CHAPTER XXII.

When the door of the hut opened Bruno growled furiously. Mr. Van Ness

appeared on the threshold, smiling, benign, a goodly sight, from his blond

head and the yellow topaz on his snowy shirt-front to the polished boots.

"Down, Bruno, down!" said Jane.

The old hunter observed that though she stood erect she could not bring her

voice above a whisper. She looked at Van Ness like a kid that the dogs

were going to tear to death. Glenn came up hastily between her and the

stranger. He had the dog's sudden antipathy to him and to his smile.

"What is your business?"

Van Ness advanced and held out his hand cordially. The mountains had had

their effect upon him: his irritated nerves lay now quieted out of sight in

the thick cool flesh. As he ascended the heights he had laid his plans.

Gentleness first, force if need be: gentle measures would no doubt suffice.

The law would ensure to him immediate possession of his wife. She had the

devilish obstinacy of a mule, but she was his wife. He would bring her to

love him at last, and their future life would be eminently respectable and

comfortable. Laidley's estate must yield now, on an average? The remainder

of the ride had passed in pleasant calculation. Never had his temper been

more serene or firm than when he presented himself before his wife.

"What's your business?" said the old man.

"My business," gently, "is with that lady. I have followed her here from

New York, and I thank you heartily, sir, for taking care of her."

"Of course I'll take care of Jane. I'll not allow her to be follered or

disturbed, neyther.--Do you want to see this man, child?"

Jane did not hear him. Her eyes were fastened on the handsome figure, all

light and benignity. She had thought she was done with it for ever. It

seemed to her now as if it never would leave her sight again.

"You kin see clearly that you're unwelcome to her," said Glenn.--"Wife,

take Jane into her own room until this gentleman is gone."

"When I go," said Van Ness with a pleasant, airy wave of the hand, "she

goes with me. You are kind, my dear sir, but unreasonable. I have a claim

upon this lady which even you will allow is sufficient."

"What claim has he on you, Jane?" turning his back abruptly on Van Ness.

"Has he any right to talk in this way?"

"Yes. I am his wife."

"Wife! Married! Not accordin' to law?"

"There is the certificate."

At the sight of this slip of paper, and with the rustle of it in Glenn's

hand, her strength ebbed away from Jane. It was the Law. Her prejudices and

dislikes seemed suddenly insignificant, helpless, in this mighty force. It

had the same effect on the ignorant, law-abiding mountaineer.

"I don't see but as it's correct," turning it over, perplexed. "She's yer

legal wife."

"No matter ef she were his wife a hundred times," cried his wife: "she

shall not go back ef she chooses to stay. P'raps he's abused her. He shall

not force her away."

"I have no wish to force her to leave you," in the same gentle, cheerful

tone. "Be rational, dear friends. I leave Jane to answer whether I have

ever used toward her a word or action that was not loving and tender."

"No," said Jane, dully.

"Do you know anything of me which would justify your flight? Answer me

candidly. Is there a single reason why you should not honor and respect me

as your husband?"

Jane was silent. The law within her gave a savage answer. But what was that

but blind prejudice? She must answer according to the judgment of the

outside world.

"Is there any reason?"

"No--none."

Van Ness nodded cheerfully, and motioned the hunter and his wife

confidentially to his side: "I will explain the matter to you precisely as

it stands," his light eyes looking over their heads to Jane.

She stood irresolutely a moment, and then went into the little room which

had been set apart for her. She could not draw her breath so near to him.

Van Ness, peering through the open door, saw that there was but one narrow

window inside, opening over a sheer descent of rocks. "It is quite natural

that you should love Jane and wish to defend her, as you knew her when she

was a child," he said, raising his voice that she might hear. "But you do

not understand. She married me of her own free will by the bedside of her

dying father. His last act was to give her to me with his blessing. You can

judge whether he would have chosen an unworthy husband for her."

"'Tain't likely," said Glenn. But his wife shook her head.

"An hour after his death Jane escaped: left her dead father--left me whom

she loved. The only rational way of accounting for her course is that the

nervous strain had proved too much for her, and that she was temporarily

insane. You can question her whether I have stated the facts correctly."

The old people glanced doubtfully in at the tall figure standing motionless

at the open window.

"She don't contradict you in nothin', sir. I'm sorry ef I was onjust to

you," said the old man slowly.

"I honor you for it! You could have no claim to my friendship as strong as

your affection for my wife."

"Yes," with deliberation, "we've allays been powerful fond of Jane. But

marriage is marriage. We won't interfere. Them as God hes jined together--"

Van Ness rose: "I shall take her with me to Asheville. Her mental trouble

may make her seem disinclined to go. But firmness and affectionate care

will soon restore her." He walked to the door: "Come, my dear wife."

Jane turned and faced him. Her very lips seemed withered: "I have given you

the money."

"I want _you_."

Van Ness waited smiling, without a word after that, his white hands held

out.

"Come, my pretty!" whispered the old woman, stroking her arm soothingly.

"Suppose you don't like him so much at first? You'll grow into it. Hundreds

of women marry without love. You must give up to the law."

The law, the whole world, were against her.

Van Ness came closer, step by step, with the inexorable steadiness of Fate

in his eye. Mrs. Glenn drew back and left them alone.

"You married me."

"I wanted to give you the money. There was my mistake."

"You cannot repair it. There is no one to help you."

She looked out at the bare peaks and the sky near at hand, and raised her

arms, clasping her hands back of her head. Her lips moved. "God will help

me," Van Ness thought he heard her say.

He put his hand on her shoulder: "Come. We must return to-night, at least

part of the way," with quiet authority.

He drew her toward him, stooped to kiss her lips.

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the outer door, and a man and

woman entered. Van Ness saw them. His hand fell from Jane's arm, his

countenance relaxed: for a moment he stood unnerved: then with quick

decision he stepped boldly forward to meet them, drawing to the door of the

chamber behind him.

"Charlotte?"

"Yes," with a shrug, "or Princess Trebizoff, Madame Varens, what you

choose. By any other name I am as dear to you. Heavens! what a chase!"

perching herself airily on the settle in front of the fire. "I am one

living ache.--I can't congratulate you on your roads, madam. But your

scenery! Ah, that goes to the heart!"

Mr. Neckart stood beside her, calmly waiting until Van Ness should turn to

him. The great reformer was brought to bay: he was alert, prompt, ready.

"You followed me here, Mr. Neckart?" turning sharply.

"Yes."

"For what purpose?"

"To bring your wife to you," glancing at Charlotte.

"I inferred that was the story which this poor creature had imposed upon

you. Surely, you know her character, Neckart? Why, she has levied blackmail

for years by just such ingenious devices. I did not suppose any statement

of hers would bear a minute's investigation from a shrewd, practical man

like yourself. So she really deceived you, eh?" with a discordant laugh.

Charlotte, drying her dainty feet at the fire, looked contemptuously over

her shoulder at him.

"There is no need of any discussion in the matter," said Neckart dryly. "We

are not here to play melodrama. The matter is easily understood. I returned

from Europe last week, and went direct to the Hemlock Farm. From the

servants I heard the details of the forced marriage and of Jane's flight. I

followed her."

"How did you find her here?"

"Betty Nichols knew that she was coming."

"Damn her! She hid it from me, her husband!"

Neckart stepped hastily forward, then controlled himself and drew back:

"She had given the route to Charlotte also. I overtook her at Baltimore.

She had stopped to obtain legal proof of your marriage to her in 1847. We

followed an hour behind you from Richmond."

Even in this imminent moment Van Ness secretly wondered how this passionate

brute of a Neckart held himself in check and talked coolly to the man who

had stolen from him the woman that he loved. It would have been in

character for him to tear his life out, like Bruno. But this was admirable

self-command! It really gratified Van Ness's taste, tottering on the verge

of ruin as he was. The truth was, that Neckart was conscious of little else

than that Jane was in the hut. The rage against this scoundrel which had

maddened him through the long journey had strangely died out. He had not

harmed her. He was like a fangless snake, to be trampled under foot at any

moment.

But she was there! He had caught a glimpse of the proud, delicate head and

its crown of yellow hair behind the door as Van Ness closed it.

The door moved. It opened, and she came out among them. Neckart rose, his

head bent upon his breast. He was deaf and blind for the time--could not

tell whether she spoke to him or not.

She went directly up to Van Ness: "I am not your wife?"

He cowered for a moment. Then, rapidly shifting his defence, he stood up,

benevolent, impregnable: "I do not deny that I was once married to this

woman. It was a mad error of my youth, long since repented of. I was

divorced from her last June."

"Ta, ta, Pliny, take care!" interrupted Charlotte. "The application for

divorce was not made until after your marriage to Miss Swendon. I told you

you would not risk a criminal trial for her sake. But I underrated your

affection. You did it."

"Then I am free?" said Jane.

"You are free," said Charlotte.

Jane turned to the door and went into the open air without a word.

"I took a good deal of trouble to come here," resumed Charlotte, brushing

some dust from her flounces, "to tell her that. I shouldn't have done it

for any other woman. But you remember that day when I was shamming death,

how she kissed me, Pliny? I didn't forget that kiss."

Van Ness stood silent, hesitating. The firelight shone upon his tall

figure, the dainty gray clothes, the shining stone, like a watchful evil

eye, upon his breast. He was a perfect presentation of prosperity and

peace. He looked at Neckart, but he was looking through the open door at a

slight figure moving among the rocks.

Van Ness rubbed his hands softly. "I do not see," he said with unctuous

precision, "that further discussion will be of any use in this matter. I

was evidently mistaken as to point of time in the divorce. No one who knows

me will suspect me of any worse error than a mistake. I will accompany you

to Asheville, Charlotte, with pleasure. I owe you no grudge for the bitter

wrong you have done me."

Charlotte rose and laughed good-naturedly: "You have your virtues, no

doubt, Pliny. So have I. I always thought we were well mated. Shall we

continue one? You may have to fall back upon my blackmailing devices, after

all. I forgot to tell you that there was an inquiry last week into the

disposition of the funds entrusted to you for the Home for Friendless

Children, and that they were reported _nil_."

