CHAPTER XIII.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Greg Bergquist, and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_,

NOVEMBER, 1878.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by

J.B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., in the Office of the Librarian of

Congress, at Washington.

Transcriber's Note:

Variant spelling, dialect, and unusual punctuation have been retained.

SEAWANHAKA, THE ISLAND OF SHELLS.

[Illustration: WRECK OF THE CIRCASSIAN.]

It is not by any means certain what was the name by which Long Island

was known to the aboriginal dwellers in its "forest primeval," or indeed

that they ever had a common name by which to designate it. It seems

probable that each tribe bestowed upon it a different name, expressive

of the aspect that appeared most striking to its primitive and poetical

visitors and occupants. Among so many tribes--the Canarsees (who met

Hudson when on September 4, 1609, he anchored in Gravesend Bay), the

Rockaways, Nyacks, Merrikokes, Matinecocs, Marsapeagues, Nissaquages,

Corchaugs, Setaukets, Secataugs, Montauks, Shinecocs, Patchogues, and

Manhansetts, to say nothing of the Pequots and Narragansetts on the

northern shore of the Sound--a community of usage in regard to

nomenclature could hardly be expected. We accordingly find that one of

the old names of the island was Mattenwake, a compound of _Mattai_, the

Delaware for "island." It was also called Paumanacke (the Indian

original of the prosaic Long Island), Mattanwake (the Narragansett word

for "good" or "pleasant land"), Pamunke and Meitowax. For a name,

however, at once beautiful and suggestive, appropriate to an island

whose sunny shores are strewn with shells, and recalling Indian feuds

and customs, savage ornament and tributes paid in wampum, no name equals

that we have chosen--Seawanhaka or Seawanhackee, the "Island of Shells."

No general description will give an adequate idea of its changing beauty

and wellnigh infinite variety. Its scenery assumes a thousand different

aspects between odoriferous Greenpoint and the solitary grandeur of

Montauk. If one could only recall the old stagecoach, and, instead of

whirling in a few hours from New York to Sag Harbor, creep slowly along

the southern shore, and complete the journey of one hundred and ten

miles in two days and a half, as they did fifty years ago, a description

of the route would be both easy and interesting. Then the old stage

lumbered out of Brooklyn about nine o'clock in the morning, a halt was

made at Hempstead for dinner, and at Babylon the passengers slept.

Starting early, they arrived in due time at Patchogue, where they

breakfasted late, and thereby saved their dinner, and at Quogue, about

twenty-four miles farther, they supped and slept. Again making an early

start without breakfast, they jogged along to Southampton, where the

morning meal was taken, and thus fortified they returned to their seats,

and, passing through the beautiful country lying around Water Mill and

Bridgehampton, rattled into Sag Harbor--a far different place from the

Sag Harbor of to-day--and there dined. Fortunately, the rest of the

route remains to us, and we can still "stage it" down the old and

beautiful road to Easthampton. A leisurely journey of this description,

at an average rate of a fraction less than two miles an hour, and with

abundant opportunity of getting out for a brisk walk as the horses

dragged their cumbrous load over an occasional sandhill, gave the

traveller a chance of seeing the country he passed through. Long Island

lay before him like a book, every line of which he could read at

leisure. He could wander along the shore of the bay at Babylon, and

mayhap meditate upon the beauty of Nature while looking at the moonlight

sleeping on the water: he could at Quogue seek his way across the

meadows and gaze upon the troubled face of the ocean. We can do so

still, but these pleasures are no longer to be counted among the

fascinating interludes of continuous travel. They are not the

accompaniments of a long journey that gave it a flavor of romance, and

made a trip to Sag Harbor and return the employment of an eventful and

delightful week.

To adapt ourselves to modern conditions, and as we must view Long Island

in sections to appreciate it as a whole, a route may be chosen in which,

by using both railroad and stage, we may see even more of it, and that

to greater advantage, than the old-time traveller. It is necessary, in

the first place, that something should be seen of the northern shore. In

character and associations it differs widely from the southern. There

is, in the second place, the central section, in avoiding which much of

the rural and most placid beauty of the island would be lost. There is,

thirdly, the southern shore, varied in itself according as the point at

which it is viewed lies on the ocean or on the landlocked bays between

Hempstead and Mecoc, and extending to the rugged headland of Montauk. We

shall thus, by passing from point to point, see as in a panorama all

that need now attract our attention in viewing Seawanhaka.

[Illustration: PORT JEFFERSON, FROM CEDAR HILL.]

The place which the Indians named Cumsewogue is now mainly distinguished

by the cemetery of Cedar Hill. Passing among the graves, we reach the

summit, and a wonderful scene bursts upon our view. Looking north toward

where the village is nestling in a hollow surrounded by woods, the

waters of Port Jefferson Bay are lying without a visible ripple; the

sails of the ships passing up and down the Sound gleam in the sun; and

beyond them, like a hazy line, are the shores of Connecticut. On the

left are glimpses of farmhouses, the church-spires of Setauket, and

rolling fields alternating with woods. On the right are more woods,

bounded far away by the broken shore of the cliff-bound Sound. The

wooded peninsula in front that stretches to the north, forming the

eastern shore of Port Jefferson Bay, was named by the old Puritan

settlers--for what reason it would be hard to divine--Mount Misery. It

is now, fortunately, more generally known in the neighborhood by the

name of the Strong estate of Oakwood. Sea, shore, woods and valleys make

up a picturesque scene of peaceful beauty, and one forgets in the

presence of its living charms that the site upon which he stands is

within the limits of a city of the dead.

[Illustration: CABIN IN THE WOODS ABOVE POQUOTT.]

We descend into the village--which lies as if in a slumber that has

lasted for a century and a half--at the head of the bay. The Indians

named the place Souwassett, and the Puritans, in their usual

matter-of-fact manner, called it Drowned Meadow. Its present name was

adopted about forty years ago, probably in a patriotic mood, and also in

the belief that the name it then bore was too unqualified and likely to

give rise to unwarrantable prejudices. That there was some truth, if

there was neither beauty nor imagination, in the name, is, however,

evident from the marsh-lands lying between the village and Dyer's Neck

or Poquott, which divides the harbor from that of Setauket on the west.

One of the old landmarks of the village, dating from about the first

quarter of the last century, is the house built by the Roe family when

the settlement was first made. It now forms part of the Townsend house,

and is still occupied by collateral descendants of its builder.

Accessions to the little colony came slowly. Even the fine harbor could

not compensate for the disadvantages of Drowned Meadow for building

purposes, and the hillsides are steep and rocky. But about 1797, when it

is said there were only half a dozen houses in the village, shipbuilding

was begun, and its subsequent rise was comparatively rapid.

Securely though it seems to repose among its wood-crowned hills, it has

had at least one exciting episode in its history. During the war of 1812

its shipping suffered considerably at the hands of King George's

cruisers, and one night the enemy entered the harbor and captured seven

sloops that were lying there at anchor. Otherwise, life at Port

Jefferson appears to have been as it is now, unexciting and peaceful.

Its attractions are in part those of association, but chiefly those of

Nature--its sandy shore, its still woods and its placid bay. It is a

place to fly to when the only conception of immediate happiness is to be

still, to float idly upon water that has no waves to detract from the

perfection of a dream of absolute rest, or to seek shelter and eloquent

quiet in deep and shady woods. There are several winding paths that lead

up the hilly promontory of Oakwood, and there are clearings upon the

high ground swept over by breezes from the Sound where one can look upon

rural scenes as perfect in their way as imagination can picture.

[Illustration: LAKE RONKONKOMA.]

To the west of the village, pathways lead through the woods and past

many ruined and ruinous cabins. The latter are chiefly occupied by

negroes, who enjoy the sweets of liberty in these sequestered nooks. It

is questionable if emancipation in any way bettered their condition. The

Dutch introduced slaves into Long Island immediately upon settling on

its western extremity, but it is said upon good authority--and the fact

is a notable one in the history of the island--that slavery never

existed there except in name. The work of the farms and houses was

divided with the utmost impartiality among the nominal slaves and the

white men and boys of the household. Possibly, then, there is not only

no dark background to the lives of these Port Jefferson negroes, but one

that in comfort and happiness is a contrast to the present. One little

fellow--a darkling he should be called--peeped out shyly as we passed,

and then disappeared in a hut which, though embowered in creeping plants

and bushes, did not suggest either comfort or beauty when the trees are

bare and the winds of winter are moaning through the woods. Beyond these

cabins the path leads to the pebbly and shell-covered shore of Poquott.

To the east of Port Jefferson the shore runs in bolder outline to Orient

Point, but within thirty or forty miles to the west there are

innumerable points and well-sheltered bays and inlets that give the

scenery the same picturesque character that is found at Port Jefferson.

It may be taken, in short, as representing the northern side of the

island.

When the shore is left a few miles behind the country assumes an

entirely different aspect. The roads run through a wide tract covered as

far as the eye can see with young timber and brushwood. In places the

charred trunks give evidence that it has at no distant period been

passed over by a forest-fire. The view to the south is bounded by the

low range of hills that runs nearly the entire length of the island. In

a hollow in this rising ground, a few miles east of Comac Hills, about

two miles north-east of Mount Pleasant and near the eastern continuation

of the Comac range, we drop suddenly upon the most charming of the lakes

of Long Island--Ronkonkoma. It matters little from which side it is

approached or from what point it is viewed--Lake Ronkonkoma is in every

way and in every aspect beautiful. Around it on all sides is an

undulating country comprising both woodland and farm, and dotted with

quaint old houses of the many-gabled order, and a few that affect a

certain latter-day primness. The architectural patriarchs and juveniles

represent two different orders of things. The first tell of the early

colonists of two hundred years ago making their way through the dense

woods from the northern shore, and choosing dwellings by the lake where

the land was good. The latter tell of later settlers, attracted solely

by the beauty and salubrity of the place. There is one house still

standing on the east side of the lake, a weather-beaten veteran of a

century and a half. It has been in the same family ever since it was

built, and if its walls were as eloquent of facts as they are of

sentiment, it could no doubt unfold a varied tale. The place has, of

course, a history based upon Indian times. Where we now see boats and

skiffs, canoes were once paddled, and the lonely seclusion of the lake

is said to have made it the theme of many an Indian story. Only one

legend now survives. The lake has always been, and is now, well stocked

with fish, and it is in places so deep that the Indians thought it

unfathomable. With a curious kind of veneration they believed that the

Great Spirit brought the fish that swarm in its waters, and kept them

under his special care. Even when the whites came upon the scene the red

men clung to their superstition, and would not catch nor eat the fish,

believing them to be superior beings.

A change has come over the spot since that day. The land near the lake

has been partially cleared, but not to such an extent as to divest it of

any of its early beauty. A fringe of trees encloses it on all sides

except the north, where a narrow belt of sand divides it from a lily

pond. It is from that feature, and from the glistening western shore,

that the lake was called Ronkonkoma (Sand Pond). At the point where it

first bursts upon the traveller from the south it is seen gleaming

through the trees like a diamond in a robe of green. Standing upon its

margin, we are about fifty feet above the sea, and the cool wind that is

rustling among the trees comes fresh from the Great South Bay, seven

miles away. To right and left are high tree-covered banks, and to the

north across the lake, about a mile off, the white sand is shining like

a line of silver. The trees above the eastern shore are reflected as in

a mirror, and the little boat with its snowy sail is there in duplicate,

itself and double.

[Illustration: THE BEACH AT FIRE ISLAND.]

But, to be seen at its best, Ronkonkoma should be viewed from one of the

higher points along its eastern shore when the sun is sloping down the

western sky. One memorable evening this view was so beautiful as to be

almost unearthly. The sun had sunk behind a heavy cloud-bank, which it

tipped with a dull tawny red. By and by the sky began to change. The

cloud sank lower, and lay upon the horizon in a perfectly black mass

that threw its shadow upon the landscape. Its lining had deepened in

color to a blood-red, and the clouds higher up the arch of the sky were

ringed with a rich crimson border. Higher still they shaded off into

paler tints, mingled with a copper-like hue that merged in the lighter

clouds into gold. Above these were fleecy, rounded fragments of cloud

floating over the deep blue like burnished brass upon lapis lazuli; and

higher yet, about midway to the zenith, every cloudlet was tinged with

pale yellow. Could such a sky be represented on canvas it would be

condemned as unnatural--a case of the painter's imagination carrying him

beyond the limits of true art. But it was from the reflection in the

lake that the scene derived its weird, supernatural character. The

shadows lay heavily upon the trees and bank that line the western shore.

Upon the edge of the waters, which were so still that not a ripple waved

the line drawn upon the white streak of sand, the deep red of the cloud

upon the horizon reappeared. Nearer were the graduated tints of crimson,

copper, gold, brass and pale yellow, every hue mirrored in the crystal

lake with a fidelity so perfect that one was in doubt whether the

reality or the reflection were the more gorgeous.

To the east and west of the lake, for twenty miles on either side of it,

stretches a pleasant tract, chiefly of rolling woodland, with here and

there a farm or garden. Wherever the land has been cleared and brought

under cultivation it appears to give ample return to the husbandman. But

the least observant traveller can hardly help being struck by the sight

of a few fields of apparently healthy grain surrounded by miles of

brushwood. It is a mystery not yet satisfactorily solved how within

fifty miles of a city like New York so much land should be left

unproductive and untilled. All the evidence, both of experiment and of

opinion, goes to show that the soil, if not the richest in the world, is

far too good to be given over to scrubby bushes and luxuriant weeds.

Leaving, however, a question so abstruse, let us turn southward from

Yaphank and follow the brook that runs down past Carman's until it

empties itself in Fireplace Bay. Again the scenery undergoes a change.

Here is neither the broken, picturesque shore of the north nor the

inland quietude of Ronkonkoma. Toward the west, beyond our ken,

stretches the Great South Bay, far past where the lighthouse of Fire

Island can be seen flashing out upon the night. To the south, about

three miles distant, are the undulating dunes of the Great South Beach,

that like a huge breakwater shuts out the ocean. To the east is the

broad promontory lying behind Mastic Point. This is practically the same

view upon which we have imagined the traveller by the old-time stage

feasting his eyes at the halting-places along the southern shore. At any

point between Babylon and the place at which we stand the scenery has

the same general character--a picturesque pleasantness devoid of

disturbing grandeur. However loudly the ocean may thunder upon the outer

shore, the bay seldom changes its dimpling smiles for a rougher aspect,

and never wears in wrath the scornful look of the outer deep. A strong

wind may sometimes give a little trouble to the yachtsmen whose craft

enliven the scene, and lead them to reef their swelling canvas, but the

impression carried away from the Great South Bay is decidedly summery--a

memory of mingled sunshine and gentle breezes. The shore is generally

flat, and is lined with a succession of villages located at intervals of

from three to four miles. They are all more or less alike--quiet,

healthy places, in which, to all appearances, the inhabitants take life

easily.

Five or six miles to the west is Blue Point, of oyster fame, in

connection with which a curious tradition is extant. It is said that

long ago the oysters disappeared entirely from the bay. The poor people

from all the country round were in the habit of raking up the oysters

for their own consumption and for sale. In an evil hour the authorities

of the town of Brookhaven, to which the beds belong, resolved upon

replenishing the town treasury by the imposition of a license upon the

poor fishermen. The latter, either unable to meet the demands of the law

or bent upon maintaining what appeared to them a natural right, made a

counter-resolve upon resistance to its enforcement. The result was a

collision, and by dint of armed men and boats the unlicensed fishermen

were driven off. Thereafter, curious to relate, not another oyster was

taken, and nothing but empty shells filled the unblessed rakes. This

state of things lasted until about forty years ago, when it is presumed

the grip of the law was relaxed. The poor people, at all events, then

again had recourse to the long-deserted beds, and found them covered to

the depth of several feet with luscious young oysters.

A number of boats ply between Bellport and the Great South Beach,

whither the summer visitors are in the habit of repairing for the

purpose of tumbling in the surf on the outside. In one of these, with a

fair wind and a skipper acquainted with the numerous shoals, it is very

pleasant to sail across the bay, and then turning round Mastic Point to

follow the channel connecting the Great South with East Bay, and so to

reach Moriches. From that point east the shore is broken up into shallow

creeks until Quogue (from _quohaug_, a clam), an old resort of the

citizens of Philadelphia, New York and other cities, is reached. It

occupies the neck of land dividing Shinecoc from East Bay, and is the

first place after leaving Rockaway, about sixty miles to the west, which

has direct communication with the shore of the ocean. The beach there

touches the mainland, and then leaves it again to make room for Shinecoc

Bay. At the most northerly arm of the latter we come upon a place with a

peculiar history and corresponding associations, and there on the

adjacent hills of Shinecoc we may pause for a few moments' observation.

We are now in the township of Southampton, where, with the exception of

Lion Gardiner's settlement upon the island still bearing his name, the

first English settlement in the State of New York was effected.

Toward both east and west the country stretches away as far as we can

see in undulating woods and fields. Had we come by land instead of the

bays, we should have passed through a series of four or five little

villages, Moriches, Speonk, Good Ground and West Hampton, cozily

nestling among the woods--quiet, retired places, given over to peace and

agriculture. There is no particularly prominent feature in the

landscape. Its charm lies in its harmony, and the _ensemble_ is as

nearly perfect as can be imagined. Immediately in front are the knolls

and dales above and below Good Ground, and extending down to where the

Ponquogue lighthouse stands out in clear outline against the sky. To the

south is Shinecoc Bay, and to the north is Peconic Bay, the water that

lies between the forks at the eastern end of Long Island. Below us,

looking west, is Canoe Place, the name given to the narrow neck of land

joining the peninsula that terminates at Montauk to the body of the

island. It is the point at which the waters on the north and south come

most nearly together, and there, accordingly, as the name implies, was

the Indian portage.

[Illustration: PECONIC BAY, AND RESIDENCE OF CHIEF-JUSTICE DALY.]

Toward the east, across the rising and falling ground and beyond the

woods, lies the village of Southampton, where the first settlement in

the township was formed. The colonists were chiefly Englishmen, who,

having resided for a short time in Lynn, Massachusetts, turned their

eyes toward such "pastures new" as Long Island afforded. They first

tried to locate themselves in the north-western part of the island, but

having been driven out by the Dutch, their second venture led them to

North Sea, and thence through the woods to Southampton. They found the

land both good and cheap. All that the Indians asked for the district

lying between Canoe Place and the eastern limit of the township at Sag

Harbor was sixteen coats, threescore bushels of Indian corn and a

promise of protection against hostile tribes. Forty-three years

afterward the official estimate of the township amounted to about eighty

thousand dollars, so that the men of Lynn undoubtedly received good

value for their coats and corn.

Their choice of a home is sufficient to place their good judgment above

question. There are still existing in the village a few mementos of

their presence in the form of weather-stained houses, over which have

passed, leaving them untouched, all the vicissitudes of Indian times,

the Revolutionary War and modern improvement. Time, however, has left

its scars upon their fronts. The street leading down toward the shore of

the ocean is grass-grown and spacious, and probably differs very little

from what it was in the olden time. On the left side stands the

Pelletreau house, where Lord Erskine resided during the winter of 1778.

On the floor in one of the rooms are certain marks, said to have been

made by the axe of the British quartermaster. Others of the old

buildings have recently been removed, but those that are left are

sufficient to recall the time when, plundered alike by friend and foe,

and compelled to maintain its enemy, Southampton yet patriotically

contributed its quota of men to the war for independence. There is

nothing of the upstart about the place. It reposes in a quiet, dignified

present resting upon a long and honorable past, and there is in its

attitude and air something that compels one to revert to the latter. Its

population partakes of the same character. Although some of the first

settlers removed to other places or returned to Lynn, most of the old

families took deep root in the soil, and are represented by descendants

who live within sight of the primitive dwellings their forefathers

reared. Offshoots were, however, thrown off in many directions. Some

went down to Cape May, whither the whale-fishing attracted them; others

were among the pioneers of the West, and founded colonies at various

places in New York State and in Pennsylvania; others took their places

among the Argonauts of '49 and sought the gold-fields of California. But

still the parent trees stood fast in Southampton.

The appearance of whales off the coast, though now a rare occurrence,

was not so in the early days of the town. Among the earliest of its

records is a law providing for the cutting up and division of any whales

that might be cast up on the shore. At a later day boats were fitted up

either to put off in pursuit when a whale was signalled or to cruise

along the coast in the whaling season. In the former case, by a usage

which extended to the adjoining township of Easthampton, signals were

hoisted at fixed stations along the shore, whereupon the boats were

dragged down the beach and launched through the surf, while the

venturesome crew leaped in, each man taking his own place. How dangerous

such a pursuit was can be estimated by any one who will walk to the high

ridge of sand running along the beach and look eastward down the long

line of breakers that toss their foam-capped heads before a heavy gale.

For many miles nothing can be seen but the arching waves dashing

themselves upon the sand, as if furious that their course should be

checked. The whale has almost entirely deserted its old haunt, but the

sea still furnishes many an exciting, and also many a sad, episode in

the otherwise uneventful lives of the townsmen. Not a winter passes

without some ship or ocean steamer being thrown upon Hampton shore, and

often, in spite of the gallantry and exertions of the lifeboatmen, whose

stations stand at intervals of five miles, the crews never reach the

land until flung up lifeless by the waves.

[Illustration: SAG HARBOR.]

Maintaining still an eastward course, we pass Water Mill, lying upon one

of the inlets of Mecoc Bay, and hurrying through Bridgehampton arrive at

Sag Harbor, the chief port of the peninsula. It is a quiet, interesting

town, beautifully situated on a branch of Gardiner's Bay. Across the

neck that projects over toward Shelter Island on the north, and beyond

the site chosen by Chief-Justice Daly for his residence, lies Peconic

Bay. Toward the east stretches the bay, past the lower end of Shelter

Island, past Cedar Point, and then away off to where Gardiner's Island

is stretching its long arms to the north and south, as if to guard the

great haven inside from the ocean storms. A century and a half ago

nothing stood upon the spot where the town now stands but a few

fishermen's huts. In a short time the settlers were engaged in

whale-fishing off the coast, and thereby really laid the foundations of

Sag Harbor's future prosperity and wealth. In 1760 three sloops were

fitted out to prosecute the fishing in the northern seas, and after the

war of independence Dr. N. Gardiner and his brother despatched on the

same errand the first ship that ever sailed from Sag Harbor. The venture

failed, but others succeeded, and in 1847 sixty-three ships were engaged

in the business. After that date the decline was fast, and now not a

single ship of the whole fleet is left. Captain Babcock, the

lighthouse-keeper of Montauk, sailed six or seven years ago the brig

Myra, the last whaler that left Sag Harbor. His success was not so great

that the owners, the Messrs. French, cared to repeat the experiment; so

that within twenty years Sag Harbor has fallen from its position as the

third or fourth whaling-port in the country to that in which we find it

to-day. The gold fever of '49, the discovery of petroleum and the

increased expense attending the whale-fishing, all contributed to its

decline. It is also claimed for Sag Harbor that Captain Cooper of the

Manhattan, sailing from that port, was the first to take a ship into

Yeddo.

