of his moral character. I am speaking of matters now many years old, and I might not have considered it necessary to record these impressions of a very specially upright and honest man with regard to one who is still before the public were it not that they go to increase the value of Mr. Powers's testimony to the genuineness of the phenomena which he witnessed, by showing that his judgment upon the subject was at least in no degree warped by any prejudice in favor of the miracle-worker.

Meantime, the sculptor, still in the modest tenement which he occupied for so many years in the Via Romana, was growing in fame and reputation from day to day. A visit to the Studio Powers—or Pousse, as the ciceroni and valets-de-place called it—was an obligatory part of the tourist's regular work in "doing" Florence. A large family was, during those prosperous and laborious years, growing up around him—sons and daughters, most of whom he lived to see settled in life and to be justly proud of. Death did not altogether pass his threshold by, but he knocked there but once or twice in all that length of years. At last the time came when the successful artist felt that his position enabled and justified him in moving from his old quarters to more commodious and luxurious ones. He had been but a tenant in the Via Romana: he was now to inhabit a house of his own.

It was the time when Florence was for a few short years enjoying the fallacious and fatal honor of being the capital of Italy. There were some who from the first were fully convinced that that honor would be a transitory one. The greater number thought that the will of France and of her emperor, and the difficulties attending the simultaneous residence of the king of Italy and the pope within the walls of the same city, would avail to make Florence the capital of the new kingdom for at least as many years as human prudence could look forward to. The earthquake-like events which shook down the bases of all such calculations, and enabled Italy to realize her longing desire to see Rome the capital of the nation, are too well known to need even referring to. Florence suddenly ceased to be the metropolis of Italy, and the amount of financial ruin in the case of those who had invested money in building to supply the wants of the capital was very widespread indeed. And there can be no doubt that the houses built by Powers are at the present day worth much less than they were at the time he built them, and still less than they would have been worth had Florence remained the capital. Nevertheless, I do not think that he would have abstained from building from any considerations of this kind. He built solely with a view to residence, and in that respect he could hardly have done better than he did.

He did not move very far. His old lodging and studio were, as has been said, a little way within the Porta Romana, and the villa residence which he built is but two or three minutes' walk on the outside of it. Immediately outside this Porta Romana, sloping off a little to the left from the road to Rome, is a magnificent avenue of ilex and cypress conducting to a grand-ducal villa called the "Poggio Imperiale." To the left again of this avenue, which is perhaps a mile or somewhat more in length, and between it and the city wall, which in that part of its course encloses the Boboli Gardens attached to the Palazzo Pitti, is a large extent of hillside, rapidly rising to the heights crowned by the ancient and storied church of San Miniato, and by the suburban villages of Arcetri and Pian Guillari. This space was, and had been for time out of mind, occupied by fields and market-gardens. But when the new fortunes of the City of Flowers fallaciously seemed to be in the ascendant, it was at once seen that of all the spaces immediately around Florence which were available for that increase of the city which was expected to be urgently required, none was more desirable or more favorably circumstanced than this hillside. A really magnificent carriage-road, ornamented with gardens on either side of it, was led in well-arranged curves up to San Miniato, and down on the other side of the hill till it reaches the Arno at the village of Ricorboli. The entire course of this road commands a series of varied views of the city and the Vale of Arno than which nothing can be conceived more charming. It is in truth the finest city promenade and drive that I know in Europe. Rome has nothing comparable to it. The Bois de Boulogne and Hyde Park are, as far as natural beauty goes, tame and flat in comparison to it. The planning and the execution of it have been alike excellent. The whole of the space up which the road serpentines has been turned into ornamental gardens, and on either side of it, and among its lawns and shrubberies, a large number of villa-sites were reserved to be disposed of to purchasers. Of this singular opportunity Powers was one of the first to avail himself. He selected with admirable judgment three sites in the immediate neighborhood of each other—one for a residence for himself, one for that of his eldest son, a married man, established and doing well as a photographer, and one for that of his eldest daughter and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Ibbetson. The friends of the sculptor thus patriarchally establishing himself said laughingly that the region ought to be called Powerstown. The three houses, each in its own grounds, were built, and excellently good and comfortable residences they are. Powers was almost as much in his own element in superintending them as in his studio with mallet and chisel in hand, as might be surmised. The new studio formed no part of the dwelling-house, but occupied a separate erection in the grounds. Nor did the artist's love for his art fail to show itself in the amplitude and excellent adaptation of the building to all the needs of a studio, properly so called—of work-rooms and exhibition-rooms for the reception of visitors. A more complete sculptor's residence and establishment it would be difficult to imagine. Alas for the shortness of the few years that were allowed to him for the enjoyment of it! Long after the house and the studio were completed, and the marbles all moved thither, Powers was still indulging in the delight of improving his garden; and his plans for such improvement gave striking evidence of that genius and passion for mechanical cleverness and achievements of which I have frequently spoken. He had planned and begun—I think only begun—to execute an artesian well by means of certain newly-invented systems of boring, the details of which, in the absence of all workmen who possessed any knowledge whatever on the subject, had to be wholly superintended, arranged and adapted by himself. He had satisfied himself by observations of his own that water was to be found at a given depth, and had, I believe, prosecuted the work sufficiently to be assured that his judgment in this respect was well founded. In connection with this scheme of the artesian well was a fountain in the garden, which was, I believe, also ultimately brought to perfection.

In conformity with the convenient continental fashion of ladies naming one day in the week for the reception of visitors—a plan which enables them to escape from the interruption to their domestic pursuits on all other days, and which is very generally adopted by those who have large circles of acquaintance—Mrs. Powers used to open the drawing-rooms of her new house on every Saturday, and a considerable crowd was sure to be found there from two to six. But such recent arrivals on the banks of the Arno as paid their respects to Mrs. Powers in the hope and expectation of seeing the famous sculptor were almost, if not quite, invariably disappointed. None of the Florentine colony expected to find Powers in the drawing-room on such occasions. They knew better where to look for him—in his workshop. There he might be found by those who had brought letters of introduction to him, in his usual workman's garb. Powers never made the slightest concession to the necessities of receiving "company" on such occasions. There he was, with his working cap on head, probably in a long light gray coat, not innocent of marble dust, but often in blouse and apron.

In the latter days, when, though we little thought it, the end was approaching, when the night of that long day of continuous activity and labor was at hand, he might as frequently have been found sauntering under the magnificent trees of the Poggio Imperiale avenue in the immediate vicinity of his own house. Upright in figure and in carriage as ever, and with his eye as bright as ever, it was difficult to suppose that the venerable and stalwart figure of the old sculptor was not destined still for years of life and activity. His malady was connected with the respiratory organs; and a specially painful circumstance of it for his friends was, that the loss of voice, which made the effort of talking injurious to him, rendered it a selfish and inconsiderate thing to visit him; for the activity of his mind was still such that in the contact with another mind he could not abstain from the old familiar intercourse which he had loved so well. Like the old camel of the Arabian tale, that, having been all its life accustomed to lead the caravan, died in the effort to keep his old place to the last, Powers, who had been always wont to have rather the lion's share of conversation, could not resign himself to hear another talk, in silence. He would talk, and suffered for it afterward. The result was that his friends felt that they were showing the best consideration for him by staying away.

To look at him, I say, as he would stand in the sunshine at his own gate, it was difficult to imagine that aught of a very serious nature ailed him. But in the case of a man so habitually active his sauntering there was a bad sign. He was emphatically one of those men with whom life and work are the same thing—one whose sun was at the setting when he could work no more, and who would probably have cared little to survive his capacity for working.

T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.

CORN.

To-day the woods are trembling through and through

With shimmering forms, that flash into my view,

Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in blue.

The leaves that wave against my cheek caress

Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express

A subtlety of mighty tenderness;

The copse-depths into little noises start,

That sound anon like beatings of a heart,

Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart.

The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song,

Through whose vague sweet float expirations strong

From lithe young hickories, breathing deep and long

With stress and urgence bold of inward spring,

And ecstasy of burgeoning.

Now, since the dew-plashed road of morn is dry,

Come daintier smells, linked in soft company,

Like velvet-slippered ladies pacing by.

Long muscadines,

Like Jove's locks curled round foreheads of great pines,

Breathe out ambrosial passion from their vines.

