CHAPTER V

.

GOOD OUT OF EVIL.

Harding went up to his lonely tent. Like a wounded animal, he sought his lair, and the memory of the many solitary hours he had passed there, even at this sad moment, refreshed his spirit. There he could be alone--away from men's eyes--free from their curiosity, from their comments, or, what would be worse, from their pity.

He had made himself comparatively rich; he had built up a home, as it were, in the wilderness; he had even tried, and with some success, to gain men's esteem--and what were all these worth to him now?

Such bitter thoughts as these filled Harding's mind as he arranged his coarse pallet, and then, throwing himself upon it, sought to forget his grief during the short space that remained before daylight. He was awakened, almost instantly, it seemed to him--although, in fact, three hours had passed--by the sharp crack of a rifle. Harding leaped up and ran to his door.

It was a dull, gray dawn--the sky overcast, but the air free from wind or rain. A little below Harding's tent there spread a plain about a mile wide. This extended along the bank of the river, and terminated in a clump of redwoods which grew far up the mountain beyond. Here and there on the plain were scattered a few small trees and copses of manzanita; but for the most part it was clear from the outskirts of the village up to the redwoods.

On this plain Harding now saw a remarkable sight. A man was running from tree to tree, striving always to get nearer the mountain. Perhaps three hundred yards behind him were five or six armed pursuers trying to close in on the fugitive, and occasionally firing at him. As Harding gazed, three shots were discharged in rapid succession. Yet the man still held on his way, apparently unhurt, and it looked as if he would quickly gain the cover of the forest. But there was one behind him far swifter than the rest, who ran like an Indian on the river or further side from Harding, and who threatened in a few moments to get dangerously near. It was because this man was so distant from himself that Harding did not at first recognize his own partner, Jack Storm, although he was in his usual well known Mexican dress. Now, Storm was the best rifle shot on Bullion Flat.

It appeared that the fugitive knew this. At all events, as if suddenly realizing his peril, he turned and ran straight toward Storm, resolved to draw his fire, apparently, and by confusing his aim to have a better chance of escape. Storm's ready rifle flew up to his shoulder instantly, and Harding saw the pale blue ring of smoke and heard the quick report. Still the fugitive sped on. He was plainly unscathed, or in any case not disabled; and in his hand there now flashed a bright something which Harding knew was a bowie-knife. With that, although the combatants were a mile away, Harding seized a revolver, and dashed at his highest speed down the hill. Almost at the same moment, there also started in company from Bullion Flat three figures on horseback. These were Miss Tinsel, the "Demon," Mr. Bellario, and Judge Carboy. All who were now making for the scene of the combat heard in sharp repetition five or six shots from revolvers; but after the last of these, all was still. When they got to the spot they found Jack Storm fainting from loss of blood, but hurt only with flesh wounds; and they were told that the other man, his opponent, was mortally wounded, and had been taken, by his own request, up on the mountain side, among the redwoods, to die.

With a choking cry, Miss Tinsel galloped on, and in a few moments Chester Harding and she were again face to face over the dying man's body. Ghastly white as he was, all dabbled with blood, and the foam oozing from his lips, her lover at once knew Jane's visitor of the night before. What had happened had been hurriedly revealed to Harding--in broken whispers by the bystanders--before Jane came up.

The man had robbed several rooms at the "Bella Union" during the night, and had succeeded in gathering a large sum. Among the treasures stolen were all the loose funds belonging to the "Combination Troupe," the night's winnings of Mr. Copperas's faro bank, and Miss De Montague's diamonds. But just as the robber, toward daylight, was on the point of making off in safety, he met a lion in the path in Jack Storm. It happened that Jack wanted to have a talk with his partner, Harding, and, as they were then very busy on the claim, made up his mind to compass this purpose bright and early, before getting to work. Stumbling on the marauder, the latter was secured after a struggle, and "the boys" speedily determined to make an example of him. The man begged for a chance of life, and after some debate, had been given the option of the halter or running the gauntlet, with three hundred yards' start, in the way we have described. In the subsequent struggle he had been shot through the lungs, and terribly cut with his own bowie-knife--wrested from him by Jack Storm--and his life was now fast ebbing away.

As she came up Jane sprang from her horse, and threw herself on the ground beside the dying man. They had propped his head on a hillock of turf, and some charitable soul had brought water from the river. Judge Carboy quickly put a flask of brandy to the sufferer's lips, and he opened his eyes:

"Ja--Jane," he gasped, "my pretty Jane--this is the end--the end of it--a dog's death--and deserved, too-but--I--I--always loved you!"

She burst into tears and began sobbing over him and fondling his head.

"Don't, darling--don't, little Jenny--it won't be long--I am better away--better for you--there--there! I'm sliding away somewhere--and----"

His voice failed, and his dark face began to grow blue. The doctor, who had ridden hastily up, forced between the man's teeth some strong restorative.

"I want you to remember--always--that I was drunk when I did it--drunk and crazy. I was bad--vile--but not so bad as that. Don't tell who--who I am. It will only disgrace you--only disgrace you--I'm going, little Jenny----"

"Oh, _father_! _father!_" and the poor child bowed down her pretty head on the breast of the wretched thief and murderer, and wept as if her heart would break.

"No--no," he muttered; "no, little Jenny, I'm not worth it. Only--don't think worse--worse of me than I deserve. Perhaps mother--in heaven--has forgiven me! She knows--knows--I was mad when I did it."

"Yes--yes--I shall remember," whispered she, "always. Now don't talk more--not now."

"No--I shan't talk--much more"--a strange wan smile came over his face--"not much more, little Jenny." He put up his hand and stroked her sunny hair.

"Tell them about this last--that I was desperate--I had broke jail--knew the officers were on my track--and was penniless. Give me--more--brandy. So. Why, I can't see you any more, little Jenny--and yet it is morning, isn't it, not night!" He gasped for breath and clutched feebly at the air. "Kiss me--little Jenny--mer--mercy--_Lord Jesus_--better--better times--hereafter!"

A shudder, and the man was dead, and Jane was left all alone in the world. Poor, besotted, frantic Michael Green, all sin-scorched as he was, had passed from the judgment of men to the more merciful judgment beyond. Yet the orphan, if alone, lacked neither sympathy nor protection. Nor did she ever lack from that moment the respect and confidence of the man of whose heart she had from the first been mistress. So that the true happiness came in time which is so often the sweeter for being deferred.

HENRY SEDLEY.

DEFEATED.

Give me your hand--nay, both, as I confront you. Let me look in your eyes, as once before. I gaze, and gaze. Oh, how they change and soften! I stand within the portal: lo! a door--

A door close shut and barred. I knock and listen. No sound, no answer. Doubtingly I wait. Oh! for one glance beyond that guarded entrance, The power that mystic realm to penetrate.

I touch the barrier with hands entreating, If it would yield to me, and none beside. What bitter pain, what sense of loss and failure, To come so near, and come to be denied!

Softly I call, but only silence answers-- Silence, and the quick throbbing of my heart. Immovable, the frowning bar abideth: Kneeling, I kiss the threshold and depart.

MARY L. RITTER.

SHALL PUNISHMENT PUNISH?

It is published that in England a man has been undergoing an aggregate imprisonment of ten years for breaking a shop window, at different times, and that when recently pardoned he immediately broke the same window again for the purpose of being again arrested. One who knows nothing more than this of the facts cannot presume to determine what punishment should in justice be given to this particular offender; but the case is interesting as an extreme example of what frequently occurs in a less striking degree in this country. Police courts become acquainted with a class of criminals who would rather go to jail for their dinner, especially in winter, than earn a dinner by hard work. They are the confirmed vagabonds from whom the army of summer tramps is chiefly recruited. They never feel truly virtuous and happy in cold weather except when they have committed a petty offence and are on the way to "punishment," which consists in accepting from a thoughtful public a warm shelter and all the food they want. It is their business to live, at times if not constantly, in this way. Sending them to jail for their offences is known by the courts that send them to be nothing but a sorry farce.

There is another equally incorrigible class, who commit greater crimes, but not chiefly for the sake of "punishment." Detectives keep themselves advised of the sentences of these offenders, and prepare to shadow them anew whenever they are released from confinement. It is not expected that incarceration will have any reformatory effect. The question of reforming them, as of reforming those who offend to get rid of the trouble of taking care of themselves, comes to be left out of consideration, after a little experience, by the officers whose duty it is to deal with them. Only intimidation remains for a considerable number. With these, rather than with the English window-breaker, should probably be classed the subject of this item from a late newspaper: "Charles Dickens is dead, and died of honest work; but the German prisoner, Charles Langheimer, whom he saw in the penitentiary at Philadelphia thirty-three years ago, and over whose punishment by solitary confinement he lamented in 'American Notes,' describing him as 'a picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind,' still lives at the age of seventy-five, and has just been sent back to his old quarters the sixth time, for his chronic offence of petty theft, which has kept him in jail full half his long life."

That punishment for crime is necessary, and therefore a public duty, is admitted, and every community professes to impose it. But what of the criminals whom punishment as now administered does not punish--who actually commit crimes for the purpose of receiving it? It would seem that society has not the power or has not the wisdom to protect itself. It has the right, of course. It has the power also.

The law does not succeed in what it attempts and professes to do. At present when we find a criminal who has sufficient good in him to feel our methods, we punish him in proportion to his--goodness. When we find one so vile that our methods are like water on a duck's back, we do not punish him--except as water punishes a duck. He goes unpunished because he is so bad, while a better man is punished because he is better. What is this but rewarding insensibility? It is very creditable to the hearts of the lawmakers--perhaps--but it is fraud on the community. It is legalized wickedness. It permits incarnate nuisances to wax fat, and prey upon honest industry, and increase and multiply, until they become the only prosperous and protected class.

It has been suggested that a criminal on his second conviction be deemed a professional, and incarcerated for life. It would no doubt be cheaper for the public to shut him up thus and support him permanently. But there is the objection that the punishment would generally be out of proportion to the crime, if it were a punishment at all; and if it were not a punishment, we would be offering a greater premium on vice than we now are. To punish petty larceny as if it were as great a crime as manslaughter or murder would be too unjust to be long possible. The case seems to demand a new medicine rather than a greater dose of one which has failed when tried in any practicable quantities.

There is one remedy, so far as the infliction of real punishment is a remedy, although those who administer justice as above described will hold up their hands in horror at the mention of it. If it be a fact that the punishment of criminals is necessary, and if it be a fact that a class of them is impervious to any punishment except physical pain, then we are bound to either inflict this pain or else abandon the principle of punishment. There is no third course if the two facts are admitted--and to those who will not admit them an unprejudiced reading of the criminal news of the past three hundred and sixty-five days is commended. If one man's heart is callous to what will break another's, all men's backs are of nearly equal tenderness. It is doubtful whether the whipping-post ever had a fair trial without proving that it might be made a good thing under such circumstances as we must very soon, if we do not now, confront.

The fact that it was once used and then abandoned does not settle the case. It was erected for those who could have been otherwise dealt with, and for those who deserved no punishment at all. It was not reserved for only those deserving punishment, on whom our more refined penalties had been tried and had failed. It is not a fair trial of it to put it into the hands of a drunken or passionate ship's captain; or the hands of a religious bigot; or the hands of a slave-driver; or the hands of a tyrant or autocrat of any kind; or the hands of an incompetent judge; or the hands of any judge in a ruder age than this. If an ignorant or brutal use of it in the past condemns an enlightened use of it now, we should abandon life-taking and imprisonment, for these have been even more abused. We have no fear that the death penalty will be misused hereafter because men have been hung for petty larceny heretofore. When the lash is wielded by a barbarous hand, as it generally has been, of course we abhor it. But how about it when the hand of Christ wields it in the temple? Although the incarnation of charity made him a scourge for those who needed it, yet we cannot follow His example because Torquemadas have made scourges for those who did not need them. Such is the logic of those who would cite the past in this matter. The truth is, the lash was abandoned in the humane belief that criminals could be punished without it; and the truth also is, some criminals are now proving that they cannot be punished without it.

Go over the subject as we may, we come back to the question, Is the lash or something equally unrefined necessary to accomplish all the law now attempts? It must be looked at in the cold light of certain very sad facts, as well as in the warm blaze of "chromo" civilization. If we are not yet compelled to answer it in the affirmative, there is so much evidence pointing toward such an answer, that it is well to consider very respectfully indeed whatever can be said on the unpopular side. It need not frighten those who accept the idea so tersely presented by the Hare Brothers--of which one is strongly reminded by Mr. Greg in the "Enigmas of Life," although perhaps he does not expressly state it--that the tendency of civilization is to barbarism.

Of course flogging is not a panacea; but it is for those who profit by nothing gentler; and the more enlightened society becomes the more certainly can these be identified. The generous feeling that has discontinued it would not cease to be a guarantee against its abuse. Our courts cannot depart far from public sentiment. We can trust judges and juries to determine who deserves castigation just as safely as to determine who deserves imprisonment or death. Most of the censure they now receive in their treatment of the hopelessly depraved is for their lenity and not their rigor. There is no offender would not dread and wish to avoid whipping. Certainly no one would offend for the purpose of receiving it; and it would probably discourage a man in less than ten years from breaking the same window. It would be inexpensive, and would have the merit of being short and sharp, if not decisive. Punishment, intimidation, is what is here considered, and the point is whether it shall be administered to all who deserve it, or whether the law society finds necessary for its protection shall be a falsehood, at war with itself--a sham. The law cannot shrink from anything that is necessary to its purpose without impeaching its purpose.

And is it more inhuman to hurt the back of one who cannot be made to feel anything else than it is to pain the heart and hurt the soul of one who can? How can Christians so exalt the flesh above the spirit? They did not do it in the primitive days of the faith. Is it more barbarous to scourge the body than to gall it with irons, or poison and debilitate it by confinement, or wear it out by inches at hard labor? We have not abolished corporeal punishment--only rejected a form of it which is frequently more merciful, if more dreaded, than some that are retained.

All wrongs right themselves by "inhumanity," if permitted to go far enough. You are told by good authority, and you know without telling, that if you find a burglar in your house at night, you perform a public duty by shooting him dead rather than see him escape. From the humanitarian point of view, this is certainly more dreadful than it would have been to stop, by flogging, any minor offences that led him into your house. Indeed, if the penalty for the burglary itself were a "barbarous" laceration of his back, it would doubtless have more effect in keeping him from the burglary and from a bloody death, than does the risk of imprisonment. We must not whip him in obedience to the law, but we may safely shoot him dead without regard to it. It is our tenderness that becomes "inhuman" if it be not wisely bestowed. Would it be quite in keeping with the pretensions of "advanced" civilization to see the matrons and maids of the rural neighborhoods going about their dairies and summer kitchens with revolvers in their belts, and bowie-knives in their bosoms? That is the spectacle the "tramp" nuisance promises to produce. Would the whipping-post, set up in the slums of the great cities, where the miscreants among the tramps breed and form their characters, look any more like barbarism? The voluntary tramp has but shown the countryman during the summer what the city suffers during the winter. He is simply trying to distribute and equalize himself, and while enjoying his country air, collects the same taxes he collects all the rest of the year in town. Let the city continue to rear him tenderly, and not hurt his precious carcass, and feed and warm him, and punish only his sensitive spirit, until the country people get down their shot-guns and make a barbarous end of him. And this is being true to the cause of humanity.

It is noble for the law to withhold its hand when one who has taken a wrong step can be won back to a good life by other means; and if the wretches hopelessly saturated with vice can be intimidated by anything milder than flogging, by all means be mild; but when we find one who cannot, why not acknowledge the fact and act on it?

The reason why we do not so act is only a sentimental one. A sentimental reason, however, may be a very good one. Society feels that it is better to suffer, and to see its laws become a mockery to this degree, than to shock its own best instincts. This sentiment that obstructs absolute vindication of the law is respectable so long as it can be respected with tolerable safety and public satisfaction. But it interferes with justice by courtesy, and not by right. It is all very well so long as society does not complain. But if its mouthpieces are to be believed, society does complain. The public is not satisfied with the present punishment of certain offenders--indicated with sufficient accuracy by the tough old Langheimer and the English window-breaker--and is restive under the pecuniary burden they impose.

Although the history of the whipping-post is nearly worthless to one seeking to know what its value might be under all the favorable conditions with which it could be surrounded now and here, yet it is possible to point readily to one trial that should have been, and probably was, a fair one. A very few years ago--perhaps four or five--garroting became a terror to the London pedestrian. For assault and robbery, without intent to kill, the death penalty was too terrible, and the other penalties failed to intimidate, as they generally do when the crime is lucrative, easily accomplished, and not immediately dangerous. It could not be trifled with, and something had to be done. A "barbarous" whipping of the bare back was resorted to, and garroting subsided. The result was what the public wanted. Sentimental eyes may show their whites, horrified hands may go up, floods of twaddle may come forth in sympathy with the discouraged garroter, but men of common sense, especially if they have been garroted themselves, will say the end was worth what it cost, and believe in the inhumanity that achieved it.

Nothing has been said of Delaware. No valuable lesson could be drawn from her without considerable investigation, and perhaps not then. She may do too much flogging, or she may not do enough. Her ministers of justice may be models of enlightenment, or they may be models of debasement. The lash there may be still a class instrument, or it may not. She has no great city--an exceedingly important consideration--and two portions of her people are jostling each other as nominal equals in the race of life, who but the other day held the relation of master and slave. She is probably not indifferent to a good name, and her retention of the whip under all the sneers she receives is some evidence that she at least regards it as still having a defensible use.

CHAUNCEY HICKOX.

RENUNCIATION.

Could I recall thee from that silent shore Whence never word may reach our longing ears, To gaze upon thee thro' my happy tears, And call thee back to life and joy once more, Could I refrain? If at my touch Death's door Would open for thee, and thy glad eyes shine With swift surprise of life, straight into mine, And we might dwell with love for evermore, Could I forbear? God knows, who still denies. Yet being dead, thou art all mine again: No fear of change can break that perfect rest, Nor can I be where thou art not; thine eyes Smile at me out of heaven, and still my pain, And the whole pitying earth is at thy breast.

KATE HILLARD.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.

"The last word in the Eastern Question," said Lord Derby, "is Constantinople." If for Constantinople we read not merely the city itself, but that half of Turkey in Europe bordering upon the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora, and understand the real point to be, Shall or shall not Russia have it? we have the whole Eastern Question in a nutshell. Russia is bound by every consideration of policy and interest to get it if she can. Great Britain is bound by every consideration of interest, and even of self-preservation, to prevent it if she can. Germany, Austria, and France are bound to prevent it, if possible, unless they can at the same time gain equivalent advantages which shall leave them relatively to each other, and especially to Russia, not less powerful than they now are. The other nations of Europe may be left out of view in considering the question; for their interest in it is less vital, and they could do little toward the result, except as allies to one side or the other, in case of a general European war in which the great Powers should be quite evenly balanced, when their comparatively small weight might turn the scale.

A glance at the map will show the paramount importance to Russia of the acquisition of this territory. Comprising more than half of all Europe, she is practically cut off from the navigable seas. She has, indeed, a long coast-line upon the Arctic ocean, but she has there only the inconsiderable port of Archangel, and this can be reached only by rounding the North Cape and sailing far within the Arctic Circle, while the port itself is blocked up by ice seven months of the year. She also borders for seven hundred miles upon the Baltic and the Gulf of Bothnia; but here, in the northwestern corner of her territory, she has only two tolerable ports, Cronstadt and Riga, and these are frozen up for nearly half the year; but from these ports is carried on three-fourths of her foreign commerce. She next touches salt water in the Black Sea, almost 1,500 miles from St. Petersburg, on the extreme south of her territory. This sea, half of whose shores belongs to Russia, is 720 miles long, and 380 miles wide at its broadest point, covering an area, including the connected Sea of Azof, of nearly 200,000 square miles--more than twice that of all the great lakes of North America. Russia wishes to be a great maritime power. The Black Sea has good harbors and abundant facilities for building ships and exercising fleets. Into it fall all the great rivers of the southern half of Russia, except the Volga, whose mouth is in the Caspian; and the Volga may properly be considered a Black Sea river, for a railway, or perhaps even a canal of a few leagues, would connect it with the Don and the other rivers of the Black Sea system. The Black Sea is emphatically a Russian sea; but Russia enjoys the valuable use of it only by the sufferance of whomsoever holds Constantinople. By the treaty of Paris, concluded in 1856, after the reverses of the Crimean war, Russia agreed not to maintain a fleet there; and it was not till 1870 that taking advantage of the critical position of the other great Powers, she declared that this article of the treaty was abrogated. She has now a strong fleet of iron-clads and other steamers in the sea, but the actual strength of this fleet is unknown except to herself. It was certainly powerful three years ago, and is doubtless much more powerful now. A vessel and crew which has navigated the "Bad Black Sea." as the Turks call it, has nothing to fear from the broadest ocean. But this sea is liable at any moment to be a closed one to Russia. No Russian man-of-war has, we believe, ever sailed into or out of it; no merchantman can enter or leave it except by the Bosporus and the Dardanelles, which are its gates, and of these gates Turkey holds the keys.

The Black Sea is joined to the deep, narrow Sea of Marmora by the straits of the Bosporus, twenty miles long and from three-quarters of a mile to two and a half miles wide. Just where the straits open out into the Sea of Marmora stands Constantinople, a spot marked out by nature as the one on the whole globe best fitted for the site of a great metropolis. At its western extremity the Sea of Marmora--about one hundred miles long, with a maximum breadth of forty-three miles--contracts into the straits usually called the Dardanelles, which is properly the name of four castles, which, two on each side, command the passage, here less than a mile wide. Both straits could easily be so fortified as to be impassable by the combined navies of the world; and even now we suppose that only the best armored iron-clads could safely undertake to force the passage, in or out, of the Dardanelles.

Let us now consider the fearful preponderance which Russia would gain by the possession of these straits, including of course that half of European Turkey bordering upon them. We have seen that the shores of the Black Sea furnish every facility for the construction of a navy of any required strength, and its waters afford ample space for its training. With these approaches in her grasp, Russia might in ten years construct and discipline her fleet there, perfectly safe from molestation by the navies of Europe. Fleets built and equipped at Sebastopol, Kherson, and Nicolaief, could sweep through the Dardanelles, closed to all except themselves, enter the Archipelago and the Mediterranean, and dominate over their shores and over the commerce of every nation which has to use these waters as a highway. In case of its happening at any time to find itself overmatched, the Russian fleet could repass the gates of the Dardanelles, and be as safe from pursuit as an army would be if sheltered behind the rocks of Gibraltar.

Great Britain would be first and most immediately menaced by this; for a strong military and naval power established on the Bosporus would hold in command the shortest way of communication with her possessions in India. The Czar would hold in control the route by way of the Suez canal: or at best Great Britain could keep it open only by maintaining a vastly superior fleet in the Mediterranean; and it would be difficult for her to maintain there a fleet which would not be practically overmatched by one which Russia could easily keep up in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora. The days are past when a Hood or a Nelson might safely risk a battle if the odds against him were much less than two to one. A British admiral must henceforth make his count upon meeting skill and seamanship equal to his own, and whatever advantage he gains must be gained by sheer preponderance of force.

If Great Britain is to retain her Indian empire, a collision there between her and Russia is a foregone conclusion. An empire which, under a succession of sovereigns of very different character, has steadily pressed its march of conquest through the deserts of Turkistan, will not be likely to look without longing eyes upon the fertile valley of the Indus; and here Russia would have a fearful advantage in position. The Suez route practically closed, as it would be in the event of a war, Britain could only reach India by the long voyage around the Cape of Good Hope, while Russia would have broad highways for the march of her troops to the banks of the Indus, whence she could menace the whole peninsula of Hindostan.

We indeed do not think that the possession of her Indian empire adds anything to the power of Great Britain. She has never derived any direct revenue from it. The Indian expenditures to-day exceed, and are likely in the future to exceed, the revenues. All the vast amounts of plunder and "loot" which individuals, the East India Company, or the Crown have gained, have cost to get them more than they were worth. Unlike Australia and the Dominion of Canada, India offers no field for colonization for men of British blood, where they or their children may build up a new Britain under strange stars. It has come to be an accepted fact that Englishmen cannot long retain health and vigor in India, and that their offspring, born there, rarely survive childhood unless sent "home" at an early age. Britain holds India purely and absolutely as a conquered and subjugated territory. Whether British rule in India is, upon the whole, a blessing or a curse to the natives, is a matter of grave doubt; that it is most unwillingly borne, is beyond all question. It is a despotism pure and unmixed, and a despotism of the most galling kind--a despotism exercised by a horde alien in race and religion, alien in habits and modes of thought, in life and manners, in customs and ideas. Macaulay, when in power in India, forty years ago, said of it the best that can be said: "India cannot have a free government; but she may have the next best thing--a firm and impartial despotism." To maintain this despotism, even against the feeble natives alone, imposes a heavy strain upon the British government. The British empire in India is only a thin crust overlying a bottomless quagmire, into which it is in peril of sinking at any moment by a force from above or an upheaval from below. How nearly this came to pass during the accidental Sepoy mutiny of twenty years ago, is known to all men. Had that mutiny chanced to have broken out three years before, during the Crimean war, it is safe to say that the course of the world's history would have taken a different turn. Since then Great Britain has apparently somewhat consolidated this crust, but it is yet thin, and the weight of Russia thrown upon it could scarcely fail to break it through.

The commercial value of India to Great Britain is, we think, vastly exaggerated. India, in proportion to her population, has always been, and is likely long to be, a very poor country. The trade of Great Britain with India--exports and imports--is not much greater than that with France, considerably less than that with Germany, and far less than that with the United States; and we see no reason to suppose that it is perceptibly increased by the subjugation of India to the British crown. India sells to Great Britain what she can, and buys from her what she wants and can pay for, and would continue to do so in any case. Still, we do not imagine that the British government or people will ever be brought to take our view of the value of India to them. It will be held to the last extremity of the national power, and will only be abandoned under stress of the direst necessity. And for her secure possession of India it is absolutely essential, for reasons which have been stated, that whoever else may have Constantinople in the future, Russia shall not have it. England's interest in the question is a purely selfish one. She is content to have the Turks there because for the time being they keep the Russians out. Whatever worth may formerly have been in the sentimental averment that it is the duty of the European family of nations to see to it that no weak member of it is gravely wronged by a stronger one is past and gone. It is from no love for the Turks that Great Britain desires that the Sultan should continue to hold at least nominal sovereignty over Turkey in Europe, and the actual custody of the keys of the Black Sea. An able English writer says:[H]

The position of the Turk at Constantinople is no choice of ours, nor any creation of our policy. We do not maintain him for any love of himself, nor because we rely on his strength to guard the post--though that is absurdly underrated. His corruption and weakness are at least as great an embarrassment to us as an injury to the nations of his empire. But the whole Eastern question hangs upon the fact that he is there, and has been there with a long prescriptive right which he is not likely to yield, or to have wrested from his grasp till after a frantic struggle of despair. Nor is any practical mode apparent by which he will be soon displaced, save that, after a convulsion which would involve all Europe, the Czar should be enthroned upon the Bosporus. To prevent that catastrophe, and to avert the horrors that must precede it, is our real Eastern policy.

[Footnote H: "Quarterly Review;" October, 1876.]

Still more emphatic is the declaration of Lord Derby, the British Premier, when defending the action of the Government in sending the Mediterranean fleet, last May, to Besika Bay, at the mouth of the Dardanelles: "We have in that part of the world great interests which we must protect.... It is said that we sent the fleet to the Dardanelles to maintain the Turkish empire. I entirely deny it. _We sent the fleet to maintain the interests of the British empire._"

Let us now glance rapidly at Turkey in Europe, the coveted prize in this case. Nominally, and upon the maps, it comprises all except the southern apex of the great triangular peninsula bounded on the east by the Black Sea, the Sea of Marmora, and the Archipelago; on the west by the Adriatic; on the north, the broad base of the peninsula, it is bounded by Austria; on the south, the narrow apex, by Greece. Russia touches it only on the northeast corner. Its area is in round numbers 200,000 square miles, not differing materially from that of France or Germany, or about five-sixths of that of Austria. No other part of Europe, of anything like equal extent, combines so many natural advantages of geographical position, soil, and climate. The population is variously estimated at from 13,000,000 upward; we think that 17,000,000 is a tolerably close approximation. Of these, in round numbers, only about 2,000,000 are Turks, or, as they style themselves, Osmanlis; 11,500,000 are of various Sclavonic races; 1,500,000 are Albanians; 1,000,000 Greeks; the remainder Armenians, Jews, and Gipsies. In religion there, there are about 4,800,000 Mohammedans, nearly half of whom are not Osmanlis, the remainder being of Sclavonic descent, whose ancestors embraced Islam in order to save their estates; they are, however, quite as devoted Mussulmans as are the Osmanlis themselves. There are now about 12,000,000 Christians, of whom some 11,000,000 belong to the Greek Church, and nearly 1,000,000 are in communion with the Church of Rome. The name Ottomans is officially given to all the subjects of the empire, irrespective of race or religion; all except Mussulmans are specifically designated as _Rayahs_, "the flock." Nominally, at least, by the new Constitution promulgated in December, 1876, while Islam is the religion of the State, all subjects are equal before the law, and all, without distinction of race or creed, are alike eligible for civil and military positions.

But a very considerable part of this territory is not properly included in the Ottoman empire. The principality of Roumania, in the northeastern corner, made up of what was formerly known as Wallachia and Moldavia, with a population of about 4,500,000, is practically independent, under a prince of the house of Hohenzollern, elected in 1866. It merely acknowledges the suzerainty of the Sultan, to whom it pays an annual tribute of some $200,000. Servia, on the north, bordering upon Austria, with a population something less than 1,500,000, has for years been really independent, merely paying a tribute of less than $100,000.

Roumania and Servia are strongly under Russian influence. Besides these is the little State of Montenegro, on the Adriatic, with a population of less than 200,000, which disowns the suzerainty of the Sultan, and has for many months waged a fierce but desultory war against him.

Of what properly constitutes Turkey in Europe, with a population of some 11,000,000, the following are the principal divisions, designating them by their former names, by which they are still best known: south of Roumania, and between the Danube and the Balkhan mountains, is Bulgaria; south of Bulgaria is Roumelia, in which Constantinople is situated; in the northwest is Herzegovina; between which and Servia is Bosnia; on the west, along the Adriatic, is Albania. In estimating the defensive strength of the Ottoman empire we must take main account of Turkey in Asia, with a population of some 17,000,000, by far the larger portion of whom are Osmanlis, devoted to Islam, warlike by nature, and fully capable, as was shown in the Crimean war, of being moulded into excellent soldiers. But our present concern is with Turkey in Europe.

If the ingenuity of man, working through long centuries of misrule, had set itself to the task of developing a form of government the most potent for evil and the least powerful for good, the system could not have been worse than that which exists in European Turkey; and the worst of it is that no one but the most hopeful optimist can perceive in it the slightest hope of reform or practical amendment. In theory the Sultan is the recognized organ of all executive power in the State. The dignity is hereditary in the house of Osman; but the brother of a deceased or deposed Sultan takes precedence of the son, as being nearer in blood to the great founder of the house. A Sultan, therefore, must see in his brother a possible rival, who must, in case his life is spared, be kept immured in the seclusion of the harem. A Sultan who succeeds his brother naturally comes to the throne at a somewhat mature age, but as ignorant as a babe of all that belongs to the duties of government; lucky it is if he is not also physically and mentally worn out by debauchery and excess. Turkish history is full of instances where one of the first acts of a Sultan has been to order the execution of his brothers and nephews. Thus Mahmoud II. put to death his infant nephew, the son of his predecessor, and caused three pregnant inmates of the harem to be flung into the Bosporus in order to make sure the destruction of their unborn offspring. The actual task of government is in some sort divided between the Sultan and the "Porte," a term which is used to designate the chief dignitaries of the State. The "Sublime Porte" is the Council of the Grand Vizier, who presides over the Council of State, consisting of the ministers for home affairs, for foreign affairs, and for executive acts, with several secretaries, one of whom is supposed to be answerable that the acts of the ministry are in conformity with, the supreme law of the Koran. The Porte of the Defterdar, or Minister of Finance, whose council is styled the "Divan," consists of several ministers and other functionaries. The "Agha" formerly comprised many civil and military officials whose duties were in some way immediately connected with the person of the Sultan, not very unlike what we call a "kitchen cabinet." The foregoing are all designated as "Dignitaries of the Pen." The "Dignitaries of the Sword" are the viceregal and provincial governors, styled pachas and beys. They are at once civil and military commanders; and, most important of all, tax-gatherers, and not infrequently farmers as well as receivers of taxes. If they forward to the Porte the required sum of money, little care is had as to the manner in which their other duties are performed or neglected. The manifold extortions of the local pachas keep one part or another of the empire, not only in Europe, but in Asia, in a state of perpetual insurrection, of which little is ever heard abroad.