[Illustration: NEAR EASTHAMPTON.]

In and around the town are many evidences of the generally well-to-do

condition of its inhabitants, amongst whom are several whose rise to

greater wealth was checked by the fall of the whale-fishing. In their

homes and those of retired merchant captains are many mementos of long

voyages to China, Japan, the Indies, and, in short, to every part of the

world. It is singular how interesting, as compared with the choicest

things to be found in the shops, these porcelains, lacquers, enamels,

ivories, fans, silks, weapons and cabinets are. They are the trophies of

the Ancient Mariner, who takes some pride in turning over the contents

of his shelves, and derive a personal interest from having been with him

through the storms he weathered before he brought them safe to port.

[Illustration: "HOME, SWEET HOME!"--PAYNE'S INTERIOR.]

Every part of the town is interesting, and certainly not the least so is

the old cemetery. It contains an extensive collection of rude headstones

and quaint epitaphs. Here, on a sailor's grave, are engraved the lines--

Rude Boreas' winds and Neptune's waves

Have tossed me to and fro:

By God's decree, you plainly see,

I'm harbored here below.

In Sag Harbor there lived a certain Captain David Hand, who died in 1840

at the age of eighty-one. Here he and his five wives are sleeping, all

in a row. The first died in 1791; the second, in 1794; the third, in

1798; the fourth, in 1810; the fifth, in 1835. The gallant captain

himself went down while cruising in quest of a sixth. It is upon the

grave of the third that the following appears:

Behold, ye living mortals passing by,

How thick the partners of one husband lie.

Vast and unsearchable the ways of God:

Just, but severe, we feel His chastening rod.

The meaning is a little obscure, and it is only the subsequent

matrimonial ventures of the captain that assure us he did not mean that

the three who had gone were to him as a chastening rod.

Let us now take our station where we can look down upon the town and

over the surrounding scene of mingled island, sea and shore, and try to

recall some of the thrilling events that give Sag Harbor its historical

interest. Two hundred and fifty years ago these bays, now alive with

coasting vessels, pleasure craft and an occasional steamer, showed

nothing but the canoes of the Manhansetts and Montauketts. In 1637 we

might have seen the large canoe of Wyandanch, the sachem of the

Montauks, surrounded by those of his tribe, stealing across toward

Shelter Island to complete the extermination of the Pequots. In 1699 the

ship in which Kidd won his plunder in the southern seas was lying under

the island's lee while the famous pirate was burying a part of his booty

on its shore. It is said that the proprietor of the island has still in

his possession a piece of gold cloth given to his ancestor by Captain

Kidd. Soon afterward Gardiner's Island was visited and plundered by

Paul Williams and some of his buccaneering associates. In 1728 these

seas swarmed with the pirates of Spain, and one night in September of

that year the crew of a schooner landed upon Gardiner's Island, and for

three days it was given up to plunder. The next we see is a British

fleet in 1775 sweeping round the arm of the island and coming to anchor

in the bay, whence, like the pirates, they sent out parties to plunder

Mr. Gardiner's house and farm. Sag Harbor was occupied by British

troops, and one evening in 1777 across Peconic Bay from Southold the

boat that carried Lieutenant-Colonel Meigs and his patriot companions

was sailing. Landing a few miles to the west of the town, they fell upon

the British garrison like a midnight thunderbolt. The commander was

seized in bed, the shipping and provisions were fired, and Meigs and his

men had finished their work and retired before the British soldiers were

fully awake. Again, in 1780-81, the British fleet anchored in the bay,

and yet again in 1813. In the latter year Commodore Hardy sent a launch

and two barges with a hundred men to plunder Sag Harbor, but the project

utterly failed. The town was roused, the guns of the fort opened upon

the intruders, and then the villagers returned to their slumbers. When

peace was restored the bay was ploughed by West Indiamen and whalers,

and then, as we have seen, they also vanished. Apart, then, from the

beauty of its situation, Sag Harbor has associations and a history that

form appreciable items in the list of its attractions; and if its future

should be less glowing than its past, it will not be for lack of a

healthy and mild climate nor of exceptional advantages of location.

[Illustration: FISHERMAN'S HOUSE NEAR HAMPTON BEACH.]

Before leaving the town in quest of Easthampton Village we find

ourselves in the township of that name. All these woods and fair fields

stretching from the Southampton limit eastward to Montauk, and

comprising upward of thirty thousand acres, were in 1648 bought for "20

coats, 24 hoes, 24 hatchets, 24 knives, 24 looking-glasses and 100

muxes." Most of the settlers in the village we are now approaching came

from Kent, and memories of their English home led them to give it the

name of Maidstone, which was afterward changed to Easthampton. It lies

in the midst of a beautiful section of country, full of pretty little

pictures of rustic life. The main street is, like that of Southampton, a

broad grass-grown avenue lined with stately trees, and as we go down in

the direction of the shore we pass a spot interesting to

English-speaking people all over the world--the birthplace of John

Howard Payne, the author of "Home, Sweet Home." It is with a feeling

approaching reverence that we look at the old open fireplace, the

rafters and walls; and as we emerge and glance up and down the spacious

street, and drink in the placid beauty of the scene, the fountain of the

poet's inspiration is revealed. Once seen, it is a place for every man

to remember all through life, even if "he owed it not his birth." And

here the thought recurs that there must be an unusually strong tie

between the villagers in all the Hamptons and their homes. The names of

many of the old settlers are still met with throughout the entire

section from Southampton eastward, so that while Payne was giving

expression to a sentiment that is universal in language that the world

at large has adopted, his words have also a particular significance in

telling us of the atmosphere of sentiment peculiar in its warmth and

manifestation to the district in which he was reared.

[Illustration: KING SYLVESTER.]

Our path now lies eastward through the straggling little village of

Amagansett, and through the woods beyond which lie Neapeague and

Montauk, the "Hilly Land." The quiet repose of village-life is now left

behind, and through rapidly-changing scenes we set our faces toward the

grandest and most wonderful section of Long Island. For about two miles

after leaving Amagansett our route lies through thick woods of young

timber, and then we suddenly emerge at a point where the road turns

round a spur of the high land we have just passed. On the south is the

ocean, in sight of which the road thereafter runs the greater part of

the way to the point, and in front, stretching for six or seven miles

until it joins the hills of Montauk, is the marshy beach of Neapeague,

the "Water Land." As we descend, the sea is hidden by the irregular

dunes that lie along the shore, and the dreary expanse extends far

before us and off toward the north. Every step leads us to realize more

fully the dismal character of the sterile flat. The wagon-wheels

alternately grind through the sand and bump into deep puddles in the

marsh. There can be no doubt that once this whole tract was overflowed

by the sea, and still in heavy storms the waves force their way between

the sandhills and lay parts of the beach under water. Meanwhile,

however, attention is likely to be diverted from the consideration of

the inroads of the sea to the incessant attacks of the insatiate and

bloodthirsty mosquitoes. We are here in their very home, and, galled by

their furious stinging onslaughts, can recall nothing but Ayres's

exclamation:

Cheerless Neapeague! how bounds the heart to gain

The hills that spring beyond thy weary plain!

The busy, bloodthirsty wretches spring in clouds from every swamp. They

fill the air, obscure the blue lining of the wagon with their own tawny

gray, and would, I verily believe, turn a white horse brown. But the end

comes at length, and as we climb the hill bounding the beach on the east

the last of the little tormentors disappears. To our left are the

Nommonock Hills, and those of Hither Wood rise in front of us. At the

point now reached it is well to turn round and view the land we have

passed. We can look across from shore to shore, from the ocean breakers

on the south to the little harbor of Neapeague on the north, and beyond

it to where Gardiner's Island lies out in the bay. The conviction grows

upon us that where we now stand was once an island, and that the rugged

base of Nommonock was once washed by the sea.

[Illustration: KING DAVID FARO AND FAMILY.]

Soon we pass through the Hither Woods, and with them leave behind the

last remnant of the forest that formerly covered Montauk. All else, to

where Womponomon--the Indian name of the eastern point--juts out into

the sea, are hills and rolling downs which rise and fall like the sea

when the waves are running "mountains high." Here and there we pass a

pond, and often startle the cattle that graze over the greater part of

Montauk; and at length pause, spellbound by the view from the hills

looking down upon Fort Pond, or Kongonock. The road runs past its

southern extremity, where, until the embankment was built, the

ocean-surf frequently broke across; and after passing this plain, called

Fithian's, we find ourselves a very short distance south of the site of

the old Indian village. The hill about halfway between the two ends of

the pond on its eastern side was once occupied by an Indian fort, and

between it and us lies the valley where were clustered the wigwams of

Wyandanch and his tribe. He figures in history as the staunch and often

severely-tried ally of the whites, and was the lifelong friend of Lion

Gardiner. His warriors were, hyperbolically, "as many as the spires of

the grass" until reduced by sickness and battle. The Narragansetts

pursued him with an insatiate and vindictive hate, and this peaceful

valley was once the scene of a bloody tragedy from which the Montauketts

never recovered. Wyandanch had pursued a party of Narragansetts to Block

Island, and killed a great number of them. To retaliate, Ninicraft (or

Ninigret) invaded Montauk, and on the night of the nuptials of the

chief's daughter fell upon the village, burned, sacked and slew, and, in

spite of Wyandanch's bravery, totally defeated his followers. Among the

fallen was the bridegroom, and beside his dead body the invaders found

the bride in a stupor of grief. She was hurried away, an unresisting

captive, but was ultimately restored to her father by the exertions of

Lion Gardiner. In 1659, Wyandanch died from the effects of poison, and

with him went out the glory of his tribe. Piece after piece, the lands

he had held were ceded to the whites, and the royal line of Faro came to

an end. In 1819 "King" Stephen died, and was buried by subscription. His

distinctive badge consisted of a yellow ribbon round his hat. After him

others reigned, and although the royal family long ago became extinct,

the name of king or chief is still retained. The late holder of the

title was David Faro, and he reigned over two families, his own and the

Fowlers. He will probably be succeeded by his cousin Stephen, an

athletic gentleman and a full-blooded Indian, who is said to have walked

in one day from Brooklyn to Montauk, and who thinks little of stepping

from Montauk to Bridgehampton, thence to Sag Harbor for dinner, and so

on back to Montauk. The late chief left a widow and five children. The

eldest is a boy named Wyandanch, who occasionally visits the few houses

on the peninsula and the nearest villages, selling berries. The queen's

mother and the rest of the tribe are basket-makers. The second of

David's children is Maggie Arabella, a pleasant-faced girl with

thick-set figure; the third and fourth are bright-eyed boys, Samuel

Powhattan and Ebenezer Tecumseh; and the fifth is a child of about six

months, Sarah Pocahontas. Besides these there are the present king,

Stephen, and his son Samuel. King Sylvester preceded David, so that we

are in possession of the likenesses of three of the line of sachems.

Ephraim Fowler, a son of Sylvester, also survives. Of the other family

of Fowlers, there are the husband and wife and their four children,

three sons and a daughter. Such, so far as I know, is a complete census

of the tribe of Montauketts. Their possessions are small and their way

of living rude. Ichabod! Ichabod!

[Illustration: STEPHEN, KING _IN POSSE_.]

Returning to the hill overlooking Fort Pond, we are almost due south of

Point Culloden. When Montauk throws off entirely its old character and

fully assumes the inevitable new, the bay to the west of Culloden will

probably be converted by a breakwater into a harbor, and to the north of

where we stand it is not unlikely that the snort of the locomotive may

yet be heard. Already there are rumors of impending change. With the

railroad brought through from Sag Harbor, Fort Pond Bay will be the

point of arrival and departure of steamers plying between the island and

the New England shore. It is even suggested that the Transatlantic

steamers might make it a stopping-place to land mails and passengers.

The bay is so deep that vessels of any tonnage could enter it, and it

would moreover prove an excellent refuge in stormy weather. When thus

brought into more speedy communication with the western part of the

island, the lonely grandeur of Montauk will be modified by the inroads

of traffic and the things that tell of the far-distant city and its

seething mass of jaded humanity. The tens who now seek it will be

exchanged for hundreds in quest of the health and vigor that are inhaled

with every breath of the fresh salt air. There is, it must be admitted,

a certain amount of resignation in our view of such a transformation. We

wish for no change in Montauk--would not even ask for the iron road to

span the waste of Neapeague. All around is beauty--of the sky, of the

sea, of lake and land--beauty of wavy outline and delicious color. There

is a deep pleasure also in the feeling that we are here away from the

world. Care went riding down the wind into the marshes of the Water

Land, and we are emancipated from drudgery and routine. The workshop has

receded so far from its usual prominence that it is almost out of

memory, a thousand miles away. Why should it be brought nearer and

Montauk be made a portion of the old, every-day world?

[Illustration: MONTAUK LIGHTHOUSE.]

But to turn to the present. To the east of the hill upon which we stand

lies Great Pond, the largest sheet of water on Long Island, and across

it may be seen the Shagwannock Hills. And now we may return to the point

whence we started at the south end of Fort Pond, and resume our drive

across the downs. Soon after passing Stratton's, the third house between

Neapeague and the point, the road makes a sweeping detour to the south,

bringing us nearer to the sea-cliff, and we hastened to reach the

lighthouse before the night made the rough track dangerous. The sky was

threatening, and had to the west and north-west an aspect ominous of

storm. It was on that night that Wallingford was swept almost out of

existence by a tornado. Before we arrived at the lighthouse the

lightning was playing brilliantly over the dense mass of clouds that

overhung the Connecticut shore. Gradually the black bank drifted

eastward, and then to the south, and as it drew near the rumble of the

thunder became more audible. By and by a counter-current of wind seemed

to set in toward the south-west, and a part of the huge vapory mass was

broken off from the rest and whirled directly overhead. The unceasing

roar of the surf was drowned by the thunder, and the foam-crested waves

that came curling into Turtle Bay were lit up by the glare of the

lightning. Toward the east the darting forks of fire seemed now to flash

down into the inky sea, and now to throw a baleful and blinding light

around the lighthouse. What made the phenomenon singular was that the

wind had been blowing a southerly gale all day, and that for a time the

motion of the clouds appeared to be entirely independent of the wind. A

heavy rainstorm accompanied the thunder, and it was in the midst of this

elemental chaos that we first looked out upon the ocean from Womponomon.

Soon, however, the heavy cloud passed away to sea, and again

The pale and quiet moon

Makes her calm forehead bare.

[Illustration: THE CLIFFS OF MONTAUK.]

In the morning a dull gray sky hung over the still-vext ocean, and upon

its long swell a few fishing craft were riding at anchor. The view from

the lighthouse, the lantern of which was presented to the United States

by the French government, is worth all and far more than is ever likely

to be passed through in reaching it. Block Island lay like a dark mark

deepening the horizon-line, and to the south and east were ships passing

gallantly out to sea. To the north the view was hazy, and to the west

were the hills of Montauk and glimpses of its ponds. Round the point the

water was comparatively still, but the long swell was breaking grandly

among the boulders on the south. Below the lantern is the room in which

the keepers maintain their vigils, listening to the roar of the wind,

and occasionally feeling the tower vibrate to such an extent that the

lantern ceases its revolutions. This, however, rarely happens. The tower

is strongly built of stone and brick, and, although it has seen many a

storm since 1795, it is staunch enough to weather many more.

Down under the cliffs, where the "cruel, hungry foam" is dashing among

the rocks, the seaward view is grand and awful. In Turtle Bay, as we

casually learned, the dead bodies of those shipwrecked farther up the

coast generally come ashore, and a ghastly kind of interest attaches to

the place. For miles along the shore the same sad tale is being

continually told: it is the solemn burden of the sea's loud wail. We

heard it at Fire Island; walking along the beach opposite Sayville, we

heard it again in the billows that broke over the wreck of the Great

Western; it haunted us at Quogue, and rang in our ears on the lovely

beach at the Hamptons; it followed us to Amagansett, and within a few

miles of the point we can sit in a veritable "graveyard" filled with

beams, broken timbers and rusty iron bolts, the rejected spoils of the

ocean. For the moment one cannot help sympathizing with the shepherd of

the _Noctes_, who "couldna thole to lieve on the seashore." There is, in

truth, something disturbing to the imagination and confusing to the

senses in its everlasting thunder. We see it and leave it--perhaps for a

month, possibly for a year--and it is hard to realize when we return

that throughout the long interval it has never for a single moment been

at rest.

But the time comes when we must retrace our steps to the world which

seems so far away. Again we roll over the pasture-land, swept by

constant winds, sometimes by storms, and long before we reach Neapeague

have learned the truth and felt the sentiment that inspired Ayres's

lines:

There is no country like Montauk's rude isle.

Strange are its rolling hills, its valleys' smile,

Its trees lone dying in their ancient place,

As if in sorrow for a dying race.

JENNIE J. YOUNG.

"FOR PERCIVAL."

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE RESULT OF PERCIVAL'S ECONOMY.

[Illustration]

Judith's letter lay on the table still. Bertie had not come to claim it,

and she had not come home.

Having ascertained these facts, Percival went to his own room, and,

finding his tea set ready for him, ate and drank hurriedly, hesitating

whether he should go and meet her. Standing by the window he looked out

on the darkening street. All vulgarity of detail was lost in the

softening dusk, and there was something almost picturesque in the

opposite roof, whose outline was delicately drawn on the pale-blue sky.

Everything was refined, subdued and shadowy in the tender light, but

Percival, gazing, saw no charm in the little twilight picture. Sorrow

may be soothed by quiet loveliness, but perplexities absorb all our

faculties, and we do not heed the beauty of the world, which is simple

and unperplexed. If it is forced upon our notice, the contrast irritates

us: it is almost an impertinence. Percival would have been angry had he

been called upon to feel the poetry which Bertie had found only a few

days before in the bit of houseleek growing on that arid waste of tiles.

It is true that in that dim light the houseleek was only a dusky little

knob.

Should he go and meet Judith? Should he wait for her? What would she do?

Should he go to St. Sylvester's? By the time he could reach the church

the choristers would have assembled: would the organist be there? While

he doubted what to do his fingers were in his waistcoat pocket, and he

incidentally discovered that he had only a shilling and a

threepenny-piece in it. He went quickly to the table and struck a light.

Since he had enrolled himself as Judith Lisle's true knight, ready to go

anywhere or render her any service in her need, it would be as well to

be better provided with the sinews of war. He unlocked the little

writing-case which stood on a side table.

Percival's carefulness in money matters had helped him very much in his

poverty. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to him that,

since his income was fixed, his expenditure must be made to fit it. He

hardly understood the difficulties of that numerous class of which

Bertie was an example--men who consider certain items of expenditure as

fixed and unchangeable, let their income be what it may. But Percival

had retained one remembrance of his wealthier days, a familiarity with

money. People who have been stinted all their lives are accustomed to

handle silver and copper, but are anxious about gold and frightened at

notes or cheques. Percival, though he was quite conscious of the

relative greatness of small sums to his narrow means, retained the old

habit of thinking them small, and never bestowed an anxious thought on

the little hoard in his desk. As he went to it that evening he

remembered with sudden pleasure that there was the money that had been

accumulating for some time in readiness for Mrs. Bryant's return. He

could borrow from that if need were.

The money was gone.

Percival stood up and stared vaguely round the room. Then, unable to

believe in his misfortune, he emptied out the contents of the desk upon

the table and tossed them over in a hurried search. A carelessly-folded

paper caught his eye as something unfamiliar. He opened it and read:

"DEAR THORNE: You were good enough to let me borrow of you once

when I was in a scrape. I am in a worse difficulty now, and, as I

have not the chance of asking your leave, I've ventured to help

myself. You shall have it back again in a few days, with an

explanation of this cool proceeding."

"H.L."

Percival threw the letter down, and walked to the window again. It was

clear enough now. Bertie had had no need to borrow eight or nine pounds

if he were only going out for the day to inquire about a situation as

organist. But if a man is running off with a young lady it will not do

to have an absolutely empty purse. Even though she may be an heiress, he

cannot very well begin by asking her to pay his railway-fare. "It would

define the relative positions a little _too_ clearly," thought Percival

with a scornful smile.

"Will she hope still?" was his next thought. "It is not utterly

impossible, I suppose, that Master Bertie has bolted alone. One couldn't

swear he hadn't. Bolted he certainly has, but if she _will_ hope I can't

say that I know he has gone with Miss Nash. Though I am sure he has: how

else would he undertake to repay me in a few days? Unless that is only a

figure of speech."

He suddenly remembered the time when Bertie left his debt unpaid after a

similar promise, and he went back to his desk with a new anxiety. His

talisman, the half-sovereign which was to have been treasured to his

dying day, had shared the fate of the commonplace coins which were

destined for Mrs. Bryant and his bootmaker. It was a cruel blow, but

Percival saw the absurd side of his misfortune, and laughed aloud in

spite of himself.

"My sentiment hasn't prospered: it might just as well have been a

three-penny-piece! Ah, well! it would be unreasonable to complain," he

reflected, "since Bertie has promised to send my souvenir back again.

Very thoughtful of him! It will be a little remembrance of Emmeline Nash

when it comes, and not of Judith Lisle: that will be the only

difference. Quite unimportant, of course. Upon my word, Lisle went about

it in a systematic fashion. Pity he gave his attention to music: a

distinguished burglar was lost to society when he turned organist." He

took up the paper and glanced at it again. "If I show this to her she

will pay his debt, as she did last time; and that she never shall do."

He doubled it up and thrust it in with the rest.

A shuffling step in the passage, a knock at the door, and Emma made her

appearance: "Miss Lisle has come in, sir."

Percival looked up a little astonished, but he only thanked her in his

quiet voice and closed his desk. He turned the key, and waited a moment

till Emma should have gone before he obeyed the summons. When, answering

Judith's "Come in," he entered the Lisles' room, he found her standing

by the window. She turned and looked at him, as if she were not quite

certain whom to expect.

"It is I," he said. "Thank you for sending for me."

"Sending for you? I didn't send. But I am glad you came," she added.