I pray with mosses, ferns and flowers shy

That hide like gentle nuns from human eye,

To lift adoring odors to the sky.

I hear faint bridal-sighs of blissful green,

Dying to kindred silences serene,

As dim lights melt into a pleasant sheen.

I start at fragmentary whispers, blown

From undertalks of leafy loves unknown,

Vague purports sweet, of inarticulate tone.

Dreaming of gods, men, nuns and brides, between

Old companies of oaks that inward lean

To join their radiant amplitudes of green,

I slowly move, with ranging looks that pass

Up from the matted miracles of grass

Into yon veined complex of space,

Where sky and leafage interlace

So close the heaven of blue is seen

Inwoven with a heaven of green.

I wander to the zigzag-cornered fence

Where sassafras, intrenched in brambles dense,

Contests with stolid vehemence

The march of culture, setting limb and thorn,

Like pikes, against the army of the corn.

There, while I pause, before mine eyes,

Out of the silent corn-ranks, rise

Inward dignities

And large benignities and insights wise,

Graces and modest majesties.

Thus, without tilth, I house a wondrous yield;

Thus, without theft, I reap another's field,

And store quintuple harvests in my heart concealed.

See, out of line a single corn-stem stands

Advanced beyond the foremost of his bands,

And waves his blades upon the very edge

And hottest thicket of the battling hedge.

Thou lustrous stalk, that canst nor walk nor talk,

Still dost thou type the poet-soul sublime

That leads the vanward of his timid time,

And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme—

Soul calm, like thee, yet fain, like thee, to grow

By double increment, above, below;

Soul homely, as thou art, yet rich in grace like thee,

Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry,

That moves in gentle curves of courtesy;

Soul filled like thy long veins with sweetness tense,

By every godlike sense

Transmuted from the four wild elements.

Toward the empyrean

Thou reachest higher up than mortal man,

Yet ever piercest downward in the mould,

And keepest hold

Upon the reverend and steadfast earth

That gave thee birth.

Yea, standest smiling in thy very grave,

Serene and brave,

With unremitting breath

Inhaling life from death,

Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage eloquent,

Thy living self thy monument.

As poets should,

Thou hast built up thy hardihood

With wondrous-varying food,

Drawn in select proportion fair

From solid mould and vagrant air;

From terrors of the dreadful night,

And joyful light;

From antique ashes, whose departed flame

In thee has finer life and longer fame;

From wounds and balms,

From storms and calms,

From potsherds and dry bones,

And ruin-stones.

So to thy vigorous substance thou hast wrought

Whate'er the hand of Circumstance hath brought;

Yea, into cool solacing green hast spun

White radiance hot from out the sun.

So thou dost mutually leaven

Strength of earth with grace of heaven;

So thou dost marry new and old

Into a one of higher mould;

So thou dost reconcile the hot and cold,

The dark and bright,

And many a heart-perplexing opposite:

And so,

Akin by blood to high and low,

Fitly thou playest out thy poet's part,

Richly expending thy much-bruised heart

In equal care to nourish lord in hall

Or beast in stall:

Thou took'st from all that thou might'st give to all.

O steadfast dweller on the selfsame spot

Where thou wast born, that still repinest not—

Type of the home-fond heart, the happy lot!—

Deeply thy mild content rebukes the land

Whose flimsy homes, built on the shifting sand

Of trade, for ever rise and fall

With alternation whimsical,

Enduring scarce a day,

Then swept away

By swift engulfments of incalculable tides

Whereon capricious Commerce rides.

Look, thou substantial spirit of content!

Across this little vale, thy continent,

To where, beyond the mouldering mill,

Yon old deserted Georgian hill

Bares to the sun his piteous aged crest

And seamy breast,

By restless-hearted children left to lie

Untended there beneath the heedless sky,

As barbarous folk expose their old to die.

Upon that generous swelling side,

Now scarified

By keen neglect, and all unfurrowed save

By gullies red as lash-marks on a slave,

Dwelt one I knew of old, who played at toil,

And dreamed himself a tiller of the soil.

Scorning the slow reward of patient grain,

He sowed his soul with hopes of swifter gain,

Then sat him down and waited for the rain.

He sailed in borrowed ships of usury—

foolish Jason on a treacherous sea,

Seeking the Fleece and finding misery.

Lulled by smooth-rippling loans, in idle trance

He lay, content that unthrift Circumstance

Should plough for him the stony field of Chance.

Yea, gathering crops whose worth no man might tell,

He staked his life on a game of Buy-and-Sell,

And turned each field into a gambler's hell.

Aye, as each year began,

My farmer to the neighboring city ran,

Passed with a mournful anxious face

Into the banker's inner place;

Parleyed, excused, pleaded for longer grace,

Railed at the drought, the worm, the rust, the grass,

Protested ne'er again 'twould come to pass

Such troops of ills his labors should harass;

Politely swallowed searching questions rude,

And kissed the dust to melt his Dives's mood.

At last, small loans by pledges great renewed,

He issues smiling from the fatal door,

And buys with lavish hand his yearly store

Till his small borrowings will yield no more.

Aye, as each year declined,

With bitter heart and ever-brooding mind

He mourned his fate unkind.

In dust, in rain, with might and main,

He nursed his cotton, cursed his grain,

Fretted for news that made him fret again,

Snatched at each telegram of Future Sale,

And thrilled with Bulls' or Bears' alternate wail—

In hope or fear alike for ever pale.

And thus from year to year, through hope and fear,

With many a curse and many a secret tear,

Striving in vain his cloud of debt to clear,

At last

He woke to find his foolish dreaming past,

Beheld his best-of-life the easy prey

Of quacks and scamps, and all the vile array

That line the way,

From thieving statesman down to petty knave;

Yea, saw himself, for all his bragging brave,

A gamester's catspaw and a banker's slave.

Then, worn and gray, and sick with deep unrest,

He fled away into the oblivious West,

Unmourned, unblest.

Old hill! old hill! thou gashed and hairy Lear

Whom the divine Cordelia of the year,

E'en pitying Spring, will vainly strive to cheer—

King, but too poor for any man to own,

Discrowned, undaughtered and alone,

Yet shall the great God turn thy fate,

And bring thee back into thy monarch's state

And majesty immaculate;

So, through hot waverings of the August morn,

A vision of great treasuries of corn

Thou bearest in thy vasty sides forlorn,

For largesse to some future bolder heart

That manfully shall take thy part,

And tend thee,

And defend thee,

With antique sinew and with modern art.

SIDNEY LANIER.

GENTLEMAN DICK.

They had, all of them, nicknames themselves, for in a Colorado mining-community it was not difficult to acquire a title, and they called him Gentleman Dick. It was rather an odd name, to be sure, but it was very expressive, and conveyed much of the prevailing opinion and estimate of its owner. They laughed when he expressed a desire to join the party in Denver, and Old Platte looked at his long, delicate hands, so like a woman's, with a smile of rough, good-humored pity, mingled, perhaps, with a shade of contempt for the habits and occupation that had engendered such apparent effeminacy. But he pleaded so earnestly and talked with such quiet energy and confidence of what he could and would do, and moreover had about him so much of that spirit of subdued bonhomie that always captivates the roughest of the rough, that they relented, took his money and put it in the "pot," and informed him that he was one of them. Their decision was not altogether unconnected with the fact that he had given evidence of considerable surgical skill in his treatment of Mr. Woods, more familiarly known as "Short-card William," who had been shot a week or so previously over a game of poker by an independent bull-whacker whom he had attempted to defraud. The sense of the community had sustained the act; and while the exhibition of his skill in dealing was universally condemned as having been indiscreet under the circumstances, still he was accounted a live man among them, and the discovery of a surgeon to dress his wound was hailed with a somewhat general feeling of relief. Had it not been for the fact that the sobriquet of Gentleman Dick was already conferred and accepted universally as his name, he certainly would not have escaped that of "Doctor," and as it was, Mr. Woods, who was profuse as well as profane in his gratitude, insisted upon so calling him. A doctor, or anything bearing even a resemblance to a member of that sadly-represented profession, was regarded with a certain degree of reverence among a community whose peculiar habits often gave rise to pressing and immediate need of surgical attendance. Consequently, Gentleman Dick rapidly attained an elevated position in their regard, and became a great favorite with Old Platte's party, although they still looked doubtfully at his slender figure and felt "kind o' bothered" by the air of gentility and good-breeding which hung around him in spite of the rough miner's garments that he had chosen to assume. By the time they left Denver for the Blue he was deemed as indispensable to the company as Old Platte himself.