The Koran is the acknowledged source of all law, civil and ecclesiastical. Its interpreter is the _Sheikh-ul-Islam_, "the Chief of the Faithful," sometimes styled the "Grand Mufti." He is the head of the _Ulemi_, or "Wise Men," comprising the body of great jurists, theologians, and _literati_, any or all of whom he may summon to his council. He is appointed for life by the Sultan, and may be removed by him. His office is in theory, and sometimes in practice, one of great importance. To him and his council the Sultan is supposed to refer every act of importance. He does not declare war or conclude peace until the Grand Mufti has formally pronounced the act "conformable to the law." It is only in virtue of his _fetwa_, or decree, that the deposition of a Sultan is legalized. A _fetwa_ from him would summon around the standard of the Prophet all the fanatical hordes of Islam to fight to the death against the infidels, in the firm belief that death on the battlefield is a sure passport to Paradise. With the Koran as the supreme law, and the Sheikh-ul-Islam its sole interpreter, nothing can be more futile than the provision of the new Constitution of December, 1876, that "the prerogatives of the Sultan are those of the constitutional sovereigns of the West."

It is necessary here to touch only briefly upon the rise and decline of the Turkish empire in Europe. The Osmanlis take their name from Osman, the leader of a Tartar horde driven out from the confines of the Chinese empire, who overran Asia Minor. His great-grandson, Amurath I., crossed into Europe, took Adrianople in 1361, and overran Bulgaria and Servia. Several of his successors pushed far into Hungary and Poland. Mohammed II. took Constantinople in 1453, and brought the Byzantine empire to a close. Selim I. (1512-'20) extended his dominion over Mesopotamia, Syria, and Egypt. Solyman II., "the Magnificent" (1520-1566), raised the Turkish power to its highest point. He took Buda in 1529; and in 1532 besieged Vienna with a force of 300,000 men, but was routed by the Polish John Sobieski, with a force hardly a tenth as great. But for another half century the Turkish power was sufficient to inspire terror in all Christendom. With the death of Solyman, the power of the Turks began to wane, slowly but surely, and at the close of the last century the expulsion of the Turks from Europe seemed close at hand. The great wars of the French Revolution gave them a new lease of possession, and at its close Sultan Mahmoud II., who was by blood half French,[I] endeavored to introduce reforms which some men hoped and others feared would restore the Ottoman Empire. But the result showed the impossibility of patching up rotten garments with new cloth. The Greek revolution broke out, and at its close the Sultan found himself no match for his vassal, Mehemet Ali, Pacha of Egypt, and it was only the intervention of Russia, Austria, and Great Britain which prevented the Pacha from establishing at Constantinople the seat of a new empire, which, be it what it might, would not have been Turkish. What were the reasons of Great Britain and France it is not now easy to say. Those of Russia are patent: she wanted Constantinople to remain in the hands of the Turks until she herself was in a position to seize it. From that time the Ottoman Empire became the "sick man of Europe," around whose bedside all the other powers were watching, each determined that none of the others should gain the greater share in his estates when he died. In 1844 they formally adopted him into the family of the nations of Europe, and promised that his safety should be the common care of all.

[Footnote I: His mother was a Creole, a native of Martinique, and cousin of that other Creole who came to be the Empress Josephine. She had been sent to France to be educated, and on her voyage homeward was captured by an Algerine pirate who sold her to the Dey, by whom she was sent as a present to the Sultan, whose favorite Sultana she became.]

Russia, in the mean while, was busy in endeavoring to make herself the patron of the Christian subjects of the Sultan, and when the time appeared ripe, entered upon those overt acts which led to the Crimean war. Out of this war the Ottoman Empire came with considerable apparent advantage. The man supposed to be sick unto death showed that there was unexpected vitality--of a spasmodic sort indeed--in his Asiatic members; and again there were hopes and fears of his ultimate convalescence, if not of restoration to robust health. That those hopes and fears were baseless is now clear enough. Never was the sick man so feeble as within the last five years.

The existing crisis in the Eastern Question came about in the ordinary course of things. In the summer of 1875 the pecuniary needs of the Sublime Porte were more than usually urgent, and the tax-gatherers were even more than usually exacting. The normal result ensued: there were local risings in Bosnia and Herzegovina. A secret Bulgarian revolutionary committee, favored by Russia, has for years existed in Bucharest, the capital of Roumania. They sent emissaries into Bulgaria to excite an insurrection in that province. The plan was to set fire to Adrianople and Philippopolis, each in scores of places, to burn other towns, mainly inhabited by Mussulmans, and force all the Bulgarian Rayahs to join the uprising. The insurrection broke out prematurely in May, 1876, and only a few were actively engaged in it. Two or three thousand troops would have been sufficient to have quelled the rising; but there were none in the province, and despite the urgent appeals of the Pacha none were sent. The Mussulmans, who are in a fearful minority there, were thrown into a panic; and the Pacha gave orders for calling an ignorant and fanatical population to arms. Regular troops were at last sent. The Turks gained an easy victory, and perpetrated those ineffable atrocities, the recital of which sent a thrill of horror throughout Christendom. The Bulgarians fled northward toward Servia, pursued by the Turks, who it is said made predatory incursions. Prince Milan made some extraordinary demands upon the Sultan, among which were that the government of Bulgaria should be committed to him and that of Bosnia to Prince Nicholas of Herzegovina. The Grand Vizier refused to listen to these demands; whereupon the Prince called the Servians to arms, declared war against the Sultan, invaded Bulgaria, and soon assumed the title of King of Servia. His invasion of Bulgaria met with ill success. Although aided by many Russian soldiers and officers, absent on special leave from their regiments, the Servians were driven back over their frontiers; and the war was finally suspended by a truce for six months. We suppose that there can be no doubt that the rising in Bulgaria and the action of Servia were favored, if not by the Czar personally, yet by the Russian government, although it would, if possible, have withheld Prince Milan from declaring war when he did. The Servian Bishop Strossmayer expressly affirms that the insurrection in Herzegovina was prematurely commenced against the advice of Russia, and that Servia and Montenegro went to war of their own accord, though they have naturally accepted the Russian aid since accorded to them. He adds that Prince Gortschakoff, who in the Russian government is all that Prince Bismarck is in that of Germany, the year before last "informed Prince Milan that Russia was unprepared; that only within three years did she count on taking Constantinople; and that only then would she call on the Sclaves of the South to plant the Greek cross on the dome of St. Sophia."

Meanwhile, on the news of the Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria, the Czar put his troops in motion toward the Turkish frontier, and made demands upon the Sultan which, if acceded to, would have practically made the Czar the actual sovereign of all Turkey in Europe north of the Balkhan. Great Britain sent her fleet to the mouth of the Dardanelles to "maintain the interests of the British empire" in that part of the world. Diplomatic notes and rejoinders passed between the cabinets of the great Powers; and early in January an International Conference was assembled at Constantinople to endeavor to settle, or at least to stave off the present crisis in the Eastern Question; Great Britain, through her representative, the Earl of Salisbury, apparently taking the lead. As we write, in the early days of February, all that is definitely known is: The Conference has utterly failed; the Sultan absolutely refused to accede to the propositions made to him; and the ambassadors of the great Powers have been withdrawn from Constantinople. Surmises and rumors as to what will next be done are rife; not the least significant or the least probable being that the Emperors of Germany, Russia, and Austria are consulting as to taking the matter into their own hands. Whatever the immediate issue may be--whether a peace of some kind; a partial war between Russia on the one side, and Turkey, with or without Great Britain, on the other; or a general European war--of one thing we may be certain: it will not cause Russia to more than postpone still longer her long-cherished determination to have Constantinople.

Mr. Carlyle has suggested, as a final settlement of the Eastern Question, that Turkey in Europe should be divided between Russia, Austria, and Great Britain. But, as is his wont, he leaves out some essential factors in the problem. No part of this territory would be of the slightest use to Great Britain, except perhaps the island of Candia as a sort of half-way house in the highway to India by the Suez canal. She has everything to lose and little more than nothing to gain by any such partition, which, as it necessarily must, would give Constantinople to Russia. Mr. Carlyle has so thorough a dislike to France--and with him dislike is nearly equivalent to contempt--that he naturally leaves her out of the problem. But it is surprising that he leaves out his favorite Germany, perhaps the most important factor of all.

We can conceive of a partition of Turkey between Russia and Austria which would be so manifestly and equally advantageous to both that they might agree to it. And the line of division is clearly indicated by nature. Austria, like every other great civilized nation, desires to be a maritime power; but she touches the sea only at one point, the head of the Adriatic, with the narrow strip known as Dalmatia, running half way down its eastern coast. There are only two considerable ports, Trieste and Fiume. Eastward, and back of Dalmatia, are Servia, Bosnia, and Herzegovina; and below these, on the Adriatic, is the long coast-line of Albania, with several good harbors. Across the narrowing isthmus is the Archipelago, with the excellent harbor of Salonika. Now look on any tolerable map, and one will see on the eastern borders of Servia, where the Danube breaks through the Carpathians, a range of mountains shooting southward to and crossing the Balkhan, from which it is continued still southward to the Archipelago, the whole dividing European Turkey into two almost equal halves. Let Russia take the eastern half, comprising Roumania, Bulgaria, and the half of Roumelia, including Constantinople, the whole shore of the Sea of Marmora and the Dardanelles--all that she really needs or cares for. Let Austria take the other half, which would give her the whole eastern coast of the Adriatic, and a large frontage on the Archipelago, and so a double access to the Mediterranean and thence to the ocean. She would acquire thereby an access of valuable territory equal to almost half of her present dominions, which would render her relatively to Russia fully as strong as she now is.

But such a partition could not be carried into effect without the concurrence of Germany, for Germany is undoubtedly as a military power much stronger than Russia. Germany certainly would never assent unless she could somewhere get something equivalent to that gained by Austria and Russia, and not an inch of Turkey would be of any use to her. But in quite another part of Europe is a territory comparatively small in extent, which would be of priceless value to Germany. This is the little kingdom of Holland, which is indeed physically a part of Germany, and essential to the rounding off of the boundaries of the new empire. It would give her an extended sea-front, which is what she also needs in order to become a great naval and commercial power. It would give her also in the Zuyder Zee a naval depot and harbor of refuge inferior only to that of the Black Sea, and immeasurably superior to any other in Europe. Furthermore, with Holland would go the possession of Java and as many other great islands in the Indian Ocean as she might choose to seize and colonize. To Holland, indeed, we think such an annexation would be a decided gain. Her people are in race, language, and religion closely allied to the Germans. It would be better for her to become a State, inferior only to Prussia, of the great German empire, than a feeble kingdom, always at the mercy of her powerful neighbors. But whether it would be for her good or not, would not be likely to be much taken into account should the great Powers agree upon a reconstruction of the political map of Europe. The interests of France would suffer no material damage from this, provided she were left free to extend her Algerian possessions over the whole Mediterranean coast of Africa, now almost a desert, but once the granary of the Roman empire, and abundantly capable of being restored to its ancient fertility; or in case she should think her dignity required something more, she might receive in Belgium far more than a counterpoise for her recent loss of Alsace-Lorraine.

Suppose that in some not remote future the policy of Russia, Germany, and Austria shall happen to be directed by statesmen as able and unscrupulous as Gortschakoff, Bismarck, and Von Beust, we think such a settlement of the Eastern Question by no means an improbable one. And should these Powers agree to effect it, all the rest of Europe could do nothing to the contrary.

A. H. GUERNSEY.

THE LASSIE'S COMPLAINT.

Now simmer cleeds the groves in green, An' decks the flow'ry brae; An' fain I'd wander out at e'en, But out I daurna gae. For there's a laddie down the gate Wha's like a ghaist to me; An' gin I meet him air or late, He winna lat me be.

He glow'rs like ony silly gowk, He ca's me heavenly fair. I bid him look like ither fowk, Nor fash me sae nae mair. I ca' him coof an' hav'rel too, An' frown wi' scornfu' ee. But a' I say, or a' I do, He winna lat me be.

JAMES KENNEDY.

ASSJA.

BY IVAN TOURGUENEFF.

I was then twenty-five years old, began N. N. As you see, the story is of days long past. I was absolutely my own master, and was making a foreign tour, not to "finish my education," as the phrase is nowadays, but to look about me in the world a little. I was healthy, young, light-hearted; I had plenty of money and as yet no cares; I lived in the present and did precisely as I wished; in one word, life was in full flower with me. It did not occur to me that man is not like a plant, and that his time of bloom is but once. Youth eats its gilded gingerbread, and thinks that is to be its daily food; but the time comes when one longs in vain for a bit of dry bread. But it is not worth while to speak of that.

I was travelling without aim or plan: made stops wherever it pleased me, and went on whenever I felt the need of seeing fresh faces--especially faces. Men interested me above all things. I detested monuments, collections of curiosities. The mere sight of a guide roused in me feelings of weariness and fury. In the Dresden "Gruene Gewoelbe" I nearly lost my wits. Nature made a powerful impression upon me; but I did not love her so-called beauties--her mighty hills, her crags and torrents. I did not like to have them take possession of me and disturb my tranquillity. Faces, on the contrary--living, earthly faces, men's talk, laughter, movements--I could not do without. In the midst of a crowd I was always particularly gay and at my ease. It gave me real pleasure merely to go where others went, to shout when others shouted, and at the same time to observe how these others shouted. It pleased me to observe men--yes, I did not observe them merely; I studied them with a delighted and insatiable curiosity. But I am digressing again.

Twenty years ago, then, I was living in the little German town of S----, on the left bank of the Rhine. I sought solitude. I had been wounded to the heart by a young widow whose acquaintance I had made at a watering-place. She was extremely pretty and vivacious, flirted with everybody--alas! with me also, poor rustic! At first she had lifted me to the skies, but soon plunged me in despair when she sacrificed me to a rosy-cheeked lieutenant from Bavaria. Seriously speaking, the wound in my heart was not very deep; but I considered it my duty to give myself for a time to melancholy and retirement--what pleasure youth finds in these!--and accordingly settled myself in S----.

This little town had attracted me by its position at the foot of high hills, by its old walls and towers, its hundred-year-old diadems, its steep bridges over the clear little brook which flowed into the Rhine, but above all by its good wine. And after sunset--it was in June--the loveliest of fair-haired Rhineland girls sauntered through the narrow streets and cried, "Good evening!" in their sweet tones to the stranger whom they met, some of them even lingering still when the moon rose behind the peaked roofs of the old houses, and the little stones of the pavement showed distinctly in her steady light. Then I delighted in strolling about the old town. The moon seemed to look down benignly from a cloudless sky, and the town received this glance and lay peacefully there wrapped in sleep and veiled in moonbeams--the light that at once soothes and vaguely stirs the soul. The weathercock upon the high, sharp spire gleamed in dull gold; long gleams of gold quivered on the dark surface of the stream; some dim lights--O thrifty German folk!--burned here and there in the small windows under the slated roofs; the vines stretched out mysterious fingers from the walls; something stirred perhaps in the shadow of the fountain in the little three-cornered market-place; suddenly the sleepy cry of the watchman sounded; then a good-natured dog growled in an undertone; and the air kissed the brow so softly, and the lindens smelled so sweet, that the breast involuntarily heaved quicker, and the word "Gretchen" rose to the lips, half a cry, half question.

This little town of S---- lies about two versts from the Rhine. I went often to look at the majestic river, and would sit for hours upon a stone bench under a lonely, large oak, thinking, not without a certain exertion, of my faithless widow. A little statue of the Virgin, with a red heart pierced with swords upon her breast, looked sadly out from the leaves. On the opposite bank lay the town of L----, somewhat larger than the one in which I had established myself. One evening I was sitting in my favorite spot, looking in turn at the stream, the sky, and the vineyards. Before me some white-hooded urchins were climbing over the sides of a boat that was drawn up on the shore and lay there keel upward. Little skiffs with sails hardly swollen passed slowly along; green waves slid by with a gentle, rushing sound. All at once strains of music greeted my ears. I listened. They were playing a waltz in L----. The double bass grumbled out its broken tones, the violins rang clear between, the flutes trilled noisily.

"What is that?" I asked an old man who approached me dressed in a plush waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.

"That?" he replied, shifting his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Those are the students who have come from B---- to the _Commers_."

"I will see this Commers," I thought. "Besides, I have not yet been in L----." I found a ferryman and crossed the river.

Perhaps not every one knows what a Commers is. It is a particular kind of drinking bout, in which the students from one section, or of one society, unite. Almost every participant of a Commers wears the conventional costume of the German student: a short jacket, high boots, and a little cap with colored vizor. The students generally assemble at midday and carouse till morning, drinking, singing, smoking, and occasionally they hire a band.

Such a Commers was at this moment held in L---- at a little inn called the Sun, in a garden adjoining the street. Flags were flying from the inn and over the garden itself. The students sat round tables under the spreading lindens; a huge bulldog under one of the tables. The musicians were under a trellis at one side, playing with great spirit, and refreshing themselves from time to time with mugs of beer. A great crowd had collected in the street before the unpretending little inn. The good citizens of L---- were not of the stuff to let slip a good opportunity of seeing strange guests. I mingled with the crowd of lookers-on. It gave me an immense satisfaction to watch the faces of the students, their embraces, their exclamations, the innocent affectations of youth, the eager glances, the unrestrained laughter--the best laughter in the world. All this generous ferment of young, fresh life, this striving forward, no matter whither so it be forward, this rollicking, untrammelled existence excited and infected me. Why not join them, I thought?

"Assja, have you had enough?" suddenly asked in Russian a man's voice behind me.

"Let us wait a little longer," answered another voice, a woman's, in the same tongue.

I turned hastily. My eyes fell on a handsome young fellow in a loose jacket and cap. On his arm hung a girl of medium height, with a straw hat which entirely hid the upper part of her face.

"You are Russians?" I said aloud involuntarily.

The young man smiled and answered, "Yes; we are Russians."

"I did not expect, in such an out-of-the-way place----" I began.

"Nor did we," he interrupted me. "But what does that signify? All the better. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Gagin, and this is"--he paused for an instant--"my sister. May we ask your name?"

I told him, and we began a conversation. I learned that Gagin, like myself, was travelling for pleasure; that he had arrived at L---- the week previous, and was now staying there. To speak candidly, I was always unwilling to make the acquaintance of Russians in other countries. I could recognize them at any distance by their gait, the cut of their clothes, and more than all by the expression of their faces. The self-satisfied, scornful, and usually haughty expression would change suddenly to one timid and suspicious; in a moment the whole man is on his guard, his glance wanders about unsteadily. "Have I said anything ridiculous? Are they laughing at me?" this anxious look seems to say. But a moment more, and the majesty of the physiognomy is restored, only occasionally replaced by stupidity. Yes, I avoided Russians, but Gagin pleased me at once. There are such fortunate faces in the world. To look at them is a pleasure for every one. One feels at once cheered and caressed by them. Gagin had just such a gentle, attractive face, with great soft eyes and fine curly hair. When he spoke, even if you did not see his face, you felt by the mere sound of his voice that he was smiling.

The young girl whom he had called his sister also seemed to me at the first glance very lovely. There was something peculiar and remarkable in the traits of her round, brown face, with its thin, delicate nose, its round, almost babyish cheeks, and its clear, dark eyes. Her form was graceful, but apparently not yet fully developed. She did not in the least resemble her brother.

"Will you come home with us?" Gagin asked me. "I think we have seen enough of the Germans. Our beloved countrymen would certainly have broken some window panes or smashed a few chairs, but these fellows are quite too well behaved. What do you say, Assja, shall we go home?"

The young girl nodded assent.

"We live just beyond the village," Gagin continued, "in a little solitary house far up the hillside. It is really fine there. You shall see for yourself. The landlady promised me to have some buttermilk for us. It will be dark very soon, and then you can cross the Rhine far more pleasantly by moonlight."

We set out. Through a low gate--for the town was surrounded on all sides by an old wall, some of whose loop-holes even yet remained undestroyed--we gained the open country, and after we had walked about a hundred paces beside a stone wall we came to a steep and narrow path up the hill, into which Gagin turned. The slope on both sides was planted with grapes. The sun had but just set, and a soft purple light rested on the green vines, the long poles, the dusty soil covered with bits of broken slate and stone, and upon the white walls of a small house with steep roof and light windows, which stood high above us on the mountain which we were climbing.

"Here is our place!" exclaimed Gagin as we drew near the house. "And here is the landlady just bringing us our buttermilk. Good evening, madam! We will be there in a moment. But first," he added, "look about you once. What do you say to this outlook?"

The view was indeed charming. The Rhine lay before us, a strip of silver between green banks. In one place it glowed in the purple and gold of the sunset. All the houses in the little towns clustering on the shores stood out distinctly; hills and fields spread far before us. Below us it was lovely, but above it was lovelier still. The brilliant transparency of the atmosphere, and the depth and purity of the sky, made a profound impression on me. The air was fresh and exhilarating. It blew with a light wave motion, as if it felt itself more free on the hilltop.

"You have chosen a magnificent situation," I said.

"Assja found it out," Gagin answered. "Now, Assja, give your orders. Let us have everything brought here. We will take tea in the open air. We can hear the music better here. Haven't you noticed it?" he went on. "A waltz close at hand may be often good for nothing--mere commonplace jingle. It becomes exquisite at a distance; sets all the sentimental strings in one's heart a twanging." Assja (her name was properly Anna; but Gagin always called her Assja, and I shall allow myself that privilege)--Assja went into the house and soon returned with the landlady. Both together they carried a great tea-tray with a jug full of milk, plates, spoons, sugar, berries, and bread. We seated ourselves and began to eat. Assja took off her hat. Her black hair, cut rather short, and curled like a boy's, fell in thick ringlets over neck and shoulders. At first she was shy; but Gagin said to her:

"Assja, don't be afraid. He won't hurt you!"

She smiled, and immediately addressed a little conversation to me. I have never seen a more restless creature. She did not sit still a moment. She stood up, ran into the house, came out again, sang in an undertone, and laughed often in an odd way. It seemed as if she was not laughing at what she heard, but at stray thoughts which came into her head. Her large, clear eyes looked at us frankly and fearlessly. Now and then, however, the lids fell, and then her glance became suddenly deep and gentle.

For nearly two hours we chatted together. Daylight was long past, and the twilight had changed from scarlet and gold to a faint redness, then to a clear gray, and finally all was lost in night; but our speech flowed as uninterruptedly, peaceful, and quiet as the air that surrounded us. Gagin brought a bottle of Rhine wine, and we drank it leisurely. We could still hear the music. The notes seemed fainter and sweeter to us. Lights began to appear in the town and on the river. Assja's head drooped forward so that her hair fell over her eyes. She was silent and breathed heavily. Then she declared that she was sleepy, and went into the house; but I saw that she stood for a long time behind the closed window without lighting her lamp. Then the moon rose, and her beams quivered on the surface of the water. Everything was bright or in deep shadow, but certainly took on a different appearance. Even the wine in our glasses sparkled with a mysterious brilliancy. The wind had fallen as if it had folded its wings and were resting. Warm, spicy odors of the night rose from the ground.

"It is time for me to go, or I shall not find a ferryman," I said.

"Yes; it is time," Gagin repeated.

We descended the footpath. Suddenly stones began to rattle down. Assja was running after us.

"Aren't you asleep then?" her brother asked her. But she ran on before us without replying. The last dim lights which the students had lighted in the little inn garden showed through the branches of the trees, and lent them a gay, fantastic appearance. We found Assja at the shore talking to the old boatmen. I sprang into the boat and took leave of my new friends. Gagin promised to visit me on the next day. I shook his hand and held mine out to Assja, but she merely looked at me and nodded. The boat was pushed off and was borne down on the swift current. The ferryman, a hale old fellow, dipped his oars deep into the dark flood.

"You're in the streak of moonshine--you've spoiled it," Assja called after me.

I looked down. The waves were rippling darkly about the boat.

"Good-by!" rang her voice again.

"Till to-morrow," Gagin added.

The boat touched the bank. I stepped out and looked back, but could see no one on the shore behind me. The moonshine spanned the stream again like a golden bridge, and like another good-by I caught the strains of an old country waltz. Gagin was right. I felt that all the strings of my heart trembled responsively. I crossed the dusky fields to my house, drinking great draughts of the balmy air, and giving myself up wholly to a sweet, vague feeling of expectation. I felt myself happy. But why? I wished for nothing, I thought of nothing. I was merely happy.

Still smiling from the fulness of delightful and changing sensations, I sank into bed, and had already closed my eyes when it suddenly occurred to me that I had not thought of my cruel fair one once in the whole evening. "What does it mean?" I asked myself. "Am I not hopelessly in love?" But just as I put this question to myself I fell asleep, as it seemed, like a baby in its cradle.

* * * * *

The next morning (I was awake, but had not risen) some one knocked with a stick under my window, and a voice that I immediately recognized as Gagin's began to sing,

Sleepest thou still? My lute shall wake thee.

I ran to open the door for him.

"Good morning," said Gagin as he entered. "I disturb you a little early. But what a morning it is! Fresh, dewy; the larks singing." With his wavy, shining hair, his bare neck and ruddy checks, he was as fresh as the morning himself.

I dressed myself, and we went out into the garden, sat down upon a bench, ordered coffee, and began to talk. Gagin confided to me his plans for the future. Possessed of a fair property, and entirely independent, he wished to devote himself to painting; only he regretted that this decision had been a late one, and that he had already lost much time. I also detailed my projects, and even took him into the secret of my unhappy love affair. He listened patiently, but, so far as I could see, the story of my passion did not awake any very lively sympathy in him. After he had sighed once or twice out of good manners, he proposed to me to come and see his studio. I was ready at once.

We did not find Assja. She had gone to the "ruin," the landlady assured us. Two versts from L---- were the remains of a castle of the middle ages. Gagin laid all his canvases before me. There was life and truth in his sketches, a certain breadth and freedom of treatment, but not one was finished, and the drawing was careless and often faulty. I told him my opinion frankly.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted me with a sigh. "You are right; it is all weak and unsatisfactory. But what is to be done? I haven't studied properly, and the inexcusable carelessness shows everywhere. Before working it always seems as if I were capable of eagle flights--it seems as I could hurl the earth out of her course; but when it comes to execution one loses strength quickly enough, and is tired."

I began to encourage him, but he motioned with his hand that I should be silent, rolled up his canvases, and threw himself on the sofa. "If my patience lasts, I shall make something yet," he muttered in his beard; "if not--then I shall stay a country lout. Come, let us look after Assja." We started.

* * * * *

The way to the ruin wound round the slope of a wooded valley, at whose bottom a brook flowed noisily over its pebbles as if it were anxious to lose itself in the great stream that was shining peacefully behind the sharply indented mountain side. Gagin called my attention to some

## partially lighted spots; in his words the artist certainly spoke, if not

the painter. The river soon appeared. On the summit of the naked rock rose a square town, black with age but in tolerable preservation, though it was cleft from top to bottom. Moss-grown walls adjoined this town, ivy clung here and there, a tangle of briars filled the embrasures and the shattered arches. A stone foot-walk led to the door that remained intact. We were already near it when suddenly a girl's figure sped by us, sprang over the heaps of rubbish, and seated herself on a projection of the wall directly over the abyss. "There is Assja," cried Gagin. "Is she mad?"

Through the gate we stepped into a spacious courtyard half filled with wild apple trees and stinging nettles. It was indeed Assja, who was sitting on the projection. She looked down at us and laughed, but did not stir from her place. Gagin threatened her with his finger. I began to expostulate aloud with her on her recklessness.

"Don't do that," Gagin whispered to me. "Don't exasperate her. You don't know her. She would be capable of clambering up the town. Look yonder, rather, and see how ingenious the people hereabouts are."

I looked about me. A thrifty old lady had made herself very comfortable in a kind of narrow booth made of boards piled up in one corner, and knitted her stocking, while she occasionally glanced askance at us. She had beer, cake, and soda-water for tourists. We sat down on a bench and attacked our heavy tin mugs of cooling beer. Assja still sat motionless; she had drawn up her feet, and wound her muslin scarf about her head. Her charming, slender figure showed sharp against the sky, but I could not look at it without annoyance. Even on the previous day I had seen something intense, unnatural in her. "Does she want to astonish us?" I thought. "What for? What a childish freak!" As if she had fathomed my thought, she cast a quick and piercing glance at me, laughed loudly, sprang in two bounds from the wall, and going to the old woman, asked for a glass of water.

"You think that I want to drink it?" she said, turning to her brother. "No; there are some flowers up there that I must water."

Gagin made no reply, but she scrambled up the ruins glass in hand, and, stopping from time to time and bending down, with extraordinary painstaking she let fall some drops of water, which glistened in the sun. Her movements were full of grace, but I was vexed as before, although I was forced to admire her lightness and dexterity. In one perilous spot she uttered a little shriek with design, and then laughed loudly again. That annoyed me still more.

"The young lady climbs like a goat," mumbled the old woman, and stopped knitting for a moment.

Meanwhile Assja had emptied her glass and come down, roguishly swaying to and fro. A strange, imperceptible smile played round her brows, and nostrils, and lips; half audacious, half merry, the dark eyes were shining.

"You find my behavior scandalous," her face seemed to say. "Very well. I know that you admire me."

"Neatly done, Assja; neatly done," said Gagin under his breath.

It seemed as if she felt suddenly ashamed of herself. Her long lashes fell, and she sat down near us meekly, as if conscious of naughtiness. Now for the first time I could see her face fairly--the most changeful that I had ever beheld. For a few moments it was very pale, and took on a reserved, almost a melancholy expression. Her features seemed larger, stronger, and more simple. She was perfectly still. We made the tour of the ruins (Assja followed us), and were very enthusiastic over the view. Meanwhile dinnertime approached. Gagin paid the old woman, asked for another glass of beer, and cried, turning to me with a sly look,

"To the health of the lady of your heart!"

"Has he--have you such a lady?" asked Assja suddenly.

"Who hasn't?" replied Gagin.

Assja became thoughtful. Her face assumed yet another expression. The challenging, almost bold smile returned.

On the way home she laughed more, and her behavior was more whimsical than ever. She broke for herself a long branch, carried it over her shoulder like a gun, and bound her scarf about her head. A party of fair-haired young English dandies met us. As if at a word of command, they all stood aside to let Assja pass, with a cold glare of astonishment in their eyes, while she began to sing loudly in mockery. As soon as we had reached the house she went to her chamber, and appeared at dinner in a most elaborate dress, with carefully arranged hair, and wearing gloves. She behaved with great propriety, not to say stillness, at table, hardly touched her food, and drank water out of a wineglass. Evidently she wished to appear before me in a new role, that of a conventional and well brought up young lady. Gagin let her alone. It was easy to see that it had become a habit with him to let her have her will in all things. At times he looked at her good-naturedly and shrugged his shoulders slightly, as much as to say, "Be indulgent; she is only a child." When the meal was ended Assja rose, made us a courtesy, and taking up her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise.