She had not sent for him, and Percival remembered that he had passed

Lydia Bryant on his way. The message--which, after all, was a mere

statement of a fact--was hers. He colored angrily and stood confused:

"You did not send? No--I see. I beg your pardon--I misunderstood--"

"It makes no difference," said Judith quickly. "Don't go: I wanted to

tell you--" She paused: "I have not been unjust, Mr. Thorne. Mr. Nash

has been at Standon Square this afternoon. After he had my telegram he

received a letter from Emmeline, and it was as I thought. She is with

Bertie."

"With Bertie? And he came here?"

"Yes--to see if it was as Emmeline said, that they were married at St.

Andrew's last Tuesday."

Percival looked blankly at her: "Married! It isn't possible, is it?"

[Illustration: "IT IS I," HE SAID. "THANK YOU FOR SENDING FOR ME."--Page

542.]

"Quite possible," said Judith bitterly. "Standon Square is in St.

Andrew's parish, as well as Bellevue street. It seems that Bertie had

only to have the banns mumbled over for three Sundays by an old

clergyman whom nobody hears in a church where nobody goes. It sounds

very easy, doesn't it?"

Percival stood for a moment speechless while the cool audacity of

Bertie's proceeding filtered slowly into his mind. "But if any one had

gone to St. Andrew's?" he said at last.

"That would have ended it, of course. I suppose he would have run away

without Emmeline. If I had gone that Sunday when I had arranged to go,

for instance. Yes, that would have been very awkward, wouldn't it, Mr.

Thorne? Only, you see, Bertie happened to be ill that morning, and I

couldn't leave him. You remember you were good enough to go to church

with us."

"I remember," said Percival with a scornful smile as he recalled the

devoted attention with which he had escorted the young organist to St.

Sylvester's.

"He must have enjoyed that walk, I should think," said Judith, still

very quietly. Her unopened note was on the table, where she had placed

it that morning. She took it up and tore it into a hundred pieces. "You

have heard people talk of broken hearts, haven't you?" she said.

"Often," he answered.

"Well, then, Bertie has broken Miss Crawford's. She said this morning

that she should never hold up her head again if this were true; and I

believe she never will."

"Do you mean she will die of it?" said Thorne, aghast.

"Not directly, perhaps, but I am sure she will die the sooner for it.

All her pride in her life's work is gone. She feels that she is

disgraced. I could not bear to see her this afternoon, utterly ashamed

and humble before that man."

"What did he say?"

"Some things I won't tell you." A quick blush dyed her face. "Naturally,

he was angry: he had good reason to be. And when he told her she was

past her work, she moaned, poor thing! while the tears rained down her

cheeks, and only said, 'God forgive me--yes.'"

Percival could but echo her pity. "Bertie never thought--" he began.

"Never thought? When our trouble came," said Judith, "we had plenty of

friends better able to do something for us, but, somehow, they didn't.

And when there was the talk of Bertie's coming here, and I remembered

her and asked her if she could help me to a situation anywhere in the

neighborhood, she wrote to me to come to her at once, and she would do

all she could to help Bertie too. I have her letter still. She said she

longed to know me for my mother's sake, and was sure she would soon love

me for my own. And this afternoon she prayed God she might never see my

face again!"

"She thinks you are to blame, then?" said Thorne.

"Yes; and am I not?" was the quick reply. "Ought I not to have known

Bertie better? And I did know him: that is the worst of it. I did not

expect this, and yet I ought to have been on my guard. He has been my

one study from first to last. From the time that he was a little

boy--the bonniest little boy that ever was!--my life has been all

Bertie. I remember him, with long curls hanging down his back and his

gray eyes opened wide, when he stood on tiptoe at the piano and touched

the little tunes that he had heard, and looked over his shoulder at me

and laughed for pleasure in his music. I can see his little

baby-fingers--the little soft fingers I used to kiss--on the keys

now.--Oh, Bertie, why didn't you die then?"

She stopped as if checked by a sudden thought, and looked so quickly up

at Percival that she caught an answer in his eyes that he would never

have uttered.

"Ah, yes, he would have been the same," she said. "He _was_ the same

then: I know it. They used to praise me, when I was a child, for giving

everything up to Bertie. As if he were not my happiness! And it has been

so always. And now I have sacrificed Miss Crawford to Bertie--my dear

old friend, my mother's friend, who is worth ten times as much as Bertie

ever was or ever will be! Is not this a fine ending of all?"

Percival broke the silence after a moment's pause. "_Is_ it an ending of

all?" he said. "Bertie has been very wrong, but it has been partly

thoughtlessness. He is very young, and if he should do well hereafter

may there not even yet be a future to which you may look forward? As for

the world, it is not disposed to look on a runaway match of this sort as

a crime."

She turned her eyes full upon him, and he stopped.

"Oh, the world!" she said. "The world will consider it a sort of young

Lochinvar affair, no doubt. But how much of the young Lochinvar do you

think there is about Bertie, Mr. Thorne? You have heard him speak of

Emmeline Nash sometimes--not as often nor as freely as he has spoken to

me; still, you have heard him. And judging from that, do you believe he

is in love with her?"

"Well--no," said Thorne reluctantly. "Hardly that."

"A thousand times no! If by any possibility he had loved her, foolishly,

madly, with a passion that blinded him to the cruel wrong he was doing,

it would all have been different. I should have blamed him, but in spite

of Miss Crawford I should have forgiven him; I should have had hope; he

would have been my Bertie still; I should not have despised him. But

this is cold and base and horrible: he has simply sold himself for

Emmeline's money--sold himself, his smiles and his pretty speeches and

his handsome face. And now it is all over."

As Judith spoke Percival understood for the first time what a woman's

voice could be. The girl's soul was filled and shaken with passion. She

did not cry aloud nor rant, but every accent thrilled through him from

head to foot. And it seemed to him that she needed no words--that, had

she been speaking in an unknown tongue, the very intonation, the mere

sound, the vibration of her voice, would have told him of her wounded

heart, her despair, her unavailing sorrow, her bitter shame, so eloquent

it was. He did not think all this, but in a passing moment felt it. "I

fear it is all too true," he said. "I don't know what to say nor how to

help you. Your brother--"

"Don't call him that: he is no brother of mine. Ah yes, God help me, he

_is_ my brother; and I think we Lisles bring sorrow to all who are good

to us. We have to you, have we not? Don't stay here, Mr. Thorne: don't

try to help me. Remember that I am of the same blood as my father, who

robbed you--as Bertie, who has been so base."

"And if Judas himself were your brother, what then?" Percival demanded.

His voice, in its masculine vigor and fulness, broke forth suddenly,

like a strong creature held till then in a leash. "And as for the money,

what of that? I am glad it is gone, or I should not have been here

to-day."

No, he would not have needed to turn clerk and earn his living. He would

not have gone to Brackenhill to confess his poverty. He might never have

discovered anything. Most likely he would long since have been Sissy's

husband. Sissy seemed far away now. He had loved her--yes. Oh, poor

little Sissy, who had clung to him! But what were these new feelings

that thronged his heart as he looked at Judith Lisle? He stopped

abruptly. What had he said?

Judith too looked at him, and grew suddenly calm and still. "You are

very good," she said. "I should have been very lonely to-day if I had

not had a friend. It has been a comfort to speak out what I felt, though

I'm afraid I've talked foolishly."

"One can't weigh all one's words," said Percival.

"No," she answered; "and I know you will not remember my folly."

"At any rate, I will not forget that you have trusted me. You are

tired," he said gently: "you ought to rest. There is nothing to be done

to-night."

"Nothing," she answered hopelessly.

"And to-morrow, if there is anything that I can do, you will send for

me, will you not?"

She smiled.

"Promise me that," he urged in a tone of authority. "You will?"

"Yes, I promise."

Sometimes, when clouds roll up, black with thunder and rain, to

overshadow the heavens and to deluge the earth, between their masses

you may catch a momentary gleam of blue, faint and infinitely far away,

deep, untroubled, most beautiful. Judith had caught such a glimpse that

evening as she bade Percival good-night.

CHAPTER XLVII.

CONSEQUENCES.

The story of the elopement was in all the local papers, which seemed for

once to be printed on Judith Lisle's heart. It was the latest and most

exciting topic of conversation in the neighborhood of Standon Square and

St. Sylvester's, and was made doubly interesting by the utter collapse

of Mr. Clifton's Easter services, which were to have been something very

remarkable indeed. Every one recollected the young organist who was so

handsome and who played so divinely. People forgot that his father had

failed very disgracefully, and only remembered that Bertie had once been

in a much better position. There was a sort of general impression that

he was an aristocratic young hero who lived in lofty poverty, and was a

genius into the bargain. No one was very precise about it, but Beethoven

and Mendelssohn and all those people were likely to find themselves

eclipsed some fine morning. Emmeline Nash of course became a heroine to

match, vaguely sketched as slim, tall and fair. She had stayed on at

Miss Crawford's at an age when a girl's education is generally supposed

to be finished, and she had not always gone home for the holidays. These

facts were of course the germs of a romance. There was a quarrel with

her father, who wished her to marry some one. No one knew who the some

one might be, but as he was only a shadowy figure in the background, his

name was of no importance. Emmeline and her music-master had fallen in

love at first sight; and when the moment came for the girl to return

home, to be persecuted by her father's threats and by the attentions of

the shadowy lover, her heart had failed her and she had consented to fly

with the young musician. As Judith had said, it was a young Lochinvar

romance--a boy-and-girl attachment. No one seemed to think much the

worse of Bertie. Hardly any one called him a fortune-hunter, for

Emmeline's money seemed trivial compared with the wealth that he was

supposed to have once possessed. And no one thought anything at all of

Judith herself or of Miss Crawford.

It would soon be over and forgotten, but Judith suffered acutely while

it lasted. Perhaps it was well that she was forced to think about her

own prospects, which were none of the brightest.

"Shall you go to Rookleigh?" Percival asked her a couple of days later.

She shook her head: "No: I'm too proud, I suppose, or too miserable: I

can't have my failure here talked over. Aunt Lisle's conversation is

full of sharp little pin-pricks, which are all very well when they don't

go straight into one's heart."

He saw her lip quiver as she turned her face away. "Where will you go,

then?" he asked with gentle persistence. It was partly on his own

account, for he feared that a blow was in store for him, and he wanted

to know the worst.

"I shall not go anywhere. I shall not leave Brenthill."

The blood seemed to rush strongly to his heart: his veins were full of

warm life. She would not leave Brenthill!

"I will stay, at any rate, while Miss Crawford remains here. She will

not speak to me, she has forbidden me to attempt to see her, but I

cannot go away and leave her here alone. I may not be of any use--I do

not suppose I shall be--but while she is here I will not go."

"But if she left?"

"Still, I would not leave Brenthill if I could get any work to do. I

feel as if I must stay here, if only to show that I have not gone away

with Bertie to live on Emmeline's money. Poor Emmeline! And when he used

to talk of my not working any more, and he would provide for me, I

thought he meant that he would make a fortune with his opera. What a

fool I was!"

"It was a folly to be proud of."

He was rewarded with a faint smile, but the delicate curve of the

girl's lips relaxed into sadness all too soon.

The table at her side was strewn with sheets of roughly-blotted music,

mixed with others daintily neat, which Judith herself had copied. "His

opera," she repeated, laying the leaves in order. "Emmeline will be

promoted to the office of critic and admirer now, I suppose. But I think

the admiration will be too indiscriminate even for Bertie. Poor

Emmeline!"

"What are you going to do with all these?" said Thorne, laying his hand

on the papers.

"I am putting them together to send to him. I had a letter this morning,

so I know his address now. He seems very hopeful, as usual, and thinks

her father will forgive them before long."

"And do you think there is a chance of it?"

"No, I don't. Bertie did not hear what Mr. Nash said that afternoon to

Miss Crawford and to me," she replied; and once again the color rushed

to her face at the remembrance.

"Miss Lisle," said Percival suddenly, "I am ready to make every

allowance for Mr. Nash, but if--"

"Oh, it was nothing. He was angry, as he had reason to be: that was all.

And you see I am not used to angry men."

"I should hope not. I wish I had been there."

"And I don't," said Judith softly. "I think you might not have been very

patient, and I felt that one ought to be patient for Miss Crawford's

sake. Besides, if you had been there I could not have--Bertie writes in

capital spirits," she continued with a sudden change of tone. "He wants

me to go and join them. He is just the same as ever, only rather proud

of himself."

"Proud of himself! In Heaven's name, why?"

"Why, he is only two-and-twenty, and has secured a comfortable income

for the rest of his life by his own exertions. Naturally, he is proud of

himself." Percival had learned now that Judith never suffered more

keenly than when she spoke of Bertie in a jesting tone, and it pained

him for her sake. He looked sorrowfully at her. "Mr. Thorne," she went

on, "he does not even suspect that what he has done is anything but

praiseworthy and rather clever. He does not so much as mention Miss

Crawford. And I am haunted by a feeling that we have somehow wronged my

mother by wronging her old friend."

Percival did not tell her that he too had had a letter from Bertie. It

was in his pocket as he stood there, and when he went away he took it

out and read it again.

Bertie was as light-hearted as she had said. He enclosed an order for

the money taken from the desk, and hoped Thorne had not wanted it; or,

if he had been put to any inconvenience, he must forgive him this once,

as he, Lisle, did not suppose he should ever run away in that style

again.

"I think the old man will come round without much fuss," Bertie went on.

"We have been very penitent--the waste of note-paper before we could get

our feelings properly expressed was something frightful; but the money

was well laid out, for we have heard from him again, and there is a

perceptible softening in the tone of his letter. Emmeline assures me

that he is passionately fond of music, and reminds me how anxious he was

that she should learn to play. The reasoning does not exactly convince

me, but if the old fellow does but imagine that he has a passion for

music I will conquer him through that. And if the worst comes to the

worst, and he is as stony-hearted as one of his own fossils, we have

only to manage for this year, and we must come into our money when

Emmeline is twenty-one. But I have no fear. He will relent, and we shall

be comfortably settled under the paternal roof long before Christmas.

"What did old Clifton say and do when he found I had bolted? And how did

the Easter services go off? Those blessed Easter services that he was in

such a state of mind about! Was he very savage? Send me as graphic a

description as you can.

"Excuse a smudge, but Emmeline and I are bound to do a good deal of

hugging and kissing just now--a honeymoon after an elopement is

something remarkably sweet, as you may suppose--and her sleeve brushed

the wet ink. This particular embrace was on the occasion of her

departure to put on her things. We are going out.

"Don't they say that married women always give up their accomplishments?

Emmeline is a married woman, therefore Emmeline will give up her music.

How soon do you suppose she will begin?"

Half a page more of Bertie's random scribble brought him to a

conclusion, but it was not a final one, for he had added a couple of

lines: "P.S. Persuade J. to shake herself free of Brenthill as soon as

possible: there can be no need for her to work now, thank God! You know

it has always been my day-dream and hope to provide for her. You must

come and see us too. Come soon, before we go to my father-in-law's.

Good-bye: we are off.--P.S. No. 2. No, we are not. E. has forgotten her

parasol, and is gone for it. How is Lydia? What did she say when she

heard the news? I suppose by this time everybody knows it."

Percival's lip curved with scorn and disgust as he refolded the letter,

in which Emmeline, Judith and Lydia jostled each other as they might

have done in a bad dream. Then he looked up, being suddenly aware of

eyes that were fixed upon him.

Miss Bryant stood in the doorway: "You've heard from _him_, Mr. Thorne?"

Percival did not choose to answer as if he were in Miss Bryant's secrets

and knew as a matter of course that "_him_" meant Lisle. Neither did he

choose to say that he did not know who was intended by the energetic

pronoun. He looked back at Lydia politely and inquiringly, as if he

awaited further information before he could be expected to reply.

"Oh, you know," said Lydia scornfully. "You have heard from Mr. Bertie

Lisle?"

"Yes," Percival acquiesced gravely.

"Well?"

"Well--what, Miss Bryant?"

"What does he say?" Lydia demanded; and when Thorne arched his brows,

"Oh, you needn't look as if you thought it wasn't my business. I've a

right to ask after him, at any rate, for old acquaintance' sake."

"I'm sorry to hear you take so much interest in him," he rejoined.

"Why? You may keep your sorrow for your own affairs: I'll manage mine. I

can take very good care of myself, I assure you, and I won't trouble you

to be sorry for me," said Lydia shortly. I do not think she had ever

spoken to a young man before and been unconscious that it _was_ a young

man to whom she spoke. But she was utterly heedless of Percival as she

questioned him, and he perceived it, and preferred this angry mood.

"Can't you tell me anything about him?" said the girl. "Is he

well--happy?"

"He writes in the best of spirits."

Lydia advanced a step or two: "And is it all true what they are saying?

He has married this young lady?"

"Yes, he has married her."

"And do you suppose he cares for her?" said Lydia slowly.

Thome's brows went up again: "Really, Miss Bryant--"

"Because if he does, he has told lies enough: that's all."

("And he isn't a miracle of honor if he doesn't," said Percival.)

"But that's quite likely," Lydia went on, unheeding. "I knew all the

time that he didn't mean any good. He thought I believed him, but I

didn't--not more than half, anyhow. But when he went away I didn't guess

it was for this."

"You knew he was going?" Thorne said.

Lydia half smiled, in conscious superiority.

"You don't seem to have served yourself particularly well by keeping his

secrets. You are deceived at last, like the rest."

"Well, if I haven't served myself I've served him," said Lydia. "And I

don't know but what I am glad of it. He wasn't as stuck-up and proud as

some people. One likes to be looked at and spoken to as if one wasn't

dirt under people's feet. And, after all, I don't see that there's any

harm done." There were red rims to Lydia's eyes, telling of tears which

must surely have been too persistent to pass for tears of joy at the

tidings of Bertie's elopement. "I suppose a marriage like that is all

right?" she asked with a quick glance.

"Of course--no doubt of it," said Percival very shortly. He had pitied

her a moment earlier.

"Ah! I supposed so. But things ain't always all right when people run

away. And the money's all right too, is it?"

"Some of it, at any rate," said Thorne, taking a book from the table.

"Wouldn't he be sure to take care of that! And there's more to come if

the father likes, isn't there? He'll get that too: see if he doesn't."

"It is to be hoped he will--for Mrs. Lisle's sake. Otherwise, I cannot

say I care to discuss his prospects."

"Well," said Lydia after a pause, during which she turned a ring slowly

on her finger--"well, I'll wish him all the happiness he deserves."

Percival's lip curved a little: "Miss Bryant, are you absolutely

pitiless?"

Lydia's expression was rather blank. "What do you mean? No, I ain't,"

she said. "I've nothing more to do with him. He hasn't done me any harm,

and I won't wish him any. At least, only a little." With which small

ebullition of feminine tenderness and spite she fled hurriedly down

stairs to shed a few more tears, and left Thorne to write his letter to

Lisle. It was brief, and none the sweeter for that recent interview.

"I return the money," Percival wrote, "which you say was so useful to

you. I know that what you have sent me is not yours, but your wife's,

and I cannot conscientiously say that I think Mrs. Herbert Lisle is

indebted to me in any way.

"I have not delivered your message to your sister. I have no wish to

insult her in her trouble, and I know she would feel such persuasion a

cruel insult, as indeed I think it would be."

Judith at the same time was writing:

"From this time our paths must lie apart. I will never touch a penny of

your wife's money. Do not dare to offer me a share of it again. It seems

to me that all the shame and sorrow is mine, and you have only the

prosperity. Not for the whole world would I change burdens with you.

"Miss Crawford is going to give up her school at once. She will not see

or speak to me, for she suspects me of having been your accomplice. And

I cannot help blaming myself that I trusted you so foolishly. But I

could not have believed that you would have been false to her--our one

friend, our mother's friend. Is it possible that you do not see that

every one under her roof should have been sacred to you? But what is the

use of saying anything now?

"I don't know, after this, how to appeal to you, and I don't want any

promises; but if you feel any regret for the pain you have caused, and

if you really wish to do anything for me, I entreat you to be good to

Emmeline. It is the only favor I will ever ask of you. She is young and

weak, poor girl! and she has trusted you utterly. In God's name, do not

repay her trust as you have repaid Miss Crawford's and mine!"

Bertie's incredulous amazement was visible in every line of his answer

to Percival:

"Are you both cracked--you and Judith--or am I dreaming? I have read

your letters a score of times, and I think I understand them less than I

did. Here are sweet bells jangled out of tune with a vengeance, and

Heaven only knows what all the row is about: I don't.

"Do you suppose a man never made a runaway match before? And how could I

do otherwise than as I did? Was I to stop and consult all the old women

in the parish about it--ask Miss Crawford's blessing, and get my sister

to look out my train for me and pack my portmanteau? Can't you see that

I was obliged to deceive you a little?

"And what is amiss with the marriage itself? It is true that just now

Emmeline has the money and I have none, but do you suppose I am going to

remain in obscurity all my life? A few years hence you shall own that it

was not at all a bad match for her. Old Nash is nobody, though he is

clever enough in his own way. His father was a tailor, and made a good

lot of money so. By the way, he is certainly coming round (Mr. Nash, I

mean, not my grandfather-in-law the tailor: he is dead), and if he

doesn't object, why should anybody else?

"If I have done Miss Crawford any harm, I'm very sorry of course. Can't

I help her in some way?"

The reply to Judith's letter came in a feeble, girlish handwriting. It

began: "Herbert tells me you are angry with him because he deceived you

about our marriage," and it ended, "Your affectionate sister, EMMELINE

LISLE." The writer was evidently in the seventh heaven of bliss. Her

letter was an attempt at persuading Judith, but it was sprinkled all

over with fond allusions to Bertie--"My dear, dear husband," "my own

dearest," "darlingest Herbert," "my own love;" and in one place there

was an unnecessary little parenthesis: "He is such a _dear_, you know!"

It was silly enough to be maddening, but it was wonderfully happy, with

the writer's adoration of Bertie and her serene certainty that Bertie

adored her. Clearly, no shadow of doubt had crossed Emmeline's mind.

There was not such another man in all the world as Herbert Lisle, and

she was his ideal woman. Every other girl must envy her the prize she

had won. Even his sister was jealous and angry when she found that she

held only the second place in his affections. Emmeline, elated by her

proud position, reasoned sweetly with the unreasonable Judith, who read

the foolish scribble with mingled irritation, laughter, contempt, and

almost tears. At the end were three lines in another hand: "Judith, you

_must_ let me send you some money. If you don't understand why yet, you

will soon. You really must."

"Does he think I can't get a situation without his help?" Judith

wondered. She smiled, for she had found one. Mrs. Barton had come to her

assistance--Mrs. Barton, whose stupid little daughter Judith was still

patiently teaching. She understood the girl's wish to remain at

Brenthill: she believed in her and sympathized with her, and exerted

herself in her behalf. She brought her the offer of a situation in a

school for little boys, where she would live in the house and have a

small salary. "It won't be like Miss Crawford's, you know," the good

lady said.