---

The forest of dark pines and firs that covered both sides of the valley of the Blue grew down to the bars of the river, which along its banks was thickly grown with wild gooseberry and raspberry bushes, and piled up here and there with great tangled heaps of driftwood which the spring floods brought down and left in masses of inextricable confusion along its sides. Back a little distance from one of these sandy flats, and nestled right in the shadow of the forest's edge, they built a long rough cabin early in June. In summer-time the spot was a wild and picturesque one. Green and luxuriant vegetation made a soft and brilliant carpet at the feet of the stately old pines; huge boulder-like rocks, their edges softened and rounded in the grasp of one of Agassiz' pre-Adamite glaciers that had ground its icy way down from the melting snow-caps above—rocks covered with bright lichens and tufts of moss—- lay piled on one another at the foot of the steep mountain-side; while gnarled cedars twisted around about them, their rough red roots twining here and there in search of sustenance. Below the cabin a little way lay the bar—Chihuahua Bar they had christened it, out of deference to "Jones of Chihuahua," whose prospecting-pan had developed the fact that gold in promising quantities lay beneath it—and a little farther on the Blue sang merrily in its gravelly bed. Down the river, about two miles, was Blue Bar, where about two hundred miners had formed a settlement, and where a red-headed Scotchman, who combined the duties of a self-constituted postmaster with the dispensation of a villainous article of whisky, kept a lively grocery and provision store.

During the early part of the season they had prospected up along the river, finding gold all the way, but not in quantities sufficiently large to warrant working. At the place, however, which they subsequently named Chihuahua (pronounced in the vernacular Chee-waw-waw) the perspicacious Jones had given it as his opinion, formed after mature deliberation and a sapient examination of some two or three shovelsful of dirt, that there was a satisfactory "color in that ar bank." Some hard work of about a week demonstrated that there were excellent diggings there, and then work was commenced upon it in good earnest. The cabin was built, Gentleman Dick's choice of location being unanimously approved; two or three trips were made across the "Range" to the nearest settlement for materials and provisions; and then the real labor began. As they cut through the heavy bank of mould and gravel, gradually eating a long trench to the bed-rock, prospects grew better and better. At last, one day a narrow ledge of brittle, shaly rock came in view, covered with a coating of thick, heavy yellow mud, of which Old Platte gathered a panful and betook himself down to the river-side. A war-whoop from the direction in which he had disappeared came ringing through the gooseberry bushes to their ears, and with a responsive yell and a simultaneous dropping of shovels and picks they all dashed off to his side. He was discovered in a condition of great excitement, dancing wildly round the pan, in the bottom of which about half a teaspoonful of coarse yellow nuggets were shining among the black sand. It was a grand prospect, and with the exception of Gentleman Dick, whose exultation was of a very mild and reserved order, the proprietors of the Chihuahua Claim behaved in a very undignified and unseemly way; Thompson and Jones organizing an impromptu sparring-match, and Old Platte standing indecorously on his head in a neighboring clump of bushes. Sundry war-whoops and divers indications of activity showed that work of a very lively and energetic character was being prosecuted that afternoon on the bar; and when the sun sunk to rest behind the purple mountains, and the blue mists of evening rose in the valley, they had their sluice-boxes and "riffles" in order, and were ready to commence washing at sunrise.

It did not take very long to clean the ledge, and early in the afternoon the water was shut off. When it was found that the "riffles" yielded thirteen ounces of gold that would coin eighteen dollars and a half to the ounce, a firm conviction seemed to settle upon the camp that this was an occasion which it would be improper to pass over without a thorough and practical acknowledgment of its importance in the shape of a regular celebration. The gold was weighed and divided, all sitting in a circle in the middle of the cabin floor, while Old Platte officiated at the scales with all the gravity and dignity which the responsible position called for.

Mr. McNab's grocery and post-office at Blue Bar was the scene of much excitement and noisy revelry that evening and all the next day while the gold lasted. Miners who had heard of the Chihuahua "streak" flocked up to Blue Bar to get the particulars, and naturally joined in the general feeling of exultation and hilarity that seemed to pervade that community. Old Platte got terribly drunk, and Thompson and Jones developed the strangest eccentricities of gait, manner and speech, and finally subsided into a deep slumber in the dust and sand of the main thoroughfare of the Bar. Gentleman Dick's absence from the festivities was not noticed that evening, but the next day Thompson, who seemed to feel aggrieved on the subject, announced his intention of going up to Chihuahua to fetch him down. He left Mr. McNab's on his charitable mission armed with a bottle of rum, and proceeded up the creek in a condition of moderate intoxication. That he was somewhat sobered on his arrival at the cabin was perhaps due to the fact that the cork was fixed very firmly in the neck of his bottle: at any rate, he did not ask his friend to drink when he found him.

Gentleman Dick had just directed and sealed a letter, and was about to start for the settlement of Gold Dirt, when Thompson loomed up unsteadily in the doorway, surveyed him inquiringly for a moment and asked undecidedly and apologetically, "Wass' up? W'ere you goin'?"

Gentleman Dick, apparently overlooking his somewhat dubious condition, told him he had been writing a letter to some one who lived in the States: he was going to Gold Dirt to mail it, and a ring of Blue Creek gold was to accompany it to its destination. Thompson said no more, but stood there in the doorway with McNab's rum under his arm. He did not stir, nor did he seem to notice the "good-bye" that came down the winding trail through the pines, but remained there stolid and immovable, gazing vacantly at the writing-paper on the rough table. Suddenly he straightened himself up to his full height, and taking the bottle from under his arm, held it out at arm's length and apostrophized it in terms which Mr. McNab would have regarded as a personal insult, and which the community on the Blue might possibly have resented with a challenge to mortal combat. His next step, had they witnessed it, would certainly have led to the conclusion that he was a dangerous lunatic, and one, at that, whose peculiar madness was of a kind specially objectionable to the residents of Blue Bar. He placed the object toward which his feelings had undergone so sudden a revulsion carefully on the ground, and seizing in his hands a huge boulder, he proceeded to let it drop accurately upon it. He oscillated critically over the fragments, as if to assure himself that the result had been satisfactorily attained, and then strode rapidly and unsteadily into the forest. How such unsound principles of economy came to be adopted by him never very clearly appeared; and the problem of his absence from camp for two whole days, and his subsequent reform upon the subject of whisky, were matters very freely discussed at McNab's hut, without any definite or reliable result being arrived at.

---

Summer had melted imperceptibly into autumn; and the bright tints that glittered on the mountain-slopes and through the sturdy undergrowth of the forest told that it in its turn was soon to give way to winter. Chihuahua Bar was piled with great heaps of boulders and gravel, furrowed here and there with deep ditches and trenches, and otherwise gave ample evidence of the hard work that had been done. But, as Old Platte, remarked, "The luck was down on them," and the partners had very little to show for their long months of toil. Gentleman Dick had worked as hard and earnestly as the others, and had never been known to utter a word of complaint through the many hardships and mishaps they endured. But a great change had come over him. No one who saw him when he joined the party in Denver would have ventured to call him strong or robust, but, delicate as he was then, he was now a mere shadow by comparison. The change had been more marked and rapid during the last few weeks. He had seemed to fade gradually away, growing daily weaker and weaker, until at last a knowledge of his increasing debility forced itself upon the not very observant faculties of his companions—coming rather as a sense of indefinable uneasiness on his behalf than any actual apprehension of his real condition. His great expressive eyes shone out with an unnatural brilliancy from his pale, sunken cheeks, and a deeper shade of melancholy seemed settling on his naturally thoughtful face. Thompson probably noticed it more than anybody else, but said nothing, while Old Platte and Jones exchanged ideas on the subject with a sort of puzzled anxiety, mingled, it might be, with some genuine alarm. They noticed that the work began to fatigue him more and more, and that he often had to pause in the middle of it weary and exhausted.