For the first time in his life Van Ness blenched. The story of the marriage

could be smothered. But this was total ruin.

"The sooner you go the better," said the hunter, tapping him on the

shoulder. "Ef I understand right, you're not the kind of man as ought to

pizen these mountings long."

Van Ness moved heavily to the door. But he turned on the threshold with a

sickly smile: "I forgive you your rudeness, my friend. It is not my nature

to bear malice.--Farewell, Mr. Neckart. You have mistaken my motives in

this matter. But I shall think of you kindly.--I shall bear you all to the

throne of grace in my prayers." He shook his hand as if scattering

blessings, and went out with a lofty step and head erect.

Charlotte lingered and went up to Neckart.

"You are going to cling to that poor wretch?" he said.

"Well, he's down now, you see. There's nobody but me to stay by him. And I

can always draw on him when I'm out of funds."

"You will remember what I told you of the school in Indiana? You could live

in respectability and comfort; bring your boy home too."

"My boy? Home?" Her eyes filled with tears. "These are very tempting words,

Mr. Neckart. But oh-h! Respectability is such a bore! I must go my own gait

to the end;" and with a merry laugh and shrug she followed Van Ness.

When they were out of sight down the gorge, Neckart rose and went slowly

out to the cleft in the rock where the girl sat alone.

"Jane," he said, "the way is open between us at last. Will you come to me?"

* * * * *

I cannot write Finis to the story of any of these people. They are all

alive to-day, and the current of each life goes on with very little change.

You may still see Van Ness on the platform at all large religious or

benevolent meetings in the great cities. There was much talk of the missing

funds, but he quieted it satisfactorily. Cynical reporters throw out hints

of ugly shadows in his life, but his disciples gather more solidly about

him, trust their souls to his direction and their money to his pockets.

Simple followers of Jesus fear to condemn a light which shines so

splendidly in the market-place, and men who are not His followers accept it

as Christianity, and damn the religion as spurious and a fraud.

Charlotte is just now the successful leader of an English opera-bouffe

company which is travelling in the West. She gave the proceeds of her

benefit in every town to the poor last winter, which was supposed by all

respectable people to be an advertising trick. But it was not. The little

woman would do more than that to buy herself an entrance into the heaven

where her boy is going. She would do anything, in fact, but lead a decent

life.

Miss Fleming is still in Rome. She belongs to the modern school which

regards the nice reproduction of drapery and dry goods as the highest art.

She sends home pictures, which sometimes gain a place by sufferance in a

dark corner at the spring exhibition.

Mr. Neckart once bought one, a _Lady's Toilette_.

"A fair specimen of the millinery cult," he said, showing it to Judge

Rhodes, "Poor Cornelia! Why is it that she never, even by chance, paints a

clean-minded woman?" He sent a cheque for double the price asked for it.

But he threw the picture on the market again, not wishing to take it home.

He had married a singularly clean-minded woman.

Cornelia's first impulse was to send the cheque back. But, instead, she

bought a ring with a single costly ruby in it, and has worn it ever since,

though she has been hungry for bread many a time. Hungry or not, she makes

her studio one of the pleasantest resorts for the young artists in Rome.

She has cut her hair short, wears a jaunty velvet coat and man's collar:

her arms are bony, but she bares them, and still shoots languishing glances

from out of the crowsfeet. The young men laugh to each other. "A good

fellow, Corny," they say, "but what a pity that she is not a man!"

The Home for Friendless Children is at last a reality in New York, though

Van Ness is not a director. It was established by the editor Neckart, whose

wife, it is said, endowed it with her own fortune. This charitable deed

left them with but a very moderate competency. Neckart managed to buy in

the Hemlock Farm, out of his income, for her and the boy.

He drives them over once a week to see the children in the Home, each of

whom Jane knows and tries to spoil.

"You are glad that we made this act of reparation, Jane?" he said to her

one day.

"Reparation?" She hesitated, and then said, "I know that I made many

mistakes when I was a law to myself. You are my law now, Bruce."

"But you are satisfied that it was right to give back the money?" he

insisted.

"Oh, of course! The money was unlucky! It made you uncomfortable too. And I

look on it as a free gift from Swendon here to the poor little babies,"

taking her boy on her knee and stroking his curls. "But," she added in a

low voice, "the money was mine. I was quite right when I burned the will."

Neckart laughed good-humoredly, and touched the horses with his whip. There

is no man living who loves his wife more tenderly; and Jane is the most

simple and prosaic of women. Yet there are times when she seems, even to

him, a woman whose acquaintance he has scarcely made, and whom he can never

hope to know better.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS

OUIDA'S NOVELS.

For a number of years the novels of Ouida have been the delight of their

readers and the scorn and laughing stock of reviewers. Every new volume

that has appeared has given a thrill of occasionally guilty delight to

those whose studies are confined to the shelves of the circulating library,

while critics have beaten the air with their attacks against this writer's

frequent coarseness of tone, her hodge-podge of learning, and the superfine

elegance which makes the air of most of her stories so heavy and

enervating. Nothing could show more thoroughly the futility of criticism

than the powerlessness of all the evil-minded notices of her many books.

The reviewer may have spoken words of wisdom that would have honored

Solomon, but the public did not care how inaccurate Ouida's Latin

quotations and classical references were: they were entertained by her

novels, and disregarded him who denounced her, just as those who are

running to a house where they will hear music, breathe perfumes and see

fine dresses pass by the hungry man who stands outside shaking his fist and

growling at pleasure-seekers. People who are anxious to waltz do not care

to stop and discuss with political economists the advisability of giving up

luxuries, nor to hear the band begin the best of Beethoven's symphonies:

they want to hear the opening notes of one of Strauss's compositions. The

same love of amusement is at the root of all novel-reading--unless indeed

it be a feeling of social duty which brings so many readers to George

Eliot's novels--and Ouida is pretty sure to give her admirers a full dose

of highly-seasoned entertainment which cannot fail to please unsensitive

palates.

The materials with which she brews her fiery and somewhat heady draughts

are almost monotonously alike. Her heroes are beauteous, long-limbed,

silky-haired, graceful men: if the scene is laid in England, they are

generally officers, always of high family and terribly dissipated. Beneath

a quiet, courteous demeanor they hide passionate feeling, indomitable

bravery and great capacity for friendship. They are adorned by every vice,

and are consequently loved by every woman. As for the women, who except

Ouida can describe them? They are faultlessly beautiful, exceedingly

headstrong and full of fascinating peccadilloes. Next to the _beaux

sabreurs_ come the gifted artists, and alongside of the wicked ladies of

rank appear the ladies without rank, but with every other charm of the

sinful sort. Brandy and soda, hock and seltzer and cigarettes almost

deserve mention among the _dramatis personae_: they serve to delight her

aristocracy, and for the aristocracy Ouida has a most plebeian esteem. Its

faults are virtues in disguise: gambling away a large fortune in a night is

heroism; faithlessness in love is its first duty; anything like decorum is

the most "caddish" Philistinism. These being Ouida's literary principles,

and also the delight of her readers, it is easy to see how absolutely

useless would be any solemn attempt to prove that there is anything good in

the world except wickedness. Ouida has pages of pseudo-rhythmical soliloquy

in which she alleges the truth of her statements about lords and ladies,

but, whether true or false, there is a charm to her readers in her flowery

account of what their social betters do. Scandal never fails of a listener,

and who can serve such huge banquets of scandal as will Ouida at a moment's

notice? She offers no mere crumb that has dropped from a rich table, but a

mass that concerns every duke and duchess and earl and countess in the

peerage. Victor Hugo has taught a docile generation the power of the

melodrama, and Ouida, an apt pupil, has written in English the most violent

protests against human beings as they are, and has encouraged the use of

exaggeration in the representation of life. She employs the much-abused

method of contrast. She draws a man who is stained with every vice, and to

outweigh his crying faults she makes him tell the truth under difficult

circumstances, or keep a promise, or possibly do a generous action, and the

reader, who has admired the hero at his worst, thrills with fervent pride

in his colossal right-doing at last.

The air of worldly wisdom with which her books are filled is another

powerful attraction. Persons who know so much about wickedness must have,

it would seem, a rare knowledge of human life and human beings; and the

poor reader, whose worst notion of vice is working embroidery on Sunday,

has forced down her throat stenographic reports of the talk in demireps'

parlors, with occasional interludes in which the author charges her critics

with squeamishness for objecting to her parade on the dung-hills of life.

But it is useless to make too much mention of her faults. She is like most

of the writers who reject all limitations and say they must describe people

as they are, and then seek in the mire for people to write about.

Putting aside the question of the impropriety which taints by no means all

her work, it is well to find what constitutes her power in other

directions. She has a large following, and many who utterly condemn her

gross faults are very anxious to read her new books as fast as they appear.

In the first place, she has a good deal of real power. It is not accuracy,

or refinement, or the accomplishment of much by moderate means, but a great

accumulation of effective points, that carries the reader through her

books. It is not a man whom she takes for a hero, but a picturesque

combination of attractive failings, united with an impossible beauty and

grace. It is a vulgar ideal that she worships, and it is vulgarer in fact

than as she sees it; but she worships it with positive adoration, and she

warms the reader with something of her own fervor. She is in earnest, and

she has the gift of expression, often of tawdry, bombastic expression, but

often powerful and impressive.

Take _Chandos_, for instance: it is the melodrama run mad. Chandos belongs

to one of the best families in England; he has genius in all directions; he

writes books that sell as only very good and very poor books sell; he is as

beautiful as the figures that adorn tailors' patterns; his wealth seems

boundless; in immorality Don Juan was but a blundering schoolboy by his

side. This cold description does him no manner of justice: any one who

knows Ouida's novels will readily recall the type, and he stands head and

shoulders above the rest. He warms a snake in his bosom in the guise of a

friend, who manages his affairs and leads the lordly Chandos to total

bankruptcy. The languid voluptuary goes out into the world and knows every

kind of suffering: at length, twenty years afterward, he is restored to his

rights, and by a magnanimous effort he pardons the treacherous friend, who,

he finds, is his illegitimate brother, and all ends well. But the reader's

feelings are reached in a way that no one would suspect from this meagre

statement. Chandos lives in halls of porphyry, and does everything for the

man who betrays him; he is absolutely above suspicion, just as the other

man is without a scrap of virtue or kindliness; and the contrast between

his high and his low estate is done in black and white, with lights and

shadows as distinct as if the book had been written under a calcium flame.