"Since when have you begun to ask permission?" answered Gagin with his ready smile, but with a little astonishment. "Is the time long to you with us?"

"No; but yesterday I promised Frau Luise that I would visit her. And then I think you two would rather be alone. Mr. N." (she pointed to me) "may have something to tell you."

She went.

"Frau Luise," Gagin began, taking pains to avoid my glance, "is the widow of a former burgomaster of this place; a good old soul, but rather narrow-minded. She has taken a great fancy to Assja. It is Assja's passion to make the acquaintance of people of the lower classes. I have found that pride is at the bottom of the matter every time. I have spoiled her thoroughly, you see," he went on after a pause; "but what was there for me to do? I never could carry a point by firmness with any one; most of all not with her. It is my duty to be indulgent with her."

I was silent. Gagin gave another direction to the conversation. The more I learned of him the more he pleased me. I soon understood him. His was a real Russian character--truth-loving, faithful, simple, but unfortunately rather sluggish, lacking firmness, and without the inward fire. Youth did not flame up in him; it burned with a gentle glow. He was most amiable and sensible; but I could not imagine what he would become in manhood. He wished to be an artist. Without constant, absorbing endeavor, no one is an artist. You exhaust yourself, I thought, looking at his gentle face and listening to the slow cadence of his voice. No; you will not strain every nerve; you will never succeed in mastering yourself. And yet it was impossible not to be attracted by him. My heart was really drawn to him. It may have been four hours that we talked together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking quietly up and down before the house; and in these four hours we became real friends.

The day was at its close, and it was time to go home. Assja had not returned.

"She is a wild creature," Gagin said. "If you please, I will go back with you, and we will go to Frau Luise's on the way, and I will ask if she is still there. The distance is trifling."

"We descended to the town, turned into a crooked and narrow cross street, and came to a standstill before a house of four stories with two windows on a floor. The second story projected into the street beyond the first; the third and fourth reached still further forward than the second. The whole house, with its old-fashioned carving, its two thick pillars below, its steep, tiled roof, and the beak-shaped gutter running out from the eaves, had the appearance of some monstrous, squatting bird.

"Assja," called Gagin, "are you there?"

A lighted window in the third story was thrown up, and Assja's little dark head appeared. Behind her peered forth the face of a toothless and blear-eyed old woman.

"Here I am," answered Assja, coquettishly leaning over the window-sill on her elbows. "It is exceedingly pleasant here. Catch," she added, flinging a bit of geranium down to Gagin. "Imagine that I am the lady of your heart."

Frau Luise laughed.

"N. is going," responded Gagin. "He would like to take leave of you."

"Indeed?" said Assja. "In that case give him my sprig. I am coming home directly."

She shut the window, and I fancied that she gave Frau Luise a kiss. Gagin handed me the sprig without a word. Without a word I put it in my pocket, went to the ferry, and crossed to the other side.

I remember that I went home thinking of nothing definite, but feeling a certain dull ache at my heart, when suddenly a strong odor, well known to me, but not usual in Germany, made me stop puzzled. I stood still and recognized by the roadside a hemp field of moderate size, whose smell reminded me at once of my native steppes. A mighty homesickness arose in me. I had a longing to feel Russian air blowing on my cheeks, to have Russian ground beneath my feet. "What am I doing here? Why am I wandering about among strangers in a strange land?" I cried aloud, and the vague uneasiness that weighed on my spirits changed suddenly to a bitter burning pain. I reached the house in a mood entirely different from the one of the preceding day. I was strangely excited. I could not compose myself. A feeling of vexation which I could not explain to myself possessed me. At last I sat down to think of my faithless widow (for I devoted the close of every day to official recollections of this lady), and I took out one of her letters. But this time I did not even open it. My thoughts had taken another turn; I thought--of Assja. I remembered that Gagin, in the course of conversation, had spoken of certain obstacles which would make his return to Russia very difficult. "Is she then really his sister?" I cried aloud.

I undressed myself, went to bed, and tried to sleep; but an hour afterward I was sitting up with my elbow on the pillow, and still thinking of the "capricious maid with her affected laugh." "She has a form like the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnese," I said to myself. "Yes, and she is not his sister."

Meanwhile the widow's letter lay quietly on the floor, bleached by a moonbeam.

* * * * *

However, on the following day I went again to L----. I said to myself that I wished to visit Gagin, but in truth I was curious to watch Assja, to see if she would pursue the extravagances of the day previous. I found them both in the parlor, and wonderful!--was it because I had thought so much of Russia in the night and the morning?--Assja appeared to me a real Russian girl--yes, even a very ordinary one, almost like a servant. She wore a shabby gown; her hair was combed back behind her ears. She sat quietly by the window, busy with some sewing, sedate and still as if she never in her life had been otherwise. She hardly spoke, examined her work from time to time; and her features had an expression so dull and commonplace that I was involuntarily reminded of our own Kathinkas and Maschinkas. To complete the resemblance, she began to hum "My darling little mother." I looked at her sallow, languid face, thought of yesterday's fantasies, and got suddenly out of temper. The weather was magnificent. Gagin declared that he was going to sketch from nature. I asked if he would permit me to accompany him, if it would not disturb him?

"On the contrary," said he, "you will assist me by your suggestions."

He put on his Vandyk hat and his painting blouse, took his canvas under his arm, and started. I followed him slowly; Assja remained at home. In going out Gagin begged her to take care that the soup should not be too watery. Assja promised to oversee it in the kitchen. Gagin reached a dell which I already knew, sat down upon a stone, and began to sketch an old, hollow, wide-branched oak. I lay down in the grass and took out a book, but my reading did not advance beyond the second page, nor did he blacken much paper. We chatted a great deal, and, if my memory does not deceive me, we discoursed very subtly and profoundly about work: what one should avoid, what strive for, and in what consisted the real merit of the artists of our day. At last Gagin declared that he was not in the mood for work, threw himself down beside me, and then for the first time our youthful talk flowed free, now passionate, now dreamy, now almost inspired, but always vague--a conversation peculiar to Russians. After we had talked ourselves tired we started for home, filled with satisfaction that we had accomplished something, had arrived at some result. I found Assja precisely as I had left her. Whatever pains I might take with my scrutiny I could discover no trace of coquetry, no evidence of a part designedly played. This time it was impossible to accuse her of oddity. "Aha!" Gagin said; "you have imposed penance and fasting on yourself." In the evening she gaped several times without pretence at concealment, and retired early. I also took leave of Gagin betimes, and having reached home, I gave myself up to no more dreams. This day ended in sober reflections. But I remember that as I settled myself to sleep I said aloud, "What a chameleon the girl is!" And after a moment's thought I added, "And she is certainly not his sister."

* * * * *

In this way two whole weeks passed. I visited the Gagins every day. Assja seemed to shun me. She indulged in no more of those extravagances which had so astonished me on the first days of our acquaintance. It seemed to me that she was secretly troubled or perplexed. Neither did she laugh so much. I observed her with interest.

She spoke French and German indifferently well, but one could see in everything that she had not been in the hands of women since her childhood, and the strange, desultory education which she had received had nothing in common with Gagin's. In spite of the Vandyk hat and the painter's blouse, the delicate, almost effeminate Russian nobleman was always apparent in him; but she was not in the least like a noblewoman. In all her movements there was something unsteady. Here was a graft lately made, wine not yet fermented. Naturally of a timid and shy disposition, she yet was annoyed by her own timidity, and in her vexation she compelled herself to be unconcerned and at her ease, in which she did not always succeed. Several times I turned the conversation to her life in Russia, her past. She answered my questions reluctantly. I learned, however, that she had lived in the country for a long time before her travels. Once I found her with a book. She was alone. Her head supported by both hands, the fingers twisted deep in her hair, she was devouring the words with her eyes.

"Bravo!" I called out to her on entering. "You are very busy."

She raised her head and looked at me with great gravity and earnestness.

"Do you really think that I can do nothing but laugh?" she said, and was about to withdraw.

I glanced at the title of the book; it was a French novel.

"I can't commend your choice," I said.

"What shall I read then?" she cried. And throwing her book on the table, she added, "It's better that I fill up my time with nonsense," and with this she ran out into the garden.

That evening I read "Hermann and Dorothea" aloud to Gagin. At first Assja occupied herself rather noisily near us, then suddenly ceased and became attentive, seated herself quietly beside me, and listened to the reading to the end. On the following day I was again puzzled by her mood till it occurred to me that she had been seized with a whim to be womanly and discreet like Dorothea. In a word, she was an enigmatical creature. Full of conceit and irritable as she was, she attracted me even while she made me angry. I was more and more convinced that she was not Gagin's sister. His behavior toward her was not that of a brother; it was too gentle, too considerate, and at the same time a little constrained. A singular occurrence seemed, by every token, to confirm my suspicions.

One evening, when I came to the vineyard where the Gagins lived, I found the gate locked. Without much thought I went to a broken place which I had often noticed in the wall, and sprang over. Not far from this place, and aside from the path, there was a small clump of acacia. I had reached it, and was on the point of passing it. Suddenly I heard Assja's voice, the words spoken excitedly and through tears:

"No. I will love no one but you: no, no--you alone and for ever!"

"Listen, Assja. Compose yourself," replied Gagin. "You know that I believe you." I heard the voices of both in the arbor. I saw both through the sparse foliage. They were not aware of my presence.

"You--you alone," she repeated, threw herself on his neck, and clinging to his breast, she kissed him amid violent sobs. "Come, enough," he said, while he smoothed her hair gently with his hand.

For a moment I stood motionless. Suddenly I recollected myself. Enter and join them? For nothing in the world! it shot through my brain. With hasty steps I gained the wall, leaped it, and reached my dwelling almost on the run. I laughed, rubbed my hands together, and congratulated myself on the chance which had so unexpectedly confirmed my suspicion (whose truth I had not doubted for an instant); but my heart was heavy. "They dissemble well?" I thought. "And for what purpose? Why do they wish to amuse themselves at my expense? I would not have thought it of them!" What a disturbing discovery it was!

* * * * *

I slept ill, and on the following day I rose early, buckled on my knapsack, and after telling my landlady not to expect me at night, I turned my steps toward the mountains, following the stream on which the town of S---- is built. These mountains are very interesting from a geological point of view; they are particularly remarkable for the regularity and purity of their basaltic formations; but I was not bent on geological investigation. I could give no account to myself of my own feelings. One thing, however, was clear: I had not the least desire to see the Gagins. I insisted to myself that the only ground of my sudden distaste for their society lay in vexation at their falseness.

What had been the necessity of calling themselves brother and sister? I resolutely avoided thinking of them, loitered idly among the hills and valleys, spent much time in village inns in friendly talk with the landlord and his guests, or lay on a flat or sunny rock in the lovely weather, and watched the clouds float over. In this way three days passed not unpleasantly, though from time to time I had a stifled feeling at my heart. This quiet nature accorded perfectly with my state of mind. I gave myself up completely to the chance of the moment and the impressions that it brought to me; following one another without haste, they flooded my soul, and left finally a single feeling where everything which I had seen or heard or experienced during these three days was blended--everything: the faint resinous smell of the woods, cry and tapping of the woodpeckers, the continual murmur of the clear brooks with spotted trout in their sandy shallows, the not too bold outlines of the mountains, gray rock, the friendly villages with venerable churches and trees, storks in the meadows, snug mills with wheels merrily turning, the honest faces of the country people with their blue smocks and gray stockings, the slow creaking wagons and well-fed horses, or sometimes a yoke of oxen, long-haired lads strolling along the cleanly kept paths under apple and pear trees. To this day I remember with pleasure the impressions of that time. I greet you, little nook of modest ground, with your modest content, with your signs everywhere visible of busy hands, of labor constant if not severe--greetings to you and peace.

At the end of the third day I returned to S----. I have forgotten to say that in my vexation with the Gagins, I had endeavored to reinstate the image of my hard-hearted widow. But I remember, as I began to think of her, I saw before me a little peasant girl, about five years old, out of whose round little face a pair of great innocent eyes were regarding me curiously. The look was so childlike, so confiding, a kind of shame swept over me. I could not continue a lie before that gaze, and at once and for ever I said good-by to my early flame.

I found a note from Gagin waiting for me. My sudden whim astonished him. He made me some reproaches that I had not taken him with me, and begged me to come to him as soon as I should return. Distrustfully I read this note, yet the following day found me at L----.

* * * * *

Gagin's reception was friendly. He overwhelmed me with affectionate reproaches; but no sooner had Assja caught sight of me than she broke into loud laughter, designedly, it seemed, and without the least cause, and ran away precipitately. Gagin lost his temper, grumbled at her for a crazy girl, and begged me to excuse her. I must confess that I was very cross with Assja. I was uncomfortable before, and now this unnatural laughter and ridiculous behavior must be added. However, I acted as if I had observed nothing, and detailed to Gagin all the incidents of my little journey. He told me what he had done during my absence. But the conversation went lame. Assja kept running in and out. Finally I declared that I had some pressing work, and that it was time for me to be at home. Gagin tried to detain me at first, then looking keenly at me, he begged permission to accompany me. In the hall Assja approached me suddenly, and held out her hand to me. I gave her fingers an almost imperceptible pressure, and bade her good-by carelessly. We crossed the Rhine together, strolled to my favorite oak tree near the little shrine to the Virgin, and sat down on a bench to enjoy the landscape. There a remarkable conversation took place between us.

At first we only spoke in the briefest words, then fell into silence and fixed our eyes on the shining river.

"Tell me," Gagin began suddenly, with his accustomed smile, "what is your opinion of Assja? She must appear a little singular to you. Not so?"

"Yes," I answered, not without a certain constraint. I had not expected him to speak of her.

"One must learn to know her well to form a judgment upon her," he continued. "She has a very good heart, but a wild head. It is hard to live quietly with her. However, it is not her fault, and if you knew her history----"

"Her history!" I interrupted him. "Isn't she then your----" Gagin looked at me.

"Is it possible that you have doubted that she was my sister? No," he went on, without heeding my confusion. "She is; at least she is my father's daughter. Listen to me. I have confidence in you, and I will tell you all about her.

"My father was a very honest, sensible, cultivated, and unfortunate man. Fate had no harder blows for him than for others, but he could not bear the first one that he felt from her. He had married early--a love match; his wife, my mother, soon died, and I was left a six months' old baby. My father took me to his country estates, and for twelve whole years he lived there in absolute seclusion. He himself took charge of my education, and would never have been separated from me if my uncle, his brother, had not come to visit us in our country house. This uncle lived in Petersburg, where he held a rather important post. He persuaded my father, who could not be induced to quit his home under any consideration, to trust me to his care. He showed his brother what an injury it was to a boy of my age to live in such complete isolation, and that, with a companion always melancholy and silent as my father, I should inevitably remain behind boys of my age--yes, that my character might easily be endangered by such a life. For a long time my father resisted his brother's arguments, but at last he yielded. I cried at

## parting from my father, whom I loved, though I had never seen a smile on

his face; but Petersburg once reached, our gloomy and silent nest was soon forgotten. I went to school, and was afterward placed in a regiment of the Guards. Every year I spent some weeks at our country house, and with every year I found my father more melancholy, more reserved, and depressed to an alarming degree. He went to church daily, and had almost given up speech. On one of my visits--I was then in my twentieth year--I saw for the first time about the house a little lean, black-eyed girl, who might have been about ten years old. It was Assja. My father said she was an orphan whose care he had undertaken: those were his own words. I gave her no further attention. She was as wild, quick, and shy as a little animal, and if I entered my father's favorite room, a great dismal chamber in which my mother had died, and which had to be lighted even by day, she always slunk out of sight behind my father's old-fashioned easy chair, or hid behind the bookcase. It happened that for the three or four years following I was prevented by my service from visiting our estate. Every month I received a short letter from my father, in which Assja was spoken of seldom and always incidentally. My father was already past his fiftieth year, but looked still a young man. Imagine my distress then when I suddenly received a perfectly unexpected letter from our steward, announcing the fatal illness of my father, and begging me urgently to come home as quickly as possible if I wished to see him alive. I rushed headlong home, and found my father, though in the last agony. My presence seemed the greatest joy to him; he clasped me in his wasted arms, turned on me his gaze half doubtful, half imploring, and after he had obtained from me a promise that I would carry out his last wishes, he ordered his old servant to fetch Assja. The old man brought her. She could hardly support herself on her feet, and was trembling in every limb.

"'Now take her,' said my father to me with earnestness. 'I bequeathe to you my daughter, your sister. You will hear everything from Jacob,' he added, while he pointed to his valet.

"Assja burst out sobbing, and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour afterward my father was dead.

"I learned the following story: Assja was the daughter of my father and a former waiting maid of my mother's, named Tatiana. She rose distinct to my remembrance, this Tatiana, with her tall, slender figure, her serious face, regular features, her dark and earnest eyes. She had the reputation of a proud, unapproachable girl. As nearly as I could learn from Jacob's reserved and respectful story, my father had entered into close relations with her some years after my mother's death. At that time Tatiana was not in her master's house, but living with a married sister, the dairywoman, in a separate hut. My father became very much attached to her, and wished to marry her after my departure, but she herself refused this in spite of his entreaties.

"'The departed Tatiana Vlassievna'--so Jacob told me, standing against the door, with his hands crossed behind his back--'was in all things very thoughtful, and would not lower your father. "A fine wife I should be for you--a real lady wife!" she said to him--in my presence she has said it.' Tatiana never would come back to the house, but remained, together with Assja, living with her sister as before. As a child I had often seen Tatiana at church on saint days. She stood among the servants, usually near a window. She wore a dark cloth wound about her head and a yellow shawl on her shoulders--the strong outline of her face clear against the transparent pane; and she prayed silently and humbly, bowing very low after the old fashion. When my uncle took me away Assja was just two; when she lost her mother, just nine years old.

"Immediately after Tatiana's death my father took Assja home to himself. He had already expressed a wish to have her with him, but Tatiana had refused it. You can imagine what Assja must have felt when she was taken into the master's house. To this day she has not forgotten the hour when for the first time they dressed her in a silk dress and kissed her little hand. In her mother's lifetime she had been brought up with great strictness: my father left her without a single restraint. He was her instructor; except him, she saw no one. He did not spoil her; at least he did not follow her about like a nursemaid, but he loved her fondly, and refused her nothing. He was conscious of guilt toward her. Assja soon discovered that she was the principal person in the household. She knew the master was her father, but at the same time she began to understand her equivocal position. Wilfulness and distrust were developed to an extreme degree in her. Bad manners were contracted; simplicity vanished. She wished (she herself told me) to compel the whole world to forget her origin. She was ashamed of her mother, was ashamed of being ashamed, and was in turn proud of her. You see that she knew and knows still many things that should not be known at her age. But does the blame rest with her? Youth was strong in her: her blood flowed hot, and no hand near to guide her--the fullest independence in everything! Is such a fate easily borne? She would not be inferior to other girls. She rushed headlong into study. But what good could result from it? The life, lawlessly begun, seemed likely to develop lawlessly. But the heart remained true and the reason sound.

"And so I found myself, a young fellow of twenty, weighted with the care of a thirteen-year old girl! In the first days after my father's death my voice caused her a feeling of feverish horror, my caresses made her sad, and only by degrees and after a long time did she become accustomed to me. And later, when she had gained security that I really considered her my sister, and that I loved her as a sister, she attached herself passionately to me: with her there is no half feeling.

"I brought her to Petersburg. Hard as it was to leave her--I could not live with her in any case--I placed her at one of the best boarding-schools. Assja agreed to the necessity of our separation, but it cost her a sickness which came near to being a fatal one. Little by little she reconciled herself, and she staid four years in this establishment. But contrary to my expectations, she remained almost her old self. The principal of the school often complained to me. 'I cannot punish her,' she would say; 'and I can do nothing by kindness.' Assja comprehended everything with great quickness, learned wonderfully--better than all; but it was utterly impossible to bring her under the common rule. She rebelled; was sulky. I could not blame her much. In her position she must keep herself at the service of every one, or avoid every one. Only one of all her companions was intimate with her--an insignificant, silent, and poor girl. The other young girls with whom she was associated, of good families for the most part, did not like her, and taunted and jibed her whenever they could find opportunity. Assja was not behind them by a hair's breadth. Once, in the hour for religious instruction, the teacher came to speak of the idea of vice. 'Sycophancy and cowardice,' said Assja aloud, 'are the meanest vices.' In a word, she continued to walk in her own way, only her manners improved somewhat; but even in this respect, I fancy, she has made no wonderful advance.

"She had reached her seventeenth year. It was useless to keep her longer at school. I found myself in great perplexity. All of a sudden a happy thought struck me: to quit the service, and to travel with Assja for a year or two. Done as soon as thought. So here are we both now on the banks of the Rhine: I occupied in learning to paint, she following out her whims in her usual way. But now I must hope that you will not pass too harsh judgment upon her; for however much she may insist that everything is indifferent to her, she does care very much for the opinion of others, and especially for your own."

And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I wrung his hand.

"That is how it stands now," Gagin continued. "But I have my hands full with her. A real firebrand, that girl! Up to this time no one has ever pleased her; but alas if ever she falls in love! At times I do not know what to do with her. Lately she took it into her head to declare that I was growing cold to her, but that she loved only me, and would love only me her life long. And how she sobbed!"

"So that was it," I said to myself, and bit my lip. "But tell me," I asked Gagin, "now that our hearts are open, has really no one ever caught her fancy? Surely she must have seen many young men in Petersburg?"

"And they are all absolutely distasteful to her. No. Assja is seeking a hero--an entirely extraordinary man, or else an artistic shepherd among his flock. But enough of this gossip. I am detaining you," he added as he rose.

"Come," I said, "let us go back. I don't care to go home."

"And your work?"

I made no reply. Gagin laughed good-naturedly, and we returned to L----. As the well-known vineyard and the little white house on the hillside came in sight, my heart was warmed in a curious way--yes, that was it--warmed and soothed as if, unknown to me, some one had poured some healing drops there. Gagin's story had made me cheerful.

Assja met us at the threshold. I had expected to find her still laughing, but she stepped forward to us, pale, silent, and with eyes down cast.

"Here he is again," Gagin said to her, "and be sure of this: it was his own wish to come back."

Assja looked at me inquiringly. I held out my hand to her, and this time I grasped tightly her cold and slender fingers. I felt deep pity for her. Now I understood much that had before disturbed me in her: her inner restlessness, her offensive manner, her endeavor to show herself other than she was--all was clear to me. I had had a glimpse into this soul. A constant weight oppressed it. Fearfully the untrained will fought and struggled, yet her whole being was striving after truth. Now I understood why this singular girl had attracted me: it was not only the charm which invested her whole body; it was her soul which drew me.

Gagin began to fumble among his sketches. I asked Assja to come for a walk with me through the vineyard. She gave a ready, almost humble assent. We climbed the hill about half way, and stopped on a broad plateau.

"And you felt no _ennui_ without us?" Assja began.

"Did you, then, feel any in my absence?" I asked.

Assja looked at me sideways.

"Yes," she replied. "Is it pleasant in the mountains?" she immediately continued. "Are they high? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you have seen. You have told my brother, but I have heard nothing about it."

"Why did you go away?" I interrupted her.

"I went--because---- Now I will not go away," she added in a gentle, confiding tone. "You were cross today."

"I?"

"You."

"But why? I beg you----"

"I don't know; but you were cross, and went away cross. It was very unpleasant to me to have you go away in that manner, and I am glad that you have come back."

"I am equally glad," I replied.

Assja moved her shoulders slightly, one after the other, as children do when they are in good humor.

"Oh, I am famous at guessing," she went on. "Long ago my father had only to cough, and I knew instantly whether he was pleased with me or not."

Till this time Assja had never spoken to me of her father. That struck me.

"You loved your father very much?" I asked, and I felt to my great annoyance that I was blushing.

She did not answer, but she also blushed. We were both silent. In the distance a steamboat with its trailing smoke was descending the Rhine: our looks followed it.

"Why do you not tell me something?" Assja said half aloud.

"Why did you laugh to-day when you saw me coming?" I asked her.

"I do not know myself. Sometimes I want to cry, and yet must laugh. You must not judge me by what I do. Ah, by the way, what a wonderful story it is about the Lorelei. Isn't it her rock that we see yonder? They say that at first she drew every one else beneath the water, but after she was acquainted with love, she cast herself in. The story pleases me. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of fairy stories. Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes----"

Assja raised her head and threw back her hair.

"Ah, how comfortable I feel!" she said.

At this moment broken, monotonous tones fell on our ears. Hundreds of voices in unison repeated a hymn with measured pauses. A troop of pilgrims was moving along the way beneath us with flags and crosses.

"I would like to go with them!" cried Assja, while she listened to the sound of the voices, gradually dying away.

"Are you so devout?"

"I would like to go somewhere far off, to pray, to accomplish something difficult," she added. "The days hurry by, life will come to an end, and what have we done?"

"You are ambitious," I said. "You do not wish to live in vain. You would like to leave behind some trace of your existence."

"Would it be impossible?"

"Impossible," I had nearly repeated. I looked into her clear eyes and only said:

"Well, try it."

"Tell me," Assja began after a little silence, while flying shadows followed each other across her face, which had grown pale again--"did that lady please you very much? You remember, my brother drank to your health once, in the ruins; it was the day after we had made acquaintance."

I laughed aloud.

"It was a jest of your brother's; no lady has pleased me, at least no one now pleases me."

"What is it that pleases you in women?" asked Assja, tossing back her head in childish curiosity.

"What a singular question!" I exclaimed.

Assja was a little disturbed.

"I should not have asked the question--not so? Forgive me. I am used to chatter about everything that goes through my head. That is why I am afraid to talk."

"Only talk, for heaven's sake! Don't be afraid," I broke in. "I am so glad that at last you cease to be shy." Assja lowered her eyes and laughed; a still, gentle laughter that I did not recognize as hers.

"Well, tell me something then," she said, while she smoothed her dress and tucked it about her feet as if disposing herself to sit for a long while--"tell me something, or read something aloud, as that time when you read to us out of 'Onegin.'"

She grew suddenly thoughtful.

Where now in green boughs' shadow The cross rests on my mother's grave--

she said to herself in a low voice.

"In Pushkin the verse is somewhat different," I ventured.[J]

[Footnote J: In Pushkin it reads, "On my nurse's grave."]

"I would have liked to be Pushkin's Tatiana," she continued, still lost in thought. "Tell me something," she cried suddenly, with vivacity.

But I could find nothing to say. I looked at her as she sat there, gentle and peaceful, surrounded with the clear sunshine. Everything about us glowed with happiness; the sky, the earth, the water. It seemed as if the very air was bathed in a splendor.

"Look, how beautiful!" I said, involuntarily lowering my voice.

"Yes, beautiful," she answered as gently, without looking at me. "If we were both birds, we would fly high up there--would soar. We would sink deep into that blue. But we are no birds."

"We may have wings though," I answered.

"How?"

"In time you will discover. There are feelings that swing us off from the earth. Don't fear; you will have wings."

"Have you had them then?"

"How shall I say? I believe that I have never flown till now."

Assja fell again into thought. I bent toward her a little.

"Can you waltz?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Yes, I can," I answered, somewhat surprised.

"Then come, come--I will ask my brother to play a waltz for us--we will imagine that we are flying, that our wings have grown."

She ran to the house. I hastened after her, and in a few moments we were whirling round the narrow room to the music of a charming waltz. Assja danced exceedingly well, with lightness and skill. Something soft and feminine came suddenly into her childish, earnest face. For a long time afterward my hand felt the contact of her delicate form, for a long time I seemed to feel her close, quickened breathing, and to see before me the dark, fixed, half-closed eyes, and the animated pale face with its wreathing hair.

* * * * *

This whole day passed so that one could not have wished it better. We were merry as children. Assja was very lovable and natural. It was a pleasure for Gagin to see her. It was late when I went away. In the middle of the Rhine I told the ferryman to leave the boat to the current. The old man drew in his oars and the majestic stream bore us onward. While I looked about me and listened, and called forgotten things to memory, I felt a sense of unrest in my heart. I turned my eyes to the heavens, but in the heavens was no rest; with its glittering host of stars it was in steady motion, revolving, trembling. I bent to the river, but there also in the dark, cool depths the stars were dancing and flickering; everywhere the restless spirit of life met me, and the restlessness in my own heart grew stronger. I leaned over the side of the boat. The murmuring of the breeze in my ears, the low splash of the water against the stern of the boat, excited me, and the freshness of the waves did not cool me. Somewhere on the shore a nightingale began her song, and this music worked upon me like a sweet poison. Tears filled my eyes, but not the tears of an indefinite rapture. What I experienced was not the vague feeling of boundless longing in which it seems as if the heart could embrace everything: no. In me arose a burning desire for happiness. Only as yet I did not dare call this happiness by its real name. But bliss--bliss to overflowing was what I longed for. The boat drifted further and further, and the old ferryman sat bowed over his oars and fast asleep.

* * * * *

On my way to the Gagins the following day I did not ask myself if I was in love with Assja, but I thought of her continually; her destiny absorbed me, and I rejoiced over our unhoped-for meeting. I felt that I had known her only since yesterday. Until then she had always avoided me. And now that she had finally admitted me to her friendship, in what a bewitching light did her image appear to me; what a mysterious charm streamed from it to me.

Hastily I sprang up the well-known path, straining my eyes for a glimpse of the little white house in the distance. I did not think of the future; I did not think even of the morrow; but my heart was light in me.

Assja blushed as I entered the room. I observed that she had again dressed herself with great care, but the expression of her face did not correspond with her finery; it was melancholy. And I had come so happily disposed! I believe that she was inclined to run away in her usual fashion, but forcibly compelled herself to remain. I found Gagin in that peculiar mood of artistic enthusiasm which catches dilettanti by surprise whenever they imagine themselves about to take nature by storm, as they express it. He stood with hair disordered, and bedaubed with paint, before a fresh canvas, drawing madly. Furiously he nodded to me, stepped backward, half closed his eyes, and then precipitated himself again upon his work. I did not like to disturb him, and sat down beside Assja. Slowly her dark eyes turned on me.

"You are not as you were yesterday," I ventured, after I had made some vain attempts to bring a smile to her lips.

"No, I am not," she replied, with a slow, suppressed voice. "But that is nothing. I did not sleep well. I was thinking the whole night."

"About what?"

"Oh, I thought about many things. It has been my habit from childhood, even when I was living with my mother."

She spoke this with a certain emphasis, and repeated it.

"When I was living with my mother I--I wondered why no one can know beforehand what is to happen to him. Sometimes one sees a misfortune coming, and yet cannot turn away from it; and why cannot one always say boldly the truth? Then I thought that I do not know anything, and that I must learn. I must be educated over again. I have been very badly brought up. I do not know how to play the piano, I cannot draw, I sew dreadfully; I have no capacity; I must be very tiresome."

"You are unjust to yourself," I answered. "You have read much, you are cultivated, and with your intellect----"

"Have I an intellect?" she asked with such naive curiosity that I could not help laughing. She did not laugh.

"Brother, have I an intellect?" she asked Gagin.

He made her no answer, but continued his work, busily laying on his colors, and with one arm flourished in the air.

"Sometimes I hardly know myself what goes through my head," Assja went on with the same thoughtful expression. "At certain times I am actually afraid of myself. Ah, I wish---- Is it really true that women ought not to read much?"

"It is not necessary that they should read much, but----"

"Will you tell me what to read? Will you tell me what to do? I will do everything that you tell me," she said, turning to me with an innocent confidence.

I did not readily find any answer to make.

"The time with me will not seem long to you?"

"How can you think so!" I said.

"Well, I thank you," cried Assja, "but I thought you might be _ennuye_."

And her little hot hand grasped mine tightly.

"N.!" cried Gagin at this moment, "isn't this background too dark?"

I went over to him. Assja rose and left the room.

* * * * *

An hour afterward she returned, stood in the doorway, and beckoned to me.

"Listen," she said. "Would you be sorry if I died?"