At last, one day, about the first of November, he remained in his bunk in the cabin, unable to come down to the claim. In their rough, uncouth way they pitied him, and would have given anything they could command to be able to relieve him. But they seemed instinctively to feel that his case was something out of their reach, and with the exception of a weak suggestion from Jones, that he should try some of "them ar antibilious pills as he had in his box," no course of medical treatment was contemplated. Besides, was he not himself a doctor? and if he could do nothing, what should they be able to effect? The argument was sufficiently conclusive; at least, Jones accepted it as such, and retired in some confusion, comforting himself by the perusal of the label on his box of pills, which really seemed to justify the suggestion he had made. Twice after this, on days when the warm sunshine tempted him out of doors, he came down to the claim and sat by the wheel and watched them working; but he never did any more work. He did not tell them he could not do it, or complain that he was too weak: it was tacitly understood that his share of the season's labor was over.

About the middle of November the winter stepped in in its sudden way and commenced to take possession of the valley of the Blue, and by the first of December the ice was so thick that the partners reluctantly stopped work. "Jones of Chihuahua" had expressed his determination of going south to Santa Fé, to stay until spring among the "Greasers," but Old Platte and Thompson would stay on the Blue for the winter, and to that end had laid in such provisions as were deemed necessary. The settlement below on the Bar had been abandoned early in November; and it was doubtful if a white man besides themselves could be found by its waters any nearer than the end of the Great Cañon of the Rio Colorado. But they cared very little for that, and looked forward to their voluntary hibernation without any feeling of apprehension on the score of loneliness. Both were hardy mountaineers. Thompson had been the first man that ever performed the feat of crossing the range at Grey's Peak in the middle of winter, with the aid of a pair of snow-shoes; and he and Old Platte knew that if their provisions gave out they could readily reach some of the Clear Creek diggings in the same way. So Jones strapped his belt of gold-dust around his waist and prepared to depart. He shook hands with the partners, and when Gentleman Dick, with a forced cheeriness of manner and with wishes for a pleasant winter in New Mexico, remarked, "Next spring the boys will give you a third of my share, Jones," he stoutly and earnestly repudiated the implied idea, but with a confusion and uncertainty of manner that indicated a serious doubt in the soundness of his own assertions.

Gentleman Dick released the big hand as he lay in his blankets, and said for the last time, "Good-bye, Jones."

"Good-bye, old man."

Jones strode away abruptly on his journey, and if the moisture about his eyes was in excess of what was required in their normal condition, it was probably due to the bracing and biting frostiness of the morning air.

And so they resigned themselves to their winter's prison on the Blue—Old Platte stolidly and contentedly, Thompson uneasily and restlessly, and Gentleman Dick peacefully and calmly, knowing full well that spring would never bloom again for him. Thus the December days flew by, growing colder and colder, and the snow-line crept gradually down the slopes of the range until it reached the edge of the timber, where it seemed to pause for a few days in its advance. It had already snowed several times in the valley, and the afternoon sun had always melted it away; but they knew by experience that it would soon come down in good earnest and cover everything up for the winter in a mantle of snow some six or seven feet deep. And as the days sped on Gentleman Dick grew paler and paler, and his bright eyes shone with a brighter lustre, while he seemed to be gradually slipping away, losing little by little his hold upon life. He was a mystery to his companions, for he had no disease that could be detected, and why he should sink thus without any apparent cause was more than they could understand.

---

The wind came roaring down the cañon in wild, fierce gusts; the dead, frost-hardened, brittle branches of the sturdy old pines rattled and cracked and broke as it swept by laden with glittering crystals, stolen from the range above, where it circled madly around the snowy peaks, and whirled away great winding-sheets of snow—fine, sleety snow, that filled the atmosphere with sharp prickly needles, that made their way inside Old Platte's rough woolen shirt as he chopped away at the woodpile, and made him shiver as they melted down his back. Everything was frozen hard and fast; the Blue was silent in its bed; stones and sticks adhered to the ground as if part and parcel of it, and each piece of wood in the pile that Old Platte was working at stood stiffly and firmly in its place. The wind, just before a snow-storm, always comes down the cañons in fierce premonitory gusts, and as it was desirable to get in a good stock of wood before the snow-drifts gathered around the cabin, Old Platte had been hacking manfully for some hours. The sun sunk low in the hollow of the hills to the westward while he was still working, and lit up with a cold yellow glare the snowy wastes and icy peaks of the mighty mountains that stood guard over the Blue. The whistling of the wind among the pines died gradually away, and the silence that seemed to fall with the deepening shadows was only broken by the ringing strokes of the axe and the crack of the splitting wood. When he ceased the valley had faded into darkness, and the range with its sharp outlines was only faintly discernible against the sombre gray pall that had overspread the sky.

He made a broad stack of logs by the fireplace and a larger one outside the door, and then stood by the threshold to take a look at the weather. A great soft feather of snow came sailing slowly down and nestled in his shaggy beard, and another fluttered on to the back of his hand. He looked up through the darkness and saw that it was already beginning to fall thickly, and then, with a self-satisfied glance of approval at his provident woodpile, went into the cabin and fastened the door.

Thompson had shot a fine argal or Rocky Mountain sheep that morning, and the broiled steaks were giving forth a most acceptable odor. He had tried to get Gentleman Dick to taste of a choice piece, but he shook his head wearily, as he had every time for some two weeks or more when proffered food. He could eat nothing, and lay there propped up on rough pillows, seeming scarcely conscious of their presence; his dreamy eyes, with lids half drooping, looking fixedly into the blazing fire. Even the coffee, civilized as it was by the addition of some patent condensed milk, and upon the manufacture of which Thompson had prided himself not a little, stood untouched by his bedside. Old Platte lit his pipe and dragged his three-legged stool into a corner of the wide chimney, and Thompson, after moving the things away to a corner, sat down opposite, mending his snow-shoes with a bundle of buckskin thongs. They did not talk much in that family of evenings: men of this class are not conversational in their habits, and a stranger who should look in would be apt to think them an unsocial set. Old Platte puffed steadily at his pipe, blinking and winking at the fire, which he poked occasionally with a stick or fed with a log of wood from the pile by his side. Thompson worked quietly with knife and awl at his dilapidated shoes, and the pale, patient face beyond still gazed dreamily into the fire. There were old scenes, doubtless, in among those burning logs—old familiar faces, dear memories of the past and weird fantastic visions pictured in the glowing coals. At last the eyes left the fire for a moment, resting on the two that sat by it, and he said, "Boys, it's Christmas Eve."

Thompson started, for he had not heard him speak with so much energy for weeks.

"Christmas Eve!" he repeated absently. "Christmas Eve, and to-morrow will be Christmas Day. Last Christmas was not like this: all was bright and fair, and she—"

The rest of the sentence was lost as he muttered it uneasily to himself and resumed his watching of the fire. Christmas Eve! So it was, but they had not thought of it. Christmas Eve! The name seemed out of place among those rocky fastnesses. What could the pines and the solitude, the snow and the ice, have in common with Christmas? Christmas Eve down in that desolate valley, in the quiet depths of the forest, away, miles away, from human habitation of any kind? Christmas Eve! It seemed absurd, but Christmas Eve it was nevertheless, there as everywhere else.

Old Platte took his blackened old pipe from between his lips and mechanically repeated the words. "Christmas Eve!" he half growled, as if some perplexing ideas had been called into existence by the suggestion, and his pipe went out as he listlessly shoved some stray coals back into the fire with his foot. But his meditations, to judge from his countenance, were neither interesting nor profitable. Probably his Christmases had never been passed in a way that was calculated to make them pleasingly conspicuous in the background of his life. Most of his early recollections were associated with a villainous roadside groggery in Pike county, Missouri, of which his father was the proprietor. Any questions relating to this parent and home he had been known to invariably evade, and whenever conversation tended in that direction he strenuously discouraged it. Why he did so never very clearly appeared. Some people who pretended to know used to say that the old gentleman had been doing a lively trade in horseflesh without going through the customary formalities of finance, and that some people with whom his dealings had been unsatisfactory, in consequence of this unbusinesslike habit of his, had called at his house one evening and invited him to walk out with them. The invitation was one he would have liked to decline, but extra inducements in the shape of the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against his forehead and a low but determined "Dry up and come along!" caused him to put on his hat and step out. He was found next morning hanging from a branch of a neighboring tree with a brief but expressive obituary written in pencil on a scrap of paper and pinned on his coat: "Horse-thief! Jerry Moon and Scotty, take notice." Inasmuch as one of the latter individuals was the chief authority for the story, and had expedited his departure from Pike county in consequence of the intimation contained in the lines on the same bit of paper, it may be safely inferred that there was some foundation for the numerous stories of a similar nature that were in circulation. So Christmas spent as his had been had no particular interest for Old Platte, and was pretty much the same as any other kind of day upon which there would be an equally good excuse for stopping work and getting venomously drunk. At any rate, the memories that clung around that Pike county whisky-shop were none of the pleasantest or most gratifying; and with a grunt of general dissatisfaction he rekindled his pipe, put a couple of sticks on the fire and allowed his mind to slide off into a more congenial train of reflection.