That the book has considerable crude force cannot be denied even by those

who are ready to sneer most loudly at its glaring faults. By dint of

exaggerating virtues and vices the author dulls for a time the inevitable

revolt of the reader against such unnatural representations of life. This

story--or it may be other readers have been struck by some other of the

series--impresses itself upon the memory for a time, just as a play would

in which we seem to see a man jump out of a third-story window, but in both

cases we should be inclined to question the author's respect for

literature. All such work is like scene-painting, but if a man prefers

gazing at chromo-lithographs to visiting the Pitti Gallery, he cannot be

talked out of his tastes.

The reaction against realism shows itself now-a-days in many curious ways.

Alongside of an intense devotion to science there flourishes the vulgarest

superstition regarding the occupations and intellectual capacity of

departed spirits, and the imagination of the present day finds its frequent

expression in coarse melodrama. But even for the melodrama Ouida, clever as

she is, lacks one important element--namely, a sense of humor. There is a

monotonous seriousness in her stories, and frequently an unrelieved pathos,

which is in direct violation of the law that commands grotesqueness and

misery to be put in close antithesis by the writer who is anxious to win

fame. The airy _badinage_ of some of her characters is singularly void of

lightness and frolicsomeness. Their unfailing cynicism alone makes good

this noticeable deficiency. This fault distinguishes Ouida very clearly

from Dumas and Victor Hugo, for Dumas's high spirits seldom failed him,

while Victor Hugo combines contrasting qualities in his novel as carefully

as if he were making a salad. But Ouida can relieve the strain she makes

upon her readers' feelings only by a profuse display of worldly wisdom.

Every-day experience shows that vulgar, unrelieved cynicism is an

easily-learned accomplishment: any credulous person, inclined to gossip and

ashamed of being thought decorous, can be hand and glove with Ouida in a

very short time, although it is by no means every one who out of such

tawdry material can weave a story that shall be generally interesting. The

double nature of this writer is an instance of a rather rare combination.

She can be as vulgar as a gossiping dressmaker with a keen love of scandal,

and yet she has a vein of poetical sensitiveness, of strong feeling, which

stands in strange contrast with her heavy-handed cynicism. In fact, she

gilds in her own fashion the crudest display of coarseness and selfishness.

Possibly it is too much to say that she _gilds_: she hangs round with

tinsel all sorts of subjects, over which she rejoices as a raw schoolboy

rejoices over his first cigar; and this with an infantile delight in her

own _savoir vivre_ and an ecstatic vain-glory in her faults which throw

real merits into the shade.

A melodramatic imagination--by which is meant a proneness to look at things

as Ouida looks at them, an inclination to see crude picturesqueness of

effect--apparently fills its owner or victim with the most puffed-up pride.

Anything like moderation or exactness is despised, good workmanship is

regarded as the plodding of stupidity, and all chance of cultivating what

talents the writer may have is thrown over to find place for strong effect.

All of Ouida's desultory reading seems to have taught her nothing except

that by heaping up agonizing incidents a point will be reached at last when

even the most hardened reader will have to succumb and give his sympathy to

much-persecuted innocence or to fascinating guilt; and her power of

inventing harrowing scenes is practically unlimited. So many writers are

cold and unlifelike that Ouida's exaggeration seems to many a most

pardonable fault, so far indeed as it seems to be a fault. Her perpetual

references to the classics probably appear to the ignorant reader like the

profoundest lore: her chatter about French literature, especially about

books seldom discussed in mixed company, furthers this delusion. Indeed, it

is pitiable to go through one of her novels and pick out the rubbish she

collects and sets in order for the delight of an eager public. Here are

some gems from _In a Winter City_. The present condition of Florence,

disguised as Floralia, is thus compared with its past glories: "It is

Belisarius turned croupier to a gaming-table; it is Caesar selling cigars

and newspapers; it is Apelles drawing for the _Albums pour Rire_; it is

Pindar rhyming the couplets for _Fleur de The_; it is Praxiteles designing

costumes for a calico ball; it is Phidias forming the poses of a ballet."

That gem is on the first page of the book, which is more like a tenth-rate

French novel than any English story that has appeared for some time.

Here are a few lines from _Chandos_, describing the revels of the

aristocracy in a "summer villa at Richmond belonging to him [the hero, of

course], where most of these Bohemian dinners and suppers _a la Regence_

were given--a charming place, half covered in flowering trees and pyramids

of May blossoms,... with the daintiest and cosiest banqueting-room in the

world, hung with scarlet silk, drawn back here and there to show some

beautiful picture by Titian, Greuze, Regnault or La Tour; large enough to

hold twenty people, but small enough to fill _a huis clos_ like a cabinet;

with the air scented by dreamy incenses and dishes and wines under the

mellowed light that would have entranced even Lucullus had he been throned

there on his ivory chair....

"'The art of life is--to enjoy!' cried Chandos that night, lifting up to

crown the sentiment a deep glass of glowing red Roussillon.

"'Toast worthy of Lucullus and Ovid! and you are a master of the science,'

said John Trevenna, who was perhaps the only one who saw quite clearly

through that intoxicating atmosphere of pastilles, and perfumes, and wines,

and crushed flowers, and bruised fruits, and glancing tresses, and languid

eyes, and lips fit for the hymns of a Catullus.

"'He is the darling of the gods!' cried Flora de l'Orme, that magnificent

Arlesienne, with her melting, Greek-like glance, and her cheek like a peach

in the sun, while she leaned over him and twisted, Catullus-like, in the

bright masses of his long, golden hair a wreath of crimson roses washed in

purple Burgundy."

Probably, if the pink-cheeked beauties on glove- and handkerchief-boxes

could be filled with the breath of life, and be set down in a land of which

the only authentic representations are those on a drop-curtain, this is the

way they would talk and act; and the same refined taste that goes to the

painting of such figures and scenery is manifested in the production of

such literature as makes up the bulk of many of Ouida's novels.

And yet a writer who so handicaps herself with vulgarity and actual

indecency and the grossest snobbishness has underneath that unattractive

varnish a fervent passion that is at least impressive. While revelling in

such scenes as made the notoriety of the author of _Guy Livingstone_, she

has touches of real pathos, over-wrought possibly, but cold in comparison

with her absurdest writings. In _Signa_, for instance, the whole story of

Bruno's love for his betrayed sister's child has certain elements of

fineness which atone for much of the rubbish swept into some of Ouida's

earlier novels. The book is not one for the Sunday-school library, nor will

any one be injured by not reading it, but there is more ability in it than

one will find in a great many books by more discreetly-admired writers. It

is a romance of a kind not over common in English fiction, and it forms a

grateful change from the arid records of the cool love-making of English

curates and home-bred young women as sung by this writer's contemporaries.

The book has the faults that surely mark an untrained writer, but there is

nothing petty in it: indeed, there is a generous breadth of treatment which

shows most strongly how Ouida's natural gifts, which had been wasted by

glorifying club-talk and midnight suppers, blossomed forth under the

influence of Italy. She was possessed by its charm, and inspired by it to

put all her new feeling into this story of passion. There is no trace of

the confining bounds that had previously kept her busy turning over

unworthy material: she spoke out boldly; and if this is not a great book,

it is at least a book with some of the qualities of greatness in it.

Indeed, it is of a sort that makes one regret that the author had not been

exposed to more favorable influences: wiser blame and more temperate praise

might possibly have freed her from the faults that show their head even

here much more than is desirable. But what is fine in it is something no

one could have taught her--the sympathy with ambitious youth, the struggle

for fame on the part of the hero, his uncle's stern nature, and the

cleverness with which some of the lesser characters are drawn: all these

things, which are to be found beneath the facile sing-song of the prose and

the perpetual exaggeration of everything good as well as of everything bad,

are surely the proof of rare original power. Her very excellence at times

serves but to make the reader impatient with her faults, which more than

anything are _vulgar_; and genius and vulgarity do not agree well.

But her good qualities are best seen in some of her short stories, and most

of all in those collected in a single volume entitled _Leaf in the Storm,

and Other Stories_, the others being entitled "A Dog of Flanders," "A

Branch of Lilac," and "A Provence Rose;" all of which first appeared in

_Lippincott's Magazine_. These are free from the faults of taste which so

generally mar her work, although at times the reader comes on exaggerated

touches which lessen rather than intensify the pathos; but on the whole it

is impossible not to admire, and to admire warmly, the author's power.

Ouida here shows her true feeling, and feeling is not over-abundant in

contemporary fiction. There is plenty of acute observation, clever

description and more or less good-natured satire, but all these things are

slight and meagre by the side of strong and genuine feeling. The greatest

novel-writer will combine both, and will not sacrifice one to the other;

but only too often Ouida throws aside actual and imaginary probability for

the sake of melodramatic effect. Of these short tales just mentioned, the

one giving its name to the book and "A Branch of Lilac" are especially to

be mentioned with respect, and they justify almost any amount of wrath on

the part of the reader with the author's excessive abuse of her gifts. In

her reaction against conventionality and everything that is humdrum she

continually falls into worse pitfalls, but here she is really tragic and

really pathetic. In three of these tales she draws the sufferings of

struggling genius, which she is fond of describing, though she has never

done it so well as here; and in two of them, "A Dog of Flanders" and "A

Provence Rose," she combines in the story unusual ingredients, one being

told by a rose that witnesses the incidents, while in the other the dog's

feelings are set forth at great length. This is always a difficult thing to

do; and it is to be noticed that in both disguises we find Ouida under

other names, but yet there is enough that is touching in the treatment to

dispel harsh criticism. This is not the only time that Ouida has introduced

this transmigration of souls into her books, for _Puck_ is a story told by

a dog, but unfortunately the dog has the author's ineradicable preference

for low company, and a sort of nineteenth-century Moll Flanders has an

undue prominence in the book. _Bebee_, on the other hand, reminds the

reader of the innocent short tales: it is a charming little story without

the ambitious tawdriness of the longer romances. _In a Winter City_, again,

reeks with fashionable follies and is written in Ouida's most approved

worst style.

