It is a strange mixture of ancient and modern, as we were prepared to

find it. On all sides rose the steep hills, within the shelter of which

the town reposes. The situation is exceedingly striking. Stretching

across one end of the town with most imposing effect is the enormous

viaduct, over which the train rolls towards the station. It possesses

also a footway for pedestrians, from which point the whole town lies

mapped at your feet, and you may trace the faraway windings of the

river. The viaduct is nearly two hundred feet high, and nearly four

hundred yards long, and from its position it looks even more gigantic

than it is. It divides the town into two portions, as it were, the outer

portion consisting of the port and harbour: and from this footway far

down you may see the picturesque shipping at repose: a very modest

amount to-day moored to the river side, consisting of a few barges, a

vessel or two laden with coal or wood, and a steamer in which you might

take passage for Hâvre, or perhaps some nearer port on the Brittany

Coast.

It is a charming picture, especially if the skies overhead are blue and

the sun is shining. Then the town is lying in alternate light and shade;

the pavements are chequered with gabled outlines, long drawn out or

foreshortened according to their position. The canal bordering the old

market-place is lined with a long row of women, alternately beating

linen upon boards and rinsing it in the water. We know that they are

laughing and chattering, though we cannot hear them; for a group of even

sober Breton women could not be together and keep silence. They take

life very seriously and earnestly; with them it is not all froth and

evaporation; but this is their individual view of existence;

collectively there comes the reaction, forming the lights and shadows of

life, just as we have the lights and shadows in nature. That reaction

must come is the inevitable law; and possibly explains why there are so

many apparent contradictions in people.

Morlaix has had an eventful history in the annals of Brittany. It takes

its name from _Mons Relaxus_, the hill that was crowned by the ancient

castle; a castle which existed at the time of the Roman occupation, if

the large number of medals and pieces of Roman money discovered in its

foundations may be taken as indicating its epoch. Many of these remains

may be seen in the small museum of the town. They date from the third

century.

The progress of Morlaix was slow. Very little is recorded of its earlier

history. Though the Romans occupied it, we know not what they did there.

Nearly all traces of Roman architecture have disappeared. The town has

been frequently sacked and pillaged and burnt, sacrilege in which the

English have had many a hand; and even Roman bricks and mortar will

yield in time to destructive agencies.

Even in the eleventh century it was still nothing more than a small

fishing town, a few houses nestling in the ravine, and sheltered by a

huge rampart on the south-west. Upon the _Mons Relaxus_, the hill giving

its name to the town, stood the lordly castle, the two rivers flowing,

one on either side, which further down unite and form one stream. To-day

all traces of the castle have disappeared and the site is planted with

trees, and quiet citizens walk to and fro beneath their shade, where

centuries ago there echoed the clash of arms and the shouts of warriors

going forth conquering and to conquer. For in those days the Romans were

the masters of the world, and seemed born only for victory.

In the twelfth century, Morlaix began a long series of vicissitudes. In

1187 Henry II. of England laid siege to it, and it gave in after a

resistance of nine weeks. It was then in possession of the Dukes of

Brittany, who built the ancient walls of the town, traces of which yet

exist, and are amongst the town's most interesting remains.

The occupation of the English being distasteful to the Bretons, they

continually rebelled against it; though, as far as can be known, the

English were no hard task-masters, forcing them, as the Egyptians did

the Israelites, to make bricks without straw.

In 1372 the English were turned out of their occupation, and the Dukes

of Brittany once more reigned. It was an unhappy change for the

discontented people, as they soon found. John IV., Duke of Brittany, was

guilty of every species of tyranny and cruelty, and many of the

inhabitants were sacrificed.

Time went on and Morlaix had no periods of great repose. Every now and

then the English attacked it, and in the reign of Francis I. they

pillaged and burnt it, destroying antiquities that perhaps to-day would

have been worth many a king's ransom. This was in the year 1532.

[Illustration: GATEWAY OF THE OLD MONASTERY, MORLAIX.]

In 1548, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, a child of five years only,

disembarked at the wonderfully quaint little town of Roscoff to marry

the Dauphin of France, who afterwards reigned as Francis II. She made a

triumphal entry into Morlaix, was lodged at the Jacobin convent, and

took part in the Te Deum that was celebrated in her honour in Notre Dame

du Mur. This gives an additional interest to Morlaix, for every place

visited by the beautiful and unfortunate Queen of Scots, every record

preserved of her, possesses a romantic charm that time has been unable

to weaken.

As she was returning to the convent after the celebration of the Te

Deum, and they were passing what was called the Gate of the Prison, the

drawbridge gave way and fell into the river. It was fortunately low

water, and no lives were lost. But the Scots Guards, separated from the

young Queen by the accident, took alarm, thought the whole thing had

been planned, and called out: "Treason! Treason!" Upon which the

Chevalier de Rohan, who rode near the Queen, quickly turned his horse

and shouted: "Never was Breton guilty of treason!"

And this exclamation may be considered a key-note to their character.

The Bretons, amongst their virtues, may count that of loyalty. All is

fair in love and war, it is said; but the Bretons would betray neither

friend nor foe under any circumstance whatever.

For two hundred years Morlaix has known peace and repose, as far as the

outer world is concerned. She has given herself up to religious

institutions, and has grown and prospered. So it comes to pass that she

is a strange mixture of new and old, and that side by side with a quaint

and wonderful structure of the Middle Ages, we find a house of the

present day flourishing like a green bay tree--a testimony to

prosperity, and an eyesore to the lover of antiquity. But these wonders

of the Middle Ages must gradually disappear. As time rolls on, and those

past centuries become more and more remote, the old must give place to

the new; ancient buildings must fall away in obedience to the inevitable

laws of time, progress and destruction.

This is especially true of Morlaix. Much that was old-world and lovely

has gone for ever, and day by day something more is disappearing.

We sallied forth, but unaccompanied by Misery, who was hard at work in

the hotel, preparing us rooms wherein, as he expressed it, we should

that night lodge as Christians. Whether, last night, he had put us down

as Mahometans, Fire Worshippers, or heathens of some other denomination,

he did not say.

The town had lost the sense of weirdness and mystery thrown over it by

the darkness. The solemn midnight silence had given place to the

activity of work and daylight; all shops were open, all houses unclosed;

people were hurrying to and fro. Our strange little procession of three

was no more, and André carrying a flaring candle would have been

anything but a picturesque object in the sunshine.

But what was lost of weirdness and mystery was more than made up by the

general effect of the town, by the minute details everywhere visible, by

the sense of life and movement. Usually the little town is quiet and

somewhat sleepy; to-day the inhabitants were roused out of their Breton

lethargy by the presence of so many strangers amongst them, and by the

fact of its being market day.

More than even last night, we were impressed by the wonderful outlines

of the Grand' Rue, where the lattice had been lighted up and the

mysterious vision had received a revelation in gazing upon H.C. To-day

behind the lattice there was comparative darkness, and the vision had

descended to a lower region, and the unromantic occupation of opening a

roll of calico and displaying its advantages to a market woman who was

evidently bent upon driving a bargain. The vision caught sight of H.C.,

and for the moment calico and everything else was forgotten; the market

woman no doubt had her calico at her own price.

The street itself is one of the most wonderful in France. As you stand

at the end and look down towards _Les Halles_, you have a picturesque

group, an assemblage of outlines scarcely to be equalled in the world.

The street is narrow, and the houses, more and more overhanging as they

ascend floor by floor, approach each other very closely towards the

summit. The roofs are, some of them, gabled; others, slanting backwards,

give room for picturesque dormer windows. Wide lattices stretch across

some of the houses from end to end; in others the windows are smaller

and open outwards like ordinary French windows, but always latticed,

always picturesque.

Below, on the ground floor, many of the houses are given up to shops,

but, fortunately, they have not been modernised.

The whole length of the front is unglazed, and you gaze into an interior

full of mysterious gloom, in which you can scarcely see the wares

offered for sale. The rooms go far back. They are black with age: a dark

panelling that you would give much to be able to transport to other

scenes. The ceilings are low, and great beams run across them. The doors

admitting you to these wonderful old-world places match well their

surroundings. They are wide and substantial, with beams that would

effectually guard a prison, and wonderful old locks and keys and pieces

of ironwork that set you wild with longings to turn housebreaker and

carry away these ancient and artistic relics.

You feel that nothing in the lives of the people who live in these

wonderful tenements can be commonplace. However unconscious they may be

of the refining influence, it is there, and it must leave its mark upon

them.

At least, you think so. You know what the effect would be upon yourself.

You know that if you could transport this street bodily to some quiet

nook in England and surround it by velvety lawns and ancient trees that

have grown and spread with the lapse of ages, your existence would

become a long and romantic daydream, and you would be in danger of

living the life of a recluse and never separating yourself from these

influences. Custom would never stale their infinite variety; familiarity

would never breed contempt. Who tires of wandering through a gallery of

the old masters? who can endure the modern in comparison? It is not the

mere antiquity of all these things that charm; it is that they are

beautiful in themselves, and belong to an age when the Spirit of Beauty

was poured out upon the world from full vials held in the hands of

unseen angels, and what men touched and created they perfected.

But the vials have long been exhausted and the angels have fled back to

heaven.

The houses all bear a strong family resemblance to each other, which

adds to their charm and harmony. Most of them possess two doors, one

giving access to the shop we have just described, the other admitting to

a hall or vestibule, panelled, and often richly sculptured. Above the

_rez-de-chaussée_, two or three stories rise, supported by enormous

beams richly moulded and sculptured, again supported in their turn by

other beams equally massive, whose massiveness is disguised by rich

sculpture and ornamentation: a profusion of boughs, of foliage, so

beautifully wrought that you may trace the veins in the leaves of

niches, pinnacles and statues: corner posts ornamented with figures of

kings, priests, saints, monsters, and bagpipers. The windows seem to

multiply themselves as they ascend, with their small panes crossed and

criss-crossed by leaden lines: the fronts of many are slated with slates

cut into lozenge shapes; and many possess the "slate apron" found in

fifteenth century houses, with the slates curved outwardly to protect

the beam.