"It will do, whatever it is," Judith answered.

"It is a school of quite a different class. Miss Macgregor is a woman

who drives hard bargains. She will overwork you, I'm afraid: I only hope

she won't underfeed you. You will certainly be underpaid. She takes

advantage of the cause of your leaving Standon Square, and of the fact

that you can't ask Miss Crawford for testimonials. She is delighted at

the idea of getting a really good teacher for next to nothing."

"Still, it is in Brenthill," said Judith, "and that is the great thing.

Thank you very much, Mrs. Barton. I will take it."

"She will reopen school in about ten days."

"That will suit me very well, won't it? I must pack up here, and settle

everything." And Judith cast a desolate glance round the room where she

had come with such happy hopes to begin a new life with Bertie.

Mrs. Barton's eyes were fixed on her. "I am half inclined now to wish I

hadn't said anything about Miss Macgregor at all," she remarked.

"Why? If you only knew how grateful I am!"

"That's just it. Grateful! And that schoolmistress will work you to

death: I know she will."

"She must take a little time about it," said the girl with a smile.

"Perhaps before she has quite finished I may hear of something else.

What I want is something to enable me to stay at Brenthill, and this

will answer the purpose."

Mrs. Barton stood up to go. "I've made one stipulation," she said.

"Miss Macgregor will let you come to us every Wednesday afternoon to

give Janie her lesson."

"Oh, how good you are!" Judith exclaimed. "I thought all that must be

over."

"I wish I could have you altogether," Mrs. Barton said. "It would be

charming for Janie, and for me too. But, unfortunately, that can't be."

She had her hand on the handle of the half-open door. As she spoke there

was a quick step on the stairs, and Percival Thorne went by. A slanting

light from the window in the passage fell on his sombre, olive-tinted

face with a curiously picturesque effect. An artist might have painted

him, emerging thus from the dusky shadows. He carried himself with a

defiant pride--was he not Judith's friend and champion?--and bowed, with

a glance that was at once eager and earnest, when he caught sight of the

young girl behind her friend's substantial figure. His strongly-marked

courtesy was so evidently natural that it could not strike any one as an

exaggeration of ordinary manners, but rather as the perfection of some

other manners, no matter whether those of a nation or a time, or only

his own. Mrs. Barton was startled and interested by the sudden

apparition. The good lady was romantic in her tastes, and this was like

a glimpse of a living novel. "Who was that?" she asked hurriedly.

"Mr. Thorne. He lodges here," said Judith.

"A friend of your brother's?"

"He was very good to my brother."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Barton. "My dear, he is very handsome."

Judith smiled.

"He is!" exclaimed her friend. "Don't say he isn't, for I sha'n't

believe you mean it. He is _very_ handsome--like a Spaniard, like a

cavalier, like some one in a tragedy. Now, isn't he?"

Mrs. Barton's romantic feelings found no outlet in her daily round of

household duties. Mr. Barton was good, but commonplace; so was Janie;

and Mrs. Barton was quite conscious that there was nothing poetical or

striking in her own appearance. But Miss Lisle, with her "great, grave

griefful air," was fit to take a leading part in poem or drama, and here

was a man worthy to play hero passing her on the staircase of a dingy

lodging-house! Mrs. Barton built up a romance in a moment, and was quite

impatient to bid Judith farewell, that she might work out the details as

she walked along the street.

The unconscious hero of her romance was divided between pleasure and

regret when he heard of the treaty concluded with Miss Macgregor. It was

much that Judith could remain at Brenthill, but one day, on his way to

dinner, he went and looked at the outside of the house which was to be

her home, and its aspect did not please him. It stood in a gloomy

street: it was prim, straight, narrow, and altogether hideous. A tiny

bit of arid garden in front gave it a prudish air of withdrawing from

the life and traffic of the thoroughfare. The door opened as Percival

looked, and a woman came out, frigid, thin-lipped and sandy-haired. She

paused on the step and gave an order to the servant: evidently she was

Miss Macgregor. Percival's heart died within him. "That harpy!" he said

under his breath. The door closed behind her, and there was a

prison-like sound of making fast within. The young man turned and walked

away, oppressed by a sense of gray dreariness. "Will she be able to

breathe in that jail?" he wondered to himself. "Bellevue street is a

miserable hole, but at least one is free there." He prolonged his walk a

little, and went through Standon Square. It was bright and pleasant in

the spring sunshine, and the trees in the garden had little leaves on

every twig. A man was painting the railings of Montague House, and

another was putting a brass plate on the door. There was a new name on

it: Miss Crawford's reign was over for ever.

Percival counted the days that still remained before Judith's bondage

would begin and Bellevue street be desolate as of old. Yet, though he

prized every hour, they were miserable days. Lydia Bryant haunted

him--not with her former airs and graces, but with malicious hints in

her speech and little traps set for Miss Lisle and himself. She would

gladly have found an occasion for slander, and Percival read her hate of

Judith in the cunning eyes which watched them both. He felt that he had

already been unwary, and his blood ran cold as he thought of possible

gossip, and the manner in which Lydia's insinuations would be made.

Precious as those few days were, he longed for the end. He thought more

than once of leaving Bellevue street, but such a flight was impossible.

He was chained there by want of money. He could not pay his debt to Mrs.

Bryant for weeks, and he could not leave while it was unpaid. Day after

day he withdrew himself more, and grew almost cold in his reserve,

hoping to escape from Lydia. One morning, as they passed on the stairs,

he looked back and caught a glance from Judith never intended to meet

his eye--a sad and wondering glance--which made his heart ache, even

while filling it with the certainty that he was needed. He answered only

with another glance. It seemed to him to convey nothing of what he felt,

but nevertheless it woke a light in the girl's eyes. Moved by a quick

impulse, Percival looked up, and following his example, Judith lifted

her head and saw Miss Bryant leaning over the banisters and watching

them with a curiosity which changed to an unpleasant smile when she

found herself observed. It was a revelation to Judith. She fled into her

room, flushing hotly with indignation against Lydia for her spitefully

suggestive watchfulness; with shame for herself that Percival's sense of

her danger should have been keener than her own; and with generous pride

and confidence in him. Thus to have been guarded might have been an

intolerable humiliation, but Judith found some sweetness even in the

sting. It was something new to her to be cared for and shielded; and

while she resolved to be more careful in future, her dominant feeling

was of disgust at the curiosity which could so misunderstand the truest

and purest of friendships. "_He_ understands me, at any rate," said

poor Judith to herself, painfully conscious of her glowing cheeks. "_He_

understands me: he will not think ill of me, but he shall never have to

fear for me again." It might be questioned whether Percival did

altogether understand her. If he did, he was more enlightened than

Judith herself.

After that day she shrank from Percival, and they hardly saw each other

till she left. She knew his hours of going and coming, and was careful

to remain in her room, though it might be that the knowledge drew her to

the window that looked into Bellevue street. As for Percival, though he

never sought her, it seemed to him that his sense of hearing was

quickened. Judith's footstep on the stairs was always distinct to him,

and the tone of her voice if she spoke to Miss Bryant or Emma was noted

and remembered. It is true that this strained anxiety sometimes made him

an involuntary listener to gossip or household arrangements in which

Miss Lisle took no active part. One day there was a hurried conversation

just outside his door.

"Did you give it to her?" said Lydia's voice.

Emma replied, "Yes'm."

"Open? Just as it came? Just as I gave it to you?"

Emma again replied, "Yes'm."

"Did she look surprised?"

"She gave a little jump, miss," said Emma deliberately, as if weighing

her words, "and she looked at it back and front."

"Well, what then? Go on."

"Oh! then she laid it down and said it was quite right, and she'd see

about it."

Lydia laughed. "I think there'll be some more--" she said. Percival

threw the tongs into the fender, and the dialogue came to an abrupt

termination. "She" who gave a little jump was Miss Lisle, of course. But

there would be some more--What? The young man revolved the matter

gloomily in his mind as he paced to and fro within the narrow limits of

his room. A natural impulse had caused him to interrupt Lydia's

triumphant speech, which he knew was not intended for his ears, but her

laugh rang in the air and mocked him. What was the torture that she had

devised and whose effects she so curiously analyzed? There would be

more--What?

He thought of it that night, he thought of it the next morning, and

still he could not solve the mystery. But as he came from the office in

the middle of the day he passed his bootmaker's, and the worthy man, who

was holding the door open for a customer to go out, stopped him with an

apology. Percival's heart beat fast: never before had he stood face to

face with a tradesman and felt that he could not pay him what he owed.

His bill had not yet been sent in, and the man had never shown any

inclination to hurry him, but he was evidently going to ask for his

money now. Percival controlled his face with an effort, prepared for the

humiliating confession of his poverty, and found that Mr. Robinson--with

profuse excuses for the trouble he was giving--was begging to be told

Mr. Lisle's address.

"Mr. Lisle's address?" Thorne repeated the words, but as he did so the

matter suddenly became clear to him, and he went on easily: "Oh, I ought

to have told you that Mr. Lisle's account was to be sent to me. If you

have it there, I'll take it."

Mr. Robinson fetched it with more apologies. He was impressed by the

lofty carelessness with which the young man thrust the paper into his

pocket, and as Thorne went down the street the little bootmaker looked

after him with considerable admiration: "Any one can see he's quite the

gentleman, and so was the other. This one'll make his way too, see if he

doesn't!" Mr. Robinson imparted these opinions to Mrs. Robinson over

their dinner, and was informed in return that he wasn't a prophet, so he

needn't think it, and the young men who gave themselves airs and wore

smart clothes weren't the ones to get on in the world; and Mrs. Robinson

had no patience with such nonsense.

Meanwhile, Percival had gone home with his riddle answered. More--What?

More unsuspected debts, more bills of Bertie's to be sent in to the

poor girl who had been so happy in the thought that, although their

income was small, at least they owed nothing. Percival's heart ached as

he pictured Judith's start of surprise when Emma carried in the open

paper, her brave smile, her hurried assurance that it was all right, and

Lydia laughing outside at the thought of more to come. "She'll pay them

all," said Percival to himself. "She won't take a farthing of that

girl's money. She'll die sooner than not pay them, but I incline to

think she won't pay this one." His mind was made up long before he

reached Bellevue street. If by any sacrifice of pride or comfort he

could keep the privilege of helping Judith altogether to himself, he

would do so. If that were impossible he would get the money from Godfrey

Hammond. But he felt doubtful whether he should like Godfrey Hammond

quite as well when he should have asked and received this service at his

hands. "I ought to like him all the better if he helped her when I

couldn't manage it. It would be abominably unjust if I didn't. In fact,

I _must_ like him all the better for it: it stands to reason I must.

I'll be shot if I should, though! and I don't much think I could ever

forgive him."

Percival found that the debt was a small one, and calculated that by a

miracle of economy he might pay it out of his salary at the end of the

week. Consequently, he dined out two or three days: at least he did not

dine at home; but his dissipation did not seem to agree with him, for he

looked white and tired. Luckily, he had not to pay for his lodgings till

Mrs. Bryant came back, and he sincerely hoped that the good lady would

be happy with her sister, Mrs. Smith, till his finances were in better

order. When he got his money he lost no time in settling Mr. Robinson's

little account, and was fortunate enough to intercept another, about

which Mr. Brett the tailor was growing seriously uneasy. He would not

for the world have parted with the precious document, but he began to

wonder how he should extricate himself from his growing embarrassments.

Lydia--half suspicious, half laughing--made a remark about his

continual absence from home. "You are getting to be very gay, ain't you,

Mr. Thorne?" she said; and she pulled her curl with her old liveliness,

and watched him while she spoke.

"Well, rather so: it does seem like it," he allowed.

"I think you'll be getting too fine for Bellevue street," said the girl:

"I'm afraid we ain't scarcely smart enough for you already."

Had she any idea how much he was in their power? Was this a taunt or a

chance shot?

"Oh no, I think not," he said. "You see, Miss Bryant, I'm used to

Bellevue street now. By the way, I shall dine out again to-morrow."

"What! again to-morrow?" Lydia compressed her lips and looked at him.

"Oh, very well: it is a fine thing to have friends make so much of one,"

she said as she turned to leave the room.

Percival came home late the next evening. As he passed Judith's

sitting-room the door stood wide and revealed its desolate emptiness.

Was she gone, absolutely gone? And he had been out and had never had a

word of farewell from her! Perhaps she had looked for him in the middle

of the day and wondered why he did not come. Down stairs he heard Lydia

calling to the girl: "Emma, didn't I tell you to put the 'Lodgings' card

up in the windows as soon as Miss Lisle was out of the house? It might

just as well have been up before. What d'ye mean by leaving it lying

here on the table? You're enough to provoke a saint--that you are! How

d'ye know a score of people mayn't have been looking for lodgings

to-day, and I dare say there won't be one to-morrow. If ever there was a

lazy, good-for-nothing--" The violent slamming of the kitchen-door cut

off the remainder of the discourse, but a shrill screaming voice might

still be heard. Percival was certain that the tide of eloquence flowed

on undiminished, though of articulate words he could distinguish none.

It is to be feared that Emma was less fortunate.

It was true, then. Judith was gone, and that without a farewell look or

touch of the hand to mark the day! They had lived for months under the

same roof, and, though days might pass without granting them a glimpse

of each other, the possibility of a meeting was continually with them.

It was only that night that Percival, sitting by his cheerless fireside,

understood what that possibility had been to him. He consoled himself as

well as he could for his ignorance of the hour of Judith's departure by

reflecting that Lydia would have followed her about with malicious

watchfulness, and would either have played the spy at their interview or

invented a parting instead of that which she had not seen. "She can't

gossip now," thought Percival.

Meanwhile, Lydia perceived, beyond a doubt, that they must have arranged

some way of meeting, since they had not taken the trouble to say

"Good-bye."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE HARVESTING-ANTS OF FLORIDA.

[Illustration: EXCAVATING AN ANT-HILL.]

In the low pine barrens of Florida are large districts thickly dotted

over with small mounds made by a species of ant whose habits are unknown

to the scientific world. Each mound is surrounded by a circle of small

chips and pieces of charcoal, which the busy inhabitants often bring

from a long distance. The hills are regular in outline, with a

crater-like depression on the summit, in the centre of which is the

gateway or entrance.

These ants do not live in vast communities like the mound-builders of

the North, but each hill seems to be a republic by itself, though

separate colonies in the same neighborhood have friendly relations with

each other. Their color is rufous or reddish-brown, and they are

furnished with stings like bees and wasps, and, like the honey-bee,

always die after inflicting a wound, for their stings are torn from

their bodies and left in the victim. The pain inflicted is about the

same as that caused by the sting of the honey-bee. But they are not as

vicious as most stinging insects: they will submit to considerable rough

treatment before resorting to this last resource.

There are three sets of neuters in each colony--major and minor workers

and soldiers: also one wingless queen is found in each nest. The head is

very large, especially that of the soldier.[1] The workers minor--which

are the true workers--have regular well-defined teeth on the mandibles,

while most of the soldiers have merely the rudiments or teeth entirely

obsolete. All the queens which I have found--eighteen in number--have

perfectly smooth mandibles, without the least vestige of a tooth.

Early in December, 1877, I brought a large colony of these ants from one

of the hills, including the workers major and minor and soldiers, and

established them in a glass jar which I placed in my study. They very

soon commenced work, tunnelling the earth and erecting a formicary, as

nearly as they could after the pattern of their home on the barrens. The

mining was done entirely by the small workers. At first they refused all

animal food, but ate greedily fruit and sugar, and all kinds of seeds

which I gave them were immediately taken below, out of sight. I now

visited the mounds on the barrens and found abundant indications of

their food-supplies. At the base of each mound was a heap of chaff and

shells of various kinds of seeds. The chaff was _Aristida speciformis_,

which grew plentifully all about. I also found many seeds of _Euphorbia_

and _Croton_, and several species of leguminous seeds. But the ants were

not bringing seeds in at this time of year: they were only carrying out

the discarded seeds and chaff; and only on the warmest days were they

very active. But they do not wholly hibernate. Even after a frosty

night, by ten o'clock in the morning many of the hills would be quite

active.

[Illustration: SOLDIER.]

I sent specimens to the Rev. Dr. McCook of Philadelphia to be named, and

he identified them as _Pogono myrmex crudelis_, described by Smith as

_Atta crudelis_[2] Dr. McCook predicted from their close structural

resemblance to the Texan "agricultural ant" that they would prove to be

harvesting-ants.

On excavating a nest I found chambers or store-rooms filled with various

kinds of seeds. But, so far as I have observed, the seeds are not eaten

until they are swollen or sprouted, when the outer covering bursts of

itself. At this stage the starch is being converted into sugar, and this

seems to be what the ants are after. They also seemed to be very fond of

the yellow pollen-dust of the pine. The catkins of the long-leaved pine

(_Pinus australis_) commenced falling in February, and I noticed ants

congregated on them; so I took those just ready to discharge the pollen,

and shook the dust on the mound in little heaps, which were soon

surrounded by ants, crowding and jostling each other in their eagerness

to obtain a share.

The colony in the glass jar seemed perfectly contented, not trying to

make their escape at all. The earth was originally a little more than

two inches in depth, but by the first of February these wonderful

architects had reared their domicile to the height of six inches. They

raised tier upon tier of chambers in so substantial a manner that they

never fell in. One of the store-rooms in which they deposited the seeds

I gave them was at the bottom of the jar, and the seeds were stored

against the glass with no intervening earth between: it contained about

a teaspoonful of millet. I gave this chamber the right degree of heat

and moisture to sprout the seed by pouring a little water down the side

of the jar until it penetrated the chamber, and then setting it near the

fire. The ants soon appreciated the condition of this store-room, and

many congregated there and seemed to be enjoying a feast. The next day

the seeds were all brought to the surface and deposited in a little heap

on one side of the jar, where many of them grew, making a pretty little

green forest, which the ants soon cut down and destroyed. This chamber

remained empty for three or four days, and was then again refilled with

fresh millet and apple and croton seeds.

I kept a small shell, which held about a tablespoonful of water,

standing in the jar for the ants to drink from. For more than a month

the water was allowed to remain clear, the ants often coming to the edge

to drink; but one day one was walking on the edge of the shell, and

carrying an apple-seed, when she lost her footing and rolled into the

water. She floundered about for a few moments, still holding on to the

seed: at last she let it drop and crawled out. As soon as she had

divested herself of the surplus water, she consulted several of her

companions, and they immediately went to work and filled up the shell,

first throwing in four or five apple-seeds, and then filling in with

earth; and ever after, as often as I cleared out the shell and put in

fresh water, it would be filled with earth, sticks and seeds; and they

now served all sweet liquids which I gave them in the same way, sipping

the syrup from the moistened earth.

Like other ants, they are very fastidious about removing their dead

companions. I buried one about half an inch beneath the soil. Very soon

several congregated about the spot and commenced digging with their fore

feet, after the manner of digger-wasps, throwing the earth backward.

They soon unearthed and pulled the body out, when one seized and tried

to remove it, climbing up the side of the jar, and falling back until I

relieved her of the burden.

From time to time I add new recruits of soldiers and workers to the jar.

This always causes a little confusion for a few moments: there is a

quick challenging with antennae, but no fighting, and soon all are

working harmoniously together. I found three half-drowned, chilled ants

near the mound from which most of the inhabitants of the jar were taken.

One was not only wet and chilled, but also covered with sand. These I

put on a small leaf and placed in the centre of the jar. The genial

warmth soon revived them. Many of their old companions clustered around

them, and there seemed to be considerable consultation. The two wet ants

were soon made welcome, and, leaving the leaf, were conducted by their

comrades--from whom they had been separated for more than two

months--to the rooms below. But the one covered with sand--a major--did

not meet with so kindly a reception. She still remained on the leaf

trying to cleanse herself. All the ants had left her save one, who was

determined to quarrel with her. I removed this one, and now another came

up, bit at her and annoyed her until I removed this one also. Then some

half dozen congregated about the leaf, touching her with their antennae

and walking round her. By this time she was nearly free from the sand,

and was looking quite bright, strutting about the leaf in a threatening

attitude, with her mandibles wide apart. She was not attacked by these

last inspectors, though still looked upon a little suspiciously. I then

returned the two quarrelsome ants: they immediately walked up to their

unfortunate comrade, and now seemed to be satisfied that she was a

respectable ant, and admitted her into the community with no further

challenging.

[Illustration:

1. WORKER MAJOR.

2. OUTLINE OF HEAD OF WORKER MAJOR.

3. OUTLINE OF BODY OF WORKER MINOR.]

I found a nest of large carpenter-ants (_Camponotus atriceps_, var.

_esuriens_, Smith) which had made their home in fallen timber. Upon

examining their work, it was evident they must have strong tools to work

with, for the numerous rooms and chambers of their domicile were often

made in firm, hard wood. They are the largest, most vicious species I

have ever seen. I introduced one of these terrible creatures into the

jar among the quiet, peaceful occupants. A large worker major

immediately closed with her: it was so quickly done that I could not

tell which was the attacking party. They rolled about a few moments in a

close embrace, till they rolled out of sight through the wide entrance

to one of the rooms below. There was considerable excitement and

increased activity among the workers, who were constantly bringing to

the surface bits of earth which the struggling warriors had loosened. In

about an hour the head of the carpenter was brought out, divested of

every member: both the antennae and palpi were gone, cut close to the

head. A little later the abdomen was brought out, and still later the

thorax with not an entire leg left.

[Illustration: QUEEN: SIDE-VIEW, SHOWING PECULIAR CONFORMATION OF THE

THORAX.]

Several times during the months of January and February I introduced

into the jar a number of half-grown larvae of the harvester. Without any

hesitation they were quickly carried to the rooms below by the workers

minor. On the 4th of February I found a large number of the larvae of the

carpenter-ant (_Camponotus meleus_, Say). They were very small, and

closely packed together in a chamber cut out of hard wood, two inches in

length and an inch and a quarter in diameter, nearly circular. It was

packed full of larvae and eggs, the larvae apparently just hatched. I

detached a small mass, all stuck together, and placed them in the jar

with the harvesters. The workers minor immediately surrounded the mass,

touching it with their antennae, and then retreated backward, passing

their fore legs over the head and antennae, as if the larvae were

obnoxious to them. Great commotion ensued, followed by an apparent

consultation lasting a few moments; but soon the usual quietness

reigned, and most of the ants left the helpless larvae and returned to

their mining and to the storing away of seeds or feeding their own

young. But two or three had not entirely deserted the young carpenters.