To Thompson, Gentleman Dick's words had come as a sort of revelation. He knew well enough that Christmas came in December, and also upon what day of that month it fell, but of late the days had gone by so monotonously, and had so little to distinguish them one from another, that he had kept no account of them, and had no idea that it was so near. Some indefinable influence that he could not account for had of late sent his mind groping into old and better channels, and consequently when he was reminded of the presence of Christmas he felt disposed to accord it a measure of consideration rather different from that with which several of its predecessors had met. Like Old Platte, he had regarded it as a good day to go on a "bust" and initiate a "drunk" of more or less duration, but just now he seemed as if inclined to take a different view of it. His eyes could take a clearer and healthier view of the past than he had for a long time had, and its old memories and scenes flocked up before him now, bright through the dim mist that time had cast over them, and fresher and sweeter than ever by contrast with the gloomy present. The snow-shoes slid from his lap and one by one the thongs of buckskins dropped upon the floor, as he leaned back in the corner of the broad chimney, his face resting upon his sinewy hand and his eyes looking through the fire into the world of the past.

Old Platte lay curled up in his bearskins and blankets fast asleep, but the other still sat by the fire in the same position—still dreamily thinking. How long he had sat there he did not know. The fire had sunk into a glowing heap of coals, fast changing into soft white ashes, on which now and then a melting snow-flake that had stolen down through the chimney would fall and disappear with a short angry sizz, and the shadows in the cabin were deep and dark. Suddenly it seemed to him in his dreaming that a voice called him by name, and he awoke from his reverie with a chill and a shudder and a sense of indefinable dread creeping over him—a dread of what, he could not tell. A handful of chips blazed up brightly and lit up the cabin with their flickering light as he turned nervously toward the patient, quiet face behind him. The eyes, shaded by the long black eyelashes, were still on the fire, and while he was confident that he had not been called, he was dimly conscious of a great change that had taken place. As he still looked anxiously at the faded features, the eyes left their long watching of the embers and were raised to meet his. He felt he was wanted, and was by his side in a moment: "How d'yer feel, old man?"

Gentleman Dick smiled as he laid his wasted fingers across the sturdy brown hand that leaned on the edge of his bunk, and turning with difficulty on his pillow, he said in a voice scarce above a whisper, "Thompson, old fellow, you and Platte have been kind, very kind, to me. I won't trouble you much more now. I'm going to say—good-bye to you; and—Thompson—I want you to do one little thing for me—when spring comes." He reached into a chink among the logs by his side and drew forth an envelope containing a few letters, a photograph of a woman's face, fair and tender, and a gold ring.

Thompson took it with a hand that shook as his rarely did.

"Send it soon—it's addressed and all—send it to her. Maybe she will be glad to know I am—gone—at last—out of her path—out of the way—and the world. She sent it back to me—would not have it—or me. Now—" Then his mind seemed to wander, and he rambled incoherently, repeating over and over again a name that sounded like that on the envelope. "You will do it, won't you, Thompson?" said he, rallying suddenly.

Thompson's voice was husky and thick as he answered impressively, "Damn me ef I don't!" adding mentally, as he glanced at the package, "Damn her skin, whoever she is! She's at the bottom of all this here business, you bet."

Gentleman Dick's lips moved as if he were speaking, and as Thompson leaned over him he could hear, in a broken whisper, "Gold—in old boot—under bed—Old Platte half."

He heard no more. The pressure of the wasted fingers relaxed, the weary head sunk slowly back on the pillow, and the tired eyelids drooped over the glazing eyes.

"Dick!" said Thompson—"Dick, old man!"

Too late. Away through the softly-falling snow, from the Blue with its stillness and solitude, from its heartaches and sorrows and troubles, the weary spirit had fled, and Gentleman Dick was at rest.

---

Spring had come again; the snow had melted from the valleys; the grass and the ferns and the green grass and bright lichens once more peeped out among the gray boulders and about the feet of the stately pines; and the Blue, freed from its wintry prison, sang merrily over the gravelly reaches. And as the miners flocked down that spring from over the range, they saw near by the Chihuahua Claim and the deserted cabin, in a square formed by four gigantic pines, a neatly-built cairn of boulders. One big gray boulder rested securely on top of all, and on it was hacked, in rough and simple letters, GENTLEMAN DICK.

W. MACKAY LAFFAN.

A SINGULAR FAMILY.

Almost as far back as I can remember three brothers, Italians named Noele, were intimates and occasionally inmates of our home. The youngest brother, Eugenio, had been imprisoned during the political disturbances of his country, but had escaped and made his way to England. Here, at a lecture given by Mazzini in London under the auspices of the liberal Italians and those who espoused their cause, Eugenio, who to handsome features and aristocratic appearance added a modulated voice and persuasive manner, rose during the course of the evening, and in words that held the audience spellbound narrated his own sufferings and those of some of his friends under the yoke of Austria. As he concluded with the utterance of the sentiment, "Libertà! Equalità! Fraternità!" a storm of applause burst from the assembly, and many were the high personages who at the close of the meeting requested an introduction to the fascinating young orator. My father was present on this occasion, and here his acquaintance with Eugenio Noele commenced. The young man having discovered to him that his pecuniary resources were at the lowest ebb, my father took him home with him, and my mother afterward united with him in requesting Eugenio to consider their house as his own. My father also introduced him to his mercantile connections and initiated him into mercantile affairs, when by his astuteness and perseverance he was enabled to lay the foundations of an excellent position. Indeed, but few years had elapsed (during which time he had frequently resided with us) ere he had acquired considerable wealth and we a clearer insight into his true disposition.

His principles were such as the promptings of self-love, a violent temper, pride and ambition could without difficulty overcome. As he rose higher in the social scale the reflection that he had owed the impetus to others was a constant source of annoyance to him. Our house was now but rarely visited by him, unless when some legal difficulties had arisen on which he wished to consult my father or some important papers required translating. Then the air of pride would yield to one of deferential affection, and in silvery tones he would discourse on such topics as he imagined were the most pleasing to us. My father would be termed "Signor Padre" and my mother "Signora Madre."

At about this time he sent to Italy for his brother Rugiero to assist him in his affairs. Rugiero became as intimate at our house as Eugenio had been. There were singularly contradictory elements in this brother's character. At one time the history of a destitute family would move him to tears, and his purse would be freely emptied for their benefit: at another time he would spend half an hour in searching for a lost farthing, and if not successful his countenance would betray lines of anxiety for hours afterward. If he made me the gift of a paper horn or box of sweets, his heart for the rest of the day would seem to be expanded with the most joyous emotions, and for weeks after I was liable to be asked whether I remembered the day when I was so pleased with his little gift; and then he would request permission to examine the pictures painted thereon, and call my attention to their merits. He was ordinarily slow to understand the point of a witticism, but when he had by deep pondering discovered it, nothing could exceed his enjoyment: bending his head and clasping the bridge of his handsomely shaped nose, he would laugh till the tears were ready to start. On the other hand, he was extremely sensitive, jealous and suspicious. No one knew how soon the pleasant smile and kindly word would give place to angry passions as ungovernable as they were disagreeable to witness. A smile passing from one person to another without his being acquainted with the cause, was sufficient provocation for him to rise, make his respects in a frigidly polite tone and take his leave, to return a few moments after with heightened complexion and excited voice, and declare that he could not suffer an affront with equanimity—that he would rid those present of his "abhorred" society, and would never enter those doors again whilst he drew the breath of life. We paid little attention to these egregious eccentricities, merely remarking with a smile of amusement, "Poor Rugiero! how ridiculous! He must be out of his senses;" and about a fortnight later he would make his appearance, penitent, apologetic and studious to remove the ill impression that his strange conduct must have caused.