"What ideas you have to-day!" I exclaimed.

"I imagine that I shall die soon. Sometimes it seems to me as if everything about me was taking leave of me. It is better to die than to live as---- Ah, don't look at me so. Indeed I am not a hypocrite. I shall be afraid of you again."

"Have you ever been afraid of me?"

"If I am unlike other people, the fault is not mine," she answered. "Already, you see, I cannot laugh any more."

She was melancholy and depressed until evening. Something was passing in her that I could not understand. Her eyes often rested on me, and every time they did so I felt my heart chilled by their strange expression. She was quiet--and yet whenever I looked at her it seemed to me that I must beg her to be calm. Her appearance fascinated me; I found the greatest charm in her pale features, in her slow, aimless movements; but she fancied--I do not know why--that I was in ill humor.

"Listen," she said to me a little while before my departure. "The thought haunts me that you think me frivolous. In future you must believe everything that I tell you, and you must be frank with me. I will always tell you the truth, I give you my word of honor."

This "word of honor" made me laugh.

"Oh, do not laugh," she broke in with eagerness, "or else I must say to you to-day what you said to me yesterday: 'Why do you laugh so much?'" And after a short silence she continued: "Do you remember, yesterday we were talking of wings? My wings are grown--but where shall I fly?"

"What are you saying!" I replied. "To you all ways are open."

Assja looked in my eyes long and keenly.

"You have a bad opinion of me today," she said, and drew her eyebrows together.

"I have a bad opinion? Of you!"

"What is the matter with you two to-day?" Gagin interrupted me. "Shall I play a waltz for you as I did yesterday?"

"No, no," exclaimed Assja, clasping her hands together--"not for the world to-day."

"I won't insist--be easy."

"Not for the world," she repeated, and her cheeks grew pale.

* * * * *

Does she love me? I thought, as I came to the Rhine, whose waves rolled swiftly by.

Does she love me? I asked myself when I awoke the next morning. I did not wish to look into my own heart. I felt that her image--the image of the "girl with the bold laugh"--had impressed itself upon my soul, and that I could not easily get rid of it. I went to L---- and remained there the whole day; but I had only one glimpse of Assja. She was not well; her head ached. She came down stairs for a few moments with her head bound up, her eyes half closed, pale and weak; she smiled feebly, said, "It will pass; it is nothing; everything passes, does it not?" and went away. I was depressed and had a painful sense of blankness, but I would not go home till very late, without, however, seeing her again.

I spent the next day like a man walking in his sleep. I tried to work, but could not; then I tried to be absolutely idle, and to think of nothing; but neither did that succeed. I strolled about the town, returned home, and went out again.

"Are you Mr. N.?" said suddenly the voice of a child behind me. I turned. A little boy was standing before me. "From Miss Annette," and handed me a note.

I opened it, and recognized Assja's irregular and scrawling handwriting. "I must see you," she wrote. "Come to-day at four o'clock to the stone chapel on the way to the ruins. Something unexpected has happened. For heaven's sake, come. You shall know everything. Say to the bearer, 'yes.'"

"Any answer?" the boy asked me.

"Say 'yes,'" I replied. The boy ran off.

* * * * *

When I had reached my room I sat down and fell into deep thought. My heart beat forcibly. I read Assja's note several times over. I looked at the clock; it was not yet midday.

The door opened: Gagin walked in.

His face was gloomy. He seized my hand and shook it warmly. Apparently he was very much excited.

"What is the matter?" I asked him.

Gagin took a chair and drew it near mine. "Four days ago," he began with a forced smile, and stammering a little, "I amazed you with a confidence; and to-day I shall amaze you even more. With any other I probably should not--so plainly. But you are a man of honor; you're my friend, are you not? Well, here then; my sister Assja loves you."

I started up from my chair.

"You say--your sister----"

"Yes, yes," Gagin interrupted me. "I tell you she has lost her senses and will make me lose mine, moreover. Happily she is not used to lying and has great trust in me. Oh, what a soul the girl has! But she will surely do herself a mischief."

"You must be mistaken," I said.

"No, I'm not. Yesterday, you know, she staid in bed nearly all day; she ate nothing: to be sure she complained of nothing. She never complains. I was not uneasy, although toward evening she grew feverish. But at two o'clock this morning our landlady roused me. 'Come to your sister,' said she. 'There is something wrong with her.' I hastened to Assja, and found her not yet undressed, very feverish, in tears: her head was burning hot, her teeth chattered. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Are you sick?' She threw herself upon my neck, and insisted that I should take her away from there as speedily as possible if I wished her to remain alive. I could make nothing of it--tried to pacify her. Her sobs increased, and suddenly among her sobs I heard--well, in one word, I discovered that she loves you. I assure you, neither of us, being reasonable men, can have the smallest idea of the impetuosity of her feelings and the incredible violence with which she expresses them; it is as sudden and as inevitable as a thunder storm. You are a delightful fellow," Gagin continued, "But I must confess that I do not see why she has fallen in love with you. She believes that she has loved you from the first moment she saw you. She was crying lately on that account, even when she was declaring that she loved nobody but me. She imagines that you despise her; she fancies that you know her origin. She asked me if I had told you the story of her life. I naturally denied it, but it is astonishing how keen she is. She wishes only one thing: to go away: immediately away. I staid with her till morning. She wrung a promise from me that we would leave here to-morrow, and then at last she fell asleep. I thought it over and over, and decided--to talk with you. Assja is right, in my opinion. It is best that we should both leave this place. I should have taken her away to-day if an idea that has got into my head didn't prevent it. Perhaps--who can tell?--my sister pleases you? If this should be the case, why should I take her away? So I determined to put shame aside. Besides, I have myself noticed--so I decided--from your own mouth to learn----" Poor Gagin became hopelessly confused. "Pray excuse me," he added. "I am inexperienced in such matters."

I seized his hand.

"You wish to know whether your sister pleases me? Yes, she pleases me," I said in a steady voice. Gagin looked at me.

"But," he said with an effort, "you don't want to marry her?"

"How can I answer such a question? Think, yourself, how could I at this moment----"

"I know, I know," Gagin interrupted me. "I have not the least right to expect an answer from you, and my question was improper--to the last degree. But what was I to do? One cannot play with fire. You do not know Assja. It would be possible for her to drown herself--to run away, to seek an interview with you. Any other girl would know how to conceal everything and to wait opportunities--but not she. This is her first experience. That is the worst of it! If you had seen her as she lay sobbing at my feet, you would share my anxiety."

I became thoughtful. Gagin's expression, "seek an interview with you," sank into my heart. It seemed abominable not to answer his confidence with confidence as free.

"Yes," I said at last. "You are right. An hour ago I received a note from your sister. Here it is."

Gagin took the note, read it hurriedly, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of his features was ludicrous enough, but I was in no mood for laughter.

"You're a man of honor. I repeat it," he said. "But what is to be done now? What! She wishes to hurry away from here, yet she writes to you and reproaches herself for her own want of foresight. And when can she have written this? What does she want of you?"

I succeeded in calming him, and we began to talk, as coolly as we could, about what we might have to do.

At last we decided as follows: To guard against any desperate step on her part, I was to meet Assja at the appointed place, and have a fair explanation with her. Gagin pledged himself to remain at home and to avoid all appearance of knowing about the note. In the evening we agreed to meet again. "I have full confidence in you," said Gagin, and pressed my hand strongly. "Spare Assja and myself. But we shall leave to-morrow," he added as he rose, "for you will not marry Assja."

"Give me time till evening," I said.

"So be it. But you will not marry her."

He went away. I threw myself on the sofa and shut my eyes. My head spun round like a top. Too many emotions came crowding upon me. Gagin's frankness annoyed me, and I was angry with Assja. Her love distressed and delighted me at once. I could not understand how she could betray herself to her brother. The necessity of a hasty, an instantaneous decision tormented me. "Marry a seventeen-year-old girl of such a disposition! How can I do it?" I said, getting up from my seat.

* * * * *

I crossed the Rhine at the appointed hour, and the first face that met me on the opposite shore was that of the same boy who had come to me in the morning. He seemed to be waiting for me.

"From Miss Annette," he said, and gave me another letter. Assja wrote to appoint another place for our meeting. In half an hour I was to come, not to the chapel, but to the house of Frau Luise, knock at the door, and ascend to the third story.

"'Yes' again?" the boy asked me.

"Yes," I answered, and walked along the bank of the river. There was not time to return to my house, and I had no inclination to stroll about the streets. Just beyond the limits of the village there was a little garden with a covered bowling alley and tables for beer drinkers. I entered it. A few middle-aged men were playing ninepins. The balls rolled noisily, and from time to time I caught expressions of applause. A pretty girl, with eyelids reddened by crying, brought me a glass of beer. I looked her in the face. She turned hastily away and disappeared.

"Yes, yes," said a fat and ruddy-cheeked man who was sitting near me. "Our little Nancy is in great trouble to-day. Her lover is gone with the conscripts." I looked after her. She had retired to a corner and buried her face in her hands. One after another the tears trickled through her fingers. Some one called for beer. She brought it, and went back to her place. Her grief reacted upon me. I began to think of the interview before me; but I thought of it with anxiety, not with joy. I did not go light-hearted to the rendezvous. No joyful exchange of mutual love was before me; I had a promise to redeem, a hard duty to perform. "There is no jesting possible with her"--this expression of Gagin's pierced my soul like an arrow. And was not this the very happiness for which I had longed four days ago, in the little boat which the waves bore onward? Now it seemed to be possible--but I wavered, I thrust it from me; I must put it away from me. The very unexpectedness of it confused me. Assja herself, with her impetuosity, her past history, her education--this charming but singular being--let me confess it--inspired me with fear. For a long time I gave myself up to these conflicting feelings. The deferred tryst was at hand. "I cannot marry her," I decided at last, "and she shall not know that I love her."

I rose, and after I had pressed a thaler in poor Nancy's hand (for which she did not even thank me) I went straight to Frau Luise's house. Already the shadow of dusk was in the air, and above the darkening streets a narrow streak, the reflection of the sunset, reddened in the sky. I knocked lightly at the door. It was opened instantly. I stepped across the threshold and found myself suddenly in darkness.

"This way!" whispered an old woman's voice. "Some one is waiting for you."

I advanced a couple of steps, stumbling. A skinny hand clutched mine.

"Is it you, Frau Luise?" I asked.

"Yes," the same voice answered. "Yes, it is I, my handsome young gentleman." The old woman led me up one steep staircase and stopped at the bottom of a second. By the dull light which came in through a little window I recognized the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster's widow. A hateful, sly smile distorted her shrunken lips and half closed the little bleared eyes. She pointed out a small door to me. I opened it with a hand that trembled, and shut it again behind me.

* * * * *

It was nearly dark in the little room which I entered, and at first I did not discover Assja. Wrapped in a great cloak, she was sitting in a chair by the window, with her head averted and almost hidden, like a frightened bird. Her breath came quickly, and she was trembling in every limb. I felt an inexpressible pity for her. I approached her; she turned her head away still more.

"Anna Nicolaevna!" I addressed her.

She started suddenly as if she wished to look at me, but dared not. I took her hand. It was cold, and lay in mine like a dead thing.

"I wished," Assja began, and tried to smile, but her pallid lips would not obey her--"I wanted--no, I cannot," she said, and was silent. And in truth her voice broke at every word.

I sat down beside her.

"Anna Nicolaevna!" I repeated, and again found nothing further to say.

There was a silence. I still held her hand and looked at her. She was in the same constrained attitude as before: breathed heavily, and bit her under lip in order to keep back her tears. My eyes were fixed on her. There was something touchingly helpless in her shy immobility. It seemed as if she had just been able to reach the chair, and had fallen there. My heart overflowed.

"Assja!" I whispered, almost inaudibly.

Slowly she raised her eyes to mine. Oh, the glance of a woman who loves! Who shall describe it? Her eyes expressed entreaty, trust, questioning, surrender. I could not withstand their magic. A burning fire thrilled me like the prick of red-hot needles. I bent down and pressed my lips to her hand.

A little hurried sound as of a broken sob fell on my ear, and I felt on my hair the tender touch of a hand that trembled like a leaf. I raised my head, and looked in her face. The expression of fear was gone from her features. Her glance swept past me into the room. Her lips were a little apart, her forehead white as marble, and the hair pushed off as if the wind had blown it back. I forgot everything; I drew her toward me; willingly her hand obeyed, and her whole body followed; the shawl slipped from her shoulders, and her head bowed silently to my breast and laid itself against my burning lips.

"Yours!" she whispered faintly.

Already my arm was about her, when suddenly, like a gleam of lightning, the thought of Gagin flashed through my brain. "What are we doing?" I cried, and moved roughly away. "Your brother knows all--he knows that we are here together."

Assja sank into her chair.

"Yes," I went on, while I rose and went over to the other side of the room. "Your brother knows everything. I had to tell him everything."

"You had to?" she stammered unintelligibly. She could not come to herself, and only half comprehended me.

"Yes, yes," I repeated with a certain bitterness, "and you are to blame for it--you alone. Why did you betray your secret? Who compelled you to tell your brother? He himself was with me to-day, and told me of your conversation with him."

I avoided looking at Assja, and went up and down the room with great strides. "Now everything is lost--everything, everything."

Assja was about to get up from her chair.

"Oh, sit still," I cried; "sit still, I beg you. You have to do with a man of honor--yes, with a man of honor. But in Heaven's name what disturbed you so? Have you seen any change in me? But it was impossible for me to conceal it from your brother when he made me a visit to-day."

"What am I saying?" I thought to myself, and the idea that I should be a base hypocrite, that Gagin knew of this meeting, that everything had been talked over, twisted and spoiled, maddened me.

"I did not call my brother," Assja said, in a frightened, harsh voice. "He came of his own will."

"Only see what you have done," I went on. "Now you want to go away."

"Yes, I must go," she said in a whisper, "and I only asked you to come here that I might take leave of you."

"And do you think," I retorted, "that it is easy for me to part from you?"

"Why were you obliged to tell my brother?" repeated Assja with an expression of amazement.

"I tell you, I could not do otherwise. If you had not betrayed yourself----"

"I had locked myself into my chamber," she answered simply. "I did not know that my landlady had another key."

This innocent speech from her mouth at such a moment nearly cost me my self-control. Even now I cannot think of it without emotion. Poor, honest, innocent child!

"And so it is all over," I began again. "All. Now indeed we must part." I threw a stolen glance at Assja, whose face became more and scarlet. She was, I felt, alarmed and ashamed. I myself was greatly agitated, and spoke like one in a fever. "You did not leave the budding feeling time to unfold itself. You yourself have torn the bond between us. You had no confidence in me; you cherished suspicion against me."

While I was speaking Assja bent forward more and more, then sank suddenly on her knees, let her head fall into her hands, and broke into sobs. I rushed to her and tried to raise her, but she resisted me. I cannot endure women's tears; when I see them I lose my self-possession at once.

"Anna Nicolaevna, Assja!" I cried repeatedly. "I beg, I implore you! Stop, for God's sake!" I took her hand again.

But to my extremest astonishment she sprang up suddenly, sped like a flash through the door, and vanished.

When Frau Luise came in a few moments later, I still stood in the middle of the chamber as if thunderstruck. I could not believe that the interview had come to an end so abrupt, so unmeaning, when I myself had not said the hundredth part of what I meant to say, and was, besides, quite uncertain how it should finally terminate.

"Is the young lady gone?" Frau Luise asked me, and raised her yellow eyebrows quite to the parting of her hair.

I stared at her like an idiot, and went away.

* * * * *

I left the village and made my way into the fields. Vexation, the keenest vexation possessed me. I overwhelmed myself with reproaches. How had it been possible for me to misunderstand the reason which had induced Assja to change our place of meeting? How could I have failed to know what it must have cost her to go to the old woman? Why had I not detained her! Alone with her in the dim, empty room I had found the strength, I had had the heart to drive her from me--even to reproach her for coming. Now her image followed me; I besought her pardon. The memory of that pale face, those shy, wet eyes, that hair flowing over the bowed back, the soft nestling of her head against my breast, consumed me like a fire. "Yours!" Her whisper still rang in my ears. "I have acted conscientiously," I tried to say to myself. Lies! What was the conclusion I truly wished? Am I in a condition to part with her? Can I lose her? "O fool! fool!" I repeated with bitterness.

By this time the night had fallen. With hasty steps I sought the house where Assja lived.

* * * * *

Gagin came to meet me.

"Have you seen my sister?" he called to me, still at a distance.

"Isn't she at home then?" I returned.

"No."

"She has not come back?"

"No. Excuse me," Gagin went on. "I could not stand it. I went to the chapel in spite of our agreement; she was not there; she cannot have gone there."

"She did not go to the chapel."

"And you have not seen her?"

I had to acknowledge that I had seen her.

"Where?"

"At Frau Luise's. We separated an hour ago," I added. "I believed certainly that she had come home."

"Let us wait," said Gagin.

We entered the house and sat down near each other. We were silent. Neither of us was without anxiety. We watched the door and listened. At last Gagin rose.

"This is the end of everything," he cried. "I don't know if my heart is in my body. She will kill me yet, by God! Come, let us search for her."

We went out. It had grown dark.

"Of what did you talk with her?" asked Gagin as he crushed his hat down over his eyes.

"I was with her five minutes at longest," I answered. "I spoke to her as we had decided."

"Well," he said, "we would better go, each for himself; in that way we shall find her sooner. In any event, come back here in an hour."

* * * * *

Hastily I descended the hill and ran to the town. I made my way rapidly through all the streets, staring in all directions, took another glance at the windows of Frau Luise's house, reached the Rhine, and began to walk quickly along its bank. From time to time I met women, but Assja was nowhere to be seen. It was no longer vexation that I felt. A secret fear oppressed me, and not fear alone; no, remorse, the warmest pity. Love! yes, tenderest love! Wringing my hands, I called on Assja, into the gathering darkness of the night; softly at first, then louder and louder; a hundred times I repeated that I loved her. I swore never to part from her. I would have given everything in the world to hear her gentle voice again, to hold her cold hand, to see herself standing before me. So near had she been to me, in perfect trustfulness, in utter simplicity of heart and feeling had she come to me and laid her inexperienced youth in my hands; and I had not caught her to my heart; I had thrown away the bliss of seeing the shy face bloom into a joy, a rapture of peace--this thought drove me to madness.

"Where can she be gone? What is become of her?" I called out, desperate with helpless fears. Suddenly something white glimmered near by on the shore. I knew the spot. An old half sunken cross with quaint inscription stood there, over the grave of a man drowned seventy years before. My heart stood still in my body. I ran to the cross. The white figure had disappeared. "Assja!" I shouted. My wild cry terrified me. No one made answer.

I determined to see if Gagin had found her.

* * * * *

As I hastened up the footpath I saw a light in Assja's chamber. It calmed me a little.

I drew near the house. The door was fastened. I knocked. A window in the darkened first story was carefully raised, and Gagin's head showed itself.

"Found?" I asked.

"She is come back," he whispered to me. "She is in her chamber, and undressing. All is as it should be."

"God be thanked!" I cried, in a transport of inexpressible joy. "God be thanked! Now all will be well. But you know we have something to say to each other."

"Another time," he answered, softly closing the window--"another time. For this, good-by."

"Till to-morrow then," I said. "Tomorrow everything will be clear."

"Good-by," Gagin repeated, and the window was shut. I came near to knocking again. I wished to tell Gagin at once that I sought his sister's hand. But such a wooing, at such an hour! "Till to-morrow then," I thought. "To-morrow I shall be happy!"

"To-morrow I shall be happy!" Happiness has no to-morrow; it has no yesterday; it knows of no past; it thinks of no future. The present belongs to it, and not even the present day--only the moment.

I do not know how I reached S----. Not my feet brought me; not the boat carried me; I was borne over as if on broad, mighty wings. My way led me by a thicket in which a nightingale was singing. It seemed to me it sang of my love and my joy.

* * * * *

The next morning, as I drew near the familiar little house, one circumstance seemed strange: all its windows were open, and the door as well. Scraps of paper lay strewn about the threshold, and behind the door a maid was visible with her broom.

I stepped up to her.

"They're off!" she volunteered, before I could ask her if the Gagins were at home.

"Off!" I repeated. "What, gone? Where?"

"They went at six o'clock this morning, and did not say where. But stop. You are surely Mr. N."

"I am Mr. N."

"There is a letter for you inside." She went in and returned with a letter. "Here it is, if you please."

"But it isn't possible. How can it be?" I said. The maid stared at me stupidly, and began to sweep.

I opened the letter. It was Gagin who wrote. From Assja not a line. He began with a hope that I would not be angry with him on account of his sudden departure. He felt assured that, after mature thought, I would agree to his decision. He had found no other way out of a situation which might easily become difficult, even dangerous. "Yesterday," he wrote, "as we were both waiting silently for Assja, I convinced myself fully that a separation was necessary. There are prejudices which I know how to respect. I understand that you cannot marry Assja. She has told me everything. For her own sake I am compelled to yield to her repeated, desperate prayers." In conclusion he expressed his regret that our acquaintance should be broken off so abruptly; wished me happiness; shook my hand affectionately; and assured me that it would be useless for me to try to find them.

"What prejudices?" I cried out, as if he could hear me. "Nonsense! Who has given him the right to rob me of her?" I clutched my head with my hands.

The maid began to call loudly for the landlady. Her terror rendered me my self control. One thought took possession of me--to find them, to find them at whatever cost. To submit to this stroke, to calmly accept it, was impossible. I learned from the landlady that they had taken a steamboat about six o'clock in the morning to go down the Rhine. I went to the office. There I was told that they had taken tickets for Cologne. I went home with the intention to pack at once and follow them. My way led me by Frau Luise's house. All at once I heard some one call me. I raised my head, and saw the Burgomaster's widow at the window of the very room where, the day before, I had met Assja. She summoned me with her disagreeable smile. I turned away, and would have gone on, but she called after me that something was there for me. This brought me to a standstill, and I entered the house. How shall I describe my feelings as I again beheld that little room?

"To tell the truth," the old woman said to me, handing me a little note, "I was only to give you that if you came here of your own free will. But you are such a handsome young gentleman. Take it."

I took the letter.

The following words were hastily scrawled in pencil on a scrap of paper:

"Farewell! We shall not see each other any more. It is not from pride that I go. No; I cannot do anything else. Yesterday, when I was crying before you, it only needed a word from you--only one single word. I should have staid. You did not speak it. It must be better so. Farewell, for always."

* * * * *

One word! Fool that I had been! This word! I had said it with tears over and over. I had scattered it to the wind. I had repeated it--how often--to the lonely fields; but to her I had not said it. I had not told her that I loved her. And now I must never say it. When I met her in that fatal room, I myself had no clear consciousness of my love. Perhaps I was not even yet awakened to it while I was sitting with her brother in helpless and fearful silence. A moment later it broke out with irresistible force as I shuddered at the possibility of harm to her, and began to seek her, to call her, but then it was already too late. "But that is impossible," you say. I do not know whether it is possible, but I know that it is true. Assja would not have left me if there had been a trace of coquetry in her, and if her position had not been a false one. She could not bear that which every other girl could have borne; but that I had not realized. My evil genius held my confession back from my lips, as I saw Gagin for the last time, at the dark window, and the last thread that I might have seized slipped from my fingers.

On the same day I returned to L---- with my travelling trunk, and took passage for Cologne. I remember that, as the boat was under way, and I was taking leave in spirit of the streets and the places I should never lose from memory, I saw Nancy on the bank. She was sitting on a bench. Her face was pale, but not sorrowful, and a stalwart young peasant stood beside her, laughing and talking to her. On the other shore of the river the little Madonna looked out, sad as ever, from the green shadow of the old oak tree.

* * * * *

I found myself on the Gagins' track in Cologne. I learned that they had started for London. Hastily I followed them; but in London all my inquiries were fruitless. For a long time I would not be discouraged, for a long time I kept up an obstinate search; but at last I was obliged to give up hope of finding them.

And I never saw them again; I never saw Assja again. Of her brother I heard brief news sometimes; but she had for ever vanished from my sight. I do not know if she is yet living. Once, while travelling, years afterward, I caught a hasty glimpse of a woman in a railway carriage whose face reminded me vividly of features never to be forgotten, but I was deceived by a chance resemblance. Assja remained in my memory as I had known her in the fairest days of my life, and as I had last seen her, bowed over the arm of the low wooden chair.

But I will confess that I did not grieve too long for her. Yes, I have even fancied that Fate had been kind in refusing to unite us. I consoled myself with the thought that I could not have been happy with such a wife. I was young, and the future--this short, fleeting life--seemed endless to me. Why should not that be again which once had been so sweet, and even better and more beautiful? I have known other women, but the feeling which Assja awakened in me--that deep and ardent tenderness--has never repeated itself.

No! No eyes could compensate me for the loss of those that once were lifted, with such love, to mine. No heart has ever rested on my breast which could make my own beat with such delicious anguish! Condemned to the solitary existence of a man without a family tie, I bring my life to its gloomy end; but I guard still, as a sacred relic, her letters and the dried geranium sprig which she once tossed me from the window. There clings a faint fragrance to it even yet; but the hand that gave it, the hand that it was only once vouchsafed to me to kiss, has mouldered, perhaps, for many a year in the grave. And I--what has become of me? What remains to me of myself--of those happy and painful days--of those winged hopes and desires? So the slight fragrance of a feeble weed outlasts all the joys and all the sorrows of a man. Nay, it outlasts the man himself!

TO BEETHOVEN.

Clasped in a too strict calyxing Lay Music's bud o'er-long unblown, Till thou, Beethoven, breathed her spring: Then blushed the perfect rose of tone.

O loving Soul, thy song hath taught All full-grown passion fast to flee Where science drives all full-grown thought-- To unity, to unity.

For he whose ear with grave delight Brings brave revealings from thine art Oft hears thee calling through the night: _In Love's large tune all tones have part._

Thy music hushes motherwise, And motherwise to stillness sings The slanders told by sickly eyes On nature's healthy course of things.

It soothes my accusations sour 'Gainst frets that fray the restless soul: The stain of death; the pain of power; The lack of love 'twixt part and whole;

The yea-nay of Free-will and Fate, Whereof both cannot be, yet are; The praise a poet wins too late Who starves from earth into a star;

The lies that serve great parties well, While truths but give their Christs a cross The loves that send warm souls to hell, While cold-blood neuters live on loss;

Th' indifferent smile that nature's grace On Jesus, Judas, pours alike; Th' indifferent frown on nature's face When luminous lightnings blindly strike;

The sailor praying on his knees Along with him that's cursing God-- Whose wives and babes may starve or freeze, Yet Nature will not stir a clod.

If winds of question blow from out The large sea-caverns of thy notes, They do but clear each cloud of doubt That round a high-path'd purpose floats.

As: why one blind by nature's act Still feels no law in mercy bend, No pitfall from his feet retract, No storm cry out, _Take shelter, friend!_

Or, Can the truth be best for them That have not stomachs for its strength? Or, Will the sap in Culture's stem E'er reach life's furthest fibre-length?

How to know all, save knowingness; To grasp, yet loosen, feeling's rein; To sink no manhood in success; To look with pleasure upon pain;

How, teased by small mixt social claims, To lose no large simplicity; How through all clear-seen crimes and shames To move with manly purity;

How, justly, yet with loving eyes, Pure art from cleverness to part; To know the Clever good and wise, Yet haunt the lonesome heights of Art.

O Psalmist of the weak, the strong, O Troubadour of love and strife, Co-Litanist of right and wrong, Sole Hymner of the whole of life,

I know not how, I care not why, Thy music brings this broil at ease, And melts my passion's mortal cry In satisfying symphonies.

Yea, it forgives me all my sins, Fits Life to Love like rhyme to rhyme, And tunes the task each day begins By the last trumpet-note of Time.

SIDNEY LANIER.

THE DRAMATIC CANONS.

At intervals of varying length, the journals of the Anglo-Saxon races are given to discussing the question whether the present age be one of decadence or progress in dramatic art. Most readers of "The Galaxy" have seen some phases of this discussion, which starts up afresh after the arrival of every noted foreign actor or the production of a new play. It is at present confined to the English-speaking nations, and prevails more in America than England just now.

In France there is no lively interest in the theme. The French dramatic authors seem to be pretty well satisfied themselves, and to satisfy their audiences; their best claim to success being found in the fact that English and American dramatic authors of the present day almost invariably pilfer from them.

In the course of this perennial discussion we constantly meet with appeals, on the part of those learned gentlemen, the theatrical critics, to the "dramatic canons." Such and such a play is said to offend against these "canons," and they are spoken of as something of which it is shameful to be ignorant, but at the same time with a vagueness of phrase betraying a similar vagueness of definition. It has seemed to us that an inquiry into the nature of these canons may not be out of place at the present time. This we propose to determine by consulting the practice of those authors of former times whose productions still hold the stage as "stock plays," so called, and of those modern authors still living whose plays are well known and famous, being still successfully acted. By such an analysis we may possibly settle something, especially if our inquiry shall call forth the actual experience of those living who have attained great success, whether as authors or adapters.

The most obvious division of our subject is into tragedy, comedy, melodrama; but inasmuch as it is plain that the laws of success in all these walks of dramatic art must contain much in common, we have preferred a different division for analysis, leaving the kind of drama as a subdivision common to each part of the inquiry. A less obvious but equally just division will be as to the canons regulating the subject, the treatment, and the production of a successful drama, in whatever walk. We propose to ascertain our canons from the successful plays, still holding the stage, of Shakespeare, Sheridan, Knowles, Bulwer, Dion Boucicault, Tom Taylor, Augustin Daly, and Gilbert, together with such single plays, like "The Honeymoon," "Masks and Faces," and a few others, as are better known to the public than their authors, whose sole dramatic successes they were. Ephemeral successes, however great, cannot be safely taken as guides to a canon; but an established success of long standing, however repugnant to our tastes, must be examined, even if it take the form of the "Black Crook."

The influence of the French drama on Anglo-Saxon art has been so decided that no safe estimates of canons can be made which do not take into account the works of Sardou, Dumas, and the minor French authors, whose name is legion. Fortunately for our subject, the French work on simple principles, and will not confuse us any more than the Greeks, whom they imitate. Let us try, then, to ascertain our canons in their order, beginning with the subject of the drama.

What subjects are fit for dramatic treatment, and are there any entirely unfitted therefor?

We find a pretty wide range in the successful dramas of modern time. In tragedy we have ancient history, as shown by "Coriolanus," "Julius Caesar," "Virginius," "Alexander the Great"; medieval history, in "Macbeth," "Richard III."; legendary stories, in "Lear," "Hamlet," "Othello," "Romeo and Juliet." In comedy and melodrama we have an almost infinite variety, as much so as in novel writing. History, legend, and pure invention claim equal right in the field. We have "The Tempest," "As You Like It," "Much Ado about Nothing," "Twelfth Night," "Henry IV.," "Henry V.," "Merchant of Venice," "The Wonder," "The Honeymoon," "Masks and Faces," "London Assurance," "School for Scandal," "The Rivals," "The Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," "Wild Oats," "The Colleen Bawn," "Arrah-na-Pogue," "The Shaughraun," "The Wife," "The Merry Wives of Windsor," "Under the Gaslight," "Don Caesar de Bazan," "American Cousin," "Rip Van Winkle," and the "Black Crook," all well known and successful plays, many perhaps being acted this very night all over the Union and England. We are not here examining the question of the goodness or badness of these plays, their merits or demerits: we are merely recognizing them as well known plays, constantly being acted, and always successful when well acted. Of all of these, the most constantly successful and most frequently acted are those of Shakespeare, Sheridan, and Bulwer, among the old plays, and those of Boucicault and Daly among living authors. Almost all playgoers are familiar with these works, and have seen them once or more; and every new aspirant for histrionic honors has one or more of the plays of the first three in his list of test characters. If he be a man and a tragedian, he must play Hamlet, Othello, Richard, Shylock, Macbeth, Richelieu, Claude Melnotte; if versatile, he must add Benedick, Charles Surface, Captain Absolute, and others to the list; if a lady, she must be tested in Portia, Ophelia, Pauline, Lady Teazle, Juliet--who knows what? Some very versatile ladies have tried all the light comedy characters, finishing with Lady Macbeth as an experiment. A short time ago there was quite an epidemic of Lady Macbeths, but that is over for the present. The stray sheep have returned to the fold. Let us return to them.