Again and again they touched them, and then retreated, cleansing the

antennae as they moved backward. At last one seized the mass and held it

in her mandibles, standing nearly in an upright position. Several

workers now surrounded her, picked the larvae off, one by one, and

carried them below, until all were separated and disposed of.

But by far the most satisfactory way of studying the ants is in their

native haunts on the barrens, where I had ten nests under observation.

One of these was so situated that it received the direct rays of the sun

all day, and was protected from north and east winds by dense, low

shrubbery. On sunny days, even with a cool wind from the north, when

taking my seat in this sheltered spot, I would soon become uncomfortably

warm. This hill was always active whenever I visited it, while in other

localities the ants would often be all housed. Around this active nest I

stuck stems of millet eighteen inches high, surmounted by the

close-packed heads. The ants climbed the stems, loosened and secured the

seeds, and stored them within the nest. They worked vigorously,

sometimes twenty or more on one head pulling away at the seeds. In my

artificial formicary they did not mount the stems, even when the heads

were not more than three or four inches from the ground, but seeds that

I scattered in the jar were always taken below.

I threw down a handful of apple-seeds near the entrance of the active

hill on the barrens. This immediately attracted a large number of

excited ants. They rushed to the seeds in a warlike attitude, and began

carrying them off, depositing them two or three feet away. But as soon

as the excitement caused by the sudden pouring down of the seeds had

subsided, they seemed to comprehend that they had been throwing away

good seeds; and now, changing their tactics, not only carried the

remainder into the nest, but finally brought back and stored all those

that had been thrown away.

On excavating the nests we found granaries of seed scattered irregularly

throughout to the depth of twenty-two inches below the surface of the

ground: some were near the surface, and a few sprouted seeds were

scattered about in the mound. The mound is usually not more than four to

six inches above the level of the ground.

The great majority of nests that I have found are in the low pine

barrens--so low that on reaching the depth of two feet the water runs

into the cavity like a spring, and stands above some of the granaries.

Notwithstanding this wet locality, I found no sprouted seeds in the

deeper store-rooms, but only in the warmer mound. On sunny days the

larvae are brought up into the mound and deposited in chambers near the

surface, where they receive the benefit of the sun's rays. On cool,

cloudy days and in the early morning I found no larvae near the surface.

If the ants are intelligent enough to treat the larvae in this way, why

should they not store seeds where they will not sprout? And when they

need to sprout them in order to obtain the sugar they contain, it would

take no more wisdom to treat the seed as they do the larvae--bringing

them near the surface to obtain the right degree of heat for the

required result.

The little workers seem very determined not to allow any green thing to

grow on their mounds. Cassia and croton and many other plants start to

grow from seeds which the ants have dropped, but they are always cut

down and destroyed if too near the mound, though allowed to grow at a

little distance; so that a botanist would be astonished at the great

variety of plants within a small area if not aware of the source from

which they came. I sometimes found small shrubs of _Kalmia hirsuta_ and

_Hypericums_ entirely dead on the mounds, the roots completely girdled

in many places. It is very amusing to watch them in their efforts to

destroy grass and other plants. Their determined persistence is

remarkable: they cut off the tender blades and throw them away. But they

do not stop here: the roots must be exterminated; so several dig around

the plant, throwing the earth backward, and after making it bare they

cut and girdle the roots until the plant is killed.

[Illustration: 1. With well-formed teeth. 2. Partially developed. 3.

Entirely obsolete.

MANDIBLES OF THE HARVESTING-ANT.]

Early in March the ants in the jar seemed to have completed their

domicile. At first, several chambers were visible through the glass, and

the galleries leading to them, but gradually the light was all shut out

by placing little particles of earth against the glass, thus depriving

me of the opportunity of watching their movements within the nest. So I

now took the jar to the barrens, and set it by the side of a nest which

was about a mile distant from where most of the ants were obtained. Here

I carefully broke it, and took the thin shell of glass from around the

nest, which did not fall, but stood six inches in height and eighteen

inches in circumference. With a large knife I removed a thin layer of

earth, which revealed three admirable chambers with galleries leading

from one to the other. Immediately below there were five chambers well

filled with ants, and below these other chambers were scattered

irregularly throughout, with only thin partitions between.

At various times I had given the ants moistened sugar on the thick

curved leaves of the live-oak, and several of these had been covered

while the ants were making their excavations. Two of the leaves were

three inches below the surface, and the ants had utilized them by making

the inner curved surface answer for the floor and sides of fine

chambers; and here a large number of ants, both soldiers and workers,

were crowded together. In other chambers I found the larvae, which were

greatly increased in size since I had placed them in the jar; and the

larvae of the carpenter-ant were being reared, as I found some smaller

than any I had introduced belonging to the harvester.

Very soon a great crowd of excited ants came from the hill near which I

had broken the jar, and began to transport the larvae, and also the

mature ants, to their own dominions. There was no fighting: the ants

from the jar submitted to being carried, not offering the least

resistance. A small worker would often take hold of a large soldier,

sometimes pushing, sometimes dragging, her through the sand, and she

would be as quiet as if dead or dying; but if we touch the little worker

she leaves her burden and rushes about to see what the interference

means; and now the soldier straightens up, as bright and lively as the

rest, and after passing her fore legs over her head and body, goes of

her own accord into the new nest, meeting with no opposition. Some of

the ants would coil up and allow themselves to be carried easily. Others

were led along by an antenna or a leg, in either case manifesting no

resistance. For three hours I watched the proceeding, and could see no

fighting. It looked precisely as if the inhabitants of the jar realized

their helpless condition, and gladly submitted to be taken prisoners or

to become partners with this new firm.

I left them, and after the lapse of two hours again visited the spot.

The seeds that had been in the jar were now being transferred to the

other nest, and two new entrances at the base of the mound were being

made. And now every little while an ant would be ejected from the nest.

One worker would bring another out and lay her down, often not more than

three inches away from the door, but, so far as I could see, she was in

no wise injured. Her first movement was to make herself presentable by

passing her fore legs over her head and body: as soon as this was

completed she returned within the nest. But there was one large soldier

which the whole community seemed combined against. She was led or

dragged away from the entrance of the nest eight times, and each time

left at the base of the mound among the rubbish. Sometimes she was led

or carried by one alone, sometimes two or three would conduct her, and

then leave her, when she would at once proceed to make her toilet; which

completed, she would again return to the door of the nest, when she

would be again conducted away, offering no resistance. I now picked her

up, which made her very fierce. She seized my glove with her powerful

mandibles, and held on with a persistency equal to the most vicious

species, at the same time trying to use her sting. As soon as I could

free her from the glove I secured her, and on reaching home placed her

under the microscope, and found she was not injured and had strong teeth

in her mandibles.

On the next day I returned her to the nest, and again she was met by the

indignant police at the door and conducted away. With her strong

mandibles she could have crushed any number of her small assailants, but

in no instance did she show the least disposition to rebel against the

indignities to which she was subjected. She was often dragged away with

her back on the ground and her legs coiled up, apparently helpless. If

all the soldiers had been treated in this way, it would not have been so

remarkable, but so far as I could see the rest were allowed to remain,

going in and out of the nest as if taking a survey of their new

surroundings.

For five months I had these ants under almost constant observation, and

yet I was unable to make out the true position of the soldiers in the

colony. They stay mostly within the nest. On the warmest days a few

will come out and walk leisurely around the mound. They are not

scattered irregularly through the nest, but seem to be housed together

in large chambers. In one of these chambers I found a wingless queen in

their midst. It seemed very fitting for a queen to be surrounded by

Amazon soldiers; but, alas! they seemed more like maids of honor than

soldiers, for they forsook the royal lady without making an effort to

defend her. Not so, however, with the little workers: they rallied

around her, ready to guard her with their lives, and no doubt would have

succeeded had it been any ordinary foe.

This phenomenon--the soldiers and queens with smooth mandibles--is very

puzzling, and has excited much interest among naturalists both in this

country and in Europe. I sent specimens to Mr. Charles Darwin, which he

forwarded to Mr. Frederick Smith of the British Museum (who, Mr. Darwin

informs me, is the highest authority in Europe on ants and other

Hymenoptera). Mr. Smith says: "Your observations on the structural

differences in the mandibles of this ant are quite new to me." I also

sent specimens to the eminent naturalist Dr. Auguste Forel of Munich,

who, like Mr. Smith, had never observed this feature of the mandibles in

any ant; but he has a theory to account for it--that the smooth

mandibles have been worn down by labor. If this theory is true, how can

we account for the fact that other ants do not wear down their teeth?

The chitinous covering of this harvesting-ant is firm and hard. The

stage forceps of my microscope closes with a spring, and in studying

this ant I have put thousands of individuals to the test, holding them

in the forceps to examine their mandibles, and in no instance do I

recollect seeing one injured, while many other species are easily

injured by the forceps. Among these are the two large species of

carpenter-ant before mentioned, which work in stumps or fallen timber.

These ants all have well-developed teeth, and the shell-like covering

enveloping the body is much thinner than that of the harvesting-ant.

If it be urged that hard wood will not wear down the teeth like mining

in the sandy soil, I can bring forward another member of this family

(_Camponotus socius_, Roger), which lives in the ground, and whose

mining and tunnelling are on a much more extensive scale than those of

the harvesting-ant. The formicary of this _Camponotus_ often extends

over several square rods, with large entrances at various points, all

connected by underground galleries, requiring a great amount of labor to

construct them; while each colony of the harvesting-ant has a close,

compact nest or formicary, requiring much less work to construct it. The

worker major of _Camponotus socius_ is very large--larger than the

soldier of the harvesting-ant. The formicaries of the two species are

often in close contact, so that the nature of the soil is precisely the

same. I have examined thousands of _Camponotus socius_, and in no

instance have I found the teeth worn down.

There is still another difficulty in the way of Dr. Forel's theory.

Careful observations have revealed the fact that all the harvesting-ants

that engage in work of any kind are armed with teeth. I took thirty

soldiers with smooth mandibles, put them in a glass jar with every

facility for making a nest, but they refused to work, scorned all my

offers of food, and remained huddled together for three days. I then

introduced several workers minor, and they immediately commenced

tunnelling the earth and making chambers, into which the lazy soldiers

crawled, meeting with no opposition from these industrious little

creatures. My experiments did not stop here. I now took about a hundred

specimens--soldiers and a few workers major, the last with

partially-developed teeth--and placed them in a jar. Some of these made

feeble attempts to construct a nest, but they did not store away seeds,

and larvae which I put in the jar they carried about as if not knowing

what to do with them.

There is every appearance of an aristocracy among these humble

creatures. The minors are the servants who do the work, while the queens

and soldiers (especially the soldiers, which more nearly approach the

queen in shape of head and mandibles) seem to live a life of comparative

ease, and have their food brought to them by the minors. This may be the

reason of the non-development of the teeth among the aristocracy. But

how the same parent can produce such differing offspring--some born to a

life of ease, with obsolete teeth, and others with well-developed teeth

to do the work--is one of the mysteries in Nature. The only way to

settle the point with regard to the mandibles beyond dispute is to find

the pupae of very young queens and soldiers, which I was unable to do

during my stay in Florida. All the young were in the larval state.

MARY TREAT.

DOCTEUR ALPHEGE.

"Marcelline! Marcelline! viens m'aider: je souffre!"

The voice was thin and querulous, but painfully weak, and the stalwart,

broad-shouldered negress to whom the cry was addressed had an anxious,

startled look on her usually stolid face as she turned away from the

open door and went into the sick room.

"My poor mistress," she said tenderly in French, raising in her arms as

she spoke the attenuated form of the suffering woman before her and

rearranging her pillows, "you feel very bad to-day: I knew you did just

now when you were asleep and I heard you groaning. I wish--_bon

Dieu!_--I wish I could do something for you."

The invalid made no reply for a minute, but gazed piteously up into the

other's face. She was a woman of about fifty, who even in the last

stages of emaciation and weakness showed traces of wonderful beauty. The

sharp, drawn features were as clear and fine as those of a model, and

even now the sweetness and brilliancy of her dark-blue eyes were little

diminished. But pain of some kind and utter prostration held her in

their grip, and she made several attempts to speak before she said, in a

hoarse whisper, "Thou canst help me, child. Food, Marcelline! food, for

the love of God!"

The negress started, knit her brows and murmured anxiously, "Oh, my dear

mistress, anything but that! Think what would happen to me and my

children if--if--"--she seemed almost afraid even to whisper the name,

but sank her voice to the lowest tone as she continued--"if Mons.

Alphege were to find me out. _Attends!_" she added aloud and coaxingly:

"it will soon be time for your supper now: when the bell rings you are

to have some milk, and the sun is almost down."

The sick woman groaned and lay quite still, but when, in a few minutes,

a clanging plantation-bell rang the joyful announcement that the day's

work was over, she grasped the milk which Marcelline brought her like

one famished, and drained it without breathing. It was a short draught,

after all, for the cup was only half full, but Marcelline turned away

with a shiver from the imploring eyes and outstretched hands, which

asked her to replenish it, and, as though unable to endure the sight of

suffering which she could not alleviate, went out upon the open gallery

and sat down on the steps.

The room was on the ground floor, and the house was an old-fashioned

creole dwelling, long and low, with many doors and innumerable little

staircases--everything in disorder and out of repair, and weeds and

grass growing up to the threshold. There was a well-stocked and

carefully-tended vegetable garden not a hundred yards off: the

poultry-yards, dove-cotes and smoke-houses were as full as they could

hold, and over yonder, just behind the tall picket fence, were

corn-cribs bursting with corn and hay-lofts choked with hay. Fifty or

sixty negro hovels, irregularly grouped together down by the bayou-side,

and indistinctly seen in the fading twilight, contained about three

hundred slaves, who, having trooped in from the field at the sound of

the bell, were now eating pork and hominy as fast as they could swallow.

But no one would have guessed that all this abundance was at hand, or

that this was the homestead of one of the richest creole families in the

State. Yet it was so. Old Madame Levassour--or Madame Hypolite, as she

was invariably called--was not only the widow of a wealthy planter, but

had been herself a great heiress, perhaps the greatest in the whole

South, at the time of her marriage. The property had gone on

appreciating, as slave property did in old times, and now that she was

lying at the point of death, her two daughters, who had married

brothers, and, like all true creoles, still lived at home with their

mother, would soon be enormously rich. They were well off already by

inheritance from their father, and each owned a valuable plantation and

many slaves; but these were nothing compared to the possessions of their

mother, who was an excellent business-woman, full of energy, prudence

and moderation, and never weak or capricious, especially where the

interests of others were concerned. She had always been a kind and

indulgent mistress to her slaves, who loved her in return with

passionate fidelity, and many were the sighs and tears their approaching

change of owners produced among them. Her sons-in-law were educated men,

of good birth and moderate fortune; but negroes are the best judges of

character in the world, and there was not a trait or feeling concealed

under the quiet, nonchalant exterior of Mons. Volmont Cherbuliez which

they did not thoroughly understand. About his brother Alphege, who was a

physician, there was more diversity of opinion. That he also was bad,

cruel, dissipated, profoundly deceitful, there was no doubt in the minds

of his future chattels, but what precise form his idiosyncrasies would

take they felt to be uncertain, and gazed with terror--all the more

acute for being somewhat vague--at his cold, impassive face. In the mean

time, nothing could be more irreproachable than the demeanor of the two

brothers. Dr. Alphege was known to be a man of great skill, a graduate

of the medical schools of Paris and always interested in the practice of

his profession. He devoted himself to his mother-in-law now with

unfailing assiduity, and when her disease--which he pronounced to be a

dangerous gastric affection--baffled his utmost efforts, he sent for

advice and assistance even to New Orleans; which, thirty years ago in

South-western Louisiana, was quite an enterprise. His fellow-physicians

agreed with him in his management of the case, and the daughters and

friends of Madame Hypolite, though deeply grieved by her illness, felt

that nothing more could be done. As is usual in diseases of the stomach,

her suffering was very great, and the most rigid care had to be

exercised in the choice and administration of nourishment. On her food,

said Dr. Alphege, he depended for the only hope of a cure: consequently,

the rules which he laid down must be, and were, enforced in the most

rigid manner. The penalty of transgressing his orders was always severe,

but now the fiat went forth that any one of the nurses or attendants

upon Madame Hypolite who should depart from his carefully-explained

orders in the minutest particular should receive a punishment such as

had never been administered in that household before.

One of the marked features of creole life was always the immense number

of house-servants, and in a long illness such as Madame Hypolite was now

experiencing many attendants and various nurses seemed a matter of

course. Therefore the doctor's orders were doubly necessary, and would

in all cases have been entirely correct, since the first element of good

nursing is implicit obedience. Still, with all this care, she did not

improve, and in the evening of which we write her two daughters,

Mesdames Volmont and Alphege (for a creole never gets his or her last

name except in legal documents), were sitting on the gallery not far

from where Marcelline crouched on the steps, rocking themselves backward

and forward to keep off the mosquitoes and talking over the aspect of

affairs. They were both extremely pretty women, and very much alike.

Euphrosyne (Madame Volmont) was a year or two the older, but still not

more than twenty-two or three. She had been married at fourteen, and her

oldest boy was nearly eight, but she seemed not more than sixteen now;

while Clothilde (Madame Alphege), who, although married at the same age,

was childless, looked even younger; and any stranger seeing them this

evening in their soft white cambric dresses, little high-heeled red

slippers and floating ribbons, would have taken them for a couple of

pretty, dark-eyed, lazy school-girls enjoying their holiday.

Marcelline listened to them as they talked, at first with the same

intent, peculiar expression she had worn in the sick room, but gradually

her features relaxed as she heard their harmless chatter, subdued so as

not to disturb the sufferer near by, but full of little childish gossip

and kindly details of daily life. After talking for a few minutes about

Dr. Alphege's last report, which was that some slight improvement was

visible, Clothilde asked her sister with much interest if she had

finished the novena she was making, and on being answered in the

affirmative said that she would begin one herself on Monday.

"Bien!" said Euphrosyne. "If you will make a novena I will burn two more

candles, and get Pere Ramain to say three masses for my intention in

honor of the Blessed Trinity."

"Say the novena with me," suggested Clothilde, fanning and rocking, and

speaking less distinctly than usual because her mouth was full of candy.

"Indeed, I cannot," replied Euphrosyne: "my knees are black and blue

now. I told Pere Ramain yesterday that if he could just see them he

would not make me kneel again for a week."

As she spoke a horse's step was heard on the grass, and Volmont

Cherbuliez galloped lightly up over the turf. As he jumped down and

threw the reins to half a dozen nearly naked little black fellows who

were at his heels, his wife rose to meet him affectionately, and with

her hand on his shoulder said in a low tone of genuine delight, "Cher

ami, you will be so glad to hear that mamma is really better to-night!"

She was not looking at him, but even in the darkness, which was now that

of a starlit summer evening, Marcelline could see the slight start and

change of expression with which he heard her. He said nothing, however,

but kissed her hand with as much gallantry as though he was still

_faisant la cour_ to "mademoiselle," and they all passed into the

dining-room together. This, as was the custom in all such houses, was

also the common sitting-room of the family, or rather, when the weather

was too cold to sit on the galleries and they had occasion to leave

their bedrooms, it was here they met. As a rule, the women invariably

occupied their sleeping apartments, and never thought of leaving them

except for the open gallery or at meal-times. Here they received their

friends, sewed, embroidered, gossiped and told their beads. Two large

double beds were the ordinary complement of each room, and, what with

large family connections and frequent visitors, it was rare indeed to

find one not in use. Owing to this habit on the part of the women, and

the fact that no Creole planter ever spent two consecutive minutes in

his house during the daytime if he could possibly help it, the

dining-room was as dreary a spot as could be imagined. A long, narrow

table covered with oilcloth and surmounted by a huge punkah, a number of

straight wooden chairs and a square red cupboard comprised all the

furniture, the whole dimly lighted by two candles. The Cherbuliez

family, however, as they sat down to supper, seemed to feel no

deficiency, and ate and drank merrily, especially when Madame Volmont's

three children came in and were bountifully helped to everything on the

table, including ripe figs, cucumbers, melons and gumbo _choux_. As they

were all lingering over the table and wondering why Alphege did not

come in, he suddenly appeared, looking very pale and tired. Without

stopping even to say "Good-evening," he passed directly through into the

room beyond, where Madame Hypolite was lying, and was heard questioning

Marcelline rapidly as to his patient's condition. When he at last sat

down to his supper he looked like a man overworked bodily indeed, but

with a great weight suddenly removed from his mind; and Clothilde, who

was an _enfant gatee_ to him as to others, exclaimed joyfully, "Oh,

Alphege, maman is really better--elle va se guerir, elle est hors de

danger, n'est ce pas?" And she came behind him and put her arms round

his neck as he tried to eat, and gave him a joyful embrace.

Whatever the dark secrets of his soul might be, at which so many dimly

guessed, Alphege Cherbuliez was invariably tender and considerate to his

wife; and now, as he gently disengaged the little hands that were

throttling him from his throat, he said kindly, but with a gravity which

always awed and restrained her, "I think she is better, my dear, but it

is impossible to predict in such cases; and all we can do is to wait and

hope."

As he spoke, his brother, who had lighted a cigarette and was sitting

opposite with his youngest child on his knee, looked up. The gaze of the

two men met. On the bronzed cheek of Volmont came a slight flush, and

his eyes had an expression for the moment of fear and appeal. But the

dark, handsome face of Alphege maintained its cold, inscrutable

composure, and the look before which his brother's slowly fell was

magnetic in its steady strength.

A little later, as they smoked together on the steps their last cigar

before retiring, Volmont asked in a sudden low whisper, "Did you

succeed?" and Alphege said slowly aloud, "Yes: they will wait two weeks

longer."

"Hadst thou trouble, my brother?"

The other paused a moment, and then said, "Yes: they were inclined to

insist. They have been a long time out of their money, mon ami, and when

this danger is over we shall do well to avoid another--with them."

"What did you promise?" asked Volmont, as if reassured by his brother's

tone.

"I promised," said Alphege, carefully rolling the end of his cigar, but

this time dropping his voice, "that in a fortnight the notes should be

taken up."

* * * * *

It was midnight, and the house was entirely silent and dark except where

one shaded candle burned in the sick room. Down at the "quarters," as

the negro cabins were called, every one was literally locked in slumber,

and it must have been a loud and prolonged noise which should have

awakened those tired sleepers. But some one was stirring, for all that,

and had the moon been shining ever so faintly it would have been a

dangerous task for those two gliding, crouching figures to move across

the open green beyond the stable as they were doing. But the night was

safely dark: a soft gray scud from the Gulf was flying rapidly in,

obscuring even the dim starlight, and no one saw them as they passed

through the turngate in the fence and sat down close to the water's edge

under the overhanging trunk of a huge water-oak.