A third brother, Giuseppe, was added to the group, of whom vacillation was the distinguishing characteristic. Giuseppe, in the innumerable discussions that arose between Rugiero and Eugenio, would acquiesce with first one and then the other in whatever exaggerated sentiments their enraged frame of mind might prompt them to utter, with the view of keeping on good terms with both; but the only result was that when the flag of truce had been raised, grievances passed over and differences adjusted, he would have the mortification of finding the whole of the blame laid on his shoulders, and himself stigmatized as "a feather-head," "a meddler" and "a spy."

As the years rolled on I grew into womanhood, and became the unwitting source of constant ill-feeling between the brothers. Eugenio was handsome, but I distrusted him; Rugiero was nearly as handsome, but I regarded him as I would have regarded an uncle; Giuseppe was also handsome, but unstable and entirely wanting in force. Time passed, and the brothers had separated. Eugenio had married a woman in every way his inferior. Rugiero had been drawn into a like union that surprised all those who knew his refined tastes and sensitiveness to the social amenities. Though a man of honor, his circumstances had become embarrassed. In his emergencies he had recourse to his old friends, whose aid was not withheld, but, a crisis arriving, he was declared bankrupt. Eugenio, instead of assisting his brother, upbraided with being a disgrace to his own respectability, publicly disowned him, and, with the view of forcing him to abandon the country, spread injurious reports concerning him amongst many of the merchants who would otherwise have been willing to extend a helping hand.

Soon after this Eugenio made a journey to Italy on business. Here he visited his native place with an equipage designed to astonish the simple peasants and suggest to them the immensity of his wealth. Never had the village on the outskirts of which dwelt his widowed sister seen such magnificence or experienced such munificence. His name was on all tongues; ovations were made to him; he was almost a king in their eyes. His sister, Lucretia Mortera, had borne to her husband a large family, of whom but three survived—a youth named after his uncle Eugenio, and then being educated for the priesthood; Celestino, a boy of eleven years; and Virginia, a girl of eight. The little home in which they resided in quiet retirement had been given to the widow for as long as she chose to occupy it by a friend of her late husband, as a token of respect to his memory. Eugenio Noele, ashamed to see a sister of his living in a way so unsuited to her birth and former expectations, requested her to dispose of whatever property she might be possessed of, and prepare to accompany him with her family to London, where he would provide for them, and his nephew Eugenio, leaving his studies, could take a place in his counting-house. This request—or rather command—was embraced with gratitude, though it cost a pang to think of leaving the home that had sheltered them under many vicissitudes. Besides which, it was a matter of doubt to Signora Mortera and her eldest son whether any worldly promotion could justify his deserting the priestly vocation to which he had felt himself called.

One evening my mother and I were surprised by a call from Rugiero. His face was pale and his eyes were wild. He sank into an easy-chair, and after a long silence broke into the most terrible invectives against his brother Eugenio, who had dragged the widow and orphans from a peaceful home to cast them adrift.

"What widow? what orphans?"

"Simply, Madama Melville, my poor sister Lucretia, whom he induced to accompany him to London, with her family, on the pretence of providing for them all, is now with those children at my house, without means, without even a change of clothing. Yes, my sister Lucretia, who was a mother to him when his own mother died; and yet he prospers!"

"But, Rugiero, what was the cause of his treating them thus?"

"When they had arrived at my brother's house the wife, who had not expected them, took an aversion to them, and no sooner did she learn that they were strict Roman Catholics than she believed them to be capable of every crime. Celestino, who is in a decline, was treated with the greatest neglect. Every occasion of showing disrespect toward her sister-in-law before her children or the servants was eagerly sought by my brother's wife, whilst in the presence of her husband she was all amiability. The sickness of one of her own children was made the occasion of accusing Lucretia of an attempt to poison it, and the wily woman so worked on my brother's parental feelings that he had not returned home an hour ere he commanded his 'infamous sister'—'quel assassinatrice!'—to leave his house with her children on the instant! The door was closed upon them, and the outer apparel that had served them for their journey was thrown to them from the window by the servants. Amazed and full of grief, they directed their steps toward the house of the good priest whose chapel they had once or twice attended. Here they procured my address, and soon after came to my house, where they now are in the extremest affliction. You, madama, may well imagine that I can scarcely maintain my own family at this juncture, and that I am therefore unable to do for my sister and her children what my heart dictates. After a sleepless night I came to the conclusion that you, Madama Melville, whose goodness of heart has so often been put sorely to the test, would be able to suggest some plan by which to mitigate the sufferings of my unfortunate sister or bring Eugenio to reason."

"My dear Rugiero, I feel certain that my husband would think as I do—that for the present they had better stay here with us. We can turn one floor into sleeping apartments for them, and have one sitting-room in which your sister can receive callers or remain when she wishes to be alone. You know that I have so often heard you speak of your sister Lucretia that I can take the privilege of giving her an invitation to come and make us a long visit; and so you must tell her."

"God bless you, dear madama, as you deserve to be blessed! This is indeed a weight off my heart and mind."

The result of this conversation was that on the next morning Rugiero returned, bringing with him his sister and her children. Signora Lucretia responded to the welcome of my parents with expressions of fervent gratitude, calling them the saviors of her family. She was a short, slender woman, in whose dark eyes, long, finely-cut features, and pale, thin face one could discern the spirit of asceticism and the traces of past afflictions. Of the children she had buried, all had reached their tenth year in apparent health and remarkable for their physical and moral beauty, but from that age they had rapidly trodden the pathway to the tomb. None of her children had resembled their father but Eugenio, who was a well-made youth of wiry constitution, and gave every promise of attaining the ordinary age allotted to man. Celestino was destined soon to rejoin the children gone before. How can I describe the thrill I felt when I saw that child's face as he entered the room? Never had I seen in picture or in dream a countenance so lovely. But what can I say of those soul-speaking eyes, the large, dark-brown iris surrounded by the brilliant azure-white and shaded by long dark lashes? Finely chiseled features were added to a rounded face of a clear pale olive, except where a flush like the pink lining of a shell played upon it. Virginia greatly resembled her brother Celestino, but was in full health, and in spirits that would have been lively but for the constant and harassing admonitions of her mother, who in every free and graceful movement saw a tendency to levity that must be repressed. The poor child was doomed to a perpetual entanglement of the lower limbs, owing to her garments being made as long as those of a grown person. If, forgetting decorum, she chanced to skip or jump, Signora Lucretia would exclaim, "Va scompostaccia! sta più composta" ("Go to, most discomposed one! be more composed"), and seating her by her side would supply her with needlework or knitting until my mother would intercede, assuring Signora Lucretia that the child could never attain healthy womanhood unless allowed the full play of her muscles and the expansion of her lungs by singing and laughter.

"Ah, madama, you know not how I fear lest the natural gayety of her disposition should cause the loss of her soul."

"Oh, my dear lady, such ideas are born of the troubles through which you have passed, and not of your native good sense. God has implanted this gayety in your child's heart to enable her to enter with zest into those amusements so necessary to her development."

One day my mother (by permission) had a tuck taken up in Virginia's dress, and, directing me to take her for a walk, she privately commissioned me to purchase for her such attire as was suitable to a child of her years. I began with her head, and secured the jauntiest little hat with feathers that I could find, not without a misgiving that it would ultimately be consigned to the flames. Amongst other articles that I procured was a wax doll, at the sight of which Virginia screamed with delight. It was her first doll. Even Signora Lucretia's face was lit by a smile of undisguised admiration at the improvement in the child's toilette, but it soon gave place to a sigh at her own "vanity of spirit," and she held the little hat as Eve might have held the apple offered to her by the serpent.

Signora Lucretia and her children spent some hours every morning before breakfast in reciting litanies and other prayers, and on retiring to rest the same forms were repeated. During the day, whenever the clock struck the hour, the whole family, leaving whatever might be the occupation of the moment, knelt on their chairs and made a short prayer or meditation on the flight of time.