By the second door you pass down a long passage into what originally was

probably a small yard, but has now been turned into a living-room or

kitchen covered over at the very top of the house by a skylight. This is

an arrangement now peculiar to Brittany. The staircase occupies one side

of the space, and you may trace the windings to the very summit,

curiously arranged at the angles. These singularly-constructed rooms

have given to the houses the name of _lanternes_. Every room has an

enormous fireplace, in which you might almost roast an ox, built partly

of wood and stone, richly carved and ornamented. But let the eye rest

where it will, it is charmed by rich carvings and mouldings, beams

wonderfully sculptured, statues, ancient niches and grotesques.

In one of these houses is to be found a wonderful staircase of carved

oak and great antiquity, that in itself would make Morlaix worth

visiting. It is in the Flamboyant style, and was probably erected about

the year 1500. For Brittany is behind the age in its carvings as much as

in everything else, and this staircase in any other country might safely

be put down to the year 1450. It is of wonderful beauty, and almost

matchless in the world: a marvel of skill and refinement. It possesses

also a _lavoir_, the only known example in existence, with doors to

close when it is not in use; the whole thing a dream of beautiful

sculpture.

[Illustration: OLD STAIRCASE IN THE GRAND' RUE, MORLAIX, SHOWING

LAVOIR.]

One other house in Morlaix has also a very wonderful staircase; still

more wonderful, perhaps, than that in the Grand' Rue; but it is not in

such good preservation. The house is in the Rue des Nobles, facing the

covered market-place. It is called the house of the Duchesse Anne, and

here in her day and generation she must have lived or lodged.

The house is amongst the most curious and interesting and ancient in

Morlaix, but it is doomed. The whole interior is going to rack and ruin,

and it was at the peril of our lives that we scrambled up the staircase

and over the broken floors, where a false step might have brought us

much too rapidly back to terra firma. Morlaix is not enterprising enough

to restore and save this relic of antiquity.

The staircase, built on the same lines as the wonderful staircase in the

Grand' Rue, is, if possible, more refined and beautiful; but it has been

allowed to fall into decay, and much of it is in a hopelessly worm-eaten

condition. H.C. was in ecstasies, and almost went down on his knees

before the image of an angel that had lost a leg and an arm, part of a

wing, and the whole of its nose; but very lovely were the outlines that

remained.

"Like the Venus of Milo in the Louvre," said H.C., "what remains of it

is all the more precious for what is not."

It was not so very long since we had visited the Louvre together, and he

had remained rapt before the famous Venus for a whole hour,

contemplating her from every point of view, and declaring that now he

should never marry: he had seen perfection once, and should never see it

again. This I knew to be nothing but the enthusiasm of the moment. The

very next pretty face and form he encountered, animated with the breath

of life, would banish from his mind all allegiance to the cold though

faultless marble image.

The exterior of the house of the Duchesse Anne was as remarkable as the

interior for its wonderful antiquity, its carvings, its statues and

grotesques, its carved pilasters between the windows, each of different

design and all beautiful, its gabled roofs and its latticed panes that

had long fallen out of the perpendicular. Both this and the next house

were closed; and it was heartbreaking to think that perhaps on our next

visit to Morlaix empty space would here meet our gaze, or, still worse,

a barbarous modern aggression.

Few towns now, comparatively speaking, possess fifteenth century

remains, and those few towns should preserve them as amongst their most

cherished treasures.

Morlaix is still amongst the most favoured towns in this respect. Go

which way you will, and amongst much that is modern, you will see

ancient houses and nooks and corners that delight you and take you back

to the Middle Ages. Now it will be an old house in the market-place that

has escaped destruction; now a whole court up some narrow turning, too

out-of-the-way to have been worthy of demolition; and now it will be a

whole street, like the Grand' Rue, which has been preserved, no doubt

of deliberate intent, as being one of the most typical fifteenth century

streets in the whole of France, an ornament and an attraction to the

town, raising Morlaix out of the commonplace, and causing antiquarians

and many others to visit it.

For if all the houses of the Grand' Rue are not actually fifteenth

century--and they are not--they all look of an age; they all belong to

the same school of architecture, and the harmony of the whole street is

perfect. Looking upwards, the eye is delighted at the outlines of the

gabled roofs that stand out so clearly and sharply against the

background of the sky; and you return to it over and over again during

your sojourn in Morlaix, and each time you gaze longer and think it more

beautiful than before.

These old-world towns and streets are very refreshing to the spirit. We

grow weary of our modern towns, with their endless monotony and their

utter absence of all taste and beauty. Just as when sojourning in a

country devoid of monuments and ruins, the mind at length absolutely

hungers for some grand, ecclesiastical building, some glorious vestige

of early ages; so when we have once grown familiar with mediæval towns

and outlines, it becomes an absolute necessity occasionally to run away

from our prosy nineteenth century habitations, and refresh our spirit,

and absorb into our inmost nature all these refining old-world charms.

It is an influence more easily felt than described; also, it does not

appeal to all natures. We can only understand Shakespeare by the

Shakespeare that is within us--an oft quoted saying but a very true one;

and Pan might pipe for ever to one who has no music in his soul; and the

rainbow might arch itself in vain to one who is colour-blind.

Morlaix also, as we have said, owes much to its situation.

Lying between three ravines, it is most romantically placed. Its people

are sheltered from many of the cruel winds of winter, and even the

sturdy Bretons cannot be quite indifferent to the stern blast that comes

from the East laden with ice and snow.

Not that the people of Morlaix look particularly robust, though we found

them very civil and often very interesting. We must pay for our

privileges, and if a town is built in a hollow, and is sheltered from

the east wind, the chances are that its climate will be enervating.

This, of course, has its drawbacks, and sets the seal of consumption on

many a victim that might have escaped in higher latitudes.

One charming type we found in Morlaix, consisting of a family that ought

to have lived in the middle ages, and been painted by Raphael, or have

served as models for Fra Angelico's angels. Three generations.

We were climbing the Jacob's ladder leading to the station one day, when

we chanced upon an old man who sold antiquities. We were first taken

with his countenance. It had honesty and integrity written upon it. Had

he been a German, living in Ober-Ammergau, he would certainly have been

chosen for the chief character in the play--a play, by the way, that has

always seemed questionable, since the greatest and most momentous Drama

creation ever witnessed appears too sacred a theme to be theatrically

represented, even in a spirit of devotion.

Our antiquarian was growing old. His face was pale, beautiful and

refined, with a very spiritual expression. The eyes were of a pure blue,

in which dwelt almost the innocence of childhood. He was slightly

deformed in the back. There was a pathetic tone in the voice, a resigned

expression in the face, which told of a long life of struggle, and

possibly much hardship and trouble--the latter undoubtedly.

We soon found that he had in him the true artistic temperament. His own

work was beautiful, his carvings were full of poetical feeling. If not a

genius himself, he was one whose offspring should possess the "sacred

fire," which must be born with its possessor, can never after be

kindled. In one or two instances we pointed to something superlatively

good. "Ah, that is my son's work," he said; "it is not mine." And there

was an inflection in the voice which told of pride and affection, and

perhaps was the one bright spot in the old man's pilgrimage, perhaps his

one sorrow and trouble--who could tell? We had not seen the son; we felt

we must do so.

The old man's most treasured possession was a crucifix, to which he

pointed with a reverential devotion.

"I have had it nearly thirty years," he said, "and I never would sell

it. It is so beautiful that it must be by a great master--one of the old

masters. People have come to see it from far and near. Many have tempted

me with a good offer, but I would never part with it. Now I want the

money and I wish to sell it. Will you not buy it?"

It was certainly exquisitely beautiful; carved in ivory deeply browned

with age. We had never seen anything to equal the position of the Figure

upon the Cross; the wonderful beauty of the head; the sorrow and

sacredness of the expression; the perfect anatomy of the body. But in

our strictly Protestant prejudices we hesitated. As an object of

religion of course we could have nothing to do with it; the Roman

Catholic creed, with its outward signs and symbols, was not ours; who

even in our own Church mourned the almost lost beauty and simplicity of

our ancient ritual; that substitution of the ceremonial for the

spiritual, the creature for the Creator, which seems to threaten the

downfall of the Establishment. Would it be right to purchase and possess

this beautiful thing merely as an object of refined and wonderful art? I

looked at H.C. In his face at least there was no hesitation. Such a

prize was not to be lost if it could be obtained within reasonable

limits. It must take a place amongst his old china, his headless Saints

and Madonnas!

[Illustration: OLD HOUSES, MORLAIX.]

The first time we came across the old man--it was quite by accident

that we found him out--we felt that we had discovered a prize in human

nature: one of those rare exceptions that exist still in out-of-the-way

nooks and corners, but are seldom found. It is so difficult to go

through the world and remain unspoiled by it; especially for those who,

having to work for their daily bread by the sweat of their brow, have to

come into daily contact with that harder, coarser element in human

nature, that, for ever over-reaching its neighbour, tries to believe

that the race _is_ to the swift and the battle to the strong.

The son was away from the town on the occasion of our first visit. The

father seemed proud of him in a quiet, gentle sort of way, and

gentleness was evidently the key-note to his character. He said his son

had carried off all the prizes in a Paris School of Art, and one prize

that was especially difficult to obtain. Would we come again and see

him, and see his work?