"Now we are safe," said the woman, throwing back her coarse shawl; "and

I tell you, Pierre, you must listen to me, and I _must_ speak, or some

day I shall just burst out and go screaming my dreadful news from one

end of the parish to the other."

The speaker was Marcelline, and the man who listened to her a huge

raw-boned mulatto of that square-jawed, vindictive-looking type which is

the manifest offspring of foul oppression and long-continued wrong.

But he shrank appalled from the tremendous energy of the woman beside

him. "Hush--sh!" he said in a warning whisper and with an apprehensive

glance into the still darkness around. "Don't talk so loud, you fool! or

I'll choke the d----d black blood out of you."

The woman lowered her voice, but paid no other heed to his menace as

she went on in the same earnestly-excited manner. "Listen, Pierre!" she

said, grasping him by the arm and speaking with an amount of decision

which even he could not withstand. "Do you love la bonne maitresse? Do

you care for her to live or die? Dis-moi, dis ce que tu veux!"

The man answered slowly, as if the words were forced from him against

his will, but still with an accent of truth and a certain amount of

energy: "Love her? Jesu! yes, I do love her. It seems drole for one of

us to talk about loving these cursed whites, who treat us worse than

dogs; but, for all that, I do love madame."

The woman almost shook him as she said in a whisper of concentrated

fury, "Who saved your life, Pierre Lambas, when you were perishing with

smallpox? Who went to New Orleans to buy your wife and children from a

cruel master and bring them here to you? Who watched by Sophie when she

was in convulsions?"

Her voice broke and her fingers relaxed their hold, but this time Pierre

answered without hesitation: "C'etait-elle, je le sais bien--I know it

well."

"Then," pursued Marcelline, "you are willing to stand by and see her

slowly murdered, inch by inch, by this white-faced devil, who leans over

her and professes to love her, but is killing her--_killing her_, Dieu

des dieux!--with hunger and thirst?" Her voice shook so that she could

scarcely speak as she concluded.

"How do I know," asked Pierre slowly, after a long pause, "that what you

think about this may not be a mistake?" Marcelline made an impatient

gesture, but he went calmly on: "They say Mons. Alphege is a good

doctor, and that he is fond of sa belle-mere. How can I take a man's

life on a mere suspicion?"

She almost flew at him in her frenzy, but the darkness so shielded her

that he did not see the movement, which was as well. She controlled

herself instantly, and only said in reply, "Thou hast not been always so

careful of white life, mon ami--so unwilling to shed white blood."

"Ah, bah!" retorted he: "that was when I could not be detected, and

when more than life was in question. But now to kill this man would be

to suffer death myself in the next hour, and to know that my wife and

children were punished as well. Besides," he continued, as if trying to

reason with her, "you have told me nothing which convinces me that what

you say is true."

"Listen, then," she said, raising her head, which had sunk upon her

breast. "You do not believe that he is starving her to death: you think

she has all the food required by one in her weak and perishing

condition. You think her cries, her prayers, her agony of desire for

nourishment--for nourishment!--are only the result of sickness, and that

if she had it she could not eat. Bien! Every morning, when I go into her

room to dress her blisters with fresh poultices, I find the old ones

torn off and eaten up! Tell me, Pierre, have any of our kin, in their

worst straits of hunger and suffering, done worse than that?"

She spoke in a low voice, but it was freighted with such an intensity of

horror and misery that the man beside her could not speak for an

instant. When he did, he said in tones of the deepest feeling, "Ma

pauvre maitresse! ma pauvre maitresse!"

"Do you still refuse?" hissed Marcelline.

The answer was compassionate, but resolved: "I do, Marcelline. Not even

for her sake can I risk all. _You_ know I have nearly saved enough money

to buy my freedom. Once free, I shall soon purchase Sophie and the young

ones: I cannot abandon such hopes even to save her."

There was a moment's silence. "May God help me, then!" said the woman as

she rose, "for I swear by the Blessed Sacrament to save her if she be

still alive--to revenge her if she be dead."

* * * * *

Three days later a long funeral cortege passed from the gates of the

Levassour plantation and took its way along the dusty road toward the

Catholic church of the settlement, some three miles off. In and out

between the massive green walls of shining Cherokee rose-vines, which

formed impenetrable barriers on either side of the way, wound the long

line of old-fashioned chariots with black coachmen in queer, antiquated

liveries, preceded by the tawdry French hearse with its numerous gilt

devices and huge nodding plumes. The pitiless sun beat down upon them,

and the blinding clouds of dust rose and choked them, but the mourners,

both black and white, who formed the procession--and it was closed by a

throng of weeping negroes on foot--were too much interested and absorbed

in their melancholy task to feel either the one or the other, for such

an occasion as this had never taken place in all that quiet country-side

before. Inside of that hearse, in a snow-white coffin covered with

flowers and gayly decorated with cut paper, silver crosses and waxen

saints, reposed the mortal remains of Madame Hypolite Levassour, who had

died at midnight thirty-six hours previously; and by her side in another

coffin, more hastily contrived, lay the body of her well-beloved

son-in-law and physician, Docteur Alphege Cherbuliez, who within six

hours after her death had been killed by a shot-gun in the hands of an

unknown assassin. Two negro men, Gerard Grol and Pierre Lambas, had been

arrested on strong suspicion, and were now in close confinement awaiting

the trial which both knew would be short, sharp and swift, and

administered by a judge who would not wait for legal proceedings to

assist or confirm his decisions. Circumstantial evidence was strong

against them, and the two unfortunate wretches were not more conscious

that the sun was shining in heaven, making the narrow caboose in which

they had been confined an unendurable, suffocating den of heat, than

they were that when the dead were buried and grief was satisfied

vengeance would make sudden and terrible work with them.

When the church was reached the carriages drew up in double ranks around

the broad green meadow in which it stood, and the occupants, descending,

filed in motley array into the building. Just in front of the altar two

tressels were prepared for the coffins, which were not brought in until

the whole congregation, which filled the pews to overflowing, was

seated. Then the measured tramp of men was heard, and amid general

weeping and lamentation the pall-bearers entered, and the priest,

advancing from the foot of the altar, sprinkled with holy water first

one coffin and then the other as they were placed before him, while the

choir chanted softly the "De Profundis." Everything proceeded quietly as

usual through the beautiful services for the burial of the dead, and the

cool, dark church, with its mingled odor of incense and flowers, became

more and more quiet as the soothing influences crept over the hearts of

those assembled there. Mass was over, and the priest, coming out from

the chancel, knelt before the tall crucifix which stood at the foot of

the coffins and began the most touching of all prayers, "Non intres in

judicium," when a sudden movement was heard at the lower end of the

church, a stifled cry of alarm instantly hushed, and in another moment

Marcelline, who had followed the cortege, like the other servants, on

foot, walked slowly and with a perfectly composed and steady step up the

aisle, made her reverence to the Host which was concealed in the

tabernacle before her, and then stood facing the priest, who without

pausing finished his prayer and rose from his knees.

"What wouldst thou have, my daughter," he asked with dignity, "that thou

dost disturb the holy services of the Church?"

There was a slight pause. Marcelline seemed to steady herself: then

putting her hand on the coffin of Alphege Cherbuliez, she said in a

high, monotonous voice which rang through the building and reached even

the watchers on the green without, "I killed Doctor Alphege Cherbuliez

with my own hands. No one helped me and no one saw me. You can turn

Pierre Lambas and Gerard Grol loose."

There was a sudden stir like the rushing of a mighty wind through the

church, but the priest waved his hand and the people were still.

"What was your motive?" he asked without moving.

The woman had never turned her head, and now answered him in the same

overstrained key: "He starved my mistress to death. I saw her slowly

dying of hunger and thirst day after day, and I made up my mind to kill

him as soon as I could get the chance. I had to wait and wait," she went

on, her voice sinking a little, "till at last it was too late."

She stopped, suddenly stooped and kissed her mistress's coffin: then

wheeling round and facing the congregation, who sat spellbound, she

shook her clenched fist at them. "Ah!" she said, speaking in a terrible

voice, "you knew, you must have known--friends and cousins and brothers,

ay, daughters too--that bread--_bread_!--was what she wanted. Who heard

her cry for food? Who heard her beg and pray and implore for one little

sip of milk, one little bite of meat?" Her voice rose to a shriek as she

went on, but such was the force of her passion that no effort was made

to check her: "You, all of you--all heard, all saw, all knew, yet none

had courage to act; and now, c'est moi! c'est moi!" striking her breast

violently with both hands, "la pauvre esclave, qui l'ai vengee!"

She paused: there was a dead silence. Instantly a ring of men closed

round her: she was swept from the church, so swiftly was she borne away,

and the service proceeded.

The priest looked pale, and sent two or three messages to those without,

but they were of no avail. Before he could leave the altar, which he did

as hurriedly as possible, Marcelline was hanging from the limb of an oak

tree within sight of the church, her last words being, "God will forgive

me: I did right." But bitter were the tears Pere Ramain shed when he

found she had gone to her last account unshriven and unabsolved.

ANNIE PORTER.

SYMPHONIC STUDIES.

(AFTER ROBERT SCHUMANN.)

PRELUDE

Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July

Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea:

Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony

With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.

Shall we not call him Prospero who held

In his enchanted hands the fateful key

Of that tempestuous hour's mystery,

And with controlling wand our spirits spelled,

With him to wander by a sun-bright shore,

To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly

With disembodied Ariel once more

Above earth's wrack and ruin? Far and nigh

The laughter of the thunder echoed loud,

And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.

I.

Floating upon a swelling wave of sound,

We seemed to overlook an endless sea:

Poised 'twixt clear heavens and glittering surf were we.

We drank the air in flight: we knew no bound

To the audacious ventures of desire.

Nigh us the sun was dropping, drowned in gold;

Deep, deep below the burning billows rolled;

And all the sea sang like a smitten lyre.

Oh, the wild voices of those chanting waves!

The human faces glimpsed beneath the tide!

Familiar eyes gazed from profound sea-caves,

And we, exalted, were as we had died.

We knew the sea was Life, the harmonious cry

The blended discords of humanity.

II.

Look deeper yet: mark 'midst the wave-blurred mass,

In lines distinct, in colors clear defined,

The typic groups and figures of mankind.

Behold within the cool and liquid glass

Bright child-folk sporting with smooth yellow shells,

Astride of dolphins, leaping up to kiss

Fair mother-faces. From the vast abyss

How joyously their thought-free laughter wells!

Some slumber in grim caverns unafraid,

Lulled by the overwhelming water's sound,

And some make mouths at dragons, undismayed.

Oh dauntless innocence! The gulfs profound

Re-echo strangely with their ringing glee,

And with wise mermaids' plaintive melody.

III.

What do the sea-nymphs in that coral cave?

With wondering eyes their supple forms they bend

O'er something rarely beautiful. They lend

Their lithe white arms, and through the golden wave

They lift it tenderly. Oh blinding sight!

A naked, radiant goddess, tranced in sleep,

Full-limbed, voluptuous, 'neath the mantling sweep

Of auburn locks that kiss her ankles white!

Upward they bear her, chanting low and sweet:

The clinging waters part before their way,

Jewels of flame are dancing 'neath their feet.

Up in the sunshine, on soft foam, they lay

Their precious burden, and return forlorn.

Oh bliss! oh anguish! Mortals, _Love_ is born!

IV.

Hark! from unfathomable deeps a dirge

Swells sobbing through the melancholy air:

Where Love has entered, Death is also there.

The wail outrings the chafed, tumultuous surge:

Ocean and earth, the illimitable skies,

Prolong one note, a mourning for the dead,

The cry of souls not to be comforted.

What piercing music! Funeral visions rise,

And send the hot tears raining down our cheek.

We see the silent grave upon the hill

With its lone lilac-bush. O heart, be still!

She will not rise, she will not stir nor speak.

Surely, the unreturning dead are blest.

Ring on, sweet dirge, and knell us to our rest!

V.

Upon the silver beach the undines dance

With interlinking arms and flying hair;

Like polished marble gleam their limbs left bare;

Upon their virgin rites pale moonbeams glance.

Softer the music! for their foam-bright feet

Print not the moist floor where they trip their round:

Affrighted they will scatter at a sound,

Leap in their cool sea-chambers, nimbly fleet,

And we shall doubt that we have ever seen,

While our sane eyes behold stray wreaths of mist,

Shot with faint colors by the moon-rays kissed,

Floating snow-soft, snow-white, where these had been.

Already, look! the wave-washed sands are bare,

And mocking laughter ripples through the air.

VI.

Divided 'twixt the dream-world and the real,

We heard the waxing passion of the song

Soar as to scale the heavens on pinions strong.

Amidst the long-reverberant thunder-peal,

Against the rain-blurred square of light, the head

Of the pale poet at the lyric keys

Stood boldly cut, absorbed in reveries,

While over it keen-bladed lightnings played.

"Rage on, wild storm!" the music seemed to sing:

"Not all the thunders of thy wrath can move

The soul that's dedicate to worshipping

Eternal Beauty, everlasting Love."

No more! the song was ended, and behold,

A rainbow trembling on a sky of gold!

EPILOGUE.

Forth in the sunlit, rain-bathed air we stepped,

Sweet with the dripping grass and flowering vine,

And saw through irised clouds the pale sun shine.

Back o'er the hills the rain-mist slowly crept

Like a transparent curtain's silvery sheen;

And fronting us the painted bow was arched,

Whereunder the majestic cloud-shapes marched:

In the wet, yellow light the dazzling green

Of lawn and bush and tree seemed stained with blue.

Our hearts o'erflowed with peace. With smiles we spake

Of partings in the past, of courage new,

Of high achievement, of the dreams that make

A wonder and a glory of our days,

And all life's music but a hymn of praise.

EMMA LAZARUS.

UNWRITTEN LITERATURE OF THE CAUCASIAN MOUNTAINEERS.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

All or nearly all of the unwritten literature of the Caucasian

mountaineers may be referred to one or the other of three great classes.

First. Literature which is intended simply to amuse or entertain,

including popular tales, beast-fables, anecdotes, riddles and

burlesques. Second. Literature which grows out of, and afterward reacts

upon, the popular love of glory, of war, of adventure and of heroism,

including historical ballads, death-songs and the fiery orations of the

mullahs. And third. Literature which serves merely as an outlet for the

emotions. A fourth class might perhaps be made of the prayers,

exhortations, pious traditions and edifying anecdotes of the theological

schools and the mosques, but such productions are more or less alike

among all Mohammedan peoples, and those current in the Caucasus are

interesting only as illustrations of a peculiar phase of Oriental

mysticism--viz. the philosophy of the Murids.

Of these three classes, that which includes anecdotes, beast-fables and

popular tales is, although not the most original, by far the most varied

and extensive, comprising as it does full four-fifths of the entire body

of Caucasian traditionary lore. The popular tales already collected by

the officers of the Caucasian mountain administration at Tiflis would

make a volume of four or five hundred pages, and as yet the collectors

have hardly gone outside the limits of the single province of Daghestan.

For the most part, however, these stories are only variants of

well-known Aryan and Turanian originals, and are valuable chiefly for

their local coloring and for the light which they throw upon the tastes,

the habits and the mental processes of a peculiar and long-isolated

people. Yet the fact that they are among the oldest heirlooms of the

human race does not detract in the least from their value as indices to

character. On the contrary, it adds to it by linking them with the

folk-lore of the world, and enabling the student to compare them with

their original types and understand and estimate aright the significance

of the variations. Every one knows how a story is unconsciously varied,

colored and adapted in the course of repeated narration to accord with

the views, knowledge and tastes of its successive narrators, and how

differently the same intellectual framework of fact or fancy will be

filled up by the imaginations of different races. This working-over

process, which has been going on in the Caucasus without interference

and without literary restraint for hundreds--perhaps thousands--of

years, has given to Caucasian stories a peculiar psychological interest

which in their original forms they never could have had. The themes upon

which they were originally founded are most of them perfectly familiar

to every student of comparative folk-lore, but the modifications which

they have undergone, the changed forms in which they reappear, are all

new, and every such change or modification points to some peculiarity in

the character of the people who originated it. The variations of a

story, therefore, are so many "Fraunhofer's lines" which reveal to us

the nature of the intellectual medium through which it has passed. For

these reasons the stories, fables and songs which are herewith presented

must not be judged by their intrinsic value as literature alone, but by

the light which they throw upon the life, tastes, temperament and

artistic methods of a semi-barbarous but naturally gifted people.

The space to which I am limited will enable me to give only one or two

specimens from each of the three classes into which I have for

convenience' sake divided Caucasian literature. I will begin with one of

the shortest of its popular tales, a humorous narrative entitled "The

Hero Naznai." This story, in one form or another, is common to all

branches of the Aryan family, but the mountaineers have so modified and

improved it as to make it almost their own. It recites the adventures

and achievements of a certain worthless coward who is made by the force

of circumstances to appear a hero.

_The Hero Naznai._--Listen! listen! There was and there was not. The fox

lived with the hare in the fields, the bear lived with the wild-boar in

the forest, and in the land of Daghestan there lived a hero, a scurvy

fellow without brains or bravery. When he should have been in front he

was behind; when he should have been behind he was in front; and if his

wife only lifted the poker he hid himself behind the door. Oh, he was

very brave! He was called "the hero Naznai." One night he went out of

doors to get a drink: it was bright moonlight. Beside him, with a

pitcher in her hand, stood his wife. Without his wife he never went out

at night: he said, because he didn't like to leave her alone; she said,

because he was afraid to go out of doors without her. "What a beautiful

night!" exclaimed Naznai--"the very night for a raid."--"Look out!"

cried his wife suddenly: "there's a wolf." Naznai, trembling with fear,

ran and climbed up into a cart, almost breaking his neck in his haste.

His wife led him into the house and said, "I am disgusted with your

cowardice, and I am disgusted with you: leave my house this instant (the

house belonged to her), or you shall never see another peaceful day:

every God-given day, morning and evening, I will pound you with the

poker." Naznai begged her to let him stay until daybreak. She consented.

In the morning he slung his miserable old sabre over his shoulder and

started. Walking and strolling along, he came to a place where some one

had been eating fruit, and where there had gathered a great swarm of

flies. Picking up a big flat stone, he clapped it down on the very spot,

lifted it up, looked, and there lay exactly five hundred dead flies.

Then he went on until he reached a certain town, where he inquired for a

blacksmith. Having found one, he ordered him to cut on the blade of his

sabre this inscription: "The hero Naznai, killer of five hundred at a

blow."

Then he went on, on--travelled little, travelled much, travelled as far

as a frog can jump--until he came at last to a country where he had

never before been, and where he was himself unknown, and entered the

capital city of a great king. It was already growing dark, and Naznai

was beginning to wonder where he should spend the night, when he heard

not far away the sound of fifes, drums and singing. "That's the place

for me," he said to himself: "there's nothing worse than a dry throat

and an empty stomach." So he went in the direction of the music. When he

came to the place he looked, and there stood a great building surrounded

by a spacious courtyard, all full of men and women who were eating,

drinking and singing. "Will you receive a guest?" inquired Naznai,

entering the courtyard. The servants rushed up to him, took his sabre,

led him into the house, gave him the seat of honor, and made him eat and

drink until he was full up to the very nostrils. The house was the

palace of the king's vizier, and they were celebrating that night the

wedding of his son. When Naznai had eaten and drunk all he could--enough

to last him for a month, the clever rascal!--the vizier asked him,

"Where do you come from, guest? Where is your city? Of what country are

you? Are you buying or selling?"--"Why should I talk about myself?"

replied Naznai. "Look at my sabre: that will tell you who I am." The

vizier unsheathed the sabre, looked at it, stared first at Naznai and

then at the weapon, and finally rushed, sabre in hand, straight to the

king. The king was even more astonished than the vizier. He sent for all

the eloquent fools in the city, called together all the wise men who

hadn't any judgment, and held a great council. They all said to the

king, "You must take the hero Naznai from the land of Daghestan into

your service, no matter at what cost, no matter how much you may have to

reward him: so long as he lives you will be as safe as if you were

behind an iron wall." Then the king sent for Naznai, and the vizier

brought him in. "Hero Naznai from the land of Daghestan," said the

king--"first I, then you, I the father, you the son--take my only

daughter: live with me and defend my kingdom."--"Hard as it is for me,"

replied Naznai, twisting his moustache, "I will do as you desire." That

very night he married the king's daughter, and went to sleep in her arms

on a bed from which if one should fall out not even so much as one's

bones could ever be gathered together again.[3]

In the course of a week Naznai was summoned to the king, and found him

sitting on his throne surrounded by a great multitude of people. "My

dear son, Hero Naznai," said the king, "I gave you my daughter and made

you my son with the hope that when a black day should come upon me you

would give me your help. The black day has come: a great dragon gives no

peace to my flocks and my herds. Twice every year, at certain known

times, he makes his appearance: to-morrow is the day of his coming. You

must go out to meet him: who should go if not you, the killer of five

hundred men at a blow?" No sooner did Naznai catch the word "dragon"

than his heart sank within him, and hardly had the king finished

speaking when he ran furiously out of doors. Some said that he had

turned coward: others said, "No: he ran out filled with rage against the

dragon." In the mean time Naznai had gone home; and that night, as soon

as his wife fell asleep, he took to his heels to save his head. He ran

and ran and ran until he was so tired that he could run no farther, and

at last came to a great forest. Fearing to sleep on the ground, he

climbed up into a tree, and, holding fast to a limb with each hand, he

fell asleep. When he awoke he looked down, and there, coiled around the

trunk of the tree and fast asleep, lay the dragon. Overcome with terror,

Naznai lost his hold, fell from the tree and came down plump on the

dragon's back. The dragon thought that God in His wrath had struck him

with lightning: his heart burst and he gave up the ghost. Naznai

started to run, but, looking over his shoulder, he saw that the dragon

did not move. Then he knew that it was dead, and going back he cut off

its head and went with it to the king. "Then that is what you call a

dragon, is it?" he demanded: "in our Daghestan we have cats like that.

Why didn't you send some of your children after him, and not give me so

much trouble?" The king could think of nothing to say, and so was left

with his mouth open.