At the time of their arrival my cousin Oswald was staying with us, and on the first evening he retired early to give them an opportunity of conversing more freely on the melancholy topics that filled their minds. After bidding good-night to my mother and kissing her, he paid me the same tokens of regard. This incident had not escaped the notice of the young Eugenio, for when directed by his mother to retire to rest also, he advanced toward me, shook hands, and (although, seeing his intention, I drew back) succeeded in imprinting a kiss on my cheek. Signora Lucretia turned as pale as death. My mother, to avoid a scene, turned with a playful laugh to Eugenio, who by this time was scarlet with shame, and said, "My dear boy, in this country such salutations are only permitted from near relations or very intimate friends, but I am not surprised that Mr. Oswald's thoughtlessness before you should have misled you into doing the same. So I am sure that your good mother will not be displeased with you."

"Oh, madama," exclaimed Signora Lucretia, bursting into tears as soon as the door had closed upon him, "to think that my son should have been tempted by the Evil One so far as to forget what is due to the holy vocation for which he is to fit himself! In Italy never had he even been in the same room with any woman but myself and the priest's old housekeeper. This is the first time that his lips have been so desecrated." (Here my mother and I interchanged smiles.) "Unhappy mother that I am! by what sufferings can I atone for his sin? What shall I impose upon him to mortify the spirit that has arisen within him?"

The next morning Eugenio came down looking pale and sad, and I felt sure that he had been reprimanded in no measured terms. I gave him a pitying glance, which fell like dew on the thirsting earth.

At every breakfast the children were taught to say good-morning to each person separately. The elder son would commence, "Good-morning and good appetite, Mr. Melville! good-morning and good appetite, Madama Melville! good-morning and good appetite, Signora Felicia!" and so on. Then Celestino would go through the same ceremony, and finally Virginia, and a grace was uttered, during which the breakfast was liable to become cool, and Rugiero's temper (if he were present) not so. "Andiamo! I am sure that Signor Melville and madama do not insist upon so many compliments; and you, Eugenio, should have more gallantry than to keep the Signora Felicia waiting whilst her toast becomes cold." That he should connect the word gallantry with Eugenio was an imprudence, to say the least. But the offence was more serious when once at dinner he favored us with some reminiscences of his own gallantries: "I remember that when I was in the army the wife of our colonel had a sister, a splendid-looking creature, with eyes like stars, who (to tell the truth) was head over ears in—But my sister Lucretia, who is frowning at me, is right. One would say that she must have had an enlarged experience in such matters, seeing how sensitive she is to the danger of discussing them." (Here Signora Lucretia, with blushing cheeks, glanced from Rugiero to her son, who with downcast eyes appeared to be absorbed with the roast chicken on his plate.) "Without entering into details that would appear ill-timed to my dear sister" (here his eyes twinkled with roguishness and his lips parted in laughter), "suffice it merely to say that I acted as any other man under the circumstances would have acted, and kissed her not once or twice, but—"

"Go to thy room, Eugenio, most audacious!" panted Signora Lucretia, for he had raised his head, and, meeting his uncle's laughing gaze, had faintly smiled—"Go to thy room" (and here she struck him on the face), "and recite the Litany of the Blessed Virgin three times, and pray for thy uncle, that he may be converted."

Eugenio with flaming cheeks and ears rose submissively from the table, and without a word or look ascended to his room to do her bidding.

"What!" exclaimed Rugiero, rising from his seat, "would you dare to insult me by desiring my own nephew to pray for me? It seems to me that I dream! Per Bacco!"

Here my father observed that he must own he saw nothing very outrageous in what Rugiero had narrated, yet, as Signora Mortera had her own peculiar views on the matter, he considered that her brother was bound to respect them. Rugiero then admitted that he had been too hasty, and a reconciliation was effected, but he never met his nephew's eye thereafter without the same roguish smile, at which the poor youth would blush painfully and lower his gaze.

During this scene at the dinner-table Celestino breathed quickly, but never moved his eyes from the table-cloth, while Virginia looked at each one of the speakers in open-mouthed astonishment and curiosity.

One day I accompanied Signora Lucretia and her children to a Roman Catholic chapel in the neighborhood. I could not be unconscious of the odd and incongruous appearance of the two sons—Eugenio in a suit like that of a stage grandfather, snuff-colored, and with collar that raised the lobes of his ears; and dear little Celestino with a similarly cut coat in bottle green, with large gilt buttons, making him look like a man in miniature. Such had been the style pronounced by the village tailor to be in the height of Parisian fashion, but being a novelty to the London "gamins," it attracted more notice from them than we could have wished. After Signora Mortera and her children had attended the confessional she seemed to be much easier in her mind, and was so amiable as to tell my mother on our return home that it was edifying to behold the signorina walking like a Roman matron, in contrast to those who were giggling and turning their heads first one way and then the other, like so many pulcinelle. Notwithstanding this compliment, however, I perceived that she was uneasy concerning Eugenio and myself. It was evidently a satisfaction to her that I should load Celestino with caresses and endearing epithets, but that Eugenio should sit near me, speak to me, or even be in the same room with me (whether alone or in company), was the signal for demonstrations of the extremest vigilance. On one evening my cousin had brought home some gifts, consisting of a silver pencil-case with gold pen for Eugenio, a traveling writing-case with his name on it for Celestino, and a small traveling work-bag similarly marked for Virginia. These were highly appreciated. Celestino seemed unwilling to have his desk out of his sight for a single moment, and when his bed-time came wanted to take it up with him. His mother, unwilling to leave Eugenio in my society without her watchful presence, directed him to carry his brother up.

"Signora madre," said Celestino, "I am not tired to-night."

"Well, then, Eugenio can carry up thy writing-case for thee."

"Signora madre, it is not heavy, and I would like to carry it myself."

So Signora Lucretia went up with him herself, and, leaving my mother to entertain Eugenio, I went immediately into another room. I felt too deeply for the misfortunes of the unsophisticated Eugenio ever to have willingly trifled with the nascent susceptibilities of his heart.

One little incident, however, occurred to interrupt the orthodox reserve of our demeanor. An old friend of ours, Captain Stuart, had sent Virginia a bank-note with which to procure some keepsake. One evening the old gentleman called, and was shown into the drawing-room, where my mother received him. The rest of us were in the dining-room below. On my mentioning Captain Stuart's name to Signora Lucretia, she exclaimed, "Let us go, my children, and thank this good man for his kind present to our Virginia."

It was dark, but the hall-lamp had not been lit, so I took a wax taper from the writing-table and, lighting it, proceeded to escort them up the staircase. Some spirit of mischief prompted me by a sudden movement to let the light be blown out. In an instant the hand of Eugenio met mine, and thus hand in hand, swinging to and fro, we came to the drawing-room door, and a flood of light bursting upon us discovered to Signora Lucretia my face flushed with suppressed laughter, and Eugenio's eyes no longer timid, but sparkling with joy. From this time he would spend whole nights in writing verses, which he would show to his mother. She, noting the classical allusions, and having a great respect for literary talents, did not repress his efforts, but on the contrary appeared desirous that he should show his verses to my mother and to me. Mingled with expressions of grief and despair at the inconstancy of fortune and the decrees of fate were allegorical fancies in which I could perceive that I held a place, but I never allowed him to think that I noticed this; and indeed after the escapade of the staircase I became more distant than before.

However, one day when Celestino was feeling more weak and tired than usual, and I was propping him up on the sofa, I observed with some trepidation that Eugenio, who had been reading at the window, changed his seat to one near the head of the sofa. His mother and mine were busy sewing at a window in the next room, from whence they could see us through the folding doors. His eyes were full of tears, and, suddenly bending over his brother and rearranging a cushion, he seized my hand and covered it with silent kisses. In a moment I had disengaged my hand, full of fear for the result to Eugenio should Signora Lucretia's attention be directed toward us. The same evening, on returning from a visit, I learned that my mother and Signora Mortera had gone out under the escort of Oswald to attend vespers at a church some distance off. We young people passed the evening alone together. The crimson curtains were closely drawn, and the cosy room was lighted by a blazing fire. Reclining in an easy-chair, I held Celestino's fragile form in my arms, the wonderful eyes gazing into mine as I watched with emotions too deep for words their ever-varying expression. Eugenio sat on an ottoman at my feet, alternately reading aloud from Dante and pausing to observe me, while Virginia was on the hearth-rug, happy in adorning her doll with pieces of silk, beads and flowers.