We went again. At the door-sill a little child greeted us; the most

beautiful little face we had ever seen. Nothing in any picture of an old

master ever equalled it. At the first moment we almost thought it the

face of an angel, as it looked up into our faces with all the confidence

and innocence of infancy. The child might have been eighteen months old,

just at the age when the eyes begin to take that inquiring look upon

everything, as if they had just awakened to the fact that they had

arrived upon a scene where all was new and strange. The eyes of this

child were large and of a celestial blue; fair curls fell over his

shoulders; his cheeks were round like a cherub's, and had the hue of the

damask rose. The strangest part about the face was its refinement, as if

the little fellow, instead of being born of the people, had come of a

long line of noble ancestors.

We went into the workshop, and there found the father of the child at

work, the son of the old man.

We no longer wondered at the child's beauty; it was a counterpart of the

father's, but to the latter was added all the grace and maturity of

manhood. Unlike the old man, the face was round and flushed with the hue

of health. Large dark blue eyes looked out earnestly at you from under

long dark lashes. The head was running over with dark crisp curls. The

face was also singularly refined, had an exceedingly pure and modest

expression. No Apollo, real or imagined, was ever more perfect in form

and feature. To look upon that face was to love its owner.

He was hard at work, carving, his wonderfully-drawn plans about him. It

was certainly the best modern work we had ever seen; and here, we felt,

was a genius. Probably it had been hampered for want of means, as so

many other geniuses have been since the foundation of the world. He

ought to have been known and celebrated; the master of a great and

famous _atelier_ in the chief of gay cities; appreciated by the

world--and perhaps spoilt by flattery. Instead of which, he was working

for his daily bread in a small town, unknown, unappreciated; toiling in

a small, retired workshop, where people seldom penetrated, and a good

deal of his work depended upon chance. Yet, if his face bespoke one

thing more than another, it was happiness and contentment. Ambition

seemed to have no part in his life. That he loved his art was evident

from the tenderness with which he handled his drawings and looked upon

his carvings. It may be that this love was all-sufficient for him, and

that as long as he had health to work, and fancy to create, and daily

bread to eat, he cared for nothing more.

The little rift within the lute? Ah, who is without it? What household

has not its skeleton? Where shall we find perfect happiness--or anything

perfect? In this instance it was soon apparent to us; and again we

marvelled at the inconsistency of human nature; the incongruity of

things; the way men spoil their lives and make crooked things that ought

to be, and might have been, so straight.

We could not help wondering what sort of help-meet this Apollo had

chosen for himself; what angelic mother had given to the world this

little blue-eyed cherub, whose fitting place seemed not earth but

heaven.

Even as we wondered we were answered. A voice called to the child from

above, and the child turned its lovely head, but moved not. Then the

owner of the voice was heard descending, and the mother appeared. We

were dismayed. Never had we seen a woman more abandoned and neglected.

Everything about her was slovenly. Her hair fell about her face and

shoulders in tangled masses; her clothing was torn and neglected. We had

seen such exhibitions in the dens of London, never in a decent

household. It made us feel inexpressibly sad and sorrowful. Here was a

great mystery; two people terribly ill-matched. We glanced at the

husband, expecting to see a flush mantling his brow. But he quietly went

on with what he was about, as though he saw not, and mother and child

disappeared upstairs.

Here, then, whether he knew it or not, was the little rift within the

lute. An ill-assorted marriage, a life-long mistake. Had he looked and

chosen above him, his help-meet might have assisted him to rise in the

world and to become famous. As it was, he had been caught by a pretty

face--for, with due care and attention and a settled expression, the

face would have been undoubtedly pretty--and had sealed his fate. With

such a wife no man could rise.

We left him to his art and went our way, very sorrowful. It was a lovely

morning, and we started back for the hotel, having arranged to take a

drive at a certain hour along the river banks to the sea.

We found the conveyance ready for us. Monsieur, by special attentions,

was making up for the lapses of that one terrible night.

Above us, as we went, stretched the gigantic viaduct, so singular a

contrast with the ancient houses and remains of this old town; forming a

comparison that certainly makes Morlaix one of the most remarkable towns

in France. Beneath it rose the houses on the rocky slopes, one above

another, so that from the back you may almost enter them from the roof,

as you do some of the Tyrolese châlets. In Morlaix it has given rise to

a proverb: "Du jardin au grenier, comme on dit à Morlaix."

[Illustration: MORLAIX.]

Beneath the viaduct, far down, was the river and the little port, where

vessels of considerable tonnage may anchor, and which has added much to

the prosperity of the town, that trades largely in corn, vegetables,

butter, honey, wax, oil-seeds, and--as we have seen--horses. There is

also a large tobacco manufactory here, which gives employment to an

immense number of hands.

We passed all this and went our way down the right bank of the river.

The scenery is very picturesque; the heights are well wooded, broken and

undulating. Some of the richer inhabitants of Morlaix have built

themselves houses on the heights; charming châteaux where they spend

their summers, and luxuriate in the fresh breezes that blow up from the

sea. Across there on the left bank of the river, rises the convent of

St. François, a large building, where the _religieux_ retire from the

world, yet are not too isolated.

And on this side, on the _Cours Beaumont_, a lovely walk planted with

trees, we come to the Fontaine des Anglais, so called because here, in

1522, six hundred English were surprised asleep by the people of

Morlaix, and slain. They had, however, courted their own doom. Henry

VIII. had picked a quarrel with Francis I. for seizing the ships of

English merchants in French ports. The English king had escorted with

his fleet the Emperor Charles V., of Spain, under command of the Earl of

Surrey, and in returning, it entered the river, surprised Morlaix, burnt

and sacked the town, and murdered many of its inhabitants. They left it

loaded with spoil; and when the inhabitants surprised these six hundred

English they revenged themselves upon them without mercy.

To-day, we had no sooner reached the spot than suddenly the clouds

gathered, the sky was overcast, a squall rose shrieking and whistling

amidst the trees, and there was every appearance of a downpour. We were

not prepared for it, but we rashly continued our way. At last, just

before we reached a small road-side cabaret, down it came, as if the

whole reservoir of cloudland had been let loose.

We hastily stopped at the auberge, already half-drenched, and H.C.

crying out "Any port in a storm," we entered it. It was humble enough,

yet might every benighted traveller in every storm find as good a

refuge!

The good woman of the house was standing at her poêle, preparing the

mysteries of the mid-day dinner. Her husband, she said, had gone into

Morlaix, with fish to sell--it was one of their chief means of

livelihood. He bought the fish from the fishermen who came up the river,

and sold it again to the hotels. One of his best customers was the Hôtel

d'Europe, and M. Hellard was a brave monsieur, who never beat them down

in their prices, and had always a pleasant word for them. Madame was

very amiable too, for the matter of that.

It was rather a hard life, but what with that and the little profit of

the auberge, they managed to make both ends meet.

She had three children. The eldest was a girl, and had her wits about

her. She had been to Paris with her father, and had seen the Exhibition,

and talked about it like a grown-up person. But her father had taken her

one night to the Théâtre des Variétés in the Champs Elysées, and the

girl had been mad ever since to become a _chanteuse_ and an actress.

The ambitious child--a girl of fourteen--at this moment came down

stairs, and a more forbidding young damsel we had seldom seen. Her

mother had evidently no control over her; she was mistress of the

situation; ordered her mother about, slapped a younger brother, a little

fellow who was playing at a table with some leaden soldiers, and

finally, to our relief, disappeared into an inner room. We saw her no

more.

"It is always like that," sighed the poor mother, who seemed by no means

a woman to be lightly sat upon: "always like that ever since she went

that _malheureux_ voyage to Paris. It has changed her character; made

her dissatisfied with her lot; I fear she will one day leave us and go

back to Paris for good--or rather for evil; for she will have no one to

look after her; and, I am told, it is a sink of iniquity. I was never

there, and know very little about the ways of large towns. Morlaix is

quite enough for me. But she is afraid of her father, that is one

_bonheur_."

All this time she had been brewing us coffee, and now she brought it to

us in her best china, with some of the spirit of the country which does

duty for cognac and robs so many of the Bretons of their health and

senses. But it was not a time to be fastidious. To counteract the

effects of the elements and drenched clothes, we helped ourselves

liberally to a decoction that we thought excellent, but under other

conditions should have considered poisonous.

The while our hostess, glad of an appreciative audience, poured into our

ears tales and stories of herself, her life and the neighbourhood. How

she had originally belonged to the Morbihan, and when a girl dressed in

the costume of her country, with the short petticoats and the

picturesque kerchief crossed upon the breast. How her father had been a

well-to-do _bazvalan_ and made the Sunday clothes for the whole village.

And how she had met her fate when her bonhomme came that way on a visit

to an old uncle in the village, and in six months they were married, and

she had come to Morlaix. She had never regretted her marriage. She had a

good husband, who worked hard; and if they were poor, they were far from

being in want. She had really only one trouble in the world, and that

was that she could do nothing with her eldest girl. She would obey no

one but her father; and even he was losing control over her.

"Is her father much away?" we asked, thinking that the young damsel

looked as if she were under no very stern discipline.

"Not on long voyages, such as going to Paris or the Morbihan," replied

the woman; "but he is often away for half-a-day or so, selling his fish

in Morlaix and doing commissions for their little auberge. And then,"

she added with a condoning smile, "of course he sometimes met with a

camarade who enticed him to drink a glass too much, though that was a

rare occurrence. Mais que voulez-vous? Human nature was weak; and for

her part she really thought that men were weaker than women. Certainly

they were more self-indulgent."

"It is because they have more temptations," said H.C., pleading the

cause of his own sex. "Women had more to do with home and the

pot-au-feu."

At this moment our hostess's pot-au-feu began to boil over, and she

darted across the room, took it off the fire and returned, laughing.

"Even the pot-au-feu we cannot always manage, it seems," she remarked;

"and so there are faults on all sides. Sometimes on a Sunday her husband

went and spent the day at Roscoff, where he had a cousin living. Did

messieurs know Roscoff--a deadly-lively little place, with a quaint

harbour, where there was a chapel to commemorate the landing of Marie

Stuart?"