What can we glean about the limitations of the dramatic subject from these successful plays? There is a limitation somewhere, and the first and most obvious is--time. A novelist can make the minute description of a life interesting. The most celebrated novels, such as "Robinson Crusoe," "Vicar of Wakefield," "David Copperfield," "Pendennis," "The Three Guardsmen," and others, have been just such books, imitations of real biographies. But a play is limited in length to five acts, or six at most, and its time of acting has a practical limit of three hours, with the inter-acts. Each act is further practically limited to five scenes, and it is but seldom that it stretches over three, while the latter average is never exceeded and seldom reached in a five-act play. No scene can properly contain more than a chapter of a novel, so we find ourselves practically limited to a story which can be told inside of fifteen chapters, the further inside the better. The French, who are much more artificial than the English in their dramatic canons, almost invariably limit their acts to a single scene, reducing their story thereby to only five chapters. A careful comparison of successful acting plays will generally end in bringing us to one obvious canon:

I. The subject of a drama must be capable of being fully treated in fifteen chapters at most.

The next limitation that we meet is in the nature of the story. A novelist can describe his hero and heroine and the scenes in which they move. He can depict them in motion, and describe a long journey in strange countries, trusting to picturesque scenery and incident to help him out. He can give us a sketch of their former life, and tell how they fared after they were happily married. The dramatist cannot do this. He must put his people down in a given place and leave them there till his

## scene is over, opening another scene or another act after a silent

interval. He can, indeed, put a narrative of supposed events into the mouth of any of his characters, but such narratives are always dull and prosy, and to be avoided. Shakespeare uses them sometimes, but only when he cannot help himself, and always makes them short. The nearest instances that occur to us are, the description by Tressel to Henry VI. of the murder of Prince Edward, usually put now in the first act of "Richard III.," and the story of Oliver in "As You Like It." Sometimes a short story cannot be helped, but if told, it is always found to be of a collateral circumstance not directly leading to the catastrophe. It generally is brought in only to explain the presence of a character on the stage in the successful drama. Sometimes it happens otherwise. For instance, Coleman makes Mortimer, in the "Iron Chest," tell the whole mystery of his life in the form of a story instead of acting it. The result is a poor play, seldom acted, and generally to small audiences, being only valuable for some special features of which we shall speak later. It is not too much to ask for acceptance of this second canon regarding the subject:

II. The subject should be capable of being acted without the aid of narrative.

Is it still possible to limit the subject, and do novels and dramas differ still further? A third limitation will reveal itself, if we compare a typical drama, like "Much Ado About Nothing," or "Hamlet," with a typical novel such as "David Copperfield" or "Robinson Crusoe." These latter depend for their interest on a series of adventures which befall a hero, sometimes entirely unconnected with each other, just as they happen to a man in real life, wherein he meets many and various scenes and persons. Neither possesses any sequence of events, depending on each other, such as pervades "Hamlet" and all acting plays. It is true that some few novelists, such as Wilkie Collins, write novels that depend on plot for their interest, but those typical novels which stand at the head of the list do not. The masterpieces of Scott, such as "Ivanhoe," "Talisman," "Old Mortality," are antiquarian studies, with very slight plots; Dickens and Thackeray's best novels have no plot worth mentioning; and where perfect plots are found, it is rare to find a lasting and enduring novel. In a play, on the other hand, a plot seems to be absolutely necessary to interest the spectator, the more intricate the better. We have all seen Shakespeare's plays so often, that we are apt to forget how intricate and involved many of his plots are; and when we consider that most of his plots were taken from very bad novels which have utterly perished from sight, while the plays still live, we begin to realize by the force of contrast another canon relating to the subject, which is this:

III. The subject must have a connected plot, in which one event depends on the other.

When we come to restrict the dramatic subject any further, we encounter more difficulty. Some might hold that the interest of the subject should depend on either love or death, but we are met at once by instances of plays in which the real interest is almost wholly political, such as "Henry V.," "Richard III.," or moral, such as "Lear." Referring once more to the effect of contrast with the novel for guidance, we find it very difficult to separate subjects proper for dramatic treatment any further than we have done, and almost impossible to lay down any absolute rule to which distinguished exceptions cannot be quoted. It might be said that the interest should turn on a single action, as it does in most plays, and especially in tragedies, but here we are met by "Much Ado About Nothing," "The Honeymoon," and other plays, where two or three plots progress side by side in perfect harmony. It seems, therefore, that any further absolute limitation of the abstract dramatic subject is impracticable, and we must be content with adding a mere recommendation for our fourth canon, much as follows:

IV. The interest of the plot generally turns on either love or death, and generally hinges on a single action or episode.

When we come to speak of the _best_ subjects of dramatic writing, we are really approaching the domain of treatment, which is much wider and better defined. There it becomes a question for judgment and discretion, and much more certainty can be attained. Instead of considering all dramas, we narrow our search to the best only, judging them by the simple tests of success and frequency of acting, and finding what sort of subjects have been taken, and how they have been treated.

Let us then come at once to the question, What is the best method of treating a given subject? Here we are again confronted by a variety of decisions, some of which seem to conflict with others, but which all agree in some common particulars. In the dramas written, down to the time of Boucicault, it seemed to be assumed as a matter of course that every first-class play, comedy or tragedy, must be written in five acts. All of Shakespeare's, Sheridan's, Knowles's, follow this old rule, as inflexible and artificial as some of the French canons, but with the same compensating advantage, that author and audience knew what was expected of each, and troubled themselves little over the structure of their dramas. Of late years another custom has taken the place of the five-act play, and many if not most of the modern dramas, while of the same length as the old ones, are divided into four and even three acts. Especially is this the case with comedies, and those nondescript plays that are variously called "melodramas," "dramas," and "domestic dramas." In the case of three-act plays, the number of scenes in each act is frequently five, sometimes six or seven, but the common modern practice restricts the last act, if possible, to a single scene. The number of scenes must of course depend on how many are absolutely necessary to develop the story. The French system of a single scene to each act has one great advantage. It permits of very much finer scenery being introduced than in a scene which is to be shifted, whether closed in or drawn aside. For instance, when the curtain comes down between each scene, the stage may be crowded with furniture, and those temporary erections called "set pieces." There will always be plenty of time to remove these between the acts, and noise of hammering is of no consequence when the curtain is down. If there is more than one scene in the act, all this is changed. Let us say there are only two scenes. One of these must be a full-depth scene, but all the furniture and set pieces are restricted to that part of the stage which lies behind the two "flats" which make the front scene. In that front scene furniture is inadmissible, without rudely disturbing the illusion. Let us suppose the front scene to be the first, and that any furniture is left on the stage. At the close of the scene the characters leave the stage, but there stands the furniture. The old way to get rid of it is simple. Enter a "supe" in livery, who picks up the one table and two chairs. Exit, amid the howls of the gods in the gallery, who shriek "Soup! soup!" as if they were suddenly stricken with hunger. Of course this spoils the illusion; and the better the scenery, the more perfect the other illusions, the easier they are disturbed by such incongruity. Sometimes the set pieces in front, if there are any, and the furniture, disappear through trap doors. In the large city theatres, such as those where spectacular pieces are constantly produced, this method of changing a scene is common, but such theatres themselves are not common, and it costs a great deal to run them on account of the number of workmen required. Our present inquiry is directed to the ordinary theatre, with its stock company, simple scenery, and few traps. Of this kind of theatre every town furnishes at least one sample. In such theatres at least it will always be best to keep furniture and set pieces out of the front scenes as much as possible, to preserve the illusion. If the front scene come after the full-depth one, the wisdom of this rule becomes still more apparent. A "supe" taking out furniture is not half as ludicrous as one bringing it in, and without a trap such a spectacle is unavoidable. The first canon offered by common sense is obviously sound:

V. Keep furniture and set pieces out of front scenes, if possible.

This rule being followed, will probably reduce the front scenes of a drama to the open air, woods, gardens, halls, streets, church porches, and similar places, where the attention will be concentrated on the actors, not the picture. The scope of a front scene is further restricted by the fact that you must bring your characters on and take them off, being deprived of that valuable ally to illusion, the "tableau." If the scene be the first of the act, a tableau may indeed be discovered, but it cannot close the scene. The most common place for a front scene is between a first and a third full-depth scene, to give time for the change that goes on behind. This change always makes a certain amount of noise, and the use of the front scene is to take off the attention of the audience. This intention must be hidden at any price, for, if perceived, it is fatal to the illusion. To hide it there is only one method always reliable, which is to rivet the attention of the audience on your characters, put in your best writing, and get up an excitement to cover the scene. If you have any brilliant dialogue, any passage of great emotion, any mystery to be revealed, put it in your front scene so that your design may not be suspected, but the scene appear natural. In brief the canon says:

VI. Put the best writing into the front scenes.

The next question that arises as to the front scene relates to the character of incident that should be treated therein. It is obvious that it will not do to put in a crisis or a climax at such a place. At its best a front scene is only a makeshift, a preparation for the full scene. Its employment necessitates a loss of nearly three-quarters of the available space, and the tableau loses all its power, as developed in the full-depth scene. Its use is therefore a disagreeable necessity, so disagreeable that the French discard it entirely. Mechanically it is only an introduction to the full scene, and the more it partakes of the same character intellectually, the less will it weary the audience. The best preparation an audience can have for a scene is to make them eager therefor, and the best way to make them eager is to leave them in suspense, so that they are impatient for the movement of the flats that opens the next picture. A familiar instance of this employment of the front scene is found in the "Shaughraun," by Boucicault, before the Irish wake. The front scene represents the outside of a cottage with a door in the right flat; the peasants and other characters come in, talk about the wake, and enter the house one after another. In this scene it is also explained that the supposed corpse is not dead, but shamming, so that there is no tragic interest associated with the coming scene, but every one is anxious to see it. At last all the characters are off, the flats are drawn aside, and the celebrated Irish wake makes its appearance, taking the whole depth of the stage. The audience is satisfied, and the front scene has answered its end, as expressed in this canon:

VII. Front scenes ought to terminate in a suspense, which the following scene will relieve.

From this canon it follows that the front scene should deal only with explanatory and dependent matters, not the principal action of the drama. Sheridan, in "The Rivals" and the "School for Scandal," opens his first acts with front scenes, which introduce little of the matter of the story. I am inclined to think that he had a reason for this which still prevails, in the noise made by the audience. The beginning of the first act of most plays is distinguished in the auditorium by much shuffling of feet, opening of doors, taking of seats, especially by those who take the reserved seats in front of the house. All this disturbs the audience and makes them lose any fine points at the beginning of a play, unless the actors strain their voices unduly. In a front scene the flats immediately behind the actors serve as a sounding board for the voice, and reduce the volume of space to be filled by the speakers. The advantage gained in this way is balanced by the loss to the eye in losing the full-depth scene, wherefore this method of opening a play is not much in favor; but its use in the cases mentioned leads to a general canon as to the first act of a play, which also recommends itself to common sense:

VIII. Avoid fine points, and have plenty of action at the beginning of the first act.

This rule, however safe and sensible, is hampered by the necessities of the subject, to which everything must be subordinated. Let us see how the greatest masters of dramatic construction in modern times open their first acts. Of these Boucicault comes first, _facile princeps_. We will take the "Shaughraun" and "Flying Scud" for examples. Both open in a similar manner: in the first a young woman, in the second an old man, engaged in household work, singing away at nothing particular. A quiet picture not requiring close attention. To each, enter a disturber, somewhat disagreeable, arresting attention. A short squabble, then more characters coming on, one or more at a time, till the stage is pretty full, and no flagging of interest. The act does not drag. Compare this with Sardou's "Frou-Frou," "Fernande," and others. Sardou's first acts almost invariably drag, and the success does not come till afterward. One great difference is immediately perceptible. Sardou almost always brings on his people in pairs, and takes them off together, leaving the first act a succession of dualogues, with very little action. Now take "The Lady of Lyons," an old success, which nowhere drags. It opens with a picture, mother and daughter, doing nothing particular. Enter disagreeable Beauseant, who makes an offer and is rejected. A mild excitement at once arises, shut in by a front scene, short, lively, and spirited, where Glavis and Beauseant plot for revenge on Pauline. The scene ends in suspense, the actors having gone for Claude Melnotte, and the flats draw aside, revealing Melnotte's cottage and introducing the hero. By this time the audience is quiet and can take the fine points, so the third scene of the first act can be made exciting. There is thus no flagging of interest in either Bulwer or Boucicault. One does the thing in three scenes, the other in a single scene, but both employ the same means, which are thus expressed:

IX. Open the first act with a quiet picture, and bring in the disturbing element at once. Having aroused attention, bring on all your characters, and end with an excitement. Avoid bringing on characters in pairs in this act.

The first act of a play is always surrounded with difficulties. The interest of the audience has to be aroused, and all the characters brought in. Every part of it must hang together, and the attention must be excited more and more as the act progresses. This rule applies to the whole play likewise, but in the first act it is especially necessary, because there are so many things to divert attention, and the object of the act is to catch it. After a certain period it must flag, and the object of the dramatist must be to close his act before that dreadful period. The office of the first act is to prepare for the second; therefore it resembles the front scene in one important principle--it should end in suspense, and make the audience eager for the second act. Ending as it should in a full scene, it has the advantage over the front scene that a tableau is possible, and should be used. This tableau must be natural, and must come, as all tableaux come, out of a climax, but the climax must not be complete. It must leave the audience in suspense, and give them something to talk about in the inter-act. It must not be too long delayed, or the act will drag. These and various other reasons have led to this further canon, generally observed:

X. The first act should be the shortest, and as soon as a

## partial climax is reached the curtain should come down. The

tableau and action should indicate suspense and preparation.

This general rule indicates that the villain should be temporarily triumphant, if the play is to end in his discomfiture. If his first scheme fails in the first act, it is difficult to arouse interest in the nominally imperilled innocence which is left in danger. The structure becomes too artificial, and the dictum _ars est celare artem_ has been violated. No rule is so safe in dramatic writing, as also in acting. The end is--_illusion_.

The rule of putting only suspensory and preparatory action in the first

## act is universally followed by Shakespeare and all other successful

writers of plays, and is better settled than any other. The first act occupies the office of the first volume of a novel, explaining all the story. Very frequently, in the modern French drama especially, it assumes the form of a prologue, the action transpiring at an interval of several years, sometimes a whole generation, before the rest of the play. Only one instance of this character is found in Shakespeare, in the "Winter's Tale," where the action of the drama demands a prologue, but it is quite common in modern times, while another custom of Shakespeare's--that of dividing a historical play into two "parts"--has quite gone out of fashion. Its only modern example is that of Wagner's opera of the "Niebelungen Ring," which takes a week to get through. The Chinese and Japanese have a strong taste for this kind of play, but the practice has vanished from Anglo-Saxon civilization. It must be confessed that the employment of a prologue is rather a clumsy way of opening a play. It is too apt to be complete in itself, and to join clumsily to the rest of the drama. Besides this, it is hard to preserve the illusion that the small child who appears in the prologue has developed into the good-looking young person who is the heroine of the rest of the play. The "Sea of Ice" is a familiar instance of this sort of thing, where the same actress who personates the mother in the first act, and gets drowned, blossoms into a girl of eighteen in the second act, supposed to be her own daughter, last seen as a small child. In "Winter's Tale" there is nothing of this. The supposed Perdita of Act I. is merely a rag baby, and mother and child reappear together thereafter. In cases where the interval between prologue and play is limited to a year or two, this objection does not apply; in fact such prologues are quite common and useful. The fanciful and magic prologue to the "Marble Heart" is a very happy instance of conquest of the difficulties inherent in long separated prologues. The wrench is so sudden from a Greek sculptor to a French sculptor, from Athenian dresses to Parisian, that the main interest of the play lies in the identification of the ancient characters in the new dress, and the very fanciful absurdity of the plot lends it an air of reality essentially dramatic. The end is illusion, and illusion it is.

There is little more clear and positive to be said about the first act. Study of the best models will reveal many points inherent in all, but no general rules so clear as those of brevity, action, and suspense. The practical limit of time is from fifteen to thirty minutes, the medium of twenty being common to mono-scenic acts, but on this no positive canon can be ascertained. It depends on the interest, and only this general rule is partially true, that no interest can carry an audience through a first act of forty-five minutes.

We next come to the middle acts of the play, and here again general rules are hard to find. The number of acts varies so much that nothing positive can be said except as regards fixed lengths of drama. Treating all between the first and last acts as a whole, the first certain rule that meets us is this truism:

XI. From the second to the last act the interest must be regularly increased, and each act must end in suspense, leading to the next.

Without an observance of this rule no play can ever be permanently successful as a general thing. There have been some poor plays with little interest, that have been bolstered up for a time by the force of a single character, portrayed by a peculiar actor, but in that case the play becomes a mere "star play," not amenable to the common rules, and useless out of the hands of the peculiar star who owns it. Of such are those multiform dramas, constantly varying, of which Mr. Sothern makes Lord Dundreary and Sam the central figures. The actor found he had made a lucky hit in his character, and he hired out the work of altering the play to any sort of literary hacks, so that he himself is really the creator of the plays, and when he dies they will die. In the "American Cousin," as it was first played, the interest lay entirely in Asa Trenchard, and the drama was very skilfully constructed, with ascending interest, to develop the ideal Yankee. In that part Jefferson made his first public hit. As soon as he found that Dundreary had stolen the play from its hero, Jefferson was wise enough to drop the contest between high comedy and broad farce, in which the latter must conquer when they come together. By taking up the ideal Dutchman (or rather German, as he makes it) in Rip Van Winkle, he created a part of which no one can deprive him, but which will probably die with him. No one else has succeeded with it to the same degree, and "Rip Van Winkle" stands as a model of a successful star play, wherein all the interest hangs on a single character.

It is not the intention of this article to enter into the question of what constitutes the interest of such plays as "Rip Van Winkle." To do so would be to enter into a field where everything is uncertain, and where judgment is only an expression of individual liking. The main elements of the success appear to be humor and pathos, those twin brethren of genius whose identity and individuality are frequently so inextricable from each other. Both are drawn in broad, simple lights and shadows, so that the simplest audience can take the points, while the most cultivated members of that audience are studying the delicate touches of the actor. The contrast between--but we must refrain from the digression, however tempting. We are examining the dramatic canons, and the only settled canons about which there is little doubt are those relating to construction, not to sources of interest. In the kingdom of invention genius is supreme, and amenable to no rules. Each writer must work out his own salvation.

Constructively it is obvious that the number of acts in a play must be regulated by the number of natural episodes in the action of its subject; and the perfection of its construction is tested by the liberties that can be taken with the acts and scenes. Of late years it has become the fashion to alter and remodel Shakespeare's and other old plays, by changing scenes and acts, cutting out and putting in. To an ardent worshipper of Shakespeare as read, these alterations frequently appear desecrations, but there is little question that they were and are improvements. The construction of many of Shakespeare's plays is decidedly faulty, and the nature of the improvements made by managers and actors is best illustrated when the original play unaltered is tried against the adaptation. The acting edition of "Richard III." is a familiar instance of this. Colley Cibber arranged it, he being a shrewd old actor and manager. His edition holds the stage today, and always succeeds, where the original "Richard" fails. In this matter of construction the chances are all in favor of the improvement of a work by a shrewd adapter. His attention is directed to only one thing, the successful presentation of the play. He is not an artist so much as a workman. He creates nothing, he only alters and improves. He may be perfectly incapable of creating an ideal character, while yet he can make its language more compact, can concentrate its action. Such an adapter is a skilful gardener. He cannot create the fruit tree, but he can prune it, and stimulate it to the perfection of fruit-bearing.

The French stage has been a prolific nursery for these skilful workmen, and they have managed to extract splendid successes from their work. It is by comparing their English adaptations with a simple translation of the work that one best sees the improvement. For instance, there is the "Two Orphans," with a plot and incidents so repulsive in the original that its translation failed in London in spite of its weird power. Adapted and cleansed by a clever American author, it was the great success of last year in New York, and is now running a fresh career of success. Another instance that occurs is Sardou's "Fernande." It was altered and adapted in New York by Augustin Daly, and succeeded. Another version by Mr. Schoenberg, then of Wallack's, a straight translation, failed to secure a hearing in Boston, and ended in a lawsuit. This was not for want of merit in the translation, which was excellent, but, as appears from a comparison of the two plays, simply because Daly had improved on Sardou. The alterations were small, but masterly, and showed that Daly understood his business. In Sardou's play there appears a certain character, a young count (I forget his name) who comes in at the beginning of the first act, the close of the last. In the last he has some very important business to do, but he appears nowhere else. Of himself he does not aid the plot, but his last action is indispensable. In the original play also appears the Spanish Commander, a mere sketch in the first act. Daly suppressed the Count altogether, gave his best business to the Commander, and brought the latter in all through the play. The result was one good character instead of two poor ones, and indicates a canon which can be confirmed by many other instances. This canon shapes itself something like this:

XII. Concentrate the interest on few characters, and avoid numerous unimportant parts.

This canon rests on the necessities of a stock company, as those before rest on the nature of scenery and audiences. Every company has its leading man, leading lady, low comedians, old man and old woman, and those ordinary characters which all playgoers know by heart. If the play does not fit these, it will not succeed. The appreciation of this fact is one secret of the great success of Boucicault, Daly, and Lester Wallack as play writers. They know the exact capacity of their stages and companies from long experience, and write their plays to fit them. With even ordinary talents they would have a great advantage to start with over writers of greater genius, writing with vague ideas of what the manager wants. As managers they know exactly what they want, and what their companies can do. To a young writer the difficulties are all in the start, unless he be an actor, or so closely related to actors or managers as to be able to get behind the scenes at all times, and become familiar with scenery, traps, machinery, rehearsals, and all the details of the _business_ of theatricals. In former times, especially two centuries ago, the task of writing a good acting play was far easier than now. Scenery was simple, access behind the scenes easier--there was not such a wall of separation as now exists between actors and audience in a first-class city theatre. Even in those days, however, the writing of plays was confined chiefly to actors, managers, and those men of fashion who were given to haunting the green room. In the present day no amount of talent in a writer seems capable of overcoming the difficulties of technical construction of a drama. It is rare to find an author of acknowledged talent in other departments, especially in America, distinguished as a dramatist, and when one of them tries his hand at playwriting he fails, not from lack of good dialogue and literary finish, but solely from lack of knowledge of the business of the drama, the limitations of actors and scenery, and the technique of dramatic construction.

There is more hope to the American stage in the future in the production of such undeniably original if mechanically faulty plays as Bret Harte has given us in the "Two Men of Sandy Bar," than in the rapid carpentry and skilful patchwork of hosts of French adaptations, whether they run ten or five hundred nights. Our Hartes and our yet unknown writers daily coming to the front, with freshness in their hearts and brains in their heads, lack only technique and the custom of the stage, which no one can give them but the managers and actors, who shall welcome them as apprentices to learn the trade. That these latter will find it to their advantage in the end to encourage a cordial alliance between the men of the quill and the men of the sock and buskin, follows from a simple calculation. If men of confessedly small talent and low character, such as the host of lesser playwrights who furnish pabulum for the outlying theatres, can write fair acting plays, simply by using mechanical knowledge and stolen materials, it is probable that men of original talent, already experienced writers in other branches of literature, will end by producing much better and fresher work, when they are offered and have enjoyed the same technical advantages.

FREDERICK WHITTAKER.

AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE COSSACKS OF THE DON.

Sunset on the Lower Don; a dim waste of gray, unending steppe, looking vaster and drearier than ever under the fast falling shadows of night; a red gleam far away to the west, falling luridly across the darkening sky and the ghostly prairie; a dead, grim silence, broken only by the plash and welter of our laboring steamer, or the shrill cry of some passing bird; an immense, crushing loneliness--the solitude not of a region whence life has died out, but of one where it has never existed. Even my three comrades, hardened as they are to all such influences, appear somewhat impressed by the scene.

"Cheerful place, ain't it?" says Sinbad, the traveller; "and the whole of southern Russia is just the same style--multiply a billiard board by five million, and subtract the cushions!"

"I wonder what the population of this district can be," muses Allfact, the statistician, looking disconsolately at his unfilled note-book. "It's almost impossible to get any reliable information in these parts. But I should think one man to three square miles must be about the proportion."

"And not a feather of game in the whole shop!" growls Smoothbore, the sportsman, with an indignant glance at his pet double barrel. "It's as bad as that desert where the old sportsman committed suicide, leaving a letter beside him to the effect that he must be firing at something, and there being nothing else to shoot, he had shot himself!"

"I'll give you one entry for your note-book, Allfact, my boy," interrupted I; "there are _thirty-nine_ sand banks between this and Rostoff, at the head of the estuary; and the upper stream is all banks together--no navigation at all!"

"I should think not, by Jove, with that kind of thing going on!" says Smoothbore, pointing to a solitary horseman who is coolly riding across our bows with an aggravating grin, his dog following. Our outraged captain has barely time to hurl at him some pithy suggestions respecting his portion in a future life, which had better not be quoted, when there comes a tremendous bump, and we are aground once more!

Just at this moment two wild figures come dashing along the bank at full gallop, sitting so far forward as to be almost on the horse's neck--their hair tossing in the wind like a mane, their small black eyes gleaming savagely under the high sheepskin cap, their dark lean faces thrust forward like vultures scenting prey--shooting a sharp, hungry glance at us as they swoop by, in mute protest against the iron age which compels them to pass a party in distress without robbing it. These are the famous Cossacks of the Don, the best guerillas and the worst soldiers in the world; at once the laziest and most active of men--strangest of all the waifs stranded on the shore of modern civilization by the ebb of the middle ages--a nation of grown-up children, with all the virtues and all the vices of barbarism--simple, good-natured, thievish, pugnacious, hospitable, drunken savages.[K]

[Footnote K: The Cossack is often erroneously classed by untravelled writers with the native Russian, from whom he is as distinct as the Circassian or the Tartar.]

It takes us fully ten minutes to "poll off" again, and we have hardly done so when there comes a sound through the still air, like the moan of a distant sea; and athwart the last gleam of the sinking sun flits a cloud of wide-winged living things, shadowy, silent, unearthly, as a legion of ghosts. The wild fowl of the steppes are upon their annual migration, and for many minutes the living mass sweeps over us unbroken, orderly, and even as an army in battle array--a resemblance increased by the exertions of an active leader, who keeps darting back from his post at the head of the column, and trimming the ranks like an officer on parade.

"I wonder how many birds there are in that column," says Allfact, instinctively feeling for his note-book, as if expecting some leading bird to volunteer the desired information.

"Just like their mean tricks," mutters Smoothbore savagely. "First the game won't show at all, and then they come so thick that no fellow would be such a cad as to fire at 'em."

Night comes on, and the foul-creeping mist begins to steam up from the low banks of greasy black mud, driving us perforce into the cabin, where we speedily fall asleep on the benches along the walls--for bed-places there are none. About midnight I begin to dream that I am a Christian martyr in the reign of Diocletian, "in the act" (as Paddy would, say) of being burned alive; and I awake to find it all but true. The fact is, the steward, with a thoroughly Russian love of overheating, has put wood enough into the stove to roast an ox; and there is nothing for it but to bolt on deck again, where we remain for the rest of the night.

The panorama of the deck in the early morning forms an ethnological study hard to match, except perchance by the Yokohama packet steaming out of 'Frisco, or a "coolie boat" coming over from Demerara to Trinidad. Gaunt, aquiline Cossacks, and portly Germans, and bumfaced Tartars; red-capped, broad-visaged, phlegmatic Turks; slim, graceful Circassians, beautiful with all the sleek tiger-like beauty of their gladiator race; sallow, beetle-browed Russians, and black-robed, dark-eyed, melancholy Jews. We have _one_ Persian on board--a lanky, hatchet-faced rogue, half buried under a huge black sheepskin cap not unlike a tarred beehive. He smokes one half the day and sleeps the other half, and is only once betrayed into any show of emotion. This occurs at one of our halting places on the second day, when he comes on board again grinning and whooping like a madman, having succeeded (as I learn when his excitement subsides) in cheating a Cossack out of a halfpenny.

But the appearance of the Russian _mujiks_ (peasants), and the manner in which they curl themselves up anywhere and anyhow, and sleep the sleep of the just with their heads in baskets and their feet in pools of dirty water, baffles all description. A painter would revel in the third-class deck about sunrise, when the miscellaneous hash of heads and limbs begins to animate itself, like a coil of snakes at the approach of spring--when mothers of families look anxiously about for the little waddling bundles of clothes that are already thrusting their round faces and beady black eyes into every place where they ought _not_ to go; and when brawny peasants, taking their neighbor's elbow out of their mouth, and their knee out of their neighbor's stomach, make three or four rapid dips, like a drinking duck, to any village church that may be in sight, and then fall to with unfailing zest to the huge black loaf which seems to be their only baggage. The whole thing is like a scene in a fairy tale:

There was an old captain that lived in a "screw." He had so many passengers he didn't know what to do; They'd got nary baggage but one loaf of bread. They squatted round the funnel, and _that_ was their bed.

As we move southward, our surroundings alter very perceptibly. A genial warmth and a rich summer blue replace the cold gray sky of the north; the banks begin to rise higher, and to clothe themselves with thick patches of bush, and even trees, instead of the coarse prairie grass; while at every halting place the little wooden jetty is heaped with perfect mounds of splendid grapes, sold at three cents per pound, by men in shirtsleeves--phenomena which, to us who are fresh from the furred wrappings and snow-blocked streets of Moscow, have a rather bewildering effect. But the most striking sight is (to our friend Allfact at least) the huge masses of coal which now fuel the steamer instead of the split logs of the Volga.

"You see Russia's richer than her neighbors think," remark I. "On the Don alone there are 16,000 square miles of the finest anthracite, which leaves only two per cent. of ashes in burning."

"Sixteen thousand square miles!" cries the statistician, whipping out his note-book. "Why on earth doesn't she use it, then, instead of destroying all that valuable timber?"

"Well, you see, the railways are not completed yet; but when they are I can promise you that Russia will cut out England altogether in supplying Constantinople and the Levant."

One by one the little villages slip by us: Alexandrosk, the first sign of which is the glitter of its gilded church-tower; Nikolaievo, with its black marble monument to the late Crown Prince; Konstantirovskoe, the birthplace of Prince Potemkin, brightest and most worthless of Russian favorites, who "lived like an emperor and died like a dog." They are all vary much of one pattern: substantial log-cabins, curiously painted, with little palisaded gardens in front, and red-shirted men sitting smoking at their doors, alternating with little wickerwork hovels daubed with mud, which look very much like hampers left behind by a monster picnic. Gangs of lean dogs (the pest of every Cossack village) are sniffing hungrily about, while scores of sturdy wenches, with berry-brown arms and feet, and sunburnt children clothed only in short pinafores lined with dirt, run to stare at the wonderful fire-breathing vessel as she comes gliding in.

The sun is just dipping below the horizon as we reach Semi-Karakorskaya, and anchor for the night as usual; for to navigate the Lower Don in the dark is beyond the power of any pilot afloat. Here a Cossack official,[L] whose acquaintance we have made on board, proposes to us to land and be presented to the "Ataman," or chief of the tribe, with the certainty of seeing something worth looking at. The offer is joyfully accepted, and five minutes later we are scrambling up the steep, crumbling bank--in the course of which feat Allfact slips and rolls bodily down into the river.

[Footnote L: The "Army of the Don," though now an integral part of Russia, is still officered to a great extent by its own people.]