After a little time the king sent for Naznai again, and said to him, "My

dear son-in-law, Hero Naznai, three _narts_ [giants] have invaded my

kingdom and are harassing my people with their raids: to-morrow you must

go out against them." Again Naznai's heart sank within him, and he ran

home. At midnight he fled a second time from the city, took refuge in

the same forest as before, and, climbing up the very same tree, went to

sleep. When it began to grow light he looked down, and there were the

three narts, who, having hoppled their horses and turned them out to

graze, were themselves resting under the tree. Naznai's soul went down

into his very toes: he almost fell from the tree in a swoon. Suddenly

one of the narts said to another, "Now that the king has in his service

the hero Naznai, who kills five hundred at a blow, we must be more

careful than we have been, and not turn our horses out in this way to

graze."--"We have never been afraid of any living thing yet," rejoined

the other: "are we going to let him scare us?" This led to a dispute

which ended in a quarrel, and the three narts all killed one another.

Then Naznai climbed down out of the tree, cut off their heads, stripped

them of their clothes and weapons, which he loaded upon two of their

horses, and, mounting the third, rode back to the city. Throwing down

the heads before the king, he said, "Then those are your narts? We

should have called them orphan children in our Daghestan. What was the

use of sending a man after them? Women would have done as well." The

king was surprised, so were all the people.

A little while afterward the king summoned Naznai for the third time.

"My dear son-in-law," he said, "an infidel king has declared war against

me. Tomorrow at the head of my army you must invade his dominions:

otherwise the infidel hordes will come down like grass of the earth and

like the stars of heaven, and surround our capital." Again Naznai ran

home with a quaking heart. That night the king stationed a hundred

sentinels around the hero's house to restrain him, lest his rash bravery

should impel him to go off alone in search of the infidel horde. In vain

he tried again and again to escape from the house: the sentinels always

stopped him, and his wife worried over him as if she were afraid that he

would be carried away by some passing crow. In the morning the king

assembled all his forces, put Naznai in the midst of them, and said,

"March now, and God go with you! Whoever does not obey my son-in-law's

orders, whoever does not do exactly as he sees him do, is a traitor."

The army marched away, taking one step forward to two or three steps

backward, until they came in sight of the infidel forces. Then Naznai's

heart failed him: he grew hot under his clothes. He took off his shoes,

so as to be able to run away faster, then his coat, and finally stripped

himself as bare as a cake of ice. The soldiers all followed his example,

as the king had ordered. Just at that moment a hungry wandering dog ran

past, and seizing one of Naznai's shoes (they were greased with mutton

tallow: may their owner die!) set off with it in the direction of the

infidel army. "Hm!" exclaimed Naznai: "so you'll make me a

laughing-stock too, will you?" and, naked as he was, he started in

pursuit. After him rushed the whole naked army. "Those are not men: they

are devils," thought the infidels; and, filled with terror, they

scattered in all directions, throwing away their weapons and abandoning

their treasure. Naznai gathered up all the booty, and returned at the

head of the army to the kingdom of his father-in-law. Upon their

arrival they found that the king was dead, and the army with one voice

chose Naznai as his successor. Ever afterward, when the conversation

turned upon heroism and notable exploits, Naznai used to say, "They who

will may boast of courage: _I_ would rather have good luck."

If the reader will take the trouble to compare the above rendering of

this story with the Hindoo variant entitled "The Valiant

Chattee-Maker,"[4] and the closely-related German version called by

Grimm "The Valiant Little Tailor,"[5] he will see how far it surpasses

them both in unity of conception, in coherence of detail, in keen

appreciation of humor and in skill of literary treatment. The grotesque

statement of impossibilities with which it begins is the Caucasian

story-teller's conventional method of forewarning his hearers that they

are about to listen to a burlesque, a pure extravaganza, lying entirely

outside the domain of fact and reality. There is no attempt made to give

it the air of truth: on the contrary, the narrator takes especial pains

to demolish what little intrinsic probability the story has by

introducing the conventional formula, "Travelled little, travelled much,

travelled as far as a frog can jump," etc. This, like the jingle of a

court-jester's bells, is intended to remind the hearer that nothing is

to be taken seriously.

It is remarkable that men living in such wild, gloomy fastnesses as the

tremendous ravines of the Eastern Caucasus--men whose characters have

been hardened and tempered in the hot fires of war and the vendetta--men

who have the pride and fortitude of American Indians with the sternness

and ferocity of Scandinavian Berserkers--should still be capable of

appreciating and enjoying such anecdotes as "The Kettle that Died" and

"The Big Turnip," and such popular tales as "The Hero Naznai." The

fierce lust of war, which is perhaps the most salient feature of the

mountaineer's character, and the sternness and hardness of mental and

moral fibre which it tends to produce, are generally supposed to be

incompatible not only with the delicacy of perception upon which humor

largely depends, but with the very taste for humor itself; and yet in

the Caucasian mountaineer they are coexistent. How versatile the

Caucasian character is, and how wide is the range of its tastes and

sympathies, I shall show more fully hereafter.

The characters which figure in Caucasian popular tales are very

numerous, and are taken, as might be expected, from a great variety of

sources. There are the stereotyped three brothers of German and Russian

stories; the dragons, giants, were-wolves, wicked magicians, and

beautiful girls married to bears, of all Aryan folk-lore; and sundry

nondescript personages with superhuman powers which have no exact

analogues among the other Aryan races, and seem to be original products

of Caucasian fancy. Among the latter are _karts_, female ogres with

cannibalistic tastes; _narts_, or giants of protean shapes and variable

dispositions; and certain mysterious equestrians who are always

described as "hare-riders." These three classes of supernatural beings,

karts, narts and hare-riders, are known to the whole body of the

Caucasian mountaineers without distinction of tribe or race; and it is a

significant fact that the two first mentioned have everywhere and in all

Caucasian languages the same names. By whom they were originally

invented, and from what tongue their appellations were derived,

philologists can as yet only conjecture. Among the Ossetes, who are

unquestionably an Aryan race, narts have a quasi-historical existence

like the Knights of the Round Table, and their lives and adventures have

been woven by popular tradition into a sort of mediaeval epic resembling

the _Nibelungen Lied_ of Germany. Elsewhere, among the Chechenses, the

Avars and the Circassians, narts are simply giants of the orthodox

nursery type.

It is remarkable that we should also find among the _dramatis personae_

of Caucasian popular tales such Old-Testament heroes as Jonah and

Solomon, and such historical characters as the Roman Caesars. The former

were very likely introduced by the Jews and Arabs, whose descendants

form no inconsiderable part of the present population, but the Roman

emperors must have gained a foothold in Caucasian traditional lore

before the downfall of the Byzantine Empire, and may have done so as

long ago as the reign of Augustus, when the lowlands of the Caucasus

were under Roman rule.

Next to anecdotes and stories in importance and popularity come

beast-fables, of which the mountaineers have an almost endless number

and variety. Animals, especially birds and foxes, figure more or less

extensively throughout Caucasian literature, but in the beast-fables,

properly so called, they have the whole stage to themselves, and think,

act and talk in perfect independence of natural laws and limitations.

The view taken by the mountaineers of the animal world seems to be the

view of the Aryan races generally. With them, as with us, the fox is the

embodiment of cunning, the ass of stupidity, and the bear of clumsy

strength and good-humored simplicity. If they can be said to have a

favorite animal, it is the wolf, whose predatory life, ferocity when at

bay and ability to die fighting and in silence comprise all that in a

mountaineer's eyes is most worthy of admiration. "Short-eared wolf" is a

Caucasian girl's pet name for her lover, and "wolf of the North" was the

most complimentary title which the Chechenses could think of to head an

address to a distinguished Russian general whose gallantry in battle had

won their respect. The serpent, in the Caucasus, is the Cardinal

Mezzofanti of the brute world. To know as many languages as a serpent is

the _ne plus ultra_ of polyglot erudition. A swaggering coward is

compared to a drunken mouse; and many a boaster on the porch of the

Caucasian village mosque has been silenced by some sceptical bystander

with the well-known quotation from a popular beast-fable: "'What has

become of all the cats?' inquired the drunken mouse." Of the Caucasian

beast-fables the following is a characteristic specimen:

_The Jackal and the Fox._--Once upon a time a hunter set a trap and

baited it with a piece of fat mutton. Along came a hungry fox and

discovered it, but, not daring to approach it, she proceeded to walk

round and round it at a distance. In the mean time she was joined by a

jackal. The fox asked the jackal where he was going. "Oh, I am almost

dead with hunger," replied the jackal. "I started to go to the village

in search of something to eat, but I am afraid of the dogs."--"Well,

Brother Jackal," said the fox, "I know a place not far from here where

there lies a big piece of fat mutton: how would you like that?"--"Why

don't you eat it yourself?" inquired the jackal.--"I'm now keeping

_oroozh_" [a Mohammedan fast], said the fox, "but I'll show it to you."

Whereupon she led the jackal to the trap. Hardly had the jackal seized

the mutton when the trap sprung and caught him by the neck. In trying to

free himself by shaking his head he dislodged the bait, which rolled

away to one side. This was all that the fox had waited for: she quickly

seized the mutton, and sat down composedly to eat it. "Here!" exclaimed

the jackal: "I thought you said you were keeping a fast, and now you are

eating."--"I was," replied the fox, "but I have seen the moon,[6] and

now I am having a holiday."--"But when am I going to have my holiday?"

asked the jackal.--"When the owner of the trap comes," answered the fox,

and so saying walked away.

Most of the Caucasian literature to which I have hitherto had occasion

to refer is the reflection of the lighter, more genial side of the

mountaineer's character, and taken alone would give the impression that

he is an amiable, jovial, good-humored fellow with a keen sense of the

ludicrous and little knowledge of, or feeling for, the sorrows, the

sufferings and the tragedies of life. Such an impression, however, would

be a wholly mistaken one; and in order that the reader may see how full

of sorrow and suffering and tragedy his life really is, I will, before

taking up Caucasian poetry, give some extracts from a code of Caucasian

criminal law. I do this partly because the code itself is a legal and

literary curiosity, and partly because it shows better than any

description could do the state of society in which a Caucasian

mountaineer lives:

_Laws of Ootsmee Rustem, Khan of Kaitaga._--1. To the reader of these

ordinances a piece of silk from him in whose favor the case shall be

decided.

2. He shall not read these laws for any one who has not a paper from the

_bek_, with the impression of the bek's seal.

_He who holds his tongue will save his head._

1. He who kills a robber in his sheepfold or his house shall not be

punished.

2. He who kills the killer of a robber shall pay two fines and have two

blood-enemies.

3. One suspected of robbery shall clear himself by taking the oath of

purgation, with seven compurgators.

4. For robbery with murder, a sevenfold fine and seven blood-avengers.

5. For robbery and murder of a woman, a fourteen-fold fine and fourteen

blood-avengers.

_He who holds his tongue will save his head._

1. He who assaults a woman with intent to commit outrage shall forfeit a

thousand yards of linen to the community.

2. The life-blood of him who carries off a woman and keeps her by force

shall count for nothing.

3. If a slave touch a free woman, kill him.

4. He who murders a Jew shall fill a part of his skin with silver and

give it to the bek.

_He who holds his tongue will save his head._

1. If one be killed in a fight between a number of persons, and the

killer be unknown, the relatives of the killed may count as blood-enemy

any one whom they choose of those engaged in the fight.

2. If in a general fight several persons are killed, the relatives of

those who die first shall be the blood-seekers of the relatives of those

who die last.

3. If one die from wounds inflicted by several persons, count two of

them blood-enemies, and after the killing of one take a fine from the

other.

4. He who kills another and hides the body shall pay a sevenfold fine

and have seven blood-avengers.

_He who holds his tongue will save his head._

1. He who does not at once leave the village where his blood-seekers

live shall forfeit one hundred yards of linen for the benefit of the

community.

2. If a blood-enemy claim refuge, do not send him away: receive him.

3. If he wishes to go away, let no one travel with him.

4. If one be killed while travelling with a blood-enemy, his blood shall

count for nothing.

5. Him through whose betrayal a blood-enemy is killed, count as himself

a blood-enemy, with all his family.

_He who holds his tongue will save his head._

1. The bek shall summon the general assembly every year: if he does not,

remove him.

2. From him who does not come at the bek's call take a hundred yards of

linen.

3. From a country without a ruler, from a community without a general

assembly, from a flock without a shepherd, from an army without a leader

and from a village without aldermen, no good will come. Let him who has

sense think of this.

4. Have a care, bek! Speak the truth. Truth exalts a man and makes his

power endure for ever. The earth does not consume, but glorifies, the

body of him whom God has blessed.

5. Have a care, people of Kaitaga! Receive the truth. It is by justice

and truth that a community becomes great.

The above are only a few extracts from a long and detailed code of

criminal law written in Arabic and preserved in the mosque of an East

Caucasian village. The separate rules are known as _adats_, or

precedents, and the system of jurisprudence founded upon them is called

"trial by adat," to distinguish it from the course of procedure laid

down in the Koran and known as "trial by _shariat_." It is hardly

necessary to say that in such a state of society as that reflected in

this barbarous and archaic code of laws there must exist the elements of

the profoundest tragedy and almost infinite possibilities of suffering.

Out of grief, tragedy and suffering grows the literature of heroism,

bearing fruit in such fierce triumphant songs as the one which follows.

It is supposed to be sung by the spirit of a mountaineer who has been

killed in battle:

THE DEATH-SONG OF THE CHECHENSE.

The earth is drying on my grave, and thou art forgetting me,

O my own mother!

The weeds are overgrowing my burial-place, and they deaden even

thy sorrow, O my aged father!

The tears fall no more from the eyes of my sister, and from her

heart the misery is passing away;

But do not thou forget me, O my elder brother! until thou shalt

have avenged my death;

And do not thou forget me, O my younger brother! until thou

shalt lie beside me.

Thou art hot, O bullet! and thou bringest death, but hast thou

not been my true slave?

Thou art black, O earth! and thou coverest me, but have I not

spurned thee under my very horses' feet?

Thou art cold, O death! but I _have_ been _thy_ master.

My body is the inheritance of earth, but my soul rises in

triumph to heaven.

It would be hard to find in any literature a song which breathes a

fiercer, more indomitable, spirit of heroism than this. The mountaineer

is dead; he can fight no more; his body lies in the black earth; but his

freed soul is as proud, defiant and unconquerable as ever. He takes a

fierce delight even beyond the grave in taunting the bullet which has

killed him with having once been his slave; in reminding the earth which

covers him that he has spurned it under his horses' hoofs; and in

mocking and defying even death itself. They have destroyed his body, but

nothing has subdued, or ever can subdue, the brave, proud spirit which

tenanted it. That, and not the body, was the man's true self, and that

still lives to exult over bullet, grave and death.

So far is the true mountaineer from being afraid of death, that he

seems to take a savage pleasure in imagining it in its most horrible

forms and dwelling upon its most repulsive and terrifying features,

merely to have the satisfaction of triumphing over it in fancy. As an

illustration of this I give below a part of another Chechense song

called "The Song of Khamzat." Khamzat was a celebrated _abrek_, or

Caucasian Berserker, who harried the Russian armed line of the Terek

with bloody and destructive raids before and during the reign of the

great Caucasian hero Shamyl. He was finally overtaken and surrounded by

a large Russian force on the summit of a high hill near the river Terek,

called the Circassian Gora. Finding it impossible to escape, he and his

men slaughtered their horses, built a breastwork of their bodies, and

behind this bloody half-living wall fought until they were literally

annihilated. The song of which the following are the closing lines was

composed in commemoration of Khamzat's heroic defence and death. Just

before the final Russian onset he is supposed to see a bird flying over

the field of battle in the direction of his native village, and he

addresses it as follows:

O aerial bird! carry to Akh Verdi Mohammed, the ruler of Hikka,

our last farewell:

Bid good-bye to our sweethearts, the fair girls of Hikka,

And tell them that our breasts are a wall which will stop the

Russian bullets:

Tell them that we had hoped to lie in the graveyard of our

native village,

Where our sisters would have come to weep over our graves,

Where sorrowful relatives would have gathered to mourn our

death.

But God has not granted us this last favor: instead of the

weeping of sisters,

Over us will be heard the growls of fighting wolves;

Instead of sorrowing relatives, here will assemble clouds of

croaking ravens:

The ravens will drink up our eyes and the bloodthirsty wolves

will devour our bodies.

Tell them all, O bird! that on the Circassian mountain, in the

land of the infidel,

With naked sabres in our hands, we all lie dead.

The reader who merely sees this song on a printed page in an imperfect

prose translation can form little conception of the thrilling effect

which it produces when sung by an excited woman to the fierce wild music

of the Caucasian highlanders amid a group of Khamzat's fiery and

sensitive countrymen. Their faces flush with strong emotion, their hands

close with nervous grip upon the hilts of their long kinjals, and their

bright eyes slowly fill with tears of mingled grief, rage and pity as

the excited singer wails out the dying words of their lost leader.

The heroic poetry of the Caucasian mountaineers is largely taken up with

recitals of their freebooting exploits and achievements in the valley of

Georgia, usually in the form of songs or ballads, which all breathe the

same fierce, proud, cruel spirit. In the diction there is very little

art. Rhyme, although it is known to the mountaineers, is seldom used,

and their poetry is, as a rule, nothing more than rhythmical or blank

verse broken into irregular stanzas of from seven to eleven metrical

feet. This kind of verse they improvise with great readiness and

facility. It seems to be the form of expression which their stronger

feelings naturally take. I have heard an Avarian mother chant amid her

sobs an improvised but rhythmical lament over the body of her dead

child. Rude as Caucasian poetry is, however, in construction, fierce and

warlike as it generally is in spirit, one meets occasionally in

Caucasian songs with the most delicate and graceful conceptions.

Contrast, for example, "The Song of Khamzat" or "The Death-Song of the

Chechense" with the following bit of Avarian poetry, which I have taken

the liberty of calling:

GLAMOUR.

Come out of doors, O mother! and see what a wonder is here:

Up through the snows of the mountain the flowers of spring

appear.

Come out on the roof, O mother! and see how along the ravine

The glacier-ice is covered with the springtime's leafy green!

There are no flowers, my daughter: 'tis only because thou art

young

That blossoms from under the mountain-snows appear to thee to

have sprung.

There is no grass on the glacier: the blades do not even start;

But thou art in love, and the grass and flowers are springing

in thy heart.

I have space for only one more specimen of Caucasian heroic literature,

a brief oration of Kazi Mullah, the friend and teacher of Shamyl and

the founder of Caucasian Muridism. An imperfect translation of this

speech will be found in Latham's _Races of the Russian Empire_. Copies

of it in Arabic were widely circulated throughout Daghestan immediately

after its delivery, and it probably contributed more than any other

single thing to bring on the general insurrection of the East Caucasian

mountaineers in 1832. In the spring of that year the inhabitants of a

small aoul or mountain-village in Central Daghestan--I think

Khunzakh--were assembled one evening in the walled courtyard of one of

its houses under the minaret of the village mosque for the purpose of

social enjoyment. Tradition relates that they were celebrating a

wedding. A fire had been built in the middle of the courtyard, and

around it picturesquely-dressed men and women were singing and dancing

to the accompaniment of fifes, kettledrums and tambourines. Suddenly

there appeared in the circular gallery of the minaret which overlooked

the courtyard the figure of a tall, gray-bearded stranger, a mullah,

whose green turban marked his lineal descent from the family of the

Prophet. He looked down for a moment with stern displeasure into the

fire-lighted courtyard, and then putting his hands to his lips chanted

the Mohammedan call to prayers. The music and merrymaking instantly

ceased, and the sweet weird chant rang out far and wide through the

still evening air over the silent village, dying away at last in a long

musical cry of _La illaha il Allah!_ ("There is no God but God"). Amid

profound silence Kazi Mullah--for the gray-bearded stranger was that

renowned priest--stretched out his hand over the crowded courtyard and

with slow stern gravity said:

"Upon all your merrymakings and feasts, upon all your marriages and

rejoicings, upon yourselves, your children and your households, upon

everything that you do, have and are, rests the awful curse of God!

Heaven has marked you with the black seal of eternal damnation because

you still grovel in sin and refuse to obey the voice and teachings of

our holy Prophet. Your duty is to spread with the sword the light of our

holy faith throughout the world; but what have you done? what are you

doing? Miserable cowards! without faith and without religion! you pursue

eagerly the pleasures of this life, but you despise the law of God and

of his holy Prophet. Vain are your selfish prayers--vain is your daily

attendance at the mosque. Heaven rejects your heartless sacrifices. The

presence of the Russian infidel blocks up the way to the throne of God!

Repent, pray, and arm yourselves for the war of the Most High. The hour

draws near when I shall call you forth and consecrate you for the holy

sacrifice of battle."

This impassioned speech fell like a lighted torch into a perfect

powder-magazine of religious enthusiasm. Copies of it in Arabic were

borne from village to village by mounted Murids; other mullahs took up

Kazi's cry of _gazavat_ (war for the faith), using his speech as a text

for their excited harangues; and in less than a month the whole district

was in a blaze of insurrection. Kazi Mullah himself was the first victim

of the fire of war which his eloquence had kindled. He was killed while

fighting desperately at the storming of the aoul of Ghimry by a column

of Russian infantry under Baron Rosen, on October 17, 1832.

I have endeavored to give in the preceding songs and in the speech of

Kazi Mullah an idea of the nature and the spirit of Caucasian heroic

literature. I will turn now in closing to the literature of sorrow and

suffering, which is the black shadow cast by heroism across the

threshold of domestic life. Heroic literature is the voice of Caucasian

manhood: the literature of suffering is the cry of bereaved women.

The following lines are the lament of an Avarian girl whose lover has

been killed while making a raid with a troop of Lesghian horsemen

through the valley of Georgia:

My beloved went away into the valley of the Alazan,

and as he left me he looked over his shoulder

at every step.

My clear-eyed one rode down into the lowlands of

Georgia, and his horse was fleet and fearless

as a mountain-wolf.

But from the depths of the lowlands has come the

bitter news that our mountain-hawks will never

more return:

From the far-away valley of Georgia have come the

scorching tidings that our lions lie dead in the

pass with broken talons.

O merciful God! if I were only an eagle, that I might

touch once more those cold dead hands!

O almighty One! if I were only a wild dove of the

cliffs, that I might look once more into that

pale dead face!

I envy thee, I envy thee, O jackal of Georgia! thou

feedest upon the bodies of those who wore

weapons of steel!

I envy thee, I envy thee, O raven of the river! thou

drinkest the eyes of those who rode to battle on

swift horses.

The jackal devours the bodies of the warriors who

bore weapons of steel, and skulks away into

the depths of the forest:

The raven drinks up the eyes of those who rode to

battle on swift horses, and with hoarse croaks

vanishes in the blue sky.