We said we did not know it, but purposed visiting it on the morrow if

the skies ceased their deluge.

"Why does your husband not turn fisherman," we asked, "instead of buying

his fish from others, and so selling it second-hand at a smaller profit?

You are so close to the sea."

"Dame," replied the woman, "it is not his trade. He was never brought up

to the sea; always hated it. And for the rest," she added, with a

shudder, "Heaven forbid that he should turn fisherman! She had once

dreamed three times running that he was drowned at sea; and she had

feared the water ever since. She had almost made her husband take a vow

that he would never go upon the sea. He generally took part once a year

in the regatta; of course, there could be no danger; but she trembled

the whole time until she saw him returning safe and sound. No, no!

Chacun à son métier."

Here we interrupted the flow of eloquence, though the woman was really

interesting with her straightforward confidences, her rather picturesque

patois, and her numerous gestures.

We went to the door and surveyed the elements. The skies were cowering;

the rain came down like a revengeful cataract; the road was flooded, and

the water was beginning to flood the room. In front the river looked

cold and threatening; it flowed towards the sea with an angry rush; our

vehicle was refreshing itself before the door, and the horse and driver

had taken refuge in the stable. The tops of the surrounding hills were

hidden in mist; everywhere the rain roared. The scene was dreary and

desolate in the extreme.

At this moment the driver appeared. "Was it of any use waiting? He knew

the climate pretty well; the rain would never cease till sundown. Had we

not better make the best of it and get back to Morlaix?"

We thought so, and gave the signal for departure. Our patience was

exhausted--and so was our coffee. Our hostess was distressed. At least

we would borrow an umbrella, and her husband's thick coat, and perhaps

her shawl for our knees. She was too good; genuinely kind hearted; and

in despair when we accepted nothing. We bade her farewell, settled her

modest demands, and set out for Morlaix.

Arrived at the hotel like drowned rats, Madame was all anxiety and

motherly solicitude, begged us to get between blankets and have tisane

administered or some eau sucrée with a spoonful of rum in it. She

bemoaned the uncertainty of the climate, and hoped we were not going to

have bad weather for our visit. And when we declined all her polite

attentions, assuring her that a change of clothing was all we needed,

and all we should do, she declared that she was amazed at our temerity,

but that she had the greatest admiration for the constitution and

courage of the people of Greater Britain.

AFTER TWENTY YEARS

BY ADA M. TROTTER.

"May you come in and rest, you ask? Why of course you may. Take this

rocking-chair--but there, some men don't like rockers. Well, if so be

you prefer it, stay as you be, right in the shadder of the vines. It's a

pretty look-out from there, I know, all down the valley over them meadow

lands--and that rushing bit of river.

"You ask me if I know'd one Kitty Larkins, the prettiest gal in the

county, the prettiest gal anywheres, you say. Yes, sir! I know'd her

well. Dead? Yes, sir, Kitty--the bright, gay creature folks knew as

Kitty Larkins died this day twenty years ago.

"Do I know how she died and the story of her life? I do well; I do;

p'raps better nor most. You want to hear about her; maybe you would find

it kind of prosing; but there, the afternoon sun _is_ pretty hot, and

the haymakers out there in the meadows have got a hard time of it.

"What's that! Don't I go and lend a hand in the press of the season?

Well, I don't. Not for twenty year. There's them as calls it folly, but

the smell of the hay brings it all back and turns me sick. You say you

can't believe such a fine woman as me would be subject to fancies; you

think I look too young, do you, to be talkin' this way of twenty years

ago. Wall, there's more than one way of counting age. Some goes by grey

hairs, some by happenings. But this that came so long ago is all as

clear--clear as God's light upon the meadows there.

"But if you will have the whole story, let's begin at the beginnin', and

that brings you to the old school-house where them three, neighbours'

children they was, went to school together. There was Kitty of course,

and Elihu Grant and Joel Barton, them was the three that my story's

about.

"'Lihu was always a big, over-grown lad, with a steadfast, kind heart,

not what folks called brilliant; he warn't going to be extraordinary

when he grow'd up, didn't want to be, so fur as I know; he aimed to be

as good a man's his father, nothing more, nothing less. Good and true

was 'Lihu; all knew that, yet his name was never mentioned without a

'but,' not even by the school marm, though she said he was the best boy

in her school.

"Kitty looked down some on 'Lihu, made him fetch and carry, and always

accustomed herself to the 'but,' as if the good qualities wasn't of much

account since they could not command general admiration. Yes, this had

something to do with what follered; I can see that plain enough. Still,

I know she loved 'Lihu from babyhood deep down in her heart of hearts--

"Anything wrong, sir? you give me a turn moving so sudden like. Let me

see, where was I? Oh, talkin' about them boys. Well, let's get on.

"I've given you some idea of what 'Lihu was like, but seems to me harder

to tell about that Barton boy, that gay, handsome, charming Joel, that

kept the whole country alive with his doings and sayings from the time

he could trot about alone.

"Wall! he _was_ bright was Joel, and 'twas no wonder that his parents

see it so plain and talk Joel day in and day out whenever they got a

soul to listen to 'em. Kitty grew up admiring him; there warn't no 'but'

in speaking of Joel. He done everything first class, from farm work to

his lessons, so no wonder his folks acted proud of him and sent him to

college to prepare for a profession.

"Wall, his success at college added some to his notoriety, and his

doings was talked back and forth more'n ever.

"Then every term kind of altered him. He come back with a finer air,

better language and a knowledge of the ways of society folks, that put

him ahead of anyone else in the valley; while poor 'Lihu was just the

same in speech and manner, and more retiring and modest than ever; and,

though he was faithfuller, truer and stronger hearted than he'd ever

given promise of being, folks never took to him as they did to young

Joel.

"But I must go on, for young folks grow up and the signs of mischief

come gradual like and was not seen by foolish Kitty, but increasing

every time Joel come home for his vacations. Of course Kitty was to

blame, but the Lord made her what she was.

"Yes, I can speak freely of her now, because, as I said before, this

careless, pretty Kitty died twenty long years ago.

"Not before she married Joel, you ask? Well, of all impatient men!

really I can't get on no quicker than I be doin', and if you're tired of

it, why take your hat and go. Events don't fly as quick as words and I'm

taking you over the course at race-horse speed, skipping where I can, so

as to give you just the gist of the story.

"Wall then, Kitty loved life; not but what it meant work early and late

to keep things as they oughter be on the old homestead. Her folks warn't

as notable as they might ha' been till Kitty took hold; and then I tell

you, sir, she made things spin. 'Twarn't only her pretty face that

brought men like bees about the place; there was many as would ha' asked

for her, if she'd been as homely as a door nail. But she sent 'em all

away with the same story--all but her old sweethearts 'Lihu and Joel,

and they was as much rivals when they grow'd up as they'd been at the

old school-house, when Kitty treated 'Lihu like a yaller dog and showed

favour to young Joel.

"But 'Lihu hung on. He come of a race never known to give up what they

catched on to. Some way he gained ground too, for, with that shiftless

dad at the head of things at the homestead, there was need of a wise

counsellor to back up Kitty in the way she took hold.

"'Lihu was wise, and Kitty got to leaning on his word, and by the time

that I be talkin' of, I s'pose there warn't no one that could have

filled the place in Kitty's life that 'Lihu had made for himself--only

he did not guess at that, and the more she realised it, the backwarder

that silly young creature would have been to confess to it, even to

herself.

"Sir, I ain't used to folks that give such sudden turns. Don't you

s'pose you could set down and be comfortable somewheres while I be

talkin', instead of twisting and snerling yourself up in my poor vines?

"You'd rather stand where you be; well, then, I'll get on with my story.

"I was coming to Joel. It's more interesting to strangers, that part

about Joel, for he was, as I said before, everything 'Lihu

lacked--bright and gay, handsome and refined. Ay, and he was a manly

looking feller too, and had took lessons in fighting and worked through

a gymnasium course, while 'Lihu knew no better exercises than sawing

wood and pitching hay and such farm work. 'Lihu was clumsy in moving,

but Joel graceful and light; you'd as soon have thought of the old

church tower taking to dancing as of 'Lihu trying his hand at it; but

Joel, of course, he were the finest dancer anyone had ever see'd in our

neighbourhood.

"So it naturally come about that when Kitty wanted to have a gay

time--and what young girl does not like fun sometimes?--she took to Joel

and left 'Lihu to his fierce jealousy out in the cold.

"Joel had nothing to do but philander after Kitty, come vacations, and

there he'd be lounging round the garden, reading poetry to her, when

she'd a minute to set down, and telling her about the doings of gay

society folks in cities.

"Kitty liked it all, why shouldn't she? and the more 'Lihu looked like a

funeral the more she turned her back on him and favoured t'other. You

see, sir, I give it you fair. There was faults all round; and if you

want my candid opinion, that Joel was more to blame than Kitty, for,

being a man of the world, he knew better than she what the end of it all

was bound to be; that the day would come when she would have to make her

choice between them and that to one of them that day would mean a broken

heart, a spoiled life.

"Ah, well! It was hayin' time just twenty years ago, and a spell of

weather just like this, perhaps a mite warmer, but much the same.

"Well, it threatened a thunderstorm, and all hands was pressed into the

fields. Even Kitty was there, with her rake, for, to tell the truth,

she was child enough to love a few hours in the sweet-smelling meadows.

Joel, he was there, he'd took off his store clothes, and was handsomer

than ever in his flannels, and, with his deftness and muscle, was worth

any two hired men in the field.