"There's something for the notebook at last, old boy!" cries Smoothbore spitefully. "Write down that you notice _a great falling off_ in this part of the country!"

To find one's way into a Cossack village at night is almost as hopeless as the proverbial hunt for a needle in a haystack. The whole country seems to consist of a series of carefully dug pitfalls, into which we tumble one over the other, like fish out of a net; and our final approach to the village is only to be guessed by the yells of the dogs, which come about us with such zeal as to necessitate some vigorous cudgelling, and a shower of trenchant Russian oaths, in which our leader, thanks to his official character, seems to be quite a proficient. At length a few lights, which appear to start from the very ground under our feet, announce that we are among houses--underground ones, it is true, but houses still. Then the first glimmer of the rising moon lights up a row of log-cabins on either side, and the abyss of half-dried mud between them; and at last, following our leader, we enter one of those immeasurable courtyards in which the Cossack heart delights, pass through a low doorway, ascend a creaking, ladder-like stair, and, entering a small room at the head of it, find ourselves in the presence of two men--one old and decrepit, the other in the prime of life. The younger is the Ataman himself; the elder is his father, an old soldier of the first campaigns of Nicholas.

Seen by the dim light of the lamp that stands on the rough-hewn table, the "interior" is sufficiently picturesque: the heavy crossbeams of the roof, the skins that cover the walls, intermingled with weapons of every kind, from the long Cossack lance to the light carabine which is fast superseding it; the fresh complexions and Western costume of the English party, contrasting strangely enough with the commanding figure and dark, handsome face of our host, in his picturesque native dress and high boots; the long white beard and vacant, wondering eyes of the ancient soldier; the picture of the Ataman's patron saint in the corner, with its little oil light burning before it, and a pious cockroach making a laborious pilgrimage around its gilt frame; and, through the narrow, loophole-like window, a glimpse of the great waste outside, lit by fitful gleams of moonlight.

Hospitality has been a Cossack virtue since the day that Bogdan Khmelnitski gave meat from his own dish to the prisoners whom he was about to slaughter; and we have hardly time to exchange greetings with our new friends when we are set down to a plentiful meal of rye bread, the splendid grapes of the Don, and "nardek"--a rich syrup strained from the rind of the watermelon, not unlike molasses both in appearance and flavor.

The "bread and salt" (as the Russians technically call it) being despatched, my three comrades, with the native official as interpreter, fasten upon the Ataman, while I devote myself to the old soldier, and begin to question him on the Danubian campaign of 1826. It is a sight to see how the worn old face lights up, and how the sunken eyes flash at the sound of the familiar name; and he plunges at once into his story. Seldom is it given to any man to hear such a tale as that to which I listen for the next half hour, told by one of its chief actors. Weary struggles through miles of hideous morass--men dropping from sheer exhaustion, with the wheels of the heavy artillery ploughing through their living flesh; vultures haunting the long march of death to tear the still quivering limbs of the fallen; soldiers, in the rage of hunger, feeding upon the corpses of their comrades--all the hideous details of that terrible campaign, told in a quiet, matter-of-course way, which makes them doubly horrible. My impromptu Xenophon is still in full swing when high above the clamor of tongues rises a sound from without, which nothing on earth can match save the war whoop of the Western Indian--the shrill, long-drawn "Hourra!" of the Cossack, which made many a veteran grenadier's stout heart grow chill within, as it came pealing over the endless snows of 1812. We rush headlong to the outer door, and this is what we see:

In the centre of the courtyard, under the full splendor of the moonlight, stand some twenty tall, sinewy figures, in the high sheepskin cap, wide trousers, and huge knee-high boots of the Cossack irregular. They salute the Ataman as he appears by drawing their long knives and waving them in the air, again uttering their shrill war cry; and then begin to move in a kind of measured dance, advancing and retreating by turns, to the sound of a low, dirge-like chant. Presently the music grows quicker, the motion faster and fiercer; the dancers dart to and fro through each other's ranks, brandishing their weapons, turning, leaping, striking right and left--acting in terribly lifelike pantomime the fury of a deadly battle. Seen in the heart of this great solitude, with the cold moon looking silently down upon it, this whirl of wild figures, and gleaming weapons, and dark, fierce faces, all eyes and teeth, has a very grim effect; and even Sinbad's seasoned nerves quiver slightly as the dancers at length join hands, and, whirling round like madmen, burst forth with the deep, stern chorus with which their ancestors swept the coasts of the Black Sea five hundred years ago:

Our horses have trodden the steep Kavkaz (Caucasus); Of the Krim (Crimea) we have taken our share; And the way that we went is dabbled with blood, To show that _we_ have been there!

The volume of sound (stern and savage to the last degree, but yet full of a weird, unearthly melody) fills the whole air like the rush of a storm; and now, the Cossack blood being thoroughly heated, the play suddenly turns to earnest. The nearest dancer, a tall, handsome lad with a heavy black moustache, suddenly fells his next neighbor with a tremendous blow between the eyes, which Heenan himself might have applauded. The next moment the conqueror falls in his turn before a crushing right-hander from his _vis-a-vis_; and in an instant the whole band are at it hammer and tongs--apparently without "sides," order, or object of any kind, except the mere pleasure of thrashing and being thrashed. There is little science among the combatants, who deliver their blows in a slashing, round-hand style that would agonize a professional "bruiser"; but every blow dealt by those brawny arms leaves its mark, and the whole company speedily look as if they had been taking

## part in an election.

"By Jove!" says Smoothbore, with considerable feeling; "it does one good to see a real good fight so far away from home!"

"You'd see plenty such in Central Russia," answer I. "Two villages often turn out to fight, just as we'd turn out to play cricket.[M] They call it 'Koolatchni boi.'"

[Footnote M: I remember one such battle near Moscow, in October, 1809, in which more than a thousand men took part.]

But Sinbad, being a man of humane temper, thinks that the sport has gone far enough, and appeals to the Ataman to stop it. One word from the all-powerful chief suffices to part the combatants; and, a messenger being despatched for some corn-whiskey, they are speedily chinking glasses as merrily as if nothing had happened. I am standing unsuspectingly in their midst when suddenly the whole company rush upon me as one man, and I find myself lifted in their arms and tossed bodily into the air six times in succession, amid yells of applause, to which all the previous uproar is as nothing.[N] Next they pounce upon Allfact, who, in his thirst for new ideas, submits readily enough; but Sinbad and Smoothbore take to their heels at once, and are with difficulty pacified by our host and his venerable father, who are looking on from the doorway.

[Footnote N: This singular compliment (a universal one among the Cossacks) is probably a relic of the old custom of raising their "Kosbevoi," or head chief, on a shield when elected.]

This closes the entertainment, for it is now nearly midnight, and we are to start again at sunrise. We take a cordial leave of our new friends, and depart, laden with bunches of grapes which are somewhat difficult to carry conveniently.

"I wonder why they tossed me up like that?" muses Allfact, as we grope our way down to the shore.

"Why!" answers Smoothbore. "Why, to take a _rise_ out of you, to be sure."

DAVID KER.

DRIFT-WOOD.

THE WILLS OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.

"Nothing so generally strikes the imagination and engages the affections of mankind," says Sir William Blackstone, "as the right of property." Sure it is, that society palpitates whenever a great estate passes to a new owner, disclosing its vastness in the act of transit. Perhaps for this fact we may find another reason in Blackstone, where he says: "There is no foundation in nature why the son should have the right to exclude his fellow creatures from a determinate spot of ground because his father had done so before him, or why the occupier of a particular field or of a jewel, when lying on his death-bed, and no longer able to maintain possession, should be entitled to tell the rest of the world which of them should enjoy it after him." But since the law, to reward thrift and avoid strife, has established this artificial right of disposal, the disparities of fortune, on these signal occasions of transfer, always set us to pondering.

Vanderbilt, last of the three monstrously rich men of New York who have died within three years, furnishes in his will the now tripled evidence of a new ambition in American Croesuses--an aim to keep their fortunes rolling and greatening for several generations in the exact paths where they were started. Supposing that Mr. Stewart's bequest to Judge Hilton was designed to purchase his entrance into the dry goods firm, we should have a common aim of the triumvirate, since each has put a chosen man into his shoes, as if with the hope to live on in this successor, like Mordecai in "Deronda." The master passion of acquisition is thus striving to outwit death. Astor and Vanderbilt found their second selves in favorite sons; childless Stewart could only take his confidential agent. Each conceivably died in the hope that a successor so carefully selected and endowed would in turn hand over the bulk of his gigantic wealth, in its original channel, to some steward chosen with equal care; so that ages hence the Astor fortune still in houses, the Stewart fortune still in trade, the Vanderbilt fortune still in railways, might flourish under successive guardians, faithful to their tradition and training. The John Jacob, the Cornelius, the Alexander of the past has been blessed with the vision of his millions multiplying as he would have them multiply, and haply has dreamed of accomplishing by his own foresight an entail which he could not create under the laws.

If this be the new tendency that American life is called upon to face, it is at least not hard to account for. The thirst for posthumous fame which inflamed old heroes and poets rages still in days when greatness collects rents, sells dry goods, and corners stocks. And after all, what is there stranger in struggling to prolong after death one's imperious railroad sway, his landlord laws, his massive trade monopolies, than in slaving out one's childless old age in the hard rut of traffic, in order to turn five surplus millions into ten?

To Dives, after a life of accretion, the prospect of frittering his wealth into fragments must be painful. Heirs will waste what he toiled to win. That fortune which grew so great while he rolled it on turns out, after all, but a snowball, to be broken apart and trampled by careless spoilers when he is gone. There are, to be sure, hard-headed philosophers who contemplate coolly the dispersion of their hoard. I remember from boyhood that when somebody rallied Squire Anthony Briggs, of Milldale, on his veteran vigilance in money-getting, saying, "Your children will spend as fast as you have made it," stanch old Tony answered: "If they get as much pleasure from spending my money as I have in making it, they are welcome." But with prodigious fortunes like Astor's and Vanderbilt's, the instinct of accumulation which increases what is already preposterously great may struggle to keep it accumulating after death. When Bishop Timothy sonorously declares from the desk that we brought nothing into this world, neither may we carry anything out, Croesus in the pew below takes this as a very solemn warning to him--warning to secure betimes the utmost posthumous control of his money that the laws allow. Dombey's soul is not wrapt up in the miser's clutching love of money, but in the money-getting institution of Dombey & Son; and not only in the Dombey & Son of to-day, but the Dombeys & Sons of centuries hence. To found a dry-goods dynasty, a line of railway kings, a house of landed Astors, its owner puts the bulk of his vast wealth into a single hand--in that _exegi monumentum_ spirit common to bard and broker, soldier and salesman. _Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei vitabit Libitinam_, the millionaire may then triumphantly say.

On the other hand, the Cornells and Licks of our day, wonderfully numerous, have made America renowned by their public uses of wealth, either in lifetime gift or testamentary bequest; and this devotion of private fortune to the common weal is fostered by the observed independence of each generation in pursuing its own mode of life without regard to the customs of ancestors.

But the testamentary aim of the richest trio that ever lived in America was to escape this national trait of beneficence; to substitute the perpetuity of one's business monopoly or family trade; to struggle against any serious division of the enormous fortune, even at the cost of preferences among equal children; to spare not one dollar out of fifty millions for the public; to heap the gigantic hoard, save what for other legatees propriety demands, on some "chip of the old block" or business "bird of a feather." This purpose also influenced their lives. "Magnificence is the decency of the rich," but little magnificence marked the lives of those three rich New Yorkers. Powerful, self-willed, all-conquering they were, but hardly magnificent. Unprecedented and incredible thing in America, neither Stewart nor Vanderbilt left one poor dollar of his fifty or sixty millions to any municipal or charitable purpose. Filled with his posthumous business plans, neither cared for New York as Girard cared for Philadelphia and Hopkins for Baltimore. True, each of the Gotham triumvirate endowed in life an institution of public beneficence--Astor his library, Vanderbilt his college away in Tennessee, Stewart his hotel for women. It is further true that men who, like Vanderbilt and Stewart, give sure pay for many years to thousands of employees, are benefactors. But to do this, and then to leave besides some testamentary memorial to the city where one has heaped up his wealth, has hitherto been the aim of the rich men of America. Girard not only founded his orphan college, ornament and pride of Philadelphia, but left great sums to beautify and improve the city by removing wooden houses and widening thoroughfares. Stewart, scrupulously just in business dealings, deserves public gratitude as the apostle of "one price," and as the cash-selling reformer who protected prudent folk from the higher prices caused in trade by the allowances for bad debts; but, this apart, in the will of Stewart and the will of Stephen Girard, what a world-wide difference of public spirit! That one act of grace that might have tempered his forgetfulness toward New York--the gift of his picture gallery for public uses--even this act Stewart did not do. The contrast is startling between the bequests of an Astor, a Stewart, a Vanderbilt, and those of a Girard, a Peabody, and a Johns Hopkins.

THE DUEL AND THE NEWSPAPERS.

Barring the two services, doctors used, I fancy, to be the great duellists among professional men. And still, ever and anon, some irascible Sawbones rushes to the ten-paced turf, where, though he be spectacled or pot-bellied, those disadvantages rarely calm his blood-letting rage. But editors are the modern magnates of the code; not because they thirst for gore, but only because the guild of M. Paul de Cassagnac is professionally liable to give offence, and hence to be dragged to the field of glory and to die with boots on. I once saw a statement that the famous fighting editor of the "Pays" had taken part in eighteen duels, "besides having a man to kill next month"; and he was greatly coveted by a Missouri paper that had been losing its writers in street encounters too rapidly for convenience.

The newspapers have emptied their vials of wrath or ridicule upon Mr. Bennett for his duel with young May: now in horror over his resort to the measured ground, and anon in scorn at the bloodless result. Nevertheless, had Mr. Bennett failed to fight that duel, he and his newspaper would have been butts during his lifetime for the shafts of half the editorial archers of the land. A noble refusal to resent the public insult would have been misrepresented with ingenious malice, in the hope to disgrace him and ruin his property. In answer to "Herald" arguments on disputed questions, the unresented cowhiding of its owner would have been paraded by rival sheets. Rarely in business or political controversy would they have failed to taunt him with cowardice. Life would have been a burden to him; and if the consciousness of having refrained in that instance from breaking the laws of man and of God could have saved him from desperation, it would not have been for lack of the sneers of newspapers continually fomenting and reviving public contempt against him. Sometimes a man is goaded by such stings into a second duel, after having been able to resist fighting the first; or else he puts an end to a life which has been made unendurable through constant imputations. Let those who doubt what would have occurred recall the instantaneous newspaper sarcasms, after the street assault, on the question "whether a man is answerable for hereditary tendencies to receive a public cowhiding without resenting it." The satirist who eggs on a duel in that fashion feels justified afterward in invoking public contempt for the man that fights it.

What is the upshot of this comment? That duelling is ever commendable? Most emphatically no. Duelling, branded by the law, is also now so branded in public opinion that it would be waste of words to anathematize it. But what is suggested by the venom of some of the press writers is that they have never put themselves into the place of a man who, with the average sensitiveness to personal affront, and with thorough-going physical courage, had also a clear perception of the remorselessness of his journalistic rivals. From some of them he could expect no more mercy than from the red gentry of the plains. Let those who are sending their arrows into Mr. Bennett ask themselves whether they are wholly sure that in his position, with his family history behind them, they would have done otherwise after the street assault. At any rate, neither duelling nor that cowardly substitute, shooting down an unprepared man who has done some wrong, will be driven out of fashion by bringing newspaper taunts of "showing the white feather" against those who fail to resort to such lawlessness.

THE INDUSTRY OF INTERVIEWERS.

It was a quarrel totally apart from newspaper affairs, as we all know, that carried the editor of the "Herald" to the field of honor at Marydell. Indeed, Mr. Bennett's conduct before and after the duel was so "unjournalistic" that the Philadelphia reporters are said to have sent him a letter, while he tarried in that city, protesting that a gentleman so well aware of the "usages of the profession" ought to submit to be interviewed. But the physician does not always swallow his own drugs. Mr. Bennett, on receiving the missive, remarked that it was "all right," and remained uninterviewed, thus setting an awful example to the community.

A public attack by a man armed with a cowhide upon another not so armed is hardly a feat that excites admiration, while the affair at Marydell was in no sense such reparation for the previous insult as in common parlance to be thought "satisfaction." But one feature of the Bennett-May quarrel not unpleasant to read was the outwitting of the news-gatherers and their resulting desperation. "Had the duel taken place on the Canada border the parties to it could hardly have evaded our extensive arrangements to report it," said one journal after the affair, in a somewhat lugubrious and yet self-vindicating strain. The promptness of Mr. Bennett's movements, and his skill in throwing the reporters off the scent, lest the duel might be stopped, were hard blows to the newspapers. But theirs was no dishonorable defeat--it was one of the fraternity that beat them. Even the device of giving imaginary accounts of the battle in order to draw out the true one was unsuccessful until Mr. Bennett had sailed for Europe.

On the May side there was a trifling gain for the interviewers, but not much. Dr. May, senior, seems to have been condemned to a copious acquaintance with journalists; for, though in knowing Mr. Bennett he had already perhaps known one too many of them, his house appears to have been overrun, after the Fifth avenue assault, with the fraternity, who, in the "strict discharge of professional duty," swarmed multitudinously upon him. At least, one morning the "Tribune" said:

The May mansion in West Nineteenth street was a sealed book to reporters yesterday, and the door was promptly shut in the face of those who were recognized as newspaper inquirers by the negro in charge. Dr. May has made no secret of his anger at the reports, too accurately drawn, of his appearance of anxiety and alarm when expecting bad news from his son, and will have nothing to say to representatives of the press.

Here, it will be observed, is a claim to something professional in the very aspect of the "newspaper inquirer" whereby the sable guardian of the portal may know him well enough to take the responsibility of slamming the door in his face. Again, we observe here a tribute to the interviewer's skill; for, prior to the duel, Dr. May, though politely presenting himself, could give no news; but his lynx-eyed visitors had gathered from the very attitude, tone, and look of their host the material for an item as picturesque as any tidings. So the besieged householder, as we have seen, took refuge in total eclipse, leaving only a "negro in charge" to determine the status of his callers.

Yet the most discerning negro in charge sometimes proves a weak barrier against invasion. The trained interviewer can take a protean shape, and introduce himself under disguise of the most sympathetic friendship or the most urgent business. Sometimes he is the picture of respectful woe, or anon it is he who has a favor to confer by bringing news of pressing importance. Close and private indeed must be that conference whose secrets he cannot worm out. He gave to the public the "family scene of astonishment at the opening of the Vanderbilt will" the very morning after the affair occurred. Should moral borings fail, he can resort to material ones, as when, a few months since, he cut a hole in a hotel floor, to apply his ear to, over the room where a Congressional committee sat in secret session, being detected only by the unlucky plaster falling among the astonished statesmen below. He is the animal of the fable, who, having once "got in," cannot be got out until ready to go. In our war times some commanders looked upon him, coming to camp in never so fair a guise, with the misgivings of the hapless Trojan regarding the wooden horse; and it is said of Baron Von Werther that he "treats as an enemy all newspaper correspondents, even though they have the best personal introductions to him." Such fears of warriors and diplomats, who quail before no ordinary foes, are tributes to the interviewer's prowess.

It must go hard but he gets something from the sullenest and most refractory customer. We have seen his harvests at the May mansion, when baffled by real ignorance on the part of his victim; hence we may guess whether he is to be checked by a mere wilful purpose to conceal, or the whim to keep a matter private. At very worst, his own description of his rebuff will be humorous and piquant. Often do we have an entertaining half column beginning, "Our reporter waited upon," etc., and, after descriptions of household ornaments, personal dress, and so on, ending in this way:

_Ques._--You say, then, that you can give me no information whatever?

_Ans._ (_snappishly_)--As I have already told you a dozen times, no information whatever.

_Ques._--And that is positive and final?

_Ans._ (_savagely_)--Positive and final.

Here our reporter took his leave, wishing the gentleman a very good morning, to which politeness of our reporter the uncommunicative gentleman only distantly bowed.

But these defeats form a rare experience of the interviewer, who even then continues to pluck victory (that is to say, an item) out of their jaws. His ordinary career is a round of triumph which has made him a leading figure in the portrait gallery of modern society. I wonder that Mr. Daly does not introduce it at length into some of his comedies of American life. Drawn faithfully, and personated by Mr. James Lewis, the dramatized interviewer would be a wealth of pleasure.

PHILIP QUILIBET.

SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY.

THE FORCE OF CRYSTALLIZATION.

The old story of a bombshell filled with water and left to burst by freezing, upon the plains of Abraham, near Quebec, may now be superseded as an illustration of the power of frost. The men at a Western dockyard were surprised to find one morning that the paddle-wheel of a steamer in the dry dock had fallen from the shaft, and was broken in two pieces. The hub of the wheel, about fifteen inches long, was slightly hollowed out at the centre to admit of its being slipped on without difficulty over any uneven portion of the shaft-end. This recess was full of water when the boat was placed in the dock, and the keying had been so close that the liquid--about a pailful--was exposed to the frost. As the water congealed under the sharp wintry atmosphere of the night it expanded and burst asunder the five-inch walls of iron, and the broken wheel fell with a crash.

FROZEN NITRO-GLYCERINE.

Two accidents, both fatal, have lately occurred from the use of nitro-glycerine for blasting. In one case some frozen cartridges were recklessly placed in the oven of a stove, while others were held up to the fire. That an explosion should take place under such circumstances is not surprising, and comment is unnecessary. The other explosion partook more clearly of the nature of an accident. A well digger, living near Sing Sing, had buried a can of nitro-glycerine in his garden for future use; and while digging it up, January 18, his pick struck the can, ignition followed, and he was blown to pieces. No doubt the can was frozen, thus proving anew that frozen nitro-glycerine is more dangerous to handle, though not so powerful in its effects, as in the liquid form. This is singular behavior and contrary to theory. In general terms, explosion may be defined as the result which takes place when a portion of the nitro-glycerine is raised to a given temperature. Now, to produce this temperature by the friction resulting from the blow of a pick is manifestly more difficult with frozen than with tepid liquid. In the former case some of the heat produced would be absorbed by the liquefaction of the solid substance, and therefore there would be less available for producing the temperature of explosion. But, plain as this proposition is, there must be some unknown condition, for it has been frequently observed in practical work that nitro-glycerine is never so dangerous to handle as when frozen. This result, however, is directly opposed to the experiments of Beckerhinn, of Vienna, who lately experimented to decide this question. He placed a thin layer of nitro-glycerine on a Bessemer steel anvil, and a weight of about five pounds, having a small hardened steel face, was dropped upon it. The height to which it was necessary to raise this weight in order to produce explosion determined the comparative delicacy of the explosive. With tepid nitro-glycerine explosion took place when the weight dropped about 31 inches (0.78 metres), but with frozen liquid the fall had to be increased to about 85 inches (2.13 metre). Thus the experimental results are opposed to the acknowledged experience of practical work in the hands of common laborers. Mr. Beckerhinn found the density of the solid nitro-glycerine to be 1.735, that of the liquid 1.599, and the average melting heat to be 33.54 heat units. Thus the explosive shrinks about one-twelfth in crystallizing.

ENGLISH GREAT GUNS.

The largest rifled cannon in the world is a 100-ton gun, made for the Italian government by Sir William Armstrong's firm. But the English government is preparing to outdo this, and already has the plans ready for a gun of 164 tons. It hesitates, in fact, between a weapon of this size and one of 200 tons, a mass of metal which its shops are now perfectly able to handle. The meaning of the term--200-ton gun--is simply this: a tube of iron and steel of that weight, fifty feet long, having a calibre of 20 inches, and firing a shot of 3,500 or 4,000 pounds weight, with a charge of 800 pounds of powder! The human capacity for astonishment has grown perforce as the successive steps have been taken from the guns of ten and twenty tons to these weapons, which must remain huge whatever further advances are made. The character of warfare with them is best indicated by the fact that the 200-ton gun must be handled entirely by machinery. The advent of these unmanageable weapons is signalized by the invention of a hydraulic apparatus for working them. The vast shock of the recoil from the bursting of thirty-two kegs of powder--enough to throw down 1,200 tons of rock in mining--is taken up by a cylinder pierced with small holes. These holes are capped with valves, held down with a pressure of fifty tons to the square inch. When the force of the recoil exceeds this the water is forced out of the holes and the recoil thus taken up in work done. The breech of the piece is supported on a hydraulic ram, the elevation of which depresses the muzzle of the gun below the level of the deck, and brings it exactly in line with an iron tube carrying the sponge. This is run up to the base of the powder chamber, a deluge of water rushes from apertures in its head, and the bore is completely cleaned out and every spark of remaining fire extinguished. The rammer then retires, the sponge is taken off, and the powder hoisted by tackle to the muzzle, whence the rammer pushes it home, and then does the same for the shot. The shot and cartridge, weighing together about 1,350 pounds, are stored on little iron carriages, every charge in the magazine having its own carriage. The loading finished, the gun is raised, pointed, the port flies open, and the discharge immediately follows. What the result of the blow from such a projectile would be is not to be imagined. It is acknowledged, however, that in the struggle for mastery the gun has beaten defensive armor. No ship has been built to stand the shock of a 3,500 pound bolt moving at the velocity of 1,300 or 1,500 feet a second.

EAR TRUMPETS FOR PILOTS.

Prof. Henry has turned his attention to the discovery of means for increasing the distinctness of sound signals at sea. It is a very large hearing trumpet, projecting mouth foremost from the top of the pilot-house of a steamboat. But he soon found that a single hearing trumpet would not answer the purpose, for though it greatly augmented the perceptive power of the ear, it destroyed the capacity of that organ for distinguishing the direction of sound. For this purpose two ears are necessary. Prof. Henry then made use of two hearing trumpets, the axes of which are separated about 30 inches. An india-rubber tube proceeding from the axis of each is placed so as to terminate in the ear of the observer--one in each ear. With this instrument the audibility of the sound was very much increased, but as a means of determining the direction of the source of sound, it was apparently of little use. For this purpose the unaided ear is sufficient, provided the head is placed above all obstructions and away from reflections.

HOT WATER IN DRESSING ORES.

We have before alluded to the investigations made to ascertain the reason why clay settles more rapidly in solutions of some salts than in pure water, a fact which appears contrary to reason, since it might be inferred that the greater the specific gravity the more buoyant the fluid. But the fact is abundantly confirmed, and it is likely to find important application some day in the arts. The property which every substance has of sinking through a fluid of less density than its own forms the basis upon which nine-tenths of the gold and copper, and probably six-tenths of the silver produced in this country, is extracted from its ores. It is the foundation of the art of ore dressing, one of the most important parts of metallurgy. Anything which increases the rapidity and thoroughness of the process may have a fortunate application in this art. Mr. Ramsay, of the Glasgow university laboratory, thinks the property in question depends upon the varying absorption of heat by the different solutions. When water containing suspended clay is heated the rapidity of settling is proportional to the heat of the water. This mode of accelerating the movement of fine sediments in water is perhaps more easily applied than the solution of caustic soda or potash, or of common salt. Rittinger, by a mathematical discussion of the principles which control the downward movement of solid particles in an ascending stream of water, showed that the separation of light from heavy minerals is more complete with solutions of density greater than that of water than in water alone. He found a solution of 1.5 sp. gr. extremely favorable. If the addition of heat will increase the effect of such a solution, it may become possible to separate, by means of the continuous jig, minerals so near in specific gravity as barite and galena. This whole subject of ore dressing is one of the most important questions connected with the future of mineral industry in America. In the Mississippi valley everything connected with metallurgy, from the fuels to the finished metal, will one day be closely dependent on it.

OCEAN ECHOES.

Prof. Henry communicated to the National Academy at Philadelphia his latest researches into the subject of sound, and among them an explanation of the echo observed on the water. This echo he had formerly been inclined to attribute to reflection from the crests of the waves. Tyndall holds that it is due to reflection from strata of air at different densities. Prof. Henry's present explanation is that this echo is produced by the reflection of the sound wave from the uniform surface of the water. The effect of the echo is produced by the fact that the original sound wave is interrupted. It has what the learned Professor calls _shadows_, produced by the intervention of some obstacle in its path. Sound is not propagated in parallel, but in diverging lines, and yet there are some cases where what may be called a "sound shadow" is produced. For instance, let a fog-signal be placed at or near water level on one side of an island that has a conical elevation. Then the signal will be heard distinctly by a vessel on the opposite side of the island at a distance of three miles. But when the vessel sails toward the island (the signal being on the opposite side), the sound will be entirely lost when the distance is reduced to a mile, and in any smaller distance it is not recovered. In this case the station of the vessel at the shorter distance is in the "sound shadow." The termination of that shadow is the point at which the diverging beams of sound, passing over the crest of the island, bend down and reach the surface of the water. The formation of the sound echo may be explained by this extreme divergence of the sound waves, for it is rational to suppose that at a great distance from the source of sound some of the dispersed waves will reach the water surface at such an angle as to be reflected back to the hearer. This was well illustrated by an experiment made to test Tyndall's theory. A steam siren was pointed straight upward to the zenith, but no echo from the zenith was heard, though the presence of a cloud from which a few raindrops fell certified the presence of air strata of different densities. But, strange to say, an echo _was_ heard from every part of the horizon, half of which was land and half water. The only explanation of this fact is that the sound waves projected upward were so dispersed as to reach the earth's surface at a certain distance, and at that point some of them had curled over and assumed a direction that caused their reflection back to the siren.

THE DELICACY OF CHEMISTS' BALANCES.

In making chemical balances for fine work the beam is made in the truss form to prevent the bending which takes place even under such small loads as an ounce or two. Prof. Mendeleef has a balance that will turn with one-thousandth of a grain, when each pan is loaded with 15,000 grains. This extreme sensibility is obtained by the use of micrometer scales and cross threads at the end of the beam, these being observed by means of a telescope. Of course one weighing with this complicated apparatus occupies a long time. In most balances the beam rests on steel knife edges; but a maker who has lately obtained celebrity makes his supports of pure rock crystal. The steel edges can be seen with the naked eye; the quartz edges cannot be seen even with a magnifying glass. One writer on this subject thinks that with these perfect crystal edges, with an inflexible girder beam, a short beam giving quick vibrations, and a sensitiveness that can be increased by screwing up the centre of gravity, there can hardly be a practical limit to the smallness of the weight that will turn the beam. The amount of motion may be very small, but if this can be observed, the limit of possible accuracy is very much extended.

GOVERNMENT CONTROL OF THE DEAD.

What the population of European countries was a hundred years ago it would be hard to tell with accuracy; but the nations have doubled and trebled in strength within the century. Sanitary precautions have increased in importance, and the very noticeable movement in regard to social hygiene which now possesses English society is perhaps due in part to the obvious dangers to which thirty million human beings are subjected when living together on such a small area. The medical officer for Birkenhead has pointed out that it may be necessary for the government authorities to take more complete charge of the dead as a possible source of infection. He says that the intelligence of deaths from infectious diseases now furnished by local registrary would be much more useful than it is as a means for limiting the spread of disease if the medical officer were vested with further powers in respect to the infected dead body. At present neither the medical officer nor any one else has any power to order the immediate removal of an infected body, and those in charge of it might do what they liked with it. He advocated the necessity of power being given to medical officers to order the immediate removal of the infected bodies to a public mortuary and their speedy burial.

MICROSCOPIC LIFE.