_Ariadne_, the latest of her novels, shows in many ways a marked

improvement over her earlier work. The story is an admirably invented one:

almost every incident is of course crammed with pathos, while the main plot

is exceedingly touching. It is supposed to be narrated by an accomplished

Roman cobbler, who is a sound critic of art as well as an expert repairer

of shoes. He comes across one day a young girl of great beauty who has been

wonderfully educated in the classics by her father, and who now, after her

parent's death, has come to Rome to find her grandfather, a miserly Jew.

This unnatural grandfather drives her from his door, and the cobbler,

finding her in great misery, offers her his room, when she at once falls

sick, while he lives in his stall. When she has recovered she begins to

carve statues--her father had been a sculptor--and these coming to the

sight of a great French artist, Maryx by name, he makes her his pupil.

Gradually her teacher comes to love her, but there appears on the stage a

great poet, Hilarion--there is never any lack of greatness in these

novels--who is faultlessly beautiful and whom every woman infalliby loves

at sight. Of course, Ariadne is not an exception, so that one day Maryx and

the cobbler are surprised to find that Hilarion and she have run away

together. It would be unnecessary to describe the book too closely from

this point: it is enough to say that Hilarion soon wearies of her, while

she never changes in her feeling toward him. When she is deserted in Paris

the cobbler goes there and brings her back to Rome, when Maryx learns again

the hopelessness of his love, and later Hilarion shoots him in a duel.

After a time Ariadne dies broken-hearted, just as Hilarion has learned

really to love her, so that he survives to mourn hopelessly the evil he has

done. However this may sound in a cold abstract, it cannot be denied that

the reader receives a deep impression of the tragedy which is the subject

of the book. Ouida never fails to supply the tragic element in great

abundance, but here it is given us not on the writer's mere assertion, but

with such exposition of the characters as marks some of her later stories,

but is perhaps more prominent here than elsewhere. The heroine, for

instance, is well drawn: her intensity and purity, and indeed her genius,

are all clearly brought before the reader. It is something rare to conceive

such a character, but it is infinitely rarer to find any definite image of

it conveyed by a writer to any one else. To be sure, this is done with a

great waste of purple ink, but yet there are touches which indicate not

power alone, but also that acuteness of observation and intelligent

knowledge of method which are needed to give even great power its value.

Maryx too is well represented, and everywhere, even when the captious would

complain of too much melodrama, there are scenes and bits of talk that are

good because they are natural. In time justice will be done to the ability

of a writer who, when the short-hand report of talk over tea-cups was the

fashion, was able to rise above such mechanical handiwork and write a story

full of passion. Faulty, tawdry and theatrical as much of Ouida's writing

is, she does know--and knowing she at times describes--genuine passion, as

she has done here. Much as she has spun out the tale, it is a fine one, and

an admirable example of her best side. The revenge that Ariadne makes in

carving a statue of Hilarion as he seemed to her, so that even he felt some

shame at his inferiority to her conception of him, is impressive. The way,

too, in which Rome is kept as a background for all the events described is

worthy of notice. But here as elsewhere the main fault is this, which is

best described in her own characteristic language: "How one wishes that

they had told us the fate of Nausicaa! When she leaned against the pillar

and bade her farewell to the great wanderer, we know her heart was heavy:

never again could she play by the shore glad-hearted with her maidens: when

she had passed, that day, out between the silver dogs of Hephaestus, through

the west wind and the pomegranate-blossoms, to the sea, she had left her

happy youth behind her. So much we feel sure of, but we would fain know

more. Were it a modern poem, how it would be amplified! how much we should

hear of her conflict of silence and sorrow! No modern would have the

coldness to leave her there, leaning against the column in Alcinoeus's hall,

and never add a word of her fate. But that is our weakness: we cannot

'break off the laurel-bough' shortly and sharply, unburnt, as they did of

old."

Not only is she unable to "break off the laurel-bough:" she decks it with

gewgaws and tinsel; she sets the reader's teeth on edge with references to

the "Scipii" and to the "gens Quintilii," and never lets pass a chance to

bring some bit of ancient or mediaeval Roman history into the story, which

is also weighed down with superfluous sentiment. It would be hard to find a

writer more affected by the "weakness" of redundant description and

expression. Then, too, the glorification of all her characters, her way of

giving them unlimited wealth, beauty or genius, is like that play of the

imagination of children which they exhibit by talking of the time when they

will be rich and will give one another hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Every one of the longer novels is marred by this fictitious extravagance:

it is in her short stories alone that she manages to touch the earth, and

in them her pathos is genuine and direct.

THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY.

A KENTUCKY DUEL.

TWO PARTS.--II.

CHAPTER IV.

When Walter Brown heard of the delicacy of his clerk in keeping the name of

his family out of that foolish altercation, and saw the masterly summary he

had made of the business confided to his hand, the bold operator in pork

recognized a value in his clerk. To his remonstrances Bob said, "It's a

closed account, sir, and I must pay the balances. If I let the police

interfere, I shall have a dozen rows on hand, and could not manage the

roughs in the yard."

But, though Mr. Brown saw that he could not interfere without injuring

Bob's reputation, he resolved that she who had made the quarrel should stop

it. He sent the dowager, packed with her prejudices, to the police

magistrate. "Hold up your hand. You swear L. B. Mason, Esq., and ----

Nettles contemplate a breach of the peace?" said the judge.

"I can't swear of my own knowledge," said she. "It is incredible a nettles

"--with a small _n_--"should meet a Brown," with a four-line pica _B_. And

it did seem incredible to the august dowager.

"Really, madam, we have nothing to found a warrant upon," said the

court.--"Show the lady out, and call the next case."

In fact, as decided in _Ex-parte Jones_, the right of personal redress was

recognized by law in Kentucky, and an elective judiciary cared neither to

ignore nor acknowledge the case. But in going out she heard a policeman

make some reference to the duel in conversing with a comrade.

"Of what were you speaking just now?" asked the dowager.

"Of a little game between a low-down dead-beat and a gent," said the

policeman.

"If I understand you," said the dowager, "I am glad to find such correct

feeling in men of your class."

"Oh, it's so on the Force," said the man. "Short-stop is quite a favo-rite

with the tip-toppers. You may ha' heerd o' him. T'other's a sort o'

stool-pigeon--name Mason. They do say as a rich aunt o' his'n got him into

it. Blest if she'll get much of him out of it when Nettles is done with

him! Why, Nettles beats professionals!--Now, boy, you going to drive your

missis' carriage, or shall I? This ain't no place to scrouge about and

stare."

Aunt Fanny sank back astounded. Was she a Moabitish mother who had

sacrificed her nephew to a professional duellist? "Drive to Lawyer

Winnett's," she said--"quick!"

"Your information was sufficient," said the lawyer with that contempt the

profession has for irregular police proceedings, "but the code is a bastard

child of the law. If you had a warrant the officers would not execute it."

"But," said the dowager, brought face to face with a family prejudice in

favor of the code, "it is too horrible to suppose that peace-officers will

stand coolly by and see homicide contemplated and executed without

interference."

"True, nevertheless," said the lawyer, too familiar with contradictions of

the law to regard it. "But, in fact, I wished to speak to you of your

nephew's affairs. Captain Mason sent a schedule of his liabilities this

morning, saying you had authorized their settlement. I don't regard Captain

Mason's stories usually, but there was something about a family marriage

included, which, knowing your wishes, I think justifies me in referring to

it."

"The wretch!" said his aunt. "I have authorized nothing of the kind."

"No? Well, excuse my reference to it. It just occurred to me if such an

arrangement was contemplated we might kill two birds with one stone."

"How?" asked the dowager. "I want this atrocious duel stopped. The rabble

have my name mixed in it, as if I counselled or approved. I am shocked at

it, and it must be stopped at any cost."

"Of course," said the lawyer, his professional coolness contrasting with

the dowager's fierce temper. "I might buy up Captain Mason's notes in the

hands of Walker or Levi, and have him arrested in civil proceedings as

about to leave the State to avoid his creditors. That writ would go into

the hands of the sheriff, and I do not doubt its execution. Captain Mason's

credit is such at present he cannot find security. If necessary, I could

put on some others," looking over the schedule. "I have no doubt it will

hold him until the matter is stopped. If you instruct me to that effect,

you can go home, madam, and leave it to me."

How refreshing it was to meet a practical, sound head in all that

confusion! Much relieved, Aunt Fanny hurried home to comfort Sudie, just

wakened to grief by her father's visit.

The dowager's appreciation of the shrewd lawyer's hypothesis was heightened

almost immediately by a visit from Wylde Payne with a note from her nephew

soliciting pecuniary assistance. The dowager fairly clapped her hands. It

began to assume all the interest of a race or a match game at whist. "We

shall take every trick, child," said she; "and this Mister Payne, my

overseer's grandson, who made all this trouble, shall be laid by the heels

to begin with."

She kept him in the anteroom while she despatched a swift messenger to her

lawyer asking for a policeman to take Payne into custody. Lind Mason's

second, it will be observed, had had every assurance that his principal was

fighting his aunt's quarrel, and looked for no small share of commendation

for his own zeal and services. He had time to hear the regular movements of

a great household revolving about the pivotal dinner-hour before he rang a

second time. Then the mulatto maid, Memmie, appeared: "This way, sah. Yalla

Memmie done knowed ye when ye could tie you'se'f in a cawnah o' yo'

pock't-hankchah and put yo'se'f in yo' pock't."