"He and 'Lihu, who had come over to lend a hand, was nigh to one another

that afternoon; and there was things said between 'em, as they worked,

as had to lay by for a settlin'. Kitty made things worse--silly girl

that she was--by coming round in her gay way with her rake, and smiling

at them both, so that it would have beat the Angel Gabriel to know which

of them it were she had a leaning to.

"Truth was, Kitty was back into childhood, out there in the hay--merry

and sweet as a rosebud she looked in her old faded bonnet. I see her

just as plain, this poor child--that did so much mischief without

meaning to hurt anybody. How was she to know that fierce fires of

jealous, passionate hatred were at work, kindled by her to flame that

sunshiny afternoon, as she danced along the meadow with her rake, happy

as the June day seemed long?

"No, sir, you need not be impatient, for the story is about done.

"The last load of hay was pitched as the glowing sun went down. The

thunderstorm had passed to the hills beyond, and on the horizon clouds

lay piled, purple black. The men come in to supper, and then went out

again. Kitty was busy with her dishes in the kitchen till dark; then

there come a flash of lightning, and a growlin' of thunder. The last

dish was put away, and so the girl went sauntering out, down to the bush

of cluster roses by the garden gate, where she could look over into the

barn-yard and call to the men still at work with the hay.

"Something took her farther--'twas as if a hand led her--and she crossed

the yard, and down the lane she went till she got to the meadow gate

that stood open as the men had left it after bringing that last heavy

wain through.

"The moon was up--a moon that drifted serenely through the banks of

clouds, ever upwards to the zenith.

"Sir, did you ever think--and being a stranger, sir, you must excuse the

question--did you ever think of the wicked deeds that moon has looked

upon since the creation of mortal man? Oh, yes, I know it, I know it

well; in God's sunlight, that sin would never have been committed; but

in the moonlight--the calm, still moonlight--passions rise to fever

heat, the blow is struck, and man turns away with the curse of Cain

written on his brow.

"Kitty, standing with her back against the gate, her eyes following the

flitting light across the meadow to the mill-race by the path beyond,

all at once felt her heart leap with nameless horror. Yet all she could

see was shadows, for the figures was out of sight. All she could see was

shadows--shadows cast upon the moonlit meadowland where she had gaily

danced with her rake in hand only a few hours before. Two giant forms

(so the moonbeams made it) swayed back and forth, gripped together like

one, scarcely moving from one spot as they wrestled, as though 'twould

take force to uproot them--force like that of the whirlwind in the

spring, that tore the old oak like a sapling from its foundations laid

centuries ago.

"Kitty, struck dumb like one in nightmare, fled across the meadow

towards the mill-race.

"As she went, the shadows lifted and changed with a cruel uprising that

told her the end was near. If she could have cried out then, and if they

had heard! But as she fled on unheeding, the moon was suddenly obscured.

It was pitch dark, and the muttering thunder broke into a roar that

shook the earth under Kitty's feet. How long was it before the moon

drifted from out that cloud-bank, where lightning played with zig-zag

flames? How long?

"When the moonbeams fell again upon the meadow-lands the shadows were

gone and Kitty stood alone upon the banks of the mill-race, looking at

the rushing dark waters. When she turned homewards she met Joel face to

face. He was pale, but a triumphant light shone in his eyes. He came

forward with open arms--'Kitty, my Kitty!' he cried.

"Kitty stood one moment, with eyes that seemed to pierce to his very

heart, then she turned to the splashing waters and pointed solemnly.

"'Elihu, where is Elihu?' she asked; and in that moment, when Joel hung

his head before her without a word of answer, Kitty fell down like a

dead thing at his feet.

"And I, who knew her so well, I tell you that Kitty died there on that

meadow by the race, just twenty year ago to-day.

"Joel, you ask? What come to Joel? Well, p'raps he felt bad just at

first, for he went away for two, three year, I believe. But he come

back, did Joel, and Kitty never molested him by word or deed. You can

see his house there below the mill; he's married long since and his

house is full of children. But never, since that June night twenty year

ago, has he dared set foot at the old homestead. Folks talked--of course

they talked--but Kitty, the staid, sad woman they called Kitty, heeded

nothing that was said. Joel, he tried to right himself and writ her many

a long letter at the first.

"'It was a fair wrestle,' said he, 'and him as was beaten was to leave

the place and not come back for months or years. Elihu was beat on the

wrestle and he's gone that's all there is to it.'

"Kitty, she never answered them letters; she remembered that uplifted

arm as the vast shadows swayed towards her on the meadow, and Joel, he

give it up."

* * * * *

By this time the heavy hay-waggons began to move across the meadows. It

was drawing near supper-time and the speaker rose and briskly set aside

her knitting.

"I believe that's all," she said. "It's a tragic story for a country

place like this. But now set down, won't you, and wait till the men come

up for supper? Mebbe you'll be glad of a cup of tea before you go any

further."

The stranger, well within the shade of the clustering vines, made no

reply.

"Say," cried she, from the porch door; "set down and wait for supper,

won't you?"

Surprised at the silence, accustomed as she was to the garrulity of

country neighbours, she stepped out into the piazza. A beautiful woman

she, of forty years, whose fine face seemed now set in an aureole of

sunbeams. The stranger took off his hat and stooped somewhat towards

her; there was something familiar in the gesture, which set the wild

blood throbbing at her heart-strings as though the past twenty years had

been a dream.

"Kitty, my dear love, Kitty."

The farm men came singing up the lane, the heavy waggons grinding slowly

along in the sunshine. All this, the everyday life, was now the dream,

and they, Kitty and Elihu, had met in the meadow lands of the earthly

Paradise.

A MEMORY.

How much of precious joy, that leaves no pain,

Lives in the simple memory of a face

Once seen, and only for a little space,

And never after to be seen again:

A face as fair as, on an altar pane,

A pictured window in some holy place--

The glowing lineaments of immortal grace,

In many a vague ideal sought in vain.

Such face was yours, and such the joy to me,

Who saw you once, once only, and by chance,

And cherished evermore in memory

The noble beauty of your countenance--

The poet's natural language in your looks,

Sweet as the wondrous sweetness of your books.

GEORGE COTTERELL.

AUNT PHOEBE'S HEIRLOOMS.

_An Experience in Hypnotism._

We do not take to new ideas readily in Bishopsthorpe. Our fashions are

always at least one season behind the times; it is only by a late

innovation in Post Office regulations that we are now enabled to get our

London papers on the day of their publication; and a craze, social or

scientific, has almost been forgotten by the fashionable world before it

manages to establish any kind of footing in our midst.

It therefore came upon us with more or less of a shock one morning a

short time ago to find the walls of our sleepy little country town

placarded with naming posters announcing that Professor Dmitri

Sclamowsky intended to visit Bishopsthorpe on the following Friday, for

the purpose of exhibiting in the Town Hall some of his marvellous powers

in Thought Reading, Mesmerism, and Hypnotism.

Stray rumours from time to time, and especially of late, had visited us

of strange experiments in connection with these outlandish sciences, if

sciences they can be called; but we had received these with incredulity,

mingled with compassion for such weak-minded persons as could be easily

duped by the clever conjuring of paid charlatans.

This, at least, was very much the mental attitude of my aunt Phoebe, and

it was only under strong pressure from me and one or two others of her

younger and more enterprising section of Bishopsthorpe society that she

at last reluctantly consented to patronise the Professor's performance

in person.

Even at the last moment she almost failed us.

"I am getting too old a woman, my dear Elizabeth," she said to me as I

was helping her to dress, "to leave my comfortable fireside after dinner

for the sake of seeing second-rate conjuring."

"Indeed, it is good of you," I said, as I disposed a piece of soft old

point lace in graceful folds round the neck of her black velvet dress;

"but virtue will be its own reward, for I am sure you will enjoy it as

much as any of us, and as for being too old, that is all nonsense! Just

look in the glass, and then say if you have a heart to cheat

Bishopsthorpe of a sight of you in all your glory."

"You are a silly girl, Elizabeth!" said my aunt, and yet she did as I

suggested, and, walking up to the long pier-glass, looked at her

reflection with a well pleased smile. "Indeed," she continued, turning

back to me to where I stood by the dressing-table, "I think I am as

silly as you are, to rig myself out like this," and she pointed to the

double row of large single diamonds I had clasped round her neck, and

the stars of the same precious stones which twinkled and flashed in the

lace of her cap.

"Come, Aunt Phoebe," I said, drawing down her hands, which had made a

movement as though she would have taken off the glittering gauds, "you

don't often give the good Bishopsthorpe folk a chance of admiring the

Anstruther heirlooms. They look so lovely! Don't take them off,

_please_. What is the use of having beautiful things if they are always

to be hidden away in a jewellery case? There now," I went on; "I hear

the carriage at the door; here is your fur cloak: you must wrap yourself

up well for it is a cold night," and so saying I muffled her up, and

hustled her downstairs before she could remonstrate, even had she wished

to do so.

The little Town Hall was already crowded when we arrived, but seats had

been reserved for us in one of the front rows of benches. Many eyes were

turned on us as we made our way to our places, for Aunt Phoebe was

looked up to as one of the cornerstones of aristocracy in Bishopsthorpe,

and I fancied that I caught an expression of relief on the faces of some

of those present, who, until the entertainment had been sanctioned by

her presence, had probably felt doubtful as to its complete orthodoxy.

But of course I may have been wrong. Aunt Phoebe is always telling me

I am too imaginative.

It seemed as though the Professor had awaited our arrival to begin the

performance, for we had hardly taken our seats than the curtain, which

had hitherto hidden the stage from our view, rolled up and discovered

the Professor standing with his hand resting upon an easel, on which was

placed a large blackboard.

I think the general feeling in the room was that of disappointment. I

know that I, for one, had hoped to see something more interesting than

the usual paraphernalia of a lecture on astronomy or geology.