Dr. Leidy lately described to the Academy of Sciences in Philadelphia an encounter for life which he witnessed between two microscopic animalcules. The two creatures were respectively 1-625th and 1-200th of an inch in diameter. On the morning of August 27, from some mud adhering to the roots of sphagnum, obtained the day previously in a nearly dried-up marsh at Bristol, Pennsylvania, he obtained a drop of material for examination with the microscope. After a few moments he observed an amoeba verrucosa, nearly motionless, empty of food, with a large central vesicle, and measuring 1/25th of a millimetre in diameter. Within a short distance of it, and moving directly toward it, was another and more active amoeba, regarding the species of which he was not positive. It was perhaps the one described by Dujardin as amoeba limax, by which name it may be called. As first noticed, this amoeba was one-eighth of a millimetre long, with a number of conical pseudopods projecting from the front border, which was one-sixteenth of a millimetre wide. The creature contained a number of spherical food spaces with sienna colored contents, a large diatom filled with endochrome, besides several clear food spaces, a posterior contractile vesicle, and the usual glanular endosarc. The amoeba limax approached and came into contact with the motionless amoeba verrucosa. Moving to the right, it left a long finger-like pseudopod curved around its lower half, and then extended a similar one around the upper half until it met the first pseudo-pod. After a few moments the ends of the two projections actually became continuous, and the verrucosa was enclosed in the embrace of the amoeba limax. The latter assumed a perfectly circular outline, and after a while a uniformly smooth surface. It now moved away with its new capture, and after a short time what had been the head end contracted and became wrinkled and villous in appearance, while from what had been the tail end ten conical pseudopods projected. The amoeba verrucosa assumed an oval form, and the contractile vesicle became indistinct without collapsing. Moving on, the amoeba limax became more slug-like in shape. The amoeba verrucosa now appeared enclosed in a large oval, clear vacuole or space, was constricted so as to be gourd-shaped, and had lost all trace of its vesicle. Subsequently it was doubled upon itself, and at this point the amoeba limax discharged from one side of the tail end the siliceous case of the diatom, which now contained only a shrivelled cord of endochrome. Later the amoeba verrucosa was broken up into fine spherical granular balls, and these gradually became obscured and apparently diffused among the granular contents of the entosarc of the amoeba limax. The observations from the time of the seizure of the amoeba verrucosa to its digestion or disappearance among the granular matter of the entosarc of its captor, occupied seven hours. From naked amoeba the shell-protected rhizopods were no doubt evolved, and it is a curious sight to observe them swallowed, home and all, to be digested out of their house. It was also interesting to observe the cannibal amoeba swallowing one of its own kind and appropriating its structure to its own use, just as we might do the contents of an egg. The amoeba verrucosa he describes as remarkable for its sluggish character, and in appearance reminds one of a little pile of epithelial scales or a fragment of dandruff from the head. It is oval or rounded, transparent, and more or less wrinkled, or marked with delicate, wavy lines.

THE SOURCES OF POTABLE WATER.

In the British Social Science meeting, Mr. Latham, a civil engineer of London, brought up the question of water supplies and endeavored to find rules for the guidance of water engineers in those apparently contradictory facts which the observation of recent years has produced so abundantly. It has been generally considered that water which has received the sewage of large populations must be unfit for domestic use; but careful investigation would show that when such polluting matter has been passed into a river, and exposed to the influence of light, vegetation, etc., it becomes innocuous. This is shown by the good health enjoyed by the inhabitants of London, which place receives its supply chiefly from the Thames and the Lea, both of which rivers receive a considerable amount of sewage pollution. The author instanced Wakefield, Doncaster, and Ely as towns that draw their supplies of water from sources into which sewage matter enters, and yet whose inhabitants are healthy. The cholera epidemic at Newcastle-on-Tyne in 1853 was supposed to have been caused by the use of polluted Tyne water, and yet it was clearly ascertained that disease was much more rife among those persons who used local well water. These facts, which have often been quoted, were not favorably received by the audience, who greeted with laughter Mr. Latham's assertion that water into which sewage matter has entered can be purified by a short exposure to the air. That statement may be too strong; but there is acknowledged truth in the author's main point. He considered it was clearly proved that water derived from underground sources, or from which light and air have been excluded, is impure, and consequently unfit for domestic use. Universal testimony showed that decaying matter easily found its way into underground sources of supply. Well water may become seriously contaminated by the slow steeping of noxious matters, and be less wholesome than the water of a running stream that receives much larger quantities of impurity.

THEORY OF THE RADIOMETER.

Prof. Crookes has at length announced a theory in explanation of the movements exhibited by the remarkable "light mill" of his invention. He says: "The evidence afforded by the experiments is to my mind so strong as almost to amount to conviction, that the repulsion resulting from radiation is due to the action of thermometric heat between the surface of the moving body and the case of the instrument, through the intervention of the residual gas. This explanation of its action is in accordance with recent speculations as to the ultimate constitution of matter, and the dynamical theory of gases." The most refined means for exhausting the air from the glass bulb which contains the suspended vanes of the radiometer leave, and if they were to be carried to absolute mechanical perfection, would still leave a certain amount of gas in it. But Dr. Crookes has carried this attenuation so far that the number of gas molecules present can no longer be considered as practically infinite. Nor is the mean length of their paths between their collisions any longer very small compared to the size of the bulb. The latest use to which the radiometer has been put was to test the viscosity of gases at decreasing pressures. The glass bulb was furnished with a stopper lubricated with burnt rubber. This was fixed and carried a fine thread of glass which is almost perfectly elastic. To the end of this thread hung a thin oblong plate of pith to which a mirror was attached. The glass stopper being fixed, and the bulb capable of rotation through a small angle, it is evident that when the bulb is rotated the pith ball will remain at rest except as it yields to the friction of the air moved by the bulb. It does move, swinging a certain distance and then back, like a pendulum. The amount of this movement is carefully observed by a telescope, and recorded for five successive beats. As the pith and glass fibre form a torsion pendulum, it is evident that these beats will gradually die down in consequence of the resistance of the air. By exhausting the air to various degrees of rarity, it was proved that Prof. Clerk Maxwell's theory, that the viscosity of a gas is independent of its density, is correct. The logarithmic decrement of the first five oscillations (that is, the decrease, oscillation by oscillation, of the logarithm of the arc through which the pith vanes swing), was found to be nearly the same when the air was almost exhausted as when it was at its natural pressure, proving that its viscosity remained nearly equal for all pressures. Only in the exceptionally perfect vacuum referred to above did this logarithmic decrement sink to about one-twentieth of what it had commenced with. Repulsion of the vane by the action of light commences when this decrement is one-fourth of what it was before the exhaustion of air began. As the rarity of the air within the bulb increases the force of this repulsion begins to diminish, like the logarithmic decrement, and when the latter has sunk to one-twentieth the former has fallen off one-half. All these and other facts previously obtained prove that the action of light is not _direct_, but _indirect_; and Dr. Crookes has, after repeatedly refusing to consider hasty judgments, in consequence come to the conclusion stated above, that the rotation of the light mill is the result of heat. This decision accords with the opinion of other observers. The radiometer has already entered the field of industrial science, and is used to measure the duration of exposure of photographic plates. De Fonvielle has made with it a new determination of the sun's thermometric power. He made a spectroscope with a graduated screen, which permitted the amount of light that entered the apparatus to be graduated at will. In the path of the beam he placed a radiometer, and by comparing its action in the graduated light ray, and in the light of a standard oil lamp, burning 42 grammes (11.3 ounces Troy) per hour, he found that at 4 o'clock, on June 4, 1876, the radiating force of the sun was equal to 14 lamps placed 25 centimetres (10 inches) from the radiometer.

TEMPERED GLASS IN THE HOUSEHOLD.

The "tempered glass," which has made the name of M. de la Bastie, its discoverer, so well known, does not prove to be always manageable. It was to have the strength of metal, and not shiver with changes of temperature. But an English lady has found that it sometimes has precisely the contrary characteristics. She purchased twelve globes for gaslights, and they were made in the manufactory of M. de la Bastie himself. But one night, after the gas had been extinguished for exactly an hour, one of the globes burst with a report, and fell in pieces on the floor, leaving the bottom ring still on the burner. These pieces, which were of course found to be perfectly cold, were some two or three inches long and an inch or so wide. They continued for an hour or more splitting up and subdividing themselves into smaller and still smaller fragments, each split being accompanied by a slight report, until at length there was not a fragment larger than a hazel nut, and the greater part of the glass was in pieces of about the size of a pea, and of a crystalline form. In the morning it was found that the rim had fallen from the burner to the floor in atoms. In all these phenomena the behavior was that of unannealed glass, of which so many curious performances have been related.

THE NEW YORK AQUARIUM.

A marine and fresh-water aquarium has been opened in New York, and both from its intrinsic merits and as the first attempt to institute in this country a valuable mode of scientific amusement and instruction, it deserves mention. It does not equal in size or arrangements any of the celebrated places of the kind abroad. Still it contains tanks of considerable size, and in them some very interesting denizens. The shark, sturgeon, skate, sea-turtle, and other fishes are represented by large individuals, and their habits can be watched at leisure. A small white whale was also at one time one of the attractions. Fish breeding is carried on in the establishment, which receives constant additions to its occupants by expeditions which are said to be especially planned for this purpose. In any case New York is an excellent point for an aquarium, and probably receives every year enough rare living fish at its great markets to maintain such an institution. The commencement now made is a worthy one, and it can easily become an important source of pleasure and usefulness. The system employed is that of constant circulation, the water being pumped from a reservoir to the several tanks. Pumps and pipes are made of hard rubber. A library, a naturalists' laboratory, equipped with tables, microscopes, etc., are either established or projected in the building.

THE CRUELTY OF HUNTING.

The outcry against the practice of making surgical experiments upon living dogs, rabbits, and other animals has roused some vivisectionists to return to the subject of hunting. This is one of the principal themes of the philosophic philanthropist, whose opposition to the practice seems to be an outgrowth of the better acquaintance which man has made, through science, with the lower animals. He accomplishes his task very effectively by calculating the number of animals which are wounded but not recovered by English sportsmen every year. The official returns show that in 1873-'4 there were 132,036 holders of gun licenses, and 65,846 holders of licenses to kill game in the British dominions. In 1874-'5 the numbers were 144,278 and 68,079, showing that the disposition and ability to hunt are on the increase. As a basis for computation, the partridge season of 21 weeks is taken, and two days' hunting are allowed for each week; while three birds are supposed to be wounded and "lost" daily by each sportsman. This gives 126 birds wounded and left to suffer unknown torments by each one of the 68,079 holders of game licenses. The total is no less than 8,296,496 "lost" birds in 1873-'4, and 8,577,954 in 1874-'5. Then the holders of gun licenses have the right to shoot birds which are destructive to crops, etc., and two lost birds each week in the year is calculated to be the average. This makes no less than 13,731,744 wounded birds in 1873-'4, and 15,004,912 in 1874-'5. The total is in round numbers _twenty million_ birds injured each year! These estimates are made by "Nature," and they correctly represent the ground on which the modern opposition to the hunt as a cruel and unnecessary occupation is based. Of course the figures are not exact. The only effort made was to have them within bounds; and considering all the varieties of game pursued in England, and the extraordinary keenness of Englishmen for sport, this estimate is probably correct. Quite lately they have been confirmed by a noted hunter on the western plains, who says that in his case a day's sport was usually marked by the "loss" of two or three animals. As he is an uncommon shot, his experience cannot be more unfortunate than the average. Such calculations show us how enormous are the results when the whole human race engages in one

## action. At present, English society offers the contradictory spectacle

of a large and increasing body of hunters who oppose vivisection on the ground of cruelty, and a small and increasing body of vivisectionists who oppose hunting also on the ground of cruelty.

THE GORILLA IN CONFINEMENT.

Great interest attaches to the career of the young gorilla now in the Berlin aquarium. Dr. Hermes described some of his peculiarities at a late meeting of the German Association of Naturalists and Physicians. He nods and claps his hands to visitors; wakes up like a man, and stretches himself. His keeper must always be beside him and eat with him. He eats what his keeper eats; they share dinner and supper. The keeper must remain by him till he goes to sleep, his sleep lasting eight hours. His easy life has increased his weight in a few months from thirty-one to thirty-seven pounds. For some weeks he had inflammation of the lungs, when his old friend Dr. Falkenstein was fetched, who treated him with quinine and Ems water, which made him better. When Dr. Hermes left the gorilla on the previous Sunday the latter showed the doctor his tongue, clapped his hands, and squeezed the hand of the doctor as an indication, the latter believed, of his recovery. Apparently he means to support, by every means in his power, the effort at a hot-house development of the ape to the man. A large glass house has been built for him in connection with the palm house.

INSTRUCTION SHOPS IN BOSTON.

The Boston Institute of Technology is somewhat noted for its boldness in making educational experiments; its efforts so far having been directed toward the introduction of practical trade instruction into an advanced school. Some years ago it endeavored to establish a model room for dressing ores and another for smelting them; but the success of this trial seems to be more than doubtful. Both of these pursuits are too extensive to be represented by one shop or by sample work. Nothing daunted by this failure, President Runkle has lately introduced a "filing shop" as the first step toward practical instruction in engineering work. This shop has about thirty work tables, each provided with a vise and tool drawers. Filing is one of the first things the young apprentice has to learn; and those who think that anybody can file who has hands may be surprised to learn that the filing of a hexagon bolt head is one of the tests for a Whitworth prize scholarship. The difficulty of making a flat surface is in that task combined with the necessity of having the faces of equal size and placed at equal angles to each other. The plan in the Boston institute is to have the student spend ten weeks in filing, and then the same length of time in each the forging shop and the turning shop. The two latter are not yet ready. These three steps form part of a two years' course in mechanical engineering, the tuition fee to which is $125 yearly. The main objection to such schools is that engineers and practical men persist in refusing to accept such instruction as a substitute for actual work. The Boston institute is making praiseworthy efforts, but it seems to be adopting a system which has never been in favor just at a time when the smelting works and machine shops of the country appear willing to unite with the scientific schools in supplying students with real experience of work as a requirement for a diploma.

* * * * *

A new mode of compressing arteries is by the use of a hard pad having a prominent projection, which is pressed against the artery or vein by a strong elastic ring of rubber passed over the limb.

* * * * *

The Harvard summer schools were so far successful that the last catalogue reports forty students in geology, twenty-five in chemistry, twenty-five in phenogamic botany, and six in cryptogamic botany.

* * * * *

A case in which the heart was severely wounded without causing immediate death lately occurred in England. The wound was made by a knife which passed between the third and fourth ribs, through the wall of the heart into the cavity of the left ventricle. The man lived sixty-four hours.

* * * * *

M. Peligot warns housekeepers against the advice so often given, to use borax for the preserving of meat. He finds that borax and the borates affect plants very seriously, and doubts whether it can be innocuous to animals. French beans watered once with a solution of borax quickly withered and died.

* * * * *

A young American, Dr. James by name, was killed with his partner (a Swede) at Yule Island in September last, by the natives of New Guinea. They were hunting birds of paradise at the time. Dr. James left some valuable collections which have been described before the Linnaean Society of London.

* * * * *

In extending the underground railway of London, the excavations disclosed Roman and other remains of considerable interest. Among the former there were found fragments of urns, specimens of pottery, and bronze coins. The most remarkable discovery was that of a thick stratum of bullock's horns, commencing about twenty feet below the surface, and extending to an unascertained distance beneath. Although the deposit was doubtless made many centuries ago, the horns had suffered so little by decay that they found a ready sale in the market. This road has carried in thirteen years 408,500,000 passengers. In 1863, the first year, the number was 9,500,000, which increased to 48,500,000 last year.

* * * * *

Foreign papers say that Mr. Floyd, the President of the board of trustees for the Lick donation, has come to an arrangement with M. Leverrier, the celebrated French astronomer, for the better execution of the instruments to be made for the Lick Observatory. The masses of glass required are to be made in Paris, at Feil's glass works, and the object-glasses very likely by an English optician.

* * * * *

Two distinguished men were officially superannuated last year: Profs. Milne-Edwards and Delafosse of the Paris Museum. The son of the former takes his place, and Descloiseaux succeeds to the chair of mineralogy. Professors Dove of Berlin and Woehler of Goettingen have had their _jubilaeum_ or fiftieth anniversary of their doctorates. All these facts illustrate the conservative influence of student life.

* * * * *

The Western mines of gold and silver have lately yielded some new and interesting minerals. Roscoelite is a vanadium mica from a gold mine at Granite creek, California. The vanadic acid varies from 20 to 23 per cent. Psittacinite is a vanadate of lead and copper, which occurs associated with gold, lead, and copper minerals at several mines in Silver Star district, Montana. It is considered to be a favorable indication, for when that is found the vein is said to become rich in gold. Coloradoite is a telluride of mercury, also a new mineral and quite rare.

* * * * *

Dr. Piggott proposes to replace the spider's web of telescopes by a star illuminated transit eye-piece. A sheet of glass, on which a thin film of silver is deposited, is placed in the focus of the eye lens; transparent lines are drawn on the film, instead of wires, and as the star passes across the lines it is seen to flash out brightly. The film of silver is made sufficiently thin to permit of the star being seen when it is between the lines, but it appears that the lines themselves are only visible, except in the case of very large stars, when the star disc is in transit across a line.

* * * * *

Singular results of strains existing in the granite rocks through which the St. Gothard tunnel is passing are recorded. When the shots are fired at the end of the gallery they are sometimes succeeded at unequal intervals by other explosions at points where there is no drill hole and no powder. Workmen have been injured by these spontaneous explosions, which are to be explained only on the theory that there are strains in the rock; and when this tension is increased by the shock of a heavy explosion, the rock flies in pieces with noise. Similar effects have been noticed in other granites.

* * * * *

It is said that aniline colors are now used to color wines, and that enough of them is taken into the Bordeaux district of France to color one-third of its whole product. Husson gives the following method for detecting it: Take a small quantity of the wine and add a little ammonia, when the mixture turns a dirty green. Steep a thread of white woollen yarn in the liquor and allow a drop of vinegar to flow along it. If the color of the wine is natural, as the drop advances the original whiteness of the wool is restored; but if the wine has been sophisticated with magenta, the wool will take a rose color. This test is simple, easily tried, and effective.

* * * * *

An inquiry into the results of systematic gymnastic exercises in a French military school shows that the strength is increased on the average 15 to 17 per cent., and is also equalized on both sides of the body. The capacity of the chest is increased at least 16 per cent. and the weight 6 to 7 per cent. Coincident with this increase is a decrease in the bulk of the body, showing that fat is changed to muscle. The improvement is confined to the first three months of the course unless the exercise is then moderated. If continued at too high a rate, weakness succeeds the increase of strength. It would be a good plan to place a dynamometer in every gymnasium as a measure of the changes which take place in the gymnast.

MOON MADNESS.

The popular belief that the moon's rays will cause madness in any person who sleeps exposed to them has long been felt to be absurd, and yet it has appeared to have its source in undoubted facts. Some deleterious influence is experienced by those who rashly court slumber in full moonshine, and probably there is no superstition to which the well-to-do pay more attention. Windows are often carefully covered to keep the moonbeams from entering sleeping rooms. A gentleman living in India furnishes "Nature" with an explanation of this phenomenon which is at least plausible. He says: "It has often been observed that when the moon is full, or near its full time, there are rarely any clouds about; and if there be clouds before the full moon rises, they are soon dissipated; and therefore a perfectly clear sky, with a bright full moon, is frequently observed. A clear sky admits of rapid radiation of heat from the surface of the earth, and any person exposed to such radiation is sure to be chilled by rapid loss of heat. There is reason to believe that, under the circumstances, paralysis of one side of the face is sometimes likely to occur from chill, as one side of the face is more likely to be exposed to rapid radiation, and consequent loss of its heat. This chill is more likely to occur when the sky is perfectly clear. I have often slept in the open in India on a clear summer night, when there was no moon; and although the first part of the night may have been hot, yet toward two or three o'clock in the morning, the chill has been so great that I have often been awakened by an ache in my forehead, which I as often have counteracted by wrapping a handkerchief round my head, and drawing the blanket over my face. As the chill is likely to be greatest on a very clear night, and the clearest nights are likely to be those on which there is a bright moonshine, it is very possible that neuralgia, paralysis, or other similar injury, caused by sleeping in the open, has been attributed to the moon, when the proximate cause may really have been the _chill_, and the moon only a remote cause acting by dissipating the clouds and haze (if it do so), and leaving a perfectly clear sky for the play of radiation into space."

THE ARGUMENT AGAINST VACCINATION.

An English physician opposes compulsory vaccination on the ground that it prevents further discovery, and compels medical science to halt at just that point, because it forbids experiment upon methods of prevention that may prove to be better. He says: "It stereotypes a

## particular stage of scientific knowledge, and bars further progress. If

I remind you of the great improvement thought to have been made by the introduction of inoculation by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu at the end of the last century, and ask you to suppose that Parliament might then have passed an act to compel every one to be inoculated, you will, I think, see what is meant. This method was tried for some years with great _eclat_, but afterward it was found to spread the smallpox so much that an act of Parliament was passed to forbid its use. Vaccination, introduced by Dr. Jenner, has followed, and this was another step in advance. I was the first child in my father's family vaccinated seventy-one years ago, several elder brothers and sisters having been inoculated. Both methods answered in our cases. But for many years I have been satisfied that other diseases besides the modified small-pox (called cow-pox) are now introduced by the old vaccine, and have steadily refused to use it, seeking rather, at increased trouble and expense, new vaccine. And the question which comes forcibly to the front is this: May not some other preservative be discovered which shall be a further improvement? This question cannot be answered so long as vaccination is compelled by law. There are no persons upon whom experiments can be tried." So far as it goes, this is valid ground for criticising vaccination laws. But the proof that small-pox is more disastrous to the human race than the evils that vaccination brings with it is so strong that there is little likelihood society will subject itself to the attacks of the greater enemy in order to avoid the lesser. The evils of the old system of using vaccine taken from human beings for new inoculations are now no longer inevitable. Fresh vaccine direct from the calf, and called "Bovine," can be had everywhere. A large establishment for obtaining it is situated near New York.

CURRENT LITERATURE.

Colonel Dodge's "Plains of the Great West"[O] is one of the most entertaining and important books of the kind we have met with. Whether he treats of the chase, the natural history of the wild animals found on our continent, or the Indians, he draws upon abundant resources of observation and experience. His description of the much talked of "plains" is new. He distinguishes three of these, the first lying next the mountains, the next known as the "High Plains," being to the eastward, and finally the broad surface of the lower plains. As the high plains are more fertile than either of the others (owing to diversities of soil), we have the singular effect of a country suddenly becoming more fertile as the interior of the continent is more deeply penetrated. Of other peculiarities exhibited in this region our author gives a vivid account, and it requires all our faith in his accuracy to have confidence in the following description of the famous Bad Lands, the scene of so much Scientific search:

The ground is covered with fragments of the bones of animals and reptiles, and the man must indeed be insensible who can pass unmoved through these most magnificent burying-grounds of animals extinct before the advent of his race.

Almost everywhere throughout the whole length and breadth of the plains are found, in greater or less profusion, animal remains, fossils, shells, and petrifactions. Bones are very numerous and in great variety, from the saurian and mastodon to the minutest reptile, ranging in point of time from the remotest ages to the present day.

[Footnote O: "_The Plains of the Great West and their Inhabitants._" By (Lieutenant-Colonel) RICHARD IRVING DODGE. With an Introduction by William Blackmore. Illustrated. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.]

His description of other features of this vast region is full of interest. The two remarkable belts of forest, called the cross timbers, stretching for a hundred miles through a trackless country, but not increasing their width beyond their normal eight to twelve miles; the extraordinary rivers, half sand, half water, the mazes of which confound the Indian, usually so acute in the field; the sand streams, which repeat in that material the puzzle of the cross timbers, and are even more inexplicable. While the desert does not narrow the cross timber belts, nor water widen them, the wind seems to have no effect on these sand streams, though the material that composes them is so light as to rise on every puff of air. Like the cross timbers, the sand streams pursue their way across the country, regarding neither wet nor dry, hill nor stream. Their origin lies in forces not yet known, and though they may seem to be the sport of existing conditions, they really maintain themselves indifferent to their surroundings. Things like these prove that Americans need not go to the Sahara for novel aspects of nature. Our author has a quick perception of what is striking in these scenes, and describes them in vigorous and pictorial language.

Colonel Dodge is one of the most noted hunters in our army, and his descriptions of the chase deserve to rank with those of Cummings, Baker, and other great African sportsmen. It is true our country does not afford the hunter such a slaughter field as South Africa has been. A few animals have increased on our soil to such an extent as to afford at certain seasons opportunities for unlimited slaughter. But the past five years have seen such destruction of the last of these--the buffalo--that wholesale killing is no longer possible on any ground the white man is suffered to visit. Three years more will carry us to the end of the decade, and probably of the buffalo hunt as it has been in the past. About five years ago a change came over the pursuit of this animal. He began to be killed for his hide alone, and the results are almost incredible. Colonel Dodge shows that in three years no less than 4,373,730 buffalo were killed by whites and Indians. It is evidently impossible for any animal, bringing forth but one at a birth, to maintain its increase against such heedless destruction. The present winter has witnessed what is probably the last grand attack upon these animals, as they took refuge in the sheltering mountains of northwestern Texas from the cold and snow-covered plains. Very soon the noblest prey of the sportsman on this continent will be one of his rarest prizes. Colonel Dodge does not lack the usual hunter's fund of anecdote. His own adventures are modestly told, and when "seven antelope and a fine dog" are bagged with one shot, the story is credited (with the Colonel's guarantee) to an anonymous "old hunter"! We have said that the plains do not rival the African field in quantity of game, but the dimensions of two separate "bags," shot in successive years, shows how great even in this country the rewards of the chase may be. In 1872 five gentlemen, of whom Colonel Dodge was one, bagged 1,262 head, and next year four shot 1,141 head on the same ground, and the author thinks "the whole world can be safely challenged to offer a greater variety of game."

But interesting as the chase is in our author's hands, the most important part of the book is that in which the Indians are described and discussed. To one who knows the unanimity of army opinion concerning the much debated Indian question in the West, it is almost unnecessary to say that Colonel Dodge wishes to see the tribes transferred to the sole control of the War Department, treaty-making stopped at once, discipline introduced, the vagabond whites eliminated from the tribes, and the never-ceasing stream of outrages stopped. These opinions, which the author shares with the Western community at large, are founded on a very intimate knowledge of the Indians, and while they are invaluable as the testimony of so competent an authority, they must yield in immediate interest to the very vivid picture which the author gives of Indian life and his estimate of Indian character. While what he says is not novel, and could hardly be novel after the many thousands of works on the same subject, his views are based on his own observation, and the facts are presented with so much force that we gain a new idea of the American savage. His essential moral characteristic is his love of cruelty. What the savage thinks about in the frequent and long continued seasons of idle solitude, it has long puzzled the ethnologist to discover. Colonel Dodge says that a large part of the Indian's brooding thoughts are given to the invention of modes of inflicting pain when he has the opportunity to do so, and many of the camp fire discussions are upon suggestions for cruelty. When the captive is brought in his tortures are not inflicted in mere accordance with the momentary promptings of a brutal nature. They may have been invented years before in some far distant camp, in the profoundest peace, or may be copied from some noted example of successful cruelty. They may have grown by one suggestion added to another, among men whose knowledge of natural history includes a marvellous perception of what parts of the frame are most sensitive to pain. The Indian's cruelty is his pride. He gains credit by it among his people, and he who invents a new torture is a leader. Cruelty is a merit among these savages. It has rewards which make this passion one of the most noticeable elements in their system of morality. No other author has presented this aspect of Indian character with the clearness of Colonel Dodge. His frequent illustrations show that it is no temporary impulse, but a race characteristic carefully fostered by tradition and perhaps by religion. But what position does all this give the Indian among other races of men? Clearly he stands apart. The cannibal may dance around the living victims who are soon to appear upon his table, and the prisoner may be made to grace his conqueror's triumph, or the altar of his conqueror's god, at any cost of suffering to himself, but no other race, savage or civilized, has ever been shown to cultivate cruelty for its own sake as the American Indian does. It is not from fear, revenge, hate, or any other extraneous cause that he studies so fondly and long over the means of giving pain. Cruelty is a thing to be enjoyed for itself. The author has spoken with such plainness upon the position of captive women in the hands of Indians, that we fear his book will be objected to in just those quarters where its revelations are most likely to do good. There is one thing which we wish he had made clear--whether the brutality shown toward captive women is a practice which has grown among the Cheyennes since they were driven from their old home, or whether that has always been their mode of procedure. In some quarters this particular brutality has been spoken of as the outgrowth of their sufferings at the hands of the whites.

Colonel Dodge's book shows a rare combination of acute observation, long experience, and the spirit of good fellowship. It is one of the best books of hunting we know of, the best book ever written about the plains, and its pictures and anecdotes of hunting life and Indian fighting are a faithful reproduction of the peculiar conditions to be found only on our great plains, with the anomalous relations of the civilized and barbarous races that haunt them. The publishers have illustrated it liberally. The Indian portraits are worthy of especial mention for the minute accuracy which makes them ethnological examples of unusual value.

* * * * *

The zoological collections described in the fifth volume of Reports, Survey west of the Hundredth Meridian,[P] were all obtained in that zoological province known as the "Campestrian region," from the great plains which it includes. There the animal colors are pale and tend toward uniformity, corresponding to the low rainfall of from three to twenty inches per year. In this peculiarity, and also in comparison with the surrounding more humid regions, the district of country in which the Government surveys are now carried on sustains the general theory that coloration in animals is closely dependent on rainfall, a humid atmosphere serving to cloak the sun's rays and preserve the natural dyes (mostly organic) from bleaching out. Dr. Yarrow thinks that the entirely rainless parts of this vast Campestrian region may ultimately deserve recognition as a separate zoological province. The observations made as to the mimicry of color which some animals, especially reptiles, exert or suffer lead him to believe that "a law may yet be formulated in this respect which will equally apply to all classes of animals." This mimicry was especially noticed in serpents and lizards found near red sandstone deposits, the well-known little _Phrynosoma_, or horned toad, being greenish gray, nearly white, or deep red, as it was found on the plain, the alkali flat, or the sandstone soil. But however profound the change, the skin returned to its normal color within a day or two after removal from the determining locality. In regard to the rattlesnake, we have the welcome information that it is apparently decreasing in numbers, and the less agreeable fact that with other serpents, it principally frequents the neighborhood of settlements. The collections of all kinds made by the explorers prove to be unexpectedly perfect in spite of the rapidity with which they are forced to move, and losses by fire and railroad accident. The report upon these collections is drawn up with the care and thoroughness that are such creditable features of recent American official work. A copious bibliography and synonomy is attached to the descriptions of species. The allotment of reports is as follows: Geographical Distribution, Dr. H. C. Yarrow; Mammals, Dr. Elliott Coues and Dr. Yarrow; Birds, H. W. Henshaw; Batrachians and Reptiles, Dr. Yarrow; Fishes, Prof. E. D. Cope and Dr. Yarrow; Insects, E. T. Cresson, E. Norton, T. L. Mead, R. H. Stretch, C. R. Osten-Sacken, H. Ulke, R. P. Uhler, Cyrus Thomas, H. A. Hagen; Mollusca, Dr. Yarrow. These names show how carefully the head of the survey, Lieutenant Wheeler, has sought assistance in the important work of classification. But these are by no means all from whom he and his assistants acknowledge service. The list given in the preface numbers more than forty persons, and includes the best known specialists in this country. Forty-five plates, colored when necessary, accompany the text. In every respect the report is worthy the important survey from which it emanates.

[Footnote P: "_Report upon Geographical and Geological Explorations and Surveys West of the Hundredth Meridian_," in charge of First Lieutenant GEORGE M. WHEELER. Vol. V., Zoology.]