Pondering on such precocious jugglery of his early years, he was ushered

into the dowager's boudoir, where she sat with Sudie and ma'amselle.

"Be seated, Mr. Payne," she said with that royal gesture of command

habitual to power in her sphere. "I am glad to see you. You are at the

bottom of this bloody business."

Payne took breath as from a sudden douche, and began a speech conned over

in the carriage: "In a crisis involving the honor of a noble family--"

"I know the false and criminal jargon by which you justify your barbarous

code," interrupted the haughty dowager. "It lacks that manly directness I

require in all who address me. Why, sir, did you avail yourself of a

quick-tempered old woman's hasty words to force her wretched nephew into

wicked folly? How dared you intercept my messenger?" sharply, as if at a

new and sudden offence just sprung.

All this was astounding to Payne as the caresses of a tigress; but his too

was a bold, high temper when aroused, and he retorted: "Madam, if you

desire your nephew to be kicked and cuffed and driven from his cousin's

house, it cannot be as Wylde Payne's friend. Your messenger was excluded by

Captain Mason's orders, he having matters more important in hand than the

intermeddling of a lady who had forced him into this business, but who now

makes a merit of deserting him and abusing those who decline to act as

treacherously."

The hot shot went home to the magazine, for the dowager rose blazing: "I

know you for murder's lackey, and the cheap notoriety you seek, at the cost

of your friend's courage and life, as the witness of his assassination,

ready to testify it was well and fairly done--the base policeman of murder,

to guard guilt in its guiltiness as the law protects the innocent in

innocency. But you shall not escape: mark that!"

"I am responsible for my actions and easy to find," said Payne. "I scorn a

law that presumes to enter into my feelings and judge the measure of my

wounded honor."

"Weigh your words well," said the dowager--"you who presume to sit in

judgment on the honor of a Brown! Public opinion is ripe to break the

shackles of this vile code. No mail of chivalry protects the second who

stands coolly by, a participant and accessory without risk or danger, to

justify the black murder done on his bosom friend. When wealth and social

influence are thrown into the scale against one who caught up a rash

woman's hasty word, as hastily repented, we shall know what the law thinks

of one who excluded her messenger of peace and pressed his victim on to the

murdering-ground."

Angry as she was, the old lady was putting her points well. Payne's

position was already very equivocal. Common rumor presented him as forcing

that Boabdil Mason to the mark; but he answered contemptuously, "You have

already appealed to the law, and know the result."

"I do," interrupted the dowager, crumpling the lawyer's unread note in her

hand. "You will find your friend's quarters in the Louisville jail, and a

policeman at the door to escort you to him."

Payne rose hastily and left the room without ceremony.

"Oh, aunty!" said little Sue, who had listened to the roar of great guns in

awe and terror, "it will make you sick."

"Sick!" said the dowager, looking almost real in her affected youth with

congenial excitement: "it is life, child. But let us see what Winnett

says."

Before reading the lawyer's note let us follow Payne. The reader will

understand that Mason was now in the condition of Ivanhoe after his wager

with the Templar of the precious reliquary, and before he was relieved by

the gratitude of Isaac of York. He lacked the means to get to his Ashby de

la Zouche. But at Payne's rueful face in telling of his interview with the

dowager the graceless scamp threw his fat figure on the bed, cracking his

sides with laughter.

"I don't see the fun," said Payne sulkily. "I wish I was well out of it.

The dowager talked devilish strong."

"If my aunt won't help us," said Mason, "my uncle will. You must just take

my stop-watch to the three balls.

Farewell to my golden repeater!

We've come to my uncle's old shop!"

Payne was just leaving when a voice in the next room stopped him. "It's

that infernal pawnbroker," said he in a rage.

The man came in, smooth, civil, obsequious. "I thought you'd like to have

this thing off your mind," said he, presenting a note of Mason's.

The two looked at each other blankly.

"See here, Levison," said Mason coaxingly: "you know my aunt will settle

all these things, and I want money right now. Payne was just going to see

you."

"She'll pay some--not this," said the man coolly. "In fact, I am just from

Winnett's. He has paid Levi and Walker"--at which Mason stared--"and taken

out a writ in summary proceedings. In fact, I come to warn you, and one

good turn deserves another: pay it and go."

Mason by chaffering got a small sum on his watch over the debt. He was

clear at last. Payne had left, and Mason was taking a final drink at the

bar when a man tapped his shoulder. Aunt Fanny had played her trump and

won: it was the sheriff.

"All right!" said Levison, laughing. "Whenever you _have_ anything, you

know, I am accommodating, but--"

We can now return and read Aunt Fanny's correspondence.

CHAPTER V.

When the lawyer's note, by anticipation, announced the arrest described in

the last chapter, Aunt Fanny, like an old spirit of the turf, began to

groom for that other match. I declare it was not an unlovely sight to see

the two women, youth and its affectation, wrapping arms about each other in

joyous mood over this double victory.

The dowager took occasion to praise her nephew's gallantry, the chivalry

that prompted him to take up an old woman's quarrel, with hints that the

other party, even if his rhymes had been unintentional, betrayed a rudeness

that ill became the Vere de Vere. Perhaps this part, as it included little

Sue, had as well have been left out, but Aunt Fanny had her points to make,

and always played a bold, high game.

As the two sang paeans of victory another note came from the lawyer, which

quite altered the complexion of things. That ready gamester, Lind Mason,

had played again and completely turned the tables on Aunt Fanny, using her

own weapons to wrench victory from her:

"DEAR MRS. BROWN: I regret to say your nephew and his accomplice Levison

have played us a scoundrelly trick. Levison came to me and proposed to bail

your nephew. Not knowing the parties were in collusion, and satisfied that

your nephew was in the sheriff's custody, I tried to put Levison off. But

he told me coolly that he knew my object was to detain Captain Mason--that

if I had taken up his first note for fifty dollars, he might have let this

other one for two hundred and fifty alone; but he must take care of

himself. He intended to bail every writ until his claim was taken up. If I

chose to assume all the captain's liabilities first, very well, but it was

in my discretion to secure him first. No one else would try the same bold

game. Under your instructions, which were peremptory, I had no choice but

to accept the offer; which I did. There was necessarily a minute's interval

in preparing the new writ on Levison's claim, which I sued out at once,

Captain Mason and the sheriff being in the room, and your nephew

acquiescing in the arrangement, as I thought. But he stepped out: the

sheriff went instantly in pursuit by my directions, but with unexampled

effrontery Captain Mason demanded by what authority he was detained. Of

course, as, technically speaking, the writ of arrest was not yet served,

the sheriff could do nothing, and Mason taking the streetcar, the minute's

interval of returning for the writ allowed him to get off. The sheriff has

gone to the ferry and put officers at the bridge and elsewhere, but it is

impossible yet to know the result.

"We must now seize the other party. I have heard of one Joe Skinner, who

could testify certainly to the contemplated breach of the peace by Mr.

Nettles. If there was any way to detain that gentleman an hour, until the

lawyer could get his hands on Skinner!"

* * * * *

"Humph! detain Mr. Nettles!" said the dowager, glancing from the lawyer's

note to the pale, pretty face before her. "You look pale, child: a drive

will help you.--Memmie, have the double racing-buggy and the trotter

Marmette brought to the door."

"Oh no, aunty," said Sue, shrinking: "it would be wrong while--" While her

lover was going to his death, Sue thought.

"Pshaw, child!" said the dowager, writing. "We'll see.--Ma'amselle, dress

Miss Sue for a drive; and a touch of rouge, Hortense: she is too pale."

While the yielding child, ignorant of her aunt's scheme, was being dressed

like a victim for sacrifice, Bob Nettles read the tinted note:

"DEAR MR. NETTLES: My niece, Susie Brown, tells me you

have an engagement to drive with her this afternoon.

Being unwilling to trust the dear child in a vehicle at

livery, permit an old lady to put one of her buggies

and fast trotters at your service."

If Bob Nettles had one dearer wish than another, it was to see his little

playmate once more, and make up that dispute before facing her cousin's

pistol. Aunt Fanny's plan of detaining him was likely to thrive.

Sudie came down, pale and tremulous as a little white withering

rosebud--very pretty and timid and tender. There was a forced smile at

meeting, and but few words. He had intended to say how sorry he was to have

offended her, but he did not. He saw or felt that there was nothing to

forgive between them now. His was but a shallow, practical mind, and she

was only a timid, silly little girl; yet they knew of that unspoken love

between them, and that there was a great trouble, without words.

The mare stooped to her work and shook herself into a trot, the spokes

whirling into feathery fans down the silvery-dusted pike cityward, and

then, skirting its southern flanks, on golden-cushioned country roads,

rolling smoother and lighter, and the swift wheels growing more wing-like

at top speed; under silver-leafed poplars and lombardies tapering like

road-side steeples; by thoroughfare and farm-gate; under beech and maple

copses and broad oaks on the park-like common; by scarp and counterscarp

and over the smooth glacis of earthworks, memorials of the late war; by

woodlands of ash and beech, and over low fallow of redeemed marsh, right

into the golden eyelashes of the sun. The great summer city lay northward

under its nebulous canopy of dust, a soft hazy picture, dimpled with domes

and spires. By surburban villas; by farmsteads overflowed by the swelling

city; by log churches in cool nooks, contradicting the pretentious

architecture about them; by happy evening lovers, and wives waiting at the

gate for their home-coming husbands; by noisy German gardens, and revellers

in quaint picturesque costumes; by rival coaches, and racing-buggies of the

sporting gentry that tried to pass them, but soon gave out under the black

mare's long, tireless stride; about the great city till the broad river lay

all ablush before them with sunset. And then curving back into town, the

soft dazzle melting into umber; through streets breaking into brilliants of

parallel burners that end in a star, to the utter confusion of geometric

definition; through streets of home-going multitudes, and by open summer

windows showing the spread cloth and tableware; over the hoarse drum-beat

of the bridge, and by the marble palaces of the dead looking cool and

tranquil in the rising moon; winding the shell drive between Osage orange

hedges; and then the half-aerial flight of those wing-like wheels is over

for ever and for ever.

Then Sudie spoke. She felt she must say something, utter some protest of

her womanhood against that wicked, wicked business: "Mr. Nettles, do you

not think it wrong to fight a duel?"

"Yes, Miss Sue," said he gravely, "it is a very wicked thing."

She looked for some equivocation, some excuse or palliation of the wrong,

which she would have to controvert--poor little logician of love!--and show

him how bad it was; and then he would not do it. She hardly knew what to

say to that speech.

"I don't think I could love any one that fights duels," was the next

effort, still, poor child! offering her coin, her woman's affections, in

that cruel, heedless market of men.

He said nothing: he felt it was right she should say that, and that he

should bear it in silence.

At the door he stopped to part with her for ever. She could not bear it.

She was deathly white, the touch of rouge starting out like a blood-spot.

"Cannot you help it?" she asked.

"No, Miss Sue," he said simply, "I can't."

She said nothing: just put up her lips and kissed him, and fled up stairs

swiftly and softly, poor weeping, breaking little heart, crushed under the

iron wheels of that cruel code!

"Come in, Mr. Nettles," said the dowager: "there is some one waiting here

to see you."

He entered and found Mr. Winnett, a short, stout, dark-eyed gentleman, who

shook hands with him laughingly as he said, "We have heard of this

business, Mr. Nettles, and mean to stop it: it involves Mrs. Brown's name,

you see. But she will send you with the officer in her carriage to avoid

any exposure."

"Has Captain Mason been arrested?" asked Bob.

"No, but--"

He could say no more. Bob laid a hand on the broad sill of the open window,

and crashed down among the running roses.

"Stop him!" cried Mr. Winnett.

"Here, my little feller!" said Policeman X----.

Bob was not short-stop for nothing. The man's heels went up as Bob leaped

into the buggy and drove off, the policeman following.

"The man's a fool," said Aunt Fanny.

"You mean Nettles?"

"The man who tries to beat my trotter," said she. "Well, we have played and

lost."

Yes, lost; for that artful gamester, Mason, after his arrest had taken

Levison aside and put it to that bold operator that his aunt's object was

to break up the duel, and that she would pay any claim to do it, but if he

was detained by the writs of Levi and Walker the opportunity was lost. He

agreed to give Levison a pre-dated note for two hundred and fifty dollars

for one hundred and twenty-five dollars cash if he (Levison) would release

him from the present arrest. We know the result. Instead of stopping her

nephew, Aunt Fanny had lent him wings to fly. While the lawyer explained

this the bell rang and a card--Deane Lee, to see Captain Nettles--was

brought in.

"Who is Deane Lee?" she asked.

"How fortunate!" said the lawyer. "It is Mr. Nettles's second."

"We can appeal to his feelings," said the dowager.

"Do," said he. "I will remain outside, and use an appeal men of his sort

understand better."

"Pray be seated, Captain Lee," said the dowager.

"This," thought Lee, "is the lady who made the duel: she looks game to

carry it through;" but he only bowed.

"I may be the first to inform you," said she, "that my nephew will

necessarily require a postponement of his affair with your friend. We hope

to have your help, sir."

Deane fingered his cap and bowed again.

"To be entirely frank," said she graciously, "Captain Mason lacks means. He

applied to me, but of course I cannot furnish it for such a purpose."

"Certainly not," said Lee: "the matter has been too much talked of already;

but not by our side, ma'am."

"Yes," said she. "You will, I trust, give us your assistance."

"Certainly--yes'm," said Lee: "it shall be done accordin' to Hoyle. Beg

pardon, but give yourself no trouble about it."

"What a burden you remove!" said the dowager. "Such a delicate matter, and

my nephew feels that his honor is involved. Oh, you men! you men! But I am

so fortunate to have met you!"

The dowager was really impressed and pleased with his prompt acquiescence

in the postponement.

"Yes'm," continued Deane, "I'll see to it at once. Nettles needn't know a

word."

"Thank you," said the dowager, sunning him with a royal grace of

manner--"so delicate and considerate in you! Yes, I should prefer that."

She evidently thought he referred to her nephew's impecuniosity; and he

did, but not as she supposed.

"Not a word," continued Deane, thinking she must be a right jolly old girl,

after all. "Of course, ma'am, you couldn't advance the money to Captain

Mason: it 'ud look ugly for a lady. But the boys shall have their fun: I'll

lend him the shads myself."

"Sir!" shrieked the dowager.

"I beg, ma'am, you'll take no trouble," said Deane, anxiously polite. "It's

no inconvenience whatever--in fact, to my advantage. I've got two or three

little bets out the thing'll come off; so I'm bound to come out even."

The dowager flashed up, and rang the bell violently, her whole face

convulsed with passion: "Show this man out! show him off the place!"

Lee walked out gravely, fingering his cap. At the door he turned to the

mulatto and said sympathetically, "Does she have 'em often?"

"What, young marsta?"

"Fits," said Lee sententiously, and walked off.

But he was not through yet. The lawyer waited under the gaslight, and as

the soldier, pondering the late interview curiously, approached, he

addressed him: "Captain Lee, I believe?"

"Them's my initials," said Deane. "What about it?"

"A shrewd young fellow like you might make something out of this duel."

"As how?" asked Deane.

"The old lady would pay handsomely to have it postponed," said the lawyer.

"Whe-ew-ew!" whistled Lee, a light breaking on him. "What a mule's head

I've been!"

"You see the chance, eh?" asked the lawyer.

"Lookee here," said Deane, taking him confidentially by the arm: "I don't

mind letting you into a secret if you'll keep dark."

The lawyer nodded gravely.

"_You_ can make a pot of money out of it," continued Deane.

It was not exactly the line of suggestion anticipated, and it was Mr.

Winnett's turn to ask "How?"

"I've strictly private and confidential information, you know--"

"Of course, of course," acquiesced the lawyer.

"That the other side is devilish hard up," said Deane in an emphatic

whisper. "See 'em privately on that p'int. It's no use talking to us: we're

flush."

With that he strode abruptly into the dark, leaving Mr. Winnett to puzzle

out whether he had just heard a serious proposition or had been subjected

to the hoax of a solemn wag.

That ended the efforts to stop the duel, and night with its grief and

penitence came on all interested in the parties to it. On the dowager in

her cushioned chair, with a finger in the prayer-book, seeing the portrait

of her only son brought home stricken to death by his own gun thirty years

ago, as it changed from the long curls and blue eyes of childhood to a

handsome but weak bearded face of a man, dreadfully like that other face as

she saw it on the bed under the white seals of death. On a homely old

mother lying in the back room of a village store, and a short, square man

walking up and down and saying, "Don't take on so, old gal: you'll hurt

yourself. It's just them newspaper lies. Our Bob wouldn't fight no dule."

And the woman's sob: "Lost, body and soul! soul and body!--our boy Bob,

John! our boy Bob!" On poor little Sue with her headache as she answers her

mother's inquiry that she's "Better, mamma;" but as her father asks the

same question she puts up her arms about his neck, and says, "Oh, papa! oh,

papa!" and the shrewd, worldly man kneels down and prays with her for the

life of that alien sinner yonder as he has not prayed since he was a man.

On Bob himself at the hotel quietly reading to the listening major, "I am

the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me, though he were

dead, yet shall he live," as if every comforting word was a denunciation.

CHAPTER VI.

After his victory over his aunt, Mason's spirits had been continually

rising. That humorist Payne, who thought it such a hoax to pit two

cocktails against each other and pull the strings of the puppets, writhed

under his merciless chaff. Mason had called for candles, and, chipping

balls of the spermaceti blacked in an aesthetic spirit with pencil-dust, had

used them for practice with a parlor pistol, alleging that the leaden balls

damaged the furniture. When Lee came to cast bullets, using the brazier's

furnace in the room, Mason made him sit down, took the moulds and threw

them in the Brown duelling pistol-case, and set himself to entertain the

party and chaff Payne. He lolled back in his chair, his handsome figure

showing to advantage, now rallying Payne on the prospect of figuring in a

"ring-tailed gaberdine" as a victim of the dowager's anger, and now

reciting marvellous horse-stories, mixed with anecdotes pertinent and

impertinent. The party consisted of an editor, a surgeon, a German

geologist prospecting that wonderful fossil bed of the Falls, and evidently

looking on Mason as a miracle excelling anything dug up, and the seconds.

Mason rattled on with his racing and racy anecdotes: "Yes, sir, it was a

perfectly white mare, sky-blue mane and tail. I put her in the racing-buggy

on Aunt Fanny's round quarter-track, and she spun around so fast the off

wheels never touched the turf from the quarter-post to the judges' stand.

Fact, gentlemen! fastest trotting-time on record. Rather peculiar color

too."

"Very," said the German in admiration of his host. "A remarkable

peculiarity in the pigment granules. What became of this singular animal?"

"Singular, as you say," said Mason easily. "She took navicular and jolted

off her pins: trotted ten miles an hour on the stubs after she cast her

hoofs."

"Eggsdraordinary vitality!" ejaculated the German in deep gutturals, and

looking around as if distrustful of Mason's rapid utterance. "How did you

call it?"

"Skylight," said Mason carelessly. "Imp. Milky Way by dam Cerulean, as the

stud-books rather profanely style it. Tremendous vitality, though!" passing

a pair of moulds to Lee and winking to attract his attention, "I thought to

preserve the hair and hide as a curiosity. Wouldn't do--wouldn't begin to

do! Digestive function so strong action continued from the skin. Had to

substitute brickdust and charcoal. Drop into my private museum some day.

Happy to show you that and some other curiosities picked up in my rather

remarkable adventures."

Lee was now busy casting bullets, and Mason's spirits seemed to rise with

the operation. Some listened, others laughed, but Mason had a cool way of

perking up his eyebrows and going on negligently, as much as to say, "If

you deprive yourself of the satisfaction of believing, the fault lies with

the listener." He seemed divided between a wish to distract Lee from

careful observation of his employment and to chaff Payne. Once Payne

started suddenly as if about to say something to Lee, but a look quenched

him.

"Friend of my youth, this goblet sip," laughed Mason. "For what says the

Psalmist?--'Let the galded jade wince, our wethers is unwrung.' But never

be it said," rising and speaking with theatrical emotion--"Not while Reason

holds her throne in this distracted globe--never, while Mason lives, shall

his Damon, his caster, be cast in prison-bonds by a ravaging female

she-aunt. Never shall penitential garb encase those manly limbs nor base

turnkey's shears clip those auburn locks for which ripe beauty in melting

accents is wont to plead in vain."

"You're devilish generous," growled Payne. "You know the old griffin

doesn't propose to bag me unless you get hit."

"Is it possible," asked the German, catching a meaning in this raillery,

"the second of an American duel is imprisoned if his principal is shot? I

ask for information."

"You have come to the right shop now," said Lind. "He is, invariably. Some

rather curious contretemps grow out of it. Duelling is very popular among

us, very--especially with the fair sex," kissing his hand to an indefinite

noun of multitude. "A great favorite being imprisoned for acting as second,

the people took it up--elected him governor by an overwhelming majority. It

was supposed, of course, he would pardon himself; but no: he was a Roman,

the noblest Roman of them all. 'The prerogative of executive clemency,' he

said, 'had already been grossly abused. It would ill repay the generous

confidence of his constituents to exercise it in his own behalf and in

order to escape the just penalty of the law.' He refused to pardon himself,

and so served out his term in both offices."

This struck the German as something heroic.

"True, sir, true," said Lind: "rather inconvenient, however. When the

legislature met, as it necessarily did, in the penitentiary, you could not

tell a member from a convict. Rather awkward, you see, if the wrong body

adjourned itself by mistake."

The party broke up late, and Mason, throwing off his coat, called for

Webster's _Quarto_ and Watson's _Poetical Quotations_, saying he would

address his aunt in such an Orphic strain as would make her wig curl and

ma'amselle's rouge-pot chalky. Watson's _Poetical Quotations_ was not in

the hotel; but with the big _Quarto_ before him, arms akimbo, his legs

spread out under the table, Mason went at his task, pausing to shout a

passage at Payne, and swear it would liquefy the crystal of his aunt's

frigid humor like a hot collar in July, or to scratch his head over some

fickle-vowelled monosyllable that defied orthography; and the soft dark

night deepened to the gray, lustreless morning.

* * * * *

An early marketer from Jeffersonville spread a rumor that R. Nettles was

shot through the lungs, and poor little Sue read it in the paper an hour

later. An eager reporter recognized the hotel-van from over the river, with

a tarpaulin thrown over its contents. "Anything of Captain Mason's party?"

he asked.

"Stout, rosy man, good deal o' gas?" asked the porter.

"Yes! yes! what of him?"

"Nothing: I guess he won't gas no more," motioning toward the tarpaulin.

"Them's his'n. Do you know where his aunt lives?"

Anybody knows; the van drives off; the rumor flies--both parties slain.

Let us follow the van. At Aunt Fanny's the tarpaulin is thrown off, and

reveals nothing worse than a trunk, gun-case, etc., but the man's story

confirms the worst. He has a letter for the dowager, and it is sent up. The

dowager calls ma'amselle to read, which she does with strong emotion and

French accent:

"MY DEAR AND VENERATED AUNT--"

"Hand me the vinaigrette, and don't read so loud: I am not deaf," said the

dowager.

The poor maid subdued her tones as she best could, and read:

"Now is the hour when churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead. It is

midnight's holy hour. I hear the rush of the Falls like a mill-sluice, and

it recalls 'the happy, happy hours of childhood.' But ere another day I may

ride upon the Styx, and hear the dam loud roaring no more."

"Ride upon a stick, and hear _what_?" ejaculated the dowager at poor Lind's

rhetoric.

"Mais oui, madame," translates the French maid, "c'est la fleuve de l'enfer

et les cris des ames perdues."

"Oh, the Styx!" said the dowager, taking snuff.--"Use your handkerchief,

Hortense, and go on."

She obeys:

"Ere my venerated aunt peruses this calligraphy an eagle soaring in its

pride of place will be by a mousing Nettles hawked at and killed."

"Poor boy!" said his aunt. "I must have a black grenadine, trimmed with

bugles and flounced very deep, for mourning.--Don't forget it, Hortense."

"My last thoughts," continued the reader, "are with my revered relative;

for who forgave the boyish trick, and fed me on a candy-stick, and nursed

me when it made me sick?--My aunt. Who taught me to back a colt or make a

book? Who entered me for the purse with Cousin Fanny Alison, but the filly

bolted with Bob Ascot?--My aunt."

"Patience alive!" cried the dowager: "what does the man mean, with his

doggerel poetry and slang of the stables at such a time?"

"Oh, madame! it is noble," said the poor maid with streaming eyes, and then

continued:

"She besought me with the salt rheum in her optical organs to suppress my

fury; but who can restrain the wrath of a Brown? She denied me the

spondulics--a Latin word for cash--to carry out my nefarious purpose,

though it grieved her generous heart."

"That's well thought of," said the dowager. "People talk so. We must get it

to those newspaper-men. Poor Lind!"

"To those who assert a mercenary motive I triumphantly respond, 'She paid

up my little bills, and has doubtless destroyed the evidences of them.'"

"They are in the steel casket," said the dowager. "Burn them. But he never

would have paid."

"When she honors my sight draft," read ma'amselle, "for two-fifty to settle

up my present expenses in this business, she will pay the last debt of him

who has paid the last debt of Nature. For if the knave do cut but deep

enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. (_Shakespeare_.)

L. BROWN MASON."

"Give me the cheque-book, and let the man come up," said the dowager.

The man was questioned, and had but little to tell. He was told Captain

Mason had been shot, and to bring the letter. After he was dismissed the

dowager said, "Let Fanny bring the chocolate. I hope the cream is better:

it curdled yesterday. Poor Lind! He had a good heart."

* * * * *

About the time his aunt was cashing his last draft, and reckoning that that

little enterprise of marrying Sue Brown to Captain Mason had cost her a

thousand dollars for failure, Captain Mason, with a party in the carriage,

stood on Mrs. Walter Brown's front steps explaining to her that at a little

expense in cutting down her ornamental trees and grubbing up her rare

exotic shrubbery the front lawn could be converted into a beautiful

quarter-track, and offering his services to effect the desirable change.

Then advancing, he graciously held out his hand to poor, pale, red-eyed

little Sudie, still hysterical over that dreadful paragraph.

"No," said Sue tartly. "Mamma may shelter you from the police, but you

ought to be hung. There! And I won't shake a _murderer's_ hand. There! I

won't! I won't! I won't! There!"

Mason's jolly face looked queer. "I see," said he. "'Twas ever thus from

childhood's hour. I never bucked a card or colt, but what some fellow held

the bower or else that horse was sure to bolt. When, at pensive evening's

hour, I stroll among the tombs, I read the virtues of the--erra--clammy,

the clammy. As I read the testimony of the rocks, of the rocks, it strikes

me the wicked never die, and I long to be--erra--wicked. There is no

raising that card," wagging his head solemnly at little Sue, who stared in

spite of herself, "until Gable--I believe his name is Gable--turns trump.

But I have brought you all that is mortal of the late R. Nettles."

He turned to the door as he spoke, while the shocked, terrified girl hid

her face, thinking of the vision in that very parlor under the white seals

of death.

But Bob Nettles's cheery, commonplace tones interrupted: "How'd do, Miss

Sue? how'd do, Mrs. Brown? Captain Mason said he'd break it to you, and I

thought--"

But Sue had turned her face to the wall in a corner, and stood shaking her

plump shoulders and stamping her little feet like a pettish child, as she

said, "Go 'way from me, Bob Nettles! I'll never speak to you again as long

as I live; and as for Cousin Lind," with a shake and a stamp, "I hate him!"

"See what it is to lose the virtues of the clammy," said Mason, pulling his

beard and grinning at Bob's blank looks. "But I must go to my aunt. By a

shocking oversight we forgot to settle the hotel-bill at Jeffersonville,

and I am afraid the greedy landlord has forwarded a note to have been

delivered to her in case of accident, and a draft. It is humiliating to

think she has paid it, and honor requires I should promptly settle it with

an I.O.U. As for Payne--"

"Dry that up," said Payne.

"Well, I'll only say the next duel I fight may Payne load the pistols!"

added the captain.

What that meant is the unsolved mystery of the duel. Deane Lee insists that

it was a fair, honest, stand-up fight. True, he had used the wrong moulds

the night before in casting bullets, but he had seen Payne load the famous

Brown duelling-pistols.

But Mason's old comrades wink at the story of the wax bullets blacked with

pencil-dust by Mason to represent the real thing, and say Payne was so

cowed by the dowager's threat and Mason's chaff that no power could have

made him charge with dangerous missiles. Mason himself says that neither he

nor Nettles could have hit a barn-door; but a mere index of the veracious

stories of that famous duel, as told by Mason, would fill a book. As his

debts were paid and the dowager keeps him in feather, and as Bob and Sue

were married, that game-bird is right in declaring it the only duel that

was ever "satisfactorily adjusted honorably to all parties."

WILL WALLACE HARNEY.

FOLK-LORE OF THE SOUTHERN NEGROES.

All tribes and peoples have their folk-lore, whether embodied in tales of

daring adventure, as in our own doughty Jack the Giant-killer, or in

stories of genii and magic, as in the _Arabian Nights_, or in legends of

wraiths, witches, bogles and apparitions, as among the Scotch peasantry;

and these fables are so strongly tinged with the peculiarities--or rather

the idiosyncrasies--of the race among whom they originate as to furnish a

fair index of its mental and moral characteristics, not only at the time of

their origin, but so long as the people continue to narrate them or listen

to them.