Suddenly Eugenio said, "Does the signora remember in the narrative of Dives and Lazarus how Lazarus was thankful for the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table?"

I understood him, and hiding my face in Celestino's tendril-like curls, I replied, "Yes, but I wonder whether he would have been hungry enough to eat crumbs that he knew to be poisoned?"

He made no reply.

"Eugenio," I continued, "what are your plans for the future? Is it your own desire to become a priest?"

This last word made him tremble. "I once desired it," he answered, "thinking it the most honorable position to which I could aspire, and also my natural vocation. But now—God knows whether it be a sin or not—I would pass through any affliction He might send rather than become one. But my mother's heart is fixed upon it more than ever, and soon my family will be wholly dependent upon me. Ah! young as I am, I have suffered and still suffer. Far happier is that child in your arms, dying slowly though it may be, than the unfortunate Eugenio."

"Have a care," I said, "lest, entering the state of priesthood, you bear with you a heart fixed on the things of this world. Do not yield to the impulses of a strong imagination, but endeavor to forget whatever might prove a hindrance to you hereafter."

"Ah, Felicia, my heart is too full ever to forget. Celestino, my brother, thou art indeed happy. Dost thou know it?"

"Yes, Eugenio, I feel even too happy."

"God bless thee, Celestino! I love thee more than ever;" and, stealing his brother's hand from mine, he gently kissed it, whilst Celestino smiled on us with a heavenly smile.

It was arranged that I should accompany my father to the counting-house of Eugenio Noele and strive to obtain some redress for the widow and orphans, for I had always been a favorite with him, and my mother imagined that my influence would have more power than her own. But the only result of this interview was that Eugenio promised, for my sake, to furnish his sister and her family with sufficient funds to enable them to return to their own country: he also told my father that he should send one of his clerks to accompany them and see that they did go there.

On our way home we called on Dr. Newcastle, our old friend and physician, and after describing the circumstances of the Mortera family, asked him to call and see Celestino in the evening. The doctor was a fine-looking man, with a profusion of silvery white hair and beard, a deep thinker, blunt and sincere of speech, and full of dry wit that made every one laugh but himself. His footman (a colored man) was once overheard to say, "Berry strange man, my massa! berry sing'lar man! I say to him, 'I can't walk fast in dese yere boots, sar—dey's too short.' 'Oh,' he says, ''tis but the cutting off a piece of your toes, Caesar, and de boots will fit well enuff.' Him berry sing'lar man. One day I hear, through de open window of a lady's house, him say to her, 'For what did you send after me, madam?' and she say, 'I feel a leetle 'stericky again dis morning, doctor: what can you pescribe for me?' 'Pescribe!' says my massa with a sort of short laugh: 'why, dat you go to de top of de house wid a brush and dustpan and sweep de stairs all de way down, and make all de beds, and leave off drinking strong coffee;' and a berry fashionable lady too, as dey tell me after. When de doctor get into him carriage he talk to himself, and give him short laugh."

After an introduction to Signora Mortera, the doctor turned his attention to Celestino, who lay on the sofa pale and agitated: "Bless my heart! what a handsome lad! what splendid eyes! Ah! hm! hm! poor fellow! hm!" and he cleared his throat. "Let me feel your pulse."

As Celestino turned and gazed on him with mute surprise the doctor proceeded with his examination in complete silence, and then began discoursing about the weather and politics.

"But, doctor," said my mother, "you have told us nothing about the boy? What is your opinion? what shall we do for him? what do you prescribe?"

"Whirr! whirr! how many questions! I prescribe for him a course of early rising, accompanied by long prayer and fasting. If he shows an inclination for exercise, give him a rosary. Take away juvenile books, and give him the Lives of the Saints and Martyrs. Let him remember the days of fasting and abstinence. Why, bless me! the boy is nothing but heart and brain. He must be kept cheerful and well-nourished. Let him be in the open air when it is pleasant. I will prescribe a little something for him, but his case is beyond all medicine."

"Oh, doctor, do you really mean to say that he will die?"

"Die?" and the doctor laughed his little cynical laugh. "Why, we shall all die some day, shall we not?"

"Now, doctor, do be serious. Is there no hope for him?"

"I don't see that there is;" and he continued to gaze at the boy's face as if it had some fascination for him.

Eugenio Noele failed not a week later to send his clerk to make arrangements for the departure of the Morteras. As the time drew nearer Celestino failed rapidly. He would lie for hours without speaking except with his eloquent eyes. Frequently he would kiss a little ring that I had given him, and a few days before his departure I gave him a trinket consisting of a turquoise heart, with a cross set with crystals over red stones, emblematical of the blood and water that flowed from the side of our Redeemer. This he received with great emotion, and as I tied it to his neck with a ribbon he said, "I will wear it as long as I have life."

"Does Celestino fear to die?"

"No, signora, not whilst you are near me; and by dying I shall see my brothers and sisters in heaven, and can come and watch over you all."

"Sweetest child! It will break my heart to lose thee."

"Ah, do not weep;" and the boy's lips paled and his eyelids closed. I gave him water, and called to his mother to come and speak to him.

"Ah, this child of my bosom! my poor Celestino! must he leave me too?"

"Dear signora, he goes to a world free from such sorrows or cares as yours have been. He is like an angel even now."

"Celestino, kiss thy poor afflicted mother." Without a word, but with trembling lips, he stretched forth his arms to embrace her, and I stole away, leaving to her sacred sorrow the poor woman who for the moment, forgetting her self-imposed ascetic restraint, was yielding to every impulse of demonstrative tenderness.

The night before their departure Eugenio wrote an ode addressed to me, and placed it in my hands. I did not then read it through: I felt too dispirited and preoccupied. The next morning his eyes met mine with a questioning expression that I did not comprehend. When the hour for parting had arrived tears and broken exclamations were mingled. Eugenio lingered to kiss me, with a look first of inquiry, then of deep despair. I found afterward that the poem he had presented to me contained a protestation of humble and devoted love, which he entreated me not to neglect with scorn, and thereby add to the cruelties of his situation.

What a sense of loneliness we experienced! I felt restless and unhappy: I was pursued by the imploring face of Eugenio and haunted by the eyes of Celestino. It was long ere our household recovered its old equilibrium. Letters full of gratitude came from the Morteras. They were re-established in their old home; Eugenio had resumed his studies; Virginia was not so well; Celestino was dying. Soon after I received a letter in Eugenio's handwriting informing me that the trinket he enclosed would be to me an evidence that his beloved brother Celestino was dead. He had died with a smile on his lips, and Eugenio with his own hands had unfastened the jewel from his neck. In a letter written some time after to my mother Eugenio implored her by all she loved to rescue him from a position which he felt to be daily more unendurable, by procuring for him some engagement, in however humble a capacity, that would enable him to support himself and assist his family. A priest he could not, would not be. My parents had scarcely time to discuss the matter ere another letter came from Eugenio, telling them that his mother had discovered the subject of his correspondence, and that she and their good old priest had succeeded in convincing him of his wickedness in attempting to relinquish the holy vocation of priest—that it had been a snare of the devil; and he implored Signor and Madama Melville to forgive him for the scandal he had caused concerning his holy religion by such unworthy backslidings, which he now deeply repented.

One day Oswald came in exclaiming, "Aunt, who do you think has failed and left the country?"

"Who?"

"Why, your friend, Eugenio Noele! As I passed the house I saw men carrying away the pictures and things. I could not help stopping to inquire into the matter. One of the workmen, who seemed to know a great deal about it, said that a confidential clerk was at the bottom of it all, and had run off before the great smash came."

The last news we heard of this singular family was that Rugiero, who had gone to Italy with his family, was retrieving his position, that Giuseppe was with him, and that Eugenio was a priest, and beloved by all for his noble qualities and extended usefulness.

CLELIA LEGA WEEKS.

THE MATCHLESS ONE: