In Munich a singular and ancient custom prevails. If by chance the cover

of a mug is left up, any individual who chooses may seize it, and drink

the contents. At the Hof Brauerei I once saw a newly arrived Englishman,

carrying the usual red guidebook, quit the room for an instant, leaving

uncovered his just acquired mass of beer. There came along a

seedy-looking old gentleman, evidently a _Stammgast_. A gleam of

satisfaction stole over his wooden features as he espied the open mug.

Pausing a moment, he lifted it to his lips and slowly drank the

contents. Setting it down empty, with a face mildly radiating

satisfaction, he went his way. Presently the owner of the beer returned,

took his seat, and lifted the mass, without looking, to his lips. With

intense astonishment he put it down again, appeared not to believe the

evidence of his senses, applied his glass to his eye, looked with

anxiety into his mug, and became satisfied of its emptiness. At his

neighbors he cast a quick glance of indignant suspicion--the look of a

Briton whose rights were invaded. No one even looked up; apparently the

occasion was too common to excite attention. Gradually his face regained

its composure. He procured a new supply, and as the wonderful barley

juice disappeared became again calm and happy. Miraculous mixture! Who

would not, under thy benign influence, forget all rancor and bitterness,

even though his deadliest enemy sat opposite?

In the Haupt und Residenz Stadt München, as Munich is always called in

official documents, many of the breweries bear the names of orders of

monks, because there the friars in olden days made particularly good

beer. The breweries borrowed from them the receipt and the name. Hence

the brewery to the Augustiner, to the Dominikaner, to the Franciskaner,

and the Salvator.

New beer is in all cities of America and Europe a simple fact. In Munich

it is an important public and private family event, concerning each

house as well as the entire city.

The opening of the Salvator brewery in the suburbs of Munich, for its

brief season of a month in the spring, assumes for the inhabitants the

importance of a long anticipated holiday. Thither an eager crowd of

townspeople make pilgrimage. I was present on one of these auspicious

occasions, and found a joyous multitude of more than two thousand

persons, filling to overflowing the capacious building gayly trimmed

with evergreens interspersed with the national colors. A band discoursed

excellent music, that necessary element, without which no German scene

is complete. The waiters, more than usually adroit in supplying the

wants of the crowd, carried in their hands fourteen glasses at a time

with professional dexterity. The peculiar delicacy of the occasion,

aside from the beer, seemed to be cheese, plentifully sprinkled with

black pepper.

Late in the evening the people became more excited and sympathetic, and

then it was proposed to sing "Herr Fisher," a popular German song of the

people. A verse was sung by a few voices as a solo; then followed a

mighty chorus from all the persons present. Each one raised the cover of

his beer mug at the commencement, and let it fall with a clang at the

close of the chorus, with startling effect.

In Munich one-half of the inhabitants appear to be engaged in the

fabrication of beer and the entire population in drinking it. It

impresses one as being the only industry there. The enormous brewery

wagons, drawn by five Norman horses, are ever to be seen. On the trains

going from the city there is ordinarily a beer car painted in festive

white. It bears an inscription, that none may mistake its contents, and

perhaps that the peasants may bless it as it passes. It is looked upon

with as much reverence as if it bore the ark of the covenant.

All over Germany, among the most ordinary of birthday or holiday

presents are the elegantly painted porcelain tops for beer glasses. The

works of great masters may be found copied in exquisite style for this

purpose, as well as illustrations suited to uncultivated tastes. To

these pictures there are appropriate mottoes, and often a verse adapted

to the comprehension of the most uneducated peasant. A favorite among

the Bavarians, judging from the frequency with which it is met with in

all parts of Bavaria, represents a peasant in a balcony waving her

kerchief to her lover, departing in a little skiff, on an intensely blue

sea. Beneath, in patois, is the doggerel:

Beautifully blue is the sea,

But my heart aches in me,

And my heart will never recover

Till returns my peasant lover.

Equally a favorite is the following:

A rifle to shoot,

And a fighting ring to hit,

And a maiden to kiss,

Must a lively boy have.

The rings to which the rhyme refers are of huge size, of silver, with a

sharp-edged square of the same metal. They are heirlooms among the

peasants, and are worn on the middle finger. It is the custom in a

quarrel to hit one's adversary with the _Stozzring_ on the cheek, which

it tears open.

In Germany many of the great breweries have summer gardens in the

suburbs of the cities. In Berlin there are magnificent _Biergärten_,

where the two most necessary elements of German existence, beer and

music, are united. I need only refer to the Hof Jäger, with its flowers,

fountains, miniature lake, and open-air theatre, where popular comedies

are performed. Three times per week there is an afternoon concert by

one or two regiment bands. Thither the Germans conduct their families.

In the winter there are concert rooms in the cities, where "music is

married," not "to immortal verse," but to beer; and these classical

concerts are patronized by people of high respectability.

Beer is peculiarly suited to the American temperament, too nervous and

sensitive. It is certain that the human race always has, and probably

always will, resort to beverages more or less stimulating. The preaching

of moralists and the efforts of legislators will not exclude them

permanently from our use. It is not in the use but in the abuse of these

that the difficulty lies. Neither tea nor coffee answers for all

temperaments and all occasions as nervous aliments. The extraordinary

and increasing diffusion of liquors is one of the social ulcers of

modern society, particularly in America. It is unfortunately true that

the use of strong alcoholics is increasing every day, to the great

detriment of public health and morals. Taken merely to kill time, they

often end by killing the individual.

One of the great advantages of beer, too much forgotten even by

physicians, is that it reverses the influence of alcohol, by which it

loses its irritating properties on the mucous membrane of the stomach.

The celebrated Dr. Bock (late professor of pathological anatomy in the

university at Leipsic) says, "Beer exercises on the digestion, on the

circulation, on the nerves, and above all on the whole system, a

beneficial effect."[F]

It would be well if Americans would adopt it instead of the innumerable

harmful beverages which ruin the health and poison the peace of society.

S. G. YOUNG.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: "Quadri della Natura Umana."]

[Footnote B: The local term in Bavaria for a glass of beer.]

[Footnote C: There you will drink good beer.]

[Footnote D: There you drank good beer.]

[Footnote E: A _mass_ equals fifteen-sixteenths of a quart.]

[Footnote F: "Buch vom gesunden und kranken Menschen" (9th edition).]

ON READING SHAKESPEARE.

PLAYS OF THE THIRD PERIOD.

We have followed Shakespeare's course of dramatic production down to the

time when he began to embody in the work by which he earned his bread

and made his fortune the results of an intuitive knowledge of human

nature and a profound reflection upon it never surpassed, if ever

equalled, and which, even if possessed, have never been united in any

other man with a power of expression so grand, so direct, so strong, and

so subtle. "Twelfth Night," "Henry V.," and "As You Like It" mark the

close of his second period, which ended with the sixteenth century. His

third period opens with "Hamlet," which was written about the year 1600.

But here I will say that the division of his work into periods, and the

assignment of his plays to certain years, is only inferential and

approximative. We are able to determine with an approach to certainty

about what time most of his plays were written; but we cannot fix their

date exactly. Nor is it of very great importance that we should do so.

There are some people who can fret themselves and others as to whether a

play was written in 1600 or in 1601, as there are others who deem the

question whether its author was born on the 23d of April in one year,

and died on the same day of the same month in another, one of great

importance. I cannot so regard it. A few days in the date of a man's

birth or death, a few months in the production of a play--these are

matters surely of very little moment. What is important to the student

and lover of Shakespeare is the order of the production of his works;

and this, fortunately, is determinable with a sufficient approach to

accuracy to enable us to know about at what age he was engaged upon

them, and what changes in his style and in his views of life they

indicate.

In the first ten years of the seventeenth century, between his

thirty-seventh and forty-seventh year, he produced "Hamlet," "Measure

for Measure," his part of "Pericles," "All's Well that Ends Well," "King

Lear," "Macbeth," "Julius Cæsar," "Antony and Cleopatra," "Troilus and

Cressida," "Cymbeline," "Coriolanus," and "Othello." These, with other

works, were the fruit of his mind in its full maturity and vigor. Think

of it a moment! what a period it was! As my eye lights upon the back of

the eleventh volume of my own edition and the eighth of the Cambridge

edition, and I read "HAMLET, KING LEAR, OTHELLO," I am moved with a

sense of admiration and wonder which, if I allow it to continue, becomes

almost oppressive; and I also take pleasure in the result of a

convenience of arrangement that brought into one volume these three

marvellous works--the three greatest productions of man's imagination,

each wholly unlike the others in spirit and in motive.

Although they were not written one after the other, but with an interval

of about five years between them, it would be well to read them

consecutively and in the order above named, which is that in which they

happen to be printed in the first collected edition (1623) of

Shakespeare's plays. They were written--"Hamlet" in 1600-2, "King Lear"

in 1605, and "Othello" about 1610, its date being much more uncertain

than that of either of the others. The thoughtful reader who, having

followed the course previously marked out, now comes to the study of

these tragedies, is prepared to apprehend them justly, not only in their

own greatness, but in their relative position as the product of their

author's mind in its perfected and disciplined maturity--as the splendid

triple crown of Shakespeare's genius. No other dramatist, no other poet,

has given the world anything that can for a moment be taken into

consideration as equal to these tragedies; and Shakespeare himself left

us nothing equal to any one of them, taken as a whole and in detail;

although there are some parts of other late plays--"Macbeth," "Antony

and Cleopatra," "Troilus and Cressida," and "The Tempest"--which, in

their grandeur of imagination and splendor of language, bear the stamp

of this great period.

And yet such was the merely stage-providing nature of Shakespeare's

work, that even "Hamlet," produced at the very height of his reputation,

is, like the Second and Third Parts of "King Henry VI.," which came from

his 'prentice hand, connected in some way, we do not know exactly what,

with a drama by an elder contemporary upon the same subject. There are

traces in contemporary satirical literature of a "Hamlet" which had been

performed as early as 1589, or possibly two years earlier. It is

remarkable that in the first edition of Shakespeare's "Hamlet" (1603)

Polonius is called Corambis, and Reynaldo, Montano; in which latter

names we may safely assume that we have relics of the old play; and,

although I am sure that in this edition of 1603 we have merely a

mutilated and patched-up version, surreptitiously obtained, and printed

in headlong haste, of the perfected play (in which opinion I differ from

some English scholars, whose learning and judgment I respect, but to

whom I would hold myself ready to prove, under forfeit, to their

satisfaction the correctness of my view); there are also in this

mutilated 1603 edition passages which not only are manifestly not what

Shakespeare wrote, but not even a mutilated form of what he wrote. They

are probably taken from the older play to supply the place of passages

of the new play which could not be obtained in time for the hasty

publication of this pirated edition of Shakespeare's tragedy. Remark,

here, in this hasty and surreptitious edition, evidence of the great

impression suddenly made by Shakespeare's "Hamlet." On its production it

became at once so popular that a piratical publisher was at the trouble

and expense of getting as much of the original as he could by unfair

means, and vamping this up with inferior and older matter to meet the

popular demand for reading copies. There is evidence of a like success

of "King Lear." Since the time when these plays were produced there has

been, we are called upon to believe, a great elevation of general

intelligence, and there surely has been a great diffusion of knowledge;

and yet it may be safely remarked that "Saratoga" and "Pique" and "The

Golden Age," which ran their hundred nights and more, are not quite

equal to "Hamlet" or to "King Lear," which, even with all their success,

did not run anything like a hundred nights; and we may as safely believe

that if "Hamlet" or "King Lear" were produced for the first time this

winter in New York or in London, there would not be such a great and

sudden demand for copies that extraordinary means would be taken by

publishers to supply it. This superiority of the general public taste in

dramatic literature during the Elizabethan era is one of the remarkable

phenomena in literary history; and it is one that remains unaccounted

for, and is, I think, altogether inexplicable, except upon the

assumption that theatres nowadays rely for their support upon a public

of low intellectual grade, and a taste for gross luxury and material

splendor.

In reading "Hamlet" there is little opportunity of comparing it

instructively with any of its predecessors. Its principal personage is

entirely unlike any other created by Shakespeare. The play is all

Hamlet: the other personages are mere occasions for his presence and

means of his development. But Polonius is something the same kind of

man as old Capulet in "Romeo and Juliet;" and although there were

opportunities enough for the noble Veronese father to utter

sententiously the knowledge of the world which he had gained by living

in it, see how comparatively meagre and superficial his "wise saws" are

compared with the counsel that Polonius gives to his son and to his

daughter, and to the King and Queen; although Polonius, with all his

sagacity, is garrulous and a bore; in Hamlet's words, a tedious old

fool. As to Hamlet's character, Shakespeare did not mean it to be

altogether admirable or otherwise, but simply to be Hamlet--a perfectly

natural and not very uncommon man, although he expresses natural and not

uncommon feelings with the marvellous utterance of the great master of

dramatic poetry. And Hamlet's character is not altogether admirable; but

it is therefore none the less, but probably the more, deeply

interesting. How closely packed the play is with profound truths of life

philosophy is shown by the fact that it has contributed not only very

much more--four or five times more--than any other poem of similar

length to the storehouse of adage and familiar phrase, but at least

twice as much as any other of Shakespeare's plays. I know two boys who,

going to see the play for the first time, some years before the

appearance of a like story in the newspapers, came home and did

actually, in the innocence of their hearts, qualify the great admiration

they expressed for it by adding, "but how full it is of quotations." In

fact, about one eighth of this long play has become so familiar to the

world that it is in common use, and is recognized as the best expression

known of the thoughts that it embodies. This, however, is not an

absolute test of excellence, for it is remarkable that "King Lear" is

very much behind it, and also behind "Othello," in this respect; and

indeed there are several plays, including "Macbeth," "Julius Cæsar,"

"Henry IV.," "As You Like It," and "The Merchant of Venice," which are

richer than "King Lear" in passages familiarly quoted; and yet as to the

superiority of "King Lear" to the other plays I think there can be no

doubt. It is the greatest tragedy, the greatest dramatic poem, the

greatest book, ever written; so great is it, in fact, so vast in its

style, so lofty in its ideal, that to those who have reflected upon it

and justly apprehended it, it has become unplayable. As well attempt to

score the music of the spheres, or to paint "the fat weed that roots

itself in ease on Lethe wharf." In "King Lear" there is a personage who

may be very instructively compared with others of the same kind by the

student of Shakespeare's mental development. This is the Fool.

Shakespeare's fools or clowns (such as those in "Love's Labor's Lost"

and in "Hamlet") are among the most remarkable evidences of his ability

to make anything serve as the occasion and the mouthpiece of his wit and

his wisdom. He did not make the character; he found it on the stage, and

a favorite with a considerable part of the play-goers. It was, however,

as he found it, a very coarse character, rude as well as gross in

speech, and given to practical joking. He relieved it of all the

rudeness, if not of all the grossness, and reformed the joking

altogether; but he also filled the Fool's jesting with sententious

satire, and while preserving the low-comedy style of the character,

brought it into keeping with a lofty and even a tragic view of life. In

"King Lear" the Fool rises into heroic proportions, and becomes a sort

of conscience, or second thought, to Lear. Compared even with Touchstone

he is very much more elevated, and shows not less than Hamlet, or than

Lear himself, the grand development of Shakespeare's mind at this period

of its maturity. In the representation of Shakespeare's plays there has

been no greater affront to common sense than the usual presentation of

this Fool upon the stage as a boy, except the putting a pretty woman

into the part, dressed in such a way as to captivate the eye and divert

the attention by the beauty of her figure. It is disturbing enough to

see Ariel, sexless, but, like the angels, rather masculine than

feminine, represented by a woman dressed below the waist in an inverted

gauze saucer, and above the waist in a perverted gauze nothing; but to

see Lear's Fool thus unbedecked is more amazing than Bottom's brutal

translation was to his fellow actors. This Fool is a man of middle age,

one who has watched the world and grown sad over it. His jesting has a

touch of heart-break in it which is prevented from becoming pathetic

only by the cynicism which pertains partly to his personal character and

partly to his office. He and Kent are about of an age--Kent, who when

asked his age, as he comes back disguised to his old master, says, "Not

so young as to love a woman for her singing, nor so old as to dote on

her for anything; I have years on my back forty-eight"--a speech which

contains one of the finest of Shakespeare's minor touches of

worldly-wise character drawing. The German artist Retsch in his fine

outline illustrations of this play has conceived this Fool with fine

appreciation of Shakespeare's meaning. He makes him a mature man, with a

wan face and a sad, eager eye. The misrepresentation of the character

has its origin in Lear's calling the Fool "boy"--a term partly of

endearment and partly of patronage, which has been so used in all

countries and in all times. A similar misunderstanding of a similar word

_fool_, which Lear touchingly applies to Cordelia in the last

scene--"and my poor fool is hanged"--caused the misapprehension until of

late years[G] that Lear's court Fool was hanged--although why Edmund's

creatures should have been at the trouble in the stress of their

disaster to hang a Fool it would puzzle any one to tell.

"Othello" bears throughout the marks of the same maturity of intellect,

and the same mastery of dramatic effect, that appear in "Hamlet" and in

"King Lear"; but from the nature of its subject it is not so profoundly

thoughtful as the others. It is a drama of action, which "Hamlet" is not

in a high degree; and although a grand example of the imaginative

dramatic style, it has the distinction of being the most actable of all

Shakespeare's tragedies. It is difficult to conceive any age or any

country in which "Othello" would not be an impressive and a welcome play

to any intelligent audience. Highly poetical in its treatment, it is

intensely real in its interest; and it must continue so until there is a

radical change in human nature.

In the first of these articles I proposed to analyze and compare the

jealousy of Othello, Claudio, and Leontes; but I have abandoned the

design, partly because I find that it would require another article in

itself, and partly because it would necessarily lead me into a

psychological and physiological discussion which would hardly be in

keeping with the purpose with which I am now writing, which is merely to

offer such guidance and such help as I can give to intelligent and

somewhat inexperienced readers of Shakespeare. But I will remark that

Othello's jealousy is man's jealousy (so called) raised to the most

intense power by the race and the social position of the person who is

its subject. The feeling in man and that in woman, called jealousy, are

quite different in origin and in nature, although they have the same

name. In woman the feeling arises from a supposed slight of her person,

the _spretæ injuria formæ_ of Virgil, to which he attributes Juno's

enmity to Troy; and however it may be sentimentally developed, it has

this for its spring and its foundation. But a man, unless he is the

weakest of all coxcombs, and unworthy to wear his beard, does not

trouble himself because a woman admires another man's person more than

his own. His feeling has its origin in the motherhood of woman, a

recognition of which is latent in all social arrangements touching the

sex, and in all man's feeling toward her. Man's jealousy is a mingled

feeling of resentment of personal disloyalty, and of grief at unchastity

on the part of the woman that he loves. Man is jealous much in the same

sense in which it is said, "The Lord thy God is a jealous God"; which

saying, indeed, is a consequence of the anthropomorphic conception of

the Deity, notwithstanding the exclusion from it of the idea of sex. But

it is impossible to conceive of such a feeling as feminine jealousy

being referred to in the passage in the second commandment. The

"jealousy" of Othello and Leontes, and of Claudio, will be found on

examination to be at bottom the same. In Claudio it is correct,

gentlemanly, princely, and somewhat weak; in Leontes it is morbid,

unreasonable, hard, and cruel; in Othello it is perfectly pure in its

quality, and has in it quite as much of tenderness and grief as of wrath

and indignation; and it rages with all the fierceness of his half-savage

nature. The passion in him becomes heroic, colossal; but it is perfect

in its nature and in its proportions, and from the point to which he has

been brought by Iago, perfectly justifiable. Hence it is that it is so

respected by women. Nothing was more remarkable at Salvini's admirable

performance of Othello than the acquiescence of all his female auditors

in the fate of Desdemona. They were sorry for the poor girl, to be sure;

but they seemed to think that Desdemonas were made to be the victims of

Othellos, and that a man who could love in that fashion and be jealous

in that style of exalted fury was rather to be pitied and admired when

he smothered a woman on a misunderstanding. She should not have teased

him so to take back Cassio; and what could she have expected when she

was so careless about the handkerchief and told such lies about it! It

is somewhat unpleasant to be smothered, to be sure, but all the same

she ought to be content and happy to be the object of such love and the

occasion of such jealousy. They mourned far more over his fate than over

hers. This representation of manly jealousy, so elemental and simple,

and yet so stupendous, is one of Shakespeare's masterpieces. I mean not

merely in its verbal expression, but in its characteristic conception of

the masculine form of the passion. Compare it with the jealousy of any

of his women--of Adriana, of Julia, of Cleopatra, of Imogen, of

Regan--and see how different it is in kind; I will not say in degree;

for Shakespeare has not exhibited woman as highly deformed by this

passion; that he left for inferior dramatists, with whom it is a

favorite subject.

In two of these tragedies we have Shakespeare's most elaborate and, so

to speak, admirable representations of villany: Edmund in "King Lear"

and Iago in "Othello." These vile creations cannot, however, be justly

regarded as the fruit of a lower view of human nature consequent upon a

longer acquaintance with it. They were merely required by the exigencies

of his plots; and being required, he made them as it was in him to do.

For in nothing is his superiority more greatly manifested than in the

fact that monsters of baseness, or even thoroughly base men, figure so

rarely among his _dramatis personæ_. They are common with inferior

dramatists and writers of prose fiction, whose ruder hands need them as

convenient motive powers and as vehicles of the expression of a lower

view of human nature. Not so with him. He has weak and erring men--men

who are misled by their passions, ambition, revenge, selfish lust, or

what not; but Iago, Edmund, and the Duke in "Measure for Measure" are

almost all his characters of their kind. In "Richard III." he merely

painted a highly colored historical portrait; and Parolles, in "All's

Well that Ends Well," and Iachimo, in "Cymbeline," do not rise to the

dignity of even third-rate personages. Iago, it need hardly be said, is

the most perfect of all his creatures in this kind, and indeed he is the

most admirably detestable and infamous character in all literature.

Edmund is equally base and cruel; but compared with Iago he is a coarse,

low, brutal, and rabid animal. In Iago all the craft and venom of which

the human soul is capable is united with an intellectual subtlety which

seems to reach the limit of imagination or conception. There are some

who see in the making the bastard son in "Lear" the monster of

ingratitude and villany and the legitimate a model of all the manly and

filial virtues an evidence of Shakespeare's judgment and discrimination.

But this is one of those fond and over-subtle misapprehensions from

which Shakespeare has suffered in not a few instances, even at the hands

of critics of reputation. It suited Shakespeare's plot that the villain

should be the bastard; that is all; and Lear's legitimate daughters

Goneril and Regan are as base, as bad, and as cruelly ungrateful as

Gloucester's illegitimate son. Shakespeare knew human nature too well,

and handled it with too just and impartial a hand, to let the question

of legitimacy influence him in one way or the other. In "King John" we

have, on the contrary, the mean-souled Robert Faulconbridge and his

gallant and chivalrous bastard brother Philip.

About the same time, or if not in the same time, perhaps in the same

year which saw the production of "King Lear," "Macbeth" was written. But

its date is not certain within four or five years. It was surely written

before 1610, in which year a contemporary diary records its performance

on the 20th of April. The Cambridge editors, in their annotated edition

of this play, in the "Clarendon Press" series, prefer the later date;

but notwithstanding my great respect for their judgment, I hold to my

conclusion for the earlier, for the reasons given in my own edition. The

question has not in itself much pertinence to our present purpose, as

there is no doubt that the tragedy was produced in this period, and its

general style, both of thought and versification, is that of Shakespeare

in its fullest development and vigor. But with the question of date

there is involved another of great interest to the thoughtful

reader--that of mixed authorship. In the introductory essay to my

edition of this play (published in 1861) attention was directed to the

internal evidence that it was hastily written and left unfinished.[H]

Subsequent editors and critics, notably the Cambridge editors and the

Rev. F. G. Fleay, in his "Shakespearian Manual," starting from this

view, have gone so far as to say that "Macbeth," as we have it, is not

all Shakespeare's, but in part the work of Thomas Middleton, a second or

third-rate playwright contemporary with Shakespeare, who wrote a play,

called "The Witch," which is plainly an imitation of the supernatural

scenes in this tragedy. The Cambridge editors believe that Middleton was

permitted to supply certain scenes at the time of the writing of

Macbeth: Mr. Fleay, that Middleton cut down and patched up Shakespeare's

perfected work, adding much inferior matter of his own, and that he did

this being engaged to alter the play for stage purposes. The latter

opinion I must reject, notwithstanding Mr. Fleay's minute, elaborate,

and often specious argument; but the opinion of the Cambridge editors

seems to me to a certain extent sound. I cannot, however, go to the

length which they do in rejecting parts of this play as not being

Shakespeare's work. This study of Shakespeare's style and of what is not

his work at a certain period of his life being directly to our purpose,

let us examine the tragedy for traces of his hand and of another.

And first let the reader turn to Scene 5 of Act III., which consists

almost entirely of a long speech by Hecate, beginning:

Have I not reason, beldames as you are,

Saucy, and overbold? How did you dare

To trade and traffic with Macbeth

In riddles and affairs of death:

And I, the mistress of your charms,

The close contriver of all harms,

Was never called to bear my part,

Or show the glory of our art?

This speech is surely not of Shakespeare's writing. Its being in

octosyllabic rhyme is not against it, however; although he abandoned

rhyme almost altogether at or before this period. The fact of the

business of the scene being supernatural would account for its form. But

it is mere rhyme; little more than an unmeaning jingle of verses. Any

journeyman at versemaking would write such stuff. Read the speech

through, and then think of the writer of "Hamlet," and "Lear," and

"Othello," producing such a weak wash of words at the same time when he

was writing those tragedies. And even turn back and compare it with the

rhyming speeches of his other supernatural personages, of Puck and

Titana and Oberon in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," which he wrote at

least ten or twelve years earlier, and you will see that it is not only

so inferior, but so unlike his undoubted work that it must be rejected.

Turn next to Scene 3 of Act II., and read the speeches of the Porter.

Long ago Coleridge said of these, "This low soliloquy of the Porter and

his few speeches afterward I believe to have been written for the mob by

some other hand." That they were written for the mob is nothing against

them as Shakespeare's. Shakespeare wrote for the mob. He made a point of

putting in something for the groundlings[I] in every play that he wrote.

But with what a mighty hand he did it! so that those who have since then

sat in the highest seats in the world's theatre have laughed, and

pondered as they laughed. "Lear" is notably free from this element; but

even in the philosophical "Hamlet" we have the much elaborated scene of

the Gravediggers, which was written only to please Coleridge's "mob."[J]

But let the reader now compare these Porter's speeches in "Macbeth" with

those of the Gravediggers in "Hamlet," and if he is one who can hope to

appreciate Shakespeare at all, he will at this stage of his study see at

once that although both are low-comedy, technically speaking, the former

are low-lived, mean, thoughtless, without any other significance than

that of the surface meaning of the poor, gross language in which they

are written; while the latter, although, far more laughable even to the

most uncultivated hearer, are pregnant with thought and suggestion.

There can be no question that these speeches in "Macbeth" were written

by some other hand than Shakespeare's.

Having now satisfied ourselves that some part of "Macbeth" is not

Shakespeare's (and I began with those so manifestly spurious passages to

establish that point clearly and easily in the reader's apprehension),

"we are in a proper mood of mind to consider the objections that have

been made by the Cambridge editors to other parts of the tragedy. The

whole second scene of Act I. is regarded as spurious because of

"slovenly metre," too slovenly for him even when he is most careless;

"bombastic phraseology," too bombastic for him even when he is most so;

also because he had too much good sense to send a severely wounded

soldier with the news of a victory. I cannot reject this scene for these

reasons. The question of metre and style is one of judgment; and the one

seems to me not more irregular and careless, and the other not more

tumid, than Shakespeare is in passages undoubtedly of his writing; while

there is a certain flavor of language in the scene and a certain roll of

the words upon the tongue which are his peculiar traits and tricks of

style. The point as to the wounded soldier seems to me a manifest

misapprehension. He is not sent as a messenger. Nothing in the text or

in the stage directions of the original edition gives even color to such

an opinion. The first two scenes of this act prepare one's mind for the

tragedy and lay out its action; and they do so, as far as design is

concerned, with great skill. The first short scene announces the

supernatural character of the agencies at work; the next tells us of the

personages who are to figure in the action and the position in which

they are placed. In the second scene King Duncan and his suite, marching

toward the scene of conflict, and so near it that they are within

ear-shot, if not arrow-shot, _meet_ a wounded officer. He is not sent to

them. He is merely retiring from the field severely wounded--so severely

that he cannot remain long uncared for. The stage direction of the folio

is "Alarum within," which means (as will be found by examining other

plays) that the sound of drums, trumpets, and the conflict of arms is

heard. Then, "Enter King, etc., etc., _meeting_ a bleeding Captaine."

The King, then, does not greet or regard him as a messenger, but

exclaims, "What bloody man is that?" and adds, "He _can_ report, as

_seemeth by his plight_, the condition of the revolt." Plainly this is

no messenger, but a mere wounded officer who leaves the field because,

as he says, his "gashes cry for help."

In Act IV., Sc. 1, this speech of the First Witch after the "Show of

Eight Kings," is plainly not Shakespeare's:

Ay, sir, all this is so; but why

Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?

Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,

And show the best of our delights.

I'll charm the air to give a sound,

While you perform your antic round,

That this great king may kindly say

Our duties did his welcome pay.

This is condemned by the Cambridge editors, and I agree entirely with

them. Moreover it seems to be manifestly from the same hand as Hecate's

speech (Act III., Sc. 5), previously referred to. The style shows this,

and the motive is the same--the introduction of fairy business, dancing

and singing, which have nothing to do with the action of the tragedy,

and are quite foreign to the supernatural motive of it as indicated in

the witch scenes which have the mark of Shakespeare's hand.

In Act IV., Sc. 3, the passage in regard to touching for the King's

Evil, from "Enter a Doctor" to "full of grace," was, we may be pretty

sure, an interpolation previous to a representation at court, as the

Cambridge editors suggest, and it is probably not Shakespeare's; but I

would not undertake to say so positively. The same editors say they

"have doubts about the second scene of Act V." I notice this not merely

to express my surprise at it, but to let the reader see how difficult it

is to arrive at a general consent upon such points which are merely

matters of judgment. To me this scene is unmistakably Shakespeare's. Who

else could have written this passage, not only for its excellence but

for its peculiarity?

_Caithness._--Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies:

Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him,

Do call it valiant fury; but for certain

_He cannot buckle his distempered cause

Within the belt of rule._

_Angus._-- Now does he feel

_His secret murders sticking on his hands_;

Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;

Those he commands move only in command,

Nothing in love; _now does he feel his title

Hang loose about him like a giant's robe

Upon a dwarfish thief_.

I am sure that I should have suspected those lines to be Shakespeare's

if I had first met them without a name, in a nameless book. Still more

surprising is it to me to find these editors saying that in Act V., Sc.

5, lines 47-50 are "singularly weak." Here they are:

If this which he avouches does appear,

There is no flying hence or tarrying here.

I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun,

And wish the estate of the world were now undone.

The first two have no particular character, nor need they have any, as

they merely introduce the last two, which contain an utterance of blank

despair and desolation which seems to me more expressive than any other

that I ever read.

The last passage of the play, that after line 34, when Macbeth and

Macduff go off fighting, and Macbeth is killed, are probably, as the

Cambridge editors suggest, by another hand than Shakespeare's. Their

tameness and their constrained rhythm are not Shakespearian work,

particularly at this period of his life, and in the writing of such a

scene. "Nor would he," as the Cambridge editors say, "have drawn away

the veil which with his fine tact he had dropped over her [Lady

Macbeth's] fate by telling us that she had taken off her life 'by self,

and violent hands.'"

The person who wrote these un-Shakespearian passages was probably

Middleton. Shakespeare, writing the tragedy in haste for an occasion,

received a little help, according to the fashion of the time, from

another playwright; and the latter having imitated the supernatural

poets of this play in one of his own, the players or managers afterward

introduced from that play songs by him--"Music and a song, Come away,

come away," Act III., Sc. 5, and "Music and a song, Black spirits,"

etc., Act IV., Sc. 1. This was done to please the inferior part of the

audience. These songs and all this sort of operatic incantation are

entirely foreign to the supernatural motive of the tragedy as

Shakespeare conceived it. And I will here remark that the usual

performance of "Macbeth" with "a chorus" and "all Locke's music" is a

revolting absurdity.

My next paper will close this series with an examination of some of

Shakespeare's least known dramas.

RICHARD GRANT WHITE.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote G: Since 1854.]

[Footnote H: For the convenience of readers to whom my edition is not

accessible I quote the following passage:

"I am more inclined to this opinion from the indications which the

play itself affords that it was produced upon an emergency. It

exhibits throughout the hasty execution of a grand and clearly

conceived design. But the haste is that of a master of his art,

who, with conscious command of its resources, and in the frenzy of

a grand inspiration, works out his conception to its minutest

detail of essential form, leaving the work of surface finish for

the occupation of cooler leisure. What the Sistine Madonna was to

Raphael, it seems that 'Macbeth' was to Shakespeare--a magnificent

impromptu; that kind of impromptu which results from the

application of well-disciplined powers and rich stores of thought

to a subject suggested by occasion. I am inclined to regard

'Macbeth' as, for the most part, a specimen of Shakespeare's

unelaborated, if not unfinished, writing, in the maturity and

highest vitality of his genius. It abounds in instances of

extremest compression and most daring ellipsis; while it exhibits

in every scene a union of supreme dramatic and poetic power, and in

almost every line an imperially irresponsible control of language.

Hence, I think, its lack of formal completeness of versification in

certain passages, and also of the imperfection in its text, the

thought in which the compositors were not always able to follow and

apprehend. The only authority for the text of 'Macbeth' is the

folio of 1623, the apparent corruptions of which must be restored

with a more than usually cautious hand. Without being multitudinous

or confusing, they are sufficiently numerous and important to test

severely the patience, acumen, and judgment of any editor."--_"The

Works of William Shakespeare." Vol. X., P._ 424.]

[Footnote I: So called because they stood on the ground. The pit was

then a real pit, and its floor was the bare earth. There were no

benches. It was so in the French theatre until a much later period.

Hence the French name _parterre_ for the pit--_par terre_, upon the

ground. The name _parquet_, which is given to that part of a theatre in

America, is not French, and is no word at all, but a miserable affected

nonentity of sound.]

[Footnote J: The reader who cares to do so will find something upon this

point in my essay on Shakespeare's genius, "Life and Genius of

Shakespeare," pp. 280, 281.]

APPLIED SCIENCE.

A LOVE STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

The village of Salmon Falls, in eastern New England, consists of a

number of mills and factories, the railroad station, a store or two, and

two hundred dwellings. Among these is the Denny mansion at the top of

the hill, where the road climbs up from the station and the river. It is

a large square house in the old colonial fashion, with two wings at the

rear and a garden in front.

It was a warm July morning when Mr. John Denny, mill owner and

proprietor of the homestead, had his chair rolled out to the porch, and

with some assistance from the servants, reached it on his crutch and sat

down in the shadow of the great house and out of the glare of the hot

sun. The vine-covered porch and the wide piazza opened directly upon the

garden and gave a full view of the road. Beyond there was an outlook

over the open fields, the mills, the stream, and the village in the

valley. By the road there was a stone wall and a wicker gate opening

upon the grassy sidewalk outside. A table had been laid with a white

cloth in the porch, and Mr. Denny sat by it and waited for the coming of

his daughter and breakfast. While he sat thus he turned over a number of

papers, and then, after a while, he began to talk to himself somewhat in

this wise:

"Expense! expense! expense! There seems no end to it. Bills coming in

every day, and every one larger than was expected. In my young days we

built a shop and knew to a dollar what it would cost. Now the estimates

are invariably short. The batting mill has already gone a thousand

dollars beyond the estimates, and the roof is but just put on. Even the

new chimney cost four dollars a foot more than was expected. Thank

Heaven, it is done, and that expense is over. Could I walk, I might look

after things and keep them within bounds. With my crushed foot I sit a

prisoner at home, and must leave all to Lawrence. It is fortunate that I

have one man I can trust with my affairs."

Just here Alma, his only child, a bright and wholesome girl of nineteen,

appeared from the house. Fairly educated, sensible, and affectionate,

but perhaps a trifle inexperienced by reason of her residence in this

quiet place, she is at once the pride and the light of the house.

"Good morning, father. Are you well this happy summer's day?"

The old gentleman kissed her fondly, and asked did she pass a quiet

night.

"Oh, yes. I didn't sleep much, that is all--for thinking."

"Thinking of what?"

"The expected guest. To-day is the 9th of July, and cousin Elmer comes."

"Ah, yes--Elmer Franklin. I had almost forgotten him."

"How does he look, father? Is his hair dark, or has he blue eyes? I

hardly know which I like best."

"I do not remember. I've not seen the boy since he was a mere child,

years ago. He has been at school since."

"He must be a man now. He is past twenty-one, and, as for school, why,

it's the Scientific School, and I'm sure men go to that."

"You seem greatly interested in this unknown relative, Alma."

"He is to be our guest, father--for a whole month. Come! Will you have

breakfast out here in the porch?"

"Yes, dear. It is quite comfortable here, and it will save the trouble

of moving."

Thereupon Alma entered the house in search of the breakfast, and a

moment after Mr. Lawrence Belford entered the garden at the street gate.

The son of an old friend of Mr. Denny's lamented wife, Mr. Belford had

been admitted to the house some months since as confidential clerk and

business man. He was a rather commonplace person, about thirty years of

age, and his education and manners were good if not remarkable. During

his residence with the Dennys he had found time to fall in love with

Alma, and they had been engaged--and with Mr. Denny's consent.

"Good morning, Lawrence. You're just in time for breakfast."

"Good morning, sir. Thank you, no. I have been to breakfast. I am just

up from the station."

"Seen anything of the railroad coach? The train is in, and it is time

for the coach to pass. Our guest may be in it."

"No, sir, but I saw the express coming up the hill with an extra large

load of baggage."

Just here Alma returned from the house bearing a large tray of plates

and breakfast things. The young people greet each other pleasantly, and

Alma proceeds to lay the table.

"Now for breakfast, father. Everything waits upon a good appetite. Will

you not join us, Lawrence?"

Mr. Belford replies that he has been to breakfast. Mr. Denny takes a cup

of coffee, and while sipping it remarks:

"How many more window-frames shall you require for the new mill,

Lawrence?"

"Ten more, sir. There is only a part of the fourth story unfinished."

"Alma, dear, do you remember how high we decided the new chimney was to

be? Yes, thank you, only two lumps of sugar. Thank you. You remember we

were talking about it when the Lawsons were here."

"Don't ask me. Ask Lawrence. I never can remember anything about such

matters."

Just at that moment the express pulled up at the gate, and there was a

knock. Alma rose hastily, and said:

"Oh! That must be Elmer."

She opened the gate, and young Mr. Elmer Franklin of New York entered. A

man to respect: an open, manly face, clear blue eyes, and a wiry,

compact, and vigorous frame. A man with a sound mind in a sound body. He

was dressed in a gray travelling suit, and had a knapsack strapped to

his back; in his hand a stout stick looking as if just cut from the

roadside, and at his side a field glass in a leather case. Immediately

behind him came a man bending under the load of an immense trunk. Alma

smiled her best, and the young stranger bowed gallantly.

"Mr. Denny, I presume?"

"Welcome, cousin Franklin," said Mr. Denny from his chair. "I knew you

at once, though it is years since any members of our families have met.

Pardon me if I do not rise. I'm an old man, and confined to my chair."

Mr. Franklin offered his hand and said politely:

"Thank you, sir, for your kind reception. I am greatly pleased to----

Hullo! Look out there, boys! That baggage is precious and fragile."

Another man appeared, and the two brought in trunks and boxes, bundles

and parcels, till there was quite a large heap of baggage piled up on

the grass. Alma and Lawrence were properly amazed at this array of

things portable, and Mr. Denny laid aside the breakfast things to look

at the rather remarkable display.

The young man seemed to think apologies essential.

"I do not wonder that you are alarmed. I do not often take such a load

of traps. I wrote you that my visit would be one of study and scientific

investigation, and I was obliged to bring my philosophical apparatus and

books with me."

"It is indeed a wonderful train of luggage for a man. One would have

thought you intended to bring a wife."

Then Mr. Denny bethought him of his duty, and he introduced his newly

found relative to his daughter and to Mr. Lawrence Belford, and then

bade him draw up to the table for breakfast. The young man made the

motions suitable for such an occasion, and then he turned to pay his

expressman. This trifling incident deserves record as happily

illustrating the young man's noble character.

"Thank you, sir. Breakfast will be a cheerful episode. I've a glorious

appetite, for I walked up from the station."

"There's a coach, Mr. Franklin, and it passes our door."

"I knew that, sir, but I preferred to walk and see the country. Fine

section of conglomerate you have in the road cutting just above the

station."

"Eh! What were you saying?"

"I said that I observed an interesting section of

conglomerate--water-worn pebbles, I should say--mingled with quartz

sand, on the roadside. I must have a run down there and a better look at

it after breakfast."

Mr. Denny was somewhat overwhelmed at this, and said doubtfully,

"Ah, yes, I remember--yes, exactly."

"Are you interested in geology, Miss Denny?"

Alma was rather confused, and tried hard to find the lump of sugar that

had melted away in her coffee, and said briefly,

"No. I didn't know that we had any in this part of the country."

Mr. Belford here felt called upon to say:

"My dear Alma, you forget yourself."

"Why will you take me up so sharply, Lawrence? I meant to say that I

didn't know we had any quartz conglomerate hereabouts."

Mr. Franklin smiled pleasantly, and remarked to himself:

"My dear Alma! That's significant. Wonder if he's spooney on her?"

Then he said aloud:

"The pursuit of science demands good dinners. Pardon me if I take some

more coffee."

"Yes, do--and these rolls. I made them myself--expressly for you."

"Thank you for both rolls and compliment."

Mr. Lawrence took up some of the papers from the table and began to read

them, and the others went on with their breakfast. Presently Mr. Denny

said:

"I presume, Mr. Franklin, that you are greatly interested in your school

studies?"

"Yes, sir. The pursuit of pure science is one of the most noble

employments that can tax the cultivated intellect."

"But you must confess that it is not very practical."

Before the young man could reply Alma spoke:

"Oh! cousin Elmer--I mean Mr. Franklin--excuse me. You haven't taken off

your knapsack."

Taking it off and throwing it behind him on the ground, he said:

"It's only my clothes."

"Clothes!" said Mr. Denny. "Then what is in the trunks?"

"My theodolite, cameras, chains, levels, telescopes, retorts, and no end

of scientific traps."

Alma, quite pleased:

"How interesting. Won't you open one of the trunks and let us see some

of the things?"

"With the greatest pleasure; but perhaps I'd better take them to my room

first."

"Anything you like, Elmer--Mr. Franklin, I mean. Our house is your

home."

Lawrence Belford here frowned and looked in an unpleasant manner for a

moment at the young stranger, who felt rather uncomfortable, though he

could scarcely say why. With apparent indifference he drew out a small

brass sounder, such as is used in telegraph offices, and began snapping

it in his fingers.

In his mind he said:

"Wonder if any of them are familiar with the great dot and line

alphabet!"

Alma heard the sounder and said eagerly:

"Oh! cou--Mr. Franklin, what is that?"

"It is a pocket sounder. Do you know the alphabet?"

"I should hope so."

"I beg pardon. I meant Morse's."

"Morse's?"

"Yes. Morse's alphabet."

"No. You must teach it to me."

Thereupon he moved the sounder slowly, giving a letter at a time, and

saying:

"A - -- L - -- - - M -- -- A - --.

That's your name. Queer sound, isn't it?"

"Let me try. Perhaps I could do it."

"My dear Alma, your father is waiting. You had best remove the things."

"Yes, Lawrence. I'll call Mary."

The maid soon appeared, and the breakfast things were removed. Then Mr.

Denny drew Mr. Franklin's attention to the new factory chimney that

stood in plain sight from where they sat.

The young man promptly drew out his field glass, and, mounting one of

the steps of the porch, took a long look at the new shaft.

"Not quite plumb, is it?"

"Not plumb! What do you mean?"

"It is impossible," said Mr. Belford with some warmth.

"It looks so," said the young man with the glass still up at his eyes.

"I tell you it is impossible, sir. I built it myself, and I ought to

know."

"Oh! Beg pardon. You can take the glass and see for yourself."

"I need no glass. I took the stage down only yesterday, and I ought to

know."

"Allow me to take your glass, cousin Franklin," said Mr. Denny. He took

the glass, but quickly laid it down with a sigh.

"My eyes are old and weak, and the glass does not suit them. I am very

sorry to hear what you say. I would not have one of my chimneys out of

line for the world."

"I am sorry I said anything about it, sir. I did not know the chimney

belonged to you."

Alma was apparently distressed at the turn the conversation had taken,

and tried to lead it to other matters, but the old gentleman's mind was

disturbed, and he returned to the chimney.

"I designed it to be the tallest and finest chimney I ever erected, and

I hope it is all correct."

"It is, sir," said Mr. Belford. "Everything is correct to the very

capstones."

"It is my tallest chimney, Mr. Franklin--eighty-one feet and six inches;

and that is two feet taller than any chimney in the whole Salmon Falls

valley."

Mr. Franklin, in an innocent spirit of scientific inquiry, put his glass

to his eyes and examined the chimney again. Alma began to feel ill at

ease, and Lawrence Belford indulged in a muttered curse under his black

moustache.

"Eighty-one feet and six inches--the tallest chimney in the valley."

No one seemed to heed the old gentleman's remark, and presently Mr.

Franklin laid his field glass on the table, and taking out his brass

sounder, he idly moved it as if absently thinking of something.

Alma suddenly looked up with a little blush and a smile. Her eyes seemed

to say to him:

"I heard you call? What is it?"

He nodded pleasantly, and said, "Would you like to see some of my

traps?"

"Oh, yes. Do open one of your trunks."

Mr. Franklin took out a bunch of keys and went to one of the trunks. As

he did so he said to himself:

"Deuced bright girl! She learned my call in a flash. I must teach her

the whole alphabet, and then will have some tall fun and circumvent that

fool of a clerk."

This remark was applied to Mr. Belford, and was eminent for its touching

truth.

While the young people were opening the trunk, Mr. Denny and Mr. Belford

were engaged in examining the business papers spread on the table, and

for several minutes they paid no attention to things done and said

almost under their eyes.

Such a very strange trunk. Instead of clothing, it contained the most

singular assortment of scientific instruments. Each was carefully

secured so that no rude handling would harm it, and all shining and

glistening brilliantly as if kept with the most exquisite care. Mr.

Franklin unfastened a small brass telescope, mounted upon a stand, with

a compass, levels, plumb line, and weight attached.

"That's my theodolite. There's a tripod in one of my boxes. I'll get it

and mount it, and we'll have a shot at the chimney.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing! I'm going to measure it. Wouldn't you like to help me?"

"With all my heart. Tell me what to do."

"Presently. Wait till I've screwed things together; then I'll tell you

what to do. Oh! By the way, I must tell you an amusing episode that

happened at the railroad station while I was waiting for my luggage.

There was a young man sending off a message at the little telegraph

station, and I overheard the message and the comments of the operator."

Alma didn't appear to enjoy this incident.

"Not listening intentionally, you know. It was the telegraph I heard,

not the people."

Alma felt better.

"It was all by mere sounds, and it ran this way: 'The old fool is here

again.' That's what she said--the operator, I mean. 'To Isaac Abrams,

1,607 Barclay street, New York. I have secured the will. Foreclose the

mortgage and realize at once. Get two state rooms for the 25th.--L. B.'

That was the message, and it was so very strange I wrote it out in

my---- Oh! Beg pardon, Miss Denny. Are you ill?"

Alma's face had assumed a sudden pallor, and she seemed frightened and

ill at ease.

"'Tis nothing--really nothing! I shall be better presently."

Then, as if anxious to change the conversation, she began to ask rapid

questions about the theodolite and its uses.

Mr. Franklin was too well bred to notice anything, but he confessed to

himself that he had said something awkward, and, for the life of him, he

could not imagine what it might be. He replied briefly, and then went on

with his preparations for some time in silence, Alma meanwhile looking

on with the greatest interest. The theodolite having been put together,

Mr. Franklin opened another box and took out a wooden tripod, such as

are used to support such instruments. He also took out a fine steel

ribbon, or measuring tape, neatly wound up on a reel.

"You shall carry that, Miss Denny, and I'll shoulder the theodolite."

"Wait till I get my hat and the sun umbrella."

"To be sure; it will be warm in the fields."

Alma was soon arrayed in a dainty chip. At least she called it a chip,

and the historian can do naught but repeat her language. Besides this,

it was not bigger than a chip, and it looked very pretty tied under her

chin. Over her head she carried its real protection, an immense Japanese

paper umbrella, light, airy, and generous.

"Where are you going, Alma?" said Mr. Denny.

"Oh! only to the fields for a little walk. We'll be back presently."

The confidential clerk thought it strange that the daughter of the

house should be so free with the stranger. But the young people were

distant cousins, and it wouldn't have been polite in him to have

objected to the little walk.

So the two, under the friendly shade of the big paper umbrella, went out

to see the new chimney, while Mr. Denny and the confidential clerk staid

behind to talk business.

The new chimney stood at the southeast corner of the great four-story

mill, and close beside the little brick engine house. Alma led the

youthful son of science out of the gate, down the road a few rods, and

then they passed a stile, and took the winding path that straggled over

the pastures to the mill.

Of course they talked volubly. This being the stern and prosy record of

applied science, it becomes us not to report the chatterings of these

two till they reached the base of the vast brick chimney, towering

nearly eighty feet into the air above them. Its long shadow lay like a

stiffened snake upon the fields, and Elmer, observing it, said:

"Good! We can use the shadow, too, and have double proof."

"How?" said the bright one, in a beautiful spirit of inquiry.

"If an upright stick, a foot long, casts a shadow three feet long, the

shadow of another stick beside it, at the same time, is proportionally

long."

"I knew that before. That isn't very high science."

"Why did you say 'how'?"

"Because I didn't think. Because I was a goose."

"Such terms are not choice, and are devoid of truth. Here! stern duty

calls. Do you hold one end of the tape at the foot of the chimney, and

I'll measure off the base line of our triangle."

Alma was charmed to be of use, and sat on a stone with the brass ring of

the tape on her ring finger next her engagement ring, and her hand flat

against the first course of bricks. Trifles sometimes hint great

events. Little did she think that the plain brass ring on her finger was

the hard truth of science that should shiver her gold ring to fragments

and pale its sparkling diamond. Being a wholesome creature, and not

given to romance, she thought nothing about it, which was wise. Her

cousin, the knight of the theodolite, set his instrument upright upon

the grass, and then ran the measuring line out to its full length.

"All right! Let the tape go."

Alma took off the brass ring, and the steel ribbon ran like a glittering

snake through the grass, and she slowly followed it and joined her

knight.

"Once more, please. Hold the ring on this bit of a stake that I've set

up in the ground."

Alma, like a good girl, did as she was bid, and the ribbon ran out again

to its full length. Another stake was set up, and the theodolite was

placed in position and a sight obtained at the top of the tall chimney.

A little figuring in a note-book, and then the son of high science

quietly remarked:

"Seventy-six feet four inches--short five feet two inches."

Just here several urchins of an inquiring turn of mind drew near and

began to make infantile comments, and asked with charming freedom if it

was circus.

"No!" said Alma, from under her paper tent. "No! Run away, children, run

away."

It was too warm for so much exertion, and they wouldn't move.

"Oh! never mind them. They don't trouble me; and if it amuses them, it's

so much clear gain."

"They are some of the factory children, and I thought they might bother

you."

"Inelegant, but thoughtful." He didn't say so. He only thought it, which

was quite as well.

During this little episode the impressive facts that all this scientific

exertion had brought out concerning the chimney were lost upon Alma. It

was small consequence. She knew it well enough before night.

Now for the shadow by way of proof. The theodolite, paper umbrella, and

admiring crowd of children trotted severally and collectively over the

grass till they reached the chimney again.

"The tape-measure, Alma. You hold the ring, and I'll unreel the string."

It was surprising how quickly these two made each other's acquaintance.

By the time the long shadow was measured, a stake set up, and the two

shadows compared, they seemed to have known each other for weeks. Such

is the surprising effect of pure science when applied to love.

Had it come to this already? She was engaged to the confidential, the

chimney-builder. His ring glittered on her finger. True--all of it!

See them sauntering slowly (the thermometer at 87 deg.) homeward under

the friendly shade of an oiled paper umbrella. They are indeed good

friends already. They enter the house together, and the cheerful dinner

bell greets their ears. She folds her oiled paper tent and he sets his

instrument up in a corner of the great shady hall. She leads the way to

the chamber that is to be his room during his stay, and then retires to

her own to prepare for the frugal noontide meal.

The exact truth records that the meal was not severely frugal. It was

otherwise, and so much nicer.

The entire family were assembled, and conversation was lively,

considering the weather. Near the close of the meal it grew suddenly

warm. The innocent son of science, proud of his accomplishments, made a

most incautious statement, and the result was peculiar.

"Oh, uncle, you were saying this morning that my science was not very

practical. I tried a bit of it on your chimney this morning, and what do

you think I found?"

"I'm sure I can't tell," said Mr. Denny.

"I measured it, and it is exactly seventy-six feet, four inches high."

If he had dropped a can of nitro-glycerin under the table, the effect

couldn't have been more startling. Mr. Lawrence Belford dropped his

fruit knife with a ruinous rattle, his face assumed the color of frosted

cake (the frosting, to be exact), and he seemed thoroughly frightened.

Mr. Denny looked surprised, and said,

"What?"

Alma said nothing, but fished for the sugar in her strawberries and

cream.

"What did you say, Mr. Franklin?"

"I said that I measured the new chimney, just for the fun of the thing,

and found that it is exactly seventy-six feet, four inches high."

"It's an abominable lie."

"Lawrence!" said Alma, with an appealing glance.

"Are you sure, Mr. Franklin? Have you not made some mistake?"

"You are utterly mistaken, Mr. Franklin. I measured that chimney with a

line from the top, and I know your statement is entirely incorrect."

"I hope so," said the old gentleman.

"It is so, sir," added Mr. Belford; and then, waxing bolder, he said,

"How could this young person, just from school, know anything of such

matters? Did he build a staging, or did he climb up the inside like a

chimney sweep?"

Young Mr. Franklin saw that he had in some innocent fashion started a

most disagreeable subject. Why Mr. Denny should be so disturbed and Mr.

Belford so angry was past his comprehension. At the same time Mr.

Belford's language was offensive, and he replied with some spirit:

"There is no need to climb the chimney, or use a line. It is a trifling

affair to ascertain the height of any building with a theodolite, as you

probably know."

"I tell you, sir, it is false--utterly false. Besides, you have made

some mistake in the figures. You--you--but I've no patience with such

boy's play. It's only fit for school children."

"Lawrence," said Alma, "you are unkind. I'm sure we meant no harm. I

helped Mr. Franklin, and I'm sure he's right; besides, we measured the

chimney by its shadow, and both statements were alike."

"Oh, if you've turned against me, I've nothing more to say."

Mr. Denny meanwhile seemed lost in deep study, and he hardly heeded what

was going on.

"What can that boy know about such things? I tell you, it's----"

"It seems to me, Mr. Belford, you are unnecessarily excited," said Mr.

Denny. "Mr. Franklin is a much younger man than you, but he showed a

knowledge of this matter, and if his figures are correct----"

"They are, sir," said Elmer warmly. "I can show you the base line, and

the theodolite is still at the same angle. Alma saw me measure the base,

and she can tell you its length. There are the figures in my note-book."

Mr. Denny took the note-book and examined the figuring out of this

problem, and Elmer went to the hall for his instrument. He returned with

the theodolite still secured at the angle at which the sight had been

taken. As he laid the instrument on the dining table, he said:

"I am very sorry, uncle, that I did anything about this matter. It was

done in mere sport, and I wish I had said nothing concerning it. I would

not had not Mr. Belford used the language he did."

Mr. Denny ran his eye over the figures in the book, and then, with a

pained expression, he said briefly,

"Everything seems to be correct."

"Damnation! I'll break his head for him, the intermeddling fool." This

language was not actually used by Mr. Belford, but he thought as much.

His eyes flashed, and he clenched his fists under the table. Alma's

presence alone restrained him from something more violent. He appeared

calm, but inwardly he was angry. This unexpected announcement

concerning the chimney he had built cast a heavy shadow over him, and

his conscience awoke with a sudden smart.

Alma was greatly disturbed, and ready to cry for shame and vexation. She

did not, for she felt sure this was only the beginning of a new trouble,

and she well knew that heavy sorrows had already invaded the house. They

needed no more.

Mr. Franklin glanced from one to another in alarm. He saw that he was

treading upon uncertain ground, and he wisely held his peace. After a

brief and awkward pause, Mr. Belford rose, and pleading the calls of

business, went out, and the unhappy interview came to an end.

* * * * *

It was a strange room. Its belongings stranger still. A large square

chamber, with windows on three sides and a door and a fireplace on the

other. Just now the fireplace had fallen from its high estate and had

become a catch-all for the wrecks of much unpacking. There was a small

single bed, two chairs, and an indefinite number of tables. Impossible

to say how many, for they were half obscured by numberless things

scientific: microscopes, a retort, small furnace, two cameras, galvanic

battery, coils of wire and rubber tubing, magic lantern, books,

photographs, and papers; on a small desk a confused pile of papers; on

the walls a great number of pictures and photographs.

The very den of a student of science. Hardly room to walk among the

wilderness of traps, boxes, and trunks. At the window, the young man,

just dressed, and taking a view of the mill and its new chimney.

"Gad! how mad the fellow was over my little measurements. Wonder what it

all means? The girl's in trouble, the father has a grief, and the

clerk--I can make nothing of him. What matter? My duty is with my books,

that I may pursue pure science. The moment things become practical I

drop 'em."

Then he turned and looked out of the next window.

"Fine view of the river. I must have another try at it with the camera."

He crossed the room, and standing in the bright morning sunshine, he

looked about to examine the other L that had been thrown out from the

back of the main building.

"That's Alma's room, and the next is the clerk's, the chimney man. The

window is open, and the place looks as dark as a cave. I've a mind to

light it up."

So saying he took a small hand mirror from a table near by. Holding it

in the full sunlight, he moved it slowly about till the dancing spot of

reflected light fell upon the open window and leaped in upon the

opposite wall of the room. The observer with steady hand moved the spot

of light about till he had probed the room, and found all it contained,

which was nothing save a bed and two chairs.

"Applied science reports the man is fit for treason, spoils, and that

sort of thing. He has no pictures. His room is a sleeping den. The man

is a----Hallo! Steady there!"

The door in the room opened, and the student of applied science turned

quickly away with his back to the wall beside his window. Cautiously

raising the mirror, he held it near the window in such a way that in it

he could see all that went on in the other room, without being himself

seen.

Suddenly he saw something in the glass. Some one appeared at the window,

looked out as if watching for something, and then withdrew into the bare

little sleeping room. Then the figure in the mirror went to the bed and

carefully turned all the clothes back. The student of science watched

the mirror intently. The figure bent over the uncovered mattress and

quietly opened the sacking and took something out. It sat down on the

edge of the disordered bed and proceeded to examine the box or bundle,

whatever it might be, that it had found in the bed.

Just here there was the sound of a distant door opening and closing. The

figure crouched low on the bed, as if fearing to be seen, and waited

till all was quiet again. Then it slowly opened the box or package, and

took out a folded paper. The student bent over the mirror with the

utmost interest. What did it mean? What would happen next? Nothing in

particular happened. The figure closed the box, returned it to its

hiding place in the bed, and then crept out of the range of reflected

vision.

Why should the confidential clerk hide papers in his bed? What was the

nature of the documents? A strange affair, certainly, but it did not

concern him, and perhaps he had better drop the subject. He turned to

his books and papers, and for an hour or more was too much occupied with

them to heed aught else.

Suddenly there was a brisk series of taps at his door, like this:

- - -- - - -- -- - - -- --

"I'm here. Come in."

Alma, the bright one entered.

"What a room! Such disorder, Elmer."

"Yes. It is quite a comfortable den. I've unpacked everything, and--mind

your steps--feel quite at home--thank you."

"I should say as much. Do look at the dust. I must have Mary up here at

once."

"Madam, I never allow any female person to touch my traps. Mary may make

the bed, but she must not sweep, nor dust, nor touch anything."

"Oh! really. Then I'll go at once."

"Better not."

"Why?"

"Because I've many things to show----"

"Oh, Elmer! What is that--that queer thing on the table? May I look at

it?"

"That's my new camera."

"How stupid. I might have known that. Do you take pictures?"

"Photos? Yes. Will you sit?"

"Oh, dear, no. I hate photographs. It's so disagreeable to see oneself

staring with some impossible expression, and sitting in an impossible

palace, with a distant landscape and drapery curtains."

"Then I'll take a view for you. Find a seat somewhere while I rig

things. See those two people sitting on the little bridge that crosses

the race beyond the mill? I'll photograph them without their

permission."

Alma looked out of the window when Elmer had raised the curtain, but

declared she couldn't see anything.

"They are very far off. Take the field glass, and you'll see them."

Alma took the glass from the table, and looked out on the sunny

landscape.

"I see what you mean, but I can't make out who they are, even with the

glass. It's a man and a woman, and that's as much as I can see."

"You shall see them plain enough in a moment."

So saying, Elmer placed a long brass telescope upon a stand by the open

window, and through it he examined the couple on the bridge. Meanwhile

Alma gazed round the room and examined its strange contents with the

greatest interest.

The moment the focus of the glass was secured, Elmer hastily took the

little camera, and adjusting a slide in it from a table drawer, he

placed it before the telescope on the table and close to the eye hole.

Then, by throwing a black cloth over his head, he looked into it, turned

a screw or two, and in a moment had a negative of the distant couple.

"Aren't you almost ready?"

"In one moment, Alma. I must fix this first. I'll be right back."

So saying he took the slide from the little camera, and went out of the

room into a dark closet in the entry.

Alma waited patiently for a few moments, and then she took up the field

glass, and looked out of the window. Who could they be? They seemed to

be having a cosy time together; but beyond the fact that one figure was

a woman she could learn nothing. She wanted to take a look through the

telescope, but did not dare to move the little camera that stood before

it.

"Here's the picture," said Elmer as he entered the room.

Alma took the bit of glass he offered her, but declared she couldn't see

anything but a dirty spot on the glass.

"That's the negative. Let me copy it, and then I'll throw it up with the

stereopticon."

He selected another bit of glass from a box, and in a few minutes had it

prepared and the two put together and laid in the sun on the

window-seat.

"What's in that iron box, Elmer?"

"Nitrous oxide."

"The same thing that the dentists use?"

"Yes. Would you like to try a whiff? It's rather jolly, and will not

hurt you in the least."

Elmer caught up a bit of rubber pipe, secured one end to the iron chest

and inserted the other in a mouthpiece having the proper inhalation and

exhalation valves.

"Put that in your mouth for a moment."

Alma, with beautiful confidence, put the tube in her mouth, and in a

moment her pretty head fell back against the back of the chair in deep

sleep. With wonderful speed and skill Elmer rolled a larger camera that

stood in a corner out into the centre of the room, ran in a slide,

adjusted the focus, and before the brief slumber passed had a negative

of the sleeping one.

"Oh, how odd! What a queer sensation to feel yourself going and going,

off and off, till you don't know where you are!"

"It is rather queer. I've often taken the gas myself--just for fun. Now,

Alma, if you will let down the curtains, and close the shutters, and

make the room dark, I'll light the lantern and show you the picture."

Alma shut the blinds, drew down the curtains, and closed all the

shutters save one.

"Won't it be too dark?"

"No. It must be quite dark. You can stand here in the middle of the room

and look at that bit of bare wall between the windows. I left that space

clear for a screen."

Alma eagerly took her place, and said with a laugh:

"If this is the pursuit of pure science, it is very amusing. I'd like to

study science--in this way."

"Yes, it is rather interesting----"

"Oh, Elmer, it's pitch dark."

"Never mind. Stand perfectly still and watch the wall. There--there's

the spot of light. Now I'll run in the positive."

A round spot of white light fell on the unpapered wall, and then two

dusky shadows slid over it, vague, obscure, and gigantic.

"There are your people. Now I'll adjust the focus. There--look."

A heavy sob startled him.

"Oh! It's that hateful Alice Green!"

Elmer opened the door of the lantern, and the light streamed full upon

Alma. She was bathed in tears, and her shoulders, visible through her

light summer dress, shook with sobs.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing! Oh, it's--nothing--let me--go----"

With an impatient gesture she tried to brush the tears from her eyes,

and then, without a word, she hastily ran out of the room.

The student of pure science was surprised beyond measure. What had

happened? What new blunder had he committed? With all his deep study of

things material he was ignorant of things emotional and sentimental.

This exhibition of anger and grief in his pretty cousin utterly

disconcerted him. He did not know what to do, nor what to think, and he

stood in the glare of his lantern for a moment or two in deep thought.

Then he closed the lantern and turning round, examined the shadowy

picture thrown upon the wall. It represented a young man and a young

woman seated upon the wooden rail of the bridge in the open air, and in

most loving embrace. His arm was about her waist, and he was looking in

her face. His straw hat hid his features, but the face of the young

woman was turned toward the camera that had so perfectly mirrored them

both. She seemed to be a young and pretty girl in the more lowly walks

of life, and her lover seemed to be a gentleman. What a pity he hadn't

looked up! Who could he be? And she? Alma's remark plainly showed that

she at least knew the girl, and for some reason was hotly indignant with

her.

Thinking he had made trouble enough already, Elmer took one more good

look at the picture, and then prepared to destroy it. Something about

the young man's hat struck him as familiar. It was a panama hat, and had

two ribbons wound round it in a fanciful manner that was not exactly

conventional.

He silently opened a shutter, and the picture faded away. He drew up the

curtains and looked out on the bridge. The young couple had disappeared.

Poor innocents! They little knew how their pictures had been taken in

spite of themselves, and they little knew the tragic and terrible

consequences that were to flow from the stolen photograph so strangely

made. Elmer took the little slide from the lantern, and was on the point

of shivering it to fragments on the hearthstone, when he paused in deep

thought. Was it wise to destroy it? Had he not better preserve it?

Perhaps he could some day solve the mystery that hung about it, and find

out the cause of Alma's grief and anger. Perhaps he might help her; and

there came a softening about his heart that seemed both new and

wonderfully unscientific.

Shortly after this the dinner bell rang, and he went down to the

dining-room. Alma sent word that she had a severe headache and could not

appear. Mr. Belford was already there, and he looked at Mr. Franklin

with an expression that made the young man uncomfortable in spite of

himself. Mr. Denny was unusually thoughtful and silent, and conversation

between the younger men was not particularly brilliant or entertaining.

At last the dreary meal was finished. Mr. Belford rose first and went

out into the hall. Mr. Franklin followed him, and saw something that

quite took his breath away.

There lay the hat of the photograph, double ribbons and all. Mr. Belford

quietly took it up and put it on, and it fitted him perfectly. Elmer

stopped abruptly and looked at the man with the utmost interest. The

confidential, the chimney builder paid no attention, and quickly passed

on out of the front door.

"E. Franklin, you have made a discovery. The pursuit of pure science

never showed anything half so interesting as this. You had better raise

a cloud on the subject. Gad! It's cloudy enough already!"