The folk-lore of Africo-Americans, as appearing in our Southern States, is

a medley of fables, songs, sayings, incantations, charms and superstitious

traditions brought from various tribes along the West African coast, and so

far condensed into one mass in their American homes that often part of a

story or tradition belonging to one tribe is grafted, without much regard

to consistency, upon a part belonging to another people, while they are

still further complicated by the frequent infusion into them of ideas

evidently derived from communication with the white race.

Any one who will take the trouble to analyze the predominant traits of

negro character, and to collate them with the predominant traits of African

folk-lore, will discern the fitness of each to each. On every side he will

discover evidences of a passion for music and dancing, for visiting and

chatting, for fishing and snaring, indeed for any pleasure requiring little

exertion of either mind or body; evidences also of a gentle, pliable and

easy temper--of a quick and sincere sympathy with suffering wheresoever

seen--of a very low standard of morals, combined with remarkable dexterity

in satisfying themselves that it is right to do as they wish. Another

trait, strong enough and universal enough to atone for many a dark one, is

that, as a rule, there is nothing of the fierce and cruel in their nature,

and it is scarcely possible for anything of this kind to be grafted

permanently upon them.

Of their American-born superstitions, by far the greater part are

interwoven with so-called religious beliefs, and go far to show their

native faith in dreams and visions, which they are not slow to narrate, to

embellish, and even to fabricate extemporaneously, to suit the ears of a

credulous listener; also showing their natural tendency to rely upon

outward observances, as if possessed of some _fetish_-like virtue, and in

certain cases a horrible debasement of some of the highest and noblest

doctrines of the Christian faith. These superstitions must of course be

considered apart from the real character of those who are sincerely pious,

and upon which they are so many blemishes. They are, in fact, the rank and

morbid outgrowth of the peculiarities of religious denominations grafted

upon the prolific soil of their native character.

Of the few which may be mentioned without fear of offence, since they

belong to the negro rather than to his denomination, the following are

examples: Tools to be used in digging a grave must never be carried through

a house which any one inhabits, else they will soon be used for digging the

grave of the dweller. Tools already used for such a purpose must not be

carried directly home. This would bring the family too closely for safety

into contact with the dead. They must be laid reverently beside the grave,

and allowed to remain there all night. A superstition in respect to posture

is by some very rigorously observed. It is, that religious people must

never sit with their legs crossed. The only reason given--though we cannot

help suspecting that there must be another kept in concealment--is, that

_crossing the legs is the same as dancing, and dancing is a sin_.

These are fair samples of Americanized superstitions--puerile, it is true,

but harmless. It is only when we come into contact with negroes of pure

African descent that we discover evidences of a once prevalent and not

wholly discarded demonolatry. The native religion of the West African,

except where elevated by the influence of Mohammedanism, was not--and,

travellers tell us, is not yet--a worship of God as such, nor even an

attempt to know and honor Him, but a constant effort at self-protection.

The true God, they say, calls for no worship; for, being good in and of

himself, He will do all the good He can without being asked. But there are

multitudes of malignant spirits whose delight is to mislead and to destroy.

These must be propitiated by gifts and acts of worship, or rendered

powerless by charms and incantations.

No one knows, or has the means of ascertaining, to what extent real

devil-worship is practised in America, because it is always conducted in

secret; but we have reason to believe that it has almost entirely ceased,

being shamed out of existence by the loveliness of a purer and better

faith, and a belief in the agency of evil spirits, and consequent dread of

their malign powers, although still more or less dominant with the negroes,

has also greatly declined.[C] To give a sample of this last: The time

was--but it has nearly passed away, or else the writer has not been for

many years in the way of hearing of it, as in the days of childhood--when

one of the objects of greatest dread among our seaboard negroes was the

"Jack-muh-lantern." This terrible creature--who on dark, damp nights would

wander with his lantern through woods and marshes, seeking to mislead

people to their destruction--was described by a negro who seemed perfectly

familiar with his subject as a hideous little being, somewhat human in

form, though covered with hair like a dog. It had great goggle eyes, and

thick, sausage-like lips that opened from ear to ear. In height it seldom

exceeded four or five feet, and it was quite slender in form, but such was

its power of locomotion that no one on the swiftest horse could overtake it

or escape from it, for it could leap like a grasshopper to almost any

distance, and its strength was beyond all human resistance. No one ever

heard of its victims being bitten or torn: they were only compelled to go

with it into bogs and swamps and marshes, and there left to sink and die.

There was only one mode of escape for those who were so unfortunate as to

be met by one of these mischievous night-walkers, and that was by a charm;

but that charm was easy and within everybody's reach. Whether met by marsh

or roadside, the person had only to take off his coat or outer garment and

put it on again inside out, and the foul fiend was instantly deprived of

all power to harm.

Multifarious, however, as are the forms and aspects of folk-lore among this

remarkable and in some respects highly interesting people, the chief bulk

of it lies stored away among their fables, which are as purely African as

are their faces or their own plaintive melodies. Travellers and

missionaries tell us that the same sweet airs which are so often heard in

religious meetings in America, set to Christian hymns, are to be recognized

in the boats and palm-roofed houses of Africa, set to heathen words, and

that the same wild stories of Buh Rabbit, Buh Wolf, and other _Buhs_ that

are so charming to the ears of American children, are to be heard to this

day in Africa, differing only in the drapery necessary to the change of

scene.

Almost without exception the actors in these fables are brute animals

endowed with speech and reason, in whom mingle strangely, and with

ludicrous incongruity, the human and brute characteristics. The _dramatis

personae_ are always honored with the title of _Buh_, which is generally

supposed to be an abbreviation of the word "brother" (the _br_ being

sounded without the whir of the _r_), but it probably is a title of respect

equivalent to our Mr. The animals which figure in the stories are chiefly

Buh Rabbit, Buh Lion, Buh Wolf and Buh Deer, though sometimes we hear of

Buh Elephant, Buh Fox, Buh Cooter and Buh Goose. As a rule, each Buh

sustains in every fable the same general character. Buh Deer is always a

simpleton; Buh Wolf always rapacious and tricky; Buh Rabbit foppish, vain,

quick-witted, though at times a great fool; Buh Elephant quiet, sensible

and dignified.

Of the Buh fables, that which is by all odds the greatest favorite, and

which appears in the greatest variety of forms, is the "Story of Buh Rabbit

and the Tar Baby." Each variation preserves the great landmarks,

particularly the closing scene. According to the most thoroughly African

version, it runs thus: Buh Rabbit and Buh Wolf are neighbors. In a

conversation one day Buh Wolf proposes that they two shall dig a well for

their joint benefit, instead of depending upon chance rainfalls or going to

distant pools or branches, as they often have to do, to quench their

thirst. To this Buh Rabbit, who has no fondness for labor, though willing

enough to enjoy its fruits, offers various objections, and finally gives a

flat refusal.

"Well," says Buh Wolf, who perfectly understands his neighbor, "if you no

help to dig well, you mustn't use de water."

"What for I gwine use de water?" responds Buh Rabbit with affected disdain.

"What use I got for well? In de mornin' I drink de dew, an' in middle o'

day I drink from de cow-tracks."

The well is dug by Buh Wolf alone, who after a while perceives that some

one besides himself draws from it. He watches, and soon identifies the

intruder as Buh Rabbit, who makes his visits by night. "Ebery mornin' he

see Buh Rabbit tracks--ebery mornin' Buh Rabbit tracks." Indignant at the

intrusion, he resolves to set a trap for his thievish neighbor and to put

him to death. Knowing Buh Rabbit's buckish love for the ladies, he fits up

a _tar baby_, made to look like a beautiful girl, and sets it near the

well. By what magical process this manufacture of an attractive-looking

young lady out of treacherous adhesive tar is accomplished we are not

informed. But listeners to stories must not be inquisitive about the

mysterious parts: they must be content to hear.

Buh Rabbit, emboldened by long impunity, goes to the well as usual after

dark, sees this beautiful creature standing there motionless, peeps at it

time and again suspiciously; but being satisfied that it is really a young

lady, he makes a polite bow and addresses her in gallant language. The

young lady makes no reply. This encourages him to ask if he may not come to

take a kiss. Still no reply. He sets his water-bucket on the ground,

marches up boldly and obtains the kiss, but finds to his surprise that he

cannot get away: his lips are held fast by the tar. He struggles and tries

to persuade her to let him go. How he is able to speak with his lips

sticking fast is another unexplained mystery; but no matter: he does speak,

and most eloquently, yet in vain. He now changes his tone, and threatens

her with a slap. Still no answer. He administers the slap, and his hand

sticks fast. One after the other, both hands and both feet, as well as his

mouth, are thus caught, and poor Buh Rabbit remains a prisoner until Buh

Wolf comes the next morning to draw water.

"Eh! eh! Buh Rabbit, wah de matter?" exclaims Buh Wolf, affecting the

greatest surprise at his neighbor's woeful plight.

Buh Rabbit, who has as little regard for truth as for honesty, replies,

attempting to throw all the blame upon the deceitful maiden by whom he has

been entrapped, not even suspecting yet--so we are to infer--that she is

made of tar instead of living flesh. He declares with all the earnestness

of injured innocence that he was passing by, in the sweet, honest

moonlight, in pursuit of his lawful business, when this girl _hailed_ him,

and decoyed him into giving her a kiss, and was now holding him in unlawful

durance.

The listener ironically commiserates his captive neighbor, and proposes to

set him free; when, suddenly noticing the water-bucket and the tracks by

the well, he charges Buh Rabbit with his repeated robberies by night, and

concludes by declaring his intention to put him to immediate death.

The case has now become pretty serious, and Buh Rabbit is of course

woefully troubled at the near approach of the great catastrophe: still,

even in this dire extremity, his wits do not cease to cheer him with some

hope of escape. Seeing that his captor is preparing to hang him--for the

cord is already around his neck and he is being dragged toward an

overhanging limb--he expresses the greatest joy by capering, dancing and

clapping his hands--so much so that the other curiously inquires, "What for

you so glad, Buh Rabbit?"