Professor Sclamowsky, too, was not at all as impressive a person as his

name had led me to expect. He was short and thick-set. His close-cropped

hair was of the undecided colour which fair hair assumes when it is

beginning to turn grey, and a heavy moustache of the same uninteresting

hue hid his mouth. His jaw was heavy and slightly underhung, and his

neck was thick and coarse.

Altogether his appearance was remarkably unprepossessing and

commonplace.

In a short speech, spoken with a slight foreign accent, which some way

or other struck me as being assumed, he begged to disclaim all intention

of _conjuring_. His performance was solely and entirely a series of

experiments in and illustrative of the wonderful science of Hypnotism; a

science still in its infancy, but destined to take its place among the

most marvellous of modern discoveries.

As he spoke, his heavy, uninteresting face lit up as with a hidden

enthusiasm, and my attention was attracted to his eyes, which I had not

before noticed. They were of a curious bright metallic blue and are the

only eyes I have ever seen, though one reads and hears so perpetually of

them, which really seemed to flash as he warmed to his subject.

As he finished, I looked at Aunt Phoebe, who shrugged her shoulders

and smiled incredulously. It was clear that she was not going to be

imposed upon by his specious phrases.

It would be unnecessary to weary my readers by describing at length how

the usual preliminary of choosing an unbiassed committee was gone

through; nor how, after the doctor, the rector, Mr. Melton (the

principal draper in Bishopsthorpe) and several other of the town

magnates, all men of irreproachable honesty, had been induced to act in

this capacity, the Professor proceeded, with eyes blindfolded and

holding the doctor's hand in his, to find a carefully hidden pin, to

read the number of a bank-note and to write the figures one by one on

the blackboard, and to perform other experiments of the same kind amid

the breathless interest of the audience.

I frankly admit that I was astonished and bewildered by what I saw, and

I had a little uneasy feeling that if it were not all a piece of

gigantic humbug, it was not quite canny--not quite right.

What struck me most, I think, was the unfussy, untheatrical way in which

it was all done. Every one of the Professor's movements was marked by an

air of calm certainty. He threaded his way through the crowded benches

with such an unhesitating step that, only that I had seen the bandage

fastened over his eyes by the rector and afterwards carefully examined

by the doctor, neither of whom could be suspected of complicity, I

should have said he must have had some little peep-hole arranged to

enable him to guide his course so unfalteringly.

There were, of course, thunders of applause from the sixpenny seats when

the Thought Reading part of the entertainment came to an end.

"Well, Aunt Phoebe," I said, turning to her as the Professor bowed his

thanks, "what do you think?"

"Think, my dear?" she repeated. "I think the man is a very fair

conjurer."

"But," I protested, "how could he know where the pin was; and you know

Mr. Danby himself fastened the handkerchief?"

"My dear Elizabeth, I have seen Houdin do far more wonderful things,

when I was a girl; but he had the honesty to call it by its right

name--conjuring."

I had not time to carry on the discussion, for the Professor now

reappeared and informed us that by far the most interesting part of the

performance was still to come. Thought Reading and Mesmerism, or, as

some people preferred to call it--Hypnotism--were, he believed,

different parts of the same wonderful and but very partially-understood

power. A power so little understood as not even to possess a distinctive

name; a power which he believed to be latent in everybody, but which

was capable of being brought to more or less perfection, according to

the amount of care and attention bestowed upon it. "I," said the

Professor, "have given my life to it." And again I fancied I saw the

curious blue eyes flash with a sudden unexpected fire.

"In the experiments which I am about to show you," he went on, "I am

assisted by my daughter, Anna Sclamowsky," and, drawing back a curtain

at the back of the stage, he led forward a girl who looked to be between

sixteen and eighteen years old.

There was no sort of family resemblance between father and daughter. She

was tall and slight, with a small dark head prettily poised on a long,

slender neck. Her face was pale, and her large dark eyes had a startled,

frightened look as she gazed at the sea of strange faces below her. Her

father placed her in a chair facing us all; and turning once more to the

audience said:

"I shall now, with your kind permission, put my daughter into a mesmeric

or hypnotic trance; and while she is in it, I hope to show you some

particularly interesting experiments. Look at me, Anna--so--"

He placed his fingers for a moment on her eyelids, and then stood aside.

Except that the girl was now perfectly motionless, and that her gaze was

unnaturally fixed, I could see nothing different in her appearance from

what it had been a few moments before.

The Professor now turned to Mr. Danby, who was seated beside me, and

said, "If this gentleman will oblige me by stepping up on the stage, he

can assure himself by any means he may choose to use, that my daughter

is in a perfectly unconscious state at this moment; and if it will give

the audience and himself any more confidence in the sincerity of this

experiment, he is perfectly at liberty to blindfold her. Then if he will

be kind enough to go through the room and touch here and there any

person he may fancy, my daughter, at a word from me, will in the same

order and in the same manner touch each of those already touched. I

myself will, during the whole of the time, stand at the far end of the

hall, so that there can be no sort of communication between us."

So saying, Sclamowsky left the stage, and walking down the room, placed

himself with his back against the wall, and fixed his gaze upon the

motionless form of his daughter.

As I looked back at him, even though separated from him by the length of

the hall, I could see the strange glitter and flash of his eyes. It gave

me an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling; and I turned my face again towards

the stage, where the good-natured rector was following out the

directions he had received.

He lifted Anna Sclamowsky's arm, which, on his relaxing his hold, fell

limp and lifeless by her side; he snapped his fingers suddenly close

before her wide-open eyes without producing even a quiver of a muscle in

her set face. He shouted in her ear; shook her by the shoulders; but

all without succeeding in making her show any sign of consciousness. He

then tied a handkerchief over her eyes; and, leaving the stage, went

about through the room, touching people here and there as he went,

pursuing a most tortuous course, and ended at last by placing his hand

upon Aunt Phoebe's diamond necklace. He then bowed to the Professor to

intimate that we were ready to see the conclusion of the experiment.

Sclamowsky moved forward about a pace, beckoned with his hand, and

called, not loudly but distinctly, "Anna!"

Without a moment's hesitation the girl, still blindfolded, rose, walked

swiftly down the steps which led from the stage to the floor of the

hall, and with startling exactness reproduced Mr. Danby's actions. In

and out through the benches she passed amid a silence of breathless

interest, touching each person in exactly the same spot as Mr. Danby had

done a few minutes previously.

I saw Aunt Phoebe drawing herself up rigidly as Anna Sclamowsky came

towards our bench and, amid deafening applause, laid her finger upon the

Anstruther diamonds. The clapping and noise produced no effect upon the

girl. She stood motionless as though she had been a statue, her hand

still upon the necklace.

Whether Aunt Phoebe was aggravated by the complete success of the

experiment or annoyed at having been obliged to take so prominent a part

in it, I do not know, but she certainly was a good deal out of temper;

for when Sclamowsky made his way to where his daughter was standing, she

said, in tones of icy disapproval, which must have been audible for a

long way down the room--

"A very clever piece of imposture, sir."

The mesmerist's face flushed and his eyes flashed angrily. He, however,

bowed low.

"There's nothing so hard," he said, "to overcome, madam, as prejudice. I

fear you have been inconvenienced by my daughter's hand. I will now

release her--and you."

So saying, he placed his own hand for a moment over his daughter's and

breathed lightly on the girl's face. Instantly the muscles relaxed, her

hand fell to her side, and I could hear her give a little shuddering

sigh, apparently of relief.

I noticed, too, that, whether by design or accident Sclamowsky kept his

hand for a moment longer on my aunt's necklace, and as he took his

finger away, I fancied that he looked at her fixedly for a second, and

muttered something either to himself or her, the meaning of which I

could not catch.

"What did he say to you?" I asked, as Sclamowsky, after removing the

bandage from his daughter's eyes, assisted her to remount the stage.

Aunt Phoebe looked a little confused and dazed, and her hand went up

to her necklace, as though to reassure herself of its safety.

"Say to me?" she repeated, rousing herself as though by an effort; "he

said nothing to me. But I think, Elizabeth, if it is the same to you, we

will go home; the heat of the room has made me feel a little dizzy."

We heard next day that we had missed the best part of the entertainment

by leaving when we did, and that many and far more wonderful experiments

were successfully attempted; but I had no time to waste in vain regrets

for not having been present, for I was much taken up with Aunt Phoebe.

I was really anxious about her; she was so strangely unlike her calm,

equable self. All Saturday she was restless and irritable, wandering

half way upstairs, and then as though she had forgotten what she wanted,

returning to the drawing-room, where she set to work opening old cabinet

drawers, looking under chairs and sofas, tumbling everything out of her

work-box as if in search of something, and snubbing me for my pains when

I offered to help her.

This went on all day, and I had almost made up my mind to send for Dr.

Perkins, when, after late dinner, she suddenly sank into an arm-chair

with a look of relief.

"I know what it is," she said; "it is my diamonds!"

"Your diamonds, Aunt Phoebe!" I exclaimed. "Why, I locked them up for

you myself in your dressing-box when we came home last night!"

"Are you sure, Elizabeth?" she asked with an anxious, worried

expression.

"Quite sure," I answered; "but if it will satisfy you, I will bring down

your dressing-box now and let you see."

"Do, there's a dear child! I declare I feel too tired to move another

step."

I was not surprised at this, considering how she had been fussing about

all day, and I ran up to her bed-room, brought down her rosewood

dressing-box and placed it on the table in front of her.

I was greatly struck by the nervous trembling of her fingers as she

chose out the right key from amongst the others in her bunch, and the

shaky way in which she fitted it into the lock. Even when she had turned

the key she seemed half afraid to raise the lid, so I did it for her,

and, taking out the first tray, lifted out the morocco case which

contained the heirlooms and laid it in her lap.