This to himself as he slowly went up stairs to his room. Selecting a

pipe, he filled it, and finding a comfortable seat, he fired up and

prepared to examine mentally the events of the day.

"It was the confidential, making love to some village beauty, supposed

to be 'Green,' by name, if not by nature. Alma loves him. That's bad.

Perhaps she's engaged to him. Has she a ring? Yes--saw it the other day.

The affair is cloudy--and--Gad! Blessed if I don't keep that

lantern-slide! It may be of use some day. Come in."

This last was in response to a knock at the door. Mr. Belford entered,

panama hat with two ribbons in hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Franklin. I thought I might find you here.".

"Yes, I'm at leisure. What can I do for you? Smoke?"

"No; I can't to-day. The fact is, I've a bad tooth, and smoking troubles

it."

"Indeed? Let me see it. I'm a bit of a dentist."

"Are you? That's fortunate, for it aches sadly, and our nearest dentist

is five miles away."

"Sit right here by the window, where I can have a good light."

Mr. Belford, a physical coward, could not bear pain; and though he was

unwilling to be under obligations to one whom he considered a mere boy,

he sat down in the proffered chair, and opened his mouth dutifully.

"Ah, yes--_dentes sapentia_. It's quite gone. Shall I take it out for

you?"

"Will it be painful?"

"No. I'll give you nitrous oxide. Without it it might be very painful,

for the tooth is much broken down."

Mr. Belford hesitated. Had he better place himself so utterly at the

mercy of this young man?

"It will pass off in a moment, and leave no ill effects behind. You had

better take it."

"Well, I will; but make it very mild, for I am afraid of these

new-fangled notions."

"You need have no fear," said Elmer, bringing up his iron box of nitrous

oxide, and selecting a pair of forceps from the mass of instruments in

one of his trunks.

"It's very odd. It's the merest chance that I happened to have a pair of

forceps. Are you ready now? Put this tube in your mouth, and breathe

easily and naturally."

The patient leaned back in the chair, and the amateur stood silently

watching him.

"It's a fearful risk, but I'm going to try it. I succeeded with Alma,

and I fancy I can with this fool. He was a fool to run right into my

arms in this fashion. No wonder his wisdom tooth was rotten. I'll have

it out in a moment."

All this to himself. The patient closed his eyes, and fell into a deep

sleep.

"Take it strong. It will not hurt you, and I must keep you quiet till

the deed is done."

High science was to be brought to bear upon rascality, and he must move

cautiously and quickly. The instant the patient was unconscious, Elmer

bent over him and turned back his coat, and from the inside pocket he

drew forth a folded paper. He had caught a glimpse of it when he looked

in the man's mouth, and on the spur of the moment he had conceived and

put into practice this bold stroke of applied science. Making the man

comfortable, and giving him a little air with the gas, he opened the

paper and spread it wide open before a pile of books in the full

sunlight. The patient stirred uneasily. With a breathless motion Elmer

plied him with more gas, and he sighed softly and slumbered deeper than

ever. With a spring he reached the camera, rolled it up before the

paper, and set in a new slide. It copied the paper with terrible

certainty, and then, without reading it, Elmer folded the paper up again

and restored it to his patient's pocket.

The patient revived. He put his hand in his mouth. The tooth was still

there.

"Why, you didn't touch it?"

"No. I was delayed a bit. Take the gas again."

The man submitted, and inhaled more gas. At the instant he slumbered the

forceps were deftly plied and the tooth removed. Bathing the man's face

with water, the young dentist watched him closely till he revived again.

"Do you feel better?"

"Better! Why, I'm not hurt! Is it really out?"

"Yes. There it is in the washbowl."

"You did very well, young man. Excellently. I'm sure I'm much obliged."

"You're welcome," replied Mr. Franklin. "It was a trifling affair."

Repeating his thanks, the visitor put on his hat with its two ribbons

and retired.

For an hour or more the youthful son of science worked over his new

negatives, and then he quietly closed the shutters and lighted his

stereopticon. The first picture he threw upon the wall greatly pleased

him. With half-parted lips, a placid smile, and closed eyes, the

sleeping Alma lived in shadowy beauty before him.

"Queer such a charming girl should belong to such a fool!"

Not choice language for a son of pure-eyed science, but history is

history, and the truth must be told.

"Now for the paper."

He took Alma's stolen picture from the lantern, and inserted in its

place a positive copy of the paper he had captured from her lover.

Suddenly there flashed upon the wall a document of the most startling

and extraordinary character. He read it through several times before he

could bring himself to understand the peculiar nature of the important

discovery he had made. Long and earnestly he gazed upon the gigantic

writing on the wall, and then he slowly opened one of the shutters, and

the magic writing faded away in the rosy light of the setting sun.

A moment after, the tea-bell rang. This over, young Mr. Franklin said

he, must go out for his evening constitutional. He wished to be alone.

The events of the day, the discoveries he had made, and, more than all,

Alma's grief and silence at the supper-table, disturbed him. He wished

more air, more freedom to think over these things and to devise some

plan for future action.

Alma. What of her? Was he not growing to like her--perhaps love her? And

she was engaged to that--that--he could not think of him with patience.

The chimney, the two in the photo, and the strange paper: what did they

all mean? Why were both father and daughter in such evident distress? He

pondered these things as he walked through the shadowy lanes, and then,

about eight o'clock, he returned, in a measure composed and serene.

There was a light in the parlor, and he went in and found Alma alone.

"Oh, Elmer! I'm glad you've come. It's very lonely here. Father has

gone to bed quite ill, and Lawrence asked me to sit up till he

returned. He's gone down to the village on some business. I can't see

why he should. The stores are closed and the last train has gone."

She made a place for him on the sofa, and he sat down beside her. For

some time they talked indifferently upon various matters--the weather,

the heat of the day, and like trivialities.

Suddenly she turned upon him, and said, with ill-suppressed excitement:

"What did you do with it, Elmer?"

"Do with what?"

"The picture."

"Oh, yes--the lantern slide. I wish I had never made it. It's up stairs

in my room."

"You didn't know it was Alice Green?"

"No. How should I? I did not know who either of the people was till the

picture was thrown upon the wall."

"Do you know now--know both of them, I mean?"

"Yes--I think I do. One was Mr.----"

"Yes, Elmer, you may as well say it. It was Lawrence."

Elmer could think of nothing to say, and wisely said nothing. After a

brief pause Alma said slowly, as if talking to herself:

"It was a cruel thing to do."

"I did not mean to be cruel."

"Oh, my dear--cousin, don't think of it in that way. It was Lawrence who

was so cruel."

"Yes. It was not very gentlemanly; but perhaps he does not care for--for

this person."

"He does. The picture was only confirmation of what I had heard before.

I've done with him," she added in a sort of suppressed desperation. "I'm

going to break our engagement this very night. I know it will nearly

break my heart, and father will be very angry; but, Elmer, come nearer;

let me tell you about it. I'm afraid of him. He has such an evil eye,

and you remember the chimney--the day you came--I thought he would kill

you, he was so angry."

Evidently she was in sore trouble. Even her language was marked by doubt

and difficulty.

"Advise me, Elmer. Tell me what to do. I hardly know which way to turn,

and I'm so lonely. Father is busy every day, and I can't talk to him.

And Lawrence--I dare not trust him."

Here she began to cry softly, and hid her face in her handkerchief. The

son of science was perplexed. What should he do or say? All this was new

to him. That a young and pretty girl should appeal to him with such

earnestness disconcerted him, and he did not know how to act. A problem

in triangulation or knotty question in physics would have charmed him

and braced him up for any work. This was so new and so peculiar that he

said, "Don't cry, cousin," and repented it at once as a silly speech.

"I must. It does me good."

"Then I would."

Thereupon they both laughed heartily and felt better. He recovered his

wits at once.

"Do you think you really love him?"

The man of science is himself again.

"No, I don't."

"Then--well, it's hardly my place to say it."

"Then break the engagement. That's what you mean. I intend to do so;

but, Elmer, I wish you could be here with me."

"It would be impossible. Oh! I've an idea."

"Have you? There! I knew you would help me. You are so bright, Elmer,

and so kind----"

He nipped her enthusiasm in the bud.

"Do you think you could telegraph to me from your pocket?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know the letters now perfectly, and if you had your hand on an

armature, you could send off messages quickly?"

"Yes. You know I learned the alphabet in one day, and it's nearly a

week since you put up that line to my room. Think how we have talked

with it already. And you remember the tea table, when the Lawsons and

the Stebbens were here. Didn't I answer all your questions about Minna

Lawson while I was talking with her by tapping on the table with a

spoon?"

"Yes. So far so good; but now I'm going to try a most dangerous and

difficult piece of scientific work, and you must help me. My plan is for

you to keep in telegraphic communication with me while the interview

goes on. Then, if he is insulting or troublesome, you can call me."

"How bright of you, Elmer. If Lawrence had been half so good and kind

and bright--if he knew half as much--I might have loved him longer."

"Wait a bit, and I'll get the lines."

"May I go too?"

"Oh, yes; come."

The two went softly up the hall stairs, through the long entry to the L,

and into Elmer's room. They set the lamp on a table, and Elmer dragged

forth from the scientific confusion of the place a collection of

telegraphic apparatus of all kinds.

"There's the battery. That I'll keep here. There is the recording

instrument. That I'll keep here also. Now you want a small armature to

open and close the current. Wait a bit! I'd better make one."

Alma sat down on a box, and her new Lohengrin set to work with shears

and file to make something that would answer for an armature and still

be small enough to hide in the hand. Cutting off two small pieces of

insulated copper wire, he bound them together side by side at one end.

The loose ends he separated by crowding a bit of rubber between them,

and then with the file and his knife he removed a part of the insulating

covering till the bright copper showed at the tips of each wire.