* * * * *

Though it is now quite common to find the life of two or even three continents mingled in one web of fiction, few writers make so close a subjective study of the immigrant's experiences as Mr. Boyesen has done in his "Tales from Two Hemispheres."[Q] In fact he stands almost alone in this field, and for a good reason; he is a participant where others are onlookers. We are often told of the impression American ladies make on foreign gentlemen, but rarely receive an analysis of it or are offered even an attempt to analyze it. And yet this appears to be one of the most promising exhibitions of human feeling ever studied. The intercourse of the sexes, necessarily the subject of all romance, may obviously have its situations heightened in every way by the juxtaposition of two races, two diverse educations, and two opposite moral systems, conjointly with the customary incidents of love-making. Our author is fully alive to his opportunity, and, short as his tales are, they bristle with dramatic scenes, and have an element of the mythical and legendary in them, even when they are removed from such professedly mystical subjects as he has treated in "Asathor's Vengeance." Even in drawing-room scenes in New York the love-making is ideal and romantic instead of calculating or passionate, as the current novel commonly paints it. This mode of treatment implies that the tales are either pathetic or fanciful, and in Mr. Boyesen's hands they are all pathetic. He shows unusual power in this style of writing, and has the natural and quiet humor which it demands. But there is a rudeness in the construction and language of all of these stories which sometimes blinds the reader to the really delicate insight into human feeling displayed in them. The author writes like one who has the conception of what he wants to do, but not yet the full command of the means. But this is a fault that practice cures, and we trust Mr. Boyesen will continue his studies in this essentially novel and peculiarly promising field of literature.

[Footnote Q: "_Tales from Two Hemispheres._" By HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.]

--In "Captain Mago"[R] we have a kind of book which with proper attention may be made extremely interesting and valuable. It is an attempt to reconstruct the life of three thousand years ago, not merely among the Phoenicians, but in many other countries. Under the guise of an expedition sent by the King of Tyre to Tarshish for the purpose of collecting materials for the Jewish temple which King David was then planning, we are taken to Judaea, Egypt, Crete, Italy, Spain, France, England, and Africa. Such an expedition of course gives the author an opportunity to present a panoramic view of the civilization in those countries thirty centuries ago. We cannot say that he has performed the task well. He dwells too much upon what he imagines to be the language and conversation of the ancients and too little on those material facts in their life which can be proved or plausibly imagined from the remains of it which we have gathered. Ancient habits are but very obscurely exhibited in the rude tools, the fragments of village houses, the necklace of the Man of Mentone, the whistles and other toys of the caves, the funereal fireplaces, and similar objects, but they are much more plainly discernible than are the peculiarities of speech which must have made up the bulk of daily conversation among our ancestors. A reconstruction of ancient life based on a good knowledge of these objects is likely to be more instructive and real than one that depends for its force on a fanciful conception of their _thouing_ and _theeing_, their love-making, and what oaths they swore. In fact, real service could be done to "popular" science by a book that should exhibit our remote forefathers as we really know them, and not attempting to go beyond that point. Difficult as it will necessarily be to make such an undertaking successful, we have no doubt that it will one day be accomplished. "Captain Mago," though falling far short even of excellence in this field, is nevertheless an interesting and peculiar book.

[Footnote R: "_The Adventures of Captain Mago_; or, A Phoenician Expedition B.C. 1000." By LEON CAHUN. Translated by Ellen E. Frewer. Illustrated. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co.]

--The defect of "Captain Mago" is that its author has endeavored to reconstruct from remains of a purely literary kind the life of a time which was antecedent to the most of our oldest literature. Another author, Mr. Mahaffy, has had great success in a similar field because he chose for reconstruction a society which has left literary monuments of a very varied character and great abundance. His "Social Life in Greece" and other works about the ancient Greeks were written before he ever saw that historic country, and yet he tells us in his last work,[S] written after a personal visit and stay of some time, that his former writings were sufficiently true to the Greece of to-day to deceive living Greeks into the belief that he had been intimately acquainted with their landscapes and familiar customs. Mr. Mahaffy's "Rambles" among modern Greeks are a very interesting finish to his idealizations of their ancestors. It is comforting to know that after all her spoliations the country is still so rich in remains of ancient art as to retain more fine and pure specimens of the best work than are to be found in all the rest of the world. Very little is done toward uncovering and nothing toward restoring these sculptures, for the Greeks are jealous of foreigners and unable or not sufficiently interested to do this themselves. They are willing to allow others to do the work, but Greece must have all the profit. Still, there the works lie, and may be recovered at some future day. We may even be comforted to think they are well covered with soil, for the present inhabitants of the country, with exquisite barbarity that their ancestors could not have practised, use the standing monuments of art as a mark for pistol practice! Another point in which they show a constitutional divergence from their forefathers is in the singular barrenness that has fallen upon their women. Once their land teemed with a native-born population. Now the household remains so long childless that it is very common to find the wife's mother a permanent member of the household, being retained for companionship! Even the mature family contains but few children, and this in the best agricultural parts of the country. While these differences exist the author is not at a loss to find strange resemblances. The yellow hair and fair complexion, the forms which are even now types of the same race that stood for the old statues, the language, and a multitude of other things prove that the old race continues in purity and that Greece is not now filled with a mere mixture of Turks, Albanians, and Sclaves. Our author has a poor opinion of the Greek's capacity for government, and likens them to the Irish. He thinks that both these races are constitutionally incapable of government, and need subjugation by a foreigner. In this characteristic he finds a strong resemblance between the modern and the ancient Greek, for both have suffered personal jealousy to outweigh the strongest promptings of patriotism. Mr. Mahaffy shows himself to be as able as an observer as he is as an historian.

[Footnote S: "_Rambles and Studies in Greece._" By J. P. MAHAFFY. Macmillan & Co.]

--The peculiar character of De Quincey's work gives unusual opportunity for such a volume of selections as this, published under the untasteful name of "Beauties."[T] He had all the mental power required for sustained efforts in composition, though his plans for such works were always defeated by physical weakness. His productions, therefore, though incomplete, are not those of a literary trifler. His genius and methods seem to be especially suited to the tastes of the present day, for he excelled in the qualities that make the professional magazinist: great learning, research, and acuteness, combined with a humor that sports most waywardly through everything he wrote, a vivid fancy, a wonderful use of words, and a style which even in its faults exhibits the needs of periodical literature. He was, perhaps, more exactly fitted to serve the world in its chosen field of current publications than any other man who has written for it. Were he living now he would be acknowledged the prince of the nebulous gentlemen who occupy easy chairs, gather in contributors' clubs, and fill up "editors' baskets" with their effusions. We have additional respect for the somewhat chopped up productions of these gentlemen, after reading the numerous volumes that bear his name, for there we find how much of every sort of literary good they can contain. The editor of these selections is a lucky man, for his work has the merit, rare among such books, of being thoroughly good in itself. He has with excellent judgment given us somewhat of autobiography, somewhat of the rare and indescribable dream life of De Quincey, and somewhat of his tales, essays, and critiques. The character of his author's writings relieves these morsels from the air of incompleteness and decapitation which so often attaches to selections. What he has given us is not all of De Quincey, but each chapter is complete in itself. Selections usually repel us. We cannot join in the argument so often found in prefaces to such works, that the reading of them may lead to the reading of the author's whole works. On the contrary, we are of that class to whom the cutting up of a good author is apt to seem like vivisection--necessary, perhaps, but revolting. This book, however, does not leave such an impression. On laying it down we wonder why we are not constantly reading the great essayist, the precursor of the literary spirit of our own times, probably a better example than any now living of the many virtues demanded from the popular writer.

[Footnote T: "_Beauties Selected from the Writings of Thomas De Quincey._" New York: Hurd & Houghton.]

* * * * *

Under the editorship of Mr. John Austin Stevens we may look for a valuable and permanent publication in the "Magazine of American History, with Notes and Queries," of which A. S. Barnes & Co. are the publishers. The position of the editor as librarian of the New York Historical Society will, or at all events should, be an additional source of strength to the publication. Experience shows that literary undertakings which possess more merit than popularity can derive great advantages from the official countenance of societies pursuing allied subjects of investigation. Properly managed, the two modes of obtaining union in

## action can be made to help each other materially. This hint will perhaps

be considered not amiss since the pamphlet, printed with the neatness characteristic of such works, which lies before us, is but a specimen and preliminary number, which is to be followed by monthly issues in quarto form, at $5 yearly, if sufficient support is obtained. The editor says: "Each number will contain: I. An original article on some point of American history from a recognized and authoritative pen. II. A biographical sketch of some character of historic interest. III. Original documents, diaries, and letters. IV. Reprints of rare documents. V. Notes and queries in the well-known English form. VI. Reports of the proceedings of the New York Historical Society. VII. Notices of historical publications." He also promises to keep it free from sectional prejudices and "from personality and controversy in any form." He has ready for publication a large number of interesting old manuscripts contributed by historians and collectors, and it is to be hoped his attempt to establish a periodical for historical literature will be sustained.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

"_Materialism and Theology._" JAMES MARTINEAU, LL.D. G. P. Putnam's Sons.

"_Waverley Novels_," Riverside Edition, "Heart of Midlothian." Hurd & Houghton.

_The Same._ "Bride of Lammermoor."

_The Same._ "The Monastery."

"_Footsteps of the Master._" HARRIET B. STOWE. J. B. Ford & Co.

"_Functions of the Brain._" Illustrated. D. FERRIER, M.D. G. P. Putnam's Sons.

"_The Plains of the Great West._" Illustrated. Lieutenant Colonel RICHARD I. DODGE. G. P. Putnam's Sons.

"_The Sons of Godwin._" A Tragedy. WILLIAM LEIGHTON, Jr. J. B. Lippincott & Co.

"_Personal Relations Between Librarian and Readers._" SAM. S. GREEN. Chas. Hamilton, Worcester, Mass.

"_Special Report on Worcester Free Library._" The same.

"_Tales from Two Hemispheres._" H. H. BOYESEN. Jas. R. Osgood & Co.

"_The Problems of Problems._" CLARK BRADEN. Chase & Hall, Cincinnati.

"_Archology_; or, The Science of Government." V. BLAKESLEE. A. Roman & Co.

"_Woman as a Musician._" FANNY RAYMOND RITTER. Ed. Schuberth & Co.

"_Vivisection._" Copp Clark & Co., Toronto.

"_Cholera Facts of the Last Year._" E. MCCLELLAN, M.D. Richmond & Louisville Medical Journal office.

"_Art Journal._" Photo-Engraving Co., New York.

"_History of the City of New York._" Parts 5 to 10. Mrs. M. J. LAMB. A. S. Barnes & Co.

"_The Magazine of American History._" JNO. AUSTIN STEVENS, editor. A. S. Barnes & Co.

"_National Quarterly Review._" D. A. GORTON, editor.

"_National Survey West of 100th Meridian._" Vol. 5, Zoology. Dr. H. C. YARROW and others. Government Printing Office.

"_Catalogue Siamese Exhibit International Exhibition._" J. B. Lippincott & Co.

"_Planetary Meteorology, Mansill's Almanac of._" R. MANSILL. R. Crampton, Rock Island.

"_Notes on Assaying._" R. DE P. RICKETTS. Art Printing Establishment.

"_Mental Powers of Insects._" A. S. PACKARD, Jr. Estes & Lauriat.

"_Beauties of De Quincey._" Hurd & Houghton.

"_The Convicts._" B. AUERBACH. H. Holt & Co.

"_Philosophical Discussions._" C. WRIGHT. H. Holt & Co.

"_The Sons of Goodwin._" W. LEIGHTON. J. B. Lippincott & Co.

"_Rambles and Studies in Greece._" J. P. MAHAFFY. Macmillan & Co.

"_Mother and Daughter._" F. S. VERDI, M. D. J. B. Ford & Co.

"_Marie._ A Story of Russian Lore." MARIE H. DE ZIELINSKI. Jansen, McClurg & Co.

"_The Barton Experiment._" By the author of "Helen's Babies." G. P. Putnam's Sons.

NEBULAE.

--It would seem that we must return to the old fashion of strong boxes, old stockings, and cracked pipkins as the receptacles of our savings. As to savings banks and trust companies, and life insurance companies, the revelations of the last few months go to show that they do anything but save; that they are no longer to be trusted, and that they ensure nothing but total loss to those who put their money into them. Ere long it will be said of a young man that he was poor but honest, although he had the misfortune to have a father who was a director in several important financial institutions. The state of affairs in this respect is frightful; and it frightens. The financial panic has been followed by a moral panic which is really as much more deplorable than its predecessor as moral causes are more radical in their operation and more enduring than those which are merely material. Confidence is gone. How it is to be restored is a problem far more perplexing than how to revive drooping trade. For that the real wealth of the country, never greater than it is now and constantly increasing, must bring about sooner or later. But if men of wealth and of fair reputation are no longer to be trusted, what is the use of saving, to put money into a box where it gains nothing and where thieves break through and steal? Robbery seems to be the fashion; on the one hand masked burglars with pistols at your heads and gags in the mouths of your wife and children, and on the other hypocritical, lying, false-swearing, thieving scoundrels who get your money under fair pretences, and because of your trust in their characters and good faith, and then waste it in speculations and in luxurious living. Of the two, the burglars seem to be rather the more respectable. It is said, on good authority, that the West India slaves of a past generation could be trusted to carry bags of gold from one part of the Spanish Main to another, and that they were constantly so trusted with entire impunity. They would kidnap, and on occasion stab or cut a throat; but if they were trusted, they would not break their faith. The honesty of the Turkish porters is so well known that it has become almost proverbial. Does not the honesty of these pirates and pagans put to shame the Christians who with the professions and the faces of Pharisees "devour widows' houses"?

--For as to the business of life insurance, savings banks, and trust companies, it is somewhat more, or surely somewhat other, than mere business. And so those who practise it and profit by it profess that it is. A life insurance company is a grand combination philanthropico-financial corporation whose motto is, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt receive it again." But the truth of the matter turns out to be that if you cast your bread upon the waters, the chances are that you will see it devoured before your eyes by financial sharks. One case in point has come directly to our knowledge. A gentleman, a Government officer, who has a moderate salary, with little or no hope of acquiring property, insured his life twenty years or more ago in what was thought a good company. His premium was always promptly paid even in the flush times of the war and afterward, when the fixed salaries of public officers lost more than half their purchasing power. Within the last few months he has suddenly found that his policy is not worth the paper on which it is magnificently printed. But worse than this: within the last few years, as age has crept upon him, there has come with it a disease which is incurable although he may live for some time longer. Now, however, he cannot get his life insured at all; no company will take his life; (it is a rueful jest to say that the company in question _did_ take his life); and he has the prospect before him of a widow left entirely without provision, although for nearly a quarter of a century he and she stinted themselves to provide against such a contingency. Meantime the officers of the company lived luxuriously, and used the money in their hands for speculation, and in living which if not riotous, was at least shameless and dishonest. And they were all men of reputation, were selected for their positions because it was thought that men of their position and habits of life and outward bearing were incorruptible. Have they not devoured that prospective widow's house? If He who condemned the hypocritical Pharisees of old were on the earth now, would he not pronounce Woe upon them? And much would they care about His condemnation if they could get their commissions, and their pickings and stealings, and live in splendid houses, and be known as the managers of an institution that handled millions of dollars yearly, and whose offices were gorgeous with many-colored marbles, and gilding, and inlaid wood, and rich carpets!

And like their predecessors in the devouring of widows' houses for a pretence, they make long prayers. They, we say; but of course we do not mean all; for there are honest officers of life insurance companies, and even sound companies; but the number of both is shown day after day to be less and less; and when we think that those that we hear about are only they which have reached the end of their tether in fraud, perjury, and swindling, the prospect before us is one of the most disheartening that could be presented to a reflecting people. For remember, these defaulting, false-swearing life insurance and savings bank officers are picked men, and that their dishonest practices are from their very nature deliberate, slow of execution, and that in fact they have gone on for years. It is no clutch of drowning men at financial straws that we have here; it is the regular "confidence game" played on an enormous scale by men who are regarded as the most respectable that can be found in the whole community. They are vestrymen, and deacons, and elders, and grave and reverend signors, and these men have deliberately used and abused the confidence not only of the community in general, but of their friends and acquaintance, to "convey" in Nym's phrase, to steal in plain English, money which was brought within their reach because of their pretended high principle and their philanthropic motives. For, we repeat, it must constantly be kept in mind as an aggravation of these wrongs, that life insurance companies and savings banks are essentially and professedly benevolent institutions. They are, and they openly profess to be, chiefly for the benefit of widows and children. The man who takes to himself the money of a life insurance company or of a savings bank is not a mere thief and swindler; he robs the widow and the fatherless; he takes his place among those who are accursed of all men; and moreover, in all these cases he is a hypocrite of the deepest dye.

--In any case, however, there is reason for fearing that the business of life insurance has in the main long been rotten, even when it has not been deliberately corrupt. Professedly and originally a benevolent contrivance by which men of moderate incomes could year by year make provision for wives and children who might otherwise be left destitute, it was reasonable and right to expect that the business of life insurance would be conducted upon the most economical principles and in the simplest and most unpretending fashion; that there would have been only as much expenditure as was absolutely necessary for the proper conduct of the business; and that safety for the insured would have been the first if not the only ruling motive with the insurers. And such indeed was life insurance in the beginning. But by and by it was found that there was "money in it," and the sleek, snug hypocrites that prey upon society under the guise of philanthropy and religion began to swarm around it. Life insurance companies began to have a host of officers; they had "actuaries," whatever they may be, who, by whatever motives they were actuated, contrived and put forth statements which to the common mind were equally plausible and bewildering; they entered into bitter rivalry with each other in their philanthropic careers; they had agents who went abroad over the land in swarms, smooth-speaking, shameless creatures who would say anything, promise anything so long as they got their commissions; they published gorgeous pamphlets, tumid and splendid with self-praise, and filled with tabular statements that justified and illustrated the denying that there is nothing so untrustworthy as facts, except figures; they contrived the "mutual" plan, by which they made it appear to some men that they could insure their own lives--which is much like a man's trying to hoist himself over a fence by the straps of his boots--and yet these mutual officers, benevolent creatures, were as eager to get business and as ready to pay large commissions as if, poor, simple-minded souls, they had expected to get rich by life insuring; and then they put up huge and enormously expensive buildings, more like palaces than any others known to our country. And all this came out of the pockets of those who are, with cruel mockery, called the insured. It is the old story: ten cents to the beneficiary and ninety cents to the agent through whose hands the money passes. Is it not plain, merely from the grand scale and the large pretence on which this life insurance business has been carried on of late years, that it is rotten? It is a scheme for making money. Now, making money is right enough; but when it is carried on under philanthropic and benevolent pretences its tendency must naturally be, as we have seen that it has been, to gross corruption and the most heartless fraud.

* * * * *

The point of honor has been deemed of use To teach good manners and to curb abuse.

So wrote Cowper in his "Conversation," nearly a century ago, when duelling was beginning to go out of fashion, even among men who did not look upon it from a religious point of view. There is no doubt that the passage which these lines introduce did much to bring the custom of settling personal quarrels by single combat into disrepute. Cowper, the moral poet _par excellence_ of the English language, attained this eminence chiefly because he wrote, not like a fanatic, or a canting pietist, but like a Christian gentleman and a man of sense. A man of family, he thought and felt as a gentleman, and addressed himself to gentlemen; and indeed, in his day poetry, at least of the quality that he produced, had very few readers outside the pale of gentry. His view of duelling is the one which now prevails in most communities of English blood in all parts of the world. Germans and Frenchmen and the Latin races generally still fight upon personal provocation, and in our late slave States and among the rude and fierce men who guard and extend our western borders, "misunderstandings" are settled by the bullet or the knife, and if not on the spot, with the weapon at hand, then in a regularly arranged duel in which the forms are entirely subordinate to the essentials of a bloody and vindictive contest. With these exceptions, however, duelling among the English-speaking people has come to be regarded as both folly and crime. Nothing could evince more strongly the change that has taken place in the moral sense of the world; for to resent an insult by a challenge to fight, and to accept such a challenge without a moment's hesitation, were once the highest duties of a gentleman. There was a reason for this; and without advocating or defending the practice of duelling, it may be questioned whether that reason has entirely disappeared.

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--Our readers need not fear that we are about to defend or to palliate the conduct of either of the parties to the recent affair which began in Fifth Avenue in New York and ended on the Maryland border; but the fact that that occurrence or series of occurrences has attracted the attention of the whole country, makes it a proper occasion of remark upon the questions involved in such encounters. And first we must set aside the Cowper view of the subject, not in its conclusion, but in its reasoning. For however Christian in sentiment and sound in its final judgment the passage in the "Conversation" may be, its author's position is not logically impregnable. For it rests upon the assumption embodied in the couplet--

Amoral, sensible, and well-bred man Will not affront me, and no other can.

But if this be true, it follows that a man cannot be insulted, which is an absurdity; for men are insulted, as we all know--and we are happy if we do not know it by experience. Moreover, men are insulted more frequently where the "code of honor" does not prevail than where it does; for that code is of use; and if it does not teach good manners, it certainly does curb abuse. The question to be decided is whether in the teaching of manners and the curbing of abuse by the alternative and arbitrament of bloody combat we are not paying too high a price for what we gain. To consider the example which is the occasion of our remark. A man is met in the street by another with whom he has been upon terms of social intercourse, and is there publicly whipped. He faces his assailant, resists, but is overcome because the assailant is the stronger and the more dexterous. What shall he do? Submit quietly? That may be Christian conduct; but whether it is good public policy, to say nothing more, may at least be questioned; for it would place the greater part of the community at the mercy of the strong brawling bullies. Two courses are open to a person so assailed--either to place the matter in the hands of the law, in a civil or a criminal suit, or to challenge the assailant. In most cases it may be admitted that the former course is the wiser and the better course. Where mere protection against personal injury is sought a police justice and a police officer are the effective as well as the lawful means. But there is something else to be considered. The mere personal injury may be slight, and there may be no fear of its repetition, and yet there is a wrong done that may rankle deeper than a wound. Personal indignity is something that most men of character and spirit feel more than bodily pain or than loss of money or of property. It is a sentimental grievance, and therefore one which the law cannot provide against or punish. It cannot be estimated in damages; none the less, therefore, but rather the more, does the man who suffers it take it to heart; none the less, therefore, but rather the more, do gentlemen set up barriers against it which, although invisible, and not even expressed, if indeed they are expressible in words, are more forbidding in their frown, more difficult of assault than the regular bulwarks of the law. It must be repeated that this wrong is not to be measured by the bodily injury or the bodily pain that is inflicted. Two men may be boxing or fencing, and one may severely injure the other; but no sense of wrong accompanies the injury, and that not because no injury was intended, but because no offence was meant; whereas the flirt of a kid glove across the face, or a word, may inflict a wrong that if not atoned for or expiated, may rankle through a man's whole life. To attempt to set aside or to do away with this feeling is quite useless: as well attempt to set aside or to do away with human nature. It is this feeling that has been at the bottom of most duels since duels passed out of use as a mode of determining guilt or innocence, or of deciding questions as to property, or position, or title. In the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries duels were chiefly the remedy for wounded honor, as they are when they are rarely fought nowadays. True there was the duel fought between two gentlemen "to prevent the inconvenience of their both addressing the same lady"; but the duel for that reason pure and simple was always comparatively rare, as, owing to the infirmity of human nature, the agreement in opinion of the lady and the disagreement as to the disposition to be made of her were almost sure to take the form of a more reasonable if not more deadly cause of quarrel.

--But society--that is, society in which Anglo-Saxon modes of thought and feeling prevail--says that no matter what the provocation, or how great the sense of wrong, the duel shall not be; it has been made a crime in some if not in most of such communities even to send a challenge. This is done on grounds of public policy and of morality, and not, as some persons seem to think, because killing in a duel is murder. Murder is more than a mere killing, and is in its essence entirely inconsistent with the fact that the person killed voluntarily placed himself, and generally with much trouble and at great inconvenience, in the way of his death. The duel is in fact a sort of _hari-kari_, or happy release, as our Japanese friends have well phrased it, but it is with the cooperation of a second party who voluntarily places himself in similar peril, the happy release being in both cases from the stigma of dishonor. This is shown very clearly by the distinction which is drawn in general estimation between the man who challenges because he has suffered an insult or an injury to his family honor, and one who does so from a feeling of revenge and with the intent to rid himself of a hated opponent, as for example in the case of Aaron Burr in his duel with Alexander Hamilton. That was more than half a century ago, when there were no such laws against duelling as now exist; but Burr, although he rid himself of his hated rival on what was called the field of honor, was from that day a degraded, detested, ruined man. If Hamilton had offered him a personal indignity, or had injured him in his family relations, the result of the duel would have added nothing to the weight of disrepute under which Burr was already suffering. The whole world recognizes this distinction, and there is hardly a man whose breeding and habits make him what is rightly called a gentleman in the full sense of the term, who, however his judgment may condemn the duellist who fights because of an insult or an injury to family honor, does not feel a certain sympathy with him. Notwithstanding the teachings of Christianity, and the example of its founder as to the patient suffering of indignity, notwithstanding the law, we all, or most of us, have the feeling that Barclay of Wry's battle-tried comrade had when he saw his old friend and heroic commander openly insulted by a throng of swashbucklers in the streets of Aberdeen, because he had become a Quaker, and which Whittier has expressed with such spirit in his poem on the subject, which is one of the few truly admirable ballads of modern days (although its author does not so class it), and which is, we are inclined to think, the most admirable of them all:

Woe's the day, he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head, And a look of pity: Wry's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child, In his own good city.

Speak the word, and master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst, we'll teach Civil look and decent speech To these boyish prancers.

--What then is to be done? for the question is a serious one. We all feel that personal indignity is of all wrongs the hardest one to bear; we know that it is a wrong of a kind that cannot be redressed by law; and yet we restrain men from the only redress, "satisfaction," as it is called, that human ingenuity has bean able to devise, and with which human nature, of the unregenerate sort, is satisfied. We cannot expect all men to behave like members of the Society of Friends. All men have not proved their courage and high spirit like Barclay of Wry, who

----stood Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood With the great Gustavus.

We cannot compel all men to be Christians; and yet we would compel them by law to bear insult as if they were Christians and great captains turned Quakers. We can do this, which thus far society has neglected to do: we can put a social ban upon the man who deliberately offers a personal indignity to another. This should be a social duty. Let it be understood, according to one of those silent social laws which are the most binding of all laws because the sheriff cannot enforce them, that the man who flourishes a horsewhip over another's head, or who uses his tongue as a scourge with like purpose, or who offers personal indignity of any kind, insults society as well as his victim, and is not to be pardoned until he has made the amend to the injured party, and there would soon be an end of provocation to duelling, except that which touches the family, and that cannot be done away with until men have so developed morally and intellectually that they see that a man's honor is not in the keeping of a woman, not in that of any other person than himself, not even his wife. Her conduct may indeed involve his dishonor, if he is what used to be called a wittol, but even then _his_ dishonor is because of his own disgrace. Only then can we reconcile the making of a challenge a felony with the feeling that a man who has had a personal indignity put upon him has suffered the deepest wrong he could be called upon to bear, yet a wrong which society fails to right while it forbids him to seek the only reparation.

--That reparation is defined, if not prescribed, by the code of honor, as to which code there seems to be a very general misapprehension. The purpose of the code is this, that no gentleman shall offer a personal indignity to another except with the certainty of its being at the risk of his life. If society would provide a remedy or preventive that would operate like this risk, the code would soon pass absolutely out of practice and into oblivion. It is generally supposed that the code is a very bloodthirsty law, and that those who acknowledge it and act upon it are "sudden and quick in quarrel," lovers of fighting, revengeful and implacable, and that the code gives them the means of gratifying their murderous or combative propensities. No notion of it could be more erroneous; the misconception is like that which supposes military men to be desirous of using arms on slight provocation; whereas the contrary is the case. No men are so reluctant to begin fighting as thoroughbred soldiers; for they know what it means and to what end it must be carried if it is once begun. The code has been reduced to writing, and by a "fire-eating" South Carolinian, so that we can see just how bloodthirsty it is. It provides first that if an insult be received in public it should not be resented or noticed there, out of respect to those present, except in case of a blow or the like, because this is insult to the company which did not originate with the person receiving it; that a challenge should never be sent in the first instance because "that precludes all negotiation," and that in the note asking explanation and reparation the writer should "cautiously avoid attributing to the adverse party any improper motive"; that the aggrieved party's second should manage the whole affair even before a challenge is sent, because he "is supposed to be cool and collected, and his friends' feelings are more or less irritated" ["more or less" here is excellent good as expressive of the state of mind of a man so aggrieved that he is ready to risk his life]; the second is to "use every effort to soothe and tranquillize his principal," not to "see things in the aggravated light in which he views them, but to extenuate the conduct of his adversary whenever he sees clearly an opportunity to do so"; to "endeavor to persuade him that there has been some misunderstanding in the matter," and to "check him if he uses opprobrious epithets toward his adversary"; "when an accommodation is tendered," the code says in a paragraph worthy of the most respectful consideration, "never require too much; and if the party offering the _amende honorable_ wishes to give a reason for his conduct in the matter, do not, unless it is offensive to your friend, refuse to receive it. By doing so you heal the breach more effectively." Strangers may call upon you for your offices as second, "for strangers are entitled to redress for wrongs as well as others, and the rules of honor and of hospitality should protect them." The second of the party challenged is also told, "Use your utmost efforts to allay the excitement which your principal may labor under," to search diligently into the origin of the misunderstanding, "for gentlemen seldom insult each other unless they labor under some misapprehension or mistake," and if the matter be investigated in the right spirit, it is probable that "harmony will be restored." The other parts of the code refer to the arrangements for and the etiquette of the hostile meeting, of which we shall only notice the censure passed upon the seconds if after either party is hit the fight is allowed to go on. The last section implies, although it does not positively assert, that "every insult may be compromised" without a hostile meeting, and it is directly said that "the old opinion that a blow must require blood is of no force; blows may be compromised in many cases." We do by no means advocate the fighting of duels; but we must say that we cannot see in this code the blood-thirstiness and the quarrel-seeking generally attributed to it. On the contrary, all its instructions seem to tend toward peacemaking, the restoration of harmony, the restraining of even expressions of ill feeling. It does recognize as indisputable that an insult must be atoned for, and if necessary, at the risk of life. That necessity society can do away with by placing its ban upon the man who insults another.

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--It is generally supposed that the "average American" beats the world in his love of big titles, and in his use of them; but the freed southern negro beats his white fellow citizen all hollow. We hear from Texas of one who is Head Centre of a Lodge--exactly of what sort we don't know, but we suppose that it must be a lodge in the wilderness or perhaps, in Solomon's phrase, a lodge in a garden of cucumbers. This cullud pusson will spend two months' wages to "report" at a grand junction "jamboree" of his "lodge." The titles of the officers of these associations are something wonderful. A negro office boy down there asked leave of absence for a day to attend a meeting. "Why," said his master, "Scip, I didn't know you belonged to a lodge." "Oh, yes, boss," replied Africanus, "Ise Supreme Grand King, an' Ise nowhar near de top nuther." Who shall say that the abolition of slavery was not worth all that it cost?

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors corrected.

Text changes: English Peerage: replaced "e.i." with "i.e." ..._i.e._ the mayor being... Misanthrope: replaced "acquintance" with "acquaintance" ...to renew her acquaintance with Miss Lucy... Wordsworth: Corrected "ta de, kollomelei" to "ta de kollomelei" The Greek word "k'autonomazei" appears in other editions as "k'antonomazei." Replaced "Jeffry" with "Jeffrey" ...Jeffrey looked for logical... Used =[text]= to indicate word typed with strike-out =Those= lips... Replaced "chearful" with "cheerful" ...Be wise and cheerful... Portrait: Open quote without close quote in poem retained; "Is thine that great,... Tinsel: Removed extra period: ...before I asked it.". Eastern: Corrected "Mediterannean" to "Mediterranean" ...superior fleet in the Mediterranean;... Added comma between "there there" ...In religion there, there are... Assja: Consolidated 'The young man smiled and answered, "Yes; we are Russians."' into one paragraph. Removed hyphen from "hemp-field" ...a hemp field of moderate size... Scientific: Added thought breaks between paragraphs at change of topic. Nebulae: Added thought breaks between paragraphs at change of topic.