Aunt Phoebe tremblingly touched the spring, the case flew open and

disclosed the diamonds lying snugly on their bed of blue velvet. She

took them out and looked at them lovingly, held them up so that they

might catch the light from the lamp, and then with a sigh replaced them

in their case and shut it with a snap.

I waited for a few minutes, then, as she did not speak, I put out my

hand for the case, intending to replace it in the dressing-box and take

it upstairs. But Aunt Phoebe clutched it tightly, staggered to her

feet and said in a husky, unnatural voice, "No, I must take it myself."

"Why, you said you were too tired!" I began, but before I could finish

my sentence she had left the room, and I heard her going upstairs and

opening the door of her bed-room.

Some few minutes afterwards I heard her steps once more on the stairs,

and I waited, expecting her every moment to open the drawing-room door

and walk in; but to my astonishment I heard her pass by, and a moment

afterwards the clang of the front door as it was hastily shut told me

that Aunt Phoebe had left the house.

"She must be mad!" I exclaimed to myself as I rushed to the hall, seized

up the first hat I could see, flung a shawl over my shoulders, and tore

off in pursuit of my runaway relative.

It was quite dark, but I caught sight of her as she passed by a

lamp-post. She was walking quickly, quicker than I had ever seen her

walk before, and with evidently some set purpose in her mind. I ran

after her as fast as I could, and came up with her as she was turning

down a small dark lane leading, as I knew, to a little court, the home

of a very poor but respectable section of the inhabitants of

Bishopsthorpe.

"Aunt Phoebe," I gasped as I touched her arm, "where are you going?

You must be making a mistake!"

"No, no!" she cried, with a feverish impatience in her voice. "I am

right! quite right! You must not stop me!" and she quickened her pace

into a halting run.

I saw clearly that there was nothing to be done but to follow her and

try to keep her out of actual harm's way, for there now seemed to be no

manner of doubt that my poor aunt was, for the time at any rate, insane.

So I fell back a pace, and, never appearing even to notice that I had

left her side, she pursued her course.

Suddenly she stopped short, crossed the street and stumbled up the

uneven stone steps of a shabby-looking house, whose front door was wide

open. Without a moment's hesitation she entered the dark hall, and I

followed closely at her heels. Up the squalid, dirty stairs she hurried,

and, without knocking, opened a door on the left-hand side of the first

landing and went in.

I was a few steps behind, but as I gained the threshold I saw her take a

parcel from beneath her cloak and hold it out to a man who came to meet

her from the far end of the badly-lighted room.

"I have brought them," I heard my aunt say in the same curious husky

voice I had noticed before.

As the man came nearer and stood where the light of the evil-smelling

little paraffin lamp fell upon his features, I recognised in the heavy

jaw, the bull-neck and the close-cropped head, the Professor Dmitri

Sclamowsky of the previous evening. Our eyes met, and I thought I

detected a start of not altogether pleased surprise; but if this were so

he recovered himself quickly and bowing low, said:

"I had not expected the pleasure of _your_ company, madam, but as you

have done me the honour of coming, I am glad that you should be here to

witness the conclusion of last night's experiment. This lady," he

continued, pointing to my aunt, who still stood with fixed, apparently

unseeing eyes, holding out the parcel towards him--"this lady, you will

remember, considered the hypnotic phenomena exhibited at last night's

entertainment as a clever imposture--those were the words, I think. To

one who, like myself, is an enthusiast on the subject, such words were

hard, nay, impossible to bear. It was necessary to prove to her that the

power I possess"--here his blue eyes gleamed with the same metallic

light I had before noticed--"is something more than _conjuring_;

something more than a 'clever imposture'. You will see now."

As he spoke he stretched out his hand and took the parcel from my aunt,

and as he did so, I recognised with horror the morocco case which I knew

contained the heirlooms.

"Who are these for?" he said, addressing Aunt Phoebe.

"For you," came from my aunt's lips, but her eyes were fixed and her

voice seemed to come with difficulty.

"She is mad!" I exclaimed. "She does not know what she is saying!"

Sclamowsky smiled.

"And who am I?" he continued, still addressing my aunt.

"The Professor Dmitri Sclamowsky."

"And what is this?" indicating the morocco case.

"My diamonds."

"You make them a present to me?"

"Yes."

Sclamowsky opened the case and took out the jewels.

"A handsome present, certainly!" he said, turning to me with a smile.

I was speechless. There was something so horrible in my dear Aunt

Phoebe's set face and wide open, stony eyes, something so weird in the

dim room, with its one miserable lamp; something so mockingly fiendish

in Sclamowsky's glittering eyes as he stood with the diamonds flashing

and twinkling in his hands, that though I strove for utterance, I could

not succeed in articulating a single word.

"Enough!" at last he said, replacing the diamonds in their case and

closing it sharply--"the experiment is concluded," and so saying he

stepped up close to Aunt Phoebe and made two or three passes with his

hands in front of her face. A quiver ran all over my aunt's figure. She

swayed and would have fallen if I had not rushed forward and caught her

in my arms.

She looked round at me with terror and bewilderment in every feature.

"Where am I, Elizabeth?" she stammered, and then looking round she

caught sight of Sclamowsky. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Never mind, Aunt Phoebe," I said. "Come home, and I will tell you all

about it."

Aunt Phoebe passed her hand over her eyes, and as she did so I glanced

inquiringly from Sclamowsky's face to the jewellery case in his hands.

What was to be the end of it all? I had certainly heard my aunt

distinctly give this man her diamonds as a present, but could a gift

made under such circumstances hold good for a moment? He evidently saw

the query in my face.

"You judge me even more hastily than did your aunt," he said. "She

called me an impostor; you think me a rogue and a swindler. Here are

your jewels, madam," he said, turning to Aunt Phoebe. "I shall be more

than satisfied if the result of this evening's experiment prove to you

that, as your poet says, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than

are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

"I don't understand it all," said Aunt Phoebe piteously, as she

mechanically took the morocco case into her hands.

"Don't try to do so now," I said. "You must come home with me as quickly

as you can;" for I was feverishly anxious to escape from this

house--from this man with this horrible, terrifying power.

He bowed silently to us as I hurried Aunt Phoebe out of the room; but

as I was going down the stairs an irresistible impulse came over me to

look back.

He was standing on the landing, politely holding the little lamp so that

we might see our way down the uneven, irregular stairs, and the light

fell upon his face. Was the expression I saw upon it one of triumph, or

one of defeated dishonesty? I could not say. Even now, though I have

thought it all over and over till my head has got dazed and confused, I

cannot make up my mind whether he had hoped, by means of his strange

mesmeric power, to obtain possession of the Anstruther diamonds--a

design only frustrated by my unlooked-for appearance--or whether his

action was altogether prompted by a determination to demonstrate and

vindicate the truth of the phenomena connected with his science.

Sometimes I lean to one view, sometimes to the other. I have now told

the facts of the case simply and without exaggeration just as they

occurred, and my readers must judge for themselves whether Dmitri

Sclamowsky was, in the matter of Aunt Phoebe's heirlooms, a

disappointed swindler or a triumphant enthusiast.

SAINT OR SATAN.

A story, strange as true--a story to the truth of which half the

inhabitants of the good city of Turin can bear testimony.

Have you ever been to Turin, by the way? To that city which reminds one

of nothing so much as a gigantic chess-board set down upon the banks of

the yellow river--that city with never-ending, straight streets, all

running at right angles to each other, and whose extremities frame in

delicious pictures of wooded hill or snow-capped Alp; whose inhabitants

recall the grace and courtesy of the Parisians, joined to a good spicing

of their wit and humour; whose dialect is three-parts French pronounced

as it is written; and whose force and frankness strike you with a

special charm after the ha-haing of the Florentines, the sonorousness of

the Romans and the sing-song of the Neapolitans; to say nothing of the

hideousness of the Genoese and the chaos of the Sicilians; that city of

kindly greetings and hearty welcome?

Well, if you have given Turin a fair trial, you will know what a

pleasant place it is; if you have not, I advise you to do so upon the

first occasion that may present itself.

The climate is described by some emulator of Thomson to consist of "Tre

mesi d'Inferno, nove d'inverno." But then you must remember that Turin

houses are provided with chimneys, and Turin floors with carpets, and

that no one who does not wish it is forced--as so many of us have

been--to shiver upon marble pavement and be half suffocated by a

charcoal-brazier. No refuge from the cold save that, one's bed, or

sitting in a church. And one can neither lie for ever in bed, nor sit

the day through in a church, however fine it may be.

It is extremely healthy, however, and altogether one of the pleasantest

towns in Italy to live in. It has, too, one of the fairest gardens in

Europe: the Valentino, with its old red-brick palace, its elms, its

lawns, its river and setting, on one side, of lovely hills. Lady Mary W.

Montagu speaks of the beauty of this garden in her day. I think she

would scarcely recognise it at the present. Modern art has done its

best, and over the whole yet lingers the mysterious charm of the Past;

the dark historical legends connected with the palace and its quondam

frail, fair, and, I regret to add, ferocious mistress, its--But what has

all this to do with "Saint or Satan," you will ask? Where is your

promised story?

Well, Satan enters somewhat largely into the story of the Valentino

which I will relate you at some future time; and, as to the part, if

any, his dark Majesty had in what I am going to tell you to-day, you

yourself must judge, reader. I am inclined to think _he had_ a claw in

the matter, rather than Saint Antonio to whom the miracle is ascribed.

The miracle! Yes, the miracle. And if you could see her, you would

certainly say that a miracle of some kind there certainly was.

I have, after long consideration and study, come to the conclusion that

"Old Maids" are, generally speaking, a very pleasant, kind-hearted

portion of society. They may be a little irritable and restive while

standing upon the border-land that divides the marriageable from the

un-marriageable age; but that boundary once passed, they take place

among the worthiest and best. And surely their anxiety as to the reply

to the question of "Miss or Mrs.?" is pardonable. Matrimony means an

utter change of life to a woman; while to a man it is of infinitely less

import.