There is no attempt in this wild lament to soften or mitigate the

horrors of a violent death by throwing around it a halo of heroism and

glory. The woman cares not what prodigies of valor her lover performed,

but she dwells with self-torturing vividness of imagination upon the

helpless and abandoned body which she can never again see or touch, but

which the ravens and jackals can tear and mutilate at will.

Compare with this the following lament of a Lesghian woman over the body

of her dead husband:

I would stand on the shore of the green ocean if I only knew

That I should see the diamond which has fallen into its surges:

I would climb to the lonely summit of the highest mountain if I

only knew

That I should find a spring flower blossoming in the blue ice.

If one look carefully one may see the diamond which has fallen

into the ocean,

But never again shall I see the life which has gone:

If one search patiently one may find a spring flower rooted in

the blue ice,

But never again shall I find the swift falcon which has flown

away.

Henceforth I live upon an earth which is no longer a world,

And in a world which has no longer a heaven.

There is a certain rude art in the way in which the asserted possibility

of two evident impossibilities is made to lead up to and heighten the

utter hopelessness of the third. The diamond may be recovered from the

depths of the ocean; the flower which has withered and died may spring

again even from glacier-ice; but the soul once gone is gone for ever:

the great disaster of death is irretrievable even in imagination. There

is no hint or suggestion here of any possible resurrection of the body

or of reunion beyond the grave: I cannot recall any Caucasian lament in

which there is. But whether the omission is due to the breaking down of

faith under the strain of grief, or whether it is conventionally

improper in a lament to allude to anything which would lighten the sense

of bereavement, I do not know.

With these two characteristic illustrations of the form of expression

which sorrow takes in Caucasian life, I must close my brief and

imperfect sketch of Caucasian literature. I hope I have amply proved the

assertions which I made in a previous paper with regard to the

originality and innate intellectual capacity of the Caucasian

highlanders; but whether I have or not, the reader must, I am sure,

admit that the proverbs, songs and anecdotes above translated are at

least indications of great latent capability, of unusual versatility of

talent, and of a wide range of human feeling and sympathy. It is

possible that I overestimate their value on account of my inability to

separate the impressions made upon me by the people themselves from

those made by their literature; but I am confident that the general

outlines of the Caucasian character as I have tried here to sketch them

are accurate, and that the reader would fully appreciate and admit the

significance of the literature if he could make the personal

acquaintance of the people.

In conclusion, I cannot better express my own opinion of the Caucasian

mountaineers than by adopting the words of A. Viskovatof, one of the

fairest and most discriminating of Russian travellers: "Nature has not

properly brought out the moral and intellectual capacity of the

Caucasian highlanders. Through the superficial crust of ignorance and

wildness you may see in every mountaineer a frank and acute intellect,

and, brigand though he may be, he still shows evidences of human

feeling and of a soul. His brigandage, indeed, is only the external

roughness which results naturally from his education, his circumstances

and his mode of life. Beneath it there are intellect, feeling, manliness

and strength of character. Under certain conditions of course these very

traits go to make up the daring, skilful mountain-brigand whom we know;

but separate him from his surroundings, educate him in the civilized

world, and you have a capable, energetic, intellectual and feeling man.

Love of honor and love of fame are, generally speaking, among the

strongest actuating impulses of the mountaineer's character; and these

were the very impulses which kept him always hostile to the Russians,

which impelled him constantly to engage in partisan warfare, and which

enabled him to resist so long and with such terrible strength all

Russia's efforts to subdue him. Was it merely for plunder that parties

of mountaineers used to assemble in front of our lines and throw

themselves furiously upon our outposts? No: the leaders of those parties

reminded them in forcible and eloquent speeches of the deeds of their

heroic fathers and forefathers, of the glory to be won in battle with

the _giours_, of the exploits of their brothers and countrymen who had

left their bodies on Russian soil; and they fought for honor and fame.

What made the Chechenses hold out so long and so desperately, suffering

hunger and peril and hardship, dying, and sending their children to die,

in battle? Was it a spirit of blind submission to Shamyl and their

religious leaders, or an unreasoning hatred of infidels, or a thirst for

plunder and rapine? Not at all. It was the love of independence--the

natural devotion of brave men who were fighting for their country, their

honor and their freedom."

GEORGE KENNAN.

THE GIFT.

You brought me a flower of spring

When the winter airs were cold,

And the birds began to sing,

And the gloom turned swift to gold.

The world looked chilly and dark,

But you called a flash from the sky:

Your clear eyes kindled a spark

Of splendor that cannot die.

O Love with the heart of Truth!

What is it you lay at my feet?

The bloom of your glorious youth,

Its flower and radiance sweet?

I lift to my lips the flower,

For thanks seem worthless and weak,

And I bless the beautiful hour,

But I have no word to speak.

CELIA THAXTER.

THROUGH WINDING WAYS.

CHAPTER XIII.

I am not enough of a hero even in my own story to dwell upon the events

of the two following years. I graduated with honors, of which I was

secretly and my mother and Mr. Floyd ostentatiously proud. Then my

guardian and I set out upon our travels. Travel was something different

in those times from what it is to-day, but Mr. Floyd had for years been

familiar with the best of European life, and this gave me opportunities

such as few men of my age possessed. We spent our second winter in the

East: then returned to Florence, and were planning a few months more of

adventure when we received the news of Mr. Raymond's death. Mr. Floyd

had but one thought after this, which was that now at last his little

girl was his own again.

He had had an accident in Damascus--a fall which in itself was not

serious, causing mere contusion and sprains, but it had resulted in a

severe illness by the time we reached Alexandria. Harry Dart had been

with us in Egypt and Palestine, but was obliged to leave us, and for a

month or more I had nursed my guardian assiduously, with a fear lest

this was to be the end of a sacred and beloved existence. He too feared

it, and between his intervals of pain would say, "I want to see my

little girl once more: I must see your mother. Oh, why do we separate

ourselves from those we love?" But he rallied, and finally regained his

ordinary health, and before May we were again in Florence in our old

rooms and talking of joining Harry Dart at Venice, when Helen's letter

came.

Mr. Floyd sent for me at once when he had read the news. I found him

lying on a sofa in his great dingy parlor, with its heavily-moulded

ceilings frescoed into dusky richness, its sides hung with heavy crimson

draperies and decaying canvases, out of whose once splendid pigments

color and meaning had faded long ago.

"Think of it, my boy," said he softly: "my father-in-law is dead. Mr.

Raymond died the twenty-second of April."

"Poor little Helen!" I exclaimed: "is she all alone?"

"I fancy your mother is with her," he returned, glancing back at the

letter. "She says she shall send for Mrs. Randolph. She and I are

executors of the old man's will. I try to feel solemn over the death,"

he went on gravely. "With all our belief in immortality, death is a

terrible thing to regard closely. But yet he was an old, old man: am I

wrong that I cannot mourn for him?"

We went about our preparations for return at once. Vanished were our

plans for Venice and the Alps. I had looked forward with pleasure to

spending my summer with Dart. No man in the world is so good a comrade

as an enthusiastic painter, and Harry was keen of eye, with an exquisite

pleasure in form and color: nothing came amiss to him between earth and

sky. It had been a pleasant dream with us to go together about Venice,

rowed by some sweet-voiced Luigi or Antonio from one stretch of

sea-kissed marble palace-steps to another--to spend our mornings in dim

basilicas, our afternoons away across the widening lagoons, and finish

the day in the square of San Marco listening to Bellini's and Verdi's

airs. But now that this sweet idleness of Italy must be put by, I was

glad that we were to come back home again. I was a little surprised to

find myself almost as eager as Mr. Floyd in making preparations for

return. In a week we were on the ocean.

Mr. Floyd had seemed to enjoy our travels. He was always in good

spirits, always a brilliant and engaging talker, a pleased observer and

clever analyst. Harry and I had made the usual display of unlimited

fastidiousness which youth delights in, but our elder had taken

everything more kindly. He could not fatigue himself, and rarely looked

at more than two or three pictures at a time.

"I used to feel," he would say, "if I went away from a gallery without

a crick in my back and a blinding headache that I had no realization of

my aesthetic privileges. Now-a-days I am willing to confess that I find

too much of everything. Besides, all these pictures have been so

overpraised! Let us find some pleasure that is not in the guide-books."

This was his tone, and I discovered in it at times, despite all his

cheerfulness, a strange fatigue of spirit. But now that he was on his

way home he had suddenly become exuberantly joyful.

"It is so delightful," he would remark to me, "to realize once more that

the chief end of man is not, after all, to have fluent meditations upon

wrecks of lost empires--to discover beauty in hideousness because

somebody else pretends to do so--to mumble praises about frescoes which

are frightful to look at, and break your neck besides--to have profound

emotions in Jerusalem and experience awe before pyramids and sphinxes.

This fictitious life we have been leading is very elegant, no doubt, and

gives one material for just criticisms, but, strictly between us, I

think it dreadfully tiresome. I shall never go into it again. I suppose

my little girl will want to go abroad now that she can do what she

chooses, but I shall let you take care of her, Floyd."

I laughed. "You will find Helen a magnificent young lady by this time,"

I returned. "She is seventeen, is she not? A good many men will fight

for the pleasure of showing her about, and likely as not she will not

look at me."

"She is as old as her mother was when I married her," said Mr. Floyd

thoughtfully. "Can it be that people will want to be marrying my little

girl? I want her all to myself for a time. Who knows how long? I have

been a lonely man, and now I want close, intimate human companionship. I

am tired of doing, I am tired of thinking. I am out of politics: I am

ready for enjoyment. It seems to me I can be very happy with Helen and

your mother close at hand. We shall not be a dreary family. Your mother

and I can sit together and talk: you and Helen can have your little

amusements. Now that she is to be quite unrestricted, I hope and expect

a little nonsense from her."

"But, sir--" I began hesitatingly.

"But what, pray?"

"You cannot believe that we are all to live together. It is time for me

to make a beginning in life, and my mother must be with me."

"You have made a very handsome beginning," returned Mr. Floyd dryly.

"Once for all, Floyd, I will have no nonsense of independence and pride

from you. You are to me as my own son. I may talk much of Helen, because

our love for women is of the kind that gives us the impulse to proclaim

it, but she is scarcely more dear to me than you are. You are part of my

life now: don't fret me and make me miserable by deserting me. Be as

free as air and follow out every wish of your heart, yet, all the same,

feel that your home is where my home is, your interests where mine are."

As soon as we landed we had news of my mother having joined Helen at The

Headlands shortly after Mr. Raymond's death. Mr. Floyd wasted not an

hour in New York, but went on to his daughter at once. I lingered behind

him, detained in part by some delays at the custom-house. I longed to

see my mother, but felt, though with but little of the old jealousy,

that Mr. Floyd had almost the best right to see her first, because,

now-a-days, I was always looking the truth square in the face, and

realizing that it could not be long before cruel and irremediable loss

was to encompass us, and that the rest of our lives we should have not

substance, but shadowy memories only, in place of this dear friend of

ours. So I let him speed on to The Headlands, and dreamed of the

love-flush on the cheeks of the two women who met him there.

I knew comparatively little of my old set of friends, and of late Jack

Holt had almost slipped out of my circle of correspondents. I was aware

that his marriage had been delayed the previous year and the time fixed

for Christmas, but neither Harry nor I had been advised of it, and my

mother had only written that she heard there were fresh delays, and that

the elder Holt had involved his firm in difficulties. I determined,

therefore, to stop at Belfield on my way to The Headlands and see Jack

and all the old friends I might still have remaining there. Of late

years my passing associations had become so diffused with their endless

transitions that every memory of my old home was becoming more and more

fixed and permanent, the nucleus of my recollection distinct and

unchangeable.

I reached Belfield early one morning late in May. The season was perhaps

a little late, for the apple trees were still in bloom, and the village

looked fair and virginal as a bride on her wedding-day. I walked along

the wide pleasant streets with a curious pain. The years that lay

between me and the last day I had paced these broad walks under the pale

greenery of the elms seemed legendary and dreamlike. There was the

schoolhouse on the hill, and the well-worn playground about it. Beyond

lay the woods, half colored now with clear pellucid green, gleams of

silver and shades of scarlet here and there. My mind reverted with

clearness to the little nooks and dingles of the hills and meadows

thereabouts: I remembered a woodland spring boiling up in a hollow of

the greenest grass I ever saw, and in the copse beside it grew the most

beautiful rose-tinted anemones. I could have gone to the foot of a great

oak and found the root of white violets which had been one of my

earliest and dearest secrets; and I wondered--with a longing

inexpressibly strong to go and seek it--if there were still a nest in a

little hollow I knew of, where in my time I had watched scores of

yellow-beaked nestlings.

I went past the house where my mother and I had lived so many years. It

was so changed I should not have recognized it, repainted and modernized

with much show of glass and bow-windows. There were few people to be

seen along the white walks until I met the stream from the post-office.

Old men and boys, shy girls and children, came out with their letters

and papers just as in the old time. Some of the men, grown corpulent and

gray, I recognized with the old feeling of reverence and love, and

stopped to speak with them. But Belfield life, slow and stagnant though

it was, was busy enough to have filled their minds with fresher

memories, and I was so nearly forgotten that there was small pleasure in

reminding them of the lad who had grown from babyhood into a tall

stripling among them. My sentiment passed. I looked about more coldly

even at the street that led to the cottage where Georgy Lenox lived, and

went on briskly to the great stone house of the Holts. Georgy would be

there of course: impossible that another Easter could have passed

without her being a bride. I wondered as I entered the open iron gate

what she would say to me.

The place had seemed splendid to me as a boy, and I well remembered how

all the beautiful wonders of the spring blossomed here as nowhere else.

But now these grounds too seemed to have suffered a change: there was an

air of neglect about the unpruned hedges, with straggling blossoms

running riotously over fence and shrubbery; the beds of hyacinths and

tulips were trampled, and as I neared the house I saw that the blinds

swung carelessly and the old look of thrift and prosperity was quite

absent. Still, I observed all this dreamily, wondering, as returned

travellers are apt to do, if the change were in the things themselves or

in my own eyes.

"Perhaps," thought I, "Jack and his wife live in New York," when,

suddenly answering my doubt, Jack himself came down the avenue in his

light wagon.

I stepped aside, standing still, and he regarded me at first absently,

then with startled curiosity, and sharply drew his skittish mare back on

her haunches. "Good God, Floyd!" said he, "how glad I am to see you!" We

looked straight in each other's face for a time, and his features

worked, as he regarded me, with some emotion. "You were going to the

house?" said he. "Nobody could see you. I have been driving father to

the factories to-day, and he is not so well after it, and my mother is

with him. I have to be back at twelve, so jump in and come out with me."

I obeyed him. It was but two years since we had parted, but he had aged

and seemed quite different from the Jack Holt of former times. He was

roughly dressed, and, though scrupulously neat and shaven, looked, I am

sure, fifteen years my senior. He touched his whip, and the mare plunged

down the avenue at a pace too disconcerting to allow either of us to

speak for a few moments, and we were at least a mile away before her

swinging canter subsided into a trot.

"What is her name?" I asked, laughing. "It ought to be Mary Magdalen,

for she has seven devils in her this morning."

"Don't you remember the Duchess?" he inquired with a flicker of

something like a smile crossing his heavy face. "You christened her

yourself."

I remembered the Duchess. The yearling colt had been given to him on his

sixteenth birthday. He wanted to call her Georgy, but his mother forbade

it: so we named her after that duchess of Devonshire who had made the

name famous.

"You'll find I have forgotten nothing," I replied, "but my thoughts are

such a medley that I can't settle them at once."

"When did you return?"

"Only four days ago: I have not seen my mother yet."

"And you have come to look me up? Floyd, that is kind."

Something in his cool, pleasant tones touched me powerfully. "I knew

nothing about you," I blurted out. "Why, Jack, at this minute I'm not

sure if you are married or not."

"I am not married," he said softly. He was not used to reply so quickly,

and I waited for him to speak before I questioned him further. "I am

well," he said presently, "and mother is in her usual health. Have you

heard about my father?"

"Nothing. Both Harry and I have famished for news of you."

I could see a little trouble in his face: he would have preferred that

somebody else should have broken his news to me. But he sighed, and went

on without flinching. "My father had a paralytic stroke in December," he

explained in his deliberate, gentle voice. "When once our eyes were

opened we could easily comprehend that for months his mind had been

failing. When the bad news came the accumulation of trouble was too much

for him. We thought at first nothing could save him, but he rallied

physically. His mind has quite gone, however," Jack added, his voice

trembling: "his brain has softened."

I stared at him speechlessly: I knew by instinct that I had not heard

the worst.

"The moment I saw you," pursued Jack, "my first thought was, 'I hope he

knows the whole story.' You heard nothing of our failure?"

"Not a word."

"The firm of Holt & Strong suspended payment last December," said he

with a deep flush rising to his temples. "There were two companies, you

know: I was only in Holt & Co. Strong was in Europe. My poor father's

weakness did not display itself openly, but took the form of mad secret

speculations. It is a long story, Floyd. There were no bounds to his

schemes, in which he involved not only himself, but others. He was

president of the savings bank too, you may remember. The troubles began

with the failure of a house in New York to which we owed something. He

was pressed: there was a whisper of something wrong, and of course there

came a run on the bank. I was not here. My father sent for me: when I

came I found a riotous mob outside the closed doors, and he lay

insensible in the bank parlor. He never recovered any real

consciousness, and for weeks we worked in the dark. There was much to

bear. I could have endured every loss without a murmur, had it not been

for the cruelty of some of his smallest creditors."

He stopped for a few minutes, but when I would have spoken he motioned

me to be silent, and presently went on: "There are men to-day who

pretend to believe that my father's mental state is as perfect as

ever--that he is merely shielding himself from punishment by shamming

imbecility. Ah, well! let me continue. Just at this juncture one of our

buildings was destroyed by fire. The insurance policy had lapsed, and he

had failed to renew it. The factory was packed with goods ready for

shipment. The loss to Holt & Strong was a quarter of a million of

dollars." He stopped again, and I saw him moisten his dry lips. "The

chief creditors," he resumed, "were honorable men. By the first of March

we had agreed upon terms of adjustment. My mother gave up all she had.

My sisters are angry with me that I allowed her to strip the house of

everything that had possessed a moneyed value, and think it shameful

that I despoiled her of her jewels. But such things did not count with

my mother and me. I kept the Duchess--nothing else." He smiled sombrely

as he pulled out his watch. It was the little silver one he had used

when we played marbles together. "We paid fifty cents on the dollar," he

said presently, "and by and by shall manage something of a dividend at

the bank. It will give me plenty to do for years yet," he added with a

peculiar smile.

"You have assumed your father's debts?" I exclaimed. "That seems a

needless penalty, Jack."

"My father and I are as one," said he gently. "It was fortunate for me

in every way that I was not my father's partner. When I entered Holt &

Co. he gave up everything to me. I have the entire business now, and it

leaves me little unoccupied time."

"You are doing well, I trust."

"Reasonably well." I knew the look on his heavy, sombre face--a patient

but combative look, powerful as Fate itself.

"Do you mind telling me the rest, Jack?" I asked after a time. "If it

hurts you don't open your lips."

The veins in his forehead swelled a little, yet he neither flinched nor

reddened. "I suppose," he answered, his voice a little less clear and

distinct, "you allude to my engagement to Miss Lenox. It was broken off

when these troubles came. We were to have been married a year ago in

June, but I was not quite free to take her travelling, and it seemed her

wish to wait. The wedding-day was quite fixed for a fortnight after the

date of my poor father's sickness. Of course I offered her her freedom

at once when I realized my scanty prospects of ensuring her a luxurious

future. Naturally, everything was broken off. I am hampered by

circumstances. I shall never feel myself free to live even in ordinary

comfort until my father's debts are paid to the last penny. My first

duty is to my father and mother. My sisters are all married, have large

families, and, above all, have lost the home feeling. We three are alone

in the world in our reverses. When you see our home, Floyd, you won't

wonder that I could not ask Georgy to come to it."

"But would she have come, Jack?" I stammered. "Was she faithful to you?

would she not wait for you?"

"Georgy is not romantic," he said kindly, "and has not been brought up

in a school which inspires the tenderest feelings. I should never have

expected that sort of devotion from her, nor am I one to inspire it. I

knew at once when the dark days came that everything was over. Blow

after blow had struck me: just at that time that she should desert me

was but one blow the more."

I threw my arm about him in the old way, but he did not turn now and

smile into my face as when we were boys. This gloom was not so easily

dispelled.

He himself ended the silence that I could not bring myself to break. "I

have heard of a divided duty, but I can have no doubts, no dilemmas, as

to mine. I believe that I am not fanciful--that I see realities just as

they are. If ever man found work lying close to his hands, I have found

it. If ever an entire and undivided responsibility rested upon human

creature, it is mine. Every instinct of my heart, every decision of my

intellect, alike shows me that my duty lies in the path which I am

treading. Nobody on earth, nobody but God, knows just exactly what I

have felt the few past months. I couldn't write to you and Harry. Life

had always been a pleasant thing to me. My father was not a lovable man,

nor was he in his home all that a son longs for in a father. Still, he

was rich and respected; he represented a beneficent financial power; he

controlled many interests, developed resources, carried out schemes

which were useful alike to poor and rich. I used to be proud to hear it

said, 'That is young Holt, son of Adam Holt of the ---- Mills.' Now I am

obliged to bear with meekness, when he is called dishonest, when he is

classed with those who have suffered the punishment of convicted felons,

when his pitiful infirmity of body and mind is sneered at. We are living

in our house as transient guests: as soon as it can be sold we shall

seek some humbler shelter. The pleasant household ways are all gone:

everything that used to gladden our eyes has been carried away. My

mother's eyes rest nowhere save on my father's face or mine: she cannot

look at the bare places in the house, for she thinks too much then of

her great calamity. All these are troubles which cut me deep: you don't

know, Floyd, how disgrace burns into the soul--worse than bereavement,

worse than death. I have been bereaved of all, and I seem to have tasted

the bitterness of a thousand deaths. Still"--he turned abruptly and

looked me in the eyes with a stiff white face--"there are times when I

feel but one loss. There is strength in me, and, please God, by and by I

shall shape things to their right ends again; but this other loss! I

don't need to tell you," he went on huskily, "how above and beyond all

other objects on earth Georgy Lenox has been to me. At times,

retrievement, success, unsullied honor, all seem to me as nothing, since

she is not to be at the end of them."

We had reached the factories now, and he resumed his usual calmness, and

I could see in a moment that he was a business-man again. He asked me to

stay and drive back with him, and dine and spend the night, urging it

on the plea that his mother would like to see me--that she had so few

pleasures. I consented against my wish, almost against my will.