I am afraid I cannot class the "Signorina Guiseppina Pace" as having

formed one of the pleasant section of old maids; I must even, however

reluctantly, place her among the decidedly unpleasant ones.

"Peace"--"Pace" was her name, but her old mother, with whom she lived,

would have told you that she differed greatly from her name.

So do most of us, indeed; and I am sure you have only to run over the

list of your friends in the kindliest manner to see that I am right in

my affirmation.

Perhaps Miss Guiseppina thought that one can have too much of even a

good thing; that the name of Pace was quite enough for the house, and

that, in consequence, she ought to do her best to banish it under all

other circumstances. She certainly succeeded; for she led her poor old

widow-mother and their single servant such a life as to give them a

lively foretaste of what Purgatory--to say no worse--might possibly be.

Ah! if she could but have cut off the Pace from her own name as cleanly

as she cut off all possible peace from the two poor women who were

doomed, for their sins, to live under the same roof with her!

But, despite the endeavours during thirty odd long years, she had never

had one single chance of doing so; and it riled her to the core.

Schoolfellows had floated away upon the sea of matrimony, friends had

become mothers--grandmothers--and yet she remained Guiseppina Pace, as

she ever had remained; and with no prospect of a change.

How she learned to loathe the sight of a bridal procession; and how she

taught mother and maid to tremble at the passing of the same! How the

news of a projected marriage stirred her bile, and how her dearest

friends hastened to her with any matrimonial news they could gather, or

invent! It was wonderful to see, and pleasant enough to witness--from a

distance.

Guiseppina and her mother occupied a small flat in Via Santa Teresa:

Guiseppina's bed-room and their one sitting-room looking into the

street; her mother's room, the kitchen and a sort of coal-hole in which

the servant slept being at the back of the house.

It was summer. People pushed perspiringly for the shady side of the

street, puffed and panted under pillar and portico. The public gardens

were besieged; fans fluttered everywhere; iced-beer and pezzi duri were

in constant requisition.

It was on a Friday afternoon. Guiseppina had sunk, exhausted with the

heat and exasperated with the flies, into a large arm-chair opposite her

bed, and was sitting there fanning herself violently and trying to catch

a breath of fresh air from the widely-opened window beside her. But

there was no air, fresh or otherwise; and nothing but the languid steps

of the passers in the street below was heard. Not the roll of a wheel,

the hoof of a horse, or the yelp of a dog. It seemed as if the whole

place had been given over to the cruel glare of sunshine and the

persevering impertinence of flies.

It was just one of those days which make one long intensely for the

shade of ilexes upon the sea shore, and the swish of idle waters upon

the beach.

And Guiseppina _did_ long, and _had_ longed, and had finally driven her

poor mother in tears to her room with reproaches for not being able to

go for a month to Pegli, as, that very morning, their upper floor

neighbours, the Castelles, had gone--and--and--and--: the usual

litany--the usual nagging--the usual temper; hinc ille lacrimæ.

"Why should she alone," she exclaimed to herself sitting there, "remain

to roast in town, while all her friends--? Ah, it was too cruel! If she

could only--!"

Her eyes fell upon the little picture of Saint Antonio hanging over her

bed--the Saint credited with presiding over marriages--the Saint to

which, through all these long years, Guiseppina had daily appealed and

prayed. Alas, all in vain! Not the shadow of a lover had he sent

her--not the ghost of an offer had he vouchsafed her in return for all

her tears and tapers.

She looked across at the Saint, this time with a scowl, however. The

Saint seemed to return her gaze with a mocking smile. No! That was

indeed adding insult to injury! After thirty years unswerving devotion,

to mock at her thus!

She didn't say thirty years, mind, though she could have added somewhat

to the figure without risking a fib. She said something else, a

something that didn't sound exactly like a blessing; and, in a sudden

fit of rage, started from her seat, sprang across the room, tore the

offending Saint from the nail from which he had dangled for such long

years, and, without further ceremony, flung him out through the open

window into the street below.

Then, aghast at what she had done, she stood as if turned to stone, not

daring to go to the window to see what the effect of her novel

proceeding might have been.

Minutes, to her ages, passed: then came a ring at the bell. Answer she

must; the maid was out marketing, her mother in tears--for it might be

the post--it might be--! Ah, she shivered as she thought thereon--it

might be a municipal guard with a "contravenzione"--fine; for in Italy

one cannot now fling even saints from a window down upon the passers'

heads with impunity. Time was when worse things were periodically

showered down upon passengers, but, thanks to government and wholesome

laws, nous avons changé tout cela.

With a beating heart Guiseppina drew the bolt and opened the door. There

on the landing stood, not a policeman, but an elderly gentleman, his hat

in one hand, Saint Antonio in the other, and his bald head looming out

from the gloom--some Turin stairs are _very_ dark--like the moon in a

fog.

"Signora"--he began in a hesitating voice, and holding forward the

imperturbable Saint as a shield and excuse for his intrusion--

"Signore," replied the ancient maiden, gazing forth at her visitor with

wonder on her face and relief in her heart.

The relief fled quickly, however, for she suddenly remembered that many

of the police were said to prowl about in civil clothes and inflict no

end of fines, of which they pocketed a part.

But he didn't look a bit like a policeman. So she smiled upon him, and

listened benignantly to his tale. He had been passing the house--musing

upon his business--that of a broker--and trying to guess at the truth of

a report relative to certain investments, when suddenly his calculations

had been put to flight by the arrival of some unseen object from on

high, which, after alighting upon the crown of his Panama, fell at his

feet.

Here a wave of his hand and a flourish of the Saint indicated his having

picked up the same.

He then proceeded to relate his having looked up--the Saint could only

have come from Heavenward, he had perched so exactly upon the crown of

his hat--having seen the open window--all the rest in the house were

closed--and having taken the liberty--

Here another wave of the hand, followed by a bow.

And then, at this juncture, Signora Pace came out from her room, and

she, after being informed of the cause of her daughter's being found in

close converse upon the landing with a stranger of the male sex, asked

the said stranger in. Her invitation being accepted, the trio adjourned

to the sitting-room, the gallant knight still retaining his trophy.

Only after being warmly pressed to do so by Signora Pace did the

all-unexpected and unknown visitor deposit Saint Antonio upon the centre

table, and take his seat upon the red rep sofa next to her.

Guiseppina sat facing him. She seemed suddenly to have quite

changed--never once snubbed her mother, and appeared throughout all

sugar and sweetness.

We can suppose that remorse at having treated her Saint after this

fashion, and relief at his not having fallen into the hands of a

policeman, as she at first had most reasonably feared, had worked the

change.

Policeman, indeed! Signor Cesare Garelli--such the visitor gave as his

name--appeared to her to be quite a charming person. To be sure, he was

bald, but that mattered little. So was Julius Cæsar and a host of other

great men.

Cesare Garelli was something, to her, infinitely more interesting than

his great namesake ever had been. He was a partner of the well-known

Zucco, and the office they kept in Via Carlo Alberto had wooden cups of

gold nuggets, no end of glittering coins and crisp bank-notes of foreign

and formidable appearance, in its solitary window. More than once she

had longingly halted before its treasures.

So a vast deal of information was exchanged on both sides, and when

Signor Cesare Garelli rose to go, the flood of golden sunshine had crept

quite across to the other side of the street.

Apparently some of it had crept into Guiseppina's heart also, for she

refrained from flying out when the long-delayed "minestra" turned out to

be smoked, and she even went so far as to give Saint Antonio a chaste

kiss as she restored him to the crooked nail to which he had hung for so

long a time.

Cesare Garelli's visits became more and more frequent in Via Santa

Teresa. Then followed excursions to Rivoli, to Superza, to Moncalieri.

Nice little dinners, and evenings spent at the Caffe San Carlo or under

the horse-chestnuts in the Valentino garden, succeeded rapidly. La

Signora Pace's life savoured of the seventh heaven, and Guiseppina's

temper grew mellow as the peaches which her admirer was for ever sending

her.

That phase passed away, and then one fine day Cesare Garelli burst forth

in all the glory and radiance of a declared and accepted lover.

In less than three months from the date of Saint Antonio's flight

through the window into the hot, dusty street, Guiseppina

voluntarily--oh, how voluntarily!--renounced the name of Pace for ever

and took that of Garelli.

If you want to know if Saint or Satan made his match for him, you had

better ask Cesare Garelli himself. I cannot tell you.

A. BERESFORD.

IN A BERNESE VALLEY.

I met her by this mountain stream

At twilight's fall long years gone by,

While, rosy with day's afterbeam,

Yon snow-peaks glowed against the sky;

And she was but a simple maid

Who fed her goats among the hills,

And sang her songs within the glade,

And caught the music of the rills;

And drank the fragrance of the flowers

That bloomed within love-haunted dells;

And wandered home in gloaming hours,

Amid the sound of tinkling bells.

And now I'm in this vale again,

And once more hear the tinkling sound;

But yet 'tis not the same as when

That maiden 'mid her flock I found.

And still the rosy light of morn

Steals soft o'er mount and stream and tree;

And yet I hear the Alpine horn,

But the old charm is lost to me;

For I would see that angel face,

And hear again the simple tale

Which to that twilight lent the grace

That changed this to Arcadian vale.

It cannot be: my dream is o'er;

No more among the hills she'll roam;

No more she'll sing the songs of yore;

Or call the weary cattle home;

For she is in her bed of rest,

Encompassed all with gentians blue,

With Edelweiss upon her breast,

And by her head wild thyme and rue.

Sweet _Angelus_, from yon church-tower,

That floatest now so soft and clear,

Ring back again that golden hour

When I still sat beside her here!

ALEXANDER LAMONT.